The Coming Storm: Liberators Part 24

Claire cranked down her window slightly and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Not exactly. I tweaked my back again. Getting old really stinks, you know that?"

Claire rolled up her window and began to hum the tune to the gospel song "This World Is Not My Home."

Alan wondered how long he would have to wait until someone with a stout vehicle would come by and help tow them out. He reached into his coat's front snap pockets and pulled out his camouflage hunting gloves and his green pile cap. After donning them, he let out a sigh.

The sun's direct rays were beginning to strike the pickup. It was a cold morning, but the fog was beginning to lift. The landscape now lacked its recent autumn beauty. The aspens had lost their leaves, and the western larches had lost their needles. The dense fir trees on both sides of the highway still looked beautiful, wearing a coat of frost. Where the sun was. .h.i.tting them, mist was rising from their boughs. He concluded that it was a still a scenic place to be stuck in a ditch.

A few minutes later, he heard a low rumbling accompanied by a higher supercharger whine from the east. Soon it became distinct: the sound of numerous vehicles in a convoy. In another minute, they came into sight. It was a convoy of four Norinco Type 92 wheeled six-by-six APCs followed by a canvas-topped Dongfeng 2.5-ton troop truck.

Alan shouted to Claire, "A Chinese patrol. What do you want to bet they'll just wave and offer us no help whatsoever?"

Claire rolled down her window slightly and shouted back, "What if they search us?"

"They won't find diddly-squat. But don't be surprised if they rough us up. You know they've been pretty brutal with folks they've encountered outside of city limits recently. So be ready for that."

She shouted back one of her favorite sayings: "We have nothing to fear in this world. This world is not our home."

The convoy slowed to less than twenty miles an hour. Once they were within one hundred yards, Alan began to wave, flagging them down.

Mistaking the McGregors' spun-out truck as a ploy for a road ambush, the PLA's first lieutenant in the lead APC ordered a herringbone deployment using his radio handset. Once the APCs had splayed out, he shouted, "Attack!"

The gunners on the first three vehicles opened fire with four machine guns-a type 67 (7.62x54r) and three Type 77 heavy machine guns (12.7mm DShK variants). After shooting Alan and shredding the pickup, the gunners on all four APCs engaged the tree line on both sides of the road with seven machine guns, mostly with fire from the Type 77s. By chance, one of the 12.7mm rounds detonated an old French land mine. This excited the gunners, and they fired even more frenziedly. The young second lieutenant commander in the second APC in the column even ordered his 25mm main gun to open fire where the mine had gone off. Finally, the convoy commander ordered a cease-fire using both his radio and his APC's public address loudspeaker.

The PLA later logged the incident as a "thwarted ambush, with PLA prevailing. Two insurgents killed. No PLA casualties or damage." They also dispatched an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) team to map the land mines. The Chinese usually just mapped French minefields, rather than going to the trouble of disarming and removing them.

The Chinese did not bother to collect Alan's and Claire's bodies, or to tow away Ray's pickup truck. They simply dragged Alan's body to the side of the road and rolled it down the borrow-ditch slope. Stan Leaman's father discovered the scene several hours later and relayed the sad news to Ray. It was Ray, Phil, and Malorie who came to collect the bodies. By the time they arrived, a pair of gray jays was already pecking at Alan's body and ravens were starting to congregate nearby. Ray shouted and scared off the birds. Then he sat down near his father's body and sobbed.

They had brought several tarps to help them collect the bodies. Phil fought back tears as he wrapped up Claire's lifeless figure. Malorie helped him carry it up from the pickup. The corpse was placed in the back of Phil's pickup. By then, Ray had regained some of his composure, and he helped them wrap up his father's corpse in several rolls of a twelve-by-twenty blue tarp. After the three of them carried Alan's shrouded corpse to rest alongside that of his wife, Ray said to Phil, "Please see what you can salvage from my truck. I don't want to look in the cab."

The interior of the pickup was drenched with blood and the truck was thoroughly riddled with holes. All four tires and the spare had been punctured. All that they could salvage was the Hi-Lift Jack and the axe from the back end of the truck. The shovel's blade and handle had both been penetrated by 12.7mm bullets. From the glove box, they got a handful of road maps and a flashlight. They also took the tow chain, which was still in its box by the side of the road, surprisingly untouched by bullets.

The ravens had flown off, but the gray jays lingered, hopping around in a nearby larch tree. The birds seemed curious about what Ray and the others were doing.

As Phil was stowing the salvaged gear, Malorie asked, "What kind of birds are those?"

Phil answered, "They're called gray jays. They're in the crow family."

In a surprising moment of clarity, Ray added, "Around here, we call them whiskey jacks. That's an Anglicized corruption of their original Algonquin name, Wisakedjak. He was the Trickster in their mythology-a lot like Loki was to the Norse. To the First Nations, Wisakedjak was the one responsible for the Great Flood." Ray's cheeks were streaked with tears, and his face showed profound sadness.

Ray's pickup had not caught fire in the attack, even though its gas tank had been punctured by the Chinese machine-gun fire. The vehicle still reeked of gasoline. Just one tossed road flare was all it took to set the pickup ablaze. As they watched the pickup burn, Ray picked up a few pieces of the Chinese .30 and .50 caliber bra.s.s from the highway. The bra.s.s had "CN," "101," and "CNIC" head stamps. He tucked the bra.s.s in his coat pocket.

"Evidence. Also made in China," he said.

Ray decided to bury his parents' bodies side-by-side on the knoll behind the ranch house. They were still wrapped in the blue tarps. As they dug the shared grave, Ray mentioned that it was on this same small hillock where his great-grandfather Samuel McGregor had pitched his tent, when he first staked claim to the ranch in 1913.

They read some psalms and said prayers. Then they refilled the grave and said another prayer. Phil helped Ray construct a matching pair of crosses for the grave the next morning.

Almost immediately after the deaths of Alan and Claire, Ray and the rest of Team Robinson decided to do some combined operations with another local resistance group that Stan had met. The unnamed group had eight members and had been responsible for several sniping incidents and repeated sabotage of PLA vehicles from Anahim Lake all the way to Bella Coola. Their trademark was a time-delay vehicular incendiary device that used a machine-rolled 100mm cigarette as a time-delay fuse.

What started out as a cooperative agreement eventually turned into a merger. While Phil and Malorie would still be in charge of intelligence a.n.a.lysis, Ray went on to lead the combined group, which had a.s.sumed the name Team Robinson.

Fighting the Chinese turned out to be much more difficult than fighting the French. Because they had so many more armored vehicles, IED-initiated ambushes were far less decisive. This meant that there were fewer opportunities to capture weapons, and that ambushes often ended with the ambushers fleeing for their lives into the forest, as their fire was returned by damaged but still partly functional APCs. Because they wanted to minimize track wear, the Chinese tanks rarely left their garrisons. Even if they did, few resistance units would attack them while they were manned and in motion. Nearly all of the Chinese tanks destroyed by the resistance were sabotaged while they were parked and unattended.

The first Chinese weapon that Team Robinson "inherited" was a QSZ-92 Services Pistol ("Type 92 handgun") that was stripped from the body of a uniformed Chinese junior officer. This young man was foolish enough to drive an EQ2050 East Wind (a Chinese Humvee equivalent) into the town of Anahim Lake by himself. Perhaps he was looking for romance. Three shots from Ray's FAMAS ended his military career and his life.

Fearing that the vehicle was equipped with a hidden transponder, Ray left it where it was. But Ray did get the pistol, a full-flap holster, two spare fifteen-round magazines, a magazine pouch, and the officer's wallet. He also grabbed a Chinese e-tool entrenching tool, which was superior to the U.S. and Canadian models.

The QSZ-92 Services Pistol, designed and made by Norinco, shot the diminutive 5.8x21 cartridge. Ray described the gun as "China's idea of how to make an FN Five-Seven."

54.

THICKER THAN WATER.

I heard my country calling, away across the sea, Across the waste of waters she calls and calls to me.

Her sword is girded at her side, her helmet on her head, And round her feet are lying the dying and the dead.

I hear the noise of battle, the thunder of her guns, I haste to thee my mother, a son among thy sons.

-From "I Vow to Thee, My Country," a British patriotic hymn, based on a poem by Sir Cecil Spring-Rice, set to a theme from Gustav Holst's "Jupiter," a movement in The Planets suite Tavares, Florida-March, the Eleventh Year The Jeffordses arrived in a chartered Super Osprey amphibian plane. The plane touched down on Lake Dora and taxied to the city of Tavares Seaplane Base. The breezy day made the water choppy. The Altmillers were waiting for them. Janelle Altmiller and Rhiannon Jeffords had arranged this meeting, primarily to discuss their parents in British Columbia. The sisters were worried that they had been out of contact for so long.

Lance Altmiller was now twenty-two years old. He had found part-time work in the local thrift store, moving and sorting boxes of donated household goods. He still lived in his parents' home. Sarah Jeffords was eighteen, and had recently begun arguing with her mother about wearing eye makeup. She now spoke with an acquired Australian accent.

The Jeffordses were home in America, to stay.

The first thing that Rhiannon said when she saw her sister was, "Uggggh. You got old."

Janelle replied, "You've got wrinkles too, sis."

"Well, we can count our blessings. At least you never got fat, and I got skinny and I stayed that way. And we all have our health."

Janelle nodded. "Yes, G.o.d is good."

Unloading their luggage took a while, and was tricky, even with the amphibian plane tied up to the pier. The swells caused the plane to oscillate, making for hesitant footing at the cargo door. The Jeffordses had brought seven suitcases, two Pelican pistol cases, and four Kolpin long gun cases. The six people and luggage were a tight squeeze in the two vehicles that the Altmillers had driven to the seaplane base.

The conversations on the short drive to the Altmillers' home focused on the Jeffordses' lengthy flights on an Airbus A380 and a Boeing 747-8 to Miami, and then the charter in the smaller amphibian to Tavares. The men were in one vehicle, and the ladies in the other.

When they reached the house, they were ushered in by the day guard. Their housekeeper, Elena, already had lunch ready for them. The Habana sandwiches and mojito salad were served with coffee and iced tea.

Over lunch, the conversation soon turned to their family in British Columbia. Jake said emphatically, "There's been outright resistance in Canada. Almost everyone has wanted the foreign troops out for years."

"I've already been praying about this. I suppose we'll have to do something about Canada," Peter said.

"Do you suggest that we support the resistance or join it?" Jake asked.

Peter sighed. "If not now, then when? And if not us, then who?"

"I agree," Rhiannon said.

"I think we're all in agreement that we need to take action," Jake said. "So let's summarize: The first wave of invasion, the French, was pushed out after a few years, but the second wave, the Chinese PLA with a bunch of technocrats in tow, came in force, and they're practically terraforming the place. They have the nerve to call themselves UN forces as well. They're expanding mines and building a whole new city from scratch, east of Vancouver-between Surrey and Abbotsford-that's been nicknamed New Shanghai. It is laid out in a grid of streets that will connect Surrey and Abbotsford. It's huge."

"We know the essentials of what the Chinese are now doing, but we're out of touch with Mom and Dad," Janelle said. "I only got one message relayed via ham radio from Mom and Dad shortly after the French capitulated, but before the Chinese landed."

She pa.s.sed a handwritten transcription to Rhiannon and Peter. Rhiannon read it aloud, twice: "Greetings! Good riddance to the French. We were with the NLR, as was Ray, his friend Phil, and Phil's wife. We will be rebuilding our herd. We are all healthy here. Can you come up to visit after things go back to normal?-A & C McG."

"Well, obviously the Chinese occupation changed everything, after that was written," Rhiannon said. "Their occupation has gone on for five years."

Jake jumped in. "The Chinese have a news blackout about their occupation of western Canada. The happenings up there are sketchy-just a few things that the news media hear from border crossers. The Ottawa government is sitting on their hands, endlessly parlaying with the Chinese about the details of the border between the former Saskatchewan and Manitoba, when they should be demanding an immediate withdrawal.

"Meanwhile, since there is a nuclear stalemate between the U.S. and China, the RCG is only providing some covert aid. It is a.n.a.logous to what they did to support the mujahideen in Afghanistan, back when the Soviets were there in the 1980s. That means no direct military support, no air support. Nothing."

"So we have no way of knowing the current situation for Mom and Dad," Janelle said. "Ray is there. They mentioned plans to build the cattle herd back up. But what is really going on? Are they still healthy? Do they need help getting out of the country? Or do they need help fighting the Chinese? It's not even clear whether there is a functioning local economy. We really won't know until we get up there to see what we can do to help."

Peter gave Jacob a look and they both nodded. Then Peter said, "I suggest that Jake and I infiltrate British Columbia by ourselves, and then after we get there and fully ascertain-"

"No way!" Janelle interrupted. "Alan and Claire are our parents, not yours. It sounds all n.o.ble and chivalrous of you, but Rhi and I are both very good shooters and we know our way around those woods a lot better than you do."

In the end, they decided that the Jeffordses would leave their daughter, Sarah, at the recently reopened Lake Mary Prep School, and that she would spend her summers "house sitting" with Elena and working as a sales clerk at the Altmillers' hardware store. Meanwhile, the Altmillers would leave their son, Lance, in the care of Elena. Lance-who had the intellect of a five-year-old-needed constant supervision. The store would be in good hands in their absence. Their old accountant, Lisa Schoonover, had recently returned from Tennessee, and Tomas Marichal (the store manager) was running the store full-time and was planning to buy it, allowing Jake and Janelle to retire.

They spent the next twenty minutes discussing potential strategies for sneaking across the Canadian border, and the risks of minefields-both French and Chinese.

Peter, who had been quiet for most of this conversation, spoke up. "Okay, it's a calculated risk, but here is what I propose. I say that we spend a few months stocking up on supplies that we know the resistance can use. Then we charter a seaplane to take the four of us up there and drop off us and the gear at a very remote lake. We make sure that everything that we bring is compatible with packhorse saddles, and we even bring nine saddles with us-six packsaddles and three riding saddles."

"You're kidding, right? I haven't ridden a horse in ten years," Jake said.

"Neither have I, but I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me."

Rhiannon glanced at her sister, and they both started nodding.

"I actually think it's a great plan," Janelle said. "Even if the Chinese have any sort of air defense up there-which I seriously doubt-if they track us and we drop off the radar, it will probably be at least twelve hours before they'll get anyone up there to check it out. By then, we can have all our gear tucked back in the woods. Then we hike out, borrow a pack string, and pick our way down to Anahim Lake on cattle trails, conspicuously staying off the roads."

Jacob still looked incredulous.

Peter jumped back in. "For years, I've been hearing Rhi rave about Sigutlat Lake, way up in the Dean River country, in Tweedsmuir Provincial Park. It's what, eighty or ninety miles northwest of the ranch? It's a fly-in lake that was used by tourist fishermen. That was where her dad took her by horseback, to catch those famous eighteen-pound trout. The lake freezes up in early November, so I say we get there well before October."

"Is that lake big enough to land on?" Jake asked.

"Certainly. Sigutlat Lake is eight miles long," Rhi said. "And Peter is right. Unless the Chinese discovered uranium up there or something, there will be n.o.body, and I mean n.o.body, there. There are no more tourist fly-fishermen. A family built a fly-in lodge there, back around 2006, but the last I heard, the lodge had burned down. Hopefully the dock is still there."

"So who would be crazy enough to fly us up there?" Rhi asked.

Jake and Janelle glanced at each other, and then Jake answered for both of them: "Rob, at Smith Brothers."

Smith Brothers Air & Seaplane Adventures had been in business for twenty years. The small company flew charters in Florida year-round as well as in the Lake of the Ozarks region of Missouri each summer.

The company was owned by a former Delta Airlines pilot with thirty thousand hours of flying experience. His son and right-hand man was Rob Smith, a former U.S. Air Force pilot with a poorly concealed wild streak. Rob had more than twenty-five hundred hours of stick time, and nearly half of those hours were in seaplanes and pontoon floatplanes. He had made hundreds of takeoffs and landings on lakes.

For many years the company had three small floatplanes and "The Big Plane," a five-seat UC-1 Twin Bee. Then, just a year after the UN capitulation, they gambled and bought the "Really Big Plane," a Cessna Amphibian-a floatplane variant of the recent-generation Cessna Caravan. (Since floatplanes were primarily recreational, and the recreational aviation market had not yet recovered, Smith had the chance to pick it up for twenty cents on the dollar.) While it outwardly looked like a typical floatplane, it was scaled up considerably and was powered by a beefy 675-horsepower turboprop engine that burned either JP4 or JP5.

The thirty-nine-foot-long Cessna seated twelve pa.s.sengers and cruised at 159 knots once up at alt.i.tude, and 128 knots on the deck, with a range of 805 nautical miles. The plane's useful load was 3,230 pounds. With a full load, the plane had a takeoff distance of 3,660 feet.

Rob felt guilty about not being more active in the resistance against the Fort Knox government, so he jumped at the opportunity to take the risky charter. His father objected at first, but he eventually relented.

"Looking at the sectionals, I can see that the closest U.S. airport-at least straight-line distance-is the tarmac strip at Port Angeles, Washington. That is a 6,347-foot-long strip that can handle a Boeing 737, so it can certainly handle our puddle jumper, even if we are overloaded and just stagger off the ground. But it's about five hundred miles to your lake. The problem is, it's another five hundred miles back, and our plane only has an eight-hundred-mile range flying a standard profile, and a lot less if we try to dodge radar."

"What if we were to refuel up there?" Jake asked.

"You can arrange that?" Rob asked. "We're talking about a crud load of jet fuel. The capacity is 332 gallons, which equates to 2,224 pounds. Depending on how much low-level flying we have to do, we'll probably burn between 260 and 300 gallons of that getting there, leaving only about 65 gallons in the wing tanks when we land."

"Let me make some inquiries," Jake said.

The next day, Jake met with Rob again and presented a solution. "The resistance guy tells me that there is a very active cell in Bella Coola. Apparently it is a cell that is independent of the Anahim Lake group, which I a.s.sume is the one that Alan and Claire are in. We can arrange to have a resistance boat refuel you with two hundred seventy gallons of jet fuel-all in five-gallon cans-at the mouth of the Dean River, which is almost impossible to reach overland, but it is only forty air miles from Sigutlat Lake."

"Okay. With two or three minutes per can-since five-gallon cans are slow to pour-we're talking two hours to refuel. Call it three hours, to be on the safe side. I hope you realize that the top of the wing is sixteen feet over the water, so we'll need very calm seas to be able to refuel. It's like standing on a metal roof of a house, but the house is moving. If there are swells, it feels like you're surfing when you're up on the wing."

Jake pulled out a map and showed him the water-landing site, and said, "You'll be landing on salt water, but on a very sheltered waterway. The Dean Channel is one of the longest inlets on the coast of BC. So unless there are unusually high winds that day, at most there will be just very small swells."

"What about Chinese troops?"

"Not an issue. We're talking about some remote and unpatrolled coastline, not Vancouver Island. The nearest PLA garrison is in Bella Coola, and there are no roads to the mouth of the Dean. You can only get there by boat or by floatplane. "

Rob Smith rubbed his chin. "So why don't I just drop you and your gear off with the resistance there at the inlet from the get-go?"

"It's on the wrong side of the mountain range, and the Chinese have the only road-Highway 20-very closely watched. They're sure to be checking IDs and they probably search every round-eye vehicle that pa.s.ses through. Getting thousands of pounds of contraband cargo through would be tricky at best. The intel guys say that they scrutinize the east-west highway routes in particular, since they consider those strategic."

"Well, if you're sure you can arrange that, then I'm game. But if your refueling committee falls through, then I'm up a creek without jet fuel," Rob said.

"I'm going to promise them about one hundred pounds of various ammunition and batteries in trade for the fuel, so they'll definitely be there."