by TW Powell
“Junior, what do you think? Is this OK?”
“That’s cool Bobby Ray. I like the way you’ve got that flat rock hiding the fire from any eyes in the sky.”
“What was that stew the ladies cooked up this evening?”
“I do believe that was some pronghorn stew. Antelope, taters, onion, carrots, there ya go.”
“Well, it sure was good. It’s nice out here this evening. Reminds me of those nights up there around Battle Mountain. The only difference is that I’ve got a funny tightness down in my gut.”
“You’re a Marine, Bobby Ray. You’ve tasted battle several times. Your body knows what is coming.”
“Why in the hell don’t those Chinese fuckers just take over? Just land in California and take over.”
“You know, the Resistance has pondered that for some time. The best theory goes that if the Chinese invaded, they would be confronted by a rifle from behind every tree. It would make Afghanistan look like a cake walk. As it is, most people talk a good talk, but they are either too scared, or else just too apathetic to fight. I’ve read that in the American Revolution, the 1776 Revolution, only 45% of all Colonists favored the Revolution and perhaps only 10% actively supported the cause. If those Chinese bastards actually invaded, it would only galvanize the Resistance. People would see a foreign enemy.”
“Then why don’t they just give The Collective overwhelming support and crush the Resistance?”
“You’re assuming they want The Collective to win.”
“What?”
“I said, you’re assuming they want The Collective to win. Many of us have concluded that the Chinese are very happy with the status quo. They are raping America of its resources and slowly wiping out and replacing Americans. The cost to China in both treasure and lives is miniscule, not that their leadership is all that concerned with lives.
“Their biggest fear is a united America.”
Three Days Later
Delvin was up early and just about out the door when his Peoples’ phone rang once then quit. A few seconds later, it rang again, but only once. After driving a few miles north on I-5, Delvin pulled off the road and dialed Inspector Wu using one of his “spare phones”.
“Inspector Wu, my friend. How may I better serve the People’s Republic today?”
“Member Smith, I was just calling to let you know that I am down in Southern California.
Actually, my family is over in Anaheim. I am at Mountain Pass. Do you have any information for me?”
“How fortuitous, Comrade. I just so happen to be on my way down to Hollywood via I-15. I will be coming your way late this afternoon. Is that Greek diner still operating in Baker?”
“Regrettably no. Just not enough business to keep the lights on. But there is a Peoples’ Commissary where we could grab a bite.”
“I’ll give you a call when I hit Vegas.”
It was high noon as Delvin pulled his truck into the rear of the National Cafe in Austin, Nevada. He didn’t see any horses tied out back, so he checked his 9mm, just in case.
Miss Stormy hollered out the back door, “Bout time you got here Delvin. You’ve been hanging around with those hoodlums too long. Their slovenly ways are rubbin’ off on you.”
“So, they’re here? I don’t see any horses.”
“They’re at the bar with my shiftless old man.”
Delvin was skittish, “How’s Miss Daisy?”
Stormy was perplexed. She looked at Delvin dumbfounded. Then she understood.
“That damned mule is as ornery as ever. Now get your ass in here. The coast is clear.”
Delvin relaxed a bit and made his way to the bar.
“Sorry for the cloak and dagger bullshit Miss Stormy, but we can’t be too careful these days.”
Vince was shooting the breeze from behind the bar and the two Jackson boys were sipping soda pops and taking in every line of his malarkey. John and Tom were sipping their beers and silently enjoying Vince’s performance.
Then, Tom saw Delvin enter the saloon, “Ten-hut, there’s an officer on deck!”
Vince, Tom, John, and the boys snapped to attention and saluted.
Delvin returned the salute, “At ease gentlemen. Where are your mounts?”
“We’re boarding them down at the Pony Express while we’re away.”
“Man Tom, when I didn’t see your horses, I got spooked.”
“No problems, we’re ready to roll. Both Pumas are down in the cellar.”
The men quickly finished their drinks and headed out the back door. Miss Stormy had already unlocked the cellar door. They had just begun loading everything into Delvin’s refrigerated box when a plain white wrapper minivan pulled up beside Delvin’s truck, blocking it in.
A short, thin, fortyish Militiaman emerged from the driver’s side of the minivan, “Good day Members. This is just routine. Please extend your right hand and keep your left hand down at your side.” The Militiaman was White and spoke American English with a Midwestern non-accent.
Delvin took the lead, “Good day to you, my friend.”
Delvin took one step forward and extended his right hand. The Militiaman reached back into the minivan and retrieved a small electronic device that he passed over Delvin’s outstretched hand. By now, the other Militiaman was outside the vehicle with an AK-47 in hand.
“Member Smith, I did not recognize you, but you know what they say?”
Delvin just had to hear it, “No, what’s that?”
“You always look heavier on TV.”
With that, both Militiamen broke up laughing and Delvin forced out a good chuckle.
“Is this your truck, Member Smith?”
“Yes, it is.”
“We are required to inspect your cargo. Only routine. The Collective is cracking down on black market and Resistance activities here in Austin.”
John, Tom, and the boys just stood there with their right hands extended following Delvin’s lead. The Militiaman with the assault rifle stepped over in front of them while the older Militiaman concentrated on Member Smith.
“Certainly, we’ll just ride the lift gate up. Not much of a cargo today. By the way, would either of you gentlemen care for a canned ham, or some bratwurst?”
“Member Smith, we cannot accept gifts. Gifts can easily become bribes.”
Delvin had just come across a rare commodity in the PUS, an incorruptible man. That was bad news as it left Delvin little recourse.
“Really not much cargo. Just those guy’s camping gear. They’re hitchhiking their way back to Reno.”
In addition to being incorruptible, this Militiaman was competent and thorough.
“How considerate of you, Member Smith. What’s in those four long cases? Let’s start with the two longer gray cases that are labelled ‘Puma LE’. Your newfound friends may be tricking you into transporting contraband. Open those two cases first.”
The Militiaman motioned for Delvin to open one of the cases containing a Puma. Delvin knelt down and began fumbling with the latch.
“Pardon me, my friend. Can you have one of my hitchhiker friends give me a hand with this latch?”
The older Militiaman hollered for John to jump up into the box and give Delvin a hand. The boys had no idea what was going on, but John and Tom saw what Delvin was doing. 2 on 1 in the box, 3 on 1 on the ground.
Delvin looked back at John, “How in the hell do you open this case?”
John knelt down beside Delvin, “There’s a little bit of a trick to it.”
John motioned for the Militiaman to come see. “You need to see this. This latch is really tricky.”
As the Militiaman drew closer and squatted down for a closer look at the latch, John wheeled around landing a sharp left elbow to the Member’s head. Delvin then sprung like a cobra straight for his enemy’s legs.
Hearing the commotion in the box truck, the other Militiaman fleetingly turned his head. Tommy reached up, grabbed his Stetson, and sent it sailing into the Militiaman’
s face with an accuracy that even old Oddjob would’ve admired. While the Stetson was still in flight, Thomas went for the man’s legs and Adam went for his AK-47.
Inside the truck’s box, John quickly finished that struggle with a bootheel to the older Member’s neck.
Meanwhile outside, Thomas couldn’t get a grasp of his man’s legs, so he punched him in the balls with all his might. As the Militiaman crumpled in pain, Adam grabbed the assault rifle and smashed in the Member’s skull with the rifle butt.
Delvin jumped down from the box with his eyes darting all about, like a meerkat popping up from its burrow.
“Throw those bodies and the rest of the gear in the truck.”
“Tom, follow me in the minivan.”
“Adam, run in and get a couple of almost empty whiskey bottles from Miss Stormy. Tell her that I’ll catch her on the flip side.”
Delvin drove east on US 50 for a few miles, then he stopped the box truck at a hairy, left hand hairpin curve and pulled off onto the shoulder. Tom parked the minivan directly behind the truck. There was no guardrail.
“Men, strap those two in front seats.”
“Adam, pour a little whiskey in their mouths and all over their clothing.”
“Ok, quickly, let’s roll this van down the embankment. We’ll target that big tree.”
Moments later, the minivan struck a lodgepole pine about 50 feet down the embankment.
“OK Adam, shimmy down there and conspicuously place those two bottles in the front floorboard of the minivan.”
After that short delay, Delvin was heading back west on US 50 with both Recon Teams in the box. In Fallon, just a couple of miles from Top Gun, Delvin turned south onto US 95 heading toward Vegas. 6 hours later, he pulled the truck off the road at Cactus Springs, about 5 miles north of Indian Springs. There he dropped off Adam and John along with Puma 1.
“Adam, it’s getting towards evening. Let’s just cold camp here tonight among the scrub. Jesus it’s hot.”
“Yep, Mr. John. My watch says it’s 112 F.
An hour later, Delvin was on the northwest edge of Las Vegas. Many of the outlying subdivisions were being reclaimed by the desert. Lack of electricity, lack of water, and lack of personal initiative were taking their toll on Sin City.
Not far off US 95, Delvin stopped at Thule Springs, formerly Floyd Lamb State Park. Like most everything else in the PUS, the park was a mess. The buildings were in disrepair. Any vegetation that required irrigation was long dead. But there were four small spring fed lakes at the park and The Collective hadn’t screwed those up, yet. The lakes were interconnected by small channels. Several hiking trails meandered through the park with pedestrian bridges crossing those channels. Delvin jammed a sealed black plastic duffel bag up under one of those bridges. The duffel contained bottled water, salt tabs, beef jerky, and granola bars.
Delvin then continued into town on US 95. In downtown Vegas, Delvin exited onto I-15 south and continued driving for another hour. When he reached the California state line at Primm, Nevada, Delvin exited the interstate and pulled his truck behind a decaying, deserted, high rise casino resort.
Delvin parked the truck in the shade. After dropping Team #1 at Cactus Springs, Delvin had cranked up the truck’s reefer to high cool. Good thing he did. The temperature in Primm was 114F in the shade. Without the reefer running full blast, the truck’s box would have been a solar oven.
Back in the real world, Primm had been a first chance/last chance gambling destination between Vegas and LA. Primm had once hosted a golf course, an outlet mall, an amusement park, and four large casino resorts, not to mention truck stops and fast-food restaurants. Now, the only inhabitants of Primm were slave laborers, scorpions, sidewinders, black widow spiders, with the occasional road runner just passing through.
Delvin raised the truck’s rollup door just a bit, “Thomas, the abandoned golf course is just up the interstate. I’m going to drop you there. It’s about 10 miles from there to Mountain Pass. I can’t take you any further. The Collective has a checkpoint at the California border. They will definitely search this truck.
“Wait until dark, then hike into the hills surrounding Mountain Pass. Conduct your recon, then return here. I will pick you up day after day after tomorrow, at noon.”
After dropping the Jackson’s at the golf course, Delvin phoned Inspector Wu.
“Inspector, Delvin Smith here. Will meet you in 40 minutes in Baker.”
39 minutes later Delvin parked his box truck in front of the Peoples’ Commissary-Baker, California. Inspector James Wu had already arrived and was seated at a table with a good view of the parking lot.
“Good afternoon James, how in the hell did you get reassigned down here so fast?”
“Easy, Delvin. It’s 115 degrees outside. What idiot would want to be posted to this hell on earth? Also, I don’t think I mentioned that I graduated from Stanford with a Master’s in Chemical Engineering.”
This revelation piqued Delvin’s interest, “So James, you are more tech savvy than you first led me to believe.”
“Not really. I have no practical experience, but CSS has tailored my assignments to utilize my chemical engineering background. So, moving me down here was a no brainer.”
“Are your wife and daughters staying in Anaheim?”
“Yes, they’re visiting family.”
“In regard to your problem, I’m working on a solution, but I need your complete cooperation.”
“You have it.”
“Good. The California Coordinator is under great pressure from CSS to increase production here at Mountain Pass. This may offer a solution to your problem. You help her and she helps you.”
“I see. I give her a heads-up on CSS activities at Mountain Pass and she pulls some strings to remedy my personal situation.”
“Perhaps. I am not well versed in this type of intrigue, so please pardon any fumbles I may make. I will be seeing Alex this evening and, without mentioning your name, I will explore such possibilities.”
James giggled like a 12-year-old, “Dare I say you will be exploring other things this evening?”
Delvin only smiled, “Alexis is a special friend. I suggest you learn everything you can about operations and improvements here at Mountain Pass. Forewarned is forearmed.”
That Evening at The Roosevelt
Some things never change. For over 100 years, The Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard was the place to see and be seen in Tinseltown. Room 1200, the Marilyn Monroe Suite, was Member California Coordinator’s preferred accommodations whenever she was in Southern California.
The Roosevelt had been well maintained and restored to its original art deco motif. The 750 square foot Marilyn Suite had a fantastic wrap-around balcony overlooking the Tropicana Pool & Cafe. Hollywood’s most beautiful people could be found in and around that pool.
Alexis never arrived at the Roosevelt dressed in her typical business attire. She always arrived at her most glamourous best. Delvin arrived in his box truck and work khakis. This ploy just fed the media frenzy. The paparazzi swarmed the box truck. Delvin rolled down his window and disingenuously protested their attention. Then, as he exited the vehicle, Member Smith conspicuously handed the Valet a turquoise gemstone worth at least 500 pre-Revolution American Dollars. The Valet squeezed the gemstone tightly between his right thumb and index finger and held it up to the halogen street lights amid the oohs and aahs of the adoring mob.
A female Telemundo correspondent shoved a burly Access Hollywood cameraman to the pavement right next to Michael Jackson’s Star on the Hollywood Walk, then shoved a microphone in Delvin’s face.
“Member Smith, are you here to see Member California Coordinator?”
Delvin smiled, “Member California Coordinator is a very special friend.” Then Delvin kissed the hand holding the microphone. The crowd went wild. Slick was in his element.
Delvin and Alex’s two Militia bodyguards were gradually becoming friends. As Delvin exited the el
evator and approached Suite 1200, he pulled two silver dollars and two business cards from his pocket.
“Friends, everything in Hollywood is so damned expensive. I found these two silver dollars while hauling away some furniture that once belonged to a denounced Jew. Each of these dollars contains at least 25 grams of silver. Take these as a token of my respect for your diligent protection of my special friend.”
Delvin then perfectly flipped the two coins to his new friends. The two Militiamen quickly shoved the silver dollars into their pockets and shook Delvin’s hand profusely. Delvin then handed each bodyguard a business card.
“Members, I think of you both as special friends. Take my card. If you ever need help, give me a call. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
As Delvin knocked on the door, he winked and waved bye-bye to his two new friends. Alex opened the door only to see her two bodyguards getting in the elevator down the hall.
“Delvin Smith, I just love it when you take charge at just the right time…”
The Gathering Storm
The Zion squadron of Helaman’s 2,000 was bivouacked all along the stretch of the Virgin River that runs through Mesquite, Nevada. The town of Mesquite runs about 6 or 7 miles along the north bank of the river. Ranches and a very few outlying housing developments line the southern bank of the river. Mesquite lies directly on the Nevada/Utah border.
The several large resort hotels in Mesquite no longer hosted casino guests. Casino gaming was illegal in Deseret. The resort hotels had been converted to apartments to accommodate the steady stream of Southern California refugees fleeing the poverty and terror of The Collective.
The Virgin River provided ample water and some grazing for Zion’s 500 horses. Several LDS ranchers and a couple of patriotic gentile ranchers invited the Zion 500 to pasture their horses in their alfalfa fields. They even butchered some cattle to help feed the Mormon Troopers.
Meanwhile, the Provo 500 and Fishlake 500 had arrived in St. George and would join the Zion 500 in Mesquite the following morning.