by Finley, Zack
The sheriff walked up to his two men, clapped them on their backs, and strolled up to our lines. I popped out of the Humvee and indicated where we would have our coffee.
"My name is Chuck, I assume you are Jeremy," the sheriff said, climbing into the Humvee. I didn't offer him a hand, letting him settle at his own pace.
"I'm Jeremy," I confirmed, pouring coffee into the thermos top and handing it to Chuck.
"Thanks, we only get coffee on special occasions," Chuck said, cradling the cup in his hands and inhaling the rich earthy aroma.
I poured my own cup and set the near-empty thermos on the floor at my feet. "Yeah, we normally drink pine needle tea, but this morning was special."
"What does pine needle tea taste like?" Chuck asked.
"Turpentine," I said, shuddering.
"Then why drink it?" Chuck tilted his head, looking curious.
"It is packed with vitamin C and should prevent scurvy. Not many oranges or lemons nearby," I said.
Chuck nodded, sipped his coffee before saying, "Thank you for not harming my men. You could have taken us down easily."
I tilted my head toward him to acknowledge his statement, but careful not to either agree or disagree.
"I'm trying to understand what you boys want. You certainly don't need our permission to shove our roadblocks to the side. So, what is the purpose of this parley?" The sheriff had backbone. He might be grateful nobody died, but his anger bubbled near the surface. Nobody likes an armed force invading your turf.
"We intend to drive through Fentress County without losing anybody," I said. "Your armed roadblocks pose a threat. We wouldn't be talking if the roads were clear or if the roadblocks were unmanned."
"We have a right to limit access to our area," Chuck said, the anger was no longer below the surface.
"Of course, you do. Maybe in a few months, I'll just kill men protecting their families, when they interfere with my operations, but I hope not. I'd rather parley, instead. You can't undo, dead."
"How do I know you aren't taking over?" The sheriff sat up straight, coffee forgotten.
"Give us a little credit. Don't you think we'd have done this a lot differently if that was our goal?"
"Yes," Chuck dragged the word out, giving it three or four syllables. "But you didn't need this confrontation or parley just to drive through, either."
"Also, true," I confessed. "I'm also interested in regional stability. Having Fentress County still holding together helps that."
"You are those purple Mecklin Defenders we've heard about," accused Chuck.
"Not sure what you heard, but we are part of the Mecklin Defenders."
"What happened to Sheriff Lewis?" asked Sheriff Johnson.
"Murdered by his deputies," I said. "Then they started throwing their weight around. Some murder, a little rape, and robbing citizens of anything that wasn't welded down."
"A shame, he was a good man. I thought he'd be in good shape with all that solar power. Things are bad enough without law enforcement turning rotten. Have you heard any news from the state or federal level?"
"Nothing official. National Guard soldiers left after the static lifted, Major Thomas never said he heard anything, he just vanished. We caught enough HAM chatter to determine the sun knocked everyone just as hard. Satellites are out, people are cold and hungry," I said. "We expected to see roving bands of marauders by now, but so far, geography has been in our favor. So far, it has been locals attacking locals."
"The highway patrol did a good job initially closing the main highways, and my boys blocked US-127 at several places early on," Chuck said. "We were just trying to stop gangs coming in to loot. Locals could get through, but those relying on their cell phones were stuck. We had enough problems with the locals. Idiots trashed a lot of food and medical supplies that first week. Everyone kept expecting the lights to come back on."
"We need to get moving, we have a lot of miles to go," I said. "As I told Bill, we expect to drive through and will return in a week or so. I'd rather not end up in a gunfight, but that will be up to you. If you could make it easy for us to get through without dismantling your roadblocks, even better."
"I'd like to avoid a gunfight, too," Chuck said. "Why don't I escort you to the TN-52 west roadblock. It will take you a few minutes to open it, but from what I hear, you have the gear to take it on. We will put something a little easier in the breach until after your return trip. If you stay on the direct route between roadblocks, then I'll make sure no one shoots."
"Sounds fair," I said, handing him a slip of paper.
"What is this?"
"If you want to contact our people to discuss mutual defense options or anything else, someone monitors that frequency at noon daily," I said. "I'll leave your tactical radios at this roadblock on our way back."
"And the rifles?" asked the sheriff.
"Them, too," I said, the reluctance clear in my voice. I had planned to keep them as spoils of war. Easy come, easy go.
"Not sure what else there is to resolve," Chuck said, looking relieved. "Though I finally think I know who you are. Are you a Breckinridge? You must be Steve's brother, the one who joined the Army? I sure wish Steve had convinced those yahoos at the county office to put solar at my place. Do you have any systems we could have?"
"Contact the radio frequency I gave you. I doubt they have a full system, but they might have something to trade."
"I'll call them. Do you want to share what you guys are planning to pick up in those semis?"
"Not interested," I said.
"Okay." The sheriff stretched the word so hard it almost had five syllables. "Let's get you on the road. The sooner you are out of my county, the better for everyone." He handed me his empty cup, turned, and fumbled with the door latch.
That was a sentiment I could live with. "Prepare to mount up, we will follow the sheriff's truck to the next roadblock," I radioed. I followed the sheriff out of the Humvee, my ear ringing with the orders to my team.
◆◆◆
Chapter 13
Although we monitored for a double-cross, Sheriff Chuck's deputies met their obligations. The TN-52 west roadblock was near the intersection of TN-154 at a narrow spot between a sheer limestone shelf to the left and a guardrail to the right. Allie reminded me that we went through here before. This one was easier to pass, no crushed cars here, just a tractor-trailer and a parked pickup. The pickup even had inflated tires.
It seemed, in this case, third time's a charm held sway. Even the bridge over the Cumberland River at Celina barely slowed us down. The trip took longer than the 4-hour pre-crash journey, but we made it to Port Royal Park by 4 p.m. Allie estimated the park was about six miles from the grain storage site. Sunset tonight, according to Allie's almanac, was just before 6 p.m. We'd wait.
Waiting for dark remained our stealthiest and safest option. Our night vision goggles (NVGs) gave us a serious advantage after dark. Despite the stealthy advantage, sitting on our hands for two hours was tough.
At dusk, we sent four ninjas north and four to scout the site on US-41. Once the ninjas left, we staged a 10-man squad in each pickup ready to secure the best site. The Humvees stood by as the QRF. Those remaining would bring the semis and bus after we secured the salvage site.
While the US-41 site was the largest, it also had nearby residents, and its layout would be difficult to defend. We only needed two feet of grain from a 50-foot diameter bin to completely fill our trucks, so the number of bins was a lesser consideration. While I preferred the nutritional punch of corn or soybeans, some in the Valley favored wheat, barley, or rye. Speed and defensibility were more important to me than anything else.
I caught myself looking past this mission and speculating that if one trip went well, then perhaps two or three. Dangerous turf. I knew better. Finish the mission you are on before looking ahead. Even Melissa knew that counting your chickens before they hatch leads to disappointment.
Waiting was hard.
"Scout No
rth to Boss."
"Go for Boss."
"The first location on the side road is clear. One occupied house and one hot trailer northeast of bins. Signage at this location says it is a seed exchange. It may be worth checking out. Recommend leaving pickup on the highway and proceeding on foot. Trailer is too close to the target."
"Monitor both sites until we get there. Boss out."
The squelch was all the confirmation needed. Pickup One was on the move.
The scouts remained in place, monitoring the occupied buildings as my team swarmed over the seed exchange.
The Cockerall Seed Exchange had three tall 50-foot diameter bins, a warehouse, and some type of processing building. All quite new. After posting a loose perimeter, we broke in. The nearly empty warehouse disappointed everyone. Three bulk bags of soybeans squatted on individual pallets, dashing my vision of loading the trailers with pallets of seed and being gone within hours.
A neat row of small dump trailers, similar to the ones we used in the Valley, were parked at one end. The forklift was missing.
The dump trailers were too small to drive over the highway. Labels on the bags documented that the seed bags weighed 2,500 pounds. I didn't know how many seeds they held, but it was a lot.
I was already revising my loading plans. Only two of the sacks would fit on our conveyor truck without giving up either the generator or the farm tractor. That wasn't likely. Using the bags as grain dams might help us load the trailers faster. We could decide on the best strategy, later.
The other building contained a Rube Goldberg device that looked much too ancient for this new building. I guessed the different trays separated the trash from the seed. My dad would love it, although, for all I knew, he had one buried somewhere in a shipping container.
My nose led me to the other part of the building. The odor was foul and made my eyes water. The smell and the chemical hazard signs posted on the equipment in that bay hastened our departure from the building. This section of the building probably treated the seeds with chemicals, not something I was interested in. No one lingered, preferring to limit our exposure to the fungicides or insecticides stored in the tanks nearby.
I reminded myself to check the three seed bags, to make sure none contained treated seed. Hazardous material laws required labels on such seed.
It was time to check out the three grain-bins. They were 50 footers, that stood over 30-feet tall. It was hard to tell the actual height in the darkness. From the residue on the ground, one contained soybeans, and two contained corn. Was it too much to hope that grain or beans stored at a seed exchange contained viable seeds? The two grain-trucks parked next to the warehouse were a wonderful bonus find. If the truck Jules and I spotted at the northern site was still parked there, we could end up doubling our planned heist.
While we checked the Cockerall site, our scouts reported on the US-41 granary. No one lived in the actual facility, but as expected, the adjacent farm complex was occupied. Securing that crowded site would be a nightmare compared to our current location.
The seed exchange sat in the middle of farm fields. There weren't even any trees except some saplings in the ditch beside the road. It held the local high ground. I also felt that the corn and soybeans in these bins were viable. I would send scouts to check out the northern site, but I made my choice.
"Boss to all hands. The Cockerall Seed Exchange will be our new base. Second pickup team join us on foot to secure the site. Port Royal, stand by."
"Port Royal acknowledges the standby."
"Pickup Two, on our way.
"Scout Team East acknowledges the new target."
Restraining the inhabitants of the trailer and mansion was the first priority. They were too close to our new base for comfort. I wanted the inhabitants disarmed and under our control before starting the loading operation. The sooner that happened, the sooner we could start loading.
I suspected the house and the seed exchange were connected by more than proximity due to the presence of the third commercial building across from the seed exchange. The 8,000 square foot building was accessible from either the mansion's driveway or Cockerall Road.
The building housed a large tractor with a climate-controlled cab and an array of well-maintained farm equipment. A large red skid-mounted diesel tank located 50-feet west of the building was also a prize. I was already thinking of ways the tractor could help us load up.
The huge, blocky, modern residence was at least three times the size of my house. It had two stories above the garage and an assortment of entrances. Eric estimated it had upwards of 12,000 square feet of living space.
The garage was below the ground floor on the south side of the building. But there was no sign of a fireplace or wooden stove. The swimming pool in the back provided the water supply. Someone had dumped a large pile of bucked wood in the driveway. A nearby splitting station supplied the fuel for a firepit close to a sliding glass door into the back of the house. A heavy-duty grate rested on concrete blocks over the smoldering fire pit with a large pot of water steaming above it.
Black corrugated pipe tied to the downspouts discharged into the swimming pool. I assumed the other black snakes connected to the drains on the far side of the house.
There was no light on in the house, and I hoped everyone inside would be huddled together for warmth.
After a brief strategy session, a small team targeted the trailer and the larger group the mansion. The trailer was considered the riskiest operation. It is very hard to sneak into a trailer, because it shifts and moves under your weight. We had some success in Arkansas, but there our aim wasn't to capture them quietly. We just killed them.
There was some debate about waiting for the residents to be fully asleep, since the sun only set an hour before. That conflicted with our desire to start loading the grain. The increasing chorus of snores coming from the trailer tipped the scales for action.
Eric led the mansion assault. I monitored the sliding glass door, while others guarded the other escape options. Our NVGs lit up those staying in the house like Christmas. We expected the residents were armed. Locating and swarming them with overwhelming force would keep both sides safe.
A quick search confirmed no one was upstairs. Eric's initial assessment had the residents concentrated on the ground floor in the family room.
Teams would hit the trailer and the mansion simultaneously, using flashbangs.
My gut tightened as the seconds counted down. This was an escalation in the fight. Raiding someone's home without provocation. My people wouldn't shoot indiscriminately, but they would shoot if necessary.
The loud blasts and blinding light signaled the start of the assault. My people knew the flash was coming, giving us the advantage, even if the residents weren't asleep.
I listened to the assault teams and counted off the minutes. No shots fired, so far.
"Assault One to Boss."
"Go for Boss."
"Mansion secure, moving seven prisoners to a secure room. No injuries."
"Assault Two to Boss."
"Go for Boss."
"Trailer secure. Five prisoners. Do you want us to move them into the mansion?"
"Negative on trailer. Let's question them for intel first. Split them up, I'll be there in a tick to help. I want to see the mansion bunch first."
I met up with Eric at the dining room, where he parked his prisoners. Our team searched them and then used zip-ties for hands and feet. Two women and a teenage girl and boy were among those secured. I guessed this was a multi-generational family. The five we apprehended in the trailer were probably farmhands.
Eric had the women and teens on one side of the room and the three men on the other. Everyone wore long johns or sweats. After separating the weapons from the bedding, we gave them back the blankets and sleeping bags. The women and teens huddled together for warmth, the men not so much.
I recognized the hatred and anger reflected in the eyes of the three men. It identified them as fami
ly members. Questioning them would be futile without threatening their women or kids. I wouldn't do that, barring a direct threat to our team.
We left a Ranger and one of the female Gammas to monitor the prisoners. The main concern was the small window above the garage. If one of them jumped out the window, they had a two-story drop to the pavement below.
For now, there would be no food, water, or bathroom breaks. Two jailers could not control the prisoners well enough to provide such services, and we couldn't spare more manpower for the task.
"Boss to Port Royal."
"Go for Port Royal."
