Point of Crisis (28 page)

“Doesn’t look or feel like they’re setting up,” said Major Blackmun.

“I saw a few people working on laptops in the offices downstairs. Not exactly a beehive of activity,” said Alex.

“I think they expected this to be assembled prior to arrival,” said Grady.

“I’m sensing a trend with these expectations,” said Alex.

“You and me, both.”

A man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve collared shirt walked into the room and squinted, nodding at Colonel Grady.

“Fantastic. You’re early. We’re trying to iron out a few last minute changes. I’m Ian Day, assistant chief of staff,” he said, remaining near the door.

“We met briefly last night. Lieutenant Colonel Grady, 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Marines. This is my operations officer, Major Blackmun, and one of my intelligence officers, Captain Fletcher.”

“Perfect. I’ll let the governor know you’re here,” he said, stepping out of the room.

“The governor?” whispered Alex.

“Governor Medina. RRZ governor,” said Grady, tilting his head. “I think I hear her now. She’s kind of hard to miss.”

“Do we have to call her governor?”

“I just call her ma’am. She hasn’t complained about it yet—and she doesn’t seem to be one to hold back on complaints.”

Voices grew in the hallway, reaching a peak outside of the door.

“Colonel, I don’t care who you have to displace. My people are taking over the hotel. Start making arrangements,” ordered a sharp female voice. “Ian, tell Eric that this whole operation is moving across the street. I don’t give a shit what they have to do to make that place secure. I’m not spending another night in one of these dirty offices.”

A male voice mumbled something.

“I don’t care if they have to surround the place with an entire battalion until the barriers are up.”

A muted response yielded another shrill retort.

“Everything! Move everything! Put the operations center in the fucking restaurant. I don’t care. Just get it done!”

This should be interesting.

A few seconds later, a tall Hispanic woman in navy blue business attire strode into the room with her entourage of security guards and staff. Grady stood up when she entered the room, furtively signaling with his right hand for the rest of them to do the same.

“Lieutenant Colonel Grady, why are you still wearing those uniforms?” she said, putting out both hands in a stop gesture. “Please sit down. I hate faux respect more than a complete lack of it.”

“We’re still sorting out the sizes, ma’am,” said Grady, taking a seat.

“Look, I know you don’t want to wear the new uniforms, but it’s non-negotiable. Someone put a lot of time and thought into the color scheme. As internal security, your troops need to be instantly recognizable as such. Just like the police,” she said, taking a seat with her staff at the conference table.

“Only Russian internal security troops wear blue camouflage uniforms. Secret police types,” said Grady.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing the people don’t have access to the Internet, or they might make the connections. Figure out the sizing issue, Colonel. You have enough uniforms to refit a full battalion—last time I checked, you have half of a battalion,” she said, her eyes narrowing on Alex. “I assume this is your militia expert?”

“Alex Fletcher, ma’am,” said Alex, nodding.

“You suspect the mayor’s murder is militia related?” she asked.

“We know it’s connected to a growing militia based in southern Maine called the Maine Liberty Militia, most likely perpetrated to discourage civilian cooperation with the military and RRZ Authority.”

“Yet we’re actively admitting militia volunteers onto the base for training?”

Grady saved him from airing a sarcastic response.

“Part of a provisional security detachment, designed to operate under battalion supervision in the southern Maine zone. I’ve successfully implemented this type of program before in Afghanistan. Active partnerships with recognizable civilian institutions serves to ease fear and engender trust,” said Grady.

“We’re talking about U.S. citizens, not tribal Afghans. I’m a U.S. citizen. You’re a U.S. citizen. This isn’t an invasion force. It’s a humanitarian mission. I’m not sure why you’re treating this like the Helmand Province.”

“Six deployments taught me to work closely with the locals, preferably before arriving. I sent Captain Fletcher and a small contingent of Marines ahead of the battalion to liaison with the York County Readiness Brigade, an upstanding militia group.”

“And his community outreach efforts have resulted in the murder of Sanford’s mayor?”

Alex shook his head and muttered, “This is fucking pointless.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Governor Medina said.

“I said this is fucking
pointless
.”

“Colonel?” she stated, shooting Grady a nasty glare.

“I’ll work on Captain Fletcher’s language, ma’am.”

She regarded him for a moment, a thin grin forming on her pressed lips. “Message received, Colonel. I’m taking this in the wrong direction. Let’s start over. Captain Fletcher, what are we dealing with? Who’s running this Liberty group?”

“The Maine Liberty Militia is run by Eli Russell. Surprisingly, he has no criminal record. Former army, discharged honorably. Worked for a local auto parts company as a salesman for fifteen years prior to the event. According to Harrison Campbell, York County Readiness Brigade commander, Eli was kicked out of the brigade three years ago during a purge of ultramilitaristic types. Unfortunately, the purge gave Russell a head start forming his own group. The MLM.”

“And he’s perpetrating crimes in the security zone, using this group,” she said.

“Correct. We’ve linked him to a growing number of disturbing incidents within the southern Maine zone. Most recently, he raided a correctional facility thirty miles north, adding an unknown number of hardened criminals to his organization. Five days later, he hit Bridgton, less than forty miles away, killing more than a dozen checkpoint volunteers and stealing several vehicles.”

“It sounds like he’s taking his business north,” she said.

“The mayor was mutilated and tied to a town landmark about two miles from here,” said Alex.

“Seven days ago. The Bridgton incident occurred after the murder.”

“Trust me, ma’am. He’s still active in the area.”

“Either way, I’m seeing this as more of an annoyance than a viable threat to security,” she stated.

“He has a guy that knows how to build bombs. Big bombs. Police reported a large quantity of slurry explosives stolen from an excavation company in Windham.”

“Slurry explosives?”

“Water gel-based explosives used for mining and excavation. They can be poured into common objects, completely evading detection, or used to create shaped charges. We’re talking high order detonation stuff. Trust me, Eli Russell has the immediate capacity to be far more than an annoyance.”

“And his whereabouts are a complete mystery?”

“I have a few solid leads regarding his general location. If I had dedicated helicopter support, I could better exploit those leads,” he said, glancing at Grady, who took his cue.

“Ma’am, freeing up some of the battalion’s vehicles from rural patrols and checkpoints south of Sanford would be a solid investment in our security mission.”

One of the governor’s staff whispered and pointed at a printout on the table. She examined the paper and shook her head.

“None of that is going to happen right now. Brigade air assets are maxed out with current mission requirements, and I have additional tasking for your battalion.”

“I’m at 55% manning, with ten vehicles down. I’d suggest leaning on 4
^th
Brigade for additional tasking,” said Grady.

“RRZ protocol strictly delineates areas of operation. Even if I could deviate from the protocol, I wouldn’t. 4
^th
Brigade has its hands full with the border areas.”

Grady pulled a handheld tablet device out of his tactical vest. “What am I looking at in terms of tasking?”

“We’ll need 24/7 security for the CISA Camp being set up at Sanford High School. Helicopters should start ferrying personnel from New Hampshire to the MOB within a week. Count on security for transport back and forth to the airport.”

“CISA?” said Grady.

“Critical Infrastructure Skills Assembly. Refugees processed through FEMA checkpoints outside of the security area are screened for backgrounds and skills that can assist in the recovery. We fly them here for further evaluation. The goal is to assemble teams with the expertise to tackle projects focused on restoring essential services like electricity and communications. The list is pretty exhaustive.”

“The process sounds exhaustive—and manpower intensive,” said Grady. “What level of security do you expect at the high school?”

“CISA is essential to the recovery effort.”

“I don’t doubt that, but securing several hundred civilians in a fluid environment will eat up Marines, especially with a known explosives threat in the area. A more proactive approach to the militia is preferred.”

“Then we’ll have to focus on hardening all potential RRZ targets against explosives. Engineers will build a HESCO barrier to assist with CISA security,” Medina said.

“You can’t put a twelve-foot HESCO barrier around the entire state and hope for the best,” said Alex.

“We have a lot of HESCO material and—”

The conference room windows rattled, followed shortly by a distant sound resembling thunder. Chairs scraped the linoleum floor as Alex and the military contingent stood.

“Thunderstorms predicted for the morning,” one of the staff members offered. “Sixty percent chance.”

“That wasn’t thunder,” said the staff sergeant.

Grady’s ROTAC chirped. “Send it,” said Grady, listening for several seconds before responding. “Deploy the quick reaction force. I’ll catch up with them on Route 109. Order all checkpoint units to maintain their positions. Defense posture Red. Nothing gets in or out.”

“What happened, Colonel?”

“Units in Sanford report a massive explosion near the downtown area.”

The recruiting station.

Chapter 27

EVENT +17 Days

Sanford, Maine

From Alex’s elevated vantage point in the Matvee’s armored turret, he caught the first glimpses of the devastation ahead. The four-story brick building appeared through the cloud of gray-black smoke enshrouding Sanford’s central park area. Smoke from the blast should have cleared by now. The vehicle decelerated in front of Town Hall, the driver approaching cautiously. Flashing red lights cut through the murk at the western end of the park area across from the building, headed toward Main Street.

As they passed Town Hall, the scene took shape. Windows on the second floor directly above the recruiting station poured smoke and flames skyward. Broken glass and crumbled brick debris littered the street and sidewalk. Deeper in the park, small groups of people huddled over injured bystanders, waving frantically for the inbound ambulance. The Matvee slowed to a standstill. A jagged, scorched hole encompassed the entire right half of the building’s storefront.

“What are you seeing?” Grady asked over the vehicle net.

“I’m not seeing the remains of a vehicle. Probable remote detonation, like at Harvard Yard. We need to lock this area down hard, sir.”

“Copy. How many people did we have in the station?”

“Eight. Three Marines and five of Harrison’s people.”

“You better let him know,” said Grady.

The vehicle edged forward, pulling over the curb and stopping in the park. The rest of the quick-reaction force raced by, deploying at even intervals across from the burning building. One of the vehicles continued to Washington Street and turned left, headed toward the back of the building to check for survivors. Alex swiveled the turret to cover the road heading back to the airport, digging through his vest to retrieve his ROTAC.

***

The binoculars started to tremble when the convoy of four heavily armed tactical vehicles appeared through the haze. He knew the heavy machine guns mounted in the turrets could tear through the brick wall in front of him with little effort, and every time one of the barrels shifted past his window—he flinched. He’d been happy to leave the general ranks and return to Sanford, especially after the massacre in Limerick. They needed someone to keep an eye on the county seat of York County, and nobody knew the town and the people better than Sanford’s top realtor, Tim Barrett—but this was too much! Too risky.

This particular spot had been his best idea. Overlooking the central commons, the empty corner office on the third floor of the Sanford Trust Building gave him a bird’s-eye view of the town’s main thoroughfare. As a realtor, nobody questioned his presence in the office buildings, especially downtown, where most of the buildings remained empty from the recession. He’d felt safe, almost untouchable until a few minutes ago. Something had gone wrong with the bombing.

A guy wearing a gray T-shirt and red hat was supposed to stuff a small package into a city trash container outside of the storefront, remotely detonating the device from a pickup car on Washington Street when Barrett confirmed that the sidewalk and street were clear of innocent bystanders.

Nothing had gone according to the plan relayed by Kevin McCulver. The man showed up wearing a dark orange student backpack, and walked into the recruiting station. The building exploded before the glass door closed behind him. The blast turned out to be far more powerful than he expected, injuring citizens gathered in the park.

Had the plan changed? What else had changed?

The whole point of the operation had been to draw the Marines to the recruiting station so Barrett could observe the marine’s response. The vehicles continued down Main Street toward his building, and he considered abandoning the mission.