by Bobby Akart
“Sarge, you have so much on your plate right now. Maybe it’s time Steven’s men looked to a single person for their inspiration and instruction.”
Sarge stood silently, dumbfounded.
Steven had heard enough and stepped in. “Okay, Katie.”
“Steven, this is how we’ve always conducted these meetings. I give them the rah-rah speech, and you go over the nuts and bolts of the operation. I have no problem stepping aside to let you conduct the whole meeting.”
Steven was pissed. Katie should’ve kept her opinion to herself. This was an important night, and now there was a cloud of tension hanging over the three of them.
Katie held her hands up and said sarcastically, “I just thought you’d have more important things to do, that’s all.” She had to get the last word.
Sarge stood silently, looking back and forth between them. He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Okay.”
Steven leaned in and whispered to Sarge, “I’ve got this, bro.”
Steven walked to the front of the open room and rapped his knuckles on the old wooden desk. The idle talk between the Mechanics died down as they turned their attention toward Steven.
“Everybody, listen up. We need to get started.”
Steven took a deep breath and attempted to put the political infighting out of his mind. These were his men. He’d been building relationships with them for years. There was a mutual trust that Sarge did not enjoy with them. Now was his time to shine.
“Gentlemen, it’s time to start poking the bear!”
Shouts of choose freedom and hell yeah filled the room. Each of these men commanded a team of insurgents that had enjoyed success against the governor so far. But now a much greater challenge in the form of the UN forces threatened them.
“We’re gonna take them all on,” Steven continued. “The Citizen Corps, FEMA, DHS, and now the UN are all threatening our freedoms and the very fabric of this country. We will not let this happen!”
“Choose freedom!” they shouted.
“Many of you are ex-military and law enforcement. I’ve known some of you for years. We come from all walks of life. Some of you are Ivy Leaguers, others are former gang members. Some of you were born with a silver spoon in your mouths, and others grew up with no spoon at all.” Heads were nodding throughout the room, and men were slapping each other’s backs. The collapse had created a large family of diverse people.
“We’ve learned a lot in our lifetime. Teamwork is important because if we don’t work together, we will fail. In combat, failure can mean death.
“We learned tactics and strategy, discipline, and the importance of chain of command.” Steven caught Sarge staring at him intently. Was this speech for their benefit, his benefit, or mine?
“Together, we are all learning how to survive, to fight, and to push ourselves far beyond our comfort zone. Many of us have seen the horrors of war while fighting abroad. Many of you have seen the horrors of watching your neighbors starve to death.
“Despite the effect this tragedy has on our great country, one thing we all can agree upon is how fortunate we are to be Americans.”
“Yeah!” hollered several voices in the room. “God bless America,” yelled another.
“I would rather be an American under these circumstances than a Russian or North Korean or Iranian or ISIS fuck under any other!”
“Hell yeah! Choose freedom!” they responded in unison.
Steven allowed the cheers to die down and then he looked at his brother and smiled. Sarge remained impassive and cold. Steven shrugged it off and continued.
“Gentlemen, all hell is about to break loose. This governor is intent upon exerting his will over all of us. He has brought to our soil a foreign enemy under the disguise of a UN Peacekeeping force.”
“Bullshit!” a man in the rear of the room hollered.
“I agree, and that’s why we’re gathered here tonight,” Steven replied. “We have two missions waiting for us to undertake. Once successful, a war will begin for the hearts and souls of our fellow Bostonians and the rest of this country. They will see that our nation was not built on government handouts or with the help of foreign soldiers. Men founded America with independent freedom-loving hearts and minds. Tomorrow, we will send a clear message to the world!”
“Choose freedom!”
“That’s right, my friends, choose freedom!” Steven responded. “We will not fail in our mission. We will prevail. But know this, success is not a goal. It is a by-product of planning and preparation. Now, let’s get down to it.”
Chapter 16
Sunday, October 9, 2016
Dusk
Seaport District
Boston, Massachusetts
Gunny Falcone navigated the first of three nondescript Ford Econoline vans through the stalled vehicles on India Street as he cautiously approached the Wharf District Park. The three vans would cross the open intersection of Atlantic Avenue about five minutes apart. The Seaport was less than a mile to their south, and it was bustling with activity. This operation was going to be difficult to pull off without being noticed by the UN troops.
The second van would join him at the maintenance entrance to the southernmost of the two Harbor Towers. A pair of forty-floor condominium residences designed by revered architect I.M. Pei, the buildings provided incredible views of Boston Harbor and the Seaport.
The third van would move closer to the Seaport, taking up a position at Rowe’s Wharf. This cluster of hotels, shops, and businesses provided ample opportunities to strike the UN gunships, which were parked at Fan Pier Park on the northern tip of the Seaport District.
Falcone and his men understood there was a high probability of capture or even death. They were initiating an unprovoked attack on international troops who were in America ostensibly to lend assistance during the relief effort. Of course, Falcone and his fellow Marines knew better. They also knew the opportunity to undertake this mission was running out. After the altercation at Fort Devens, Governor O’Brien would instruct the UN to use force in order to disgorge the Marines from their base. Tonight’s attack would level the playing field.
The third van, carrying four Marines and an equal number of FIM-92 Stinger missiles, would get into position first. The four men would disperse in high and low hiding spots throughout the Rowe’s Wharf complex. Using their communications gear, they would coordinate the attack and then focus their attention on a potential counterattack. They would delay and distract the UN troops while the remainder of the team at Harbor Towers completed the op.
The first priority was to take out the Russian-made Mi-24, an attack helicopter equipped with Gatling guns, multiple ejector racks for bomb loads, and the S-8 heat-seeking rocket launchers. This aircraft could single-handedly eliminate 1PP, Fort Devens, and 100 Beacon within a two-hour flight.
“Alpha Leader, Mike One. Over,” said the unit leader positioned at Rowe’s Wharf. The designation Mike, or M in military alphabet code, was used because their mission was to eliminate the Mi-class helicopters.
“In position, Alpha Leader. Mike One out.”
“Roger, Mike One,” said Falcone. His Tango teams were so designated because their mission was to destroy the Russian-made but Indian Army-provided T-72 tanks. The T-72 had a storied military history dating back to the Afghanistan War that involved the Soviet Army in the eighties. Its reliable design and flexible characteristics made the T-72 a cornerstone of the UN forces’ armored fighting vehicles.
Falcone walked onto the balcony of a sixteenth-floor condominium unit at Harbor Towers. The high-rise unit provided him an unobstructed field of view of the Seaport and allowed him to place his teams. The challenge for the Tango team was to reach raised positions in the building without being noticed by any remaining residents. Carrying the forty-nine-pound FGM-148 Javelin antitank missiles up the many flights of stairs was a challenge for his most physical Marines. This southernmost tower was chosen because it had a direct line of sight to
the Seaport, and therefore a higher elevation was not critical.
He needed to make contact with another team—Steven’s. “Romeo Leader, Alpha Leader. Over.”
“Roger, Alpha.”
“Sitrep.”
“In position, awaiting your go,” said Steven.
“Roger, Romeo, you’ll know. Alpha Leader out.”
Falcone studied the parking areas and open grounds surrounding the Boston Convention Center and other attractions comprising the Seaport District. He hoped any locals were removed when the UN arrived. War, by necessity, resulted in civilian casualties. But the Mechanics were beginning a propaganda war as well, and numerous deaths to noncombatants would get them off to a rocky start.
“Tango One in position.”
“Roger that, Tango One,” replied Falcone. The remainder of the Tango teams checked in and Falcone knew it was time to light ’em up.
“Mike One, Alpha Leader. You’re green light, go.”
Falcone lifted the Steiner 20 x 80 binoculars to his eyes and looked through the massive 80mm lenses. As dusk overtook Boston Harbor, the low-light performance provided him an excellent field of view.
Suddenly, the first of the MANPADS—man portable air defense systems—exploded from Rowe’s Wharf. The Raytheon designed infrared homing Stinger missile quickly and easily found its mark. The Mi-24 gunship burst into flames, sending debris in all directions.
Without directives from Falcone, Mike Two fired its Stinger at the Mi-26 troop transport. The after burn of the solid-fuel rocket motor burned brightly in the dim light for a few seconds before a massive ball of flame lifted into the sky. Both choppers had been destroyed in less than a minute.
“Well done, Mike teams. Hold your positions.”
“Roger that, Alpha Leader.”
Falcone took another quick glance through the binoculars before giving the Tango team its green light.
“Tango One, GO!” he ordered into the comms.
Each Tango Team manned two of the portable Javelin missile systems. Assisting one another in setup and guidance assured accuracy. The thunderous exploding sound of the first missile launch reverberated off the desolate buildings of downtown Boston. Within seconds, the eighteen-pound missile utilized its imaging infrared capabilities and roared toward its first target, a T-72 tank located near the entrance of the Convention Center. Because of its distance, this would prove to be the most difficult shot.
The FGM-148’s tactical precision engagement system did not disappoint. The upgraded armor of the T-72’s turret created a thicker, nearly vertical front. Due to its chesty appearance, it was unofficially nicknamed Dolly Parton by military analysts. It was not a match for the effectiveness of the Javelin warhead. Upon impact, the tank’s turret collapsed, and the inside of the tank swelled from the force of the high-explosive blast fragmentation.
“Hit,” announced Falcone into the radio. “Go, Tango Two.”
Another Javelin missile was immediately launched. Again, with deadly accuracy, a second T-72 was destroyed. Tango Three enjoyed similar results as did Tango One and their next opportunity. The Seaport was now in chaos. UN troops were frantically running from the area of the Convention Center. Vehicles loaded with soldiers raced across the Seaport Boulevard and Congress Street bridge. The Mi-24 parked at Children’s Wharf Park was still in flames as its rotors fell off into the Fort Point Channel.
A different result occurred when Tango Two took their second turn. The UN forces, not anticipating an attack of this nature, mistakenly parked two tanks next to each other. Tango Two took them both out with one missile.
Falcone’s mission was complete, but he still had the final Javelin at his disposal. He contemplated his options before his thoughts were interrupted.
“Alpha Leader, Tango Three. Over.”
“Stand by, Tango Three.” Gotta make a decision here. Falcone weighed his options. He could take out the bridge at Seaport Boulevard, but there were several other bridges crossing the channel at the UN’s disposal. He could pack up and return with the final FGM-148 system for another mission.
Or he could deal a deadly blow to the enemy. The final Javelin could kill hundreds of the UN soldiers still within the Boston Convention Center. It would either destroy their morale while reducing their ranks or stir an already angry hornet’s nest. Gunny Falcone was a seasoned veteran, a soldier who had seen many tours of duty in combat. He had seen war firsthand. He’d seen the savagery of evil people inflicted against innocents. He was ready to pull the trigger. They’re not here to help us, they’re here to suppress us!
“This is Alpha Leader. EXTRACT! EXTRACT!”
Semper Fi.
Chapter 17
Sunday, October 9, 2016
Dusk
Greater Boston Area Food Bank
70 South Bay Street
Boston, Massachusetts
For days, Steven had teams surveilling the Greater Boston Area Food Bank. Trucks loaded with food and supplies were escorted into the facility by UN-manned vehicles, but the team never reported any food distribution trucks being dispatched into the city. Their suspicions were confirmed—Governor O’Brien was hoarding the food, America’s most valuable currency.
The Mechanics were positioned on the side streets just south of the eighty-thousand-square-foot warehouse. If the UN soldiers were ordered to respond to the attack on the Seaport District, they would most likely choose Atkinson Street, which was located next to the now-empty Suffolk County Jail, and then jump on I-93 into the city. They were only a few miles from the Seaport District, and it was likely an overreaction by UN officers that would trigger a recall of the personnel to assist.
This mission was full of uncertainty and risk. The payoff, however, could be a game-changer. Not only would the cupboards of the Mechanics be filled, but the ability to distribute the food to Bostonians who might join the cause was immeasurable. Despite the risk, Steven looked forward to the action. He needed to get away from Katie chirping in his ear and the specter of his brother hanging over his head. The Robin Hood mission was just what the doctor ordered.
“Roger, Romeo, you’ll know. Alpha Leader out.” This was the final transmission between Steven and Gunny Falcone. Within moments, the first explosion rocked the downtown area to their north. At first, the UN soldiers guarding the loading docks stood in shock. After the second blast, as predicted, their radios roared to life.
Steven maintained his position atop the MBTA Transit Parking Garage. This provided him a clear view of the Food Bank’s loading docks and the parking lot across the street, which contained six UN Humvees and a troop transport. Two nights ago, two of the Mechanics had maneuvered themselves into the abandoned T-shirt factory immediately across from the Bay Street entrance to the Food Bank. They were able to hear all of the radio instructions provided to the UN security personnel.
“Romeo Leader, Romeo One.” A hushed voice came across the comms.
“Go, One,” replied Steven.
“By our ongoing headcount, eighteen leaving, thirteen remaining. Over.”
“Roger, Romeo One. Out.”
Using a strategy he’d employed at the Massachusetts Guard Armory in Braintree, Steven strategically placed two-man teams near the facility a day in advance. They were able to use the cover of darkness to hide in abandoned MBTA transit buses and in the Suffolk County Jail intake center. After the UN vehicles had cleared the area and were committed northbound on the Massachusetts Avenue Connector, he would engage.
The UN trucks quickly took a right turn onto Southampton Street and headed up the entrance to Interstate 93. Let’s roll!
Steven and two members of his team ran down the back stairs of the parking garage and into the darkening night. The last of the explosions were heard resonating through the skyscrapers of Boston. His mind only registered seven, not eight, as expected. Did I miss one? Did something go wrong? It was agreed in advance to maintain radio silence after Falcone’s mission was complete. If the UN picked up any continued
conversations, they might be alerted to an ongoing attack and respond accordingly. Steven let it go.
“Romeo Four, Five and Six, advance to ready positions.”
“Romeo One, Two and Three, be ready.”
Steven gave his teams orders as he moved quickly up Moore Street to join Romeo Two and Three behind the MBTA buses. In their briefing earlier, he outfitted everyone with suppressed M4s. They needed to move swiftly and silently. If any of the troops inside the facility were able to warn their superiors, he and his team would be surrounded, and all exit points could be easily blocked. Between the prison walls and the twenty-foot walls upon which the I-93 frontage road had been built, there was no other escape route. They would have to fight their way out against a much larger enemy.
Hidden across Southampton Street in the parking lots of Newmarket Square were nearly two dozen escort vehicles designed to provide the eighteen-wheelers cover and security during their escape. Prearranged destinations had been selected throughout the city where the food trucks could be hidden and the contents offloaded without being detected.
“All teams, on my go, fire on any identifiable targets.” Steven hesitated, glanced at the faces of his team, and yelled into his radio, “GO!”
Steven led the way through the gated fence, firing as he ran. The UN troops were caught completely by surprise, and within moments, nearly a dozen bodies lay on the ground in their own blood. As Steven assessed the carnage, he could see muzzle flashes coming from the windows of the Food Bank’s upper levels. The crack of the passing rounds caused him to dive for cover under the protective canopy covering the loading docks.
A member of Romeo Three started to send bursts of three to five rounds through the windows where he could see muzzle flashes. Steven felt a hand on his shoulder and moved to the side to let one of his team take a position in front of him. The man was shielding him from incoming fire, allowing him to resume his command role.
More muzzle flashes lit up the second-story windows. Steven’s main concern was the fact that they had been discovered. They had to move quickly.
