After being given the options, Carlton replied, “I don’t think I’m likely to encounter a better survival setup anywhere in the country. Yeah, I’d certainly like to be a member of your group!”
The next morning, Doug Carlton was voted in as a member. He was temporarily housed in the hayloft of the barn. For his first two weeks he would only be assigned C.Q. duty. Thereafter, he would be allowed and expected to pull both C.Q. and LP/OP duty. He was warned that his position was probationary. Any foul-ups, and he would be banished.
After a week at the retreat, Doug already fit in and felt like an old hand. With his military background, he became a fast friend of Jeff Trasel. His interest in guns also brought him close to Dan Fong in short order.
In an orgy of generosity, Jeff gave Doug his spare blue steel Colt Commander .45, five magazines, a UM-84 holster, a cleaning kit, and more than two hundred rounds of assorted ammunition. Dan Fong gave Doug his beloved Winchester Model 1897 riot shotgun, its bayonet, and a surplus engineer’s satchel filled with Remington number-four buckshot, twelve-gauge shells, and twenty rounds of Brenneke rifled slugs. Mike Nelson donated his spare “Trick Five Hundred” and a pair of nine-volt nickel hydride batteries to power it. Todd, who was roughly Carlton’s size, gave him a set of DPM camouflage fatigues and his spare Moss Stardome II tent.
Doug commented several times that it seemed like Christmas.
CHAPTER 10
Curriculum Vitae
“A prudent man forseeth the evil and hideth himself; but the simple pass on, and are punished.”
—Proverbs 27:12, KJV
A call that was beginning to sound familiar came over the TA-1 late one afternoon in June. “Deliberate Front. Large group on foot—maybe ten of them.
Some armed. Coming from the west. Four-hundred-and-fifty meters.” In now typical fashion, seven group members popped out of spider holes when the party on the county road was in the middle of the kill zone. Once again, the ambush was a complete surprise. There were eleven people in the party: five men, four women, and two children. All carried backpacks. One pushed a large-wheeled baby carriage filled with supplies. When ordered to lay down their guns and packs, they did as they were told.
“Who are you, and where did you come from?” asked Mike Nelson.
A man with long hair and a beard replied. “My name’s Rasmussen. We’re from Spokane. We’re heading to Helena, Montana. I have a brother who lives near there.”
“Why did you leave Spokane?”
“Spokane is history, man. Most of it burned to a crisp last fall. Then, over the winter, the damnable convicts came, hundreds of ’em. They call themselves La Nuestra Familia. And they didn’t leave. The few people left there started running out of food this spring. We got out of town in the middle of the night while we still had the chance.”
“How much food do you have with you?”
The bearded man replied, “Only enough for another day or two. “
After quick consultation between the spider holes, the party of refugees was ordered to step back from the road and sit down with their hands on their heads. A quick search by T.K. showed that the refugees were not lying about the scarcity of their food supplies. Their packs mainly contained clothing, pots and pans, and a few mementos.
“We can give you some food, but we can’t let you stay,” Todd declared. “If you come back again, we won’t give you anything the second time. Do you understand?”Across the road, heads nodded in agreement. Mary and T.K. were sent to the house to gather food for the refugees. They came back with a sack of onions and potatoes, a five-gallon plastic bucket of hard red winter wheat, ten pounds of rice, a bottle of multivitamins, and two cans of dehydrated peanut butter powder. These foodstuffs were set down in the road next to the refugees’ packs.
“Is there anything else that you desperately need?” Todd asked.
“Yes. We have four guns but only seventeen cartridges between us. Can you spare any ammunition?”
“Which calibers?” Todd asked.
“We have two .22s, a .25-35 Winchester, and a .30-06.”
After more consultation between foxholes, Todd jogged up to the retreat house, and returned with a twenty-round box of .30-06 one-hundred-and-seventy-grain soft points, and a plastic box of one hundred CCI .22 long rifle cartridges. These, too, he set down on the road.
“Well folks, we wish you luck,” Todd said, after he had returned to his position. “We only wish that we could do more for you, but this is all that we can spare. As I said before, don’t come back. You’ll get nothing. Don’t try and come back and take anything by force, either. We are well armed and have tight security. We’d cut you down like sheep. You can now get up and very slowly pick up your packs and the supplies that we left you, and be on your way. Keep the muzzles of your guns pointed away from us. Wait until you are out of sight before you stop and open your packs to redistribute your load.”
The longhaired leader of the refugee band proclaimed, “Mister, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s the Christian thing to do. Goodbye and good luck.
May God bless you and grant you safe travel.” Todd and the others waited until the band of refugees was well out of sight before they got out of their spider holes and re-covered them.
“It seems that the summer refugee season has begun,” Mary mused.
“Yep, it sure has,” Todd replied. “I’m just glad that we’re off the beaten path, rather than on a highway. If we were on a main drag, we’d be up to our elbows in refugees. Under those circumstances we wouldn’t be in any position to dole out charity.”
T.K. chimed in as they made their way up the hill, “It’s not so much the refugees that would worry me. It’s the escaped convicts that they talked about.”
Yet another ambush on the county road was called in over the field telephone a week later. As she snatched up her Remington 870, Lisa Nelson exclaimed, “Not again!” The three strangers that approached were unusual. All three were riding Giant brand mountain bikes. Two of the bicycles were towing small two-wheeled trailers. When the ambush was sprung, the bicyclists skidded to halt, completely surprised.
“Keep your hands on the handlebars!” Mike Nelson ordered. After a moment, he added, “We are not looters! We mean you no harm. Okay. Now I want you to get off the bikes one at a time, real slowly. You first, mister.” A balding, slightly chubby man dismounted. He engaged the bike’s kickstand, and raised his hands. Nelson gestured with his HK91. “Now you, ma’am.” The woman, who Mike judged to be in her fifties, dressed in blue jeans and a khaki shirt, also did as she was told. Like her husband, she raised her hands without being asked to do so. “Okay, now you, miss.” A young woman with red hair who appeared to be in her late teens joined her parents. Unlike her parents, she let her bike drop to the ground. She looked very frightened.
“Who are you, and where are you from?” Mike asked.
“My name’s Porter, Lon Porter. This is my wife Marguerite and my daughter Della. We’re from Seattle.”
“You came here directly from Seattle?”
“No. Last fall we drove our Volvo station wagon until we ran out of gas down on the Columbia River gorge, just east of Biggs Junction. We had to abandon the car and a lot of our clothes and things there. We were on our way to La Grande, Oregon, to stay with my brother’s family. We made it the rest of the way there on our bikes.
“My brother Tom has a little ranchette on the outskirts of La Grande. We stayed with his family at his house. It was a small house, so they didn’t have a spare bedroom. We slept in the living room. Everything was fine there, once Tom and I got over our nicotine fits. Neither of us was ready to quit smoking, but circumstances dictated that we went 100 percent cold turkey. Tom’s neighbors raise cattle and were generous, but it was obvious that the food was going to start running low, so we offered to move on. We didn’t want to be a burden.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Montana. I’ve heard tha
t things are less torn up there.”
“Do you have family in Montana?”
Porter replied hesitantly, “Nn-no. Assuming that things are closer to normal there, I thought that I’d look for work. I’m a machinist.”
After a pause, Mike offered, “Again, we don’t mean you any harm, but we have to make sure that you aren’t looters. There have been some passing through the area. Cannibals, some of them. We are going to have to search you and your belongings. Once we are convinced that you are indeed whom you say you are, and that you have no hostile intentions, you’ll be free to go. Okay?”
“Okey-dokey,” said Porter.
Sounding more like a police officer now, Mike said, “Now step away from your bikes, turn your backs toward us, and put your hands on the back of your heads, fingers interlocked.”
The Porters did as they were told.
Mike spoke again. “Jeff, frisk Mr. Porter, and make it thorough.” Jeff set down his HK and approached the stranger from behind and searched him methodically. He found no weapons.
“Okay, Jeff, get back in your hole. Mary, search the women,” Nelson ordered. As soon as Trasel was back in position and had reshouldered his HK91, Mary popped out of her refrigerator hole, and frisked Mrs. Porter and her daughter.
When she began to search Della, Mary noticed that the girl was trembling.
She said in a soothing voice, “Relax, kiddo. We’re the good guys.” In searching the two women, Mary found that they were both carrying stainless steel Leatherman multipurpose pocket tools. Otherwise, she found no weapons.
Mike told the Porters that they could lower their hands, but warned them not to make any sudden movements.
Next, Mary searched the panniers on the bicycles and their trailers. The process took fifteen minutes. During the search, she called out a running inventory:“Rain gear. It’s Gore-Tex. Good quality, but awfully bright colors; a tool kit. Gosh, it’s heavy! In it we’ve got… a socket set, a big drill register… a set of taps and dies… a couple of micrometers, all kinds of stuff. I don’t even know what some of these tools are. A lot of them look custom made.” She then began delving deeper into the first trailer. “Here’s an AR-7 .22 rifle like Doug’s. But this one has a kind of brownish camouflaged stock instead of black. That’s different.” She pulled the plastic cap off the butt and extracted the gun’s receiver from its compartment. “No wonder! It’s an original Costa Mesa-marked Armalite! Dan told me that these things are pretty scarce.”
After restowing the AR-7, she continued her search. “About fifteen boxes of .22 shells. A half a box of .380 ACP Federal HydraShok hollow points. An over and under shotgun, broken down in this leather case. It’s a Ruger Red Label, twelve-gauge, a real beaut! Three boxes of twelve-gauge shells. Number seven bird shot, low base. A whole bunch of canned food. Some Mountain House freeze-dried stuff.”
She examined the bikes themselves. All three were made by the Giant company, and were in good repair. Della’s had a slightly smaller frame than the other two. There was a glaring difference between the two adult-sized bikes.
They were both the Sedona model, but Mrs. Porter’s was equipped with a large spring-loaded motor casing. It was connected by a pair of wires to a large black rectangular nylon case, which was cradled in a piece of black sheet metal. The sheet metal was bolted to the bottom tube of the frame. Mary eyed the system curiously. Looking toward Marguerite, she asked, “What is this thing, some sort of generator?”
More relaxed now, Mrs. Porter answered, “An E.R.O.S. motor unit, actually. They’re made by a company called Omni Instruments, down in California. The motor is powered by a pair of gel cells there in that black case. The batteries are almost dead right now, though. When you swing the lever on the handlebar shaft, it drops the motor into contact with the rear wheel of the bike. Then, when you push the little switch on the right handlebar, it engages the motor. When it is fully charged, it will motor you along at twelve miles an hour on level ground. It has about an eight-mile range. I mainly use it to help climb hills. It also does what is called regenerative braking. When you go downhill, you can drop the motor down and it acts as a generator and partly recharges the batteries. It also helps keep the bike from picking up too much speed on the down grades.”
Mary unzipped the battery case and examined the tops of the sealed gel cells. “Wow, this is a pretty neat set-up.” She then shifted her attention to the large handlebar bag on Lon’s bike. “Several road maps. A two cell Kel Lite. And… aha!, an automatic pistol. I’ve never seen this type. Has anyone here ever heard of an ‘Ortgies?’” Removing the gun’s magazine, she announced, “It looks like a Three-Eighty.” After slapping the magazine back into the pistol’s grip and stowing it back in the bag, Mary continued with her inventory. “Two spare magazines for the pistol. Both are loaded with hollow points. A hot patch tire repair kit; a coil of wire; a bike chain-link tool; some duct tape; and a pair of pliers. That’s all for this bag.”
After a few more minutes of searching in silence she declared, “Not much worth mentioning in the other trailer and the saddle bags. Mostly clothes.
There’s a 117-volt power cube here, and a power cord with a cigarette lighter type plug. They must be for charging up the batteries for the motor unit.” Mrs. Porter nodded in agreement. “There’s also a photo album, a King James Bible, and a pretty well-stocked first aid kit. Nothing else worth mentioning.”
With that, Mary returned to her position. After a pause, Lon Porter asked expectantly, “Well?” Drumming his fingers on the redwood lip of his spider hole, Mike asked, “Where did you work in Seattle, and for how long?”
“I worked at Boeing for seventeen years. I’m a master machinist.” There was another pause.
“Do you know how to weld?” Mike asked.
Porter replied, “Of course. T.I.G., M.I.G., oxyacetylene, you name it. Boeing even sent me all-expenses-paid to take a special two-month course with Escher Wyss over in Zurich, Switzerland. That was in ’93. Welding isn’t my specialty now, though. I specialize in prototype machining.”
“How about sheet metal fabricating?”
“Of course.”
“Are you familiar with automobile mechanics?” Mike asked.
“Yes, indeedy. I’ve rebuilt I don’t know how many car and truck engines in my spare time. Kind of a hobby of mine. About the only thing that I’m not well versed on is the newer cars with electronic ignitions or the other computerized doodads.”
“And tool making? Lathes, milling machines?”
“Sure. I’ve worked with all the major brands—both traditional machines and the later computer-controlled ones.”
After yet another pause, Mike said, “Okay Mister Porter, I’d like you and your wife and daughter to sit down on the far side of the road there for a while. Please be patient, but there is something that I have to discuss with my boss up the hill at the house.” Turning to his side, he commanded, “Mary, you’re in charge while I’m gone.”
As Mike got out of his hole, the Porters sat down in the grass by the side of the road. They now wore expressions that were more curious than anxious. A few minutes later, Mike trotted back down the hill, with Todd following five yards behind.
“Mister Porter, is it? My name is Todd Gray. I’m in charge of this operation. My friend Mister Nelson tells me that you are a master machinist with no certain destination, who is ‘seeking after employment,’ as they say. If you’d care to join me up at the house, I’d like to explain our situation here, interview the three of you, and possibly make you an offer.”
The debate on whether or not to take in the Porters was brief. With summer approaching, it was clear that the retreat would be shorthanded, especially with all of the gardening tasks that needed to be done. Mary summed up “the bottom line”: Without additional help, they could either have a secure retreat, and quietly starve, or plant a large garden, and have less than full round-the-clock security.
The other key factors were Lon’s skills. Because it
now appeared highly unlikely that Ken and Terry Layton would show up, there was a perceived need for someone who knew the intricacies of cars and trucks. In addition, Marguerite, or Margie as she was commonly called, had grown up on a farm in Woodburn, Oregon. This gave her a wealth of practical farming and cooking skills. The Porters were voted in unanimously.
After rearranging the basement, one end was partitioned off with wall lockers and hanging blankets to form a bedroom for the Porters. Unfortunately, the only beds available were three Army surplus folding cots. The Porters didn’t object. Soon after their sleeping arrangements were taken care of, Mike was given the task of getting the Porters set up logistically. Uniforms were not a major problem. Jeff Trasel gave up a set of DPMs for Lon, and Mike gave Margie a set. Because Margie was “big boned” but not overweight, they turned out to fit well. Mary gave two of her five sets of DPMs to Della. They too were about the same size.
The next, and more difficult, task was getting the Porters properly armed.
Dan Fong’s large gun collection saved the day. Although they were not group standard guns, Dan agreed to “indefinitely loan” his FN/FAL and his Portuguese contract Armalite AR-10 to the Porters. Both guns were chambered in 7.62mm NATO. Lon would use the FN, while Margie would use the much lighter AR-10. Dan had eleven magazines for the FN, but only two for the AR-10. This presented a problem, as two twenty-round magazines would not suffice for a firefight of any duration.
Lon went to work in Todd’s shop the next day. First, after disassembling it, he used a dial micrometer to take a complete set of dimensions from one of the AR-10 magazines. He compared the AR-10 magazine with the magazines of other assault rifles chambered for the same cartridge, and came to the conclusion that their dimensional differences were too great to attempt to adapt any other type of .308 magazine to fit the AR-10. Next, he looked through Todd’s collection of sheet metal for stock that would have the equivalent strength of the aluminum used in the original magazines.
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