Chapter XIV - Growing Pains
Patriot Aid Station – Chapter XIV – Growing Pains
Dateline: Galax, Virginia
“Okay, here we are. Everything we need, just as the doctor ordered.”
The speaker was the purchasing agent for a smallish rural hospital, located a safe distance from any fighting, ignored thus far by both sides. People here tended to be strong-headed in comparison to their more easterly and northern citizens; they were still capable of thinking for themselves.
Doctor Mitrisin, a Family Practitioner in his late 60’s, had ordered an enema for a particularly stubborn bowel impaction. Routine enough, just what one would expect before more drastic measures were taken. In this instance the order was for an “M & M” or milk and molasses enema. Once the culture shock wore off the order became something of an item of humor on the Med-Surg ward. A few wry comments were made by the younger members of the nursing staff concerning “crusty old farts.” It took an experienced RN by the name of Wendy to acquaint the newer members of the occupation with the tried and true remedy. One cup of milk, one cup of molasses, heat until warm enough to blend completely, cool until just warm then administer per rectum as you would any other type of enema.
The kicker was Central Supply was completely out of ready-to-go enema kits. There were none to be had. Only a couple of Fleet’s Phosphate enemas were found, 1cup units with a prefitted tip on top of a squeezable plastic bottle. At first it was suggested that they merely empty out the original contents, refill with the homebrew mixture, administer it, refill the bottle and finish the treatment. From there nature would take its course (so it was hoped).
Wendy raised a question that made people pause. “Why are we so low on Fleet’s?”
No one knew right off so a call was made to Central Supply, the designated buying agent for the hospital. The reply was anything but heartening: ‘Because we haven’t been able to get any more for almost 6 weeks now. Not since Lynchburg was occupied.
Lynchburg, population 247,000 and rising steadily before the assassinations, was home to the CB Fleet Co., manufacturer of the infamous product. Innocuous as it was it had been, unbeknownst to their customers, proscribed as of “material benefit to the enemy” and thus regulated. Shipments were available almost solely to areas firmly in federal control. For the hospital in Galax that meant no more supplies of this simple remedy. At least, not until Galax itself was included under the growing sphere of influence of the new hegemony.
Wheels started turning inside of heads and between them the staff came up with a solution to the missing enema kits: make their own reusable appliance. Wendy remembered the stainless steel enema kits that were a stock item of hospitals and care centers everywhere a few decades ago. Galax Regional had been slow to convert over to entirely disposable supplies; perhaps they still had a few sitting in the dank regions of the storeroom that held a jumble of used but not yet disposed of equipment.
Two hours of searching by a volunteer army of office and other personnel had turned up nothing, and the patient was in dire need of relief. The enema was the last ditch effort. If it failed then surgical intervention would be required before the bowel necrosed, ultimately causing the patient’s demise. If a proper enema kit weren’t found surgery would be the only option. Other supplies and pharmaceuticals were in short enough supply that any surgery that could be avoided these days was approached with caution.
Dr. Mitrisin had returned to the floor to check up on the results of his ordered treatment. Upon hearing about the supply situation he harrumphed and grumped, disclaiming loudly about incompetent nurses and purchasing agents that were more worried about buying incentives than getting the job done right. When assured that they could use the prefilled syringes he turned on the speaker.
“And what about our lady in 12B? What if she needs an enema too? Your last report indicated that her results have been nothing but small for a week! The Senna isn’t working, and neither has the Miralax. Use your last syringe on her? What about the next case, and the next? Tell them too bad, we’re out of supplies? That’s all I hear any more, ‘We’re out of supplies.’ Is there anything we AREN’T out of lately? Go buy the supplies and get to it before we have to open him up!”
Taken aback the Nurse Manager could only stammer. “But Dr. Mitrisin, that’s just it. We can’t GET the supplies because of the conflicts. Purchasing checked, and we can’t get shipments because we are outside the area they are allowed to ship to.”
This pacified the irate physician not in the least. “Do they teach you people ANYTHING in school any more? Send someone up to the farm store and pick up the equipment. How hard is that to figure out?”
Wendy stepped in at this point. She knew where the good doctor was heading.
“That would work. We could, umm…. well, we could use a feeding bottle, like for a bottle calf you know. Attach a latex tube to the nipple, and I’m sure we can come up with a nozzle that will work.”
Now somewhat mollified Dr. Mitrisin nodded. “You’ve been around long enough that you know what I mean. I’m putting you in charge of this. Call me when you’ve got the things and I’ll come over again.”
With that he departed, leaving a frazzled staff behind. There were the usual nasty looks behind his back but amongst the eight people who’d been witness to the temper display there were also a couple with thoughtful looks on their faces. Not everyone confined their thinking to strictly inside the box as it was currently defined.
Dr. Mitrisin had been instrumental in the hospital’s unofficial but decidedly enforced policy of treating members of the patriot forces. During the past month alone they had released 19 cases after recovery, and 4 others were still resident. His concerns were always first and foremost the patients. Despite his gruff exterior inside the man was one of that breed often referred to as a humanitarian, though he’d have been the last person to admit to it. Patients were to be admitted regardless of ability to pay. If revenues slumped then find a way to fix them other than on the backs of those who needed the hospital’s services most. A former administrator had been wont of attending conferences and meetings that did more to allow him to network and hobnob than to actually learn new strategies. Hyatt and Regency were the hotels of choice for these junkets and more than a few first class tickets were charged to the hospital.
In time Dr. Mitrisin had been instrumental in pressuring the board to discharge the spendthrift after a cardiac monitor with a long product history of unreliable service had been pinpointed as contributing to the death of a local patron. Bad enough that, but that same monitor had been vetoed for replacement during the annual budget battle. Capital equipment replacements had been nixed almost across the board while travel expenses soared.
Despite a long list of golfing and social buddies filling out the board of trustees there was no denying that the cost of one rural health conference more than equaled the cost of a new monitor. When Dr. Mitrisin threatened to resign in protest the board sat up. When he added that he would be resigning so as to avoid a possible conflict of interests because he was going to spearhead a citizens’ group whose goal was to file suit against the board for gross mismanagement and lack of proper oversight they quickly voted to go into executive session. Matters improved rapidly from there.
The current policy of asking no questions regarding how patients came to suffer wartime injuries had the tacit approval of the current administrator. In this case the woman in the head office was a former Veteran’s Administration mid-level administrative employee who had been coaxed out of semi-retirement to accept the position with Galax Regional. She had a reputation for being hard nosed when the situation called for it, and compassionate whenever an employee, a patient or a visitor had an unusual problem that the normal channels just couldn’t seem to address. Her hard exterior hid a real heart of gold. Her departed husband had been a veteran of murky campaigns spoken of only in whispers behind closed doors. She had once commented that but for a lack of critical missions from time to time she might never have had the chance to be with her husband long enough to have children. She understood too well the dangers of war, and could not - would not - bring herself to close the doors to those who were trying to preserve the country.
Dateline: Battalion Aid Midwest
Over the hill, visible through the gathered gloom of the mostly dark night a set of headlamps cast a glow. Behind them a motor labored, followed by the rumble of a second engine. Ahead of them, hidden under the trees outlining the property was Ken, sweating in the otherwise cooling night air. From behind he heard the muffled shuffle of footsteps. Turning quickly he made the shadowy forms of Karl and Belloc coming from the direction of the house.
Squatting down next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder in reassurance Belloc addressed him.
“Sound anything like military vehicles, son?”
Ken swallowed hard then answered. “Nossir. One’s a light truck, the other I can’t make yet. Heavier but ain’t a diesel. Not moving too fast, guessing under 40 as slow as they are coming over the rise there.” He swallowed again, hoping his assessment was correct.
As he spoke a rifle was thrust sideways at him. Taking it he realized it was an AK, complete with a 20 round magazine in the well. A chest pouch followed. The gravity of the situation began to weigh on his mind. After the early day’s events he’d believe anything possible, even a shootout here in rural Iowa.
“Know how to make that work?” Belloc asked.
“Yessir, selector on the right. No fancy stuff, just aim for the center of mass. Conserve my ammo.”
The hand on his shoulder patted once and then was gone. Belloc moved away 40 feet to assume a belly down position across the driveway just as the lead vehicle broke over the top of the hill, its lights casting an illuminating swath downwards as it began the slight downward slope. Less than 100 yards separated it from the hastily assembled fire team awaiting them.
Karl had already scooted across the road and run down the drainage ditch a short ways to put himself in back of the vehicles, or at least to the opposite side, should there be a fight. He had disappeared into the darkness within moments. The only words exchanged between Belloc and himself were for Belloc and his men to draw the attention of the occupants of the vehicles. Belloc knew what he was after and merely grunted a “Gotcha.”
The lead vehicle slowed further, obviously intending to make the turn into the farm drive. Three pairs of eyes watched from the roadside, 2 more sets from farther back. Andrea had taken cover alongside the corner of the house, her sidearm in a ready position. Having the only long arms available for the moment the men would be the primary defense if needed. Her own carbine was still buried in her Blazer, hidden away under the mound of distraction items and others. Later, she promised herself, later. Foolish to be caught flatfooted like this but too late to do anything about it.
As the lead vehicle reached the drive it shut down its headlamps, leaving on only parking lights to guide its way. The glare thus eliminated it was revealed to be an older pick-up truck. Over the hill came another vehicle with a similar headlamp pattern, its shape undefined as yet.
The pick-up continued on up the drive at a crawl, slowly, lazily, as if to indicate that the occupant or occupants were trying to be both cautious and non-threatening in appearance. A good 100 feet down the road the other vehicle followed suit, also dimming its headlamps. In the scant moonlight, all the poorer because the heavenly globe was only beginning its rise in the starlit sky, could be seen the outline of another pick-up with a utility box on the back. It too slowed even further, apparently seeking the beginning of the driveway. Swinging out slightly to gain the right angle it turned in, moving ever more slowly, as if awaiting further direction.
The pick-up continued towards the house, past the trees that hid it from direct view of the roadway. The driver continued cautiously but with a firm conviction that seemed to indicate he knew exactly what they were about and where they were headed. The other truck followed in its tracks, the dim outlines of two occupants in the front seats barely visible.
End Chapter XIV Part I
Chapter XV: Meatball Surgery
Patriot Aid Station Chapter XV – Meatball Surgery
Dateline: Virginia Aid Station
Randy was very near beside himself with anger. “Damn it anyhow! Talk about a waste of materials!”
The object of his disgust was a loose pile of boxes and containers, filled with the remains of medical supplies, medications, instruments and accessories that had been culled from a larger delivery. The boxes were riddled with holes, or broken or crushed, and no few of them had various liquids leaking from or on them.
“Look at this, will you? I’ve been sifting through a case of Ventolin inhalers, and out of the entire lot I found 3 that are usable, and maybe another 4 or 5 canisters that can be salvaged if you put them with a mouthpiece. That’s it. At this rate the only thing that’s going to be filling up faster than the cemetery is the landfill.”
Dale, one of the hospital’s non-medical personnel serving in a jack-of-all-trade’s capacity, looked up from the opposite side of the pile where he was working. “I hear ya. Never saw such a mess in my life. Cryin’ shame ya ask me.” He stood upright and stretched his back before continuing his thought. “Though from what I understand we’re pretty lucky to get what we did. Half of the truck was shot all to heck and gone from what I was told.”
Randy sighed in turn. “Yeah, I know. I suppose I ought to be happy that the thing wasn’t the victim of a rocket grenade instead of just an MG. Still, it’s a crying shame all right. Frustrating, just damnably frustrating. Too many casualties, not enough supplies, and every now and then we lose one I know good and well could have been saved if they had access to a decent ER, never mind an OR that was properly staffed and equipped.”
“What can you do? The University hospital up north cooperates with the Feds from what I hear. Several guys taken there are sitting in cells somewhere. No telling what’ll happen to them. Likely they’ll get sent up for 30 years or more, and pretty hard conditions at that.”
This time Randy just grunted in return. The thought was never far from his mind. No matter how upset he was about the working conditions there were worse alternatives for the wounded so-called ‘Rebel’ men and women. Sometimes death itself was the better deal than the alternative offerings. The government – he still tended to think in terms of normalcy rather than what the present day had become – had thrown the book out the window, refusing anything approaching observation of Geneva Accord-like treatment of prisoners. An extremely left-leaning newspaper that had somehow managed to survive the past few years of declining readership had opined that the Rebels were only reaping what was sown in the years of the Bush Administration and their purported maltreatment of Taliban prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. What the editorial columnist failed to make note of what that even the most farfetched allegation that ever arose from Gitmo was tame by comparison to what taking place in the present time.
“Any way,” Dale continued “we seem to’ve got a pretty good lot we weren’t expecting, and there’s still some savable stuff in here. I ain’t done sorting any way. Some of the stuff just needs cleaning is all.”
“Yeah, I know. Just frustrated, like that’s anything new. Seeing all these ruined inhalers just tripped something in me I guess.” Randy sighed again, this time with the weariness of it all. Weariness caused by long hours, short supplies, rough living conditions and the unjustified but sometimes understandable anger expressed by some of the patients. Patients who thought they were somehow being shorted in the care and attention they received. “At least we’re not finding any narcotics amongst this mess. Not that there were any with the cases that weren’t damaged. I’d be a damn sight more pissed though if we found there were some on that truck, only to find they’d been destroyed during the fight. Not nearly enough to go around as it is.”
Dale ran a hand through thinning sandy hair before speaking again. “I know as well as anyone working the wards there isn’t enough morphine. You can tell that just by the sounds at night, when things are quiet and you can hear some of the moans and cries.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, here’s a lucky find.” Straightening up from the crushed cardboard box he had just opened Randy held up a pale green thick cloth pad.
“Hmmmph. Doesn’t look like much and it’s got a big tear in it anyhow.” It was obvious that Dale didn’t realize the significance of the find so Randy undertook to educate him on the importance of the item.
“It’s an incontinence pad. Waterproof on the bottom, absorbent on the topside. They’re placed under people who are incontinent of urine or feces to protect the bedding and make cleanup easier. We have a guy who managed to catch dysentery of all things. Bad water most likely. Just hope it’s not from a regular source or we’ll be seeing more cases. I had to look it up as it is. Pretty third world stuff, that.”
“Won’t the tear make it pretty well useless” Dale asked.
“As it sits right now, yeah. But it can be patched. Beats trying to make these up from scratch. Says on the box there’s 48 of them in here and it doesn’t look like the round went from the top down so maybe we’ll get lucky and find a bunch that are as good to go as they are. Once they get all the crud washed off that is,” he added as an afterthought. The one he had in his hands seemed to have some sort of soapy substance spilled on it.
“Okay, I’ll keep my eyes peeled for any more then. Helps to know what you are looking at for sure” Dale replied.
“You run across anything you aren’t sure of just give a yell and I’ll help” Randy offered.
The supplies they were sorting through had been salvaged from a shot-up semi trailer by a sympathetic resident of the area in which they had been found. For reasons that were unclear the truck had been fired upon as it sat alongside an interstate off-ramp, the driver presumably, because he had not survived the attack, having pulled off for rest after driving his allotted hours for the day. It was rumored that the truck was operated by USA Freightways, and that that had been the basis for the attack. Like so many other incidents the facts of the matter would likely never be known.
The cargo was reported to be a mixed lot, including several pallets of assorted medical supplies, which fortuously included various medications that were probably intended to restock a small hospital pharmacy somewhere. The person who had brought the shipment to the camp had mentioned that the finder had also reported a lot of shot-up household appliances spilling out of a rupture in the trailer shell. Doubtless lack of a new microwave or coffee maker would upset some would-be customers more than the loss of critical medical supplies. Rather than cursing their luck that the load had included only a modest quantity of medical items the staff was counting their blessings that it had included any at all. From the sketchy description supplied the truck sounded as if it had been just one of tens of thousands of commercial bulk carriers that occupied the road on any given day.
Supply had been a continuing headache since day one for the Aid Station. Some members of the crew had freely offered their opinion that push come to shove burglarizing a storehouse somewhere for desperately needed medications in particular would be morally justifiable. Others were not so certain. In the end nothing came of the idea and they continued to depend upon sketchy means of acquisition. No one argued against using what were in effect the spoils of war.
Dateline: Rural Iowa Near Boone
Jeremiah Lundberg was a man with a mission. As head of the environmentalist group that was slated to join forces with the Loyalists, and their allies the Royal Guard and their kin, he was responsible for the direction of a now-reduced force of granola-crunching and rock worshiping New Agers who saw their cause as divinely inspired. They were poorly armed, even worse when it came to tactics, and to a person bright-eyed at the prospect of dealing “justice” to those they saw as disrespectful of their Mother Earth, their goddess Gaia.
Jeremiah guided his followers through claimed revelations, or “transpersonal experiences” as he referred to them. It was claimed by some, and widely accepted by many others, that Jeremiah was in communion with the very soul of the Earth, with Terra herself.
“Jeremiah will consult with the goddess of the winds, the seasons, the trees and the soil, and she will instruct him that he may guide us truly and inerrant. We have been truly favored to have Jeremiah amongst us at this time in the Great Cycle of Being. For when has so much injury ever been inflicted upon the Mother Terra, and the means to redress this insult so close to hand? The enlightened leaders in the pagan city to the east shall welcome our efforts and reward us and make us the wardens of the new Nature, and all shall be as it was intended.”
The irony of their reference to Washington, D.C. being a pagan city was lost upon the nature worshipers. In their narrow-minded view anyone who did not worship Gaia was a pagan, the linguistic origins of the term somehow having escaped their consideration.
Jeremiah for his part had withdrawn to his rust-crusted and dented motor home. He was too clever to fall for the failings of so many would-be prophets who had gone before him. He maintained a private as well as public lifestyle as befitted a true child of nature. His philosophy as expressed was use it up, wear it out, do without. The much-patched and repaired land yacht was in keeping with this. At the insistence of fawning sycophants he had given over to the care of others his authentic 60’s-era Volkswagen peacemobile, resplendent in the faded flowers that adorned its sides.
Within the privacy afforded by the boxy vehicle he could properly enter that difficult to achieve state of inner nirvana, the meditative trance-like state in which he purported to communicate with the earth-soul. What his followers presumed was happening within the darked out vehicle was anything but reality. Jeremiah needed no trance state to communicate with his spirit being.
There was of course the inner circle of close lieutenants. But even the most trusted of them was not privy to what went on within the sulci of his brain. No, Jeremiah was too clever for that, to give anyone a close glimpse of what actually went through his mind. There would be no rumors based in fact, no chance for anyone to grow disabused with their guru and reveal inner secrets previously known to only a select few.
Now the purported wisdom of the goddess was being revealed to his assembled followers. Speaking from the platform of a convenient stump located across from the campfire from his flock Jeremiah quietly exhorted his ragtag earth-army in tones of voice so low his speech was almost drowned out by the crackling of the flames.
“We shall adopt the stealth, the cunning and the guile of our brother the fox. Our ears shall be pricked to discern the slightest sound, the merest hint of danger. Our nose shall scent the air for the stench of the oppressors that seek us. The earth shall provide our cover as we cross it, safe from our enemy the hunters. We shall blend into the background while we make our way in safety across the intervening hills and valleys, streams and pathways."
"Gaia has shown me the way to travel in order to throw off the chains that bind her while her torturers beat her in their pathetic attempts to make her bow to their will. We shall join with our brothers in battle and overthrow the keepers of the wicked and hated factory that produces the evil weapons that wound our great mother and make her streams fill with the tears she sheds at the poisons that infect her – the poisons that the abusers of our sacred mother produce for the purpose of their pagan wars against each other, heedless of the great sorrow they bring upon our loving goddess and her children.”
Jeremiah’s affect on his audience was hypnotic. By speaking in a low voice they had to strain to hear his words. There were no whispers, giggles or snide remarks in the ranks; to do so meant missing what he was saying, never mind the instant and severe disapproval that would come from the other followers.
The firelight seemed to make his eyes glow, an effect enhanced by carefully tinted contacts. The glowing effect in turn added to the mystique that surrounded their leader. He was gifted to be sure, in very dark ways.
“The time has come for us to adopt the cloak of the invisible. Gone will be the adorned buses, the customized vans, and the brightly colored vehicles that have been a trademark of our people, of our movement. Make them appear as innocent as those of any farmer or merchant. Gather the accursed tax plates from other vehicles and fasten them to our own, that we may pass as members of the mindless sheep who inhabit this area, beating the earth into submission while heedless of her cries. Adapt the dress and manner of the oppressors of our brother and sister animals. Then, when on the morrow we are ready we shall go forth singly and in pairs and make our way to the scene of the great battle that awaits us. Where our brothers in spirit await our strength. Where we shall deal justice on those who would oppress the great mother earth for the sake of their obscene profits.”
The look on his face, eerily illuminated by the firelight of the dancing flames, might best be described as feral. It wasn’t a bad description for a man who once identified himself as a brother to the wolf.
“From this night onward we shall keep to ourselves. We shall do nothing to call attention to us or to our cause. There will be time later to punish the rapers of our cherished earth mother. When you depart this sheltering grove you shall have one goal only – to reach the gathering point where we shall join with our brethren, to increase our might so that none may resist us, or that which we stand for.”
End Chapter XV Part I
Chapter XVII: More Than Meets the Eye
Patriot Aid Station Chapter XVII: More Than Meets the Eye
Dateline: USA
There was an almost eerie silence coming from Washington these days. It was as though it was holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next.
Hillary Boxer was busy scheming. Her vision of a new America bent to her will was not coming to be. She increasingly felt as though she was a de facto prisoner within the halls of the White House. It was only for her personal safety, she was assured. After all, there were Rebel elements to be found everywhere, even within the borders of D.C.
Last week there had been a raid on a small depot on the outskirts of the city, not far from Fort Myer. Casualties had been light but several cases of otherwise officially undescribed materials had been taken by the raiders. What was known by the officers at the depot but unadmitted was the actual tally of missing arms and munitions: eight SAW’s along with a case of M-67 fragmentation grenades, several ammo packs for each of the machine guns and several cases of .223 ammo loose in tins. The raiders had known what it was that they were seeking, and evidently set their sites on high value items such as they were capable of carrying off in one swift motion. The theft of the weapons weighed heavily upon the minds of those who knew the extent of the loss. They could not help but wonder where they would turn up, doubtless in use against their former erstwhile owners.
The stock market was open for limited business once again, with strict controls and automatic cutoffs that would shut trading down for the day if there was too much activity in either direction, up or down. Many a pension plan had already been ruined, and formerly solid-seeming firms tottered on the edge of a financial abyss.
One unforeseen benefit of the turmoil was a resurrection of the American automotive industry. Japan, unwilling to risk the loss of hundreds of millions in new car inventories, had called a halt to further exports to the US. In a couple of instances ships already at sea when the decision was made were turned back. In another week’s time the vehicles were being offloaded in China where they would be offered at fire sale prices if only to lessen the financial blow.
The result was that Ford was beginning to show signs of awakening from its deep slumber, and even Chevy, nearly ruined in recent years, was now seen as the patriotic choice in new vehicles amongst moneyed buyers residing outside the active conflict areas. Sales of European cars fell off rapidly, in part due to resurgence in patriotism but also because the asking prices were suddenly beyond the reach of payment-strapped Americans who belatedly discovered that they could not tap their investment accounts with money market access erratic at best.
Interestingly enough crude oil shipments from the Middle East not only were unaffected but the prices were trending lower very rapidly. The price of light sweet crude was descending towards $55/barrel for the first time in years. A few of the conservative talk radio shows expressed the opinion that it was part of a grand scheme aimed at convincing America that the Arabs really were our friends, and if we’d only allow them to come to our aid we would all prosper. Sadly, some Americans were openly agreeing to this school of thought. In reality it was the lack of futures market pressures on the price of crude that was causing the price to drop so precipitously.
The trade deficit also showed signs of beginning to balance itself as an increasing number of companies refused to ship products to the US owing to effective closure of some east coast seaports. With the advent of container ships too large to transit the Panama Canal the cost of shipping around the Cape Horn as an alternative made the price of doing business prohibitive in a market sharply reduced. The huge container ship port in the Bahamas filled to near capacity before inbound shipments were drastically reduced in response to the falling demand. Trade with China, long the increasing bane of small American companies, had fallen off sharply as the large eastern seaboard markets underwent a severe contraction. The easy credit of past years - already on the wane since the market corrections of 2007 and later was fast becoming a thing of the past. Faux Gucci purses and fake Rolex watches had little place in a society that was discovering there was more to survival and being seen wearing the correct accoutrements.
Precious metals were becoming the money of choice in some areas of the country. In others the wealthy tried but failed to trade their gold watches, sterling dinnerware and precious stones mounted in jewelry in return for the debts they could no longer pay because of lack of access to funds long tied up in trusts and other financial vehicles intended to safeguard them. Coinage had intrinsic value but who knew how much gold, silver or platinum was actually contained in that cocktail necklace, tennis bracelet or tea service? Shrewd pawnbrokers happily took such offerings for pennies on the dollar – they too found themselves short of actual cash and checks were beginning to be refused if they were drawn on banks situated well within the contested areas – and melted down the furnishings of the Fifth Avenue townhouses and Georgian estates, having them formed into numbered ingots of known weight and purity - in most instances. As with any such times there were fraudulent merchants to be found everywhere.
Gasoline, in spite of falling crude prices, continued to rise in cost. An enterprising hitchhiker could ensure themselves of a ride if they carried a gas can with them. A gallon of regular meant anywhere from 15-42 miles for which the driver wouldn’t have to sit in the increasingly long lines. For a commuting worker who lived within a reasonable distance that meant that the frustration of a visit to the gas station could be put off another day or two or perhaps longer yet. It was beginning to look like 1973 all over again as far as the lines. The prices, however, were another matter entirely.
Dateline: Kentucky/Tennessee Area
Nate took the bullhorn in hand and raised it into position.
“Attention inside the compound. You are completely surrounded by a large and very hostile force. We are well armed and have numerical superiority. You have 2 minutes to surrender or face annihilation. We are not open to negotiation on this matter. This is your only warning.”
Other members of the assault force versed in those languages repeated the message in French and German. It was assumed (correctly) that some members of the opposition forces spoke one or the other well, so in an effort to avoid needless bloodshed it had been decided to demand surrender in such as way as to avoid the possibility of the message not being understood. A bloodless coup was always preferable from the attacker’s point-of-view. As it was argued during the planning stages of the assault the patriot forces could claim the moral upper hand all the way around if they were able to pull off a bloodless surrender.
There was nary a sign of recognition from within the beleaguered compound. No faces appeared in the few windows, no door opened to allow exit of a spokesman. Taut faces checked and rechecked timepieces and watches as the seconds ticked by. 30 seconds passed since the second translation. Then 60. Still no sign of life from within the compound.
Marksmen welded cheeks to buttstocks, firming up sight pictures. Breathing became slowed and deliberate. Grips on forestocks were minutely checked and rechecked and steady pressure applied to triggers in anticipation of a crisp let-off.
From within the compound came the sound of a faint squeak, as if a metal door in need of lubrication were being ever so slowly opened. But no discernable movement was witnessed by any of the watching assault force. The sound was not repeated and it had not been possible to identify the exact location from which it emanated. From without eyes glued to telescopic sights searched frantically for any sign of movement that might indicate an impending breakout attempt on the part of the force inside the compound’s main building.
Video recorders had been staged around the contested area, the better to capture the action from several angles so as not to miss anything of importance. This, too, was the result of the arguments that had taken place before the assault plan was finalized. The Boxer administration, with more than a little complicity from the mainstream media, had been trying to paint the patriot forces as unrestrained criminals bent on topping the atrocities committed by the Axis forces during WWII. One especially liberal wag, picking up on the general theme, went to far as to suggest that given the opportunity the Rebel forces would emulate the atrocities committed by Josef Stalin on his fellow countrymen.
More sounds emerged from within the compound. There were thumps and bangs, the sounds of heavy objects being moved inside the main building. One watching and waiting would-be assailant made an off-hand observation to the man lying prone next to him:
“They’re barricading themselves inside. Guess we’re in for a fight after all.”
The other nodded. He wasn’t disappointed even if the leaders of the assault were. He merely reformed his cheek weld and concentrated on the front sight of his Kar-98, his choice of weapon for the battle. The rifle was an experienced veteran of the Balkan campaigns of the 1940’s, though its owner had no way of knowing it’s precise history, only that the somewhat worn lands and grooves showed that it had seen its share of battlefield use in the past.
The time given the beleaguered force came and went. Reluctant to commence what he knew in his heart would be a slaughter Ante tried one more time.
“Attention the compound,” he shouted, his voice amplified by the battery-operated bullhorn “borrowed” from a local high school. “You have 10 seconds to surrender or face total annihilation.”
The only reply was another heavy scraping sound from within.
Another of the leaders of the assault force muttered as much to himself as to anyone within earshot. “Time’s a come to get to a fighting’.”
Nate huffed out an unconsciously held deep breath, then turned to his radio operator – the force’s radio network consisted of a couple dozen tweaked GMRS radios that offered a modicum of privacy but were anything but totally secure if there was any chance the opposing forces had even civilian level channel scanning capability – and gave him a message to be passed along.
“Stick to the plan. 10 seconds of barrage fire then cease and await further orders.”
The message was duly passed on and acknowledged by several squad leaders. Within 3 seconds a ragged tattering of fire from a couple of angles was joined up by a deluge as everyone within range cut loose on the main building, the APC’s and anything that lay in front of the assault force.
Hundreds of rounds issued from anything that could fire a cartridge, ranging from humble .22’s to a couple of .50 calibers and everything in between. .223 and 7.62 x 39 were the favored calibers but .243, .270, .308, 30.06, 7.92 mm and others were reasonably well represented. A few of the assault force were hoping to up-gun themselves with the spoils gained by the defeat of the occupying force, not the least bit uncommon when indigenous people find themselves besieged by a foreign invader. While it was true that the park had been “protected” by the umbrella of a World Heritage designation since the 1980’s it was only within the past year or less that the “protectors” had assumed the role and capabilities of a military garrison.
The mad minute lasted less than 20 seconds by the time the squad leaders were able to get the cease fire order – amazing when one considers the amount of pent-up frustration and outright buck fever endemic amongst the local forces.
When the firing ceased a witness to the devastation wrought would have been hard pressed to say that they could believe that anyone inside might have survived. Holes penetrating the building numbered in the hundreds, in some places appearing as gaping rents in the sheet metal siding. They were arrayed in height from near ground level to halfway up the sloping roof panels. A casual observer would have believed any statement to the effect that anyone standing or sitting, and perhaps even laying flat upon the floor, would have been hit one or more times.
From within the main building came a low cry of painful anguish. At least one person had survived the onslaught, though from the sound of things they were anything but unwounded.
End Chapter XVII Part I