by TW Powell
As the Super Huey approached Kentucky’s Bluegrass Region, Jo began following Interstate 64. She could clearly see the lights of Lexington, Kentucky off in the distance as the Super Huey flew directly over Winchester.
For a split second, Jo’s mind wandered away from the mission, “I wonder if that mean old bastard is awake down there.”
John “Spud” Parker was indeed wide awake. He always had things to do around the farm.
The single-wide house trailer began vibrating as the Super Huey skimmed over the nearby treetops. For a split second, Spud’s mind wandered away from the day’s chores, “My baby girl flies a chopper.”
It was Y2K and young Spud Parker welcomed the new century with a wife, a new home, and a new baby girl. He had his hands full holding down a factory job in Lexington and tending his small farm near Winchester. His wife, Polly, was a country girl and helped Spud raise chickens and a few hogs, but her main farm chore was tending the family’s large garden. During the Fall, Winter, and Spring, the garden supplied greens, onions, and cole crops. There wasn’t much the garden didn’t supply during the warm Kentucky summers. A smattering of apple, cherry, and peach trees supplied the sweets. John tended the cattle and grew the cash crops, corn and soybeans.
One picture-perfect Summer afternoon, Spud returned home from work to find little Jo in her playpen and Polly lying dead in the living room floor. The coroner ordered an autopsy that determined the cause of death was a cerebral hemorrhage. Spud was devastated, but he wasn’t alone, he had his little girl, Jo.
Spud wasn’t a big man, but he was a man’s man. He loved to hunt and fish. Spud was a good shot with rifle, shotgun, and bow. He loved to work with his hands. Although he had a sharp mind, he wasn’t cerebral. His thoughts centered on more practical matters.
Spud’s sister lived nearby and babysat little Josephine weekdays while Spud worked at the factory, but whenever Spud was at home, Jo was by his side. By the time Jo was 12, she could run faster, shoot straighter, and catch more fish than any boy in her class.
Social scientists and medical professionals cannot agree if sexual orientation is determined by genetics, or environmental factors, or some combination of both. While growing up, Jo had many boy friends, but no boyfriend. She was always just “one of the boys”. Spud was oblivious.
All that changed one night in May 2018, the night of Jo’s senior prom. Spud was sitting in the living room with the windows wide open, enjoying a fine spring evening, when Jo walked in with her friend, Sally. Jo was wearing a formal pantsuit and Sally was wearing a matching formal gown. Spud complimented both beautiful young ladies and then inquired as to the whereabouts of their prom dates. That’s when the shit hit the fan.
That night was the last time Jo spoke to her father. She was 18 and an adult. She left the farm and went off to college on a full ride NROTC scholarship and chose the Marine Option.
As the Super Huey passed Winchester, Jo’s mind quickly refocused on her mission.
She turned and yelled back at The Keeper, “ETA 60 minutes.”
California Girl
The Pony Express Motel was only about a half hour drive from Black Bird Canyon. Delvin needed a good night’s rest, so he called it an early evening at the Pony Express. He was up with the sun and back home in Stockton a little after noon the following day.
Minutes after he walked in the kitchen door, a call came in on Delvin’s Peoples’ Phone.
“Member Smith, please hold for Member California Coordinator.”
A couple of minutes later California Coordinator, Alexis Jones, came on the line, “Good day, Member Smith.”
“Good day, Member California Coordinator. How may I serve The Collective today?”
“Member Smith, it has been some time since we discussed logistical support for the California Collective. My calendar is full this afternoon. Perhaps we could meet this evening at Peoples’ Airport Plaza, Suite 728, around 7 p.m.”
“I am leaving now. Will be there at 7 p.m.”
Delvin jumped into his truck and headed down to Fremont. He could make a pickup there this afternoon, “confer” with Alex this evening, then deliver the shipment to Oakland first thing tomorrow morning. Fremont was on the southeastern side of The Bay, just north of San Jose. and across The Bay from Palo Alto. This area was once California’s Silicon Valley.
Delvin always thought best while behind the wheel. He thought about his Mom. He began organizing his thoughts on Operation Daisy. Then his thoughts turned to Alex.
One of the California Collective gossip mill’s favorite subjects was “Member Alexis & Her Man”. Since the Round Mountain incident propelled Member Smith to fame as a Hero of The Collective, that gossip mill had shifted into overdrive. The paparazzi had transfigured Delvin Smith into a 21st Century Errol Flynn and Alexis was his Olivia de Havilland. But Delvin knew better. Alexis was no Olivia de Havilland.
Alex was beautiful, graceful, articulate, smart and the best piece of ass that Delvin ever had. All that made Delvin despise her all the more. She was a ruthless, soulless cog in a ruthless, soulless machine. She was beautiful on the outside, but ugly on the inside.
Delvin’s mind took flight, “Why couldn’t Alex be more like that young nurse from Kentucky?”
She was pretty, but certainly no great beauty. She had none of Alexis’ grace, or worldliness, but she had an inner beauty and strength that had haunted Delvin since they parted on that battle scarred Nevada highway back in April.
As he had done so many times before, Member Smith walked off the elevator on the 7th floor of Peoples’ Airport Plaza at precisely 6:57 p.m. His two Peoples’ Militia “friends” were on duty outside Suite 728. Delvin handed them each two 16oz frozen T-Bones and rang the doorbell.
Alex opened the door, “Good evening Member Smith.”
“May I come in, Member Coordinator?”
“Most certainly, Member Smith”
Before closing the door, Alexis bid her bodyguards goodnight, “Members, take the rest of the evening off and enjoy those steaks.”
“Alex, I didn’t want to discuss this over the phone. My Mom passed away a couple of days ago.”
“I’m so sorry Delvin. Would you rather be alone this evening?”
“No, I’m OK. It’s nice seeing you again.”
“Can I help with the waste disposal?”
It was all Delvin could do just to contain his rage. If it were up to The Collective, his Mother would be treated as just so much garbage.
“No, thank you. It’s all under control.”
That evening, while Alex and Delvin lay together among the satin sheets on that California King bed overlooking The Bay, in Delvin’s mind, it was not the California Coordinator he was loving.
Fortress Kingston
Junior and Tom awakened the next morning to gaze out upon an entirely different Kingston than the town they defended back in April. The Skipper boys had been at work. Black, radar absorbing, high tension wires were now strung across several canyons as anti-helicopter defense. All roads into Kingston Canyon were now blockaded with strongpoints. Stone dugouts were under construction throughout the canyons. Existing house trailers were relocated, spread out, camouflaged, and surrounded by tall earthworks. American flags, real American flags, waved from flagpoles strategically placed next to fake buildings. Kingston was ready for war.
Doc Williams led Junior and Tom to the town cemetery. There they paid their respects to the seven who gave their lives to buy America another chance. Kingston, much like Austin and the rest of rural Nevada, was an eclectic place. There were ranchers, miners, military personnel, gamblers, hucksters, artists, tourists, and, some say, a few aliens and they didn’t mean the terrestrial sort. One of Kingston’s more noted residents was a sculptor. She was busy working in a nearby tent fashioning a memorial to honor the Kingston 7. While The Collective was in the business of tearing down heroes and their monuments, America continued to raise them up.
As Tom and Junior knelt at Jill
’s grave, Doc’s walkie-talkie crackled, “Abrams to Doc, flatbed truck inbound at north roadblock.”
Juan Hernandez, call sign “Abrams”, was manning the north roadblock, where Kingston Canyon Road crosses Kingston Creek. Juan was a veteran of the Okinawa Campaign of ’25 and the Kingston battle back in April.
Juan was sitting in the rear of a Hummer that Bobby Lee Skipper and Big Sid had salvaged from the remnants of the April battle out on NV 376. But Juan was not just twiddling his thumbs. He was manning a Ma Deuce, a .50 caliber Browning machinegun that Bobby Lee had salvaged along with the Hummer. When the flatbed was one mile out, Juan pulled back the bolt and fired a short warning burst above the truck. The driver immediately slowed the truck, activated its emergency blinkers, and began sounding the horn.
Juan held his fire but kept the Ma Deuce trained on the flatbed as it slowly approached the north roadblock. The truck slowed to a stop about 30 feet from Kingston Creek. A dark figure slowly emerged from the driver’s side of the truck cab, backlit by the early morning sun. One false move and Juan would cut the stranger to pieces with the Browning.
“Stop! Identify yourself, or you’re toast!”
The stranger stopped and threw open his cloak, “Juan, mi amigo, it’s me, John!”
Juan made the Sign of the Cross, “Jesucristo! Are you real?”
John replied with the Orthodox sign, “As God as my witness!”
Juan jumped out of the Hummer and met John in the cold, knee-deep water in the middle of Kingston Creek.
“Abrams to Doc, get out here, now!”
Doc, Junior, and Tom made a beeline out to the roadblock. They couldn’t believe their eyes. Junior literally spang off Buttermilk into Kingston Creek and hugged John Nicolescu.
John glanced back toward the truck, “Oh shit, Junior, give me a hand.”
John ran back out of the creek and started untying the tarp from the driver’s side of the flatbed. Junior followed closely behind and started working on the passenger side. Within seconds, they threw the tarpaulin off the flatbed exposing 13 souls lying closely packed like sardines on the rough, wooden truck bed. The dozen denounced Reno Mormons plus John’s Jewish friend, Ben, were now free.
Tom took one look at the dozen Mormons, John’s black hooded cloak, the bullwhip, and the machete, then began laughing out loud.
“Guess we done found Slick’s voodoo demon…”
Morning
About the same time that The Righteous One made his unexpected appearance in Kingston, Alexis was lying in bed enjoying just a few quiet moments with Delvin before the start of another busy day.
“Delvin, Sugar, we actually came out smelling like a rose from all that vaccine business back in April.”
“I wouldn’t know, Alex. You know I don’t follow politics. All I know is those damn reporters have been bugging the shit out of me, acting like fools.”
“Delvin, Honey, you’re a celebrity. I’ve received inquiries from the Peoples’ Entertainment Bureau in Hollywood. They’ve asked if you would be available for movies, television, and maybe some computer game voice over work.”
“All I want to be is Delvin Smith, thank you. You know, sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too famous. The Collective abhors individual achievement.”
Delvin had just made a very insightful comment. Over the years, once in a blue moon, Delvin’s mask would slip just a little allowing Alexis to catch just a glimpse of the real man beneath the façade.
“Delvin Smith, for a man not too interested in politics, you are sometimes quite politically savvy. As I was saying, we came out of that mess in good shape. Those Chinese imbeciles fucked up that whole vaccine scheme, now there’s hell to pay in the PRC.” Alexis was of Vietnamese American heritage and secretly loathed all things Chinese.
“In contrast, here in California, thousands of Members were vaccinated and absolutely none of those Members got sick. Subsequent testing shows that 98.5% of Members vaccinated exhibit a very strong immune response to the virus.”
“Alex, why are you telling me this stuff? This is the kind of stuff Doc Pham knew well, may he rest in peace, but it’s all lost on me.”
“What I’m trying to say is, we’re looking very good. You’re a hero and I managed a successful vaccination program that even the Chinese couldn’t manage. Plus, our media friends are just eating up our ‘relationship’. Now do you get it?”
“Ok, I see your point.”
“We need to slow play our media friends. Give them just enough to stay hungry for more. How about taking a little trip down to Hollywood?”
“No way Alex. I’m no actor. I get stage fright. I just can’t function in front of a crowd, or a camera, or under pressure. You know what I did back in April. When the shooting started, I went nuts and ran the truck off the road. The media invented all that hero stuff, and you know it.”
“Then how about a little voice over work and a few interviews?”
“Let’s make a deal. Every so often, one of the mines over in Nevada will need something picked up down at the Port of Long Beach. Next time I get that call, you make arrangements with your media people and I’ll give them a couple of days. I’ll just drive down Peoples’ 95 to Vegas, then take I-15 through Mountain Pass, and then shoot on over to LA.” Delvin was carefully watching Alex’s face as he purposefully mentioned Mountain Pass.
Alex cringed at the mention of Mountain Pass and Delvin took note.
“Alex, Sweetie, is something wrong?”
“No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I’m just having trouble at a Racial Reparations Mining Camp down in Mountain Pass.”
“Is there anything I can do? I’m no hero, but I do have some talents.”
Alex responded with a cat-like purr, “You most certainly do…”
“No, seriously, can I help?”
“I don’t know. I’m under pressure to increase production at that mine and expand operations. If that’s not enough, Chinese State Security is sticking its nose into everything down there.”
“Let me sweeten our deal, in addition to spending time with the media, I’ll see what I can find out from my CSS friends.”
“Delvin, it’s absolutely capitalistic when you talk like that, you know, making deals. It’s absolutely scandalous. That turns me on.”
Alex then proceeded to explore some of Delvin’s other aforementioned talents.
The Debriefing
Tom, Junior, and John cut the homecoming celebration short and made their way to the Saloon for a debriefing. Wind, sun, and several spring showers had erased any lingering CVX nerve agent released back in April, so the town of Kingston was safe again.
John recounted how he escaped Top Gun with the help of his Mormon friends, Fred & Toni Kilmer. He described the Mormon Safe House in Reno and how he found the bullwhip and cloak hidden away in the attic. His description of the savage beating inflicted upon Ben Chapiro by the Militiaman sickened both Tom and Junior. Both thought that villain deserved his one-way express ticket to hell courtesy of John’s bullwhip. The Black Patriot’s description of the Righteous One’s rescue of the 12 Mormons was a little dramatic, but certainly not a fabrication.
Tom had a couple of questions, “Where did you get the flatbed truck?”
“Fred & Toni, that’s the same truck they used to haul me into Reno. They were members of that secret Mormon Ward in Reno. Just a couple of days before the denunciation at the Reno Safe House, The Collective finally confiscated the Kilmer’s ranch. Fred & Toni narrowly escaped capture when an anonymous caller tipped them off that the mob was coming for them. They made their way into Reno and were hiding out on the second floor, right below my attic hideout. They were hiding one floor below me for a couple of days and I never knew it. After I broke up that damned inquisition, we all hid in a suburban bugout location out in Sparks, Nevada until things calmed down. Then we hauled ass out here.”
“John, what about Ben? What in the hell was an old Jew doing out walking the dark alleys of downtown Reno?”
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“That’s an amazing story. Ben is actually Benjamin Shapiro, PhD. He taught at the Mackay School of Mines at University Nevada-Reno until the 2030 pogrom. His PhD is in Physical Chemistry. Much of his research focused on mineral processing and recovery. You know, better ways to recover gold, silver, lithium, and other metals from their native ores.”
“How in the hell did that old fucker survive 10 years in downtown Reno, surrounded by The Collective?”
“He lived by his wits. He is a smart old coot. He lived in those abandoned downtown casinos. He just blended in with the other homeless. He pretended not to speak English and would just answer in German mixed with Yiddish if questioned. Every so often, he would run across a dead body. Nowadays, Members die on the street every day. Ben would check their right hand and, if they had a chip, he would cut it out and collect their allotments.”
“How did he get into trouble?”
“That asshole who was beating him in that alley recognized Ben from his time at UNR. He also spoke German. Things went south pretty quickly.”
Tom was wasting no time, “Junior, we need to talk to Dr. Chapiro.”
Minutes later, Junior returned with Dr. Ben in tow.
Tom began the debriefing, “Dr. Chapiro, please take a seat.”
The professor sat down at a table across from John, Tom, and Junior.
“May I call you Ben?”
“Yes sir.”
“Ben, I’m Tom Jackson. This big Black guy is Darius Johnson, but we call him Junior. You may have seen his face on some posters around Reno.”
“Yes, that scar on his cheek is a dead giveaway. He’s RAMBRO.”
“Ben, you can relax, we’re United States Marines”