Point of Crisis (23 page)

“Probably .308,” said Alex, removing the polymer magazine from the rifle next to the body.

He thumbed five rounds onto the road before the magazine was empty.

“How many casings do you have?”

“Two right here,” said Lianez, swinging his light around to locate more.

“Then we have thirteen more out there somewhere. I bet we’ll find another body in the woods. Did Mrs. Hoode say how many men were involved?”

“You’re starting to sound like one of our detectives,” said Gifford, leaning over the body with his light. “Best she could guess was three. Looks like dog tags.”

“Jackpot,” said Alex.

Alex fished the chain out of the man’s tactical vest, exposing two plastic-covered dog tags. Giving the tags a quick pull, he separated the chain and held them to the light.

“Brown, Jeffrey A. Social Security number. O positive. No Religious Preference. I know these aren’t Marine tags. They stamp USMC right under the social.”

“Army?” said Gifford.

“I should be able to tell you in a few minutes,” said Alex, rubbing the tags together between his fingers. “I’m curious about the other guys. Mutilation and murder isn’t something I’d expect from regular militia—even Eli’s group. And the mayor’s family? I guarantee they weren’t taking them to a bed and breakfast.”

“Always a few rotten apples in the bushel,” said Gifford.

“True, but four in one bushel? I bet if we pulled prints and ran them through NGI (Next Generation Identification), we’d find a few of these gentlemen on furlough from the prison—compliments of Eli Russell. How long before we can get a crime scene unit out here?”

“No idea. Depends on who’s available—and willing to make the trip. NGI won’t be much help unless you have a magic connection to the internet.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I also have a biometric scanner back in Sanford. If someone from your department can lift the prints, I can scan them into my system, or we could cut off a few fingers to—”

“Jesus! Remind me to keep at least three towns between you and any of the state’s crime scene folks. I assume you’re just kidding?”

“I am—sort of. The more my battalion commander knows about Eli Russell’s capabilities, the better for all of us,” said Alex, contemplating the long-term implications of Eli’s latest moves.

“I’m sure we can manage to get you some fingerprints without using scissors. If one of you has a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper, we’re in business.”

“I think we can arrange that. Let me run these tags through the system and see what I get. We’ve got about another thirty to forty minutes until we won’t need our lights. You want to walk around with Corporal Lianez and try to find the missing man?”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a stroll around
my
crime scene—before you start snipping fingers and gouging out eyeballs,” said Gifford.

“I didn’t realize they retinal scan prisoners,” said Alex, laughing. “Try not to stray too far from the tactical vehicle. Eli might be dumb enough to send someone out looking for this crew.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Gifford, picking up the .308 and removing a few magazines from Brown’s vest.

Chapter 21

EVENT +10 Days

Porter, Maine

Eli paced the ground in front of the farmhouse, debating whether he should order the immediate abandonment of the farm. Lowell Sherman and his crew should have returned with Jeffrey Brown more than four hours ago. Even if they got lost picking up Brown and blew a tire on the way back, they should have been here by now. Their absence was conspicuous.

He’d coordinated the night’s festivities so Sherman’s crew would have ample time to make it back by sunrise. If any of his men had been captured, Eli faced a possible full-scale government assault on the farm. To make matters worse, he couldn’t rely on his early warning system to escape. Dozens of helicopters had been spotted over southern Maine, rendering his network of radio-equipped spotters useless. Travelling over one hundred fifty miles per hour at treetop level, the Black Hawk helicopters would close the distance between his most distant spotters and the farm within minutes.

With the sun burning off the morning haze lingering in the shallow valley, they were completely exposed. Escape and evasion tactics would prove useless against government air assets. Hell, for all he knew, they were watching him through the fog with thermal imaging. It wouldn’t be the first time the government used drones against the people. The screen door on the farmer’s porch creaked, drawing Eli’s attention away from the road leading out of the farm. Kevin McCulver stepped onto the dilapidated porch.

“I think it’s time to pack up and head to Bridgton. Fuck it. We’re too exposed here anyway,” said Eli.

“Eli, we’re fine. I just talked to Tim Barrett. We’re good to go. He just turned off Route 25. Should be here in ten minutes.”

“How the fuck did you talk to him! I’ve been sitting on this radio like it’s gonna hatch,” he said, raising the handheld to his face.

The LED display blinked “no charge.”

“Motherfucker!” he screamed, hurling the radio past McCulver and through one of the front windows.

The sound of shattering glass drew attention from the men gathered under the trees along Norton Hill Road. McCulver rushed down the stairs.

“Eli, why don’t we step inside?”

“What the fuck does Barrett know? He’s supposed to be hanging out at the hospital.”

“He saw a woman drive Sherman’s SUV up to Goodall Hospital’s emergency room entrance at about 2:50 AM, so he—”

Eli’s hand drifted to the Colt Commander on his hip, his face burning. “This isn’t making me feel better.”

“Bear with me. Barrett hung out long enough to see two police cars head into town about ten minutes later. Police scanner transmissions indicated a possible body in the park off Main Street.”

“Sherman took care of the mayor,” said Eli, “but somehow fucked up the rest of their mission?”

“He won’t be a problem, and neither will Brown. Barrett caught a dispatch requesting a crime scene investigation unit in Limerick. Five bodies. Male. All with fatal gunshot wounds.”

“Someone took care of Sherman.”

“Apparently,” said McCulver. “The question is how?”

“Maybe they spotted Brown at some point over the past couple days and waited for him to make a move,” said Eli.

“They would have taken him alive if that was the case.”

“Knowing Brown, I don’t think that would have been an option.”

“What about Jimmy’s people?”

“What do you mean?” asked Eli.

“What I mean is we got lucky this time. All five of them are dead. Brown may have taken this secret to his grave, but I’m not so sure about the others. I’ve been thinking a lot about our plans for Bridgton. Giving the town to Jimmy’s Vikings might not be in our best interest.”

“Go on,” said Eli, checking his watch.

“At first it seemed like a good idea. Putting them in Bridgton gets them out of the way. They’re nothing but trouble. Useful trouble, but not at all suitable for our next phase of operations.”

“Bridgton will keep them busy while we go about our work in York County.”

“But how long will it take for the whole thing to unravel? All it takes is one concerned citizen with a radio transmitter or a working vehicle to bring the whole thing crashing down on their heads—and ours. They’d sell us out in a second to save their own skins.”

“And your little genius expedition to the prison just added more of them to the group,” said Eli, wondering where McCulver was going with this.

“We needed more people. The prison raid put nearly seventy recruits in the training program.”

“Most of them are useless,” said Eli.

“We knew that going in. I’ve identified at least fifteen worth keeping. That’s all we needed.”

“And the rest?”

“None of them can locate the farm on a map. We made sure of that. We’ll drive them an hour north in one of the buses with their hoods on and leave them in a parking lot. They’ll scatter to the winds. Problem solved.”

“I’m more concerned with the Vikings. What a stupid name. I must have been out of my mind letting Jimmy create that group.”

“The Vikings served a purpose—but I think it’s time for them to go away.”

“Easier said than done. They keep to themselves.”

“They took a big hit last night. Two from the original crew and two from the prison. That leaves three in Bridgton—all Jimmy’s—and five sitting around here waiting for Sherman.”

“And Sherman ain’t coming back,” said Eli.

“They don’t know that, and they probably don’t care. More for them to plunder in Bridgton.”

“But we’re not turning them loose in Bridgton.”

McCulver shook his head. “Of course not. Wouldn’t be long before that attracted serious attention. We’d have an
Apocalypse Now-
style helicopter raid on our hands before the end of the week. I say we get in and out of Bridgton as fast as possible. Take the vehicles at the checkpoints.”

“We need heavier stuff, including some basic construction equipment. A backhoe loader would be ideal. Something we can use to build trenches and dirt berms—fortify this place a little. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a fuel truck. I’m pretty sure Bridgton has a public works gas pump, but it doesn’t do us much good without electricity. Some of the smaller fuel trucks have their own pumping systems. Don’t know if they have one of those. Probably not. We need to keep our eyes open for a big shiny gas carrier. Has to be one stranded somewhere.”

“We might have to go actively looking for one soon. Siphoning efforts are barely keeping up with our current consumption.”

“We’ll figure it out,” grumbled Eli, attuned to McCulver’s flat, dissatisfied tone.

Maybe he was right. The logistical realities of running a small army proved next to impossible without gas stations, grocery stores, Internet shopping and cell phones. Unless they were willing to attract significant attention.
Attention they couldn’t afford now, especially with thousands of soldiers running around. He hadn’t anticipated such a large, conventional force arriving this soon.

Yesterday evening, Tim Barrett passed a disturbing report. Over a hundred Light All-Terrain Vehicles (L-ATVs), Stryker Infantry Combat Vehicles (ICVs) and armored supply vehicles rolled east through downtown Sanford, preceded by dozens of helicopters. A late afternoon bike ride along Main Street revealed the Sanford Seacoast Airport as their final destination. From the closest allowable point, nearly a half-mile away, he watched helicopters land and take off nonstop for more than an hour. Eli was familiar enough with brigade- and division-sized operations to guess that Barrett had witnessed the arrival of a light infantry battalion, along with elements of a combat aviation battalion.

Over the next several days, they could expect a brigade-sized unit—more than 4,000 soldiers—to deploy within southern Maine. They’d start seeing armored vehicle patrols in some of the planned operating areas within York County. Some new roadblocks. The helicopters were bad enough, but boots on the ground was always the worst. It signified the beginning of the end.

He’d have to rethink their strategy. The Maine Liberty Militia wasn’t strong enough or adequately savvy to fight a protracted guerilla war against a brigade-sized, conventional military force. To start, he didn’t have the proper surveillance network in place to keep a close enough eye on government forces. Tim Barrett was his only contact in Sanford, and Eli could only talk to him by sending a car south to contact him via handheld radio, which took his message and relayed it to the farm. The system was barely adequate, as evidenced by this morning’s fiasco. He’d almost abandoned the farm when it became apparent that Sherman wasn’t coming back.

His original plan to connect surveillance posts in York County with his headquarters in Porter proved impractical. Just the fifteen-mile relay to Brown’s post in Limerick required four relay stations, consisting of a vehicle, radio and two men—he couldn’t trust one to do it right. Sanford was another thirty miles south. No way that was feasible. Driving a car down would have to suffice—until it became too risky because of government patrols. Then what? He didn’t have a good answer to that question.

McCulver gave him one of those “all knowing” looks.

“What?”

“You know I’m on your side, right?”

“Aw, shit. Here we go,” said Eli. “Can it wait until we hear the rest of Barrett’s report?”

“Does his report really matter? A thousand soldiers in Strykers and Black Hawks showed up at Sanford airport, and we lost five men in Limerick. Not exactly a positive turn of events. Game changer, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Eli glared at him, making it as uncomfortable as possible for him to continue.

“I think it’s time to decide what you really want to accomplish with the militia, and if that’s possible.”

“You don’t think the resources in Bridgton represent an opportunity?” said Eli.

“It all depends.”

“You’re like the fucking Riddler. Spit it out, Kevin.”

“I think we snag a few cars at the roadblocks and head back. We use the raid to get rid of a few loose ends—like we discussed earlier.”

“And after that?”

“You can’t defeat an entire brigade combat team. Not with this army.”

“You think I don’t know that? It takes time to build up an effective insurgent force.”

“We don’t have time. Once winter hits, you’ll have a hard time convincing folks to stick around. The barn is heated with propane, which won’t last. There’s plenty of wood to heat the house, but I can’t imagine you plan to open the doors to the entire group. Even if we dump most of the prison inmates, we’re still looking at forty-plus mouths to feed. Everyone’s been eating MREs up to this point. There’s no shortage of food in the house, but once again, I don’t see you inviting forty folks to join you at the table.”

“The new recruits have been eating out of the fields,” offered Eli.

“Even if we put an all-hands, concentrated effort into harvesting, we’d still be in deep shit by the end of November.”