by Bobby Akart
“Romeo Four, remain outside and watch our six. All other teams, let’s clear the building. Quickly. We’re looking for half a dozen or so hostiles.” They didn’t have much time. Each team chose a different breach point. Some went into the open warehouse while others followed Steven’s lead through the entrance to the Yawkey Distribution Center, named for philanthropist and former owner of the Boston Red Sox Tom Yawkey. Unconsciously, Steven felt for the Bounce Imaging Camera in his vest. “Play ball,” he muttered aloud.
All of the teams were in and were making their way through the building. It was oddly quiet. Steven did not hear any radio chatter. Did they not have any way of communicating with their superiors?
It was well past dusk, so the teams used white light flashlights mounted to their M4s once they were inside the facility. Steven motioned for two of the squads to move through the first-floor offices. He and two teams bounded up the stairs towards the source of the earlier gunfire.
In the building, there was a central hallway with offices off to the sides. Some of the offices had been converted to sleeping quarters. Some of the rooms had points of entry from the corridor, while others were interconnected via internal doorways. It was a vast and darkening maze.
With Steven watching the hallways, he instructed the two-man teams to clear each of the rooms. Steven organized and sequenced the men to flow through the rooms evenly. Care had to be taken to ensure the team on one side of the corridor did not pass an unclear area on the other.
Where they were able, they moved between the internal doorways. While being cautious, they had to hit the rooms aggressively with the intention of startling their occupants. Steven would follow their progress and act as their cover while the teams breached each room.
The tension was high as—
Spit—spit—spit. “One down,” said Romeo Two.
Steven and the two teams continued their march forward. “Two captured,” announced Romeo Five. Two to go.
Steven and the two teams came together near the end of the hallway, where a large set of double steel doors remained closed. At least two gunmen had opened fire from the second floor. From the head count, provided it was accurate, there would be two remaining hostiles.
Steven eased open one of the doors and saw the room was divided into a break room and computer terminals located in temporary cubicles. The room must have been used for the truck drivers to eat a meal and access their schedules online. It was now fairly dark except for the faint glow of light from outside. This was going to be a tough room to clear.
Steven stepped through the doorway first, attempting to lead by example. Two members of his team followed. Suddenly, there was a muzzle flash and a hail of bullets came from the left side of the room. The burst passed over the top of Steven and stitched along the wall. One of his team was not so lucky as a round struck him in his ballistic plate as well as hitting the bolt assembly of his rifle. The former police officer grunted and was punched back into the wall, winded from the impact. He dropped to his knees and let go of his M4 but rapidly transitioned to his sidearm, which was secured in his kit.
Steven dropped to a knee and started rapidly firing rounds into the left side of the room, shredding several cubicles. Two more members of the team had entered the room and moved along the other outer walls. They soon found one of the assailants—a uniformed UN soldier crouched behind a Coke machine—fully geared up in body armor and a helmet. Steven’s flashlight gave away their position and the UN soldier swung his weapon toward them.
Steven approached from the center of the room. Hips and heads, Hips and heads. He found his mark and shot the soldier several times through the center of his body. The soldier screamed in pain and fell backward against the wall, and Steven finished him with a shot to the head.
To his left, flashlights lit up the back side of a salad bar.
“Ne tirez pas! Ne tirez pas!” screamed a young French soldier. He was begging, Don’t shoot!
One of Steven’s team announced, “Room clear, no exits.” Steven reached down and took the dead soldier’s M4, handing it to his man who was shot.
Steven led his team back to the front of the building, but he stationed two men on the rooftop. They were to provide support from above, but more importantly, keep an eye out for UN reinforcements coming from downtown.
Incredibly, none of the UN soldiers had any form of communications. Perhaps the comms were only held by officers, as all of these personnel appeared to be grunts. In any event, Steven was prepared to put Operation Robin Hood into effect.
The remaining members of the Mechanics arrived on the scene and were running fork trucks in and out of the trailers backed up to the loading bay. As one pulled out, a delivery truck was backed into its space. The men, chosen for their trucking and loading dock experience, moved quickly and efficiently. In total, ten tractor-trailer rigs left fully loaded as well as a dozen or more twenty-four-foot delivery vans proudly displaying the Food Bank’s mission statement—hunger hurts, we can help.
As the last van pulled out of the loading dock, Steven turned and looked at the vast, empty space, except for the bound and gagged Frenchman in the middle of the room.
Pleasure doing business with you, Governor O’Brien.
Chapter 18
Monday, October 10, 2016
8:10 a.m.
Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor
99 High Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Governor O’Brien was out-of-his-mind livid. He had received initial reports of the assault on the UN forces within moments after the last tank was destroyed. But it wasn’t until this morning that he learned of the devastating theft of his coveted food stores. He demanded that Pearson and Major General Zhang meet up in his office first thing. They were both late, which didn’t help his state of mind.
He paced the floor, looking at his watch. What the hell was he supposed to do about the lost provisions? They, whoever they are, cleaned out a warehouse and stole all of their trucks. How the hell could this happen?
A timid knock on the door accompanied Pearson’s arrival. O’Brien dispensed with the preliminaries. He practically charged at Pearson when he entered the conference room. “You’re late!”
“Security is very tight downtown, Governor,” defended Pearson. “After yesterday, it appears—”
“It appears somebody finally woke the fuck up!”
“Yesterday was devastating to us. Major General Zhang is very angry as well, sir.”
O’Brien wondered whether he would be able to make it through this morning without strokin’ the fuck out. “Oh, he’s angry, is he?” said O’Brien sarcastically. “I don’t give a flying fuck if he’s shooting bottle rockets out of his ass. They’ve been sitting out there for ten days, waiting for a warm bed and a hot cup of fuckin’ tea before beddy-bye. Guess what? They got their collective asses blown up, and all of my goddamn food is gone!”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” said Pearson sheepishly.
O’Brien gave him the death stare. “Do you really? Understand, I mean?” he asked. “Let’s fuckin’ recap, shall we? I’ve got no guns. In the process of that debacle, I lost forty-four of my best men. But hey, we found them. Good news! My army finally shows up for duty, and they sit around on their hands. I give them their own military base and the opportunity to be big fuckin’ heroes by bringing back my boys. What happens? They come back with their goddamn tails stuck between their legs. Do you think they came back, fired up the tanks, and return to teach that smug SOB Bradlee a thing or two? Hell fuckin’ no! Instead they sat around and talked about it or who knows what. While they are commis-ah-fuck-erating, somebody blows up all of their shit and steals my food! How the fuck am I doing so far?”
Pearson wisely didn’t respond. O’Brien looked at his watch again and then stared out towards Boston Harbor. For the tenth time that morning, he shook his head as his eyes were drawn from one destroyed tank to another. All that remained of his army was a hand
ful of howitzers and a bunch of foreigners who had yet to get anything right.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” announced Zhang as he entered the conference room. O’Brien didn’t turn to greet him. He was sick of this Chinese protocol, pomp and fuckin’ circumstance. Give me results, and then I’ll play your prissy games.
O’Brien gathered himself and sat at the head of the table, hoping to reestablish the hierarchy amongst the three men. He halfheartedly gestured for the other men to join him. Venting at Pearson helped, but he did not intend to mince words.
“General, how long will it take for you to obtain replacement tanks and helicopters?” asked O’Brien.
“Sixty to ninety days,” he replied. Zhang showed no emotion during the exchange. “We are due for a resupply of necessary provisions and food on January 1. The armaments will come at that time.”
O’Brien stared at him, shaking his head. “That’s a real shame, General. We’re losing before getting started. We need weapons, we need food, and we need to find out who the hell did this!”
“Governor, until we are resupplied, may I suggest a different tack?”
“By all means,” replied O’Brien, throwing his hands up and leaning back in his chair to near its tipping point.
“I have a significant amount of experience in dealing with rebels and insurgent activity. We can rely upon what has worked in the past and take a different approach to this situation.”
“Okay, I’m open for any suggestions that yield a better result than the last seventy-two hours.”
“Terrorist fighters such as these can be difficult to beat. My first suggestion is to gain control of the city. Your President has established martial law. Let’s enforce his dictates. First, we will establish roadblocks to prevent the insurgents from traveling freely around the city. Second, a strict curfew should be put into place. If we find the curfew is routinely violated, then authorize shoot-to-kill orders for any violation. Third, confiscate weapons. Your second amendment has been suspended, has it not?”
“It has,” replied O’Brien. He looked at Pearson, who would probably leave and never come back after this morning. “I like what I hear so far. Continue.”
“I will implement a plan of house-to-house searches. We will announce we are looking for deceased or ailing residents. We will reiterate that in this state of emergency, many have perished and disease is an important concern. As we conduct these searches, we will confiscate weapons and look for the insurgents.”
“How will you know if they are insurgents?” asked Pearson, finally mustering up the courage to speak. Lucky for him it was a good question. O’Brien was still angry.
“They will be well fed, healthy, and stocked with supplies. Under the President’s orders, we can confiscate excesses. Am I correct on this?”
“Yes,” replied Pearson.
“Go on.” O’Brien was starting to feel better.
“Governor, your police activity has been insufficient to prevent this uprising. Sometimes, brute military force is needed to suppress the people seeking to undermine the authority of the government.”
O’Brien was feeling significantly better. “Now we’re talkin’.”
“This is a vast city, and a coordinated effort must be made. Our soldiers are ready, Governor. Their comrades were killed in these attacks. They are prepared to get their just revenge.”
“I’m glad to hear that, General,” said O’Brien. “Will three thousand or so troops be enough? Wasn’t it your Admiral Yamamoto who said there’s a rifle behind every blade of grass?”
“Governor,” Zhang bristled, “first of all, I am Chinese, and Yamamoto was Japanese. Secondly, he never said that. My forces know how to conduct searches and how to confiscate weapons. We don’t care how many blades of grass are in your city.”
Chapter 19
Saturday, October 15, 2016
2:00 p.m.
1 PP
Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts
Morgan used the hickory stick cane to assist him as he methodically walked through woods with Sarge. His left side was weak from the stroke, and he was under orders by J.J. to begin a light exercise regimen. Morgan began walking a couple of days ago around the 1PP compound, and now he was ready to venture out into the well-worn trails. He needed to talk with Sarge away from prying ears.
Like most people, Morgan took walking for granted until he suffered the debilitating injury. It required him to focus on the mechanics, especially when using a cane. Coordination was required. He firmly gripped the hickory stick meticulously carved by Donald in his shop beneath 1PP. It was a nice gesture by the young man. Morgan ambled along, holding the cane in his good right hand so that it provided support. As he took a step with his left leg, which was weakened by the stroke, he would bring the cane forward at the same time. He was careful to maintain the weight of his body on the right side. The entire process was strenuous, physically and mentally.
After about fifteen minutes, Morgan pointed to a series of rock outcroppings that resembled a park bench. The soldiers escorting them took up positions out of earshot but close enough to provide protection.
“Let’s sit here for a while, Henry,” said Morgan as he tilted his head back to soak in the afternoon sun. “Fall is a beautiful time of year.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Henry, you and I have much to discuss,” started Morgan. It had been two weeks since the stroke, which was not an inordinate amount of time, except during a period of collapse. “I am out of touch with world events. Julia is now providing me daily briefings, and Mr. Quinn has kept me abreast of our financial holdings.”
“Are they bombarding you with information unnecessarily?” asked Sarge.
“No, I welcome the distraction from this,” he replied, beating his cane on the rocks. “I want to stay informed so that you and I stay on the same page. My concern is that I am losing a grip on the political machinations that are critical to the position that I, um, you hold.” Morgan caught himself and his voice trailed off. He had to constantly remind himself that he’d passed the torch to Henry.
“Yes, sir. News and financial matters can be summarized in reports. Politics requires direct contact with those involved.”
“Precisely, Henry. We need to begin the transition with our contacts around the world and especially within our own government.”
“Sir, are you rested enough to make these overtures? Your speech is certainly better.”
Morgan adjusted his position on the rock. It was becoming uncomfortable. He nodded in agreement. “I am capable of making the introductory phone calls, and we will begin that process on Monday.”
Morgan paused and thought about the time he was handed the reins of the Boston Brahmin. He remembered that meeting vividly. The Boston Brahmin each introduced themselves and then they told him of their formation dating back to the mid-1700s. They were brought together by their opposition to tyranny and held together by their love of country.
“When I was tasked with managing the affairs of the Boston Brahmin, I did not have the aptitude and prowess that you possess, Henry. I was a good lawyer and financially savvy, but I didn’t understand the politics—especially the people side. I used my power like a bull in a china shop. It served me well because most of my decisions were money driven and, after all, most human beings are driven by the desire to obtain more wealth.”
“Times have changed to an extent,” interjected Sarge.
“They have, temporarily. This provides us an opportunity, one that requires a leader of men. I was able to yield power and influence, but I was never the leader that you are, Henry.”
“Thank you, sir. I understand the political game, but I never envisioned being a part of it.”
“Henry, you are an American patriot. Like your predecessors, we believe our nation is the greatest in the world and a beacon of hope for others. But as such, we are also subject to the disdain of the jealous. That makes us the perfect target.”
“Yet the Boston B
rahmin have been able to survive and thrive for centuries. Your wealth and power continue to grow.”
Morgan struggled to stand. “Let’s walk some more. This rock is rough on my tailbone.”
“Okay,” replied Sarge, helping Morgan to his feet. “Would you prefer to do this another time?”
“No, I’m fine,” replied Morgan, pointing the stick deeper into the woods. “We’re behind schedule, and events are transpiring that we need to get ahead of.”
“What is going to happen?” Sarge asked apprehensively.
“Nothing imminent, but politics is a complicated game of chess in which your opponent is capable of cheating. When your opponent cheats, you must use your leadership skills to gain alliances and win the game.”
The men, teacher and student, continued to walk at a slow, leisurely pace down the path.
Morgan continued. “You possess all of the traits of an effective leader such as confidence, commitment, and intuition. You have excellent communications skills and the ability to inspire. Now, we need to channel these traits toward clear objectives.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
“Good. The world’s economy is collapsing. I’ll get to how we benefit from that in a moment. But first, we need to assure our geopolitical allies that the ship will be righted soon enough. Further, we need to make it clear to the Russians that now is not an opportunity to take advantage of our position of weakness.”
“How do we communicate that?” asked Sarge. “Our military is in disarray. Our only available response to an attack by their military would be a nuclear strike. Nobody wins then.”
“No, we have to back them down with a counterweight—an unlikely military ally.”
“The Chinese?” questioned Sarge.
“Yes. Similar to today, during the American Revolution, the colonists faced the challenge of conducting international diplomacy while fighting a war on its own soil. Through the efforts of Benjamin Franklin, our Founding Fathers forged an alliance with the French. The French provided the colonists military support, but more importantly, the threat of an escalation in hostilities between France and Great Britain kept the Brits off-balance.”
