“DIRT?”
“Yeah. They ain’t very creative with their acronyms.”
Chapter 27
EVENT +64:59
Limerick, Maine
Alex scanned the road ahead through the AN/PVS-15 Generation IV night vision goggles (NVG) generously provided by 1st Battalion’s supply chief. He held them like binoculars, instead of attaching them to the ballistic helmet at his feet. Battalion supply offered him a full set of “battle rattle,” which he had graciously accepted, despite the unlikelihood of ever using any of the gear. You could never predict when a second set of Dragon Skin armor might be useful.
“The turn is coming up on the right,” said Alex, lowering the NVGs.
“Striker escort turning right in five-zero meters,” said the driver into his headset.
“Almost home,” Alex said to the pitch-black cabin behind him, eliciting a few exhausted comments.
The marines drove without lights for most of the trip beyond the New Hampshire/Maine border. Human traffic disappeared after the state police checkpoint, making it safe to open up the convoy’s speed. All standard operating procedure designed to minimize the risk of ambush. What seemed a little overcautious thirty minutes ago, felt reasonable now that they were close to Gelder Pond. The less attention they drew to the compound, the better.
Alex dialed the ruggedized MSAT as the tactical vehicle eased right onto an inky stretch of packed-gravel road.
“Where are you?” said Kate.
“Turning into Gelder Pond. We should be at the gate in a minute or two. What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner? Didn’t they give you a few MREs for the trip?”
“Road snacks didn’t make the list.”
“Your mother just volunteered soup and sandwiches,” said Kate. “We’re trying to unload the fridge.”
“Good thing my mom’s on the scene.”
“We’ll see how long that attitude lasts. Meet you in front of the garage,” she said.
“Make that the barn. I want to keep the Jeep out of sight. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The Matvee veered left onto the eastern side of the Gelder Pond loop, eventually straightening on a rutted dirt road. A sudden jolt reminded Alex that not everything had improved since the Humvee.
“Looks like someone forgot to pave this side, sir,” said the driver.
“You should see it in the winter. Not too much further on the right.”
The convoy crept down the road while Alex peered through his binoculars at the forest fifty feet ahead of the vehicle, looking for a break in the underbrush.
“You can hit the lights now,” said Alex.
“Roger, that,” replied the driver, raising his NVGs. “Lead vehicle, lights on.”
Alex squinted as the road and surrounding trees appeared. Insects flashed in front of the tactical vehicle, streaking like meteorites until they cleared the beams. The Matvee slowed in front of the gravel driveway.
“Looks like a tight fit, sir,” said the marine.
“It’s designed to accommodate a small tow truck, but I think we can call it good right here, Corporal. We’ll toss all of the gear into the Jeep and take it from here.”
“Embarrassed of your new friends, sir?”
“Never, but I have a little explaining to do, and the fewer armored vehicles they see, the better.”
“Embarrassed,” said the turret gunner.
“Hey, I’m trying to let you guys down easy.”
“We’ll get your gear transferred and hit the road.”
A few minutes later, the Jeep sank on its axles, burdened by five adults and twice the volume of gear they had originally packed in Scarborough. Alex opened the lead Matvee’s front passenger door and extended a hand across the seat.
“Thanks for letting Captain Chaos take a turn in the turret. Sorry about the noise.”
“Don’t apologize to me, sir. That was the longest thirty minutes of PFC Jackson’s life,” he said, shaking Alex’s hand.
“Sorry, Jackson.”
“No sweat, Captain. He looked happier than my daughter at Disney World!” yelled the marine through the roof hatch.
An uncomfortable, palpable silence enveloped the cabin as Jackson’s statement synched. Alex suddenly felt like a complete asshole. They’d spent nearly five hours in the Matvee, and he’d been too self-focused and tired to ask about the marines’ families. They’d become an instrument, their sole purpose to deliver him safely home to his family amidst jokes and stories about their experiences in the marines.
“Sorry,” said Alex.
“Nobody wants to talk about it, sir. Trust me. We all signed up for this,” said the corporal.
“Still,” he said, pausing. “Has anyone been in contact with their families?”
“Negative, but Jackson lives thirty minutes away in Fitchburg. His wife knows to head over to Devens.”
“What about you?”
“Worcester. CO said they’ve started to evacuate military families to Fort Devens. I’m hoping they send a truck down. Four guys from the battalion live in the area. Good chance, right?”
“I think so,” Alex said. “Either way they’ll be fine. Corporal Lianez, see you on the other side.”
“Not if I see you first, sir.”
Alex left the door open for the convoy’s senior marine, Staff Sergeant Evans, who stood behind the vehicle.
“Staff Sergeant, good luck with the rest of your mission.”
“Same to you, sir. Give us a holler if you run into trouble. Colonel said they shifted our tactical SATCOM network one hundred miles north of Boston. Use the ROTAC to reach us. We’re programmed into the system as Striker Five-One.”
“Which one is the ROTAC?”
“Small, green handheld. Ever use ROTAC before?”
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a dinosaur. Sincgars was new tech in my day,” said Alex.
“Shit. I’ll have to break this down Barney style for you.”
“Thanks,” said Alex, sarcastically.
“Menu button brings you ‘channel select.’ Scroll to Striker Five-One and press ‘Lock.’ Push to talk after that. It works over EMSS, typically in a regional DTCS configuration,” said the staff sergeant.
Alex shrugged his shoulders.
“Satellite stuff. Two hundred fifty mile range. PFM. You just press the button like a walkie-talkie, sir.”
“Pure fucking magic is right. What’s my station identifier?”
“I have no idea, Captain, but we don’t screen our calls.”
“I’ll let you roll. You’re welcome to swing by on your way south, grab a warm meal. Just saying.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Welcome aboard, sir,” Evans said, coming to attention and snapping a salute.
“Carry on, Staff Sergeant.”
Alex jogged onto the gravel road, using the light from Ed’s Jeep to guide his way to the gate. He turned to watch the last Matvee rumble past the driveway entrance, headed south on Gelder Pond Lane. The dark shape disappeared, swallowed by the trees and thick brush. He turned his attention to the gate’s touchpad and pressed “Intercom.”
“No solicitors,” said a male voice through the speaker.
“Looks like I’ll have to take your grandson elsewhere.”
“We’ll have none of that. Coffee’s brewing! Welcome home, son!”
Alex inserted his key into the metal box and turned it clockwise to manually override the fried circuits in the touchpad. The gate sprang into action, squeaking on its track. He heard his mother above several voices yelling in the background.