SYLO

EIGHT

Race officials and paramedics sprinted to the damaged float to get to the foundering boat and Mr. Nelson. I had no doubt what they would find. As at Marty’s last game, I focused on the crowd of faces who stared down at the scene in stunned silence. The band closest to the marina, unaware of what was happening, continued to play their version of the Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop,” which added a surreal touch.

A woman cried out in anguish and pushed her way toward the float.

“Mrs. Nelson,” Quinn announced in a soft voice.

I figured that.

I continued to scan the crowd, mesmerized, not only by the communal look of shock, but also because I expected to see Mr. Feit standing somewhere, taking notes in his journal.

“What’s that sound?” Quinn asked.

I listened but heard nothing unusual, except for the lame band.

“I don’t hear anything…wait.” The sound cut through the band’s three-chord symphony. It was a low bass sound that could have been far-off thunder.

“Is there a storm coming in?” I asked.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but the deep thumping sound grew louder and became so intense that it rumbled the pit of my stomach.

Quinn said, “It sounds like—”

His words were cut off by the thundering sound of six military helicopters that flew low over the town.

All eyes shot skyward.

“Marine choppers,” Quinn pointed out. “Since when did the festival book fly-bys?”

The helicopters flew in tight formation out over the harbor then divided, three banking to the right and the rest turning left as they began to make wide circles back toward land.

“Look!” I exclaimed.

Two more aircraft flew by at a much higher altitude. These were military transport planes that were carrying…

“Skydivers!” Quinn shouted.

The rear cargo doors of both planes opened and a line of paratroopers spilled out. One after the other, seconds apart, their chutes opened and the divers drifted toward the island.

Poor Mr. Nelson was suddenly forgotten, even by the paramedics. Everyone stood still, staring up at what looked like hundreds of soldiers drifting down on top of us.

The band finally stopped playing as everyone at the festival, not just those by the shore, turned their attention to the sky.

A shrill horn sounded from out in the harbor. I looked out, and my knees nearly buckled.

“What the hell is that?” I gasped.

Far off shore, maybe a mile out, a huge naval vessel had appeared on the horizon. From this large ship came smaller boats that looked like amphibious troop-transport landing craft. They were in the water and churning toward shore. Toward us.

“Why do I feel like a German soldier who just woke up on D-Day?” Quinn said.

The crowd came to life, buzzing with wonder and pointing at the spectacle that was unfolding before us.

“This has got to be some kind of show,” I said. “Right?”

“The ferry!” someone shouted.

All eyes went to the large transport ferry that was inbound full of cars and passengers lining the railing to gawk at the scene. It was a sight we had all witnessed thousands of times before, but this time it played out very differently. Two high-speed Navy gunships had taken up position on either side of its bow, changing its course and forcing it back out to sea.

“This is no show,” Quinn exclaimed, stunned.

The troop transports were getting closer by the second. Soon they would reach the line of sailboats that were still on the race course. In the sky the paratroopers were seconds from landing. It looked as though most would touch down on the far side of town where there were vast stretches of open land covered with sea grass. The choppers had circled back and were hovering beyond the shops on both sides of Main Street. The doors slid open and zip lines were dropped down. Instantly, dozens of soldiers slid down the lines to land on the beach and the parking lots of Arbortown.

Whoever they were, they knew what they were doing.

The crowd noise grew, along with the tension. People had no idea what was happening or what to do. Most moved back from the shore in fear. Some grabbed their kids and ran off. Others pulled out their cell phones to call…who?

Quinn grabbed his.

“I’ll call my parents,” he said, breathless. “Maybe there’s something online about this. Or on the news. Or something.”

Quinn punched in his number, listened, and…

“It’s not working.”

“Is your battery dead?” I asked while pulling out my own cell.

“No. There’s no signal.”

I had the same problem, as did everybody else around us who was trying to use their phones.

I heard the high whine of a motor scooter engine and looked to see Tori Sleeper tearing out of town, headed for the coastal road. Tori lived a few miles outside of Arbortown. She was probably headed home.

The troop transports had reached the scattered racing boats. I was afraid they would run them down but instead they pulled up close to each boat, allowing soldiers to leap from their transport onto the decks.

With rifles.

“I think we’re being invaded,” Quinn said with a gasp.

“No!” I shouted without thinking. “Why? By who?”

The soldiers took command of the racing boats and they all quickly changed course, headed for the harbor.

“It’s like they didn’t want the racers to escape,” Quinn declared.

“That’s insane!” I countered.

The transport vessels pulled up, forming a line in front of the marina. A small, fast gunship tore into the harbor and pulled up about twenty yards from the pier.

“Attention!” came an amplified man’s voice. The booming voice echoed through town as everyone fell silent. “Return to your homes. Immediately. I repeat. Return to your homes. Once the streets are cleared and secured, you will be given further instructions.”

Nobody moved. It was like we had all reached a new level of shock. Nothing that was happening made sense.

“What’s that?” Quinn asked, pointing skyward.

More parachutes had opened, but rather than soldiers dangling beneath the canopies, there was equipment. There were Jeeps and pallets loaded with boxes of…what? More weapons? Ammunition?

The booming voice continued, “Move off the streets in an orderly fashion and make your way to your homes or to the hotels where you are staying. The streets must be cleared immediately.”

The shock had worn off and people started pushing back. You don’t invade a town in New England where people have spent their entire lives without a fight. While those with small kids hurried off, most stayed and lined the seawall.

Quinn and I were right there with them.

There were angry shouts of “Who are you?” “Stay off our island!” “You aren’t welcome here!”

Nobody had any idea who these invaders were, but we knew for sure that we didn’t want any part of them, especially if they were giving orders. You don’t tell a Mainer what to do in his hometown. It was a bold stand, but not exactly practical. There were maybe two hundred brave and belligerent locals who took a stand on the seawall against what looked to be a massive military invasion.

“We will be landing shortly,” the voice continued. “Please clear the streets.”

The reaction was a chorus of boos and shouts as the people literally tried to wave them off. Quinn and I got caught up and shouted along with them, waving our arms and screaming at the invaders to go away. What else could we do?

“This is not an act of aggression,” the voice announced. “We need the streets to be cleared immediately to allow for our landing and everyone’s safety.”

“Let me through!” a guy shouted gruffly as he pushed his way forward through the crowd.

I turned to see Mr. Toll, a lobsterman who was older than dirt, making his way forward, clutching a shotgun.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Bad idea.”

Mr. Toll was on a mission. He jumped up on the seawall and raised the shotgun.

“Whatever you got, we don’t want any!” he shouted, and before anybody could stop him, he unloaded both barrels.

The ships were too far away for the shots to do any damage. All it did was escalate the situation from confusing to dangerous.

“They’re firing back!” a lady yelled.

Sure enough, a soldier stood on the bow of the gunship and raised a large-bore rifle that looked a good deal more lethal than Mr. Toll’s twelve-gauge. Before anyone could move, the soldier fired.

Several people screamed in terror but nobody was hit.

What the soldier fired was tear gas. The shell exploded not ten feet from Quinn and me and spewed a cloud of smoke that forced people to scatter. Another shot was fired and a second tear gas canister exploded further along the seawall.

The caustic smoke was already in my eyes, making them burn like I had been rubbing them with hot peppers.

“We gotta get outta here,” I said to Quinn and grabbed his arm to pull him back from the water.

Most people had the same idea. No matter how badly they wanted to defend the town, they were no match for a well-armed military invasion. Kids everywhere were crying as people staggered away from the marina in fear and confusion. A handful of older guys stayed and continued to shout at the boats but it was a futile gesture.

Pemberwick Island was being invaded whether we liked it or not.

“Let’s go to my house,” I shouted to Quinn.

The two of us dodged through the crowd, which wasn’t easy because everyone was moving in a different direction. It didn’t help that festival booths lined the streets. It was bedlam that bordered on panic. People started getting nasty, shoving one another to get out of their way.

“Let’s get off of Main Street,” I said, and pulled Quinn toward a side street.

We didn’t get far because the paratroopers had arrived. They stood at each intersection, blocking the way to keep the people all flowing in one direction out of the downtown area. It was the first good look I got at our invaders.

They were definitely military but with uniforms like I’d never seen before. They wore camouflage fatigues in various shades of deep red rather than the familiar greens or grays. They also had on dark red berets and black bulletproof vests. Most daunting of all was the fact that they carried wide-bore rifles, held across their chests at the ready. The weapons looked to be the kind that fired beanbags rather than bullets. Or more tear gas. These guys definitely meant business, but at least it didn’t seem like they were ready to kill anybody. They each had a black baton hanging from their belts, along with handcuffs and a few other pouches that contained…I didn’t know what. They seemed to me more like hardcore riot-control policemen than combat troops…not that that explained anything.

“SYLO,” Quinn muttered.

“Huh?”

“The patch on their sleeves.”

Each soldier had a colorful round patch on his left shoulder. The background was green, with a simple yellow design that could have represented a rising sun. Stitched in bold black letters beneath the sun was one word: SYLO. The same rising-sun design was on the front of their berets. On their right shoulders was another patch: an American flag. That at least answered one question. These guys were U.S. military.

They stood at the street intersections, funneling the people in one direction: out of town.

The roar of multiple engines filled Main Street. Quinn and I ducked into the doorway of a store and looked back to see a few stragglers still near the shore. The paratroopers moved them gently yet insistently away from the pier. We soon saw why. They were clearing the way for the landing craft. The amphibious vehicles had finally arrived and motored up to the town launch until their wheels hit land. The engines whined as they continued up the cement ramp and onto Main Street. I counted ten in all. They roared out of the water and lined up next to one another. On someone’s signal the ramps dropped in front to reveal they were loaded with more SYLO soldiers, all armed with the same riot-control gear as the paratroopers. The soldiers jogged quickly and efficiently out of the landing craft and fanned out as if they had practiced this landing more than once.

“Keep moving, boys,” a soldier called to us as he approached with his rifle still across his chest. “You need to head on home.”

I didn’t want to give him any reason to use the rifle, so I pulled Quinn out of the doorway and we started up the center of Main Street.

“Who are you?” Quinn called to the guy as we backed away. “What do you want?”

The soldier didn’t answer.

We were the last people to leave Main Street. There was us and what looked to be about five hundred soldiers. We picked up the pace and started jogging toward my house. Overhead, more helicopters roared past, giving the impression that not only was the town secured and under control, but the sky over the island was too. We already knew that the invaders controlled the sea.

The reality of the situation was clear, but incredible: Pemberwick Island had been invaded by a mysterious branch of the United States military.

“This can’t be happening,” Quinn said, out of breath, as we jogged toward my house.

“Yeah, it can,” I replied. “But what is ‘it’?”

We didn’t say another word until we got to my house. Mom and Dad were both there and nearly collapsed with relief when they saw us.

“Oh thank God,” Mom cried.

She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe. I felt pretty sure that after all this she wouldn’t stress over football anymore.

“I’ll call Quinn’s parents to tell them he’s here and safe,” Dad said.

He grabbed the phone, punched the speed dial, and waited.

“Doesn’t work, does it?” I said. “Our cell phones don’t work either.”

“What about TV?” Quinn said.

I found the remote and hit the power button. The TV came on but there was only static.

Mom said, “We can’t get online either.”

“So what do we do?” I asked.

Dad was the most calm. Surprisingly so, considering that I doubt he’d ever experienced a military takeover before.

“What we don’t do is panic,” he warned. “There has to be a logical explanation.”

The four of us stood there, staring at one another, unable to come up with one.

“Another guy died,” I announced. “A guy in the regatta.”

“Oh no,” Mom said with a gasp.

“Nothing to do with the invasion?” Dad asked with concern.

“I don’t think so. He died at the helm and crashed his boat,” I said.

“That’s when everything hit the fan,” Quinn added.

The TV suddenly came to life. The annoying static ended and was replaced by a simple card that read: PLEASE STAND BY. The four of us ran to the screen and stared at the words. I willed the TV to show us a picture. I needed some proof that the rest of the world was still functioning normally. It could have been Phineas and Ferb for all I cared.

A full five minutes went by. I was about to give up when the screen flickered and a new image appeared. An impossible image, though the man on screen was about as familiar as could be. He stood behind a podium, prepared to address the world.

“Good afternoon,” he said in grave, measured tones. “I’m here today to speak to all Americans, but in particular to the residents and visitors on Pemberwick Island, Maine.”

Hearing him say those words was almost as shocking as having been through the invasion. It wasn’t every day that you were spoken to directly by the president of the United States.