Martial Law

by Bobby Akart

  Whop—whop—whop. As the noise grew louder, it was evident a helicopter was coming closer. The soldiers’ radios came to life as the security team prepared for a potential hostile encounter.

  “Inside!” ordered one of the Marines. Donald leaped up the steps and took a position by the rail. Two more Marines came running out of the woods and began waving instructions.

  “I’ll go with Susan and the girls,” said Sabs. As she ran inside, J.J. emerged with the shotgun. He handed Donald his .45 and a pair of night-vision binoculars. The helicopter circled the building that was barely visible but didn’t attempt a landing.

  Donald studied the chopper and shouted into his two-way radio, “Hold fire. Repeat. Hold Fire!” He grabbed J.J. by the arm. “Grab the lanterns and flashlights. We need to give him a landing zone.”

  “Who is it?”

  “John Morgan.”

  Chapter 51

  Monday, September 5, 2016

  9:22 a.m.

  Triple Q Ranch, Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  The night before, Morgan’s pilot had expertly set the Sikorsky S-76 on the area illuminated by the lanterns and flashlights. Unbeknownst to Abbie, the helicopter was within moments of being out of fuel. She did not speak to her father during the first leg of the return home until they stopped for fuel at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in North Carolina. She was too emotional and angry for idle conversation. Nor was she interested in his explanation.

  The remainder of the long trip consisted of his asking her questions about what she’d observed in Tallahassee and during her journey across Florida. Her responses were terse. Didn’t he understand that these were my last hours with Drew?

  It helped Abbie to talk it out with Susan. Abbie appreciated Susan listening and offering condolences. Susan meant no harm and was trying to give comfort, but some of the things she said made it worse. Be strong. He’s in a better place. There’s a reason for everything. He knew the risks of protecting you. Susan was doing her best to fix Abbie’s grief. The loss of Drew could not be fixed.

  Abbie prepared herself a bowl of oatmeal and walked toward the forest. She loved Quabbin Reservoir. During the summer of her first senatorial campaign, she’d crossed the state in a Volkswagen convertible. Driving herself, she arranged to meet with local politicians in small towns like nearby Holyoke, Northampton, and Amherst. She wanted to overcome the stigma of being a rich daddy’s girl. Wearing casual clothes and driving herself to the meet-and-greets was a hit. She was no longer Abigail Morgan, candidate for the United States Senate. She became Abbie.

  “Abigail, good morning,” said Morgan, who joined her with a bowl of oatmeal. “It has been a long time since I enjoyed oatmeal. I suppose it will become the norm for a while.”

  Abbie remained quiet. She spooned into the bowl of porridge, secretly wishing Papa Bear would leave her alone. He did not.

  “I know that my explanations are falling on deaf ears. I won’t try to make you understand the difficult decisions I have made. But I hope that you know, as your father, your safety will always take priority over any matter we face.”

  “Why did we leave Drew behind?” Abbie blurted out.

  “I am sorry about that, Abigail. I will forever appreciate his heroics in saving you and shielding you from harm. But the pilot said we were at risk of being stranded. We would have met the same fate had we not left.”

  You mean the pilot that was whisked away in the middle of the night by one of Brad’s men? How convenient.

  Abbie took a deep breath and finally turned to look her father in the eye for the first time in twenty-four hours.

  “I loved him, Father, and this will hurt me for a long, long time,” started Abbie, fighting back the tears. Somehow, she regained her composure. “I don’t want to discuss the events of yesterday with you ever again. There are no words to help me overcome the loss of Drew.”

  Morgan nodded his head. “I am sorry, dear.”

  “I know,” replied Abbie. “The country is in trouble, Father. It has been for some time. This attack, whatever it is, could destroy America.”

  Morgan relaxed, and a sense of relief came over his face.

  You’re welcome, Father. I’ve let you off the hook.

  “For the last several years, we’ve gone through a period of tumult and upheaval,” said Morgan. “One might say that America has survived periods like this before.”

  “This has been different,” interrupted Abbie. “Our politics, culture, education, economics and religious beliefs became so polarized that our nation could no longer resolve its differences. The America created by our forefathers—our ancestors—was ceasing to exist.”

  Morgan took Abbie’s empty bowl and put it with his. He led her toward a picnic table, where they sat next to each other.

  “The impact of our disarray is not restricted to our borders,” said Morgan. “Our country has become the center of global politics and economics. I believe the growing global conflicts are directly related to America’s failure to govern ourselves, caused in part by the polarization you mention.”

  “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

  “But it does, Abigail. America is due for a revolution. We have reached a point of crisis where our republic will disintegrate due to lack of cooperation, or our woes will be addressed by a drastic change resulting in a revolution. Sadly, this cyber attack may be the catalyst our nation needs to either come together as one or eliminate through attrition those who cannot survive.”

  “What do you mean by that, Father?” asked Abbie.

  “When faced with adversity, as my father would say, some people have the ability to hitch up their pants and deal with a problem head-on. When this country was founded, Americans were self-reliant and strived for self-sufficiency. The assistance of the government was a necessary evil, not a crutch to help them get through life. Compare that to the Americans of today. Over half of them are on some form of government subsidy to meet their necessities. When faced with a natural disaster—whether hurricane, tornado, or earthquake, most people look to the government for help. When this country was at its strongest, Americans looked to themselves first, then to their community or church.”

  “We were self-reliant,” added Abbie.

  “Yes, dear, and we looked to each other for assistance in a time of need, not the government.”

  “So which direction is our nation headed—revolution or self-sufficiency?” asked Abbie.

  “It depends. It could require one to effectuate the other. Our nation has been through this before, although not of this magnitude. From the 1800s until the Civil War, the battle over states’ rights was raging. History has been rewritten in this respect. Our nation was designed to be a Republic—a form of government that places power in the hands of the people. It was never intended to become this massive bureaucracy with power centralized in Washington. The Southern states fought over the issue of states’ rights—with slavery being the impetus.”

  “That’s not the version taught to high school history students,” added Abbie.

  “Correct,” answered Morgan. “George Orwell, discussing the teaching of history, once said in Joseph Stalin’s Soviet Union, yesterday’s weather could be changed by decree. In the name of political correctness, America is not immune from this totalitarian impulse either.” Morgan took in a deep breath and let out a sigh.

  He continued. “Following the Great Depression, our country rallied around itself during a time of war. Having a common enemy allowed Americans to put aside any differences they had out of a sense of patriotism. In my opinion, that was the high point of our country’s moral greatness. It has declined steadily since.”

  “So what happens now?” asked Abbie.

  “Our nation has endured many problems,” responded Morgan. “It shall survive the collapse of its societal morals and values as well. Americans will rally to help each other, or they will perish waiting on an inept and overb
urdened government to take care of them. If people of like mind rally to a life of self-reliance like our forefathers, I believe we will come out stronger than ever. If the people choose to look to the government for help, they will perish.”

  “The cyber attack acts as a reset of sorts, doesn’t it?” asked Abbie.

  “I couldn’t have said it better, dear.”

  The two sat quietly for several minutes. There was activity around 1PP as the soldiers took turns eating breakfast. Otherwise, Quabbin Reservoir was serene and beautiful. Abbie broke the silence. She turned towards her father and took his hand. She knew he was troubled, downcast.

  “Thank you, Father. I feel better.” A smile found his face, which warmed her heart. He means well.

  “Am I interrupting?” said Donald, as he interrupted their moment.

  “No. No, Donald. Of course not,” replied Abbie.

  “I would like to show you both something,” said Donald. Donald picked up their bowls and led them toward 1PP. “Abbie, it’s been a while since you were here. Sir, we haven’t discussed the final preparations I’ve implemented. I hope you approve.”

  “Well, Mr. Quinn,” started Morgan, “I am confident you have spent our money wisely.”

  “Let’s just say that I spent it wisely, and timely. Follow me, please.”

  Abbie took her father’s arm as they followed Donald. She wanted to make it clear to everyone that she and her father were okay. There is no room for family discord during the apocalypse.

  Donald led them inside and gave the empty bowls of oatmeal to Penny in the kitchen. Morgan and Abbie waited for him at the hidden passage.

  After they descended the spiral staircase to the underground levels, Donald showed them the updated library, a dedicated room for hydroponic gardening, and a newly created war room of sorts. This space controlled all of the security cameras and communications within the compound. Within a few days, it would also be connected to the audio-visual system at 100 Beacon. Donald described each room in great detail as they made their way through the underground bunker.

  “Everything is state of the art,” said Donald. “There is one last thing I would like to show you in the library.” He led them back into the room and removed a large Webster’s Dictionary from the shelf. Behind it was a compartment door that contained a biometric entry device similar to the touchpads installed at 100 Beacon.

  “I will program this for both of you today,” said Donald as he placed his palm on the touch pad. A series of gears and locks sprang to life behind them. After the sounds had subsided, one of the bookcases popped forward slightly.

  “Very James Bond.” Abbie laughed.

  Donald smiled as he slipped past them to the partially opened bookcase.

  He turned it ninety degrees, revealing a passage and a thick glass door. “This glass door, made by Armortex, is blast proof. It’s designed to absorb the energy generated by the bomb blast and disperse it. The explosion is more likely to kill the attacker than it is to breach the door.”

  Donald walked up to an eye scanner and pressed a button. “This entry device scans both the retina and the iris. Ocular-based identification reads the most unique form of our physiological characteristics—the eyes. As Abbie knows, one of my concerns at 100 Beacon is that an assailant could gain access to the upper floors by removing our hand to access the keypad.”

  “Mr. Quinn, is that likely?” asked Morgan.

  “Sir, I try not to overlook any possibilities. Ocular-based identification removes that risk. You cannot remove an eyeball and open the locks to this door.”

  “Why is this so important here, Donald?” asked Abbie. Donald looked into the lenses, and the door locks released. He led them inside.

  “Because of this.” Donald stood out of the way to allow Morgan and Abbie entry to the vault.

  “My God,” exclaimed Abbie. “Is this real?”

  “Of course it is, my dear,” answered Morgan. “Well done, Mr. Quinn.” Morgan slowly walked down the twelve-foot span of one-kilogram fine gold bars from Switzerland. Abbie walked in the other direction, randomly picking up similarly stamped one-kilogram bars of silver.

  “These are heavy,” said Abbie, holding the roughly thirty-five-ounce silver bar. “How much is this worth?”

  “We purchased the majority of this when market conditions favored it, did we not, Mr. Quinn?” asked Morgan.

  “Yes, sir. The silver was purchased at approximately fifteen dollars per ounce, and the gold was one thousand one hundred dollars per ounce. The silver bar you’re holding was worth five hundred dollars or so at the time of purchase. It’s probably worth four times that now.”

  “More, Mr. Quinn. Much more.”

  Abbie walked around the room in amazement. She tried to fathom the value of the gold and silver that was stacked to the ten-foot ceiling. She ran her fingers through her hair and gathered the courage to ask.

  “How much?”

  “More than one hundred million dollars initial cost,” replied Donald. “Today’s value is unknown.”

  Abbie looked at her father. He was calculating.

  He muttered, “Much more.”

  Chapter 52

  Monday, September 5, 2016

  11:11 a.m.

  1st Battalion, 25th Marines HQ

  Fort Devens, Massachusetts

  Brad entered the briefing room and immediately told his men at ease. A courier had arrived via helicopter from the USNORTHCOM at Peterson AFB in Colorado. Since the cyber event, as the White House insisted the cyber attack be called, the Defense Department had become leery of the security of their communications. Also, Homeland Security was playing a more active role in the military’s decision making. This made Brad nervous. When Brad entered the briefing room and found Agent Joe Pearson of the Federal Protective Services standing at the head of the table, red flags began to wave furiously.

  “Hello, Colonel Bradlee,” greeted Pearson.

  Brad nodded as he walked to his regular chair at the head of the conference table.

  “You might recall that we met last April in your office.”

  I remember. You had a lot to say about insurrection.

  “I do. What brings our friends from FPS to Fort Devens? Aren’t there federal buildings to protect?”

  Some of Brad’s staff shifted uneasily in their chairs. Brad had no intention of making Pearson’s job easy.

  “That’s why I’m here, Colonel. As you know, our worst fears have been realized. The cyber event has damaged our critical infrastructure from coast to coast. Only the Texas Interconnection remains intact in the lower forty-eight.”

  “We’ve heard. How can we help you?”

  “Homeland Security is reassigning certain assets to assist the military with its new role in light of the cyber event. Over the next several days, FPS advisors will be assigned to strategic military installations to serve in an advisory role to the base commanders.” Here it comes.

  “I have two more installation briefings to conduct, and then I will be returning to Fort Devens to assist you on behalf of Homeland Security.” Fabulous.

  “That is very kind of you, Agent Pearson, but my accomplished staff is capable, and we have always followed the orders issued to us like good soldiers. I believe there are some facilities where a man of your talents can be more useful.”

  Pearson took off his glasses and set them on a file folder he dropped on the conference table. He became antagonistic. “Colonel, I recall my April visit with you as if it was the other day. You have a way of using humor to make your points. Agent Nemechek made a similar assessment. I hope you understand this. My assignment to you by Homeland Security, which carries the full weight of the President behind it, is not an offer. It is an order, sir. I hope that you can respect that, and we can work together accordingly.”

  Brad studied Pearson for a moment and then leaned back in his chair and laughed. His aides were unsure how to react.

  “Well, Agent Pearson, welcome aboard. I have neve
r refused an order, regardless of how asinine it is. It is my duty as a soldier. Now, can we get down to business and the substance of this briefing so you can be on your merry way?” Brad’s sarcasm garnered chuckles from his fellow soldiers.

  “Yes, please,” replied Pearson. “There is much to discuss.”

  The only thing to discuss is how to keep you the fuck out of my way. “Well, let’s get to it, shall we?” asked Brad as he nodded to his aides.

  “Okay,” started Pearson as he distributed briefing folders to everyone in the room. “We have actionable intelligence from Clear Air Force Base in Alaska that fishing trawlers are reporting an increase in Russian vessel activity near the Aleutian Islands. We have tracked Russian troop movement into their newly established Arctic military facilities. By our best estimate, they have deployed one hundred eighty thousand troops, two hundred and twenty aircraft, forty-nine ships, and two dozen submarines to the region. These new troop movements come in addition to the submarines that have been patrolling our Atlantic seaboard for months.”

  “I am aware the Russians have established an Arctic Joint Strategic Command,” said Brad, who was more serious now. “Some reports claimed this was military posturing as part of Putin’s desire to show off his military might. Another theory is the Russians were protecting their valuable oil fields above the Arctic Circle. What do you think, Agent Pearson?”

  “Well, I don’t know what Russia is thinking,” replied Pearson. “It’s likely they were just protecting their economic interests.”

  “From whom? Who is threatening the Russian oil fields in the Arctic?”

  “Uhm, I don’t know that anyone is,” replied Pearson. “Most likely he’s showing his capabilities as a deterrent.”

  “Okay. What else do you have for us?” This is a waste of time. He came here under the guise of an intel briefing. FPS and Homeland Security have other things on their mind.