by J. L. Salter
The basic operation was reasonably simple and generally well executed. There were three teams of two haulers each. Each team swept through a household, leapfrogging so there was no overlap. Some of the front doors had been left unlocked by residents, but many were unlocked from the inside by the skinny child. When the front door was locked, and marked by their young accomplice, the hoodlums just burst open that condo’s back door with homemade battering rams. Builders sometimes skimped on backdoor framing and hardware, so rear entries were often easier to break down.
Supervising the youngster and six new men of the hauling team was Dante — short, ugly, and toad-like in both appearance and behavior. He had a lot of kinky hair and wore it retro like the Afro style from the 1970s. He was about five years older than the grown members of his new team, all either nineteen or twenty. Three of his haulers were also black, two were Hispanics, and one was white. The child was also white, mostly. Inside the condos, Dante’s haulers selected what would be pilfered and then carried it out to the trucks. Among the hauling team members there was considerable variance over what was thought to be valuable.
Each of the three cargo vehicles held a driver and loader; there was also one runner to relay information and help coordinate, plus the two lookouts at the neighborhood’s entrance. Supervising those nine new men and four vehicles was Herve — also short, but muscular and trim. Like Foss’s other lieutenant, Herve was roughly five years older than those he directed. Herve was Hispanic — his family had been in America for three generations and he couldn’t even name their country of origin. Of the nine under Herve, four were also Hispanic, two were black, two were white, and one was Asian.
Foss had determined early on that he would not be bothered by the names of his new associates. They were mercenaries, pure and simple — working for a share of the spoils. Foss did not visualize them as people; he simply needed components for his logistical masterpiece. No individuals — just interchangeable resources — and he didn’t care about their race or national origin.
So Foss had decided to number them. Herve’s nine new men were simply H1, H2, H3… and on through H9. It didn’t matter if they were drivers, loaders, lookouts, or runners. In addition to the little kid, D10, Dante’s new team had six haulers. To Foss, they were simply D11, D12… on through D16.
It even occurred to Foss that his creative numerical identity assignment might look really sharp on a logistical flow chart. For a fleeting moment he envisioned himself giving short, pungent seminar sessions to other gang leaders. Maybe not. Several of the gang leaders he’d encountered couldn’t read and write. Plus, Foss didn’t know how to construct a flow chart. Maybe a computer slide show presentation.
Foss realized there was a possibility of getting their numerical identities confused, but he didn’t actually expect to have many direct dealings with those several functionaries. Herve was responsible for his drivers, loaders, lookouts, and the single runner; Dante was in charge of his haulers and the child. Herve and Dante probably wouldn’t remember which numbers matched which workers, but both lieutenants tended to just grab people and bark out instructions — no staff meetings or memos.
If Foss had given any thought to how his gang members felt about being assigned numbers, he didn’t worry about it. They’d been told — after fencing the valuables from these hundred condominiums — that they’d get equal shares of the net proceeds. Two of Dante’s haulers didn’t even know what a condominium was, but that information gap did not dampen their enthusiasm for an equal share of whatever this massively-scaled heist targeted.
Foss’s mood had changed abruptly. At present he was cursing everyone in sight because Herve’s reconnaissance of the previous week had not revealed the two deep trenches which currently blocked their access to a significant number of duplexes on the west side of the complex.
“I’m telling you, man. Last week there was nothing out here but bulldozers dragging that new road up there.” Herve pointed northwest. “I drove all over this place myself. No trenches, man.” He held up a crude drawing he’d made of the four primary streets in the almost kidney-shaped subdivision. Herve’s rendering resembled New Jersey, if that state wore a bicycle helmet.
“Well, if I’d known all but one of these blitzin’ roads was blocked, I would’ve picked a different neighborhood.” Foss’s bald head seemed to radiate steam when he was furious.
Herve shrugged and waved his primitive map. “We can still git to most of them, man. After we clear out the houses on this long street, we turn there,” he pointed to a bowed line representing Placid Lane, “and go up that hill. Then around the back way to the street that’s blocked by the trench. No sweat, man.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. No sweat. Sure.” Foss spit something thick and phlegmy. “I should’ve come down here to check it out myself.”
“I’m telling you, man. Them ditches wasn’t here last week.” Herve shook his head and stuffed the map back in his jeans pocket.
Foss noticed several of the elderly citizens were slowly catching on. Some residents cautiously peered out windows and others tentatively stepped out their doors. When they saw the big vehicles, numerous firearms, homemade battering rams, and the ethnic variety of young men, many began hobbling away. Foss simply let them flee — their escape did not concern him.
With minor input from Herve and even less help from Dante, Foss had planned this incursion very well. It was timed perfectly for the very least probability of interference from police because of the county-wide drill and aimed at a large cluster of affluent, elderly targets who would not dare to resist or cause any other trouble. So what if a few of them hobbled away? Who they gonna tell? Foss specialized in logistics. He didn’t want to deal with the people anyway: no hostages, no close-up eyewitnesses. If a few blind old bats said they think they saw a bald white guy, that wouldn’t hurt him in a lineup.
The main thing bothering Foss at present was whether Dante’s six haulers could move fast enough to stay on schedule. Stealing all the recognizable valuables from these condominiums was taking a lot longer than he’d predicted. In one hand, Foss held his 9 mm pistol. With the other, he kept clicking his stopwatch and calling out the times. The big men on each team could carry more, but they were slower. The smaller ones moved faster but carried less. Staffing each of Dante’s teams with a hefty man and a lighter one had made good theoretical sense, but in practice the hauling results were no better than Foss’s previous heist.
Foss actually preferred smaller robberies with less complicated logistics — not as minor as the drug store they cleaned out that morning, but lesser scale than robbing this huge neighborhood. For his next medium sweep in a moderately-sized residential area, Foss would ditch Dante altogether. Several strong, fast, medium-sized haulers would be the perfect logistical solution. Foss idly wondered if he should transfer two of Herve’s loaders to Dante’s hauling crew. But the leadership of his ad hoc gang was already quite fractious, so better not tip the balance any, unless absolutely necessary.
****
Barricade
In his earlier quick briefing, Pete had designated his condo as the Command Post. However, since the predominate defensive feature was their ramshackle assortment of vehicles blocking Placid Lane, everyone — including Pete — just referred to their C.P. as the barricade.
Scarcely a moment apart, Frank and Gerald returned to the Henleys’ condo from warning the nearest neighbors below the barricade line. Gerald’s pockets were obviously bulging with currency and Frank carried his anxious fourteen-pound Shih Tzu.
Ellie intercepted them at the front door. “What happened to yer sick parrot?”
“I never had a parrot.” Frank sounded stressed. “I said Polly was an AKC Sheet-Sue.”
“Well, that’s a AKZ dust mop, plus it’s a Bless George meh-uss. Tie that hairy thing out in the garage before it molts on everybody.”
Frank shrugged and obeyed. Most men did when Ellie barked out orders.
Some of the frightened g
eriatrics trailed behind Frank and Gerald, looking frequently over their shoulders. Though none of those residents had brought any firearms, one individual appeared with an old bayonet from the First World War. He gave it to Pete, who handed the rusty blade to Chet.
They hurriedly moved up Placid toward what they hoped was safety — the main community complex, further west. But it was a long way, up a steep hill, and around a broad curve. All were slow and frightened, and each welcomed a brief rest with the Henleys. None had thought to bring a vehicle.
“They must have spotted all this movement!” Kelly watched toward the northeast from the Henleys’ driveway. “Probably a dozen people have left their places and headed toward this condo.”
Roger had moved inside briefly to check the view from the Henleys’ windows, but returned because nothing could be seen from there. “Those thieves don’t seem to care if these folks run away. They’re probably not worried about any response from law enforcement for at least an hour, maybe longer.”
Pete told Wade to drive his golf cart up to the main building and see if any of those individuals knew about the massive robbery down on North Pleasant.
Wade grabbed Roger from the driveway and tapped Kelly’s shoulder. “Want to go fer a ride in the Wade-mobile, Kel?”
She just shook her head and continued staring, even though the other condos mostly blocked her view.
Wade and Roger hustled between the condos to the Henleys’ back yard, hopped into the cart, and zoomed along two back yards before breaking back onto Placid Lane and turning toward the nursing home complex.
“Irene, I know our house phone was out before, but check it again anyway.” Pete didn’t expect the situation to be different, but he knew the troops needed to stay busy. “And ask these folks sitting around. We need to know who’s got contact with somebody outside this neighborhood.” He’d spoken loudly enough that everybody indoors could hear the question.
Irene had already surveyed most of them, but she began asking again anyway.
“Well, if all the land lines in this section are out because of the backhoe accident, that leaves only cell phones.” Mitch opened his. “Mine’s not even working.” He waggled it back and forth a few times.
“My daughter’s been trying to get me to buy one,” explained Bernie, “but I didn’t figure I’d ever need it.”
“Anybody else got a cell phone?” Irene was still compiling her list.
Leo cleared his throat. “I had one, but it fell in the toilet.”
“Yer not supposed to wash it, Leo.” Ellie pinched his upper arm.
Kelly checked her phone. “Mine just says, looking for service.”
“Let’s all go to Norm’s place. He’s got lots of phones.” Melvin’s attempts at humor often fell flat, but that one landed with a prominent thud.
Ashley had been fiddling with her new Internet phone, which she’d only gotten the previous week, but many of its bells and whistles were still a mystery. She tried to make a call but the screen showed no signal. No service for Internet access either.
“I guess all the local towers are jammed with the extra civil defense calls.” Mitch put his phone away. “Roger said part of this complicated drill is testing how to cope if we ever lost chunks of the power grid in large areas at the same time we lost some of the telecommunications. I’ll bet they’re testing what happens when at least one comm tower has been compromised.”
“Compromised?” Kelly turned toward him.
“Yeah, like blown down or blown up.”
Kelly thought a second. “So, tornadoes or terrorists.”
Mitch nodded. “Anyway, I got the idea they were gonna shut off signals to a random sampling of the cell phones in this area code.”
“How on earth could they do that?”
“How can a Lexington broker buy stocks on the Hong Kong exchange in real time? Computers can do anything some whiz kid programs them to.” Mitch patted the phone in his hand. “Drop every tenth cell phone signal for two hours? No problem.”
“Hey, my phone’s working!” Diane waved hers like she’d won a prize.
“Who you gonna call, Diane?” It sounded much more sarcastic than Mitch had intended.
Diane stuck out her tongue. “Let me see.”
Down at the scout station with Stanley, Joe jumped considerably when the phone rang in his pocket. His hands shook a bit as he wrestled out his phone and opened it. From Diane’s end, one heard only muffled reproach, very high on the tension scale.
“Okay. Never mind!” Diane hung up. “What a grouch.”
Kelly moved closer. “How come your two phones are working?”
“Don’t know. We still have 318 area codes — we didn’t change our phones since we left North Louisiana last fall.” Diane continued to look at her device. “Maybe we’re using a different satellite or something.”
Mitch seemed puzzled. “I thought all the satellites used the same set of towers.”
“All I know is I’ve got a signal. See?” Diane held it up again.
“Okay, already.” Kelly touched her shoulder. “Save your battery.”
Helen, sitting on the couch, had a valid question. “Can’t somebody send mail messages on a computer?”
“Computers need service,” snapped Melvin.
Helen looked like she wished someone else had replied, but she continued conversing with Melvin. “How or where do you get it?”
“Need a modem or wi-fi signal.”
“Think anybody here has that?”
Melvin looked around the room. “Wouldn’t matter. Nobody here could work it anyhow, except maybe Pete’s granddaughter. And she’s already said her gadget don’t work either.”
Pete took Norm aside and they sat together in a corner of the living space. The host held the framed map drawn by his great-grandson. “Norm, you probably know more about the layout here than anybody, besides me.”
“Possibly so. What’ve you got in mind?”
“Just brainstorming. We need to use the terrain to our advantage. Right here at our barricade we’ve got high ground. We also have a broad curve, which further limits their view of us… at present, anyway.” Pete closed his eyes briefly to figure if he’d left out anything. “To a considerable extent their big trucks are restricted to that single street and they can’t very easily get off it in either direction because of gates, dirt mounds, or trenches.”
Norm agreed. “Plus how close these duplexes are built to each other. And the decks sticking out between them.”
“Right. Right.” Pete nodded. “So they can only go out the same way they came in — North Pleasant. Unless they ram their way through our barricade.”
Norm was silent for a moment. “Besides barricade and terrain, what else have we got in play?”
“There’s heavy equipment parked in that new construction area behind your place. Grader near the east side and dozer near the west edge. If a fellow needed one of them, where’s the best place to get it down on our street?”
Norm thought for a moment. “Well, right between me and Bernie actually. My deck’s on the inside of that retaining wall. Bernie’s deck also sits in back. I believe that’s the only place with no decks between the units.”
“Right. Right. Good thinking.” Pete patted his neighbor’s shoulder. “You reckon a dozer might squeeze through there without shaking any bricks loose?”
“Don’t see why not. But I can’t drive it.”
“No, no. I got somebody to operate it.” Pete stroked his chin. “What else we got going for us?”
“I saw a backhoe down the hill behind your place. Parked right next to that long trench across Cordial.” Norm pointed. “Think we can use that?”
“Can’t jump the trench and can’t get it across that concrete ditch on Serenity.” Pete shook his head slowly. “Besides I don’t know much to do with a backhoe in this situation.”
Norm watched Pete’s face expectantly. “Is there something else?”
“You had your ow
n mortar platoon in the war. You outranked me.” Pete pointed to the civilian lapel where Norm’s gold bar would have been on a uniform. “Are you okay with me running this outfit?”
“In O-C-S, I was taught history, tactics, and weapons, and practiced how to lead men. I learned how to direct and correct mortar rounds; some of our stateside exercises even involved live fire. But I never got to actual combat like you did, Pete. It’s a different kind of pressure and requires an experienced kind of leadership.”
“So, you’re okay taking orders from an ex-sergeant?”
Norm thought for a moment. “I learned a real important thing in all that officer training — when you’ve got an outstanding non-com, you rely on his experience, instincts, and guts. The men need to understand who their officer is, but they also know who they can count on in battle. When bullets start flying, nobody looks at the inexperienced lieutenant.”
Pete nodded. “You think we need to explain anything to the troops?”
Norm chuckled. “No, Pete. You’re in charge of this outfit and nobody would believe otherwise. Forget you ever saw those butter bars I wore sixty-some years ago. I put my uniform in mothballs when I got out in ‘46. In fact, I mothballed my entire wartime experience and just moved on. Today, I kind of wish I’d kept my hand in. But whoever thought we’d be called to arms again?” His bushy eyebrows twitched briefly. “You’re the leader of this outfit, Pete, like it or not.”
Pete didn’t know how to respond, so he grunted.
“This is your platoon.” Norm paused. “Are we clear?”
He nodded. From a shadow inside Pete’s brain a small voice wished somebody else would relieve him and assume this command. It was that same feeling each time he’d led a patrol on the frontlines. But that voice quieted and the shadow passed. “Yeah, Norm. We’re okay.”
