by Nobody, Joe
The two men didn’t want to leave, but Terri was announcing loud and clear that the conversation was over. Without a second glance, she turned and motioned the bewildered contractor back to the blueprints.
Once back at the Humvee, Nick asked, “I’ve read your report and interviewed both you and Terri. Did something happen there that I’m not privy to? Did you guys leave anything out?”
Meeting his friend’s gaze, Bishop tone became defensive, “Not that I know of. Let’s see… she survived a hellish firefight, suffered a concussion, was held captive, got the shit kicked out of her at least once and probably received a second concussion during another beating. Throughout it all, she was threatened with spending the rest of her life as a sex toy for a couple dozen dirty bikers. After all that, she fought like a wildcat in a second force-on-force engagement, thought at one point that I was dead, and then cared for the wounded like Florence Nightingale. That’s a full day’s work by anybody’s measure. I don’t care if you’re a fucking Green Beret or a Navy SEAL… that’s earning your pay.”
Nick, realizing his friend had taken the question the wrong way, held up his hands to calm Bishop. “Easy, brother. That’s not what where I was going. Given her recent itinerary, any of us would be licking our wounds, both mental and physical. Still, she seems fixated on Ketchum Jones. It’s like he is the focus of her being or something. I asked the question because I’m worried about her. We’ve both seen your wife campaign through hell and then take a second tour just to make sure she didn’t miss any of the hot spots. She’s been through shit that would make a normal person cower and mumble, and all the while, regardless of the pain, trauma, and stress, it rolled off her like water on a duck’s back. Yet, I’ve never seen Terri hold a grudge. I’ve never seen a hint of the revenge in her eyes like I just witnessed. Hell, Bishop, she damn near killed me the other night just because Blackjack Jones and I are about the same build. What happens the next time she encounters a large stranger in the dark?”
Bishop’s shoulders sagged, his friend’s words hitting a sore spot that had troubled him since before the episode in the alley. “I know,” he exhaled. “I’ve been keeping her out here at the ranch as much as possible, hoping that she would improve without my having to worry about the answer to that question. I don’t know what to do except give her time, love, and support.”
“I’ve been told that time heals,” Nick nodded. Then throwing a troubled glance back at Terri, he turned to his friend and soberly announced, “I just hope she has enough of that time, my friend.”
Despite being safe and comfortable at the Royal Hotel, Ketchum was a bundle of nervous energy.
Being hunted by Uncle Sam’s Army was enough to make any man jittery, and Blackjack was no exception. That development, combined with tedium, pain from his injuries, and a deep foreboding about the future, had Ketchum in a foul, unapproachable mood.
When word arrived that the military was towing away the barge of gasoline, the members of Blackjack’s entourage braced for impact. A thunderstorm had been brewing inside the boss’s head since the helicopters had arrived. They all prepared for the whirlwind of rage that was sure to follow.
On the black market, refined fuel was going for over $15 a gallon along the Gulf coast. The barge, with its tons of liquid gold, had been Ketchum’s Fort Knox. Everybody from Beaumont to Gulfport had heard rumors of its existence. Possessing such an asset had provided Blackjack’s organization with a higher level of legitimacy since the downfall. Now, right when he needed it most, that resource had been spirited away. It was another body blow, inflicting as much, if not more, damage than the defeat at Forest Mist.
After the bad news had been delivered, Ketchum merely continued pacing the floor. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of silence, he turned and faced the messenger. “Where are they taking the gasoline?”
Grinder delivered the response with sweat on his brow and a knot in his stomach. “Um… uh… one of the bums down by the dock said that it was being taken upriver, to Baton Rouge, but we have no way of knowing how reliable that information is,” he stammered.
Instead of losing his famous temper, Ketchum remained calm and thoughtful. “That makes sense,” he nodded, his eyes returning to stare out the window. “Tell the men that we’ll get it back, and this time, we’ll hide it someplace where no one will never find it. Instruct everyone to remain out of sight for another day, and then we’ll have a management meeting at the usual place the day after.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure everybody gets the word,” the relieved Grinder stated before backing quickly out of the room.
After the subordinate had left, Ketchum turned to one of his ladies and smiled for the first time in days. “Throughout history, great leaders have always managed to turn defeat into victory… have somehow managed to go on the offense when it looked like the fight was lost. That’s just what I’m going to do.”
The three SUVs arrived in Baton Rouge over a two-hour period, Blackjack wary of keeping his eggs all in the same security basket. The first vehicle rolled in just an hour after sundown, carrying four of his best shooters. Their primary objective was to verify and establish a safe base of operations.
The chosen facility was an abandoned storehouse. One of Ketchum’s lieutenants had grown up in the area and claimed that the old structure was within walking distance of the location where the United State Army had docked the confiscated barge. “We used to play there as kids,” the subordinate stated. “I used to sneak into the port and steal stuff off the piers all the time.”
The second SUV contained more heavily armed troops, as well as the most experienced towboat captain that Blackjack could find. The old Cajun had gladly agreed to participate, Ketchum offering the old sea dog more food, money, and rum than he had seen since the collapse.
Finally, Blackjack had arrived with his security detail, and the operation was initiated a few minutes later.
The first order of business was to scout the pier and determine exactly how many men were guarding the precious cargo of fuel.
Lowering his binoculars, Ketchum Jones was impressed. For twenty minutes he had been scanning the area surrounding the target. There were at least a dozen uniformed soldiers at the wharf, all armed with carbines and seemingly alert.
In addition to the security detail, a variety of dock workers hustled here and there. Blackjack spied three tanker trucks parked nearby, waiting as the longshoremen readied a hose and pump. He could hear the background hum of a generator, and he could see a portable bank of lights being used to illuminate the ongoing effort. “They're getting ready to pump the gasoline out of the barge,” Ketchum informed the group of anxious men behind him. “We got here just in time. They’re just about ready to start filling the first truck.”
There was more good news.
As he carefully scanned up and down the river, Ketchum didn’t spot any other activity. The place was dark and empty, only a few corroded freighters tied to the bollards, those vessels looking like they hadn’t been put to sea in years.
As he had been mentally outlining his hastily created plan, one of Blackjack’s primary concerns had been pulling off their heist amid a busy, working port. Ketchum had been worried about crane operators, bustling forklifts and endless parades of trucks moving freight.
The highly advertised recovery, it seemed, had not taken hold, even in the state capital. At least not here along the river.
The Port of Greater Baton Rouge had been the ninth busiest in the United States before the collapse. Located at the intersection of the Mississippi River and the Intercoastal Waterway, it had been a critical artery of freight and commerce for the Gulf coast region since the time when paddlewheel steamers plied up and down the Big Muddy.
The capital city of Louisiana had been a logical choice to base critical military and civilian assets once the recovery had begun. While New Orleans had boasted a significantly larger population and economic footprint before the downfall, Baton Rouge had
been the original hub of federal and state agencies.
There had been some debate regarding where to locate the new provincial government. New Orleans had been immediately dismissed, mainly because of the threat of flooding from tropical storms. The city had never fully recovered from Katrina, and without the numerous electrically powered pumps designed to keep the streets from being inundated, the area was considered too vulnerable for a government stronghold.
Another rationale for snubbing the Big Easy was her scarcity of population. Most major American cities had lost over half of their citizenry during the downfall, either by the mass exodus of their residents to rural areas or due to post-apocalypse causalities. The blistering, southern metropolitan areas had suffered even greater losses.
Widespread disease, scorching heat, and unimpeded humidity played a central role in the decline of Dixie. Without air conditioning, many modern homes and apartments were uninhabitable during the dog days of summer. Mosquito populations exploded, carrying sickness and making life miserable for those who waited in the asphalt jungle hoping for life to return to normal.
Then there was the demographic composition of the Deep South. For decades, many urban areas below the Mason-Dixon line had seen their communities swell with “snowbirds,” or retiring Yankees who wanted to spend their remaining years baking in the warmth of the sun. As the percentage of the residents over 50 years of age expanded significantly, the transplants skewed the dynamics of the population mix. Ultimately, that migration created a burgeoning segment of the populace that had no tolerance for sweltering temperatures, were more susceptible to sickness, and were far more dependent on medical care to remain healthy. The collapse of society had been brutal on everyone everywhere, but Dixie’s silver-haired citizens had suffered sky-high mortality rates.
New Orleans had experienced an even greater decline than many of her southern neighbors. Given that most of the city was below sea level, droves of citizens evacuated as soon as it became apparent that the lights weren’t going to come back on for a very, very long time. The memory of Hurricane Katrina’s devastation was still fresh in the minds of Louisiana’s communities. Hunger was one thing, drowning was another.
No, supporting the governmental infrastructure already present in Baton Rouge made the most sense for those, and other reasons. The new governor had summed it up best, stating, “The people who know how to get things done are already here.”
While remnants of the former administration’s personnel might have still resided in the area, recovery efforts were severely handicapped by an overall lack of assets, organization, and motivation. Like any military unit suffering a high percentage of causalities, the state government machine of Louisiana quickly proved to be combat ineffective.
Washington’s focus was on the Eastern Seaboard, the limited resources of the federal government concentrated on the major metropolitan centers from Baltimore to Boston. Over thirty percent of the United States population lived in the region, the major cities home to a significant portion of the country’s financial, educational, and manufacturing assets.
In addition to the Atlantic coast, the feds had invested heavily in America’s breadbasket. They had millions of mouths to feed, and jumpstarting the agricultural effort based in the heartland was the obvious solution.
Those circumstances left the Deep South at the bottom of the list of priorities, and Louisiana was no exception. The plan was to make sure the original thirteen colonies received top priority, and then the recovery would naturally move west like it had in the late 1700s.
Just like those early days of North American expansion, the south and west were often left to their own devices. That led to a slower recovery, lawlessness, and a sense of abandonment by most of those who remained in those regions. Ketchum Jones had established his empire in just such a vacuum. If not for the limited federal presence in Baton Rouge, that city would have likely suffered the same fate as New Orleans. Other than the nuclear power plants and the Mississippi River, Washington had little interest in the Pelican State.
Motioning his men to follow, Ketchum led his unit back to the warehouse with renewed confidence. Gathering around a dusty, old conference table, he unfolded a map of Baton Rouge and began to issue instructions. Less than an hour passed before everyone was nodding enthusiastically. Blackjack Jones, accompanied by his infamous tactical genius, was back.
Two henchmen and the boat captain departed first, taking one of the SUVs south along the river road. Their objective was a towboat tied there, a vessel large enough to easily handle the gross tonnage of the barge and its thousands of gallons of gasoline. Their assignment was to commandeer the powerful craft and set sail for the larger ship. Jones nicknamed their unit the “Pirates,” since their antics were reminiscent of Jean Lafitte and Blackbeard himself.
Two more of the New Orleans gang departed next, making their way toward the wharf. They were the “Trojans,” assigned to steal hardhats that matched the dock workers’ attire and blend in.
Ketchum, along with his remaining henchmen, slipped into the night to take up their respective positions.
Thirty-five minutes passed before the earbud from Blackjack’s police radio crackled in his ear. “Pirates successful. Tow secured and waiting.”
Raising his binoculars, Blackjack began watching the activity at the pier. The longshoremen had managed to get the pump working. They were now filling one of the tanker trucks. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Now for the Trojan horse.”
Two new dock workers appeared a few minutes later, Ketchum recognizing the slight limp of one of his men. With an evil smirk, the crime boss watched them slowly work their way around to the river side of the waiting tankers.
From his vantage, Blackjack knew he wouldn’t be able to see the hand grenade. He eagerly waited, vigilantly watching for the signal that would accompany his strategy’s next step, knowing that the results of the slight explosive device would set the stage for one helluva chaotic show.
Pulling the pin, one of Ketchum’s boys rolled the fragmentation grenade under the tanker being filled with fuel and then ran like hell.
A few seconds later, a dull whump echoed along the river, followed a nanosecond later by a thunderous detonation as hot shrapnel shredded the underbelly of the barge and ignited the gas vapors inside.
Blackjack watched with glee as the expanding ball of orange and red fire engulfed the truck. A mischievous grin spread across his face when he spotted several men who had been bowled over, flung to the ground by the blast wave of blistering hot, compressed air.
“Go! Go! Go!” Ketchum shouted, ordering his men to hurry and initiate the next phase of the plan.
The massive barge was secured to the dock by three lines, each as thick as a man’s calf. The Trojans’ next step was to lift one of those substantial ropes free of the bollard.
As his squad scurried onto the wharf, Ketchum could hear men screaming. Someone was shouting orders, other voices crying out for help. Human shapes rushed toward the injured workers, the flames of the still-burning tanker throwing distorted shadows over the entire area.
Blackjack’s men charged directly into what could only be described as pure bedlam. Each of them had a specific objective. Two of his shooters broke off, making for the another of the dock lines. A few steps later another pair peeled away, racing toward the final rope keeping the barge tied to the pier.
With his remaining men still jogging at his side, Ketchum darted for the gangplank. The metal footbridge was already bending, unable to withstand the strain as the river’s current began pulling on the unsecured barge.
No one on shore seemed to notice the new arrivals, the soldiers and dock workers busy trying to help their wounded comrades and fight the fire.
It was all over in less than 90 seconds, the last of Blackjack’s men having hurried up the gangplank just before it finally surrendered and dropped into the dark water below.
A minute later, as the barge drifted away from the pier, Ketchu
m worried that he had miscalculated. Rather than the current pulling the massive container out into the river, the vessel slammed into the concrete wall of the pier. The sound of screeching metal filled the air as the Mississippi’s flow pushed her into the unyielding wharf, shredding the black rubber tires hanging over the side of the structure.
“Are we going to get pushed into the mud?” one of his men shouted from the aft section.
Again, the deck shook as the barge bounced off another section of the wharf. Frowning, Blackjack knew that if they ran aground, it would all be over. Either they would have to jump off and risk the river’s flow or wait until Army reinforcements arrived and picked them off.
Relief flooded the raiders as the barge began to pick up speed, one end of the unpowered hull swinging out toward deeper water. Blackjack, all the while, kept his eyes on the passing shoreline, trying to judge the distance and measure their progress.
Five minutes after their departure, Ketchum knew he had pulled it off. The vessel’s original pier was smaller now, the distance reducing the still-panicked men to the size of insects. He could see flashing, emergency lights traveling along the shoreline, no doubt some sort of law enforcement or military force rushing toward the tumultuous scene.
Ten minutes later, and nearly two miles downriver, a brilliant spotlight illuminated the drifting barge. Ketchum’s earbud again sounded with a familiar voice, “We gotcha, boss. Send a couple of the guys forward to catch our dock lines.”
Out of the darkness appeared the Pirates’ pilfered towboat, the rumble of its massive diesel engines reassuring to the men aboard the barge. Before long, two thick ropes soared through the air, each landing on the barge’s deck with a resounding thud.
Ketchum watched as his men hustled to secure the barge to the towboat. All the while, the two vessels were floating downriver, making their getaway from Baton Rouge.
He didn’t know how long it would be before somebody came looking for the missing barge. As far as he knew, no one had noticed his men. Would they assume the explosion was an accident?