THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5
Page 70
“Set up inside again. I want you to find whoever is putting those rounds out. Sooner or later, they’re gonna get lucky.”
“Roger that, sir. Hey, is there any way our guy here might be willing to leave the thermal scope behind? Sure make our job a lot easier,” said the sniper.
“I’ll trade it for some sniper coverage on my way out,” said Alex.
“You headed somewhere?”
“You’ve seen the three identical buildings across the river?” asked Alex.
“Yes. Stacked up like dominoes. Fourteen stories each. One thousand, four hundred and thirty eight feet to the right corner of the rightmost building.”
“My son lives on the sixth floor of the leftmost building. Room 622. Faces the middle building. I’m getting him out of there,” said Alex.
“You’re not serious,” said the spotter, picking up his scope.
“Deadly serious. We got a deal?”
“I can cover you up to Storrow Drive, unless Battalion is willing to break out the fifties,” said the sniper.
“Lieutenant Colonel Grady won’t bend on that,” said Baker.
“Not yet,” said the sniper.
“Your .308 will work fine. I just want to avoid a riverside welcoming committee.”
“We’ll use the thermal scope to find any pickets along the waterfront. My guys will clear a path. We’ll also mark any other hostiles with IR laser. Steer you away from any bigger groups. Once you disappear behind the first row of buildings, it’s you and that rifle.”
“That’s all I’ll need.”
Chapter 36
EVENT +45:28 Hours
Hyatt Regency
Cambridge, Massachusetts
“You ready, boss?” Corporal Rodriguez inquired.
“Let’s do it,” said Alex, taking a deep breath.
Rodriguez rose from a crouch and walked toward the sliding glass doors at the edge of the lobby. The closed doors led to a moonlit breezeway connecting the hotel to the parking garage, where they could access the rear patio and emerge on the western edge of the hotel. The Marine produced a set of keys and unlocked the sliding doors, muscling them far enough apart for them to squeeze through. He tossed the keys to a Marine standing next to Alex.
“Coming back the same way,” said Rodriguez.
Alex looked surprised. “He’s not coming too?”
“We can only spare one babysitter for this,” said Rodriguez. “Piece of cake.”
“If you say so,” said Alex.
He plodded through the thick mud that had overwhelmed the entire lobby level of the hotel, feeling the crunch of broken glass between his boots and the marble floor. Like all of the buildings they’d passed on the ride down, most of the Regency’s windows had either imploded from the air blast or were shattered from the seismic shock. He squeezed through the door and joined Rodriguez in the muck-filled breezeway.
The Marine lowered his NVGs and stepped through one of the shattered panes onto the back patio. Alex did the same, trying to step in the deep impressions left by Rodriguez’s boots. They plodded through the middle of the tables and collapsed umbrellas, pushing aside wrought-iron chairs to reach a tall stucco wall beyond a row of bushes.
Spanning the distance between the hotel and the parking garage, the wall formed the western boundary of the hotel. Rodriguez stood next to the wall and interlocked his fingers. Beyond the wall, an office building loomed, its few remaining windows reflecting bright green flashes of moonlight in his NVGs.
“You first. Check the other side for crazies before lifting me up,” said Rodriguez.
“I know the drill,” said Alex.
“Just checking. Been a while, right?”
“Sixteen years, but I feel it all coming back. Check the bottom of my boots for broken glass,” he said, lifting each foot for the Marine.
“Good to go,” he said, taking Alex’s rifle.
Alex stepped onto his locked hands and launched upward, straddling the stucco wall. He made a quick assessment of the dark green shadows on the other side of the wall, seeing nothing out of place. A sea of mud separated the wall from the adjacent building. He reached down with his left hand and pulled Rodriguez up the wall.
“Just like the good ole days,” said Alex, taking his rifle back from Rodriguez.
“Not bad for an old man.”
Alex dropped to the mud, sinking to his knees. He scanned in both directions with his rifle and pulled his right leg out of the seaweed-encrusted mire with a slow sucking sound. Rodriguez thudded next to him and muttered a few obscenities.
“It’s not that bad once you break out of the impact crater,” whispered Alex.
“This is some serious-ass bullshit,” said Rodriguez.
“Haven’t you been out here?”
“Not on foot,” said Rodriguez.
“That’s encouraging.”
“Don’t worry, boss. You’re in good company. Hand signals from here to the river,” he said, stepping forward.
They hugged the hotel’s western side, staying behind thick rhododendron bushes until they reached the front corner. Memorial Drive was quiet, the dried mud and debris absorbing the full moon’s unfiltered rays. They faced a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot trek across open ground to reach the thick scrub east of the boathouse. Slow ground.
Their other option was to head directly across from the hotel, but the riverbank was bare and would provide no concealment from sharpshooters across the river. Alex would need at least five minutes to stow his gear in the watertight bag and strip down for the swim. Thick bushes near the boathouse would be their best option. Even if they were spotted leaving the hotel, they would disappear in the undergrowth. Alex could slip into the water unnoticed next to the boathouse. He tapped Rodriguez on the shoulder. Ready.
“Rodriguez moving to the riverbank,” whispered the Marine into his helmet microphone.
They started out fast, legs fighting the mud as they shuffled diagonally across Memorial Drive. Alex shifted his rifle across their left flank, searching for any surprises east along the riverbank. A gunshot shattered the quiet, and he ducked. Rodriguez kept pushing across the road. Shadowy green buildings loomed across the river, superimposed over the naked trees. They were in the open and exposed to steel, unable to sprint. He forced his legs to pound and pull at the mud. Another crack echoed above them.
“Friendly fire,” whispered Rodriguez, “keep moving.”
By the time they reached the nearest clump of bushes, Alex’s legs burned. He made sure they were no longer exposed to the tall buildings across the river and leaned against a tree, lowering his body to a sitting position. Rodriguez crouched in front of him, scanning ahead along the water. Both of them breathed heavily. The Marine held out his index finger, and Alex responded with a thumbs-up. A one-minute rest was all he would get.
Rodriguez set off at a slower pace toward the dark structure ahead, stopping to point at the thick cluster of bushes at the base of the boathouse’s eastern edge. A set of steps, barely discernible under the sludge, led down from Memorial Drive to a gate just beyond the bushes. Looked like a well-concealed place to put into the water. They arrived at the waterline, and Alex went to work.
Five minutes later, Alex waded into the Charles River, towing a rifle-length watertight bag through the mud. He submerged to his chest, inhaling sharply. Seconds later, he was fully immersed, bare feet planted in the river muck. The cuts across his body stung in unison, the pain fading quickly as he moved forward. He gave Rodriguez a nod and submerged, swimming underwater several feet toward the boathouse dock. His feet no longer touched the slimy bottom.
He surfaced slowly, raising his nose above the surface and exhaling quietly. The fixed dock was mostly destroyed. Formerly jetting into the river, thick planks of wood projected skyward in a twisted heap at the far end of the boathouse, casually swept aside by the wave of water travelling inland along the river. He focused on the massive high-rise directly across the river and started to swim.
The short duration of gunfire suggested the marines had put on a temporary display of fire. Enough to turn back the tide, temporarily. The situation was untenable, and Grady would eventually lose the city, no matter what his Homeland Security directives ordered. Alex desperately needed to be on the right side of the river before that happened. He might have to risk a daytime crossing. He’d slipped into the water at 2:46 AM, which didn’t leave him enough time to reach both kids and get back across at night. Not even close.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the high-rise ahead, and Alex dove for the bottom of the river, escaping the noise. He pulled at the water with his arms until the towrope attached to his belt yanked him to a stop, buoyed by the watertight bag. He turned left in the blackness and swam further. His lungs burning, he opened his eyes and slowly rose to the surface—blurry red flashes appearing overhead. Alex’s mouth cleared the water first, greedily sucking in the humid air. The sharp staccato battle rushed back to fill his ears.
Red tracers arched across the river from the Hyatt, bouncing downward off the face of the high-rise. Small explosions flashed across the building, stitched between the tracers’ impact points—fifty-caliber projectiles tearing into concrete and steel. An automatic rifle continued to fire from the high-rise, peppering the boathouse and dock. A single shot reached his ears, and the high-rise rifle fell silent. He kept a low profile in the water and kept swimming. The sudden, furious battle had been focused on the boathouse. Retribution for the massacre near the rail bridge, perhaps.
Halfway across the river, something hard bumped his head. He grabbed the obstruction, feeling a nose and teeth. A dark mass swung lazily with the current, lodging against his body. He kicked and pushed at the corpse, splashing the water for several seconds—until he realized what he had done. Alex submerged as far as the towline would allow, expecting to hear bullets slap the water in pursuit.
Perfect silence enveloped him for the next thirty seconds as he drifted downriver. Nothing. He swam forward and came up for air. The silence continued as he lengthened his sidestroke and angled for the shallow outcropping of land identified by the marines. Landing there would give him a buffer from Storrow Drive and some natural concealment from sharpshooters.
He switched to a frog kick and slowed, taking time to observe the riverbank. Even with a full moon, his vision was borderline useless without night vision goggles. The Marine snipers would have to be his eyes for now. A few more strokes brought him in line with the shallow land projection that would give him some room to transition into his combat gear. He could drift the remaining fifty feet and save his energy.
Three heads surfaced near the river’s edge, moving slowly into deeper water. He stayed mostly submerged and drifted motionless—eyes pinned to the three men. Did the marines see them? A red dot appeared on the lead man’s forehead and disappeared. The red dot reappeared on the second man’s head and vanished. The spotter was telling him something. A plume of water exploded in front of the group, causing a gurgled scream.
Alex pulled furiously on the towline, dragging the watertight bag closer. The swimmers reacted, splashing toward him. He kicked in the opposite direction, bringing the bag into his hands. He fumbled with the holster attached to the bag’s external webbing, drawing his suppressed pistol just as one of the swimmers reached him. A sharp burning creased his upper left arm, and Alex kicked out hard, turning onto his back. He caught the faint reflection of a knife just above the surface of the water.
The figure lunged forward, and Alex pressed the trigger, snapping the attacker’s head back. The second attacker swam for the shoreline. Alex took a deep breath, floating on his back, and lined up the glowing tritium sights on the splashing. He fired twice, and the frantic swimming stopped. Drifting with the three bodies toward the esplanade, Alex hoped that this had been the extent of his welcoming party. He doubted it.
His feet sank into the soft river bottom, and he pushed off toward the riverbank, clawing up the steep muddy slope. He pulled the black bag through the mud, exhausted, but not daring to pause. Alex opened the zipper and pulled his rifle clear, chambering a round. His night vision goggles came out next, pulled tightly over his head. He swept the esplanade with the goggles, verifying no immediate threats before yanking his first aid pouch from his bag.
Alex washed his arm with the CamelBak hose and removed a small packet of the same powder the corpsman had used on him in Harvard Yard. He tore it open and dumped it on his upper arm, hastily rubbing it into the deep cut and grimacing. He’d properly bandage later. Right now, he needed to gear up and get as far from the esplanade as possible. He was on the move within sixty seconds, sprinting from tree to tree on his way toward Storrow Drive.
A bullet snapped overhead, and he dropped to the mud. It was impossible to determine who had fired the bullet, and there was nothing to gain by assuming it had been the Marine sniper. He scanned forward and saw a figure slump against the side of the pedestrian walkway over Storrow Drive. Alex raised his rifle and ran through the mud, eager to get off the esplanade.
A green laser appeared to his left, marking the base of a tree fifty feet away. A snap passed through the branches above, hitting the metal fence behind the illuminated tree trunk. Alex knelt in the soft mud and thumbed his IR laser, placing the green line at the edge of the trunk. He rested the rifle magazine on his raised knee and eased the laser an inch past the edge of the tree. A dark blob peered around the trunk, and Alex fired, striking the figure in the head. Time to put some distance between himself and the river.
He jogged toward the waist-high, metal picket fence separating the esplanade from Storrow Drive, clearing it with little difficulty. Across the road, he jumped onto the raised concrete wall beyond Storrow Drive, and scaled the formidable chain-link fence. His drop holster snagged on the top of the fence, knocking him off balance and pitching him prostrate into the mud. He lay immobile for several seconds, breathing heavily—his eyes heavy.
I could fall asleep here, he thought for a few more hazy moments. The distant sound of a vehicle engine jarred him back into action.
He pulled himself up by the chain-link fence and jogged to the nearest street corner, leaning against a brick wall. An engine roared nearby, somewhere deeper in the city. He glanced around the intersection for a street sign, wasting precious time. Street signs were a rare sighting on side streets in Boston. He considered the GPS, but with the pedestrian walkway behind him, he was pretty sure the street in front of him was Silber Way. The Warren Towers were less than two city blocks away.
A raised pickup truck careened onto Silber Way from Commonwealth Avenue, tearing through the mud. A figure with a rifle swayed behind the cabin, holding onto the truck’s utility rack. The truck raced in his direction without headlights, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the road ended before Storrow Drive. Alex triggered the IR laser and aimed at the truck, placing several tightly spaced shots through the front windshield.
The truck swerved into a line of parked cars and rebounded into the street, turning sideways and flipping. Alex pulled back from the wall just as the truck careened past, tumbling over the pedestrian walkway and crashing down onto Storrow Drive.
This was insane.
Chapter 37
EVENT +46:19 Hours
Boston University
Boston, Massachusetts
Alex crouched between two cars in the parking lot across from the Warren Towers, waiting for the slow-moving SUV to pass Granby Street. Beams of light randomly stabbed through the darkness above him, gradually moving left thro
ugh the parking lot and disappearing. He risked a look, catching the taillights turning off Commonwealth Avenue.
Gunfire erupted in the distance—the familiar thunder of a Marine fifty cal. What he wouldn’t give for some heavy-machine-gun support. Nothing said “everything’s going to be all right” like the sound of a fifty. He eased onto Granby Street and approached Commonwealth, pausing behind a low hedge at the corner to visually sweep the wide road.
The four-lane road looked still. He craned his head back and stared at the Warren Towers, noticing that the rightmost tower was crooked, leaning several degrees to the left. Maybe that was just his angle of view. His son’s tower, to the left, looked straight, but he couldn’t shake the marine’s description of the towers. Dominos. He had to get Ryan out of there.
Glimpses of flickering green light played across dozens of windows, advertising occupants. Ryan would know better than to give his position away like that. They’d talked about these things. He counted six floors up on Ryan’s building and scanned across. Two of the windows shimmered. He had no idea which room was Ryan’s. Room 622 didn’t mean anything to him from the outside. They’d only visited his room once, and he’d been too busy hauling boxes to pay close attention to the room’s location. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Alex raced across the street, passing underneath the “T” wires that cut a path down the middle of the wide street. He reached the other side and ducked into a vestibule, checking the street. Nothing moved, though he doubted that his trip across Commonwealth had gone unnoticed. The vestibule contained a door with a key-card reader. He pulled on the handle, which failed to budge the door. No surprise there. All of the external doors would be equipped with the same electronic system, all designed to prevent unauthorized access in the event of a power failure.
He was familiar with two ways into Warren Towers. The parking garage, which he had used to offload most of Ryan’s college possessions, required a housing card to access the stairwell or elevator. That left the front door. Not the stealthiest entry point, but the large floor-to-ceiling windowpanes next to the double doors would have undoubtedly shattered, allowing easy access to the lobby. “Easy,” of course, being a relative term on this side of the river.