Willard
01-27-2007, 08:39 AM
http://www.drzero.org/fiction/
Chapter 1
He broke camp at sunset, packing his gear into his Kelty pack, everything going back
where it had come from. He was comfortable with the routine of the act; it gave him a
feeling that some things were consistent, and hope that some things would remain so.
After packing, he pulled the camouflage cover over the pack, securing it at the top and
bottom so that an errant tree branch wouldn’t pull it off at the wrong time. Shrugging on
his Blackhawk chest pouch he picked up the pack by the sides and lifting it over his head,
settling it onto his shoulders. He jumped up and down to get the pack just so, and buckled
the waist belt, pulling it just a little tighter. He wondered to himself how much more
weight he was going to lose. Not that it was a bad thing. His trek so far was burning the
soft life off of him 1 pound at a time, and every day he felt both younger and much, much
older.
He picked up his rifle, and draped the sling over his shoulder and neck. He set out
cautiously, stopping every few minutes to listen to the sounds of the forest. So far so
good. Just birds saying good night to the sun, and the last few crickets of the season
looking for love in the twilight. As the fading light turned the world from Technicolor to
gray and black, he paused for moment to look up at the darkening sky. The stars were
much brighter now that there were virtually no electric lights to blind suburban man to
the wonders of the universe.
Well, he thought, we really were a short footstep from the dark ages. Continuing on, he
consulted his USGI tritium compass every so often, and adjusted his course as he needed
to. After moving a click and a half, he again stopped, and removed his canteen from his
hip belt. He took a long pull of the tepid water, and swallowed. He stowed the canteen
and moved forward, even more slowly than before, using every bit of his somewhat rusty
skills to make as little noise as possible.
After two hours and then some he saw a break in the trees, marked only by a band of
twinkling stars through the leaves. He stopped and took a knee, loosening his right pack
strap and unbuckling the waist belt of his pack. Rolling his shoulder, he shifted the
weight of the pack to his left, and slid it to the ground at his left heel. He then dropped to
the prone position, pointing his rifle at the road that lay 20 meters to his front.
Shivering slightly as the chill of the night crept up on him, he listened for activity on the
roadway. The sound of a motor, a cough, muffled voices, a radio breaking squelch, the
distinctive whir of the thermal sight of a TOW launcher mounted on a Humvee. After a
half hour of hearing what he wanted-nothing- he again rose to one knee and adjusted his
left shoulder strap, then replaced the pack on his back. The cold sweat on his t-shirt made
him colder still as the pack resettled on his spine. Pulling the straps tight he left the waist
strap unbuckled in case he needed to dump the pack in a hurry. He slowly made his way
to the edge of the brush that lined the two lane state highway in front of him, and
promptly walked into a rusty wire fence. “Damnation” he hissed. The rusty fence was put
there by the state to keep random and easily deterred trespassers from despoiling the
wood surrounding the reservoir where he had refilled his canteens and spent the day. He
felt the wire with his bare left hand, and determined that it was thin enough. Reaching
into the left accessory pocket of his chest rig he pulled out his trusty Leatherman Tool
and unfolded it. Cutting carefully, with his attention still focused mainly on listening for
the sounds of approaching danger, he clipped the wire in two areas, about 30 inches apart,
and down four layers of wire. Re-stowing his Leatherman he pulled the wire towards him,
and folded the cut area down. He quickly crossed the fence, and turning, pulled the wire
back into place, as best he could by touch. He turned to the road and took a knee, looking
both left and right for signs of approaching vehicles, or something or someone waiting
quietly on the shoulder. Seeing and hearing nothing but normal night sounds, he quickly
rose and darted across the road, his pack thumping against his back with every step, his
rifle held at high port in both hands. Reaching the far side of the road, he crashed through
the first row of pucker brush that is so common on roadsides, and stopped. He flopped to
the prone, and peered over his rifle at his back trail. After several minutes of listening to
his heart return to a normal rhythm, he stood and buckled his belt, turned on one heel, and
moved slowly and deliberately through the woods, keeping the highway, as best he could,
200 meters to his left.
He again made camp in a wood. It wouldn’t be dawn for a few more hours, but according
to his map this was the last significant patch of undeveloped land on his route for about
10 miles. And between that patch of land and this was the Turnpike, eight lanes of
potential danger. He had several miles of semi rural land to cross, and at least two of
suburban tract houses to pass safely through. He ate a cold MRE beef stew, and dug a
small cathole to take care of other matters. He buried both his waste and MRE packet in
the same hole. He had stopped outside of a dense stand of Oak trees growing from a wild
pile of bracken and vines. He risked a brief red filtered search with his LED flashlight,
and found what he was looking for in a few moments. On hands and knees he followed
the small game trail into the thicket, wriggling on his belly when his pack hung up on the
dense vegetation. Reaching the clear spot at the base of the three oaks, he listened tensely
for a few minutes. He then took off pack and removed the cover. Rolling out his ensolite
ground pad, he unrolled his sleeping bag and laid his poncho over it. Fishing around in
the outside pocket of his pack he removed a small bundle of green bungee cords and
quickly assembled a low poncho hooch over his bed. He removed a pair of socks from
the pocket and threw them onto his sleeping bag. He then sprinkled dried leaves over the
top of the poncho, and quickly crawled back down the game trail. He then covered the
trail as best he could in the dark in an effort to disguise his path. Reaching his hooch, he
again covered his pack with the cover. After listening to the sounds of the night and
detecting no apparent threat, he removed his chest pouch and laid it next to the sleeping
bag, and placed his rifle on top of that. He removed his boots and socks, and put the
socks in the bag. Dusting his feet with foot powder, he pulled on a pair of dirty but dry
socks, crawled into his bag, and drifted off to a fitful sleep.
Chapter 2 – Preparation
He woke with a start and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. He then
tensed. What was it that had woken him? He reached out from the bag slowly and felt his
rifle next to him. Feeling slightly less tense he listened for a moment. Suddenly a Blue
Jay called from above him, its raucous cry startling him. He laughed at himself. Just a
bird, he thought. He looked around. It was a bright, mid-October day, Indian summer
they called it, when the cold air and wind of fall was replaced with one final sign of the
summer that had passed, and a reminder that the cold time was just around the corner.
Releasing his L1A1, he unzipped his fart sack and stretched. He really was too old for
this stuff, he thought. He smiled to himself. He sounded just like his old platoon sergeant,
Sergeant First Class Chadwick. Hell, he was now older than old SFC Chadwick had been
when he was platoon daddy for a bunch of miscreant recon soldiers back in the day.
Getting out of the bag, he sat on the edge of his sleeping pad, which he still called a puss
pad, often to his wife’s dismay. He did have a way of letting things slip, which could be
awkward when you were a middle management type for a stuffy brokerage firm. Pulling
his pack towards him, he removed the cover and fished around inside, removing a pair of
dry polypropylene socks as well as a pair of GI wool socks. Removing the socks he had
slept in, a thick pair of wool hunting socks, he dusted each foot with foot powder before
putting on the sock liner and GI sock. He then pulled on his hiking boots, and laced them
up. Stowing his sleeping bag in its compression bag, he placed that inside of a waterproof
bag, and returned it to the bottom compartment of his pack. He then took down his
poncho hooch, and returned its various components to their place in his outside pocket.
Time for food his rumbling stomach told him. He laid the pack down and unzipped the
front compartment, taking inventory of his food supply. Five Mountain House dehydrated
meals. Seven MRE’s, still in their heavy plastic bags. 12 stripped down MRE’s, all but
the essentials removed to make them lighter and more compact. A large Nalgene bottle
stuffed full of instant white rice, and a smaller one full of instant oatmeal. Six Ramen
noodles packets, looking slightly worse for the wear in their heavy-duty freezer bag. A
small container of sugar, one of salt, and one of mixed spices. Sighing at his unappetizing
breakfast fixings, he dug a small hole at his feet. Pulling on esbit stove from the GI
buttpack clipped to the top of the pack, he removed one heat tab, broke it in half, and
returned one part to the stove, which he then replaced in the buttpack. Placing the tab at
the bottom of the hole, he removed the canteen and canteen cup from the waist belt, and
filled the cup halfway with the remaining water. He then fished a disposable lighter from
his pocket, and lighting the heat tab, placed the cup of water over it to boil. While the
water heated he took care of his morning toilet, and took a moment to wash himself with
a small facecloth he kept in his personal hygiene kit. He then dropped a Ramen into the
water, opened a stripped MRE, and removed a green foil packet of beef stew, which he
opened and spooned into the canteen cup also.
While waiting for the Ramen stew to cook he refilled his canteen from the water bladder
in his pack, noting that he needed to find potable water before the next day started. After
eating, he consulted his map. Fortunately a company had long been offering atlas’ that
contained fairly large scale topo maps of different regions of the country. He had
purchased on for his state, Connecticut, which also covered diminutive Rhode Island, one
for Massachusetts, where he was now, and one for New Hampshire, where he was headed.
He had treated each map with water sealer, and kept them in a conveniently sized pocket
on the front flap of the pack. With an alcohol pen he marked his present position, as close
as he could determine. The next danger area for him was the Mass Turnpike. He could
cross at a less populous area, but that would take an additional three or four days of
walking. He had long ago determined that this route was safe enough to risk crossing the
highway at this point. Studying the map, he committed to memory the terrain ahead,
noting the main roads, train tracks, and streams he would need to cross. A cemetery
would provide a good spot to move through and not be seen, but most of the area ahead
was suburbs. He would have to wait till dark and try to traverse 2 miles of backyards,
sidewalks, and streets before reaching the largest danger area he would face on his trip.
Restowing the maps, he dug around in the pack and removed two rectangular items. One
was a small, self powered AM/FM/Short-wave receiver. Although it didn’t have the SW
frequency range he would have liked, its ability to produce power via a built in dynamo
was deemed a valid compromise. Winding the machine up, he plugged in a headset, and
plugged one earpiece into his left ear. Scanning the channels, he found the airwaves
nearly dead. The only stations he could find were coming in so faintly and with so much
static he could gain nothing from them, so he needed to pull out some help. Again
opening the buttpack, he removed the small wire bundle that was his field antennae.
Made from brown wire, it was a copy of the “Jungle 292” improvised antennae used by
the US Army to improve transmission and reception of their often weakly powered FM
radios. Tying the wire to a carabiner unclipped from his pack, he threw the ‘biner over a
convenient tree limb, and wrapped the wire around the small handle of the radio. As the
AM antenna was mounted internally, this was as close as he could get the wire. It was
crude, but scanning the AM band again, his reception was much better.
“…hssssss…..and today the European Union announced another 15,000 men for the
International Security Forces providing security for the American people in light of the
recent crisis. President Susan Billary welcomed the announcement, saying it was one
more step to restoring order in America. The President also announced that in light of the
large, now defaulted debt owed to many of the governments in Europe and Asia, payment
would be made in mineral and oil rights to many millions of until now protected areas,
including the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, areas of Utah and New Mexico, the Gulf
of Mexico, and forests in New England, the Pacific Northwest, and Michigan. The
President had this to say…”My fellow Americans, today I take a great step forward in
reducing the amount of debt faced by the American people. By letting our debtors utilize
some of our untapped resources they have agreed to forgive or debt on our defaulted
Treasury Notes and Bills, in which they had invested considerable amounts of their
nation’s assets. I want to remind the American people that the foreign troops you may see
are merely ambassadors of their respective governments, here to protect their interests
until we are able to restore order….”
The announcer continued “While many members of the cabinet stood behind the
Presidents announcement, Attorney General Bloss was to resign today, proclaiming that
the turning over of sovereign American soil to foreign governments was tantamount to
treason. However, he apparently decided that the pressure was too much for him, and
Washington, D.C. police told us today that he died last night by his own hand, with a
single gunshot wound to the back of the head…..We will now be signing off, and will
return to the air, as we always do, every two hours on the even hour. This is SDFR radio,
signing off.”
The radio went silent. Scanning the bands, both AM and FM, produced nothing. Sighing,
he shut off the radio, and removed the wire from the antenna. He then took out his Yaesu
handheld short-wave transceiver, and connected the wire to its antenna. Plugging in the
earpiece, he tuned it on and started scanning the 2, 4, 6, and 10-meter bands. What he
heard was nothing new or unexpected. Electricity was still out to all but government
facilities and hospitals. The government had passed a decree against the possession of
any rifle or pistol above .22 rimfire, and any shotgun that held over four rounds in its
magazine. Gasoline was being rationed, and people were being encouraged to move to
secure facilities-school gyms, churches, National Guard armories, where they could
receive food and shelter. One operator even stated that his neighborhood, near an oil
depot, was being forcibly moved the next day. He didn’t feel he had any alternative but to
comply. Food was being rationed, and new ID cards would be needed before months end
for anyone seeking government assistance. One Ham even broadcast that his neighbors
house had been raided by foreign troops and local police, the occupants being taken away
in a big tank “You know, with eight wheels and a cannon on top”. He stopped
broadcasting abruptly, as if someone had pulled the plug on his radio. Other reports had it
that people who were more then 20 miles from their address of record, either that on their
drivers license or new Gov.org ID were being detained unless they were able to show that
they were staying with a local family. Well, Dave thought, since they prevented people
from traveling last week no doubt they are rounding up a lot of folks. The whole reason
he was trekking to New Hampshire from his home in Northeast Connecticut was because
a government edict preventing people from traveling on the interstate and local roads
except for local trips. Police and National Guard checkpoints, as well as nosey sheeple
looking for the reward of $10,000.00 were actually successful at shutting down almost all
non-approved traffic in a matter of two days. After listening to the chatter and learning
little more than what he expected, he took down and put away the antenna. Finding a
sunny patch on the floor of the small clearing, he took the batteries from the Yaesu and
put them in the small solar charger, and put the charger in the sun. He then replaced the
Yaesus batteries with a charged set, and put the radio away.
Next, he turned his attention to his rifle. It was a home built L1A1 kit on an Imbel
receiver. Dave had originally built it for himself, but had sold it to a friend when
President Billary had finally passed her “turn them all in” law. As it was a duplicate of a
rifle he already owned, he flet te sale was appropriate. His friend had immediately cached
it, along with the chest pouch, 12 magazines, and two .50 caliber ammo cans full of 7.62
ammo. Since Dave had actually sighted the rifle in, and his friend had never shot it, he
was confident that it was still dead on for his use. He unloaded the rifle and using an StG
58 cleaning kit wiped down the bore with a patch held in the pull through thong. He
wiped down the bolt and carrier with an oily rag, and made sure the gas piston was
moving freely. He then reassembled the rifle, as always taking care not to make any
unnecessary noise. While reinserting the bolt, he dropped a round into the chamber and
closed the bolt on it slowly, pressing it into battery with thumb pressure, thus avoiding
the distinctive metallic ‘clack’ of the bolt slamming home on a fresh round. Inserting the
magazine, he touched the safety with his thumb, ensuring it was on.
Again reaching for the pack, he pulled the waist belt to him, and removed an East
German Makarov pistol from its nylon holster. He unloaded and checked the bore, wiped
it with the oily rag, reloaded it, and replaced it on his belt. Ironic, he thought, I have two
somewhat customized .45’s in my stash, and here I am with a borrowed pocket pistol.
Rolling up the pad, he attached it to the pack. Before securing the pack, he removed the
Yaesu and earpiece. He then leaned against a tree, and pulled the camouflaged pack in
front of him. He had a schedule. He also had to wait for sunset, and wanted to wait for
full dark before moving the highway. Hurrying was dangerous, and Dave had plans for
the rest of his life. Those plans did not include Federal Detention.
Chapter 1
He broke camp at sunset, packing his gear into his Kelty pack, everything going back
where it had come from. He was comfortable with the routine of the act; it gave him a
feeling that some things were consistent, and hope that some things would remain so.
After packing, he pulled the camouflage cover over the pack, securing it at the top and
bottom so that an errant tree branch wouldn’t pull it off at the wrong time. Shrugging on
his Blackhawk chest pouch he picked up the pack by the sides and lifting it over his head,
settling it onto his shoulders. He jumped up and down to get the pack just so, and buckled
the waist belt, pulling it just a little tighter. He wondered to himself how much more
weight he was going to lose. Not that it was a bad thing. His trek so far was burning the
soft life off of him 1 pound at a time, and every day he felt both younger and much, much
older.
He picked up his rifle, and draped the sling over his shoulder and neck. He set out
cautiously, stopping every few minutes to listen to the sounds of the forest. So far so
good. Just birds saying good night to the sun, and the last few crickets of the season
looking for love in the twilight. As the fading light turned the world from Technicolor to
gray and black, he paused for moment to look up at the darkening sky. The stars were
much brighter now that there were virtually no electric lights to blind suburban man to
the wonders of the universe.
Well, he thought, we really were a short footstep from the dark ages. Continuing on, he
consulted his USGI tritium compass every so often, and adjusted his course as he needed
to. After moving a click and a half, he again stopped, and removed his canteen from his
hip belt. He took a long pull of the tepid water, and swallowed. He stowed the canteen
and moved forward, even more slowly than before, using every bit of his somewhat rusty
skills to make as little noise as possible.
After two hours and then some he saw a break in the trees, marked only by a band of
twinkling stars through the leaves. He stopped and took a knee, loosening his right pack
strap and unbuckling the waist belt of his pack. Rolling his shoulder, he shifted the
weight of the pack to his left, and slid it to the ground at his left heel. He then dropped to
the prone position, pointing his rifle at the road that lay 20 meters to his front.
Shivering slightly as the chill of the night crept up on him, he listened for activity on the
roadway. The sound of a motor, a cough, muffled voices, a radio breaking squelch, the
distinctive whir of the thermal sight of a TOW launcher mounted on a Humvee. After a
half hour of hearing what he wanted-nothing- he again rose to one knee and adjusted his
left shoulder strap, then replaced the pack on his back. The cold sweat on his t-shirt made
him colder still as the pack resettled on his spine. Pulling the straps tight he left the waist
strap unbuckled in case he needed to dump the pack in a hurry. He slowly made his way
to the edge of the brush that lined the two lane state highway in front of him, and
promptly walked into a rusty wire fence. “Damnation” he hissed. The rusty fence was put
there by the state to keep random and easily deterred trespassers from despoiling the
wood surrounding the reservoir where he had refilled his canteens and spent the day. He
felt the wire with his bare left hand, and determined that it was thin enough. Reaching
into the left accessory pocket of his chest rig he pulled out his trusty Leatherman Tool
and unfolded it. Cutting carefully, with his attention still focused mainly on listening for
the sounds of approaching danger, he clipped the wire in two areas, about 30 inches apart,
and down four layers of wire. Re-stowing his Leatherman he pulled the wire towards him,
and folded the cut area down. He quickly crossed the fence, and turning, pulled the wire
back into place, as best he could by touch. He turned to the road and took a knee, looking
both left and right for signs of approaching vehicles, or something or someone waiting
quietly on the shoulder. Seeing and hearing nothing but normal night sounds, he quickly
rose and darted across the road, his pack thumping against his back with every step, his
rifle held at high port in both hands. Reaching the far side of the road, he crashed through
the first row of pucker brush that is so common on roadsides, and stopped. He flopped to
the prone, and peered over his rifle at his back trail. After several minutes of listening to
his heart return to a normal rhythm, he stood and buckled his belt, turned on one heel, and
moved slowly and deliberately through the woods, keeping the highway, as best he could,
200 meters to his left.
He again made camp in a wood. It wouldn’t be dawn for a few more hours, but according
to his map this was the last significant patch of undeveloped land on his route for about
10 miles. And between that patch of land and this was the Turnpike, eight lanes of
potential danger. He had several miles of semi rural land to cross, and at least two of
suburban tract houses to pass safely through. He ate a cold MRE beef stew, and dug a
small cathole to take care of other matters. He buried both his waste and MRE packet in
the same hole. He had stopped outside of a dense stand of Oak trees growing from a wild
pile of bracken and vines. He risked a brief red filtered search with his LED flashlight,
and found what he was looking for in a few moments. On hands and knees he followed
the small game trail into the thicket, wriggling on his belly when his pack hung up on the
dense vegetation. Reaching the clear spot at the base of the three oaks, he listened tensely
for a few minutes. He then took off pack and removed the cover. Rolling out his ensolite
ground pad, he unrolled his sleeping bag and laid his poncho over it. Fishing around in
the outside pocket of his pack he removed a small bundle of green bungee cords and
quickly assembled a low poncho hooch over his bed. He removed a pair of socks from
the pocket and threw them onto his sleeping bag. He then sprinkled dried leaves over the
top of the poncho, and quickly crawled back down the game trail. He then covered the
trail as best he could in the dark in an effort to disguise his path. Reaching his hooch, he
again covered his pack with the cover. After listening to the sounds of the night and
detecting no apparent threat, he removed his chest pouch and laid it next to the sleeping
bag, and placed his rifle on top of that. He removed his boots and socks, and put the
socks in the bag. Dusting his feet with foot powder, he pulled on a pair of dirty but dry
socks, crawled into his bag, and drifted off to a fitful sleep.
Chapter 2 – Preparation
He woke with a start and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. He then
tensed. What was it that had woken him? He reached out from the bag slowly and felt his
rifle next to him. Feeling slightly less tense he listened for a moment. Suddenly a Blue
Jay called from above him, its raucous cry startling him. He laughed at himself. Just a
bird, he thought. He looked around. It was a bright, mid-October day, Indian summer
they called it, when the cold air and wind of fall was replaced with one final sign of the
summer that had passed, and a reminder that the cold time was just around the corner.
Releasing his L1A1, he unzipped his fart sack and stretched. He really was too old for
this stuff, he thought. He smiled to himself. He sounded just like his old platoon sergeant,
Sergeant First Class Chadwick. Hell, he was now older than old SFC Chadwick had been
when he was platoon daddy for a bunch of miscreant recon soldiers back in the day.
Getting out of the bag, he sat on the edge of his sleeping pad, which he still called a puss
pad, often to his wife’s dismay. He did have a way of letting things slip, which could be
awkward when you were a middle management type for a stuffy brokerage firm. Pulling
his pack towards him, he removed the cover and fished around inside, removing a pair of
dry polypropylene socks as well as a pair of GI wool socks. Removing the socks he had
slept in, a thick pair of wool hunting socks, he dusted each foot with foot powder before
putting on the sock liner and GI sock. He then pulled on his hiking boots, and laced them
up. Stowing his sleeping bag in its compression bag, he placed that inside of a waterproof
bag, and returned it to the bottom compartment of his pack. He then took down his
poncho hooch, and returned its various components to their place in his outside pocket.
Time for food his rumbling stomach told him. He laid the pack down and unzipped the
front compartment, taking inventory of his food supply. Five Mountain House dehydrated
meals. Seven MRE’s, still in their heavy plastic bags. 12 stripped down MRE’s, all but
the essentials removed to make them lighter and more compact. A large Nalgene bottle
stuffed full of instant white rice, and a smaller one full of instant oatmeal. Six Ramen
noodles packets, looking slightly worse for the wear in their heavy-duty freezer bag. A
small container of sugar, one of salt, and one of mixed spices. Sighing at his unappetizing
breakfast fixings, he dug a small hole at his feet. Pulling on esbit stove from the GI
buttpack clipped to the top of the pack, he removed one heat tab, broke it in half, and
returned one part to the stove, which he then replaced in the buttpack. Placing the tab at
the bottom of the hole, he removed the canteen and canteen cup from the waist belt, and
filled the cup halfway with the remaining water. He then fished a disposable lighter from
his pocket, and lighting the heat tab, placed the cup of water over it to boil. While the
water heated he took care of his morning toilet, and took a moment to wash himself with
a small facecloth he kept in his personal hygiene kit. He then dropped a Ramen into the
water, opened a stripped MRE, and removed a green foil packet of beef stew, which he
opened and spooned into the canteen cup also.
While waiting for the Ramen stew to cook he refilled his canteen from the water bladder
in his pack, noting that he needed to find potable water before the next day started. After
eating, he consulted his map. Fortunately a company had long been offering atlas’ that
contained fairly large scale topo maps of different regions of the country. He had
purchased on for his state, Connecticut, which also covered diminutive Rhode Island, one
for Massachusetts, where he was now, and one for New Hampshire, where he was headed.
He had treated each map with water sealer, and kept them in a conveniently sized pocket
on the front flap of the pack. With an alcohol pen he marked his present position, as close
as he could determine. The next danger area for him was the Mass Turnpike. He could
cross at a less populous area, but that would take an additional three or four days of
walking. He had long ago determined that this route was safe enough to risk crossing the
highway at this point. Studying the map, he committed to memory the terrain ahead,
noting the main roads, train tracks, and streams he would need to cross. A cemetery
would provide a good spot to move through and not be seen, but most of the area ahead
was suburbs. He would have to wait till dark and try to traverse 2 miles of backyards,
sidewalks, and streets before reaching the largest danger area he would face on his trip.
Restowing the maps, he dug around in the pack and removed two rectangular items. One
was a small, self powered AM/FM/Short-wave receiver. Although it didn’t have the SW
frequency range he would have liked, its ability to produce power via a built in dynamo
was deemed a valid compromise. Winding the machine up, he plugged in a headset, and
plugged one earpiece into his left ear. Scanning the channels, he found the airwaves
nearly dead. The only stations he could find were coming in so faintly and with so much
static he could gain nothing from them, so he needed to pull out some help. Again
opening the buttpack, he removed the small wire bundle that was his field antennae.
Made from brown wire, it was a copy of the “Jungle 292” improvised antennae used by
the US Army to improve transmission and reception of their often weakly powered FM
radios. Tying the wire to a carabiner unclipped from his pack, he threw the ‘biner over a
convenient tree limb, and wrapped the wire around the small handle of the radio. As the
AM antenna was mounted internally, this was as close as he could get the wire. It was
crude, but scanning the AM band again, his reception was much better.
“…hssssss…..and today the European Union announced another 15,000 men for the
International Security Forces providing security for the American people in light of the
recent crisis. President Susan Billary welcomed the announcement, saying it was one
more step to restoring order in America. The President also announced that in light of the
large, now defaulted debt owed to many of the governments in Europe and Asia, payment
would be made in mineral and oil rights to many millions of until now protected areas,
including the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, areas of Utah and New Mexico, the Gulf
of Mexico, and forests in New England, the Pacific Northwest, and Michigan. The
President had this to say…”My fellow Americans, today I take a great step forward in
reducing the amount of debt faced by the American people. By letting our debtors utilize
some of our untapped resources they have agreed to forgive or debt on our defaulted
Treasury Notes and Bills, in which they had invested considerable amounts of their
nation’s assets. I want to remind the American people that the foreign troops you may see
are merely ambassadors of their respective governments, here to protect their interests
until we are able to restore order….”
The announcer continued “While many members of the cabinet stood behind the
Presidents announcement, Attorney General Bloss was to resign today, proclaiming that
the turning over of sovereign American soil to foreign governments was tantamount to
treason. However, he apparently decided that the pressure was too much for him, and
Washington, D.C. police told us today that he died last night by his own hand, with a
single gunshot wound to the back of the head…..We will now be signing off, and will
return to the air, as we always do, every two hours on the even hour. This is SDFR radio,
signing off.”
The radio went silent. Scanning the bands, both AM and FM, produced nothing. Sighing,
he shut off the radio, and removed the wire from the antenna. He then took out his Yaesu
handheld short-wave transceiver, and connected the wire to its antenna. Plugging in the
earpiece, he tuned it on and started scanning the 2, 4, 6, and 10-meter bands. What he
heard was nothing new or unexpected. Electricity was still out to all but government
facilities and hospitals. The government had passed a decree against the possession of
any rifle or pistol above .22 rimfire, and any shotgun that held over four rounds in its
magazine. Gasoline was being rationed, and people were being encouraged to move to
secure facilities-school gyms, churches, National Guard armories, where they could
receive food and shelter. One operator even stated that his neighborhood, near an oil
depot, was being forcibly moved the next day. He didn’t feel he had any alternative but to
comply. Food was being rationed, and new ID cards would be needed before months end
for anyone seeking government assistance. One Ham even broadcast that his neighbors
house had been raided by foreign troops and local police, the occupants being taken away
in a big tank “You know, with eight wheels and a cannon on top”. He stopped
broadcasting abruptly, as if someone had pulled the plug on his radio. Other reports had it
that people who were more then 20 miles from their address of record, either that on their
drivers license or new Gov.org ID were being detained unless they were able to show that
they were staying with a local family. Well, Dave thought, since they prevented people
from traveling last week no doubt they are rounding up a lot of folks. The whole reason
he was trekking to New Hampshire from his home in Northeast Connecticut was because
a government edict preventing people from traveling on the interstate and local roads
except for local trips. Police and National Guard checkpoints, as well as nosey sheeple
looking for the reward of $10,000.00 were actually successful at shutting down almost all
non-approved traffic in a matter of two days. After listening to the chatter and learning
little more than what he expected, he took down and put away the antenna. Finding a
sunny patch on the floor of the small clearing, he took the batteries from the Yaesu and
put them in the small solar charger, and put the charger in the sun. He then replaced the
Yaesus batteries with a charged set, and put the radio away.
Next, he turned his attention to his rifle. It was a home built L1A1 kit on an Imbel
receiver. Dave had originally built it for himself, but had sold it to a friend when
President Billary had finally passed her “turn them all in” law. As it was a duplicate of a
rifle he already owned, he flet te sale was appropriate. His friend had immediately cached
it, along with the chest pouch, 12 magazines, and two .50 caliber ammo cans full of 7.62
ammo. Since Dave had actually sighted the rifle in, and his friend had never shot it, he
was confident that it was still dead on for his use. He unloaded the rifle and using an StG
58 cleaning kit wiped down the bore with a patch held in the pull through thong. He
wiped down the bolt and carrier with an oily rag, and made sure the gas piston was
moving freely. He then reassembled the rifle, as always taking care not to make any
unnecessary noise. While reinserting the bolt, he dropped a round into the chamber and
closed the bolt on it slowly, pressing it into battery with thumb pressure, thus avoiding
the distinctive metallic ‘clack’ of the bolt slamming home on a fresh round. Inserting the
magazine, he touched the safety with his thumb, ensuring it was on.
Again reaching for the pack, he pulled the waist belt to him, and removed an East
German Makarov pistol from its nylon holster. He unloaded and checked the bore, wiped
it with the oily rag, reloaded it, and replaced it on his belt. Ironic, he thought, I have two
somewhat customized .45’s in my stash, and here I am with a borrowed pocket pistol.
Rolling up the pad, he attached it to the pack. Before securing the pack, he removed the
Yaesu and earpiece. He then leaned against a tree, and pulled the camouflaged pack in
front of him. He had a schedule. He also had to wait for sunset, and wanted to wait for
full dark before moving the highway. Hurrying was dangerous, and Dave had plans for
the rest of his life. Those plans did not include Federal Detention.