Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“Looks like someone forgot to pave this side, sir,” said the driver.

“You should see it in the winter. Not too much further on the right.”

The convoy crept down the road while Alex peered through his binoculars at the forest fifty feet ahead of the vehicle, looking for a break in the underbrush.

“You can hit the lights now,” said Alex.

“Roger, that,” replied the driver, raising his NVGs. “Lead vehicle, lights on.”

Alex squinted as the road and surrounding trees appeared. Insects flashed in front of the tactical vehicle, streaking like meteorites until they cleared the beams. The Matvee slowed in front of the gravel driveway.

“Looks like a tight fit, sir,” said the marine.

“It’s designed to accommodate a small tow truck, but I think we can call it good right here, Corporal. We’ll toss all of the gear into the Jeep and take it from here.”

“Embarrassed of your new friends, sir?”

“Never, but I have a little explaining to do, and the fewer armored vehicles they see, the better.”

“Embarrassed,” said the turret gunner.

“Hey, I’m trying to let you guys down easy.”

“We’ll get your gear transferred and hit the road.”

A few minutes later, the Jeep sank on its axles, burdened by five adults and twice the volume of gear they had originally packed in Scarborough. Alex opened the lead Matvee’s front passenger door and extended a hand across the seat.

“Thanks for letting Captain Chaos take a turn in the turret. Sorry about the noise.”

“Don’t apologize to me, sir. That was the longest thirty minutes of PFC Jackson’s life,” he said, shaking Alex’s hand.

“Sorry, Jackson.”

“No sweat, Captain. He looked happier than my daughter at Disney World!” yelled the marine through the roof hatch.

An uncomfortable, palpable silence enveloped the cabin as Jackson’s statement synched. Alex suddenly felt like a complete asshole. They’d spent nearly five hours in the Matvee, and he’d been too self-focused and tired to ask about the marines’ families. They’d become an instrument, their sole purpose to deliver him safely home to his family amidst jokes and stories about their experiences in the marines.

“Sorry,” said Alex.

“Nobody wants to talk about it, sir. Trust me. We all signed up for this,” said the corporal.

“Still,” he said, pausing. “Has anyone been in contact with their families?”

“Negative, but Jackson lives thirty minutes away in Fitchburg. His wife knows to head over to Devens.”

“What about you?”

“Worcester. CO said they’ve started to evacuate military families to Fort Devens. I’m hoping they send a truck down. Four guys from the battalion live in the area. Good chance, right?”

“I think so,” Alex said. “Either way they’ll be fine. Corporal Lianez, see you on the other side.”

“Not if I see you first, sir.”

Alex left the door open for the convoy’s senior marine, Staff Sergeant Evans, who stood behind the vehicle.

“Staff Sergeant, good luck with the rest of your mission.”

“Same to you, sir. Give us a holler if you run into trouble. Colonel said they shifted our tactical SATCOM network one hundred miles north of Boston. Use the ROTAC to reach us. We’re programmed into the system as Striker Five-One.”

“Which one is the ROTAC?”

“Small, green handheld. Ever use ROTAC before?”

“Sorry, I’m a bit of a dinosaur. Sincgars was new tech in my day,” said Alex.

“Shit. I’ll have to break this down Barney style for you.”

“Thanks,” said Alex, sarcastically.

“Menu button brings you ‘channel select.’ Scroll to Striker Five-One and press ‘Lock.’ Push to talk after that. It works over EMSS, typically in a regional DTCS configuration,” said the staff sergeant.

Alex shrugged his shoulders.

“Satellite stuff. Two hundred fifty mile range. PFM. You just press the button like a walkie-talkie, sir.”

“Pure fucking magic is right. What’s my station identifier?”

“I have no idea, Captain, but we don’t screen our calls.”

“I’ll let you roll. You’re welcome to swing by on your way south, grab a warm meal. Just saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Welcome aboard, sir,” Evans said, coming to attention and snapping a salute.

“Carry on, Staff Sergeant.”

Alex jogged onto the gravel road, using the light from Ed’s Jeep to guide his way to the gate. He turned to watch the last Matvee rumble past the driveway entrance, headed south on Gelder Pond Lane. The dark shape disappeared, swallowed by the trees and thick brush. He turned his attention to the gate’s touchpad and pressed “Intercom.”

“No solicitors,” said a male voice through the speaker.

“Looks like I’ll have to take your grandson elsewhere.”

“We’ll have none of that. Coffee’s brewing! Welcome home, son!”

Alex inserted his key into the metal box and turned it clockwise to manually override the fried circuits in the touchpad. The gate sprang into action, squeaking on its track. He heard his mother above several voices yelling in the background.

EVENT +65:18

Parsonsfield, Maine

Eli leaned forward to examine a piece of stained poster board that featured a crudely drawn map of the Fletcher compound. The ancient velvet sofa creaked with his movement, causing one of the men standing in the background to break the silence.

“Damn, Eli. This is close quarters, and I’m not ready for a chemical attack.”

A few of the men stifled laughs, but quickly straightened up when he fired a murderous stare at the disheveled, overweight bald fuck that made a joke at his expense. The room was pushing ninety degrees from the late day sun, compounded by insufferable humidity. The ten men jammed onto folding chairs in the cramped living room of Eli’s mobile home had turned the place into a cesspool of body odor and shit breath. He’d have held the meeting outside if the mosquitos and no-see-ums hadn’t pushed him to his limit earlier. He was looking for an excuse to reinstall some discipline in his organization, and Dennis whoever-the-fuck looked like a good candidate to serve as an example.

“Dennis, I need to have a word with you outside.”

“I’m sorry, Eli. It was just a joke. I wasn’t thinking, and it just flew out of my mouth. Won’t happen again. I promise. Seriously.”

“You done?”

Dennis nodded with a pained look of regret and fear.

“Outside.”

“Eli, I really—”

The handheld standing on the kitchen counter next to the sofa squawked. “ Liberty Actual, this is Recon One, over.”

Now he had Jeffrey Brown dicking up his job, too? There was no feasible way for Brown’s radio to transmit eight and a half miles. They had been lucky to get a mile and a half out of these pieces of shit. Either Brown had abandoned his assigned reconnaissance position early, or every hill and tree between here and Limerick had been obliterated. His bet was on the former. Eli reached out and grabbed the radio, never taking his burning eyes off Dennis.

“Why are you out of position, Recon One?”

“I saw something that needed to be reported, sir.”

“Unless you saw my nephew’s SUV, you better get your ass back into position.”

“You need to hear this, Eli. I just witnessed a small convoy of military vehicles pull into Gelder Pond.”

“Say that again?” said Eli, noticing most of the men in the overcrowded room shift uncomfortably.

“Three vehicles approached from the west on Old Middle Road and turned into Gelder Pond. Two Matvees and one Jeep Wrangler running with no lights. I say again. They were running dark, with no headlights. The two military vehicles reappeared seven minutes later and turned east on Old Middle, heading toward Limerick.”