Chapter 19

There is much that I haven't written about in the last two and a half years. After I ran out of pages in my last journal, I kept forgetting to get more. As time went on, it seemed less important to record our daily activities, in light of the urgency of some of them. It was my lovely Amanda who got me started again. It was she who made sure that there was a whole case of journals from the last foraging run with my name on them. I apologize to anyone who might wind up reading these for using so much dialogue. I suppose Grey Wolf's storytelling style must have rubbed off on me somewhere along the line. For historical accuracy, I suppose I should mention that the dialogue may not be verbatim what was said, but is intended to capture the gist of the conversations while demonstrating the attitudes of the speakers. So, anyway, where do I begin?

Well, perhaps with our marriage. We had no ministers, but Grey Wolf was up to the task. We had a simple ceremony at the first Winter Solstice celebration. Everyone who wasn't on watch attended. If I remember, we had sent out another foraging party after the first Thanksgiving, who, besides returning with almost the entire library of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, (That was a convoy, all by itself!) also brought more booze, more food, more building materials, almost an entire machine shop, and another hundred twenty people, most of them driving trucks.

Our baby? Little Gav, thank goodness, got more of his looks from his mother than from me. Too soon to tell if he takes after either of us personality-wise, but you can tell from the look in those huge, dark eyes, that he's going to be trouble once he becomes a little more mobile. Just like I was at that age...

Looking back at my last entries, I see I never recorded the resolution of Tracy's problem either. Amanda and I discussed her request, and decided that I should probably help her out. When we went to tell her, though, she had already taken care of the problem with young Wyatt Denton, the fiddle player from the night of the first Thanksgiving celebration. Mom and her little girl, Amy, are happy as clams.

Oh, yes, we have a new calendar. We had been informally dating everything from the time of our first arrival at our little fortress in the desert (somebody started calling it 'the Citadel' and the name stuck), so we simply continued doing so. We decided to keep the old month names, since everyone was familiar with them, but since we arrived here mid-October, which happened to coincide with a new moon, we shifted the calendar fifteen days, making November our first month, and recording November 1, 0000, as the first day of our new calendar. So, today is July 7, 0002, but when you look at the date on the computer, it says July 22, 2014, since the computer's still on the old calendar. Where the real differences come in is when you write it as numbers: 09/07/0002, vs. 07/22/2014.

I don't know if it's good or not, but it works for us. We still can't get far enough into the computers to reprogram the internal date functions, but some of the former Navy people have come up with an accessory program that tracks the new calendar by converting from the old one.

With Sandeep's help, we have been able to keep all three dams running and generating electricity, though, in time, we expect wear to begin forcing shutdowns, unless we can develop the capability of manufacturing replacement parts for those huge generators. The power helps because we have a deal with a small group of farmers in the San Joaquin Valley. They provide us with corn for our biodiesel plant, and we provide them with biodiesel to keep their farm machinery going.

There are little bitty kids everywhere! Thank goodness we've got some older ones, ten and up, from the groups that have joined us. They help take care of the little ones and provide some continuity by teaching them kid games. At least we won't have a whole half-generation gap before these little ones are old enough to have kids.

Yes, more people have joined us. We're up to about five hundred now, not counting the babies. We got the entire crew of a nuclear submarine that showed up in San Diego a few months back, frantically radioing for anyone who might be listening. We've also had more from Bakersfield, Barstow, Las Vegas, Palm Springs and the other nearby cities come to us...

Every once in a while, a small group from Mexico will straggle northward, usually over in San Joaquin Valley. If we, or one of our farmer allies sees them, and they look okay, we pick them up. I don't think we have too much to worry about genetic diversity now, but we're still welcoming anyone who's willing to live by our rules.

Speaking of the farmers, we have developed a cozy little interdependency with them that I think will work out well in the long run. We rotate armed units over to the valley about every three months. Their primary purpose is to protect the farmers and their crops, but when they're not on duty, they lend a hand with the work. In exchange, the farmers give us enough of their crops and meat to feed the population of the Citadel. We still grow cattle and vegetables here, but it's not enough to sustain us. As for the people who are sent on this detached duty, well, let's just say we don't lack for volunteers, especially in the summer. The temperatures are usually somewhat cooler there. They do see more fighting, since, every once in a while a small group of scavengers will come by and try to help themselves to the crops, but the skirmishes are usually short and one-sided.

We don't worry about individuals helping themselves to a little sustenance now and then, but the organized groups get greedy and there's plenty of unclaimed, fertile land there that they could use to grow their own crops.

One notable event that happened last year, I suppose I should mention, in case anyone reads these things.

I was on watch with General Lee, touring the posts in the peaks to the east of our valley, when we heard a sound we hadn't heard since before the sickness. Startled, we both looked up and watched as a jetliner flew overhead, East to West. Naturally, we hailed them on every frequency we could think of, but got no answer. They must have heard us, however, because the plane started to descend.

We watched until it disappeared behind the hills to the west.

"Must be trying to land at Edwards," Lee said.

"Most likely," I answered.

I thought about sending someone to investigate, but decided against it. If they had heard our radio transmissions, they would know about where we were, and anyone who could get a jetliner flying at that late date, could scare up enough transport to get here from Edwards. We put the watches on heightened alert and went on about our business.

A couple of hours later, the unmistakable sound of a helicopter rotor broke the silence of the desert. Another sound we hadn't heard in a while. Sentries on the western rim of the valley reported the approach of a large bird from the direction of Edwards. Just as a precaution, we sounded the alarm and prepared for air assault.

My station was in the bunker in the mine where we had originally established fire control for the MetalStorms. They were now integrated with our air defense system, as well, and everything was monitored from the mine. Some of the military communication guys had rigged antennas up in the hills that fed radio transmissions to and from the mine, so we didn't have to use the sound powered phones, but we kept them as a backup. We watched on radar and visual as the chopper, which resolved into the silhouette of a Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King helicopter, approached from the west.

"Get him on the horn and tell him not to overfly our position. If he ignores you, light him up with all the fire control you've got. If he still keeps coming, shoot him down." I told the operators quietly as they sat tensely before their terminals.

A chorus of well-disciplined "Yessir"s answered me.

The helicopter pilot did not respond to our radio calls, and kept coming, as if he intended to land in our valley. When the fire control systems started targeting him, however, he got the message.

"Whoever you are down there, stand down! This is Marine One with the President of the United States aboard. We will land in the center of your compound."

"I don't care who you have aboard," I responded on the same frequency, "you will shear off and land a half klick to the north of this range of mountains or in thirty seconds you will be nothing but smoking metal and rubber. This is not a threat, just a statement of fact."

Discretion became the better part of valor and the pilot eventually sat down just beyond the foot of our entry road. I called ahead on the sound powered phone, and Heather had Humphrey saddled and ready for me by the time I emerged from the mine. It was mid-summer and she had taken the precaution of hanging a full canteen from the saddle for me. We had gotten used to such precautions after that first summer. A couple of people almost died of dehydration, right in our little valley, just because they hadn't bothered to drink enough, even though water was plentiful.

Humphrey wasn't too happy about the heat, either, but I could see the moisture on his muzzle where Heather had watered him before handing him over to me, so I paid him no mind. He humped a little and fidgeted, then settled down and got me to the bottom of the road without any trouble.

A man in a polo shirt and slacks, accompanied by a smartly dressed woman, was surrounded by armed marines in dress khakis, and men in black suits whose jackets bulged under their armpits. They got really nervous when I rode up with the M-16 slung over my shoulder.

"Just hold it right there, mister. You'll have to lose the weapon before you come any closer," one of the suited men said.

"Nope," I shook my head. "If you don't want me coming closer with the gun, I guess I'll just head back up the hill."

So saying, I swung Humphrey around and started walking him back the way we had come.

"Wait a minute," the same voice said, louder. "What about us? What about the President?"

"You can go back where you came from, or you can sit here in the sand and die," I shrugged, "makes no difference to me, except I really don't want to revive the vulture population. They're finally dying down to a manageable level after the sickness."

"But, there's no place else to go," the man said desperately, "everbody's either dead or turned to barbarism. You seem to be the only ones in the country, except for small groups, that still have some semblance of a civilization left."

"Don't know about the whole country," I said, "but we have still got some civilization here, and we don't take kindly to strangers coming in with weapons and ordering us to get rid of ours. You folks can stash your weapons in the chopper and come on up, or you can leave, or you can wait here, but everyone else on this mountain is armed, and we're going to stay that way. Until we know who you are and whether or not you fit in here, you leave your weapons behind."

"You don't get it," the guy who seemed to be in charge of the detail said, drawing his handgun and pointing it in my direction. "This is the President of the United States. No one goes armed in his presence except us."

"Snipers, can you disarm this clown?" I said into my throat mike. I had deliberately angled Humphrey in from one side to leave a clear field of fire for the troops hukered down in the rocks of the hillside behind me.

"I can, sir," one of the men in the hills answered.

"Okay, on my signal, do it. Fire control, I want four rounds of flash-bang bracketing this group on the same signal."

"Roger, Sir. Acknowledged. Four rounds flash-bang in a bracket."

The group in front of me was getting nervous, since I made no attempt to lower my voice. They must have thought I was bluffing, though, because the guy with the gun kept it pointed at me. I negligently raised a hand and chopped it down.

Immediately, there was a smack of lead on metal followed closely by the report of the sniper's rifle and the cry of the guy with shards of lead buried in his hand. Close on the heels of those sounds came four loud, but not very energetic explosions placed at the four corners of a perfect square around the group and the helicopter. A loud BRRRUP sounded from the MetalStorms on the hillside behind me, as the rounds fired within milliseconds of each other.

The Marines in the party around the chopper immediately took cover and started scanning the hills, looking for targets, while the guys in suits surrounded the couple, leaving the disarmed Secret Service guy alone to face me while his hand dripped blood into the sand.

"Now," I said casually, "we get a little clearer picture of the situation. Near as I can remember, this President's term ended some months ago, and I don't recall having been given the opportunity to vote in another election, even though I did vote for this guy the first time. In my book, that makes this gentleman the former President of the United States. In addition, in case none of you have noticed, a biological weapon was released upon the world during this President's watch. While the rest of us suiffered, and all but a small percentage died, you folks were, no doubt, hiding in some super secret bunker until your scientists or whoever told you it was safe to come out. Meanwhile, those few of us who did survive, have been busy getting on with our lives, all without your help or interference. Now, if this fella still wants to play at being President, take him back to Washington and have at it. If you folks would like to join us, and are willing to work and take orders, you're welcome to give it a try. As for those guns you keep waving around, we have a lot more, and if you insist on making this a shooting match, you will lose. I could just as easily have ordered the snipers to take out everyone with a weapon, or dropped high explosive in the center of your position, and if one of you lets loose a single round, all that will happen anyway."

That was the longest speech I had delivered in months and I paused to take a sip of water.

"Now, what's it going to be? It's hot out here and my horse doesn't much care for the heat."

There was a murmured conversation amongst the suits, that grew briefly heated, then the fellow in the polo shirt came over, leaving the suits behind. He was youngish-looking, as President's go, probably in his mid-forties, and I had liked his progressive ideals when he was campaigning. His wife was one of those Jacqueline Kennedy types who seemed born to be a President's wife, though her role in government and in her husband's campaign had been a bit more active than Mrs. Kennedy's.

"You seem to have a little clearer grasp of the situation than my guard detail," he said. "Might I ask who I'm talking to?"

"Gavin Thompson," I answered, "and, if memory serves, you'll be Mark Wyndham. I voted for you, but I can't say I'm all that happy with your job performance."

"Nothing wrong with your memory," he said. "I can't say I'm all that happy with my job performance, either. Look, it's awfully hot out here, and god knows why the only sign of civilization we've seen is in the middle of the desert, but do you suppose we could get in out of this sun and have a little more leisurely conversation?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "Just have everyone who's coming with you leave their weapons here. They can come back and get 'em later, once we've had a chance to talk, and you know what you want to do."

"Well, for starters, I want to apologize for what's left of the Secret Service. They're only trying to do their jobs, but as you say, the situation has changed. In a sense, I guess I'm a guest in your country now."

"In a sense, but as far as politics goes, unless there's somebody up there with a beef against you for the sickness, you won't need protection from us. If somebody does have a beef, they won't do anything about it while you're a guest. If you decide to join us, though, you might find yourself in a fistfight or two."

"Fistfight? With all these guns around? I'd think anybody with a grudge would just shoot me."