“Yeah, thanks for not killing me,” said Alex, offering his hand.
Evans shook it quickly, anxious to get out of the tent. The lieutenant colonel’s dark brown eyes fixed him with an unemotional stare. The marine looked familiar, but Alex couldn’t place him. A long, lateral scar extended from the top of his cheek to the middle of his ear. His head was shaved clean. His skin was weathered and cracked, thick crow’s feet extending past the corners of his eyes. He’d seen his share of the Middle East, Africa and Afghanistan. Either that, or he spent his off hours on the beach. Somehow, Alex doubted that. 1st Battalion, 25th Marine Regiment’s commanding officer had that undeniable, “been there, done that” look typical of senior marines. For the first time in years, Alex felt intimidated.
“So, what brings the infamous Captain Fletcher to Boston?” asked the lieutenant colonel.
Alex cocked his head and examined the marine’s face, finally recognizing it as one of the last faces he had seen in Iraq. Second Lieutenant Grady had taken shrapnel from the same rocket-propelled grenade warhead that had aerated Alex’s body. He’d just given Grady a set of medevac orders when the warhead detonated several feet from Grady’s Amphibious Assault Vehicle. Mostly protected by the AAV’s one-and-a-half-inch aluminum hull, Grady was hit by a single fragment, which opened his face to the bone.
“Sean Grady?” he blurted.
“About time. Am I that ugly now?” he said, rushing forward to hug Alex.
“Beautiful as ever. Careful, the wrist.” Alex winced.
“Sorry about that. You’re lucky they didn’t light you up out there,” said Grady.
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. You’ve met Ed. Hope he’s explained things a bit.”
Ed stood up with a pained look on his face.
“Sergeant Walker of the, uh… what was it again?” asked Grady.
“3rd Special Operations Department,” stated Ed matter-of-factly.
“Yes. Sergeant Walker of the 3rd SOD,” said Grady, raising his eyebrows, “hasn’t broken character, despite everything I’ve told him about you. He’s still some kind of spec ops technical advisor, and you’re his high-speed, ninja escort.”
“You’ve gotta be shitting me? They have your wallet, Ed,” said Alex, shaking his head.
“I don’t break easy—unlike some people,” said his neighbor, taking a sip of coffee and leaning back in a folding chair.
“I can see that. They didn’t offer you some cookies to go with that?” said Alex.
“He refused a whole assortment of—”
“Colonel Grady! Fire Support platoon commander requests the QRF (Quick Reaction Force)!” yelled a marine. “Someone just drove a bulldozer through one of the concrete barricades at the far end of Western Avenue Bridge!”
“I want Raven coverage immediately,” said Grady, pushing past Ed to one of the tables on the opposite side of the tent. Alex followed, patting Ed on the shoulder.
“How’s the coffee, sergeant?”
“Shitty,” whispered Ed.
“Welcome to the Marine Corps,” said Alex, rushing to keep up with Grady.
“Did they try to drive it across?” asked the battalion commander.
“Negative. Pushed the concrete barrier into the river and stopped. Last pass by the Raven picked up a large group massed beyond Soldiers Field Road. They’re partially masked from our sensors. Probably hiding in the underpass,” replied the marine.
“Define large,” said Grady.
“Thirty to fifty, estimated.”
“Launch QRF. Put them on the bridge,” said Grady, turning to face Alex and Ed. “This has been going on all day and all night.”
“Are you guarding the bridges?” asked Alex.
“Hold on,” he said, shifting two tables down.
Two marines sat in front of a laptop monitor, watching a live, panoramic aerial feed.
“I want you scouring the areas beyond the bridges connecting to Harvard Business School. Anderson Memorial, Cambridge Street, Western Avenue, and Weeks. Any vehicles or groups of people on the move need to be tagged and sent to ground units in the area. Get it done,” said Grady, turning back to Alex.
“We’re loosely guarding the bridges, trying to restrict traffic. No vehicles. Pedestrians are stopped and searched,” said Grady.
“Both ways?”
“One way. Nobody is going south anymore. It’s not a very hospitable environment. 1st Battalion, 101st Field Artillery Regiment out of Brockton never linked up with our forward elements. We don’t think they made it north of Dorchester or Roxbury. I gave it twelve hours and yanked the marines back.”
“You’re not talking to the 101st?” said Alex, following Grady back to the monitors on the center table.
“We’re talking with 1st Battalion, 182nd Infantry Regiment out of Melrose, and that’s pretty much it beyond Homeland and a few local law-enforcement agencies.”
Grady stopped in front of the rightmost screen, which showed the greater Boston area broken into color-shaded sections. Everything south of the Charles River was shaded red. He pointed at the north shore.
“First off, the 182nd has everything shaded green. East of the 93, up through Salem. We’ve got everything shaded blue. 93 west to Waltham. We were supposed to connect with the 101st and help them with the areas west of Kenmore Square, but that obviously fell apart. All the better, really. We’re spread beyond fucking thin as it is. Take a look,” he said, shifting to the other monitor.
“I’ve split the Indirect Fires Platoon into two platoons. Same with the Large Caliber Direct Fire platoon. LCDF is lighter on personnel, so I have them working areas outside of the concentration zone. Somerville to Medford. Watertown to Waltham. We’re talking thirty marines max per platoon, including some of the guys on loan from the Short Range Direct Fire platoon. We called that the heavy-machine-gun platoon in your days.”
“That’s not a lot of coverage,” Alex pointed out.
“It’s more of a presence mission,” Grady explained. “We’re driving around with bigger guns than the criminals. It’s working.”
“So this is the area of concentration?” asked Ed.
“Sergeant Walker is all over this, Captain Fletcher. Better keep him out of danger,” said Grady. “I have four platoons working here. The Fire Support platoon, with a little heavy-machine-gun help, is spread out along the river, mainly watching the bridges. I have overwatch in the buildings and a ‘meet and greet’ team on the ground level. The other three platoons are stationed around Cambridge. You ran into one of the HQs at Sennott Park. They cover east of battalion HQ to the 93. We’re running vehicle patrols 24/7. Limited ‘walk and talks’ if the intel section thinks we need to dig a little deeper into one of the neighborhoods.”
Alex politely stared at the screen, a single question clawing to the surface. “How were you able to get here so quickly?”
Grady grinned. “False flag rumors have everyone on edge.”
“You have to admit it doesn’t look good. A marine infantry battalion rolls into town within twenty-four hours of the EMP, with working vehicles and communications gear?”
“Who said anything about an EMP?” said Grady.
“Come on. Asteroid strike? Sounds a little farfetched combined with a region-wide electrical outage.”
“The power outage isn’t regional. It’s nationwide—and the asteroid strike has been confirmed by local sources. There’s something bigger going on, no doubt about that, but we don’t have shit for information. We have our orders, and that’s about it.”
“It still looks suspicious. Mobilizing an entire marine reserve battalion within twenty-four hours?”