Martial Law

by Bobby Akart

  Suddenly, the smell of mace filled the air as one of the local police used pepper spray to prevent a mass of panicked attendees from entering the hallway.

  “We have to go now!” shouted Drew. He pulled Abbie towards him, and they ran through the darkened hallway towards the service entrance on the south side of the complex. As they burst through the fire escape doors, fresh but humid air filled her lungs. Under the circumstances, this was a welcome change from the marijuana smoke that filled the auditorium. Why do I want to legalize marijuana? The thought, or the smoke inhalation itself, relieved some of the tension for Abbie.

  As they hustled around a large, now deceased, heating and cooling unit, the screams and shouts of Floridians filled the air. Florida Highway Patrol officers were still manning their posts, maintaining security barricades that blocked the parking lot from vehicles trying to enter from West Madison Street. But there were hundreds of people running in all directions in a panic. All were attempting to use their cell phones, but with little success.

  Drew pulled Jacobs aside, and the two shared a rushed conversation. All Abbie heard was Drew asking are you sure. When they were finished, he motioned for two agents to join them. Abbie, managing to retain her self-control, approached the group.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Plans have changed, of course,” replied Drew. Abbie admired his restraint. Over the last two months, Drew confided in Abbie about his career as a Navy SEAL, his duties for Blackwater, and then his work with Steven at Aegis. Eventually, he told her some of the details of the Aegis team’s activities in the spring that prompted his request for reassignment. Abbie was certain Drew could be trusted if her father had handpicked him for the security detail. Now, looking into his eyes, not only was she comforted, she no longer felt alone.

  Drew continued. “Rhona received a call from your father. Before the line went dead, he instructed her to evacuate you to a Florida National Guard facility east of here. He will meet us there in the morning.”

  “Why don’t we take the plane? How is he getting here?” Abbie’s mind was racing.

  “Abbie, the planes are likely grounded due to the power outage. I suspect your father is bringing his helicopter.”

  Daddy to the rescue. Abbie didn’t resent her father. Of course, she loved him. He provided her everything she needed. He always encouraged her throughout her school years and as she pursued her career. When she moved towards a life in politics, he guaranteed her success.

  As Abbie grew older, she learned that her father was adept at manipulation. While he didn’t treat her as he would an employee per se, she always understood that John Adams Morgan had a plan for his only child—the daughter he wished was a son. With Drew, she now had two influential men in her life, and she was certain both of them loved her.

  “Okay, Mr. Secret Agent Man,” said Abbie, breaking the tension. With her unexpected lighthearted tone, Drew seemed to relax as well. “Lead the way.”

  Drew smiled at her and began to reach for her face, but the shouts from a member of his team stopped him.

  “The troopers are telling us to leave. They’re losing control of the crowd,” said one of the men. Drew took charge.

  “Listen up, everybody. We’ll never get the bus out of here. I need you to grab essential gear from the buses and stow it in the back of the two Suburbans. Ladies, I need you to change out of your Sunday best and put on something comfortable, like you’re going for a jog. We only have a few minutes so chop-chop.” Drew gently urged Abbie and Jacobs toward their bus.

  “You’ve got this,” said Abbie, making a statement more than a question.

  “Nothing will happen to you on my watch, Senator, ever,” replied Drew as he started walking towards the Florida Highway Patrol detail. He added, “Wear dark clothes, Abbie, and your best running shoes. We need to be prepared for all contingencies.”

  Abbie absorbed his words for a moment. He suspects trouble. Then, she repeated her words—you’ve got this.

  Chapter 5

  September 3, 2016

  9:34 p.m.

  I-95 / Southeast Expressway

  Neponset, Massachusetts

  Morgan was morose as the car took him through his beloved Boston. During the many months of planning, he often wondered if there would be regrets. His sour mood had nothing to do with his decision to conspire with the President. In fact, he relished the opportunity to recreate America in the vision of his ancestor—John Adams. The Founding Fathers would never recognize this America. Not because of its technological advances, but because of its attitude toward life and the freedoms its people were given. The efforts of the early colonists to break away from tyranny had long been forgotten—or taken for granted. History taught in elementary schools focused more on the perceived wrongs done to the Indians than the great things that followed the rise of the original Loyal Nine.

  Morgan’s brooding came from his failing of Abigail. Through all of his machinations, he’d failed to protect his beloved daughter. Am I that inattentive as a father?

  “Sir, I have received some details from the pilot,” said Lowe, breaking the silence. As the car passed Port Norfolk, a massive explosion on the west side of the expressway caught their attention. Flames rose into the sky towards Dorchester. The driver slowed as the cars ahead began to rubberneck the carnage. Morgan pressed the intercom button.

  “Why are we slowing down?”

  “There’s a traffic jam at the Granite Avenue intersection, sir,” replied the driver. “I don’t see a way around it.”

  “Use the shoulder,” instructed Morgan. “If anybody attempts to stop you, have your associate deal with it.” Both Morgan’s driver and his partner were trained members of the Aegis team. Use of force upon Morgan’s direction was expected and never questioned. Morgan turned his attention back to Lowe.

  “What did the pilot say?”

  “The fuel range is the biggest issue, sir,” replied Lowe. “The Sikorsky has a normal range of just over five hundred miles based upon its full capacity of thirteen passengers and the single pilot. Norwood to Camp Blanding in Starke, Florida, is about twelve hundred miles.”

  “So we need to stop twice?”

  “No, sir, not necessarily. The pilot has calculated the fuel range with only you and another passenger to be six hundred miles. Reducing the passenger count will allow you to stop one time.”

  “Where does he suggest?”

  “Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, southeast of Raleigh, sir,” replied Lowe.

  As the driver navigated around the Pilgrims Highway interchange, a man startled Morgan by slapping his hands on the window.

  “Hey, rich guy! Give me a ride. I’m outta gas!” Two others joined him in trying to stop Morgan’s car from continuing. One of the men attempted to open the door and then angrily pounded the glass with the back of his fist. “C’mon, dude, I know you’ve got room. Give us a ride!” Morgan rolled down the privacy glass to get a better view of the road ahead. Two of the men ran in front of the car and held their hands up.

  “Move them out of the way!” shouted Morgan. “Do whatever it takes!”

  The driver was inching toward the men, who stood their ground. “Hold on,” he advised his passengers as he launched the SUV towards the men. Although momentarily frightened, the two men counted on the driver’s restraint and reluctance to strike them.

  They were wrong. The driver lurched again, this time hitting one of the men just above the knees, causing him to fall backward. As he screamed in pain, the other man started pointing his fingers at Morgan’s driver.

  “Hey, you can’t do that! We’ll sue you for all you’re worth, motherfucker.”

  Morgan’s driver hit the gas pedal again, causing the potential litigant to land on the hood. Seeing the opportunity for a clear path, he pressed the gas in earnest, causing the plaintiff to roll off the hood onto the concrete pavement while the legs of his co-plaintiff were run over by Morgan’s custom-made Cadillac Escalade.

&n
bsp; Traffic was moving again, and the car made its way east toward the Norwood Memorial Airport. Morgan breathed in deeply as he thumbed through a black address book retrieved from his safe. The next call was going to be one of the most important in his life.

  Chapter 6

  September 3, 2016

  9:49 p.m.

  Norwood Memorial Airport

  Norwood, Massachusetts

  Richard Sears was an early settler of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the seventeenth century. His descendants populated the original Plymouth colony and branched out across America as philanthropists, business owners, and politicians. The Sears family had an impact on not only the original British Colonies but the United States and the world. Today, over twenty thousand people could trace their lineage back to Richard Sears.

  One of those descendants was General Mason J. Sears, USMC, and the current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Born and raised in Quincy, Massachusetts, General Sears graduated from Boston College in 1977 and immediately earned his commission. He furthered his military career by graduating from the United States Army War College, Ranger School, and then the Amphibious Warfare School. By holding a master’s degree in government from Georgetown and a second master of arts in international law from the Harvard Kennedy School, Sears was one of the most educated generals in the history of the U.S. Armed Forces.

  General Sears earned the respect of his fellow Marines when he led the initial attack into Iraq and on to Baghdad during the first Gulf War in 1991. As a result of his service, and with the help of some strongly worded recommendations, General Sears rapidly shot up the chain of command faster than almost anyone in recent Marine Corps history. He was considered a war-wise general by his peers. In his capacity as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, by law, he was the highest-ranking military officer in the United States Armed Forces and was the principal military advisor to the President. General Sears was also beholden to John Morgan.

  “General, this is John Morgan.”

  “Yes, John. I hope all is well. I wasn’t expecting your call—yet.”

  “Mason, I have a situation that will require your assistance.”

  “How can I help?” asked General Sears.

  “I am en route to Florida via my helicopter. Mason, my daughter is stranded in Tallahassee. I’ve sent word for her to meet me at the nearest military facility. I need you to arrange the necessary clearances for us to get refueled.”

  “Okay,” said General Sears. “Tell me what you need, John.”

  “We will stop midway at Seymour Johnson, both coming and going. I will pick Abigail up at Camp Blanding, now used by the Florida National Guard.”

  “I know it well. Very historic facility. I’ll make the arrangements for you, John. What else?”

  Morgan hesitated before he spoke. Agreements had already been reached, but reiteration never hurt. “Have you heard from the President?” asked Morgan.

  “Only briefly,” replied General Sears. “As you probably are aware, the President has been in Hawaii for several days. We have discussed the situation, and I’ve made several calls to the Joint Chiefs in this very short period.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’ve elevated our readiness level to DEFCON 2. This level of readiness hasn’t been invoked since the first Gulf War as part of the opening phase of Operation Desert Storm. The only other time before that was during the Cuban Missile Crisis in ’62.”

  “Mason, based upon your intelligence, is there a reason to believe we might fall under attack from Russia, China, or others?” asked Morgan.

  “No, not at all. Other than the Russians testing our fences from time to time, our adversaries have been noticeably quiet. It seems the entire world is trying to determine the cause and extent of this outage. With no actionable intelligence that a nuclear-delivered EMP caused the grid-down scenario, I suggested to the President DEFCON 3 was more appropriate. Although the Department of Defense maintains a public posture of normal readiness—fade out, as they prefer to say—our forces are prepared to operate at DEFCON 4 at all times. The entire military is maintaining above-normal readiness as a matter of protocol.”

  “Did the President provide a rationale for the special declaration of DEFCON 2 status?” asked Morgan. Morgan had his suspicions. The President is getting ahead of himself. Why?

  “He did not, but he is my Commander-in-Chief. I will tell you that the Secretary of Defense disagreed with the status as well. But we’re both good soldiers, John. You know that.”

  “I do, Mason, which brings me to my point. Civilian communications networks are already failing. Our only means of contact will be through the use of my satellite phone. I will be available to you twenty-four seven during this crisis. I expect to hear from you daily or when something of importance arises. Are we clear?”

  “Of course, John,” replied General Sears. Morgan detected a sharp tone in the general’s response.

  “Mason, I am very concerned about my daughter’s welfare. I have no means of contacting her. I will be less surly when she is safe with me.”

  “John, I completely understand. My sons are both stationed abroad. We may be calling back our forces to protect American soil. These next few days will be stressful for us all.”

  “Yes, they will,” said Morgan. Lowe exited the car to approach the pilot who was standing ready. Morgan forced himself to relax. “Mason, the next several weeks will determine whether we can make this country great again. It is my hope that the President will share our vision. If not, well, you and I have discussed this ad nauseam. Thank you for your help, and keep me informed.”

  “Absolutely, John. My aide will generate the necessary clearances for your trip. Now go get your daughter.”

  Chapter 7

  September 3, 2016

  9:49 p.m.

  Tucker Civic Center

  Downtown Tallahassee, Florida

  “Saddle up, troops,” barked Drew as he threw his gear in the backseat of the Suburban. Under standard protocol, the local law enforcement personnel provided the motorcade an escort. Typically, while in Florida, one highway patrol vehicle would travel several minutes ahead of the campaign convoy to assess any potential threats or traffic issues that would delay the vehicles from point to point. Under normal conditions, the motorcade would consist of a lead trooper, followed by a Secret Service Chevrolet Suburban from the local fleet, the two campaign buses and finally the USSS Electronic Countermeasures Suburban—the ECS.

  Once only used for the President’s travels, the ECS trailed the vice presidential vehicle and was used to counter attacks such as rocket-propelled grenades, vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices, and antitank guided missiles. Under the circumstances, the usual complement of Secret Service personnel and vehicles was unavailable. Drew had to make it work.

  “Ripley, you’re familiar with Florida more than the rest of us, so you’ll lead the way with Miss Jacobs and your partner,” said Drew. “Captain will ride with us. Cell phone connections seem to be unreliable and intermittent at best. We still have our two-way comms. Let’s use them sporadically to conserve battery power. Everybody clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Drew opened the back door of the SUV on the passenger side for Abbie. She was outfitted in a black velour tracksuit with a silver J dangling from its zipper.

  “You know I hate that codename,” said Abbie, stopping Drew from rushing her into the back of the truck.

  “What? Captain?” asked Drew.

  “Yes. Come on. Captain Morgan? Give me a break. Shall I strike a pose with one leg up on a rum barrel?”

  “It could be worse, Captain,” said Drew sarcastically. “You know what the guys call your running mate?”

  “What?”

  “Hilla the Hun.” Drew laughed.

  Abbie stifled a laugh.

  “What’s the J stand for?” asked Drew, still obsessed with the dangling silver J.

  “Juicy Couture,” replied Abbie with a smile.

  �
��Of course it does,” said Drew. “I hope you can run in couture in the event we have to hoof it.”

  “Hilarious. I expect you to carry me, soldier.”

  “Yeah, right.” Drew laughed. “Buckle up. This could get interesting.”

  Chapter 8

  September 3, 2016

  9:53 p.m.

  Downtown Tallahassee, Florida

  “Ripley, the troopers have suggested we alter our course,” barked Drew into his agency-issued Motorola XTS radio. He was frustrated. On a separate channel, Drew was advised the preferred routes leaving downtown Tallahassee were blocked with pedestrians and traffic. The planned route out of the city was to turn left out of the south parking lot of the Tucker Center and head towards the Florida State Capitol. From there, the caravan would travel northeast on Thomasville Road towards Interstate 10, where they would have a direct route to the east for over one hundred miles. They were now at a standstill in front of the Capitol grounds—after only four blocks. It was obvious to Drew the situation was deteriorating rapidly.

  “Which way should we go?” asked Abbie from the backseat. Drew looked left and right before answering.

  “We should defer to the locals,” said Drew. “But we are stuck like chuck. The Florida State football game was moved from Orlando to Doak Campbell Stadium just to the west of us due to the oncoming hurricane. Everyone is leaving for the suburbs to the northeast, according to the trooper. They need us to change course.”

  Drew fumbled with the onboard GPS and punched in Exit 199 on Interstate 10. The route appeared on the display. He suggested the change to the highway patrol.

  “Ripley, you copy?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Follow the trooper,” said Drew. “GPS is Exit 199. We’ve lost the front vehicle—” Suddenly a beer bottle crashed against the windshield of their truck, followed by a chorus of angry shouts.