Baby Huey was predictably parked behind the fuel tanks, out of the way of the fixed-wing aircraft. She couldn’t just taxi forward and get fueled up, so Buck had lifted her up and landed her on the dirt where the fuel line could easily reach her. Preston hotwired the pump and began to fill her tanks. She was off to Washington as soon as Buck got in. Poor Buck would be having a very long day. It took nearly 15 minutes as the slow pumps, not made for large deliveries of fuel, pumped just under 200 gallons into the helicopter—she was thirsty.
After turning off the pump, he went to look for a rug to place on the floor of Baby Huey’s belly along with a couple of easy chairs. He went to the lounge and moved the wooden coffee table and the round rug underneath it out to the helicopter. The rug had been a present from Martie’s grandfather and was an oval copy of the American flag. Preston placed both in the rear of the helicopter. The six-foot rug fit well and covered much of the metal floor. He walked into the hangar and took the new set of EZ-Boys from the downstairs room. Nobody was upstairs. Carlos, Buck, and Barbara were on their way from Salt Lake City, both Sally and Jennifer were still flying, and the Smarts were in California.
Martie had washed all the bedding in their 20-year old washing machine the previous evening, which, with the old gas dryer, were the only electrical machines still working at the farm. The new washing machine he had purchased a couple of years ago was dead, and he was thankful that he had just put the old one out in the barn.
Preston moved each chair on a small four-wheeled trailer he often pulled around the farm behind his green lawn tractor, and then went back to get the two-seater couch—the smallest of three Martie had purchased for the party. The other two were double the size and wouldn’t fit. The radio operator had stated that they would need a minimum of three chairs.
He was done, and the inside rear of the helicopter looked like a small, comfortable lounge. He locked the side door behind the couch from the outside so nobody could get in or fall out of that side since the people on the couch would have no parachutes if the door was opened in flight. She was ready.
Then he thought about drinks. He went back and unplugged the small bar refrigerator he had used before Martie shopped for the fly-in. It was still cold, and would be colder still if he left it outside for a couple of hours. He placed it in the rear of Baby Huey, and filled it with cans of soda, Gatorade, and beer from the stocks purchased from the closed-down gas station. He placed a tray of potato chip bags on a rubber mat on top of the fridge, but then he took them out and refilled the black wooden tray with dozens of packets of Southwest peanuts and pretzels. He hoped their guests would see the humor in it. He put a box of Jerky on top of the bags. He was quite impressed with his accomplishments.
“Looks like a mini Oval Office,” laughed Martie, sneaking up behind him and giving him a good morning hug. “Pete Allen will think he’s the president sitting in here.”
“Just following orders, love,” Preston replied. “Buck is flying her out later this morning.”
“I just got off the radio with Jennifer,” Martie reported. “Actually, she relayed our conversation through Hill’s new radio. She said that both Tom and Jerry are coming in with a few others and a surprise. They have Will Smart on board with Maggie and the kids. Will has been completely sedated since Edwards, is sleeping like a baby, and doesn’t even know that he is flying across the country.”
“That will certainly screw up his internal time clock,” laughed Preston. “He’s going to suffer badly from jetlag, poor guy. It will be fun to see his reaction when he wakes up.”
“I’ll do up the beds before they get here, in case they need to let him sleep,” Martie answered. “Let’s go walk around and see what the soldiers have done.”
With Oliver and the happy puppy in tow, and with little Beth still asleep, they walked down the runway towards the guard tower.
“Good morning, sir,” came a voice from 30 feet up. “We have been working all night and I think we are about done.”
The walkers said good morning back and continued down the driveway and around the corner, their progress being forwarded by radio. The gate was now a mass of barbed wire, and nobody could get through it without armor.
“Good morning, sir. ma’am,” the tired sergeant in charge nodded to them as they walked up. “Those dogs never stop playing. I wish I had as much energy.”
“Good morning, Sergeant,” replied the walkers in unison. “It looks like we are now secure from the road. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir! We have put down over 300 yards of triple-lined wire, and the whole stretch can be seen from the fire tower. We wanted to put some trip wires down, but then thought that the dogs could walk into them, so we wanted to ask your permission first. Then, I had an idea last night about the possible attack we might be getting. If we lure the attack away from the perimeter—say on the dirt road just as you turn off the highway—and put up a barrier across the dirt road about 200 yards in from the asphalt—we can stop them before they reach the gate of the property.”
“Sounds good,” replied Preston. “A sort of ambush zone?”
“Correct, sir, basic military tactics,” replied the sergeant. “I was going to ask Mr. David if we could place his armored cars at the other end of the dirt road several yards into the forest on the other side of the road. They could be camouflaged under brush and cut off the escape route once the attackers realize it’s a trap.”
“It sounds good. I’m sure David would enjoy the action. Those machine guns will rip anything civilian to shreds in seconds. I’ve seen them in action,” replied Preston.
“There is enough brush along where your fence goes and we can position a dozen or so men down the road to ambush whoever arrives and help the guards at the barrier and the tower,” the sergeant added. “We currently have 32 fully-operational soldiers on site, and that should be enough.”
“Unfortunately, I need a couple of your soldiers to set up a guard post at RDU airport this morning,” added Preston. “There is a ton of stuff there—food, and gasoline in the large fuel tanks—and I think we are going to need everything we can get our hands on. I will ask General Allen to set up a permanent 24/7 guard at the main gates and I was even going to ask Joe for the use of one of his jeeps to patrol the airport’s perimeter.”
“Not a problem, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I’m sure a C-130 will fly into a base later today and they can always bring back more troops. The general said that there was little chance of an attack today. It will take at least a day for them to find us and ready themselves, but from midnight tonight we should be prepared for action. We are nearly done here The men are going to rest this morning, get six hours of sleep and then we will get back at it. I will forward my ideas about the ambush to the general when he arrives. It will only take a couple of hours to take fresh troops into RDU from Seymour Johnson, and I don’t need to send any men from here. They already know the layout of the land and that is real valuable right now.” Preston agreed, and he and Martie said their goodbyes and walked back to the house.
“It’s a pretty good plan,” Preston stated to Martie. “I think it is going to work. We don’t know how many are coming, but I’m sure it’s not thousands of fighters—probably less than 100, if any come at all, and they won’t be expecting our fancy armored reception.”
“I want to help,” replied Martie. “I think I could spend some time in the 210 cruising up the north/south or west/east highways looking for movement. These bad guys will have to drive from the north, wherever they are and I’m sure they will come south from Washington, I-95, or east along US 64 or possibly I-40. I can’t see why they would come north from Florida or Georgia. There isn’t any reason for them to be there. Also, I-40 must be closed around Asheville. I’m sure that winter weather is making for potentially dangerous driving over the Blue Ridge Mountains.”