“Being as I am a bit rusty at saying grace, how about if you do it, Abigail?”
“I would be happy to.” She grabbed Ichiro’s hand with her left, and Shannon’s with her right. Everyone around the table linked hands, and bowed their heads. “Lord, please bless this gathering of people and food here on the first day of Thanksgiving in years. We humbly ask you for your aid and your love as we embark on another year of reclaiming our country, our heritage, and our humanity. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
As they began to pass and serve food, Ichiro smiled at Abigail. “You are quite good at the blessings, Abby-san. It must come from your heart.”
She smiled a bit sheepishly back. “It does. I feel blessed for having you, my friends, Fuzz, and my health. I know that is not all by chance.” Ichiro took her hand and squeezed it as they looked into each other’s eyes.
“Hey, you’re holding up the food. Make with the goo-goo eyes later.”
“Husband.”
“Oops. Sorry. Please pass the cranberry sauce.”
An hour later, they were cleaning up after the repast, everyone stuffed more than they had been in years. Torbin plopped down into an easy chair Aleks had found for him. Everyone had shared the tankard of ale, which had been a good replacement for the lack of beer. Everyone had sipped the mead, even Abigail.
“You know, Paul, there is one thing I miss.”
“What’s that, my good Major?”
“Football, American style. Football and Thanksgiving seem to go together. Now, unless I want to watch a tape of a game, there are none I can watch.”
“Have to agree with you, Torbin. Just another reason to kick the Squids’ asses as far away as we can.”
At that time, Shannon Bell and Abigail began to distribute wine glasses to everyone. Then they came around with bottles of wine. After everyone had a glass of wine, Aleks came forward, water in her glass instead of alcohol.
“A toast. To good friends, to good food, and to a good birthing of the two trolls in my stomach.
“Here, here,” Torbin exclaimed. Abigail sipped her wine, as did Ichiro. All the rest quickly finished theirs off. Then everyone sat and let their food digest. Torbin and Aleks cuddled up in the love seat. To everyone’s surprise, Abigail sat on Ichiro’s lap, and put her arm around him. Shannon smiled. After what her mother and sister had told her about their first, stressful meeting with the Avenging Angel, it was nice to see her acting like a normal young woman with a boyfriend. Shannon felt a little left out as she had no male friend, but having a family style dinner like this was great. A boyfriend could come later.
Torbin then proceeded to belch, which resulted in a slap and admonishment from Aleks. “Hey, it’s not my fault. Blame those great pies of Abigail’s. Fruit pies always make me belch.”
Abigail smiled. “I’ll second what Torbin just said,” Paul Miller interjected. “Your crust was divine, young lady. Like my mom used to make.” Abigail beamed. Ichiro saw her reaction, feeling a warm glow begin to grow as he noticed how happy she was. No guts, no blood, no violence to talk about. Just good times with a special person. At that moment the Japanese Samurai realized that he was hopelessly in love. He would not push Abigail into anything, as she had said she needed time. But he realized that no matter what happened, she would always have his heart.
“Hey Shannon,” Torbin began. “How’s the pilot training coming?”
“Well, Sir, just finished an abbreviated ground school last week. Since I had some thousand hours flying with my father, Retired Colonel Bell, they are sending me straight to OJT after Thanksgiving. I start as a co-pilot of a rescue chopper. Later, I don’t know what my assignment will be. Right now, we have a lot more helicopters than any other aircraft. So, pilots go there first.”
“What would you like to do?”
Shannon shrugged. “I’m easy. Whatever is needed to fight Squids and Krakens, I’ll do. I’m still pissed off those Krakens tried to hurt my family to get to you and I wasn’t there to help. I joined to be an officer and pilot to make a difference. So, wherever they need me, I’ll go.”
Torbin remembered a young Marine who had the same opinions. Him. It was déjà vu to hear the new young officer express the opinions he had held years ago, before the Squids came. Now, he just wanted to be near the action, to have a chance to close with the enemy, kill as many as possible and drive them from his country. “Well, Shannon, Abigail and I trained you in close quarter combat. Someone else a lot smarter than me will have to train you in the finer arts of combat flying.”
Shannon grinned. “Yes, and you ran my ass into the dirt. I don’t know how you two do it, day in and day out. How many troops, soldiers have you trained so far?”
Torbin though for a minute. “Since Abigail showed up? I’ve lost count. Abigail, do you know?”
Abigail, who had been enjoying sitting, snuggling a bit with Ichiro, had been keeping track of the conversation just in passing. Now, she was being forced to respond. Her brow furrowed.
“Since the Pit Raid, and everyone lined up to volunteer, I’ve lost count how many people we have come in contact with. Now that we are training all ranks, not just supervisors, officers, it seems like we see a hundred faces a week. Ichiro here is doing a lot of unarmed combat training, as well as blade and improvised weapons training. But I just heard the Russians are sending us a dozen trainers, arriving this weekend, supposedly the toughest they could find. Torbin and I have been told we will have to integrate them with our training, I guess supervise them. The plan is to use them in a lot of the initial basic training. Most of our people are on the front lines, in combat units. We trained some NCOs in the train the trainer concept, who will train people on the job. But that was a stop gap. We have to go back to full mobilization style training, make sure people will have a good chance to survive once they hit a combat unit.”
Aleks suddenly laughed.
“What’s so funny, Love?” Torbin asked.
“I just thought of someone who trained me. It would be fitting that he would be sent here. If you can survive his training, you can survive anything the Squids can throw at you.”
Then she shook her head. “But I don't even know if he is still alive. He had a tendency of angering everyone in authority, especially political types. They may have sent him on some suicide mission just to get rid of him. He was too tough for the Squids to eat.”
Torbin stretched. “The conversation is getting too serious. Since we don’t have football to watch, how about a game of Monopoly? Then I can teach my Russian wife here the finer points of Yankee Capitalism while we snack on leftovers.”
Aleks snorted. “Russia is no longer Marxist, my ignorant husband. Any game requiring intelligence and mental quickness will put you at a disadvantage. Just remember that.”
“See what I put up with? Get them pregnant, they still won’t stay quiet on the farm… Ow! Why must you always jab me in the same rib? I’m going to have a large bunch of scar tissue there when I get older.”
“Keep doing what you are doing, you may not get any older, husband.”
“And with that loving exchange,” Paul Miller interjected. “Bring out the board. I’ll warn you. I’m cutthroat when it comes to Monopoly.”
CHAPTER 19
“A well-regulated militia, composed of the body of the people, trained in arms, is the best most natural defense of a free country.”
-James Madison
“So that this nation may long endure, I urge you to follow in the hallowed footsteps of the great disobedience of history that freed exiles, founded religions, defeated tyrants, and yes, in the hands of an aroused rabble in arms and a few great men.”
-Charlton Heston
JOINT BASE ELMENDORF-RICHARDSON/ J-BER
ANCHORAGE, ALASKA
Customs and Immigration Officer Richard Head was not happy. He had been called out from his turkey dinner to handle a Russian aircraft that was not supposed to be in until tomorrow. And it had declared an Inflight Emergency, which
resulted in every emergency vehicle on J-BER (pronounced Jay-Bear) being called out to meet it also. Even though Russia was an ally, Commissioner Miller had mandated that “everyone” entering the United States be “customized”. Way too much contraband was being smuggled in, not to mention that some of the so called refugees were actually followers of the Church of Kraken trying to gain entry covertly. So, he and a few MPs were working instead of being home with their family and friends. After all, this was the first official Thanksgiving celebration since the first rock hit. So, it was a big deal, and now it had been interrupted because some “Ivan” decided to come in a day early. Not cool.
The Li-2, a Russian licensed copy of the old DC-3/C-47, was apparently the last of its kind flying. It had already made several trips to and from Siberia, its low and slow method of travel meant it was totally ignored by the Tschaaa eye in the sky. Anything traveling at less than about three hundred knots was completely ignored, even after that B-25 WWII bomber had been used to insert Major Bender and company into Key West. The Squids seemed to have trouble adapting in how their surveillance functioned when new threats arose. They had a tendency of just maintaining the same systems and methods.
Be that as it may, the Russian Gooney Bird was struggling to make the airfield. The officer thought it sounded as if the engines had been pushed just a little too far, and were now quitting on the job. But the pilot, a grizzled old veteran who had flown in Afghanistan during the Russian Invasion, would do his damnedest to ensure that the Li-2 would not dare to crash on him.
The aircraft came straight in, both engines quitting at the same time. The Russian pilot demonstrated his skill by greasing the plane in on a dead stick landing. He let it roll to the end of the runway, applying only minimum braking. Finally it stopped, with some two dozen fire and rescue personnel standing by, ready to inundate it with foam and water. But nothing happened. The passenger door on the right side, opposite of a standard DC-3, opened. A ladder was deployed.
The flight suited senior pilot was off first, surveying the assembled rescue personnel. “Typical Americans. Always react with wasteful numbers to a minor problem,” he grumbled as another figure came down the ladder after him. This person was dressed in Spetsnaz fatigues, with no name tags or rank. Scarred, weather-beaten face, head shaved, and smoking a cigarette with a holder, the second arrival was built like a cross between a bear and a fire hydrant. He looked like a solid piece of iron, barely topping five foot nine.
“Hey, buddy. Put out that cigarette,” an Assistant Fire Chief yelled at him. At the sound of the voice, the solid man surveyed the personnel spread out around him and located the source. He marched toward the Assistant Chief, who repeated his warning, eyes wide. “Goddamnit—put that cigarette out! There may be fuel vapors around. Put it out, or I’ll have you sprayed down.”
In a calm but penetrating voice, Mister Solid replied, “Do that, Comrade fireman, and you will have to remove a hose nozzle from your rectum.” He kept walking, then continued. “There are no fumes because Comrade pilot dumped what little fuel he had left over the bay. The plane may look old, but it has many modern conveniences.”
The Russian’s demeanor let everyone know that he was not to be trifled with. And he was right. The rescue crew tried to restrain their laughter at the idea of a hose projecting from their chief’s ass, as he had the reputation of having either his head or a stick up there already. The fireman sputtered. Before he could say anything else, the Russian asked the assembled personnel, “Where is the Customs House? I have orders to check in with my personnel.”
One of the junior supervisors called out and pointed across the tarmac. “All the way down at the other end of the tarmac, Comrade. If you wait, we can arrange a ride.”
“Thank you, but my people and I need the exercise. The plane will need to be towed, and unloaded.”
“No problem,” the junior supervisor replied, then got on his radio. With that, the Russian turned on his heel and marched back to his aircraft, the Assistant Fire Chief still sputtering.
When he reached the plane, the solid Russian pulled a beret from his pants pocket and put it on. He yelled some commands in Russian into the open doorway. As if by magic, eleven other identically uniformed Russian soldiers came scrambling out of the aircraft, each fielding a small pack. They formed up in column formation, one man handing an identical pack to the now identified commander of this small unit. The Russian barked a command and they all were at regard attention. Another command, they did a right face. The man then proceeded to march them a few feet before he commanded them into double time, packs and all. And off they went to the the Operations building.
“Asshole,” the Assistant Chief finally blurted out.
“Dare you to say that to his face, Chief,” someone called out from behind one of the fire trucks. The rest of the crew laughed, while the Assistant Chief stormed back to his command vehicle.
Customs Officer Richard Head heard the sound of combat boots in unison approaching. He stood up from behind his desk so that the personnel would notice him upon their arrival. A dozen uniformed Russian Soldiers entered through the doors in front, slowing down to quicktime. They came to a halt at the command of the apparent leader. Given a left face, eleven Russians soon stood at parade rest. A solid bear of a man approached Head, snapped a quick salute, and presented a stack of passports to him.
“Senior Training Instructor Stalin reporting for Customs and Immigration Inspection with eleven personnel.”
Head took the passports. “You’re a day early.”
“Vagaries of war, Comrade.”
“Here. Each person must fill out one of these declaration forms. And I have a manifest that says you have some cargo in your custody.”
“Yes, Comrade. One hundred and ten SKS rifles, a like number of M-66 bolt action rifles, all with attached bayonets.”
Head examined the manifest. “Why so many bayoneted rifles?”
A hint of a smile finally showed on the Russian’s mouth. “Why, for bayonet training, of course.”
Richard Head was beginning to get irritated. “A thousand rounds of ammunition for each type of weapon. A handful of Sa-7s RPGs and related rounds. And side arms for all your men. Anything else?”
“Just three presents I have for some Russian officers at Malmstrom.”
“You’ll need to open them. And your passport only has the name Stalin on it. No first, middle names. Is this an attempt at a joke?”
“No joke, Comrade. That is my name. I know who I am. I need no extra names.”
Head regarded him with a dubious look. “I didn’t think Stalin was a name anyone still used.”
Instructor Stalin shrugged. “Why not? It is a good Russian name.”
The Customs Official kept staring at the Russian, who appeared as if he no worries in the world.
“Open the presents. I need to make sure they are not drugs or other illegal merchandise.”
“Run them thru your x-ray machines. It will show you what they are without ruining the wrapping.”
“Look it, Stalin, or whatever you go by. I’m in charge, not you. Show me the packages and open them. That’s an order. Damnit.”
Stalin stood still, calmly staring at the Customs Officer.
“That’s it.” Head started to reach for the Russian’s personal pack. It would be the last thing he would know for a half hour. He would wake up with a headache and would try to locate the Russians, but would fail.
Stalin stepped around the inspection table and over the prostrate body of Head. He rumbled through the desk and found a stamp he was looking for.
“Comrades. Front and center.”
Within minutes, Stalin had stamped each passport with the correct visa stamp and forged the initials of the unconscious Head. The Senior Lieutenant of the group looked at a Stalin with a worried, concerned look the instructor had seen many times before.
“Comrade Senior Instructor Stalin, is this necessary? Must you once again use force rather
than just go through the process like everyone else?”
Stalin grunted. “I do not suffer fools easy, Comrade Lieutenant. Time and this war wait for no man. We have a chance to hit back at the Squids with the Yankees and the Japanese. Some minor bureaucrat will not be allowed to derail our efforts. Besides, I am impatient to visit some prior students of mine already working with the Allies.” Stalin pulled a black passport out of his bag, and he quickly added a stamp and initials on the correct page.
“Comrade Stalin, that is a diplomatic passport for a Diplomat, embassy personnel. How did you get that?”
The Senior Instructor smiled. “Do not worry. You are all innocent of any connections with my actions. They will only deal with me. Now, young Lieutenant, form up your men. We leave now.”
Within moments, they were marching in tight column formation out of the operations building. They proceeded down the boulevard, toward the way off base. Stalin would find a hotel for his people to stay in while he located the land transportation they needed for the long trip from Alaska to Montana. He noticed a red fire and rescue truck leading a deuce and a half down the same street. The fire truck hit its siren for a second. Stalin peeled off from the formation and met the approaching vehicle. In it was the young supervisory fireman.
“Hey, Comrade. I have your equipment in the truck. Where do you want it?”
“I will jump on board and direct it. That you very much, Comrade fireman. I owe you a drink. Perhaps some vodka?”
“Maybe later. I’m still on duty. You have a safe trip, Comrade….”
“Stalin, young man. Senior Training Instructor Stalin. I will not be hard to find. Just ask around.”
The Tsunami Page 51
