Martial Law (19 page)

“I’m sure,” said Falcone. “Listen, Sarge, day by day, the situation deteriorates rapidly. The reports we hear at HQ is that the major cities are burning out of control. You may not have experienced it on Beacon Street, but the gang activity is growing. In East Boston, the MS-13 Hispanic gang has taken control of the entire area surrounding Logan International. Chinatown’s Asian population has rallied around the White Devil, who was recently released from prison. Dorchester, Roxbury, and Mattapan have been on fire since before the power went down. They’ve consolidated the gangs behind a gangbanger calling himself J-Rock.”

“Trust me, I learned my lesson driving through Chinatown the other day,” said Sarge.

“No, Sarge, it’s worse than that. The gangs are expanding and moving into other parts of the city as an armed force—like an army. When they hit Beacon Street, it won’t be a few of them in a used Cadillac. They’ll come as a unified, well-armed force.”

Sarge soaked this in for a moment as the crowds began to surround the trucks. “You need to go, Gunny. Thank you for the advice and for taking care of these folks. I’ll see you soon; I’m sure.” Sarge slapped Falcone on the shoulder and headed back to the entrance. In that short time, he planned his approach with the neighbors.
Fear is a great motivator
.

As the convoy pulled away, the onlookers turned their attention towards Sarge and 100 Beacon. He turned towards his neighbors and told them all to get back in the building. He pulled the wrought-iron steel gates closed behind them.

“Quick, does anybody have a key to these doors?” he shouted, attempting to raise a sense of alarm.

“I do,” came a voice from the rear. “But these doors always stay open during the daytime.”

“Not anymore,” said Sarge. “Get up here and lock these doors now unless you want all of these people in our lobby!” A portly man made his way to the front and secured the single-bolt lock. Sarge patted him on the back and then led the neighbors away from the front door. He positioned himself at the stairwell in case he decided to make a quick exit.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Henry Sargent, and I’m a professor at Harvard. Listen, I would love to answer all of your questions, but there’s no time for that at the moment.”

“Why not? What’s wrong?” asked an elderly woman with genuine fear in her voice.

“Everybody, the military told me armed gangs are moving into our neighborhood,” said Sarge. He intended to divert their attention away from him and the top three floors to the more pressing threat—the people outside. He was also going to use this as an opportunity to learn about the thirteen neighbors who stood in front of him. “How many more residents live in the building in addition to us?”

While the group spoke amongst themselves, Sarge took mental notes of ages, physical capabilities, and attitudes.
Who was an ally, and who was a potential threat?

“There are few more—namely spouses and a couple of elderly parents.”

“Good. You need to band together as a group and create a watch schedule. The front door and the fire exit need to be under constant guard. When I say constant, I mean day and night, no exceptions.”

“What do you mean by a guard?” asked the lawyer—
a potential threat
.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” replied Sarge. “How many of you own guns?”
This is very important
.

Three people raised their hands. Sarge took an inventory. There were two revolvers, a shotgun for skeet shooting, and a Korean-era M1 Garand. Sarge diffused the situation by giving everyone a task and making them feel part of the security effort. He encouraged them to help one another until the situation resolved itself.

Sarge did not offer to share information learned from Julia’s Digital Carrier Pigeon network nor did he offer to share supplies or weapons. Either one of those things would have put his home and friends at risk. Sarge’s position on sharing the results of their preparedness strategy with others might seem callous and heartless, but it ensured his and Julia’s survival—
his priority
. Both before and after the collapse event, the extent of their preps was nobody’s business but their own.

PART THREE
Road Trip

Chapter 36

Saturday, September 3, 2016

9:07 p.m.

51
^st
State Tavern

Washington, D.C.

Katie brought them another round of beers as the Mets fans in the 51
^st
State Tavern erupted following a Curtis Granderson home run over the home team Nationals. Known as a hangout for New York sports fans, the twelve-year-old haunt was a typical sports bar featuring flat-screen televisions, a pool table, and
guy food
—buffalo wings, burgers, and cold beer. Situated in the West End near Foggy Bottom, Katie and some of her co-workers would slip away for drinks with the purposeful intent of avoiding their colleagues who preferred the traditional politico hangouts like the Capitol Lounge and Bullfeathers.

“I thought we came up here to get away from this shit,” moaned Steven to a grinning Katie. “The damn stadium is two blocks from your townhouse. We could have stayed at your place and dealt with
fans
.”

“Shut up, you big baby,” said Katie as she gave him a hug. “It feels good to get out—
on a date
. We don’t get to do this often. Besides, this is one of my favorite spots. You’re just pissed ’cause I’m kickin’ your ass on the pool table!”

“Whatever. How do you know I’m not letting you win?”

“By the look on your face when I do win,” replied Katie. They clinked their Samuel Adams and took a long drink of the lager. Steven racked the pool balls and grabbed his stick.

“Let’s go, rematch time,” said Steven. Gesturing with his stick, he indicated it was Katie’s turn to break.

Katie took her position and was ready to shoot when the power surged—brightening the room. Then the 51
^st
State Tavern, and the rest of D.C., suddenly went black. The fans groaned, hurling a few curse words and a chorus of boos at the perceived inconvenience.

Katie found her way to Steven and said, “You did that on purpose so I wouldn’t beat you again, didn’t you?”

“Hell no. But maybe I should take advantage of you in the dark!” Steven groped in the dark and tried to grab an elusive Katie.

“Free beer!” shouted a man in the pitch-black bar, turning the jeers to cheers. For a minute, the patrons waited patiently, searching their cell phone browsers for ESPN.

Then the phones started ringing. Replacing the muffled conversations were the sounds of different ringtones, pitches, and volumes filling the air. Text messages illuminated smartphone screens while everyone fumbled in the darkness for their most beloved handheld devices.

Within moments of the lights turning off, the excitement level of the bar turned up to a fever pitch. Not even a Granderson home run could elevate the enthusiasm of the crowd as much as the news coming across their screens.

“The power’s out everywhere!” shouted one man.

“You mean in D.C.?”

“No, the whole damn country!” replied another.

“I have my sister on the phone in Kentucky,” shouted a woman. “Their power is out too!”

The restaurant manager brought out a flashlight to get everyone’s attention.

“Folks, I’m sorry the emergency lighting isn’t working,” he said. “I’m sure this is just temporary. Please keep your seats and we’ll see if there’s a solution.”

“No way, let’s get out of here,” screamed an inebriated Mets fan. The manager moved to block the door.

“Let me repeat,” he began with an authoritative voice. “This is probably temporary. Be calm, please, but if you must leave, I’ll need you to settle your tab first.”

The displaced New Yorkers would have none of that. Many were angry at losing the televisions. Some were genuinely frightened at the melee that was brewing inside the 51
^st
Street Tavern. Others saw this as an opportunity to leave with free wings and beer in their belly. Regardless of motive, the final guests of the last night of business for the 51
^st
Street Tavern hit the doors en masse, knocking the manager to the floor and carrying their adult beverages with them.

“Katie, stay against the wall with me until this clears out,” said Steven, pulling her toward him. “We don’t want to get caught in the stampede.”

Katie was looking at her iPhone and scrolled through a couple of text messages. Katie knew from reports following the San Francisco Bay earthquake in ’07, cell phone usage skyrocketed following a major emergency. Verizon said that within minutes of the 6.6 magnitude earthquake, cell traffic in Santa Clara County increased tenfold. Loved ones were either checking on the safety of family or friends or were simply excited to talk about the drama. Most cell users received
circuits are busy
or fast busy signals. The inability to communicate with others elevated the public’s anxiety following the quake, which increased demand for first responders and communications networks.

One of the solutions wireless network providers suggested was the use of text messaging during an emergency situation because the text messages required less bandwidth than a phone call. The use of text helped keep bandwidth available for emergency responders during a disaster.

“Steven, I have a text blast from the NSA,” said Katie. “This is serious.”

Steven leaned in and whispered, “Okay, let’s make our way outside and assess the situation. Stay close behind me.” Steven led Katie through the darkness toward the exit. They emerged in the cool night air and made their way under a tree canopy to the right of the entrance.

“I think the game’s over,” said Katie.

“What?” asked Steven.

Katie pointed at the pool cue Steven had carried outside with him.

Steven continued. “Oh, this,” he said. “Well, I’m not carrying a weapon because your fair city is a gun-free zone. Besides my knife, a pool stick is better than nothing.” Instinctively, Steven felt his pants pocket to confirm his Cold Steel Recon Tactical Knife was in his pocket.

They stood for a moment and took in the chaos on Pennsylvania Avenue where it intersected with L Street. People poured out of the buildings in search of answers. Typically heavy traffic came to a standstill at the intersection because the traffic signals were inoperative. Fire alarms were screeching from the direction of The Melrose Hotel.

“Steven, we’ve been attacked,” said Katie. She was scrolling through the messages on her smartphone again to make sure she read them correctly.

“They know this already?” asked Steven.

“Yes. Information travels much faster over secure government networks, especially at the time of a disaster. The NSA suspects cyber terror. The grid has collapsed across the country, according to the text.”

“Fuck me.”

“Yeah, all of us, in fact. They want me to come to the White House.”

“Okay, straight ahead eight blocks,” said Steven, pointing down Pennsylvania Avenue with the pool cue. They jumped back to avoid a Vespa scooter roaring by them on the sidewalk. “Damn it!”

“Here’s the problem,” said Katie. She was serious. “If I go in, you can’t come with me. You don’t have clearance, and I suspect the White House is on serious lockdown.”

“Okay. So I’ll wait outside or head back to your place and get the car,” said Steven.

“Once I’m there, I won’t be able to leave. I’ll be stuck for days, Steven.”

Steven thought about this for a moment. He didn’t want to be apart from Katie—
especially under these circumstances
. He also didn’t think Washington would be the safest place to be if a cyber attack was being used as a first strike.

“Katie, I don’t want to be selfish. But I have to point out a couple of things. If this was a cyber attack, and the collapsed grid is nationwide, life has changed for this nation in a bad way. Just as important, there are some countries, namely the Russians, who use cyber warfare to gain military advantage before an invasion. Estonia, Georgia, and Ukraine come to mind. Either way, we need to stay together—
because I love you
.”

Katie let the words soak in. She loved Steven too and did not want to separate. Their corner of the world had become extremely dangerous.

“I don’t want to be in Washington, D.C., when the bombs start flyin’,” she said.

“Me either,” said Steven. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

“For sure.”

With the decision made, Steven and Katie made their way down Pennsylvania Avenue through Washington Circle, which resembled a NASCAR track crammed with a thousand cars. K Street, the world headquarters of lobbyists and special interests, was full of cars in both directions. The blaring of car horns was deafening. The shrill sirens of the Capitol Police reverberated off the buildings.

Thus far, there were no violent outbursts or signs of unrest where they were located. Katie was glad they reached their decision to leave the city without delay because calm could soon turn into bedlam. As they passed the buildings that housed the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank, her phone rang. Ironically, it was John Morgan.

“Hey, you’re getting a call.”

“It’s Mr. Morgan,” said Katie. “Hello.”

Katie listened to Morgan’s instructions. She was to contact General Mason Sears’s chief of staff and advise him to expect a call for the general shortly. Katie never questioned the tasks given to her by Morgan. She was paid handsomely and given the additional opportunity to be a part of the Loyal Nine.
What’s the harm in facilitating a phone call when the shit has hit the fan?

They turned south down Eighteenth Street toward the Washington Monument. After she had hung up the phone, Steven quizzed her about the call.

“What’s on the big guy’s mind besides TEOTWAWKI?” asked Steven. Katie hesitated to make sure her answer wouldn’t be deemed classified by the
Big Guy
. She considered for a moment and thought the information was harmless enough.