Homeland Security

by William L Casselman

  Silas was dressed in his favorite navy blue sports coat with gold colored buttons, a light blue long sleeve shirt with button down collar, a loose fitting black tie without a tie tack, black pants with a sharp crease and a two-inch cuff and comfortable looking LL Bean brown leather Velcro loafers. He wore a wideband gold nugget Rolex on his left wrist, which was worth more than most of his new cars on his lot, and a very attractive handmade gold nugget wedding band on his left ring finger with a 1-carat diamond sunk in the middle of it. This was his 25th Anniversary present from Wendy Sue. When they got married, he wore only a simple gold band. The Rolex watch was his 60th birthday present from his whole family, and he figured it probably took everyone’s efforts to afford it. On his right hand, he wore his Texas A&M College ring, and he was also wearing a pair of heavy black rimmed bifocal eyeglasses to help him see the details on the screen clearer.

  Allen Peterson was leaning forward in one of Silas’s easy chairs, trying to make out one of the details in the current photo. A retired C-130 pilot, he wore a US Air Force faded blue flight jacket with Peterson’s leather name tag on it and his senior flight wings engraved in silver right above his name and rank. After retiring, Peterson had taken his coat to a tailor and had a large and colorful C-130 Hercules stitched on the back, with the words Desert Storm written under it in three-inch lettering. He was proud of his limited combat service, having flown 27-missions and taken a total of 63-hits from flak, rifle fire, and RPG shrapnel. Under his coat, he wore a dark brown wool sweater and had gray slacks for pants. His footwear consisted of black Wellingtons, their heels scuffed up and the boots in need of a good shine. He was also wearing a black wool driver’s cap on his head, but at the moment, it was slid back, which often was a sure sign of his frustration with something. His black leather Thinsulate driving gloves set on the corner of Silas’s desk, right next to Norm’s gray wool gloves.

  Though Norm Johnson had retired an E-9 from the Alaskan Air National Guard, he was still a Marine at heart. He had served with the 9th Marines in Vietnam, and today he was wearing a threadbare red Marines t-shirt, with the yellow globe and anchor emblem on the front and barely legible from being washed so many times. He was divorced and still mixed his colors and whites together for adverse effects, but his uniforms and formal wear were always dry cleaned at the Korean dry cleaners down the street from his place. Being part Aleut on his dad’s side and part Eskimo from his mom, he was brought up having to fight both sides of the family. So his dad thought the Marine Corps was the perfect spot for him and took him to the Anchorage recruiter.

  Norm came out of Vietnam with 2-Bronze Stars for Valor and 2-Purple Hearts. He only left the Marines to get married to his Aleut girlfriend, who refused to leave Alaska. He joined up with the Alaska Air National Guard because they had units closer to her family. But then, she had enough and found someone new, and he stayed on with the Guard and got a job with the Anchorage Police Department. After 16-years with them, he resigned because he didn’t like the way the department treated the Alaskan Natives and didn’t see much chance of promotion in the newer department. The guard was different, and he rose up the ranks. Upon retirement, Silas had sought him out to join the ADF and offered him a commission as a captain. Within 2-years Norm had become a major. When not working with the ADF he was fishing or hunting in Southwest Alaska or down on the Aleutian Chain, and he still did some guide work for people from the Lower 48 now and then. He had been wearing a blue and green wool patchwork insulated blue jean jacket when he arrived, but he dropped it on the floor beside his chair, and his faded blue Levis looked as if they had come from his Marine Corps days. He always had trouble with his feet, coming home from Vietnam with a bad case of trench foot and more often than not, he wore white tennis shoes one size too big. But, once the snow hit, he then switched over to oversized tan and brown laced-up Sorrel boots.

  “This is the latest batch of photos from Emy Sanders, and as you can see, they still haven’t moved any of those KC-135 tankers off the flight line,” Silas said. The photo showed the Eielson Air Force Base flight line from the northwest angle, highlighting the positioning of 6 US Air Force refueling tankers operated by the US Air Force Reserve Units from the Lower 48. The crews and their aircraft would routinely transfer up here for 30 to 90-day temporary duty assignments from their home bases to gain experience in arctic refueling operations for the various fighter aircraft stationed at Eielson.

  “If it’s like the Open House we had here two years ago, they’ll have those tankers moved to south base area for the Open House,” Norm said. “They’ll be too many people wandering around the tarmac to leave them there. Security Forces will be spread thin as it is, they don’t need to add to their headaches.”

  Silas pushed a couple buttons, and Base operations and the Tower were shown from the Richardson Highway. “That girl’s a pretty good photographer,” Peterson said. “She might consider a career in photography.”

  “Allen, how many people do we have planned for the tower and Base Ops?” Silas asked.

  Peterson picked up his black spiral notebook, leafed through it and then replied, “We’ll have a platoon commander in the tower with a 3-riflemen force; one of them being a sniper armed with a .50 caliber for long range shots. This will then give us one sergeant and a full 9-man squad in and around Base Operations. The Sergeant will, of course, be in direct radio contact with our Command Center and the Tower above… Colonel, I still say we should move the Command Post to Base Operations.”

  “I suspect, they’ll be thinking the same thing, Allen. I want them thrown off for as long as possible. We’ll keep our Command Post secret for now, but may change the location the closer we get to S-Day.”

  “Sir, what about Clay? Are you ready to bring him on board? The troops sure like him, and from what I hear, we should be hearing wedding bells real soon between him and Emy,” Norm said. He reached over to the desk and grabbed for a cold open can of Coke and took a large gulp. It was one of his few remaining vices. His health forced him to give up liquor and tobacco, and his temper usually kept the women away. He was known to finish off half-a-case of Coke a day and more if watching sports on TV. His teeth had rotted out long ago, and he had gone to Canada to obtain false teeth at a minimal cost. He also had a craving for Snickers Bars, but his doctor told him he had to make a choice because his cholesterol was too high. “You have too much sugar and fat in your system, and its causing problems with your weight. So either chose the Coke or the chocolate.” So, he chose the soft drink, but every now and then he was seen with a half-consumed Snickers Bar in his hand.

  “I’m thinking about it, gentlemen…but how about our other manpower problems?” Silas looked over at Peterson with a raised right eyebrow. “Numbers, Major?”

  “We’ve added a few troops, Colonel, but we still need half-a-dozen people, and our selection pool has gotten mighty thin. Just too many drunks, dopers, brain cases, and gun-happy grunts coming back from over there. Finding a well-balanced troop is like me picking the next Iditarod winner.” Each year men and women raced their dog-teams across a grueling course of ice and snow, through Alaska’s treacherous mountain ranges, from Anchorage to Nome. A lot of the teams never finish for one reason or another, and the winner is awarded a new truck and a very large cash prize.

  “Keep at it,” Silas ordered. “I know another Stryker Unit is coming home in November. We may have the numbers we need from them. There is bound to be some Alaskans in a unit that size.”

  “I hope so, Colonel,” Norm replied.

  Silas switched the computer and wall monitor off and pushed his chair back. He stood up and walked over to turn the overhead light back on and pull a single set of curtains back to let in some daylight. He then returned to his desk, took the photo disc out of his computer, and handed it to Peterson. “You guys have plans for lunch?”

  “I’m meeting with that gentleman in Delta Junction concerning the amount of Ammonia Nitrates we will need,” Peterson said. “Next week, I
’ll be on my way to Seattle to confirm the purchase of a barge of diesel fuel to arrive by barge at our agreed upon date in Nenana.”

  Silas looked thoughtful for a moment, pushing his glasses back on his forehead and nodding his head, while the other two waited in silence. Then he spoke with a small degree of hesitance, “Are you sure about this farmer, Allen?”

  “We’ve run a thorough background on him. His family has owned this farm for over 60-years, and he’s a long time member of the Alaska Independence Party and the National Rifle Association. Word around town is how he’s not all too fond of the IRS over a dispute from some 10-years back, and we know he’s an old friend of Joe Vogler. He also lost a grandson two-years ago in Afghanistan, which has him pretty teed off against Washington. Sales receipts for the last five years show how much ammonia nitrates his farm purchases and this year he’s simply willing to do without some of his fertilizer. Of course, if we don’t use it, he’d like it all back.”

  “Yes… I sincerely hope we don’t have to use it. If we do, it won’t matter… for anyone,” Silas said quietly, almost like in a prayer.

  “Colonel, I haven’t asked before now, but… well, Sir, all of this is costing a lot of money. More than what you have or what our whole Militia could put together. I mean, just bringing that diesel barge up from Seattle is… and why are we doing that? “Norm asked.

  Norm was showing new worry lines in his forehead, and this had both Allen and Silas concerned, knowing the old man’s health wasn’t the best at the moment. Still, the FFAM needed Norm and Silas couldn’t talk Norm into stepping down without his old buddy losing it completely and possibly opting to kill himself for feeling useless. The ADF and FFAM were his life, and they both knew depression was a constant problem for him.

  Silas shook his head, “I swear, Norm, whenever you wear that Marine T-shirt, you get dumber than a rock!”

  “Colonel, I resent that!”Norm said. On his feet, he glared at his Colonel, with his hands balled into fists and his shoulders hunched over.

  “Oh, I’m only joshing you, Norm… you were getting too serious there for a moment and your blood pressures up. I could see it in your face. You know I love you, now calm down and let me worry about the money issue.”

  Norm glanced over at Allen, who nodded his head in agreement, which got Norm to relax his hands and slowly sit back down. “All right, Colonel… but I am still concerned about the costs involved here. There’s a lot of funds going out, and I’d like to know who’s backing our play. I feel like a fool if we ended up owing the wrong people when this was all over.”

  Silas moved up and gently laid his right hand on his old friend’s left shoulder, “Trust me, Norm. This is the better way right now- that only I know where our money is coming from. Our benefactors need to be kept secret. In fact, they demand it…It’s the only way they’d agree to help us. But understand Norm and you too, Al, I would never hurt you or anyone else in the Militia or the Alaska Independence Party. You must know I would never hurt my beloved Alaska by tying in with an unethical or illegal source. If nothing else, Wendy Sue would either leave me or kill me… No, when it is revealed, you’ll know your trust in me was verified.” Silas removed his hand and returned to his chair.

  “Now as to the fuel barge… by purchasing it down there in Seattle, no one will even notice it. Fuel is always being transported up here by barge, and it was Clay who gave me the idea, of course without his knowledge. The fuel will be towed up by a tug with records showing the fuel’s destination as the Community of Minto. Truck rigs will rendezvous with the barge in Nenana, where our people will meet it and transfer the fuel over into one hundred 55-gallon drums. This keeps the authorities from knowing a large purchase of diesel fuel was made here in Alaska. Since 911, they keep records for same, but no one will notice nitrates purchased by a farmer who gets the same amount every year and fuel ordered for a native community. Then combined with the nitrates, the fuel, and the ignition sources being created for us by our EOD personnel, we will have enough explosive power to level nearly half of Eielson Air Force Base and that, my friends, will get someone’s attention.”

  On midday, October 25th, the Tanana Valley was struck by its first major snowstorm. Within 6-hours, Fairbanks saw over 14 inches of fluffy white snowfall and the roads were one gigantic mess. The Fairbanks Police Department and D Detachment of the Alaska State Troopers/ Fairbanks reported 43 motor vehicle accidents, and of these, 11-people were injured. The Alaska State Troopers also reported that in the stretch of Richardson Highway between Airport Way and the Main Gate of Eielson Air Force Base; a length of 22-miles, there were a reported 27-vehicles off the road. Of those reported, the majority of the vehicles were 4-wheel drive. It seemed that 2-wheel drive and front-wheel drive operators drove slower and with more care, while the 4-wheel drive - jockeys were more of the “hell-bent for leather” style driver. They figured their 4-wheel drive capability allowed them to actually fly over the snow and soon found out this capability was a farce. They slid and plowed through long stretches of snow before ending up on their sides, rolled over completely, struck trees head-on, or wrapped themselves around signposts.

  Halloween passed by reasonably quiet, and when the Thanksgiving Holiday came around, the City of Fairbanks had reported more than 25-inches of snow on the ground. But, today the skies were clear. Temperatures were down to minus 46 degrees, yet the holiday cheer was very present in the Saunders household. Clay showed up early, was fed a quick breakfast of French toast, and was put to work by 8 a.m. He stayed mostly in the kitchen to peel potatoes and apples by the bag, filled ice chests from the big freezer in the garage and stocked them with a mixed array of soda and beer. He was also kidnapped to help move living room furniture around with Dad.

  Clay couldn’t believe the amount of food that came out of the kitchen and arrayed atop the dining room table and two extra side tables, but then he soon understood why. People stopped by all day long, some bringing in extra food and others, who only brought along their appetites.

  Emy was to learn it was a Militia custom the Colonel had originated 20-years ago on Thanksgiving, of how a certain number of homes were pre-selected as host-homes for the roving feast. Clay enforced a two beer maximum and didn’t allow any hard liquor at all, which was backed by Dad. The NFL Game came on, and the living room, which was swamped with eager watchers. But poor Clay was too busy to catch more than a few minutes of play. His pile of full 33-gallon trash bags in the carport had reached mountainous proportions, and he now hoped none of the bags broke open or that the neighborhood dogs got to them. Between chores, he’d catch a kiss on the run from Emy, but they had only a few moments to visit.

  Around 3 p.m., the Colonel and Wendy Sue showed up with pies in hand and stood around in the kitchen with Mom and Dad, while Emy and Clay handled the host duties. Clay tried to stay on top of the dirty dishes, but it was nearly impossible, and he couldn’t understand why no one was using paper plates for such an event. He had begun the day with 60-dinner plates, and he believed he had washed each plate at least three and maybe four times. This didn’t take into account all the dessert plates, bowls, glasses, and coffee cups. Plus, there was the ever-growing pile of pots and pans. He had one stack of clean pie plates with other people’s names on them, to be returned at the next Militia meeting, if not sooner.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  By 8 p.m., the house was reasonably quiet. The TV was off. Dad was asleep in his chair and snoring up a storm. He had nice thick brown wool throw draped over his stomach and legs. Clay had finally sat down on the couch, worn out from so many hours of host and KP duty. Eyes closed briefly when he was startled by a full dinner plate in the hands of a fair maiden that dropped over him from behind. “T’is time my Knight Protector doth consume thy vittles,” Emy said. The plate had sliced white turkey breast, heaps of homemade cranberry sauce, a small mountain of mashed potatoes covered in Mom’s secret homemade gravy, a helping of Wendy Sue’s 3-bean salad, someone’s really tasty homemade t
urkey dressing with walnuts and an ear of corn freshly husked and smothered in real butter.

  Emy vanished briefly and returned with his cutlery, a large clean blue dish towel in place of a napkin and another tall glass of iced tea. Clay believed he had easily consumed a gallon or more of iced tea today, but this was his first real meal since early this morning, and he was quite hungry. But he wasn’t able to finish it. It was after 10 p.m. when he said his goodnight to Emy inside the house. It was much too cold to be standing around outside on the porch, so he ran to a waiting Yellow Cab for a ride back to his apartment. He didn’t know the driver, but the man was Middle Eastern, and for a moment he thought about conversing in Farsi, for he actually did know the language quite well. No, Clay decided to just enjoy the ride in silence, for it had been a noisy day. It cost him $5.75, and he tipped the driver another $2.25. He understood now how hard a cab driver worked and was really happy not to be driving a cab in these temperatures. He’d grown up in this weather, but his body had acclimated to the desert regions of the world, and it would take all winter for him to change back. He shivering was evidence of that.

  A week earlier Clay had hoped the Friday after Thanksgiving Thursday would also be a company holiday and was thinking about taking Emy out to Chena Hot Springs. But not at Wickersham Chevrolet Car Dealership, the only people off today were the ones who had made previous arrangements so they could leave the area and have the holiday with family members outside of Fairbanks region. In Clay’s shop, he was short 5 mechanics; 4 men and 1 woman. With only three hours of work into the day, Clay’s set of coveralls were a mess with grease and oil splotches from having helped out with the jobs. Every lift was busy.