by Bobby Akart
A fiber-optic system could detect and locate intruders anywhere along a fence up to ten miles long. The two-mile span and limited availability of personnel was a concern for Brad. The opti-mag sensing system generated an alert to the guard shack when something caused a disturbance to the optical fiber or the trip devices, which were attached at varying heights.
As an added security measure, fiber-optic cameras were installed along the perimeter, which provided live feeds to both the guard shacks and to a control room located within the main facility. Donald designed a dedicated solar array for the perimeter security system and encased all critical electronics in hardened compartments for protection against any form of electromagnetic pulse.
“DQ gets things done,” said Steven. “You know I bust his balls a lot, but I have a shit ton of respect for him. His dedication to preparedness and attention to detail will save all of our collective asses one day.”
“I agree,” said Brad. “Donald studied every aspect of the Triple Q before he started. He envisioned every contingency and tried to account for it. He once said to me, ‘Every morning I wake up and ask myself, if the shit hit the fan while I was sleeping, what prep do I wish I had?’ Then he gets it. He’s applied the same commitment to benefit us.”
The men left the entrance and drove along the western shore of Prescott Peninsula and admired the serenity of the woods. Closed to the public for almost ten years, the woods of Prescott Peninsula began to overtake the gravel roads bearing names like Rattlesnake Den and Sunk Brook. The west side of the Quabbin Reservoir hugged the shoreline but was only a thousand feet across.
“I’m comfortable with our security at the front of the peninsula,” said Brad. “Securing the miles of shoreline will be a challenge. Too many patrol boats will attract attention from across the shore.” The men waved to three of Brad’s men who were on patrol. By design, they wore hiking gear but carried concealed sidearms. It was not time for uniforms and heavy firepower—yet.
“I’ve given this some thought and talked to my friend Drew about this,” said Steven. “He’s from Tennessee and fishes a lot. He recommended a company called Stroker Boats near Knoxville. We’ve acquired a dozen nondescript bass boats custom designed to suit our purposes. The Triple Q Ranch has its own navy.”
“Well, Admiral Sargent, tell me more.”
“These all look like typical bass boats, painted in various shades of camo. They have a large open bow, which will allow for gear storage, and the boats can easily handle four personnel. In place of the customary pedestal-mounted boat seats, we retrofitted the pedestal to allow for a Ma Deuce to be attached.”
“Light ’em up! That .50 cal will make the fish jump out of the water and into the boat.”
“I don’t know about the fish, but I hope it doesn’t come to lighting up unwanted visitors,” replied Steven. “These boats will cruise at ninety miles per hour with only the driver, but easily hits seventy fully loaded. After they arrived, a buddy of mine retrofitted them with Armorcore bullet-resistant fiberglass panels. Together with the standard Kevlar braided hoses and hydraulic system used by Stroker, we have a pretty decent gunship that passes as your run-of-the-mill bass boat.” Steven wheeled into the construction site.
“Good work, Steven,” said Brad.
“There’s our director of procurement now,” said Steven.
Donald was walking with a set of plans, holding his hands up asking them to stop. Pointing to his left, a large Lull was approaching with a twenty-two-thousand-watt Generac attached to its forks. Donald waved Steven towards the newly constructed main building of the Triple Q Ranch complex. He approached the car.
“Gentlemen, this is a restricted construction area,” quipped Donald. “Brad, do you have your combat helmet?”
“Of course I do.”
“Lieutenant Commander Sargent, do you have your hard head with you today?” asked Donald.
Steven spilled out of the truck and gave chase. “Fuck you, DQ! I was just saying nice things about you, asshole!”
Susan emerged from inside the building as Donald ran past her. “Boys! Boys! Take it easy!”
“Mommy, Donny was mean to me.”
“I’m sure you can handle it just fine, little Stevie,” replied Susan, giving her man-child friend a hug. “Brad, how do you deal with this—ten-year-old.”
“I have a whole base full of them, Susan,” replied Brad. “In fact, several should be roaming the woods today.”
“They are. Like well-trained soldiers, they check in with me hourly to provide a sitrep,” said Susan.
“Sitrep! Listen to you, Susie Q!” said Steven. “That is so sexy. If DQ wasn’t my friend, I’d have to—”
Susan swatted him with a set of plans and interrupted his banter.
“Life is just one long pussy crawl for you, isn’t it?” The entire group busted out in laughter at Susan’s completely out of character use of the p-word. “Behave or I will put you in the stockade!”
“Wait. We have a stockade?” asked Brad.
“We do, fellows, wait ’til you see our progress,” replied Donald.
The Triple Q Ranch was a construction marvel only made possible by the wealth of the Boston Brahmin and the organizational skills of Donald. Although the facility was closed to the public and secured from curious intruders, hikers and bored fishermen, it still had the outward appearance of a shelter for abused women and children. The property contained twelve freestanding bungalows, which housed six each and contained fully equipped kitchenettes. Each bungalow had its own solar array and water source in the form of a well.
The main structure had two primary components. Aboveground, Donald designed an Indiana-farm-style structure with a three-hundred-sixty-degree wraparound covered porch and a large cupola-enclosed widow’s walk. The widow’s walk provided an excellent observation post as the main building was built on the highest point of Prescott Peninsula.
“Welcome to 1PP,” said Donald as the group ascended the stairs onto the porch. “One-P-P stands for one Prescott Peninsula. Each of the bungalows and the guard stations has a similar code name. Outwardly, the design looks like a typical clapboard-siding building with upper level dormers. But I assure you, the appearance of a nostalgic farmhouse ends there.” The group entered what appeared to be a large living room and reception space.
“We’ve constructed the first and second levels on top of the original belowground bunker using concrete block poured with shredded rebar-infused concrete. Then the entirety of the perimeter is fortified with twenty-four-gauge steel panels. These ballistic-proof walls will easily stop a fifty-caliber-round and most mortar rounds. The fortified walls also enabled us to use steel I-beam construction for the roof and a fortified poured-concrete slab.”
“It’s a fortress,” interjected Susan. “Yet it will function as a residence and headquarters after TEOTWAWKI.”
“The five-thousand-square-foot first level contains an exercise room, laundry facilities, multiple bath rooms, storage and mechanical rooms,” added Donald. Donald walked them to the rear of the building through an open fortified door. The door lent the appearance of two open bookcases. “These are the stockades.”
The group filed in and walked through a hallway filled with several small rooms sealed with steel grate doors. Each space resembled a jail cell.
“Looks like a jail,” said Steven. “Where are the stretching racks and thumbscrews?”
“You watch too much Game of Thrones,” replied Susan. “One of the things we haven’t talked about as a group is the disposition of intruders or marauders.”
“Just shoot ’em,” chimed in Steven.
“That’s your response for everything,” said Susan.
“It’s efficient,” said Steven. “Dead men don’t talk.”
“Susan is right. We will have to address this at some point,” added Brad. “After the shit hits the fan, our perimeter security may take someone into custody. We can’t let them go if they catch a glimpse of this. D
onald made the right decision by building a way to house them while a decision is made. At some point, they will have to be disposed of.”
Steven sat on one of the bunks. “They’ll like it here. Do we have to feed them?”
“Of course!” replied Susan.
Steven got up and walked out of the stockade’s hallway. “Then just shoot ’em.”
“Jeez,” mumbled Susan.
Donald continued the tour. “The entire building is equipped with vaults for firearms and ammunition. There are hidden compartments and sliding bookcases for precious metals, cash and other valuable preparedness assets.”
“How do we get downstairs?” asked Steven.
“You tell me,” replied Donald.
Steven walked through the day room, pulling on bookcases and stomping on the wooden floor, listening for a hollow sound. He was unsuccessful. “Is there an outside entrance?”
Donald gestured for the group to follow him. “There is, but its three hundred yards into the woods towards the docks where Egypt Creek dumps into the reservoir.
“This is the mechanical room. You’ll see the two large air-handling units, which ostensibly are part of the air-supply ductwork.”
Donald walked around the room and allowed the group to inspect the air handlers. “They’re identical in every respect except for what’s inside.”
He opened the access panel to one of the units, which revealed another panel that he easily removed.
“Wow,” exclaimed Brad. “This takes you to a spiral staircase below. Ingenious.”
“I got the idea from a Batman movie.”
“Of course you did,” said Steven. “This is first class, DQ. You’ve thought of everything.”
“Thanks.”
“Has anything changed in the bunker?” asked Brad.
“It’s complete except for outfitting it with electronics and gear,” replied Susan. “I’ll need your wish lists.” Brad and Steven both fumbled through their pockets to provide a list of suggested equipment and weaponry.
“Before we installed the exterior walls for the new structure, we reinforced the bunker with a burster slab engineered to handle most ordnance,” said Donald as the group exited the mechanical room. “The bunker is EMP proof and its entries are protected with military-grade CBRE equipment, including air filtration, blast doors and blast valves. In the event of a sophisticated attack on the facility, the occupants will be protected against chemical, biological, radiological, and explosive threats.”
“Speaking of occupants, have you provided a tour to any of the Brahmin?” asked Steven.
“Not yet, although I do provide Mr. Morgan constant updates. His response is always the same—Ahh know yahh awn top of it, Mr. Quinn,” said Donald, using his best Thurston Howell III accent.
Chapter 35
July 28, 2016
Democratic National Convention
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The noise inside the Wells Fargo Arena was deafening with the excitement of twenty thousand plus rabid democrats. Abbie could not make out the words of fellow Massachusetts Senator Elizabeth Warren’s speech placing Abbie’s name into nomination for the vice presidential spot on the ticket with Hillary Clinton. Abbie knew the majority of the crowd wanted her senior senator from Massachusetts at the top of the democrat presidential ticket. She endured more than a few grumbles when she was formally announced as the VP choice because of her libertarian leanings and her choice to caucus with the Republicans. Abbie would have been surprised at her choice as well had she not known her father’s political clout.
“Abigail,” John Morgan interrupted her thoughts, “you will do fantastic tonight and I am very proud of you.”
“Thank you, Father, I am a little nervous,” she said.
“Do not let the crowd distract you. You have an excellent speech prepared and your personality will win them over. The nation is polarized as Americans have adopted this us versus them attitude. It’s a no-win situation for most politicians, who view our society through the prism of racial, cultural and religious politics. You will transcend this divide and the independents will love you. As you know, independents win elections.”
“I assumed that’s why I’m here.”
“Yes, Abigail. You are here because you deserve it and you will be instrumental in dragging this dinosaur of a political dynasty across the finish line. Your time will come to lead this great nation sooner than you think. First, you must capture the world’s attention with your speech.”
“No pressure, right?”
“There is always pressure, but you have been groomed for this moment. When you begin, many world leaders will view you as a woman and scoff. When you are finished, they will fear and respect you.” Morgan, in a rare show of affection, gave his daughter a hug and a peck on the forehead. He whispered in her ear, “I’m proud of you Abigail.”
After he exited the room, she was momentarily alone as she took in the spectacle via the production facilities of Comcast SportsNet Philadelphia. She was provided an advance copy of Warren’s nomination speech, but she didn’t have time to read it. It was probably edited several times by DNC staffers. Her own speech was heavily scrutinized and became the first of many battles she would have with the DNC. If her policy positions didn’t comport with Hillary’s, it was removed from the speech and she was admonished to refrain from discussing them on the stump. After the first edit, half of the speech was missing and Abbie became disgruntled. Debbie Wasserman Schultz, Chair of the Democratic National Committee, consoled Abbie and gave her advice.
Abbie recalled the conversation. Pick a sensible metaphor and stick with it. President Clinton used bridge to the 21st century twenty-six times in his acceptance speech. The President used hope and change too many times to count. Abbie would co-opt the title of Sarge’s book—Choose Freedom.
The second piece of advice Debbie gave was to downplay her differences with the top of the ticket—KISS, Keep It Simple and Secondary. Abbie would focus on foreign policy issues on the minds of the American people. The country would be introduced to the phrase World War C.
She was reminded to not forget the new voters. Every presidential election cycle, millions of Americans became voter eligible either by achieving the age of eighteen or through recent citizenship. These voters were especially impressionable.
Lastly, she was exhorted to negatively define your opponent without name-calling. This was the most difficult aspect of her entire speech. Abbie was a libertarian, but her political ideology leaned more right than left, and everyone knew it. It would be difficult for her to provide red meat to the democratic base by railing against Republicans. Those people were her friends. Rand Paul, the GOP nominee, was one of her best friends in the Senate.
Abbie knew how to address the last two suggestions by creating a captivating speech in both style and substance. She would articulate a very populist message, appealing to the hopes and fears of the general population, especially the middle of the political spectrum. Despite her background, she would try to connect with the American people in order to bridge the gap of the two major parties.
Abbie did not realize how tense she had become until Drew Jackson entered the studio alone to provide her a two-minute warning.
“Madame Vice President nominee-in-training, or whatever I’m supposed to call you,” said Drew. “It’s almost time for you to knock ’em dead, so to speak.”
“Okay.”
“Here, let me rescue these.” Drew took Abbie’s crumpled notes from her tight-fisted hands, causing her to relax at his touch. He looked down into her face and smiled. “This will be a piece of cake. I’ve been watching this drivel for three days. They’re all a bunch of phony politicians. You’re real, Abbie, and everyone will know it when you finish your acceptance speech tonight.”
Abbie didn’t want Drew to stop holding her hand. She missed a man’s touch. Tonight, many of the words she would speak were written by Sarge at her request. They would comfort her as th
ey came across the teleprompter. But it would be this moment, Drew’s touch that would give her strength to persevere.
“Where will you be?” she asked.
“Right behind you, as always.” The convention hall erupted in applause as Senator Warren finished her nomination speech.
A DNC staffer opened the door and interrupted their moment. “Senator, we’re ready for you.”
Abbie smiled and laughed with Drew. It was going to be all right.
Chapter 36
July 28, 2016
Democratic National Conventions
Super Box #13, Wells Fargo Center
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“I made sure they had Glengoyne for you,” said former President Clinton.
Morgan took a sip of the exquisite single malt whisky from Scotland. I see his memory hasn’t faded. “Thank you, Bill. This is a big night for Abigail and your wife. A toast to great things.” The men clinked glasses and finished their cocktails before settling into their seats. Senator Warren was just finishing her nomination speech and the two men grabbed a drink as they awaited Abigail’s acceptance speech.
Morgan read the final draft of Abigail’s speech several times before it was ready for her. He could almost recite it from memory. Asking Henry to help was his idea. He and Henry saw eye to eye on everything except his involvement with Abigail and his insistence that he be referred to as Sarge. Sarge was his father’s nickname, given to him by Morgan when they were boys growing up together on Beacon Hill. He would always look at Henry as his dearly departed friend’s son.
As Abigail spoke, Morgan’s mind wandered to the conversation he had late last night with the President. He was furious with the DNC and the Clintons. The President provided assurances Abigail would not be the subject of his wrath, but the very public feud with the Clintons would escalate after he was slighted in his speaking role. Relegated to a second-day speech was outrageous in his mind. I am a sitting two-term President, he’d said repeatedly. Morgan got the sense the President was becoming unhinged as this last term neared its end.