“Sixteen years, but I feel it all coming back. Check the bottom of my boots for broken glass,” he said, lifting each foot for the marine.
“Good to go,” he said, taking Alex’s rifle.
Alex stepped onto his locked hands and launched upward, straddling the stucco wall. He made a quick assessment of the dark green shadows on the other side of the wall, seeing nothing out of place. A sea of mud separated the wall from the adjacent building. He reached down with his left hand and pulled Rodriguez up the wall.
“Just like the good ole days,” said Alex, taking his rifle back from Rodriguez.
“Not bad for an old man.”
Alex dropped to the mud, sinking to his knees. He scanned in both directions with his rifle and pulled his right leg out of the seaweed-encrusted mire with a slow sucking sound. Rodriguez thudded next to him and muttered a few obscenities.
“It’s not that bad once you break out of the impact crater,” whispered Alex.
“This is some serious-ass bullshit,” said Rodriguez.
“Haven’t you been out here?”
“Not on foot,” said Rodriguez.
“That’s encouraging.”
“Don’t worry, boss. You’re in good company. Hand signals from here to the river,” he said, stepping forward.
They hugged the hotel’s western side, staying behind thick rhododendron bushes until they reached the front corner. Memorial Drive was quiet, the dried mud and debris absorbing the full moon’s unfiltered rays. They faced a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot trek across open ground to reach the thick scrub east of the boathouse. Slow ground.
Their other option was to head directly across from the hotel, but the riverbank was bare and would provide no concealment from sharpshooters across the river. Alex would need at least five minutes to stow his gear in the watertight bag and strip down for the swim. Thick bushes near the boathouse would be their best option. Even if they were spotted leaving the hotel, they would disappear in the undergrowth. Alex could slip into the water unnoticed next to the boathouse. He tapped Rodriguez on the shoulder. Ready.
“Rodriguez moving to the riverbank,” whispered the marine into his helmet microphone.
They started out fast, legs fighting the mud as they shuffled diagonally across Memorial Drive. Alex shifted his rifle across their left flank, searching for any surprises east along the riverbank. A gunshot shattered the quiet, and he ducked. Rodriguez kept pushing across the road. Shadowy green buildings loomed across the river, superimposed over the naked trees. They were in the open and exposed to steel, unable to sprint. He forced his legs to pound and pull at the mud. Another crack echoed above them.
“Friendly fire,” whispered Rodriguez, “keep moving.”
By the time they reached the nearest clump of bushes, Alex’s legs burned. He made sure they were no longer exposed to the tall buildings across the river and leaned against a tree, lowering his body to a sitting position. Rodriguez crouched in front of him, scanning ahead along the water. Both of them breathed heavily. The marine held out his index finger, and Alex responded with a thumbs-up. A one-minute rest was all he would get.
Rodriguez set off at a slower pace toward the dark structure ahead, stopping to point at the thick cluster of bushes at the base of the boathouse’s eastern edge. A set of steps, barely discernible under the sludge, led down from Memorial Drive to a gate just beyond the bushes. Looked like a well-concealed place to put into the water. They arrived at the waterline, and Alex went to work.
Five minutes later, Alex waded into the Charles River, towing a rifle-length watertight bag through the mud. He submerged to his chest, inhaling sharply. Seconds later, he was fully immersed, bare feet planted in the river muck. The cuts across his body stung in unison, the pain fading quickly as he moved forward. He gave Rodriguez a nod and submerged, swimming underwater several feet toward the boathouse dock. His feet no longer touched the slimy bottom.
He surfaced slowly, raising his nose above the surface and exhaling quietly. The fixed dock was mostly destroyed. Formerly jetting into the river, thick planks of wood projected skyward in a twisted heap at the far end of the boathouse, casually swept aside by the wave of water travelling inland along the river. He saw no reason to swim any closer. He focused on the massive high-rise directly across the river and started to swim.
He didn’t feel the current, but he knew it was there. If he swam toward the high-rise, he’d still end up somewhere several hundred feet downriver. In fact, he counted on it. This would put him directly in front of his son’s dormitory building. A gun battle erupted somewhere in the distance. The crackle of rifle fire mixed with the deep, rhythmic thumping of a fifty-caliber machine gun for several seconds, stopping abruptly. They must have tried to cross one of the bridges further upriver.
The short duration of gunfire suggested the marines had put on a temporary display of fire. Enough to turn back the tide, temporarily. The situation was untenable, and Grady would eventually lose the city, no matter what his Homeland Security directives ordered. Alex desperately needed to be on the right side of the river before that happened. He might have to risk a daytime crossing. He’d slipped into the water at 2:46 AM, which didn’t leave him enough time to reach both kids and get back across at night. Not even close.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the high-rise ahead, and Alex dove for the bottom of the river, escaping the noise. He pulled at the water with his arms until the towrope attached to his belt yanked him to a stop, buoyed by the watertight bag. He turned left in the blackness and swam further. His lungs burning, he opened his eyes and slowly rose to the surface—blurry red flashes appearing overhead. Alex’s mouth cleared the water first, greedily sucking in the humid air. The sharp staccato battle rushed back to fill his ears.
Red tracers arched across the river from the Hyatt, bouncing downward off the face of the high-rise. Small explosions flashed across the building, stitched between the tracers’ impact points—fifty-caliber projectiles tearing into concrete and steel. An automatic rifle continued to fire from the high-rise, peppering the boathouse and dock. A single shot reached his ears, and the high-rise rifle fell silent. He kept a low profile in the water and kept swimming. The sudden, furious battle had been focused on the boathouse. Retribution for the massacre near the rail bridge, perhaps.
Halfway across the river, something hard bumped his head. He grabbed the obstruction, feeling a nose and teeth. A dark mass swung lazily with the current, lodging against his body. He kicked and pushed at the corpse, splashing the water for several seconds—until he realized what he had done. Alex submerged as far as the towline would allow, expecting to hear bullets slap the water in pursuit.
Perfect silence enveloped him for the next thirty seconds as he drifted downriver. Nothing. He swam forward and came up for air. The silence continued as he lengthened his sidestroke and angled for the shallow outcropping of land identified by the marines. Landing there would give him a buffer from Storrow Drive and some natural concealment from sharpshooters.
He switched to a frog kick and slowed, taking time to observe the riverbank. Even with a full moon, his vision was borderline useless without night vision goggles. The marine snipers would have to be his eyes for now. A few more strokes brought him in line with the shallow land projection that would give him some room to transition into his combat gear. He could drift the remaining fifty feet and save his energy.
Three heads surfaced near the river’s edge, moving slowly into deeper water. He stayed mostly submerged and drifted motionless—eyes pinned to the three men. Did the marines see them? A red dot appeared on the lead man’s forehead and disappeared. The red dot reappeared on the second man’s head and vanished. The spotter was telling him something. A plume of water exploded in front of the group, causing a gurgled scream.