Point of Crisis (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series)

by Steven Konkoly

  “Either way, it’s a little unnerving being pulled over by an armored vehicle, though I have to admit, it’s good to see the military. Beyond a visit from the state police six days ago and a flight of Chinook helicopters headed north, we haven’t seen anyone in a position of authority since this whole thing started. What’s happening out there?”

  Alex glanced at Taylor, who imperceptibly nodded. They had agreed to share details with the public on a case-by-case basis. Information regarding the battalion’s RRZ mission was strictly off-limits, but general information about the event was fair game. Neither of them felt this was a violation of information security, since most of it was conjecture and theory. Alex had scoured the information available through his link to the classified SIPRNet, trying to find an official release verifying some of Lieutenant Colonel Grady’s rumors. His search came up empty. Neither the government nor the military confirmed an EMP attack, or any of the follow-up action suggested by Grady.

  “Here’s what I know for sure. An asteroid or large meteorite hit somewhere in the Gulf of Maine, causing significant blast and seismic damage up and down the New England coast. It triggered a tsunami, which did even more damage. Boston was hit the hardest by the blast effects, but the tsunami devastated the entire coastline. I saw Portland Harbor firsthand. It’s a mess.”

  “Good God,” Gerson said incredulously.

  “Obviously, we were hit by an EMP, but I have no official confirmation,” said Alex.

  “This couldn’t be related to the asteroid?”

  Alex shook his head. “No. The timing might suggest it, but I’ve researched EMPs pretty extensively. Atmospheric breach by a sizable near-Earth-object contains no scientific mechanism to create an electromagnetic pulse. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but the EMP effects are mostly confined to the United States. Evidence suggests a more localized, North American event.”

  “Invasion? I have to admit, that’s the first thing that came to mind when I saw that vehicle.”

  “I haven’t seen anything to suggest that. The soldiers and Marines are here to keep the peace and speed along the recovery,” said Alex. “Which brings me back to what you saw through your rifle scope. What are we looking at?”

  “I couldn’t see the whole gathering without exposing my position, but you’re looking at maybe two dozen vehicles. All makes and models. I counted about twenty men in camouflage. MultiCam pattern with matching boonie hats.”

  Alex shared a look with Evans. Luck had arrived in the form of a medically retired, army staff sergeant.

  “Most of them were armed with AR-style rifles. A few shotguns. I spotted two hidden sentries at the entrance back there. I was pretty happy about my decision to take a side road. I would have ridden right by the sentries. God knows what might have happened.”

  “I’d venture to say you made the right call. Did you see any of them leave?”

  “A gray Suburban left a few minutes after the other cars arrived, headed east on 25. I didn’t stick around long after that. Had to get over to my mom’s place. She’s not handling the heat so well. When I made the return trip a few hours later, the fairgrounds were empty. They left at some point between 1:30 and 4 PM. You might want to head into Cornish and ask around. Be damn near impossible to drive twenty cars through town without attracting attention, and that’s really the only way to head east without getting really creative. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  “This is fantastic, Mr. Gerson. One way or the other, we should be able to narrow our search focus. Would you mind accompanying us into town? Your presence would go a long way toward loosening tongues, if you catch my drift.”

  Two Matvees sped into view from the east, roaring into the fairgrounds and skidding to a halt behind the other vehicles. A thick plume of dust followed and enveloped the entire group.

  “Damn, I miss shit like that!” Gerson said and covered his eyes as the dust cloud intensified. “I suggest we park your fleet of armored trucks on the outskirts of town and walk it in. Might be a little less imposing.”

  Alex coughed and let the dust pass before responding. “Probably a good idea. Crazy question for you. Can we help you move your mother, or is she hell-bent on staying in her own house?”

  “Seriously? That would be fantastic. I’ve been making the trip because I didn’t have a way to get her from point A to point B. Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do. We’ll head over to her place and let you break the news. Then we’ll make the rounds in Cornish. Sound like a plan?”

  “Best plan I’ve heard so far. I think this officer might be a keeper, Staff Sergeant Evans.”

  “The jury’s still out, Mr. Gerson.” Evans winked.

  ***

  Alex wedged his rifle against the utilitarian dashboard and removed his helmet, bathing in the cool air pumped out of the Matvee’s vents. He was glad to be out of the stagnant, humid air, having spent the past hour and a half walking through Cornish.

  “Guardian units, this is Guardian Actual. RTB via Route 5. Standard interval. 360-degree sector coverage. Good work out there. I think we have something. Guardian standing by this channel.”

  Once each Matvee responded, Corporal Lianez pulled onto Route 25, headed toward the Route 5 bypass just west of downtown Cornish.

  “What do you think, Staff Sergeant? Is it enough to focus the search north by northwest from Cornish?”

  “It’s enough to justify starting our search north of Route 25 near the border, but I don’t think we can definitively clear the areas southeast of Cornish. Gerson spotted a gray Suburban heading east. Could have been a final scouting run.”

  “But nothing passed through Cornish, including the back streets—unless they miraculously slipped through town with twenty-plus vehicles without anyone noticing. They either turned south on Route 5 and burrowed east into the zone we haven’t searched, or they headed west and turned north on Route 160.”

  “They hit the correctional facility in Windham. That’s a helluva lot closer to the eastern side of our search grid than the west. They drove two correctional buses out of there. Hard to miss those. Not easy to hide either,” said Evans.

  “I don’t want to spend three more days south of Route 25,” said Alex, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make sense for Eli to head back toward Limerick.”

  “We can’t make any assumptions,” Evans countered. “For all we know, he has two or three locations. He’d be smart to split up the group. Less traffic in and out. Less exposure if one of his men was captured. Might explain how he was able to pull off the murder in Sanford. That’s a long-ass way from here.”

  “Are you doing this to fuck with me?” said Alex.

  “I’m just here to make sure you don’t try to jam the square peg in the round hole, sir.”

  “All right. Pull out your tablet, and we’ll take a close look at the satellite imagery east of Route 5—mark off roads to hit tomorrow. I’ll give this one day; then we start looking north of Cornish.”

  Chapter 25

  EVENT +15 Days

  Porter, Maine

  Eli unzipped the green duffle bag and descended the sturdy wooden plank stairs into the clammy cellar. The change in temperature was a welcome relief from the stagnant, overheated air trapped inside the farmhouse.

  No wonder Kevin spends most of his day down here.

  Halfway down the stairs, McCulver’s workshop came into view. Three long folding tables covered with various electronics devices and tools stood parallel to each other, illuminated by two standing lamps placed next to each end of the middle table. The lamps were connected to a portable generator they kept running for several hours at a time.

  For all of McCulver’s bitching about gasoline consumption, he put a sizeable dent in their supply with his own little operation down here. Not that Eli was complaining. Kevin’s bomb-making expertise was critical to their operation, especially now.

  “How’s it coming along?” Eli asked, his feet hitting the hard-packed dirt flo
or.

  McCulver sat on a wooden stool taken from the kitchen island, hunched over a small object on the center table. A thin tendril of gray smoke rose between his hands. He answered without looking up.

  “Not bad. I’m working on the remote detonation mechanisms for the car bombs. I should finish up in three to four days.”

  “I don’t think we have that much time. The surveillance team in Kezar Falls spotted two military vehicles crossing the Ossipee River Bridge, driving east on Route 25.”

  “Jesus, that’s kind of close.”

  “That’s not the worst of it. Guess where they stopped?”

  McCulver looked up from his work and shook his head.

  “Ossipee Valley Fairgrounds. To have a chitchat with one of the locals and join up with two more military vehicles.”

  “Four tactical vehicles? That’s enough to roll us up for good. We can’t resist that kind of firepower. Not with rifles and shotguns. Do we know who they talked to?”

  “Negative. The team took a big enough risk driving down to Cornish. They didn’t stick around for long.”

  “Fuck, Eli. Route 25 is more than thirty miles from Sanford. This isn’t a random event. Was this part of the brigade that arrived in York County?”

  “That’s the interesting part. The team said they were dressed differently than army soldiers. Wore a darker green uniform.”

  “Marines wear MARPAT in either desert or woodland. Army uses a universal pattern. Lots of gray and tan. Could be part of the detachment based out of Limerick.”

  “Brown reported four vehicles total at the Limerick site. Gives me an idea.”

  “The plan is ambitious enough, Eli.”

  “Either way, it has to be modified. Previous intelligence indicated this Fletcher guy left every morning with one vehicle. Sometimes two. The plan can handle two vehicles.”

  “One is better,” said McCulver.

  “And four is impossible. We need to split them up, which is where you come in,” said Eli, patting McCulver’s shoulder.

  “What’s the timeline?”

  “Three days, but we move everyone out of here to the forward staging areas tomorrow night.”

  “Forward staging areas?”

  “I’m sending Harry Fields’ squad to find suitable locations near our targets. The rest will follow tomorrow night. I want everything out of here by midnight. Once the troops depart, Byrd’s squad will help us move all of the remaining shit to our new place up north. We’ll be in position with the Limerick team before the sun rises.”

  “Lots of moving parts, Eli. Sure we can trust Byrd’s men to keep this quiet?”

  “They don’t know shit about shit. All Byrd knows is that his squad gets to sit this one out. I didn’t hear him complaining.”

  “And Fields?”

  “He’s eager as a motherfucker to get in on the action.”

  “Uh-huh. What about the inmates? I assume we won’t be busing half of them north to be released?”

  “I have something special lined up for the jail-break battalion,” he said, grinning wickedly.

  “I assume it has something to do with the rigged-up buses?”

  Eli nodded. “I wish I could be there to witness your masterpiece.”

  “I don’t—wait. What do you mean my masterpiece?”

  Eli pulled a wide-brimmed, dark green campaign hat out of the duffel bag, placing it on McCulver’s head.

  “Deputy Sheriff McCulver, welcome to the York County Sheriff’s Department.”

  McCulver stood up and removed the hat. “You do remember that I know this is a suicide mission, right?”

  “Oh. Did we talk about that already?” said Eli, trying desperately to maintain a straight face.

  McCulver’s eyes darted to the table, presumably looking for a weapon.

  Eli broke out in a sudden fit of laughter. “Jesus, Kevin. You’re one paranoid son of a bitch,” he said, grabbing the hat out of McCulver’s hands. “I just need you to get the buses past the first checkpoint on Route 99 and coordinate the fireworks, from a distance. You need to relax a little, brother.”

  “I’ll relax when I’m tipping back a few cold ones up north.”

  “The first round’s on me.”

  “First and last,” said McCulver.

  PART III

  “REENGAGE”

  Chapter 26

  EVENT +17 Days

  Main Operating Base “Sanford”

  Regional Recovery Zone 1

  Alex’s vehicle rolled past the rangers’ outer perimeter checkpoint and turned toward the Marines’ hangar complex. The six-foot-tall chain-link fence separating the battalion staging area from the rest of the airport had been reinforced since his last visit. A thick coil of concertina wire ran along the ground, extending the entire length from the outer perimeter to the edge of the taxiway. Tan HESCO bunkers flanked the battalion access gate; the left barrier sporting a bipod-mounted M240G machine gun. The airport was slowly transforming into an isolated firebase.

  A dark gray blanket of clouds dominated the sky beyond the green hangar, a stark change from the long stretch of sun-blasted weather that would have marked a successful Labor Day weekend—if weekends mattered anymore. The Marines at the gate waved them through, directing them toward the rear hangar, which housed the battalion’s motor-transport section. When they reached the hangar, Alex received a call via ROTAC from “Patriot.”

  “Captain Fletcher,” he answered.

  “Alex, I’m in front of the hangar with Major Blackmun.”

  “Roger. Heading your way now,” he said, turning to Staff Sergeant Evans in the back seat. “Why don’t you and Jackson take a little break? I need to make room for Colonel Grady and Ops.”

  He picked up Grady and Blackmun, giving up his seat to the battalion commander and joining the battalion operations officer in the crew compartment.

  “Major Tim Blackmun,” said the marine, shaking his hand. “The colonel’s been singing your praises since Boston.”

  “All part of my propaganda campaign to keep you on board,” said Grady.

  The battalion commander turned in the front seat and forced a grin through the exhausted exterior of his weathered face. Alex wondered if he looked as bad as Grady. He hoped not. His former platoon commander looked half dead.

  “Good to have you at this meeting, Alex. The bulk of the RRZ Authority arrived yesterday afternoon, and they didn’t waste any time tearing into things. Apparently, RRZ New England North is way behind schedule.”

  “What does that mean?” Alex asked.

  “Somewhere inside the Beltway, someone with a few PhDs and no clue opined that most of the RRZs would be fully operational within fifteen days of receiving the executive order.”

  “Looks like the place is up and running to me,” said Alex, staring out of the compact window at three Chinook helicopters rising from the tarmac.

  “The MOB is mostly operational. It’s the rest that has them worried. The FEMA camps are massive gaggles of humanity sleeping in the open. They haven’t begun to ship tents and supplies south. Border security is marginal at best.” Grady sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know if that will ever get better. Supply and fuel logistics are another story altogether. With most of the port facilities in the region destroyed, we’re running our vehicles on fuel farm reserves. RRZ contingency planning didn’t include the possibility of a tsunami.”

  “Why would it?” Alex remarked.

  “Exactly. We spent the entire night and much of the early morning all trying to explain, with minimal success, that they’d be lucky to see a fully operational RRZ by the end of September.”

  “What were these people before the event?”

  “Mixture of everything as far as we can tell. Former governors and mayors, consultants, industry types, career government employees. Lots of smart people, so I was told—over and over again.”

  “D.C. loves to throw smart people at a problem. Anyone with any real experience running refugee camps or
humanitarian aid missions?”

  “Each region has a fully staffed FEMA team,” Grady said. “They might be the only full-timers in the bunch.”

  Alex rolled his eyes. “How often did they train as a group?”

  “They met once a year in D.C. to run a three-day field scenario at Andrews Air Force Base, followed by four days of briefings.”

  “Then everyone went back to their day jobs?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “No wonder they’re pissed. They actually have to do something.”

  “Better than nothing, I suppose,” said Grady.

  “Let’s reexamine that statement in a few weeks, sir,” Alex said as they stopped at the edge of the eastern taxiway.

  An airfield controller stood at the entrance to the tarmac, holding up a hand to stop the vehicle for two Black Hawk helicopters. Soldiers loaded down with full combat gear and field kit streamed single file under the spinning blades.

  “Did you read my summary of the Bridgton report?”

  “Sounds pretty conclusive,” said Grady.

  “Irrefutable. Eli’s building up his vehicle fleet. Most likely to outfit the prisoners he snagged from Windham. We’re not going to catch him with two vehicle teams working a thousand square miles of territory.”

  “Every helicopter is tasked for border missions,” said Grady, exhaling deeply. “We can bring it up this morning, but I’m not sure how well it will be received. Their heads are spinning.”

  “We need to try.”

  The Black Hawks rose above the hangar and dipped south, speeding away from the airport. Cleared to proceed, their vehicle continued past the vacant Sea Coast Aviation building and raced across the empty blacktop toward the “Authority Complex.” The fence surrounding the series of small hangars and office structures was topped with concertina wire and lined with evenly spaced Jersey barriers set several feet in front of the fence. A modular, armored guard post sat behind the right side of the fence, buried behind several, waist-height HESCO barriers blocking the entrance to the compound. A white sign with bold black letters attached to the left side of the fence read “RRZ AUTHORITY. Authorized Personnel Only. No Vehicle Traffic.”