Patriots: A Novel of Survival in the Coming Collapse

CHAPTER 25 Egress

Just after the morning meeting, Mike Nelson and Ian hiked up to reconnoiter the new base of operations. They scouted a small valley four miles to the east that Mike had picked out months before. Ian said that the meadow in the center of the valley looked fine for landings. They walked the length and width of the meadow several times, looking for landing gear obstructions. They found none. The pair hiked back to the retreat, had a hurried lunch, and pre-flighted Ian’s Laron. The flight to the valley took only a few minutes. They both wanted to see what the site would look like from the air. Ian made a test landing in the meadow. Before they took off again, Mike left his HK91 wrapped in a poncho, with his web gear harness lying beside it, in a thick clump of trees just beyond the east edge of the meadow. It was the first of what would soon become a small mountain of equipment. The site would soon be known as the militia’s tactical command post or “TAC-CP.” As they walked back to the plane, Nelson remarked, “I think we’ll call this place Valley Forge.”

The remainder of the two companies spent the day and evening in feverish preparation. The first order of business was for every individual at both retreats to repack their “G.O.O.D.” backpacks. Lon Porter, Mike Nelson, and the Doyles consumed their next two days mounting the five M16s on Ian’s Laron, and the M60 on Blanca’s. There was no way to mount the guns in the cramped noses, and mounting them on the planes’ fragile wings looked very difficult.

The solution was simply to remove the planes’ canopies and mount the guns in the front seat area, with their muzzles protruding over the front lips of the cockpits. A large narrow bin was constructed of sheet metal to hold the ammunition belt for the M60. When belts of ammo were linked together continuously and loaded into the bin, it was found that it would accommodate one thousand and sixty rounds.

In the case of the M60, the firing mechanism was made with a bicycle cable and the gearshift lever from Mary’s ten-speed. The bike was in disuse, since its tires had partly rotted out and replacements were unavailable. For the five M16s, the fire control mechanism took five separate triggering rods, all linked together on a common axis bar. It in turn was linked by a “traveling arm” to a firing lever mounted on the front of the left armrest of the rear seat. Using scrap metal and more parts from the rack on Mary’s bicycle, Lon built this mechanism in less than three hours. The sights were a home-brew affair, made out of six-inch-long sections of Schedule 40 one-and-one-half-inch white plastic water pipe, with crosshairs made out of stiff wire at the front of each.

These tubes were attached to the gun mountings using bolts and fender washers. Stacks of washers were gradually built up until the point of aim in the crosshairs matched the bore-sight view. Test firing confirmed the point of impact.

Lon completed the mountings by fabricating brass catchers out of scrap sheet metal. He primarily used the front panel of Kevin Lendel’s disused electric dishwasher, and license plates that had been taken off of the various cars and trucks at the retreat. The catchers would serve to both save the fired brass and links for reloading, and to prevent fired brass from causing any damage to the planes, or getting underfoot inside the planes.

Since the Larons had dual controls, it was simple enough to fly them from the rear seat. This required repositioning the throttles. It was a long reach to hit the starter switches, since there were no equivalents in the rear seats, and the visibility from the rear seats was not as good as from the front. The instruments were largely out of view as well, particularly on the green Laron with the wide M16 mounting rack. However, Doyle expected that the upcoming flights would be all “seat of the pants” flying anyway. Without the canopy, the slipstream would be tremendous at full throttle, but manageable in slow flight. The Doyles were given two pairs of the Grays’ army surplus “Goggle: Sun, Wind, and Dust” to compensate for the lack of canopies.

The gun mounts themselves were a marvel of quickly improvised tube bending, machining, and welding. The mount for the M16s bolted directly onto the rifle’s receiver extension tubes. It was found that in order to save space, the buttstocks and pistol grips would have to be removed. The removal of the buttstocks left the threaded buttstock hole available at the back end of each receiver extension. An eighth-inch-thick plate of two-inch-wide steel was drilled for these bolt holes. The missing pistol grips meant that there was nothing to hold the selector switch springs and detents in place. Rather than fabricate something special, it was expedient just to tape the selector switches in the “Burst” position. This kept them from falling out of the receivers.

The forward mounting point for each of the M16s was their forward pivot-pin hole. These pins (along with their springs and detents) were removed, and long carriage bolts were put in their place. These same bolts bisected a piece of tubular steel. It in turn tied into the main framework. Once assembled, the entire mount could be removed with the guns intact by simply unclamping four bolts. This, Lon predicted, would simplify cleaning the guns. The brass catching bins were assembled and mounted separately. They, too, could be removed easily if need be. They also had clever sliding metal doors at the bottom that allowed the fired brass to be shoveled out into a sack. The handguards of the five M16s were removed to provide better airflow for cooling.

Almost as an afterthought, Lon mounted Video 8 camcorders that belonged to the Grays and Kevin Lendel on each of the planes, using one-quarter-twenty bolts. It was Kevin Lendel who made the effort to mount the cameras.

He explained, “The only way to counter the Federals’ propaganda is with the truth, and what better truth to show than some exciting gun camera footage?”

A third camera, from Pastor Dave’s house, was borrowed to document any upcoming ground engagements. Charging the two sets of batteries for each camera took two days.

For the test firing, the M16s were fired in their semiauto mode, and the M60 was fired in a few brief bursts, in order to conserve ammo. Operationally, the M16s would be used in their “burst” mode. To those assembled for the test firing, Doyle explained, “The M16A2 has a three-position selector, just like the older A1s, but the third position produces a three-shot burst setting instead of traditional full auto. Instead of teaching troops proper fire discipline, the military decided to solve the ‘spray and pray’ problem by making a mechanical change to the rifle. The A2 selector mechanism has a little ratchet that clocks up to three and then stops the burst. You get subsequent bursts by releasing the trigger and pulling it over again. Pretty nifty technology, but a sad statement on the caliber of Army, Navy, and Air Force volunteers. It’s sad, in my opinion, that they needed three-shot burst control technology to begin with. It should have been a training issue.” He shook his head in dismay, and then went on.

“Anyway, we will be using the burst setting. With thirty-round magazines, that will give us ten bursts of three shots each on each sortie. With five guns on line, that’s fifteen rounds per burst. Should do the trick, eh?”

Lon asked Doyle, “You don’t expect those M16s to stop tanks and APCs, do you?”

Ian shook his head and replied, “No, these M16s and the M60 are for antipersonnel use, and perhaps against unarmored vehicles. You’ll need to figure out something else to stop tanks and APCs.”

Doug Carlton smiled. “Don’t worry, Ian. We have a goodly supply of thermite grenades and Molotov cocktails for that. We assembled them a year and a half ago.”

The Doyles spent three full days ferrying supplies toValley Forge in both of the Star Streaks. It required twenty-five round-trip flights. Landing at the meadow on the first ferrying trip, Ian and Blanca unbolted the guns from their planes to make room for cargo. On the subsequent flights, they carried fuel and oil—a total of fourteen five-gallon cans of unleaded premium and a case of forty-weight motor oil. Next was ammunition. They took all of the M60 belt links and more than half of the remaining .308 and .223 ammunition still available at both retreat houses. This totaled almost twenty-four thousand rounds. The last ferry trips carried, food, tents, sleeping bags, and cold weather gear. After that, the canopies were removed again and the guns were remounted and reloaded.

While the work on the planes went on, large quantities of gear were hauled to Valley Forge on pack boards, with garden carts, or on the Porters’ sturdy mountain bikes. The bikes proved particularly useful. They were better at negotiating the rough terrain than the garden carts, and could haul nearly as much. Most of the loads were slung in stuff sacks on both sides of the center of the bike frames and on the panniers. It was impossible to ride the bikes when they were so loaded down, but walking alongside them was easy enough. The bikes could each carry two hundred pounds or more per trip.

In all, it took more than fifty round-trips to haul the supplies to Valley Forge. The militia members were careful to take numerous routes so that they wouldn’t leave a distinguishable trail. After making several trips, Mary commented that it would have been prudent to establish a cache many months before. She remarked to Margie, “Just imagine if we didn’t have a few days’ warning like this? We’d be S.O.L.! And what if we had to beat feet in the dead of winter, even if we had some warning? There would be no way to move this much gear in just a few days. We should have pre-positioned half of our food, fuel, and ammunition at an off-site cache a long time ago. That way we wouldn’t have to rush to move it all at once. We’re very lucky that we got away with putting all our eggs in one basket for so long.”

As the heaps of supplies grew under the trees at Valley Forge, they were covered by camouflage nets. Fortunately, the Grays and other group members had the foresight to buy dozens of waterproof containers before the Crunch.

They were essential for keeping the weapons, ammunition, food, and field gear dry outdoors. The ammunition and links were stored in Army surplus ammo cans, mainly .30 and .50 caliber size. Much of the clothing and field gear was stored in light green “Bill’s Bags” and Paragon Portage Packs. These were whitewater rafting “dry bags”—waterproof rubberized duffel bags—that Todd and Mary had purchased before the Crunch from Northwest River Supplies in Moscow. Some of the heavier items were carried in forest green Rubbermaid plastic storage bins.

Most prized for hauling and storage were the watertight “York Pack” hard portage packs that belonged to the Nelsons and Trasels. These were roughly the size of the Rubbermaid containers but completely watertight, and equipped with detachable shoulder straps. They were perfect for moving equipment to the new field site and ensuring that it would be protected from the elements. Everyone who saw the York packs wished that they owned a few, too. Firearms were stored in either hard Pelican cases or soft “Gun Boat” cases. Both were waterproof.

There would be just enough room for everyone to sleep in the low-profile two-man tents that were widely scattered under the trees. All of them were at least partially concealed under suspended camouflage nets. Most of the tents were either the Moss Stardome II or Little Dipper models. In the years before the Crunch, Moss was known as the country’s finest manufacturer of expedition-quality four-season tents. Unfortunately, the standard colors for the Moss tents were light tan and red. In 1995, however, at the behest of one distributor, Moss began making up the tents in custom colors. They did several short production runs with dark tan material instead of red, and with forest green “rain flys” instead of tan. It was from these batches that Todd’s group equipped themselves. The tents were so far superior to their existing tents that everyone bought the Moss Stardome IIs and Little Dippers. Most of their older tents were retained for spares.

The goats and sheep at the retreat were herded to Valley Forge. Their senior doe goat, their buck, their senior ewe, and their ram were tethered individually near the creek. The rest of the small goatherd and sheep flock stayed close to them.

Within hours after word of the approaching Federals began to circulate, the dozens of small militias in the region activated. In just a two-day period, nine of the militias were given an enormous quantity of food and equipment by the Northwest Militia. Most of this issue was termed a “long-term loan” with no firm expectation that it would ever be returned. Including previous distributions to the militias, by Todd’s accounting, they handed out 21 guns with cleaning kits, 118,500 rounds of ammunition, more than 100 magazines of various types and capacities, 12 improvised Claymore mines, 46 improvised thermite grenades, 157 Molotov cocktails, 11 first aid kits, 3 backpacks, 12 duffel bags, 4 sleeping bags, 8 ponchos, 6 army shelter half-tents, and 23 sets of web gear. Mike’s Morgan mare and saddle were loaned to a member of the Bovill Blue Blaze Irregulars, because they operated mainly on horseback, but were short two horses. Mike allowed that they could make better use of the horse than he could.

In addition to logistics, the local militias (or “maquis” as some of them called themselves) were given updated detailed information on rally points.

They were told to strike any Federal or UN targets of opportunity within their areas of operations, at will. They were warned to keep their radio transmissions to an absolute minimum, or better yet, to leave their radios turned off altogether. They were also reminded not to write down any of the information or mark any maps with the information they were given. It was, as always, all to be committed to memory. This way, if any of them were captured or killed, it would deny the Federals any useful intelligence.

Six days after their initial warning, Terry got word over the CB that the Federals had arrived in Moscow. It was on that same day that some of the bulky equipment that couldn’t be easily moved from the retreats such as the dehydrator, PV panels, radio equipment, deep cycle batteries, gardening tools, Lon’s lathe, and the bicycle/generator were placed in the LP/OP fortifications at each retreat. Many of the Grays’ personal mementos such as photo albums were stored there, as well. This gear was tightly packed and filled the LP/OPs up to the ceiling. Then the LP/OPs were carefully waterproofed with Visqueen, and their gun ports and entrances were buried. Finally, the fresh earth was camouflaged with sod that was cut more than a hundred yards away from each of the bunkers. This process turned the LP/OPs into oversized caches.

Realizing that their house and property would probably be singled out for the wrath of the Federals, the Grays’ tractor was driven to the Andersen’s barn for safety. All of the other vehicles, except Mary’s VW, were gassed up and dispersed on logging roads within a few miles of the retreats. They were left empty, aside for some spare full gasoline cans. Mike reminded everyone to use their field SOP for hiding the ignition keys: The key was placed on the ground in front of the left front tire. Then the clutch pedal was punched in briefly, allowing the wheel to roll over the key to conceal it. In this way, if anyone from the Northwest Militia needed to use any of the vehicles, they would immediately know where to find its key.

Before making their final evacuation, Todd asked Lon, Mike, and Lisa to stay back at his house to help him with some final preparations. Everyone else left, carrying their final backpack loads to Valley Forge. Shona went with this increment. The bitch had gone on security patrols many times, so she was trained to stay close and stay quiet. The Doyles flew their planes to the valley with their last loads. These loads included the TA-1 field telephones, a meat saw, gambrels, a gutbucket, cookware, and eating utensils. Many of these items had been overlooked before. Once there, Ian and Blanca dismounted their planes’ wings and tails, and wheeled the fuselages into the trees and concealed all their parts under camouflage nets.

The final work at the Grays’ house took a full day. When they were done, Todd stopped to give his helpers each a hug, and he read the 91st Psalm aloud.

In the distance, they could hear the crump of mortar shells landing. Mike commented, “Sounds like they are well off to the west, out beyond Bovill. Troy, maybe.”

Todd grasped Mike’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good luck, Mike. If things go as I predict, I should see you at Valley Forge in two to four days. If I get there and find you’ve beat feet, I will go with the assumption that you are heading toward rally point blue, below Mica Mountain. And then if you aren’t there either, I’ll come looking for you or a message in the ‘dead drop’ at rally point green.”

Todd looked Nelson in the eye and implored, “Now just on the outside chance that I don’t make it, promise me that you will help care for Mary and my little boy.”

Mike replied somberly, “You have my solemn word, boss. I’ll make sure that they are safe and sound. If you don’t make it back, I’ll provide for them.” With that, Mike, Rose, and Lisa turned and headed east, in ranger file.

Todd shouldered his pack, and picked up his HK. He paused to turn in a slow full circle, looking at his farm. “To lose all this. What a crying shame,” he said aloud. Then he headed for the point on the ridgeline he had selected and prepared, seven-hundred-and-fifty yards to the southwest.

Roger Dunlap had bulled ahead with his decision for everyone to stay at the Templar retreat. Despite vociferous arguments from others in his group, Dunlap decided that the odds were that the Federals would head straight north from Moscow, and bypass Troy and Bovill. As Dunlap saw it, there was no way that they could evacuate if they wanted to, anyway. Their cars and trucks weren’t working. They had several horses, but some of the group members were in no condition to walk or even ride. Three of their members were sick in bed, ill with a particularly virulent stomach flu. Another was pregnant, and a week past her due date.

When they first got word of the Federals in Grangeville, Dunlap had ordered slit trenches to be dug on three sides of the ranch house. When they got to Lewiston, he agreed to set up a cache of supplies a mile south of the ranch house. When the Federals arrived in Moscow, he agreed to let one young couple from the group, Tony and Teesha Washington, go to “babysit” the cache.

Everyone else agreed to stay, most of them convinced—or at least hoping—that they would be bypassed. They hoped that they would be overlooked long enough for their ill to recover, and for their expecting mom to deliver.

A cavalry motorcycle scout zoomed down the county road near 2 p.m. He slowed when he came to the Dunlaps’ gate, and then sped up again. The Templars’ gate guard, hidden in an LP/OP near the county road, radioed in a report. Everyone who was able immediately went to their assigned trenches.

The sick, elderly, and children stayed in the house. They waited.

Just after 4 p.m., they could hear many vehicles maneuvering down the county road, and on the logging roads to the south and west. They weren’t in line of sight to the house or the gate guard. Then the sound of the engines stopped.

Wes, the retired signalman, scampered down the connecting trench line to Dunlap. He pointed a finger in Dunlap’s face and said, “You’re a fool, Roger! I told you that we should have built a travois or two! We could have had everybody up at the cache two days ago!”

Dunlap was momentarily speechless. He stared at Wes, and finally blurted out, “I’m so sorry.”

Moments later, they heard the distinctive thuds of mortars being launched, far off in the timber.

“See, I told you so,” Wes said sourly. Along with the others,Wes instinctively curled up in the bottom of his trench.

It took a long time for the first mortar shells to land. With their high parabolic flight, it took almost twenty seconds from the time they hit the bottom of the tubes until they landed. To the Templars, the long delay seemed like an eternity.

The first rounds fell long, on the north side of the house. The eighty-one-millimeter shells went off with a roar and threw up huge clouds of dust. They had all been set to “HE Quick,” so they went off immediately after impact.

They missed the trenches on the north side of the house by just a few yards.

On a hill seven hundred yards to the south, a young sergeant E-5 named Valentine from a fire support team was talking on a battered old PRC-77 field radio, and peering through a pair of cheap Simmons binoculars. With practiced precision, he intoned, “Drop one hundred.”

The voice on the radio rejoined, “Shot, over.”

Valentine tersely replied, “Shot, out.”

There was a pause, and then the second barrage came. The rounds fell between twenty and sixty feet short of the trenches on the south side of the house. Dunlap’s men and women covered their heads and got as low in their trenches as possible. Rocks and dirt showered down on them. Some of them started to scream.

Sergeant Valentine watched the impacting rounds, and keyed the microphone. “Add fifty. Fire for effect.”

The next barrage continued for a full minute. Round after round landed in and around the ranch house.

Valentine surveyed the impacts, and again keyed the microphone. Still looking through the binoculars, he again keyed the handset. “Reee-peat.”

Another minute-long barrage started. Fire broke out in the house. Soon there was a fire in the barn, too. Some of the rounds fell directly into the trenches.

The young NCO called in another laconic “Reee-peat.”

The south wall of the house collapsed. The house and barn were now engulfed in flames.

The mortars fell silent, and the last of the rounds whistled in. Sergeant Valentine picked up the handset and commanded, “Cease fire. Tell your section well done. Good shooting, fellas.” Then he reached into his ALICE pack and pulled out a silver tube with a white paper label. It was one-and-a-half inches in diameter, and a foot long. He pulled off its metal cap, and slipped it back onto the other end of the tube. Then, turning his head, he slapped the bottom of the tube on the ground. With a loud whoosh, a signal rocket roared out of the launcher. A moment later a green star cluster burst in the sky. In the distance, far off in the timber, he could hear two signal whistles blowing.

Two survivors crawled up from the trenches and ran. Only one of them had his rifle with him.

Alpha Company of the 519th Infantry Battalion began to move by bounds toward the objective. The platoons deployed on line and started to make their sweep. The two men who had run from the trenches were cut down by three bursts from an M249 squad automatic weapon.

When the troops were in the open areas south of the burning remains of the ranch house, Ted Wallach popped his head out of his trench. He began to fire an M1A rifle. He hit two of the infantrymen from the first platoon in rapid succession at a range of two hundred yards. Then Wallach was in turn hit in the head by a hail of return rifle fire.

After a sweep across the objective, in which the bottoms of the trenches were sprayed with fully automatic fire, the squads set up a defensive perimeter.

Weapons that were recovered from the trenches were laid out in the circular drive. Beside them were the bodies of the two Federal soldiers that were killed, shrouded in body bags. A second more thorough search revealed the LP/OP.

The bunker was hit by three grenades fired by an M203. The third one went through the door, killing the single sentry in it. The Templars that had died outside the house were left where they lay.

Captain Brian Tompkins, the Alpha company commander, looked tired. He sat down in the dirt next to the outhouse—the only structure left standing at the Templar retreat—and consulted his map. He jotted down a note in a small memo pad, laid a clear plastic protractor over the map, and jotted down another note. Then he waggled his forefinger at his radioman in a come-hither motion. The radioman got up from his prone position immediately. Out of habit, he handed Tompkins the dog-eared Communications-Electronics Operating Instructions (CEOI) notebook that he kept on a lanyard around his neck beneath his ACUs. The CEOI had not been changed in nearly six months. Brian Tompkins leafed through the CEOI, skipping past the frequencies and call signs. The CEOI had been unchanged for so long that he had them memorized. He turned to the TAC code section, looked up the three letter code for administrative pickup, and made another quick notation in his memo pad. Then, he reached for the radio handset and called in a brief report:

“Kilo one seven, this is Bravo fife niner, over.”

The battalion’s duty radio operator replied, “Bravo fife niner, this is Kilo one seven. Go ahead.”

Tompkins spoke slowly and clearly. “Prepare to copy… Objective Oak taken. Estimate one-niner enemy KIAs. Zero captured. Two friendly KIAs. S-1 report to follow. Send Hotel Yankee Mike to grid golf oscar fife niner eight three two fife one one. I say again, Grid golf oscar fife niner eight three two fife one one, to recover two-four captured weapons, three property booked weapons, and two bagged friendly KIAs. No intel sources available. Continuing to bivouac point Crimson. ETA four zero mikes.”

“Please say again all after: ‘S-1 report to follow.’”

Tompkins rolled his eyes at the radioman, who smiled and shook his head.

Then Tompkins repeated the missed part of his report, even more slowly. “I say again: Send Hotel Yankee Mike team to grid golf oscar fife niner eight three two fife one one, for administrative recovery of two-four captured weapons, three property booked weapons, and two body-bagged friendly KIAs. No intelligence sources available. Continuing to bivouac point Crimson. ETA four zero mikes.”

“Roger that.”

The company commander keyed the handset again and blurted, “Bravo fife niner, out.”

The battalion radioman echoed back, “Kilo one seven, out.”

Tompkins passed the handset to his radioman. He said wearily, “You know, Specialist, this whole thing stinks. What the heck are we doing out here in Idaho shooting at more civilians? How many women and children do we have to kill before we’re done? And how many of us are gonna die? We just lost two more good men, and for what?”

The radioman didn’t answer. He was wearing a thousand-mile stare.

After a few moments, Captain Tompkins waved his arm in a “forward” motion to his platoon leaders.

They in turn motioned their platoon sergeants forward, and within moments the entire company was on its feet and moving east, in a traveling overwatch formation.

As they started forward, Tompkins muttered to himself, “Curse the New World Order, and the pale horse it rode in on. I pray to God that this ends soon.”

Todd Gray devoted the next morning to deep meditative prayer. He spent much of his time reading Psalms from his pocket-sized King James Bible. Not long after noon, a mechanized infantry company approached his land. Two motorcycle scouts paused at the gate at the bottom of the hill. One of them shot off the padlock on the gate with an Uzi. Then they roared up the hill and dismounted behind the barn. Looking through his binoculars, Todd could see that they were both armed with Uzis. They were wearing uniforms in a flecked camouflage pattern that Todd didn’t recognize. As they crouched behind the barn, one of them pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and gave a report.

The armored personnel carriers arrived few minutes later. They were Russian built BTR-70s that had previously been part of the former East German National People’s Army (NVA) inventory. Todd had expected German soldiers to be driving Marders or Luchs APCs. Then he realized that what he was looking at was a ragtag force that was put together in the wake of the Crunch in Europe. They were equipped with whatever was available at the time. The aging eight-wheeled machines had originally been painted gray-green by the NVA, then white by the UN, and were more recently repainted a flat olive drab green to make them more tactical. They were prominently marked “UNPROFOR” in black paint on the sides, and “UN” on the back. The latest coat of paint was starting to peel and wear off. Some of the white paint beneath was beginning to show, mainly on the high points and inside the wheel wells.

Most of the APCs stopped at wide intervals on the county road. Two continued through the gate to the Grays’ circular driveway. They quickly disgorged one eight-man squad each. These squads searched the barn and shop, and then, hesitantly, tried to search the house. The lock on the chain-link fence around the house was not a big obstacle. One burst from an HK G36 shattered the lock and chain. The locked front door would be more difficult, as would the heavy steel window shutters. Todd chuckled when he saw the soldiers try to kick the door down. He whispered, “Knock yourselves out, guys.”

The rear doors of all of the APCs at the county road opened up and squad after squad of infantry ambled up the hill. They were dressed in a motley assortment of German Flecktarn camouflage, Woodland BDUs, and the later-issue ACU digital camouflage pattern U.S. Army uniforms. Some of the soldiers, Todd noticed, had their HK rifles and various SMGs slung across their backs. Some were even smoking cigarettes. Todd clucked his tongue and whispered, “Ah, yes, just another casual day of looting for the Bundeswehr.” One soldier unbolted a pick from the assortment of pioneer tools on the side of one of the waiting APCs and began to assail the door. Even from the long distance, Todd could hear the banging of the pick, and cursed shouts.

As the door was being attacked by one squad of soldiers, the others began to lose patience. One trooper hosed the Winco windmill with long bursts from an HK-21 light machinegun. Another shot out the tires of Mary’s VW with a HK G36 5.56 mm rifle, and then started shooting chickens that scuttled around the barn. The dwindling flock ran around the barn twice before the soldier finally tired of the game and let the rest go.

After several minutes, the German soldiers gave up with the pick. Next, they tried opening the door with a Russian-made disposable RPG-18 rocket propelled grenade launcher. The rocket went through the middle of the door, leaving a neat hole two inches in diameter, but to the surprise of the soldiers, the door still didn’t budge. A second RPG was carried over from the BTR and was aimed at the right side of the doorframe. It took the door completely off its hinges. The Germans spent the next few minutes putting out a small fire that the RPGs had started inside the house. After the smoke started to clear, a steady stream of soldiers went into the house, looking for loot.

Closely watching the house with his Steiner binoculars, Todd counted thirty-two soldiers entering the house. Even at this distance, he could tell by their arm gestures that two of the men who went into the house were either senior NCOs or officers. Despite the large quantity of logistics that had been evacuated, there was still plenty in the house to interest the soldiers.

Todd waited until he saw the first soldier come back out the door. Then Gray whispered, “Okay you goons, you want my house and everything in it? Well then, it’s all yours!” Then he pressed a button on the panel in front of him.

The house erupted in flames with a tremendous roar. Six sticks of dynamite hidden in separate parts of the house detonated simultaneously. Each of the six was taped to the seam on a five-gallon can of gasoline. Two of the cans were hidden at the ends of the attic, one beneath the kitchen range, one beneath the hide-a-bed, and two in the basement. The combined explosion was so powerful that it sent several of the heavy metal window shutters flying more than thirty feet outwards. The roof of the house split into two halves, and landed on either side of the house, engulfed in flames. A huge ball of fire rose from the house, billowing upward in a mushroom cloud. It gradually turned to black, then to gray as it rose higher in the sky. Todd smiled in satisfaction.

Knowing in advance that the vast majority of the gasoline wouldn’t be fully vaporized, Todd hadn’t expected such a dramatic explosion. Todd recalled from a college chemistry course that one gallon of gasoline could have the explosive force of fourteen sticks of dynamite, under optimal conditions. He had expected at best a one-percent yield of the potential explosive force of the six gallons of gas in the house. He knew that most of the gas would simply burn, and that only a fraction would become a true fuel-air explosive. The result, however, was far better than he expected.

A dozen of the troops that had been loitering away from the house when the explosion occurred ran into the shop to escape falling debris. Todd pressed another button on the Mr. Destructo panel. This time, three more cans of gasoline as well as the small remaining quantity of gas in the underground gasoline tank under the shop were detonated. The corrugated roof of the barn flipped over to land back on its base. “That’s good riddance to bad rubbish,” Todd cursed. The fireball from the shop immediately set the barn on fire, too. Fueled by the hay piled up inside, it was soon a mass of flames.

Around the house, the remaining German soldiers were in a panic. Most ran back toward the APCs at the county road. Three of them dived for cover behind a downed tree. Todd gave a thin-lipped smile and consulted his revised sector sketch. He hit another button, firing the fougasse that covered the area behind the fallen tree. It went off with a roar, shredding the three soldiers.

The pair of BTR-70s that were parked in the barnyard started their engines in rapid succession. The few surviving troops near the shop and barn piled into each of them. As they started toward the road, the 14.5 mm machine-gunner in one of the APCs fired his weapon in angry long bursts. Todd estimated that he fired more than a hundred rounds at the nearby hilltops. Two gunners in BTRs on the county road picked up the cue and began pouring fire into the Ander-son’s house and barn across the road.

As the first of the two BTR-70s neared the county road, Todd watched carefully through his binoculars. When he thought their position looked right, he triggered the vertical fougasse. At first Todd thought that he had hit the button too early, since the explosion went off under the BTR’s front wheels. The twenty-two-thousand-pound vehicle didn’t move perceptibly upward with the blast. The APC continued to roll forward briefly, then stopped. Smoke began billowing out of it. Some of the German soldiers ran toward the BTR. Two of them opened one of the back doors, hoping to help any survivors get out. They were greeted only by deep red flames and clouds of thick black smoke.

The fire in the APC grew more intense. By now, twenty German soldiers were milling around the back of the burning BTR-70. The BTR’s rubber wheels caught fire, and then the 14.5 mm rounds and grenades inside the APC

began to cook off. Fearing the explosions, the gaggle of soldiers instinctively backpedaled up the Grays’ driveway. Todd couldn’t believe his luck. He reached down and punched the button for the first of the fougasses that Mike had built. Chunks of scrap metal, short lengths of chain, and broken glass ripped through the cluster of soldiers, cutting down nine of them at once, like a huge invisible djinn hand. The survivors from this blast ran to the remaining intact BTRs, dragging two wounded soldiers with them.

All along the road, the drivers of the BTR-70s fired up their engines. Most of the 14.5 mm gunners rotated their turrets, firing in long wild bursts at the tree lines, mainly to the east. The AGS-17 gunners joined in, firing their thirty-millimeter automatic grenade launchers in seemingly random fusillades. The firing went on for several minutes. Todd smiled and laughed out loud, overwhelmed by the enormity of the expenditure of ammunition that was going on at the road below. Todd could also see fully-automatic small-arms fire coming from the firing ports on several of the BTRs.

The grenades and 14.5 mm tracers were igniting sporadic grass and brush fires. He realized that any moment one of the grenades might land next to him, but still he laughed. To his surprise, none of the rounds came within fifty yards of his position. Scanning with his binoculars, Todd could see the APCs remained parked during the firing. The Andersen’s house and barn, he saw, were now fully engulfed in flames. In the midst of the roar of gunfire Todd susserated, “Go ahead. Burn up your ammo. Knock yourselves out. You’re as green as grass. Sound and fury, hitting nothing. Burn it up! Burn it up boys. As for me, I think I’ll save my ammo for precisely aimed fire at distinct targets, thank you very much.”

After a while, the tempo of firing noticeably slackened and then nearly stopped. Todd fired off the remaining fougasses in rapid succession, even though there were no targets in front of them. Todd laughed and mockingly whispered to himself, “Vee are surrounded!” The gunners on the BTRs started shooting wildly again, and there was even more intense small-arms fire from the gun ports. Finally, the rate of fire slacked off again, and the column of BTR-70s started up the road, leaving the burning BTR behind. A few of the gunners still fired off unaimed bursts to either side of the road. Todd watched through his Steiners as they continued up the road until they were out of sight.

“Run away! Run away!” Todd mouthed soundlessly. Todd heard their engines gradually receding in the distance. Then, all that he could hear was the crackle and occasional pop of the fires. Dozens of small brush fires were blazing in a thousand-yard semicircle around the remains of Todd’s house.

Todd waited and watched. Most of the brush fires burned out quickly. A few on the drier southern-facing hillsides continued to burn longer. These too burned out when they reached the ridge tops. Luckily, none of them had been immediately below his position. The valley was still largely shrouded in smoke.

As sunset approached, the fires at his house and at the Andersen’s house were nearly out. They were still smoking heavily, but there were just a few spots of open flames.

Two hours after it was dark, Todd quietly disconnected the WD-1 wires from the Mr. Destructo panel, and wrapped it in his poncho.

He shouldered his pack and picked up the panel and his rifle. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air. Todd snorted quietly to clear his nostrils. He realized that the Germans might have left a “stay behind,” so he didn’t dare try to approach the house site to look for abandoned weapons. That could wait for another day. Todd silently and methodically started to hike in a circuitous route toward Valley Forge.

As he strode on, he quietly hummed the tune of one of his favorite songs, an old Shaker hymn, “How Can I Keep From Singing?” popularized by Enya.

As he walked, the tune and the lyrics rolled over and over in his mind, in cadence with his steps: