Two 38-cal belted Babas and a Zeo and a young woman AK-47 armed sporting a yellow Peshi scarf met us inside the hanger and hustled us apart. “Where's he going?”
“The pilot? Strip searched, fed, plane gassed and sent off with - - -” Her old womans talk hung-up the phone right there. A rifles squad and Jeep met us off the gravel and we drove cow-paths up the back side of West Mountain till edge of the shallow, teaberry covered marsh bogged our wheels. Scrappy, cut-over woods turned black and from the rock quarry Scranton flickered below in obscure, smoke-filled haze. Beyond ambush the four woman squad snatched my 357-cal DW, striped away my A-3 and blind-folded me. I fell all over, rocks and bramble smashface though I'd walked this stream-side a hundred times. “Give the bastard a break, Kiska, Number-One says he's one of us?”
I have my chance. “If we're snipered I'll need the DW and if bombed the A-3.” Pedantic. One babe laughed out loud and caught a shit-rain of curses. I had come to interview Number-One. “Human rights and klan interest that's HRIs game here, the Slavic YPG battles Obama.nations ISIL pimps.” Scarfed faces under black sky register nothing. “We're the connected side of the republics second civil war!”
“Do we need HRI publicity that bad. This is the bastard who wrote modern women can't have long orgasms.”
Years ago, I thought! “Can I help if modern women spend too much time petting their cellphones?”
“Bastard. HRIs connected republic more pied piper! You lie like poison ivy and rattle like a horny snake, Scranton.” A young one; her tits pushed right over the ceramic belly-armour. “Where were you when the Russians invaded Ukraine?”
Too young! Where? When? Bleeding all night in an ice-crusted Donetsk gutter dodging 37-mm shrapnel and grad shaped charges that cut M60s in half. Instead I slap. “Fucking some DPR sniper babe in Slovyansk! She had a -15C foxhole, a Swedish M41B and two 3-AA shrapnel blankets - - and had a smile you could only dream of. We stayed warm all night.”
Asking just who might'a got me shot. I said nothing and plowed forward, digging a path through a half-foot of wet snow. We came suddenly upon the dark square tent; a laser headlamp caught the rain-cover. Then red lights showed inside and a no-nonsense women kicked open the felted leather flap. “You Scranton? Good. I'm Skia. You, Kiska, sentry duty tonight, and take an HK.” She wore an ear-bud and neck-mic. “ Will, try the tea it warms you. Signals decoded Belles message last evening.”
“Will”? A stern man in snow camo and red moccasins brushes by, takes a fingerprint and goes. I ponder that commonplace. “Signals! You have a signals group,” I rap to Skia?” Closing the tent flap I button away the sloping outside - - pickets above the quarry and other tents below us, an elm snowfield and crackling half-frozen stream. Inside - - - our bean-can stove sparks in the fuckin-a cold spitting random flame at three militia women and me.
Micki, sipping a chicken broth bubbling fresh. “Tired of winter so soon, or just tired of us?”
How good the soup smells against the bitter December freeze. “Winter. I played in that sandstone quarry all winter long. Quarrymen wouldn't go near the stone face with ice-scabs ready to slip and dash off their heads. Never happened to me ice-climbing, fossil hunting and along the gritty edges I might scare up a grouse - - -”. I stop. “Then, all twelve year old boys owned a shotgun.” Too much rattle from me; no answers from them; try again. “Belles - - One of your inside people?” Their brazier was large and ugly and built of welded bean and ammo cans, but the 12 KW generator was a modern long-wave snatcher unit straight out of Vancouver. German HKs were stripped down on a cleaning table smelling of fish-oil. Eight cots were fresh and tucked hospital style, and the latrine flap was zipped.
“Inside Mr Will Scranton,” she batts the name like a shuttlecock. “Inside NOBs crypto,” bulleted out, hard as 180 grains of sniper death. “Person or persons - - - and as inside as it gets.” I fork over a Camel straight and she licks off loose flakes before I burn the tip a fuming Zippo-red. “Getting inside never takes more than a bit of leg , but getting information out - - - a damned clever slice of misdirection, Scranton. Their mark get shot and spygirl gets candy bars if we can extract them.”
“Feckin'-a white of you.” Whistle-whistle-whistle my head snaps up, poking through the tent-flap as packs of 155-mm tracers race in from the Wilkes-Barre commons; race like godly meteors. Just Federals firing into the strip-mine ravines surrounding Avoca airport. Where militia squads surely lay in wait. A long look? Yes, definitely, ten miles down from the West Mountain slag-fields, but in the Lackawanna Valleys crisp November air innocently clear as a virgins eye. FLASH FLASH FLASH.
“Waiting for the shock?”
“Yeah. Near fifty seconds.” I think about it. More than twenty-five years since as a boy I had hiked, berry-picked, fished and hunted the top of West Mountain. Quiet then, mostly except for the illegal wildcatters blowing open old mines for a forgotten coal-face or pillar.
“Your feet feel it sooner.” I let the flap close and turn - - - The Slovak
burr rasped at my ears. “Our RPG-squads are small and anti-drone UFOs cheap. NOBs can shoot all day and only kill five militia.”
I bit into a new Camel and let fresh smoke bleed around my face. “So who really controls the Avoca Airport?”
She came close and I gave her the fag. Lit another. Didn't matter; she grabbed my wrist. “Depends on what you mean by control.” I was amused and let her play. “NOBs own the southern end of the runway, and Mafia the eastern and northern hills. But, the hardware itself - - - two-hundred Donetsk cyborgs chained themselves into the terminals and hangers. All carry Spetznatz weapons. Twice the Bantu came roaring up south approach and twice the cyborgs butchered them off.”
“I care less about boys-at-play than about who lands aircraft and supplies - - if anybody does. Any runway remaining?”
Skia burned her large dark eyes into me, and I could sense the mistrust and misdirection she wove at any man. “Everything remains. But, only the IDF can land aircraft. Yes, some Jews still run with each side, and Israel won't see them butchered or uncared. The IDF planes bring medical and ration supplies for the Jews, and the split one-third to each party was decided early.”
“A few freebooters, but Zionist BlackWidows from JFK step on them pretty hard. Airforce won't send up F-22s to challenge, since most plants that build them are wrecked and the one still working won't supply while the military stands neutral in the war. Israel still has Hebron to Haifa harbor and the Azores.”
“Azores! Never heard that before.”
“Natives cannibalized an ISIL landing force and Muzzi missionaries, and Zionists special forces came in behind with five-hundred barrels of Scot whiskey. Like I said you've been trapped in Jollyland while the real war happens east of the Mississippi. Both red and greenware are focused here, slick as a Peshi woman scrambling C4 into a cartoon on the physics site BLACKWHOLE.com.”
“I know them. Two of their black hats are ISIS plants.” Clicked off my micronized Zenith digicam. Spycraft pass-phrase. “I've heard about the Peshi imports; they screw up everything?
Slippery cunt. “With you baby - - anything,” and her two Lieutenants giggled. Wapi stepped to the screen waving a finger over a picture of DCs Lincoln Memorial, and noise-lines that COULD be steganography - - or not. Filtered SVD produced a single short column of code; she just knew it. Twigs flew into the brazier and crackled. Teacups rattled.
Her voice dropped deep into a long graceful throat. “POTUS will arrive at sunrise either here, Avoca, or at CVG airport in Cincinnati.”
Explained lots. Skia , Micki and Wapi. I live by hearing things better than the next guy. Browski, Turner, Dego, Kik, Greezer, Lubo, Stosh - - - two days in my Pennsylvania home ground brought back all the best blood names and that blood was ankle-deep on the ground of last Centuries anthracite country. Shit! The artillery strikes buzzed my feet, then the airblast run cross the valley caused a dull rumble.
Everybody felt it and went motionless. Then - - “Has to come in by air, if he does anything. Three days ago I left Cincinnati; interview with Commander Cody and his airhead Polak pickets.”
“Where's your leggy bitch?”
“Not mine. She decided to stay with Cody for a couple days of personal filming.”
“You get nothing, but the horns.”
“Bitch gets her fill - - and her story for HRI.” I sparked Skia a long lusting apris' and flushing red she turned away. “Cody had no more than a battalion of Kentucky farmers; couldn't stop batshit in a cave, but he joined up with Ohio 3rd Mech. Militia. That's light pickets plus hardware, a strong militia combo. They cleaned out firebombing BlackPanther locals, Michigan Muzzi snipers and took back Cincinnati suburbs short of the airport last week.” How weird - - that everyman story got HRI a two-million hit day and enough banner-ads to advance a months salary.”
“How do you pay?”
“Bitcoins. Bitcoins backed with silver from a gutted Federal transport.”
“I never believed that HRI story.”
“Get out of the house more often - - - ," I leared. “Anyrate plenty of Negro preppers joined the street-fights against BP , mostly supporting Cincinnati Negro police and fire departments now run by tight-ship ex-Navel officers. The NPs were all Baptists, learned leaderless cell structure from a son who returned legless from Iraq, and now half wear militia rattlesnake patches. Eyes bore into me as I drifted. Shock! “ISIS and the BP were 'thinned' like sausage between hamburgs. One-by-one or shell-able groups; the few whites involved held keeps on the river and served out food, ammunition and the occasional GRAD. Movement too as white unlocked and deployed APCs . ”
I jumped her dis-interest. “Negros all smoke Cubanos.” She stopped to spark a Marlboro light. “Funny thing Obama.nation still considers all of them his! Anyrate mixed blood unit rapping APCs and light tanks grabbed checkpoints and now control Interstates 71, 74 and 75. The city ring connections - - control and checkpoint if you ignore bangerboi Dearborn raiders. ”
“So gotta be by air.” Skia had buttoned top button of her red and black checked hunters shirt and tightened the cinch on her A-2 camo vest. “Obama.nation might go to Cincinnati just to shake supporting black paws.” She wasn't going to give me a damned thing. Hard hearted woman, soft hearted man - - -
I said. “Marines gave Federals four Osprey V-22s, so Obama.nation can get around. Beat shit outa imports intruding on their bases, but leathernecks can't see forming up in the militia line.” I fumbled for another Camel, dropped the pack which Skia snatched from the air, pawed out a tube for Wapi and herself and me and tucked the rumpled pack into my side A-3 pocket. I let go her hand and said. “They're real conflicted. This way or that. But, even with a C130 that's only enough lift for Company, but not regiment support”
Wapi. “He moves light then.”
Risk nags me. “Why does Obama go anywhere, except his Virginia bomb-shelter? He's got Bantu, Camp-of-the-Saints imports, FBI, CIA, NSA power-sluts and for every hired whore another faithful Homeland gestapo. Millions of bodies and half the governors.” I stopped on very touchy ground. Then - - “Since the Federals got tore-up early-on in the Lackawanna Valley, why now and why in particular Scranton?”
“Go nowhere be nothing,” snapped Skia. Angry, agitated she pawed for Zippo on Camel.
Maria said gently. “You're West Coast now Scranton, and don't know the East Coast skinny. New England Yankees took it hard losing Pennsylvania, like North Caroline had gone with Lincoln during the 1st Civil War. Traitorous. Unbelievable.”
Skia. “But, enough Ha'vad and Smith progressives were sniped dead by Nittany Lions to drive home the separation; with heavy picket-lines we took parts of upstate NewYork and western NewJersey.” She spit. “No chance for Manhattan or Long Island; Mossad and IDF owns those. And of-course we
took most of Pennsylvania excepting Phili and wettback infested Erie.”
“Erie? Virgin Mary drop them off?”
“Don't blaspheme Scranton, just because you were a Catholic. Fuckun rich white-boy motor-boats loaded with bangers cruised into Erie from Chicago and Canada.” She blew a long thin stream of Turkish smoke toward the door and it drafted away. “Mostly we're been lucky, lucky and backed by 203 and 175 heavy artillery left over from last Century. That's the Pennsylvania and Ohio National Guard for ya. But, Williamsport witches claimed Joe Paterno had come back from hell to whip Boston SJW bloody-backed.”
“In Spokane I was originally contacted by LOU - - League of Ukraine. Anyone else?”
“We got a few Dagos and Hunks - - - yeah in the North-East we're a fucking big deal.” Shia butted out her Camel and dipped a tin-cup of broth. Sipping and curling into a hemp lounge. “Lot's of Ukraines came here after fighting Russians. Life's not just a straight fuck, Scranton. Federals have got a couple of recent wins. Taking back Wilkes Barre from Don Caputos gang was one.”
“High minded Consiglio no doubt.”
Skia flushed. “Syracuse lasted as long as Rome - - and the water was clean!” Gears shifted as a history lesson ended. “Wilkes Barre had no hope. Coked-up Philadelphia niggers swept picket-lines like one big krak-deal, and lots of narco.MEX imports ratted for street battles. ISIS flags all around, Obamas pals butchering out virgin infested Jesuit fag colleges. The Waps got no heavy weapons to balance weight against numbers so crushed to the west against the Susquehanna River and pinned to the eastern hills by human wave attacks they were genocided.”
“You stayed out of it.” Rancid back-and-forth. Eyes locked, I gave her a casual look leaving no doubt what I thought we should be doing.
She bit her lip, before sniping. “Getting a surprise ass-fuck is no fun. We got through an armed caravan of trailers and Ford 250s; saved a couple thousand women and kids to bring north, but their men were all lost.” She turned, put my DW-357 on a cot pillow, pulled off her A3 camo pants and lay on the cot beside mine. “Next move, Feds push north, try for the Avoca airport and surrounding high ground overlooking Scranton. That's mafia territory also, the Francono Association so-called and we offered our guns. All we got from the associations was puta this and puta that - - - dry lay cunt can't fight. So even our men agreed, we will let them die.”You hear enough?”
Through the holster I could see the 120-grain primer caps. “Who what when where why - - -” I was chewing the wet end of a new Camel fuming like bitch-of-the-month pms. “Gotcha?”
She pulled an Army-issue brown wool blanket over her ass. “Better get some sleep, Will. If Obama.nation lands at AVOCA fireworks get cranked. Coming with us - - sure you will and you may die chewing a mouthful of that shit.”
I butted Camel, finished the tin cup of chicken soup, moved my revolver to the floor and hit the cot beside her. Shirt and pants off the blanket scratched like steel-wool. Garbled messages rattled computers speakers. I didn't feel funny at all, just drifty - - sleepy and when Maria pinched the needle into my right arm I didn't even fight.
It was so deep, the dreaming - - - Bells rang. Colored panel lights flashed like a Sci-Fi B-movie. I jerked upright, then reached down for the DW. Felt the hammer, and saw the cotton-puff band-aide on my right forearm. Skia jerked upright and flipped from her cot. “Show-time.”
“Somebody is about to land. Flight path from the north, but that's a common trick.” Skia was off her cot, the A-3 top back on returning from the latrine; she pulled on Dragon-skins from a metal lock-up and threw me a pair of 3-A leather-belted shorts. “Won't save your balls, but that's all we have for men.”
My digi-cam clicked back on. “Men - - you have any left?”
Skia busted a puff from the short dry end of a Camel straight. “Better ask that question to Number One. Loose lips sink dicks.” She poured three thick espressos.
“But - - I thought - - damme you lie like a champ.” LOU trained its people well. “What did I say,” pointing to my bandaged arm?
“Said you fuck like Achilles and write like Homer. Must like ancient history. Case you mis-guessed I fuck like Dryope.” Maria was messaging furiously; Skia rapped code into a terminal and KEYED it over. I stood beside my canvas chair for five minutes. Then the two women left.
Passing inside after them was the man in red moccasins. Leather skin, but a young mans bright eyes. He wore iGlass lens and carried a SW 357-cal under his right shoulder. Smoked a ripe, rum-soaked Habanos. “I'm Number One and shit doesn't fly.”
We shook hands. “Call me John.”
“Not Ukraine? How does that work for you, with all the women?”
“My grandparents were born in Debaltseve; I visited. Russian GRADS had torn up their grave-marker - - - Do we need to talk a lot?”
He swept passed and dropped his branched-white cammo onto a cot. “Women, yes, they fight dirty and die hard.” John checked his watch. “Four-AM. Our Pocono radar been picking up first sweeps of A-10s ahead-of POTUS maybe plane.”
“He'll be flying - - - ?”
“An A-6 Intruder or one of the reconditioned B-58s; Homeland Security craft. Gives him two BP bodyguards out of the cockpit. Probably an F-105 or A-10 will land first or touch-go; then a C-130, depends on the counter-fire they get.”
“How much will they get?”
“As you know Mr. Scranton, that's why militia carry weapons! On this mission M-14s.”
Feckin-A asswhole. The WHUP-WHUP-WHUP of a landing micro-copter happened outside. “It's a ten minute ride. Our helmets are onboard.” Outside - - false dawn - - we piss in the snow and load into the layflat armoured pods; four riders and a robot pilot.
“Expensive units. Why not just buy the country from Brin, Zuckerberg, Prizker and Gates?”
NUMBER ONEs face just squeezed into his helmet. “Because you should not need to buy, what you already own.”
“Who pays - - -” my pod closed round and the question died. Gobye metal weave shoulder pads were part of our rigging, snugging us in and waiting for the first 7.62 round. Away! Just over tree-top and slinging south-east another six micro-copters join ours. The uneven light may hide more. Details are hard to know, but the big picture - - - even from miles and miles you didn't need postcards; a flickering wall of phospho-splash artillery strikes surrounded Avoca airport. Psycho-land! First line batons those PSAs that bloomed violet-white, drilled a hole ten feet deep, then melted everything within ten yards before the rice-sized shrapnel spread. Even
the robo-pilot knows this; everything in the micro-copter is co-wired and data-feeds are in common.
“Current small-arms fire along the runway, north to south.” Number One raps calmly. “Mostly 50-cal, but a few 20-mm grenades. Lock down your eye-cover; a blind man is a dead man. We'll drop inside the fire ring and crash-land high up, into the northside approach lighting. Too bad Robo, that means you'll die, but get teeth chewed into those towers cross-beams.”
“YES NUMBER ONE. I UNDERSTAND”
I wonder no it's honest madness - - in his electronic dreams had Robo seen starships burn off the ice-worlds of Andromeda? Crap, nobody thinks that way. The drop below tree-top level wrenches my gut. Shearing makes the copter blades shudder. Building windows zip by as we cut into a shopping center, then yank up banking into the airport zone. Fireflies fill the air and sparkling Chinese dragons the ravines; dark blue and violet stars in seconds revolve, stream and vanish. One copter vanishes in a blue-red fireball. Black now, then approach-light scaffolding looms ahead like a shiny rusted spider-web. “Bet the Yankee Doodles never expected this,” I snap into the mouthpiece.
“Yes. About the future, ignorant men with no expectations.” Other voices joined in sprung tight as matchlock springs. “Scurvy ridden arthritic bumpkins. But, they read their Bibles, and Livy and Thucydides and Herodotus before cleaning their flintlocks.” Static crackles and melts. “New York traitors all kept their Brit wealth. Still do!” Our engines labor. “Lots of Virginians died disowned and unpaid early in the war.” A warning scream of aircraft grade aluminum extrudes bringing rapid deceleration. “Will we die young?”
Then the twisting, metal snapping impact of micro-copter against wedge-supported seventy-foot tall light scaffolds. Front and fault-lines of the copter smeared into adhesive knots of metal, grinding our robo-pilot into dust and chewing into the structure. Titanium blades sheared steel before biting a grip. Plastics melted before shattering. Wedged in, all four pods clung to the twisted steel and all four pods opened graphite slots somewhere. We have struck just below the light cages, and with rubber hand and foot stickers all four of us made it to the parallel walkways. Four other heavy impacts followed ours and twenty minutes later living pieces of our raiders unit appeared behind us. Lost men grub up from the side, moving to the sound of fire. Metal jacket bullets randomly nip at the railings; we eat steel webbing and crawl for 100 yards.
“How do we take down POTUS plane?”
“You never take down a plane and pit the runway. Your missing supplies rot, and IDF would strafe your home positions to Hades.” NUMBER ONE relits his rum-soaked Cubanos. "We fight POTUS regulars like the old days; fire-lines across the runway and may the best shot win.”
'How fucked' I think. The approach deck sinks during those hundred yards and the lights now rise ten feet above our heads. We form three picket-lines and jog through the maze of walkways. I'm beside NUMBER ONE. “Think they know we're here?” I've asked dumber questions, but even chin-to-the-metal the airports surrounding territory was a living breathing firestorm hell of exploding ordinance. Hills and ravines and rock faces were flash-lit by tracers, echoed whizzing steel-tips and the treads of screeching biting light armour. How could a man live? We lived!
He said. “Know? They measured the crashes – a seismometer gadget we don't have. I don't know if they detected moving bodies on the runway approach, but soon enough strafing air-cover will tell us. Bad for us if they do, but they won't use Gatling guns on the lights.” Talk and trot. Our first picket had reached the runway , twenty-five feet above us and climbed spikes to the concrete. It's good cover, but a twenty-foot drop if your wounded. Prolly dead anyway.
“Incoming incoming - -” Earbuds say they're taking fire. Second line that's us can advance. It's fucked I think again. Answers come. An A-10 slides silent over our backs, stands on a wingtip and half down the runway breaks east, burying a flash illuminated tree-line in 30-mm death. East. Where clouds break from night a sliver of silver light cracks open the day. In the hills to both sides a crackle of small arms breaks into a wall of hammering twenty and twenty-five mm contagion. Imagine black death hiding all night under your breakfast table. Then the first bite of bacon - - -
“It's a trap.” I shout. Static fills my earbud, beyond my security clearance. Then an F-105 swoops low, spraying the runway with 22-cal Hornets that penetrate nothing, but ill-covered flesh. Runway level now and the southern tip of the runway is a swarm of auto-firing body-armoured fiends. Hundreds have broken through the Dons southern picket and head straight up the runway. First the wave, then bodies are visible as the eastern sky lightens. Blasts above us dance metal frags across our helmets; three men scream. The fighter breaks right, but quarter mile out a mini-SAM sneaks under its belly and snaps its back. Digicam rolling I watch it die like two falling twigs in a range-fire. Flashes light up the dark southern sky. Stops nothing; two C-130s are right on it's tail and they are landing hard and quick.
NUMBER ONES voice fills the earbud. “No POTUS today; sorry gentlemen. Franconos men retreated in good order into set positions. Lots of dual 50-cals. And our Nikes spotted and zeroed the Federal 155s that tried shadowing their move with air-bursts. Twenty-two NOB artillery wasted!”
The auto-picker grabs a voice. “What about the C-130 troops.”
No words, for a long second. Then - - “First fight first. Rats on the runways south end are narco.MEX imports. Rubios homeboys with A-16s, helmets and 3-A chest protectors that's it. Skip your steel-tips along the tarmac and just bust up their skinny legs; shoot them down.”
Again a ghost voice. “The C-130s - - - a silence never ended - -” All three picket lines had joined into one, including seven dark-ops and twice as many disconnected range-rider boyos with deer rifles; over one-hundred men. The fire-line peeked over the runways northern concrete edge and let go a sheet of hell-fire. Miss the planes gawd sakes miss the planes - - -
Then a funny voice with a deep Irish brogue. “Airlift soldiers are 4-th Mass Recon. Two heavy companies, a Special Force platoon, some mortars and TOWs.” As he speaks armored men spill from the planes and auto-form double inverted Vs. Their for'ard sideways aperiodic weave is a VC trick that never stops killing. Cyborgs from the terminal and repair buildings set down a disciplined fire-field, but Recon hand mortars take out cell after cell. From hills and ravines Mafia 335-cal sniper fire chops into the Recon formation; FMJs are returned bullet-for-bullet. That brogue again. “Old Army officers run the kit. All trained and all white and all race-traitors. They will find your rear and kill you fast as shit's brown.”
Recon triangles fire-edged slot up the runway, toward us and tangle into hillside brush. “What are they fighting for if Obama crapped out?”
“They fight to kill white American citizens. Any questions?” Heavy armor, staggered movement, instant casualty replacement and Belgian assault rifles – the Recons are tough men.
I'm working along the line, doing first-person interviews as the firefight balloons. Our M-14s volley-3 each trigger pull; enemy die 400 yards away. My digicam gets shoved in a fighters neck - - for words, and helmet cams are auto-downloaded. Fear rages, then hate, then confusion. For the roaring sound and smoke you can't see, except for the rifleman scoping your head. The narco.MEX are slaughtered at 1300 meters by our four 14.5mm transformers. Never seen 'em before, weapons built from small pieces each soldier carried. For them we have eight minutes ammo. Supply robots land below us; we could drink beer. I wonder where are the women and why are the men here?
The 20-mm Gatling guns on the tail of each C-130 do not fire and sweep death like a broom sweeps dust. Rules of war - - this war this territory. ISIS cheated; Maryland Militia took two-hundred
heads and bombed a dozen Islamic schools in Saudi Arabia. Stopped it! Way different in the open, long-barreled high desert Southwest, I knew ; that's another world. But, in Appalachia with pond-jump runways, as long as runway aircraft do not become a target, it's own weapons are capped. Not above the battlefield, or on a bombing mission, but airport approach and takeoff. The alternative for both NOBs and militia is heaps of dead, pus-infected wounded and starving children.
We start to take casualties; our very best shots notch rifle-butts. But as quickly as Recon formations mended the enemy Vs collapse into weaving lines. Federal troops disciplined retreat confuses and they and re-enter the C-130s with minor losses. It's fucked.
Then the earbud crackles. NUMBER ONE and he sounds like a snake-bit kitten. “Obama is dead. POTUS killed by his own BPs in Cincinnati.”
Not just his voice, but a universal voice of quietude falls over the Avoca battlefield. I don't know if any “stop fire” command has been given the Federals; no such order is given to us. First the big guns stop, a quick blanking of flash and hammer-falls from 155s, 175s and 120s . Then the GRADS stop their whistling, sheeting terror. Static sounds of heavy machine guns, mortars and recoilless rifles die away. Cordite stench overpowers and rifle fire still crackles, crackles, crackles - - - like raindrops on sheet-metal; then clouds finish their tour and the showers end. And as sound ceases the Avoca hills and runway go dark.
“Scranton, what happened, where's the noise, explosions are they still shooting where's the - - -”. The short man with a bleeding cheek I'm interviewing can't grasp the change. I ask what he heard, and he answers “Obama-shit is dead. Is the war over?” Gossip and men scramble the picketline. A dozen stories - - nuclear warheads are targeted on us, NOBs will spray mustard-gas, LOU can deliver 30,000 Russian red-Mercury RPGs. Every fantasy. Then strobe-lights on the two C-130s turn on. Engines restart, churn low-octane smoke and the blades pitch a growing rush of sound. Rifle barrels sprout from our picket.
White flagged, two Fed officers exit the last planes side-port and shimmy to the tarmac. Both carry sidearms without body armour; suicide with or without Ebola spray-packets. My digicam spots the silver eagle insignia of a full bird colonel. They walk straight toward our line. NUMBER ONE and a red coated farmer roll over, onto the runway, strip 4-A body armour and helmets; each has a Glock poked into his belted underwear, and unhurried stride out to meet them. My digicam follows in low-angle, black-and-white, hi-def mode resolving a millimeter and translating whispers at 600 yards. The fighters join 300 yards from our picket.
Two men shook hands. “Call me Jack. We have a situation.”
“Only if shit's brown, Colonel.”
The group of four shuffled uncomfortably. “We thought perhaps a few women would show to support Don Franconos people. Instead he has what, a battalion?” No response. So, “where did you get the men?”
“Not so many men; much better org-charts and weapons.”
“Org-my-ass.” His Lieutenant passes around four Partegas from a box dated 1953 , lighting his own first. “Reserves in your own picket,” asks the Colonel? Silence. “You're NUMBER ONE. We can't find you to assassinate you, so you must shape-change to a woman at night. Anyway nice interlocking fire support. Do you have IBM Battle Master?”
“I should give a lecture at War College.” NUMBER ONE smiles scratching his rough beard. “One of our women polished and ported the Slackware version. She's Polish Jew, but flipped cause she like fucking Ukrainian men.”
“That's fucking-just-A dandy,” swore the Colonel. “But, you lost eight-thousand men at the 1st battle of Wilkes-Barre. All your good'ns most Federals think. Leaders of the pack!” Jack blew a smoke-fog. “Fucking-A first rate riverine assaults , 1st and 2nd battles of Wilkes-Barre. Supported by 22-cal mini-gats it's unstoppable.”
“Not this melee”, said NUMBER ONE. “We lost our children to the Philadelphia Bantus in the first battle. Now their parents butcher out your wettbacks and race-traitors.” Jack bristled at that , but clamp-jawed. “Your niggers were all speeded up on a mix of Jack Black and Jacobs Ladder. Got right down to the soul of raw human aggression. Fiends and zombies slaughtering anyone fronting them, Mafia punks failed to stop the landing; Greek and Nazi wartexts tell not to allow a landing, but Toney and Rico did and lost everything.” NUMBER ONE sucked all the Partegas draft into his lungs. “LOU lost –- a season of weeping.” He squinted down the runway, looking alongside the planes and beyond them over a concrete field of bloody and moaning and torn bodies. “It's different now, eh Jack?”
“Yeah; Obama is dead. I need to get my men off this runway.”
“You got wax dummies?” Jack clamp-mouthed. “Then fly away.”
All four infantry measured each other, looking for the weakness – or the deceit. “That easy?” Jack points to the row of gun barrels lining the airports north end.
NUMBER ONE “Besides orders, why did you come?”
“To defend the Republic and protect the Union.”
“The republic died at Shiloh, at Vicksburg union.”
“Some think not. Jews and women and gays and Negros and Mexicans and disabled and anti-social and non-vocal need our special protection. Love the pervert. Righteous is equality! In Lincolns name we bring slaughter to those who oppose us.”
“Who's US? All of us on those C-130s?”
Again nothing. Then. “We don't need to refuel, just turn and take off. No more slaughter here is needed.”
“Slaughter? You mean of American citizens?” NUMBER ONE spit concealing a profound grin. “Sounds like you think nancy-Rambo returns? I think adaptive warriors and bigger gun have the better thoughts. You planted and armed Hi-Bs, but lost the Boeing plant in Seattle to faggots who remembered their klan. Brave men. Same with the old Hughs plant in La. Cholo wetback bangerboiz got butchered out by old white machinists. They build our F-20s and ya can't stop 'em. Then again, Weisman and Rosenthal re-started Corning and Oneida factories in upper New York. They make body-amour and long range, high-caliber rifles: you know 4-AAs, twenty-five and thirty-seven mms.”
Jack stops chewing his Partagas. “A scared commander makes for a long list.”
“Keep losing, Jack. History is patient. We'll wait for your next visit.”
So my Digicam records. The men saluted, separated and a rope ladder retrieved the two Federals. Both C-130s taxied south, flattening bodies of wetback raiders to tarmacs end , turns and guns over our heads, off the runway and away to whatever chaos reigned in 3-letter Federal departments. Digicam tracks the aircraft turning south, toward DC. Our mobile Nike beacons illuminate them, but allow the flyaway. Two of our precious F-20 mods slink from the tree-tops to follow, delivering agro then turn west. Daylight now. Federal assault platoons can be seen retreating from hills east and south of Avoca airport. We do not fire on them. Mafia troopers held their ridges and ravines
and are sure to want a larger cut from the next trader flights. Will a siege at Wilkes-Barre follow, with surrounding towns militia controlled? Did Skia and her women join hillside Mafia squads and is she still alive? 'She owes me,' I try to laugh.
Sunlight cracks open the misty morning. “Scranton,” a voice down the picket calls my name. I drop lower on the framework moving sideways among many climbers. A hand grabs my shoulder and shakes. NUMBER ONE “He's confirmed dead, completely dead, totally dead . You know how Obama got whacked?”
“Nothing. And I see no corroboration - - -” Casual I didn't expect. “What can HRI print?”
“Collaboration shit-pile. One of his own people did it for him. A payback a message a promise. Some babe at the airport got full digicam streaming. Maybe THATS your bitch cause folks were watching it live on your website HRI. I've been watching UTUBE reruns.”
It freezes me, the bitch, fucking Cody and owning my website. “Quick action and dirty facts.”
“Quick and dirty. Obama skipped drug zombies in Avoca for Black Panther princes in Cincinnati. If metals fly, then pass out POTUS awards to Negro firemen and policemen who together with the BPs kept whites from burning down the city. Firemen and police actually did a fair job - - arresting BP firebombers. Of-course really white suburban preppers and farmers ambushed and butchered the Michigan Muzzi-wogs and ISILs heading south; that's why Cincinnati didn't burn like Flint and Lansing.”
“Okey his people blundered. Couldn't Obama couldn't pull out in time?”
“Pull out? Hell he giving freedom awards to BP leaders for keeping whites away from voting booths in a city election. Off the plane with minimum security, Obama was hugging lines of supporters. BP hotshot Keshon Jackson got close enough to kill the nearest cop and put couple 32-cal hollow-points in POTUS gut. Keshon shot another cop before a 3rd blew off his head with a 10-gauge coachgun. Still his pals followed - - chanting KESHONLIFEMATTER KESHONLIFEMATTER - - the start of a true Negro uprising. Couldn't get POTUS to the white-run hospital cause AK-47 blasting BPers closed the freeway. A dozen SS got murdered before white militia cut thru. Kmart first aide came up short. Gut shot is a bad way to die, but Obama cursed them for white devil racists before he stopped breathing.”
“Most think the devil is red. Hope that was my girl with the digicam.”
“Enough. Let rat off this feckin-A skeleton and start walking. Ten miles back to mountain – at least half before APC takes mercy and stop for us.” A line of orange ambulance-flashers approach along the Interstate. NUMBER ONE started racking down the broken steel frame. I'm slacking down behind him watching his jittery monkey-walk. Wonder - - I first wonder about his ranking non-American voice. Who dies for us; who fucks our women, who makes a new political order? Who is strong!
“Heh NUMBER ONE. Who were on those two planes you just released?”
Quick. “We saw what they wanted seen. Mass Recon - - and a full bird Colonel didn't need to be there. Major perhaps, but not a silver bird.”
My brain spins and mouth goes dry, knowing now what I should have guessed this morning, and forming a headline for tomorrows HRI. Close to bottom now, and we both leap to the slate hillside. I say. “But, with POTUS in Cincinnati somebody needed to be here. A balance." John is pissing into the brush. He's buried so deep by his masters can't find the top where he entered. "Some people give orders. Other people ARE order.”
You think the Federals have two? We have twenty!"
Mebby so. We'll need that many to lose . Fighting units are fed, trained and armed. Took a while, but their tired fucking around.
Yeah, some people imagine order. I pick shrapnel from my helmet and my ankle aches. We scramble down again, to the macadam road. An APC waits fuming low-cal diesel. Waiting for us! We swing inside through a turret, like safety is a gas-filled steel box. I turn to John. “Other huh. There's right, wrong and other. Mebby one of those planes, but not the other nested the next Federal POTUS.”
Returning to port, we're home with another HRI. Ladies and gentlemen good night.