Point of Crisis by Steven Konkoly Read Free Book Online Page A

ol’-fashioned New England hicks. No G.I. Bill for me. I do this shit for free,” said Jackson.
    “Good, because I have a feeling your next paycheck is going to be late,” said Alex. “Really late.”
    They followed the convoy to a security checkpoint at the entrance to a large parking lot. A white commercial sign with “Seacoast Aviation” in red letters protruded from the ground next to an improvised waist-level sandbag emplacement. A group of soldiers dressed in full combat gear cleared out of the way, giving the MTVs a wide berth. They stayed on the sides of the gravel road, waving Alex’s vehicle through.
    “Do you want me to stop, sir?”
    Alex examined the door again. They weren’t kidding; there was no way to talk to the soldiers without opening the door.
    “Just keep going and park us next to those Humvees. At least with those, you could roll down the windows,” said Alex.
    “Sounds like old-timer talk, sir,” said Lianez.
    “No wonder Grady gave you guys up without hesitation,” he said. “Stay with the vehicle. Don’t go making friends.”
    “We’re not in the business of making friends, sir.”
    “Good. Until I’m one hundred percent sure this operation is legit, I got one foot out the door,” he said, shutting the hatch and walking toward Seacoast Aviation’s passenger terminal.
    The last of the military trucks passed through a wide gate next to the terminal, disappearing behind the corrugated metal structure. Alex stopped next to one of the parked Humvees and stared through the fence at the other side of the closest tarmac. An olive-drab tractor with a post-hole digger attachment worked next to a group of soldiers wearing ACU pants, T-shirts and combat helmets. A cluster of flatbed trucks carrying sheets of rolled fencing sat in front of an empty hangar at the end of the tarmac. From what he could tell by the posts that had been installed along the far edge of the asphalt, engineers were fencing off a section of the airport.
    A tall soldier in ACUs and a patrol cap emerged from the open terminal door, holding an M4 carbine at low ready. Alex turned to face him, slowly removing the identification card from the front pouch of his tactical vest. He kept his hands off his rifle.
    “Sir, I need to see some ID,” said the sergeant.
    Alex noticed a second soldier pointing her rifle at him through the doorway.
    “I’m a provisional captain with 1 st Battalion, 25 th Marine Infantry Regiment,” said Alex, handing his badge to the sergeant.
    He gave it a quizzical examination. “Never seen one of these before. Captain, we have a provo marine! Showed up in a Matvee!”
    “Good timing,” said a voice from the other side of the door. “Get him in here.”
    With the female soldier’s rifle still trained on him, Alex stepped inside the dark, sweltering terminal. Two rows of dark orange connected plastic seats sat pushed against the left wall. A rectangular folding table occupied the center of the room, covered with ruggedized military laptops and dozens of cables. Four haggard-looking soldiers crowded around the table in folding chairs, typing and talking into headsets.
    “The captain’s in the last office,” said the soldier, handing Alex the ID card.
    “You can stop pointing that at me now,” said Alex.
    The pasty-faced, sweat-covered specialist didn’t blink.
    “You want to call her off? This is the second time I’ve had a rifle pointed at my head today.”
    “You can stand down, Crosby,” said the sergeant.
    The woman flipped the selector switch on her rifle to safe and let the rifle dangle across her body armor by its sling. She was the only soldier in the terminal wearing the MTV (Modular Tactical Vest), which added at least thirty pounds to a soldier or marine’s standard load out.
    “Why are you the only one wearing the MTV?” asked Alex.
    “Because she thinks the Chinese are gonna drop from the sky and take the airport,” stated one of the soldiers working on a