Battle Road

by Gerry, Frank

  A song from the outlawed rock group Nemesis began playing on the sound system as Dylan and Tien squeezed into the crowded room. Tien sat on the armchair of a couch. Dylan sat next to her on an ottoman he pulled over to the side. “Dylan, my man, how's it going?” Brooks called out over the chatter when he saw Dylan sitting down across the room. He was half in the bag. Dylan nodded and forced a smile to his friend.

  About twenty people filled the living room. The topic of discussion was the recent violence that appeared to be escalating around the city. Everyone was telling of what they saw or heard. Brooks, buzzed and forgetting his earlier agreement with Dylan, had already disclosed the details of the events he witnessed at the fraternity in Boston.

  Stephanie, whom Dylan had met earlier in the kitchen, was nestled into a leather armchair with Joanne, was the next to speak, “I saw troops exchanging gunfire with two masked gunman in the middle of Boylston Street by the old Prudential Tower.” She ran her fingers along the back of Joanne's neck absentmindedly as she spoke. “Both gunmen were killed along with at least four innocent bystanders. And just like Brooksie said, there was no stories about it on the news. I checked every news station, internet news, blog postings. There was nothing,” she said, looking around the room checking to see whether people actually believed her.

  Rick, a boyish looking twenty something with a heavy Boston accent spoke next. “There's fight'n go'in on everywhere in the metro area and the gava'ment is keep'n it quiet. I've talk'd with friends who've seen shit happ'n in Somerville and Dorchest'ah. It's like a fuck'n uprisin.” Dylan gave Brooks a glance, So he wasn't bullshiting me with his story.

  Joanne spoke up, “Yesterday I drove over the Mass Ave bridge and I saw that they're building concrete fortifications. Both sides of the bridge. They looked like bunkers for roadblocks.” She took a sip of her white wine, then added, “I'm getting a little scared by all this.”

  Tien gave a slight shake of her head to David Whitney standing off to the side of the living room. He nodded back, then walked into the center of the room, “Hey, I think people need drinks, come on this is a party! What do you say, Joanne, Rick, Dylan? Who wants what?” The woman, who's name Dylan thought was either Julie or Julia, opened a cooler next to her and started handing out cans of beer.”Come on people, let's party,” she said, while cracking open her own can of brew.

  Marla stood up and ran her hand through Brooksie's hair before making her way over to Tien. Leaning over, she spoke lightly, “Hey can I talk to you for a second.” Tien looked at Dylan, then trailed Marla into into the dinning room.

  Allowing a couple of seconds to elapse, Brooks got up and sat next to Dylan on the ottoman. “I can't drive you home tonight buddy. I'm taking Marla back to my place,” Brooks spoke quietly. He couldn't prevent himself from glancing over over at Marla. “No problem. I expected it as usual,” Dylan said. He tried to be nonchalant, looking around the room before stealing a glance at Tien. “Looks like things are going good between the two of you,” Brooks said, then added, “She's smoking hot, man.” Dylan looked over at Tien once more, “Yeah, she's amazing.”

  Marla and Brooks made a quick exit out of the apartment without a lot of fanfare. They had one thing on their minds. The party had shifted away from the talk of the scary events throughout the city and got back to the usual fun.

  David Whitney approached Tien and Dylan with two very full drink glasses in his hands. “I saw that you didn't have any refreshments so I took the liberty of making you a couple of drinks,” he said. He carefully handed one of the drinks to Dylan. “A vodka tonic for the gentleman.” Then handed the other to Tien, “And a diet coke with a with a slice of lime for the lady.” Tien reach over for her drink, “Thanks David.” “Yeah, Thanks a lot David,” Dylan added. “You're welcome,” David said, spinning on his heals and heading back to the kitchen.

  By one thirty in the morning the party was thinning out. Tien looked around the room, “Looks like it's time to get going. You want a ride? Your driver left with my roommate.”

  “Yeah, I could use a ride. Thanks.”

  “Great, lets get going then.”

  The digital clock read ten past two in the morning as Tien pulled her Lexus into the circular driveway at the main entrance to Dylan's high-rise condominium.

  “I had fun tonight. I really enjoyed meeting you,” she said, putting the car in park.

  “It was a pleasant surprise meeting you. I had no idea what Joanne was getting me into. But I'm glad she introduced us,” Dylan said.

  “Yeah, I thought the same thing. I've always had the worst experiences getting fixed up. I was surprised too.”

  Dylan finally garnered up his courage, “Are you free next Friday night? I know a great place for sushi in the Back Bay. It's really good.” Tien frowned and shook her head slightly, “Oh, I can't. I've got plans Friday night.” Dylan defensively cut right in, “Oh, OK, well some other...” Tien stopped him from uttering another word, “You didn't let me finish. Next Friday is one of my girlfriends birthdays. But I'm free tomorrow night if you don't have any plans. I'd be free next Saturday night as well.”

  Dylan smiled and thought for a moment, “Yeah, tomorrow night is good.”

  “That sushi place. Were you talking about Maki Maki?” she asked.

  “Yes, that's it. Have you been there?”

  “No I haven't but everyone is saying it's the best in town. Here let me give you my number and address,” she said, pulling out her v-phone, tapping an icon, and holding it up in the air. Dylan hit an icon on his phone, then watched the data transfer display. “OK, I have it.”

  In the soft glow of the dashboard lights, Dylan looked into Tien's eyes, trying to act cool and nonchalant. “So, how about I pick you up at seven tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, that works for me. I'll see you then.” She paused, “So I guess this is good night.”

  “OK, I'll see you tomorrow,” he said while opening the door and stepping out. He walked over and stood by the entrance to his building, watching her drive away.

  TWELVE

  At five minutes to four on Saturday evening, David Whitney adjusted his eye glasses while standing on the corner of Massachusetts Ave and Beacon Street. He was dressed in old jeans and a mid length black leather jacket. He wore a dark blue baseball cap, with the visor pressed down to conceal his identity as much as possible. A nylon duffel bag was strapped across his back. His head still throbbed from the night before, no amount of aspirin seemed to help.

  He walked over and pretended to read the menu on the window to a restaurant at the corner, trying to blend into the busy street. From his vantage point he could see the newly constructed military checkpoint on the near side of the Mass Ave Bridge. Where he stood, the arc of the bridge prevented him from being able to view the checkpoint on the far side. Though, he knew it was there.

  The sun was setting fast, but there was still enough light to observe the checkpoint. It appeared to be hastily constructed using large pre-cast concrete blocks to form a roughly ten foot by ten foot square bunker with a single steel door and no windows. The edifice was situated half atop the sidewalk and half jutting into the street. Mounted on top were a myriad of lights and cameras. The two outbound lanes were merged into a single lane to allow room for the concrete bunker and a pedestrian checkpoint walkway. It was designed to control and monitor the flow of both cars and people. From the reports dispatched from Command, construction was underway for similar checkpoints on all of the bridges in the metropolitan area.

  Whitney counted two uniformed Homeland Security soldiers manning the closest checkpoint. It didn't appear to be operational as of yet. The gates for the road and walkway remained in the upright position as traffic freely moved past. The armed soldiers walked back and forth, not really doing anything other than trying to look busy. Or rather, trying to look menacing with their M4's slung across their chests. The soldiers were probably just waiting for their orders from central command for the post to become operational.


  By five past four, Whitney finished his scouting work and walked up Massachusetts Avenue in the opposite direction from the bridge. He took the right at Commonwealth Ave. Twenty yards from the intersection he stopped to talk with a white man leaning nonchalantly against a wrought iron fence reading a tourist map. The man looked young, no more than nineteen or twenty. He wore an old faded black and gold Bruins 2031 Stanley Cup championship hat.

  David spoke first, “Excuse me, would you know where I could find a good pizza place around here?” The young man responded, “I don't know. I'm into Texas ribs myself.” The code words were correct. The two men shook hands. “Just call me Joe. What's the situation?” The anonymous man inquired quietly while removing the Bruins hat to wipe his forehead. Whitney looked around carefully. “It's a go. Two DHS troopers armed with M4's. Our people are in place across the river. They have in their sight two DHS soldiers on the other embankment.”

  “Good. I'm glad they're not National Guard,” Joe informed his new accomplice. Whitney looked around again, “OK, so you got everything?” Joe looked around, as well, before responding. “Yeah, I've got everything.” “Good, Any other questions with the plan?” David Whitney wanted all bases covered. Joe shook his head, ”Nope.”

  Whitney studied his watch, “One minute. We have to get our timing right.” Joe grew antsy, “I know, I know.” The digital watch read 4:20. “OK, lets do it,” Whitney said. The two men gave a final survey of the area before heading off. They walked back in the direction of Mass Ave then left towards the bridge. Reaching the intersection of Beacon Street, the men separated on queue. Whitney removed the duffel bag from across his back and slung it over his right shoulder. He picked up his pace to get about twenty feet ahead of “Joe”. The foot traffic on the sidewalk leading to the bridge was light. There were only three people between Whitney and Joe, a forty something Asian couple holding hands and a tall, dark skinned student who looked to be from India or Pakistan. Several people were walking in front of Whitney, separated by maybe twelve to fifteen feet.

  Approaching the checkpoint, Joe tried to move in closer. He walked as close to the Pakistani student as he could without appearing odd. He needed to get his timing right. At that point, he was perhaps fifteen feet back. Good enough. Whitney adjusted his hat lower over his face as he approached the checkpoint. He was sweating nervously. He walked past the first soldier, who stood in the blocked off area of the street perhaps ten or twelve feet before the concrete bunker. The soldier was looking at the oncoming cars, not paying attention to the pedestrian traffic.

  A moment later Whitney reached the bunker where the second soldier stood. He came up alongside the soldier, standing a couple of feet off to his right side. Whitney dropped the duffel bag and rushed the man. In one swift motion, he pulled out of his jacket a 9mm automatic handgun and using his left hand pushed the M4 assault rifle hard against the soldiers chest. The Homeland Security soldier looked stunned. He was helpless as he watched the barrel of the automatic handgun lifted to his forehead. Whitney fired a single shot before the man could blink. The soldiers' helmet was all that prevented his brain and skull fragments from splattering across the concrete outer wall of the bunker.

  The Asian women behind David Whitney stopped in her tracks and screamed in horror. Her husband, in a protective manner, pushed her off to the side and onto the ground. The other civilians in the vicinity hit the ground at the same moment.

  The other soldier, hearing the discharge of a weapon, turned to see his buddy's lifeless body slumping down against the wall of the bunker. Whitney swung his handgun around to take aim at the soldier. The trooper brought his weapon to bear at the exact instant. Before either could take a shot, Joe squeezed the trigger of his 45 caliber handgun point blank into the back of the soldiers neck, killing him instantly. “Fuck'n, Motherfuck'in Nazi,” he shouted while firing several more rounds into the still twitching body of the soldier as he lay on the ground. Joe holstered his gun then began kicking the dead body violently. Whitney grabbed his bag and shouted, “Get going!”

  The small crowd of pedestrians had scampered away from the checkpoint area. Traffic on the Boston side of the bridge had stopped. Drivers started abandoning their vehicles and running for cover. Joe crossed the street to the oncoming traffic of the bridge. He pulled out a flare from his jacket, ignited it, and held it above his head for a few seconds to stop the cars from reaching the concrete checkpoint. It was also the signal to their people stationed on the Cambridge side of the river. Within two or three seconds, the DHS soldiers on the Cambridge side bunker came under automatic weapons fire from several of the buildings on Memorial Drive. The soldiers took cover in their bunker, effectively pinning them down.

  Joe dropped his flare onto the middle of the road as soon as the cars were stopped and ran back towards the checkpoint. Inside the concrete bunker, Whitney was on his knees setting the charge to the C4-B explosives packed into the green duffel bag. Joe reached the doorway of the bunker, peered inside, then backed out to keep a lookout. He alternated between keeping his eyes on the timer of his watch and for movement in any direction.

  Ten seconds passed, then fifteen. Joe stared at his watch nervously. He shuffled backwards into the doorway. “Time's running out. We're at twenty seconds, man!” Whitney worked feverishly to insert the last of the detonator wires into the plastic explosives. “Ten seconds. ....... five,” Joe counted down the seconds that remained if they wanted to get away cleanly before any hover drones could possibly arrive. “Zero.” Whitney finished setting the detonators and hauled himself up and towards the door in one motion. “Lets go!”

  They ran back towards the Boston side of the river, then down the ramp to the bicycle path along the Charles River. They looked up from time to time as they ran. Their luck was holding out, no drones yet. At the end of the ramp the men separated. Joe taking a left, Whitney taking a right. Neither man saying a word nor making a gesture of goodbye as they took their different escape routes. They had only seconds remaining.

  The blast went off as planned. The interior of the bunker and the makeshift roof were completely destroyed. The concrete wall closest to the blast partially crumbled, while the other three walls remained intact if not a bit charred. No civilian casualties. Whitney labored deeply for air as he ran, paying no attention to the explosion. He made it fifty yards down the bike path to the car pulled over on Storrow Drive. Onrushing cars swerved to avoid hitting the parked car, blaring their horns as they drove past. Whitney climbed over the vehicle barrier, panting like a dog, and got into the car. Joanne Neely sat behind the wheel. “Get in, close that fucking door,” she yelled frantically. Whitney moved slower than she would have liked. “I can't run that far next time,” he said while closing the door and trying to catch his breath. Joanne paid no attention. She floored the gas pedal, screeching the tires as she sped the car away.

  At about the same instant, Joe reached his destination. Under a grove of Norway maple trees in the Charles River Park, a man sat on a Harley motorcycle revving the engine. Joe jumped on the rear seat of the bike, putting on the helmet his accomplice held out for him. The back tire of the motorcycle spun in the dirt as they made their way to the nearby exit through the vehicle barrier on Storrow Drive.

  Entering the roadway, Joe heard the familiar crackling sound of electrified plasma. Looking up, he saw what he feared the most: a hockey puck shaped hover drone flying overhead. It had stopped in mid air, and remained stationary fifty feet above their heads. Joe tapped the driver of the bike on the shoulder and pointed upwards. “Fuck!” the man screamed. He gunned the bike, and roared down Storrow Drive. The hover drone followed in pursuit. The Homeland Security pilots in the control center had probably spotted the suspicious motorcycle by pure chance.

  The driver pushed the Harley to maximum throttle. The hover drone was in full pursuit. The motorcycle reached fifty miles per hour, leaving the drone easily behind them. A second hover drone came at them from ahead, joining the chase. It to
o soon fell further back, as the motorcycle hit sixty, then seventy miles per hour on Storrow Drive. The men weaved in and around the cars traveling on the roadway. The hover drones fell out of sight. The driver pushed the bike even faster, eighty then eighty five miles per hour. Other drones joined the chase, only to be left in the dust.

  The men were in the clear from the pursuing machines. These latest model hover drones were intended for monitoring city streets. Their top speed of only thirty five miles an hour was never designed to chase fleeing vehicles. Joe let out a sigh of relief at just the same moment he heard his driver yell, “Shit!”

  Joe looked up to see the traffic on Storrow Drive coming to a stop. The bike skidded to a halt. With nowhere to go, the driver steered the Harley over to the right, squeezing in between the cars in the right lane and the vehicle barrier. The four pursuing aerial drones caught up with the men. There was no openings to the vehicle barrier in sight.

  The driver steered the bike onto the center lane, and gunned it as fast as he could manage. It wasn't fast enough. The targeting laser from the lead hover drone landed on Joe's back. A moment later, the driver of the motorcycle saw an opening in the roadway vehicle barrier, cutting off a car to make their escape.

  On the other side of the vehicle barrier was the Charles River Bike path. The same path Joe ran on minutes earlier, a mile or so back, to get to his getaway motorcycle. “Floor it!” Joe yelled. The driver accelerated as fast as he could on the bike path. A second drone targeted the men, two red dots marked Joe's back.