The sudden, violent denial of sight and oxygen caused a tragedy he couldn’t have predicted. With the sole intent of escaping the tear gas, the mob dispersed in every direction. Staff Sergeant Williams watched in horror as a woman holding a child disappeared through a destroyed section of the bridge’s concrete side barrier, followed by several others.
Williams climbed out of the turret and scrambled down the side of the vehicle, hitting the pavement in a dead sprint for the side barrier. He leaned over and counted six people flailing in the water. The current dragged them slowly away from the bridge, into the middle of the Charles River.
Fuck. I killed those people.
He wanted to help them, but a rescue was out of the question. His team didn’t carry any equipment that could possibly help.
“Staff Sergeant! They’re still coming!” yelled the marine in the gun turret of the second Matvee.
Williams lifted the binoculars and saw at least forty civilians continuing the march toward the north end of the bridge. Still no weapons. The woman hit by the errant 40mm projectile lay motionless on the pavement behind the mob. Small clusters of people materialized in the traffic circle beyond the intersection, headed toward the bridge. If he could break up this advance, they might be able to hold the bridge. He kneeled and aimed his M320 grenade launcher at a point directly in front of the group. The grenade exploded exactly where he intended, obscuring the front rank in a toxic chemical cloud. He watched as the pack worked together to keep the momentum moving forward. He’d fired as close to the crowd as possible without striking it—to little effect.
“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. CS ineffective unless fired directly into crowd, causing hard casualties. No weapons visible. Estimate forty-plus civilians on bridge, with more approaching.”
“Stand by,” said the radio operator.
“Reload tear gas!” he said, running back to his vehicle.
He had just settled into the turret when Raider Base responded over the battalion tactical net.
“One Zero. Use 40 mike mike grenades to repel crowd.”
“What the fuck?” Williams muttered, keying the microphone. “Raider Base, this is One Zero. Say again. I heard use 40 mike mike grenades. Do you mean tear-gas grenades?”
An explosion thundered in the distance. Several seconds passed with no response.
“Raider Base, this is One Zero. Did you copy my last?”
“Stand by, One Zero.”
“Copy. One Zero standing by.”
The explosion was bad news. With the same situation simultaneously unfolding at ten bridges, he knew Raider Base was too busy to hold everyone’s hands. He’d give the tear gas one more chance, then order One Zero’s withdrawal. He wasn’t going to kill or maim more civilians.
“One Zero, standby to fire CS grenades. Leverone, Graham, Rottolico, Howard will fire directly in front of the group. The rest of you will fire to the right. Know your limitations and adjust. I do not want to put another round directly into the group. Five second stand by. Four. Three.
“All Raider units, this is Patriot Actual. Withdraw from your positions immediately and proceed to assigned secondary staging areas for further orders. I say again, withdraw from your positions immediately and report to secondary staging area. Acknowledge, over.”
The battalion commander had just given up the Charles River.
Williams activated the intersquad communications net. “One Zero, mount up. We’re headed to Medford.”
He dropped into the vehicle and squirmed into the front passenger seat as Graham and Leverone jumped in. He waited for his turn to acknowledge the order over the battalion tactical net, the process apparently stalled with Raider One Seven. One Seven covered the Anderson Memorial Bridge two miles downriver. He hoped the explosion had nothing to do with the delay in One Seven’s report. The thought of a bomb detonating on the Anderson Memorial Bridge triggered an instinct. He glanced across the cabin, through Graham’s thick driver-side window. A man sprinted ahead of the crowd.
“Contact, left!” he screamed, kicking his door open.
Williams sprinted to the rear corner of the M-ATV and sighted in on a runner carrying an oversized olive green backpack in his right hand. A short burst of automatic fire stopped the man just as he passed the bridge’s final Jersey barrier. Gunfire erupted from the second vehicle, directed at the advancing crowd.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” he yelled into his headset, pounding on the second Matvee’s rear hatch.
A deep, rhythmic thundering replaced the M240’s rapid chatter.
No. No. No!
Tracers from the third vehicle’s .50-caliber machine gun streamed out of its concealed position along Greenbough Boulevard and connected with the top of the bridge’s side barrier. Chunks of gray concrete exploded, followed by body parts. Williams ran toward the third vehicle, frantically waving his arms and screaming the cease-fire order. The firing stopped.
“Raider One Zero, this is Raider Base. You’re transmitting over battalion tactical. Did you copy Patriot’s last transmission?”
Williams checked the transmit switch attached to his Dragon Skin vest. He had broadcast the cease-fire order over the wrong net. His marines never heard him. He switched back to the intersquad channel.
“Graham, pick me up by Howie’s Matvee,” he said.
The armored vehicles lurched off the bridge and roared onto Greenbough Boulevard, speeding in his direction. Movement in the river drew his attention to three figures struggling against the current to reach the far side. A hundred feet downriver, Williams spotted the rest of them. Four bodies drifted in a loose pack toward Arsenal Street Bridge. One of them was half the size of the others.
Anger and resentment overwhelmed him, directed at everyone. The idea of blocking these bridges had been an obvious zero-sum game, matched and raised in its absurdity by the lunatics running the show south of the Charles River. Now what? Rinse and repeat at the next set of bridges north of Boston?
“Raider One, this is Raider Base. Radio check.”
“Raider One acknowledges the withdrawal order. Proceeding to secondary staging area,” he said, opening the Matvee door. “I think we’re done with this mission,” said Williams.
Leverone and Graham nodded their approval. He’d assigned them to his Matvee for a reason. Like him, they all had young families in the Springfield area.
Chapter 22
EVENT +59:38
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Ed piled out of the side door to Stoughton Hall, stopping in the middle of the red brick walkway connecting the dormitories. A bullet snapped against the building façade several feet beyond him, causing him to flinch.
“Ed!” Alex said, waving him back into the building.
Alex reached the corner of Hollis Hall and edged along the concrete foundation until he stood behind the corporal. Ed held the heavy glass door open, beckoning him to follow.
“I have to take care of something. Get everyone into one room, close the door, and don’t let anyone in until I get back!” Alex yelled.