Driver, T. C. (45 page)

Jediah Emin Patel’s yacht was a US Navy destroyer converted to luxury use. It had a helicopter pad at stern and six motor boats hung on each side as life boats. These motor boats looked like small PT boats. Instead of military gray this ship was egg shell white and gleaming with plated polished stainless steel, she was redesigned inside and out. Still the old destroyers form was obvious to any old Navy hand or sailor.
    

The next morning we boarded the Patel Yacht early along with his crew and were taken to more than adequate quarters. After we were all aboard we looked around and I counted the group. We stayed under constant armed guard confined to the third floor rooms of one section of the ship. We were free to move around from room to room in our little section, and were fed and treated well, just like Jediah had said. Joe Coe, two of his women, Marshal Moore, Unk, Thomas Britton, James Kessler, Roger Clark, Gary Litton, Big Jim, Rodney Dole, myself and a male nurse from medical, that was our group.

We were all in party mode, although prisoners, we all tried to make the best of our situation. A case of red wine was sent with each evening meal. Our group wanted for nothing except honest information, honest work, and freedom. We were just like most Americans back home; fat, lazy, and stupid. The guys started amusing themselves with all types of silly behavior, jokes and songs, trying to lighten the mood. The Great Ark limped in front of us slowly making its way to Newport News. Patel’s yacht stayed back keeping an eye on her and offering some protection, or I suppose some help if she was to roll over and sink. The Ark was moving slow always facing into the swells, if possible. We had nothing to do except watch the sea and drink red wine.
 

My ole’ friend Joe Coe was not a happy camper. Our ship phones had been all confiscated and we were all prisoners. Joe still had to bark orders at somebody constantly so we tried to console, or to stay away from Joe as much as possible. Joe was one miserable soul. Joe was like a spoiled brat kid being forced to watch his younger brother play with his favorite toy. Friday having his ship was killing him. On the first early morning the Ark started pulling ahead of Patel. Marshal Moore and I were standing outside our rooms drinking red wine, eating egg rolls, playing trash can basketball and arguing about once saved always saved. No one else in our group would stay up or
  
play keep up with us because we are the two undisputed world champions of drunk and dunk trashcan basketball, and Bible knowledge. Joe kept muttering to himself saying “You eat my guts out” under his breath, and wanting to play rummy, but we were all to wise to play cards with Captain Joe.
    

The Ark was more stable now. Friday had been patching up the hole and had pushed everything overboard that was not nailed down, gaining him many precious inches above the holes water line. We could see sparks from welders at night, as Fridays’ crew tried to save the ship. Telling Joe what a great Job Friday was doing was a hoot! You could watch his blood pressure rise (ha-ha), as he turned red. A temporary patch was important for the Ark, because with any seas she could easily sink or roll with all hands on board.

Marshal Moore “Duck” had a little too much red wine. When the Ark kept pulling away from us Duck started leaning over the railing and shouting at the engine room and the ships bridge. “Hey boys, give her some gas you dummy, the Ark is getting away! Hey, you up there give her some gas,” I said. The bridge seemed to listen to duck the first time but soon we were losing ground again. Duck then fell over the ships railing, but was still holding on and slowly flipped onto the deck below completely passed out. Our guards seemed to pay him no mind, and we were all glad to get some sleep. Joe and I went down the stairs about mid morning, and drug Duck back upstairs. This is not something you want to do everyday. Dragging Duck around is not pleasant, nor was this our first time at this chore.

After another hour or so of holding our own with the Ark, we slowed down again until we stopped dead in the water. The ship was quiet and still. All vibrations from the ship’s motors had ceased all movement, all breeze, and all waves had completely stopped. We were motionless in the water. The Great Ark slowly disappeared into the distance. Emergency power came on, no hot food, no cold food, no air-conditioning, not much lighting. We were not passengers, not crew. We were prisoners, powerless and uninformed. We only could guess what was happening. For hours we sat motionless at sea. The ocean was covered with a thick mat of floating seaweed as far as the eye could see. The air was still, no wind, the sea stunk. Unk waved us over to the Starboard side railing to see past the ship’s main bridge. Our group watched as two men were led to the chopper pad, no it would be four men. They were lined up at the stern of our ship and shot by firing squad. Their bodies made an eerie thud-splash combination sound because the seaweed was so thick. In the dead silence we could hear conversation from afar up the ship. We all strained to hear in the stillness. We were in the Sargasso Sea, the trash dump of the Atlantic. The wind was calm and smells of every type were ripe.
 
Rotten odor smothered us like a blanket. The ship was out of fuel, or out of good fuel. Our tanks had been drained or laced with chemicals that had shut down the motors. The ship’s motors might even be shot, a complete loss. This was sabotage, done traders, those men that were executed at the stern chopper pad. Tension grew on ship and conditions were not good, no flush toilets, and not much food. Conditions could not have been much better for Patel and the crew. Moore cracked a joke about money talking.
    

“You know he’s never been without power before!” Unk called a meeting with the latest overheard news from the guards. From the high life to starvation, boy can things really change fast when you run out of oil. Our fall was like hitting the wall, or like America electing Osoma who hated oil companies (ha-ha). Yes we were just like Osoma’s America, no oil, no oil pipeline, and SOL.

“Ok, listen up,” said Unk “this is what we just heard. A ship from Portsmouth is coming after us. It does not leave until tomorrow. Patel’s little chopper does not have the range to make it to shore, and neither do these speed boats because they use gas motors not diesel. An ocean going chopper is coming from Langley to pick up Patel. Langley is closing in about six months but they still have two choppers. We will have to wait maybe for days so conserve water and food. With about an hour of daylight left we heard Jediah’s big chopper approaching in the distance. Our group ran to watch the action. We were outside already, because it was very hot and smelly in our cabins and bathrooms. Even before the big chopper landed, a group of people lined up to board each one bending forward against the down blast. None of them were tall enough to be Jediah Patel. Just like a big wise buck he had sent his doe’s into the chopper pad clearing before him (ha-ha). This chopper reminded me of the one President Clinton used. It was old green and bulky looking. Before the steps popped out for the people to board two men stepped in front of the chopper and emptied Ak47 rifles into the front windshield. Another man emptied his rifle into the engine compartment from the side. The chopper now sat in silence like a large dead green bug on the back of our ship. Smoke was pouring from its engine compartment vents. The ship was still and quiet again but not for long. Like pop corn the sound of sporadic gunfire echoed throughout the ship. Our group, a little aft of center took cover not knowing which group if any was on our side. We were only spectators to the battle on ship. Many different caliber and types of weapons rang out and about the old destroyer. Twelve men had taken position around the center bridge. They had firing position covering the top deck. Our guards were still there but had taken to hiding behind the stairs and drink machines on deck. We kept a low profile looking through the round holes in the railing but not standing up. Heavy fighting lasted only a few minutes then back again to the endless silence. The men in the tower now had the advantage. Jediah if he was still
alive,
must be in a bad way and holding position below deck. The men in the tower had the whole ship pinned down.
     

We prisoners stayed mostly outside our rooms for fresh air and low to the floor, trying to keep out of sight.
 
We had been without food now for about ten hours, and we were hungry. Our railing was metal with round holes cut in it. Mostly our backs were up against the wall. On the deck below our cabins were swollen dead bodies which had become too nasty for most to abide. We opened our last case of red wine. Even the non-drinkers were sipping now. It was drink or die. Our little group of prisoners were now only war weary spectators to the battles on ship and things did not look good for my old friend and jailer, Jediah Patel.

When the sun started its first hint of coming up the next morning the standoff on ship had not changed. Sanitary conditions went from bad to worse, and lack of fresh water was a big problem. If not for our supply of red wine we would have all died. The big green bug chopper lay silent on the pad, and the tower men still ruled the deck. The air was quiet and thick with the smell of death. Bodies lay both on deck and on the thick seaweed pad that covered the water. Six motor boats hung on each side of the ship looking to all like the only way out no matter their short range. Joe called a meeting, but just as his meeting started all hell started breaking loose on the starboard side of ship. Our three guards were shot or gone. The fighting was intense. This would be “the big one.” We peaked over and through the starboard railing at the action below. Armed men were boarding the ship from the starboard side, the men boarding were in alliance with the men in the tower. Down on sea level next to Patel’s yacht was a flat top Chinese made submarine, with men standing on it pointing rocket propelled grenades and rifles up at us while others came over the side. These men cleared the ship shooting anyone who didn’t surrender. We got on our knees outside with our hands on our heads, and sure enough young black soldiers soon found us. The sound of gunfire and tear gas could be heard through out the ship. The one crew member nurse and the two women were hiding in a room, and not out in the open on their knees with us. These were Joe’s personal attendants and nurse. A young soldier panicked and open fire on the room spraying a full clip of automatic weapons fire. Our ears and hearts rang out. All three died in a messy blood and guts on the walls scene. The type you will see in your minds eye for eternity.
 
Very soon our little group and everybody else on board (not shot yet) were led downstairs by the troops of the winning side. I never knew the names of Joe’s personal assistants (those who had just been gunned down). As the soldiers marched us past their open cabin door ole’ cold Joe bawled uncontrollably. Just as we topped the outside stairs the main attraction blasted off from the submarine below grabbing my attention and sight. This was a damn funny looking sight.
  

“Chariot of Fire,” Unk said from behind me!

There was a rocket man coming straight up before us from the water. I had paused slightly looking at this spectacle. A rifle butt smashed into my back pushing me down to the next landing on the stairs. I got the message quick! Duck laughed at me as I looked back. We spoke not a word as we were led downstairs except in silent prayer. This odd flying “Chariot” had six pairs of bottles, six rocket nozzles and just enough frame to hold it up. A huge figure wearing an oven glove or mitten type of robe was driving. He stepped in he was not strapped in like a rocket belt. The blast from his “chariot” was very considerable even deadly. The deck was thick with sailors. His fancy rocket blasted a hole in the crowd.

We were all about to meet the “King of the South” his real name Phinehas Emin Pedahel or (Patel). The words “Sons of Ammon” were written in Gold thread throughout his mitten glove garment. I learned later that it was almost impossible to kill a man wearing this type of garment. It shielded infrared heat, was fireproof, bullet proof, and radiation proof. The King’s troops were all on one knee as so were
we.
Duck was slow getting down on his knee and he got some rifle butt encouragement to the back of his neck. It was my turn to laugh (ha-ha). I learned the first time. The young man who had shot the three up stairs was sitting beside me shaking and quivering uncontrollably he looked to be twelve years old and mumbled in French. I prayed with him for a short few seconds I think he understood. The King stepped out of his chariot and pulled back his heavy hood. He then stepped out of his silly looking quilt mitten robe. Holding his robe at arms length he girlishly let it drop. The thick robe fell on James Kessler and one of the king’s own guards, neither man got up for some minutes the weight of his garment pinning the men to the deck.

This “King of the South” was a light skinned black man very close to ten feet tall. He wore boots and a bicycle type helmet making him look eleven feet tall. I’m good at judging these things because of my old boxing days. This King was a lean muscular seven hundred to eight hundred pounds. His head was large, in proportion correctly to what a ten foot size man should be. The king was the size of any three or four normal men with hands that looked like he could palm a small car.