Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“This is Patriot Actual. You don’t look any worse for the wear Three-Zero. Sierra Whiskey sends his thanks.”

Sierra Whiskey stood for Sergeant Walker.

“Your dad says hi,” he said to Chloe, motioning for her to take cover. “Copy. Looking to reunite these two, sooner than later.”

“That’s what I suspected. Big picture is dim until weather clears. It’s either retrieve or recover the birds. I’d rather recover. You know the drill.”

“Roger. I’ll take any intelligence you can pass,” said Alex.

“ Low-level passes indicate you are clear to cross Commonwealth due north of your position. Avoid closing within two hundred feet of any T-Station. High probability of contact. Low-level north-to-south flight in the direction of movement showed no signs of obvious or concentrated insurgent movement. All vehicle movement classified hostile. How copy?”

Insurgent movement? Both sides had this completely wrong.

“Copy all. Request that you notify all friendly units within vicinity of destination. Estimate travel speed to be twelve to fifteen kilometers per hour. Raider gave me flares for IFF. I will contact Patriot when ready to launch flares. Can you verify that Raider passed the right sequence to friendly pickets?”

“ Roger. We’ll ensure they have the correct details. Recommend that you demilitarize your look. Charlie Romeo to start.”

“Understand. Old habits die hard,” said Alex.

“ Good luck, Three-Zero. Patriot out.”

Alex pocketed the radio and dropped his backpack.

“Did you get all of that?”

“Most of it. Retrieve or recover?” said Ryan.

“He can’t keep the Raven up in this weather. Five pounds is no match for heavy rain and gusting winds. He’d rather recover it in Cambridge than retrieve it from the river or a hostile street. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still flying. I’m going to strip down my tactical rig and stuff it in my backpack so I look a little friendlier on the streets. The two of you should be fine.”

Ryan wore a gray T-shirt under a light blue, unbuttoned long-sleeve hiking shirt, a pair of khaki pants with cargo pockets and brown leather boots. With a medium-sized military-style rucksack and Alex’s desert MARPAT bonnie hat, he might attract a second look, which was why Alex insisted that he stuff the HK P30, without suppressor, into his right cargo pocket. Tucking it into his front waistband was too obvious, and the rear waistband was obstructed by his pack. It was all about appearances and practicality, which brought him to Chloe.

Her backpack was a purple, off the shelf, day hiking rig, which didn’t raise an eyebrow. Combined with a light blue Boston Red Sox hat, gray short-sleeved hiking shirt and dark brown convertible cargo pants, she looked like a lost, yuppie hiker. Her outfit wasn’t the problem. Chloe’s gender would automatically attract attention, and additional scrutiny could end in disaster. Wrong. Any scrutiny could be instantly lethal.

He had no idea what had happened to the students in Warren Towers after he left. If the Liberty Boys broke through the barricades, they’d show little mercy for Piper and her ragtag band of freshmen warriors. Most of the students could provide an adequate description of Alex if forced. They knew he came to rescue Ryan and that Ryan had a girlfriend at Boston College. It didn’t take a Boston University level SAT score to put together the pieces. He’d even left photos behind for the Liberty Boys to pass around! Stupid. If the sixth floor of Warren Towers fell to militia guns, it wouldn’t matter if Chloe grew a beard. Still, they had to do something.

Alex proposed outfitting her in Ryan’s spare clothes and giving her a one-minute haircut, but Chloe pointed out the obvious problem that no last minute, gender-neutralizing efforts could camouflage. Even with her tightest jog bra cinched in place, she couldn’t pass for “one of the guys.” They’d have to do their best to stay out of sight.

“Rub some dirt on your face, Chloe.”

“Do you really think that will make a difference?”

“I don’t know; just do something. Help her out with that, all right?” he said, nodding at Ryan.

He unclipped the rifle and removed the sling, which had been layered over his tactical chest rig. A few minutes later, he jammed the waterlogged chest rig into the top of his assault pack and reattached the rifle. His external carry load represented the bare minimum he needed to cross the river. He’d spread the chest rig’s eight rifle magazines into easily accessible pockets. Three in each cargo pocket and two protruding from the right back pants pocket. The dump pouch from the chest rig was now attached to the right front section of his Molle compatible rigger’s belt. The water-resistant bag contained the radio, GPS unit and two 38mm aerial parachute flares. He’d fire those when they were ready to cross. Red followed by green.

The effort they had put into maintaining a neutral appearance seemed ridiculous with a military-grade rifle prominently displayed, but he couldn’t justify burying it in his pack. Despite all of the restrictions placed on AR and military style rifles after the Jakarta Pandemic, it was still one of the most recognizable and commonly owned weapons in the United States. The appearance of a heavily armed parent travelling with two unarmed young adults might pass initial muster. It could prevent an undetected ambush, giving Alex a chance to react, or it might allow them to move far enough through an openly observed area to make a run for it. Either way, the rifle would prove decisive, and he had no intention of sidelining it.

“Ready to move? One point six miles to the bridge. Twenty minutes tops if we jog. Good?”

“If that’s not too fast for you,” said Ryan snidely.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“We’ll let you set the pace.”

EVENT+57:29

Middlesex Fells Reservation

The splashing and laughter continued longer than Charlie had hoped. He started timing them as soon as it became obvious that they weren’t passing through. Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds.

Too damn long.

Two women and one man, in their twenties from what he could tell through the foliage, had appeared from the west, walking along the dirt road connecting Charlie’s small island to the forest preserves on either side of the reservoir. They stopped almost directly in front of the trail leading to the Jeep and dropped their packs. At first, he thought they had spotted the Jeep, but it soon became apparent that they were more interested in skinny-dipping than forest exploration.

Charlie felt a little weird watching them through binoculars. Peeping Tom weird. Still, he had to keep a sharp lookout in case one of them caught a lucky glimpse of the Jeep. On the grand scale of threats, the three travelers didn’t rank high in the dangerous spectrum, but looks could be deceiving, and a concealed, snub-nosed revolver in one of their back pockets could even the odds in a heartbeat.

He’d been lucky during his stay on the island. Only a handful of refugees had wandered across the island road, most of them at night when it was impossible to spot the Jeep. The majority of the traffic through his area had been confined to the eastern shore of the reservoir. He’d made a few trips to the edge of the island to observe the paths skirting the water. Families, lone wolf types, college-aged kids, mountain bikers with child carriages bouncing behind them. Now skinny-dippers. Few carried a pack larger than one of the rucksacks sitting in the Jeep. All of them were headed north. Most would run out of supplies before they reached their destination. All the more reason for him to be cautious of everyone that set foot on the island.