“Don’t even think about it, Captain. This is probably just a formality. Checking to see who’s cruising on over from Waterville,” said Ken.
Alex slowed the SUV to give them time to prepare for the encounter.
“Ryan, shove both rifles under the tarp in the cargo compartment and flip the seat up. Keep them low. Stuff your pistol in the cup holder on the driver’s side door and cover it with your hat. Make sure the hat completely covers the pistol and won’t jar loose if you open the door.”
“Got it,” said Ryan, going to work in the backseat.
“Why the cup holder? Shouldn’t he stuff it in the backpack?”
“If they force us out of the vehicle, the pistol will still be somewhat accessible.”
Alex squirmed in the driver’s seat and drew a compact semiautomatic pistol from the concealed holster behind his right hip. He tucked it into one of the center console compartments at the bottom of the dashboard and closed the compartment.
“Why isn’t yours going into the door?” said Ken.
“Because I need immediate access,” said Alex. “If this gets ugly, stay as low as possible.”
“How will I know if it gets ugly?” asked Ken, already shrinking in his seat.
“Watch my dad’s right hand. If it starts to move toward the pistol—things are about to get really ugly,” added Ryan.
“Jesus. Maybe we should turn around and try a bridge farther south,” Ken suggested.
“In my experience, all bridges are bad news. Actually, this doesn’t look so bad. I have a good feeling about this,” said Alex.
“He doesn’t say that very often,” said Ryan, winking at Alex through the rearview mirror.
“That’s reassuring,” Ken stated flatly.
“If they ask us to exit the vehicle, we kindly decline and tell them we’ll stay on this side of the Kennebec. Stick to the story. Windows down,” Alex said, lowering his window.
He stopped the SUV several feet in front of the cruiser and killed the engine, keeping the key inserted in the ignition. Two officers stepped out of the police car and approached them, splitting apart in front of the SUV. Neither kept their hands close to their service pistols, which gave Alex the impression that Ken’s assessment was correct. This would more than likely be a quick check to make sure Alex’s group wasn’t bringing trouble to the other side of the river.
The officer on the driver’s side of the SUV walked up to Alex’s window, while the second officer took a wider approach to the passenger side. The officer on his side didn’t wear a nametag, and his uniform looked worn and dirty. He glanced at the officer’s face, noticing that he looked gaunt, his eyes slightly sunken and red. He looked more exhausted than anything. Probably malnourished like the rest of America.
Alex wondered how he looked to the officer. Too well fed? Would that color the way they were treated? Another quick look confirmed that the patches on the officer’s cold-weather jacket matched up with Winslow Police Department. That had to be a good sign. If the officers were fake, he doubted the imposters would have slipped into the Winslow police station to retrieve seasonally issued gear. Was he being paranoid? No. Alex wasn’t taking any chances. Eli Russell’s men had killed two soldiers at a security checkpoint wearing stolen uniforms.
“Morning, officer,” said Alex, fully intent on letting the officer lead the discussion beyond the opening pleasantries.
“Morning, Mr…?”
“Fletcher. Alex Fletcher. We’re out by Great Pond.”
Shit. Did he really just tell them that?
“Whereabouts on the pond?” asked the officer, putting one of his hands on the car door and leaning over to examine the interior.
“Jamaica Point,” said Ken. “Not right on the point.”
“It’s nice over there. One of our officers has a camp over on Long Pond. What brings you over this way?”
Before Alex could respond, Ken answered, “I’m taking these city slickers up to Benton to fish the Sebasticook. The Belgrade Lakes area was tapped out last fall. Figured we might get lucky with the trout.”
“You’re not from the area?” asked the officer, addressing Alex.
“Scarborough, Maine. Our house was swamped by the tsunami. A good friend of mine owns a camp next to Mr. Woods,” said Alex, nodding his head at Ken. “We stayed with him for the winter.”
“With Mr. Woods?”
“No. With my friend. Mr. Woods—Ken—offered to take us up to the Sebasticook. Said it’s some of the best fly-fishing in the area.”
“There’s some good spots on this side of the Kennebec,” said the officer.
The second police officer approached the window to the cargo compartment and cupped his hands to get a better view inside. Alex felt his face flush. The fishing poles and tackle boxes sat on top of the tarp hiding their rifles. He hoped it wasn’t obvious that something was hidden underneath. Beside the fishing gear, they had loaded a water cooler and a few pairs of fly-fishing waders.
Ken leaned over the center console. “Nothing beats the Sebasticook. Especially up between Benton and Clinton.”
“Well, there’s no disputing that,” said the officer. “Just be careful up there. The folks that pulled through the winter on this side of the river might not take kindly to your presence. Make sure you use public access to the river and avoid private property. It’s been a long winter.”
“Sounds like things got pretty bad in Waterville. We swung south to avoid driving through the downtown area,” said Alex.
“Smart move. I’d say your chances of successfully navigating through the downtown are about fifty-fifty in one of these,” he said, patting the window well. “Anyone lucky enough to end up with a running car has kept the fact pretty quiet. They have a tendency to disappear right out from under you. Be careful where you drive. Things have been civil over here, but a functioning vehicle might be too big of a temptation for some.”
“Thanks, officer,” said Alex, noticing that the second officer had finished his inspection of the cargo area.
“You have a good day, folks,” said the officer next to his window, backing away to give Alex room to drive.
Alex turned the ignition and made sure the second officer remained clear of the SUV while he pulled forward. In the back of his mind, he envisioned the officers drawing their weapons and firing point blank into the vehicle. Fuck! Every situation turned into a worst-case scenario in his mind. Alex knew it was a survival mechanism—an extreme mechanism honed over the two disasters. He wondered if it would ever go away. The Jakarta pandemic had left him in a heightened state of paranoia. The event had catapulted him into the big leagues—a pathological state of distrust.
In keeping with the thought, Alex turned to Ryan once they had cleared the police cruiser and driven onto the bridge.
“Break out the rifles. Sounds like this could turn into the Wild West pretty quick,” said Alex, opening the compartment holding his pistol.
“Good job back there, Ken. You saved me from fumble-mouthing my way into a strip search,” said Alex.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly lying. If we can spare the time, I’ll show you what these rivers can give up. Trout should be swimming. They love the cold water. That’ll last another month, maybe two at most. As the water starts to warm, the trout will hide in the cold-water streams. You can still find them, but the rivers will teem with easier catch. Perch and bluegills. I’m telling ya, if you find the right spot, you can fish the rivers from ice-in to ice-out. Your son will love it. Ever been?” asked Ken, turning in his seat.
“No,” said Ryan, scooting up on the rear passenger bench to hear what Ken had to say.
“Nothing like casting on the water with a cooler full of ice-cold beers.”
“I thought this was about fishing,” said Alex, laughing.
“It’s about both. The beers give you something to do when the fish aren’t biting,” said Ken.
“Sounds like a win-win scenario,” said Alex.
“Never
had a bad day fishing.”
“Sounds like fun to me,” said Ryan. “Though we’re missing the beers.”
“I might have smuggled a few out of my secret stash for the occasion,” said Ken.
“You’re kidding, right?” said Alex.
“I never joke about beer or fishing,” said Ken. “We’d have to let them sit in the water for a while.”
“We’ll see about the fishing,” said Alex. “It all depends on what we find at Johnny’s Seeds.”
Chapter 21
Albion, Maine
“The farm should be coming up on the right,” said Ken.
Ryan focused his binoculars on the road ahead. His dad expected to find some form of barricade on the road, to keep people from approaching the farm. A few homes peeked through the trees on the left side, but the road looked clear.
“I’m not seeing a barricade,” said Ryan.
“Keep looking,” said his dad. “If they’re in business, I don’t think they’ll be too keen on letting anyone get too close.”
“Maybe they’re out of business,” said Ryan.
“If anything, they’ll plant the fields,” said Ken. “I expect to find some folks out here. Figured it was better than driving up to the seed warehouse. That’s the obvious place to start. Most folks don’t know about the research farm.”
“I’m willing to bet that has something to do with its location,” Alex replied.
“It’s a little hard to find,” said Ken. “Even for Maine.”
“Hard to find in Maine is a few steps away from fucking invisible,” said Alex.
Ryan chuckled, staring through the binoculars. His dad could be pretty funny, even under the worst circumstances. He’d noticed this with some of the Marines around the house. Jokes and well-timed comical observations seemed to be the norm, often at the expense of fellow Marines. Some of the humor was pretty brutal, but they all shrugged it off like it was normal. It reminded him of the way his high school cross-country team acted on the bus to meets—except about ten times worse. He figured you had to go through some serious shit as a crew to get to the point where your friends could make a joke about screwing your girlfriend or sister. Running several miles a day around a quiet Maine town didn’t qualify. If anyone on his team ever said something that disrespectful about Emily or Chloe, he would have pounded some sense into them.
The telephone line running parallel to the road crossed over the street in front of one of the houses, disappearing into the trees on the other side.
“Dad, I think we’re coming up on—there it is,” he said, spotting a large white sign with black letters reading Johnny’s Selected Seeds. “There’s nothing blocking the entry.”
“I’m surprised,” said Alex, slowing for the turnoff.
As the SUV eased into the gravel driveway, the reason became apparent. A tan-colored Humvee sat in the middle of the car parking lot, next to an olive drab, canvas-backed utility truck with military insignia. The vehicles blocked their approach to a white, one-story building, which Ryan assumed was the research lab. Several plastic-covered greenhouses appeared in the empty fields beyond the building, no doubt protecting thousands of healthy seedlings.
Alex slammed on the brakes when the turret housing an M240 machine gun swiveled in their direction. Two soldiers dressed in Army ACUs started walking toward them with their M-4 rifles slung across their body armor. Neither had his rifle pointed at the SUV, but Ryan had seen his dad quickly transition to a firing position from “sling ready.” Within a fraction of the second, these soldiers could riddle the SUV with .223-caliber projectiles. One of the soldiers lowered the barrel of his rifle when the SUV started to back into the road. Ryan shoved his rifle under the front passenger seat, sliding his jacket off to cover the buttstock protruding into his foot well. His dad’s rifle was still in the cargo compartment.
“Shit. I think we should take our business elsewhere. Keep your rifle really low, Ryan,” said his dad, putting the SUV into reverse.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Captain,” said Ken.
“Fuck. This could get ugly. They’ll confiscate our weapons on sight, and we’ll be lucky if they don’t take the vehicle,” Alex said, putting the SUV in park. “Plus, the circumstances leading to a shortened stint as Captain Fletcher might bite me in the ass here.”
“Let’s not make any assumptions. And maybe I should do all of the talking,” said Ken.
“Good idea. Ryan, can you—” His dad scanned the backseat. “What did you do with the rifle?”
“It’s under Mr. Woods’ seat,” said Ryan.
“I’m covering the barrel with my foot,” said Ken.
“Works for me,” said Alex as the two soldiers approached the driver’s side window. “Looks like we have a sergeant and a specialist.”
“This is a restricted area, sir,” said the sergeant, while the other soldier walked along the driver’s side of the vehicle.
“Sorry. We had no idea. Our seedlings died in the freak snowstorm a few days ago, and we thought Johnny’s might be able to sell us some seeds to replace the ones we lost,” said Ken. “Looks like they’re open for business.”
“They’re open, but not for public business,” said the sergeant.
The younger soldier circled around the back of the SUV, peering inside the cargo compartment.
“Is there any way we can talk with someone working here? I’ve been a customer of theirs for nearly forty years,” pleaded Ken.
“Sorry, gentlemen. Johnny’s is part of the Maine Independence Initiative. They’ve allocated every batch of seeds to farms participating in the Initiative recovery effort,” said the sergeant.
Ryan fidgeted when the specialist peered inside his window, eyes settling on the black backpack next to him. The backpack contained several magazines for the automatic rifle stuffed under the seat. Ryan forced a smile and nodded at the serious-looking soldier.
“You guys going fishing?” asked the specialist.
“We were hoping to drive up to the Sebasticook from here,” said Alex, turning his head to address the soldier at Ryan’s window.
“Better get your fishing done while you can,” said the sergeant. “I’ve heard them talking about plans to fish the rivers on an industrial scale. Won’t be much left to catch if they put that plan into action.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Alex. “The state government?”
Ryan detected an angry tone, which wouldn’t help their situation. He hoped Ken intervened before his dad’s tone became overtly hostile.
“Technically the Maine Independence Initiative,” said the sergeant. “It’s being led by the governor’s office.”
“Independence from what?” asked Alex in an increasingly exasperated tone.
Ken’s hand slowly reached out to touch his shoulder.
“We’ve been cut off from any communications for most of the winter,” explained Ken.
“The state has declared independence from the RRZ. The governor issued a formal declaration several days ago,” said the sergeant.
“Secession from the United States?”
“I didn’t hear the specifics of the declaration, but I’m pretty sure it was aimed specifically at the RRZ, not the U.S. government,” said the sergeant.
“There’s no difference at this point,” Alex said, rubbing his face with his hands before continuing. “What is your chain of command now?”
“It hasn’t changed. We take orders from the governor,” said the sergeant.
“Dad, maybe we should get going. Fishing might take up most of the day,” said Ryan, hoping his dad didn’t take the discussion where he thought it might go.
“Hold on, Ryan,” said his dad. “But your unit was given specific Category Five Response tasking, right? That put you under federal control from the beginning.”
He sounded genuinely curious asking the question, the confrontational tone gone.
“I’ve never heard of this Category Five response,” said the se
rgeant. “We got our orders from the governor.”
“Your commanding officer never mentioned the battalion’s assignment under the National Recovery Plan? Which battalion are you with?”
“3rd Battalion, 172nd Infantry Regiment. National Guard,” answered the sergeant. “The battalion CO was on vacation out west when the EMP hit.”
“What about the XO?”
“The XO is presumed dead based on confirmed reports.”
Alex shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath for a moment.
“Did anyone issue new equipment to the battalion after the EMP? Weapons, vehicles, communications gear?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No problem. Ex-military?”
“Marine Corps. Many years ago.”
“Thought you might have served. We’re recruiting ex-military folks for a new battalion. Governor Dague authorized the formation of a second battalion based out of Augusta.”
“I’m getting a little old for that kind of work, but I appreciate the offer.”
“If you change your mind, we’ll have a recruiting station set up in Waterville,” said the sergeant.
“Well, good luck,” Alex said, backing the rest of the way into the road. “Sergeant?” he yelled through Ken’s window.
“Yeah?”
“What caused the governor to make the declaration now? She resisted the RRZ from the very start.”
The soldier stared at the car quizzically.
Shit. Dad blew it.
“I don’t understand,” said the sergeant, snaking his right hand toward the rifle’s pistol grip.
“We left the Portland area to stay with friends near Waterville because we heard rumors on the HAM radio about disagreements between the state and the RRZ. We didn’t want to get caught in the middle of it. Sounds like something happened?”
The soldier’s hand stopped moving. “Everything was stable until the RRZ sent a convoy of Marines to take the marine terminal in Searsport,” said the sergeant. “No offense to your Marines. They were probably just following orders.”
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 140
