The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga

by Marcus Richardson

  Jones was right. It wouldn't help things to have sheriffs riding around town, openly supporting Harris under color of the law. The local civilian population would probably side with whatever example the authorities set and they certainly wouldn't take kindly to a Federal agent trying to take over. However, Jones would be his fall-guy no matter what happened, so Barron decided to roll the dice.

  "Very well, this program can continue—what kind of results are you seeing?"

  "Quite impressive, sir. We discovered that people who were not openly hostile to each other over their loyalties were much more open to the idea of the police selectively enforcing laws against dissenters. The police show up for anyone loyal to you, but calls from people marked as dissenters go ignored. We’re making slower progress with fire departments, however—there are a decent number of departments in the country that seem to be more loyal to Harris.”

  “How do you plan to get around that? Kill the local fire chief?”

  Jones did not rise to the bait. “If a house is on fire, sir, the fire departments are still showing up to do what they can, no matter who’s property is burning. However, we've been seeing some help from loyal civilians.”

  “Explain,” ordered the President. This ought to be good.

  “When houses, buildings, or businesses that belong to dissenters happen to catch on fire," Jones said in a voice that suggested the fires he mentioned were not entirely accidental, "sometimes the fire department simply can't get to the scene. A couple times there have been protests that blocked their route. In a few instances, the citizens themselves formed human chains across the street to prevent certain fire departments from reaching the scene. It's been quite encouraging, actually."

  The President was silent for a second as he let the ramifications of the report sink in. "Is it that bad out there?"

  "Sir, in some areas of the country it’s much worse. Take Chicago for instance," Jones said lifting up another sheet of paper to read statistics. "We're finding the murder rate and violent crimes have increased tenfold since the bio-weapon attack. Despite the fact that people are falling ill and dropping like flies left and right, there still seem to be plenty of healthy people around to start fights and loot. In the inner cities, it's like war zones—we can't convince anybody to go in there to maintain order, even our own forces. Gangs rule the larger cities.” He dropped the paper. “If we can figure out how they took care of the problem in Texas—"

  "I'm fairly certain, despite the fact that we've not been in communication with Governor Veracruz for some time, Texas tends to handle things… differently."

  Jones arched an eyebrow. "Indeed, they do, Mr. President. I have Texas marked for special attention when we get the ball rolling in the rest of the nation. My sources in Austin tell me the state legislature and most of the senior executives, including Governor Veracruz, will formally declare for Harris any day now. There's nothing we can do to stop it, but we can make inroads and try to siphon off as much of the population as possible."

  Barron nodded. He’d assumed from the start that the conservative bastion of Texas would stay loyal to Harris. The polls and surveys indicated long ago that Denton and Barron would never have a majority of support from Texas, or for that matter in much of the Deep South. Even back during the election, they knew they'd never take Texas from the Republicans and so they had written it off and concentrated their efforts on the rest of the country. He would have to do the same now, until Texas could no longer being ignored.

  He made another note on his pad. He wrote, then circled the word TEXAS.

  The President pursed his lips in thought, pencil idly doodling on his notepad. A good number of people down there already had guns and had an independent streak a mile wide. If Texas somehow managed to pull out of this mess and survived the flu, it would indeed be a large thorn in his side. It would have to be dealt with, but not yet.

  A soft knock on the door captured his attention long enough to see the door crack open and Jayne's head appear. She wore her hair up in a loose bun. She raised an eyebrow over her fake glasses in invitation.

  Barron looked back at the screen. "Was there anything else?" he asked quickly.

  "No sir, that pretty much sums it up. We’re making decent progress, having a lot less resistance than we thought, and the re-education programs are proceeding as planned."

  "Very good. Keep me informed—I want daily reports. And remember, tone down your response teams. I want no more unnecessary civilian casualties."

  “Yes, Mr. President."

  "If we run into troublemakers like this Dunbar family, I think getting them in the re-education camps is going to be the best option for the long-term. I want to show the dissenters out there that I mean to rule with a velvet glove—over a steel fist."

  "Understood, sir. I'll be in touch."

  The transmission ended and his screen went black before Barron could register his indignation that Jones had hung up first. He had to admit, Tennyson Jones had balls. He just had to make sure that they didn't grow too big.

  Jayne’s scent wafted across the room and sparked a familiar stirring between his legs. The President closed his eyes and inhaled, savoring the lightning that flashed through his brain. Despite the fact that he was learning how to manage the hypnotic effects of the drugs which Jayne employed. He still felt a rush whenever she entered a room. He opened his eyes and glanced at her, still peering around the corner of the door.

  "I don't mean to interrupt, Mr. President…" she said with a wicked smile.

  Barron reluctantly tore his eyes away from her heart-shaped face and glanced at his watch. His scheduled appointments for the day were over and it was time for a late dinner. "Oh, you didn't interrupt anything, my dear…" When he looked up, she had pushed the door open and stepped into his office, unbuttoning her blouse as she approached. He felt his desire grow in time with the warmth in his gut and gripped the edge of his desk in anticipation.

  She was stunning. His heart began racing and he fought to control the roaring noise in his ears. His body, conditioned to respond to her perfume, wanted nothing more than to jump from the chair and take her right then and there. He could feel sweat break out on his forehead. He knew it was a losing struggle.

  His fingers twitched. She had upped the dose.

  As if in a dream, he felt himself push back from the desk and stand. Everything seemed to be happening in a blurry slow-motion.

  Jayne’s smoky-blue eyes sparkled as they traveled down the length of his body. She arched one graceful eyebrow. "I take it we’re happy to see me?"

  With one high-heeled foot, Jayne kicked the bottom of the office door and waited for it to slide shut. When the lock engaged, the smile on her face spread. Her blood-red lipstick was in sharp contrast to the pearly whites of her teeth. Her eyes had never appeared so blue, nor her hair so golden.

  A weak voice, sounding like it was trying to shout through three layers of glass, screamed: Don’t give in!

  But his body didn't care. Jayne’s black pencil skirt had joined her blouse on the floor, revealing her statuesque body in all her goddess-like perfection.

  President Barron sank to his knees to worship at the altar of Jayne.

  CHAPTER 13

  Boston, Massachusetts.

  COOPER SCANNED THE FAR bank of the Mystic River through his hand-held night vision monocular. It was a poor replacement for his HAHO helmet, but it worked. There were no heat signatures on the other side. The coast was clear. He turned and glanced upriver to the west and spotted a few glowing shapes along the bank. Deer.

  Everything was still just as quiet as it had been when they’d left the safe house just after midnight. His team had shuffled across the open space and crossed the highway, hauling gear, Mike, and a wounded Sparky without incident.

  Cooper lowered the monocular. It was a wonder Sparky was still alive. He and Swede had rushed from the safe house after receiving Jax’s broken transmission. The missing SEALs had been in a brief but violent
firefight with a German patrol well west of their intended rally point. Wounded and bleeding, Jax and Sparky had managed to make it relatively close to the safe house before being spotted by a civilian who had raised such a clamor the Germans had taken notice.

  Cooper had found himself and Swede trapped between six Germans, a very vocal woman who was clearly trying to curry favor with the foreigners, and Jax and Sparky hidden in a deserted house. Swede’s quick thinking had defused the situation and allowed them all to escape.

  He raised the monocular to his eye and scanned the far side of the river again. It had only taken seconds—Swede had lobbed a few grenades into the adjacent building and screamed something about the Sons of Liberty. When the grenades exploded, Cooper sprang into action and dragged Sparky away from the shouting Germans. In the confusion and smoke, he saw the quisling woman knocked to the ground.

  They hadn’t taken any chances and made a long, tortuous trek back to the safe house. It had been painful for Sparky to endure, he knew, but Cooper didn’t have much of a choice—he was thinking survival, not comfort. Eventually, over two hours later, the four of them dragged themselves through the front door of the safe house and collapsed on the floor.

  Now, Cooper realized, it actually looked like they might make it after all. Turning south, he looked downriver toward Boston. There were dim lights on the horizon. He could not see them clearly, so he knew they were definitely a ways off. Those lights would be a problem to deal with later. He leaned back around the side of the building and looked at his squad. A short line of powerboats and daysailers bobbed gently in the backwater created by a small jetty near the side of the Russell Marine boat launch.

  Swede kept watch over the interstate for German patrols. He was hidden so well in the bulrushes along the bank at the end of the dock that Cooper couldn't see him at all without night vision gear.

  Charlie had Dr. Boatner just inside the boat shed. He could see Boatner's face through the window. Charlie was nearly invisible in his HAHO suit. The IR display on Charlie's shoulder was the only way Cooper could see his second-in-command.

  Mike lay at Cooper’s feet, his back against the seawall. He moaned quietly in a fevered haze.

  "All right, I’m getting Beaver into the boat. Everybody hang tight, we’re out of here in three."

  "Hooyah," said Swede’s voice.

  Cooper hauled Mike to his feet and helped him aboard the gently rolling boat. He moved forward and opened the cabin hatch and let Mike get comfortable on one of the starboard births. There wasn't much space—the boat wasn't designed for open ocean travel, just a few day trips cruising up and down rivers—perhaps an overnight or two. It was just enough space to smuggle a few people.

  Cooper returned to the dock and grabbed Mike's gear. He tossed that down the hatch and moved to the next boat in line, a smaller motorboat with an even smaller cabin.

  "Charlie, you’re up."

  Cooper watched as Charlie led Dr. Boatner through the darkness and helped him down to the dock and onto their boat. When the virologist was hidden away inside the cabin, Charlie closed up the hatch and took position at the wheel. Cooper tossed him a satellite phone.

  "I don't know if you’ll have any luck, but keep looking for a signal. If you can, get a message to command, and see if you can upload Dr. Boatner's files. Make sure to employ the encryption package."

  "What makes you think that I’ll get a signal? We haven't been able to get reception on this thing since Los Angeles."

  Cooper stared at the swirling blackness reflected in Charlie’s visor. “I know,” he said, “but we’ll be passing by some serious German installations on the way out to the Bay. Who knows what they're gonna have… If you can catch a signal from one of their stations… I don't know. I’ll try using the backup.”

  Charlie tapped the phone against his visor. "You got it."

  Cooper shook his hand and stepped off the boat. "Whatever happens, you don't turn back. Understood? You keep going—if we’re spotted, if anything goes south, you hit the gas and haul ass.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  Cooper continued talking. “We’ll provide a diversion. You have to get Boatner to safety. He is the key to the survival of our country. You get me?"

  Cooper looked downriver. Somewhere, that way, the Germans waited for him and his team. “This time, if you get a chance, make sure it goes through. There's millions of people out there counting on this information. Maybe billions."

  Charlie was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Hooyah, master chief."

  "That's lieutenant," Cooper said with feigned indignation. As Charlie turned to the task of prepping his boat for launch, Cooper keyed his mic again. "Jax.”

  "Good to go," replied Jax's voice from further down the dock. Typical of the flamboyant heavy weapons expert, Jax had selected probably the fastest boat of all. It looked like a small version of a cigarette boat.

  Cooper shook his head. "You and Swede load up, you’re heading out first. I'll cut you loose and make sure the other boats get out behind you. Charlie will follow, and I'll bring up the rear with Sparky."

  "Swede, get your Viking ass up here," said Jax.

  "Really, Coop? You stickin’ me with him?" said Swede's deep voice. Cooper smiled as he watched the large SEAL emerge from the marsh weeds at the end of the dock like a wraith and walk toward his partner. The two men fist bumped and climbed into their boat. Swede disappeared down into the cabin and Jax took up position at the wheel.

  As Cooper untied their boat in preparation for launch, he asked Jax, "You good with the steering?"

  "Yeah," Jax answered, holding up a thin rope. "The lines we tied to the wheel go right into the cabin. I pull the left-string to go left, pull the right one to go right. Easy as eatin’ pancakes."

  "Wish I had your confidence. Good luck."

  "Nah," Jax said, "keep it. You'll need luck more than me, old man."

  "Fuck you," Cooper said. He put his foot on the transom and pushed. He turned left and walked down the line of boats, casting off the mooring lines as he went. The empty boats began to drift out away from the dock toward the river.

  Cooper waited until the first of the boats had been caught by the current and began pulling out into the middle of the river. “Let 'er rip, Jax," he said.

  Jax waved and tossed the last remaining line overboard. His boat rocked gently in the current, then turned and began to drift with the other diversion boats heading downriver. Cooper walked back to Charlie's boat.

  "Here we go," he said. He cast off the small boat.

  "See you at the rendezvous point," said Charlie.

  Cooper waved them off before turning to face the abandoned boat shed. "Sparky, let's move it."

  "Oscar Mike."

  Cooper moved back to his own boat, went down below to check on Mike, and came back up to find his sniper scaling the boat shed’s roof access ladder. Cooper could see through his night vision monocular the bloodstained bandage wrapped around Sparky’s leg as he limped.

  Sparky shouldered his long-barreled sniper rifle, grabbed the last of the supply packs and worked his way down the steps to the dock. Cooper took the bag of supplies and offered a hand aboard.

  As Cooper threw off the last of the dock lines, he heard a splash. Sparky had dropped the portside forward facing-window from the cabin into the water. "There, that's better."

  "How's your field of view?" asked Cooper as he gave one final push against the dock and felt the boat move into the current.

  "Not bad. I’ve had worse."

  Cooper moved into the cabin, careful to bring his steering guides and keep them in hand. The cabin was sealed in darkness when he secured the hatch. Starlight illuminated a small column through the open window. He watched as Sparky slid the barrel of his rifle through the opening and padded the weapon with some rags so it could rest on the window sill without making any noise. Sparky removed his HAHO helmet with a soft hiss. He put it on the floor next to him and switched on the night vision scop
e of his rifle before he brought it to his eye, scanning downriver.

  Cooper was glad Sparky had survived the Great Pandemic—it was one less thing he needed to worry about on their little pleasure cruise. He took one last look through the porthole, decided that he couldn't see well enough to steer through the small opening, and sighed. He relished the cool night air as it caressed his face. Cooper settled into position and got comfortable, letting his body get used to the gentle rock and sway of the boat as it was carried along on the current.

  “Make sure you give me good directions.”

  "Never sailed blind before, huh?" muttered the sniper, keeping his eye on the scope.

  Cooper grinned in the darkness. "First time for everything… Been sayin’ that a lot lately," he said thoughtfully.

  "Got that bridge coming up, thousand yards."

  Cooper keyed his squad transmission frequency. "Jax, you got the bridge?"

  "Eyes on target. No movement, no lights."

  "You got eyes on the other boats? Everything still holding together?"

  "Yeah," whispered Jax from the lead boat. "The others are nicely spaced out. Looks like it could've been an accident. Everybody's adrift. Looks real."

  "Charlie?" asked Cooper.

  "We're good to go," replied Charlie.

  "Jax just passed under the bridge," muttered the sniper.

  "One down…" whispered Cooper.

  A few tense minutes later, when Cooper's boat drifted past the bridge, he was able to relax. So far, things were going well. They had seen no sign of Germans on the riverbank. Although they had heard the occasional siren off in the distance thus far, they had been completely undetected.

  Cooper was cautiously optimistic that his scheme might actually work. There were nine boats in all, lazily floating at random down the Mystic River. To the casual observer, Cooper hoped that it looked like the boats had slipped their moorings while unattended and drifted away in the night.