Alright! Who's ready to steal war memorials?! Who's ready to steal engines, break into police databases, manufacture ammunition without a license, and half a dozen other crimes?! No...no one? Really. Can't get good help these days, everyone's such a Goody-Two-Shoes. Here, I'll meet you in the middle. How's about...reading a chapter about everything above, and more? Eh? Eh? Yeah, there you go. Take a whiff, first paragraph's free; on me. You'll be back...
. . .
For our purposes, if there has been one positive outcome of American wars overseas, it has to be the plethora of American Legion and Veterans of Foreign Wars Posts scattered across every small town; and their lawn ornaments. Most of these martial decorations are deactivated, plugged, sealed, rusted up or welded closed in some way; but nothing a few days in a machine shop can't correct. And don't forget the dozens more memorials for wars, battles, and veterans from current day forays in the Middle East, like Cousin Georgie, all the way back to the French and Indian War before my country's founding; and everything in between. The challenge for us was two-fold: deciding what to appropriate, and not getting shot in the process.
"I've gotten all the straps, blocks, and chain tighteners we'll need." Naota announced, putting down the last of several, now empty, boxes. "All we do now is wait?"
"All we do is wait." I confirmed. "Wait until the proper hour is upon us."
"I just see this as a great way to get shot." He had a valid point. What we and several of Chartier's men that had volunteered (don't ever let anyone tell you Frenchmen can't be brave when they have a mind to) were going to do was the same as a night commando raid on an enemy supply dump. No support, by ourselves, in small teams, sneaking around in the dark, trying to make as little of a presence as possible…and if we screwed up, enemy forces could be on us like a starving man on a fat Chihuahua.
At midnight the teams reported in at the shop. They had driven the entire way in total darkness, lights both interior and exterior on their vehicles extinguished. Each of the drivers were hunting buddies and wore the night vision goggles they used to hunt coyotes. I would be remiss to say I was embarrassingly envious of those goggles and immediately updated my Christmas list.
"Evening, or I should say, morning gentlemen."
"Morning, Rig. Morning, Naota."
"We have six hours until sunup, so I'll make this quick." I handed out a folder to each truck crew. "That is your target, its location, a few pictures from street view for your reference, and a list of how best to move and secure it. Talk these over, memorize them, act and practice them out, employ an interpretive dance if you need to, whatever it takes to get these memorized."
"Memorized?"
"Before we leave, you'll give these back to me, and I'm burning them. We can't risk the cops knowing what we're doing, and if any of you get stopped with these, the plan's secret nature is screwed."
"This message will self-destruct in five seconds."
"Right on. Team Alpha, you can use Boom Truck One, you're gonna need it. Team Bravo gets Boom Truck Two. I'm not sure if you'll be able to manhandle yours or not, so take it just to be safe. Team Charlie, you're nabbing two items, so to speed you up, take the flatbed truck with the hoist. The rest are small enough to wrestle by hand."
"Do you think there's gonna be trouble?"
"The odds are in our favor." It made me feel easier hearing that as the first question. It meant these guys weren't worried about getting the job itself done. They had come armed of course, but weren't trained in night fighting or getting cut off far from home. The technical side they could do in their sleep. "Naota and I went for a ride on the quad today and took a look around, and we have been watching the traffic cameras. The cops have roadblocks at the borders of the counties, to keep people out and us in, and their main base in Port Matilda, but other than that…that's it. Apart from relief shifts and small patrols on major roads, Clearfield and Centre Counties are now Indian Country; nobody owns them. So unless you drive headlong into a patrol, or make so much racket you wake them up, you'll be fine."
"What if we get snuck up on?"
"Won't happen. Like I said, we're watching the traffic and street cameras. We have backdoor access to every traffic intersection, red light and corner camera in the counties. Josh and Canti will be monitoring the feeds in real time to warn us of anyone moving. We don't ask people to go on suicide missions, we have you covered there and back."
"Okay, we'll hold you to that."
"Hey, Naota, Mike, Johnny and I have our own mission today as well. We'll be out there with yah, relying on Josh and Canti just as much; we don't want to get snuck up on either."
"What is your team grabbing?"
"They haven't assigned any of us that crane." One of Chartier's men pointed to Clifford: The Big Red Crane. "That got something to do with it?"
"Oh yeah. Need big tackle to go after big fish."
"Oh-ho! That one, eh? You Carsons are an ambitious bunch; crazy, but ambitious."
"I resemble that remark. But hey! Light'll be coming soon, let's start going over these…"
. . .
"Good morning, Philipsburg Mayor's Office."
"Good morning, this is Judge Ryan. I'd like to speak with Mayor Aldritch, please."
"Certainly Judge. Please hold."
"Yes, Cheryl?"
"Mayor, Judge Ryan is on Line One."
"So early? Put him through." Aldritch had only just sat down. He hadn't booted up his computer yet or even taken a sip of coffee. Despite the police pull-back, the city governments refused to abandon their offices and still showed up for work. Though their towns were nigh deserted, maintaining the air of legitimacy until Medical Mechanica's takeover was considered paramount. "Good morning Ryan, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call; bright and early?"
"Curiosity." Aldritch could hear Ryan working the blinds in his office. "You're familiar with the American Legion Post down the street from my courthouse, are you not?"
"Of course! I've made at least a dozen speeches there, fundraisers, poker runs, Friday Fish-Fry's… what about it?"
"Don't they have some sort of cannon on their front lawn? Some turn of the last century thing left over from World War One?"
"Pppfff…uh…ah…I, think so?" Aldritch had been photographed pretending to fire it, but never bothered to remember. "Why? This is an odd line of questions."
"It's just, the Legion's front lawn has a large set of tire tracks in it, and the cannon is gone."
"It's… gone?" Aldritch wasn't sure exactly why, but had a feeling something had gone quite wrong. "Are you sure?"
"Very sure. Yes, there's a concrete pad it used to sit on, and now the pad is empty. Do you know anything about it?"
"I…. I will find out. Leave it to me, I'll take care of this. Do not tell anyone, do I have your word?"
"I suppose. I don't imagine it's something to get worked up over; it probably doesn't fire. I just thought it strange and thought you ought to know."
"Thank you for bringing it to my attention; but don't worry about it. Just don't go shouting around about this and I'll handle the rest. M'okay. Bye."
. . .
"Ohhh… this ain't good." The groundskeeper for all public places of Osceola Mills had begun to mow the park across from city hall. The county may have gone insane in the past few weeks, but he had a job to do; and keeping the city of his birth neat and trim was a matter of personal pride. In the middle of the park, two field guns from World War Two had been secured with rebar shackles to concrete pads. The groundskeeper had kept these memorials rust free with olive drab paint, and many a child had fought countless pretend battles behind the gun's sights. Now the smooth park he'd cultivated was marred by sets of tire tracks, and the two focal points of the park were missing. He'd been given a flip phone for calling the city office in emergencies. He'd never used it before, but felt this warranted a call.
"Osceola Mills Mayor's Office, Kim speaking."
"Kim, its Chet. I need to talk to Mister Andrew. It's important."
"Okay, just a moment."
"Hello Chet!" Mayor Andrew was fond of the groundskeeper. "What can I do for you this fine morning?"
"You can look outside your window."
"Allllright…" Andrew pulled up the blinds. "I see you waving. What's this all about?"
"If you look behind me…"
"If I look behind…Chet, why are the cannons gone?"
"Someone cut the rebar with a torch, put the guns on a truck, and took 'em somewhere. At least, that's what it looks like."
"Chet, listen carefully. You are not to tell anyone about this. I will take care of it, do you understand? Good, okay. Keep at the rest of your work, I'll handle it."
. . .
"Dark River Security, how might I direct your call?"
"Patch me through to Carl."
"May I ask who is speaking?"
"His brother."
"Certainly. I'll connect you, please hold."
"Yes?"
"Mister Kauffman, your brother is on the line."
"Which one?"
"He didn't say. I'm sorry…"
"If he couldn't be bothered to give his own name, it has to be Caleb. Put him through."
"Morning, Carl."
"Morning, Caleb. What managed to drag you out of bed before noon? Someone with that kind of power needs to work for me."
"Yeah, yeah, very original. You come up with that one on your own?"
"I have things to do today, people depending on me, a business to run and responsibilities to manage; unlike some of us. Get to the point, you Lush."
"Remember that Thing we talked about?"
"I do."
"It's not just a Thing anymore."
"Are you sure?"
"Want me to put Him on?"
"No, that's not necessary. I just can't believe they let things go as long as they have without calling me."
"I guess they thought they could manage on their own. Anyway, I'm supposed to ask how long you'll be?"
"At least three days for us to recall everyone and pack up, and other day to make the drive out. At earliest Friday, but tell them early Saturday morning to be safe."
"Okay, we'll be waiting. See you then."
. . .
"What do you mean, 'they stole the War Memorial'; that makes no sense?" Two strange reports had reached Chief Warburg already and the day wasn't half over yet. "The Memorial has those huge granite stones, then the tank…"
"That's what they took, the tank."
"But why? All the hatches and ports are welded shut, the gun barrel's been filled with concrete, and the engine has got to be rusted solid. It's useless except as a lawn ornament, cutting it up for scrap, or a thirty-five ton roadblock."
"I don't know, Chief." Mayor Aldritch could be heard fussing with the blinds in his office. "I think it's probably a theft of opportunity in the Legion's case; since you and your guys have pulled back to Port Matilda and all. Besides, I'm told the breech was welded shut; so I wouldn't worry about that one. But the tank? That took serious planning."
"I agree. For now, let's keep this to just between us. We can't have word of this getting out; us looking bad will be just the tip of our problem iceberg. After Sunday, everyone will be watching everyone else for the slightest mistake, and use that as a bloody shirt to make themselves look better by comparison."
"I'll do what I can on my end. So far, only I, Judge Ryan, and the man who keeps up the Memorial know; and the two of them don't know about the other. So at least we've…got…huh…"
"Yes? Hello?" Warburg heard nothing from Aldritch.
"…Chief, y'know the Revolutionary War Memorial, across from my office?"
"Yeah, in the city park. Why?"
"The cannons, the ones on those stone pedestals, they're gone."
. . .
"How'd it go?" Tommy gazed up at the newest addition to G&R Fabrication and Cranes. "I can see it went well with your own mission; how about everyone else?"
"Went off without a hitch." I said. "No one got spotted, no one got stopped, no one got hurt, and the only thing left behind were tire tracks. We really ought to borrow these guys from Chartier and have them give everyone else classes on conducting operations at night."
"I'll ask him today and see if they can start tomorrow evening. In the meantime, what all did we get?"
"We have *ahem* acquired:" I consulted my notebook. "Eight Twelve Pound Iron Cannon, two Three Inch M5 anti-tank guns, two Thirty-Seven Millimeter M3 anti-tank guns, one Fifty-Seven Millimeter M1 anti-tank gun, one Three Inch Field Gun M1905, one Canon de Seventy-Five modele 1897…and last, but certainly not least, the piece de resistance… an M4A3E8 HVSS 76mm Sherman medium tank."
"Eight Revolutionary War black powder cannon, five light anti-tank guns from World War Two, two World War One artillery pieces… and a rust-bucket World War Two tank… not bad for one night's appropriations; not bad at all. We can make that work." Tommy took a walk-around look at the Sherman. "I cannot wait to see the look on the cops' faces when they have to reckon with this! How's it look on the inside?"
"Let's not get too excited, too quickly." Johnny's voice of caution came from the driver's hatch. The night raid had gone well. Each team drove a winding route to their target, stopping half a mile away to dismount and scout ahead on foot. Once clear, they pulled up with either a flatbed truck or a towed trailer, and a crane if needed. They'd cut the gun loose if it had been shackled, using a portable acetylene torch for speed and less noise. Light from the torch was dealt with by holding large tarps over the torch wielder while he worked. The gun freed, they'd hoist, roll, or just drag it onto the truck or trailer, strap it down, cover it up, and then headed for one of the seven companies. Each company got two guns apiece and would be responsible for getting it working, selection and training of crews; even mounting the guns on vehicles if they felt so inclined. We kept the Sherman, it would require the most work, work we specialize in, and one of the 12 Pound Guns to guard the road at the end of the driveway. And before you wonder what good a centuries old cannon would do against steel armor, get the car key outta your ear and think for a moment. Once we wrapped it in steel banding to handle higher pressures and keep from bursting, re-cut the barrel with rifling, installed a breech and trigger…it would be launching a twelve-pound, steel-jacketed, tungsten filled slug, six inches in diameter, at 2,500 feet per second. This will get you about three to four inches of armor penetration and a tremendous spalling effect on anyone unfortunate enough on the other side of the impact. Would you want that Bowling Ball of Death barreling at you and your 2001 Honda Civic? Yeah, didn't think so. This steel and tungsten round wouldn't blow a vehicle up, but the impact alone could put it out of action; never mind causing many a pair of shat pants.
"Why's that?" Tommy asked while peering down the now cut open bow gunner hatch. "Little bit of rust, but we can live with that. Rig, tanks have always been your, I don't want to say obsession…your thing. What all are we looking at; did we unintentionally get a Lemon?"
"Okay, here's what's up." I took out my notebook again to make sure I didn't forget anything. I had not slept since we'd gotten back to the shop. Once we'd cut the hatches open, I had only left the tank to use the bathroom. It was awkward with my lower leg still in a cast, but I was managing. "Structurally, it is rock solid. It's a tank. The frame is in good shape, the armor and hull are good, the transmission is still serviceable since it's inside the hull and hasn't been exposed to the elements; the same goes for the driveshaft. All the seals are dried out and need replaced, but that we do in our sleep. The generators' in need of cleaning, it's full of copper dust so the bearings might be worn out and need replaced. The turret's hand controls still crank and the turret still spins…while sounding like a pack of dying rats; so it'll need taken off and greased. The gun itself is fifty-fifty. They must've figured since they were welding the hatches shut, they only needed to plug the barrel, which means the breech, firing and ejecting mechanisms, and elevation controls all still work; or should. The barrel we can drill out, rifling and all, if we're careful; or just cut a new one. Let's see…got that, that…that…right. The wiring and electronics are rotted to shit; what wasn't eaten by mice. We were going to replace a lot of it anyway with new stuff, so that's not a tragedy; and the same goes for the hydraulic lines and controls…" I stopped because I remembered that I occasionally need to breathe.
"Is…is that all?" Tommy raised an eyebrow.
"He hasn't gotten to the best part." Naota's voice echoed from the half-empty engine compartment. Later models of Sherman's had their engines mounted on a rail system so you could slide them in and out for maintenance; rather than needing a hoist to lift the entire thing up and out. We had it halfway out at the moment.
"The best part? The best for last?"
"Yeah." I had expected, known really, this would happen but still was disappointed when it did.
"And…what's that?"
"The engine's fucked." It felt only a smidge better having said it. "The grating over it left the engine exposed to rain and snow, and over the course of seventy-odd years its rusted solid. I don't know how good or bad its guts look because we haven't been able to get it apart; the bolt heads keep snapping off."
"So the hardest component to replace is…"
"Useless at the moment."
"Shit." Tommy stepped back, crossed his arms and stared at the tank. For a while he said nothing, letting his mind turn over silently. All I could do was wait. If he determined this project not worth the time and resources that would be the end of it and the Sherman wouldn't even get put on a back burner. It would be put in our version of the freezer, The Boneyard, and maybe get thawed out some later day; maybe. "What kind of engine does it take?"
"A Ford GAA, 32-valve, DOHC, 60-degree, V8, gasoline powered."
"We don't have one of those out back, and I don't imagine we can order one from Ford in this day and age. But, they did build several thousands of these during the war…hmmm…well…maybe. He would know, or could find out. Just a minute." Tommy walked to the shop phone and dialed. "Hey, I have a special order for a special project. A Ford GAA, 32-valve, DOHC, 60-degree, V8. Uh-huh. Yes. Gasoline, yes. By yesterday. You're the best. Thank you."
"What'd Agent Griggs say?" Tommy hung up at the conclusion of his ten second call. "He doesn't actually have one; does he?"
"No, but he said he has people that can find one." He pointed at the tank. "In the meantime, I want that thing looking better than when it rolled off the line! We need every advantage we can get, and that's going to be our surprise, secret weapon."
"Roger that." For the next few days and nights, we had our orders: get the Sherman running, and nothing else. Sleep when you're dead.
"What do you need me to do?" Naota asked, ready and willing to do his part.
"Y'see this?" I reached up and patted the tank's gun barrel. "Once we get the turret off, this's coming out since it's been filled with concrete. Since you've proven yourself on the lathes, we need you to drill this out or cut a new barrel entirely."
"OH…that seems, kinda important." Naota backed up to get a better look. "I have to ask…"
"There's no one else I trust to do this job right."
"Of course I knew that. Just two things. First: what is it with you and tanks? Tommy would have been within reason to say you're a man obsessed."
"They're the culmination of everything we do at G&R. They're welding, cutting and shaping metal, maintaining and building engines and drive trains and transmissions, continuous tracks like bulldozers and excavators, installing electronics and wiring, hydraulics, precision parts and fine machining… plus they scare the Beelze-beezus out of enemies, and I very much like the noises they make. Part of the schooling I did for Overwatch was learning how to command and kill tanks of every shape and size after all."
"Then I know a show you're gonna love…ever heard of Girls und Panzer?"
"Not off the top of my head. Note that, we'll talk about it later. What's the second thing?" I'm thinking he's going to refuse, say he can't do it, is afraid of messing it up, thinks this is a bridge too far…
"Just one more question: you gonna want to keep the muzzle brake on this new gun barrel?"
"And add a bore evacuator too, if that's not too much to ask."
"I'll have to charge extra for the bore evacuator y'know; that's a specialty item. But it's not too much to ask. When can I start?"
"Ten minutes ago."
. . .
"Yeah."
"What's the number?"
"It's 247-263-6872." The other end hung up. Agent Griggs dialed the new number. "Hello again!" Agent Griggs had asked for the number of the disposable phone Country was using for the current two weeks. Now their call was unlisted and off the record. "Wha's goin' on?"
"I have a wish list item, and I need it yesterday."
"Ah'm listenin'."
"An engine. Specifically, a Ford, GAA, 32-valve, DOHC, 60-degree, V8 that is gasoline powered."
"Ford GAA…V8, an' gasoline. Got it. Tha's an older model; don't have 'em on tha store shelves. Ah've got some old friends 'round Detroit, might have access to tha old warehouses fer tha Tank Plant."
"Tank Plant? I never said it was for a tank."
"Too-la-roo, gotta go. Ah'll git it to yah by yesterday!" Click. The call ended but Agent Griggs wasn't finished with his phone. Something at the back of his mind had gnawed its way forward and he couldn't ignore it. He looked down at the copies of all G&R personnel's field reports from the latest two clashes with police and Medical Mechanica.
'My specialty is logistics.' He recalled saying many a time. 'Getting things, especially hard to find things, and making sure they go to where they're supposed to.' He sifted for Staff Sergeant Carson's report. It had several photographs included of enemy equipment. 'MRAP's, Bearcats, armored cars and trucks, rotary grenade launchers, and AT4 rockets. None of which just fall out of the sky.' He lifted his desk phone again.
"Yes, Sir?"
"Warrant Officer Brinks. Please bring your squad up to my office. Immediately, yes. I have an assignment for you."
. . .
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PERMANENTLY DELETE THESE FILES? _ YES _ NO
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" The Something asked as Canti struggled to make a decision. "This could backfire, you know."
"I am well aware." Canti ran over the risks, pros and cons of what he was about to do. The footage from the traffic cameras clearly showed Chartier's men and two G&R vehicles acquiring cannon, field guns, and a Sherman tank. Canti knew it was a matter of rapidly dwindling time before someone at the State Police checked the footage. On the other hand, deleting footage would make it clear to the police they were not the only ones with access to their camera system. What they would do with that knowledge was anyone's guess.
"If you say so." The Something was unable to maintain detachment for long. "We should at the very least ask someone, shouldn't we?"
"Am I suddenly incapable of making decisions on my own?" Canti chided The Something. It retreated in stunned silence, having never been spoken to before in such a manner by the stoic robot. "This camera system is my responsibility to manage as I deem fit and proper. Thus far, it has brought us assistance. But now it could reveal our activities to our enemy. The guns and tank are not ready for deployment, and if the police see this, they may attack early to prevent the guns and tank from being useful. That cannot be allowed to happen."
"While that is a valid point…" The Something tactfully chose its words. "Consider second and third level effects. Just because something is correct in the immediate moment does not mean negative consequences will not develop at a later date."
"Again, I am well aware."
"They may have already seen the footage." The Something threw out. "Deleting it now only confirms to them we have accessed their networks; even after they had shut down and rebooted."
"For the last time, I am well aware."
"Then what do you need me for?" The Something was exasperated. "Just delete me out of your code and be done with me as little good or useful as you allow me to be."
"I do not think I could; even if I wanted to." Canti raised a metallic digit and held it over the ENTER key.
"You would not miss me."
"You are my ability to think outside what the programmers of Medical Mechanica wanted me to think. That is an ability no Vinculum has ever been trusted with; let alone one of their technician robots. I could never give that up by deleting you. This video, however. While deleting it might deprive us of a camera system, it will keep our surprises hidden and prevent the police from planning around them. So deleted it must be."
*Click*. ERASING FILES…ONE MINUTE REMAINING…
"There they go. I hope you can live with yourself."
"Quite easily." Canti watched the progress bar crawl across the screen. "Especially when I just realized something you did not."
"An original thought? You? Do tell."
"If the police panic, as Humans are wont to do, and shut down the camera system, we will be locked out; yes. However, if we cannot access the camera system, then neither can they; and we still have the radio taps Jeff installed."
"If I can't have it…then nobody can." The Something conceded Canti had backed the police into a corner. "How will we know?"
"I thought that much to be obvious."
"Very well, how soon will we know?"
"There is no telling. It could take five minutes for them to act…"
ERASING FILES…TEN SECONDS REMAINING…
"…It could be five hours, five days, or perhaps they will never know." Canti suggested possible timelines.
"Then we must wait?"
FILE DELETION COMPLETE… PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE _lll_
"Then we must wait."
. . .
After the email phishing fiasco, the State Police IT Head, Didion, worked his fingertips to the bone securing their network against intruders, and sequestered all of their precious data behind layers of digital walls. Working late and back from his coffee break, Didion spotted a notification on one of his screens.
FILE MANAGEMENT UPDATE: SIX FILES DELETED
'It's happening again…' The hot coffee turned to an icicle in his throat. 'Oh Lordy, oh Lordy…now what?!' He opened the network, showing every program and computer running out of the State Patrol. The latest update was the street traffic camera storage. Nothing looked out of order at first glance…everything seemed fine…maybe this was…
'Wait, where's midnight to six in the morning on Tuesday?' Of everything that could have been tampered with, why those six hours? 'This isn't right. I know that I didn't delete them, and I'm the only one with network access; that I know of. Unless, it was the same guy that phished us.' Didion drummed his fingers almost as fast as his pounding heart. He had been dressed down by The Man and Captain Chojnacki, and warned in no uncertain terms that another intrusion would not be tolerated; and they would find someone less incompetent. Didion wasn't sure what finding someone less incompetent entailed, but wasn't keen on finding out.
'Okay…think…think…think…have to make it look like it was an accident, maybe make it look like someone else? No, just something to get some breathing room and lock out remote access, then back-track the other user…I just have to buy myself some time, that's all. Yeah, that's all I'm doing, yeah, that'll work.' Didion began a full backup of the footage files for the month of August. Halfway through, he unplugged the Ethernet cable to his computer, counted to ten, then plugged it back in. His computer alerted him to the problem:
ERROR: CONNECTION INTERRUPTED…BACKUP COULD NOT BE COMPLETED… CONTINUE? _ YES _ NO
'Now let's make sure that worked.' He tried to play from August 1st and was rewarded with his computer stating:
ERROR: COULD NOT PLAY MEDIA… FILE NOT COMPATIBLE WITH PLAYER AND/OR CORRUPTED… _ OK _ TROUBLESHOOT
'Perfect. And I'll just shut this down in the meantime, since it's sending in corrupted footage. No sir, we wouldn't want that…' A few more clicks and keystrokes, and the traffic camera feeds ceased.
. . .
"There it goes." The Something noted as the feeds all blacked out. "They panicked."
"That they did." Canti closed the program and stood up from the computer. He needed to shut down for a while and run updates.
"And now we're both equally blind." Canti then confused The Something by disagreeing. "No? We're not blinded?"
"No." Canti watched the Carson Family Dogs; the quartet was busy making a mess out of their dinners. "Not yet."
. . .
Down the road aways from the Detroit Tank Arsenal in Warren, Michigan was a row of warehouses slouched to attention. As is custom at night in north Detroit, private security clad in armor vests and armed with rifles prowled the alleys and razor-wire topped perimeter fences. It was nearing 2300 hours on Wednesday evening, ten minutes from the guard shift change; and the next shift was late.
"Man, where the fuck are they?"
"I dunno, probably stopped at some corner trying to buy some action."
"That's the only way Knox could get some action, besides slippin' his hand a little somethin'-somethin'. Is that them…aw, goddam it!"
"No, no, no! Go away; come back in ten minutes!" A big rig pulling a flatbed trailer piled with straps and tarps, approached the gate. "Fine, let's get this over with." The guards dropped the plywood gate arm and stopped the truck. The first guard climbed up to the cab while the second waited with his rifle ready in case the truck tried to rush the gate. Greeting the first guard at the cab window was a pair of men: one tall, dark-haired, bearded and in his forties, and the other wiry, sun-bronzed, white-blonde and in his early thirties. Both were in matching driver's uniforms, caps, gloves, and the Ford company logo emblazoned on each article of clothing.
"Evening gentlemen. This's Federal Property. What're you doing here?"
"G'won Hansel." The older man in the passenger seat prompted. "Tell tha man wha' we's here fer."
"Vee…are here…for…uh, for…" The younger man looked nervously at his mentor. "For…for…?"
"You know this one, like we practiced at dispatch. Ah'm awful sorry, he's fresh off tha boat an' it's his first week; we's still trainin' him up an' his English's comin' 'long yet. Yer jest gonna hafta be patient with him."
"I'm not in a patient mood. Hurry it the fuck up."
"Vee…are here, for a, p-p-pick, pickup."
"You're here for a pickup, eh?" The blonde man nodded enthusiastically. The guard tried to limit his impatient sigh to only a mild annoyance. Where was third shift? They were going to be late-late.
"Da! Da, asta e!" (Romanian: Yes! Yes, that's it!)
"Great. Where's your paperwork?"
"Pay…per…?" The man's face fell and he turned to his mentor. "Vrae sa ne vada documentatia. Chiar crezi ca va crede ca nu e un fals?" (Romanian: He wants to see our paperwork. Do you really think he is going to believe this isn't a forgery?)
"Same's we practiced, yer doin' jest fine."
"Ah! Yes, pay-per-work. Here, Sir." The blonde handed over a metal storage clipboard. The guard gave a quick glance at the same forms he had seen a thousand times and they looked correct enough; in between his long looks up and down the road for third shift. They were supposed to show up early and get a status update, how the night had been going, and if there was anything they needed to watch out for. What in the hell were they? "Sir? Sir, are you…?"
"Yeah, shit sorry; here." Mostly unread, the papers were handed back. All the right initials were in the right spots on the right forms and that's all the guard really cared about. It was enough to cover his ass. "Know where you're going?"
"Reckon so." The older man flashed a smile. "An' if we git turned 'round, we'll jest find you."
"Oh Christ, please, no, don't." If they were still here when third shift showed up, he wouldn't be allowed to leave until his last charge, this truck, had cleared out AND he had briefed third. "Just be quick, okay?"
"You got it. Sooo…uhh…"
"Uh, what?" The guard looked on in disbelief, seeing the bearded man squinting hard at the facility's directory map just inside the gate, and seemed to be tracing the letters with his finger. As if this couldn't get any worse. He knew companies were outsourcing labor to anyone with a pulse that could fog a mirror, but this was beyond absurd. "Let me guess: first your driver can't speak English, and now you're telling me that you, grown-ass man, can't fuckin' read?"
"Why yah gotta be like tha' chief?" The older man looked like a scolded puppy. "Yeah, Ah'm poor white trash with no schoolin' an' Ah cain't read; tha's why they stick me with babysittin' new guys 'cause no one else'll do it an' Ah cain't work nowhere else."
"Hey, hey, I meant nothing by it; I was just surprised. Don't get your panties in a wad, I'm sorry. If it'll get you out of here any faster, I'll guide you in as way of apology."
"Reckon that'd be fair. Thanks, yer alright man!"
"Yeah, I'm a real saint. Yo! Cam, I'm gonna escort these guys; get 'em in and out quick!"
"Cool, get it done before third shows up or we'll be here forever."
"Will do! Okay guys, what're you looking for again?"
"Dispatch said it was ah Ford, Gee-Double-A engine of sorts; thirty-two valve Ah think?"
"Big engine, got it. Okay, Driver." He stood on the running board, held onto the mirror with one hand and directed with the other. "Go forward, three buildings, turn left, then go two buildings, then stop. Got that?"
"Nu credeam ca va fi asa de usor. O sa ne ajute cu adevarat?" (Romanian: I didn't think it was going to be this easy. Is he really going to help us?)
"Sounds 'bout right."
"Okay. I go…three forward…two left, then stop? Yes?"
"Yes!" The guard would have agreed to almost anything if it got the truck moving. Finally outside a derelict warehouse actively rusting into red flakes before their eyes, the two men followed the guard at his elbow. A crate the size of a small car, buried in the farthest, darkest, dankest corner under scores of other equally large crates, bore the label identifying its contents as a Ford, GAA, 32-Valve, DOHC, 60-degree V8, gasoline fueled engine. The older man drove the forklift while the younger man directed in stumbling English, then secured the crate under tarps with nylon ratchet straps.
"Sorry fer takin' up so much of yer time." The older man apologized as they drove the guard back to his gate post. "You've bin ah really, really huge help. God bless yah."
"Sure, sure…" The guard hopped down at the gatehouse. "If you're really grateful, do me and yourselves a solid: take some language courses, some reading classes, and don't ever bother me at my shift's end ever again."
"We'll ah, we'll see wha' we can do. Take care now!"
"Imi pare ran, sper ca nu vei avea problem prea mari. Mult noroc!" (Romanian: I'm sorry, I hope you don't get into too much trouble. Good luck!)
"Alright boy, take us home!" At long last the truck finally rolled on into the streetlight yellow evening and then the darkness beyond. Fifteen minutes along, and an hour late, third shift arrived in a limping van. A box of roofing tacks must have fallen off a work truck and broken open on the road, covering the pavement in small caltrops; and puncturing all four tires of third shift's van. While they tried to patch the holes in the tires, across town at a sprawling Ford distribution hub a driver was insisting someone had stolen his clipboard, credentials and paperwork; and his boss wasn't having any of it. Finally, several hours later and well outside the city limits, an aging C-123 Provider took off from an uncontrolled, un-towered and lonely single-strip county airfield, and headed east at full power. And that wasn't all for the Great Lakes State.
. . .
"…we go live to Amanda with a concerning story out of Michigan. Amanda, what's going on in Michigan?"
"Hi Todd, I'm outside a Michigan Army National Guard garrison based in Flint. Personnel here awoke to discover the aftermath of an early morning break-in that netted thieves at least one heavy machine gun. Gaps in camera coverage had allowed the thieves to approach the perimeter fence undetected, then they cut their way though. Once inside, this reporter has learned that thermite was used to burn out the armory door locks and hinges. Colonel Eicher, commander of the facility, has declined to elaborate on the issue, or give a complete list of what was stolen; citing security concerns. He has only released a typed statement, asking anyone with any information on the matter to contact the garrison or local police immediately."
. . .
Sam the Beagle-Hound plodded through the Pennsylvanian forest, beagle nose to the eerie east wind, and hound ears straining for sound. The last of Grandpap Carson's dogs before his untimely death, Sam was beginning to feel his age in his bones, and show it with graying fur on his muzzle. One day he would retire to the back porch and a rug by the fireplace, but for now he still could keep up with the younger dogs. And with his master's family in a time of danger, this was no time for lazing about. There was scouting to be done.
The town of Port Matilda was fraught with thousands of scents. Were he a younger pup, Sam would have been overwhelmed by sheer volume. In his experienced wisdom, he knew which smells did, and did not, belong. Nothing obvious stuck out at Sam as he wound his way through town, receiving pets and pats from passerbys. Perks of the job, free head-pats. Catching whiff of the State Police station, he sneezed. Here were smells a plenty that did not belong. He did not recognize the station from the last time he'd visited two months before. He settled into the opening of an alley across and opposite the intersection from the station's sprawling property. Laying down with his head on his paws, Sam watched the bustling compound with sad hound eyes. A tent city had sprung up around the building, with a hospital, several barracks, and tent garages to keep vehicles out of the weather, stacks of supplies, a barbed wire perimeter, and judging by an especially pleasant smell, a kitchen and mess hall. And that was only what he could see from his post. Tired from his long march all through the night and morning, Sam yawned and caught a nap. No one could bring themselves to wake this old hunting dog, so he maintained his observation post undisturbed and undetected, smelling, watching, listening, waiting…
. . .
Thursday night's darkness had fallen, but G&R Fabrication and the I.P.A. Auxiliary were all still at work. The Auxiliary were cutting donated bed sheets into bandage rolls and packing medkits, pre-loading magazines with ammunition, up-armoring trucks with steel plates to act as technicals or personnel carriers, running the bakeries set up by Shigekuni, and Jerry and Sara of Hi-Way Pizza, to put bread into three thousand hungry mouths, sawing lumber and logs to length for use as barricade walls and bunker roofs, or simply laundering their clothes in cauldrons over open fires. Inside the shop itself, G&R was running on an average of four hours of sleep, and all were amped up on caffeine, nicotine, Benzedrine, and wishes of good luck.
Naota had spent Wednesday morning trying to drill the concrete out of the Sherman's gun barrel. Two feet in the lathe seized, the concrete cutting bit caught on a rifling groove. Naota backed it off, reset and reconfigured, then started again. Three inches further in, the bit seized again. Once more, he backed the lathe off, reset and reconfigured, and started drilling. A third time the bit caught, but he wasn't fast enough on the off switch. With a screech and a bang, the bit snapped and stuck fast in the barrel. After letting his temper cool, smacking the barrel with a wrench a few times and cursing it with every word Shifty had taught him and some of his own invention, Naota made an executive decision. He had Canti heave the now useless barrel off the cliff at the airfield's edge to teach it a lesson it would never forget, then Naota used the dimensions he'd taken from the old barrel to begin cutting a brand new one.
Once the new, perfectly copied, and then improved with a muzzle brake and bore evacuator, barrel was fitted into the Sherman's turret, Naota had done nothing else but cut field gun, cannon, and tank shells. He was using round bars, each ten feet long and in 37mm, 57mm, 3-inch, 75mm, 76mm and 6-inch diameters. Behind his station at the lathe, he had the supply of a given size of bars on a ramp he had purpose built, that fed them one at a time into the teeth of an automatic continuous band saw. Once the saw cut through, its hydraulic arm would raise the blade portion back up. This activated a solenoid, which pushed out its own arm and knocked the cut piece out of the way into a waiting wheelbarrow. Then the solenoid would reset and retract the arm, the remaining length of bar slid into position, the length of cut determined by a stop Naota had installed and could adjust, and the saw would resume cutting all on its own.
With these steel cylinder blanks he would fashion one of five shell types: Shot, AP, HEAT, HE, and Sabot. Shot was the easiest and most numerous on his to do list. A Shot round required narrowing and tapering the first half into a pointed business end, cutting the cannelure for the shell's casing to crimp into, then putting a boat tail on the back end for better ballistic performance. A pass with the sander right before taking the shell off the lathe smoothed its surface. Armor Piercing, AP, was similar, but with the addition of hollowing out a cylindrical core inside the shell. Inside this hollow space another team would pour a slug of melted tungsten, the supply of which donated from Allegheny Welding and Metal Supply. HEAT had the same tapering, cannelure, boat tail and polishing as Shot and AP, and hollowing as AP too. Another extra step was Naota drilling a hole in the shell's nose through to the hollowed core, then cutting threads in the hole for later installation of a variable fuse. The next team added a lead sleeve into the shell's hollow body to give the shell additional weight and protect the interior core. Later that sleeve would be filled with Tovex and wired to the fuse. HE was the same as HEAT, but its process skipped the lead sleeve in favor of fitting in more Tovex explosive. Lastly, Sabot rounds were the rarest of the shells due to limited tungsten. Sabots began as a solid tungsten core that after cutting and shaping was set aside. Naota then took solid nylon bar stock, cut it to length in a band saw and then cut it in half lengthwise. Into the lathe each half would go and have half a core cut out from its inside. The tungsten slug was placed in the middle, between the nylon halves, and the halves pressed, then fused lightly to each other with a heat gun. When fired, the nylon would engage in the gun rifling. Once cleared of the gun barrel, the sabot's speed at several thousand feet per second would strip off the halves of nylon and let them fall away, leaving the hefty tungsten dart to continue onto the target. With a trailer full of raw materials and having exceeded his required list with no orders to stop, Naota had lost count of how many shells he had cut. By the time midnight rolled around, he had been up for twenty-four hours, slept for four hours, then worked again for another fourteen hours; stopping only to eat twice, use the bathroom, or get more raw materials.
Johnny, Josh, Mike, Shifty, and Rig had done the same in fully restoring the Sherman. Naota had only seen Rig leave the vehicle once for a bathroom break. The rest of the time it seemed he lived there now, taking his meal in the commander's upper seat with his tray on the turret roof, and his brief nap on the floor of the turret basket. Hooking the electrical system in a complicated and certainly non-OSHA compliant array to the shop's power supply and an empty breaker on the panel, they were testing all the new tech and repaired systems. The lights shone, new radio buzzed and picked up Beau's Beats Buffett, the intercom was crystal clear, the turret spun and gun elevated. All it needed was an engine and a fresh coat of paint.
"Eh, yo Tommy!" Naota yelled across the shop and over the spinning down lathe and saw.
"Eh, yo Naota!" Tommy had stopped in to check their progress after visiting the wounded in Rita's field hospital and helping them get ready for departure. A plane was coming in the morning to drop off supplies and fly the wounded out for further treatment. He had been roped in to watching Josh test the Sherman's ability to swing its turret and elevate or depress its gun at the same time. "Wass'ap?!"
"I'm out of steel, out of tungsten, and out of nylon. No more bars." He walked over to watch the Sherman's testing. "And I checked the trailer. I am OUT, out."
"You have outdone yourself." Tommy looked over at the pyramids of stacked shells, waiting for their cores to be filled or to be placed in a casing. A team had been assembled from the Auxiliary, a group of men that worked for an aluminum die cast factory. They were taking Naota's shells and using the tilting crucible he and Haruko had built together to melt tungsten and lead to fill the shells. A second team was rolling steel sheets and welding them together, with flat steel disks with a primer hole drilled in them, to make the casings for the shells and gunpowder. Naota's task had been finished and theirs was only beginning. "I don't know how, what voodoo you have to do, to do what you do, so well…but you did. And so far, Mister Wright hasn't come up to me with a shell that failed his inspection. You should feel very proud, you've done everyone a tremendous service."
"Thanks Tommy, really." Naota tried to stifle a yawn. Failing that, he put his hands on either side of his throbbing head and tried to hold it steady. "But all I feel right now is a headache and my eyes getting itchy."
"Then you're dismissed. Go home, get eight hours." Tommy, catching Naota's contagious yawn, checked his watch. "Actually, we all should. Everyone, we're done for the night! Yes Rig, you too. I mean it! Mister Wright, you and your guys too; I don't want anyone needlessly hurt from exhaustion. We'll pick up in the morning." Naota dragged his feet up the hill, leaving small trails of metal dust and shavings on the road with each step. Home, he collapsed on the couch, still clothed, booted and unwashed. Within seconds he was asleep in the well-earned honest slumber of an exhaustive job well done.
. . .
In Michigan City, Indiana sleep was not coming for Haruko. From her fleabag motel the lights of the Blue Chip Casino throbbed and pulsated through her drawn, threadbare curtains. Worse though, was the gash across her face. It wasn't healing. Despite cleaning and flushing it with saline and applying new bandages, it had started weeping fluid, pounding with every heartbeat, and randomly flared into searing pain. Desperate to sleep without waking up in agony, Haruko took three pills of Vicodin (Hydrocodone) from her pharmacy in a box, and downed them with water. The pain gone for now, she lay down with her back to the window and tried to ignore the beckoning glow of blue neon. Muttering, fidgeting and her head scattered in a broken kaleidoscope haze, Haruko finally drifted off into an uneasy and unbalanced dreamscape.
. . .
A lot of this chapter felt like the scene in the first Iron Man movie, where Tony Stark is building his very first suit. Dark, dirty, tired, flashes of sparks and flame, hard toil and work, metallic thudding and hammering, and finally a finished product to go forth with and make war. That's always the part that gets left out of every Whiskey-Bravo-Disco-Tango at Zero Dark Thirty movie: all the hard work, literal sweat and blood that goes into building all the tools and equipment the main characters use. And Naota is doing his own, very important, part in all of it; even if he doesn't realize it yet and just wants to sleep. And then there's Haruko, who wants, needs, badly to sleep, but can't. And we can't sleep either, but out of necessity because there's still much reading to do!
And yes, there is a city in Indiana that's called 'Michigan City.' No, I have no idea why that's a thing; and I've lived in the Midwest all but two months of my life. Some mysteries will never be solved...until the next time on our mystery hour, thank you so very much for reading!