Infiltration

by Scott B. Williams

  FERAL NATION

  Infiltration

  Feral Nation Series

  Book 1

  Scott B. Williams

  www.scottbwilliams.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are all products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Scott B. Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Cover photo: Silouette of Special Forces operator: Fotolia # 140148371 © Getmilitaryphotos

  Cover photo: Old U.S. flag: Fotolia #100579897 © Stephan Orsillo

  Cover design © Scott B. Williams

  Editor: Michelle Cleveland

  12.13.18

  This series is an ongoing serial. Each book is an immediate continuation of the earlier story, so for the best reading experience the books should be read in order, starting with Book 1.

  Here are the links to the current books in the series:

  Feral Nation - Infiltration: Book 1

  Feral Nation - Insurrection: Book 2

  Feral Nation - Tribulation: Book 3

  Feral Nation - The Divide: Book 4

  Feral Nation - Perseverance: Book 5

  These links will be updated as new books are added to the series. Be the first to know what’s coming next in this series as well as my other books by signing up for my New Release Updates

  One

  ERIC BRANSON PAUSED TO study the dark outline of land a half mile ahead of him, resting his double-ended paddle across the coaming of the cockpit as he let the kayak drift for a moment on the rain-spattered swells. He could hear the sound of moderate surf breaking in the distance, crashing onto the jetties and the public beach on the south side of Jupiter Inlet. Eric knew the layout of the city park on that side from many lazy Sunday afternoons spent there years ago with Shauna and Megan. Even back then the park side of the inlet would have been mostly dark and deserted this time of morning, as it was still almost two hours until daybreak. But back then, the condominiums farther south and the houses, restaurants and marinas along the shore inside of the cut would have been brightly lit. Now the entire coast was dark, just as Eric had expected, but darkness was his ally now and he was grateful for the concealment it provided.

  He scanned the shoreline with his night vision monocular as he sat there drifting, looking for movement or other indications of activity on either side of the entrance. The waterproof handheld VHF radio secured to the deck in front of him remained silent, despite the digital scanner function he’d set to monitor all the major marine frequencies. No one was talking on the airwaves, but he turned the volume down anyway, as he would soon be within earshot of the shore. He had stopped paddling just beyond the first of the channel markers that led the way to the inlet from the open Atlantic, to watch and listen before the final approach. A few of the flashing red and green lights were still working, running off their self-contained solar charged batteries, but others were misplaced or missing entirely, no doubt swept away by the storm surge from the recent hurricane.

  Eric didn’t need to stay in the channel to safely transit the narrow cut in his kayak, but doing so would keep him as far as possible from the jetties on either side. He wasn’t worried about hitting the rocks but he was concerned that someone could be out there, hidden from view among the shadows. The blackout ashore and the light rain that limited visibility would provide the concealment he needed, but any covert insertion on a hostile coast entailed risk. Going solo and without backup increased that risk exponentially, but that was nothing new to Eric. What was new was that he was doing something of this nature here—on the east coast of Florida—a place he’d once called home.

  The oil tanker that he’d worked his Atlantic passage aboard as part of the security team had long since disappeared unlit into the night. Eric had disembarked five miles off the coast at the edge of the Gulf Stream current, just as he had prearranged with the captain before departing Tenerife. It had taken him more than an hour and a half to close on the coast from the drop point, paddling at a steady, but moderate pace to stay fresh for whatever he might encounter at landfall. The 17-foot, matte black Klepper folding kayak was seaworthy and capable of hauling a lot of gear, but it certainly wasn’t a swift boat, especially with a solo paddler. Eric was alone here tonight because he wasn’t part of a team on a mission to take out a specific target or recon for a bigger operation. It was personal business that brought him back to the U.S. mainland because he could no longer ignore all that he’d heard, as unimaginable as it seemed from afar. The only people in the world that had ever really cared about him were somewhere beyond that dark shoreline ahead… if they were still alive. Eric had failed them both in the past, especially Shauna, his former wife who had since moved on to someone new, and Megan, his only child who grew up with a father that was gone more often than not. Eric couldn’t change the past, but he thought perhaps he could make up for some of his failings now. Maybe now the skills at which he excelled would finally be of use to them.

  The Aquila Mia was bound for Veracruz, so the course deviation en route to the Straits of Florida was relatively minor. Eric chose this point of insertion not only because he was familiar with the coast and the Intracoastal Waterway here, but also because it was close to his first and most important destination. Entering the country legally at any official point of entry, if there was one even open now, was not an option with the gear he had in the kayak. Getting it in this way was worth the risk because Eric was sure he was going to need it if things here were indeed as bad as the rumors.

  Infiltrating this coast undetected would have been more difficult in normal circumstances. The authorities in Florida had spent decades perfecting their drug interdiction techniques and after 9/11 Homeland Security tightened the net even further. But illicit cargo and illegal aliens still got through from time to time even then, and based on what he’d heard of the situation now, Eric was willing to take the gamble. The simple truth was that a lone 17-foot kayak approaching from the open ocean on a dark and rainy night was unlikely to be noticed. Such a craft was too small and too lacking in reflective materials to generate a radar signature, and this particular inlet wasn’t near any sensitive military or civilian targets with sophisticated surveillance anyway. Now that a major hurricane had finished the job of breaking down the infrastructure, Eric was more concerned about being spotted by a vigilante property owner with a rifle than he was about arrest or interdiction by the authorities. If the reports he’d heard were true, any remaining law enforcement officers that hadn’t abandoned their duties in the interests of self-preservation would have their hands full enough. But Eric had to consider that some random civilian might shoot without hesitation if he was seen sneaking across the water at this hour. He would be within easy rifle range of the shore while traversing the inlet and for much of the rest of his route, but he was counting on the cloak of rain and the stealth of the kayak to avoid becoming a target.

  The tide was rising as he entered the cut; a good thing because Jupiter Inlet was notorious in wind against tide conditions. Eric remembered when he lived here before that all too often there was a local news story of someone capsizing a sizable boat in the breakers there. The Klepper could handle rough conditions better than many much larger boats, but Eric had no desire to prove that tonight. He had barely two hours of darkness left and he didn’t want to waste them. His first priority was getting inside to sheltered waters, and then finding a place to hole up and study his route u
ntil nightfall came again. The satellite images and offline maps he’d downloaded onto his smartphone before he’d left Europe were all he had to go on to locate his primary objective. He still had his handheld Garmin GPS receiver, but like the GPS receivers aboard the Aquila Mia, it was unable to lock on a sufficient number of satellites to get a fix. It was obvious that the signals had been turned off or scrambled deliberately, no doubt in the interest of national security.

  It didn’t matter now because Eric didn’t need GPS accuracy for this mission anyway. He’d made the open water crossing after leaving the ship by compass bearing alone, and the rest of the route would be inshore. Once he was through the cut all he had to do was turn south onto the Intracoastal Waterway and keep paddling until he found a place to lie low. His drop off had been later in the night than he’d hoped, so there wasn’t enough time to get where he was going before dawn. It was inconvenient, but he had to accept that it would take part of a second night of travel to get there and that keeping a low profile was more important than speed at this point anyway. Eric had never been to the upscale waterfront neighborhood where Shauna and Megan had lived since the divorce, so he would be relying on his stored images to find the correct house. Shauna’s new husband hadn’t wanted him coming there at all and Eric hadn’t pressed the issue. The last time he’d seen his daughter, Shauna and Megan met him at his father’s place near LaBelle, and Eric had been fine with that. He had no interest in Daniel Hartfield or the lavish lifestyle the man provided his ex. He was good to Megan, and as long as he remained so, Eric had no beef with him. Along with Daniel came his 12-year-old son, Andrew from a previous marriage, and apparently the four of them got along just fine.

  Although Shauna had been living it up as the wife and stepmother of her new family, it wasn’t like she and Megan were doing without before. Even when Eric was still on Uncle Sam’s payroll his salary and benefits had been sufficient to provide for them. When he took up private contracting after his last team mission in Afghanistan, the money was far better and the bulk of it went straight home to his wife and daughter. Money, or the lack thereof, wasn’t the problem. The real problem was that Shauna wanted Eric home. But although he tried more than once to make that happen, Eric couldn’t readjust to civilian life after all he’d seen and done. He was a professional warrior because it was what he was born to be, and it was the one thing he was exceptionally good at. Nothing in civilian life could compare to the intricate planning and execution of small-team Special Ops missions, or the high-risk contracts he’d been offered since. The turmoil of the post 9/11 world provided ample opportunity to pursue his destiny, and a life without danger and adventure seemed like no life at all to Eric Branson.

  As the terrorism and mayhem heated up around the globe, Eric’s opportunities as a security contractor were virtually limitless. He’d worked all over the Middle East and parts of Asia and Africa in the early days, and more recently in several countries in Europe. There was no end in sight to the demand for his skills, but none of those opportunities were compatible with family life. He came back to visit when he could, but somehow the years slipped by and before he knew it, Eric was divorced and his little girl was in college. The last time he’d seen Megan, a few months after missing her high school graduation, she seemed more distant than ever. She wasn’t proud of the work her father did and Eric knew she might never understand why it was necessary. Would the events that had transpired in the past several months have made a difference in her thinking? Eric didn’t know, but he did know it was time to come back. His country was coming apart at the seams, and he knew he wouldn’t know the full extent of it until he saw it for himself firsthand.

  The recent news he’d gotten from overseas was sketchy, but apparently gas shortages, roadblocks and no fly zones had the country locked down and immobile. Power and communication grids in many of the larger cities were disabled or crippled as the government sought to maintain control and crush the riots and uprisings. Everyone was suffering from the resultant shortages of food and other essential goods whether they were directly involved or not. To make matters here in Florida even worse, a major hurricane struck the peninsula near Fort Lauderdale just weeks before, leaving south Florida devastated. Eric had been working off the grid all summer prior to that, and upon learning the news at the conclusion of his mission; he’d been unable to reach Shauna or Megan or his father or brother back in the States. With everything else that was already going on there, Eric knew that it would get ugly in Florida real fast. Hurricane victims were going to be cut off and stranded, with food running out and no help coming from outside the region because of all the other problems.

  The only thing left was to come here and find his loved ones and get them out to some place safer. Eric had quickly wrapped up his obligations overseas and found a way to get here as soon as possible. Since flying wasn’t an option, he came the best way he knew how, and now that he was here, the effects of the storm’s aftermath were clearly evident as he scanned the unlit coast before him. When he put away the monocular and picked up the paddle again, his only fear as he closed the final gap to the jetties was that he might already be too late.

  Two

  THE RAIN PROVIDED THE concealment he’d hoped for as Eric paddled through the inlet and then past the dark silhouettes of the houses lining the shore to the north. He made his way west past the tall coconut palms of the park, aiming for the middle of the highway bridge that he had to paddle under to reach the ICW channel leading south. He couldn’t see or hear any vehicle traffic moving on the bridge, but before getting too close he stopped and scanned it for pedestrians with the monocular. Passing beneath the span put him in a vulnerable position, even from someone armed only with rocks or other objects they might throw down at him. But though he checked carefully, taking his time to be thorough, Eric saw nothing. Even in normal times he would have expected things to be quiet on a rainy night at 0430 hours, but this was a different kind of quiet, and he imagined there was a curfew in effect if there was still any law enforcement operating at all. The well-to-do communities in this part of Palm Beach County had a significant and effective police presence before, but he wondered if they’d managed to hold it together now. If there were police or military patrols, Eric figured their attention would be focused on the roads, and if so, bridges would be critical points of interest. This one seemed completely abandoned though, increasing Eric’s suspicions that things might be worse here than he’d feared.

  With the Intracoastal Waterway cutting right through these upscale communities, Eric knew too that there might be surveillance on the waterways. If so, it would likely be targeting larger vessels than his low-profile sea kayak. Eric’s experience with waterborne insertions had taught him that unconventional alternatives were often overlooked, so he remained confident that he could evade detection as long as he took it slow and stayed alert.

  Once he was under the bridge, he passed a large marina wrapped around the point on his left leading into the southbound ICW. Nothing was moving on any of the docks that he could see, and he heard no generators or other signs of life. There were a few dim lights visible through the portlights of some of the yachts, but Eric didn’t know if that meant they were occupied or that the owners had simply left them turned on. Modern LED lighting powered by the large house batteries aboard such vessels could run for a long time unattended, and there was nothing else here to indicate they were otherwise. Some of the motor and sail yachts he could see were clearly damaged by the hurricane, as evidenced by bent bow rails and stanchions and wind-ripped canvas awnings and sails. It was as if the owners hadn’t bothered to prepare them to weather the storm, likely because of all the other problems in the area that had already taken their attention away from such trivial things as their personal pleasure craft.

  Turning south onto the ICW, Eric found himself in an area where the waterfront homes and businesses were interspersed with designated natural areas and parks. In some of these places, dense tangles of mangrov
es and sea grapes grew right to the water’s edge. Cruising slowly and peering into them, Eric spotted a channel winding among the roots and branches in one such place, ending on a narrow sand bar barely visible from the waterway. He’d been confined to the kayak long enough that he needed to get out and stretch his legs, and with the open water crossing behind him and dawn coming, it was time to find a place to wait out the day. The little strip of beach was hidden from the road that paralleled the waterway farther west, but Eric knew from living here before that some of these nature preserves were laced with hiking trails leading in from the roads. He studied the dark woods beyond the sandbar through the monocular and satisfied that he was alone, paddled to the end of the channel and stepped out in the ankle-deep water, pulling the bow of the boat onto the bar. The first phase of his covert entry had gone spectacularly well and he had successfully landed on American soil unnoticed. After traversing the most dangerous zone between the open ocean and the outer fringe of coast, he was in, and for all anyone who might see him knew, had never left the country at all.

  After stretching his arms and legs, Eric reached into the kayak and opened the dry bag he kept in the cockpit to retrieve his water bottle, snacks and smartphone. This was exactly the kind of place he’d been hoping to find. He would have preferred to get closer to Shauna’s house, but it was too close to dawn to risk going farther, not knowing if he’d find another hideout as good as this one. As it was, he wouldn’t have far to go the following evening, and if all went as planned, he would arrive there well after midnight, when the neighborhood was asleep. Then he would simply sit tight at the dock behind her house until daybreak, as he didn’t want to alarm anyone inside. It would be nice if he didn’t have to see Daniel Hartfield, but if Shauna and Megan and especially Andrew were there, Eric was sure Daniel would be too. If Megan was there, then Eric could rest easy. The only other person he had to worry about in Florida was his father, but he knew Bart Branson could take care of himself as well as anyone, so there was less urgency to reach him right away. Eric imagined they would all need to get out of the region soon, but he would discuss that with Megan and her mom when he found them. There was also the matter of his brother Keith and his wife Lynn. Keith and Lynn lived in rural south Louisiana, a long way from the troubles here in Florida, but that didn’t mean they were necessarily safe. Keith was as dedicated to his job as a law enforcement officer could be though, and things would have to be worse than hopeless for him to walk away from it. Eric would have a better idea of the chances of that after he spent some time assessing the situation here first hand. For now though, he had to focus on one thing at a time.