Dan and the Bottle Ch. 23

Lieutenant Garcia, his second in command, had recently reported finding a number of traps and snares in the small forest to the east of their base; one of his men had stepped in one, breaking his ankle in the process.

Marty smiled as the old farmer tried to tell him what he wanted without coming right out and saying it. It was obvious he wanted a rifle; or, more specifically., a bunch of them... this small village was another militia group in the making.

"The weapons won't be a problem, sir, but do you have anyone here who knows how to shoot?"

Hector thought long and hard about that but drew a blank. "No, Senor, but how hard can it be? You point it at an animal and... what is the term? Pull on the trigger."

Marty smiled at that, shaking his head. "There's a bit more to it than that." He nodded to himself, coming to a decision.

"If I send a small group out here, to teach you and your people, could you blend them in with your population, keep them secret from the Cubans?"

Hector thought it over for a few seconds and nodded. "Si, Senor... the Cubans don't come around often enough keep track of us... and we need to learn to defend ourselves. We need at least two hundred guns."

"Do these Cubans patrol at night?"

"No, Sir... at night, they are at their bases, enjoying the fruits of our labors." he replied, somewhat bitterly.

Marty nodded to himself. His heart went out to these folks, who had sustained so much abuse from the invaders.

And it wasn't like weapons and ammunition were in short supply, back at his base.

Within two weeks, three Humvees and a half dozen deuce and a halfs rolled into the small town in the dead of night and were swiftly hidden in an old warehouse. The forty men and women who had come along as instructors were soon busy training small groups of the local farmers using .22s and air powered pellet rifles. Three of the big trucks were loaded down with food, as well... mostly smoked, or dehydrated, and packed in glass jars, along with several hundred cases of the Chinese field rations. Nobody in this village... or the three other small towns in the area... would go to bed hungry this night.

Hector slid the tall cabinet aside and slid through the narrow, concealed door to his root cellar, stashing the six cases of field rations on the shelves beside his potatoes, peppers, oranges, apples, and other foodstuffs he'd managed to hide from the soldiers. On his way out, he grabbed a sealed jar of smoked rabbit meat, several potatoes and peppers, and a small sack of mushrooms for the evening meal. Handing them off to his wife, he barely managed to get the cabinet back in place in front of the cellar door when Marty Crawford turned up at his door.

"Hello, Hector; Mrs. Ortega... did you get some of the food my city sent out here?"

"Si, Senor... most of it is already hidden away."

"Good, good... it isn't the best food in the world, but it will keep you alive. It's not bad, with a bit of meat and a few vegetables cooked in with it. I came by, mostly, to discuss the progress your fellow villagers are making at the target ranges."

Hector raised an eyebrow at this... he didn't realize that Senor Crawford thought of him as the leader.

"You have some people who are very good; some might even be called 'naturals' with a rifle... others are very bad... I'd suggest you restrict them to either carrying shotguns or keep them in non-combat roles until they improve. The bulk of your people are somewhere in between... neither good nor bad, but trainable."

"And where do I fall, in your opinion?"

Marty smiled... it was a question he would have asked, himself.

"You fall firmly in the middle. We need to set up a training schedule for small groups of you folks, so you get the attention you deserve. We have, currently, thirty men and women here as trainers, which should be plenty, but to be honest, it might be a better idea to ship small groups of you back to our base, where we can train you properly without running the risk of the Cubans showing up at the wrong time. What would you think about leaving here for a month or so?"

Hector was taken aback by the question; he had never been more than ten miles from his home. "I don't know, Senor... I have to plant the winter crops, and I need to be here to check my traplines. Even with the food you brought out here, I cannot neglect these things."

Marty nodded. "I understand... life has to go on, whether you're here or not. We can make arrangements to have some of our people help your wife and kids with the crops... some of our people are pretty good hunters, too, so they can bring in venison and other wild game for those who are left behind. My main concern is seeing to it that you and your people get the proper training."

"But senor, why would we have to leave? What can we learn there that we cannot learn here?"

Marty smirked a bit at this before answering. "Oh... how to drive, for one thing. We have driving simulaters at our base. How to drive a tank, or an APC. How to fly a plane, and how to fight in the air."

Hector's eyes grew wider at every word...Never had he thought, in his wildest dreams, that he would ever learn to drive, let alone fly. "I do not know if I can do these things, senor... but I will try."

Marty clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man... don't worry, driving a car... or a truck, for that matter... is relatively easy. It's the APCs and tanks that are a bit more complicated."

Jerry Duncan was back on the road again, doing what he liked best; scrounging from old houses and abandoned towns. In Indiana, he stopped at a farmer's market, swapping a dozen 30/06 rounds for a hamburger and a large mug of some locally made ice cream, and several thick blankets got him a dozen arrows for his bow.

Heading a bit to the south, he found an old house, partially destroyed by fire, Pulling into the barn behind it, he frightened a small flock of chickens into running in all directions. While he'd only pulled in to camp out for the night, he considered them a bonus... if he could rig up a few makeshift cages, and grab a few of the birds, he knew he could trade them off easily, or take a few home with him.

His quest for vengeance was going well... he'd recently been back in Dearborn, and had killed three more Muslims, catching them alone and stalking them like deer. In one case, he had come up on one of the punks, who was trying to drag a young woman into an alley. Muslim males considered white, Christian women to be fair game for rape, since they were 'infidels'.

By the time he got home from that little trip, the sewer rats had found the body.

Going into the section of the old farm house that hadn't been burned, he soon found a store room, which held, among other things, a small pantry. On the shelves were cans of coffee, a fair number of canned goods, and a large storage tub, filled with sacks of sugar, flour, corn meal, and salt, along with several large glass jars full of some sort of noodles... a rare treat indeed.

Further exploration revealed a living room, in which sat a large woodstove. Closing the doors at either end, he loaded up the firebox and settled in for the night. There would be time enough to catch some of the chickens in the morning.

The next morning, a brief search of the cellar revealed six of the cages that had once been used as 'pet carriers' and an old pistol, a .45 1911A1... along with five boxes of ammunition.

Back in the barn, he emptied five of his five gallon gas cans into the truck's fuel tank, caught eleven full grown chickens and three more that he doubted were over a year old, and put them into the cages, and filled his wooden egg box before leaving. He'd be home in under two hours.

In the outskirts oF Aspen, another small group was slowly taking shape. The Rocky Mountain hunt club changed it's name to the Rocky Mountain Minutemen. Made up of ranchers and farmers, they only totaled thirty seven, but they made up for it in training; all were subsitence hunters. They were well schooled in long range shooting, considering the ranges they were shooting animals at.

The Whitetail deer was generally the easiest shot to make, Ducks and Canadian Geese were a bit more plentiful, but harder to shoot. They were providing meat for four small villages, though, so pretty much anything was game, from rats to wolves, mountain lions, bear, and buffalo.

A wandering trader, Jim Nelson, had dropped in on one of the villages last year, trading honey, beeswax candles, and all manner of other goods, and had talked to some of the older men about a militia group operating out of Wyoming, and another in California, who were working to flush the Chinese and Cuban invaders out of the country. It wasn't until a small company of Cubans moved into the area that they began to take this seriously, though.

Mark Jameson, who ran one of the larger dairy ranches in the area, had, kind of unofficialy, at least, been chosen as their leader, a job he wasn't wild about. He took it seriously, though, and soon had everyone involved lifting weights and jogging several miles a day. He also put many of the trader's other suggestions to use; he had reloading sheds built, with stout benches and multiple work stations, on his own property and at several other locations, He set up small food drives, having some of the wives and kids dehydrating beans, peas, carrots, corn, and anything else they grew into ration packs. These, too, were stashed in basements and kitchen cabinets against the day they would be needed. With the smoked venison, fish of all sorts, and small game, they made pretty decent field rations.

There were several small towns that had been abandoned over the course of the past few hundred years. Some had been hit by conventional bombs, others by fires, floods, or some other disaster. One of them, though, had a heavily built old warehouse, set up in sections, obviously for different stores to store excess goods in. Aside from three women's dress shops, a shoe store, and a men's tailor, there was an old sporting goods store. On the nearly bare shelves were four cases of camoflage dome tents, each big enough for two men and all their gear. A further search turned up a small assortment of knives and a fairly large assortment of camo clothing, but little else.

Still, it was all usable.

Mark and his cohorts loaded up three pickup loads, including backpacks, military surplus mess kits, and camp type coffee pots. Four big boxes of brand new fishing lures from three different companies lasted about fifteen minutes.

Several of his people got the same idea, but approached it from a different angle, going through the adandoned, burnt out houses, looking for anything that hadn't been turned to charcoal or buried in rubble. They found a number of guns, a wide variety of ammunition, several cleaning kits, and they even stumbled across one home that had a roomful of reloading gear in the cellar. Two others held hydroponic gardens complete with lights... these they marked for a later pick-up.

They brought this bounty home and laid it all out on a long table, soon determining that they had no ammunition for over half of them... they'd be wall hangers until some could be found.

Another trader came through town later that week, this one from the northern area of California, carrying dried foodstuffs, tools, and several plastic jars of reloading powder.

Jim Nelson smiled a bit as Mark kept making clumsy, veiled references to 'military stuff' It was a bit obvious that he and his small community were preparing to join in the fight; the question was, on which side?

Jim was sitting in the small diner nursing his third cup of coffee when Mark came in, looked around, and made a beeline for the table he was sitting at.

"Mister Nelson, may I join you?"

Jim nodded towards the empty chairs. "By all means."

"I was kinda wondering... well,... uh... do you ever get up north of us? Montana, Wyoming, thereabouts?"

"Occasionally... why?"

"Well... we been hearing about some sorta militia 'army' up that way. Hear 'em on the shortwave once in a while. Sounds like they're kicking major ass... and we'd like to help out, if we could. We've had some visits from the Cubans ourselves."

Jim raised an eyebrow at this. "Oh? What did they say?"

"They were demanding tribute from us... most of our food. We told 'em to piss off. I figure it's only a matter of time, though, before they come back in force. We've got a bunch of guns here that we don't have ammo for, and we'll trade them for some decent military rifles. We aren't going to get far with a bunch of bolt action deer rifles and some single shot shotguns. We're outmanned and outgunned, but Goddamnit, we'll fight!"

Jim smiled at this... they might be few in number, but they had spirit. Even as this thought was running through his mind, he was already thinking about what to request from one of the bases.

An hour later, inside the tent he'd set up alongside of his old truck, he dug out his satellite phone, contacting the Klamath base first. When the current Commander came on, he ran down the present situation and then his 'wish list' for this small group; a limited number of scout/snipers as instructors and advisors, a hundred rifles, about fifty cases of ammunition, thirty cases of grenades, and thirty more, of the disposable rocket launchers known as LAWs. Armor and air support could come later.

The two Chinooks showed up the next day, with two Apaches and a Cobra providing an escort. As their rotors stopped, the loading ramps came down and their contents were revealed...

A small forklift rolled out, a pallet full of small crates on the forks. As soon as this one was set aside, the driver repeated the process five more times, unloading enough weaponry to start a small war.

The second Chinook disgorged a small tanker truck, followed by thirty men and women, heavily armed, who formed up in three lines behind the big cargo chopper. The ranking officer stepped forward, looking for and finally spotting Jim Nelson.

"Major Dave Miller, Beta platoon, reporting for duty, Sir!"

"At ease, Major... I see Colonel Medford sent me some veterans... thats a good thing."

Beta platoon, he knew, was made up of men and women who had been fighting the Chinese for the past four years. They would make excellent trainers and advisors. Medford was obviously taking the situation seriously.

"The Colonel gave you everything you asked for, Sir. We have ten field medics, too... he figured we might need them. They have two crates of supplies-bandages, medicines, and enough instruments to set up a basic field hospital. The tanker has a full load of gas... three hundred and seventy five gallons. We've also got five of the 40mm mortars, with ten cases of rounds for them. Only twenty rounds to a case, so we should use those sparingly for the time being. A dozen grenade launchers, twenty cases of rounds for those, and fifty cases of those Chinese field rations."

Jim frowned at that a little, which made Miller smile.

"I know it isn't the tastiest food, but it's not bad if you can add some dried venison and wild mushrooms to it."

Another vehicle rolled out of the big chopper, what at first appeared to be a small cargo van. At Fulton's raised eyebrow, Miller grinned and explained.

"Field ambulance. Carries all the equipment and supplies of a full blown operating room."

Within three hours, the supplies had been stashed in an old warehouse and the new troops had found housing in some of the many old, abandoned homes in the area. The Chinooks, the Cobra, and one of the Apaches refueled and took off, heading back to California, while the second Apache would stay to provide rudimentary air support until a proper airfield could be established.

The next day, a convoy of trucks and Humvees rolled into town, loaded down with technicians, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, heavy equipment, and tons of supplies. Within a week, the small town would have electrical power, running water, and a proper sewage treatment system again. Within two more weeks, everything would be settled down and training would begin.

About this time, another small convoy showed up, this one centered around a full sized tanker of fuel. Three tractor trailers followed, loaded down with everything from household appliances and furniture to live chickens in cages. Four deuce and a halfs followed these, filled with crates full of ammunition, several heavy Browning M2 machine guns, and additional troops. Six Humvees provided an escort, thier post mounted .50 cal machine guns and 5.56 mm miniguns tilted at jaunty angles.

At Nelson's suggestion, the locals started building a log wall around their community, incorporating multiple gates and an internal catwalk. They were almost finished when the Cubans came calling again.

Beth Cooper was on the wall that day, watching, amused, as Lt. Garcia walked up to the gate and demanded it be opened to him and his men. She looked down at the Cuban and said "Why? You have no business here!"

"I am here to collect your tribute. Open this gate immediately or my men will break it down!"

"Listen, asshole, we already told you to piss off... we ain't givin' you jack shit. Didn't you get the memo? Turn around and leave while you're still breathing."

Garcia turned to his men, saying "Break it down!"

Five rifles spoke from the catwalk, and five soldiers dropped... including Lt. Garcia.

The other fifteen men turned and ran like a hellhound was snapping at their heels. Bullets followed them, some connecting. Another four soldiers dropped in their tracks. Their fellows ran even faster, grateful when they finally got out of rifle range.

Within ten minutes, a pickup truck rolled out of the gate, the bodies were loaded up, their weapons were collected, and the truck rolled back to the deep pit of compost that had been dug just the week before. There, they were stripped and, in Militia tradition, fed through a wood chipper and buried under leaves, grass clippings, and human and animal waste. Within a year, they would be spreading the composted material on several fields that were laying fallow at the moment, in preparation for spring planting.

El Commandante Rivera was beside himself when the eleven survivors showed up, minus his trusted Lieutenant. How dare these Americans attack His men!? Worse, the surviving members of the squad sent out with Garcia had come back just as he was busy raping one of the American whores his men had taken from a local village a few weeks ago.

He threw his clothes on and headed for his office, intent on sending out a force that the American pigs would not be able to stand up against.

'A hundred men should be sufficient... after all, they're just a handful of farmers with old shotguns and deer rifles.' he thought, as he reached for the phone on his desk. Little did he know...

Back in Dexter, the entire town went to high alert. Two of the Browning Big .50s were quickly moved up to the catwalk, set up on tall tripods and loaded with belts of ammunition. Three of the LAW rocket launchers followed, and four of the men brought along grenade launchers with bandoliers of shells for them. A bucketful of spare M16 magazines were hauled up using a block and tackle, and everyone on the catwalk grabbed one or two. They were as ready as they'd ever be.

As it turned out, they were just in time. Even as some of the men were cocking their rifles, they caught sight of the Cubans; a procession of Humvees, old pick ups, and one Bradley fighting vehicle that looked like it had seen better days... a hundred years ago. They rolled right up to the gate and piled out of the vehicles, forming up in formation.

Jim Nelson watched them doing all this, bemused. "Damned fools think they're on a parade ground."