THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “We’re headed to 1st Battalion, 25th Marines,” said Alex.

  “Copy that, sir,” said the ranger, saluting.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Aside from your expert marksmanship and superb grenade-throwing skills, how do you stop a hostile vehicle from breaching the airport perimeter without a gate?”

  “You really don’t want to know, sir,” said the ranger.

  “Now I have to know.”

  “You’re parked over a reconfigured M19 antitank mine. Remote detonated,” said the ranger.

  “Fucking-A. Can we get moving, sir?” asked the lance corporal driving the MTVR.

  “Sorry I asked. Carry on, Sergeant,” Alex said, and the MTVR lurched forward.

  They turned left on a crumbling asphalt strip and drove behind a dark two-story hangar, continuing to the interior fence separating the Marine battalion’s hangar complex from the service road. Bathed in the MTVR’s headlights, several Marines manually opened the sliding gate and waved them forward.

  “Drive around the back of the rear hangar!” one of the Marines shouted through the driver’s window.

  Alex leaned across the private first class squeezed between him and the driver. “Where’s the battalion TOC?”

  “Front hangar to the left, sir,” replied the sentry.

  He grabbed his rifle and opened the door. “I can take it from here, Marines. Have a detail bring the prisoners from the first raid to the TOC. I have no idea what to do with them. Thanks for the ride.”

  “Ooh-rah, sir.”

  Alex jogged toward the first hangar along the airport’s westernmost taxiway, taking in the drastically changed runway scene. More tents crowded the five-acre triangle of grass between the taxiway and the airport’s secondary runway, completely surrounding the Mobile Tower System (MOTS) deployed by members of the 258th Air Traffic Control Squadron. 4th Brigade Combat Team’s Tactical Operation Center lay hidden somewhere in the jumble of tents growing to accommodate the brigade’s widening footprint at the airport. Alex had assumed that the brigade staff would occupy the hangars adjacent to the Seacoast Aviation office suite occupied by Captain Adler, instead of going through the trouble of erecting a small city of tents and generators.

  When you bring toys, you tend to play with them—and the army had a lot of toys.

  Beyond the northern edge of the tent city, rows of quiet, dark shapes lined the distant tarmac, barely discernible as transport helicopters. It was quiet for now. Once RRZ border security and refugee camp operations kicked into full swing, the airport would resemble a beehive, with reconnaissance, troop-ferrying and refugee relocation missions flying twenty-four hours a day. Past the tarmac, over the tops of the hangars, a faint ribbon of light blue sky merged with the star-filled sky. Reveille for MOB Sanford.

  Alex reached the hangar and slowed to a walk, not wanting to surprise a tired and edgy Marine sentry near the battalion headquarters. He turned the corner and examined the well-lit, two-hundred-foot-long hangar. The interior had changed drastically since his visit in the afternoon. All of the individual bay doors stood open, likely to ventilate the stifling heat collected in the hangar throughout the previous day.

  He didn’t envy the Marines quartered under the corrugated tin roofs. Beyond accessing the shipping containers to withdraw a few choice items, he had conducted most of his business outside in the shade. Even the small contingent of Marines that straggled down from Brunswick slept in the grass behind the hangars.

  The far left side of the structure, front to back, was occupied by the same tables, display screens and electronics gear he’d seen inside the command tent at Harvard Yard, forming the TOC (Tactical Operations Center). The screens were blank, and only a few of the computers looked operational. Marines stripped down to tan T-shirts, utility trousers and boots worked under the tables, distributing clusters of cables and connecting fiber-optic wire. Lieutenant Colonel Grady, still dressed in combat gear without a helmet, sat alone at a table in the center of the TOC, typing on a laptop. Alex remained unobserved for the moment.

  Three recently delivered shipping containers separated the TOC from a fifty-foot-wide area dominated by thick, waist-tall plastic bins and several gray folding tables. A group of five Marines helped offload a utility truck backed up to the hangar opening across from the supply area. The rest of the hangar housed several dozen Marines busy cleaning weapons or checking their personal gear. A few lounged on neatly arranged foam mats.

  “Alex!” said Grady, closing the laptop.

  Alex hustled into the hangar, stopping a few feet away to salute Lieutenant Colonel Grady. “Captain Fletcher reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “At ease. Have a seat,” Grady said, sliding a chair over from the nearest table. “I was just looking at the after-action report from Greg Hoode’s murder. Fucking brutal. Looks like the problem bizarrely took care of itself.”

  “Bizarre doesn’t begin to describe it. The .308 shell casings recovered in the forest belong to the bullets imbedded in one Edward Vega. Jeffrey Brown had the only .308 in the group and reportedly cut the mayor’s wife and daughter free. Blood-spray patterns inside the vehicle recovered at the hospital suggest that three of the occupants were quickly killed at point-blank range by the shooter in the right rear passenger seat. Had to be Brown.”

  “But you found evidence that he had conducted reconnaissance outside of FOB Lakeside?”

  “Right. We recovered a notepad filled with information about our vehicle movements. Nothing to indicate direct surveillance of the compound.”

  “And Brown turned on them”—Grady snapped his fingers—“just like that?”

  “He must have heard the women in back and had a change of heart,” said Alex, shrugging his shoulders. “The guy had a solid military record and no criminal priors, unlike the rest of the shitbags in that car. Didn’t seem like his type of crowd.”

  “You indicated that two of them shouldn’t be on the streets. Tell me a little more about that. I didn’t read the full extract portion of the report.”

  “Lee Hanson and Simon Shaw are—were—registered inmates at the Maine Correctional Facility in Windham, Maine. The facility was abandoned four days ago by correctional officers when a large contingent of heavily armed men broke through the gate. They used explosives to knock out the Cumberland County Communications Center across the street right before the attack.”

  “Explosives?”

  “At the base of the tower. No personnel casualties.”

  “So, the big question is how did two inmates from the prison raid end up involved in the mayor’s murder?”

  “I have a theory,” said Alex.

  “Eli Russell,” stated Grady.

  “It traces back to him, more or less.”

  “I don’t like more or less,” said Grady.

  “It’s a solid connection, sir. Prisoners from the attack identified Brown as one of the squad leaders used by Eli in the attack on my house. Brown gets picked up by the car used in Greg Hoode’s murder. Two of the guys in the car should be sitting in the correctional facility raided four days ago. Brown’s the link. If they’d been killed in a car crash before picking up Brown—”

  “You’d probably still blame this on Eli Russell. I understand, Alex,” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’d want to get that fucker too. Family is family.”

  “It doesn’t matter who’s behind this, sir. Something is brewing in southern Maine, and that doesn’t bode well for the battalion’s mission.”

  “What about these prisoners?”

  “I brought them back with the MTVR. They should arrive at the TOC in a few minutes.”

  “Do they know anything else?” said Grady.

  “I highly doubt it,” said Alex, hoping Grady wouldn’t press for an explanation of his response.

  “The prisoners may come in handy if they can identify Russell’s crew. I’ll talk with the RRZ folks about setting up a temporary detention facility
on base.”

  “Did the Authority arrive?”

  “Negative. They’re still trying to sort that out. Simultaneously assembling and transporting thirty-six teams turned out to be easier in theory than reality, especially in light of the damage to our infrastructure.”

  “How many in each team?” asked Alex.

  “Two hundred twenty-five, give or take a few.”

  “Jesus. Sounds like a lot of people.”

  “Not all of them will be based here. Liaison groups will be deployed to the state capitols and major cities to direct localized efforts. Some forward elements are already in place.”

  Alex shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like they’re off to a good start up in Augusta. The governor’s office didn’t appreciate being told to take a back seat. The word is spreading over HAM radio.”

  “I stay out of the politics,” said Grady.

  “Good luck with that. If my suspicions about the RRZ Authority are correct, politics is about to become your top priority. Shoving a cadre of two hundred twenty-five bureaucrats in the state’s face is bound to cause friction. Add several thousand soldiers to the mix, none of whom report to local government, and you have the makings of a political disaster. Guess who’s going to be the RRZ’s front man? I’ll give you a hint,” said Alex, pointing across runways toward the RRZ Authority’s barbed-wire enclosure. “Not them.”

  “Thanks for painting a bleak picture,” said Grady.

  “You probably don’t want to hear the rest of my predictions,” stated Alex.

  “The battalion has enough to worry about.”

  “Like the snazzy uniforms behind door number three,” Alex said, nodding at the rightmost shipping container.

  Grady paused before changing the subject. “How is the provisional security platoon coming along?”

  “Not bad. In two days, we’ve picked up fourteen recruits. Four signed up under the militia banner. The rest joined as provisional Marines. Gunny Deschane and a few of the Brunswick Marines have been whipping them into shape. It’s a bit of a motley crew. We also have the York County Readiness Brigade’s training officer, Gary Powers. He’s been working closely with Gunny to create a useful three-week training curriculum.”

  “That’s nearly half of a platoon. I’d call that excellent progress,” said Grady.

  “Don’t get too excited. Things slowed down considerably yesterday. Three showed up; two had to be turned away. Despite our best efforts to contain the murder scene, word got out.”

  “How do we reverse that trend?”

  “Community outreach. The recruiting station is located next door to the Readiness Brigade’s community assistance center. They distribute limited quantities of food and basic medical supplies on a case-by-case basis to the public. Backing their efforts with a more robust aid package will draw people to the downtown area and the recruiting station.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I’d like to get that platoon training together as soon as possible. What else do you have on your plate?”

  “Something related. I’m working loosely with the Sanford Police Department to ease some of their concerns about the RRZ security situation. I’d like to include a few of their reserve police officers in the provisional platoon structure. We may as well add a local law enforcement element to the mix—especially if we plan to deploy standalone teams within the RRZ.”

  “Vesting local law enforcement and militia in the military efforts? Sounds like you’ve done your homework. What about other communities pitching in, or maybe the sheriff’s department?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Sanford has the biggest police department south of Biddeford, and they’re barely keeping up. The York County Sherriff’s department is spread all over.”

  “See what you can add to the platoon. I like the concept. This is the kind of initiative the RRZ Authority expects from its Marines.”

  “Speaking of initiative, I’d like to go on the offensive against Eli Russell. My gut tells me he’s just getting started. Prior to the attack, he visited several towns around Limerick, stirring up antigovernment feelings. Sounded like a recruiting drive.”

  “Recruitment couldn’t have gone very well. Not if he had to resort to prison inmates.”

  “You should spend a few minutes chatting with the prisoners I delivered. They believe I was planted in Maine by the government. Part of a false-flag operation designed to subjugate the people. You have to admit, it’s a clever story. From an outsider’s perspective, all of this looks highly suspect.”

  “The government didn’t conjure an asteroid, then turn out the lights. We were attacked with a low-orbital EMP device.”

  “How did an asteroid sneak by billions of dollars of technology aimed at detecting near Earth objects one meter in diameter, one hundred years away? I’m just asking a question the RRZ needs to be prepared to answer.”

  “Whoever detonated the EMP device obviously knew about the asteroid. Both hit us at the same time.”

  “Still doesn’t clear the United States of perpetrating a false-flag operation in their minds,” said Alex.

  Grady shook his head and walked to the open bay door. “Have you seen the light show up there? It’s slowed to a trickle now, but it was particularly active four days ago.”

  “We caught some of it. Wasn’t moving fast enough to be a meteor shower.”

  “Rumor has it that we knocked out every Chinese satellite in orbit. My guess is the Chinese hit us with an EMP, and the U.S. wasn’t taking a chance on a follow-up attack.”

  “Still doesn’t explain how an asteroid the size of a small business park evaded detection for so long. Eli’s stories are gaining traction, and we can’t afford him gaining some kind of foothold in southern Maine. I’d like to start regular vehicle patrols and aerial reconnaissance extending north of Limerick.”

  “Air assets are out of the question right now. Every helicopter is tied up with border surveillance and transport missions. You have six vehicles attached to the FOB. That’s the best I can do until we figure out our tasking.”

  “That’s barely enough to scratch the surface! I’m looking at nearly a thousand square miles between Limerick and Route 302, assuming he didn’t go further north. Cached satellite imagery shows hundreds of houses buried in the woods off the established roads. He could be at any one of those sites.”

  “Not if he just liberated a prison.”

  “We have no idea how many prisoners he took. Without more vehicles and helicopters, we’ll be lucky to find him before Christmas.”

  “Unfortunately, much of the battalion’s mission is rather strictly defined by RRZ protocol. Checkpoints, patrol routes, VIP security—the list goes on. You’re lucky to have six vehicles at your disposal. I’m not sure I can meet the battalion’s baseline obligations with the remaining inventory.”

  “Russell’s the only internal security threat on our radar right now. Just saying, sir, if we wait too long, this’ll bite us in the ass. Bite the RRZ in the ass. I can feel it.”

  “I’ll give you what I can, when I can,” said Grady.

  “I hope it’s enough to make a difference.”

  Chapter 23

  EVENT +12 Days

  Bridgton, Maine

  “Slow down a little,” said Eli, nestling a pair of binoculars between the dashboard and the windshield.

  The Welcome to Bridgton sign stood several hundred feet ahead of them, marking the start of a sharp curve that would dump them into the roadblock.

  “You ready?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at McCulver.

  “Strong signal. Ready to go.”

  A red SUV followed closely behind them, filled with the remaining Vikings. As Eli predicted, the last of Jimmy’s criminal brethren had chosen to ride together as the raid’s shock troops. Once through the checkpoint, they would ride ahead into town and attack the police station, cutting off communications to the officers on patrol, or so they thought.

  “You sure we’ll be safe?” Eli asked.


  “Duck if it makes you feel any better,” said McCulver, holding a garage door remote control.

  Eli slid his Colt Commander out of the holster on his thigh and cocked the hammer with his thumb.

  “Start flashing your high beams so we don’t have a blue-on-blue engagement here,” he said, noticing Grizzly’s nervous glance toward the pistol. “Can’t be too careful.”

  Grabbing the binoculars with his free hand, Eli scanned the roadblock. A scoped rifle without a shooter sat on the hood of the same blue pickup truck they had encountered a week ago. A figure dressed in MultiCam utilities and a tactical vest stood behind the roadblock, firing a pistol at someone obscured by a two-door, silver sedan. The sound of gunfire reached the car, causing Grizzly to brake.

  “They’re firing at us!” he blurted.

  “Keep going. It’s something else,” Eli said, pretending to care about what he saw through the binoculars.

  “I told you, Eli. They’re up to something,” said McCulver.

  “Son of a bitch, Kevin. You were right,” muttered Eli.

  “Right about what?” asked Grizzly.

  “Griz, I need you to do exactly what I say. I’ll explain when it’s over.”

  “When what’s over?” he protested, stopping the car.

  “Keep us going, or we’re all dead. Stop right in front of the roadblock, and don’t move the car.”

  “Jesus,” said Grizzly, glancing at the rearview mirror.

  “We have this under control,” said Eli, raising his pistol to the bottom of the door frame. “Please drive forward, and stop at the roadblock.”

  Grizzly eased the car forward, breathing rapidly between panicked statements. Eli hated to put the man through this kind of fabricated stress, but his perception of events, when recounted among the troops, would prove important to his credibility as a morally honest leader and shrewd tactician, two traits he needed magnified to pull off the next phase of his plan. As the car approached, Craig Page squeezed between the roadblock vehicles, grinning wickedly.