THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  No shit.

  A gray aerial drone streaked over the reservoir, bucking from the wind and passing within a hundred feet of the northern shore. He recognized the RQS-11D immediately. Slightly larger than its predecessors, the Solar Raven represented a breakthrough in the realm of organic unit reconnaissance capability. Fitted with integrated, high-efficiency solar panels, and day/night camera systems, a single Solar Raven provided unit commanders up to nine hours of continuous aerial surveillance coverage. Colonel Grady hadn’t let him down. Alex stood and waved for the cameras. A sudden gust of wind dropped the remote control aircraft several feet below its flight path, and Alex knew it had a limited time on station (TOS).

  “Wave to your dad. That’s one of the Marine UAVs.”

  Chloe stepped in front of the trees and waved enthusiastically. Alex hoped Ed was watching. It was unlikely that Ed had received Chloe’s transmission last night, and this was the first time he could personally verify her safety. With Grady actively helping them, he felt far better about crossing during daylight hours. Even with the storm masking their approach, the chance of discovery en route was high. Crossing the river carried a near one hundred percent guarantee of being spotted. He’d transmitted news of their departure, pretending to speak with Ed, in the hopes of eliciting sympathy from an old friend. Now it was time to see how big he owed Grady. He extracted the handheld radio.

  “Patriot Actual, this is Durham Three-Zero, over”

  “Stand by, Durham Three-Zero.”

  The Raven banked left toward the center of the reservoir and was swallowed by the rainsquall. Visibility must be shit from above. Colonel Grady answered the radio a few seconds later.

  “This is Patriot Actual. You don’t look any worse for the wear Three-Zero. Sierra Whiskey sends his thanks.”

  Sierra Whiskey stood for Sergeant Walker.

  “Your dad says hi,” he said to Chloe, motioning for her to take cover. “Copy. Looking to reunite these two, sooner than later.”

  “That’s what I suspected. Big picture is dim until weather clears. It’s either retrieve or recover the birds. I’d rather recover. You know the drill.”

  “Roger. I’ll take any intelligence you can pass,” said Alex.

  “Low-level passes indicate you are clear to cross Commonwealth due north of your position. Avoid closing within two hundred feet of any T-Station. High probability of contact. Low-level north-to-south flight in the direction of movement showed no signs of obvious or concentrated insurgent movement. All vehicle movement classified hostile. How copy?”

  Insurgent movement? Both sides had this completely wrong.

  “Copy all. Request that you notify all friendly units within vicinity of destination. Estimate travel speed to be twelve to fifteen kilometers per hour. Raider gave me flares for IFF. I will contact Patriot when ready to launch flares. Can you verify that Raider passed the right sequence to friendly pickets?”

  “Roger. We’ll ensure they have the correct details. Recommend that you demilitarize your look. Charlie Romeo to start.”

  “Understand. Old habits die hard,” said Alex.

  “Good luck, Three-Zero. Patriot out.”

  Alex pocketed the radio and dropped his backpack.

  “Did you get all of that?”

  “Most of it. Retrieve or recover?” said Ryan.

  “He can’t keep the Raven up in this weather. Five pounds is no match for heavy rain and gusting winds. He’d rather recover it in Cambridge than retrieve it from the river or a hostile street. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still flying. I’m going to strip down my tactical rig and stuff it in my backpack so I look a little friendlier on the streets. The two of you should be fine.”

  Ryan wore a gray T-shirt under a light blue, unbuttoned long-sleeve hiking shirt, a pair of khaki pants with cargo pockets and brown leather boots. With a medium-sized military-style rucksack and Alex’s desert MARPAT boonie hat, he might attract a second look, which was why Alex insisted that he stuff the HK P30, without suppressor, into his right cargo pocket. Tucking it into his front waistband was too obvious, and the rear waistband was obstructed by his pack. It was all about appearances and practicality, which brought him to Chloe.

  Her backpack was a purple, off the shelf, day hiking rig, which didn’t raise an eyebrow. Combined with a light blue Boston Red Sox hat, gray short-sleeved hiking shirt and dark brown convertible cargo pants, she looked like a lost, yuppie hiker. Her outfit wasn’t the problem. Chloe’s gender would automatically attract attention, and additional scrutiny could end in disaster. Wrong. Any scrutiny could be instantly lethal.

  He had no idea what had happened to the students in Warren Towers after he left. If the Liberty Boys broke through the barricades, they’d show little mercy for Piper and her ragtag band of freshmen warriors. Most of the students could provide an adequate description of Alex if forced. They knew he came to rescue Ryan and that Ryan had a girlfriend at Boston College. It didn’t take a Boston University level SAT score to put together the pieces. He’d even left photos behind for the Liberty Boys to pass around! Stupid. If the sixth floor of Warren Towers fell to militia guns, it wouldn’t matter if Chloe grew a beard. Still, they had to do something.

  Alex proposed outfitting her in Ryan’s spare clothes and giving her a one-minute haircut, but Chloe pointed out the obvious problem that no last minute, gender-neutralizing efforts could camouflage. Even with her tightest jog bra cinched in place, she couldn’t pass for “one of the guys.” They’d have to do their best to stay out of sight.

  “Rub some dirt on your face, Chloe.”

  “Do you really think that will make a difference?”

  “I don’t know; just do something. Help her out with that, all right?” he said, nodding at Ryan.

  He unclipped the rifle and removed the sling, which had been layered over his tactical chest rig. A few minutes later, he jammed the waterlogged chest rig into the top of his assault pack and reattached the rifle. His external carry load represented the bare minimum he needed to cross the river. He’d spread the chest rig’s eight rifle magazines into easily accessible pockets. Three in each cargo pocket and two protruding from the right back pants pocket. The dump pouch from the chest rig was now attached to the right front section of his Molle compatible rigger’s belt. The water-resistant bag contained the radio, GPS unit and two 38mm aerial parachute flares. He’d fire those when they were ready to cross. Red followed by green.

  The effort they had put into maintaining a neutral appearance seemed ridiculous with a military-grade rifle prominently displayed, but he couldn’t justify burying it in his pack. Despite all of the restrictions placed on AR and military style rifles after the Jakarta Pandemic, it was still one of the most recognizable and commonly owned weapons in the United States. The appearance of a heavily armed parent travelling with two unarmed young adults might pass initial muster. It could prevent an undetected ambush, giving Alex a chance to react, or it might allow them to move far enough through an openly observed area to make a run for it. Either way, the rifle would prove decisive, and he had no intention of sidelining it.

  “Ready to move? One point six miles to the bridge. Twenty minutes tops if we jog. Good?”

  “If that’s not too fast for you,” said Ryan snidely.

  “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “We’ll let you set the pace.”

  Chapter 15

  EVENT+57:29

  Middlesex Fells Reservation

  The splashing and laughter continued longer than Charlie had hoped. He started timing them as soon as it became obvious that they weren’t passing through. Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.

  Too damn long.

  Two women and one man, in their twenties from what he could tell through the foliage, had appeared from the west, walking along the dirt road connecting Charlie’s small island to the forest preserves on either side of the reservoir. They stopped almost directly in front of the trail leading to the Jee
p and dropped their packs. At first, he thought they had spotted the Jeep, but it soon became apparent that they were more interested in skinny-dipping than forest exploration.

  Charlie felt a little weird watching them through binoculars. Peeping Tom weird. Still, he had to keep a sharp lookout in case one of them caught a lucky glimpse of the Jeep. On the grand scale of threats, the three travelers didn’t rank high in the dangerous spectrum, but looks could be deceiving, and a concealed, snub-nosed revolver in one of their back pockets could even the odds in a heartbeat.

  He’d been lucky during his stay on the island. Only a handful of refugees had wandered across the island road, most of them at night when it was impossible to spot the Jeep. The majority of the traffic through his area had been confined to the eastern shore of the reservoir. He’d made a few trips to the edge of the island to observe the paths skirting the water. Families, lone wolf types, college-aged kids, mountain bikers with child carriages bouncing behind them. Now skinny-dippers. Few carried a pack larger than one of the rucksacks sitting in the Jeep. All of them were headed north. Most would run out of supplies before they reached their destination. All the more reason for him to be cautious of everyone that set foot on the island.

  He’d game-planned his reaction several times, still not decided on how to respond if one of them saw the Jeep and approached it. He was pretty sure he’d charge out and pull the “military special operations” card. Tell them to move along right away or—or what? He had no idea. Maybe claiming to be military was a bad idea. Then they might insist that he helped them. He was better off telling them that he’d kill them if they didn’t leave immediately, and hope they didn’t push the issue, or try to pull a weapon. People were desperate, and trying to predict the behavior of a desperate person was like trying to predict the weather.

  Distant thunder reminded him that he’d be stuck in the rain without his Gore-Tex if the skinny dippers didn’t pack up and leave soon. He couldn’t risk trying to slip into the Jeep with them this close. What the hell was going on with Alex and Ed? He hadn’t heard a word from them since Ed’s panicked transmission this morning, over eleven hours ago. It sounded like Alex’s end of the operation was moving along as planned, but he still didn’t know what to make of Ed’s predicament. The more he thought about the situation, the less he knew what to do. How long was he supposed to wait here? Hell, even if Alex called him and said they couldn’t get out of the city, “good luck, you’re on your own,” Charlie had no way of moving the logs blocking the road by himself. More thunder threatened, and the trio in the water swam to shore.

  That’s more like it. Move along.

  Rain started falling before they had dressed, causing them to seek shelter in the stripped trees. Charlie held his breath as they sat down to finish dressing. Lightning flashed, followed by an instant crack of deafening thunder, prompting them to stand up. He heard words, but couldn’t tell what they said over the strengthening rainfall. Within seconds, they started to jog toward the eastern shore, sharing the same thought with Charlie.

  It isn’t safe out here.

  When they disappeared from sight, he picked up his gear and piled everything, including himself, into the Jeep. His radio crackled a few seconds later.

  “Patriot Actual, this is Durham Three-Zero, over.”

  “Stand by, Durham Three-Zero.”

  He pressed his palms together and smiled. Alex was still in the game—but who the hell was Patriot Actual?

  Chapter 16

  EVENT +57:48

  Harvard Yard

  Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Ed stared across the tent at the radio sitting next to Corporal Maguire. They should have reached the river by now. Something wasn’t right. He scratched the sweaty stubble on his cheek and stole a glance at the battalion commander, who crouched next to a Marine seated in front of a flat-screen monitor. Grady jabbed at the previously recorded aerial drone, and the screen froze. The Marine enhanced the image, and Grady shook his head. He turned his head suddenly, catching Ed’s stare, and for the first time since he stepped foot in the tent over twelve hours ago, Lieutenant Colonel Grady looked worried.

  “Sergeant Major!”

  With practiced efficiency, the battalion sergeant major silenced the tent with minimal words.

  “Time to reinforce the concentration zone. Redeploy Bandit platoons in accordance with Charles River Op-order number two. Deploy QRF one to the Longfellow Bridge and QRF two to the BU bridge. I want Bandit platoons in place and briefed within thirty mikes,” he said, turning to the sergeant major. “Make it happen, Marines!”

  Grady rushed to his seat and pulled up the Raven imagery, sorting through the various feeds provided by the UAV team.

  “What’s going on, Colonel?”

  “I’m collapsing the battalion’s perimeter and reinforcing the bridge crossings,” said Grady, peering intensely at the screen in front of him.

  “I figured out that much. What’s really going on?”

  “The last Raven pass picked up some unusual activity near two of the bridges. Vehicles and personnel almost hidden out of sight. I don’t think they were expecting us to keep the Raven up that long in the storm. Previous passes didn’t show any signs of activity. I suspect they’re up to something. I just hope Alex gets his ass across the river before it happens,” said Grady.

  “He should have contacted you by now. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” said Ed.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. Twenty minutes was a generous estimate, under the best of circumstances. I won’t start worrying until we hit the forty-minute mark. Even then, he might have spotted an insurgent patrol and decided to hide out for twenty minutes. This isn’t an exact science, Sergeant Walker. How long did it take you to get down here from Medford?”

  “Way too long.”

  “Not long enough. If you had taken it slower, you might have detected and avoided Striker One’s headquarters.”

  “I couldn’t imagine going any slower than four miles in three hours.”

  “No wonder you got caught. Good thing Alex was in a hurry. If we hadn’t crossed paths, your trip across the BU Bridge would have ended in disaster.”

  Ed considered his words and grimaced. Grady was right. Alex would have led him onto the darkened bridge, oblivious to the danger ahead. Dressed like Special Forces soldiers, they would have been gunned down as soon as practical by insurgents hidden in the buildings and trees along Storrow Drive, or run down by one of their cars. He’d started and stopped this pointless internal debate more than a dozen times since Alex left Harvard Square, fueled by a desperate sense of helplessness. His daughter’s rescue was in the hands of Alex, and he wasn’t convinced Alex made the best decisions.

  Their entire journey had been marked by one close call after another, all precipitated by Alex’s insistence on the most dangerous course of action.

  With his daughter so close to safety, he needed to let it go. There was nothing left to do but trust in Alex—but he couldn’t. Chloe’s life was in the hands of a man with a lucky streak a mile long. What was that stupid quote? Luck is when preparation meets opportunity or something like that? He needed to stop dwelling on something he couldn’t change. The outcome depended solely on Alex. He had no choice but to trust his friend to protect the kids at all costs.

  Grady patted his shoulder. “My daughter is at UCLA. I could only dream of having someone like Alex Fletcher on a rescue mission like this. Your daughter is in capable hands. I still see a lot of the old Captain Fletcher in him.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?” said Ed.

  “A very good thing.”

  Chapter 17

  EVENT +57:51

  Riverview Road

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Alex crouched in the thick bushes between two dilapidated houses and examined the rusty chain-link fence across the street. According to the GPS plotter, the Massachusetts Turnpike lay beyond the fence. Blackened treetops swayed with the wind beyond the stained
crisscross barrier, indicating a drop beyond to the highway. This was where things would get interesting. The turnpike represented one hundred fifty feet of flat, “nowhere to hide” open space. Beyond that, they faced three to four hundred feet of unknown before reaching the riverbank. They’d have to make a quick assessment once they ran out of concealment. Swim the Charles or run for the bridge.

  Fortunately, most of the ground cover in the area had been spared the blast’s thermal radiation effects. With any luck they might be able to cut the distance to the river in half, which helped them address another challenge. The mud. Alex hadn’t forgotten the thick layer of silt he’d trudged through on both sides of the river. Sprinting near the riverbank wasn’t a viable option.

  Despite these challenges, Alex was optimistic about the approach. Conditions favored a covert arrival. He didn’t detect any high-rise structures in the vicinity of the North Beacon Street Bridge, which restricted militia observation to ground-level efforts. The Liberty Boys should have a presence at the bridge, but given the weather conditions, he suspected it would be confined to vehicles. Street visibility was limited to two hundred feet at best, even less through water-blurred car windows. By the time Alex’s group appeared, it would be too late to stop them, and if the Liberty Boys tried, they’d be cut to pieces with brutal precision by the marines. It was time to get moving.

  Alex scuttled through the narrow space between houses and sprinted across the muddy backyard to a gray wooden shack nestled against a paint-chipped white picket fence lining the back of the property. The kids had sheltered on the leeward side of the utility shed, between an overgrown forsythia bush and the fence. He pushed his way through the branches, startling both of them.

  “Jesus, Dad!” Ryan said, lowering the pistol.