“Lianez, you should probably figure out a way to suspend her leg.”
“I can do that, sir.”
“Don’t bother. We’re not that far away,” Linda said.
“It’s her call, Lianez,” said Alex.
“It’s always her call,” grumbled Charlie.
Alex met the corporal’s stare through the rear passenger seats. He didn’t look happy.
“We’ll watch over your flock. You did good in there,” said Alex, closing the door before they could respond.
Alex pounded on the hood and gave the driver a thumbs-up before running into the house, keeping himself between the woods and Samantha. Once inside, they found the adults in the kitchen with two of the marines. His mother stood at the basement door with her shotgun.
“Where’s Ryan?” he asked.
“He won’t leave his post until the forest is cleared. Alyssa and Sydney are watching the east.”
“The rest of the kids?”
“In the basement, under lock and key until the farm is safe,” said Amy.
Alex nodded at his mom, who looked all business. “I guess we should take care of that sooner than later. Staff Sergeant?”
“You sure you don’t want to sit this one out, sir? You look like you’re about to fall over,” said Evans.
Alex knew he should take a seat and close his eyes, probably for the next twelve hours, but he couldn’t rest until he felt reasonably confident that their property was secure. Even then, they faced a full day of work just to put the house back into rough working order.
“I’ve looked and felt like that for the better part of seventy-two hours. I’ll survive a few more,” he said.
Tim Fletcher opened one of the pouches attached to his web belt, exposing two fully loaded magazines. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.
“Tim, you’ve had enough. Let the marines handle this,” said Amy.
Tim pulled the brim of his hat down, exposing the faded Eagle, Globe and Anchor symbol on its starched face.
“Never mind,” Amy said.
“Keep a watch in every direction,” said Alex.
“Be careful. Don’t take any chances. Not after this,” she said, glancing around at the mess.
“I’ll be good,” he said and kissed her dusty lips.
“We’ll radio back with our locations. I want to test the motion detectors. Some of the transceivers were knocked onto the floor, but I didn’t see any bullet holes. Wish I could say the same for the monitors.”
“We’ll check the transceivers and put them back in order,” said Kate.
Alex nodded. “One last question. Did any of the toilets survive?”
“The one in the master bedroom,” said Tim.
Alex looked toward the stairs. “I guess I’ll take my chances out there.”
Chapter 45
EVENT+78:26
Porter, Maine
Eli adjusted the Bronco’s passenger-side vents to direct the cool air in his face. Nearly two hours later, he was still running hot from the half-mile dash through the forest in Limerick. He looked up from his GPS receiver and watched for the turnoff to Camp Hiawatha.
“Turn up here at the camp,” said Eli, pointing to a rustic sign on the right side of the road.
His driver eased the SUV off Route 160 and drove them through a worn flagstone entrance. The dirt road gently wove through the dense forest, until they arrived at a two-story post-and-beam structure, which he guessed to be the main activities lodge. The road looped in front of the lodge, designed as a drop-off area for campers. A pickup truck and a small bumper-sticker-covered sedan sat in the back of a shaded dirt parking lot situated across the road from the lodge. Beyond the presence of these two vehicles, the camp appeared deserted, which suited him fine.
“No kids, huh?” he asked.
The driver started to open his mouth, but thought better of it. An even more uncomfortable silence hung in the truck’s cabin. He’d made it clear to Bertelson’s men that if they didn’t have anything useful to say, they shouldn’t say anything at all. They were on probation simply by association with their fuck-up of a dead squad leader. The slightest infraction of discipline or demonstration of incompetence would put them in front of a firing squad. Throughout the trip north, the four men had remained silent, dutifully watching their surroundings. It was amazing what a little leadership and a healthy dose of fear could do for the troops.
“Let me clarify something. If I ask a question, I expect an answer. As long as it’s an answer and not some excuse to run your suck. Now, does anyone know why this place is empty?”
The driver, a serious-looking soldier type wearing thick-rimmed, corrective glasses, glanced at him and nodded. “I think most of these camps break up after the second week of August. The cars might belong to the camp director or something,” he said, slowing the vehicle as they entered the loop.
“I want to see the whole place. That path looks wide enough,” Eli said, pointing to a gravel path flanked by brush and a “no vehicles past this point” sign.
Several seconds on the camp’s central pedestrian thoroughfare yielded tennis courts and a cluster of six cabins nestled into the woods. Shimmering water peeked between the trees behind the bungalows. A few minutes later, they returned to the loop in front of the lodge. He liked what he saw. More than enough structures to house the militia—with room to grow with each batch of recruits. Fresh water on both sides of the camp. The place was located between two sizeable “ponds,” forming a land bridge between them. The idea of a ready-made barracks appealed to him the most, along with the lodge, which gave them a central meeting place. His biggest problem with Camp Hiawatha was its location.
First, it wasn’t set far enough back from Route 160. The area wasn’t exactly a high-population zone, but at the end of the road, near the lake, he could see several houses on the water. Located less than two miles from Porter, Maine, the high volume of vehicle traffic and activity generated by his militia would undoubtedly attract attention. The camp was an obvious choice for investigation if the government caught wind of them. He needed something more remote. Eli really wanted this place to work, but there was no point in forcing a round peg into a square hole, or whatever the stupid saying was.
“Take us back onto 160. North. I have a better idea,” he said.
Less than a minute later, he ordered the driver to turn left on Porterfield Road. GPS indicated that the road forked about a mile and a half away, Porterfield Road continuing north and Norton Hill Road heading east. He liked the idea of heading east toward the New Hampshire border. Eli also knew from experience that the areas east of 160 were mostly empty. He’d be shocked to find more than four or five homesteads on this road. Easy pickings out here, unless they stumbled onto another government safe house. Just the fleeting thought of his failed attack enraged him. The driver’s eyes darted nervously to his balled-up fists.
Eli counted the turnoffs along the hard-packed dirt road, jotting notes into a sweat-stained pocket notebook with a stubby, dull pencil. Five so far, mostly mobile homes or dilapidated saltboxes set close to the road. One dirt driveway extended out of sight, but it was too close to Route 160. They passed a patchy field on the left, which gave Eli hope, but he didn’t see a driveway or a structure. It looked like someone had cleared the land and given up. A few minutes later, they approached a possible intersection.
“Stop at that intersection. Windows down,” he said.
The word “intersection” was a generous description for the accidental convergence of two rural dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. The path heading south looked more like a well-worn ATV trail, which could prove useful for winter movement. No way anyone was getting around southern Maine once the snow started falling. He had a feeling that plowing the roads to facilitate insurgent movement wouldn’t be high on Homeland’s priority list. The road north held promise. Penetrating a thick stand of trees along the road, he caught glimpses of open fields in the distance. Best of all, it wasn’t shown on GPS.