Phoenix Rising pr-1

by William W. Johnstone

  “Believe me, Marcus, I knew Clay better than anyone here. And if Clay were still alive, he would be the first one to say do it,” Jake said.

  “Yeah,” John said. “I think he would too. All right, let’s get this buggy stripped down.”

  It was a tired bunch who ate their supper that night, but before they turned in, they drew little slips of paper upon which times were recorded, the times determining who and when they would pull guard duty.

  The next morning, with nothing left of Clay’s Jeep but the frame, the men drove over to the Army Aviation Museum. Like all the other buildings on the fort, the museum had been vandalized and stripped of anything that could be construed to be of value. But the display of a Huey, depicting an LZ in Vietnam, was still intact. John opened the cowl and took a quick glance at the engine.

  “All right!” he said. “Looks like nobody has messed with it. I think we’ve got a shot at getting this thing going!”

  The hardest thing was going to be getting the helicopter loaded onto the back of the Jeep, but anticipating that, they had brought a crane and pulley system from the hangar and, after half an hour getting everything rigged up, John climbed up onto the engine deck and screwed a lifting eye onto the top of the mast. This was exactly the kind of lifting eye that was used by the aircraft recovery teams when they were sent in to pick up a downed helicopter on the battlefield.

  When everything was rigged up, they began cranking on the crane and pulley system until the helicopter was lifted from the place it had occupied on the display for nearly twenty years, then swung over to the Jeep frame and lowered. The skids were lashed in place, and everyone but Deon, who was driving the Jeep, climbed into the helicopter for the drive back to Hanchey Field.

  Once they had the helicopter in the hangar, John began a more thorough examination.

  “Damn!” he said. “How did I not see this?”

  “What?”

  “We’re missing a drag brace.”

  “How important is that?” Deon asked.

  “Not all that important, if you don’t mind throwing a rotor blade,” John said.

  “Anything out there we can use?” Jake asked.

  John shook his head. “No, they are very precise.”

  “John, isn’t there a Cobra helicopter there in the museum?” Marcus asked.

  A huge smile spread across John’s face. “Yes! And they share the same rotor system!”

  “Let’s go back.”

  “Deon, go with them,” Jake said. “It’s getting a lot more antsy out there. I don’t know what they might run into.”

  “All right,” Deon said. “Willie, the M-two-forty is still in the tower. How about you going up there and keeping an eye open while I’m gone?”

  “Good idea,” Willie said.

  John, Marcus, and Deon climbed back onto what was left of the Jeep, as Willie went back up into the tower. That left Jake, Karin, and Julie alone in the hangar.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to see if we can get anything else on the radio,” Julie said.

  “You know how to do it?” Karin asked.

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve been watching Willie.”

  Julie turned the crank to build up the power; then she turned the radio and started moving the dial through all the frequencies.

  . . . establish contact. We have to be very careful in this, because the IRE, the Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, has their spies everywhere. No doubt they are monitoring this very transmission. Well, I’ve got news for you, IRE, there are millions of us out here. We’ve been knocked down, but we aren’t knocked out. We have survivalist groups coalescing all over the country and the time is going to come, and soon, when we get together and reconstitute the United States of America.

  To my fellow American patriots, find safe ways to contact each other, make yourselves strong, grow in strength, until we are able to join together as one unbeatable band. Until then, this is General Francis Marion of the Brotherhood of Liberty, and I’m using that term in its most generic sense, because we welcome our sister patriots with open arms. And in the Brotherhood of Liberty, men and women, black, white, Asian, American Indian, Protestant, Catholic, Christian, Jew, freedom-loving secularists, we are united, we are strong, and we will be victorious. I am asking you to grow strong, hold on, and wait until that glorious day when we will take our country back. God bless America!

  Oh, do you think that’s real?” Karin asked.

  “I don’t know if it is for real or not,” Jake said. “But his name is obviously false.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Francis Marion was in the American Revolution. He was the first guerrilla fighter.”

  “Are we going to try and make contact with them?”

  “We’ll play that by ear,” Jake said. “For now our primary objective is to survive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When John, Marcus, and Deon returned a couple of hours later, they began unloading parts.

  “We took everything we might possibly need,” John said. “We got both drag braces, the dampers, the pitch change links, the igniters, the fuel pump and fuel control, the hydraulic pump, the servos, the tail rotor gearboxes, the hangar bearings, everything we could get.”

  “We’ll have this sucker up and flying in no time,” Marcus said confidently.

  “No trouble, I take it?”

  “Not really,” Deon said.

  “What do you mean by not really? Was there trouble or not?”

  “The place is crawling with scavengers,” Deon said. “And they are getting frustrated.”

  “How do you know they are getting frustrated?”

  “They’ve been setting fire to all the buildings.” He looked at Karin and Julie. “The hospital is burned down,” he said.

  “Why would they burn the hospital?” Julie asked.

  “My guess is they were after drugs, if not for themselves, to use in barter,” Deon said. “But you know, for sure, that there were no drugs of any value left in the hospital when it was abandoned.”

  “You’re right,” Karin said. “As a matter of fact there was nothing left even before the hospital was abandoned. For the last two months, the strongest thing we had was aspirin.”

  “There are others like us out there,” Julie said, happily.

  “I’m sure there are,” Deon said.

  “No, I mean for real, like us,” Julie said. “We heard them on the radio.”

  “Did you?”

  “They call themselves the Brotherhood of Liberty,” Julie said.

  “They’ve asked us to join them,” Karin added.

  Deon and the others looked directly at Jake. “Are we?” Deon asked.

  “Are we what?”

  “Are we going to join them?”

  “Maybe, someday,” Jake said. “If they are legitimate.”

  “Why would you think they would not be legitimate ?”

  “The way I look at it there is a fifty–fifty chance that it is legitimate. It could either be set up by the SPS to reel in the revolutionaries, or it could be legitimate. When the time comes, we may check it out. But this is not the time.”

  Wednesday, August 8

  Because the helicopter had been flyable when it was put on display in the museum, work on it proceeded much faster than it had on the original Blackhawk. They had a little trouble with the drag brace because, as it turned out, the chord of the blade was a little wider than they thought, which meant the drag brace was a little longer, so they had to compensate by repositioning it slightly.

  They replaced the drag brace and a couple of hanger bearings on the tail rotor driveshaft. In addition, they removed every gasket, seal, and filter, soaked them all in solvent, then oil. In that way they were able to reconstitute all but two. And those two they were able to replace by reworking gaskets they found on the helicopters that were still out on the airfield. Finally, they found a battery from one of the helicopters on the field that they were able to install, w
ith some adjustment, into the Huey.

  Finally they had everything put back, and were about ready to use the positioning wheels on the skids to roll the helicopter out of the hangar when a call came over the radio from Deon.

  “Yeah, Deon, go ahead,” Marcus said.

  “We’ve got company coming,” Deon said. “And it doesn’t look like any social call. They came up on motorcycles, but they left them on the other side of the field. They are armed, and they are moving toward the hangar in combat advance.”

  “How many are there?” Marcus asked.

  “A shitwad load,” Deon said.

  “That many?”

  “At least.”

  “Alright, grab your weapons. Let’s get outside and into position,” Jake called to the others. He took the radio from Marcus. “Deon, stay alert, but keep out of sight as much as you can.”

  “Roger.”

  Jake and the others rushed outside, then took up positions behind the V of sand barrels. “John, you take the right end of the V. Willie, you take the left end. Marcus, you and I will have the point. Ladies, one of you on each side,” Jake directed.

  Jake waited until everyone was in position; then he raised his head just above the barricade and brought the bullhorn to his lips.

  “Those of you coming across the field. Turn around and go back. Do not come any closer,” he said over the loudspeaker.

  “What have you got in the hangar?” someone shouted back.

  “Nothing that concerns you. Turn around and go back.”

  “You got gasoline in there?”

  “ No.”

  “You’re lyin’! Let us take a look.”

  “ No.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you’ve got gasoline in there, and we’re going to take it.”

  “I told you, we don’t have gasoline. Look around out on the field, take what you want, but do not come any closer. This is your last warning. If you come closer, we will shoot.”

  The answer this time was a rifle shot. The bullet whistled by just overhead, then punched through the hangar wall.

  “Turn around and go back!” Jake said over the bullhorn. “There’s nothing here for you.”

  This time two of the scavengers fired.

  “Jake, I have the shooters in sight,” Deon said. “Permission to fire?”

  Two more shots were fired by the scavengers, and one of the bullets hit the top of a barrel, and sent a little shard of steel into Marcus’s face.

  “Damn, I’m hit!” Marcus said.

  Jake looked at him, then laughed. “You’ve cut yourself worse, shaving,” he said. He picked up the little radio. “Deon, fire at will,” he said.

  Deon opened up with the M-240 from the top of the control tower. Jake could see the tracer rounds slashing down, and he heard one of the scavengers let out a yell of pain.

  This time there were more than a couple of rounds fired—several scavengers opened fire, and some had M-16s, as evidenced by the automatic fire. They started maneuvering toward the hangar and as they worked their way forward, Jake counted at least twelve.

  The Phoenix group was outnumbered, but they had position, and with Deon and the M-240, superior firepower.

  The firefight was intense for several minutes; then it died off. It was quiet for a moment. Then Jake and the others could hear the motorcycle engines start. A moment later, they could hear the Doppler effect of motorcycles riding away.

  “They’re gone,” Marcus said.

  “Maybe,” Jake replied. He leaned his rifle against one of the barrels, then pulled his pistol. He thumbed the magazine out, checked it, then slid it back into the handle. “But I’m going to have to find out.”

  “You going out there alone?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, no sense in risking more than one of us.”

  “You’re not going out there alone,” John said. “If something happens to you, we’re all up shit creek. You’re the only one who can fly this thing.”

  “John’s right,” Deon said. Deon had come down from the tower to join the others. “We can’t risk you. I’ll go out.”

  “You can go out with me,” Jake said. “But I’m going out.”

  “Pulling rank on us, are you—Major?” John asked, coming down hard on the last word.

  “I told you, we don’t have rank,” Jake started to say; then he paused. “All right, mea culpa. Deon, do what you have to do.”

  “Want company, Deon?” John asked.

  “No. No offense, but you are a wrench turner. I can do better if I don’t have you to worry about.”

  John smiled. “Okay, Rambo, fine by me. I was just putting on a brave front for the ladies.”

  Deon came back after about fifteen minutes with his report. “Six dead, one wounded.”

  “How badly is he wounded?” Karin asked.

  “He was hit in the thigh, but I don’t think he’s going to die.”

  “He could if he gets an infection. Or at the minimum, lose his leg. I’d better go take a look.”

  “Why?” John asked. “Half an hour ago the son of a bitch was trying to kill us.”

  “He’s probably a soldier, John, just like us,” Karin said. “If the situation was normal, you would pass him in the PX and never blink an eye.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” John said.

  “I’d better go with you,” Deon said.

  “Wait until I get my kit.”

  The wounded scavenger looked to be in his late twenties. He was wearing BDUs, but there was no rank visible. He was sitting up, holding a belt tourniquet around his leg.

  “No,” Karin said. “You don’t want to use a tourniquet unless you are unable to stop the bleeding by direct pressure. Otherwise you could get tissue damage. Let me take a look.”

  “You a doctor?”

  “What difference does it make to you who she is?” Deon asked. “Half an hour ago you were trying to kill her. Now she’s here to help you, though why she is willing to do that beats the hell out of me.”

  Karin removed the tourniquet and looked at the wound. “I’ve got to get the bullet out,” she said.

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I’m going to pull it out,” she said, removing a forceps from the kit she had brought with her. She stuck the forceps down into the wound until she came in contact with the bullet. Then, grabbing the bullet, she pulled it out.

  “Damn, it hurt more coming out than it did going in,” the wounded man said.

  “Good,” Deon said. “If it was up to me you’d be dead now. So if you’re goin’ to live, I at least want you to hurt some.”

  “The problem is going to be if any of the cloth from your pants went into the hole with the bullet,” she said.

  “How are you going to know?”

  “I’m going to look for it,” she said. She took another instrument from her kit that looked like an oversized pair of tweezers from her kit. She put this down into the wound and clamped it shut. “Ahh, feels like I got something.”

  Pulling the tweezers out, she saw a small piece of cloth clamped between the arms.

  “Good,” she said.

  By now the bleeding had stopped and Karin took out a bottle of alcohol. “This is going to hurt a little,” she said.

  “It already hurts,” the wounded man said.

  Karin poured alcohol onto the wound.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” the wounded man said, shutting his eyes and wincing in pain.

  Karin used a cotton ball to clean the wound. Then, she soaked a second cotton ball in alcohol and stuffed it into the bullet hole. Finally, she wrapped a compression bandage around the wound and secured it tightly.

  “Don’t take this off for at least seventy-two hours,” she said. She stood up. “I’m ready to go back,” she said to Deon.

  “What? Are you just going to leave me here?” the wounded man asked.

  “I’ve done all I can for you,” Karin said.

  “But what do I do now? Where do I go?�
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  “You can go anywhere you want,” Karin said. “And if you keep the wound clean, it should heal without any difficulty.”

  “I left my bike on the other side. I can’t walk. Will you bring it to me? It’s the green . . .” He paused and looked over toward the body of one of the other scavengers. “I mean it’s the Purple Honda VTX-1800,” he said. “Only thing is, Cootie, over there, has the keys.”

  “All right,” Deon said.

  “Deon, you know that isn’t his, don’t you?”

  Deon shrugged. “What difference does it make now?”

  Karin chuckled. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Hey,” the wounded man said. “Thanks for patching me up.”

  Karin nodded, but said nothing.

  “Listen, ’cause you helped me? I’m going to tell you something. They’ll be back. And now they know about the machine gun and they know you’ve built a barricade in front of the hangar. They’ll be back, and this time, there will be a lot more of them. They know you have fuel.”

  “We don’t have any gasoline,” Karin said.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve got jet fuel, and it’ll trade just as well. I hear you’re building a helicopter in there.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Deon asked, coming back with the keys.

  “Word gets around. If I was you, I’d get out of here as soon as you can.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Karin said.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I owe you,” the wounded man said.

  Deon jogged back to get the motorcycle as Karin returned to the hangar. She heard the motorcycle start just as she reached the fortifications.

  Deon waited until the wounded man drove off. Then he returned to join the others. “Did you tell them what he said?” he asked Karin.

  “Yes.”

  “I think we’re all set now,” John said. “You’ve never flown a Huey before, have you, Jake? You think you can fly it all right?”

  “Have you ever worked on a Huey before, John?”

  “No, I never have. But the principles of maintenance aren’t that much different. A helicopter is a . . .” John stopped in midsentence, then smiled. “Okay, I get your point. Have at it, Jake, your chariot awaits,” John said, holding his hand out invitingly, toward the helicopter.