by Tom Hansen
On December 25, 1962, ignition switches were ready to go that could fire an electrical impulse from the new secret command center to each Nike base, and within minutes there could be total destruction of Moscow, Havana and any other city we didn’t like. Merry Christmas!
Early in the evening on December 25th, CIA supervisors’ Oliver Harfield and Raymond Jackson thanked the fifty-five men for their service and provided Army transportation to MacDill AFB so they could be home with their families for what remained of the holidays. The Lockheed military transport plane crashed into the Gulf of Mexico shortly after takeoff, killing all on board. Harfield and Jackson watched the news report on the black and white television from a barstool in Gainesville’s Oldfield Saloon. They raised their glasses of spiked eggnog and lightly tapped each other’s until a small clang could be heard.
“Cheers, Oliver.”
“Yes, cheers to you too, Raymond.”
CHAPTER 6
December 26, 1962
A fter the military transport plane crashed off the Gulf Coast killing all fifty-five Corps of Engineers soldiers on Christmas Day in 1962, President Kennedy was devastated. On December 26th, the day after the tragedy, Kennedy met with CIA Director John McCone. McCone recommended CIA supervisors Oliver Harfield and Raymond Jackson be assigned to oversee operations at the new underground nuclear launch command center.
Because of its ultra, top secret nature, McCone ordered Harfield and Jackson to keep silent, both within the intelligence agency and outside of it. Only McCone, Harfield, Jackson and President Kennedy were now aware of the existence of the subterranean facility that could control the fate of the world.
As a diversion, Kennedy purposely leaked to the Washington Post that the nuclear command center lay several floors beneath the Pentagon and was untouchable by enemy missiles. Russian President Nikita Khrushchev ordered his US-based spies to devise a plan that would destroy America’s nuclear launching capabilities, and because of the Post’s article the espionage focus was centered around the Pentagon. The diversion was successful. Oliver Harfield, if authorized to do so by President Kennedy, would push the button that could start World War Three. But Oliver Harfield had a better idea. Power. The world had controlled him for too long, so now it was time for him to control the world. He and his colleague Ray Jackson had been ordered around by McCone long enough. This was their chance.
CHAPTER 7
January 1, 1963
O n New Year’s Day, 1963, Oliver Harfield invited Ray Jackson’s brother Roy and his colleague Hank Daughtry to a housewarming party at Oliver’s new mansion built amidst palm trees and green pastureland near Seminole Bend in south central Florida. Oliver paid for a chartered Lockheed JetStar flight from Pittsburgh to Orlando for his guests and provided ground transportation in a limousine from Orlando to Seminole Bend. Needless to say, Hank and Roy were impressed! But they were very surprised to see another limousine pull up right behind them and a dark-skinned man with two-armed body guards exit the vehicle. The obviously Arab man was wearing a white with gold embroidered thobe that hung like a bed sheet from his neck down to the leather sandals on his feet. Wrapped around his pate was a red and white checkered kufiyah, tucked neatly under a black agal that was pressed against the obviously rich Arab’s forehead. Oliver invited everyone into his home and cordially introduced his highness, Prince Adil, to Roy and Hank.
* * * * *
Oliver and Ray had been planning and patiently waiting for this day since leaving the prince’s palace two years earlier. After seeing that Yussef’s radar jamming device and Abdul’s video remote controller were successful in bringing down the military transport plane on Christmas that disposed of fifty-five potential witnesses to Oliver and Ray’s scheme, the two CIA chiefs ramped up their efforts and initiated the masterplan. Once the second chocolate raspberry martini had been consumed by all guests, Ray brought out a wooden easel with a thirty-by-twenty-five-inch lined paper attached. Using a red marker for emphasis and to strongly suggest plenty of blood to be spilled, the plan was outlined on six sheets of the oversized paper and in great detail.
Hank Daughtry had never been involved in any criminal activity and he was hesitant to start now. He had been fooled into believing this trip to Florida was simply a party to ring in the New Year and welcome Roy’s brother’s friend into his new house. But once Oliver handed him a briefcase with 10,000 crisp one hundred dollar bills, Hank decided it was time to change his career path! In truth, he had no choice. If he had turned down Oliver’s caseload of Benjamins, Hank would have been the first meal of the new year for a family of alligators sunning themselves in the backyard. The scheme was actually doubly enticing for Hank who had a lifelong desire to get into politics. The first step in Oliver’s plan would be to get Hank elected as governor of Florida. Prince Adil’s Swiss bank account would fund his campaign. It would be a slam dunk.
If all went as planned, Hank Daughtry would assume the office of governor of the great state of Florida on January 7, 1975. Once he became governor, Daughtry would appoint Sam Dulie as the new South Florida DNR supervisor in Homestead. Thanks to the CIA’s covert operative skills, no one would know that Sam Dulie was really Abdul Samad, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology who actually knew nothing about protecting natural resources. Sam would use his office as a decoy for a communications facility.
Daughtry would then secretly transfer government owned swamp and grazing land to Ray Jackson’s little brother, Roy. Roy’s new massive ranch would serve as the distribution center for the radar jamming equipment being assembled in Columbia and the remote control devices air freighted from Jasurbia. Meanwhile, Ray, would construct an electronics factory in the mountains between Bogota and Medellin, disguised as a secret underground surveillance building used to track the new drug cartels that were springing up throughout the country.
Ray assured CIA Director McCone he could successfully lead two major projects at the same time. He would fly back and forth from Columbia to Gainesville and oversee both the South American intelligence operations and Florida’s nuclear missile command center at the same time.
Al Qadir oil revenue would flow freely from Prince Adil’s Swiss bank account directly into Rancher Roy’s bank account in Seminole Bend. The mission would be complete once the United States of America was held firmly hostage in the grips of Oliver Harfield and the Jackson brothers, and then a ransom of one billion dollars was paid in cash or gold. Prince Adil had plenty of money, so for his part in the operation, he only wanted power. He dreamed he would become the first King of the Monarchy of America.
Recruiting the players would be difficult and complex. They would be ruthless in finding and engaging erudite men and women who, under the intimidation of a deadly weapon, would leave their families in order to protect the one’s they loved. The timeline for the masterplan to be successful would be twenty years. By summer of 1982, the pieces would be in place. The radar jamming and remote control equipment would be plentiful, tested for accuracy and distributed to targeted locations. The federal government would have closed the Nike missile bases, however, Ray Jackson would ensure they were fully armed and operable and undetected by the Soviet spies or even US intelligence agencies.
Once the takeover of America was complete and the ransom paid, Ray, Roy and Oliver would change their names, move to an uncharted Bahama island and retire in blissful obscurity.
As the strategy meeting came to a close, Prince Adil began to daydream. In his delusional reverie he visioned himself accompanied by a barrage of Jasurbian military personnel who would tear down the White House and build the first White Palace on the Mall across Pennsylvania Avenue. It would completely surround the Washington Monument and the obelisk’s observatory would be replaced with the world’s grandest throne.
The Prince smiled at the thought, but no one caught it. Sometimes dreams do come true.
CHAPTER 8
Fall of 1964 to Fall of 1970
B o Yardly was the
most famous resident of the Seminole Bend subdivision known as “Slum City” by the white folks who resided outside the northeast section of town. The area was identified by cheap concrete block homes, hourly cacophonic freight train noises and young black children playing stickball on the dusty gravel streets. Well heck, Bo Yardley was actually the only famous resident of that subdivision, a symbolic cliché of Deep South African-American living conditions that Martin Luther King so despised. Bo was the first three-time, high school All-American from the state of Florida in any sport and following his sensational senior football season in 1964, the consummate Alabama college coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant, visited Seminole Bend and recruited Bo to become the next Crimson Tide featured running back. Had Bo any hair on his back, I’m sure the follicles would have been standing straight up at attention! Anyway, Bo led the Tide to the very top of the AP National Poll by rushing for 1,523 yards his freshman year and things just kept improving from that point on.
On January 28, 1969, with four stellar college seasons under his belt, Bo was drafted second overall into the National Football League by the Atlanta Falcons. Second was good enough for all his friends and followers back in Seminole Bend, considering USC’s Heisman winner, O.J. Simpson, went first to the Buffalo Bills. Then, in the midst of a spectacular rookie season for the Falcons, on the third day of December in 1969, Bo was drafted again. And this time he was drafted first – by none other than good old Uncle Sam. Yep, that’s right, Bo’s birthdate was September 14th, and as soon as the NFL season ended, he headed up to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for eight weeks of basic training with the US Army. From there he was sent to Fort Carson in Colorado for eight weeks of Advanced Infantry Training with the Signal Corps. Bo was always fascinated with radios, and he would take apart and put back together his dad’s transistor every chance he could get.
On June 27, 1970, Bo was shipped via a Lockheed C-141 Starlifter to Saigon with ninety-four men from his company, supposedly the elite soldiers of the Fourth Infantry. On September 12th, two days shy of his twenty-third birthday, Bo was shot in the back of his skull and killed instantly by friendly fire in southeastern Laos. He was the only American to die during Operation Tailwind, a covert incursion which was simply supposed to be a diversion for the Royal Lao Army. His mama didn’t want him buried in obscurity with all the other grunts in Arlington, so he now lies peacefully in Seminole Bend’s Calvary Baptist Cemetery with his little sister, Bea, who died during childbirth.
Because Bo’s unrecognizable head had been shattered into several thousand bone fragments and gray matter, his funeral was closed-casket. The memorial service was attended by every single neighbor, including three-week-old Elva Simmers and 104-year-old Herman Cobert. Even most of the white folks who ever cheered for Bo found their way to Calvary Baptist that day. Standing dolefully in line, forty-eight friends and relatives stood ready to eulogize Bo. When it was Rupert Dockins’ turn to speak, instead of words of respect and remembrance, he offered up a rather strange proposal, considering it was right in the middle of the memorial service. He suggested that the neighborhood have an official name, perhaps one the whites could use instead of Slum City, and that name would be “Yardlyville”. After several minutes of joyous hoots and hollers, Rupert asked for a vote by a show of hands. No need for a count – it was unanimous, and Seminole Bend now had an official de facto “suburb” called Yardlyville.
* * * * *
Willy Banks and Bo Yardly had been neighbors, school buddies, teammates and best friends. Together, at age seven, they began lifting weights in Willy’s front yard. Willy found the weights while he and Bo were exploring down at the dump looking for old transistor radios. Someone must have given up on bulking up and threw the barbell and 300 pounds worth of sand filled plastic cylinders into the trash. Ironically, for all the comic book fans of the world, the steel barbell was rusting out right next to an empty can of spinach. Whoever tossed the weight set must have decided to try Popeye’s muscle-building green leaf program instead. Willy and Bo soon began weightlifting contests with each other, and before they reached the ripe old age of eight, both were bench pressing 140 pounds. In high school, Willy was the fullback on the Warrior football team and his main task was to block for Bo. Bo went on to break every rushing record ever created at Seminole Bend High School and received a full-ride scholarship to Alabama, while Willy broke the record for the most “good job” pats on the back.
In the early sixties, just as the boys were starting high school, they took it upon themselves to be the neighborhood protectors. On occasion, drug dealers would enter the neighborhood looking for youngsters to peddle their goods. Few left without broken jaws and other bodily encumbrances straight from the fists of Willy and Bo. But along with keeping out the riffraff, Willy and Bo would volunteer to carry groceries for the women and mow lawns for the elderly, never expecting anything in return. When Bo headed off to Alabama, Willy joined the army. After surviving three tours to ‘Nam and four bullets to the torso, Willy came home and signed on with the Seminole Bend Sheriff’s Department.
CHAPTER 9
September 26, 1965
W hile Willy was patrolling the jungles west of Saigon in the fall of 1965, his older brother, Tyrus, met up one night with Abelina Charles, the prettiest girl on the planet (according to Tyrus). Abby never wanted to get serious with any boy, unless she could land Tyrus, the most gorgeous man in the universe (according to Abby).
Tyrus had his eyes set on Abby since they sat across the play table from each other in kindergarten, but he was way too shy to cozy up with her until the moment finally hit him during the annual Set de flo’ dance competition at the church. Calvary Baptist continued the Nineteenth Century tradition out back in the picnic area under the shade of the old banyan trees. Folks just sat on top of the picnic tables waiting their turns to be called to enter the dance ring, which was simply a circle drawn in the dirt with sticks. Fiddler Freddy Jones was supposed to call out the numbers randomly to see whose turn it was to compete, but it sure looked fishy when Tyrus and Abby’s numbers were “randomly” called first. Anyway, Abby placed her hands on her hips and winked at Tyrus, and Tyrus complied with the tradition by rolling his eyes amidst claps, cheers and laughter from the crowd. Freddy called out the Cakewalk for the first required dance steps, and then laid aside his fiddle, picked up his banjo and started strumming away.
It wasn’t but a few seconds into the dance that Abby fell down and tumbled outside the circle. She grimaced, grabbed her ankle and rubbed it soothingly with both hands. Even though Tyrus was declared the winner of the first dance, he ran over to Abby, lifted her off the ground with both arms, and carried her to a banyan tree about a hundred yards away. He gently leaned her up against the uncomfortable braided trunk and lifted her injured leg so it could rest on his lap. But when he rolled down her sock to examine the wound, she reached over and grabbed his neck with both of her hands and pulled his face next to hers. The kiss was their first. Tyrus had waited fifteen years for this moment, ever since the two of them created stick figure dolls with Play Dough back in kindergarten. Abby’s ankle was just fine, thanks to that medical miracle called smooching.
Tyrus went back and excused himself from the dance competition, claiming he needed to get Abby to a doctor. Several concerned friends offered to help, but Tyrus said he could manage alone. He carried Abby out of sight of the revelry behind the church, then, smiling and chuckling, they both started running down the muddy path to the creek. On the grassy bank came the second kiss. Nine months later, on June 6, 1966, Tyrone Banks was born.
* * * * *
The day Tyrone was born, Tyrus left Abby at Gregorson General Hospital for a few minutes and jogged down to Mattie’s Toy Store. He returned with a small ball made from cloth and stuffed with cotton. The cloth was painted orange with black stripes to look like a miniature basketball. Tyrone was officially twelve hours old, lying very comfortable in his mama’s arms, when his daddy Tyrus wiggled the ball in front of his son’s eye
s, then tucked it under the newborn baby’s armpit. Abby, who was sitting up in the hospital bed, raised her eyebrows and grinned at her proud boyfriend, Tyrus. Seconds later, the ball rolled off Tyrone and onto the floor.
“So, Abby, can we get hitched now? I want to be Tyrone’s official daddy!”
“You are his official daddy, Ty,” Abby replied with a smile that showed off her delightful dimples. “And yes, I think it’s time I officially become Abby Banks.”
Tyrus leaned over and hugged and kissed his new fiancé, careful not to squish his future NBA star. He wanted to call his little brother, Willy, to tell him the great news that not only was he going to be a new uncle, but he was also going to be a new brother-in-law. Unfortunately, Willy signed on for a second tour and was again serving his country somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam. Airmailed letters were the only way to keep in touch.
After two hours admiring his new son and trying to teach him to palm a cloth basketball, a nurse shooed Tyrus out of the hospital room. Visiting hours were over and Abby and Tyrone needed some rest. If everything checked out satisfactorily, they would be coming home tomorrow. Reluctantly, Tyrus kissed his family goodnight and headed for the exit. It would take him about twenty minutes to get home.