Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“XO, make a note. Task Force Liberty crossed the line of departure at zero seven forty-two hours. Let’s move out!”

EVENT +75:03

Limerick, Maine

Kate checked her watch and rubbed her face. This wasn’t how she wanted to start the day, let alone every day until the Maine Liberty Militia was—how did Alex put it? Neutralized? She wondered what it might take to make that happen. Did Alex really have the power to list them as a critical threat and summon a giant boot to crush them? She’d thought his statement sounded heavy handed and Gestapo-like, especially on the heels of waving his magic badge around, but now she’d gladly help him craft the words required to prevent a continuous string of 4 AM wake ups.

After breakfast, she’d suggest that he draft his first report, emphasizing the immediate need to hunt down and stamp out this group, if they even existed. Maybe the kids had been full of shit, running their mouths after four too many tallboys. Maybe Alex had crossed paths with a one-off gang of opportunistic weekend warriors. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter, just the off chance of an organized attack meant she’d continue to experience the pleasure of studying a grainy, light green image while mosquitos found their way through the open window with the sole purpose of distracting her free hand from her coffee mug.

She sighed, knowing full well that she’d never complain about any of this in front of the others. Leaders didn’t whine, and they certainly didn’t put up with whiners.

“A few mosquito bites are a small price to pay for vigilance,” she mumbled, imitating Alex.

“What was that?” said Alex, appearing in the doorway to the sitting room.

“Nothing. Just muttering to myself. I ran out of coffee, and I can’t think straight,” she said.

“I think we’re out of the attack window for now. We’ll resume these positions about a half hour before sunset and keep them manned until 10 PM. Militarily, these are the most likely periods of time for an attack. I’ll put up a bunch of trip flares around the house later today, which should give us an advantage if they hit us in the dark.”

“Good, because, uh, I couldn’t see shit out there. I might have spotted them moving toward the house, but that’s about all I could do about it,” she said, standing up from the folding chair.

“I know. Tonight and tomorrow morning, you’ll have two wires running through the window, each attached to a flare. If you see something through the scope, pull the wire and fire.”

“You’re a poet. What’s for breakfast?”

“Chef’s surprise. The fridge isn’t working right, so my mom is clearing out the perishables, which somehow includes frozen bacon.”

“She likes bacon. How much coffee do we have left?”

“There’s a fresh pot brewing.”

“No, I mean like, in the grand scheme of things. Stockpiled.”

“The good stuff?”

“I don’t really care at this point.”

“You might once you taste the instant stuff.”

“How close are we to tapping into it?” she said, suddenly looking concerned.

“Six pounds.”

“That’s not good. Time to switch to instant. Most of them won’t know the difference. I saw Charlie watering his coffee down with tap water. What’s wrong with that man?”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“I heard that!” said Charlie from the kitchen. “Not my fault you’re serving this fancy mud stuff.”

Kate picked up her backpack, which was filled with spare rifle magazines, and slung her rifle.

“You can leave that stuff here. No sense clunking it around the kitchen,” he said, stepping out of the sitting room.

Kate didn’t argue. She hated carrying the rifle around, constantly adjusting the sling and checking the safety—worried that it might discharge accidently. Logically, she knew it was impossible, even with a chambered round, but the very act of carrying a deadly weapon felt awkward. Alex handled his rifle like a natural extension of his body. Barely an afterthought. He shifted it out of the way with no apparent effort while navigating tight spaces or working. To her husband, the rifle was a simple tool. To her, it was a killing instrument to be feared and distrusted. She wondered if she’d ever adjust.

Most of the kids were at the kitchen table, including Ryan. She didn’t see Chloe on the screened porch or in the great room. Hopefully, she was still sleeping and not avoiding Ryan. He was crazy about her.

“How’s my big man doing?” she said, approaching the table.

“Feeling better, Mom. My leg is still throbbing, but the battalion surgeon said I could expect that for a week or so.”

She hugged and kissed him in front of everyone, noticing a rifle slung over the back of his chair.

“No more battalion surgeons for you. I can take this,” she said, grabbing the rifle barrel.

“That’s all right, Mom. I feel better having it close,” he said.

Alex walked in from the screened porch. “I’m gonna check the barn. Make sure it’s empty of guests.”

Linda spoke up from the great room. “It’s clear, Alex. The camera was on the door all night. I didn’t see anything on the time-elapsed feed.”

“Call me paranoid. Mom, why aren’t you wearing the vest?”

“I’m not wearing that thing around the house. I can barely move in it. If the shooting starts, you’re going to stuff me in the basement anyway. Give it to someone on the front lines.”

“Dad?”

“I can’t make her do it,” said Tim.

“Then you can wear it,” replied Alex.

“Put it on one of the kids that isn’t going into the cellar.”

“I’m not going down there, by the way,” stated Ethan Fletcher.

“Yes, you are,” snapped Alex. “You’re in charge of guarding the bulkhead door.”

“That’s kind of bogus,” returned their nephew.

“The house has five points of access, not counting the windows. The bulkhead is the only point we can’t adequately cover from any of the windows. It’s a bigger responsibility than you realize.”

“I guess,” said Ethan, not looking convinced.

“If I can’t get the old folks to wear these,” he said, patting the vest hanging over the five-foot-by-five-foot sandbag emplacement next to the kitchen island, “we’ll keep one vest in each of the safe boxes. If you leave the safe box, you put the vest on. Fair enough?”

“Alex, I think you should wear the vest. You’ll be moving around the house,” said Ed from the table on the porch.

“I’d feel better if one of the kids wore it,” said Alex.

Logically, Ed was right, and Kate hoped he took him up on the offer. They had talked about the vests last night and agreed that they could become a point of contention if not handled properly. Each parent wanted his or her children in one of those vests. According to Alex, the Dragon Skin’s silicon carbide ceramic plates could stop a .30-caliber armor-piercing bullet. Alex’s solution was to give them to his parents, but even that could be interpreted as favoritism. With Ed making the suggestion, it gave Alex the opportunity to wear the vest without raising eyebrows.

“Take the vest, Alex,” said Linda. “You’re prone to getting shot.”

“Thanks,” he shot back at Linda.

She locked eyes with Alex for a moment and nodded imperceptibly, giving him permission to take the suggestion.

“Fair enough,” said Alex, unclipping his tactical chest rig.

Kate helped him adjust the straps to accommodate the bulk of the body armor, which was configured with MOLLE points to carry the same ammunition pouches attached to Alex’s rig.

“Would it be easier to transfer magazine pouches?” she said.