The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  “Good luck up there,” said Sarge.

  He genuinely meant it. Accountants have been routinely referred to as pencil pushers. Donald’s duties fell more in line with the position of envelope pusher. He didn’t seem stressed about it. Maybe he held a Get Out of Jail Free Card.

  “Thanks, Sarge,” said Donald. “Are you walking home? Do we need to work out a little harder next time?”

  “Always on my case about the cardio,” said Sarge, grinning.

  “I consider keeping you healthy part of my job,” replied Donald, patting him on the shoulder.

  “It’s a nice day, and I could use a walk,” said Sarge. “I need to clear my head anyway.”

  “We can add a run along the river to our regimen if our Equinox routine isn’t hard enough,” pressed Donald.

  “You’re brutal.”

  “Catch you later, Sarge. Business awaits—impatiently.”

  “I don’t want to hold you up,” said Sarge, nodding as Donald turned away.

  The two men went in opposite directions. Sarge started down Avery and crossed Tremont Street onto Boston Common. He continued his casual walk deeper into the park. Boston Common, known as the Common by many Bostonians, was the oldest city park in the country. Dating back to the early 1600s, the Common was part of a series of parks that stretched through Jamaica Plain and ended in Roxbury. Originally, the land was used by the locals to graze their cattle. Over the years, its uses changed, but the city planners maintained the boundaries of all the parks. They became known as the Emerald Necklace and were a destination for people to escape the ever-expanding Boston skyline.

  Sarge walked past the tennis courts, eyeing a pair of spiffily dressed retirees volleying back and forth. As he passed the baseball field, the thought of Pumpsie Jones crossed his mind. Images of baseball would always remind him of Pumpsie’s pointless death. He carefully navigated the crosswalk at Charles Street, avoiding the traffic turning off Boylston Street. Toward the northwest, the top of his building at 100 Beacon appeared above the brown apartments on the corner of Arlington Street.

  At the statue of Wendell Phillips, he took a right on a sidewalk that weaved through the more heavily wooded side of the swan lake. Phillips, a native Bostonian and Harvard graduate, became known for his work in the early 1800s as a staunch abolitionist. He was so committed to the anti-slavery cause that he took great pains to avoid cane sugar and wore no cotton clothing—both having been produced primarily by Southern slaves. Phillips maintained that racial injustice was the source of the perceived social problems plaguing America at the time. Phillips had no idea how bad it could get.

  Sarge wound his way through the tree-covered sidewalks and crossed the walkway leading to the lagoon bridge. His peaceful stroll was interrupted by a sudden scream, followed by pleading. He glanced around to look for the source, finding no one else nearby. A female voice yelled, “Please, not my baby!” Sarge ran towards the lake, nearly tripping on a portion of broken asphalt in the sidewalk.

  An overturned red baby stroller lay beneath a large tree with twisted, exposed roots. Tiny hands waved from the stroller as a man rifled through the back pouches—throwing diapers, bottles and baby clothing onto the ground. Another man straddled a young woman, who thrashed desperately underneath him as he ripped at her clothing. Sarge stood momentarily paralyzed. Save the baby or the woman? No time to analyze the decision.

  Sarge rushed the man digging through the stroller, tackling him to the ground. They rolled over a bed of twisted, exposed tree roots and landed on the moist dirt near the pond. The man quickly recovered, rising to his feet in front of Sarge. As the man charged forward, Sarge pulled both knees towards his chest and mule-kicked the man in the ribs—knocking him several feet into the lake. A paddling of ducks flapped their wings when the man splashed into the water, skimming the surface and hiding under weeping willow branches along the water’s edge.

  The other man abandoned his prey and jumped on Sarge’s back, putting him in a chokehold. Sarge pulled desperately at his assailant’s arm, knowing he didn’t have much time before he blacked out. Realizing the futility of the move, his mind instinctively recalled a Krav Maga technique. Sarge quickly turned his chin towards the attacker’s hands—away from his elbow. This created a little space between the man’s muscular arms and Sarge’s windpipe. Before he could take advantage of the space, the man slammed Sarge’s head against a tree root, spilling blood down his face. Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the other assailant crawling out of the lake. If he didn’t get loose in the next second or two, the situation would turn lethal for him. The man breathed into Sarge’s ear.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up, mutherfucker!”

  I need a weapon. He felt around for a rock or a twig, but came up with nothing. Sarge was getting weaker—his breathing labored. He’d lose consciousness soon and would be lucky to wake up. The man shifted his weight, jamming Sarge’s chest harder against the ground—grinding against the weapon he had forgotten.

  Sarge reached into his shirt pocket and removed his Mont Blanc fountain pen, popping the cap with his thumb. Gripping the barrel and sharp nib tightly, he rammed the pen into the attacker’s forearm. The man screamed and released the pressure on his arm, giving Sarge the opportunity to escape the grip. With a primal scream Sarge rolled the man onto his side and stabbed him near the collarbone, just missing his target—the carotid artery. He retracted the pen and kicked the man in the solar plexus, crashing him against the tree trunk and dropping him to the ground.

  Through his blood-obscured vision, Sarge caught a glimpse of the other man charging toward him. Sarge stepped between the soaking assailant and the baby carriage, assuming a forward fighting stance. The man stopped momentarily before grabbing the other attacker and escaping south along the lake. Sarge stumbled backward, falling to one knee—still holding the bloodied broken pen like a knife. As his breathing slowed and eyes came into focus, the young mother approached him with her now calm baby on her hips. With her free hand she wiped the blood off Sarge’s face with a cloth diaper.

  “My God, thank you,” said the young woman. “You saved our lives, mister. Thank God you came to help us.”

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek and let her baby touch Sarge’s face. All lives matter.

  Chapter 50

  April 11, 2016

  1st Battalion , 25th Marines HQ

  Fort Devens, Massachusetts

  “Colonel Bradlee, your visitors are here,” announced the headquarters sergeant. “May I show them in?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Francis Crowninshield Bradlee, Brad to his friends, was the consummate military man. In the early, pre-revolutionary war days, the Crowninshields were known for their seafaring adventures. But as the war for independence came to full fruition, as close friends of Thomas Jefferson, the prominent family became the backbone of the United States Military for years to come. A member of the Crowninshield family held the positions of Secretary of the Navy and Secretary of War under several presidential administrations.

  Like so many of the Founding Fathers, the Crowninshield lineage included the surnames Adams, Endicott, Hawthorne, DuPont and Bradlee. Brad’s father was the editor of the Washington Post before his death and his mother was a highly respected, influential journalist. While the Bradlee branch of the Crowninshield family tree generally abhorred the military, Brad lived for it. He attended the Naval Academy and during his second class year he chose Leatherneck for his summer training. He received praise from his mentors and surpassed all of the academic and physical standards required to graduate as one of a few dozen Marine Selects.

  His career was stellar and after three years as a major, he earned the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. Under his command were 750 infantry designated service members comprising the 25th Marine Regiment of 1st Battalion. At age forty, he had fast tracked his career to battalion commander.

  Brad met Steven Sargent at the Naval Academy and the two became good friends despite their several year age dif
ferences. Brad encouraged Steven to become a Marine but he was hell bent on becoming a SEAL via the Navy rather than through the BUDS training option offered by the Marines. Either way, Brad admired Steven for becoming one heck of a soldier and the two stayed close friends over the years. They also realized they have common interests, which they immediately pursued.

  He was in his fatigues and did not see the need to dress up for his uninvited guests from Homeland Security. Brad wouldn’t want to meet with them under normal circumstances, but he received a heads-up from Division Headquarters. These two were making the rounds, and it was best to play nice. He knew why they were there, but Brad had no intention of making their visit an easy one. Brad stood up from his chair to greet them.

  “Good afternoon, Colonel Bradlee,” said one of the gentlemen from Homeland Security. “My name is Joe Pearson and this is fellow agent David Nemechek. We are with the Federal Protective Services—a division of the Department of Homeland Security.” They say it so proudly.

  “Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” said Brad. “How can I help you fellows today?”

  Brad accepted their business cards, placing them on his desk without examining them.

  “Colonel, we have been dispatched by FPS to discuss your role in the event of an attack on our nation’s infrastructure or a related insurrection,” said Pearson. How do you define insurrection?

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” said Brad. “I am more familiar with the customs and border protection arm of the DHS law enforcement function. Tell me a little bit about FPS.” These people love to talk about how important they are.

  Brad’s friends at the 4th Marine Division gave him the impression the FPS agents were interviewing base commanders to assess their “attitude.” When Brad pressed his friends about this, he was told they wanted to insure commanders would take orders when necessary. Brad knew what that meant.

  “The FPS provides security and law enforcement functions at federal government facilities,” said Nemechek. “There are ten thousand federal facilities nationwide, providing the backbone to our nation’s critical infrastructure. It is our job to ensure a safe and secure working environment for our federal workers who conduct the important business of the country.” Just fire half of them and your workload will be cut dramatically.

  “Of course,” said Brad.

  “At FPS, we conduct comprehensive security assessments of vulnerabilities at governmental facilities,” said Pearson. “This includes monitoring systems at all federal facilities for proper performance and security breaches. That is part of the reason David and I are here.” Snoops.

  Brad, like any other paid government employee, didn’t like another government employee looking over his shoulder.

  “The military has its own set of systems and procedures. We take great pride in maintaining compliance with our military’s standards,” said Brad. “Is DHS saying the military standards are inadequate?”

  Brad was warned not to challenge these two. He was advised to go along to get along, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “No, Colonel, not in the least,” said Nemechek. “DHS admires the role of our military and certainly respects the fact that all base commanders such as you run a tight ship. DHS is constantly developing and implementing new protective countermeasures based upon the latest risk assessments. As new threats emerge, both foreign and domestic, DHS will be there to assist all reserve units in the new roles assigned them.”

  Certain words rang alarm bells—threats, domestic, new roles. Brad sat up in his chair. He was not ready to play the game.

  “I see,” said Brad. “Well, that certainly makes sense. How can I help?”

  “Sometime in the next several months, either David or myself will bring an assessment and training team to Fort Devens,” said Pearson. “The purpose will be to provide you and key base personnel with orientation materials. Then we will work with you to conduct a facilities-wide assessment of any security vulnerabilities. As part of this assessment, we will determine your capabilities in the event of a crisis and to assess your readiness. Lastly, we will establish a joint monitoring system to ensure proper performance—pursuant to guidelines specifically tailored to Fort Devens.” Fuck this.

  “What happens if I say no?” asked Brad stoically.

  Pearson started to stammer a reply, when Brad laughed heartily.

  “I’m just kidding,” interjected Brad. “Of course, we will welcome you and your team to Fort Devens. We’re all in this together.”

  The two men hesitantly joined in the laughter.

  “We were told you were a kidder,” said Nemechek. You were?

  “There is one more thing,” said Pearson. “As DHS and various bases around the country become more enmeshed regarding security matters, we envision greater coordination between reserve units such as yours and typical FPS responsibilities.”

  “I have to admit I’m still a little in the dark about your division’s responsibilities,” said Brad.

  “We’re primarily tasked to coordinate a uniformed response to catastrophic events, providing critical security services and logistical support at high-profile public events, and coordinating a timely emergency response following any unforeseen national crisis.”

  “Isn’t that typically the function of local law enforcement or FEMA?” asked Brad.

  “In some cases, a coordinated response at all levels of government might be required,” said Pearson. “In those events, we will ensure that Fort Devens will be prepared to answer the call of duty.” I’ve had enough of these jackasses.

  “Of course,” said Brad, as he stood up to signal the meeting was over. “Well, gentlemen, speaking for New England and Niagara’s Own, we’ll be ready when that call comes.” What that call entails will dictate what we will do.

  Pearson and Nemechek shook his hand and exchanged goodbyes, forcing smiles as they left. When they closed the door to his office, Brad shook his head. Nothing good could come of FPS. He unconsciously reached out to touch the American flag, which flanked the credenza behind his desk, along with the Standard—the flag of the United States Marine Corps. Brad would never forget the oath he took when he accepted his commission.

  I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  He’d long ago recognized that a time might come when his oath would conflict with the orders he received from his superiors. Brad and a loyal group of Marines had created a new oath, which didn’t conflict with his duties as an American.

  I will not obey orders to disarm Americans.

  I will not obey orders to conduct warrantless searches.

  I will not obey orders to detain Americans wrongfully labeled as enemy combatants.

  I will not obey orders to invade a state that asserts its sovereignty.

  I will not obey orders to force law-abiding American citizens into detention camps.

  I will not obey orders to assist foreign troops on United States soil to assert control over our citizens.

  I will not obey orders to confiscate the property of our citizens, including their food and belongings.

  I will not obey orders to impose martial law.

  I will not obey orders to infringe upon the freedoms afforded all Americans in the Bill of Rights.

  Brad was an Oathkeeper and one of the III%.

  Chapter 51

  April 11, 2016

  The White House Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  Katie thumbed through the Morning Book as she waited for the White House Chief of Staff and National Security Advisor to join the rest of the briefing team in the Situation Room. Today marked Katie’s first day in her new role on the President’s Intelligence Advisory Board.

  The Morning Book was prepared through the cooperative effort of several intelligence agencies, which provided representatives to the Situation Room’s Watch Team. The Watch Team prepared the Morning Book by compiling the State Department’s National Morning Summa
ry, the National Intelligence Daily report and various diplomatic cables. Prepared in the dark hours of the morning, the book accompanied the driver to pick up the National Security Advisor every morning, and was provided to the President, the Vice President and various senior members of the White House staff for their earliest perusal. The fact that she was likely reading it before the President didn’t escape her. Neither did the task that lay immediately ahead. An uphill battle for sure.

  She had been warned that she may be asked to explain her findings related to the Nevada Energy cyberattack—which squarely sat at odds with the administration’s politically slanted assessment. Her first foray into the highest levels of government was likely to be a rocky one. The National Security Advisor could be rude and overly blunt when provoked. Katie’s suspicions were confirmed when Susan Giles, the National Security Advisor, shot her a poisonous glare upon entering the room with David McDill, the White House Chief of Staff.

  “Let’s talk about the President’s schedule first,” said McDill. “At 9:30 a.m., the President and First Lady will depart the White House for Joint Base Andrews. From Andrews they will travel to Newark, where they will be greeted by the governor of New Jersey. After a noon luncheon, the President will participate in a roundtable discussion with the governor and members of the labor community. This roundtable will wind up at approximately 3:00 p.m., when the President and the First Lady will depart for Orlando, Florida. They will appear at a campaign event for Hillary Clinton at 7:00 p.m. There are no scheduled events for tomorrow. After a round of golf with Tiger Woods in the morning, the President will return to the White House. Questions?”

  McDill looked over his black-framed reading glasses to see if there were any takers. With none evident, he propped the glasses on his premature gray head and nodded at Susan Giles.