The HESCO system put twelve inches of compacted dirt between the marines and incoming high-velocity rifle bullets. Ed had been a little disturbed to discover that they didn’t have enough barriers to surround the command tent. Grady told him that if the command tent came under sustained fire, they were well past the point where a line of HESCO barriers would make a difference. He couldn’t tell if Grady was serious or kidding.
“Sir?” said one of the marines, looking away from his riflescope.
“My daughter’s coming in on one of the Matvees.”
The marines glanced at each other with doubtful looks.
“Let him through, Marines!”
Both marines stiffened, standing at attention. Grady gave him a single nod and disappeared into the tent. Ed squeezed past the HESCO barrier’s metal mesh exterior and searched for the vehicle transporting Chloe.
Holy Jesus!
Harvard University resembled a cross between a refugee camp and a third-world military outpost. The battalion’s “hard” security perimeter now encompassed most of the Old Yard commons. Two ugly, obtrusive machine-gun positions cut the yard in half, facing south toward Gray’s Hall. Three HESCO cages, arranged in a “U,” protected each M240 machine-gun team. Muddy patches of ripped turf surrounded each nest, identifying the immediate source of filler for the cages.
The battalion’s motor transport section sat directly behind the machine guns, taking up half of the remaining open space between Thayer Hall and the cluster of buildings sheltering the battalion command post. Eight behemoth MK25 MTVRs (Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement) transport vehicles made up the bulk of the section, staggered far enough apart to maneuver independently out of the yard. Four M-ATVs (“Matvees”) were parked haphazardly in front of the seven-ton MTVRs, facing Johnston Gate. All of the battalion’s tactical vehicles mounted M240 machine guns, part of Homeland’s Category Five load out. He’d learned a lot pretending not to listen to the marines in the command tent.
Ed spotted an empty Matvee near the front entrance to Stoughton Hall and jogged toward the vehicle. Part of the battalion’s inner perimeter, Stoughton had been converted into the Battalion Aid Station. The aid station had started as a self-contained shelter unit, half the size of the command tent, in the northern part of the Old Yard. Citizens flocked to Harvard Yard as word spread through Cambridge, quickly overwhelming the medical section’s capacity to house severely injured patients.
The worst cases were moved to the first floor of Stoughton Hall, where the battalion surgeon and four navy corpsmen scrambled to stabilize patients long enough to be transported to one of the overwhelmed hospitals near Cambridge. Options remained limited, since most of Boston’s major hospitals were south of the Charles River. Few patients had been moved.
Patients with minor injuries packed the rest of the yard, hiding from the rain in a variety of commercial tents and makeshift shelters. Grady refused to allow them inside the outer perimeter building, citing security concerns for both the civilians and marines. Few people in the Harvard Yard shantytown complained about the restriction. They were inside the defensive perimeter, which to many felt like the only safe place in the world. They had no idea how quickly “Fort Harvard” could cease to exist if the situation north of the Charles deteriorated much further. He’d overheard Grady issue an order to activate “thirty minute” protocols. He assumed this meant “gone in thirty minutes.”
His knees buckled as the rear cargo compartment came into focus. Bloodstains streaked across the composite benches on both sides of the vehicle. He slammed the rear hatch shut and charged the entrance to Stoughton Hall.
A marine stepped through the open doorway and put a hand on his chest, forcing him back.
“Sir, you need to be escorted into the building by one of the aid station’s personnel. If you head over to the triage—”
“My daughter’s in there!” he said, pushing back.
“Sir! You will step back and follow procedure!”
“He’s good to go, Corporal! His daughter is part of our group,” said a marine Ed didn’t recognize.
“Daddy!” he heard from the dark hallway beyond the sentry.
“Sorry, sir! Orders.”
Ed ignored the marine and pushed into the dormitory, searching for his daughter.
“Chloe!”
He heard footsteps rushing down the hallway and turned in time to grab his daughter. The fact that she could run toward him meant that she hadn’t been hurt. He hugged her tightly.
“We got you. We got you,” he struggled to say.
She buried her head in his shoulder and cried quietly, her bear hug constricting his ribs.
“You okay, sweetie?”
She nodded her head, and he held her, momentarily oblivious to the hard journey ahead of them. He remembered the blood in the back of the Matvee.
“What about Mr. Fletcher and Ryan?”
A familiar voice echoed in the dim vestibule.
“We’re okay too.”
“Alex?” he said, searching the hallway.
“We’re in the student lounge!”
His daughter reluctantly released her grip and stepped back a few paces. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Are you all right, Chloe?” he said, grasping her hand.
She sobbed and shook her head.
“She was caught in the middle of a nasty gunfight. Real nasty. You should have one of the corpsmen take a look at her,” said one of the marines that had brought her in.
Ed crouched, scrutinizing her for signs of injury. She didn’t appear to be bleeding. She was soaked like everyone else, but intact. In the hazy light cast through the entrance, he couldn’t find a single tear in her clothing.
“Not that kind of injury, sir,” said the marine.
He nodded toward the marine and hugged his daughter again. “You’re safe now, sweetie. We’re going home.”
“Right now?”
“As soon as we can, Chloe.”
“We need to go now,” she said blankly.
“Why?”
She paused for several moments. “Because they’re everywhere.”
“Who’s everywhere, sweetie?”
“The Liberty Boys.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you. Let’s find Alex and figure out how to get out of here,” said Ed. “Where’s the student lounge?”
“That hallway. Second door on the left,” said the marine, pointing him in the right direction.
“What happened out there?”
“They had a serious hard-on for your friend. Sorry, ma’am. Whatever he did last night, it really pissed them off. They blew up half the bridge trying to snuff him out. They’re lucky we saw the flares. We thought it was an all-out attack on the bridge.”
“Thanks for bringing back my daughter,” said Ed, starting for the student lounge and holding his daughter.
“We were just batting cleanup. Your buddy and the kid did most of the work. Navy Cross material on the bridge. Sorry, ma’am. You don’t see that very often with today’s youth.”
Ed stopped and stared at the corporal, who didn’t look much older than his daughter. He didn’t know how to respond, so he nodded and kept walking. All of this was beyond surreal. What the hell had happened on the other side of the river? Was this related to the Liberty Boys his daughter mentioned? Were they safe here? The sooner they left, the better. He planned to activate his own version of the “thirty minute” evacuation plan, rain or shine. When he walked into the doorway marked student lounge, his hopes of leaving drained faster than the blood in his face. Neither of the Fletchers looked ambulatory.
“Well, there he is. Sergeant Walker!” said Alex, lying on a cot next to his son.
The room’s furniture had been stripped, replaced by cots and folding chairs. A table stacked with medical supplies sat against the wall next to the door. A smaller cart near Ryan and Alex displayed stainless-steel surgical tools. Ed’s stomach pitched. Two of the medical station’s personn
el hovered around Ryan’s bloody leg while another tended to Alex’s shoulder.
“Same shoulder?”
“It’s not bad. Barely grazed,” said Alex.
“How’s Ryan?”
Alex’s son had his head turned to the wall.
“He got hit in the leg, but he should be fine. He’ll be out of it for a while. Morphine.”
Chloe pulled at his arm, keeping him from entering the room.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Ed, turning to Alex and shrugging his shoulder.
“You should spend some time with your daughter. We had it rough getting back. She did good,” said Alex.
“No, I didn’t,” she muttered. “I almost got all of us killed.”
Alex shook his head and mouthed, “No.”
Ed hovered in the doorway, feeling conflicted and guilty about leaving them alone in the makeshift surgery room. He owed Alex everything for this. He had so much to say, but his daughter clearly needed him more.
“I don’t know what to—”
“We’ve been in this together from the start. This is just what we do. Go,” said Alex, suppressing a grin.
“Still, I—”
“Ed, don’t make me chase you out of here.”
“All right,” Ed mumbled, “but I owe you one.”
“Negative. You keep forgetting the church.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Bringing Chloe back—I can’t even.” He shook his head, fighting back tears.
“I know the feeling,” said Alex, reaching out to touch Ryan’s arm.
Chapter 20
EVENT +59:33
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Alex entered the command tent and immediately sensed that something was off. The staff sat tensed at their stations, silent. The battalion TOC (Tactical Operations Center) was never quiet. Ever. He took a few steps in and spotted Lieutenant Colonel Grady talking to the UAV section.
Not good.
UAV operations had been grounded for more than two hours, and the storm showed no signs of abating. He removed his boonie cap and twisted the water onto the floor. Grady saw him and patted the UAV pilot on the back before moving to greet him.
“This isn’t a good time, Alex. Sorry,” he said, pointing toward the hatch.
“You’re putting a Raven up? In this?”
“It’s just a precaution. I can’t afford any more surprises like the car bomb. Sorry, but I can’t have nonessential personnel in the TOC right now.”
“This is the first chance I’ve had to get away from the aid station. My son’s fine, by the way,” said Alex.
“I’m glad they got him stitched up, Alex. He sounds like a fine young man. Staff Sergeant Williams told me about the bridge. Sorry I haven’t been able to swing by, but things are a little tense right now. Insurgency chatter stopped three minutes ago. All channels,” said Grady, with a severe look.
“I need to talk to you about the so-called insurgency. It might have some bearing.”
“All right.”
“You’re not dealing with a rogue gang of criminals. This is something much bigger. My son says they refer to themselves as the Liberty Boys.”
“He heard them say this?” said Grady, betraying a hint of recognition.
“From his apartment window.” Alex nodded. “A group of heavily armed men and women drove a pickup truck down their street, assuring everyone that the streets are safe. From what Ryan described, criminal elements ran wild for about twelve hours. There was a ton of shooting the first night, and this Liberty Boys group appeared the next day. They were asking for volunteers to help them secure Boston.”
“That could have been the same criminal group trying to draw out troublemakers,” said Grady.
“You don’t sound very convinced. What I saw was far too centralized for spur of the moment, post-disaster opportunists. They had an effective, grassroots communications network. We were ratted out by a family just south of the turnpike. I didn’t give you a heads-up on the radio because we were running for our lives.”
“You got lucky. Staff Sergeant Williams almost lit you guys up. Flares reach a height of three hundred thirty meters. Over a thousand feet, in case you were curious,” said Grady.
“I remembered the forty second part. The name Liberty Boys has an interesting historical context.”
Grady held a hand up to stop him from continuing. “Why don’t we step outside for a second,” he said. “Let me know as soon as the Raven is airborne!”
“Yes, sir,” replied the UAV operator.
They walked far enough away from the sentry to avoid being overheard. The rain collapsed the brim of Alex’s cap against his forehead before they stopped. Grady, however, appeared unfazed by the deluge against his ballistic helmet.
“I have a few hundred digital pages of information compiled by the Department of Homeland Security on the Liberty Boys—or the Mechanics. Top secret, limited distribution. Myself and the battalion intel officer. There’s a reason for that.”
“A reserve military unit drawing unit members from the greater Boston area? I can’t imagine what the problem might be,” said Alex.
“We left three marines at Fort Devens, including my XO. My first task was to privately open a sealed file stored in my secure Cat Five capsule. The file contained explicit orders for the immediate incarceration of three marines that had been in the unit for more than a decade. Homeland identified them as ‘immediate, high-mission risks. Known affiliation to subversive anti-government militia groups.’”
“And you don’t think Homeland found all of them,” said Alex.
“That’s why we’re talking out here.”
“Don’t you find this a little disturbing? Homeland investigating your marines? Category Five Event Response with no information flowing from higher headquarters? Boston is falling apart because the two groups with half a chance to keep it together are working against each other. Maybe that’s by design. By the way, I saw a few XM-9s out there,” said Alex. “What exactly happened to the National Guard unit out of Brockton?”
“We don’t know. They just stopped communicating with us,” said Grady.
“I think they had a problem. An internal problem—and I think you know more about the situation than you’re willing to admit.”
“How many XM-9s did you see?” asked Grady.
“Does it matter?” Alex countered, studying Grady’s poker face.
The XM-9 was a new combat carbine used exclusively by the United States Army and National Guard units. Civilian variants of the Heckler and Koch line of XM rifles had been specifically banned from importation into the U.S. by the 2016 Combat Weapons Reduction Bill.
“You need to reach out to militia leadership across the river before this situation spirals further out of control. I’ve studied groups like this in Maine and New Hampshire. Talked to their leadership. They’re highly suspicious of the government, but they’re reasonable. Most of them share the same mission as your battalion: to help the people in a crisis. I assume that’s still the crux of your mission?”
“The Liberty Boys are making that mission extremely difficult,” stated Grady.
“That’s because you’re working against each other. If the current organization has roots to the original Mechanics, you’re talking about a league of New Englanders that has spent the better part of the past two hundred fifty years planning to fight a guerilla war against a possible government takeover. I’m surprised that I didn’t come across this group in my research.”
“They don’t officially exist. You won’t find a single modern reference to them on any website. They don’t produce literature or host bean suppers like nearly every other militia group out there. They don’t muster in the streets to fill sandbags when the rivers overflow or serve hot meals after a nor’easter. Instead, they donate sizable sums of money through untraceable proxies to support relief efforts. They have considerable resources at their disposal. We’re talking generational wealth.�
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“You need to take steps to convince their leadership that your battalion isn’t part of a master plan to subjugate the United States. That’s the only way this won’t end in a complete disaster.”
Grady grinned and gripped Alex’s good shoulder. “I need you to head this up.”
“Excuse you—Colonel,” said Alex.
“You have experience talking to militia leaders. You’ve studied their structures and drawn conclusions based on research. My education into this subject started two days ago with the arrest of my executive officer and two staff NCOs. I can give you a laptop and a private room in one of these buildings to sort through the digital file. Help me make sense of the Liberty Boys and form a strategy. I barely had time to read the executive summary.”
“Sean, I was really hoping to head out as soon as possible. I need to get these kids home to their mothers. We’ve been gone for thirty-six hours with no contact,” said Alex.
A marine appeared between Stoughton and Hollis Halls, walking the well-worn, muddy path toward the battalion TOC. They waited for him to salute Grady and pass before continuing their conversation. The marine sergeant glanced back at Grady as he approached the sentry stationed outside of the TOC.
“Your son really isn’t in any condition to travel right now. Neither are you, for that matter.”
“I was hoping you might spare one of those Matvees for thirty minutes. I have a Jeep stashed up in the Middlesex Fells Reservation.”
“Not until I figure out why militia radio traffic went quiet. I should have UAV coverage in a few minutes. Could you give me a few hours of analysis?” said Grady.
Alex’s attention strayed to the marine that had passed them a few seconds ago. The sentry was speaking into a Motorola. The sergeant leaned against the HESCO barrier and started to unclip his assault pack from his Modular Dragon Skin Vest (MDV).
“Who is that?” asked Alex.
“Sergeant Bruckman. Chief mechanic,” answered Grady, craning his head to look at the marine.
“Why is he detaching his assault pack?” asked Alex, thumbing the snap on his drop holster.
Event Horizon (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series) Page 13