Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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 Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thank You

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  STANDING GROUND

  A Matt Sheridan Novel

  Book Three

  By

  Robert Cole

  Standing Ground

  A Matt Sheridan Novel

  Book Three

  © 2023 Robert Cole

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other mechanical or non-mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. For permission requests, please contact Carentan Publishing at info@carentanllc.com.

  The story is a work of fiction, and as such all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. While the author used the description of real places throughout the novel for ease of reading, many of these descriptions are altered with details added or subtracted for purposes of storytelling. All characters in the book are the product of the author’s imagination and no identification with actual persons (living or deceased), is intended or should be inferred.

  Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9875410-4-3

  Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9875410-5-0

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Amazon.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CWO3 (Ret.) Frederick A. Custer Jr.

  USMC / US Army

  1940-2023

  The world is a better place for having had him in it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOVEMBER 11, 5:41 am

  The rocky coast of the Old Head of Kinsale was ominously dark under the light of what the ancient Celts called the Darkest Depths Moon. The entire family’s hopes and dreams lie in building a life along this coastline, and Matt hoped the darkness of the rocks did not portend their future in Ireland.

  After the stress of being forced to flee their new home off the coast of Maine, the last twelve days aboard the Irish Rover had been almost entirely uneventful. Despite the darkness of the coastline under the setting moon, the entire family was filled with eagerness and anticipation over their impending arrival in the harbor of Kinsale.

  With the Old Head now off of their port side, Matt knew that the entrance to the River Bandon lay approximately five miles ahead on the southern coast of Ireland, with the harbor of Kinsale an additional two miles up the river. They would glide along with the rising tide into Kinsale Harbor at their current speed just after first light.

  The trip across the Atlantic aboard the luxury super yacht had started full of excitement that had quickly turned into long stretches of boredom interspersed with violent bouts of seasickness. Only Stan, Liz, and Kim had proven immune to the evil hand of that sadistic monster, Poseidon—or whoever was responsible for the rolling swells of the Atlantic seas that ensured nothing could remain in one’s stomach.

  While most of the twenty-five passengers found their sea legs after the first few days, Derek and Amey had found the trip especially nauseating and had spent most of the voyage praying to the porcelain gods.

  “Penny, for your thoughts,” Clare asked, leaning into the darkened office where Matt now sat. The small office amidship on the owner’s deck had become his sanctuary. Matt spent much of the day at this desk planning, strategizing, and making lists.

  “Good morning,” Matt replied. “Just sitting here going over the contingency list for arriving in Kinsale. One can never be too prepared.”

  “Spoken like a true Army Ranger,” said his wife, leaning down to place a steaming mug of hot coffee in front of him while giving him a quick kiss and then taking a seat in the plush leather chair on the opposite side of the mahogany desk.

  Despite calling the Irish Rover home for the last twelve days, Clare still hadn’t become comfortable with the pure luxury of their surroundings. She had never imagined a scenario where she’d be sleeping in the owner’s cabin of a 205-foot luxury mega yacht on a cross-Atlantic voyage. Then again, she’d also never imagined most of the things that had happened over the last two months: cataclysmic destruction of US cities by nuclear bombs, a smallpox pandemic that decimated 99% of the world’s population, militarized biker gangs bent on killing her family, a second civil war, and a rogue American president that had dispatched a warship to capture her husband.

  Given all that, life aboard the Irish Rover didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  “Are the kids awake? Was anyone else up already?” Matt asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

  Even in the dim light, his wife’s beauty showed brightly, and he enjoyed savoring these moments. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes matched the deep brown of the mahogany desk.

  “Kids are still asleep, hopefully for another half hour. Molly was in the galley making breakfast and said most people planned to get up at 6:00 to be ready to enter the river before 7:00 am. Are we still on track for that time?”

  “Yeah, Stan says we’re right on schedule. Dawn is about 7:15, so I’ve asked him to anchor us offshore but close enough that we can see details on land. We’ll reel in the two smaller boats and take the Midnight Express to scout out the harbor as we discussed.”

  Clare looked at her husband while taking a sip of her coffee. She had always admired his ability to stay calm no matter the circumstances, but she could tell he was pretty excited about this morning’s adventure. Their nuclear family of four had extended over the last eight weeks to include twenty-one additional people, and Matt and Clare felt the enormous weight of being responsible for their extended family’s continued survival. Everyone had followed Matt’s decision to head to Kinsale without hesitation; this morning, they would know if this had been the right decision.

  “I have to admit,” said Clare. “I’m looking forward to being back in Ireland. It’s a place we’ve always enjoyed, and my fingers are crossed it’s as lovely as it’s always been. And honey, we’re as prepared as we could be. Everyone knows their role, and you have thought through every possible scenario that could play out in the next few weeks. We’re ready, Matt.”

  “I know we are,” said Matt. “But there’s always something we didn’t think of. Always.”

  They both sipped their coffee in the darkened office, enjoying the silence and each other’s company, lost in their thoughts. As was customary throughout the voyage, peace and quiet never lasted very long. After a few minutes, they heard stirring in the salon area behind them, where a couple of the young adults had been sleeping on the sofas, followed by footsteps on the marble foyer outside their office.

  Pete poked his head into the office doorway. “Hey Matt, everything still moving forward as we discussed last night?”

  “Mornin’, Pete. Yes, Stan should have us anchored just offshore the mouth of the River Bandon in about an hour,” said Matt.

  “Sounds good. Dave and I have everything we need already prepositioned in the garage. So once we drop anchor, we can open up the swim deck, reel in the Hinckley and Midnight Express, and load up. Everyone should be waking up now, and Molly has fixed one of her famous pancake breakfasts.”

  “Thanks, Pete. We’ll be down to breakfast in just a few.”

  Pete nodded and headed back down the central staircase to the dining room, where breakfast would be served. Matt had known Pete for over twenty years, going back to their days as fraternity brothers at the University of Vermont, and Matt continued to be amazed at how much Pete still resembled Tom Cruise. While Stan captained the yacht, Pete had taken on
the responsibility for the two smaller boats currently being towed behind the Irish Rover.

  The first was a Hinckley 35—a 35-foot million-dollar yacht of the finest craftsmanship. The Hinckley was tied to a yoke at the stern of the Irish Rover and was towed approximately seventy meters behind the super yacht. Tied behind the Hinckley on a similar tow system was their 37-foot Midnight Express. This boat was the original tender that accompanied the Irish Rover when Matt and his group took possession of it in the harbor of Rockland, Maine.

  The two were amazing boats in their own right, and Matt had selected the Midnight Express for their initial foray into the River Bandon and up to Kinsale Harbor. Not knowing what types of obstacles or enemies they might encounter, the open-bow configuration of the Midnight Express allowed for the emplacement of a crew-served machine gun. Additionally, the boat’s three 350-horsepower outboard engines allowed it to cruise at up to 40 miles per hour with bursts of speed up to 70 miles per hour, a capability Matt hoped wouldn’t be necessary but would welcome if it was.

  “I’ll go wake the kids up and meet you on the main deck,” said Clare, getting up to depart the office. While everyone was looking forward to making landfall today, she recognized they were opening themselves to uncertainties that could bring considerable danger to her family. Her excitement was tempered with apprehension.

  “Sounds good. I’ll be down in a few,” replied Matt, mentally rehearsing every potential contingency they might encounter this morning.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NOVEMBER 11, 7:20 am

  The emerald green hills of Ireland appeared gray in the morning dawn. Matt sat next to Pete on the pilot’s bench seat of the Midnight Express, easily wide enough for three people, as they cruised north at about fifteen knots into the mouth of the River Bandon. Matt shivered in the cold morning air, glad he had opted for the heavier fleece underneath his full kit of plate carrier and load-carrying vest stuffed with 30-round magazines.

  The river maintained a steady width of approximately 1/2 mile before turning sharply to the west in a hairpin turn two miles inland from the coast. Matt noted their position on the 20-inch Garmin marine chartplotter, one of two that sat side-by-side on the pilot’s console. The hairpin turn in the river created a peninsula of land that reminded Matt of an awkwardly shaped nub of a piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

  On the chartplotter, the nub was labeled James Fort, and Matt knew this was the remnants of a 17th-century fort built to defend the harbor in the aftermath of the Spanish siege of Kinsale in 1601. On the east side of the river, directly across from James Fort, was the much larger Charles Fort. Matt had visited the museum at Charles Fort several times, always admiring the panoramic vista from the massive stone bastions of the pentagonal fort that had been a British garrison for well over two hundred years before being abandoned in the 1920s.

  On the near side of James Fort, fronting Charles Fort across the wide river, was a small sandy beach just over a hundred yards wide. Without being told, Pete edged the Midnight Express towards the beach along the west side of the river and slowly brought the boat to a halt about a hundred yards from shore. This was all part of their reconnaissance plan, and Matt turned to watch the next stage being put into action.

  LT, or Brent as he was known to his parents, and Dave held a small drone in the open stern of the boat while Liz stood in front of them with a controller box in her hand. The gray plastic drone looked like an alien creature, with a rectangular-shaped body and four squat legs containing propellers. As Dave held it, the propeller blades came to life with a barely audible whirring noise. Matt watched as Liz flicked the controls, and suddenly, the drone shot upwards. A third-year midshipman at the Naval Academy when the cataclysm hit, Liz was the only one of the group familiar with operating a drone.

  During the planning for this reconnaissance, Matt was leery of simply dashing into the mouth of Kinsale Harbor in the hopes that it was either abandoned or friendly. Not only could such boldness have devastating consequences for their family, but given all the resources at their disposal, it simply wasn’t necessary. The picturesque seaside village of Kinsale lay just over 1/2 mile to their northwest, beyond the hill upon which James Fort sat. Given the minimal winds at dawn, the drone would be over the town in minutes and could safely broadcast real-time video, giving the team a birdseye view of Kinsale.

  Matt was intimately familiar with Kinsale, having stayed there several times on trips to visit his sister-in-law Tracy’s family, who all lived nearby. In fact, Matt’s first trip to Ireland had been for his brother Donald’s wedding right here in Kinsale.

  Many factors contributed to Matt’s selection of Kinsale for their new home, not the least of which was his familiarity with the area and it being his brother’s last known location before the cataclysm. The Republic of Ireland had a pre-Black Pox population of slightly under five million people and was a law-abiding nation with a very low percentage of gun ownership. County Cork, spanning the entire southwest coast of the island nation, was sparsely populated yet had a strong mix of vegetable, dairy, and livestock farms along with a robust fishing industry.

  Ireland was also a destination Matt felt the US government would be least likely to follow them, hopefully assuming his family had fled either to Canada or the Caribbean. Twelve days prior, Matt and the family had been forced to feel Vinalhaven in the middle of the night after learning that the renegade President of what remained of the United States government had issued an arrest notice for both Matt and Stan in the desperate hope of gaining access to their supply of vaccine and the QuAI supercomputer. The US Navy was most likely to search for the Sheridans along the east coast of North America.

  These factors made Ireland an ideal relocation destination for his family to establish a new life.

  “We’re coming up over the harbor now,” said Liz, looking at the drone’s iPhone display clipped into the control box.

  Matt, Pete, and Dave crowded over her shoulders in an attempt to watch the live feed. Derek remained in the bow of the Midnight Express, scanning the shoreline with his binoculars, an M240B belt-fed machine gun resting on bipods at his feet. LT maintained a similar watch from the stern.

  The dawn’s early light had given way to the sun cresting the horizon to the east, providing enough visibility for them to see the harbor and the colorful buildings surrounding it. Liz raised the drone’s height to about two hundred feet and positioned the camera for a panoramic view of the harbor. It was just as Matt remembered, minus the hustle and bustle of thousands of tourists walking and driving along the narrow streets of the 700-year-old town that had become known as the foodie capital of Ireland.

  “Perfect, Liz,” said Matt. “Keep flying due north into the mouth of the harbor. Just past the marina, do you see where that narrow peninsula juts in from the east side? Can you hover right there and give us a 360-degree view?”

  “No problem.” Liz’s fingers twitched on the controls, and the drone flew steadily above the sailboats neatly parked between the wooden slips of the Kinsale Marina. The drone came to a hover, and Liz slowly panned the camera in a clockwise circle, starting in the west.

  “Hold it right there, please.”

  Matt knew the camera faced due west along Pier Road, the main road that led north-south along the edge of the harbor, and watched as the camera slowly pivoted northward in a clockwise rotation. This anvil-shaped inlet at the head of the river’s hairpin turn formed the basis of the town of Kinsale, which, over hundreds of years, had developed along the entire shore of the inlet. At the drone’s 9 o’clock position, the west bank ran due north-south for about 1/4 mile and was filled with the colorful hotels and restaurants often seen in the postcards of Kinsale Harbor. Along the north, at 12 o’clock, Kinsale’s old town evolved into a warren of narrow one-way streets and alleys home to dozens of art galleries and boutique shops interspersed every few doorways by a pub. Rotating to the east, between the 1 and 2 o’clock positions, the anvil-shaped portion of the harbor extended into a narrow inlet of water pointing due east. As the north coast of the River Bandon made its hairpin turn, right at the 3 o’clock position for the drone, a thin peninsula of land extended between the river and the inlet and contained a few rows of old, scenic houses in an area known as Scilly.