False Flag

by Bobby Akart

  “Spit it all out into this bowl, Penny, and then we’ll rinse your mouth out a couple of times.”

  “It’s yucky.”

  “I know. Now, I need you to floss for me, okay? After that, let’s rinse again, please.” J.J. directed his attention to Susan as he washed his hands.

  “This will help remove the glue, but it certainly isn’t the perfect solution. Once a day, have a brushing, picking, and flossing session with Penny. Be sure to rinse her mouth out thoroughly to get rid of loose dental glue and residue.”

  “Thank you so much, J.J.,” said Susan, giving him a hug. “She was so uncomfortable. I didn’t know what we would do.”

  “Well, this has been a first for me, I can assure you,” said J.J. He handed her a small tube of Orajel. “She will have a little discomfort around her gums for the next couple of days. This will help numb the pain.”

  “All done,” announced Penny with the biggest smile she’d shared in a long time. “How do I look?”

  “Like a princess!”

  *****

  Donald and J.J. descended the stairs into the lower levels of 1PP. It had been two weeks since J.J. left for 100 Beacon, and Donald had been busy on a project. He was anxious to share the details with his friend.

  “Thank you, J.J.,” said Donald as they reached the bottom floor of the former radio observatory. “Susan was worried.”

  “It was a simple procedure. The key is to take your time and not get aggressive with the brackets. Fortunately, the removal wasn’t complicated by gum disease or TMJ pains. She should heal up nicely.”

  Donald reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the locked steel door. Certain rooms remained locked and inaccessible, like this one, the weapons room, and the vault full of a billion dollars in precious metals. This particular room had become Donald’s workshop and man-cave.

  “What’ve you been working on?” asked J.J.

  Donald led him into the room and closed the door behind them, turning the bolt lock as well. He moved past J.J. and switched on the lights over his long workbench. Tools were organized on a pegboard wall, and there were charging stations for his lithium ion batteries.

  Donald’s shop was designed to perform a number of functions, including weapons cleaning and repair. There was a Hornady reloading press and several bins filled with a variety of cartridges. Donald had acquired all of the essentials for ammunition reloading, including dies, a priming tool, and a powder scale.

  The large center worktable contained drawers filled with a variety of nuts, bolts, and screws acquired at Lowe’s during the build-out of 1PP. Donald was a hands-on supervisor during the process, thinking of useful tools and construction materials to benefit them in a postapocalyptic world.

  “I’d like you to meet our force multiplier,” said Donald proudly. He lifted a device off the workbench and set it on the table for J.J. to see.

  “What the hell is this thing?” asked J.J. as he walked around the table and studied the device without daring to touch it. On a small square bracket with rubber feet, Donald had welded an eighteen-inch-diameter satellite dish. Attached to the dish were several electronic components with wires interconnecting them. A black rubber handle was located behind another box, which contained a toggle switch and a red push button.

  “This is an RFW—a radio frequency weapon,” replied Donald. “If all goes well, it will be the first of three that I will build in case we need it.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” asked J.J.

  “Not at all. Listen, radio frequency weapons, also known as directed-energy weapons, use electromagnetic energy on specific frequencies to disable electronics. The principle is similar to that of high-power microwave weapons used by the military. These military systems tend to be much more sophisticated and are more likely to be in the control of technologically advanced nations.

  “The RFW, by contrast, is simple and low voltage enough that it can be deployed by anyone. I found a detailed schematic online. I purchased the necessary components on Amazon, at Radio Shack, and at the local electrical supply. Instructions for assembling the components and how to use the RFW were available online as well.” Donald leaned back against the workbench and folded his arms.

  J.J. studied the RFW for a moment before speaking. “You’ve built an EMP device?”

  “The force multiplier,” replied Donald. “is capable of causing damage to targeted electronics. It is intended to be a highly capable nonlethal weapon. It’s designed to be focused on a particular target, but can be used safely from a distance. That’s why RFWs are also called directed-energy weapons. It has the capability of rendering an attacker’s electronics useless. Just like an EMP.”

  “Donald, this has a lot of potential. We could use it defensively against attacking vehicles or boats. We could also use it covertly against a facility that had power restored or is operating through a generator.” J.J. picked up the force multiplier. It was fairly heavy at seventeen pounds, but remarkably balanced. The bracket holding the components protruded underneath the handle, enabling the operator to use the base as a counterweight. The toggle switch and push button were within easy reach of the operator’s thumb.

  “What are all of these parts?” asked J.J. as he gently set the device back down.

  “After I obtained the plans, I set about finding the parts listed on various websites,” replied Donald. As he spoke, he pointed to each of the components. “I purchased the Sharp magnetron on eBay. This is called the waveguide assembly, which I obtained from a microwave oven. This is an eighteen-inch aluminum dish made by CETC. This PAPST fan is designed for computer servers and compact air conditioners. It will keep the magnetron cooled down if it has to be used for long periods of time.”

  “How long do you have to use it for it to have the desired effect?” asked J.J.

  “Short bursts are sufficient for most buildings and vehicles,” replied Donald. “Aircraft require a longer burst.” He looked J.J. in the eye to study his reaction.

  “You can disable an aircraft with this?”

  “I think so,” said Donald. He continued with the tour of the force multiplier. “This is a high-voltage YEO transformer that I bought from Sears. Everything is wired together, including the capacitor. Then it is properly grounded, or it won’t work.”

  “Have you tried it yet?” asked J.J.

  Donald put his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “No. I’m afraid to around here. What if it works better than I thought? I don’t want to fry our own electronics!”

  Chapter 32

  Sunday, September 25, 2016

  3:55 p.m.

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “It’s been quiet around us until now,” said Julia as she and Sarge stood on the rooftop of 100 Beacon. “That gunfire is from down the street, Sarge.” From the top of the building, they had a clear line of sight to the east toward Boston Common. Smoke began to rise from the vicinity of Starbucks and DeLuca’s on Charles Street.

  Sarge leaned over the roof’s edge to get a better perspective with his binoculars, but his view was obstructed by the Greek Consulate. The commotion to their west concerned him more. The sounds of breaking glass and gunfire were common now, but this was dangerously close.

  “I knew we weren’t going to be insulated from the violence,” said Sarge. “The respite of the last week or so wasn’t going to last. That’s why the idea of relocating some of the Mechanics to our building is important. I thought we could wait until Steven and Katie returned.”

  “Sarge, look,” yelled Julia as she pointed west on Beacon Street. “Those men are shooting the plate-glass doors of the Gibson Museum and going in. There are at least six of them.” Gunshots rang out again on the north side of Beacon as another group of men stormed a brownstone apartment building.

  “They’re wearing football jerseys, the Oakland Raiders,” said Sarge. An NFL team’s attire held a special appeal to gangs. Typically the gang would adopt a color and
then find an NFL team that coincided with them. Black had always been popular, which related back to the early Westerns when the bad guy was always dressed in black. The Raiders jersey was highly symbolic for gang members, who were drawn to the black and silver colors together with the swashbuckling pirate logo. “These guys are part of J-Rock’s crew.”

  Now screams filled the air as more gunfire was heard, closer this time. Not good. Sarge and Julia didn’t have much time. They left the rooftop and descended to the eighth floor, which contained their armory. Steven and Katie were due back soon, and the best they could do was hold off the approaching gang members. Sarge and Julia both put on tactical body armor vests. Sarge inserted the quarter-inch steel plates and pulled their cummerbund-style closures tight. These vests could withstand a range of ballistics up to .308 rifles and .44 Magnum handguns.

  After grabbing an AR-15, they filled their utility pouches with magazines. They inserted a sixty-round magazine for starters. Sarge outfitted Julia’s vest with a two-way radio, and he did the same.

  He looked her in the eyes and then he kissed her. “I love you, Julia. We can do this.”

  “I love you too. You need to get across the street before they get closer. We have to turn them away, Sarge.”

  “They’ll seek the path of least resistance. Right now, nobody is standing up to them. We just cannot let them enter the building.” Sarge led her to the stairwell and gave her gear one last check.

  “I’m ready. We’ve got the high ground, and they’re cowards; otherwise they wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing. Now go. I’ll wait for your signal.”

  Julia left and bounded up the stairs toward the rooftop. Her job was to keep the gangbangers from entering the fenced courtyard of 100 Beacon, where they could benefit from some cover. If they entered the building, then Sarge would have to clear every floor on his own.

  Sarge went down the stairs and found his attorney friend, Mr. Marshall, manning the front entrance alone. He was sweating profusely from nervousness.

  “You’ve heard the gunfire,” started Sarge. “Marshall, I need you to hold it together. Can you do that?”

  The man nodded, unable to speak out of fear.

  Sarge took him by the shoulders. “Here’s what we’re going to do, okay.” He led Marshall into the wrought-iron-enclosed courtyard and pointed across the street toward the five-story brownstone. Its doors had been broken in two weeks ago, and several windows on the second floor were broken. “I’m going to run across the street and take up a position on the rooftop. Julia has done the same upstairs. I want you to stay inside the doorway and shoot anyone who comes in, except me, of course. Got it?”

  “I think so,” said Marshall. “I’ll stay in the building until you come for me.”

  “Good. Crouch behind the reception desk but keep the gun pointed at the door. These guys are wearing black and silver football jerseys. I think they’re a gang from Roxbury. If we do our job, you’ll never see them. But, be ready, Marshall. Now is not the time to check out.”

  “I’m good,” he said as he returned to the entryway.

  Sarge checked the street and quickly darted behind the disabled U-Haul truck left there weeks ago by Steven. Finding the street clear, he ran through the crosswalk and up the eight stairs to the entrance of the building, which appeared to be vacant. Where did everybody go?

  Sarge’s heart was racing. He never imagined that he and Julia would be protecting 100 Beacon by themselves. The key was to prevent access to the building. If he could reach the rooftop, he would have mobility, the element of surprise, and the height advantage.

  Sarge ran inside and looked for the stairwell. It was locked. Shit! He needed another way up. He remembered the fire escape on the front of the building. He poked his head back out and didn’t see anyone. He hopped over the railing and ran through the last remnants of hostas in the flower bed. Using the brick windowsill for assistance, he climbed his way up into an elm tree. Like a spider monkey, Sarge gradually made his way to the height of the second floor, where he could reach the railing, but it was just out of grasp. He decided to climb higher into the tree where he could jump down onto the steel grate landing of the fire escape.

  He made the jump, but landed with a thud and rolled into the red brick wall. Pain shot through his shoulder that took the brunt of the blow. Julia’s voice came over the two-way radio.

  “Hey there, Spiderman, aren’t you a little old for that?”

  Sarge looked up to the top of 100 Beacon and then his middle finger was raised upward.

  Julia commented, “So rude.”

  Shaking off the pain of the fall, Sarge climbed the stairs and reached the roof. He swung his legs over the edge and found a solid surface. He took a moment to gather himself and catch his breath.

  He looked up and down Beacon Street. The building housing Starbucks was fully engulfed in flames now. There were no fire trucks responding. Afternoon showers had rolled through Boston yesterday afternoon, but the skies were clear now. To the west, several cars drove slowly in front of the buildings containing the attackers. Periodically, a Raiders-clad thief would run out of the building carrying some form of loot. He would deposit the goods in the car and run in for more. The occasional gunshot was an indication that a resident had attempted to thwart the gang.

  “Now we wait,” said Sarge into the two-way. The two groups were working their way up the street, but the group on his side was advancing faster. He hadn’t considered this. He’d secured a position with the intent to secure 100 Beacon. Now, he found himself protecting this side of the street first.

  “Do you copy?” he asked Julia.

  “Go ahead.”

  “This side is advancing faster than your side. I doubt they’ll come to the rooftop. Do we make our presence known and defend this building first, or wait and see how it develops?”

  Julia hesitated before responding to Sarge. “It’s getting late. I don’t think these guys will want to conduct these raids in the dark, do you?”

  “No,” replied Sarge. He glanced at the progress of the other group. They were approaching Fisher College, the long stretch of buildings next to 100 Beacon. “They’re operating by force and intimidation. By wearing their gang colors and blasting their way indoors, they send a clear message to the building’s occupants. Stand down, or die.”

  “If that’s the case, the end of our block is a natural stopping point for them,” said Julia. “The next building down from you takes them to Arlington and Boston Common. On my side of the street, they’ll be in the next block where the fire is getting worse.”

  “Stand by,” said Sarge. He would prefer to take them separately. Ideally, one group would be preoccupied in a building while he and Julia took the other group out in the crossfire. If the others rushed to their side, then Sarge and Julia, taking advantage of the confusion, could pick them off as they made their way down the sidewalk. Several gunshots to his left interrupted his thoughts.

  “Sarge, they’re coming,” said Julia.

  Sarge’s heart was racing. He needed the groups to split in two. The men were running in and out of the building next to his location. He looked west on Beacon, and then the decision became clear. The gangbangers broke through the entry doors to Fisher College. They faced a maze of hallways, corridors, and classrooms. Unlike the residential brownstones, which contained a couple of units per floor, the gang members on Julia’s side of the street would be tied up for some time trying to find anything of value.

  “Get ready,” said Sarge. “We’ll take this group first. Also, take out their vehicle. The others will come pouring out of Fisher College like a bunch of cockroaches. We don’t have a very good line of sight because of the tree canopy. We’ll take out as many of them as we can, as well as the trailing vehicles. There are four cars altogether.”

  “Got it,” said Julia, adding, “Happy hunting.” She had become a stone-cold killer.

  Several minutes later, the last of the Raiders exited the building n
ext to him and tossed a few fur coats into the back of an awaiting dry cleaner’s van. There were five men, plus the driver. Sarge fired first, raining NATO 5.56 rounds on top of the vehicle and into the bodies of two of the men. The other men ran for cover at the back of the van, and Julia tore up the asphalt, missing them at first. Then she found her mark. The final rounds sailed through the windshield, instantly killing the driver, who slumped over the steering column, activating the wiper system.

  Because the gang was clustered together, it took less than thirty seconds to kill all of them, plus the driver. The other group of looters were still inside Fisher College. The sound of squealing tires filled the air as the other three cars sped into reverse.

  “Shoot the other cars!” Sarge yelled into the mic as he began shooting. He shot out the tires of the closest vehicle, and the driver attempted to exit through the passenger side. Julia shot the driver several times. One of the cars attempted to turn around and crashed into the side of a black maintenance vehicle. The driver, in desperation, backed up and pulled forward, continuing his attempt to turn around. Sarge emptied the rest of his magazine through the car’s windows, killing the driver.

  The last car, a Lexus grocery-getter, had backed out of range, using the tree canopy for protection. As predicted, the remaining five looters came out of Fisher College, but using different points of exit. Both Sarge and Julia fired on them, killing two and wounding one who rolled into a hedgerow. The other two thugs piled into the Lexus and sped away.

  “Hold your position,” said Sarge. “Let’s make sure there are no surprises.”

  The last attacker lay in the bushes, screaming in pain. He was crawling through the boxwoods, trying to make his way to a descending stairwell that led to a drug counselor’s office.

  “What do we do with number fifteen down there,” said Julia, referring to the man’s blood-soaked replica of the jersey worn by Raiders’ wide receiver Michael Crabtree.