by Bobby Akart
O’Brien laughed. “Okay, Captain, but I need you to stand over there to observe but not listen,” he said. “Some conversations are on a need-to-know basis.”
Gibson nodded as he stepped away after giving the men another glance.
Jarvis Rockwell, known within the black gang community as J-Rock, had become the undisputed head of the newly unified black gangs of the south Boston neighborhoods of Dorchester, Roxbury, and Mattapan. Typically, the black gangs were divided along geographic turf lines. In Boston, there were no national gangs like the infamous Bloods and Crips.
The previously hostile gangs came together following the death of J-Rock’s unborn child during a clash with police at the Boston Marathon. He used the event as a catalyst to lead a wave of black violence against law enforcement, especially white cops.
“What up?” said J-Rock as he nodded to Guzman.
Guzman glared in response.
“This meeting won’t take long,” interjected O’Brien. “I asked La Rue to bring you here so you can hear my words and know what it is I expect from you in return.”
The two men relaxed and turned their attention to O’Brien and away from each other. Although they had never crossed paths, having kept the peace throughout J-Rock’s rise to power, they represented wholly different cultures and approaches to business.
“Okay,” said Guzman.
O’Brien walked to the edge of the roof and looked to the street below, which was virtually empty. He reminded himself that a good tactic was one your people enjoyed—Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals, number six.
“We find ourselves in difficult times, but a situation that is full of opportunity,” started O’Brien. “I share a point of view with our President that focuses on the needs of the many against the survival of the few. Under the circumstances that we face, I don’t believe it is fair that a bunch of rich people get to save themselves because they have their own bunkers or a house stocked with food.”
Guzman and J-Rock listened intently, but remained silent throughout.
O’Brien continued. “I know that your people are suffering out east, Guzman. The same is true down your way, Rockwell. I want each of you to resist the urge to turn on each other to survive, and especially not on your own. I think there is a better way.”
The men glanced at each other and nodded.
“We’re listening,” said J-Rock.
“We will be working hard to get food and supplies from Washington, or whatever source they have available,” said O’Brien. “But the government assistance may be slow in arriving. We need to look at ways to help ourselves.
“I believe there is a way to help your people survive, and erase injustices, prejudices, and other atrocities that you have endured by our society. I have no interest whatsoever in preserving the wealth and greed of Boston’s rich for it to proliferate again when the power comes back on. This is our opportunity to even the playing field.”
“What do you have in mind?” asked Guzman.
“These are dangerous times, as I’m sure you both have witnessed,” replied O’Brien. “The scenarios your people face are too grim for us to talk about. I believe it is better to all die trying to survive together, saving one another, than to allow the majority of working men to die so a minority of rich people can survive.”
Both Guzman and J-Rock were nodding in agreement. O’Brien liked the way this was going.
“Here’s what I propose,” he continued. “I believe in justice and fairness. If our survival cannot be achieved without achieving a level playing field for all, it’s not worth it. We need to achieve the greater good through whatever means are necessary.”
“How do we do that?” asked J-Rock.
“I control the military and law enforcement for the entire New England region,” replied O’Brien. “There are parts of Boston full of food and supplies that can help save the lives of your families and neighbors. I don’t have the personnel to get these things, but you do.” O’Brien walked to the roof’s edge again and then spoke, with conviction.
“I am telling you to gather your men, enter the neighborhoods of Boston’s wealthy, and take whatever you want. None of my people will stand in your way. I guarantee you safe passage and the ability to right the wrongs that have been forced upon you by this country since it was formed. These reparations are long overdue, gentlemen!”
O’Brien basked in the excitement of these two former adversaries, who were thrilled at the opportunity given them. He was, however, completely unaware that Captain Gibson overheard every word.
Chapter 16
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
10:10 a.m.
Prescott Peninsula
Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts
Morgan listened as Donald finished up the morning briefing for everyone. He’d requested that Donald reduce the amount of detail associated with the collapse, as it was having an adverse effect on the morale of the Boston Brahmin, and their wives in particular. Mrs. Lowell appeared to be especially hard hit with the change in lifestyle and circumstances, and Morgan intended to address this with Lawrence in a moment.
He motioned for Donald to join him at the edge of the clearing. “Mr. Quinn, I have only spoken with Henry one time in the ten days since the attack. I expected to see him here by now. Is there a problem?”
“No, sir,” replied Donald. “Sarge is working closely with Steven and Brad to keep tabs on our new governor. It appears that O’Brien is taking his job to heart and his newfound power is being wielded at will.”
“Don’t you think I’m entitled to a report on these activities?” asked Morgan. He was not concerned with a perceived slight. Morgan was starting to feel excluded. He was never one to become overly suspicious to the point of paranoia, primarily because he was always in control of a situation.
“Yes, sir, of course,” replied Donald. “At this point, the governor is attempting to disarm the citizenry first, with the further goal of centralizing law enforcement activities under his command. We’ll continue to monitor this as it develops.”
Morgan studied Donald closely and then shrugged and walked away. He didn’t see Donald let out a sigh of relief.
“Walter, Lawrence,” shouted Morgan across the yard to his two most trusted members of the inner circle, “may I have a word?”
The two quickly left their conversation with Art Peabody and approached Morgan.
“Yes, John,” said Lawrence Lowell. “Is everything okay?”
Morgan nodded and gestured for them to walk with him. He led them down a well-worn path through the woods that made a one-mile loop to the south of 1PP. Before he spoke, he allowed the lead member of his security detail to rush past them to lead the way. The second member trailed dutifully behind. Since the attack on the front gate that led to the death of Sabs, Morgan insisted that two men accompany him when he was away from camp. Out of precaution, Donald kept a two-man team on Morgan at all times.
“Lawrence, we have several things to discuss, but I must address a personal matter with you first,” started Morgan. “It’s not so sensitive that Walter must be excluded. In fact, he has noticed the issue as well.”
“What is it, John?” asked a concerned Lowell.
“Your wife has been acting strangely, Lawrence,” said Morgan. “I understand that the attack and the resulting lack of power has caused angst and stress for us all. But Constance seems very angry at our circumstances. Mary has noticed it as well, am I right, Walter?”
“Very true, John,” replied Cabot. “Everyone responds to a crisis differently, but all the wives have pulled together to make the best of it. Constance has not. She seems to be holding a grudge of some sort. Haven’t you noticed this?”
Lowell walked along quietly and put his hands in his pants pockets. Pride and force of habit caused Lowell to continue dressing as if he were headed for the office. He shook his head as he spoke.
“I’ve made a mistake, my friends,” said Lowell. “It was out of love and emotion that I said too
much to Constance. When the event occurred, she was very frightened for us, but also for our children and grandchildren. I tried to calm her down the best that I could, but in my efforts, she saw through my façade. She forced me to admit that I was aware that the cyber attack was preplanned.”
The three men walked silently for nearly twenty yards. Morgan knew the stability of their group would be in jeopardy if they became aware of his involvement. Constance Lowell had the ability, in her emotionally charged state, to expose his scheme to the others.
“Can you control her, Lawrence?” asked Morgan.
“I think so, John, but can you tell us how long this might last?” asked Lowell.
“I don’t know, Lawrence,” he replied. “There are a lot of factors to consider. What can we do to ensure Constance doesn’t cause a disruption?”
“Honestly, John, she’d prefer to be around family,” replied Lowell. “I must assume that bringing them here is not an option.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” said John.
“I could take her to Hyannis Port, where our daughter lives,” suggested Lowell.
Morgan pondered this for a moment. He couldn’t guarantee the safety of his lifelong friend, but it was perhaps a better option than having his potentially unstable wife, and an unforeseen complication, remain at Prescott Peninsula.
“Lawrence, my old friend, it won’t be safe for you out there,” said Morgan. “Hyannis Port is a long way from the cities, but eventually it will be affected by desperate people.” Morgan placed his arm around Lowell, who was clearly shaken by facing this reality.
“I understand, but I don’t know what else to do to help my wife,” said Lowell. “She is so angry at me, at us. Perhaps a change of scenery will make it better. Truthfully, I’m at a loss.”
The men walked further as Morgan weighed his options. He didn’t want to lose his friend, but he couldn’t tolerate a mutiny either.
“Allow me the opportunity to discuss this with Colonel Bradlee,” said Morgan. “Perhaps he has some suggestions for your security. Now, there is something of importance I need to discuss with you both.”
Suddenly, the soldier stopped in front of them and dropped to one knee. He held his fist up, indicating that the men stop as well. They also moved to an area of cover just off the trail. The second member of their security detail ran quickly but quietly past them and joined his fellow Marine. Morgan’s heart raced as he listened. From their right, they heard the sounds of twigs breaking on the forest floor. Leaves rustled as something approached the trail. The soldiers, now slightly separated, raised their weapons and waited for the approaching intruder.
Morgan peered around an oak tree and watched as a nearly one-thousand-pound moose lumbered across the trail about thirty yards in front of them. Nearly six feet tall at its shoulders, the enormous member of the deer family walked across the open path and across to the other side, where he stopped for a snack of browse—the twigs and new growth that is the preferred diet of moose.
The three men exhaled and began to laugh. The soldiers quickly resumed their positions and awaited Morgan and his friends to continue on their walk. Once the group began moving up the trail, the moose decided to move deeper into the woods to seek protection.
“I don’t know, John, this place seems like it’s pretty dangerous too.” Cabot chuckled. “Did you see the size of that animal?” Cabot lifted his arm over his five-foot-ten-inch frame.
“I guess it could have been worse, Walter,” added Lowell. “It could have been a bear!”
Lowell and Cabot laughed, enjoying the moment, which eased the tension between the men. The laugh was short-lived.
“That’s why I brought you on this walk, my friends,” started Morgan. “I’m afraid the Russian bear has come out of hibernation, and it is roaring.” Morgan proceeded to detail the news he’d received from General Sears about recent Russian troop movements and incursions into U.S. territorial waters.
Over the previous twelve months, Russia had expanded its presence in the Arctic as well as its submarine activities off the U.S. coast. In the past, the Kremlin held the advantage on the ocean surface, but the Pentagon dominated beneath the waves. But that, Morgan explained, had changed.
General Sears shared intelligence with Morgan about a new high-speed drone submarine that was capable of delivering a nuclear warhead developed by the Russians. Even when the U.S. defense capabilities were fully functional, the nuclear-tipped, torpedo-shaped weapon, nicknamed Kanyon, was capable of avoiding their customary response.
Morgan added, “This new weapon is designed to damage our nation’s coastal areas by creating wide areas of radioactive contamination that would render our coasts uninhabitable. This is a concern for your family, Lawrence, and anyone who lives within fifty miles of the shore.”
“How does it avoid our naval defenses, John?” asked Cabot. Cabot Industries was the world’s premiere shipbuilder and a major supplier to the U.S. naval fleet.
“The speed and depth of the drone would be massively in excess of the capabilities of any manned submarine in the world, much less those of our Navy,” replied Morgan. “A drone submarine with these characteristics would be invulnerable to interception.”
“What about our ground-based missile systems in Alaska and California?” asked Lowell. They were approaching the end of the mile-long loop on this trail, and Morgan stopped them to finish the conversation.
“We’ve been obsessed with the North Koreans, so those missiles are pointed at the DPRK missiles and the Iranians,” replied Morgan.
“What are the Russians up to, John?” asked Cabot. “Are they going to kick us when we’re down?” Both Cabot and Lowell were looking to Morgan for reassurance.
“I don’t know, but I will find out,” replied Morgan. “I’ll make contact through our usual backchannels. At this point, I can’t rule out anything.”
“What does the President think?” asked Lowell.
Morgan, for the first time, looked distressed during the conversation. He kicked at a few stones lying on the path.
“I don’t know, Lawrence, he has stopped taking my calls.”
Chapter 17
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
1:00 p.m.
Chinatown
Boston, Massachusetts
Sarge navigated through the stalled vehicles on Stuart Street as he cautiously approached the roadblock manned by members of the Asian gangs of Chinatown. He chose to drive his Mercedes G-Wagen despite the risks associated with driving an expensive vehicle around the streets of postapocalyptic Boston. After his made-for-TV chase last week following his last foray into Chinatown, he deemed it prudent to leave the Toyota OJ40 at 100 Beacon. “No sense in getting our collective asses shot up before we hit the checkpoint,” he’d mused to Julia and Steven as they pulled out of the garage earlier.
He’d hesitated to bring Julia with him, but her background in China and her ability to speak fluent Chinese should assist them in getting through safely. Once they met with the head of the Asian gangs, the language barriers would evaporate.
They approached the intersection of Washington and where Stuart became Kneeland Street. Large panel trucks formed a V, blocking access. Armed men motioned for Sarge to turn left onto Washington. This area was beginning to look all too familiar to Sarge as he momentarily relived the chase scene. When they approached Beach Street to turn into Chinatown, four large Asian men with AK-47s approached the vehicle.
Sarge rolled down all of the windows in the G-Wagen and instructed Steven and Julia to make their hands visible to the guards. He looked to Julia to take the lead in conversing with the men.
Although Julia was fluent in both Mandarin and Cantonese, she told the guys that she would use the more common Mandarin dialect, as it was typically favored among Chinese speakers. After several minutes of conversation and waiting while they relayed the purpose of the Loyal Nine’s visit to Chinatown, they were instructed to follow a lead vehicle to their destination.
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This trip down Beach Street allowed Sarge to see things from a different perspective, rather than the tension-filled ride last time. Along the walls of the worn row houses and above the formerly bustling shops and restaurants were the faded plaster markings of the houses and restaurants that were here before the collapse. Rooflines remained, defined in weathered brick that shifted from deep red to charcoal black, but they were now inhabited by wandering guards dutifully standing watch over the streets below.
Near the end of Beach Street was Ping On Alley, where immigrant Chinese workers first settled in the 1870s. Gone were the double-parked trucks and sidewalk vendors hawking clothes and vegetables. There were no scantily clad women standing near the pay phones, which were topped by green and yellow pagodas. Closed were the late-night restaurants with the brash neon marquees shouting Dim Sum, Cocktails. A yellow sign that read Jeannie Beauty & Hair was hanging by its last nail from a wooden roof canopy. Two weeks ago, Jeannie, a Malaysian woman, offered facials and foot reflexology. Today, the shop was empty, and Jeannie was dead.
There were seven thousand residents of Chinatown squeezed into forty-six acres between downtown skyscrapers, two highways, and a sprawling medical complex. In addition, thousands of Boston-area Asians maintained close ties with this neighborhood, many of whom came to escape violence and oppression in their homelands of China, Vietnam, Cambodia, and elsewhere.
Prior to the cyber attack, Chinatown was thought of as a vibrant neighborhood, a safe place to raise a family, and a place where gangs still ruled the streets. The gangs were accepted by all as a necessary evil. Today, it was a close-knit group of survivors sharing what they had with others similarly situated. This was their heritage, as their ancestors had all been through situations like this before.
The vehicle caravan stopped just short of the Chinatown Gate in front of the Gourmet Dumpling House. At the end of a short stretch of brick buildings was a door that led to a basement social club where men would once gather late into the night to play mahjong, a game in which bets were placed on matching tiles. Now, it was the safe haven of John Willis, the only Caucasian in Chinatown and the undisputed head of the Ping On gang. He was known as Bac Guai John, or more commonly as the White Devil.
