“We both have better things to do than step on each other’s toes,” said Taylor.
“I don’t think you have the authority to step on my toes, Staff Sergeant.”
Harrison was interested in Taylor’s reaction to her challenge. It would tell him a lot about the future of their collaboration with the Marines. If he threatened her with his authority, he’d be concerned.
“Honestly, ma’am, the command and control situation is a little nebulous right now, so I have no idea whether I have the authority to step on your toes. I’m not a big fan of toe stomping anyway.”
Taylor passed Campbell’s litmus test, which hadn’t altogether surprised him. Like Staff Sergeant Evans, Taylor came across as a thoughtfully sharp, independent decision maker. Somewhat surprisingly, all of the Marines he’d encountered during the course of the day had defied the rowdy, impulsive jarhead stereotype. They carried themselves as restrained, competent professionals, giving him a little more confidence in his decision to assist the Marines with their security function. Taylor’s response to the detective had been perfect.
“Neither am I. Like you said. Better things to do,” she said, removing a business card from her pocket. “I’d appreciate a chance to talk to your security officer. I’ve never seen anything like this before. And I never want to see it again.”
“I’m guessing none of us do,” said Taylor.
Harrison was about to reinforce Taylor’s sentiment when a deep, rhythmic thumping filled the air, intensifying rapidly. They all started to search the sky for the source of the sound.
“Blackhawks. Really close,” said Taylor. “Probably the lead elements of the 10th Mountain Division.”
“How many can we expect?” yelled Detective Berry.
“Helicopters?”
“No. Soldiers!”
“Several thousand, but you didn’t hear that from me!” said Taylor. “Not that it’s going to be a secret for very long.”
A UH-60 Blackhawk raced over the treetops behind the church, blowing a wall of dead leaves, grass and dust through the parking lot. The roar crescendoed as a second Black Hawk appeared at the eastern end of the church clearing, passing directly overhead and bathing them in debris. A few moments later, another thundered over the church. Within seconds the thumping started to abate, drifting east toward Sanford.
“I hope you were done,” said Harrison.
“I get the feeling it doesn’t matter,” said Detective Berry, staring east. “Are they all going to Sanford Airport?”
“Be glad you’re stationed up north. It’s about to get really crowded down here,” said Taylor.
Chapter 15
EVENT +9 Days
Milton Mills Crossing
Acton, Maine
The road straightened in front of Harrison’s sedan, giving way to a long stretch of white picket fence next to the road. A yellow house sat at the back of a sparse green lawn, overrun with patches of dead crabgrass. Two figures stood in the shadows on the farmer’s porch. The Boyds. A few days ago, he’d knocked on their door to let them know that the militia unit at the bridge was friendly. Without a doubt, the Boyds had heard the gunfire that left Jimmy Russell rotting in the sun. Curtis Boyd had smiled nervously through his partially opened front door, obviously eager to close it again.
He didn’t blame Mr. Boyd. Strange men with guns almost always spelled trouble, regardless of their intentions. Harrison was well aware of this perception, which was why he’d shifted the brigade’s focus away from its previously unhealthy fixation on guns. Guns and the citizens’ 2nd Amendment right to bear arms would always occupy a fundamental role in the brigade’s mission; they just wouldn’t be the “face” of his militia. The York County Readiness Brigade’s primary mission was to support the citizens. If that mission required firearms, so be it.
The couple vanished through the front door, likely responding to the second vehicle in their small convoy. Nobody was happy to see military vehicles.
“We have a problem,” stated Gene, slowing the car.
Harrison turned his attention back to the road. The stop sign at the intersection of Foxes Ridge Road and French Street caught his eye first, followed immediately by four soldiers in full combat body armor and protective helmets standing next to it. The soldiers kept their weapons trained on the sedan as Gene stopped more than fifty feet from the intersection. One of the men clad in Universal Camouflage Pattern ACUs beckoned them forward with one hand, letting his rifle hang from its sling. Harrison quit holding his breath when the entire fire team lowered their weapons. He twitched when Staff Sergeant Taylor’s voice broadcast over the ROTAC.
“I’m going to pull alongside you, Mr. Campbell. Looks like 3rd Brigade Combat Team dropped us a gift.”
“Feel free to pull in front of me.”
Two of the soldiers jogged toward the sedan as Taylor’s Matvee pulled forward. Harrison remained in his seat, waiting for the staff sergeant to fully defuse the situation. Under a tree next to the bridge, a tight cluster of militia members lay face down with their hands laced over the backs of their heads. Two soldiers stood watch over them, pointing their rifles at the group.
Son of a bitch!
He reached for the door handle.
“Harrison,” hissed Gene. “Not a good idea right now. This’ll all get sorted out in a minute.”
He withdrew his hand from the door, infuriated to see his own people being treated like criminals. Alex should have sent one of the Marine vehicles to Milton Mills three days ago, like he had promised. Now he’d have to deal with Dave Littner, who was already the most vocal government conspiracy theorist in the brigade.
Shit—the soldiers have them eating dirt right where Jimmy’s crew spent six days decomposing.
Littner would be out-of-control mad. Harrison would be lucky to keep the Berwick chapter intact, let alone willing to collaborate with Fletcher’s Marines.
“Staff Sergeant Taylor?” he yelled through the driver’s side window.
“I see it, Mr. Campbell. That’s my first priority,” said the marine, kneeling next to the window. “I’ll have them on their feet in thirty seconds.”
“They’re lying right where Russell’s people were piled up. I need you to support them, no matter how nasty they get toward the soldiers. We’re in this together.”
“Understood,” he said, giving them a thumbs-up. “I was planning on kicking ass and taking names anyway. Follow me, gentlemen.”
Taylor met the two soldiers in front of the vehicles, speaking energetically while pointing toward the captive militia. Harrison grabbed his rifle from the back seat and stepped out of the car, instructing Gene to stay behind for now. As soon as he shut the car door, the soldiers at the stop sign raised their rifles and ran forward, screaming at him. The two men in front of Staff Sergeant Taylor backed up and crouched, pointing their M4 carbines at his head. Harrison froze, adrenaline coursing through his body. An angry chorus of, “Drop your rifle!” and, “On the ground now!” bombarded his senses, barely penetrating the wave of anger and betrayal radiating from his core. Taylor jarred him out of an extremely dangerous state of mind.
“Are you fucking stupid, Specialist?” barked Taylor, stepping between Harrison and the rifle barrels. “You clearly saw that he’s with me, right? How the fuck could you interpret this any other way.”
“Ease off my soldiers, asshole! They’re doing their job. Civilians are not authorized to carry weapons in the RRZ!” said a sergeant arriving from the stop sign.
“Is this the stupid squad?” Taylor snapped. “Do you think I just met this man a few seconds ago? Mr. Campbell commands the York County Readiness Brigade.”
“Militia is no exception. We’re under strict orders to confiscate weapons from non-RRZ-authorized personnel.”
“The men and women you’re holding at gunpoint are working at the request of my commanding officer. They’re authorized.”
“Prove it, or they’re not going anywhere. Including Mr. Campbell.�
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“Harrison, why don’t you get inside my vehicle until I get this squared away. We’ve got a shit-for-brains epidemic, and I’d hate for you to get infected.”
“He doesn’t go anywhere,” said the sergeant, raising his rifle.
“Munoz, Kennedy—you copying this?” Taylor said into his helmet mic.
A few seconds passed. “If one of these soldiers shoots Mr. Campbell or any of his people and I am unable to issue orders, your last mission is to assist members of the York County Readiness Brigade in a tactical withdrawal to FOB Lakeside. Assume all ground personnel in the area to be hostile.”
Harrison wished Littner and his crew could hear this. It would go a long way toward keeping them on board with Captain Fletcher’s plan.
“Sounds like the Marines live in shit-talk city,” grunted one of the privates.
“The private needs to keep his cock holster shut,” said Taylor.
The soldier took a step forward, but stopped when a staff sergeant raced into the group.
“Jesus. How many NCOs does it take to lead a fire team?” muttered Taylor.
“What the hell is the problem here?” asked the staff sergeant, catching sight of Harrison. “Why is that man still holding a rifle?”
“That’s the problem, Staff Sergeant. Chesty Puller comes running out of his tactical vehicle like he owns the fucking place, saying this guy is exempt. Now he just threatened to waste the entire squad.”
“Are you out of your mind? Who do you report to?”
“Your sergeant is slightly twisting my words,” said Taylor.
“Slightly? Who’s your commanding officer?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Grady, 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment.”
“A reserve unit?” said the sergeant. “Fuck this guy.”
“Simmer it, Morales. We’re not the only kids playing in the sandbox,” he said, turning to Taylor. “Can I see your identification card for verification?”
“I don’t look real to you?”
“I have no doubt you’re a Marine with the unit you identified. I just need to see if you have the authority to co-opt civilians.”
Taylor handed it over.
“Lieutenant, I need an ID check at the intersection. I have a Marine staff sergeant claiming that the civilians guarding the bridge are part of his unit,” he said, activating his squad radio. “Let’s cool it down, all right? We’re all on the same side.”
Harrison wondered how blurry those lines might get over the next few months—or years.
“So are the men and women you have lying on the ground,” said Taylor.
A group of three soldiers appeared from a concealed position in the dense brush next to the mouth of the bridge, sprinting toward the vehicles. They arrived a few seconds later, raising the total visible soldier count to thirteen, including the four at the far side of the bridge. He assumed they had at least eight more at the other bridge—four to cover the Milton Mills Road intersection and four to cover the bridge. Staff Sergeant Taylor was pissing off a lot of soldiers. Harrison eased next to the Marine, causing the soldiers to tense.
“If you guys freak out like this every time you see a gun, you’re gonna have a real problem. This isn’t the people’s republic of New York. They don’t have gun laws up here,” said Taylor.
“They do now,” said the army staff sergeant.
When the next gaggle of soldiers reached them, a second lieutenant stepped in front of the group, accompanied by a senior noncommissioned officer—probably the platoon sergeant.
“Afternoon, sir,” said Taylor.
“Any time you want to salute is fine by the lieutenant,” said the sergeant first class.
“Probably not a good idea for the lieutenant’s long-term health. Christ, how many noncommissioned officers does it take to run a platoon?”
“Are all Marines this mouthy?” asked the army staff sergeant, handing the ID card to the officer.
“You guys are killing me. All of you,” said the officer, staring at Taylor. “Second Lieutenant Matt Poole. Checkpoint commander, 3rd Brigade Combat Team.”
“Staff Sergeant Taylor. 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment out of Fort Devens. This is Harrison Campbell, York County Readiness Brigade commander. Those are his people on the ground.”
The lieutenant nodded, scanning his ID card with a handheld device that resembled a GPS receiver. A few moments later, he looked up with a barely contained look of surprise. He handed the card back.
“Staff Sergeant Taylor has situational authority here.”
“Over you?” asked the platoon sergeant.
“Over all of us,” said Poole.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me, sir? Can they co-opt civilians?” said the army staff sergeant.
“1st Battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Regiment is designated RRZ’s internal security. Staff noncommissioned officers and above within the battalion have full authority to co-opt civilians in an armed capacity, though I strongly suggest the staff sergeant works with his battalion to issue provisional ID cards to co-opted personnel. We had no way to verify what Mr. Littner told us, and our orders for border security operations are strict. Disarm and detain armed subjects within designated areas. No exceptions.”
“There’s always an exception, sir,” said Taylor.
“Not when it comes to the safety of my soldiers. Mr. Campbell, I’m really sorry about this,” he said, extending a hand. “We didn’t expect to find armed militia on the bridge, and I couldn’t take any chances.”
Harrison reluctantly accepted the handshake, remaining silent. He wasn’t satisfied with the lieutenant’s explanation of the soldiers’ behavior, but there was no point starting an argument. The young officer was following a bizarre set of orders, no doubt crafted by Homeland Security bureaucrats and forced down the throats of the military’s senior commanders. There was no point getting mad at a twenty-two-year-old.
“Platoon Sergeant, I want Mr. Campbell’s people back on their feet ASAP. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some apologizing to do,” said Poole.
“Lieutenant?” said Harrison, knowing that was a bad idea. “Why don’t you let me handle my people? They’re bound to be a little hot over this, and I’d rather move them away from your soldiers as quickly as possible. If you could place their weapons in one of the cars, I’d appreciate it. I’ll pass on your words.”
“Sounds like a plan. Platoon Sergeant, make it happen. And move the soldiers away from Mr. Campbell’s people,” said Poole.
“Copy that, sir. Back to the intersection, all of you,” said the platoon sergeant.
“Mind walking back with me, Lieutenant?” Harrison asked.
“Not at all, Mr. Campbell,” said Poole. “I’ll be at the CP in a few minutes, Platoon Sergeant.”
The soldiers jogged past the intersection as Harrison and the lieutenant walked down the crumbling road.
“I appreciate your patience with the platoon. There was no way for us to know your group’s status,” said Poole.
“That’s what I’m worried about, not just for my people, but for the entire RRZ, or whatever you call it. Are all of the units talking to each other?”
“I have no idea. Maybe at the top echelon? I’m at the bottom of the food chain, reacting to orders pushed down from the battalion commander. We’ve been working nonstop to prepare the brigade for RRZ deployment.”
“Do they explain this RRZ thing in officer’s training? Based on my interaction with the Marines, I get the distinct impression that this is relatively new to everyone.”
“None of us knew it existed. We drew equipment from specialized bunkers, discarding most of our gear, especially the electronics. They didn’t want to take any chances that the circuits had been degraded by the EMP.”
“They confirmed an EMP attack?”
“Negative,” said Poole. “We made the assumption based on what was discarded and replaced.” He glanced back at the Marines. “I guarantee your Marines
did the same. They’re driving around in a vehicle that hasn’t been in service with the Marine Corps for several years. Probably retrofitted and mothballed in a bunker, like most of our stuff.”
“Is it possible that nobody knew about the military’s role in the RRZ?”
“Someone had to know, but between you and me, it definitely wasn’t known at the battalion commander level. The colonel made that crystal clear to the officers and staff NCOs at our first crisis briefing. Nobody expected to leave Fort Drum. We figured one or two of the brigades would be put on ready alert standby, you know, for a foreign mission or something like that. By the end of the week, the entire division will be deployed to major zones within the northeast. Who would have guessed that?”
Harrison watched Dave Littner rise slowly from the grass, glaring at the soldiers backing away. They heard a splash beyond the militia, somewhere along the riverbank. Two soldiers sprinted across the bridge, one of them pointing toward the water hidden by thick undergrowth.
“I don’t envy your job, Lieutenant. You’re looking at one million plus refugees from the greater Boston area. The border situation is guaranteed to get ugly quick. Most of these waterways are little more than streams at some points.”
“Aerial recon is already scoping those out.”
“Too bad they didn’t take a look at Milton Mills. You might have avoided this little mess,” said Harrison.
“We’re lucky that didn’t happen, or they might have softened the landing zone ahead of us. Good luck, Mr. Campbell,” said the lieutenant, chasing after the soldiers that descended the riverbank.
Dave Littner shook his head as the officer passed the group, but didn’t say a word. Harrison approached slowly, unsure what to expect. Littner appeared genuinely calm, which surprised him.
“Is everyone all right?” said Harrison.
“Everyone’s fine, for now.”
“Let’s get you back to Sanford. Get everyone cleaned up and fed some warm chow.”
Point of Crisis (The Perseid Collapse Post Apocalyptic Series) Page 14
