THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “I heard. Category Five requirements?”

  “Something like that,” said Grady, reluctantly.

  “I dropped my son off at BU on Saturday. Ed’s daughter is a sophomore at BC.”

  “That’s not good,” Grady mumbled.

  “That’s what we keep hearing, but we don’t have a choice.”

  “Maybe they got out early,” Grady suggested.

  “Not likely. They had a prearranged plan. Stay in the safest of the two places, and wait for us,” said Ed.

  “We have to make the trip, Sean. Even if the kids made it out, we have no way to verify it. One way or the other, we’re going into those badlands,” said Alex, pointing at the red-shaded zone on the monitor.

  “You can’t walk across one of the bridges. Not with your commando gear. They’ll tear you apart.”

  “What exactly is going on over there?”

  “Rioting. Looting. Arson. Personal violence—”

  “Rape?” said Ed.

  “Everything. Large gangs are staking out territory.”

  “Drug gangs?”

  “Not really. We can’t discount a heavy criminal element based on what we’ve witnessed, but it seems like a typical power grab in the absence of authority. Early this morning, we stopped a mixed group of ten men and women trying to cross the Weeks pedestrian bridge with AR-15-type rifles and semiautomatic shotguns. They had the shit broken down and concealed in backpacks. I felt like I was back in Helmand Province. That group was sent across for a reason, and it wasn’t to seek a new life in the mountains of Vermont. We’re talking a hardened group of ex-con-looking types.”

  “Colonel Grady,” said the UAV operator, “Raven is sweeping north to south over Harvard Business School. White-hot thermal imaging detected.”

  “Copy. I’ll monitor from here,” said Grady. “Watch the screen,” he said, navigating to a new screen on his monitor.

  A few mouse clicks and the blue screen changed to a grayscale aerial image of the buildings along the northern tip of the business school complex. The screen panned south until a white cluster appeared in the middle of Soldiers Field Road near the intersection of Western Avenue. The camera’s crosshairs centered on the cluster, and the image magnified.

  “That’s why you can’t cross the river,” said Grady.

  At least twenty armed figures huddled under the Western Avenue overpass, hidden from the building-based surveillance teams in Cambridge. The crosshairs focused on one of the individuals, who carried an AR-15 and wore a tactical vest.

  “Where are they getting the hardware?” Alex asked.

  “Take a guess. The weapons we grabbed were a mix of previously legal ARs and heavily modified Class Three shit.”

  Ed said, “I thought Massachusetts—”

  “The governor’s mandatory buy-back program was a joke,” Grady interrupted, “and Boston’s draconian firearms ban only succeeded in disarming people who followed the rules. The guns never went away. They just shifted into the wrong hands.”

  “Any way we can get an armed escort?” Alex requested. “You could use the Raven to find a safe route. We’d be in and out in less than an hour. Your marines don’t leave their vehicles.”

  Grady shook his head with a grave look. “I can’t justify sending anyone across, Alex. I’m strapped here. It’s no longer possible to move anyone, including heavily armed marines, past the river. We’ve tried it several times, with the same result. We eventually reach a point where we have to engage with small-arms fire to continue. I’m doing everything in my power to avoid that.”

  “Sounds like the fifty cals are cleared for engagement?”

  “Countersniper operations. My posts overlooking the bridges are taking persistent sniper fire. We’re only using the fifties when the sharpshooters get cocky and bunch up.”

  “Fuck it. I’ll swim across.”

  “Not a great idea. It’s anywhere from two hundred to three hundred feet across, and I’m sure they’re watching the water. It’s a full moon tonight.”

  “I can swim low profile. Combat swimmer stroke. I’ll follow one of the bridges across. Swim between supports,” said Alex.

  “You’ll probably get into a knife fight under the bridges. You’ll be better off swimming straight across. We’ll hold off on popping flares. No guarantee they won’t spot you,” said Grady, glancing up at the screen. “See that? Another group off Cambridge Street. Hiding out in a parking garage behind the Double Tree.”

  “Second group, Colonel,” said the assistant UAV pilot.

  “Got ’em. Nice job, Marines,” Grady said proudly. “Wave for the camera, assholes. Split the QRF between the Western Avenue Bridge and Cambridge Street Bridge.”

  “Passing the order, sir,” said one of the operations marines.

  “I wish we had some Reapers on station—with ordnance,” said Grady.

  Alex looked at him. “I thought you were trying to avoid civilian engagements?”

  “Trying. If either of these groups crosses with weapons—the trying part is over.”

  “We should probably get out of your way. What about our gear?” said Alex.

  “I’ll send it with you to Fire Support HQ. They’re set up at the Hyatt, right across the river from the university. Captain Baker has some individual river-crossing gear. Watertight bags. Tow lines. He may have some fins. He’ll set you up and get you into the river undiscovered. You’re on your own after that. I can’t send anyone in after you,” said Grady.

  “Sounds like a plan. Any way I can grab one of your spare Motorolas to announce my return? Hate to get smoked coming back.”

  “I can’t give you an encrypted radio, but I’ll give you an open frequency that we monitor,” Grady offered. “You can program it into the radio we took off Sergeant Walker. Yours is sort of smashed.”

  “Great. What about a new tactical vest? I’m pretty sure your marines cut mine to pieces.”

  “S-4 will hook you up. They’re set up on the first floor of Harvard Hall. I’ll let them know you need a—”

  “QRF is in position at both bridges,” announced one of the radio operators.

  “Copy,” said Grady. “Tell them to maintain blocking positions on the Cambridge side.”

  “Colonel, I have both groups on the move! Transmitting data to the platoon commanders,” said the UAV pilot.

  “Got it,” he said, turning to Alex and Ed. “It’s gonna be a long night for both of us. If you can’t get back across the river by sunrise, wait for tomorrow night. Hostile sharpshooters have been more of a nuisance than anything else—at night. Daytime is a different story. We’ve had some close calls.”

  “Got it. You better be here when I get back,” said Alex.

  “We’ll be here. I’ll have hot chow and coffee waiting for you and the kids. Lieutenant McGarrity?” he said, scanning the tent.

  “Yes, sir,” said a stocky officer watching the UAV feed by the pilots.

  “Escort these two gentlemen over to the main supply point and arrange a ride to Fire Support HQ. Supply has their gear. Replace anything we smashed or slashed. You better get moving. The situation over there could change in a heartbeat.”

  “Thank you, Sean. I owe you one,” said Alex, shaking his hand.

  “Careful what you say. I might cash in on that if you’re still handy with one of these,” said Grady, returning Alex’s HK416.

  “I can hold my own,” said Alex. “One last thing. Sergeant Walker could use a weapons upgrade,” he said, patting Ed’s shoulder.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Ed.

  “I’m not taking you over with a Ruger 22. If Colonel Grady can spare—”

  “I’m not going,” he said.

  “That’s the first thing out of his mouth that’s made any sense. Good luck. Get ’em moving, Lieutenant.”

  Alex grabbed Ed by the arm and guided him through the tent flap. “I’m willing to take you, if you want to go.”

  “I can’t walk another mile on these stu
mps right now—let alone try to swim the river,” said Ed.

  “We’ll float you across,” said Alex.

  “The river isn’t the issue. I appreciate you letting me come this far.”

  “I wouldn’t have stopped you,” said Alex.

  “It’s better this way. Trust me,” said Ed. “I’ll stay here and make sure you don’t get left behind.” He looked up at the ancient buildings crowded over them. “They have less than twenty-four hours, and Grady knows it.”

  “I’ll get the kids back before it all goes to shit. Just a walk in the park,” said Alex.

  “Make sure you write down all of our frequencies. I picked something up on my way out of the tent,” whispered Ed, pressing something against his ribcage.

  “Either that’s a radio antenna in your pocket or you’re really happy not to be swimming the Charles,” said Alex.

  “It’s both.”

  Chapter 35

  EVENT +44:58 Hours

  Hyatt Regency

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Alex paused on the eleventh floor stairwell landing and put his hands on his knees. Taking deep breaths, he fought the wave of nausea that had decided to join him on the seventh floor. Unlike the other landing areas, which were illuminated by a single red chemlight, the eleventh was bathed in green light from three chemlights taped just above the exit-door window.

  “How we doing, sir?” said Corporal Rodriguez, his unflagging stairwell escort.

  “Better than you,” grunted Alex.

  “Good. We got six more floors to go,” said Rodriguez.

  Alex sighed and straightened himself, embracing the fact that he was going to meet their platoon commander with vomit on his new gear.

  “Just kidding. This is our floor,” said Rodriguez. “You should have seen the look on your face, though. You really going across?”

  “My son is at Boston University.”

  Rodriguez nodded with a blank look.

  “You got kids, Rodriguez?”

  “Family’s in Lowell. We’ve heard it ain’t so bad up there.”

  “I came through Haverhill. Not much going on in that area. They should be fine,” said Alex.

  “For now—until this mess spills north,” said Rodriquez, knocking on the door and standing directly in front of it. “It’s Rodriguez! I got your mystery guest!”

  A face appeared in the window, and the door opened. “Get back down to the patio, Rodriguez. We got a situation on the riverbank,” said the Marine inside the hallway.

  Rodriguez disappeared down the stairwell before Alex could say a word.

  “You gonna stand there all day?” asked the Marine.

  “No. Sorry,” said Alex, stepping into the dark hallway.

  “NVGs,” said the marine, shutting the door and casting the hallway into complete darkness. “Fuckers across the river have some night vision capability. We’ve moved twice already.”

  Alex flipped his night vision goggles down and followed the Marine left. A night-vision-equipped helmet peeked around the corner at the end of the hallway. They slid past the hidden sentry, who reported their approach through his headset, and walked halfway down the long hallway to a door on the left.

  “Welcome to platoon headquarters. Stay low, but don’t crawl. There’s glass everywhere,” he said, opening the door.

  He followed the Marine inside and scanned the room.

  “This was your third choice?”

  “At first we thought the Rain Man suite would be too obvious. Turns out it doesn’t matter where we set up. Bar is to the left—don’t mind the snipers,” he said. “Captain Baker, our battalion guest is here.”

  “Bring him out, Staff Sergeant,” said a voice from the far right.

  A crack shattered the quiet, flaring his night vision. Alex whipped his head left. A sniper team was set up behind the bar, their instruments of long-range death aimed across the room toward the empty windows facing the river. Seated on bar stools, they had adjusted the stool height to perfectly accommodate using the bar as a platform for the rifle and spotting scope. The sniper pulled back on the bolt and ejected the spent casing onto the shell-littered granite slab, sliding another round into place.

  “I can’t see him anymore. Looked like a hit,” said the spotter.

  “Busy night?” said Alex.

  “Getting busier. Captain is out on the patio.”

  They walked over broken glass to a wide patio spanning the entire length of the suite. Two marines crouched along the front of the patio wall, scanning the distance through their rifle optics. Three sat against the back wall of the patio under an empty trellis. An array of radios sat on the tile floor, cables snaking out to several tripod-mounted antennas next to the outer wall.

  “Over here,” said one of the marines along the back wall.

  They approached, staying crouched below the top of the patio wall.

  “Grab a seat, Mr. Fletcher. The CO speaks highly of you. Sorry to drag you up here, but I have a little problem you might be able to help me with. I’m told you have a thermal scope?” said Captain Baker.

  “It’s not rifle mounted,” said Alex.

  “Even better. The battalion’s Raven is busy up north, and I think we’ve got a problem under the BU Bridge. There’s an old rail bridge that passes under it. I have a team watching it from the boathouse, but there’s still a shitload of intact foliage down there. We’ve caught some movement on night vision, but I’d like to take a look with thermals before I send a team,” said Baker.

  “Be my guest,” said Alex, pulling his assault pack off and digging into one of the pouches.

  “Excellent. It’s a little embarrassing, but we have no thermals. It was supposed to go into the response kit, but it never happened.”

  “Was all of this part of a special kit?” said Alex.

  “Comms gear and vehicles, yes. The rest is battalion issue. We didn’t have many equipment failures. Everything has been EMP hardened over the past five years,” said Baker, taking the scope. “Let’s have a look.”

  They scooted to the forward wall, moving the two marines out of the way. Baker poked his head over the top and aimed the scope down Memorial Drive, toward the Boston University Bridge. He made a few minor adjustments and settled in, leaning against the concrete patio wall. The platoon commander keyed his Motorola.

  “Boathouse, I have six thermal signatures about one hundred feet from your position, right along the riverbank. I’m going to roll one of the JLTVs right up Memorial onto them. Make sure they don’t slip by the boathouse,” he said. “Sniper section, up!”

  He heard the sniper team scrambling over to their position along the wall.

  “Set up right here,” said Baker, patting the balcony wall next to them. “Targets along the riverbank, one hundred feet from the boathouse.”

  “Copy,” said the spotter from behind them.

  Alex watched him extend the legs of the Scout Sniper Spotting Scope and position the optic. The sniper joined him, resting the feet of his rifle’s bipod on the top of the balcony wall. He started adjusting the AN/PVS-22 night vision scope immediately.

  “Six hundred and fifty feet to the right front corner of the boathouse. I have no hostiles in sight. Can I get an IR mark?” said the spotter.

  “I don’t know if it’s worth it,” said Baker, turning to Alex. “They can see the mark across the river. We’ll start taking fire.”

  A snap passed overhead.

  “Already taking fire,” said the spotter.

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Baker. “Ramsey, send Raider Two-One. We’ll mark the targets for them. Fletcher, I’m going to guide your IR laser onto the group hiding by the river.”

  Alex rose above the top of the balcony wall and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the concrete. Two successive snaps passed nearby, causing him to flinch.

  “Nowhere close,” said Baker.

  “Sounded close enough,” said Alex.

  The spotter next to him said, �
�If you hear it go by, you’re good to go.”

  “Funny,” muttered Alex, triggering his IR laser.

  “Left and down—bring it back a little to the right—down a little—little more. Hold that,” Baker directed. “You guys got anything at that mark?”

  “Affirmative. Movement along the riverbank, heading away from the boathouse. Range seven-five-zero feet, estimated. Too much foliage down there. Marking targets,” said the spotter.

  A second green laser reached out from the balcony. The M40A6 rifle barked, drowning out the sound of the JLTV’s roaring diesel engine.

  “Hit. Range eight-zero-zero.”

  The rifle thundered again, and all hell broke loose on Memorial Drive. The M240G machine gun mounted to the JLTV’s turret fired an extended burst at the terminal point of the IR lasers. Red tracers streamed into the darkness, briefly illuminating the bushes, before ricocheting skyward across the river. The vehicle crept forward, mercilessly hammering the riverbank. The sniper rifle cracked. Adrenaline surged, and Alex’s breathing shallowed. His thumb touched the safety and his index finger caressed the trigger. A few muscle twitches and he could put some rounds downrange.

  Nothing good would come of it.

  “I see one hostile on the move. Headed toward the rail bridge,” said Baker. “The rest are down. No movement. Ramsey, have Raider Two-One deploy their fire team to confirm five KIA. We don’t need any surprises.”

  “Got it, sir,” replied one of the marines by the radios at the back of the patio.

  “We’ll mop this up and get you on—” said Baker, interrupted by a long burst from the M240G machine gun.

  “Raider Two-One confirms hits to a single hostile trying to climb over the fence at the rail bridge,” said Ramsey.

  A sharp crack dropped all of the marines to the patio tile.

  “That’s what we call close,” said the spotter.

  Captain Baker slowly raised his head back above the balcony wall. A distant metallic ping sounded from Memorial Drive.

  “JLTV is taking accurate fire,” said Sergeant Ramsey from the back patio wall.

  “Roger. Get Raider Two-One back to the staging area,” replied Baker, reaching out to grab the spotter’s arm.