The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  “Of course, but that was different. Our goal then was to disrupt things, which included running people out of the city. The gangs served their purpose. Now we need a military force to follow your orders.”

  “I agree,” interrupted O’Brien, but La Rue continued his thought.

  “In watching these mopes for the last few days, I’m of the opinion that they can’t be controlled.”

  “I’m meeting their commander today,” said O’Brien. “I’ll feel him out about the quality of his people.”

  La Rue continued. “My concern is that they’re gonna be more interested in raping and pillaging and not at all interested in taking on a viper nest of Marines holed up on Prescott Peninsula.”

  O’Brien drew on his cigar and took in his friend’s observations.

  Chapter 11

  Monday, October 3, 2016

  12:20 p.m.

  Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor

  99 High Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  O’Brien and Pearson became impatient as they paced the floor of the conference room. They didn’t know how many of the UN officers would be present, so they allowed for a dozen chairs around the ten-foot-long faux-mahogany conference table. O’Brien ordered sandwiches and beverages to be brought in. He wanted to put on a good show for his guests. In his mind, this was a momentous occasion, one of international importance.

  “Governor, do you want me to go downstairs and see where they are?” asked Pearson. They were now twenty minutes late. “I’ve been monitoring the entrance to look for an entourage of some sort. So far, nothing.”

  O’Brien hitched his pants up over his protruding belly, temporarily, before they slid down to where they were. Somehow, he had managed to gain weight during the apocalypse.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” he ordered Pearson. O’Brien knew nothing about the inner workings or hierarchy of the United Nations. He thought their peace armies were used to shut down rampaging Africans in places like Darfur and Libya or Liberia or some such country. He really didn’t give a shit what they did overseas. He was most interested in what they could do for him.

  He did know that the President was a big fan of the United Nations. Hell, if the truth were known, he’d rather be king of the UN than President of the United States. He did have international roots after all—Kenya, that was.

  Before the shit hit the fan, O’Brien recalled that the President worked with the UN to expand the size of its peacekeeping force, as they called it. After Ebola had its way with Western Africa and then threatened America, the President had the excuse he was looking for to beef up the UN’s military forces. Over the last several years, the White House reallocated budget dollars to the UN. The rationale had to do with beefing up the UN’s rapid-response capabilities, which enabled their troops to reach hot zones around the world quickly. Yeah, hot zones like this one.

  The UN received its troops through agreements with one hundred and twenty-three of its member-states. Based upon the news reports O’Brien could recall, these soldiers were clearly not the cream of the crop. There were allegations of raping and sexual exploitation of women in Somalia.

  While in Haiti following the devastating earthquake, UN troops routinely looted food and supplies designated for the Haitian survivors. They used their UN credentials to freely pass over the border with the Dominican Republic. Strong-armed robbery and sexual assaults skyrocketed during this period in the tiny Caribbean nation.

  O’Brien trusted La Rue’s intuition. Based upon past UN-sponsored atrocities, it was likely this group of Blue Helmets was as bad if not worse than their comrades.

  “Governor,” said Pearson, immediately grabbing O’Brien’s attention, “I’d like you to meet Major General Zhang Wei of the People’s Liberation Army and the commander of the United Nations Peacekeeping force.”

  O’Brien unconsciously paused, shocked by the sight of the general. Zhang stood five foot six, was fairly thin, and was pushing seventy years old. This is my general?

  O’Brien regained his composure. “Um, welcome, General. I’m Citizen Corps Governor James O’Brien. Welcome to Boston.” O’Brien spoke slowly and louder than normal.

  Chinese preferred to be formally presented to a stranger. Because they were taught not to show excessive emotion, the Chinese might seem unfriendly when being introduced. Etiquette prevented them from approaching someone to shake hands, and they customarily remained standing during introductions until their host extended his hand.

  O’Brien stepped forward and the two men shook hands. Zhang bowed slightly at the shoulders as he shook O’Brien’s hand. “You may call me General Zhang.”

  “Chung? Not We?” asked O’Brien. Zhang seemed perturbed by this. O’Brien was confused. His first foray into international relations was off to a bad start.

  “My family name is Zhang. In China, I am Major General Zhang Wei. In English, I am General Zhang.”

  You mean General Diva.

  “Well, General, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said O’Brien. “You can call me Jim. Where is your staff?”

  “My subordinates are making arrangements at my directive. That is why I am here to speak with you, Governor.”

  “Yes, of course, and I have a list to go over with you as well.” O’Brien picked up the notepad off the conference table and began to sit down. When Zhang continued standing, O’Brien remained standing. He was now very uncomfortable and off his game. Zhang stood in silence and stared at him.

  “General,” O’Brien hesitated, and then continued, “would you like to sit down? I’ve brought in some sandwiches.”

  Zhang continued to stand. The room sat in awkward silence.

  “Would you prefer for Mr. Pearson to leave the room?” asked O’Brien, growing perturbed. Zhang slowly moved to face Pearson.

  “I am Major General Zhang.”

  Pearson picked up on the clue. “I am pleased to meet you, General Zhang. I am Joseph Pearson, liaison to the White House for Governor O’Brien.”

  Zhang bowed slightly at the shoulders as they shook hands, and Pearson mimicked the action.

  Zhang turned toward O’Brien, nodded and sat in front of the plate of sandwiches, although he never touched them. O’Brien caught Pearson’s eye, shrugged, and then pulled up a chair.

  “General, there are a number of things I’d like to discuss with you. I have a list here.”

  Zhang raised his hand in response. “In due time, Governor. My first concern is the feeding and housing of the United Nations soldiers. Your arena facility is inadequate. What is your solution?”

  “Well, um, what did you have in mind?” asked O’Brien.

  “A barracks will be suitable. Do you have an available military facility?”

  “You want to take over one of our military bases?” asked O’Brien, not sure if the general was being serious. O’Brien’s eyes darted from Zhang to Pearson and back again.

  “Yes, that would be sufficient. Or we can occupy a college campus and dormitory. Do you have a college campus?” Yeah, Harvard. But that might piss the President off.

  “How many troops do you have?” asked Pearson.

  “Three thousand seven hundred forty-five, including myself.”

  Wow, things were looking up. O’Brien’s mind was in overdrive now. He needed to keep this Chinese fucker happy. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. One of the birds was gonna be a certain not-quite-a-full-bird colonel at Fort Devens. In the process, he’d get his guys back.

  “General, I think we have a military installation that fits your needs perfectly,” said O’Brien with a huge smile.

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday, October 5, 2016

  12:41 p.m.

  Prescott Peninsula, 1PP

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Brad gave Gunny Falcone and CWO Shore some final instructions and sent them back to Fort Devens. They were his two most trusted men, and the job of decommissioning the base had to be handled properly.
He had made a decision. The American military was in disarray and divided. Battle lines, so to speak, had been drawn.

  Over the past eight years, the President had systematically replaced conservative, longtime military personnel with those who shared his vision of transforming the military. But his recent activity was only a continuation of a policy designed to insert political correctness into the armed forces. Twenty-three years ago, President Bill Clinton issued an executive order that became commonly known as the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. Until then, it had been unlawful for a homosexual person to serve in the military. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell opened the door to allowing openly gay military personnel, a policy adopted in 2011.

  During the last five years, a push to allow women to join combat forces on the front line was implemented. These drastic changes to military policy did not come without political risk. The Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy almost derailed the Clinton presidency before it got started. A woman in combat was the last straw for many hardcore military leaders.

  For them, the current President’s relentless implementation of political correctness into military doctrine was a part of his broader goal to neutralize America’s military capability. Military analysts uniformly agreed that the implementation of the President’s social policies during a period of increased worldwide instability had jeopardized the nation’s national security.

  As these debilitating social engineering directives were adopted by an administration full of military experts whose vast military experience came from the hallowed halls of Ivy League schools, disgruntled generals and admirals were leaving the military. They were quickly replaced with left-leaning subordinates who had been rapidly advancing through the ranks in the name of cultural diversity. The first black this and the first woman that became common news headlines. The American left celebrated as they burned the Stars and Stripes.

  The warrior mentality of America’s armed forces had been replaced, in large part, with the multicultural makeover envisioned by President Clinton and then implemented by the current President.

  In this respect, Brad was a fossil—a throwback to World War II. Military duty and honor were in his genes. His family had shed blood for this country, and he was committed to making America great again, even if it meant taking on his fellow soldiers. He made a choice. He was prepared to leave the military to join the fight for renewed independence.

  As Steven approached, Brad thought about the ramifications of his decision. Would he be remembered as a soldier who abandoned his post when his country needed him the most? Or would he make his mark by leading America back to its former greatness?

  “Hey, Brad,” started Steven, holding a roll of maps under his arm, “do you wanna go over this out here or inside?”

  “Let’s do it down at the docks where we won’t be interrupted,” he replied, patting Steven on the back and leading him down the trail. As he began walking in that direction, he informed Corporal Morrell of where he and Steven could be found.

  Steven followed him down the path to the docks. A squirrel scampered out of their path into the woods, and a snake slithered out of the way as well.

  “It’s hard to believe we were in a firefight just a few days ago,” said Steven. “You’d think these critters would find a quieter place to live.”

  “Yeah,” added Brad. “We’re not very good neighbors, are we?”

  “No shit. The whole damn neighborhood has gone to hell.”

  The two men entered the clearing where the fleet of Stroker attack boats lay relatively still. Only a small westerly breeze created a wake.

  “Lance Corporal, we’re going to use the fish-cleaning tables to do a little work. Why don’t you gentlemen grab some chow and give us an hour.”

  “Yes, sir!” came the reply as the two Marines hastily made their way to 1PP.

  “You gotta love military discipline,” said Steven. “It’s been a month since their lives were turned upside down, and they still follow orders and do their duty.”

  “I’m proud of these young men. I gave them the option to haul ass and join their families. Our unit has always been cohesive. In fact, we’ve had three of our men return to Fort Devens in the last few days. They got their families squared away and wanted to resume their duties.”

  “Good to hear,” said Steven. “I hope to build that same sense of duty and honor with the Mechanics.”

  “Well, let’s get this strategic planning session under way.” Brad was anxious to set the course for his men and the Mechanics.

  “Okay, let’s start local, and then we’ll look at the big game plan,” started Steven. He rolled out a map of Massachusetts and the greater Boston area. He grabbed a few rocks off the ground and used them to hold down the corners.

  “I hate to give up Fort Devens,” said Brad. “But logistically, it doesn’t make sense. We’re spread out too much. If we had another hundred soldiers, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. The region is too unstable for me to travel to other installations and poach their personnel. We have to make do with what we have and refocus our priorities.”

  “I agree. What’s your timetable?” asked Steven.

  “Other than a ten-man unit guarding the front gate and the prisoners, all personnel are stationed here. I’m moving four men into a condo unit at 100 Beacon. They will be my eyes and ears in the city and will be available to you as well.”

  “I’ll use them to guard the building and train my guys.”

  Brad knew it was time to address the elephant in the room. “Lastly, there is the issue of O’Brien’s men.”

  “Just shoot ’em.” The men laughed at Steven’s repeated use of his patented phrase.

  “Trust me, that would be the easy way out,” said Brad, smiling. “I don’t believe I can bring myself to do that or order my men to execute the thugs either. If released, however, they will go straight back to O’Brien and pick up where they left off.”

  “And fully implicate you,” added Steven.

  “Oh, I suspect that ship has sailed.”

  Suddenly, the men ducked as a hawk swooped down over their heads and picked up a snake in both claws. The powerful wings thrust the bird upward as the snake wiggled to free itself.

  “Fuck me,” said Steven. “That scared me more than those fucks shooting at me the other day.”

  Brad laughed. “A bird’s gotta eat, right?”

  “No shit,” replied Steven. He got back on topic. “I’ve got the same problem with the kid. Although I don’t recall seeing him in Belchertown the day Katie and I were there, he can describe us to his daddy and the connection will be made.”

  Brad gave all of this some consideration. The boy was less emotional and had become mouthy while in captivity. He was well fed and comfortable. But like all prisoners, he was ready to be free again, having forgotten what landed him in the cell to begin with.

  “For now, we’ll hold onto all of our prisoners until we can come up with a better solution short of letting them loose.”

  “We may have to deal with the kid sooner,” said Steven. “If we don’t, his daddy may round up a posse to come looking for him.”

  “Agreed. Let’s talk about the UN forces and their capabilities.”

  Steven reached for a legal pad and slid it in front of Brad. Brad took a moment to read the three pages of notes.

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Brad. “These fuckers mean business.”

  “That they do.”

  “Howitzers, T-72s, and Russian gunships. We can’t compete with this.” Brad slammed the notepad on the table in front of him. “What about troop strength?”

  “Upwards of four thousand military and support personnel. Their artillery and vehicles are dispersed around the Seaport and the Cruise Ship Terminal.”

  “Where are the troops housed?”

  “The Convention Center. They have to be cramped.”

  Brad removed his cap and ran his hand through his hair. “Steven, I’m not overstating this. This is a rea
l fuckin’ problem for us.”

  “I get it, buddy. We need to consolidate your boys here and determine exactly how to counteract this.”

  “We have the upper hand because we know Boston and the rest of the terrain. Your observation people are well placed. But if we get into a battle, I can neutralize the tanks with the Javelins, but we can’t miss.”

  According to Steven’s intelligence reports gathered by the Mechanics, there were six Indian Army T-72 tanks, which had rolled out of the UN prepositioning ships.

  By sheer luck, Brad had six FGM-148 Javelin portable antitank missiles, which were now stored at Prescott Peninsula. The 76th Field Artillery Regiment was based at Fort Devens. Part of the 4th Brigade Combat Team out of Fort Stewart, Georgia, the 76th was being trained on the use of the FGM-148 system as the replacement for the older M47 Dragons.

  Known as a fire-and-forget missile, it used an infrared guidance system that allowed the user to immediately seek cover after launch. The Javelin was the latest technology. It used a high-explosive, antitank warhead capable of penetrating solid vehicle armor. The missile was able to achieve a high trajectory by attacking the tanks from above.

  “How many do you have?”

  “Six T-72s, six Javelins,” replied Brad.

  “What about the helos?” asked Steven. “Got any more toys?”

  “No problem there,” replied Brad. “I consider this the higher priority. Those gunships could take out this whole complex in a flash. They’re fast and agile and difficult to hit with small-arms fire. We’ve got to hit them when they’re sittin’ still.”

  “What do you have in mind?” asked Steven.

  “MANPADS.”

  Chapter 13

  Thursday, October 6, 2016

  6:00 p.m.

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge poured Steven a scotch and fixed one for himself. The brothers hadn’t spent any time alone together since the attack on Prescott Peninsula last Saturday. Sarge also realized that he hadn’t slept at 100 Beacon in nearly two weeks. Despite its dual purpose as his home and the base of operations for the Loyal Nine, the top-floor residence would always give him a sense of stability. Since Julia moved in with him last winter, the two had become a couple, and this was their home.