Homeland Security

by William L Casselman

  “How about firefighting, does the Militia ever get called in for that?”

  “It has in the past, but it’s on a case by case situation. Some of our guys have their red cards as trained firefighters, and others don’t, and the command doesn’t want to risk those. But, if the City of Fairbanks was at risk or Nenana, then the whole unit would be hitting the road in force. We’d probably even get the troops from Southeast Alaska in that event. Everyone loves a little excitement.”

  “What about these machine guns you mentioned… how’d the Militia get licensed for automatic weapons?”

  “Remember, Clay, this is Alaska… where nearly everyone owns at least one firearm and probably two or more. We have no concealed carry permit law in Alaska. You simply can’t carry a gun into schools, state and federal buildings, liquor establishments, and banking institutions. Some people think we’ve gone back to the old west, but the federal government makes sure we stay in line with all automatic weapons and silencers. Now as to our Militia, we have several federally licensed Class III dealers and collectors of automatic weapons. We have one man who collects tripod mounted World War II American, Japanese and British Machine guns, and another collector of German antique machine guns. One of our people is licensed for Vietnam era M-60 machine guns, and he has several of them; licensed for each one at a costly price to the federal government I might add.”

  “What about fully automatic M-16’s and M-4’s, Sergeant,” Clay asked in his Captain voice, which made Emy a bit uncomfortable.

  “It’s all legal, Clay...Captain. The M-4s and M-16’s that are fully automatic have federal stamps and owned by licensed people. There is nothing in the law that says a person simply firing the weapon on a range has to be licensed and believe me we have researched that from cover to cover. We also have two .50 caliber sniper rifles, and some of the guys like to carry those new Ak-47 semi-automatic rifles you can get for a pretty reasonable price.”

  “Okay, now are you going to tell me we have grenades, maybe a few mortars and a tank standing by?”

  “Enjoy your donuts, Captain. I think you’d better wait until we arrive to see the rest of the inventory. I wouldn’t want to ruin your appetite.” She shot him that raised eyebrow he remembered from that day at the barbecue and returned to her driving. They didn’t say another word as they drove east along the Richardson Highway. Within fifty yards of turning left for Eielson AFB main gate, Emy turned right and pulled off onto a well-graded dirt road. A cloud of dust followed behind them as they proceeded south along its single lane. For the next couple of miles, they suffered a washboard effect brought about by the heavy equipment used to keep the road built up and clean the snow off during the long winter. This, of course, brought memories back for Clay, picturing the long seemingly endless desert roads overseas and even his dirt highway out to the Community of Minto. He was really glad he hadn’t brought the loaner out, its poor shocks wouldn’t have survived this dirt road, and he would’ve been stuck calling for a wrecker and probably stuck with the bill for repairs.

  Clay heard the whump-whump-whump sound of a Chinook helicopter flying over. The huge hot dog shaped helicopter with dual rotor blades flew at less than 200 feet above ground and appeared to be going in for a landing at Eielson Air Force Base. Clay knew these Chinooks were stationed at Fort Wainwright, in support of the infantry, and he had flown in them on numerous occasions in the sandbox, and they always seemed to have made him nervous. As he thought about Fort Wainwright, Clay recalled how the post had grown to near a full-strength division of 20,000 troops back in the 1970’s. Every barracks was full. Fairbanks business people were overjoyed by their sales receipts, and the bars were hopping. Then the downsizing began with a new political party in the White House. All-too-soon, Fort Wainwright dwindled down to approximately 6,000 troops and most of these were support personnel for the single regiment of infantry and a couple helicopter aviation units. He had no idea what their strength was now or how many troops were now stationed at Eielson AFB, but he knew Fairbanks and North Pole were not looking all that prosperous at the moment, and a lot of people were concerned over the expected move of even more aircraft to the Lower 48. The civilian owned fuel plant constructed here in North Pole to take the North Slope crude oil pumped up from the ground and transform it into high-grade avionics fuel had been closed down. It had once employed over 200-people, and now only a half-a-dozen security guards wandered about the grounds and worked the entry gate. Most of the structures had become scrap iron and was being driven out to the state’s various auto wrecking yards. Most of the steel would be purchased in small parcels by civilians to turn them it into small structures or even yard projects, such as homemade windmills to help lower the electrical costs.

  Clay had heard that some of the steel sheets were helping a man build his own aircraft. Alaskans were known for their ingenuity. He had seen the circular house in Fairbanks that set upon 5-story tower, and the house slowly circled, like the massive Seattle Space Needle did. Plus, they had constructed a small elevator inside the tower to bring power up into the house. Clay imagined the builders had the most awesome view in the entire Fairbanks area.

  After another mile, Clay began to see a long line of vehicles parked beside the road, lining both sides, adjacent the training field. A makeshift parking lot was packed and off to one side of the roadway and Clay easily spotted a small fleet of diesel tractor rigs hooked up to 40-foot long empty flatbed trailers. “They pulled all the stops out for you, Captain. The Colonel wanted you to see the whole Fairbanks Command, including our troop vehicles…which, you might notice is an assortment of retired military armored personnel carriers.” She pointed out, gesturing with her right hand over the steering wheel, to a row of older model APCs. “But believe me, Clay. The engines inside those brutes have all been rebuilt, and they could run the butts off anything Fort Wainwright has right now. Our civilian engines would put the Army’s to shame…I’d estimate we’ve got better than 100 horsepower over theirs, maybe more.”

  They drove up, and Emy turned the ignition off. Clay grabbed his fatigue cap and climbed out of Emy’s family 8-passenger Chevy van. Normally her mom’s rig, she used this today to haul out her weapons and try as she may, Dad wouldn’t let her bring the Camaro out. Clay was in full woodland camouflage, his name tag and captain bars in place. Instead of U.S. Army or National Guard, the cloth tag over his left pocket simply had the letters ADF sewn in black thread. The words were too long for the allowable size, and they wanted something more than simply-“Militia.” The Colonel and other officers were not present, so a senior NCO called the crowd to attention and saluted Clay. Clay returned the salute in a crisp fashion and then said loudly enough for everyone nearby to be able to hear him, “Unless the Colonel disagrees and counters my order, there will be no saluting on the training grounds during training day. Experience shows that accidents have happened when enlisted personnel and even officers are worried about rendering a proper salute and not ducking to avoid having their head knocked off or their butt run over.”

  “Yes, Sir,” The senior NCO replied, and he nodded his head in agreement. “I believe that to be a sound order, Captain. I’ll pass it on to the Colonel for confirmation.” He approached Clay and offered his hand, “Captain, I’m Glenn Whitehead of Salcha. I am the unit’s 1st Sergeant, and I am also retired Air Force. I put in 28-years and pulled the pin right here at Eielson as an E-9. You let me know if I can do anything for you, day or night.”

  “Thank you, First Sergeant. I will.” Clay had learned a good 1st Sergeant was worth his weight in gold. It was his responsibility to handle the enlisted men’s personal and military problems and take care of them before having to bring in an officer if possible. He had to be a counselor, a chaplain, a dad, and a knuckle-buster for his troops. Clay knew from Whitehead’s service records he was 67-years old, a tough as a rail spike driver and at 255 pounds, could probably still play a tough game of no-holds-barred combat football as nose tackle. In the military, co
mbat football resembled Rugby, in that they wore no pads, had few rules and nearly every one got bruised up. Most of the games were created in Vietnam, where the grunts, back on the rear bases, would play tackle football without pads and usually during monsoon season. The mud would quickly become over a foot deep, and one of the biggest concerns was not drowning at the bottom of any pile. When possible, officers also played, and rank met very little on the playing field.

  “We have a good bunch of people here, Captain and I personally believe the Colonel is tops in my book. I served in Vietnam, Thailand, the Philippines twice and in Iraq, and by large he’s the best and most caring commander I have ever worked for. The men and women love him, that’s why you have so many people out here today. He says jump and they say…”

  “How high,” Clay finished the old military saying, which got a grin from the senior NCO. “I can see that, First Sergeant. Even with the no salute order, I am betting they’ll still salute him.”

  “Yes, Sir, they will.” First Sergeant Whitehead first glanced about and then nodded his head in farewell. He then walked off to see if the Colonel had arrived, while Clay went over to inspect the vehicle fleet. Clay also wanted to see the firing range and meet his range instructors.

  The fleet of civilian diesel tractors included half-a-dozen Kenworth 10-ton rigs and a newer Kenworth 15-ton beast. The flatbeds were old and empty, but they had previously held (5) older model Vietnam era 706 “rubber ducky” amphibious armored personnel carriers. These vehicles traveled on 4 huge tires, they could carry up to 6-men and usually had a mounted M-60 machinegun on top. Clay noticed that each of these were painted in woodland camouflage and though they did have the machinegun mounts on them, the vehicles did not display the weapons. He was surprised to see how good of shape they were in and then noticed the paintwork on the bodies was quite recent. Next to these were (2) track-driven APC 113 armored personnel carriers. They too were equipped with machine gun mounts and had also been recently painted in the woodland camouflage pattern. Clay suspected the paint and bodywork was accomplished in the Wickersham Body and Paint Shop. There was an assortment of other vehicles, and most of these had a matching paint job, and we're all in pretty good shape. A lot of expense went into this, making me wonder what the Colonel has planned for this armada. With a gifted welder and knowledgeable armorer, those weapon mounts could easily switch from an M-60 to an older model .50 caliber machinegun. Those APC 113’s could also handle the weight and recoil of a 20mm automatic weapon, possibly even the newer 25mm cannon if the frame walls have been reinforced.

  “Captain, the Colonel is down at the pistol range, and he’d like for you to please join him,” 2nd Lieutenant Rouse said.

  “I’ll be on my way if you can point me in the right direction,” Clay said.

  “Over that way, Captain, you can just make out the firing range towers to the southwest. The towers were two stories high, a simple two-by-four construction with a ladder on one side and painted white. There was a tower for each of the rifle and pistol ranges.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.” Clay watched the lieutenant walk off, pulled out a small notebook from his left shirt pocket and turned it to where he had Lieutenant Rouse’s information and reviewed it; 28 years old and recently assigned to C Company as a new platoon leader. Currently, he works for North Pole City Roads, Parks, and Recreation. A good-sized man, he was a hair over 6’4”, was quite wide at the shoulders and a tad bit overweight. He refused to re-enlist after serving 3-tours in Iraq and chose the Militia over the Guard to prevent a return trip to the sandbox. Born and raised in Healy, his father had worked in the Healy coal mines, and this was a job Rouse wanted to avoid. He’s also reported to be of good character and of sniper caliber with an M-4 or the .50 caliber sniper rifle.

  When Clay reached the pistol range, he found 8 shooting lanes in operation for today’s training, with target lanes set up at 25-yards, 50-yards, 100-yards and even a couple targets at 500-yards and 1,000-yards. Each target was the standard military shooting paper target, which showed a black center and an area for where the head would be. It was supported by a plywood backing and a 2”by 4” framing to lift it to the expected height of an enemy. Shooters would shoot from standing, off-hand, kneeling and prone. Clay was impressed.

  The Colonel and his senior staff were up on the line and apparently awaiting the arrival of their new training officer so he may get qualified, before instructing the others. “Captain, we just want to make sure you can shoot before giving our men lessons,” Silas said in jest. He knew Clay’s records listed him as an expert shot in all standard issue weapons, but his records had also shown his expert status with the sniper rifles and many of the foreign issue weapons. Clay wasn’t happy to see this was all listed in the records Silas was able to get his hands on. But then he knew, most combat officers serving in the sandbox would have this training and growing up a hunter in the Alaska wilderness, he would’ve become an excellent shot.

  “I am ready, Colonel, just as soon as I load my magazines.”

  “We’ve already taken care of it, Clay. We have several troops who carry the Model 1911, and we keep loaded magazines ready to go on the range to speed things up. Same thing for the Glock Models 17 and 22…it saves time.”

  Clay walked up to the ammo table and found four loaded magazines for his Model 1911. He inspected them first and then inserted one into his weapon, without chambering a round. Three more were placed into his belt pouches. He then approached a firing lane to the left of the Colonel and to the right of Major Peterson. He then adjusted his canteen belt to a comfortable fit. Normally, he would be wearing a tactile holster rig which would also be strapped to his right leg. But, for now, he would use the Army’s regulation holster for the large Colt 1911. Clay noticed the Colonel was also using a Colt 1911, while Peterson shot a Smith & Wesson .45.

  The instructor in the tower, who was using a handheld bull-horn, was First Sergeant Whitehead and it didn’t surprise him to see Emy standing up there beside him with a pair of binoculars in her hands. Clay took a moment to decide how well he should shoot today, but he decided to go for it and impress both his lady friend and the others. They might listen to him if they know he can shoot well.

  Instructions were given, and permission to load the first round was authorized. The officers placed their ear protectors on; either soft foam inserts or full shooter’s ear protector that resembled old-fashioned stereo headphones. Whitehead directed them to fire the first four rounds in the two-hand combat grip and begin shooting when he blew the whistle. Clay loved shooting and was often at the range 3-4 times a week when on post or at a forward base. By the time he had emptied his four magazines, he knew he had outshot everyone in the senior staff, and by the end of the day, everyone would be suitably impressed, and this included his fair princess. He completely blew out the center of the 10 spot and made a large hole for where the man’s nose would be.

  By the end of the rifle shoot, Silas was standing beside Clay and shaking his head, “Clay, I was told your grandfather had taught you to shoot, but I had no idea you could shoot this well. You embarrassed my best sniper, and I thought he was one of the best shots in Alaska.” Clay didn’t want to have to tell him that the men in Delta were some of the best shooters in the world and it came from a natural talent and a whole lot of practice, practice and more practice.

  “I think the troops are ready to listen to you, Captain. So what’s next on your itinerary for today?” Silas stood beside his new training officer and had his right hand on top of Clay’s left shoulder, as the men compared some of the troop’s targets.

  “Colonel, you brought all these combat vehicles out here for something, so let’s see how our troops handle some combat deployment drills from a slow-moving APC. We can have a few sergeants shooting into the air to add to the moment with one of those old machine guns you have over there to get the blood flowing… make it real. But I really don’t want to see anyone run over. So, first, we do it from a single parked APC a
nd show each troop how it’s done. Okay with you, Sir.”

  “You’re turning out to be a good training officer, Captain. I strongly believe fate may have brought you to us.” Silas began to round up his company commanders for the exercise.

  Clay watched him walk away and wondered, Colonel, was it your fate or my own? When this is all over, we’ll know for sure, and one of us is going to be extremely unhappy with the outcome.

  For half an hour, Clay had each company train their personnel with a single parked APC. They’d load up with 4 to 6 troops, then an order was given, and they exited the vehicle. At first, it was done slowly to get the order down and then in a rush. The first move was to roll to one side; first man going left and next going right. Once away from the vehicle, they would remain in the shooter’s prone firing position and await an order from their squad leader to move out. They were to keep their magazine out of their weapons and not have a round chambered. Sergeants were directed to check each soldier’s weapon, and sure enough, 3 rifles were found with live rounds chambered. These men were sent off on 2-mile runs to help them remember their misdeed. Then the exercise was started with moving vehicles at 5 mph for the next two hours, switching off between wheeled and tank tread APCs, and surprisingly enough, not a single soldier was run over or injured. There were a few bruised up elbows and knees, but nothing that needed a visit to the emergency room.

  Clay brought all the troops together and wasn’t surprised to see the female and male troops equally sore. “I wanted to do it this way first to show you how the real thing can be harmful to the body. I presume, a word I normally do not like to use, but it appears a lot of you veterans have been out of the service long enough to forget how tough training can be, especially on our older bodies. So, I recommend that both female and male troops go to Fred Meyers or whatever sport’s store you favor, and purchase elbow and knee pads. They are to be either be black or covered in woodland colors. I have yet to see green pads at the stores, only white or black. You will not wear white ones, even if you plan on wearing them under your clothes. From my experiences, your fatigues will get torn, and then you’ll have these white colored pads sticking out for all to see.