Martial Law (26 page)

“What do you mean by
locally
?” asked Gibson.

“The general said to expect National Guard units and Marine battalions to work in concert. We may deploy to Boston to assist local law enforcement.”

“Martial law?” asked Gunny Falcone.

“Not yet, but it sure sounds like they’re getting ready for a declaration,” replied Brad.

“On American soil,” said Gibson, shaking his head in disgust.

“It sure looks that way,” said Brad. “Listen, we know each other well enough. We’ve discussed the fact the United States is in social and economic decline. Our country is a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. While all shocks to our way of life may not put the nation over the edge, a major blow like this cyber attack taking down the grid will be devastating.”

“Not all explosives are the same,” said Gibson, who was trained in explosive ordnance disposal. His job required steady nerves and a calm demeanor. “I’ve worked in a wide variety of environments, and clearly there is a difference between dynamite and Semtex. You have to be extremely careful with dynamite. Semtex can be tossed around or thrown into a fire, and nothing will happen—until the right detonator is used. America is the same way. This country is up to its eyeballs in Semtex. No electricity for an undetermined amount of time is just the detonator required to blow the good ole US of A all to fuckin’ hell.”

“Gibson has a way with words, doesn’t he?” Gunny Falcone laughed.

“He certainly does,” replied Brad.

“It’s like a delivery truck,” Gibson continued. “You can keep chuckin’ Semtex into the back of it like those monkeys who work for UPS toss packages, and nothing will happen. Without the right detonator, it’s as harmless as a truckload of apple butter. But you add the right detonator, like this cyber attack, and we’re one click of the mouse away from collapse.
BOOM!
”

“Suppose the intel you received is correct,” said Gunny Falcone. “If this grid-down event is extensive, it could take months or years to repair. Grocery store shelves are only a few days away from being empty under normal circumstances. Even if they could open tomorrow, the shelves will be wiped out within a couple of hours. Hell, the looters will probably clean them out tonight.”

“I read that only about two percent of the population in America lives on farms,” said Gibson. “That means less than five million people have the means to feed themselves. And they’re heavily dependent on fuel to operate their machinery. It’s only a matter of time until the diesel tanks run dry.”

“Consider the effect on America’s stature in the world,” said Brad. “Our country was already on its economic last leg. The Chinese were actively devaluing our currency. Our ability to prop up the dollar based upon its link to oil has declined. The petrodollar was on the way out the door already. It’s been a house of cards for some time.”

“Think of people who are drug dependent,” added Gibson. “How are all of these people who rely upon their Prozac and Zoloft going to keep their shit together? People who have diabetes won’t be able to receive their insulin. Where will they get their meds? How long will it take for them to get desperate?”

“All good points, gentlemen, but my concern is the societal collapse aspect,” said Brad. “The general clearly alluded to martial law. America’s moral decline is about to catch up with her. During the Great Depression, there was surprisingly little crime, other than Mafia-related incidents. People were raised with a clear definition of morality—what is right and wrong. Compared to then, our society today is undisciplined, unrealistic, and selfish.”

“Hell, look at Christmas shoppers,” said Gibson. “The day after Thanksgiving, two hundred and sixty million people descend on stores at four in the frickin’ mornin’. They scratch and claw, stampede, and murder over the latest television. Americans will kill each other over iPhones and Michael Jordan basketball shoes. Imagine when the reality of life with no power sets in.”

“Yep,” said Gunny Falcone. “They’ll look to the government—FEMA. That will be an epic fail. Then, they’ll loot their local stores.”

“Then they’ll turn on their neighbors,” added Brad. “When that option is exhausted, if they’re still alive, there will be a mass exodus from the cities because they will be unlivable. They’ll be looking for vast open spaces, less violence, and the farmers who can supply them with food.”

“Do they think they’re gonna be greeted with open arms?” asked Gibson rhetorically. “Farmers and the country folks won’t stand for that.”

“A friend of mine said he doesn’t fear the collapse event itself, it’s the way people react that causes him the most concern,” said Brad.

“I get that,” started Gunny Falcone. “If martial law is declared, what in the hell do the rules of engagement look like?”

Brad leaned back in his chair and stared outside, contemplating all of this. “Even without martial law, are there any rules left?”

Chapter 50

Sunday, September 4, 2016

6:36 p.m.

Triple Q Ranch, Prescott Peninsula

Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

The sun was beginning to set to the west of Prescott Peninsula. There was a lot of activity at the Triple Q Ranch, so named because of its development by Donald and Susan Quinn, on land located at Quabbin Reservoir. The facility was designed with a long-term grid collapse in mind. Donald considered that to be the worst-case scenario that they could survive. Obviously, extinction events were different. In a mass extinction—or biotic crisis, using more scientific terms—there was a rapid and widespread loss of life on every evolutionary level. The most well-known of these occurred in the Jurassic period, which was caused by an asteroid impact and increased volcanic activity. During this period, the majority of life on Earth became extinct. No one could prepare for an extinction event.

Donald studied the next level of catastrophic events and decided the Triple Q Ranch could keep them alive for a period of time, but eventually food would run out. The most likely example was an explosion of the Yellowstone supervolcano. Yellowstone last erupted six hundred and forty thousand years ago. Scientists had determined that the Yellowstone supervolcano erupted in cycles, and that it was
due
.

An eruption would create a nuclear winter—a period of eight to ten years of substantially cooler temperatures and depleted ozone. It would be impossible to grow food in the United States and tough to breathe. The best option for the occupants of 1PP would be to survive until they could evacuate the fallout.

A grid-down collapse event was
manageable
in Donald’s mind. He had ten years of food stored. Unless contaminated, the Quabbin Reservoir could provide more than enough water and freshwater fish to sustain them. He planned to harness the energy of the sun to power the Generac generators. The facility was built like a fortress. Donald had an open checkbook, and he used it.

A few luxuries were implemented in the last two weeks. Thermal-imaging cameras that could detect heat sources in the forest were installed around the perimeter of 1PP. They were hidden in trees, bird boxes, and tree stumps. A blast film was added to the windows to prevent them from shattering during an explosion.

Donald was also concerned with prying eyes and ears from above. He thought about what would happen to America after the collapse.
Will our adversaries look to take advantage of our weak condition?
Will our government survive?
If so, will we be restored to the freedoms contemplated by our forefathers, or will a tyrannical government rule with an iron fist?

He thought about this at length and decided to err on the side of caution. He contacted a company called Conductive Composites based in Utah. The company created a nickel-carbon material that was both flexible and robust. It was flexible enough to be formed into wallpaper and sturdy enough to shield electronic devices from an EMP—whether nuclear or solar generated.

There was an added benefit. Donald set aside a communications room on the second floor of 1PP. Designed more like a Faraday room than a cage, the Conductive Composite wallpaper blocked satellites or ground-based listening devices from gathering information.

Donald spent the day trying to create a sense of normalcy for Susan and the girls. Brad doubled the military presence on Prescott Peninsula. All perimeter security measures were put into place without incident from outside intruders. Donald worked with a couple of the Marines and J.J. to set up the solar array. He reiterated the importance of sound and light discipline to everyone. There was no need to garner attention from the residents across the reservoir. He knew that time would come, but he wanted to have his security team in place first.

He spoke to both Julia and Sarge. It appeared they were on track. Although Donald had not heard from John Morgan, he knew Sarge was working diligently to gather up the Boston Brahmin and bring them to the safety of 100 Beacon. There were no immediate plans to deliver them to Prescott Peninsula.

“Daddy, Daddy!” exclaimed Rebecca and Penny as they rushed out of the trail in the woods. “Look what we found!” The girls held out their dirt-covered hands and displayed a variety of pieces of flint or quartz and a couple of complete arrowheads.

“Wow, girls, where did you find these?”

“We walked and walked through the forest and didn’t see anything,” said Penny. “Then we found a stream and started making mud pies. That’s when Becca found the first arrowhead.”

“I found the first one, Daddy!” Rebecca proudly proclaimed. “It stuck me in the finger when I made my pie!”

“Let me see those muddy paws,” said Donald as he examined his seven-year-old daughter’s hands. “I don’t see any boo-boos.”

“It didn’t hurt,” said Rebecca. “Penny and I are going to make necklaces.”

“Yeah,” chimed in Penny. “Pretty Indian princesses we will be.” Susan and Sabs caught up with the two bundles of energy.

“Not until you have baths, young ladies,” said Susan. She turned to Donald and mouthed the words, “Do we have hot water?”

“We do,” he replied. “I just shut off the generators, but the hot water should be good to go.” Donald looked at them both and asked where their weapons were.

“We didn’t think that we’d need them today,” said Susan. “Besides, we had our sheepdogs nearby.” Two of Brad’s Marines entered the clearing. At Steven’s suggestion, they wore a combination of khaki and Walmart camo—hunting apparel made by either Realtree or Mossy Oak. Donald agreed the soldiers would be less conspicuous by not wearing their issued MARPAT—Marine pattern digital camouflage. As much as possible, Donald and the security team tried to give the appearance of random hunters to anyone on a fishing boat or the banks opposite the reservoir.

“Come on, girls,” said Susan. “Let’s get you, and your arrowheads, presentable for dinner. Give your daddy a kiss!” Donald kneeled down to accept their generous, muddy hugs. He didn’t mind. Every day that passed would become more dangerous for the girls to play in the woods. Let them make the most of it now.

He watched them bound up the stairs, and he turned to Sabs.

“Did they ask any questions?” asked Donald. He and Susan would have to talk to the girls about this. They were old enough to know that school was supposed to start on Tuesday. Donald and Susan had discussed homeschooling the girls, but when the nationally known Winsor School expanded their academic program to include all grades from first through the twelfth, the Quinns decided to enroll them there. With less than five hundred students, all female, the Winsor School was designed to instill confidence and competence in their female students. The girls would miss their school, the teachers, and their friends. Donald would have to address this with Susan by tomorrow.

“Not at all, Donald,” replied Sabs. “I don’t think they realize anything is wrong.”

“What about the presence of the
sheepdogs
?” asked Donald, nodding toward the soldiers, who now had their eyes trained on the surrounding forest as night settled in.

“Not a problem. One of the guys said their job was to protect them from
lions, and tigers, and bears
.”

Donald laughed. “Oh my!”

“That’s the exact reaction the girls had,” said Sabs. “They immediately started singing and running down the trail. We had to hurry to keep up.”

“That’s great,” said Donald, his mind wandering. “Susan and I will have to have a talk with them tomorrow sometime.”

J.J. joined them and gave Sabs a kiss on the cheek. Donald never thought J.J. would be affectionate. He carried a lot of anger from his family relationship, his service in Iraq, and his postwar battles on behalf of wounded veterans. Donald verily believed that J.J. was at peace for the first time in his life. The way Sabs glowed when J.J. was around proved the feeling was mutual.

A sound caught Donald’s attention. He walked into the clearing and tried to determine what the sound was. The soldiers, who heard it as well, immediately closed ranks around Donald, J.J. and Sabs.

Whop—whop—whop
. As the noise grew louder, it was evident a helicopter was coming closer. The soldiers’ radios came to life as the security team prepared for a potential hostile encounter.

“Inside!” ordered one of the Marines. Donald leaped up the steps and took a position by the rail. Two more Marines came running out of the woods and began waving instructions.

“I’ll go with Susan and the girls,” said Sabs. As she ran inside, J.J. emerged with the shotgun. He handed Donald his .45 and a pair of night-vision binoculars. The helicopter circled the building that was barely visible but didn’t attempt a landing.

Donald studied the chopper and shouted into his two-way radio, “Hold fire. Repeat. Hold Fire!” He grabbed J.J. by the arm. “Grab the lanterns and flashlights. We need to give him a landing zone.”

“Who is it?”

“John Morgan.”

Chapter 51

Monday, September 5, 2016