Point of Crisis (27 page)

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 floor.

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.”

“Jesus, the engineers could have built their own port facility in the time it took to construct the RRZ’s Green Zone,” said Alex, eliciting a quick laugh from Major Blackmun.

“Don’t laugh. Long-term plans require a twelve-foot-tall HESCO barrier with cameras and elevated guard positions,” said Grady.

They parked next to a row of four-door Jeep Wranglers with “RRZ1/NEN” painted on the sides and hood. A JLTV (Joint Light Tactical Vehicle) with 4
^th
Brigade Combat Team/10
^th
Mountain Division markings pulled alongside as Alex dismounted the Matvee. The turret in the army vehicle swiveled, pointing the M240 toward Route 109 beyond the perimeter fence. For all of their security concerns, the RRZ Authority had picked one of the worst possible locations for their “secure” compound. Located less than four hundred feet from the road passing the airport, the cluster of hangars could be taken under accurate, concentrated fire from vehicles outside of the outer perimeter. Maybe the HESCO wall wasn’t a bad idea.

An army captain and staff sergeant emerged from the JLTV, saluting Grady and Blackmun.

“You guys drew the lucky straw?” said Grady, returning the soldiers’ salute.

“I was volunteered, sir,” said the officer. “Captain Van Tassel. Assistant ops.”

“I’m just here to make sure the good captain doesn’t stick a boot in his mouth, or up one of their asses,” said the staff sergeant, nodding at the compound.

“Good luck,” said Grady. “I brought two to keep me in check.”

Alex ran his hand along the rear bumper of one of the vehicles.

“Brand new,” he announced. “Did they fly in with these?”

“Negative,” Captain Van Tassel answered. “The security team delivered them from one of the warehouses. Armored J8s. Blast and small-arms resistant. The Diplomatic Security Service uses these all over the world.”

“One of our security teams?” asked Alex.

The captain and Grady shared a brief, pained look.

“Mercenaries,” responded Major Blackmun, nodding at the compound’s security checkpoint.

“Contract security, Major,” Grady replied dryly.

Three serious-looking men wearing hiking boots, khaki pants, assorted dark T-shirts and olive-green tactical vests stood in front of the HESCO barriers, short-barreled assault rifles at the ready.

“Big business,” muttered Alex.

“What was that?” said Blackmun.

“I’m just thinking about the business behind all of this. The RRZ concept must have made some people rich.”

Grady stopped, halting the group in front of the first set of Jersey barriers.

“Careful what you say in there. Hell hath no fury like a bureaucrat scorned.”

A second contract security team escorted them to a conference room on the second floor of a run-down building in the center of the compound. Rows of mismatched chairs sat facing a worn wooden conference table at the front of the room. Unopened boxes of electronics equipment were stacked floor to ceiling against the inner wall of the thirty-foot-long room. Flat-screen monitors, wireless router gear, computers—enough off-the-shelf gear to set up a full-scale operations center.