A Few of the Chosen: Survivors of Terrorism

By Rodger J. Bille

The lives of Rod Williams, his family and friends are changed forever after terrorists bring their world into chaos. Determined not to merely survive, but to overcome the rapid deterioration of society as they have known it, they gather in strength and numbers to build better lives.

Through faith and endurance they rise to the challenges and grievous losses beyond their imagination. The twists and turns of their story may bring anger to your mind and tears to the eyes, but the writer hopes it will bring faith to your soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Sep 25, 2003
• ISBN: 9781412215954

Rodger J. Bille

Rodger J. Bille was born in 1935 in the sawmill town of McCleary, Washington. He was raised near Tacoma, Washington, where his parents were both scout leaders. Rodger learned survival skills at an early age boating the waters of Puget Sound, hiking the Olympic Mountains and camping at Cozy Cove, the family beach place. He attended the school of journalism at the U of W in Seattle for a short time, but was married at 19 and a father at 21, which put his dreams of acting and writing on hold for many years. Racing go-karts, drag racers, sports cars and outboard boats became an early obsession, but after rolling his Porsche Speedster in a race in Canada, he settled on the less expensive sport of motorcycles at age 27. In the mid-sixties he wrote a monthly column for Cycle Magazine while working as an importer of Italian motorcycles. Between 1974 and 1980 he participated in jet boat racing on rivers in Mexico, Canada and New Zealand. After several disasters, which provided a large amount of writing material, he returned to motorcycles and still races Vintage Moto-Cross regularly at age 68. Widowed after 34 years, Rodger married again in 1989 and currently lives with his wife Dolores in Saratoga Springs, Utah where he is an active High Priest in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. he maintains a fleet of dirt bikes, old VWs and a large motor home, many of which are used in exploring the vast and varied areas described in his writing. (He regrets that the boats are no longer his!) Whereas most writers declare the people and circumstances in their stories to be totally fictitious, almost all of the characters in "A Few of the Chosen" are Rodger's family and friends with only a few name changes. The essay "The Kind of Place in Which I Would Like to Live" was taken word for word from his grandfather's memoirs. The locations described are actual and many of the experiences portrayed are taking place or are happening. Other titles by Rodger J. Bille: One Valentine's Day [Science fiction short story, 1974] Rabbits in the Fire Zone [Collection of humorous fiction, all ages, 1993] The Importance of Being Right [Longer Short Story, adult fiction, 1993] The Peanut Butter Sandwich Thief [Children's fiction, 1998] Shoesoff's Secret [Children's fiction, 1998] Racing Down Rivers [Collection of non-fiction, boat racing, 2001] Running at Night [Non-fiction boating short stories, 2000] Doin' The Baja Badly [Magazine article, hopefully, 2003]

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PROLOGUE

The Tabernacle, Great Salt Lake City, Feb. 17, 1856

If we continue to learn all that we can, pertaining to the salvation which is purchased and presented to us through the Son of God, is there a time when a person will cease to learn? Yes, when he has sinned against God the Father, Jesus Christ the Son, and the Holy Ghost--God’s minister; when we have denied the Lord, defied Him and committed the sin that in the Bible is termed the unpardonable sin--the sin against the Holy Ghost. That is the time when a person will cease to learn; and from that time forth will descend in ignorance, forgetting that which they formerly knew and decreasing until they return to the native element--whether it be one thousand or in one million years or during as many eternity’s as you can count. They will cease to increase, but must decrease, until they return to the native element. These are the [only] characters who will ever cease to learn, both in time and eternity. [Brigham Young]

This narrative concerns some of the decent individuals who wish to continue to learn and their struggle against the proliferation of evil and its consequential de-evolution not only of the human race, but the world itself.

Chapter 1. The New Boat

Lake Powell, Utah, Sept. 13, 2001

Rod lay awake worrying what he had gotten he and his wife, Dolly, into this time. Over their twelve-year marriage he had managed to get them in and out of more small adventures than he cared to recall, but they were now in their mid sixties, entitled to slow down and smell the roses. That was why they had chosen to upgrade their boating trips from an eighteen foot aluminum jet boat, primarily built for river running and fishing, to this twenty seven foot long, ten foot wide cruiser with more bells and whistles than they might ever use. From Washington State to Utah they had perused more than a dozen much less expensive, older or less attractive models. This was Dolly’s only choice. Some of the others would have been much more practical to tow, load and unload or get aboard, but they were always either needing a lot of refurbishing or their decor smacked of the ugly green, gold or brown colors of the seventies. This seemingly beautifully maintained ten-year-old Maxum had swept her off her feet. Of course the supercharged 7.4 liter engine had caught Rod’s fancy as well. Rod was a former boat racer and still fond of racing vintage motorcycles several times a year; he loved speed. But here they were on their first trip to Lake Powell, tucked in the most protected little cove that Rod could find before dusk and the rising wind might put them at risk. Little did they know they were, indeed, in real danger. A stream of water about the size of a pencil was coming through the outdrive mounting plate on the transom and all battery power had failed the last time the refrigerator had tried to cycle at the same time that the automatic bilge pump had tried to empty the bilge. Even with three of their four anchors out, the wind was pushing them against the rocky shore on the port side. That grinding sound meant fiber glass was surely flaking steadily off the chine. Fearing her anxiety, Rod did not share any of this with his slumbering wife as he had no answer to how he might get her to safety if her heart might start skipping or angina pains arise. This happened frequently since her heart attack six months earlier. He could only wait for the sun to appear over the spectacular scene of Lone Rock, a stone monolith towering above their little moorage. As concerned as he was then, he would never have dreamed of how much more danger lurked for them and millions of others in the near future.

Morning dawned with a wind change and the promise of more than enough warmth for Dolly to enjoy swimming--her real goal for boating trips. She loved to don a life jacket and just float around watching herons fishing or the little fish playing under her. Meanwhile Rod calmly brought wrenches into play, restoring a good ground for the multiple batteries, starting the generator engine to recharge the dead batteries, power the now defrosted refrigerator and heat water for their showers. He told her only that it was best to check things out thoroughly before they headed north up the lake since this boat was new to them and much more complex than the one they were still trying to sell. Once he was satisfied they got underway. They didn’t travel very far north that day but did enjoy the magnificent sculptured cliffs, friendly waves from fellow boaters and freshness of the warm breeze. Their choice of moorage in the Warm Springs inlet was nicely protected and quite private considering the hundreds of boaters trying to find such spots in the second week of September.

They had purchased this bigger boat just days before the first terrorist attacks on America, using most of their savings to do so. Buyers’ regret had surfaced almost immediately as they found what a chore it would be to tow something of this size. There were oversize load permits to obtain, flags to display on each corner, as well as the huge banner stating Oversize Load bungee corded to the stern. And the headaches didn’t stop there. They needed a larger trailer ball and, once underway, the motor home overheated on hills as they traveled the 160 miles from St. George to the lake. In the tumultuous days following the first terrorist strike they had decided to get on with their lives and go ahead and burn up the several hundred dollars worth of gasoline already spent in filling the boat and motor home. They both remembered the gas shortages of the seventies and thought that this might be their only chance to get away before shortages or prices again precluded such extravagances.

Their first afternoon on Lake Powell was spent cavorting in the water like the youngsters they were at heart. After a tasty dinner of lightly spiced tacos came the favorite portion of the day for Dolly. As they lounged in the big, comfortable cockpit, Rod read a Blaine Yorgason novel to her until daylight faded. He continued reading below deck on the vee bunk until the battery would no longer light the lamp or power the refrigerator at the same time. After switching to the other battery and turning out the lights, they discussed the story which dealt with The People, an ancient American Indian group from the area that was now partially covered with the very waters upon which they floated. Gentle winds slowly rocked them into slumber, although Rod awoke almost every time the refrigerator or the bilge pump cycled. Something was knawing just below his conscious level, making deep sleep impossible.

On their third day they explored several inlets which mostly led to dead ends where sheer canyon walls several hundred feet high intimidated them into a quick reverse course. Eventually they wandered into Mountain Sheep Canyon, lured by the possibility of video taping some of those elusive animals. They found only boats of every description--from bulky, rented houseboats to personal water craft with idiots trying to scare themselves to death, spinning their speeding missiles so tightly that the drivers often flew into the water. Most of the coves were occupied, but they chose one that promised, but didn’t deliver, protection from the ever present wind. Rod spent all afternoon trying to get the anchors to hold as the wind kept changing direction.

Dolly bobbed around in the warm water, breaking her reverie from time to time by offering advice. Dolly came back aboard remarking, You aren’t having much fun are you honey?

No, we’re going to have to find a better spot, Rod answered.

He jumped overboard to retrieve the anchors, having to swim across the inlet to yank them loose. As he was backing out between the two rocky arms that formed the cove, the engine stalled. Trying to restart it he found the battery dead. They were almost blown onto the rocks before he got the engine hatch opened and switched to the second battery.

Where are we going to go now? It’s getting late, Dolly asked.

We’ll just poke back into the canyon behind that houseboat to see if there is anyplace we can get an anchor to hold, Rod replied.

Sure enough, at the extreme end of the canyon was a shelf of sand, eroded by eons of wind and rain that allowed the forward anchor to dig in well. He threw out additional anchors from each corner of the stern again and again until they each grabbed weeds or rocks. Dusk fell quickly since the rock walls rose almost vertically both forward and aft. These same walls blocked off all but the most persistent breeze and radiated a great dealof heat. In contrast to their former mooring of the afternoon, the air was now almost stifling.

Dolly emerged from the cabin saying, Cooking in this heat has about done me in. I’m not going back down there, dirty dishes or not!

We’ll do them in the morning, just relax, Rod urged.

After dinner he read to her until the light failed. Then they just lay back on the cockpit couches and dozed. About 1 AM Rod awoke to see the blinking lights of the first airplane he had seen since September 11. He woke Dolly to point the welcome sight of, hopefully, normality returning.

The run back to Stateline the next morning was invigorating. The sun shone brightly off the azure blue water illuminating the monumental rock formations with all their hues of red, bronze and chocolate. Dolly took several pictures with her digital camera and then took the wheel so that Rod could get some video and still keep the boat at speed. It was a great day to be alive! The reloading onto the trailer went smoothly. Soon they had the covers snapped back on and were heading for home. Rod babied the big motor home on the long hills, but the last one to Winchester Hills took its toll. They arrived in a cloud of steam as the radiator emptied its contents onto their driveway.

Welcome home, you big, beautiful monster! was Rod’s last comment on their first outing with the Maxum.

Chapter 2. The Second Try.

Lake Powell, Utah, Oct.10, 2001

Just enough time had passed to take the edge off the problems of their first trip, when, in mid October, Rod and Dolly once again set off to explore Lake Powell. Rod had spent several days removing and replacing the motor home radiator with a larger-capacity, custom made item. A local marine dealer had spent a week replacing the corroded steering shaft that had caused the water leak, as well as exploring several other potential problems. Rod spent another day of standing on his head replacing the water pump after an inspection showed a bad impeller and a cracked housing. Total costs had come to $1,450 with another $200 needed to refill the fuel tanks of the boat and motor home. Hopefully, they would have more piece of mind now, Rod thought, as they approached the launching ramp after a three and a half hour drive. At least the motor home hadn’t overheated, not much anyway!

This time they headed north immediately, wishing to see some new area. They did, inadvertently, as Rod missed the turn in the main channel. A bit of argument ensued as to which way to turn but ended soon as they were both wrong. They weren’t sure where the first night was spent because they were just grateful to find a place where the wind would not beat them up. It was much more comfortable sleeping in the cabin now that the temperature had moderated. Their second day, Dolly waited until afternoon before taking a swim because the morning air was a bit brisk. They visited Rainbow Bridge having a short wait to get a mooring space because of the crowd. Rod talked to another boater with a 30 foot Sea Ray with twin 350 cubic inch engines. The other fellow said that they kept their boat moored at Wahweap, but didn’t use it until this time of year when it was more comfortable. They discussed fuel consumption and whether the war with the terrorists would drive up prices or dwindle the gas supply. Any body’s guess, they both agreed in the end. After taking a few pictures to send to relatives, they idled out of the long channel and headed north at a fast cruise. To find protection from the increasing afternoon wind, they wandered deep into Ribbon Creek canyon off the east side of the lake. The water was quite deep off their stern even though the bow was almost touching bottom. It was a black and cool night. It felt good to just cuddle up inside with Rod reading to Dolly until both nodded off. It was too cold to swim in the morning so they cruised to the west side of the lake to explore Indian Creek before turning south to find the Hole-in-the Rock. A floating sign told a bit of the story of Mormon pioneers blasting their way through the natural crevice to lower wagons down to cross the Colorado River near where they were now floating.

It looked so impossible to Rod that he said, I’m going to ride out here on my dirt bike to see if anyone could still get down that rock slide that they say was a road!

You’ll break your neck trying, I suppose, was Dolly’s rueful reply.

Maybe! It looks nearly impossible doesn’t it? Our gas supply is not up to heading any farther north, honey. Time to turn around, I’m afraid.

The day brightened considerably as they left clouds behind running strongly at 3600 RPM when, BANG! The engine just shut off, while the boat glided on a bit before settling slowly.

What happened now? Dolly yelped.

I don’t know but it sounded serious, Rod replied quietly. He raised the engine hatch expecting the worst. The supercharger was still intact. There was quite a bit of oil in the bilge, but no more than he expected after their first trip’s experience. He pulled out the dipstick, careful to keep from getting burned, wiped it and thrust it back in. Pulling it out again he found the level only down about a cup. It looks okay. Try starting it while I watch for any problems, he directed. Dolly gave the key a twist. Nothing happened. She tried again with the same result. Rod came up and turned the key. No readings on any of the gauges. Damn! he exploded.

Rod, you don’t need to use bad language. I know you’re frustrated, but you have been doing pretty well lately. No need to revert because of this dumb boat, Dolly chided.

Now it’s a dumb boat, eh? It was a pretty nice boat when you picked it out, wasn’t it? he retorted.

You liked it too dear, but I am sorry that it’s causing you so much trouble. Do you think we should sell it? she asked.

For now, I’ll settle for just getting it to run! Rod quipped, as he began checking connections on the major cables. I really thought that I had found and fixed all the problems and here we are drifting in the middle of the lake.

Better in the middle than on the rocks, though, don’t you think, honey? she asked thoughtfully.

You’re right. Count my blessings, I know. Try it again please. Much to their surprise, the engine coughed to life again. Don’t ask, dear. I don’t have the slightest idea what happened, Rod exclaimed. As he took over the wheel he said, Let’s head down to Dangling Rope Marina for a little of their gold plated gasoline and some lunch. It’s about mile 42 or 43 so keep an eye on the right for the inlet when we get to buoy 43, okay?

Right, Captain, she kidded her brave protector.

Thirty dollars bought only 11 gallons, but Rod thought that would give them a margin of safety. Dolly made some scrumptious ham and cheese sandwiches which they washed down with soda. Dozens of big mouth bass swam around the transom waiting for scraps of lettuce and crusts which the couple tossed them. Dolly took pictures of the mass of fish for her brothers who lived so far inland they had probably never seen such large fish, certainly not in such quantity. The couple lay around in the warmth of the sheltered bay for some time before shoving off for Stateline and the end of an outing that they wished could have been longer. The engine behaved itself nicely all the way to the dock but after Rod had backed the huge tow rig down into the water the boat refused to start again no matter how much wire wiggling he tried.

Dolly, you’ll have to back up until the motor home wheels are in the water. I’m going to have to get in the water and guide it in by hand, Rod explained.

Can you move it alone? Don’t you want me to come in and help you? she asked.

No, I want you well out of harm’s way. I don’t want you squished by this thing, he answered.

I don’t want you squished either, she muttered.

The boat was loaded satisfactorily after only two tries, much easier than Rod or Dolly thought it could be done. They took it easy returning, conserving fuel and having no overheating problems in reaching home. The trip had been enjoyable despite the electrical quirks. Their only regret was that they had not gotten further north to see more of the wonders wrought by the great Colorado River as it carved its way across the land over many millennia. But there was always next time, wasn’t there?

Chapter 3. The Last Trip

Lake Powell, Utah, Dec. 4, 2003

The anticipation of finally sharing Lake Powell’s colossal crags, castles and cliffs with his brother Bill and sister-in-law Pat had perked Rod William’s spirits decidedly. Over two years had passed since the terrorist’s first attacks on the United States and Rod and Dolly’s first trip to Powell in the Maxum. It seemed like a life time though, because of the changes in everyone’s lives. When economic sanctions had failed and the United States and its allies had undertaken attacks upon the Taliban in Afghanistan and the Saddam Hussein regime in Iraq, reprisals against the US and other nations had escalated unbelievably. It started with anthrax spores being mailed to news media personnel, then to members of congress, then to notable people in other countries. Those actions, boosted by the overactive news media, prompted unprecedented sales of antibiotics. The SARS epidemic that spread from China had been followed by a smallpox scare which spurred worldwide production, distribution and inoculation against this disease that was thought to have been almost eradicated. These scare tactics probably boosted profits to pharmaceutical companies but it brought panic to millions and death to dozens out of the millions who were inoculated, just as odd makers had predicted. It was still a very hot political issue, blame being spread from political parties to the vaccine manufacturers and always to the terrorists, who undoubtedly laughed at how well their threats had intimidated the world’s populace in general. After two years of anthrax being sent by mail, it appeared that the US. Postal Service might succumb in defeat. Not being able to screen mail effectively enough to any longer be able to offer any degree of safety, irradiated mail was being delivered sporadically. Such untimely delivery was leading, of necessity, to almost all financial transactions being made electronically. All of Rod and Dolly’s payments from notes, Social Security and pension were now transferred to their bank by electronic means. Rod, who always distrusted such methods, was forced to accept the new way but had begun to stash away large amounts of cash against the day that the system might be sabotaged or failed entirely. Dolly thought the new method to be efficient, and easy to deal with. She had encouraged Rod to relax and live without so much dread of the what ifs. Still, Rod thought as they approached Big Water and could see the shimmering of the lake, this might be their last chance to enjoy their big boat and the wonders of God’s stone sculptures that loomed from the lake created behind Glen Canyon Dam. Gasoline prices and supply had been up and down several times since September 11, 2001, partly depending on the degree of panic about travel and partly upon the attitude of the oil producers. Political divisions in Venezuela, from which 15% of United States imports had been coming caused a price surge as had the war with Iraq. Just now, in early December, gasoline and fuel oil prices were again increasing. The Saudis original animosity toward possible Islamic terrorists had waned. First they had denied allied forces access to air bases convenient for attacking Afghan Taliban strongholds, then after the incursion into Iraq, Saudi relations had cooled toward Christian nations in general and now there was a threat to cut back oil production and sales to nations they thought were interfering with Arab nations sovereignty. Tiny Quatar and Kuwait had allowed the United States to establish bases and troop buildup from which to attack Iraq which further strained relations throughout the area. Rod and many others wereconvinced that it was a good time to store up as much gasoline as practical. It was also a good time to get out and enjoy their boat, Dolly had insisted, even if it was too cold to swim or water ski.

So here they were getting ready to launch at Stateline on a bright, calm but cool December afternoon. This time they would be accompanied by Bill and Pat Williams who were driving up from Sedona. Pat was ready for a break from her textbook composition and Bill from his ongoing construction of a replica Cobra sports car. Pat and Bill owned a large home with a spectacular view of the red rock spires made famous by tourists who flocked to Sedona year round. The lower level of their home housed Bill’s odd collection of dozens of old motorcycles and parts, an unrestored Studebaker Golden Hawk and his very time consuming Cobra project. His vintage road race bikes from the ‘60’s and ‘70’s and even his almost unused modern Yamaha trail bike sat silent now, awaiting the completion of the replicar. Rod wondered whether that day might really arrive, knowing how his younger brother’s projects managed to stretch out over the