Grady walked around the conference table to shake the governor’s hand.
“Lieutenant Colonel Sean Grady, ma’am. It’s an honor and a surprise to meet you,” he said.
“Not a pleasure?” she asked, shaking his hand firmly.
“Under the circumstances, that remains to be seen,” said Grady.
“Please take a seat, gentlemen,” she said, pulling a chair out for herself.
“I can see my breath in here. No heat in this building?” said Grady.
“Every drop of fuel that comes into this port goes to the people of Maine. Hospitals, shelters, health clinics, and public safety. This has been my top priority as governor,” she said. “RRZ fuel demands have severely undercut these efforts. It’s too early to tell, but we estimate that thousands of Mainers died of starvation or exposure during the winter. It’s hard to explain why homes couldn’t be heated and food wasn’t distributed because the federal government needed to maintain twenty-four-hour helicopter coverage over FEMA camps in New Hampshire. Camps receiving food originating in Maine.”
“Ma’am, your reputation precedes you, so I’m not even going to pretend you don’t know that our helicopters, along with all of our vehicles, run on JP-8, not home heating oil,” said Grady.
“Nice try, Colonel, but I know JP-8 is essentially a kerosene-based fuel and can be used in kerosene heaters. I’ve seen studies suggesting it can be safely used in heating boilers. I believe the Air Force looked into this in the early nineties. We’re pretty savvy around here when it comes to heating solutions,” she said.
Grady realized he wasn’t going to win a debate with Governor Dague, though he couldn’t help continuing the discussion.
“JP-8 has a lower flashpoint than heating oil, which requires mechanical adjustments and constant monitoring, unless you want to potentially run your system into the ground. Maybe if the Maine legislature had supported your efforts to convert the state to natural gas, we wouldn’t be in this situation. The Maritimes and Northeast Pipeline from Nova Scotia is fully operational, and could provide enough natural gas to heat every home in the state. Instead, that pipeline is heating homes in Massachusetts and Connecticut.”
“Touché, Colonel. You’ve done your homework,” she said, appearing to seriously contemplate her next statement. “I’ll come right out and say it, Colonel. The Searsport terminal is operating at full capacity, and RRZ shipments are monopolizing terminal intake. From what I can tell, and from what the people in southern Maine can tell, most of the RRZ’s take is being spent on efforts outside of the state.”
“The RRZ is paying for every shipment that comes into the terminal. The last time we checked, the state of Maine had no cash reserves. Everything that comes into that terminal is owned by the RRZ and given to the state. We’re barely maintaining the necessary levels to sustain operations within the New England North zone,” said Grady.
“My sources indicate that you’re stockpiling fuel and supplies. This puts me in an awkward position,” she said.
Grady took a deep breath. She was forcing him to skirt around the authority issue. He wasn’t sure if she was doing it on purpose, or if the natural course of these discussions inevitably led down that path. She had to know. Maybe it was time to embrace the subject.
“Ma’am, I don’t know what to tell you. I have my orders, and right now, a company of soldiers is sitting on my objective. Your recent communication with the RRZ, along with some fiery rhetoric over several HAM radio channels has called into question the security of the RRZ’s supply line.”
“Searsport is in good hands,” said Dague. “Major Richards’ battalion is more than capable of securing the facility.”
“I haven’t called into question 3rd Battalion’s capabilities. You’re deflecting the issue, ma’am.”
“I’m well aware of that. You’ve been respectful and polite, Colonel, but you haven’t addressed me by my title—why is that?”
Here we go.
“Nothing more than an oversight on my part, Governor,” said Grady. “Here’s what I propose. In an effort to free up some of Major Richards’ soldiers to assist the state with other recovery tasks—at your discretion—I’ll garrison four vehicles and two squads of Marines at the Searsport facility,” said Grady.
“How generous,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll have to decline the offer.”
“You should seriously reconsider, Governor Dague,” said Grady. “Leaving Marines gets the RRZ off your back. I can’t go back to my vehicle and report the status quo here. You’ve taken that option off the table by threatening to take control of the Searsport terminal.”
“I never threatened to do that,” said Dague.
“You hinted at it, ma’am, and that’s as good as a threat these days. A threat to the entire RRZ. This isn’t just about Maine. The New England North recovery zone is responsible for several states, and this is the only functioning terminal,” said Grady.
“Nobody believes that,” she said.
“It’s a fact. Three Connecticut maritime terminals deep inside the Long Island Sound survived the tsunami waves from the second strike off Long Island. Stamford, New Haven and Bridgeport. Unfortunately, nothing will be delivered to these facilities, because we can’t guarantee safe passage through the sound or secure docking at the terminals. Searsport is the only show within the RRZ, and frankly, the state of Maine is getting a disproportionate amount of the fuel flowing into the region. Governor Medina has been putting up with it because she’s had her hands full keeping a few hundred thousand refugees from rampaging your state. Trust me, you can handle the bad press of accepting a joint security arrangement in Searsport. It beats the alternative.”
“That sounded like a threat,” she said.
“I carry out orders, Governor Dague. In this case, I’m making a notable exception.”
Dague looked out of the window next to her seat. She waited a few seconds before responding.
“The rumor circulating around Sanford is that you don’t care for the way the RRZ is being run,” she said. “From what I’ve heard, this isn’t the first time you’ve taken liberties with your orders.”
“Disagreement between military and civilian leadership working in close proximity is nothing new. I’ve been through this before. In my experience, as long as the end result is the same, civilians tend to overlook the means. Shall I make arrangements to garrison my Marines at the terminal, or would you prefer Governor Medina gets directly involved? She sent me up here expecting failure. I’d prefer not to give her what she wants.”
“If Major Richards could use some assistance handling the security arrangements in Searsport, I don’t have a problem with it,” said Dague.
Grady turned to the major, raising an eyebrow.
“I see no reason why this can’t work to everyone’s benefit,” said Richards.
“Exactly. The longer we keep the RRZ authority happy, the better for everyone. The situation will gradually improve for Maine. Repairs on the pipeline facilities in Portland are nearing completion, along with the harbor-dredging project. If all goes well, they’ll reverse the flow of the pipeline and start moving product down from the refineries in Montreal.”
“If the RRZ doesn’t take it all,” said Dague.
“I don’t see that happening. The recovery plan starts with Maine and radiates outward. Unfortunately, none of the Category Five scenarios included a tsunami wiping out port facilities up and down the New England coast. You have to believe me when I say that we’ve barely kept up with refugee camp management. If Portland harbor opens for business, the RRZ can stabilize Maine and start moving outward,” said Grady.
“A lot of Mainers don’t trust these RRZ folks,” said Dague. “Myself included.”
“Mainers don’t trust anybody from out of state, Governor,” said Grady. “Which is why I like it up here. I know exactly where I stand at all times.”
Governor Dague laughed at Grady’s statement, patting him on the arm.
“We might make you an honorary Mainer after all,” she said.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, ma’am, but I truly hope I’m not here long enough to earn that title,” said Grady.
She laughed again. “No offense taken, Colonel Grady. The sooner you’re out of here, the sooner things go back to normal.”
“I’m not sure they’ll ever go back to normal—not after this,” said Grady.
PART II
“LITTLE PICTURE”
Late April 2020
Chapter 16
Belgrade, Maine
Alex pulled the snow-encrusted wool cap tighter over his head and grabbed the four-foot-long, wildly flapping sheet of ripped plastic. Reaching into one of his cargo pockets, he fumbled to remove the industrial stapler. A stinging gust of wind tore the clear film from his gloved hands before he could kneel to reaffix the plastic to the raised wood frame. Seizing the sheet, he pulled it downward, hoping to quickly staple it against the lip of the garden frame before another gale-force blast crossed the frozen lake.
“Son of a mother…” he mumbled, getting a close look at the inside of the garden box.
The storm had intensified overnight, packing the ten-foot-by-five-foot box with at least a foot and a half of snow. So much for the cold-frame starter boxes. Surveying the backyard, he saw that all of the boxes they had built in the fall had suffered a similar fate. Plastic either missing or torn, snow drifts inside the frames. He sensed a presence and looked up to see Charlie standing a few feet away dressed in thick winter gear, shaking his head at the disaster.
“Looks like I fucked up,” said Alex. “We started too early.”
Charlie stepped forward, the snow already accumulating in a thin layer on his jacket and hat.
“We haven’t had a storm this late in April for years—if ever,” said Charlie, kneeling next to the box. He stuck his hands inside the frame, gently searching through the sticky snow for signs of the seedlings that had flourished under their vigilant care over the past few weeks. Wilted strands of green emerged. Charlie was careful not to sweep the plants away with the snow, but it didn’t matter. They couldn’t be salvaged at this point.
“I don’t think there’s any point bringing the rest of the crew out,” Alex said loudly over the storm.
Charlie nodded. “We’ll be fine. There’s plenty of food to bridge the gap.”
It was Alex’s turn to nod—although he didn’t share Charlie’s outlook. Alex stood up and brushed the snow off his pants and jacket.
“We’ll see you guys when this calms down. Figure out where to go from here,” said Alex, realizing his statement sounded dreadful.
“This isn’t the end of the world, buddy. It only set us back by a month or so,” said Charlie, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“I know, I know,” said Alex. “I was just hoping to eat something fresh for a change.”
“Fresh is overrated, buddy,” said Charlie. “Didn’t you eat nothing but MREs and reconstituted rations in Iraq? This should be a walk in the park for you.”
“The glass is always half full in the Thornton house,” said Alex.
“Just trying to keep it together,” said Charlie.
“You’ve been doing a good job,” said Alex, glancing at the snow-filled planting frame. “Let’s grab the plastic so we don’t lose it.”
Alex departed after rolling the thick plastic greenhouse film with Charlie, seeking the tracks he had left on the way in. He’d taken the road instead of the backyards, not wanting to push his luck with a skittish neighbor. The community had formed a loose association during the fall, mostly promising to stay out of each other’s business. Forming this alliance had been a tough pill to swallow for Alex and his group, despite the fact that the neighbors adamantly denied plundering the Thorntons’ cottage stockpile.
Two years’ worth of food disappeared from Charlie’s basement—enough to have guaranteed his group’s survival next winter if the upcoming summer harvest didn’t meet expectations. Forgetting about the theft wasn’t easy, but Alex wanted above all things to be left alone at this point. Going door-to-door and forcing an armed search, like Charlie initially suggested, would prove far more damaging to their long-term survival prospects than simply letting it go. They had enough food to survive the first winter, and frankly, he couldn’t blame them for taking the food.
Three of the families had been renting for the week and would have been caught with little more than a few days’ supply of chips and hotdogs. Without a working car, they were more or less locked into place. The rest were a combination of full-time residents, mostly retired, and second-home owners caught at the lake during a late summer vacation week. Few of them would have kept a sizeable stockpile of food or emergency supplies, especially during the summer.
With Charlie’s home standing empty for more than two weeks, and none of the other summer-home owners returning, they probably figured the Thorntons had been killed in the tsunami. The fact that nobody coughed up the supplies when they returned reinforced the decision. They didn’t need eleven starving households conspiring against them during the middle of the winter. Charlie reluctantly agreed. They had been down that road before, and nothing good came from it. Alex wanted to avoid the mistakes he’d made on Durham Road, or at least play the game a little differently.
Isolation wasn’t an option here, and he was the outsider. He couldn’t forget that. Most of these people had lived here for years, some raising families on these shores. Six homes had been left vacant, Alex’s family taking the largest of them. Nobody had been happy to see them, especially after the shootout with Eli’s crew. He saw it in their stares during the first community meeting. Distrust. Resentment. Fear. He caught the gist of the whispers nobody dared speak too loudly. They quietly challenged his presence with weak protests of “not the owner” or “squatter.” Alex understood their misgivings. He’d spent the winter of 2013 casting the same judgments—correctly and incorrectly.
Alex found his footsteps, already partially swallowed by the sideways snow, and trudged north toward his house at the end of Crane Road. He had about a quarter-mile hike to reach the post-and-beam home nestled into the trees. The house had proven spacious enough to move the Walkers out of Charlie’s A-frame cottage. Kate opened the side door when he arrived.
“How bad is it?” she asked, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Alex threw his hat and gloves on a wide, rustic bench inside the mudroom, savoring the dry, radiant warmth cast by the kitchen’s wood-burning stove on his hands and face.
“The wind tore the plastic off last night. The frames were filled with snow. A small setback. Not a big deal,” he said.
Kate held out a steaming mug of coffee. “It sounded like a big deal when you left.”
“The fresh air changed my perspective,” he said, hanging his jacket on a row of hooks.
Alex took a sip and grimaced. Refiltered grounds. A step above dirty sink water.
“We’ll refresh the grounds in a few days. Better than nothing,” she said.
“Better than nothing,” he echoed, forcing a smile and trying to shake off the setback.
“We’ll be fine,” Kate said, taking his hands and squeezing them.
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” he said, leaning in and kissing her.
She smelled like a campfire, like everyone and everything inside the house. He only noticed it now after coming in from the outside, when the odor lining his nostrils had faded enough to tell the difference. Alex held her for a moment, acutely aware that he could feel her ribs and shoulder blades. Like everyone, she’d lost a lot of weight.
“I’m just not sure I believe it. We’ve eaten through too much of our food, and that’s on seriously reduced rations.”
“We have nothing to do this summer except prepare for the winter. Losing a few cold frames filled with seedlings isn’t going to make or break us,” she said, taking a step back.
He nodded slowly—a defa
ult motion when he wasn’t fully convinced. The food situation had turned out to be more tenuous than he’d expected. By abandoning the Limerick compound, they left behind more than three to four months of planted sustenance—challenging every facet of Alex’s food plan. Grains, potatoes, root vegetables, corn, tomatoes, peppers, cabbage, fruit trees, row after row of dry beans…the list went on. Whatever they couldn’t eat directly from the garden could have been canned or dried for winter months. Even in Limerick he had counted on digging into the prepackaged food to bridge the gap from late winter to early summer.
Thanks to the unexpected storm, they would burn through most of their prepackaged food by the time the first measurable meal could be served from the newly planted gardens. He shook his head. Alex couldn’t envision a scenario that didn’t put them in serious trouble by next January. Even if they had a bumper harvest, with no setbacks, they might be able to produce three to four months of food per family. Hunting and fishing might give them another month, if the area wasn’t completely depleted by the fall.
The lake had been emptied of fish by late November. He had no idea if any of the native species would return in appreciable numbers. Ducks and geese would come through soon, returning again in the fall, but the lake would turn into a shooting gallery at the first sight of them. Last October’s waterfowl season was cut decidedly short by the incessant gunfire. Worse yet, Charlie didn’t seem optimistic about hunting game, especially with every household turning to the forest to procure food.
It wouldn’t be enough.
“You’re doing that nod thing again. What is it?” Kate asked.
Dispatches Page 7