“I wish I could have brought boat,” said Dalen with a sigh. When he had heard about the impending naval assault, Dalen had desperately tried to convert his famous “longship” into a torpedo boat by working up some brass torpedoes patterned after the old 1907 German pattern that had sunk the Lusitania, but there simply hadn’t been enough time to get the technology working. “We must make this boat!” he said, slamming his fist into his palm. “We need Northwest Volunteer Navy!”
“After this I’m sure you’ll be able to get the okay from the Army Council,” said Hatfield. “Len, you and Ricky supervise the dispersal of the vehicles under the best concealment you can. Then get everybody back here in the parking lot in twenty minutes, and I’ll tell them where I want them. One quick thing I need to know.” Hatfield stepped forward and called out to the Volunteers along the roadway, “How many of you comrades did service in Iraq or anywhere else in the Middle East? Raise your hands!” At least 50 hands went up.
“Then you’ll know how to dig into sand. You guys who raised your hands, you stay here. For the rest of you, I need one person per team to report back to the vehicle you came here in. You will be dispersing them so they’re not sitting all in a row as targets like it was an airfield at Pearl Harbor. Remember where your vehicle is parked and make sure you can find your way back, which you will almost certainly have to do under fire. You all wanted a shot, fine, you’ll get it, but so will Fattie. Charlie and Captain Dalen, come with me. I need to recon that beach and see where we can set up firing positions.” Zack looked up at the bright red light of Mars, just now setting below the dark Pacific, but still visible even in the growing light. In his mind he spoke to something he vaguely thought of as God. I have only one thing to ask of you, he thought. Send them here to us. Don’t let them land somewhere else and catch us from behind, or from above. If these noble men and women must die, let them die as Aryans. Facing their enemy.
* * *
“Wheeeee!” called out Sue Loomis as she was lowered over the side on a steel cable wound from a boom winch, down into the motor launch bobbing against the Ventura’s port side hull. The launch did indeed resemble a large rubber life raft, but she had an outboard motor and proper folding seats, the latest in collapsible maritime technology, and in her packed state was not too much larger than the 270-horsepower outboard engine. The pontoons were bright orange, and since Fox News had paid for the little vessel and the men to operate her, she flew a Fox News pennant from her rounded bow. The launch had even been given a cutesy unofficial name, the Slitherydee.
It was 5:15 a.m. now. The sun wasn’t actually up yet, but since it was only a few days past the longest day of the year, it was well light enough to see that it was going to be a clear day, not necessarily a given on the north coast of Oregon where even the cool summer was often cloudy and overcast. “Looks like Rolly has lucked out on the weather, and he’ll get his grand entrance into the Great White Homeland by the light of the rising sun,” remarked Hastings to Sue as he dropped down into the Slitherydee and detached the harness from his life jacket.
“That all of you?” called the sailor on the outboard.
“Aye aye, skipper,” replied Hastings. The rubber boat contained almost twenty people, journalists and camera crews, and there was still plenty of legroom. The crewman fired up the outboard motor and the second sailor on the bow cast off the line. Hastings began to sing the theme song from Gilligan’s Island, and all the others joined in. “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip, that started from this tropic port aboard this tiny ship . . .”
The NVA men on the beach had a good view of the line of vessels that now lay about a mile off Sunset Beach, the transports hove to and resting at anchor in a column with the Higby bringing up the rear and about five hundred yards inshore to their starboard. From the beach Zack Hatfield, Charlie Washburn, and Len Ekstrom crouched in the camouflaged excavation they had made, watching the invaders through binoculars, screened by the waving sea oats that had been re-inserted and packed in the sand piled in front of the trench. Rather than rely on cell phones, Len had come up with enough field radio sets so that Zack could speak to his four company commanders and also to the five marksmen armed with the .50-caliber BMG rifles, who were designated by the code name Big Boppers. The Volunteers were dispersed behind the dunes along the beach over 400-yard front, by company, with A Company under Lieutenant Ricky Parmenter on the right dug in around a wooden observation deck that jutted out of the small scrubby growth of wooded area that was Sunset Beach Park, and D Company under Lieutenant Sherry Tomczak on the far left. The .50-caliber men and everyone else with the right weapon and good enough to be classified as a sniper were hunkered down in hollowed-out firing posts along the crest of the dunes, the rest of the force lying prone on the eastern slope, sheltered from observation from the ships, but easily visible to any helicopter that should fly over.
Captain Ragnar Redbeard and Big Nick were just out of sight around the bend of the access road, with the War Wagon. Dalen had been so bitterly disappointed in his failure to rig up a torpedo boat in time that Hatfield had promised him a run on the beach to try out the War Wagon’s Ma Deuce when some targets became available. Dalen and Big Nick had inserted a pole with a large blue and yellow Swedish flag into a socket on the rear of the Humvee.
Volunteer Holland Winnicki low-crawled up to the command post, cradling his M-16 in his arms. He was wearing U.S. Army surplus desert camo fatigues, a bush hat, and a blue white and green armband around his left arm. “Looks like you’re one of the few of us properly attired for this terrain,” commented Zack.
“I figured I’d better put this on so none of our comrades make any mistake when it hits the fan,” said Winnicki, pointing to the Tricolor armband. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yep,” said Zack. “You’re a former Navy man, right?”
“Yes, sir. Ten years on shipboard, carriers and frigates, and three with the DNF in Iraq,” said Winnicki.
“Tell me what you make of that warship?” asked Zack. “Especially anything you know about the weapons systems on board.” He handed Winnicki the binoculars. The ex-sailor took them and put them to his eyes, giving the enemy vessel a long look from head to stern.
“That’s the Higby, sir,” he said. “Hamilton class Coast Guard cutter, which is the largest type. Hamilton class vessels are pretty potent. That’s a Mark 75, 76-millimeter auto-loading repeating cannon in that globe turret on the bow. It has a computerized fire control system that can be operated from the bridge. Can’t remember the max rate of fire, but it can lob a shell every second easy, and those HE rounds can punch a hole in pretty much anything that floats. On the stern there in the revolving column turret is a Mark 15 20-millimeter Close In Weapons System. It can fire 3500 rounds per minute. It’s for use against attacking aircraft, and it’s also got a computerized fire control system that synchs with the ship’s radar. It can be used for ground support as well, of course. It can chew up this beach into talcum powder, I know that much. I’ve seen them used on shore targets in Iran and Gaza. They’re no fun if you’re on the receiving end. You’ve also got two 25-mm chain guns, electric Gatling guns, on the port and starboard side.”
“Can these dunes stop those rounds?” asked Hatfield.
“Dirt will stop almost anything, sir, but this is loose sand, which is fine for small arms cover, but that heavy stuff on Higby can literally blow the cover away. The 20-mils and 25-mils, yes, for a short time, until the dunes are literally cut down to size, leveled. Those 76-millimeter artillery shells will blow holes in them and maybe bury some of our guys, plus the concussion.”
“Crap,” said Hatfield. “I’d ask about vulnerable spots, but we don’t have anything to fire at it. We couldn’t hit it at that range with an RPG, and even if we could it would be like throwing ping-pong balls at the damned thing. Okay, Volunteer, back to your post.” Winnicki crawled away, and once he was out of line of sight from the American ships, he st
ood up and ran back down the line to rejoin his team on the dunes.
“Lucky this is only going to be a shoot and scoot, if a big one,” said Charlie.
“How many of us will that ship kill before we can E&E?” muttered Hatfield glumly. “And where the hell are those choppers? Are they going to take us from behind?”
“Let’s wait for them to come in, pick off their point men and then book,” said Lennart. “Only you know, Zack, looking at them now, I’m wondering how the hell they’re planning on landing? Those two look like cruise ships, almost. They won’t be able to get too much closer in for fear of running aground, and that other looks like a ferry pulled by tugboats, of all things. How are they planning on getting their men on shore? It would have to be in boats or landing craft of some kind. Maybe they’re going to climb down cargo nets on the sides like the Marines in the South Pacific, but it would have to be into some kind of boat.”
“Meaning they’ll be coming ashore in small and more manageable numbers,” said Zack thoughtfully. “We can outgun them on the ground, at least at first until that warship opens up, hit them from several directions at once with the old Shock and Awe trick, although with their battleship and their copters that won’t do us much good. Okay, how’s this for a plan? We take out the first boat that hits our land, just enough to get some of their blood on the sand and send our message. Then we skedaddle, hopefully before that big boy can do us too much damage. We break up into teams and head for our E & E points.”
“I don’t see anyone on shore,” said Sue from Reuters as the launch with the media people headed through the breakers.
“What did you expect, a welcoming party?” asked Seth Goldstein. The first golden rays of the sun were starting to glow on the eastern horizon.
“I was hoping to see Dawson Zucchino with his thermos. But it looks empty,” said Sue. “I didn’t know there were any stretches of open beach like this left anywhere in the country.”
“This coast has never been really all that favored by retirees,” said Mark Hastings. “The water is simply too cold, as we’re about to find out when we get out, and the wind is too chilly even in July.”
“What the hell is that?” said Zack, scanning the launch with his binoculars. “A rubber boat or dinghy with an outboard motor. Big one, maybe twenty people on board. I don’t see a single Fattie or soldier in the bunch. I don’t even think those are regular swabbies piloting and steering that boat.”
“Whoever they are, they’re coming right for us,” said Charlie.
“I don’t want to waste six IEDs and half a ton of explosives on a rubber boat,” said Zack. “But if they come up here they’re going to walk right past us and we’ll have to be satisfied with wasting them, whoever they are, then bugging out.”
“Without blowing the mines?” asked Len. “After we spent all night planting the damned things?”
“Let’s just see what they’re up to,” said Zack. He spoke into his radio. “This is Mountain Man. Whoever those people are in that rubber ducky, they’re not hostiles, not armed ones anyway. Hold your fire, maintain your positions and maintain concealment. Repeat, do not fire unless I order it.”
“High tide in thirty minutes,” said Charlie Washburn. “Why the hell are these people landing at high tide?”
“On the up side, they’ll be in closer range of our long arms than if it were low,” pointed out Len.
“Vehicles,” said Hatfield. “They’re going to be landing heavy vehicles and if they rolled ashore in the wet sand at low tide they’d be more likely to get stuck. I’ll bet you that’s why they towed that ferry up here like it was a garbage scow. It’s full of all their motor transport. Damn, if there was only some way we could take that ship out!”
The radio crackled briefly. “Mountain Man, this is Cowboy,” came Parmenter’s voice. “Helicopters sighted, southbound, maybe two miles out to sea, three or four thousand feet up.”
“Copy, Cowboy. How many?”
“Hard to tell yet, sir, but over a dozen, I’d say.”
“Roger, Cowboy,” said Hatfield. “Keep me posted. Mountain Man out. They’re not coming in over land? Why not, for God’s sake?” he wondered aloud.
“Maybe they’re taking the scenic route,” suggested Washburn.
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Hatfield, shaking his head.
“You have got to be kidding me!” snapped Lennart Ekstrom, the binoculars to his face.
“What, Len?”
“They’re on the beach and they’re unloading stuff from the boat. Television cameras!” spluttered Len indignantly. “Those are goddamned reporters!”
“Makes sense,” said Washburn. “They want to film the landing of ZOG’s finest in living color, in time for Mr. and Mrs. America to watch it all at their breakfast table before they head off to their wonderful careers shoveling the Jews’ shit. They did that in Somalia in ’92, sent the media in before the troops, so they could film the Marines storming ashore on an empty beach.”
“And it never occurred to them at all that we might be waiting for them?” whispered Hatfield, a slow rage beginning to bubble and boil deep inside him. “They just assumed that they could stroll right in here, and we would just let them, that we would never raise a hand to defend ourselves or our land and our homes?”
“They think this is Iraq in 2003,” said Len.
“Why should they?” asked Washburn flatly. “Until three years ago, white men never resisted before. I still don’t think they can wrap their minds around it.”
“Dear God, what breathtaking arrogance! What contempt they must feel for us!” In a black, cold, deadly rage he picked up his radio. “This is Mountain Man to all Straw Bosses and Big Boppers. I assume you all see what we’re seeing. Everybody stay down and under cover. We don’t want them to make us. If any of them get curious and wander up toward your positions, try to take them down silently. When the shit hits the fan, kill those media lice. All of them.” He got a brief chorus of “Roger that.”
“They’re setting up their gear,” said Ekstrom. There was a brief whirr out on the beach as one of Leonard Posner’s crew started up the portable generator. “They’re unfolding stands for lights, it looks like, setting up cameras on tripods. And look where they’re setting up, Zack! 70 yards right in front of us! That must mean that one of the boats will be landing right on top of our daisy chain! You were right!”
“Looks like we’ll get to pop the top and you can see the results of your long night’s work after all, Len. I wonder if they’ve got a live feed?” Zack asked himself out loud. “Maybe we can give Mr. and Mrs. America a show that will make them choke on their breakfast Eggos.”
“Why do they need those lights?” asked Washburn curiously. “Sun’s going to be up in a couple of minutes.”
The reporters needed the lights to do their preliminary lead-ins. Posner was up first, of course. Fox was always the ranking news network in any journalistic pecking order since it was the official government news medium. Even his most lukewarm fans, meaning all the other newshounds and hens, had to admire the way Posner slid right into character. He was wearing a canvas windbreaker and canvas trousers, L.L. Bean boots and a plaid shirt open just enough to show his hairy chest, and although his makeup girl had just finished with him no one would never know he had a speck of powder or rouge on his face. The sea wind tousled his hair, he looked rugged and relaxed, and his voice was deep and authoritative. “I am standing here on a deserted beach somewhere on the Oregon coast, where in a few minutes General Roland Rollins, officer commanding of the Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization, will be landing with a large force of highly trained and motivated men and women who are determined to take a big bite out of racist terror today. In a stunning and daring move, General Rollins has taken to the high seas in a brilliant flanking movement in order to insert some major American muscle right into the heart of NVA bandit country, a part of the United States that has seen little law and less order for the past several ye
ars. It’s a part of our country where people of color, Latino people, gay people, and anyone whose heart isn’t filled with hate have been afraid to set foot for a long time. This is the stomping ground of the self-styled Captain Zack Hatfield and his Wild Bunch. Well, we’re going to see just how wild ‘Captain’ Hatfield and his bunch are. We’ll be bringing you the landing live as soon as General Rollins steps ashore. Back to you in the studio, Tom.”
“Mountain Man, this is Cowboy,” came Parmenter’s voice on the radio. “You should be able to see the choppers now. They’re coming in.”
“Great,” sighed Hatfield. “Maybe they’re going to secure the landing zone after all, but they’re just late.”
“I see them,” said Ekstrom, looking through the field glasses. “Yes, they’re heading toward the shore.”
“Straw Bosses and Big Boppers, this is Mountain Man,” said Hatfield into the radio. “When those choppers come in over the beach, if any of them is low enough and you know you can get a hit, take the shot. Ragnar, that little toy you guys have in my ride might come in useful there. Whizz Bangers, if there are any boats in the water and you’re sure you can hit them, give ’em a rocket in their pocket. Once the choppers see us, we’re going to have to beat feet. On my command word freedom you open up on those media down there, terminate them and anything else you can hit, and then proceed to E&E. Confirm.”
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