Chapter 5

“Do you feel it too?” he asked.

“Yeah, two guys across the bayou looking to kidnap Juana and leave her kids tied up. They intend to sell her to their boss,” I replied.

“Damn,” he hissed. “You ready?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, ready to kick some ass,” I replied angrily.

“Try to take them alive so we can get answers about who they work for,” he warned.

We exited through the back door, each climbed aboard our own grav sled with the supply tender trailing, and quickly whisked across the bayou. I hadn’t even known that Uncle Don had a grav sled. In the dim moonlight, even without night vision goggles, we could see the car as it drove past Juana’s house with the headlights off and continued south until there were no more houses.

“How can anyone tell the addresses?” the driver asked.

“They probably don’t bother because they can’t read the numbers,” the passenger quipped, making both men laugh. They were four houses away when we zipped around to the back of Juana’s house and entered through the back door. We left the grav sleds cloaked and hovering about three meters above the ground.

The two men finally found the house and snuck in through the back door. “They don’t know how to use keys, either,” the driver whispered quietly as he turned the doorknob and found it unlocked. “Maybe we can get lucky and just grab the Mexican bitch without waking the kids,” the driver whispered. They didn’t even notice us on each side of the door when they entered the dark house.

Don and I each cold cocked our man and quickly had them stripped and trussed up. Each man was securely tied to one of the supply tenders when they came to. “Why are you looking for Juana, who is your boss, and what does he plan to do with her?” Don asked the men.

“We’ll have your asses for this. We’re with the army and this is army business,” the passenger blustered.

“Let’s take them to the Sheriff and let him deal with questioning them this time,” Don suggested.

“That won’t be nearly as much fun as slowly feeding them to the gators,” I mock complained.

“Your threats don’t scare us. We know our rights,” the passenger growled.

“Juana has rights, too. We’re going to observe your rights the same way you were going to observe hers,” I warned.

“What’s the big deal about another Mexican whore?” the passenger asked.

“I think it’s a big deal because she’ll be one of my wives when she’s finished mourning,” I replied. “I still think we should dip them in the swamp and let the gators start with their feet.”

“We’ll give the sheriff one shot at convincing them to answer his questions. If they don’t, we’ll volunteer to question them your way,” Don agreed. Reluctantly, I agreed.

Ten minutes after Don commed him, the Sheriff arrived at the station. Don had called him at home and told him what happened. “I just got an advisory from the feds three days ago warning about this,” he said. “Groups have been working the large cities kidnapping attractive war widows and even single women, selling them as sex slaves. Sometimes children disappear, too, but they were usually left behind for relatives or the government to care for.

“It has gotten so bad that big cities added more police officers and convinced the government to issue a draft deferment for police officers and fire fighters.”

“To date, aside from medical doctors, those are the only allowed deferments from the draft. Even those with physical difficulties are drafted and given support tasks they’re able to accomplish. Many of them fly UAVs.

“The cities imposed a curfew, and anyone caught out after dark can be shot on sight. Due to the crackdown, many of the people performing the kidnappings left for smaller cities or even rural areas,” the Sheriff explained.

The two thugs immediately protested their innocence when we removed the gags and they claimed that we had attacked them for no reason when they tried to ask directions after getting lost. They demanded that we be arrested, and their clothes and possessions be returned to them.

“Now tell me what really happened,” the Sheriff said to Don as he rolled his eyes, eliciting howls of protest from the thugs. Don showed him the video I captured on my personal com device, including several of the comments the two men had made while still in their car.

“You two really stepped in it this time,” the Sheriff told the thugs. “These two won’t take any bullshit from you. You have one chance to answer their questions honestly. Now, why are you looking for Mrs. Vasquez, who is your boss, and what does he plan to do with her?”

“We don’t have to tell you anything. We want an attorney,” the driver demanded.

“Sorry, we don’t have any attorneys available. The closest one lives in New Orleans. You either answer my questions, or you’re of no use to me and I’ll let these two have you back,” the Sheriff warned.

“You don’t scare us. You can’t do anything to us,” the driver taunted.

“You don’t understand,” the Sheriff replied with an evil grin. “I don’t have anything to do with this. You didn’t answer my questions so I can’t arrest you. Therefore, I’m turning you back over to the two men who captured you. I’m hoping they can convince at least one of you to talk. Otherwise, there will be two well-fed gators out there.”

“Bullshit,” the driver shouted. “I know that you’re just trying to scare us, and it isn’t working.”

“They’re all yours,” the Sheriff said, shrugging nonchalantly. “If one of them talks, bring him back. Otherwise, I’ve got no use for them, and they’ll just end up costing the Parish money we don’t have.”

I could see that the car’s passenger was getting nervous.

We emptied their wallets. “Corporal Kincaid?” Don asked the passenger, who nodded nervously in reply. “Sergeant Whittaker?” he asked the driver.

“Screw you,” Whittaker replied angrily.

“I guess we know who the example will be,” Don said to me. “I think the Corporal may be smart enough to answer questions if we give him the right incentive.”

“We’ll let you know,” Don told the Sheriff, and then followed me as I sped down the bayou and out into the swamp beyond. Minutes later, we hovered above the island I was looking for. In the dim moonlight, I could just make out five dark saurian outlines right below the surface of the water around the island.

“Damn,” Don commented. “You didn’t even need night vision goggles to spot them.” I flew up higher and tipped the tender sled. The sergeant slid off the sled, wiggling desperately trying to use his untied legs to find some way to hold onto the sled. It did him no good and we listened to his muffled scream as he dropped the meter that the slack in the rope allowed.

Don flew up next to him and removed his gag. “In case you still don’t believe us, let me explain. You will die tonight unless you answer all my questions. Why are you looking for Mrs. Vasquez, who is your boss, and what does he plan to do with her?”

“You’re still bluffing,” the sergeant replied, although he didn’t sound as sure as before.

“Okay, you just signed your own death warrant. The next two questions will determine if you die quickly ... or one bite at a time,” he chuckled as he peered below us into the darkness. “Where have you stashed the money you earned kidnapping and selling military widows, and what’s the account number and password for your bank account?”

“Okay, move down low enough for one of the gators to get a good taste,” Don said after several seconds of silence. He quickly gave the sergeant a shot of something.

“What was that?” the sergeant demanded.

“Medicine to keep you from going into shock right away and dying,” Don chuckled.

I dropped lower and lower, finally splashing the sergeant’s feet in the water. “What are you doing?” the sergeant shrieked, suddenly terrified.

“Pull me up,” he screamed when we didn’t answer. The words were barely out of his mouth when his next shrill shriek knifed through the night. The tender sled dipped like a bobber on a fishing line when you get a bite. I jerked him up--well, most of him. The lower part of his right leg was missing. The Corporal moved his head closer to the edge of Don’s sled tender and hurled.

I raised the Sergeant about five meters above the water and Don quickly applied a tourniquet to stem the bleeding. “Ready to answer questions yet?” Don asked the Sergeant.

“You’re crazy,” he screamed at Don.

“Your point?” Don chuckled. “Will you answer questions, or do we let the gators have your other foot next?”

“If I say anything, they’ll kill me,” the Sergeant tried to explain.

“You still don’t understand, yet. I will kill you tonight, whether or not you answer my questions. The only question is whether we let the gators kill you one bite at a time, or if you earn the right to a quick, painless bullet in the head. You have five seconds to start talking or it’s feeding time at the zoo.”

“Okay, I’ll talk,” the Sergeant sobbed. “Any money I haven’t deposited into the bank is in a locker at the bullet train station In Baton Rouge. I dropped it there before we caught the bus to Fort Polk. The key is with my dog tags,” he told us. Don removed the electronic key card and then used the grav sled’s computer terminal to bring up the website for the Sergeant’s bank. Five minutes later, the Sergeant’s bank balance was the same as his chance of surviving the night.

“Now the biggie,” Don said when he looked up from the virtual computer screen. “What did you plan to do with Juana?”

“We both get five grand for each assigned woman that we deliver,” he replied, his voice starting to falter.

“Who pays you?” Don demanded, slapping the sergeant’s face to keep him conscious and then followed up with an ammonia inhalant.

“We used to take them to Major Griffin when we were stationed at Fort McPherson in Atlanta. When they established the shoot-to-kill order for any non-emergency personnel who violated the Government’s curfew, he transferred us to Fort Polk, and we report to his brother, Captain Griffin. Like his brother, he gives us names, photos, and addresses of the best-looking war widows. Major Griffin has a contact that buys the women and resells them to people in Europe and South America who use drugs to condition them to be whores.”

“How do you transfer the women to him?” Don pressed.

“The Sergeant began answering, but his words became slurred, quiet, and ran together until he stopped talking completely. Don checked his pulse and cut him loose. A second later, the splash elicited several other splashes as the congregated gators fought over the corpse.

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” the Corporal quickly promised when Don turned his glare that way. His locker key was also around his neck and joined his partner’s key in Don’s pocket. My com device recorded his confession. Don had recorded his partner’s confession.

“You just earned a reprieve from being gator bait,” Don told the Corporal who released a huge sigh of relief. Don called the Sheriff on the way back to the station.

On our way there, the Sheriff commed Don and explained, “I called the Troop Commander of the State Police in Houma and told him about the abduction ring. He called the commanding officer of the State Police in Baton Rouge at home and told him. The CO called General Conklin at the army base and he’s flying to Baton Rouge as we speak. We’re to get there as quickly as possible so I called for a chopper.”

“I’ve got a better idea. You were in the Green Berets, so you know how and when to keep your mouth shut, right?” Don asked the Sheriff.

“Yeah, but not too many people know about that,” he replied questioningly.

“I was in the Marine Raiders and now I’m a minority owner of a small, but very successful company that improves existing military technology. Most of what we’re working on is still under development, experimental, or classified, but we have released a couple of improved toys to the Elite Forces and have a couple currently being beta tested. If we use a couple of those toys, we can get there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Excellent, let’s do it,” the Sheriff said excitedly.

“Cancel the chopper and we’ll be at your office in a couple minutes,” Don told him. Don signaled for me to follow him, and I did. The Sheriff was waiting when we got there.

“Yikes!” he gasped as he jumped when Don uncloaked right in front of him. He jumped again when I uncloaked.

“Climb up on the back of Jim’s,” Don instructed the Sheriff so I lowered the supply tender so it was only a few centimeters off the ground.

“These almost look like regular military grav sleds,” the Sheriff commented.

“They sure do,” Don replied with a smirk. The Sheriff had obviously ridden a grav sled before and quickly used the harness and buckles to strap in tightly.

“All set,” he said.

Don patched all three of our com units into the communication system of the sleds. That way, nobody could track us or listen to our conversation. “Follow me to Baton Rouge,” he told me.

“When we get there, you guide us to the State Police headquarters. Do they have a rooftop pad?” he asked the Sheriff.

“Sure do,” the Sheriff replied.

“We’ll land there and get everyone situated before parking the sleds where nobody will see them,” Don said. We both cloaked and I followed about fifty meters behind him. I couldn’t see him, but the sled’s nav system could because Don had linked the nav systems in both sleds. To the rest of the world, we didn’t exist.

“How fast are we going?” the Sheriff gasped as we sped through the night, obviously used to the second generation grav sleds that don’t go faster than a hundred knots.

“Just under four hundred knots,” I replied, “but I have no idea how much faster we can go. This is the first time I’ve had it above two hundred knots.” Ten minutes later Don guided us to a stealthy landing on the roof of the headquarters building. Even with a military chopper already there, we had plenty of room to land. The Sheriff called the Commander to let him know where we were. By the time the Commander reached the roof, our sleds had been tucked safely against an upper wall and cloaked where nothing would run into them, including helicopters.

The General and the Commander looked around the roof for our helicopter when the elevator opened. “Where’s your ride?” the Commander asked.

“Stashed safely where nobody will see it,” Don replied. Since the roof was as quiet a place as anywhere, Don told the Commander and the General what had happened, and we played the recordings from our com units.

“My first inclination is to send you back with them to feed to their pet alligators, too,” the General told the Corporal angrily. “Unfortunately, I need you to report back to Captain Griffin so we can catch him admitting his part,” the General explained.

“It won’t work. He has state of the art sensors everywhere that detect any kind of recording device or transmitter,” the Corporal stated.

“Not every kind,” Don replied calmly, digging a money clip out of his pocket. The clip was full, but probably only held enough to buy dinner for eight at a nice restaurant.

The General flew back to the army base, and we followed on our sleds at about half the speed we had been traveling on the way to Baton Rouge. En route, I called Sally to let her know that we were okay. I also let her know that we would still be gone for a couple more hours. “Don’t forget the wedding at 11:00,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I replied sincerely.

When we reached the base, we waited outside while the General signed for a car like the one left behind at Juana’s house. He drove out through the closest gate and turned the car over to the Corporal. Don gave the General the recording device. He, in turn, gave it to the Corporal. “What do I tell him happened to Mackie?” the Corporal asked.

“The truth ... almost,” Don suggested. “Tell him that you got to the house. The street was only a few meters from the bayou. When Mackie got out of the car, a gator grabbed his leg and dragged him into the bayou before you could get to that side of the car. When you did, there were several other gators nearby.”

I almost laughed watching the Corporal pale and shudder as Don recited the excuse.

“Don’t use the east gate,” the General warned, and we watched the Corporal drive off.

“I don’t suppose that you want to tell me how your grav sleds kept up with my copter, or why they didn’t set off dozens of perimeter alarms at the base when you approached?” he asked Don.

“New stuff we’re beta testing for the military,” he replied. “Elite Forces troops will probably have them in six months to a year once we’re sure there aren’t any unexpected kinks.”

“Good, we need all the help we can get. The Chinese still have a 5:1 manpower advantage,” he said.

“It’s less than that,” I replied, surprising him. “Numerically, you’re right, but they use far more men and women to grow their food than we do. Ninety percent of the commercial food grown in the U.S. is grown by corporate agribusiness. A hundred farmers here produce as much food as five thousand Chinese farmers. The Chinese purposely didn’t modernize their agricultural production so that the bulk of their people remained simple farmers and peasants trapped in small towns.

“That reduced the number of people heading for the big cities looking for jobs. A disgruntled urban populace is savvier and much harder to control than unhappy rural peasants are. The consequence is that it takes them more than a hundred million farmers to produce the food they need, or about twenty percent of the population that survived Taiwan’s Revenge. That means they only had an available 4:1 advantage over us when we entered the war.

“Whether the reported casualty figures are accurate or just propaganda, I read that the casualty rate is 9:1 in our favor. True, the more troops they lose the fewer farmers they need, but we’re still narrowing the gap. I think we’ll have an easier time when the ratio of Chinese to American troops reaches 3:1.

“Our military needs to start targeting the areas where the Chinese have begun mechanizing their agriculture. Hit the primary rice and grain growing areas halfway through the growing season with an altitude burst or use stealth bombers as high-altitude crop dusters. Use an herbicide like Pan-kote that kills any plant it touches but doesn’t harm people or animals. Use it late enough in the growing season that they won’t be able to replant a second crop, and early enough that the grain heads haven’t developed yet.

“The lack of food will hamper their war effort and will upset even the rural bumpkins enough that the government will need to keep more troops at home to prevent problems. They’ll also have to redistribute growing areas, making them smaller and harder to target. That will require even more workers so there will be fewer available for the military,” I suggested.

“Why isn’t he a general?” the General teased Don as he motioned to me.

“He’s too smart, Sir,” Don laughed as he snapped a salute. The General shook a finger at him accusingly, but was grinning when he did.

“You don’t mind if I pass that little nugget on, do you?” he asked me.

“Not at all, as long as you don’t tell them where the idea came from,” I replied.

“You don’t want credit for your idea?” he asked, surprised.

“Nope. We’ve got family to protect. If anyone found out it was my idea, the Chinese wouldn’t rest until one of their agents eliminated the source. I think I can protect myself, but don’t want anyone else to be hurt as collateral damage.”

“Okay, I’ll keep your secret, which should be easy since I don’t really know who you are,” he chuckled. “If you have any other ideas, contact me. When you call,” he said as he handed me a card with the com number at the base, “tell whoever answers, ‘Gator calling for Brigadier General Conklin.’ I’ll make sure everyone knows to contact me immediately if you call.”

He thanked us for everything, and we left to get the money from the bullet train station before we picked up the Sheriff. The two lockers were side by side. Don opened the locker on the right, and I opened the left. “Jackpot,” Don said with a big grin, pulling the heavy matte black carbon fiber case out of the locker. “Hot damn, this is full of metal, not paper,” he said excitedly when he lifted it and to find out how heavy it was. “These two must have been busy before they got here.”

I understood his excitement. As the value of the U.S. dollar continued to drop, paper and electronic currency in the banks lost about five percent of its value each year. Only two things kept the value of U.S. currency from an even steeper dive. The first was the fact that the U.S. was now the world’s largest, and almost only, producer of methane derived from deposits of frozen methane clathrate. Most of those deposits were hidden beneath the seabed.

Some fifty or so years ago, scientists and geologists began improving the art of locating those deposits, much the same way they used to search for oil. U.S. geologists discovered the fastest way to find deposits, and U.S. companies began searching for and working deposits worldwide. Some of the mining was in collaboration with other nations, and some was in international waters.

When an earthquake hit about a hundred klicks from where a geological survey was being conducted, they also discovered the way to get an even more detailed scan of an area.

The tremor hit less than a minute after the geologists’ much smaller seismic blast. The difference in detail was staggering. Of course, setting up sensors and hoping for an earthquake was impractical, but they figured out a new way to accomplish what they needed. Now, heavily armed and armored U.S. flagged tankers twice the size of the biggest oil supertankers ply the oceans of the world. They load methane clathrate from the sites and then deliver it to refineries located along the coast or just offshore of the purchasing country.

A second major factor keeping the U.S. afloat was the discovery of massive deposits of precious metals a little more than twenty-five years ago. Once again, the new and enhanced geological surveys led to the discoveries. Satellites began to scan the earth’s crust using new and improved versions of sensors that detected and recorded fluctuations in the earth’s magnetic field caused by ore deposits.