William Johnstone - Phoenix Rising

“I know gas is expensive now, but I don’t think we should use this until we have to,” Clay suggested.

“I agree,” Jake said. “We need to put it somewhere safe.”

“I thought I would hide it in a hangar out at Hanchey Field.”

“No, too many people out there. We need a more remote place than that.”

“How about one of the stagefields?”

“Yes, excellent idea,” Jake said. “And I know where to go with it. TAC-X. It’s thirteen miles away, has four buildings, and is totally abandoned.”

“All right, I’ll get a truck from the motor pool.”

“No,” Jake said. “You would have to get a trip ticket for TAC-X and since it is no longer being used, that might arouse some suspicion. I think you would be better off renting a truck.”

Jake wrote a check for two thousand dollars and handed it to him. “I hope this covers your expenses,” he said. “But I would cash it immediately. And use it up as quickly as you can. The way the value of the dollar is plummeting, it may be worth only half as much this afternoon.”

“I hear you,” Clay said. “By the way, Captain Gooding is the POL Officer. If you would happen to get a telephone call from him, maybe you could cover my ass with a bit of a runaround.

“I’ll do it,” Jake said.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Sergeant Major.”

“I’d better go find a truck.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dale County Truck Rental, Ozark, Alabama—Thursday, May 17

“You do realize that all I want to do is rent this truck, don’t you? I’m not trying to buy it,” Clay said to the proprietor. “And it is a local move, I’m not going anywhere with it.”

“You’ll have it back today?”

“I’ll have it back by six tonight.”

“Fifteen hundred dollars. And the gas tank had better be topped off.”

“All right. You’re robbing me blind, but I have to have a truck today.”

“You got a beef, Sergeant Major, take it up with President Ohmshidi. It’s his dumbass policies that have gotten us into this mess.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t argue with you there,” Clay said. “That sonofabitch has been a disaster.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me you hated Ohmshidi as much as I do? Tell you what. I’ll take two hundred fifty dollars off. You can have the truck for twelve hundred and fifty.”

“Thank you,” Clay said.

When Clay drove through the Ozark Gate he was stopped by the MP.

“You’ll have to get a visitor’s pass for that truck,” the MP said. “And I’ll need to put down where you are going.”

“I’m moving out of my quarters,” Clay replied.

The MP entered the destination into his log, then handed Clay a visitor’s pass with instructions to put it on the dash so it could be seen through the windshield. From there he drove to the POL center.

“I don’t know, Sergeant Major,” a specialist said. “I don’t feel right about loading military fuel into the back of a civilian truck.”

“What difference does it make what kind of truck you load it in?” Clay asked. “I have an authorized and approved requisition document.”

“Maybe I should call Captain Gooding and ask him what I should do.”

“Go ahead and call him if you want to. His name is right here on the requisition form,” Clay said.

“I just don’t feel right about putting the fuel onto a civilian truck,” the specialist said.

“What would make you feel right about it?”

“Well, I mean, when you figure how much gasoline costs right now . . . I’ve got a leave coming up, but I can’t go home because I can’t afford the gas.”

“How many gallons would it take you to get home?”

“About forty gallons.”

“So, what if you had enough fuel to get home, plus say, oh, about fifteen gallons more so you could run around a bit when you got home?”

“That would be fifty-five gallons,” the specialist said.

“Interesting coincidence, isn’t it, that you need fifty-five gallons of gasoline, and that is exactly the amount that is in one of these barrels?”

“Yes,” the specialist said. “Very interesting.”

“So, are you going to help me to get my nineteen barrels loaded onto this truck or what?”

“Nineteen barrels?”

“Nineteen,” Clay said.

The specialist smiled. “They are on pallets, five to a pallet. I’ll get a forklift.”

Clay pushed one of the barrels off one of the pallets. “Only four on this one.”

“We’d better hurry,” the specialist said, going toward the forklift.

Stagefield TAC-X

There are thirteen stagefields located around Fort Rucker. A stagefield is a facility that is somewhat remote from the main base, allowing student pilots to conduct flight and tactical operations there. TAC-X, or tactical operations training field X, was one of the thirteen, and though many Army aviators had trained here, it was no longer in operation.

When Clay approached the entrance to the stagefield, he saw that a double chain-link gate blocked the road. The gate was locked by process of a chain and padlock. A sign on the gate read:

U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED!

Clay got out of the truck and, using a pair of bolt cutters, cut the lock. A moment later he swung the gates open and drove the truck through. Stopping the truck, he got out and closed the gates behind him, passed the chain back through, and reset the lock so that it looked as if it was still secure. Then he drove to the largest of the four buildings, this one a hangar, and went through the same process of cutting that lock and swinging open the hangar door.

Something scurried past his legs, startling him, and he let out a little shout until he realized that it was nothing more than a raccoon. He backed the truck into the hangar, then rolled the barrels down the tail ramp. It took less than an hour to off-load every barrel of gasoline, roll them over into the corner, and set them upright. When every barrel was off-loaded he covered them with an old tarpaulin. With the tarp in place, he went around picking up trash from the hangar, a solvent bucket, some paint cans, an old oil pan, a couple of wooden boxes, and some Plexiglas and sheet metal, which he placed on top of the tarp. His crowning achievement was finding six empty barrels, which he placed in front of his handiwork.

He examined the area when he was finished. Even if someone came into the hangar and looked around, they would have no idea that there was a little over one thousand gallons of gasoline here.

Clay closed the hangar doors, then locked them shut with his own padlock. Leaving stagefield TAC-X he did the same thing at the front gate, replacing the old lock with one of his own.

As he drove back to Ozark to turn in the truck, he called his daughter, who was a student about to graduate from Northwestern Louisiana University in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Although Clay had helped out as much as he could, she had held up her end by working as a waitress.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Jenna. This is your dad.”

“Hi, Daddy. I hope you are calling to tell me you can come to my graduation.”

“Darlin’, there’s nothing I’d like more,” Clay said. “But with the cost of fuel now—that is, when you can even get fuel—I just don’t think I’ll be able to. You can thank your president for that.”

“I know you don’t like him,” Jenna said. “But that’s because you haven’t given him a chance. He is trying to do some things to make a real difference in the world.”

“Yeah, like bringing all transportation to a halt.”

“You aren’t being fair. Mom and I are going to a pro-Ohmshidi rally tonight.”