Story Country Bug In
- Thread starter ncsfsgm
- Start date
larry_minn
Senior Member
If I may. “He moved Angel’s SUV to the barn, loaded three hundred pounds of tractor weights into the back”. People do this. It’s not safe. You have 3 100 lb chunks of loose metal. *or 6 50 lb* some combo. In a head on they will go thru rear seat, shove you into dash. In roll over? Who knows?
If you need weight. *often better quality snow tires will do much better* SECURE IT. Or use something that hopefully will not kill you.
Water softener salt bags. Not great but 40 lbs spread out mass.. sand bag. Useful to spread ÎF needed. Both about $4-$9 in 40-50 lb plastic.
Loving the story. I had a relative put chunk of rejected gravestone in his lynx hatchback. I commented. “It can kill you, and mark your grave”
If you need weight. *often better quality snow tires will do much better* SECURE IT. Or use something that hopefully will not kill you.
Water softener salt bags. Not great but 40 lbs spread out mass.. sand bag. Useful to spread ÎF needed. Both about $4-$9 in 40-50 lb plastic.
Loving the story. I had a relative put chunk of rejected gravestone in his lynx hatchback. I commented. “It can kill you, and mark your grave”
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jeremy arranged a Gulfstream G280 to fly the fallen servicewoman’s family to Dulles, secured their accommodations in Washington, and coordinated with the California Air National Guard to transport her remains via Angel Flight. Two retired Force Recon Marines accompanied the casket as escorts. While he worked the logistics, Jeremy was already hunting the people responsible for her death. He intended to make their next assignment inventorying frozen penguin shit at the Nuclear Penguin Refueling Station on Adak Island.
The coat-check girl took Hanna’s coat and handed her a ticket, which Mike slipped into his pocket. They were shown to their reserved table along the side of the ballroom. A complimentary glass of champagne arrived, and when Hanna’s eyes lit up at the first sip, Mike ordered a Melchior of it.
They danced through several songs, then returned to the table as dinner was served. Mike had pre-ordered the filet mignon for both of them—perfectly seared, still faintly pink at the center, and practically mooing. The evening unfolded beautifully: excellent food, flowing champagne, and plenty of dancing.
At 11:30 they finally sat down to catch their breath. A thunderous BOOM split the air, followed immediately by the unmistakable racking of a shotgun. Mike yanked Hanna into the narrow alcove where the room-divider extension retracted, drew his Glock 19, and thumbed off the safety.
Peering around the edge, he spotted a man aiming a shotgun down the length of the bar. Mike rocked the slide just enough to confirm a round was chambered, activated the green LaserMax guide-rod laser, and placed the bright dot on the shooter’s left ear. One shot. Fragments of the 147-grain Gold Dot exited the far side of the man’s skull and spider-webbed the mirror behind the bar.
Mike re-holstered, helped Hanna to her feet, and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
“Did you get him?” she asked calmly, slipping her .380 back into her clutch.
People were slowly rising, voices rising with them. Hanna drained her champagne; Mike refilled it. The screaming ebbed as police flooded the ballroom.
A detective in a rumpled gray suit made a beeline for them.
“Mind if we talk?” he asked Mike, nodding toward the foyer.
Out in the quieter space, Mike handed over his pistol—magazine dropped, chamber cleared. The detective bagged the Glock, the magazine, and the single ejected round.
“Witnesses mentioned a green laser,” the detective noted.
“LaserMax guide-rod laser on the Glock 19,” Mike confirmed.
The detective nodded. “We’ll need it for ballistics. You’ll get it back.”
“I doubt you’ll recover much of the bullet,” Mike said. “Those Gold Dots fragment pretty aggressively, especially after bone.”
“Walk me through what happened,” the detective said.
“We’d just sat down after dancing when we heard the blast. I pulled my fiancée behind the divider and drew. The guy was racking a shotgun and aiming down the bar. I put the laser on his ear and fired.”
“We’re not exactly engaged,” Hanna corrected, stepping up beside Mike.
“That’s only because we were interrupted,” Mike replied, straight-faced.
The detective grinned. “Well, you’d better fix that, then.”
Mike took Hanna’s hand and led her a few steps away. He dropped to one knee, pulled the ring box from his jacket, and looked up at her.
“Hanna, I’ve loved you since the first summer we met. You’ve always been part of my life, and I want you by my side for the rest of it. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, tears spilling over.
“Well done, Mr. Anderberg,” the detective said, chuckling. “I’ll call if we need anything else. Looks like a clean use of deadly force. You should have your pistol back in a few days.”
That same night, Paul took Mary to a Brazilian steakhouse near Brookhaven. Mary was adorably flustered by the unfamiliar menu, so Paul ordered for them both and explained each dish as it arrived.
Tender bife com alho—beef basted in garlic butter—came with couve (sautéed collard greens with bacon), arroz branco, and warm pão de queijo. They finished with slices of Romeu e Julieta cheesecake drizzled in guava sauce.
“That was wonderful, Paul. Thank you,” Mary said on the drive back to the estate.
Later, they sat in the living room with cognac for Paul and Grand Marnier for Mary.
“Tell me about your farm,” she said.
For two hours they talked—about how Paul had found the property, the improvements he’d made, and especially about Angela and the baby on the way.
“It sounds perfect,” Mary said softly. “You’re going to be a father…”
“Who do you still know in Florida?” Paul asked.
“Not many people anymore. Everyone moves so much down there.”
“Then come live with us at Crooked Creek. There’s plenty of room, and we can build you a little cottage right by the creek if you’d like. The weather’s mild, and… well, I have no living relatives left. You’ve been like an aunt to me for years. I’d love for you to be the grandmother who spoils this baby rotten.”
Mary smiled, eyes glistening. “Let me think on it, Paul. What time is Robert Wilcox coming tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock. I’ll have time for a quick sail in the morning.”
The man peeled the protective film from the sticky tape, slipped out of the bushes beside the Virginia Railway Express lot, and trotted alongside the slow-moving freight train. He pressed the soap-dish-shaped charge firmly against the LNG tank car, paid out the fuse cord, and pulled the igniter ring—just as the CIA had taught him decades earlier in Nicaragua.
He melted back into the shadows, checked for witnesses, then walked casually to a battered Honda Civic. As he reached the Blue and Grey Parkway, a brilliant flash lit the sky behind him. The compression wave rocked the car. The tank car erupted like a thermobaric bomb on the trestle over the Rappahannock. The following cars were hurled into the river or jackknifed across both tracks, completely blocking north- and southbound lines.
Paul was up before dawn. He drank a bottle of water, launched the Marshall catboat, and slipped out of the harbor as the sun crested the horizon. The sail filled, the little boat heeled gently, and he smiled as he steered toward Sagg Main Beach.
By eight he was back at the dock, rinsing the boat down. Maybe I’ll have this one shipped to Arkansas, he thought.
Mary had breakfast waiting on the patio. Over coffee and the morning breeze, Paul asked again about Florida.
“I’m still thinking,” she said. “Let’s wait until after we meet with Robert.”
At ten, Robert Wilcox and his secretary arrived. They spread the documents across the dining table.
“Paul, if you don’t mind, I’d like to start with Mary,” Wilcox said.
“Of course.”
“Mary, Harold left you a lifetime annuity of $7,000 per month, a briefcase whose contents I’m not supposed to know about, and the bungalow in Florida if you want it.”
Mary wiped her eyes and shook her head. No questions.
“Paul, you receive the bulk of the estate: the property on Governor’s Harbour in Eleuthera, several offshore accounts, and an $8,000 monthly annuity. The annuity helps with taxes.” Wilcox indicated the signature lines. “Mary, if you’ll sign where the yellow arrows are…”
After the paperwork was completed and notarized, Wilcox retrieved two aluminum briefcases from his car.
“Please don’t open these until we’ve left,” he said. “Mary, combination 2222. Paul, 5555.”
Once they were alone, Paul and Mary carried the heavy cases to the table and opened them. Rows of gold coins gleamed in fitted trays—different denominations, neatly organized.
“No wonder Robert didn’t want to watch,” Mary said.
“IRS,” Paul replied with a wry smile.
Mary looked at him, eyes warm. “Paul… I think I’ll come to Missouri. A small cottage by the creek, my flowers, and a new great-niece or nephew on the way? That sounds like heaven.”
Paul’s face broke into a broad grin. “We’d love to have you. Take your time going through the house—keep anything you want. I’d like some of Uncle Harold’s books for my library, and I’m shipping the catboat south. I’ll fly back up once you’ve decided what to keep. The rest can go to whatever charity you choose.”
“I’ll let you know about the cottage plans,” Mary promised.
Paul called the pilot. “We’ll be wheels-up Friday at ten.”
“The plane’s already serviced and ready,” the pilot replied.
Paul hung up, already thinking about home.
Jeremy arranged a Gulfstream G280 to fly the fallen servicewoman’s family to Dulles, secured their accommodations in Washington, and coordinated with the California Air National Guard to transport her remains via Angel Flight. Two retired Force Recon Marines accompanied the casket as escorts. While he worked the logistics, Jeremy was already hunting the people responsible for her death. He intended to make their next assignment inventorying frozen penguin shit at the Nuclear Penguin Refueling Station on Adak Island.
The coat-check girl took Hanna’s coat and handed her a ticket, which Mike slipped into his pocket. They were shown to their reserved table along the side of the ballroom. A complimentary glass of champagne arrived, and when Hanna’s eyes lit up at the first sip, Mike ordered a Melchior of it.
They danced through several songs, then returned to the table as dinner was served. Mike had pre-ordered the filet mignon for both of them—perfectly seared, still faintly pink at the center, and practically mooing. The evening unfolded beautifully: excellent food, flowing champagne, and plenty of dancing.
At 11:30 they finally sat down to catch their breath. A thunderous BOOM split the air, followed immediately by the unmistakable racking of a shotgun. Mike yanked Hanna into the narrow alcove where the room-divider extension retracted, drew his Glock 19, and thumbed off the safety.
Peering around the edge, he spotted a man aiming a shotgun down the length of the bar. Mike rocked the slide just enough to confirm a round was chambered, activated the green LaserMax guide-rod laser, and placed the bright dot on the shooter’s left ear. One shot. Fragments of the 147-grain Gold Dot exited the far side of the man’s skull and spider-webbed the mirror behind the bar.
Mike re-holstered, helped Hanna to her feet, and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
“Did you get him?” she asked calmly, slipping her .380 back into her clutch.
People were slowly rising, voices rising with them. Hanna drained her champagne; Mike refilled it. The screaming ebbed as police flooded the ballroom.
A detective in a rumpled gray suit made a beeline for them.
“Mind if we talk?” he asked Mike, nodding toward the foyer.
Out in the quieter space, Mike handed over his pistol—magazine dropped, chamber cleared. The detective bagged the Glock, the magazine, and the single ejected round.
“Witnesses mentioned a green laser,” the detective noted.
“LaserMax guide-rod laser on the Glock 19,” Mike confirmed.
The detective nodded. “We’ll need it for ballistics. You’ll get it back.”
“I doubt you’ll recover much of the bullet,” Mike said. “Those Gold Dots fragment pretty aggressively, especially after bone.”
“Walk me through what happened,” the detective said.
“We’d just sat down after dancing when we heard the blast. I pulled my fiancée behind the divider and drew. The guy was racking a shotgun and aiming down the bar. I put the laser on his ear and fired.”
“We’re not exactly engaged,” Hanna corrected, stepping up beside Mike.
“That’s only because we were interrupted,” Mike replied, straight-faced.
The detective grinned. “Well, you’d better fix that, then.”
Mike took Hanna’s hand and led her a few steps away. He dropped to one knee, pulled the ring box from his jacket, and looked up at her.
“Hanna, I’ve loved you since the first summer we met. You’ve always been part of my life, and I want you by my side for the rest of it. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, tears spilling over.
“Well done, Mr. Anderberg,” the detective said, chuckling. “I’ll call if we need anything else. Looks like a clean use of deadly force. You should have your pistol back in a few days.”
That same night, Paul took Mary to a Brazilian steakhouse near Brookhaven. Mary was adorably flustered by the unfamiliar menu, so Paul ordered for them both and explained each dish as it arrived.
Tender bife com alho—beef basted in garlic butter—came with couve (sautéed collard greens with bacon), arroz branco, and warm pão de queijo. They finished with slices of Romeu e Julieta cheesecake drizzled in guava sauce.
“That was wonderful, Paul. Thank you,” Mary said on the drive back to the estate.
Later, they sat in the living room with cognac for Paul and Grand Marnier for Mary.
“Tell me about your farm,” she said.
For two hours they talked—about how Paul had found the property, the improvements he’d made, and especially about Angela and the baby on the way.
“It sounds perfect,” Mary said softly. “You’re going to be a father…”
“Who do you still know in Florida?” Paul asked.
“Not many people anymore. Everyone moves so much down there.”
“Then come live with us at Crooked Creek. There’s plenty of room, and we can build you a little cottage right by the creek if you’d like. The weather’s mild, and… well, I have no living relatives left. You’ve been like an aunt to me for years. I’d love for you to be the grandmother who spoils this baby rotten.”
Mary smiled, eyes glistening. “Let me think on it, Paul. What time is Robert Wilcox coming tomorrow?”
“Ten o’clock. I’ll have time for a quick sail in the morning.”
The man peeled the protective film from the sticky tape, slipped out of the bushes beside the Virginia Railway Express lot, and trotted alongside the slow-moving freight train. He pressed the soap-dish-shaped charge firmly against the LNG tank car, paid out the fuse cord, and pulled the igniter ring—just as the CIA had taught him decades earlier in Nicaragua.
He melted back into the shadows, checked for witnesses, then walked casually to a battered Honda Civic. As he reached the Blue and Grey Parkway, a brilliant flash lit the sky behind him. The compression wave rocked the car. The tank car erupted like a thermobaric bomb on the trestle over the Rappahannock. The following cars were hurled into the river or jackknifed across both tracks, completely blocking north- and southbound lines.
Paul was up before dawn. He drank a bottle of water, launched the Marshall catboat, and slipped out of the harbor as the sun crested the horizon. The sail filled, the little boat heeled gently, and he smiled as he steered toward Sagg Main Beach.
By eight he was back at the dock, rinsing the boat down. Maybe I’ll have this one shipped to Arkansas, he thought.
Mary had breakfast waiting on the patio. Over coffee and the morning breeze, Paul asked again about Florida.
“I’m still thinking,” she said. “Let’s wait until after we meet with Robert.”
At ten, Robert Wilcox and his secretary arrived. They spread the documents across the dining table.
“Paul, if you don’t mind, I’d like to start with Mary,” Wilcox said.
“Of course.”
“Mary, Harold left you a lifetime annuity of $7,000 per month, a briefcase whose contents I’m not supposed to know about, and the bungalow in Florida if you want it.”
Mary wiped her eyes and shook her head. No questions.
“Paul, you receive the bulk of the estate: the property on Governor’s Harbour in Eleuthera, several offshore accounts, and an $8,000 monthly annuity. The annuity helps with taxes.” Wilcox indicated the signature lines. “Mary, if you’ll sign where the yellow arrows are…”
After the paperwork was completed and notarized, Wilcox retrieved two aluminum briefcases from his car.
“Please don’t open these until we’ve left,” he said. “Mary, combination 2222. Paul, 5555.”
Once they were alone, Paul and Mary carried the heavy cases to the table and opened them. Rows of gold coins gleamed in fitted trays—different denominations, neatly organized.
“No wonder Robert didn’t want to watch,” Mary said.
“IRS,” Paul replied with a wry smile.
Mary looked at him, eyes warm. “Paul… I think I’ll come to Missouri. A small cottage by the creek, my flowers, and a new great-niece or nephew on the way? That sounds like heaven.”
Paul’s face broke into a broad grin. “We’d love to have you. Take your time going through the house—keep anything you want. I’d like some of Uncle Harold’s books for my library, and I’m shipping the catboat south. I’ll fly back up once you’ve decided what to keep. The rest can go to whatever charity you choose.”
“I’ll let you know about the cottage plans,” Mary promised.
Paul called the pilot. “We’ll be wheels-up Friday at ten.”
“The plane’s already serviced and ready,” the pilot replied.
Paul hung up, already thinking about home.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Paul drove all the way to Riverhead to buy packing boxes at Lowe’s. He picked up a bundle of boxes, rolls of packing tape, large permanent markers, and a box of heavy-duty contractor bags.
He started in the library, carefully selecting books, while Mary sorted through Uncle Harold’s clothes. Around eleven, Mary called Bridgehampton Deli to order sandwiches and drove over to pick them up. Paul kept working, taking nearly everything except the economics texts and a few other volumes that would be worthless if SHTF. He sealed the full boxes and stacked them neatly out of the way. When Mary returned, they took a break for lunch.
“I’ll start flying back here on Monday,” Paul said. “It’ll take a couple of days with fuel stops. We can finish going through everything when I get back. I won’t be hauling anything home on the plane except you and your luggage. I want to get this place cleared out and on the market next week if we can. I can stay longer if needed, but I don’t want to be away from Angel too long.”
Mary nodded. “I’ll pick out the furniture I want and mark it for the movers. Anything personal of Harold’s, I’ll wait until you return before deciding.”
“I’ll show you how to look up sample house plans online this evening,” Paul said. “You might find something you like, and it’ll help you choose furniture.”
The pilot picked Paul up Friday morning. Paul carried both briefcases of coins with him; Mary had asked him to keep them secure until she arrived. This time he rode up front in the right seat while the co-pilot took the rear cabin. Paul flew for a stretch until they reached West Portsmouth, Ohio, then handed the yoke back and settled in to do some research. The jet had an AirSatOne system like the one on his Turbo Beaver—full internet and a reliable back-channel comms link. Jeremy’s entire fleet used the same setup, complete with its own ground station in Nebraska.
Paul pulled up the Country Comfort Homes website and studied the floor plan Mary had chosen. After their earlier conversation about prepping, she had decided to add serious storage. She wanted to modify the plan so the bedroom adjacent to the utility room became a dedicated storage space. The bedroom door would be sealed off, with new access from the utility room, giving her roughly 145 square feet of secure storage. She also wanted a free-standing wood-burning fireplace. Paul already knew exactly where to source one and have it installed. Mary sounded excited and in high spirits the whole way—she couldn’t wait to get to Arkansas.
As they neared Searcy, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “We’ve been ordered to land immediately—terrorist threat. We’re cleared to Clinton National, but expect possible fighter escort.”
Paul glanced out the window. Sure enough, an F-16 had pulled into formation off their right wing. He acknowledged the pilot and hung up the handset. This world is going to shit, he thought. If the agencies spent half as much time on actual threats as they do digging up dirt on politicians, the country would be a lot safer.
They landed in Little Rock without incident. Paul retrieved his truck from the FBO lot, loaded his bags, and called Angel.
“I’m on the ground. Stopping by the store on my way home.”
Forty-five minutes later Angel called again. “How close are you?”
“Another forty-five, maybe. Traffic’s not bad.”
“I called Carmelita—she’s making liver and onions. See you soon.”
Mike and Hanna returned to the Marriott and cracked open the champagne Mike had left chilling in the room fridge.
“Does it bother you?” Hanna asked quietly. “Shooting that man tonight?”
“A little,” Mike admitted. “Taking a life never feels good. But he was a threat to everyone in that room. I wasn’t going to risk you getting hurt. I’ve got plans for you, remember?”
Hanna’s voice softened. “I was scared to death the father of my children was going to get hurt.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?!”
“Not yet,” she said, smiling. “But I’m planning on it as soon as practicable.”
Mike grinned. “I don’t know… that might require a lot of effort.”
“I can handle all the effort you can dish out,” Hanna said, rising from the settee. “Maybe we should get started.”
John and Brad sat on the back porch peeling potatoes, tossing them into a large stockpot of water.
“This is a big comedown from my last job,” Brad grumbled.
“Yeah, but a hell of a lot less stressful,” John replied. “What are we peeling a hundred pounds of these for, anyway?”
“Carmelita’s teaching the ladies how to can. Diane’s already planning to put up a year’s worth of vegetables next summer. We can’t grow everything we need yet, so she wants to buy produce by the bushel once the farmers’ markets open.”
Brad shook his head. “Why can’t they take up sewing or something?”
“Oh, they are,” John said with a grin. “Our wives are turning into real farm girls.”
Diane stepped outside, lifted the basket of peeled potatoes from the water, drained them, and poured them into another pot. “Peel faster, guys.”
Carmelita took over, cutting the potatoes into uniform pieces and dropping them into a strainer set inside another stockpot. Once the water was boiling, they parboiled the chunks for five minutes. The wide-mouth quart jars stood ready on the counter, each waiting for a teaspoon of salt.
They filled the jars with potatoes, covered them with fresh boiling water to within an inch of the rim, wiped the rims, and sealed them. The pressure canner was already venting steam. Carmelita guided them through the process: ten minutes of steady steam before adding the weight, then forty minutes at pressure for potatoes.
While the first batch cooked, the women set up an assembly line and started peeling and cutting the next round.
Paul pulled into Shaner’s and parked. Angel spotted him through the window and ran down the steps.
“I missed you so much!” she cried.
“I missed you too, sweetheart.” He scooped her up and spun her around.
“Did you get everything taken care of?”
“We’re going to have a guest for a while. Mary’s coming to live here. She’s building a cottage down by the creek and she’s excited to be a surrogate grandmother.”
“That’s great! Built-in babysitter!” Angel grinned. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I’m flying the Beaver back up Monday so we can finish closing the estate and get the house on the market. She’ll fly down with me.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Probably a week, maybe a little more. That place is bigger than it looks. Most of it will be sold, but I need to arrange shipping for a boat and check the outbuildings.”
Angel sighed. “I’ll take off early today. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait and follow you,” Paul said.
Hanna and Mike were awakened by the room phone. Mike groaned and answered.
“MIKE! ARE YOU TWO ALL RIGHT?” Annika practically shouted.
“We’re fine. Here—talk to your daughter.”
“Good morning, Mamma… No, I turned it off last night… Because we got busy when we got back to the hotel and I forgot. We’ll stop by on our way home. I love you too.”
Mike looked at Hanna. “Breakfast?”
“I want waffles,” she declared, swinging her legs out of bed.
“Yes ma’am.”
After showers and dressing, Mike slipped his Glock 36 into the holster at the small of his back, added the spare magazines to his belt, and they headed out. Hanna had her heart set on Belgian waffles at Kahill’s. She ordered a waffle with a poached egg, avocado toast, tea, and orange juice. Mike went with a waffle, a three-egg omelet loaded with smoked bacon, spinach, and goat cheese, plus toast, coffee, and apple juice.
Once they were stuffed, they checked out of the hotel and started the drive home. The forecast called for rough weather, and the two-lane highway across the plains was no place to be caught in high winds.
Paul drove all the way to Riverhead to buy packing boxes at Lowe’s. He picked up a bundle of boxes, rolls of packing tape, large permanent markers, and a box of heavy-duty contractor bags.
He started in the library, carefully selecting books, while Mary sorted through Uncle Harold’s clothes. Around eleven, Mary called Bridgehampton Deli to order sandwiches and drove over to pick them up. Paul kept working, taking nearly everything except the economics texts and a few other volumes that would be worthless if SHTF. He sealed the full boxes and stacked them neatly out of the way. When Mary returned, they took a break for lunch.
“I’ll start flying back here on Monday,” Paul said. “It’ll take a couple of days with fuel stops. We can finish going through everything when I get back. I won’t be hauling anything home on the plane except you and your luggage. I want to get this place cleared out and on the market next week if we can. I can stay longer if needed, but I don’t want to be away from Angel too long.”
Mary nodded. “I’ll pick out the furniture I want and mark it for the movers. Anything personal of Harold’s, I’ll wait until you return before deciding.”
“I’ll show you how to look up sample house plans online this evening,” Paul said. “You might find something you like, and it’ll help you choose furniture.”
The pilot picked Paul up Friday morning. Paul carried both briefcases of coins with him; Mary had asked him to keep them secure until she arrived. This time he rode up front in the right seat while the co-pilot took the rear cabin. Paul flew for a stretch until they reached West Portsmouth, Ohio, then handed the yoke back and settled in to do some research. The jet had an AirSatOne system like the one on his Turbo Beaver—full internet and a reliable back-channel comms link. Jeremy’s entire fleet used the same setup, complete with its own ground station in Nebraska.
Paul pulled up the Country Comfort Homes website and studied the floor plan Mary had chosen. After their earlier conversation about prepping, she had decided to add serious storage. She wanted to modify the plan so the bedroom adjacent to the utility room became a dedicated storage space. The bedroom door would be sealed off, with new access from the utility room, giving her roughly 145 square feet of secure storage. She also wanted a free-standing wood-burning fireplace. Paul already knew exactly where to source one and have it installed. Mary sounded excited and in high spirits the whole way—she couldn’t wait to get to Arkansas.
As they neared Searcy, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “We’ve been ordered to land immediately—terrorist threat. We’re cleared to Clinton National, but expect possible fighter escort.”
Paul glanced out the window. Sure enough, an F-16 had pulled into formation off their right wing. He acknowledged the pilot and hung up the handset. This world is going to shit, he thought. If the agencies spent half as much time on actual threats as they do digging up dirt on politicians, the country would be a lot safer.
They landed in Little Rock without incident. Paul retrieved his truck from the FBO lot, loaded his bags, and called Angel.
“I’m on the ground. Stopping by the store on my way home.”
Forty-five minutes later Angel called again. “How close are you?”
“Another forty-five, maybe. Traffic’s not bad.”
“I called Carmelita—she’s making liver and onions. See you soon.”
Mike and Hanna returned to the Marriott and cracked open the champagne Mike had left chilling in the room fridge.
“Does it bother you?” Hanna asked quietly. “Shooting that man tonight?”
“A little,” Mike admitted. “Taking a life never feels good. But he was a threat to everyone in that room. I wasn’t going to risk you getting hurt. I’ve got plans for you, remember?”
Hanna’s voice softened. “I was scared to death the father of my children was going to get hurt.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?!”
“Not yet,” she said, smiling. “But I’m planning on it as soon as practicable.”
Mike grinned. “I don’t know… that might require a lot of effort.”
“I can handle all the effort you can dish out,” Hanna said, rising from the settee. “Maybe we should get started.”
John and Brad sat on the back porch peeling potatoes, tossing them into a large stockpot of water.
“This is a big comedown from my last job,” Brad grumbled.
“Yeah, but a hell of a lot less stressful,” John replied. “What are we peeling a hundred pounds of these for, anyway?”
“Carmelita’s teaching the ladies how to can. Diane’s already planning to put up a year’s worth of vegetables next summer. We can’t grow everything we need yet, so she wants to buy produce by the bushel once the farmers’ markets open.”
Brad shook his head. “Why can’t they take up sewing or something?”
“Oh, they are,” John said with a grin. “Our wives are turning into real farm girls.”
Diane stepped outside, lifted the basket of peeled potatoes from the water, drained them, and poured them into another pot. “Peel faster, guys.”
Carmelita took over, cutting the potatoes into uniform pieces and dropping them into a strainer set inside another stockpot. Once the water was boiling, they parboiled the chunks for five minutes. The wide-mouth quart jars stood ready on the counter, each waiting for a teaspoon of salt.
They filled the jars with potatoes, covered them with fresh boiling water to within an inch of the rim, wiped the rims, and sealed them. The pressure canner was already venting steam. Carmelita guided them through the process: ten minutes of steady steam before adding the weight, then forty minutes at pressure for potatoes.
While the first batch cooked, the women set up an assembly line and started peeling and cutting the next round.
Paul pulled into Shaner’s and parked. Angel spotted him through the window and ran down the steps.
“I missed you so much!” she cried.
“I missed you too, sweetheart.” He scooped her up and spun her around.
“Did you get everything taken care of?”
“We’re going to have a guest for a while. Mary’s coming to live here. She’s building a cottage down by the creek and she’s excited to be a surrogate grandmother.”
“That’s great! Built-in babysitter!” Angel grinned. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“I’m flying the Beaver back up Monday so we can finish closing the estate and get the house on the market. She’ll fly down with me.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Probably a week, maybe a little more. That place is bigger than it looks. Most of it will be sold, but I need to arrange shipping for a boat and check the outbuildings.”
Angel sighed. “I’ll take off early today. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“I’ll wait and follow you,” Paul said.
Hanna and Mike were awakened by the room phone. Mike groaned and answered.
“MIKE! ARE YOU TWO ALL RIGHT?” Annika practically shouted.
“We’re fine. Here—talk to your daughter.”
“Good morning, Mamma… No, I turned it off last night… Because we got busy when we got back to the hotel and I forgot. We’ll stop by on our way home. I love you too.”
Mike looked at Hanna. “Breakfast?”
“I want waffles,” she declared, swinging her legs out of bed.
“Yes ma’am.”
After showers and dressing, Mike slipped his Glock 36 into the holster at the small of his back, added the spare magazines to his belt, and they headed out. Hanna had her heart set on Belgian waffles at Kahill’s. She ordered a waffle with a poached egg, avocado toast, tea, and orange juice. Mike went with a waffle, a three-egg omelet loaded with smoked bacon, spinach, and goat cheese, plus toast, coffee, and apple juice.
Once they were stuffed, they checked out of the hotel and started the drive home. The forecast called for rough weather, and the two-lane highway across the plains was no place to be caught in high winds.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was just minutes before dawn—before morning nautical twilight. That special hour of pristine silence and serenity when the new day unveiled itself in slowly evolving light. Mike held this time in quiet awe. A new day was beginning, with no hint yet of what it would bring. For now, everything was quiet and peaceful. These last still moments before the world stirred felt like recharging his batteries.
But the wind was already picking up, and the clouds to the west and northwest were darkening.
Mike went downstairs, set his coffee mug on the counter, and headed for the pantry. He selected a five-gallon bucket of hard red wheat berries. He wanted to make a batch of his souped-up oatmeal raisin cookies and was short on flour. He retrieved the large baking flour canister from the kitchen, filled the mill’s hopper, positioned the catch tray, and flipped the switch. As the electric motor hummed and fresh flour spilled into the tray, he scooped it into the canister. He ground the entire bucket. What didn’t fit in the canister went into Mylar bags—five pounds per bag—vacuum-sealed and placed in the freezer.
“What is all this racket?” Hanna asked, stepping into the pantry in her robe.
“I wanted to make cookies and didn’t have enough flour,” Mike said. “Besides, it was time for you to get up anyway. You don’t need beauty sleep—you’re beautiful enough as it is.”
Hanna smiled. “We must really be getting a big storm. You only make these cookies when a serious one is coming.”
“Your folks seem to like them well enough,” Mike replied.
“I do too!” She stretched. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“First batch should be ready by the time you’re dressed. Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
Mike put the kettle on and set another pound of butter out to soften. He gathered the oatmeal, raisins, walnuts, and spices on the counter, then pulled out a large stainless-steel bowl and began mixing. He lined two baking sheets with parchment paper, spooned out the dough, and slid them into the oven. Setting the timer for seven minutes, he poured himself a fresh coffee and arranged cooling racks for four dozen cookies at a time. He was only baking two dozen per round, but the short bake time meant the first sheets needed space to cool properly.
When the timer dinged, he slid the parchment and cookies onto the counter, replaced the paper, spooned more dough, and returned the sheets to the oven. Using a thin spatula, he transferred the warm cookies to the racks.
As Hanna returned to the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, Mike set the teapot, cup, saucer, and a small plate with two warm cookies in front of her on the island.
Sunday afternoon, Paul reinstalled the fuel bladder in the Beaver and filled it. Once he repacked his travel bag, he would be ready to leave at daybreak. Using the bladder meant he wouldn’t need to refuel until Pennsylvania, then make the short hop to Long Island. He had flown far longer legs out of Alaska, and no major weather systems were forecast along his route.
Angel rose with him Monday morning and fixed breakfast while he showered and shaved. He brought his bag downstairs, set it by the door, and joined her in the kitchen. She placed a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him, then slid the syrup and butter closer. After pouring his coffee, she sat on the stool beside him.
“Do you have everything?” Angel asked.
“I think so,” Paul said, taking a sip.
She set a plastic grocery bag on the island. Paul opened it and grinned at the half-dozen Travel John portable urinal packs inside.
“Oh yeah. Thanks.”
“Do you have cash?” she asked.
“Two grand from the safe.”
“Are you wearing your vest?”
“Yes,” he said, “but I can’t legally carry in New York. They only honor their own communistic gun laws.” He didn’t mention the toss-away piece he was also carrying.
Paul finished breakfast, gathered his things, and kissed her. “I’ll call you tonight.”
As he stepped onto the porch, Eduardo was waiting in the UTV.
“You should’ve come in for coffee,” Paul said.
“I’ve got my thermos,” Eduardo replied with a grin.
They rode to the hangar. Eduardo opened the door and helped roll the plane out. Paul completed his pre-flight, double-checked the fuel cock for the bladder, and started the engine. While it warmed, he loaded the coordinates for Reading Regional Airport into the flight computer and monitored the gauges. When everything was green, he changed frequencies, keyed the mic to activate the runway lights, and waved to Eduardo. He taxied to the southwest end, ran through his final checks, and opened the throttle. The Beaver accelerated down the runway and lifted off smoothly.
He held a conservative 600-foot-per-minute climb, cleaned up the aircraft, opened his pre-filed flight plan with regional, and engaged the autopilot.
At 0900, Paul called Mary to let her know he was en route.
Hanna lined the bottom of a sturdy box with parchment paper, arranged two dozen cookies inside, and tied a ribbon around it to secure the lid.
Downstairs, Mike had just finished assembling the last tower computer case and was preparing to run the full software and hardware stress tests. He didn’t anticipate problems. The only untested component was the custom board Jeremy had sent—a board that resembled a ham-radio Terminal Node Controller but included a chip that looked suspiciously like an encryption module. Everything else had passed with flying colors. Buying quality components and pre-testing the memory chips made all the difference. The failed sticks would have worked in lightly used machines but weren’t reliable enough for Mike’s standards. The supplier was used to his returns and had offered a credit-card refund or store credit. Mike planned to order another hundred pieces of DRAM, test them in advance, and pick up a couple more external SSDs while he was at it.
He powered down most of the overhead lights and headed upstairs.
“Ready to go?” Hanna asked.
“Just need my coat.”
As they drove the short 1,300-meter distance to the Edwinson homestead, a few pieces of sleet began peppering the windshield. By the time they arrived, the weather had turned sharply worse. Hanna carried the cookie box inside. The first thing Annika noticed, however, was the diamond ring on Hanna’s left hand.
She squealed, took the box, and pulled Hanna into a tight hug. “DIDRIK! Come here!”
Mike heard the recliner footrest drop, then Didrik’s footsteps.
“What’s wrong?” Didrik asked, eyeing the box.
“Hanna and Mike are getting married!”
“Well, it’s about time,” Didrik said, picking up the box. “What’s this?”
“Mike made his special storm cookies,” Hanna said.
“You trading cookies for my daughter’s hand?” Didrik asked with a grin.
“Didrik, I asked for your permission almost a year ago,” Mike reminded him.
“And you waited all that time before asking me?” Hanna said, turning to Mike.
“You did the right thing, Mike,” Didrik said. “Always test-drive before you buy. I did with her mother.”
“PAPPA!” Hanna shrieked.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” Annika said, waving a hand. “We need to start planning the wedding!”
Didrik poured a cup of coffee, loaded a plate with cookies, and retreated to the den. Mike followed and settled into an easy chair.
“Best to stay out of their way now,” Didrik advised. “Annika will want a big production. Hanna won’t.”
Mike grinned and nodded.
Occasional raised voices drifted in from the kitchen. Finally, Hanna stomped into the den and dropped onto the couch. Annika followed a minute later.
“I want to say this in front of everyone so there are witnesses,” Hanna announced. “Mamma, I do not want a big wedding. We can invite the fifty church members and anyone else you want, but the reception will be in the church social hall. No wedding gifts. Mike and I have everything we need. I don’t want pretty glass bowls, knick-knacks that just catch dust, or fancy negligees—we don’t wear anything to bed anyway. If someone absolutely has to give something, tell them I need 20-gauge birdshot for my shotgun.”
Didrik and Mike tried—and failed—to suppress their laughter. Annika looked flustered.
“Hanna! This could be the social event of the year in Lyons!”
“Nope. Have them hold a hog scalding instead,” Hanna said firmly. “I’m not turning the day I’ve waited for most of my adult life into a circus.”
Mike stood and looked out the window. The ground was already turning white with sleet.
“Honey, we should head back. It’s getting slick out there.”
“Okay.” Hanna rose. “Mamma, I’m sorry I upset you, but this is my wedding. We’ll talk later once we’ve both cooled off.”
They pulled on their coats and left. The roads were already icy, but Mike kept the truck steady. He pressed the garage door opener and drove straight inside. After plugging in the block heater, they headed into the house together.
It was just minutes before dawn—before morning nautical twilight. That special hour of pristine silence and serenity when the new day unveiled itself in slowly evolving light. Mike held this time in quiet awe. A new day was beginning, with no hint yet of what it would bring. For now, everything was quiet and peaceful. These last still moments before the world stirred felt like recharging his batteries.
But the wind was already picking up, and the clouds to the west and northwest were darkening.
Mike went downstairs, set his coffee mug on the counter, and headed for the pantry. He selected a five-gallon bucket of hard red wheat berries. He wanted to make a batch of his souped-up oatmeal raisin cookies and was short on flour. He retrieved the large baking flour canister from the kitchen, filled the mill’s hopper, positioned the catch tray, and flipped the switch. As the electric motor hummed and fresh flour spilled into the tray, he scooped it into the canister. He ground the entire bucket. What didn’t fit in the canister went into Mylar bags—five pounds per bag—vacuum-sealed and placed in the freezer.
“What is all this racket?” Hanna asked, stepping into the pantry in her robe.
“I wanted to make cookies and didn’t have enough flour,” Mike said. “Besides, it was time for you to get up anyway. You don’t need beauty sleep—you’re beautiful enough as it is.”
Hanna smiled. “We must really be getting a big storm. You only make these cookies when a serious one is coming.”
“Your folks seem to like them well enough,” Mike replied.
“I do too!” She stretched. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“First batch should be ready by the time you’re dressed. Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please.”
Mike put the kettle on and set another pound of butter out to soften. He gathered the oatmeal, raisins, walnuts, and spices on the counter, then pulled out a large stainless-steel bowl and began mixing. He lined two baking sheets with parchment paper, spooned out the dough, and slid them into the oven. Setting the timer for seven minutes, he poured himself a fresh coffee and arranged cooling racks for four dozen cookies at a time. He was only baking two dozen per round, but the short bake time meant the first sheets needed space to cool properly.
When the timer dinged, he slid the parchment and cookies onto the counter, replaced the paper, spooned more dough, and returned the sheets to the oven. Using a thin spatula, he transferred the warm cookies to the racks.
As Hanna returned to the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, Mike set the teapot, cup, saucer, and a small plate with two warm cookies in front of her on the island.
Sunday afternoon, Paul reinstalled the fuel bladder in the Beaver and filled it. Once he repacked his travel bag, he would be ready to leave at daybreak. Using the bladder meant he wouldn’t need to refuel until Pennsylvania, then make the short hop to Long Island. He had flown far longer legs out of Alaska, and no major weather systems were forecast along his route.
Angel rose with him Monday morning and fixed breakfast while he showered and shaved. He brought his bag downstairs, set it by the door, and joined her in the kitchen. She placed a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of him, then slid the syrup and butter closer. After pouring his coffee, she sat on the stool beside him.
“Do you have everything?” Angel asked.
“I think so,” Paul said, taking a sip.
She set a plastic grocery bag on the island. Paul opened it and grinned at the half-dozen Travel John portable urinal packs inside.
“Oh yeah. Thanks.”
“Do you have cash?” she asked.
“Two grand from the safe.”
“Are you wearing your vest?”
“Yes,” he said, “but I can’t legally carry in New York. They only honor their own communistic gun laws.” He didn’t mention the toss-away piece he was also carrying.
Paul finished breakfast, gathered his things, and kissed her. “I’ll call you tonight.”
As he stepped onto the porch, Eduardo was waiting in the UTV.
“You should’ve come in for coffee,” Paul said.
“I’ve got my thermos,” Eduardo replied with a grin.
They rode to the hangar. Eduardo opened the door and helped roll the plane out. Paul completed his pre-flight, double-checked the fuel cock for the bladder, and started the engine. While it warmed, he loaded the coordinates for Reading Regional Airport into the flight computer and monitored the gauges. When everything was green, he changed frequencies, keyed the mic to activate the runway lights, and waved to Eduardo. He taxied to the southwest end, ran through his final checks, and opened the throttle. The Beaver accelerated down the runway and lifted off smoothly.
He held a conservative 600-foot-per-minute climb, cleaned up the aircraft, opened his pre-filed flight plan with regional, and engaged the autopilot.
At 0900, Paul called Mary to let her know he was en route.
Hanna lined the bottom of a sturdy box with parchment paper, arranged two dozen cookies inside, and tied a ribbon around it to secure the lid.
Downstairs, Mike had just finished assembling the last tower computer case and was preparing to run the full software and hardware stress tests. He didn’t anticipate problems. The only untested component was the custom board Jeremy had sent—a board that resembled a ham-radio Terminal Node Controller but included a chip that looked suspiciously like an encryption module. Everything else had passed with flying colors. Buying quality components and pre-testing the memory chips made all the difference. The failed sticks would have worked in lightly used machines but weren’t reliable enough for Mike’s standards. The supplier was used to his returns and had offered a credit-card refund or store credit. Mike planned to order another hundred pieces of DRAM, test them in advance, and pick up a couple more external SSDs while he was at it.
He powered down most of the overhead lights and headed upstairs.
“Ready to go?” Hanna asked.
“Just need my coat.”
As they drove the short 1,300-meter distance to the Edwinson homestead, a few pieces of sleet began peppering the windshield. By the time they arrived, the weather had turned sharply worse. Hanna carried the cookie box inside. The first thing Annika noticed, however, was the diamond ring on Hanna’s left hand.
She squealed, took the box, and pulled Hanna into a tight hug. “DIDRIK! Come here!”
Mike heard the recliner footrest drop, then Didrik’s footsteps.
“What’s wrong?” Didrik asked, eyeing the box.
“Hanna and Mike are getting married!”
“Well, it’s about time,” Didrik said, picking up the box. “What’s this?”
“Mike made his special storm cookies,” Hanna said.
“You trading cookies for my daughter’s hand?” Didrik asked with a grin.
“Didrik, I asked for your permission almost a year ago,” Mike reminded him.
“And you waited all that time before asking me?” Hanna said, turning to Mike.
“You did the right thing, Mike,” Didrik said. “Always test-drive before you buy. I did with her mother.”
“PAPPA!” Hanna shrieked.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” Annika said, waving a hand. “We need to start planning the wedding!”
Didrik poured a cup of coffee, loaded a plate with cookies, and retreated to the den. Mike followed and settled into an easy chair.
“Best to stay out of their way now,” Didrik advised. “Annika will want a big production. Hanna won’t.”
Mike grinned and nodded.
Occasional raised voices drifted in from the kitchen. Finally, Hanna stomped into the den and dropped onto the couch. Annika followed a minute later.
“I want to say this in front of everyone so there are witnesses,” Hanna announced. “Mamma, I do not want a big wedding. We can invite the fifty church members and anyone else you want, but the reception will be in the church social hall. No wedding gifts. Mike and I have everything we need. I don’t want pretty glass bowls, knick-knacks that just catch dust, or fancy negligees—we don’t wear anything to bed anyway. If someone absolutely has to give something, tell them I need 20-gauge birdshot for my shotgun.”
Didrik and Mike tried—and failed—to suppress their laughter. Annika looked flustered.
“Hanna! This could be the social event of the year in Lyons!”
“Nope. Have them hold a hog scalding instead,” Hanna said firmly. “I’m not turning the day I’ve waited for most of my adult life into a circus.”
Mike stood and looked out the window. The ground was already turning white with sleet.
“Honey, we should head back. It’s getting slick out there.”
“Okay.” Hanna rose. “Mamma, I’m sorry I upset you, but this is my wedding. We’ll talk later once we’ve both cooled off.”
They pulled on their coats and left. The roads were already icy, but Mike kept the truck steady. He pressed the garage door opener and drove straight inside. After plugging in the block heater, they headed into the house together.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty
It was late when Paul landed at East Hampton Airport, but Mary was waiting for him with the estate’s Land Cruiser.
“Have a good flight?” Mary asked.
“It was fine—no bad weather to dodge at all. Can’t say that for much longer, though. Looks like we’re in for a Nor’easter in a couple of days.” Paul replied. “I need to go back to the airport tomorrow and get the plane hangared.”
“As long as the weather holds for you to go through the outbuildings,” Mary said. “Robert Wilcox will be by tomorrow so you can sign the Power of Attorney. He’s already lined up an auctioneer for the sale and a couple of interested buyers for the property.”
“Did you find a mover?” Paul asked.
“Yes—Concorde Van Lines. They have an affiliate in Little Rock that can store everything until the cottage is ready.”
“Good. The home builder has already started on your new home modules at the factory, and they’ll begin pouring the basement soon,” Paul said.
“I really can’t wait to leave this area,” Mary said. “Things are getting tense around here.”
“How so?” Paul asked.
“Crime is creeping closer. They arrested a whole gang of MS-13 near Brookhaven. Every day you hear about carjackings. They caught one group rolling a stolen car into an enclosed trailer—the police had been wondering how the cars were disappearing off the island.”
“Well, you’ll enjoy Crooked Creek,” Paul said. “Criminals have to wade through a lot of armed locals who keep the riff-raff away.”
“Speaking of armed, what are you going to do with the three gun safes?” Mary asked. “They’re full of World War II weapons that Harold was so proud of.”
“I’ll open them up, wrap the weapons in padded packing paper, and let the movers handle them.”
“I’ll call Concorde and have them send some over. We just have to mark the boxes we pack ourselves for insurance purposes,” Mary said.
When they reached the estate, Paul carried his bags inside to the bedroom Mary had prepared for him. They both turned in for a few hours of sleep.
Paul awoke feeling somewhat refreshed. After a quick shower, he went downstairs where Mary had brunch waiting. He ate hurriedly, then headed back to the airport to hangar the plane before the storm arrived.
When he returned, he began checking the outbuildings. Most contained only estate maintenance equipment. Back inside the house, he found Mary already packing boxes.
“The moving company dropped off the packing paper,” Mary said, pointing. “It’s over there.”
“Do you have the safe combinations?” Paul asked.
Mary went to a small wall safe, opened it, and retrieved a small leather notebook.
“I’ll have to show you,” she said. “Harold had the locksmith add an extra step.”
In the large study, she approached the first safe and began entering the combination.
“When the green light comes on, punch in #00. The light will flash. Then enter #16 and it will go steady. That’s when it opens.”
Paul watched as she opened the first safe, then the second and third.
The big Remington safes were rated for up to forty-six modern weapons, but the bulkier older pieces took up far more room. The first gun Paul pulled out puzzled him. At first glance it looked like a Thompson M1A1 submachine gun, but it wasn’t. He cleared the chamber and read the receiver stamping: American 180. A quick search on his phone told him it was chambered in .22 Long Rifle and fed by a pan magazine like an old Lewis gun. One was currently listed for sale at nearly seventeen thousand dollars. Paul had no intention of paying anywhere near that. He found a second American 180 and six pan magazines. He would need to ask Wilcox whether these were properly “papered.” The last thing he needed was trouble with the ATF.
He began wrapping weapons in paper and taping the bundles shut. Slowly he emptied the safes and wrapped the loose magazines. The final piece he pulled out was a Sturmgewehr 44 with a bandolier of 7.92×33mm Kurz ammunition—another potential headache.
The doorbell rang. Mary ushered Robert Wilcox and a notary into the study. Paul signed the Power of Attorney where indicated and waited for the notary to leave the room before asking about the weapons.
“None of them are papered, Paul,” Wilcox said. “Your uncle kept this collection completely off the books. No one but you knows what’s even in here, so my advice is simple: don’t try to sell them. That would open a whole new can of worms.”
With Wilcox now handling the sale of the properties, a heavy burden lifted from Paul’s shoulders. He returned to wrapping guns and carefully storing them back inside the safes.
Meanwhile, Annika had come over to apologize to Hanna, so Mike grabbed his shotgun and headed out to hunt the northern swales, hoping to stir up prairie chickens or a pheasant. The birds should be out feeding at this hour, and the hunt conveniently kept him from having to referee the women.
He pulled the Rokon out of the garage and rode to the long north-south swale. This time of day the birds would be on the eastern slope. He parked about five hundred meters up, pulled the Remington 1100 from its scabbard, chambered a round, and started walking north. Within a few hundred meters he had three chickens. Crossing the swale at a drier spot, he worked his way back down the western side and dropped a nice ring-necked pheasant within twenty-five meters. He crossed back over, retrieved the bike, and headed home.
Site. The word still sounded odd for the place he had called home for so long. Mike remembered a conversation he’d had with Ben Miller and decided it was time to follow up.
Ben had earned a full scholarship and an engineering degree. After working for a Minnesota firm that specialized in domed commercial and residential buildings, he moved to Sioux City. Domed structures were ideal for the plains—energy-efficient and capable of withstanding 100-mph winds. Ben’s company had partnered with the Omaha Nation to build durable domed homes on the reservation, creating good-paying jobs for tribal members. He was eager to branch out into larger custom homes and wanted to film the entire construction process for a documentary.
Mike liked the idea of putting a dome on the concrete pad near the tower—an above-ground living space for Hanna while the underground levels expanded for the server farm. Plenty of room, solid foundation. He would give Ben a call.
Paul grinned as the burly movers wrestled the heavy gun safes onto their dolly. Once those were loaded, the rest went quickly. There wasn’t much to take. Mary wouldn’t have a lot of room in her new cottage, but she selected a few favorite gardening tools and, of course, all the books Paul had packed plus the kitchen items she wanted. When the truck pulled away, Mary called Robert Wilcox and told him they were finished. He said the auctioneer would come Monday to catalog everything.
Saturday morning the news was dominated by riots and looting that had erupted after a concert in Massapequa the night before. Instigators from Black, Chinese, and assorted other gangs had set stores and buildings ablaze. Damages were already estimated in the hundreds of millions. Paul was glad they were leaving Sunday morning. He returned to the airport, refueled the plane and the ferry bladder, and performed a thorough pre-flight inspection.
When he got back to the estate, Mary had a cleaning service putting the final touches on the house.
“How are you feeling about leaving?” Paul asked.
“Excited, and a little melancholy,” Mary replied. “I’ve spent a lot of good years here and I’ll carry plenty of fond memories. But I’m ready for a new life.”
“Let’s go get a seafood dinner to cap our last day,” Paul suggested.
“I’m afraid the best places are down in Oyster Bay,” Mary said.
“That’s out, then. Pick somewhere else.”
Before they left, Paul called Angel.
“And just what was my unemployed husband up to today?” she asked.
“Tying up loose ends and getting the plane ready for tomorrow,” Paul said.
“What is this I’m hearing about riots up there?”
“Don’t worry, it’s over fifty miles from here.”
“You are leaving tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, dear. But don’t be alarmed if it takes longer than planned. If that storm gets too bad, I’ll set down and we’ll overnight somewhere.”
“All right. Just call me if you have to land.”
“I will. I’ll call you en route tomorrow.”
In many Democratic-controlled larger cities, supermarkets that were normally stocked to overflowing now struggled to keep shelves filled. Truck hijackings had disrupted the just-in-time delivery system. Gangs were intercepting shipments before they reached the stores. Shelves emptied quickly as panicked consumers stripped them bare—even pet food disappeared. Food riots were becoming common, and the chaos was spreading into smaller adjacent towns.
It was late when Paul landed at East Hampton Airport, but Mary was waiting for him with the estate’s Land Cruiser.
“Have a good flight?” Mary asked.
“It was fine—no bad weather to dodge at all. Can’t say that for much longer, though. Looks like we’re in for a Nor’easter in a couple of days.” Paul replied. “I need to go back to the airport tomorrow and get the plane hangared.”
“As long as the weather holds for you to go through the outbuildings,” Mary said. “Robert Wilcox will be by tomorrow so you can sign the Power of Attorney. He’s already lined up an auctioneer for the sale and a couple of interested buyers for the property.”
“Did you find a mover?” Paul asked.
“Yes—Concorde Van Lines. They have an affiliate in Little Rock that can store everything until the cottage is ready.”
“Good. The home builder has already started on your new home modules at the factory, and they’ll begin pouring the basement soon,” Paul said.
“I really can’t wait to leave this area,” Mary said. “Things are getting tense around here.”
“How so?” Paul asked.
“Crime is creeping closer. They arrested a whole gang of MS-13 near Brookhaven. Every day you hear about carjackings. They caught one group rolling a stolen car into an enclosed trailer—the police had been wondering how the cars were disappearing off the island.”
“Well, you’ll enjoy Crooked Creek,” Paul said. “Criminals have to wade through a lot of armed locals who keep the riff-raff away.”
“Speaking of armed, what are you going to do with the three gun safes?” Mary asked. “They’re full of World War II weapons that Harold was so proud of.”
“I’ll open them up, wrap the weapons in padded packing paper, and let the movers handle them.”
“I’ll call Concorde and have them send some over. We just have to mark the boxes we pack ourselves for insurance purposes,” Mary said.
When they reached the estate, Paul carried his bags inside to the bedroom Mary had prepared for him. They both turned in for a few hours of sleep.
Paul awoke feeling somewhat refreshed. After a quick shower, he went downstairs where Mary had brunch waiting. He ate hurriedly, then headed back to the airport to hangar the plane before the storm arrived.
When he returned, he began checking the outbuildings. Most contained only estate maintenance equipment. Back inside the house, he found Mary already packing boxes.
“The moving company dropped off the packing paper,” Mary said, pointing. “It’s over there.”
“Do you have the safe combinations?” Paul asked.
Mary went to a small wall safe, opened it, and retrieved a small leather notebook.
“I’ll have to show you,” she said. “Harold had the locksmith add an extra step.”
In the large study, she approached the first safe and began entering the combination.
“When the green light comes on, punch in #00. The light will flash. Then enter #16 and it will go steady. That’s when it opens.”
Paul watched as she opened the first safe, then the second and third.
The big Remington safes were rated for up to forty-six modern weapons, but the bulkier older pieces took up far more room. The first gun Paul pulled out puzzled him. At first glance it looked like a Thompson M1A1 submachine gun, but it wasn’t. He cleared the chamber and read the receiver stamping: American 180. A quick search on his phone told him it was chambered in .22 Long Rifle and fed by a pan magazine like an old Lewis gun. One was currently listed for sale at nearly seventeen thousand dollars. Paul had no intention of paying anywhere near that. He found a second American 180 and six pan magazines. He would need to ask Wilcox whether these were properly “papered.” The last thing he needed was trouble with the ATF.
He began wrapping weapons in paper and taping the bundles shut. Slowly he emptied the safes and wrapped the loose magazines. The final piece he pulled out was a Sturmgewehr 44 with a bandolier of 7.92×33mm Kurz ammunition—another potential headache.
The doorbell rang. Mary ushered Robert Wilcox and a notary into the study. Paul signed the Power of Attorney where indicated and waited for the notary to leave the room before asking about the weapons.
“None of them are papered, Paul,” Wilcox said. “Your uncle kept this collection completely off the books. No one but you knows what’s even in here, so my advice is simple: don’t try to sell them. That would open a whole new can of worms.”
With Wilcox now handling the sale of the properties, a heavy burden lifted from Paul’s shoulders. He returned to wrapping guns and carefully storing them back inside the safes.
Meanwhile, Annika had come over to apologize to Hanna, so Mike grabbed his shotgun and headed out to hunt the northern swales, hoping to stir up prairie chickens or a pheasant. The birds should be out feeding at this hour, and the hunt conveniently kept him from having to referee the women.
He pulled the Rokon out of the garage and rode to the long north-south swale. This time of day the birds would be on the eastern slope. He parked about five hundred meters up, pulled the Remington 1100 from its scabbard, chambered a round, and started walking north. Within a few hundred meters he had three chickens. Crossing the swale at a drier spot, he worked his way back down the western side and dropped a nice ring-necked pheasant within twenty-five meters. He crossed back over, retrieved the bike, and headed home.
Site. The word still sounded odd for the place he had called home for so long. Mike remembered a conversation he’d had with Ben Miller and decided it was time to follow up.
Ben had earned a full scholarship and an engineering degree. After working for a Minnesota firm that specialized in domed commercial and residential buildings, he moved to Sioux City. Domed structures were ideal for the plains—energy-efficient and capable of withstanding 100-mph winds. Ben’s company had partnered with the Omaha Nation to build durable domed homes on the reservation, creating good-paying jobs for tribal members. He was eager to branch out into larger custom homes and wanted to film the entire construction process for a documentary.
Mike liked the idea of putting a dome on the concrete pad near the tower—an above-ground living space for Hanna while the underground levels expanded for the server farm. Plenty of room, solid foundation. He would give Ben a call.
Paul grinned as the burly movers wrestled the heavy gun safes onto their dolly. Once those were loaded, the rest went quickly. There wasn’t much to take. Mary wouldn’t have a lot of room in her new cottage, but she selected a few favorite gardening tools and, of course, all the books Paul had packed plus the kitchen items she wanted. When the truck pulled away, Mary called Robert Wilcox and told him they were finished. He said the auctioneer would come Monday to catalog everything.
Saturday morning the news was dominated by riots and looting that had erupted after a concert in Massapequa the night before. Instigators from Black, Chinese, and assorted other gangs had set stores and buildings ablaze. Damages were already estimated in the hundreds of millions. Paul was glad they were leaving Sunday morning. He returned to the airport, refueled the plane and the ferry bladder, and performed a thorough pre-flight inspection.
When he got back to the estate, Mary had a cleaning service putting the final touches on the house.
“How are you feeling about leaving?” Paul asked.
“Excited, and a little melancholy,” Mary replied. “I’ve spent a lot of good years here and I’ll carry plenty of fond memories. But I’m ready for a new life.”
“Let’s go get a seafood dinner to cap our last day,” Paul suggested.
“I’m afraid the best places are down in Oyster Bay,” Mary said.
“That’s out, then. Pick somewhere else.”
Before they left, Paul called Angel.
“And just what was my unemployed husband up to today?” she asked.
“Tying up loose ends and getting the plane ready for tomorrow,” Paul said.
“What is this I’m hearing about riots up there?”
“Don’t worry, it’s over fifty miles from here.”
“You are leaving tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, dear. But don’t be alarmed if it takes longer than planned. If that storm gets too bad, I’ll set down and we’ll overnight somewhere.”
“All right. Just call me if you have to land.”
“I will. I’ll call you en route tomorrow.”
In many Democratic-controlled larger cities, supermarkets that were normally stocked to overflowing now struggled to keep shelves filled. Truck hijackings had disrupted the just-in-time delivery system. Gangs were intercepting shipments before they reached the stores. Shelves emptied quickly as panicked consumers stripped them bare—even pet food disappeared. Food riots were becoming common, and the chaos was spreading into smaller adjacent towns.
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you for the new chapters. I wonder who is stirring up the trouble. Sounds like a job for Jeremy.
cat killer
Veteran Member
I would like a Glock with a safety, don't really trust the trigger one.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-One
Mike called Jeremy and told him the servers were ready. Jeremy said he would send a pilot to Sioux Gateway the next morning to pick him and the computers up. “Pack a bag for three days,” he added.
Hanna was bummed he was leaving but promised a nice meal when he returned. Mike had already placed the finished computer cases back into their original shipping boxes and packed the cables and peripherals into another. He loaded everything onto the cargo lift, rode it up to the first floor, and wheeled the boxes out to the garage. He appreciated the lift. It hadn’t been designed for freight—it had started life as a beach-house cargo elevator for groceries and aging residents—but it was rated for a thousand pounds and worked perfectly for his needs. You could find some pretty good things on eBay.
“When I get back, you and I can go talk to the dome builders and work out a floor plan,” Mike told Hanna. “Check the websites I wrote down and get some ideas of what you want. Oh, and that Spencer kid is going to drop by with the drone photos. I’ll need those when we meet the builders.”
Paul and Mary arrived at the airport early and loaded their bags. The small field only operated between 08:00 and 20:00 and didn’t even run a control tower during the winter months. Once the FBO staff showed up, Paul paid his hangar fees. A tug operator towed the plane out to the apron. After completing his pre-flight checks, Paul settled Mary in her seat, buckled her in, and started the engine. At exactly 08:00 he taxied to the threshold of Runway 28, called New York Approach, and opened his flight plan. Clearance came quickly. He opened the throttles and accelerated down the runway. A light crosswind off the ocean tugged at the wings but nothing he couldn’t handle. He climbed to 5,000 feet as instructed to clear the JFK approach corridors.
They landed at Harrisburg International so Mary could use the restroom. Paul refused to make her use the portable Travel John. While she was inside the terminal he called Angel with an update.
Mike watched the Twin Otter taxi up to the FBO ramp. He rolled the computer equipment and his duffel out on a cargo dolly. A handler helped load the heavy boxes into the cargo compartment. Mike gave the pilot the approximate weights, and together they strapped everything down securely. Mike buckled into his seat. The pilot, Jack, didn’t need to refuel, so they were airborne within minutes.
“Two hours and fifteen minutes to Arkansas,” Jack told him.
Once they leveled off, Mike reclined his seat and drifted off.
He woke as his ears popped when Jack began the descent. The plane crossed the Arkansas River near the Holla Bend National Wildlife Refuge, then dropped to 2,000 feet and followed the narrow valley until it picked up the Fourche La Fave River. Jack followed the river to Little Cedar Creek, set the flaps for a STOL landing, added power, and floated over the ridgeline. A touch of left rudder lined him up with the runway at Washita Lodge.
“Welcome to the Ozarks,” Jack said. “We won’t be here long. Just picking up Jeremy, then I’ll fly you the rest of the way.”
They slipped through a small pass in the ridge. A thin layer of ground fog clung to the grass, so Jack switched on the runway lights. He touched down smoothly and taxied to a hangar with soil mounded over its roof.
Jeremy walked out carrying a pack, climbed aboard, and wedged it behind a seat. He gave Jack a nod. The Twin Otter taxied back to the runway and climbed out again, turning northwest.
“Our ETA is about forty-five minutes, Mike,” Jeremy said over the intercom.
Mike gazed out the window at the lakes and thick forests of the Mark Twain National Forest. Soon the plane descended, cleared another ridge, and nosed down toward a narrow strip.
“Flat Creek,” Jeremy announced.
Jack made a perfect landing and rolled to the hangar at the end of the runway. When the propeller stopped, Jeremy opened the cargo door. A pickup backed up, and a man and woman stepped out.
“Mike, this is Matt and Taylor Richardson,” Jeremy said. “Taylor’s the one who’ll be using the computers.”
Mike shook their hands. They loaded the boxes and his bag into the truck, then Mike climbed into the back seat of the crew cab. As they drove, a red covered bridge came into view.
“A covered bridge! I haven’t seen one of those in ages,” Mike said.
“It’s one of only two still operational in the state,” Taylor replied.
At the house, Taylor opened a basement door. Mike and Matt carried the boxes down to her workspace. A large custom computer desk waited, already holding one PC and monitor.
“Nice desk. This will work perfectly,” Mike said.
“Matt built it for me,” Taylor told him.
“She told me what she needed and I put some boards together,” Matt said with a grin. “I’ll leave you two to it. Holler when you’re done with the empty boxes.”
Two hours later, everything was running. Taylor had finished mirroring her old hard drive and was exploring the multi-monitor setup Mike had configured. She was thrilled with the function-key shortcuts that let her push any combination of screens to her main display.
Mike broke down the shipping boxes while Matt returned to haul them out to the truck.
“Come on in,” Matt said. “I’ll show you your room, then start lunch. We won’t be able to pry Taylor away from those new toys for a while.” He grinned.
The guest room was comfortable and nicely decorated.
“Taylor gets the credit for that,” Matt said. “I just know how to write checks.”
“Tell me about it,” Mike laughed.
“You’re married too?” Matt asked.
“Not yet, but Hanna’s got a ring in my nose already,” Mike replied.
Matt led him to the kitchen where a pot of chili simmered. He started mixing cornbread while they talked.
“Anderberg? That’s Swedish, isn’t it?” Matt asked.
“Fifth generation. My folks have been in Nebraska a long time.” Mike took a sip of the beer Matt offered. “Jeremy said you had a neat place up there.”
“It’s an old AT&T underground communications bunker—about thirty thousand square feet. I’ve made it work. I’m getting married soon, though, so we’re planning to build a dome house on top.”
“Sounds cool. At least you don’t have to worry about tornadoes living underground.”
“We get them, but unless you’re out in the open they’re not usually a big deal. You farm here?”
“We grow hay for sale,” Matt said. “With the crazy weather lately, the price has been good. We raise most of our own food in gardens and greenhouses, plus a few cattle for meat and dairy. Only buy wheat and rice anymore.”
Jeremy walked in. Matt handed him a beer and invited him to stay for chili.
Later, while they ate, Jeremy asked how the installation had gone.
“It went well,” Mike said. “Taylor’s running a data-transfer test through the secure module now. Might be a couple more hours before we have results.”
“She’s thorough,” Jeremy nodded.
In another room, another place, gloved hands worked with meticulous care. Slowly enlarging the cavity of each hollow-point bullet, he remeasured and was satisfied. After finishing all twenty rounds, he donned fresh neoprene gloves, removed the opaque bottle from its padded case, and drew the thick liquid into a hypodermic. Using a magnifying visor, he partially filled each cavity, then dropped a tiny ball bearing inside and sealed it with a drop of melted beeswax heated on a Bunsen burner. Finally, he capped each bullet. The plastic caps would be removed only when loading.
No one would get very far with that dose of curare in their system.
The toxin had come from a Waorani shaman in the Oriente region of Ecuador. Once it entered the bloodstream, the curare would paralyze the diaphragm, causing rapid asphyxiation. The only effective antidote—an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor—was rarely stocked even in top trauma centers, and certainly not immediately available to first responders.
Mike called Jeremy and told him the servers were ready. Jeremy said he would send a pilot to Sioux Gateway the next morning to pick him and the computers up. “Pack a bag for three days,” he added.
Hanna was bummed he was leaving but promised a nice meal when he returned. Mike had already placed the finished computer cases back into their original shipping boxes and packed the cables and peripherals into another. He loaded everything onto the cargo lift, rode it up to the first floor, and wheeled the boxes out to the garage. He appreciated the lift. It hadn’t been designed for freight—it had started life as a beach-house cargo elevator for groceries and aging residents—but it was rated for a thousand pounds and worked perfectly for his needs. You could find some pretty good things on eBay.
“When I get back, you and I can go talk to the dome builders and work out a floor plan,” Mike told Hanna. “Check the websites I wrote down and get some ideas of what you want. Oh, and that Spencer kid is going to drop by with the drone photos. I’ll need those when we meet the builders.”
Paul and Mary arrived at the airport early and loaded their bags. The small field only operated between 08:00 and 20:00 and didn’t even run a control tower during the winter months. Once the FBO staff showed up, Paul paid his hangar fees. A tug operator towed the plane out to the apron. After completing his pre-flight checks, Paul settled Mary in her seat, buckled her in, and started the engine. At exactly 08:00 he taxied to the threshold of Runway 28, called New York Approach, and opened his flight plan. Clearance came quickly. He opened the throttles and accelerated down the runway. A light crosswind off the ocean tugged at the wings but nothing he couldn’t handle. He climbed to 5,000 feet as instructed to clear the JFK approach corridors.
They landed at Harrisburg International so Mary could use the restroom. Paul refused to make her use the portable Travel John. While she was inside the terminal he called Angel with an update.
Mike watched the Twin Otter taxi up to the FBO ramp. He rolled the computer equipment and his duffel out on a cargo dolly. A handler helped load the heavy boxes into the cargo compartment. Mike gave the pilot the approximate weights, and together they strapped everything down securely. Mike buckled into his seat. The pilot, Jack, didn’t need to refuel, so they were airborne within minutes.
“Two hours and fifteen minutes to Arkansas,” Jack told him.
Once they leveled off, Mike reclined his seat and drifted off.
He woke as his ears popped when Jack began the descent. The plane crossed the Arkansas River near the Holla Bend National Wildlife Refuge, then dropped to 2,000 feet and followed the narrow valley until it picked up the Fourche La Fave River. Jack followed the river to Little Cedar Creek, set the flaps for a STOL landing, added power, and floated over the ridgeline. A touch of left rudder lined him up with the runway at Washita Lodge.
“Welcome to the Ozarks,” Jack said. “We won’t be here long. Just picking up Jeremy, then I’ll fly you the rest of the way.”
They slipped through a small pass in the ridge. A thin layer of ground fog clung to the grass, so Jack switched on the runway lights. He touched down smoothly and taxied to a hangar with soil mounded over its roof.
Jeremy walked out carrying a pack, climbed aboard, and wedged it behind a seat. He gave Jack a nod. The Twin Otter taxied back to the runway and climbed out again, turning northwest.
“Our ETA is about forty-five minutes, Mike,” Jeremy said over the intercom.
Mike gazed out the window at the lakes and thick forests of the Mark Twain National Forest. Soon the plane descended, cleared another ridge, and nosed down toward a narrow strip.
“Flat Creek,” Jeremy announced.
Jack made a perfect landing and rolled to the hangar at the end of the runway. When the propeller stopped, Jeremy opened the cargo door. A pickup backed up, and a man and woman stepped out.
“Mike, this is Matt and Taylor Richardson,” Jeremy said. “Taylor’s the one who’ll be using the computers.”
Mike shook their hands. They loaded the boxes and his bag into the truck, then Mike climbed into the back seat of the crew cab. As they drove, a red covered bridge came into view.
“A covered bridge! I haven’t seen one of those in ages,” Mike said.
“It’s one of only two still operational in the state,” Taylor replied.
At the house, Taylor opened a basement door. Mike and Matt carried the boxes down to her workspace. A large custom computer desk waited, already holding one PC and monitor.
“Nice desk. This will work perfectly,” Mike said.
“Matt built it for me,” Taylor told him.
“She told me what she needed and I put some boards together,” Matt said with a grin. “I’ll leave you two to it. Holler when you’re done with the empty boxes.”
Two hours later, everything was running. Taylor had finished mirroring her old hard drive and was exploring the multi-monitor setup Mike had configured. She was thrilled with the function-key shortcuts that let her push any combination of screens to her main display.
Mike broke down the shipping boxes while Matt returned to haul them out to the truck.
“Come on in,” Matt said. “I’ll show you your room, then start lunch. We won’t be able to pry Taylor away from those new toys for a while.” He grinned.
The guest room was comfortable and nicely decorated.
“Taylor gets the credit for that,” Matt said. “I just know how to write checks.”
“Tell me about it,” Mike laughed.
“You’re married too?” Matt asked.
“Not yet, but Hanna’s got a ring in my nose already,” Mike replied.
Matt led him to the kitchen where a pot of chili simmered. He started mixing cornbread while they talked.
“Anderberg? That’s Swedish, isn’t it?” Matt asked.
“Fifth generation. My folks have been in Nebraska a long time.” Mike took a sip of the beer Matt offered. “Jeremy said you had a neat place up there.”
“It’s an old AT&T underground communications bunker—about thirty thousand square feet. I’ve made it work. I’m getting married soon, though, so we’re planning to build a dome house on top.”
“Sounds cool. At least you don’t have to worry about tornadoes living underground.”
“We get them, but unless you’re out in the open they’re not usually a big deal. You farm here?”
“We grow hay for sale,” Matt said. “With the crazy weather lately, the price has been good. We raise most of our own food in gardens and greenhouses, plus a few cattle for meat and dairy. Only buy wheat and rice anymore.”
Jeremy walked in. Matt handed him a beer and invited him to stay for chili.
Later, while they ate, Jeremy asked how the installation had gone.
“It went well,” Mike said. “Taylor’s running a data-transfer test through the secure module now. Might be a couple more hours before we have results.”
“She’s thorough,” Jeremy nodded.
In another room, another place, gloved hands worked with meticulous care. Slowly enlarging the cavity of each hollow-point bullet, he remeasured and was satisfied. After finishing all twenty rounds, he donned fresh neoprene gloves, removed the opaque bottle from its padded case, and drew the thick liquid into a hypodermic. Using a magnifying visor, he partially filled each cavity, then dropped a tiny ball bearing inside and sealed it with a drop of melted beeswax heated on a Bunsen burner. Finally, he capped each bullet. The plastic caps would be removed only when loading.
No one would get very far with that dose of curare in their system.
The toxin had come from a Waorani shaman in the Oriente region of Ecuador. Once it entered the bloodstream, the curare would paralyze the diaphragm, causing rapid asphyxiation. The only effective antidote—an acetylcholinesterase inhibitor—was rarely stocked even in top trauma centers, and certainly not immediately available to first responders.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks X 3
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Taylor had finished running every test and double-checked her data backups, Jeremy called Jack and asked him to ready the Twin Otter to fly Mike back to Snail Mountain.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Why do you call it that?”
“Well, your site is only slightly higher than the surrounding fields—like a spiral-coiled snail lying on its side. The name stuck because it’s suitably enigmatic.”
“Enigmatic it is,” Mike agreed with a grin.
Mike packed his travel bag while Jack finished the pre-flight. At one o’clock they loaded Mike’s gear, a mixed case of pint jars filled with jams, jellies, and honey, and two heavy wheels of cheese. The Twin Otter lifted off and turned northeast toward Nebraska. Mike called Hanna from the air and told her he would be on the ground at Sioux Gateway by four.
Hanna immediately pulled sliced and pounded pork loin from the freezer to thaw for schnitzel. She planned Cheese & Herb Potato Fans and braised red cabbage to go with it—Mike’s favorites after a long trip.
Jack touched down just long enough for Mike to offload his baggage at the FBO, then taxied back out and climbed away again. Mike stowed everything in the truck and headed south toward home and Hanna.
It was Wednesday. He would wait until Friday to drive up to Sioux City to meet the builders and finalize the floor plan. To make the most of the trip, they would take the trailer and hit Sam’s Club, Mid-State Bulk Grains, and Walmart. On the way back he hoped to swing through Macy and catch Ben Miller—if he wasn’t at the Sioux City office—since Ben would be designing the house.
Mike pulled into Snail Mountain at 4:50 p.m. He made two trips carrying in the cheese wheels, the case of preserves, and his bag.
“Welcome home!” Hanna called, wrapping him in a tight hug.
“It’s good to be back. I missed you,” Mike said, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.
Hanna took one of the cheddar wheels to the counter and sliced off thick pieces. They tasted it with glasses of sweet Jurançon wine.
“What’s in the pint jars?” she asked.
“Jams, jellies, and honey. All homemade, according to Taylor. They grow most of their own food and make their own dairy.”
Hanna’s eyes lit up. “It might be nice to set up a trade with them after harvest. Maybe some of their products for our grains.”
“That’s a good idea. They’d have to dehull the grain themselves if they want the cheap rate. I can show them where to buy dehuller pads or even how to make their own.”
Mike had long since stopped buying pre-dehulled wheat. He now purchased grain directly from Didrik or a neighbor and ran them through his own mill. Last year he had skipped dehulling before storage and regretted it; this season he planned to dehull everything while it was still dry, then store it in food-grade pails. He still bought rolled and steel-cut oats in bulk from the mill and repacked them under nitrogen. The nitrogen cylinders came from Airgas in Sioux City—the same place he bought his welding gases.
“Speaking of which,” Hanna said, “we’re getting low on bread flour.”
“Do you have enough to last until Saturday?”
“Yes, I only noticed yesterday while I was baking. I’ve already finished my weekly bread run.”
“Did the Spencer kid drop off the drone photos?”
“He left a thumb drive on your desk.”
“Good. I need to scale them, add dimensions, and get everything ready for the builders.”
“I’ll have supper ready soon,” Hanna said.
“Okay. Just holler.” Mike headed for the office.
He opened the photos in Corel PaintShop Pro, scaled them to match the ground measurements he had taken earlier, and overlaid a precise grid. Another layer showed the underground utilities and footings he had already mapped. He labeled every structure and area in contrasting colors, merged the layers, and printed several copies. After watching the flyover video, he burned everything to a CD, slipped the prints and disc into a padded envelope, and set it aside for the meeting.
Paul taxied up to the hangar, swung the nose toward the runway, and shut down the engine. Angel walked over as he helped Mary down the steps.
“Mary, this is my wife Angela. Angel, meet Mary Gilbert.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mary. Let’s get your bags inside. I’m sure you’d like to freshen up.”
Paul and Eduardo loaded the luggage onto a UTV. Angel took Mary to the house in another, and Paul followed.
“Anything happening around here?” Paul asked Eduardo.
“Not much locally,” Eduardo replied. “Someone tried to hijack an SGC Foodservice truck in Russellville yesterday. Didn’t work out for them. Truckers and locals had the guys rounded up before the cops even arrived.”
“Things are getting rough up north too,” Paul said. “The media isn’t covering most of it, but it’s happening. Once the gangs realize delivery trucks are too hard a target, the looting will probably spread. Keep a long gun, pistol, spare ammo, and a radio in your truck whenever you leave the property.”
“Already doing it,” Eduardo said.
They carried the bags to the guest rooms. Paul found Angel in the kitchen making tea.
“Good flight?” she asked.
“Pretty smooth. I had to hug the coast a little more than usual because of the fronts, but nothing bad. How have you and the boy been?”
“We’re fine,” Angel said, smiling.
Paul glanced at Carmelita. She smiled back and gave a small nod.
Mary joined them at the kitchen island. “You have a beautiful home, Angel.”
“Paul renovated the place,” Angel replied.
“Yes, but it takes a woman to turn it into a home,” Mary said warmly.
“Angel made some excellent changes,” Paul agreed. He cleared his throat. “Oh, Mary—your cottage is going to cost a little more than we first quoted. I had the builders add a tornado safe room on the ground floor near the bedroom. It only added twelve square feet.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” Mary said. “I’d much rather have it than have to run downstairs in the middle of the night.”
Angel poured tea for herself and Mary. Outside, a horn sounded. Paul stepped onto the porch and saw Eduardo keeping the dogs back from a delivery truck. Paul signed the electronic invoice, and Eduardo fetched the tractor with pallet forks. They unloaded pallets of hard red winter wheatberries, soft white wheat, soft red spring wheatberries, and two hundred pounds of oatmeal. Eduardo set the pallets by the cellar door. Paul broke them down and carried the pails inside, stacking them neatly under the basement shelves with labels facing out. He added the shipment to the temporary inventory list for later entry into the computer.
Monday morning the driller arrived along with the construction crew. They would dig the basement and foundation for Mary’s cottage and drill piling holes for the new deck beside the creek. Given the area’s seismic history along the New Madrid zone, the builders insisted on anchoring everything to bedrock. Even Harrison, Arkansas—only sixty miles north—had felt three earthquakes in 2017. Most tremors here were barely noticeable, but no one wanted to take chances.
Driving up the long driveway on Friday, Mike noted the cracked, weathered concrete poured back in the 1960s. He made a mental note to have it repoured once the dome was finished. Asphalt was out of the question—it got too soft in the summer heat.
They reached the builder’s office ten minutes early and accepted cups of coffee while they waited. Ben Miller arrived, studied the drone photos Mike had prepared, and nodded with approval. “These are excellent, but we’ll still want to do a site survey ourselves.”
“Understood,” Mike said. They set a date when both he and Hanna could be present.
Ben pulled out tracing templates and quickly sketched a layout: four 36-foot domes connected to a central entrance structure. He blocked in a master suite with en suite and nursery in one wing, kitchen, pantry, laundry, and living area in the center dome, and additional bedrooms plus a study in the other wing. Hanna made several small changes, and by the end of the meeting Ben had everything he needed to produce final plans.
With the rough schedule in hand, Mike and Hanna headed out to run their errands—Sam’s Club, the butcher, Walmart, Mid-State Bulk Grains, and Midwest Technology. They restocked spices, laundry and bath supplies, toilet paper, sugar, and salt. Hanna added her favorite shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, bananas, frozen juice concentrates, and several blocks of Cabot cheese. At Mid-State, Mike picked up another four hundred pounds of durum wheat for pasta.
By the time they turned back toward Snail Mountain, the trailer was full and both of them were already thinking about the next phase of construction—and the quiet life they intended to build beneath those four domes.
When Taylor had finished running every test and double-checked her data backups, Jeremy called Jack and asked him to ready the Twin Otter to fly Mike back to Snail Mountain.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Why do you call it that?”
“Well, your site is only slightly higher than the surrounding fields—like a spiral-coiled snail lying on its side. The name stuck because it’s suitably enigmatic.”
“Enigmatic it is,” Mike agreed with a grin.
Mike packed his travel bag while Jack finished the pre-flight. At one o’clock they loaded Mike’s gear, a mixed case of pint jars filled with jams, jellies, and honey, and two heavy wheels of cheese. The Twin Otter lifted off and turned northeast toward Nebraska. Mike called Hanna from the air and told her he would be on the ground at Sioux Gateway by four.
Hanna immediately pulled sliced and pounded pork loin from the freezer to thaw for schnitzel. She planned Cheese & Herb Potato Fans and braised red cabbage to go with it—Mike’s favorites after a long trip.
Jack touched down just long enough for Mike to offload his baggage at the FBO, then taxied back out and climbed away again. Mike stowed everything in the truck and headed south toward home and Hanna.
It was Wednesday. He would wait until Friday to drive up to Sioux City to meet the builders and finalize the floor plan. To make the most of the trip, they would take the trailer and hit Sam’s Club, Mid-State Bulk Grains, and Walmart. On the way back he hoped to swing through Macy and catch Ben Miller—if he wasn’t at the Sioux City office—since Ben would be designing the house.
Mike pulled into Snail Mountain at 4:50 p.m. He made two trips carrying in the cheese wheels, the case of preserves, and his bag.
“Welcome home!” Hanna called, wrapping him in a tight hug.
“It’s good to be back. I missed you,” Mike said, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.
Hanna took one of the cheddar wheels to the counter and sliced off thick pieces. They tasted it with glasses of sweet Jurançon wine.
“What’s in the pint jars?” she asked.
“Jams, jellies, and honey. All homemade, according to Taylor. They grow most of their own food and make their own dairy.”
Hanna’s eyes lit up. “It might be nice to set up a trade with them after harvest. Maybe some of their products for our grains.”
“That’s a good idea. They’d have to dehull the grain themselves if they want the cheap rate. I can show them where to buy dehuller pads or even how to make their own.”
Mike had long since stopped buying pre-dehulled wheat. He now purchased grain directly from Didrik or a neighbor and ran them through his own mill. Last year he had skipped dehulling before storage and regretted it; this season he planned to dehull everything while it was still dry, then store it in food-grade pails. He still bought rolled and steel-cut oats in bulk from the mill and repacked them under nitrogen. The nitrogen cylinders came from Airgas in Sioux City—the same place he bought his welding gases.
“Speaking of which,” Hanna said, “we’re getting low on bread flour.”
“Do you have enough to last until Saturday?”
“Yes, I only noticed yesterday while I was baking. I’ve already finished my weekly bread run.”
“Did the Spencer kid drop off the drone photos?”
“He left a thumb drive on your desk.”
“Good. I need to scale them, add dimensions, and get everything ready for the builders.”
“I’ll have supper ready soon,” Hanna said.
“Okay. Just holler.” Mike headed for the office.
He opened the photos in Corel PaintShop Pro, scaled them to match the ground measurements he had taken earlier, and overlaid a precise grid. Another layer showed the underground utilities and footings he had already mapped. He labeled every structure and area in contrasting colors, merged the layers, and printed several copies. After watching the flyover video, he burned everything to a CD, slipped the prints and disc into a padded envelope, and set it aside for the meeting.
Paul taxied up to the hangar, swung the nose toward the runway, and shut down the engine. Angel walked over as he helped Mary down the steps.
“Mary, this is my wife Angela. Angel, meet Mary Gilbert.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mary. Let’s get your bags inside. I’m sure you’d like to freshen up.”
Paul and Eduardo loaded the luggage onto a UTV. Angel took Mary to the house in another, and Paul followed.
“Anything happening around here?” Paul asked Eduardo.
“Not much locally,” Eduardo replied. “Someone tried to hijack an SGC Foodservice truck in Russellville yesterday. Didn’t work out for them. Truckers and locals had the guys rounded up before the cops even arrived.”
“Things are getting rough up north too,” Paul said. “The media isn’t covering most of it, but it’s happening. Once the gangs realize delivery trucks are too hard a target, the looting will probably spread. Keep a long gun, pistol, spare ammo, and a radio in your truck whenever you leave the property.”
“Already doing it,” Eduardo said.
They carried the bags to the guest rooms. Paul found Angel in the kitchen making tea.
“Good flight?” she asked.
“Pretty smooth. I had to hug the coast a little more than usual because of the fronts, but nothing bad. How have you and the boy been?”
“We’re fine,” Angel said, smiling.
Paul glanced at Carmelita. She smiled back and gave a small nod.
Mary joined them at the kitchen island. “You have a beautiful home, Angel.”
“Paul renovated the place,” Angel replied.
“Yes, but it takes a woman to turn it into a home,” Mary said warmly.
“Angel made some excellent changes,” Paul agreed. He cleared his throat. “Oh, Mary—your cottage is going to cost a little more than we first quoted. I had the builders add a tornado safe room on the ground floor near the bedroom. It only added twelve square feet.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” Mary said. “I’d much rather have it than have to run downstairs in the middle of the night.”
Angel poured tea for herself and Mary. Outside, a horn sounded. Paul stepped onto the porch and saw Eduardo keeping the dogs back from a delivery truck. Paul signed the electronic invoice, and Eduardo fetched the tractor with pallet forks. They unloaded pallets of hard red winter wheatberries, soft white wheat, soft red spring wheatberries, and two hundred pounds of oatmeal. Eduardo set the pallets by the cellar door. Paul broke them down and carried the pails inside, stacking them neatly under the basement shelves with labels facing out. He added the shipment to the temporary inventory list for later entry into the computer.
Monday morning the driller arrived along with the construction crew. They would dig the basement and foundation for Mary’s cottage and drill piling holes for the new deck beside the creek. Given the area’s seismic history along the New Madrid zone, the builders insisted on anchoring everything to bedrock. Even Harrison, Arkansas—only sixty miles north—had felt three earthquakes in 2017. Most tremors here were barely noticeable, but no one wanted to take chances.
Driving up the long driveway on Friday, Mike noted the cracked, weathered concrete poured back in the 1960s. He made a mental note to have it repoured once the dome was finished. Asphalt was out of the question—it got too soft in the summer heat.
They reached the builder’s office ten minutes early and accepted cups of coffee while they waited. Ben Miller arrived, studied the drone photos Mike had prepared, and nodded with approval. “These are excellent, but we’ll still want to do a site survey ourselves.”
“Understood,” Mike said. They set a date when both he and Hanna could be present.
Ben pulled out tracing templates and quickly sketched a layout: four 36-foot domes connected to a central entrance structure. He blocked in a master suite with en suite and nursery in one wing, kitchen, pantry, laundry, and living area in the center dome, and additional bedrooms plus a study in the other wing. Hanna made several small changes, and by the end of the meeting Ben had everything he needed to produce final plans.
With the rough schedule in hand, Mike and Hanna headed out to run their errands—Sam’s Club, the butcher, Walmart, Mid-State Bulk Grains, and Midwest Technology. They restocked spices, laundry and bath supplies, toilet paper, sugar, and salt. Hanna added her favorite shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, bananas, frozen juice concentrates, and several blocks of Cabot cheese. At Mid-State, Mike picked up another four hundred pounds of durum wheat for pasta.
By the time they turned back toward Snail Mountain, the trailer was full and both of them were already thinking about the next phase of construction—and the quiet life they intended to build beneath those four domes.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Three
When they returned home, Hanna attacked the unloading like a whirling dervish. Armed with a copy of the floor plans, she darted between rooms, sketching notes and mentally arranging furniture. Meanwhile, Mike dehulled the wheat and packed it into buckets, purging the air with nitrogen to displace the oxygen. The grain should last up to forty years that way—serious overkill, but satisfying. He saved the last portion for fresh grinding. After vacuuming up the chaff, he went looking for Hanna.
She sat at the kitchen table, nose buried in furniture catalogs, compiling detailed lists for every room. Mike left her to it and pulled a beautiful flank steak from the fridge. He slipped on his coat, stepped into the herb greenhouse, and returned with fresh thyme, rosemary, and oregano.
While the steak came to temperature, he washed and quartered two pounds of baby red potatoes, chopped the herbs and five cloves of garlic, and heated three tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan. He seasoned the steak with salt and sliced it into two portions. When the oil shimmered, he added the potatoes, sprinkled them with kosher salt, and let them cook. Ten minutes later he flipped them. Once golden and tender, he transferred them to a platter, wiped the pan, and cranked the heat.
When the pan smoked faintly, he laid in the steaks. Two minutes on the first side gave them a dark crust; he flipped them for one minute more. He slid the meat aside, dropped in half a stick of butter, and let it melt. Tilting the pan, he added the garlic to the foaming butter and began basting the steaks relentlessly. When the internal temperature hit 125 degrees, he moved the steaks to a cutting board to rest. He stirred the remaining herbs into the garlic butter, poured the sauce into a measuring cup, returned the potatoes to the pan, and covered it.
After the meat rested, he sliced the steaks into inch-wide strips, returned them to the pan, and spooned the fragrant sauce over everything. The dish went into the warming oven while he cleaned up.
He checked on Hanna—still deep in her catalogs—then retrieved the angel biscuit dough from the refrigerator. He pinched off portions into a greased six-inch cast-iron skillet. When the oven reached temperature, he slid the biscuits in and clipped the timer to his shirt pocket.
Four hundred and seventy-six miles away, Paul rode the UTV up to the bridge. Two straight days of rain had raised the creek, but not dangerously. His real worry was the forecast: nights dropping into the twenties. More rain on top of that could coat everything in ice. Paul hated ice. The creek would need to rise another twenty feet to threaten the house, but he’d still watch for debris dams.
Back at the house the dogs met him on the porch, looking as miserable as he felt about the weather. He scratched their ears and let them inside. They immediately claimed their spots near the wood stove.
In the kitchen, Carmelita was dropping strips of pastry into a bubbling pot of chicken broth. Six large, perfectly poached chicken breasts rested on a platter nearby. Chicken and dumplings. Paul smiled. He’d taught her his recipe, and she now made them nearly as well as he did. Boil the chicken hard, plenty of black pepper, good butter in the dumplings, and nothing else—no carrots or peas floating around like they belonged in pot pie. He tasted the broth between her stirs.
“M-m-m-m good.”
“It is okay, Señor Paul?” Carmelita asked.
“Perfect. Maybe just a touch more fresh pepper.”
He grabbed a beer and headed to the study. The printer interface on the radio was flashing. Paul pulled out the two collated sheets, checked the reference number, and retrieved the fourth volume of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War from the shelf. The book-and-homophonic cipher was old-fashioned, but it worked. After deciphering the message—an intelligence update—he balled up the paper and fed it to the wood stove.
Back in the great room, he put on a CD of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” performed by Lang Lang and settled in with a book on aquaponics.
Mike was inspecting the north and west windbreaks when the weather radio app on his phone screamed an alert. Flood warnings for the Missouri, James, and Sioux rivers. Not surprising after four days of rain. Their property sat safely nine miles from the Missouri, protected by bluffs. Sioux City and especially Dakota Dunes would take the worst of it.
As he walked back toward the entrance building, he spotted Didrik’s pickup. Good. The older couple was visiting. Mike hung up his rain gear in the mudroom and stepped inside just as another alert sounded. He switched on the portable radio tuned to KSCJ and listened to the flood and evacuation reports. Dakota Dunes had already been cleared out.
“Oh Lord,” Annika sighed from the living room. “All we’re going to hear for the next month is how this is caused by climate change.”
“Yep,” Didrik said. “Used to be called weather. Now it’s whatever fits the agenda. You’ll hear about millions in damage, but they won’t mention the rivers flood every spring. The Indians had the sense to stay west of the Missouri. The fools who built that resort at Dakota Dunes deserve a lawsuit. Stupid is as stupid does.”
Mike chuckled, pulled out four antique Irish pewter pint mugs, and poured cold mead for everyone.
Hanna retrieved a gallon bag of her “just-in-case” Swedish meatballs from the freezer and a bag of green beans. “Mike, could you grab three or four green onions from the greenhouse? I’ll make lemon rice pilaf.”
While he fetched the onions, Annika pulled out freeze-dried celery and lemon zest to rehydrate. Hanna chopped the fresh onions, Annika started the sauce for the meatballs, and the kitchen filled with warm, savory smells.
“This rain is supposed to stop tomorrow,” Didrik offered.
“I hope so,” Hanna said. “We need to start the house foundation.”
“How are they building this dome house of yours?” Didrik asked Mike.
“They use a fiberglass form over the rebar frame, spray foam insulation, then shotcrete—layer by layer. It goes fast, just a few days. We’ll do the exterior first to beat the weather. Solar tubes and windows will have bullet-resistant glazing. Mostly for hail, but you never know.”
“And the entrance building?”
“It blends seamlessly between the domes.”
The women finished supper at five o’clock. They served Swedish meatballs in a rich gravy, bright lemon rice pilaf, and green beans almondine. The kitchen smelled like heaven, and for a little while the rain outside didn’t matter at all.
When they returned home, Hanna attacked the unloading like a whirling dervish. Armed with a copy of the floor plans, she darted between rooms, sketching notes and mentally arranging furniture. Meanwhile, Mike dehulled the wheat and packed it into buckets, purging the air with nitrogen to displace the oxygen. The grain should last up to forty years that way—serious overkill, but satisfying. He saved the last portion for fresh grinding. After vacuuming up the chaff, he went looking for Hanna.
She sat at the kitchen table, nose buried in furniture catalogs, compiling detailed lists for every room. Mike left her to it and pulled a beautiful flank steak from the fridge. He slipped on his coat, stepped into the herb greenhouse, and returned with fresh thyme, rosemary, and oregano.
While the steak came to temperature, he washed and quartered two pounds of baby red potatoes, chopped the herbs and five cloves of garlic, and heated three tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan. He seasoned the steak with salt and sliced it into two portions. When the oil shimmered, he added the potatoes, sprinkled them with kosher salt, and let them cook. Ten minutes later he flipped them. Once golden and tender, he transferred them to a platter, wiped the pan, and cranked the heat.
When the pan smoked faintly, he laid in the steaks. Two minutes on the first side gave them a dark crust; he flipped them for one minute more. He slid the meat aside, dropped in half a stick of butter, and let it melt. Tilting the pan, he added the garlic to the foaming butter and began basting the steaks relentlessly. When the internal temperature hit 125 degrees, he moved the steaks to a cutting board to rest. He stirred the remaining herbs into the garlic butter, poured the sauce into a measuring cup, returned the potatoes to the pan, and covered it.
After the meat rested, he sliced the steaks into inch-wide strips, returned them to the pan, and spooned the fragrant sauce over everything. The dish went into the warming oven while he cleaned up.
He checked on Hanna—still deep in her catalogs—then retrieved the angel biscuit dough from the refrigerator. He pinched off portions into a greased six-inch cast-iron skillet. When the oven reached temperature, he slid the biscuits in and clipped the timer to his shirt pocket.
Four hundred and seventy-six miles away, Paul rode the UTV up to the bridge. Two straight days of rain had raised the creek, but not dangerously. His real worry was the forecast: nights dropping into the twenties. More rain on top of that could coat everything in ice. Paul hated ice. The creek would need to rise another twenty feet to threaten the house, but he’d still watch for debris dams.
Back at the house the dogs met him on the porch, looking as miserable as he felt about the weather. He scratched their ears and let them inside. They immediately claimed their spots near the wood stove.
In the kitchen, Carmelita was dropping strips of pastry into a bubbling pot of chicken broth. Six large, perfectly poached chicken breasts rested on a platter nearby. Chicken and dumplings. Paul smiled. He’d taught her his recipe, and she now made them nearly as well as he did. Boil the chicken hard, plenty of black pepper, good butter in the dumplings, and nothing else—no carrots or peas floating around like they belonged in pot pie. He tasted the broth between her stirs.
“M-m-m-m good.”
“It is okay, Señor Paul?” Carmelita asked.
“Perfect. Maybe just a touch more fresh pepper.”
He grabbed a beer and headed to the study. The printer interface on the radio was flashing. Paul pulled out the two collated sheets, checked the reference number, and retrieved the fourth volume of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War from the shelf. The book-and-homophonic cipher was old-fashioned, but it worked. After deciphering the message—an intelligence update—he balled up the paper and fed it to the wood stove.
Back in the great room, he put on a CD of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” performed by Lang Lang and settled in with a book on aquaponics.
As he walked back toward the entrance building, he spotted Didrik’s pickup. Good. The older couple was visiting. Mike hung up his rain gear in the mudroom and stepped inside just as another alert sounded. He switched on the portable radio tuned to KSCJ and listened to the flood and evacuation reports. Dakota Dunes had already been cleared out.
“Oh Lord,” Annika sighed from the living room. “All we’re going to hear for the next month is how this is caused by climate change.”
“Yep,” Didrik said. “Used to be called weather. Now it’s whatever fits the agenda. You’ll hear about millions in damage, but they won’t mention the rivers flood every spring. The Indians had the sense to stay west of the Missouri. The fools who built that resort at Dakota Dunes deserve a lawsuit. Stupid is as stupid does.”
Mike chuckled, pulled out four antique Irish pewter pint mugs, and poured cold mead for everyone.
Hanna retrieved a gallon bag of her “just-in-case” Swedish meatballs from the freezer and a bag of green beans. “Mike, could you grab three or four green onions from the greenhouse? I’ll make lemon rice pilaf.”
While he fetched the onions, Annika pulled out freeze-dried celery and lemon zest to rehydrate. Hanna chopped the fresh onions, Annika started the sauce for the meatballs, and the kitchen filled with warm, savory smells.
“This rain is supposed to stop tomorrow,” Didrik offered.
“I hope so,” Hanna said. “We need to start the house foundation.”
“How are they building this dome house of yours?” Didrik asked Mike.
“They use a fiberglass form over the rebar frame, spray foam insulation, then shotcrete—layer by layer. It goes fast, just a few days. We’ll do the exterior first to beat the weather. Solar tubes and windows will have bullet-resistant glazing. Mostly for hail, but you never know.”
“And the entrance building?”
“It blends seamlessly between the domes.”
The women finished supper at five o’clock. They served Swedish meatballs in a rich gravy, bright lemon rice pilaf, and green beans almondine. The kitchen smelled like heaven, and for a little while the rain outside didn’t matter at all.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
Kiwibutterfly
Contributing Member
Thank you
Armadillo3
Contributing Member
I have seen Models 17 and 19 in I believe, Taiwan, Thailand, and New Zealand with external safetys. And there are a few companies stateside that make and install external safeties on Glocks.
The Glock 19X that was submitted for the US Army trials had an external safety on it as well, but I have only seen a few of those that escaped to outside of the trials.
Last edited:
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
Griz3752
Retired, practising Curmudgeon
And while we're in 'I wish' mode can mine be an SA?
Griz3752
Retired, practising Curmudgeon
News to me; any links?
Armadillo3
Contributing Member
glock external safety - Bing
Intelligent search from Bing makes it easier to quickly find what you’re looking for and rewards you.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Four
Eduardo found Paul near the workshop and said, “Paul, I have a little family problem.”
“What’s up, Eduardo?”
“My younger brother Mateo lives in Corcoran, California, right next to Lake Tulare. The lake is refilling and has flooded them out. They saved everything they could from the house, but they lost the house and the two acres they owned.”
“You want to bring him out here?” Paul asked.
“I’d like to. He knows farming better than anyone I’ve ever met, and he’d be a great asset to us.”
Paul nodded. “Work it out. How many in the family?”
“Four total.”
“What if we ordered another modular house like Mary’s, but with three bedrooms? We might have to split them up for sleeping until it’s finished, but we’ll make it work.”
“Thanks, Paul. I’m indebted to you,” Eduardo said. “They have a travel trailer, so they’ll have a place to stay until the house is ready.”
“If you need moving money, just say the word,” Paul replied. “I’ll call the builders and get something nice ordered.”
Paul went inside, called the modular home company, and explained what they needed. They promised to email several floor plans to choose from. They had done excellent work on Mary’s house, and he expected the same quality this time. Afterward, he searched for information on Tulare Lake and learned it had once been the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. In the 1800s, settlers had drained it for farmland, displacing the Tachi Yokut people who had lived along its shores. Now nature was reclaiming the land. Paul shook his head. Karma had a long memory. The old lakebed held some of California’s richest soil, and with hundreds—maybe thousands—of acres now underwater, food prices would rise. They would need to increase production here to help offset that for the Crooked Creek families. He studied the farm’s topo map, selected three potential building sites, and jotted down the coordinates.
Ben supervised as the crew chipped out a six-inch-deep foundation trench from the existing concrete slab. Four jackhammers rattled away; the work would still take a couple of days. Rebar was scheduled for delivery that afternoon. Once the trenches were ready, things would move fast. He had twelve men and women lined up to start tying steel. The videographer had already discussed the next filming segments with him. Ben wasn’t needed for the excavation portion, so they planned to fill that section of the documentary with CGI animation of a standard footer dig, which was how most projects began.
Mike and Hanna carried up the big coffee urn and set up a break station under the party shade Ben had erected. They laid out water, hot coffee, and Swedish cardamom buns. One of the workers ran an extension cord from a generator to keep the urn hot and the buns warm.
Eduardo and Cecilia Fernandez reviewed the floor-plan printouts and chose the layout that best suited Mateo’s family. Paul added a safe room to the design before placing the order. Later, he and Eduardo walked the property and selected a good site between the driveway and the garden that would need minimal preparation. Paul transferred $4,000 to Mateo via Cash App for travel expenses. The well driller was coming Tuesday, so they could check that off the list.
Finally catching a free moment, Paul opened the gun safes, unwrapped the new firearms, and stored most of them. He kept out the two American 180 submachine guns and their pan magazines. He wanted some fun. He grabbed a brick of .22 ammunition, dropped the magazines and ammo into a range bag, slung the guns over his shoulder, and headed out. At the firing bench he radioed Eduardo and asked him to join him. While he waited, Paul loaded the big pan magazines.
Eduardo’s eyes widened when he arrived. “Wow!”
Paul grinned. “I thought we’d have a little fun.”
Eduardo set up B-27 targets at the twenty-five-meter line, placed a few empty milk jugs, and propped up some steel plates. Paul pulled back the charging handle. “This fires from an open bolt.” He clicked the selector to semi, sighted in, and fired one round. Then three quick shots. Finally he flipped to auto and sent a six-round burst downrange, followed by bursts at a milk jug and a steel target.
“It’s surprisingly accurate,” Paul said. “I wish I had a suppressor for it.”
Eduardo took his turn. They kept shooting and reloading until the brick of ammo was gone. Afterward they policed their brass and trash, then returned to the garage to clean the guns.
Mike watched in amazement as the crew rapidly tied rebar into the frame. Ben had designed a top plate where the bars butted together cleanly at the dome’s apex. They used custom story sticks to measure between the radial bars and quickly secured everything with tie wire. The fiberglass shells that would form the outer skin were already on site, ready to be bolted over the steel skeleton once the rebar was complete.
Turning away from the domes, Mike walked to the vegetable greenhouse and checked the plants. The 21-by-21-foot structure had originally had no roof and only one door. Grandpa had first installed a plexiglass roof, then upgraded to glass and added vents. They had later cut a channel in the slab for electricity and installed heat strips in the beds so they could grow vegetables year-round. The smaller 23-by-15-foot building served the same purpose for herbs.
He inspected the cardamom plants at the east end. Shielded from the cooler walls with foam insulation, they still only reached the top of the walls instead of their natural fifteen-to-twenty-foot rainforest height, but they thrived. He replaced the older plants every two years. Hanna and Annika used the seeds often in cooking. Mike checked soil moisture and started the drip timers, then did the same in the herb house.
Hanna had been talking with Ben and was excited to learn he also built shotcrete in-ground pools. When he mentioned an enclosed year-round pool, Mike saw the spark in her eyes. He knew she would bring it up again soon. A swim after a long day on the grain hauler or combine did sound nice.
Mike went inside, headed downstairs, and checked the server monitors from his master screen. Everything was green—no alarms, no issues. With time to spare, he grabbed his drill and tool kit and began installing more racks and patch panels. He noticed Taylor’s network had low activity, so he swapped her copper patch panel for a fiber one to give her maximum local speed. Satellite latency couldn’t be fixed, but her end of the network would be as fast as possible.
Upstairs, the house smelled incredible. Hanna’s slow-cooker fish soup with fennel, leek, and potato was bubbling gently. She had used frozen salmon—never quite as good as fresh—but in Nebraska you worked with what you had.
A public demonstration had broken out in Sioux City. Protestors claimed they were receiving no help with evacuations. While police converged on the crowd, looters moved into the evacuated zones and ransacked businesses and homes. It was later confirmed that few, if any, of the demonstrators actually lived in the affected areas. The protest had been a diversion.
Mary stood in the kitchen with Carmelita, learning how to make sourdough bread. The warm, yeasty aroma filled the house and made Paul’s stomach growl. He slipped into his study, logged into his Northrim Bank account in Anchorage, and smiled at the latest mine profit deposit. He ordered twenty-five food-grade pails with Gamma lids and matching five-gallon Mylar bags from Bucket Outlet, then doubled the order after checking WebRestaurantStore: 500 pint and quart wide-mouth canning jars with lids. The total came to just over $3,000.
At another site he bought two more Royal Berkey systems and sixteen replacement filters. Plenty of money remained for a shopping trip with Angel to stock up on baby supplies—including the mountain of diapers they would need. That reminded him of the off-grid incinerator plans he had saved. Disposables weren’t exactly biodegradable. Time to start building it.
Eduardo found Paul near the workshop and said, “Paul, I have a little family problem.”
“What’s up, Eduardo?”
“My younger brother Mateo lives in Corcoran, California, right next to Lake Tulare. The lake is refilling and has flooded them out. They saved everything they could from the house, but they lost the house and the two acres they owned.”
“You want to bring him out here?” Paul asked.
“I’d like to. He knows farming better than anyone I’ve ever met, and he’d be a great asset to us.”
Paul nodded. “Work it out. How many in the family?”
“Four total.”
“What if we ordered another modular house like Mary’s, but with three bedrooms? We might have to split them up for sleeping until it’s finished, but we’ll make it work.”
“Thanks, Paul. I’m indebted to you,” Eduardo said. “They have a travel trailer, so they’ll have a place to stay until the house is ready.”
“If you need moving money, just say the word,” Paul replied. “I’ll call the builders and get something nice ordered.”
Paul went inside, called the modular home company, and explained what they needed. They promised to email several floor plans to choose from. They had done excellent work on Mary’s house, and he expected the same quality this time. Afterward, he searched for information on Tulare Lake and learned it had once been the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. In the 1800s, settlers had drained it for farmland, displacing the Tachi Yokut people who had lived along its shores. Now nature was reclaiming the land. Paul shook his head. Karma had a long memory. The old lakebed held some of California’s richest soil, and with hundreds—maybe thousands—of acres now underwater, food prices would rise. They would need to increase production here to help offset that for the Crooked Creek families. He studied the farm’s topo map, selected three potential building sites, and jotted down the coordinates.
Ben supervised as the crew chipped out a six-inch-deep foundation trench from the existing concrete slab. Four jackhammers rattled away; the work would still take a couple of days. Rebar was scheduled for delivery that afternoon. Once the trenches were ready, things would move fast. He had twelve men and women lined up to start tying steel. The videographer had already discussed the next filming segments with him. Ben wasn’t needed for the excavation portion, so they planned to fill that section of the documentary with CGI animation of a standard footer dig, which was how most projects began.
Mike and Hanna carried up the big coffee urn and set up a break station under the party shade Ben had erected. They laid out water, hot coffee, and Swedish cardamom buns. One of the workers ran an extension cord from a generator to keep the urn hot and the buns warm.
Eduardo and Cecilia Fernandez reviewed the floor-plan printouts and chose the layout that best suited Mateo’s family. Paul added a safe room to the design before placing the order. Later, he and Eduardo walked the property and selected a good site between the driveway and the garden that would need minimal preparation. Paul transferred $4,000 to Mateo via Cash App for travel expenses. The well driller was coming Tuesday, so they could check that off the list.
Finally catching a free moment, Paul opened the gun safes, unwrapped the new firearms, and stored most of them. He kept out the two American 180 submachine guns and their pan magazines. He wanted some fun. He grabbed a brick of .22 ammunition, dropped the magazines and ammo into a range bag, slung the guns over his shoulder, and headed out. At the firing bench he radioed Eduardo and asked him to join him. While he waited, Paul loaded the big pan magazines.
Eduardo’s eyes widened when he arrived. “Wow!”
Paul grinned. “I thought we’d have a little fun.”
Eduardo set up B-27 targets at the twenty-five-meter line, placed a few empty milk jugs, and propped up some steel plates. Paul pulled back the charging handle. “This fires from an open bolt.” He clicked the selector to semi, sighted in, and fired one round. Then three quick shots. Finally he flipped to auto and sent a six-round burst downrange, followed by bursts at a milk jug and a steel target.
“It’s surprisingly accurate,” Paul said. “I wish I had a suppressor for it.”
Eduardo took his turn. They kept shooting and reloading until the brick of ammo was gone. Afterward they policed their brass and trash, then returned to the garage to clean the guns.
Mike watched in amazement as the crew rapidly tied rebar into the frame. Ben had designed a top plate where the bars butted together cleanly at the dome’s apex. They used custom story sticks to measure between the radial bars and quickly secured everything with tie wire. The fiberglass shells that would form the outer skin were already on site, ready to be bolted over the steel skeleton once the rebar was complete.
Turning away from the domes, Mike walked to the vegetable greenhouse and checked the plants. The 21-by-21-foot structure had originally had no roof and only one door. Grandpa had first installed a plexiglass roof, then upgraded to glass and added vents. They had later cut a channel in the slab for electricity and installed heat strips in the beds so they could grow vegetables year-round. The smaller 23-by-15-foot building served the same purpose for herbs.
He inspected the cardamom plants at the east end. Shielded from the cooler walls with foam insulation, they still only reached the top of the walls instead of their natural fifteen-to-twenty-foot rainforest height, but they thrived. He replaced the older plants every two years. Hanna and Annika used the seeds often in cooking. Mike checked soil moisture and started the drip timers, then did the same in the herb house.
Hanna had been talking with Ben and was excited to learn he also built shotcrete in-ground pools. When he mentioned an enclosed year-round pool, Mike saw the spark in her eyes. He knew she would bring it up again soon. A swim after a long day on the grain hauler or combine did sound nice.
Mike went inside, headed downstairs, and checked the server monitors from his master screen. Everything was green—no alarms, no issues. With time to spare, he grabbed his drill and tool kit and began installing more racks and patch panels. He noticed Taylor’s network had low activity, so he swapped her copper patch panel for a fiber one to give her maximum local speed. Satellite latency couldn’t be fixed, but her end of the network would be as fast as possible.
Upstairs, the house smelled incredible. Hanna’s slow-cooker fish soup with fennel, leek, and potato was bubbling gently. She had used frozen salmon—never quite as good as fresh—but in Nebraska you worked with what you had.
A public demonstration had broken out in Sioux City. Protestors claimed they were receiving no help with evacuations. While police converged on the crowd, looters moved into the evacuated zones and ransacked businesses and homes. It was later confirmed that few, if any, of the demonstrators actually lived in the affected areas. The protest had been a diversion.
Mary stood in the kitchen with Carmelita, learning how to make sourdough bread. The warm, yeasty aroma filled the house and made Paul’s stomach growl. He slipped into his study, logged into his Northrim Bank account in Anchorage, and smiled at the latest mine profit deposit. He ordered twenty-five food-grade pails with Gamma lids and matching five-gallon Mylar bags from Bucket Outlet, then doubled the order after checking WebRestaurantStore: 500 pint and quart wide-mouth canning jars with lids. The total came to just over $3,000.
At another site he bought two more Royal Berkey systems and sixteen replacement filters. Plenty of money remained for a shopping trip with Angel to stock up on baby supplies—including the mountain of diapers they would need. That reminded him of the off-grid incinerator plans he had saved. Disposables weren’t exactly biodegradable. Time to start building it.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Five
The opening days of March had come in like a lion, but the month was definitely going out like a lamb. The excellent weather allowed the dome construction to continue without a single day of interruption.
The crew was now applying the final layer of shotcrete on the exterior. Ben had brought in four gunite sprayers, which let them finish the job much faster. Inside, the painters were already at work. The solar tubes performed so well that the crew didn’t need artificial lights during the day, except in the loft areas where LED fixtures provided clean illumination.
Ben said they would return in three days to apply the Cure and Seal waterproofing. Hanna was still chomping at the bit to get an enclosed pool built, but Mike urged her to wait until they saw how much furniture they would actually buy. She planned to use some of his existing pieces, but her shopping list was long.
Mike had spoken privately with Ben about the pool. The shotcrete would require roughly thirty days to cure properly, though adding Class C fly ash could speed up moisture evaporation. To be safe, they still budgeted thirty days total. Mike counted backward from the usual start of wheat harvest and gave Ben a tentative construction date—but told him not to mention it to Hanna. They intended to have the house fully furnished the week before the wedding.
Between wedding preparations, furniture shopping, and decorating, Hanna and Annika stayed busy. Mike kept out of their way and spent most of his time in the server room, assembling additional racks and installing components. He hired local high-school boys to help move furniture out of the bunker and shift new deliveries into place. One entire day was spent burning shipping materials. Four days before the wedding, they finally finished furnishing the dome and moved in. For Mike, transferring everything from the bunker pantry to the new kitchen took the longest.
Mike and Hanna were married on Saturday, April 17th, at Bethany Lutheran Church in Lyons. Annika and Hanna had invited 150 guests, and the reception was held in the church fellowship hall. The couple left the next morning for a seven-day honeymoon at the Four Seasons Resort Lānaʻi at Mānele Bay, Hawaii.
Mateo and his family arrived the following Sunday. Mateo drove an F-150 pulling their travel trailer, while Juanita followed in a 1967 Ford Econoline towing an 8x12 cargo trailer. Everyone climbed out and stretched. Mateo and Eduardo embraced, then Eduardo led his brother and family over to meet Paul. Once introductions were complete, Mateo pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and tried to hand it to Paul—the money advanced for moving expenses. Paul stepped back, hands raised, and told him to keep it; they hadn’t even settled in yet. Mateo thanked him. Carmelita promptly herded the newcomers inside for a meal.
She had prepared a rich beef stew with fresh homemade bread, which the hungry family devoured gratefully. Paul, Mateo, and Eduardo talked nonstop about the journey and the timeline for the modular home. The family would live in the trailer for about three weeks until the house was ready. After eating, Eduardo led them to the spot he and Paul had prepared beside his own house. Water and electricity were already hooked up. Roberto, Mateo’s son, and José, Eduardo’s son, pulled a tent from the Econoline and set it up under the trees. Roberto preferred sleeping outside. Later, José and Rosa gave Roberto and Juanita a tour of the farm while Eduardo showed Mateo around. The farm women took Juliana under their wing, explaining how things ran, and made sure she had plenty of food for the week. They emphasized that the families shared everything.
When Eduardo showed Mateo the garden area and greenhouse, his brother studied the layout carefully.
“Eduardo, some of the smaller farmers back in Kings County switched to aquaponics,” Mateo said. “They’re getting three times the yield in the same greenhouse space compared to traditional till farmers. They can grow almost everything except corn—corn they still plant in the fields. With a big enough setup, you could probably do corn in aquaponics too.”
“Paul’s been reading up on it,” Eduardo replied. “He’s thinking about going that direction, at least partially. Where do you source the fish?”
“I’m not sure what’s available around here, but the valley farmers use Tilapia. They harvest fish every few months. You could probably use other local species, depending on how often you want to pull fish.”
Mike picked up his drink, leaned back in the beach chair, and munched on a few macadamia nuts. Hanna lay beside him, sunning herself with the neck strap of her bikini top undone and tucked into the cups. She sipped one of the resort’s colorful fruity cocktails. Mike’s own drink had taken the waiter several tries to get right. All he wanted was one and a half ounces of vodka, ice, and semi-sweet iced tea in one of their tall 16-ounce tropical glasses. The resort’s signature drinks were far too sweet for his taste.
Hanna’s blonde hair, after only two days in the tropical sun, had lightened to nearly white. She was tanning beautifully, looking like a Coppertone model, which made her dark-blue eyes even more piercing. The white bikini stood out in sharp contrast against her bronzing skin.
“You’re getting some nice tan lines,” Mike commented.
“At least I won’t have a farmer’s tan,” Hanna replied with a smile.
Their usual rhythm was sightseeing or a tour in the morning, followed by the beach in the afternoon. Hanna wasn’t interested in collecting souvenirs; she preferred practical items. She did buy four beautiful Koa-wood bowls—two for herself and two for Annika. Mike picked up two variety packs of flavored Kona sea salt. The only other thing Hanna bought was a pretty orchid-print wrap-around dress for that night’s lūʻau.
Paul and Eduardo met the plumbing crew on Monday morning to install the septic system. The plumbing had already been roughed in for the modular home. The backhoe operator got to work immediately. When Paul saw Mateo walking over, he told Eduardo to issue him a full weapons kit and take him to the range. Paul himself headed to the RV dealership in Clarksville to buy another side-by-side for Mateo’s family, towing the equipment trailer behind him.
Eduardo outfitted Mateo from the shipping container: an MR556A1 with seven magazines, an AA12 with magazines, a 1911 with three magazines, a combat vest with plates, a first-aid kit, GPS, two radios with chargers, operator manuals, and several cans of ammunition. They loaded everything into a side-by-side and drove to the range.
Mateo had served with the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines (Raiders), so he was familiar with most of the weapons—except the AA12. He performed familiarization fire with the pistol and shotgun, then zeroed the MR556A1.
“The radios are already pre-programmed,” Eduardo said on the drive back. “Normal operations on channel two. If the SHTF, switch to channel one. Did I give you cleaning gear?”
“Nope,” Mateo answered.
Eduardo stopped at the container again, gathered cleaning supplies, solvents, and lubricants, then continued to his house. They cleaned the weapons together at the picnic table under the shelter.
Mike was buttoning his cotton-linen shirt with the coconut-tree print when Hanna stepped out of the dressing area. She looked like a Nordic goddess brought to life. The dress didn’t allow for a bra, but she didn’t need one—her figure would have held up a truck tarp.
“Ready?” she asked.
Mike slipped his bare feet into his moose-hide loafers. “I am now.”
They headed downstairs and were guided to the lūʻau grounds. They were served a pineapple drink with a noticeable kick—Mike suspected Everclear. Arm in arm, they walked to the imu where the pig was cooking. Mike asked the cooks for details on the preparation and received thorough instructions. He knew he couldn’t replicate it exactly from memory, but he could look it up later. The meal was outstanding; the kalua pig literally melted in his mouth. Mike had to stand and walk around a couple of times just to let his stomach settle. Eventually he stopped nibbling, and he and Hanna took a long walk along the moonlit beach.
“Can you do that?” Hanna asked.
“Do what?”
“Cook a pig like that.”
“I probably could,” Mike said. “I’ll need to do some research. Banana leaves aren’t common in Nebraska, but the secret is the steam. I’m sure we can figure something out.” An idea flickered through his mind, but he kept it to himself.
They turned back toward the hotel and called it a night.
The opening days of March had come in like a lion, but the month was definitely going out like a lamb. The excellent weather allowed the dome construction to continue without a single day of interruption.
The crew was now applying the final layer of shotcrete on the exterior. Ben had brought in four gunite sprayers, which let them finish the job much faster. Inside, the painters were already at work. The solar tubes performed so well that the crew didn’t need artificial lights during the day, except in the loft areas where LED fixtures provided clean illumination.
Ben said they would return in three days to apply the Cure and Seal waterproofing. Hanna was still chomping at the bit to get an enclosed pool built, but Mike urged her to wait until they saw how much furniture they would actually buy. She planned to use some of his existing pieces, but her shopping list was long.
Mike had spoken privately with Ben about the pool. The shotcrete would require roughly thirty days to cure properly, though adding Class C fly ash could speed up moisture evaporation. To be safe, they still budgeted thirty days total. Mike counted backward from the usual start of wheat harvest and gave Ben a tentative construction date—but told him not to mention it to Hanna. They intended to have the house fully furnished the week before the wedding.
Between wedding preparations, furniture shopping, and decorating, Hanna and Annika stayed busy. Mike kept out of their way and spent most of his time in the server room, assembling additional racks and installing components. He hired local high-school boys to help move furniture out of the bunker and shift new deliveries into place. One entire day was spent burning shipping materials. Four days before the wedding, they finally finished furnishing the dome and moved in. For Mike, transferring everything from the bunker pantry to the new kitchen took the longest.
Mike and Hanna were married on Saturday, April 17th, at Bethany Lutheran Church in Lyons. Annika and Hanna had invited 150 guests, and the reception was held in the church fellowship hall. The couple left the next morning for a seven-day honeymoon at the Four Seasons Resort Lānaʻi at Mānele Bay, Hawaii.
Mateo and his family arrived the following Sunday. Mateo drove an F-150 pulling their travel trailer, while Juanita followed in a 1967 Ford Econoline towing an 8x12 cargo trailer. Everyone climbed out and stretched. Mateo and Eduardo embraced, then Eduardo led his brother and family over to meet Paul. Once introductions were complete, Mateo pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket and tried to hand it to Paul—the money advanced for moving expenses. Paul stepped back, hands raised, and told him to keep it; they hadn’t even settled in yet. Mateo thanked him. Carmelita promptly herded the newcomers inside for a meal.
She had prepared a rich beef stew with fresh homemade bread, which the hungry family devoured gratefully. Paul, Mateo, and Eduardo talked nonstop about the journey and the timeline for the modular home. The family would live in the trailer for about three weeks until the house was ready. After eating, Eduardo led them to the spot he and Paul had prepared beside his own house. Water and electricity were already hooked up. Roberto, Mateo’s son, and José, Eduardo’s son, pulled a tent from the Econoline and set it up under the trees. Roberto preferred sleeping outside. Later, José and Rosa gave Roberto and Juanita a tour of the farm while Eduardo showed Mateo around. The farm women took Juliana under their wing, explaining how things ran, and made sure she had plenty of food for the week. They emphasized that the families shared everything.
When Eduardo showed Mateo the garden area and greenhouse, his brother studied the layout carefully.
“Eduardo, some of the smaller farmers back in Kings County switched to aquaponics,” Mateo said. “They’re getting three times the yield in the same greenhouse space compared to traditional till farmers. They can grow almost everything except corn—corn they still plant in the fields. With a big enough setup, you could probably do corn in aquaponics too.”
“Paul’s been reading up on it,” Eduardo replied. “He’s thinking about going that direction, at least partially. Where do you source the fish?”
“I’m not sure what’s available around here, but the valley farmers use Tilapia. They harvest fish every few months. You could probably use other local species, depending on how often you want to pull fish.”
Mike picked up his drink, leaned back in the beach chair, and munched on a few macadamia nuts. Hanna lay beside him, sunning herself with the neck strap of her bikini top undone and tucked into the cups. She sipped one of the resort’s colorful fruity cocktails. Mike’s own drink had taken the waiter several tries to get right. All he wanted was one and a half ounces of vodka, ice, and semi-sweet iced tea in one of their tall 16-ounce tropical glasses. The resort’s signature drinks were far too sweet for his taste.
Hanna’s blonde hair, after only two days in the tropical sun, had lightened to nearly white. She was tanning beautifully, looking like a Coppertone model, which made her dark-blue eyes even more piercing. The white bikini stood out in sharp contrast against her bronzing skin.
“You’re getting some nice tan lines,” Mike commented.
“At least I won’t have a farmer’s tan,” Hanna replied with a smile.
Their usual rhythm was sightseeing or a tour in the morning, followed by the beach in the afternoon. Hanna wasn’t interested in collecting souvenirs; she preferred practical items. She did buy four beautiful Koa-wood bowls—two for herself and two for Annika. Mike picked up two variety packs of flavored Kona sea salt. The only other thing Hanna bought was a pretty orchid-print wrap-around dress for that night’s lūʻau.
Paul and Eduardo met the plumbing crew on Monday morning to install the septic system. The plumbing had already been roughed in for the modular home. The backhoe operator got to work immediately. When Paul saw Mateo walking over, he told Eduardo to issue him a full weapons kit and take him to the range. Paul himself headed to the RV dealership in Clarksville to buy another side-by-side for Mateo’s family, towing the equipment trailer behind him.
Eduardo outfitted Mateo from the shipping container: an MR556A1 with seven magazines, an AA12 with magazines, a 1911 with three magazines, a combat vest with plates, a first-aid kit, GPS, two radios with chargers, operator manuals, and several cans of ammunition. They loaded everything into a side-by-side and drove to the range.
Mateo had served with the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines (Raiders), so he was familiar with most of the weapons—except the AA12. He performed familiarization fire with the pistol and shotgun, then zeroed the MR556A1.
“The radios are already pre-programmed,” Eduardo said on the drive back. “Normal operations on channel two. If the SHTF, switch to channel one. Did I give you cleaning gear?”
“Nope,” Mateo answered.
Eduardo stopped at the container again, gathered cleaning supplies, solvents, and lubricants, then continued to his house. They cleaned the weapons together at the picnic table under the shelter.
Mike was buttoning his cotton-linen shirt with the coconut-tree print when Hanna stepped out of the dressing area. She looked like a Nordic goddess brought to life. The dress didn’t allow for a bra, but she didn’t need one—her figure would have held up a truck tarp.
“Ready?” she asked.
Mike slipped his bare feet into his moose-hide loafers. “I am now.”
They headed downstairs and were guided to the lūʻau grounds. They were served a pineapple drink with a noticeable kick—Mike suspected Everclear. Arm in arm, they walked to the imu where the pig was cooking. Mike asked the cooks for details on the preparation and received thorough instructions. He knew he couldn’t replicate it exactly from memory, but he could look it up later. The meal was outstanding; the kalua pig literally melted in his mouth. Mike had to stand and walk around a couple of times just to let his stomach settle. Eventually he stopped nibbling, and he and Hanna took a long walk along the moonlit beach.
“Can you do that?” Hanna asked.
“Do what?”
“Cook a pig like that.”
“I probably could,” Mike said. “I’ll need to do some research. Banana leaves aren’t common in Nebraska, but the secret is the steam. I’m sure we can figure something out.” An idea flickered through his mind, but he kept it to himself.
They turned back toward the hotel and called it a night.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Six
By Saturday, Mike was shopped out. Between the two of them, he and Hanna had accumulated so much that they spent the afternoon packing “if it fits, it ships” boxes and hauling them to the post office. Rather than buying extra luggage, they flew home Sunday with the same bags they had arrived with—simply fuller.
Both were exhausted on the flights and slept most of the way, but they were eager to reach their new home. They landed at the Holiday Inn near O’Hare in the early evening, freshened up, and went out for dinner. Their connecting flight to Sioux Gateway wasn’t until mid-morning the next day. After dinner, Hanna called Annika with a quick travel update.
The flight to Sioux Gateway was on time and uneventful. Mike left Hanna with the baggage and took the shuttle to long-term parking to retrieve the truck. The first thing he did was open his gun vault and retrieve both of their pistols. Once Hanna and the luggage were loaded, they crossed the river and headed south. Hanna was already texting Annika. Mike stopped at a convenience store outside South Sioux City and bought them each a liter of water. Fifty minutes later, their white dome came into view—looking more like a NASA installation than a Nebraska farmhouse, but it was home.
Annika was waiting when they pulled up. She had collected the mail, including most of the boxes they had shipped, and stacked them inside the entrance. While Mike hauled in the luggage, Hanna and Annika began opening packages with delighted “oohs” and “aahs.” Mike slipped outside to check the greenhouses. The weather had been mild, but the soil was dry, so he turned on the drip irrigation. He picked a dozen lemons from the tree and carried them inside. What Hanna didn’t use fresh, they could juice and can or freeze tomorrow.
He set the lemons in the fruit bowl on the counter and walked through the house. Hanna and Annika had furnished the rooms in what they called “vintage Scandinavian.” Mike didn’t mind; he had only asked that they avoid anything resembling Danish modern. The warm, comfortable result pleased him. Sunlight poured in through the solar tubes, making the space feel brighter and more inviting than artificial lighting ever could. Annika had brought over a fresh loaf of bread, so Mike started making club sandwiches for lunch and began frying potatoes to go with them.
When Paul returned to the farm, he unloaded the side-by-side and topped it off with fuel. He found Eduardo and Mateo cleaning the guns from the range. Paul walked over and handed Mateo the keys to the new 4-seater.
“This is our main mode of transportation around the farm, Mateo. Take care of it, refuel it when it’s low. Oil’s in the shed next to the fuel tank. You and your family are part of the Crooked Creek family now. We look out for each other.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for my family, Señor Paul,” Mateo said.
“Please, just call me Paul.” He smiled. “You two finish up. Eduardo, I’m heading over to Buford James’s place to see about that incinerator. I’ve got my radio and phone.”
Buford James ran what locals jokingly called a “recycle center.” In reality, he repurposed far more than he recycled, turning other people’s discards into useful—or artistic—items. When Paul described what he needed—a thick-walled tank suitable for building an incinerator—Buford’s eyes lit up. He led Paul to a large shed where the perfect prototype waited.
“Lots of folks want to burn their own trash these days,” Buford said. “I built this from an old high-school boiler, stainless grates from some fancy restaurant, and a cut-down fuel-oil tank stand.”
Paul inspected it carefully. The tank was heavy-gauge steel. A large door had been cut into one end, plenty of air holes drilled for combustion, and a clever secondary combustion chamber with a catalytic element sat on top to reduce smoke and pollutants. A temperature gauge completed the setup.
They haggled good-naturedly until they settled on a price that satisfied them both. Paul brought the trailer around, Buford loaded the unit with his forklift, and they strapped it down. Twenty-three miles later, Paul was back at Crooked Creek. Adam Jones was already there finishing Mateo’s solar installation. Paul parked the trailer by the garage, fetched the tractor, and used the pallet forks to set the incinerator on four-inch concrete blocks.
Later, Adam stopped by Paul’s powerhouse to download the system logs.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“None at all,” Paul replied.
“Good. Even if you lose panels, the vortex generators will keep producing. They’ll produce electricity in the slightest breeze.” Adam paused. “If you’re worried about damage, you could just cover the PV panels with marine plywood instead of taking them down. Get a bunch of four-inch C-clamps; save yourself work later.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding. “That’s smarter.”
The next morning Mike started breakfast—sausage already sizzling, toast underway—when a sleepy Hanna shuffled in and poured herself coffee.
“I love that rain showerhead,” she said, drifting toward the window. “It looks strange outside, though.”
Only then did Mike notice the sickly green tint to the light streaming through the windows and solar tubes. He pulled the toast from the oven and stepped to the front door. A band of dark, intense green clouds was bearing down from the west.
He locked the storm bolts on the front door and returned to the kitchen. “We’re about to get hit by some bad weather. Let’s finish breakfast. There’s nothing we can do but ride it out.”
“Do you think it’ll be bad?” Hanna asked.
“Green sky usually means a derecho or worse—high winds, thunderstorms, maybe tornadoes. The domes are rated to 150 mph, but I’d still feel better if we moved down to the bunker once the line gets close. Better safe than sorry.”
Hanna picked up her phone. “I hope it doesn’t wreck too much of the wheat.” She called Annika, who reported that she and Didrik were already in their shelter.
The Weather Alert Radio blared to life with warnings of strong thunderstorms and more on the way. Then the tone changed.
“TORNADO WARNING NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE MERNA, NE 657 AM CDT THU APR 29 2013
A confirmed large and extremely dangerous tornado was on the ground four miles west of Norfolk, moving east at 25 mph.
THIS IS A PARTICULARLY DANGEROUS SITUATION.”
Hanna quickly rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. They sealed the house and headed down into the bunker. Mike bolted the heavy door behind them, then sat at the monitoring station and brought up the west- and northwest-facing cameras. A flick of a switch and a third gimbal-mounted camera began tracking the approaching storm via motion detection sensors sensitive enough to detect the movement of the clouds. Hanna pulled up a chair beside him. Mike turned up the weather radio.
On the monitor, Mike spotted rotation and flying debris west of them near Bancroft. The camera zoomed and locked on. Large pieces of debris swirled violently before the funnel lifted, sucking up only dirt. A second north-facing camera captured the tornado as it passed roughly two kilometers north of the domes.
“The only house up that way is the Johnsons’,” Hanna said quietly.
“Yeah. It might have clipped Norfolk too,” Mike replied. “Let’s get the emergency supplies loaded. We’ll check on the Johnsons first.”
They gathered pre-packed totes of blankets, water, energy bars, a large first-aid kit, work gloves, tools, a generator, and fuel, then changed into sturdy clothes and steel-shanked boots. Hanna called Annika; she and Didrik wanted to come along. Mike swung by the Edwinson farm to pick them up.
The Johnsons were unharmed—the tornado had passed close but caused no damage to the house or farm buildings. In Bancroft, power was out after a telephone pole landed on the substation, but no homes were destroyed. A sheriff’s deputy confirmed no injuries in the immediate area.
Continuing toward Pender and Norfolk, they saw the tornado’s path: a stripped soybean field south of town, damaged athletic fields at Ta-Ha-Zouka Park, and torn-up cropland. At the Red Cross office near the golf course, sheriff’s deputies were loading supplies. Mike turned over most of what they had brought.
As they drove back toward Snail Mountain, Didrik shook his head and said, “They dodged the bullet on that one.”
By Saturday, Mike was shopped out. Between the two of them, he and Hanna had accumulated so much that they spent the afternoon packing “if it fits, it ships” boxes and hauling them to the post office. Rather than buying extra luggage, they flew home Sunday with the same bags they had arrived with—simply fuller.
Both were exhausted on the flights and slept most of the way, but they were eager to reach their new home. They landed at the Holiday Inn near O’Hare in the early evening, freshened up, and went out for dinner. Their connecting flight to Sioux Gateway wasn’t until mid-morning the next day. After dinner, Hanna called Annika with a quick travel update.
The flight to Sioux Gateway was on time and uneventful. Mike left Hanna with the baggage and took the shuttle to long-term parking to retrieve the truck. The first thing he did was open his gun vault and retrieve both of their pistols. Once Hanna and the luggage were loaded, they crossed the river and headed south. Hanna was already texting Annika. Mike stopped at a convenience store outside South Sioux City and bought them each a liter of water. Fifty minutes later, their white dome came into view—looking more like a NASA installation than a Nebraska farmhouse, but it was home.
Annika was waiting when they pulled up. She had collected the mail, including most of the boxes they had shipped, and stacked them inside the entrance. While Mike hauled in the luggage, Hanna and Annika began opening packages with delighted “oohs” and “aahs.” Mike slipped outside to check the greenhouses. The weather had been mild, but the soil was dry, so he turned on the drip irrigation. He picked a dozen lemons from the tree and carried them inside. What Hanna didn’t use fresh, they could juice and can or freeze tomorrow.
He set the lemons in the fruit bowl on the counter and walked through the house. Hanna and Annika had furnished the rooms in what they called “vintage Scandinavian.” Mike didn’t mind; he had only asked that they avoid anything resembling Danish modern. The warm, comfortable result pleased him. Sunlight poured in through the solar tubes, making the space feel brighter and more inviting than artificial lighting ever could. Annika had brought over a fresh loaf of bread, so Mike started making club sandwiches for lunch and began frying potatoes to go with them.
When Paul returned to the farm, he unloaded the side-by-side and topped it off with fuel. He found Eduardo and Mateo cleaning the guns from the range. Paul walked over and handed Mateo the keys to the new 4-seater.
“This is our main mode of transportation around the farm, Mateo. Take care of it, refuel it when it’s low. Oil’s in the shed next to the fuel tank. You and your family are part of the Crooked Creek family now. We look out for each other.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for my family, Señor Paul,” Mateo said.
“Please, just call me Paul.” He smiled. “You two finish up. Eduardo, I’m heading over to Buford James’s place to see about that incinerator. I’ve got my radio and phone.”
Buford James ran what locals jokingly called a “recycle center.” In reality, he repurposed far more than he recycled, turning other people’s discards into useful—or artistic—items. When Paul described what he needed—a thick-walled tank suitable for building an incinerator—Buford’s eyes lit up. He led Paul to a large shed where the perfect prototype waited.
“Lots of folks want to burn their own trash these days,” Buford said. “I built this from an old high-school boiler, stainless grates from some fancy restaurant, and a cut-down fuel-oil tank stand.”
Paul inspected it carefully. The tank was heavy-gauge steel. A large door had been cut into one end, plenty of air holes drilled for combustion, and a clever secondary combustion chamber with a catalytic element sat on top to reduce smoke and pollutants. A temperature gauge completed the setup.
They haggled good-naturedly until they settled on a price that satisfied them both. Paul brought the trailer around, Buford loaded the unit with his forklift, and they strapped it down. Twenty-three miles later, Paul was back at Crooked Creek. Adam Jones was already there finishing Mateo’s solar installation. Paul parked the trailer by the garage, fetched the tractor, and used the pallet forks to set the incinerator on four-inch concrete blocks.
Later, Adam stopped by Paul’s powerhouse to download the system logs.
“Any problems?” he asked.
“None at all,” Paul replied.
“Good. Even if you lose panels, the vortex generators will keep producing. They’ll produce electricity in the slightest breeze.” Adam paused. “If you’re worried about damage, you could just cover the PV panels with marine plywood instead of taking them down. Get a bunch of four-inch C-clamps; save yourself work later.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, nodding. “That’s smarter.”
The next morning Mike started breakfast—sausage already sizzling, toast underway—when a sleepy Hanna shuffled in and poured herself coffee.
“I love that rain showerhead,” she said, drifting toward the window. “It looks strange outside, though.”
Only then did Mike notice the sickly green tint to the light streaming through the windows and solar tubes. He pulled the toast from the oven and stepped to the front door. A band of dark, intense green clouds was bearing down from the west.
He locked the storm bolts on the front door and returned to the kitchen. “We’re about to get hit by some bad weather. Let’s finish breakfast. There’s nothing we can do but ride it out.”
“Do you think it’ll be bad?” Hanna asked.
“Green sky usually means a derecho or worse—high winds, thunderstorms, maybe tornadoes. The domes are rated to 150 mph, but I’d still feel better if we moved down to the bunker once the line gets close. Better safe than sorry.”
Hanna picked up her phone. “I hope it doesn’t wreck too much of the wheat.” She called Annika, who reported that she and Didrik were already in their shelter.
The Weather Alert Radio blared to life with warnings of strong thunderstorms and more on the way. Then the tone changed.
“TORNADO WARNING NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE MERNA, NE 657 AM CDT THU APR 29 2013
A confirmed large and extremely dangerous tornado was on the ground four miles west of Norfolk, moving east at 25 mph.
THIS IS A PARTICULARLY DANGEROUS SITUATION.”
Hanna quickly rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. They sealed the house and headed down into the bunker. Mike bolted the heavy door behind them, then sat at the monitoring station and brought up the west- and northwest-facing cameras. A flick of a switch and a third gimbal-mounted camera began tracking the approaching storm via motion detection sensors sensitive enough to detect the movement of the clouds. Hanna pulled up a chair beside him. Mike turned up the weather radio.
On the monitor, Mike spotted rotation and flying debris west of them near Bancroft. The camera zoomed and locked on. Large pieces of debris swirled violently before the funnel lifted, sucking up only dirt. A second north-facing camera captured the tornado as it passed roughly two kilometers north of the domes.
“The only house up that way is the Johnsons’,” Hanna said quietly.
“Yeah. It might have clipped Norfolk too,” Mike replied. “Let’s get the emergency supplies loaded. We’ll check on the Johnsons first.”
They gathered pre-packed totes of blankets, water, energy bars, a large first-aid kit, work gloves, tools, a generator, and fuel, then changed into sturdy clothes and steel-shanked boots. Hanna called Annika; she and Didrik wanted to come along. Mike swung by the Edwinson farm to pick them up.
The Johnsons were unharmed—the tornado had passed close but caused no damage to the house or farm buildings. In Bancroft, power was out after a telephone pole landed on the substation, but no homes were destroyed. A sheriff’s deputy confirmed no injuries in the immediate area.
Continuing toward Pender and Norfolk, they saw the tornado’s path: a stripped soybean field south of town, damaged athletic fields at Ta-Ha-Zouka Park, and torn-up cropland. At the Red Cross office near the golf course, sheriff’s deputies were loading supplies. Mike turned over most of what they had brought.
As they drove back toward Snail Mountain, Didrik shook his head and said, “They dodged the bullet on that one.”
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you.
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
Armadillo3
Contributing Member
I have a friend that made a mold of his storage space under the floor in the rear of his SUV and then molded a heavy weight of lead to put in it each winter. It works great and can't go flying around or move at all. In his pickup truck he has large weight plates that bolt down thru the floor bed bolts, so they don't move in the winter.
I usually just use a couple of large bags of sand, so I have something to spread on the ice if needed.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Seven
While Didrik and Mike unloaded the remaining supplies, Hanna burned a DVD from the security camera recorders. She then retrieved the jug of brännvin her father had distilled and mixed glasses of iced tea and brännvin for everyone. When the men came back upstairs, she and Annika served the drinks, and the four of them settled into the living area to watch the footage.
“That wasn’t much of a tornado as far as tornadoes go,” Didrik said, sipping his drink.
“Thank God Almighty,” Annika echoed.
“I’m going to swap out some of the stationary cameras for motion-tracking ones,” Mike said. “I can’t do all of them—otherwise they’d follow every bird that flies past.” He walked over to the weather station console and pulled up the last twenty-four hours of wind-speed data. “Winds here maxed out at seventy-five miles per hour.”
Hanna switched on the TV to KPTH in Sioux City for the local weather, tornado reports, and news.
Crooked Creek had been fortunate. While the Midwest suffered widespread havoc, the area only saw occasional showers from passing storms—no frog-stranglers. The rain that did fall kept Eduardo and Mateo busy with shop vacs in Mateo’s basement until they finally installed the sump pump and let it do the work.
The modular homes were arriving faster than expected. Eduardo marveled at how quickly Mary’s house had gone up; Mateo’s was rising at the same rapid pace. The modules locked seamlessly onto the ICF basement forms. All that remained was connecting the electrical cables and bolting everything down. By the third day, roofers were already installing the metal roof and gutters.
The families tended their gardens and pitched in wherever needed. Eduardo spoke with Paul about the greenhouse Mateo had described. Paul later sat down with Mateo, listened carefully, and authorized him to source materials for six aquaponics units. They would test them first and expand if the system proved reliable. Paul left the project in Mateo’s hands—he had only read about it, while Mateo had real experience.
Jeremy called and asked if he could stop by. Curious, Paul told him to come anytime.
Two hours later, the distinctive sound of the Maule’s engine announced Jeremy’s arrival. The plane circled the farm once before touching down. As it taxied up to the hangar, Paul walked out to greet him.
“Looks like you’re expanding,” Jeremy said, shaking his hand.
“Yes. Eduardo’s brother and his family relocated from Kings County, California,” Paul replied.
“Ah, the Lake Tulare situation. Probably for the best—nature has a way of making the hard decisions.” Jeremy glanced around the property. “That’s actually related to what I wanted to talk about. Got somewhere private?”
Paul led him to the study in the main house and poured coffee. Once they were settled, Jeremy began.
“As you’ve probably noticed, the government is dragging its feet on FEMA relief in these disasters. That’s by design. The ruling elite are consolidating power. Withhold aid and food long enough, and you control the people. We’re taking a different approach against the permanent Deep State. For all their talk of ‘democracy,’ they despise anything truly independent. In crises, control of food and supplies equals control of the population. They’re steadily eroding states’ rights in favor of federal mandates. Even the few honest politicians are powerless to stop it, and the Mockingbird Media runs cover for them.”
Jeremy leaned forward. “We’ve got hundreds of outposts across the country that can serve as staging points when needed. Have you heard of the nonprofit ‘Helping Hands of the World’ out of Indiana?”
“Yes. They fly relief supplies overseas—planes and ships,” Paul said.
“Exactly. What most people don’t know is they were smuggling just as many drugs back in. Cartel connections, dozens of politicians on the payroll. One of their ships was seized in Florida—twenty-plus tons of drugs alongside relief containers. We managed to get an honest inspector involved, temporarily disrupt the operation, and… redirect the containers. We’re distributing them to trusted outposts. Can you take six?”
“How big, and what’s inside?” Paul asked.
“Standard twenty-foot containers. Real relief supplies and shelf-stable food. Use them for local emergencies if the need arises.” Jeremy smiled slightly. “You’d basically become the Crooked Creek Red Cross.”
Paul chuckled. “I can handle that. Each one has an inventory list? Why can’t the containers be traced?”
“Inside the door pouch. And yes—easy when you have skilled hackers who can adjust shipping records. Those containers were originally headed to a CO-OP facility in northern Virginia for the politicians’ expanded hideouts.”
The television in the corner continued playing in the background. A news anchor’s voice cut through:
“Earlier today, five people on a golf course were killed or critically injured when a radio-controlled model airplane crashed onto the fairway at Stonewall Golf Club in Gainesville, Virginia. The aircraft exploded near the early-morning group. Capitol Police are on scene…”
The report continued, detailing the deliberate nature of the attack, the World War II Me 262 scale model, and the large crater left in the fairway.
Larry Craine hadn’t been sure the plane would reach its target. It had run out of fuel a quarter-mile short. The golfers had used carts and moved farther than anticipated. The model glided like a brick, but Larry had wrung out every possible yard. The flechettes in the initial charge did the real work, shredding the group before the secondary explosive finished the job on the cart.
Senator Carl Jensen raged in his hospital bed until the nursing staff sedated him. The encrypted message sent to the group moments before the blast—and the simultaneous draining of their offshore accounts—had shaken him more than the explosion itself. The FBI seemed more interested in him than in finding the perpetrators.
His aide slipped out, emptied the senator’s office safe of cash and diamonds, and headed for the Beltway. As the car passed over Rosilie Island, a man in a room at the MGM National Harbor Hotel pressed a button. The vehicle erupted in a fireball, scattering banknotes and jewels across the Outer Loop and into the Potomac.
Their intelligence had been excellent.
Mike finished reordering the disaster-response supplies they had donated and shut down the computer. He checked the server stats, then went upstairs for coffee. Hanna was folding laundry and softly singing “Chiquitita.” He made a mental note: they needed two or three sofa beds for the bunker in case they were stuck down there for days. The kitchen pantry required restocking for extended occupancy, and interior walls should be built to section off the space. He had bigger plans for that area.
Hanna finished and joined him.
“Want to take a ride?” Mike asked.
“Sure. Where to?”
“I need a couple of sofa beds for the bunker. Also more coffee and tea.”
“Sam’s Club sometimes has couches. We could do all our shopping there,” Hanna suggested.
“I’ll hook up the trailer.”
They stopped first at the Furniture Mart on the east side of the river, where they found three identical, inexpensive but comfortable sofas. At Sam’s Club they loaded up on Colombian coffee, powdered creamer, mixed nuts, cheeses, crackers, and fresh fruit.
Back home, they unloaded the groceries and left the sofas for later. Hanna pulled a pork loin from the freezer for dinner and invited her parents over. Didrik could help Mike carry the sofas inside.
While Didrik and Mike unloaded the remaining supplies, Hanna burned a DVD from the security camera recorders. She then retrieved the jug of brännvin her father had distilled and mixed glasses of iced tea and brännvin for everyone. When the men came back upstairs, she and Annika served the drinks, and the four of them settled into the living area to watch the footage.
“That wasn’t much of a tornado as far as tornadoes go,” Didrik said, sipping his drink.
“Thank God Almighty,” Annika echoed.
“I’m going to swap out some of the stationary cameras for motion-tracking ones,” Mike said. “I can’t do all of them—otherwise they’d follow every bird that flies past.” He walked over to the weather station console and pulled up the last twenty-four hours of wind-speed data. “Winds here maxed out at seventy-five miles per hour.”
Hanna switched on the TV to KPTH in Sioux City for the local weather, tornado reports, and news.
Crooked Creek had been fortunate. While the Midwest suffered widespread havoc, the area only saw occasional showers from passing storms—no frog-stranglers. The rain that did fall kept Eduardo and Mateo busy with shop vacs in Mateo’s basement until they finally installed the sump pump and let it do the work.
The modular homes were arriving faster than expected. Eduardo marveled at how quickly Mary’s house had gone up; Mateo’s was rising at the same rapid pace. The modules locked seamlessly onto the ICF basement forms. All that remained was connecting the electrical cables and bolting everything down. By the third day, roofers were already installing the metal roof and gutters.
The families tended their gardens and pitched in wherever needed. Eduardo spoke with Paul about the greenhouse Mateo had described. Paul later sat down with Mateo, listened carefully, and authorized him to source materials for six aquaponics units. They would test them first and expand if the system proved reliable. Paul left the project in Mateo’s hands—he had only read about it, while Mateo had real experience.
Jeremy called and asked if he could stop by. Curious, Paul told him to come anytime.
Two hours later, the distinctive sound of the Maule’s engine announced Jeremy’s arrival. The plane circled the farm once before touching down. As it taxied up to the hangar, Paul walked out to greet him.
“Looks like you’re expanding,” Jeremy said, shaking his hand.
“Yes. Eduardo’s brother and his family relocated from Kings County, California,” Paul replied.
“Ah, the Lake Tulare situation. Probably for the best—nature has a way of making the hard decisions.” Jeremy glanced around the property. “That’s actually related to what I wanted to talk about. Got somewhere private?”
Paul led him to the study in the main house and poured coffee. Once they were settled, Jeremy began.
“As you’ve probably noticed, the government is dragging its feet on FEMA relief in these disasters. That’s by design. The ruling elite are consolidating power. Withhold aid and food long enough, and you control the people. We’re taking a different approach against the permanent Deep State. For all their talk of ‘democracy,’ they despise anything truly independent. In crises, control of food and supplies equals control of the population. They’re steadily eroding states’ rights in favor of federal mandates. Even the few honest politicians are powerless to stop it, and the Mockingbird Media runs cover for them.”
Jeremy leaned forward. “We’ve got hundreds of outposts across the country that can serve as staging points when needed. Have you heard of the nonprofit ‘Helping Hands of the World’ out of Indiana?”
“Yes. They fly relief supplies overseas—planes and ships,” Paul said.
“Exactly. What most people don’t know is they were smuggling just as many drugs back in. Cartel connections, dozens of politicians on the payroll. One of their ships was seized in Florida—twenty-plus tons of drugs alongside relief containers. We managed to get an honest inspector involved, temporarily disrupt the operation, and… redirect the containers. We’re distributing them to trusted outposts. Can you take six?”
“How big, and what’s inside?” Paul asked.
“Standard twenty-foot containers. Real relief supplies and shelf-stable food. Use them for local emergencies if the need arises.” Jeremy smiled slightly. “You’d basically become the Crooked Creek Red Cross.”
Paul chuckled. “I can handle that. Each one has an inventory list? Why can’t the containers be traced?”
“Inside the door pouch. And yes—easy when you have skilled hackers who can adjust shipping records. Those containers were originally headed to a CO-OP facility in northern Virginia for the politicians’ expanded hideouts.”
The television in the corner continued playing in the background. A news anchor’s voice cut through:
“Earlier today, five people on a golf course were killed or critically injured when a radio-controlled model airplane crashed onto the fairway at Stonewall Golf Club in Gainesville, Virginia. The aircraft exploded near the early-morning group. Capitol Police are on scene…”
The report continued, detailing the deliberate nature of the attack, the World War II Me 262 scale model, and the large crater left in the fairway.
Larry Craine hadn’t been sure the plane would reach its target. It had run out of fuel a quarter-mile short. The golfers had used carts and moved farther than anticipated. The model glided like a brick, but Larry had wrung out every possible yard. The flechettes in the initial charge did the real work, shredding the group before the secondary explosive finished the job on the cart.
Senator Carl Jensen raged in his hospital bed until the nursing staff sedated him. The encrypted message sent to the group moments before the blast—and the simultaneous draining of their offshore accounts—had shaken him more than the explosion itself. The FBI seemed more interested in him than in finding the perpetrators.
His aide slipped out, emptied the senator’s office safe of cash and diamonds, and headed for the Beltway. As the car passed over Rosilie Island, a man in a room at the MGM National Harbor Hotel pressed a button. The vehicle erupted in a fireball, scattering banknotes and jewels across the Outer Loop and into the Potomac.
Their intelligence had been excellent.
Mike finished reordering the disaster-response supplies they had donated and shut down the computer. He checked the server stats, then went upstairs for coffee. Hanna was folding laundry and softly singing “Chiquitita.” He made a mental note: they needed two or three sofa beds for the bunker in case they were stuck down there for days. The kitchen pantry required restocking for extended occupancy, and interior walls should be built to section off the space. He had bigger plans for that area.
Hanna finished and joined him.
“Want to take a ride?” Mike asked.
“Sure. Where to?”
“I need a couple of sofa beds for the bunker. Also more coffee and tea.”
“Sam’s Club sometimes has couches. We could do all our shopping there,” Hanna suggested.
“I’ll hook up the trailer.”
They stopped first at the Furniture Mart on the east side of the river, where they found three identical, inexpensive but comfortable sofas. At Sam’s Club they loaded up on Colombian coffee, powdered creamer, mixed nuts, cheeses, crackers, and fresh fruit.
Back home, they unloaded the groceries and left the sofas for later. Hanna pulled a pork loin from the freezer for dinner and invited her parents over. Didrik could help Mike carry the sofas inside.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Eight
With the roofing complete, the women headed out with Juliana to select furniture while the men raced to move everything inside after the final inspection and occupancy approval. Delivery trucks rolled in almost bumper-to-bumper. John and Brad arrived with their wives to help position the larger pieces. Some of the women stocked the pantry, and the teenagers unloaded Juliana’s prized possessions from the cargo trailer—especially her kitchen gear. She was most eager for her tortilla press and rolling pin. Using the food the other farm women had contributed, she planned to make fresh soft tortillas for tacos to feed the crew. Lourdes had already bought plenty of beer for the men once the heavy lifting was done.
Finally, the last mattress was carried in. Lourdes directed the teenagers in making beds, putting linens away, and giving the house a final polish. In the kitchen an assembly line formed: tortillas were pressed and cooked, meat sizzled, and vegetables were chopped. Carmelita and Cecilia had brought jars of salsas and sauces, saving everyone time. To keep the men from getting too hungry, Lourdes quickly fried some tortilla chips and warmed a jar of chili con queso. Juanita and Roberto carried big bowls of chips and dip out to the crew relaxing at the picnic table under the trees.
The hearty Cal-Tex-Mex feast satisfied everyone. Toasts were raised to the Fernandez family’s official move-in at Crooked Creek. Cleanup followed: the women handled the kitchen while the men bagged up paper plates, cups, and plasticware, then disposed of the empty beer bottles and cans.
Once the sofas were arranged where the women thought best, Mike began shuttling shelf-stable foods, spices, and condiments into the kitchen pantry. He could have left everything in the storeroom, but convenience mattered if the house filled quickly. The pantry now held ample coffee and breakfast mixes. Didrik promised another couple of jugs of brännvin for downstairs storage. Mike also carried down a few bottles of Hanna’s and Annika’s favorite wines and some Irish whiskey.
Later, Mike and Didrik stood in the dome’s living area discussing the wheat harvest, which would begin the following week. Mike would trade off with Hanna between driving a grain hauler and running a combine. Annika and Didrik didn’t linger after dinner; the coming week would be grueling. In the days before harvest, Mike and Hanna still needed to replant their vegetable greenhouse and dry herbs from the other one.
Mike was already redrawing the first-floor layout to expand the storage area for better access and capacity. Hanna was determined to get pregnant soon, and they would need room for all the baby items she and Annika were quietly stockpiling. Mike expected a major shopping run for diapers and supplies before long. They had even enlarged their vegetable garden this year, and Hanna had ordered extra canning jars and lids. Lord, he thought, she must be planning on triplets.
On Monday, as Mike and Hanna prepared to head to Didrik’s for the start of wheat harvest, Ben’s pool crew arrived to stake out the new pool area. Hanna was so excited she nearly dragged Mike back inside to show her appreciation. He finally coaxed her into the truck. At Didrik’s they checked over the machinery while waiting for the last of the dew to burn off the stalks. When Didrik gave the go-ahead, the roar of combines and grain haulers filled the air. Didrik positioned himself at his silos, ready to fill them first as insurance before sending loads on to the Lyons rail terminal.
Mike’s big Peterbilt rumbled steadily as he pulled into the field where Hanna was cutting. He knew roughly where she would need to unload and positioned himself accordingly. When she radioed that she was ready, he pulled alongside as she swung the chute over. Golden grain poured into the trailer. Once the combine bin was empty, Hanna swung the boom back and kept cutting. Mike waited for a second load, then shut the truck down. The next time she unloaded, she slowed her speed to give him time to haul and return. By the time the field was half cut, extra hired haulers rotated in, and Mike switched places with Hanna. She climbed into the truck rotation to Lyons, rolling the windows down to enjoy the breeze as she sped toward the silos.
By the end of the day everyone was weary, dusty, and eager for a shower. When Mike and Hanna pulled up to their house, Hanna paused beside the excavated pool pit, gazing at it longingly. Mike let her shower first while he mixed her a wine cooler. He pulled out fried pork loin for sandwiches and made a quick salad. During harvest they kept evening meals light; the big breakfasts had to carry them through the long days.
Mateo told Paul he had located sources for all the aquaponic system components. Paul gave him the green light to order, and they walked together to the greenhouse where Mateo laid out his plans.
“What kind of fish are you going to use?” Mike asked.
“Tilapia,” Mateo replied. “We can buy them from the Joe Hogan State Hatchery in Lonoke—no long delivery wait.”
“Good. How soon can you be up and running?”
“Once the grow beds are in, I have to cycle the system first—grow the bacteria that will process ammonia and waste. Too much ammonia will kill the fish quickly. Cycling takes about six weeks, then we can start adding fish in small batches. After that it’s all about balance and regular water testing. We should have strawberries by December.”
“How will you heat it?” Paul asked.
“I considered electric, but with plenty of fuel available locally I decided on an outside wood boiler with radiators and fans powered by a small solar setup. We just need to keep the temperature between seventy and eighty degrees.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “Carry on.”
Angel decided it was time to step back from the store until after their baby boy arrived. Keira was more than capable of running things, and Liz Carpenter and Sabrina Rodriguez had the café well in hand. The Music Hall pretty much operated itself, and the community’s regulars kept order. The whole area had become largely self-policing.
Meanwhile, Jeremy’s containers were all in place, and his hackers moved money like seasoned stockbrokers. The resulting chaos left plenty of elites furious and the government rumbling. The IRS scrambled to cover up the source of the “stolen” funds while new targets were quietly selected. The war continued, but the Deep State still had no idea who it was fighting.
A senior DNC official disappeared during a cruise on the St. Lawrence Seaway from Québec to the Canadian Maritimes. Canadian law enforcement, including the RCMP and Coast Guard, continued searching, but no sign of Mr. Jenning had been found.
Juleen Davis, Democratic Representative of California’s 37th District, was shot and killed during a carjacking last night.
In a final push before winter, the men of Crooked Creek fanned out to farmers’ markets to gather extra corn and fruit for canning. They returned with twelve bushels of sweet white and yellow corn, eight bushels of apples, twenty quarts of strawberries, and two bushels of muscadines. Some corn was creamed, some frozen on the cob, and kernels were canned. Strawberries were frozen, freeze-dried, and turned into jam. Apples were canned and freeze-dried. Muscadine jelly rounded out the haul. It was a full week of hard work, but they now had more than enough food laid by.
Mary had thrown herself into every task. She had never canned much before and loved it all—especially making strawberry jam and muscadine jelly. Freeze-drying the apples fascinated her, and she began researching what else they could preserve that way. She was already looking forward to pumpkins and winter squash. When Angel mentioned that high-bush blueberries were still in season in Tennessee, Paul winced at the request but made the call. The closest farm was in Hampshire. He arranged for 1,000 pounds to be set aside for Saturday pickup, even though the flight would cost $633 per hour and the berries themselves weren’t cheap. Angel was carrying his son. If she wanted blueberries up to their eyeballs, that’s what she would get.
Mike drove the final load of wheat to the silo with Hanna riding shotgun. While he unloaded, she walked across the road and bought them each an ice-cream sandwich. They were both relieved the harvest was over—no injuries, no major breakdowns, and close to a record yield. Back at the Edwinson farm they performed maintenance on the equipment until five o’clock, then headed home.
Hanna started supper while Mike showered. She mixed hard lemonades and prepared their usual light harvest meal of sandwiches and salad. After her own shower they sat down to eat.
“Looks like they’re almost finished with the pool,” Hanna said.
“Not hardly—they still have to tile it,” Mike replied.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “You’ll be able to use it all winter.”
Hanna grinned back. “That’s right!”
“It feels good not to have chaff and dust down my neck,” Mike said.
“For sure! I’ve washed my hair twice a day and still combed chaff out of it,” Hanna replied.
“Well, it’s done for the year. You got a shopping list started?”
“Yes, but I need to check inventory first,” she said. “I’d like another pair of Red Wings.”
“Mine are still good. I just need to clean and treat them.”
“You might as well get a backup pair now,” Hanna insisted.
“I guess,” Mike said with a reluctant smile.
With the roofing complete, the women headed out with Juliana to select furniture while the men raced to move everything inside after the final inspection and occupancy approval. Delivery trucks rolled in almost bumper-to-bumper. John and Brad arrived with their wives to help position the larger pieces. Some of the women stocked the pantry, and the teenagers unloaded Juliana’s prized possessions from the cargo trailer—especially her kitchen gear. She was most eager for her tortilla press and rolling pin. Using the food the other farm women had contributed, she planned to make fresh soft tortillas for tacos to feed the crew. Lourdes had already bought plenty of beer for the men once the heavy lifting was done.
Finally, the last mattress was carried in. Lourdes directed the teenagers in making beds, putting linens away, and giving the house a final polish. In the kitchen an assembly line formed: tortillas were pressed and cooked, meat sizzled, and vegetables were chopped. Carmelita and Cecilia had brought jars of salsas and sauces, saving everyone time. To keep the men from getting too hungry, Lourdes quickly fried some tortilla chips and warmed a jar of chili con queso. Juanita and Roberto carried big bowls of chips and dip out to the crew relaxing at the picnic table under the trees.
The hearty Cal-Tex-Mex feast satisfied everyone. Toasts were raised to the Fernandez family’s official move-in at Crooked Creek. Cleanup followed: the women handled the kitchen while the men bagged up paper plates, cups, and plasticware, then disposed of the empty beer bottles and cans.
Once the sofas were arranged where the women thought best, Mike began shuttling shelf-stable foods, spices, and condiments into the kitchen pantry. He could have left everything in the storeroom, but convenience mattered if the house filled quickly. The pantry now held ample coffee and breakfast mixes. Didrik promised another couple of jugs of brännvin for downstairs storage. Mike also carried down a few bottles of Hanna’s and Annika’s favorite wines and some Irish whiskey.
Later, Mike and Didrik stood in the dome’s living area discussing the wheat harvest, which would begin the following week. Mike would trade off with Hanna between driving a grain hauler and running a combine. Annika and Didrik didn’t linger after dinner; the coming week would be grueling. In the days before harvest, Mike and Hanna still needed to replant their vegetable greenhouse and dry herbs from the other one.
Mike was already redrawing the first-floor layout to expand the storage area for better access and capacity. Hanna was determined to get pregnant soon, and they would need room for all the baby items she and Annika were quietly stockpiling. Mike expected a major shopping run for diapers and supplies before long. They had even enlarged their vegetable garden this year, and Hanna had ordered extra canning jars and lids. Lord, he thought, she must be planning on triplets.
On Monday, as Mike and Hanna prepared to head to Didrik’s for the start of wheat harvest, Ben’s pool crew arrived to stake out the new pool area. Hanna was so excited she nearly dragged Mike back inside to show her appreciation. He finally coaxed her into the truck. At Didrik’s they checked over the machinery while waiting for the last of the dew to burn off the stalks. When Didrik gave the go-ahead, the roar of combines and grain haulers filled the air. Didrik positioned himself at his silos, ready to fill them first as insurance before sending loads on to the Lyons rail terminal.
Mike’s big Peterbilt rumbled steadily as he pulled into the field where Hanna was cutting. He knew roughly where she would need to unload and positioned himself accordingly. When she radioed that she was ready, he pulled alongside as she swung the chute over. Golden grain poured into the trailer. Once the combine bin was empty, Hanna swung the boom back and kept cutting. Mike waited for a second load, then shut the truck down. The next time she unloaded, she slowed her speed to give him time to haul and return. By the time the field was half cut, extra hired haulers rotated in, and Mike switched places with Hanna. She climbed into the truck rotation to Lyons, rolling the windows down to enjoy the breeze as she sped toward the silos.
By the end of the day everyone was weary, dusty, and eager for a shower. When Mike and Hanna pulled up to their house, Hanna paused beside the excavated pool pit, gazing at it longingly. Mike let her shower first while he mixed her a wine cooler. He pulled out fried pork loin for sandwiches and made a quick salad. During harvest they kept evening meals light; the big breakfasts had to carry them through the long days.
Mateo told Paul he had located sources for all the aquaponic system components. Paul gave him the green light to order, and they walked together to the greenhouse where Mateo laid out his plans.
“What kind of fish are you going to use?” Mike asked.
“Tilapia,” Mateo replied. “We can buy them from the Joe Hogan State Hatchery in Lonoke—no long delivery wait.”
“Good. How soon can you be up and running?”
“Once the grow beds are in, I have to cycle the system first—grow the bacteria that will process ammonia and waste. Too much ammonia will kill the fish quickly. Cycling takes about six weeks, then we can start adding fish in small batches. After that it’s all about balance and regular water testing. We should have strawberries by December.”
“How will you heat it?” Paul asked.
“I considered electric, but with plenty of fuel available locally I decided on an outside wood boiler with radiators and fans powered by a small solar setup. We just need to keep the temperature between seventy and eighty degrees.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “Carry on.”
Angel decided it was time to step back from the store until after their baby boy arrived. Keira was more than capable of running things, and Liz Carpenter and Sabrina Rodriguez had the café well in hand. The Music Hall pretty much operated itself, and the community’s regulars kept order. The whole area had become largely self-policing.
Meanwhile, Jeremy’s containers were all in place, and his hackers moved money like seasoned stockbrokers. The resulting chaos left plenty of elites furious and the government rumbling. The IRS scrambled to cover up the source of the “stolen” funds while new targets were quietly selected. The war continued, but the Deep State still had no idea who it was fighting.
A senior DNC official disappeared during a cruise on the St. Lawrence Seaway from Québec to the Canadian Maritimes. Canadian law enforcement, including the RCMP and Coast Guard, continued searching, but no sign of Mr. Jenning had been found.
Juleen Davis, Democratic Representative of California’s 37th District, was shot and killed during a carjacking last night.
In a final push before winter, the men of Crooked Creek fanned out to farmers’ markets to gather extra corn and fruit for canning. They returned with twelve bushels of sweet white and yellow corn, eight bushels of apples, twenty quarts of strawberries, and two bushels of muscadines. Some corn was creamed, some frozen on the cob, and kernels were canned. Strawberries were frozen, freeze-dried, and turned into jam. Apples were canned and freeze-dried. Muscadine jelly rounded out the haul. It was a full week of hard work, but they now had more than enough food laid by.
Mary had thrown herself into every task. She had never canned much before and loved it all—especially making strawberry jam and muscadine jelly. Freeze-drying the apples fascinated her, and she began researching what else they could preserve that way. She was already looking forward to pumpkins and winter squash. When Angel mentioned that high-bush blueberries were still in season in Tennessee, Paul winced at the request but made the call. The closest farm was in Hampshire. He arranged for 1,000 pounds to be set aside for Saturday pickup, even though the flight would cost $633 per hour and the berries themselves weren’t cheap. Angel was carrying his son. If she wanted blueberries up to their eyeballs, that’s what she would get.
Mike drove the final load of wheat to the silo with Hanna riding shotgun. While he unloaded, she walked across the road and bought them each an ice-cream sandwich. They were both relieved the harvest was over—no injuries, no major breakdowns, and close to a record yield. Back at the Edwinson farm they performed maintenance on the equipment until five o’clock, then headed home.
Hanna started supper while Mike showered. She mixed hard lemonades and prepared their usual light harvest meal of sandwiches and salad. After her own shower they sat down to eat.
“Looks like they’re almost finished with the pool,” Hanna said.
“Not hardly—they still have to tile it,” Mike replied.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “You’ll be able to use it all winter.”
Hanna grinned back. “That’s right!”
“It feels good not to have chaff and dust down my neck,” Mike said.
“For sure! I’ve washed my hair twice a day and still combed chaff out of it,” Hanna replied.
“Well, it’s done for the year. You got a shopping list started?”
“Yes, but I need to check inventory first,” she said. “I’d like another pair of Red Wings.”
“Mine are still good. I just need to clean and treat them.”
“You might as well get a backup pair now,” Hanna insisted.
“I guess,” Mike said with a reluctant smile.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mike was replacing a motherboard when the firewall alarm blared. Someone was probing his network with improper credentials. He tapped a few keys, pulled the intruder’s IP address, and immediately recognized it as one the FBI used—often and clumsily. He verified the virtual network was live and isolated. No real traffic. Satisfied, he rebooted the routers, taking them offline for ten minutes before they cycled back up. The intruder had been on a fishing expedition and clearly had no idea what they were dealing with. Mike wasn’t worried. The only person who had ever breached his actual network was Taylor, and that was only because he’d shown her the trapdoor himself. Anyone else who ignored protocol would soon find their system infected with a nasty worm that would eat it alive.
Mateo finally located a supply of rigid IBC-330 BPA-free containers for the aquaponics tanks. A truck delivered six of them three days later. He cut down the old cages, trimmed the tops off the plastic totes, and scrubbed them thoroughly. Once they were dry, he set them on leveled concrete blocks, filled them with water, and added a measured dose of ammonia. He loaded the grow beds with gravel, connected the pump, and started the water cycling. Every few days he tested the ammonia levels, watching for the bacteria to activate and begin consuming it. When the readings dropped to 7.0 or 8.0, he would add fish and plant the beds. From here on, it was mostly a matter of monitoring temperature and pH.
He and his son already had seedlings started and ready to transplant the moment the system was balanced.
Paul and Brad each tagged a buck on opening day of deer season. Brad processed and froze or canned most of his meat, while Paul turned his into summer sausage and breakfast links, then smoked them. A clover cover crop went into the garden, and the men spent several long days gathering firewood. They formed an efficient assembly line, splitting, stacking, and seasoning. Before long, every household had at least three cords—enough for a normal winter, with extra stockpiled in case it turned harsh. Most of the wood came from fallen and dead trees in the national forest, harvested under permit.
Angel was in her thirty-second week. Paul stayed close to the homestead. The doctor said both mother and baby were doing well, but Paul still made practice runs to Johnson Regional Medical Center, sixteen miles away, timing the drive. Carmelita teased him gently. “When it’s time, Angel will let you know. Relax.” Still, he kept her hospital bag packed and by the door. Eduardo watched Paul with a knowing grin; he’d lived through the same anxious wait twice.
Mike checked the concrete pad. It had cured enough. He pressure-washed it first, then mixed a slurry to fill every crack caused by repeated freeze-thaw cycles. While he was at it, he sealed the exposed concrete around the pool enclosure as well.
Hanna loved her pool. It hadn’t been ready in time for harvest, but she made full use of it afterward—without letting it cut into her time with Mike.
“You want to go get a couple of birds?” he asked one afternoon.
“Hang on, let me change,” Hanna said. She headed to the bedroom, already peeling off her shirt as she walked.
Mike pulled their shotguns from the safe and checked them over. When she returned, she loaded her gun, pocketed extra shells she probably wouldn’t need, and slipped in her AXIL earbuds. Mike did the same.
“Yours is loaded, not chambered,” he told her.
“Thanks. Earbuds in?”
They stepped into the garage, secured the shotguns in the Rokons’ handlebar racks, and rode out toward the northeast swales. Half a mile from the house they dismounted and walked the edge of the tall grass. A pheasant flushed. Hanna dropped it cleanly with one shot, retrieved the bird, and slipped it onto her sling. Three hundred meters farther on, Mike got his. Just in case, he swapped the birdshot for sabot slugs—deer sometimes bolted out of these swales. They crossed to the next draw but saw no deer. They rode home empty-handed on that count, dressed the two pheasants, and carried them inside.
“Are you cooking one tonight?” Mike asked.
Hanna gave him a thoughtful look. “No, let’s save them for Sunday. I’ve got ranch pork chops, roasted potatoes, and green beans planned for supper.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said, following her into the kitchen with the pan.
Williams and Jones waited in position five hundred meters from Harbaugh Valley Road, one of the access routes to Raven Rock. Another team covered the opposite approach in case the target changed routine. When the observation post reported the armored Suburban climbing the road, Jones powered up the Javelin. The other team began withdrawing.
Jones centered the crosshairs on the concrete block housing the gate mechanism. As the vehicle neared the final barrier, he fired. The missile streaked out, missed the Suburban by a few feet, and obliterated the gate instead. The driver reacted instantly, accelerating through the debris. Two run-flat tires shredded, concrete shrapnel starred the windshield and dented the armored sides, and the passengers’ ears rang from the blast. They made it onto the complex shaken but alive.
Jones dumped the launch tube where it fell, stowed the Command Launch Unit in his rucksack, and the team exfiltrated. He still didn’t understand why they hadn’t simply destroyed the vehicle. The Chief had been clear: the Marshals’ protective detail hadn’t done anything wrong.
The data dump hit like a bomb. A pedophile ring in Washington exposed, financial records of numerous politicians and their attorneys leaked, and an attempted assassination of Senator Billings. The internet was in chaos. Those who had reason to worry were in full panic. The emptied accounts drew IRS attention—whatever uncorrupted parts of it still existed—but the money was already gone. That same week, St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital received a substantial anonymous donation.
Jeremy sipped his Scotch and sank deeper into the leather chair. They had taken a serious bite out of the opposition and left the political class scrambling. His sources inside the major agencies reported the investigators had no idea where to begin. That was good. The donation to St. Jude felt even better. He had spent too many long days and nights there with his niece June. The doctors and nurses had been extraordinary. He still sponsored a thousand JoyJars every year through the NEGU foundation in her memory.
Paul and Eduardo finished cutting the timber for the new woodshed beside the greenhouse. They planned to roof over the boiler and connect the shed so everything could be serviced out of the weather. Mateo picked up concrete footings and paving stones for the posts and a walkway from the greenhouse door. José and Roberto would lay the stones once the structure was up.
The project took only a couple of days. Paul set aside several barrels with clamp-on lids to collect wood ash—useful for melting ice, improving traction, raising soil pH, and sweetening compost.
Indian summer had returned. The creek fished well, and everyone except Angel took advantage of the mild weather for walks. She stayed close to the patio in the final stretch of her pregnancy, content to feel the sun on her face.
Mike finished sealing the concrete. Didrik boiled off another fifty-five gallons of mash while Annika knitted baby clothes. Hanna wasn’t pregnant yet—or at least she hadn’t told Mike—but they had already stockpiled a two-year supply of diapers, wipes, lotions, pacifiers, and everything else she could find recommended on parenting sites. Her latest obsession was planning the nursery. Mike gently told her not to get the cart before the horse. She stopped ordering and started making detailed notes instead.
He also installed the new cameras, repositioning and upgrading others until he had full 360-degree coverage around the house. Most now featured 270-degree gimbal-mounted panning.
In three weeks, Mike and Ben planned an elk hunt in the hills and canyons of central Nebraska. With luck, they’d pick up a couple of antelope too. Between the pork, beef, venison, and birds already in the freezer, they would have more than enough meat for the winter.
Mike was replacing a motherboard when the firewall alarm blared. Someone was probing his network with improper credentials. He tapped a few keys, pulled the intruder’s IP address, and immediately recognized it as one the FBI used—often and clumsily. He verified the virtual network was live and isolated. No real traffic. Satisfied, he rebooted the routers, taking them offline for ten minutes before they cycled back up. The intruder had been on a fishing expedition and clearly had no idea what they were dealing with. Mike wasn’t worried. The only person who had ever breached his actual network was Taylor, and that was only because he’d shown her the trapdoor himself. Anyone else who ignored protocol would soon find their system infected with a nasty worm that would eat it alive.
Mateo finally located a supply of rigid IBC-330 BPA-free containers for the aquaponics tanks. A truck delivered six of them three days later. He cut down the old cages, trimmed the tops off the plastic totes, and scrubbed them thoroughly. Once they were dry, he set them on leveled concrete blocks, filled them with water, and added a measured dose of ammonia. He loaded the grow beds with gravel, connected the pump, and started the water cycling. Every few days he tested the ammonia levels, watching for the bacteria to activate and begin consuming it. When the readings dropped to 7.0 or 8.0, he would add fish and plant the beds. From here on, it was mostly a matter of monitoring temperature and pH.
He and his son already had seedlings started and ready to transplant the moment the system was balanced.
Paul and Brad each tagged a buck on opening day of deer season. Brad processed and froze or canned most of his meat, while Paul turned his into summer sausage and breakfast links, then smoked them. A clover cover crop went into the garden, and the men spent several long days gathering firewood. They formed an efficient assembly line, splitting, stacking, and seasoning. Before long, every household had at least three cords—enough for a normal winter, with extra stockpiled in case it turned harsh. Most of the wood came from fallen and dead trees in the national forest, harvested under permit.
Angel was in her thirty-second week. Paul stayed close to the homestead. The doctor said both mother and baby were doing well, but Paul still made practice runs to Johnson Regional Medical Center, sixteen miles away, timing the drive. Carmelita teased him gently. “When it’s time, Angel will let you know. Relax.” Still, he kept her hospital bag packed and by the door. Eduardo watched Paul with a knowing grin; he’d lived through the same anxious wait twice.
Mike checked the concrete pad. It had cured enough. He pressure-washed it first, then mixed a slurry to fill every crack caused by repeated freeze-thaw cycles. While he was at it, he sealed the exposed concrete around the pool enclosure as well.
Hanna loved her pool. It hadn’t been ready in time for harvest, but she made full use of it afterward—without letting it cut into her time with Mike.
“You want to go get a couple of birds?” he asked one afternoon.
“Hang on, let me change,” Hanna said. She headed to the bedroom, already peeling off her shirt as she walked.
Mike pulled their shotguns from the safe and checked them over. When she returned, she loaded her gun, pocketed extra shells she probably wouldn’t need, and slipped in her AXIL earbuds. Mike did the same.
“Yours is loaded, not chambered,” he told her.
“Thanks. Earbuds in?”
They stepped into the garage, secured the shotguns in the Rokons’ handlebar racks, and rode out toward the northeast swales. Half a mile from the house they dismounted and walked the edge of the tall grass. A pheasant flushed. Hanna dropped it cleanly with one shot, retrieved the bird, and slipped it onto her sling. Three hundred meters farther on, Mike got his. Just in case, he swapped the birdshot for sabot slugs—deer sometimes bolted out of these swales. They crossed to the next draw but saw no deer. They rode home empty-handed on that count, dressed the two pheasants, and carried them inside.
“Are you cooking one tonight?” Mike asked.
Hanna gave him a thoughtful look. “No, let’s save them for Sunday. I’ve got ranch pork chops, roasted potatoes, and green beans planned for supper.”
“Sounds perfect,” he said, following her into the kitchen with the pan.
Williams and Jones waited in position five hundred meters from Harbaugh Valley Road, one of the access routes to Raven Rock. Another team covered the opposite approach in case the target changed routine. When the observation post reported the armored Suburban climbing the road, Jones powered up the Javelin. The other team began withdrawing.
Jones centered the crosshairs on the concrete block housing the gate mechanism. As the vehicle neared the final barrier, he fired. The missile streaked out, missed the Suburban by a few feet, and obliterated the gate instead. The driver reacted instantly, accelerating through the debris. Two run-flat tires shredded, concrete shrapnel starred the windshield and dented the armored sides, and the passengers’ ears rang from the blast. They made it onto the complex shaken but alive.
Jones dumped the launch tube where it fell, stowed the Command Launch Unit in his rucksack, and the team exfiltrated. He still didn’t understand why they hadn’t simply destroyed the vehicle. The Chief had been clear: the Marshals’ protective detail hadn’t done anything wrong.
The data dump hit like a bomb. A pedophile ring in Washington exposed, financial records of numerous politicians and their attorneys leaked, and an attempted assassination of Senator Billings. The internet was in chaos. Those who had reason to worry were in full panic. The emptied accounts drew IRS attention—whatever uncorrupted parts of it still existed—but the money was already gone. That same week, St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital received a substantial anonymous donation.
Jeremy sipped his Scotch and sank deeper into the leather chair. They had taken a serious bite out of the opposition and left the political class scrambling. His sources inside the major agencies reported the investigators had no idea where to begin. That was good. The donation to St. Jude felt even better. He had spent too many long days and nights there with his niece June. The doctors and nurses had been extraordinary. He still sponsored a thousand JoyJars every year through the NEGU foundation in her memory.
Paul and Eduardo finished cutting the timber for the new woodshed beside the greenhouse. They planned to roof over the boiler and connect the shed so everything could be serviced out of the weather. Mateo picked up concrete footings and paving stones for the posts and a walkway from the greenhouse door. José and Roberto would lay the stones once the structure was up.
The project took only a couple of days. Paul set aside several barrels with clamp-on lids to collect wood ash—useful for melting ice, improving traction, raising soil pH, and sweetening compost.
Indian summer had returned. The creek fished well, and everyone except Angel took advantage of the mild weather for walks. She stayed close to the patio in the final stretch of her pregnancy, content to feel the sun on her face.
Mike finished sealing the concrete. Didrik boiled off another fifty-five gallons of mash while Annika knitted baby clothes. Hanna wasn’t pregnant yet—or at least she hadn’t told Mike—but they had already stockpiled a two-year supply of diapers, wipes, lotions, pacifiers, and everything else she could find recommended on parenting sites. Her latest obsession was planning the nursery. Mike gently told her not to get the cart before the horse. She stopped ordering and started making detailed notes instead.
He also installed the new cameras, repositioning and upgrading others until he had full 360-degree coverage around the house. Most now featured 270-degree gimbal-mounted panning.
In three weeks, Mike and Ben planned an elk hunt in the hills and canyons of central Nebraska. With luck, they’d pick up a couple of antelope too. Between the pork, beef, venison, and birds already in the freezer, they would have more than enough meat for the winter.
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Chapter Forty
Mateo placed a half-dozen Tilapia fingerlings into each tank so he could monitor them daily before adding any more. So far, everything was working as it should. In actuality, water temperature was the biggest factor. Once the fish were established, it became a matter of balance—having the right number of fish in the right temperature water to keep the system cleaned of runoff from the plant beds. Mateo had stocked enough fish food to feed them until the plant beds began producing. He placed the nets over the tanks before feeding, because the fish sometimes got frisky and jumped out. Afterward, he walked over to the feeding schedule posted next to the door and marked that they had been fed. He would only need to feed them every couple of days until the plant beds were fully established.
Mateo double-checked everything one last time before he left. Paul had put him in charge, and he didn’t want to let him down.
Brad and John had been planning to take their first deer down by the creek. Brad had noticed a lot of deer tracks at the Narrows ford and suspected the animals used the big sandbar to water in the mornings and evenings. He swept the tracks smooth with a tree branch, then returned the next day to confirm his hunch. He was right. Brad and John set up tree stands that gave them both a good field of fire across the sandbar. With radios and headsets, either man could signal the other before firing.
Brad dropped a nice 6-point buck; John took an 8-pointer. Both shots were clean, and neither deer left the sandbar. The men butchered their kills, turning the prime cuts into jerky and the scraps into sausage. Carmelita and Lourdes took the bones, roasted the larger ones to extract the marrow, and simmered everything into a rich broth that they pressure-canned for later use.
Babies rarely arrive during convenient daylight hours. Paul found himself up at 3:00 a.m. in the middle of the week, rushing Angel to the hospital. Carmelita notified Mary and Cynthia as the couple left, and the two women were soon dressed and on their way.
Babies also don’t always arrive quickly. Angel labored for six hours with Paul at her side, holding her hand, reminding her to breathe, and gently wiping her face with a cool washcloth.
Anthony Duncan Austin, weighing 3.8 kilograms, was born at 10:26 a.m. on October 2nd. Both mother and son were doing fine. Mary and Cynthia gave Paul a break so he could grab something better than vending-machine coffee. By the time he returned—after a plate of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, toast, and three cups of coffee—most of the women from Crooked Creek had already arrived to welcome the newest member of the community.
Mike and Ben packed Mike’s truck and cargo trailer and headed for Custer County on their guided hunt. Near Sargent, they stayed at a lodge whose owner Ben knew from college. A year earlier, Ben had helped the town repair its public pool at almost no cost after a grant fell through. That goodwill earned them a steep discount on the hunt—some packages ran as high as $11,000, but the two men paid less than $1,000, not including processing fees. Mike was especially pleased because the lodge also sold bison meat he planned to bring home.
Ben brought his Remington 700 ADL in .30-06; Mike carried his Winchester Model 70 Alaskan in .338 Magnum. Both rifles were more than capable of taking elk, but Mike wanted insurance. A wounded, unrecovered animal still meant paying full price.
They enjoyed a pleasant three-hour drive, settled quickly into the lodge, then strolled out to the pasture where buffalo grazed.
“To think there were once millions of these creatures thundering across the plains,” Ben said.
“I know,” Mike replied. “Senseless government policies and greedy, heartless people destroyed a way of life.”
“They’ve got a good thing going here,” Ben added, looking around at the well-kept buildings and grounds.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a pasture full of bison myself,” Mike said. “You should think about something like this for the Res.”
“We’d have to replant too many acres of prairie grasses first,” Ben replied.
Mike took a cow elk on the first hunting day, and both men harvested antelope on the second. The meat was expensive, but the trip was worth it. Everything was professionally butchered, vacuum-sealed, flash-frozen, and packed with dry ice. It was still solidly frozen when they divided it out back at Snail Mountain.
Lyons was a quiet little town. Three-quarters of Main Street was paved with red brick, and gossip traveled faster than the morning paper. When strangers rolled into town on Saturday afternoon, everyone noticed.
When the beat-up sedan pulled into KB’s mini-mart, two pickups eased in behind it—one to the gas pumps, one to the air-and-water station. Both drivers stepped out, rifles in hand. Seconds later, three more trucks arrived, neatly boxing the old car in. As the three strangers emerged from the store, they found themselves staring down six armed locals.
Maggie Tilman burst out behind them. “THEY DIDN’T PAY FOR NONE OF THAT STUFF!”
The thieves dropped their stolen goods the moment Lloyd Palmer motioned with his rifle barrel. “Hands up.”
“You fellas must be new around here,” Lloyd said calmly. “We don’t steal from each other, and we take care of our own.”
The sheriff’s deputy Maggie had already called pulled up just then.
“Normally we’d just shoot you and drop you in the marshy swale,” Lloyd continued, “but since the deputy’s here, we’ll do this the official way.”
The deputy secured the men with heavy-duty zip cuffs and called for backup. While waiting, he ran the plates on the sedan and discovered it was stolen.
“My, my,” the deputy drawled. “Armed robbery, grand theft auto…”
“Grand theft?” one of the perps scoffed. “That car ain’t worth that!”
“It is to the person you stole it from,” the deputy replied dryly.
Little Tony—named after Angel’s father—slept so peacefully that Angel still got up several times each night just to check on him, not quite trusting the baby monitor. He woke for his 3:00 a.m. feeding, then slept contentedly the rest of the night. During the day, Carmelita, Mary, and Cynthia practically wrestled each other for the chance to hold him. Tony was surrounded by love.
Mateo could almost see the fish growing larger by the day. He added more fingerlings to the tanks and continued planting the grow beds. He was using gravel as the medium, and it was working beautifully. The Quinault strawberries in the first bed were a vibrant green, with some already beginning to blossom. The other five beds held lettuce, tomatoes, herbs, bell peppers, and spinach. When he expanded, he planned to build vertical racks for cucumbers, string beans, and zucchini.
Paul stopped by while Mateo was working.
“How’s everything going, Mateo?”
“It’s going great! The strawberries will be blooming soon,” Mateo said proudly.
“Don’t you have to hand-pollinate them?” Paul asked.
“Normally, yes—but these are self-pollinating Quinaults. Less work. Anything that produces seeds and grows in a greenhouse needs pollination one way or another.”
Paul peered into the tanks. The fish looked lively and healthy.
“When we expand, I’ll need some deeper beds for carrots and such,” Mateo added.
Paul grinned. “You really believe this is going to work.”
“I know it will,” Mateo said with quiet confidence. “If the original farmers in Kings County had known about aquaponics, the tribes around Lake Tulare might never have lost the lake. You slap Mother Nature, and she comes back with a balled fist.”
“Truer words were never said,” Paul replied.
Hanna grinned when she saw the clerk stocking seedless icebox melons. She loaded four into her cart, then picked up crackers, ice cream, two jars of cherries, and a case of Sprite. She was going to ask Mike to make watermelon moonshine cocktails this weekend. She had been off the pill for a little over a month—she figured this was as good a chance as any.
Meanwhile, Mike ran the router along the edge of the glued-up console top, rounding the corners. He was building a larger station to accommodate his new monitors. The old setup was fine for now, but he wanted to see the screens clearly even when standing across the room. He had already finished the base; once the top was sanded, stained, sealed, and topped with three coats of polyurethane, it would be perfect. Plenty of space for manuals, reference books, and network-monitoring gear.
Mateo placed a half-dozen Tilapia fingerlings into each tank so he could monitor them daily before adding any more. So far, everything was working as it should. In actuality, water temperature was the biggest factor. Once the fish were established, it became a matter of balance—having the right number of fish in the right temperature water to keep the system cleaned of runoff from the plant beds. Mateo had stocked enough fish food to feed them until the plant beds began producing. He placed the nets over the tanks before feeding, because the fish sometimes got frisky and jumped out. Afterward, he walked over to the feeding schedule posted next to the door and marked that they had been fed. He would only need to feed them every couple of days until the plant beds were fully established.
Mateo double-checked everything one last time before he left. Paul had put him in charge, and he didn’t want to let him down.
Brad and John had been planning to take their first deer down by the creek. Brad had noticed a lot of deer tracks at the Narrows ford and suspected the animals used the big sandbar to water in the mornings and evenings. He swept the tracks smooth with a tree branch, then returned the next day to confirm his hunch. He was right. Brad and John set up tree stands that gave them both a good field of fire across the sandbar. With radios and headsets, either man could signal the other before firing.
Brad dropped a nice 6-point buck; John took an 8-pointer. Both shots were clean, and neither deer left the sandbar. The men butchered their kills, turning the prime cuts into jerky and the scraps into sausage. Carmelita and Lourdes took the bones, roasted the larger ones to extract the marrow, and simmered everything into a rich broth that they pressure-canned for later use.
Babies rarely arrive during convenient daylight hours. Paul found himself up at 3:00 a.m. in the middle of the week, rushing Angel to the hospital. Carmelita notified Mary and Cynthia as the couple left, and the two women were soon dressed and on their way.
Babies also don’t always arrive quickly. Angel labored for six hours with Paul at her side, holding her hand, reminding her to breathe, and gently wiping her face with a cool washcloth.
Anthony Duncan Austin, weighing 3.8 kilograms, was born at 10:26 a.m. on October 2nd. Both mother and son were doing fine. Mary and Cynthia gave Paul a break so he could grab something better than vending-machine coffee. By the time he returned—after a plate of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, toast, and three cups of coffee—most of the women from Crooked Creek had already arrived to welcome the newest member of the community.
Mike and Ben packed Mike’s truck and cargo trailer and headed for Custer County on their guided hunt. Near Sargent, they stayed at a lodge whose owner Ben knew from college. A year earlier, Ben had helped the town repair its public pool at almost no cost after a grant fell through. That goodwill earned them a steep discount on the hunt—some packages ran as high as $11,000, but the two men paid less than $1,000, not including processing fees. Mike was especially pleased because the lodge also sold bison meat he planned to bring home.
Ben brought his Remington 700 ADL in .30-06; Mike carried his Winchester Model 70 Alaskan in .338 Magnum. Both rifles were more than capable of taking elk, but Mike wanted insurance. A wounded, unrecovered animal still meant paying full price.
They enjoyed a pleasant three-hour drive, settled quickly into the lodge, then strolled out to the pasture where buffalo grazed.
“To think there were once millions of these creatures thundering across the plains,” Ben said.
“I know,” Mike replied. “Senseless government policies and greedy, heartless people destroyed a way of life.”
“They’ve got a good thing going here,” Ben added, looking around at the well-kept buildings and grounds.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a pasture full of bison myself,” Mike said. “You should think about something like this for the Res.”
“We’d have to replant too many acres of prairie grasses first,” Ben replied.
Mike took a cow elk on the first hunting day, and both men harvested antelope on the second. The meat was expensive, but the trip was worth it. Everything was professionally butchered, vacuum-sealed, flash-frozen, and packed with dry ice. It was still solidly frozen when they divided it out back at Snail Mountain.
Lyons was a quiet little town. Three-quarters of Main Street was paved with red brick, and gossip traveled faster than the morning paper. When strangers rolled into town on Saturday afternoon, everyone noticed.
When the beat-up sedan pulled into KB’s mini-mart, two pickups eased in behind it—one to the gas pumps, one to the air-and-water station. Both drivers stepped out, rifles in hand. Seconds later, three more trucks arrived, neatly boxing the old car in. As the three strangers emerged from the store, they found themselves staring down six armed locals.
Maggie Tilman burst out behind them. “THEY DIDN’T PAY FOR NONE OF THAT STUFF!”
The thieves dropped their stolen goods the moment Lloyd Palmer motioned with his rifle barrel. “Hands up.”
“You fellas must be new around here,” Lloyd said calmly. “We don’t steal from each other, and we take care of our own.”
The sheriff’s deputy Maggie had already called pulled up just then.
“Normally we’d just shoot you and drop you in the marshy swale,” Lloyd continued, “but since the deputy’s here, we’ll do this the official way.”
The deputy secured the men with heavy-duty zip cuffs and called for backup. While waiting, he ran the plates on the sedan and discovered it was stolen.
“My, my,” the deputy drawled. “Armed robbery, grand theft auto…”
“Grand theft?” one of the perps scoffed. “That car ain’t worth that!”
“It is to the person you stole it from,” the deputy replied dryly.
Little Tony—named after Angel’s father—slept so peacefully that Angel still got up several times each night just to check on him, not quite trusting the baby monitor. He woke for his 3:00 a.m. feeding, then slept contentedly the rest of the night. During the day, Carmelita, Mary, and Cynthia practically wrestled each other for the chance to hold him. Tony was surrounded by love.
Mateo could almost see the fish growing larger by the day. He added more fingerlings to the tanks and continued planting the grow beds. He was using gravel as the medium, and it was working beautifully. The Quinault strawberries in the first bed were a vibrant green, with some already beginning to blossom. The other five beds held lettuce, tomatoes, herbs, bell peppers, and spinach. When he expanded, he planned to build vertical racks for cucumbers, string beans, and zucchini.
Paul stopped by while Mateo was working.
“How’s everything going, Mateo?”
“It’s going great! The strawberries will be blooming soon,” Mateo said proudly.
“Don’t you have to hand-pollinate them?” Paul asked.
“Normally, yes—but these are self-pollinating Quinaults. Less work. Anything that produces seeds and grows in a greenhouse needs pollination one way or another.”
Paul peered into the tanks. The fish looked lively and healthy.
“When we expand, I’ll need some deeper beds for carrots and such,” Mateo added.
Paul grinned. “You really believe this is going to work.”
“I know it will,” Mateo said with quiet confidence. “If the original farmers in Kings County had known about aquaponics, the tribes around Lake Tulare might never have lost the lake. You slap Mother Nature, and she comes back with a balled fist.”
“Truer words were never said,” Paul replied.
Hanna grinned when she saw the clerk stocking seedless icebox melons. She loaded four into her cart, then picked up crackers, ice cream, two jars of cherries, and a case of Sprite. She was going to ask Mike to make watermelon moonshine cocktails this weekend. She had been off the pill for a little over a month—she figured this was as good a chance as any.
Meanwhile, Mike ran the router along the edge of the glued-up console top, rounding the corners. He was building a larger station to accommodate his new monitors. The old setup was fine for now, but he wanted to see the screens clearly even when standing across the room. He had already finished the base; once the top was sanded, stained, sealed, and topped with three coats of polyurethane, it would be perfect. Plenty of space for manuals, reference books, and network-monitoring gear.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-One
Mike noticed right away that Hanna and Annika had been shopping again while he and Ben were out hunting. A few new items had appeared in the nursery, including a baby musical mobile now hanging above the crib. He took it as a portent of things to come.
After storing the fresh meat in the nearly empty third chest freezer, Mike pulled out twenty-five pounds of pork to thaw. He checked his supplies for making stångkorv—Swedish fermented breakfast sausage. He had just enough Bactoferm to process ten pounds. He’d need to make a run to the meat packer in Sioux City for more starter culture and some pork belly to grind with the meat. He set the pork in the pantry fridge to thaw and went looking for Hanna.
“I need to head to Sioux City for more Bactoferm and pork belly,” he told her. “Want to ride along?”
“Are you going now?” Hanna asked.
“Yeah, I want to start grinding first thing in the morning.”
“Mamma’s coming over tomorrow to help me make lihapiirakka,” Hanna said.
Mike loved the Finnish meat pies. “Make them with the yeast dough—I like those best.”
“I know. I’m filling them with the rest of the grouse and some pork.”
“Throw in some elk too. I’ll pull a package out to thaw.”
“Okay, but you need to send a few over to Daddy,” Hanna reminded him.
“No problem. Anything you need me to pick up while I’m out?”
“Not really. Just grind some flour when you get back.”
“Can do. I’m heading out then.”
Mateo ordered another load of gravel for the new planting medium. The larger trays would arrive in a couple of days, and he wanted everything ready. Eduardo and Paul had been busy cutting oak and building sturdy stands to hold the trays. Paul had given Mateo the green light to order the rest of the parts and tanks to finish out the greenhouse. Mateo also picked up spare pumps as backups. His relationship with the hatchery in Lonoke meant he could get more fish stock whenever he needed it.
The strawberries, radishes, and lettuce were practically exploding out of the grow beds. Tomato plants shot up faster than expected. Although tomatoes were self-pollinating, Mateo planned to hand-pollinate a few to test whether it boosted yield. In the newest bed he wanted to try spring onions. There were dozens of crops he still wanted to experiment with.
The EPA’s Clean Trucks Plan—pushed in the name of “environmental justice”—was straining the trucking industry, slowing food deliveries, and driving prices to levels few had ever seen. Combined with California’s strict environmental rules, shipments from the nation’s produce heartland were delayed or reduced, adding more pressure to already tight supplies in major cities. Emboldened criminals were now hijacking trucks from major processing centers, leased boxcars, and rerouted produce by rail into population centers. Several of the gangs were backed by drug cartels that piggybacked narcotics onto the shipments. The war on fossil fuels was slowly grinding the country down and fueling widespread unrest. Meanwhile, the immigration crisis strained food resources in large Democrat-controlled cities, heightening fears among residents that there simply wouldn’t be enough to go around.
Paul and Eduardo unloaded pallets of nitrogen-packed grains and moved them into storage. They now had enough staples for three years, though they hoped to reorder after the next harvest. Buying grain from Nebraska was far easier than growing it themselves. Everything else they needed could be grown on the farm or bought affordably from local producers and roadside stands. Paul had expanded the orchard again, adding new rows of apple, peach, and plum trees along with various nut trees. A separate grove of black walnuts had been planted away from the others—their roots released juglone, which inhibited nearby plant growth.
They had also ordered hundreds of Mylar bags and corrugated boxes to store vacuum-sealed pouches, which were then packed into acquired shipping containers.
Mike had been busy setting up additional racks for the TOR network Jeremy had asked him to establish. He had suspected for a while that Jeremy worked for an intelligence service; certain traffic patterns made it obvious. One unusual photo had caught Mike’s eye. After scanning it, he discovered something encrypted embedded inside—digital steganography. He couldn’t crack it, so he sent Jeremy a message requesting a face-to-face.
Jeremy flew up the next day, landing on the highway and taxiing the plane straight into Mike’s driveway. When Mike showed him the photo, Jeremy nodded.
“Digital steganography,” he confirmed. “One of my people used a bad image that drew attention. Thanks for catching it.”
Mike explained his concern that the photo might have come from outside the authorized network. Jeremy assured him it was one of his own; he recognized the ID key.
With that settled, Jeremy handed over another piece of hardware to install on their secure network. It enabled burst-mode secure VOIP—short 1.5-second transmissions pieced together at the receiving end, making conversations nearly undetectable. Jeremy waited while Mike installed the board and ran a successful test.
After Jeremy left, Mike reconfigured his control board to send an immediate alert to his phone if a VOIP connection initiated. He headed upstairs to the smell of baking bread, sliced off a warm heel, buttered it generously, and poured a glass of tea.
Hanna was zesting oranges for a loaf of limpa bread.
“I’m going to need more flour after today,” she said.
“I’ll grind some after I finish this slice,” Mike replied.
He polished off the bread and tea, rinsed his glass, and went downstairs to the storeroom. He rolled a barrel of wheat berries to the grain mill, removed the lid, and began scooping grain into the hopper. Adjusting the mill for a fine grind, he positioned the bin underneath and flipped the switch. When he had about fifteen pounds of fresh flour, he sealed the pantry canister, cleaned up, and rolled the barrel back into place. Carrying the heavy five-gallon canister upstairs was far better than driving to Lyons for store-bought flour.
Eduardo hauled another log they had set aside for milling. They were cutting as many 2x4s as possible. Mike Best had offered a year-old steer in trade for enough lumber to finish his new chicken house. More and more families were growing their own food these days and reviving old techniques for feeding households. Forgotten skills were being dusted off and shared throughout the community.
Peter Stegall, a retired agronomy professor from Auburn University, had acquired a vintage manual cane press, juicer, extractor, and mill setup for making sugar, syrup, and molasses. The boiling pans were stainless steel and easy to clean, but the juicer needed repair—the roller mechanism was broken. Peter had reached out through Kiera at the store, and he and Paul spent hours discussing sorghum production. Peter had access to high-yielding vintage seed stock from South America. With help from local farmers, they planned several fields for the coming spring. A machinist and mechanic agreed to fix the mill, and a central processing site was chosen. The whole community pitched in.
Jeremy even contributed—somehow producing two wooden cases of sugar-cane knives from India, forty-eight knives per case. Paul hired Adam Jones, the solar installer, to design a system to power the electric juicer while the boiling would be done over wood fires. Men began stockpiling firewood through the winter. The District Ranger quietly supported the effort, marking trees that needed thinning in the Ozark National Forest. Firewood collection helped with wildfire management, and sugar prices had climbed so high that most families could no longer afford it. The community was eager for the new project to succeed.
Mateo was already harvesting tomatoes from the greenhouse. The new grow beds were installed and fully balanced. In another couple of months, they would begin harvesting the first of the fast-growing fish.
Mike noticed right away that Hanna and Annika had been shopping again while he and Ben were out hunting. A few new items had appeared in the nursery, including a baby musical mobile now hanging above the crib. He took it as a portent of things to come.
After storing the fresh meat in the nearly empty third chest freezer, Mike pulled out twenty-five pounds of pork to thaw. He checked his supplies for making stångkorv—Swedish fermented breakfast sausage. He had just enough Bactoferm to process ten pounds. He’d need to make a run to the meat packer in Sioux City for more starter culture and some pork belly to grind with the meat. He set the pork in the pantry fridge to thaw and went looking for Hanna.
“I need to head to Sioux City for more Bactoferm and pork belly,” he told her. “Want to ride along?”
“Are you going now?” Hanna asked.
“Yeah, I want to start grinding first thing in the morning.”
“Mamma’s coming over tomorrow to help me make lihapiirakka,” Hanna said.
Mike loved the Finnish meat pies. “Make them with the yeast dough—I like those best.”
“I know. I’m filling them with the rest of the grouse and some pork.”
“Throw in some elk too. I’ll pull a package out to thaw.”
“Okay, but you need to send a few over to Daddy,” Hanna reminded him.
“No problem. Anything you need me to pick up while I’m out?”
“Not really. Just grind some flour when you get back.”
“Can do. I’m heading out then.”
Mateo ordered another load of gravel for the new planting medium. The larger trays would arrive in a couple of days, and he wanted everything ready. Eduardo and Paul had been busy cutting oak and building sturdy stands to hold the trays. Paul had given Mateo the green light to order the rest of the parts and tanks to finish out the greenhouse. Mateo also picked up spare pumps as backups. His relationship with the hatchery in Lonoke meant he could get more fish stock whenever he needed it.
The strawberries, radishes, and lettuce were practically exploding out of the grow beds. Tomato plants shot up faster than expected. Although tomatoes were self-pollinating, Mateo planned to hand-pollinate a few to test whether it boosted yield. In the newest bed he wanted to try spring onions. There were dozens of crops he still wanted to experiment with.
The EPA’s Clean Trucks Plan—pushed in the name of “environmental justice”—was straining the trucking industry, slowing food deliveries, and driving prices to levels few had ever seen. Combined with California’s strict environmental rules, shipments from the nation’s produce heartland were delayed or reduced, adding more pressure to already tight supplies in major cities. Emboldened criminals were now hijacking trucks from major processing centers, leased boxcars, and rerouted produce by rail into population centers. Several of the gangs were backed by drug cartels that piggybacked narcotics onto the shipments. The war on fossil fuels was slowly grinding the country down and fueling widespread unrest. Meanwhile, the immigration crisis strained food resources in large Democrat-controlled cities, heightening fears among residents that there simply wouldn’t be enough to go around.
Paul and Eduardo unloaded pallets of nitrogen-packed grains and moved them into storage. They now had enough staples for three years, though they hoped to reorder after the next harvest. Buying grain from Nebraska was far easier than growing it themselves. Everything else they needed could be grown on the farm or bought affordably from local producers and roadside stands. Paul had expanded the orchard again, adding new rows of apple, peach, and plum trees along with various nut trees. A separate grove of black walnuts had been planted away from the others—their roots released juglone, which inhibited nearby plant growth.
They had also ordered hundreds of Mylar bags and corrugated boxes to store vacuum-sealed pouches, which were then packed into acquired shipping containers.
Mike had been busy setting up additional racks for the TOR network Jeremy had asked him to establish. He had suspected for a while that Jeremy worked for an intelligence service; certain traffic patterns made it obvious. One unusual photo had caught Mike’s eye. After scanning it, he discovered something encrypted embedded inside—digital steganography. He couldn’t crack it, so he sent Jeremy a message requesting a face-to-face.
Jeremy flew up the next day, landing on the highway and taxiing the plane straight into Mike’s driveway. When Mike showed him the photo, Jeremy nodded.
“Digital steganography,” he confirmed. “One of my people used a bad image that drew attention. Thanks for catching it.”
Mike explained his concern that the photo might have come from outside the authorized network. Jeremy assured him it was one of his own; he recognized the ID key.
With that settled, Jeremy handed over another piece of hardware to install on their secure network. It enabled burst-mode secure VOIP—short 1.5-second transmissions pieced together at the receiving end, making conversations nearly undetectable. Jeremy waited while Mike installed the board and ran a successful test.
After Jeremy left, Mike reconfigured his control board to send an immediate alert to his phone if a VOIP connection initiated. He headed upstairs to the smell of baking bread, sliced off a warm heel, buttered it generously, and poured a glass of tea.
Hanna was zesting oranges for a loaf of limpa bread.
“I’m going to need more flour after today,” she said.
“I’ll grind some after I finish this slice,” Mike replied.
He polished off the bread and tea, rinsed his glass, and went downstairs to the storeroom. He rolled a barrel of wheat berries to the grain mill, removed the lid, and began scooping grain into the hopper. Adjusting the mill for a fine grind, he positioned the bin underneath and flipped the switch. When he had about fifteen pounds of fresh flour, he sealed the pantry canister, cleaned up, and rolled the barrel back into place. Carrying the heavy five-gallon canister upstairs was far better than driving to Lyons for store-bought flour.
Eduardo hauled another log they had set aside for milling. They were cutting as many 2x4s as possible. Mike Best had offered a year-old steer in trade for enough lumber to finish his new chicken house. More and more families were growing their own food these days and reviving old techniques for feeding households. Forgotten skills were being dusted off and shared throughout the community.
Peter Stegall, a retired agronomy professor from Auburn University, had acquired a vintage manual cane press, juicer, extractor, and mill setup for making sugar, syrup, and molasses. The boiling pans were stainless steel and easy to clean, but the juicer needed repair—the roller mechanism was broken. Peter had reached out through Kiera at the store, and he and Paul spent hours discussing sorghum production. Peter had access to high-yielding vintage seed stock from South America. With help from local farmers, they planned several fields for the coming spring. A machinist and mechanic agreed to fix the mill, and a central processing site was chosen. The whole community pitched in.
Jeremy even contributed—somehow producing two wooden cases of sugar-cane knives from India, forty-eight knives per case. Paul hired Adam Jones, the solar installer, to design a system to power the electric juicer while the boiling would be done over wood fires. Men began stockpiling firewood through the winter. The District Ranger quietly supported the effort, marking trees that needed thinning in the Ozark National Forest. Firewood collection helped with wildfire management, and sugar prices had climbed so high that most families could no longer afford it. The community was eager for the new project to succeed.
Mateo was already harvesting tomatoes from the greenhouse. The new grow beds were installed and fully balanced. In another couple of months, they would begin harvesting the first of the fast-growing fish.
ncsfsgm
Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Two
Mike watched the weather reports and didn’t like what he was seeing. An Alberta Clipper looked to be forming. Generally, they usually kind of brushed by them and headed on across the Midwest and on into the mid-Atlantic and New England states. However, there was a stationary High system that had formed over Ontario that could push the weather pattern further south. The rapidly intensifying storms sometimes spread heavy snow over parts of mid-west and northeastern USA and southeastern Canada. Generally, the main weather features associated with Alberta Clippers are some light snows and a shot of bitterly cold air over the eastern USA. They could have heavy snowfall even before Thanksgiving. At worst case, a warm front could move up from the south, bring moisture with it and really snow them in.
“If you need to get any shopping done for Thanksgiving, you need to get it done soon,” Mike told Hanna.
“What’s wrong?” Hanna asked.
“The weather is building for a big storm that could close the roads for a while,” Mike replied.
“I just need some almonds and cream cheese for desserts. I usually get them at the Fareway. We have everything else,” Hanna replied.
“Okay, let’s go this morning and get it done,” Mike said.
“Let me change clothes,” Hanna replied.
Although Hanna ended up with more items than she had told Mike, they were in and out of the Fareway grocery store quickly. Mike stopped at the Walmart Supercenter in South Sioux City on the way home and picked up 10 bags of ice-melt. Mike stopped by Didrik and Annika’s on the way home and dropped off five of the bags for them. All they could do now was wait and see what transpired.
Mike went to the greenhouse and picked a dozen ripe lemons, juiced and strained out the pulp then froze the juice in silicon ice cube trays. He then peeled potatoes and carrots, helping Hanna with the Kalops (Swedish Beef Stew). Later in the afternoon he went to the old farm and put out hay for the feeder calves. Mike cursed himself for not bringing along a shotgun when he flushed up two pheasants from near where the big bales of hay were laid out.
Mike used the loader on the tractor and built a pile of sand, gravel and ice melt and stored it near the garage and covered it with a tarp. The big concrete pad could get slicker than snot on a doorknob when snow began to melt or even worse if there was a lot of sleet mixed in with the snow. He could easily spread the mixture about to give traction for the vehicle tires. He had a front mounted hydraulic sweeper for the tractor that he would run in the spring to clean everything back off. What he swept up was added back to the pile. With no more preps to do, Mike put the tractor away and attached his snow blade and went back to the house. The smell of baking Cardamom Bread greeted him as he walked into the mud room and changed out of his boots into moccasins. Mike turned on the TV to KPTH in Sioux City to get the latest weather.
Before they went to bed, Mike checked the weather station control panel in the kitchen and saw the winds had picked up to 35 miles per hour, but there was no precipitation, or at least nothing liquid anyway. It wouldn’t be until midmorning the next day when anything began falling. At first there was light rain that soon turned into sleet, then the snow began.
Horace Smith built the four molasses cookers at the cooking shed. Paul, Mateo and Eduardo helped haul the used brick and steel plates to the site for him. Each cooking pit would hold a 3x6’ stainless-steel for boiling the sorghum juice down He figured four such pits would handle the amount of sorghum juice from the sorghum being planted the next spring. Several different farmers were each going to plant an acre so they would have a variety of soils The molasses taste would depend on the type soil you had. It would take ten gallons of juice to make one gallon of sorghum molasses. The heat from the wood fires would be even out by the steel road plates laid halfway up in the pits. The fire was to be built under the plate and the heat was dissipated much like a cast iron frying pan. It was easier to control the amount of heat boiling the juice. Using wood instead of propane was a more difficult way of cooking the syrup but if watched by a dedicated fire tender, could be kept regulated. There were several old timers around that would help out instructing the volunteers, keeping the operation running smoothly. Trailers were modified from chassis laying around farms for hauling the cane. It seemed everyone was pitching in something to support the effort.
The Freight Division of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters decided to go on strike. They were striking for higher wages to offset inflation and the higher costs of living. Even though in doing so, they would be shooting themselves in the foot, by causing a further increase of food prices and further weakening the economy, they voted to strike. Initially, independent truckers bore the load and kept up the haulage of foods across the country but with the increase in hijackings, many of the drivers stopped hauling. The government refused to step in and do anything, saying the economy was doing fine. Slowly but surely, the fuel and foods quit reaching their destinations and lawlessness took over. Accusations of hoarding soon began to fly and politicians, instead of addressing the root cause of the problems, soon began to pass bills that would have no effect on the growing problem.
Paul ordered a refill of his fuel tanks online and began gathering lubricating oils where he could. It was soon hard to find 30 weight motor oil anywhere within the Little Rock area. Mostly, the Crooked Creek residents had everything they needed, the men and women were collecting for the future….frequently bartering because it was taking more and more dollars to get anything. The value of the dollar was dropping to lows never seen before, but people were willing to trade for the things they needed.
If anyone read about the causes of the fall of the Roman Empire, they would see a lot of the similarities with what was happening in America. Of course, there wasn’t large numbers of barbarians attacking the United States, there needn’t be. They were already embedded within the inner cities controlled by Democrats, and only the Lord knew what was coming through the open borders unvetted. Constant social welfare programs and overspending had significantly depleted tax dollars, and oppressive taxation and inflation widened the gap between rich and poor. In the hope of avoiding the taxman, many members of the wealthy classes used loopholes designed by both parties, plus hid their money overseas. Although America no longer depended on slaves for a labor force, America still was deficit in people who were willing to work. When the government would give you more money not to work, the people were more than willing to sit on their asses. Then the workers at jobs historically designed for those with minimum skills and were paid minimum wages, decided they should be paid as if they had a PhD in burger flipping. You ended up with people who wouldn’t work or those whose value to the system was overrated or the perpetual tit-suckers of the government.
The politician’s desires to control everything led to an expansive government that bred corruption because the sheer size made it difficult to govern, plus incompetent politically appointees in leadership positions only served to magnify the problems already caused by government interference.
Prior to the fall of Rome, the Barbarian attacks on Rome partially stemmed from a mass migration caused by the Huns’ invasion of Europe in the late fourth century. When these Eurasian warriors rampaged through northern Europe, they drove many Germanic tribes to the borders of the Roman Empire. The Romans grudgingly allowed members of the Visigoth tribe to cross south of the Danube and into the safety of Roman territory, much like we are letting every Tom, Dick, and Harry through our borders unvetted. America has yet to reap the vile crop of this massive invasion.
The decline of Rome dovetailed with the spread of Christianity, and some have argued that the rise of a new faith helped contribute to the empire’s fall. The Edict of Milan legalized Christianity in 313, and it later became the state religion in 380. These decrees ended centuries of persecution, but they also eroded the traditional Roman values system. In America’s case, it is the decline of Christian values and the acceptance of decadent morals that was weakening the country. The final outcome is still in doubt.
In the Hagarville community, the opposite was in effect. The Church’s chapel was being expanded to accommodate the influx of people who were drawn to the fellowship and comradery of the community.
Mike heard the noise of the wind as it changed and went into the library and turned on the security system. The camera to the northwest was not viewable so he switched to an eastern camera and watched the snow blowing horizontally from west to east. Pulling up the weather console screen, he saw the wind was fluctuating between 60 and 72 miles per hour. The vortex generators where in high input mode. Mike checked the controls for the vortex generators and made sure the controls were set to shunt the power away from the battery bank when a certain level was reached or exceeded.
Mike looked out the window from their bed the next morning and saw everything was a ghostly white. It wasn’t daylight yet so he could only see that it had snowed but no indication yet of how much. Leaving Hanna sleeping, he dressed and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. Putting on a pot of water to boil for oatmeal, Mike stoked up the wood stove and got it burning, taking the chill off somewhat. The house, to Mike, was comfortable at 60 degrees, but Hanna liked it a little warmer. Going to the mud room, Mike put on his parka and trapper’s hat, took the snow shovel out of the corner and went outside to clear around the entrance door and from in front of the garage door. On level ground, there was around 20” of snow but it had drifted up in some areas, especially around the greenhouse structures.
Mike watched the weather reports and didn’t like what he was seeing. An Alberta Clipper looked to be forming. Generally, they usually kind of brushed by them and headed on across the Midwest and on into the mid-Atlantic and New England states. However, there was a stationary High system that had formed over Ontario that could push the weather pattern further south. The rapidly intensifying storms sometimes spread heavy snow over parts of mid-west and northeastern USA and southeastern Canada. Generally, the main weather features associated with Alberta Clippers are some light snows and a shot of bitterly cold air over the eastern USA. They could have heavy snowfall even before Thanksgiving. At worst case, a warm front could move up from the south, bring moisture with it and really snow them in.
“If you need to get any shopping done for Thanksgiving, you need to get it done soon,” Mike told Hanna.
“What’s wrong?” Hanna asked.
“The weather is building for a big storm that could close the roads for a while,” Mike replied.
“I just need some almonds and cream cheese for desserts. I usually get them at the Fareway. We have everything else,” Hanna replied.
“Okay, let’s go this morning and get it done,” Mike said.
“Let me change clothes,” Hanna replied.
Although Hanna ended up with more items than she had told Mike, they were in and out of the Fareway grocery store quickly. Mike stopped at the Walmart Supercenter in South Sioux City on the way home and picked up 10 bags of ice-melt. Mike stopped by Didrik and Annika’s on the way home and dropped off five of the bags for them. All they could do now was wait and see what transpired.
Mike went to the greenhouse and picked a dozen ripe lemons, juiced and strained out the pulp then froze the juice in silicon ice cube trays. He then peeled potatoes and carrots, helping Hanna with the Kalops (Swedish Beef Stew). Later in the afternoon he went to the old farm and put out hay for the feeder calves. Mike cursed himself for not bringing along a shotgun when he flushed up two pheasants from near where the big bales of hay were laid out.
Mike used the loader on the tractor and built a pile of sand, gravel and ice melt and stored it near the garage and covered it with a tarp. The big concrete pad could get slicker than snot on a doorknob when snow began to melt or even worse if there was a lot of sleet mixed in with the snow. He could easily spread the mixture about to give traction for the vehicle tires. He had a front mounted hydraulic sweeper for the tractor that he would run in the spring to clean everything back off. What he swept up was added back to the pile. With no more preps to do, Mike put the tractor away and attached his snow blade and went back to the house. The smell of baking Cardamom Bread greeted him as he walked into the mud room and changed out of his boots into moccasins. Mike turned on the TV to KPTH in Sioux City to get the latest weather.
Before they went to bed, Mike checked the weather station control panel in the kitchen and saw the winds had picked up to 35 miles per hour, but there was no precipitation, or at least nothing liquid anyway. It wouldn’t be until midmorning the next day when anything began falling. At first there was light rain that soon turned into sleet, then the snow began.
Horace Smith built the four molasses cookers at the cooking shed. Paul, Mateo and Eduardo helped haul the used brick and steel plates to the site for him. Each cooking pit would hold a 3x6’ stainless-steel for boiling the sorghum juice down He figured four such pits would handle the amount of sorghum juice from the sorghum being planted the next spring. Several different farmers were each going to plant an acre so they would have a variety of soils The molasses taste would depend on the type soil you had. It would take ten gallons of juice to make one gallon of sorghum molasses. The heat from the wood fires would be even out by the steel road plates laid halfway up in the pits. The fire was to be built under the plate and the heat was dissipated much like a cast iron frying pan. It was easier to control the amount of heat boiling the juice. Using wood instead of propane was a more difficult way of cooking the syrup but if watched by a dedicated fire tender, could be kept regulated. There were several old timers around that would help out instructing the volunteers, keeping the operation running smoothly. Trailers were modified from chassis laying around farms for hauling the cane. It seemed everyone was pitching in something to support the effort.
The Freight Division of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters decided to go on strike. They were striking for higher wages to offset inflation and the higher costs of living. Even though in doing so, they would be shooting themselves in the foot, by causing a further increase of food prices and further weakening the economy, they voted to strike. Initially, independent truckers bore the load and kept up the haulage of foods across the country but with the increase in hijackings, many of the drivers stopped hauling. The government refused to step in and do anything, saying the economy was doing fine. Slowly but surely, the fuel and foods quit reaching their destinations and lawlessness took over. Accusations of hoarding soon began to fly and politicians, instead of addressing the root cause of the problems, soon began to pass bills that would have no effect on the growing problem.
Paul ordered a refill of his fuel tanks online and began gathering lubricating oils where he could. It was soon hard to find 30 weight motor oil anywhere within the Little Rock area. Mostly, the Crooked Creek residents had everything they needed, the men and women were collecting for the future….frequently bartering because it was taking more and more dollars to get anything. The value of the dollar was dropping to lows never seen before, but people were willing to trade for the things they needed.
If anyone read about the causes of the fall of the Roman Empire, they would see a lot of the similarities with what was happening in America. Of course, there wasn’t large numbers of barbarians attacking the United States, there needn’t be. They were already embedded within the inner cities controlled by Democrats, and only the Lord knew what was coming through the open borders unvetted. Constant social welfare programs and overspending had significantly depleted tax dollars, and oppressive taxation and inflation widened the gap between rich and poor. In the hope of avoiding the taxman, many members of the wealthy classes used loopholes designed by both parties, plus hid their money overseas. Although America no longer depended on slaves for a labor force, America still was deficit in people who were willing to work. When the government would give you more money not to work, the people were more than willing to sit on their asses. Then the workers at jobs historically designed for those with minimum skills and were paid minimum wages, decided they should be paid as if they had a PhD in burger flipping. You ended up with people who wouldn’t work or those whose value to the system was overrated or the perpetual tit-suckers of the government.
The politician’s desires to control everything led to an expansive government that bred corruption because the sheer size made it difficult to govern, plus incompetent politically appointees in leadership positions only served to magnify the problems already caused by government interference.
Prior to the fall of Rome, the Barbarian attacks on Rome partially stemmed from a mass migration caused by the Huns’ invasion of Europe in the late fourth century. When these Eurasian warriors rampaged through northern Europe, they drove many Germanic tribes to the borders of the Roman Empire. The Romans grudgingly allowed members of the Visigoth tribe to cross south of the Danube and into the safety of Roman territory, much like we are letting every Tom, Dick, and Harry through our borders unvetted. America has yet to reap the vile crop of this massive invasion.
The decline of Rome dovetailed with the spread of Christianity, and some have argued that the rise of a new faith helped contribute to the empire’s fall. The Edict of Milan legalized Christianity in 313, and it later became the state religion in 380. These decrees ended centuries of persecution, but they also eroded the traditional Roman values system. In America’s case, it is the decline of Christian values and the acceptance of decadent morals that was weakening the country. The final outcome is still in doubt.
In the Hagarville community, the opposite was in effect. The Church’s chapel was being expanded to accommodate the influx of people who were drawn to the fellowship and comradery of the community.
Mike heard the noise of the wind as it changed and went into the library and turned on the security system. The camera to the northwest was not viewable so he switched to an eastern camera and watched the snow blowing horizontally from west to east. Pulling up the weather console screen, he saw the wind was fluctuating between 60 and 72 miles per hour. The vortex generators where in high input mode. Mike checked the controls for the vortex generators and made sure the controls were set to shunt the power away from the battery bank when a certain level was reached or exceeded.
Mike looked out the window from their bed the next morning and saw everything was a ghostly white. It wasn’t daylight yet so he could only see that it had snowed but no indication yet of how much. Leaving Hanna sleeping, he dressed and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. Putting on a pot of water to boil for oatmeal, Mike stoked up the wood stove and got it burning, taking the chill off somewhat. The house, to Mike, was comfortable at 60 degrees, but Hanna liked it a little warmer. Going to the mud room, Mike put on his parka and trapper’s hat, took the snow shovel out of the corner and went outside to clear around the entrance door and from in front of the garage door. On level ground, there was around 20” of snow but it had drifted up in some areas, especially around the greenhouse structures.
Sandcastle76
Senior Member
Thank you
223shootersc
Veteran Member
Thanks
feralferret
Veteran Member
Thank you, ncsfsgm.