by Bobby Akart
Sarge adjusted his sight and shot the man in the head. He replied, “Nothing. He just retired.”
Chapter 33
Sunday, September 25, 2016
12:26 p.m.
100 Beacon
Boston, Massachusetts
“Hey, we’re out front. Over,” said Steven into his two-way radio. He and Katie chased a lead on Pearson that took them toward Albany, New York, before they were turned around by the New York Army National Guard at the Hudson River. The state was experiencing an unprecedented nuclear disaster just fifty miles to the south of the checkpoint at the Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant.
When Steven and Katie were taken in for the night at Port Jervis weeks ago, a small fire department operated by a former soldier at Fort Devens named Hector took them in for the night, giving them some much-needed rest. On the next day, the entire volunteer fire department left to help their comrades put out a fire at the main transformer of Indian Point #2. Also, several transformers in unit #3 had caught fire. Apparently, the battle to put out the fire was lost.
Refugees were streaming northward along Interstate 87 towards the New York state capital of Albany, where FEMA camps had been established. The prevailing winds would carry any radioactive contamination to the east into Connecticut. When Steven encountered the checkpoint, their letter signed by O’Brien didn’t grant them passage into the state, but it did allow them to fill up their gas tank for the return trip.
“Roger, come on up,” replied Sarge.
“What the hell did I miss, bro? There are dead dudes all over the road out here.”
“We’ll fill you in. Over.” When Steven checked in late last night, Sarge alluded to some visitors, but refused to elaborate over the radios, which made sense. Steven counted nearly a dozen Raiders strewn all over Beacon Street. The dead bodies were beginning to pile up.
Steven and Katie stopped by the kitchen to grab something to eat. They were operating their generators sparingly, but the refrigerator remained cold, allowing them to preserve leftovers from meals. They made themselves a tuna salad wrap and headed up to the rooftop, a welcome change from the MREs of the last two days.
Julia welcomed them as they walked out into the unusually warm fall day. “Greetings, weary travelers. I see you found the tuna.”
“Yeah, my favorite,” replied Steven with a mouthful of the wrap. He used the remainder to gesture over his shoulder. “You guys create all that carnage?” He took another bite and studied his brother. Sarge had impressed him in the past with his abilities as they trained together. But shooting at stationary targets and experiencing live rounds were different matters altogether. Over the last few years, he’d elevated Sarge’s training to include real tactics that had been proven in combat and black ops. From the looks of Beacon Street, the student had digested everything and put it into practice.
“Julia did it,” replied Sarge dryly.
“It wasn’t all me,” she protested. “Sarge started it. Those poor men were just minding their own business, and Sarge opened up on them. The welcome-wagon people fired him because of it.”
Steven polished off his sandwich and started laughing. “There’s broken glass everywhere, in addition to the dead guys. What were they doing?”
“The Raiders, as we called them, are part of J-Rock’s gang,” replied Sarge as he started walking toward the front of 100 Beacon. “They were forcing their way into buildings down the street by shooting up the entry doors. This form of doorbell ringing probably scared the residents into hiding, allowing the gang to have their way with any valuables.”
“Like what?” asked Katie, who was leaning over the roof’s parapet to get a better view.
“The last guy was loading fur coats into that van before Sarge closed down their operation,” replied Julia. Then she laughed. “I guess they were getting ready for winter.”
“Julia held her own, guys,” said Sarge. “We lit ‘em up, and when the rest of the crew scampered out of Fisher, we sent them a message as well.”
“Did you get them all?” asked Steven. Regardless of the answer, his brother had stirred up a hornets’ nest.
“No,” replied Sarge, who hesitated for a moment before adding these prophetic words, “They’ll be back.”
Chapter 34
Monday, September 26, 2016
7:00 p.m.
Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor
99 High Street
Boston, Massachusetts
O’Brien was incensed. He was too enraged to smoke a cigar. He paced back and forth through the conference room as Brad and Captain Gibson made excuses for their failures.
“For over two weeks, you’ve promised me the military personnel I need to carry out the orders my President assigned to me!” yelled O’Brien. He would turn and face the soldiers from time to time for emphasis. “Where is my army?”
“Governor, as I have said,” started Brad, “my troops have returned to their families. They are no longer available by phone or other means of contact. This is happening all over the country, sir.”
“Recruit more men,” demanded O’Brien. “I lost more than half of my guys because of that stupid armory fiasco.”
“Sir, we aren’t authorized to commission soldiers into the military,” replied Brad. “Even if we could, the city is largely abandoned. The rampant crime has sent the majority of the population into the countryside.”
O’Brien glared at La Rue, who sat quietly in a wing chair near the front door. He needed his consigliere to advise him, and he was sick of the double-talk from these two leathernecks.
“Where is Pearson? I thought you had a bloodhound after him. It’s been three days!”
“Sir, our man followed Pearson into New York, but they were denied access into the state. We still believe that Pearson fled to Fort Drum.” O’Brien was seeing through the lies. This charade was over.
“Would it surprise you to know that Pearson was right under our noses? He wasn’t in New York! He was in fuckin’ Belchertown!”
Brad and Gibson remained stoic. O’Brien realized that these two were not going to crack, nor would they ever obey his authority. He needed them replaced, but an alternative had to be arranged.
He calmed his nerves, and then he leaned over the table into the faces of Brad and Gibson. “Get out! You two are dismissed!” Permanently.
O’Brien swung his arm and gestured for La Rue to follow them out. He needed to think and make a call. In the three weeks since his appointment, he’d accomplished nothing. Nothing! He had envisioned enriching himself and his closest friends during this opportunity that presented itself. He had plans to get even with a lot of political enemies, as well as knocking down the fat cats around here a notch or two. For weeks, he’d relied upon those idiots to provide him with the military support and weapons necessary to set things straight after years of oppression forced on the common man. They were just a couple of fuck-ups. Or were they?
He stared out the window into the deserted streets of Boston. Each day, fewer people appeared and even fewer cars. Bostonians had abandoned their homes out of fear. Had he made a mistake by unleashing the gangs on the city? The lack of opposition did make it easier for his teams to clean out the upscale homes in Brookline and Chestnut Hill, but there was more to do. If he could delegate this humanitarian shit to someone else, he could take care of the business that was important to him. He needed help.
La Rue returned and interrupted O’Brien’s thoughts.
“They’re gone.”
“Good,” O’Brien gruffed. “Those two are worthless.”
“No,” said La Rue. “They’re good at what they do, which is lie.”
“Maybe.”
“Just consider this, Jim,” started La Rue. “Whenever they came up with an idea, their attitude was full of excitement and suggestions. But as things began to go wrong, they clammed up and offered nothing except I don’t know.”
O’Brien dropped himself into a chair and exhaled. He
considered La Rue’s words for a moment and it began to dawn on him. “They’ve been playing me the whole time,” he shouted.
“Exactly. Everything they have proposed was with the intentions of stalling your directives.”
O’Brien sat up in his chair and mindlessly twirled the phone on the table. “Do you think the colonel had this planned from the beginning?”
“I do. From the training to the installation of his security team, the colonel’s plan was to delay your plans while learning your intentions with a mole—Captain Gibson.”
“But, Marion, Gibson helped with the armory raids. Wouldn’t he be violating some military oath or law or something?”
“Maybe so, but his commanding officer was probably in on it,” replied La Rue. “How do you punish a co-conspirator?”
“Every armory raid was a success, except…”
“Yeah, Jim, except for the fact that more than half of our people disappeared into thin air, and so did the weapons from the largest armories,” said La Rue, finishing O’Brien’s thought. It was starting to make sense to him now.
“The colonel hijacked our weapons and our men! Those images of the MBTA trucks rolling into New York were bullshit!” O’Brien slammed his hand on the table and stood, walking back to the window. “What do you think happened?”
“I think the pictures, produced of course by Colonel Bradlee, were either faked or real. But our guys and the weapons weren’t in those trucks. They’re somewhere else.”
“Where?” O’Brien was starting to see the importance of having another set of eyes that he could trust.
“I believe they may be in the prison camp at Fort Devens. I’ll go up there tomorrow and see what I can find out.”
“Take some men with you, Marion,” instructed O’Brien. “I’m gonna need you through all of this. But one more thing. Where does Pearson fit into all of this?”
“I think he was set up to take the fall,” replied La Rue. “Think about it. He didn’t run and hide after the armory raids went bad. He went to Belchertown to do his job, which was to get these Citizen Corps councils up and running.”
O’Brien nodded his head and chuckled. “He tried to explain everything to me over the phone, but I guess I spooked him.”
“I was here, remember? You were very nice to him, trying to convince him to come in and talk about it. You scared the holy shit out of the man, Jim.” Both men laughed.
“I guess I’m not very good at nice,” said O’Brien. The laugh enabled O’Brien to steady his nerves, and he lit up a cigar. “Marion, thank you for helping me make sense of this. We can get on track now, and I think I know how. Go home, get some rest, and find out what the hell is going on at Fort Devens. But don’t take any chances. I’ll have help on the way soon.”
As La Rue left the conference room, O’Brien took another deep draw on his cigar. He hesitated a moment before he finally picked up the phone. He dreaded making this call because he didn’t want it to be perceived as a sign of weakness. The President had placed his confidence and trust in him. It was not just the embarrassment that concerned him, it was the fear of replacement. In normal times, O’Brien knew it was damn near impossible to fire a government employee. These weren’t normal times, and he worked for a President who expected results. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and made the call.
Chapter 35
Monday, September 26, 2016
7:15 p.m.
Prescott Peninsula
Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts
John Morgan understood the quest for power and control. His entire life’s work centered on the use of money and advantage to increase his wealth and that of the Boston Brahmin. He was a master of the arts of manipulation and intimidation as tools to achieve his goals. These talents had served him well, but now he was feeling outmaneuvered by a petulant President who suddenly grew a set of balls. Using the well-known quote by Job in the Bible as an analogy, Morgan knew that what he gave, he could take away. It was time to take down this President.
Morgan understood Vladimir Putin. He was ridiculed for his deception and was frequently ostracized by most leaders of the free world. His economy was frequently in shambles, only to be rescued by rising oil prices in times of turmoil. He was often thwarted in his schemes to enrich his political allies by the rule of law or international sanctions. But he never gave up.
For all of the setbacks, Putin remained in undisputed control of the Kremlin. While his adversaries, namely the United States and the West, were successful in these insignificant skirmishes, they were losing the war with Russia over Putin’s real goal—reconstituting the former Soviet Union.
Morgan understood Putin’s intentions for Ukraine. Domesticating Ukraine through his routine tactics of threats and bribery was his first preference, but the military invasion had side benefits. It demonstrated the costs of insubordination to Mother Russia. Putin thought Ukraine’s government was merely a puppet of the West, and the conflict had usefully shown who was boss in Russia’s backyard.
When Morgan agreed to conspire with Putin to create a false-flag event in December of 2015, he knew it would have serious ramifications for global financial markets. Uncertainty could provide opportunities for large profits for those who were certain of the outcomes. Both Morgan and Putin were certain of the outcome of Steven’s mission that cold winter day.
Morgan and the Boston Brahmin profited immensely from the crashing currencies. Putin successfully rallied support for his plans militarily by creating a false-flag event that convinced all of Russia to support him. Best of all, it sowed discord among Putin’s adversaries—among Europeans, and between them and America.
As such, a single false-flag event fractured the West’s approach to Russia’s expansion. The Europeans no longer supported Washington’s approach and stood idly by as Putin advanced into the Arctic. The European Union and NATO were Putin’s real targets. To him, Western institutions and values were far more threatening than any army.
If the truth were to be told, Putin would have ordered the cyber attack. Putin was notorious for using criminal groups and other hackers with no overt links to the Russian government. Russian cyber operations against Ukraine on December 23, 2015, Georgia in 2008, and Estonia in 2007 appear to have been carried out for the most part by unassociated, so-called patriotic hackers—although the affected governments and independent security researchers charged a relationship exists.
The President of the United States knew this perception existed. He also knew that the Russian troop movements in the Arctic, as well as their naval operations off the U.S. coasts, made headlines daily. Morgan gave kudos to the President for pointing the finger of blame at Putin in his address to the nation the other day. The President, using the power of his megaphone as the leader of the free world, effectively generated a false-flag event out of thin air.
Morgan wanted to reduce the effectiveness of this brilliant geopolitical chess move. It was time to make a deal with the devil. Morgan had two choices. He could ask Putin to withdraw on all fronts, making the President look foolish in the process. Or he could repeat history.
France had been secretly aiding the American colonies since 1776 because the French were angry at Britain over the loss of colonial territory during the French and Indian War. In 1776, the Continental Congress sent their top diplomat, Benjamin Franklin, to France to secure a formal alliance.
France agreed to aid the colonists by providing military arms and financial assistance. Spain and the Netherlands joined France, making it a global war in which the British had no major allies. In the 1777 Battle of Saratoga, France’s support deepened after the Americans beat the British, proving that the colonists were committed to independence and worthy of a formal alliance.
During the American Revolution, France sent an estimated twelve thousand soldiers and thirty-two thousand sailors to the American war effort. By 1778, Franklin was in France, signing the Treaty of Alliance, which formerly made the fledgling nation and France
allies against Great Britain. In addition, the Treaty of Amity and Commerce recognized the U.S. as an independent nation and promoted trade between France and America. The French supported the revolutionary-minded colonists in their military efforts until they gained full independence from Great Britain.
The key to Morgan’s decision was the United States military. He needed to trust the assurances of General Sears that the military would not raise arms against American citizens. He was aware of the growing rift between the commanders. Perhaps the President was aware as well, hence the growing presence of United Nations forces on American soil.
Another unknown was the effectiveness of the President’s Citizen Corps program. Were Americans turning on each other? Clearly, that was the desired effect. Currently, the military was preoccupied with the potential threat from Russia, who had now surrounded America’s borders. If the military can’t stand up to the President, his newly created Citizen Corps and a possible United Nations force, who can?
Chapter 36
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
12:07 p.m.
Prescott Peninsula
Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts
“I’m told that the United Nations ships left Morocco on Friday and are now approaching Bermuda,” said Brad. “At first, intel indicated that the ships were destined for Mexico, possibly to beef up the U.N. troop levels at the Texas border. My friend at NORAD told me today they changed course last night. Their destination now appears to be our northeast coast.”
“Do you have any indication as to which port?” asked Donald.
“No, not yet,” replied Brad. “My source also tells me that the ranks of the so-called U.N. peacekeeping force has risen dramatically.”