She hugged and kissed him in front of everyone, noticing a rifle slung over the back of his chair.
“No more battalion surgeons for you. I can take this,” she said, grabbing the rifle barrel.
“That’s all right, Mom. I feel better having it close,” he said.
Alex walked in from the screened porch. “I’m gonna check the barn. Make sure it’s empty of guests.”
Linda spoke up from the great room. “It’s clear, Alex. The camera was on the door all night. I didn’t see anything on the time-elapsed feed.”
“Call me paranoid. Mom, why aren’t you wearing the vest?”
“I’m not wearing that thing around the house. I can barely move in it. If the shooting starts, you’re going to stuff me in the basement anyway. Give it to someone on the front lines.”
“Dad?”
“I can’t make her do it,” said Tim.
“Then you can wear it,” replied Alex.
“Put it on one of the kids that isn’t going into the cellar.”
“I’m not going down there, by the way,” stated Ethan Fletcher.
“Yes, you are,” snapped Alex. “You’re in charge of guarding the bulkhead door.”
“That’s kind of bogus,” returned their nephew.
“The house has five points of access, not counting the windows. The bulkhead is the only point we can’t adequately cover from any of the windows. It’s a bigger responsibility than you realize.”
“I guess,” said Ethan, not looking convinced.
“If I can’t get the old folks to wear these,” he said, patting the vest hanging over the five-foot-by-five-foot sandbag emplacement next to the kitchen island, “we’ll keep one vest in each of the safe boxes. If you leave the safe box, you put the vest on. Fair enough?”
“Alex, I think you should wear the vest. You’ll be moving around the house,” said Ed from the table on the porch.
“I’d feel better if one of the kids wore it,” said Alex.
Logically, Ed was right, and Kate hoped he took him up on the offer. They had talked about the vests last night and agreed that they could become a point of contention if not handled properly. Each parent wanted his or her children in one of those vests. According to Alex, the Dragon Skin’s silicon carbide ceramic plates could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet. Alex’s solution was to give them to his parents, but even that could be interpreted as favoritism. With Ed making the suggestion, it gave Alex the opportunity to wear the vest without raising eyebrows.
“Take the vest, Alex,” said Linda. “You’re prone to getting shot.”
“Thanks,” he shot back at Linda.
She locked eyes with Alex for a moment and nodded imperceptibly, giving him permission to take the suggestion.
“Fair enough,” said Alex, unclipping his tactical chest rig.
Kate helped him adjust the straps to accommodate the bulk of the body armor, which was configured with MOLLE points to carry the same ammunition pouches attached to Alex’s rig.
“Would it be easier to transfer magazine pouches?” she said.
“We can do that later. I’ll be right back,” he said. “Mom, don’t mix the bacon with the tofu.”
Alex was in rare form, which was good to see. He’d looked utterly sapped of energy and enthusiasm last night.
“You want some company?” said Kate.
“It’s probably better to keep everyone inside until later in the day,” he said.
Rare form and all business.
Chapter 33
EVENT +75:05
Limerick, Maine
Eli Russell crawled beneath the fallen tree, cursing under his breath. The half-mile walk through the woods had turned into a slog through decades-old untamed forest, slowing their progress to the point of madness. Soaked with sweat and covered in mud and dried pine needles, he stopped twenty feet beyond the rotten trunk to catch his breath and scan ahead. They’d kept the pond at least forty feet to their right, avoiding the shoreline bog that had swallowed a few boots and painted most of them dark brown at the beginning of their journey.
He raised a pair of compact binoculars and peered through the dense woodland, following the reflective waterline. The gray dock peeked through the trees at the far edge of his view. Maybe another fifty feet and they could turn southeast for the barn. The men had started to gather around him, breathing heavily and wiping their red faces. He’d have to impose more rigorous physical standards for his men. He had no delusions about turning this crowd of thirty- to forty-something weekend warriors into a Ranger battalion, but anything had to be better than the sorry sacks that slithered under the rotten log and spilled into the forest. One of the men pulled a pack of cigarettes from his left breast pocket and fished around in his pants for a lighter.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Eli whispered.
“I thought we were taking a break,” the man replied.
Paul Hillebrand stepped out of the foliage next to the man and slapped him on the back of the head.
“Stow that shit and form a hasty 180-degree security perimeter facing south. You know the drill!” he hissed. “Sorry about that, Eli.”
The men scattered and took up positions in front of the log while Bertelson’s squad struggled through. His crew looked worse than Hillebrand’s. Watching them drag the thirty-cal through the dirt and dead leaves under the log made him want to cut off Bertelson’s head and shit down his neck. Of course, Bertelson was nowhere to be found, because he led from behind. As the gun crew emerged, Eli sprang forward and ripped the vintage thirty-two-pound M1919A6 Browning medium machine gun from their grip.
“Do you cocksuckers realize you just dragged a vintage weapon through the dirt?” he said, shaking soil and leaves off the weapon. “You better pray to God this thing works, because we don’t have time to field strip and clean it. Lucky for you, this son of a bitch is tougher than the two of you combined. Bertelson?”
“Yes, sir,” he heard from the other side of the downed trunk.
“Get over here and square your men away.”
Bertelson shimmied under the tree and stood up, staring at the machine gun in Eli’s hands.
“I want you out in front of your men. We don’t lead from behind in my army. You might have seen them trying to fill the barrel with dirt,” he said, throwing the weapon at the squad leader.
Surprisingly, Bertelson caught it without stumbling backward into the tree, which had been Eli’s intention. He’d hoped to crack his face open on the barrel.
“I like to keep an eye on the squad. I can’t do that with my back to the men,” he said meekly.
“It’s easier to pull a string than it is to push it. Get out in front, or I’ll find someone who better understands the concept.”
“Roger that, sir,” Bertelson said, walking over to his shamed gun crew.
Eli pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Liberty Three, this is Liberty Actual. We’ve reached the turn. Commence your approach and hold at the tree line, over.”
“This is Liberty Three, commencing approach,” squawked his earpiece.
He strode to the front of the group and held up his right hand without looking behind him. Forming a knife hand, he chopped the air in front of him, waiting a few seconds before stepping forward. A quick glance behind showed that nobody had moved.
“On your feet. We’re moving out,” he barked as low as possible.
Tactically, the regular arm of the Maine Liberty Militia was a mess, better suited for basic military maneuvers, checkpoint duty and static defense. If he had known how bad they’d look after trudging for thirty minutes, he might have considered a different set of tactics. Too late now.