THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “Not likely. Not that many,” said Alex.

  “Maybe we can find another boat,” said Ryan.

  Alex glanced at his son in the rearview mirror, catching the top of his face and his olive green hat in the reflection.

  “We’ll soon find out,” said Alex, easing the SUV down the hill.

  When the SUV cleared the first in a series of dilapidated red buildings flanking the entrance to the marina, Alex noticed activity on the floating dock that extended from the parking lot. A quarter of the boat slips were occupied by a variety of motor- and sail-powered vessels. The Katelyn Ann was tied up to the outermost position at the end of the dock.

  “That’s our boat, Dad!” said Ryan.

  “Yeah. That’s her all right,” he muttered, biting his lower lip.

  He didn’t like what he saw. Men climbed on and off the boats, including the Katelyn Ann, while others milled around on the dock. The assembly of people looked organized. Alex drove the car into the parking lot, turning every head in sight. He parked perpendicular to the waterfront, at the back of the lot. Two men dressed in warm civilian clothes broke off from a small group of armed men seated at an ancient picnic table next to the dock entrance. One of them carried a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. The other gripped a black handheld radio.

  “Keep the guns out of sight,” Alex instructed. “Ryan, I want you on the passenger side of the car, with quick access to your rifle. Keep an eye out behind us. We don’t know what kind of operation they might be running here. Charlie, you’re with me.”

  “ROE?” asked Ryan.

  “Standard. Weapons hold. If we come under attack, switch to weapons tight,” said Alex.

  He’d simplified the Rules of Engagement (ROE) for everyone at the lake. His experience in the Marines taught him the simpler the better for ROE involving the use of lethal force. The situations developed quickly, often requiring quick decision-making. Fewer parameters led to swift, appropriate use of force.

  HOLD meant fire in self-defense or under direct orders only, regardless of the situation. This was their default ROE and the most appropriate stance in nearly every encounter. TIGHT meant fire at targets recognized as hostile. This represented a nebulous middle ground, but it kept innocents out of the line of fire. Positively identifying hostile targets wasn’t easy in a civilian-on-civilian engagement, but it didn’t require a War College degree. Anyone pointing a weapon in your direction during a firefight was probably hostile. FREE turned the guns on anyone not recognized as friendly. This ROE setting was reserved for the worst-case scenarios, like an assault on their house, where all known friendlies were “inside the line,” and anyone moving in your direction was up to no good.

  “What about us?” asked Charlie.

  “Keep your hands away from your pistol,” said Alex. “Unless they start shooting at you, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Charlie, opening his door.

  “I should probably start the conversation,” said Alex.

  “And finish it,” added Charlie, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m just here for moral support.”

  “Smart ass,” said Alex. “Seriously. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “They have your boat,” stated Charlie. “As much as I want you to stay in Maine, I’ll help you get your boat back.”

  “Let’s just test the waters here. I have an idea if we run into trouble,” said Alex.

  They met the two men halfway across the gravel lot. As soon as Alex stepped out of the car, the man with the rifle adjusted his grip on the sling, bringing his hand higher along the nylon strap. Easier to swing it off the shoulder. He didn’t unsling the rifle, which showed some restraint—and common sense. At less than fifty feet, Charlie and Alex, carrying pistols in exposed drop holsters along their upper right thighs, had the upper hand on a bolt-action hunting rifle.

  The man with the radio nodded at them. “Can we help you?”

  Alex chose his words carefully, hoping to start off on the right foot—an elusive approach for him lately.

  “That’s my boat,” said Alex, miserably failing the diplomatic approach.

  “Which boat?” asked the man, glancing back toward the dock.

  “The sailboat at the far end of the dock. Katelyn Ann. I brought her here last fall from Portland Harbor,” said Alex.

  The man adjusted his gray watch cap and grimaced.

  “Shit. I don’t…well, there’s no easy way to say this, but that boat now belongs to the state of Maine. Sorry. Every boat out here is needed for fishing. The bigger ones go to Rockland, where they can head out into deeper water.”

  Alex stared past him at his boat, watching two men lift heavy marine batteries into the Katelyn Ann’s cockpit. The second man tightened his grip on the rifle sling.

  “Maine Independence Initiative?” Alex asked.

  “Yeah. We’re repurposing the boats and assembling crews up and down the coast. This is going to put a lot of Mainers back to work,” he said.

  “On my boat,” said Alex, shaking his head.

  “I think feeding hungry people is more important than cruising around in a sailboat,” said the bearded man holding the rifle.

  “I wasn’t planning on sailing around Penobscot Bay sipping mai tais. I brought the boat here for a reason,” Alex stated. “So I could leave.”

  “And go where?” asked the leader, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Anywhere but here. The last place I want to be caught is between several thousand heavily armed federal soldiers and the Maine Independence Initiative, or whatever you call yourselves.”

  “We’re the militia part of this,” said the guy with the rifle.

  “Splendid,” said Alex. “So, is there any way I can convince you to let me keep my boat? I can’t imagine you get too many owners showing up. One boat isn’t going to make or break the governor’s fishing initiative.”

  “No,” said the leader. “If we bend the rules for you, we have to bend them for everyone.”

  “I’m sure the people won’t come out of the woodwork,” said Alex.

  “Rules are rules,” he said.

  “Spoken like a true pawn in someone else’s game,” Alex said wryly.

  “Hey, you’re lucky we don’t exercise our authority to confiscate your vehicle,” said the man with the gun.

  “Well, I’ll take that as a sign of the good things to come from the Maine Independence Militia. Enjoy your day, gentlemen. Enjoy my boat,” said Alex. “Ready to head back?” he asked the others.

  “Yep,” said Charlie.

  When they got back to the car, Alex used a pair of binoculars to scan the area around the dock. He counted six men, including the two they had just confronted. The man with the radio spoke rapidly into his handheld, glancing frequently in their direction. They needed to get moving. Nothing good would come of this encounter. Alex handed the binoculars to Charlie and shifted the SUV into gear.

  “You’re being awfully quiet,” he said to Charlie.

  “I’m just in shock that you didn’t make more of a fuss about your boat,” said Charlie.

  “There was no point in arguing with those jackasses,” said Alex. “Plus, I have a better idea.”

  “The Marines in Searsport?” asked Ryan.

  “If they’re willing to lend a hand,” said Alex.

  “I have a feeling they’ll be up for a little ass kicking,” said Charlie.

  Chapter 24

  Searsport, Maine

  The entrance to the Searsport Marine Terminal looked secure enough to repel a platoon-sized attack. Alex recognized the distinct shape of 1st Battalion’s Matvees behind the razor-wire-topped fence. Alex wondered if the Marines had any influence on the tight arrangement. Eli Russell’s attack on Sanford Airport had redefined the RRZ’s assessment of the security threat in Maine.

  A sentry from the portable blast-resistant guard post approached the SUV. The Marine standing in the nearest Matvee turret hunched forward, nestling into the M240 machine gu
n aimed at his SUV’s front windshield. He hated being on the receiving end of “the gun,” his fate in the hands of a nervous eighteen-year-old.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked Charlie, placing his hands on the dashboard.

  “Not really, but it’s worth a try,” replied Alex. “You good back there?”

  Ryan shifted in his seat. “Good to go, Dad. Everything is tucked away.”

  The sentry, an Army specialist dressed in full combat gear, reached Alex’s open window.

  “Sorry, sir. No unauthorized vehicles are allowed inside the terminal. I’m going to need you to back into the parking space behind you and head back out the way you came,” said the soldier, peering into the front and back seats.

  “My name is Alex Fletcher, and I need to speak with the senior Marine on site. They’ll want to talk to me. Sorry to dump this on you, Specialist. Do you mind if I park and wait?”

  The soldier thought about his request for a few seconds, which was a good sign. If he had no intention of passing along the information, he would have shut Alex down immediately.

  “Why don’t you back into one of the spaces there,” suggested the soldier, pointing to a small parking lot on the other side of the access road. “I’ll pass your information on to the Marine garrison.”

  “Thank you. I know you guys usually have your hands tied with these things, so I really appreciate your help with this.”

  The soldier nodded and backed away, waiting for Alex to reposition the SUV. Once he had pulled them into the closest parking space, Alex shut off the engine.

  “I don’t think you should have given them your name,” said Charlie. “You might be on their watch list.”

  “I doubt it. The RRZ and state governor are at odds right now. The state controls these soldiers,” said Alex.

  “Just saying, Captain Fletcher,” said Charlie. “You never know what kind of deals are being made.”

  The reinforced section of chain-link fence on the left side of the guard shack jolted to life, squeaking along on its track. A few seconds later, the familiar squat shape of a tan Matvee appeared on the outbound side of the worn road inside the compound.

  “Let’s step out of the car for easier identification,” said Alex.

  They stopped behind the SUV as the armored vehicle cleared the gate. The Matvee pulled even with the group and screeched to a halt, the passenger-side door springing open. Staff Sergeant Taylor jumped onto the pavement, shaking his head.

  “Never thought I’d see you again, sir,” said Taylor, reaching out to shake Alex’s hand.

  “They must have been desperate putting you in charge up here,” said Alex, slapping him on the arm.

  “Shit. We got a captain up here watching over us, but I had to see this for myself,” said Taylor, stepping in front of Charlie. “Looks like you healed up nicely, Mr. Thornton.”

  “I take a licking, keep on ticking,” said Charlie, shaking his hand.

  “I see my automatic rifleman seems to have recovered as well,” said Taylor, patting Ryan’s shoulder.

  “His fighting days are over,” said Alex guardedly.

  “I hope so. I hope all of our fighting days are over,” said Taylor, turning to Alex. “So, what brings the infamous Captain Fletcher out for a visit?”

  “Just wanted to say hi,” said Alex.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyone we know in the Matvee?” asked Alex.

  “Negative. The usual suspects are back in Sanford. I got bamboozled into rolling out with Grady’s convoy,” said the staff sergeant.

  “Think they’d be up for a ten-minute ride to Belfast?” said Alex. “The Maine Independence Initiative has seized my sailboat for ‘the good of the state.’ I’d really like to convince them, peacefully, to return my property.”

  “And you think the arrival of a machine-gun-equipped, blast-resistant, armored vehicle will expedite your peaceful settlement?”

  “It couldn’t hurt,” said Alex. “If you’re allowed to go on field trips without a permission slip, that is.”

  “Mr. Thornton and your son stay here,” said Taylor.

  “I’m going to need them to help me with the boat,” said Alex.

  “All right, but they stay in the Matvee,” said Taylor, shaking his head. “I’m gonna get my ass handed to me for this.”

  Twelve minutes later, the Matvee burst into the marina parking lot, skidding across the gravel toward the dock entrance. The men clambered to get away from the rickety, weathered picnic table, which collapsed on one end in the rush. Alex hopped out of the rear passenger door, catching up to Taylor as they came around the hood of the vehicle. A short, stocky corporal named Rickson already stood on the driver’s side of the Matvee, his rifle in the patrol ready position—aiming at the ground in front of the group of confused men. Alex glanced at the roof of the vehicle, noting that the turret gunner had the M240 pointed at a forty-five-degree angle over the militiamen’s heads. Taylor walked up to the broken picnic table, leaving Alex behind.

  “I believe you have a boat that belongs to this gentleman,” said Taylor, pointing back toward Alex.

  The leader of the group stepped forward, keeping the table between them. “Sorry. That boat left about ten minutes ago,” he said with a worried grin.

  Alex turned his head toward the dock. Shit. In all of the excitement rolling up on the marina, he hadn’t noticed that his boat was missing.

  “They moved the boat. It was at the end of the dock less than thirty minutes ago,” said Alex.

  “We got a report that you were headed over the bridge, toward Searsport. You didn’t come from that way, so I figured you were up to some bullshit. Boat’s on the way to Rockland,” said the leader.

  Alex walked up to the picnic table, noticing the man’s handheld radio in the gravel next to the crumpled end of the table. Without warning, he lifted his right foot and smashed the plastic radio with the heel of his boot. He slammed his combat boot down several times, until the frame splintered and the radio broke apart into several smaller pieces. The group’s leader stared at the shattered radio with his mouth ajar.

  “I should have beat you over the head with it,” said Alex, broadcasting the truth.

  He hadn’t smashed the radio for effect to intimidate the group. Alex had replaced the man’s head with the handheld, taking his aggressions out on the inanimate object. He’d thought the long winter had dampened his anger, but it came back with little provocation.

  One obstacle after another. One asshole after another.

  He was tired of it. Very little stood between Alex pulling his pistol and firing at the ragtag collection of shitheads assembled in front of him. His son was the only thing holding him back. Ryan had seen enough brutal, pointless violence to last a lifetime. The last thing he needed to witness was his own father joining the insanity. Instead, he kicked the broken radio at the group, causing one of the men to unsling his rifle. The sharp metallic sound of the M240 bolt sliding back and forth snapped through the air.

  “Not a good idea, slick,” said Taylor. “We don’t recognize your Maine Independence Militia. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just a bunch of fuck-stick locals stealing boats. I want all of your weapons on the ground. Right now. Just let them slide off your shoulders.”

  The leader of the group didn’t react until the sound of the first few rifles hitting the hard rock surface jarred him out of his daze.

  “Keep your weapons,” he said. “The RRZ doesn’t have any authority in the state anymore. We’ve declared independence from these assholes.”

  Taylor raised his rifle and pointed it at the leader. Corporal Rickson followed his lead and assumed a tactical stance, aiming his rifle at the group.

  “Since we don’t recognize each other’s authority, let’s go with firepower. I win,” said Taylor. “I want every weapon on the ground. This is for your own safety, and I’m not fucking around.”

  “You’re gonna regret this,” said one of the men from the back
of the group, dropping his rifle.

  The rest of the weapons slid to the rocks, amidst audible, but indecipherable grumbling.

  “What else is new,” said Taylor, glancing quickly at Alex. “You need anything else from these yahoos?”

  “Just my sailboat,” said Alex.

  “It’s gone,” said the leader. “Headed to Rockland.”

  “Does the Coast Guard know what you’re up to?” said Alex.

  “I have no idea,” said the man.

  “Maybe they need to be notified that you’re stealing boats, starting with mine. They have a base in Rockland, and the last time I checked, they hadn’t committed treason against the United States,” said Alex.

  “Treason? You’re kidding me, right? These stormtroopers are the ones that declared war on the United States and violated the constitution. Not us. The states aren’t obligated to obey the RRZ,” said the leader.

  “Actually, they are. Congress passed the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill, which modified the Insurrection Act and made all of this a happy reality,” said Alex. “Maine’s senators, and most of its representatives, smiled and supported it. You should watch C-SPAN once in a while.”

  “None of that matters now. The government doesn’t exist,” said a spindly looking guy in a hunting camouflage-patterned jacket.

  “Trust me, it hasn’t gone away,” said Taylor. “Keep pulling shit like this, and you’ll find out exactly what I mean.”

  “There’s more of us than you,” persisted the man.

  Alex didn’t see this going anywhere productive. If they stayed and argued, he’d be sure to draw his pistol and make the situation worse.

  “Fuck it. Keep the sailboat. You’re gonna need it when they shut down Searsport and nothing useful rolls into town,” said Alex. “Ready to get out of here, Staff Sergeant?”

  “Ready to roll, sir,” said Taylor, keeping his rifle pointed at the leader’s chest.

  “Once we get you out of Searsport, we won’t need the RRZ!” yelled the leader.