Dispatches

by Steven Konkoly

  The dark blue sky brightened, a flash momentarily revealing the khaki terrain as far as he could see. The artificial light faded just as quickly, returning the darkness. He activated his helmet’s integrated night-vision system, regaining the horizon. Katz resisted the temptation to look back. He absolutely didn’t want to see it.

  “Detonation visually confirmed,” said Eshel, sounding less than enthusiastic.

  “Copy and concur,” said Katz, opening the command and control channel.

  “Forge, this is Hammer One. We visually confirm detonation of the weapon.”

  “This is Forge. Satellite feed confirms detonation on target. Stay thirty miles south of Safawi. Forge, out.”

  That’s it? Just a standard radio transmission? He supposed that was all the situation warranted. He hoped that was all it warranted. No celebration back at base. He’d be happy if nobody mentioned the mission again, in any context. Colonel Ilan Katz wanted nothing more than to turn his aircraft over to the on-duty maintenance team and drive home to his family—secure in the knowledge that their home was safe. That Israel was safe.

  “Talk of Secession”

  Chapter 14

  Belfast, Maine

  February 2019

  Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady took a sip of water from the CamelBak hose clipped to his shoulder, swishing the over-chlorinated liquid around his mouth. That’s how he brushed his teeth these days. Toothpaste hadn’t been a high-priority stockpile item, and the limited quantity uncovered in the storage buildings had been delivered to the FEMA camps in New Hampshire.

  The younger Marines joked that the toothpaste was meant to supplement camp rations. Not everyone laughed at their sophomoric attempts at “keeping it real.” The sprawling camp system had struggled to keep up with the constant influx of refugees throughout the winter. There might be some harsh truth to their raw humor, and most of the Marines didn’t want to picture anyone eating toothpaste to stay alive.

  Little had gone right once the weather turned bitter cold. Less than ten percent of required camp capacity had been constructed. Regional Recovery Zone leadership had refused to assign security or border units to civil engineering tasks. The militia scare in September left the bureaucrats skittish, afraid to venture out of their compound at Sanford International Airport.

  Instead of solving the problem with a few thousand well-fed, structured soldiers, Governor Medina let a hundred thousand severely malnourished and categorically disorganized refugees assemble the camps from scratch. What should have taken two weeks in late September, lasted until December. Countless thousands died of exposure and related sicknesses while building the camps. It had been the closest Grady had come to storming the RRZ compound and putting an end to the endless stream of indecision and incompetence.

  Two things kept him from crossing that line, and they were both intimately connected. Family and Corps. He had a duty to protect his Marines, which extended to their families. If he acted on his instinct to mutiny against the RRZ, he’d jeopardize the safety of his Marines and the families successfully relocated to Fort Devens or Westover Air Force Base. He had no idea what would happen to the families if 1st Battalion, 25th Marines was declared a domestic terrorist organization, and he had no intention of finding out. He owed that much to the Marines under his command, though he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep that promise. There was a good chance he might break it today.

  He sat in the lead Matvee of a heavily armed eight-vehicle convoy sent by Governor Medina to secure the Searsport Marine Terminal. “Capture” it was a more accurate description of his mission. Elements of 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment, a Maine-based National Guard unit aligned with the Maine state government, had been reported at the terminal. Satellite surveillance indicated a small garrison of soldiers at the facility. Nothing larger than a platoon.

  The garrison was established after hostilities flared between RRZ officials and state government representatives over the use of state infrastructure assets. The RRZ wanted everything funneled south to support the security zone, while the state backed a wider approach to the disaster-relief efforts. It was clear from the beginning that the two sides would never reconcile this difference, and it certainly didn’t help that the state governor refused to acknowledge the RRZ’s authority. The disagreement created more anxiety than either side needed in the aftermath of the event.

  The low-intensity political contest between the two entities hadn’t progressed past threatening words and a few tense blockades of military convoys headed into central Maine. He guessed that was about as far as the state government was willing to take it. Actually, he prayed that was the case, because Governor Medina’s light-handed response to the issue had nothing to do with diplomatic savvy. The RRZ had its hands full securing the border and administering the various programs associated with the refugee camps. That was about to change, which was why Grady had been sent north with two platoons of Marines, supported by four UH-60M Black Hawks. He hoped this could be resolved without incident. The last thing any of them wanted was a fight.

  A snow-shrouded house tucked between a stand of thick pine trees caught his attention. The long driveway leading to the house had been recently cleared. The barrier of snow left at the bottom of the driveway after the last storm had been pushed into the road to melt. He could tell they had shoveled it by hand based on the clean shave they had given the asphalt. Snowblowers left a quarter of an inch, along with the telltale, even track marks. They must have a working vehicle. Nobody would go through that much trouble without a good reason.

  The number of houses along the road increased as they approached Belfast. According to the command tablet attached to the dashboard in front of him, they were less than a minute from reaching Route One, where they would turn north for Searsport. He would have preferred to take a less conspicuous route, avoiding towns like Belfast, but only two approaches to the marine terminal area were kept clear of snow, one leading north and one leading south. The trucks delivering refined petroleum products and supplies to the various state and RRZ entities used the routes to reach Interstate 95, where the vehicles could range the entire state.

  “Follow the signs to Route One north. Should be coming up,” he said to the driver, switching to the primary tactical channel monitored by the vehicle leaders.

  “All Raider units, this is Raider Lead. We’re ten minutes from the objective. Raider will remain in a weapons hold status unless changed by Patriot. Defensive fire is not authorized in response to small-arms or crew-served heavy-caliber fire. Only the confirmed presence and clear intent to employ anti-vehicle weapons justifies defensive fire. Remember, these are Americans. Brothers and sisters in arms. We don’t give them any reason to think otherwise. Out.”

  “Turn coming up, sir. Looks like we have to cross over Route One and drive through the town to reach the on-ramp,” said the driver.

  “Roger. Keep us moving through the town.”

  Grady called the lead helicopter on a separate, dedicated UHF radio channel.

  “Night Train this is Raider Lead, over,” said Grady.

  “This is Night Train.”

  “Raider is ten mikes out from objective. Request Night Train on station in fifteen mikes.”

  “Copy fifteen mikes,” said the staticky voice.

  “Roger. Weapons hold unless otherwise ordered,” said Grady.

  “Copy weapons hold.”

  Grady replaced the handset and shifted in his seat, making room to move his rifle. He expected no trouble in Belfast, but he’d learned never to make assumptions about the perceived threat level. The driver crossed the overpass and turned right on a snowplowed, two-lane road paralleled by a string of telephone poles. The town turned out to be little more than a tighter collection of houses. They passed a VFW hall on the right side of the road. An American flag over a Maine state flag sat motionless at the top of a flagpole in front of the cleared parking lot. It looked like the VFW was in business.

  He wi
shed they could settle this business inside the hall over a few draft beers. Grady was sure they could reach some kind of agreement if they sat down as fellow service members, instead of pawns in a dangerous power play.

  The Matvee turned onto High Street, bringing them to the Route One North on-ramp. On-ramp seemed like an overstatement, since they transitioned from a two-lane road to a slightly better built two-lane road. Quintessential Maine. The driver slowed the vehicle as soon as they straightened on Route One. Two up-armored Humvees blocked the entrance to the flat bridge less than three hundred feet ahead. He should have guessed this wouldn’t be easy.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Raider units, we have a roadblock at the west end of the bridge. Raider Two-Zero, pull alongside Raider One-Zero. We’re going to approach slowly as two columns. Stop on my mark,” said Grady.

  “Two-Zero copies. Moving up.”

  The fifth vehicle in the column swung into the empty oncoming traffic lane and pulled parallel to Grady’s vehicle. The rest of Raider Two-Zero’s vehicle troop followed, creating two columns of four vehicles and filling the road. Grady stopped the formation fifty feet in front of the blockade, examining the scene.

  He counted eight soldiers on the bridge and two turret gunners. The turrets contained M240 machine guns, useless against his Matvees. This appeared to be more of a symbolic show than anything—he hoped.

  “Raider units, this is Raider Lead. I’m heading over for a chat. Stay alert. Out,” said Grady. “I’ll be right back,” he said, getting out of the vehicle.

  The cold air stuck to the inside of his nose as he shut the door to the toasty cabin. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and motioned for the vehicle leader behind him to join the greeting party. Staff Sergeant Taylor stepped onto the asphalt next to Raider One-One and nodded. They met next to Grady’s rumbling vehicle.

  “What are we looking at, sir?” said Taylor.

  “Looks like more of a welcoming committee than a serious attempt to stop us,” said Grady.

  “What if they refuse to move?” asked Taylor.

  “Then we’ll have to push them out of the way. We outweigh them by about twelve thousand pounds,” said Grady, patting the hood of the Matvee. “Let’s get this over with.”

  As they approached the Humvees, a major dressed in digital ACUs, carrying a short-barreled M-4 carbine, stepped between the vehicles. The officer scrutinized Grady’s uniform for a moment before snapping a crisp salute. Grady returned the military courtesy, eyeballing his name patch.

  “What am I looking at here, Major Richards?” he asked.

  “Hopefully nothing, Colonel,” said the National Guard officer, looking past the Marines at the column of Matvees.

  “Nothing would be a clear road to Searsport. This doesn’t look like nothing to me,” said Grady.

  Despite his sympathy for the local government, he had a duty to safeguard his Marines. The best way to do that was to project a strong, uncompromising presence.

  “Searsport has adequate security, Colonel. 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment has a company of soldiers guarding the facility.”

  Grady stared at the major, sensing his unease with the situation.

  Platoon, but I’ll give you credit for the bluff.

  “The RRZ would like to free those soldiers for other duties in the state. We’re a little overstaffed down south,” said Grady.

  The major nodded. “Would the colonel entertain a meeting with the state governor?”

  “Susan Dague?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s at the Searsport facility.”

  “How much warning did you have about our visit?” said Grady.

  “Enough to bring a company of soldiers and all of the battalion’s armored vehicles. Searsport is a secure facility, sir,” said the major.

  Maybe the major hadn’t been bluffing.

  “You’re not planning to put bags over our heads for the trip, are you?”

  The major almost laughed. “Negative, sir. This is more of a site visit, so you can assure the RRZ folks that we have adequate security at Maine’s only fully operational marine terminal.”

  “I’d love nothing more than to assure them that the situation is under control, and that the Searsport facility will continue to fulfill the RRZ’s requirements,” said Grady.

  Chapter 15

  Searsport Marine Terminal at Mack Point

  Searsport, Maine

  Grady accepted a ride in one of the National Guard Humvees after briefing Captain Williams, the senior officer remaining with the Marine convoy. He reluctantly left Staff Sergeant Taylor behind, suspecting that Governor Dague had more than a tour of the security arrangements in mind. His gut instinct told him that this would be an executive-level negotiation that would likely result in a status-quo arrangement. He wasn’t sure how Taylor would respond to Grady’s dismissal of the RRZ’s directive to “secure the facility—using force if necessary,” and he didn’t want to put the staff sergeant in a position to question the decision.

  The first thing he noticed when they arrived at the gate was a series of HESCO barricades anchoring an armored guard post. Two up-armored Humvees were parked behind a long stretch of fence to the right of the entrance, overlooking the Jersey barriers funneling traffic into the facility. He saw no sign of any weapons heavier than the 7.62mm M240 machine guns, which matched their intelligence briefing. 3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment’s Category Five Response load out hadn’t included MK-19 grenade launchers or M2 .50-caliber machine guns. Since the unit wasn’t located in a critical, high-population area, Homeland planners thankfully hadn’t seen a need to include heavy firepower.

  They passed through the gate and drove a few hundred yards to a parking lot in front of a two-story, corrugated aluminum building. At least twenty Humvees were parked in the lot, facing outward, their crews standing around the vehicles. If this was the extent of their show of force, the RRZ had little to worry about. Unarmored Humvees and lightly armored soldiers posed little threat to his Marines, and even less of a threat to armored elements of the 10th Mountain Division. If the RRZ wanted the facility, they could take it.

  Why didn’t Medina send a Stryker company to take care of this?

  He knew the answer; she didn’t care for Grady, so she sent him to do the RRZ’s dirty work.

  Major Richards nodded as they parked. “Governor Dague is in this building.”

  “This is the extent of the battalion’s armored vehicles?” asked Grady.

  “We had a limited motor pool to start with at the reserve center. Older stuff, non-EMP hardened,” said Richards.

  Grady shook his head. “This can’t be all of it. This is barely enough to transport a company of soldiers.”

  Richards ignored the comment and opened his door. The soldiers were called to attention when Grady exited the Humvee.

  “Carry on, soldiers,” said Grady.

  Grady made a few observations as they crossed the parking lot. Overall, the soldiers looked healthy. They were dressed in the latest generation ACU-patterned Extreme Cold Weather Clothing System (ECWCS) and half of them carried Bushmaster ACRs. He was surprised to see the Adaptive Combat Rifle. The rifle had seen limited distribution throughout the various services, despite rumors of sizable Department of Defense purchase orders. Mystery solved. Just like the thousands of ROTAC satellite phones that had been reserved for Category Five disaster response. Strangely enough, he didn’t see any radios resembling the ROTAC.

  He studied the vehicle markings on the hoods of the Humvees, possibly confirming Richards’ statement. He saw a wide representation of various company and platoon unit designations. Grady found it odd that Homeland planners hadn’t included additional vehicles in their load out. Maybe the battalion’s allotment had been reduced to fit the perceived need in central and northern Maine.

  “How many Humvees do you have out of commission?” Grady asked when they reached the door to the building.

  “More than half,” said Richards.<
br />
  “We need to get that fixed. Should be relatively simple with the right parts,” said Grady.

  “That’s the problem. We don’t exactly have access to the Army supply system,” said Richards.

  “I might be able to work something out,” said Grady, stopping at the door. “Is your commanding officer present?”

  “You’re looking at him, sir. Major Don Richards. Former battalion S-3,” said Richards. “Our CO was on vacation with his family in Colorado. Camping trip. The XO was at a family reunion in Wells. They rented two big houses side by side on the beach. We haven’t heard from either of them.”

  Grady shook his head.

  “Everything between the beach and Route One in Wells was swept inland by the tsunami. Few survived.”

  “That’s what we heard. The governor officially appointed me as battalion commander a few days after the event,” said Richards. “We’ve been scrambling ever since.”

  “So…what am I walking into here, Major?”

  “The governor has no intention of recognizing the RRZ’s authority in the state.”

  “That’s not really a debatable point. The president activated the National Recovery Plan, which clearly establishes RRZ authority over local government and defines the roles for each entity,” Grady explained. “Security is an RRZ function—like it or not.”

  “She doesn’t recognize the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill. Her staff will argue that your presence—the RRZ’s presence— is a violation of the Insurrection Act,” said Richards.

  “It’s a little late for that argument,” said Grady. “I hope there’s more to this meeting than a constitutional debate.”

  “There is,” said Richards. “Though I can’t guarantee you’ll like what she has to offer.”

  “Offer?” asked Grady, opening the door. “This should be interesting.”

  Governor Dague was waiting for them in a small conference room on the ground level. The governor was dressed in a thick red winter jacket and winter cap, sporting a worn pair of waterproof boots made famous by one of Maine’s premier outfitter companies. She looked like someone you’d expect to find ringing a Salvation Army bell in front of a grocery instead of a state governor, but looks could be deceiving in Maine. Dague, a career state prosecutor, was rumored to be hell on wheels in a negotiation, and downright cutthroat when the cards were stacked in her favor.