by Akart, Bobby
“Are you gonna tell them?” asked Meredith.
“Yes, I think so,” he replied. “A couple of things. First, and I haven’t mentioned this to Delta over there.” Cort pointed in Delta’s direction, who waved.
“My real name is Will Hightower, but around here, I’m Delta.”
Hayden smiled at Will and introduced herself with her moniker while at the Haven. “They call me Foxtrot.”
“Foxy!” shouted Alpha.
“In your dreams, buddy,” Hayden threw it back at him before turning back to Cort. “Go ahead, please continue.”
He glanced at Delta and explained, “When I met your daughter last night, I remembered something that I needed to ask you about. Were your kids traveling alone, possibly from Philadelphia to Atlanta? She might’ve been wearing a light blue sweat suit?”
“Yes, exactly,” replied Delta. “How would you—?”
“They walked right in front of me along the concourse when I was waiting for my flight to Mobile.”
Delta perked up. “Wait. Hold on. The kids were on Delta 322 from Philly. I was at baggage claim to greet them.”
“Delta 322 was the flight that continued to Mobile, and I was on it. Well, at least until it landed in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Huh?” asked Tyler Rankin. Angela squeezed her husband’s hand and he allowed them to continue.
Meredith picked up the conversation, as she noticed Cort suddenly became withdrawn as he recalled the memory of New Year’s Eve. “There’s more, everyone. Cort was within reaching distance of Delta’s kids in the Atlanta airport. Also, the Sheltons met with my father, who lives in New Haven, Connecticut. They knew one another when Tom was in the military.”
“That’s right, and then Hayden helped us in Richmond, and the guy who attacked her landed in Dr. Rankin’s ER.”
“Angela, please. Doctor is so formal.”
“Is this crazy or what?” asked Alpha.
Blair smiled to herself. She understood how these things work. The universe finds ways to put souls together. That was how she and Ryan found one another. Some occurrences were just too inexplicable to be explained away as mere coincidence.
Fate. Destiny. Call it what you will. Blair knew it was meant to be.
Chapter Two
Haven Barn
The Haven
To some, it might seem like an episode of the television show LOST, but not to Blair. She knew all of these people intimately, more so than any of them realized. The School of Hard Knocks had taught her well as she entered adulthood in her teenage years. Everything she and Ryan had experienced in their lives, both before they met and after they were married, led up to this moment. Their successes gave them the opportunity to create the Haven and bring everyone together. But their failures and practical knowledge enabled them to create a group that would mesh under pressure. The fact, however, that they had interacted with one another in so many different, unexpected ways was more than just fate. It was almost supernatural.
“Guys,” began Ryan, interrupting the conversation, “we’re gonna have more opportunities to get to know one another and trade stories about your journeys, but we’ve got some important business to discuss first. Would everyone please gather around the whiteboards with me?”
The group wound up their conversations with one another, and Blair heard promises of several people to talk later. She studied the faces of the residents she and Ryan had handpicked to be the core members of their team.
To be sure, everyone within the Haven had a role to play or they wouldn’t have been selected. Those within the community had been screened, vetted, and assessed as to how they would advance the Smarts’ goal of creating a safe haven during a time of societal collapse.
She stood at the back of the room, watching Ryan begin the morning meeting, and she considered the strengths of the five diverse groups of people who had now coalesced together as an extended family.
Blair expected that the connection between the Sheltons and the Cortlands would reveal itself. Naturally, Tom Shelton could never know she had the ability to peek into his financial affairs and had seen the regular monthly deposits into his account from an obscure limited liability company in Providenciales. Blair knew how their banking system worked, and a few phone calls to Barclay’s Bank in the Turks and Caicos enabled her to gain access. Then she’d traced the origins of the LLC back to George Trowbridge’s company.
At first, she wasn’t sure whether the relationship would be a problem. She noticed that social events attended by Trowbridge never mentioned a daughter. Likewise, none of the images posted on Meredith’s Facebook or Instagram accounts referenced her father.
She filed it away as information that was good to know, but not necessarily a reason to exclude either of the families from the Haven. As it turned out, it drew them closer together, and Ryan’s intuition from a year ago that Tom and Cort would make excellent advisors in the event of a collapse was spot-on.
“All of you have found your way to the Haven from different directions and under exceptional circumstances,” said Ryan in a loud tone of voice to get everyone’s attention. “Every bit of knowledge you gathered along the way, all of your experiences, will help us formulate a plan to protect everyone in the community.”
Alpha stepped forward. “Ryan and Blair have created an excellent security plan, and we’ve got a great team in place to implement it. But as Sun-tzu wrote in The Art of War, know thy enemy as you know thyself. We have to anticipate what happens next in the event the crazies bring their happy asses to our doorstep.”
Hayden laughed. “Trust me. Crazy never takes a vacation in DC. From what I’ve seen, it’s consumed everyone outside the Haven too.”
Ryan stepped forward. “One of the things that will help us is to develop a working theory of what’s happening. It should come as no surprise to any of you that I detest the media. All of them. They all lie, exaggerate, tell half-truths, and manipulate Americans to advance their own narratives. Their actions disgust me, but it is what it is. We need to determine if this situation is going to get worse, and whether we need to be prepared for the proverbial golden hordes descending upon us from nearby towns and cities.”
Alpha stepped forward. “We all recognize the fact that the Haven isn’t exactly a secret in the community. Ryan and Blair built this place like a fortress for a reason. However, that most likely garnered the attention of the locals, and in a panicked crisis, word can spread quickly. Having a working theory of what’s happening and who’s behind it will help us explain, predict, and understand the causes of the collapse, and how we should adjust our security plan.”
“Because security is all important,” added Ryan. “If you can’t defend it, it isn’t yours.”
Members of the group began to talk to one another, and Cort moved closer to the whiteboard. He gestured toward the markers, and Ryan stepped aside to let him lead the conversation.
Cort began to create a freehand drawing of the United States. He wrote in the names of the cities that were directly attacked—Seattle, Chicago, Detroit, Los Angeles, Washington, New York, and Philadelphia. Then, using a green marker, he wrote the words Atlanta concert and Delta 322 in smaller print over their approximate locations on the map. Finally, using a red marker, he wrote EMP next to Philadelphia; cyber next to DC; drone next to New York, followed by the various means of attack next to the other cities in the Midwest and Los Angeles. Next to Atlanta, he wrote the word terrorist. Next to Delta 322, he wrote the letters RFW.
“Okay, thanks for bearing with me and I hope you can read my chicken scratch. My mom always said I wrote like a doctor but thought like a lawyer.”
The group laughed along with Cort.
Ryan spoke first. “I’m seeing a pattern.”
Cort nodded. “Good, Ryan. Me too. You go first.”
“Let’s talk locations,” continued Ryan. “Except for your flight, all of the attacks took place in major cities, although the attack at the Mercedes-Benz Stadium
appeared isolated and unconnected.”
“But the timing,” interjected Delta before Cort raised his hand to stop him.
“We’ll get to that in just a moment,” said Cort. “Ryan’s correct, but let me take it one step further. What else do these larger cities have in common?”
“Dense population,” replied Tyler.
“True, but there’s more,” said Cort. “We touched on this briefly last night before everyone arrived. Consider the demographics of these six metropolitan areas.”
Angela reeled off several characteristics. “Inner city. Minority. Poor.”
“Exactly, Dr. Rank—um, Angela,” said Cort as he pointed the marker at her. “I’m a student of politics and, like Hayden, deeply in tune to the thinking of DC. Everything nowadays is looked at through the spectrum of a political lens.”
Hayden nodded in agreement. “I’m not a politician, but it’s apparent that these cities weren’t just chosen because of their population size. They were picked because of their political proclivities.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Cort. He turned to the map and ran his fingers around the interior of the U.S. border. “Where are the large-scale attacks on San Diego? Dallas? Houston? Kansas City? Or any of the major Southeastern cities. In my opinion, the traditional liberal voting enclaves were targeted.”
“Ethnic cleansing?” asked Ryan.
“Sort of,” replied Cort.
“Richmond was falling apart at the seams,” added Tyler. “It wasn’t attacked, but it was feeling the heat.”
“Charlotte, too,” added Meredith. “We saw gangs attacking one another in the street with clubs and rocks.”
“Same thing in Richmond,” said Angela. “These people dressed in black broke into our house and tried to attack our kids. Then they moved down the street and ended up in a brawl with these guys wearing red caps.”
“The people in Charlotte were dressed in black too,” added Meredith.
“I saw them in DC before I left,” added Hayden. “They were spray-painting graffiti that looked like a fist holding a black rose in the air on a bridge abutment.”
“We saw it in Richmond as well,” added Donna. “It was next to our truck just as the fighting began. You know what? They were all dressed in black too.”
“Rosa Negra,” mumbled Ryan.
“What?” asked Hayden.
“Rosa Negra. They’re an anarchist federation made up of the worst of the worst from Antifa, Black Lives Matter, and the Occupy Wall Street groups. Rosa Negra means the Black Rose. That’s their symbol.”
“Are they on the East Coast?” asked Cort.
Ryan nodded. “Yeah, believe it or not, not all anarchist activity occurs in Seattle or Portland. The Black Rose is well-funded, organized, and at the beck and call of György Schwartz, the international money guy.”
“The scourge of the right,” said Cort. “Schwartz and his organizations fund a lot of left-leaning political activity around the world. My father-in-law hates him.”
Meredith furrowed her brow and gave Cort a puzzled look.
“It sounds to me that what y’all witnessed in Charlotte and Richmond is the resistance fighting back,” said Ryan.
Blair had teased Ryan about spending so much time on conspiracy theories concerning Schwartz and the so-called resistance. The point he continuously made to her was that the people who dressed up in their black garb and hid their faces didn’t have the kind of money necessary to fund their activities. He bought into the theories that the resistance was a tool of the Schwartz family to destabilize American society and draw attention to their political beliefs. Maybe he was right?
“To me, this is only a small part of the overall picture we’re looking at,” said Delta. “You guys who know politics are probably correct. Here’s what I want to know. Who pulled the trigger to begin with?”
“Big triggers,” added Alpha. “The advanced weaponry you guys have described did not come from your local gun shop. This is heavy artillery in today’s age of modern warfare.”
“Especially the EMPs,” said Ryan.
“I can shed some light on part of it,” interjected Tom. “From what I’m hearing of the power outages in Eastern Pennsylvania and New Jersey, the EMP had to be targeted, low trajectory, and fired from a fairly short distance. My guess is that it was delivered from an underwater location.”
Cort stepped closer to Tom. “Russians? They have the capability and their sub warfare program is on par with ours.”
“They certainly have the cyber capabilities that were used in DC and other parts of the country,” added Ryan.
“All true,” replied Tom. “But toward what end? The Russians use cyber and electromagnetic pulse technology as a precursor to an invasion. They haven’t been beating the drums of war, nor are they amassed at our borders. In fact, they’ve reached out to the president to offer aid, according to the news reports.”
“Subterfuge and propaganda,” interjected Alpha.
“Maybe, but not likely,” said Cort. “Consider all of the scenarios. Why would the Russians risk getting their operatives caught in Atlanta and New York during the terrorist-like attacks on those locations? And why take down my flight? If they were going to deploy their radio frequency weapon to cause maximum damage, they would’ve tried it out on Air Force One or the chopper taking the president out of Mar-a-Lago. If they stuck with EMP weaponry and cyber, at least they’d have plausible deniability going for them.”
The room became quiet as everyone absorbed the theories being bantered about. Hayden pushed her way to the front and took the red marker from Cort. On a board next to the one Cort had been using, she wrote Rosa Negra on the left side and then drew two arrows in the center, one pointing left and the other pointing to the right. She paused for a moment and turned to the group.
“How many of you have received strange text messages since New Year’s Eve?” she asked as she raised her hand, indicating she was a recipient.
Tom Shelton raised his hand. “I did on New Year’s Eve, and then another one after that. I must admit, the tone and tenor of the message was similar to the ones that I received when I was at Joint Base Charleston.”
Hayden turned to the whiteboard. “I received them as well. Very mysterious and cryptic, but they had one common element. They were signed …” Her voice trailed off as she wrote the letters MM on the whiteboard. She turned and made eye contact with Tom, who nodded.
“Same here,” he said.
Hayden replaced the cap on the marker and tapped the board with the end. “MM. Who is this mystery person or group, and what does MM stand for?”
The group looked at one another. Some shrugged and others shook their head side to side, as they were unable to give an opinion. Then the voice of a young boy provided an answer from the back of the room.
“Minutemen.”
Chapter Three
Monocacy Farm
South of Frederick, Maryland
Hanson Briscoe’s uneasy feeling followed him from his meeting with George Trowbridge and was firmly ensconced in his psyche by the time he returned to Monocacy Farm. The damp, cold Maryland winter was unforgiving on his aging body, and the spacious rooms of the antebellum mansion did little to take the chill out of his bones. Despite the roaring fire in the large ballroom, Briscoe’s sense of foreboding prevented him from relaxing.
He allowed himself a touch of brandy in his morning coffee as he prepared for the second wave of disruptive attacks within the United States. The next target would be popular with many, and a source of consternation for others. Despite the symbolism behind the next step, the real purpose was to create uncertainty by cutting off the ability for information to be disseminated to everyday Americans.
He’d pulled open the ceiling-to-floor velvet drapes that covered half a dozen television monitors on the wall adjacent to the foyer. He rarely powered on the screens, opting instead to watch important news matters inside the privacy of his study. Typically, the ballroom was used to
host political events such as fund-raisers and election night parties, when his candidates were expected to win, of course.
One by one, Briscoe powered on the monitors to reveal nonstop coverage from both the cable news networks and the Big Three—CBS, NBC, and ABC. Each of the networks either interviewed pundits who did their best to prognosticate, or the screens displayed images of chaos transmitted from around the country, depicting an America on the brink of collapse.
Briscoe pulled out his phone and initiated a series of texts to his cyber operatives around the world. It was important for the cyber sleuths to be misdirected to potential locations outside North America. He was keenly aware of the problem of attribution when cyber attacks were initiated, especially when it came to an attack on the nation’s critical infrastructure. Thus far, anyone with an opinion was able to point a finger of blame at the perpetrator of the New Year’s Eve attack. His next move would add to the confusion and provide even more arguments as to who the guilty party was.
He sent the final text message instructing the well-paid and highly talented cyber warriors to initiate the next step in his intricate plan. He settled into an overstuffed settee in front of the screens and watched the images come in from Richmond and Charlotte. The news reports interspersed graphics with the live feeds showing the spray-painted graffiti of the Black Rose Federation, who’d suddenly become a prominent source of coverage.
He sipped his coffee and winced, not at the temperature but rather at the strength of the brandy that he’d added to the cup. A second sip took away the sting of the alcohol, and he allowed himself a smile as he considered that he might just partake of several more cups of the concoction before the day was over.
“La Rosa Negra,” he muttered aloud to no one. Briscoe was alone in the spacious home, as the staff had been told to stay away while he conducted this next phase of the plan. They were all good people and he trusted them, to an extent, but he also wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
