The Perseid Collapse (41 page)

“They should have dropped you dead on the pavement. That little disguise kept you alive long enough to generate some discussion with the platoon commander. You stumbled right into one of our platoon HQs,” said the captain.

“My lucky day. What about the other guy on the street with me?” said Alex.

“Mr. Walker is doing fine. Enjoying a cup of coffee with the battalion commander as we speak,” said the officer. “Get him down to the TOC, ASAP.”

“Got it, sir.”

***

Dressed in his original clothes, which now featured bloodstained, custom ventilation slits along his right thigh and ribcage, Alex followed Doc and Wintergreen through the cramped dormitory hallway. Deep red chemlights dangled from an overhead wire running the entire length of the floor, bathing everything in a muted, monochromatic crimson aura. They passed an information board titled “Hollis Hall.” Alex had studied enough Boston-area college maps to pinpoint their location. He reached up and plucked the wire, glancing behind him at the dancing lights.

“Having fun back there?” said Wintergreen.

“Sort of. Did the battalion take all of Harvard Yard?”

“Shit if I know. I’m not an alumni.”

“Alumnus,” said Doc. “And no, the battalion just took the buildings in the northwest corner of the Old Yard. It was mostly empty dorms when we got here. Six buildings form a perimeter around a courtyard, chapel in the middle. It’s about as good as it gets in terms of a naturally defensible position in the middle of Cambridge. We’re spread too thin for anything else.”

“Doc’s one of the smart ones,” said Wintergreen.

“Not smart enough to go here,” said Doc, opening a door. “Welcome to Harvard, America’s oldest institution of higher learning. Now home to 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
Marine Regiment.”

Alex stepped into the shadowy courtyard. A large tent was set up under the massive bare trees in the center of the courtyard. A flap opened, spilling bright light onto the grass. Two marines dashed toward the gap between Hollis Hall and a building with a small cupola protruding from its rooftop. Harvard Hall. Alex had reoriented himself quickly. Doc’s assessment made sense. The buildings formed a perfect rectangle, with minimum space between separate buildings. Half of the perimeter benefited from the formidable wrought-iron fencing along Cambridge Street. The two marines reached the opening and sprinted past sentries barely visible in the shadows.

“Sergeant, he’s all yours. I gotta get back to the triage center,” said the corpsman, splitting off.

Alex stopped him briefly. “How bad is it out there?” he asked.

“Bad. Every hospital is beyond capacity and barely functional. Anyone in the city exposed to the flash got second-degree burns. Some of the older buildings collapsed. Lots of partial collapses. Anyone who got up to check on the flash got hit by glass or branches. They’re saying it wasn’t a fucking nuke, but nobody’s buying it. This is exactly what they described in NBC training,” said the corpsman.

“Then the EMP,” Wintergreen chimed in.

“Then that. Something doesn’t add up, and nobody’s telling us shit,” said Doc. “Good luck, man.”

“You too,” said Alex.

“Battalion TOC is up here,” said Wintergreen, leading him across the grass.

“Where is everyone?”

“Half of Comms Platoon is manning the perimeter here and providing security at the vehicle gate. Medical section is out that way somewhere,” he said, pointing at Doc’s vanishing profile.

“We have a quick-reaction force made up of some Motor T guys and nonessential battalion staff. Everyone else is out on the streets. I’m headed back to my platoon once you’re delivered.”

“Which platoon are you with?” asked Alex.

“Indirect fire. 81’s.”

“No tubes?”

“Thank God, no. Only individual weapons. Pretty light.”

“Hopefully you won’t need any of it,” said Alex, amidst the brief, distant pounding of a fifty-caliber machine gun.

“I’m not hopeful.” He turned to a marine standing behind the tree near the entrance. Sergeant Evans with Mr. Fletcher,” he announced.

“Go ahead,” he heard, followed by a quick radio transmission notifying another marine inside the TOC.

Wintergreen, aka Sergeant Evans, opened the flap, releasing the sound of radio traffic and hurried voices, followed immediately by the pungent stench of stale coffee and perspiration. He could use some of that shitty coffee. Alex ducked into the tent and squinted in the bright light.

Modular folding tables—jammed with laptops, radio receivers, digital plotting gear and maps—ringed the tent. Men and women in Woodland MARPAT uniforms and full combat gear crowded the tables. Some in chairs, others standing—all of them speaking into headsets. To an outside observer it made about as much sense as the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. To the initiated, it signified the right amount of controlled chaos necessary to run a marine battalion. Nobody turned to acknowledge his entry.

A sturdier table divided the tent in half, holding up two immense, side-by-side flat-screen monitors, one displaying a map of the greater Boston area. The other focused on Cambridge and the areas north of the Charles and west of Interstate 93. Icons flashed on each monitor. A movie screen hung suspended from one of the tent’s center ceiling braces, extending down to the top of the monitors. The words “No Input” flashed in the center of the blue screen. Two marines sat at the middle table with their backs to the entrance. Ed sat hunched over the far end of the table, cradling a metal canteen cup.

“Sergeant Evans reporting,” he said.

A few heads turned, but the noise continued unabated. Ed grinned and started to get up, but stopped when one of the marines seated at the center table stood to face them.

“Thank you for not killing Mr. Fletcher, Sergeant Evans. Dismissed,” said the lieutenant colonel.

“Yes, sir,” said Evans.

“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. 1
^st
Battalion, 25
^th
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.

“3
^rd
Special Operations Department,” stated Ed matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Sergeant Walker of the 3
^rd
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. 1
^st
Battalion, 101
^st
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 1
^st
Battalion, 182
^nd
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 182
^nd
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 101
^st
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 far-fetched 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?”

“Twelve hours, and it was pure luck, really. I had two of my companies at Fort Devens for the start of annual training. H and S was prepping for the rest of the battalion, while Weapons Company was knocking out some of their heavy weapons quals,” he said, shaking his head. “The rest of the battalion was scheduled to roll into Devens on Wednesday. Two more days, and I’d have been at full battalion strength. The plan was designed for a minimum of three out of the five companies. I have two.”