INVASION USA III

The Battle for Survival

By

T I Wade

INVASION USA III. Copyright © 2011 by T I Wade.

All Rights Reserved.

Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information, address Triple T Productions Inc., 200 Grayson Senters Way, Fuquay Varina, NC 27526.

http:// www.TIWADE.com

Triple T ProducTions, Inc. books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Triple T Productions Inc., 200 Grayson Senters Way, Fuquay Varina, NC 27526.

Library of Congress Catalogue-in-Publication Data
Wade, T I INVASION USA III / T I Wade.—1st ed.

eNovel EDITION – May 2012

Editor – Sherry Emanuel, Raleigh, NC

Cover design by Jack Hillman, Hillman Design Group, Sedona, AZ

eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

From the Author:

This novel is only a story—a story of fiction that could, or might come true sometime in the future. The people in this story are all fictitious, but since the story takes place in our present day, some of the people mentioned could be real people. No names have been given to these people and there were no thoughts to treat these people as good or bad people. Just people who are living at the time the story is written. Are you ready to survive a life-changing moment that could turn your life upside-down sometime in the near future?

Read on and find out!

Is your survival knife honed and ready yet?

Table of Contents

Prologue

Verrazano Narrows Bridge – The Eulogy

Chapter 1

North Carolina – Two weeks later - February

Chapter 2

Buck, Sally and the Smart Family - February

Chapter 3

Carlos and Colombia – February

Chapter 4

1st Meeting: Andrews - March

Chapter 5

North Carolina

Chapter 6

Meeting at Preston’s Airfield – March

Chapter 7

Mo Wang – Island of Roatán, Honduras - February

Chapter 8

Yuma

Chapter 9

Mo Wang – Honduras

Chapter 10

The Calderón Brothers - March

Chapter 11

Grandpa Roebels - March

Chapter 12

Mo Wang - At Sea

Chapter 13

Calderón – Mexico

Chapter 14

The United States – March

Chapter 15

Mo Wang - Florida and Virginia

Chapter 16

April 1st Meeting

Chapter 17

Manuel Calderón and Mexico

Chapter 18

April Meeting in North Carolina

Chapter 19

Calderón and Mexico – April

Chapter 20

Mo Wang’s New Baby

Chapter 21

Flight to China - April

Prologue

Verrazano Narrows Bridge – The Eulogy

An hour later, the sun came out and the beauty of it hit Colonel Patterson hard. Still on top of the north tower of what was left of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, it seemed to him that the cold sunlight signaled a new beginning.

Patterson had come pretty close to not seeing the sun come out from behind the clouds. The whole bridge had nearly collapsed. The engineers had placed explosives on both sides of the towers, severing many of the supporting cables so that the towers would not be pulled down once the middle cables pulled away from the structures. It had worked, but the towers had swayed like crazy and several pieces of unsecured equipment had fallen off as the whole middle structure of the bridge fell, demolishing everything below it.

The fighting was still going on at the Global Terminal, with several hundred Chinese Red Guards refusing to surrender and about to encounter another 5,000 defending soldiers who were on the move toward the fighting. The first two Chinese container ships loaded with food now destined for starving Americans were secure. They sustained considerable cosmetic damage, but they could easily be repaired.

Marines, waiting on the cranes with ropes, had dropped onto the top of the containers as the ships had stopped, and there was a massive firefight with both sides taking heavy casualties.

This first ship seemed to have the most enemy soldiers on it, and many of the upper containers looked like colanders with hundreds of bullet holes. There were thousands of dead bodies all over the ship as the Marines took control from the bow area and moved along the ship inside and out, killing everyone in their way. At one point, there were over 10,000 soldiers fighting aboard the superstructure, many in hand-to-hand combat.

The second ship carried far fewer enemy soldiers, and once this ship was secure, the men aimed into the melee on the first ship and one-by-one the enemy numbers decreased. By the time a gunship came overhead and started pouring fire onto the vessel, white flags began to appear from the deck areas of the first ship.

A tough fight was going on the third and fourth ships, and the two Gunships raked the ship from end-to-end, literally blowing pieces of steel container wall in all directions.

Within thirty minutes of sinking the aircraft carrier, the invasion of the United States was over. Much of the food on the upper levels of the ships would not be of any use, but starving people wouldn’t care and the damaged containers represented a very small percentage of the total cargo.

It took another 48 hours before the men in control of the defense of their country met again in the headquarters of the whole operation—a warehouse at McGuire Air Force Base. Two other large warehouses were filled with injured, and a third was already packed with bodies for burial. There had been very heavy losses.

***

The President flew in on Air Force One—the Huey flown by Buck and Barbara—with the First Family aboard. As usual, Secret Service agents cleared a path for him to enter the meeting and he was still the only politician in attendance.

Dozens of Air Force, Army, Navy, and Marine base commanders had been flown in, most of them catching a ride on the food aircraft returning to McGuire to collect the base’s last reserves of rations to go out to the civilians. There were 200 men and women in attendance as the President and the First Family entered. A rousing round of applause greeted the President who acknowledged it by smiling at the large group as he took his seat in the front row.

Coffee and freshly made Danish were offered to him, the base’s kitchen now fully operational, and everyone took their seats as Vice Admiral Rogers took the podium as the most senior officer in attendance. Outside, all the aircraft that had served in the defense of the invasion stood in proud formation around Baby Huey on three sides to welcome the President. Even Preston’s damaged P-51 was in the line. It wasn’t a big formation of aircraft. The three F-4s with five of the captured Chinese fighters were still flyable and were on one side of the entrance way. In the center was Baby Huey—still “Air Force One” to most of them—and on the other side stood Lady Dandy, the three P-51s, and the P-38. In two lines behind them were the ten C-130s, and in front of the warehouse entrance were the two AC-130 Gunships with a space in between them, and behind them were the two HC-130 Tankers. Even FedEx was represented, as well as the Cessna 210 and the Pilatus flown in by Mike, John, Sally, and Pam.

Oliver and the growing puppy, as well as Little Beth, who had begged to see her puppy again when she found Mike at Seymour Johnson, had joined the fly-in. As Beth ran into Martie’s arms, Preston realized that he had a couple of new permanent family members.

Will Smart had now achieved three flights and was getting better at flying. The President was happy to see Will and family again and shook his hand, congratulating him on overcoming his fear. The four kids immediately got together and obtained front row seats.

“Mr. President and family, members of all the U.S. military, and civilians of a very proud United States of America,” started Vice Admiral Rogers. “I want to first congratulate you on a job well done. We have thwarted the enemy and now I believe the real work begins. We have many brave men who have given their lives so that we can sit here in victory today, and I would like to ask Colonel Patterson to come up and remember our fallen.”

Colonel Patterson stood up from the front row, walked to the podium, and received a standing ovation. He put his hand up for silence. “Mr. President, First Family, Vice Admiral Rogers, members of the U.S. armed forces, and civilians of the United States, the reason we won was purely because we came together as a nation to fight an enemy who wanted to destroy the freedoms we have championed around the world. It took the enemy 30 years to formulate and carry out a plan we destroyed in three weeks. It is over now. The rebuilding effort will take decades before life across planet Earth gets back to normal.

“We will not know the full impact of this invasion for a long time to come, but we do know there are millions of dead people everywhere. From tomorrow forward, all our efforts will go towards saving lives and rebuilding this nation—getting the fundamentals of law and order back so that people can once again live in a peaceful society. It wasn’t my knowledge that won the war. I followed the plan of a man I met only two weeks ago—a man who could see the whole picture, thanks to many others each giving him a piece of the puzzle. From this information, he put together a plan that was given to me a day before his death, and as a soldier, I followed my orders to the letter.

“The man who saved the United States of America, General Pete Allen, is not here with us today, nor are any of his family members. But for many others, he will be remembered as the man who ultimately planned the defeat of the Invasion of the United States of America, and the rest of the world.”

The room all stood and a long and enthusiastic ovation was given to the man who, just three weeks earlier, was unknown to most people. “There are many to thank, and thanks to bravery, brain power, and guts, we can begin to rebuild our nation. I want to remember our fallen and will call out the numbers from each area of the military. From our brave United States Navy, the Submarine Dauntless, 37 crew members lost their lives in New York Harbor. Seven members of the Destroyer fleet were killed. Thank you for the sacrifice of your men, Vice Admiral Rogers, and for their important part in the final attack. These men helped destroy three of the five military vessels that entered New York Harbor. We mourn the loss of Colonel Grady, a man who, when asked, got Army troops moving within hours and was the first Army to enter New York by road. He was killed by aircraft fire, and we mourn Colonel Grady and the 1,473 brave Army soldiers who died along with him. Thanks to the Marines under Colonel Mickiewicz from Camp Lejeune, and Colonel Mathews from Quantico. The Marines have played an important part in the defense of this country from Day One. We lost 486 brave Marines. Casualties from our incoming forces returning from outside the United States are included in these numbers. Finally, the United States Air Force, under the command of General Pete Allen, lost 597 brave Air Force personnel who gave their lives for their country.

“We might never know our civilian casualties, but we do know that millions of men, women, and children have died since midnight on January 1st, and many more are going to perish before stability is restored here and around the world. For every person who has died in the largest and most horrible atrocity the world has ever seen, I would like all of you to stand and pray for a minute, remembering the many who have fallen so others may live.”

For a long minute, all heads were lowered and thanks given to God and for the people who had died around the world. Then the President got up to speak, everybody sat down, and Colonel Patterson returned to his seat.

“There are many people to thank, but I believe that now is not the time. The real time to thank all the special people will be in spring, when new crops are growing, our dead are buried, and we will have started to rebuild the United States. We have no government, nor do we need one for the moment. Everybody here today is the new government of the United States, and until my term ends, whenever that comes about, all my efforts and the efforts of my family will be directed toward saving as many people as we can and bringing law and order back into the United States of America.

“There are people out there, American people as malevolent as the people we have just defeated. Evil has not been completely abolished. Until our military establishes law and order in this country, we cannot go forward. In my power as President of the United States, I give the direct order that martial law will be put in place across the country. Our returning military personnel will be placed throughout the country to stop any people killing men, women, and children until our nation’s police force is once again in control. Within two months, every single soldier will be here on home soil, and America will rebuild for as long as it takes until we have a new and vibrant country. I believe the old ways are dead. Our old-fashioned style of operating is dead. We have to build from the ground up and this time we might as well do it properly—to look after our people, all the people of the world, and look after this fragile planet we call home. I believe we are entering a new period in history and, while I’m President of the United States of America, we will continue to build toward a new peaceful era for the American people, for all the people of the world, and for our planet called Earth. Thank you.”

***

The immediate problems facing the American troops, now growing by 15,000 per day, were threefold:

a. Restore law and order,

b. Feed the starving masses heading south, and

c. Determine how to respectfully deal with the millions of bodies already frozen or decomposing in every area around the United States.

The farm in Apex, North Carolina was quiet only for a day, with a dozen guards making sure that the growing number of people around its fenced perimeter didn’t get inside. Word was spreading that this little farm in the middle of nowhere was a food sanctuary and the area around the southern portion of the farm and along the roads was filling up with hungry people. Tents had been erected, and soldiers had trucked out several porta-potties and given out any Air Force supplies they had in the hangar.

As the aircraft returned and came in to land each person was shocked to see the masses of people outside the front gate. Preston immediately got one of the C-130s into Seymour Johnson, as well as diverting Lady Dandy and the Cargomaster. Three hours later the rest of the aircraft were refueled and readied to continue the food drive. Baby Huey came in, her responsibility as Air Force One, now transferred to another military helicopter out of Andrews Air Force Base.

The group of pilots drove to the gate where most of the Air Force soldiers had been guarding the air field. Preston got onto the roof of the truck and shouted to all who could hear him that there would be daily drops of food by helicopter into the cities and towns around the area and listed several town centers where supplies would be handed out. He explained to the anxious crowd that one person—child or adult—would receive four cases of food to last two months, until spring arrived.

He asked for people’s commitment that each case had to last an adult for two weeks and a child for three. A computerized list of people receiving food would be compiled at each distribution point and a valid ID would be necessary to get their four cases. Nobody on the list would receive any more food.

Soldiers would be deployed in the next few weeks to re-establish law and order, and any persons accused of theft or murder would face courts of their peers in their towns. A guilty verdict would result in expulsion from that town with a purple tattoo on their forehead to warn other communities about the person.

“There is no more food here at this Air Force base,” Preston stated. “The food is airlifted into here in bulk, split up, and then airlifted out again. We will have two helicopters later today that can make ten drops of one ton of food per drop per day. We will not give you food anywhere except in your city or town where we designate a drop zone; drop zones will be assigned within the next 24 hours. Go back to your towns and as soon as we get food and troops to guard it and distribute it, under computer supervision, we will be there. Thank you. Now please go back to your towns.”

The next day, Oliver was on his usual trail around the airport, the nearly fully- grown puppy a few yards behind him. The soldiers were mostly gone, apart from three who were still assigned to the airport. This time, Preston and Martie had risen early and accompanied the dogs on their sniff and search, and Little Beth was still fast asleep. They had both lost weight. Carlos and Sally—Sally now on leave from the Air Force until needed again—were still asleep in the hangar, as were Buck and Barbara. David and Jennifer, also on leave, had moved in with Joe and the boys. Pam Wallace had taken a fancy to Joe and had also moved across to the neighboring farm. Mike Mallory was leaving in a few days to return home and so was John. They had both found their families and were heading home to get their neighborhoods up and running.

The Smarts had returned to their house, which was still untouched just outside Lancaster and Will was now the new police chief for the city. Maggie was going to work in Silicon Valley, where Lee Wang and his family had relocated with Grand Papa Roebels and Martie’s father, Michael. They were starting a new electronics company and getting tooled up to mass-produce whatever they could.

Martie put her arm through Preston’s and smiled at him. “Since this is our first real day off, and since we are not really part of the food process anymore, would you like to have a Yuengling with me for breakfast? We still have over 1,000 bottles of beer and for once this year I would like to act naughty and do something stupid, like have a beer for breakfast.” He smiled at her and allowed her to lead him away.

***

Over the next several hours, the numbers of people searching for food grew fewer. A second Huey arrived from Andrews and everybody got involved with food distribution.

For the rest of January, everybody worked long days, and as the troops came into the area from the northern bases, permanent food stores became the town centers. There were hundreds of fights. Soldiers were told that if fired upon, they had the right to shoot to kill, so the safe areas were growing slowly. As the troops increased in numbers, the violence also slowly decreased; hundreds of people already known for committing murder were tried by courts, which were composed of as many people as deemed necessary to make them fair and just. In addition, thanks to so few vehicles, there were ample fuel stocks to supply the vehicles that needed it.

Further north, collection sites were assigned for unclaimed bodies or those not buried by loved ones and, under a decree sent out by the President, all bodies had to be cremated if brought in to the collection sites. This system was slowly being implemented around the country, and every crematorium worked 24/7 to burn the unclaimed bodies to prevent disease once the weather warmed up.

The President traveled around the world towards the end of January. The four remaining Airbuses were to be given to Britain, France, Germany, and Russia as gifts of friendship and communication. The United States would keep the 26 Boeings until their troops were home, and then six of them would be given to other countries in need, like Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Korea, Japan, and maybe what was left of China. Over 200 satellite phones were distributed to other countries and a simple form of international communications was implemented. A new government—a democratic one—had been formed in Shanghai, the capital of the new China, and the satellite phones would allow them to communicate with the rest of the surviving world.

All the other countries had losses similar to the United States, and the world total of deaths exceeded two billion by the end of January alone.

Nobody could tell if radiation from the three nuclear explosions that killed over 50 million Chinese in four of its major cities was moving around the world. It would definitely affect closer countries like Korea and Japan, and the entire fleet of large aircraft spent three days bringing every American out of those areas. However, the radiation problems were far from most American minds as they worked hard to feed as many people as necessary.

By the middle of February, the returning soldiers amounted to 500,000 and they were now not only happy to be home, but were willing to return to their homes and become the area police in the places where they had grown up. Still, the remaining 26 aircraft were flying troops home to the tune of 15,000 soldiers per day. The C-130s transferred the incoming troops out to new areas several times a day with supplies, and normally groups of three to five soldiers who lived in the same area were put under the management of a central location where an old Hughes satellite dish was the only form of communication with the rest of the country.

The national communications grid was simple and slow, but messages about food, crime, living conditions and other needs could be transmitted through the Hughes Net satellite dishes once every 48 hours. At headquarters at McGuire Air Force Base, three dozen Commodore computers recorded incoming messages much like emails, and there was always an aircraft or C-130 ready if the emergency code was sent demanding backup for gang warfare or if the troops were in danger.

Towards the end of February, over 1,790,000 bodies had been cremated in Manhattan alone, and the numbers recorded put total cremations in the United States by March 1st to 53,988,000 cremations in 3,900 crematoriums across the country. Any ID on a body was recorded for future reference. Many cities were still littered with bodies, especially in the north where snowdrifts up to 70 feet high still had millions of bodies buried beneath them. Many northern areas were still snowed-in ghost towns and had not yet been visited.

Very few soldiers had made it into the northern U.S. regions south of the Canadian border, and slowly thousands of soldiers and civilians were working their way northwards. Possible statistics given to the President was that maybe a quarter to a third of the bodies had been found so far.

Also, gangs in the southern areas were beginning to kill more and more soldiers guarding outposts and some gangs were reported to be in the thousands, and still growing.

Chapter 1

North Carolina – Two weeks later – February

Oliver and the fully grown puppy, now just called “Puppy,” were busy on their usual farm and runway inspection, lifting their legs and covering any foreign smells of wildlife, which had visited Preston’s farm during the cold winter-night hours.

As usual there were the fresh smells of deer, a possum must have decided it was important to inspect the southern area of the runway, and a fox had marked its new territory in one of the still existing trenches built by the Air Force several weeks earlier.

The farm was nearly deserted, except for Preston, Martie, Little Beth, the two dogs and Smokey, Buck McKinnon’s cat, who was still asleep in the house lounge. A guard of Air Force soldiers still using the warm facilities of Preston’s hangar had decided that nightly patrols were no longer necessary. The force of six men had patrolled the area every hour since the end of the war four weeks earlier, mostly keeping hungry locals from trying to get in and helping themselves to the food stocks.

Now the large, open and still moonlit area surrounding the airfield was deserted, apart from the two dogs doing guard duty. At 6:59 am on February 28, 2013 all the humans were still asleep in the main house and in the hangar.

With the complete area checked and re-scented with steaming dog pee, the two animals shook themselves, as if to get the cold air out of their fur and headed for the door to the house kitchen. Maybe somebody was up and there was a freshly cooked breakfast to be begged for.

Preston and Martie were still asleep when the doggy door to the kitchen made its usual groan as the two dogs came in. So was Little Beth who had taken over the only guest room as her own. Martie had transformed the once stately room into a pretty little girl’s room, filled with pinks, yellows, blues and greens. The temperature outside was five below freezing and the three human occupants of the house snuggled in their covers to keep warm and cozy.

The hangar was also peaceful; the Air Force personnel were working on getting out of bed as alarms set for seven began their wake-up sounds. The rooms above the lounge were warm and quiet and each one had a waking body about to get out of bed.

Life here on the farm for the six men was bliss; it was as good as living at home and there was more food in the hangar below them than anywhere else in the whole of North Carolina.

With the defeat of the invading forces in New York four weeks earlier, life had changed drastically and a daily routine was being reestablished at Preston’s farm.

Daily aircraft flights were heard overhead as they departed from the different military bases around the area to supply food to the surrounding population. The only flights in and out of Strong Field were Martie and Preston taking off in their Mustangs to check out the fully repaired and serviced aircraft. The Mustangs had been flown in a week earlier by Air Force pilots from Andrews Air Force Base. There hadn’t been another aircraft in since the fuel tanks had been refueled by a lone C-130 tanker coming in from Seymour Johnson Air Force Base.

During the first two weeks after the end of the invasion Martie and Preston hadn’t left the farm. They had not realized how tired they were and decided to take a couple of weeks off from saving the world. Martie wanted Little Beth to become comfortable as the newest member of their family, and time together would be the best way to accomplish that.

By 7:15, the soldiers were walking their first check of the farm’s outer perimeter for the day.

Preston’s alarm made its usual buzzing noise. He hated loud alarms, and he stretched, turned over and snuggled up to the other warm body still parked and asleep in the large and cozy bed.

“Preston,” moaned a sleepy Martie, “either do what you do best, give me a kiss and make me content, or get the coffee machine going.” The 80s-style coffee machine was one of the few gadgets still working in the kitchen. The latest house coffee machine with a computerized control system was now useless. It was replaced by the much older one from the hangar, which had been a cheap buy at Walmart years earlier and still brewed a good cup of coffee.

Preston kissed her cheek, yanked at Martie’s blonde hair gently, sat up, stretched and slid his legs out of the warm sheets, feeling for his slippers.

He reached for his robe and proceeded to aim, in the still dark room, for the bedroom door. Dawn was still several minutes away.

Within fifteen minutes, he was attacked by two happy and tail-wagging dogs, who received a dog bone each for their friendliness, a stretching Smokey who had followed Preston into the kitchen from the dark lounge and who looked around curiously for his treat. Within minutes Preston made two cups of freshly-brewed mugs of coffee.

“Life of the rich and lazy housewives of North Carolina,” stated Preston to the blonde-haired beauty who still hadn’t moved in the California-king sized bed. “Even though we don’t have television anymore you don’t have to go far to find those totally spoiled, rich blondes. We have one right here.”

“Oh shut up, you pompous excuse for a man slave,” responded Martie sitting up quickly, grabbing her top pillow and about to throw it at Preston until she realized that her first order of the day had already been granted. “Oh! That coffee looks wündabar, my wündabar man!”

Preston handed her a steaming cup, slipped out of his robe and slippers and got back into bed next to her.

“It’s been a good two weeks of rest,” stated Preston as Martie looked at him sternly. He quickly realized what he had forgotten—the cookie tin of rusks Martie had recently made to dunk into their morning coffee. Rusks, or biscotti, were a European treat Preston quickly got used to, and he hadn’t remembered to bring the new batch she had baked the day before. He walked quickly back to the kitchen scaring the animals in there by his sudden presence, grabbed the tin on a shelf and feeling the chill in the kitchen, headed back to the bedroom. “I think it’s time we returned to the main stream of our new world,” he stated handing her the full tin and climbing back into the warm bed. “It’s been a great rest and I feel fresh. Do you think we should turn on the radio again and see what’s going on outside in the big wide world?”

“Just let me enjoy my coffee and rusks and then we will discuss getting back into the now useless and defunct world,” Martie replied.

An hour later the smell of bacon drifted out of the kitchen. Martie had breakfast ready and Little Beth arrived, bundled up in a cut-down robe, one of Martie’s old ones. It was still a little too big around the back, but the extra material kept the little girl warm.

The dogs were shooed out of the kitchen and they decided to see if they would have any luck over at the hangar, the soldiers also having breakfast on the go. Oliver had whined outside the side door to the hangar for two years, before Preston added another doggy door so that he didn’t have to let Oliver in during cold winter days, when he kept the main hangar door closed.

Breakfast was quick and it wasn’t long before everybody moved towards the hangar to enjoy a third mug of coffee with the soldiers.

“No visitors, or at least no tracks we could find, Preston,” stated the master sergeant in charge of the men.

“It’s been over a week now since we had our last visitor,” replied Preston. “I think the local population is being adequately supplied and hopefully the locals have forgotten we exist. I’m sure they have other priorities.”

“Oliver and Puppy would have barked if they had found anyone,” suggested Little Beth, sipping from a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

“That’s what we listen for,” added Martie. “We know that the dogs are the early risers in this house.”

“I think it is high time we did a survey of our surrounding area from the air,” carried on Preston. “I’m going to turn on the radio in the house and speak to Buck and Carlos and see what they are doing,” he said to the group. The Air Force radio was always on and tuned into Seymour Johnson Air Force Base to the south and Preston told them to let him know if anything important came over the airwaves.

“We are going to head back to Seymour Johnson tomorrow,” stated the master sergeant. “We are being replaced by fresh guys and are going to miss the comforts of our home here. Darn it! I will have to get back to military life.”

“When did you arrive here, Sergeant?” asked Preston.

“We were the second group in here, Preston. We arrived on the third day of the New Year,” was the answer. “And my team will be the last of the original guys to leave. The C-130 is coming in tomorrow at 08:00 hours with a team of engineers and a bulldozer to clean up the trenches and get your farm back to normal.”

“That will be nice,” added Martie.

“We aren’t going to look like a war field anymore?” asked Little Beth. Martie noticed the word “we,” looked at Preston and smiled.

“No,” added Preston. “It’s time we went back to civilian status again, young lady.”

“The wire perimeter fence on the front of the property is going to remain intact, unless you want the engineers to dismantle it as well,” replied the sergeant.

“I think that since it’s the only easy way in here, the barbed wire should stay for a while longer. I have a weird sense that life in this country is not going to be as peaceful as we hope for quite a while yet,” stated Preston.

“Well, they now have a decent amount of our foreign-based troops back on home soil,” replied the sergeant. “The jumbo jets are still working around the clock and we will have a million troops to keep the peace in a few months.”

“I know,” returned Preston. “But I have this feeling that the country is not over its problems, not by a long shot. There must be millions of dead bodies out there, the food distribution can only be helping a small proportion of the remaining population, and I’m sure that there are areas of this country where we would not like to be right now. Plus, we still have another month of cold weather before the crops can be planted. I think that the good old USA is just seeing the beginnings of her problems.” Preston didn’t realize how correct he was.

Three hours later the two freshly serviced P-51 Mustang engines were being warmed up outside the closed door of the hangar. The airfield was deserted of all other aircraft. Apart from the fuel tanks, there was nothing to see. There was a slight mist in the air and a rising sun, still hidden behind small wintry clouds. Preston’s other two aircraft, his beautiful P-38 Lightning and the work horse, his crop sprayer, were still inside the warmth of the hangar. He had totally cleaned the sprayer tanks weeks earlier before putting it in the far corner of the hangar for its winter hibernation.

There was no snow on the ground, and the trees and the white frosted grass would go back to brown pretty soon once the sun came out from behind the clouds.

The Mustang engines warmed in the frosty sub-zero air, white clouds of hot air coming out of the exhausts, and the pilots let their engines warm up to operating temperature while enjoying the peaceful view. Minutes later they headed off to the southern end of the tarred runway for takeoff.

Above the trees and keeping low to stay hidden for the first couple of miles, Preston and Martie flew over the green canopy, not wanting to attract any interest about where they resided. They didn’t want, or need, any attention from the public.

All roads below them were empty of moving vehicles, except for one old truck going slowly down one of the minor roads. There were still thousands of empty and trashed vehicles on the sides of the major highways, but the actual asphalted tarmac strips had been mostly cleaned up, probably by people wanting to get past. Bigger broken down or crashed trucks could easily be seen far and wide on I-40 and I-95 and as they climbed high into the sky their pin-point dots could be seen far below.

RDU seemed empty and desolate, exactly as they left it a few weeks earlier. Preston decided to call up Joe and ask him to ride into town with one of the ferrets and give them ground cover for a landing at the international airport. Joe, Preston’s farm neighbor, heard them fly over his land and was expecting a call. Joe needed something to do and with David, his good friend and now permanent resident on the farm along with Joe’s five sons, readily agreed to take a drive with all the transportation vehicles they had, to show strength.

Preston told Joe that they would land at the airport in 30 minutes, but first would complete an aerial sweep of the surrounding area before the trucks got close.

An Air Force C-130 came over the radio telling them that he was in their general area outbound from Seymour Johnson to Richmond, Virginia and then to drop several pallets of food into surrounding towns. It was quite a shock to hear someone else on the airwaves and Preston quizzed the pilot on what he had seen.

“It’s the same everywhere we fly,” replied the C-130 pilot. “Hungry people, mobs, dead bodies can be seen in most areas from the air. And I don’t mean one here and there, I mean hundreds sometimes thousands blanket the ground, especially further north. I flew for a week out of Andrews into the northern parts of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut and in and around the major areas. Where the snow had melted with warming sunlight, I could see piles of bodies, I think piled up by the civilians to clean up their surrounding areas. It’s going to take months to bury the dead. I hate to see the piles of snow and bodies I saw in Manhattan as well as the thousands of dead enemy soldiers still piled up on the highways around New York and New Jersey. There are many more in the main streets and also east of Manhattan. In places like Brooklyn, square miles of plain civilization are not there anymore. It was horrific just to see the carnage.”

“Are there any cleanup crews?” asked Preston, now flying over Durham and seeing what the pilot had just described, but in much smaller detail.

“There are over a thousand men with all the vehicles they can use or commandeer working daylight hours only, to transfer bodies to body depots. There, they are identifying the dead and then cremating them in a dozen operating crematoriums around the area. I was told that thousands of bodies are being cremated a day, in huge pits and they aren’t even scratching the surface yet, the number of bodies I mean.”

“Thousands a day?” exclaimed Martie over her radio.

“I’ve also heard that the army is repairing a massive trash incinerator somewhere close by Manhattan. The electronics are down, but they believe that they can get it working in a few days and this trash incinerator will increase the cremation numbers.”

“Wow!” replied Preston.

“I have you on my radar system, you are about ten miles due south of me. I’m climbing through 12,000 feet and you guys look like you are higher than me,” suggested the C-130 pilot getting back to flying his aircraft.

“Roger that,” replied Preston. “We are heading due west now towards north Raleigh and descending through 16,000 feet. We have seen bodies in and around Durham and we are checking out the area before going into RDU. Over.”

“I flew over RDU day before yesterday,” replied the C-130 pilot. “It looked like a January sale there, over a hundred people walking around and taking everything they could. They all scattered like chickens when I went over at 500 feet. So be careful; I don’t think you will find anything left there.”

Thirty minutes later Preston watched as the convoy of two ferrets and David’s English Saracen drove down an empty Highway 540 towards the airport.

“Any excitement down there?” asked Preston several thousand feet above them. “I can’t see anything moving in front of you.”

“Plain boring!” replied Joe. “We could ride down 540 on bicycles and be just as safe. Nothing has changed except that I always feel eyes all around me, looking at us mean-like. Now I know what it must have been like hunting in Africa. The roads have less carnage, metal and bodies. We stayed away from Highway 55 and Apex. I don’t really want to go there just yet as I’m sure that the reserves of food in the area are all used up and it’s all down to Air Force deliveries until further notice. I’m sure we will get an answer at RDU.”

The convoy of three vehicles passed peacefully through their usual airport gate and onto the tarmac. The gates were now hanging broken and open at the international airport as the two Mustangs came in several minutes later getting the all clear from their mobile ground control. Both aircraft’s guns were loaded with .50 caliber rounds as well as a couple of old air-to-ground rockets and were ready for any trouble, but it was nice to have ground clearance first.

Preston and Martie stood up, stretched, and worked their way out of the cockpits and down onto terra firma. Joe and David walked up to meet them while Joe’s sons kept their fingers on the triggers of the vehicle machine guns now surrounding the P-51s.

Everyone looked around visually taking in the changes since their last visit nearly a month earlier.

Half the nearby terminal was blackened and burned. A couple of the aircraft Preston had seen on the tarmac on their last visit were nothing more than blackened heaps. The large windows of the air terminal were mostly broken, as well as all of the terminal doors. Even some of the aircraft walkways were broken, and one was even missing. Preston couldn’t understand what a whole one-ton walkway unit could be used for.

“I don’t believe we will find anything of use here,” suggested David.

“It looks like a bunch of piranha has gone through here and left just the skeleton,” added Martie.

“I’m sure that the aviation fuel hasn’t been touched yet,” stated Preston. “It would be nearly impossible to pump anything out of those massive tanks.”

“I heard the U.S. Air Force were here for a week pumping gas into tankers, air and ground,” added Joe. “I think that the looting happened at the times the Air Force wasn’t here.”

“Even with what Seymour Johnson and Fort Bragg have in the way of air and ground tankers, they couldn’t have got even a quarter of the aviation fuel in those tanks,” stated Preston. “I’m thinking to get Seymour Johnson to put a guard back here just to protect the fuel tanks or some dimwit will set fire to them or something and blow the whole place up.”

“I’m sure we are going to need every drop of fuel in this country in the near future,” added Martie with all the men agreeing with her.

For an hour they inspected the older terminal. There was nothing left. Martie was right; it was as if a group of piranhas had cleaned up everything. Many areas had been burned. They agreed that fires had probably been started to keep people warm, while they ate the food in the terminals. They counted over 50 new bodies not there on their last visit, mostly male with bullet holes in different parts of their anatomy. The smell wasn’t good, even in such cold weather and they did not want to return once it got warmer.

The new RDU terminal was even worse: fires and explosions had gutted large holes in the building, burning up all of the aircraft at the gates. Many of the aircraft had exploded with the fires and large gaping wounds made the terminal now uninhabitable. Every area of the long wide building had damage and looked naked inside.

Even the control tower was an empty shell. All its useless electronics had been removed and bare wires stood out everywhere.

The FedEx building had fared a little better, but was empty of everything, including furniture and the several aircraft, big and small, which had stood outside on their last visit had all been ransacked or looked lifeless with their doors torn open.

“I can’t understand why people have to be so bent on destroying things,” noted Martie. “Why must they destroy everything?” she asked.

I suppose they were fighting over it, or making sure nobody else wasn’t going to get something they wanted,” suggested Preston.

“Look at that pile of bodies over there under the FedEx 757,” commented David. It looks like there was a fight over control of that living space. There are five bodies directly underneath the open front door and it looks like more dead inside. I can see three more and look at that dead stiff half-hanging out of the door.”

“I’d say that they were happy eating the in-flight food, another group wanted their new accommodations and decided to fight over it,” suggested Joe.

“Well, it doesn’t look like anybody is in there now, and I’m not getting any closer,” stated Preston. “We are wasting our time here. Martie, I think we should fly down to Seymour Johnson and get a report on the food distribution. Joe, David, I’m going to get this fuel safe and ask them to comb through the rest of this airport. I think it would be a good distribution center.”

“I’m sure they need any ideas and they could feed a lot of people from here; it is central and an easy walk from the surrounding habitable areas,” recommended Joe.

The Mustangs touched down an hour later at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base outside Goldsboro and were met by their good friend Colonel Mondale, the base commander. Joe and David had decided to head back to the farm. There wasn’t a lot they could do and the protection of their farm was priority right now, even though there were also three Air Force personnel fully armed and on guard duty at Joe’s farm, just in case.

Lunch at the base was a simple affair of fresh bread—they had part of the bakery working—and corned beef, Martie’s favorite. Preston asked for anything else and looked away from the meal Martie had forced on him only a few weeks earlier. He did not like corned beef and was happy to eat the bread with a hot military-style SOS sauce.

“We have twelve aircraft and twenty trucks working out of here on a daily basis,” stated a tired Colonel Mondale, looking like he hadn’t slept much since the New Year. “By the way, we found several hundred 50-pound bags of quality bread flour, which is getting close to its expiration date. The pallets were in one of the last loads we got in just before Christmas and had not been logged in before the computers went down. If you have a bread machine I can let you have several bags, Martie. Also I have an extra 20-pound bag of still-frozen bread yeast and several spare bags of salt and sugar if you guys are interested.”

“Yes, yes!” she replied happily. “I have an old bread machine, used it only last week to make our last loaf. “It would really be nice to have fresh bread and I can make pizza dough and rolls and all sorts of things with it. Thank you, Colonel, I’ll take whatever you are offering.”

“Well, I think we still owe you for the truck generator you gave us, Preston. We have several of our military generators back in operation now. Buck McKinnon and our engineers tore out and by-passed the defunct parts and tomorrow we are going to send your generator to a smaller base in Tennessee which needs power,” continued the colonel. “I’ll get a dozen bags of the flour and the other supplies on the flight into your farm tomorrow with your fresh guards.” Preston and Martie thanked the colonel.

“How are the troop flights doing?” asked Preston, enjoying his meal of army food and fresh bread.

“We have all the Jumbo Jets operational and they are bringing in 10,000 troops a day, as well as any needed machinery or weapons, which can be repaired at Andrews,” replied Colonel Mondale.

There were only three of them at the table eating lunch in the Officers’ Mess. “Your friend Buck and your Chinese guy and his family are working their butts off getting Andrews up and running again, as well as anything the flights bring in. We got some bad news from overseas last week. Most of our modern machinery, all of our most modern fighters, bombers, and transporters are all history. So are all the modern warships and army/marine weaponry. Buck and his team of over 500 engineers of all types have told us to scrap everything, or not expect all our modern weapons to be operational for at least a decade or more. It’s the same with all civilian aircraft. Buck figures that in most of our aircraft, military or civilian, there are well over 10,000 electronic parts which need replacing; and news from your father in California, Martie, is that it will take our current electrical engineering facilities decades to copy and manufacture all the needed parts. Those Commies sure did a good job on our equipment, and the whole world’s for that matter.”

“You heard from my father?” asked Martie.

“Yes, several of the base commanders and the President spent a day on your father’s and grandfather’s wine farm last week,” replied the colonel. “You guys told us to leave you alone and we did. It was quite an eye opener to know how much stuff is totally kaput, as your grandfather put it. They believe that the entire nation’s electrical grid is going to take decades to get going again. Of course, we have the country’s security as our number one priority, and we don’t know when or where the next invasion of our country will come from, but the whole infrastructure rebuilding is number two. It’s a shock to the system what has happened, and how weak we actually are!”

“I could guess where our next attack will come from,” suggested Preston, sitting back and taking a sip of water.

“That is something I would like to hear,” replied the colonel.

“What we witnessed out there as we flew around today,” continued Preston, “is that anarchy will be the next threat, followed by disease from the warmer weather in a few months. There is no law out there, except maybe the new laws of the concrete American jungle. People are dying from violence, starvation and probably a host of other reasons. And I think that total lawlessness is going to grow out of the lack of control.”

“I think it’s the only situation I can foresee,” added Martie. “Preston and I have seen a lot since New Year’s Eve and everything we’ve seen, the dead people I mean, were either from invading soldiers, or from our own people. I think that the bad guys in this country are the next threat, killing people for food, warmth, supplies, power, etc.”

“We are having the next meeting with the President pretty soon,” replied the colonel. “I’m sure that many will agree with you, but it’s going to take a couple of months to bring all our troops home. We are not going to get much in the way of weapons up and running. If you are right Preston, apart from troop numbers and our stores of older museum-directed weapons and machinery, we are not going to be much more powerful than any bad guys who want to take over. The information from our last meeting in California indicates it’s going to take years for our country to rearm with anything better than Vietnam-era equipment.”

“There is a good side to that; an enemy will not have anything better than we have, and we still have an army of over a million troops once we get them back,” replied Preston. “Also, Colonel, did I hear from one of your pilots that Carlos and his father and uncle had gone, or were going back to Colombia to see what was happening in that part of the world?”

“That’s right,” the base commander replied. “They actually left yesterday in the two AC-130 Gunships, full of arms, and with an old armored Vietnam Special Forces jeep from Cherry Point just in case. They flew out of Andrews, then to Cherry Point and were heading to refuel at MacDill Air Force Base just outside Tampa. Captains Powers and Watkins were the pilots. The Gunships are armed to the teeth and ready for battle with a dozen Marines and enough arms to start a war, never mind end one. They are expected back day after tomorrow.”

They chatted over lunch for another half an hour before thinking about getting back to the farm.

Life had certainly slowed down, telephones sat quietly on desks, never making a sound, radio and television were non-existent. You only heard electronic sounds if you were close to a military base system’s control center, the radio room, the base commander’s office or traffic-control offices. There were a couple of dozen old handheld field radios working on Seymour Johnson plus an old Vietnam-era headquarters’ base radio in the aircraft control tower which was the base’s main internal/external communications.

Preston could communicate with his ham radio back at the farm, or his aircraft radios while in the air, but there was no way that anyone could communicate as far as where Carlos, Sally and Jennifer were at the moment except with a satellite phone, and Preston was sure that they were pretty busy at the moment, and didn’t need to hear from him.

Chapter 2

Buck, Sally and the Smart Family – February

Buck McKinnon was still at Andrews with Barbara. Nearly two weeks earlier, Preston and Martie had taken themselves off the communications map, put themselves on the “Do Not Call List” and decided to take a break from the world’s destruction.

But Buck was in his element. He had never felt so alive and so important in his life. Everybody needed him to answer questions on electronics. He was being asked to get involved with every group of civilian, military and Chinese engineers who were installing all the replacement parts which had arrived during the battles on the 747 Transporter, two massive loads and so many different spare parts.

Tons of components—millions of large, medium and minute parts—had been placed in the massive cargo aircraft on dozens of pallets by the people who had actually decided on and packed the inventory so very carefully, and who were still somewhere in China, probably Shanghai, or maybe dead from the attack on the Zedong Electronics headquarter buildings in Nanjing, or from the atomic blasts that hit two of three major cities.

Many of the electronics parts came in dozens. Buck assumed there were backups for backups, but if they could figure out why they were on the pallets, then, much like a kid’s puzzle, they could re-erect a machine, or a fuse, or a resistor of a machine, or part of a system of a part of a machine. The Chinese engineers had a partial list of machinery to repair, planned by the enemy Politburo. These machines were mostly in the harbor and the three airports of New York.

Within three days the harbor cranes were working and most of the electronic systems at JFK, Newark and La Guardia were operational again. Extra fuses and connectors were put into similar equipment at Andrews Air Force Base and now the four airports could talk to and assist the Jumbo Jets arriving daily, sharing the 25 incoming flights into the four airports. This helped speed up the disembarkation of troops and refuelling of the aircraft and got them on their return trips within hours.

Still, many of the millions of components remained unplaced. A group of think-tankers made up of senior military engineers, several of the senior Chinese engineers, Lee Wang and Buck tried to comprehend the thinking of the enemy Politburo to figure out what they wanted operational in the United States once the country belonged to them.

Many of the parts would be useless unless they found the exact place each was meant to be installed.

For Buck and Lee Wang, this was the best work they had ever done. Carlos had visited for a week in between restoring his telescope computer system in Salt Lake City, scrounging any parts he thought might be useful and telling them that he had been ordered by his uncle to travel back to Colombia with him and his father.

From then on, Lee Wang travelled with Carlos, his wife and daughter going with him wherever he went. The Wang family even travelled to the White House with Carlos and Buck one day to sit and have lunch with the President, giving him their full side of the story and trying to make the tired President understand that things were not going to get better for a very long time.

While Lee’s wife and daughter visited with the President’s wife and kids, now all good friends, the President asked Lee’s advice. He wanted to hear Lee’s ideas about how to keep informed about China and the rest of the world outside the North American borders.

Lee’s response, with Buck and Carlos adding their five cents worth, was that there was no country in a better state than any other country. The whole world was in the same predicament. Lee believed that each country was on its own, not able to help each other, and that every person in this country needed to contribute to the rebuilding effort. Lee Wang explained to the President that after thirty years of planning the destruction of the world, the Politburo would not have left out anything. They would have made sure nobody could rise up against them once they owned the United States of America.

The President and a couple of men sitting around the table discussed Lee’s suggestions openly and agreed with him. What could we do for other countries when they have nothing more than we have?

For the first time in history, the whole of the United States of America decided to forego being the world’s police force and concentrate on problems at home.

The meeting ended with the President calling for a second meeting in early March. Everybody who had taken part in the defense of the country in January had to attend. As he described it, this would be the meeting to start the rebuilding program as well as to gather information about what state the country was in and who and what were left. Buck told him that he would get the word out.

That meeting had been the day before. Captain Sally Powers was flying as usual. There was not much else she wanted to do right now, other than be with Carlos, which she was. She had heard from her parents. They were safe in her lodgings down in the Marine/Air Force base in Yuma.

Once the catastrophe had happened and it seemed certain that the power wasn’t going to come back on where her parents were currently living in Flagstaff, Arizona, they had fired up the old truck Sally used during her infrequent trips home—the only vehicle that started—and through the mess of thousands of people on the move, had driven down the highways to Yuma to be with their only daughter.

Sally’s father, Peter Powers, now retired, had a nice ranch of three acres outside Flagstaff, a city both his parents had grown up in many years earlier. It was a nice place to retire and Peter and Marcie had moved there and purchased their little piece of heaven in 2009. He dabbled in a large vegetable garden, sold or gave away much of his produce to his friendly neighbors, and always kept several five-gallon cans of gas in his work shed. The stored gas was just enough for him to drive the 320 miles to Yuma with the old and thirsty Dodge. There was no fuel at the gas stations. Without electricity nobody could pump gas.

The roads were a mass of people and the highways miles of tangled wreckage. Peter had purchased a shotgun and a .22 caliber rifle to scare the deer and vermin from his vegetable patch in 2010 and he decided to take them on the trip just in case. The Arizona weather was also cold and icy where they lived, below freezing, which was the second reason they decided to visit Sally. It would be much warmer down in Yuma.

They packed up the olive-green Dodge, which had a camouflage-painted shell over the bed of the truck that made it look like an army vehicle. They took all of their valuables, food for a couple of days, the house’s 10,000-watt generator they used as backup once the lights and heat had gone out, the old aircraft handheld radio Sally had given them so that she could talk to them if she was flying over the area, locked the house, allowed the dog into the back seat and headed out.

Many others were doing the same, the cold forcing people to the lower warmer elevations, to friends and family in the neighboring areas.

The roads were busy with people walking, or riding lawn tractors or older vehicles and farm tractors. Sometimes the mass of people looked like a movie from a bygone era. The snow was a few inches deep and the tarmac slippery in places where the sun hadn’t melted the ice.

They used the 4 x 4 going up and down steep parts of the road and many friendly folk helped to push the vehicle up the steeper parts where even the four-wheel drive on the icy parts wasn’t enough. They did not meet one unfriendly person until they reached the Interstate a couple of hours later.

They drove onto I-17 after passing through Sedona and travelling south on 79. Everywhere people were gathering and questioning what had happened and what anybody was doing about it. In Sedona, they were stopped at a roadblock by a group of soldiers from the Navajo Army Depot to the north, who were there to keep the peace and protect the town. They were asked where they were going and were allowed to proceed once they were warned about possible looters on the highways. If in trouble they were told to be patient. A couple of military vehicles were beginning to patrol the highways, making it safe for the travelers.

“Stay away from any broken vehicles on the interstates,” the corporal stated through the window to Peter. “There are many dead bodies in them and we have heard of gangs of armed looters working mostly at night. I recommend finding a safe place to park during dark hours. I see you can defend yourselves so be careful, it’s not nice out there.”

Peter thanked the man and they continued through Sedona. There were queues everywhere at every store selling something. Hundreds of people were trying to purchase whatever they could.

Interstate 17 was virtually empty of people. Here and there, there were vehicles driving slowly around broken parts of crashed cars and trucks, but a path had been formed and Peter maneuvered the Dodge onto the cleared pathway. There were no other moving vehicles on either side of the highway apart from an old black car accompanied by a tractor pulling a trailer full of belongings heading north at about twenty miles an hour.

They didn’t see any moving vehicles for the first two hours. Peter reckoned that they were averaging about twenty miles an hour and after seeing the hundredth actual dead body in a vehicle, and others moved to the side of the road by travelers before them, they began to realize the magnitude of the power outage a couple of hours before New Year’s Eve, a month ago.

“I think we should go see Bert at the Avery Shooting Facility, just before we turn onto 303,” suggested Peter to Marcie. “It has been awhile since I’ve been there but Bert will remember me and I think it could be a safe place to spend the night.” Marcie nodded. She had often been there while Peter had practiced shooting, a pastime he enjoyed.

There were about a dozen other vehicles and many lawn tractors pulling loads of bedding in a queue at the wooden gated entrance. Peter hadn’t noticed the large wooden gates before and believed them to be recently erected. A tall wire fence now surrounded the large property.

The green Dodge got into the queue and waited. It moved slowly and the person at the gate office window was not somebody Peter had met before. He asked them what they wanted. A second man stood next to the young man in the window holding a shotgun at the ready.

“We are on our way to Yuma. I’m a friend of Bert’s and used this place often. We are looking for a safe place to sleep tonight.”

“Bert is dead. He was attacked a couple of days ago while riding into Phoenix to get supplies. You are just in time, we close at dusk and we have room for only another twenty vehicles. You leave any guns at the second office and you can collect them in the morning. It is a hundred dollars per night and you can use the bathrooms. You sleep in or next to your vehicle and you will not be allowed to leave these premises until dawn. No fires except gas cookers. If you have a generator, it can be used until 10:00, then lights out. Guards have been posted around the perimeter and will shoot to kill. All vehicles are in rows and somebody will guide you into a slot.”

Peter paid him the money, drove to the next window to hand in his weapons, got a receipt and drove up to the line of vehicles being parked in areas that looked like a farmers’ market with the same types of farmers’ market tents being erected by people who had brought them. They had a small double sleeper tent and it fit perfectly next to the vehicle once it was parked on a grassy area. It was tight and he could see rows upon rows of people on the area where he used to shoot skeet. The bathrooms had “bathroom” painted on their walls in white paint, one for females and one for males. Two bathrooms for what looked like a thousand people.

Even though they were packed in, the organization worked. It still got cold as the sun dipped, but certainly not as cold as back home. They had brought all their camping gear and ate a hearty meal of thick meaty canned soup and half a loaf of fresh bread Marcie had baked before they left. The bread machine was also packed away in the back of the truck somewhere with her remaining packs of bread flour. The other half of their bread they gave to a hungry-looking family next to them who had a couple of young daughters.

They slept well and were ordered to pack up and get out of the protected gate an hour after dawn the next morning.

Now they were closer to Phoenix; Route 303 was a by-pass route around the city to I-10 which would take them to Yuma. This route had many more broken and crashed vehicles than I-17, but this time there were many people milling about the trucks, searching their insides for anything left. They must have been emptied days earlier as people, mostly kids, held their hands out like beggars as they passed slowly by. There wasn’t much to give them.

They took notice of one little boy as they came abreast of Luke Air Force Base. Here a couple of military jeeps were patrolling the route, searching and scaring the looters. Peter’s Dodge had that military look to it and the people they passed just looked. The boy, about ten, was working his way down the side of the highway in a wheelchair, his leg in a cast, straight out in front of him. He was a mess, his hair oily and dirty, his clothes bedraggled and blackened with dirt and dust.

A couple of older boys ran up to him while the Dodge was still a hundred yards behind and laughing, they pushed the boy and his wheelchair over on its side. They pulled the boy out of the chair and went through his pockets. Hearing the truck coming up behind them they looked around and immediately ran for the highway fence, climbed over it and ran towards the houses.

Peter stopped the truck several feet away, jumped out to help the boy up and noticed a bloody gash on his head. “Marcie, bring the first aid box and my shotgun, he shouted to his wife. “You OK, boy?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” the boy answered, slightly foggy from his fall.

“You live around here? Can we get you home?” Peter asked helping the lad to sit up. The boy grimaced with pain as Peter helped him upright.

“In the houses over there,” he replied, pointing to the housing estate the other two boys had run into. “I haven’t seen my mother for a week. My father and older brother were killed in a truck accident a few miles north of here on 303 on January 1st and my mom went out to look for food. There was a lot of shooting that day and I think she must be dead, or she would have come back!” he blurted out, tears rolling down his cheeks. “She promised she would be back in an hour and that was a week ago. Since then those boys have robbed everything from our house and have been beating me up. They even killed my dog, shot him when he barked at them. I’m so scared and I’m trying to get away from here.”

“What’s your name, boy?” asked Peter.

“Clint, sir, Clinton Jefferson Busch” was the reply as Peter wiped the blood away with a sanitary cloth from the first aid box.

“Do you have anybody else at home?” Marcie asked holding the young boy’s hand as Peter cleaned his face.

“No, ma’am, it was just me and Charlie my dog left. Now Charlie’s dead, there is no reason to stay. There is no food and the water stopped running a week ago. Also the nightly shooting is getting worse and worse.”

Just then a vehicle pulled up behind them and Peter and Marcie turned to see a military jeep stopping a few yards behind them with rifles pointed directly at them.

“You have a problem, son?” asked the soldier in the front seat standing up and pulling out a pistol from his waistband.

“No, sir, these people saved me from a beating and they are helping me,” Clint Busch replied, still lying on the ground beneath Peter and Marcie.

“Where are you folks heading?” was the next question out of the officer’s mouth.

“We are heading to the Air Force base in Yuma, Lieutenant,” replied Peter, standing up. “Our daughter is an Air Force F-16 pilot stationed at the Marine base there and we are going to see if she is OK.”

“A fighter pilot, hey!” the lieutenant replied. “Well, we are heading there ourselves. If you have enough fuel you may follow us. It’s a long slow trip, but we can help you get there.”

Peter mentioned that he had enough fuel and thanked the soldier asking for a minute with the young boy. He bent down and asked him what was wrong with his leg.

“I have some sort of bone problem and had an operation on my hips and lower back just before Christmas,” he began. “I haven’t walked very well for a year now and the doctors said that this operation would allow me to walk again with a cane, or crutches in a few months. I was due for a second operation in June, but it looks like that might not happen.”

“You have less than a minute before we head out and leave you here!” shouted the lieutenant from the jeep.

“You have a choice right now, Clint,” stated Peter. “You either stay here or come with us. Our dog in the back seat will be glad of some company and we could bring you back here on our return to Flagstaff, if you want. Which is it to be?” There was no hesitation in Clint’s eyes.

I’ll come with you, sir. What is your dog’s name?”

“Jock,” replied Peter asking the soldiers for help to get Clint into the Dodge’s back seat. They carefully placed the poor boy in the only room left in the rear seat and Jock seemed to accept the company by smelling the dirty boy and then looking straight into the boy’s eyes. “Guys, can you take his wheelchair? I have no room for it.”

The men gladly closed the old hospital-issue wheelchair, and placed it into the rear of the jeep. They were also heavily loaded but the flat chair was placed between the gear in the back and the rear of the two front seats.

Peter and Marcie resumed their journey, noticing the two boys in the housing estate watching them as they carried on down the highway.

It was a slow journey down Interstate-10 to Yuma. There were many wrecked and burned tractor-trailers, far more than smaller cars and trucks like the Dodge, but a sort of roadway had again been made by traffic before them and they averaged 25 miles an hour without mishap to the outskirts of Yuma.

Since both vehicles were going to the same destination, they reached the military base gates just before four in the afternoon. The Dodge’s tank was on empty as they drew up; Peter had filled the tank with the remaining fuel before they left their overnight camp.

It took twenty minutes before the guard, under orders from the base commander, finally let them in and was told that they could stay in Sally’s small single-bedroom apartment until she returned. No, they didn’t know where she was, but knew that she was alive and still flying somewhere on the East Coast.

***

Will Smart and family were trying to get more gas for their farm generator, now down to its last twenty gallons and they and an Air Force engineer were at a gas pump, just by Lake Palmdale, north of Los Angeles and just outside Lancaster, California where they lived.

The Smart family had their old truck as well as an old Air Force jeep with a couple of armed soldiers as guard duty. Will and Ben brought all the five-gallon gas canisters they could find and several of their neighbors had tagged along in a weird variety of vehicles, also to fill up whatever they had. The jeep had a large and operational military generator on a towed trailer behind it with enough electrical power to get the pumps working.

The twenty or so vehicles already in line were either old trucks dating as far back as the 1950s or lawn tractors. Two larger farm tractors towing farm trailers held several families all holding onto more gas canisters. The inside of the gas station’s shop and the small pawn shop next to it had been ransacked weeks earlier, but that didn’t stop the kids on the trailers from going in to see what they could scrounge.

Five of the six gas dispensers were broken, Will assumed by people trying to get fuel out of them with no luck; but the sixth one had only minor damage and a yellow repair tape around it. This one must have been broken before the New Year.

The engineer, and Ben with his sister Oprah by his side, discussed the inner workings of the gas dispenser while a second soldier looked for the main breaker switch inside the shop. There was nothing left inside, the entire shop was broken and ransacked, and even the breaker box had been smashed several times and was totally useless.

They slowly and carefully fed power from the running generator directly into the gas dispenser and tried to find why it had been shut down. It took them an hour but they finally found the problem—a fuse had stopped in the old counting mechanism of the fuel-flow computer; the system was quickly brought to life by by-passing the dead Chinese fuse.

The machine tried to shut itself down immediately, but again was brought back to life by by-passing the active security system. It took another twenty minutes of hit or miss, but at least the machine was alive and there should be fuel in the tank buried below them.

Finally gasoline ejected from the nozzle in quick and uneven spurts of about a gallon at a time. Trying to keep the spillage down to a minimum, they started filling the red five-gallon containers for everyone. The Smarts alone had brought twelve, sixty gallons of needed fuel. Once filled, Will and Maggie got into the truck to take the containers home to pour them into their 200-gallon tank at the ranch. It would take a couple of hours to fill everyone’s containers and there would be new people once others found out what was going on.

An hour later, Will and Maggie returned for their second trip to find the original line down by half, but another twenty people had lined up behind the tractors. There were mumblings as the Smarts began refilling their twelve containers, but it stopped when Will explained to the line that it was thanks to them they were going to get fuel at all.

The Smarts returned for their third refill as the second tractor with three families and 20 five-gallon containers had just filled up, and the first new person in the queue invited the Smarts to refill in front of him; he was an older man with a wife and three containers.

“Can we tell what’s left in the tank?” Will asked the engineer, and the man replied that it wasn’t possible. It could go dry at any time.

“I would assume that it could have been filled just before the problems,” he suggested. “We have taken out about 500 containers, 2,500 gallons, and if it was full, there could be the same amount still to go.”

It lasted another 120 canisters after Will had filled theirs for the third time and was about to fill them again for the fourth time just before dusk. It actually ran out of gas on the last container before his first one. A line of another fifty families had carted off their canisters and now there were well over a hundred people still in line.

“Sorry, everybody,” Will shouted to the growing chorus of laments. “Where is the nearest gas station to this?” he asked the crowd.

“Palmdale Boulevard!” shouted dozens of voices at the same time.

“I know three of the five gas pumps at the station were destroyed by a crashed aircraft, but I think one pump is still usable like this one,” someone shouted.

“OK,” replied Will, “we will meet there tomorrow morning at 08:00 hours The Air Force personnel will bring their generator again and we will try to give you guys some gas. Please don’t tell everybody, I’m sure we can only help a few hundred people, as there is only so much gas in these tanks. OK?”

There were again mumbles and Maggie suggested to Will that some of these people would probably walk there, start the line and spend a freezing night waiting for gas. She hoped it would work.

It did. A crowd of nearly a thousand people were waiting in line when the Smarts arrived at daybreak the next morning. Even though the temperature was a few degrees above freezing, it looked like a line for tickets to a ball game or concert. People stood with dollar notes in their hands at the ready, whole families carried dozens of containers and sometimes just a lone person on a lawn tractor waited with one or two containers.

The line was orderly and anxious faces waited as the men worked the best looking gas dispenser first to see if they could get it to work.

An Air Force engineer understanding this time what to do had the dispenser running and was about to allow the first person to place their canisters on the ground for filling when an old truck came speeding up to the gas station, screeched to a halt next to the front of the line and an overweight man got out and rushed over to the group standing around the dispenser.

“Who gave you authority to steal my gas?” he shouted to the group arrogantly. “I’m going to call the police. You are stealing my gas. This is my gas station and my gas. How dare you dispense it without my authority? Who is going to pay for the gas you steal?”

“We will!” shouted the first dozen or so people in the line.

“Then you can buy it for twenty dollars a gallon,” continued the owner, breathing hard, “or I will call the cops and get you and your soldiers thrown out of here.” Will Smart stepped forward, pulled out his detective badge and showed it to the man.

“Now you are price gouging,” Will stated calmly. “That is a State offense, so I will have to take you down to the precinct, or you can take the money in the hands of the people. They are prepared to pay and that is what you will get for your gas, or the soldiers here will throw you off your property. Take it or leave it, and by the way I don’t think dollar bills are worth anything anymore. There is virtually nothing you can buy with them. Barter them, yes, but value? I don’t think there is a lot you can do with them. But yes, you will receive payment for what these people take, and I’m sure they are paying you more than those prices still up on your sign on the corner.”

“And if I don’t want to sell the gas?” questioned the man angrily.

“Then I think the soldiers and I will leave and you can take it up with this line of people here. I’m sure they would persuade you pretty quickly that they would like gas, especially the mean-looking man with the sawed-off shotgun. You see him? About number ten in the queue? He’s been standing here since last night and I’m sure he’s in a foul mood.”

The owner slowly acknowledged the number of people in the queue and grabbed the money out of the first man’s hand and allowed him to continue. The first man had three containers, fifteen gallons and Will Smart noticed two twenties and several one dollar bills while the owner counted it. The still-angry man didn’t complain.

One family had ten containers and three hundred dollars passed hands, the next, an old woman with one container, handed over a ten dollar bill. The owner shouted at the old woman to get going, she didn’t have enough. Will grabbed the owner by his collar and read him the riot act.

“You have taken in more money than the fuel is priced at, and now you want to tell this poor old lady that she’s not paying enough? Soldiers throw this man off his property and tell him he is now unwelcome here.”

Two soldiers came up and forced the man back to his truck, ordering him to get moving. They left him there and returned to the gas dispenser.

The owner, pointing his finger, was about to yell at the soldiers when the first large rock landed on his truck roof and he looked to see where it had come from. When the second missed him by inches and hit his windshield hard he jumped into the truck and pulled the door shut just as a larger rock hit his cab roof making a good-sized dent. He looked at the group in front of him and Will sensed that he was going to ram the gas dispenser. He ordered the three soldiers in attendance to aim their rifles at the truck and the man quickly changed his mind, spun his steering wheel around and headed back the way he had come.

An hour later the tank was dry and a second dispenser in the second line was started and it too ran dry another hour later. A third one was connected up on the other side of the station and it ran for two more hours before it ran dry. By this time Will had refilled his containers and most of the first line of people had gone through, most having only two or three canisters. The line was much shorter with only a dozen or so people and Will shouted to them that it was over and that they would try another one tomorrow, but he didn’t know where.

He and Maggie invited the three soldiers and the engineer back for a late lunch at their ranch and they gladly accepted.

Over lunch of a dozen tins of food and some fresh rolls Maggie baked from flour received from a neighbor a week earlier, they had an afternoon of eating and chatting about what the future held for the area.

The soldiers were happy to be there and had orders to do whatever Will and Maggie wanted them to do. The rest of the men were hard at work loading aircraft with rations back at Edwards Air Force Base. The base commander was now the Smart family’s best friend.

Chapter 3

Carlos and Colombia – February

Carlos sat in the copilot’s (right) seat as Blue Moon cruised down to Bogotá, Colombia at 15,000 feet. His father and uncle Philippe, the Colombian Ambassador to the United States, sat behind him with all four of their bodyguards, Manuela, Mannie, Dani and Antonio. The eleven other AC-130 crew members and six Marines sat in or around their transport, an old jeep especially equipped with two 2,000-rounds-per-minute Miniguns, one facing forward and one on a pole at the rear. The whole jeep was set up for three passengers: one driver and two gunners. All three positions were protected by armored panels and the heavy vehicle carried an extremely high quantity of ammo. The jeep took up most of the room in the AC-130’s small rear compartment. Every inch had weapons of some sort crammed into it and the heavy weight could be felt by Sally, the pilot, on takeoff.

Another six Marines and their commander, Lieutenant Buff Moore, were in the second AC-130 Gunship, Easy Girl, on Sally’s left wing. They carried a second jeep identical to the one in Blue Moon. Both were recently modified by the armaments division at Fort Bragg, North Carolina and had been picked up en-route. Jennifer was in flight control of Easy Girl which had the C-130 tanker, Mother Goose, on her left wing. They were in loose formation and heading straight towards Bogotá, out of MacDill Air Force Base just outside Tampa, Florida.

The flight into Bogotá from MacDill was seventeen hundred miles, eight hours at a slow, fully-loaded cruise speed. Mother Goose was to refuel the two Gunships before they reached the South American coastline and again before she would turn back. The refueling would make sure that they had enough to return from Colombia to American soil, but she would hang around Cuba for their return just in case.

The AC-130 Gunships were not very practical aircraft for the food distribution now in operation by every other flyable transporter aircraft in the U.S. Over 137 older aircraft of all sorts had been found at air bases and civilian airports since the end of the invasion ten days earlier. Three more AC-130 Gunships, two C-130 Tankers and thirty older C-130 Transporters were being stripped of their more modern and useless electronics to have older, still-working electronics fitted at their bases in Florida and northern California. The balance of all military aircraft except a few Coast Guard 130s, were electronic pieces of junk and would not be flyable until new parts were produced, which could take decades.

The 130s would be ready within a month or so, many having completely reconditioned older engine models installed, since their more modern engines’ electronics were fried.

“We still have fifteen minutes before we start refueling Patterson Key,” stated Sally to the freshly promoted General Patterson back at Andrews Air Force Base. She was speaking over her handheld satellite phone, still the only form of long distance communications. Because aircraft radios could only transmit so far, Carlos and Lee had set up several phones to enable conference calling. General Patterson, Sally, Jennifer and the tanker pilot Major Wong each had one, as did the President, Buck, and Ambassador Philippe for this trip. Another one would be given to Preston once he decided that his two-week vacation was over.

They were a couple of hundred miles south of Jamaica and about the same distance to the Colombian coastline.

“I assume many of you are listening and since I assume we are the only ones on this channel, we can talk semi-freely,” stated the general. “I have good news since you departed yesterday. The three sister aircraft of yours, the Charlie-130 Gunships, will be ready in three weeks. We also found several semi-operational Vietnam-era Hueys at a couple of our small air bases and that will put our Hueys force up to twenty. We have de-mothballed four more F-4 Phantom jets and, as you know, have the other four fully operational. The second group of four jets will take another month to get flying again and that will give us a wing of four defense jets on both sides of the country. We have now searched through every Air Force base in the world and have located three old 1970s-era 707s, semi-operational tankers in a hangar at Ramstein, Germany and another two in northern England with three of the older version C-130s we had loaned to the RAF a decade ago. I’ve heard that one more could be in Scotland.

 We have teams of engineers heading out on the Jumbo Jets. They will go through these old birds and check them out. Another several operational FedEx Cargomasters have been found in Alaska and they are currently flying home to be used in the expanding food operation. Our aircraft fleet is growing in numbers, and there are still several places, mostly civilian, to check. Over a hundred more civilian aircraft have searched us out on their radios and we are having a fly-in at the next big meeting here, beginning of March. You guys are expected to be back before then. Carlos, thank you for enabling this conference call facility over the satellite phones. Lee asked me to tell you that your observatory in Utah is up and running again. I owe you.”

“My pleasure. We are all listening to you,” replied Carlos.

“Mr. Ambassador, are you there?” asked General Patterson.

“I’m here,” replied Uncle Philippe.

“Mr. Ambassador, what are you expecting to find at your destination?” continued the general. “Am I right you haven’t been back for quite a while?”

“Correct, young man. I haven’t been back for a couple of years now, but before the atrocities, I was in contact every day with my government and military leaders, separately. To answer your question: We had searched out fresh infiltrations of the drug cartels into new government positions, mostly back in 2010. I’m sure that we did not get everybody. I believe that even the higher echelons of certain military departments are also infiltrated, but the old sections I control are still safe as none of my senior staff has defected in four decades. They are mostly family and I grew up with them. Like me, they are far past retirement age, but there is no way we can relinquish our control, especially not now.

“I have been in contact with my second-in-command through the satellite phone you got for me last week. Much is the same as in the U.S., but conditions are not so cold. The attacks on the armed forces are increasing rapidly and there is quite a bit of hunger in the cities. Two days ago the main government offices were attacked in our capital and there was a small attack on the international airport. I have increased the ground patrols around both areas and replaced all the soldiers with my men.”

“Can you give me an idea of numbers of your armed forces and what percentage is loyal to you?” asked the general.

“As you know, we have three departments, Army, Navy and Air Force; total 150,000 men plus another 110,000 in the country’s police force. To date a third of our Colombian army soldiers—around 20,000—have deserted or disappeared from their barracks, I assume to travel to their homes and look after family members. More are disappearing every day. Most of the army weapons equipment is older and still operational. Our Air Force has fared better than yours, also being older. We still have many of our transporters and attack craft in operation including our old Douglas AC-47 Gunships and A-37 Dragonflies, called Super Tweets in the U.S. Several need to have their modern electronics thrown out but we Colombians never threw away the old stuff. I’m going to see how long it will take to get our Air Force fully operational, our fuel supplies secured and our army strength as high as possible. Unfortunately we have nothing as powerful as what I’m sitting in now but our remaining Colombian Air Force is good for what we need. We also have 20 of our fighter/bomber IAI Kfirs operational, although many of them had modern electronics installed and need to be changed. Three of them, the ones currently operational, will be joining us to escort us in with my pilots once we arrive in our destination’s airspace. Our fuel stocks have been given massive protection and I believe our navy is sitting idle but still fully operational. To answer your second question, I have the entire Air Force, a third of the Army and a third of the Police Force under the direct control of my staff, a total of 100,000 men. I could vouch for more, but I need to find out what is happening.”

“Bon voyage and I wish you luck, guys,” replied General Patterson. “Carlos, look after my pilots and get them home. I will expect reports on a daily basis.” And with that the conversation was over.

Sally set up Blue Moon to top-off her tanks first, which would take twenty minutes. Forty minutes later and fifty miles from the Colombian coast they said goodbye to Mother Goose who turned away and headed back to MacDill.

Immediately Uncle Philippe was in radio contact with his friends in Spanish. Within ten minutes of flying over the coast three Israeli-made IAI Kfirs climbed up to meet them and guide them into El Dorado International Airport.

“Just for your information,” stated Uncle Philippe to everyone listening in the aircraft as well as the crew in the second gunship, “Catam Air Force Base is in the actual buildings at El Dorado International Airport. My pilots told me that they were attacked again last night, from the outskirts of the large airfield by mortars and snipers. The grounds are extensive and the attack was beaten off. They are expecting another attack tonight. The civilian area of the airport has been cleared and there are armed guards in every building. The gangs out there are growing and their theft of military firepower has increased. They are now believed to have a couple of artillery weapons and even a few shoulder rocket-launchers. Only the most powerful weaponry can actually reach the buildings from the perimeter and we have several aircraft flying over the airfield 24/7. The altitude is over 8,300 feet. Be prepared. I need to spend 72 hours with my soldiers and we will leave on time, but from where, I don’t know. We have limited fuel reserves at this air base but I’m hopeful that we won’t need any.”

They went in steeply from high altitude, landed on Runway 2 and were guided by a military jeep into a large, empty hangar. Both aircraft were towed in by a tractor, and the doors were closed after them once the engines had died. The tractors turned the aircraft to face outwards. The large fluorescent lights made the inner hangar as bright as day, once it was sealed from outside eyes.

There had been hundreds of military personnel down the length of the runway as they taxied towards the terminals, with the three Colombian Air Force jets high overhead and fully armed for action.

A group of about twenty senior army brass was there to meet the visitors. Mannie and his sister disembarked first, saluted to the generals in the welcoming committee, and walked around the hangar before signaling to the aircraft that all was well.

Uncle Philippe was helped out of the small hatch first, followed by Manuel and Carlos. There were hugs of greeting and friendship from the welcoming committee as the three walked up to them. The American forces stayed in the aircraft until Carlos returned to advise that all was well. He stated that the two jeeps would stay, and the Marines would be left in the hangar to guard the aircraft. The Air Force personnel would find accommodations in the next hangar and there were showers, food and beverages waiting. He asked Sally to stay with the group until he came to get her, and asked her to change into civilian clothes.

The accommodations were bright and comfortable, much like Preston’s rooms in his hangar. The large facilities were for pilots and crew. A full meal was served before the group decided to shower, clean up and rest. Two to a room, they were given over a dozen rooms to sleep in. The meal was served in the Air Force headquarters building directly behind the two hangars.

Carlos was on the fourth floor which overlooked the roofs of the hangars and the vast area the airport covered. He could also see through the one-way glass windows towards the civilian area, and over the roof of the fire station, which separated them from the civilian side of operations.

There were four aircraft of different sizes at the gates that belonged to the national airline, Avianca, an American Airlines Boeing 737, a Continental Airlines 737 and what looked like a Mexican Airline, an older model 737. The last jet aircraft at the end was nothing more than a large blackened patch on the runway. He counted twelve visible gates and eight aircraft at the gates with another three smaller propeller-driven aircraft in a line a couple of hundred feet in front of the terminal.

From where he stood it looked like he could see well over a thousand troops dug in and in trenches all over the airport area. There were medium-sized artillery pieces, machine-gun mounds and mortar positions everywhere.

A large boardroom table was in the middle of the meeting room with twelve chairs on each side. Several lower-ranking officers were seated on chairs around the walls of the room. Carlos sat down next to his father, two seats from the left head of the table where his uncle sat. On the opposite head was the most senior officer in attendance, who, he was about to discover, was the second oldest of the five Rodriquez brothers. It took some time, but he realized that another brother was also at the table, an admiral. This was certainly a family affair. Of the fourteen chairs, five were occupied by members of the same family, including his father and himself.

Naturally Spanish was the spoken word and Carlos was fluent in his birth language, but with an American accent.

For the first ten minutes greetings and jokes went around the table until Uncle Philippe asked for silence.

“Gentlemen, please,” he asked and the table became quiet. “You remember Manuel, our family bodyguards, and our most famous American, young Carlos Rodriquez?” Carlos and his father nodded to the table, as the bodyguards nodded from their positions standing at the three doors.

For ten minutes Uncle Philippe told them the part Carlos played in the attack on the United States and the men gave him nods of congratulations. Uncle Philippe then asked each of the men to deliver a five-minute report on what they believed was happening in Colombia since New Year’s Day, 35 days earlier.

They mostly repeated the same things, but from different perspectives. It seemed that the country’s cartels had been quick to react to the shutdown at the beginning of the year. There had been attacks in parts of the country as early as January 3rd. The first attack in the capital had been a week ago. Although the desertion rate from the normal troops was bad, Uncle Philippe’s controlled troops sustained very few. An army colonel who was under the command of one of the generals at the table—and who was preparing to desert—had been shot by firing squad the same day. He wasn’t part of the family.

All stated that there were reports of groups of several hundred men arriving in the capital during the last few days, and they anticipated that the cartels were preparing to attack the government offices in Bogotá which apart from a thousand loyal troops, was totally deserted by most of the politicians. There was no government control and the general at the other end of the table had enacted military rule with curfews in the whole of Bogotá and the surrounding large cities 48 hours earlier.

The Air Force was the country’s communication system and an aircraft went out each day to the several air bases established in the larger cities around the country to give and receive information. Its headquarters was here at the airfield so El Dorado International Airport was the seat of control for the country of Colombia. Nobody really cared what happened to the government offices, which would soon be destroyed in any event. The airfield and its large open areas were far easier to defend from insurgents.

Philippe asked the table how many drug cartel members or gang members of any types were around Bogotá and the answer shocked Carlos.

The table estimated well over 10,000, even as high as 25,000, many of which had deserted the armed forces and had been infiltrators or spies before the end of last year.

“So we have 100,000 totally loyal men in our brigades, Army, Police, Air Force and Navy?” he asked the table. The military men nodded. “Then we could have another 100,000 men who might not desert and help us keep our country safe?” Again the men nodded. “How long will it take us to find out how many troops are actually on our side?”

“A few months,” was the answer from one of the men at the table.

“They are widely dispersed,” added another.

“How many of those maybe-loyal men are within the city limits?” asked Philippe.

“About 30,000” was the answer.

“Well, we need to work on those first,” replied the Ambassador. “Get two of our men to chaperone one soldier to make sure he doesn’t spy or desert. They are to form small groups of 20 to 30 and look after each other. Then, how many more of these maybe-loyal men are still based at our own positions, like our air bases countrywide?”

“Another 20,000” was the answer.

“Do the same with those and now what is left?”

“I have another 22,000 men in the Navy you did not count,” added Admiral Luiz Rodriquez.

“How many of those are trustworthy, Luiz?” Philippe asked.

“About half,” replied the admiral.

“Am I right, Luiz,” Philippe asked the admiral, “that the four remaining largest naval ships in the Colombian Navy are our old Light Frigates?”

“Yes, Philippe,” the admiral replied to his older brother.

“The United States needs a little help in their territorial waters,” added Philippe. “They have very few naval and coast guard vessels still operational. Am I right that our navy has very little to do here and should have very little to do for the foreseeable future, Luiz?” The admiral nodded. “Then get a large contingent of our loyal sailors together, like I explained for our ground forces, and get three of the four ships ready to sail to Virginia. I will tell the Americans that we are sending help to patrol their coastal waters in exchange for their using American fuel. It will give them something to do, keep the men from jumping ship and you can swap out a Frigate every month, bring one home and see how many men desert.” The admiral nodded in agreement.

“General Miguel Rodriquez—my younger brother, Carlos—what are we doing about our fighter aircraft, how many are scrap metal as far as useless electronics, and your manpower numbers, please?” Uncle Philippe asked the head of the Colombian Air Force. Carlos now realized that this was a real family affair.

“We have lost about a thousand men, mostly in clerical positions, and evenly divided between our eight bases,” he replied.

Miguel Rodriquez was a tall man, thin, and one of the most decorated pilots in Colombia. There was nothing in the country he couldn’t fly. “We have currently one third of our aircraft grounded, all our Tucanos, all our Black Hawk helicopters, and two old tankers that would still be operational if we hadn’t upgraded their electronics in America last year. Other than those aircraft, we still have 20 of the 24 Kfirs semi-operational and all will be airborne within a month. We are replacing any useless electronics, mostly very small recent additions. Four of the worst-hit aircraft are being decommissioned for parts. The others are being reassembled with old parts they arrived with from Israel. I’m glad we don’t throw away anything. Our seven 70s-era C-130s are all operational, apart from newer radios which are being exchanged as we speak, as well as their older radar systems. Four of the C-130s are currently flying food supplies to areas where we are short and today is their last day of operation before refits. The old Bell helicopters are still active, as are most of our smaller, propeller-driven aircraft. We have 100 percent of our fuel stocks heavily under guard and with our now reduced flying schedule, have enough jet fuel here at El Dorado, our Air Force bases and all the other civilian airports for approximately two years.”

“Thank you, Manuel. This country is going to need every gallon of aircraft fuel we can find. The shipping industry is sitting useless or is at the bottom of the sea, so we are not going to get any new supplies in the near future. So, gentlemen, what is the latest information from the Los Llanos region, where my old enemies, the Calderóns and the Florencia Cartel were last focused, and where we hope they are still hiding? And your report on our dangerous neighbor, Venezuela?” asked Philippe.

For twenty minutes most of the men at the table contributed all the information they knew, mostly from spies and infiltrators in the largest cartel in the country, the Florencia Cartel, which had over 30,000 members and had an ongoing war with the Colombian military. They currently frequented the Los Llanos area of Colombia which bordered Venezuela. It was a grassy plain area with small lines of hills where the cartel was active.

The benefit of this area to the cartel was that when the military went in to attack the hundreds of small border villages where they were holed up, the gangs had an opportunity to cross the border to Venezuela and disappear until the soldiers gave up waiting for them to return.

Venezuela had doubled their soldiers on the border, welcomed the banditos, and told the Colombian military to stay away.

General Rodriquez added that because the Venezuelan Air Force was far more modern with mostly modern American and Russian fighters, they were mostly permanently grounded. The Colombian Air Force had complete superiority in the air. The Venezuelan army was bigger, but the general heard that their more modern equipment infrastructure was in disarray and Colombia would have little or no opportunity to get fuel from their neighbor. The insecurity of the Venezuelan regime was far worse than in Colombia.

The other border countries weren’t a threat. Only Venezuela’s border area needed constant surveillance by keen eyes, and Carlos was thinking about this problem when he was brought back to the present.

“Carlos,” stated Uncle Philippe, turning to his nephew, “do you have anything to add to what you have heard here today?” Carlos was listening intently and was surprised that his uncle wanted his view.

“Thank you, Uncle Philippe. As an American I know little about the cartel problems here in Colombia, only what I used to hear through the media. I wasn’t expecting to be part of the discussion, but I have a few ideas.”

“Please, young Carlos, you have our ears. I’ve heard that you are a good pilot and know most of the aircraft in our Air Force,” stated General Rodriquez.

“These are just preliminary ideas. I have been thinking about possible scenarios for warfare in the future. We just thwarted an invasion by foreign troops in New York last month. That attack was likely the last one between modern, heavily-armed armies for a long time, perhaps a couple of decades. No country in the world now has a modern, fully operational military force to wage war against another country. Do you agree?” The men looked at each other, discussed the idea for a few minutes and slowly all nodded that Carlos was probably right. “Before he flew around the world to talk to the international leaders, my old friend, General Pete Allen, who many of you knew well and who was a great friend of this country, told me he believed that warfare as we know it today, modern electronic-warfare, is over. He expected that the only warfare possible for the next two to three decades would be war between human armies with simple rifles and mortars, not fancy electronic machines. He backed up his theory with the loss of every one of the modern unmanned aircraft, fancy U.S. Air Force drones all of which were lost in flight. This was the latest direction the United States was taking to achieve military superiority. Now that technology is nothing more than destroyed scrap metal we are back to men fighting men with any old weapons that still work, mostly guns big and small. Yes, there are millions of rockets out there, but the only ones with any accuracy are the ones on a soldier’s shoulder and aimed by that man directly at its target with no GPS guidance. The rest, even though their rocketry will still work, all depend on electronics to get them to their targets, correct?”

Again the soldiers discussed what Carlos said and agreed. General Rodriquez spoke up.

“Carlos, what about the satellite you have operational, and the three Chinese satellites you captured last month? Philippe said that they are the only ones working. Could they be used to target rockets or atomic bombs?”

“Yes and no,” he replied, parsing what was correct to say and what was top secret to the United States. “Our old Navistar satellite was not designed for that mission. The Chinese satellites were, but only for their own weapons, three of which were nuclear devices detonated over China and which must have killed millions of their own people. The fourth atomic missile we know of is now useless as we control the satellites. Whether we can reprogram them to handle what the United States has is something I will be working on in the future and I cannot answer that at this time.”

“Will you keep us informed?” asked General Rodriquez.

“I will share any information with Uncle Philippe that is allowed by the President of The United States,” stated Carlos bluntly.

“Any new ideas on fighting guerrilla warfare such as we have always faced here in Colombia, Carlos?” asked Uncle Philippe.

“Just one. You have how many operational C-130s?”

“Seven,” was the reply from General Rodriquez. “The C-130 is the model for our 130-Cs and 130-Hs, but not of your fancy Gunships. They are beautiful!”

“Just my point, General,” continued Carlos. “Fighter aircraft are always needed and can cover all types of fighting. Helicopters are just as important. You have both. In our last battle, I learned that the third important factor—and one the U.S. Air Force has utilized for decades—are slow, large, heavy attack aircraft. Massive bombers are useless in jungle or bush warfare. They learned that in Vietnam. Bombs are great against weapons factories but useless in the bush. Fighter aircraft are too fast in clearing vast expanses of bush from enemy soldiers, but great against metal targets such as military ground vehicles, or opposing air fighters. Helicopters are great for slow attack and the movement of troops, but cannot pack a heavy punch and cannot be well protected. After listening to General Allen flatten two buildings in Nanjing, China with two 105 mm guns, one in his Gunship, Ghost Rider—the one he died in—and our gunship here, Blue Moon, I believe that the most powerful aircraft for the foreseeable future is the AC-130 Gunship, fully armed.” The table was absolutely silent.

“Could you get some of our C-130s turned into these Gunships by the Americans?” asked General Rodriquez, winking at Uncle Philippe. Philippe winked back with a smile on his face. Still talking, Carlos became perplexed.

“I can only ask. I have the right connections but honestly, I don’t think the U.S. Air Force has thought about what I’ve just told you. They have no need to think that way at the moment. Their whole plan is to feed people right now, a problem you don’t have here,” Carlos responded. “But I will put the idea to General Patterson and the President. We have a meeting coming up next month.”

“We could give them more gas heaters from the embassy,” joked Uncle Philippe. He told the table about how cold the White House was when they first arrived, and the American Government had not given the heaters back yet! The men smiled.

“I’m sure that the U.S. Air Force probably has twenty to thirty, or many more of the latest Gunships sitting around the world. The most modern ones are as useless as your fleet of modern civilian aircraft out there on the tarmac,” continued Carlos. “I think that prompted, they will understand my ideas on the AC-130 and would want to cannibalize as many as they can, if they understand the problems you have. I also believe that life is going to get far worse in the United States, with drug gangs or just gangs of thugs trying to control areas and towns, especially around the Mexico/U.S. southern border. A million-plus army troops is all they have to keep justice in the country and it will still take up to three months before they are all back on home soil. I will put it to the meeting next month. I’m sure that they will be more than happy to convert your C-130s into Gunships if it is possible. The guns are the same types in all of them. The more modern electronics in the most recent weapons can be removed and the aircraft set up with guns to copy Blue Moon or Easy Girl. Both aircraft have different gun configurations, Blue Moon having the powerful 105mm cannon and Easy Girl more .30-caliber cannon power. Even the powerful Miniguns in the two jeeps we have in the holds could be a powerful force. A dozen of those 7.62 Gatling guns firing 2,000 rounds a minute from a gunship will clean up camps of men on the ground.”

“And what do you think the Americans would want as payment?” asked General Rodriquez.

Carlos thought for a second. “Their weakest link is naval ships. I believe they have a couple of Destroyers and one or two Submarines and several smaller old naval and Coast Guard vessels. Maybe they will be interested in your Light Frigates,” he answered, thinking from the top of his head.

The table smiled in unison and looked at him. There was silence for several seconds until Uncle Philippe continued.

“Well, we can think about loaning them to the U.S. Which is better for our country right now, sea power or air power?” he asked the table. Following more discussion, air power was the final answer. “You know the U.S., they are a very generous people. We offer them three Light Frigates for six or seven new Gunships, modernized aircraft, and then we ask for our Frigates back when we need them.” It took a while, but there was mutual approval. Uncle Philippe ended the discussion, “Most assistance the U.S. lends to other countries is often never returned, just forgotten in the ongoing political debates.”

Carlos was thanked, the meeting was over and bocas (snacks) were presented by the wait staff. Carlos, his father and Uncle Philippe stood up and the three men were joined by General Rodriquez and the admiral.

“Do you really think that swapping three of my best ships for Gunships is a wise idea?” the admiral asked Uncle Philippe.

“Why not? What have we to lose? America is a good ally to have. The Gunships are far more powerful in guerilla warfare than your ships are, Luiz. Until we have an attack or problem from the ocean, the ships are of no use to us at all. I could speak with my friend in the U.S. Navy, also an admiral, and ask him to accept you as Fleet Commander or Officer Liaison to them and maybe you can help in some way, no?”

“Now that sounds interesting, Philippe. It sounds too boring for me to stay here,” replied the admiral.

“Carlos, do you think this exchange could be a possibility?” asked General Rodriquez.

“I will start work once we return, but I’m owed a few favors and I have the ear of the President and a general in the U.S. Air Force. I’m sure cannibalization of all military and civilian equipment will become high priority worldwide very soon, if it hasn’t started already. There will certainly not be any new military or civilian innovations for years, even decades to come.”

All agreed with Uncle Philippe, who again winked at his younger brother, the general. Carlos noticed and still wondered about it.

“Well, that’s settled,” stated Carlos’ father, Manuel. “Philippe, what is on our agenda for the next couple of days?”

“General Rodriquez, what is our schedule until we depart? We are at your mercy,” asked the ambassador.

“Rest for today, Philippe. Tomorrow is a tour of four of our eight Air Force bases. Day Two is a meeting with the Colombian government here in Bogotá. It will be very dangerous and we must all keep our wits about us. Old spies will be everywhere. We clean all our offices here daily to make sure no new bugs arrive as gifts and we have an old scrambling device active in one of the hangars. It is an old 1970s CIA scrambler which makes any listening devices inactive within one mile of its location. On Day Three, your departure day, we have scheduled a meeting of all our Air Force generals and colonels at our base in Santiago de Cali. I want you to explain the world’s predicament and tell them that the only real enemy is our old enemy, the drug cartels. Then you will head back to the U.S. from there.”

Carlos headed back with the group to the hangar to find Sally asleep in an air-conditioned double room reserved for them. It had a queen-sized bed and he assumed his father or Philippe was up-to-date on his love life. He felt like a siesta and joined her under the bed cover. Still asleep, she snuggled up to him.

Day two was pretty uneventful. Carlos, Sally, Jennifer and the rest of the Gunship crew, apart from doing routine checks on the equipment, opened the rear hatches so the Marines could have the run of the airfield in their two jeeps. The Colombian soldiers were extremely interested in the jeeps, from the simple design of the Miniguns to the armor plates about two feet by two feet and cut around the gun muzzle to protect the shooter. They quickly discussed the possibility of building a few attachments to their own vehicles. Carlos told an interested army colonel that he would look out for any extra Miniguns in the U.S. and send them their way if he found a supply. The more senior men had headed out to visit the four airfields. A Colombian C-130 had flown in to pick them up.

Day three was more interesting. Carlos, included as an aide to Uncle Philippe, went with his father and General Rodriquez to visit the government buildings. There were three divisions of government and the meeting of all three was scheduled under top secrecy. They drove into the grounds in large black civilian cars with tinted windows.

Under heavy guard their cavalcade swept into the gates of a building Carlos did not recognize.

“Casa de Nariño, Nariño Palace, Carlos. Head of government and the President’s residence,” stated Philippe as they stopped in front of the eight stone pillars protecting the large entrance door. There was no guard of honor, nor any ceremony indicating that anyone of importance was arriving. The gates were closed and an old American tank resumed its position directly behind the closed gates. Carlos counted hundreds of Colombian army troops in every direction he looked. As soon as they got out and the cars had driven off, the tank reversed, the gates reopened and a second cavalcade of black sedans entered the gates, this time from the opposite direction.

There were few introductions. Carlos was told to keep his mouth shut and act like an aide. They were guided into a large room where several men well-dressed in suits and military uniforms stood around eating bocas and talking.

A short man walked up to Philippe, his hand outstretched. “Ambassador Rodriquez, it has been a long time,” he stated, looking up and directly into the old ambassador’s eyes. “When was our last meeting? 09 in Cali, I believe.”

“Correct, Mr. President,” replied Uncle Philippe, shaking hands and looking straight into the eyes of the Head of State. He did not look down. “Your daughter’s wedding. How is she? Are you a grandfather yet?”

“Of course, Philippe. A baby boy, a year old!”

“May I introduce my Aide Liaison, my nephew Manuel and my number two aide, his son Carlos?”

They all shook hands copying Philippe’s eye contact.

“The famous Manuel!” the President smiled. “Your mother is a famous figure in this country and a real leader for justice. I met her once, a couple of decades ago when I was a young police officer. A very strong woman. I’m sure you and your son are just as strong. Carlos, you grew up in America I hear?”

“That’s correct, Mr. President, and I wish I had more opportunity to have visited my country of birth.”

“With the dangers here in Colombia, sometimes I wish I could live in America. I heard you grew up in Los Angeles, California, Carlos. Tell me what is it like?” Before Carlos could respond, Philippe drew the President away and started talking quietly to him.

“Word gets around,” whispered Manuel to his son. “We put out that false bit of information nearly twenty years ago.” He smiled at his son.

“Is he trustworthy?” asked Carlos.

“Philippe thinks so,” his father whispered, hiding his mouth and eating a snack with his hand at the same time, “but he was never part of our armed forces and was just another policeman in those days. It’s never him, but somebody else who will use any information they get hold of. You just never know.”

After pleasantries, the congregation of important figures entered into a second room through three sets of security checks where Carlos observed the longest table he had ever seen; he counted 42 chairs placed around it. The room was also lined with chairs along the four walls and Manuel showed his son to one of them. They sat right behind the two chairs occupied by Philippe and his brother, General Rodriquez, the Head of the Colombian Air Force.

Carlos was surprised that many of the people sat in the chairs around the wall rather than at the main table. Admiral Luiz Rodriquez arrived with his aides and sat on the opposite side of the table from his brothers. Another senior military man who Carlos assumed to be commander of the army sat down several chairs from the admiral, and then the chief of the police force filled the chair next to the Admiral. The next two chairs were empty.

By the time order was called, the table still had twelve empty spaces. A third of the chairs around the walls were filled and there was a large gap in one corner.

A roll call was taken. Somebody accounted for the missing occupant of each empty chair around the table. Death or disappearance was the commonly stated reason the chair was empty. Then the members in the rear wall seats stood up one by one to introduce themselves, with the people next to empty chairs explaining why those chairs were not occupied. An entire group designated to sit in the corner had been murdered in an ambush in the mountains in the south of the country. Finally, Carlos and his father spoke their rehearsed lines of introduction. There was a gasp from several when Manuel stated his name. They all knew him. Carlos was greeted with silence.

For three hours the meeting went forward, discussing the country’s problems, the possible whereabouts of the drug cartels and, most importantly, the protection of the remaining government officials in the room. The commanders in chief of the respective branches of the armed forces stood up and gave reports. Nothing was mentioned by the Rodriquez brothers about their previous meeting. Lastly Uncle Philippe was asked by the President to give a report on the United States and what he knew was happening outside the borders of the country. He spoke for 30 minutes giving an exact description of what he knew had taken place since January 1st. He did not mention anything about Carlos, or the President of the United States, except that they had met and he helped warm up the White House. There was general laughter at this.

“What do you believe is the number of dead in the United States from this catastrophe?” asked the President.

Even Carlos was shocked at the answer.

“Well over 50 percent, Mr. President. The latest assumptions by Washington put the number as high as 60 percent.”

“Sixty percent of 300 million people?” asked the President, shocked.

“No, 60 percent of 330 million people, Mr. President,” replied the Ambassador. “I assume the number could rise even more as the icy cold weather still has a month or two to go before spring.”

“So, Ambassador Rodriquez, you are saying that over 150 million Americans are assumed to be dead? That’s three times our population in the whole of Colombia! Are you sure?” asked the President.

“Those are purely assumptions, Mr. President, but the winter has been extremely cold in the northern areas with snow as far south as Dallas, Texas, a week ago, and the people have very little food or warmth in the northern regions.”

“What about their big armies in the Middle East?” asked the army commander.

“Still stuck in the Middle East,” Uncle Philippe replied. “Thanks to a couple of captured Boeing aircraft from the Chinese invaders, they will start bringing back troops in the foreseeable future.”

“We heard about the attack on America,” stated the Chief of Police. “Also that the country is totally defenseless and in turmoil. Can you enlighten us, please, Mr. Ambassador?” Carlos felt his father stiffen next to him.

“I will respond to that in two answers, Pedro Gonzalez. First, the United States still has nuclear capability; the President told me himself.” Carlos knew that Uncle Philippe was bending the truth. Carlos himself had told Uncle Philippe with the President’s permission. The U.S. did not want to tell the world that it was virtually defenseless. “They know what is going on in Europe, China and Russia. They know that all the smaller wars around the world have ceased for the time being and they will be the first country to get back on their feet and defend themselves. Their Air Force, Army and Marines are regrouping and gaining strength. Their Navy is a little weak, but they have ideas on how to strengthen it and, like us, they have storage facilities and museums filled with old parts to replace the useless Chinese-made electronic parts. My second answer, Pedro, is yes, the whole government and complete military establishments are working 24/7 helping civilians survive and will do so for the next several months or even years. The farmers are being organized and will be ordered by Washington on what to grow next year. They are in a worse situation than here in Colombia due to the severe winter, but they will heal quicker and become strong and powerful again within a year or two. One last point, Mr. President, the United States of America is the only ally to have right now. I was told that Russia and China are far worse off than the United States and both countries could take decades to return to any form of civilization.”

“What about civilian movement across the American borders?” asked another man.

“I’m sorry but I cannot answer that question, Senator Calderón,” replied the ambassador. “All I know is that the remaining American soldiers are being dispersed around the country to fill the void of the decimated police departments and get the country back into order.”

“So the American soldiers are the new American police force?” asked the Chief of Police.

“I believe so,” was the reply.

For another twenty minutes very interesting questions were put to the ambassador. Some were normal, humane questions and some were about troop movements and where and why there was no police force in the United States.

“Before the atrocities they had hundreds of police officers in several different police forces in the same areas, especially around its southern border with Mexico. Where are they now?” asked a man sitting next to Senator Calderón.

Uncle Philippe shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

Then a question was asked by the Chief of Police that made Manuel stiffen again. “So you are saying that nobody is crossing the southern border from Mexico anymore and that the American border patrol or police are either non-existent, or are helping people in other parts of the country?”

“I’m sorry, Pedro, what I’m saying is that I don’t know. I only know that I’ve heard Mexico is in total disarray south of the U.S. border and that most of the areas around the United States are policed by armed military personnel.”

The meeting ended for lunch, a buffet in the first room. To Carlos it seemed that food was plentiful in Colombia. It was the best spread he had seen since Preston’s New Year’s Eve party in the hangar two months earlier.

By three, they were back at the airport and met briefly in the meeting room they had used the day before. “A very interesting get-together,” stated General Rodriquez, once the admiral had arrived, this time in an old and rusted Volkswagen Beetle, not the fancy limousine that had entered the gate to the palace. The windows were tinted and the admiral sat in the back; he was driven by a man in civilian clothes with a second man holding what looked like an old Tommy gun with a round ammunition barrel such as those used in old Hollywood gangster movies.

“Our friend Senator Calderón asked the questions we anticipated he might ask, Philippe,” stated the general, once coffee had been served and the room vacated by everyone not sitting at the table.

“So did Pedro Gonzalez. I didn’t know they knew each other so well,” added Philippe. “Did you see any eye contact between them? It looked a little rehearsed as there was absolutely no eye contact at all when one or the other asked a question. They were acting as if they hadn’t heard the question, but their aides did, taking a lot of notes behind both men.”

“Is Senator Calderón related to any Calderóns we have met before?” asked Carlos carefully, remembering the story his father had told him during the drive to Washington many years earlier. The men around the table laughed out loud.

“Yes, Carlos, you are as clever as your mother,” laughed Uncle Philippe. “We cannot find out, but José Calderón, the gangster your mother killed, had a large family. We believe that there is a good chance that Senator Calderón is a son or younger brother of that man. José Calderón was in charge of the largest drug gang of the day. He would now be about 85 to 90 years old. Senator Calderón is about seventy, so I believe if he is related, the senator could be a younger brother by fifteen years. First the Medellin Cartel became the strongest gang after Calderón’s death. His cartel disappeared for several years. The Medellin Cartel was slowly overthrown by the Cali Cartel, Escobar and the famous Ochoa brothers who were killed or jailed for life. The Cali Cartel leaders, then the Rodriguez Orejuela brothers, with Santacruz Londono as their battle commander, waged war against all the other gangs until the Florencia Cartel, Calderón’s old gang, resurfaced and the Orejuela brothers were caught and jailed with the help of unknown sources. It was strange that the police claimed they also had Santacruz Londono in custody, but no pictures of him were ever released from prison under orders given by our current police chief, our friend Pedro. Londono was often reported as being seen next to Manuel Calderón, the current leader of the cartel. Remember, Carlos, Florencia was our old family headquarters until your grandfather was murdered and we moved to Medellin and finally here to Bogotá.”

“May I ask a question, Uncle Philippe?” asked Carlos, now that a clear picture was forming in his mind.

“Of course, my boy, and I believe I know what you are going to ask.”

“The only difference between the Rodriquez family and the Calderón family, or Cartel, is that one is good and one is bad?”

“I like the way you say that, Carlos. It has a nice ring to it. Yes, the Rodriquez family has always been on the side of justice and the people of Colombia. It has been so since my grandfather was a senior minister a hundred years ago. He formed a secret police force to protect the heads of state. Unfortunately, that protection ended with the murder of Presidential Candidate Luis Carlos Galán in 1989. He was our man and we hoped he would continue to keep Colombia an honest nation. Even as far back as the 1970s we knew of several cabinet ministers in the pay of the Medellin and Cali Cartels and we even performed a few of our own assassinations. Now the Florencia Cartel has well over 30,000 members.”

It was time for some rest and relaxation and Carlos went off to find Sally. A basketball hoop had been found in the hangar and personnel from each of the two air forces were playing a game. Carlos sat down and watched while Sally, Jennifer and a few others dunked it out under the net. Breathless, Sally came up to him and sat down.

“Had an eventful day?” she asked.

“Very interesting,” he replied. “A couple of questions I had always wanted answered since I was a young boy were answered today. I met very interesting people and have learned a lot. We leave tomorrow and fly over to Cali, a smaller city to the west and then on home. Sally, I feel like I’ve have met a lot more of my family and I want to help you check up on your parents. You said you know they are fine, but I think we should take your Pilatus and fly into Flagstaff for a visit.”

“That would be great,” replied Sally. “I’ve done so much flying since the beginning of the year. I think about them often, and have even called down on the 130’s radio to Yuma whenever I was within radio range. They have everything they need, warmth from a massive fireplace in the lounge, two powerful generators and my father always keeps reserve stocks of fuel for emergencies. They grow their own food and always have chickens in the freezer; he raises two hundred high-quality meat chickens a year and then gets them processed somewhere. The neighbors on each side are good friends, both ex-Special Forces, and they have enough weapons and ammo between them to start a war. My parents could leave the ranch for as long as long they wanted and they would find it the same way when they returned. Much like Preston and Joe, they all look after each other. I’m sure that between the Three Musketeers, which is what they call themselves, there is enough food there for a couple of years.”

An hour before dawn the next morning, the two AC-130s were warmed up and took off for their forty-minute flight to a much smaller Air Force base in Santiago de Cali where Uncle Philippe’s fourth brother was in command. A third aircraft took off before them. To Carlos it looked like the military version of Buck’s and his DC-3, Lady Dandy, an AC-47. This one had no trouble keeping up with the more powerful AC-130 engines. She must have been fitted out with the same engines. The AC-47s, all six of them, were called Fantasmas or Ghosts in Colombia, and had been called Puff the Magic Dragon when they were in service with the U.S. Air Force in Vietnam. They were early versions of the Hercules Gunships and, as one turned for takeoff in front of them, Carlos noticed it were equipped with three Miniguns on each side.

Carlos remembered that his father had been to Cali, or Santiago de Cali, before. He, his mother and sister had taken the bus to get away from the bad guys after his grandfather had been shot.

They landed on Runway 24 as the sun came over the horizon giving them protection, as they were almost out of the bright light of the sun as it rose.

There had been no mention of why they were flying to Cali but Uncle Philippe and Manuel knew of something which needed their attention. Carlos understood immediately after landing when he saw a line of seven C-130s neatly parked in front of the hangars. Here, too, it looked like a war zone with hundreds of soldiers in trenches and foxholes all over the airfield, which was much smaller than in Bogotá. There were civilian houses and warehouses visible on the other side of the high perimeter fence which was about eight hundred yards from the runway. All looked quiet and peaceful.

Two tanks and two artillery pieces were stationed in front of the line of aircraft and again Blue Moon and Easy Girl were directed into the two large hangars in the middle of the military establishment. Tractors turned them around, their tanks were topped off from two old gas trucks, and the doors closed to hide them from public view. All this happened within twenty minutes of landing and the surrounding area looked still sleepy and peaceful with very little movement.

Carlos was introduced to Colonel Alberto Rodriquez, Uncle Philippe’s youngest or second youngest brother, Carlos had lost count by now. The other brothers, the general and the admiral, had come along for the reunion flying in the AC-47 and there were many hugs and laughter as the old men, much like a group of kids, jostled with each other. They were a close-knit family.

“Anything you need, young Carlos,” laughed a happy and jovial Alberto, “you just ask.”

“How about a tour of your Fantasmas, Uncle Alberto? I’ve always wanted to see the real Puff the Magic Dragon.”

“I will take you on a tour myself, Carlos,” interrupted the older brother, General Rodriquez, walking up. “My young brother has helicopters as his specialty and mine are our AC-47s, thanks to your old friend General Allen. He got the U.S. government to sell us our Fantasmas for $1,000,000 each in 1985. Expensive, but he filled them with all sorts of goodies before they left American soil.”

The AC-47 was just like his and Buck’s DC-3 Lady Dandy, except for the three Miniguns and three air-to-ground rockets placed under each wing, and engines which looked like they were a lot more powerful than Lady Dandy’s. “Israeli modifications to the engines,” stated the general. There were cases of ammunition the size of coffins next to each Minigun and General Rodriquez told him that the aircraft could take off with full fuel and 150,000 rounds for the three guns. The guns could fire up to 4,000 rounds per minute, but the Colombian Air Force had their fire rate decreased to 2,000 rounds per minute. Three guns at 2,000 rounds per minute was a lot of firepower and Carlos did the math: 30 minutes of firing.

She was a beauty and Carlos wanted her. “May I assume that you want these C-130s turned into Gunships, Uncle? And that’s why we are here, to look at the C-130s?” The general nodded, looking a little guilty. “What range does this AC-47 have?”

“Exactly 1,900 miles fully loaded, or 2,350 miles with less than 25 percent full load,” the general replied, suddenly understanding where his nephew was going. “But, Carlos, she is my personal aircraft!” He looked at Carlos, shaking his head negatively.

“Well, General Rodriquez,” smiled Carlos, looking the older man straight in the eye, “if you give me your old model as a trade in, maybe you get the new models with the bigger guns, no?”

“Crazy family,” smiled the general. “First your mother shoots up the whole of Colombia. Then your father disappears for decades. Then he returns with an insolent son who wants everything we poor Colombian people own. Carlos, you are worse than the drug lords out there. And yes, she will reach America. And yes, I want the bigger machine with the bigger guns, as you described it. Just put in some leather flying seats, a blonde waitress and a refrigerator full of beer!” General Rodriquez replied smiling and slapping Carlos on the shoulder roughly. “I must tell Philippe to not bring you next time. Come, she is yours. I will get her fueled up. Since I heard you own an old DC-3 with your American friend, I’m sure you will not fly my girlfriend to your American Davy Jones Locker en route, you SOB!”

After pleasantries and Uncle Philippe’s complaints to Carlos about bullying his younger brother to hand over his prized aircraft, a Colombian Air Force Cessna A-37 Dragonfly was seen touching down on Runway 24 from the east. Again Carlos had always wanted to see one of these so he descended the stairs from the boardroom overlooking the airfield from the third floor and walked out to get a glimpse of the latest addition. Sally joined him and they walked out to the tarmac where the aircraft had stopped. The pilot got out and looked at his reception inquisitively.

“And may I have the name of this good-looking American lady pilot?” he asked Carlos.

“Captain Sally Powers, United States Air Force,” replied Carlos before Sally could get her Spanish going.

“And you are, Señor?”

“Carlos Rodriquez, son of Manuel Rodriquez,” he replied to this stern-looking pilot, many years older than himself.

“Good to finally meet you, young man,” replied the pilot. “I’m Commandant Alvarez Rodriquez, third in command of the Colombian Police Force, and your uncle, Carlos.”

Now I have met all five of my uncles, Señor,” replied Carlos, happily shaking his hand.

“May I assume that all my older brothers are already here?”

“Correct, Uncle,” Carlos responded, walking with the man back to the building. This man seemed as exciting as his other uncles and the A-37 could wait for the time being.

Again, the brothers displayed warmth and close family friendship. Alvarez Rodriquez was quickly welcomed with lots of handshaking and slaps on the back. Then he was introduced to Manuel, Carlos’ father.

“Last time I saw you, Manuel, I flew you, your wife and young Carlos here into Miami. 1980s, no?”

“That is correct, Alvarez, late 1980s. It was a bumpy flight in that little aircraft, whatever it was, and we were hot and squashed in with all our worldly possessions in six large suitcases.”

“An Air Force Cessna 210 Turbo. Manuel and I remember that long flight. After taking off in Medellin we refueled in Panama City, Guatemala City and Merida, Mexico, before landing in Florida. It was the only civilian-looking aircraft in the Air Force and was mostly used for aerial surveillance. A meeting was held to get troop numbers while all the aircraft were refueled and the U.S. aircraft were readied for their return flights.”

Not really part of the meeting, Carlos was deep in thought. He believed Uncle Philippe had played a trick on him. First, his uncles winked at each other when he brought up the idea of renovating the C-130 Transporters into AC-130 Gunships, then at his thoughts on the most powerful aircraft, slow attack semi-armored Gunships, and finally, they arrived here in Cali and the entire fleet of Colombian Air Force C-130s were sitting and waiting for them just as they are about to return to the U.S.—probably fully fueled, with pilots, and ready to go. Then it hit him! This whole trip and his invitation to come along were to persuade him to use his contacts to get the 130s reconstructed into Gunships.

“Uncle Philippe!” Carlos interrupted the meeting and everyone turned to him, silent. “You have played me, a member of your family, to convert your 130s into Gunships. That was the only reason you invited me to come along. You wanted me to bring Blue Moon and Easy Girl for you and your brothers to inspect.”

“Also to introduce you to the family here sitting around you, young Carlos.” Uncle Philippe smiled. “The thought of bringing the Gunships had crossed my mind.”

“Your Uncle Philippe is a very devious older brother,” added General Rodriquez, also smiling. “But he looks after us here in Colombia and he has a very mean and dry sense of humor. You seem to be of the same blood, Carlos, since you wanted to commandeer my personal Air Force transportation as soon as you saw it.”

“And he has eyes on mine as well, gentlemen,” chipped in Alvarez.

“Why didn’t you ask me outright, Uncle? I would have done what you asked.”

“Now that takes all the fun out of it. We all wanted to see how long it took you to be a Rodriquez and figure out our devious plan for yourself. And it took you longer than we expected. You are far too trustworthy; it must be your engineering brain, and your grandfather’s genes. He always trusted everybody. Gentlemen, am I correct in saying that young Carlos is a spitting image of his grandfather?” And there was unanimous nodding of approval, even from his father who laughed and slapped him on the back.

“Did he have a mean streak like the rest of you?” asked Carlos, trying to keep his composure.

“Oh yes,” laughed Luiz, the admiral. We played tricks on him all the time as children, but he always got us back somehow.”

“Good,” continued Carlos, “because in payment for getting the U.S. to bow down to you bad guys, I want both of your aircraft, General and Commandant. I see your AC-37 Super Tweet, or Dragonfly, as you call it, has in-flight refueling capabilities. Does the refueling rig in your Cessna Super Tweet, as we called them in the States, comply with our older U.S. Vietnam-era refueling systems? Also that pretty girl you met on the tarmac is going to be my wife one day and your Super Tweet is the type she trained on for several months. It would be a great persuasion for her to become my wife if I gave her a fully-armed jet aircraft as a wedding present. She would be a great addition to this family, no?”

“Alvarez looked at him and didn’t believe what he was hearing. “And what do I get out of this?”

“What do you want?”

“I heard America captured a few Chinese J-10 fighters, young Carlos. Is that too much to ask?”

“I think so. Unless the U.S. Air Force has no use for them, you will not see them in a million years, Alvarez. But I feel that Miniguns placed on your police vehicles could be an addition to your strength, as well as having more firepower than the rest of the Colombian Police Force—who maybe aren’t your friends—and the Florencia Cartel that hopefully doesn’t have the same firepower as your new vehicles. How about that idea, Uncles?”

Carlos could see that he might have hit pay dirt as Alvarez sat back and thought about what he had just said.

Suddenly machine gun fire erupted from outside the perimeter fence and a nearby mortar bomb could be heard ejecting into the air.

“Attack, attack!” sounded everywhere and an old-fashioned siren started blaring its sheeplike noise.

Most of the aircraft had been parked on the tarmac directly in front of the building they were in. From the movement of soldiers in jeeps, it seemed that the gunfire was coming from the northwest area of the airfield, about a mile away. The two Gunships were hidden in a large single hangar in front of the windows they were looking through, and the first incoming mortar bomb landed harmlessly at least three hundred yards short of the hangar in a grassy area between the only runway and the closest hangar.

Everybody rushed for the door. Carlos left the building as a second mortar bomb landed in the same area, twenty or so yards closer. The noise of the return fire from this side of the airfield was loud as he ran for the hangar in front of him where the Gunships were parked. He reached the large hangar door as it opened slightly to allow the Marines in the two jeeps to speed out in the direction of the mortar fire.

A third mortar bomb landed a hundred feet or so in front of the jeeps as they sped down the grassy verge of the runway towards the corner.

“A two-inch mortar at its furthest range,” stated General Rodriquez as he ran up to Carlos breathlessly. “It can’t reach the hangars, but it can reach the runway. We need to get all the aircraft off immediately.”

“Let’s get the Gunships up first,” suggested Carlos.

“No,” replied the General. “Take my aircraft, get some of your Marines in it and give us covering fire until we get the rest out of here. They must all be refueled by now.”

Sally ran up and asked what Carlos wanted of the Gunships.

“Sally, do you have enough pilots for the Gunships without you and me?”

“Sure, Jenifer has her copilot and my number three pilot can take over Blue Moon. We always have one of the crew as a backup. Why?”

“See that A-37 Dragonfly or Super Tweet over there?” Sally nodded. “Climb in and follow me,” Carlos ordered. He shook his uncle’s hand quickly. “General, get Uncle Philippe and my father into our Gunships and get your pilots ready for takeoff. Once the runway is safe, get all the aircraft airborne and we will say our goodbyes. Also thank Alvarez for me and tell him that our two jeeps are a deposit for what we take with us. I will come in and pick up the rest of our Marines.” With that he ran off in the direction of the AC-47 which already had its engines running.

Another mortar bomb landed a hundred feet from the aircraft as Carlos reached it and climbed in the large side door and ran for the cockpit. A Colombian pilot was readying for flight and was the only person in the cockpit. Several men were also preparing the six Miniguns on each side. In Spanish Carlos thanked the man, slipped into the right seat and told him to leave the aircraft. The pilot looked over to his general still standing on the tarmac where Carlos had left him, looked back at Carlos and got up to leave. “Tell the gunners to stay in the aircraft.”

Once the pilot was out, Carlos pushed the throttles forward as another mortar bomb blew a massive piece of turf out of the ground only fifty feet from him. “They must be moving down the side of the runway fence,” he thought to himself, getting his headphones on his head and maneuvering the aircraft out towards the runway.

“Sally, we take off from the southern end and bank slightly right immediately. Stay low and keep your underbelly flat with the northeastern corner. Are you on radio?”

“Yes, lover,” she responded calmly. “I’m going to need a couple more minutes to finish my checks. I have jets that need TLC.”

“I’ll get out of here and come around to give you covering fire. Let me know when you are at the bottom end of the runway.”

“Roger that,” replied Sally. “I need four minutes to get these two little jet engines warmed up.” Carlos knew that it would take her longer to warm up her engines versus his propeller-driven engines. He headed down to the runway end. Again in Spanish he talked to his gunners over the intercom.

“I believe the enemy is working their way down the runway fence. When we take off, gunners, give us covering fire all the way down the fence. Just make sure your shooting is outside the perimeter fence. We don’t want to hit our own men. Comprehend?” There were acknowledgements from the rear of the aircraft.

By the time he reached the end of the runway, the engines were well-warmed at maximum taxi speed. He continued past the tarmac end onto the grassy area and right to the fence where he swung the heavy aircraft around, nearly hitting the tail on the fence itself. This would give him another twenty to thirty yards of runway. He gunned the engines to maximum, holding the brakes until the tail started rising into the air. As it left the ground he let the brakes go and the aircraft jerked forward, the engines screaming and blowing up a dust storm behind them.

The engines were far more powerful than Lady Dandy’s and he felt the speed increase even though the weight of the thousands of machine-gun bullets made her heavy. He noticed Sally taxiing and waiting for him to pass as he came abreast of her.

Another mortar bomb hit the dirt a hundred yards in front of him but left of the runway. He went through a little of the falling debris and watched his speed climb.

He felt his gunners on the port side open up as they left the ground and the tail of the aircraft kicked sideways with the three guns opening up. He reacted quickly, kicking the rudder pedal, and then banked slightly to the right as he brought up her wheels. They turned out of the airfield at a hundred feet and he pulled the stick back slightly to compensate for buildings coming up. There weren’t many over two stories. He passed over them, quickly straightening the aircraft into level flight so that his wingtip wouldn’t collide with any of the ground structures he was so close to.

Still under full power he rose quickly and then banked left to come around to the corner of the airfield where the attack was coming from. He noticed several specks running around on a warehouse roof. “I see the warehouses about half a mile in front of us and there are people on the roofs. I will bank around. I think I can see the mortar position on the closest roof to the airfield. Be ready.”

“I’m ready for takeoff,” stated Sally.

“Go, Sally, I’m about ten seconds from giving you covering fire,” he replied and concentrated on bringing the AC-47 into a good aiming position for his gunners. He also saw the Marines and the jeeps firing at the same warehouse a hundred yards in front of it and inside the perimeter fence. He came over and his gunners opened up with 6,000 rounds per minute going into the building’s roof where the mortar was situated. He remembered to bring the power down ten percent as both engines were still at full power and their temperatures were climbing.

“I think the mortar must have moved,” stated one gunner to Carlos over his internal intercom.

“Mortar position is moving. Get the aircraft out of there,” he stated to anybody listening on the radio. Jennifer and a second pilot acknowledged.

“Airborne, low and turning out right,” stated Sally. “What guns does this baby have, Carlos?”

“I would assume a Minigun and whatever you have under your wings. I think I noticed a couple of racks of rockets and a drop-fuel tank under each wing,”, Carlos responded, coming around the southern side of the runway and seeing movement from most of the aircraft on the ground. The Colombian C-130s were already in a line about to head down the runway.

“You’re right,” Sally answered.

“Arm your rockets and put one into the closest warehouse with the silver roof on the northeastern corner of the airfield,” Carlos ordered. “I can’t see you, so be careful.”

“Roger that. I have you on my antique radar system in here and will stay away from you. I’m coming round now about a mile north of the airfield to do your bidding, lover boy. Arming rockets now!”

Three seconds later Carlos could see the white tails of two rockets enter the building and the whole end of the warehouse disintegrated.

“Marine Jeep One to air cover, I see the mortar crew. They are running on the southern side of the warehouses left of the one that you just blew up. We are moving and many of the Colombian troops are heading that way as well.”

“I think I saw them, Carlos. Continue to fly straight. I’m coming past you on your right and I’ll go in and hit that area with my second rack,” stated Sally, in a much faster aircraft than Carlos had.

“Gunners,” he stated over the intercom to his crew, “I must fly straight. Aim for the front walls of the warehouse with the black roof and give covering fire.” They did as commanded and he could see the walls being peppered with thousands of rounds as the whole left front side of the building collapsed as the last one had done.

“First aircraft away,” he heard a Spanish pilot speaking in English, “and banking to the right.

“Climb to ten thousand feet above ground and wait for the rest,” Carlos ordered the pilot in English.

“Marine Jeep Two, I see three mortar positions being set up in the field, left of that last building. There are two large trees in the eastern rear corner of the field and it looks like a fourth mortar team is in the back of a small truck heading eastwards along the road behind them. We are heading to the perimeter fence,”

“I have the trees visual,” replied Carlos.

“I’m out of rockets,” stated Sally.

“Sally, head over the road and take out that truck. Use your Minigun to lighten your load, then climb up to ten thousand. Conserve your fuel and wait. Over.”

“Roger,” replied Sally and the small truck took fire several seconds later as Carlos banked over the perimeter fence and gave his gunners a chance to pepper the trees where the Marines had described. He had shouted to his gunners in Spanish so that they would understand what he wanted from them. He noticed Sally sweep across his nose several hundred feet in front as he brought the slower aircraft around to continue firing.

“Second aircraft airborne,” stated somebody on the radio.

“Blue Moon on takeoff,” stated an American pilot.

“Easy Girl on takeoff to your rear left, Blue Moon. Give me some room,” stated Jennifer. They weren’t messing around.

 Much to his surprise another mortar round landed in the dirt right next to the runway, a hundred yards in front of the two aircraft.

“Where the hell is that mortar coming from?” asked Carlos.

“I see it!” shouted an American voice. “Marine Jeep One here, mortar team on top of the second warehouse roof! I just saw somebody stand up with binoculars!”

“Roger that. I’m on the wrong side of the airfield. Sally, can you get them?”

“No problem, darling, I’m at four thousand feet and coming round. J

ust give me a couple of seconds.”

It felt like an eternity. Jennifer trundled through the falling debris and Carlos could now see several figures on the blackened roof. That was why he hadn’t seen them the first time round. The two jeeps and other Colombian vehicles were training their fire in the direction but the mortar team was back from the lip of the edge of the building.

“Gunners, I’m coming around. Train your shots onto that second black-roofed building. I know we are half a mile away but it will help slow their mortars down!” he shouted over the intercom in Spanish. He banked right to give them a shot and a second mortar bomb landed further in on the western side of the runway and less than a dozen yards from the rear of Easy Girl now leaving the tarmac. Both aircraft left the ground and banked right in formation and flew below him as he came in at five hundred feet peppering the warehouse. Sally flew over in front of him again, and rose vertically gaining height.

“I think I felt something hit my aircraft,” she stated.

“Your gauges?” asked Carlos, also climbing as the third Colombian C-130 left the ground.

“Seem fine,” she replied, still very calm. “I’m climbing up to ten thousand, I’m out of ammo. Blue Moon and Easy Girl can carry on the dirty work.”

They swept around much like Carlos had done and began disintegrating the rest of the buildings around the areas Sally had peppered. It was a shock to see how much more firepower they had and how quickly the area was completely flattened.

Within minutes, the rest of the 130s had all taken off safely and the firing had calmed down.

“Marine Jeeps One and Two, take your jeeps and wait for me at the southeastern end of the runway. Leave your engines running and prepare to board my aircraft,” ordered Carlos. Suddenly two more mortar bombs straddled the runway, one taking a massive chunk of tarmac out of the side.

Carlos came in from the western side and put her down nearly halfway down the runway and applied the brakes hard. He heard a third mortar bomb somewhere behind him.

“Blue Moon here. I think we have located the next mortar team a block back from the perimeter fence. Permission to fire?”

“You have my permission to fire,” stated General Rodriquez over the radio. “Just try and keep your fire close to your intended target. I’m sure there could still be civilians in the area.”

Carlos, leaving black rubber as he came to a halt at the runway end, turned the AC-47 around. “Thank you for your accurate shooting,” he said to the twelve men manning the guns. “Please exit and take over the jeeps. Marines, grab your stuff. We are leaving for home.”

He waited until he was slapped on the shoulder by somebody and gunned the engines for takeoff. This time there were no mortar explosions as he took off, missing the new and only hole in the runway by inches.

The AC-47 banked as the others had done and once away from the air base, rose to join the others all congregating above him.

“Let me know when you want a job in my Air Force, Carlos,” stated General Rodriquez over the radio. “It seems that apart from sniper fire, we are over the worst.”

“Are you sure you didn’t orchestrate that attack so you could steal my aircraft, nephew Carlos?” added Alvarez, the Commandant over the radio.

“Looks like it,” replied Carlos, “but we lost two good jeeps in the process and I will have to explain that when we get home, Uncle. Sally, how is your Super Tweet? Is she damaged? Shall we give her back?” continued Carlos over the radio.

“No way, José,” replied Sally. “She is fine and the gauges haven’t moved. She flies like a dream. It’s so nice to have jets again for a change.”

“Well, if that nephew of mine doesn’t marry you, I want it back. It’s your wedding present, but until then, it still belongs to the Colombian Police Force,” stated the Commandant.

“My wedding present!” replied Sally. “But the creep hasn’t even asked me yet!”

“Maybe he will very soon, that is if you can use the in-flight refueling system and don’t have to swim home,” was the commandant’s smiling reply.

“Roger, I’m checking it out,” replied Sally. “I was trained on it. The nozzle, if it’s original, will fit into our system. Blue Moon, you have the phone. Call up Patterson Key and tell him we need Mother Goose over southern Cuba in about four hours.”

“That was a quick goodbye,” added the general. “We will clean up here. Let us know when you are returning. I will keep my phone on. Philippe, Manuel, Carlos, fly well and keep me in the loop about our gunship upgrades. That display took out two whole warehouse blocks, very powerful.”

Carlos rose up to meet the rest of the flight as goodbyes were continued over the radio. Uncle Philippe and his father were aboard Easy Girl, he found out as he got into a loose formation with Easy Girl and Blue Moon on a reduced-power cruise so that his aircraft could keep up.

Sally, who would be the only one to need refueling, flew on ahead as their slower cruise speed was below her minimum speed.

The flight took them over the northern border of Colombia and Panama ninety minutes later. Mother Goose was already in radio contact with Sally a hundred miles ahead.

Five hours later they directly flew over Havana while Sally was being refueled, now a couple of hundred miles behind them over Jamaica. It had taken her thirty anxious minutes getting the antiquated system attached to Mother Goose who had met her over Jamaica, just in case she couldn’t take on fuel and needed to land.

Thirty minutes later her tanks were full and with Mother Goose at a fast cruise they turned towards MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa.

The empty C-130s were down to their last reserves of fuel over Cape Coral, Florida when Sally caught up to Carlos and waggled her wings at him as she passed, a hundred miles an hour faster. She left Mother Goose with them and made radio contact for approach into MacDill Air Force Base.

Chapter 4

1st Meeting: Andrews – March

Preston’s satellite phone rang early that morning, the day after he had visited Seymour Johnson. He was sitting in bed with Martie having his morning coffee when Little Beth climbed in with them asking if the two dogs could join them, too.

“Preston Strong,” he stated answering the phone.

“Good morning, Preston, sorry to call you so early. General Patterson here. The President asked me to call everyone for a lunch meeting on Monday, March 4th. We are to meet at Andrews Air Force Base and he wants you and Martie are to fly up. Today, Preston, if you have lost track of time, is Saturday, March 2nd.”

“Thank you, General,” replied Preston. “First of all, congratulations on your latest promotion, you are certainly moving up the ladder quickly. Major last year… then colonel… and general within three months… not bad!”

“Yes, a bit of a shock to the system! I was rather happy just being a plain old Air Force major; now I run the U.S. military machine.

“Please tell the President that we will be there. What time are we to arrive?”

“The President has asked for a 12:30 pm lunch. A thirty-minute landing time before lunch is recommended,” was the reply.

“Have you heard from Carlos?” Preston asked. Martie asked him to find out if her grandfather and father had been invited. “Also, Martie asks if the invitation is being extended to her family members.”

“Yes, to both. Carlos arrived safely in Bogotá. I will be phoning California, to Detective Will Smart and Martie’s father and grandfather in an hour or two, once it’s daybreak on the West Coast. By the way, I heard from our base in Yuma late last night. Please forward the news to Captain Sally Powers if you see her before we do here in Washington that her parents are at the Yuma base, safe and waiting for her to visit.”

Preston and Martie enjoyed an extra couple of lazy hours in bed while Little Beth dressed and went out to play with the dogs. It was still freezing outside and too cold to do any aircraft refueling.

Later, Martie served an overdue breakfast of freshly baked rolls from her bread machine, butter and marmalade. The nearly forgotten aroma of fresh bread that wafted through the house was enticing enough to bring in Oliver, his sidekick and finally Little Beth to find out what smelled so good.

At the breakfast two hours later, Preston brought up the topic of food stores. He wanted the Air Force guys to help him as they knew where most of the stuff was packed and postponed their scheduled return to Seymour Johnson for another couple of days.

“I did a check of what we have in drink stores yesterday before dark,” stated Preston, enjoying his first roll. It was heaven. “Sergeant Perry and his men helped me. Currently we have stored in the hangar 342 cases of beer, 105 cases of all types of liquor, around 300 cases of soda cans and 140 cases of bottled water.” Preston read from a list he had put on the dining table to review over breakfast. “Something that I hadn’t thought of last month was how much dog and cat food we got from that gas station clearance delivery from Joe. We searched the dozens of pallets and found several cases of each. We have large cans of dog food in cases of six, and small cans of cat food in cases of 24, together with a dozen bags of dry food, enough for our animals for the rest of this year. Next year they might have to go out and hunt for their own food. I radioed Joe who said that he also has a pallet of dog food and then some. With his two large Rottweilers, the pallet will last at least six to nine months, so we won’t have hungry animals wanting food for a while.”

“What happened to checking our own food stocks?” asked Martie.

“Sorry, the boys and I thought it thirsty work and now we only have 341 and a half cases of beer left!” replied Preston sheepishly.

Martie looked at him sternly. “OK! OK! I was only pulling your leg. We finished our stocktaking before we leveled half a case!” Martie swiped at him with the dishcloth in her hand. “Carrying on with my list,” continued Preston, smiling and watching Little Beth laugh at their antics, “we have fifty cases of assorted chips and peanuts, and the same amount of candy and chocolates.”

“I should have checked the list of candy and chocolate with you. If you had asked, I would have helped you, you know!” stated Little Beth, now copying Martie and giving him a stern look.

“I’m sure we wouldn’t have so much candy in reserve if you had helped, Little Beth,” smiled Preston. “But I will remember next time, young lady. Now, to your favorite, Ms. Martie Roebels, the disgusting corned beef: five cases of six large tins per case.”

“Now that’s good news, Preston. I think I should make some for dinner,” she replied happily, winking at Little Beth. Preston’s face went white.

“Why do you do this to me? Last year there were millions of places to get takeout, now there is zero, and you want to make corned beef every week. It’s not fair! Let me continue. I checked the truck freezer Joe gave us. We have used about a quarter of the frozen meat since New Year’s Eve. We’ve got enough frozen meat for about a year, without too many parties or visitors.” He looked up at the ceiling as an idea came to him. “I suddenly have had a brainstorm. Do you know what, ladies? You and Little Beth can have your stinky corned beef tonight. The soldiers and the dogs and I have class, and we will grill packs of T-bone steaks on the gas grill outside the hangar and drink the other half of that case to get our stocktaking numbers more even. How’s that?” he asked smirking. “Maybe I’ll even invite Joe and David.”

As often happened on Preston’s farm, an impulsive idea turned into a party. Joe, David and Joe’s five sons came over, bringing chicken and pork chops to grill. These additions complemented Preston’s steaks so there was enough meat for the six soldiers, Joe and his crowd, Preston, Martie and Little Beth (who decided to give up the idea of corned beef that night), and two very full dogs. The half case of beer and a bottle of bourbon were added and, when they asked for landing instructions over the radio during the middle of the party, Preston told the incoming aircraft from Seymour Johnson to head back to base and return the next day.

Apart from a week or so of R&R, Sergeant Perry and his men had been guarding the airfield and farm since the beginning, two months earlier; it was fitting to thank them and send them off for their next break at least with a full stomach and a hangover or two.

Once again, Preston was awakened early the next morning, this time at 07:30 just after the sun has risen over the horizon. It wasn’t the satellite phone but the radio in the lounge blaring out Carlos’s voice.

“Strong Field, Strong Field, this is the Colombian Air Force. We are incoming. We have coffee and breakfast on board and will be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Hi, Colombian Air Force, this is the California Luftwaffe also incoming to Strong Field. We left earlier than you guys, Carlos, so we expect landing rights first, and I need a pee! We are also fifteen minutes out in a westerly direction,” stated Martie’s father Michael pretty directly.

“Strong Field, Strong Field, this is Honorable Lee Wang,” stated a familiar voice. “I coming in with Buck, my pilot, my wife and daughter in Lady Dandy from Salt Lake City. We are very hungry and demand priority in landing for breakfast. We are ten minutes out, over or out. I don’t know which one is right.”

“What the hell!” demanded Preston, following Martie into the lounge. “We end our two-week vacation and then we get the whole world landing all at once.”

“Strong Field, Strong Field, this is a Charlie-130 coming in from the air base to your south for troop pick-up. We are three minutes out and it sounds like we have chosen your busy time. Do you want us to come back later?”

“I suppose you guys want breakfast too, like the rest of the bloody hungry horde out there?” demanded Preston in a gruff manner.

“Negative, we had breakfast at base,” was the reply

“Hi, Preston, Sally here. I’m also on long finals from the south and would like breakfast. I’m faster than the rest and can be there shortly after my Air Force colleagues from Seymour.”

“May I gather that Jennifer is also up there somewhere?” asked Preston.

“Now how did you guess that, Preston?” laughed Jennifer.

“Bloody hell! From zero for two weeks to having over a dozen aircraft all incoming at once. We are not a roadside diner here, guys. And Martie cannot feed all of you so quickly, so here is the information you need. The girls will have landing priority so that they can help Martie with breakfast,” replied Preston. “Temperature is 31 degrees, wind, and slight breeze from the north at 1 to 2 knots.”

“Thanks, Preston,” continued Carlos, “and don’t worry – breakfast is on us. Just put out the red carpet as we have some delights out of Colombia and some fresh coffee beans for you.

“By the way, Preston, we have eleven aircraft incoming, a bunch of Marines and a few dozen Air Force crew. Preston, we will use the parking area along the runway where the hospital units used to be. It’s now clear and empty, I assume?”

Preston acknowledged that it was clear, apart from the old barn. The C-130 from Seymour Johnson could already be seen to the south, on final approach and directly over Jordan Lake.

The pilot, well used to Preston’s field, came in slow and managed to taxi down the runway just as the next aircraft could be seen over the lake. Preston looked at its shape; he couldn’t recognize it and was rather shocked to see his first jet coming in to land on his airfield.

“It’s an old Super Tweet, a Dragonfly, I hope it has a STOL (Short Takeoff and Landings) conversion,” he said to Martie standing next to him. Sally, now an expert at landing on his field, brought the small twin-engine jet to a standstill at the very northern end of the runway as Blue Moon came in next with Easy Girl behind her. Preston could hear Jennifer giving the pilot suggestions on landing over the radio as Sally taxied off the runway area at the end and waited for the two aircraft to land.

As they did, Preston was shocked to see another foreign-looking aircraft fly low overhead, another DC-3, but it had military markings much like the Dragonfly at the end of his runway. “What the hell is happening?” he asked aloud.

“It sounds like Sally is in the little jet and Jennifer is helping another pilot in the Gunship,” suggested Martie.

Then what the hell is that line of C-130s coming in over the lake? I count seven of them,” stated Preston.

“Me, too!” replied Martie in wonderment. It was certainly a sight to see and rather pleasurable to observe so many aircraft flying at once.

Carlos began talking over the radio in Spanish, giving the Colombian pilots the same information Jennifer had given to her colleague. The jet taxied and its engines screamed onto the apron in front of the hangar as the two Gunships parked on either side of the old barn. The first C-130 touched down spewing out dust.

They came in one by one and Carlos told them to stay in the dirt and park in a line next to the Gunships.

“Are you done yet, Carlos?” Preston heard Buck over the radio. “I’ve been circling for five minutes.”

“Sorry to keep you, friend, but parking is always a problem at Walmart, or did Preston say McDonalds? Since Preston isn’t helping with landing procedures, I give Lady Dandy next landing rights from the south. Michael, I assume you are pretty close and need the men’s room, so I’ll come in last.”

Preston was actually dumbstruck at the use of his runway. The apron was full, the other side of the runway looked like a whole foreign air force had just landed and he still had three incoming. Lady Dandy came in next and then another C-130, in which Martie’s father was learning to fly, got in line for final approach. Jennifer was on the ground and again helping the pilot in. Carlos touched down last in a military-looking Colombian DC-3, which had guns prickling out of holes along the side of the aircraft like a cactus.

“My poor runway,” Preston commented to nobody in particular. Slowly the engines died. Preston watched as Carlos taxied the last aircraft onto the full apron; it wouldn’t fit and with the only room left directly in front of the house, he spun the D-3 around where Preston was standing with his handheld radio and spewed him and the house with dust as the propellers slowed to a halt.

Sally was already out of her little jet; she hadn’t turned it around to face the runway as her jets would have caused damage to Preston’s hangar door. She ran up to Martie and gave her a huge hug. Even though she was a couple of inches shorter than Martie at five foot eight, she didn’t care. Slowly, all the aircraft emptied of dozens of pilots and crew members. The rear doors of the closest C-130 opened and a large box was carried out by two men.

Preston still hadn’t moved, watching as Carlos exited the DC-3 alone. He was the only person aboard. Being closer than the rest, he walked up to Preston and shook his hand.

“Are those mean-looking machine guns automatically operated? How many are there, three Miniguns? Is that thing a mini-gunship?” Preston asked Carlos as he shook his hand.

“And a happy good morning to you, Señor Strong,” replied a warmly bundled-up Carlos smiling at his friend’s disheartened expression about his airfield. “What is the use of building such a good runway if nobody uses it?” Carlos laughed. “And yes, you are right; this is my new baby, my very own Gunship. Her regular gun crew is home in Colombia. It’s far too cold to have any crew manning the guns. Isabella is her name and she is an open-air, fair-weather flying Gunship only.”

“Bloody crazy friends I have,” replied Preston. “And the rest—the whole Colombian Air Force—have you carried out a coup, or what?”

“No, they are to be turned into Gunships and returned to Bogotá,” replied Carlos. Sally jumped into Preston’s arms and he gave her a bear hug.

“Sally, I was told to tell you that your parents are safe in your quarters in Yuma. They are waiting for a visit,” he stated to her while getting his hug.

“Oh, fantastic!” replied Sally smiling. “I was worried, but I knew that they were safe. I’ll try and get down there ASAP.”

Michael and Grandpa Roebels came up to say hello as the rest of the growing crowd stopped in front of Preston. Grandpa Roebels had been wheeled out of the rear door of the C-130 in his wheelchair looking a little tired and Preston went over to shake his hand.

“Like my new ride?” Martie’s grandfather asked Preston, with his granddaughter hugging first him and then her father who was pushing the wheelchair. “We slept in there, refueled in Salt Lake City and I didn’t even wake up.”

“May I assume there is now a Rent-a-C-130 Company in California instead of ordinary rental cars?” Preston joked with the old man.

Lee and his ladies ran up and hugged Preston and Martie with Buck following. For the next ten minutes and in still sub-zero temperatures, introductions were made. Preston and Martie were introduced to all the Colombian pilots and crew. Others from the U.S. Gunships had been there several times in the last two months and Preston knew many by name.

“Listen up, guys!” shouted Sally, getting everybody’s attention. “We have fresh and still warm rolls, croissants, and Danish from a lovely bakery on base at MacDill in Florida. They baked them especially for us using their valuable stocks. We have urns of hot Colombian coffee, enough for a hundred people. Preston, I’m sure that we can open your hangar and set up breakfast.”

Preston nodded, coming out of his shock. A large portion of all of the aircraft still flying on Planet Earth had just settled on his airfield.

Sally continued, “We have two hours before the slowest aircraft needs to get going to Andrews for the meeting. Those are the C-130s and Lady Dandy. So let’s have breakfast and converse in the hangar. Preston, it had better be warmer than out here.”

Martie really enjoyed her special breakfast, as did everyone else. It was certainly a thrill to have such lovely fresh pastries. Just having fresh bread was a thrill.

“I have a surprise for you,” stated Sally to Martie and Preston. A commercial baking oven was wheeled in from outside by two Colombian pilots. “It can be adjusted for the electricity output here on your farm, Preston. I swapped it in Bogotá for a 105mm howitzer.” Even Carlos was shocked, he didn’t know about the behind-the-scenes dealings that had gone on while he was in meetings with his family.

“Who did you do the business with and where did you get the 105mm howitzer from? There weren’t any on board when we went out there,” Carlos asked Sally, scratching his head.

“Lover, it’s a promised 105mm howitzer and I still need to find one. I’m sure there are dozens around here. I did the deal with General Moreno’s base commander at El Dorado while you were in the big, important guys’ meetings. I saw several used ovens in the hangar at the airfield so I asked the guy who was in charge of our meals why they were there. He told me that all the air bases had received new gas ones in December and these had been scheduled to be auctioned off. He told me that they still worked perfectly and could bake anything. After speaking to the base commander and the general, he allowed me to stack them in Easy Girl for the promised 105mm. Carlos, your uncle asked for an artillery version and this breakfast is thanks to the baking oven I gave MacDill’s Officers’ Mess kitchen last night. They had an electronic one that didn’t work. I reserved one for you, Preston and Martie, since we nearly live here, and one each for Andrews and Seymour Johnson. I want to get one set up in Yuma. You guys know I can’t fly without a decent pastry for breakfast.”

Everybody laughed and Preston suddenly realized that the new world was now a world of bartering, not a world of money. The millions in his bank account controlled by some electronic database were now non-existent.

Sergeant Perry and his men, good friends with the regular arrivals at the airfield, said their goodbyes and the Marines who had arrived from MacDill thanked everybody for breakfast and filed out for their short return flight to Seymour Johnson. Sally asked the Colombian pilots to deliver one of the four remaining ovens to the C-130 bound for Seymour Johnson.

Breakfast was a happy affair. There was lots of camaraderie and Preston shouted over to Sally munching on her third Danish, “So you swapped a 105mm howitzer for a Danish. What did you swap for the Super Tweet you are currently flying… the Pentagon?” Everybody quieted down to hear the answer.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Carlos just told me to get in it and fly it. I will let Lover Boy tell you. I think he has a few very secret and very sneaky ideas in mind.” Everybody looked at Carlos who suddenly blushed.

“Well… uh… well… I thought that Sally would enjoy a jet, and it’s a good addition to our Air Force here in the U.S.,” he stammered.

“Bull H Crap!” added Sally. “That’s not what you told me!”

“OK, OK!” responded Carlos, putting up his hand to fend off her accusations and his friends’ prompting to tell the truth. “It’s an engagement gift from me to Sally.”

“Bull crap again!” laughed Sally. “I was told that it was a wedding present. Don’t you lie to my friends, Carlos, you are losing face big-time in my book.”

Now Carlos was in a corner and he knew it.

“Well?” he asked her. “Isn’t it a better way of asking than tweeting you on Twitter, as we could have done last year? It’s a better Tweet!” Again snickers erupted. Carlos was fighting back, but lamely. “Do you want me to get down on one knee and ask you right now?”

“Not on your life, lover! I will spend a little time testing your gift to see if it is worthwhile, and then I’ll Tweet you to let you know,” Sally replied walking up to Carlos, giving him a light slap on the back of the head and then giving her man a bear hug. There was much laughter, wolf whistles and applause from the crowd.

Preston was back to normal. The breakfast was fantastic and there was even enough for Joe and David when they arrived twenty minutes later. Jennifer ran up to David and gave him a massive hug. “Looks like the world’s population is already on the rise with all the romance going on here,” Preston loudly suggested and Martie gave him a slap on the back of the head.

Little Beth was also enjoying herself, shaking every man’s hand and trying the several words of Spanish she knew. Sally had a special hug for her.

Time went by quickly and the oven was set up in the hangar by Buck and Carlos. Preston asked Carlos where his father and uncle were and Carlos explained that they had gone directly to Andrews in a 130 that had taken off an hour after they landed at MacDill. Uncle Philippe wanted to get back to the embassy in Washington quickly.

The Seymour Johnson C-130 had gone and now it was time to fly up to Andrews for the meeting with the President. First Preston had to show the Colombian pilots all his toys and they were very impressed with the beautiful lines of the P-38 Lightning.

Preston, Martie, and several others wanted showers and by 10:30 the first 130s were lining up for takeoff. Sally had briefed the first-time pilots on getting out of the shorter than usual airfield and they were shown the way with the C-130 out of Edwards taking off first to lead them up to Andrews. Preston suggested that all the aircraft fly in formation up to Washington to show anybody on the ground that there was still a large number of aircraft flying in the United States.

It took twenty minutes before Sally took off just in front of Preston and Martie flying their Mustangs. Slowly the group came together over RDU, where everybody had planned to circle at 5,000 feet, the eight C-130s, two AC-130 Gunships, the two DC-3s looking pretty next to each other. Sally’s Super Tweet and the two Mustangs got into formation. The Colombian C-130 with its modified engines was at maximum cruise to allow the faster jet to stay in formation at its minimum cruise.

The entire group flew north to Andrews Air Force Base. Other aircraft were already in the landing pattern for Andrews, so the radio chatter was quite busy for the first time this year. Preston and Carlos recognized the base commander’s voice from Hill Air Force Base, then the base commander’s voice from Edwards. Maggie and Will Smart should be aboard that one if Will had finally overcome his fear of flying.

They were still half an hour out at 11:45 when they heard the Jumbo Jet call signs also being given orders for final approach into Andrews. It was getting tight but those big jets, using the two runways, were all in thirty minutes later as the Strong formation was given landing numbers and runways for final approach three minutes behind the last two 747s. The weather was a degree above zero and with no wind. They came in directly from the south, three minutes apart. The two long runways swallowed up the fifteen aircraft quickly.

Base personnel indicated parking positions for Preston and his friends while the Colombian C-130s were directed into another area. The twenty Chinese Airlines 747s and five Airbus 380s were in two long lines on the main terminal area and looked grand, disembarking thousands of soldiers into trucks and old buses waiting to take them to new quarters.

Andrews was certainly a busy place as a Huey helicopter flew into the midst, which Preston recognized as Buck’s Baby Huey. The President must have commandeered it again. He suddenly realized that Barbara had not been with them earlier; she was flying the President in his favorite flying machine, Buck One, as the President now fondly called the Huey.

Aircraft and helicopters kept arriving, the choppers mostly from the north and northwest. Preston assumed they carried commanders arriving from the cities. There were certainly a lot more aircraft flying than a couple of weeks ago when he had been here last.

With the President’s arrival, the large group of flyers and other personnel were guided into a hangar readied for the event. Preston reckoned that well over a hundred people were being ushered into the hangar by Air Force Military Police. A boardroom table had been placed next to a podium at the front of the room and hard military steel chairs in rows of about twenty had been placed in ten rows facing the table. It was certainly a much bigger meeting than any of the last ones.

He was still with many of his friends when a sergeant asked for his name.

“Preston Strong and Martie Roebels,” he replied and the sergeant looked at a list.

“First row, take any two seats, sir and ma’am.” They followed the sergeant’s instructions and found Uncle Philippe already sitting in the first row with Manuel and decided to sit next to him.

“Good morning, Preston, Martie,” stated both men, standing and shaking hands with the newcomers.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador, Manuel,” Preston and Martie replied, taking seats.

“Sorry to miss a visit to your farm this morning, but I needed to get back to Washington,” stated the Ambassador. “Please call me Philippe. I think formal address has gone out of the window for the time being. I’m organizing a helicopter to have available for the embassy for food supplies and travel in and out of the embassy grounds. We can’t fly a helicopter from Colombia, the distance is too far, but I’ve had the President working on loaning us one. He loaned me his latest one, an old Navy Sea King, and he asked for Buck’s Huey as its replacement. The embassy has been attacked twice now by mobs trying to get in and we need to travel in and out by air.”

“There is so much unruliness in Washington, Philippe?” asked Preston.

“Unfortunately, and it’s getting worse,” replied Philippe. “We flew in more guns and ammunition in one of the C-130s with Colombian food supplies from our country yesterday. An empty American C-130 was flying into Andrews for this meeting and we got our stuff aboard as we couldn’t wait for our aircraft to be refueled. So far we have managed one supply flight into the embassy grounds this morning and we took in only basic necessities, a small amount of what we had brought. We still need several flights in, but we are now safe, resupplied with ammunition, food and good Colombian coffee and will have enough supplies for our personnel until we get more in a month or so. The American soldiers are trying to solve the problems around Washington and do not want our embassy military personnel shooting the civilians attacking us. There is still no police force in our area, or in the whole of D.C. for that matter.”

“Who are these attackers?” asked Martie as Carlos, Sally, and the rest of the group from North Carolina took seats in the first row around them.

“It seems that they are not peaceful citizens. We get those begging for food and we try to give out what we can, but it is very limited and I have given orders to stop any handouts. The attackers are groups or gangs of armed men. Every now and again they start shooting at any movement, especially if our men open the gates and try to leave. General Patterson is getting a food supply project up and running in the vicinity to try to quell the beggars. There are a couple of other embassies on the same street and they have the same problems.”

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” stated General Patterson over a working intercom. “Please find your seats and we will get started,” he stated from the podium. Several seconds later he continued, “The President of the United States is walking in. Please stand.” Everybody stood as the familiar but tired Chief Executive walked up to the main table from the back of the room. There were only two chairs behind the table. The national anthem was played once he reached the closest chair. It was the first time Preston had heard it since the massive destruction began two short months ago. “Let us get started,” continued General Patterson once the anthem was finished.

“The President’s hair is now completely gray,” whispered Martie in Preston’s ear as they sat. He nodded.

“This is going to be a long meeting, the first real get-together of everybody involved with the rebuilding of our great country,” continued the general. “I’m going to break down my report into five sections: troop movements, civilian deaths, security, what I call our “food action,” and finally, future threats. Then the President wants to address you and then we will open the floor for discussion.” The hangar was quiet and solemn; the reports were certainly not going to be nice. “First on the agenda is troop movements. We have good news. We have 490,000 soldiers returned to our shores, 60,000 less than we had planned for by end February. We have completely cleared out the Pacific Rim, in case of nuclear fallout from those nuclear explosions in China last month. We have also cleared Iraq and collected all our 3,000 soldiers and other personnel in North Africa. North Africa is not a place you want to be right now. We are still missing a hundred or so Navy Seals in North Africa, but we think they will surface somewhere. If we think the USA is in dire straits, I was told that there are hundreds of millions of people in trouble in the areas we pulled our troops out of. One of the Boeings was damaged by gunfire when thousands of civilians invaded our last base in Africa as the last aircraft flew out. The damaged aircraft made it into Ramstein, Germany, where repairs to several bullet holes were completed. It took a few days but it is back in daily schedule and here today.

“The only area where our troops are still in danger is Afghanistan. There are currently few attacks on our troops, but the Taliban are massing in strength and we think waiting for us to leave. There are still 300,000 men in the surrounding area as well as another 50,000 ready for pick-up in safer countries such as the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia. We have 60,000 troops in Europe and Britain and I believe another 30,000 scattered in other safe countries. We could have them all home within 60 days.

“The 747s will all need flight maintenance by the time we get them home. As promised by the President, six of them will be given as gifts to specified countries sometime in the future. The aircraft’s fancy interiors have been stripped and put into storage to save weight. The only mounting problem we face is that our food stocks overseas need to return with the troops as we are running out here. We have not lost any food stocks to date, but our numbers of 60,000 troops short is due to carrying only 450 men per aircraft instead of 600. The spare weight is going to transport heavy pallets of food stocks in the baggage compartments and some even in the cabin areas. Believe me; these Jumbos are working their butts off.”

The President had a question. “General Patterson, what sort of food stocks are we talking about and where are they?”

“Thank you, Mr. President, I wanted to bring that up at this meeting. Naturally our supplies over there are where our troops are, in the more dangerous areas. Our bases in the countries we have pulled troops from are now filling up with food rations. We have also flown any needed small weapons and ammunition, men and food supplies to the safer countries in Europe. We have destroyed all remaining U.S. equipment so it wouldn’t fall in the hands of any potential enemy. The 747 transporter has been working out of Ramstein and has been helping to empty the frontline bases of all valuable equipment. In two weeks since her deployment, she has airlifted eighteen loads of men, food and equipment out of the Middle East and into Ramstein, which is now stacked full of all of the equipment we want to get back stateside; this includes tons of MRE rations, operational howitzers, jeeps, an armored personnel carrier or two, and thousands of older rockets for ground and air use. We had tons of the stuff in a hangar in Saudi Arabia. Why it was there, nobody knows, but I think it was a storage depot from the 80s or 90s. Of course all the more modern equipment, all of our Air Force fighters, modern Abram tanks and artillery pieces have been destroyed. It makes me sad to hear reports that several hundred of our best fighters, bombers, transporters and tankers have been destroyed beyond recognition. Estimated value of our destroyed equipment is now over 12 trillion dollars, and climbing daily. To get back to my problem: we need to delay the ferrying of troops over and get more of our food stocks back here. I have been in hourly contact with twenty different U.S. bases where food stocks are stored. Remember we always had a 90-day supply of rations ready at all times—one third over to be shipped, one third in consumption and one third in readiness. We still have one third of all our MRE and other food rations over there, comprised of over three million packs of food plus what still remains in many smaller bases. It will take our aircraft a month using all our big jets, including the transporter to bring back our food supplies. Any comments please?”

“What do we have left here for supply to our civilians without taking into account the rations needed for our troops?” asked the President.

“Less than a quarter of what we have over there,” the general answered. “Our supplies here will be gone in two weeks with our current distribution requirements.”

“And what percentage of the country is receiving stocks as of the latest reports this morning?” was the President’s next question.

“I haven’t seen them yet,” the general replied. “Captain Mallory, I believe you have those numbers?”

Captain Mallory stood up; he was sitting in the end chair on the first row. Preston hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. He also looked tired, but stood straight and replied. “As of midnight last night, Mr. President, we are flying food into 11.3 percent of the entire country, not counting Alaska, Hawaii and any external territories. Of that, eighty percent goes to cities to the north of Washington, DC. The major new areas where we are clearing runways to begin flying into are Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota from the East and Idaho and Montana from the West. Some areas are still too snow-covered without ground help and we have little or no ground assistance in those areas. They are desolate cities with no movement. We have given out 5,955,000 ration packs which will last one person for fourteen days. The majority of those were in the state of New York, the whole New England area and the northern East Coast. Most civilians have received two packs in the north and one pack in the warmer areas in the central part of the country. To date we have given three million people food. I have a longer report, Mr. President and will present it when asked.”

“Thank you, Captain,” replied the President.

“To end my first section, and since we have no Congress or Senate to pass anything,” continued General Patterson, “I will ask for a vote from the President and the participants of this meeting. You are the current Congress and Senate of the United States of America. OK, here is the motion—it will take us ten more days to move our troops out of danger areas and into Europe. It’s still freezing in Germany and many will have to sleep outside for a few weeks, but they are soldiers. That means we can move them into safer bases more quickly with shorter flights between Kabul and Germany. I need the jets to bring food supplies only into the U.S. for a full week, starting in 10 days. As reported, we only have enough food left here in the United States for 14 more days at the rate we are going. Then I suggest that the entire jet fleet transport food into the USA seven days at a time and then men and equipment for seven days at a time, one round trip per day until our external food stocks are returned two months from now. Only then do we bring the balance of our personnel and equipment home, another month or more after that. That means that the entire transportation operation will not be complete until the beginning of summer and not within the three-month timeframe the President promised.”

“Any discussion?” stated the President, standing up.

“I can assume that seven days of supplies will not run out in fourteen days of outgoing-distribution as our distribution system grows?” somebody asked from the second row.

“We have crunched the numbers and as long as all our troops are safe, our first priority is to feed our people. Figures for distribution growth work out to no more than 10 percent per week. I don’t believe that we are going to find many more operational distributional vehicles any quicker than that until the rest of the country thaws,” General Patterson replied.

I am prepared to go with the idea,” added the President.

General Patterson asked for a vote and nobody offered a negative view.

General Patterson continued onto his second section explaining civilian deaths to date to a quickly shocked audience.

“We have 3,945 crematoriums working as fast as they can to cremate bodies, once they have been searched for identity. We had 70 become operational just yesterday, mostly around New York State, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Most of these can handle up to 20 to 100 bodies per day. Most of the bodies are very frozen and take longer to cremate. Three weeks ago, using electronic parts found in the palettes from Zedong Electronics, we found enough replacement parts to get the first of ten massive trash burners in three states working. Understand that these burners were not made for human remains, but they do burn at a higher temperature than the average crematorium. The first one was in New Jersey and we have started cremating from 5,000 to as many as 10,000 bodies per day at just this one plant. We now know that this was the plan of the enemy Politburo as three of the Chinese Engineers had been over to this exact plant several times in the last couple of years to study its design.

“We are limited by our ability to get the bodies to these plants fast enough. We have over 50,000 troops and civilians working with anything mobile they can find to bring corpses from this area and/or take them to other central locations, normally ex-Walmart parking areas. Fingerprints are recorded if possible. Any identity papers retrieved from the bodies or from family or friends bringing them in are also recorded. Then they are moved in larger trucks to the closest burning unit.

“Please be prepared for the rest of my report. It will be a shock to your system. We have cremated or have for cremation—in piles as high as fifty feet—more than 1,797,900 corpses in and around the New York City area alone.” There were gasps from many. “We have four of the trash burners working 24/7 and over 700 crematoriums as far as 50 miles away from Manhattan accepting numbers from this area alone. Some of these private crematoriums can handle larger numbers on a daily basis, up to 10 per hour with multi-systems. The four trash burners are now cremating over 10,000 each per day in this area. The bodies are arriving faster than we can cremate them.

“Also a large majority are body parts. We take whatever information we can and count a major body part as a body. This will of course skew our numbers, but that is the best we can do at the present time. Body parts are counted as one person. The smaller crematoriums are cremating sometimes as many as a dozen body parts at once, hence our higher than possible numbers. We haven’t even got into the snowbound parts of central Manhattan, which are still under thirty to forty feet of snow in some areas. We are waiting for the snow to subside before we go in. I have heard that Times Square has snow drifts over seventy feet high, and a lot of that height is due to corpses underneath. The men working in Manhattan have worked out that the height of the snow drifts is directly related to the number of bodies underneath. A thirty-foot high snow mountain will have a third of its total height in bodies underneath.” Again there were gasps from the people present. “We started our first of a dozen open burning pits east of Manhattan where Brooklyn used to be. I will explain a burning pit in my next point. Questions please?”

“What about the underground system?” somebody asked.

“A good question,” answered the general. “We have entered three stations so far, I’m not sure where, but the death and frozen corpses are far more concentrated underground. The cold got there as well, unfortunately. Only three people have been found alive out of thousands.”

“What are your time frames for completing this grisly task?” asked someone.

“Our main aim is to beat the problem of disease. We have at least two months of possible freezing conditions left and we hope to have the larger cities clear. Unfortunately we will not even get to some cities for another month. I think in April we will have to close down the areas we have not touched and keep everybody out. This is our major problem for the rest of this year: to keep the population alive and stop any disease that could spread like a plague in the United States. We are praying that an immense team of soldiers and civilian personnel can actually clean a complete city or other high density area and then move as a unit into another city. That hasn’t happened yet and unfortunately, it is impossible for us to know numbers and the size of the task ahead to be able to give you any more information on this horrible program. I believe it will impossible to clean up the entire United States by the end of this year, so I’m trying to find ideas on how to combat the onset of disease in the hot summer. As many as 53 million corpses have been burned in the country to date.”

There was absolute silence. “Now back to our idea of burning pits. It is a mammoth task. We have begun to dig 48 of these pits, and we have given out general recommendations to the personnel on how to dig them. They are in a dozen states and are being monitored by military personnel. We have 350,000 civilians countrywide under military supervision working to recover identity information off dead bodies. Chicago and several other cities are placing hundreds of thousands of bodies at a time into large pits which were dug by dozens of civilian and military digging machines. Our recommendation is to dig them fifty feet deep, fill them, and then pour fuel into them from defunct gas stations or airports. Once the burning is complete, usually after 48 hours, the ground cools and another team fills the holes with dirt. In Philadelphia alone, and with the ground frozen, we have a hundred large bulldozers at work 24/7 making a new hole every 18 hours. Our first one in New York started burning yesterday with 115,000 full corpses and the second one with 150,000 major parts of corpses. The fuel was obtained from JFK Airport. I’m sure many of you noticed the plume of smoke to the north?” Many of the pilots nodded that they had. ”That plume is in Brooklyn, New York. The flames are several hundred feet high. It is expected to take two days before we can cover the pit over. The engineers are making sure that a minimum of twelve feet of dirt covers the blackened remains for safety purposes.”

Many people were beginning to feel sick and this was just the beginning. The scope of the atrocity was becoming clear to many. Even Preston was totally shocked and felt sick as a deep anger began to burn in his stomach; he was already thinking of the billions of people worldwide—millions of people already dead and millions more who had little hope of survival.

“The largest pit so far was 150,000 whole corpses in Chicago and the smallest 10,000 just outside El Paso, Texas. The southern states have fewer corpses and most of those are from crime and shootings. Unfortunately, the number of people being shot is rising quickly.

“If we continue at the same rate we are going, and if the corpses keep coming, we will able to cremate two to three million per day by the end of April.” The gasp from the audience was far louder than before.

“General Patterson, do you have recent calculations on how many people are dead, and how many people are going to die before spring?” asked Preston.

“Our current scenario estimates a minimum of 150 million dead, Preston. We have recorded and cremated over a third of that number already. As far as future deaths this winter, all I can say is that in total the country has basic food rations for 12 million people including our armed forces. We have assumed that at least another 30 to 50 million people, hopefully many more, live in areas with abundant food stocks, and another 25 million with minimal or low food stocks. Sorry to say this but nearly everything that is not human is a food stock and that means birds, insects and four-legged animals. I will not go further. So, to answer your second question, as we gauge food availability and have no crime, we could have 100 million people alive as the first crops of this coming spring come out of the ground; that is less than one third of the 2010 Census. What I’m worried about is the premature butchering of cattle, pigs, and other meat animals that could reproduce in the spring. It’s like cutting off the hand that feeds you.

“And that leads me to my next topic, security. We are aware of very few active police forces. We believe that there are fewer than a hundred out of the 20,000 nationwide we had only three months ago.”

Preston was reminded of Will Smart. He hadn’t seen him yet, so he looked down the line of chairs to his left. He then turned to his right and saw the Smart family occupying several chairs in the same row. Maggie smiled at him and so did the kids. There was a spare chair, but Will was not there.

“I would like to bring on Detective Will Smart to give us a report on what he has seen and heard in California since he returned there a couple of weeks ago,” continued the general and Will appeared from the back of the hangar. He looked a little wheezy to Preston.

‘Looks like they had to drug him again,” whispered Martie in his ear. General Patterson sat down next to the President and drank from a glass of water.

“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry to be a little weird but I’m not good at flying as many of you know. We, the Lancaster Police Department, just north of Los Angeles, have an active police force of seven men out of forty. We do not know what happened to many of our colleagues, but new dead bodies appear every day. We have the City of Lancaster in curfew from sundown to sunup and shoot anybody we find in the streets during night hours, no questions asked. To date we have been shot at over 40 times and we have shot over a dozen armed men and one woman. Lancaster is pretty clean of crime compared to what I have heard from other areas.

“Parts of Los Angeles are, as General Patterson explained, being used as burning pits. We have seen smoke from what we assumed were several of these in the last two weeks. Soldiers coming through town, and at Edwards Air Force Base, tell us of hundreds, even thousands of shootings per day, every day in LA. Thirteen aircraft went down in and around heavily populated areas in the City of Los Angeles on the last day of last year. I was pretty close to another one in Lancaster and from the latest reports, it has taken ten days just to clear these burnt-out areas. What we have found are mostly blackened remains of unidentified bodies and the worse news is that of the nearly two million bodies already cremated, less than 10,000 had any ID. We believe that the missing IDs were either burned or stolen.

“San Diego also has a shooting problem. Soldiers coming through suggest that over one million are dead from shooting-related violence in the area of San Diego alone. I have not heard from further north in California, but the shooting deaths are mounting quickly in the southern areas and even little cities and towns around Lancaster have horrific numbers.”

“What is the reason for these shootings?” asked Sally Powers, white faced and shocked.

“The soldiers returning to these areas have been listening to the civilians passing through with their families, carrying any belongings they have left. These folks say that at first the violence stemmed from armed robbery and then for food. Now it’s the other way around. Glittery gadgets don’t work anymore and now food is the main reason, then gasoline and now just plain criminal intent.”

“Thank you, Detective Smart,” stated the general, returning to the podium. “For all of you who have just arrived from outlying areas, I want any feedback from you after this meeting and we will condense it into a written report for your reading in a day or two. What the detective has described is happening in many areas. Very vague numbers and information show that California, southern Arizona and Texas are the worst areas. We are about to send in as many troops as we can to these areas and this is the one problem I mentioned earlier: fly in the food or fly in the men? Both are equally important. We have heard of areas of safety in the country, especially rural areas and the smaller towns where the police force didn’t disappear and other areas where civilians set up road blocks and started their own protection groups to protect their families. From our latest knowledge, you don’t want to visit over 50 percent of the country, and I believe it is growing. The violence and murders are mostly in the south, and once the northern areas warm up we need to be ready for a growth in crime in those areas. Now, let’s get Captain Mike Mallory up here to give us his latest report on food supplies and numbers.”

The captain walked up to the podium, dressed as a civilian. He, like many people in attendance, looked tired and overworked.

“Good morning, everybody. Yesterday we gave 387,000 meal packs to 201,000 people. These are not exact figures, but figures we calculated from our daily supply system. Exact reports take a week or more to reach headquarters at McGuire Air Force Base in the Northeast, Seymour Johnson in North Carolina, McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas, Denver International Airport and Hill Air Force Base in the center of the country, and Edwards in California. As of yesterday, we are supplying food from 175 military bases using 150 aircraft of all types and sizes and 640 trucks big enough to carry three tons of food or more. It has been a tiring couple of weeks and the size of the job at hand is just unbelievable, but we are growing and getting better at getting food to the starving out there.

From what I have just heard in this hangar this morning, all we are doing is going to save lives. I want to thank the President, the Pentagon, the military and whoever were responsible for having so many military rations in storage. Without these millions and millions of ration packs, millions more people would have died between when we started a month ago and the approaching spring in about two months’ time. There are a few places in the United States which don’t need these rations and I’m pleased to tell you that this number is growing.

“I was in communication three days ago with farmers I met on my travels from New York to North Carolina a couple of days after the deadly happenings on New Year’s Eve. They have driven tractors across a large swath of farmland in the central United States and their reports are unbelievable. In extremely rural areas, there are people who have traveled south from cities such as St. Paul, Chicago, New York and even several Canadian families. Reports are that tens of thousands of people are heading south trying to reach warmer places. All are on foot and tell of atrocities in their home towns which made them leave. The ground is not very good for any motor traffic as snow is over twenty feet in drifts in some places. These people just keep heading south, being given scraps or supplies from the farmers who have extra. We have set up several food points on the main migration routes in the last week and so far have given supplies to 100,000 people or families who have been told of our outposts by the farming community.”

“How far have you set up these outposts across the country?” asked the President.

“During the first week of January I met the first farmers who began to spread the information as we travelled down I-95,” described Mike Mallory. “They are in a broad farm belt just north of Baltimore. We, the farmers and the military set up the first outpost on I-81 west of Baltimore immediately after the attacks in New York ended. We actually set up our first outpost on I-95, but, funny, this highway had no traffic in the first 48 hours we monitored it. The thinking was that it was safer to travel across country. The people were traveling on foot and country paths became used more and more. So we moved our first post to I-81, cleared a mile of road for runways, closed the area down, set up several military tents and defensive positions on bridges on each side, flew in soldiers for protection and began airlifting supplies—food and medical—into our new runway and outpost headquarters. We had three people walking down the highway on day one, 100 on day two, 500 on day three and now we get well over a thousand a day at Outpost One. The information is being relayed by farmhouses in a fifty-mile zone north of the outpost. Each arriving family is given a military tent, two weeks of rations, a propane gas heater, a road map and any warm clothing like gloves, army boots and headgear we can supply. They are given medical attention by a military doctor and two nurses. The medical tent always has a line.

“From the beginning of February, they have been told about our second outpost which is currently set up in Bristol, a small town further south-southwest of Outpost One, again on I-81. This one is on the Virginia-Tennessee border. Outpost Two is approximately 450 miles further south. Seventy-five percent of daily visitors who walk directly from the north into Outpost Two are new and did not get rations at Outpost One. There we have received people from Cleveland, Columbus, New York State and Pennsylvania. The other twenty-five percent who arrive walking down I-81 spent about two weeks traveling on the road from Outpost One to Outpost Two. Visitors from Outpost One are given another case of rations per two family members and anything else we can give them: water, candy, dog food, anything that can keep them alive.”

“Dog food?” asked somebody in the audience.

“Yes, I’m sorry to say but nothing is being left out. We found a dog food plant on our travels and we airlifted 190,000 cans of the stuff into Outpost Two. I tried it with several of the extremely hungry families and to them it tasted quite good. I didn’t like the taste much and preferred it cold to heated up.”

“Are you giving out weapons for protection?” asked somebody else.

“No, we have nothing to give them. They are either carrying their own, or travel in groups of twenty to thirty people with a couple of weapons in the crowd.

“How do you know who is arriving from Outpost One?” asked Carlos.

“Thanks to your old computers, Carlos, we record daily identifications and since some guys at McGuire even modified them to accept thumb drives. Thumb drive copies of each day’s identity list are airlifted back into McGuire with the next flight, copied at headquarters and then a copy goes out with supplies the next day. Thanks to you, Carlos, we have quite a good memory program and there are millions of thumb drives everywhere.

“Our third outpost, aptly named Outpost Three, is forty miles northwest of Nashville, Tennessee, on Interstate 24. This food point has been running for two weeks now. There are not as many people walking south as the other two, around 600 people per day and growing by a dozen or so a day. Again a mile of highway has been set up for landing a C-130 and has military protection, tents for food, medical, and warm supplies. We have begun to get dozens walking in from the city of Nashville. The area is frozen but with little snow. I don’t know if it is good or bad to be positioned near such a large city, but we treat everybody as equals, enter their information in the database, and they head back to the city with food and medical care. No warm clothing or overnight tents are given to these people.

“Outpost Four is directly on Interstate 35 in Kansas. We have been operating out of there for five days now. This road is busy with thousands of people walking south towards Texas. This food point is 50 miles north of Oklahoma City and approximately 300 miles due east of Outpost Three. Here we have the same system, except that there are over 2,000 people coming through per day heading south and we have two airlifts per day, one from McConnell Air Force Base and one from McGuire.

“Outpost Five has been set up in California on Interstate 5, one hundred miles north of Los Angeles close to a small town called Avenal. This is our newest food point and our slowest. I assume that Californian weather is warmer than here on the East Coast and there is less movement. Edwards is airlifting supplies into Outpost Five and numbers are slowly rising, but to date we are seeing less than 300 people passing through daily.

“Outpost Six will be operational tomorrow and is north of Raton, a small town on the Colorado-New Mexico border. We have been working on this food location for two days now and we have had to erect fencing around our base due to the high number of people already camped out. Soldiers have already been giving out food packs since yesterday and we are planning three loads of supplies per day, enough for 12,000 people. Peterson Air Force Base has good food supplies. It, Edwards, and Dyess Air Force Base in Texas can supply this food location for six weeks before we have to bring in supplies from other bases.

“Several helicopters are already lifting supplies into the major Colorado cities, so we have sent one of our C-130s into Peterson to help out. This aircraft will complete three flights per day. She will start flights into Outpost Six daily from 08:00 am Mountain Time tomorrow. Currently we have three C-130s supplying our outposts, less than 2 percent of our aircraft fleet. Every military base around the country is supplying food and medical supplies into other central or northern areas, and have stocks for a couple of weeks before we need the rations from abroad.”

Mike Mallory got a standing ovation for his work. Most knew that he had planned much of the project himself with help from the trusty Southwest crew that had gone down with him in New York on New Year’s Eve.

General Patterson returned to the podium and began his “future threats” topic. “The President and I believe that any future threats from a major power are virtually impossible for the foreseeable future—and the foreseeable future is the next five to ten years. If you have any ideas, especially you, Carlos Rodriquez, since you are in charge of our satellite program, and anybody else who might know something we don’t, please bring them forward.

“At the moment we believe our only threats are internal at this time. First, we know crime and death will increase. More people are going to die, either from starvation, the elements or crime. There is nothing we can do about the situation more than we are doing right now. Next is the threat of disease once the temperatures rise and the dead bodies begin to decompose. Again there is nothing more we can do. The third future threat is food. We will reach a time when all food stored in the United States of America will be exhausted. We hope fresh crops are harvested before then, but I believe it is going to be close, and unfortunately too late for many. We will continue to use our current system to transport any food stocks around the country. By the end of March, we will have more of the country under a regular delivery system. So, my job and the job of all military personnel in the next thirty days is to secure the living population of the United States of America, and at the same time protect the farms and farmers of the country and aid them in every way we can to produce enough food for our people on a continuous basis. I suggest we all return here in thirty days for updates.

“We are already planning food stocks for next winter, but until we halt the dying, and count how many people actually need to be fed and kept warm next winter, we are purely running around in the dark. Every able person will begin to help in the system in the near future. Money means nothing. Luxuries are few and far between, and all nest eggs, savings, bank accounts are less important to every person here than where the next meal is coming from. We must protect our cattle, pigs, chickens, rabbits and any other source of meat products, as well as rich farmland from anybody wanting to hamper our tasks. Our borders need to be protected from hungrier people crossing them to steal food stocks here in our country. Communications must be set up later this year with other countries with which products can be bartered—beef for bananas, pork for chicken—you can understand what I mean. That is all I have for you today. It is now time to hear from our President.”

The room was totally silent, many digesting the vast amounts of information presented over the first hour.

“Ladies and gentlemen of our new country, we are still called the United States of America by all of us, a free country and a country to protect and make safe now more than ever.” A round of applause greeted his opening sentence. “Thanks to you here today I feel less alone trying to run a country of this size, as a single yachtsman trying to cross a large sea with no wind. There is no Congress and Senate. Sometimes that is a blessing.” Several laughed as everybody knew of the intense partisan battles between him and the pillars of power. “Even though it is more peaceful not having Congress around, we, as a country, need to reinstate government. I don’t believe that it is crucial right now and you people are my backups until we form a new government. I hope this will occur sometime this year, or once we have our three major problems under control, as the speakers have described for the last hour. I don’t believe we will rest until we save every citizen we can, feed them and keep them safe. We don’t know where the next security situation will come from but I believe it will come, and we must be ready for it.

“I have heard from a number of elected officials, eleven Congressmen and nine Senators to be exact. They got word through military bases close by. All said that they are in their homes protecting themselves and their families. That is important for them, and none of them said that they would be returning to Washington in the near future. Many others are dead and many we will never know what happened to. I do know of dozens from both houses who were in flight over New Year’s Eve. So I have disbanded Congress and the Senate and will fill it again with new people when we have the free time to do so.

“I agree with General Patterson, who is my new Chief of Staff for all our military departments, since I know his ability and since many of the military commanders are also unaccounted for, or still busy with troop withdrawals in other parts of the world. All top military personnel currently in the United States are in this room, apart from Four Star Army General Max Wood in Washington State who had both his legs amputated due to a car accident on December 31st. I’m sure there are several people trying to communicate with me, but you, the people in this hangar, are the ones who are going to help me get this proud country back to the best we can make it.

“Before I finish, I would like to ask Wolfgang Roebels and his son Michael up here to share their understandings on the electrical situation in this country. Four weeks ago I asked them to study what they could on our current situation. Gentlemen, please.”

Michael wheeled Martie’s grandfather up to the podium.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. President,” stated Michael into the microphone, “I would like to be the voice here as my father’s voice is not as strong as it used to be. Many of you know we started in San Diego decades ago and sold our company to Raytheon, which up to last year was one of the leaders in all types of mobile directional technology. My father and I did not stop work once we were bought out years ago. Work and our love of designing electronics is what we always talk about. After the sale we also had several old ideas from the 80s which we had time to play with.

“Yes, we had purchased some of these now useless electronic parts made in China, and yes, we also replaced older U.S. parts with these more modern chips, fuses, etc. Luckily, we had a habit of not throwing anything away. So in the last four weeks, we have placed our older stored parts in an aircraft radar system—a directional system using radio waves, much like our older aircraft are currently using—and, more importantly a more modern computer system than Carlos made operational in January. Of even greater importance is an out-of-date analogue dial-up computer-communication system we can restore in the next few months which will utilize the electrical lines crossing the country. There are several other systems we are still working on with new teams of men and women in Silicon Valley. We have had three meetings with electrical engineering crews at the old electrical production plants in Silicon Valley and the RTP area in Raleigh North Carolina.

“I will start with our project in Silicon Valley. There are only skeleton teams working at one manufacturing plant which made guidance systems for our latest missiles. There are now twelve engineers working on a new project, out of 300 who used to work there. We still hope that more of the missing will arrive. The Marines from Camp Pendleton have set up a defensive perimeter around seven blocks of Silicon Valley’s main buildings so these engineers, if or when they arrive, will join safe environments which are peaceful and good places to work. We are taking in skilled workers who can prove that they have built electronic systems and they are invited to join our new little town where accommodations, food and drink are being made available so they can work in peace. Many housing systems, mostly where engineers lived, have been cordoned off by wire and security gates and are places where these workers can live a normal life.

“As of today we have three projects moving forward. First: radar screens, approach and landing guidance systems for all aircraft which need one. Computer boxes are being emptied of their useless insides and the new radar systems are coming off the assembly line three per day. Carlos, Mr. Lee Wang and I will be working on getting satellite guidance from what we have still operational in space. ‘Project Radar,’ as we call it, could have satellite guidance by the end of this year.

Second: ‘Project Electricity.’ We are repairing the electrical systems in the manufacturing plant’s local grid to become live. We started with the basic wall plug and worked backwards to the control box and then outside to the nearest junction point in the streets around the compound. Yesterday we began to go through every part in the area junction station, one of those fenced-off electrical stations in every suburb in the country. So far we have listed over fifty pieces of equipment we need to copy and reproduce. It is all possible, but will take time. Just to build a prototype and produce the machinery to build them will take a year. The same is true with all production. Once we build a manufacturing line and get it powered by electricity and implement a system of organization, we can pump out large numbers.

“Third is ‘Project Nuclear Power,’ a study of the nearest nuclear power station to Silicon Valley in California. We will then start a duplicate project here in North Carolina, once Preston Strong had visited the plant again in New Hill. The plant is to be cordoned off with a military barrier against any unauthorized entry. The engineers there are to be identified and work started to get the plant operational again. It is quite simple to get any nuclear power station running, once we have all the necessary electrical communication and control parts working. That will also take time, but once we get Project Two and Project Three completed, then we can mate them up and hopefully deliver power along electrical lines. Estimated time is six to twelve months before we can join these two projects together. Up until then we are on generator power. Any questions so far?” Michael asked.

“Project One,” asked Martie, who hadn’t had much chance to speak to her father for a month. “Your revamped radar systems which, with Carlos’ help, could one day give us guidance, how are they going to work compared to the old Navistar system and how accurate will they be?”

“The system will be as good as any system in use today from the 1980s. The screens will be black and white, not color, to begin with as we don’t have very many color-screen working parts, but we can reconstruct these black and white screens into color once we build their needed modifications and set up a line of manufacture. From our side, the manufacturing side, there are millions of products for which we need to build and manufacture new parts. Many will be never built and we will wait for new innovations to give us new and better machines, like the all vehicle engine-management systems of which billions are sitting in piles of junk on the highways around the country. I believe electric power vehicles are now the way to go. No more combustion engines will ever be built, I can see that now. And, since money has no value now, hydrogen-powered engines and naturally-powered engines, which did not prove to be financially positive in the past, are all feasible now. It doesn’t matter anymore what they cost. On the satellite side, Carlos has been briefed on what he is allowed to say to you. Carlos, please come up and answer Martie’s space topic. That is all from us. Thank you.”

“Ladies and gentlemen and Martie,” started Carlos, once he had reached the podium, “I am not allowed to say how many satellites we have operational in space. We could have more in the future, but what is dead up there, or technically dead, will stay that way until they fall back to earth in the next few decades. We need to produce new satellites to replace them. We are talking about several decades and maybe not even in our lifetime, but we do have communications, as I believe all of you in here have or are with someone who has a satellite phone. Those satellite phones are and will be the only satellite communications we have until we send up something new. What we have working up there are multipurpose satellites which can send and receive communications, the normal bounced messages we are currently using. Only one of the satellites has GPS possibility and this satellite will be worked on to aid the radar project. The other satellites with their multipurpose usages will help give us a sort of miniaturized GPS system. As you all know, we need three or more satellite-fixes to get an accurate GPS position for fifty-meter accuracy. We can do that once we move satellites into position. That means all we have up there must be re-positioned within 500 miles of U.S. airspace, or within 500 miles of our borders and lowered into dangerous orbits—far lower than our old Navistar system operated. We will get our new GPS operational for about a decade at this altitude before it becomes impossible to stop these satellites from being attracted by the earth’s gravity and disintegrating in our atmosphere. That means we have about ten years, give or take a year or two, before we could lose a system we haven’t even got yet. We have backup satellites, but like four flat tires you don’t have enough spares for all the tires.

“The United States will be the only country able to use the system and we will also have visual security from one of the satellites until it hits the atmosphere a year or two from now. Just before I left on my last trip, we decided to lose accuracy to half a mile instead of fifty meters and position the needed satellites a hundred miles higher. This could give us another year of operation, but of course the whole project could go down from other space junk hitting our system at any time. It will take just one glance to trash what we have up there and this year there is far more out-of-control trash up there than last year.

“We then realized that if we want visual as well, we will need every satellite re-positioned, which means we now have no spares. The satellite with cameras aboard will need to be in the middle of the United States. So we changed the planning, so we win and lose time at the same time. The good news is that at this altitude, the cameras are much closer to earth, can see something as small as a ship, or a block of buildings pretty clearly and we can monitor hundreds of different actions we, or an enemy take by watching them from the sky.”

“Any chance of getting guided missiles or drones operational?” asked General Patterson.

“We haven’t checked the communication abilities of what we can send and receive,” replied Carlos, “but Michael and his father and their team are working on the idea of interchanging the directional orders transmitted to a slower drone vehicle, not a guided missile as we would never be able to give out such rapid communications. Let me describe that better. Remember the old dial-up systems for computer communications Michael just spoke about?” Everyone nodded. “Compared to the high-speed internet we had last year, that is how fast we will be able to communicate over our new system—a thousand times slower. To get back to drones, yes, we could relay photos from our eyes in the sky and attack with unguided rockets from the drones’ wings, but understand the situation: We need to remake the drone’s electronics to get it flyable first. Time frames: We have visual pictures of the USA; you know that as we defeated our attackers with forward knowledge. We have satellite communications and 489 working satellite phones, the only worldwide communications device for the next decade or two. I believe we also will have a low-powered GPS system by year-end and maybe drone defense within a year or two after that.”

“Carlos, are you saying that any aircraft that could fly in the near future will be all unmanned aircraft?” asked Buck.

“Correct, Buck. It is cheaper and easier to rebuild the electronics of an unmanned drone than our old fighter jets or bombers. Of course anything in mothballs older than 1985 could be flying soon, but I believe we have already found a large proportion of the flyable or drivable machinery, military and civilian.” Carlos bowed and sat down.

“Thank you all for coming. We all now have much work to do,” continued General Patterson. “Please introduce yourself to people you don’t know here. Everybody in this room is as important as the person next to you. We need teamwork for the rest of the year to achieve what has been described here today. You will all be kept up to date on a daily basis and we will gather here for our next meeting on April 1st, at 12:30 pm.”

There was applause for the general. Necessary information had been given and many in the room had to decide their part and what to do for their country, most of them sitting in the front row.

Martie and Preston had no idea what they could do and they looked at each other, questioning in which direction to go.

Preston suddenly knew where Martie would want to work—to join the team in Silicon Valley. She was a very accomplished engineer and he felt sure the pull of working with her father and grandfather would be as strong as the earth pulling in those satellites Carlos had described. He felt at a loss as to where he would be best suited to help. Protecting his home and being close to Martie began pulling at him at the same time. Also the new member of the family, Little Beth, needed time to bond and be with both of them.

“I’m thinking like a mother!” he suddenly thought to himself, sitting there in a dream world.

Chapter 5

North Carolina

The meeting was over and the people attending milled about, chatting and discussing what had just taken place.

“Only unmanned aircraft in our flying future, Carlos?” Preston asked as he walked up to his friend who was talking to General Patterson, the Ambassador of Colombia and Grandpa Roebels, still seated in his wheelchair.

“Unfortunately, Preston,” laughed Carlos, slapping his friend on the back, “for the foreseeable future, there is no chance we can get any of our modern aircraft flying again, military or civilian. We had a team of over a hundred engineers check out three of the most modern 747-400ERs at JFK last week. Two were untouched, totally closed up and parked away from the terminals. One was a newish Qantas aircraft, the second a Singapore Airlines 747 and the third a United 400ER in their locked and protected maintenance hangar. Compared to the totally working China Airlines 747s, one of which needed a few repairs and was using the same maintenance hangar and personnel, the team concluded that we would need to re-build over 7,200 separate electrical pieces, or total parts from scratch. We also went through the electronics of an F-16 and two other dead military aircraft at Andrews. There were Air Force technicians, engineers and a dozen aerospace engineers and in these aircraft the news was even worse. We found over 12,000 new and different minute electrical parts of all types which would need replacement. And, Preston, that was per aircraft! It’s just not worth the effort… it would take years. With the unmanned vehicles being only half the size of a manned fighter jet, the Air Force is pulling a ten-year-old mini-drone, the size of a large model aircraft, apart at Edwards as we speak.

“With nearly 80 percent of the inspection done, we can replace the first 50 of 350-odd individual terminated parts from the Chinese supplies they brought in and modify another 100 parts, which Grandpa Roebels and his team in California have already revamped. Several dozen of the actual parts can be replaced from older electronics—computers, cell phones and strangely enough, even the odd control switch from civilian kitchen equipment. In these older 1990s drones, many of the electrical parts were off the shelf and the exact same fuses and control devices were built into commercial ovens, refrigerators, washing machines and dishwashers.”

Preston scratched his head at this surprising information.

“That’s right,” he said, being an electronics engineer himself. “In those days the parts were mostly still made in the U.S. or Germany and there must have been stockpiles of the electronics.”

“We can use all the non-intelligent parts, like fuses, resistors, coils and anything that didn’t need to think out an action,” added Grandpa Roebels.

“That gives us about a year before we can get the first drones operational,” stated Carlos as the President came up to join them.

“Preston,” stated the President, “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything, but I would like to get together a smaller meeting down at your airfield tomorrow. General Patterson, to get the Secret Service off my tail, I want you to increase the guard at his airfield by a dozen more soldiers. These guys won’t give up and follow me around like a second skin. The family will attend and a couple of days of privacy would be pleasant.”

“I’ll get it organized,” stated the general, walking off to find Seymour Johnson’s base commander.

“Tell the base commander that we want the same guys back he took from us yesterday,” shouted Preston to the general, getting a nod from him.

“Who do you want at the meeting, Mr. President?” asked Carlos.

“You and Mr. Roebels. Buck will fly us down. Just the group who have met there before. Most of these officers need to get back to their bases and jobs. Captain Mallory doesn’t need to attend, and he has enough going on. Ask Will Smart and his family to join us and ask the general to get engineers from the Corps of Engineers back to your place. We need more housing built there for future meetings. If you don’t mind, I want a secure house for my family and me, and more overnight accommodations, perhaps a dozen rooms for others to stay. I’ll get some engineers in from Fort Bragg to see if we can extend your runway a little. Is that possible?”

“I have mapped out a second runway possibility, Mr. President,” replied Preston. “I don’t know about tarring and production equipment though.”

“There must be tons of usable building equipment lying idle,” replied the President. “I want a second private headquarters. It is a waste of time sitting around the White House; Washington is out of the loop. I think that many of our larger cities will become ghost towns soon. We might just close this whole city down and make it off limits.”

Everybody looked at him, shocked. It sounded crazy, but in this new age nothing was impossible anymore. What the President had just said stayed with them for a long time. It would be a major topic at the next day’s meeting.

Oliver and Puppy knew something was up the next morning as the airfield woke up at dawn, several minutes after they had decided to complete their morning inspection. The temperature was cold, 67 inside the kitchen and 27 outside showed on the house temperature gauge. For some reason, the gauge was still working.

“No Chinese parts in that baby,” thought Preston as he went through to make coffee. He turned on the kitchen light and always felt that he was walking into an old-fashioned age. Over the last three weeks, he had exchanged all the modern electronics in the kitchen with appliances he found in the old barn and at Joe’s place, which had a barn that looked like a reconditioning mechanics shop. Joe always enjoyed playing with old bits and pieces. The new-old electric oven was a horrible lime-green color. It stood next to an old avocado-green gas oven, its new gas line heading out to a 100-pound gas bottle outside the rear kitchen wall. A lime-green refrigerator had also been sent over, an extra at Joe’s house. The horrible old-fashioned colors took him back to the very same kitchen his parents had been proud of when he was just a kid.

Joe had used his tractor-trailers often since the end of the war a month earlier. David, his five sons and he had headed out every day once it was safe to do so. With the armed rat-patrol jeeps as bodyguards they found all sorts of crashed tractor-trailers at different locations around the major highways.

The idea started when Joe and David had found an undamaged John Deere tractor-trailer filled with 35 new lawn tractors on I-40, just south of Clayton, North Carolina, 40 miles to the south. The road, presumably cutting through lower-populated rural areas, had few people looking around. The dead bodies in the crashed vehicles had only been desecrated a little by crows. He had swapped trailers, left his old one there and returned home.

The next day Joe returned with his convoy of bodyguards to collect his empty trailer. A quarter of a mile further south on I-40, they saw a slightly damaged freezer tractor-trailer, a reefer with no markings on the side. He couldn’t believe it as he had heard the reefer motor still idling and he checked to find out that the driver, who was dead in the cab, must have just filled up with diesel, and the old and rusty freezer motor was connected directly to the main fuel tank.

Once they had got rid of the heavy chains protecting the rear doors, they saw food, tons of it: frozen pork packs, sausages, pork patties and picnic roasts. It contained a good twenty tons of meat on pallets in the still-frozen trailer that was colder than outside, and all in perfect condition.

The fuel tank had another day or two of fuel in it. The truck’s log showed a destination somewhere in New York City; each pack had the store’s name, type of meat, weight and price. Joe picked up a picnic roast and found it to weigh five pounds, priced at fifteen dollars, and it was very frozen.

The older rig hauling the load had seen better days; it looked like a 1980s gas-powered unit and its battery was dead. After checking it out, he shouted for his son to pull his own rig in front and used a set of jumper cables to give the dead battery a jolt. After coaxing with the choke the old V-8 started and finally a plume of black smoke exited the tractor’s exhausts.

Joe parked it next to the other trailer-reefers he already had running back at the farm and went out to look for more.

The next day they came across a smaller Budweiser beerwagon on its side on a desolate part of the I-40, half a mile south of where they had found the meat and only a mile north of where I-40 connected to I-95.

Again, there was nobody around and the trailer was a third full of frozen pools of beer where most of the bottles had broken. They salvaged a hundred dry cases of beer cans of all sizes which hadn’t burst with the freezing conditions. There were several bottle cases where only one or two bottles had broken and within two hours of work they had their trailer packed with everything drinkable.

Half a mile down the road on the southern side of the highway they spotted a very old tractor-trailer with Nevada plates on it. The rig had crashed into a smaller truck and another couple of cars. Untouched bodies were still obvious in two of the crashed vehicles. The truck driver was slumped over the steering wheel and had died in this seat; his head had hit the windshield pretty hard. Joe and his sons managed to get the stiff and frozen body of the large driver out and lay him gently on the side of the road. Joe took the dead man’s place and tried the engine.

The battery was dead, but fifteen minutes later they had the rig idling sweetly as Joe backed it away from the mass of broken and squashed metal in front of it. He just missed ramming the rear of the trailer into an old Dodge truck which had crashed into another car a hundred or so feet directly behind the rig. Behind the Dodge on a trailer was an old, dirty-looking Bobcat. This to Joe was worth more than gold. The Dodge was an old 1970s Ram Diesel and he knew that he could get it started. There was nobody in the Dodge’s cab, but a frozen dead lady was in the car the Dodge had crashed into. The car was a mess but the Dodge only looked slightly damaged. Its battery was also flat and the keys were still in the ignition.

After an hour tinkering with the engine Joe and his boys got her started. The Dodge sounded like it needed a few new parts to run properly and Joe knew he would have them back on his farm.

“She will run for another couple of hundred thousand miles,” he told David sitting atop one of his ferrets, machine gun at the ready.

“What are we going to do with the bodies?” David asked.

“Pauli, see if the Bobcat can be started,” shouted Joe to one of his sons. “If she starts, we can use the digger and bury the dead around here. I counted twelve bodies and that shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

The old Bobcat started first time and within minutes a hole was being dug with the bucket mounted on the rear of the vehicle, while the others dragged the stiff corpses to where the machine was digging. It was a gruesome task and it was the first time they were actually doing this, but each thought it necessary. Somebody would have to do it sometime. Identity was collected in the form of handbags from the dead women, wallets from the dead men and a pair of ID tags from a soldier in civilian dress before they were buried in the ten-foot deep hole. The ground wasn’t frozen and the task of burying the bodies in the wet and soft earth was completed in an hour.

They could do this forever. Mangled vehicles could be seen in both directions on both sides of the highway, an average of forty to fifty yards separating the dead vehicles.

“We have two hours of daylight left,” stated David.

“I was thinking of that,” replied Joe. “Did anybody check the trailer of this Nevada rig?” Nobody had, so Joe and David opened the back door.

They were shocked at what they found inside: pallets and pallets of Indian-made blankets and rugs, Indian Reservation-made cookies, jerky and a pallet of cans of corned beef, dog food, and cat food.

“Something isn’t right,” stated one of Joe’s sons. “What the hell is this stuff doing on the East Coast?”

They checked the transportation papers in the cab and found that the destination was a movie company based in Wilmington, North Carolina.

“I bet they were making an Indian store on the set for a film or something,” suggested Joe.

The group planned to get down to the I-95/I-40 intersection, then head north and return via Highway 64, the same road Captain Mallory had driven to RDU.

Interstate-95 had more broken vehicles on it than I-40. Here people could be seen scurrying away from broken trucks and trailers like animals.

Several miles up I-95 they came across a desolate part of the highway, the northern route they were driving on had a thick forest of trees surrounding it.

They came across a group of people emptying a Walmart tractor-trailer which was lying on its side. A couple of minivans looked flat and squashed underneath the heavy Walmart trailer. A second white trailer was upright a couple of yards away. It looked like it had crashed into the Walmart rig and then into several cars, mounting them as it came to a messy halt. This trailer looked identical to the white unmarked pork trailer Joe and his guys had found the day before.

David, in the first rat patrol jeep with both its guns manned by two of Joe’s sons, drove up to the people, who didn’t scatter this time.

“You guys have to wait your turn here for a few more minutes,” stated a brave man in front of the rig cradling a shotgun. “We are allowing our town’s hungry people to get as much food as they can carry out of here. They are desperate and need help, and can’t carry much more on their lawn tractors and little trailers.”

“Of course,” replied David. “What is in the other white trailer over there?”

“It doesn’t have any writing on the side and it’s bolted with thick chains, far too thick for us to break. There are two dead men in the cab, both shot by somebody who got here before us. It looked like they tried the back doors but couldn’t get through the chains either. It’s a reefer. We heard the reefer cough a couple of times and stop yesterday late afternoon, about an hour after we arrived here. We tried the tractor’s engine, but the battery is dead and it’s totally out of fuel. This Walmart trailer is mostly canned foodstuffs and boxes of dried foods for the Walmart’s food departments. You guys look like you have enough room to carry more than we can. This is the third rig this week we have found on I-95. Our little town has already emptied the other two so we have enough food until spring now. You can take the rest.”

Twenty minutes later one of Joe’s sons returned with a few gallons of diesel siphoned out of another crashed vehicle. They managed to pour the fuel into the empty tank, jolt the battery and start the tractor’s engine and the freezer motor. This tractor was slightly newer than the one yesterday and had a local trucker’s name on the side of the cab. The engine was diesel and the trailer had a diesel reefer motor on its front, which excited Joe. Preston had thousands of gallons of diesel fuel in one of his tanks.

They had their turn in the Walmart rig and as the sun started going down they began to salvage and break up another five pallets of foodstuffs. The last pallet hidden right up front was a pallet of cases of wine and Joe thought that Preston and Martie would enjoy that. He and his boys weren’t wine drinkers, just beer and bourbon.

They were hot and sweaty after moving the food cases by hand into Joe’s backed-up trailer. That, too, was now half full, a good tally for the day.

In the next week they found several more trailers. Two carried items they couldn’t use and the others were half empty of canned foodstuffs, sodas and several more pallets of beer. Several generators along with other building supply odds and ends were in one trailer bound for a tractor supply. Joe made sure nothing usable was left behind.

The last three tractor trailers, one closed and two open wood-carrying trailers, were spotted twenty miles north of the Virginia border, only hundreds of yards apart with Home Depot on the trailers’ walls. One had been opened but the contents were basically untouched. Not many people wanted building supplies at this time, but to Joe it was worth uncoupling the modern, useless tractors and dragging them back to the farm with his.

Preston headed out as the farm slowly woke up. It was still dark with the sun about to rise in the sky as he headed out to check for ice on the runway surface as he usually did when he got up so early. It was mostly dry and without enough ice to cause any tire slippage. He had his handheld on him as he heard a C-130 trying to reach him. It was still twenty miles out as he gave them the temperature, told the pilot that the air was absolutely still and there was no ice buildup. He double-clicked the radio’s speak button and his runway lights came on showing clear and dry tarmac. There was no mist around.

The C-130’s landing lights came on as it reached Jordan Lake and she came in, knowledgeable on how to land at Preston’s small field, information now known by all the pilots at the air base. Noisy and vibrating the cold air at this quiet time of the morning, the aircraft’s engines wound down and the tail door dropped, once the pilot had parked his aircraft sideways on the apron.

His old friends under Sergeant Perry, the Air Force soldiers who he had said goodbye to a day earlier, walked out of the door to greet him and introduced another dozen of their friends assigned to increase the protection for the President’s arrival.

The Air Force had planned to reform the trenches and battle areas surrounding the airfield, but as yet had not started. Now the President’s requests were putting their work on hold. A second C-130 called up on final approach twenty minutes later asking for landing instructions as the first C-130 was taxiing to the south end of the runway preparing for take-off.

The second flight in from Seymour Johnson carried dozens of tents and bedding taken away only a few weeks earlier. A third C-130 arrived with another platoon of thirty new soldiers. Sergeant Perry who was in charge of the three incoming flights told his friend Preston that the Air Force just couldn’t keep him and his men away from the farm.

Two jeeps identical to the ones Carlos had taken to Colombia drove out of the rear doors of the third C-130, as well as a dozen large mortars and several shoulder-rocket launchers with cases of rockets and bombs, and a couple of tripod machine guns. This reminded Preston of their growing stocks in the old shed. The military seemed to forget quickly that they left equipment on their last visit and Preston’s farm was becoming a massive ammo dump. It was time to get the bulldozers that remained on site to actually build a proper ammo building behind a dirt wall as the arsenal already there could wipe the farm off the map, if attacked.

All cargo was unloaded within an hour of the sun’s appearance over the trees to the east. The Air Force engineers who had arrived understood the farm’s ammo dilemma and immediately began searching for a safe position away from all the buildings to start digging a wall of dirt and building a safer storage armory.

Within minutes of his discussion with the engineers, a large helicopter appeared from the south with a large wooden box hanging beneath it. Preston directed it to the side area behind where the line of aircraft usually lined up next to his red barn. Upon inspection the cargo box held what looked like metal building-walls. The helicopter pilot stated that he would be returning with another five loads and that the delivery was prefabricated building pieces to erect floors, roofs and walls coming from the army at Fort Bragg.

“General Patterson has sure been busy,” thought Preston to himself. “At least I’ll get a safe harbor for our ammo out of this. But it looks like my peaceful farm is gone forever.”

By 11:00 more C-130s had flown in with more equipment, the bulldozers already working on a hole in a southwestern corner of the property a mile away towards the lake. The dozers were just in view from the airfield as more equipment and troops arrived to set up buildings. The more permanent buildings, Preston knew, would not be moved again until they fell down.

He and the engineers decided on the place to build more hangars adjacent to a possible second runway, fifty yards behind the old barn.

“I don’t think we’ll have a runway for a while yet,” suggested Preston to the Corps of Engineers major who had arrived with the last flight.

“What do you mean, Preston?” the soldier asked. “We already have several trucks on their way here from Bragg with runway building machinery and dump trucks with fine granite chips for the first layer. I’ve been told to make the stone base strong enough for C-130s and larger, and long enough for what we have flying today. There’s no way we can get any of the Jumbo Jets in but it looks like our new runway should be about the same as the great job you did on yours. Apart from a couple of new cracks, your asphalt has fared pretty well. We’ll resurface it for you once we have completed the new one.”

Preston was shocked. He was right—there would not be any peace here for quite a while. He wondered if the President was going to mind arriving in the middle of a building site.

“We only have five military dump trucks working, sir,” the major continued, “but we found a place in Fayetteville which had several old dump trucks in storage which should be running in a day or so. At Bragg we have several building sites where we can bring in all the different-sized pieces of stone, sand and rock to underlay the runway surface. Unfortunately, we only have one tarmac laying-machine and it needs some electronic parts replaced or bypassed. The technicians working on it said that it should be ready in a few days.”

“Do you have tarmac?” Preston asked.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer. “Enough for about ten miles of road surface and yours is the one and only job ordered so far.”

Preston heard new aircraft arriving and walked back to his hangar to prepare to help them in. Sally was first overhead asking for clearance. She came in over the runway low enough for Preston to see two heads and he wondered who her passenger was. The Colombian A-37B Super Tweet had two seats side-by-side and he noticed new rocket placements under her wings. Carlos was a few seconds behind her, diving in low and fast, Preston knowing that his cruise speed in the propeller-driven Mustang was only twenty to thirty knots slower than the twin-engine jet. Carlos’ range with his drop tanks was still triple the jet’s, even though Sally had two wing drop tanks, which increased her range to 750 to 800 miles.

Both aircraft landed within minutes of each other and parked on the apron in front of the hangar. Preston noticed Maggie in Sally’s right seat. Carlos parked next to her and all three got out at the same time as Air Force personnel wheeled up the weird selection of stairs they had left over the last two months. One was far higher than both aircraft, but it did its job and Carlos used the lower dozen stairs to ground level. Preston was glad to have the extra personnel again as all the aircraft could be left to them to check and refuel.

“Told you we would beat you, lover boy,” laughed Sally as they walked up in flight gear to Preston. Maggie had a picture of bliss on her face; she must have really enjoyed the flight.

“Sally let me fly the Tweet,” she stated to Preston. “It’s wonderful. Carlos, I want one too.”

“You want one of those, so does Martie, so does Jennifer. Those old pieces of Air Force metal used to be called 6,000-pound dog whistles,” Carlos laughed. “Get me an F-4 and I’ll get all you girls one. Maybe you could be called the ‘Tweety Bird Dog Whistle Wing’ of the U.S. Air Force!” Carlos shook Preston’s hand, both men smiling at the joke and Carlos being whacked over the head with Sally’s hand for his cheek to the female sex.

Then a familiar voice came over the radio asking for permission to join the traffic into Strong Field. “Preston, this is Mike in a Charlie 210, requesting permission to join short finals for Runway 18. Over.”

“Mike, this is Preston. You are number 1 for landing on Runway 18. Zero wind and the apron has room for you.” Preston watched as the 210 swung into line less than 800 yards south of the runway. As Mike Mallory turned in, his wheels came down, and Preston knew that the flaps and landing checks were being completed by a very experienced pilot. The 210 landed gently at the very end of the runway. Mike slowed rapidly to use only half of the runway and turned straight onto the apron.

Pam Wallace got out of the left side once the propeller came to a halt and Mike was in the right seat. From the quality of flying, Preston had thought it the other way around. Pam was flying and Mike was being her copilot. She was a darn good pilot, he realized.

Mike walked up and shook his hand while Pam walked up to the group of ladies and hugged all of them. His radio barked out noises again.

“Preston, this is Jennifer, Charlie-130 incoming from the north and requesting instructions for Runway 18. Over.”

“Temperature 35 degrees, zero wind, you are number 1 to land, zero others in pattern,” replied Preston. It was starting to get busy.

Jennifer came in five minutes later and everybody watched as she expertly brought the much larger aircraft in just as gently as Pam had in the much smaller Cessna 210.

“That’s my girl!” whooped Sally as the usual cloud of dust sprang up from the area in front of the asphalt. Preston reminded himself to get the engineers to extend this runway before they got started on the new tarmac. He could still squeeze out fifty feet of new blacktop from the open areas at each end before reaching his fence line. The second planned runway would run diagonally across the main field and would be 500 feet longer at each end than this extended one once finished. He would have 3,800 feet of runway, enough for the F-4s, he hoped.

There was no real rush. Everyone was dressed for winter on the calm and peaceful morning in North Carolina. The C-130 parked next to the old barn, Jennifer’s usual parking space, and a group dressed in military uniforms walked out of the back together with the Smart family. As is usual with humans, the men and women segregated into two groups to greet each other. In one group were Preston, Carlos, General Patterson, Admiral Martin Rogers, Colonel Mondale, Will and his son Ben, Army General Mark Ward from Fort Bragg, and Colonel Mickiewicz, the Base Commander at Camp Lejeune. In the other group, Jennifer, Maggie and her daughter Oprah went straight up to the group of women waiting to say hello.

Preston noticed that the group of women, with his girl Martie at a little over six feet—a good four inches taller than the rest of them—was an extremely beautiful lot. The girls were all within a few years of age of each other, in their twenties and at the prime of life. Each one had a man in the crowd gathered here and each one was a pilot.

“They need their own Wing,” he stated to Carlos still standing next to him once they had shaken hands with the new arrivals.

“As I said, Preston,” Carlos laughed, “the ‘Tweety Bird Dog Whistle Wing’ of the United States Air Force.” The men hearing this joke for the first time laughed with Preston and the group of women became silent. Ugly looks assailed the male group several feet away.

“Funny you said that, Carlos,” stated General Patterson. “You won’t believe what we found at McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas a day or two ago.”

“Super Tweets?” Carlos and Preston asked together.

“Yep,” replied General Patterson, “six of them, single-seaters though, otherwise they are close copies of the Colombian A-37B you brought back with you. All will be fully operational within a week.”

“Do they have the in-flight refueling points?” asked Carlos.

“As I said, they are close copies so yes, they do, which gives them a valuable combat range for us. They are the AT-37E/STOL version, like yours with the short take-off and landing configurations added. Since they are single-seat models they have more fuel weight for their more powerful engines. Carlos, the J-85-GE-17A model’s a little more powerful than your Colombian version. They are important to us as they can cross the U.S. with in-flight refueling nonstop in ten hours. They are having their directional equipment and modern radar systems exchanged for older ones, which we had kept at McConnell in storage. They are already equipped with a Minigun each. I also asked the armory to look in the old Vietnam-era warehouses at McConnell late last night as I know they have, or had a dozen or more Miniguns taken out of older aircraft as they had been dismantled there over the last couple of decades. We have dismantled many aircraft at McConnell over the years, and of course the Super Tweets were made just a couple of city blocks away at Cessna headquarters in Wichita. I also liked the Tweets and flew them often. They did a great job in Vietnam, but never got any credit for their achievements. General Allen, I believe, kept them alive and in one piece as he enjoyed flying one whenever he visited Kansas.”

“So as the favor you said you owed me, General,” continued Carlos, “could you add another request from me and form the ‘Tweety Bird Dog Whistle Wing’ for the six lady pilots over there? Since they are single-seat, we could use all six aircraft for the girls and the Air Force can get them all prettied out with decals in girly-pink and stuff with say the cartoon, Tweety Bird on the side and the grand lady’s bulldog, I can’t remember his name, but the bulldog could be blowing a dog whistle.”

“Hector,” added Admiral Rogers smiling at the idea.

“Just like the girl pilots in the James Bond film Gold Finger,” added Preston.

“Turn those aircraft into pretty pink-decaled jets for our girls and you won’t owe me anything else, General,” suggested Carlos to General Patterson, smiling a sweet smile. “Get the Tweety Bird cartoon cat, Sylvester decaled on my Colombian one and I will be Wing Commander and work for you for free forever.

“And the seven Gunships, and arming the whole Colombian Air Force for you? What about those favors already asked by you and your extended family?” replied the general, trying to look serious.

“Preston, this is Buck One,” stated Buck’s voice over Preston’s radio. “We are several minutes out and request landing instructions. Over.”

“Thirty five degrees, zero wind and there is a space for Baby Huey in front of the hangar. We are all out on the apron waiting for you. Over.”

“Roger that,” replied Buck.

Baby Huey came in from the north and landed in the space provided. Once the rotor had stopped, the President’s kids jumped out first and rushed over to the Smart kids, now together and waiting for their friends. The President helped his wife out. There were no Secret Service men to be seen, just two armed Air Force soldiers. Buck and Barbara got out of the pilot doors and everyone went over to greet the newcomers.

“Now our six Tweety Pie pilots are together,” stated Carlos to the group of men walking over. “Let’s keep this a secret for now, guys. It will be a rush to see them get their aircraft delivered here. We will need a scheduled day to get everybody here. Air Force pilots from McConnell can fly the newly-painted aircraft in. The girls can use my dual-seat A-37 for training. What do you think, General?”

He nodded. “It will be fun and a new Wing of aircraft would be a good and powerful addition to the current tiny United States Air Force.”

“Joe, David, this is Preston. Your lady friends Pam and Jennifer have arrived and you guys are late. Over,” he stated into his handheld after changing to Joe’s CB radio frequency.

“David and I are coming through your front gate,” replied Joe. “We are in the Saracen and my boys are bringing in two tractor-trailers to help feed the ladies and all those aircraft I’ve heard coming in. Tell Buck he nearly blew off the roof of my shed with his rotors, he was so low.”

Chapter 6

Meeting at Preston’s Airfield – March

Initial greetings over, the crowd regrouped in the hangar for the meeting. Preston did not really know why it was being held, but was glad to have visitors using his airfield again; it had been getting pretty quiet with no visitors.

Preston began, “Good morning, everyone, it seems that Phase Two of our meetings is here at the farm this week. General Patterson ordered this meeting and he can tell you why. My neighbor Joe and family, including friend David, have brought us over some “road kill” they found on the highways over the last week. I hope it’s not real “road kill” so it won’t destroy our flying abilities. Joe, come up here and tell us what you have, and why you brought over your two big BBQs.”

“Hi, y’all. Martie usually insults me when I bring stuff over and this time my friend Preston does it to me. If you can’t trust your neighbors who can you trust?” stated a smiling Joe to much laughter. “Best quality ‘Highway Road Kill’ is quickly running out on the highways, neighbor Preston, and thanks to your trusty neighbors and friends, we can all eat well for another several months. The highways are pretty orderly and we haven’t seen much violence. People are still polite, standing in line and helping each other at dozens of damaged tractor-trailers scattered everywhere. Unfortunately, I think the worst is yet to come as the supplies out there dwindle down. We have been out for several trips now and so far we have brought back two working Bobcats…”

“Those sound delicious!” interrupted Martie, getting in her five cents of insults.

“Depends how hungry you are, young lady,” Joe replied straight faced. “Those Bobcats will sure come in handy at my farm and you can come over and eat them any time you want!” Joe waited for the laughter to die down. “We also found two full and still frozen reefers of meat, and about forty tons of pre-packed pork and chicken. We thought both trailers had the same contents, but one was pork and one was chicken. I brought one of the reefers here, mixed up the meat into half pork and half chicken and will leave it with you. You still have about three tons of beef, so that should fit in nicely. Like the other reefer outside, this one runs on diesel and the tank needs to be checked every couple of days. We collected one and a half trailer loads of beer; one was a crashed Budweiser truck and the other a Yuengling tractor-trailer which had absolutely no damage, other than it had careened off the highway and was hidden in a forest of trees. Unbelievably, the whole rig, with no driver inside, missed every tree in the forest! The Yuengling trailer is a pretty-colored trailer; you can have the beer, Preston, but I want the trailer. We’ll off-load it sometime in the future. The trailer was totally untouched since it had been in the forest and is three quarters full. I don’t like Yuengling as much as a good Bud, so I will pack the beer in one of my many new trailers and bring it over here. It’s not a reefer, but it is insulated against freezing conditions. I suggest you keep it here in the hangar.” Preston nodded, winking at his friend to thank him.

“How did you know that I’m partial to a Yuengling or two now and again, Joe?” asked the President.

“I didn’t know that, Mr. President, but I will keep it in mind on my highway travels,” replied Joe. “To continue, while driving through a small town somewhere north of Smithfield we found an ABC delivery truck behind an ABC store which had high fences and heavily chained locks. Anyway the truck was dead, but once we broke the chains to get in, the back was full of bottles of booze. There are one hundred and forty boxes of fancy liquor I will load into the trailer with your Yuengling beer, Preston. I will keep the bourbon, moonshine and brandy; you guys can have the fancy Scotch and the other stuff.”

“Is that maybe stealing?” asked Admiral Rogers. “It was in a secure compound, wasn’t it?”

“I would agree with you, Admiral, except that the ABC store itself was empty, semi-burned, still had smoke coming out of it and was totally trashed. People, mostly grownup kids, scattered when we arrived and they would have either torched the truck or broken it open as we did. Nobody had climbed the prison-style fence into the secure rear delivery area by the time we arrived, or maybe they just thought nobody in their right mind would leave a truck full of liquor outside. Anyway, after this lot is finished we may all have to become teetotalers because there won’t be anything left to drink in the beer and liquor department. We also hitched up two Walmart trailers, one nearly empty and one totally full. The full one was on a desolate part of Highway 264 and miles from any town. It was also on an off-ramp and we nearly missed it if it hadn’t been for David’s good eyesight. The trailer is full of supermarket goods, flour, crackers, canned foods and other items Walmart stocks. The other one contained much the same. Tomorrow we will split up the Walmart goods and will deliver a shopping basket to your door, including cans of dog and cat food, Ms. Martie Roebels,” stated Joe sarcastically and bowing to her.

“And pray what is our debt to you, grand knight?” replied Martie in the same tone.

“Last year I would have asked for your hand in marriage, Ms. Roebels, but due to my meeting Ms. Wallace here a month or so ago, I’ll let you off the hook. But there is one thing. I feel pretty left out of this flying stuff and would like some flying lessons in something slow and safe. That way I could travel the highways at a faster speed. Also, I’m thinking that I might have always been jealous of you guys and really wanted to become a pilot. Look at the women pilots around here; they are far better looking than the raggedy old male pilots, and I’m sure more fun.” There was much laughter. “The eighth trailer is full of brand new and working John Deere lawn tractors, America’s new mode of transportation. The ninth trailer is a weird one from Nevada, full of Indian stuff, and I’ll let you ladies unpack that one.

“My boys are lighting the charcoal BBQs and have taken out enough meat for an old-fashioned grill-up for lunch, and due to the weather, all the beers are cold.” Joe got a standing ovation and returned to his seat.

General Patterson walked to the front of the room and began the meeting. “Apart from my two Air Force Base Commanders, Army General Ward and Marine Colonel Mickiewicz from Camp Lejeune, all of you have been in all of the meetings we have had here at Preston’s airfield. Yesterday’s meeting was our information group; today is our planning group and you guys are the think-tank group the President has asked me to put together. There are thirty of you in this room and our mission is to try and stay behind the eight ball, because future events are coming at us from close and far. Lee Wang couldn’t make it today. He and his family flew back to California last night to solve a problem with these Chinese parts. We have teams working 24/7 to get things going again. We don’t know where to start, but it is not up to me to decide what is important. I’m a pilot, not an engineer. We need to discuss what is important for defense and work on future threats to our country. I will ask the President say a few words to you first.”

“Ladies and gentleman, and Joe, who has gone up on my list of important people, started the President in a relaxed mood, “nobody in this country knows what the hell is going on and what the future is going to bring, except more death and destruction. I have no Congress or Senate to worry about for the first time in my administration and I want to get the United States back on track as soon as possible. What goes on in this room stays in this room. I know you military personnel are all different ranks, but at these meetings, you are all as equal as I am, except I must make the final decisions.” He sat down.

Preston looked around the room. The First Lady was sitting and listening closely, as were all the high military brass and civilians who had been here before, but the kids were not in the hangar, nor were the lower-ranking military personnel. The hangar was on lockdown by guards on the outside. Also, Preston noticed, apart from David, everybody was American.

“Some of you have flown outside our borders very recently,” continued General Patterson. “Carlos, come up and tell us what is happening out there, as far as South America is concerned.” The men switched positions.

“We spent only three days in Colombia, so we don’t know much about the world. What I did notice was that poorer populations, shall we say second-world countries, are not as bad off as we think. I did learn that many countries must have more operational Vietnam-era and older weapons and electronics as compared to the USA and the European Block, and maybe even Russia and China. To me, that means that all countries might be of equal standing and have the same arms and munitions. The United States, Russia, the European countries of Germany, France and Great Britain, and China, that had far more modern electronics and depended on them more, are worse off for their dependence on them. The middle-strength nations still have capabilities with their World War II and Vietnam-era aircraft, ships and equipment just as we have, here at Preston’s field. Colombia is far better off than we are here. It’s not so cold and for example, private and commercial kitchen equipment is still working. From this small sample, I estimate that the really poor nations have seen little or no change due to having less modern equipment to fail in their daily lives. I would assume that hospital equipment of all nations would be more modern, such as emergency vehicles like fire engines, ambulances and police vehicles, but to me it seems that all middle-strength nations have increased in strength compared the more powerful nations who have lost more.”

“Does that mean that we might not be one of the most powerful nations in the world any more, and maybe a country like Mexico, Brazil, India or Venezuela could be more powerful than us?” asked the President.

“I don’t think so,” replied Carlos. “I think we have much more residual strength than many other countries. Yes, we lost more modern technologies than other countries, but the other countries have all lost something,especially communications and knowledge. With our military size, strength and available equipment and supplies, we are in a powerful position to defend ourselves from another country’s attacking force. What is most important is that we have Blue-Water oceans between us and all other potentially powerful nations.”

“So, future invasions or attacks from external forces could come from our southern or northern borders?” the President asked.

“I would think so, and although our satellite feed can help keep eyes on the seas around us, searching for shipping, the satellites won’t see a couple of jeeps driving over our borders, north or south,” Carlos answered. “In Colombia, nobody knows who to trust. One of the major centers of power in Colombia is composed of my five uncles. They control half of the police force, much of the Air Force and Navy, and a good portion of the Army. Many soldiers have deserted, but not in my uncles’ divisions. Admiral Rogers, may I ask you a question? What is the effectiveness of your Navycurrently?”

“Zero,” replied the admiral bluntly. “I’m thinking, like Joe, maybe I should learn to fly.”

“Would three Light Frigates of the Colombian Navy help you if they were loaned to you?”

“In a smaller patrol area, yes,” replied the Admiral. “We currently have six operational Destroyers that are older and more obsolete models and two Submarines. There are another half dozen ships, even Aircraft Carriers, the USS Yorktown in Charleston, South Carolina and the Midway on the West Coast that might be salvageable, but it will take a year to get them up to steam. If I needed to patrol over a certain area, let us say the Caribbean or Gulf of Mexico, three Light Frigates would be a formidable force compared to what we have now. I would say that three ships could treble our naval defense opportunities.”

“General Patterson, my Uncle Philippe asked that you turn his seven C-130s into Gunships.” The general nodded. “Do you have enough equipment to do this?”

“Yes, we have more than a dozen 105mm howitzers in the latest, grounded AC-130 Gunships worldwide, which are at least a decade away from being active again. We have already salvaged what we could out of three of the 130s in Japan and another two in Korea. We are gutting three in Europe and bringing what is usable back stateside. These aircraft skeletons have been, or will be destroyed once cleaned out. So is most of our now defunct equipment overseas. The U.S. Air Force has over a hundred teams looking at all of our 3,000 aircraft over there and will dismantle anything worth keeping. Within a month or two, all of our defunct military equipment in unsafe countries will be destroyed. Back to the AC-130s, they all have the same systems Blue Moon is fitted with. We also can fit your Colombian aircraft out with Vietnam-era infrared scopes and a complete range of the Vietnam-era electronics we have in Blue Moon. General Allen’s Ghost Rider had the same equipment. We will have salvaged enough gunship equipment to equip the seven Colombian C-130s as well as five of our own aircraft. I’m sure we will find more and more equipment as we look deeper into storage warehouses around the country and overseas.”

“How many future 130 Gunships are we going to have and can our country depend on the Colombians as back up if we need them?” asked the President.

“A dozen, Mr. President,” replied the general. “And we will have them to back us up if needed. Carlos, as to your requirement for Miniguns, we have already salvaged 45 complete units from our overseas bases; we believe there are at least another 1,800 or more in the grounded overseas aircraft that we haven’t touched yet and at least another 200 on defunct aircraft inside the U.S. I would think that the Air Force alone has another 500 or more units stashed away. What are your estimates for the Army and Marines, gentlemen?”

“Unconfirmed numbers; I would say 500 or more nationwide and we are also bringing Miniguns back on the jumbo jets when we can; I’d say another 1,500 over there,” replied General Ward.

“About 100 here, General, mostly on older jeeps and another 500 overseas,” added Colonel Mickiewicz.

“So Carlos, your uncles may have 100 Miniguns and ammunition from us. What are we going to get in return?” asked the general.

“My uncles were thinking of loaning the U.S. Navy three Light Frigates and all you give us in return is back-up for any attacks the U.S. might incur in the future,” Carlos replied. “It depends on our bordering countries, also potential enemies of the United States, General, countries like Venezuela. We will keep an eye out for Colombia as well as the U.S.”

“I like that idea, General,” stated the President. “We need all the friends we can get. Do you have anything to add to what Carlos has just brought up?” Carlos sat down and General Patterson returned to the podium.

“I think that a friendly army and air force as backup is a very positive idea. Admiral Rogers needs more ships, and we do have some ideas ourselves to increase our shipping. Admiral Rogers, will you come up and tell us your new projects?”

“Remember those five massive container ships we captured in New York harbor?” Everyone nodded as the Admiral started. “All the food is unloaded and all the full shipping containers are on dry land. It certainly is a large amount of food and we have 3,000 people packing necessities like rice, flour, and canned meats and vegetables. We divided the food into two-month cases for people and have been giving them out in New York, Boston, Philly, Trenton and Hartford for a month now, as well as a couple of other smaller cities for further distribution into smaller airfields since last week. These food rations have taken the strain away from our military MRE ration packs in these areas and will do so for several more weeks. Many of the containers are now empty and we are turning the 20-foot and 40-foot containers into single family accommodations in a new refugee camp we are building in the Burlington, New Jersey area.

“The new camp is on 40 acres just south of Trenton. Families walking down I-95 and I-295 are directed to the new camp which is starting to get new occupants daily. We have 300 livable containers completed and occupied to date. There are 100 new septic tanks going in every week and we are building separate shower and toilet facilities per 12 containers. Currently families with children or older pensioners are given a 20-foot container, one container per family. The 20-foot containers have bunks for four and the larger 40-foot, bunks for larger families of five to eight people. Insulation, a door and three windows are being added to the walls of each unit. A V-shaped metal roof is being built over the container for rain, snow and heat in the coming summer and lastly, basic army furniture is added—a table, chairs, carpeting, a gas oven and a simple kitchen without washing facilities. All washing up, cleaning and water-related needs are done in the central washrooms, much like a camp site. Finally we have placed a large military or civilian generator outside the wash room with a line going into each house for light, one generator per 12 houses and the washrooms. It’s very basic, but livable and some of the first houses are small, cozy and warm. We have 20,000 containers from the ships plus another 30,000 from the surrounding docks ready for modification. Modifications to the containers are being completed at the docks themselves and a couple of Navy Bases close by. The completed containers are moved without their new roofs by a dozen still-operational container trucks between dock areas and then are airlifted by two Jolly Green Giants to the camp. Here, the roof is added, the container mounted on a leveled piece of ground, connections made and then it’s ready for a family. Each container takes 48 hours from start to finish and we are lifting a dozen per day per helicopter. I have 500 engineers and ship-repair workmen working on the project. Are there any questions?”

“How many other empty shipping containers are there in the harbors further afield, and are they meant to be permanent camps or new towns?” asked Mike Mallory. “It sounds great, but surely all the containers available would never be enough for all the people migrating south.”

“Correct, Mike,” replied Admiral Rogers. “We are not getting thousands of families heading south on I-295 and I-95 as yet. I think most of them are heading your way, to your food points further west. That’s good until we have more containers to give to people. The 50,000 containers we have collected so far are for only 50,000 families, and that is just the start of the project. I believe that there could be up to a million empty shipping containers around the country and the next project is to start a camp, Mike, where you believe one is needed. Next is camp security. We have 100 soldiers on guard duty in towers around the camp. Unfortunately these guard towers make the camp look like an old World War II Concentration Camp and will be taken down once all troubles are ended. We believe that with a possible one million empty shipping containers around the country we—the Navy—plan to turn them into hundreds of camps in the safer, middle areas of the country, within a year. These camps could house 40 million people if needed and could be permanent camps for as long as the country needs them. OK?”

There were no more questions. “Back to the ships themselves: We have checked out two of the five massive container ships. All five ships went totally dead on us once we captured them. Somebody aboard each one must have had some sort of device to destroy certain electronics aboard each vessel. Luckily, and thanks to Lee Wang working with a couple of the Chinese Marine Engineers, we found supplies of the destroyed electronic parts, mostly fuses, control panels, resistors etc., in our Chinese stores. We then realized that the five other container ships we were told about by that Mo Wang fellow in January, could still be docked in Shanghai, still full of food and awaiting orders. We phoned Mo Wang in Panama. He was extremely helpful and immediately asked for asylum here in the U.S. I told him that I would speak to the President himself. I didn’t know if asylum is still a word in our new age. Lee Wang is not sure whether we should allow him in, but told me that Mo Wang is an excellent engineer and Lee thought he would be useful. Thinking about our Chinese Plan yesterday, I’m sure he could fit into our plans well, he knows China and hopefully where to source more products we need. He then telephoned the Zedong Electronics Harbor Command Center in Shanghai and was told the five ships were still waiting for orders to leave port. We told Mo Wang to get the ships to leave port and head towards Hawaii and anchor in safe waters off one of our islands and wait for further orders.”

“How is our old friend Mo Wang?” asked Carlos.

“Happy, and as I said ready to help us at any time,” replied the admiral. “Our two now fully-functional container ships will leave New York Harbor within forty-eight hours to head to ports in England and France where we can drive tons of equipment aboard the ships’ main decks and even into the empty holds, if the Army, Air Force and Marines need them in the future. There isn’t much else these types of ships can do and container ships are pretty useless at anything other than carrying containers, or bulk troops or military machinery. Their holds are full of container-packing attachments, so they are not the best holds to pack large amounts of equipment into, but better than nothing. The Air Force can divert the 747s during the seven days of troop hauls to a nearby airport to the ships and we do have operational trucks to carry equipment to the harbor. We are lifting about twenty useable civilian dump trucks from here aboard the ship to help in Europe. Both ships have their own davits to off-load and on-load up to twenty tons at a time if none of the harbor lifts work over there. The idea is to bring anything worthwhile back by ship, a slower route but two loads will save months of flights and should transport all that we have over there. There are large stockpiles of usable ammunition, housing sections, barracks, tents, and dozens of other important and mobile equipment we will need returned here at some stage. With regard to a future reserve or backup army, these ships will be pretty useless after that until trade is established around the world, so we could uplift thousands of men and machinery aboard one of these from Colombia and, say, transport them to New York, or Houston, or anywhere we want them. They can travel at a decent speed and be anywhere in the world within a month.

“A second team of engineers with an army of 10,000 Army soldiers and Marines will be underway with the third container ship in about a week’s time. General Patterson and I want the Panama Canal under our control and we are going to fight to get it back. Mo Wang told us that there were Chinese troops stationed there who were to stay there indefinitely, as far as he knew. He reckoned on a couple of thousand or even more. A destroyer will join the container ship as protection, and, Carlos, this is where your Colombian Light Frigates could help—we need to get control of the canal to pass shipping through. That is what the Navy is currently working on with the President and others.” General Patterson returned to the podium as Admiral Rogers got a good hand of applause.

“We are looking forward to getting the Panama Canal back under our control. It seems from what we have discussed at the two meetings yesterday at Andrews and this morning in North Carolina that there is a good possibility of more attacks on our country, and they will likely come from our southern border with Mexico. Who agrees?” Everyone in the room nodded their agreement. “Let us look at all the possibilities. We should discuss a Blue-Water Ocean Attack on our shores. Who could attack us in the next decade?”

For several minutes there was discussion and the results always came up the same. Based on information General Allen relayed back on his flight around the world before his death, there was little chance that any country or organization could mount such an attack, even though the U.S. Navy couldn’t actually do anything to defend itself. They then looked at an air or space attack.

General Patterson in charge of the U.S. Air Force agreed with everybody that no air attack was possible. The world’s only operational aircraft carrier they knew of was destroyed in the last attack in New York. No modern bombers could make the long journey to U.S. shores without having to refuel somewhere en route, or on the return. No country within a thousand miles had any aircraft that could bomb the hell out of an area of the United States and return to base, with the exception of the northern countries of South America, where Venezuela came up as the only possible air threat.

Everybody agreed that the U.S. controlled space with the four satellites operational for a short while. There were no possibilities that anybody had any hardware working up there.

Germ or biological warfare was next and after a short discussion and due to very little information, this was recorded as a possible future threat.

“Lastly,” began General Patterson, but the smell of cooking meat outside wafted through the air drawing everyone’s attention. Some hadn’t tasted freshly cooked meat for nearly a month now, living mostly on MRE rations. “OK, guys, Joe and his guys are going to end this meeting quicker than expected, but let us finish. Lastly, is there any way we can get electronics working again and then have them terminated for the second time?” The answer was simple. The enemy control had died in the attack, and their headquarters was in ruins in Nanjing, China. The only way to find out was to go over to China and make sure there was nobody left to push a button or something.

Carlos stated the obvious answer. “If we manufacture new parts here in the U.S. from scratch, there is no way that anybody can control them. We do not have the Internet anymore, so no more Internet viruses. I don’t believe the Internet will ever function again until we get our electronics up and running again in this country, which I believe could be as long as twenty to thirty years. The Internet and all we as humans played with last year is history. Facebook and Social Media, text messaging, Kindles, iPads, iPhones, AT&T and the other networks, and everything so important to electronic personal device-conscious people will be long forgotten. All these gadgets were controlled by a small group of companies, which also no longer exist. I’m sure Apple and others are already long forgotten out there in the real world. I don’t know what teenagers are going to do without texting a million times a day or checking Facebook, but I would assume they are going to learn survival skills they never thought important. We are going to produce new equipment from this year and hopefully will not use fossil fuels, or dirty our world with toxins like we did up to last New Year’s Eve.” Carlos got a sound applause of agreement. He was right on the button and put the new world they lived in into a greater perspective.

General Patterson agreed, adding that it was time for lunch and that the meeting would resume for a future discussion once everybody was ready. There wasn’t as much of a rush in the new world as there had been in the old. Rome wasn’t built in a day!

Joe’s sons were cooking up a storm outside. When the group walked out of the warm hangar into the colder air, Preston checked the large temperature gauge on the wall of the hangar and noticed that it was just over forty degrees. Both BBQs, converted from a 44-gallon metal drum cut in half, had used five or six large bags of charcoal.

“You have a pile of charcoal, I assume, Joe?” Preston and the President walked up to his neighbor hugging his new girlfriend Pam Wallace. At around forty-five Joe was at least fifteen years older than Pam. Joe was rugged and pretty good-looking, and had never been overweight, just a bear of a man.

“Remember our gas station deal last year?” he answered and Preston nodded. “Well, I knew that you used gas to grill, so I kept the stocks of charcoal for myself. We have used them several times this year; it takes a lot to feed my five boys and David. I think we counted around three hundred bags when I collected them and we are down to about 260 bags, enough for a year of good old-fashioned charcoal BBQ.”

“And the meat?” asked Preston.

“After getting back yesterday from Andrews I checked in my reefers and pulled out a hindquarter of beef, which wasn’t cut up. I was waiting for enough people to use the whole thing. I also thawed a dozen packs of chicken parts from the most recent reefers we found last week and several packs of pork chops. It all thawed out overnight in my sauna. I turned on my reserve generator and powered the sauna up to about a hundred degrees and by this morning everything was thawed and ready to cut. We have your new baker’s oven full of bread rolls and have a dozen commercial tins of good old-fashioned ex-President-named baked beans on your house stove. A meal fit for the current President and First Family,” Joe ended, smiling at the President.

“It sounds like it was certainly worth coming, Joe. I really appreciate the thought, and of course we are going to enjoy the food,” replied the President, eyeing the large BBQs full of meat. Three of Joe’s sons were turning the large portions of steak.

The lunch, eaten in the hangar, was excellent. The meat was tasty and the fresh bread rolls a luxury; even though there were three or four large rolls per person, not one was left over. Every person on the farm partook in the meal, nearly a hundred very hungry people. Even the guard duty was called in and told to take the time off. There wasn’t much to guard as no people had been seen around the farm for days, and the engineers and men about to begin work on the airfield hadn’t arrived. They had told Preston that they were getting sand, stone and equipment ready and that they would arrive in full force in a day or two.

Oliver and Puppy had never seen so many bones offered to them at one sitting and the engineers would be digging up steak bones for weeks, once they started on the airfield.

Three hours later the second phase of the meeting started, with people challenged to stay awake after the heavy meal.

“Thank you to all of you who gave us the best meal so far this year. I have looked around at your supplies, Preston, and think that you guys will be well stocked for several years to come!” joked General Patterson.

Everybody laughed as there were several mountains of supplies in the hangar. Nearly a third of the hangar was taken by hundreds of pallets stocked with every sort of food and snack possible; the beer section—over thirty full pallets—was impressive, and the four hundred odd cases of liquor were protected by the food pallets in the rear corner. Preston still needed to sort out what their future needs and this was what this part of the meeting was all about, plus he had to get the latest perishable stocks transferred into the hangar with the forklift borrowed last year and never returned.

Distracted, Preston was on the other side of his airfield pondering which hangars and buildings he would need. “There would be enough room between the triangle-shaped runways and taxiways to have several buildings inside the asphalt, and we will need a secure food storage building as well!” He envisioned a large hangar for the Wing of new aircraft requisitioned by Carlos. “It would be nice to have the girls stationed here at the farm. Also, housing will be needed. The President has already asked for a house for the First Family. All accommodations would need to be kept far away from the new ammunition storage depot about to go in. They would have to build them in a line with his house and hangar on this side of the current runway.”

“Preston, are you with us?” he heard the general ask him and he quickly returned to the present.

“Sorry, General Patterson, I was trying to figure out where all the new buildings are going to fit on my airfield,” he replied, embarrassed.

“Do you want me to start putting up more buildings?” joked Joe. “Just remember we don’t have our neighborhood Home Depot or Lowes anymore. I have enough wood supplies at home for several exterior frames, even a couple of hundred logs from a log home we dismantled a year or so ago…”

“I’ve always wanted a log home, like the ones in the Rockies,” interrupted the President. “You keep that stuff for me, Joe, and I’ll make you a pilot in no time. I’m even thinking that I might as well start flying. At least I can help out with airlifts. Colonel Mondale, when can Joe and I start down at Seymour Johnson? It will give me a reason to be down here longer.”

“Right after the meeting, Mr. President,” Colonel Mondale joked. “We can have you flying single-engine propellers by tonight, multi-engine by lunchtime tomorrow and jets by tomorrow night.” Everybody enjoyed the humor going around.

“No, I’m serious, soon-to-be Major Mondale. Remember the Chief of the Air Force is in this room and one word from me…”

“I get the message, Mr. President,” replied the colonel. “We have a couple of Cessna 172s, the ones Preston found at RDU, we have a two-seater multi-engine trainer operational and within a month, a second two-seater, side-by-side A-37 trainer is being made operational as we speak. There is a third one at McConnell in Kansas and a fourth somewhere else. With the general’s permission I can get them all relocated to Seymour Johnson and anything else we can find to teach flying and start a flying school.” General Patterson nodded his approval. “Mr. President, I think that with a serious program on a daily basis, we could have you and Joe and anybody else who wants to fly jets trained within three to four months.”

“I am your certified Cessna instructor, and ready to start work Mr. President,” offered Martie. “I was going to go help my father and grandfather design new electronics, but to help new pilots is far more rewarding.” Preston was immediately relieved. One of his forthcoming issues was resolving itself in front of him. Martie would stay.

Agreements were made. It was easy to build the future as everybody who had a say was in this hangar meeting.

A timeline was set up with suggestions from the engineers present, Martie, Preston, Buck, Maggie and Carlos contributing the most. A satellite phone was activated to Michael Roebels currently at Silicon Valley with Lee and Grandpa Roebels and the first dual-coast conference call of the new world was started.

With many ideas rising from the teams of expert engineers on both sides of the country, the satellite phone connected to Preston’s old music amplifier and loudspeaker was set up for the conference call and a second system was ready in California. Both parties could hear each other well, but the satellite phones had to be passed to speak into.

Any form of electrical grid modifications to anything larger than a sub-station would take two to five years. Countrywide was a wild guess of twenty years by Michael Roebels.

Agreement was made that a small nuclear power plant in California should be made activate immediately. Several smaller plants around the country, which included the local Newhill Nuclear Power Station, also should be brought back online when needed. It would take about three months to get the first one in California up to steam and then it would be shut down again until needed, as there was nothing presently working to use the power. Buck reckoned that the country’s current nuclear power stations would be the ongoing power sources of the country as needed. The old coal-powered ones would be left and any working parts cannibalized for other projects.

Buck also suggested that companies around the country that produced or stored solar panels should be visited and all available solar equipment, panels, storage batteries and working inverters transported to one location and erected to maximum potential.

Maggie suggested that the same be done with the wind power companies and that they visit any companies that made small household wind-power equipment. Very few in the civilian community could do anything with this equipment, or even get a necessary infrastructure together and a large wind turbine could power up an air base or small town. Maggie also suggested that there could be warehouses of parts and equipment in all areas of the country. Carlos calculated that all this material could even equal a coal-fired power station and be enough for a couple of smaller cities.

Once the incoming troop airlifts were complete, the 747 aircraft could visit towns and cities where these companies were situated. General Patterson stated that the troops deploying around the country could seek out these warehouses or businesses and put a guard detachment on them if they were still in one piece.

The general then asked Michael for other estimates on when manufacturing plants could begin manufacturing new parts.

Michael gave them the information they had worked on in California. There were a dozen old electronic-part manufacturing plants in Silicon Valley which had shut down within the last decade, due to Chinese parts becoming so cheap. Companies had gone out of business and these older plants had manufactured electronic parts in the mid-90s, which meant they could be made operational again, or would take less time to go through the systems and replace defunct parts. They now had recorded samples of all the working parts that had arrived in the 747 transporter from China. These could be used as production examples, copied and then processing lines set up for manufacture. Raw materials could be obtained over time. He suggested somebody visit the Chinese production plants and set up a trade route of needed materials. They should have tons of raw materials stockpiled over there and Michael suggested, with Lee Wang’s guidance, that a firm friendship should be made between the American government and whoever was ruling in China.

Everyone at Preston’s farm agreed to the plan and Sally suggested that since General Allen had managed to get across in Ghost Rider that Blue Moon should be immediately readied for a world reconnaissance, especially to the safe areas of China.

Admiral Rogers reminded everyone that a container ship would be heading in that direction and it could be used as a helicopter landing platform; tons of men, fuel and supplies could be put on its deck and dirt or stone ballast inside the massive ship to make it safe for blue-water travel.

The meeting reverted back to Michael who gave suggestions about country-wide possibilities that made everybody solemn and serious again.

“I’m going to read from a list we have worked on here:

A local electrical grid structure, here in the necessary production area around Silicon Valley in three months, and a same-sized grid in your Raleigh/Durham area next year.

A statewide grid in California and North Carolina; ten to twelve years.

A countrywide grid for everybody: two decades.

New communication systems, phones, computers, radios, directional equipment etc.: ten years for the simplest systems.

More sophisticated systems from the above: two decades.

To get a new satellite into space: three decades.

Build new fighter jets and defense systems: unmanned a decade at minimum, maybe two decades for a modern manned aircraft.

To make operational current unmanned aircraft with ground-flight controls: two years for a simple system with a 500 mile control radius and three years for a system to operate through our existing Navistar satellite which would be far bigger.

“That is our work up to now with emphasis on the fact that we will have no new parts manufactured for at least 24 months, and then the manufacturing will be very slow until we build more plants in this country. We could ask China to build parts for us, but that is up to the powers that be.”

“Never in a million years!” replied the President. “We will never have anything more than the importation of raw materials into this country. I will make it part of an ongoing law for future Presidents and perhaps suggest it as an amendment to our United States Constitution.” He received applause for this from both sides of the country.

The team in California was thanked and the hangar meeting reverted back to a closed session.

“The last item is security, ladies and gentlemen,” stated General Patterson. “What does everyone suggest we do now, for the rest of this year, and next year, and the ongoing future?”

“I believe that it will take at least a year of organization before any power can ready enough troops or machinery to attack the United States,” suggested Carlos. “I suggest that for the rest of this year, we have limited security, except where our returning troops are being hampered or attacked in the cities or towns internally.” Everyone agreed.

“I think that this year is a year to get our troops back, feed our civilians, get the farmers all the help and labor they need, try to save as many people as possible, and keep our satellite, or satellites trained on our shores,” added Mike Mallory.

“Within a few weeks,” continued General Patterson “we will have our container ship with what the Admiral suggested near Shanghai, once it has met up with the other Chinese ships coming our way. We can fly out two Gunships via Europe with air tankers and set up lines of real communications with the Chinese. We have our satellite communications right now, but we will not communicate with them until we are close to arriving in their country. Once we have all our troops back, I will ask General Ward to take over the southern border and have a good number of men and vehicles patrolling. Once we get Michael’s unmanned drones flying in a year or two we will be able to see 500 miles inside Mexico. Hopefully they will be equipped with night vision and then we can get some of our Spanish-speaking Special Forces dressed in civilian clothes to go into Mexico and warn us of any gatherings of armies, or whatever could come north. Canada is not a problem and unless someone brings our northern border up, I think we are finished here until our meeting back at Andrews in a month’s time. Meeting adjourned!”

“I’m getting rather thirsty thinking of that mountain of Yuenglings back there, Preston. Do you have any real cold ones?” asked the President to everyone’s delight.

Everyone agreed, the day was done and one-on-one discussion needed to take place over snacks and drinks. Music was added to the mix, those outside were allowed into the hangar, and from the main house Preston, beer in hand, stated that he was going to walk his perimeter and asked if anyone wanted to join him. Both the general and admiral did as well as Martie, Carlos, Mike Mallory and Buck, and the lead Air Force engineer. A major who was nearby was asked to accompany them to take notes. The President wanted a little time with his wife and kids.

“A great idea, the camp you are putting together,” stated Preston to Admiral Rogers as they walked south down the existing runway. “Do you think we are going to need a million new houses in this country?”

“The people we have managing the situation with the cities in the north are devastated by the numbers of dead,” Admiral Rogers replied grimly. “If you haven’t been there, it is impossible to visualize the size of the tasks before us. Mike Mallory and I joined a team going through Manhattan a couple of weeks ago. We walked down The Avenue of the Americas to Central Park. We walked by broken windows in snow boots. The windows were third-story windows. The city was barren and empty and we saw several dogs and one or two people disappear into windows when they saw us approach. Central Park was a white skating rink where the sun had frozen fresh snow into a top ice layer. We walked across Central Park at tree level. It had snowed several feet the week before, a massive snow storm which stopped all our work for a couple of days and raised everything by a three or four feet. It took days just to clear the airport runways and get troops back into Manhattan. Even at this high level we had teams behind us in tracked vehicles, old jeeps we have found with snow tracks on them, and we picked up over seventy frozen bodies which couldn’t have been dead for more than a few days. I would hate to see what body count was below where we walked, frozen in the snow.”

“What or who is still killing the people?” asked Martie.

“Mostly gunshot wounds. Some had just fallen in the snow and were too weak to move. There was little we saw or heard while we were there. I believe many of the people didn’t want to be seen, mostly armed and dangerous. It was after we returned down The Avenue of the Americas, back to our guarded vehicles, when people started waving at us from windows. Once they knew that we weren’t bad guys they came out in dozens, mostly children and teenagers, telling us that their parents were holed up somewhere else in the city. That afternoon, we brought out seven hundred starving people and placed them in the new camp. We now have several platoons of soldiers going into Manhattan and a couple of other cities every day looking for people. In the week we have been doing this on a daily basis, we have lost three men to sniper fire, have kitted the soldiers out with bullet-proof vests and saved nearly 2,000 people in Manhattan alone.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Preston.

“We just don’t have enough men to do everything we want yet,” added General Patterson. “We have had to ship many men to supplement the guards at hundreds of our military bases around the country. Many of them did not have enough personnel for round-the-clock protection. Also, many of the incoming officers have been deployed to take command of these bases, mostly smaller ones. We have 143 major bases in the country, and all these now have 3,000 to 5,000 men guarding them. The problem we faced last month were the 5,800 smaller bases where there were less than fifty to a hundred men remaining to guard them; these were ammo dumps, prisons, warehouses, and specialist training bases including all the National Guard and Coast Guard bases around the country. It has taken us three weeks to get troops into these bases with needed supplies. These smaller bases will be our future national defense grid and it has taken 250,000 men from overseas—half of the men we have returned so far—just to set up security for all these bases. The task has just been completed. It wasn’t only bringing the men into the country, but then major airlifting them into the bases, mostly using helicopters out of the major secure bases. It has been a long three weeks and we used everything we had spare to get these men around the country. That put added pressure on the food distribution and also helping civilians stay alive.”

“You must have found more flyable aircraft to do this,” added Preston.

“We scoured every airfield we had mapped across the country. In many areas we found small aircraft which we commandeered, just like you did at your international airport here, cleared the runways and flew them to the Air Force bases. To date, we have found over 300 small single-engine civilian aircraft we can use and lined them up with our 40 operational helicopters. With the larger C-130s we flew hundreds of men and rations into the main air bases from Andrews and McGuire. From there the civilian aircraft flew them into air fields not blocked by snow, or they were airlifted into bases in towns or cities. This task is virtually complete, and thanks to many pilots and aircraft working around the clock, we have all these bases up and running. Now we can airlift food and supplies into them using the helicopters and small aircraft on a daily basis. Thanks to your idea, Preston, we looked at every FedEx and UPS building at the airports and we successfully got a 100 of the old Cargomasters working like beasts of burden flying supplies into small airfields. They carry far more than the smaller aircraft and cover a fantastic amount of ground.”

“Even Lady Dandy has been working 24/7, Preston,” added Buck. “I have flown over a hundred hours in the last four weeks delivering supplies and men into Ohio and Kentucky as well as helping Carlos and Lee at Andrews when other pilots were flying her. The air force has promised me two new engines for her.”

“Now I feel guilty that Martie and I haven’t helped,” commented Preston.

“Don’t worry,” replied Buck. There were more than enough pilots once we got them arriving from overseas. It’s just that I wanted to look after my own aircraft. Only Baby Huey has been spared flying 24/7 because the President needs a helicopter for the White House pickups. It wasn’t the pilots we needed, it was aircraft and you guys wouldn’t have helped much with your Mustangs.”

“So that’s why my civilian aircraft disappeared?” Preston asked. They reached the end of the runway and Preston showed the general his idea on the new runway area. They spaced out the longest length of ground and agreed that the new runway would add another thousand feet for a larger range of aircraft to land. “What do the F-4 Phantoms need for takeoff and landing?” Preston asked General Patterson.

“I flew them for three years in my early flying days,” replied the general. “I would get them off fully laden in 3,200 feet and land in less. Luckily the altitude here is not a factor. Since we have walked out 3,700 feet, if you trimmed all the at trees both ends down to ten feet or less for a couple of hundred feet at either end, we could get everything we are currently flying in here except for the jumbo jets.”

“What about those Chinese fighters we captured, General?” asked Preston, the group now heading back down the open space to consider room for hangars and other equipment.

“They are totally useless for much,” General Patterson replied. “Our engineers can’t work on them, apart from normal servicing and daily maintenance. We are thinking of using them as a barter card with the Chinese government for supplies or rare earth materials for electronic manufacture and whatever we can exchange them for. I’ve got this feeling that you want to learn to fly jets, Preston, Carlos?” The general stopped walking and looked at them eye to eye. Preston looked at Carlos and realized that the general knew what he was thinking. Carlos nodded that he was interested.

“It would be nice. What do you have available in a size 10?” Preston joked. The general looked at them sternly and carried on walking. “I’ll see what I can find. You guys are going to be the death of me.”

Preston asked the general a question he had refrained from asking since the first week he heard about then-Major Patterson, when the major had flown in to thwart the incoming enemy at JFK. Since then the poor soldier had not had a day off from duty and was the only one who had not gone home to visit family, or even worry about them.

“Don’t you have any family you are worried about, General?” Preston asked.

“Fortunately, I don’t and I suppose that gives me time and space to do my job,” General Patterson replied. “I was married for a couple of years, but did not have children and my wife left me a year or two ago and promptly had a child with a new man. My parents, like yours, Preston, were killed in an aircraft accident several years ago. I was an only child and I haven’t kept up with any other family members. I find solace in my job and keep myself busy. One day I’m sure the right girl will come into my life, but until then I must do my bit for my country.”

For the next thirty minutes they spaced the area between the two runways, placing hangars here and there including a maintenance hangar and a second fuel storage area. The engineer informed them that they already had five large 10,000-gallon underground tanks ready at Seymour Johnson and they were working on an extra-wide tractor-trailer unit to bring them in on.

There was enough hangar space for two Wings of aircraft and for several houses or accommodation units towards the northern end where the two runways would intersect. It would be a little noisy, but that wasn’t important at this moment.

Two houses could be built next to Preston’s main house: one for the President’s new accommodations, then a larger building to house a security unit and several rooms for pilots and crew with showers and toilets. Another septic tank or two could be placed there to add to the two units he used, one for the hangar and one for the main house.

A cold gust hit them from the north—maybe a cold front was coming in—and it was time to return to the hangar and join the party that could be heard with the increasing sound of music as they approached.

Chapter 7

Mo Wang – Island of Roatán, Honduras – February

Mo Wang found that his suitcase of one hundred dollar bills was still a worthwhile currency on the island of Roatán, just off the coast of Honduras, where he ended up after leaving the ship. Its main town, Coxen Hole, was a sleepy hollow and apart from no aircraft flying in, no Internet, no cell phones and no television or radio, the place was as it had always looked.

There were still old cars and trucks using the main roads. The island had many generators, the population always prepared for hurricanes in the summer months and these were all now in full operation. There was a little crime, but nothing more than the usual, apart from people crashing lines at the gas stations to get fuel for their taxis and generators. Even the electrical grid on the island still worked. They had been laying a new undersea line to the mainland, but it was not yet complete. Large Wartsila Generators had been installed to add to the island’s growing needs back in 2008/9 and the twenty-year-old models were still used as backups.

Along with the rest of the world, new electronic equipment failed at midnight Eastern Time. But the older models came back on with enough power to produce one-third of the island’s needs and give electricity to the several gas stations, restaurants, shops and houses for different parts of the day.

A system of electrical blackouts went into force, as they usually did after a hurricane had passed through. Each third of the island had power for two hours and then went without for four.

It was a bind, but the island was slow paced and prepared for this type of inconvenience which normally only lasted for a day or two. Unfortunately, this time it had been a couple of weeks since the power had gone out and the first ship from the mainland—a forty-year-old ferry which had not been in service for several years but still toured along the mainland’s coast for tourists—arrived to tell them of the chaos on the mainland.

With the first ferry of the year, six weeks late, arrived Mo Wang. He knew where he was, having a Chinese map of the area, and he disembarked, the only person to do so. The ferry captain told the tourists who had been waiting for transportation back to civilization, their lives and their jobs, that they were safer on the island until things got better and the world was turned back on again. He had orders not to return anybody to the mainland until further notice.

The ferry left, with its usual stocks of freshly caught fish from the storage warehouse for the mainland and the forty or so tourists who had waited weeks for a ship, sat about trying to figure out what to do next. Most had run out of money, the ATMs didn’t work and their vacations now became nightmares.

Mo Wang realized that these people did not know anything about what had happened to the world. There was no television news, or radio news apart from maybe working local stations and he was sure that they had Zedong’s Electronic parts installed here as well.

A group of five ladies sat on the wharf stunned that they were not going home. They looked to be wealthy Europeans or Americans, and as the others shuffled off to figure out what to do and how to pay for an extended stay, they just sat there on the ground, their suitcases packed and all looked at him, the only person left on the quay.

“How come we aren’t allowed to leave, but they let you on this island?” asked one of the two older ladies in a mixed foreign-English accent. She looked about forty and had two younger girls, twin daughters by the look of them, about seventeen or eighteen. The other older lady also looked like a mother with a daughter, about the same age as the first family.

Mo Wang raised his new hat, a fancy Panama Special purchased when he had left the ship. It had gone well with his escape clothes: fine European-cut trousers with a matching jacket over a soft white cotton shirt. He had three outfits of these well-made “Made in China” clothes as the attire he had planned to wear in New York when the ships arrived there. Now traveling for five days on dirty, dusty buses, he had dressed that day on the mainland into his only clean set to look like a tourist when he arrived at his destination.

He was about two decades older than the two older ladies, but he doffed his hat as a gentleman would, and now, used to speaking English following his conversations with Carlos and Lee over the satellite phone still in his jacket pocket, answered the lady.

“Yes, Madame,” he replied. “You might think this island is not to your pleasure at this moment, but if you knew what was going on in the world, you might be gratified to be here. It doesn’t look like a bad place,” he stated, looking around the buildings. He could see and hear music and normal sounds. He did not hear gunfire.

“Well, we were supposed to leave and return to Paris a week ago, but we have run out of cash, the ATMs don’t work and we have run out of vacation food in the villa we rented. What are we supposed to do if the banks or machines won’t give us money?”

“You are French?” Mo asked.

“Yes, but we usually live in New York most of the year. We live in Manhattan and use our family house just outside Paris for a few months of the year.”

“My name is Mo Wang, I live near Shanghai, China,” Mo stated, holding out his hand copying how westerners introduce themselves. The lady looked him over and reluctantly took it.

“My name is Marie de Bonnet, my two daughters Cheri and Annabel. They were born in America and go to school there. This is my friend from Paris, Beatrice de Loy and her daughter Virginie.” Mo shook hands with the second lady. “Can you tell us what is happening out there, Mr. Wang?”

“You said that you have accommodations here, Madame?” Mo asked.

“Yes, a very large villa a few miles to the east of the town and overlooking the sea. We are about to be evicted if we don’t pay for our extended stay and we have nowhere else to go, and nothing to eat until the banks accept international business. They have been closed for a couple of weeks now and nobody can get any money. It is very shameful.”

“I have money, and need a place to stay. If there is room for me at your villa and if you would be so kind to extend an invitation, we can solve two problems at the same time, Madame. May I make this offer?” Mo asked.

“First, let me ask you, Mr. Wang, why are you arriving here today on the island?” Mme. de Bonnet asked factually.

“One of my nieces owns and runs a dry cleaning business here on the island,” he replied truthfully. “I haven’t spoken to her for a couple of years and lost her address. I was hoping to surprise her with a visit, but had to leave my ship in Panama at the canal. There are problems in the world I don’t want to describe at this moment and many problems at the Panama Canal with no ships being allowed to pass through.”

The five ladies stood up. They were all tall and Mo was beaten by a few inches by all five girls, even the young and slender teenagers. He noticed that their clothes looked expensive and he recognized pure gold Rolex watches on both the older ladies’ wrists. He still missed his silver one he had been forced to use as payment to a Panama local to get off the ship and to dry land. The five girls were well-tanned, and he saw a very wealthy and an extremely beautiful group of females in front of him who needed help. He was just the man who would help beautiful ladies in distress.

On the way to the nearest taxi rank Mo noticed that the third store was a jewelry store; it was open and he saw several Rolex models as well as a newer version of his old one in the window. He asked the ladies for a few minutes and he came out ten minutes later wearing his new gold watch like theirs. The girls were looking at a clothing shop a few windows down when he caught up to them. The jeweler had bartered with him over price and once she saw Mo holding a fistful of American dollar bills, let the watch go for ten percent off for cash.

The small town was running much like it had always done and they entered an old minivan for the journey to the Villa.

Once up a hill and inside the villa’s gate, he paid the driver with local currency he had received in change for his watch purchase, asked the driver to wait in case he would be returning to town, and was quite shocked to see the size of the villa and the splendor the ladies were vacationing in.

The lounge and open kitchen faced the sea, a hundred feet below. He walked outside to see the view and saw steps down to a swimming pool half way down and then a small private beach with a long boat jetty below the pool. The boat jetty immediately grabbed his attention. Tied to the jetty was a large sailing boat, seventy feet or more. He didn’t know much about fancy sailing boats but it looked like it could travel a fair distance.

“There is a large bedroom and en-suite bathroom we haven’t used over here to the right of the lounge area, Mr. Wang,” Mme. De Bonnet showed him. “We are all sleeping upstairs and you can have the privacy of the only bedroom on this level. I’m sure the horrible agent will be by later to give us our evacuation papers, and I warn you she is a mean lady, a German I believe, and not someone I want to meet again.”

“How much money will she be expecting?” Mo asked politely.

“We are a week behind on our paid reservations; she took a check for three days from me at $1,000 a day, but there is a reduced monthly rate. We paid her $35,000 for the time we had planned to stay here, six weeks. Her next booking in this villa we assume hasn’t arrived and is a week or two late, so I’m sure she could be persuaded to take less than the usual daily fee.”

“I will see what I can do,” Mo replied. What about food and provisions?” he asked. “Where is your husband Madame, I was expecting to meet him here.” Mo had been expecting to be introduced to the men in the group upon arrival and then politely asked to leave by them.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you, Mr. Wang. My husband is still in New York; he is a commodities broker and couldn’t leave when I left for Paris before Christmas. We arrived here on the day before New Year’s Eve and he was supposed to fly in three weeks ago for our last week here. My friend Beatrice is a single lady.”

Mo realized that he was in a very luxurious residence with five beautiful women who needed his money, and his help. He wasn’t in a bad position after all. He pulled out three $100 bills and asked if the girls wanted to shop for food. The minivan taxi was still outside and he was sure they needed some.

Madame de Bonnet graciously accepted the money, asked her daughter to go to the bedroom for her checkbook and wrote him a check for the money loaned.

He realized that they knew so little about the rest of the world, her husband was probably a frozen corpse in their fancy New York accommodations, if there were any accommodations left, and the check was not even worth the paper it was written on. It made her happy to have something to go shopping with and Mo asked them to get a few good steaks a few bottles of red wine and champagne, handing her another $300.

They excitedly left in the minivan and left him to the stern German realty lady who arrived fifteen minutes later.

“And who are you?” she asked directly as he opened the door refreshed after a quick shower in his private gold-colored bathroom.

“A friend of the family,” he replied as unfriendly as she had spoken to him.

“I have several important customers arriving in the next day or two from the mainland and need you out of here immediately, unless you can pay your bill, Mister Friend of the Family,” she stated in a thick German accent.

“Do you accept American dollars?” asked Mo innocently. “There are none of your visitors arriving soon and the ferry service to the island is not working. Nobody will be allowed on or off the island until further notice.”

“That’s fine. I still need you out of here so that I can get it cleaned for the owners, or you can pay to stay on,” she replied. “It’s a thousand American dollars per day, the French lady still owes me for four days and another week will cost another seven thousand.”

“How much for a month?” asked Mo.

“Monthly fees are reduced to $25,000 per month, but that doesn’t allow you use of the yacht at the slip for sunbathing or any parties. Nobody is allowed to set foot on the yacht, understand?”

“Then we start our month from four days ago,” and he asked the plump lady to wait while he went to retrieve the money. Her eyes lit up at the large number of hundred-dollar bills he returned with. He handed her the money from his suitcase which now showed a small hole. It was not so full anymore.

“I will put a receipt in the letterbox at the front gate and, if you must leave, I will give you a pro-rata refund if the booked visitors arrive anytime in the next twenty-six days. Understand Mr. ….?”

“Smith,” Mo replied.

“Yes, sure, Herr Smith,” she smirked. “No funny business in this house. You are booked through to March 10th and you must be out by 11:30 am on that day, if nobody has arrived before then.” He nodded smiling to himself as she swept off in a beaten-up taxi, her fancy German car probably scrap metal.

The girls returned a couple of hours later and saw Mo down by the beach walking the pier and looking at the yacht they had illegally sunbathed on twice since their arrival. They got busy in the kitchen packing away the food having, for the first time in several days, fresh food to eat. The bakery still had fresh baked pastries, bagels and baguettes and they must have cleaned the small shop out. They told him that the supermarket’s shelves were half empty, the store waiting for fresh produce from the mainland.

Madame de Bonnet had a feeling that it might be a few weeks before stocks were replenished and had decided to buy what they could. There was an old but in those days extremely expensive upright freezer in the villa kitchen and she used up the money Mo had given her to help fill it. Mo suggested that they return to the supermarket and purchase what was left, plus put in an order with the bakery for a few days’ time.

The taxi, expecting to be paid handsomely, was still waiting outside the door so Mo and the two older ladies returned to town to load it up with whatever remained after their first buying spree.

There were five bottles of good French Champagne left on the shelf and a dozen bottles of excellent and expensive French wine and Mo purchased the lot. Mo had brought another $300 and their final bill was still over by a couple of hundred dollars, and the store manager allowed Mme. De Bonnet to pay by check, knowing where the ladies stayed was expensive, and he could always visit if there was a problem when the banks opened again.

The driver, sweating profusely, was employed to carry in the second large purchase of food and was paid with the remnants of local money Mo had got from his watch purchase. The driver seemed pleased with the amount and his poor minivan which had crawled up the hill with the two heavy loads easily headed back to town.

Mo returned inside after chatting to the driver, getting to know him, to find the girls in the kitchen filling an old freezer and a second refrigerator with food. Even bread was being frozen and the amount looked like it could last them for a couple of weeks.

“Girls, let’s make lunch. I’m sure Mr. Wang is as hungry as we are.”

Over lunch Mo Wang was quiet. The women waited to hear what he had to tell them about the world out there. They still didn’t have a clue that modern civilization had come to a dreadful end and Mo didn’t want to ruin this interesting meal of bread, cheese, salad and wine. He asked them to eat first, enjoy the food and then he would tell them once they were sitting in the lounge. He had been placed at the head of the large table which sat eight and they just looked at him throughout the meal, hungry for food and information.

For two hours he told them what they should know. That America, Europe and the rest of the world was in bad trouble. He explained to them why their cell phones, Internet, laptop computers and many electric gadgets in the house weren’t working. The radio and televisions in each bedroom and the lounge were dead. A couple of the kitchen units didn’t work, but the oven was gas, and the old fridges and freezer were working.

He found a very good and expensive bottle of whiskey in the liquor cabinet half full and had poured himself and the two older ladies a good amount as they sat and listened to him.

He told them about how nothing worked anymore around the world, that three nuclear explosions in China had blasted Taiwan, Beijing and Hong Kong off the face of the earth, that America was slowly dying, as was Europe and the rest of the first world countries. He told them that he had communications with others in the United States and he was thinking about traveling there. How, he still didn’t know but even on this little island they were on, life was about to get uncomfortable as food stocks emptied and gasoline dried up to run the electricity systems and the fishing boats.

Madame de Bonnet’s face went white when he explained that life in Paris and New York wasn’t there anymore. “How do you mean life just doesn’t exist in Paris and New York?” she asked.

“Imagine the outside temperatures in both the cities Madame,” he explained carefully. Sub-zero temperatures with possible snow on the ground, no?” They all nodded. “In both cities where millions of people live in accommodations with no heat, no electricity, no food other than what they had stored on New Year’s Eve, no water reaching the high apartments, or even the houses, no sanitary sewers working. Do I need to go on?”

“Surely the police and fire brigades are helping the people?” asked one of the young twins, her face shocked.

“There is absolutely nothing working,” Mo replied trying to make the ladies understand. “There are no vehicles running and that includes emergency vehicles, unless they are over thirty years old, like the old Japanese minivan we arrived here with. In America and France, the police, firemen and doctors and nurses are in the same predicament as the rest of the people.” Both older ladies took a large swig of their whiskeys at the same time.

“That’s why that horrible German lady arrived in that old taxi four days ago,” suggested Beatrice. “She’s the type that wouldn’t be seen dead in anything but her fancy new Mercedes.”

“So, if what you say is true, then I have a good chance that my husband is dead?” Madame De Bonnet asked, looking Mo in the eyes. He nodded silently. She put her head down and her daughters began crying. Mo left the room and went to sit and enjoy the hot sun by the pool, letting the truth sink in. They needed time to themselves and they would come out when ready. He fell asleep in the sun, hearing small waves lapping at the beach below him.

The beach was in a protected small bay which kept any larger swells out. He awoke to the sun going down over the mainland and there wasn’t a boat to be seen on the calm waters. The second lady, Beatrice was sitting on the sun loungers a few feet away and looking at the sunset, a glass of wine in her hand.

“How do you know all of this, Mr. Wang?” she asked, looking out at the sinking sun, in her thick French accent.

“I was part of it, Madame,” he replied. “There was going to be an attack on the United States by the company I used to work for in China. I did not want any part of it and left the attack convoy as it passed through the Panama Canal on its way to New York.”

“One Chinese company has caused all this and was going to attack the United States?” she asked, not really believing what he was saying.

“A powerful company, Zedong Electronics, spent thirty years planning this attack, Madame. They crippled the entire world when they terminated all the billions of electronic parts and devices they made. They produced all the iPhones and iPads for Apple, for example. They produced all the parts for the world’s cell phones, computers, car engine-management systems and all the modern parts for the world’s armies. They produced parts for the German lady’s Mercedes and for every electronic machine that doesn’t work in this house and on this island. They didn’t produce the electronic parts for the machines that do still work. It’s as simple as that.”

“But I don’t have an iPhone, I have a Blackberry and it doesn’t work,” she said.

“Every modern cell phone in the world doesn’t work anymore, every cell phone in the world is totally useless,” he replied.

“Then how can you know about the world if your cell phone doesn’t work either, Mr. Wang?” she asked, getting angry.

“Because I have three of only 500 satellite phones that still do work, Madame. Zedong Electronics needed communications to attack the world and these phones are the only communications left on the entire planet. I believe that your French president, if he is still alive, will have one soon. I found out that the attack on America was beaten off by the American forces, the attackers were killed and all these phones are now being distributed to the world’s leaders. I have direct communications to people in America and even the American President. I just don’t know his number.”

“Ridiculous!” she stammered. “You are saying that the whole world has lost civilization?”

“Yes, Madame, that is what I’m saying and soon the bad people everywhere will need to survive and they will take the law into their own hands. That was the original plan formed by my superiors. This little island is probably one of the safer places right now. That’s why I came here, to visit my niece and find a place to hide.” She put her head in her hands and began weeping. Mo looked towards the last remnants of the setting sun and let her be.

Dinner was a silent affair that night; the five girls were visibly upset and ignored the messenger of bad news.

They had lived the easy, carefree lives of people with money and once their security blanket against everything bad in life had been pulled away, their reactions were normal. Mo Wang, apart from being one of the top engineers in China in his day, was also one who had studied psychology all his younger life, had a degree in it and understood human behavior enough to be noticed by the Supreme Commander. That was why he had been pulled out of the engineering laboratories and into sourcing and training recruits back at the beginning of Zedong Electronics in the early 1980s.

The table ate slowly and no wine was offered with the meal. The girls kept their eyes down, absorbed in their own thoughts.

The next day was the same, except Madame De Bonnet asked Mo to call her by her first name, Marie. He asked her to call him by his first name as well, and asked how he could get to town. He wanted to check out supplies in the stores for the rest of the stay. She asked if he could drive and he said he was not a good driver, never owned a car in China and used public transport all his life. He didn’t tell her that he had been chauffeured wherever he needed to go for the last two decades.

Beatrice De Loy also suggested that the visitor call her by her first name. It looked like they would be house mates for a few weeks to come; he was paying their way and friendliness was not an expensive commodity.

“Mo, I could drive you home from town,” Beatrice suggested. “There are cars to rent in town; we had one for a few weeks and they have our information, but would not take our credit cards anymore. They couldn’t get them approved. The antiquated telephone system works and we could get Pedro, the minicab driver to pick us up.” Mo agreed and thirty minutes later the old blue minivan honked at the large iron front gates. Mo, Beatrice and her daughter Virginie walked out to meet Pedro the driver and they were whisked into town.

They were silent on the drive in, even the driver was silent. The daughter had not yet said a word to Mo and kept her head down, or looked outside the cab. He realized that she didn’t know what to do or say to the new man who had just arrived out of nowhere and now lived in the same house.

The stores had few shoppers, mostly locals. The fish market was the busiest place in town. Here boats were coming in, mostly old fishing boats with the day’s catch.

Mo asked Pedro to park, told him that he was hired for the day and to help them carry their purchases. Fish had always been Mo’s favorite.

There were small and large fish, fresh off the boats. He recognized many, only knowing their names in Chinese and he decided that a rental car wasn’t needed if Pedro and his minivan were always available.

He saw a couple of nice-sized fish: one looked like a small tuna of about fifteen to twenty pounds. He asked Pedro which he thought was the best fish to eat and the taxi driver agreed that the small tuna he was looking at as well as a King Fish next to the tuna—a game fish—were both excellent to eat. Beatrice stated that they had a grill on the porch by the pool and each of the fish would make half a dozen meals. He asked for both of them to be bagged, and purchased a large slab of meat from a far larger tuna.

“There is a second, smaller working freezer in the laundry room,” she stated to Mo. “It still works, but is currently empty. We could use that to store more fish.”

The slab he asked to be cut into steaks and it weighed in at forty pounds by the time it was cut and bagged. There was a fresh octopus also on the market table. It was quite large and steamed octopus was Mo’s favorite meal. He purchased the octopus and again asked it to be cut up by the fisherman into edible portions. The bill came to close to $500 and Mo received a few local notes in change and the four of them, plus the extremely happy fisherman, carried the more than a dozen large shopping bags to the rear door of the minivan.

Next stop was the produce market. Here they bought a large variety of vegetables and salads. The bill was far less and Pedro, the driver paid for it in local currency since Mo needed to exchange money. The third stop was a bank which was open; here Mo exchanged a hundred dollar bill into local currency, paid the driver what he was owed and the final stop was the only supermarket in town.

The shelves were mostly empty. There were several large twenty pound bags of rice, which Mo packed into the first shopping trolley. He then packed in the several cuts of beef and pork that remained, several commercial tins of beans, tomatoes and anything else which looked edible and paid for the four trolleys at checkout. All the beer and wine was gone and Pedro said that there was another smaller store along the shore road which still might have stocks on their shelves.

It took an hour to get back to the villa, unpack everything, and then Mo and Pedro by themselves headed out to check on all the stores on the island. Pedro told him that the whole coast road was about 70 miles long and there were three or four stops where they could find a store.

“Are there any guns to purchase on the island?’ Mo asked the driver going down the dip past the Villa and into new territory.

“No guns legal on island,” Pedro replied in his broken English. “Farmers have shotguns sometimes for protection of farm animals, but I heard that the big boat has guns on it.”

Mo asked which boat he was talking about and found out that it was the yacht moored at the villa. It sounded like the villa owner was in a business authorities might want to question, pretty normal in China. He asked if there was a shotgun he could buy and Pedro took him to a farm several miles down the road. They drove off the tarred road on a dirt strip for a mile and came to an old farmhouse with several children on the porch looking at them.

“My father’s house, our family house,” Pedro told Mo. An introduction was made and Pedro told the older man who came out to meet them, in Spanish, what Mo wanted. He was guided back into the house to a back office and was shown three pretty new shotguns and an old American hand gun, a .45 caliber World War II piece in perfect condition.

“Like you, Senor Mo, we need money to buy fish, so my father is happy to sell a shotgun to you. He has three boxes of shotgun ammunition and you can have it all for two hundred dollars.”

“How much is the pistol?” Mo asked. The older man did not seem to want to be relieved of his pride and joy, but relented and brought out a dozen boxes of .45 caliber Remington ammo, years old and looked Mo straight in the face. He stated something in Spanish to his son and his son translated $500 to Mo including everything that was on the old desk. Mo paid the man six one-hundred-dollar bills understanding that the poor man, several years older than he, was losing something of value to him. He had also realized that this amount of money would mean a lot more to this family than to him.

The old man bowed and thanked Mo Wang for his generosity and Pedro and Mo gathered up the two weapons, put the ammo in three plastic bags and left the villa.

For three hours they searched for more provisions, Mo thinking the whole afternoon about the yacht at the villa’s pier. Slowly a plan was coming to him.

They filled the minivan mostly in West End, the second largest town on the island, as well as several other out of the way locations, with everything they could find which would have a decent shelf life, Mo paid out another thousand dollars and the overloaded minivan slowly made its way back to the villa. This time all five girls helped unload the provisions and Mo kept the weapons out of sight.

Once they were finished he paid Pedro with the last hundred-dollar bill in his wallet, showed him the empty wallet and explained to the happy driver that his money was now spent, that he wasn’t worth robbing in the future, and closed the gates behind the departing vehicle. He never trusted anybody who knew he had money.

Chapter 8

Yuma

March brought slightly warmer weather for the first half of the month. The day after the two-day meeting at Preston Airfield, Oliver and Puppy made their usual rounds of the runway before dawn. Hundreds of new smells from many humans they didn’t know penetrated the areas where aircraft had stood the day before. The entire airfield was empty of aircraft, except for Sally’s little two-seat jet with its unusual camouflage design, looking slightly lonely. All the other visitors including Carlos had headed off, mostly north to Andrews and McGuire to resume their jobs.

The hangar was closed down tight to keep out the cold wind from the north which was keeping temperatures to a degree or two over freezing. To the dogs it didn’t matter as they sniffed everything until the area was checked and analyzed.

Preston, his head still a little thick from two nights of partying, worked himself awake and headed to the kitchen to make coffee.

Over breakfast an hour later, Martie and Preston, joined by Maggie and Sally from the hangar, discussed what they wanted to do. Will and the Smart kids had already hitched a ride home with the Edwards Base Commander in a C-130 loaded with three new John Deere lawn tractors for the kids to turn into generators, and a Colombian baking oven for bakery needs on the base.

“Since our trusty Sergeant Perry has returned for the umpteenth time and is scheduled to stay for at least another week, Martie, I think we should join Sally and Maggie and fly into Yuma early tomorrow and see some different countryside for a change. What do you think?” asked Preston.

“Yippee!” responded Martie. “Then we can fly north and visit my father and Grandpa at the wine farm.

“Where are you planning to refuel?” Preston asked Sally.

“First, McConnell Air Force Base in Kansas,” answered Sally factually. “I can just make it if my tanks are full and if the extra drop tanks are also completely full, and if Maggie and I don’t breathe too hard, and if we have no head wind,” she somewhat sarcastically replied. “I also want the Super Tweet serviced and totally checked over from tip to tail by U.S. Air Force personnel before I feel completely safe to fly this Colombian Air Force jet any further; that will take about seven hours. Then we can head over to Hill Air Force Base, which is the same distance. We could stay the night with Carlos in Salt Lake City and then head straight down into Yuma the next morning, the shortest stretch. What about you, Little Beth? Are you able to fly on these longer flights?” asked Sally.

“It’s too far for me. I’m happy to stay with Sergeant Perry, Oliver and Puppy,” Little Beth explained seriously. “Martie and I have already spoken about long flights, and Uncle Carlos or Uncle Buck can take me in their bigger planes when they go. Uncle Buck’s big plane has a toilet I can use.”

“Little Beth is just as happy here and her best friend is Sergeant Perry,” added Martie. “They spend a lot of time together. The poor man had a daughter Beth’s age, until she and her mother died in a car crash in 2009.”

“He says that I’m as nice as his real daughter was, and he misses her a lot,” Little Beth added seriously. “He needs me and Puppy to look after him.”

Early the next morning, March 7th, as the two dogs returned and declared the airfield safe, the hangar door rolled open. Outside, Sally and Maggie pre-inspected their A-37 Super Tweet for flight. Maggie was quickly learning the hundreds of checks required to get a jet airborne, far more than a propeller aircraft. Also she would be flying most of the way in the right-side seat. This long trip would certainly add to her instruction time and who better than one of her best friends to be instructor? Martie was totally jealous.

The plan was to adopt a low cruise speed across the country of 300 knots, or about 325 miles an hour, to conserve fuel, which would be a medium to high cruise speed for the Mustangs. The Mustangs, also equipped with permanent drop fuel tanks under the wings, had a third further reach than the jet, and could easily make McConnell Air Force Base and then Hill in Salt Lake City. Each leg would take four hours and Sally would have about a twenty-minute fuel reserve in her tanks.

It was windier than the previous days. Their tanks filled to capacity, the two Mustangs warmed up their engines, headed to the northern end of the airfield and took off to the south, directly over a grey and windswept Jordan Lake, white caps breaking the surface of the water below them.

Sally and Maggie still had several checks to complete before leaving North Carolina and caught up with the Mustangs cruising at 25,000 feet an hour later.

All three aircraft were on autopilot. They chatted over the airways until somebody, usually a C-130 or a food-carrying FedEx Cargomaster, heard them and called to give their positions, altitude and direction, usual for aircraft without ground traffic control.

Over Tennessee they communicated with six aircraft heading into different areas with food or troops, mostly out of McGuire. Sally knew a couple of the pilots and well wishes were sent. Other than that, the weather was clear at their altitude. Full cloud cover was far below them. The sun, behind them, heated up the backs of their helmets.

“Do you think we have a head wind, Sally?” asked Preston.

“Maggie’s doing a great job, checking the gauges,” replied Sally. “She is in her element and I don’t think she will allow me to decrease altitude for McConnell. The wind from the south has gone. It looks like we have something coming in from the west, but my directional beacons from Edwards and Hill are showing that we are not being pushed north or south. If we have a headwind, I think it’s not a very strong one yet. I’ll be able to get hold of traffic control at McConnell in about thirty minutes and get a wind speed from them.”

Thirty minutes later and halfway across Missouri, Sally gave the radio frequencies for McConnell Air Force Base to Martie and Preston, and they each reset one of their two radio dials to the new frequency.

“McConnell, Power Key, do you read? Over.”

“Power Key, McConnell. Over.”

“Power key, Alfa Charlie 37, incoming from the East with two friends in Pa Pa 51s, approximately 500 miles out from November Charlie (North Carolina) and heading for you. Need wind direction and temperature. Over.”

“McConnell, wind speed from the west three knots, temperature 31 degrees, no other aircraft in our area and will have you on radar as you enter our state. Over.”

“Roger that. Out,” replied Sally and switched over to the second radio on the first frequency to talk to the other two aircraft.

The ground was clear of snow as they came in from the northeast, Sally going in first. A jeep appeared and showed them where to park and in a line; they allowed the engines to come to a halt and the cold, icy air hit them as they opened their canopies.

Sally’s aircraft was towed into a hangar and two small fuel tankers arrived to refuel the Mustangs before the pilots had even dropped to the ground.

The base commander met them. They had met the colonel three days earlier at the meeting at Andrews and he seemed to be a good friend of Sally’s, giving her a big hug. “My old flight trainer when I was training in C-130s,” she commented by way of introduction, as the colonel, Preston and Martie shook hands.

They enjoyed a good lunch and then toured the gigantic warehouses where forklifts moved pallets of food into sections ready for the next delivery aircraft to arrive. There were at least a hundred men working and readying the food cases for delivery. Preston noticed tent bags and small generators in the loads and, looking around, he estimated there were a couple of weeks’ worth of rations left, if the ready loads were all today’s loads.

Finally, with three hours of daylight left, they took off for the four and one-half hour flight into Hill Air Force Base. This flight would be shorter by twenty minutes as they would be flying much higher and using oxygen masks at 28,000 feet, and at this higher altitude, no headwind was expected. The cold front had passed.

Just as the sun had warmed them hours earlier, it grew colder and colder in the cockpits as the evening shadows caught up with them. This time they could feel the chilly fingers of night on the backs of their helmets.

The view of the Rockies, stretching out hundreds of miles in every direction, was breathtaking at this height. The control tower at Denver International was operational as they flew into Colorado and with the reduced equipment the tower had operating, they heard reports from a few other C-130 pilots about calmer, cleaner air above 30,000 feet. The three aircraft had used oxygen masks throughout the flight and as the chill began to envelope them from outside they turned the internal heaters up and climbed even higher.

Hill was experiencing a little snow as they came in from the east. It was getting dark and visibility was down to a couple of miles. Sally went in first, and Martie and Preston spaced themselves out behind her. Keeping Sally on their radar screens, they stayed a mile behind each other.

The base runway lights could be seen at a thousand feet above ground as they flew through low clouds. They all landed as softly as possible so as not to skid, especially the two Mustangs; being rear-wheel tail draggers, they could easily start slipping and sliding on an icy surface. The ground was white except for the runway which had just been cleaned and they were directed to park in front of a large hangar where tractors were waiting to wheel them in backwards.

Carlos and Lee Wang were there to meet them and the friends greeted each other as their aircraft disappeared behind the door of the closing hangar, leaving them in lightly falling snow.

“We have a great Officers’ Mess accommodation for us tonight,” stated Carlos, welcoming Preston. Preston hadn’t flown this far for a couple of years and Carlos could see that the two long stretches had taken their toll on the civilian pilots. Maggie did look good in her Air Force flight overalls, Carlos noticed. So did Sally and Martie, of course. It was the first time Martie and Maggie had ever worn the U.S. Air Force flight suits that were given to them at Andrews. They were comfortable and warmer than other clothing on long flights, certainly better than civilian clothes with constricting belts which would always begin to dig in during long stretches in the cockpit.

Lee was also excited to see his friends. He was wrapped in a thick, sheepskin-lined pilot’s jacket, probably one Carlos gave to him. The temperature was already ten below freezing.

Dinner was served and it wasn’t long before the tired pilots looked forward to bed. Carlos told them that he had flown across in Isabella. His own Mustang was still at Andrews and he and Lee were going to join them on the short flight down to Yuma the next day. However, weather interceded. Heavy snow arrived overnight and the ploughs couldn’t work fast enough to keep the runways clear. The air base was closed to any traffic and a lazy day was had by the pilots.

“How are the Utahans surviving this icy weather?” Preston asked Carlos over a late brunch of MRE ration packs.

“A lot better than other places,” Carlos replied. “The country folk have wood fireplaces, much like rural mountain areas. I’m sure Canada is the same. Here, just about all the houses have a wood fireplace or two and all the people I know are always stocked up with food and wood. It’s a Mormon thing, maintaining ample food storage in cellars and pantries. Higher up in the ski towns like Park City, cordwood stands outside all of the houses with enough wood to last for the entire winter… and plenty of stored food as well, I assume. All the houses I’ve visited have a chest freezer here and there. Even if the freezers aren’t working, the weather is cold enough to keep the food if thhey carry the freezer outside and just leave the freezer door open.”

“Are they shipping out supplies from Hill?” asked Martie.

“When I returned the day before yesterday, the weather was cold and clear and I saw several helicopters flying above us when Lee and I headed up the mountain to the observatory. The base commander has seven helicopters working when the weather is clear. He told me that a week ago there was a line of people from the inner city over a mile long asking for food and wood, but with the airlifts supplying food, bottled water and wood, the lines have disappeared except for people living in close proximity to the base. The base has a wood pile three stories high.”

“Anything new with our Chinese satellites, Lee?” asked Preston.

“I spent most of the night before last listening to people talking over their satellite phones,” replied Lee. “I set up a system that records speech being directed through the satellite system, sort of eavesdropping in case of another attack. In twelve hours of recorded conversation—apart from the numbers here in the United States we know originate at military bases—there were only seven conversations outside our country. Carlos and I made a list of all the numbers that we know are in safe hands and we do not monitor those. Our list says that we currently have 59 phones outside the country. There are another 40 satellite phones we never received or were destroyed when the enemy bombed its own people, or never left China. I monitored the recordings while I was in Washington and identified five of the phones to be in China and another five with the moving container ships; we assume the ships’ captains have them. I heard them speaking privately to each other and to a controller in Shanghai as they activated our orders to leave port for Hawaii. They will be there in four days and Admiral Rogers has asked me to communicate with them once they reach their destination point. The Chinese ships have soldiers aboard. I told the captains that there was no further need for soldiers and to disband all the soldiers and allow them to return to their families, on direct orders from the Supreme Commander. I don’t believe they will send all the soldiers home. The control person on the phone is in Shanghai, a person named Bong Tee Rhu and he is the Harbor Master of Shanghai Harbor. General Patterson gave me orders to tell him to collect all electronic parts stored at the airport and the harbor area for pickup, and any other parts he knew of still in Nanjing. He told me there were reports that Nanjing was attacked by North Korean bombers several weeks ago. I told him that the Supreme Commander knew of this, but wanted any remaining parts placed at the harbor and one of the container ships would return to pick them up in a few weeks. I’m still waiting to hear back from Bong Tee Rhu on how much he can find. I also told him to test every remaining aircraft in the hangars, as well as any empty ships in the harbor to see if anything still worked.”

As he said that, Lee’s satellite phone rang in his pocket. Everybody jumped at the noise. Lee looked around a little bashfully before answering it.

“This is Lee Wang,” he stated in Chinese into the phone held to his ear. “Mo Wang, the fish haven’t eaten you yet?” his next sentence in English. He listened for a few seconds and then handed the phone to Carlos. ”My uncle would like to speak with you,” Lee told Carlos.

“Comrade Mo Wang, it is surprising that you stayed alive so long. Maybe you are not such a bad guy after all. Thank you for the information you gave us in January. It was precise and accurate and I know that Lee told you the outcome.” He listened for several seconds. “I don’t think I’m interested in picking you up in Key West, or Cuba, or wherever you are.” He listened for another few minutes and then smiled at the table listening in. “If you are correct, when you get here I will listen to you; but if you are bull crapping me, Comrade, you will spend the rest of your life in a place you don’t want to be. As far as I’m concerned, Lee, his family and I owe you no favors and vice versa. I will make that decision if you ever make it here and if you don’t, nobody here really cares. I will meet you when you are on American soil. Call me from a callbox in Key West and I’ll think about it. Goodbye, Comrade Wang,” and Carlos hung up the phone.

“Interesting,” remarked Preston. “In the middle of nowhere we still get phone calls from around the world. Hell, we couldn’t even pick up radio conversations apart from food aircraft yesterday.”

“Did he give you some information?” asked Lee.

“Where was he supposed to be holed up, Honduras?” Carlos asked Lee.

“That is where he said he was going last month,” replied Lee. “My sister lives there and he was going to visit her.”

“Well, now he says that he wants to travel to Key West and could be there in a few weeks. He didn’t say how, but he wants me to pick him and several other people up. He says that in return he could tell me about a depot of working electrical parts Zedong Electronics has stashed away in a town called Harbin. Know anything about Harbin, Lee?”

“Northwestern China, north of North Korea,” replied Lee. I think that is where the atomic missiles blasted off from and I think it is the secret base where the 747 transporter was stationed. Nobody knows where, but General Allen said that it couldn’t get to New York from anywhere in China without refueling somewhere.”

“I’ll check with General Patterson when we see him again, but the transporter can get into Harbin from Alaska, and she can get from Andrews directly into Alaska,” stated Carlos with Preston nodding that he thought the flight very possible. “It’s certainly something to ponder when Comrade Mo Wang reaches our shores sometime soon! Mo Wang also said that he had some civilians traveling with him,” Carlos continued. Suddenly his phone rang and again the people at the table jumped. No calls for weeks and then they all happen on a snowy day in the Rockies.

“Carlos,” he stated into the phone and began talking in Spanish. He put his hand over the phone and whispered to the table, “I gave my five uncles phones in Colombia. This is my uncle, the admiral.” He went back to his conversation. He talked for about ten minutes and hung up. Immediately his phone rang again. “It pisses me off, these phones,” he told the table. “They always phone when I’m nearly, or on finals to land somewhere.”

“Can’t be too hard today, buddy!” joked Preston. “You are only flying a table. Try not to crash into anything!” Carlos tried to whack his friend across the head but missed and went back to a second, long conversation in Spanish. Again he hung up and immediately the phone rang for the third time.

“Carlos.” He listened for a few seconds. “Sally, my uncle the police commandant wants his Super Tweet back,” he smiled at her.

“Tell him in his dreams! It’s my wedding present and I haven’t even got married or been proposed to yet!” Carlos relayed the message and spent several seconds laughing with his uncle. Sally aimed for Carlos’s head and got it with her open right hand. “Tell him I don’t miss!”

Finally Carlos ended the call and looked at the people around the table. He had a smile on his face and looked at Sally, at the same time rubbing his head.

“My uncles have agreed with General Patterson; we are getting three Light Frigates; our best naval ships are leaving port in Colombia and are heading for Florida. My uncle, the admiral, is in charge of the flotilla and will work with our friend Admiral Rogers patrolling the Gulf of Mexico. What they will find there I don’t know, but one of our old Destroyers and maybe an American Frigate will be there in a week or so. They are working on it in Charleston, South Carolina. My other uncles asked if their new Gunships are ready and I told them that it will take about six months to rebuild their aircraft. Colombians aren’t very patient!” he laughed.

“Admiral Rogers told me that all the ships stationed in Charleston are being refitted for operations,” added Preston. I don’t believe it but the Navy kept her two museum pieces, the Yorktown in Charleston and the USS Midway in San Diego, in one piece. He said that new work to the Yorktown was started in 2011 and he already has a thousand men working on servicing her engines and trying to give her CPR. He thinks that in three years the Yorktown might sail again. The Midway has only been stationary for a decade and needs only about a year or so to be gone over and serviced. They are also working on another dozen ships to bring them back to life. There isn’t much else to do in the Navy right now, as all their ships either need total electronic replacement—which could take decades—or are lost at sea. We know of five ships tied up in different parts of Europe and a dozen ships sunk in dangerous waters so that enemy countries couldn’t get their hands on them. Otherwise there are over 200 ships and 10,000 sailors missing and presumed sunk.”

“What would we use the aircraft carriers for?” asked Carlos. “We have no aircraft.”

“I suppose we could use the FedEx Cargomasters and turn them into fighter bombers,” suggested Martie, smiling.

“We still have a C-130, Fat Albert I think her name is, that could land on one of those,” added Sally. “Maybe the newer carriers were longer, but Carlos, my sweet, we could add a connection to your fancy new DC-3 and winch it off. You might get your butt grazed on takeoff but it would be worth watching.” Everybody laughed at the ribbing poor Carlos was getting. What were friends for?

The rest of the day was slow, and they reflected on the satellite calls of the day. General Patterson called a couple of hours later asking if they had reached Yuma yet. He wanted a sitrep (situation report) of the base.

The next morning was clear as they took off; several feet of moved snow surrounded the runway as the three faster aircraft left Hill for Yuma. Carlos had been given an hour’s head start and the rest promised that they would blow him out of the sky if they caught up to him. Preston noticed that Carlos’ cockpit was sealed off from the open rear of the aircraft, the guns had been disassembled and stored away from the cold, icy air, and he assumed the cockpit would be quite warm as Carlos and Lee took off.

Preston also knew that to increase their aircrafts’ range, he, Sally, and Martie didn’t have a round of ammo between them. He wondered if Carlos knew that, as he certainly left for Yuma in a hurry. Carlos landed as Sally buzzed him at a few feet above the runway as he went in.

Sally also landed quickly and ran over to hug two people Preston assumed were her parents. As he and Martie taxied in, a curious crowd came out to greet them; they certainly had arrived in an array of interesting aircraft.

Carlos, Preston and Martie were introduced to the family, and a dog on a leash, waiting for the incoming aircraft. Yuma was too far south to get snow and the surrounding trees and vegetation were green. The temperature was a balmy 55 degrees and it felt very warm.

Sally’s parents were very happy to meet Preston. Martie had met them once before when she, Sally and Maggie shared time at MIT, but Preston didn’t often leave North Carolina. Sally introduced Carlos as her husband-to-be and her father jokingly suggested he get on with the proposing bit, or Jock the dog and his shotgun might have some work to do. Clint Busch, still sitting in his wheelchair, was introduced to the four pilots. His mouth had hung open since Carlos and the other fancy aircraft landed and, to this young boy, it was one of the best days of his life. Preston asked him if he could walk and immediately the boy got himself out of the chair and hobbled towards Preston, who grabbed him and, holding his left arm, he walked slowly with the boy towards the Mustangs.

“Oh boy, sir!” Clint exclaimed. “I always wanted to get close to a Mustang and now there are two right in front of me! A P-51C and a P-51D. Am I right, sir?” he asked.

“Only if you tell me which one is the “D” version, Clint,” Preston replied smiling.

“That one, sir! The one that Ms. Martie got out of, the one with the bobble canopy!” answered Clint, his eyes about to pop out of his head.

Don’t let Preston bully you, young man,” interjected Martie, coming up to join them. “You are right and I’m at least seven miles an hour faster than him, and since I weigh fifty pounds less than he does, at least another 3 miles an hour on top of that.”

“Wow!” replied the boy. The short pilot steps still remained next to the Mustangs and both Martie and Preston assisted him into the cockpits, still warm from the just completed flight. He had tears in his eyes as they helped him sit in the second cockpit and Preston could see how much their little gesture impacted the boy. Sally, not about to be outdone, joined the group and asked Clint if he wanted to sit in the A-37.

“I hear that you might join the family, young Clint,” stated a stern-voiced Sally standing on the ladder next to the cockpit, and whose tone was belied by his big wet eyes when he looked up at her from the cockpit seat. She continued, “If that’s the case you’d better find my Tweety Bird better than these Mustangs. I can outfly them, outshoot them and run rings around them anytime I want.”

“You only have a hundred mile an hour top speed, ma’am, half the range and one Minigun versus four .30 caliber…?” he answered, looking at Preston, standing below the aircraft on the apron, for approval.

“.50 caliber…they’ve been upgraded,” added Preston.

“Four .50 caliber machine guns,” continued Clint, prompted by Preston.

“That’s my boy,” replied Sally smiling. “I like your spunk. I think somebody could make a pilot out of you yet, or at least a tail gunner if you don’t have wings.”

The base commander arrived to introduce himself. Sally, still in uniform, saluted as he drove up and he acknowledged that accommodations had been set up for them and they were welcome to stay as long as they wanted. The Officers’ Mess still had good fresh food and a good drinks supply.

Clint was happy and asked Peter Powers to push him as tractors wheeled the four aircraft into empty hangars. Carlos promised Clint a flight the next day and Lee Wang was quick to say that Clint could fly in his seat and that he would sit in the third seat where the gun controller/flight engineer sat.

Over dinner at the Officers’ Mess Carlos’ phone rang again and this time after he answered he handed the phone to the base commander. Carlos brought a second phone for the base commander and would give it to him after the call. The colonel left the table to talk to General Patterson, his commander, as the rest enjoyed the company of each other.

Preston could see the physical likeness of her mother in Sally, and in the way she presented herself like her father, kind, smiling and always direct and to the point. Clint was asked about his legs, and was keen to tell the newcomers that with only one more operation he would walk normally again and then he would be able to learn to fly. It was the only wish left to him in the whole world apart from finding his parents, which he knew was not likely. Sally suggested he was still a little young at ten years old, but, interrupting, her father asked her if she remembered when she was ten, and that shut her up. He told the table that the only sentence out of her mouth was, “When can I learn to fly!”

Peter also told the table about their drive south into Phoenix, how they had met Clint, and the constant gunfire the night they stayed in the protective camp.

“Do you want to return home?” asked Carlos.

“Certainly,” replied Peter. “We have a powerful neighborhood commitment to each other, we’re armed to the teeth, and unless Sally’s mother wants out, I’ll stay. There’s good hunting in the forests and plenty of water around us. I suppose life could get bad, but until then I would like to stay.”

“Is there a spare phone, Carlos?” asked Sally. “I won’t ever ask for anything again if you give one to my parents so that we can keep in touch if they need help.”

“Don’t you believe a word Sally says about not asking for anything, young man,” Peter replied, smiling at his future son-in-law. “She told me that one every year until she got her private pilot’s license.”

“I’m sure I’m going to have to put up with it from now on,” replied Carlos, grinning at Sally and taking her hand. “I think Lee might have a spare phone in his suitcase. Am I right, Lee?”

Lee nodded and Sally jumped with joy.

“The next round’s on me!” she shouted out to the bartender. He nodded and began to pour drinks.

The base commander returned and sat down. “The general has stated that everybody at this table has clearance, so I can tell you what we have here. Carlos, we have one helicopter, a Bell, and one fixed-wing trainer flyable at this moment. Other than that we couldn’t defend ourselves with anything more unless we built paper airplanes and threw them at any attackers,” he stated glumly. “Everything we have here, even Captain Powers’ F-16 is useless junk. Such beautiful aircraft,” he stated sadly.

“Everything?” asked Sally. “What about the Marines? Don’t they have something flying?”

“They had even more modern aircraft than we did. Everything except the base weather balloons are scrap metal. Even my jeep doesn’t work anymore and I’m using the old guard duty jeep.”

“I do have some good news for you, Colonel,” stated Carlos. “You are going to get two of the operational F-4s and the first unmanned drones as they are reconfigured for flight, for border patrol. You do have unmanned pilot facilities here don’t you?”

“Yes, at both the Air Force base and the Marine Station,” he replied.

“Also, Colonel, we are retrofitting C-130s into AC-130 Gunships for the U.S. Air Force and the Colombian Air Force over the next several months and I believe you will be getting two of the new American ones, with the air base in Tucson assigned to patrol the border.”

“And, General Carlos, how do you know all this and I don’t?” asked Sally, giving him a stern look.

“I suppose my rank and, I’m on a need-to-know basis only, Captain Powers,” joked Carlos and the table laughed.

“I’m calling you General Carlos from now on. What are you, General, a One Star or Two Star General?” retorted Sally, not to be outdone.

“As I said, Captain Powers, it’s on a need-to-know basis only,” smiled Carlos, unperturbed by this cheeky captain. The table was enjoying the cabaret. The easy banter between Carlos and Sally always made the mood lighter and the enjoyable evening lasted until late.

A flight briefing was called by the base commander for 09:00 hours the next morning and, over eggs and bacon, he briefed the pilots and several other air force personnel dressed in civilian clothes with General Patterson’s directives for them.

“You men are to stay here for a day or two. The general wants us to fly as far south into Mexico as we can, range allowing. Carlos, you are technically under the employment of the Air Force, so is Captain Powers, but Preston, Martie and Maggie, you are civilians so I cannot give you orders, or allow you into a foreign country’s airspace. Of course, Preston, you and Martie are free to do what you want, but I suggest you don’t fly into Mexico. If something happens and you have an engine failure, we cannot come and get you. Both Carlos and Captain Powers have two engines.

“OK, here is the mission: Carlos, fly into Mexico from here, south to the City of Guadalajara direct distance is 1,320 miles. Turn east and at 5,000 feet fly across country to Pachuca, Mexico. Then aim for the east coast of Mexico and then head northwards directly into Laughlin Air Force Base in Texas. Total distance is 1,940 miles and a cruising altitude of 5,000 feet should give you 200 miles of reserve fuel. It’s a long flight and you will have two other pilots aboard, a flight engineer and two machine gunners for protection. To save weight you will only have 10,000 rounds of ammo, but both gunners will be equipped with shoulder rocket launchers and mortars in case you have to go down and need to defend yourself. Under no circumstances will you fire upon anybody or any military aircraft while in Mexican territory, other than in self- defense. You will leave tomorrow morning, thirty minutes before dawn and that should get you into Laughlin just before dusk. There is a C-130 available in Tucson for extraction if necessary, but you will have to find the nearest airport or runway. We have had no contact with the Mexican military or police since New Year’s Eve. Your aircraft has Colombian military paint so you could be anybody to them if they have aircraft. All your crew will be Spanish-speaking and you will fly in civilian clothes with no American ID, not even dog tags. You will overnight in Texas and then fly back in the morning. All communications into the U.S. will be by satellite phone. Any questions?”

“Do we know of any possible Mexican aircraft flying?” Carlos asked.

“They do have 10 old 1980s Northrop F-5s still operating out of Santa Lucia in Estado de México. You will be flying easterly and 50 miles to the north of their air base and we are hoping that you can get radar and radio communications with them in Santa Lucia. General Patterson wants to see what aircraft, if any, comes up to greet you and also if there are any large crowd movements towards the north. You will be flying in a Colombian aircraft, one of Mexico’s best allies. You are to act as if you are a Colombian reconnaissance aircraft out of the United States trying to find out information. Your pilots will have all the Mexican radio frequencies and your mission is communications. If they invite you to land at Santa Lucia, I want you to go in and make friends with the Mexican Air Force on behalf of Colombia and the United States. Find out what condition they are in and ask if we can send a U.S. Air Force representative to them to discuss the defense of our two countries. Do not stay longer than an hour. If you do land in Mexico, give them basic world information, a satellite phone to communicate with General Patterson, and find out their flying strength. Then head back to Laughlin, refuel and get back here for a briefing. Then you are free to become a civilian again. Any questions, Carlos?”

He had none.

“Captain Powers, I want you to take off in an hour with one of my Air Force pilots in the right seat and fly southeast down the coastline of the Sea of Cortez and then across to Hermosillo, Mexico at 2,500 feet. You will then head north to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson to refuel. There are no Mexican air bases for you to worry about on your first leg. Your second leg will be from Tucson down to Chihuahua, Mexico where the Mexican Santa Gertrudas Air Force Base is located; to our knowledge they only have Pilatus PC-7s stationed there. Your copilot, a Spanish-speaking Air Force pilot/spotter will try and contact the base and offer dialogue from the Colombian and U.S. Air Forces. Your Super Tweet also has Colombian paint so if anybody wants to sniff you out, they can, but under no circumstance will you land. Once you reach Chihuahua, you are to return to Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico and stay the night. Tomorrow you will head south east out of Holloman as far south as Monclova, Mexico, then over Laredo and into Laughlin in Texas where you will refuel. Around 15:00 hours, head south to meet up with Carlos coming north; you should have radio contact with him within 30 minutes of takeoff. You are to escort him back to Laughlin where you will both stay overnight and then return here the following day. Your mission is to look out for civilian movement in a northerly direction. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Sorry, Maggie, I cannot allow you to fly this mission either.”

Preston and Martie were free to do what they wanted, but that would leave Maggie waiting for a flight, so they decided to stay until Carlos and Sally returned. They planned to all fly up to the wine farm in California together before Sally left on her first leg. Clint also looked forlorn at not being allowed to join Carlos in his flight, but perked up when Sally suggested to her parents that they all fly up to the farm with Carlos when he returned.

They all agreed, even Sally’s mother who hated flying, was keen to have some wine in the Napa Valley. Carlos was going to be her son-in-law, so who better than he to fly her around; and now, driving was far more dangerous.

Chapter 9

Mo Wang – Honduras

The villa was luxurious and relaxing for Mo Wang. For the first time in his life he enjoyed doing nothing but thinking, working on a suntan and learning to swim. He could doggie-paddle but the villa’s pool was pretty long so he tried to copy the teenagers who were all strong, competent swimmers. It took the girls a couple of days to accept him, begin to talk to him and teach him to swim.

Virginie, Beatrice’s daughter was the first to want to talk. On his fourth day at the villa, a hot and humid day with one of the daily tropical rain showers soon to begin, she approached his sun lounger and looked at him with her bright green eyes. He had never seen such beautiful eyes in his life. In China he had seen only brown eyes. This young girl looked like a brown snake about to strike and he was enthralled by her striking face.

“Monsieur Mo,” she began coyly, her deeply sun-tanned body, long, light brown hair and very skimpy leopard-skin bikini still dripping from the pool. “Thank you for looking after us and giving us all food to eat. All the girls were getting very hungry when we left for the ferry journey.”

“That was my pleasure, Virginie,” he replied, taking in the lovely sight. He had never been near girls like this in China.

“I’m sorry that my English is not so good and I don’t speak any Chinese.”

“And I don’t speak any French, and my English is about as bad as yours, so we are about the same in communications,” joked Mo, getting a small smile from her.

“I wanted to ask you if it is truly as bad out there as you say,” she asked. The twins had headed off to the pool’s shower, not ready to join any conversations yet.

Virginie’s mother, Beatrice, was coming down the stairs. She noticed that her daughter was speaking to Mo, walked over, and pulled up a lounger to listen.

“Your daughter has asked me if it is as bad in the world as I say it is, Beatrice,” Mo said to the older lady as she sat down.

“Virginie, I don’t know how bad it is in the whole world, but I do know that civilization, all the modern electrical gadgets we use every day in modern civilization are now useless. When did you last use your cell phone?” he asked the young girl.

“Early in the afternoon before New Year’s Eve, I wanted to wish my grandmother in France Happy New Year.”

“Have you tried it since?” Mo asked.

“We all have, the twins have tried to reach their boyfriends in New York and their father, but their phones are completely dead. They tried mine and it didn’t work either.”

“You turn on the television and radio system in the villa a dozen times a day I’ve noticed,” Mo added. She nodded and replied that it was always the same. Nothing. “That is exactly how all modern electrical instruments of communications are working all over the world.”

“Then how do we have electricity? The taxi works, but nothing else,” Virginie asked, confused. Just then it started to rain and large tropical drops began to hit the concrete around the pool so they moved to the loungers under the gazebo on the other side of the pool.

From this vantage point Mo could see the pool and the beach, and watch a small fishing boat as it headed past the island towards the Honduras mainland three hours sailing away.

“The company responsible for this world destruction was named Zedong Electronics,” started Mo as they sat down. Marie De Bonnet joined them, running easily down the last stairs as the rain began to fall in earnest. She also pulled up a lounger to listen. “It was based close to where I lived in Shanghai. They started their mission to destroy all electronics in the early 1980s. I bet that your cell phone and all the other girls’ phones were made by Zedong Electronics, or had parts made by Zedong Electronics in them.”

“Who was Zedong Electronics?” asked Virginie, and Mo spent an hour telling them what he knew: How the last members of the Chinese Communist Party under Mao Tse Tung started the company shortly after they lost power. How he was recruited, first as an engineer and then as a recruiting officer And finally, how they manipulated the world’s electronic parts and instruments to terminate with a radio frequency at exactly midnight Eastern Time on last New Year’s Eve. It was a thirty-year plan, he explained, and the idea was to attack and invade the United States of America and take over the country as their new headquarters.”

“Why did they hurt the rest of the world, and why France if they wanted America?” was the young girl’s next question.

“Simple,” replied Mo. “They couldn’t control where the parts went, and if the Europeans got involved with their attack on America they might have had the power to stop it. They even made sure that my home country, China, and also Russia would not get involved with their domination of the United States. China, Russia and every other country in the world is in the exact same condition we are.”

Virginie thought about what he had just said while Marie asked a question.

“So, Monsieur Engineer, what still works and what doesn’t in this world?”

“Marie, the only electronic equipment that still works was either manufactured before 1982 to 1985, or does not have any modern, or updated electronics made with any parts from Zedong Electronics. It’s as simple as that!” was his reply. “The minivan taxi is a 1984 Japanese model; it has carburetors but not a computerized engine-management system. The German lady has a new Mercedes which is entirely controlled by computers; it will never work again; the entire insides of the vehicle cannot be rebuilt using old parts, and nothing will fit. The electrical grid here on the island must have older electronic generators, pre-1985, and I think they must be backups for the more modern system, since we only get eight hours of electricity a day. We’ve had constant electricity here because I found the villa’s backup generator behind the empty car garages. I also found a few extra cans of gasoline down in the dock cabin, enough for about week. There is a lot more fuel down there but it is diesel for the boat.”

There was silence as the girls thought over what he had said. Marie was the first to ask the next question. “So that means that everybody we know in the world could be dead?”

“No, Marie, you are wrong. Yes, there are many who are dead from winter conditions, or starvation, but there will be areas where survival is quite easy, like on this island for another week or more.”

“Then what happens?” asked Beatrice.

“Then, Madame, I assume the whole island’s infrastructure will crumble and life here will become very dangerous, as it is in the bad areas of the world. The island will run out of gasoline and diesel, the electricity generators will fail. Then the shops will be empty of basic foodstuffs. Yes, fish and island produce will become the staple diet of the local community, but in every community there are good and bad people. This was part of Zedong’s strategy: to enable the bad people in all the corners of the world to take control by force. Life on this island for people like you, the tourists, will become extremely dangerous. You don’t belong here and bad people might feel it necessary to get rid of everybody who doesn’t belong, me included.”

The girls’ faces became white as they realized what he had just said and pictures went through their minds of what could happen to them if bad people captured them. Virginie swallowed hard. “What about the police?” she asked.

“I would assume that they will be the first to stand up against any bad people and they will either win a fight against the bad people or be the first to die. Also, in many countries the police are often bonded, or friendly with the bad people in some way.”

“What do you think we should do?” asked Marie.

“Prepare to leave the island within a week,” replied Mo bluntly. “I visited what I believe are all of the stores on the island and purchased what I could. There is not much left. If you remember, last night we came to the conclusion that we have enough food for the six of us for a month, a little more if we eat less. I do not believe that we will find anything more, except fish which will always be around. We can catch our own fish; we have the yacht if we need it.”

“We are not allowed to use it,” replied Marie.

“Where are the keys to the yacht?” asked Mo.

“In the villa… in the office of my bedroom. We believe it is the owner’s private office. I don’t want to meet the German lady if she finds out we went fishing on the yacht,” Marie added.

“And if your lives are at stake?” asked Mo.

“Then I think we should go fishing and just not come back. It will save her questioning us,” Marie stated, trying to make a joke.

“Precisely,” replied Mo. “It is probably our only ticket out of here, until somebody else decides to take it before we do.”

“What do you mean?” asked Beatrice. “Actually steal the yacht and sail away? That is not a good idea and I would not do that.”

“Would it be a better idea if bad men were pulling down the gates and shooting to get in here to take any food, liquor and women and even steal the boat for their own escape? Would you still think it was a bad idea?” Mo asked.

Beatrice studied him for a while. She realized that he wasn’t joking; he was serious and she slowly nodded her head in agreement. So did Marie.

“Oui,” stated Virginie quietly, looking at the two older ladies and adding her understanding that things could go from bad to worse.

“Think about it, ladies,” Mo suggested. We still have time and I would like to see the inside of that ship; I’m an engineer after all. At minimum I could work out a plan to exit the villa if we need to.”

Marie rose and climbed the stairs to get the keys.

Now that the rain shower had ended, they walked down the stairs to the beach, and walked along the pier to the rear end of the yacht. There was a side gangway to what looked like an entrance to the lounge area and they stepped onto the steady yacht and went on board.

The second key opened the main, heavy wooden door and they stood still looking over the well fitted-out space. The floor appeared to be teak with a large rug in the middle. The rear area had two couches in an “L” shape and the forward area contained a six-seat dining table backing onto an open-plan bar, behind which was the galley. Six stairs led up to the next higher level of the yacht. Marie opened the door and when Mo stepped into the control room he was taken aback. He had never sailed before, had never stepped aboard a luxury yacht before, and the dials on the control dash astonished him.

“Have you been in here before?” he asked Marie.

“We wanted to but, of course, we are not allowed. It is stated in big black letters in the lease. Beatrice and I are competent sailors. Both of our husbands are, or were, professional sailors. Beatrice’s late husband often sailed in the America’s Cup, the biggest yacht race in the world, and my husband helped many teams compete by paying for the expensive yachts. My husband and I have, or had, a fifty-foot ketch moored in Long Island, New York, and often sailed her across the Atlantic to the French coast. I wanted to take this boat out the minute I saw her, but I’ve never seen instruments this complicated in a sailing boat,” she stated, looking in amazement at the control panels in the dash area. “This yacht has more instruments than a power boat of her size. She is the most interesting yacht I have ever seen…and yet she doesn’t really look like a yacht.”

This got Mo’s attention and he sat in the left-side captain’s chair and studied the gauges. There were certainly two big engines, or more, by the look of her controls, and four separate fuel tanks. The radar screen looked old but very powerful and he had a sudden sinking feeling that this modern vessel was as useful as the latest American Aircraft Carriers; expensive scrap metal.

He looked forward, through the Portuguese bridge-type windows onto a short, flat deck and saw a rubber boat with small engine underneath the window Forward of the boat the space was clear to the pointed bow.

Mo suggested a tour and Marie and Beatrice agreed. Female curiosity had got the better of both of them. Entering the lounge area he asked her how long she thought the ship was and she replied eighty-two feet with a slimmer than usual seventeen-foot beam. “Most of the America’s Cup racing boats have the same dimensions as this yacht has,” Marie stated.

“What is the importance of a thinner ship?” asked Mo.

“More speed with less comfort. A luxury 80-foot yacht should have at least a 24- to 25-foot beam. Also, her sides slope more directly vertical into the water, more like a military vessel than a luxury yacht. I checked last time I came down here; she has a steel hull, not the usual cement or fiberglass; more like a warship.”

“Maybe she was a warship,” stated Mo simply, and Marie suddenly smacked the top of the dining table.

“Of course! How stupid of me!” she replied, a light going on behind her beautiful eyes. “I’ve being trying to analyze her and have spent a couple of weeks just trying to figure her out. She must have been a very small warship and was transformed into a private luxury yacht. Why would somebody do that?” she asked herself aloud.

“Several reasons,” suggested Mo. “The owner might just be a very rich man, or ex-navy, or like speed, or, he might even be a drug smuggler. But, by the look of her, it could be all of the above! She is certainly well appointed, but a piece of junk unless I can see the engines.”

“We haven’t been down there yet,” Marie stated showing him back down to the lounge and to the door to the engine room. It was in the wooden floor, hidden underneath the large expensive Oriental rug in the forward area of the lounge. “I swam next to her and she lies very shallow in the water with no keel. Her hull is less than six feet deep, which is not sufficient for a luxury yacht her length, and she has three propellers, two large and a smaller one in-between them, which is very weird for any boat. The sea bottom around the boat is rock and it has been dug out so that she can sit so close to the beach at low tide and there is a channel dug outwards for about another fifty feet to allow her in and out.”

Underneath the floor entrance was a set of ten stairs and a thick sea-proof door was at the bottom facing aft. Mo felt for and found a light switch on the right-hand wall and they walked into a professional military-looking engine room painted white. For Mo the height was fine as he entered the lower deck, but for Marie she had to stoop a little; the ceiling was an inch too short for her six foot one inch frame.

Mo stood there frozen. The machinery was beautiful. The two engines on either side of where they stood were both big Cummins 800-horsepower six-cylinder diesels. But what really relieved him was seeing three large carburetors on top of each engine, a carburetor for each two cylinders. There was less than a foot of space between the top of the carburetors and the ceiling; pretty big engines in a small space. In between the rear of the engines and in the middle of the engine room was a third, much smaller diesel engine, about the size one would find on a tractor, or maybe in a yacht of this size.

“That middle engine is what I was expecting to see in here, not these monsters,” stated Marie holding a hand up to cover her mouth.

“Two large marine carburetor generators there on the port (left) side in front of the engines,” pointed Mo, “and the fuel system is certainly complicated, but a gravity, or suction-fed unit, I bet. All good so far and the engines are certainly not modern. I would say they are a couple of decades old and very thirsty for diesel fuel. That’s why there are two sets of engine controls on the control panel. I believe the smaller engine runs independently of the two big ones. It has its own fuel system and a backup or starter generator over there,” he pointed to two more generators on the starboard (right) wall in front of the other engine.

Four generators on a boat; I’ve never heard of that before,” exclaimed Marie. “My husband would have loved to see this configuration; it must have cost a lot of money.”

“The outer engines are big and the smaller engine is certainly a weird configuration, added as an extra, I believe,” continued Mo. He saw a small etched black shield with silver letters on the forward wall on a closed steel door which told him everything he needed to know: “USCGC Point Harris WPB-82376, 22nd June 1970, Coast Guard Yard, Curtis Bay, Maryland.”

“Now let us see what electronics work up there in the control center. They also looked older but top quality products,” Mo stated.

“The bridge, Mr. Wang,” smiled Marie.

He took mental pictures of where everything was. While trying to figure out what USCGC stood for, he knew the ship was American and closed the engine room door after turning off the light. The light was battery-fed, he noticed. It had the yellowish color of a low-amp light. “I bet the light is brighter down there when a generator is working. She must have a large group of batteries somewhere.”

“Did you see the steel door in the wall, forward of the engine room? They must be stored in there,” suggested Marie.

“It looks like this level runs throughout the ship,” added Mo.

“They returned to the lounge area and found all the girls waiting for them. Mo hadn’t heard a single footstep above them. It showed how well built this ship was.

He went forward and walked down the short corridor to the front area, next to the stairs and up to the control room, or bridge as Marie wanted him to call it.

Mo found three well-appointed bedrooms, each with a head. The first bedroom must be the owner’s room, he thought, as it was bigger than the other two which both had twin beds in them. Opposite the owner’s bedroom he found the door to the galley which faced onto the bar, dining room and lounge area aft. Well-appointed, it had a gas range with oven, an old military-looking fridge, two large chest freezers and behind them in the corridor, a sliding door opened to a washer and dryer. He tapped on the wall directly below the control room; it was metal. He tapped in the owner’s room and again found metal. He went to the most forward wall which was still ten feet before the bow of the ship and it sounded like fiberglass.

“This wall has been especially placed here,” he thought. Mo then returned to the lounge on the same level and tapped the lounge walls; again fiberglass.

Suddenly Mo Wang knew what the owner had done and it was he who slapped the bar this time, startling the girls. “Feel the walls, Marie. What are they made of?”

“Fiberglass,” she replied.

“OK, follow me up into the control room. What are the walls made of here?”

“Steel!” she replied. “How can that be?”

“The owner took a military vessel and added extra space to make it look like a yacht. I did not see any mast below in the engine room, like a sailing ship should have, but there are two masts going through this upper deck only.”

“I see it now,” Marie stated, excited that she was figuring out the ship. “He has added two reasonably short masts to turn her into a ketch, a twin-masted yacht, and he has fixed the masts to the metal of the military ship and added this level to support the masts. That’s what I was wondering: the ship’s mast height would not give her much forward speed for a sailing ship, maybe under full sail, six to seven knots, with just fiberglass in a stiff breeze, but less than five knots with all this steel. And this sail structure could not survive a bad storm. I don’t think this ship could sail in a storm with more than forty-knot winds, the whole structure would collapse.”

It’s all for show, I bet,” stated Mo. “But that’s fine. This boat, whatever it is, is useless to us unless we can get an engine started. As he said that the rain returned and started pelting the ship. “Good. The rain will hide any noise.” They headed back up to the bridge.

He looked at the keys and found one which would fit into the slot in the middle of the control panel. He switched it on and all the electrics came to life. Miraculously, everything worked. The fuel gauges all registered full and the entire control room started to hum under battery power. He saw a start button under each set of caterpillar controls and he pushed the starboard one. Nothing happened.

“Push the four starter buttons for the generators first,” Marie suggested. One by one he felt a slight vibration as one after the other the generators started two floors below him.

“Marie, please go down and tell me what is working in the engine room,” he directed. She returned up the two flights of stairs a minute later saying that all four generators were running.

This time he decided to start the smaller engine first and he pushed the single “start” button separate on the one side of the console. He felt a slight rumble and he checked to make sure that the control arm was in neutral.

“The little engine has started!” shouted Marie loudly, again down the stairs with her head poking through the engine door. “Make sure it is still in neutral.”

“I did!” he shouted back, at the same time checking that the two bigger control arms were in the neutral position.

He let the single engine run for five minutes, turning the four generators on and off and finding out what powered what. It was certainly a sophisticated system. He then turned off two of the generators and the small engine.

“The last two generators should start the bigger diesels,” he shouted at Marie who went down the second flight of stairs again to check what was going on. “Starting large starboard engine!” he shouted and pushed the button. He didn’t need Marie to tell him the engine had started when on the third try the steel plates underneath him began to rumble and vibrate and he felt the ship come alive. He started the port engine which took longer, but the rumbling increased and he felt the whole 1,600 horsepower of both engines vibrate through the ship.

Again, he let them run for five minutes before he turned them off. It was silent inside once the engines ceased; only the heavy rain outside still pelting the ship could be heard.

“Merde, Merde, Merde!” stated Marie walking up to him and patting Mo on the back. “This ship isn’t a yacht. I knew it! It is a bloody warship!”

“It is a United States Coast Guard Cutter,” replied Mo turning around and gave the excited woman a hug. “Go down and read the sign in the engine room.” She did and returned a couple of minutes later, her face white and beckoned him to follow her.

She led Mo to the door he hadn’t opened and still speechless she motioned to him to open it. His shock was nearly as great as hers.

Inside the room and surrounded by batteries were a hundred cases of what looked like different types of ammunition. He walked through and opened a second door on the forward wall. He calculated that now he was underneath the forward berths. It was a heavy watertight door and inside was a heavy single-barreled military-type machine gun with steel protection panels. It stood on a pedestal and ready to fire. Next to it was a vertical barrel, which looked to Mo like a mortar. “What are they doing down here?” he thought aloud until he saw a small control panel. He pressed the button and suddenly realized what the fourth generator was for. It automatically started from the start button and an entire panel above the machine gun slid back and a hydraulic pump began moving the whole pedestal upwards, the rain falling through the hole. He quickly pressed the button again and the hum stopped and then started again, the pedestal reversed downwards and the steel door shut itself.

Mo said a few words in Chinese and looked at Marie. “This is certainly a handy vessel to steal. I want to see where that gun comes up on deck. It must be at least ten feet forward of the control room and directly in front of the bedrooms. There is nothing between it and the metal roof of the ship above and I think I know why there was a fiberglass wall in the front of the bedrooms.”

“Bridge is a better word than control room and cabins are a better word than bedrooms on a ship,” suggested Marie. “Let’s close down the ship for tonight and we can continue our search tomorrow. I feel uncomfortable down here, a bit scared, and I expect that German lady to arrive at any moment. But I think your escape plan has borne fruit, Mr. Mo Wang.”

The rain stopped outside as they turned everything off and closed up the ship to make it look like nobody had been aboard. The pier was wet and slippery as they all ran to the end and climbed the stairs to an empty and darkening house.

The sun had already set and the house stood foreboding in front of them until the first girl turned on the porch lights.

Dinner was a quiet affair later that evening. Everybody was mulling over the future and the unknown boundaries all of them were going to have to cross: new challenges for the three teenagers and crossing boundaries of right versus wrong for the two older ladies. One thing that Mo had noticed was that he had become the man at the head of the table. He wasn’t the unknown guest anymore; he was part of their future.

Later, when Mo was sitting on one of the couches and reading a western lady’s magazine about vacation destinations, Beatrice sat down beside him. Very faint wisps of her expensive French perfume tantalized his senses. She had showered and wore an expensive dressing gown, her long hair wrapped in a towel.

“Want a whiskey?” she asked. “I would love one. I need to sleep deeply tonight, or I’ll be awake thinking about all the horrors we talked about.”

Immediately Mo got up and headed over to the drinks trolley and poured two large single malts, each with one cube of ice, his favorite way to drink this exotic beverage. He walked back, handed Beatrice one and sat down. It was the first time she actually sat next to him.

“Is something on your mind?” asked Mo, and for several minutes she told him about herself. She was 42 and she had been a sports reporter for a French television station. She had been married for ten years when her husband was killed in a boating accident a decade earlier, when Virginie was only eight. After her husband’s death, a large insurance policy paid out and her parents looked after her. She never had to work another day in her life. Her life apart from sports, like skiing in winter and sailing in the summers on the French Riviera was empty. Her husband had been a very good man and was a very big part of her life. She had not remarried and spent her time looking after Virginie. She missed her best friend, Marie, when she was in New York and often spent months at a time visiting her in the States. Virginie had been in a boarding school in the Provence area of France for the last three years and this gave her an opportunity to visit New York for longer periods between the school vacations.

“You must be very lonely,” Mo surmised.

“Yes and no,” she replied. “I love my independence, but I miss my husband still and sometimes wish for company. Now our old world is gone and I am at a loss what to do. Suddenly, I really have an empty feeling. Mo, tell me about you and your life in China.”

“I was born in Nanjing, a small city outside Shanghai, in 1948, three years after the Second World War ended.”

Marie entered the room dressed like Beatrice with her hair also wrapped in a towel, helped herself to a Cognac from the drinks trolley and sat on the other couch to listen to the conversation.

Mo noticed that no matter how these ladies were dressed they looked regal, beautiful, and dangerous, like beasts of prey. He looked around and saw the three younger girls outside on the porch, two playing a game of chess and one of the twins reading a magazine. They also looked bored and he then realized that the time to escape the island was soon, very soon.

“My parents were also wealthy compared to many around them,” he continued now talking to both ladies. “My father was a general in the Chinese army which had defeated the attacks by the Japanese during the war and he was remembered by the government. I went to a boarding school at the age of seven in Beijing, a very powerful school where only the sons of upper government went. My father was an active part of the Communist party when it came to power and in charge of the army under Mao Tse Tung. He retired from military life and joined his older brother several years later when I was fifteen. In every government there are always enemies. His older brother was a prominent figure in the Party and he wanted my father to watch his back. My father did this for many years. In my last year of school I was joined by my older cousin, my father’s older brother’s first son, who was two grades above me and in his last year. He was a very controlled person and totally ignored me. Two years later I joined him at the same engineering university in Shanghai where we studied the same courses. He was two years ahead of me and spoke to me only once. My cousin considered me to be his inferior because he believed that my father was his father’s servant and my father followed his father everywhere. In my last year I was joined by a third family member who was starting his engineering studies. This young man, Lee, was extremely clever. The whole family knew of his aptitude for mathematics and science. I helped him settle into university life without telling him that I was family. I left, became a good engineer in Shanghai studying much of what was being designed by the west. Often stolen parts or pieces of modern electronics were brought into the laboratories of our company to study how the west, countries like Germany, America and later Japan were designing the first working computers and electronic control parts for just about everything.”

“What year was this?” asked Beatrice.

“I had just turned thirty in 1978 when I saw my first computer in parts. It was the size of a car and Chinese people living in America had smuggled it in piece by piece. It had taken two years to get it there and another two years for us to get it working, in 1979. I got married in 1980 in Shanghai and wanted to start a family with my wife, but in 1981 I was transferred back to Beijing to work for my father on some project to do with government security for two years. I was allowed back to Shanghai only twice during this time for a month at a time. I completed the project and returned to my wife who was waiting for me. We spent a year together before I was ordered by my older cousin to join his new company Zedong Electronics in Nanjing, where I was born. I did not want to leave Shanghai but my father ordered me to. My wife had an important job with the City of Shanghai and was not allowed to leave her job to join me, so I visited her as often as I could, still with no children arriving. For four years I travelled back to Shanghai as often as I was allowed, but unfortunately in the last year my wife was not there to meet me anymore; our apartment was empty of furniture and a note told me not to return.”

“Did you ever see her again?” asked Marie.

“Yes, she became the Mayor of Shanghai for ten years and had remarried to a prominent official of the local government. I often saw my wife and her husband, and in later years her three children, all daughters, once television arrived.”

“Did you get divorced in China?” asked Marie again.

“I suppose you could call it that. A letter arrived at work on official paper telling me that my marriage had been terminated. That was the end of that.”

“In what year was that?” asked Beatrice.

“I remember the date well, January 1st, 1990,” he ended sadly. “But what about you, Marie? Beatrice has told me about her life, tell me yours.”

“I grew up in a wealthy family in Paris, went to school and wasn’t a very good student,” Marie began. “I was always ready for the netball, and English sport they played, field or grass hockey, horseback riding or whatever sport was on the menu. Coming from a prominent family, I suppose I was lucky and my grades were ignored. Somehow I was accepted into university on a sports scholarship and began rowing and jumping horses in earnest, representing France in two Olympics, and winning a silver and a bronze medal in jumping. This is when I met Beatrice. She was a sports reporter and she followed me for a couple of years. She is a year older than I. We immediately hit it off and remain good friends to this day.

“I met my husband at the same time and married at twenty-two. The twins came five years later when my international sport career was coming to an end. My husband was a clever man working on the French Stock Exchange and a big sailing enthusiast. He taught both of us to sail. Beatrice’s husband was one of the best and he joined the French sailing team for the America’s Cup. My husband was the team manager and they worked together until a bad sailing accident took the lives of Beatrice’s husband and three other men. After that we moved to New York; it was in 1995. My husband was in charge of a brokerage firm and we have lived part of our lives in New York and part in Paris. The twins are more American than I am and are, or shall I say were, about to enter university this year in Boston. The three girls have always been as close as Beatrice and I are and we decided to vacation on this island, Roatán, to see what it was like. We usually either go skiing or scuba diving and sailing together over Christmas. But with the upheavals in the world economy my husband has been extremely busy for the last few years. We have grown apart slightly and he suggested we leave and take the girls somewhere nice. He was to join us towards the end of January for our last couple of weeks here.”

It was getting late and Mo looked at the clock; it was nearly eleven.

“What happened to your younger family member?” asked Beatrice.

“He is actually in America at the moment and I was going to ask him if he could pick us up in Florida or somewhere on the American coast if we can sail that far.”

“But does your cell phone work?” asked Marie.

“No, but I have something better than that, a satellite phone.” He got up to go to his room and retrieve the one he had been using.

“How come a cell phone doesn’t work, but a satellite phone does?” asked Beatrice as he sat down with the phone in his hand.

“Remember I used to work for Zedong Electronics and when the company terminated everything, they made sure that they would have world communications.” He turned on the fully charged phone and started to dial Lee Wang’s number and then stopped. “It’s not the right time, maybe a little late to call,” he stated. “I’ll call America tomorrow afternoon. I think it is time to sleep. We have had a busy day and I think tomorrow will be even busier. I must go and find my niece. Living in this villa with you nice people has been so pleasant that I actually forgot why I had traveled here.”

Chapter 10

The Calderón Brothers – March

Manuel Calderón was hurrying across the Colombian/Venezuelan border in a rusty old Toyota truck, its rear bed open to accommodate a heavy, moveable 7.62 mm machine gun. He was heading to a meeting with his two younger brothers, Pedro and Alberto, and an important member of the Venezuelan government—and a good friend of the Venezuelan President himself. At this very moment, his brothers were explaining to the Venezuelan VIP that Manuel was detained for worthwhile reasons.

Important news that had passed from mouth to mouth regarding the United States and Mexico prompted a last-minute meeting in Bogotá with other senior members of the Calderón family. Manuel wanted to attack the palace where the government meeting was to be held. His main target was the Rodriquez brothers, who he knew would be attending, because one of his men had seen them gathering at El Dorado airport. But, due to the many stupid Colombian troops who did not desert as ordered, their numbers were too great to risk it. Then, hearing that there could be a Rodriquez family gathering at the Air Force base in Santiago de Cali, he sent word to the limited number of troops he had stationed in the city, to attack the base once it looked like anybody of note had arrived. This futile effort cost him a whole day.

Three hours after crossing the border he arrived at the village where the meeting was to be held. It took a while to get through the army check points and the thousands of Venezuelan soldiers deployed around the village town hall, the meeting place.

“Ha! Manuel, you have finally arrived,” stated Victor, the VIP. Manuel could see that he was a little drunk and rowdy. “Your brothers have been entertaining me and sharing some fine Colombian brandies they brought with them. Why are you so late?”

“Pardon, Victor,” he replied, putting on a false smile and hugging the man he had come to see, “but because of very recent news from Mexico and America I had an unexpected chance to return some favors to some enemies of my family. I didn’t want to waste that opportunity.”

“I will assume that the Rodriquez brothers were together again in Bogotá?” Victor questioned.

“All five of them, even the dog from America and the American runt of the litter whose mother killed my father, Victor. You know I would never keep you waiting if it wasn’t important,” Manuel replied, putting on a straight face with a respectful and humble tone.

Manuel considered Victor to be a fat, useless, Venezuelan pig, but he had large numbers of loyal men, enough to take over Victor’s own country. Manuel had thought that a combined force of his and Victor’s men might be numerous enough take control of Colombia itself, until other family members explained that even with Victor’s men added; the Calderón Cartel still didn’t stand a chance against the Colombian armed forces.

Less than 10 percent of the total Colombian soldiers had taken the cartel’s threats seriously and had deserted. Even then, the deserters were too cowardly to actually join them and just disappeared back to their homes. “Justice will be dealt out soon!” Manuel told his family before he left Bogotá for the border.

“Pedro, Alberto, get me some food! I’m hungry!” shouted Manuel as he sat down for the meeting. His two younger brothers shouted out orders before both joined their older brother and Victor at the table.

“So how many men will you need to take over Colombia, Manuel?” asked Victor, once the hungry man had eaten and drunk some good Venezuelan beer.

“My family says that we are still not strong enough but they have devised a plan to recruit enough men to overthrow the country, Victor,” Manuel replied.

“Are you saying that that the senator told you my men are not strong enough?” asked Victor looking angry.

“No, of course not, Victor! It’s purely numbers. The Rodriquez brothers control about 100,000 men. We have around 30,000 good fighting men if I bring in everybody from all of our friendly cartels, and you have about the same, no?”

“Only 30,000, Manuel? I could offer you 50,000 if I needed to, plus good munitions to go with them,” Victor bragged. Manuel had assumed that Victor had about 30,000 men, but baited Victor to see how he might inflate the numbers. Meanwhile, Manuel knew he really could drum up nearly 40,000 soldiers.

“I understand your army is bigger than mine, Victor,” replied Manuel, stroking the obese man’s ego. “But even if we had 60,000 men between us, they wouldn’t stand up to Rodriquez’s 100,000 men. “

“So what is the plan, Manuel?” asked Victor, grabbing a beer from an iced cooler on the table.

“How many men do you know will join us from Mexico, Victor?”

Victor thought for a moment. “I know the Sanchez family north of Mexico City; they owe me a few favors and they have at least 7,000 members. Then there is the Cortez family further north. They get my shipments over the American border; at least 10,000 men. A thousand in Panama and another small family in Honduras, they get my drugs north for me. I’d say another 20,000 men. How many can you bring to the table?”

“About the same, Victor, plus I have contracted the family you know about in northern Brazil. They have about 15,000 members dealing drugs southwards. We could borrow their men and maybe give them something of value, like a tank brigade or something once we take over the military barracks in Colombia.”

“So now we get these 100,000 men together, overpower the government, and split your country 50/50, Manuel. My President would be pleased to be offered land, a workforce, and some of your best coffee plantations, OK?” stated Victor, rubbing his hands together and reaching for another beer.

There was no way that Manuel would hand over a foot of land to this greedy pig, but he said nothing and smiled.

“Why not also take over Mexico, Guatemala, Panama, and Honduras? We would then have one of the biggest countries in the world? How about that idea, Victor?”

Victor thought about the idea for a few seconds; it wasn’t a bad idea.

“Why don’t we start with the United States of America, Manuel? I want California and Texas, and then work our way down to Bogotá. You brothers are good fighters and you can collect good banditos on your way north, and take over Texas or Arizona. Our 50,000 drug people in America would add to our numbers and then once we eat some bocas in Washington, we can then sweep down with millions and just keep going. What about that grand plan, Manuel?”

Victor, knowing that the plan was more fanciful than plausible, just looked at Manuel for an answer. He wasn’t going anywhere. The Calderóns would all the leg work and he would just wait for them to repay him with his portion: California, Texas and part of Colombia. He grabbed two more beers, twisted their tops off, gave one to Manuel and silently saluted his still-thinking Colombian partner with the bottle.

For the next hour they discussed what they needed to do to cripple Mexico and then get the Mexican drug gangs to follow them. An idea arose that had possibilities. The Mexican armed forces were not as strong as in Colombia. Plus they could recruit many people on their travels north.

A plan was formulated to begin by deploying small commando groups to destroy all Central American and then Mexican military bases while their men were moving north. At the same time, the armies of men and machinery would start to spread into and through the smaller countries, using captured food rations, vehicles and gasoline to get to the Mexican border, with their numbers growing exponentially on the way.

Maps were brought out and quickly all the military installations were marked. The two younger Calderóns brought in their other family leaders, so that over 100 men were told of the plan.

Twenty four hours after the end of the meeting, over 105,000 men mobilized in thousands of cars, jeeps, military vehicles, and civilian trucks and were moving quickly northwards across northern Colombia and into Panama.

Five hundred men, including two of the three Calderón brothers, were already in the air in a dozen old Venezuelan military transport aircraft which could airlift them into El Salvador, 800 miles closer to the southern Mexican border. Five more flights were to take place over the next two days and the military bases and international airport in San Salvador, south of the city, had already been overrun by local families loyal to the Calderón brothers.

Chapter 11

Arizona/California

Carlos took off as planned a day later. Sally had already radioed in once to report that her first leg was complete; she was back in the U.S. and her aircraft was being refueled. She had seen absolutely nothing.

Her next report came in as they were sitting down for dinner. Sally’s copilot had made contact with the northern Mexican air base and they had reported that everything was quiet, too quiet. Their four jet aircraft stationed were still fully operational and all aircraft were grounded until they were given orders from their superiors. They also asked the pilot if he could pick up other military bases on his radio and was given the frequencies. He tried for ten minutes and could not pick up anybody. Sally returned to the U.S. for her night stop sounding pretty bored with her day’s activities.

Preston, Lee, Martie and Maggie Smart were going to wait for the pilots to return before heading north to the Napa Valley. They didn’t have much to do and took the time to get to know Sally’s parents. Life at the quiet and desolate Marine base with no aircraft flying was as peaceful as Preston’s own airfield.

Peter, Sally’s father took Preston to one side to speak to him later that afternoon. Clint had spent most of the day with Preston and Martie and they were growing quite fond of the boy.

“Preston, I need to know what to do about Clint,” Peter started seriously. “We are going to head back to Flagstaff once you guys leave for California tomorrow. Thank you for the offer to join you in Napa. I would love to go, but my wife doesn’t like flying and would be very nervous. She would prefer to have a shoot-out with robbers than get on an airplane. She often had nightmares when Sally was going solo in her younger years; I suppose that’s normal for an only-child family. It will be difficult for us out in the sticks to look after young Clint. There was no way we would have left him on the side of the highway, and if we have to take him home, we will. Unfortunately we are not as young as we once were and I need help to figure out what to do.”

“I totally understand your situation, Peter,” replied Preston. “There are millions of lost people out there in the world right now, and without any outside help, they have no chance to survive. We took in an orphan Carlos picked up in New York, Little Beth, and she is currently happy in North Carolina commanding the detachment of guards looking after us.” Peter smiled at the description. “There is no way any of us can just let a defenseless child be left behind. Clint is a great kid. He’s a little older than Beth and I’m sure he would fit in. If not, there is a refugee camp at the Air Force base to our south where many grieving parents are located until who knows when. Let’s ask him if he minds coming with us, but you never know if he might prefer to stay with you guys.

“Another consideration for Clint is the surgery he still needs. Hospital capabilities all across the country are unknown right now. We do not know which hospitals, if any, are completely or partially operational, or if they can handle anything more complicated than out-patient procedures, or even if they have electric power. We are having a meeting about hospitals in California when we get there. Emergency care for injured people is the most important priority in the electrical upgrades right now. For the present time, emergency care is available only at the Air Force bases where simple emergency operations are being performed. Once things improve and we have electricity, we have good contacts to schedule Clint’s last operation. We also have a growing airport in North Carolina to interest the boy who seems as crazy about flying as Sally was as a child.”

“Clint being around brings back good memories of our own little Sally,” Peter agreed. “Let’s discuss the opportunity with him after dinner. And, Preston, thank you!”

Over an early dinner that night, Lee’s satellite phone suddenly rang, which caused the table to immediately go silent. Communications had become a real and important luxury. It was Carlos reporting in. Lee was asked to put it on speakerphone so that the base commander and the rest at the table could hear.

“Carlos to friends and family: Girlfriend and I are safe at our end station. We found each other a little later than expected due to a situation I tried to get visual on but did not have enough fuel to complete my mission. I will relay the same information to Patterson Key after this call.

“A big storm is coming in from the south and I arrived at my first turn point fifteen minutes later than scheduled because I ran into strong headwinds—considerably higher than the fifty-knot headwinds at low altitude we had forecast Then the crosswind pushed me north and I compensated by flying in a south-easterly direction. At the location we were meant to radio in from, there were clouds of smoke over thirty miles wide, which forced me to fly higher up at flight level 6,000 above ground. It was like a fog. There was no radio response from our neighbors. I turned southwards and got in pretty close to where the smoke was coming from. I could see the military base, or what was left of it. Every building and all aircraft—I counted a dozen or so of different types—were smoldering. The dark clouds were from the still-burning gas tanks, two big ones, and by then I needed to head home. I could see no moving people down there, good or bad. They must have heard our engines when we were overhead. Super Tweet and I met up over the coast and we landed on fumes. I was surprised on landing to see three undamaged F-5s on the tarmac. They were foreign air force jets. We parked next to them and were informed that there had been an attack by around 2,000 civilians with rockets, mortars, and machine guns, all mobile with over a hundred vehicles. There was a scramble to get airborne and two of the F-5s were hit on takeoff. One of the foreign pilots here has a cousin who flies for our Air Force out of this base and they considered that at least there could be fuel for them. They landed here and are awaiting orders from their superiors. I’m sure Patterson Key will give the pilots orders.

“Also, Lee, your uncle Mo called me again to tell me that he has left Honduras and asked where he should he go. I told him to go to hell… but you have his number; call him and tell him to bug off. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. And Clint, your taxi is coming home, buddy. Out.”

There wasn’t much else to do or say, except that Lee decided not to call his uncle. Mo could go where Carlos said he should go. After dinner Preston pulled Martie aside for a private talk.

“I’d hate to be Carlos’ enemy,” stated Martie. “Hell must be filling up fast. He certainly doesn’t like that Mo fellow.”

“Martie, we need to talk about Clint,” began Preston. “Sally’s parents are worried about looking after him. They feel that they are a little too old and are worried that they won’t live up to his expectations. They would prefer if he left with us and we can drop him off at the refugee camp in Seymour Johnson. What do you think?”

“He is not going to Seymour Johnson, he can stay with us. Little Beth would do well looking after a brother, and it will keep her from bossing around the poor soldiers. Plus, I’ve been thinking that they would make a great team. I was actually going to ask Sally’s parents how they would feel about his coming home with us. How’s that, lover boy!” stated Martie enthusiastically imitating her friend Sally. The issue decided, he gave her a big hug. “Just remember, future husband, our family is growing rapidly and you haven’t even got me to the altar yet!”

“Clint,” Peter began, “we are driving back to Flagstaff tomorrow, once the aircraft leave for California.” Poor Clint’s face dropped like a stone, but he said nothing and tried to keep his composure. “We are giving you a choice and you need to make up your mind. Clint, it will be hard for Sally’s mother and me to look after you. We are worried what the future at our ranch will be. Preston and Martie have offered to take you back with them to North Carolina. They have armed guards and a young lady who I know will enjoy meeting you, and dogs. We will meet often in the future because there will always be aircraft flying between the East Coast and Arizona, as long as our Sally is flying. We think you would like being in North Carolina; it’s closer to where you can get your surgery, and there will be a lot of flying to keep you interested. Now, your choice is, do you want to come home with us? Or, do you prefer to live with Preston and Martie on the other side of the country? If you decide to go to North Carolina, we promise we will see you often. Clint, don’t be scared to say what you want, but we would feel better if you stayed in North Carolina.”

Clint was silent for a moment. For a young boy the decision had many implications “If I give you my address in Phoenix, will you tell any of my family where I am, Peter?”

“I will make sure the military base in your area checks your address every now and again. I’m sure Preston or Carlos can get word to the base commander. Also, if they can’t, I will check your neighborhood on my way to Yuma. I’m sure we will be visiting when Sally flies in.”

“Thank you, Peter, I understand that I am a problem to you. And I will go to North Carolina… as long as I can see you guys again.”

“You definitely will see us again, young man,” Sally’s mother, Marcie, responded warmly. “Now I have two children to visit and if I have to fly to see them both, I will.”

It was done and a sigh of relief passed through many. Clint was happy to have a larger family, his only worry that his real family was looking for him.

Carlos and Sally returned, their job done. Her parents hugged her, said their farewells to everybody, and the aircraft were prepared for the trip north to the Napa Valley.

Martie had a funny feeling something was wrong and she was anxious to leave. Rain was coming in from the west as three of the four aircraft taxied out. Carlos was first with Clint in the right hand seat as promised, and Lee in back with Clint’s wheelchair closed and packed next to him. The rear gun equipment had been closed down by the base crew and the gas tanks were full.

Preston and Martie were behind him as he reached the end of the runway; Sally was still saying goodbye to her friends. She didn’t want to travel too slowly and wanted to give Carlos a twenty-minute lead.

For Clint this was heaven. The DC-3 powered itself off the runway and climbed into rain as it arrived over the airfield. It was heavy and it took Carlos 5,000 feet before they climbed out of the dark clouds and into bright sunlight, Martie and Preston overtaking him a few minutes later.

Sally caught up with them within an hour as they flew over Bakersfield, she talking over the radio to Edwards, telling them that they would be visited next.

Slowly they descended into the Napa area, and picked up Michael’s voice over the radio.

“Good to hear your voices, guys. Temperature 49 degrees, wind coming in from the northwest, ten to fifteen miles an hour, you are clear for runway 95, a little shorter than yours, Preston, at 2,545 feet. Remember, the airstrip is dirt, Sally, so be careful. It’s currently damp, so no dust.”

They went in, Sally and Maggie first; the jet needed as much room as possible and Sally needed to be careful braking; she couldn’t use full reverse thrust. Carlos went in next and he also used up the entire runway. For Martie and Preston, the landing was easy. All the aircraft would stay outside as there was no hangar space; the only hangar was full of bits and pieces of electronics on dozens of tables. They parked in a line next to Sally’s own Pilatus, the aircraft Michael was using, and Martie was quick to climb out and run to her father.

“Grandpa is very poorly today. He has been over-working and over-doing it since we got back. I ordered him to lie down in the house.” Martie rushed over to the beautiful farmhouse and ran inside.

She found him in bed, white-faced and weak. Her grandfather had always been such a strong man and this was the first time in her life she saw him as he was, an old and tired man. He lifted up his hand to her, smiling and relieved that she had arrived.

“I’m sorry, my girl,” he whispered, and she had to lean forward to hear him. “All this electronics meltdown is so exciting. I only wish that I was twenty years younger and more able to tackle this enormous project.”

“You need your rest, Grandpa,” Martie replied. “You cannot save the world by yourself at your age. You have two generations of Von Roebels to help you do it.”

“These times are so exciting! I’d hate to miss all the potential new discoveries,” he continued. “What we accomplish in the next few years will change the whole world’s engineering and electronics fields. Don’t you realize that?” He was getting excited and Martie put her hand on his forehead to calm him down.

“Grandpa, you have had an exciting life all your life. This is just the next project.

“But we can now redesign the world electronically; we can follow the important routes we should have gone down decades ago—find out what is at the bottom of the sea, discover what is in space and on Mars, determine a sustainable future on this planet. Instead, we allowed the false pretenses of Hollywood and politics to do it for us, creating such an unreal and plastic future. Wars will come to a halt. For the first time in mankind’s existence on this earth, killing each other will not block our path to forward discovery. We are on the brink of a new world. Don’t you see that, Martie?”

She agreed with him.

Wolfgang Von Roebels was a man who had worked hard and learned much in his many years on earth, but later that night he passed away, just before midnight with his son and granddaughter by his side. He went peacefully, the two most important people in his life with him, and a smile on his lips.

He was right, it was a new world and he knew his time had come, leaving explicit instructions that he would like to be buried on the farm and by his vineyards. There was wood on the farm, enough to make a simple coffin and the next day he was buried in his place of choice.

Wolfgang Von Roebels was right—it was a new world; there were no papers to sign, no will to read, no doctor to sign off on the death. Just a simple, old-fashioned passage; loving family and friends burying an old man near his house, and no authorities needed to know any more.

Both Michael and Martie had mentally prepared for this time. He was an old man and lived a long and fruitful life. Time on the farm slowed and Martie welcomed the support of a new man in her life: a young boy in a wheelchair who held her hand through the short ceremony while the grown men covered the coffin with dirt.

It took a week before the people on the wine farm began to get back to real life. Maggie flew back to Edwards with Carlos a day earlier, he returning to accompany Preston back to the East Coast. The Mustang was a one-seater. Carlos was also needed in Washington and returned to the farm to tell them that they needed to get going. Sally, also needing to get across the country and get back to helping fly C-130s, left early the next morning for Hill to refuel.

Martie wanted to stay on and be with her father for a while, and Lee offered to get involved with the engineering work. Preston suggested it would be a good idea for him to return to his farm; Little Beth had been in command of the soldiers there for too long now and it was time for her to get new troops under her authority, namely Clinton Jefferson Busch.

Preston and Carlos flew out leaving Martie’s Mustang on the apron, next to the Pilatus for company. Clint would be Carlos’ copilot; they flew to Hill to refuel and then across to Preston’s farm, arriving after midnight. Sally had said goodbye to Carlos and crew a couple of hours earlier over the radio, just before descending into Andrews.

A double click on the radio and the runway lights came on. There was nobody to guide them in and they didn’t need any help. Preston radioed to wake the guards in the hangar and they gave them the only information he needed: absolutely no wind.

Preston turned his P-51 in front of the hangar door and cut the engine. He jumped out as Carlos taxied up in Isabella and parked next to the Mustang. The temperature felt as warm as the West Coast, somewhere in the low forties. Three soldiers came up to greet Preston, told him that all was well and that Little Beth, who was fast asleep, was fine but missing them.

The soldiers were introduced and helped Clint, now in his wheelchair, out of the rear door and Preston wheeled him towards the house. Oliver and Puppy were already out of the kitchen door jumping up to greet the newcomer. Carlos shouted that he was off to sleep and went up to his usual room.

Preston showed Clint the guest room with its own bathroom; the boy was able to look after himself, and was very adamant about his privacy. When needed, he could walk fairly well. He looked around the nice room, his only belongings to put away a small military pack with a few things collected from the air base in Yuma.

“The President of the United States slept in this exact room,” Preston whispered to a still excited young boy.

“Wow!” the boy whispered back.

“This is your room from now on. You have everything you need and that is your own bathroom, with towels and a washcloth. There is a new toothbrush in the top drawer. The bed is fresh and you can shower in the morning. We will drive over to my neighbor’s farm tomorrow. Joe has five boys and I’m sure we can get you kitted out there.”

Clint stood, leaned up and gave Preston a hug. He moved his wheelchair to the side of the room as Preston closed the bedroom door. The tired pilot went to sneak a peek in Little Beth’s room.

Chapter 12

Mo Wang – At Sea

Over breakfast the next morning, Mo asked Marie to call up the minivan. He needed to find his niece. He also asked the girls for any local currency they had. There wasn’t much left over from the shopping, but he thought he had enough to get the taxi for an hour or two.

This day it took the minivan three hours to arrive at the villa gates. Mo went out to open the gates and asked Marie to close and lock them behind him. He drove off towards town with a driver who looked very stressed out. Mo, who now considered Pedro a friend, asked him why he looked so worried.

“Much trouble on the island last night, Señor Wang,” the driver replied. “Shooting in several tourist parts of the island, maybe tonight shooting possible in main town. Friends say men were raiding tourist bars for alcohol and causing trouble. Many people are very unhappy and many fishing boats left early this morning for the mainland.”

“What about fish for the locals?” Mo asked.

“I don’t know. All fishermen take their families and valuable belongings in their boats to the mainland,” the driver replied. “Several people, mostly white bar owners, killed last night. One tourist hotel was raided by men with guns and took away two tourists, killing two others. Police nowhere to be seen, very bad!”

Mo made his mind up about leaving and asked Pedro what the weather looked like for the week.

“Good weather, I heard. No problems, no storms for a while, the fishing will be good because of the calm water, but the fishermen are not fishing, that is very bad!”

Mo asked the driver to take him to the supermarket. It was closed and boarded up. The fish market was virtually empty, but there was one lady outside selling produce. He asked the driver how much he would need for this trip into town and paid him. With the remaining local currency, Mo purchased lettuce, tomatoes, pineapples and melons. He told Pedro that he was now out of money, but needed to search all the dry cleaners on the island.

“There are only two dry cleaners on island, Señor Wang, both here in town. All tourist hotels bring dry cleaning into town every day,” replied the driver. “Best dry cleaner is a Chinese lady. You will like her.”

“Pedro, take me there, please,” asked Mo.

“You must be very careful tonight,” continued the driver on their way to the dry cleaners. “I think there will be a lot of trouble, but not at your villa yet. Trouble will come later to your villa.” There was no traffic and very few people were out and about.

“Why is that?” asked Mo.

“Your villa is owned by a bad man, a politician from Colombia. He is from the biggest drug family in Colombia and he comes here for vacation. I drive the important Señor once when the German lady’s car is in for service. The German lady works for him and keeps his villa clean and occupied when he not visiting. He is usually here June to August every year. The Señor is a very rich man and also has a house on San Andrés Island south of Honduras, by Nicaragua, Señor Wang.”

Do you know his name?” Mo asked thinking that information might be useful since Lee Wang told him that Carlos Rodriquez was Colombian, “Señor Calderón owns the house. German lady calls him the senator. The other man in the car when I took him was an old, fat Colombian, look like policeman, called Pedro, same as my name; he also acted important. Once I also took two younger men, brothers I think, to the house. They looked like real bad young gangsters; one was called Manuel and I can’t remember the other one’s name. Here is the dry cleaner shop. I also took another very fat man, a Venezuelan man called Victor. I remember him because I had to wait to take him back from meeting with the senator who was in the house for seven hours. When I dropped him off at the airport, he laughed when I wanted my tip. He was very nasty.”

Mo plugged it all into memory and knocked on the closed door to the dry cleaners. He noticed a closed sign over the door and then a pair of eyes peeked at him, and the lace curtains were closed.

“Lu Xhing, it is your uncle, Mo Wang,” he said in Mandarin, and slowly he heard the door open, his niece looking at him with a very puzzled expression.

“Mo Wang, what are you doing here? You should be in Shanghai, not here in Honduras. There is trouble here and we are closed for business,” she replied. As they stared at each other, fond memories of her favorite uncle came back. He had been the only one in the large family to ever play with her when she was a little girl and something awakened from deep in her memory, and she rushed into his arms.

“I’ve come to rescue my little niece, Lu. I believe you need rescuing?”

“How did you know? Shanghai is a million miles away and I’m very scared. Come in. Tell me how you got here. I will make us some tea.”

I don’t think we have time for tea,” suggested Mo politely. “I have a driver outside and need to know if you need to be rescued. Where is your family?”

“It’s only me, and my son and daughter. My husband left me many years ago. Come, Lula. Come, Lee, come and meet your uncle,” she shouted to the back, and a slim and slender girl of about sixteen and a little boy of about eight or nine emerged from the back of the shop. “Mo Wang, this is my daughter, Lula, and my big boy Lee, named after his uncle Lee Wang.”

“Lu, do you have any local money? I need to give my friend Pedro, the minivan driver, some so that I can stay a little longer. And I need to hear your news,” stated Mo.

His niece went to the door and shouted, “Pedro, this is my uncle. I will pay you but I need more time!” The taxi driver shouted something back and she sat down to tell him her story.

“I arrived here with my husband, Rhu. His sister lived here and had this dry cleaning shop. She was sick and she died while we were here. Somebody needed to run the shop so we stayed. It wasn’t difficult as it was the only dry cleaner shop on the island and our papers came through fast. I had Lula and then Lee. We lived upstairs and we made lots of money. Then one day the new police chief of the island opens a second dry cleaning shop at the other end of town. He wants the business and tries to close us down. The tourist hotels like our work and we are cheap. He is not. Rhu is beaten up a couple of times and he tells me that we must return to China. I liked it here so he returned to China seven years ago to get a job and I was to try to sell the shop. Something must have happened to him as Rhu never returned for us. I’ve tried to sell my shop for years, but the police chief tells people not to buy it. I was told that the police chief works for the man in the big villa.”

“The senator?” Mo asked.

“How do you know that? Oh! Pedro must have told you. Well the senator is taking over all the business on the island and I was told to leave the island by the end of last year, or else. Then, all of a sudden there are no ferries and I can’t leave. We have heard nothing here on the island since the beginning of the year. No tourists, no ferries and very little business so I wait. Last night I heard that the police chief was attacking bars and hotels on the main beach; two friends of mine were killed and two tourist girls abducted. I have been packed in six suitcases and ready to leave for over two months now. The till is empty, all my money and valuables are packed and we are ready to go. Where are you staying?”

“In the senator’s villa. I now know why it is the safest place on the island,” Mo replied smiling and Lu put her hand in front of her mouth, a flicker of distrust flashing across her face. “I don’t know the senator. I am staying as a guest of a group of French tourists renting the villa.”

“Of course, the senator is never here at this time of year,” Lu replied, noticing Pedro enter her front door.

“We need to go. I think trouble is coming. I heard some shooting in the distance,” Pedro stated.

Get all your cases in the minivan. Let’s get back to the villa,” stated Mo. Within a minute the minivan was packed with the suitcases in the back with the pile of vegetables. Mo got in the front and Pedro drove off.

“What are you going to do, Pedro?” asked Lu, concerned.

“What can I do? Our small boat cannot reach the mainland with all my family,” he replied.

“Are there other boats?” asked Mo.

“A couple of old fishing boats are for sale, but I don’t have enough money,” the driver replied.

“How much would it cost to buy a boat?” asked Mo.

“About $2,000 American dollars in local currency for a boat big enough to take my whole family and our possessions as far as Cozumel. We have a big family in Cozumel and I’m sure the trouble is not as bad as here or on the mainland. If it is bad here, it must be just as bad on the Honduras mainland.”

“Could you be ready to go tonight if you had the boat?” Mo asked.

“Si, Señor Wang. A man who owns an old hotel near our farm has a boat for sale. If I pay the man cash, I can have the boat. He will not leave his beloved hotel. I can pay him in local currency. He owes money to the senator and the police chief has been warning him. I will also have to pay him for fuel. It will take my family only a few hours to pack; we are not rich people and do not have many valuable things to carry. But we don’t have enough money for the boat.”

“Lu, how much local currency do you have packed away. Is it enough to pay for the boat for Pedro?” Mo asked.

“Of course, but are we going with him,” Lu asked?

“Not on the same boat, Lu, but we could meet up with him and he could guide us north. I can give you some American dollars as repayment.”

“Of course!” added Pedro, smiling at Mo. “Your friends, the French women, are very rich.” Mo smiled at that one and said nothing.

Lu asked Lula for her suitcase and, making sure nobody else could see what was inside, took out a large rolled bundle and gave it to Pedro. “You have always been my friend Pedro, and able to help take the dry cleaning to the hotels when it was urgent. This is all the local money I have. Uncle Mo, it is about $3,000 in American dollars. It is all the shop’s income from this year. I had already changed all my money in my bank account into U.S. dollars before Christmas last year, ready to leave.”

“Pedro, you get that boat filled up, and get your family and your things aboard. Sail out to sea and meet me tomorrow morning at the eastern end of the island. Do you understand?” Mo asked as they drove up to the villa gates.

Life here was very peaceful. Birds and insects were making their usual noises and nobody could tell that anything was amiss.

“You want me and my family to meet you sailing in the boat at the end of Roatán Island…” and then Pedro understood. “You are taking the senator’s boat with the big guns, Señor Mo! That is a good idea! The guns will protect us and we will certainly need protection. But how will we find each other?”

“First of all, do not tell anybody what you are doing or where you are going, nobody, not even your father, until you are out to sea, understand?” Pedro nodded. “I’m going to loan you a satellite phone. I will show you how to use it, but I want it back. It will be fully charged. You are not to use it or somebody much worse than the senator’s police chief might hear you talking. I will call you at midnight and again at dawn tomorrow morning. If I cannot make it then you go wherever you are sailing to. If you don’t make it, I will leave at midday tomorrow and go north, understand?” Pedro nodded.

The minivan arrived and Marie unlocked the gates, after Pedro honked the horn a couple of times. Mo asked him to help Lu carry her belongings and the purchases into the villa.

He headed to his bedroom and retrieved one of the extra satellite phones from his suitcase. Mo turned it on, checked that the green light flashed once, and returned to the driveway to hand it to Pedro. “Do not use the phone, Pedro, or you might get a real bad guy on the other end, a guy called Carlos Rodriquez. He doesn’t like me or my friends very much. Wait until it rings and then answer it. If it’s not me, hang up… it could be the President of the United States!” That statement caused Pedro’s mouth to hang open and he looked at Mo very strangely.

They shook hands; Pedro thanked Lu and Mo several times and he rushed off to organize his family. Mo went in and found the girls by the pool. He introduced the French girls to Lu and her children and told everybody that they were leaving after dark. There had been more shooting, tourists were being killed and if they wanted any more information Lu could fill them in.

The girls looked at Lu and she began to tell them what was happening on the island. It didn’t take them long to head towards their rooms to start packing.

Mo packed his two suitcases and, with Lu and her children carrying their belongings, they walked down to the pier and placed their belongings next to the ship. Marie had left the door unlocked and they carried all of their bags inside. Mo turned on the lights, then the generator, and made sure the fridge and freezers were on and cooling. Mo had seen a couple of extra camp beds in the villa, presumably for extra guests, and he went back for them, telling Lu to look through the closets for any pillows and sleeping bags.

He found the two folding beds and had the beds and piles of blankets and extra pillows in the villa’s lounge by the time his five French housemates arrived hauling their large suitcases he had seen on the pier. Europeans seemed to travel with a vast amount of luggage and he wondered how much they needed to vacation with.

“Captain Mo, where do you want your guests to sleep?” asked Marie with a military salute once they had descended to the pier and were ready to board. The stress of waiting had gone from their faces and everybody, including Lu peering out of the door, looked more relaxed. “If any yacht or boat or military vessel is going to take us to safety, this is a good one to steal, and it would make me so happy to see the German lady’s face we she learns it’s gone!” Marie added.

“As long as we don’t have to return the ship to your German lady friend,” added Mo. “There are four single beds in the front bedrooms, or cabins as you call them,” he started, smiling at Marie. “Marie, you and your daughters take those and, Beatrice, you and Virginie take the master cabin with the very big bed. Lu, her children and I can take the couches in the lounge and the two camp beds out here. We are smaller. Please listen. Until we leave here after dark, nobody is allowed on deck or swimming around the ship. I want all curtains left closed as if nobody has touched them. I want the villa’s lights on and make sure that it looks like we are still there. Put on some loud music. Beatrice, Marie, Lu, girls, everybody… bring down all the food we have as well as all the liquor from the drinks cabinet and trolley. I don’t want to starve to death at sea and I want the villa completely empty of everything edible or drinkable. Also, I saw a watermaker on the ship. There are dozens of bottles of water in the kitchen pantry in the villa. Bring every bottle and then fill up all the empty bottles you can find, even those that were thrown in the trash. I will be getting everything ready and working here on the ship. It seems I am now Captain Mo, but I don’t know anything about sailing, so Marie, you and Beatrice will help me get to where we are going. Right now, I’m going to fill up the large gas cans of diesel and gasoline I saw in the boat shed and organize whatever I can think of here.”

The lounge quickly emptied and Mo picked up his satellite phone to call Lee Wang in America.

“This is Lee Wang,” he heard Lu’s elder brother answer the phone.

“Hi, Lee, this is Mo Wang. How are you?”

“Mo Wang, the fishes haven’t eaten you yet?” Lee answered.

“No, not yet, Lee.” Mo smiled. “I have some excellent news for you but I need to speak to Carlos Rodriquez first.”

“My uncle would like to speak to you,” he heard Lee say, handing over the phone.

“Comrade Mo Wang, it is surprising that you stayed alive so long. Maybe you are not such a bad guy after all. Thank you for the information you gave us in January. It was precise and accurate and I know that Lee told you the outcome,” stated Carlos, his tone not very friendly.

“Carlos, I am leaving Honduras with some good friends and heading for Key West in Florida or Cuba. Can you pick us up?” asked Mo.

“I don’t think I’m interested in picking you up in Key West or Cuba or wherever you are.”

“Carlos, please, just listen. I have important information you will find interesting. I know about a depot of working electrical parts Zedong Electronics stashed away in a town called Harbin, in China. I will give you all that information. Also I believe that this area is becoming a bad place and that the troubles around here could advance north to the American border soon. I have some other interesting information for you about—”

Carlos interrupted him. “If you are correct, when you get here I will listen to you. But if you are bull crapping me, Comrade, you will spend the rest of your life in a place you don’t want to be. As far as I’m concerned, Lee, his family and I owe you no favors and vice versa. I will make that decision if you ever make it here. If you don’t, nobody here really cares. I will meet you when you are on American soil. Call me from a callbox in Key West and I’ll think about it. Goodbye, Comrade Wang,” and Carlos hung up the phone.

Mo Wang put the phone away; he understood the man’s disdain. He was probably the world’s worst surviving bad guy right now. Mo got back to reality and began to figure out what he could do to get ready. He wanted to leave about an hour after dark.

He had checked the ship’s fuel tanks the day before, but first he wanted to see how the fuel system worked. It took him half an hour in the engine room to understand how to open the tanks for delivery to the two big 800-horse Cummins and he found a totally separate fuel line and system, a back-up by the look of it, to the smaller engine. He studied the small writing on the engine. It was also an old Cummins engine, a much smaller six-cylinder and three-carburetor model stating 200 horsepower.

This would not get the large eighty-foot vessel moving along at any great speeds, but it would propel the boat forward and he assumed that the smaller engine and the small sails were meant to work together for a longer range, or, to curious eyes, it would look like a sailing boat traveling at a descent speed. Marie said that the sails were far too small and, with the weight of the steel, probably pretty useless. He worked out the four-generator system and checked all the fuel filters.

By the time he went back up it was starting to get dark outside; the lights were turned off inside the boat and there were seven females and a young male sitting there waiting for him in the dark.

“Let’s check out the boatshed,” suggested Mo.

“The house is totally empty of all food and liquids, Captain Mo,” joked Beatrice. “We left the house as you wanted it, double-locked the gates from inside and left lights and music on. We even brought all the toilet paper we could find.”

Mo, Marie and Beatrice checked out the boatshed at the end of the pier and found and filled what they could from a simple re-fueling system. There were fuel pipes long enough to reach the boat’s fuel inlets, two on each side.

He pulled out the long pipe, opened the steel caps one at a time and topped off the tanks. Somebody had already done a good job filling the tanks, but he managed to get another twenty gallons of diesel into them. There was very little gasoline, only one full five-gallon red canister. Everything in the ship worked on diesel. They found a dozen empty red gasoline canisters and he filled them with diesel. There were also five larger thirty-gallon gas canisters on wheels and he filled those as well. They were moveable gas tanks and had a manual pump and gas nozzle on each. The five mobile tanks, steel, also had a Colombian military insignia on each one.

“Do you have any idea how much fuel she takes, Marie?” Mo asked. The bridge fuel indicators did not indicate fuel quantities, and the gauges only marked quarter-tank quantities.

“I would guess that, being a Coast Guard ship, she should have a range of at least a thousand miles, maybe even two thousand miles, but it could be as little as six or seven hundred miles. The tanks must hold 350 to 500 gallons each, and there are four of them. Those engines will drink fuel at about a gallon per mile per engine. Estimate 2,000 gallons for about 1,000 miles of cruising at around 15 knots for a steel military ship. Now with the small engine, I’d say that the smaller Cummins would consume about a gallon every five miles, a gallon or two an hour. It should be supplied out of the same fuel tanks and that puts our range at about five knots per hour to as much as 5,000 miles. If you get five knots from the smaller engine and a strong breeze fills the sails for another 2 knots, then we are talking a good situation. With a stiff twenty-knot breeze and the smaller engine on low revs, she could even get up to ten knots on a gallon. Mo, it would take a year, but this ship could circumnavigate the earth, a pretty good setup. I’m starting to like her.”

They carried the extra two hundred gallons on board and tied the canisters to the aft railings. It was now dark as Mo asked the two sailors to show him how to drive the ship. They laughed and told him “sail” the ship even though it was engines doing the work.

The little engine was running and a very faint gurgle could be heard from its exhaust below the water line; Mo had the lights and instruments dimmed in the bridge. The old radar scanner atop the first mast was working and showed him the bay and the hills behind. Marie told him to shut it off until they were out of the bay. She had found a few pairs of military night-sight binoculars in a cubbyhole and now they could creep out of the small bay without lights or radar.

The depth gauge showed fifteen feet as Beatrice eased the aft line and handed it to the three French girls for onboard storage. The water was totally calm around them as she threw in the middle line and then ran for the last one on the bow. Marie took over control from Mo. She gently pushed the engines’ control lever forward and a gear clicked and Mo could feel faint forward movement. Beatrice threw the last line in as the ship inched forward and away from the pier, coming abreast of her, and she nimbly jumped on deck.

Marie eased the side slowly away from the pier, keeping in the dug-out stone furrow under the ship and not letting her touch bottom.

Very slowly, she allowed the small engine to move the large, heavy ship forward. As the pier disappeared behind them Marie gently swung the wheel to starboard. She increased engine revs and Mo could feel a slither of power vibrate through the ship.

The depth gauge read thirty feet as Marie turned the bow southwards and the ship peeked out of the bay around them. Mo scanned the sea close to them through his binoculars and saw nothing. Apart from a few lights in the direction of a small town they were about to sail past, everything was pitch black; blackouts were probably in effect in the main town and harbor.

“Mo, turn on the radar and size the screen down to a ten-mile range,” directed Marie, as she swung the wheel to port slightly and increased power to three quarters. Mo complied with her instructions and thought about going out on deck to look around. He glanced at the instrument; the depth gauge indicated seventy feet and he could see the black shape of the island beginning to line up with the left side of the ship half a mile away.

“I think a five-mile range from the island would be better, Marie. I’m sure somebody could see us if the moon rises.”

“I agree,” she replied and turned the ship to angle away from the black shapes of the island and increased the speed to cruise power, a line in between three-quarters and full power. “She’s just gone over five knots, Mo, Exactly what I said she would do.”

“You are Captain now, Marie,” smiled Mo. “I’m going to act like a sailor in the movies and do the binocular search.” He grabbed two pairs of binoculars and left the bridge.

He went down the stairs to the lounge and found that thick curtains had been pulled over all the windows and a small kitchen light was on so they could see each other.

“We are getting ship-shape, Mo,” stated Beatrice. “The fridge and three freezers are full. We found a third chest freezer in the engine room and put the rest of the frozen fish in it. I also found several high quality fishing rods and a fishing chair which hooks onto a pole or something on the aft area. It can be checked out for fishing tomorrow. We have put the water away and the girls, and Lu and I have been getting to know each other. They are a nice family.”

Mo handed her a pair of night binoculars. Reading what was written on the side, he noticed they were high quality military issue, made in China. He led Beatrice outside, quickly closing the door behind her.

The first slight swell reached the ship causing Mo to lose his balance and knock into Beatrice. She steadied him and he held onto her for a brief moment.

“Mr. Wang, I might think you were making a pass at me, or trying to push me overboard,” suggested Beatrice, putting the glasses to her eyes and staring out.

“Making passes at you would be far nicer than pushing you overboard, Beatrice. Now show me how to see clearly through these glasses.”

They looked together for several minutes. There was nothing visible on the becalmed sea. Mo noticed that the land was now further away and through the night vision, he could identify green unlit shapes of houses along the beaches. There were faint lights in the small town or village now abreast of them, and a few further up on the hills behind. He searched carefully for any shapes on the water without lights but couldn’t see anything.

The swells were getting larger and Mo could hear the faint throbbing of the small engine below deck. He could hear the gurgle of an exhaust, but even though it was quiet all around them, the noise of the ship gliding through the water and the noises from the aft area were certainly not going very far. He had heard that sound travels better over water but did not think anyone would hear them a mile away. They were still on the southern side of the island with at least thirty miles to go to the eastern tip.

He went in to tell Marie to take the power down to three-quarters and nearly panicked when he stepped into the lounge to find her there, talking to Lu.

“Who is driving the ship?” he asked, shocked.

“Monsieur Captain Autopilot, Captain Mo,” she replied. “Do you want me to show you how it works?” He nodded yes.

She returned with him after asking Lu to think about dinner and that she, Beatrice and the girls would help her. Marie showed him how simple it was to engage the autopilot. She placed a dot on the radar, now at a fifteen-mile range, with a plotter instrument on the radar control unit, a line automatically was drawn by the radar’s antiquated computer system to the dot from the ship and the heading was fixed with a readout of twelve miles and ETA, or Estimated Time of Arrival, in 153 minutes at five knots. Mo decreased the power to three-quarters, the speed dropped to four knots and the time went up to 179 minutes.

Mo was impressed. Since there wasn’t much else to do he sat down and started studying the other instruments. The depth gauge was showing over a hundred feet and the radar showed them to be two miles off shore.

Marie said that she was going to help with dinner and left him to his learning program. He moved the little dot to the right a few degrees and he saw the wheel turn as the autopilot automatically changed the ship’s direction. He looked at the large echo sounder computer and screen and switched it on. The screen slowly glowed and, after a minute blinked on to reveal a fuzzy green panoramic view of the sea floor.

By the way the program started and loaded, he guessed that most of this equipment was from the seventies; it must have been state-of-the-art for that time. He studied the contours of the bottom stretching out around the ship for about three miles, a brighter green band of light circled around the screen every minute. The bottom showed 112 feet and the water was getting deeper.

Still at four knots, he increased the radar to thirty miles, its furthest point and made a dot five miles offshore, west as well as south from the eastern tip of the island. His travel time increased to six hours and forty nine minutes. He reduced power to two thirds, the speed reduced to three and a half knots and the time automatically increased to eight hours, fifteen minutes. Mo Wang was enjoying his lesson.

He left the bridge thirty minutes later, feeling weird that nobody was up there doing anything. They had been traveling now for two hours. It was just after nine and they would reach the end of the island hours before he had told Pedro to meet him. The table was set and a tasty dinner of steamed fish and rice, made by Lu, reminded him of home. It was the first time he felt a little nostalgic for China.

“Is everybody happy with the sleeping arrangements?” Mo asked over dinner. There wasn’t enough room at the dining table and the five younger people were sitting on the floor and eating around the large coffee table. Only the four adults were at the six-seat table.

“I’m sleeping with Cheri in the one room, and Annabel and Virginie have commandeered the other,” said Marie.

“I offered the master stateroom to Lu and her two children, but they are refusing to take it,” added Beatrice. “If they take the main cabin then there is perfect room for the two of us in the lounge, Mo. The couches are better for us. It will save using the uncomfortable camp beds. Somebody needs to be on watch at all times.”

“I will stay out of the discussion. I can use the separate toilet off the bridge and I can easily nap sitting up in the captain’s chair,” replied Mo. “I might not be a good sailor yet, but I’m a light sleeper and can sleep with one eye open. I’m sure that the electrical systems all have alarms built into them, but I did not yet get that far with my lesson.”

“I’ll help you with those after dinner,” added Marie. “Mo, you still haven’t told us where we are going. It has been such a rush since you decided to leave just this afternoon and with so little warning.”

“I’m planning for Florida,” Mo replied. “How far do you think it is?”

“Without looking at the maps, I would say less than a thousand miles. I expect you will find maps in a drawer under the table-top in the bridge. The square table is the exact size of a maritime map, so it should hold all the maps we are going to need. We need to plot our course, which I’ll teach you how to do after dinner. The idea is to mark our course on the bridge table, which is really the ship’s navigation table, and then plot the directions into the autopilot. The worst problem I ever faced sailing was other shipping. The large container ships and tankers always sail on autopilot and don’t often look out for smaller vessels. That’s why, as Beatrice said, we always need a person on watch.”

“I expect that problem doesn’t exist anymore, and apart from fishing boats and other yachts, there isn’t much traffic out there,” stated Mo. “I know that my nephew, Lee Wang, is somewhere around North Carolina and I think there is an airfield where he is staying, a friend’s airfield. I told Lu about her brother and we are hoping to meet him. I can phone him, but he is not very friendly with me. He knows I betrayed him.

“I think this ship could be a good safe home for the future, and if we make it, I don’t think the German lady will be around to take it back or complain about us stealing it in Florida or North Carolina.”

After dinner while the kids and Lu and her family were washing dishes in the galley, Mo, Marie and Beatrice went up to the bridge, got out the maps and looked them over.

“You plan to meet Pedro at the extreme end of the island,” confirmed Marie, looking at a large map of the island. “We are here.” She showed Mo by pointing out the island parts and coastline on the radar and plotting their position onto the map. “We have covered fourteen miles and used three to four gallons of fuel.” Mo looked at the gauges which were all still at maximum. “It is going to take us six hours to get to our first point.” She then placed a second map on the table, a map showing far more territory. Mo could see the tip of Mexico in the top corner and saw the island of Cozumel, where Pedro wanted to go. “That will be our second point,” he stated to Marie. She got a pencil out and drew a faint line on the map, and with a compass and protractor worked out the degree west of north it would require them to sail. “Remember this saying: ‘From grid to mag you add, from mag to grid get rid.’ Never forget that, Mo. You know the difference between True North and Magnetic North?” Mo nodded, but looked a little perplexed so Marie added a little more information. “I know that our difference here is currently about two degrees. So we take away two degrees from our compass bearing or add two degrees from our map bearing. The difference changes all over the world but we are due south of Long Island where I have sailed before and two degrees will put us within a one degree accuracy. I’m sure we will find a book which will tell us; every ship has one as a backup if their GPS system goes down. Remember, we have the radar to warn us when we are thirty miles from land. Since nobody has GPS out there, that is about as accurate as I or anybody else can navigate on the high seas.”

“So, one degree in a hundred miles is one mile off course?” Mo asked, his memory a little rusty. Marie nodded and they did a few math problems so that he could understand. Mo then plotted a course to Cozumel, from the point in front of them and he came up with the angle to steer. Then Marie showed him how to work out the distance.

“One hundred and fifty-three miles to a safe point five miles off the center of the island,” Marie explained. “Five knots is nearly six miles an hour, so without sea currents and head winds, it should take us about twenty-six hours to our second waypoint.”

“Next point is the tip of Florida,” stated Mo. He was finding all this so exciting.

“Let’s map a voyage nonstop from our second waypoint to Key West.” And Marie let him plot the course this time.

“Four hundred and sixty-eight miles, but we pass right next to Cuba,” stated Mo looking rather pleased with himself.

“I don’t think we should get too close to Cuba, there could be pirates,” suggested Beatrice. “I would like to plot a course taking us at least fifty miles north of Cuba.”

Marie showed Mo how to do this by adding an extra waypoint, fifty miles northwest off the Cuban tip and then turning towards Key West.

“A distance of 539 miles,” stated Mo adding the travel distance. “Slightly less than one hundred hours which is just over four days.”

From Key West he plotted a route all the way up to Wilmington, North Carolina; another 710 miles on a direct route.

“So we are going to map a total voyage of 1,400 miles at, say, a gallon per four miles, and on high cruise at 6 knots, or seven miles an hour. Work it out, Mo,” suggested Beatrice.

“Minimum 350 gallons of fuel and 200 hours nonstop,” Mo stated.

“Work it out at 2 gallons per mile with the big engines at 12 knots or 15 miles an hour,” encouraged Marie.

“Easy, 2,800 gallons. I’m sure we don’t have enough fuel and only four days travel time. So we should use our sails when there is wind, use only the small engine, and keep our diesel reserves for emergency. Does that sound correct?” asked Mo. The ladies agreed with him and he felt a little more like a sailor.

For three more hours they travelled until, at a distance of five miles from the southern coastline of the island, Mo suggested that he see what he could about the defensive situation. He told the girls that he had brought the shotgun and an old army pistol aboard and he showed them where he had hidden them. He then went below, turned on the fourth generator, and went into the battery room where all the ammunition was stored.

There certainly was a lot. He opened the door to the separate and forward gun room and pressed the button to elevate it onto the deck above. It worked quickly and this time he could see stars above before the gun reached the deck and closed off the room below. Behind where the gun had stood Mo noticed that a shoulder rocket launcher was heavily taped to the V-seam of the bow with several cases of what had to be rockets.

He returned to the lounge, grabbed his night binoculars, and went outside to see the machine gun. It stood there just like in the movies, except that the barrel was pointed down at the deck. He unscrewed a large knob, lifted the heavy barrel skywards, and it clicked into place.

Through the binoculars he could see quite well. Mo suddenly realized that it wasn’t so dark outside anymore and saw a faint glow over the horizon to the east. He didn’t know if it was the moon, but it was going to light up the sea pretty soon. He could just see the black island mass five miles off the port bow. He signaled to Marie to turn to sail slightly farther away and over the horizon. If he could see land, then anybody on land might see them.

The gun was ready to fire, he noticed, with a large green steel box of pretty gold rounds on a belt, in place next to the barrel. He could see much more but realized that the mortar was in the way of firing the gun and it took all his strength to pull it off the round flat plate, which had pneumatically lifted the equipment on deck. He noticed a triangular steel plate installed on the deck where the mortar was meant to be placed, maneuvered the mortar to the plate and, using clamps already there, secured it to the deck. The sky was getting lighter and he noticed a camouflage-colored tarpaulin folded neatly underneath the gun.

He opened it, and twenty minutes later he had the tarpaulin secured and covering both guns, tied down to half a dozen “D” rings welded to the deck. Mo was impressed; this senator sure knew how to set up his ship. The thick weatherproof tarp was tight and the wind wouldn’t get under it if it blew. He decided to leave the equipment where it was and reminded himself to look for possible bombs for the mortar.

Mo now felt prepared for any possible confrontations, except that he had rarely fired a gun in his life. He hoped that somebody else knew how to and he would study the guns more when it was light and they were far from any land.

Chapter 13

Calderón – Mexico

The dozen nondescript Venezuelan propeller transport aircraft left San Salvador Airport to collect the next load of 500 men as two larger transporters, old Venezuelan Air Force C-130s, came in to deliver six small civilian trucks and jeeps. There were four C-130s operational with the Venezuelan Air Force and the other two were twenty minutes behind with four bigger civilian trucks as their payload.

There was fuel in San Salvador, but the aircraft were returning to San Andrés Island to refuel on their way home; the island being Colombian-owned and under the control of one Colombian senator.

Two days later, two thousand men and over one hundred old civilian and military vehicles of all sorts drove out of the airport. Two dozen El Salvadorian army transport trucks carrying 30 men each had been commandeered from the local army barracks. Dozens of dead El Salvadorian soldiers were simply left where they had been shot by firing squads. Their offense: they did not join the attackers. Two of the transporters dragged fuel tanker trailers and two jeeps pulled smaller 200-gallon fuel trailers behind them. They had ransacked the barrack’s armory for rocket launchers, machine guns and ammo, and headed north.

A second group would follow them three days later, stopping for the twenty army transport trucks that were left under guard at the airport, while the much larger force of 100,000-plus men worked their way through Central America, robbing, murdering and stealing food and fuel.

Manuel Calderón was in charge of the first group and his younger brothers Alberto and Pedro in command of the second and third groups. They all had dozens of military radios which would keep them in contact once they were within 50 miles of each other.

The older brother had given himself the mission to eliminate the most deadly air base in Santa Lucia, Mexico, where they had jets. His aim was to forestall any future attacks from the air—the cartel’s biggest danger.

Once that was complete he would return south and help his brothers attack the army bases in the most southern area of Mexico, the Chiapas region. There were several military bases in each region and the plan was to work northwards and recruit or shoot Mexican soldiers.

His first attack was on the closest air base in Tuxtla, Gutierrez. He attacked at dawn on his second day in Mexico. The base had a few hundred soldiers and several propeller-driven aircraft. He didn’t know much about aircraft but a hand grenade in the cockpit would make sure they would never fly again.

It took Manuel and his 2,000 men less than an hour to capture the entire air base, hitting the radio tower first. A dozen or so soldiers were left, once the rest had scattered to the hills. Those who did not accept his offer to join them were executed.

The next day they overran an air base in the Oaxaca area. Ixtepec, a small city in Oaxaca Province, had the same size base as the first one with even fewer soldiers and only five aircraft.

An hour later he headed further into Mexico with a couple more vehicles and several local banditos added to his ranks. In his wake, black smoke poured from the airfield where twenty-odd men lay murdered. He had no radio contact with his brother to the south, but he was due to join him within the week.

Heading up the 190 highway was easy. The road was good and all the locals stayed away, thinking that the army trucks were local. They reached within fifty miles south of Mexico City by dark.

They stayed away from the city, and continued north using ring roads to avoid attracting interest. They reached the much larger air base and decided to attack at dawn the next morning.

At this base they were met with heavy resistance; at least a thousand Mexican soldiers protected the base. Manuel decided to arm their valuable rocket launchers for the first time to aim at any aircraft wanting to take off and fired mortars and machine guns at the men and aircraft on the ground. There were dozens of helicopters and propeller aircraft in front of the hangars and many of them were in flames by the time five jet aircraft screamed out of a rear row of hangars and headed away from him down the runway.

Manuel suddenly had to duck as a dozen Mexican-fired mortar bombs hit the ground around him, throwing dozens of bodies into the air. The defending soldiers were now throwing everything they had at the attackers to protect the aircraft lifting off the ground.

For a full minute two dozen mortar bombs pelted his area. Several of his vehicles, including a military truck with 500 gallons of fuel violently exploded from a direct hit a couple of hundred yards behind him. Pieces of metal and body parts started to land around him and the firing stopped as quickly as it started. The jets were screaming down the runway and the Mexican soldiers did not risk hitting their own aircraft.

Manuel shouted orders for the rocket launchers to fire on the moving jets coming closer and watched as three rockets headed for the first one. He couldn’t believe that all three of them missed and the jet left the ground and went vertical, its afterburners pointing directly at him and painfully stabbing his eardrums. It took the men a few seconds to reload. They were too late, except to get a single rocket off as the second jet screamed past. The third jet was only several feet off the tarmac and passed them when two rockets went straight into the underside of a fully fueled fourth aircraft about to leave the runway.

The fifth jet was not far behind and it went straight into the massive explosion caused by the fourth aircraft, causing the sky to light up as a sonic boom crashed into Manuel’s ears, making his ears ring for days to come. He jumped up and began to run to towards the base, firing and swinging his arm to signal for his men to follow.

The control tower had been taken out by a direct hit from a mortar just before the two jets had exploded so he felt safe from any further action.

He was not! Manuel was temporarily deaf. He did not see Isabella, the DC-3 of Carlos Rodriquez, pass by a few miles away to the north. It was too far away for battle-deafened men to hear any aircraft above crackling of flames around them.

Three hours later, with everything of no value to him destroyed, Manuel Calderón departed. He left thousands of dead bodies lying all over the base, many his own men. He commandeered several survivors and executed over fifty soldiers who had surrendered but had refused to join them. His mission completed, he headed back on the ring road and was happily motoring south in the nice Mexican Air Force jeep he had captured when all hell broke loose.

Arrogant and powerful in his perceived position of invincibility, he had not sent scouts ahead to confirm that the path they had traveled north on only a day earlier was safe and clear.

He reached an area where there were small hills on each side of the major ring road going around Mexico City when he was ambushed by a brigade of 2,500 Mexican troops who had followed him north for the last three days, never managing to catch his fast-moving men.

On their radios the Mexican troops listened to the attack on the important air base and were still in the process of setting up an ambush in case the gangsters retraced their route south.

A similar ambush was being set up on the same road to the north by a second brigade travelling south as fast possible, to meet the bandito head on. They were still ten miles north of the air base when they saw the smoke and quick radio communications were given to the northern brigade that the banditos were heading south.

Manuel’s small army had grown every day he travelled north, and a dozen new trucks and jeeps, and tons of new guns, ammo, and food supplies had been commandeered from the three destroyed bases. With the new recruits from the third base, he still had about 3,500 men, although he had lost a couple of hundred in the heavy fighting. He and his men had found out the hard way that Mexican troops fought well when they knew their lives were in the balance.

He was still quite deaf but felt strong and invincible until the first mortars began exploding around him, one taking out an old Wrangler jeep with his most forward machine gun position on its rear bed, a hundred yards in front of him. He screamed at the driver through his radio to turn right towards the hills on the western side of the road and all his vehicles in the ambush zone turned at the same time, several already hot fireballs on the hot tarmac.

He had five radios in his groups behind, over 250 vehicles in a line two miles long and he shouted commands for the rear half of the vehicles to attack down the lefthand side of the road in front of them.

Machine guns bullets hit his jeep, the heavy steel protecting him as he and his driver leaned down as low as they could in the front seats and the six men behind him shielded him with their riddled bodies. The jeep flew over the small mounds at forty miles an hour and the driver whisked the jeep around once they were behind the sandy dunes.

Many more vehicles didn’t make it as the Mexican army threw everything they had at the gangsters. Manuel crawled up the ridge, holding onto his radio, and scanned the devastation. He could hardly see through the smoke and flames. He saw his men making the advance several hundred yards to the north and he shouted at them through the radio to kill the soldiers, kill every single one of them.

Several of his vehicles carrying mortars were behind the dunes and they were setting up their tripods as fresh mortar fire began to explode around him. His was already deaf from the massive explosion on the runway hours earlier and could hardly hear himself scream into the radio.

“Manuel, Manuel, we have more soldiers coming from the north!” shouted his second in command who was still commanding the rear of the convoy. “One of my men counted thousands of men about three miles away to the north and heading towards us at full speed. I sent him up on a high ridge; he can see everything. We are attacking from the north side and there are many, many soldiers on the other side of the road to you. They have about fifty mortars and dozens of machine guns.”

“Attack, attack them, Carlo!” Manuel screamed over the radio. “I will charge them from here and you from your position. We must get them into a crossfire and they will run, I promise you. They are Mexican soldiers and are chicken livers, scared and useless. Now, attack, Carlo, with everything you have, amigo, or we are all dead!” He saw hundreds of his men watching him and waiting for orders as his mortars blasted back. They were all hugging the dunes as the next wave of mortars began crashing into the ground several yards behind them.

The Mexicans, he realized, were shooting blind. He raised his arm and screamed “Charge!” like they did in the movies and all his men, apart from the mortar teams, sprang up. The mortar teams went to rapid fire and threw bombs down their tubes as fast as possible to cover their advance and he and his men ran for the enemy position about a hundred feet on the other side of the road.

Bullets sounding like bees swarmed around him, his driver going down before he had reached the tarmac. The man on his left went down several yards later and it seemed like an eternity before he threw himself onto the side of the dunes on the other side of the road.

He grabbed for several grenades he had taken from one of the bases and he and dozens of other men pulled their pins and threw them as far forward as they could. He counted many men with him doing the same and seconds later hundreds of explosions rent the air above where the Mexicans had been shooting. He looked back at his mortar teams and with sign language told them to send over another wave of mortar bombs and he signaled his men to throw more grenades.

They threw everything they had as dozens of mortar bombs blew the ground into showers of dirt dozens of feet in front of them. He gave the sign to reload weapons, couldn’t hear anything over the radio, screamed into it to Carlo that they were going over the dunes and attacked.

It was a mess. When he went over the top, “bees” again buzzed around him and he saw hundreds of Mexican bodies and hundreds more running, already a couple of hundred yards away. Carlo, he saw, still had stiff opposition; about a hundred Mexican soldiers had dug in on the slopes to defend their northern perimeter. He screamed at his men to fire at them.

Suddenly it was over. Carlo’s jeep ran over several Mexican soldiers and didn’t stop as it came towards him. Manuel didn’t have time to count, but his eyes roved over hundreds of dead bodies. It looked like a scene from a World War I movie. Now it was time to get going as the remaining Mexican soldiers, still running in the direction of Mexico City, might turn to help the soldiers coming in from the north.

“Carlo, Luiz, Umberto, gather your men. Leave the dead and wounded. We need to go south now and meet up with my brothers. We are moving out before the other soldiers arrive!” he shouted, running back across the road. He was shocked to see so many of his men scattered everywhere, hundreds of them, and so many broken vehicles. He shouted at a man he knew to take over as his driver and he reached his jeep as the mortar teams finished reloading back into their vehicles. He counted less than thirty vehicles in one piece and shouted at them to follow him. Men were alive on the ground and were begging for help. He ignored them, jumped in the jeep, and the driver sped off to the south.

An hour later he stopped his group and waited for several minutes before Carlo caught up with him. His vehicle convoy was reduced to 50 and he counted another 95 vehicles in Carlo’s group with only two trucks pulling 500-gallon fuel tankers, the last two vehicles. He had lost a third of his army and seventy-five percent of his fuel.

His ears still ringing, he explained to Carlo loudly that apart from refueling they would not stop until they got into radio contact with his brother Alberto, which should be about 150 miles to their south. All the men were tired but they drove south through the oncoming night and into the next morning.

They reached a hilly area, good cover with a good lookout spot, and he got two men with binoculars to climb a large hill close to the road to look north while the men rested, ate a meal and fueled the vehicles. Manuel was not going to be caught unprepared again.

His commanders did a count and numbered their army at 1,917 men. He had lost over 1,000 men in the two battles in the same day, not very good for a commander.

“The soldiers, they are coming, Señor Calderón, about an hour behind us. I can see a dust storm,” stated one of the lookouts running up a couple of hours later.

“They must be very angry to travel so hard,” Manuel said to the men around them and they prepared to leave.

Thirty minutes later the radio operator in the rear of his jeep finally got communications with the group coming north.

“Much fighting?” Manuel asked his brother Alberto.

“We have destroyed five army bases and one airfield and met with very little resistance. It seems most of the soldiers went north after you, Manuel.”

“Well get ready to fight, brother. We have the whole Mexican army about ten miles behind us. Find a good ambush position and wait for us to join you. They ambushed me and killed my men. Now it’s time to do the same to them. Have you heard from our big army?”

“Yes, we had an aircraft fly in to the small air base at dawn this morning to give us information,” was the reply. “Pedro and our army are stuck in Panama at the canal. There are thousands of Chinese soldiers there and they have been fighting them for nearly a week.”

“What are Chinese soldiers doing in Panama?” asked Manuel over the radio completely puzzled.

“I don’t know, but the aircraft flew over the whole canal and said there were at least 5,000 to 10,000 Chinese soldiers all the way along both sides. They even shot at the aircraft with tracer bullets from machine guns at several locations. I ordered the pilot to tell our army to destroy every single Chinaman and execute them or allow them to join our army, but make sure we have no more problems. His information was that the resistance at the canal was being overrun, and it would take about a week to get it under control before our army can continue northwards.”

Manuel signed off, after reminding his brother to find a good ambush point. He was going to give the Mexican army a little of their own medicine and then he would fall back across the southern border. From there he would taunt them so the Mexican soldiers would wait for them and, once his army arrived, destroy the rest of the opposition. Then he would return to the north where all their allies were situated and waiting for them.

He was looking forward to taking over Mexico; lots of pretty girls and Tequila farms to own.

Chapter 14

The United States – March

Day after day, the Jumbo Jets brought back troops. Just feeding the enormous numbers of returning men was a huge task. Food was beginning to run out at many of the military storage sites around the country and once the aircraft changed their flights and started bringing in food from Europe, all the C-130s were delegated to restock the twenty-five main storage areas across the country.

These were the major Air Force bases, and the problem was that the Jumbo Jets could fly nonstop into the bases themselves, but with the extra flying time, they would lose a flight each a week, which meant thousands of tons of food.

The container ship to Panama was on its way and carried dozens of army engineers to work the canal locks, 15,000 soldiers, several trucks and troop vehicles, three heavy-lift helicopters and three Hueys recently fitted with Miniguns on each side in case the ship needed air support.

One of the World War II Destroyers which had helped in the New York attack was her sea protection and a small-sized tanker ship sailed with them in case fuel was needed. She had a fair distance to go.

The still empty-looking container ship also carried a dozen “Mutts” on her bow, jeeps with rocket launchers which could be fired from the decks or could be driven up to fire from her bows, or any area where there was a pathway to drive on the open ship. These jeeps had been so effective during the fight in New York that every movable four-wheeled land vehicle was being refitted into a “Gunship”-type vehicle.

The deck of the container ship which hadn’t felt the weight of its load, was still quite high out of the water. Tons of dirt and rubble had been placed into special tanks to bring her height above the waterline down as much as possible. Machinery and enough arms to start a war had been placed on her and it would take her four days of sailing to reach the Panama Canal.

The weather was warming slightly. Winter everywhere was beginning to bow down to spring and the sea was calm and balmy all the way to Florida. The convoy was heading for the straits between Cuba and Haiti and the sailors on the bridge were surprised they did not see one other vessel for the first two days, until two ill-defined forms appeared on their modern and still-working radar screens; several looked like fishing vessels off the coasts of Cuba and Haiti, respectively.

It was the same when they passed within twenty miles of Jamaica. Here there was a strong breeze from the west and slightly worse sea conditions. The swell was up several feet, of no concern for the three large ships, but all equipment was tied down and fishing boats were all they saw in Jamaican waters. From there it was clear sailing to Panama, thirty-six hours ahead of them.

Suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, the commander of the Destroyer was awakened by alarm bells. He dressed and rushed on deck, his ship going to battle stations. Three fast-moving vessels had been spotted fifty miles in front and heading directly towards them.

“Unidentified vessels, this is a Destroyer of the United States of America. Please identify yourself,” he stated over the airwaves, the radio operator switching to all the radio channels used by different countries in the area. On the fifth frequency change, they got a response.

“American Destroyer, this is the Commander of ARC Almirante Padilla Colombian Navy Light Frigate P51” was the immediate response. “We have our Navy Admiral on board. We are three Frigates heading for your Norfolk Naval yards at the invitation of the President of the United States of America and your Admiral Rogers. It’s good to see somebody else is out here. We request that you come along side and we can have breakfast.”

“Roger that. We have been expecting you. We’ll have you visual in thirty minutes,” the Destroyer commander replied.

An hour later he was having a delicious breakfast in the Colombian warship, a ship far more modern than his Destroyer which had been built in 1945. The Colombian Frigates were forty years newer than his rust bucket, and the breakfast was still fresh out of Colombia.

Once pleasantries were finished, both flotillas of ships parted in opposite directions. For the container ship which hadn’t stopped, the Panama Canal was still 24 hours sailing away.

Preston was up at dawn the next morning and after a week away on the West Coast, was ready to see what work had been done outside. The kids were still asleep and, being kids, they would sleep until someone woke them up. He was eager to see what his airfield looked like. On approach the previous night he could see several shapes of new buildings silhouetted behind the runway landing lights

The morning temperature on March 15th was a decent 41 degrees. He could feel spring in the air as he walked outside. The two dogs, already doing their morning rounds, ran up to greet him.

He didn’t recognize the area behind the old red barn; it had been transformed. Three hangars already stood twenty or so feet behind the barn and two larger hangars were half finished. Three mountains of cement-making sand and stone, and a commercial cement mixer were on one side with a cement truck ready to be filled.

The odd tree he remembered standing where the new runway was to be had disappeared and the ground flat with several yellow construction vehicles, like the cement truck, waiting for someone to start them up.

The hangars were right behind the old barn and there was just enough room to make a path to walk in between the old and new. He stepped inside the three doorless hangars; they were smaller than his, and had enough room for three small aircraft; cement floors had already been poured.

The two larger hangars, twice the area and another ten feet higher, could fit two C-130s each. The cement was poured and the walls were still going up; sections of steel-corrugated frames stood thirty feet high.

With the dogs playing around him he looked back at his farm and hangar and saw what he hadn’t seen last night. One building looked complete and there were three partially-erected buildings on the north side of the farmhouse, still in the framing stage. One was going to be big, so big that his farmhouse would be dwarfed by its size. They were set too far back to see last night in the lights and he hadn’t looked that way this morning.

As he looked, men began to exit the completed building; it was about the same size as his farmhouse, but with two stories. He walked over to say hello.

“Good Morning, Tech Sergeant. Have a good sleep?” Preston asked the first soldier, who had been here from the start.

“Morning, Preston. Like your new additions? Want me to show you around?”

“Sure,” Preston replied, being handed a cup of coffee by another soldier. “Where’s Sergeant Perry sleeping?”

“In his usual room in your hangar, Preston,” the Technical Sergeant replied sipping his steaming cup. “We have 150 men working ten-hour shifts. I’m glad you didn’t want to park in the hangar last night. You would have run over lines of men. Every available place is being used and will be for another ten days to two weeks.”

“I hope Carlos wasn’t shocked by finding several men sleeping in his bed,” Preston laughed.

As they looked towards the hangar Sergeant Perry exited, also with a cup of coffee and a continuous line of men after him. He saw the two men, waved and walked over.

“Morning, Preston, sorry about messing up your peaceful environment here,” said Sergeant Perry, shaking both men’s hands, “but we will be busy here for another couple of weeks completing the buildings and runway, and then all the engineers and construction workers will be gone. We are starting to lay the first level of tarmac this morning and have three trucks coming in by 08:00 hours to offload the tarmac-laying equipment. The single building over there,” he pointed to a smaller house right next to his farmhouse, “Joe, his boys and twenty of our men are completing that one for the President. The next one is a barrack/guardhouse so we don’t need to use your hangar as a guardhouse anymore. It will sleep up to forty soldiers in ten large rooms upstairs, with a communal living space downstairs.”

Security for the President as well, I assume,” suggested Preston.

“Correct,” replied the technical sergeant, the man in charge of the development. “As you can see, it has been placed a hundred feet away from the President’s house and the new barracks will have a wall to give you and the President security from the road entrance, as well as privacy. The wall will be a steel frame with a dirt hill on your side to look normal and hide the first story, much like an armory wall. You can plant grass and a tree or two on the sloping dirt to help separate the two areas if you wish. Next to the barracks is an Officers’ Mess and quarters where pilots or other visiting officers can overnight, eat and drink. This building will accommodate twenty in separate rooms, all ground level. The final building is for aircrew and civilians. It will be three stories high, organized for communal living needs like kitchen, lounge and eating areas on the ground floor. The top two floors will have ten rooms per floor, much like you created in your hangar. It will have communal ladies and gents bathrooms on each floor and, full, the building can sleep eighty people, four to a room if need be. Each room will have a double bed and a pull-down couch. We found a couple of dozen Lay-Z-Boy-type sofas in storage at Fort Bragg. We have added twelve septic tanks in a line fifty feet behind the buildings and they are already in and covered.”

“You guys have sure done a lot since I left,” stated Preston.

“You have a cup of coffee, let’s walk across to the aircraft hangars,” suggested Sergeant Perry. “The technical sergeant has to get his guys sorted out.” The two men walked over to the center of the airfield as three large tractor-trailers entered the farm. They had an escort of two Mutts, one front and one back. Preston thought that they’d better keep the jeeps away from Joe; he might try to commandeer them.

First Sergeant Perry showed him the flattened runway section. Preston knew, from laying his first runway himself, that three layers of sand and stone had already been put in, and the flattened surface was ready for the first of two blacktop coats.

“Your new runway direction is 220 degrees from the south and Runway 40 from the north,” stated Sergeant Perry. We also found that you were slightly out on your own runway by one degree and your original runway is 09 degrees from the north and Runway 189 from the south,” smiled the sergeant.

“It was only meant to be a simple farm runway,” returned Preston. “One degree to me doesn’t matter.”

“Totally understandable,” replied Sergeant Perry, “but if you are going to have F-4s landing in bad weather, they need absolute accuracy if they are flying blind. At 3,700 feet long, everything the Air Force has flying can get into your new runway, apart from the Jumbo Jets. For the Air Force jets we are going to setup an ILS (Instrument Landing System) for approach in bad weather as well as a DME (Distance Measuring System) and an ALS (Approach Lighting System). Then, we are locating two outer markers six miles out on the southern edge of Jordan Lake and two more, one four miles north and the second one six miles north on two defunct cell phone towers. Middle markers aren’t needed and we are placing four inner markers a thousand yards from all four of the runway thresholds. That will be completed with a full array of runway lights in the next ten days.”

The tarmac-laying equipment began unloading and three dump trucks arrived on the farm with the first asphalt.

“The runway’s official statistics are 3,704 feet by 30 feet. We are putting down two layers of asphalt and adding a second top to yours. We will then add cement aprons in front of all the new hangars, white-painted lines and markers, and lastly yellow taxiing paint and markers, then we are out of here.”

“It sounds like something I could only dream about,” replied Preston. “My poor old trusty cropduster will be too scared to come into such a fancy airport as this,” he laughed. They then headed for the hangars.

“You have three smaller hangars which will be complete today. Each has water connected to your well and each has a septic tank for toilets. A new fuel depot and underground tanks are installed and complete over there.” Sergeant Perry pointed to the area south of the last hangar in line.

Several yards beyond the hangar and in the area where the cement apron was to be laid, Preston could see several pipes and tank entrance covers sticking out of the perfectly flat dirt surface. “We are covering this fuel depot and two thirds of the thirty-foot long tanks with cement as well, so that the heavier tanker trucks, or a C-130 tanker can get in close on either side,” continued Sergeant Perry. “Four of the seven 12,000-gallon tanks will be filled with jet fuel and the other three with aviation gas. The tanks are pointing towards us, parallel with the runway and will be fed from two newly modeled computerized control boxes flown in from Mr. Roebels in California, and which will be situated on the outer hangar wall. These tanks, Preston, are long thin tanks, dug ten feet deep and they fit perfectly in a line between the hangar and the runway. They will have ground markers showing where they are in case somebody else wants to dig in the area. The two larger hangars over there will fit two C-130s each, or eight of the small Super Tweets each, or similar aircraft like your Mustangs. Again, there is a septic tank for each hangar already in the ground and we laid the internal cement hangar floor yesterday. There will be a flight office, lounge and three to four bedrooms per large hangar for flight crew. Also, one of the hangars will have a forty-foot high control tower on one side for ground control,” he said, pointing to an extra square steel frame being built on one wall of a large hangar. ”It will have the best radar system and other equipment we can get operational and there will be sleeping and living accommodations for six traffic personnel in the lower levels if and when needed. When the President is here, everything will be fully operational, but when there is little or no traffic, the personnel will be transferred back to Seymour Johnson.”

Preston was impressed. All this would be completed by the end of March. He looked around and even Joe, David and his five sons had arrived and were working on the President’s new house. A pile of long straight logs were being unloaded with a small crane at the rear of one of the military trucks.

Carlos made an appearance, stretching outside the side door to the hangar. The large front hangar door was still closed behind the two aircraft they had landed the previous night. A couple of Air Force personnel were working on both aircraft, servicing what was needed.

Preston returned to the house to get some breakfast going. Martie was not around and somebody had to do it.

Over breakfast a sleepy Little Beth came out of her room and ran into Preston’s arms. Dressed in Martie’s cutdown bathrobe, she looked sleepy with her long hair all over the place.

“Where’s Martie?” she asked. Preston was not the person she,only five years old, was expecting.

“Bad news, Beth. Remember Grandpa Roebels?” Preston asked. Little Beth nodded. “Well, he was Martie’s grandfather and he died a few days ago. Martie and her father, Michael, are very upset, but Martie will be back in a few days.”

Has the grandpa gone to where my mummy is?” she questioned. Preston nodded. “Well, I hope they meet each other up there,” she stated. “Preston, who is that kid looking at me? He is in a wheelchair.” Preston was facing the other way and did not hear Clint come out of the guest room.

“That’s a new member of our family,” Preston explained, “and somebody who needs you to make him feel at home. Shall I introduce you?” Beth was still in his arms and Preston turned to face Clint and put her down.

“Good morning, Clint. Did you sleep well?” Preston asked. “Come here, Clint, and let me have the honor of introducing you to the boss of the family.”

“And you had better remember that, young man!” stated Little Beth, copying how Martie spoke to men. She had her hands on her hips and Clint, although much taller, was the same height as Little Beth when sitting in his chair.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am. Clinton Jefferson Busch at your service,” he replied, wheeling his chair up to her and putting out his hand. His straight-forwardness and polite manner put Little Beth off a little but she responded, not letting a boy get the better of her.

“Glad to meet you, Clinton Jefferson Busch. My name is Beth, but you can call me Little Beth, officially. I don’t have a last name at the moment since Preston hasn’t married Martie yet, but when that happens, I will be Little Beth Strong. Where are you from, Clinton?”

“I grew up in Arizona and now I believe I might be growing up more in North Carolina. You can call me Clint, Little Beth, everybody does. Do you like flying?”

“Oh sure, I have been doing a lot of that lately. If you are going to live here, that’s all the adults ever do at this airfield, apart from having special meetings and drinking beer!”

“Now, now, Little Beth,” laughed Carlos. He sat down on the couch while listening to the two youngsters get acquainted and smiled at the two kids. “We only have special meetings once or twice a month and normally drink a beer or two at night, but it’s true, we normally fly every day. I’ve flown more hours this year already than all my hours in the last five years.”

“Where are you going today, Uncle Carlos?” asked Clint. “Can Little Beth and I come along? At least we can all fit in your aircraft.”

“That’s a good idea, Carlos,” added Preston. Since Michael is using the Pilatus, I think I need to find a long distance family run-around for the wife, kids, dogs, and Smokey the cat, who I haven’t seen for weeks, and whoever else decides to join our family.

“Would you like to meet my puppy, Spot?” Little Beth asked Clint.

“Sure, I love dogs and I would like to meet Spot,” he replied now excited.

“His real name is Spot, but everybody, even the soldiers, call him Puppy. I will push you around. It’s cold, so go and get a thick sweater, and then we can go and find Oliver and Puppy and I can introduce you to my soldier friends.”

As they headed back to their bedrooms Preston shouted orders not to go further than the first runway.

The President of the United States was back in Washington. There were communications by radio and satellite phone and he kept up with all the reports coming in. The White House now had a hundred old Amiga computers set up, recording the numbers of dead, as well as living, identified citizens at the dozens of locations across the country, and any other reports which needed saving. There were no paper files anymore

Each computer was connected to a Hughes Net satellite dish and thousands of messages were transmitted daily through the three Chinese satellites Carlos and Lee had repositioned above the United States for this reason.

The system wasn’t fast, but a hundred times faster than somebody reading the names over radios or satellite phones. Several computer engineers controlled the incoming information which never stopped, and the President, still alone in governing the country, had called a White House meeting with General Patterson and other staff to get up-to-date on the military reports.

“Thank you for coming, General, colonels and members of my staff. Each of you has a very important job to do,” started the President. “I will be here in Washington until our next major meeting at Andrews on April 1st. What are our figures to date? General Patterson, I need some good news, so tell me how our troop movements are doing.”

“Mr. President, over three days ago we changed from bringing in troops to the aircraft carrying in food supplies. We are still completing one troop flight across to Europe and a second one directly to the Middle East, daily. We have two of the 747 aircraft in maintenance for two days and another two coming in tomorrow. The 747 transporter has taken the cargo route of the two 747s in scheduled maintenance, and this change doesn’t decrease our lift totals very much. As of 72 hours ago, we have 679,000 troops back in the country. We have tallied up the remaining soldiers to get back and our numbers were out by over 190,000 men, once we got our numbers right. We still need to transport 420,000 men which will take more than 60 flight days, once we get back to troop flights in five days’ time. We have to increase our food flights by one extra day per change, to allow us to feed the growing numbers on our side of the pond.”

“I was told by the Chief of Staff in November last year that we only had a million soldiers overseas. Where has this increase come from, General?” the President asked, annoyed.

“I can only assume that you were not being told exact or up-to-date numbers, Mr. President,” General Patterson replied simply.

“Where is my old Chief of Staff?” asked the President, demanding somebody find him.

“His body and that of his wife were found at their home in Houston, Texas, Mr. President,” continued General Patterson. “They had been executed with a bullet in the back of the head. The three bodyguards were found in the front garden with several gunshot wounds. Everybody living on that street was executed. A couple of Texas congressmen, a senator and several military generals lived in the same gated community. The soldiers who were searching the area had a three-day battle with a group of over several hundred men who had ransacked a local National Guard armory and were well-armed. They killed the bad guys but lost several dozen good men in the process. Over a hundred bodyguards had been taken out before our troops arrived. It is believed that this army of men was hitting the more wealthy suburbs, going house to house and executing anybody inside. They did this in three large neighborhoods before the soldiers caught up with them, and it is believed that the gang killed a couple of thousand innocent civilians. Each of the houses had been ransacked and everything of value taken. One of the badly wounded gangsters told the soldiers of their new headquarters, an iron-fenced elementary school in the area. A second firefight ensued with another couple of dozen men. Their leaders, all local gangsters from Texas, were killed. Several had escaped from local prisons. Mountains of valuables were found, and important to us, IDs for the dead people were recovered and sent through to us a couple of days ago. Identifications included the politicians and the military personnel. These guys were doing a total sweep of this wealthy area for a couple of months.”

The President sat down and thought about what he had just heard. “What information do we have so far on other missing members of the government?” he asked General Patterson.

“That was to be my second report, Sir. We have found two more members of Congress alive, both uninterested in returning to Washington. One was holding off a dozen gangsters when the army went to check up on him in Arizona. He had personally killed half of them and he, his two sons and one daughter were ready and well-armed to take on the rest. The soldiers got rid of the gang members in that area and met with Congressman McDonald. He is not leaving his home and will offer his resignation if you order him to return. He said to tell you that he would return once soldiers had cleaned up his entire area. Congressman Broman in Montana has a 300-acre horse ranch and has beaten off three attacks. He said the same: put in a hundred men to protect his family and he would return. We can bring them in when you want us to, Mr. President.”

“What about the rest, General?”

“As of yesterday we have confirmed the deaths of 287 Congressmen and 91 senators. The Vice President and his wife were found dead in their house with both bodies dismembered by a mob. His bodyguards also perished in the attack. His bodyguards had killed a dozen people before they were killed. On the East Coast and northern areas of the country, many of the congressional and senate deaths were due to vehicle accidents around midnight, New Year’s Eve. Gang violence is the main reason for deaths in the south and on the West Coast.”

“It sounds like the whole country is in anarchy,” stated the President.

“I would say that in 90 percent of the country, you are right, Mr. President,” the general replied.

“What about all the police in the country. What happened to them?”

“To date reports in from all 50 states show identification of over 500,000 of the country’s deaths were policemen and 65 percent of these deaths were from violence. We assume gangs, or police-haters in those areas knew where the officers lived and went after them. In one town in Oklahoma, a prison of 400 inmates got loose and wiped out the local town. Over 3,000 deaths before the army went in and terminated all of the jail breakers. Ten percent of the deaths were policemen or prison wardens and their families.”

“How is the troop importation helping your numbers, General Patterson?” asked the President, sober and uneasy with all the bad news.

“We were getting in 10,000 per day and shipping out the same number of troops who had arrived a few days earlier, having been given a few days’ rest. The incoming troops were resting and being rearmed at the airport terminals in New York and at Andrews and McGuire. The really good news, Mr. President, is that Amtrak is back on track. The railways got their first train all the way through to Los Angeles from Washington yesterday. It completed the Midwest, Northeast and the Midwest California routes in ten days, having to wait to have snow cleared in the Chicago area for a day, and for about two hundred miles over the mountainous areas. It was an older engine, from the 1980s, and retired five years ago, and which was found still operational in an Amtrak storage facility. We called it the California Express and she took 4,500 soldiers, dropping off 100 soldiers in over thirty small towns where there weren’t any. The train was shot at a dozen times but apart from one train derailment outside Albuquerque where the attack occurred and where bulldozers were already clearing the undamaged tracks, she got through. Engineers had to shunt several other trains onto secondary rail lines with older engines and bulldozers. By the end of April we hope to have three trains a day leaving Washington in three different directions: one daily to Los Angeles, the Texas Eagle to Dallas, and Midwest South down to New Orleans. As the snow clears, we can get more of the northern routes cleared. The railways reported yesterday that they now have Hughes Net satellite dishes working across the country at many of the major railway stations, all protected by armed soldiers, Mr. President. The railways predict that twenty trains will be running by mid-year, transporting men to all the southern areas, 15,000 a day, and trains crisscrossing the country in both directions. Our latest plan is to take pressure off our aircraft and use the railways for troop movement until spring and then food distribution once all our men are stateside and relocated.”

“Things are looking up for once,” remarked a slightly happier President. “There should be dozens of goods train available in the near future. I understand the trucking industry is done for, except for a few percent of trucks still operational. They can collect from railway stations and transport into smaller outlying areas, just like in the early days of the country.”

“Our plan exactly, Mr. President,” replied General Patterson. “We need to remember that any ground movement needs protection and we have twenty heavy box wagons being retrofitted with armored sides and these will be placed on each train. At least two of them will have rocket launchers, a Mutt jeep or two, mortars, and ammo, and the boxcars will have sleeping and eating quarters for the soldiers. Their roofs will slide open and their sides slide down so that they can fire from the wagon, or have the protection up with slits to fire out of.”

“Sounds like an old cowboy movie,” suggested the President.

“We are thinking of calling them Wells Fargo Wagons, Sir,” replied the general.

“OK, the bad news, please; deaths and the living.”

The general asked the two colonels in charge of recordings to give their reports.

“My name is Colonel Sinter, U.S. Marines, Mr. President. I’m in charge of recording the deaths. As of yesterday morning, total deaths countrywide, not including Hawaii and Alaska is 87,510,450 bodies with identification. Without identification, we have approximately 22,200,500 bodies, or body parts which can represent a body. We might double-count parts of the same body, but we do our best to at least take a fingerprint if it is possible. I believe that our accuracy figures are within 15 percent on body parts. We have covered 70 percent of the northern areas, but expect there are untold millions in cities that we still need to dig out.” The President nodded his thanks. One third of the country’s total population dead and still he knew that they were in for many more ghastly surprises.

“How far have you got into Manhattan and Chicago?” the President asked the colonel.

“We have covered about a third of Manhattan and half of the surrounding area. In Brooklyn and areas around Chicago, with busy airport hubs where planes fell out of the sky, there is absolutely nothing left, Sir. In these areas alone we believe that we will never find remains of up to two million people. The Chicago area around the railway station is now clear for a dozen blocks and also many of the more southern suburbs.”

“How many living?” was the President’s next question.

“Colonel Friday, U.S. Army, reporting on living civilians, Mr. President,” the second colonel spoke up. First, U.S. Military Troops: 1,467,550 alive and accounted for. Second, Military Families: we calculate there are approximately 4,500,000 spouses and children of military personnel eating military supplies from the five Chinese container ships. That food is now nearly used up, Sir. We haven’t managed to document the entire number of military spouses and children yet, but have 3,000 men working on it. Next, Food Rations for Civilians: 9,670,250 civilian men women and children have been given food rations from MRE rations and/or the Chinese rations. The fourth and last group includes mostly farmers and civilians working in or around the military bases who do not need aid, 3,950,900. We have taken this last number into account and this amount represents 30 percent of the possible farmers, or crop producers in the whole country. This number could increase to 10 million food growers. We are assuming that a total of between 80 to 130 million people will survive the winter conditions, but we cannot get an idea of how many of these will die due to gang- or other human-related violence. End of my report, Mr. President.”

Everybody in the room felt sick to their stomachs.

***

Many civilians, like Captain Mallory and many of his crew, worked nonstop helping to set up food stations across the country. He had John, his copilot, Pam Wallace and many others flying food across the country 24/7. On the 20th of March, the food nearly ran out. There were not enough rations to feed fifty more people in one of the food distribution points when flights of the food, arriving on the 747s, reached him in the middle of Tennessee. The system was struggling to keep up.

***

Thousands of soldiers cleared snow and collected frozen bodies in more than a dozen large northern cities. Civilians, also by the thousands helped take identification out of wallets, cars, pockets, and sometimes in the most unlikely places. One guy had his ID on the collar of his dead dog, lying stiff next to him in a Chicago suburb.

The cremation pits grew in numbers and by the 25th of March the Manhattan team was within two blocks of Times Square. They were working with heavy machinery clearing the snow with dozens of old dump trucks taking whole blocks of ice and snow, and human limbs sticking out of the blocks. On March 28th, they were digging in ice fields forty to fifty feet deep when they began to uncover piles of dead bodies nearly thirty feet high, one and a half blocks from Times Square. Another group coming in from the opposite side found the same. They had three blocks of human bodies thirty feet high. The numbers were staggering.

***

For Preston and Carlos the next several days were spent watching the airfield transform itself. Carlos flew out once to Salt Lake City to pick up Lee Wang and family. Their work was done at the Observatory and with the Hughes Net working through thousands of two-way satellite dishes around the country, the same satellite commands could be filed for delivery from any computer at Carlos’ headquarters, or at Andrews, or the one he had put together at Preston’s airfield. One of the smaller hangars had an office built for Carlos and its communication system was six Hughes Net satellite dishes, three pointing west and three pointing north, on top of a pole towering fifty feet over the hangar roof. It looked ugly, but nobody cared.

Preston heard from Martie twice and spoke over their satellite phones. She was working hard with her father, missing everybody and she would fly her Mustang with Sally in her Pilatus to the farm, as Preston suggested they needed a larger family vehicle. Their flight plan was to fly into Denver International, now an Air Force base and then nonstop into Andrews for the April meeting at the end of the month. Her father, Michael, was now happy to continue flying his Beechcraft. With Grandpa Roebels gone, he didn’t mind stopping to refuel every 700 miles.

Both men missed their girls, but Preston enjoyed having Little Beth and Clint around. The two quickly became inseparable; Little Beth was often seen pushing Clint’s wheelchair around the hangar and down the old runway with the dogs always tagging along around them.

The second runway was completed on March 22nd. It was left to harden in the sun for a couple of days and then a truck arrived and painted all the needed lines and markers. Preston was very impressed with the finished job.

Joe and his team often got Preston involved with construction of the President’s Mansion, as Joe called it. The single-story log cabin was only 2,000 square feet in size, with three bedrooms and three bathrooms. The trucks kept bringing in supplies on a daily basis from the bases to the south and by month-end the finish paint and trimmings were being applied. Preston told Joe that the house looked like one of those make-over projects that used to be on television. One day there was nothing and the next day there was a house.

The interior wasn’t very luxurious. Most of the furniture came from the storage depot at Fort Bragg and was reserved for the higher brass, but was used for the President’s House and the Officers’ Mess. The same quality furniture arrived for the larger building, the completed and operational control tower, and the several hangar accommodations.

On March 30th, two days before the next meeting was to be held at Andrews and a second meeting at Preston’s airfield, the hundreds of men began to clear up and return the farm to the way it was before the work had begun. Even bushes suddenly appeared on the dirt incline, separating the President’s House and other accommodations, and also in places out on the airfield where the two dogs weren’t used to finding a bush to mark.

That evening when Preston, Carlos, Sergeant Perry, Little Beth and Clint were enjoying a meal in the hangar’s lounge, Carlos’ satellite phone rang.

Carlos listened for a second; it was Admiral Rogers telling him that he had his uncle with him in Norfolk. He also had some very interesting people with him.

His uncle came on the phone and in rapid Spanish sent greetings, relayed the news that he had sailed the three Frigates to Norfolk as planned, and also that they had picked up somebody who seemed to know a certain Señor Carlos Rodriquez!

They were on a very interesting ship belonging to a powerful political figure from Colombia and the admiral had saved them from an attack off the coast of Florida. He told Carlos that the gentleman in question was a Chinese fellow, a Mr. Mo Wang, and that he sent his regards to Carlos and that everybody could meet him and his entourage at Andrews Air Force Base in two days.

Carlos couldn’t believe this Mo Wang fellow. He was like a bug that just didn’t go away, and Preston laughed at Carlos when he completely rolled his eyes, listening to his uncle.

Chapter 15

Mo Wang – Florida and Virginia

Mo Wang called Pedro on the satellite phone at midnight as planned. It rang for less than a second before Pedro answered, breathless.

“Is that you, Pedro?” Mo asked.

Si, Señor Wang, this is Pedro. We have a big problem; the owner took the money for the boat and then the money for the gas. He pumped me twenty gallons before his fuel tank was empty. He shrugged his shoulders and left in his car. We do not have enough fuel to leave, so we went to our neighbors to purchase another forty gallons. We do not have enough to reach Cozumel, Señor Wang, what do we do?”

“Is diesel any good for you, Pedro?”

No, the engine is gasoline and diesel is no good, except for a small generator. We have no diesel, Señor. We are waiting for you to call.”

“How big is your boat?” asked Mo.

“Nine meters, twenty-seven feet long, Señor Wang. Shall we leave to meet you?” asked Pedro.

“Of course, leave immediately. We have enough power to pull you, Pedro. I want you to head towards Cozumel in a straight line to save gas. We can come around the end of the island and catch up to you. I have radar, understand?” asked Mo.

“I am casting off quickly, Señor, there is shooting very close and we are heading out to sea. I have a compass on the boat and I will go directly towards the Cozumel Island. I have a fisherman’s map with a direct line drawn on the map. It shows 410 miles. I have ninety gallons of fuel in the tank, the gauge shows one quarter. I think that this boat will travel at five knots, but I’m now at full power to get away from the shore.” There was silence for several seconds. “Señor Wang, we are out of our cove and about half a mile from our farm. There are lights to the west and a small fire. It looks like one of our neighbors’ house or barn is on fire. There is lots of shooting. My neighbor had many guns and many unlucky gangsters will die at his and his seven sons’ hands tonight. They picked the wrong guy.” There was silence apart from Mo hearing Pedro’s orders being shouted to his family in Spanish.

He heard the engine’s noise die down to a low murmur, and then Pedro came back. “We are safe enough now, Señor Wang. I have the boat going forward at five knots. I think I have enough fuel for about three hundred miles. I will keep in a straight line and wait for you to call me at dawn, OK?” Marie was next to Mo with a map of the area on the table.

“Ask Pedro what his compass reads,” she told Mo. Mo did and Pedro told them that the needle was halfway in-between north and northeast.

It took Marie and Beatrice a couple of minutes to discuss his course. Lu was asked to come in and show them where Pedro’s farm was on the island map. She didn’t know for sure but she showed them where she thought it was, Mud Cay, and she added that it couldn’t be more than two to three miles out.

The two female sailors plotted a course and asked Mo to increase speed to high cruise. The ship increased speed to six knots and the radar decreased its time from four hours to two hours before they would round the island. They had to sail past a couple of small islands and Mo didn’t want to go through the shallower waters between them. He did close the course distance to the last piece of land, as Lu told him that it was uninhabited. They could turn northwards close to shore and that would save them 30 minutes.

He made a new dot on the radar as close to the shore as he thought safe and Marie showed him how to set a second marker several miles north of the island and then after several calculations, a third marker where she thought that they could pick up the fishing boat up on the radar. The distance was forty miles and would take them eight hours to reach the third dot.

Since Pedro was moving as fast as they were Mo suggested that to catch up to them he would need to start the big engines during the third leg, but he wanted to have no land in sight and full daylight before he would do that.

Marie suggested that he should rest, but Mo was having the time of his life. It was the first time he had ever had such authority over something of this size and the excitement would certainly not bring sleep.

He replied that everybody should bed down for the night and he would be fine. He would have no trouble staying awake to turn the boat onto the next two legs, the first one in an hour’s time.

“You don’t have to turn the ship, silly,” admonished Marie. “Everything is plotted into the autopilot. It will run the course we set and will reach the third marker with no help from any of us. The maximum range for auto cruising is 60 miles. At that range the radar might not pick up such a small boat, but set at a 15-mile range, we should see Pedro as a blip pretty easily. Somebody will relieve you of your watch at 0600 hours, Captain Wang. I haven’t delegated who yet, but if the relief watch finds you asleep, you will be given six lashes with the cat of nine tails.”

“There is a cat with nine tails on the boat?” asked an astonished Mo. He did not understand, but Marie was gone and he was left alone to work out where this darn cat was. Did it want food or something?

He looked over the dials: depth 167 feet, one hour, ten minutes to first radar marker, engine at high cruise at six knots, temperature outside 67 degrees and the island’s coastline over six miles to his north. There was nothing blinking or blipping as Marie said, nor was there a cat under the table of the captain’s chair he was sitting in, and he felt at peace with the world.

Mo gently pushed the engine to full power to see what it could do. The speed increased a paltry half a knot and he then reduced it back to high cruise. The four fuel tanks still showed full, even the one he was running on. The red indicator still hadn’t moved.

He searched around the bridge; it was the first time he actually had time to look around. There was an old American coffeemaker in a corner with a large bag of unopened Colombian coffee. Underneath he found a small refrigerator; it was stocked with bottles of liquor, beer and Cokes, all printed, it seemed to him, in Spanish. He found a cup of coffee creamers; he liked his coffee strong and with cream, the American way. Next to the machine was a small washing-up sink with a high faucet. Upon turning the tap, water poured out. He brewed a pot of coffee and continued to look around while the coffee machine made its gurgling noises.

Behind the table was a couch built into the rear wall and above the couch were bookcases. Here he found boxes of bullets. Normal for a gangster to have bullets instead of books, he mused to himself.

The bridge was still semi-dark; he was working from the lights on the console which were ample. He turned on the main light switch which had a dimmer and he pulled the side curtains closed and increased the light in the bridge so that he could see more.

He returned to the bookcase and found several books steadied by dozens of boxes of 9 mm and 7.62 ammunition.

“That’s strange. I haven’t found any guns that would fit these rounds,” he thought. There were several sailing books in the bookcase and he spied a 9-mm automatic machine pistol in each corner of the four-foot long bookcase. Both had a long magazine and Mo thought that the senator had these as backup pieces, easily accessible if he needed them.

The bookcase was completely checked. He left everything where it was and closed the smoked-glass sliding bookcase doors. He sat down on the couch and thought for a moment.

This was fun. He was now searching for secret compartments and he studied the wooden floor of the bridge. Mo knelt down and tapped the wood, which looked like teak, the dark wood sounded thick, strong and heavy. He tapped the side walls of the bridge and they sounded hollow. There was nothing to tell that there was anything behind the hollow-sounding walls until he pushed a certain section. The wall behind his hand separated itself and was pushed inwards and moved sideways to show three shelves, six inches deep and high, behind the opened panel. The sliding panel had disappeared behind the rest of the wall and inside the wall below the side windows were more boxes of ammunition.

The starboard wall was exactly the same

Then he checked the front wall underneath the control center and a four-foot long panel slid open in the middle of the bridge underneath the console; this one was full of what looked like hand grenades. Touching each one, he counted 90 hand grenades in three rows of thirty. The two corner areas of the lowest shelf had pieces of glass, like mirrors.

“That is odd,” he thought until he suddenly realized that he was looking at two female sleeping forms in the left-hand front cabin. He quickly looked at the other mirror on the other side and saw two more sleeping forms in the right-hand cabin. He backed away and closed the doors. They were spy windows into the two cabins and he would check them out from the other side later.

Mo returned and sat back on the rear couch. It was a nice sitting area where the captain and/or crew could plot maps, or just hang out and chat. The leather he was sitting on was soft, like a luxury car’s and his foot slipped and tapped against the wood below the couch. It sounded hollow.

“Of course!” he stated aloud to himself. He stood up, turned and looked at the seat. He gently tried to pull it open, but it would not budge. He looked carefully and found a tiny, closed door latch at either end. They wouldn’t be easily noticed. The couch was about two and a half feet high and once he opened the latches, the seat itself easily opened up on rear hinges.

Inside were the guns Pedro must have meant. There was a lot of firepower in there, half a dozen brand new American M-16s with dozens of magazines already filled, as well as a couple of rifle grenades for the M-16s. He had seen more of the rifle grenade cases downstairs. There were also several pistols in wooden racks, even a set of two .44 Magnums, cowboy style, on a belt and ringed with bullets. The amount took his breath away.

“We are a floating armory,” he said to himself. “If we get hit by somebody or something explosive, it’s all over for us, and anybody within a hundred mile radius with all this!”

He felt like he was safe with all the weaponry, but at the same time, he felt totally vulnerable to total disintegration from an attack. He returned the leather seat to its original position, closed the latches, poured himself a cup of coffee, and wondered whether he was lucky to be living in an armory, or maybe not so lucky! Then he remembered to check for the cat. It still hadn’t shown itself.

The ship’s autopilot had done what Marie had said it would. With the radar showing the last bit of land and the very tip of the whole island, the ship turned northwards slowly, one mile of shallow water passed between the ship and the shoreline. He was still a little worried about the depth; it was going to be close. They still moved forward at six knots on the new heading, still five miles south and one mile east of the island’s eastern shore; the depth slowly decreased from 197 feet to 20 feet as they passed the island, and Mo realized that the sea maps were very accurate.

It was still dark outside with a sliver of moon which had been up since before midnight. There were no roads to this part of the island and he could see no lights on the land at all.

The depth held at less than 30 feet for twenty minutes and slowly it began to climb again as the ship left the land behind. He had turned out all unnecessary lights and was using the night binoculars through the side windows, which actually could slide open. There was nothing apart from rocks and shrubs he could see.

An hour later he was again seven miles north of the island and the depth at 97 feet when he relaxed back into the captain’s chair, the island’s shape disappearing over the horizon. He wanted to get over the horizon before dawn and before he would turn northwest to look for Pedro.

Twenty minutes before Beatrice arrived, they were nine miles out and he turned the ship to the northeast. He had changed Marie’s plots to his own, first heading north and then turning slightly to the northeast. He had just turned the lights back on and sat back when he heard movement from the stairs.

Beatrice crept up at five-thirty dressed in her robe, looking sleepy with her hair disheveled. Mo was close to nodding off and he was still sitting in the comfortable captain’s chair looking out at the beginnings of a new dawn.

“Would you like a fresh cup of coffee?” Mo asked Beatrice as she walked in front of him to see if he was awake. She nodded her head and sleepily looked around the bridge. “I’m getting the hang of driving the ship,” Mo stated.

“Sailing the ship,” responded Beatrice slumping into the warm captain’s chair vacated by Mo to put on a fresh cup of coffee.

“How can I sail the ship without sails up?” asked Mo.

“I agree,” replied Beatrice. “English is a very stupid language, that’s why I’m French. The dawn is very beautiful this morning. I got up at the right time,” she added looking out at the brightening morning.

“I think that we should let the rest sleep until about eight,” stated Mo. “There is nothing to do for the next few hours.”

“That’s fine. Don’t you want to take a few hours of sleep, Mo? You must be tired.”

“Not in a million years,” he replied happily. “I haven’t had so much fun in years and I can sleep once we have found Pedro and are driving, sorry sailing for Mexico.” He handed her a mug of coffee.

She got up out of the captain’s chair and told him to sit down. She sat down on his lap and curled herself tight, sipping her brew.

“I think you are making passes at me. Do you want me to throw you overboard for insubordination to the ship’s captain?” Mo stated, frozen.

She smiled at him and they sat together, each enjoying their mug of coffee and watching the dawn rise and the calm sea spread farther and farther out. Mo was the happiest he had been for a long, long time and forgot about the clock.

At six thirty he suddenly remembered to call Pedro.

“Señor Wang, I was getting worried. I was thinking something had happened to you,” stated Pedro a split second after the phone started ringing.

“Pedro, we are now north of the island and I think about thirty to forty miles behind you, and about thirty miles east of you,” Mo stated. “Don’t slow down or you could use up your fuel. I can start the big engines once everybody wakes up and easily catch up.”

“It is very calm out here, Señor,” Pedro replied. “We haven’t seen any other boats. It is like we are the only people out here. We can see no land and I’m keeping the compass at the same place as I told you at midnight. We have used a little fuel and the gauge is showing a little below a quarter.” Mo looked at his own gauges and for the first time he noticed that one had moved ever so slightly off absolute full. Mo told Pedro to keep going and that he should be with him by midday.

Two hours later, Beatrice who was dozing in his lap stretched and told him that she would wake everybody, get dressed, get shipshape, and make breakfast. She kissed him lightly on his cheek and left the bridge. Mo felt all rosy. He checked the gauges. The depth was over 200 feet and he noticed slightly bigger swells coming at them from the northwest. The eighty-foot ship just glided through them. He switched the radar onto thirty mile range and saw land was now twenty miles behind them and that they were four miles in from the eastern tip.

He waited until Beatrice returned with breakfast. Lu was with her as well as her kids. They hadn’t seen the bridge yet and they all sat on the couch enjoying a breakfast of fruit and yogurt.

At nine, Marie told him that they were shipshape everywhere and he switched on the two generators to kickstart the big diesels. He had been waiting for this moment for hours now and was very excited.

Once the diesels had warmed up for a couple of minutes, he checked the fuel flow and made sure that fuel was flowing to both engines from the unused tanks. He then closed down the small engine to give it a rest, closed its fuel flow and, as Marie had shown him, gently pushed the two controllers into gear and slowly increased the engine revs to 1,500 rpm, half power.

Now the ship wasn’t a smooth vibration-free luxury yacht anymore. The deck below him rumbled as the diesels increased in revs and he could feel the increasing vibrations through the structure. It wasn’t loud, but this time he could hear the throaty exhausts through the open bridge side-windows.

The ship was still on autopilot and he watched as the speed increased from five knots to seven, then eight and slowly rise through nine knots. He now could feel and hear the bow biting through the water and the increasing speed halted at ten knots. The bridge had everybody squeezed into it; the couch could fit all the younger people and Marie and Beatrice stood on each side of him enjoying the moment.

“Take the ship off autopilot,” suggested Marie. Mo disengaged the autopilot switch and took hold of the wheel. He could feel the engines through the wooden wheel and he slowly began to turn the vessel from left to right in slow movements. She was heavy and felt strong and sturdy in the water and for the first time the ship began to dip slightly through the swells. He felt the smile on his face growing.

“The senator will have to kill me first to get his ship back,” Mo said to the two women.

“I think we will have to as well,” smiled Marie.

It was a beautiful day, they were away from their island prison and Marie noticed Beatrice’s hand in the nook of Mo’s arm. Her woman’s intuition suggested something was happening to her friend and she smiled.

Mo increased the engine controls to three quarters and the ship responded, increasing her speed to 13 knots, then 14. He again increased the power to a mark which stated High Cruise and the revs increased to 2,700 and the speed hovered at 16 knots, nearly hitting 17. At full power, Marie was surprised to see the speed increase to 21 knots, over five knots faster than she had earlier predicted.

“The engines must be modified,” she said to Mo who had a face of wonderment. “I think fuel usage is very bad at full speed, but we do have that extra fuel aboard, and I think you should keep her at High Cruise for an hour or two, Mo. That should almost catch us up to Pedro.” Mo reduced the speed down to 16 knots and they all looked towards the radar. Beatrice turned it down to fifteen miles and at that range they should see Pedro’s small boat as a blip on the screen in an hour.

They were wrong; it took two hours before a small blip appeared on the edge of the screen and to the northwest of them. Mo reduced the speed down to three-quarter, noticing that the two gauges were now showing less fuel than the gauge he had fed into the small engine. The three hours had sped by, the excitement was wonderful and now he knew why men joined the navy. At 14 knots it would take another two hours to catch Pedro as the smaller fishing boat still moving forward at five knots.

Mo called up Pedro and told him that they had him on radar, were fifteen miles behind and that they would be with him by midday.

The sun was getting hot as Mo headed down the stairs to get three hours of sleep. Marie and Beatrice were in command.

When Mo was awakened he went out on deck to see an extremely happy Pedro waving at them from a few hundred yards away. The noise and vibrations of the big engines were gone and Marie had turned on the smaller engine and six knots to conserve fuel.

Mo could see several people in the boat. Pedro’s father was waving with Pedro as they came within fifty feet of them, and Marie expertly turned the larger ship to sail on the same course and speed as the smaller, old and dilapidated fishing boat. She wouldn’t have paid a thousand dollars for that boat, but, who cared? Money didn’t mean anything anymore.

“Señor Wang! Señor Wang! That old boat of yours is very slow. It took forever for you to catch up to us in our fancy ship!” Pedro laughed, shouting over the distance. He was still at his five knots and they were over seventy miles from Roatán, in the middle of the ocean where nobody could find them. The only thing on the radar screen was Pedro’s boat.

Mo shouted over, asking if they needed anything and Pedro showed him a decent-sized fish he had caught. It was a yellow skipjack and Mo noticed that the fishing boat had two fishing lines running out the back of the boat. Pedro shouted back that they had everything for now and that apart from the heat everything was OK. They had twenty gallons of water on board and that would last them a day.

Marie was in the bridge and Mo was free to check out the outsides. Mo pulled out the fishing chair stored in a locker at the rear of the boat and positioned it in a round steel hole and locked it down with a pin and wire.

It was comfortable and knowing a reasonable amount about fishing, he prepared two deep-sea rods and, using rubberized surface bait that looked like silver fish, he played them out and left the rods in two shiny steel rod holders molded on the top railing running around the boat.

Mo sat down, waved at Pedro who was checking his line; his father was checking the other and sat back. At five knots they were at a fast, but still good, trawling speed.

For two hours Mo enjoyed the fishing chair. It was hot and Beatrice had brought him out a hat she had found. Pedro’s father got another skipjack and soon after that Mo fell asleep.

He had been asleep for over an hour when one of his rods woke up and buzzed loudly, its line playing out at a fast rate. He fumbled for the rod and got it in control before stopping the line feed. He looked over to Pedro and saw that both his rods were doing the same. He let the line feed out again, reeled in the other rod so that it wouldn’t get tangled and went back to the first rod. Most of the line was gone and again he shut off the outgoing feed, now much slower. He pulled back slowly and felt the weight at the other end.

It was quite a big flick as the fish felt the pull and Mo reckoned that it was another fish about the size of Pedro’s. Marie had noticed the fish on the line behind Pedro’s boat and she reduced the speed down to a crawl on seeing Pedro’s boat slowing down.

With sweat creeping onto his brow, Mo slowly reeled the fish in. He looked over to Pedro who was gaffing a fish, which looked like a small tuna of about fifty pounds. Pedro’s father was struggling with his rod and looked like he had a bigger fish on the end of his.

Mo’s fish caught a second wind and this time he had to pull hard, his two feet on the railing to stop from being dragged into the water. He heard shouts from the other boat as Pedro gaffed the second fish, also a tuna about thirty pounds bigger than Pedro’s. Mo shouted for Lu who was watching behind him to get the gaff from the same place he had found the rods and she got ready to bring the fish aboard.

After twenty minutes Mo reeled in the fish, also a tuna, next to the boat as Lu bent over and gaffed it. With the help of Beatrice, the three of them got the seventy-pound tuna onto the deck.

“Lunch is served,” stated Mo, tired but happy. “I’m going to do this for the rest of my life. Free fish! I just caught a thousand-dollar fish,” he stated to Lu smiling.

“And at least ten meals for all of us,” remarked Lu. “I found cutting equipment in the kitchen and I will need this space, Mr. Fisherman, to gut and clean it.” She shouted orders to her two children and they returned with knives, a saw and a bucket. Mo was shooed out of the way and decided to go forward.

“Nice fish,” commented Marie through the open bridge window above him. He thanked her and asked Beatrice and the three daughters to help him remove the tarpaulin over the guns.

Pedro whistled went he saw what was underneath. “You want to exchange ships, Señor Wang?” he shouted. “I’ll include our two fresh fish in the deal.

“No, thank you,” replied Mo. “But I have an American automatic rifle or two and ammo if you want.”

Pedro said that he would take anything and Mo went back into the bridge and shocked Marie when he opened the leather-topped couch to reveal what was inside.

“Merde!” was all she said.

“You haven’t seen half of what is in the boat,” added Mo taking out one of the M-16s and several cases of ammo. With both boats still crawling along at two knots through the calm water, he went outside and Pedro eased his boat alongside after adding some buoys as protection.

Beatrice arrived with a case of plastic water bottles and a box full of beers and Cokes. The gun was passed over the water, and three buckets were filled with the boxes of ammo and provisions.

They increased the distance back to a hundred feet and continued towards Cozumel.

That afternoon, Mo learned how to shoot the fancy weaponry aboard. He told the girls over a lunch of fresh tuna sashimi, a beautifully prepared dish the French ladies and Lu had made, and one of Mo’s favorites, that he needed to learn how to use the weapons to defend them. He was sure that their voyage might not be plain sailing.

He had the tarpaulin already removed and studied the parts of the heavy machine gun. He figured out the aiming devise, how to take it off safety and that he needed earplugs as several rounds pounded out of the gun while it faced outwards on the starboard side, the opposite side to where Pedro’s boat was. With his ears ringing, he returned to the bridge and returned with a pair of headphones to protect his ears.

Mo fired several more rounds which took less than a second and then studied how to reload the steel belt which held the rounds. He went below and returned with a large military wooden box weighing more than a man of his age should be carrying, and inside was a belt of another 1,000 rounds.

All he needed to do was to open the top part of the machine gun when the current belt of 1,000 rounds ended, replace the belt, close the gun and continue firing. He carried and placed the second box underneath the first one and under the tarp where it would be protected from the rain, which seemed to be possible on the eastern horizon.

He just had time to study the 80-mm mortar tube, set it up and figure out which end to put the bomb into the tube before a wind squall arrived, hitting the starboard side of the boat hard.

He packed everything up and the girls helped him cover the forward armaments with the tarp, fastening the heavy cloth down as tight as they could.

The sea began to form white caps and on the way back to the bridge, Mo looked over to see that Pedro had slowed and that they were getting ready for rain, were still on their port side, but now a hundred or so feet aft.

With all windows and doors latched and checked, Mo returned to the bridge. He found Marie expertly guiding the ship which was still not on autopilot. For the first time Mo had to hold something as the ship lurched slightly to starboard. Beatrice was the closest thing to grab onto.

The rain, a black line of clouds, hit the starboard windows hard and began a drumming sound on the roof. Visibility outside reduced to a few feet and Pedro’s boat, now behind them, could barely be seen.

At five knots, the ship wasn’t hitting the growing waves hard, but he could feel the weather faintly through the steel plates. Marie showed him how to guide the boat through the swells, which were short, fast and coming in from a northeasterly direction. The swells were now four to five feet tall and the bow was beginning to dive into them as they arrived.

Within twenty minutes, the storm had passed. The wet ship was sparkling in new sunlight and the fishing boat could be seen several hundred yards behind them. Marie slowed down so that the other boat could resume her position a hundred feet from their port side, and Pedro opened the small cabin door looking dry. At least their investment was sort of weatherproof.

Mo, with only three hours of sleep, just made it through dinner. The youngsters didn’t want to sleep that early. The sun had only been down an hour and they had found a few movies and an old video player next to a small black and white television set. The entire ship’s equipment was old but still worked.

They could watch a movie in the lounge and Mo, after taking a shower, was ordered into the master stateroom. It was his for the night and he was on the four-to-eight watch, which gave him eight hours of sleep.

They had decided to have night running lights on both boats, keep several hundred yards apart and travel throughout the calm dark hours. Nobody knew how much longer the calm weather would last. Pedro reckoned that he had used up half his fuel and he would have enough until the next evening.

Sometime during the night, he felt somebody get into his bed. An arm came across him and he snuggled up to the warm body.

It felt like only seconds but he felt a tap on his shoulder and Marie telling him that it was five and she needed sleep. He moved out from the warm body beside him and felt for the clothes he had put out to find in the dark.

“Looks like Beatrice has taken a fancy to you, Mo. You should be ashamed of yourself; she is twenty years younger than you… but she always had a thing about older men,” joked Marie as he softly climbed the stairs to the bridge.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Mo replied, feeling guilty.

“Not directly, but inadvertently you have given her hope for some companionship. Look after her and she will never leave your side,” added Marie. “I’m going for six hours of sleep. The autopilot is set on our heading, not on any radar markers. I have brewed a fresh pot of coffee for you. Apart from Pedro who has lost ground slightly and is currently several hundred yards behind and directly in our wake, I’ve seen nothing on the radar. I switch it down to ten miles to see Pedro and then switch it up to sixty miles. We are still at five knots, the small engine fuel tank is the same as it was, but I think we should fill the other two tanks with the extra we have on deck. We are about 180 miles north of Roatán and 240 miles south of Cozumel.” With that she padded him on the shoulder and left the bridge.

The second dawn was experienced by Mo alone. It was a pleasant and pretty yellow dawn with no clouds anywhere. Pedro speeded up and waving, got into his usual position a hundred feet or so from the bigger ship. Mo turned off the lights and enjoyed the peace and quiet.

Mo’s mind was busy trying to understand that for the second time in his life, he might not be single anymore. It was certainly one for the record books, a man his age catching such a beautiful fish as Beatrice. He smiled, thinking that it was because there was no opposition around.

Nobody moved until about eight when Lu arrived, gave him a kiss on the cheek and a freshly made fruit salad in a bowl. “What do you think is our future, Uncle Mo?” she asked.

“It all depends on getting to America safely and then it will be up to your brother Lee and his friend Carlos Rodriquez,” he answered. “I’m sure Lee will be very happy to see you and your children. His wife and daughter are with him. He will give you a place to stay and I will sail off with my new toy and live on her if I am not welcome in America.”

“Is the world in such a bad condition?” Lu asked.

“I’m afraid so. Zedong Electronics made sure that nobody would survive apart from themselves and a workforce made up of whoever was left in the world. I don’t really know much, but there were two massive nuclear explosions inside China and the Supreme Commander blew Taiwan off the face of the earth. If half of the earth’s population survived all this, that will be a lot.”

“Is America in bad shape?” she asked.

“Very bad! Zedong Electronics relied on two powerful mechanisms for destruction: the first three months of winter in the year and the people in America who all have guns to shoot each other. Statistics showed that only about 40 to 60 million Americans could survive the first year out of 330 million. That country is going to be pretty empty of people if the scenarios come true.”

They sat enjoying the serenity of early morning with a cup of green tea, a pack Lu had brought with her. Mo noticed that the fuel tank for the small engine was slightly off full tank.

The second day aboard ship was hot with very little breeze to cool the air. The air conditioner was keeping the interior cool and comfortable. Pedro didn’t have such luxuries but his family had lived in these conditions all their lives and were used to them.

Mo had just returned to the bridge for his day watch two hours before dusk when he switched on the radar to full range and thought he saw a quick blip on his screen about 30 miles away to the northeast and moving across the top right-hand corner. He reduced the range down to 40 miles and two blips suddenly appeared heading south at a fast rate, one following the other. They were just over 22 miles away, zigzagging about, heading in their direction and were traveling fast. Mo shouted to Marie and Beatrice and they came to see.

Marie reduced the radar range to 30 miles and the blips increased in strength. They seemed to be constantly changing direction and following one another. The three watched them for three minutes and Marie decreased the range down to 20 miles. Still the fast boats went northwest and then southwest, and for another five minutes continued towards them. Suddenly, at 12 miles distance, one blip suddenly disappeared from the screen and the other seemed to head towards them for another three miles and then began to look stationary.

“That’s 20 minutes away on the big engines,” stated Mo. Do you think we should go and see what’s happening?”

“Why would we do that?” asked Marie.

“I’m thinking at that speed the boats must have gasoline engines and we might be able to barter some for food or something for Pedro’s boat,” Mo replied. He called Pedro, told him to continue towards Cozumel and explained to him what they had seen on the radar. Two minutes later he had the big engines fired up and was heading towards the stationary blip still over the horizon.

They watched as the blip came closer. It was still stationary and 25 minutes later Marie pulled back on the throttles as Mo stood on the bow with an M-16 at the ready. He signaled Marie to stop the engines and she put the throttles into neutral.

In front of them was a stationary speed boat, about the length of Pedro’s boat. There were a couple of bodies hanging over the railing, one on each side and a third slumped over the wheel. It was slowly sinking; the bow was down and it wouldn’t be long before it disappeared from sight. She heard Mo hailing the boat, but nobody moved. There was no fire and Marie nudged the ship to within ten yards, still nobody moved. There were floating objects all around, presumably from the second boat which must have already sunk as Mo saw several other bodies a hundred yards off, and the fin of a large shark close by.

The floating boat had bullet holes everywhere and Mo signaled Marie to get in closer. Marie slowly edged the boat closer and closer by turning off the big engines and using the smaller one. Mo told her to stop and she put the engine into reverse to cease all movement, and then into neutral.

Standing on the bow, eight feet above the speed boat, Mo could see everything. He called Beatrice forward gave her the M-16 carbine and as the boats touched gently he jumped aboard the smaller one. He threw a line he found in the water to Beatrice and told her to wrap it around the railing.

He then checked the bodies. The two hanging over the sides were riddled with bullets and he suddenly realized that he was looking at the fin of a massive shark as it glided by the side of the boat. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he checked the man slumped over the wheel. He must have bled to death, as the floor around him was a pool of blood.

Mo felt something nudge the boat and he shouted at Beatrice to keep the boat close alongside.

He had little time and he looked towards the two large outboard engines at the rear. They were old and pretty rusty in areas and he saw a line of red five-gallon cans which could hold gasoline. The boat tilted a little more and he jumped to the rear.

The first can was full and he grabbed it and the next one, moved to the side of the boat and lifted them high one at a time so that Beatrice could grab them. There were eight of them that were full and the other four were empty.

A second harder nudge nearly made him fall into the water and he looked over the side to see several large sharks fighting to grab the body dangling out of the boat. Mo had pulled the other one into the boat so that it wouldn’t get caught between the two craft when they came together. The eight canisters were aboard and he was about to follow them when he saw six travel bags on the rear seat facing aft. He had actually stepped on them as he rushed over the rear seat. He picked one up, it was heavy and he lifted it above his head to be collected. Lu and Beatrice were ready, grabbed them and as he reached the last one, he felt the boat sharpen its angle.

The rising water had now reached the windshield of the boat and was starting to flow over the top. He lifted the bag up and then the two women literally lifted him up as the boat filled with water and he was left dangling in space, holding onto the top railing. He raised his left leg and found footage and then was able to get his other leg over the railing as Beatrice let the line to the boat go. He turned to see a massive shark flip itself into what was left of the boat above water and grab onto one of the semi-floating bodies.

Marie must have put the engine into gear, as the vessel moved forward scraping the side of the sinking boat. As they passed, the smaller boat went completely under, blood spilled over the sides, and suddenly sharks came in from all directions.

Within seconds empty, floating red gas cans were all that was left in the water, and Mo realized how close he had come to going down with the boat. Beatrice hugged him. “You had better not do that again, Mo… that was much too close!”

It took Mo several minutes to get back to reality and all the youngsters came out to carry the salvaged spoils to the rear of the boat. Marie already had the big engines started and the ship surged ahead in a slow turn away from the floating debris. He tied the new canisters to the railing and asked that the bags be taken inside as the water was getting choppy all of a sudden. He looked to the east and saw a dark grey rain squall a mile or two away from them.

Mo Wang wondered who those men were as he followed the girls in and closed the door behind him.

“Pedro is about twelve miles ahead of us,” stated Marie as he entered the bridge. “I have plotted a course five miles ahead of his current position and we should be with him in an hour at three-quarter throttle.” Beatrice asked what should be done with the bags. Mo replied to put them in the stateroom. They would look at them later.

The rain was hard, and like the previous day’s, lasted all of twenty minutes. This time they headed with the storm and the ship hardly felt the four-foot waves being sliced by her bow.

They reached Pedro just as dark closed in. He waved as they came up to him, his night lights already on. Mo motioned to him to slow down, and as they came along side he handed Pedro the eight cans of gas.

“These will get me a day closer, Señor Wang. Do you have any more beers aboard? My father and I can celebrate our gift from you tonight. The fish was good, no?” Mo laughed and retrieved a six pack and a bottle of the white alcohol from the refrigerator in the bridge.

“I haven’t had a drink for 48 hours, Pedro,” Mo stated, smiling as he reached out and passed the bucket of bottles to Pedro.

“That means that I’m 48 hours ahead of you, Señor. What was the boat you found to give us this gas?”

As they slowly drifted apart, and with Pedro’s father already pouring the first can into the virtually dry gas tank, Mo told Pedro what he had seen.

“Smugglers or drug runners from Mexico to Colombia via San Andrés Island,” shouted Pedro as both craft gathered speed back to five knots to prepare for the night. “And thanks for the gas.”

Pedro was right. He needed a drink. He showered and got ready for his night on watch. The eight hours of sleep the night before had refreshed him and he felt strong enough to get them safely through the night. The voyage was becoming a dream to Mo; it would be lousy if it came to an end, but he knew that there could be problems up ahead and the next day he would empty the extra diesel into the tanks.

As time passed on the voyage, everybody did their part. The youngsters, enjoying the ride, had each been assigned tasks by Beatrice and Lu. Once Pedro returned to his night position several hundred yards behind to follow the wake, dinner was served. The bridge was left on autopilot while Mo drank a cold beer and opened a bottle of Colombian red wine for the ladies.

Again, the tasty meal consisted of fish, vegetables and rice, and was as good as any restaurant could offer. Dessert was sweet Danish cookies, purchased in the last haul from the supermarket. They had no bread, the only thing missing in their daily diet. After dinner, just like the previous evening, the adults retired to the lounge while the kids had KP duty.

“We should be close to Cozumel tomorrow night,” stated Marie. “Also, I checked out the watermaker in the engine room earlier today and it is working well. It seems to top off two tanks each side of the ship. I have calculated that the generators and watermaker are using about twenty gallons of diesel per day in total. In the future, we must add that into our fuel equations.” Mo nodded.

“By the time we know how to use everything on this ship, the journey will be at the end,” he added.

“It seems that our journey aboard this ship never has to end,” stated Beatrice. “All we need is to find is a secluded island to search for food and water, and a diesel tanker floating about somewhere.”

I honestly think I saw another blip on our screen today,” added Marie. “It was at our maximum 60-mile range, it must have been big and I only saw a blip on our screen three times before it disappeared. It was earlier while you were sleeping, Mo, and I never thought any more about it.

“There must be floating ships out here on the oceans, thousands of them,” suggested Mo.

“Many of them would have run aground by now,” added Beatrice.

“That’s why we must always have a watch on the bridge. Even though time passes slowly on the water, the unexpected can appear from nowhere, especially storms and other ships,” continued Marie.

Nothing much happened that night. Mo sat in the bridge until four, contemplating life, and every so often checked the dials and even tried the depth gauge once. It took several seconds to give him a reading of 2,700 feet. It was a long way to the bottom.

Pedro’s boat stayed a constant four hundred yards behind them and kept to the calmer water inside the bigger ship’s wake.

A sleepy Marie and one of her daughters came up to relieve him. He was ordered to the master stateroom, where Beatrice was asleep, having the night off from any watches. Mo had been more than happy take her watch as well.

By midday the next day, Marie calculated that they were within a hundred miles of Cozumel and the small engine’s fuel tank was showing three-quarter full. Mo poured in the extra fuel on board, filling up the two tanks the larger engines had used. It just filled them and he realized how thirsty the big engines were.

Pedro came in close and said he expected their engine would cut out in a couple of hours, and Mo readied ropes to set up a tow line.

The fishing vessel must have had a little in reserve as it lasted another four hours. At dusk Mo threw him the lines as the land mass of Cozumel showed up on the sixty-mile radar screen.

Earlier, Pedro spent an hour on board the Cutter explaining that his father had a large family on Cozumel, and they believed that the island, without the gangsters that had inhabited Roatán, would be peaceful and serene. He showed Marie on the map where he wanted to be taken. His family owned a large villa, a couple of fishing boats, and a strong jetty. Pedro also invited them to stay for a day, so that his family could supply them with fresh fruits and vegetables.

Mo first tried to tow with the smaller engine and it worked well at just under four knots. Pedro returned to his boat. Later that evening while everybody was outside watching Pedro’s boat being pulled along fifty feet behind, Mo remembered the cases from the stricken speed boat. He walked into the master stateroom and looked at them. They were untouched and he carefully opened the first bag.

It was full of Mexican bank notes under some dirty clothes. All the notes were brand new and still in wrappers. He closed the case and put it to one side. The next two were full of clothes on top and underneath row upon row of U.S. hundred dollar bills, again, all new. It looked like the same amount he had in his suitcase at the beginning, about a million dollars in each. The fourth was dirty clothes with some heavy boots in the bottom. The fifth was the same except for several bottles of Tequila. He added the bottles to the five unopened bottles he had pulled out of the other bags. The last bag took his breath away.

It was packed full of American bank notes and dozens of what looked like expensive and extremely beautiful pieces of jewelry—necklaces with stones, gold pieces of every size, very heavy and very expensive, and some of the biggest white, red and green stones he had ever seen. Again, everything was hidden under a change of clothes.

Mo decided to give the bag with the Mexican money to Pedro and he would keep the rest in case of an emergency.

An hour before dawn the next morning, and two hours after they had first seen the light of the still-working lighthouse on the southern tip of the island, Mo phoned Pedro and said that they would be slowing down in a few minutes, the depth was sixty feet and they were about a mile from the shore where Pedro wanted to be. They had run without lights the whole night and did not want to be seen by anybody out fishing. There had been one small blip on the screen an hour earlier, twenty miles away and heading due south.

The dawn slowly gained light and Pedro pointed to a boat dock with one fishing boat on it about two miles along the coast. It was in a low inlet and the roof of a farmhouse could be seen behind the beach and the inlet wall of grass.

Carefully, Marie guided the two craft in at three knots, the exhaust hardly making a noise, passing within several feet of the end of the dock. Pedro pointed the bow of their ship in to dock as the ropes were readied. Feet from touching the wooden dock Pedro cut the tow ropes and Marie quickly pointed the Cutter’s bow out to sea. They were leaving nothing to chance.

They all watched as Pedro tied the boat up and ran down the wooden dock to the house. Several minutes later he returned with several people who helped him pull the boat further in, and tied it in front of a similar old fishing boat. Pedro raised the satellite phone, indicating he wanted Mo to call him.

“Mo, everything is OK here on Cozumel. My family is fine and there is no trouble. I have one side of the dock open for you. There is enough room for you to moor the ship. It’s not as strong as the one in Roatán but it will be OK as long as you are gentle and there is no storm.” Mo told Marie it was safe and she prepared to take the ship in.

Marie wanted to be prepared to exit quickly just in case and she came around slowly and turned to face south a dozen feet from the end of the dock. The depth was twelve feet and she had six feet to spare. Slowly she reversed in with the rudder hard over to close with the people waiting for thrown lines. Lu, Mo and Beatrice threw out the lines as they neared.

The ship lightly touched the 50 feet of available wood and the whole structure groaned as the ship pressed against it. There were old permanent truck tires to cushion the blow, the dock held and Marie closed down the engine.

Mo decided to put on the cowboy belt with the two Magnums before he left the ship and he handed the two machine pistols from the bookcase to Marie and Beatrice. Both girls laughed at him and told him he looked like a Chinese cowboy with his gun belt, and that he had put it on far too tight. He ignored the remarks from the ladies and asked Lu to be the guard on the ship, allow nobody aboard, and he gave her a machine pistol from inside the couch. He was shown how to wear the belt like an American cowboy would, then went into the stateroom and picked up the one bag for Pedro and closed the door behind him.

“I’m glad you are going to protect us with all the guns I told you were on board,” smiled Pedro seeing the well-armed Mo. Mo noticed that the M-16 he had given Pedro at sea was being carried into the farmhouse.

“I think we can now defend ourselves, Pedro. I have a little payment here for you in return for a month’s supply of everything we can eat except fish,” returned Mo, handing Pedro his bag. “Fish, I can catch myself.”

They were introduced to Pedro’s father’s large family. They looked rather shocked at the well-armed visitors. It was peaceful here and very little in their lives had changed since January. They weren’t happy until Pedro, in Spanish, gave them a quick rundown on why they were armed. After that the Mexican family seemed to understand and happily welcomed the visitors into their house.

It was a big old house and was very Spanish. Mo placed the bag on the floor while Pedro rapidly told the several members of the family that the big ship would leave very soon and they needed supplies. There was an old American Ford outside, rusty with not one lick of paintwork on it and Mo was sure that it didn’t run.

“There is a store in the area,” Pedro said to Mo. “There hasn’t been a ferry for months and the stores are running dry in the tourist areas. There aren’t very many tourists on the island. The last ferry, the day before New Year’s Eve, took many tourists to the mainland, to Cancun. Many of the aircraft also departed that day and never returned. The next load of tourists was expected on January 2nd, but the aircraft never arrived and the ferry carrying the tourists in from the mainland also never arrived. My uncle says that there are only about 300 tourists on the island and the shops by the tourist areas are now straining to feed them. Many tourists have run out of money and are looking for work on the farms. He knows of one store that is not close to the tourist hotels, and with money could fill up his truck with what you need. My uncle is not rich and you will need to pay for your supplies.”

“Then I suggest you look in the bag, and I would suggest, Pedro, you look in private. There is enough in there to purchase our supplies and more for you for a long time. I might even come back here if I’m not welcome in America,” replied Mo.

Pedro carried the bag into a bedroom, shouted to the kids to show the visitors to the chairs on the porch where they could sit in comfort, and he gave orders for food to be prepared.

“Also, my uncle says a storm is coming; he says his right leg hurts and when that happens, it means that a storm is coming in from the east.”

“May I assume that when his left leg hurts, the storm is coming in from the west?” joked Mo.

“You are getting the picture, Señor Wang,” laughed Pedro, closing the bedroom door for privacy. Mo was starting to feel good here. The people all smiled at them and everybody got busy to feed the guests.

Fruit juice was served and it wasn’t long before Pedro returned with a pile of new bills in his hand and a look of shock on his face. He thanked Mo profusely. He explained to Mo that he could get some diesel for him and that they should get all the cans off the boats and see if he could get them all filled from the store. It had gas and diesel pumps. Mo heard the old Ford start up and head over to the jetty. He followed it and carried all the empty diesel canisters off the boat, filling up the bed of the truck.

The truck sped off with Pedro, his father and his Mexican uncle.

Mo looked up at the sky. It looked impossible that there could be a storm brewing in the close proximity, but In China he had learned that farmers were usually right when they predicted the weather.

A fantastic breakfast of several different fruits and cereals was presented to the visitors by the women and children of the house. Marie and Beatrice spoke a little Spanish and with their French managed a conversation with the ladies. Mo called Lu and her children from the ship; the farm was safe and there was no danger.

They were full and the heat of the day rose as they sat and enjoyed the peace. There wasn’t much to do and they waited for the truck to return. It arrived with the tanks full of diesel and nothing else.

“My father is preparing stores for you, Mo,” shouted Pedro as they drew up to the jetty. “There is a boxed American bread-toaster machine and three new bread-making machines in the store. They are old, the pictures on the packets are losing their color but my father found a device to change the power to make them work on the ship. Do you want them?” Mo nodded that he did. “There is also an old television that is working and a Computer Dish Internet system. It is in an old box and says “Hughes Net” on it. You can have the lot for the old pistol I’m sure you don’t need any more. The store owner feels like she needs something for protection. I have lots of money but I wanted to know if you need the stuff.”

Mo got excited. As an engineer he knew what Pedro was talking about and he could play with the Internet system and maybe get direct communications with the Chinese satellites. He asked Pedro’s father if he wanted the old pistol back Mo had bought from him and he shook his head no. Mo went to the master stateroom and returned with the old pistol and boxes of ammunition he had purchased on Roatán. He handed them to Pedro and then helped get the heavy canisters on board to refuel the tanks.

The first tank the ship had been using for the small engine took the first hundred and fifty gallons. That wasn’t bad for 70 hours of cruising at five knots, and he thought that Marie was slightly off in her calculations. Three miles per gallon was the correct usage, or just over two gallons an hour at five knots. The level had been below the three-quarter level and Mo now knew that the four tanks held about 400 gallons each.

He emptied the rest, fifty gallons, into one of the two tanks he had used for the big Cummins and it was still thirsty. He had already emptied the two hundred gallons, a hundred gallons into each tank from the Roatán supply, and they still sat under the full mark.

The truck left and returned an hour later with another 200 gallons. “This is all they have, Señor, their tank is empty,” stated Pedro. “Tomorrow I will buy gas for my boat and go fishing. We have a load of food supplies for you and I will return again in an hour.”

By the time Pedro returned, Mo had all the tanks filled to the brim and still had forty gallons tied to the railing. This time the old Ford was full of supplies: bread flour, corn flour, tins of baked beans and several other types of food, boxes of Mexican cookies, a pile of freshly picked corn, vegetables and several types of fruit.

This time all the girls helped carry the supplies aboard and every kitchen cupboard and the fridge were filled to capacity. There was no milk, but several pounds of butter, still frozen bacon and pork roasts were in the load.

His uncle pushed a wheelbarrow up from behind the house and in it was produce from his garden: fresh herbs, lettuce, onions, turnips and tomatoes, as well as several dozen eggs in old and used containers. This was packed away and the visitors said their thanks to the Mexican family.

Lunch was ready and Pedro’s uncle patted Mo on the shoulder and pointed to dark clouds appearing over the eastern horizon.

“You should keep my satellite phone, Pedro,” stated Mo over lunch. “I put a phone charger in the bag and you must keep it fully charged. You can leave it on the charger at all times, but keep it turned off apart for a couple of hours every Saturday afternoon. If I want to contact you, I will call you around dusk on a Saturday. I’m sure that your time and American time are about the same. Just listen in for a call. Now, if you need to call me, here is my phone number. Only call me if you need to tell me any important news. I hope to return in a few months for a visit. I suggest you buy all the fuel you can and see if you can purchase a gas generator or two. You will run out of electricity here on the island one day and you will need gas to generate power. Try and keep the phone charged as long as possible. It will only be charged and usable for 48 hours on standby once you run out of electricity or gas for your generators. If your electricity goes off, call me and tell me how long your gas will last and maybe I can organize some for you. Also, make sure that the airport runway is clear. I might be able to get an aircraft in here to supply you.” Pedro nodded.

By early afternoon they had drawn in the lines and a happy farewell was given by both groups as Marie carefully moved the ship away from the dock.

Pedro’s uncle was right. The crew checked to make sure everything was battened down for the storm, cleared the deck, and sealed all the guns and equipment below deck. Three hours later, and an hour before dark, the storm closed in around them. For the first time in the voyage, Mo felt the ship rise and fall with the waves sweeping in on their starboard bow. They had passed the southern tip and the lighthouse two hours earlier and, at six knots they were ten miles offshore and heading in an east-northeast direction which would take them between Mexico and the closest Cuban point of land 200 miles away.

The storm pounded them. They stayed awake all night as it was too rough to sleep. Mo was happy that the senator in Colombia had picked a Coast Guard vessel. With the small engine running at high cruise they were only achieving four knots, the ship having to fight its way through the ten-foot waves, spray flying over the bow as it surged down into the next trough.

Just before midnight Mo went below to the engine room and the forward gun compartment to check for leaks. The ship was holding up well and had a few drops of water here and there, but all the equipment was dry.

It was too rough to make coffee and they ate fruit and cookies. The youngsters tried to watch a movie, but that was too difficult, the television wanting to fall out of its space, and in the end they had a slumber party on the floor and ate cookies and drank Cokes, trying to ignore the storm.

Marie told him that it was far too early for hurricane season, which would start in a couple of months’ time, and this storm was just a front or low coming across.

Mo sat holding Beatrice’s hand on the couch for most of the night, the two ladies taking shifts at the wheel.

By dawn there was no let up, except that the wind had died down somewhat; the waves weren’t as big, but the rain was heavy and visibility down to the length of the ship.

At midday, on the third day out from Pedro’s farm, the rain ceased a little but the wind rose to thirty-knot gusts making their forward movement slow. By evening the rain had stopped, but the wind still howled across their bow.

They had left the last tip of Mexico on the radar sixty miles away and twelve hours earlier, but in the first day they had only covered a hundred miles. Havana was now about a hundred miles to their east and they expected to pass by sixty miles north of the city, again getting the northern coastline of that country on their radar.

Early on the fourth day and an hour before dawn, the storm finally left them, the sea smoothed out, and their speed crept up to six knots. The coast of Cuba passed by on the screen fifty miles to the east of them. Mo changed course to the northeast; he was aiming towards the Key West area.

It was the wrong move, but he didn’t know it then. Cuba had no bad guys patrolling the waters, Florida did.

They slept in shifts most of that day and Beatrice turned the ship eastwards just after lunch. By late afternoon, Key West appeared on the radar screen thirty miles north of them and they couldn’t see any blips on the radar.

Mo wanted to head for North Carolina or Virginia, where he knew the U.S. Navy would be stationed, and he didn’t want to meet anybody until then. The ship’s direction took her thirty miles south of the islands east of Key West.

At midnight Mo turned northeast again as the sea began to get a little rougher, a good breeze coming in from the north. Earlier they had discussed their route, deciding to close in a little more towards land and follow the islands around the bottom of Florida at twenty miles. They were well over the horizon and hopefully away from searching eyes.

Dawn raised its lazy head to a decent sea with long swells coming in from the east. They had finished breakfast when Mo had a feeling that he needed to get the weaponry back on the deck.

Only thirty minutes later Marie shouted out to him that six blips were heading towards them from an area south of Miami and were traveling fast. Mo shouted at her to turn east, start the bigger engines and increase up to twelve knots. He spent another thirty minutes getting ammo and the two guns ready, even firing several rounds off to make sure.

The sea had calmed a little as the sun rose. The heat increased to over seventy degrees as he headed back to the bridge. The ship was now heading away from the U.S. and a decent wave was breaking away from the bow of the ship.

“The six blips are now only ten miles behind us and they are approaching at about thirty knots. I think they are fast speed boats because they are showing the same size as that one you nearly went down with. There is no way we can outrun them, whoever they are.”

“Marie, turn northeast. If we are using all this fuel and they are official police or military boats coming out to check us, then we might as well sail closer to our destination,” suggested Mo. “Also turn the radar to maximum. There could be others close by.”

Marie did and three more dots appeared about forty miles southeast of them. Mo studied them for several minutes. “It looks like those blips are far bigger and heading north rapidly. If we continue our direction, we will be in sight of them in about an hour.”

“I can just see the speed boats on the horizon,” shouted Beatrice looking behind them with binoculars.

Mo was in a dilemma. There were two sets of boats. One group of boats was heading directly towards them from the U.S. coast. The other, much larger dots on radar looked like they had no interest in them and would pass them about twenty miles further out.

“Marie, the safest place to be is in sight of both sets of boats. Whoever they are, I hope that at least one of the groups is friendly. I have a feeling that the ones behind are not people we want to meet. They are coming after us, while the three larger dots look like they are not interested in us and will sail past us. Go to full speed and set a course to meet the three vessels out there and get as close as we can to them before somebody makes a move.”

Marie followed his instructions and, with both big Cummins at full power, the speed slowly rose to 21 knots. Mo looked at the radar screen; the six boats were still five miles behind, but the gap diminished even as their speed increased.

Thirty minutes later the speed boats were less than half a mile behind and the three growing dots on the radar screen were still fifteen miles away and about to pass them due east of their position. Marie turned slightly northwards as Mo exited the starboard bridge door and, holding onto the rail, worked his way forward. A mortar projectile flew over the ship and hit the water a couple of hundred feet away. A second and then a third projectile was only a minute behind when Mo got to his mortar and turned it towards the oncoming ships. He heard machine gun fire and saw a line of bullets hit the water behind them.

He was as ready as he ever would be. Looking into the sights he found the general area where the boats were slicing through the water towards him. They were tightly packed. He picked up and armed three mortar bombs, looked through the sights and tightened them down on the lead boat. He had seen a mortar demonstration in China and knew that he could drop a mortar down the three-foot tube as soon as the one before was discharged. He remembered to get his hands away as another bomb landed in the water only feet from where he crouched.

He fired off three bombs as fast as they could escape the tube, dug into the box, and armed three more. The chasing boats got the shock of their lives as three explosions plowed into the water around them; this was not something they were expecting.

Mo felt good as he adjusted his sights on the slowing boats and slipped in three more rounds. He waited patiently as the boats slowed; he had allowed for that. His fourth bomb landed only feet short of the lead boat as it turned, the next closer and the last bomb blew it to bits in a massive orange explosion. Suddenly the five remaining boats made a line and aimed north, speeding past him about three hundred yards away, with several machine guns opening up on him. He rose and aimed the heavy machine gun at the closest boat and pulled the trigger; the rounds fell short, but he realized that with the water explosions he could right his aim to compensate by looking where the previous shots hit the water.

He quickly pulled his aim higher and saw several pieces of a boat’s woodwork fly into the air, including a body, before all five boats turned the way they had come, and at full speed headed out of range. Mo was sure he saw smoke pouring out of the one he had hit.

“Beatrice, get me more mortar bombs. I only have three left out here!” He had explained the different ammo boxes to her and seconds later she and Virginie emerged dragging two boxes along the deck.

“I’m reducing speed, Mo, the engine temperatures are getting hot,” shouted Marie, and Mo felt the ship slow down slightly. Suddenly Marie screamed and he looked up to see three of the boats approaching fast and he heard the first explosion several yards off their port bow. The girls brought him the two boxes each with three bombs and he told them to get back inside and get ready to bring more as bullets stated hitting around them. He jumped for the machine gun, swung it to where the boats were and began firing. They suddenly slowed, each let off a mortar bomb, turned and screamed away.

Mo got their range and he peppered the rear of one of the boats before it got out of range. The bombs came close, two only yards behind the ship and one in front which drenched him as they ploughed through the hole where it had gone in seconds earlier.

“How far are the other ships?” Mo shouted to Marie.

“Nine miles, and now heading directly towards us at nearly forty knots! Mo, they must be warships at that speed, have radar or seen the explosion.” Mo looked up and saw a black cloud of smoke hanging over the horizon where the first boat had exploded.

Two of the speed boats began to head in again, their bows rising as they accelerated. He armed all nine bombs and got ready. They were certainly getting his ship’s range, but he was also learning fast. He also noticed the other three turning and realized they were going to get behind him, where the machine gun couldn’t be used.

“Beatrice, Lu, load two automatic rifles and go the back of the ship. It looks like they are going to attack us from where I can’t shoot!” screamed Mo as he saw the other two coming into range.

He was right. The other three boats came in behind and he changed position to aim the machine gun at the first two, letting out a long burst of fire. The closest one fired a mortar as his rounds peppered the boat and the driver veered around to head back, another body falling over the side as it turned away sharply. The second one came straight in as his gun stopped firing. He needed to change belts.

The bomb landed harmlessly several yards short and he aimed his mortar. The second boat was a little closer than the three coming in from behind and his quick brain worked out a plan.

There was little in the way of the mortar bomb if he pointed it over the ship, the bomb exiting nearly vertical. He watched through the site as the first boat let a mortar off and he slid two bombs in quickly towards the incoming boat and then turned the mortar around towards the other three now directly behind.

Bullets started buzzing around him and ricocheting off the steel harmlessly. He couldn’t aim at the boats behind, but they looked to be at about the same distance, and he let five bombs scream out of the tube one after the other. The first bomb landed close to the second speed boat and it veered off again. As the second bomb hit the water less than a foot behind it, a large wall of water swamped the turning boat and it stopped dead in the water.

Mo was about to get his last two mortars into the tubes when he saw the next two of his five shots straddle the first boat, causing the second boat to plough through a wall of water where the third bomb had a made a hole, and the third boat turned away as the fourth and fifth bombs landed close enough to soak its occupants.

“Bring three more boxes, Beatrice,” shouted Mo as he turned to begin loading the machine gun. The attack boats needed a couple of minutes to pump bilge water out of their boats, giving Mo a few minutes to prepare for the next attack. Mo had the machine gun ready and eight more mortar bombs armed when they began to close. This time they formed a line just out of range, stayed about eight hundred yards away, and at full speed began to circle the ship, much like the Indians did on horseback in the cowboy days. They completed one turn and one at the back turned in as one in the front did the same. There was no way Mo could cover both and he began firing the machine gun at the lead boat.

“Fire at the rear boat!” he screamed at the ladies behind. The front boat pulled away, but then two others came in on either side. He fired at the one off the port bow hoping that the girls were dealing with the others. He hit one of them as it came in and his bullets ripped it to pieces, the bow going in and stopping. He turned to face the other one on the starboard side and got off several rounds before a massive column of water exploded yards from the incoming boat, throwing somebody into the water. The boat turned on a dime and headed away northwards.

“What have the girls found to that is so big?” he thought as he felt something graze his side. The front boat off his port bow was shooting at him. It did not see the Light Frigate approaching until it had unloaded several rounds, one entering Mo’s side.

Mo hadn’t seen the naval ships either, but watched as the boat shooting at him was lifted up, exploded in the air, fell back and disappeared with hundreds of pieces of debris shooting out in all directions. He suddenly felt weak and sat down, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the dropping boat parts and bodies making hundreds of splashes as they hit the water. He looked over to the west and saw the last two boats, one still smoking badly, heading as fast as they could back to Florida. Before he passed out, he heard the siren of a ship off in the distance and it sounded pretty powerful.

He awoke a couple of hours later in a hospital ward with a doctor or medic looking at him. Beatrice’s face was also there and he felt her holding his left hand.

“It’s time you woke up, Mo,” she stated.

“Am I alive, or in heaven?” he asked, looking into her beautiful face and putting on a weak smile.

“You have lost a lot of blood, but the medic says that it is a clean wound, didn’t hit any bones or vital organs, and you should be OK in a few days. We are heading to Virginia with the Colombian Navy. Marie has control of our ship and the good news is that your baby has no damage.

Several hours later he awoke again. This time nobody was sitting with him. He tried to sit up and the same medic returned and in English told him to rest. It was midnight and he needed more sleep.

Mo dreamed funny dreams, about being on a mortar bomb and watching as the bomb and he descended onto a speed boat. It was going to miss and he leaned over to try and steer it towards the boat. Suddenly he saw lots of girls in the boat looking up at him and he tried to steer the bomb away and suddenly sat up. He was still in the hospital and he felt the pain in his side.

A new medic returned and asked if he was hungry. Mo was a little and the medic helped him get dressed, not in his clothes but a set of military overalls.

His side was sore, but he felt OK, not dizzy or sick anymore, and he was rather looking forward to some food. This ship was far bigger than the Cutter. After climbing slowly up two levels of stairs he was helped into a dining room where eight chairs waited for people to use them. He noticed four sets of cutlery on the table and three men in the room waiting for him.

“Good morning, Señor Wang, please take the nearest seat. You look far better than when we carried you aboard yesterday. You have been asleep for 18 hours,” stated a man with a very flashy uniform. Mo knew that he was a man of high rank.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” bowed Mo, and he took the closest seat and sat down. “I assume it is you I must thank you for saving our lives yesterday.”

“Not really, Señor Wang. You were doing a pretty good job sorting out your own problems. We were watching you for a few minutes when we realized that their tactics were getting better. One man can only shoot in so many directions and I think you had reached the maximum number of directions you could shoot. I think that you would have scared them off if you had beaten them back one more time, but we decided to intervene. Maybe I should introduce myself. I’m Admiral Luiz Rodriquez, head of the Colombian Naval Forces. This is the Captain of this ship, Commander Perez, and his first officer Captain Ortez.” The men shook hands and they were served breakfast. “You have certainly got a good-looking crew, Señor Wang,” carried on Admiral Rodriquez. “My sailors could hardly keep their eyes off all the beautiful ladies and the fancy weapons you are carrying aboard. May I assume you have international papers to own one heavy 7.62-mm machine gun, one 80-mm mortar and American M-16 automatic rifles at sea?”

“Have you or your men been aboard, Admiral?” Mo asked.

“I was thinking of searching your vessel, Señor Wang, until we realized that we weren’t in any danger from your crew, or family, except for maybe our sailors wanting to jump ship. It is a very strange ship you have, Señor, half steel and half wood and it looks like her lines are half yacht and half….”

“Military vessel,” helped Mo.

“Yes, you took the words out of my mouth. When we first saw you, you looked like a type of vessel which would be owned by either a very rich man or a man smuggling drugs. I first thought you were the rich man, not the drug smuggler until I saw the array of weapons on your bow. That got me thinking. You were fighting off drug smugglers or pirates who wanted your ship for themselves, which increased my good thoughts about you. Of course, as soon as I saw your crew, I couldn’t believe that a low-life gangster would find that many beautiful European girls as crew members. So, I decided not to board your ship yet. She sails well at 15 knots and we are prepared to escort you to your destination which, funnily enough, is the direction we are going. Now that you are feeling better, I would like to have a tour of your ship as soon as our breakfast is over and we transfer you back to your vessel.” Mo nodded his approval.

The admiral’s ship radioed Marie to instruct her to slow and prepare for Señor Wang and others to join them. With that, the two ships slowed down in the becalmed sea to get closer to each other.

Fifteen minutes later there was no need for ropes or any assistance to get across as the sea was calm. Two seamen jumped across the two feet of water between the stationary ships and down four feet to the deck of the Cutter.

Several men helped Mo across by putting him in a large basket and literally passing it across. The medic didn’t want the wound opened. The admiral and Captain Ortez jumped over. Four more soldiers joined them and stood guard at either side of the bridge.

Mo was helped out of the basket and walked by himself to the bridge. He noticed that the ladies had replaced the tarpaulin over the guns and had cleaned the deck. He couldn’t see any blood stains.

He asked the ladies to remove the tarp. Beatrice knew how to set the two guns to return to their compartments, and he would return the weapons to their hiding places once ready. They weren’t needed with the extra fire power around them.

Mo invited the admiral and the captain into the lounge as Marie increased the revs and they returned to fifteen knots.

“Please sit down, Admiral. Would you like a beer or coke?” Mo asked. The admiral asked for a coke and his eyes grew large when he saw that it was a bottle from his homeland. The admiral looked at him. “Admiral, I have a good story to tell you about whom this ship belongs to, and I think you will be surprised.” The admiral nodded and Mo began his story, starting with his jumping ship in Panama and arriving in Roatán. He had just got to the part where he was being taken to the Villa when Beatrice entered and told him that the weapons were ready. He excused himself and returned the guns to the interior of the ship.

“Captain, the guns have disappeared,” stated the guards in Spanish. Mo smiled, understanding what they were shouting about, and the captain went to check. He came back and reported to the admiral.

“This ship gets more and more interesting, Señor Wang. Are you sure you are not Chinese Secret Service or something? This ship is something I would see in a James Bond movie,” added the admiral, not moving from his seat.

Mo continued to relate his story, about the villa, the shooting on the island and their only way to escape, with the villa owner’s ship.

“And do you know the name of the villa owner you commandeered the ship from?” smiled the admiral about to get the smile taken off his face.

“A Colombian senator, Admiral, hence the Colombian Coca-Cola you are drinking,” he added. The smile hung on the Admiral’s face like it wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.

“And his name?” asked the admiral softly.

Chapter 16

April 1st Meeting

Early on April 1st, 2013, Preston’s airfield came alive. Sally and Martie had flown in together the night before, Sally in the Pilatus from California, and Martie finally returned to the farm flying her Mustang.

Both Preston and Carlos were glad to see the girls. So were Little Beth, Clint, the dogs, and even Smokey the cat who appeared out of nowhere to rub against their legs once the aircraft had been closed down.

Martie and Sally couldn’t believe how good the airfield looked with all the new modifications. They both had to land on the new runway just to see how long and smooth it was. To Martie, it was long; she didn’t even have to use her brakes to land. She reached the northern end, and then taxied down the original runway to her usual parking place, to be towed backwards into the hangar with the lawn tractor, next to Preston’s P-51.

The meeting at Andrews was going to be a crucial assembly. Although spring was in the air, crops were being planted and the snows were receding north, it was also three months since the whole country had shut down. The MRE rations were running out and life was to become very interesting for the rest of the year.

Preston and Carlos, with the two ever-present dogs bounding around them, showed the two girls the newly modified airfield. The two runways and the adjoining taxiway on the southern end looked pristine: pitch black, with new white and yellow painted lines perfectly unused, bright and clean of tire marks. The now-complete hangars and their accommodations were still empty of aircraft except for Carlos’ Colombian DC-3 which had found a new home, even though he preferred his old one in Preston’s original hangar.

The President’s house was furnished, but the First Family would not arrive until April 2nd for the second meeting, and would be staying for a week. Preston reminded himself that he needed to stock the refrigerator.

The Officers’ Mess was to be opened on the same day with a small ceremony, and the accommodations looked nice and comfortable. The larger three-story building looked grand compared to the smaller ones. The first floor was an open-plan communal living area, with the same gas equipment as in the kitchens of the other two buildings and the hangars. The lounge had nice couches, not fancy, but military-officer issue, and could seat more than thirty with ease. There was a communal eating area, not unlike a food court, and the two floors of bedrooms were much the same as Preston had in his hangar.

“Your farm isn’t a farm anymore, Preston,” stated Sally as they returned to see the Air Force personnel refueling the Pilatus for the short flight up to Andrews. In order to conserve fuel they would all go in the one aircraft. Everybody else was going to meet them at the air base.

“What are we going to do with all this when it’s not needed anymore?” asked Martie.

“I suppose turn it into a Fly-In Motel,” replied Preston. “We could offer romantic getaways and throw in bed and breakfast for newly married pilots,” he said, winking at Carlos.

“Then I suggest you should be the first one to use it, friend Preston,” replied Carlos. “Maybe we will all take your happy marriage to heart and sort out our own marriages. Do you know how many people are waiting for you two to tie the knot?”

“Yes, and then I can get my new family name,” added Little Beth, overhearing the conversation from behind Clint’s wheelchair on the front porch of the farmhouse as the four adults walked up.

“I suppose we should have added a church requirement to the new buildings. Get me a church on site, a quaint, little one, and I will marry Martie!” laughed Preston.

“Sí, Señor Strong, I will bring that to the President‘s notice later today,” retorted Carlos. And, with Martie looking at him quizzically, Preston knew that the inevitable would soon take place.

“Maybe you should propose to me, you dumb ass, before you order the church to be built,” rebuked Martie, giving him a poke in the ribs with her elbow.

“If you say no, dearest Martie, then I can watch Mr. Carlos Smarty-Pants Rodriquez go to the altar before me,” returned Preston, getting hit from all sides, even from Little Beth.

Joe and David drove up, said their good mornings and were handed a steaming cup of coffee each as they all congregated in Preston’s hangar, chatting.

The full Pilatus turboprop flew out with Preston flying the aircraft for the first time in the left seat and Sally instructing him from the right seat. If this was to be the family minivan from now on, then somebody had to learn to fly it. Flying a turboprop was far more complicated than any normal carburetor-aspirated piston aircraft Preston was used to.

Being a more advanced jet engine, Preston would need at least thirty hours of training to learn to fly the most sophisticated aircraft he had ever piloted.

Preston and Martie loved their Mustangs and were not as keen to upgrade engines as Carlos and Sally had been in their flying careers.

The flight took an hour before they entered the landing queue for Andrews. Martie’s father arrived in his Beechcraft with the entire Smart family aboard after a refueling stop in Texas. Maggie was his copilot, and they got into final approach a minute before the Pilatus.

Will was getting used to this flying stuff and was even prepared to get into a small plane, as long as his wife wasn’t in command. Being a typical husband, he was still a little reluctant to completely “hand the driving” over to her.

Buck and Barbara, in Lady Dandy, were flying in from Salt Lake City and Denver with Lee Wang and family aboard. Lee, Lin and Ling had hitched a ride from California to Denver in a C-130 as there was not enough room in the Beechcraft for everybody currently in residence at Michael’s farm. The DC-3 got into line behind the Pilatus. Lee and his wife had been told about the arrival of his uncle Mo Wang, and were actually looking forward to seeing him again. It had been nearly two decades since they had last met.

This time there were only twenty 747s on the apron, troops spilling out of them as the Pilatus came in. There were also the six promised Super Tweets all in a line further away and, knowing who they were for, Preston smiled. Only he, Carlos and Sally saw them as they came in. The Pilatus was shown a parking space next to the Beechcraft away from the disembarking men and the Super Tweets.

Martie hurried out first to hug her father and slowly the aircraft emptied. The day was warmer than a month earlier and the morning temperature was in the low sixties.

Carlos waited for Sally before exiting to join the rest. Admiral Rogers came up to meet the visitors and Carlos was thrilled to see his admiral uncle dressed in full Colombian Naval Dress Uniform next to him.

Carlos made the introductions of all his friends to his visiting uncle, and then Admiral Rogers suggested that they go in and be introduced to Lee’s uncle, who had a bevy of beautiful girls around him.

Within the group, there were mixed emotions about meeting an ex-enemy, but Admiral Rogers cleared the air by stating that Mr. Mo Wang was an interesting person and judgment should be held until after everybody had met him and heard his story.

The President and First Family were not due in for an hour. Buck needed to pick them up in Washington, and went out to the tarmac to prepare “Buck One” for the short flight.

While Buck and Barbara headed off to begin their ground checks, Mike Mallory could be seen heading in to land in his Cessna 210. He had John and Pam Wallace aboard.

Carlos was a little nervous. He felt no benevolence for Mo Wang, but he was, after all, Lee’s uncle and should be given a chance to speak.

They entered the Officers’ Mess to see what looked like a beauty competition; a group of girls all Martie’s height, each tall, thin, tanned and gorgeous. There was one small Chinese lady who, on seeing Lee, screamed and ran into his arms.

“It’s my sister, she’s my sister,” Lee shouted to Carlos as the lady ran into him, nearly knocking the short man down. Lee’s wife was just as happy to see Lu and got the next big hug. Then Lee’s grown-up daughter was introduced to Lu’s two children and a rush of rapid Chinese could be heard from the excited group.

Carlos saw an older and shorter Chinese gentleman looking at them, and one of the tall beautiful ladies had her arm in his. She was at least a foot taller than he, and at least a couple of decades younger, but to her it certainly didn’t seem to matter.

“Come, Carlos, let me introduce you to a man who stole Senator Calderón’s fancy ship,” stated his uncle and again Carlos felt confused by this man. This guy Mo Wang was certainly getting around.

The room quieted down as his uncle led Carlos up to Mo, who just stood there knowing exactly who he was and smiling at him.

“Señor Wang, this is my nephew, Carlos Rodriquez. I’ve heard that you two know each other pretty well,” Admiral Rodriquez stated. Both men shook hands silently, studying each other for several seconds. There was a hush in the room as everybody waited to see what would happen.

“Carlos, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” started Mo first. “Everybody, may I introduce you to my lady friends,” he stated, looking at the crowd. “This is Marie and her two daughters, Cheri and Annabel from France and New York. Here is Beatrice and her daughter Virginie from Paris and over there is my niece Lu and her two children from Honduras. Lu, as you’ve heard, is Lee’s sister.”

Smiling, Mo added, “Before Carlos takes me outside and shoots me, I would like to say that it’s a pleasure to finally be in the United States. This entrance is far better than the entrance the American people would have given me aboard the Aircraft Carrier in January. Now, Carlos, you may take me outside if you wish.”

Everybody laughed and Carlos scratched his head as he always did when he was at a loss at what to do. Martie and Sally came up and held out their hands to Mo.

“You helped save our country. I think you should at least be thanked for that,” stated Martie, and then introduced herself to the French girls.

“And thanks to you, we had the entire battle won before we even started,” added Sally dressed in her Air Force flight overalls. “Carlos, please just accept that this man probably saved many lives and put his own life in danger in the process. That’s good enough in my book.” She punched Carlos on the shoulder and turned to the French ladies to introduce herself.

“Good to finally meet you, Mr. Wang,” stated Preston coming up to shake the man’s hand. “I’m sure Lee is happy to see you and will come around to say hello. He always had a lot of respect for you and he told me that your job at Zedong Electronics was about the same as his, but yours was more senior.” Looking at Carlos he said, “Carlos, remember, we accepted Lee when you found out that he was a spy.” Turning back to Mo, Preston continued, “Mr. Wang, just to let you know, Lee is still pretty sore at you for nearly exterminating him and his family, but I’m sure the two of you can get over that in your own way.”

Carlos was still trying to figure out what to say and Mo did it for him. “As I promised over the satellite phone, Carlos, I have a lot to tell you. We need to sit down today and, with your General Patterson, work out a plan to help this country get back on its feet.” Carlos nodded and was interrupted by General Patterson arriving with Mike Mallory, John and Pam, who were introduced to Admiral Rodriquez and Mo Wang’s party.

Beatrice was still hanging onto Mo’s arm. “Mr. Rodriquez, please be a little easy on Mo, he is injured and recuperating from a bullet wound taken by American pirates who were trying to capture us. I’m sure that whatever he has done to you and America has been repaid by being shot by one of your own countrymen, no?”

“Beatrice, it was only a small wound and not that important,” responded Mo.

“I’m sure you have an interesting story to tell us, Mo Wang,” stated Carlos finally. “I’m looking forward to hearing it tonight at the farm where we personally cooked your uninvited Chinese hit squads.”

“Then we can take him out back and shoot him,” added General Patterson, winking at Preston.

Mo Wang smiled, nodded and bowed to the men in front of him. He wasn’t expecting much more.

The President arrived with his family thirty minutes later and the new visitors were moved to other premises for security reasons. At this meeting, no non-Americans or younger members of the group were invited, which would give Lee and his family a few hours to talk to their newly arrived family.

The growing group of U.S. military brass and civilians moved towards the meeting room.

“Good morning, all,” stated General Patterson as the seats filled. “Please stand for the National Anthem.” Listening to the anthem being played was an indication that life was starting to get back to normal in minute ways.

“Most of what I have to say today is to bring everybody up to speed on what is happening across the United States, and much of it is not good news,” continued the general. “So, I will go through the list of reports in the same order we did last month. First, troop movements: We have completed 20 days of troop and 10 days of food importation since March 1st. As of this morning, we have 790,000 troops back stateside and still have 400,000 to go. Two more months, ladies and gentlemen, and we will have all our guys home. Beginning today, and for the next eight days, the aircraft will be flying in the last of our food supplies from overseas. In Europe we have eight more flights of MRE rations to bring in and the two remaining days will be to bring in other important equipment we don’t want to leave over there. Then the aircraft will return to troop flights until we are done, or until something else crops up. Admiral Rogers will tell you about the container ships we sent out and the third container ship which is leaving New York later today. Once we complete flying the rest of our men back, several flights will be needed to bring in the last important supplies, like generators, mobile radios and anything that is still operational. A thousand Marines and Air Force personnel will be in control of operations at Ramstein and other bases around Europe until we have moved out everything we need. The good news is that all our men are now safe in Europe and are out of the old battle areas. Unfortunately we lost just short of 3,400 soldiers to fighting in the Middle East since January 1st.”

“What is the situation in Europe and the areas we are pulling men out of?” asked Carlos.

“Pretty bad I’m afraid,” replied the general. “They are doing much of what we are doing here, burying their dead. I believe Europe has more civilian food in supply compared to us, where we had more military rations, but I’ve been told from many returning soldiers that there are dead everywhere cold weather was a factor. There seems to be far less violence in Europe than here due to the population not being allowed to have guns in every household, but the weather has been below freezing in much of Europe for the last two weeks and they are in a much worse condition than we are. In the Middle East faction fighting was everywhere a few weeks ago, the dead mounting in piles, but I’ve heard that it is now diminishing. I assume they will run out of gun and rocket ammunition sometime, and will have to resort to clubs and bows and arrows to fight each other.” Many smiled at the point.

“Are we doing anything to help other countries?” asked Mike Mallory.

“No, we are not,” replied General Patterson. “As we decided at our last meeting, we are getting out of other countries, and we will spend 100 percent of our energy and resources to get this country back on its feet. End of story.” There was silence. “Captain Mallory, will you come up and give us your latest numbers on food stocks and your farmers’ report?” They changed places.

“Mr. President, members of the military, and civilians, this report is from yesterday’s numbers. I have not yet received the latest report from my staff this morning. Understand that we have three shifts of 200 people per shift working on these extremely slow computers inputting data 24/7. We have 117,000 MRE ration packs left in the country. We have handed out 9,940,560 ration packs to first time users and 6,458,150 packs to second time users. There is nothing much else in the country for civilians, but the aircraft will be bringing in the last 1,590,000 ration packs in the next week. Once they are gone, that’s it for the people, apart from what we are keeping in reserve for our soldiers and their families, totaling 2.5 million packs. Admiral Rogers will bring you up to date on the five Chinese container ships now steaming towards San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland and Seattle. The farmers across the midsection of the U.S. have planted their first crops. Every seed store, grain store, and other locations which hadn’t been burned or totally damaged, and where we could find seed, or anything for the farmers can use for planting, has been emptied by more than 50,000 soldiers across most of the country. Hopefully, the people who rifled the chain stores and hardware stores had enough intelligence to realize the value of the seeds in them. The early crops are in the ground, the entire livestock population has been fertilized as much as possible by the farming system to increase our meat quantities.

“The farmers told us about a large poultry incubation system still operational in Pennsylvania in a religious community. We found a second large incubator farm in an Amish community, and our soldiers found a third unit in southern California. We have sourced what the farmers needed and they are up to full steam and will soon produce the maximum numbers of day-old chicks they can. Chicken farms are being made operational, grains have been planted for the feed and we hope to be producing 600,000 chicks a week out of these three plants by summer. We have twenty abattoirs up and running and all the aging beef countrywide is about to be slaughtered.

“With working electrical parts from the Chinese supply we now have two large freezer warehouses fully operational here on the East Coast, one in Denver, one in Dallas and two on the West Coast. They are all running on large generators. The two on the East Coast are running on the six large diesel-fed truck-engine generators Preston Strong supplied. Within a month, there will be tons of fresh meat available across the country, as well as the first crops. We currently have 10,000 soldiers with civilian farmers checking the potato crops in Idaho. The semi-operational Amtrak system will move the food across the country to depots and every movement will be under heavy military guard. Within a month to six weeks, food will be made available to needy survivors. Thank you.” There was applause for the captain’s report.

“My next report is the bad news of the month,” continued the general from the podium. “At the present time, we have 4,500 crematoriums working 24/7 to cremate the bodies piling up around them. To give you a scale of this mammoth task, we have 200 dump trucks sourcing coal from the coal-fired power stations to feed fuel to the crematoriums north of us here on the East Coast. There are 140,000 civilians helping 100,000 soldiers in New York City and State, New England, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and the other states working on this project. We couldn’t transport fuel to the East Coast crematoriums fast enough so we have started digging new burning pits at the coal-fired energy plants themselves to bury our dead. We are identifying about two-thirds of the bodies but there are still millions of people we will never identify, or even know what happened to them. The major cities north of us are ghost towns. I would say that ninety percent of the city populations have either died or have migrated south.

“Our system has identified and cremated 47,550,000 bodies across the northern frozen area of the country. We have not identified, but cremated 18,750,000 bodies or body parts in this same area. Approximately 48 percent of the frozen areas of our large northern cities are still under snow and ice, and we estimate another 50 million bodies in ice in over twenty of these cities. We have reached Times Square in New York which, it seems, was the most populated area in the country on New Year’s morning. With a workforce of a thousand soldiers and another thousand civilians, we have pulled out 470,000 frozen bodies in just three blocks. Nearly every frozen body there has identification and we believe that there are about 200,000 bodies to still dig out. In the southern areas, we have identified and cremated 19,550,000 bodies and approximately 15,500,000 unidentified bodies, or body parts. Within a month unsanitary conditions and disease will really hamper our actions everywhere. Gas masks were handed out to the soldiers and volunteers last week, but we don’t have enough for everybody helping. The ones without masks will be pulled back in ten days’ time and that will drop our cremations by nearly 50 percent per day. I have raised my estimated number of dead to 200 million, from 150 million a month ago. It could still go higher.

“Manhattan and its surrounding areas are totally empty of people, apart from the workers who are clearing the bodies, and hungry gangs who ambush anybody they see. In Manhattan alone, we have killed over 8,000 armed people who have shot at our soldiers or civilians working in the area. To date we have lost approximately 400 soldiers and 100 civilian workers but the numbers are decreasing.

“Gangs, violence and crime are now the major killer of people. We are working on the crime situation with the incoming troops. Crime in the northern areas is decreasing rapidly and once we have all our men back, I’m going to give orders to start a sweep from north to south across the entire country to clear the nation of criminals and gangs. As of yesterday, our soldiers have killed over 855,000 unidentified civilians who have taken up arms and fired on them. The soldiers now have orders to shoot civilians carrying guns on sight. The worst case last week was a gang of four fifteen-year old boys in Houston who killed a dozen soldiers with a stolen machine gun on the back of an old rusty truck driven by one of the boys. Many out there think the new world is a damned computer game and these kids don’t understand the difference between real life and a game. I spoke to my commanders on the West Coast and it is no different on that side.

“In addition, packs of wild dogs have been seen eating the dead in the outer suburbs of New York. There was one pack of well over a hundred animals. Several other packs have been seen in other cities. In northern Chicago, a pack of over 250 animals is being monitored. They attacked a platoon of soldiers and the soldiers had to retreat into buildings. The men fought off over a hundred hungry dogs. A few soldiers reported seeing wolves a week ago.

“In other areas, where the warmth of spring is creeping in, we have to close down areas of cities where the smell is becoming unbearable. The residue on the ground from so much decomposition has become a health issue and I can see us locking down whole cities in the next few months. They are mostly empty anyway and I do not know what we can do about disinfecting a whole city. I’ve been told by doctors and sanitary experts that Mother Nature herself could be the best bet, but it will take a couple of seasons for the situation to normalize. There are several cities in the south where soldiers are still fighting gangs around the clock, and we cannot get people in to clear the bodies. The stench and sanitary danger there is mounting and we are closing down Houston, New Orleans and Fort Worth, and setting up a perimeter around the cities with hundreds of thousands of troops. We will let the gangsters stay inside and, of course, let out unarmed civilians, but they will be checked for arms and fingerprinted first. OK, numbers.

“The stench and dead in Los Angeles, especially, is very bad. We have already pulled a large percentage of our soldiers out. It will be the first city where we block all roads in and out. We currently have daily flights over the city trying to count the dead in the streets and check for people trying to get out. Disease is going to spread and the doctors believe that a plague could occur and spread very quickly in the warmer areas.”

The entire hangar was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

“Any questions?” the general asked.

The President asked the next question. “You estimate 200 million dead out of 330 million, General Patterson. These are your latest numbers. How many people are alive? And how many are dependent on us for food in the coming months?”

“I was about to give the report on the living, Mr. President. These numbers are mostly from Captain Mallory’s food program and all our base commanders, farmers and food distribution sites around the entire country, except for cities and areas we cannot go into. Part of Los Angeles is one of these areas, for example. We have a little over 37 million people recorded in our database, of which seven million will need food pretty soon. That includes all our military personnel here and aboard. Mr. President, we are still going into new areas where the snow is receding. We are finding about 50,000 living people per day in mostly rural farming areas. The Rockies have many survivors. Soldiers from Salt Lake City and Denver are heading into the mountain communities by foot to search and are finding people with food stocks and enough wood to keep them alive. We also believe that rural Canada has fared better than its cities. Same with Alaska and Hawaii. Alaska has hunting, as General Pete Allen found out when he stopped over. Hawaii and many U.S. coastal towns have fishing to survive and don’t need materials for warmth. As far as the difference between the numbers, sir, I just don’t know. We have been happily surprised to find whole communities surviving by banding together, but also whole communities where there is nothing living. I’m hoping to reach the 60 million mark by the beginning of summer.”

May I add something to this report?” asked Captain Mallory, standing up in the first row. General Patterson nodded for him to carry on. “The majority of these civilians are now building small accommodations to live, in a central band either side of the Rockies. It looks like new villages and settlements are springing up about a hundred miles south of the Mason Dixon Line, from Virginia to southern Colorado, and as far south as New Mexico. I won’t be surprised if by the end of this year most of the population of this country will be in a band a hundred miles wide stretching from Virginia to Santa Fe, New Mexico. Thousands of people have also been migrating north from the hotter and more violent areas and into places like northern Arizona and central California.”

“So it might be necessary to close down our northern and southern living areas until people want to migrate there again?” suggested the President. “I can understand why people don’t want to go through another winter and do want to move away from the violence in the south. It also makes it easier for us to clean up, or let Mother Nature clean up the dangerous areas in the north for a couple of seasons. It will certainly help us contain the violence in the south.”

“Correct, Mr. President,” added the general, still standing at the podium. “We are now giving out food packs in the Deep South and telling people that more could be available in the rural farming areas to the north. Also, the farmers have unlimited free labor to help with the crops. Within a month or so I would like to close down our southern border and do a sweep north to clear out factions of violence, and then we could have a military zone free of civilians in case there is an attack from the south.

“Now I would like to bring up Admiral Rogers who will give us his report on naval and shipping projects.” The Admiral came up to give his speech.

“Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen, we have a lot going on out there and I’ll be brief. First, our European container ship is docked in Calais, France. We have seven convoys of approximately 290 military vehicles heading towards Calais. These vehicles are mostly old troop carriers and Vietnam-era Mutts, jeeps with rocketry on them. Many were in museums or just sitting around in storage as backups. The 168 troop carriers, mostly from smaller, less important bases around Europe, are filled with anything we could get into them. The conditions in Europe are an exact copy of what we have here in the United States, except that the highways are far less cluttered and there are very few old vehicles moving. The reason for the nearly empty highways is that the electronic outage happened just before dawn in this area of Europe when the majority of the population had finished partying and were already asleep. We are getting reports of much less violence than there.

“Similar to our plans here in the States, European farming is the number one priority and they have lost vast numbers of population due to winter conditions and starvation, but their situation is different. Yes, there is crime, violence, robbery and gang murders, but the small country police forces are still intact. There are fewer guns, and with less land, they are easier to police. Our convoys are heading towards the ship. With the troop transporters we have 84 jeeps, seven armored personnel carriers, 15 thirty-year old tanks, a dozen large Caterpillar earth movers on tractor-trailers, and several fuel tankers. The transporters will empty their loads dockside and, with an armored escort, will return to several of our northern European bases to collect a second and a third load of vital equipment. During the two weeks it will take the vehicles to return to Calais, the container ship will head to Portsmouth in England.

“In the U.K., violence is much worse than in Europe with gangs of youth and others fighting police in several areas. Two cities are burning, Manchester and Birmingham, and they are expected to burn to the ground. London had 50,000 police and army clearing streets of vandals and most of the U.K.’s populations have already fled the cities into the rural areas. In England we have another 70 vehicles. We did have 120, but we were begged by the English military for help. We gave them thirty troop carriers and twenty Mutts as a parting gift once we had everything safely at the port. The 747 Transporter has visited the U.K. several times. Our bases in England are now empty of flyable equipment. The 747 flew out the last of our MRE rations and ammunition yesterday. The British seem to be a very angry and hungry population. Once our ship is loaded with everything we can salvage, she will depart and be back in New York harbor by the end of this month.

“Our second container ship has reached the Panama Canal, meeting up with the three Light Frigates on loan to us by the Colombian Navy. We have off-loaded 10,000 troops and we were shocked at what we found. I briefed Mr. Mo Wang, the ex-board member of Zedong Electronics, earlier this week when he and the Frigates arrived in our Norfolk naval facility. He told me that 10,000 Chinese troops of the Zedong army had been placed at the canal on a permanent basis to take over control of the canal from the Panama authorities, and to maintain the canal so that Chinese shipping could pass through. What we found were thousands of dead Chinese soldiers. There was a major battle and by the looks of it, the battle lasted a couple of weeks. There was nobody about, until we found several Chinese engineers who had barricaded themselves in an underground facility and managed to get overlooked by the attacking army. They told us of an army from the south, thousands of men, who took on the well-armed Chinese army and killed every single soldier. We found areas where hundreds from both sides had died, areas where the captured were executed, and three towns where the populations had just disappeared, thousands of people.”

“Do we know what happened to the civilians?” asked the President.

“Yes,” replied Admiral Rogers. “Several civilians who escaped told us that the town’s people had been rounded up and were told to carry supplies northwards on foot. The local airport had aircraft coming in. One man told us that the aircraft were Venezuelan. For days these aircraft, a dozen of them, brought in food and ammunition and took out wounded.

“Did you find any identification on the dead bodies?” asked Carlos. “Since my uncle, the ambassador cannot be here, I would like to transfer any relevant information back to him and his contacts in Colombia.”

“They searched many dead bodies. It was a gruesome task as many were already over a week old and they only had a few gas masks with them. Most of the bodies we searched had no identity on them at all. All the Chinese and the opposition armies’ weapons and ammo were gone, but we did find empty Venezuelan and Colombian cigarette packets on the ground. We assume that there were just too many bodies to carry back to wherever, or the advancing army was ordered to move on northwards. We found several bodies with Venezuelan information on them. One had an old girlie magazine and we found some Colombian papers on a couple of others. There was one body which had a Brazilian passport on it, Carlos. I will brief you and your uncle later in North Carolina. We have rounded up a thousand locals and we are digging pits to bury the dead before disease becomes a bigger problem there as well. We left 12,500 troops and supplies at the canal. This was a week ago and the Panama Canal is under U.S. control again.

“The container ship and its Destroyer guard passed successfully through the canal and headed to the Hawaiian Islands to meet the other five container ships from Shanghai anchored there. We made contact with the vessels yesterday and several small battles on board the Chinese ships ensued. We had asked the captains to anchor a couple of miles offshore of a small uninhabited island near Kauai. This island was visible from the ships and is a couple of square miles in area. Many of the Chinese troops jumped ship and began swimming to the island. I don’t know if they can survive on this island, but that’s not my problem. We sustained a dozen or so casualties and took over command without any damage to the ships. Our vessels had enough naval personnel aboard to take command of the Chinese vessels. They are steaming past Maui at the moment and we are aiming for the five main West Coast ports where the Army and Marines are currently securing and forming a lock-down. We hope to be distributing food in about a week.

“The third container ship, still in New York harbor, is ready to sail and we will send her south to the Panama Canal with another 12,500 troops on board to make sure that we are ready if this army decides to return. Thank you.” And the admiral returned to his seat.

General Patterson then introduced the President of the United States, the last to speak.

“Thank you to all for a job well done,” he started. “Members of the military and civilians, we are about to enter the most productive cycle of 2013, our spring planting season. Reports into the White House from around the country estimate there are over 300,000 large-acreage farmers on millions of acres of prime farm land, working together with five million civilians and 200,000 soldiers as protection squads. We have literally sourced every seed, plant and animal we can into maximum production for the coming spring and summer. With estimates on population numbers changing daily, we expect to be able to feed millions of people within two months from these farms. We have the distribution and food points in place. We know that millions more are small farmers or new communal farms where groups of people are getting together to plant crops for themselves. Our numbers of this second group are vague but we believe that enough food will be grown to feed America.

“A second season of summer/fall crops is already in the planning stage, and planning for winter storage is on the docket. On hundreds of farms across the country, every piece of plastic sheeting from central warehouses like Home Depot, Lowes and greenhouse specialty companies is being used to build acres of greenhouses and hot houses for the coming winter. We hope to have over 100,000 new acres of winter food grown in these houses during the coming winter months. Crime is now our biggest problem and the military and I are going to work out a plan to setup up new community police forces and judicial systems, using county-sized areas of land. I need help forming a new Congress and Senate and we will do so in the summer. We have enough gas and diesel fuel reserves to last approximately five years at our current usage. We have over 10,000 engineers, mostly on the West Coast, working on new developments. Unfortunately it is too early to give you dates of when projects will become active. I’ve been told that the national grid will take at least a decade to get going again, and that is only in the areas where we are planning to house our population. We have information from Mr. Wang about a cache of working electronic parts in Harbin, China and we will be going in to get them. I do not have any more information on that mission yet. It is time to reinstate law and order, stop gangs, stop all the killing, get our numbers into a census and begin to rebuild. The good news is that we cannot go any faster than what we are doing at the moment. So, I thank you all for your work, and I would like the next official meeting of the New United States of America to be at the White House on July 1st, three months from now. By then we should have buried our dead, know our population numbers, have enough food, and will begin planning what our next efforts will be. Thank you.” General Patterson returned to the podium and asked the President to stay.

“Who says that in these dire times, we humans can’t have a bit of fun?” continued the general. “So please, will current Air Force Captains Sally and Jennifer, and future Captains Martie, Maggie, Barbara and Pam come up to receive your Air Force Insignia for the latest Wing of the United States Air Force. Ladies and gentlemen, the President will hand out flight overalls and wing insignia for “The Super Tweety Pie Wing” of newly painted Super Tweets under newly promoted Wing Leader, Captain Carlos Rodriquez.”

For once there were smiles as the six girls stood up and walked forward. “Come on, Wing Leader Rodriquez,” added the general. “It’s not every day that a man is given command of so many good-looking female pilots.” There was much laughter and wolf-whistles from the audience as one by one the pilots received their flight overalls, the usual Air Force issue, with the new insignia already on the shoulders.

Carlos also received his set and an official military photograph was taken of the new wing with the President and General Patterson in the photo.

“Many of you pilots still need hours of training, including the Wing Leader himself,” continued the general. “This will be done at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base until the wing can be stationed at our new airfield in Apex, North Carolina. Many of us are heading that way later today and the Super Tweets will be flown down by qualified Air Force pilots for the occasion. The aircraft are now on display outside. Thank you for coming. The next meeting is at the White House, July 1st.”

Chapter 17

Manuel Calderón and Mexico

The two Calderón brothers met up and joined forces at a good ambush point on the road. The third brother, Pedro, was hundreds of miles to their south at the Panama Canal and unable to help them with their main army.

They had continuously and systematically picked up men everywhere they went, but the last two battles reduced their force of 3,000 men to nearly 2,000. Both Calderón groups had amassed captured weapons and ammunition from the defeated Mexican forces and had then ransacked everything they could from the destroyed Mexican bases. The 2,000-plus men prepared for the arriving Mexican army.

Unknown to them, the Mexican army also had new men arriving from all directions as they chased the banditos. It had taken time, but a spotter plane finally arrived overhead to give the Mexican troops eyes on their fast-paced race southwards. Over the last 24 hours 2,500 men had joined the 4,000 men who had survived the last battle where they had been ripped apart by the unexpected heavy bombardment from whomever they were chasing.

The army commander had been told by radio that another 5,000 men were on their way from the northern areas and would join them in a couple of days. With an army of over 10,000 men he felt confident that he could destroy the remnants of the southern banditos he was chasing.

The Colombian spotters up on the hills were the first to hear the faint sound of an approaching aircraft. The alarm was given and even though they were in southern Mexico, there was enough vegetation to hide the vehicles. Tire tracks were obliterated and men on the open sand dunes got under beige-colored tarps, or just dug into the sand with their camouflaged clothing.

Ten minutes later a “brave” Mexican pilot flew down the highway towards them at a high altitude of about 10,000 feet. If the pilot had flown lower, the two spotters in the aircraft, a Cessna 210 military aircraft, might have seen something, but they were taking no chances on this southern flight. Their plan was to head south and then return north at a lower altitude once they got a hundred miles south of the advancing Mexican army.

The Calderón brothers watched as it passed overhead. They were pretty sure that they wouldn’t be seen, but also assumed that this would not be the last aircraft overhead. They were always prepared for this in Colombia; the Colombian Air Force continuously sent spotter aircraft to look for large groups of people out of place on the ground below them. The Calderón Cartel always carried camouflage blankets, sand-colored and green, to protect them from the air. Most of their Colombian vehicles had camouflage materials for aerial surveillance and the captured Mexican vehicles were already camouflaged, many equipped with extra camouflage netting.

“Alberto!” shouted Manuel Calderón to his younger brother. “Get three men with shoulder rockets loaded with ground-to-air rockets on the highest hill, a mile to our south over there,” he said pointing to a hilly region. “Take the three shoulder rockets we captured at the last Air Force base. If this aircraft or any other aircraft comes close at a lower altitude, I want it shot down.” Alberto acknowledged the order and shouted at three of his best men to take a helper each and head for the hill.

The ambush was set twenty minutes later, two lines of men behind dunes well over a hundred yards from the main 190 north/south highway and about 150 miles south of Mexico City. This was a sandy area, but had a reasonable amount of vegetation for the invaders to hide from air surveillance. The hilly outcrops were higher than around the last ambush site further north and the grounds on both sides of the highway flatter and more open.

Manuel thought the last ambush by the Mexican Commander on his troops was amateurish and had lacked military expertise. The Mexican troops had been placed too close to the road; so close, in fact, that the ambushed force on the highway were able to charge the ambushers very quickly. Here, there was a hundred yards distance on each side, very few would survive charging that distance with lead raining down at them, and ambushers would be shooting downhill to the road from a height which made sure that they wouldn’t kill each other.

All went quiet as they waited for the rapidly moving enemy to close in on them. Manuel’s radio operators were searching for the frequency the spotter plane was using and they heard the aircraft returning very low twenty minutes later as they found its broadcasting frequency. Manuel heard the pilot radio to the ground forces that he was about seven miles ahead of the advancing army.

Three ground-to-air rockets went up to meet the small plane several seconds later, two missing but one causing an aerial firestorm several hundred yards south of his ambush position. Manuel suddenly realized his new predicament, and his big mistake.

“Mierda, Mierda!” he muttered to himself. “Now they will be looking for us,” he stated over his radio to his brother. “Alberto, form a line of your men to defend your northern border and I’ll do the same in case they spread out and attack us on our northern boundary.”

Men moved into position and they got ready for the mother of all battles. Once this Mexican army was defeated, Manuel and his troops would have an open road to Texas, where he really wanted to be. He should have just continued north, but being an experienced commander, saw the need to gather his forces together. Pedro was still days behind them somewhere in Panama and his plans to attack America might have to be put on hold for a few weeks. He supposed that there really was no rush; he envisaged that America was in total disarray, and time didn’t really matter anymore.

For the rest of the day they waited. A second spotter plane flew overhead just before dusk and at such a high altitude would see nothing. The army should have reached him by now, but it hadn’t and his surprise might be thwarted, but he stayed in his position just in case the Mexicans thought that he might still be traveling south.

Nothing happened the next day either and he was getting worried.

“Where is that yellow bunch of cowards?” he stated to his brother over breakfast on day two. “Alberto, send a few men north, not along the road, and find out where these soldiers are.” Alberto sent out five of his best men and they returned just before dark. It had been a hot day and most of the afternoon they dozed in the shades of trees and tarps which took away the broiling heat of the sun.

“They are camped about four miles north of us,” stated the leader. “About 4,000 men and they seem to be waiting for something. They don’t seem to be in a rush to fight us, Señor Calderón. Maybe we should put a spark of fire under their fat butts and let them chase us into our ambush?”

“I don’t think they have a battle-tested commandant,” stated Manuel to the men. “Let us wait until dawn and then attack them with a group of a hundred men. Make them angry and hopefully they will chase our guys down the road. Alberto, take a hundred of your men in twenty jeeps with guns, mortars and rockets to them and attack their southern boundary with a killing rain of fire. Shoot off the mortars and rockets first, and then sweep in with the jeeps to machine gun them and immediately retreat like a yellow village dog with its tail between its legs.”

The early morning darkness was chilly as the jeeps, filled with men and weapons, headed north on the 190 as quietly as they could. During the night Manuel and Alberto had picked the jeeps with the best exhaust silencers. They should get to within mortar range before being heard. The army naturally would have guards out, but several Mexican civilian vehicles had passed through their position during the last twenty four hours, not realizing that there was a large group of hidden men watching them pass.

Manuel reckoned that the Mexican army would have a road block either side and told Alberto to silently take out all enemy soldiers until they got within range.

Alberto’s jeeps crept northwards at five miles an hour, trying to keep as quiet as possible still under the cover of darkness. His scouts from the previous day told him that they were within half a mile of the camp. He stopped and a dozen men with sharp knives went forward through the brush to find a road block with Mexican soldiers in different forms of sleep. One man was literally sleeping standing up with his head on a tree trunk they had built as a roadblock. The main gun position was positioned behind a row of sandbags a couple of feet high, a hundred feet behind the roadblock. Their blood ran down the road as they were quickly dealt with. There were also two good-looking jeeps to increase their vehicle numbers.

Once the roadblock was dealt with, he and his scouts moved forward on foot, using all the cover they could. There was a growing band of light on the eastern horizon and they only had several minutes to use what was left of the darkness as surprise.

They crept up a second rise of sandy ground, reached the top, looked down and saw a large army camp spread out a couple of hundred yards away. It was within mortar range and he sent a scout back to tell the men to drive the jeeps quietly to the first rise and then haul the four 80-mm mortars by foot the last couple of hundred yards.

Alberto could hear the convoy of jeeps creeping forward and he doubted that the sound would travel much further than where he was. Now the sky was lightening as he saw silhouettes of teams of men hauling the heavy mortars, four men to a mortar, with several bringing up cases of bombs behind them.

They were set up. His best mortar men aimed into the most densely tented areas as the sun lit up the higher hills for everyone to see. There were guards walking around and he scanned the terrain around his position. He couldn’t see any enemy soldiers any closer and his second-in-command whispered in his ear that the mortars were ready. He ordered his men to ready the dozen shoulder rocket launchers he had brought and waited for this second group to prepare.

The sun’s highest edge rose over the horizon as he brought his right arm down, signaling the attack to begin. The quiet around him was broken by mortars and rockets being propelled out of their tubes. Alberto had whispered orders for 12 bombs per mortar to first lay a deadly barrage of fire and then his rocket launchers fire a volley of six rockets per launcher. There were screams of orders from the camp as soon as the first hisses of bombs leaving the tubes were heard. Suddenly, and with the first eight mortar bombs in the air, there were men running everywhere as the first four bombs hit in a pattern at the same second, spewing men and tents in every direction. More mortars went into the smoke and dozens of explosions ripped the quiet scene into pandemonium.

Within three minutes 48 mortar bombs and 72 rockets blew several areas of the large camp to pieces. The damage was relatively small for such a big camp but men could be seen running in all directions out of the danger area.

“Get the machine-gun jeeps forward, the others pick up the mortars and give them a good reason to want to follow us!” screamed Alberto into his radio mike and five jeeps with machine guns rushed forward towards the camp. The rest of the jeeps were driven forward to collect the mortars and launchers and as the jeeps spun around to face south the men piled in their heavy equipment and climbed aboard.

Alberto, viewing the pandemonium below him, suddenly saw a convoy of old armored vehicles and two tanks come over and down the rise of the road a mile away, north of the camp and it didn’t take long for two of his five machine gun-equipped jeeps to become pieces of twisted hot metal as the tanks blew them to pieces.

“Get all our jeeps out of here! I want two teams of rocket launchers to reload and take out those tanks!” Alberto shouted as something landed several feet from where he lay. He instinctively ducked as the shell blew a couple of men to pieces. The tanks still couldn’t see the enemy but they had figured out where they were.

“We checked the area north of the camp last night!” shouted a scout over the radio. “There was nothing there last night!”

“Everybody get out of here! Take those two Mexican jeeps! Let’s go!” Alberto shouted as a second shell from one of the tanks landed several yards behind him and blew a small tree to pieces.

He had certainly stirred up a hornet’s nest, but didn’t see the 5,000 troops which had just arrived an hour earlier still behind the northern rise and ready for travel.

They drove with pedals to the metal out of the area. The enemy was still firing blind and they roared over the next rise before another tank shell landed in the rocky outcrop to their left, sending shrapnel-sized rocks in every direction.

“Manuel, Manuel!” shouted Alberto over the radio as a piece of rock whistled passed his ear. “They have dozens of armored carriers and two tanks. There is no way we can fight that many.” He heard a small propeller aircraft fly overhead. He watched it follow the road until it was taken out a couple of miles south of them by Manuel’s rockets. It literally flew into a barrage of ground-to-air rockets.

“Everybody get into vehicles, we are heading for the border!” shouted Manuel into the radio “I need all the rocket launchers we have here and their missiles.” His men scampered into all the remaining vehicles they had. Some of the captured Mexican trucks had forty soldiers in them and were pulling full fuel tankers behind them as they left camp; they would not be so fast. Manuel watched them go, holding any jeeps back with the collected rocket launchers, and waited for Alberto to come over the rise to the north.

A few minutes later Alberto’s jeeps came towards them as the last of his vehicles disappeared over the next rise to the south. Alberto’s jeep screeched to a halt as Manuel patiently waited in the middle of the road.

“They seem to have new reinforcements!” shouted Alberto as his jeep stopped a foot away from his brother. “It looks like a whole new army of soldiers with two tanks and at least six other armored vehicles.”

“It was to be expected,” replied Manuel. “They were waiting for something.”

“I think we reduced their numbers by a few hundred but that is not important anymore with their reinforcements. I saw a long line of troop vehicles behind the tanks, at least twenty with more coming over the rise as we left them behind,” added Alberto.

“I’ve told the rest of our men to head for the border. You go and keep them moving. Shoot anything out of the sky you can. I’m going to take out their fuel tankers. That should give us some time and then I’ll catch up to you. Alberto, apart from refueling, you head south until I tell you to stop. Just tell me which road you are on, understand?”

Alberto nodded and Manuel allowed half of Alberto’s jeeps to head south before checking what weapons his men had. He then asked the men how much ammo they had. The answer he got was eleven rockets for four rocket launchers and three jeeps with a machine gun on its rear bed.

He headed south in the lead of his twelve jeeps and fifty men to find a place to prepare an ambush on the main road. Manuel needed a place where there was open ground and where the jeeps could easily escape south without using the tarred highway.

His forward jeep with his second-in-command driving found a good spot several miles further south. Manuel’s group had nearly caught up with the slower convoy ahead of him when they left the hilly area and found open ground of a dozen or so miles before the next range of hills.

There was a hill where the road had been cut into the side of it. On the other side was a long rise of scrub and bush about 400 yards off the road and continuing south into the distance. Manuel drove a mile further on then turned off the road and doubled back through the scrub to his ambush point. He lined his jeeps up behind the ridge for a quick getaway and gathered his men to check what they had.

He checked to make sure that all the rocket projectiles were HEAT, “High Explosive Anti-Tank” rounds. The four rocket launchers he had were all older RPGs, but he had enough to do the needed damage and he had his best RPG marksmen with him.

With limited time they set up the ambush. The two tanks would be the most important targets and he ordered two men with launchers to place themselves in a second ambush position half a mile further south. He wanted the two remaining RPGs to destroy the fuel tankers being pulled behind any troop carriers. Once hit, the tankers would become balls of fire which could take out several trucks with their violent explosions. Also, having a vertical wall of dirt right behind the ambush area, he hoped that the pressure of the fireballs would do painful damage to more soldiers, or at least their ear drums, so that they couldn’t hear orders being shouted. He had done this a couple of times in Colombia with great success.

All Manuel needed now was as much fuel as possible to arrive in the ambush zone before the tanks got to his second ambush further south.

His second two rocket teams headed south with the machine guns on the jeeps to do the necessary damage and to make sure the path was clear for him and his four jeeps. And then they waited.

It was only twenty minutes later when the first tank arrived traveling at a good twenty miles an hour. This was followed by three armored personnel carriers with machine guns sticking out of their turrets. The second tank was next, then a second group of three armored carriers and behind emerged a dozen troop carriers.

Manuel worked out the distance between his two ambush points. A quarter mile was already used up and he began to sweat.

Finally, the first troop carrier pulling a heavy fuel tank presumably for the tanks up front came into sight and he got ready with his radio mike. He whispered orders for the first man with an RPG to bead his aim on the first tanker. It held about 500 gallons and looked heavy by the way its tires were squashed nearly flat. Then came a second tanker and two jeeps followed behind it.

“We need to fire pretty soon,” whispered his radioman further south, and he asked them to wait a few more seconds. A third, fourth and fifth troop transport truck hauling tankers appeared as the radioman to the south whispered urgently that they needed to fire immediately. Still Manuel waited another two seconds until he shouted fire over the radio. His gunners rose as one, took aim and got their rockets off before the Mexicans saw them.

It took twenty seconds to reload and aim the launchers and two massive explosions hit their ears as two of the tankers took direct hits. A second massive blast hit them, hurting their ears from 400 yards away. Manuel watched as his second launcher fired their second volley towards the lead troop carriers 700 yards away. Again a vehicle took a direct hit as the third and last RPG rocket fired by his fastest team flew high and hit the embankment feet above its intended target. Millions of pieces of rock and stone whistled out in all directions and Manuel shouted to get into the vehicles and get out of here.

His jeep’s RPG gunner was reloading and then aimed his third and last rocket at another truck and tanker, and Manuel waited for him as the others aimed their jeeps south. It hit the truck which seemed full of supplies and the truck, now a fireball, lifted off the road into the air and landed on its fuel tanker which immediately blew apart causing Manuel’s ears to ring. He grabbed for the passenger side of the jeep and they followed the dust of the others before the surprised Mexican troops had fired their first shot.

He reached his second ambush point and the jeep stopped and he stood up to look over the rise to view the damage. There were two armored vehicles heading directly towards his position, one tank had smoke coming out of its turret and the other was going around in circles, a track had been damaged by the RPG rocket. He saw three of the armored vehicles burning and he sat down and slapped his driver to move forward.

“We have armored vehicles at 300 yards, get going!” he screamed to his driver. He then radioed to the rest of the jeeps making a massive dust storm in front of him to get back onto the asphalt to stop the dust and wait for him. He needed help getting the armored cars off his tail.

His jeep was at full speed and his crew was hanging on for their lives as he saw a pattern of bullets hitting the sand to his left. He shouted to his driver to go over the dune and head for the road. He heard bullets whistling overhead as the driver turned slightly, hit the dune, made the jeep rise into the air and they were over with the road a couple of hundred yards in front of them. Manuel saw the last of his jeeps and men rising over the dune in front of them.

The jeeps were much faster than the armored vehicles behind and it only took several seconds before they were over the rise and out of range of the machine gunners on the armored cars getting further and further behind.

They drove for several hours before several vehicles needed to halt for refueling. They caught up with Alberto’s slower vehicles averaging about thirty-five miles an hour with the heavy troop carriers and fuel tanker transporters at maximum speed. Much like the Mexican army, now several miles behind, they could not move any faster. Manuel and Alberto had more than enough fuel to get to the border, a day’s travel away.

Also, no enemy aircraft had been seen for the last couple of hours as they had changed highways. The spotter plane, if there was one, was searching for them further north on the main highway. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for an aircraft to find them and during mid-afternoon their movements were noted. The Cessna was high and nearly out of sight.

Towards dusk they set up a night camp in the middle of open ground to make it look like to the aircraft that they were planning to stay overnight. It would take an hour to refuel and Manuel and his men had their first post-battle meeting.

“I hit the first tank a little low and it didn’t penetrate,” stated the first gunner to the brothers as they listened. “The left track peeled off and I think I damaged its wheels as it started going around in circles like a child’s toy. I hit the second armored vehicle directly and it blew up causing damage to the one behind it.”

“I hit the second tank in its sweet spot, Señor, and my round did penetrate, I saw a blast open up the top turret,” stated the second gunner. “I then hit an armored car but the round seemed to glance off the side and exploded on the one behind it. That one stopped with smoke pouring out of its front, Señor.”

“I hit my armored carrier, Señor Calderón, and one other armored car engine had smoke,” stated the third man.

“Good shooting, amigos, you halted their armored advance and the idea was to slow them down,” replied Manuel. His own gunners reported what they saw. He had seen the same hits and the final tally was two tanks, four of the six armored vehicles, and at least four trucks with tankers and a troop carrier. At least the same amount of troop carriers must have taken damage from the explosions.

They had only hit the vanguard of the massive army behind them, but it had given them a chance to outrun them. Unknown to Manuel, the Mexican forces were still plugging along and only an hour behind them. Another brigade was heading in from the west along the coast road, a hundred miles south of them in an attempt to cut them off.

As soon as it got dark, hoping that the small spotter plane was now blinded, they packed up the elaborate camp they had made so that the spotter plane would think that they were making a night’s stop and continued south quietly without lights at a reduced speed of twenty five miles an hour. They spanned out so that there was at least a hundred yards between vehicles and they stretched for over two miles, Alberto’s jeep was the last vehicle and Manuel’s the first.

The battle had gone well today. The Mexican army was hurt, but he hadn’t lost a man in the last fight, so he sat back in the cool night air and dozed.

Manuel headed due south and hit the coast and the small coastal town of Puerto Āngel by 3:00 am. The troops, pushing hard to cut them off, were now only a few miles west of the town. Manuel could see a line of headlights a couple of miles long to the west of the town as he came across the last rise and saw the coastline silhouetted through his jeep’s windshield.

They made it to the main coastal intersection with the road which would take them south several minutes later and with no lights turned eastwards again. He radioed to all the commanders that full speed was necessary and they were to close up and keep to within fifty feet of each other.

As Manuel’s jeep climbed a hill and rose out of the town, Alberto’s jeep radioed that they were turning and he could see the headlights of the lead Mexican vehicle only a mile to the west.

They hadn’t expected another force of soldiers and they had made it by a mile. Manuel saw the lights turn left and onto the road they had just traveled down. The false camp setup the night before must have worked.

By dawn Manuel had connected with the 190 highway again. Over the next few hours the road turned from northeast to southeast. They passed through the town of Arriaga by noon and headed on the next ten-hour stretch of road to Tapachula, the border town with Guatemala.

It took the spotter plane most of that day to find them and it flew over at three that afternoon. Luckily, the entire group was parked under trees and bushes and refueling for their last leg when the tired men heard the drone of the next Cessna. Tarps and blankets were pulled out and the aircraft, again at a high altitude, passed over them searching, but not seeing any movement. Manuel decided to stay under camouflage and give his men a six-hour break.

By midnight they passed through the last town. Dogs barking in the night heard them pass. They reached the border post, freshly manned by several dozen Mexican guards. The guards didn’t stand a chance and as the convoy sped past the newly built wooden building they had dozens of machine guns blazing.

The Mexican forces realized a day later that they had missed the banditos and were given orders to defend the area until further notice. Ten thousand troops camped and got ready for a long stay.

Chapter 18

April Meeting in North Carolina

The meeting was over and the room emptied to rejoin the others. General Patterson asked everyone to head outside to see the new Wing of aircraft.

“General Patterson said that you are only a captain, not a general anymore?” smiled Sally, punching Carlos in the shoulder.

“I suppose I was never a really good general, and it’s time for me to accept it and slide down to your lowly rank, Captain Powers. But remember, I’m still your Flight Leader, so don’t push it, lady!” Carlos replied, trying to look serious.

Preston looked over to Clint who was being wheeled down the runway by the President himself with Martie, Maggie and Lee’s sister chatting to the First Lady. The President’s two daughters, the Smart kids and Little Beth were in a separate group, all talking over each other and playing around as kids do. Even Lu’s younger son was in the mix. They all were chatting like birds on a wire.

The older teenage girls were in another group. The three very pretty French girls were chatting with Lu’s daughter about things of interest to teenage girls, Preston supposed.

He looked back and could see the excitement and wonderment in Clint’s face, actually meeting the President himself. He smiled and continued with his friends.

The general and the two admirals were in conversation with the other tall French lady, Marie, who was walking next to Mo and Lee Wang and Beatrice as four F-4s and the three Mexican F-5s flew overhead and looked like they were preparing to land. Mo Wang was talking to Lee and it looked like they were becoming family again. Joe and David were with their girls, Pam and Jennifer. Buck was with Barbara, they were never apart, and Preston realized that with this lot, it wouldn’t take much time before growth in the American population would be kick-started again.

The Super Tweets had had a makeover and were painted with thin pink swirly stripes in between their upper body camouflage. A painting of Tweety Bird adorned the side of each cockpit with the pilot’s name. The first single-seat Super Tweet had “Captain Sally Powers” written on it. The second had Captain Jennifer’s name, and the third had “Captain Martie Roebels” written next to its Tweety Bird.

Preston noticed the lone twin-seat Super Tweet Sally had flown in from Colombia. It was placed in front of the six single-seat jets and still had the Colombian military paintwork, but the paintwork had been added to with blue swirly stripes and this time the dog Hector was in the place of Tweety Bird. “Captain Carlos Rodriquez” was the pilot’s name.

Air Force personnel helped the pilots into their new aircraft. Most of the girls still had hours of training to go, but that didn’t stop them wanting to sit in their cockpits. For once Preston was jealous. He had never flown jets in his life and apart from Buck, he would be now flying one of the slowest aircraft in his group of friends.

“At least I can still beat poor Buck in his DC-3,” he thought to himself as the rest of the group stopped around a podium where General Patterson climbed up to say something. As he did, Preston saw the F-4s and 5s coming in to land a mile away at the end of the lengthy Andrews Air Force runway.

“With the approval of the President of the United States,” the general shouted for everyone to hear, “I now have the authority as Commander General of the United States Air Force to inaugurate this new aircraft Wing, “The Tweety Pie Wing,” part of the new United States Air Force. There was applause and the ceremony quickly ended as the first F-4 came onto the apron, making too much noise for any more speeches.

“You now have a much faster girl there!” shouted Carlos in Preston’s ear as the jets came in one by one. “There’s no way a propeller pilot can catch up and marry a jet girl!” he added laughing in Preston’s ear.

Everyone waited, covering their ears as the seven aircraft came onto the apron. Preston saw a second group of four F-4s fly low overhead and they turned in tightly for their final approach to the same runway. The aircraft lined up and personnel ran up with ladders as the aircraft parked.

This second apron was extremely large here at Andrews and as big as the first one which had all the civilian Boeing and Airbus aircraft being refueled.

The line grew as the eight F-4s were positioned in a line and the 3 F-5s in another. It took several minutes before the noise was reduced so that the general could continue.

“Mr. President and First Family, Members of the Armed Forces, civilians, I give you the jet-fighter aircraft strength of the new Air Force of the United States of America. We have taken over the F-5s from the Mexican Air Force who preferred three of the captured Chinese fighter aircraft from the destroyed Chinese Aircraft Carrier as a trade. They were not much good to us as our service section was not set up for their technical systems, while the Mexicans are better equipped for the Chinese aircraft. The other two Chinese fighters are being given to the Air Force of Colombia as a gift of friendship.”

Preston knew that there was a lot of politics at play here and he was sure Carlos was right in the middle of it.

“Refitting the AC-130 Gunships will be complete in a few weeks. There are over a thousand men working on the project. We will have in total six fully-operational AC-130 Gunships, seven C-130 tankers and 36 C-130 transport aircraft. That is enough aircraft to put 3,600 men on the ground, or on the end of a parachute anywhere on the North American continent within six hours, and protect them with gunship air support. We are arming and will have another seven modified C-130 Gunships ready for the Colombian Air Force in about three months and they are to be used as a backup-wing from our south if we ever need them. These aircraft are our main airborne protection until we get more modern equipment, which I‘ve been told could be decades away. Our other aircraft now number over 380 different aircraft of sorts, from Huey helicopters to civilian four and two-seaters. Another 400 aircraft have been found which will be operational in the future. Most need radio and radar equipment changes. We are bringing several older Boeing 707 tankers out of museums and might have them flyable by year-end. There are dozens of older military aircraft which many of our personnel have started to work on and over 500 more aircraft of all sorts, mostly Vietnam-era helicopters and fighters that will become operational over the next couple of years. Now, our Air Force fuel reserves: We have placed heavy guards around fuel storage facilities at 28 of our major Air Force bases around the country and millions of gallons of all types of aviation fuels and other oils are being commandeered from all areas of the country. I estimate this will supply our defense aircraft with fuel reserves for the next decade. We have engineers working on stabilizing the fuel reserves for long-term storage and we expect to have airborne protection long enough to get our country into a stable phase of new peaceful growth and advancement.”

There was applause and General Patterson then stated that an official party was to be held at Preston’s airfield in six hours and the ones who could make it, be there. This had been organized between Preston and General Patterson and to many the news was welcomed.

Lunch was served as a group of Air Force pilots climbed into the Super Tweets to fly them down to North Carolina. The F-4s and 5s were to be based on both sides of the country with needed C-130 tankers ready.

Preston left the tasks of setting up the necessary items for the party to the half dozen Air Force personnel stationed at the airfield. A Marine platoon of thirty men was arriving from Camp Lejeune to protect the President while he stayed at the farm and they were to be housed in one of the new hangars. Air Force enlisted men were already based in the new rooms in the other small hangar, where the Super Tweets were to be stationed once training was over.

After lunch a fleet of aircraft left for Preston’s farm. As usual Baby Huey was the President’s choice for the First Family, and Buck flew them down with Barbara as copilot.

There were more people than aircraft this time and a C-130 flew down with Lee, Mo and the rest of the newcomers. Of course Clint and Little Beth were with them, Clint sitting in the C-130’s copilot seat. There were few laws in this new country.

By three that afternoon Preston turned northwards for his approach for his new runway in the Pilatus. He was beginning to like Sally’s aircraft. The Pilatus, a single-engine turboprop was fast, powerful and very easy to fly. He noticed the six Super Tweets had already been parked outside their new hangars and a second C-130 was taking off to the north to return the pilots to Andrews.

Behind him came the C-130 and then the Beechcraft and an hour later “Buck One” landed on the original runway outside the new presidential retreat.

General Patterson was a pretty good-looking guy for forty-something, Preston realized as the general walked out of the C-130 with Marie. He was also one of the few men who were slightly taller than her. They had been together since Preston had arrived earlier at Andrews that morning and he realized that again something was going on. It seemed that everybody had now paired off, even the Chief of Staff.

Partying at the farm was becoming a normal occurrence. It was a retreat where everybody could get away from the daily problems facing them. Once the crowd was together rank disappeared, even for the President. He was one of the first to be seen with a cold Yuengling in his hand.

The tour began once everyone had landed and the President and First Family invited the civilians to look around their new house.

It was perfect, he said, small and cozy, just like he and the First Lady had wanted. There were three bedrooms, the master with an en-suite and two large bedrooms for the girls with a shared bathroom between their rooms. The open-plan lounge had a stone fireplace with log walls, the dining area and kitchen were simple but effective. He was pleased to find no bodyguard quarters in the house itself, something he had asked for. The only other room was a large office from where he could run the country.

The Officers’ Mess was next door and General Patterson and the two admirals would be staying there with one or two Air Force pilots and the Marine lieutenant.

The new larger building would house any bodyguards the President felt he needed in the future. Here, Mo and Lee Wang and family were invited to stay with Marie, Beatrice and the daughters. There was ample room and would be pretty empty with only a dozen people staying for the party.

Buck and Barbara had already picked out their corner room overlooking the airfield in the front of the building while Michael Roebels, Maggie and Will decided that the rear, forest views were more to their liking. The teenagers picked two of the four rooms on the side facing the road, while Ben and Oprah decided on two rooms facing the Officers‘ Mess. Marie picked the other front-facing corner room and slowly everybody was settled. It took a while, but suitcases and weekend luggage were brought into the rooms.

Carlos and Sally would be in their old room in the hangar and Jennifer and Pam Wallace would stay at Joe’s place as usual. Mike Mallory would be the only single man around. Preston’s handheld made noises and Mike’s voice was heard stating that his Cessna 210 was on final approach for the original runway. Preston went out to greet him and was surprised to see Mike and a lady emerge from the Cessna in front of his hangar. He recognized the lady as one of Mike’s ex-cabin attendants and Mike asked for his favorite room in Preston’s hangar.

Finally everybody was housed. Much of the accommodations were in use and Preston had that motel-ownership feeling. At least there was food and provisions in all the buildings and there weren’t many chores the “motel owner” needed to do.

Little Beth and Clint were also getting ready and he noted that they, too, seemed inseparable. He was very happy about that.

Orders had been given to meet in the Officers’ Mess for drinks at six and then they would move back into Preston’s hangar area for a BBQ dinner.

The Air Force personnel were already getting the charcoal hot as Preston and Martie walked towards the Mess with Little Beth—as usual, wheeling Clint, now smartly dressed—attended by Oliver and Puppy. For the next several minutes, people arrived from everywhere, wearing the best clothes they had for the inauguration of the Mess. This inauguration also was the opening for Preston’s whole new airfield and the President’s new, secret retreat.

Joe, his sons, David, Jennifer and Pam arrived in their best clothes. They were driving Joe’s two rat patrol jeeps, David’s ferrets and even the Saracen. The units were parked outside the Mess as a display.

A few minutes after six, General Patterson stood in front of the crowd, now numbering twenty as a helicopter was heard approaching from the north.

“That must be my father and Uncle Philippe,” stated Carlos to the crowd. “They didn’t want to miss the party.” Preston again wondered if there was enough room for everyone at his motel! The crowd went outside to see a second Huey coming in and, as Carlos had stated, his uncle was helped out of the helicopter by the bodyguards and his father followed right behind.

“Sorry for being late!” shouted Uncle Philippe as he walked up to the President. “We had a little problem with gunfire trying to get out of Washington.”

“Gunfire?” asked the President, shaking the older man’s hand.

“Yes, we have had a lot of trouble in our area of Washington in the last day or two,” replied The Colombian Ambassador. “Your American troops have dispelled the trouble makers, and I think it is quieting down again, but I was told food supplies are becoming harder to find for the population and they are getting nervous.”

“Are there still so many people in your area?” asked the President.

“I’ve been told that the numbers are decreasing daily with the food drops being completed south of the city, but there seem to be the die-hards who want to defend their houses and do not want to leave for the warmer areas,” the ambassador replied.

With the new arrivals and the admiral happy to see his brother, the ambassador, Air Force personnel were asked to show the bodyguards to their quarters on the first floor of the larger building. Once that was taken care of the official ceremony began. Only the adults and certain members of the growing crowd were allowed into the ceremony. Marie, Beatrice, their daughters and all the kids were to mingle outside until the meeting was finished.

“I welcome you all to our modernized airfield and retreat,” started General Patterson. “Preston’s airfield is now a larger fully trainable facility and a place for us to meet and get business done. The reason we are all here is that each one of you, and I include our friends from other countries, Admiral Rodriquez, Ambassador Rodriquez and First Assistant Rodriquez, Mr. Lee Wang and Mr. Mo Wang. You are now part of our planning strategy and will help us regain stability in our country and hopefully in yours. Many of you have been instrumental to our efforts from the very beginning, three long months ago, and I believe that we are about to start our next phase of survival, feeding and defending our nation.

“I had a very long meeting with Mr. Mo Wang yesterday who has kindly given me much needed information about electronic supplies in Harbin, China. He is going to help us to retrieve as much as we can from the Zedong Electronics’ secret base there. He and I have framed a plan to fly into China in 30 days. He has been in contact with several of his ex-employees, shall I say, who arrived in this country last year. As long as they are prepared to assist us, they will be pardoned by the United States. If they don’t want to help, they will be apprehended and brought to justice for any crimes perpetrated during their stays in our country. They don’t have much of a choice and so far they have listened to Mr. Wang. We are expecting two dozen of his men to head towards Fort Bragg to turn themselves in. Once they do they will be trained for their return to Harbin. Mr. Wang and I have decided that the base in Harbin does not know of the defeat of their commander in New York. We are going to fly in with these men and as many of our own Chinese-American soldiers as we can find, dressed in the captured uniforms of the enemy.

“Our two Chinese-American pilots Majors Chong and Wong will lead the flight into Harbin in the China Airlines 747 cargo transporter we captured. The majors are not here today as they are currently flying 747s into Europe and back. Then we will send in Jumbo Jets full of troops. We will also fly over three of our operational Gunships with twelve C-130s. Eight will carry Marines, the others food supplies, and six air tankers will accompany them as backup. All aircraft will take the route General Pete Allen did when he went to China, through Alaska and then into the virtually empty Misawa Air Force Base, Japan. There are necessary food items we need to deliver. Preston and Carlos will join us and will be copilots in two of the Gunships.”

“You want Carlos and me to fly AC-130s?” asked Preston, shocked but excited at the same time.

“Preston, Carlos, you have 29 days to learn to fly an AC-130 Gunship. Captains Powers and Watkins will take over command of the Super Tweet training here at your field instead of at Seymour Johnson. Good news, all you Super Tweet pilots…you are to stay here as well for the rest of April. We are going to drill you until you drop, but you will be super-fit Super Tweet pilots by month-end. You can all learn to fly together.

“Now, to get back to China; our aim is to go into Harbin and load up any aircraft we fly in with all the electronics and anything else of military value we can find. Mr. Wang has told me that he knows of one massive warehouse full of working electronics, enough to fill dozens of aircraft. These will be flown back to California where Michael Roebels and his team of hundreds of engineers will figure out what we have brought back for them and work on implementing the parts into our Silicon Valley engineering and development plants. Our first landing in China will be under the guidance of Mr. Mo Wang who will go into the base with the 747 transporter with our troops and his Chinese troops and take over command of the base. Once he has command, we will fly in the other 747s and begin to load them. The Gunships will be close by as we are sure they have fully working radar and aircraft detection systems at their airfield, and the first job under Majors Chong and Wong will be to take command of all Harbin’s aircraft monitoring systems. All our aircraft can get from Harbin to Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii without refueling. We are sending troops to Hawaii to reinforce Hickam, our main base there. From there the four aircraft will fly into Travis in California to offload. During this time we hope that we can nicely order the Chinese troops to leave and that will allow our Marines take temporary control of the facility in Harbin. The Marines and you men in the Gunships will have two days to take complete control before the aircraft return. Then the plan is to empty that base of everything possible, or destroy any weapons we cannot fly back. Any questions?”

“I thought that all our bases outside the U.S. have been emptied of our military personnel,” queried Preston.

“Yes, apart from our one base remaining in Japan, Misawa Air Force Base, a stepping stone we would need if a return to China was necessary this year. The President and I decided to leave the only route to China open for 2013 and we have 2,500 Air Force personnel still stationed there. Necessary supplies including defense artillery, mortars and several platoons of Marines were airlifted into Misawa with one drop last month using the 747 transporter via Hawaii. We have also based one of our AC-130 Gunships there. The base is commanded by an Air Force colonel.”

“Are all our points of interest in China within range from Misawa?” asked Carlos.

“Yes,” answered General Patterson. “We picked Misawa due to the peaceful nature of the Japanese people—we have had few problems to date—and its proximity to China and the Koreas.

“We have heard of much fighting in Korea, mainly South Korea with starving North Koreans stealing whatever they can find to eat. There are millions of North Koreans heading south to find food and warmth. From Misawa, the AC-130 has made weekly passes over both Koreas and Mainland China. They have had radiation-sensing equipment on board for the last two weeks and have been flying as far as it was safe towards Beijing. They can’t get to within 400 miles east of Beijing without getting dangerous readings. The radiation is slowly moving eastward and we believe the dangerous readings will decrease as the radiation clouds spread. Our nuclear engineers believe that the cloud will reach Harbin within eight to ten weeks. We have also flown over Shanghai at high altitude and the radiation cloud will reach that city at about the same time. Also, the radiation from the two other blasts is growing. We couldn’t get within 500 miles of Taiwan or Hong Kong before readings made us turn back. Shanghai should have slightly higher levels of radiation from all three blasts within 10 to 12 weeks and these levels could be strong enough to harm humans. Nobody can verify what a human body can actually take in radiation, so we plan to be gone from Chinese territory long before our troops are in any danger.”

“Could the radiation get as far as Hawaii, or even the West Coast?” asked Maggie Smart.

“Much of what we learned from the Japanese nuclear disaster in 2011,” replied General Patterson, “is that the oceans help decrease the levels and we don’t expect any problems. Misawa will be emptied once we feel that it is no longer needed and the levels of radiation rise above normal there. By that time we hope to have all our troops home and all the large civilian aircraft will be available at a moment’s notice. We hope, ladies and gentlemen, with this mission we can increase our working electronic stocks a hundredfold and also get millions of working parts to begin making replicas. I’m hoping that we can light and power up our whole engineering development plant, the whole of Silicone Valley, so that we can speed up the development of our goal to become an electrical country sooner than anticipated. That is our meeting for today. Now I would like to open this Officers’ Mess and allow the first drinks to be on the Air Force. The bar has been stocked from our supplies at Andrews Air Force Base for this meeting, so please join the President and me for a drink. Since money doesn’t seem to be of importance to anybody anymore in this world, we might as well enjoy the stocks we have.”

Everyone laughed at that comment and the doors were opened to allow the others in.

For the next couple of hours drinks and food were served and the guests got to know the regulars at Preston’s airfield.

“So, what are your plans for the future, Mr. Wang?” asked Preston. He and Carlos had finished eating and they were sitting in a corner seating unit of the Mess with Mo, Beatrice, Lee and his wife.

“I have the wish to keep my ship, the one we found at the villa belonging to this Senator Calderón,” began Mo. “Admiral Rodriquez wanted to take the ship back to Colombia until I showed him the official ship’s papers verifying the ship to be registered in Panama. The ship’s log showed voyages around Panama, Honduras, the United States and the Caribbean, but it seemed that the senator’s ship has never entered Colombian waters. Also, the company that owns the ship is a coffee company based in Honduras and Panama, and not in Colombia. So the admiral cannot legally find any paperwork that the ship is actually owned by the Colombian Senator Calderón and he has absolutely no jurisdiction on the vessel. Also the weapons were purchased in Panama and fitted to the ship in the United States, in Charleston, South Carolina, by a legal ship repair company working out of the old Charleston Naval Station, which I was told shut down nearly a decade ago. Where the weapons came from nobody knows, but official-looking American paperwork shows the additions to be legal. Since nobody can now dispute the legality of the paperwork, I have declared salvage rights. Admiral Rogers explained to your uncle, Carlos, that Colombia has no jurisdiction and if there were any, the United States would have jurisdiction since we are currently in U.S. waters. Admiral Rodriquez asked me, Beatrice and Lu to be ready to attend any court case in Bogotá for any future trials against Senator Calderón and we agreed. Since then Admiral Rodriquez has lost interest in my ship.”

“What about Admiral Rogers and the United States Navy commandeering your ship?” asked Carlos.

“It seems that the general and the admiral came to the same conclusion when we first met a day or so after I arrived here,” continued Mo. “I spent more than ten hours meeting with them and told them the complete story about Zedong Electronics. I explained the little I know about Harbin; I was stationed there for two years to train the teams of infiltrators here in America, and the men who are going to meet us at your army base in a few days. They were trained to report only to me and I was given orders from the Supreme Commander through me to them. Back to Harbin, I was not allowed to see very much there. The separate nuclear base and its surrounding area was off limits to me and also several of the aircraft hangars. As one of the most senior engineers at Zedong Electronics, I was allowed into the large storage hangar where the stockpiles of parts were kept. There are over a million parts, some small fuses and some whole engines, marine and aircraft, and also complete computers and many other systems. I think that there are even spare parts for the satellites in orbit. I don’t know how the Supreme Commander was going to get these parts up into space, but he was regimented about always having spare parts.”

Marie walked over to the group; the men rose and pulled up a seat for her. A fresh round of drinks was called for from an Air Force waiter; the cooks and bar personnel were on loan from Seymour Johnson for the occasion.

“Go on,” Carlos prompted Mo.

“I suggested to the general and admiral that I could get you Americans in there and we could airlift all the parts back here in return for allowing me to live here in the United States and have ownership of the ship I arrived with,” continued Mo.

“And General Patterson OK’d that?” asked Preston.

“It seems so,” Mo replied. “Preston, I would like to place the ship close by here and go fishing. Do you know of a place where I could be based and I could supply you with good fresh fish when you wanted?”

“Now, that sounds like a plan,” replied Preston, rubbing his hands together. “I’m sure we will need fish in the near future. Martie and I love fresh fish and I’ve always wanted to try my hand fishing off Cape Hatteras in the Gulf Stream. Ocracoke is the closest American town to the warm Gulf Stream on the whole East Coast. I believe the Gulf Stream is only 30 miles from land. I’ve just never had much time to do it.”

“As you know, and Lee will verify, we Chinese love fresh fish as much as anybody else in Asia. It is our staple diet,” continued Mo, with Lee nodding his agreement.

“It would certainly be a blessing to have fresh fish,” Lee added. “I do not like these military rations very much.” His wife nodded her agreement to that.

“The small village of Ocracoke on the Outer Banks would be a good place to locate,” suggested Preston. “It has an airfield just outside the town. Martie and I have flown there several times since we‘ve had our aircraft. The harbor is strong and secure, and I’m sure the town must be deserted. I don’t know about hurricanes in the summer, but no place on the southern East Coast is safe from July to November. Ocracoke will be a good place.”

“Then I will arrange with the general to visit the town,” answered Mo.

“Do you know what parts we could find at this storage depot?” Carlos asked Mo.

“A larger range of what was onboard the transporter when you captured it,” replied Mo. “More military parts as well as complete radar, sonar and even several dozen complete aircraft engines. I assumed when I saw them that they were parts for the fleet of Boeings to keep them flying. The warehouse is double the size of the largest warehouses I saw at your Air Force base yesterday.”

The drinks arrived and silence reigned as many sipped the just delivered libations. The conversation turned towards Beatrice and Marie. Beatrice told her story and then Marie followed with hers. Everyone got very interested when she told them about her trip into New York a few days earlier.

“You’ve been back to Manhattan, Marie?” asked Carlos.

“Yes. Once he and the admiral had finished grilling Mo, I asked General Patterson if I could go to New York to search for my husband. We lived between Central Park and Madison Avenue on East 73rd Street. He was reluctant at first, but we ladies usually get our way. The next day we flew in a helicopter into a military base south of Central Park, somewhere on the Avenue of Americas. The army had set up this whole building as a base camp and we landed on top on the building’s helipad. The heat was not operating in the building, but certain rooms had gas heaters to keep the dozens of men warm. The basement was frozen but they kept many vehicles down there, mostly street sweepers, jeeps and a few small bulldozers. This area of the City, including the area around Central Park, had been cleared and was under complete lockdown. We went up Avenue of Americas in a jeep with two other jeeps in front and behind as protection. I’ve never seen New York so empty. There was nothing moving. There were no cars for people to hide behind. Whole streets had been cleared of everything movable and even cleaned with the street sweepers. Nobody could move without being seen.”

“Where have they moved everything?” asked Carlos.

“I was told that cranes were brought in to load every vehicle onto military trucks and move them into massive open areas outside Manhattan. They moved everything: cars, taxi cabs, even trucks and buses,” replied Marie. “We got to 52nd Street and I saw Central Park. It still had a foot or more of snow on it. The sergeant driving the jeep told the general and me that it had been totally cleared and this was only recent snow. There was nobody to be seen. A picture of beauty Central Park was, as we drove by. We drove up Fifth Avenue to 73rd Street; there was still absolutely nobody to be seen. The streets were empty and it looked like a movie stage, or even a make-believe ghost town. The sergeant said that wild dogs still roamed the park at night and several soldiers had been attacked recently. They are dealing with the problem and the dog number problem is lessening. We finally got to my street. I’ve never seen my street so clean and neatly empty in all the years we have lived there. Our apartment is on an upper floor and we had to wait an hour for somebody to find the keys for the building.

“Finally another jeep arrived with two military policemen who unlocked the front door to the building. Inside the smell was bad; stale air mixed with the stench of death. I’m sure that the smell would have been worse if the weather was warmer; it was a few degrees above freezing. The entrance was sort of clean and it looked like it was shut down for Christmas or something. We climbed the stairs to my floor. In the stairwell it stank of urine, dirty bodies and the smell of death. The temperature was in the forties, but the stairwell felt as if it were freezing. We finally got to our apartment and it took the military policeman several minutes to find the keys to our door. He opened it and General Patterson went in first to make sure it was safe. The stink was disgusting. It was horrible; inside, the apartment had been ransacked and broken. I’m sure many people had tracked through as the carpets were literally black from hundreds of dirty feet. I could hardly recognize the place we have lived for over a decade. The entire 5,000 square feet of our apartment was filthy and not one piece of our beautiful furniture was in one piece. I went to our main bedroom and found blackened, bloody sheets and what looked like old blood everywhere. It was disgusting, the smell awful. Nobody was there, nor was anything of value left, or any information to search for my husband.”

“Have you checked the computer registers of all the identified people?” asked Preston.

“I’ll get to that,” replied Marie. “I checked our daughters’ rooms and it was the same. A window had been broken and the hole was letting in cold air. There was one place left to search, in my husband’s study. Here the destruction was really bad; it was as if a really bad fight had happened. On the rear wall we had a safe that was virtually impossible to see or find, and it is not electronically operated, it works by hand pressure only. It was made by a company in Monaco, France and is the most expensive safe in the world. It is operated with a hair pin. I found the very small hole in the wall where we open the safe and I pressed a hair pin into the hole. The general was amazed to see a safe door open in the smooth wall. Inside was a letter from my husband stating that on January the seventh, he had run out of food and that he needed to go out into the streets with screaming and dying people everywhere and find something to eat. He couldn’t wait any longer and said he would try to get out to the Hamptons where we had friends and wait for me. Also inside the safe were most of our valuables—money, property papers and several pieces of my jewelry. I took all those and wrote on the back of the note that I was in Washington, at Andrews Air Force Base, and he should look for me there, and returned the note to the empty safe. It was a horrible experience and I never want to see Manhattan again, or New York for that matter!”

Chapter 19

Calderón and Mexico – April

For a week Manuel and Alberto waited for word from anybody that their army of nearly 100,000 men was heading north. Unfortunately, with their backpack radios they could only get a maximum of fifty to sixty miles of range.

After the first week of April he sent Alberto and three jeeps south to find his men, or at least get into contact with any of the Venezuelan aircraft promised by his Venezuelan partner, Victor, to back them up as far as the southern Mexican border.

Twice Manuel had sent scouts across the border into Mexico only to find thousands of soldiers waiting several miles inland and all roads ambushed and waiting for their return. Manuel didn’t know how long the Mexican soldiers would stay there before giving up on the banditos returning, but now it was nothing more than a waiting game for both sides.

There were several Guatemalan soldiers manning the border crossing but they had disappeared as soon as the rush southwards had arrived. Some had approached and asked to join up, and in the last week his troops had grown by a dozen or two.

One of the men told him about a local army garrison thirty miles towards the coast and Manuel sent 500 men to check it out and reinforce themselves with arms and ammunition.

They had returned without a fight. The Guatemalan soldiers there numbered less than a hundred and Manuel’s men strong-armed the Guatemalans to open their storage depot and literally emptied it of everything in there. The several extra troop carriers returned, their frames creaking under the weight of the supplies and their heavy fuel tankers that had been filled. Several commandeered Guatemalan troop carriers also arrived, filled to capacity, as well as a couple of jeeps and two old armored cars, proudly presented to Manuel and Alberto by their new drivers.

Manuel realized that he was tempting fate and he could be attacked from both sides of the border, but he hoped his army would arrive soon. Then he would be top dog in the area.

Alberto left and Manuel stayed where he was. There were several small villages nearby to entertain his men and they needed a little fun and drinking. Manuel didn’t really care what his men did to the locals. Most of his commanders were reasonable men and would control their ranks so that there wasn’t a local uprising against them.

His was a guerilla war, a war where winners didn’t take any prisoners and both sides would execute captives without feeling or remorse. It was the way of the jungle, and he was equally prepared to win battles or lose them, probably losing his life if he was ever caught; but being caught would be the last alternative.

It took another week before an aircraft appeared a Venezuelan aircraft, dropped supplies by parachute and radioed that his army was now three days away and his brothers were together.

Manuel sent another scouting patrol into Mexico to see if the army was still there. His men returned two days later reporting that yes, the army was still there.

The news wasn’t good, but neither was it too bad. His men had scouted from the hills around the large camp. They counted approximately 15,000 men, a dozen tanks and two dozen armored vehicles. There were enough vehicles for only two thirds of the army and, from tire tracks, it looked like several dozen vehicles had already left the camp and headed north.

A day later his men finally arrived, numbering 87,000. They had thousands of vehicles of numerous sorts, even Chinese troop carriers and personnel vehicles, dozens of them.

Manuel was happy to see his other brother, Pedro, and immediately ordered the newcomers to find space and camp. There was little danger with so many men.

Pedro was tired; he had travelled fourteen hours a day since leaving the Panama Canal. They had ransacked any fuel stations on the way, been attacked by soldiers in Honduras and Guatemala and hadn’t even stopped while battles raged. The attacks had cost him many men, but had given him arms, fuel and fresh vehicles to continue north. At times his convoy had stretched out over two hundred miles and his army had crept forward like a centipede.

He and his men were allowed to camp and sleep for two days. A meeting between the brothers was held all day on the following day.

“It was a total surprise to find the Chinese army at the canal,” he explained to Manuel and Alberto, as well as a dozen of their commanders. “They must have been given orders to defend the stupid river at all costs, because they fought like mad dogs, never giving up an inch of ground. We had better fighting tactics than they had, but they held a defensive position and sometimes it took days to kill them for these unimportant positions. They were well equipped with the latest weapons, and we captured many mortars, artillery pieces, heat-seeking ground missiles and ground-to-air missiles. We have a truck-load of missiles. Manuel, I think we must have as modern weapons as any army in America. Unfortunately, their GPS guided missiles for some reason don’t work and we left them, dozens of them.”

“How did you beat them and how many men did they have?” asked Manuel.

“We realized that if we didn’t destroy the whole army, they might continue to attack us as we continued north. It seemed that their main task was to control the river, so I placed 50,000 men on each side of the river on the western end and attacked the entire length until we reached the eastern end on the coast. It took us three weeks to cover about 30 miles. At one point we were down to one mile a day. I believe we killed around 12,000 Chinese, but nobody really counted. We just kept attacking and killing. I knew you would want us to head north as fast as we could, so as soon as we reached the eastern shore, we immediately counted our men, fueled up our vehicles and headed north. We gathered weapons and trucks as we attacked each of their command centers or camps. I gave exact orders to try and not fire on the vehicles as they are very new and very modern.”

“How many men did you lose?” asked Alberto.

“They were dug in and we were the attackers,” continued Pedro. “We got into a system but during the first few days we lost over 3,000 men. We had no time to bury them as the fighting never seemed to stop. Once we got into a rhythm of attacking from their flanks first, followed by a direct attack, our numbers of dead decreased significantly. I believe that we lost nearly 21,000 men in those three weeks, but we have picked up over 5,000 new soldiers on our march north. We even have several women who are fighting alongside their husbands and have their older children armed with weapons.

So what is your troop count, Pedro?” asked Manuel.

“Around 87,000 out of the 102,000 I started with,” replied Pedro blankly.

“An unfortunate occurrence,” responded Manuel. “There was no way we knew the Chinese army had taken control of the canal. Also they might get mad about the loss of their men, but who would they blame? They don’t know that we are the Calderón Cartel and I doubt they would follow us so far north. We had better look out for more soldiers when we return. We are going to have to recruit hard to get our numbers back to over 100,000; a number I think will give us a chance in America. When we get there, I’m hoping to double our numbers by recruiting the gangsters and families we do business with, but we cannot contact them until we reach the Rio Grande. Come my brothers, let us spend a day counting our weapons, ammunition and then go and destroy the Mexican army once and for all.”

Three days later, the Mexican army was attacked from three sides at dawn. Manuel expected that the Mexican Air Force would provide air support and he wanted to do as much damage as possible before any attack aircraft appeared. The first attack lasted two hours before the Mexican army, having heavy losses, began to retreat northward along same roads Manuel and Alberto had retreated south on only a couple of weeks earlier.

As the sun rose over the horizon the Calderón brothers attacked with everything they had to throw at the encamped army. Over 200 mortars, 150 Chinese missile launchers and 100 other forms of rocketry rained down on the waking troops. Within the first 30 minutes over three thousand bombs and rockets pockmarked the ten hilly acres where the Mexican soldiers were encamped.

Then there was a pause as the invading troops were organized to charge the enemy camp’s southern border. Twenty thousand men rushed in to the Mexican camp only a couple of hundred yards away which Manuel, Alberto and Pedro learned was still well dug in for an attack.

Several dozen dug-in machine gun posts erupted with rapid fire and several tanks and dozens of armored vehicles ensured that the invading forces got no further than the outer perimeter set with razor wire.

A second attack of 10,000 men from Pedro’s forces then charged in from the western side of the camp while the first attackers retreated back to the safety of the dunes, and mortars began pounding the machine gun positions.

A third attack went in from the eastern side twenty minutes later, as the second attack was repelled by the Mexicans with heavy losses on both sides. Then, another attack was ordered from the south where the Mexican machine guns had taken a beating. This time both attack forces reached further into the camp, but were again beaten back by an inner-group of machine gun nests.

“The commander of this army was well disciplined in the art of war,” stated Manuel to Alberto, seeing everything from a camouflaged position 800 yards behind their forward troops.

“We still have enough mortar bombs for another attack,” replied Alberto looking at their retreating forces through high-powered Chinese binoculars.

“The inner-machine gun posts are heavily fortified,” replied Manuel. “Our mortars are not doing much damage. I think an attack from all three sides and a mortar barrage onto the machine gun nests will help our men get through. They have also backed up their armor to the northern area and I think will fire on us if we don’t attack again soon. Alberto, tell the mortar teams to keep their bombs away from any ammo dumps they can see. Tell them not to aim for them, or any vehicles, we will need to resupply once this battle is over.”

The next attack, the largest so far, erupted from all three sides at the same time. Thirty minutes of heavy bombardment on the firing positions deep inside the camp got the invading troops to the outer perimeter’s dug-in areas, where the men would be protected. Both areas, inside and outside the razor wire, were now virtually cut up and flat and strewn with bodies.

For the first time heavy fire was returned by artillery stationed somewhere behind the Mexican camp and Mexican soldiers could be seen scurrying for more protected places on the northern side of the camp.

Manuel shouted in his radio to cease fire and a silence hung over his troops, much like the dense smoke slowly rolling several feet over his position in a southerly direction.

He radioed Pedro to find out where he was. He responded that he and his men were safe in the trenches of the camp’s western boundary. Alberto suggested a last and short bombardment and a rush with the rest of their men, en mass, to scare the Mexicans into retreat. Manuel agreed and the necessary orders were radioed to the section commanders.

As the Mexican tanks and armored vehicles trundled forward from the rear to try and displace the enemy in their dugouts, Manuel allowed his men in charge of the Chinese ground-to-air shoulder missile launchers, to fire off a volley to intercept the armored vehicles. At the same time, Alberto shouted charge over the radio and the rest of the men who were held in reserve erupted over the dunes and towards all three sides. That was when the first jet came screaming in from the north with cannons flaming and dozens of men fell in straight lines.

“Men with the Chinese ground-to-air missiles, fire at the incoming aircraft from the north!” screamed Manuel over the radio as the first aircraft passed low overhead, nearly deafening him. A second very modern jet was seconds behind and he saw three of the Chinese captured heat-seeking missiles rise quickly up to the second aircraft which exploded as the first of its cannon rounds tore into his advancing men. “There is a third one after that one, get it!” shouted Manuel as he saw the minute black spot of a third incoming jet.

This pilot had seen the sudden demise of his fellow pilot and began to turn away as two more missiles were fired and screamed away in his direction. He went vertical and his afterburner lit up as he tried to out-fly the incoming missiles. They followed him and they all disappeared into the blue sky.

Manuel shouted over his radio for spotters to look for more incoming aircraft and looked again at the camp half a mile in front of him. Things had changed during the minute he had concentrated on the air attack. A Mexican tank was in flames as were a couple of armored vehicles. His men had reached the outer perimeter and the first wave of men was running into the inner-perimeter dugouts and trenches.

He looked up hoping to see an explosion from the third aircraft, but there was none, he must have outrun the missiles.

The first aircraft had also disappeared and he wondered where the Mexican Air Force got such modern jet-fighters, and how many they had.

It had taken two hours, but the Mexican army was heading further and further north, and there weren’t many moving troops left in the camp apart from maybe a few in the northern trenches. It would not have been necessary for the Mexican commandant to dig in on his northern border if he had armor to protect him.

The firing slowly died down as Manuel got into his jeep and headed towards the southern boundary where his men were in control. He had ordered all of his transport vehicles to stay hidden under netting until told to move forward.

One by one the Mexican soldiers fired their last rounds and disappeared over the ridges to the north. Manuel wanted to hound them and he knew that an ambush of sorts would be getting ready for his advancing troops. The land around the camp was quite flat and he decided to divide his men.

Alberto could take an army and head overland as far as he could go and then rejoin the 190 highway when he needed to. Pedro could take a third of the men and head after the retreating Mexican army.

Manuel gave both his brothers strict orders not to deploy all their men in one place, but go slowly and have flanking troops a mile or more on either side of them to rush in behind any ambush. He would stay behind and see if the aircraft returned and collect any vehicles or arms. There must be thousands of rifles and machine guns still in the camp. As his brothers headed out in different directions, Manuel shouted to them to stay within radio range, around forty to fifty miles apart, no more.

For the rest of the day his troops counted close to 2,700 of his men dead or wounded in and around the southern borders of the camp. Several were badly wounded and these he had shot, his army had no medical personnel. His men knew this; they were ordered to shoot him if he was of no use, and one of his brothers would take over.

The losses reduced his numbers and he worried about this more than anything. Happily, they counted over 8,000 Mexican dead or wounded and the wounded were also given an end to their misery. Each man still had some sort of weapon with ammunition and these stocks filled four empty troop transporters. Over thirty machine-gun placements were counted in the camp with twenty of the guns in perfect order, and wooden boxes full of ammo everywhere.

Several jeeps had flat or bent tires and these were quickly replaced from Manuel’s spares. They all had bullet holes here and there, but beauty was not important; if it ran it was useful. Three fuel tankers were intact behind broken trucks and they were quickly placed behind the transporters full of weapons.

Manuel then checked the crash area of the fallen aircraft. It was a mass of still-burning pieces, but he did notice a Chinese emblem on part of the tail, still intact.

“A Chinese aircraft taken down by Chinese missiles,” he stated smiling to his second-in-command. “Those brave pilots didn’t hang around long, but they’ll be back. How many of those ground-to-air missiles do we have here and with my brothers, Luis?”

“We have sixteen missiles, Señor Calderón. Alberto has a dozen and I think Pedro has the same. We each have two missile launchers; two others were destroyed in the battle.”

“We need aircraft spotters at either end of our convoy with one of those launchers close by.”

“Si, Señor,” Luis replied.

They finally finished collecting anything of value as nightfall closed in around them. It was a pretty good tally. Hundreds of Mexican rifles, three full fuel tankers, nine jeeps with holes, but in reasonable condition, two troop transporters with their tires replaced, and a 100-mm howitzer artillery piece and a truck full of 100-mm rounds that were found untouched and in perfect working order. Also twenty machine guns and another truck full of ammo and the odd RPG and mortar also had been found undamaged. He had several, modern Chinese artillery pieces now behind vehicles he hadn’t even used in the battle, but he still kept everything, even guns sixty years old.

Manuel radioed Alberto; he was still in range and about thirty miles north. He was finding the going slow but felt safer off the main asphalt. Pedro was nearly fifty miles north, on the edge of the retreating Mexicans and had several skirmishes with them during the afternoon. His radio contact was getting bad and Manuel told him to stop until he caught up. Pedro was sure the Mexicans wouldn’t stop knowing that advancing troops were on their tail.

Two hours before dawn Manuel’s tired soldiers caught up with Pedro. Many, used to the non-stop movement, had caught a couple of hours of sleep in the slow-moving vehicles. He needed to refuel, and an hour before dawn Alberto radioed that he was coming in because there were several large mountains in front of him, and it was a waste of time to travel off-road.

An ambush was possible and Pedro’s men, who had managed to get a little sleep, moved out to the rocks and hills around the road while Manuel’s men refueled.

“I hear a spotter aircraft,” stated Luis as the last of the vehicles were filled an hour after dawn. “It is coming in from our north and I think along the road.”

“Good,” replied Manuel. “Get the launchers and missiles ready. I’m sure they will see us and we will be visited by those Chinese jets again. We can kill two aircraft at one time, the spotter aircraft and whoever it wants to invite to the fight.

As the aircraft flew over at a couple of thousand feet it saw the main army on the road in full sight. Alberto was still five miles out in an easterly direction and he had been told not to put up any dust to show his presence. He was crawling along at ten miles an hour and had been warned to ready his missiles in case they had visitors. Manuel watched as the small aircraft veered away to its right to get out of harm’s way. Its pilot must have heard about the missile attack.

Manuel gave the aircraft a minute to fly west of them and told a launcher to aim and fire a heat-seeker. He did and within twenty seconds the little Cessna was an exploding fireball in the sky. The poor aircraft had no chance to escape the speed of the missile nor did the pilot ever know that he was toast.

“I hear a jet approaching,” stated Alberto several seconds later. “No, there are two and they are about three miles to the north of us. Shall I try a missile?”

“Yes,” replied Manuel “just one, and when you have it visual Alberto, we will fire a couple from here.” Manuel could now hear jet engines approaching and a sudden scream as the pilots must have seen a missile launch on their radars.

“I can see one turning!” shouted a soldier further down the convoy.

“Aim and fire,” ordered Manuel.

“I can see one as well,” shouted another over the radio.

“Aim and fire,” added Manuel calmly.

Suddenly the second jet was seen low and on the western horizon trying to attack from the opposite direction where the spotter plane was a fireball on the ground.

“Enemy aircraft on the western horizon!” shouted Manuel into his radio. “All other launchers fire when you see it.” Immediately two missiles went up from different areas and again the jet could be seen suddenly aiming vertically and heading up, its afterburner shock of noise hitting the men a few seconds later.

“We got the first one!” shouted Alberto into his radio. “I saw an explosion very high above us and it must be the enemy aircraft.”

“I want proof before you leave the area,” ordered Manuel. Pedro get you men heading north again, I’ll look out for the other pilot. Go slowly and carefully and we will catch up to you once Alberto joins us.”

For two more weeks, the cartel played cat and mouse with the ever retreating Mexican army. Twice they saw spotter planes and twice they blew them out of the sky. It was slow going as they by-passed Mexico City and headed north. They fought through Querétaro and San Luis Potosi before reaching Zacatecas.

Here, they were met by friends. The Sanchez Cartel, with 5,000 men, was waiting for them. They were old friends and the new members suggested that they head for Saltillo where another Sanchez Cartel family of 2,000 was waiting, and then Monterrey where the largest cartel, the Cortez Cartel with a force of over 12,000, was waiting.

With such numbers and the Mexican army still retreating up the old road, a surprise directional change would buy them peace for a few days. Manuel and his army arrived in Monterrey on May 2nd. They were a month late and it was getting hot.

Chapter 20

Mo Wang’s New Baby

Preston was excited. He loved flying and, apart from Martie and the farm, flying and electronics were all he was really interested in, at least until this year. Now there were the kids—Little Beth and Clint, dogs—Oliver and Puppy, and even the introverted cat Smokey, who made appearances once a day, usually at dinner. There were constantly people at the farm and on the airfield, and he had very little down time. Now he was to learn to fly a Gunship, the aircraft he most respected.

The day after the opening of the Officers Mess and the departure of many of the people back to their tasks of saving the country, the United States Air Force got down to doing what it does best: teaching people to fly.

The day was April 3rd at 06:30 hours when a C-130 full of technicians, aircraft mechanics, and the commander of Seymour Johnson squawked over the radios wanting landing confirmation for the new runway.

The farm, still having a sort of civilian vacation-type mentality, was all still asleep. Even the First Family, staying on for a week, was not out of bed yet. Luckily for Preston, the Air Force personnel were up and had a radio in the guardroom, one of the new hangars. The man on duty gave all the relevant information and told the C-130 to come in quietly, the air field was still asleep. He heard laughter from Colonel Mondale over the radio and carefully explained to his base commander that the President and Chief of Staff were still on the field and presumably still asleep.

Acknowledgements were returned by the incoming flight and it came in on a whisper, its engines as silent as possible.

Oliver and Puppy were checking out the airfield perimeter and two men were walking the southern perimeter as the 130 flew low overhead to land. The colonel flying the aircraft thought he saw the President of the United States and a person who looked much like his Chief of Staff looking directly up at him as they came in a hundred feet over the south property fence.

“Good morning, Colonel Mondale,” General Patterson said, walking up to the colonel outside the new, large hangar several minutes later. “I believe you have already met the President?”

“Yes, sir. Good morning, Mr. President,” the colonel replied saluting. “I was hoping to get Preston and Martie out of bed earlier than usual, but was warned about you gentlemen still being on the premises. I had been thinking of buzzing the farmhouse to get my new recruits out and onto the parade square,” he added smiling at the men in front of him.

“Now, now colonel, you know it’s against Air Force Flight Regulations to buzz the tower…but, I suppose a farmhouse isn’t in the actual regulations so I’ll let your remark slide this time,” returned the general with a smirk on his face. “I do think this civilian establishment should get closer to military time and efficiency, so get the men to raise the dead and let’s get our flying lessons started. Colonel, you need to add two new recruits to your roster, Detective Will Smart from Lancaster, California, who is flying into this field a little later on the redeye from Edwards, and the President, who would like to get started with his first hour. I would recommend bringing in two more Cessna 150s or 172s from our civilian lineup for our new recruits to begin on. I believe Preston commandeered two small Cessna aircraft from RDU in January and they are either with you or at Pope Field.”

“They are at Pope, sir, and I’ll get them in here within the hour with the other 172 I’m having flown in,” the colonel replied, pretty startled about his new recruit.

Preston’s suggestion of a church on the field had met with a positive response from Colonel Mondale at the Andrews meeting two days earlier. Seymour Johnson just happened to have a mobile church building designed to be erected on a frontline base and Joe, who had arrived, suggested that the Air Force bring it in and he and his sons could add a few more permanent touches here and there.

Joe also reminded General Patterson at the meeting the day before, that he and David had already put their names forward for flying lessons, and his sons could take over the modifications of the church once it arrived. General Patterson hadn’t forgotten and told Joe, and David, who already had hundreds of flying hours in an Israeli flight logbook, that their names were already logged.

By ten that morning the field was getting busy. Will Smart arrived on the second C-130 from Edwards. Maggie and the children were happy to see that Will seemed to step off the rear of the aircraft without the psychological problems he had faced a couple of months earlier. A third and fourth C-130 came in as the trainee pilots were congregating on the apron in front of Preston’s old hangar; there was much chatting and laughter about who was learning to fly which aircraft.

Jennifer arrived in another Super Tweet, from a base in Kansas, flying in from the south. She had left for Edwards the previous evening with a 130 and returned with the second two-seat Tweet for the girls’ flight training at Preston’s farm.

The California C-130 was flying back to Onizuka Air Force Station in Sunnyvale, close to Silicon Valley, with Lee’s wife and daughter and Buck.

Mo Wang, Beatrice, Marie and the girls had been invited to visit the Roebels wine Farm in Napa for the next week or two—Marie and Beatrice decided it would be much more fun to drink good Napa wine than watch aircraft landing and taking off all day—and accepted the offer to fly out on the 130; Michael would pick them up after he dropped Lee off at Onizuka.

Michael Roebels and Lee Wang had taken off in the Beechcraft at 07:00 hours, several minutes after the first 10 flights arrived. The Beechcraft, needing more time to fly to the West Coast, would stop twice to refuel, and would be six or more hours behind the C-130 into Onizuka.

By eleven the airfield’s control tower was hard at work directing landings and takeoffs on the new runway. The Cessna-beginners were in flight school in one of the hangars for the first day; the four new jet girls were on their first phase of training and, since all could fly, they would be doing nothing more than landings and takeoffs in the two two-seat jets with Sally, and Jennifer who had trained on Tweets in 2010 but had preferred to continue flying the C-130s.

In between the Tweets were two AC-130 Gunships doing the same thing, landings and takeoffs, with Carlos and Preston sweating to learn to fly such large and powerful aircraft.

The old runway wouldn’t have been long enough for training and Preston not only enjoyed the extra footage, but needed every inch of it to get his massive beast on and off without stopping.

By twelve, more aircraft were arriving and slowing the pattern; two more C-130s from Pope Seymour Johnson brought in the mobile church building panels and two more HC-130 Tankers were full of soon-to-be-needed aviation fuels.

For the next two weeks the airfield worked hard; the days slowly grew warmer as the pilots learned to fly their aircraft.

The President had to return to Washington for a day and when he left in a C-130 bound for Andrews, he had already accrued 50 hours of training and three solo flights around the airfield. Joe and David also had 50 hours of training and, Will Smart, although a little behind was now enjoying the experience fully, and was hankering for more hours.

The girls had been worked hard by Sally and Jennifer. They had 60 hours each and were nearly ready to go solo. For the next two days they would learn the differences between two-seat flying with a trainer and one-seat solo-flying in their own aircraft.

Preston and Carlos had thirty hours each. They had completed more ground school and math workshops than the others and needed to learn more about operating the Gunship instead of just learning to fly it.

Little Beth and Clint had gone on most of the 130 training flights, exchanging their choice of pilot from Preston to Carlos and back as they saw fit. They would be competent pilots themselves before long as they both sat in the rear of the cockpits and listened to every word of the training.

Clint actually was allowed to fly one of the large beasts once sitting in the copilot seat, and he happily stated that he was ready for the next flight school. His slowly-mending legs managed to control the pedals of the large aircraft.

On the morning of April 19th, the sixteenth day, the trainees were told it was solo day and heaven help the airfield. Preston and Carlos wouldn’t need to go solo as there would always be a second pilot aboard and, as new copilots, they would fly hundreds of hours and gain experience from the right-hand seats.

But for the others, including the President, who had returned in time for his first real solo flight, it was time for their first long distance solo flight. A fourth Cessna was flown in so that the four trainees could all fly together.

“Long distance” was a bit of an exaggeration for this flight as the Cessna pilots would take off one after the other and, with Preston and Carlos’ Gunships being “bodyguards” for the President, they would all fly into Seymour Johnson, then fly over to Pope Field at Fort Bragg, and for their third leg they would return to the airfield. In total, it was a flight of no more than 150 miles, but far enough to be classed as a long distance flight. It went off without mishap.

The Super Tweets had a little more work to do. In the morning, they practiced formation flying and in the afternoon headed out to Andrews and back again without mishap. By dusk, flight-suited, happy, smiling and drinking pilots could be found celebrating in the bar of the new Officers Mess.

Maggie and Will Smart were the happiest of all. They had both done well and they felt tremendously proud of each other. Martie was smiling ear to ear. She had really enjoyed the first phase and was now a jet-girl. For Barbara it was exciting but she had been a jet-girl for several years, flying Citation jets for a living.

Preston and Carlos enjoyed the new aircraft, but their own P-51s were as exciting to fly and Preston still loved flying his P-38 Lightning far more than a Gunship. He hadn’t felt the power and force of the Gunship’s weapons yet.

Buck, Marie, Beatrice and the teenagers returned from Napa happy, content, and suntanned, while Lee and Mo Wang stayed on with Michael Roebels going over blue prints of electrical vehicle computers.

Many hybrid-electric vehicles had been found abandoned in perfect condition on the highways of California. Buck explained to the tired audience that several of the parts from the first captured load were being developed into one complete electric car by Michael, Lee and Mo, and the engineers thought that they could have it, and several others, working within a month. Everything worked perfectly in the vehicle except for the computerized brain, but they were getting good responses from the drive-train areas of the vehicle by adding new parts meant for another type of engine-management system, namely a harbor crane!

Buck told Preston, Martie and Carlos that Michael Roebels and his ever-growing team of engineers had just moved its entire operation to a building called “The Blue Cube,” a massive, ex-Lockheed Aircraft Corporation building on the recently retired Onizuka Air Force Base. They were working around the clock, and Mo Wang had added his engineering knowledge about hundreds of exact parts currently stored in Harbin, which could be exchanged into these vehicles.

“This building is massive,” described Buck, a fresh beer in his hand. “It is a large, pale blue, windowless building several stories tall. It has the largest array I’ve ever seen of currently useless parabolic dish antennas used for communication with orbital tracking. Carlos, he wants you to set up a satellite communications headquarters there as soon as you get back from China and get these communication antennas running again. He believes he can do some interesting things, setting up new upgrades for our future electric-only vehicles out there once they’ve been ‘doctored’. The work space inside the building is perfect for what Michael is doing; it used to control the military satellites when Onizuka was operated by the 21st Space Operations Squadron.”

“I know Onizuka well,” replied Carlos. “I’ve never been there but I used to feed information through them from Salt Lake City and Andrews as recently as last year. Funny enough, I was planning to visit that location just the other day to see if I could get it operational again. I’m planning to move our main digital video satellite over to the West Coast in the next few days to position it so that we can see Harbin, China and Misawa Japan area more vividly, and when I do, the information from the space link from the mountain observatory needs to move faster, and the Blue Cube was setup to do this. My aim is to use it as an information relay station.”

“You are moving the video satellite, Carlos?” asked Preston. “What about our southern border?”

“I was asked to meet with the President and General Patterson late last night after we finished our flight schooling,” replied Carlos, his audience now all ears. “They decided to get orbital surveillance for our mission over there in two weeks’ time. There has been no movement of anybody over our southern border for weeks now, and they decided to prioritize China, for one month only, in case we need eyes over there. It’s a risk, but a small one. There is a one-in-a-million chance that anybody will decide to attack us during the four weeks that we are semi-blind on one area of our country.” The others agreed.

“I heard that one of those exchanged Chinese aircraft was shot down in Mexico the other day,” said Sally, who had sidled up to Carlos while he was talking.

“The general knows about it,” replied Carlos. “It was far south in Mexico and the only information he got was from a very weak long-range radio message that was overheard. The Mexicans thought it was a local cartel faction uprising and that they were sending an army to quell the banditos. They didn’t sound very worried and refused any air support when we finally managed to contact the base, wherever it was. We were asked politely to keep our noses out of Mexican affairs.”

“More good news,” continued Buck. “Many of the captured fuses and computer chips have helped parts of Silicon Valley. The first building has renewed electricity from a backup coal plant nearby; this plant is small and over forty years old, and has been shut down for over a decade. The computer equipment had been mostly scrapped, but with several of our Amiga computers, the old brains of the plant were made functional again. Power has been routed to the Blue Cube and, as of yesterday, the Blue Cube’s newly rewired and refused system became active.”

“Surely this plant can feed more than two small areas?” asked Carlos.

“Of course,” replied Buck. “It could give electricity to the whole of Silicon Valley, but we have only so many fuses and other needed parts at the moment, most of which are already in use. We are hoping to get millions more from China when you guys go, but another problem are the very small coal stocks at the plant. It has enough coal there for only a couple of weeks, and the Amtrak system is scouring the country for any halted coal trains. There are presumed to be several dozen of these country-wide and an engine exchange would get these trains loaded with coal and rerouted to this plant.”

“There must be a nuclear power station close by Silicon Valley,” suggested Preston.

“Yes,” replied Buck. “The best chance right now is an old privately-owned plant, the Vallecitos Nuclear Center. It is currently a nuclear research facility, and the site of a former electricity-generating nuclear power plant in Alameda County, California, about 30 miles east of San Francisco. It was mothballed years ago, but Vallecitos will be the easiest to get active again. It was the first privately-owned and operated nuclear power plant to deliver significant quantities of electricity to a public utility grid. It’s going to take many months to get a nuclear power plant operational again but the associated question is, what is the use of activating such a massive amount of electricity if there is no way to transfer the power to where it is needed? Our nuclear engineers believe that they can reroute power from the plant to Silicon Valley, The Blue Cube and even parts of San Francisco within six months.”

“I was thinking about those electric cars,” added Preston. “I was thinking of getting one for Martie for her birthday. I had checked up on the new American and Japanese versions, as well as the Japanese hybrid models. I was thinking about them….”

“And?” questioned Carlos puzzled. “Not much use living in the past, friend Preston. Buck just stated that if you know the right friends, you might still be able to get Martie one.”

“One what?” interrupted Martie looking very tired, sexy and happy in her Air Force-issued flight suit as she walked up with a glass of wine in her hand to join the conversation.

“Gee, thanks, Carlos,” replied Preston giving him a jokingly mean look. “Trust you to not keep a secret.”

“Well, go on. What are you thinking about these hybrids?” asked Carlos.

“There must be tens of thousands of these Japanese hybrids on the streets, and I’m sure many are in perfect condition,” continued Preston. “Just around here last year you could see one everywhere you drove. Buck, this is maybe more in your field, but these vehicles with their computerized engine-management systems will never run again, correct?” Buck nodded. “Well, approximately 40 to 50 percent of the drive time was electric using battery storage and then the combustion engine kicked in, right?” Again Buck nodded. “If we go around and collect all these cars, there must be thousands of battery banks in these vehicles that could be cannibalized into either two units per vehicle to give a hybrid vehicle more electrical range, or added to smaller vehicles, once their old and useless combustion engines have been thrown out, to make them mobile again. I was actually wondering how many of these battery banks it would take working in unison to propel an eighteen wheeler tractor-trailer.”

Preston and Carlos were silent for quite some time while the others looked on waiting for an answer from Buck.

“That is very interesting, Preston,” replied Buck. “I could not tell you the possibilities of an electric tractor-trailer, it would depend on gearing and weight, but I’m sure battery banks could be joined together to take the place of the combustion engines. Unfortunately the batteries are the heaviest part of these vehicles and I think two banks in one vehicle might be too much weight, or the extended range could be far less than double. What do you think, Carlos?”

“I agree…” Carlos managed to say before Martie cut in. Maggie Smart, also an engineer, had come up to listen to the conversation.

“Thank you, guys, for thinking only the male species have engineering brains around here,” stated Martie defiantly. “It just so happens that I was working on a report on this exact topic at UNC for an American company working on hybrids versus electric-only vehicles. It was a paper submitted by one of the Masters students for her PhD, that I was asked to look at just before Christmas. So far the panel had agreed on the principle that the weight was the first and most important factor between a hybrid and any of the electric vehicles. To make a hybrid into a fully workable electric vehicle, a minimum of three sets of batteries were needed. Without the engine weight, a range of around 159 percent was obtained by placing a second load of batteries in the vacated engine compartment. A third set of batteries would be hard to place, but the third set would only increase the range another 27 percent. The weight is the main problem – the vehicle wasn’t built for the third bank’s weight. As for a functional tractor-trailer, the engine is its main weight, take that out and every piece of unnecessary hardware that has to do with the workings of a combustion engine, a minimum of ten battery banks would be needed to turn the massive tires of just the horse. If another 1,500 pounds of weight was reduced off the horse and the tires reduced in height by 20 percent, only three sets would be needed. If the trailer was made with light metals, there is enough space under the trailer bed to house 20 battery banks, but again weight rears its ugly head and the range decreases by up to 50 percent per added battery bank after six. Its actual load-weight will need to decrease by at least 50 percent to make it a semi-functional vehicle, but it won’t get over the mountainous Rockies any time soon. The idea will never fly.”

The men looked at Martie with their mouths open.

“You go girl!” laughed Maggie, looking at the men’s shocked reactions.

“Why didn’t you mention this information while you were with us in California?” asked Buck.

“Simple – you guys weren’t working on motor vehicles, you were working on aircraft directional systems,” replied Martie, taking a sip of her wine and winking at Maggie.

“I think you had better get that church built fast, Preston,” stated Carlos still looking at Martie. “If money were still king, Martie could be worth a fortune in the car industry in the future.”

“Martie is pretty clever,” answered Preston proudly. “That’s why she’s marrying me!” With a quick dig in the ribs in Preston’s side, Martie left the conversation with Maggie, both smiling that again women had shown the male species that their advice was always needed.

“Well,” continued Buck, “I suppose that answers that question.”

“I’m sure that we are going to go to electric vehicles in the U.S.,” continued Preston, the conversation getting back to normal. “Combustion will only last as long as our gas reserves last, and that’s not that far away. I’d say we have five years to perfect the electric propulsion system, and/or hydrogen or hydrogen–pulse engines for flying aircraft. I’d hate to have to ask my future wife if electric engines could work on flying machines. She might decide that I’m too stupid to marry!” The group laughed. They were not too keen to take on the female intelligence in the room just yet.

“I agree with Preston,” added Carlos. “Electricity is going to be the one and only fuel in our future. Without it we are nothing. We already can’t survive without it and it will power everything in the future. Everything we are doing is focused on getting our comfortable and reliable electricity back. Buck, next month when we are all back from China, we should all head over to Michael’s lab to assist him in his work.” Everybody agreed.

“Also, with our population reduced to about a third of what it was last year, the entire nuclear power-station system in this country should supply us with enough power for centuries to come,” suggested Preston. “What else is there?”

For another hour or so the group discussed the future of power. They all agreed that electricity would give them everything they need in the foreseeable future, until something else came along, and that electricity would be the source to power possible future hydrogen-flight in the air and even maybe on the oceans.

Buck was returning to work with Michael Roebels the next day and he would update him on the group’s discussions.

The next day, and for another ten days, the flying continued. In the last week of April the weather in North Carolina was a balmy 65 to 70 degrees and spring had certainly turned everything green.

Mo Wang and the girls returned from California a week before the China Mission was to start. Mo wanted to get his ship down to Ocracoke on the Outer Banks before he left for China, in case he didn’t come back, he told Preston over dinner in the Officers Mess. Preston, now with his wings a day old and a promotion to temporary Air Force Lieutenant, informed him of his pilot’s stature.

The ladies had enjoyed the wine farm in Napa. Mo and Beatrice were happy to see the church virtually complete at the road entrance to the airfield and opposite Preston’s tower. Joe’s boys were making it look like a real little village church. The Air Force had even found spare church pews in Seymour Johnson and Fort Bragg, just enough to seat a hundred people.

Carlos, who had seemed to soften his opinion of Mo, offered Colombian DC-3 as transport to fetch the ship still in the Norfolk Naval Yards. The admirals were at sea and General Patterson, at Andrews, gave Carlos permission to fly into Naval Air Station Oceana and from there, the Navy would transport the group to the Norfolk shipyards. He told Carlos to call him on the satellite phone when they landed and there was a welcoming committee waiting for Carlos, Preston, Mo, Beatrice, Marie, Clint, Little Beth and the three teenage girls when Carlos brought the DC-3 into the massive runway area of Naval Air Station Oceana.

“Wow!” stated Carlos. He could have landed and taken off twice more on the long runway before reaching its end, and then on what seemed like a mile on the taxi-ways to the Navy committee waiting for them in front of a large hangar. Apart from them there was no movement of aircraft.

An admiral was waiting for them with a dozen other personnel hanging around several vehicles. Here they viewed line upon line of aircraft on the aprons around the warehouses, all ultramodern, and all scrap metal. Even a dozen modern C-130s were in a line, bits and pieces hanging off them, technicians working on exchanging new for older parts.

Carlos allowed everybody to get out, introduced himself to the admiral as Admiral Rodriquez’s nephew, and stated that he was heading out to Andrews to refuel. He wanted to spend a couple of days with Buck in Silicon Valley, setting up the communications antenna.

“Sorry, ladies,” the admiral stated to the beautiful bevy of ladies in front of him, “we only have jeeps and transporters running. We are trying to get a 1989 Buick staff car going, but it is still in pieces. Your ride to the naval yards won’t be very comfortable.” They explained that life hadn’t been that comfortable for a while and they were all getting pretty tough.

The ride to the naval yard took nearly an hour. The highways were already cleared of any vehicles and Preston counted 72 hybrid cars standing motionless on just their side of the highway, many damaged by their forced movements off the tarmac. The Navy had parked all the vehicles neatly end to end on both sides of the highways.

“I might suggest that you begin collecting those hybrids, Admiral Stroud,” stated Preston who was sitting in a jeep with him. Clint was sitting next to Preston in his wheelchair which had been tied down. The girls were all behind them in a troop transporter and a second security jeep followed behind. “We are thinking that electric cars are the cars of the future and have a task group looking at maneuvering two battery banks from hybrids into a single vehicle. A couple of those battery banks might get your old Buick going.”

“Sounds like a great idea, thank you,” responded Admiral Stroud. “I’ll get my engineers to work out something to help the war effort.” He smiled. “They sure don’t have much equipment to work on right now and I need hundreds of projects to get my men focused and help them stop worrying about family and future. We have a hundred engineers working on our local nuclear power station here in southern Virginia, 17 miles north of Newport News, and we were wondering what we could use the electricity for. I know of a dozen places around here where they had just installed electric power points for these new vehicles last year; I’ll get my men to visit the places and move them onto base. Any chance of getting an F-14 Tomcat on electric power?” he joked. ”We have 24 of the early Tomcats which were retired in 2001. They are being stripped of all modernized equipment and we are searching our storage facilities for their old parts. To date we haven’t found where they are located, because naturally, the computers are down. We have over twelve acres of storage warehouse space here at Oceana and another several warehouses at Naval Station Norfolk, where we are going. We have found some very interesting stuff, though and will have a dozen or more helicopters operational in a month, as well as several old DC-3 transporters and two 1976 Lockheed Orion Hurricane Hunters; not much use for fighting wars, but I’m sure the Hurricane Hunters will be valuable in hurricane season.”

They reached the Navy yard and sailed through the gate. Preston noted that there was an air strip in the Navy yard itself and wondered why they had flown into Oceana. He assumed that Admiral Stroud was in charge of Oceana and Admiral Rogers, who was at sea, was based at the shipyard itself.

Within ten minutes they saw Mo’s ship tied up in a small harbor and away from any navy vessels. To Preston, it certainly looked like there was something not right with Mo’s vessel. The masts were too short for such a large vessel. He didn’t know much about ships, but the view of her just looked sort of odd.

Inside, the ship was very roomy and comfortable. Preston could see why Mo wanted to keep it. No expense had been spared on the interior and a family could quite happily live aboard a floating vessel of this size. Clint was wheeled aboard and his wheelchair stowed. It wouldn’t work aboard ship. Clint felt that he would get used to the moving ocean and thought that it might even help him with stability.

The ship’s interior was as they had left it nearly a month earlier. Any food remaining was in the still-working freezer and the girls had unpacked the refrigerators of any food that would go bad before they had left.

There was rice, lots of it, and enough frozen fish to get them to Cape Hatteras. Electrical power from an outside military generator on the quay next to the ship was keeping the vessel live with power and nothing had been moved, or taken from the ship.

Mo checked the gun room, as he called it, and the weapon storage areas. He had used much of the ammo during the fight with the pirates, but he still had enough for another fight if need be.

Admiral Stroud told them that they would be escorted out of Willoughby Bay by an old pilot boat they had got working again.

“It’s not difficult, we are right on the Atlantic and I’ve left naval information for you if you need to contact us and/or return here Mr. Wang. If you want to try to catch some fish for dinner, the Gulf Stream is around 50 miles east of here and it closes with Hatteras as it goes south. The Gulf Stream is only 25 to 30 miles off Ocracoke, 150 miles south of us and then you can go straight in on a westerly course from there. Your diesel tanks are full. I also had a captain check out your navigation maps and instruments, Mr. Wang; you certainly have enough working equipment to pinpoint your location and destination. And, if you decide you want to give her to anybody, or if you don’t need her any time soon, let me be the first in line.”

Mo thanked the admiral and he left with his group of aids walking behind him. A small pilot boat whistled at them from the harbor entrance and the girls got ready to throw the lines while Mo started the smaller engine. Marie had taught him how to maneuver a ship of this size away from the concrete wharf which could easily damage her. Beatrice let go of the aft ropes and Mo gently eased on gentle reverse power turning the rudder to use it, and the forward ropes to slowly swing the vessel away from the quay, its aft section pointing away from the concrete. Once the ship was at a descent angle he shifted her to inch forward to slacken the ropes, allowed Marie to jump aboard, and he then inched it in reverse, away from the hard quay.

There wasn’t much room, but Marie climbed into the bridge to check on his progress.

“Good job so far, Mo. You still have 30-odd feet behind you, but your angle is right to bring her around and head for the entrance. Just stay at this speed, there is very little wind to put you off your course, so this one is easy.”

Preston was impressed with the bridge’s sailing abilities. He stood in the bridge, Clint holding onto him to prevent a fall, and watched the slow movement out of the harbor and towards open water.

The breeze from the north did hit them once they waved at the pilot boat twenty minutes later and they headed out into the ocean. It wasn’t more than ten to fifteen miles an hour, slightly chilly, and Mo started the larger engines, turned off the small one and their speed increased as they headed out to the Gulf Stream. It would take the eighty-foot Cutter three hours to get out there.

How much fuel does she carry?” asked Preston. Marie had disappeared to get the fishing rods ready. There was enough time to setup rods as they cruised towards the warmer fishing waters.

“We still don’t really know, as I’ve never filled the tanks, but Marie believes that we carry a lot, enough for about 40 hours of fast cruising,” Mo replied, now happy that he had his baby back.

“And what is fast cruise?” asked Preston.

“What we are doing right now,” replied Mo. “At high cruise we are at 16 knots. Marie needed to keep up with the Frigates when they found us in Florida, and she averaged 18 knots with them complaining how slow we were. At one time I got her up to 21 knots at full power for three hours and the fuel in one tank lost a third in that short time. The Colombian Navy had diesel fuel on board and filled our tanks twice while we sailed up here.”

Three hours later the lines went into the water, the depth gauge showed a massive undersea drop-off, the wind stilled, and a faint warming breeze was felt from the south. Beatrice, at the helm, turned southwards, using the small motor to trawl at five knots.

Marie was the first to hear her line spin out just before dusk and everybody ran out to see what monster she was pulling from the deep. It was a pretty small shark, about five feet long, and as she expertly negotiated its release, they went back to figuring out what to drink to toast the sunset.

The second hit was on the same rod, just as the sun was about to drop into the watery horizon. Marie had a glass of chilled white wine in her hand which she handed to Mo, and swung herself into the single fishing chair, while Preston and Mo reeled in their lines so as not to get them tangled. Then the fight began.

As she hit the fish, now at least a quarter of a mile behind the boat, the sharp pull nearly dragged her over and into the water. Preston and Mo grabbed her and she hung on and finally managed to get seated and move her legs onto the bow wall to help her fight the fish.

“I hope it’s not another bloody shark!” stated Marie, fighting the bending rod to keep it upright. “It’s not that big; I’ve felt bigger than this one before.”

For an hour she strained to work the fish closer and closer to the boat. The sun was gone and lights were switched on over the bow area so that everybody could see the battle. Clint and Little Beth were transfixed at the fight this poor fish was putting up. Neither had been to sea before and this was a totally new experience to them.

Finally they saw a vivid blue shape majestically rise out of the water a couple of hundred feet behind the boat.

“Yippee!” shouted Marie. “A blue marlin and a small one from what I saw, about six to seven feet. My husband caught one which was eleven feet, and it took him three hours to bring it in. This is my first one.”

“It looks really mean,” shouted Little Beth “it’s not going to sword fight us is it?”

“That’s a lot of fish!” added Clint, as excited as Marie. Mo grabbed two gaffs and handed one to Preston.

They waited until Marie brought the tired fish alongside and they both gaffed the fish, one on either end and struggled to bring the writhing creature over the railing. Mo expertly took a second straight and sharp-tipped wooden pole from the several underneath the rear wall of the bow and sunk it into the brain of the fish. After a few seconds it stopped moving.

“Seven feet ten inches,” stated Mo measuring the fish with the same pole which had measuring marks etched on it. “It must weigh about 300 pounds. A young one, but the steaks will be very tasty.

He pulled out a knife and a saw from another compartment and began gutting and cleaning the fish. Mo was the expert for this operation, and everyone gave him room. Little Beth, looking ill, had her face tilted to the heavens with her eyes closed; she must have been saying a silent prayer for the fish.

Within 30 minutes, Mo had decent-sized steaks cut with the saw and they began lifting the head and tail over the side.

“Mind the sharks,” he warned as bits and pieces went into the water. “I had a pretty close encounter with a big fellow on the way to America.”

With buckets of sea water they cleaned the rear deck space of blood and meat and Clint looked over the side searching for the sharks which never made an appearance.

They ate well that night: marlin steaks, rice and canned vegetables and spices Mo had purchased in Honduras. The entire group ate less than a third of the meat harvested from the fish, and the rest was squeezed into the freezers. There was not much room left.

The trip had been planned for three days and they spent the second day lazing in the warm sun, swimming off the side of the boat. Preston caught his fish during late afternoon; it was a three-foot dolphinfish and would be great eating. There was no room in the freezers for anymore and Mo gutted the fish and tied it to the railing.

Mo caught another dolphinfish, slightly larger than Preston’s, the following morning an hour before he planned to turn westwards towards Ocracoke, now 26 miles away and directly off their starboard bow.

The boat turned slowly, the lines again out behind them, when Preston’s rod screamed as its reel line spun out, and the other two lines were pulled out of the way. This time it was Preston who was nearly pulled overboard as he hit the “halt” catch and stopped the line spinning out. It took every muscle in his body to hold the fish. His legs, braced on the rear wall of the bow, strained and his blood vessels swelled as the fish fought to continue its forward and downward movement.

Realizing that something was hindering its movement, the fish shot to the surface, which gave Preston a quick breather, and as the fish launched out of the water, its head and sword held high, everyone together shouted, “It’s another blue marlin!”

“And bigger than mine,” added Marie. “Good luck, Preston, I hope you are fit enough. She looks all of ten feet.”

For two solid hours Preston worked hard to pull in the fish. It rose majestically three times and twice dived so hard Marie suggested Preston let it go for a couple of seconds before halting its movement. The fish, tired, made one last rise out of the water, Marie showed Preston how to pull the rod up so that the fish belly-flopped onto its side instead of gracefully entering the blue water and diving deep.

It still took another hour to get it to the side where all four adults had to hold onto it with four gaffs and struggled to lift it over the side.

“Nine feet eleven inches!” stated Mo excitedly. Let’s call it ten feet and about 500 pounds, I bet. Now you see why I would like to live and fish around here; I will never starve.

This time Preston helped Mo gut and clean the last two fish as Beatrice headed the ship towards the coastline. Barbara was to pick them up before dark in the Pilatus at the Ocracoke airfield.

They had the three fish tied to the railing as they slowly entered the quiet and empty harbor of the town of Ocracoke two hours later. They slowed to a crawl and kept within the markers of the narrow deep water inlet allowing them to enter the Pamlico Sound, the only route to the harbor. It was only twenty feet deeper than the vessel itself.

It was just after one and the place seemed deserted. Since ferries had often used the harbor to load and unload vehicles, the walls were strong and high.

Preston suggested an empty wharf deep inside the small port and big enough for the Cutter to side up to it. Marie, the most experienced person on the bridge, took over and slowly maneuvered the ship towards its new berth. Mo, Beatrice and Preston jumped out to handle lines and the ship was tied up tightly. Large black tires kept the ship from touching the thick wooden decking, and Marie closed down the small engine.

Preston looked around. There was no one to be seen until he noticed movement a few hundred feet along the wharf, and a single old man with a scraggly beard appeared. Preston beckoned him to come forward.

Carefully the old man walked towards the ship and seemed to feel better when he saw that a couple of the crew were female.

“You can’t tie up there, that’s a private dock. Belongs to a fellow from Charlotte,” stated the man.

“When was the fellow last here?” Preston asked the man.

“About a year back,” the man replied. “He is sailing the Indian Ocean and is expected back sometime this year. He’s a navy admiral and is in charge of one of our big navy fleets. He was supposed to be somewhere in the Indian Ocean aboard an aircraft carrier. That’s his house, the second one in the converted warehouse right next to where you are standing.”

Preston looked at the building. He could see that improvements had turned the building into nice accommodations on the second floor about ten feet above where he was standing.

“The first floor sometimes floods during hurricanes, so the admiral converted the upper three floors into two housing units,” the old man continued, not coming any closer than twenty feet from the Cutter. “He lives in one and the other furnished one is for sale. You can see the ‘For Sale’ sign on the other side. He wants a million for it. I’m the realtor and didn’t want to leave the building. Everybody else has left town and gone back to the mainland.”

“And where do you live?” asked Preston.

“A few streets away. I normally look better than this but my razor broke, the store is empty, my clothes are dirty and I haven’t shaved for three months. I’m also running out of food and I’m pretty hungry. Could you spare something?”

Mo immediately ordered the girls to get the man food and some clothing from a closet in one of the cabins.

“I have food for you,” offered Mo. “How about a whole dolphinfish?”

“My favorite!” exclaimed the man, noticing the smell of fish.

“Do you have power here on the island?” asked Preston.

“Only a small generator, but I ran out of fuel a month or two ago.”

“If we get you what you need, will you look after my ship until we return in a month?” asked Mo.

“Fresh clothes, a razor, some food and drink and I’ll look after the whole United States of America if you want,” replied the man eagerly.

Preston headed into the bridge and tuned the radio to his frequency to speak to the airfield. He couldn’t reach them, but he got Barbara in the Pilatus taking off to pick them up. He gave her instructions to bring Lady Dandy instead and gave her a list of what he wanted. It would take her an hour or more to get the men around to pack everything and she headed back to land.

He caught up with the group and the rather smelly man, named Tim O’Shaw, looking around the apartment for sale. It was big, had two levels and covered about 3,000 square feet. There were five bedrooms on the upper floor and a large open-plan kitchen and lounge area on the bottom floor. The view from the balconies on both floors was great; from the top floor they could see the waves crashing onto shore half a mile away to the east and the quiet port walls to the west. The bottom floor, a story up from the pier, was on ground level and the admiral’s apartment looked much the same from the empty street.

“One million dollars, you say?” Mo asked the Realtor.

“In cash, sir, since the banks are closed.”

Mo headed back to the ship and to the suitcase he had hidden in a safe in the stateroom. The safe had been open when he had first entered in Honduras and he had stuffed it with all the valuables he could and closed it, remembering the code.

He counted out one million dollars and left the amount in the suitcase. There was just under a hundred thousand left. He returned to give the shocked, white-faced man the suitcase with the million. Even Preston was impressed how calmly Mo worked the situation.

“Please count it and make sure that it is correct. May I have the keys? I feel that I now own this apartment and I want complete privacy. Also, here is one thousand dollars, your retainer for my apartment’s security.” The man, his mouth hanging open, looked Mo directly in the face. It was the easiest deal he had ever done.

“What use is the money?” he replied. “I can’t spend it here.”

“I agree, but at least I’ve paid you and I believe Preston here will pay you the other half in supplies, for securing my ship. Do you have any weapons?” The man said that he didn’t, and Mo went back to the ship and returned with an M-16 and several boxes of ammunition.

“Reminds me of my days in the Marines, years ago,” stated Tim O’Shaw. “This will come in handy. You have got yourself a deal, Mr. Wang!”

Barbara landed on the short runway two hours later and Tim O’Shaw happily took them there in his old Dodge diesel truck. He didn’t have anywhere to really drive it and had stashed several hundred gallons of diesel from dead vehicles around town. His only generator was a gas generator and Preston off-loaded a dozen five-gallon gas containers and a military-issue diesel generator, as well as canned food, cases of water and beer, and even a case of whiskey for the happy man. Also included were a new razor, clothes, a few towels, several cakes of soap, a dozen MRE packs, two bottles of propane gas, and a gas burner, enough to keep Tim O’Shaw happy for the month to come.

The old Dodge carried the remaining three heavy fish and other items back to the DC-3. The group took off, after closing down the ship and the new apartment. Scraggly Tim O’Shaw, now well-armed and looking happy, waved farewell to the group, proud to be of service to somebody.

Chapter 21

Flight to China – April

The occupants of Preston’s airfield were excited to see the fresh game fish so a fish BBQ was organized for that evening. Many weren’t around, including the President and General Patterson who were in California touring new developments in Silicon Valley and the Cube.

Mike Mallory had returned to the farm two days earlier to report on the growing problem of increased disease among the surviving populations in the temporary accommodation camps. The most noticeable danger was diarrhea due to dirty water.

Physical injuries were on the decline, but very little could be done for the injured; they either died or got better. Without electricity, medical personnel could not do even the most basic things such as monitor minor operations or sterilize operating rooms properly. Thousands of doctors, military and civilian, had to renew their knowledge of simple medical procedures without complex sterile systems to back them up. Medical supplies were scarce because the thousands of hospitals and pharmacies around the country had been ransacked, with many destroyed. Apart from several factories and storage facilities commandeered by soldiers, much of the available medicines were stored in military installations. These problems had often been discussed in the dozens of meetings Preston and his buddies didn’t attend. They were not doctors.

Following the briefing, the President and Chief of Staff contacted all available military medical personnel to go on standby across the country. Then the three men—the President, General Patterson and Mike Mallory— headed out with several of the top military medical corps to find out how many people in Silicon Valley were working on the future of medicine. This area was soon to have active electricity and Mike’s idea was to get medical facilities in the areas up and running. From there they could at least send mobile electricity units out to the camps with generators and establish more availability for the sick to be treated.

The time for Preston’s trip to China was growing near. He left the farm on the last day of April for Hill Air Force Base in Salt Lake City, where the mission to China would begin the next day.

The Super Tweets were away flying much of the time, and Martie and the rest of the girls weren’t around for his departure. Marie, Beatrice, and the teenagers offered to look after Little Beth, Clint and the animals for the month Preston and Mo Wang were expected to be away. There were hugs and kisses from all as Preston and Mo Wang boarded the C-130 bound for Hill. Preston was only a passenger on this leg. Carlos was still in California and the Gunships were being serviced and inspected at Edwards for their flight across the world.

By midnight they had met up with the Marines at Hill who had flown in from Camp Lejeune and Quantico. The fleet of C-130s was certainly growing in numbers. Preston remembered that the last time he flew into Hill there was only one C-130 on the aprons. Now there were nearly thirty, all in lines and ready for their next leg into Edwards. There they would meet with another 1,000 Marines arriving in twelve more C-130s from Camp Pendleton, and also the Gunship, Blue Moon.

At Edwards, the next batch of 130s waited for them. Every operational 130 was on the tarmac at Edwards. It was certainly a sight to see. From Edwards they would fly to Elmendorf in Alaska with six more 130s loaned from the Navy and Coast Guard. The aircraft from the two branches of service were distinguished by their colors. The Navy’s 130s were gray and the Coast Guard’s white with a red stripe. Valuable supplies were being transported by these six aircraft into Alaska, after which they would return to resume duties across the U.S.

Carlos and Lee were already there and greeted Preston as he exited his aircraft, Easy Girl. He was the copilot. He and his flight commander had picked her up, serviced and ready to fly at Hill.

“Which one are you copilot of?” Preston asked Carlos.

“I’ve got Blue Moon,” he replied, looking towards the five other Gunships now in a line in front of them. “Apart from Blue Moon and Easy Girl, we have Plain Jane, Surprise Package, Pave Pronto and Pave Spectre over there,” he stated, looking over to the line of the four “new, old” AC-130s. “Great names, don’t you think?” Preston nodded.

For the first time since arriving in the country, Mo Wang was seeing that Zedong Electronics had greatly under-estimated the tenacity of the armed forces of the United States of America.

“Were all these flying when the Supreme Commander attacked in New York?” he asked, surveying the 54 C-130s of all types and colors now silent on the tarmac.

“No,” replied Carlos, telling Mo Wang for the first time that the aircraft he had just flown in from Salt Lake City was the second aircraft to bomb the Zedong Electronics buildings in China. It was a place Mo Wang knew well; an office in the second building with his name on the door was now rubble.

Mo was shocked and his face went white. He had seen the fire power of the 105mm howitzer and the 3 large cannons in the fuselage and he had wondered if this aircraft had reached China. If it had it would have done much damage.

“Many of these have just come out of the refurbishment hangars,” continued Carlos. “It’s taken the Air Force, Navy and Coast Guard four months to get all these C-130s operational. Mo, now that you are part of the program, I’m authorized to share more information with you than before. Preston, you’re familiar with Blue Moon and Easy Girl because we just completed fifty hours in them. The other four were ripped apart, have reconditioned older turboprop engines, and have the same armament configuration as Blue Moon. We have five Howitzers and five of the 40mm Bofors between us, enough to fight a much bigger war.”

“You are right there!” stated Preston, excited.

The Marines, a large group of well-trained men, could be seen heading into a hangar to be given new and specialized equipment made for the mission. Twenty minutes later the dozens of pilots were in the briefing room, General Patterson and Majors Wong and Chong in charge of the briefing.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” started the general. Preston had noticed several women in the crowd of pilots, Sally’s and Jennifer’s faces not among them. “Our first stop is Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington State for the C-130s to refuel, distance 900 miles. The seven HC-130 Tankers are taking fuel into Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska to top off their tanks and will be returning the 1,500 miles to Fairchild to refuel again twice, before we head down to Japan. They will have enough fuel aboard to get 21 of our C-130s full of troops to Misawa, Japan, distance 3,100 miles. All our 130s are equipped for air refueling. The movement of all our aircraft into Misawa will take two flights, the tankers will return to Elmendorf within 24 hours for the second flight. It is going to take 48 hours to get the 36 C-130s and six AC -130s to Japan. Once we are in Japan we will have a second briefing for our move into China. We begin takeoffs in 60 minutes, once all refueling here has been completed.”

Preston was one of the last to take off due to the refueling queue. Mo had been transferred to the general’s refurbished AC-130, Plain Jane. It took an hour for all the aircraft to take off and another hour for them to get into a large formation of aircraft flying up the West Coast at 15,000 feet.

Fairchild was cold, much colder just before midnight, when they arrived. Again, refueling would take place and they managed six hours of sleep before waking to a rain-swept morning with strong winds coming in from the west. With only one runway, the slower C-130s took off first into the wind and, just after lunch Preston saw the Alaska coastline 18,000 feet below them. The large flight of aircraft was already in single file, a mile between each for final approach into the single north/south runway at Elmendorf Air Force Base.

There was little wind, the temperature 29 degrees, and the landscape white with snow. There were only 36 spots for the personnel aircraft to be placed at the main terminal so the Gunships headed east across the field to a more narrow secondary apron normally used by fighter jets. The base still had decent fuel reserves, but every extra gallon flown in would assist the dispensing of the fuel.

The tankers were emptied of their fuel, and with only enough to return to Fairchild, they departed with fresh crews for Washington.

Preston and Carlos had enjoyed the flying. It was Preston’s first visit to Alaska and Carlos was beginning to see how General Allen had flown such a distance with nothing more than a wing and a prayer, and he—Carlos—guiding him in safely. This flight had directional beacons everywhere and they could even pick up the Misawa beacons from Japan, their next leg in 48 hours’ time.

It was still winter in Alaska so the pilots stayed indoors enjoying heaps of salmon steaks. One of the radio operators met Preston and Carlos over dinner the second night and told them about his meeting with Allen Key when he arrived in Elmendorf in mid-winter, coming like a ghost out of nowhere.

They had enjoyed the hamburgers the general brought with him. They had lasted a full week. The radioman was happy that one of the Navy C-130s had brought in another load of frozen burger patties and burger buns from Camp Pendleton’s storage warehouse. Preston hadn’t seen the six other C-130s off-load and return; they left pretty quickly, needing to continue their mission of feeding the U.S. population while all these transporters were on their mission.

The first flight to Misawa took off the next morning two hours before dawn in sub-zero temperatures, with General Patterson in command. He flew one of the HC-130 Tankers. He had done this in Desert Storm for two years and enjoyed this part of flying more than any other. There were two dozen pilots able to fly 130s stationed at Elmendorf and these men were earning their future non-existent paychecks while the mission crews rested.

Within 23 hours the general was back with the tankers. They were quickly refueled and the balance of the aircraft took off at dawn in a snowstorm, winds howling in from the west at fifty to seventy miles an hour. Preston did not have the experience of flying in white-out conditions and he gripped the controls harder than usual as the heavy Gunship used far less of the east/west runway than usual. A heavy gust of snow-swept wind pulled the aircraft off the ground and it rose quickly into the air, heading west and into a powerful Alaska snowstorm.

For an hour, he fought with the controls, the air around the aircraft pulling it to and fro as if it was a leaf in the wind. Then, suddenly they were out of the clouds at 16,000 feet and the layer of white below them was so thick that Preston was sure he could land on it.

“All aircraft, sunlight at Flight Level 16. Over,” stated General Patterson over the radio in the lead aircraft ahead of him. “Once you are at Flight Level 17, join up into formation and we will head towards our destination, ten and a half hours ahead of us. Transporters, we will begin refueling you in seven hours. You will each get twenty minutes of fuel. There are only 15 of you this trip and we will be done within 90 minutes. AC-130s, you will only need eight minutes of fuel to keep you airborne.”

They cruised down the island chain between the Bering Sea and the Pacific, the weather getting better as they flew further south. They picked up a tailwind directly out of the north in their third hour of flying and it sped them faster towards their destination.

Refueling began two hundred miles off the Russian coastline and it all went smoothly. Preston and Carlos hadn’t been trained on this aspect of flying yet and they were told to get some rest. The aircraft commanders would take them into Misawa.

Three hours before they reached the Japanese coast, night closed in on them. The refueling was completed and each aircraft had sufficient range to get into Misawa 800 miles in front of them.

Carlos was chatting to Preston on their satellite phones. Not many people in the world were lucky enough to have that privilege, but both Carlos and Preston had refused to give up their phones. Martie also had one, the only one in the training program, and Carlos and Preston spent time talking to Sally and Martie.

After saying goodbye to the girls at some terribly early hour before their training in an undisclosed location (Martie had hinted Kansas by referring to the Wizard of Oz), the two men chatted with each other in their separate aircraft several miles apart.

Preston was shocked that General Allen had made this eleven-hour flight over nothing but water and hostile territory, totally blind, apart from simple, antiquated equipment and directional changes suggested by Carlos. Carlos explained that it wasn’t so dangerous, but it showed the strength and endurance of these well-made aircraft. The pilots hadn’t batted an eyelash about the flying on their return either; it was just Air Force flying.

Finally, they went into the single east/west runway one by one at Misawa Air Force Base on the northeastern coast of Japan. The other 21 aircraft were waiting for them and some of the 747s were due to arrive direct from Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii early the next morning.

It had been a long flight. The crews rested while the Marines worked out their boredom by jogging around the heavily guarded airfield several times.

At 08:00 hours the next morning, after a breakfast of MRE rations instead of the salmon they enjoyed in Alaska, the pilots entered the briefing room as 747s were heard taxiing in to the apron just outside the building. Preston was enthralled to see them up so close. They were certainly beautiful and massive beasts, especially compared to the Gunships.

Coffee was available and Mo and Preston headed for it immediately, with Carlos not far behind. General Patterson waited until the four aircraft were silenced and the pilots in flight gear entered the briefing room.

“Sorry we are 30 minutes late,” apologized Major Chong as the 747 pilots entered the briefing room. “We hit heavy headwinds an hour out of Hawaii and they slowed us all the way into Misawa.” Preston noticed that all eight pilots looked Asian.

“Not a problem, Major,” replied General Patterson. “The rest of today is a relaxing and planning day anyway.” The pilots grabbed seats and the briefing started.

“Welcome to Misawa, Japan,” began General Patterson, who had flown more miles in the last week than most of the pilots in the room. “It has been a pleasure to get back to full-time flying with you men. Washington is not my area of expertise, as many of you know. Misawa is our only still-operational Air Force base in this part of the world. We have enough supplies and fuel to stay here until the end of the year. The President has stated that we are all going home and every man, woman, and child will be stateside to help rebuild our country. Thanks to Mr. Mo Wang here,” he stated, nodding to Mo in the front row, “we have a chance to go into China for a third time and this time, collect electronic parts, which could help in the rebuilding efforts. As Majors Chong and Wong have done on two previous occasions, we have hoodwinked the enemy into giving up valuable items to help our cause. Without the use of their aircraft, four of which now stand outside this building, we would not have managed to retrieve our many military personnel and other important assets such as food, military hardware and stockpiles of ammunition we had stored overseas. As of three days ago, we have 70 percent of our troops back home and that mission could be complete by the end of June at the present rate. We intend to keep small pockets of Special Forces or Marines, maximum one 747 aircraft load, in certain areas of the world to monitor where it is necessary.

“We might keep 300 Marines here on an ongoing basis, but that has not yet been decided. It depends on the radiation cloud heading this way from Beijing. By the end of June we could have 1,250,000 military personnel ready to defend our country. Many of you don’t really know how thin we were on the ground back home last year.

“Now, to our mission: Tomorrow we leave here with the four 747s and go straight into the Harbin area. The Zedong Electronics top secret airfield is twenty miles south of Harbin International. The runways are identical in direction 05 and 23 to Harbin International and there are two parallel runways long enough for your 747s to get in. So, all C-130 pilots, don’t get mixed up with the wrong airport if or when you are needed. You will have exact coordinates for the correct airfield only. You all will be going into Runways 05 left and 05 right. The control tower and main buildings are in between the two runways. Once we are on the ground Mr. Wang will guide us to the main apron. We believe that security will be lax until they see us coming in on radar. Majors Chong and Wong will go in first in two of the 747s, using normal international radio procedures, but in Chinese. We expect that whoever is in control will want higher verification on who is approaching. Mr. Wang, who was a part of their Politburo, will then identify himself and tell ground control that they are returning victorious and straight in from the “new” country. Once the four aircraft have landed, 50 of our Chinese-American men will go out on parade dressed in their captured uniforms. We decided not to use any of Mr. Wang’s Chinese troops for this mission. We also have five of the Chinese engineers and ten of our own Chinese-American engineers ready to look at the stock we are going to retrieve. We hope this will look like an official return by a member of their Politburo to China.

“Once we are in communication with the powers that be, Mr. Wang and Majors Wong and Chong will clear the airfield of all their military personnel. I think that ordering them an immediate leave-pass from the grateful Supreme Commander to return to their homes and see their families will do the job. C-130 pilots, you will not get into radar range until either Major Chong or Major Wong radio for backup, understand?” The pilots nodded.

“We will know their radar boundaries once they try to communicate with the 747s on radar and call in to our pilots. All C-130s will be at least fifty miles behind the lead aircraft. Since we are playing this mission by what their reactions are, we will continue with the mission briefings once we have their airfield in our control. C-130 pilots, Mr. Wong has found a smaller airfield about a hundred miles from the target. It is situated in a small town southeast of Harbin. You are to take over this civilian airfield and you will have with you a dozen Chinese-American Marines who can speak the local language and who will be dressed in their Red Army uniforms. They will set up a perimeter and make sure no civilians get close. We don’t want somebody to ride a bicycle over to the target and report there are American Air Force aircraft in the area waiting to attack. You will need to go in low, below 500 feet, to stay undetected for the first flight in. You will be given the exact coordinates later today.”

With the meeting over, Preston and Carlos stayed for a second meeting with all the Chinese-speaking members of the team. Major Wong sat with General Patterson, Preston and Carlos explaining in English what was being said.

“General, Mr. Wang is telling the men about how many soldiers he expects to be at the airfield. Since most of the Zedong army was to be the invasion force on the container ships, and the men who arrived and were beaten in New York would have initially left from this airfield, he doesn’t think that there are more than one to two thousand remaining troops. The airfield should be commanded by a Colonel Rhu and there should still be engineers in the storage depots protecting them from theft.”

“Since all their aircraft systems will still be operational,” stated General Patterson to the group, “remind me to take everything that still works around this airfield. By the time we leave there should be nothing left other than grass, tarmac and empty buildings.”

For another half an hour Mo Wang lectured on what the enemy commander would expect. He explained that he did not think these troops had received any communications since January, were waiting around for new orders, and were keeping the base safe. They shouldn’t expect any trouble apart from civilians in the area trying to steal food or equipment. He had already briefed the general about the nuclear weapons area that was under the control of another colonel, who he had never met. That location was five miles south of the airfield and would be well guarded with an equal number of soldiers; Mo believed he did not have the authority to get into the base or to ask the soldiers to leave at that site.

For the rest of the day the pilots rested, the engineers studied blueprints of parts they were expecting to find, and the Marines continued running around the airfield.

An hour before dawn the airfield came alive as the 36 C-130s and the six Gunships started their engines. Their flight into the area would take two hours, while the 747s could cover the distance in one. General Patterson was going in on the 747 Transporter with Major Wong flying.

Preston and Carlos were again copilots on two of the Gunships and would be part of the flight of C-130s over the Chinese coast at 500 feet. By this time the 747s catching up to them at 25,000 feet, and 100 miles from the Chinese mainland, would likely be contacted by Chinese air control.

Chinese air traffic control voices came over the air several minutes earlier than expected. Major Wong had the radios set to the frequencies they found in the previous Chinese pilot’s flight documents, which gave them all the necessary frequencies used by Zedong Electronics.

“Unidentified aircraft, state your identity and aircraft type,” came an excited but crackled Chinese voice over the radio.

“Chinese Airlines 747 Transporter incoming to your airfield,” replied Major Wong in Chinese.

“And the other three I see with you?” was the second question.

“Three of our glorious 747 passenger aircraft returning to our homeland victorious,” Major Wong replied.

“Wait, I will get the commander,” the voice continued.

Several long minutes later an older voice with more authority asked, “Chinese Airlines 747 Transporter, who do you have aboard who can give us authority to allow you to land?”

“Politburo Comrade Mo Wang is aboard with a message of success from our Supreme Commander, who is currently in his new office in Washington, America,” the major responded, sounding excited.

“Put Comrade Wang on, please,” was the response.

“Good morning, Harbin, this is Mo Wang.”

“Comrade Wang, please tell me my name. I am Harbin Commander and we have met,” the man on the radio responded.

“It is good to hear your voice again, Colonel Rhu. It has taken more time than we thought to get control of our new country and I will tell you all about it when we land,” answered Mo.

“It is good to hear your voice again, Comrade Wang. Why isn’t my uncle, Politburo Comrade Rhu, or the Supreme Commander himself coming to tell us the good news?”

“Everybody is so busy over there sorting out the control and areas to be given to all, that the Supreme Commander, as usual, orders me to do his travel work for him,” Mo replied.

“Yes, you always seem to do his dirty work, Comrade Wang. What does the Politburo want you to do this time?” the base commander continued. His relief that he knew the man aboard was quite apparent by his voice.

“As planned, we are to begin transporting the supplies of parts in the storage warehouses to rebuild our new country. We have four of our aircraft and I have orders to return to America within 36 hours, so I want these aircraft full within 12 hours,” Mo replied.

“What about all the other aircraft which left Shanghai?” asked Colonel Rhu.

“Busy moving soldiers and our engineers around the country. This country is nearly as big as China, a vast land with very few people left. I also have good news about leave for our men, but I will give you your orders when we land.”

The weather was clear and warm on May 5th, as the first two aircraft went into the parallel runways. Mo had communications with the second aircraft by satellite phone to make it look like the aircraft knew where to go and taxi. There was no welcoming committee for Politburo Comrade Mo Wang, this was reserved for the Supreme Commander alone, but he did see Colonel Rhu and a few dozen soldiers waiting for him on the apron where he directed both aircraft to taxi to. The other 747s came in behind and soon all four aircraft were the only aircraft on the large apron as their engines whined to a stop.

General Patterson thought it very weird that an air base of this size had absolutely no aircraft stationed here, but dismissed his concerns for the time being to concentrate on the airfield’s takeover.

Mo knew what to do and, as the mobile stairs were brought up to the transporter, he had 30 soldiers dressed in the captured uniforms run down the stairs waving at the welcoming committee who were totally alone on the apron. They looked happy and victorious and lined up as practiced in formation as Mo Wang descended the stairs. They saluted Mo as he reached the ground. The Chinese-American lieutenant in charge of the American soldiers was ready to fight at a moment’s notice and he was also carefully watching Mo’s ex-Chinese engineers’ behavior. Colonel Rhu walked up to Mo and saluted. Mo was actually smiling and a little happy to be back on home turf.

“Comrade Rhu, it’s good to see you again. I see you have put on a few pounds since we last met a year or two ago,” stated Mo, shaking the man’s hand.

“And the Supreme Commander has been working you harder than normal, Comrade Wang. You are much thinner than I last remember you,” Colonel Rhu smiled, feeling more at ease. “Why have you returned with men needed over there?”

“Your uncle sends his regards,” replied Mo, not telling the man his uncle was somewhere at the bottom of the sea, around the entrance to New York harbor. “Chairman Chunqiao and your uncle did not know what we would find here, and as the one chosen to travel, I’m glad to see you are all still alive.” The colonel laughed at what Mo said.

“You are always doing the chairman’s dirty work, Comrade Wang.”

Let’s go into your office. I have several of our engineers aboard and they can start telling your engineer personnel what the chairman wants in the first flight. The other three aircraft have had their seats removed and they will have to be loaded through the smaller passenger doors manually. Maybe I do the Politburo’s dirty work, but my assistant, my nephew Lee Wang, and my personnel pilot, Major Wong, are not going to load these aircraft ourselves!” he replied, smiling at the colonel.

The colonel laughed and turned to lead Mo to his offices. “Have I met this Major Wong?”

“Maybe. He is one of the chairman’s preferred pilots and I would assume is checking everything I do.”

The colonel laughed again at that joke as Mo beckoned to the aircraft’s front cockpit for Lee and Major Wong to join him. Their plan had begun and Lee and Wong knew their roles: assistant and quiet suspicious pilot.

Over his satellite phone, General Patterson gave orders for the C-130s and Gunships to land at the second airfield and wait.

Major Wong and Lee Wang caught up with the group of several Chinese soldiers and Mo Wang, and the major saluted the colonel, the only person with a more senior rank than he. Even dressed in a Chinese flight suit he still had “major” epaulets on his shoulders. The lower ranked captains in the group saluted him.

The colonel saluted Wong back and they continued into the building underneath the control tower, as engineers came out from the same building to join their comrades who had been captured in New York, and several Chinese-American military engineers, also wearing the standard white coats and civilian clothes underneath, under the command of Major Chong. These captured men were already happy to be part of their new country and also knew the others around them were armed and ready if any alarm was sounded.

For an hour, Mo Wang told the colonel and his fellow soldiers about a fake success on both coasts of the U.S., how in several areas there had been resistance, but their glorious Red Army soldiers had fought well and were triumphant, and there was nothing left but starving civilians. The colonel asked if he could return with them to see the new country for himself and Mo suggested that it was a good idea, much to Major Wong’s raised eyebrows on the matter.

“Your uncle would like you to join him over there,” continued Mo. “The Supreme Commander also suggested a vacation for you for your loyal control of his special base, but we must first satisfy the waiting engineers over there and also give special orders to the commander of the nuclear base to your south. Have you seen the commander there at all? I can’t remember his name.”

“Colonel Zhing,” the colonel replied. “He is certainly not a friendly person and has forbidden me or any of my men to go over there. He has loyal men there, enough provisions for several more months and is waiting for the Supreme Commander to personally arrive and actually walk in to relieve him in his heavily protected base.

“How many men does he have there? I have direct orders from the chairman to allow all loyal soldiers, including his, one month’s leave to go home to visit their families,” continued Mo. “That is why you can return and visit America with me. There is no reason for such heavy guarding of our facilities anymore as we now control the whole world. But the chairman did say that a minimum of three platoons, or 100 men, are to stay at both bases while the others vacation.”

“I understand. Many of the men have been waiting to go home for months now. When am I allowed to send them off?”

“Immediately,” replied Mo. “How many men do you have stationed here?”

“One thousand, four hundred,” the colonel replied.

“Then I suggest you let them go immediately, but remember the chairman suggested you keep one hundred here with somebody in command.” The colonel looked at his men, who had enjoyed hearing the welcome news. One man, a captain, suggested that since his men were the airfield’s Special Forces, they would stay and take their leave once the others returned in a month.

Colonel Rhu immediately let his three majors go. They were instructed to tell their men to pack up and get two weeks’ travel rations from the airfield supply stores. He told one major to inform the main gate about the forthcoming exodus from base.

“I will let the majority of my men go,” stated the colonel carefully, “but I think it would be better to keep 200 men at the base and two of my best and trusted captains in control, just in case.”

“It is your base, Colonel Rhu, and I’m sure the chairman would appreciate your vigilance,” replied Mo. Major Wong was thinking that 200 was a better deal than 1,400. Maybe Mo could persuade the colonel to let more go later. It didn’t really matter, as their Marines were coming in far greater numbers and could take over control of the whole base if need be.

“So, back to my question. I have to give Colonel Zhing the same orders from our chairman. How many men does he have?” asked Mo.

“I don’t know but I believe from reports that he has 500 crack troops there and I don’t know if he will take orders from you without the Supreme Commander himself being here to give him new orders,” replied Colonel Rhu. “When are we leaving?” he then asked Mo.

Mo could see the excitement in the colonel’s eyes as he looked forward to his trip to the “new world.” “As soon as I have carried out my orders, Comrade,” Mo replied, putting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “I must first allow the men on vacation, and then I must oversee the loading and refueling of our four aircraft back to America. Once we have completed that, I am to leave my men here to aid the engineers to take stock of everything we need to transport in the next loads, while our aircraft fly the first load to Washington. Colonel Rhu, we can have the aircraft leave by midnight if we can get the men moving. The chairman wants to see me back in Washington as soon as possible and your uncle told me to get you over there on one of the flights. The travel is not comfortable, Comrade. You will need to sleep on the floor of the aircraft and it’s a long flight of over fifteen hours,” lied Mo, not really knowing how long it would take to fly to Washington.”

Major Wong saw the excitement building in the poor man. He was a decent sort of chap and he was in for a shock once they had taken off. The plan had been to get as many of the troops out as possible and also get the four aircraft full and out of there by midnight, as the first airdrop of Marines were to arrive just before dawn the next morning.

Colonel Rhu had been waiting for this day since October, when the Supreme Commander himself had told him that he could come to America one day. He decided to go and pack, and hurry the men going on leave to get out of the gates. Midnight sounded like a good time to leave.

Mo and Major Wong dismissed the two captains, ordering them to get their men out on parade. If they weren’t going on leave they could get on parade and then take over the duties of the airfield.

They returned to the transporter to see pneumatic trucks and lifts already placing cargo into the aircraft. Lee was ordered to go and take command of what was to be loaded.

Square pallets were starting to be loaded into the baggage compartments of the three passenger aircraft and he was sure that the Air Force pilots were already working out maximum-load possibilities and landing weights for all cargo going into the passenger areas.

Major Wong briefed General Patterson, dressed in civilian clothes in the transporter, about their meeting with Colonel Rhu. The general congratulated Mo on a job well done and looked out of an aircraft window to already see a stream of soldiers in civilian clothes heading for the storage area. Several were already heading for the front gate at the perimeter, but something was still nagging at him.

For the rest of the day the loading went on and the line of soldiers heading out in civilian clothes didn’t stop. Mo and Major Wong completed a round of the massive storage area. They had nearly filled the transporter and the three bellies of the other planes and they couldn’t see a vacant area in the warehouse.

Three forklifts were lifting pallets off the highest shelf in the warehouse which had fourteen shelves beneath it. Mo recognized many of the parts through the pallet’s plastic wrap. Fuses for every type of device possible, whole modern computers, Acers out of Asia by the hundreds, computerized electric motors, several large electrical motors and six-foot high relay stations for electrical power stations. One pallet had engine-computer systems with modern battery banks attached, Japanese writing on them, and Lee and Mo were reminded of the idea Preston had about electric cars.

The warehouse made a man look like an ant, it was so large. Mo Wang knew it had taken twenty years to fill it with thousands upon thousands of everything Zedong Electronics had worked on. He noticed Colonel Rhu walking up to them, dressed in civilian clothes.

“Comrade Wang, do you think the chairman will mind me dressing in civilian dress for my vacation? I’m getting my best uniform pressed to be introduced to him when I get there.” Mo felt sorry for the man. He was a very good and kind man and a true soldier. His work was always impeccable and he hoped the truth wouldn’t destroy him when he heard the real story and found out what happened to his family, once he was aboard and out of Chinese airspace.

“Of course not! Civilian dress is for everybody in America, except for soldiers on active duty. You will be fine!” Mo smiled.

“Good, we have two-thirds of the men on their way,” stated the colonel. “We do know that there are several old buses still running at the bus line and there is a train station a few miles down the main road, three stops, I think, on the bus towards Harbin. There is one train a day out of Harbin Railway Station running south towards Shanghai, where 90 percent of the men are heading. Oh! By the way, Captain Zeng suggested that the other captain didn’t need to stay, there would be nothing for his men to do, so I let Captain Chin’s men get their leave passes. Your men will be here and I’m sure that is more than enough. I told Captain Zeng that he can always call the dreaded Colonel Zhing at the other base if there is an emergency.”

Major Wong immediately slid away and headed slowly back to the transporter to tell General Patterson the latest news.

By ten that night the line out of the base had decreased to one or two stragglers per hour. Mo told the general and the majors in the transporter that he was glad not to be at the bus station, there must be a long queue, but the Chinese mentality was used to inconveniencies. The 747 Transporter was loaded and ready to go and would be to flown by Major Chong to Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii.

The other three could make the U.S. mainland nonstop but valuable fuel weight was being lost to accommodate added cargo, and all four aircraft would need to fly into Hawaii to refuel. From there it was on to Travis where unloading would get underway. The refueled aircraft would head back to Hawaii and then, with General Patterson’s approval, return to Harbin for their second load.

By that time, in 36 hours, the base was to be under American control. Unfortunately the stopover in Hawaii lengthened the turnaround time considerably.

At midnight, General Patterson, now dressed with clothing covering his camouflage uniform, was escorted by Major Wong, Mo Wang and several of their men into the storage hangar to hide until morning. All the fighting men, as well as the engineers, were to stay and list what the next load would be. Mo and Lee were to stay and try to repeat their performance with Major Wong at the second base. They all knew that this base and this colonel would not be so easy. Major Wong made sure that the transporter flight-crew would be all Chinese-American personnel just in case.

Mo said his goodbyes to the colonel at the steps of the aircraft. As a military man, the colonel was smart, had a duffle bag of personal items and was ready for the journey.

The colonel, now in civilian clothes, had completed a check of the barracks by the remaining men and ordered the last dozen or so men out the gate. The buses ran all night if there were people waiting at the stops. Two men, U.S. Air Force Chinese-Americans who still spoke the language, were ordered to be the colonel’s escort and get him anything he needed.

He was to be made a captive, checked for weapons and placed in a seat until Hawaii. There he was to be removed from the aircraft, kept in solitary confinement until the last flight, and then Mo would be there with Major Wong for Colonel Rhu to be released into their custody again.

The four aircraft used nearly all of the long runways getting airborne, and within minutes the airfield was quiet and dark. All lights were switched off and the captain was relieved by one of his lieutenants for the graveyard guard duty shift.

General Patterson was busy in the storage warehouse. The lights had gone out, but he was working with small battery lights they had brought. He already had his command center, a table and a chair, ready behind a line of pallets ready for loading. Twenty of his men were guarding the warehouse inside and out, and out of view of the night guards who were making lazy rounds every hour. They were not thinking about any trouble, just their upcoming leave in a month’s time.

A platoon of Marines had arrived with one of the aircraft and the thirty men and their guns and ammunition had been transferred into the warehouse without being noticed. They had easily driven the empty forklifts back to the warehouse where Chinese-American drivers had taken over and returned to the aircraft with the next pallet. Looking Chinese, they could just walk back to the warehouse at any time. Some even sat on the returning empty forks holding cases of weaponry under plastic wrapping while the Marines who didn’t look like they belonged in China drove with clothing covering their features.

The Marine lieutenant’s job before dawn was to take out the guards at the control tower at 2:00 am, then the main guard posts, and lock all gates into the airfield by 3:00 am. Just before dawn he was to lock the doors to the barracks, imprisoning the sleeping men without raising any alarms.

Major Wong’s job, with six of the Air Force’s best men, was to capture the captain at 2:00 am, the rest of the half dozen or so lower-ranked officers by 4:00 am, and then prepare the control tower for the arrival of the C-130s and if needed, the Gunships by 5:00 am. The general did not want any men killed and gave orders to use weapons only as a last resort.

Once the guard posts had been disabled with no loss of life at 02:30 hours, there were only a dozen soldiers on guard duty and another five sleeping in the main guard house. The Marines quietly went around to the base’s motor pool to assess potential transportation to get to the next base five miles away. This base might also have an aircraft control tower and see the incoming C-130s, so the general wanted to force the colonel’s hand by getting him to send men over to the airfield, or else launch an all-out attack on the base if necessary.

There were a dozen clean, brand new Chinese troop-carriers, a couple of jeeps and three aircraft tanker-trucks with snow ploughs on their front bumpers. It wasn’t much, but a good cover to get 360 men close to the gates.

General Patterson, still with this niggling feeling that something just wasn’t right, set out planning the next morning. He had dozed much of the day in the transporter with many others, and they were all ready for battle. Nobody could find any plans of the other base in any of the offices and he would have to go in blind, knowing that it would be man-to-man fighting and probably a lot of the action could be underground.

By this time the airfield was virtually secure. Of the one hundred men, twenty-seven were already tied down in chairs in an empty aircraft hangar next to the storage area and the rest would struggle unsuccessfully to get out of the barracks.

General Patterson now walked around the base confidently with Major Wong and the six men as guards. He headed into the control tower and looked at the equipment. It was much the same equipment the Air Force had used up to New Year’s Eve, modern with every aircraft control device necessary.

“Why aren’t there any aircraft on the airfield?” he asked Major Wong. “Surely an airfield of the size and with modern equipment must have some sort of aircraft defense for itself and the other more important base to the south.”

“I agree totally,” replied Major Wong. “It is so crazy to see so much without an aircraft here. It has been worrying me as well.”

The general told the major that the men would take everything possible back and this control tower would certainly upgrade the 40-year-old equipment now being used at Andrews.

They then checked all the offices as the junior officers, half a dozen of them, were collected and were being marched to the hangar.

Major Wong returned to the tower to search for frequencies the two bases would use communicating with each other and found them while General Patterson continued to check every one of the several warehouses large enough to house aircraft. There was tons of equipment in place—ladders, generators and stairs for several different aircraft—but the hangars were empty of actual flying machines.

By 04:30 hours the first of the C-130s were taking off. They were to fly the thirty-minute distance slowly and below 500 feet, and land as quietly as possible on the farthest runway, the left one which was a few hundred feet longer and further away than the right airstrip. The plan was to disgorge the Marines, then line up at the runway’s other end, turn off their engines and wait for the general’s orders that the rest of the troops had been detained. The captured men were then to be flown out of China and be confined in Misawa until the mission had ended. Then they would be freed back at the airfield and told to go home.

The first five aircraft came in as silently as possible, their engines feathered, and used as little tarmac as possible. Four hundred Marines ran out of the aircraft and were shown where to join the Marines already around the two still-occupied wooden barracks. By now, several light sleepers had heard noises outside and were banging at the doors.

One by one, they were ordered out at gunpoint by their captured captain. They were ordered to exit unarmed and with their hands above their heads. Captain Zeng who had seen the hundreds of arriving American Marines around his barracks knew that if he didn’t do as ordered all his men would die.

Without a shot being fired, the northern and personal air base of the ex-Chairman of Zedong Electronics was captured. All the Chinese troops, apart from Captain Zeng, had their hands bound and were placed in the C-130s for transport back to Japan. The aircraft were to return in twelve hours with doctors and medics from Misawa. The attack on the second base would certainly have more potential for casualties.

“Captain Zeng,” said Major Wong in Chinese, “you are the only one left on this base. Your men will be returned here unharmed once we have finished our mission.”

General Patterson was having a meeting in the control tower an hour after the airfield had been cleared of aircraft. Over the satellite phone General Patterson, who was now in the meeting wearing his full military combat uniform, had phoned the 747s, which had already landed in Hawaii and were about to take off for Travis in California. Colonel Rhu, in confinement until further notice, was extremely unhappy.

The C-130s had received no communications with anybody else and were well on their way to Japan.

Major Wong was the interpreter for General Patterson who wanted to find out as much about the second base as possible. He certainly did not want to leave nuclear missiles in the hands of an enemy who could use them. He already knew that the United States was out of range of any more that the ex-chairman had rained down on his own country, but a nuclear weapon was a nuclear weapon, and who knows what orders had been given to this colonel if he heard that something had gone wrong with the plan.

Captain Zeng was open and honest with the questions after learning that Zedong Electronics no longer existed, and the whole Politburo, apart from Mo Wang, was dead. The captain wanted proof and the major told him that the Americans had commandeered their Chinese Airlines aircraft wearing the captured Red Army uniforms, Mo Wang was on the Americans’ side, and a Chinese engineer was brought up to tell his story about being captured at JFK in New York.

Finally, Captain Zeng asked the final question. “I come from Beijing. What has happened to my family?”

Mo Wang told the captain the bad news that one of the missiles he, the captain himself, had seen leave the second base five miles away, had exploded over Beijing, likely directly over Tiananmen Square on Beijing's Cangan Boulevard. Unfortunately, nobody knew what had happened in Beijing, but it was suggested the man should think about Hiroshima in Japan during World War II.

Captain Zeng was quiet for several moments thinking about his family. Even if they survived, the radiation sickness would have got them. Mo told him where the other two Pakistani-made missiles had gone and that in five minutes their glorious ex-chairman had murdered millions upon millions of their own people in their own country.

From then on, Captain Zeng was no longer an enemy. He was also told that Colonel Rhu would have been given the same information while en-route to Hawaii. Mo Wang knew that the colonel’s family was from the Hong Kong area, and were long dead.

Now the time had come to destroy the final threat of an attack on the U.S. homeland.

Every single American who would survive the end of the attack on the last, most dangerous base of Zedong Electronics, including General Patterson, was about to get the shock of their lives. What was below ground in this secret base of Zedong Electronics could have destroyed what was left of the entire East Coast of the United States of America, and it had enough range to get there.

To Be Continued in…

INVASION USA IV —
THE BATTLE FOR HOUSTON – THE AFTERMATH

Books by the Author:

The Book of Tolan Series (Adult Reading)

Banking, Beer & Robert the Bruce – Hardcover and eNovel.

Easy Come Easy Go – Hardcover and eNovel.

It Could Happen – eNovel.

INVASION USA Series (General Reading)

INVASION USA I: The End of Modern Civilization – eNovel.

INVASION USA II: The Battle for New York – eNovel.

INVASION USA III: The Battle for Survival – eNovel.

INVASION USA IV: The Battle for Houston – The Aftermath – October 1st, 2012.

The Tolan Chronicles Series (General Reading)

Volume I – 1779-1879 – October 1st, 2012.

Volume II – 1879-1979 – November 1st, 2012.

Volume III – 1979-2079 – December 1st, 2012.

Volume IV – 2079-2379 – January 1st, 2013.

Volume V – 2379-2779 – February 1st, 2013.

Battle Asteroid – The Vin Alpha Series (General Reading)

Volume I - The Beginning – May 2013.

Volume II – Somebody Doesn’t Like Us – June 2013.

Volume III – They Are Just Jealous – July 2013.

Volume IV, Volume V, Volume VI, Volume VII, Volume VIII

Children’s Books

Roto Goes to Sea – December 2012

The Tickle Story – June 2013.

About the Author:

T I WADE was born in Bromley, Kent, England in 1954. His father was promoted with his job to Africa and the young family moved to Africa in 1956. T I Wade grew up in Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). Once he completed his mandatory military commitments, he left Africa for Europe at the age of 21. He lived in the UK, Germany and Portugal for 15 years before returning to Africa in 1989. Here the author got married and due to the upheavals of the political turmoil in South Africa, the Wade family moved to the United States in 1994. Park City, Utah was where his writing career began in 1998.

To date T I Wade has written five novels, the sixth is under edit and the seventh half complete.

T I Wade, his wife Cathy and two teenage children live 20 miles south of Raleigh, North Carolina.