Текст книги "The Battle for New York"

Автор книги: T. I. Wade

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Since there were so many Air Force bases around the country, the bases were perfect staging points for supplying food. Most of them had adequate food supplies to feed their personnel living on base, as well as thousands of civilians around the base, until the war was over. With the last news from the general, people were hopeful that it would only last another two weeks or so.

If they won the next battle, the enemy’s head would be cut off, and after the capture or destruction of the aircraft or ships they were using to enter the New York, the enemy would be at a disadvantage transporting fewer fighting soldiers over the ocean and into the United States.

Once the last battle was fought, only then could the whole new plan go into maximum effect with what was left of the country’s infrastructure. America needed all the C-130s to go to work feeding the people. The plan was to supply airports that had long enough runways to handle the C-130s with food in bulk that could then be distributed up to 200 miles in all directions by local aircraft. Each of the airports could be controlled by a platoon of soldiers, once there were enough soldiers and aircraft to fly them in, and they would guard the mission and the food.

The soldiers were to go out with each aircraft distributing the cases of rations to make sure that the food was handed out in a fair and orderly fashion. People would have to show their ID to get a week’s supply of food. The air bases would get their personnel working and count the millions of cases of military MREs (meal-ready to eat) that had their own flameless ration heater included, and FSRs (first strike rations) that were much lighter rations with a shorter shelf life and were eaten cold. Pilots flying out to distribute the food would need fuel. Luckily, many smaller airports still had supplies that could last several weeks, even into spring.

Phase One of the project was to get copies of the letter explaining the president’s plan on White House letterhead to all the Air Force bases in the country. Their first task was to communicate with any other Army, Navy, Coast Guard, National Guard, or Marine bases around the area and hand them a copy of the direct order from the president. Each Air Force base would receive a satellite phone, and a command center was set up at Andrews to begin work on the supply system after the war was over.

Phase Two had the Air Force bases locating and communicating with all local private airfields within 200 miles of their bases where aircraft could be commandeered for communications, as well as getting the airports ready to receive food supplies. This phase was to run from the war’s end to mid-spring, when most of the military food stores were expected to be exhausted.

Phase Three would then come into play. Farmers would be expected to grow fast, ready-to-eat food as soon as they could plant and grow. Then the whole distribution system would be reversed. Supplies from the farms would be then transported back to the Air Force bases for consumption and further redistribution. By this time, all the mobile Army or civilian vehicles would be commandeered to collect produce from the farms and redistribute.

Phase Four would be new canning and bottling plants set up at all the airports to allow food storage to begin for the next winter. Once that happened, the system would be self-sustaining and should grow to where the survivors are fed and would be able to give back by working in the production system. Only then could a dollar or a whole new currency be worth something again.

Preston had even gone ahead and designed Phases Five and Six, the retooling of all the engineering in the country to try and get the natural gas supplies up and running since they had only enough fuel to maybe last the country until the end of the summer. This is when the two older men got excited and flew back to California. One day every electrical company in the country would be reactivated, given electricity, and retooled to replace the billions of defunct parts that read “Made in China.”

Grandpa Roebels and Michael were excited to start work on that plan back in California. Their farm was luckily untouched and their first job was collecting several electrical engineers they knew who lived around them. Their idea was to get Silicone Valley up and running again within the next 12 months.

The meeting of the day on Preston’s farm was coming to an end by late that morning. The team—the First Family, the Smarts, Mike Mallory, John, Pam, Joe, David, Buck, Barbara, Ling, Martie, and Preston—was very happy with their accomplishments. The plan was in draft form, and Martie was printing off copies of the Presidential Order to be sent out.

The team was ready to fly into Seymour Johnson in every available aircraft to get the first load of food when the call came in from Carlos to Buck.

“Good morning to the farming community,” Carlos greeted them over the old radio, now in the hangar so it wouldn’t wake the First Family at all hours.

“Are you still alive up there, Carlos?” Preston stated into the radio mic.

“I would be more alive if I could get some sleep and see Sally for more than five minutes at a time! We are all working 20-hour shifts up here. We are allowed to use our radios again. Anyway, orders from Pete are for Buck to go down to Camp Lejeune and pick up 30 complete parachute sets. We need them up here at Mr. McGuire’s place ASAP, and I mean ASAP. We have an aircraft waiting for them. Martie, please ask the Commander-in-Chief to give you the order on letterhead. And guys, they are urgently needed so don’t dilly-dally getting up here. Full cruise power, please.” Martie’s letters from the President were almost all printed out, so Buck and Barbara got up, stretched, and headed out to start pre-flight checks.

“Are you winning the war for us?” Preston asked Carlos.

“Boy! It’s moving fast up here. The only time anybody gets any rest up here is if you are lucky enough to go out on a flight as a passenger,” replied Carlos. “But, we have a fantastic plan, and you guys are going to love it. Unfortunately, it’s hush-hush at the moment.”

“Even hush-hush for me?” asked the president himself, smiling as he asked the question.

“Only because I can’t say anything over the radio, sir, but the plan, if it works, will help us get our troops back quicker,” responded Carlos.

“Any plan to help our guys get back automatically has my approval,” replied the president.

“That’s what Pete said you would say, sir,” replied Carlos. “Anyway, all the big Mamas will be up here working hard until further notice. You guys down there must do the best you can. And, by the way, you only have a week. Pete wants every available aircraft up here in seven day’s time—everything with guns that is.”

“We have the presidential letters for the food distribution, Carlos. Can you see that they are distributed when aircraft go out to any Alpha Foxtrot bases in the country? We have 50 copies for you,” said Preston, changing the topic.

“Send them up with Buck and I’ll get them out on every available flight,” replied Carlos.

Martie ran out to Lady Dandy, her engines starting up, and delivered all the necessary papers. Buck and Barbara quickly headed out for the Marine base in a southern direction. That left only four useable aircraft on the apron for transporting food—the FedEx Cargomaster, the 210, and the two Cessna 172s. Baby Huey was up at McGuire working her butt off, and the tanker had already left for McGuire earlier that morning, again on Pete Allen’s orders. Preston had quickly made sure that his underground fuel tanks were topped up from the local airport, since he had been given three hours advance notice.

Will Smart was happy to be in control of all the communications at the farm. Everyone had a job to do, but due to his fear of flying, he was still excused from flight duties. His wife wasn’t afraid, however, and she was planning to fly down to Seymour Johnson with the pilot team. The four kids were happy as a group, and their job was to make sure the guards around the airfield all had food and fruit juice.

With the farm and the presidential family under the protection of the Secret Service and Air Force, the four aircraft took off for their first day of food distribution with Will and the First Lady sitting next to the radio with the use of a satellite phone. The flight team would be joined at the air base by Lady Dandy when she got back in a couple of hours.

The plan for the day was to get food out to four airports, find a suitable hangar, begin storage, and speak to the locals. If they could reach four airports a day, a small amount of people in the southern United States could be fed before they had to travel north. They flew into Seymour Johnson, where the base commander had pallets of the military meals waiting to be packed inside the small aircraft.

“We are still checking our stocks,” said Colonel Mondale, as he shook everyone’s hand and invited them in for a special FSR (First Strike Rations) cold lunch while the supplies they were going to distribute were packed up, and they waited for Lady Dandy. “We have two warehouses full of all types of field supplies, but so far we have 1,850,000 cases of food rations in stock. I know that Fort Bragg will have much the same and the Marines should have even more. I’m thinking that we have around 6 million cases of food here in North Carolina. Each case is between nine and twelve meals. The FSRs, or First Strike Rations as we call them, are lighter for your smaller aircraft. A case holds nine meals for an adult, weighs 23 lbs., and does not have the unnecessary extras like the food heaters. These have a shorter shelf life and I suggest you get them out first. The MREs, or Meal-Ready-to-Eat packs, are heavier and should be left here until you can use the C-130s to transport them into the civilian airfields.”

“How many cases of food do you think are in the whole country?” asked Preston, realizing the mammoth task ahead of them.

“Well, we always hold enough stock for at least 90 days for our troops in the field. I don’t know that exact number—only a couple of brass at the Pentagon know, or did know—but since we have more than one million men and women over there, I’d say we have around 100 million cases of food.”

Preston looked at the group and thought for a few moments. “So, if spring is 12 weeks away, and we need to give farmers at least the same amount of time to produce fresh food, that means we have enough food to last about 30 million people, one tenth of the country’s population.”

Suddenly, the enormity of the situation hit all of them right between the eyes for the first time. How could such an enormous mass of people survive without electrical power? The whole system was so weak and useless. The people themselves had been molded, due to the luxuries of modern civilization, into weak and brittle beings. Mother Nature could destroy everything we built at any time, and the world’s population could destroy themselves just as quickly, it seemed. It looked to the group like only a small percentage of the American population could survive, and they knew that extent of the catastrophe was worldwide. What would happen to the billions of already starving people who depended on the generosity of others now that those with resources had joined the ranks of those without? “We have around 100 large field electrical generators in our warehouses, and we are looking through our inventory for more items of use. I’ve checked the generators and they do work,” added Colonel Mondale, breaking Preston’s train of thought. “I’m sure that Camps Bragg and Lejeune have just as many. That will at least give some electrical power to necessary facilities.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” replied Preston. “You know guys,” he continued, “if I have anything to say about the next world order, I’m going to make sure that civilization is organized correctly this time. I’m going to work on Phase Seven of my plan—to make sure that this horrible destruction of humanity can never happen again, at least not by man himself. And, I have the two perfect men to sell my idea to—the president and the general. Now let’s do a hard day’s work and feed as many people as we can before we have to go north. I hear Lady Dandy coming in.”

Mike Mallory and his trusted co-pilot, John, decided to take the FedEx Cargomaster to the airfield where the Southwest passengers had stayed overnight to test out the distribution plan. He could carry 120 cases at a time, and their allotted area was D.C., Maryland, and Delaware. He knew these states well. Preston, flying the 210 with Maggie as his co-pilot, had picked both the Carolinas. He knew the area well because of the crop duster business, and he was carrying 50 cases per flight. Martie and Pam wanted Virginia, and headed up there with both 172s in formation, as they could only take 30 cases per aircraft with the back seats pulled out and the copilot’s seat free. Buck and Barbara decided on Tennessee, since Lady Dandy could carry much, much more and fly further with 350 cases. It wasn’t much, but at least they could get something done, and two to four flights a day would mean a few less people starving.

The Cargomaster had 120 cases of FSRs loaded by Air Force personnel. Each case was nine days of meals for one person, but the team decided that they would give one case to each civilian and tell them that they had to make it last for two weeks.

The hangar was still empty when he got there, the ground covered in a few fresh inches of snow that made landing a little dicey, and it wasn’t long before the same tractors appeared. This time there were three of them.

Mike explained to the farmers, who looked happy to see him return, that they would have to keep the runway clear at all times, and that the whole airfield as well as the nice warm hangar would commandeered by the U.S. Air Force. From now on, it would be a food distribution center and local pantry for needy people in the area.

Mike asked the farmers, still sitting on their tractors, how many aircraft had been in and out since he had left nearly a week ago. “None,” was the reply. He then asked how many aircraft in the hangers were flyable. Nobody knew, but one of the tractors drove off to bring the owner of one of the aircraft back. Mike then asked the farmers to go back to their farms and bring as much wood as they could, build a guard post, and barricade the front gate to make sure the airfield was secure.

From now on, he told them, the population in any area had two choices—either assist with the food distribution effort and work to turn local airports into future military-guarded warehouses—or not receive any food supplies at all. He explained to the farmers that once the enemy attacks were over in a couple of weeks, only then could larger C-130s with hundreds of cases come in and really get a truly worthwhile food distribution system going, and that there was only enough food until spring. Then it was up to the farmers, once again, to feed America or what was left of it.

The farmers responded that they had enough food, but that the local townsfolk were pestering them for something to eat and they would be more than happy to dole out the military food in an orderly manner until guards arrived. It saved them giving out their own supplies, which were in short supply.

Once Mike had explained things to the farmers, they were more than happy to do as he asked. Mike then went around to each hangar and opened the doors. Since most pilots kept the keys somewhere in the hangar, it was possible to see which aircraft would start and which had the bad electronics. It was a small hobby airstrip in the middle of nowhere, which meant that most of the aircraft were at least 20 years old or older.

He counted 22 possible aircraft in the hangars around the air port. Ten hangars were empty and he presumed that the aircraft would make it back sometime in the future. Of the 12 aircraft, ten started on the first try but most of them were small and would not carry many supplies. The number of aircraft would help make up for their small size. Only six of the aircraft—two high-wing Cessna 172s and four four-seat, low-wing Cherokee 140s were powerful enough to fly out at least 100 miles in any direction, and the two rear seats could be hauled out to carry one pilot, one guard, and 20-odd cases per flight.

If all six aircraft flew out to the same distribution point, like a smaller airfield, at least 120 people could receive two week’s worth of rations, and they could do that four times a day. The idea Mike and Preston had formulated was to feed at least 1,000 people from every small rural airport in the United States, and by their estimation, there were at least 15,000 airports around the country.

From this larger airfield, once food could be airlifted into it with a C-130 and then military trucks, at least 5,000 people could receive basic rations to keep them alive every couple of weeks. It wasn’t much, but if many of those 5,000 people could be fed and help the farmers with planting, then the new spring crops would feed a lot more people. The initial distribution building-blocks were small, but better than nothing, and nobody knew what the population count would be by the time the country got through the next two months of bitterly cold weather.

*****

The mood aboard the Chinese aircraft carrier was subdued. After the news of the air strike at the headquarters building in Nanjing, and all suffering from hangovers the next morning, the ship was quiet. The flotilla was 300 miles off the coast of China and on a direct heading for Panama at 20 knots.

Mo Wang had been up all night phoning all his termination squads in the United States. He was only able to communicate with 20 of them out of the 100 he tried. The rest either did not answer their phones, or could not answer their phones, he assumed. He had had many phone calls go through, but with no one talking on the other end. He had tried to communicate, but the person on the other end had just hung up.

He had also thought about things until close to 2:00 am when the chairman had personally knocked on the door of his stateroom, quite drunk, and told him that he had been demoted. He was now to fill Comrade Feng’s old position of Chief Communications Officer. “Comrade Wang, please hand me back your lapel badges. I expect a full report at our morning meeting, and it better not be only bad news, or your demotion could be extended, understood?”

Comrade Wang had no choice but to nod his agreement.

“Maybe the Chairman has forgotten that we are on a communication-challenged ship in the middle of the ocean,” he thought to himself. “Yes, Comrade Chairman,” is what he said.

Once the Chairman left, Mo continued to try all the satellite phone numbers he had on the list Feng gave him before they left. He had answers from the 20 squads who reported that they were all on their way to New York, that the weather was pretty bad, and they had had to shoot many people who were beginning to get in their way begging for food. Mo had over 50 phones hang up on him when he tried to call them, and then he reached the phone numbers on the list that had arrived in the transporter and gave up. They would still be in their packing. He would try those in a few days.

It was time to write his report.

*****

General Allen and the four thirsty C-130s were escorted into Moscow’s Domodedovo International Airport by three old, armed, single-engine turboprop Russian fighter aircraft about the size of the Swiss-made Pilatus of Sally’s. His radio operator had only needed ten minutes of searching the radio bands to find the radio frequency the Russians were using. Luckily, all three of the Russian pilots could speak limited English. Pete had explained his rank over the radio, saying he was on a peaceful mission ordered by the U.S. President, and that they wanted to see if Russia needed help, or was in better shape than the rest of the world. The Russians had asked that the three gunship’s gun crews stand back from their weapons and they would escort them into the international airport in downtown Moscow.

It was totally dark as they neared the city, and the general ordered all aircraft lights normally used in civilian flight patterns to be turned on. He explained to the Russian pilots that they had flown in from Beijing, had important news for the Russian government and just enough fuel to reach the airport, and they needed to go in as fast as possible. The airport’s landing lights were the only lights which shone on the horizon he was told. The rest of the city was black and this information allowed the general to relax a little.

Russia was in the same situation they were in. Their old fighter aircraft had already made that obvious, but the lack of lights in Moscow made him feel even better. He was not going to die just yet!

Ten minutes later, they followed one of the fighters down on final approach, several hundred yards between each aircraft, and they felt very relieved when the wheels touched down and they followed the fighter to a secure area of the airport, away from the civilian terminals. Here there were a couple of hundred troops, all with weapons pointed at the aircraft—far different from the welcoming committee in Beijing. The engines stopped and with Ghost Rider ahead of the others, the general once again got his hat and coat and left the aircraft, alone this time. He had ordered the guns manned again just in case.

Three soldiers, colonels by the look of their insignia, saluted him as he exited the aircraft. He saluted them back and was escorted to a line of five black cars, this time, standing 100 yards away from the stationary C-130s, and very similar to the three black limousines in China.

There were a dozen older men in long black coats and fur hats standing and waiting by the vehicles, guarded by at least 100 men. General Allen walked straight up to them, stopped, saluted, and stated “General Pete Allen, United States Air Force, on a mission directed by the President of the United States.”

In perfect English, the man in the middle returned that he was a member of the government and so were five of his associates. The others were members of other organizations.

“I would like to report to you what is happening in my country and what I’ve seen so far around the world,” General Allen continued. “I would also like my four aircraft refueled, because I must head back to the U.S. Air Force base in South Korea via Beijing. I believe that my report will take half an hour and I would like a reasonable report on your country’s devastation so that I can give a report back to my president. I have a crew of 48 and one lady aboard, who could do with a cold or hot meal and some water or liquid other than vodka, if you have some. We have been flying non-stop now for two days.”

The men smiled slightly at the mention of vodka, and he was asked to follow them. They walked into a fully lit terminal. The building had been blacked out from the inside, and all the curtains drawn. It was a small military terminal in a warehouse building, extremely luxurious, with thick leather chairs and a bar and food counter to one side. The member of the Russian government who seemed to be in charge, explained to the general that the visitors could use this facility and they should use it during refueling. All his men and the lady could sit in the warmth and eat what they wanted. The Russian official then barked out orders to one of the men in Russian, who marched off to tell the American crew. The general halted him for a second, asking the soldier, in fluent Russian, to allow his own men to refuel the four aircraft. The man nodded and many eyebrows were lifted by the government officials with the use of his perfect Russian.

General Allen was served a warm and tasty meal and the choice of coke, coffee or bottled water, as they all sat down in a private lounge and waited for his report.

He asked three questions in English before he started his report. Was the whole of Russia without power? Was the country’s communications affected internally as well as externally? And had this catastrophe had anything to do with the Russian government, or any Russian electrical companies inside or outside Russia?

“To answer your first question, General Allen,” responded the man, also in his perfect English, who looked like the most influential person in the crowd. “More of Russia is having electricity problems than we would like. The answer to your second question is that we have very little communications internally and no communications externally—that is, until you arrived out of nowhere on our radar screens five hours ago. Thirdly, we do not believe that any Russian electrical companies are involved with this crisis. Also I personally do not believe that any departments of the Russian government are involved, as many of the department heads are here in this building tonight. Now, please tell us what is going on.”

General Allen did, not relaying any secure information that wasn’t necessary, just as his Russian counterpart was doing. He told the story of Zedong Electronics as told to him by Lee Wang. He explained the power outages around the world and the blackness of the entire planet from space.

The general also explained how they had got an old project satellite back into operation and found the three Chinese satellites which did not belong to the Chinese Government. He explained the cell phones, lied that only a dozen or so were useable and he could offer them three phones on the next flight. This would give the Russian government communications with the United States as well as China.

It took an hour, and the food was good, especially the caviar. A case of good French champagne was opened and glasses passed around to the 20-odd men in attendance. General Allen fielded dozens of questions and answered in a way that would preserve world peace as well as secure his interests in getting U.S. military troops back home. The Boeing aircraft were not mentioned, but the attack on the buildings in Nanjing was.

The champagne went to his head slightly and made him realize how tired and old he was. At 60 years old, he wasn’t meant to be running around the world like a teenager. Three hours after landing, however, the snow began to fall slightly outside and they were ready to go.

His four aircraft would be escorted to Omsk in southern Siberia– Russia’s second-largest city 1,400 miles southeast of Moscow and 2,200 miles from Beijing. Here, the three Russian fighters would be at their furthest range and the American aircraft could land and refuel at a Russian Air Force base there. He had told the group that if his aircraft could use that same base as a stop between China and Russia, he could install a radio beacon there for future trips.

They laughed and told him that Russia had a lot of old working electrical devices of all types. Nothing was ever thrown away in Russia, and all Russian aircraft already had a full system of radio beacons and their frequencies went all the way in and out of Russia in all directions. All that was needed were the several military AM radio frequencies and as long as all aircraft were entering Russia on peaceful missions, they now had the “Right” to fly through or into any major city any time they wanted. He was told to tell the Chinese that they would be offered the same opportunities.

Everyone shook hands with General Allen, The most senior man telling him the President of the United States was welcome to visit at any time, by special order from the Prime Minister of Russia himself. The three satellite phones were also welcomed and would be used wisely since they did not have a satellite communication system anymore either.

The benefits of flying with an escort, as well as the new radio beacon frequencies coming out of the military base in Omsk, gave all the crew, except the eight fresh pilots flying the aircraft, four hours of hard-earned sleep. Even the responsibility of monitoring the only satellite phone on board was given to them and General Allen slept as well as the other crew members until touchdown in a snowy Omsk four hours and twenty minutes later.

The nasty weather was also heading south and the general was escorted out of Russian airspace several hours later, saying goodbye to their escort who reported back that they had orders to wait for the American’s return to Omsk. The freshly refueled C-130s headed on a direct course to the base in Osan, 2,800 miles east of them.

His current Ghost Rider pilot told the general that the phone had rung twice while he was sleeping and a Chinese voice had tried to communicate. The pilot had done what everybody had been told to do when answering a call—listen for the Allen Key password from the caller before uttering any communication. The general checked in with Carlos and found out that his phone had also rung once from this unknown caller, and the general told Carlos to get someone to call up all the numbers on the American list and remind the ones answering the phones to keep quiet until the password was given.

Carlos relayed the information to the general that Mother Goose was inbound to Osan, heading over the northern route, and that her estimated time of arrival was six hours and forty-five minutes. They had hit bad weather and were having to make a 30-minute detour flight around a large storm. It was beginning to blanket most of Russia, and the general should expect to have the same problem in three or four hours. Osan was still open and should continue to be long enough to get both flights in and then out to Shanghai.

“How many people did we get aboard, Carlos?” General Allen asked.

“Twelve pilots, Pete,” Carlos replied. “There isn’t a non-pilot aboard except for the ten cowboys from Lejeune. In total, we have 22 people on the flight manifest with full fuel and parachute gear for 30. You will have to pick up more men on your next stop to use all the silk. I’m sure you can find one or two of them who are able to jump, or fly at their next stop.”