Point of Crisis (6 page)

Alex searched the trees on the left side of the deserted two-lane road for signs of the airport’s boundary fence. He used to drive into Sanford using this route when he worked in pharmaceutical sales, and remembered that the tree line opened to a massive, flat expanse of land containing Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport. The airport had never impressed him, just another stop for Cessna-type aircraft or maybe something a little bigger. He’d been surprised to learn that the airport had a reinforced 6,300-foot runway, suitable for use by a United States Air Force C-17B (Globemaster III) military transport aircraft. The runway had been hardened in 2016, using federal grants.

Uncle Sam has been busy since the Jakarta Pandemic.

The forest thinned, yielding a vast, sun-browned field of low-cut scrub grasses separated from the road by a barb-wire-topped, chain-link fence. Not much standing between the public and the airfield
.
Alex imagined that Maine’s 133
^rd
Engineering Battalion had a few upgrades planned for the perimeter—especially given Regional Recovery Zone security protocols. He had spent most of the night on the battalion’s SIPRNet (Secret Internet Protocol Routing Network) connection, digging through the hundreds of classified documents in an attempt to understand the scope and impact of the RRZ’s deployment to southern Maine.

The picture was complicated, but one thing became crystal clear. Once the president of the United States activated the National Recovery Plan, you wanted to be
inside
one of the RRZ security zones—for reasons he tried to impress on Harrison Campbell. You especially didn’t want to end up in one of the FEMA camps outside the RRZ. The documents painted a rosy picture of the United States’ “upgraded” capacity to implement and administer a sprawling system of refugee camps, but time and time again, history proved otherwise. Alex intended to do everything in his power to keep his family and friends inside the security zone.

They drove past an enormous vacant parking lot connecting a Super Walmart with a Home Depot. He planned to visit The Home Depot on the way back, to secure some plywood for their windows and two toilets. They had stacked enough boards in the barn to barricade the first-floor windows against intruders, but the Maine Liberty Militia’s sustained fusillade had shattered close to every window in the house
.
Since the event blast wave had been negligible in Sanford, he didn’t feel bad commandeering the wood, along with a few other repair supplies needed to patch up the holes.

Three olive-drab flatbed trucks converged on Route 109 from a road beyond the parking lot. Without stopping, the loaded vehicles turned right and accelerated, pouring black exhaust above the convoy. From a distance, the trucks resembled the Mk23 MTVRs (Medium Tactical Vehicle Replacement) used by Grady’s battalion.

Where the hell did they come from?

His tactical overview of organic RRZ units indicated that the 1136
^th
Transportation Company based out of Sanford had M1078 MTVs—but their headquarters was four miles west of here. As Alex’s vehicle passed the fire station, he matched the street sign to the vehicle’s tactical display. The digital map confirmed that Eagle Road was a dead end.

Interesting.

“Looks like they know where they’re going,” said Alex.

“Let’s hope, sir,” said Lianez. “I’ll tuck in right behind them.”

“Make sure to stop at the gate so we can figure out where we need to go. I’m not exactly sure where we’re supposed to check in, but I assume there’s a base commander or something like that,” said Alex, fumbling with the door. “How do you open the windows?”

“You don’t, sir. This is an integrated projectile and blast resistant design.”

“Really? How the hell did I miss that?”

“Most officers don’t figure it out until they want to shoot something from that seat. I had one platoon commander who insisted we were messing with him. Every time he got in the damn vehicle, he fucked around with that door.”

“It was kind of silly-like,” said Jackson over the PRC-153 Intra-Squad Radio (ISR).

“I’m sure he had every reason to trust the two of you to steer him in the right direction,” said Alex, smirking. “So, how the hell does the crew defend the vehicle?”

“You leave that up to me, sir,” said Jackson.

“Not even a gun port?”

“Fucks with the blast-resistant dynamics,” said Lianez.

“What are you, a vehicle engineer?”

“Mechanical engineering degree at Northeastern.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Negative, sir.”

“I stumbled into the Einstein Battalion,” Alex muttered.

“Lianez is the exception to the rule. Most of us are good ol’-fashioned New England hicks. No G.I. Bill for me. I do this shit for free,” said Jackson.

“Good, because I have a feeling your next paycheck is going to be late,” said Alex. “Really late.”

They followed the convoy to a security checkpoint at the entrance to a large parking lot. A white commercial sign with “Seacoast Aviation” in red letters protruded from the ground next to an improvised waist-level sandbag emplacement. A group of soldiers dressed in full combat gear cleared out of the way, giving the MTVs a wide berth. They stayed on the sides of the gravel road, waving Alex’s vehicle through.

“Do you want me to stop, sir?”

Alex examined the door again. They weren’t kidding; there was no way to talk to the soldiers without opening the door.

“Just keep going and park us next to those Humvees. At least with those, you could roll down the windows,” said Alex.

“Sounds like old-timer talk, sir,” said Lianez.

“No wonder Grady gave you guys up without hesitation,” he said. “Stay with the vehicle. Don’t go making friends.”

“We’re not in the business of making friends, sir.”

“Good. Until I’m one hundred percent sure this operation is legit, I got one foot out the door,” he said, shutting the hatch and walking toward Seacoast Aviation’s passenger terminal.

The last of the military trucks passed through a wide gate next to the terminal, disappearing behind the corrugated metal structure. Alex stopped next to one of the parked Humvees and stared through the fence at the other side of the closest tarmac. An olive-drab tractor with a post-hole digger attachment worked next to a group of soldiers wearing ACU pants, T-shirts and combat helmets. A cluster of flatbed trucks carrying sheets of rolled fencing sat in front of an empty hangar at the end of the tarmac. From what he could tell by the posts that had been installed along the far edge of the asphalt, engineers were fencing off a section of the airport.

A tall soldier in ACUs and a patrol cap emerged from the open terminal door, holding an M4 carbine at low ready. Alex turned to face him, slowly removing the identification card from the front pouch of his tactical vest. He kept his hands off his rifle.

“Sir, I need to see some ID,” said the sergeant.

Alex noticed a second soldier pointing her rifle at him through the doorway.

“I’m a provisional captain with 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Marine Infantry Regiment,” said Alex, handing his badge to the sergeant.

He gave it a quizzical examination. “Never seen one of these before. Captain, we have a provo marine! Showed up in a Matvee!”

“Good timing,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “Get him in here.”

With the female soldier’s rifle still trained on him, Alex stepped inside the dark, sweltering terminal. Two rows of dark orange connected plastic seats sat pushed against the left wall. A rectangular folding table occupied the center of the room, covered with ruggedized military laptops and dozens of cables. Four haggard-looking soldiers crowded around the table in folding chairs, typing and talking into headsets.

“The captain’s in the last office,” said the soldier, handing Alex the ID card.

“You can stop pointing that at me now,” said Alex.

The pasty-faced, sweat-covered specialist didn’t blink.

“You want to call her off? This is the second time I’ve had a rifle pointed at my head today.”

“You can stand down, Crosby,” said the sergeant.

The woman flipped the selector switch on her rifle to safe and let the rifle dangle across her body armor by its sling. She was the only soldier in the terminal wearing the MTV (Modular Tactical Vest), which added at least thirty pounds to a soldier or marine’s standard load out.

“Why are you the only one wearing the MTV?” asked Alex.

“Because she thinks the Chinese are gonna drop from the sky and take the airport,” stated one of the soldiers working on a laptop.

“Crosby plans to take them all out,” announced another soldier.

She shook her head and muttered a few expletives.

“You might be on to something, Crosby,” said Alex, silencing her colleagues.

Alex walked down the shadowy hallway, passing two pitch-black, empty offices. Light from the outside filled the third office, rendering the space useable. A desk chair scraped the floor inside the office, followed by muttering.

“Where the fuck is this guy?”

A dark-haired soldier charged out of the doorway, stopping himself before barreling into Alex.

“Shit. Sorry about that. Did they run your ID?”

“The sergeant gave it a once-over,” said Alex.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, extending a hand. “Captain Rick Adler. Commanding officer, 262
^nd
Engineering Company out of Westbrook.”

“Captain Alex Fletcher. United States Marine Corps. Provisional.”

“Provo, huh? I just cracked the code on all of this shit. Mind if I grab your ID?”

“Sure,” said Alex, handing it over again.

“Follow me,” he said, storming down the hallway.

“Listen up! We talked about provisional ID cards! You have to scan them at this computer and send the e-file to my desk. Easy enough?”

The table of lethargic soldiers nodded and responded with wary, “Yes, sirs.”

“That way, I know if I’m dealing with a civilian construction engineer sent by battalion, or…” He swiped Alex’s card and read the screen. “Huh. Let’s talk in my office.”

Alex wasn’t sure how to interpret Adler’s sudden need for privacy. Once inside the spacious, ghastly hot office, Adler shut the door and offered him a drink from a water cooler behind his modular desk.

“Room temperature. All of our juice is going to the comms gear, though it’s awfully tempting to run a line to the cooler.”

Alex took a sip.

“You could make hot cocoa with this,” he said, finishing the thin paper cup.

“Without the central air-conditioning, the building is basically one big convection oven. Tin roof. Fucking miserable. It’s worse in the hangars.”

“Really?” said Alex, immediately eliminating the possibility of bringing his family to the hangar.

Adler slid Alex’s ID card across the desk. “This card identifies you as the airport’s MIF.”

“MIF?”

“Most Important Fucker. Congratulations. Until an EMIF arrives—your wish is my command.” At Alex’s questioning look, Adler explained, “Even More Important Fucker. I’m still cracking the code on this Regional Recovery Zone shit, but the hierarchy is well defined. Security and Intelligence is at the top of the food chain.”

“You didn’t know about the Category Five response protocols?”

“Negative. I can only assume that knowledge was kept at the battalion commander and above level. I had a sealed pod kept under lock and key at the unit armory—to be opened under certain circumstances. Suspected EMP was one of those circumstances. I found this laptop computer and a ROTAC satphone, along with instructions for tapping into the battalion’s SIPRNet through DTCS. We never used DTCS before Monday, now it’s the only way to communicate over any appreciable distance.”

“We used real radios in my day, and if you didn’t have comms—you didn’t have comms. Portable sat-gear was borderline
Star Wars
shit, even at the battalion level,” said Alex.

“Even today it’s not widely issued to regular units below the battalion level.”

“Then why does it seem like every soldier and Marine has one?”

“Good question. DTCS came to life in 2011. Too late to make a big difference in the War on Terror, but the Pentagon pushed it.”

“I don’t blame them. I lost several Marines in Iraq because of shitty comms.”

“That was the big selling point. One hundred percent worldwide coverage at all times. I studied the system a year ago in one of my Staff and Command courses. One case study after another where DTCS-enabled sat-gear could have saved lives. Made sense to me, except it was never rolled out below company level. Then the DTCS budget was drastically expanded in 2016.”

“And they were issued along with helmets in boot camp.”

“No. That was a big point of discussion during last year’s summer training. None of the guard or reserve units saw them. Neither did their active-duty counterparts.”

“Then where did the radios come from?”

“Category Five response load outs. We had a secure conex box set inside one of the buildings. I assume it was EMP hardened, like a Faraday cage. The keys and combinations needed to access the conex box were located in my secure pod.”

“What was in the container?”

“Dozens of ROTAC handhelds, heavier duty communications gear, computers, router equipment, night-vision devices, motion sensors, cameras—everything I needed for my role at Sanford Seacoast Regional Airport. Quite a coincidence, right? Especially given the fact that the conex box was delivered over two years ago.”

“I’m discovering a lot of these post-Jakarta Pandemic coincidences,” said Alex.

“Like the runway out there?” asked Adler.

“Makes you wonder.”

“I wouldn’t wonder too loudly. My initial Category Five orders also involved sending two soldiers home—booted from the company. Stripped of all rank and privileges, like they were criminals.”

“Militia?”

“Likely militia involvement.”