The New Madrid Run

by Michael Reisig

  The savage look on Travis’ face made asking the obvious question unnecessary. Christina didn’t want to know.

  He looked back to her again, and his face softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t need to hear that.”

  “It’s okay,” she replied. “Maybe you needed to say it.”

  As they sat there looking at each other, the cool wind rippled the water and she shivered slightly. Instinctively Travis put his arm around her and she, in turn, with a sense of comfort and ease she had not felt in a long time, moved toward him. Travis thought how natural and relaxed the moment was, without the tenseness and indecision usually found in new relationships, if indeed, this, in any sense, could be considered a new relationship. For her, it could very well be nothing more than one person comforting another after a rough day.

  He gazed out at the water and spoke: “You did good today, Christina. You didn’t even flinch through that whole experience.”

  She pulled away and looked up at him incredulously. “Good Lord, all I did was shout into the mike and duck. You were the one telling that guy and his little army they had to leave now because he was interrupting your lunch.”

  It was so amusing, the way she said it, that Travis had to laugh. “Well, it was either that or give him you and the guns, and I really hated the idea of losing those guns.”

  She pulled away and slugged him in the chest, laughing. “Try trading me for anything, mister, and you’re going to need a gun.”

  In an attempt to stop her from hitting him again, he instinctively pulled her to him, and suddenly their eyes locked. Like the flow of the tides or the movement of the moon, they both knew that there was nothing that could stop the slow, inexorable path their parted lips took as they came together. There was a single, electric moment of unfettered passion as they embraced. Then suddenly, Christina pulled away, breaking the spell.

  “Travis, don’t. I can’t—it’s too soon. I need time.”

  He reached out and held her gently, looking into her eyes, which reflected green fire like emeralds. “Take all the time you need, Christina. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She held his eyes with hers. “I’m sorry, I still have a lot of emotional baggage. Jan and I weren’t necessarily in love, but we shared a lot. I can’t just put it all behind me that easily . . .”

  She broke his gaze, and he replied softly, “It’s all right, Chris. Like I said, I’m not going anywhere.”

  They continued to hold each other, watching the dark waters in silence. The wind whispered soft promises to the rigging, the stars bathed them in cold brightness, and both suddenly found themselves more content than they could remember.

  CHAPTER 13

  Colonel Rockford sat at his desk, going over the paperwork that assembling an army required. There were requisitions, supplies, personnel rosters, and a hundred other things that had to be compiled during the day-to-day operations as he and his aides tried to turn civilians and weekend warriors into real soldiers. Yet that was but a small part of the gargantuan task of creating an infrastructure for a new, independent government.

  Of primary importance was the reduction, then the elimination, of opposition. He was actively working on the problem.

  The lieutenant-governor, who survived the initial disaster and had attempted to take the reins of leadership, had been shot to death while leaving his residence a week ago. The colonel had attended the funeral and consoled the widow.

  Several of the leading senators who opposed Rockford’s rise to power had mysteriously disappeared. Dissension in the ranks of the remaining jumble of influence peddlers and lawmakers had diminished greatly since then. His campaign to promote himself to the people of Arkansas was moving along well. He had plans for a statewide tour, and was beginning to schedule speeches in various locations. Rockford had, through Captain Reynolds, activated his campaign of terror in those enclaves still resistant to his concepts, loyal to whatever form of state and federal government they hoped might exist. He had no time to waste coddling those people. His army of bandits would shock those pockets of resistance into submission. Then he would rescue them all by eliminating the marauders, demonstrating his leadership in ultimate fashion.

  There was a knock on the outer doors, and one of his aides ushered Reynolds into the room. The doors closed and the captain sauntered over to the colonel’s desk. He was a tall man with long black hair and a skin tone that reflected some American Indian heritage, but his eyes were a striking glacial blue. The Colonel could find little or no compassion in those eyes, which was why he had chosen him for the job.

  Rockford looked up from his paperwork, “You salute a senior officer, Reynolds, especially your Commanding Officer.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” responded Reynolds with a touch of sarcasm as he executed a sloppy salute.

  You’re just like a bad dog, the colonel thought, looking at him. I’ll keep you on a short leash, aimed at the enemy, and I’ll keep a close eye out, because you could turn at any moment.

  “Tell me, Captain, how are you progressing in your program to convince the people of Arkansas of their need for our new government?”

  Reynolds smiled and relaxed. “Well, Colonel, me and the boys have been fairly successful in puttin’ the fear of God, and anything else that goes bump in the night, into the local citizenry. We raided Russellville two nights ago. Judge Hawkins was at home when we arrived; he won’t be giving you any more trouble. He’s survived by his wife and daughter, who’ll probably be needin’ to rest for a couple of days, after entertainin’ the troops. The boys got a little carried away and burned down some of the town, but all in all, you could say folks got the message. We been conductin’ weekly raids into the well-to-do areas of Fort Smith, Hot Springs, and Little Rock. They’ve been very profitable. We’ve got them people so goddamned scared, they’d elect the devil himself governor, if he promised to stop us.”

  The colonel smiled. “Good, Reynolds, good. I want you to concentrate on the smaller communities in the Ozarks and the Ouachitas for the next few weeks, those who don’t already support us. We have to convince the independent-thinking people of those areas that it’s in their best interests to cooperate with us. Prove to them that they need us, but keep your dogs in check, Captain. I don’t want everyone killed. I just want them scared.”

  “Right, sir,” Reynolds replied. “Oh, by the way, Colonel, there’s a little matter of the bonus you promised me. I think the number was twenty thousand . . . in gold . . .?”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Rockford snapped. “You take care of your end and I’ll take care of mine. When the job’s done and we’ve disposed of your crew, you’ll get your money.”

  Reynolds smiled. “No problem here, Colonel. Just making sure we’re still on the same page.”

  Rockford stood up. “All right, that’s all. Report to me again this time next week. Dismissed.”

  Reynolds saluted with that same sarcastic look on his face, and sauntered out of the room.

  “I can’t wait to pay you off,” muttered the colonel under his breath as the doors closed.

  The phone rang. It was Richards in armaments. “Sir, I’ve got some great news. We’ve found a jet pilot. He’s one of our new recruits. Seems he recently gave up service life—lost his family in some local violence and decided to join up with us. Says he worked out of Little Rock Air Force Base, and if we can put him inside the airfield, he can get one of those F-16s out of there. We’ll have to get arms and fuel, but I can pull it off if you give me enough men. I don’t think they’ve got much of a force guarding the base anymore; the few soldiers still there are just hanging on half-heartedly, hoping for some sort of federal miracle. The pilot knows where they keep the armaments, and a fuel truck’s a piece of cake to steal.”

  “Splendid,” declared Rockford, “let me know what you need; I’ll supply it. I want that plane, Richards. Once it’s in the air, have the pilot fly it to Waldron Airfield. The airport has a good four thousand feet of ru
nway and there’s a large hanger at the end of the field. Put the jet in there and leave a dozen men on guard twenty-four hours a day. I repeat. I want that plane! Pull this off, Richards, and I’ll remember.”

  Two days later a force of one hundred men hit the base. A little C-4 explosive and a small fuel depot at the end of the field created a nice diversion. The guards at the main gates were quickly neutralized. With inside help, well paid for assistance and information, they accessed the ammo for the cannon of the aircraft and grabbed a handful of heat-seeking Sidewinder missiles. The snatching of the plane went like clockwork and resistance was light; no one wanted to die for a cause they weren’t sure existed anymore. In minutes, the pilot was in the air and headed for the colonel’s airfield. Richards himself drove a truck full of fuel through the open gates and into the night.

  Rockford was ecstatic. He had the beginnings of a real air force. He already owned a number of small twin-engine aircraft and one DC-3 for troop transport. Pilots for those were no problem. Now he had a fighter jet and a pilot to fly it. Finally, his air force had teeth. If all went well, and the facilities of the military became his by bona fide acquisition as the leader of the new government, fine. If not, and he had to fight for it, then fight he would—with everything he had in his arsenal.

  ***

  The parcel of land Travis had purchased years ago sat on the side of a gently sloping mountain, offering a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside. Probably the only piece of property that offered a better viewpoint was the land just east of him, owned by the Jacobs. Edith and Jeb Jacobs had lived on those forty acres for most of their adult lives—since 1954.

  Jeb was twenty years old when he and his new bride bought the land with money borrowed from his dad, and built a home. They raised three children in the interim, all of whom had grown up, married, and moved away. Jeb had finally retired from the local sawmill, and he and Edith were enjoying the autumn years of their lives.

  From the large porch of their lovely old farmhouse, they could watch the whole valley as it glistened with morning dew, then turned golden as the sun crept over the hills and light splashed across the trees, rivers, and roads. They had often remarked that, with this view, there wasn’t much going on in the valley that they didn’t know about. Recently the Jacobs had noticed an increase in military vehicles going in and out of the properties that had been confiscated by the so-called “New Provincial Government.” From where they sat, they could see the camp and the roads leading to it quite clearly.

  Willy Snead and his wife Sara had taken care of Travis’ property for the past seven years. About six months ago, Willy’s wife of forty-five years had died after contracting a virulent strain of flu that developed into pneumonia. The old man was alone, and the loneliness ate at him, so he spent much of his time visiting his friends, the Jacobs, to keep his sanity in check, and to kill time until he could be with his Sara again. After breakfast, he often took a stroll through the woods to have a cup of coffee with his neighbors. They would sit on the big porch, take in the view, and talk of old times. He was on his way to the Jacobs’ one morning, an hour or so after sunrise, walking the well-worn path between the two homes, when he heard shouting.

  Quietly, cautiously, Willy moved forward on the trail. He was no longer a young man, and a portion of his courage had escaped with his youth. Easing into the bushes as he reached the clearing near the

  Jacob’s home, he saw several men in fatigues holding guns and standing by two military vehicles.

  He watched as his friends were dragged from their house by four soldiers. They were forced to stand while a document was read to them by a man who had stepped forward from the parked vehicles. Willy’s hearing wasn’t as good as it used to be, but he caught enough of the conversation to realize that the Jacobs were in the process of having their property confiscated by eminent domain. Something about a necessary vantage point—an outpost for the security of the new base.

  Jeb Jacobs wasn’t buying it. He was shouting at the man, telling him where he could put his paper and his new government. The man with the paper just smiled coldly and told him he could take his offer, or he would make him another one he wouldn’t be able to refuse. The men around him chambered shells for emphasis. Jeb suddenly seemed unsteady and he leaned on his wife. He asked permission to go back into the house to take one of his heart pills before signing the document, and the men released him. The old man had only been in the house for a moment when he burst out of the front door with a shotgun. The first blast of the twelve gauge blew the guy with the paper right off his feet, sending him flying backwards as if someone had tied his collar to a passing bus. The second round took out the two men who had dragged him from his house. He was chambering a third shell in the old Remington pump when the soldiers who held his wife pushed her aside and cut loose with their M16s. They caught him low in the legs and the old man screamed as the bullets tore away chunks of bone and flesh. He fell, but he wasn’t finished. As he hit the porch, he pumped out two more blasts of buckshot, taking a good portion of the head and shoulders from both his assailants. At that point, the men near the trucks opened up with a fusillade of bullets that literally ripped the front porch apart. Jeb was bounced back against the wall and torn to shreds.

  Watching in horror, his wife screamed, struggled to her feet, and ran toward her husband. She hadn’t gone ten feet when, by accident or design, the fury of the weapons cut her down. The bullets jolted her as she spun, eyes wide in shock; then, like a discarded doll, she crumpled into a heap at the foot of the porch steps.

  Willy’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, and his hands were shaking so badly that he had to clasp them together to keep them from jumping off his wrists. He crouched lower in the bushes, like an animal that has sighted a predator.

  The remaining men moved out from behind the vehicles, their weapons pointed at the house, but the Jacobs were past being a threat to anyone. It had been a costly morning for the militiamen, and someone would have some serious explaining to do. Five of their men had been killed, and in the process they had shot up the house they wanted. It would require major repairs before it would be habitable again.

  Willy figured he’d seen all that his nerves and heart could stand —so, quietly and slowly, he backed out of the bushes and onto the trail that would take him home. Once safely on the path, he shuffled along as fast as his aging legs would carry him, back to the safety of his house.

  CHAPTER 14

  Cries of seabirds pierced the stillness of the gray dawn as Travis shook the dew from the sails and tightened riggings, while the sensei upped anchor. The preacher waved from his boat as he hit the starter, and the rumble of the big diesel was followed by a belch of exhaust from the stern.

  They headed out of the Tampa Bay area and sailed north for three more uneventful days. The morning of the fourth day brought the long awaited words that have elated mariners throughout the ages —“Land ho!” There, rising out of the early morning mists, was the dark and distant shape of terra firma. The GPS put them somewhere near the Georgia border, south of the Florida panhandle, but the entire coastline had changed. Bays and inlets ran for miles over and through areas where, before, there had been solid ground.

  As the boats moved closer, the crews could see the tops of large pines emerging from the water. Here and there, a church spire broke the surface, marking a lost community. They were careful not to get so close as to endanger the keels of the boats, but they were near enough to be awed by the topographical changes.

  Sailing around a bend in the new coastline, they passed a sleepy-looking little country town, perched on a high knoll about a quarter of a mile from the shoreline. Smoke rose lazily from several of the chimneys and a few folks could be seen moving about, but as the two vessels came into sight, the bell in the church steeple rang out urgently.

  They motored in close enough to see a line of grim-faced men and women assemble at the front of the town, weapons in hand. There were no waves of greet
ing, no smiles, just a hard look of determination on the faces of the gaunt and hollow-eyed people as they watched the boats pass by.

  “Well, I think we can scratch that off our list of places we want to visit this vacation,” Travis said.

  Christina shook her head. “God, what a welcoming—suspicious, and threatening.”

  “That’s the way it’s going to be for a while,” he replied. “There’s going to be a transitional period where mankind plays a giant game of musical chairs. A lot of folks are just going to end up without a chair. Interaction between people will begin to take place again, as order and security are re-established. Maybe, from all this devastation, a new society will emerge—one that remembers the mistakes and the shortcomings of the old, and refuses to live like that again. I think that decision belongs to us.”

  Travis felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the sensei. “You are beginning to sound like a leader, Travis. It could be that you are becoming a good American after all.”

  “I figure it’s now or never,” replied Travis.

  They turned west at the panhandle of Florida and stayed with the new coast. The days passed, and the travelers on the two boats drew together. Ra and Todd were becoming inseparable; the preacher and Carlos had become the best of friends. Carlos was spending so much time around his companion he was beginning to develop a Southern Baptist/Cuban vernacular—“Pass dem ’taters, por favor.”