False Flag (11 page)

General Sears shared intelligence with Morgan about a new high-speed drone submarine that was capable of delivering a nuclear warhead developed by the Russians. Even when the U.S. defense capabilities were fully functional, the nuclear-tipped, torpedo-shaped weapon, nicknamed
Kanyon,
was capable of avoiding their customary response.

Morgan added, “This new weapon is designed to damage our nation’s coastal areas by creating wide areas of radioactive contamination that would render our coasts uninhabitable. This is a concern for your family, Lawrence, and anyone who lives within fifty miles of the shore.”

“How does it avoid our naval defenses, John?” asked Cabot. Cabot Industries was the world’s premiere shipbuilder and a major supplier to the U.S. naval fleet.

“The speed and depth of the drone would be massively in excess of the capabilities of any manned submarine in the world, much less those of our Navy,” replied Morgan. “A drone submarine with these characteristics would be invulnerable to interception.”

“What about our ground-based missile systems in Alaska and California?” asked Lowell. They were approaching the end of the mile-long loop on this trail, and Morgan stopped them to finish the conversation.

“We’ve been obsessed with the North Koreans, so those missiles are pointed at the DPRK missiles and the Iranians,” replied Morgan.

“What are the Russians up to, John?” asked Cabot. “Are they going to kick us when we’re down?” Both Cabot and Lowell were looking to Morgan for reassurance.

“I don’t know, but I will find out,” replied Morgan. “I’ll make contact through our usual backchannels. At this point, I can’t rule out anything.”

“What does the President think?” asked Lowell.

Morgan, for the first time, looked distressed during the conversation. He kicked at a few stones lying on the path.

“I don’t know, Lawrence, he has stopped taking my calls.”

Chapter 17

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

1:00 p.m.

Chinatown

Boston, Massachusetts

Sarge navigated through the stalled vehicles on Stuart Street as he cautiously approached the roadblock manned by members of the Asian gangs of Chinatown. He chose to drive his Mercedes G-Wagen despite the risks associated with driving an expensive vehicle around the streets of postapocalyptic Boston. After his made-for-TV chase last week following his last foray into Chinatown, he deemed it prudent to leave the Toyota OJ40 at 100 Beacon. “No sense in getting our collective asses shot up before we hit the checkpoint,” he’d mused to Julia and Steven as they pulled out of the garage earlier.

He’d hesitated to bring Julia with him, but her background in China and her ability to speak fluent Chinese should assist them in getting through safely. Once they met with the head of the Asian gangs, the language barriers would evaporate.

They approached the intersection of Washington and where Stuart became Kneeland Street. Large panel trucks formed a V, blocking access. Armed men motioned for Sarge to turn left onto Washington. This area was beginning to look all too familiar to Sarge as he momentarily relived the chase scene. When they approached Beach Street to turn into Chinatown, four large Asian men with AK-47s approached the vehicle.

Sarge rolled down all of the windows in the G-Wagen and instructed Steven and Julia to make their hands visible to the guards. He looked to Julia to take the lead in conversing with the men.

Although Julia was fluent in both Mandarin and Cantonese, she told the guys that she would use the more common Mandarin dialect, as it was typically favored among Chinese speakers. After several minutes of conversation and waiting while they relayed the purpose of the Loyal Nine’s visit to Chinatown, they were instructed to follow a lead vehicle to their destination.

This trip down Beach Street allowed Sarge to see things from a different perspective, rather than the tension-filled ride last time. Along the walls of the worn row houses and above the formerly bustling shops and restaurants were the faded plaster markings of the houses and restaurants that were here before the collapse. Rooflines remained, defined in weathered brick that shifted from deep red to charcoal black, but they were now inhabited by wandering guards dutifully standing watch over the streets below.

Near the end of Beach Street was Ping On Alley, where immigrant Chinese workers first settled in the 1870s. Gone were the double-parked trucks and sidewalk vendors hawking clothes and vegetables. There were no scantily clad women standing near the pay phones, which were topped by green and yellow pagodas. Closed were the late-night restaurants with the brash neon marquees shouting
Dim Sum, Cocktails
. A yellow sign that read
Jeannie Beauty & Hair
was hanging by its last nail from a wooden roof canopy. Two weeks ago, Jeannie, a Malaysian woman, offered facials and foot reflexology. Today, the shop was empty, and Jeannie was dead.

There were seven thousand residents of Chinatown squeezed into forty-six acres between downtown skyscrapers, two highways, and a sprawling medical complex. In addition, thousands of Boston-area Asians maintained close ties with this neighborhood, many of whom came to escape violence and oppression in their homelands of China, Vietnam, Cambodia, and elsewhere.

Prior to the cyber attack, Chinatown was thought of as a vibrant neighborhood, a safe place to raise a family, and a place where gangs still ruled the streets. The gangs were accepted by all as a necessary evil. Today, it was a close-knit group of survivors sharing what they had with others similarly situated. This was their heritage, as their ancestors had all been through situations like this before.

The vehicle caravan stopped just short of the Chinatown Gate in front of the Gourmet Dumpling House. At the end of a short stretch of brick buildings was a door that led to a basement social club where men would once gather late into the night to play mahjong, a game in which bets were placed on matching tiles. Now, it was the safe haven of John Willis, the only Caucasian in Chinatown and the undisputed head of the Ping On gang. He was known as
Bac Guai John
, or more commonly as the
White Devil
.

Willis was born in the working-class Boston neighborhood of Dorchester, which was known for hockey-playing Catholic kids and the birthplace of the famous Wahlberg actors. The path of his life would more closely follow another famous resident of the old neighborhood—gangster Whitey Bulger.

He grew up fatherless, and after his mother died when he was fourteen, he found himself alone and struggling to survive. Willis learned to protect himself by bulking up his body with an extreme weightlifting program and the use of steroids. At seventeen, he was stronger than most adults and easily landed a job as a bouncer at an after-hours Asian nightclub. While working late one night, he helped save the life of a high-ranking member of the Ping On gang who had come under assault. This landed him in their good graces, and Willis was essentially adopted by the gang.

Over time he rose through the ranks and became the leading oxycodone importer from South Florida—a three-billion-dollar-a-year industry. He also became known as the White Devil. Now, the days of organized crime were over, and the fear of being hunted by the feds had passed. Willis had one goal in mind, and that was to preserve Chinatown for those he considered family.

“This way,” said a short, stocky guard in Mandarin. He swung the rifle barrel like it was a policeman’s traffic baton. Julia, followed by Sarge and Steven, descended the stairwell into a dimly lit bar. They were greeted by several other men who immediately separated the three members of the Loyal Nine and frisked them. One of the men became a little too friendly with Julia during the process, but she gave Sarge a reassuring look.

“Come sit down,” came a voice out of the darkness past the pool tables. A faint red candle burned on a table in the corner. The sound of a chair sliding on the floor indicated they were going to greet their guest.

Sarge was amazed at the size of Willis. He towered over Steven, who stood six feet three inches. He wore a black polo shirt that barely contained his biceps. The White Devil looked more like a
white elephant
. Sarge spoke first.

“My name is Henry Sargent, but you can call me Sarge. This is my brother, Steven. This is Julia Hawthorne.”

Julia, who knew the White Devil’s story from years of media coverage, immediately engaged him in Mandarin. This proved to be an excellent way to break the ice, and Willis relaxed.

“Please, call me John,” he said laughingly. “Only my wife does anymore, and the lawyers, of course.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” started Sarge. “You don’t know us, and we only know you by reputation. I believe you are a devoted husband, and I know that you have a heartfelt sense of community. Your choice of career is none of our business.”

Willis laughed again. “I can say this with absolute certainty. Whatever has happened in this country sure is bad for my business. Nobody could buy my
products
even if I could manage to find any to sell!”

Sarge humored the notorious gangster by laughing with him.
We need this guy’s help—for his muscle
.

“Let me get right to the point because time is an issue for us both,” said Sarge. “There has been a new governor appointed by the President. He is power hungry and will stop at nothing to control anyone who resists his demands.”

“What does he demand?” asked Willis. He leaned on the table, clearly interested in Sarge’s information. His muscular arms bulged as he flexed his fingers.

“He intends to enforce the martial law declaration announced by the President last week,” replied Sarge. “He has recruited an army to help him with the task of confiscating weapons, food, and supplies from any source available, including people’s homes.”

“What kind of army?”

“The kind that poses a direct threat to you and those that you are attempting to protect,” replied Sarge. “He gave a blank check to La Mara Salvatrucha and the unified black gangs out of the south led by Jarvis Rockwell to enter Boston without fear of retribution by law enforcement.”

“I know J-Rock,” said Willis. “He’s a punk. Guzman heads up the Hispanics. He’s crazier than those ISIS fucks. How do you know this?”

“We just know,” replied Sarge. He couldn’t give away too much information received from their new mole—Captain Gibson.

“What does this have to do with me?” asked Willis.

“The Callahan Tunnel is shut down,” replied Steven. “The only open route across Boston Harbor is through the Ted Williams Tunnel. Get the picture?”

“Yeah, by the time the MS-13 clear the Fort Point Channel, they’ll be right here at our doorstep.”

“Exactly,” added Sarge. “We need your help to stop them or at least thin their ranks before they can roll into Boston and make life rough for all of us. J-Rock will be our responsibility.”

Willis leaned back in his chair to stretch. He looked at Steven as a boxer would assess his adversary. “Just who are
you
, exactly?”

“We’re just a group of people who love Boston and our country,” replied Julia. “We don’t want to see our city destroyed by people who would take advantage of others during this crisis. Despite our differences in ordinary times, we share a common purpose now. Protect our homes and the people who are vulnerable to opportunists.”

Willis sat quietly for a moment and then spoke to Sarge. “You know they call me the White Devil, and there is a reason for that. You’re asking me to take on those head-choppin’ assholes from El Salvador, which I’m capable of doing. But I’m supposed to count on you to take on J-Rock and his boys. I can get on board with
the enemy of my enemy is my friend
thing. J-Rock and his kind won’t hold back, and you don’t look like no White Devil to me.”

“I’m not,” said Sarge, pointing to Steven. “But he is.”

Chapter 18

Thursday, September 15, 2016

8:00 p.m.

630 Washington Street

Boston, Massachusetts

Steven gathered the group leaders of the Mechanics in the Boston area for the first time. The city was becoming more dangerous by the day, and the level of desperation of ordinary Americans was unprecedented. People who were self-reliant were being targeted by those who had not prepared or by a newly burgeoning criminal element of hopeless survivors. Those who were used to accepting government handouts were still given a preference but demanded more. Lawlessness became the norm, and Steven knew it was by design.
The takers were getting even with the makers.

They chose an iconic location in Boston that was full of symbolism. The forty-three-thousand-square-foot building located at 630 Washington Street was centrally located and bordered their new allies in Chinatown, who provided round-the-clock security.

The first floor, formerly the home of Dunkin’ Donuts, contained a full kitchen, which Steven had equipped with a generator that utilized the building’s exhaust system to vent the fumes. The second floor was a large open space furnished with tables, chairs, and large chalkboards. This was ideal for large gatherings, like the one this evening.

The third floor was used for office space prior to the cyber attack, but it was now retrofitted to conceal supplies and weapons for the use of the Mechanics. A thorough search might reveal the hiding places Steven devised, but a cursory examination by the untrained eye would not.

The fourth floor provided barracks and sleeping quarters for displaced members of the Mechanics and their families. Because of its close proximity to downtown, the fourth-floor barracks was originally considered temporary housing. The fifth, or top floor, provided Steven’s hand-chosen leaders a permanent place to live. Following the new alliance with the White Devil, many members of the Mechanics now called 630 Washington Street their home.

It was the symbolism of this location that was ironic. It was the site of the famous Liberty Tree. At the time of the revolution, a great elm tree stood in front of a grocery store here. It had wide spreading beautiful branches, and for many years was the center of business in Boston’s original South End. Several large elms grew nearby, and this area was known as the Neighborhood of Elms.