Eagle Falling

By C.L. Cake

When America's debt to the Chinese government reaches the point where it's impossible to pay, President James "Jimmy" Connors is faced with the most difficult choice of his life: Relinquish control of America to the Chinese, or face a nuclear war that will devastate the entire nation.

When the first Chinese troops set foot on American soil, Neal "Skinner" Davidson and the Black Rock Militia are once again compelled to fight for America's freedom. In a cross-country firestorm, they bring the might and determination of the American People to bear in an all-out effort to regain control of a nation that was sold piece by piece.

Book cover by Karri Klawiter

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.L. Cake
• Release date: Jan 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466112414

C.L. Cake

I was born in Santa Rosa, California, in May of 1949, and one of my earliest memories is watching motorcycles roar down the Redwood Highway past our house. My father rode Harleys and Indians, as did my grandparents and uncles. I got my first motorcycle in 1962, and haven’t been without one for long since then. My wife, Reggie, tolerates my love of open roads and throbbing V-Twin engines with patience born of long association with a modern day saddle bum. When I pack my gear on the bike and head out on a run, or to cover an event for Thunder Press, she either rides beside me on her custom trike, or just waves a cheery goodbye, then heads for the nearby Indian casino to donate to the one-armed bandits. One of these casinos was the inspiration for the scene of a major battle in Skinner’s War. I began Skinner’s War as a short story after the passage of California’s helmet law. Frustrated by constant intervention in my life and freedom by well-meaning bureaucrats, I started thinking about what our lives would be like if absolute power over the people was ever achieved, and the idea for a novel was born. In writing Skinner’s War, I situated much of the action in my “stomping grounds”; The Sierras, and the places described in the book actually exist, including the old mine that becomes Skinner’s home. I hope those of you who choose to read Skinner’s War enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’ve interspersed the battles with political satire, woods lore, sex, and even a bit of motorcycle maintenance. Pretty much all the good stuff! I think you’ll find it an exciting read, as well as a thought provoking look at what the future could hold in store

Book preview

Book Two of the Skinner’s Series

by

C.L. Cake

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published by C.L. Cake at Smashwords

Book Layout by William Walsh

Cover design by Karri Klawiter http://kek19.deviantart.com/

Text Copyright © 2012 C.L. Cake

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

Also by C.L. Cake

Skinner’s Series

Skinner’s War

Eagle’s Falling

Conquistador

This is the setup for fiction. And this is how a paragraph should look, about 6-7 inches wide, with a special First Line Indent, and no space between the paragraphs. Standard type is 12 point Times New Roman. The title can be increased to 14 point bold, but not much more.

Eagle Falling

Skinner’s War 2

by C.L. Cake

PROLOGUE

August 2, 1999

Sun Wa Lee watched the huge monitor screen in the launch control center as the missile streaked skyward. A ball of fire blossomed as the first stage separated, then the missile itself left the limited range of the camera. Radar screens tracked it over Taiwan and across the sea of Japan, as it climbed into the upper atmosphere.

Sun Wa Lee's grin of triumph faded as an assistant approached, a cellular phone held between his thumb and fingers as if it were hot. Sir, he said, extending the hand that held the phone. The President of The United States!

Ah, Mister President! So nice to hear from you. How are your lovely wife and daughter? Sun asked. The assistant risked a smile as the Premier made faces into the phone as if he'd just tasted something unpleasant.

The missile, Mister President? It carries nothing but a harmless communication satellite.

He held the phone away from his ear, as if the volume of the conversation had grown painful. Of course, Sir. I assumed that my assistant had notified your State Department of the launch. I assure you he will be severely reprimanded for the oversight.Sun's assistant looked apprehensive as the Premier wished the President a good day and pressed the off button on the small phone. I assured the President that you would face a severe reprimand, Mister Wu. Go to my office and bring the bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, and two glasses. I shall enjoy the promised reprimand with you.

The effervescence of the French champagne tickled Wu Deng Wu's nose as he sipped, causing him to wriggle it like an overgrown rabbit. Are you not afraid of the American's reaction when they find out the true purpose of our launch? he asked, setting his empty glass on the polished teak tabletop before him.

Sun Wa Lee's laughter filled the control room, echoing from the sterile walls and flashing computer screens. No, my friend, I am not. The Americans are the greediest people on earth. They knew our agents had penetrated their security, downloading their latest nuclear secrets, along with plans for all the weapons in their arsenal, and still, they sold us the guidance systems to deliver them to the heart of their own country.

Wu made no attempt to hide his smile. Perhaps if we give another one hundred thousand American dollars to their political coffers, they will give us their White House!

Sun returned the smile, an infrequent expression for the usually dour premier. You are too late, Mister Wu, he said. It has already been sold, room by room.

CHAPTER ONE

A grin stretched Skinner's bearded face as he leaned the Harley Softail into the tight curves leading to his home in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. His six foot four inch, two hundred sixty pound frame made the big Harley look small by comparison, and those who met him were usually intimidated by his size until they got to know him.

Born Neal Davidson, he had taken the nickname Skinner from the job he had been forced to take in a government beef processing plant before a combined effort of the military and the citizens of America had deposed a dictatorial president, and restored the constitution several years before. The feared and hated National Police Force had been disbanded, and the leaders were now either dead, or serving long prison sentences for crimes committed against the American people.

The new Congress had removed from the books most of the ridiculous Mommy and Daddy laws that sought to protect the American public from themselves, while taking away their freedom of choice, and the right to make their own decisions about issues that shaped their lives. Most anti-gun laws, helmet laws, seat belt laws, anti-tobacco laws, and many others were swept into the trash heap of history, as America regained the principals of individual liberty the Founding Fathers had so wisely provided, but well meaning bureaucrats had gradually usurped.

After several long years of civil conflict, the military’s strength was taxed by the expenditure of both munitions, and manpower. Raphael Major, the former president turned dictator had refused to supply the four major branches of the military with the means necessary to wage a successful campaign against his tyrannical administration, instead supplying the National Police Force he had created as they raped, murdered, and tortured Americans with impunity.

Skinner, a former U.S. Army Special Forces Green Beret had been drawn into the fighting from his solitary life in the mountains when he had rescued Donna Brown, a beautiful saboteur from the clutches of the N.P.F. They had married, and now had a son, Neal Jr.

Living in the little community of Wishon, high in California’s Sierra Nevada Mountains with the remnants of the former Blackrock Militia, Skinner was now the nation’s foremost builder and customizer of the once outlawed Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Skinner’s long dark hair floated in the wind created by his speed. He felt the exhaust pipes drag on the cracked pavement when the radius of the curve tightened, sparks flying like tracer bullets behind him. ''Better slow it down a bit,'' he thought. ''The last thing I want to do is start a forest fire with these damn sparks.''

He let the throttle return slightly, the incline of the big motorcycle straightening as he came out of the curve and onto the last straightaway before home. The frogs that inhabited the lily pond along the road fell silent at the staccato bark of his straight pipes, resuming their dusk serenade after he had passed.He let the V-twin engine labor in third gear as he climbed the steep incline leading to his driveway at the former Pacific Gas and Electric Company headquarters at Wishon Reservoir. After the power station had been destroyed during a civil war in 2014, the headquarters had remained home to the former members of the Black Rock Militia.

In the six years since the civil war ended, a thriving mountain settlement had been established, with a school, trading post, and the Skinner and Son Custom Motorcycle shop. It was shop business that had taken Skinner to the San Joaquin Valley that lay seven thousand feet below.

He pulled the Harley to a stop beneath the second floor deck of the chalet he and his wife, Donna, had renovated. The bike made ticking sounds as the hot metal cooled in the clear mountain air.

Donna stepped out onto the deck above. She slid the screen door shut to keep out the evening mosquitoes and moths that circled the light above her. Hi, Hon, she said. How was the trip?

With copper red hair, and emerald eyes, Donna was one of the most beautiful women Skinner had ever seen, and it hadn't taken long for them to fall deeply in love. Even in the midst of blood and death, they had found happiness in one another's arms.Skinner smiled up at her, shielding his eyes from the last rays of the setting sun with his hand. Good. Jerry Banks has a nice little machine shop now, as well as his garage. It's good to know I can get him to make the parts I can't find. Harley stuff is still pretty scarce, although people are bringing more of it out of storage all the time.

She picked up a small pinecone from the deck near her feet, and when Skinner wasn't looking, she dropped it on his head.

Hey, you! he shouted, as she retreated inside. That's gonna cost you a fresh cup of coffee!

He had just started up the narrow stairs leading to the second level when she appeared at the top with a steaming mug in her hand. When he reached the top of the stairs, he wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close. I missed ya' Hon, He whispered into her wavy red hair.

We missed you, too.

The thunder of feet on the carpeted steps inside the house brought a smile to Skinner's face.

Dad's home! Neal Jr. shouted happily, as he rounded the doorframe with a one handed pivot, and launched himself at Skinner.

Skinner picked the boy up, throwing him over his shoulder. How ya' doin', Lad?

Fine, Dad. Uncle Black Eagle took me fishin' today. We caught a whole bunch of trout for dinner!

That's great, Son. Where is the old...Uh...Uncle Black Eagle?

Right here, Ugly Man Who Scares Small Children, the old chief said, stepping out the door to grip Skinner's hand. It is good that you have returned so soon, Skinner.

Uh-oh. I don't like the sound of that, Skinner said, taking a sip of coffee as he walked into the house. He set Neal down on the floor, then pulled out a chair and sat, hanging his battered leather jacket from the back.

Black Eagle had formed a band of Native American guerrilla fighters to battle the National Police Force before the civil war had begun, launching hit and run attacks from the Granite Mesa Rancheria. Once a thriving casino, the rancheria had been destroyed by the N.P.F., forcing Black Eagle to lead his band high into the mountains to escape. After the war ended, they had elected to stay, rather than return to their ancestral home.

We have had a problem with one of the generators, Black Eagle said. The storm last night caused water to leak into the windings and short them out.

Has anyone looked at it? Skinner asked, setting his mug down on the table.

Bill took it apart, and Don flew the armature down to White Sands to have it rewound.

Good, that'll be a lot quicker than taking it all the way down to Fresno.

Four water-powered generators now supplied power for the little community, their water wheels turned by the creeks that flowed into the reservoir unabated now that the huge P.G.& E. turbines had ceased to exist.

Skinner had met Donna when she was captured while trying to blow up the power station.

I heard some disturbing news while I was down in the valley, Skinner said. He rose and walked to the stove, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

Your cholesterol level is too high? Black Eagle chided Skinner, his stoic face the picture of innocence.The old chief had been a leader of the Underground when Donna had introduced the two men. They had become as close as brothers over the years, and each was a part of the extended family that called the little settlement home.

Worse than that, Chief.

I shudder to think of what might be worse than that.

Seriously, Black Eagle. Jerry told me that President Connors has used up nearly all the 'smart' missiles, and tactical weapons we have left trying to stop conflicts in every little chicken-shit country on the map. Congress hasn't appropriated any extra funds to replace them, and before long, all we'll have will be the big boys. I.C.B.M.s with nuclear warheads.

The chief shook his head. Those should be a big hit in East Timor, he said.

Donna dried the last plate and stacked it in the cupboard. Where did he hear that? she asked. None of the radio or television stations have mentioned anything of the sort." She sat down across from Skinner, a cup of coffee in her hand.

He talked with Justin Parks last week, while he was in town looking for students for his new project.

And what might that be? Black Eagle asked, stuffing a freshly baked sugar cookie into his mouth.

Justin Parks, who had won the presidency after the resignation of Raphael Major, had been a senator when the war broke out, and was instrumental in breaking the dictator's hold on America.

He's trying to get the educational system back to basics, to prepare the kids for life in a global economy.Donna chuckled. He should speak to Gabriel and Nancy. Our kids certainly aren't lacking in the basics.

That's true, Skinner said. But most kids aren't as lucky, and haven't been for more years than I care to remember. Our school is run the way schools were fifty years ago. Discipline, love, and lots of parental involvement. plus, Gabe and Nancy don't push their personal beliefs onto the children.

Well, I certainly wish President Parks luck, Black Eagle said. It 'is' proper to call an ex-president Mr. President, isn't it?

Skinner combed cookie crumbs from his beard with his fingers. It is if you like him. If not, you can call him anything you damn-well please. In President Parks' case, he's one of the finest men I've ever met.

Soap box... We need a soap box over here! Black Eagle shouted.

Okay, Chief. I'll quit preaching, Skinner said, reaching for another cookie.

Donna swatted his hand playfully as he reached into the cookie jar. So, if we use up our supply of tactical weapons, what'll we do if we run into a nasty little war somewhere that we can't avoid?

Skinner turned to face Black Eagle, shrugging his wide shoulders. Nuke 'em, or lose.

Former President of the United States, Justin Parks stood before the assembled students. His back ramrod straight, dark blue pinstripe suit tailored to his lean body, his visage alone commanded respect.

The students had been chosen for their outstanding aptitude and intelligence from colleges and universities across the nation.

Parks pulled the microphone upward, closer to his lips. Ladies and Gentlemen, he began. You have been given a preliminary overview of the program you are being offered, and I am here today to answer any questions you may have. Before we begin, I will repeat the basic concept of this program. As you all know, since the late years of the Twentieth Century, our school systems nationwide concentrated on social re-engineering and political propaganda rather than the basic requirements of education. This caused America to fall behind every advanced nation in mathematics, reading, history, science, and countless other subjects. We have picked you, America's shining scholastic stars, to correct this deficit. Each of you will be trained by the best of former generations, using archive textbooks from the nineteen fifties where possible. This will eliminate the lies and distortion of past events written into textbooks by history revisionists. The events occurring after that date will be, by necessity, taught by those who have first-hand knowledge of those times and events. Your education will be at taxpayer expense, and when it is complete, you will be accredited to teach at university level anywhere you choose.

Parks took a sip of water from the glass on the lectern. Now, are there any questions?A blonde girl with very short hair raised her hand. Mister Parks, What do you mean by history revision?

Parks read the nametag on her white cotton blouse. Mandy, he asked, Who brought the United States into World War Two?

We attacked Japan, of course, she answered without hesitation.

Have you heard of Pearl Harbor, Mandy?

"Yes, Sir. That was Japan's response to our aggression. Then we dropped atomic bombs on them, and killed millions of innocent people.

Parks sighed, looked down at the scattered papers on the lectern, then brought his eyes back to Mandy. That, he said, is history revision. Japan attacked Pearl Harbor as a pre-emptive strike in an attempt to destroy as much of our naval capabilities as possible before we entered the war. It was an infamous and cold-blooded attack on a nation they were not yet at war with. We dropped the atomic bombs to end the war years earlier than would have otherwise been possible, saving countless lives in the process.

Mandy looked startled, then her cheeks grew dark with anger. Uh-uh! she said.

Justin Parks ignored Mandy's outburst, pointing to another raised hand. ''This is going to be a long, difficult road, indeed," ''he thought.

The President of the United States, James Belvin Jimmy Connors leaned back in the tall backed leather chair, and rested his hand tooled cowboy boots on the antique desk in the oval office. A soggy cigar butt was clenched between his teeth, smoke curling lazily from its tip. Sure glad we can have these things again, he said, pulling the cigar from his mouth and stubbing it out in the ashtray.

Jimmy Connors hadn't liked life under the extended administration of ex-president Raphael Major. Jimmy was not a big fan of making vices illegal, especially when they were his damned vices. He had gone along with the Major administration's policies as governor of Texas only because he was scared shitless of what would happen to him if he didn't. The old National Police Force had a bad habit of kicking down doors in the middle of the night, taking away those who opposed Major, and Jimmy didn't by-God intend to be one of them.

After the civil war that did away with Major, the N.P.F., and the rest of his corrupt followers, Justin Parks had assumed the office and gotten America back on the right track. ''Well, almost the right track,'' Connors thought. ''He didn't teach those chicken-shit third world countries who's the boss, but I will!''

Stuart Adams, known to his friends as The Texarkana Tiger, had come from Texas with Connors, and now served as his Chief of Staff. Yes, Sir, Jimmy. Nothin' like a good stogie ta' set a man thinkin', he said.Connors dropped his feet to the thick carpet with a soft thud. He stood, looking out the window at the rose garden. Stick around for the meeting with the Joint Chiefs this afternoon, will you Stu?

Course I will, Jimmy. You know that. I guess they're gonna be cryin' about their damned missiles an' artillery shells again.

And wanting more money to replace them, no doubt! Connors turned, removing a bottle of brandy from the bottom drawer of his desk. Get us a couple of glasses will you, Stu?

Adams moved swiftly across the room, picked up two water tumblers from beside the carafe near the door, and set them on Conners' desk. The amber liquor flowed into the glasses, nearly filling each.

To showin, 'em who's the boss, Stu said, lifting his glass in salute.

And meaning it! The president clinked the rim of his glass against Stu's.

Both men drained their glasses. Stu wiped his eyes, fighting for breath until the brandy had settled. But what... What if they're... Right? he gasped.

Right? Connors laughed. We won't have any need for more missiles. When we get done with those stone-age sons of bitches, nobody's going to have the guts to mess with me!

''I hope you're right, Jimmy,' 'Stewart thought.'' I certainly do.''

CHAPTER TWO

Owwww, dammit! Carl Penner limped away from his Harley Sportster. He bent and pulled up his right pants leg to reveal the beginnings of a huge blue and purple bruise. Not again!

Skinner had found an ancient iron head Sportster from the nineteen seventies in a collection of cardboard boxes at a swap meet. He purchased the rusty remnants at a reasonable price, considering that Harley Davidson hadn't produced motorcycles since they were banned in 2008 for being too dangerous. It would probably be at least another year or two before they could start production again, so the price of the few that still existed was usually high.

When he unloaded the Sporty in the shop, Carl had fallen in love at first sight, and pestered Skinner until he agreed to sell the bike to him.

Several weeks of work had produced a beautiful machine, but Carl had soon learned the meaning of the term Sportster Knee. This affliction had plagued riders since the inception of the quick little bikes, and was caused by the rider's right knee hitting the oil tank when the kick-starter gears slipped.

Carl's wife, Carol, came over to comfort him as he held his knee, his teeth clenched, sweat forming on his forehead. He had married Carol Castro two years ago, and his closest friend, Eddie Caine had married her twin sister, Candy.

Eddie was constantly teased about marrying Candy Caine, but the good-natured ribbing had long since ceased to bother him.

The two young men had been soldiers in the N.P.F., but deserted rather than participate in the wholesale slaughter of American citizens. They had joined the Blackrock Militia, and chose to stay at Wishon when the war ended.

I guess we're not going for a ride now, huh? Carol asked, leaning over next to Carl, her hands on her knees.

Carl turned, still massaging his battered knee. Yeah, Babe. Just give me a minute or two, will ya'?

Carol walked over to the Sporty, her hips swaying seductively, and swung her leg over the seat. She settled the kicker pedal under her right arch, and gripped the handlebars, supporting her weight with her arms. When she brought all her weight down on her right foot, the little bike roared to life, the exhaust blowing clouds of dust as it settled back into an idle.

I helped you, she yelled over the crackle of the exhaust.

I can see that, he said, slightly embarrassed by the ease with which she had started the Harley.

He pulled his pants leg back down and limped over to the Sportster, easing in front of Carol on the seat. Where we goin'? he asked, kicking it into first gear.

Let's get Eddie and Candy, and go visit Don and Linda.

Don ain't back from White Sands yet, he reminded her. He twisted the throttle, the roar echoing back from the granite cliffs above them.

That's okay, Linda's there. And I want to see Grandma, too. Aww, for... Granny'll probably hit me with her broom again.

She hasn't done that since we were married, and you know it, Carl, she reminded him.

Well, okay. Let's go get Eddie and Candy. It's too nice a mornin' to waste sittin' here.

Ten minutes later, the four roared down the road toward Black Eagle's camp, Eddie and Candy on Eddie's Harley Low Rider.

Time had not been kind to Sun Wa Lee. The past twenty years had seen his joints stiffen and twist with the ravages of arthritis. His frail body was now an