Rodriguez disappeared down the stairwell before Alex could say a word.
“You gonna stand there all day?” asked the marine.
“No. Sorry,” said Alex, stepping into the dark hallway.
“NVGs,” said the marine, shutting the door and casting the hallway into complete darkness. “Fuckers across the river have some night vision capability. We’ve moved twice already.”
Alex flipped his night vision goggles down and followed the marine left. A night-vision-equipped helmet peeked around the corner at the end of the hallway. They slid past the hidden sentry, who reported their approach through his headset, and walked halfway down the long hallway to a door on the left.
“Welcome to platoon headquarters. Stay low, but don’t crawl. There’s glass everywhere,” he said, opening the door.
He followed the marine inside and scanned the room.
“This was your third choice?”
“At first we thought the Rain Man suite would be too obvious. Turns out it doesn’t matter where we set up. Bar is to the left—don’t mind the snipers,” he said. “Captain Baker, our battalion guest is here.”
“Bring him out, Staff Sergeant,” said a voice from the far right.
A crack shattered the quiet, flaring his night vision. Alex whipped his head left. A sniper team was set up behind the bar, their instruments of long-range death aimed across the room toward the empty windows facing the river. Seated on bar stools, they had adjusted the stool height to perfectly accommodate using the bar as a platform for the rifle and spotting scope. The sniper pulled back on the bolt and ejected the spent casing onto the shell-littered granite slab, sliding another round into place.
“I can’t see him anymore. Looked like a hit,” said the spotter.
“Busy night?” said Alex.
“Getting busier. Captain is out on the patio.”
They walked over broken glass to a wide patio spanning the entire length of the suite. Two marines crouched along the front of the patio wall, scanning the distance through their rifle optics. Three sat against the back wall of the patio under an empty trellis. An array of radios sat on the tile floor, cables snaking out to several tripod-mounted antennas next to the outer wall.
“Over here,” said one of the marines along the back wall.
They approached, staying crouched below the top of the patio wall.
“Grab a seat, Mr. Fletcher. The CO speaks highly of you. Sorry to drag you up here, but I have a little problem you might be able to help me with. I’m told you have a thermal scope?” said Captain Baker.
“It’s not rifle mounted,” said Alex.
“Even better. The battalion’s Raven is busy up north, and I think we’ve got a problem under the BU Bridge. There’s an old rail bridge that passes under it. I have a team watching it from the boathouse, but there’s still a shitload of intact foliage down there. We’ve caught some movement on night vision, but I’d like to take a look with thermals before I send a team,” said Baker.
“Be my guest,” said Alex, pulling his assault pack off and digging into one of the pouches.
“Excellent. It’s a little embarrassing, but we have no thermals. It was supposed to go into the response kit, but it never happened.”
“Was all of this part of a special kit?” said Alex.
“Comms gear and vehicles, yes. The rest is battalion issue. We didn’t have many equipment failures. Everything has been EMP hardened over the past five years,” said Baker, taking the scope. “Let’s have a look.”
They scooted to the forward wall, moving the two marines out of the way. Baker poked his head over the top and aimed the scope down Memorial Drive, toward the Boston University Bridge. He made a few minor adjustments and settled in, leaning against the concrete patio wall. The platoon commander keyed his Motorola.
“Boathouse, I have six thermal signatures about one hundred feet from your position, right along the riverbank. I’m going to roll one of the JLTVs right up Memorial onto them. Make sure they don’t slip by the boathouse,” he said. “Sniper section, up!”
He heard the sniper team scrambling over to their position along the wall.
“Set up right here,” said Baker, patting the balcony wall next to them. “Targets along the riverbank, one hundred feet from the boathouse.”
“Copy,” said the spotter from behind them.
Alex watched him extend the legs of the Scout Sniper Spotting Scope and position the optic. The sniper joined him, resting the feet of his rifle’s bipod on the top of the balcony wall. He started adjusting the AN/PVS-22 night vision scope immediately.
“Six hundred and fifty feet to the right front corner of the boathouse. I have no hostiles in sight. Can I get an IR mark?” said the spotter.
“I don’t know if it’s worth it,” said Baker, turning to Alex. “They can see the mark across the river. We’ll start taking fire.”
A snap passed overhead.
“Already taking fire,” said the spotter.
“Surprise, surprise,” said Baker. “Ramsey, send Raider Two-One. We’ll mark the targets for them. Fletcher, I’m going to guide your IR laser onto the group hiding by the river.”
Alex rose above the top of the balcony wall and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the concrete. Two successive snaps passed nearby, causing him to flinch.
“Nowhere close,” said Baker.
“Sounded close enough,” said Alex.
The spotter next to him said, “If you hear it go by, you’re good to go.”
“Funny,” muttered Alex, triggering his IR laser.
“Left and down—bring it back a little to the right—down a little—little more. Hold that,” Baker directed. “You guys got anything at that mark?”
“Affirmative. Movement along the riverbank, heading away from the boathouse. Range seven-five-zero feet, estimated. Too much foliage down there. Marking targets,” said the spotter.
A second green laser reached out from the balcony. The M40A6 rifle barked, drowning out the sound of the JLTV’s roaring diesel engine.
“Hit. Range eight-zero-zero.”
The rifle thundered again, and all hell broke loose on Memorial Drive. The M240G machine gun mounted to the JLTV’s turret fired an extended burst at the terminal point of the IR lasers. Red tracers streamed into the darkness, briefly illuminating the bushes, before ricocheting skyward across the river. The vehicle crept forward, mercilessly hammering the riverbank. The sniper rifle cracked. Adrenaline surged, and Alex’s breathing shallowed. His thumb touched the safety and his index finger caressed the trigger. A few muscle twitches and he could put some rounds downrange.
Nothing good would come of it.
“I see one hostile on the move. Headed toward the rail bridge,” said Baker. “The rest are down. No movement. Ramsey, have Raider Two-One deploy their fire team to confirm five KIA. We don’t need any surprises.”
“Got it, sir,” replied one of the marines by the radios at the back of the patio.
“We’ll mop this up and get you on—” said Baker, interrupted by a long burst from the M240G machine gun.
“Raider Two-One confirms hits to a single hostile trying to climb over the fence at the rail bridge,” said Ramsey.
A sharp crack dropped all of the marines to the patio tile.
“That’s what we call close,” said the spotter.
Captain Baker slowly raised his head back above the balcony wall. A distant metallic ping sounded from Memorial Drive.
“JLTV is taking accurate fire,” said Sergeant Ramsey from the back patio wall.
“Roger. Get Raider Two-One back to the staging area,” replied Baker, reaching out to grab the spotter’s arm.
“Set up inside again. I want you to find whoever is putting those rounds out. Sooner or later, they’re gonna get lucky.”
“Roger that, sir. Hey, is there any way our guy here might be willing to leave the thermal scope behind? Sure make our job a lot easier,” said the sniper.
/> “I’ll trade it for some sniper coverage on my way out,” said Alex.
“You headed somewhere?”
“You’ve seen the three identical buildings across the river?” asked Alex.
“Yes. Stacked up like dominoes. Fourteen stories each. One thousand, four hundred and thirty eight feet to the right corner of the rightmost building.”
“My son lives on the sixth floor of the leftmost building. Room 622. Faces the middle building. I’m getting him out of there,” said Alex.
“You’re not serious,” said the spotter, picking up his scope.
“Deadly serious. We got a deal?”
“I can cover you up to Storrow Drive, unless Battalion is willing to break out the fifties,” said the sniper.
“Lieutenant Colonel Grady won’t bend on that,” said Baker.
“Not yet,” said the sniper.
“Your .308 will work fine. I just want to avoid a riverside welcoming committee.”
“We’ll use the thermal scope to find any pickets along the waterfront. My guys will clear a path. We’ll also mark any other hostiles with IR laser. Steer you away from any bigger groups. Once you disappear behind the first row of buildings, it’s you and that rifle.”
“That’s all I’ll need.”
Chapter 42
EVENT +45:28 Hours
Hyatt Regency
Cambridge, Massachusetts
“You ready, boss?” Corporal Rodriguez inquired.
“Let’s do it,” said Alex, taking a deep breath.
Rodriguez rose from a crouch and walked toward the sliding glass doors at the edge of the lobby. The closed doors led to a moonlit breezeway connecting the hotel to the parking garage, where they could access the rear patio and emerge on the western edge of the hotel. The marine produced a set of keys and unlocked the sliding doors, muscling them far enough apart for them to squeeze through. He tossed the keys to a marine standing next to Alex.
“Coming back the same way,” said Rodriguez.
Alex looked surprised. “He’s not coming too?”
“We can only spare one babysitter for this,” said Rodriguez. “Piece of cake.”
“If you say so,” said Alex.
He plodded through the thick mud that had overwhelmed the entire lobby level of the hotel, feeling the crunch of broken glass between his boots and the marble floor. Like all of the buildings they’d passed on the ride down, most of the Regency’s windows had either imploded from the air blast or were shattered from the seismic shock. He squeezed through the door and joined Rodriguez in the muck-filled breezeway.
The marine lowered his NVGs and stepped through one of the shattered panes onto the back patio. Alex did the same, trying to step in the deep impressions left by Rodriguez’s boots. They plodded through the middle of the tables and collapsed umbrellas, pushing aside wrought-iron chairs to reach a tall stucco wall beyond a row of bushes.
Spanning the distance between the hotel and the parking garage, the wall formed the western boundary of the hotel. Rodriguez stood next to the wall and interlocked his fingers. Beyond the wall, an office building loomed, its few remaining windows reflecting bright green flashes of moonlight in his NVGs.
“You first. Check the other side for crazies before lifting me up,” said Rodriguez.
“I know the drill,” said Alex.
“Just checking. Been a while, right?”
“Sixteen years, but I feel it all coming back. Check the bottom of my boots for broken glass,” he said, lifting each foot for the marine.
“Good to go,” he said, taking Alex’s rifle.
Alex stepped onto his locked hands and launched upward, straddling the stucco wall. He made a quick assessment of the dark green shadows on the other side of the wall, seeing nothing out of place. A sea of mud separated the wall from the adjacent building. He reached down with his left hand and pulled Rodriguez up the wall.
“Just like the good ole days,” said Alex, taking his rifle back from Rodriguez.
“Not bad for an old man.”
Alex dropped to the mud, sinking to his knees. He scanned in both directions with his rifle and pulled his right leg out of the seaweed-encrusted mire with a slow sucking sound. Rodriguez thudded next to him and muttered a few obscenities.
“It’s not that bad once you break out of the impact crater,” whispered Alex.
“This is some serious-ass bullshit,” said Rodriguez.
“Haven’t you been out here?”
“Not on foot,” said Rodriguez.
“That’s encouraging.”
“Don’t worry, boss. You’re in good company. Hand signals from here to the river,” he said, stepping forward.
They hugged the hotel’s western side, staying behind thick rhododendron bushes until they reached the front corner. Memorial Drive was quiet, the dried mud and debris absorbing the full moon’s unfiltered rays. They faced a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot trek across open ground to reach the thick scrub east of the boathouse. Slow ground.
Their other option was to head directly across from the hotel, but the riverbank was bare and would provide no concealment from sharpshooters across the river. Alex would need at least five minutes to stow his gear in the watertight bag and strip down for the swim. Thick bushes near the boathouse would be their best option. Even if they were spotted leaving the hotel, they would disappear in the undergrowth. Alex could slip into the water unnoticed next to the boathouse. He tapped Rodriguez on the shoulder. Ready.
“Rodriguez moving to the riverbank,” whispered the marine into his helmet microphone.
They started out fast, legs fighting the mud as they shuffled diagonally across Memorial Drive. Alex shifted his rifle across their left flank, searching for any surprises east along the riverbank. A gunshot shattered the quiet, and he ducked. Rodriguez kept pushing across the road. Shadowy green buildings loomed across the river, superimposed over the naked trees. They were in the open and exposed to steel, unable to sprint. He forced his legs to pound and pull at the mud. Another crack echoed above them.
“Friendly fire,” whispered Rodriguez, “keep moving.”
By the time they reached the nearest clump of bushes, Alex’s legs burned. He made sure they were no longer exposed to the tall buildings across the river and leaned against a tree, lowering his body to a sitting position. Rodriguez crouched in front of him, scanning ahead along the water. Both of them breathed heavily. The marine held out his index finger, and Alex responded with a thumbs-up. A one-minute rest was all he would get.
Rodriguez set off at a slower pace toward the dark structure ahead, stopping to point at the thick cluster of bushes at the base of the boathouse’s eastern edge. A set of steps, barely discernible under the sludge, led down from Memorial Drive to a gate just beyond the bushes. Looked like a well-concealed place to put into the water. They arrived at the waterline, and Alex went to work.
Five minutes later, Alex waded into the Charles River, towing a rifle-length watertight bag through the mud. He submerged to his chest, inhaling sharply. Seconds later, he was fully immersed, bare feet planted in the river muck. The cuts across his body stung in unison, the pain fading quickly as he moved forward. He gave Rodriguez a nod and submerged, swimming underwater several feet toward the boathouse dock. His feet no longer touched the slimy bottom.
He surfaced slowly, raising his nose above the surface and exhaling quietly. The fixed dock was mostly destroyed. Formerly jetting into the river, thick planks of wood projected skyward in a twisted heap at the far end of the boathouse, casually swept aside by the wave of water travelling inland along the river. He saw no reason to swim any closer. He focused on the massive high-rise directly across the river and started to swim.
He didn’t feel the current, but he knew it was there. If he swam toward the high-rise, he’d still end up somewhere several hundred feet downriver. In fact, he counted on it. This would put him directly in front of his son’s dormitory building. A gun battle erupted somewhere in t
he distance. The crackle of rifle fire mixed with the deep, rhythmic thumping of a fifty-caliber machine gun for several seconds, stopping abruptly. They must have tried to cross one of the bridges further upriver.
The short duration of gunfire suggested the marines had put on a temporary display of fire. Enough to turn back the tide, temporarily. The situation was untenable, and Grady would eventually lose the city, no matter what his Homeland Security directives ordered. Alex desperately needed to be on the right side of the river before that happened. He might have to risk a daytime crossing. He’d slipped into the water at 2:46 AM, which didn’t leave him enough time to reach both kids and get back across at night. Not even close.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the high-rise ahead, and Alex dove for the bottom of the river, escaping the noise. He pulled at the water with his arms until the towrope attached to his belt yanked him to a stop, buoyed by the watertight bag. He turned left in the blackness and swam further. His lungs burning, he opened his eyes and slowly rose to the surface—blurry red flashes appearing overhead. Alex’s mouth cleared the water first, greedily sucking in the humid air. The sharp staccato battle rushed back to fill his ears.
Red tracers arched across the river from the Hyatt, bouncing downward off the face of the high-rise. Small explosions flashed across the building, stitched between the tracers’ impact points—fifty-caliber projectiles tearing into concrete and steel. An automatic rifle continued to fire from the high-rise, peppering the boathouse and dock. A single shot reached his ears, and the high-rise rifle fell silent. He kept a low profile in the water and kept swimming. The sudden, furious battle had been focused on the boathouse. Retribution for the massacre near the rail bridge, perhaps.
Halfway across the river, something hard bumped his head. He grabbed the obstruction, feeling a nose and teeth. A dark mass swung lazily with the current, lodging against his body. He kicked and pushed at the corpse, splashing the water for several seconds—until he realized what he had done. Alex submerged as far as the towline would allow, expecting to hear bullets slap the water in pursuit.
The Perseid Collapse (The Perseid Collapse Series 1) Page 34
