INVASION USA (Book 2) - The Battle For New York (41 page)

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.