Martial Law

by Bobby Akart

  “Clear on my side, Sarge,” said Dr. Peabody. “Let’s get out of here.”

  It took them another twenty minutes to make their way to the Battery Wharf hotel. Julia’s voice came over the two-way.

  “Sarge, do you read me? Over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “There appears to be a disturbance of some kind at city hall. You might want to avoid that.”

  “Yeah, we know. We were almost in the middle of it. Have you heard of anything else?”

  “No,” replied Julia. “I’ve tried calling the Endicotts continuously since you left. My guess is their satphone is dead.”

  Of course it is.

  “Okay, we’ll keep you posted. Out.” Sarge made his way up Commercial Street and approached the Battery Wharf entrance slowly.

  “They have the entry blocked,” said Dr. Peabody. “I think it’s intentional based upon the way the vehicles are angled. You won’t be able to turn down Battery Street or Battery Wharf.” Sarge surveyed his options. After finding an opening, he pulled into an alley across Commercial.

  “I have no problem walking, but carrying those is not such a good idea,” said Sarge, nodding toward the backseat and the AR-15s. They both looked around for a moment to see if there was any obvious danger. Dr. Peabody spoke first.

  “At the moment, the threats are raising hell at city hall. Let’s cover the guns and try to exit the vehicle when nobody is paying attention.”

  “Agreed. At least for today, the sight of a moving vehicle is not out of the ordinary. If the Boston Wharf security team thought to block the two entrances to their property, it’s entirely possible they’re armed at the entrance.” They waited for a moment and looked to see if anyone was watching their movements. Finally, Sarge was ready.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Sarge said. “Just two guys taking a stroll down the Harborwalk for lunch at Aragosta’s.”

  “A meatball ciabatta for me, and the rigatoni for my friend.” Those days are over, for years.

  As they approached the entry, absent were the traditional bellmen for the Fairmont, now replaced by guys in dark suits with matching sunglasses.

  Sarge whispered, “I’ll state our business and have them do the work for us. I doubt they’ll let us inside, especially without surrendering our weapons. That’ll never happen.”

  Sarge and Dr. Peabody approached the men, who spoke first.

  “Nobody is allowed entry unless they are a verified guest or resident,” said a husky Asian man.

  “No problem. My name is Professor Henry Sargent, and my friend is Dr. Arthur Peabody. We’re here to check—”

  “I know,” interrupted the other guard. Two additional security personnel appeared from their immediate left and right. Was it something I said?

  “You know what?” asked Sarge.

  “I know who Dr. Peabody is,” he replied. “He did my wife’s boobs. Sir, her name is Bobbie McDermott. You might not remember.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McDermott, but I don’t remember,” said Dr. Peabody. “But it is nice to see you again. How is your wife?”

  “Divorced,” he replied coldly. “She ran off with another dude and took her boobs with her.” This just keeps getting better and better.

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry about that,” said Dr. Peabody.

  “That’s not your fault, Doc. She turned out to be a bitch.”

  The big guy spoke again. “How can we help you, gentlemen?”

  Sarge took a deep breath. Picking up the Endicotts was supposed to be in and out. No problems. “We came to check on our friends, the Endicotts. They live in one of the penthouses—next to Patricia Cornwell and her husband.”

  “You mean her girlfriend?”

  “What?” asked Sarge.

  “Patricia Cornwell, the author. She’s married to her girlfriend.”

  “Okay. Well, would you mind telling the Endicotts that we’re here? Tell them we’re here to pick them up.”

  Big guy gave instructions to one of his team, who immediately went inside. After an awkward ten minutes of relative silence, a bellman came out with a cart of luggage and the Endicotts in tow.

  “Hello, Sarge,” said Henry Endicott. The Endicott family fortune was based on the most advanced, modern weaponry available on Earth. Would they defend America when we are at our most vulnerable?

  “Hello, Mr. Endicott,” greeted Sarge with a handshake. “We have been very worried about the two of you.”

  “That’s my fault,” said Emily Endicott, his newest wife. “My job was to keep the phone charged, and I forgot. Please forgive the error.” She was dressed for dinner at an upscale restaurant—a stunning dress, heels, and a full complement of jewelry. Young and pretty. Those ladies will not like this.

  “Art, how are you?” Endicott shook Dr. Peabody’s hand. “Gentlemen, this is my wife, Emily. Emily, meet Professor Henry Sargent and Dr. Art Peabody.”

  “You can call me Sarge.”

  He looked at his watch and debated whether to have her change clothes. They had been gone nearly two hours. He decided against the delay and asked the bellman to accompany them to the truck. Once their bags were loaded into the back of the Toyota, Endicott tipped the bellman a hundred-dollar bill, much to the young man’s delight.

  After the bellman left, Endicott laughed and said, “The American dollar is worthless now. Why not give him a big tip?”

  “Where are we going?” asked Mrs. Endicott.

  “We’re taking you guys to my place on Beacon Street, where you’ll be safe for a while,” replied Sarge. “You’ll probably head over to Prescott Peninsula in a few days.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “I’ll explain later, dear. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, okay?” Great.

  Julia knew to maintain radio silence while Sarge was out of the building unless it was an absolute emergency. She knew the squawk of the two-way could put Sarge in peril if he were in a compromised position. He contacted her first.

  “Julia, do you copy?”

  “Five by five. Sitrep,” she replied.

  “How about you with the lingo?”

  “This handsome general is teaching me a thing or two.”

  That was funny, but don’t say stuff like that over the radio. “I bet. Our friends are safe, and we’re heading back. Any advice?” asked Sarge.

  “Avoid the center of the city. That situation has become worse. Also, as you suspected, a riot broke out at Mass General. The staties have closed all roads in the area. The southern route is your best option.”

  “Thank you. We’ll make our way and advise of any difficulty. Out.”

  Sarge started them south toward the John Fitzgerald Expressway. He glanced to his left at the former location of Sargent’s Wharf, founded by his ancestor Daniel Sargent. Today, it was a parking lot.

  “Sarge, I see Smith & Wesson made your AR,” said Endicott. “Why didn’t you choose the Colt SOCOM?”

  “That’s a good question, sir,” replied Sarge. “The Colt is used by most special ops teams worldwide. The S&W is a little lighter. Why do you ask?”

  “My company owns Colt Manufacturing in West Hartford, Connecticut. I had plans to move the facility to Alabama.”

  Dr. Peabody pointed at the traffic jam entering southbound I-93. “You might want to stay to the right on the surface road.”

  “I didn’t know you owned that gun company, Henry,” said Mrs. Endicott. “After that horrible school shooting, shouldn’t you do away with that one?”

  Sarge glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Was she serious? Endicott Industries built weapons systems that could level entire cities—obliterating all its inhabitants. Sarge was momentarily distracted by the conversation and entered the tunnel before he could turn.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” questioned Mr. Endicott.

  “I didn’t want to go through the tunnel,” replied Sarge. Traffic began to slow as they approached the exit of the tunnel. Cars were a
t a standstill as they attempted to merge on the Mass Turnpike. Sarge inched his way through the tunnel until he emerged near the China Gate Plaza. He cut across the famed Chinese checkerboard that was created by a mosaic of bricks in the pavement. Sarge navigated through several parked cars that blocked the gate and quickly shot through.

  Boston instantly changed. The streets of Chinatown, once filled with tourists, were now deserted, and ominous-looking men stood in front of every storefront. Dr. Peabody broke the tension in the truck.

  “They’re standing guard over the businesses. They don’t look like business owners.” Sarge tried to keep a steady speed without drawing unnecessary attention. He could feel the eyes upon them.

  “Maybe we should turn on one of these other roads,” said Mrs. Endicott. Sarge ignored her. He could see far enough down the side streets to realize they were obstructed with manned blockades. He could see the Kensington building just two blocks ahead. As he approached Knapp Street, several men moved to block the street in front of him. There was now a white van immediately on his bumper. Sarge was not going to stop, but he also hesitated to run over the men, who were probably armed.

  Sarge had studied escape and evade techniques and covered the concept extensively with Steven. Of course, stealth was your greatest ally. That was why Sarge chose the Toyota OJ40 instead of the G-Wagen. Speed was only used for emergencies, and in an urban environment, the benefit of speed could be quickly reduced. There was more to employing evasion techniques than putting distance between you and your pursuers.

  Staying calm was key. Sarge had to outmaneuver these guys without endangering his passengers. He was faced with a blockade on every street and a vehicle to his rear. He slowed to a crawl.

  “Hold on, everybody. I don’t think we’re welcome here.” Mr. Endicott handed Dr. Peabody the AR-15. “Art, use your handgun and make sure your arm is outside of the window if you have to fire it. Otherwise, we’ll all concuss. Get down in the backseat, please.”

  He immediately stopped the truck, catching the van behind him off guard. They screeched to a halt. Sarge then lunged at the men in the road in front, who began to pull weapons. Just as he reached Knapp Street, he whipped it to the left and roared toward the men, who were now running toward him. They didn’t expect Sarge’s truck to come at them so fast and jumped behind a concrete construction barrier at Stuart Street. Sarge drove onto the narrow sidewalk and plowed through the stop sign. He barely missed the men at the wall. Careening onto the four lanes of Kneeland Street, he barely averted a head-on collision with another white panel van that must have been dispatched from the other roadblock. This van slammed on the brakes, throwing tire smoke into the air and attracting attention from onlookers.

  Sarge roared ahead with both vans in pursuit. They gained ground on him as he turned onto Charles Street. He was going to use the OJ40 for its intended purpose—off-road travel. He was going to lose them in Boston Common. Cars were stopped at the four-way intersection of Boylston Street, politely taking turns through the intersection. Sarge passed them all on the wrong side of the road and shot the gap between two cars. One of the pursuing vans was not so lucky, jumping the curb and blowing out its front tires. The other van continued its pursuit.

  Obviously aggravated, they began shooting at Sarge as he turned through the stone columns onto the sidewalks of Boston Common. He was in familiar territory now. Not only did Sarge frequently jog on Boston Common, but he was only a couple of hundred feet from where he’d protected the woman and baby from an assault back in the spring. Sarge cut across the grass and under the tree-canopied sidewalks. The van was fishtailing in the sod, and Sarge surged ahead.

  “Time to go where they can’t,” said Sarge. He carefully but quickly drove across a bridge barely wide enough to allow his OJ40 passage. It worked. As they cleared the other side of the lake, the van ripped into the wrought-iron guardrail with its front fenders, causing it to screech to a halt. Sarge came out on Arlington and headed west on Commonwealth in case they gave chase. He didn’t want to lead them to his front door.

  Feeling comfortable he had successfully evaded the van, he turned towards the Charles River and the back of 100 Beacon. He was sweating and wiped his hands on his shirt. He immediately rolled down his window and gasped for air. He was certain he’d held his breath during the chase. Mrs. Endicott was crying.

  “What happened to your head?” asked Dr. Peabody.

  “I hit my head on the window handle,” she replied. “The knob fell off back there.” She handed her husband a black plastic knob.

  “Hold pressure on it, and we’ll get you taken care of upstairs,” said Dr. Peabody. Sarge pulled to the back of 100 Beacon, where several residents were talking. There was a tremendous commotion in the direction of Massachusetts General Hospital, but that was not Sarge’s concern. These people would see the young woman bleeding, and demands for answers would be forthcoming.

  He jumped out of the truck and quickly opened the door. They approached him and peppered him with questions. Sarge ignored them and hustled into the garage. All of these trips in and out of 100 Beacon were drawing unnecessary attention. Sarge knew this had to be the last one until Brad’s transportation arrived.

  Chapter 33

  Tuesday, September 6, 2016

  5:26 p.m.

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The unfortunate injury to Mrs. Endicott’s scalp was minor. The favorable result of the treatment of the wound was a bonding between her and the established women of the Boston Brahmin. The entire incident shook Sarge. He discussed the events several times with Julia. He was concerned that he’d overreacted. He wondered if he could have diffused the situation by talking to the men. He couldn’t take that chance. America was now a society without the rule of law. There were no police to call for assistance. The world had become much smaller, and groups were moving quickly to establish their turf. Chinatown was no exception.

  Tuesday was an easier day for Sarge. Only one incident occurred when some of the neighbors were knocking on the steel security door. They shouted questions, and after one last round of fist pounding out of frustration, they left. Sarge would have to deal with the neighbors sooner or later. Julia decided to finish off the fruits and vegetables in the refrigerator, but several of the ladies offered to prepare dinner for everyone that night.

  Sarge and Julia were enjoying a rare quiet moment together. There was nothing new in the news except for some horrific events being reported from various locations across the country. General Bradlee took the lead in news gathering and said he would provide a report at tonight’s meeting. They had not heard from Steven and Katie since Sunday, and although he wouldn’t admit it, Sarge was concerned for his brother.

  “Dinner is served, Julia,” said Aunt Stella. “Are you guys doing all right?”

  “Yes, Aunt Stella, thank you,” replied Julia. “I think fatigue is setting in right now. Sarge needs to rest from all of his heroics.”

  “I’m all right,” Sarge interjected. “Just a lot to think about right now. Let’s eat, ladies!” The three joined the others, and Sarge took his seat at the end of the long dining room table made up of a variety of furniture pieces to accommodate the seventeen diners. Lowell and Cabot were on security duty on the roof, and Julia assured their wives that she’d saved some for them.

  The group made small talk through dinner, and one of the topics of conversation was the economic and social condition of America before the collapse event. Even though this was Sarge’s favorite lecture topic at Harvard, he was oddly quiet. He seemed concerned about his brother, but Julia thought he was more concerned about his reaction to the threats in Chinatown. She would talk to him further when they settled in for the night. First, she would take those old soldiers on the rooftop some dinner.

  The Lowell and Cabot families had been friends for centuries, and the gentlemen on the roof had been best friends since they were young boys. Julia also knew they were John Morgan’s most
trusted confidants. As she arrived on the rooftop with their plates of food, she found them deep in conversation. It was not her intention to eavesdrop, but she inadvertently overheard a portion of their conversation.

  “When we met at 73 Tremont, I knew something was afoot,” said Lowell. Lowell and Cabot were staring across the Charles River at several homes on fire. “His words were a reckoning is upon us.”

  “I remember, Lawrence,” said Cabot. “I distinctly remember him adding that a reset is imminent.”

  “Yes, Walter. I realize the Russians and Chinese have been rattling their sabers of late, but how could John or the President envision something of this magnitude?”

  “It does make one wonder. Is this the cataclysmic conflict Samuel spoke of that day?” asked Cabot.

  “It might be,” replied Lowell. “Walter, I have always trusted John to handle our affairs and position us to maximize our financial and political stature. But there is one more thing he said that bothers me. John said It’s coming. We won’t know from where or from whom, but we’ll certainly know when.”

  “His words were either prophetic or contrived. Either way, we live in a new world, and I’m anxious to speak with John soon.”

  Julia didn’t know whether to run or hide. Did John Morgan know this was coming? Even worse, did he have a hand in it? My God! Suddenly, Julia became frightened with the prospect that the benefactors of the Loyal Nine, especially John Morgan, had advanced knowledge of the collapse. She quickly retreated to the rooftop door and pretended to appear for the first time by slamming it closed. Both men were startled by the noise.

  “Hello, night shift!” Julia pretended to be chipper as usual. “I have some dinner for you.” Both men approached Julia and relieved her of the plates. Their expressions reflected the seriousness of the conversation from moments ago.