Patriots
Page 49
Her first pass had stitched right up the middle of the convoy from behind, taking it completely by surprise. Her second pass, from west to east, had concentrated on the trucks on the north side of the road. She narrowly missed the telephone pole that lined the north side of the road. On this third pass, perhaps too predictably, she traversed the trucks in the ditch on the south side of the road, flying from east to west. Blanca began to hear bullets pinging into the plane, and she could see numerous tears in the fabric in the wing above her. Despite the hits, she decided to finish the run. The trail of bullets from the M60 passed the last of the vehicles, and Blanca quickly pulled back on the fire control lever to conserve ammo. Curiously, she noticed, the lead Humvee had two tall antennas instead of just the one she saw on the others. She wondered if this meant that it was the convoy commander’s vehicle. She would have to ask one of the “ground pounders” when she got back.
Blanca banked the Laron sharply, and shoved the throttle forward. The surge of power palpably pushed her back into her seat. It was time, as her husband so colorfully put it, “to de-ass the A.O.”With the large number of hits her plane had taken on the third pass, Blanca knew that she didn’t dare attempt a fourth. As she turned back north, a .30-caliber bullet went through both walls of the rear cockpit. On its way, it went through the tops of both of Blanca’s thighs. The wounds were not very painful at first, but the sight of them badly frightened Blanca. They bled heavily from the start. The slipstream splattered blood all over the rear cockpit. She thought that she had to land soon, or she would bleed to death. After a half-minute of sheer panic, Blanca gained altitude, got her bearings, and turned the plane toward Valley Forge. The throttle was still wide open, and despite the low altitude and the extra drag of the missing canopy, the plane was up to a ground speed of eighty miles an hour.
Blanca wrapped a long scarf that her mother-in-law had knitted for her around her thighs. It might slow the bleeding down a little, she reasoned. If nothing else, it was reducing the splatters of blood that were gradually painting her uniform and goggles. She looked up at her left wing, and then her right, and was horrified to see that many of the bullet holes had transformed themselves into long rips in the fabric. A flap of fabric eighteen-inches square was flapping frantically on the bottom of the right wing. Realizing her peril, Blanca pulled the throttle halfway back, slowing the plane to less than fifty miles an hour. As she continued toward the valley, the tears in the fabric continued to worsen, and the rudder controls started to feel mushy. Despite her reduced airspeed, large patches of fabric kept tearing away, albeit at a slower rate. Blanca looked back up at the wings and muttered to herself, “Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay.”
She could see the meadow opening in the distance. She tightened both sides of her seat harness, and crossed herself. She repeated “Hail Mary” in Spanish three times. Blanca dipped the plane’s nose down, and tried to turn left toward the valley. The rudder did not respond. In desperation, she pushed the left rudder pedal down until it stopped, and tipped the control stick to the left, gradually dropping the left wing tip. Ever so slowly, the nose started to walk around to the left. Once she was lined up on the meadow properly, Blanca throttled back even farther, spilling off airspeed, and she leveled the wings. The plane’s stick felt unfamiliar. Just as the plane cleared the near edge of the meadow, it started to stall.
Luckily, Larons are forgiving aircraft, and the stall was not fully catastrophic.
Blanca realized that she was losing altitude too quickly, and throttled up again, but it was almost too late. Minus nearly a quarter of its wing area, the Laron had insufficient lift and was descending at thirty feet a second, just coming out of the stall. By the time she hit the ground, the prop had spooled up and her rate of descent was slower, but the impact was still well beyond the rated stress that the landing gear was designed to absorb. To make matters worse, unknown to Blanca, the Laron’s right tire had been punctured by a bullet.
The Laron hit the grass and bounced once. Blanca chopped the throttle completely. On the second bounce, the right side of the landing gear collapsed.
The right wing tip edged into the ground, and the Star Streak went into a ground loop. The fuselage tore into the sod, sending chunks of dirt up through the skin of the plane. The right wing tip was torn off completely. Blanca instinctively pulled her knees up. The plane was still going fifteen miles an hour when it flipped over. After sliding upside down in a semicircle, the Laron finally came to a stop.
When the others arrived, they thought that Blanca was dead. The sight of her hanging upside down in the cockpit, unconscious and bathed in blood, was almost too much for Margie. Mary had the presence of mind to pick up her medic bag before she started to run toward the plane. Lon and Todd supported Blanca’s weight while Mary snipped through the harness material with her black-handled EMT shears. Having seen gasoline pouring out of a puncture in the gas tank, there was no hesitation. They quickly carried her in a “fireman’s carry” sixty yards across the meadow toward the TAC-CP. Mary checked her pulse at her carotid artery and examined her pupils. Then she deftly cut the ACU material back from each of the wounds on her legs. Mary could see that they were roughly an inch deep. To her surprise, the bleeding was slow. Large clots had formed at both the entrance and exit sides. “Looks like the major arteries are intact,” Mary reported. Mary wrapped four pressure dressings on her legs, one each over the entrance and exit sides of the wounds.
Mary decided that it would be unwise and unnecessary to move her any further, at least for the present. She sent Margie for her surgical kit and some water. After another few minutes, Blanca regained consciousness. She looked up at Mary and asked, “Que, que…?”
Mary held her fingers to her lips and smiled at Blanca. “You did good, Blanca, muy bueno. Now rest.”
Blanca lowered her head and smiled. She turned her head to see the crumpled tan Laron. She laughed and said, “Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay. I wasn’t thinking straight. I should have recka-nized that I was going to stall. I theenk my bird is verry broken, no?”
Mary quickly replied, “Yes, but the Lord brought you back to us. You’re going to be just fine. God is the great physician. Be still and rest.”
Mary noted that the bleeding had nearly stopped, and asked Todd and Lon to fabricate a stretcher. They nodded to each other and jogged off. They returned ten minutes later. They were carrying a stretcher that they had improvised from two ponchos lashed onto a pair of pine saplings.Very gently, they lifted Blanca up and placed her on the stretcher. She was slowly carried to the shade of the trees near the TAC-CP.
Mary checked Blanca’s blood pressure, declaring it “just a hair low.” Her pulse was rapid at 125. She gave her some cayenne pepper powder mixed in water to slow the bleeding. Blanca said that the cayenne tasted terrible, but she drank it down. The bleeding nearly stopped. She had Margie help her remove Blanca’s blood-sodden ACU pants. She prepped Blanca’s arm and started a colloid I.V. drip. The hanger for the I.V. bottle was nailed to a close-by ponderosa pine tree. Mary explained that because she didn’t know how much blood Blanca had lost, it was important to “expand” her blood. Blanca was asleep by the time the I.V. was flowing. Mary scrubbed her hands with a disposable Betadine-soaked double-sided square brush. Then she donned a pair of gloves and swabbed the wounds with Betadine. Blanca was lifted by Todd and Lon and a new poncho was spread on the ground beneath her.
Mary regularly checked respiration, pulse, and pupils. After doing some probing, she decided to leave the wounds open for drainage. She commented, “They clotted so well by themselves, the suturing isn’t necessary unless she has to move her legs. We’ll watch her real closely for any new bleeding, and cauterize if necessary. For now, I’ll just do some light packing with saline-soaked bandages on the exit sides. It is best to provide drainage for several days. Based on my experience with Rose’s gunshot wound, I’d say it’ll be at least three or four days before we’ll stitch her up. ”
Blanca was fully conscious as Ma
ry bandaged her. A mosquito bar was set up to keep flies away from the wounds. Mary stayed by her side for three more hours, regularly reaching under the mosquito netting to check her pulse, respiration, and blood pressure. After three full units of the I.V. fluid were drained, the Heparin lock was disconnected. Mary started a chart on Blanca’s vital signs in her notebook, and then went to her tent to rest. Margie took up the vigil.
She was told to check her “vitals” and for new bleeding every fifteen minutes, to chart them, and to call Mary if Blanca awakened or if there was any additional bleeding.
The late afternoon was devoted to recovering useful items from the wrecked Laron. The most important item was the M60. Luckily, aside from a badly scratched flash hider and a bent front sight, it was undamaged. It was unbolted from the framework and carried back to the TAC-CP. Blanca’s Mini-14 GB was safely secured by Velcro strap, so it too escaped any damage beyond some scratches to the black plastic pistol grip.
The video camera on the plane was still functional. The camera had been left running from the time Blanca started her first pass. As they discovered when they played back the tape three days later, it recorded the strafing runs on Blanca’s four previous sorties, as well as the last one. The latest portion of the tape differed from the scenes of the earlier sorties in that it also showed Blanca’s flight back, and the crash itself. It even included an inverted view of Mary, Todd, and Lon running up to the crashed plane. They watched the tape several times, using the camera’s small viewfinder monitor. When she saw it, Mary said, “It’s too bad that the TV show ‘Real Life Video’ is no longer in production. They’d certainly buy a tape like this!”
The small ICOMVHF radio had its antenna and headset connectors ripped off, but looked basically intact. Surprisingly, a static rush could be heard when Todd disconnected the plugs and turned the unit on and the squelch knob down. “Built to take a licking!” Todd said with a laugh. Everything of value was removed from the wreckage—even the fired brass and links, and the remaining fuel in the tank.
After unbolting the remains of the right wing, and the largely intact left wing, Todd and Lon were able to flip the plane upright by themselves. Both were amazed just how light the Laron was. Next, with help from Jeff Trasel, they unbolted the shredded tail and carried it into the tree line to the south. The two wings quickly followed. Moving the fuselage was easier than Todd had anticipated. Lon held the right side up by the mangled stub of the landing gear and Todd pushed from behind. They wheeled it ten yards into the trees. A half hour later, two camouflage nets were in place over the wreckage. Then they went to clean the M60 and swap out the barrel with the bent front sight. Using the intact barrel for reference, Lon used a brass hammer and a pair of channel locks to straighten the front sight. Then, it too was methodically cleaned.
Just before sunset, Ian landed his Laron and taxied it toward its normal hiding place. Lon ran over to help him push it back into the trees and camouflage it. Ian was shocked when he heard about the crash and Blanca’s condition. He was relieved when he saw her. She was by then asleep. Doyle said quietly, “Thank you so much, Margie.” She replied, “I’m just taking notes here.
It was Mary who stitched her up. She says that barring any complications, she’ll be fine in a few weeks.” Ian sat down next to his wife, on edge of a Lamilite ground pad. He commented, “What a day, what a day. Thank you, Father God, for your protection.” Margie joined him when he read the 34th Psalm aloud.
Blanca awoke that evening, in pain. Mary gave her some Tylenol and a cup of strong tea made with comfrey leaves, sweetened with honey. Blanca’s pain began to subside a half hour later. Mary gave Blanca a strong dose of titrated tetracycline. It was supplemented with a supply of herbal ointment that she had prepared a month before. It was made with marigold, comfrey, and aloe vera. Mary also made Blanca another tea—this one made of echinacea and chamomile.
• • •
Life at Valley Forge gradually worked into a routine. Every three or four days a patrol would go out to conduct a reconnaissance, liaison, sabotage, or ambush.
They were only back for a day or two between patrols. Small cooking fires were burned only during the day. Every evening either Todd or Mary would cuddle with little Jacob and lead him in prayers when his bedtime arrived.
Jacob’s prayers always ended the same way. He would follow along and say, “I pray that everyone that we know and love is happy and healthy, warm, dry, well fed, safe and free, and have their salvation, amen.”
CHAPTER 28
Tenacity
“If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquillity of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, go home from us in peace. We ask not your counsel nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains set lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.”
—Samuel Adams, 1776
Throughout the fall, the Second Corps (Composite) of the Democratic Army of the Provisional Federal Government was having serious trouble in northern Idaho. Resistance forces struck unpredictably and with surprising success. Convoys could only travel in daylight, and only with accompanying armor. There were seemingly no “rear” or secure areas for the Federal and UN troops.
In one much talked-about incident, an eighty-two-year-old grandmother walked up to three Belgian lieutenants that were loitering at a city park in Lewiston, with their weapons slung. She said in a sweet, quavering voice, “I have something for you,” and from a picnic basket pulled a hundred-and-ten-year old Merwin Hulbert .44-40 revolver. She shot and killed one of them, and critically wounded the second before the third soldier cut her down with two bursts from a PDW-80.
The guerrillas were almost impossible to locate. The vast areas of National Forest, much of it roadless, were ideal hiding places. The townsmen were sullen. Only a few cooperated with the authorities. Most of them clearly favored the militias and did their best to feed them with supplies and current intelligence. There were countless acts of sabotage against parked vehicles. They ranged from punctured tires and sand poured in fuel tanks to immolation with Molotov cocktails.
There had been some poisoning incidents, so many soldiers distrusted any fresh food that had been out of their sight. Despite a strictly enforced two-man rule, sentries disappeared or “woke up dead” with alarming regularity. Many deserted. Others were stabbed, clubbed, or shot. Nearly all of those killed had their weapons, web gear, and boots taken. Sometimes their bodies were found with even their uniforms missing. The garrisoned soldiers didn’t feel safe anywhere. Nor did the new Regional Administrator and his staff. They all had large complements of heavily armed bodyguards and traveled only in APCs.
The local militias had sufficient supplies of weapons and ammunition for an extended campaign. Increasingly, they were using captured weapons. Stories about the resistance, some of them apocryphal, were circulated by word of mouth and in a variety of mimeographed and photocopied broadsheets with names like “The Maquisard,” “Resist!,”“The Free American,” and “Say No To The NWO.”
These broadsheets carried a mix of resistance pep talks, interviews, and technical advice on ambushes and sabotage. One of them printed instructions for producing and purifying a powerful toxin called ricin, derived from castor beans. They advised mixing it in the solvent DMSO, so it could be absorbed directly through the victim’s skin. Another broadsheet showed how to extract colchicine from fall crocus flowers.
A regularly recurring rumor was of the militias issuing “butter knife” guns to young teenagers who joined resistance cells. As the story went, they would send them out with older, less useful guns in odd calibers to shoot sentries or to ambush off-duty garrison soldiers. They were told that they could keep any weapons that they captured, and then pass the “butter knife” along to the next young volunteer. The resistance leaders called it “using a butter knife instead of wasting a steak knife.” The practice was part of the new members’ initiation for some cells.
The news of guerrilla successes spread rapidly. A resistance cell that called itself the Bombardiers carried out a flawless thermite and Molotov raid on a row of five parked helicopters during a heavy rainstorm. A guard and an avionics technician were shot and killed. Two pilots were badly wounded. All five helicopters, plus a twelve-hundred-gallon fuel bladder of JP-4 and a “Federally requisitioned” Ford pickup truck, were destroyed. The Bombardiers only suffered one minor injury in the raid. There was considerable pride in mentioning the fact that the oldest member of the cell was only sixteen. The youngest of them had just turned twelve.
Ironically, the destruction of the helicopters caused a great increase in Federal and UN air activity in the following weeks. To compensate for the loss of the aircraft, the Federals redeployed ten more helicopters from the First Corps in Montana. They were all older models—mostly UH-1 Huey “slicks,” Bell Jet Rangers and Kiowas, and two Huey Cobras. Two of the Jet Rangers still had multicolor civilian paint jobs. The expected newer model AH-64 Apache and UH-60 Blackhawk models never appeared. “Rumor control” in the resistance had it that the reason that the older helicopters were still flying and that the newer models weren’t was because the latter used more exotic hydraulic fluids and had more recent generation avionics that were more prone to failure.