Authors: Steven Konkoly
“Raider One, this is Raider Base. Radio check.”
“Raider One acknowledges the withdrawal order. Proceeding to secondary staging area,” he said, opening the Matvee door. “I think we’re done with this mission,” said Williams.
Leverone and Graham nodded their approval. He’d assigned them to his Matvee for a reason. Like him, they all had young families in the Springfield area.
Chapter 22
EVENT +59:38
Harvard Yard
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Ed piled out of the side door to Stoughton Hall, stopping in the middle of the red brick walkway connecting the dormitories. A bullet snapped against the building façade several feet beyond him, causing him to flinch.
“Ed!” Alex said, waving him back into the building.
Alex reached the corner of Hollis Hall and edged along the concrete foundation until he stood behind the corporal. Ed held the heavy glass door open, beckoning him to follow.
“I have to take care of something. Get everyone into one room, close the door, and don’t let anyone in until I get back!” Alex yelled.
Ed grimaced. “What the hell is going on?”
“Cambridge is falling. We can expect to leave here shortly,” said Alex.
“Ryan’s leg won’t support any weight!” said Ed.
“We’ll have to make do, unless I can secure a ride with the marines.”
Two bullets ricocheted off the red brick wall a few feet above and in front of the corporal. Alex grabbed the marine and moved him off the wall. Bullets striking a hard surface at an angle had a tendency to ricochet and continue travelling several inches along the surface.
“Get off the wall, Corporal. One-foot minimum.”
“Ooh-rah, sir! Private, stay off the walls!”
“I should be back in five minutes, Ed. Hold down the fort!”
“Where are you going?” yelled Ed.
“Out there with the good corporal.”
The marine turned his head as a few more rounds struck the side of Hollis Hall.
“Don’t get shot again,” said Ed.
“Funny.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“To stop Private First Class O’Neil. Colonel Grady’s orders. Someone detonated Bruckman’s bomb remotely after Top and another marine brought it out of the perimeter—”
“Top’s dead?”
“Most likely. Whoever triggered the bomb had to be close enough to see them carrying the pack. Bruckman made the medevac runs with O’Neil. They could have picked up the bomb from someone along their return route.”
“Sir, I need to confirm this with the battalion commander,” said Corporal Blake.
“Do whatever you need to do. I’m headed over to the vehicles before he sabotages my only ride out of here,” said Alex, taking off across the wet brick.
Alex entered the Old Yard and made a rapid assessment of the situation. Red tracers streamed across the empty half of the common, bouncing off the rain-obscured dormitory buildings and sailing hundreds of feet in every direction. Extended staccato bursts from the northern side of the yard engaged unseen targets beyond Cambridge Street. The HESCO position directly ahead of him, partially obscured by the battalion’s MTVRs, stood silent, patiently waiting for targets to appear beyond University and Thayer Halls.
Screams rippled through the northern yard as bullets tore through the civilian tents and ruffled tarps tied between the trees. Militia gunfire directed at the marines raked the refugee camp, igniting a panicked stampede for the safety of the battalion’s inner perimeter. The corporal intending to follow him was swallowed in the pandemonium, pushed back into the gap between Stoughton and Hollis Halls. Alex was on his own.
He dashed from the cover of a thick tree trunk to the front of the closest MTVR, briefly detecting figures beyond the quiet machine-gun nest. Bullets snapped past and pummeled the side of the truck during the quick trip, clearly focused on stopping him. Alex dropped to the muddy grass and leaned his head a few inches beyond the truck’s oversized tire.
A partial silhouette appeared from the far corner of Thayer Hall, directly adjacent to the HESCO barrier. Craning his head another inch yielded the complete picture. The two-man machine-gun crew lay crumpled on the ground behind the barricade; the M240G leaned against the inside of the cage, pointing skyward. Bullets smacked into the ground near Alex’s head, forcing him to take cover. The battle for Harvard Yard depended on holding this machine-gun position.
Alex rolled to his right and aimed the HK416 down the first row between vehicle columns.
Clear.
He stepped onto the MTVR’s running boards and opened the door, climbing into the driver’s seat.
He locked the cabin doors before climbing into the top-mounted, armored gun turret. He located the joystick for the Battery Powered Motorized Traversing Unit and slewed the independently powered turret to the right until the M240B machine gun pointed at the gap between Thayer and University Halls. He pulled back on the charging handle and slid it forward, chambering a round. With the synthetic stock dug firmly into his shoulder, he sighted in on the gap between buildings, hoping it wasn’t too late.
Four men dressed in civilian clothes, carrying rifles, swarmed the HESCO barricade, firing point blank into the unresponsive marines. Alex depressed the trigger before the Liberty Boys added a M240G machine gun to their arsenal. The gun rattled the turret mount, ejecting shells downward into the cabin, but stayed lined up on the tightly packed group of insurgents. The first extended burst punched more than thirty 7.62mm bullets through the group, at a devastating range of fifty yards, detonating a dense cloud of red mist over the HESCO barrier. The second burst shredded the remaining upright bodies, splattering the pavement with bloody entrails, chunks of flesh and skull matter.
Bullets pinged off the front armor plates surrounding Alex’s M240B, drawing his attention to a woman aiming a rifle from a covered position behind the corner of Thayer Hall. With her rifle jammed against the corner, she fired round after round at the weapon that had just cut her militia team to pieces. Alex fired the machine gun, not bothering to aim directly at her silhouette. The wall did most of his work. The first steel projectiles struck the brick wall at 2800 feet per second and ricocheted toward the woman before the rest obliterated the brick. When Alex’s gun fell silent, the woman stumbled forward in a cloud of masonry dust and dropped to her knees. Most of her face was gone.
Automatic fire erupted from Alex’s immediate right, cracking overhead and pounding the turret’s side armor. He dropped into the cabin, catching a glimpse of a helmet through the thick, bullet-resistant driver’s-side window. He drew his pistol and turned the door handle, kicking the hatch open. The reinforced door slammed into the traitor’s rifle, knocking it from his grip and smashing his nose. The marine stumbled backward into another MTVR, and Alex fired the remaining 9mm rounds from his P30 at the marine’s legs, dropping him to the grass in an agonized heap.
“Get back on the 240! That fucker took out one of the MG’s covering the south perimeter. You have a clear field of fire! I’ll get the east gun back into action!” yelled a familiar voice from the front of the truck.
Alex climbed into the turret and spotted a lone marine racing toward the gore-streaked HESCO cage next to Thayer Hall. The young corporal lifted the machine gun and placed its bipod legs on the barricade. Once he started firing across the eastern yard, Alex rotated the turret right until he had a commanding view of the south commons. The machine-gun position located on the western side of the Old Yard stood quiet, another victim of O’Neil’s rifle.
Two figures snaked along Matthews Hall, using the uneven façade to mask their approach from the remaining gun. In the confusion, they had managed to advance within fifty feet of the southern perimeter line. Alex lined up the front sight with the partially obscured figures and centered the notch in the rear sight ring, depressing the trigger. Bricks exploded, and one of the targets tumbled to the ground a few feet into the grass. Alex fired a long burst between the body and the wall, guessing what might happen next. The bullets caught the second insurgent trying to grab his partner, splattering the concrete foundation behind them.
Two marines sprinted from the corner of Harvard Hall to the downed machine-gun position beyond his gun sights. Alex scanned for threats beyond Matthews Hall, keeping the sector secure until they arrived and put the M240G back into action. One of the marines left the protection of the HESCO barrier and ran toward the battalion aid station with one of the wounded machine gunners in a fireman’s carry. Alex dropped into the cabin and opened the door, grabbing his rifle from the passenger seat. He jumped down on O’Neil’s legs, causing him to scream, and tossed the traitor’s rifle well out of crawling distance.
“I’ll get this devil dog to the aid station,” he said, intercepting the marine in front of the MTVR. “You go back and get the other. I’ll meet you on my way back.”
The staff sergeant shook his head and pointed at the marine on the ground between the two rows of trucks. “Ramirez is dead. You grab that one.”
Alex stared at O’Neil, who clutched both legs, crying out in pain.
“He killed the marines. I need you to dump that piece of shit in the battalion TOC and tell the colonel it’s a special delivery from Alex Fletcher.”
The staff sergeant’s right hand drifted toward his rifle.
“You have to deliver him alive. He might have information critical to surviving this nightmare.”
The staff sergeant transferred the unresponsive marine into Alex’s care and jogged toward O’Neil.
“Alive, Staff Sergeant!” said Alex, not encouraged by the marine’s glare.
Alex carried the marine across the abandoned sea of trampled tents, backpacks and moaning bodies, noticing that the incoming militia fire had slackened. With the bomb plot thwarted, and all of the battalion’s machine guns back in action, the attack had been reduced to a lethal, medium-range engagement. Lethal for the militia. By the time Alex reached the steps of Stoughton Hall, the yard was quiet except for the panicked yelling inside the building. He fought his way through the packed hallway, jamming the side of his HK416 against those unwilling to move.
“Make a hole! Let’s go! Out of the way!”
“Take it easy! My wife’s ankle was sprained in that mess out there,” barked a man in front of Alex, holding a woman up by the arm.
“This marine was shot standing guard over you,” said Alex, shoving past the man.
Alex pushed his way through the door to the triage center and helped one of the corpsmen lower the unresponsive marine onto the floor. All of the cots were occupied by marines or civilians with grisly wounds. The events of the past five minutes had quickly filled the station to capacity. The corpsman worked on the wounded marine for several seconds, conducting a trauma assessment.
“Class IV!” he announced, turning to Alex. “Sorry.”
Class IV was a death sentence. The corporal’s wounds required treatment beyond the aid station’s capabilities, and they couldn’t move him to one of the local hospitals. Grady didn’t have the personnel to spare. Simple life-sustaining measures like emergency airway breathing and plasma replacement only delayed the inevitable, consuming resources that could be used to stabilize other casualties. If the marine revived on his own, they’d sedate him with narcotics. Combat triage was a bitch. Without the prospect of immediate medical evacuation to a Level Three medical treatment facility, triage was an angry, merciless bitch.
Alex dug through the marine’s ammunition pouches, filling his cargo pockets with spare rifle magazines. He had a feeling they faced a protracted siege at Harvard Yard that required an “all hands” effort. He eyeballed the corporal’s Dragon Skin tactical vest, wishing he could get his hands on a few of them. The level IV body armor could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet, along with high-explosive fragmentation. Unfortunately, it didn’t protect you from traitors that understood the vest’s coverage limitations.
Angry shouting erupted from the hallway, causing Alex to level his rifle at the open doorway. The battalion surgeon glanced from the door to Alex and went back to work on a squirming woman held down by a blood-splattered corpsman. A mud-encrusted marine stepped inside the room a few moments later.
“Colonel Grady just issued the thirty-minute withdrawal order, sir. No civilians.”
“We’re gonna need some help getting these marines to the vehicles,” said one of the corpsmen.
“We have our hands full with the perimeter. You’ll have to make do,” said the staff sergeant.
“Transition to palliative care for the civilians,” said the battalion surgeon, addressing the corpsman.
The navy petty officer beside him paused for a second before nodding slowly. “Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant commander tossed a bloodstained surgical instrument onto the wooden table and turned to face the marine. Placidly composed, his face projected a stolid “don’t fuck with me” expression. He spoke deliberately.
“Tell Grady we require an escort. When the crowd finds out that we’re abandoning civilian casualties, it’s unlikely that we’ll be able to reach the vehicles without creating more casualties—and I have no intention of doing that.”
“Sir, the battalion has its hands fu—”
“Take a look around you, Staff Sergeant. I have thirteen critical casualties. Four marine, nine civilian. I just issued an order that killed the civilians and violated my Hippocratic Oath. Their families are waiting outside that door. Guess who gets to face that music?” He paused. “Tell Grady to get his head out of Homeland’s ass and figure it out, or he can find a new battalion surgeon.”
“Goddamn it, Commander. I don’t have the personnel to—fuck it; we’ll clear the building. Be ready to move in ten minutes,” said the marine.
“We’ll be ready in five. What’s our destination?” said the naval officer.
“Melrose Armory.”
“What’s the status on a Level Three MTF?”
“Not at Melrose. They’re still working on the delivery of equipment and personnel to Concord or New Londonderry. I’ll be back in ten, sir,” said the marine.