Choose Freedom: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series (The Boston Brahmin Book 6) Page 7

  Sarge was approached by Maine governor Paul LePage and his wife, Ann. The two looked like they had walked out of an L.L. Bean catalog.

  “Mr. Sargent, I’m Governor LePage from Maine. This is my wife, Ann.” Everyone shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Governor,” said Sarge.

  “Well, Mr. Sargent, I’ve heard great things about you in the past. I also want you to know I enjoyed your book immensely.”

  “Thank you, Governor,” said Sarge. “I’m surprised our paths didn’t cross at the conference in San Diego last year.”

  Brad caught up with him and Sarge made the introductions. While Brad and Governor LePage discussed the use of Maine’s ports for freighter traffic, Sarge struck up a conversation with the governor’s wife.

  “Mrs. LePage, we’ve met before,” said Sarge. Sarge had met Ann LePage but wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate to remind her of the circumstances. He decided it might lighten the mood on this serious occasion.

  The group walked through the arch and began to make their way to the nation’s oldest state house in which the legislature still occupied its original chambers. The granite structure stood before them, proudly flying the American flag.

  “We have? I’m sorry, Mr. Sargent, but I don’t recall,” said Mrs. LePage.

  “It’s all right. My friend and I stopped in Boothbay Harbor during a visit last August,” started Sarge when Mrs. LePage interrupted.

  “Oh my. Did I wait on you for lunch?” she asked, slightly embarrassed.

  Mrs. LePage had taken a job at McSeagull’s restaurant for a short time at the local haunt, proudly serving up flounder and halibut to hungry patrons. Sarge and Julia had attended a private fundraiser on behalf of Abbie in the small Maine coastal town and popped into the restaurant for lunch, unaware that the governor’s wife would be waiting on them.

  “I was trying to pay off my mother’s car; she died a little over a year ago. People were so gracious and patient. At fifty-eight, I was easily the oldest waitress in town.”

  She and Sarge laughed as they shared his memory of lunch. She recounted how people gave her large tips for the car fund. Her husband was a fiscally conservative Republican and the lowest-paid governor in the country. Governor LePage had a scorched-earth relationship with Democrats, and the local media, in the State of Maine. He had been quoted as saying he would tell the President to go to hell and that the IRS was the new Gestapo. He was reviled by his political opponents. Sarge, however, liked him.

  “Truthfully, I didn’t know who you were at the time,” started Sarge. “But you gave us great service and I’m sure I left you a fair tip.”

  “Why, thank you!” said Mrs. LePage. She then leaned into Sarge and whispered, “Mr. Sargent, my husband says great things about you. This country needs a leader. A man with a big set of testicles.”

  Sarge started laughing at the unexpected reference, drawing the attention of the others in the entourage. “I agree. But do you think I’m the one with a—”

  “Ayuh,” she said. “A big set is what this nation needs.”

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday, December 6, 2016

  1:00 p.m.

  1PP

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Drew waited nervously, randomly kicking rocks in the gravel. He was uncomfortable being disarmed, considering what he’d been through for the last three months. The contingent of guards with their weapons on low ready indicated to him that these guys were military and well disciplined.

  Thus far, his hunch had paid off. The location of Abbie’s political speech he’d accompanied her to last summer was more than just a budding home for wayward souls. Much more.

  The high-pitched whine of small engines reminded him of Muddy Pond, where ATVs were the vehicle of choice. Drew conjured up visions from years ago when his younger brother, Jack, and his friends flew up the driveway to tell him about their latest hunt. Today, he hoped his hunt for the love of his life was over.

  “Oh my God,” screamed Abbie as she jumped out of the Polaris Ranger at a run. Her hair was flying in the wind as she raced past the guards, who made a halfhearted attempt to slow her progress.

  Drew stood still, grinning from ear to ear as she tackled him into the hood of the Suburban. She missed me.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you too, Senator,” said Drew, barely able to contain his excitement.

  Abbie began to sob. “Drew, I thought you were … Oh thank god,” she said as she hugged him tight.

  “Abbie, you have no idea. I’ve waited for this moment for months. I’ve never taken my mind off you.”

  Abbie pulled back from their embrace and studied him. She touched his face and ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re okay. You’re really here?”

  “I am, for as long as you’ll have me.” Drew laughed. In all the time they’d spent together, Drew never recalled seeing this side of Abbie. She was a grown woman, a senator, and she was holding him with the enthusiasm of a teenage girl. He truly loved her.

  “Ma’am,” interrupted CWO Kyle Shore. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to secure the gate. May I bring the gentlemen’s vehicle inside? It’s been searched.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Abbie. “Drew, do you wanna drive us down, or would you rather take the four-wheeler?”

  “How far is it?” asked Drew, looking up at the clear skies.

  “About a mile.”

  “Is it safe? Are you up for a walk?” Drew wanted to talk with Abbie alone before he got involved in conversations with other people. This level of security was not just put in place for Abbie. Her father was probably here and perhaps others. Drew wanted to get the lay of the land and catch up with Abbie first.

  “Yes, that’s a great idea,” replied Abbie. “Mr. Shore, would you mind delivering our vehicles to 1PP? We’re going to walk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But we have to send two men with you. It’s orders, ma’am.”

  “Of course,” said Abbie.

  She took Drew by the arm and they walked around the HESCO barriers. Drew saw evidence of the firefight that had taken place two months ago. He stopped and whispered to Abbie, “Do you think I can have my gun back? I feel, well, naked.”

  Abbie stopped and looked at him for several seconds. He couldn’t read her mind, but he’d seen that look from a woman before.

  “Mr. Shore, please return his gun,” instructed Abbie.

  “Sidearm only, please,” added Drew. Drew didn’t see a need to tote his AR-10 while catching up with Abbie. He got the sense there were lots of eyes on them at this point. He was excited to get caught up with Abbie’s life over the last three months. But he was intrigued about what lay ahead.

  The two took thirty minutes to walk the mile to 1PP. Drew recounted how he’d recovered and found his way home to Muddy Pond. She tried to explain her father’s actions, to which Drew simply nodded unemotionally. He described the nearly two-week trek from Tennessee to Massachusetts. A normal two-day drive had taken much longer as Drew avoided roving gangs, small-town roadblocks, and military checkpoints. The circuitous route had required additional gasoline for the hugely fuel-inefficient Suburban.

  As they approached the clearing comprising the 1PP compound, he took in what life was like for Abbie. The Quinn girls were playing fetch with Winnie the Frenchie under the watchful eye of Susan. The Lowells and Cabots were wrapped in blankets, playing bridge at a picnic table. At every corner of the clearing was an armed sheepdog protecting their flock and prepared to confront the wolf.

  “There are so many people I want you to meet, Drew,” started Abbie. “But I think we need to see my father first. Is that okay?”

  “I agree.”

  Drew followed Abbie up the stairs into 1PP. His presence drew the attention of everyone in the yard, but they were inside before inquiry could be made.

  “He’s probably resting downstairs,” said Abbie as she led him to the spiral staircase leading into the for
tified basement bunker. Drew was amazed at the construction of the building. This was an intricately planned and developed facility. Above ground, it resembled a clubhouse in a subdivision. Below ground, it was an upscale nuclear fallout shelter. They reached a slightly ajar door and Abbie asked him to wait for a moment.

  While she prepared her father for Drew’s arrival, Drew steadied his nerves. His anger toward Morgan would be put in the back of his mind and then rear its ugly head from time to time, usually when Drew began to miss Abbie the most. Despite the fact that he’d rehearsed the words he planned on saying a thousand times, when Abbie opened the door and invited him in, the planned speech escaped him.

  Morgan’s appearance surprised Drew. He visualized a strong, vibrant man. Drew fantasized how he would confront the powerful, wealthy globalist and financier, regardless of the consequences. Instead, he found a weak, sullen victim of a stroke who didn’t appear in any position to engage in an argument. And then the words of Drew’s father popped into his head—He was doing what was best for his daughter, his only child. You can’t begrudge him that.

  “Hello, sir,” said Drew politely. He extended his hand to shake Morgan’s. Morgan was only able to lift his left arm and return the gesture.

  “Hello, young man,” said Morgan. “My daughter speaks very highly of you. I am truly glad that you’re okay.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Drew, suddenly at a loss for words.

  Morgan turned to Abbie and asked her to leave them alone for a moment. She questioned why and looked to Drew for help. Drew nodded, indicating that she should allow them to speak privately. After the door was closed, Morgan spoke first.

  “Mr. Jackson, I owe you an apology. It was never my intention to cause you any harm. My pilot advised me that we only had sufficient fuel to carry the three of us back here. I am sorry.”

  Drew approached Morgan and leaned down in order to whisper to him, “Sir, I’ve thought about this moment for months as I recovered from the beating and while being shot at from Florida to Tennessee to here. I’m here for one reason.”

  Drew took his right hand and reached toward his gun, sliding the pistol’s handle out of the way. He pulled his grandmother’s engagement ring out of his pocket and revealed it to Morgan.

  “I’m here to ask your permission to marry Abbie.”

  Chapter 14

  Monday, December 12, 2016

  1:00 p.m.

  1PP War Room

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  The 1PP war room was crowded for today’s meeting. Drew was now a regular attendee, and in addition to Brad and Donald, he would participate in all of the daily briefings when he wasn’t performing other functions.

  The Loyal Nine were committed to taking their local successes on a national level. The President had not taken any action to fill the void left by the removal of Governor O’Brien. Sarge, through his quick maneuvering, rallied the governors of the six states comprising the former FEMA Region I. He urged them to cross the ideological political divide to work with one another towards the recovery effort.

  Sarge started a grassroots effort, which began at the local level in small cities like Belchertown, and gradually worked his way up to the county and state governments. He envisioned the nation coming together in this time of crisis in the same manner in which it was formed, from the ground up, rather than what brought it to its knees, a top-heavy federal bureaucracy. In his mind, the cyber attack afforded the country an opportunity to wipe the slate clean of its massive federal bureaucracies and rebuild itself politically into the constitutional republic designed by the Founding Fathers.

  “Gentlemen, we all agree that the final step in re-establishing the sovereignty of Massachusetts and Governor Baker’s state government is to remove the United Nations forces from our city,” started Sarge as everyone took a seat in the war room. He received a smile of encouragement from first-time attendee John Morgan. Sarge studied a laminated map of downtown Boston tacked to the wall between two bookcases. A light blue line encircled the area around the Boston Seaport, indicating the location of the UN troops. “Brad, fill us in on the positioning of General Zhang’s forces and the recent changes in attitude, for lack of a better word.”

  Brad stood and approached the map as Sarge moved to the side. He was not wearing his customary military fatigues. Monday was laundry day. “I can only describe the situation as surreal. As I’ve reported, any of Zhang’s troops that leave their encampment at the Seaport are commandeered by us. The Federal Prison Camp at Fort Devens, once full of union thugs, is now full of UN soldiers from around the world. Frankly, I was beginning to be concerned that we’d run out of room up there. But the dynamic has changed.”

  “How so?” asked Donald.

  “Two days ago, their troop expeditions ceased,” replied Brad. “Vehicles have now been strategically placed around the seaport to block the bridges entering the city and prevent access to Interstate 90 into East Boston. They appear to be hunkering down.”

  “Do you think they’re regrouping?” asked Drew. Brad was about to answer when a raspy whisper spoke up from the back of the room.

  “Awaiting reinforcements,” said Morgan.

  Brad put his hands inside his USMC hooded sweatshirt and nodded in agreement. “I agree. It appears the general is circling the wagons with the intent of creating a standoff until he gets help.”

  “How can we confirm this?” asked Sarge.

  “Per your instructions, I’ve stepped up my communications with other senior military officers that are on board with our national program when the time is right. We exchange information and strategy daily.”

  “Any news?” asked Donald.

  “Two UN troop carriers left Charleston, South Carolina, and were seen sailing north along the Atlantic Seaboard near Norfolk, Virginia. I believe they’re headed our way.”

  “Not good,” said Morgan.

  “We agree, sir,” said Brad. If we allow the UN to become firmly entrenched, with more troops and firepower, we stand to lose everything we’ve gained so far.”

  Sarge walked up to the map and circled an area including Logan International Airport and East Boston. “I need this airport. Without Logan, we can’t bring in the aircraft required to airlift the smaller transformers necessary to establish temporary power in the state government facilities.”

  Brad continued, using a yellow marker. “With the Callahan Tunnel impassible here,” he said, circling the area from Boston North End to Jeffries Point in East Boston, “our only means of access to the airport is via the Ted Williams tunnel, which enters the harbor right next to the Seaport.”

  “We have to take the fight to them,” said Sarge. “If their reinforcements arrive, we may be outgunned. How soon can your men be ready to take on Zhang?”

  Brad contemplated the question for a moment and then studied the map. He began to relay his thoughts to the group out loud. “We’ve been preparing for this eventuality since before Thanksgiving. When Zhang walked away from me that day at Columbus Park, I knew only bullets would resolve this standoff. He apparently has come to that realization as well.”

  Morgan interrupted. “The President has initiated this activity.”

  Sarge nodded. “Yes, sir. The UN would not have repositioned these troops without the President’s authority. We have to take action quickly to dislodge the UN or at least send a clear message to their commanders. You’re not welcome in Boston.”

  “Tell us about your OPLAN,” said Morgan. OPLAN was an acronym used by the military for an operations plan.

  Using a combination of red and blue markers, Brad detailed the troop positioning of the UN forces and his planned use of his undermanned Marines. Brad’s tactical advantage included the use of the tall buildings for a strategic height advantage and the element of surprise. In his view, General Zhang had been given a reasonable offer, and warning. He’d rejected Brad’s proposal by rudely walking away. It was now time to go to war.

  “What type of
resistance do you anticipate from the UN soldiers?” asked Donald.

  “We think we’ve been wearing them down with a propaganda scheme,” replied Sarge. “Brad noticed that the vast majority of the UN troops sent into the field were from non-Asian countries. The logical conclusion we reached was that General Zhang was willing to sacrifice them and keep his Asian based troops within the safety of the UN encampment.”

  “So we enlisted some of the residents of Chinatown,” added Brad. “I met with the White Devil, Bac Guai John, and he provided us several people willing to read a constant stream of propaganda messages over temporary loudspeakers we procured from Fenway Park.”

  “Brilliant!” said Morgan.

  “Yes, sir,” said Brad. “The young Asian girls read a script in Chinese that encourage these young soldiers to lay down their weapons. They’re told how much their mothers and girlfriends miss them at home. The young girls ask them why they’d want to die for an unjust cause.”

  “Do you think it’s working?” asked Donald.

  “It has to be having an adverse psychological effect on the UN troops,” replied Brad. “Our volunteers broadcast twenty-four seven. Zhang countered with playing music within his compound at a louder and louder volume. At this point, his men must be close to bat-shit crazy.”

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, December 17, 2016

  6:00 a.m.

  The Seaport

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Drew had slipped through the darkness with six members of his team comprised of four Marines and two Mechanics. For hours, they took a circuitous route on foot through South Boston, including the street where Pumpsie Jones lost his life, an event that triggered race riots in Boston.

  Their long-range binoculars found a weakness in the UN’s defense perimeter—the Summer Street bridge, which crossed the Reserved Channel. Drew led his men across the bridge, darting ahead and then diving for cover. They were exposed for about three-quarters of a mile but benefitted from the many stalled vehicles and the cloud cover of a coming winter storm.