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Poll Results: The SurvivalBlog Party Mix
We've tallied the 75+ reader responses to our recent poll on your favorite
music with a survival or preparedness theme. Based on the responses, I can
see that
a large number of our readers are rock-'n-roll fans. The Top 10 tunes
mentioned were
(in
descending
order of popularity):
1.) "Silent Running",
by Mike and The Mechanics
2.) "Its
The End Of The World As We Know It", by R.E.M.
3.) "A
Country Boy Can Survive" by Hank Williams, Jr.
4.) "Eve
of Destruction" by Barry McGuire (Buffalo
Springfield 's rendition of the same song was also mentioned.)
5.) "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Öyster Cult
6.) "Riding the Storm Out" by REO Speedwagon
7.) "Bad
Moon Rising" by Credence Clearwater Revival
8.) "Lawyers, Guns and
Money" by Warren Zevon
9.) "The
Man Comes Around" by Johnny Cash
10.) "We
Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who
Other songs not in the top 10, but still mentioned by more than one reader
included:
"I Won't Back Down" by Tom Petty, "Thank God for the Renegades" by
Steve Vaus, "Everybody Knows" by Leonard
Cohen
(a
cover by The Duhks was also mentioned), "Going by the Book", by
Johnny Cash, "Political Science" by Randy Newman, "Copperhead
Road"
by Steve Earl, "March
of Cambreadth" by Heather McDonald, and "You Do Your Thing" by
Montgomery
Gentry.
Just to cheer you
up
after
all this Gloom und Doom, listen to this song that was mentioned by three SurvivalBlog
readers: "Are
the Good Times Really Over for Good?", by
Merle Haggard.
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Where Was Moses When the Lights Went Out? by Chuck Fenwick, Medical Corps »
Letter Re: Advice on Finding a Retreat Operations and Security Manual
Mr. Rawles,
I have been working on a retreat that I will be moving to later in the year.
Naturally, construction is taking up a large amount of my time. My family is
on-board for the retreat.
I need help in the area of an Operations and Security Manual. Is there anything
that you know of that would be a starting place rather than from the ground
up? I know there are a lot of things that I would miss out on if I started
[by myself] from the ground up, and not know it until it's too late.
I purchased the "Rawles
Gets You Ready" preparedness course and I would
have missed the boat on food storage if I did not have that as a reference.
Any direction would be appreciated. Thank you, - Craig in Arkansas
JWR Replies: I can't recommend a stand-alone reference, but
I can recommend an abbreviated version of the list of "musts" for
your retreat
bookshelf::
- The Encyclopedia of Country Living by Carla Emery. Sasquatch Books.
(Get the Ninth or later edition.) This book is 845 pages of valuable 'how
to' country survival knowledge.
- Nuclear War Survival Skills, by Cresson H. Kearney
- American Red Cross First Aid
- Where There is No Doctor, by David Werner
- Where There is No Dentist, by Murray Dickson
- Emergency War Surgery (NATO handbook) Dr. Martin Fackler, et al.
- The Ultimate Sniper, by Maj. John L. Plaster
And, at the risk of sounding self-serving, I also recommend my novel "Patriots:
Surviving the Coming Collapse". It provide a detailed
description of what might be needed to secure and operate a self-sufficient
rural retreat in a
protracted societal collapse.
« Letter Re: More on the Emerging U.S. Grain Shortages |Main| Flawed Oral Arguments in DC v. Heller »
Meet The Economic Collapse Family, by Will in Wyoming
In recent months, as he described America's incipient economic peril, Jim
Rawles has made references in SurvivalBlog.com to "The Mother
of All Bailouts." To
illustrate the extent of the disaster that is awaiting us--I'd
like to introduce you to the entire Economic Collapse Family's cast of characters.
This family is so large that I'll use numerous
analogies and, with apologies, some
mixed
metaphors.
To include the full Dramatis Personae I'll have to borrow
from both The
Addams Family, and The
Munsters. My apologies to anyone that
never saw these two TV shows from the 1960s. This will seem like gibberish to
you.
And
if
you
hate allegorical pieces, just skip reading this. - Will in Wyoming
You are Pugsley Addams. (The American citizenry.)
You are a content, pampered, over-fed child. You have indulging but perverse
parents.
They let
you eat all
the junk
food you'd like (consumerism),
and they let you watch as much television (the mass
media)
as you'd
like,
to
keep
you
occupied.
Their only demand is that you "do your chores" (pay taxes.)
You live in a strange sprawling
old
mansion
with extensive grounds and horse stables
(America).
The mansion doesn't look like it has been painted or repaired in decades.
(Crumbling infrastructure.) You are young and naive, so you don't
really understand all that is going on around
you.
But
you have
had
a
vaguely
uneasy
feeling
for
as long
as you
can remember. You certainly have a lot of strange relatives.
Your father, Gomez Addams, is a banker. (The Federal
Reserve.) He
always wears a dark suits and he keeps a pocketful of cigars (call loans)
handy. Oddly, they are lit, even as he pulls them out of his pocket. On his
time off, he likes to play with an elaborate
electric
toy train set (the
economy)
with
you.
It
is
one
of those
father and son bonding opportunities. He is always at the controls of the the
train. (The train set was very expensive, so you can only watch.) Whenever
he sees trouble ahead, instead of hitting the brakes,
he takes
a
puff
on his
big cigar,
and opens
the throttle (liquidity) wide open. After all, he has always enjoyed
seeing a nice train derailment. Gomez is madly in love with his wife. They
are inseparable. (The Federal Reserve's monopolistic cartel relationship
with the US government.)
Your mother, Morticia Addams, is also known
as the Mother of All Bailouts. She (the US government)
is supported by her husband Gomez, the banker. She makes any problems go away
by throwing
money at them.
Oddly,
she
always wears black
(debt),
but
it matches her long black hair (the budget deficit). Morticia has
a timeless beauty, but you wonder what potions she takes to maintain that beauty.
Morticia's
hobby
is growing carnivorous plants (stocks and stock mutual funds) that
have insatiable appetites. She has an unlimited supply of cash because of her
brother, Uncle
Fester.
Uncle Fester (the US Treasury) is an inventor
of sorts, always experimenting with new things up in the attic. Years ago has
invented a nifty high speed
printing press, on
which
he can produce as many $100 bills as he
wants. He also has a spare set of plates to produce $100,000 bills.
Lurch. He is the lugubrious house butler (the police).
Lurch is seven feet tall and very strong. He obeys the orders of your mother
and father without
question. Whenever there
are any
difficulties,
you
mother
and father can ring a bell, and Lurch comes immediately to solve the problem.
Whenever he enters the room, he asks in a very deep voice "You rang?"
Cousin Itt. (Social unrest.) Your mom and dad have
always given Lurch instructions to keep Cousin Itt locked up in the basement.
They've
warned
Lurch that whenever "Itt"
gets loose,
he starts
breaking
things. But luckily "Itt" rarely gets out, and for not very long.
Without fail, Lurch catches Cousin Itt, and locks him up again. But a lot of
your mom's fine
china
gets broken each time. She gets angry, but she just takes some of the money
from Uncle Fester's printing press and buys new dishes from the store. You've
notice that
the new dishes are all marked "Made in China."
Thing. Even more scary than Cousin Itt is the disembodied
hand creature called
"Thing". (The US military, warfare.) Thing is powerful,
and also breaks
some china, but thankfully that is usually in other people's houses.
Some of your cousins are The Munsters. They live
in a big house of their own (much older than your family's),
that is called Europe. They drive a very
stylish car. (The Munsters have a great sense of design and style.) Their daughter, Marilyn,
is a real babe. She could get work as a model at a Paris fashion show. Her
little brother is your cousin, Eddie
Munster.
He is cool and likes a lot of the same games and TV shows that you do. Their Grandpa (the
European Central Bank) is a strange old man that is sort of like Uncle Fester.
(He is also in inventor.)
Your
mom once said
that
the
Addams
Family and the
Munsters are very closely
related.
She mentioned
something
about
some cousins marrying each other, but never gave you the details. The Munsters
always seem to be getting in fights with their neighbors, so occasionally
your family has
to send Thing over to the Munster's house and restore order.
Thankfully, circumstances
are different in your neighborhood. For as long as you can remember, the
Addams Family has
had
peaceful
relations
with all of your nearby neighbors
(Mexico and
Canada), mainly because they are all afraid of your dad's creepy mansion
and all of his money. Starting about 30 years ago, one of your neighbors
sent a maid named Maria (uncontrolled American immigration)
to help out with
the chores at the Addams mansion. You realize that Maria has been having
a lot of babies up in her room, but they are quiet, so nobody worries about
them.
The Latest Episode:
Your dad dashes into the TV Room. You have been distracted
there (with the newer, big screen television with all the extra channels),
so you didn't
notice
the changes in your dad's toy train set up. Your dad excitedly tells you
"Come to the parlor,
son, to
see the upgrades that I've made to the train!" Among
other things,
you see that he has switched from the old low-current transformer (precious
metals backed currency) to a new, high-current transformer (fiat currency.)
This new
train
set is
swell.
It
isn't
just
an old
steam
locomotive.
This one
is a shiny streamlined Zephyr. It is very fast. (The post-Greenspan low
interest rate economic boom.) Uncle Fester helped design and build it. Instead of just
an old fashioned derailment, your
dad
says that
he
has a dramatic ending
planned, using the "The D Word." He calls them derivatives,
but you recognizes those bundles: They are bundled sticks of dynamite.
"Watch this, son!" The toy train goes speeding down the track, faster
and faster. It is barely staying on the tracks. Your mother and Uncles Fester
clap their hands in delight. Lurch just stands off to the side patiently, but
he moans "Uggggghh" to himself and he rolls his eyes. The expression on
his face
reveals
that he
knows that there will soon be a big mess that he will have to clean up. The
train passes over the trestle, and just at the precise moment, your dad shoves
down the lever on the blasting machine, setting off "The D Word" in a tremendously
loud explosion. Things go flying everywhere. Your ears are ringing. There
are huge clouds of acrid smoke. Windows, china, light bulbs, and even the big
screen television are broken. You father comments drolly: "I
guess
that
I used a bit
too much of the D Word."
Cousin Itt hears the commotion and breaks out of the
basement. Lurch chases after him,
but
Cousin Itt is wild and uncontrollable. He breaks a lot of china.
Meanwhile, Maria's children--it turns out there 27 of them (who knew?)--come
running
out of their
room, shouting.
They join Cousin Itt in an orgy of breaking china, tearing
the copper wiring out of the walls, and eating up all of the food in the
house. It is absolute pandemonium. Lurch can't control the situation. Cousin
Itt and Maria's kids slip from his grasp and continue wrecking things. There
are too many of them. Sadly, "Thing" is no help, because he is
currently off working at some other's peoples house,
down the
street (Iraq). All of the gadgets in the house seems to be broken
beyond repair, except that
you still hear Uncle Fester's printing press running upstairs. (It is reassuring
to know
that
something still works.)
Amidst this confusion, you hear your
dad shout at your mom: "Call the Munsters for help!" Your mom objects.
"But Gomez!", she sobs, "The Munsters already have a first
and second mortgage on the mansion. This time they'll demand that we sign
over the title o the
house and they'll take Uncle
Fester's printing press. They'll even send their own maid, cook, and
butler to run our house!" You don't
like the sound of that, because you know that the Munster's butler has a
big mean German Shepherd (the United Nations) and their maid Sharia (uncontrolled
European immigration) is
very scary and speaks a foreign language.
You were told that she was originally from North Africa. (But, like Maria,
your cousins hired Sharia because she works for practically nothing. And,
coincidentally, you've heard that Sharia is also having a lot of kids.)
You dad motions you outside. "Let's have a talk, son." The sun is
setting. In the distance, your hear some nervous whinnying and stomping of
the Four Horses out in the stable.
Clearly, they have
been
agitated by the explosion and the continuing sounds of chaos in the house,
and you wonder if they
are
going to
get
loose. Your dad sits you down and he nervously pulls out another lit cigar.
Finally, the truth comes out. "Pugsley, it is time that I told you the
truth: Your mother and I are
are immortals.
We've owned this mansion for more than 230 years. Nothing can ever kill us."
He goes
on with some details, explaining that as their children
have grown up, they just keep raising new ones, to do the chores. Your
father
also admits
that
this latest
train
wreck (economic depression)
is one
of many that he has
orchestrated over the years. He begins
proudly, "Son, some of my best train wrecks were in 1819,
1837, 1857 and 1929." After a pause, he adds, more soberly, "Up until this
last one, I've always used just the throttle and run the train
off
the
tracks. But this time I made the mistake of using the D Word, and frankly
I'm not sure
if I
can
ever
fix the train set." Over in the house, you hear the sounds of Cousin
Itt chasing chaos continuing. It is starting to get dark, and the lights in
the
house aren't working. You
realize will be a very long night, without television! - Will in Wyoming
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Book Review: Michael Z. Williamson's "Better to Beg Forgiveness"
I just finished reading my review copy of Michael
Z. Williamson's latest science fiction novel "Better to Beg
Forgiveness". This fast-paced novel is set a couple of centuries
in the future and follows the adventures of a band of mercenaries sent to
guard a national president on a war-torn backwater colony planet. The story
has some obvious analogies to the current use of "contractors" in
Iraq. And it is obvious that in creating the fictional "Ripple Creek" off-world
mercenary company, Williamson drew heavily on the real-life experiences of
a few Blackwater types in researching this story. This adds an unmistakable
air of realism to a fictional tale, making it quite fun to read.
I must admit that my reading of the book was sporadic--not because of any
fault of the novel but rather because of the interruptions of elk and deer
hunting season, and then holiday travel. But the recent heavy snowfall here
at the ranch curtailed most of my outdoor chores and got me into into one of
those cozy-by-the-woodstove book reading moods, so I was finally able to finish
it.
"Better to Beg Forgiveness" is a well-told tale. It has
plenty of the elements that Williamson fans love: action, great technical detail,
believable characters, accurate tactics, vivid imagery of distant worlds, and
some compellingly deep drama. Mike Williamson is prior military service, and
his experience definitely shows. Unlike most of the schlock military science
fiction genre novels that crowd the market, Mike's books are technically and
tactically correct. That is a real rarity!
Without spoiling the plot, I can safely say that the story has plenty of interesting
turns. Williamson is well-versed at weaving technical details into a story
without bogging it down. (As a fellow novelist, I can assure you this is very
difficult.) He is also a master at blending, action, drama, and character conflicts.
In this particular story, he describes inter-agency, and inter-governmental
conflicts exceptionally well, without making the story drag. Again, this adds
texture and realism to the tale. In all, I thought that the storyline was plausible,
the characters were believable, and the action was compelling. This is a book
that is well worth reading. Just one proviso: because of some adult situations
and copious battlefield violence this book is definitely not for children!
I got my review copy early, but I've noticed that "Better to Beg
Forgiveness" is now
available from Amazon.com.
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"Terminator" and "Jericho"--Science Fiction as a Preparedness Motivational Tool
The new science fiction television show "Terminator:
The Sarah Connor Chronicles" will premiere in the US on Sunday
(January 13, 2008) at 8 p.m. (and will be repeated the following evening.)
Thenceforth, it will air on Mondays at 9 PM.
I watched an early reviewers'
edit of the
pilot episode, and I was impressed--particularly with the special
effects.
Oddly,
I found
the Terminatrix "Cameron" played by Summer
Glau
more captivating that the lead characters--Sarah Connor and her son John.
(You may remember Summer Glau as "River Tam" from the short-lived but highly-acclaimed "Firefly" television
series and its spin-off "Serenity" movie.)
I also thought that Richard
T. Jones --who plays the FBI agent "Ellison" did a great
job. In my opinion Jones absolutely nailed it with
his
delivery of his "Its
the
robots!" explanatory monologue. (The character
name is doubtless an homage to sci-fi writer Harlan Ellison.)
All in all,
the shows has a great cast. I hope that the script writing holds up as
the series progresses.
(Hopefully
it won't degenerate into one Terminator peril/chase and McGyvered escape
after another.) I have hopes that this series (along with "Jericho"),
will in some small way help get people to "think outside the
box" about
the fragility of our modern society and motivate them to prepare for more
inimical times. But perhaps I'm putting too much faith in the "bread
and circuses" TV-viewing
crowd. OBTW, for anyone that wants to chat about either series, there is
both
a The
Sarah Connor Chronicles Yahoo Discussion Group and a Jericho Yahoo
Discussion Group. Both of these are edited by a SurvivalBlog reader.
Also BTW, I should mention that "Jericho" will
return to the small screen on Tuesday, February 12th.
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Letter Re: Communications in Times of Crisis »
Letter Re: The Novel "The Last Centurion"
Mr. Rawles,
I thought you might be interested in an early preview of "The
Last Centurion" a novel about the world after an Avian Flu pandemic.
The Author is John Ringo - who writes military and sci-fi - and often combines
the two. The language is coarse, and it is written in a blog
style, but it has some great observations about society, politicians, money
supply
and what happens in a real disaster.
You can find the early release chapters online.
It really gets good in chapter 5 and 6 talking about the responses to the outbreak
and how some groups/cultures of people just think different - and therefore
have different reactions as the government tries to respond. All the best,
- Clarke
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Letter Re: Coleman Fuel--Uses and Storage Life »
Letter Re: Comments on the Movie "I Am Legend"
JWR,
My wife and I saw “I Am
Legend” last night at the local theatre.
The movie house was packed. Almost every seat was filled. Of the most
interest was the end. As the movie faded to black and credits rolled,
there were more than several spontaneous bursts of applause throughout the
audience and
a few cheers. Wow! The last movie that I remember ever getting applause was
the last "Star
Wars" installment.
Something really hit deep with many in the audience…
My wife was weird’ed out by the zombies though, as they were quite
scary. So viewer beware.
As for the movie, I enjoyed it, albeit the zombies are a far stretch to the
imagination, the premise is not! (a viral cancer cure with
unintended consequences) The self-sufficient [aspects of] survivalism were
pretty close to reality (Honda generators,
large stores of supplies), although preparedness was not advocated.
He just rounded up (looted) whatever he needed during the day[light hours.]
The desperation of
loneliness was also driven home well. And although he had
a very nice AR-15 rifle
(my survivalist choice, although I do own a SA-58 FAL [clone]),
his hunting skills sucked: Like chasing deer through the city with a high-performance
Mustang,
etc. Good action, dumb logic!
Anyway, I thought you would be interested in hearing about the audience response
from a liberal college town (University of Virginia at Charlottesville.).
Regards, -
Rmplstlskn
JWR Replies: Keep that .308 FAL.
In my opinion, and as previously discussed at length in SurvivalBlog in most
situations it is a much better
choice than a .223 AR-15 or an M4gery.
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Letter Re: Sources for Gasoline and Diesel Fuel in a Grid-Down Collapse »
Letter Re: LDS Church Offers Food Storage Starter Kit
Jim,
I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints [LDS or comminly
called "The
Mormons"]. I am also the Emergency Preparedness Coordinator for my ward.
As you know the leaders of the church constantly speak of preparedness. In
April 2007 a
talk was offered by Keith B McMullin in the Saturday evening session of
conference titled "Lay Up in Store". This talk proclaimed again all
the benefits of preparation.
While not every Latter-day Saint is fully prepared, a percentage somewhere
in the mid-teens have done at least a 72-Hour Kit (Bug-out Bag). The Church's preparation
web site was simplified as most were overwhelmed when trying to prioritize
to prepare. The focus is now on a Three Month Supply of normal items
In support of this, the Church now offers [at cost] a Family Home Storage Starter
Kit. Like everything we as the dominant two legged creatures on this orb learn..Food
Storage and Preparedness is "line upon line and precept upon precept."
The following is quoted from the Provident Living web site:
"The family home storage starter kit may be used to teach family home storage
principles and help individuals get started with longer-term food storage. The
kit includes materials that teach the importance of a three-month food supply,
water storage, and savings and 6 cans of longer-term food supply items.
The kit contains:
* All is Safely Gathered In: Family Home Storage pamphlet
* All is Safely Gathered In: Family Finances pamphlet
* All is Safely Gathered In: Basic Recipes pamphlet
* Financial reserve and drinking water teaching aids
* Two #10 cans of hard red winter wheat
* Two #10 cans of white rice
* One #10 can of pinto beans
* One #10 can of rolled oats
Available for shipping to United States addresses only.
Available from Church home storage centers in the Spring of 2008 with a savings
in shipping and handling."
[end quote]
This kit is available for anyone--not exclusively for church members. Cheers,
- Tim C.
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Letter Re: "Rambo" Actor Sylvester Stallone Talks TEOTWAWKI and Burmese Genocide in Interview
Jim:
In the February 2008 issue of Soldier of Fortune magazine, Sylvester Stallone
is interviewed in reference to his
newest "Rambo" movie (scheduled for release on January 25th)
which should shed some light on the ongoing persecution of the Karen [tribe]
people by the
Burmese
government.
He is quoted as follows:
I really want something heartfelt, that's about flesh and blood, and about
how cruel man really is, if left alone.
I believe that we're not that far removed from being truly uncivilized. We
say we're civilized, but it wouldn't take much, a breakdown in law enforcement,
removal of the military, authority figures gone for a week. Then you'd see
how we would band together in packs to survive.
We've sort of PC'd it out - oh, let's be more intellectual, let's debate issues,
let's have forums - but if there was truly a situation where
our system broke down completely, we'd revert."
Sly goes on to say later in the article, ":I may be accused of just pandering
to violence. And I want to go on record and say that I only touch the surface
of violence that the Burmese perpetrate
against the Karen.
I don't show children being put head first into rice pounders and literally
emulsified. Or a member of a family being forced to be cannibalized by other
members of the family. Or a Karen having a child's head cut off and then the
body being tied behind the father like a backpack and he has to wear it until
it rots, twenty-four hours a day. That is sickness beyond sickness. Y'know,
heads on spikes. Medieval."
Your book, "Patriots" included
a scenario in which cannibals were encountered and dealt with appropriately
and efficiently.
There are many of us who are honest, hard-working, God-fearing souls who would
not sell our souls for thirty pieces of silver. However, we need to occasionally
remind ourselves that evil walks among us and some who manage to suppress their
dark tendencies may give in when our relative peace and imagined prosperity
disappears. As the Boy Scouts say, "Be prepared".
I enjoy your web site and appreciate the effort and sacrifice that goes into
keeping it relevant. I first started reading your blog several months ago and
will join the "10
Cent Challenge" group next week - just in time
for Christmas!
May God continue to bless you, your family, and your blog readers - even the
tight ones who won't take up the 10
Cent Challenge. - SE Texas 5-0
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Letter Re: Using .22 Rimfire Conversions for Low Cost Pistol Practice »
Letter Re: Thanks for SurvivalBlog!
Dear Mr. Rawles:
I am a newly-minted reader and fan of SurvivalBlog. I stumbled
upon [SurvivalBlog] by doing a web search on what turned out to be one of
your "Quote of the Days" from [the late] Jeff Cooper. All that
I can say is that I am mega-overwhelmed at
what you and the readers have put on-line. I started out by going back through
your
current
threads, and that seemed like a lot. But then I started
clicking
on the monthly archive links [in the right hand column] and then I started
doing searched on particular topics. Wow! I am blown away.
There is so much there. It is like a comprehensive encyclopedia on
preparations for
survival.
Along
with my research at other web sites about the present-day political and economic
slide, now everything is starting to click. It all makes sense. We
are living in a very fragile world and it would be insane not to prepare. I
am starting to build my "list of lists." (Water is at the very top
of my list. I'll be soon ordering a Big Berkey filter--no doubt it'll be from
one of your advertisers.)
I have visited a lot of preparedness and survival sites. They all seem to either
be amateurish or have big axes to grind. But yours is a breath of fresh air:
No whacko rants, no diatribes, no flame wars, no "I think it
could work this way"
conjecture (that clown Dakin at the Bison Blog drives me crazy with his un-tested
"this might work" ideas), no foul-mouth childishness, no political bickering,
no
racism, no
anti-Semitism, none of
that!
I also just read your "Pulling Through" movie script. They have got to
make that into a movie! I just wish I knew where the Rawles
Ranch was. I'd like
to be
your next door neighbor! I'm sure lots of other people would too,
so I guess
its
a
good thing
that you keep your "Bat Cave" [location] a secret.
I heard about your site just before I started a week of vacation for Thanksgiving.
Good timing! Otherwise I would have had to call in sick! I spent 10+
hours a day digging through the archives and taking notes.
I have so much to do to get ready!
So again, thank you for putting this huge resource on the
net for free! I'm heading out to the post office tomorrow
to get a money order for a two year 10
Cent Challenge [subscription]. That's the least that I can do. (I'm doubtful
that anyone that reads SurvivalBlog more than once a week could live with their
guilty conscience for not doing the same.) I'm also going to order a copy of
your
prepper's
course and your books.
God Bless You! - Aaron, "Somewhere East of the Rockies"
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Letter Re: Will "Jericho" be Affected by the Current Screenwriter's Strike?
Hi Mr. Rawles,
Do you know if the Hollywood writers strike will effect the filming of
the CBS television series Jericho?
If the [spilt season] filming has been completed, I guess that maybe the strike
could be the
best thing for Jericho since it would be an all-new show in a lineup
of [other shows that are] repeats. Regards, - Sam
JWR Replies: I haven't heard per se, but it is probably
safe to assume that most of the Jericho scripts are written by Writer's
Guild of America (WGA)
members. I heard from Rourke--the moderator of the Jericho
Discussion Group--that the seven episodes for 2008 are completed, so the writers
strike should have no effect, at least for this season.
I agree that their mid-season starting date
for the new episodes
could give
it
a competitive
edge.
Coincidentally, another show that is slated to start at mid-season is "Terminator:
The Sarah Connor
Chronicles".
So perhaps both of these quasi-survivalist shows will benefit from the disruption
in
the
regular television season.
According to published reports, "Terminator:
The Sarah Connor
Chronicles" will premiere at 8 p.m. on January 14, 2008. It will be
run
on
Monday nights.
"Jericho" will return to CBS in January, on a yet to be-announced
premiere date. It is as yet uncertain if it will retain its 9 p.m. Friday slot
in the new split season.
It bears mentioning that the previous writer's strike had a significant effect
on the television
industry. It was because of that strike that "reality" shows got their
real start. (Since they are are only loosely scripted.) If the current strike
goes
on for
more than just a few months I can foresee further changes in the industry.
One such change might be the advent of direct viewer participation discussion
and
"adventure"
television shows,
via cell phone text messaging and the Internet. These would be analogous to
on-line chat rooms and on-line role-playing games. Both
would give viewers that are not yet web savvy a glimpse of what is going on in
cyberspace.
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Note from JWR: »
Book Excerpt from "The Weapon" by Michael Z. Williamson
That night I left.
I had to abandon most of what I had acquired. I took all the baby clothes and
formula I could manage. I grabbed the Dr. Seuss book. One bottle of whiskey
would work as trade goods. I had the clothes on my back, extra underwear and
shirt. The little remaining ID and a few cash cards would have to do me.
I was in quandary over the food. If I left it, it might be taken as a bribe,
or used as evidence against me. If I burned it, it would be obvious. I couldn’t
think of another way to get rid of most of it quickly. They might think it poisoned
and avoid it. They might be angry that I hadn’t shared before. There was
no good answer.
I left it. I closed the door softly and left it unlocked. The food would be useful,
I hate wasting resources, and it wasn’t that big a clue. Besides, Mario
and Becky deserved it. I turned and walked off, Chelsea tugging at my hair and
quietly staring around at the scenery. She hadn’t been outside much; her
world had been a four meter box. I’d have to remedy that.
I walked south and east. There was little in that direction, but less in any
other at this point. It was slightly less chill. It seemed a warm front was moving
in. I looked at the clouds, backlit by an early moon, and saw impending rain
in them. Not good. I should have paid more attention to them before I left. On
the other hand, I hadn’t had much choice.
Traffic was light. Apparently, cities not hit and farther suburban areas were
resuming operation without too much hassle. They were busy enough straightening
out their own problems to be able to provide only the barest help to survivors.
Earth would be digging out the rubble for a year or more, and not worrying about
anything else in the meantime. The UN Star Nations and the Colonial Alliance
were grinding their political axes on the husk of Earth. We’d succeeded.
Somehow, I still didn’t feel good about it. Perhaps if I knew how bad things
were back on Grainne it would be different.
I watched the few cars drive by. None would stop to offer a ride, of course.
It might prove dangerous. In the aftermath, they were cooperating with each other,
but only close friends and neighbors warranted that help. Strangers were still
a threat. Plus ça change.
I was not paying attention. I didn’t notice the police car pull up along
the roadside. “Hey, buddy,” a voice called.
I snapped to attention, tried not to show any panic and said, “Y-yes?”
The cop was getting out of the car and asked, “Where you going?”
“Nowhere particular,” I said, and realized it was the wrong answer.
Evasion wasn’t the way. “Eventually my folks’ place,” I
said.
He looked at me. His driver sat and waited, not getting out yet. That was a good
sign. Unconsciously, he heaved at his gunbelt, low on his soft belly. That wasn’t
a bad sign; they all did that. “There’s a curfew of dark. Hadn’t
you heard?”
I’d heard, but hadn’t seen it enforced. This looked bad. I felt everything
around me, from slightly gusty wind to spongy ground to buildings too far away
and too separated for cover. “Ah, I guess I forgot,” I said.
“Why are you out in the dark?” he asked, still probing.
“Dunno.” It was all I could think of. Playing stupid often works.
He shook his head, looking slightly bewildered. “Get in back,” he
said, turning and opening the door. “We’ll take you to a shelter.”
I did not want to get in that car. I would be trapped and helpless. But if I
didn’t, he’d know something was not right. It was almost certain
he had an image of me on his gear. That image would go to everyone and might
match up with a file from their patrol cameras.
“Wow, thanks,” I said, and stepped forward. There was nothing else
to do at that point. I climbed in and sat down, awaiting the sting of a baton
that never came. I awaited a high-speed drive to a building with more cops. That
didn’t happen either. They actually took me to a shelter. It was set up
in that local mall. An old department store had been converted and was lit up
from within.
We arrived and he let me out again, then walked me to the door. “I’m
fine, really,” I said.
“It’s no trouble,” he said. “I’m supposed to help
people.” There was also a hint of “I’m not letting you sneak
off again, you loon.” He figured the stress of the events had gotten to
me, and he wasn’t far wrong. At least he left after opening the door for
me. I’d have to check in then leave out the back in a hurry.
“Here y’ go,” he said to both me and a harried woman running
the admissions desk. Then he was gone.
“Name?” she said. It was an actual desk. They had only a portable
comm and one data line.
“Uh, Martin Lee,” I said.
“ID?” she asked.
“Broken,” I said. “I have a card, but no chip. Got to get it
fixed.” I was still sizing up escape routes surreptitiously. Escaping here
wouldn’t be the problem. Not being IDed for file would be.
“We’ve had some of those,” she said without suspicion. “What’s
your daughter’s name?”
“Melanie,” I said. She was asleep on my shoulder by this time.
“All we’ve got is cots and soup,” she said, sounding apologetic.
“Oh, soup sounds so good,” I said, sounding relieved.
“Great. Well, Lara here will show you where to go,” she said. A teenage
girl came around, all cheerful.
“Hi!” she said. “This way.”
“Thanks.”
She chattered as we walked. “That is such a cute little baby. Girl?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “About six months.”
“Good! She’ll be big before you know it.”
I said, “She’s getting heavy now,” while casually looking around.
Large open area, lots of people on cots and occasional vids. Pillars. Several
cops. I’d have to be subtle.
Giggling, she said, “Well, we’ll put you right here in the middle.
If you need help, just let me know. I’m roving around helping.”
“Thanks,” I said. I tried to sound grateful.
I lay down and snuggled Chelsea, trying to act as if I was resting. Had Mario
made that call yet? Would I get associated with the description? How would I
get out of here?
A bathroom break seemed like a good idea. I stood and looked. None were immediately
visible. “Restrooms?” I asked in the general direction of a family
nearby. I shouldered my bag. I wasn’t leaving anything lying where it could
be swiped.
“Up the escalator,” I was told. “Sucks.”
Nodding, I wandered that way and up. There were lots of side rooms and staff
offices down here, but all were in use as nurseries or such. None of them appeared
to have outside doors.
Near the escalators, I met Lara again, as she was coming the other way.
“Need a hand?” she asked.
“Just going to the restroom,” I said.
“Oh, okay. I can hold her for you. What’s her name?”
“Melanie,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Really. I hate putting
her down.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said, looking crestfallen but not suspicious. “Well,
let me know, huh?”
“Sure.”
I turned and rode up, along with a couple of other people. Upstairs was about
the same, but more open. There were lots of back passageways. I hit the stinking,
overused restroom first, then started to patrol.
Yes, indeed. Lots of exits. All three roof hatches near the restrooms were locked
with padlocks. I might be able to kick one open, especially Boosted, but where
would I go? There were three other roof hatches at corners, behind “MAINTENANCE
ONLY” doors. There was a service conveyor that went down at an angle. It
was locked off. The warehouse areas were dark and guarded by cops. Without lights,
they were deemed unsafe.
I wandered downstairs. I’d have to sneak out one of the two regular sets
of doors. Easy enough. Fresh air or some other excuse should do it. I grabbed
some soup as I passed, needing food.
I’d reached our cot and sat down, Chelsea starting to stir a little. I
mixed her a bottle and sat back to consider. Then I stopped considering, because
the choice was made for me.
A news load came on one of the channels, showing a flashing “TERRORIST
ALERT” at the top of the screen. I couldn’t hear and tried to move
closer, then realized that might not be too bright. I was just close enough to
hear, “—suspected terrorist may be traveling with a baby. Everyone
should be alert for a young Caucasian male adult with an infant—” The
rest was lost in a stir of voices.
Sometimes, sheer gall is your best weapon. “H*ll, that description could
be anyone!” I said aloud.
“Even you,” a man replied, looking levelly at me.
I replied, “Yeah. Even me. Watch it. I’ve got a loaded baby and I’m
not afraid to use it!”
Laughs scattered across the area, including the man who’d been momentarily
suspicious.
But it meant I’d have to stay here tonight. Leaving now would be a clear
sign. I sighed. It would be a long night and I wouldn’t dare sleep.
I lay there under the lights, dreading every passage of the security, cops and
staff. When would they swoop in like vultures and take me?
I knew they’d get me sooner or later. Every time a guard trudged by, staring
at faces, I cringed inside. When would it happen?
As soon as it was light, I grabbed one of the offered breakfast pastries and
checked out. “Leaving already?” The current staffer asked.
“Yeah, got to find my folks,” I told him, trying not to seem too
eager.
“Was your stay okay?” he asked.
“Oh, sure. Warm, dry, fed. I can’t complain, can I?” I said.
“You’d be amazed how many do,” he said, shaking his head.
I muttered a goodbye over my shoulder and headed out.
It was another long march. I was getting used to them. But with Chelsea on my
back, curled up deep in the new ruck, I had one less thing to worry about and
her radiated heat was a comfort to me. The tools I had were wrapped in the ubiquitous
blanket to hide my intentions, except the small shovel I carried through the
straps.
Far south of the metroplex, I sought a cache that had been hidden for us when
we were only in the prep stages. It would have more than I’d need for this
problem. The trick was to get there.
Outside the cities, there are grids of roads, unlike back on Grainne where we
have only a few. They’re paved too, rather than being fused. I found the
mark I needed at the edge of the southernmost suburb of Preston. Now I would
head four squares south and three east. 11,200 meters.
The dark was a comfort, as it closed out visibility. Operatives live by night.
Of course, criminals do, too. I slipped down into weeds the three times vehicles
came by. I might cadge a ride from one if I looked helpless enough, I also might
be questioned or attacked. It was still chill; spring comes late to those latitudes,
and the environment was still a mess. Every time I lay down, I could feel the
cold seeping through the wet spots on knees and elbows and eventually chest.
It didn’t matter. This trip here should set me up.
My ears were on automatic, picking up the occasional bird amid the rustling,
sighing, whispering trees. What did the trees make of this? They had CO2, a cool
environment, and were being left alone out here, but stripped to the ground in
their few remaining camps in the cities. Above, or below all those natural sounds
was the pervasive, muted and barely audible soft rumble of the city. Even this
far out, the omnipresent reminder of humanity intruded. How could one live on
a planet like this?
I was suddenly alert. Something was wrong, but what? Bird sounds stopped. Threat,
but what and where? Footsteps in soft ground, behind and to the right. About
fifty meters. Closing. Run, or engage? Engage. My brain, trained as a battle
comm, sorted through what it needed almost without me thinking about it. The
ripple of natural adrenalin was followed by the surge of Boost, and I turned
with the short shovel in hand.
My attacker was surprised as I spun. He’d been sure he had the edge. The
tape-wrapped chunk of cable in his hand made him a threat, not a supplicant,
and I struck, the edge of the shovel batting his crude sap aside before shattering
his right shoulder as I brought it down. “No!” he yelled in denial.
Scream. He collapsed. Whimper. “Damn you, you shoulda been mine.” No
hope of salvation in this piece of filth. Cock back for a lethal blow to the
skull…
…turn and keep walking.
I couldn’t do it. He was no threat mentally or physically. He was a waste
of my time and his death would serve no purpose.
Behind me, there were animal cries of pain. I was used to them by now. I kept
walking. Shortly, I turned east.
From the mark I’d sought, I followed a buried hydrogen line by its markers
for 150 meters. From that bend in the line, I continued ten more meters. It was
a dangerous spot, so close to a farmer’s field, but northern wheat didn’t
grow that deep. The harvest I sought was far below.
I dug. Digging is meditation for a soldier, because we do so much of it. I kept
Chelsea in the ruck, and had it on the ground next to me, always at hand. I stopped
periodically to refill her bottle, check her diaper and drink a few swallows
myself. Then I returned to digging. The small shovel, E-tool really, made it
slow work, as did the need to keep the fill pile low. I acquired blisters right
through my gloves, but at least I was warm from the exertion.
Then she started fussing. Baby cries travel a long way, and I had to stop them.
I picked her up and she clung like a monkey, heels and fingers clutching my jacket.
She quieted down at once.
But I had no luck in giving her a bottle and putting her down. She wanted held.
One cannot argue with an infant, they have no higher functions. I couldn’t
have the noise. I had no way to sedate her and would be reluctant to do so anyway.
So I turned the blanket into a sling and placed her under my right arm, a hindrance
but not an incapacitance. I just hoped the digging wouldn’t take much longer.
Two meters should be my depth. I was at two meters. Nothing. I hoped I wouldn’t
have to try again another night, or dig laterally. Perhaps additional soil had
been laid above by the farm.
That was the case. At 220 centimeters, I struck crate. Eager now, frantic even,
I cleared away one corner. There were stress lines that could be broken in an
emergency. This was an emergency. I snapped off the corner.
Riches! I had more clothes. I had at least four IDs that would work passably.
I had weapons. I looked longingly at a Merrill Model 17, the brand new 11 mm
killer. Lovely, but a dead giveaway. My weapons were my wits, these mere tools.
I left most of the tools where they were, except for a good folding knife. I
took the clothes, the IDs and risked a double armful of battle rats. I took cashcards
and credchips that matched the IDs. I wanted a standard military shelter, but
that, too would reveal me if found. I settled for the plain but adequate inflatable
civilian tent within. I abandoned the cheap backpack for a better grade of camper’s
ruck. The whole process took minutes.
Then it was time to exfiltrate. I rigged fuses to a five kilo demolition block
and shoved it far back into the case. I rigged fuses on three magburn incendiaries,
the proprietary mix that was evolved to cut titanium struts, hardened concrete
and weaken structural whisker composites. It had been so long since I worked
with professional explosives, but my fingers were sure in trained muscle memory.
Insert fuse to detonator, butt, crimp, insert, place. Rig a second detonator
for every charge as a backup. Uncoil fuse. I couldn’t test burn the fuse,
but it should be 300 seconds per meter. I’d have to rely on the estimate,
and I’d need approximately twelve meters of fuse for each of eight detonators.
I climbed out, piled the dirt back in as fast as I could, using it as quick fill
and not worrying about compaction. There was no visible fill pile to indicate
anything, and hopefully no one would look for yet another few weeks. There was
bare gray in the east when I finished. Looking around for observers and seeing
none, I spoke aloud, the textvid safety formula now a ritual to remind me of
who I was.
“I am ready to strike. The area is clear. Fire in the hole. Strike." As
soon as I confirmed them burning, I pulled the igniters free with the tip of
my knife. I scooped them up and wrapped them in a rag, still hot. Then I began
walking.
An hour later, I was five squares east. I glanced at my watch. Right now. In
that cache, the magburn was melting the unused explosives, the crate, the weapons
and the ammo. The ammo would be sputtering as its matrix decayed in the heat.
And right now, the explosives to the side would be blowing the molten pool into
slag mixed with dirt. Should anyone find it, they’d assume it had been
caused by a gas leak. The hydrogen utility would check, see it wasn’t their
problem, and ignore it. If they recognized signs of explosives, they’d
call in experts. After some days of checking, the experts might deduce it had
been a cache. That would tell them there were infiltrators on Earth. Which they
knew. Very careful checking might show the possibility that the cache had been
used after the attack. That would tell them that at least one Operative might
be alive. Which they knew. I reminded myself again that I was safe. Then I turned
and kept walking.
« Odds 'n Sods: |Main| Notes from JWR: »
"The Checkpoint" -- An Excerpt from the Novel Enemies Foreign And Domestic by Matthew Bracken
Brad was driving his red pickup with Ranya snuggling against him as they
crossed the five mile wide I-664 James River Bridge-Tunnel from Newport News.
They covered in only a few minutes the same water which they had sailed upon
yesterday at a tenth of their present speed. It was a little past four PM
on the warm Sunday afternoon when they passed back onto the northern shore
of Suffolk County, almost within sight of the burned ruins of the Edmonds
house. Neither one of them spoke of it, although they both stared in that
direction.
Driving down from Poquoson they had been listening to the news on AM talk
radio. The latest shock to hit Tidewater was an accidental police shooting.
Either Virginia Beach police or an FBI team—it wasn’t clear which—had
shot a man in the head at a dramatic felony traffic stop. The man, whose
identity had not been released yet, had been pulled over in his black full-sized
pickup truck on Laskin Road, misidentified as a possible suspect in the shooting
of Attorney General Sanderson.
Blocked in by their patrol cars and surrounded by uniformed police and undercover
agents, the unlucky driver had been simultaneously ordered both to “freeze!” and
to “get out!” of his truck. The man had slowly reached for
his seat belt buckle to comply with the order to get out, and this had been
seen as a “suspicious movement” by one of the police or undercover
agents who had heard him ordered to freeze.
He had been shot in the face point blank through the windshield, with either
a police or FBI assault rifle or submachine gun, that wasn’t determined
yet. This had happened two hours ago in broad daylight, in front of numerous
witnesses, some of whom were already angrily calling in to the radio talk
shows. Apparently the police and FBI undercover agents had been seen whooping
it up and “high-fiving” over the bleeding body of the man they
had thought was the sniper. No firearms or weapons of any kind were recovered
from his vehicle.
As they entered Suffolk they were in a grim mood, the magic of their afternoon
aboard Guajira already shattered. The news of the man’s death hit Ranya
with another spiritual hammer blow. She felt personally responsible, because
instead of pursuing her for Sanderson’s murder, the police had killed
an innocent person instead. Her stomach knot twisted another turn, but of
course she couldn’t share this secret pain with Brad…
In a few minutes they would arrive back at Crosby’s Boatyard in Portsmouth,
where she had left her Yamaha the day before, and then they’d return
once again to Brad’s sailboat. She was looking forward to wrapping
herself around the bike and snapping it into gear, using its clutch and throttle
to fly over the highway at three digit speed. She hoped the wind blast and
the onrushing pavement might clear her mind of its accumulation of guilt,
pain and fear.
“I need to get gas,” Brad told her, and he pulled over onto the
exit lane for Hoffler Boulevard. The exit ramp cut through a break in the wall
of pines alongside the highway, then curved off out of sight to the right
and sloped gently downward. “Oh cr*p, what’s this?” he
said, braking quickly.
Ranya bolted upright and buckled her seatbelt. There was a police cruiser
on the side of the ramp just beyond the trees, and a cop was standing in
the middle holding up both hands, blocking Brad’s truck and two cars
in front of him.
“Checkpoint!” Ranya said. “One of the FIST checkpoints, it’s
got to be!” The FIST program, the brainchild of Virginia Attorney General
Eric Sanderson, was intended to stop the transportation of illegal weapons.
Sanderson had come down to Norfolk to announce and promote the program on
Friday, he had been shot and killed Saturday morning, and Sunday afternoon
they had driven straight into one of his FIST checkpoints. There just seemed
to be no escaping his reach, she thought.
Thank God she’d left her Tennyson Champion .223 sniper pistol hidden
back on Guajira! But she still had her father's gift to deal with: the new
.45 pistol was in her fanny pack on the floor.
Hopefully they would be able to slide through the checkpoint unmolested.
The police would readily verify that the pickup carried no long guns of any
kind. On the other hand, Ranya was sure that if the pistol was found, its
serial number would be called in to some national data base, and she would
be taken aside and cross-examined closely. She would be questioned about
the legal ownership of the gun, leading to more questions about her murdered
father. She would be questioned about Brad, about their relationship, their
destination, what they were doing together...
Maybe they would be questioned separately, and there was no way to know how
such a split interrogation session would turn out. Should she admit to the
police that she had the pistol if she was asked, or deny having a firearm
in the car and hope it wasn't found in a search? Fear constricted her throat,
instantly turning her mouth desert dry yet again. But at least she didn't
have the Tennyson, that scoped .223 pistol would have linked her directly
to Sanderson’s death as neatly as a signed confession.
She had to tell him she had the gun. While they had time, they had to quickly
get their stories lined up together, in case they would be questioned apart.
“Brad, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I've got my .45 with me. What should
we do?”
“Ahhhh...Cr*p. Okay, it should be all right. I think they’re just
looking for rifles. I hope.”
“Me too.”
The exit ramp made a slight right then left “S” curve as it descended
through brush down to Hoffler Boulevard. There were large stop signs on both
sides at the end of the ramp at Hoffler, which passed under the I-664 overpass
off to the left. Halfway down the ramp, parked along the right shoulder,
there was another police car, then a line of eight or ten civilian cars and
SUVs, then two more police cars. Orange traffic cones divided the wide asphalt
ramp down the middle. Police and camouflage-clad soldiers were walking alongside
the row of parked cars; some of the cars had open doors and trunks. A single
slow-moving motorcyclist was being waved past the line of cars to proceed
on his way, a fact which Ranya noted with great interest. Obviously, the
police did not think a motorcyclist could be concealing a banned semi-auto
or sniper rifle.
Two hundred yards away at the bottom of the ramp, parked off to the left
in the weeds and facing uphill towards them, was a desert-painted Army humvee.
“Damn, look at that!” said Brad. “The humvee’s got a machine
gun on it. I’ve never seen that before, not in America.”
“I’ve seen it up around DC sometimes, they put them near the Pentagon
and Reagan National during security alerts. They were there all the time
after 9-11.” A helmeted soldier’s head and torso was visible,
sticking out of the humvee’s roof behind the pintle-mounted machine
gun.
“They picked a perfect spot for a checkpoint. I didn’t see anything
until it was too late,” said Brad.
“Yeah, they can be damned sneaky. I’ve seen them set up this way a few
times when they’re searching for drugs. It’s just like a trap:
by the time you see it, you're caught in it.”
“I wonder if they’re checking every car, or if they’re letting
some pass around? I wonder if they’re going to hassle us?”
“A thirty year old white guy in a red pickup truck? What do you think Brad?
They’re not looking for guys named Mohammed down here; they’re
looking for guys named Bubba.”
“I guess we’ll find out in a minute.”
The young father in the white Ford Taurus, the second car from the front
of the line, said, “No sir, I won’t open my trunk, not without
a warrant, and I do not ‘consent’ to be searched.”
The even younger Virginia National Guard corporal standing outside his driver’s
side window looked around, confused. This situation had not come up before.
Could this guy just refuse? Was that allowed?
The holdout’s young blond wife said, “Martin, please, just do
like he says. Don’t make trouble; the girls are frightened.”
“Honey, it’s the point of it. This is still America, and there’s
still a Constitution.”
“Daddy, why are there soldiers here? Is there a war?” asked seven year
old Danielle from the back seat. Her four year old sister Ashley, next to
her in her booster seat, sucked her thumb, afraid without knowing why.
“No sweetie, there’s no war. The soldiers are helping the police to
look for some bad men.”
“Criminals daddy?”
“That’s right sugar plum, criminals.”
Another man walked up to their window. Martin Powell could not tell if he
was from the military or the police: he was dressed in black from his helmet
to his boots, with no badge or insignia in sight. The man in black rapped
on his driver’s side window with the steel muzzle tip of his black
submachine gun. “Open up! Get out! Now!”
“Officer, do you have a warrant? What’s your ‘probable cause’ to
search our car?” Martin Powell was trying very hard not to show the
fear he felt, holding onto the wheel to keep his hands from visibly shaking.
He hoped he did not sound as afraid as he felt. He remembered reading about
the Eagle Scout in Maryland, who had his face shot off a few years ago by
an FBI agent with an M-16 rifle, after a mistaken traffic stop. Powell had
not yet heard about today’s accidental police shooting in Virginia
Beach of the man in the black pickup truck. His wife could not stand listening
to news talk radio and they played soft rock music CDs instead.
“My ‘probable cause’ is you’re an a**hole who refuses to
give consent for a search, that’s what! Now get out! Out! Out!”
ATF Special Agent Alvin Bogart was having a bad day, and now he was angry
enough to chew up barbed wire and spit out nails. He was angry because it
was Sunday afternoon, and he was pulling the absolute sh*t duty of all time
manning a FIST checkpoint, instead of kicking back on his recliner in his
den, with a cold Budweiser in his hand, watching the Eagles play the Carolina
Panthers. For this he had become a Federal Law Enforcement Agent?
He was angry because he was pulling his second consecutive day of twelve
hour checkpoint shifts, which really meant a 14 hour work day, only with
no overtime pay like the State Troopers were raking in. And worse, he knew
that he had to do it again tomorrow and the next day and it looked like forever.
If he had wanted to pull this kind of sh*t duty, he would have joined the
Border Patrol like his brother Daryl!
He was angry because he had to walk around all day in full tactical gear
in almost 90 degree heat, including his Kevlar helmet and black body armor,
carrying his MP-5 as if they were expecting a head-on terrorist attack right
here in Hicksville Suffolk Virginia! This had been at Sanderson’s direct
orders. Sanderson, that preppie douche bag who was not even in his Federal
chain of command. Sanderson, who had never sweated like a pig beneath heavy
body armor and tactical gear on a hot day in his life. Just for this alone,
Bogart was glad that Sanderson had had his head blown off on the golf course
yesterday! But unfortunately, the FIST checkpoints had not died with the
state Attorney General; instead they had been stepped up.
He was extremely angry because earlier today he’d heard through unofficial
federal law enforcement back channels that a brother ATF agent had been killed
in the line of duty last night, shot in the neck by some punk-a** redneck
during a raid not three miles from here.
And now Alvin Bogart was positively livid because this curbside Allen Dershowitz
in the old piece of sh*t Taurus wanted to give him a lecture on the 4th
Amendment, consent searches, and probable cause! As if he needed to hear
that sh*t! Like all ATF men, Alvin Bogart held a special burning hatred for “Constitution
fanatics.”
“So, you refuse to give voluntary consent for a search of your vehicle, is
that correct?” Bogart smiled pleasantly at the man in the car.
“Yes sir, that is correct. Under the 4th amendment of the Bill of Rights of
the Constitution...” The driver’s side window was rolled halfway
down. Turned slightly sideways, ATF Special Agent Alvin Bogart had casually
slipped the small can of pepper spray from his tactical vest unnoticed, and
then he snapped it up and sprayed Mr. Martin Powell, U.S. citizen and taxpayer,
straight in his shocked face.
As Martin Powell screamed and dug at his eyes, Bogart snaked his arm down
inside the half open window, grabbed the handle, and jerked open the door.
As Powell’s wife and daughters screamed both in terror and from the
effects of the pepper spray being released inside the car, Agent Bogart grabbed
Powell by his hair and shirt and pulled him halfway out, until he snagged
up on his seatbelt. Bogart unsnapped the belt, and then used both hands to
jerk Powell all the way out onto the asphalt, where his head landed with
a satisfying smack. Active duty Navy Lieutenant Commander Ira Jacobson was
sitting in his mint-condition 1971 red Mustang Mach One just behind the Taurus.
He was not in uniform, returning from a visit to his mother’s house
in Alexandria. His ship, the Burke class destroyer Winston Churchill, was
at the Norfolk Naval Base. He was the ship’s Operations Officer.
He had sat patiently in the line awaiting his turn, fully intending to cooperate.
But seeing the black-uniformed policeman (if he was he a policeman, it was
hard to tell) abuse the civilians in front of him was getting him steamed.
When the black-clad policeman had maced the interior of the car Jacobson
couldn’t believe it; he clearly heard a woman and children screaming!
When LCDR Jacobson saw the man in black pull the driver out of his car and
slam his head down onto the ground, it was time to take action. LCDR Jacobson
would have intervened automatically if he had seen a Chief Petty Officer
abuse a junior sailor even half as severely; he’d write the Chief up
for Captain’s Mast in a heartbeat! For assault! So Navy LCDR Ira Jacobson,
not in uniform, stepped smartly out of his red Mustang. It was his nature
and his training to take action; to render instant decisions and intervene
in such a situation. LCDR Jacobson did not skate away or tap dance around
when dealing with out-of-control junior personnel, and he did not shrink
from his perceived duty today.
“ Just what the H*LL do you think you’re doing to that civilian?” he
barked, using his strongest officer’s “command voice” to
impose order and gain control of the situation.
ATF agent Alvin Bogart was kneeling on Martin Powell’s chest, one hand
around his throat, getting ready to pepper spray him again with the other.
The other ATF agent was at the uphill end of the line of cars when he saw
and heard the fracas. He was working with a State Trooper K-9 dog handler
and his German shepherd, searching the trunk of a Volvo.
Six National Guardsmen and women and three other state troopers were spread
out along the line of cars and past it in both directions, directing traffic
and generally trying not to be jerks, avoiding actually searching the cars
as much as possible. None of them wanted to be there. The two ATF agents
were the gung-ho ones, pushing them to search more cars, to find contraband
weapons.
None of the state troopers or soldiers was certain about what had happened
in the white Taurus, to cause the driver to be pepper sprayed and pulled
out, but they assumed an illegal weapon or maybe drugs had been spotted:
after all, that’s what they were there for. Suddenly they saw a tall
civilian with short black hair jump out of a red Mustang and go after ATF
Special Agent Bogart, screaming something. Bogart’s ATF partner shouted, “Turn
the dog loose!” to the K-9 handler. He immediately
did as he was told, pulling the 100 pound beast back short on his leash,
crouching down close to his canine partner to direct his attention, aiming
the dog like a missile, and releasing him with the command “Hansie!
Attack!”
The German shepherd cleared the thirty yards to Jacobson in a blur and knocked
him down from behind, biting him viciously on the buttocks and in the groin
area. Ira Jacobson screamed, Martin Powell was still screaming, and Powell’s
wife and little girls in the car kept screaming as shocked state troopers
and soldiers converged on the scene of the melee.
From Bogart’s first rap on Powell’s window, to the dog attacking
LCDR Jacobson, only sixty seconds had passed, but they had been a long sixty
seconds! The next sixty seconds were going to be far, far longer. Two cars
behind Jacobson’s red Mustang, 83 year old Luke Tanner’s hands
were locked in a death grip on the steering wheel of his cream-colored 1986
Cadillac Eldorado. His teeth were grinding, his breath was short and labored,
his heart was racing, and his skin was so flushed that the liver spots on
his bare arms were nearly invisible.
The last time that Luke Tanner had seen that black uniform and peculiar black
coal-scuttle helmet in person had been six decades earlier. It had been in
the Ardennes Forest in Belgium, trying to hold out against the 6th SS Panzer
Army, during the defining days of his life in The Battle of the Bulge. Tanner
had fought regular German Wehrmacht across France, and he’d fought
the Waffen SS in Belgium, and he still held a burning hatred for them even
six decades later.
But he had never imagined that he’d see the God damned black uniform
of the SS here in America! Then he watched as a young man was pulled from
his car by the storm trooper, and he saw his head bounce off the pavement,
he heard a lady and children screaming, and his hand fell to the seat beside
him.
He’d lost his wife Edna in 1997 after almost fifty years together.
She had been dragged to her death alongside her own Buick, the victim of
a botched carjacking in Richmond. After that, Luke Tanner always kept his
old Government Model .45 caliber pistol under a folded newspaper on the seat
beside him, with a round in the chamber. He didn't know what the particular
legality of that was, and he didn't care: a man had a right to defend himself,
law or no law. It was the very same .45 automatic he’d brought back
on the hospital ship in 1945. Every year since then he had fired one box
of ammunition through it at the National Guard Armory range where he knew
people, then he cleaned it and reloaded it with fresh bullets. He’d
never fired it in anger in over sixty years.
The last time Luke Tanner had fired a weapon at anything except paper targets
had been around frozen Ettebruck, Belgium in 1944, and it had been at a God
damned Nazi storm trooper in a black SS uniform!
Who could ever have dreamed that sixty years later, Nazi SS storm troopers
dressed in black would be running loose right here in Virginia! Certainly
not Luke Tanner. All those good men of the 28th Infantry Division had died
in the Ardennes fighting the Nazis, and now here they were again, in the
flesh!
Then a brave young fellow got out of a red Mustang in front of Luke and proceeded
to give the SS Nazi h*ll for what he was doing to that man on the ground.
Good for him! But an instant later a dog, a big German shepherd no less,
had that fellow on the ground thrashing like a whirlwind and biting him to
pieces, then more soldiers and police were hollering and screaming and running
from all over!
Another of those black-uniformed Nazi SS storm troopers ran past Luke Tanner’s
Cadillac and began kicking the man on the ground with his black boots, and
that’s when Luke Tanner had seen enough! Too much! The 28th Infantry “Bloody
Bucket” Division had not killed all those God damned Nazis in France
and Belgium just so they could regroup here in America! He’d long ago
seen far too many fine young Americans killed and crippled at the hands of
the Nazis, way more than enough to last many lifetimes.
Luke Tanner had always considered every day since December 23rd of 1944 to
be a Gift from God, a bonus day, springing from the pure dumb luck which
had for unknowable reasons deserted so many better and more deserving young
men than him. December 23rd of 1944 was the day that he earned a Purple Heart,
a Bronze Star, and a trip home all during one fire fight near frozen Ettebruck,
Belgium.
He’d lost his left eye and part of his stomach over there, and more
recently he’d lost his wife, and that was enough. To Luke Tanner, it
was not going to be worth living in America another year, if the last vestige
of freedom was going to be lost too. What had all those guys died for in
France and Germany and all across the Pacific? What for? What for?
Somebody had to teach the youngsters how to fight Nazis, and Luke Tanner
figured he knew about as well as anybody. There just weren’t many of
his generation left, who’d had the good fortune to still be alive so
many years after those bitter-cold never-forgotten days at the end of 1944.
He wrapped his leathery old hand around his heavy slab-sided Colt .45, thumbed
back the hammer, opened the door all the way, and stepped out into the sun.
The police and soldiers and Nazi SS storm troopers were all busy, focused
on the tangle of confusion beside the white Ford when Luke Tanner walked
up along the red Mustang, his .45 held down beside his right leg, hammer
back, safety off, finger on the trigger. When he’d picked up that .45
and thumbed back the hammer, the last six decades cleanly disappeared. But
no one paid any attention to the frail-looking old bald man with the thick
black-framed glasses in the yellow short sleeve shirt. Not until he unexpectedly
grabbed one of the Nazi SS storm troopers by his black shoulder strap.
ATF Special Agent Alvin Bogart spun part way around, saw yet another civilian
interloper and yelled “Now what the h*ll do YOU want grandpa?”
Luke Tanner, chronological age 83, and the survivor of more than that number
of deadly skirmishes and battles with Nazis as a much younger man, smiled
unexpectedly and said, “I want to see you dead, Fritz!” He held
Bogart off with his once-again strong left arm still gripping the black shoulder
strap, quickly raised the .45 from behind his leg, and fired once.
The .45’s report was like a cannon, sending off shockwaves through
the huddle of police and soldiers. Bogart was hit upward between the eyes.
His Kevlar helmet contained his brains, but did not prevent a shower of blood
and tissue from flying back out all over Tanner, making it appear that he
had been shot himself. Then Bogart was down, dropped like a pole-axed steer,
police were screaming “GUN!” and drawing their pistols, soldiers
were trying to unsling their M-16s from their shoulders, and Tanner, still
smiling, aimed again at the other Nazi SS storm trooper who now stood in
wide-eyed mute amazement seven feet away. Tanner fired one-handed, aimed
and fired again, as the ATF agent tried to turn away and raise his submachine
gun (which was snagged on his chest sling) at the same time, then suddenly
the second ATF agent went down, his wound unseen, acrid gun smoke bitter
in everyone’s noses, all ears ringing from the .45’s steady barking
in their midst.
The second BATF agent was still rolling away slowly as Tanner continued to
fire at him on the ground, until his eight rounds were expended and the
.45’s slide stayed locked to the rear. He was surrounded by police
and soldiers who were all falling back away from him, some running, some
seeking cover behind cars, but for the moment it was a “circular firing
squad” with police and soldiers and civilians in their cars all around
him, causing them all to hesitate, until finally a state trooper took careful
aim with his service pistol and fired.
Tanner was hit several times and sat down hard, then fell onto his back staring
up past the clouds, blinking at the sun, his empty .45 fallen from his hand
at last. A soldier leaning over him heard the old man whisper: “I got ‘em
Sarge, did you see me kill those Nazi bastards?” The young soldier
could not see who the blood-covered old man was talking to, he could not
see in himself Luke Tanner’s last platoon leader, Sergeant Alonso Delvecchio,
who was killed in action on Christmas Day of 1944 by a Nazi sniper’s
bullet. This was two days after Tanner got his “million dollar wounds” and
was evacuated from the battlefield at last; to go home, to live, and to remember.By
this point the soccer mom in the forest-green Ford Excursion SUV two cars
behind the Cadillac had seen and heard too much, and finally her stunned
brain somehow reconnected to her frozen limbs. She switched the ignition
back on and in one fluid motion turned the wheel sharply to the left, threw
the shifter into drive, and stomped hard on the gas pedal. Her giant SUV
clipped the Toyota in front of her, spinning it sideways, ran straight over
two National Guardsmen, crossed the exit ramp and headed down the brushy
slope towards Hoffler Boulevard bouncing and picking up speed with every
yard. The soccer mom’s mind was operating in an unfamiliar emergency
crisis mode; she was on automatic heading for the safety of her three car
garage like a crazed doe fleeing before a forest fire.
Down at the bottom of the ramp Private Hector Ramirez was still standing
on the middle bolster seat of the Humvee, leaning back against the ring cut
through the roof when everything went crazy up at the line of cars. When
the shooting broke out, he had reflexively leaned forward and shouldered
into his M-60 machine gun, sighting up the road, but could make no sense
out of the “lucha libre,” or free-for-all fight.
Hours before, Private Ramirez had been content to accept the duty in the
Humvee with the machine gun. For one thing, he remembered how to load and
fire the M-60 from his active duty Army time, unlike most of his squad. But
mainly he knew he had been given the machine gun duty because his English
was very bad, muy malo. Terrible in fact, lo peor, the worst. Sgt. DuBois
didn’t want him searching the cars with the policias and dealing with
the public because he could not understand rapid southern dialect English;
and he could not communicate well in English in any case.
Private Ramirez’ lack of English skill was understandable. After all,
he had walked across the frontera Mexicana in central Arizona for the third
and final time only a few years before. Then by the grace of all the saints,
he had been granted ‘amnistia’ along with millions of his countrymen
living in El Norte. A little later a cousin warned him that the amnistia
might be taken away, but that there was a program where if he joined the
gringo army, he would be guaranteed full gringo citizenship in only two years,
and then he could bring up his mother and the rest of his family. And in
fact, that is exactly what happened.
Gracias a Dios he had been given the answers to the tests before the Army
boot camp, or he would have been rejected. But Ramirez more than made up
for his lack of Ingles with an abundance of enthusiasm, always shouting “Sir
Yes Sir!” in boot camp the loudest, whether he understood the question
or not. His uniform was always perfect, he always had the fastest times on
the runs, and his Sargentos had put him in front of the Compania to carry
the flag. Army boot camp had been a high point of Hector Ramirez’ short
life!
So he’d spent the day leaning against the hole in the roof of the humvee,
sitting, standing and trying to stay awake, until all h*ll had suddenly and
without warning broken loose, with people screaming, dogs barking, and now
guns firing!
Hector yanked back on the cocking handle of his machine gun and got ready
to fire, but was unable to find a target: all he saw were policias and soldados.
Anyway, his orders were to just make a show, a demonstration he thought
they had said, to be the “blocking force.” Ramirez understood “fuerza
bloquear.” It meant that he must keep anyone from escaping from the
checkpoint. He understood that mission well enough! This was something he
had grown up seeing routinely as a small boy on the roads back in Chiapas.
But today, although he had 200 cartuchos of ammunition in the green steel
box next to his M-60, he had never expected to fire even one bullet of it!
Suddenly an enormous dark green truck roared out from the line of cars behind
all the fighting and shooting, and drove straight over two of the members
of Ramirez’ esquadra, smashing them! Then it drove faster and faster
down the hill directly towards him! And he was the blocking force, to prevent
the escape of the terroristas!
He sighted directly at the onrushing windshield and fired a prolonged burst,
causing the truck’s windows to explode. The truck veered back toward
the highway ramp, and it was still trying to escape as far as Ramirez could
tell, so he followed it with his machine gun’s front sight, firing
continuously until it crashed into a police car at the bottom of the line!
But when Hector took his finger away from the trigger, the maldita machine
gun continued to fire without a pause, as if it had a mind of its own, so
he raised the barrel to fire safely up over the hill.
A hundred yards away, halfway up the exit ramp, Sergeant Ashante DuBois of
the Virginia National Guard was crouching behind the trunk of the cream colored
Cadillac, while down the hill Ramirez raked the line of cars with 7.62 caliber
machine gun fire. The rounds snapped as they passed; with every fourth shot
a red tracer flashed by. Then the windows in the Cadillac blew out, showering
her with a thousand tiny glass fragments. The Mexican had obviously gone
totally insane with panic!
Sergeant DuBois knew that it was up to her to protect the civilians still
hiding in their cars the only way she knew how. She laid her M-16 rifle along
the left rear trunk of the Caddy, pulled back the charging handle to chamber
a round, aimed carefully at Ramirez and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Sergeant DuBois turned the rifle on its side and looked at the selector switch,
turned it to “semi,” and began to pepper Ramirez with fire as
more 7.62mm tracer rounds cracked past her up the hillside and over the highway
behind them.
Back up at the top of the ramp Brad and Ranya had watched events spiral out
of control in disbelief, but when the M-60 on the humvee opened up on the
big green SUV, and the tracer rounds started flying past, the policeman in
front of them finally ran for cover behind his cruiser. Brad noticed he was
a Suffolk cop, and not a state trooper like the rest of them doing the searches
down the ramp. He threw his pickup into reverse and burned rubber fishtailing
backwards up the ramp, then threw it into forward and took off down I-664.
In another sixty seconds they were a mile and a half away, and Brad took
his foot off the gas pedal. There was no remaining sign of the inexplicable
mayhem they had witnessed during those two mad minutes on the Hoffler Boulevard
exit ramp, except for the adrenalin still pumping through their blood, and
their intensely focused memories.
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Letter Re: Will Things Get a Bad as Described in "Patriots"?
James:
I have been a SurvivalBlog reader for nearly a year. It is my favorite blog,
by far. I got a [voluntary] 10
Cent Challenge subscription after about the first month (and I'm about
to renew). But it wasn't until last month that I got around to purchasing
a copy of your novel ["Patriots:
Surviving the Coming Collapse"]. I had been avoiding it because
I'm not the sort that reads novels. They are mostly a waste of time. But
I thought that I'd make an exception and get yours, since it had such a high
rating on Amazon. It wasn't until I started reading it that I realized what
the fuss was all about. I absolutely devoured your novel. I
read it all in a 12 hour stretch. (Luckily, I started it on a Saturday morning,
or else I would have been up reading all night.) It may sound like a old
cliche, but I just could not put it down. Then I re-read parts of it on Sunday,
and highlighted some sections with my Accent marker, and started taking notes.
Since then, I've re-read the entire book twice.
All that say is Wow! Now I'm planning to take advantage of
your sale and get two six
packs of autographed books, for Christmas gifts for my family (including
my head-thrust-firmly-in-sand uncle) and a few friends at work and at church.
Thank you for writing your novel, and all that you do in sharing your preparedness
knowledge on the SurvivalBlog.
That said, now for my question: Do really expect things to get as bad as you
described in Patriots? I hope not, because if it happens that way,
then I'm still quite under-prepared. Sincerely, - Thompson
JWR Replies: Thanks for your kind comments on SurvivalBlog
and my novel.
In answer to your question: No, I don't expect things to get as bad as I
described in "Patriots". It could happen. But frankly, the
odds are that it won't be nearly so severe. I made the scenario in the novel
a near "worst case" in order to make it more interesting reading,
and as an opportunity to show the need for planning and preparedness in a variety
of areas such as first aid, food storage, faith, self-defense, communications,
et cetera. The Deep Drama was essentially an excuse to write about
a lot of different tactics and technologies.And it does make for an exciting
read.
The bottom line: If you prepare for the worst, you'll be able to
take on any lesser challenges with relative ease, and have plenty of extra
logistics to dispense charitably.
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Book Excerpt--Patriots: Surviving the Coming Collapse
Geographically distinct units were formed from the Northwest Militia, as planned,
late in the April of the fifth year. To avoid confusion amongst the local citizenry
that they protected, they designated those at the original retreat as “Todd
Gray’s Company” and those at Kevin Lendel’s house as “Michael
Nelson’s Company.” The responsibility for patrolling was divided
along a line east-west between the retreats.
Todd Gray’s Company was to patrol the northern half of the sector, while
Michael Nelson’s Company patrolled the southern half. Separate CB channels
were assigned to each Company for locals to use to contact either Company.
On the 5th of May, Mary was in the garden plot transplanting some young tomato
plants that had been started in the greenhouse a few weeks earlier. As she
was methodically digging holes for each of the plants, she heard a strange
engine noise in the distance. Just moments after she first heard the noise,
she was astonished to look up and see two light aircraft approaching from the
south. She dropped her trowel, snatched up her AR-15, and ran to the house.
By the time she was in the house, the Mallory Sonalerts were wailing, and everyone
at the house was at their “stand-to” positions, scanning their
assigned sectors of fire.
“Does anybody have any idea where those planes came from?” Mary asked.
Sitting at the C.Q. desk, Jeff shrugged his shoulders, and reached over to turn
off the “panic button”, silencing the piercing alarm.
The engine noise was clearly louder now. From the LP/OP, Terry called in on
the TA-1: “They’re pusher prop jobs, twin seat, tandem style. It’s
hard to tell, but it looks like there’s just one pilot in each. They’re
definitely circling us. Everybody stay put.” The planes circled the house
a second time, just a hundred yards above the ground.
From the front of the house, Todd declared: “Hey, wait a minute, it looks
like they’re getting ready to land. Yep, they are landing down on the
county road.” The two planes landed in rapid succession on the straight
stretch of county road below the house. Todd was surprised by how short a distance
it took for the planes to land and come to a full stop. The planes looked identical,
except for their color. One was painted dark green. The other was tan. He heard
their engines roar up in tempo as the planes turned and taxied back to the
front gate. The planes came to a stop at the front gate, and their engines
shut down.
Both pilots lifted their canopies and took off their headphones, almost in
unison. Two figures, one tall and one short, hopped out of the planes, wearing
BDUs and tan boots.
Todd shouted loud enough for everyone at the house to hear: “They are
painted drab, but those sure don’t look military. Have any of you heard
of anyone in the area that owns an ultralight?” There was no reply. Todd
pondered for a moment. “Hey, you know, Dan told me that Ian Doyle was
in an ultralight club.
I sure wish Fong was still here. He’s probably seen pictures of Ian’s
plane. He said that it was a zippy little thing, and I think he said that it
was a two-seater.”
“Who is this Ian fellow?,” Rose asked.
Mary answered, “An old college buddy of Todd and Dan’s. He has
a wife and daughter. That might be him in one of those planes down on the road.”
Ten minutes later, after a cautious squad-sized approach by the bounding overwatch
method, Todd and Ian Doyle were sharing hugs. “Wow! Long time no see.
What brings you here?”
“It’s a long story, Todd. Suffice it to say that we left town in
a hurry when a very large number of muy malo hombres took over. It was muy
peligroso there. So we did some Van-dammage--just to whittle them down,
you understand--and then we took off. It took a few inquiries in Bovill, but
we found your place here easily enough.”
Todd took a long look at the plane behind Doyle, staring at just below the
wing root, where it was stenciled EXPERIMENTAL. He said insistently, “You
can tell me the whole story later. First tell me about these ultralights. They
are really a sight to behold.”
Ian turned to caress the fuselage of the flat forest green-painted plane behind
him. “To begin with, technically, they aren’t ultralights, although
they use a lot of the same design features. Legally, these birds are classed
as light experimentals. These birds are both Laron Star Streaks. I paid just
under $30K for mine, when I picked it up new from the factory in Borger, Texas,
back in ‘98. We towed it home in it’s trailer behind our Suburban.
The Star Streak comes with a lot of standard goodies like dual controls, an
ICOM radio, electric start, electric brakes, three position half span flaps,
electric trim, and a pretty complete set of VFR instruments. I added a GPS
navigation box and active noise reduction headphones to this one. It’s
essentially a poor man’s general aviation plane, but legally it’s
a light ‘experimental’. But it’s too heavy to be classed
as an “ultralight” under the FAA regs.”
“With its enclosed canopy, it’s one of the best light experimentals
for long range flying. In fact, one guy flew a similar model Laron from London
to Beijing and wrote a book about it. As I’m sure you know, the main advantages
of ultralights and light experimentals is that they are so thrifty on gas, and
have a super short take-off roll--usually under 200 feet--and very low stall
speeds. The Star Streak only weighs about 400 pounds, empty. The other neat thing
about our Larons and most similar light experimentals and ultralights is that
they are not restricted to av-gas. In ours here, for example, you can burn any
grade of gas down to about 85 octane. If I adjusted the carb jets, I suppose
they would even burn ethanol or methanol. Luckily, I haven’t had to try
that yet.”
Doyle turned to the trim woman with an olive complexion standing beside him.
She appeared to be around 35 years old. “I’m sorry, I’m getting
ahead of myself. This is my wife Blanca. I’ve written to you about her,
but we haven’t seen each other face to face since college, so you’ve
never had a chance to meet.”
The attractive woman in BDUs extended her hand, and Todd shook it firmly. Gray
said quietly, “Encantado.” She replied in a soft accent, “A
pleasure finally meeting you, Meester Gray.”
“As you probably recall from my e-mail, I met Blanca when I was stationed
down in Hondo,” Doyle continued. “That was back in my ‘Terry
and the Pirates’ days, when I was a lieutenant--not too long out of transition
training. She was a civilian working in flight ops at Tegucigalpa. Blanca was
already a qualified single engine pilot when I met her. Talk about love at first
sight, eh conchita?” Blanca smiled and blushed, nodding her chin
to her shoulder.
Gesturing to the other plane, Ian said, “We swapped for Blanca’s
Laron just after the stock market tanked. I got it from an old fart civilian
who was in the Phoenix Metro ultralight club. He bought this one as a kit.
He said that it took him almost two years to build it in his spare time. He
finished building it in ‘99. It had very low hours clocked on the engine.
His was stored in the same style enclosed trailer that we had for mine. I traded
him my Sten gun, a suppressor with nomex cover, a whole bunch of magazines,
and 1,000 rounds of nine millimeter ball for it. Fair enough swap, I suppose,
since unregistered and suppressed submachineguns don’t grow on trees.
We could both see the handwriting on the wall by then. He knew what I needed,
and I knew what he needed: I needed some more transportation, and he needed
some more firepower. I asked him why he wasn’t planning to bail out of
Phoenix. He said that his wife refused to budge an inch. They had their whole
life wrapped up in their house. Since he was stuck there, he didn’t need
the plane, but he certainly needed a serious self-defense gun.”
Doyle stepped toward the back of the fuselage, deftly ducking under the wing,
and went on: “The Star Streaks cruise at just over 120 miles an hour
at 80 percent power, which is pretty fast for a light experimental. Of course,
that seems like crawling when you are used to wearing an F-16, but I like ‘em.
The cockpit layout is even similar to a Falcon. Not exactly fly-by-wire controls,
though. This model uses a 85 horse Hirth F-30 engine. It’s a great little
plant. It just hums along and sips gas--only about five gallons an hour at
80% power. Both of these planes are identical except for the propellers. Mine
uses a four blade composite, but the prop on Blanca’s is the older composite
three blade. The Hirth is a powerful little engine. It will make the Larons
climb at 2,500 feet per minute when it is in normal configuration with just
one man on board, but of course a lot slower the way we have them loaded down
right now. The planes have a rated useful load of 500 pounds. I’m afraid
that we exceeded that limit when we took off from Prescott. Between the heavy
load and the high elevation of the airport, our takeoff distances were outrageously
long--at least, that is, for a light experimental. But luckily, we had a long
straight stretch of road to take off from.”
Blanca looked around anxiously. “Ees there anywhere where we can put
theeese birds where they whon’t get stolen?”
Mary answered, “We’ll put them both in the Andersen’s big
hay barn, just down the road. It’s a nice dry barn. The wings should
hopefully fit through the front. It was left open on that side to let the big
New Holland harvester in. It’s a three-sided affair. The farm is deserted,
and the barn is almost empty now. They gave us permission to use the place.
Don’t worry--when the planes are pushed to the back of the barn, no one
will see them there. And, as further insurance, it’s just within line
of sight of our LP/OP, up on the hill.”
“Ell-Pee-Oh-Pee?”, Blanca asked, quizzically.
“Sorry, Blanca. I’m afraid that we are used to talking in ‘acronese’ around
here, and not the Air Force acronym dialect you’re probably used to. LP/OP
is a ground pounder acronym for listening post/observation post.” Pointing
to the nearby hill, Mary explained, “Basically it’s a glorified hole
in the ground. If you look very closely, you can see it up on the hill there.
It has a good view of the area. It’s for observation in daylight, and for
listening at night.”
Moving the planes into the barn took only a few minutes. They were able to
taxi the planes under power to within 20 feet of the barn. From there, they
were pushed in by hand. Going in, the planes’ 30 foot long wingspans
cleared the entrance with just a foot to spare on each side. As they were pushing
the first plane in, Mary asked, “How many gas cans have you got in there,
and how far can you fly without refueling?”
Doyle pointed through the canopy at the rear seat area, and cited, “Originally,
the Star Streaks only had a range of around 320 miles at 80% power. The main
tank is 14 and-a-half gallons. But I added some big bladder tanks to both planes.
They aren’t connected directly to the primary fuel system. I cheated
and installed a couple of little Black and Decker Jackrabbit hand pumps along
side the front seats, with extra long hoses. To transfer fuel from the bladder
to the main tank, you just put the Jackrabbit in your lap and crank away. The
bladder tanks extend our range to about 480 miles without landing to refuel,
when we are at max takeoff weight. If we were in a light configuration, they
could maybe even go 550 miles.”
Ian’s plane came to a rest with the tip of its nose less than a foot
from the rear wall of the barn. He inched past the nose and walked around to
the other side of the plane, talking as he walked. “They are both quite
a bit lighter right now, since we have less gas and we had to barter some of
our stuff for fuel.” He tapped on the Plexiglas with his index finger
and said, “I have these five gallon gas cans strapped into the back seats
of both birds, but they are nearly empty, too. Aside from some clothes, sleeping
bags, tools, and aeronautical charts; most of the weight on board is fuel,
oil, guns, ammo, water, and MREs. You know, just the essentials in life. At
present we’re down to less than 8 gallons of fuel between the two planes...”
Mary interjected, “Don’t worry about that. We still have over four
hundred gallons of stabilized unleaded premium in the tank here. It will only
be good for another year or two, so we might as well use it up. I think that
it’s 92 octane, but I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask Terry--she’s
our logistics honcho. But she’s up at the LP/OP right now.”
After they had pushed the second plane in, Todd declared, “Don’t
worry about all your gear, we’ll come down with the pickup truck later
this afternoon and take it up to the house.”
Before they left the planes, Doyle used a socket wrench to remove the nose
wheels from both planes, and buried them under some loose hay near the front
of the big barn. “They won’t be going far without these,” he
said. As they walked out of the barn, Ian slung his suppressed MAC-10 over
his shoulder. Blanca did likewise with a stainless steel folding-stock Mini-14
GB. Todd was disappointed to see that they didn’t carry any extra magazines.
He made a mental note to correct that glaring deficiency.
As they walked, Blanca was bemused at the way the militia members walked at
5 yard intervals. “Why are you walking so far apart?,” she asked
with a laugh.
“Force of habit,” Mary explained. “In case of an ambush, you
are at much greater risk if you are bunched together.”
They chatted amiably as they hiked back to the Gray’s house. Once they
were inside, Rose served up an early lunch of raw carrots, apple slices spread
with reconstituted peanut butter, and freshly baked bread. It was over lunch
that Ian and Blanca started to recount their story. Mary set a TRC-500 to the “VOX” setting,
so that Terry Layton, who was still up at the LP/OP, didn’t feel left
out.
Munching on some bread, Ian began, “The 56th Fighter Wing had just started
a rotation to Saudi. It was just two years before the Crash that we switched
back from a tactical training wing to a tactical fighter wing. I came on board
just a few months into the transition. Anyway, when all the trouble started,
since I was the wing maintenance officer, I was stuck back at Luke, catching
up on paperwork. I was also taking a idiotic mandatory ‘Diversity, Sensitivity,
and Sexual Harassment’ class. The frickin’ class lasted a whole
week. I had orders to catch up with the wing in late November. But then, when
the riots got going in earnest, they planned an emergency redeployment of virtually
all of the close air support aircraft in the Air Force inventory back to the
States. Some weenie at the White House must have dreamed that one up. Our wing
was going to deploy to Hurlburt Field, down in Florida. Criminy! Could you
imagine F-16s and A-10s versus rioters? Talk about over-kill! I never heard
what happened to our squadrons after that. I was too busy with problems of
my own--like finding drinking water for Blanca and myself.”
“And your daughter?,” Mary asked.
Doyle’s face clouded with emotion. Stiffening, he replied, “Linda
didn’t make it, ma’am. She died five years ago. She was in Detroit,
doing her annual six week long ‘Grandmom and Grandpop’ visit with
my folks. It was the first time that she was old enough to go on a commercial
plane by herself. Blanca wanted to stay home to relax, do some pastels, and
a bit of surfing the Internet. We were home-schooling her, so Linda wasn’t
on a normal school year schedule. Blanca and Linda liked to go up to Michigan
in the Fall. They get some nice Fall colors up there.”
Ian paused and looked at the ground. “By the time we realized the magnitude
of the situation, most of the flights had been canceled, and the few that were
still flying were booked solid. In retrospect, what I should have done was
played “you bet your bars” and commandeered a D-model Falcon to
zip up there to get her. Instead, I took the conservative route and just hoped
that the riots wouldn’t last long or spread outside the downtown area
of Detroit. I also figured that if worse came to worse, my dad’s gun
collection could handle any rioters that came down their block. I was wrong.
I got a call from one of their close neighbors who managed to make it out of
Detroit alive. She said that looters got really pissed when my dad shot some
of them. They torched my dad’s house. Killed them all. I still feel like
such a fool. I could have saved my folks and my daughter’s life.”
Blanca squeezed Ian’s hand and said softly, “Don’t do thees,
E-an. We can-no change history.”
Mary’s eyes were wet with tears. “I’m so sorry, Ian. I’m
so sorry, Blanca. ”
Doyle shook his head from side to side and muttered, “Dwelling on it
won’t do any good. In times like these, you just have to suck it up and
drive on.”
Todd said a silent prayer. Then he looked up and asked, “So what happened
to everybody at Luke?”
Doyle snapped out of his reverie and recounted, “To call it mass desertion
would be to put it mildly. The mess halls only had limited food supplies, and
we only had enough MREs on hand for short-term contingencies. I’m sure
some of the overseas air bases had better stocks, but nobody ever expected
a disruption of re-supply of food in CONUS! When it became clear that the food
wasn’t going to last long, virtually everybody started to disappear.
And when they went, they took a lot of equipment, fuel, and nearly every scrap
of food on base with them. The Base Exchange, the commissary, and the mess
halls were stripped clean. When I say everybody, I mean everybody. There wasn’t
a soul from 56th Log or 56th Medical left on base. Even the whole Support Group
basically vanished in about three days time. By the time I decided to pack
it in, Luke was a ghost town. There were only seven pilots and about 20 ground
crew guys left on the post. Most of them were young bachelors. By that point,
I was the senior ranking officer on the base, so I could do pretty much anything
I wanted. I was the de facto base commander. I just called a formation and
released the remaining personnel on base on ‘indefinite leave.’
Unfortunately, my options were pretty limited. You see, there wasn’t
a single aircraft left on the ramp, or a single military vehicle left on post.
By then, there were just a few POVs. Even the fuel trucks had disappeared.
Now you’ve got to understand that they had 217 birds on the property
books, mainly F-16 Cs and D models. Of those, they were all either out on the
Saudi Arabia rotation, or off on “emergency” flights that all mysteriously
ended up being one-way missions. At least three F-16s, and the
