The New Madrid Run (15 page)

In essence, should a national disaster actually occur, Colonel Rockford and those few power brokers who had supported him could find themselves with an unparalleled opportunity to remold the State of Arkansas to their specifications—and to their advantage. With the demise of central government, that control might easily extend further.

In the few years since its inception, the organization had prospered. Active membership, those who participated in maneuvers and held other jobs, and those who were full-time soldiers and staff, was approximately four thousand before the change. A week after the disaster had struck, the troops who hadn’t deserted to safeguard home and family numbered about a thousand.

It wasn’t long, however, before the organization began to gain new momentum, as those who had lost everything, and those who had nothing to lose, began gravitating toward the promises of food, shelter, and “the new beginning” being offered by Rockford.

Before the change, the militia represented little more than an opportunity for groups of pro-survivalists to gather together on weekends, play soldier, and reinforce each other’s slightly biased philosophies. When the devastation that Colonel Rockford had been predicting actually occurred, his credentials were considerably enhanced. Being an opportunist at heart, he had immediately taken advantage of the situation by securing control in his area with the militiamen and declaring himself leader of the new, independent State of Arkansas. The governor and a number of senior senators had been killed when a part of the capitol building collapsed during the initial earthquakes; consequently, there was little organized government at a state or federal level to monitor, oppose, or resist him. It wasn’t as if the state had accepted him
ad hoc
as the new leader. On the contrary, with poor to nonexistent communications, half of the state didn’t know he was alive and the other half didn’t care. But that didn’t matter to Colonel Dutch Rockford. Opportunities like this didn’t come along often, and he was not going to let this one pass him by.

He held no illusions about his new government. As he put it, “democracy no longer fits the times.” It was to be a benign dictatorship—that is, for those who agreed with him. Those who disagreed would find him less benign.

He had devised a simple solution to the acquisition of land via eminent domain. Shortly after the initial disaster, while confusion was still at its peak, he sent teams out to rob banks in the small towns around the countryside. Any resistance was answered with the throaty roar of an M16. Inside of a week he had stockpiled over five million dollars, earmarked for the purchase of property. There was, of course, the small problem of owners not wanting to sell, which was solved by offering options to the occupants of the properties. Option number one: accept the money, take all their possessions, and leave quietly. Option number two: be buried on their property. Nearly all the people they dealt with chose the former.

Delta Camp had existed prior to the cataclysm. Alpha Camp, about twenty-five miles northwest of the town of Mena, was in the process of being established on some of their newly acquired land. The colonel had chosen well on his second camp. Five separate purchases had provided him with over one hundred acres of prime land, three large country homes for an additional headquarters and officer billeting, ample outbuildings for storage of supplies and equipment, and sufficient area for personnel compounds. The location was ideal, as it was only fifteen miles from the small municipal airport of Waldron, which would become his first air base. He was considering the purchase of one more piece of property, which would give the militia an overview of the valley and serve as an observation post. With that acquisition, the new base would be complete.

As the colonel watched the movement of men and vehicles, he was joined by one of his captains. “Sir!” the captain barked as he snapped to attention and saluted. “We’re prepared for your inspection of the armory.” They had recently been able to salvage some valuable equipment from the National Guard Armory in Fort Smith—two armored personnel carriers with .50 caliber machine guns, three transport trucks, and several cases of M16s, along with mess kits, tents, and field radios. But a street gang had chosen the same night to pillage the depot, and Rockford learned a firefight ensued. He spoke to his subordinate while looking out at the camp. “I received word that you had some trouble Monday night.”

The captain straightened. “Yes sir—a Latino gang had the same idea as us.”

“Casualties?”

“Four, sir.”

Rockford turned to the young captain. “And them?”

“Over a dozen.”

“Prisoners?”

The captain’s eyes glinted. “None taken, sir.”

Rockford smiled slightly. “Very well, Captain. Lead the way.”

The colonel considered it had been a profitable evening regardless of the causalities. There was no ammunition available at the armory, but that wasn’t a problem. With some inside help, they had already raided an ammo storage facility: Several dozen cases of ammunition were stored in Delta Camp’s munitions bunker. In the colonel’s eyes, the loss of a few men was insignificant compared to what they had gained materially. The men could be replaced; there were other warm bodies. Trucks, armored cars, and machine guns gave him leverage—powerful leverage.

Colonel Rockford and the captain walked through the bustling compound to Delta Camp armory—a large, recently erected metal shed. The trucks and armored personnel carriers, which were parked in a neat row in front of the building, gave the colonel a new sense of pride and purpose as he strode past them. With dedicated men and equipment like this, in a few short months he would eliminate all opposition to his new government. He didn’t give a damn about the rest of the country. Let it wallow in indecision. Let it remain in collapse for all he cared. He and his new Provincial Government were going to lead Arkansas into a new era. Arkansas would become the shining star of a new America.

Capitalism, communism, democracy—those were expressions of the past. He thought of himself more as a warlord, using power, cunning, and ruthlessness to consolidate and maintain his government. The old world had held room for bleeding-heart liberals, charity balls for starving Africans, and hospitals crammed to capacity, preserving the deformed, the diseased, and the mentally useless. The new order would be closer to nature’s way. The strong would survive; the weak would succumb, and the world would be a better place for it. There would be few, if any, prisons packed to capacity with pampered prisoners enjoying fancy food and color TVs. If you committed a crime, you’d pay—there would be no such thing as a stay of execution.

As the colonel walked through the doors, the “army” smell assailed his nostrils, and it pleased him. The armory not only held their present acquisitions, but also the equipment they had been amassing for years. Racks of weapons lined the walls; cases of supporting materials were stacked nearby. Two field pieces, 105s, stood at ease in the back. He smiled to himself in pride and anticipation of events to come.

He strolled through the building checking weapons, trying bolts, examining various pieces of equipment while the captain followed behind.

“Well, all seems to be in order,” the colonel finally said, straightening up and rubbing the palms of his hands together slowly. “Let’s have a look at the munitions depot.”

The ammo bunker was a hundred yards away, on the other side of the compound. Another metal shed covered a concrete block cellar, where virtually all the munitions for the camp, from 105s to M16 rounds, were stored. Rockford walked through the rows of boxes, checking the integrity of cases and looking for moisture or mildew. When he was finally satisfied, he drew himself erect at the exit.

“Everything seems to be in excellent order, Captain. Keep up the good work. Dismissed.” The captain snapped a salute and with a curt “Thank you, sir,” disappeared on cue. Rockford glanced at the interior one last time with a satisfied smile, then walked back to the cabin that served as his headquarters.

The Colonel hung his hat on the peg inside the door and surveyed the interior of the cabin. It was furnished in what he referred to as “Spartan elegance.” It was uncluttered, containing only the basic necessities in furniture, but each piece was of unquestionable quality. From the antique cherry wood secretary and desk to the huge, fourposter, mahogany canopy bed, every piece had been selected with care.

As he moved past the full-length mirror in the hallway, he paused and studied himself for a moment, smoothing down the front of his uniform. The pale blue eyes that stared back at him still harbored fierce passion, yet they carried the cool detachment of a predator. His dark hair, close-cropped military style, was only beginning to gray at the temples. For a man who had just turned fifty-five, he was still tall, trim, and capable-looking, but the lines on his face told a tale of the triumphs and the tragedies of a soldier’s life.

He had been married twice; both had failed. The truth was, like so many men, he was married to what he did, and pleased with who he was. Unfortunately, it left little time for any other conjugation.

Rockford moved on to the desk and sat down, lit a Havana cigar from the teak humidor, then pushed the seat back and put his hands behind his head. He exhaled a small blue cloud toward the ceiling, and for a few moments, mentally reviewed the next stages of his strategy.

First, he had begun a political campaign, not to solicit votes, but to inform the citizenry of his intentions in a fashion that would be acceptable to them. His men had commandeered several radio stations and were broadcasting hourly messages detailing the catastrophic conditions of the Americas, emphasizing the collapse of federal and state governments. The last half of the broadcast was a taped message from Rockford extolling his capability as a leader and explaining the necessity of the new government. The colonel also had teams delivering flyers with the same message across the countryside.

Secondly, he intended to form a group. That is to say, his Captain Reynolds, an unsavory but useful man, would form a group for him. There would be no overt affiliation between this particular organization and the Colonel. The band, under Reynolds’ leadership, would terrorize the remaining enclaves of civilization in Arkansas. Although the state had suffered severely from the disaster, there were still a number of areas where damage had been minimal. There was a “wait and see” attitude from the people in those locations. They felt the Federal Government might still come to the rescue and had resisted Rockford’s overtures. They, and some of the bureaucracy clinging tenuously to their positions in various parts of the state, were going to need some prompting. And prompt them he would. When Reynolds and his bandits were finished, the citizens of Arkansas would be clamoring for some form of law and order. At that point, when most of the state was begging for deliverance, he and his troops would crush the offenders. There would be no more dispute as to who was in control.

As an incentive for his company of thugs, he would, for the time being, allow them whatever they wanted in their pillaging. Reynolds would assure the leaders that when the time came, Rockford would stage a mock raid on their camp. The encampment would be destroyed, and the outlaws would disperse with their newly acquired wealth.

Truth was, when the time came, Reynolds would assist the colonel in destroying the bandits to a man. There would be no witnesses to his collusion. Even Reynolds was in for a surprise.

CHAPTER 11

After departing the sunken remains of Miami, the first two days of sailing were relatively uneventful. Todd hit several schools of mackerel while trolling lures, so fresh fish, for the time being, was no longer an issue. Carlos experimented with smoking the fillets, storing them in the cool of the hold in plastic bags that he’d found aboard the preacher’s boat. The fish, supplemented by canned goods, formed the basis of their diet. It was healthy, albeit a bit monotonous.

They saw an occasional boat on the horizon, but no one approached them. They posted a guard at night and took turns with the duty, breaking it into shifts. Christina was recovering from the trauma of losing Jan. It was obvious to everyone that she was suffering, but it was equally evident that she possessed an inner resilience that would not permit useless emotion such as self-pity or unfounded guilt. She was going on with her life. The girl was a survivor.

Travis and the others talked for hours as they sailed, and Ra stretched out on the deck like a big black cat, enjoying the sun. Todd never spoke, but he was out-distancing his emotional fugue, and it was very apparent that he had taken to Travis. They spent hours together fishing or sitting on the bow watching for turtles and dolphins, and Travis was teaching him to sail.

One evening, after an early supper, Travis and the preacher had discussed weapons. When Travis showed him the LAWS anti-tank weapons they had taken from the Cubans, he was considerably impressed, responding in his own inimitable fashion.

“Call it what you want, son, that’s a bazooka to me. Hot damn! God have mercy on the next unlucky sinner bent on doing damage to this flock.”

They all decided, for the safety of the group, that they would keep one of these devilishly powerful devices on the shrimper, and the rest on the sailboat. The following day, Travis had everyone gather on the deck and practice preparing, aiming, and dry-firing one, which turned out to be simple. As the preacher had said, the LAWS was a smaller, more manageable model of the bazooka. It was nothing more than a tube with an enclosed round. The operator simply popped off the front and rear covers, extended the weapon to firing position, shouldered the device and centered the target in the pop-up V-sights. Nonetheless, it was formidable. It had an accurate range of at least 300 meters, and the explosive delivery was equivalent to a full stick of dynamite.

Travis had brought up a case of M16s as well.

“We’re not getting caught flat-footed again,” he said. “From now on everyone keeps one of these close by. He pulled one out and tossed it to the preacher. “You familiar with that?”