The attack had been organized as a multi-service effort. The FBI had overall responsibility with their HRT acting as on-site managers. The FBI snipers were the first line of containment. A Delta detachment in transit through Nellis Air Force Base had been moved in as backup for the HRT — with the Delta perimeter one mile out. Army Rangers from Hunter-Liggett formed the most distant outer perimeter with two platoons dug-in a mile outside the Delta positions. SEALs had been brought in for the quick all-out assault mainly because it was easier to hide and disperse their deaths world-wide under various excuses such as “training exercise” and “tragic accident.” This procedure is called “body-washing” by those-in-the-know.
Delta had been on a return flight from Korea on their way home to Fort Bragg. One of their specialties was DUGS — Deep Underground Shelters. For years they had practiced in the tunnels of Nevada’s nuclear test sites. Many of those tunnels were two miles long. Korea’s DMZ was a warren of North Korean tunnels and Delta had — until recently — been sneaking down these tunnels killing all who happened in their path. The Johnson’s tunnels were going to be easy. Delta was fully prepared to enter through the end of one of these tunnels and then climb up into the Johnson’s home.
The intelligence community was fully aware of the tunnels beneath the Johnson’s property — they had been monitored since the first day of digging fifteen years before. The government even had computed their lengths — from 3D satellite photos of the mine tailings. All of this was not done for political purposes — targeting American Patriots. It was done on all mines everywhere on earth. The intelligence community is huge and as computers took over more and more of the mundane tasks there was time, compute power and money for the fringe programs of intelligence gathering. Intelligence agencies are much more like the Post Office than we want to believe — but with satellites, computers, and guns.
The first fireball and mushroom cloud had been spotted by intelligence satellites and Delta had been ordered to the field under their “Domestic Weapons of Mass Destruction Support” role. Their orders were to “sabotage, disarm, disable and seize” the Johnson’s various weapons of mass destruction. In layman’s terms their orders were to wipe the place off the map.
Additional FBI HRT “specialists” had been brought in dressed like U.S. Marines — and had brought TOW missile carrying Hummers with them. They were to act as the heavy weapons team for the HRT snipers.
The FBI had underestimated their targets. The loss of contact with their sniper teams caused considerable consternation at the command post. Secure message traffic between Washington and the local commanders bristled with denunciatory invectives. The “Final Solution” was now to be orchestrated from Washington. The field agents would take charge again after Washington made its move.
The Navy had wanted a piece of this operation — it was a simple matter of competition for funding. They couldn’t let the Army or the FBI get all the credit. The order to deploy SEALs had come directly from the Secretary of the Navy — a woman — who at the very last moment wanted women to be part of the assault team. She got her SEALs — but she got no women.
Three hundred miles off the Pacific coast the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk turned into the wind and the bridge signaled “FLANK SPEED.” Deep within the bowels of the ship, her crews carefully and incrementally adjusted the rate of bunker fuel flowing to her Foster Wheeler boilers. You can’t just open a valve and spray more fuel into a boiler to make the ship move faster. Next to each boiler is stack of four foot long, three inch diameter steel tubes called barrels. At the end of each of these barrels is a nickle sized sprayer plate held in place by a nut and washer. As the bridge commands more speed, sets of these barrels — with ever-larger orifices in the sprayer plates — are inserted in sequence into the boilers and then attached to the boiler’s high pressure fuel lines. The spray of fuel is thus increased incrementally over many, many minutes. As the crew slams the next set of barrels into the boiler, the just-removed barrels are quickly fitted with the next larger sized sprayer-plates and — when the boiler can efficiently accept the next size orifice — they are re-inserted into the boilers. This complex and dangerous process continues until the carrier reaches the speed requested. It is an act of supreme teamwork. To ensure that the boilers are running efficiently the “BTs” — or boiler technicians — watch the color of the smoke coming from the stacks. It has been this way — deep within the bowels of steam-driven ships — for more than sixty years.
As the carrier reached flank speed an A6-E Intruder spooled up its engines and taxied toward the catapult. The bow of the ship slowly dipped toward the sea and then rose thirty feet toward the grey-green sky. The flight deck crew braved wind, jet exhaust and whipping cables to service the aircraft and launch the ship’s sea-gray squadrons toward their targets.
The A6-E pilot and weapons officer were ready — target due east. The pilot taxied the aircraft toward the catapult — not an easy task on a grease-slicked deck pitching and rolling in even a moderate sea.
If these two airmen had wanted to measure their chances of surviving this mission they would have needed only to ignite the envelope containing their secret mission plan. It had been soaked in potassium chlorate and would have vaporized in a single bright flash.
This mission had been planned from the very start as an heroic end to their careers — and their lives. And the COD pilot? She had already been handed a lethal change to her AIDS medication and a dose of Hepatitis “C” in her last toke of cocaine.
The A-6E Intruder was heavy. It had not only the two TV guided AGM-65B Maverick missiles but a full load of 20 Mk 82 500 pound iron bombs.
The A-6E’s Mavericks could be guided nicely from either seat of the aircraft, but the TV image quality left much to be desired. The picture was only about 200 lines high by 200 pixels wide. The image was thus only about as good as a very early Nintendo game — and only in black and white. Its fatal flaw was its “improved” ability to lock onto a target and automatically track to impact even if communication with the A-6E was lost. This meant that if human tracking of the target was lost then the missile would continue to attempt to re-acquire the target on its own — and would look for the aim point the human had originally selected. It was thus possible to defeat the missile by replacing the human-selected target with a decoy. Stupid or smart — with a 300 pound warhead the Maverick meant death to nearly anything it hit.
The A-6E would come in from the north and drop the first weapon at 05:00 hrs. The target was nestled in a deep valley and so radio guidance and remote imagery reception would be difficult if the aircraft left the valley. The mission profile was therefore to release each weapon three minutes out, apply aircraft speed brakes and then follow the weapon over the target and get visual confirmation of a kill.
The pilot taxied the plane into position at the aft end of the catapult and then looked down with never-ending fascination at the scurry of the deck crew. Efficiently and with practiced hands the plane was locked into the catapult’s inch-thick steel track. The only connection between the plane and the catapult was a steel shoe just behind the plane’s nose wheel.
Just below the flight deck a polished steel piston — 21 inches in diameter — waited to drive the plane right off the Kitty Hawk’s deck. This huge piston was driven with super-dry live steam pressurized to 520 PSI. The catapult could easily launch a four-door Chevrolet more than a quarter of a mile.
The pilot pushed the A6-E’s throttles to full afterburner, gripped the stick, settled his flight boots into the rudder pedals, signalled a “thumbs-up” and waited for release.
The deck crew now switched their attention from the plane to the bow of the ship and would only launch the aircraft when it was certain the plane would clear ocean swells and bow waves.
More than 180,000 pounds of force was pounded into the piston and then onto the front wheel of the A6-E. The aircraft was wrenched forward — accelerating at more than two and a half times the force of gravity — and then right off the edge of the carrier’s deck. The heavily loaded aircraft sank out of sight for just one heart-stopping moment and then slowly climbed into the gray mist.
Dawn comes early in the mountains. The tips of the peaks catch the first glimmers of sun and reflect them far down into the canyons.
Bill, Sally, Bobby and Reynaldo were laying on the plastic covered floor in the plastic covered rec room. They were asleep. They hadn’t planned on sleeping. Sleep had just washed over them.
The A6-E had already flown down the valley once — at 15,000 ft AGL — to drop a BDA or Bomb Damage Assesment drone — and then it turned north — to follow the flight path again, this time for real.
The BDA drone was actually a two foot diameter disk seven inches thick. The disk was kept aloft by a four foot diameter para-foil parachute. This parachute was light blue on its underside and grey-brown on its top. The drone itself consisted of a digital color camera with zoom lens, some guidance electronics, batteries, and a powerful microwave transmitter. The transmitter sent its signals directly to a satellite in geostationary orbit. The purpose of this drone was BDA — Bomb Damage Assessment. As the A6-E performed its mission, images of the aircraft’s weapon’s effects on the target would be automatically sent to the Command Authority in real time. The drone could maintain its position over a target for upwards of 20 minutes. After 22 minutes of surveillance the drone would self-destruct.
At 15 nautical miles from target the A6-E turned a full 180 degrees, slowed to 250 kts and lined up along a track down the center-line of the valley. The turn took twenty seconds — even pulling 3Gs. This was a military operation — not a commercial jet liner landing at Orlando-Disneyworld. Then too, pulling a few G’s cleared the crew’s heads and helped them to focus on the mission.
The weapons officer checked the range to target — ten nautical miles, nine nautical miles, eight nautical miles. His eyes were intently focused on the little monochrome TV screen and the tiny dot of a tile roofed “hacienda” centered by the pipper.
“Seven nautical miles.”
The sound of their voices was muffled by the pressure of rubber oxygen masks pressing against their faces.
The weapons officer tensed slightly and released the missile. The Maverick fell away from the right wing and then its rocket engine blasted the AGM-65B toward the target — reaching Mach 1 in less than 13 seconds.
“Speed Brakes!”
The pilot snapped open wing-mounted speed brakes and the plane quickly slowed to 150 kts to begin its descent into the valley. The A6-E would trail the weapon by 60 seconds — to make certain that any debris from the warhead’s detonation would have settled back to earth before the aircraft overflew the target area.
The weapons officer ignored everything going on around him — including the 2.5 G jolt that threw him forward and into his seat harness as the speed brakes snapped open. He focused only at the little screen — keeping the target centered and adjusting the impact point with slight nudges on the grip.
The missile climbed above the track of the airplane, reached its apogee at engine burnout and then fell toward its target at a gentle 30 degree descent angle.
As dry as the mountains were this time of year there still was enough moisture to create a slight ground fog. Some of the plants even seemed to be releasing whiffs of steam. A faint rainbow had formed to the north. The valley was asleep.
At first all Bill, Sally, Bobby and Reynaldo heard through their fog of sleep was a strange crackling sound and then four seconds later — before anyone could even move — the missile impacted the roof.
The shallow angle of attack allowed the 500 pound Maverick to skip off the more than four inches of high strength steel drill pipe and ferro-cement tiles and detonate its 300 pounds of explosives as an air burst over the swimming pool. A thousand roof tiles blew into the air. Some tiles vaporized, others arched into the air only to bounce off the roof and tumble to the ground. These tiles were so hard they clanged like bells as they bounced off the concrete patio.
The blast shattered all of the south facing ground floor windows. The patio’s sliding glass door exploded into tens of thousands of small, square, razor-sharp fragments.
Bobby screamed.
Bill ran to the sound of Bobby’s screams and found his son. His left arm had almost been severed from his body and he was bleeding from both ears. A huge lump was forming at the back of the child’s head. Bobby’s eyes were glazed over and dilated. Bobby was dead.
Bill held his son to his chest and gently rocked the child back and forth in his arms.
The sound of a low flying jet quickly increased in volume and became a roar as the A-6E came over the house at under 900 feet — in full afterburner — and then “boogey’d” away from the target. The entire house shook violently and the jet’s roar was so loud that Bill’s cheeks and even the sleeves on his shirt began to vibrate.
Bill didn’t know what to do. Sit there? Scream?
“Bobby, I swear to you that I will avenge your death and your sister’s death with my entire heart and soul. I will end this tyranny. None of these people are safe from me. Many years ago I swore that I would even give my life for my country. These people better watch out. Now the gloves come off!”
He carried his son’s body down the hall and laid him against the wall. Just through the wall on the outside of the building was the body of Bobby’s sister.
Bill trotted to the rec room and looked Sally in the eye. She didn’t seem to understand what his look meant. She would find out — later.
“Okay, Sally, you take the binoculars and go to the front door and try to spot the next attack.” Of course if she didn’t spot the next attack when it came then they would be in real trouble — if not vaporized.
“Reynaldo, you start up that burned out Hummer and get ready to put it into gear — when Sally says she has the bomb in sight you stuff that big rock against the gas pedal and run. You’ve practiced enough. Now’s your big chance to be a hero.”
Bill dashed to the closet strong room, dropped to his knees and cut the spools of Primacord loose from their played out lines. He then tied both lines’ loose ends to the hatch’s door handle. He then tossed the spools out toward the hallway — he did not want entire spools of Primacord to explode when these lines were fired.
He then looked around for his blasting caps and the electric detonator — they weren’t here! The stuff was still down in the basement.
They were dead.
Then he remembered a South Korean Special Forces trick. He ripped a length of duct tape from the roll on the floor and taped the tunnel’s Primacord to the steel lip on the hatch door.
He then clawed at the carpet and ripped it away from the wooden tack-strip near the doorway — exposing the concrete slab below. He took the roll of duct tape and took the line of Primacord connected to the distant mound of chlorine bottles and shit and taped it directly onto the slab. Finally, he dumped the contents of the tool box all over the hallway and picked out an 12 inch Crescent wrench.
All he could do now was wait.
It took nine minutes for the A6-E to cross into Mexico then circle around and pick up its original track — to make its second deadly run down the valley.
Sally stood there in the doorway and scanned the northern approach for any kind of black object dropping through the thin clouds. Reynaldo revved the Hummer’s engine and sat there ready to drop the automatic transmission into compound low.
And then it appeared, a tiny black spot floating down out of the sky. It was so far away that its forward motion was not discernible. It seemed to just hang there in space forever. It was just a little black spot hanging beneath the top of the valley’s early morning rainbow. Then the missile’s trail of gray smoke was visible. The lethality, the manifest evilness of this weapon suddenly became obvious — it even seemed to sense human presence and actually speed up as it got closer and closer to its prey.
“I see it! I see it!”
Reynaldo slammed the Hummer into gear, stuffed the rock against the gas pedal and ran for the house.
Sally dropped the binoculars and started backing up to close the front door — with Reynaldo still fifty feet away.
“Wait for me! Please! Please Senora! Wait!”
Sally ran inside and left the door open for Reynaldo.
Bill didn’t wait for anything — he just took the wrench and pounded the line of Primacord taped to the concrete slab. He started a count of ONE as the wrench hit the floor. A tube of brilliant blue-white flame blasted out of the closet and down the hall. The high pitched roar shook plaster dust right off the walls. In the confined space of the closet the concussion of the detonating PETN cord knocked the wind from his lungs.
The cylindrical pressure-wave from the Primacord flashed down the hall, across the entryway, out the front door and right between Reynaldo’s legs. It then zipped out to the mound of shit, chlorine and acid far to the north.
Reynaldo’s legs had gone numb. He looked down only to see that the bottom six inches of his trousers had been explosively sand-blasted right off his legs.
There was just enough distance between the front door and the shit mound for Sally to actually track the PETN blast with her eyes as it zipped over the already blackened earth. Then the Tovex and the cow shit detonated. The surface explosion launched spinning, half-vaporized bottles of chlorine and acid a thousand feet into the air. The two chemicals mixed — causing a secondary “thump” and forming a fan shaped dense white cloud more than a thousand feet high and a thousand feet wide.
Reynaldo threw himself into the house and Sally slammed the front door.
“Fuck!, We just lost the video on the second bird!” Here was his big chance to show the world how good he was and now he messed up twice!
“I, don’t understand it! The image was perfect and now I can barely see the target window!” The weapons officer tried to keep the guidance crosshairs right on the partially obscured target reference point but it just faded away.
“Hey, I tried to hit that flag! I really did!.” He knew that the video tape and every word he spoke would be analyzed. His future promotions depended upon his success here — and he had failed.
It was hopeless. The missile would have to find its own way home.
“Let’s come around and dump our load of iron bombs. Fuck this high-tech shit” The pilot picked a spot far down the valley and deep in Mexico as his turning point — to come around and dump his entire load of iron bombs.
If the weapons officer had just waited a bit he would have found the imagery from the Maverick to be perfect — once it passed through the white cloud of chlorine. But now the missile was on its own.
Just as Sally and Reynaldo reached the closet Bill reached a count of seven and then eight, nine and ten. He slammed the basement’s massive hatch door down hard and leaped away.
The line of Primacord detonated — sending an explosive trail at more than 20,000 feet per second toward the 2,000 pounds of Tovex boosted ANFO far down the mine shaft.
Bill pushed Sally and Reynaldo from the closet entrance and toward the front door. The blast in the tunnel could send an air column toward the hatch at 300 miles per hour. If the hatch’s locks didn’t hold then 800 pounds of steel hatch might go airborne and start ricocheting around the closet and maybe even down the hallway.
The second Maverick missile faithfully tracked the center-most “aim point” of the house and adjusted and fiddled with its guidance vanes so that it would impact at the center of the slowly moving Hummer’s American flag — now 136 feet to the north of the house.
The Maverick’s 300 pounds of high explosive detonated as a white flash that suddenly turned a muddy brown — a ground burst — which dug a crater fifteen feet deep.
At about this same instant the Tovex and ANFO deep in the mine exploded and did its best to send a massive air piston down the tunnel — but the tunnel had already been destroyed by the Maverick’s ground impact.
Bill was very lucky. He didn’t know that the Tovex and ANFO he had placed near the end of the tunnel was too deep to let the blast even break the surface. But he’d had help.
The Maverick’s detonation had weakened the tunnel. The Tovex / ANFO blast sent a lethal fan of earth, rocks, concrete, steel and gooey PCB globules right out the Maverick’s crater — creating a volcanic fountain that tossed debris more than a thousand feet into the air.
Their cockpit suddenly filled with a white cloud of chlorine mist. Chlorine fumes began leaking around their masks and burned their lungs.
The the A-6E Intruder hit 240 pounds of airborne debris at a collision speed of 450 kt. The Intruder’s instrument panel warning lights went red and alarms sounded in the cockpit and in the Pilot’s headset.
At this altitude there is little margin for error. And one of the first things you learn is that even one pound of flying rocks can have great effect on a 500 pound Mk 82 bomb and its fuses. Yes, a simple rock can make them go BOOM — safety systems be damned.
Between chlorine fumes and master warning lights it was obvious they had but one plan of action. Both pilot and weapons officer immediately ejected from the aircraft.
Inside the house, everyone waited with clenched teeth and tight fists for the jet to make its second low pass over the house. They were not disappointed. But this time the sound was one of jet engine turbine destruction, the crackle of burning fuel and the warble of a huge airplane tumbling through the sky.
The jet passed over the house at less than one hundred fifty feet and impacted at the Mexican border in a half mile long string of fireballs as its load of 20 Mk 82 iron bombs tumbled and exploded.
It was certainly obvious to all those present that something had gone terribly wrong.
Sally, Bill and Reynaldo ran out the front door to see what had happened.
“I see chutes!” Sally yelled.
The gentle morning breeze up the valley held the parachutes to the north of the house.
The airmen’s parachutes were now only 25 feet above the earth and each slowly dumped its human cargo into the bottom of the still-steaming missile crater.
Bill ran back into the house and got his Benelli shotgun and something to use as rope to hold his prisoners. All he could find was the spool of Primacord.
He handed Sally her .45 and both ran toward the flattened parachutes — just visible over the edge of the crater.
Bill reached the crater first and snapped the shotgun to his shoulder. It was all he could do not to mow them down then and there. Sally followed seconds behind and leveled the .45 at the men — holding the pistol in both hands in a modified Weaver stance.
“Put your hands up!” Bill put the front sight of the shotgun on the face of one airman.
The two airmen looked at each other and then back at the 12 gauge and Sally’s .45 and quickly complied with the demand.
“You, you with the helmet on, you come up outa the crater real slow and with your hands on top of your helmet.”
The weapons officer complied — stumbling up the loose earth to the top of the hole.
Bill stripped the airman of his pistol and tossed it far out of reach. There was something about this guy Bill didn’t like. The guy had a real attitude.
“Lie face down. Now put your hands on your head. Now put one hand behind your back. Now the other.”
Bill tied the weapons officer’s hands behind his back with two full-hitch knots of Primacord. He then tied the hands to a loop of Primacord he wrapped around the man’s waist — the guy just might be flexible enough to step over his own hands and get them out front and this extra knot would make such a trick impossible.
Bill looked down into the crater at the pilot.
“Okay, you’re next. Come on up here!”
Again, Bill pulled the airman’s pistol from his holster — but this time he stuffed it into his own pocket.
Bill moved quickly to disarm and the tie-up the pilot. He tied the pilot’s wrists together and then attached them to three wraps of Primacord around his waist. He then took a length of Primacord and tied the two airmen together at the ankle. Nobody was gonna run away today — unless they had had lots of training in three-legged races.
Almost immediately the weapons officer started mouthing off about how scum like Bill should be killed — and how “Constitutional Extremists” were the cause of all of America’s crime. Bill looked deep into the eyes of his enemy. He saw something.
“Take off your helmet.”
With his hands bound to his waist the airman couldn’t comply with the order. Bill ripped the helmet from the man’s head. The helmet didn’t feel right. Bill looked at the thing — it wasn’t a government issue helmet. It was a custom helmet from Flight Suits Unlimited — $500. A nice war-trophy — in a different kind of war. Bill tossed it to the ground and looked at this guy again. There was something about his eyes.
“Where are you from?”
“Lemoore”
“No. Where were you born?”
“New York.”
“Where were your parents born?”
“Odessa.”
“Texas?”
“Yeah.”
“You Mexican?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you trying to kill us?”
“I’m not trying to kill you.”
“What do you mean your not trying to kill us! You bastards just tried to send a couple of missiles up our ass! And what else were you carrying! From the sounds of the impacts south a here you were loaded with every bomb you could carry!”
“I had no idea you even existed. I was targeting a place — not you personally.”
“God damn! You sound just like Bill Clinton! Next you’re gonna tell me that it all depends on the definition of bomb, or missile, or target! Your boss Bill might be a drug trafficking, serial rapist, commie, Negress porking pedophile and be able to get away with the mass murder of women and children but you ain’t got ten thousand Secret Service thugs to protect you. You are here pal!
Bill stepped closer to the Mexican.
“You better start talking straight or I’m gonna take this 12 gauge and whittle you down to a stump.”
Bill put the 12 gauge right up against the weapons officer’s nose. The Mexican jet jock just stood there calmly and said:
“Your kind of people have lost. The world has finally killed off or bred out most of you blue-eyed people. It won’t be long before the world will belong to us. President Clinton says the year of change will be 2020. Already San Diego schools have fewer than 30 percent white kids. In 20 years San Diego will be a rich brown — a bronze land — and California will be less than 20 percent white. Clinton is putting an end to your domination.”
“You have no regard for the Constitution or the Bill of Rights, do you. How did you ever get into the U.S. Navy? Didn’t you have to swear to uphold the Constitution of The United States?” Bill was quivering with rage.
“Your white rules and your white government are nothing to us. I am a warrior of the new America. We’ve won. Now we control. Now you are the slave. Soon we will create a real America — AZTLAN! And we will push your kind back into the original thirteen colonies — and maybe even off the beach and into the Atlantic ocean!”
Bill was in no mood to debate this guy any further — especially since the bastard had just done his absolute best to kill everybody in the house with what seemed to be everything his plane could possibly carry at one time.
He slowly walked in a big circle and then back over to weapons officer and looked him right in the eye. Bill could almost smell the hate coming off the guy’s flight suit.
Bill lost it.
With a determination pushed to the limit of his physical reserves he spun around and marched to the spool of Primacord. He then returned and wrapped ten double wraps of Primacord around the weapons officer’s waist. He then swapped the 12 gauge with Sally for her .45 and tucked a doubled piece of Primacord about 1/2 inch in the pistol’s barrel.
Bill then turned and stepped off ten paces and turned around and stared at this bronze warrior of AZTLAN.
Everyone looked at Bill.
“Please admit to your efforts to murder us. And then apologize” Bill said softly and politely.
“Fuck you!” said the weapons officer.
“Please apologize for trying to kill us. We have done nothing to you. You can see now who we are. Do we look like dangerous enemies needing the full lethality of the United States Navy?”
“Fuck you!”
Bill slowly brought the .45 up above shoulder height — like a starter pistol — and looked at the souls around him. He could see no sympathy for this guy in their eyes.
He pulled the trigger.
The PETN core of the Primacord was hammered by the exiting bullet and it burned at more than four miles per second — carrying the explosive energy to the ten wraps of Primacord around the weapons officer’s waist. The effect was quite similar to him being shot with 360 12 gauge shotguns — with all of their barrels aimed at the center of his body.
The weapons officer was blasted into two pulpy pieces — with only the glistening white nerve bundle at the core of his spine keeping the parts from separating completely.
The pilot was still connected to the weapons officer at the ankle. The pilot screamed and kicked — as the now-detached blood-spurting lower torso thrashed around on the ground.
It’s really amazing how cooperative people can become — whatever level of their “prisoner of war training” when real hard cruel absolute death is staring them in the face.
“That’s one down — for Bobby and Samantha!
Now, Commander … what do you think of the present political situation in America? Hmmmmmm?”
Bill realized that he was close to snapping. All he could do was hope that this moment of insanity would pass.
The pilot started rambling on about how he had been “volunteered” for this mission and how he had never told his crewman the truth and how he had had to tell him all sorts of lies about child abuse and drugs and more just to get the guy to agree to cooperate. And how it wasn’t this guy’s (pointing to the lump on the ground) fault — he was only 26 — and how the schools didn’t teach kids the Constitution, and on and on and on.
The pilot knew Bill wasn’t buying any of it. They both knew that the lump on the ground had been itching for a chance to kill.
Bill cut the pilot loose from the bloody mess on the ground and walked him toward the house. Sally followed behind — with a 12 gauge shotgun aimed at the pilot’s ass. Reynaldo picked the weapons officer’s Berretta 92 pistol out of the dirt and stuffed it into his waistband.
The pilot finally looked around him. The earth was black and smelled of gasoline. A low mound of still-smoking bodies was off to his right. A gentle breeze wafted the stench of the bodies into his nostrils. He wretched and vomited. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked down the muzzle of the 12 gauge shotgun that was now not two inches from his right eye.
“I’m sorry. I guess you’ve had some … problems … here over the last couple of days.” The pilot tried to be as diplomatic as he could but he came across sounding like a hair dresser.
“Move! Or you’re gonna lose some body parts!”
The pilot stumbled forward.
They went through the front door single file with the pilot in front — and turned down the hall to the right toward the rec room.
The pilot looked at the way the entire house had been covered in plastic. The plastic had even been taped up the walls in some erratic pattern. Little of the house seemed exposed to view. He could smell smoke, chlorine, blood, cordite — and burned lungs and intestines. He started to panic but held himself together. These people were crazy.
Then Sally asked “Where’s Bobby?”
“He was killed by the blast from the first bomb.”
Before Bill could do anything Sally snapped the Benelli 12 gauge up to her shoulder, aimed at the pilot’s head and fired — again and again and again. All the pilot could do was jump around trying to dodge Sally’s point of aim. Four rounds of number four buckshot impacted into the couch, the cupboards, the TV and the remnants of a large framed family photo on the wall. The pilot slipped on the plastic and fell to the floor.
Sally’s complete destruction of the family photo — the last remembrance she had of the family when it was whole — was just too much. She dropped the shotgun and slumped to the floor sobbing.
The pilot was on his hands and knees — looking for a way to escape — fast.
Reynaldo moved to face the pilot and smiled — pulled the sand-covered Berretta out of his waistband, found the safety and snapped it to “off.” A big gold tooth glinted in his mouth. Children are holy to some Mexican families and murdering children does not go unpunished.
Bill walked over to Sally and held her by the shoulders.
“Look, we have to make our children’s lives count for something. This piece of shit cowering on the floor is just vermin. Besides, he probably had no idea who was in the house. He really was probably told just to target a building. The guy who’s hamburger out there by the bomb crater was the guy who flew that bomb into our house. He’s the guy who killed Bobby. We’ve got things to do. Save your hate for a time when you can put it to good use.”
Then Bill turned to the Pilot and Reynaldo.
“Sit down you guys. I’ll go get some cokes and we can figure out what to do now.” With that Bill turned slowly toward Sally and they looked at each other for two or three seconds. The look was one of “if either of these guys even twitch just blow them away..”
The pilot put his hands on a plastic covered lump that he thought might be a couch and sat down.
Sally grabbed the shotgun and racked a round onto the floor. She checked the tubular magazine — three rounds in the tube — and then stuffed the live round back into the gun’s magazine and slammed the chamber closed. She had two ounces of tungsten balls for each of these guys if needed. And all she wanted to do right now was kill.
Bill grabbed a flashlight from the table and quickly left the room — leaning to the left as if he was going to go upstairs — and then snapping to the right, into the closet and down the ladder into the basement. He didn’t want the pilot to know where he was going. He could only hope that Sally wouldn’t just cut both of those guys to pieces before he came back. She was starting to really break down.
“What a mess!” Bill could not believe how much damage a ton of explosives could do — even from hundreds of yards away. The small refrigerator was upside down and stuck in a gooey mass of PCB from one of the power line capacitors. Bill collected two of the six packs of Diet Coke — still cold — and returned topside.
“Okay guys, here’s a Coke.” Bill handed cans to everybody.
Bill told the pilot about what had happened over the last three days — in detail — and even showed him the Saxitoxin rounds and pointed through the still-closed windows toward the lumps of FBI “rescue” team members and the “other guys” (BATF).
Then Bill did something that he never thought he would have to do. He ripped the plastic sheeting off the low file cabinet and started pulling out printed copies of some of the data he had retrieved from disk drives of government laptop computers he’d repaired over recent years.
Every time somebody brought in a laptop for repair he would back up the disk onto magnetic tape. That way if he screwed up during the repair their data would be saved and easily loaded back into their machine. One day he’d looked at some of the files on those tapes. If anything had convinced him that there was a “New World Order” and that White America was on the way down — these files had done it.
“Many years ago the CIA and DIA arranged for Interdata brand mini-computers to be sold to Communist China. They were sold through an office accounting software company in the U.S. to a Chinese Communist organization in Shanghai. The computers were Interdata model 5-32s. Each of these computers was modified to access four times the computer’s standard amount of memory. The additional electronics to make this happen looked normal — but it was not. The additional electronics included a miniature transmitter. Data from this expanded memory was secretly transmitted to a CIA-maintained remote receiver several hundred feet — and several buildings — away. Data was then re-transmitted by this second system straight up into the sky and to a satellite in geo-stationary orbit.
These computers were doing some very special work in Shanghai. They were used to schedule the movements of Communist Chinese agents and stocks of bribe money and munitions in the United States.
The computers were kept in a special building that looked more like a hospital than a business. The computer’s operators were even required to wear white coats and hair nets whenever they were in the building.
One of the laptop computers I repaired last year had all sorts of memos in Microsoft’s Word format that complained about how this long playing operation to spy on this Chinese organization was to be closed down — this was back in 1992 — on orders from the Clinton White House.
What was the name of this Communist Chinese Organization? COSCO.
COSCO.
That’s right — China Ocean Shipping Company.
What this means is that Clinton ordered the CIA to halt an operation that might expose his treason.”
None of this made much sense to the pilot but he thought he better pretend to inhale each and every word.
So far, Reynaldo had remained quiet. It was as if he was discovering that truly, they were all slaves to some dark world-dominating enterprise. He fidgeted with the Berretta pistol. But when Bill talked about the Chinese he had to speak:
“This problem is not just for Norte Americanos. I live in a small village a hundred kilometers south of the border. Every night guerrillas stalk our land — not freedom fighters but guerrillas in the employ of the Arellano Felix brother’s drug cartel. During the last few months things have been very bad in my village. Not only was the mayor under the control of the drug cartel but so was the policia and even the Army.
Several Mexican Army generales are each paid more than one million dollars a month to let the drug cartel operate in Baja California. How do I know this? One of them was arrested and “encouraged” to reveal the hiding place of his money!
There have been dozens of kidnappings of the rich land owners around my village. These land owners are then held for ransom. The only way the ransoms can be paid is for their families to sell property and even the farm tools. Thus, we are put out of work.
But you must understand that these kidnappings are not just for the ransom money. The kidnappings are actually simple demonstrations of the power of the drug cartel and object lessons in why we all must cooperate with the Arellano Felix clan and their criminal gangs.
We finally could not stand to see our children suffering any more and so we took up arms and attacked the village policia and military barracks.
What we found was that the guerrillas were not just working for the drug cartel.
No.
There was much more to this than just the terror of drugs. The Arellano Felix cartel has been in the employ of the Chinese Communists as well.
We discovered that something very bad was happening in our country.
Many, many years ago — maybe in 1966 — there was a robbery of American Army weapons in Florida. The guns taken in that robbery — mostly M1 Garands from World War Two — were later found to have been distributed in Mexicali — not fifty miles from here — and out of the Chinese Consulate! The man who made the discovery — a reporter by the name of Balaban was killed as the reward for his curiosity.
Your Presidente Clinton has known about all of this since his days in Arkansas. And we are not stupid. Even a hundred kilometers into Mexico we know of the town of Menas in the state of Arkansas and the drug planes and the money drops.
We know of his deals with Cuba and with Jorge Cabrera — and how drug money was laundered through the Clinton White House and the Democratic National Committee. This Cabrera was a big smuggler of cocaine from Columbia to the US.
Cabrera gives money to Clinton and the Democrats and he gets to have dinner with Vice Presidente Gore in Miami! He gives more money and he gets to go to a Christmas reception at the White House and visit with Hillary Clinton! She even posed for Christmas pictures with Cabrera — and this man already had two American Federal felony drug convictions!
If you look into your records you will find that Clinton has been paid by the Communistas in China for many, many years — some say to encourage him to help them import heroin and cocaine from the Golden Triangle of Burma and Thailand and send these materials to the streets of America.
Clinton has even turned entire U.S. Navy bases over to the Communistas — all to help them move drugs into America. He even wanted to give the Long Beach Naval Shipyard to the Communistas! I have been told that this is one of the largest shipyards in the world! He wanted to give it to the Chinese Ocean Shipping Company — COSCO — a government enterprise of the Communist Chinese Government .
I remember reading a report in an American newspaper about a “senior navy official” who refused to be named in the newspaper but who said: “This is a company that operates many port sites throughout America.” He did not lie — in fact it can be said that he was giving America a big warning about Clinton and his treason.
I also remember that the rent for the Long Beach Navy Yard was only $14,000,000 a year — or about the same amount of money the drug cartel in Baja California spends every year to keep one general quiet.
Also, we read in our newspapers about how the company Hutchison Port Holdings — a Communist Chinese front — paid 22 million dollars for 25 year leases on the Panamanian ports of Cristobal and Balboa. Your Presidente Clinton let the Chinese take control of both ends of the Panama Canal! You Americanos must now ask the Chinese permission for what is called “expeditious passage” through the Panama Canal!
But I believe that there is even more to this catastrophe!
More than a dozen cargo containers of arms were sent from the COSCO docks in Los Angeles directly into Mexico — and under bonded storage — there was no customs inspection. And what did they contain? Guns!
Now we here in the Californias — Norte and del Sur — have a real problem. The tens of thousands of rifles and grenade launchers that were shipped into Tijuana are now being distributed to drug cartel thugs and others. They plan to move this army north — into America and create a new Mexican Homeland called AZTLAN. They will do this now.”
“Shit.” Bill stood and looked at them all.
“Standard operating procedure for U.S. Special Forces is about 15 of our guys to train a thousand indigenous troops. Those thugs could get a hundred thousand Mexicans — just out of Tijuana’s colonias — and have them armed and ready to spring over the border in less than a week.
If they were really smart they could get a hundred thousand or more Mexican gang members in south central Los Angeles to rise up at the same time. There ain’t no way Clinton is gonna be asked to turn the American Army loose on his voters!”
Reynaldo asked Bill a question: “Senior, how many people are on welfare in San Diego?”
Bill thought about it for a second or two and then said “Probably more than 60,000.”
“And how many are Chicano — members of La Raza?”
“About half.”
“Well!” Reynaldo answered, “Do you think those people would be willing to grab a gun and riot and steal and burn if they had a chance of gaining tremendous wealth — and get away with it?”
“Sure! That’s what I’m saying! Hey — the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles were just for fun and the LAPD arrested 10,000!” Bill muttered.
Reynaldo smiled and then continued with his story: “Many people in Mexico refuse to wait for our migration from south to north to absorb Southern California quietly and without disturbing the tranquillity. They want the riches of America now. They think these guns will give everything to them … now.”
Bill’s brain was running at full speed.
“Here’s a bit of trivial for you. This Clinton Commie COSCO gun running deal is not the first for San Diego. The first was in February, 1915, when a schooner — the Annie Larsen — was leased by Captain Franz Von Papen of the German Government. It was loaded with 30,000 rifles and some ammunition and it waited here in San Diego to be sent to India so the guns could be used to overthrow the British Raj! The schooner stayed in San Diego for several months waiting to rendezvous with a converted oil tanker that was gonna take even more guns to India.
The Germans thought that 30,000 guns would be enough to overthrow a country with six hundred million people. How many guns were in those cargo containers out of Long Beach? About 30,000?”
Reynaldo looked at Bill for a moment — surprised to learn that the Germans had been so creative — and then he continued.
“I believe — from the papers I have seen and the general we “questioned” — that your Presidente Clinton has agreed to allow the return of the southern half of your California to Mexico — to create the new Mexican country of AZTLAN. How will he do it? He will simply let this drug-criminal invasion occur.
Whites are already a minority in this part of America. Mexico will simply absorb its original lands. Mexican law already says that a Mexicano who takes American citizenship automatically retains his Mexican citizenship. He remains a Mexican — awaiting the moment to return the land to AZTLAN — to the Mexican people.
Clinton’s price? I feel that he might — to speak practically — have traded part of California for the freedom to provide cocaine to all of the east coast of America.
Clinton is an evil man.
He has taken this road — a road that has been laid out for him by the people who direct him from the shadows — knowing that his actions will destroy America.
Look at how he talks about “One World” and the United Nations. He’s made a deal — and he’s personally sold out America for cocaine. I would say he has done this terrible thing because he believes that it no longer matters — that the ‘big game’ as you Gringos say — is over.
And there is more to this story. One of the gunmen for the Arelano Felix drug cartel was killed as he tried to murder the co-publisher of Tijuana’s ZETA newspaper. The gunman was named David Barron Corona.
Barron was the man in charge of the murder of a Catholic Cardinal in Guadalajara in 1993. He even had American prison gang tattoos on his body — even the Mexican Mafia sign “E M E.”
But the evil of drugs goes farther than China. This Barron was a U.S. citizen and a recruiter for the Bario Logan “30’s” street gang.
And here is the important bit of this story. Barron had been trained as a professional killer — a “gatilleros” . And where had he been trained? In Israel!
I may only be a farm worker but I am not ignorant — I can certainly read. All of this information came from papers we took when we raided the government offices in San Quintin and the interesting conversation we had with our now dead general.
We in Mexico have thousands of drug traffickers and thugs, armed and ready. And they are sitting in Tijuana — right now — just waiting for the signal to move over the border. They await the command from the drug cartel, from Clinton, from the dark forces.
And you have an American President who is a communista and who — before he became president — demonstrated his disgust for America and its government by actually following in the footsteps of the Great Lenin — on some sort of pilgrimage of sanctification.
This Clinton even took the same train as did Lenin — from Helsinki, Finland to Moscow. Clinton then stayed at the National Hotel — known as “The First Hotel of Soviets” — the same hotel that Lenin stayed in during the Russian Revolution. He even bragged about the greatness of Communism to Americans who were in Moscow to try to save their sons from prison camps in North Vietnam. He was so excited about Communism that he kept these men in the hotel bar far past its closing time!”
Bill piped in with “We all thought that Clinton was the lackey of the Russian Communists. It seems that this was actually bullshit. His money has come from the Chinese Communists — as commanded by the New World Order!”
Bill was ignored.
Bill stood and took the center of the room:
“Look, guys, did you know that one of Clinton’s White House meetings was with a guy by the name of Wang Jun? This guy was head of the Commie-Chink “Poly Group” that actually got caught selling full-auto AK 47’s to Los Angeles street gangs!
Did you know that Clinton’s buddies probably tipped off the Chinks and they got their operatives Hammond Ku, Kok Ky and Bao Pin Ma out of the country?
Did you know that Ma and Ku were a big guys in a company related to NORINCO — the largest exporter of Chinese ammunition to the US?
Did you know that even most of the “Joe Six Pack” survivalists buy tons of NORINCO ammunition because its the cheapest on the market?
Did you know that these Chinese were also trying to sell mortars and even Stinger missiles to Los Angeles street gangs?”
Sally was shocked at that statement and asked: “Bill where did you get that information?”
“I got it from the U.S. Customs International Alert newsletter! The United States Government’s own alert information — it’s right at the U.S. Customs Website on the Internet!”
The expression on Bill’s face changed — as though he had finally put everything together …
“Shit, we got the New World Order and Chinese selling to both sides of this fight!”
“How do you know this Moscow shit about Clinton?” The pilot asked Reynaldo.
Reynaldo stood up and walked around the room moving his arms in the air:
“I saw it published in the Spanish translation of Clinton’s biography — that was I believe written by America’s Democratic Party for Clinton’s 1996 Presidential campaign.
The Democratic party even bragged about it!”
“Wait! I have that damn propaganda piece right here!” Bill said as he got up and ripped plastic sheeting off the wall and then rummaged around in a cupboard. While he was bent over and rummaging Bill tried to fill in the blanks in the Pilot’s education:
“Look, on or about December 30, 1969 Clinton took a train from Helsinki, Finland to Moscow. He arrived in Moscow on December 31, 1969. There’s only one hotel as far as the Soviets were concerned — The National. It was there — about 100 yards north of Red Square — that Lenin stayed during the Revolution of 1917. Lenin stayed in room 107. Clinton met two Americans in the bar — a plumber from Norton, Virginia who was looking for information from the North Vietnamese about his son. His son had been lost in Laos or North Vietnam. A bit of trivia about this guy is that Norton, Virginia was also the birthplace of Francis Gary Powers — the U-2 pilot who was shot down by the Ruskies.
Anyway, there was another guy in the bar with Clinton — a farmer — who was also looking for information about his son. Clinton spent maybe six hours with these guys — in the bar in the National Hotel — talking about Marxism and the Great Revolution engineered by Lenin.
The really scary thing about his conversation with these guys is that he talked about how just a handful of dedicated men could take over a country the size of Russia. He also talked about how you didn’t have to depend on armed revolutionaries from inside the country — you could bring in foreigners to do the job for you.
Shit, the armed troops that Lenin had around him in 1917 weren’t even Russian — they were Estonian for God’s sake! Lenin admitted that he couldn’t trust Russians — because once they saw what he was really up to then they’d turn around and shoot him!”
Now, while Clinton was in Moscow who do you think he met? Eugene McCarthy! Another God Damn Communist!
Here it is!” Bill pulls a large paperback book out of the bottom cupboard.
A sheet of newsprint slipped from the pages and fell to the floor.
“Oh, yeah! I’d forgotten about this! This article came out, let’s see … October 15, 1992 — by George Archibald a writer for the Washington Times “Clinton At Oxford” — front page — A1.
It says here — and was never refuted by anyone — that Lincoln Allison, a Politics Lecturer at Oxford University College, knew Clinton and that Clinton’s anti-war activities were of a “purely selfish” nature — or cowardice — and that Clinton was impatient over “the inconvenience” that a stint in the military would cause in his political career. This is what they are willing to risk printing on the front page of their newspaper. What more do think they have — that they won’t risk printing without waking up dead?
Also — there are real questions about how a guy getting $2,760 a year as a Rhodes Scholar can spend at least $5,000 on just a 40 day trip to Russia. Certainly, there ain’t much to do in Moscow in the dead of winter … there’s good reason to believe that he — just like “Hanoi Jane” Fonda — tottled off to Hanoi for a quick Commie love-fest during the time he was in Moscow.”
Bill returns the newspaper clipping to the folds of the book and starts thumbing through the book’s pages.
“Let’s see … Looking in the index … Page … Yes, here it is … And it even brags about McCarthy being there in Moscow at the same time!
Maybe what you guys don’t know is that at the very moment that coke-snorting Clinton was in Moscow giving political blow jobs to Brezhnev and Eugene McCarthy, Ross Perot was trying to fly into North Vietnam with tons of aid packages for our POW’s.”
Bill was getting worked up again.
The pilot took the book from Bill and read the three pages in the Democratic Party’s Clinton Biography that detailed, no, gushed about William Jefferson Clinton’s trip to Russia.
Bill couldn’t stand it and piled on one more fact for the Pilot. “Those Ruskies couldn’t even run a hotel right!. After the fall of the USSR a couple of Austrian companies — with their own imported construction workers — were called in to rebuild the National to make it into a tourist hotel that non-communist tourists would actually stay in!
So here’s the bottom line. This forced mongrelization of the developed countries is happening around the world. It is occurring because this is the only way that a very intelligent but evil foreign minority can take control. They have been landless for thousands of years. They operate like a virus — infecting their prey and killing it. They are using immigration and drugs as a tool to destroy any people who are a threat to their dominance and control.
Look around the world. What do you see? You see Muslims invading Europe and Mexicans invading America. These “immigrants” are told how they have every right to carry their homeland’s mores and “civilization” with them to their new lands. They are told that they need never assimilate. That they should hold their barbarism up to the world as a badge of their “culture.” These barbaric invaders are being protected in the courts by a singular force — “The New World Order.” In the United States this force is embodied in the ACLU.
In October of 1994 there were mass protests in Los Angeles. More than 70,000 Mexicans marched — to stop California from passing a law which would cut off the flow of tax money to illegal aliens. What flag did these “people” carry? The Mexican flag. There was not one American flag among the 70,000 marchers.
America’s identity has been based upon the heritage of Western civilization. That would include the concepts of private property, liberty, democracy, equality. The “New World Order” — in the guise of several destructive organizations such as the ACLU — has attacked these American concepts. To encourage “multi-culturalism” they have attacked the very identity of the United States and its roots in Western civilization. They have also fanned the burning desires of various racial, ethnic and moral identities and groups. And when they could not get local groups to act with sufficient vigor they now have moved to import groups — be they Muslim, Mexican or even illiterate stone-age tree-dwelling Asian peasants — who would force this hidden agenda upon America as a whole.
And in fact, I would go so far as to say that these peoples were selected for injection into the developed world principally because of their cultural resistance to assimilation.
It should also be important to realize that instead of even attempting to change the identity of America to some other civilization — make us all speak French or even Farsi — they have purposely attempted to fragment us into a place of a thousand competing civilizations — and where every group no matter how fragmented or bizarre has equal influence. I would certainly say that no place in history has this ever been shown to work. It’s a more destructive concept than even Marxism. In fact, I would have to say that history has shown us that no country so corrupted has long survived. A multi-cultural United States is not the United States — it is the United Nations — or 15th century India.
But we must understand that the reasons for this are not egalitarian. They are evil — they are to fragment us so that a single group of immense political clout and exceptional intellect can in fact dominate us and create a country and thence a world of new surfs to do their bidding.
Clinton’s mega-weapon — Mexico — is our greatest threat today but it is only one attack of hundreds. Our mission certainly must be to protect ourselves and our families from the immediate threat of this octopus but also to find a way to destroy its brain.
Hey, wait a minute. I set up a PC to scan the air looking for pager messages — those shits up at the FBI command post should have been getting hammered for status reports.”
Bill walked over to the old tractor feed dot matrix printer in the corner and snapped the bullet-ridden fan — folded listing off the smashed machine. He stood there and slowly read the list of pager telephone numbers and their associated messages.
“My, my, my … and bless my ten toes!
Lets find out who’s interested in our collective demise …
Oh, my … See that POTUS message? That’s really bad news.”
Bill dug the Plantronics headset connnected to the Radio Shack cell phone out from under the plastic sheeting on the floor and handed the headset to the pilot. The he pointed down the printed list to three phone numbers — one in the 212 (New York) area code and two in the 202 (Washington, DC) area code.
The pilot cranked up the cell phone ear piece volume so that everybody in the room would be able to hear …
He dialed the first 202 number. A man answered: “White House.” The pilot hung up.
Bill smiled and said: “See the word POTUS on the pager message printout? POTUS is the White House code word for President of the United States.”
The pilot then dialed the 212 number. A woman answered: “Council on Foreign Relations.” The pilot hung up.
“Isn’t that place run by a guy named Les Gelb?” Bill asked.
Then the pilot dialed the remaining 202 number. A man answered in Chinese.
There was nothing but absolute dead silence in the room.
Seconds passed.
The pilot looked around. He looked at Sally, he looked back toward the window and toward the burned fleshy-lumps which he knew were heaped outside, and he looked at Reynaldo.
“Okay guys, I think you got my vote.” These words from the pilot were like some gold medal — a Seal of Approval.
What really got to him was the realization that no one within this area was expected to live. If by some miracle anybody had survived then they were to be cut down with gunfire, missiles and 500 pound bombs and their bodies probably burned and buried in a bomb crater.
The pilot finally realized that Clinton was near the top of the food chain that had put a death sentence on everyone here. He thought about the “Captain” that had volunteered him for this bombing run. He thought about the fact that his was the last A6 in the Navy’s inventory — a plane so old that its crashing into a mountain or onto the desert floor would seem — if anything — long overdue.
Then he started thinking about what his own father had told him. That America was being turned into some kind of mongrelized, beige, retarded, slave-state with a 70% tax rate. He hadn’t believed his father at the time. Now he knew his father had been right all along.
He finally and absolutely knew that he and his weapons officer would never have lived through this mission. They would most certainly have been “victims” of some accident before they ever returned to the Kitty Hawk. And all of this to help Clinton somehow keep his nose in cocaine and shit California into the hands of Mexico.
He also realized that this mission was just a tiny part of some big plan. It was just one of the hundreds of operations going on every week to kill off every possible threat to the “Great New Society” being formed by the New World Order. And then it hit him.
The targets weren’t American targets — they were White American targets. Anyone trying to preserve and fight for the old America — the country of Jefferson — were to be meted a terrible fate.
Again, their plan was to destroy the world’s concept of nation — to blend everyone together and create One World. The question then was: Who were to be the Nomenklatura in this One World? The answer was obvious — people of “The New World Order.”
The pilot crumpled into the couch.
Bill cut the pilot loose and handed him back his Berretta 9 mm pistol. The point had been well enough made. The pilot finally understood.
The sound of Hummers on the move drifted through the open front door.
“Shit!
Here comes round two, three? Four?!
Okay flyboy. You’re as dead as the rest of us now. Here’s your chance to shine!
Sally, please go turn on the water to the number three gully whammer — they can’t possibly have reached it yet.”
Bill grabbed the 12 gauge and a handful of shells and started loading the gun as he headed toward the front door. “Flyboy, you come with me.”
The pilot snapped smartly to the order.
All three trotted out the front door and to the north — toward the bomb crater.
Reynaldo was trailing twenty yards behind the two Americanos and still in scavenge mode. He picked the 9 mm pistol magazines out of the weapons officer’s clothing and from the bloody, meaty-red brown muck on the ground and stuffed them into his pockets.
They all jogged passed the still-smoldering missile crater and then climbed the low hill to the north. A cloud of dust was curling off the dirt road half a mile ahead of them.
They crawled the last three feet of the hill and scooted behind a large bush. Very slowly Bill and the pilot raised their heads over the top.
Two USMC Hummers were cautiously driving down the road. They seemed to be trying to avoid the concrete boulders embedded in the road — maybe they thought the things were actually mines. Both Hummers had TOW missile launchers mounted on them. The lead vehicle had a gunner standing up behind the missile launcher. He must have been acting as a scout not as a gunner. Sunlight glinted off the empty TOW missile tube rack.
The vehicle in trail had its occupants tidily ensconced inside.
“Okay, here’s the plan, we let the lead Hummer drive into the gully. It’s gonna stop right quick. Before anybody’s the wiser we gotta take out all three people in the second Hummer without hurting the vehicle or blowing ourselves up by hitting a missile warhead.
You get up on that side of the road and I’ll climb down a bit into that arroyo over there. We’ll get ‘em as they drive out of this shallow cut through the hill.”
The lead Hummer had already driven into and out of two gullies with no surprises.
The driver dropped the Hummer into the last gully at over 25 mph. He had no time to do anything. Hummers do not have 15 mph safety bumpers. The vehicle’s impact with more than seven tons of a solid concrete spear aimed directly at the center of the bumper knocked the two men in the front seats right out the doors. The gunner was thrown down and forward — knees-first over the front seats — and then to a final resting place under the steel dashboard.
A dust cloud puffed into the air and a heavy “CLANK” echoed over the valley.
The second Hummer picked up speed to assist its buddy. As it drove past a low rise at each side of the road it came into the killing zone. A crossfire of 9 mm bullets and six 12 gauge shotgun rounds fired at point blank range killed everyone inside. The Hummer swerved off the road and rolled through the heavy brush for seventy feet and then came to a stop against a concrete grape vine stump.
Bill screamed: “You almost killed me! Your bullets went clear through their open windows and were bouncing all around my feet!
The pilot ignored him, he was busy. He ran to the vehicle and tugged the dead driver out onto the ground. Bill pulled the passenger out and Reynaldo pulled the gunner out the back.
They were acting as a team.
The pilot backed the Hummer out of the brush and onto the road. Bill and Reynaldo hopped in and the pilot drove down the road to the gully where the other Hummer was almost tipped on its nose.
Bill hopped out and looked at the three Marines. These weren’t grunts. These were specially cleared Special Ops agents wearing Marine uniforms. They were too old — and in too good a shape — to be Marines doing this kind of work. Bill dragged the “Marine” stuffed under the dashboard out onto the dirt then backed up five paces and shot him in the head with the 12 gauge. He then pulled the other two uniformed thugs out of the vehicle and shot them too. If they weren’t dead before they certainly were now.
“We gotta get movin now — there might be more of these guys comin down the road.” Bill was pulling anything of value off the bodies and talking at the same time.
The pilot dragged out the tow cable and linked the two vehicles together. It was an easy task to pull the dented Hummer off its nose and out of the gully. As soon as the Hummer was free of the concrete boulder there was a sploosh of water and the boulder lowered itself flat with the road.
The pilot jumped into the dented Hummer and revved the engine — it was fine. He headed toward the house.
Bill sat in the driver’s seat of the second Hummer and drove it back south toward the house. Reynaldo hopped on the back of the second Hummer as it passed him.
As they approached the house the muzzle of an .30 caliber H&K 91 was sticking out the bottom right corner of the front door. Sally’s head slowly peered around the door jamb.
“I wish you guys were a bit more obvious about who you were — I was ready to put 20 rounds into that Hummer!”
“I just thought you’d wait for us to come back! I’d never have figured you to be ready to blast us! I’m sorry!”
Bill got out and started lifting the heavy Lexan and glass window on the driver side of his Hummer. Then he saw it — the ID plate. These were not standard armored Hummers. These were special Hummers built by Ogara-Hess & Eisenhardt. That company had made spook machines for all of the intelligence and security folks — as well as the U.S. presidential limousines and even the limousine for the Pope. These Hummers were literally bomb proof.
“Let’s raise the damn armored windows on these things. Just ‘cause the previous owners were idiots doesn’t mean we have to die in a cross-fire like they did.”
“Hey, Reynaldo, do you remember any telephone numbers for any of your friends down in San Quintin?” Sally asked.
“Oh, yes, but of course.” Reynaldo answered with utmost politeness — probably thanking his luck stars that he had not become a corpse like nearly everyone else Bill and Sally had met over the last three days.
Bill handed Reynaldo a cell phone he’d stripped from one of the bodies and had him call his friends.
“Have your friends meet us outside of Tijuana and have ‘em bring barrels full of empty aluminum cans or machine shop metal shavings and at least ten barrels of gasoline. And tell ‘em it doesn’t matter what they have to do to get this stuff. There won’t be any tomorrow for their enemies!”
“Bill, what do you think we can do to stop all of this?” Sally asked.
“Well, I think we can put a little hitch in drug dealer Clintons’ plans for California. But first, I want to — we’d better — put a little prayer time aside.
They formed a circle, Bill, Sally, Reynaldo, and the pilot. They bowed their heads.
“I’ll try to remember something from Ecclesiastes:
For everything there is an appointed time
And there is a time for every purpose under heaven
A time to be born
A time to die
A time to kill
A time to heal
A time to breakdown
A time to build up
A time to weep
A time to laugh
A time to mourn
A time to dance
A time to keep
A time to cast away
A time to love
A time to hate
A time for peace
And a time for war
God please give us the strength to bring You back into the heart of our America
Amen.”
There was a long pause before the group broke up and then Sally said, “I’m gonna go upstairs and wash some of this filth off of me. We’ve got three bathrooms so have at it!”
Bill motioned to Reynaldo and the pilot. They picked up the smaller spools of olive-drab telephone wire and stuffed them in the back of the Hummers.
Reynaldo was then shown the small downstairs sink and toilet. Sally and the pilot walked up stairs to the second floor baths.
“I’ve got something else to do — I’ll clean up in a couple of minutes.” Bill said.
He then picked up the roll of plastic sheeting and tape and walked out the patio doors and turned left.
Bill wrapped Samantha in plastic sheeting and then carried her inside, down the basement ladder and deep into the eastern-most segment of the mine shaft. He then returned to the surface, wrapped Bobby in plastic sheeting and carried him deep into the earth to lay near his sister. He fused a small charge — enough to collapse the tunnel and seal the two children deep in the mountain — and used a length of 2 × 4 to wedge the charge against the roof of the tunnel. He lit the fuse and walked away. His children would sleep — buried deep in the earth.
A quiet thump and low rumble told them all that Samantha and Bobby were finally safe.