L. Roy said, “I can see that we are on the same sheet of music! I think we’ve both read some Ayn Rand.”
Laine gave a nod and grinned in reply.
Martin continued. “I saw this happen in microcosm in Albania. So I don’t expect to face a horde of lightly armed, starving individuals that will come at us on foot. No, sir! I expect to face a fairly professional, determined army formed by a government of some kind. Again, as you mentioned, the color of the flag they fly is meaningless. Small farming communities can support a few outsiders, but not very many. The community will need to both politically and, if need be, militarily deal with outside polities or we’ll face a war that we can’t win. In any case, the twin communities of Farmington and Bloomfield need to have a plan, and some resolve. I just hope we can muster it.”
“God willing, we’ll be able to shape that plan as community leaders instead of ‘resources,’” Lars added. After a moment Laine went on, “Well, my roadblock proposal is going up for a vote next week. Hopefully common sense and the new realities will prevail. Now, assuming that it does, I want to proceed immediately with blocking positions around Farmington that will at least be able to sound the alarm about approaching forces. I’m afraid we’re going to be on a shoestring budget.”
“So . . . ?”
“So we’re going to need fuel. The locations for the roadblocks will be chosen based on holding commanding terrain, not just plopping down barricades that are in walking distance, right at the city limits. That is stupidity. So some of our ‘Committee of Public Safety’ men may have to drive several miles—perhaps up to fifteen miles—to man their duty shifts.”
Martin jumped in: “If we set up 24/7 security around Bloomfield, that means that they’ll need one less roadblock to defend Farmington: they watch the west for us, we watch the east for them. I’m all for that! That will cut manpower requirements by twenty-five percent. Sure, I’ll provide you the fuel.”
Lars exclaimed, “Outstanding! Thank you, sir!” Lars pulled out a notepad and pen and went on, scribbling notes, “Let’s do the math. Okay, not counting our in-town quick-reaction force—which will be set up on the Minuteman or volunteer fire department model—we’ll have four Joes manning each roadblock 24/7. Three eight-hour shifts per day, that’s twelve men per roadblock, and manning three separate roadblocks equals thirty-six trigger-pullers that need to get from Point A to Point B, every day. Each will need an average of one gallon of gas per day; I’m sure that they’ll carpool, but the leftover gas will be a perk of the job. So 36 gallons of gas per day times 365, gives us . . . uh . . . 13,140 gallons.”
“Fair enough, Lars. But you’ll need a bit more fuel to get the vehicles and materials in place to construct your blocking points, and some for your QRF’s vehicles. So . . . I’ll issue vouchers for 15,000 gallons of gas annually, out of my own pocket. We only have a rudimentary printing facility, and I worry a lot about forgery, so I’ll just open a standing account for each Bloomfield COPS man: 30 gallons monthly. Each time they get gas here at the plant, it will be deducted. It’s the same sorta thing that I’ve done for the staff at my ranch and for the refinery employees. It’s pretty simple accounting.”
“And darned generous of you.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t be doing this unless it was in my own best interest. It’s not just the ‘24/7, 365’ that I worry about. Its the ‘24/7, 360.’ As in: 360 degrees. I want my flanks covered. So far as I know, I own the only operational light products refinery this side of Texas. That’s bound to be a tempting target.”
“It’s a humongous target.”
“Just promise me that if you go work for the folks in Farmington, you won’t go poaching for manpower in Bloomfield. We need to keep all our men with military training here,” L. Roy said.
“You have my word, Mr. Martin.”
“Did you have any other questions?”
“I’m curious. I’ve seen the ten-liter Scepter fuel cans that you’ve been selling, and I’ve heard that you bought thousands of them. That was quite prescient of you. But why do you have them priced at eight bucks in silver apiece? That’s more than a week’s pay these days. You bought them months ago, before the inflation went crazy, so they must have cost a tenth of your retail price for them in the equivalent—back in the paper dollars.”
L. Roy leaned back in his chair and gazed upward. After a lull he replied: “Three reasons: Reason one, I don’t have an unlimited supply, and we had no way of knowing when the grid might go back down locally, and if and when the big grids will go back up online. So I need to make them last. This way, when I pay my employees partly in gasoline, they’ll be sure to have containers. Reason two, I need to have fuel that is packaged for barter over long distances. The way I see it, in a couple of years here in a fuel-producing region, it will be tires that will be in short supply, and I need to be able to trade for those. Reason three is that I need more than just fuel to barter for vehicles and heavy weapons. We need to amass some more armored vehicles. So if we go out far afield, trading with people that are ‘fuel poor and vehicle rich,’ then again I need to have the requisite containers.”
“That makes sense. But, ah, what do you mean ‘more’ armored vehicles?”
“A slip of the tongue, Lars. Please don’t mention it to anyone, but I have an old M8 Greyhound—that’s a wheeled APC from World War II that’s being restored and modified up at the shop at my ranch. After that’s finished, I plan to keep it garaged here at the plant, sort of a ‘hidden stinger.’ But if things continue to deteriorate the way I imagine, we’re going to need a lot more armor to be able to put up a creditable defense.” After a pause he added: “Okay, then. We have an agreement!”
They shook hands.
As Laine stood up, he glanced over his left shoulder, and noticed a caged ladderway, leading to a trap door to the roof. Pointing with the muzzle of his rifle, he asked, “Does that ladder lead to your command post?”
“Yep. That’s my CP. You’re a very observant individual.”
“Well, I admire a man that puts an emphasis on substance over style. I can see why you picked this room for your office. I would have done the same thing.”
21
Up the Creek
“There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse; as I have found in traveling in a stage-coach, that it is often a comfort to shift one’s position and be bruised in a new place.”
—Washington Irving
Eastern France
Late November and Early December, the First Year
Andy’s cold and wet bicycle ride to the coast of France through the northern Départements was grueling, and took him two weeks of hard riding. Many of the nights were miserable, with few opportunities to dry his clothes. The roads were only lightly traveled, and he had no offers of rides, except for one elderly man who was driving a tiny two-seat Renault R5. There would be no room for Andy’s bike or trailer, so he declined.
He camped in the woods most nights. As his stock of food dwindled, his trailer got lighter, and he was able to travel faster. He was only able to find a few bits of food that were still affordable. This included three retort-packaged “bricks” of vegetable soup and a couple of half-kilo plastic packets of instant oatmeal. Eating these cold was unappetizing but nourishing. Buying them expended most of Laine’s remaining euros.
As he passed from Picardie into Nord-Pas-de-Calais, the population density increased. This made Andy nervous about his personal safety. His opportunities to camp unobserved in woodlands got further and further apart. His greatest fear was being attacked while sleeping. He prayed often and as usual kept his pistol handy inside his sleeping bag. While he was near the town of Douai, a large dog came sniffing around his camp at night. Laine half shouted: “Chien! Vas-y! Vas-y! Va-t’en!” That worked, but he had great difficulty getting back to sleep after the dog had left.
> Laine was surprised to find the Port of Calais guarded by both police and soldiers. He was able to pass though the outer perimeter without being questioned, but at the inner cordon, he was stopped and asked by a French Army sergeant for his papers and told that the port was closed to civilian traffic. Andy pulled out his Army Reserve ID card and asked to speak with the harbormaster. This turned into a convoluted series of short meetings and interrogations, first with the lieutenant in charge of the cordon, then the harbor security officer, then with the harbormaster’s office, and finally with the harbormaster himself. The harbormaster, Arsène Paquet, seemed distracted by the radio traffic, but he was amiable and sounded sincerely concerned about Laine’s desire to get home to the United States.
Paquet immediately made three phone calls and punched in two SMS messages on his text phone. The resulting word was that there were no French ships that had filed sailing plans to the United States or Mexico. Paquet offered in a conciliatory voice, “I am sorry, monsieur, only from America, not to, for at least months in the future. The insurance companies will not allow it. To be precise, I should say that if they sail, it will be with the knowledge that their insurance is not in effect. Few would take that risk. This insurance situation is uniform for all ships that are European Common Market–flagged, or étranger-flagged but owned by EC-headquartered companies. But I think the situation may be different in England.”
“How so?”
Paquet explained, “They have different insurance laws and procedures. Everything here in the EC has been so normalized. England is not a member of the European Common Market.”
“So you’re saying that to find a ship, I need to get to England.”
“Yes, there is definitely a better chance. You can try to go to England, but with this terror thing the planes are grounded, the ferries are stuck in port, and even the Chunnel trains are not running. Did you see the news about the insulin?”
“No, what was that?”
“The transport is bottled up so tight they are worried that diabetes patients in England and Scotland may run out of insulin.”
“So, any suggestions on how I can get to England? I am desperate to get there, to find a ship. I can pay in gold coin. Genuine or.”
The harbormaster cocked his head.
“Gold coins? Really?”
“Yes, really. I have an old twenty-franc gold Rooster coin—le coq gaulois—that’s about one-fifth of an ounce in gold. I’ll trade that coin to anyone who can get me into England with no fuss.”
“Hmmm. . . . My wife has a cousin, Joseph, who is the captain of a fishing boat near Boulogne-sur-Mer. Give me a moment and I will make another inquiry.”
Twenty hours later, Andy and his bicycle had been deposited at the fishing docks of Boulogne-sur-Mer. His trip there, expedited by Paquet, was in a truck that smelled of fish. The road traffic was very light.
En route, the truck had made several stops to drop off and pick up cargo. One odd sight was when they made an intermediate stop at the Gare de Boulogne-sur-Mer to drop off some cargo. A Train à Grande Vitesse (TGV) high-speed train was sitting on a siding. Normally seen at speeds of up to two hundred kilometers per hour or at just very brief stops, the idle train looked odd.
Andy arrived at the Quai Gambetta with his bike and trailer in the late afternoon. The dock had mainly fishing boats and yachts tied up, but nested among them was a small two-masted sailing ship called La Recouvrance. Andy wondered if it was an historic ship or just a replica.
Joseph Lejeune didn’t speak much English. His fishing boat, named Beau Temps, was smaller than Laine had expected. The captain was also younger than Laine had expected, perhaps in his early thirties. The boat had a crew of just three.
Lejeune met him on the dock. They exchanged names and shook hands. “I seek, passage . . . uh . . . en Angleterre?”
“Yes, I am taking you now. You have with you the gold?”
Andy obligingly showed him the coin.
Lejeune smiled. “Bon, bon! Allons-y!”
There was no delay. As the sun was setting, Andy’s bike and trailer were carried on board and covered with a tarpaulin and lashed down. The mooring lines were cast off and Beau Temps pulled away from the dock with a roar. They quickly motored between the Jetée Nord-est and Jetée Sud-ouest and out to sea. A small lighthouse marked the end of the north jetty. The wind was chilly, but the skies were nearly clear.
Andy soon joined Lejeune in the wheelhouse. As a transistor radio blared French rap music, Joseph Lejeune offered him a cup of strong black coffee in an extra-thick mug. As Laine sipped the coffee, Lejeune said haltingly: “We sail for the village of Rye. The tide is good, and our draft, it is shallow. This Rye is a small town of fishes. No questions will be asked. You are in safety in Angleterre in just a few hours.”
Ahead of them, the sky was darkening over fairly calm waters. The boat had a faint smell of diesel fuel and fish. Andy reckoned that that they would arrive after midnight.
He sat in the back of the wheelhouse, feeling the vibration of the engine and the gentle chop striking the boat’s bow. Lejeune regularly checked the GPS receiver. The radio played on, with one rap song after another, interrupted by annoying commercials. The station ID declared that it was “Delta FM 100.7” from Boulogne. The two crewmen popped in for cups of coffee and to rip huge hunks of bread from baguettes. They hardly spoke a word. One of them spent most of his time below, tending the engine.
As they approached the British coastline, Andy was surprised to see one long stretch to the south of them that was completely blacked out. He pointed this out to the captain. “Wow! It’s just dark. It must be another power failure.”
Lejeune wagged his chin in disgust and muttered, “La fin du monde tel que nous le connaissons.”
Laine cocked his head and queried: “Excusez-moi. My French is very poor. What was that you said? Something about ‘the end of the land’?”
“My meaning, Monsieur Andy, was: ‘the end of the world as we’ve known it.’”
Andy retorted, “Oh. Yes, it does seem to be the end.”
The fishing boat quietly pulled up the slough into Rye harbor. It was nearly two a.m. when they pulled up to the dock. Since the water was almost dead calm, the captain didn’t bother to tie up the boat. The tide was high, so Andy was able to simply step off it right onto the dock. The two crewmen handed his bike and then the trailer down to Andy.
Andy handed Joseph Lejeune the twenty-franc coin and said, “Merci beaucoup.”
Pocketing the coin and nodding, he replied, “Que dieu soit avec vous,” and gave Andy a wave.
The throaty growl of the engine increased in tempo as the boat reversed far enough to make a safe turn and head back out to the English Channel.
Laine pedaled down the deserted dock under the yellowish light of sodium vapor lamps. Turning onto Rye’s main street gave him a huge sense of relief. From here on, it was unlikely that he would be stopped and asked for identification.
Getting used to riding on the left side of the road was a quick transition, but it would have seemed more natural if there had been traffic on the road. Other than hearing some trucks in the distance, there was no evidence of vehicles moving. Andy didn’t have a map, and the night was overcast, so he couldn’t tell the direction he was heading. He just had the vague idea of turning right and heading up the coast. After leaving the town of Rye on Folkestone Road, Andy stopped and consulted his compass. He noted that he was headed northeast. That seemed correct and he knew that Folkestone was up the coast from Rye, so that seemed affirmative. He pressed on. The roadway was very quiet. Only two bakery trucks passed him in the first two hours of riding.
A half hour after dawn, Andy passed through the village of Brenzett, and he saw an elderly man with a walking stick who was walking his terrier on a leash. Andy stopped his bike and asked, “I’m sorry,
but I’m without a map. Will this road take me up to the White Cliffs of Dover?”
The dog started yapping, and the man hissed, “Hush, you!” Then he looked up and answered Laine, “Yes, indeed it will, but you have to make a few turns to get to Dover. Come with me and I’ll fetch you a map.” Turning on his heel, the man said, “That’s me house, just three down.” Andy dismounted and walked his bike across the street. He walked alongside the man and the dog, talking as they walked. Andy said, “I appreciate your help, sir.”
“Don’t you mention it,” the old man answered. He noticed the man had a bit of a wheeze to his breathing as he walked.
The man turned in a gate, and said over his shoulder: “Wait here, young Yank!” He emerged a minute later carrying a Kent Coastal Cities Ordnance Survey map. “This will show all the smallish roads you’ll need to get to Dover on a bike. You can keep that map—I have a newer one. Safe home!” Andy thanked him and the old man soon popped back in his door. Setting the kickstand, Andy spent a few minutes consulting the map, picking out the roads that would get him to a succession of harbors as he made his way up the coast.
That afternoon, he passed through Folkestone. As the terminus city for the Chunnel, Folkestone had some rough characters, who eyed his bike and trailer with hungry eyes. Andy gave them stern looks in response. To one ruffian who started walking toward him, he shouted “Back off!”
Once he got away from the city on the New Dover Road, Andy felt the most at ease since he had left Vilseck. The economy was a wreck, and there were very few cars and trucks on the road. But at least here he found more shops open than in France, and some friendly faces.
Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse Page 17