The marine looked back at them, his eyes dropping to Alex’s holster.
Shit!
Alex drew his pistol as Sergeant Bruckman dropped the assault pack and fired a quick rifle burst into the sentry’s chest. He tried to turn the HK416 on the battalion commander, but Alex lined up the sergeant’s silhouette with his front sight and fired first, joined a fraction of a second later by Grady’s P30L service pistol. More than a dozen 9mm bullets struck Bruckman in rapid succession, driving him against the HESCO barrier and knocking the rifle out of his hands.
The marine’s MDV stopped the bullets from entering his torso, preventing his instantaneous death. Colonel Grady closed the distance to the marine, firing his pistol at the mechanic’s unprotected face with devastating effect. Bruckman’s faceless corpse slid down the tan HESCO cage and toppled into the shiny grass. Grady had already disappeared over the barrier to check on the sentry, reappearing a second a later.
“Alex, get the battalion surgeon ready for a Class Two!”
Alex holstered his pistol and took off for Stoughton Hall, placing his hands on his head as marines scrambled out of the TOC. Tensions were high, and he didn’t want to give any of the headquarters’ staff an early excuse to fire their weapons. Given what just transpired, Alex felt confident that every marine in Grady’s battalion would put their service rifle to work, sooner than later.
“Fletcher is friendly!” Grady shouted. “Sergeant Major, get Bruckman’s assault pack out of here. Possible IED. Put it in one of the HESCO pits away from the TOC. Bruckman shot Kappleman at point-blank range. Help me get this marine to the BAS!”
Alex needed to get his crew out of Cambridge within the next ten minutes. Bruckman’s aborted attack on the TOC was only the beginning. A cascade of destabilizing violence would ripple through the battalion positions in short order. He’d seen this before, and so had Grady. Alex reached the side entrance to Stoughton Hall and stopped. Beyond the fact that one of Grady’s marines had just attempted to detonate a bomb in the battalion TOC, something nagged him about the rogue sergeant’s actions.
Bruckman had removed the pack, which indicated that he either planned to throw it inside or leave it behind. Either method required remote detonation. Throwing it through the entrance hatch didn’t make sense. With a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead, Bruckman would have been forced to trigger the bomb well within the casualty radius. He probably planned to drop it next to the piles of personal gear stashed around the tent, setting off the IED from a distance. But how did he acquire the bomb? Did he bring it with him from Fort Devens? Each question led to answers he couldn’t ignore. Not if his son was stuck in the battalion aid station.
“Notify the battalion surgeon that he has a Class Two casualty inbound,” he said to the marines assigned to the sentry post between Stoughton Hall and Hollis Hall.
“Do it,” said a corporal, dispatching a private to deliver the message.
The corporal looked shaken, on the verge of tears.
“That wasn’t your fault, son. Get that out of your head right now,” said Alex.
“Why did Bruckman do that? I don’t—”
“There’s nothing to understand about it. Don’t let anyone through, Corporal, without clearing it with the TOC first. Copy?”
“Yes, sir,” said the marine, shifting his rifle toward the Old Yard.
“Colonel Grady!” yelled Alex, running back toward the TOC.
Alex passed two marines carrying the critically wounded sentry to Stoughton hall. He didn’t see an obvious entry or exit wound, but the upper half of his body armor was stained dark red. Bright red blood streamed from his mouth and nose. He’d be dead within thirty minutes—if that. Grady leaned against the tree next to the TOC sentry station, his hands and uniform sleeves soaked in blood. He shook his head and grimaced.
“Fucking savages,” he muttered.
“Sorry, Sean. Your marine…” said Alex.
“One of the rounds hit a centimeter above his Dragon Skin,” said Grady, shaking his head. “You ready to give me a hand figuring out this insurgency?”
“Can you confirm that the IED is remote triggered?” said Alex, kneeling next to Bruckman’s body.
“Hold on,” he said, searching around. “Top? Can you take a look at Bruckman’s pack and confirm the detonation mechanism?”
“Roger, sir,” said a hulking Latino marine standing next to the battalion sergeant major. “Make a hole!”
The master sergeant ran toward the unlucky marine tasked to carry the backpack to one of the shallow pits dug into the Old Yard.
“Get the marines focused, Sergeant Major. We still have a shit storm brewing out there,” added Grady.
“On it, sir! Back in the TOC! Let’s go!”
Alex emptied the dead marine’s pockets and vest pouches, trying to avoid staring at his lifeless, destroyed face and the brain matter seeping out of his combat helmet. He found a Motorola resembling one of the battalion’s encrypted models and handed it to Grady.
“Can you confirm this is one of yours?” said Alex, continuing the search.
“What’s your theory?”
“If it’s remote triggered, either Bruckman or another marine has the detonator. I was hoping to find it on Bruckman.”
“Doesn’t make any sense. How did he know to bring a backpack IED to Devens? We were on a regularly scheduled AT,” said Grady.
Alex finished his search, coming up empty. He stood up and shook his head.
“Maybe they bring bombs with them to every reserve drill—or maybe someone delivered it.”
“Everyone camped out on the yard has been thoroughly searched…son of a bitch! Bruckman CASEVAC’d some of the civilians to Cambridge Hospital,” said Grady, stepping toward the tent flap.
“Not by himself, I assume,” said Alex.
“Correct. Another motor transport marine. Sergeant Major!”
The ground shook, followed by the sharp crack of a high-order detonation. Windows shattered above the HESCO barrier stationed between Harvard and Stoughton Halls, followed by a horizontal debris shower that instantly engulfed the marines shielded from the blast. Gunfire erupted outside of the perimeter as marines from the battalion supply point poured out of the back of Harvard Hall and rushed to the source of the explosion. Alex started to walk backward, toward the battalion aid station.
“Who am I looking for?” yelled Alex.
“Private First Class O’Neil. Caucasian. Short. Pale with freckles,” said Grady.
The battalion sergeant major’s acne-scarred face burst through the tent hatch. “Sir, we have movement south of the river. UAV picked up at least fifty personnel and multiple vehicles at the bridges.”
“Which bridge?” asked Grady sharply.
“All of them, sir.”
“Shit.”
“I’ll take care of your internal problem,” said Alex, turning toward the Old Yard.
“Alex!” yelled Grady, bending over Bruckman’s body. “You might need one of these.”
Grady tossed Bruckman’s HK416, which Alex snatched out of the air by the hand guard. The sergeant’s Motorola followed. He started to open the dead sergeant’s ammo pouches, but Alex stopped him.
“I still have a few of my own.”
Chapter 21
EVENT +59:37
North Beacon Street Bridge
Boston, Massachusetts
Staff Sergeant Terrence Williams stood in the M-ATV’s armored gun turret and squinted into his binoculars. The rain hampered his view of the intersection, but he didn’t need a crystal-clear view to know that the situation at his bridge was about to reach critical mass. Raven imagery passed to his vehicle-mounted tablet showed at least fifty infrared signatures gathered in front of the Brooks Street underpass. That was two minutes ago. The Raven had started with the North Beacon Street Bridge and headed east, confirming similar IR signatures at every bridge over the Charles River. Combined with the report of a massive explosion at the battalion TOC, he
wasn’t looking forward to the next several minutes. Something big was going down.
He had a rapidly developing problem. The crowd approaching the bridge didn’t appear to carry weapons. Not like the group that had thrown itself at the civilians over an hour ago. ROE was clear in that case, and the militia made it easy for all of them by displaying and firing weapons. Everyone south of Mr. Fletcher’s group had been declared hostile and was targeted with extreme prejudice. He didn’t like what he saw through his binoculars. They were going to have a serious problem when the growing mass of men, women and children reached the bridge.
“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. I have eyes on sixty-plus foot mobiles approaching south entrance to bridge. I see children. No vehicles present.”
“Copy. Can you confirm weapons from that distance?”
“Nothing in plain sight. Request ROE update,” he said.
“Stand by.”
His orders were explicit. Nothing gets across. And with the newly minted suicide bomber tactic in play, he faced a shitty decision point. If he couldn’t confirm weapons, he would launch tear-gas grenades first, hoping to convince the mob to turn back. Failing that, Raider One Zero’s only remaining option was to physically block the group and try to force them back, which put his marines at risk from hidden weapons or explosive vests. If they spotted weapons, his options didn’t improve. He could use sharpshooters against the armed targets, followed by tear gas against the rest, or—he didn’t want to think about his last option. There was no way he would give that order. Not with children in the group. He’d already lost the bridge. He just hoped the crowd marching through the intersection didn’t realize it.
“One Zero, this is Raider Actual. Hold the bridge. ROE version three still in effect.”
Son of a bitch. Battalion wasn’t going to cut him any slack.
“Graham, put our Matvee in a blocking position at the foot of the bridge.”
“Ooh-rah, Staff Sergeant,” said Corporal Graham.
He keyed the vehicle radio as the fifteen-ton armored vehicle lurched out of its hide site in bushes north of Greenbough Boulevard.
“Raider One Zero, unclassified foot mobiles, numbered thirty plus, are about to walk onto our bridge. All One Zero units will hold fire. I repeat. All One Zero units will hold fire. Observe and report. I need to know if you see weapons. I want Rottolico’s Matvee forming a block with me on the north end. Load all grenade launchers with CS. Start ranging the second Jersey barricade from the far end.”
The Matvee raced into position on the bridge and joined the second vehicle. Williams hopped out of the Matvee and directed Corporal Graham into a twenty-degree angled position blocking the southbound lane. He ensured that the front of the vehicle had adequate clearance from the side of the bridge, to allow a quick evacuation. The second tactical vehicle backed up toward Graham’s, leaving a five-foot gap between the rear bumpers. Satisfied that both vehicles could simultaneously escape, he ordered the marines to take positions behind the Matvees. He walked the line, verifying that they had loaded tear-gas grenades, borrowing one from Private First Class Leverone for his own launcher.
After replacing the high-explosive grenade in his own M320 grenade launcher, Williams climbed into his Matvee’s turret and raised his head far enough to rest his binoculars on top of the armored protection kit. He scanned the crowd channeling past the first barricade. The group funneled into the left lane, which had been cleared of concrete obstructions by a large bulldozer last night. At two hundred feet, with rainsqualls whipping across the bridge, the image was still fuzzy.
“Does anyone see any weapons?” he said into his radio headset.
Negative reports filled Raider One Zero’s designated intersquad channel.
Williams stood up in the turret and leaned over the side.
“Fire one CS grenade each, at right side of the bridge, near the exploded car!”
With the crowd massed in the left lane, he hoped to avoid skimming a solid metal object the size of a Red Bull can into the crowd at two hundred fifty feet per second. Hollow thumps filled the air, and Williams watched several dark objects arc toward the south end of the bridge. Williams knew the tear gas had limitations in this weather, which was why he ordered a large barrage to be fired in front of the mob. He hoped to discourage the civilians by giving them a diluted taste of what lay ahead if they continued. Most civilians had no experience with the painful, debilitating effects of tear gas and retreated immediately when exposed to a light dusting.
Three of the seven 40mm projectiles overshot the smoking car. One hit a piece of debris and ricocheted wildly into the crowd, dropping an adult to the pavement and exploding. A cloud of white gas erupted and covered half of the group before quickly dispersing in the high winds and rain. The CS gas blinded everyone it enveloped, forcing his or her eyes shut with an excruciatingly painful chemical reaction. It then went to work on their lungs and mucus membranes, causing each breath to feel like inhaling fire.
The sudden, violent denial of sight and oxygen caused a tragedy he couldn’t have predicted. With the sole intent of escaping the tear gas, the mob dispersed in every direction. Staff Sergeant Williams watched in horror as a woman holding a child disappeared through a destroyed section of the bridge’s concrete side barrier, followed by several others.
Williams climbed out of the turret and scrambled down the side of the vehicle, hitting the pavement in a dead sprint for the side barrier. He leaned over and counted six people flailing in the water. The current dragged them slowly away from the bridge, into the middle of the Charles River.
Fuck. I killed those people.
He wanted to help them, but a rescue was out of the question. His team didn’t carry any equipment that could possibly help.
“Staff Sergeant! They’re still coming!” yelled the marine in the gun turret of the second Matvee.
Williams lifted the binoculars and saw at least forty civilians continuing the march toward the north end of the bridge. Still no weapons. The woman hit by the errant 40mm projectile lay motionless on the pavement behind the mob. Small clusters of people materialized in the traffic circle beyond the intersection, headed toward the bridge. If he could break up this advance, they might be able to hold the bridge. He kneeled and aimed his M320 grenade launcher at a point directly in front of the group. The grenade exploded exactly where he intended, obscuring the front rank in a toxic chemical cloud. He watched as the pack worked together to keep the momentum moving forward. He’d fired as close to the crowd as possible without striking it—to little effect.
“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. CS ineffective unless fired directly into crowd, causing hard casualties. No weapons visible. Estimate forty-plus civilians on bridge, with more approaching.”
“Stand by,” said the radio operator.
“Reload tear gas!” he said, running back to his vehicle.
He had just settled into the turret when Raider Base responded over the battalion tactical net.
“One Zero. Use 40 mike mike grenades to repel crowd.”
“What the fuck?” Williams muttered, keying the microphone. “Raider Base, this is One Zero. Say again. I heard use 40 mike mike grenades. Do you mean tear-gas grenades?”
An explosion thundered in the distance. Several seconds passed with no response.
“Raider Base, this is One Zero. Did you copy my last?”
“Stand by, One Zero.”
“Copy. One Zero standing by.”
The explosion was bad news. With the same situation simultaneously unfolding at ten bridges, he knew Raider Base was too busy to hold everyone’s hands. He’d give the tear gas one more chance, then order One Zero’s withdrawal. He wasn’t going to kill or maim more civilians.
“One Zero, standby to fire CS grenades. Leverone, Graham, Rottolico, Howard will fire directly in front of the group. The rest of you will fire to the right. Know your limitations and adjust. I do not want to put another round directly into the group. Five
second stand by. Four. Three.
“All Raider units, this is Patriot Actual. Withdraw from your positions immediately and proceed to assigned secondary staging areas for further orders. I say again, withdraw from your positions immediately and report to secondary staging area. Acknowledge, over.”
The battalion commander had just given up the Charles River.
Williams activated the intersquad communications net. “One Zero, mount up. We’re headed to Medford.”
He dropped into the vehicle and squirmed into the front passenger seat as Graham and Leverone jumped in. He waited for his turn to acknowledge the order over the battalion tactical net, the process apparently stalled with Raider One Seven. One Seven covered the Anderson Memorial Bridge two miles downriver. He hoped the explosion had nothing to do with the delay in One Seven’s report. The thought of a bomb detonating on the Anderson Memorial Bridge triggered an instinct. He glanced across the cabin, through Graham’s thick driver-side window. A man sprinted ahead of the crowd.
“Contact, left!” he screamed, kicking his door open.
Williams sprinted to the rear corner of the M-ATV and sighted in on a runner carrying an oversized olive green backpack in his right hand. A short burst of automatic fire stopped the man just as he passed the bridge’s final Jersey barrier. Gunfire erupted from the second vehicle, directed at the advancing crowd.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” he yelled into his headset, pounding on the second Matvee’s rear hatch.
A deep, rhythmic thundering replaced the M240’s rapid chatter.
No. No. No!
Tracers from the third vehicle’s .50-caliber machine gun streamed out of its concealed position along Greenbough Boulevard and connected with the top of the bridge’s side barrier. Chunks of gray concrete exploded, followed by body parts. Williams ran toward the third vehicle, frantically waving his arms and screaming the cease-fire order. The firing stopped.
“Raider One Zero, this is Raider Base. You’re transmitting over battalion tactical. Did you copy Patriot’s last transmission?”
Williams checked the transmit switch attached to his Dragon Skin vest. He had broadcast the cease-fire order over the wrong net. His marines never heard him. He switched back to the intersquad channel.
Event Horizon (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series) Page 14