by Bobby Akart
“No, it’s not that,” he said. “She’s carrying, isn’t she?”
Sarge stopped and looked at Julia. He had to trust this young man. “We all are, Doctor. It’s not a very nice world anymore.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, look around you,” said Dr. Daugherty. “Besides, I have a compact nine strapped to my ankle.” They walked and caught up to Katie staring down at a patient whose eyes were bandaged.
“How’s he doing?” asked Katie. She brushed the hair out of her eyes.
“Sarge and Julia, I’ll make this gentleman your first patient,” said Dr. Daugherty. “He was brought in from the Craigie Bridge. When the last explosion took out the area east of the Kendall Square plant, steam and debris hit most of his upper torso. His eyes were severely damaged and so was his throat. We hope that he will be able to see again, but thus far he has been unable to speak.”
“This is so sad,” said Julia. “What can we do to help him?”
Dr. Daugherty picked up a clipboard and examined the notes. “He’s due for a change of bandages and dressings. Everything you need is in the plastic bin under the bed. Do you need instructions on how to clean a wound and reapply the antibiotic ointments with loose gauze?”
Julia looked at Sarge and replied, “I think we can do that.”
“All right, don’t worry about his throat or eyes. I’ll come back in a moment after I assign Katie a couple of patients.”
“Okay,” said Sarge. As Katie followed Dr. Daugherty, she shot back a glance and a smile. “She seems to be enjoying this. Well then, Nurse Julia, let’s take care of our first patient.”
Julia reached under the cot and pulled out the bin holding the supplies. Sarge reached in and pulled out an identification badge.
“Look, Julia, our patient has a name,” said Sarge. “He’s a professor at MIT—Andrew Lau. I’m Professor Henry Sargent from the Kennedy School. Hey, look at this. It’s a bitcoin. Well, Professor Lau, this must have been your good-luck charm.” Sarge flipped the coin into the air.
Chapter 7
Thursday, September 8, 2016
11:11 a.m.
Prescott Peninsula
Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts
Donald and J.J. stood on the front porch of 1PP and looked across the clearing, which had been filled with picnic tables resembling a medieval outdoor dining hall. The population of Prescott Peninsula consisted of sixteen Boston Brahmin, four members of the Loyal Nine, and a platoon of Marines who were constantly rotating in and out of Fort Devens.
They watched as the group ate a lunch prepared by Susan, and Mrs. Peabody. Donald had successfully assigned duties and shifts to all of the Boston Brahmin and their wives. Most were accepting the fact that their lives had changed substantially, and they needed to make the best of it. Only Mrs. Lowell seemed to be bitter, and Donald intended to find out why. Her attitude was substantially different from the other Brahmin wives.
“Donald, I’ve got to get out of here,” said J.J., breaking the silence. “Whenever I look across the opening, I visualize Sabs sitting here with us, having a beer. Then, that goddamn helicopter comes into my line of sight. It’s that damn thing, and the arrogance of John Morgan for bringing it here, that got Sabs killed.”
Donald stayed quiet for a moment, not knowing what to say. It was hard to find the right words to help a grieving friend. Laying the blame at the feet of John Morgan might not be fair. Intruders attempting to gain access onto Prescott Peninsula were inevitable. Sabs was a soldier, and she knew the risks of going on patrol and protecting the gate. On the other hand, Donald was proud of the stealth way he’d brought this project together over the last one hundred days. All of the OPSEC practiced by him and his team was for naught when the Sikorsky came sailing in that night.
“You can’t go back to your home, J.J., it won’t be safe.”
“I know. I’ll take a bunk at 100 Beacon. Hell, I’ll take my chances on the streets or helping out at the VA hospital. Donald, I’ll lose my mind if I stay here.”
“I get it, buddy,” said Donald, patting his friend on the back. “Let’s talk about it later. They’re winding up lunch, and Brad is going to bring us up to speed on what he’s learned from his command.” The two men walked down the porch steps and joined the others as Brad stood to address the group.
“Everyone, let me get started, if you don’t mind,” said Brad as he stood between 1PP and the tables full of new residents. “I think this daily briefing, as Donald calls it, is a great idea. We’re all hungry for information. I think it’s important that we hear it from one person rather than second- or thirdhand. This helps prevent the dissemination of inaccurate news and prevents undue speculation about the events going on around the country.”
“First, let me address the issue of last night’s address by the President. Because I am skeptical of the President’s intentions, I undertook to contact my superiors to determine how much of this declaration would be put into practice and what provisions were merely designed to be a deterrent against unlawful behavior. The information I’ve received indicates the President is sincere in his words. He aims to create a police state and is using the cyber attack as his justification.”
Donald looked into the faces of everyone to gauge a reaction. Most were shaking their head in disbelief. John Morgan remained stoic, unaffected by Brad’s statement. He continued.
“The President is moving swiftly to implement his executive orders. At this point, there has begun a gradual rollout of government control over Americans. Travel is being restricted through periodic checkpoints. The Department of Homeland Security has established VIPR checkpoints at critical bridge crossings across the country.”
Art Peabody raised his hand. “What does VIPR mean?”
“VIPR stands for Visible Intermodal Prevention and Response team,” replied Brad. “The VIPR teams are designed to protect critical infrastructure, transportation in particular, during times of national emergencies like terrorist attacks. I’ve been told that the VIPR teams are taking it one step further. They are restricting traffic between locations. For example, they’re restricting traffic in and out of D.C. Local municipalities, in an attempt to restrict refugee access to their towns, are following suit.”
“That’s understandable,” interrupted Lawrence Lowell. “Wouldn’t most cities and towns want to take care of their own first, then worry about outsiders later?”
“That may be true on the local level, but there’s more to it nationally,” replied Brad. “In addition, the checkpoints have established a satellite communications network with the U.S. Northern Command in Cheyenne Mountain. USNORTHCOM has stepped up their assistance of state and local law enforcement in enforcing the President’s Declaration of Martial Law. The checkpoints are detaining citizens based upon certain criteria.”
“What are the criteria?” asked Donald.
“I don’t know yet,” replied Brad. “I have been summoned to meet the new Citizen Corps governor of FEMA Region I. I expect to learn more then. From what I have been told, our unit is going to perform both a security function as well as a law enforcement capacity. It’s as I suspected the other day, which was confirmed last night. The Posse Comitatus Act has been ignored by this president.”
“What else have you learned, young man?” asked Brad’s uncle, Samuel Bradlee.
“Sir, there are rumors of crackdowns on free speech and the rights to assemble,” replied Brad. “In Atlanta, a group of people carrying Confederate flags marched into the city, demanding to speak with the Citizen Corps governor of FEMA Region IV. From what I’m told, the governor sent National Guard units into Forsyth County, which is one of the most conservative counties in north Georgia, searching out certain families. They were alleged to have committed treason against the United States. They were arrested without a warrant, removed from their homes, and their assets were seized. This happened before the President’s announcement last night.”
Susan stood up and asked, “How is
this happening so quickly? The government is always a model of inefficiency.”
“Susan, I’m as surprised as you are,” replied Brad. “I know there are mechanisms in place for continuity of government and defense of our borders. But I believe this administration has taken extraordinary measures to gain control of the population. Further, it appears that the President has a pretty good idea of which Americans will be loyal to him and which ones are a threat to his power.”
Donald watched Morgan and Abbie during Brad’s discussion. While Abbie seemed interested in Brad’s revelations, Morgan appeared to be disinterested, almost uncomfortable by the details. He looked at his watch several times during the course of Brad’s statement. You gotta catch a train, Mr. Morgan?
Brad continued. “There is one more thing. Apparently a steam pipeline that runs through the city from a generation plant in Cambridge has exploded.” Brad paused to allow the chatter to die down.
“Was it a terrorist attack?” asked Art Peabody. His wife held his arm for comfort.
“We don’t know yet,” Brad replied. “I’m told that the mayor was pushing the company to bring the system back online when something went wrong. At dawn, the steam buildup was too much for the system and began to explode out of the ground. Supposedly, a large span of the Longfellow Bridge collapsed into the river. Hundreds of people have been injured.”
J.J. leaned in and whispered to Donald, “I’m going with Brad to help. The hospitals will be short-staffed under the circumstances.” Great. Now J.J. had an excuse to go back to Boston. Mr. Morgan wouldn’t like the fact that their only doctor wanted to leave.
Chapter 8
Friday, September 9, 2016
3:00 p.m.
Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor
99 High Street
Boston, Massachusetts
James O’Brien had paid his dues, and now he was being rewarded for his efforts and talents. O’Brien thought he’d reached the pinnacle of his career when he was elected President of the Boston Carmen’s Union nine years ago. He had been into battle with lawyers, administrative law judges, and recently, Governor Charlie Baker. He always had his membership’s best interest in mind, and they loved him for it. O’Brien, who stood about five feet six inches tall, was known for standing up for the little guy. Now, he’d been handpicked by the President to be one of ten newly installed Citizen Corps governors, who would have unimaginable powers and control. It’s time to rattle some cages.
“Sir, your first appointment is here,” announced a casually dressed assistant that was O’Brien’s nephew.
“Let’s get started, then,” he replied. “Send him in.” O’Brien settled his portly frame into the chair at the head of the conference room table. The seal of FEMA Region I hung prominently on the wall behind him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Brien,” said the gentleman from the Department of Homeland Security. “My name is Joe Pearson. I’ll be your liaison to the President as we move forward.”
“Well, Pearson, it’s good to meet you,” said O’Brien gruffly without standing or shaking hands. “Sit down, and let’s get right to it, shall we? What exactly will you do to assist me in my new job?”
“Sir, the President is making certain federal assets available to you for the purposes of carrying out his Executive Order 13777.”
“For example?” asked O’Brien. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. Governor O’Brien may smoke wherever the fuck he wants.
Pearson sat for a moment before speaking. “The President’s goal is to help as many as possible cope with this disaster. He’s concerned about their health and safety. He wants to quickly distribute food and necessary supplies. He wants to make sure all Americans have decent housing.”
“Well now, Pearson, that is the plan, isn’t it? Help people?”
“Yes, it is. That’s where the Citizen Corps comes in. I am here to help you establish local Citizen Corps Councils and to—”
O’Brien blew out a puff of smoke and held up his left hand. “Let me stop you there, Pearson. I’ll have no trouble picking the right people to head up MY team. What I need to know from you is when do I get the tools necessary to take control of MY region. I need to implement the rules and regulations envisioned by the President to restore order. I need the food, medicine, and supplies to distribute to those Americans who get with the program, if you know what I mean.” O’Brien didn’t like Pearson. He was typical of all snotty-nosed bureaucrats. But, if the man delivered, O’Brien would cut him some slack.
“I understand,” said Pearson, clearly uncomfortable at O’Brien’s approach.
“There need to be some controls in place; otherwise there would be anarchy. Don’t you agree, Pearson?”
“I do, Mr. O’Brien,” responded Pearson.
“Governor,” snapped O’Brien.
“Governor?” asked Pearson.
“Yes, Governor O’Brien,” he replied. “You see, Pearson, our country is descending into lawlessness. People who’ve had it the best in this country now think they can run things. They live in houses ten times bigger than what they need. They drive around in their fancy cars, not once riding the public transportation system our government provided them. They have pantries stocked with food and swimming pools full of water. These rich fucks don’t give a rat’s ass about the little guy.
“They will learn to spread the wealth around, one way or another. They will also learn to respect my authority, as granted to me by the President. I am now the duly appointed governor, and I will be treated accordingly. Are we clear?”
“Yes, of course, Governor,” replied Pearson sheepishly.
“Now, the first order of business is I need the military to help me move forward,” said O’Brien. “I want you to sit tight while I meet with one of my commanders. Peter! Send in the next appointment.” O’Brien took another drag on his cigar and studied Pearson. I showed him.
His nephew Peter opened the door, and Brad entered and immediately stopped. The cigar smoke had filled the room, making it uncomfortable for any nonsmoker.
“Close the door behind you, Peter,” said O’Brien. “What’s your name, soldier?” O’Brien never had much use for the military in the past. But now, they were his military.
“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Bradlee of 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment based at Fort Devens,” said Brad. Brad looked around the room before adding, “Hello, Agent Pearson. I’m surprised to see you.”
O’Brien sat back in his chair. These two don’t like each other. “Have a seat, Colonel. I’m James O’Brien, duly appointed governor of Region I by the President. I take it you two know each other.”
“We do, Governor,” replied Pearson. “We’ve met at Colonel Bradlee’s office on two occasions.”
O’Brien didn’t rise through the ranks of the union without being able to analyze body language and know what his adversaries were thinking. If there was animosity between them, so be it. One will keep tabs on the other for me.
“Good,” said O’Brien. “The first order of business is to establish a few ground rules. First, nothing happens in my region unless I know about it. Second, we all serve at the pleasure of the President. He has a vision for restoring our country to greatness. We will follow all of his directives, even if they don’t necessarily align with our own point of view. Third, when I need something, it’s as if the President himself fucking asked for it. Are we clear?” O’Brien purposefully took a deep draw on his cigar and filled the air to the point it even nauseated him somewhat.
“Yes, Governor,” said Pearson.
Brad sat silently for a brief moment, staring at O’Brien. Finally, he spoke. “What can I do to help?”
“I need security established around this building, Colonel,” replied O’Brien. “Put in place your best soldiers. Once the word gets out that this office has been established, I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and fuckin’ Harry thinking they can stop by for a chat.”
“Okay,” replied Bra
d dryly.
“There’s one more thing, Colonel. I want to train my own security force to conduct the initiatives outlined by the President. In Massachusetts, I have handpicked forty-four men for this purpose. I will have them report to Camp Curtis Guild for training Monday morning. I expect you to personally oversee their training, Colonel. Pearson, I want you to make sure they receive all the equipment they need to pursue the missions required by this office. There are forty-four armories located in Massachusetts, one for each of my men. Do whatever it takes to give each of them access immediately. Are we clear?”
“Governor, the Massachusetts National Guard armories are controlled by Governor Baker,” said Pearson.
O’Brien slammed his hand on the table and stood. “Charlie fuckin’ Baker don’t run shit anymore, you hear me? I do! Why? The President said so. Now, I want the keys to those armories. My men will be equipped to conduct the business of this office. Got it?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Pearson.
O’Brien turned towards Brad. “What about you?”
“I’ll see your people at oh-eight-hundred Monday morning, Governor.”
Chapter 9
Friday, September 9, 2016
7:20 p.m.
Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor
99 High Street Rooftop
Boston, Massachusetts
O’Brien stood on the rooftop of 99 High Street and stared out across Boston Harbor. He had big plans for this city, and the rest of the states in Region I—Connecticut, Rhode Island, Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. Boston was the big prize for him. It was his home. Controlling Boston would be critical to establishing his power base. Then he could deal with the other states within his region.
“Well, look at you, Mr. Governor Big Shot!” exclaimed a voice out of the darkness.
O’Brien turned and started to laugh. “Marion, my friend!” he shouted back. “You are the only man who can get away with that. Come on over here and share a drink with me.” The two men shook hands heartily, and O’Brien poured them a drink. He lit another cigar.