by T W Powell
Small bonfires were being prepared around the floors of those canyons. One canyon was already crisscrossed with loosely hanging black wires.
Tom nodded his head with approval, “Fantastic, now let’s take three of those American flags from town and plop one down in the middle of each of these three canyons.”
Doc chuckled, “The cherry on the sundae.”
Tom and Doc returned to the Saloon and laid their plans.
Doc briefed Tom on personnel, “We have 30 combatants, 25 men and 5 women. They are equally divided into three squads. I’ll introduce you to the sergeants this afternoon.”
“Do they have combat experience?”
“The oldest served in the Army, two tours in Afghanistan.”
“Good, he should know all about asymmetrical warfare.”
“The youngest is a Lander County Sheriffs’ Deputy with 10 years’ service.”
“He should at least have some discipline.”
“Tom, he’s a good steady man.”
“The third Sergeant is your friend, Juan Hernandez. He drove an M1A1 on Okinawa.”
“He sure as hell did. That gives me an idea. Have Ray scrounge up some plate metal, at least quarter inch. Let’s build an armored box around the driver’s seat of that CAT.”
“We’ll have us a tank.”
“The BAR will be assigned to Juan’s squad along with the CAT. Assign our best men to Juan’s squad. Make sure they are well armed. Have Juan take the center, Afghan Vet to the north, Deputy to the south. Call signs: Abrams, Vet, and Dawg. How’s our communications?”
“We have eight walkie talkies with some extra battery packs. They have plenty of range for our needs.”
“Will they work in those narrow canyons?”
“Only at the canyon mouths.”
“Get three good men, on three good horses, call signs: Moe, Larry, and Curly. Station them at the mouths of the webbed canyons with a walkie. Codeword for lighting the bonfires is ‘Spider’. Once they light those fires, they return to their squads.”
“Tom, how do you expect this to go down?”
“A helo will probably do another recon, hopefully not tonight. They may think the helo alone can take us out and any survivors will just bug out. This time that Apache may be carrying Hellfire missiles, or Hydra rockets. That sort of ordnance can kill a bunch of folks. If our trap doesn’t bring him down, we don’t shoot at that Apache. We just spread out and hunker down. Whatever the helo does, we’ll probably see Peoples’ Militia early the following morning. I suspect they’ll come from the north, from Austin. If things go south, we retreat up Kingston Canyon Road, killing as many of those SOBs as we can, until they break off pursuit. Remember, we don’t have to win, we have to not lose.”
Trainhopping
It wasn’t a long walk from the Shively safe house to the railyard out Southside Drive, a couple of hours, tops. A short freight train was departing at 7:10 p.m. and Junior wanted to get on with his mission.
For several decades, one of the “Big Three” Automakers operated a large assembly plant in Louisville. That manufacturing footprint had expanded to two assembly plants in the last couple of decades pre-Revolution. Post-Revolution, The Collective seized those plants and leased them back to Chinese companies that converted them into CNG and LNG truck plants. Virtually all management and technical positions were held by Chinese nationals.
Tonight’s freight train would be transporting light and heavy trucks from Louisville to the Chicago distribution point. After conferring with a couple of other Trainhoppers, Junior located the train that would soon be leaving for Chicago.
Junior began educating Bobby Ray in the fine art of riding the rails, “It’s always better to arrive early and scope things out. It’s a pain to hop a freight on the fly.”
Junior, with Bobby Ray in tow, was walking the length of the train examining each car.
“Junior, what are you looking for?”
“A place to ride. You must keep a sharp lookout for the Bulls!”
“Bulls? Who in the hell are the Bulls?”
“Railroad Security, Railroad Cops. They won’t be in police cars. They usually drive light trucks, or SUVs.”
Junior smiled and wagged his finger at a railcar that appeared to be a flatcar with two shipping containers stacked on top. The bottom container looked to be a 40 ft. container. The container on top overhung the bottom container by about 6 or 7 feet, on both front and back.
“See that Bobby Ray, that’s what they call IM, intermodal. That rail car is a well car. See how it is built to allow the shipping container to sit down close to the rails. That allows two containers to be stacked on one car. The top container looks to be a 53-footer. This train is scheduled to be a hot shot straight to Chicago. We should be there early tomorrow morning.”
“How do you know this shit?”
“Bobby Ray, I’ve been on the run going on 15 years. I’m still alive. You gotta improvise, adapt, overcome. We can hunker down in this well car under that overhang.”
“There’s some scrap cardboard over yonder.”
“Damn Bobby Ray. I’ll make a Marine of you yet. Those are dunnage bags. They are placed between cargo to cushion freight during transit. They’re filled with air. Like great big air mattresses. Air is a great insulator.”
Bobby Ray was already dragging two 30” x 72” dunnage bags over to the well car.
“Toss ‘em here in the rear. We’ll lay our bedrolls out on top of these bags, then cover up really good. It’ll be a cold ride, but we’ll be OK.
“I always thought hobos rode in boxcars.”
“Yeah, in the movies. The Bulls don’t take too kindly to Trainhoppers busting the seals on loaded boxcars and the railroads usually don’t move empty cars.”
Just a few minutes after Bobby Ray and Junior settled in, the freight pulled out of the station.
“Where did I leave off on the War and Revolution?”
“Junior, tell me about your Pops. You’ve told me about Pop-Pop, but you haven’t told me about Pops.”
“I’d be honored to tell you about my Dad.
“After Pop-Pop came home from Korea he became a fireman for the City of Louisville and settled down in his old South End neighborhood. The Louisville Fire Department had been integrated for years and with Pop-Pop being a war hero, he had no trouble getting hired. He worked 24 on and 48 off, so he had plenty of time to do what he did best, read and tell stories.”
“Junior, I don’t mean to disrespect your Pop-Pop, but were all his stories true?”
Junior busted out laughing, “Good question. Most of his stories were true, but I think the older he got, the bigger his tales became.
“So, Pop-Pop became ‘The Man’ around the firehouse. He was proud to serve and protect the citizens and always looked out for his fellow firefighters.
“After a few years he met my Grandma and they got married in 1959 and my Pops was born in 1960. Look at me and you’ve seen my Pops.
“Pops loved sports and was very musically inclined. I don’t know where that came from, but he could sing, he could dance, and he could pick up a musical instrument and be playing it within a week.”
“Your Pops had a gift.”
“Yes, he had a gift, Bobby Ray. When I was a kid, I loved to listen to him singing in the shower. You probably haven’t heard any 60’s or 70’s Rock ‘n Roll.”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Oh Bobby Ray, you have no idea how The Collective has stolen your birthright.” Junior sighed, then continued, “That was real music and Pops could sing and dance to it.
“He loved football. He played linebacker in high school and was pretty doggone good. But his high school team sucked, so he didn’t get much press and didn’t get a college scholarship. After graduation, he worked a few odd jobs. He even got a few singing gigs around town, but he never got a break in the music business.
“Hey Bobby Ray, remember how Spud talked about the Vietnam War?”
<
br /> “Yes, he said his Dad was treated like shit when he came home from that war.”
“Yeah, Pops graduated high school just a couple of years after that, so the military wasn’t a good option at the time. That’s when Pop-Pop talked Pops into applying for a job at the Fire Department. Pop-Pop pulled a few strings and Pops became a fireman and he was even a better fireman than Pop-Pop. He saved many lives and won many commendations.
“Pops didn’t get married until he was 40. I was born a couple of years later. I never really knew my Mom. When I was about 18 months old, she ran off while Pops was at work. Neither Pops, nor Pop-Pop would talk about it. Not long after that, Grandma passed on, so Pop-Pop helped raise me. Pop-Pop passed on right after I joined the Corps. He was very proud of me.’”
“What happened to Pops?”
“He retired from the Department after 25 years of service. He was still a young man, so he got a job at the truck plant and made good money. He also did volunteer work around the community.
“Junior, how did he die?”
Tears welled up in Junior’s eyes, “When things started falling apart, I was stationed at Camp Pendleton just north of San Diego. By this time Pops had retired from the truck plant and was well set financially. He was in great shape physically and was dating a wonderful Christian lady from our church.
“One night a thug with a record a mile long shot and killed a Vietnamese American restaurant owner during a robbery. The Louisville Police cornered him in an apartment out there by the railyard we just left. The killer wouldn’t surrender and started shooting at the Police. The Police killed the son-of-a-bitch.
“Like a broken phonograph record, the mob started rioting, burning, and looting right in our neighborhood. The Raymers had been our next-door neighbors for years, since I was a little kid. The mob torched the Raymers’ house. The Raymers were White.
“Being a fireman, Pops did what he did best, he saved lives. Pops pulled two of the Raymer grandchildren from the burning house. Then, as he was going back in to save the last Raymer kid, a baseball sized chunk of brick, hurled by someone in the mob, struck him in the temple. He died instantly. The last Raymer grandchild died in the fire. No arrests were ever made.”
“I’m so sorry Junior. Your Pops was quite a man.”
“Yes, he was. But you know something Bobby Ray?”
“What’s that?”
“Until yesterday, I had never wrapped my mind around the fact that Pops and Pop-Pop are dead. They’re gone. They’ve been gone a long time. They weren’t at that cemetery. They’re watching me now. Now, it’s up to me to continue their work. And that’s just what I am going to do.”
As the train sped northward, Bobby Ray and Junior dozed off to sleep, snuggling up together to stay warm.
First Class
Not too long after Junior and Bobby Ray’s freight arrived at the 59th Street Intermodal Yard in Chicago, Beth and The Phams boarded a passenger train that would take them from Louisville to Chicago. Pre-Revolution, there was no passenger train service from Louisville to Chicago. Amtrak did offer a bus service from Louisville that connected with Amtrak in Chicago. After the issuance of the Green Decrees, twice daily passenger service was offered between the two cities.
Despite The Collective’s fixation on equality of outcomes, the PUS was rife with subtle inequalities. In the Peoples’ menagerie, to quote Orwell, “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” Dr. Pham and his companions belonged to the “more equal” species.
Most passenger rolling stock in the PUS were aging remnants from Amtrak. The Collective’s draconian environmental edicts had destroyed America’s heavy industry. On top of the regulatory roadblocks, industry faced a labor shortage. Why would anyone work for zero reward? Any new rail equipment placed into service in the PUS was manufactured in the PRC. Most of that new equipment was dedicated to hauling freight, hauling America’s resources to the West Coast for transport to the PRC.
Although old and tired, the former Amtrak First Class passenger carriage was quite nice. The Pham party’s seats were two side-by-side seats facing another two side-by-side seats with a small table in the middle.
Yasmin was very excited, “Are we really going all the way to California?”
Doc Pham smiled, “Yes, baby girl, we will travel across the whole country.”
Yasmin’s brown eyes opened widely, “How long will it take us, Father?”
“About three days.”
“Three days. I want to see everything.”
Doc Pham answered in a whisper, “Yes, daughter, I want you to see everything, to see what has become of your country. With the help of your mother, Nurse Beth and other good people, I hope to show you what your country can be once again.”
Yasmin didn’t reply, but you could see the gears grinding in her young, sharp mind.
This train was an express heading non-stop to Chicago’s Union Station.
Doc Pham now spoke to all three of his companions, “We will arrive at Union Station in about six hours, Noon Chicago time. The California Zephyr doesn’t depart until 5:15 p.m. We can walk around the terminal, but we shouldn’t go outside, the West Loop area is very dangerous.”
Doc Pham was not overstating the danger. Chicago’s West Loop, once a vibrant part of Downtown, was now a cesspool of disease, drug addiction, crime, and despair. There were multiple shootings every day. Guess the criminal element didn’t get The Collective’s memo banning firearms.
Jo didn’t get that memo either. Just before 7 a.m. that morning, as a Member walked out the front door of Beth’s apartment building, Jo grabbed the door before it could slam shut and entered. She climbed the single flight of stairs and knocked on the door of the 2nd Floor rear apartment.
Tasha, still in her bathrobe, looked through the peephole, “Who is it?”
“Member Natasha, I have some important information concerning Pham the traitor. Member Nurse Beth said I should see you without delay.”
Before the door was completely opened, Jo placed a .45 caliber subsonic round right between Tasha’s eyes. Don’t believe what you see, or hear, in the movies. Even with a subsonic round and sound suppressor, there was a loud pop. As Jo ran down the stairs and out the front door, she pulled the pin and dropped a homemade thermite grenade in the hallway.
Standing in the doorway of the Pharmacy across the street, Jo pulled out a Collective news rag and pretended to be reading as she watched Beth’s building go up in flames. She then turned and calmly walked towards the nearest bus stop with the added satisfaction of not having seen the Block Coordinator escape the fire.
Attention to Detail
Doc Williams was a well-respected veterinarian as well as a beloved pastor. His strict attention to detail was a major factor in his success in both vocations. Three hours after Jo pulled the trigger and dropped the grenade in Louisville, Doc Williams handed a black plastic garbage bag filled with trash to Jill. At only 16, Jill had supervised the coating of the high-tension wire with Have Glass V and was rapidly becoming a trusted member of the team. Doc Williams had known Jill since he delivered her. He knew her to be smart, honest, hard-working, and dependable.
“Jill, I’ve got another job for you.”
“What is it?”
Doc Williams handed Jill a pair of latex gloves, “Put these on and look through all the trash in this bag. All this stuff was taken from inside a Land Cruiser. Set aside anything that is out of place or looks to be of importance. Also try to figure where the occupants had been and what they had been doing.”
“I’ll take it into the Saloon and sort it all out on the pool table.”
Once in the Saloon, Jill hollered back at Pastor Williams, “Whose stuff is this on the pool table?”
Tom Jackson’s bedroll was still spread out on the pool table.
“Hang on Jill, I’ll get him on the walkie.”
Pastor raised Tom on the walkie, “Tom, could you get your bedding off the pool table, Jill’s r
eady to go through that garbage bag.”
“Almost there, Pastor.” Thomas was just returning from an inspection of the helo traps.
He tied Little Sorrel to the hitching post out front of the Saloon.
“Sorry I left the mess.” Tom started clearing the pool table as soon as he walked in.
“Jill, would you mind if I help you sort through all this crap?”
Jill welcomed the help as she emptied the trash bag on the pool table, “Not at all, two sets of eyes are better than one.”
After examining some fast-food wrappers, Jill quickly determined the Militia’s point of origin, “Looks like these guys came from Reno.”
Tom looked at the food wrappers, “Those geeks were really junk food junkies.”
“Mr. Jackson, this matchbook came from the National Cafe.”
“Sure did. They said they were using Austin as an operating base.”
Jill pulled a small black plastic pouch from the trash pile, “What’s this?”
Jill held up a small black plastic pouch about the size of a case for sunglasses. There were two objects resembling magic markers protruding from the end of the pouch.
“Let me see that Jill.” Tom closely examined the pouch. He slid the two objects out of the pouch, “Ah, ha, do you know what this is Jill?”
“Not a clue,”
“This is a Mark I NAAK. What you called magic markers are actually preloaded autoinjectors. One is loaded with atropine, the other is loaded with pralidoxime, in plain English, nerve gas antidotes.”
Jill was perplexed, “Why would anyone need that out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Very good question, Jill, very good question.”
Tom hollered out the Saloon door, “Pastor get in here quick!”
“What’s wrong Thomas?”
“What do you make of this?”
“Atropine and pralidoxime, oh yes. Indicated for the treatment of organophosphate poisoning, mostly dogs. I have a little atropine in my vet supply inventory. Has someone’s dog gotten into some pesticides?”