Hutchings continued: “Given the, uh, unprecedented situation nationwide, it has become clear that action must be taken to restore order in Hardin County and beyond. I’ve asked General Uhlich to be part of this emergency council in an advisory capacity. I need y’all’s agreement that we will take whatever means are necessary to get things set back in order.”
There were nods of agreement, so Hutchings went on, “I’d like to make a motion that martial law be declared, amplifying the existing declaration from the state of Kentucky, and that henceforth looters will be shot on sight. Requisitioning of supplies and manpower will be made by force, if need be.”
Bloomfield, New Mexico
May, the First Year
L. Roy Martin hired the Cuban just six months before the Crunch, snatching him away from a refinery in Oklahoma. Ricardo Lopez had a reputation as a very resourceful petroleum engineer. Growing up in Cuba in the 1970s and 1980s, he had learned to improvise everything. Under Lopez’s leadership, the Bloomfield plant’s Unit No. 2 was immediately diversified, adding the ability to isolate and decant a variety of fractions and compounds that previously had been dismissed as uneconomical for the plant. Heretofore, working with Four Corners Light Sweet Crude and natural gas was seen as economical for just light fuels.
Having been given carte blanche by Martin, Lopez soon developed a reputation as a space hog, filling up nearly all of the available warehouse space with plastic containers of various shapes and sizes and in large quantities.
He bought thousands of unmarked five-gallon oil cans (the type most typically used for commercial sale of hydraulic fluid), military-specification twenty-liter “Scepter” cans and spouts, and thirty thousand empty one-quart oil bottles. Lopez bought so many small containers that additional storage space had to be brought in: fourteen continental express (CONEX) forty-foot shipping containers were purchased, repainted white to match the Bloomfield storage tanks, and lined up in a phalanx next to the Bulk Lube building, near the front gate. These CONEXes were stuffed full of factory-new unlabeled bottles, jugs, cans, and small drums of all descriptions.
It was Lopez’s large purchase of the Scepter cans that caused Phil McReady, the plant manager, to finally complain to Martin. McReady walked into L. Roy’s office with a stern look on his face. He was carrying a copy of the Scepter purchase order. McReady slapped the PO down on Martin’s desk and exclaimed, “Sir, have you seen this?”
Martin looked up from his oversize flat-screen monitor and pivoted his chair. He tilted his head down to look at the document with his bifocals. “Well, not this actual generated PO, but Rico and I did discuss it, and we did agree that eight thousand of the twenty-liter cans, and three thousand donkey-d . . . ah, ‘spouts’ was a good number. Our only debate was about how many of the spouts should be the small-diameter type, for unleaded gas.”
“But, Ray, those cans and spouts are banned from civilian sale in the U.S. because they don’t meet the CARB-compliance rules. Now, I mentioned that fact to Lopez yesterday, and he just said to me, ‘I know they’re banned, but we can still get them if we say they are for export.’ Is he crazy? How will we ever recoup that investment? We aren’t in the export market! We don’t even have any sales representation in Mexico. I’m sure you know PEMEX has that market sewed up tight in a sweet little deal with the PRI party. It’s a total monopoly down there. So, why buy all those cans if we have no market? This doesn’t make any sense to me! And Lopez has this strange fixation with small containers. We’re in the bulk business. We don’t package itty-bitty retail containers. We don’t have the distribution channels. This just doesn’t compute.”
Martin chuckled. “I think in less than a year you’ll be thanking Dr. Lopez profusely for buying the gazillion containers, and maybe even wondering why we didn’t buy more of them. The way the economy is headed, we’re in for some deep trouble.”
McReady gave Martin a puzzled look.
Martin explained, “The Schumer is about to hit the fan. Just suffice it to say that I believe that the marketplace and the legislative environment are about to shift substantially, so fuel-can legalities will be the least of our concerns. Just keep in mind that I don’t have a board of directors to answer to. This plant is mine. I paid cash for it, and although some of the things here may seem unorthodox, I have my reasons. It’s my baby.”
Without giving time for the plant manager to respond, L. Roy went on, “So, henceforth, I expect you to mention Dr. Lopez’s projects only if there is a safety issue that is not being properly resolved, or if you think that there is some malfeasance.” Martin clasped his pudgy hands together and rested them on the desk. He put his chin down and eyeballed McReady.
McReady gave a quiet “Understood,” and walked out.
Ricardo Lopez’s shift in emphasis for the plant at first mystified and soon chafed old-timers like McReady. They considered him a bit of a mad scientist and thought that most of his projects would be unlikely to break even. Since Lopez was Cuban and only five feet three inches tall, he was soon nicknamed “Ingeniero Ricky Ricardo” or “Little Ricky.” It was not until after the Crunch that they all realized that L. Roy and Lopez had repositioned the company to be able to continue to operate in the midst of a massive economic upheaval.
Immediately after the Crunch began, Martin ordered three of the plant’s four units mothballed and closed out all the company’s existing commercial contracts. “No paper money accepted. Silver only!” Martin decreed. Gasoline, diesel, and propane sold for twenty cents per gallon, payable in pre-1965 U.S. silver coins or equivalent weight in .999 fine silver trade dollars. Empty Scepter fuel cans were $4 each in silver coin, and their spouts were fifty cents. Martin began paying his employees in silver, and they had the opportunity to buy gas at a 10 percent discount. The average wage was $1.20 per day—all paid in pre-1965 U.S. silver coins. Their feedstock suppliers were happy to be paid in a mixture of silver and transferable vouchers for finished product. In many ways the business model for the refinery was similar to before the Crunch. It was only the scale that had changed. But the smaller scale of production made for a tight profit margin, since many of the overhead costs in running the plant were the same, whether they were running all four refinery units or just one.
At L. Roy’s direction, seventeen refinery employees with recent combat experience in the Big Sandbox became full-time security guards for the Bloomfield plant, working round-the-clock shifts. Many of them were armed with “black guns” from Martin’s extensive gun collection: AR-15s, M4s, M1As, AR-10s, L1A1s, and HKs.
13
Kasserne
“Inflation has now been institutionalized at a fairly constant 5% per year. This has been scientifically determined to be the optimum level for generating the most revenue without causing public alarm. A 5% devaluation applies, not only to the money earned this year, but to all that is left over from previous years. At the end of the first year, a dollar is worth 95 cents. At the end of the second year, the 95 cents is reduced again by 5%, leaving its worth at 90 cents, and so on. By the time a person has worked 20 years, the government will have confiscated 64% of every dollar he saved over those years. By the time he has worked 45 years, the hidden tax will be 90%. The government will take virtually everything a person saves over a lifetime.”
—G. Edward Griffin
Laine’s flight to Ramstein was on a C-17 with a mixed load of cargo and passengers. About thirty passengers lined one wall, on flip-down seats. It was an uneventful but noisy flight. He wore his earplugs. While on the flight, he composed draft e-mails to send to Kaylee and to his brother. Then he read some psalms.
After arriving at Ramstein, Andy got nervous when he saw a scene unfold in an adjoining hangar. A Texas National Guard unit that was on an emergency redeployment back from Bosnia was undergoing a “health and welfare” inspection overseen by officers and senior NCOs from the unit as well as some MPs. All of the troop
s had to completely unpack their duffel bags and backpacks. They even had dog handlers there, with German shepherds sniffing through the spread-out baggage. As an officer traveling alone and on a flight inside Germany, it was unlikely that Laine would ever be searched. And if he was, he wondered if his forged hand receipt would stand up to scrutiny. After all, it was fairly common knowledge that SIG P228s (called M11s by the U.S. Army) were not on the TO&Es of any but a few CID and MP units.
At Ramstein, there was more frustration: Because of fuel economy measures, he would have to wait until the next day to get transport to Grafenwöhr Training Center. From there he could easily catch a ride to Rose Barracks, his unit’s home near Vilseck. So it was one more night in an Air Force BOQ.
There was no wireless Internet service at the “Q,” so he was forced to “war walk” with his laptop to find an open wireless network. He finally found one in an NCO accompanied housing complex. After he had logged on, he sent out his draft e-mails and checked his in-box. There were three new “Hurry home” e-mails from Kaylee. Then he checked the AFN Germany weather page and the HQUSAEUR G3 Road Conditions Web page. Out of curiosity, he checked the spot price of gold at Kitco.com. He was startled to see gold at $5,453 per ounce. It had gained $312 per ounce in the past twenty-four hours. Since his laptop’s battery was down to 32 percent, he turned it off and walked back to the BOQ. He was in a foul mood.
The next morning at breakfast, he discovered that the local Internet was up but that no connections to anywhere in the United States were working—for both e-mail and Web pages. The AFN television news soon reported the same Internet outage, with no known time or date for resumption of service. Andy shut down his laptop and prayed.
The bus to Graf at noon the next day was crowded. Most of the passengers carried six or more loaded shopping bags. They said that they had been forced to come to Ramstein because the shelves at the small commissary at U.S. Army Garrison Grafenwöhr were nearly stripped clean.
Simultaneously, the price of food on the civilian economy—in the town of Grafenwöhr—became astronomical, after the conversion from U.S. dollars to euros.
Andy overheard two military wives sitting in the seats ahead of him, discussing their mandatory next-of-kin evacuation orders (NEOs), NEO contingency suitcases, and the lack of transport to the United States. They were quite anxious and at a loss as to what they should do. While on the bus, Andy copied all of his personal files onto a flash-drive memory stick. He also copied the PDFs of several field manuals, including a joint service “Survival, Rescue, and Escape” manual, several out-of-copyright books on primitive skills like candlemaking, and a copy of the book Where There Is No Doctor. Then he took a deep breath and deleted all of his personal files from the laptop.
Once he had arrived at Graf, Laine borrowed a cell phone to call for a ride to Rose Barracks. But before he could finish, he was interrupted by a staff sergeant who had overheard him. He said, “Sir, if you don’t mind riding in a War Pig, I’m headed to Rose in just a few minutes.” Andy recognized him as a supply NCO from one of his unit’s sister squadrons. Laine nodded and gave a thumbs-up to the NCO and then, turning back to the phone, said, “Strike that—I just got a lift. Out here!” He flipped the phone closed.
The sergeant helped Laine with his bags as they walked to the M1078A1 truck. The two-and-a-half-ton truck—the replacement for the venerable M35 deuce-and-a-half—was an ugly boxy truck with a long step up to the cab. This was the same up-armored variant that Andy had ridden in many times in Afghanistan. A corporal was standing guard behind the tailgate, holding an M4 with a magazine inserted. It seemed odd, seeing that level of security in Germany. To Andrew, it looked more like A-stan mode than what he was used to seeing in Germany.
As they loaded Laine’s baggage, Andy could see a large pile of boxes and crates with “ORM-D” labels and large orange diamond-shaped “Class B Explosives” stickers.
“Ammo?” he asked incredulously. He cleared his throat and asked, “I thought that none of the squadrons were doing range fire until next April.”
“Sir, I guess you’ve been out of the loop. At 2330 last night Regiment put everyone on an alert for civil disturbances.”
“Whoa! Sounds serious.”
Laine’s first stop at Rose Barracks was the brigade orderly room. It was humming with activity. Before he even had a chance to put his bags down, Colonel Olds spotted him and shouted: “Andrew! Good to see you finally made it back here. Transportation problems?”
“Yes, sir, plenty. A major Charlie Foxtrot almost every step of the way.” He set down his overseas bag and flight bag but held on to his duffel bag. They shook hands.
“Well, I’m glad to see you back. We could really use your help. I think for the time being, I’m going to lend you to the S3 shop up at Regiment.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I’ve passed my active duty obligation date. That was seventeen days ago. I’m just back here to TI my gear, clear quarters, and outprocess.”
“Oh, that’s right. Hmmmm . . . and if I remember correctly, you have a fiancée waiting for you.” After a pause, Olds said, “Well, at least one of my staff is going to make it back to CONUS this year.” He sighed, clamped his hand on Andy’s shoulder, and said in a quieter voice, “Good luck, son.”
Laine’s next stops were the arms room, where he turned in his M4 carbine, and the NBC cage, where he turned in his M40 protective mask. After so many months of deployment, he felt naked without them. For the next two days he had brief moments of panic each time he stood up, realizing that his weapon was missing. But remembering that he still had the SIG P228 buried in the bottom of his duffel bag gave him some comfort.
By regulation, U.S. military service members always mustered out of active duty inside the United States. But a very recent emergency order from the Army Personnel Command (PERSCOM) stipulated that anyone of E4 pay grade or higher could now be released from active duty in situ anywhere except inside combat theaters at the discretion of a brigade S1 or higher. And a release for anyone E6 or higher could be made even inside a combat theater with a divisional commander’s approval.
At just after 1600, Laine checked into the Rose Barracks BOQ and finagled a field-grade single room by mentioning that he was in his last few days of service and that he was exhausted from his long journey. After dropping off his bags in the room and getting a shower, he rushed over to the squadron S4 cage in a nearby warehouse. He wanted to get there before close of business for the day. There he checked out the key to the luggage cage, where he had two footlockers and a large cardboard box in storage. All three items were stenciled “1LT Andrew Laine—8277,” the last four digits of his Social Security number. Luckily, his items were stacked together near the top of the eight-foot-high pile that lined one side of a sixty-foot-deep security cage. Using a large cart, he retrieved his items, signed a release form, and returned the cage key.
Although he was entitled to have these items shipped back to the United States as hold baggage, Laine realized that, given the circumstances, he would probably never see them again. It was better to sell or give away most of the gear as soon as possible. So he borrowed a two-wheel hand truck overnight and got a ride back to the BOQ.
Andy put a fresh set of batteries in his Kaito KA202L compact general coverage receiver radio and dialed in 1107 kHz AM for the local Armed Forces Network station, AFN Bavaria (“The Big Gun”). The transmitter was just outside of Vilseck, so it boomed in loud and clear. He caught the end of The Afternoon Mix show, then heard the familiar top-of-the hour announcement: “It’s six o’clock in Central Europe, and AFN is on the air!” Andy listened to the news summary while he sorted gear. It was more bad news.
From the news reports, the rioting seemed to be the worst in India, Pakistan, Israel, Brazil, and the eastern United States. There were also some riots reported in French cities with large Muslim populations. But unlike in previous upri
sings, the French police had the gloves off. They were shooting rioters on sight.
Andy Laine hadn’t seen the contents of his footlockers and boxes for nineteen months. The first footlocker was completely filled with books. He emptied it onto the other bed in his room and then carried it to the BOQ foyer, where he left it standing on end with its lid swung open. Atop it he taped a sign: “MOVING SALE—TONIGHT ONLY—2.4 GHz Laptop, Books, CDs, DVDs, Clothes, and More! 1830 Hrs. TONIGHT ONLY—BOQ Room 106.”
Andy changed into civilian clothes and popped the top of a can of Afri-Cola. He continued sorting. Just a few minutes later there was a knock at the door. He answered it to find a pair of black female second lieutenants from down the hall. One of them asked, “Are you Lieutenant Laine?”
“Captain, actually.”
“Oh, sorry, sir. We, uh, we just saw your footlocker with the sign. Can you start your sale now?”
“Sorry, but I’m not ready yet. Give me until about 1820 to sort through all this and come back here with cash. I’d prefer euros.”
“Will do, sir.”
After they left, he started sorting books. Laine’s collection included a lot of classics, biographies, Christian apologetics, reference books, and military field manuals.
After some deliberation, he settled on carrying just four books with him: his King James Bible, a compact copy of the SAS Survival Guide by John “Lofty” Wiseman, a small English-French/French-English dictionary and phrasebook, and a copy of FM 5-34, Engineer Field Data.
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