The Roaming Read online

  The Roaming

  W.J. Hegarty

  Cover Art by Edward Moran

  Copyright © 2019 W. J. Hegarty

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN-13: 9781693659829

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tipping Point

  Morning’s first light struggled to break through the rain and smoke. The previous night’s madness hung in the air of Philadelphia. Isolated pockets of fire still burned. First-responders were forced to spread so thin that the entire city had become one massive triage. Fire chiefs had no choice but to pick which blazes to fight and what fires they would leave to burn. A UH-60 Black Hawk surveyed the damage on its way to the staging ground. From the air, the city looked like a war zone. Thousands either didn’t evacuate or couldn’t.

  Pockets of civil unrest had erupted three nights in a row in response to a growing crisis threatening the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. Gangs and neighborhood watches protecting their own with deadly force had staked claim to some areas. A block here, two or three there. Other large sections of the city had burned to the ground. After the looting had run its course, they put the buildings to flame. Why stop there? Government buildings were next, followed by properties and businesses frequented by those deemed rich or influential. For some it was sport; for most it resulted from frustration. None of it helped. All the chaos accomplished was pushing the already too-thin first-responders past the breaking point. Many of them walked off the job. In a city on the brink, who would care for their families otherwise?

  The helo touched down in Lincoln Financial Field’s parking lot. Discarded papers and debris from a city on the verge of collapse blew in the rotor wash despite a heavy downpour. The National Guard had cordoned off the area. By then, they were holding back a growing crowd of panicked citizens at gunpoint. Hundreds of armed soldiers stood guard around the perimeter. A flimsy barbed wire–topped fence was all that stood between them and tens of thousands of screaming Philadelphians, all seeking answers that these soldiers didn’t possess. One hundred yards south of the landing zone, a few protesters broke through the barricade in a mad dash for the helicopter. Pepper spray and Tasers were enough to stop most of them, although a few gun butts assuaged any similar thoughts of an attempted insurgency.

  Captain Miller followed his commanding officer, Colonel Takashi, from the transport to the staging area where Brigadier General Sharpe greeted them. The concern on the man’s face was unmistakable; whatever was unfolding here must have been serious enough to unhinge a grizzled old soldier like Sharpe. He was a legend to most young Army recruits climbing the ranks in Miller’s generation. With a career dating back to before Gulf War I, the man had seen more than his fair share of combat. To stand in this man’s presence filled Miller with a sense of pride. Sharpe had requested that Takashi and other unit commanders stationed up and down the Eastern Seaboard help with a classified assignment brewing in Philadelphia.

  Takashi stood as no slouch in the seasoned veteran department, either. He cut his teeth under Sharpe’s command, fighting Saddam’s Republican Guard in the Kuwaiti oil fields in ’91. In subsequent years he climbed the ladder to captain on his way to colonel.

  Sharpe led the men to a tent on the far side of the parking lot and then to a makeshift staging area. The rain saturated the captain’s short-cropped hay-colored hair. He dried it as best as he could as they entered the tent. Miller kept himself well-groomed and clean-shaven, even amidst the growing turmoil. He wore a khaki and green combat shirt over fatigues, in stark contrast to the group of high-ranking officers huddled around a table and already discussing options. This number of warhorses together discussing strategy ensured that something big was going down. All involved were keeping it very hush-hush. Not a word of chatter regarding this meeting or those in attendance reached Miller’s ear before landing. In the center of the tent, they sprawled a large map of Philadelphia out on the table, marked up with what Miller assumed to be large pockets of civil unrest. The map had select areas highlighted in various colors; their location at the stadium was circled in red. All Miller knew was that riots had broken out in several major cities, cause unknown, or at least they weren’t telling him.

  Sharpe took his place at the table. He exchanged greetings with his fellow officers before they returned to the topic at hand. Major General Faireborn and Lieutenant General Hauser stood alongside Sharpe. The other two officers Miller wasn’t familiar with. At least two men in this tent were legitimate living legends. Plain by the number of stars in the room, Miller was privy to a gathering few witnessed. Takashi led Miller to a far corner of the tent, out of earshot of the classified discussion taking place around the map. Two green soldiers jumped to attention before Takashi was halfway across the room. Israeli, by the looks of it.

  What was the IDF doing here? Miller thought.

  The young Israelis stood at attention, hands at their sides, chins in the air. Both were decked out in Israel’s standard olive-green field dress, their berets folded under each’s left epaulet. Their black leather boots had such a shine Miller wasn’t sure if the pair of them hadn’t just enlisted this morning. The male was long and lanky, and the female was petite and had black hair pulled tight in a bun.

  Takashi introduced them. “Captain Miller, I would like you to meet Seren Lev Yadin and Segen Rishon Soraya Shahar of the Israel Defense Forces.” Takashi’s pronunciation of their Israeli titles in Hebrew was impeccable. He continued. “These soldiers were here on a troop exchange program en route to Carlisle Barracks, where they would have been studying at USAWC. We have some of our youngest and brightest in Israel doing the same. Training was to begin next week, before this crisis with the rioting began. Unfortunately for everyone involved, their stay here should never have been under such volatile conditions. We never meant for them to be in harm’s way. Regrettably, this is where we find ourselves.”

  A dripping-wet private hustled up to Takashi from out of the rain, panting and out of breath. “Colonel, you have a call from General Abernathy waiting for you in the comms tent. It’s urgent, sir.”

  “Lead the way, Private. I’ll return in a moment, Captain. In the meantime, introduce yourself to the tourists. We’re stuck with them for the duration of this mess.”

  “Yes, sir.” Miller saluted before turning to the Israelis. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Miller offered a salute for the bright-eyed soldiers.

  Soraya leaped at the chance to introduce herself to the handsome American officer. Despite current circumstances, she remained upbeat and still hoped to learn much while abroad. Thunder roared, threatening to drown out their greeting. “It is an honor to serve under you, sir. I am looking forward to learning all that I can from the United States military while I am here.”

  “Likewise, and I hope to learn from you,
Soraya,” Miller replied with a smile that seemed to catch the young Israeli off guard.

  She blushed before returning to attention. Miller could swear he heard a hushed giggle, but with the rain beating down on the tent, it could have been anything.

  Lev wasn’t at all impressed with his younger female counterpart, which was clear as he rushed forward to salute Miller, nearly bowling her over on his way.

  Soraya’s demeanor changed in an instant. Her smile faded, replaced with a cold stare that gave even Miller chills.

  “Seren Lev Yadin reporting for duty, sir.” The second Israeli came off too enthusiastic with his introduction.

  “At ease, Lev, it’s good to meet you, too.”

  “Sir, if I may,” Lev continued. “I graduated top of my class at Rabin Pre-Military Academy and researched all aspects of quelling a civilian uprising. I may be of invaluable help in the coming days. My professors all agreed that I would make rank in record time and—”

  Miller interrupted the young soldier mid-sentence. “That’s quite the impressive résumé, Lev.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you like, we can discuss the military achievements of our nations and how Israel and the United States of America came to be such close allies. I have some insights on the history of both of our countries I think you would find fascinating.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Another time, perhaps, but thank you.” Miller couldn’t get away from this guy fast enough. Lev seemed like a nice enough kid, though Miller had more important things to worry about. He’d love to pick their brains, share tactics and experiences, maybe even learn a little about their homeland, but these were questions for another time. His mind was elsewhere. What the hell was getting this many bigwigs fired up? Why would a case of simple civil unrest require a show of force of this magnitude here at home? Too many unanswered questions. Miller didn’t have time to babysit.

  Where the hell is the colonel? Miller was about to excuse himself when Colonel Takashi reentered the tent with purpose, marching for the Israelis. “That will be all for now. Dismissed.”

  The young Israelis saluted before hurrying out of the tent. Lev disappeared around the corner while Soraya stood at attention just outside the enclosure in the rain. Takashi shrugged it off. He was no stranger to young enlisted shadowing their commanding officers and hoping a little experience rubbed off. Takashi gestured for Miller to join him at the table with Sharpe and the other officers, all of their faces racked with concern.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Pine Barrens

  Red-orange rays danced through breaks in the foliage as a black ’68 Dodge Charger raced through the dense New Jersey Pine Barrens. Damon glanced at the clock affixed to the dashboard. “We should never have stopped for lunch. Only an hour after breakfast, too. What the fuck were we thinking?”

  Boredom spurred from the long drive made bad decisions come easy. His car’s headlights cut through the encroaching darkness, casting long shadows on the unfamiliar terrain. They pressed on ever deeper into unfamiliar territory, miles ago having left any semblance of a paved surface. Mud caked the wheel wells, and low-hanging branches scraped against a pristine paint job. These roads remained unkempt for a reason; no one except locals or those not wanting to be found traveled this far from the beaten path. Every tree branch that hit the car or deep pothole disguised as a puddle increased Damon’s growing frustration.

  “I’m entrusting this very important errand to you, son.” Damon mocked his father’s description of, in Damon’s opinion, a bullshit job better saved for the help.

  His father, Demetrius, was a second-generation Greek immigrant who emulated the Italian mafia of the twenties and thirties as a child. Embarrassed by his parents’ struggling corner deli, he felt trapped. A glorified bag boy would not be his future. The glamorous lives of Al Capone and Prohibition-era gangsters, the golden age of organized crime, as he referred to it—that was what impressed him.

  Demetrius would have that lifestyle for himself, and in the fall of 1972, not yet twenty years old, he began a bloody rise to power. Through extortion, black market dealings, and a swift, violent response to the competition, Demetrius claimed his own piece of Baltimore’s violent Westside. Now in his twilight, he tried to instill a certain ethic into his son, Damon, with little if any success.

  Despite Demetrius’s tutelage, Damon’s apathy and laziness persisted. He remained content to suckle off the teat of his father’s decades-long struggle to remain relevant in this new, fast-paced, and extremely violent city. Humbling tasks, such as this delivery to bum-fuck, as his son so eloquently phrased it, would only help toughen the boy, he hoped.

  Damon was spoiled, to be sure. It was clear in the way he managed his underlings, what few his father had given him due to his lack of faith in the boy. He was infamous for holding back money from his crew after a job. Never mind skimming off the top and outright throwing his underlings under the bus if a situation warranted blame for a detail he screwed up. Everyone below him was well aware, but what were they supposed to do about it? After all, they were hired thugs and easily replaceable. More than that, Damon had a quick temper and would not hesitate to beat you to within an inch of your life if the mood struck him. Work under him for more than a few days, and chances were, you’d witness that temper firsthand.

  Along for the journey, Damon’s childhood friend Markus accompanied him in this endeavor, their first trip this deep into such unfamiliar territory and so very far from home. A late start with more breaks than necessary complicated their impromptu road trip. Navigating the forest at night wasn’t part of the itinerary.

  Damon continuously changed radio stations, never staying on any one selection for more than a few seconds. “What the fuck? No music still? Man, what is going on today?”

  “Yeah, they’ve been doing nothing but talking for two days now. Like this trip doesn’t suck bad enough already. Fuck it, man, put your iPhone back on.”

  Damon turned on the device. Familiar music momentarily helped ease the boredom of such a long road trip, but not for very long.

  “Are we there yet?” Markus said half-jokingly.

  “Funny, how the fuck should I know? You’re not the only one who’s never been to this shithole.”

  “Yeah, I still wouldn’t if you’d do what you’re told every once in a while,” Markus responded in an I-told-you-so manner.

  “Ah, fuck that old bastard. He’s just bitter ’cause I couldn’t give a shit about this thing, as he likes to put it.” Damon’s imitation of his father’s thick Greek accent left much to be desired.

  “This thing, whatever, man. Did you tell Esteban we’re not going to make his little soiree?” Markus asked, barely hiding a ridiculing tone.

  “Yeah, that’s fucking funny. On top of this bullshit, now I have to miss out on all that fine senorita ass.” Damon smacked the wheel and gave the car a little more gas than he probably should have.

  “I’m telling you, man, I wouldn’t even stress over it. Cinco de Mayo’s overrated, anyway.”

  Damon ignored his friend’s attempt at levity. Stepping on the accelerator again was his only response.

  As the miles wore on, Markus turned the radio back on in hopes that a new area would offer something different to listen to. Try as he might, every station he tuned into was repeating the same news broadcast:

  “Additional military personnel have been called in to assist National Guard units at the Philadelphia quarantine zone. In an unprecedented move, the president has suspended the Posse Comitatus Act, which strictly forbids the use of United States military personnel on American soil. Armed soldiers patrol the streets of Philadelphia as we are closing out day three of what is being called—”

  The broadcast was cut short as Damon turned off the radio. “Man, who wants to hear that shit? Stupid fucking rioters.”

  “Come on, man. I was listening to that.”

  “I don’t give a shit what’s happening in Philly. Sick, homeless people and pissed-off looter
s. Big deal. Fuck them.” Fuck them was pretty much Damon’s answer to anything that didn’t directly concern him.

  “Yeah, but what if it’s something serious this time?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, bird flu or something. How are we supposed to know if you keep turning the radio off every time the news comes on?”

  “Yeah, right, or maybe terrorists, huh? Please. All you need to be worried about is dropping this package off so we can get our asses back to Baltimore.”

  “If you say so.” Markus didn’t agree with Damon, but he knew it was futile to continue arguing.

  Lately, they had been more and more at odds over decisions handed down by Damon’s father. This particular job didn’t sit well with Markus at all. After something like this, there could be no going back to anything resembling a normal life. A job of this nature would change a man. Though Markus had reservations, the time to speak on them had long passed.

  Nearly an hour into the dense forest, crushed gravel gave way to rugged dirt roads. Unfamiliar territory slowly receded into a narrow, unmarked trail that resembled little more than a dirt path. Low-hanging tree branches closed in on the vehicle, once more scraping windows and ruining the finish. Their progress slowed as the dirt path gave way to thick mud. Finally, the car came to a stop. The vehicle’s back tires had become impossibly buried in the sludge.

  “I don’t think we should have gone this far in, man.”

  “Not now, Markus.”

  Desperately trying to get free, Damon gave it more gas. Flooring it in frustration only resulted in spraying mud and rocks all over the car. It was no use; they were hopelessly stuck. Discouraged, they exited the vehicle only to find themselves standing in shin-deep mud.

  Damon shouted and slammed his hands down on the roof of the car. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. Goddammit! Go get the package, man. We’ll get rid of that shit right here.”