Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“I still have a few of my own.”

EVENT +59:37

North Beacon Street Bridge

Boston, Massachusetts

Staff Sergeant Terrence Williams stood in the M-ATV’s armored gun turret and squinted into his binoculars. The rain hampered his view of the intersection, but he didn’t need a crystal-clear view to know that the situation at his bridge was about to reach critical mass. Raven imagery passed to his vehicle-mounted tablet showed at least fifty infrared signatures gathered in front of the Brooks Street underpass. That was two minutes ago. The Raven had started with the North Beacon Street Bridge and headed east, confirming similar IR signatures at every bridge over the Charles River. Combined with the report of a massive explosion at the battalion TOC, he wasn’t looking forward to the next several minutes. Something big was going down.

He had a rapidly developing problem. The crowd approaching the bridge didn’t appear to carry weapons. Not like the group that had thrown itself at the civilians over an hour ago. ROE was clear in that case, and the militia made it easy for all of them by displaying and firing weapons. Everyone south of Mr. Fletcher’s group had been declared hostile and was targeted with extreme prejudice. He didn’t like what he saw through his binoculars. They were going to have a serious problem when the growing mass of men, women and children reached the bridge.

“Raider Base, this is Raider One Zero. I have eyes on sixty-plus foot mobiles approaching south entrance to bridge. I see children. No vehicles present.”

“Copy. Can you confirm weapons from that distance?”

“Nothing in plain sight. Request ROE update,” he said.

“Stand by.”

His orders were explicit. Nothing gets across. And with the newly minted suicide bomber tactic in play, he faced a shitty decision point. If he couldn’t confirm weapons, he would launch tear-gas grenades first, hoping to convince the mob to turn back. Failing that, Raider One Zero’s only remaining option was to physically block the group and try to force them back, which put his marines at risk from hidden weapons or explosive vests. If they spotted weapons, his options didn’t improve. He could use sharpshooters against the armed targets, followed by tear gas against the rest, or—he didn’t want to think about his last option. There was no way he would give that order. Not with children in the group. He’d already lost the bridge. He just hoped the crowd marching through the intersection didn’t realize it.

“One Zero, this is Raider Actual. Hold the bridge. ROE version three still in effect.”

Son of a bitch. Battalion wasn’t going to cut him any slack.

“Graham, put our Matvee in a blocking position at the foot of the bridge.”

“Ooh-rah, Staff Sergeant,” said Corporal Graham.

He keyed the vehicle radio as the fifteen-ton armored vehicle lurched out of its hide site in bushes north of Greenbough Boulevard.

“Raider One Zero, unclassified foot mobiles, numbered thirty plus, are about to walk onto our bridge. All One Zero units will hold fire. I repeat. All One Zero units will hold fire. Observe and report. I need to know if you see weapons. I want Rottolico’s Matvee forming a block with me on the north end. Load all grenade launchers with CS. Start ranging the second Jersey barricade from the far end.”

The Matvee raced into position on the bridge and joined the second vehicle. Williams hopped out of the Matvee and directed Corporal Graham into a twenty-degree angled position blocking the southbound lane. He ensured that the front of the vehicle had adequate clearance from the side of the bridge, to allow a quick evacuation. The second tactical vehicle backed up toward Graham’s, leaving a five-foot gap between the rear bumpers. Satisfied that both vehicles could simultaneously escape, he ordered the marines to take positions behind the Matvees. He walked the line, verifying that they had loaded tear-gas grenades, borrowing one from Private First Class Leverone for his own launcher.

After replacing the high-explosive grenade in his own M320 grenade launcher, Williams climbed into his Matvee’s turret and raised his head far enough to rest his binoculars on top of the armored protection kit. He scanned the crowd channeling past the first barricade. The group funneled into the left lane, which had been cleared of concrete obstructions by a large bulldozer last night. At two hundred feet, with rainsqualls whipping across the bridge, the image was still fuzzy.

“Does anyone see any weapons?” he said into his radio headset.

Negative reports filled Raider One Zero’s designated intersquad channel.

Williams stood up in the turret and leaned over the side.

“Fire one CS grenade each, at right side of the bridge, near the exploded car!”

With the crowd massed in the left lane, he hoped to avoid skimming a solid metal object the size of a Red Bull can into the crowd at two hundred fifty feet per second. Hollow thumps filled the air, and Williams watched several dark objects arc toward the south end of the bridge. Williams knew the tear gas had limitations in this weather, which was why he ordered a large barrage to be fired in front of the mob. He hoped to discourage the civilians by giving them a diluted taste of what lay ahead if they continued. Most civilians had no experience with the painful, debilitating effects of tear gas and retreated immediately when exposed to a light dusting.

Three of the seven 40mm projectiles overshot the smoking car. One hit a piece of debris and ricocheted wildly into the crowd, dropping an adult to the pavement and exploding. A cloud of white gas erupted and covered half of the group before quickly dispersing in the high winds and rain. The CS gas blinded everyone it enveloped, forcing his or her eyes shut with an excruciatingly painful chemical reaction. It then went to work on their lungs and mucus membranes, causing each breath to feel like inhaling fire.

The sudden, violent denial of sight and oxygen caused a tragedy he couldn’t have predicted. With the sole intent of escaping the tear gas, the mob dispersed in every direction. Staff Sergeant Williams watched in horror as a woman holding a child disappeared through a destroyed section of the bridge’s concrete side barrier, followed by several others.

Williams climbed out of the turret and scrambled down the side of the vehicle, hitting the pavement in a dead sprint for the side barrier. He leaned over and counted six people flailing in the water. The current dragged them slowly away from the bridge, into the middle of the Charles River.

Fuck. I killed those people.

He wanted to help them, but a rescue was out of the question. His team didn’t carry any equipment that could possibly help.

“Staff Sergeant! They’re still coming!” yelled the marine in the gun turret of the second Matvee.

Williams lifted the binoculars and saw at least forty civilians continuing the march toward the north end of the bridge. Still no weapons. The woman hit by the errant 40mm projectile lay motionless on the pavement behind the mob. Small clusters of people materialized in the traffic circle beyond the intersection, headed toward the bridge. If he could break up this advance, they might be able to hold the bridge. He kneeled and aimed his M320 grenade launcher at a point directly in front of the group. The grenade exploded exactly where he intended, obscuring the front rank in a toxic chemical cloud. He watched as the pack worked together to keep the momentum moving forward. He’d fired as close to the crowd as possible without striking it—to little effect.