Dispatches (14 page)

“If the state organizes food production, might we be able to fall back on that?” she asked hesitantly.

“It’s wishful thinking at best. I don’t see how they plan on distributing the food in any consistent, wide-reaching way. Most people don’t have cars, and I can’t imagine the state has the gasoline or diesel reserves needed to drive kale and potatoes from town to town on a weekly basis. They’ll have to limit food-distribution efforts to organized hubs—which will quickly draw large refugee populations. It’s a recipe for disaster,” said Alex.

“It’s something,” Kate said. “We have no idea what we’ll find once we set sail. What if the situation is just as wrecked in the Caribbean?”

“We have the desalinator and fishing gear. We’ll be fine, even if the eastern Caribbean turns out to be a bust. South America should be relatively unaffected by whatever hit the United States. We’ll head to French Guiana or the northern coast of Brazil for a major resupply. Argentina will be our ultimate goal.”

“Just like that?” Kate asked.

“Barring any unforeseen weather problems, we could be in Fortaleza within sixty days, which is pushing up against our stored food supplies. We’d need to leave within a week or two to stretch the food to South America,” he said.

“We’ve never sailed out of Casco Bay. I think you’re oversimplifying things,” Kate said, grabbing her bucket and leaving him behind.

“Kate! Think about what we’ve done so far. We can do this,” said Alex, jogging to catch up.

She stopped, staring at the placid lake to find the glimpse of serenity she needed to avoid starting an argument. Not only was he simplifying a forty-seven-hundred-mile open-ocean voyage, he was ignoring the most obvious fact.

“Your parents can’t do it. They won’t do it. Your dad has made that abundantly clear. How are you going to reconcile that, Alex?”

“They’ll come around.”

“No, they won’t, and if your parents stay, so will Ethan and Kevin. Now we’re only removing four people from your Maine starvation scenario.”

“Nice,” he said, frowning at her. “I’m not making this up. In roughly two months, we’re eating off the land for the rest of the year.”

“So, somehow we’re better off throwing ourselves at the mercy of a foreign government as what, boat people? We have no idea what the political climate will be toward Americans. What are we going to pay them with? Will they even let us off our boat? Will their Coast Guard confiscate our weapons? I think you’re romanticizing the other side of the journey, Alex. We won’t be received as tourists. Think immigration issues. Think holding cells. Think about the confiscation of everything we own, followed by a dusty bus ride to the nearest shithole border crossing. That’s the risk at the other end,” she said, stopping at the dock.

“We could try a transatlantic crossing,” he suggested.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Kate stated before jumping onto the floating dock.

“In thirty days or so, you could be sipping espresso in a French café,” said Alex, making the leap.

The dock shifted when he landed, causing Kate to raise her arms for balance.

“Tempting, but sailing through the North Atlantic sounds a lot worse than heading south,” she said.

“Half the time, and I doubt our friends across the pond will deport us,” said Alex. “We can bring our passports.”

“Funny,” she said, lowering her bucket into the water.

“I just got this urge to push you in,” said Alex.

“I can’t even begin to describe how much trouble you’d be in,” Kate said, smiling.

“More trouble than I’m already in?”

“You’re not in any trouble,” she said, lifting the bucket out and setting it next to Alex’s.

She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his scruffy neck. Alex smelled about as ripe as he looked, which had become the new norm in their life. She looked forward to the point when they could comfortably swim in the lake. Sponge bathing with a pot of stove-heated water served their utilitarian hygiene needs well, but did little beyond removing the surface layer of dirt and sweat. She yearned for a long, hot bath. Something she imagined would feel like a religious experience at this point. There was no sense in thinking about it right now.

“I guess there’s no harm in prepping the boat,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “I just need to make sure it’s still a viable option. Examine the water hoses, inspect the engine, maybe run it for a few minutes if the area is clear,” he said.

“You’ll have to bring the batteries out to start the engine,” Kate reminded him.

“I left one on the boat to operate the bilge pump. I’ll bring another in case it’s dead,” said Alex.

“Or stolen.”

“The whole boat could be stolen,” said Alex, rocking her gently.

“Then what?”

“Plan B.”

“Do I want to hear about Plan B?”

“I don’t really have a Plan B—yet.”

Kate didn’t completely believe Alex. He typically had Plans B through F worked out ahead of time. He was holding something back. Something he had seen. She’d have to shake the truth out of her son. Ryan couldn’t keep a secret, especially from his mother.

Chapter 23

Belfast, Maine

Brisk, salty air poured through Alex’s window. Tinged with seaweed and other familiar tidal smells, the onshore breeze reminded him of past sailing seasons. He’d head down to the South Portland waterfront with Ryan after the first warm stretch of April weather and start to tinker with the boat. It always marked the beginning of a long, but rewarding period of repairs and restoration. Sanding and varnishing worn teak, repainting the hull, rigging the sails, and sometimes an unexpected engine or electrical project.

All well worth the hassle when the boat cut through the harbor for the first time, a cold beer nestled into one of the cup holders on the steering pedestal. He looked forward to the possibility of sailing out of here, even if the occasion wouldn’t be celebrated with a can of local microbrew.

Sailing represented a form of freedom to Alex. A self-determination marked by endless possibilities outside of the United States. Staying holed up at the lake felt like a prison sentence, with few prospects in sight. He didn’t want to leave his close friends behind, but he didn’t want to eat them either—which could be a distinct possibility in December of next year if they couldn’t grow enough food. He stifled a laugh.

“What?” asked Charlie.

“Nothing,” Alex replied, watching the harbor appear between the buildings on Miller Street.

He’d chosen to bypass Belfast’s Main Street, noting an unusual amount of pedestrian activity on the streets near the town center. All eyes were drawn to his SUV, which left him with an uneasy feeling. He didn’t need to take the most direct path to the waterfront. He’d left the
Katelyn Ann
in the center of the mooring field, beyond the farthest marina. He nearly laughed out loud again.

“What?” insisted Charlie from the front passenger seat.

“Really, it’s nothing,” Alex said, craning his head forward for a better view of the harbor.

The number of boats had decreased dramatically.
Shit.

“Alex, don’t make me beg. I need the humor,” said Charlie.

“You really don’t want to know,” said Alex.

The view opened as the tree-lined streets gave way to a grassy, open promenade overlooking the harbor. The boats had almost disappeared. Charlie started to say something, but stopped.

“This isn’t right, is it?” said Charlie.

“No. The harbor was crowded with boats in the fall,” said Alex, slowing the SUV.

“Did some of them sink due to the weather? I assume there’s a good reason you pull your boat out of the water in the winter,” said Charlie.

“Not likely. Not that many,” said Alex.

“Maybe we can find another boat,” said Ryan.

Alex glanced at his son in the rearview mirror, catching the top of his face and his olive green hat in the reflection.

“We’ll soon find out,” said Alex, easing the SUV down the hill.

When the SUV cleared the first in a series of dilapidated red buildings flanking the entrance to the marina, Alex noticed activity on the floating dock that extended from the parking lot. A quarter of the boat slips were occupied by a variety of motor- and sail-powered vessels. The
Katelyn Ann
was tied up to the outermost position at the end of the dock.

“That’s our boat, Dad!” said Ryan.

“Yeah. That’s her all right,” he muttered, biting his lower lip.

He didn’t like what he saw. Men climbed on and off the boats, including the
Katelyn Ann
, while others milled around on the dock. The assembly of people looked organized. Alex drove the car into the parking lot, turning every head in sight. He parked perpendicular to the waterfront, at the back of the lot. Two men dressed in warm civilian clothes broke off from a small group of armed men seated at an ancient picnic table next to the dock entrance. One of them carried a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. The other gripped a black handheld radio.

“Keep the guns out of sight,” Alex instructed. “Ryan, I want you on the passenger side of the car, with quick access to your rifle. Keep an eye out behind us. We don’t know what kind of operation they might be running here. Charlie, you’re with me.”

“ROE?” asked Ryan.

“Standard. Weapons
hold
. If we come under attack, switch to weapons tight,” said Alex.

He’d simplified the Rules of Engagement (ROE) for everyone at the lake. His experience in the Marines taught him the simpler the better for ROE involving the use of lethal force. The situations developed quickly, often requiring quick decision-making. Fewer parameters led to swift, appropriate use of force.

HOLD meant fire in self-defense or under direct orders only, regardless of the situation. This was their default ROE and the most appropriate stance in nearly every encounter. TIGHT meant fire at targets recognized as hostile. This represented a nebulous middle ground, but it kept innocents out of the line of fire. Positively identifying hostile targets wasn’t easy in a civilian-on-civilian engagement, but it didn’t require a War College degree. Anyone pointing a weapon in your direction during a firefight was probably hostile. FREE turned the guns on anyone not recognized as friendly. This ROE setting was reserved for the worst-case scenarios, like an assault on their house, where all known friendlies were “inside the line,” and anyone moving in your direction was up to no good.

“What about us?” asked Charlie.

“Keep your hands away from your pistol,” said Alex. “Unless they start shooting at you, of course.”

“Of course,” said Charlie, opening his door.

“I should probably start the conversation,” said Alex.

“And finish it,” added Charlie, patting him on the shoulder. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“Smart ass,” said Alex. “Seriously. I don’t want any trouble.”

“They have your boat,” stated Charlie. “As much as I want you to stay in Maine, I’ll help you get your boat back.”

“Let’s just test the waters here. I have an idea if we run into trouble,” said Alex.

They met the two men halfway across the gravel lot. As soon as Alex stepped out of the car, the man with the rifle adjusted his grip on the sling, bringing his hand higher along the nylon strap. Easier to swing it off the shoulder. He didn’t unsling the rifle, which showed some restraint—and common sense. At less than fifty feet, Charlie and Alex, carrying pistols in exposed drop holsters along their upper right thighs, had the upper hand on a bolt-action hunting rifle.

The man with the radio nodded at them. “Can we help you?”

Alex chose his words carefully, hoping to start off on the right foot—an elusive approach for him lately.

“That’s my boat,” said Alex, miserably failing the diplomatic approach.

“Which boat?” asked the man, glancing back toward the dock.

“The sailboat at the far end of the dock.
Katelyn Ann
. I brought her here last fall from Portland Harbor,” said Alex.

The man adjusted his gray watch cap and grimaced.

“Shit. I don’t…well, there’s no easy way to say this, but that boat now belongs to the state of Maine. Sorry. Every boat out here is needed for fishing. The bigger ones go to Rockland, where they can head out into deeper water.”

Alex stared past him at his boat, watching two men lift heavy marine batteries into the
Katelyn Ann’s
cockpit. The second man tightened his grip on the rifle sling.

“Maine Independence Initiative?” Alex asked.

“Yeah. We’re repurposing the boats and assembling crews up and down the coast. This is going to put a lot of Mainers back to work,” he said.

“On my boat,” said Alex, shaking his head.

“I think feeding hungry people is more important than cruising around in a sailboat,” said the bearded man holding the rifle.

“I wasn’t planning on sailing around Penobscot Bay sipping mai tais. I brought the boat here for a reason,” Alex stated. “So I could leave.”

“And go where?” asked the leader, shrugging his shoulders.

“Anywhere but here. The last place I want to be caught is between several thousand heavily armed federal soldiers and the Maine Independence Initiative, or whatever you call yourselves.”

“We’re the militia part of this,” said the guy with the rifle.

“Splendid,” said Alex. “So, is there any way I can convince you to let me keep my boat? I can’t imagine you get too many owners showing up. One boat isn’t going to make or break the governor’s fishing initiative.”

“No,” said the leader. “If we bend the rules for you, we have to bend them for everyone.”

“I’m sure the people won’t come out of the woodwork,” said Alex.

“Rules are rules,” he said.

“Spoken like a true pawn in someone else’s game,” Alex said wryly.

“Hey, you’re lucky we don’t exercise our authority to confiscate your vehicle,” said the man with the gun.

“Well, I’ll take that as a sign of the good things to come from the Maine Independence Militia. Enjoy your day, gentlemen. Enjoy my boat,” said Alex. “Ready to head back?” he asked the others.