As the colonel watched the movement of men and vehicles, he was joined by one of his captains. “Sir!” the captain barked as he snapped to attention and saluted. “We’re prepared for your inspection of the armory.” They had recently been able to salvage some valuable equipment from the National Guard Armory in Fort Smith—two armored personnel carriers with .50 caliber machine guns, three transport trucks, and several cases of M16s, along with mess kits, tents, and field radios. But a street gang had chosen the same night to pillage the depot, and Rockford learned a firefight ensued. He spoke to his subordinate while looking out at the camp. “I received word that you had some trouble Monday night.”
The captain straightened. “Yes sir—a Latino gang had the same idea as us.”
“Casualties?”
“Four, sir.”
Rockford turned to the young captain. “And them?”
“Over a dozen.”
“Prisoners?”
The captain’s eyes glinted. “None taken, sir.”
Rockford smiled slightly. “Very well, Captain. Lead the way.”
The colonel considered it had been a profitable evening regardless of the causalities. There was no ammunition available at the armory, but that wasn’t a problem. With some inside help, they had already raided an ammo storage facility: Several dozen cases of ammunition were stored in Delta Camp’s munitions bunker. In the colonel’s eyes, the loss of a few men was insignificant compared to what they had gained materially. The men could be replaced; there were other warm bodies. Trucks, armored cars, and machine guns gave him leverage—powerful leverage.
Colonel Rockford and the captain walked through the bustling compound to Delta Camp armory—a large, recently erected metal shed. The trucks and armored personnel carriers, which were parked in a neat row in front of the building, gave the colonel a new sense of pride and purpose as he strode past them. With dedicated men and equipment like this, in a few short months he would eliminate all opposition to his new government. He didn’t give a damn about the rest of the country. Let it wallow in indecision. Let it remain in collapse for all he cared. He and his new Provincial Government were going to lead Arkansas into a new era. Arkansas would become the shining star of a new America.
Capitalism, communism, democracy—those were expressions of the past. He thought of himself more as a warlord, using power, cunning, and ruthlessness to consolidate and maintain his government. The old world had held room for bleeding-heart liberals, charity balls for starving Africans, and hospitals crammed to capacity, preserving the deformed, the diseased, and the mentally useless. The new order would be closer to nature’s way. The strong would survive; the weak would succumb, and the world would be a better place for it. There would be few, if any, prisons packed to capacity with pampered prisoners enjoying fancy food and color TVs. If you committed a crime, you’d pay—there would be no such thing as a stay of execution.
As the colonel walked through the doors, the “army” smell assailed his nostrils, and it pleased him. The armory not only held their present acquisitions, but also the equipment they had been amassing for years. Racks of weapons lined the walls; cases of supporting materials were stacked nearby. Two field pieces, 105s, stood at ease in the back. He smiled to himself in pride and anticipation of events to come.
He strolled through the building checking weapons, trying bolts, examining various pieces of equipment while the captain followed behind.
“Well, all seems to be in order,” the colonel finally said, straightening up and rubbing the palms of his hands together slowly. “Let’s have a look at the munitions depot.”
The ammo bunker was a hundred yards away, on the other side of the compound. Another metal shed covered a concrete block cellar, where virtually all the munitions for the camp, from 105s to M16 rounds, were stored. Rockford walked through the rows of boxes, checking the integrity of cases and looking for moisture or mildew. When he was finally satisfied, he drew himself erect at the exit.
“Everything seems to be in excellent order, Captain. Keep up the good work. Dismissed.” The captain snapped a salute and with a curt “Thank you, sir,” disappeared on cue. Rockford glanced at the interior one last time with a satisfied smile, then walked back to the cabin that served as his headquarters.
The Colonel hung his hat on the peg inside the door and surveyed the interior of the cabin. It was furnished in what he referred to as “Spartan elegance.” It was uncluttered, containing only the basic necessities in furniture, but each piece was of unquestionable quality. From the antique cherry wood secretary and desk to the huge, fourposter, mahogany canopy bed, every piece had been selected with care.
As he moved past the full-length mirror in the hallway, he paused and studied himself for a moment, smoothing down the front of his uniform. The pale blue eyes that stared back at him still harbored fierce passion, yet they carried the cool detachment of a predator. His dark hair, close-cropped military style, was only beginning to gray at the temples. For a man who had just turned fifty-five, he was still tall, trim, and capable-looking, but the lines on his face told a tale of the triumphs and the tragedies of a soldier’s life.
He had been married twice; both had failed. The truth was, like so many men, he was married to what he did, and pleased with who he was. Unfortunately, it left little time for any other conjugation.
Rockford moved on to the desk and sat down, lit a Havana cigar from the teak humidor, then pushed the seat back and put his hands behind his head. He exhaled a small blue cloud toward the ceiling, and for a few moments, mentally reviewed the next stages of his strategy.
First, he had begun a political campaign, not to solicit votes, but to inform the citizenry of his intentions in a fashion that would be acceptable to them. His men had commandeered several radio stations and were broadcasting hourly messages detailing the catastrophic conditions of the Americas, emphasizing the collapse of federal and state governments. The last half of the broadcast was a taped message from Rockford extolling his capability as a leader and explaining the necessity of the new government. The colonel also had teams delivering flyers with the same message across the countryside.
Secondly, he intended to form a group. That is to say, his Captain Reynolds, an unsavory but useful man, would form a group for him. There would be no overt affiliation between this particular organization and the Colonel. The band, under Reynolds’ leadership, would terrorize the remaining enclaves of civilization in Arkansas. Although the state had suffered severely from the disaster, there were still a number of areas where damage had been minimal. There was a “wait and see” attitude from the people in those locations. They felt the Federal Government might still come to the rescue and had resisted Rockford’s overtures. They, and some of the bureaucracy clinging tenuously to their positions in various parts of the state, were going to need some prompting. And prompt them he would. When Reynolds and his bandits were finished, the citizens of Arkansas would be clamoring for some form of law and order. At that point, when most of the state was begging for deliverance, he and his troops would crush the offenders. There would be no more dispute as to who was in control.
As an incentive for his company of thugs, he would, for the time being, allow them whatever they wanted in their pillaging. Reynolds would assure the leaders that when the time came, Rockford would stage a mock raid on their camp. The encampment would be destroyed, and the outlaws would disperse with their newly acquired wealth.
Truth was, when the time came, Reynolds would assist the colonel in destroying the bandits to a man. There would be no witnesses to his collusion. Even Reynolds was in for a surprise.
CHAPTER 11
After departing the sunken remains of Miami, the first two days of sailing were relatively uneventful. Todd hit several schools of mackerel while trolling lures, so fresh fish, for the time being, was no longer an issue. Carlos experimented with smoking the fillets, storing them in the cool of the hold in plastic bags that he’d found aboard the preach
er’s boat. The fish, supplemented by canned goods, formed the basis of their diet. It was healthy, albeit a bit monotonous.
They saw an occasional boat on the horizon, but no one approached them. They posted a guard at night and took turns with the duty, breaking it into shifts. Christina was recovering from the trauma of losing Jan. It was obvious to everyone that she was suffering, but it was equally evident that she possessed an inner resilience that would not permit useless emotion such as self-pity or unfounded guilt. She was going on with her life. The girl was a survivor.
Travis and the others talked for hours as they sailed, and Ra stretched out on the deck like a big black cat, enjoying the sun. Todd never spoke, but he was out-distancing his emotional fugue, and it was very apparent that he had taken to Travis. They spent hours together fishing or sitting on the bow watching for turtles and dolphins, and Travis was teaching him to sail.
One evening, after an early supper, Travis and the preacher had discussed weapons. When Travis showed him the LAWS anti-tank weapons they had taken from the Cubans, he was considerably impressed, responding in his own inimitable fashion.
“Call it what you want, son, that’s a bazooka to me. Hot damn! God have mercy on the next unlucky sinner bent on doing damage to this flock.”
They all decided, for the safety of the group, that they would keep one of these devilishly powerful devices on the shrimper, and the rest on the sailboat. The following day, Travis had everyone gather on the deck and practice preparing, aiming, and dry-firing one, which turned out to be simple. As the preacher had said, the LAWS was a smaller, more manageable model of the bazooka. It was nothing more than a tube with an enclosed round. The operator simply popped off the front and rear covers, extended the weapon to firing position, shouldered the device and centered the target in the pop-up V-sights. Nonetheless, it was formidable. It had an accurate range of at least 300 meters, and the explosive delivery was equivalent to a full stick of dynamite.
Travis had brought up a case of M16s as well.
“We’re not getting caught flat-footed again,” he said. “From now on everyone keeps one of these close by. He pulled one out and tossed it to the preacher. “You familiar with that?”
“Oh yeah. I’m an old Army boy,” the preacher said as he shouldered the weapon. Travis looked at the sensei. “You?” The sensei stepped over and pulled one out of the box, then grabbed a magazine from an adjacent box and snapped it in efficiently. Turning toward the ocean he cut loose a short burst.
Travis smiled. “I should have known.” He turned to Christina. “I can show you how to use one of—”
She gestured to the sensei and he handed her the weapon. She threw the bolt expertly, brought the weapon to her shoulder and clipped off three precise rounds at the ocean. Then she lowered the muzzle and turned. “My father was a hunter. I was the son he never had.” Again, Travis had to smile, realizing he was becoming more impressed with who she was rather than how she looked.
Each of them took a rifle along with six magazines of ammo. They also broke into the box of grenades and stored half a dozen within easy reach on both the sailboat and the shrimper. Next time they’d be ready.
It was late that afternoon, when all the weapons had been put away, the boats anchored, and supper was being served on the big boat, that they noticed the weather change. There had been a fair southeasterly breeze for the past two days, with light rolling seas. Suddenly, within a matter of minutes, it was as if Mother Nature had taken a deep breath and held it, sucking up all the breeze and calming the seas flat as ice. Christina was the first to see the blackness creeping up on the edges of the horizon. “That doesn’t look pretty.”
The preacher gazed out at the ominously darkening sky and frowned. “I been a-hearin’ about these storms the rest of the country’s having and I been wonderin’ why we ain’t seen one. I think we’re about to.”
Travis got up from the table. “All right, everybody, let’s get back to the sailboat. We’ve got to batten down everything that moves. Preacher, I don’t have to tell you the drill. You’ve been there before.” Looking at the blackening sky, Travis spoke again. “We’ll probably get separated if this is as bad as it looks, so the best we can do is ride it out and stay in contact by radio. We’ll find each other after the storm blows itself out.”
“Right you are,” bellowed the preacher. “The Lord will protect. Believe ye of little faith, witness Him work His mighty wonders. Now get the hell out of here, and prepare yourselves for a little of God’s nonaerosol cleansing.” He lumbered off to secure his boat, Carlos trailing behind.
The storm rolled in like an ebony chariot, a nightmare of unearthly speed and power. Horrendous clouds billowed and mushroomed across the sky, turning the day into night in minutes, and from the dark center came a howling wind, shrieking and screaming like a demonic chorus. Lightning erupted across the sky; daggers of fire split the heavens, striking and illuminating the sea with incandescent flames.
Travis reefed the sails, battened the hatches, and tied down everything that jiggled. The two boats separated, to give each other the safety of distance while fighting the storm; then the crews aimed the bows into the approaching onslaught and prayed as they faced a sailor’s greatest fear. After firing up the diesel engine to help maintain direction and inertia, the sensei and Travis tied themselves into the safety harnesses in the cockpit and Travis took the wheel. The others remained strapped in below.
The rigging rattled and shook as the relentless wind tore at it, and the boat slammed into ever larger and more frightening waves. A solid wall of cold rain struck them hard enough to make Travis wince. The rain continued to sting and blind the two men while the vicious waves battered the boat and attempted to wrest control from them.
In their struggle against the gale, time became an indiscernible factor. When Travis’ cramped and numbed arms could no longer hold the wheel against the seas, he gratefully turned it over to the sensei, who took over with equal tenacity and skill. For two hours, while the tempest raged around them, they switched control--when one of them could hold no longer, the other sensed it and took the helm. As the storm peaked and finally waned, a friendship emerged from the relationship that already existed. They had sailed through hell together and looked the devil in the eye . . . and the devil turned away.
Although they had been tossed about like a matchstick, damage to the craft seemed to be minimal. The good mast had held. The sails were still reefed and nothing topside was broken. The Avon raft, tied behind the boat, was the one major loss they sustained. In the worst of the storm, while changing places, they had nearly lost control of the boat as it was broached by a huge wave. The line to the raft slackened, then sprang tight, snapping with the sound of a rifle shot.
As the winds and seas subsided, the sensei took the wheel and Travis went below to check on the others. Thanks to advance preparation, the inside of the cabin was still intact. Christina and Todd had strapped themselves to their bunks and, other than a little seasickness and a bruise or two, had come through it well. Ra had allowed himself to be bound to a mattress in the forward berth, and had survived the storm without injury. They had been lucky. He wondered how the shrimper had fared.
The preacher held the wheel as he faced the onslaught in grim silence. The little Cuban, white with fear, stood beside him, witnessing the monstrous storm rushing toward them.
The winds hit them like God’s own hammer, and the waves effortlessly tossed the fifty-foot shrimper from crest to crest. The tempest was just reaching its full fury when the preacher realized he had left his VHF antenna in the UP position. There was no question that they would lose it if it remained that way. The preacher was torn between leaving the wheel to an inexperienced seaman like Carlos while he went out, or sending Carlos out to face the dangers of a slippery deck and enormous waves.
He slammed the wheel with a big hand. “Son of a bitch, the antenna’s still up. We lose that, we’ll never find the others again. There’s no way a
round it. I’ll go out, but you gotta hold this wheel tight and steady, or this storm will take us both.”
“No.” said Carlos, steadying himself. “Carlos go. I no can steer boat in this. I go fix antenna.”
The preacher could see the fear in the little man’s eyes at the prospect of facing the storm alone on the deck. He knew it was the right decision but he hated it. “Shit! Okay, okay, but you be damned careful. You keep your ass glued to that cabin like a bug to a windshield. You hear?”
Carlos stepped out of the wheelhouse and was hammered against the cabin by sheets of blinding rain. The winds clawed at him, and the deck shuddered beneath his feet. He grasped the cabin door handle, orienting himself and attempting to get his racing heart under control. It was no use—he felt the same mind-numbing, incapacitating fright he had experienced as a child when his father, drunk and angry, would smash his way into their one-room shack, seeking to vent the frustrations of poverty and position on his woman and the scrawny child she had borne him. Seared into his memory was the sight of his father, the screaming, angry giant looming over him, deriding him for his weakness, his frailty, and his size. Overwhelmed by the same helplessness and terror, he stood rigid as death, welded to the wheelhouse door with both hands.
At that moment, a large swell broke over the bow and washed across the forecastle. The cold water drenched him, cutting his senses like the blade of a knife. He shook his head like a dog, rising out of the miasma of fear and uncertainty. He was no longer a frightened child. He was Carlos Venarega, a man, and he would do what was needed of him, or die trying!
He swallowed his panic—he physically pushed it down inside him and buried it under a layer of determination. He moved away from the door, struggling to remain upright on the bucking boat while keeping his balance against the slippery deck and the crushing waves. Finally, after a few terribly long minutes, he made it to the rear of the wheelhouse where the antenna was. Holding an empty equipment rack with one hand, he loosened the adjustment lever on the fiberglass antenna, pulled the rod to a horizontal position, and tightened the adjustment again to keep it safely in place. Pleased with his success, he turned to begin his trek back to the wheelhouse door when the boat, struck sideways by a wave, lurched crazily to starboard. Carlos was in the process of switching grips when the boat tipped hard to the right and ran a rail into the water. Losing his balance, he was thrown backward, and found himself sliding toward the buried rail and the ocean. With a shriek, Carlos made a desperate grab for safety, missing by inches. The back of his thighs hit the rail and he was tossed head over heels into the angry sea. Death opened its arms and waited to embrace the small, brave man.
The New Madrid Run Page 12
