Frigatefire
ISBN13: 978-1-63396-010-7
ISBN10: 1-63396-010-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948225
The warm Mississippi afternoon simmered more like summer than late spring. If the field grasses and wild flowers maintained their rapid growth rate, they would soon obscure the over watch views of all the possible approaches to the farmhouse from the makeshift
camouflaged bunker hidden under a camphor tree perched on top of the tallest hill on the farm. The two men in the bunker pulling lookout duty already had to sit erect to insure a line of sight over the tall grass to the entrance of the long driveway that snaked its way inward from the road. This farm covered two hundred and forty acres, and the road formed the southern boundary of the property. The driveway wound its way through a small valley to the old wooden frame farmhouse where the rest of the team was going about their business of battling severe boredom. Their backwoods hideout had lain fallow for more than a decade and was located amidst a “boondocks” that was a half century behind the rest of the world. The team had been voluntarily imprisoned and isolated there together for more than an entire month. During that time, the only traffic that had traversed their driveway had been their one and only vehicle, a fifteen seat Chevrolet van, which they stingily used only for their daily supply runs.
Retired Air Force Chief Master Sergeant Fred Kamats had just finished cleaning his lever action Marlin 30-30 deer rifle and propped it against the sand bags when he noticed a car traveling down the red gravel county road. Traffic on this road was so scarce, a passing
vehicle of any sort always quickly grabbed the attention of the duty sentry. Kamats stiffened because this vehicle was not one of the usual nineteen fifties or sixties vintage pickup trucks that he occasionally observed passing the old farm. Raising the binoculars, he was astonished to see what appeared to be a shiny new dark blue Lincoln Town Car. Adrenalin poured through his veins as the Town Car braked to a stop in front of their driveway. Kamat’s right arm shot out and struck the shoulder of his partner, B. J. Barnes, another retired Chief Master Sergeant from the Air Force. B.J.’s attention had been fixed on ‘fiddling’ with his own rifle. “Look lively BeeJay, we may have company.”
“What? Oh, shit. Who the hell is that?”
"I don’t know,” answered Kamats, “but it doesn’t look good.”
The Town Car turned into the mouth of the driveway and stopped.
“Let’s hope he is lost and just turning around.” But within seconds a tall sinister athletic looking man emerged from the passenger door and headed for the latch on the gate gingerly making sure his feet did not get caught in the cattle guard. “Get on the hook and send the alarm,” ordered Kamats. “They’re comin’ in.” Even with the binoculars the distance was too great to allow any recognition of the sinister man.
Barnes picked up the portable CB radio set on channel 9 and broadcast the prearranged alert signal imitating a trucker rumbling down Highway 51 several miles to the west. “Breaker, breaker, this here’s The Motivator lookin’ for my little rebel buddy. Come back?”They had decided to use the trucker imitation, so as not to raise any interest if someone had somehow intercepted any of the transmissions from their defensive practice sessions. The CB radios were the only communication devices they had been able to acquire in their little backward part of the world without taking unacceptable risks. Barnes repeated his transmission with a touch of frustration in his voice at not receiving a response, but then he saw both the front and backscreen doors of the farm house fly open as the rest of the team scrambled down the porch steps and headed for their assigned positions, each carrying a deer rifle in one hand and a back pack in the other. Each back pack carried survival gear, a pistol, and copious amounts of ammunition for both weapons. In their haste to escape Raven’s Roost, their home base back in the Nevada’s famous Area 51, they had taken very little of their personal property, but not one of the men had left behind their personal side arms. This decision was very fortuitous since the purchase of hand guns would draw too much attention at any of the Western Auto stores in the area. They had only dared to purchase deer rifles and shot guns. The clerks didn’t even ask to see any identification when selling hunting purposeful firearms.
It only required a matter of seconds to clear the house and implement the defensive perimeter, which had been designed to incorporate four camouflaged bunkers to cover all avenues of approach with mutually supporting fields of fire. Even though there were no infantry qualified officers on the team, the team’s four Marineofficers had a reasonable collective memory of what they had been taught at The Officers’ Basic School many years prior. The “Basic School” is the infantry officers’ school of the Marine Corps. The Corps
has always insisted that all its officers, even the air wingers and lawyers, become infantry trained leaders.
