by Bobby Akart
She found the address and scribbled on Sarge’s notepad. He had been studying a map and was formulating a plan to retrieve the Boston Brahmin. As the satellite Internet system booted, she turned her attention to Sarge.
“We have eight families to pick up,” said Julia. “We can’t get them all at once.” She sat down next to Sarge on the couch. Ordinarily, the six flat-screens would be distributing the news from all points of view. Tonight, they hung on the wall dormant.
“I’m going to start making calls, but I have a general plan. I want to start with your aunt and uncle, followed by the Winthrops—here.” Sarge pointed to the home of Dr. and Mrs. Arthur Peabody in Brookline. Estelle Peabody was Julia’s father’s sister. Dr. Peabody was a plastic surgeon in private practice. He was the youngest of the Boston Brahmin at age fifty-five. Sarge then circled an area to the southwest called Ledgebrook, in Newton. Ledgebrook was an upscale condominium complex where the best friends of his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Paul Winthrop, resided. Now in their late seventies, they were longtime friends of the Sargent family and Sarge’s namesake.
“How many do you think we can pick up tomorrow?” she asked.
“We need to discuss logistics. I don’t like leaving 100 Beacon unattended. I think this first trip should be made as early as possible in the morning before the entire city realizes we’re screwed. After that, you need to stay here.”
“You shouldn’t go out alone, right?”
“I agree. I think Art might be up for it. He’s in great physical shape, and I’ve seen him at the range. He can handle a weapon. What do you think?”
“I think Aunt Stella is going to say hell no, that’s what I think.” Julia threw her pen on the map. She didn’t want her uncle in harm’s way either. It wasn’t fair to him or her aunt.
“Julia, I understand where you’re coming from. But I have to be brutally honest. I don’t know what it will be like on the streets. Tomorrow morning may be okay, but what about the afternoon when word starts to spread? Or Monday morning when the entire city could be bat-shit crazy?” Sarge looked her in the eye and held both of her hands. “We can’t both be out there if something goes south.” There. Sarge said it out loud. The reality. Picking up the Boston Brahmin was not just a matter of a Sunday drive down to Brookline to pick up the old folks for brunch. Their part of the world had become very dangerous—rapidly.
“If Uncle Art is capable enough to ride with you on the pickups, then he should be able to handle things here while we’re gone,” protested Julia halfheartedly.
Sarge squeezed her hands a little tighter. “Honey, if something happens to me, they’ll need you here. You know everything that we’ve done, and how our planning has to be followed.”
Julia started to well up with tears. Her emotions had nothing to do with the collapse, but everything to do with the thought of losing Sarge. “I love you, Sarge.”
“I love you too. Listen. Nothing is going to happen to either one of us. We just have to be smart. Okay?”
She nodded as he wiped away the tears.
“Let me make the calls while you find out what has happened.” Sarge turned his attention back to his map and notes, and Julia returned to the kitchen island. The MacBook awaited her commands.
Accessing the Internet via satellite was not that different from using a modem at home. Julia retrieved a small rectangular antenna and attached it by cable to her MacBook. The satellite sent and received a signal from an orbiting geostationary satellite about twenty thousand miles above the equator. This satellite communicated with various network operations centers around the world. Julia laughed to herself. Contrary to the popular belief of egocentric Americans, the world did not stop just because your personal universe was awry.
Any obstacle, such as a mountain or a building, would interfere with a satellite signal. Before she received delivery of the unit and its backup, she utilized a Look Angle Calculator to determine if her plan was feasible. An online tool, the calculator allowed you to insert your address anywhere in the world and the closest longitudinal satellite to determine your line-of-sight. The southern line-of-sight from the top floor of 100 Beacon was not obstructed by the buildings across the street. If necessary, she could move to the rooftop, but so far, her connectivity was excellent.
Once received, Julia was amazed at the satellite system’s capability. This ability to connect to the Internet became the centerpiece of her Digital Carrier Pigeon communications system.
She found the Inmarsat home screen and got started. The power outage itself would affect individual websites and their servers. She might not be able to access BostonHerald.com, but a foreign news source like the BBC should be functioning. She started there. The home-page headline said it all: Most of Continental U.S. in Dark.
The report was admittedly based upon sketchy details. Julia read the article:
Based upon sporadic cell phone communications, the BBC can report that the entire lower forty-eight states, except for Texas, are without power. At approximately 9:11 p.m. Eastern time, the United States experienced a massive cascading blackout of its western and eastern interconnected grid. Apparently, the Texas grid, which is separate from the rest of the country, is still fully operational. There was no immediate known cause, but speculation ranges from an electromagnetic pulse weapon to a massive cyber attack. No terrorist group has claimed responsibility. Reports and video are streaming into the BBC newsroom and are currently being analyzed for authenticity. At this point, no one at 10 Downing Street is prepared to comment.
Julia tried CNN International to no avail. The Reuters website contained a story similar to what was released on the BBC. The USA.gov and FEMA.gov websites were operating, but there were no announcements or warnings. It was simply too early to gain any credible information. The fact that the majority of the power grid was collapsed was all they needed to know at this point. If they waited on the government to give them advice, it would be too late. We can always take the Boston Brahmin home if the power comes back.
“Okay, that was my last call. I couldn’t reach the Tudors or Endicotts. I’ll try again later or in the morning. Truthfully, they’re probably asleep already and don’t even know about it. What did you find out?” Sarge walked over to Julia and put his arm around her waist as he studied the laptop’s screen. “I see our government is still pushing Benefits, Grants, and Loans.”
Julia laughed. “Sorry, America, the government freebie spigot is closed indefinitely because the Treasury could no longer pay its bills.” She turned towards Sarge.
“The BBC is the only reporting I could find. According to their initial reports, only the utility grids of Texas, Hawaii, and Alaska are unaffected. There is no known cause, and no terrorist group has taken credit. We’re in the dark—pardon the pun.” She stood up and walked to the pantry, grabbing a box of Triscuits. She and Sarge both took a handful.
“So, former Professor Sargent, what’s the plan?” She munched on the crackers and smiled at him, tilting her head to one side playfully. He walked towards her and grabbed some more Triscuits.
“This is going to sound crazy, but there’s nothing to do right now except make calls to the rest of the Loyal Nine. Steven and Katie are in D.C. Brad’s at Fort Devens. The Quinns are at Prescott Peninsula with J.J. and Sabs.”
“What about the generators?”
“We don’t need the generators yet,” replied Sarge. “Tomorrow, we’ll run them for a while to charge batteries and chill the refrigeration units. I want to wait until there’s sufficient road noise to drown out the hum of the units.”
“The weather is very mild for Labor Day weekend. The AC is out of the question. Of course, we have to maintain light discipline at night.” Julia poured water out of the tap into their bottles, which reminded her of the gravity-fed rooftop water tank. “Will you switch the tank tonight or in the morning?”
“Already done. I turned the valves on the way up the stairwell.”
“You’re on top of it, I see.”
Julia shrugged. “The apocalypse is boring so far.”
“There are three things we can do before the excitement of the apocalypse picks up tomorrow.”
“Okay, what?” Julia set the water and Triscuits on the counter, eager to help.
“It might be a while, but we should take a good hot shower and get a solid night’s rest.” Sarge came toward her with that man look.
“Makes sense. And what is the third thing?” She already knew.
“We should probably take advantage of this last opportunity alone, if you know what I mean?”
“You’re so full of it, Henry Sargent.” She led him toward the master suite. No need to turn out the lights as we go.
Chapter 23
Sunday, September 4, 2016
6:17 a.m.
100 Beacon
Boston, Massachusetts
Sarge was up before sunrise, as always. Julia was sleeping peacefully, and he resisted the urge to give her a wake-up call. Today was going to be an interesting day. He made arrangements with the Winthrops and Peabodys to be ready between seven and eight this morning. The concept of America in a state of collapse was going to be difficult for these families to grasp. They were all wealthy and used to a posh lifestyle. Money or comfort had never been an issue for them. Their world was about to become much smaller, less social, and less complicated. Sarge hoped that would not hinder his dangerous task this week—keeping them safe.
Out of habit, he approached his Keurig machine for his morning fix of a Gevalia Mocha Latte. That wasn’t an option yet. He almost reached for his plan B, a bottled Starbucks Frappuccino out of the refrigerator, and he caught himself. Don’t let the cold air out. He stared into the living area in just his pajama bottoms. It was still dark outside. Pitch black. No lights whatsoever except for the flashing red aircraft warning lights atop the skyscrapers. They twinkled like red Christmas lights—there to warn low-flying aircraft that no longer flew.
The reality was setting in for Sarge. This was not a drill, as Donald liked to call them. This was not a minor inconvenience until Eversource Energy got their shit together. Morgan’s words rang in his head: widespread and long-lasting. We now lived in the 1800s.
“Sarge, is everything all right?” asked Julia from the bedroom. Sarge walked back that way to get dressed.
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m just getting my bearings. I’m trying to get used to the new normal.”
“I know what you mean,” said Julia. “When I woke up and you weren’t here, the first thing I did was look at the clock to see what time it was. It’s weird, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he replied. “It was kind of nice to wake up naturally. You know, not rousted out of bed by a screaming alarm clock.”
Julia crawled back under the covers. “It’s still dark outside. There is nothing natural about this at all.” Now that she was awake, he was tempted to join her, but today was day one of a different world.
“Stay away from me, temptress. I need to get ready.”
“Boo. Party pooper.” She rolled over. Sarge fumbled his way in the dark to his clothes from last night. Laundry was going to happen less often as well.
As he dressed, he thought about weapons and the perils of going into public. Would a concealed-carry weapon in a paddle holster be sufficient? Should he take a backup strapped to his ankle? Should he wear a full kit and tote an AR-15 everywhere he went? He knew going onto the streets unarmed could get him killed. But carrying an AR down the stairwell to his car this morning might scare the bejesus out of the neighbors and draw unnecessary attention to himself. He decided it was too early for the heavy firepower.
Sarge made his way in the dark and found the hidden compartment behind a wainscot panel. When he popped it open, the inside light illuminated the biometric safe, which contained his sidearm options. He grabbed his favorite Heckler & Koch HK45C. He left the Gemtech suppressor in the vault. If he was forced to use his weapon at this stage of the collapse, he wanted it to send a loud and clear message. He placed the HK45C in an ankle holster and strapped it to his leg. He grabbed his 5.11 tactical belt with his Galcon holster. He inserted an HK45 full-size tactical model and strapped it to his waist. Sarge’s long black tee shirt covered the weapon, but not the bulge. Seasoned law enforcement or military personnel would be able to recognize the telltale signs that he was carrying. Most citizens would not. But Sarge knew he would never leave 100 Beacon without these two weapons—at a minimum. He slipped an extra loaded magazine into each cargo pocket of his pants, and he was good to go.
Before he closed the safe, he picked up Steven’s Glock G38 and his thoughts turned to his brother. He and Katie had a long trip home under normal circumstances. What kind of hurdles would they have to leap to make it in one piece? If anybody could make it, his brother Rambo and his girlfriend Rambette were the ones.
Sarge closed up the safe after retrieving Julia’s sidearm, a matching HK45C. All of the Loyal Nine were issued sidearms in .45 caliber. Donald insisted on interchangeable makes, models, and calibers for all weapons. Sarge liked the HKs, which were lightweight, suppressor ready, and provided the lightest recoil. The low recoil helped the women shoot better and kept everyone on target at the range. Also, the ambidextrous controls on the weapons helped the two lefties in the group.
“Julia, I’ve gotta get going.” Sarge headed back to the bedroom, where she stood inside the door naked.
“You are so sexy when you are all gunned up,” she said seductively. He walked up and admired her beauty.
“Bad form, missy. How am I supposed to concentrate on the task at hand when I have this vision of loveliness clouding my brain?”
“This is what you have to come home to, sir. It should be an incentive not to get your ass shot off.”
Sarge closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment as he held her. “I do love you,” he whispered.
She pressed against him. “And I love you, soldier. Come back to me safely—direct orders from headquarters.”
“Roger. I love you.” They kissed, and Sarge headed for the outside and the new normal.
Chapter 24
September 4, 2016
7:11 a.m.
The streets of Boston, Massachusetts
Sarge bounded down the eleven flights of stairs to the basement garage where his vehicles were parked. At this hour, he didn’t encounter any neighbors in the stairwell. Good. Stay home.
While it was tempting to drive his Mercedes G-Wagen, he knew the prudent option would be to take the slightly less conspicuous 1968 Toyota OJ40. Most of the Loyal Nine had a bug-out vehicle that was EMP-resistant. The research on the effect an electromagnetic pulse might have on a vehicle was spotty at best. Most of the articles found on the web were based on speculation. In an abundance of caution, Sarge purchased the Brazilian-made Bandeirante model because it had a reliable Mercedes-Benz diesel engine and a lack of electronic-dependent parts. If they were ever forced into the country, farm diesel or comparable biofuels was an option. His OJ40 was the long, hardtop model often used in Africa for sightseeing in the bush. For today, it would make the perfect post-apocalyptic limousine for the Boston Brahmin.
Sarge checked the three security lenses that allowed views of appropriately designated Back Street to the north, and the east side of his building. He unlatched the safety bar and pulled down on the chain, rolling the door overhead. With his hand on his weapon, he quickly walked out onto the inlaid brick driveway to check for threats. It was remarkably quiet except for the sparse traffic on Storrow. Maybe this will go smoothly after all.
Sarge pulled out and closed the door behind him. Immediately, he realized he made a mistake by leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running. Innocent habits or mistakes from before could cause real problems now. He drove around the building and turned southwest onto Beacon. There were a couple of his neighbors standing on the front sidewalk, talking—undoubtedly exchanging theories and opinions. None appeared to have weapons. One appeared to be in his pajamas and ro
be. Before they could flag him to chitchat, Sarge sped down Beacon. The streets were mostly deserted except for the occasional pedestrians. As he drove the six miles to Chestnut Hill and his first pickup, he wondered how long it would take to spread the word that the power was going to be off indefinitely. At what point will curiosity turn to aggravation, then to panic, and finally to desperation.
Businesses and residences appeared to be intact until he approached the Harvard Street intersection. The entrance to Trader Joe’s had been demolished by a large box truck. The truck appeared to have backed into the entry to break in but then got stuck. The truck was too tall to fit under the arched brick entryway and got wedged. A Boston police department unit was on the scene.
Sarge thought about how the local grocery stores would deal with their inventories. Without power, they would be unable to conduct sales transactions. Once it became general knowledge that the power was out virtually nationwide, would the stores give the food away? Perhaps donate it to the police for distribution? More importantly, would the good citizens of Boston, or anywhere in America, for that matter, wait on the local grocers to make a decision? Perhaps they would simply help themselves.
He continued down Beacon Street past the Chestnut Hill Reservoir toward Boston College. His students immediately came to mind. Fall classes were supposed to begin on Tuesday, although his lectures started a day later. Every year during Labor Day weekend, students would be returning from their hometowns all over the world. Some might already be here. After ten years, he still felt excited for a new semester. While the subject matter stayed the same, current events would shift, yielding a new twist to each lecture. God, he loved teaching. He would miss it.
