The Last Thanksgiving

By G.J. Machaby

For most Americans, Thanksgiving is a day to gather with friends and
family and share in the heavenly bounty that has been bestowed upon
them; except of course, for the first Americans, whose idea of that
particular holiday might not be quite so romantic.
Returning to Plymouth, Massachusetts, the site of the very first
Thanksgiving, a crack team of operatives from (the original) Homeland
Security have arrived to stage a two-pronged, surprise attack in a bold effort
to take back Cape Cod by hook or by crook or by any means necessary.
When the Army sends in their own team of crack operatives, they
soon encounter the same dilemma that plagues the Indians; wild cards that
suddenly start coming out of the woodwork; leaving both sides with little
other choice but to roll with the punches.
When all seems to be lost, the unlikeliest of heroes emerges to try and
save the day

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483665047

G.J. Machaby

Growing up in Holbrook, Massachusetts; a small town south of Boston and a stones throw away from Cape Cod; the author is currently living in nearby Brockton and employed at Massasoit Community College where he writes very serious novels about very serious things for the sheer fun of it. He hopes to bring a smile or three to whoever may read them and reminds us all that life is too short for any one of us to be taken too seriously.

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Copyright © 2013 by G.J. Machaby.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 07/24/2013

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CONTENTS

PART ONE

THE PRINCESS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PART TWO

THE PRINCE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

PART ONE

THE PRINCESS

CHAPTER ONE

11:45 P.M., TUESDAY, LESS THAN TWO DAYS BEFORE THANKSGIVING

The rain was coming down in sheets, which was a good thing, because it gave him the diversion that he needed. The roar of the driving storm, pummeling against the corrugated tin roof of the guard shack had effectively drowned out the sound of his approach.

Normally, the Harley could be heard a mile away; but on a night like this, even it was silenced. He switched off the headlight and passed through the north gate, entering Fort Edwards, sight unseen.

The Sandwich entrance was rarely used these days. The locals were no longer permitted to access the base (for years, those in the know had used it as a shortcut to get to Falmouth, but since 9-11, they had been forced to go around); and there hadn’t been a convoy through since the start of the First Gulf War.

The large sign that was posted at the end of Snake Pond Road that stated ROAD CLOSED AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY was generally enough to turn most of the people away. Although occasionally, some dim-witted motorist would make the guard get out of his chair and come out to explain just what that meant before they were turned away, but most people got the message.

Otherwise there was no traffic.

So it was understandable, but certainly not acceptable, that Staff Sergeant Jason Belinski was asleep when the intruder slipped through on his watch and would be known as Private Belinski after his dereliction of duty hearing. If he had noticed the motorcycle approaching and he had attempted to stop it, the rider would have blown a hole in him the size of New Hampshire, with the .357 Magnum that he had kept strapped to his thigh.

The Harley sliced through the rain, racing down Turpentine Road, the headlight still out, making for the airfield. In spite of the weather and the darkness of night, the rider negotiated the road with ease. Like an Indian on his war pony, he and the Harley were as one.

As a matter of fact, he really was an Indian, and moreover, he was at war.

A chain-link fence, crowned with concertina wire, lined the road that skirted the east-west runway. A stand of scrub oak had crept up along a portion of that fence where an opening had been affected earlier that evening by some of the warrior’s comrades.

The Harley turned off the road and was soon through the gap in the fence and onto the runway. In the distance, through the rain, he could make out the shape of the huge hangar that loomed ahead and he gunned the engine as he raced toward it.

Suddenly, a long, thin shaft of light appeared in the middle of the building and began to grow as the massive doors slowly began to swing open, causing the Indian to give it more gas.

He reached into his left coat pocket and readied the first of his deadly weapons.

The people who were maneuvering the plane out of its berth did not see or hear him coming, and by the time they finally did, it was far too late.

The two airmen who were working at the nose had their backs to him when he whizzed past, tossing a handful of modified twelve-penny nails into them. At eighty miles an hour, one of those nails could kill a man, let alone five or six of the weapons, as the two dead airmen would attest.

Streaking along the starboard side of the airship, the Indian came upon a group of four mechanics that were just emerging from the cargo hold. He slammed on the rear brake and fishtailed to a stop right in front of them. Of course, they were completely bewildered and just stood there, with their jaws agape.

One of them said, Nice bike.

Without saying a word, the Indian reached under his coat, pulled out the Magnum, and blew all four of them away. Getting off the bike, he just let it crash to the ground as he stepped over the dead crewmen and raced into the plane.

He wouldn’t need the Harley-Davidson anymore.

Red Hawk Danielson was about to come into possession of a brand-new mode of transportation. Granted, he didn’t know how to fly it, but he knew someone who did. He depressed the button that closed the door to the cargo hatch and made his way to the cockpit.

The navigator was carrying a bundle of navigational charts when he met up with the big Iroquois who was striding up the aisle, amidships, reminding him of the Saturday morning lineup of wrestlers he used to watch as a kid, but one wrestler in particular.

The scarlet Mohawk was what he noticed first, and the ten-inch Bowie knife was what he noticed last as the Indian plunged his knife into the astonished airman’s throat. He was dead before he could utter the name of that wrestler, Chief Jay Strongbow.

Terry Chanook, the copilot, was on the radio with the control tower when the door to the cockpit suddenly flew open; and when he saw the huge, grinning Iroquois standing there with his fresh-bloodied Bowie knife, he promptly switched off the radio and alerted the captain.

Look what the cat dragged in, Captain, the copilot quipped sarcastically. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he wasn’t invited neither.

Captain Jim Gallagher, a highly trained soldier in his own right, quickly sized up the situation for what it was, knowing a hijacking when he saw one, and wholeheartedly agreed with his trusty copilot, prompting him to say as much.

You can say that again! He understood that there was only one course of action.

Those words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly leaped from his seat and right into action, hurtling headlong at the momentarily surprised Indian who was still only about halfway through the small doorway, the collision causing the knife to rattle to the steel deck of the Jericho-8.

Mustering all of his strength and using his martial arts skills, Captain Gallagher somehow managed to pin the big intruder against the cabin wall; but his advantage would soon be short-lived, as would be the rest of his career as an air force pilot.

The copilot, noticing the Indian’s weapon had dropped to the cabin floor, jumped to the aid of his commanding officer. Quick as a wink, Terry Chanook deftly snatched up the Bowie knife, repeatedly driving it into the unsuspecting captain’s back.

On the third and final thrust, the long blade punctured his heart, and Captain Jim Gallagher slumped dead on the floor, a look of sheer puzzlement frozen to his face, as it had slowly dawned on him who was on the other side of that knife.

The control tower was back on the horn. Jericho-8, you are cleared for Runway 2. Time for takeoff is 0006.

It was ten minutes of twelve, and that left them with a full sixteen minutes to get the plane onto Runway 1 and then get her up into the air before the control tower would start to wonder what happened to the Jericho-8.

Copy that, Control, the copilot answered into the headset and then started for the runway.

His compatriot was busy working on the transponder, also known as the black box, which monitored all of the systems of the airplane so that information could be gleaned from it in the event of a crash.

The black box was about the size of a cereal box and was designed to be impregnable to any type of damage, short of a nuclear blast. It contained a GPS tracking device so that the air force could locate the plane at all times.

As an added precaution, the black box also served as a highly sophisticated antitheft device. The plane could not fly without it, which is not to say that it could not fly with another one.

Precisely like the one that Red Hawk Danielson was currently pulling out of the knapsack that was strapped to his back.

Their man on the ground, part of the team who had cut the fence, was back at the hangar, busy hiding the fallen airmen. He wasn’t too picky about how he did it either. He was only interested in hiding them for the short term. Long enough for the plane to get off the ground. He rolled each of them onto a large wooden shipping pallet, threw a blue plastic tarp over them, and hoisted them up into the air with a fork truck.

He hurriedly parked the fork truck in among some other equipment and hoped that it would suffice. It would have to. There was still work to be done, and he didn’t have much time.

He had about four minutes to kill the power. It would only take a phone call, but he had to call from the right phone. The phones at the base power plant only accepted calls from certain authorized lines, and it just so happened that Colonel Wingate, whose office was conveniently nestled away in the far corner of the hangar, contained just such a phone. Not so coincidently, the good colonel was presently not at his post.

He was down at the Eagle’s Nest Officer’s Club, drunk out of his mind and basking in the good fortune that had come to him. He was settling his tab with the bartender, Staff Sergeant Barney Shays, who was still searching for the colonel’s lost keys.

He didn’t particularly care for Shays; there was something about him that just didn’t seem right. Wingate claimed to have left his key ring on the bar. Barney said that he never noticed them and suggested that they were still in the colonel’s car.

Wingate considered that possibility and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Talk about Lady Luck. The blonde bombshell that had been coming on to him for the last hour and a half had just suggested that they sneak out to her car for some fun and games.

Other than Wingate and the bartender, the Eagle’s Nest was empty at 2228 when she had first arrived at the officers’ club. Emerging through the door, under cover of an improvised umbrella (nothing more than a cardboard box opened flat), she was accompanied by a uniformed man that Wingate did not recognize.

That was not particularly unusual, given the constant shuffling and reshuffling of personnel between the various branches of the military that shared the base. Her escort was wearing an army lieutenant uniform.

Being the air force snob that he was, the colonel completely ignored him but gave his full and undivided attention to the well-endowed creature that he was with.

The fact that the soldier was wearing a Ninth Cavalry neckerchief emblazoned with its insignia meant nothing to Wingate, a full colonel in the air force. He hated the army. It was the blonde whom he focused upon. He was wondering if the carpet matched the drapes.

How could he not? Certainly, any other heterosexual, red-blooded male would have felt the same way. Even Barney agreed, although he couldn’t exactly claim to be a member of that group. He preferred to think of himself as bisexual. Willingness was the only criteria that Barney Shays looked for in any potential playmate.

There were rare times when Wingate’s intuitions were very sharp. When it came to the likes of Staff Sergeant Barney Shays, he was right on the money. He was extremely homophobic; however, when it came to figuring out women, he wasn’t nearly so astute.

The one that just walked into the bar was already a knockout, to be sure, but the rain had soaked through her clothes to such an extent that it looked like she was showing up for the wet tee shirt contest. And she would have won, no matter how many contestants there were.

With her high beams poking out of her white cotton blouse and her white chinos soaked to the skin, it was obvious that there was nothing else among her attire, other than the white spiked high-heeled shoes.

There was very little left to the imagination, unless of course sexual fantasy could be classified as imagination. When the soldier and the goddess sat down at the bar a mere two stools away, Wingate was salivating and could not resist from looking her up and down.

The army lieutenant ordered up a pair of rum and coke, paid the bartender, and then excused himself to use the men’s room. The pretty blonde cast a seductive smile at Wingate, and then she sauntered off to the jukebox, leaving the colonel adjusting his pants.

She picked out the only three songs on the entire music machine that were not either country and Western or oldies. Two Rolling Stones songs from Some Girls album and Sky Pilot by Eric Burden and the Animals were the only other choices.

Mick Jagger was singing about those Puerto Rican girls who are just dying to meet you when the blonde and the soldier started arguing at the bar. He was pretending not to listen, but as far as Colonel Wingate could figure, the disagreement involved the status of the army lieutenant’s future ex-wife. Apparently, the vixen at the bar was growing impatient and was tired of the cold-footed lieutenant dragging his feet. She said as much when she issued her ultimatum.

It’s either her or me, Bucky. I can’t wait. She lowered her voice, but not so low that Wingate could not hear and added, I am just sooo horny.

Colonel Wingate silently agreed that he was in much the same condition.

Staff Sergeant Barney Shays similarly concurred, although he would have been equally happy jumping into the rack with any one of those present. Ever since his Boy Scout days, his motto had always been, Any port in a storm.

Just then, an MP entered the bar, complete with the white helmet. He shook the rain off his poncho and strode up to the bar. He held in his hand a plastic-protected manila envelope.

Fearing the worst, Colonel Wingate’s heart sank.

The colonel had (correctly) reasoned that an MP who would come to the officers’ club carrying orders, especially at this hour of the night, could only be bearing bad news and (incorrectly) assumed that the orders were for him.

Walking crisply over to the army officer, the MP stopped, came to attention, and said, Lieutenant Buckley, sir.

When he held out the envelope, Wingate’s optimism began to return. Things were looking up.

The lieutenant silently returned the salute and took possession of the envelope as the MP stepped back and stood at attention.

Lieutenant Buckley opened and then read what was obviously a set of orders. He then dismissed the MP and instructed him to wait outside while he tried in vain to explain to his date that duty came first and that he had to go.

She was not one bit happy, and she started to cry.

Wingate could hardly contain himself.

Mick Jagger was singing, She’s so fine she could make a dead man cum, when Lieutenant Buckley was walking out the door. Colonel Wingate was feeling better by the moment.

Staff Sergeant Barney Shays was becoming downright giddy, and he was already pouring the drinks. A double for the colonel and a triple for the bimbo. He poured a glass of Chablis for himself, which he used to chase down a Viagra.

Just in case.

Eric Burden was crooning, Skyyyyy Pilot, how high can you fly? as Colonel Wingate started to put on his move. His plan was to console the damsel in distress with his charm and beaucoup rounds of scotch.

He slipped off his wedding band and jumped into action.

Barney wasn’t all that impressed.

Hardly being smooth, Colonel Wingate looked like a drunken idiot as he drooled and pawed at the blonde bombshell as he drained one tall scotch and water after another and doubles at that. The bartender would have bet the farm that the colonel was going to blow it and was totally shocked when he heard her invite him out to her car.

He thought that he might have a good shot at nailing her himself, certainly better odds than the colonel’s. He was a bit disappointed as he wondered about how Wingate was going to make out.

Sloppy would probably best describe what Barney envisioned of the forthcoming events. Nonetheless, he was happy to hear the good news as he figured that he would be getting out early.

Staff Sergeant Barney Shays knew that Mrs. Wingate was not at home. More specifically, he knew that she was presently in Hyannis at the International Inn also known by the locals as Cuddles and Bubbles. She was waiting for Barney to get off work.

The piggy colonel’s wife was an even bigger pig than the colonel himself. Between boyfriends, the switch-hitting bartender had been tapping Mrs. Wingate for the past several months and was laughing to himself over the sheer irony of it.

He briefly considered the notion of doing the colonel himself and then reconsidered.

Mrs. Wingate oftentimes referred to her inadequate husband as the Sixty-Second Disappointment. Being an avid Viagra enthusiast, Sergeant Barney Shays was into clock sex and could last for hours. He was a big hit with Mrs. Wingate, among others.

It was at precisely 0000 hours when Wingate pulled on his air force—issue rain gear and staggered out of the officers’ club and followed the blonde as she ran, her spiked heels in hand, dodging the raindrops, to her Dodge Caravan.

It was parked alongside the BFI Dumpster at the rear of the lot.

The colonel noticed that aside from her car, there were only two other vehicles in the lot. His own, a 1969 Chevelle SS, and Barney’s beat-up 1998 Ford F-150 were the all that remained. It vaguely occurred to him that the club’s service vehicle, a 1996 Subaru Legacy that was used to ferry overly drunken officers back to their quarters, was missing but he quickly dismissed it as unimportant; all things considered.

Using the remote keyless entry, which she deftly pulled from her purse while on the run, the blonde unlocked the sliding side door, opened it, and climbed in.

Reaching the vehicle, nearly out of breath, Colonel Wingate leaned into the van and looked around. As drunk as he might have been, which was considerable, his training hadn’t completely abandoned him.

It wouldn’t be the first time that a serviceman got rolled outside of a bar. He noticed the boxes of shoes, the piles of clothing and the closet pole, lined with dresses and coats and slacks that spanned the width of the rear quarter.

He vaguely remembered her saying that she was in transit on her way to Maine or New Hampshire or somewhere up north; he couldn’t quite recall. He decided that it wasn’t all that important.

The blonde was already seated, and she was playfully patting the seat beside her, coyly beckoning him in. Teasing him that he didn’t know enough to get out of the rain. When she started to unbutton her blouse, he stopped surveying the interior of the van and just piled on in.

Having already discarded his rain slicker, the colonel asked the big question, What do you say, sugar, are you ready for a little slice of heaven? All sorts of wild scenarios swirled across his little dirty mind as he began to pull down his trousers (wrongly), wildly anticipating what would happen next.

Am I ever, kemo sabe? she replied. The people that she hung out with called it the Happy Hunting Grounds, but she couldn’t see correcting him. Why bother.

So you like the Lone Ranger, eh? Wingate said once his pants were down to his ankles. I kind of like Roy Rogers myself.

She folded her arms across her ample breasts and then leaned back in her seat and answered flatly, Actually, no. No, I don’t like the Lone Ranger, not one single bit.

She paused, adding, And I don’t particularly care for Roy Rogers either.

Not to be outdone, the colonel continued with the friendly banter and replied, That’s okay, Pocahontas, so long as you still wanna take a ride on my wild stallion.

Her face suddenly darkened, and she seethed through clenched teeth, Don’t you dare call me that, she was a traitor.

Wingate had no idea what she was talking about and just sat there with his pants down around his ankles and stared blankly at her.

She let that sink in for a moment and added, I am more a fan of Geronimo. Crazy Horse was pretty cool too.

Another pause and then the beautiful Cherokee informed him, They knew exactly just what kind of liars you white bastards really are. Her voice cracked as she explained what was going on, Starting tonight, we are going to take our country back.

Before Colonel Wingate could fathom what was going on, before he could react, the dresses and the coats that were hanging on the pole behind him parted, and two strong hands reached out and looped a garrote around his neck.

The weapon was a homemade affair, about eighteen inches long, fashioned from a guitar string, and fitted with wooden dowels for handles.

Wingate might have had a chance if it weren’t for the fact that the blonde decided to help out, by jumping onto his lap, and held down his arms, effectively pinning him to the seat while his life slowly drained away.

Except that now, she was no longer a blonde. During the fracas, the wig had come off, revealing her coarse charcoal-black hair. Suddenly, her face was filled with rage. It contained the combined hatred and abject agony of every squaw who had ever buried a loved one at the hands of the invaders.

The last thing that Colonel Wingate thought of, as the last of his life was being choked away, was the story of Captain John Smith of Jamestown, Virginia. Trying to remain optimistic, he was wondering if this particular Pocahontas was going to save him too.

Fat chance.

*       *       *

The door to Colonel Wingate’s office was locked up tight, but that was not a particularly big problem because the ring of keys, which dangled from the saboteur’s hand, held the one that opened the door. Racing along in the stolen Subaru, it had only taken him about five minutes to get from the Eagle’s Nest Officers Club and now he was ready to launch into phase two of the plan.

After a couple of tries, the man in the counterfeit army lieutenant’s uniform was in. He consulted his watch as he stood over the phone. In another minute and a half, he would place the call. When he called over to the base power plant, it would not be to speak to anyone in particular, but he was sure that they would get the message.

Eventually.

Pausing a moment before he dialed, he took a moment to reflect upon how, after all these years, the wheels of justice would finally begin to turn his way. He fingered the yellow neckerchief once more, and paid silent homage to the Great Spirit for giving him this great opportunity to pay back his enemy.

The phone that he was calling to was not in some office of the plant or in any other place where one would normally keep a phone. The phone number extension that he was calling was supposed to ring in the tool shed located at the east end of the plant. The shed was unmanned and was locked up at night so that there wouldn’t have been anyone there to answer it anyway.

Just as well, the phone itself wasn’t there either.

Connected to a two-hundred-foot cable that had been surreptitiously threaded out of the tool shed, it was now stuffed inside a gym bag that contained twenty-five pounds of C-4 plastic explosives. The gym bag was nestled among a bank of transfer switching stations, from which all power to the entire base flowed.

When the phone rang at precisely 0002, it triggered a terrific explosion causing all electrical supply to the base to cease, particularly, to the control tower. The backup generators would not be able to get things back up and running at full efficiency for a minimum of five minutes, which was plenty of time.

The phone caller had time to dash from Wingate’s office and make it to his recently commandeered car and speed off at just about the same time that the formerly blonde and her fellow assassin, who was still wearing his phony MP uniform, were passing through the Sandwich gate.

The luckiest man in the entire United States Army, Staff Sergeant Jason Belinski, was still fast asleep; and although he wasn’t as yet aware of it, twice in one night he had already cheated death. Had he been awake performing his duties, like he should have been, the warriors in the minivan would not have hesitated an instant to send him off to join his pals in the Happy Hunting Grounds.

If a casual observer were to look into the Dumpster in the parking lot at the Eagle’s Nest Officer’s Club, it might have seemed that Colonel Wingate was sleeping too. Until one saw his face, all contorted and choked blue.

Red Hawk Danielson had plenty of time to scamper over to Runway 2 and deposit the decoy black box on the tarmac and then to scurry back to the plane as it commenced to taxi down Runway 1.

As Terry Chanook readied the plane for takeoff, the other Indian busied himself by hauling the dead captain and the (equally dead) navigator down to the bomb chutes. A minute later and the Jericho-8 was up in the air and the war had officially begun.

CHAPTER TWO

1:30 A.M., WEDNESDAY, THE MORNING BEFORE THANKSGIVING

General Mickey Thompson was furious. Not to mention, very nervous. As camp commandant, he was solely responsible for every asset on the base. He was army, but the coast guard, navy, and air force all shared the facilities.

It was his job to make sure that everything ran smooth.

He was in charge of everyone and everything on Fort Edwards. Every soldier, sailor, and airman was his responsibility as was every single piece of equipment. From paper clips and shovels to tanks and planes. Especially the planes.

All pertinent personnel had been called in, the base cordoned off, and the entire region was being secured and placed on secret high alert. He had thought about closing off both of the bridges leading to and from the Cape and then reconsidered.

That would involve calling the governor. Moreover, he was afraid that the media might get wind of the situation and start asking questions that he was presently unable to or, more to the point, incapable of answering. The general knew that sooner or later, he was going to have to call Washington. He should have already done so, but he was still trying to figure out what had happened for himself.

General Thompson had no reasonable explanation as to how a two-hundred-and-fifty-five-billion-dollar airplane could simply vanish into thin air, right from under his nose. Things were growing worse by the minute. Heads would roll, his among the first, of that he was certain. But not before he could chop off a few of his own.

The general was pacing the floors of his office, nervously monitoring his watch and was wondering what could have happened to Colonel Wingate. Being the senior air force officer on the base, he should have reported in by now, particularly under the circumstances. The team that had been sent to search for him had reported back that his car had been found in the parking lot at the PX.

According to the bartender, shortly before the power went out, the colonel left in the company of some blonde floozy. Mickey Thompson wasn’t all that surprised. The drunken sexcapades of Colonel Henry Wingate and his piggy wife were almost legendary.

His head would roll first, vowed the general. He wondered if could get away with shooting him for desertion. The team at the club was told to bring in the bartender for further questioning and to thoroughly search the area.

When the power had gone out, the entire base followed the proscribed protocols. Within two minutes, the gasoline-powered backup generators came on to provide power to scattered areas around the base. Power was systematically restored and/or diverted in order of importance. The control tower was at the top of the list.

The people up in the control tower had naturally attributed the power outage to the storm. As had just about everybody else. The planes in the air, being of the highest priority, were promptly located and continued to follow their respective flight paths. As of yet, the sabotage had not been discovered.

When the tower realized that they had lost radio contact with Jericho-8, they weren’t too concerned. The black box was beeping away, sending out the signal that the plane was still sitting safely out on Runway 2, giving them no reason to think otherwise.

The communications officer assured his superiors that communications with the plane would be restored momentarily. That he presently had his best man working to solve the problem. After about twenty minutes of no response, they finally sent out a Jeep. That was when they called the general.

General Thompson had no sooner gotten off the horn from the control tower than the call came in from the power plant. More bad news. The commander at the power plant deemed the cause of the loss of power to be a no-brainer. The acrid smell of C-4 was unmistakable.

The connection revealed itself immediately to Mickey Thompson. This wasn’t his first paper route. Being a former member of special ops, he knew an operation when he saw one. Nicaragua and El Salvador had been good to him. He had learned so much.

All those years he spent as the class bully had served him well. Being from a long line of soldiers, he followed in his ancestors’ footsteps and joined up for the army right out of high school.

Back in his grandfather’s day, ruthless soldiers like Mickey Thompson were called Indian fighters but nowadays, they call them military advisors. His great-uncle, Henry Thompson, had served with the infamous Colonel John Milton Chivington and was involved in that first fatal charge at Sand Creek.

One summer, when Mickey was six years old, his father took the family up to the Adirondacks to visit with Old Uncle Henry. The old man lived in a decrepit shack in the little mining town of Tahoz, New York.

The town (if the twenty-five or thirty hovels that passed as houses could even be referred to as a town) ended up disappearing into oblivion when the titanium vein dried up in the early sixties. Most people think of West Virginia when they heard Appalachia, but one need only to travel up the Northway and turn off around Glens Falls and then head on up into the hills a ways.

Appalachia can be found there too.

To Mickey, old Uncle Henry was fascinating. With Red Man Chewing Tobacco juices running past his toothless grin, the old man recounted his tales from the old cavalry days. Henry had a great, big leather Steamer trunk that was full of mementos from those glorious days, and he delighted in showcasing them to his great-nephew.

The old man had kept most of his original blue army uniform. The hat with the crossed swords, the yellow neckerchief with the Ninth Calvary insignia emblazoned in blue, his boots, sword, revolver, and even the suspenders. There were also all sorts of Indian paraphernalia for the youngster to marvel at too. But the prized possession of the old man, and Mickey’s personal favorite, was the collection of Cheyenne scalps.

Uncle Henry explained to the wide-eyed youngster that they were souvenirs from the Battle of Sand Creek. There were six of them, each a shock of coarse black hair, still attached to the tanned, leather like skin that was, at one time, part of somebody’s head.

The old liar told the boy that they had once belonged to the great Indian warrior Running Elk and five of his best warriors. He alleged that he had killed them all singlehandedly with his mighty sword and his trusty revolver.

The real truth was, Running Elk was out hunting antelope with a few of his friends when Colonel Chivington, Henry Thompson, and the rest of the Fighting Ninth charged into his peaceful little village and killed every single Indian in sight.

The scalps really belonged to an old man, a pregnant squaw, and four little kids.

Old Uncle Henry got a real kick out of little Mickey, tramping around the cabin in the oversized boots, the yellow Ninth neckerchief tied around his neck serving more as a cape, as he pretended to be a great Indian fighter. The little soldier would slash at the air, with his imaginary sword, or squeeze off a few rounds with his make-believe Colt .45, mowing down Injuns.

As a parting gift, the old man gave young Mickey the yellow neckerchief. He explained to the wide-eyed youth that it had served as a magical, lucky talisman. It had kept him safe in battle and had brought him glory on the field, and he wanted to pass it on to his great-nephew to use it when he grew up to be a soldier.

When Lieutenant Mickey Thompson graduated from West Point, his first assignment was to teach at the School of the Americas. Murder and mayhem came natural to him, so he was considered to be an ideal candidate to serve there as in instructor.

It was not long before his superiors recognized his talents. His exuberance for ruthlessness was exactly what they had been looking for. He was given new orders, along with a promotion. Major Mickey Thompson was sent first to Nicaragua, and then on to El Salvador, to teach his students the fine art of terror.

Firsthand.

For the most part, the student body consisted of wealthy plantation owners. In their countries, they held the power, and Mickey had been sent there to teach them how to exercise it. How to use the army. The media. But most of all, fear. He taught them all about torture too, and in return, they taught him all about the fine art of backroom politics.

He rose rapidly through the ranks, deftly trampling on anyone who got in his way, amassing power.

It was in Managua, about a year before the fall, where the freshly promoted Lieutenant Colonel Mickey Thompson met the man who would open up his eyes to the true meaning of power: money. He was introduced to the world of cocaine and then never looked back.

The guns and planes and helicopters that were used to prosecute the war were all bought with the illicit white powder. Denton Seaver, the man who controlled the harvest, production, and sale of the coke, just so happened to have a brother-in-law back in the States who was an arms dealer.

Denton had been more than happy to introduce his brother-in—law to the Nicaraguan secretary of defense. It was a really sweet deal, so long as the war went on. That was how Mickey Thompson was introduced to the concept the spoils of war.

At that time, the Sandinistas had within their ranks a cadre of Mosquito Indian warriors that played a vital role in the War for Independence in Nicaragua. Superior guerilla skills and masters of stealth enabled them to cripple the enemy in a specific manner. Their mission was to disrupt and/or destroy the cocaine factories that funded the government forces.

Having had some great success in messing up Denton’s enterprise, the Mosquito became a primary concern, which led to the beginning of Thompson’s relationship with Seaver. One evening, over a lavish dinner at Samoza’s palace, a U.S. diplomat introduced the two men, and they hit it off right away.

Seaver explained his dilemma, and Thompson offered a sympathetic ear. When Denton whispered to Mickey how much money was involved, he was deeply moved. When he was told how much of it could be his, he was all in.

It was decided that rather than defending the factories, wondering where the Mosquito would strike next, it would be a better strategy to take the war to the Mosquito. The plan called for the utter destruction of their villages and to kill any Mosquito on sight. If the fighters were there, fine. If not? There would be less of them to grow up to be fighters.

Knowing that the Regular Army would never approve, Thompson recruited his own personal brigade of mercenaries to carry out the mission. Most of them were misfits who were banished from various Special Forces units. Too crazy for the Navy Seals or Green Berets, these guys were made to feel right at home with Mickey Thompson.

Truly an international group, he had Australians, Germans, and South Africans. Ex-convicts, rapists, and serial killers. Gangsters, really. They got paid handsomely. Plus, as an added special bonus, they could rape anything that moved and were free to keep everything they could steal.

Quite a gig, by mercenary standards.

Thompson’s top thug was Gunny Watson. He was drummed out of the marines after My Lei and was almost as bloodthirsty as the general himself. It was Gunny who led the charge into the Mosquito village two weeks after the war was over.

The Mosquito Massacre never made the news, but there were certainly people who remembered it. Luavo Mingo was the name of one of those people. On that fateful day, he lost his mother, two sisters, and all the rest of his village.

After the war, Thompson used his influence (bribery) to secure the position of commandant of Fort Edwards. He reasoned, and correctly so, that he could use the base to continue his illicit cocaine trafficking enterprise.

The Denton Seaver connection remained intact. He retained most of his brigade and hired them on as phony, no-show, civilian employees. He called them Emergency Defense Contractors, but of course, they were all still gangsters.

Gunny was placed in charge of the base military police, which really pissed off the real MPs, not simply because he was a civilian but more because he was such a crazy bastard. He made everybody very nervous. Nobody dared to complain though, Gunny was definitely one messed-up dude.

He would freak out even the most hardened of soldiers when he would show off the string of Vietnamese ears that he liked to carry around. He claimed to have taken them from handful of Vietcong guerillas that he had surprised in the jungle while out on patrol in the Mekong Delta.

The truth was, they used to belong to an unfortunate indigenous fisherman and his family who used to live in a cute little hut on the Mekong River.

Back in 1967, Gunny and his marine pals had been cruising up the river in a PT, out on loot and plunder expedition, when they spotted the little village nestled along the shore in a mangrove lagoon.

The people in that village had lived there for countless generations, innocently isolated from the advances of civilization, living on the plentiful fish from the river and abundance of food gleaned from the forest. Most of them had never even seen a motorboat, never mind a fully equipped, state-of-the-art assault vessel.

When the war craft unexpectedly crashed onto the beach, discharging a half a dozen heavily armed, screaming sociopaths, the villagers did what any sensible people would do. They ran for their lives. The ones that didn’t get away were murdered pretty much on the spot. The young girls, and some of the old ones (just to mix things up), got to wait until they were brutally raped and tortured before they died. The unlucky fisherman and his poor family were among those that did not get away.

The brigade took care of the shipping and handling, and Gunny made sure that everybody else minded their own business. As to the everyday business of running the base, Mickey Thompson gave that boring and tedious job to Colonel Wingate.

Shuffling paperwork was not among the general’s favorite pastimes. He dutifully signed what he was supposed to sign and met with whomever he was obligated to meet with, but other than that, he didn’t have much to do with the base or with any of the (real) soldiers who were stationed there.

Smuggling cocaine took up most of his time.

Having total and complete control of the airstrips sure came in handy. Nobody ever questioned why civilian aircraft was landing with such frequency on a military base. The general classified each flight, in and out, as top secret; and everyone left it at that. To buck, the general might bring a visit from Gunny Watson, and nobody in his right mind would want that.

Search parties had been sent out and were busy scouring the base, and they were coming back with nothing but bad news. The information that he had was scant and perplexing, to say the least. His chief intelligence officer was due in at any moment, and the general felt an urgent need for fresh news.

From what he had learned already, the intruder, or intruders, apparently arrived by motorcycle, as the Harley-Davidson that was found lying by the berth of Jericho-8 would surely attest. One of the search teams had discovered the compromised fence off Turpentine Road, and so they also knew how the motorcyclist had reached the hangar.

Gunny had the guard at the Sandwich gate in tow, as well as the surveillance tapes, and was presently on his way to the office. As for what caused the accident at the power plant, they were still in the dark.

The tech people were baffled when they found the black box out on Runway 2 but with no Jericho-8 with it. It had never occurred to anyone that another transponder could be switched with it. PAVE PAWS and every other radar station had been alerted and/or consulted with, as to the possible whereabouts of the plane. Not surprisingly, it had not been seen there either.

The Jericho-8 was of a new generation of stealth fighter jets. It was virtually undetectable by conventional radar. The black box was the only way to track it, and given that it had been left out on the tarmac, that was no longer a viable option.

It was 0131, only a minute later than the last time that the general had looked at his watch. He fully realized that the plane, already with over an hour’s head start, could be anywhere by now. For all he knew, it could be headed to China or to Iran or some hole-in-the-wall country in Africa. General Mickey Thompson had done all that he could do, and now he could only wait for more information.

Suddenly, his office door flew open and Butch Troxel burst into the room, a yellow manila envelope, double-bagged within a clear plastic Ziploc bag dangling from his hand. He didn’t bother to properly salute the general because, even though he was wearing the uniform of a U.S. Army Ranger, he wasn’t really in the army.

He had been with the good general for almost as long as Gunny. His specialty was in extracting information out of people, whether they liked it or not. Calling Butch Troxel a chief intelligence officer was a bit of a stretch, but he did have news and Mickey wanted to hear it.

I don’t know, boss, something just ain’t right around here. He did not address the general in the proper military jargon, but he fully understood who was in charge.

He continued on, I have a funny feeling that the Arabs had nothing to do with this. With a heavy emphasis on the A, in Ay-rab.

What the hell makes you say that? His tone did not quite contain the conviction that it should have had. September 11 was only a year ago, the Muslim threat had been made real, and it should have seemed to be a no-brainer.

Conventional wisdom would have to point to Al-Qaeda. But Mickey Thompson’s instincts rarely failed him, and he had to also admit that he didn’t smell anything Ay-rab either.

First off, they don’t steal planes, they hijack them, Butch reasoned.

Yeah, I know what you mean there, Butch, General Mickey Thompson readily agreed. Everybody knows that Sandniggers can’t fly for shit. The Jews kick ass in that department.

Plus, I can’t see a camel jockey on a Harley, boss. That’s just not their style, Butch paused a moment and held up the bag, and they don’t kill like this neither.

He walked over and placed the bag on the general’s desk and then pulled a pair of latex surgical gloves out of his camouflage field jacket pocket and slipped them on.

Carefully, he opened each bag in turn and extracted one of the weapons that had killed one of the first two airmen that had fallen. They were the ones who had been guiding the Jericho-8 onto the runway when Red Hawk Danielson passed by.

The modified twelve-penny galvanized nail, which Butch presently held between his thumb and forefinger, sent shivers down the spine of General Mickey Thompson. That’s impossible.

That’s what I said, boss, but check this out. He held it up to his own nose first, as if to verify that it was not simply his imagination, and then offered up a sniff to the general. Be careful, boss, don’t touch it.

Mickey could not help repeating himself. That’s impossible.

He took another smell off the nail and then repeated. Shinzaga? It sounded like a question, but it was an affirmation as both men silently absorbed the meaning.

The peoples of the Central American rainforest knew a secret about the Shinzaga frog, an extremely rare, high-canopy amphibian. It just so happened that the Shinzaga frog had an unusual evolutionary survival technique and the Natives learned how to exploit it.

Because they spend their entire lives hundreds of feet above the ground, Shinzaga frogs, rather than laying their precious eggs in pools of water, would simply drop them onto moisture-laden leaves. The egg mass, a gelatinous glob of squirming tadpoles, contain a natural adhesive that enables them to incubate safely up in the tree. The predators that shared their domain had learned not to mess with them, seeing as how they were deadly poison.

People learned that if arrowheads, spear points, or in some cases, blow-darts were dipped into the egg mass, an enemy could be dispatched quite efficiently. The deadly poison adhered readily to wood, stone, or metal arrowheads; and once they were dipped in it, they were armed and ready to go.

One drop of the deadly poison will can a man. It was no good for hunting, as it spoiled the meat, but sure was great for warfare. What made the weapon so effective, and deadly, was the fact that a warrior didn’t necessarily have to be a great marksman. Shooting the opposition in the toe was as good as hitting a vital organ.

The poison kills within minutes. Over the years, delivery systems were improvised and improved upon. By the time that Mickey Thompson and his gang of thugs arrived in Nicaragua, an infinite variety of methods had been used.

The Mosquito were masters of the weapon, as the general had learned. He lost more than a few soldiers to the deadly poison.

On one particular occasion, in an operation up in the hills outside of Managua, the Shinzaga was deployed against him and an entire company was nearly wiped out. On the plus side, as far as Mickey was concerned, they were mostly Nicaraguan soldiers who he regarded as worthless Spics. He only lost two of his own men.

On that fateful day, the company had been tricked into chasing a band of Mosquito into the jungle. The trap was as simple as it was ingenious. Booby traps, carrying the deadly Shinzaga poison, were nothing more than thorn bushes painted with the deadly substance. As the warriors silently disappeared into the forest, the pursuers, hot on their trail, tore through the bushes; and then they started dropping like flies.

The nail, which Butch Troxel was holding for the general’s inspection, had Mosquito written all over it. At first glance, it looked like a tiny arrow. It was about four and a half inches long, and the business end had been sharpened into a needle-sharp point.

The end with the nail head had three small shell fragments set in epoxy, which were ground and shaped to achieve the aerodynamics necessary for flight. The galvanized paint was an excellent surface for the Shinzaga to adhere to and certainly proved to be effective on the two dead soldiers in question.

Yeah, that’s what I thought too, Butch concurred. Shinzaga.

Anybody else see them? The general’s mind was racing. There were far too many implications.

Just one used-to-be. But don’t worry about it, boss. Wasn’t one of ours. Butch busied himself with carefully returning the weapon to the evidence bag. One accident was enough.

What’s that supposed to mean? Mickey fully understood that a used-to-be translated into a dead guy.

There were a dozen of them scattered around the bodies when I got there. Butch launched into how he and an MP (a real one, not one of the brigade) had been the first to respond to the scene.

There were four or five stuck in the bodies. The rest were all misses. He strode across the room and closed the door, just in case there were ears that weren’t supposed to hear what he was about to say.

And… , the general prompted.

At first, I wasn’t sure. By the time I finally figured it out, it was too late. As soon as we got there, the moron I was with, that idiot Harris, started playing Sherlock Holmes. Numbskull decided that it would be good detective work, on his part, to see how sharp they were.

Butch paused a moment. He must have nicked himself somehow ’cause next thing I know, he keels over. And then he added cryptically, That’s when I knew for sure.

What about the others? the general was referring to the airmen found on the fork truck.

Four of them were taken with small weapons fire. All single shots. All lethal. Somebody is a real Annie Oakley, boss. Looked like a .44, maybe a .357, judging by the size of the exit wounds. Butch knew more than his fair share about exit wounds.

And the fifth one had his throat slit. As well as entrance wounds.

What have you learned about the crew? The dossiers of the navigator, pilot, and copilot had already been read, and then reread; and nothing had readily stood out.

Any way this can be an inside job? The general was hopeful nonetheless.

Doubtful, boss. Butch had studied the records of the flight crew as closely as Thompson had and came up with the same conclusions.

The pilot, Captain Jim Gallagher, was a highly decorated air force fighter pilot; Lieutenant Terry Chanook, the copilot, was a recent TOPGUN graduate; while Lieutenant Mike Scherber, the navigator, a father of four, was a seasoned veteran of the First Gulf War.

They all checked out clean. It still remained a mystery as to who, other than crew, were capable of flying such a sophisticated aircraft.

Well then, just who do you suppose flew that plane? Mickey Thompson was thinking out loud. Because somebody certainly did.

He had resumed his pacing. They tell me that it takes a minimum of two trained men to fly one of those birds. I am absolutely convinced that at least one member of that crew is in on this.

He walked over to his desk and picked up the dossiers. But you’re absolutely right about one thing, Butch. These ain’t Ay-rabs we are dealing with.

Butch nodded in agreement.

The general tossed the folders of the Jericho-8 flight crew at his chief intelligence officer and said, Look for any connections to the Mosquito.

Suddenly, there was knock at the door and a uniformed MP came into the office, approached the general, snapped up a salute, and stood at attention.

His name was Donald Bridge, and unlike Butch Troxel, he really was in the army. Speaking through his salute, he announced, We found the pilot and the navigator, sir.

At ease, Soldier. Thompson didn’t bother returning the salute. He hated that crap as much as Butch Troxel. Where did you find them?

Strangest thing, sir. The MP was nervous. He had heard the rumors about the crazy general and his secret army.

A civilian found them out on Route 130 where the flight path crossed through Mashpee. The MP paused momentarily. It seems the pilot landed smack-dab right in the middle of the road, and I guess the civilian nearly ran him over.

And then, what did he do? The general was getting very antsy.

Who, sir? The MP didn’t understand the question.

What did the civilian do, dipshit? Butch felt the need to interject. Unless, of course, you’re going to tell us that the pilot got up and ran away.

I guess he called the police. The MP wasn’t exactly sure who to answer to. He noticed that although Butch wore a uniform, he immediately pegged him as not being Regular Army.

The word Gestapo sprang to his mind.

What police? The general had stopped pacing.

I don’t know who he called, but both Sandwich and Mashpee were already there before I even got there.

The soldier wasn’t exactly sure why, but he suddenly felt a strong need to defend himself. There were cruisers, fire trucks, and ambulances all over the scene.

That’s just great. Now it was Butch that was pacing. He had tossed the dossiers of the flight crew back onto the general’s desk.

What about the navigator? The general wanted to know.

The navigator was found nearby, impaled up in a tree. He waited a respectful moment or two, half-expecting the general to show some sort of emotion about the two dead men. It was a real mess, sir.

Yeah, I’ll bet. Mickey Thompson had seen plenty of dead people.

Where are the bodies? Butch wanted to know. He didn’t care about the used-to-be airmen any more than his boss, but he did want to make certain that they were who they were supposed to be. Autopsies were in order.

On the way to the infirmary, sir, the MP answered.

Okay, Soldier, you’re dismissed. General Thompson whirled away and made for his desk.

The MP snapped to attention and held his salute, remaining that way until it became abundantly clear that the general was never, ever going to return it. Corporal Donald Bridge finally just turned and walked away, quietly closing the door behind him.

Well, you can scratch the pilot and the navigator. The general was reaching for the dossiers of the flight crew. He picked out the folder on Terry Chanook and handed it to Butch.

Concentrate on the copilot. I got a real bad feeling about him. See if there is anything to tie him to those animals. He pointed over to the Shinzaga darts.

Yeah, but this time, I ain’t looking for anything Ay-rab. Butch picked up the folder and was headed for the door when the general stopped him.

Butch, I want you to assemble the rest of the brigade. Thompson was suddenly aware that there was much more at stake than just the security of the country.

We had better get every bit of product out of here. As soon as I call this in, this place is going to be crawling with uniforms.

There was currently about six and a half tons of cocaine stashed all around the base, and it had to be moved, and it had to be moved quickly.

I can’t stall much longer. He looked at his watch. Two hours had already passed.

Where we going put it, boss? Butch was concerned. There’s a lot to move.

He would know. As the chief intelligence officer, he had overseen the everyday workings of the operation. Planes from South America, receiving special clearance from the general, would unload fifty-five-gallon drums full of cocaine, and Butch and his men would stash them in various secure sites around the base. There were currently about a hundred drums.

Take it all down to the pond. The general was talking about Snake Pond, the pretty, little town beach situated less than a mile down the road from the Sandwich gate. It was closed up for the winter.

Thompson continued, Cut and change the locks on the restrooms and kitchen. Stacked right, most of it should fit. What don’t fit, you’ll have to keep in the trucks and then find some place to park them safe. Keep them close by though.

General Thompson looked back at his watch. Another minute had passed. Time flies when you’re having fun. He couldn’t delay any longer. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number for the secretary of defense.

CHAPTER THREE

6:00 A.M., WEDNESDAY, THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING

Sitting cross-legged on his prayer blanket, the old man drew on the long stem of his pipe, relishing in the news. From his vantage point, a clearing at the topmost hillock up in the Pine Hills, he could look right down on Plimouth Plantation.

It was from there that Chief Grey Buffalo received the information he had long hoped for. The puffs of smoke, drifting from the chimney of the John Alden House, were hardly random. Three long. Two short. Three short. Four long. The raid was a success.

The person sending the message was currently dressed like a Wampanoag squaw. The night before, she was a buxom blonde. Sleeping Eagle was a Cherokee, but the disinterested and misinformed visitors