Liberators: A Novel of the Coming Global Collapse

54 THICKER THAN WATER

The Jeffordses arrived in a chartered Super Osprey amphibian plane. The plane touched down on Lake Dora and taxied to the city of Tavares Seaplane Base. The breezy day made the water choppy. The Altmillers were waiting for them. Janelle Altmiller and Rhiannon Jeffords had arranged this meeting, primarily to discuss their parents in British Columbia. The sisters were worried that they had been out of contact for so long.

Lance Altmiller was now twenty-two years old. He had found part-time work in the local thrift store, moving and sorting boxes of donated household goods. He still lived in his parents’ home. Sarah Jeffords was eighteen, and had recently begun arguing with her mother about wearing eye makeup. She now spoke with an acquired Australian accent.

The Jeffordses were home in America, to stay.

The first thing that Rhiannon said when she saw her sister was, “Uggggh. You got old.”

Janelle replied, “You’ve got wrinkles too, sis.”

“Well, we can count our blessings. At least you never got fat, and I got skinny and I stayed that way. And we all have our health.”

Janelle nodded. “Yes, God is good.”

Unloading their luggage took a while, and was tricky, even with the amphibian plane tied up to the pier. The swells caused the plane to oscillate, making for hesitant footing at the cargo door. The Jeffordses had brought seven suitcases, two Pelican pistol cases, and four Kolpin long gun cases. The six people and luggage were a tight squeeze in the two vehicles that the Altmillers had driven to the seaplane base.

The conversations on the short drive to the Altmillers’ home focused on the Jeffordses’ lengthy flights on an Airbus A380 and a Boeing 747-8 to Miami, and then the charter in the smaller amphibian to Tavares. The men were in one vehicle, and the ladies in the other.

When they reached the house, they were ushered in by the day guard. Their housekeeper, Elena, already had lunch ready for them. The Habana sandwiches and mojito salad were served with coffee and iced tea.

Over lunch, the conversation soon turned to their family in British Columbia. Jake said emphatically, “There’s been outright resistance in Canada. Almost everyone has wanted the foreign troops out for years.”

“I’ve already been praying about this. I suppose we’ll have to do something about Canada,” Peter said.

“Do you suggest that we support the resistance or join it?” Jake asked.

Peter sighed. “If not now, then when? And if not us, then who?”

“I agree,” Rhiannon said.

“I think we’re all in agreement that we need to take action,” Jake said. “So let’s summarize: The first wave of invasion, the French, was pushed out after a few years, but the second wave, the Chinese PLA with a bunch of technocrats in tow, came in force, and they’re practically terraforming the place. They have the nerve to call themselves UN forces as well. They’re expanding mines and building a whole new city from scratch, east of Vancouver—between Surrey and Abbotsford—that’s been nicknamed New Shanghai. It is laid out in a grid of streets that will connect Surrey and Abbotsford. It’s huge.”

“We know the essentials of what the Chinese are now doing, but we’re out of touch with Mom and Dad,” Janelle said. “I only got one message relayed via ham radio from Mom and Dad shortly after the French capitulated, but before the Chinese landed.”

She passed a handwritten transcription to Rhiannon and Peter. Rhiannon read it aloud, twice:

“Greetings! Good riddance to the French. We were with the NLR, as was Ray, his friend Phil, and Phil’s wife. We will be rebuilding our herd. We are all healthy here. Can you come up to visit after things go back to normal?—A & C McG.”

“Well, obviously the Chinese occupation changed everything, after that was written,” Rhiannon said. “Their occupation has gone on for five years.”

Jake jumped in. “The Chinese have a news blackout about their occupation of western Canada. The happenings up there are sketchy—just a few things that the news media hear from border crossers. The Ottawa government is sitting on their hands, endlessly parlaying with the Chinese about the details of the border between the former Saskatchewan and Manitoba, when they should be demanding an immediate withdrawal.

“Meanwhile, since there is a nuclear stalemate between the U.S. and China, the RCG is only providing some covert aid. It is analogous to what they did to support the mujahideen in Afghanistan, back when the Soviets were there in the 1980s. That means no direct military support, no air support. Nothing.”

“So we have no way of knowing the current situation for Mom and Dad,” Janelle said. “Ray is there. They mentioned plans to build the cattle herd back up. But what is really going on? Are they still healthy? Do they need help getting out of the country? Or do they need help fighting the Chinese? It’s not even clear whether there is a functioning local economy. We really won’t know until we get up there to see what we can do to help.”

Peter gave Jacob a look and they both nodded. Then Peter said, “I suggest that Jake and I infiltrate British Columbia by ourselves, and then after we get there and fully ascertain—”

“No way!” Janelle interrupted. “Alan and Claire are our parents, not yours. It sounds all noble and chivalrous of you, but Rhi and I are both very good shooters and we know our way around those woods a lot better than you do.”

In the end, they decided that the Jeffordses would leave their daughter, Sarah, at the recently reopened Lake Mary Prep School, and that she would spend her summers “house sitting” with Elena and working as a sales clerk at the Altmillers’ hardware store. Meanwhile, the Altmillers would leave their son, Lance, in the care of Elena. Lance—who had the intellect of a five-year-old—needed constant supervision. The store would be in good hands in their absence. Their old accountant, Lisa Schoonover, had recently returned from Tennessee, and Tomas Marichal (the store manager) was running the store full-time and was planning to buy it, allowing Jake and Janelle to retire.

They spent the next twenty minutes discussing potential strategies for sneaking across the Canadian border, and the risks of minefields—both French and Chinese.

Peter, who had been quiet for most of this conversation, spoke up. “Okay, it’s a calculated risk, but here is what I propose. I say that we spend a few months stocking up on supplies that we know the resistance can use. Then we charter a seaplane to take the four of us up there and drop off us and the gear at a very remote lake. We make sure that everything that we bring is compatible with packhorse saddles, and we even bring nine saddles with us—six packsaddles and three riding saddles.”

“You’re kidding, right? I haven’t ridden a horse in ten years,” Jake said.

“Neither have I, but I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.”

Rhiannon glanced at her sister, and they both started nodding.

“I actually think it’s a great plan,” Janelle said. “Even if the Chinese have any sort of air defense up there—which I seriously doubt—if they track us and we drop off the radar, it will probably be at least twelve hours before they’ll get anyone up there to check it out. By then, we can have all our gear tucked back in the woods. Then we hike out, borrow a pack string, and pick our way down to Anahim Lake on cattle trails, conspicuously staying off the roads.”

Jacob still looked incredulous.

Peter jumped back in. “For years, I’ve been hearing Rhi rave about Sigutlat Lake, way up in the Dean River country, in Tweedsmuir Provincial Park. It’s what, eighty or ninety miles northwest of the ranch? It’s a fly-in lake that was used by tourist fishermen. That was where her dad took her by horseback, to catch those famous eighteen-pound trout. The lake freezes up in early November, so I say we get there well before October.”

“Is that lake big enough to land on?” Jake asked.

“Certainly. Sigutlat Lake is eight miles long,” Rhi said. “And Peter is right. Unless the Chinese discovered uranium up there or something, there will be nobody, and I mean nobody, there. There are no more tourist fly-fishermen. A family built a fly-in lodge there, back around 2006, but the last I heard, the lodge had burned down. Hopefully the dock is still there.”

“So who would be crazy enough to fly us up there?” Rhi asked.

Jake and Janelle glanced at each other, and then Jake answered for both of them: “Rob, at Smith Brothers.”

Smith Brothers Air & Seaplane Adventures had been in business for twenty years. The small company flew charters in Florida year-round as well as in the Lake of the Ozarks region of Missouri each summer.

The company was owned by a former Delta Airlines pilot with thirty thousand hours of flying experience. His son and right-hand man was Rob Smith, a former U.S. Air Force pilot with a poorly concealed wild streak. Rob had more than twenty-five hundred hours of stick time, and nearly half of those hours were in seaplanes and pontoon floatplanes. He had made hundreds of takeoffs and landings on lakes.

For many years the company had three small floatplanes and “The Big Plane,” a five-seat UC-1 Twin Bee. Then, just a year after the UN capitulation, they gambled and bought the “Really Big Plane,” a Cessna Amphibian—a floatplane variant of the recent-generation Cessna Caravan. (Since floatplanes were primarily recreational, and the recreational aviation market had not yet recovered, Smith had the chance to pick it up for twenty cents on the dollar.) While it outwardly looked like a typical floatplane, it was scaled up considerably and was powered by a beefy 675-horsepower turboprop engine that burned either JP4 or JP5.

The thirty-nine-foot-long Cessna seated twelve passengers and cruised at 159 knots once up at altitude, and 128 knots on the deck, with a range of 805 nautical miles. The plane’s useful load was 3,230 pounds. With a full load, the plane had a takeoff distance of 3,660 feet.

Rob felt guilty about not being more active in the resistance against the Fort Knox government, so he jumped at the opportunity to take the risky charter. His father objected at first, but he eventually relented.

“Looking at the sectionals, I can see that the closest U.S. airport—at least straight-line distance—is the tarmac strip at Port Angeles, Washington. That is a 6,347-foot-long strip that can handle a Boeing 737, so it can certainly handle our puddle jumper, even if we are overloaded and just stagger off the ground. But it’s about five hundred miles to your lake. The problem is, it’s another five hundred miles back, and our plane only has an eight-hundred-mile range flying a standard profile, and a lot less if we try to dodge radar.”

“What if we were to refuel up there?” Jake asked.

“You can arrange that?” Rob asked. “We’re talking about a crud load of jet fuel. The capacity is 332 gallons, which equates to 2,224 pounds. Depending on how much low-level flying we have to do, we’ll probably burn between 260 and 300 gallons of that getting there, leaving only about 65 gallons in the wing tanks when we land.”

“Let me make some inquiries,” Jake said.

The next day, Jake met with Rob again and presented a solution. “The resistance guy tells me that there is a very active cell in Bella Coola. Apparently it is a cell that is independent of the Anahim Lake group, which I assume is the one that Alan and Claire are in. We can arrange to have a resistance boat refuel you with two hundred seventy gallons of jet fuel—all in five-gallon cans—at the mouth of the Dean River, which is almost impossible to reach overland, but it is only forty air miles from Sigutlat Lake.”

“Okay. With two or three minutes per can—since five-gallon cans are slow to pour—we’re talking two hours to refuel. Call it three hours, to be on the safe side. I hope you realize that the top of the wing is sixteen feet over the water, so we’ll need very calm seas to be able to refuel. It’s like standing on a metal roof of a house, but the house is moving. If there are swells, it feels like you’re surfing when you’re up on the wing.”

Jake pulled out a map and showed him the water-landing site, and said, “You’ll be landing on salt water, but on a very sheltered waterway. The Dean Channel is one of the longest inlets on the coast of BC. So unless there are unusually high winds that day, at most there will be just very small swells.”

“What about Chinese troops?”

“Not an issue. We’re talking about some remote and unpatrolled coastline, not Vancouver Island. The nearest PLA garrison is in Bella Coola, and there are no roads to the mouth of the Dean. You can only get there by boat or by floatplane. “

Rob Smith rubbed his chin. “So why don’t I just drop you and your gear off with the resistance there at the inlet from the get-go?”

“It’s on the wrong side of the mountain range, and the Chinese have the only road—Highway 20—very closely watched. They’re sure to be checking IDs and they probably search every round-eye vehicle that passes through. Getting thousands of pounds of contraband cargo through would be tricky at best. The intel guys say that they scrutinize the east-west highway routes in particular, since they consider those strategic.”

“Well, if you’re sure you can arrange that, then I’m game. But if your refueling committee falls through, then I’m up a creek without jet fuel,” Rob said.

“I’m going to promise them about one hundred pounds of various ammunition and batteries in trade for the fuel, so they’ll definitely be there.”

“Batteries?” Rob asked.

“Yeah. Most people don’t realize it, but modern armies depend on batteries just as much as they depend on ammo, fuel, and MREs. They burn through a ton of batteries for radios, starlight scopes, intrusion detection systems, flashlights, laser aiming lights—all kinds of things. Without batteries, any army is back to nineteenth-century warfare.”

“Maybe you should be sabotaging battery factories in China.”

All four of them took a four-week immersion course in Chinese. With a better ear for languages, it was Peter who did best in the class. The others were able to absorb only a few words and key phrases. Their instructor—a refugee from Taiwan in her sixties—found it amusing when they asked her how to say phrases like, “Throw down your weapons,” and, “Surrender, or we will shoot.” In the end, only Peter became conversant in Chinese at a rudimentary level. But at least the other three of them remembered their key phrases and one crucial command: Surrender.

For weapons, Rhiannon had a AUS-Steyr bullpup, a capable little rifle, but it used proprietary magazines that didn’t interchange with M16 magazines. However, Rhiannon had eleven spares (a mix of thirty- and forty-two-round), so she didn’t consider that a big drawback. Meanwhile, Peter had a captured Indonesian Pindad rifle, which was a clone of the FN FNC. It used standard NATO M16 magazines. When Jake asked Peter where he’d gotten the unusual weapon, Peter said, “I got it from an Indonesian soldier who had no further use for it.”

Jake would carry an LAR-8 variant of the AR-10 with nine twenty-round steel FN/FAL magazines. The Rock River Arms LAR-8 was designed to accept either FN/FAL magazines or L1A1 magazines. Jake and Janelle both carried SIG P250 pistols chambered in .45 automatic. (Hers had originally been a .40 S&W, but they were able to find a factory conversion caliber exchange kit and some extra .45 ACP magazines.)

For body armor, Peter had a set of the excellent Australian Army–issue Tiered Body Armor System. The TBAS was the equivalent of a Level IV vest in the civilian world. Jake had Level IIIA concealment body armor, and Janelle had Level II. It took some searching, but they also found a Level III vest for Rhiannon. Ironically, that vest was priced lower than a less-capable Level II vest being sold by the same store, but because of Florida’s hot and humid climate, thicker vests did not sell well after the UNPROFOR withdrawal.

Although U.S. ammunition makers were getting back into production, there were still chronic shortages of many varieties of pistol cartridges, as well as several rifle calibers.

They gathered what they could, following the NLR’s published list of ammunition needs.

Janelle also found fourteen boxes of .243 Winchester, intended for her mother’s deer rifle.

From three resistance veterans in Florida, they received donations of 144 electric blasting caps, twenty-seven kilos of German C4 in three-kilo blocks, two square yards of DuPont Detasheet in twelve-by-thirty-six-inch rolls, and two hundred meters of detonating cord.

Rob’s plane was kept in top condition by the Smith Brothers A&P mechanic. The only changes needed before the trip were temporarily removing some seats and taping over the Unites States N-prefix registration markings, making the plane “quasi-sterile.”