Flanked : narrated by Will Scranton

Ladies and gentlemen - yeoman - all ships at sea and natives of any stripe ... lets go to press ...

Scrums steakhouse, ladies and gents . Sirloin, porterhouse … have a classic bourbon rib-eye ...”

“Fuck you. Hope his camp has coffee.” Ms K. is sleeping, head in-my-lap to avoid watching stream-beds and tree-tops flit by. Seems like forever since we left fucking sniperville Cincinnati.

“We got battle-fire static over the radio … electro-poppers Mobsters deploy when exposed by milli-meter radar tracking.” We land low and fast, and after a short skid the pilot damned near swallows his bourbon-soaked cheroot.

“Groovy quarter-wave paint-job,” I jib. “Don't have a Rad-Lad to blank-out that static and side-band snooping?”

He's chewed off the Pennsylvania-leaf wrapper. “Yeah, bitch right after martinis and caviar, or counter-AA rockets. And don't bet-a-fuck on the twilight PC12, not in this mess. You expect to get picked up going west, but I know the pilot. He has three kids and a hot wife. Mebby sleeps late today.”

My watch sez nothing, but the ticker reads nine-AM. I cover Ms Ks hair with a twine camo scarf, but landing or being awake or digi-caming another million-hit-day for HRI does not please. Seventy-five miles back we dodged sniper fire to pick her out of a hot swale; three dead Jayhawk militia got shallow-pits, three stones and a Psalm. It gets casual … the Skymaster is a heavy airframe that damps flight vibrations and mebby any desire to find solid ground twice traced and three-times shelled by enemy geo-crafts.

NOW, I think ! Kansas meadows firm, but remain green through June. The grass landing strip comes up in the Skymasters windscreen just 30 seconds before touchdown. It's beyond a plot of blue, orange and red glass landing markers and a brier-bound nest of 25-mm tree-trimmers. Didn't expect Scrums Militia raiders to cut-grass, but the front prop just wickers green fuzz our Cessna top-mounted wings ignore.

“Have a nice fucking day, Scranton.” Rubber patches on the 7.62-cal bullet holes in the fibreglass & Aramid skin hold solid.

Three hard men, armed and armoured and camoed in the style of Ukraine Speznaz leap from the planes rear door. Our look-outs, they clear round the Skymasters position, and four local farmers in 3-As and Winchester 30-06-cal rifles join them. There's talk and shared radio rap. We're out also, with back-packed HRI recording equipment. Tents sit back from the airstrip, tents and dugouts and wooden pallets scattered-away …. like puddle-jumpers can crash and Federal F4 warbirds just don't stop strumming their 20-mm shitrain . Stones-throw West , radar screening & French Mistrals lear from a hill-slit; they're deadly against both the F4s and Chicom ZBD-97s.

Two men exit a log bunker – wave - and we move toward them. It's been raining; the grass feels fresh and slick and innocent. Distant 35-mm rifle-fire rattles us all. Such fire has a muffled echo, across this open terrain that makes distance hard-to-judge. A sound-seeker disk places the vibs NNE … I look that way.

The Sargent says. “Just about where Scrums raiders had planned to sweep.” He checks an iPOD map. Young kid, Sargent, punk-style hair, cheap watch and a knife-scar across his chin … “we put pickets out that way. Nobody gets through while Scrums chewing on them.”

“Yeah nobody,” I grouse. 'Heard that before,' I think. “Why waste 35-mm rounds against a mini-14?”

Sargent starts to respond, then starts to curse, then sez, “our front line is everywhere, bastard. You and the girl armed?”

I look around. “Yeah, 357-cal.”

“Get M-15s from the weapons tent. Prisoners get treated rough out here, so don't be one.”

Behind us, the Skymaster has sucked dry three 20-gallon fuel battons. Pilots are out of the crap-stations, lug a bucket of coffee to the plane and circle it, poking flaps and tightening bolts. They're ready to take off. One yells. “No blo-jobs in a field, Scranton unless your neck needs a shave.” Their plane engines whine bitchy, thrumm-up and the aircraft carving brown-mud trails takes off low and mean and stays there along a tree-line as it buzzes east. Ever felt left-behind?

“Where's Scrum,” I ask ?

“Like I said, pilgrim, on patrol, raiding the Bluebellys ass.” Current lingo, I note, 'pilgrim' from the 1960s counter-culture and Bluebelly from the 1st American Civil War. *ASS* is strictly a modern term – assigned service section - a rut of armed mobiles whoring out a slice of prairie; killing everything with a nose to breath. Sargent snickers. “You plan on taking out a Mobster and joining him?”

“I'd take yours. Pack-in the digicam Ms K.”

“You need the Lieutenants permission for a mobile ...” Sargent sneers. “Besides, look at her eyes, dazed and confused. She doesn't have the pants for it!”

Right now too true. She is biting the death-brew without a mug. Nervous, distracted and fishing for time. “W-Who replaces c-cunt Hillary,” stutters Ms K? She's pawing the short-barrel 4-shot 357-cal Rugar under her left breast. Both paw and stutter recent, while I was in DC , from an ambush she didn't expect. It's like that, killing and the blood. She killed two Bluebelly teeners breaking free.”

I've got a paw on her shoulder and she leans into the force. “Nothing will happen till we reach the bunker.”

“You're here!” Scrums Lieutenant slides in rapping to Ms K. “Sorry about your Jayhawks. How long were you out?” He's a hard-bitten kid with cold eyes and bullet-burn on his right cheek.

“Ten days,” Ms K. shivers. “Time enough to map hydro-turbines, space enough to document all Federal Hillsdale Lake gofasts. Must be twenty of them, and two gunboats with 57-mm ordnance.”

“Our troopers .. your guides … they die good?”

She became Minerva, ripping away another seam of her life. “Militia never die good. They died slow, and never stopped shooting as they bled out, sniping one Bluebelly after another while we fought for position: any cover beside a landing zone.” Fuck.

She was the last trooper. “We pinged the satellite, but maintained local radio silence till we talked the plane down. Everyone was still alive and then, plane taxi 30 yards away they sent me first … “

“You get vids of ... fuck, sure you did, them running for the plane, shooting and dieing. The families will want some pics.” Lieutenant scibed-out a passcode and URL.

“I'll send them over, when bandwidth gets cheap”. She meant when GIMP washed away gore. “Will told me about bitch-Hillary. Hope she died slow.”

“Well now, isn't that question the Militias good fortune, that Clinton mafia and Rawlsian globalists butcher each-other.” Damme, I spit. Another feckin-A academic … Scrum favors them to distract while he fights.

“Best that her own people put her down.” I snigger. “Rats whisper that Clinton Foundation pay-rolled the Black Panther who shot Obama. Figures a payback was coming.”

Lieutenant asks. “Obamas' killer have any status of his own?”

“None!” Banski had told me. “His gang claims the refueling concession at Cincinnati Airport. Or I should say the delivery trucks; actual bangerbois couldn't refuel an RC drone with a squeeze-pump. ”

“Jackson, that really his name? You know this shit, Scranton.”

“Yeah, Jackson was his real name; so was Barkevious D’quell. Fuck, whether you called him Tom, Dick or Harry from gangs POV he provided muscle for vig collection. Another assistant thug to a legit Chicago triggerman. Obama stepped over the line, stepped uninvited onto the niggers territory and BANGZ the only plan Jackson knows.”

“Kinda primitive.” A trooper squad with two wounded , returning bloodied and ragged from patrol has stopped to listen. “Had we run across him, a field trial is what Obama would have gotten … screw Bronskis' shit … before he swung from a peach tree. And Levine?”

“POTUS killers are in short supply, Corporal.” All troopers had their M-16s ateasy-arms, but no reason to aggravate hair-triggers. “Pritzker was one of the few globalist Jews that escaped Militia snipers during the first five months of insurrection. Christ that was a mess, suppressing progressive, IDF and ISIL assassins.”

“Liberty does come from a gunbarrel.”

“As long as it's yours! Only one funny angle –- discovering that SUPREME Ginsberg had been dead for five years ... souless, thoughtless, a progressive atavar & charade years before being shot dead! We don't know exactly when programmers weaponized her. Ha !! A GOOGLE puppet-master ran her neo-Stalinist AI, while the collagen-creame skin and flesh burned energy from a fist-size thorium reactor under the skull. FACEBOOK clouded her memory ; synthetic blood actually was weaponized, carrying botulism toxin so if she ever scratched you … it's said Scalia was immune, since they argued over opera, but he did die funny. Ginsberg vanished during that night … Christ-on-cross can't get more golem than that!”

“Didn't anyone ever touch her?”

“Not for years. She always wore that black robe and SOD scarf.”

“Quite a coven of witches on the SUPREMES. Fit perfect with bitch-in-chief Hillary.”

“But neither Obama nor Hillary were ever targeted by Militia … lone wolves excepted … given the anti-Regicide thing of Bronski. Of-course no telling if a Militia scouting party killed his keepers and ran him down. “

The Lieutenant. “Funny how both Ginsberg and Obama.husain hated white western creativity; puppy twins of the same rabid bitch. Obama, because Bantu can never produce modern value; just too stupid. His job was to cripple white effort, blind the far-sighted, drag down Western success to the failure level of Bantu. Of-course he'd never produced anything of value himself. Then contra-wise. Ginsberg! She felt Aryans could never create or produce as well as Semites; white Aryan success, northern Euro-success was a fluke –- an historical fumble, a butchershop gain for gentiles her lifes work and grail was to eliminate.”

“Quite the Jewbitch ubermench, while Obamas yank was his kommi-stupid, nigger father. Wonder if they ever explicitly shared those themes?”

“Banski and the Militia did!” Laughs go all round, and a city-rolled joint passes finger-to-finger as Scrum would never permit.

I recalled. “HRI recorded the crucial debate among field commanders. Classic yeomanry real-time rhetoric. Douglas and Paine would have been proud, even with Banski winning over the strong-nativists and Redskins! Iroquois wanted to spit-and-roast Obama over charcoal! Can't reveal much, but fact is a Slovak gal with big tits and AK-12 thought her voice sounded too common to be made history. She had a guy who only talked to her in bed, so the debate was never broadcast. HRI still has the tapes.”

“Anybody care?”

“Turns out our reluctance really pissed off the green-guy progressive wing of the Federals. They broke into Rush Limbaughs studio – he supported the nokill decision – and shot him through the plexi.”

“Like 9/11 , financed by Saudi Arabians?”

“Except for fringe libertarians who support crony capitalism astrue freedom, certainly! Course Hillary knew shit, and appointed Levine to the SUPREMES, cause she could give the womans point-of-view. One more ball-buster for Jesus! Little did Hill-babe imagine, how modern woman views have fled upstream. Now, Levine is Pritzkers' poodle.”

We eat dirt at the zing.BKZAP! Sudden-like, sysintrap covers the BATTLE MASTER screen. It's real and it's now. Flash message with video; Bluecoat patrols have taken the Militia 30-mm armed northern surveillance bunker under attack. Seems like only seconds … the enemy rushing by, splattering into us a Bluebelly Mobster and trailing Chicom-97 blasting everything. Two nightmares that rightly pissed off everyone in the depot. Hearing the crackleBKZAP-BKZAP-BRPP... gives carbine armed troopers cold raunch sweat. Three Militia riflemen and a rocjoc creep away from the tents, up the half-mile trail –- tall grass, but no boulders --- to support that northern post; an Agro carried 90-mm TOWS behind them. Frantic calls have gone out to our own raiders. But the bastards are right here right now.

Our light tank deploys. Face to face , Chi.com ZBD-97 taps its 75-mm shrapnel rounds. A gang-of-three explode on the tanks reactive armour. Both zig-zag east across the runway into waste brush-swale too deep for Agros. But, the Federal Mobster swings into the firing slot expecting ...

BAMBAMBA---woshRZOOM and 37-mm following the militia 76-mm punch flaming holes right through the Bluecoat-Mobster; its fuel-cell explodes in a blue-white flash. Caught it mid-air, from cannons below-ground tranch the two Mobs riders separate in more pieces than the moon has potholes.

BKZAP. I push Ms K away from the tents – she's digi-caming every second – and like most infantry squads push toward the shallow-dug wet-brick keep that's mobile warfare doctrine. Fifty gallon drums of diesel and 20-mm phosphorus rounds do not get along. Temporary, plans said.Scorpions tail command called these support and mobile attack-bands of 15 vehicles – most Ford 350 dualies – and fifty men. The hi-vel 76-mm was an ex-tankers advise against one random big badboy.BKZAP ...BKZAP it fires twice into the deep brush . A waste I think. Then ….

… from the nearest hilltop a stitch of 37-mm hard-buttons.BiL-BiL-BLAKK-BLAKK-BL ... the hill over-run with Militia Ford duelies looks like a firefly convention. Scrum is back. Nothing happens for a few seconds, as titanium flechets carve paths in the brush, then aGIANT WHOSH-BLAMALA PSHHHH ; the holed Chicom IFV cooks off its 75-mm rounds air-dancing and spitting like a necromanced dragon. Ever wonder how a dragon crashes into wet Kansas blueberry bushes? It sits upside down and burns bright orange. Even then troopers shoot at it. A roar. Our light tank, its front armor-plate stripped and pitted muscles past and onto the runway where two live crew carry a ragdoll 3-A to the grass.

Scrum pulls along side, then seeing us carves a turn to the bunker. “Fucking Scranton.”

It's twilight and we have buried four bodies. A fifth won't see morning. We eat steak. “Good craft beer. Kansas Barley?”

“Winter-Park hops and they don't filter the barrel bottoms. Christ knows how they get eleven growing weeks.” Scrum chews on the dark red body. “Hear the Big Sur assault has been delayed. Know anything about that Scranton?”

“Supply problems; gather that from a bitching DC client.” Scrum looks me over and doesn't like the view. I savy and snap back. “It's a long drive.Talking about stretching supply-lines is a joke. You are supporting a rear-guard of the mobile contingents heading West on I-70, over the Rockies and Sierras to support Militia units along Pacific Coast Big Sur.”

Not much fat to chew on these steaks, but Scrum finds it. “Stretched, eh well not that stretched. We're the last of the tail-end rear guard. Front-raiders already gutted the heavy Federal pickets.” He's picking at the T-bones T. “Everybody knows hells own battle is forming up, and half of it pure mobile desert warfare. Neither we nor the Bluecoats have airlift sufficient to move armoured mobile equipment over two mountain ranges. My free-range mobile units – light tanks to Agros – are the most deadly, fastest moving units shredding and driving off Federals on the entire Nebraska, Kansas and Dakota frontier. Best of the best , and if Banski wants them on the West Coast , against German and Brit APC & STUNT 57-mm and 37-mm units coming in from Mexico then the Militia damned well drives them.”

Ms K snaps. “You mean your main mobile units are already over the Rockies at Grand Junction?”

“Rangers found an abandoned oil-field at Vale; roughnecks put in moonshine crackers and our pipes drool 115 gallons of gas a day. Fuel given, we repaired at Grand Junction and dove into Utah,” Scrum chuckles. “The M41s are fast-as-crap and cross desert nearly keep up with the Ford 350s.”

“So your personal unit is lagging and laxing on-purpose?”

“Even Federal F4s come calling, so without delaying actions Militia raiders are screwed!" Scrub chews on the meanly. "Mebby 500 miles West our front-runners run free until sometime tomorrow night!”

“Slow them down. No rush!”

“Hells cunt!” He tosses the bone to a guards pitbull who bites once then swallows. Scrum has about the same look. He motions away a dozen troopers still eating at our table. Lights two Reds, one for Ms K. “Tell me again about the attack holdup.”

My own battered pack has three. I take a hit, and blow a low stream of smoke through the bunker door-flap. “There's a Brit carrier ranging landward north of Carmel. Tornadoes and Harriers. Big-N! Muzzi-wog, except for the flag. It was to hit Militia docking at San Simon thus stopping the sea-side assault. Was, but perhaps no longer.”

Scrum leans over to draw another red-beer. Swilled it. Swallows. “Who arranges the trade-off.” Shakes his head. “Have anything to do with last nights HRI piece on RUSH TO LOSE? Move fast by moving slow it sez fuck-width. Say nothing, Scranton … just feckin-A say nothing … see my troopers out there? Lost another five today. Lost 100 since Friday. What's left before we run west? Right this minute right here our dozen tents and three wood-framed dug-outs.” Scrums Captain missing his left hand was running BATTLE MASTER on the 75” plasma screen, a plasma screen empty of nearby Militia armour. One air-blip flickers in-and-out. “Upper left, Scranton. Our hand shows two Agros, two Mobsters , two armed Jeeps, fifteen Ford 350s and one M41 Bulldog, a 76-mm light tank out of fashion before coffee cured cancer.”

“They fight good. You fight good." I'm punching out wack-moles. " Slow is fast, when payback is fifty disabled enemy aircraft.”

Scrums brain focus far from mine. "Right about here we should pick up strays … a pair of M-41s, an M-60 and a pack of Agros and Mobsters. Poor federal bastards dead already.” Scrums eye follows a van of Federal mobiles sixty mile to the west. “No protection from friendly Brown-shirt F-28s till Reno. You like running nekked while the wasps bite? Didn't think so. The Federals will bleed us bad without tricks like this.”

Sounds of an aircraft landing. “Make sure that battles there to fight when I enter the Salines Valley. We figure the Bluebellys to plan an ambush among the grapevines and rolling hills. So they hit us. We brush them off. Move on. No feckin-A good-speak deals with Federals. Just show us the battle!”

“PC12 arrived and fueling. All aboard,” whistles a wild-eye ranger leaving for night patrol. “Who gets that plum shoved up their ass?”

“This for Banski,” raps Scrum.”

“We'll see you there.” I tuck the hand-written script into a waterproof against my chest. “For all I know the Chicoms end up with the carrier.”

“Why won't the Militia take the carrier,” Ms K queries.

“Because they can't run a rowboat. Last year a Militia Captain drove a WW2 destroyer into Santa Monica pier. Wrecked the view and artists complained! So the Canadians were bribed to come down and drag it off to Vancouver.”

Our Pilatus PC12 cuts smoothly though heavy twilight , dodging the treeless rolling curves and making better than 200 knots. Two wounded troopers ride with us, drugged-out, one Militia one Federal bound for operating rooms in Denver. We fly without lights or forward looking radar, so a pair of F4s flew overhead and clueless. Our down-looking 300-K sonar cruises us at 65 feet above featureless east Colorado. At DIA we're assigned a cross-wind runway that takes us unloading, gassing, down and up in a half-hour while dodging 747s and A380s.

Nextstop, a fly-over in the Pacific Ocean. We bear south, to fly a cut in the Rocky Mountains little used since WW2 and while avoiding most eyes never used with sanity. We handshake with Scrums leading mobiles streaming across the Utah desert. They'll carry West, a few spilling through cracks in the mountain wall running from LasVegas to Salt Lake. But, most will turn north across salt-flats and dry riverbeds to I-80 for a rendezvous at Reno. Rendezvous .

Two Apaches scout ahead. Ms K. is culling her notes latitude-base color-space notes. I break-in to her teckno muttering. “ You're muttering MS K. We refuel in Reno.”

Color response curves litter her laptop, and booklets jump at every bump of the PC12. I break her planning and she is both here and there. “It's explosive, Will, damned explosive how LasVegas and Reno sit on opposite ends of the Carson Valley Plain. Sit and stare at each other.”

I bite her neck and whisper. “Reno was anti-progressive raider territory, when La and SanFran Federals paid $30 per scalp for Militia sappers. You ought to know how different, working Vegas for a year, with Federal propaganda publishers before joining HRI,” I note.

It's touchy and Ms K. does not invite discussion. Pushing away my head. “I know Vegas prog/Mex armies twice pushed north and were twice repelled by free-lancing Militia troopers. That's when the sneeze laws first bit down and I got out. They forced an edit of every 60mm picture taken; how could I work?”

“Watermark the pictures to change upon auto-view? Tits and ass change to suits and bass.”

She tries slapping me, but I pin her wrists to the cabin viewport. “Did that anyway. You liked the shots I sent,” she snips. “Blame me now, but you were a bastard then too.”

“Might have got shot for your trouble.”

“I didn't figure you for a nice guy, till you showed up at the Sands with twenty $100 bills and a 500CC dirt-bike. That night run I'll never forget.”

“The monkey people near got us.”

“But monkeys don't run it now. Las Vegas has moved beyond Fed/Mex to a USA independent globalist business center. Gambling chips is a sidelight. Sure, Japs and Chinese still come for white hoes. But with ten machine shops for every casino it's the Bluebelly Western Detroit. A dozen warlords own it and a thousand free-lancing technocrats run it. Vegas International is of-course open to any aircraft that can pay the $5000 dollar landing fee.”

We kiss sweetly. “I know there was a reason I hired you.”

“Cause from day-one we fucked like horny mink.” Our PC12 dodges headwinds, and at 240 knots flies straight and low. Wrapped in arms we catch a nap.

Ninety-nine miles out of Reno two F-28s come-to-call; never did sleep sound and air-vibs wake me up. I give an envelope to the pilot; he mutters the handshake into his mike and the F-28s flip lighted wingtips and vanish into American Naziland. Like CREOLE, painting the Mississippi for 1000 miles with Bantu Admiraled gunboats, but rigidly Aryan-Semite. It's a strip of Washington, Idaho and Montana where the women are all white, power all hydro and a Jewish Sabra airboss runs the Militia friendly F-28s, F-100s and Black-widows.

Donner summit looms and we drop into McCarren airport like a dead pigeon. Reno is a Militia prize, with fracked oil gasoline, a Xeon-based super-computer and stamping / milling shops that run 24/7 and a spatter of drug manufacture; more than a spatter when all California PhD chemists were drafted into a WHITE SHAME LEAGUE and dove east to Militia territory. We play airport casino games with silver dollars, and neck sloppy in the martini lounge. That craft gets us company. While refueling we look to onload two trench-coat Militia factors and a Bluebelly intelligence officer. Roses walk by carried in the right hand and we dive for the street. Bluebelly has a tail. Militia pair were supposed to sweep streets and trim any tail, but they have not.

Fallback is a hot-sheets hotel five minutes into downtown. The Flamingo. We shower, stone out, fuck for three hours; Ms K. shows Nepenthe digicams, us together, we're happy. You want to melt into the woman. Sleep comes, till morning sun comes up like thunder through an east side window. It's 6-AM. A green military Jeep waits across the street. It's so obvious it's invisible.

“I'm Moe.” “I'm Curly. “I'm Larry.”

“Bitch.” Banski wants both factors and Josh insisted on first-person confirmation. Banskis people, one a photographer with ancient Leica B&W optics. The other a small hard man with greying goatee who carries a silenced 22-cal; he's a silent killer just-in-case shit happens. The Bluebelly is cold iron, young and sharp-featured. Nobody bothers to shake hands and carrying Chinese take-out breakfast our group-du-jour fly into a morning sky before anyone starts eating.

We buzz Donner Pass on sonar/radar contour following I-80. It's dark down there, under our feet till we hit Colfax on the western fringe of the Sierras. HRI calls it a no-peace zone. Down-there lights up with a patchwork of tracers and rocket-trails and shell-bursts. We have just joined the war. Our course wears south of Sac, then north to the silver ribbon of the Sacramento River. The ribbon shines. We snap south to intersect I-5 and ignoring an F4 that will not come down into the Tulee fog after us punch West near Soledad. This plane, fun facts fume foolish, too many people, too little soul, no way out. It's like hell.

“Show time.” Bluebelly spits coordinates: “35' 38' 41 : 121' 10' 36'”

“Fat lady might sing, cause the carrier was never supposed to get so close. That's only 90 clicks from San Simon. They could launch.”

“Have not launched yet. Mebby their fire control systems are buttfucked like the power turbines.”

“You know too much.”

The flow of orange-white tracer ground-fire continues to the west of I5, and malwared rockets air-explode too short or too long. We catch some frags. But ground combat and shelling has stopped completely as we approach Rt-101. Few headlights mark the road; our pilot dips north making a small wing-rattling course adjustment. Sunrise has come and gone; light floods the coastline. Surf glistens and swells roll high on a rough ocean. Makes ya sick, what could be true. Our PC12 flies to the Lat / Long spot. It's a joke wrapped in an illusion, buried inside bullshit. The western sea-sky is blue and cloudless. Sun has burned away mist and wakes of the four Russian submarines cut a formless western path. “Quebec, Foxtrot, Victor, Sierra” snaps the Bluebelly.

Both Militia agree. Ms K. has gone below, to an open slot in the planes belly. She shouts up just hear-able over wind-screech. “Dig this guys. I can zoom on the tow-ropes. Ya know what? They're hemp not steel twist or carbon fibre. Straining like a bitch on a bone, so say the polarizing filters.”

Tow ropes! A weapons alarm rings in the cockpit. Copilot gets busy: a kill-switch fails. Fiddling some blanking dials … bandwidth-slots I imagine the alarm goes intermittent, like getting stabbed every ten seconds. As the PC12 dives closer all six forms come into clear focus: the Brit carrier snout to the wind, and four Russians subs towing it westward. It's not the biggest carrier – Muzzi-Brits are still poor -- and the Russian subs are best-in-class; GOOGLE sez so real-time.

“HRI publishes this tonight!” Ms K. climbing digi-cam first out of cargo nuzzled beside me, and the three men take turns replacing her, one by one as our PC12 twice again buzzes the carrier. A single burning Harrier mars the flight-deck. What's a 4,000,000 hit byline worth to a female pic-slinger?

“I make it four knots ...” 'five' sez the co-pilot reading radar output.

“That a Canadian frigate?”

“Plains of Abraham.”

“Can't it help tow?”

“Not with radiation leaks around the Russian subs, ” says the Militia photographer. “I've shot them up close in the Arctic, the ones too hot to dispose. One cruise equals one year on the Space Station.”

Bluebelly is rapping into his throat-bud and growing pale. Raps back, some hashcode; then he looks up, but his eyes gone so far away no plane could ever fly there. “Done deal. No Militia attacks on Mission Ridge and the Brit carrier disabled and being towed away. Case closed.”

“So Vancouver scoops it up and the Brits keep it. Might as well just deliver a hull to ISIL on Syrias coast.”

“Mebby not,” Bluebelly says quiet. “Pict blood is rising like a bad moon.”

“Thought the Picts were all fucking their virgins.”

“May Prophet Muhamud suck camel-dick.” Strange words for a Federal. “Cause he's getting an ass-load of Brit steel! Scot, Welsh and Irish white bully-boys revolted as of yesterday, put-down the PriMinsters Black & Tans and butchered a sea of wogs. That's for giggles!”

“Christs cross. How much land and who got the hardware?”

His angular nose wants to smell, but he seems not to hear. “Most Irish cities are free of scag MuJad by woggish genocide. Street fighting is still fierce, in small towns from Aberdeen to Plymouth, but London's taken after a blood-bath. Whites are calling themselves THORHAMMERS and LOKIMEN. Organized brigades armed by the Ukraine have seized a couple military harbours and three warships. Left the Hindiis alone, of-course. Roughed out ranger units with Gurkas in command took over deep-bore nuclear weapons bunkers. Especially nasty fighting on Arran and Rathlin Isles, ex-miners and tradesmen in hand-to-hand combat with mongrel ALLAHS ANUS fanatics.”

“Better a cold wind late than never. So Canada?”

“Appears Canada has got that ol' time religion. A couple young Quebeker priests shed their vestments, raided a guards unit for Belgin FAL assault rifles and roused the French . A couple thousand Muslims were slaughtered and … after American Federal assassins murdered thirty Canadian navel cadets … the revolt went nation-wide. Quebec poilus went door-to-door asking Muslims … Muzzi-wogs as HRI calls them … asking 'what have you done for a white man this week'? All whose answer failed or who cursed got shot dead on the doorstep. French have always know a sharp edge clears thinking.”

“What about the Tong?”

“Old culture, the Chinese, even the transplants. Two companies fought for Banski and sterilized Stanfords campus. Their women are great fucks and better mothers, so Canadien intelligence evaluates their own as show me! They were absolved for now. What French Canadiens really believe I do not know.” Bluebelly stops to light a fag. “All this in three days. Popular favor along the border moved from Federals to Militia; Canadian Parliament stuttered, then swung-round to supported them. SUPREMES of Canada ordered the summary arrest of all Muslims. Airforce and navy removed all progressive officers, sent them to a gulag at Fort Nelson and weaponized every Great Lakes freighter come-to-port.”

“Alberta won't shoot us now, when we come begging for wheat?”

“Not now.”

Low on fuel, our Pilatus has banked away toward San Simon. “Oh .. one more item.” He was Joshes man, and I see now how the bastard forced his truth on me. But, it's a novel hard truth. “The new Federal President is Jesse Jackson Jr. Senate voted last night with complete Republican and Democrat support; President-for-life by acclaim!”

“But, but he's in jail, a maniac!”

“Not for the niggers,” snips the Militia silent killer.”

Bluebelly stiffens, then casually the words stream out. “A swarm-mob of 20,000 broke into APCI … Jacksons diggs … Alabama Prison for the Criminally Insane, slaughtered the jailers and popped him free. He started eating one of the dead screws –- free dental care ya know –- till they pulled him off into a waiting Caddy. They had a white girl inside stripped and buttered … and you could hear the screams two blocks away, reporters swore.”

“What's his policy?”

“Destroy all vaccines and anti-biotics. Cut off surgeons right hands. Castrate all white and Redskin males. Rape all non-Muslim women, then deface them with hot steam-irons.”

Take away your breath, the cold clear way Bluebelly shares the intelligence. “Those your people, Bluebelly,” asks Ms K?” Aircraft has climbed to 7000 feet, so Militia radar will make no mistake and a white-frothed Big Sur coast below us rolls on forever.

“People … ” repeats Bluebelly. He thinks for a while … “Got a fag?” Sipping on the Red, recounting his long barrel 20-gauge and squirrel hunting as a West Virginia boy … just another trooper. Anyone listening can tell mama taught Bluebelly to be a thinker … to care what's right and wrong … “that digi-cam show pictures soon as they taken?” Ms K flips out the folding screen and thumbs to the closest view … from on-top-of the carrier deck and blue-burning and spitting Harrier. He takes a Reno silver dollar from his breast pocket, spins it onto a bench … no man was fast enough to stop him … and watches it tumble intoTAILS. How do you know when a man has served his full measure? Bluebelly smiles, nods taking another long smoke-curling sip on the Red …. “you white boys gonna make it back home?” When the copilot signals thumbs-up Bluebelly slips through the planes cargo-door into storage ; and sliding full-open the view-slot drops down into the clear warm blue sky and away to infinity.

We're home with another HRI. Returning to port, Ladies and gentlemen good night. .