Beth did a detailed inventory of the ranch house, barn, and outbuildings. The only serious shortcoming that they found was gas lamp mantles: they discovered that they had only two spares. So Lars e-mailed:
Andy:
The only mantles for dad’s wall gas lamps that work
without falling apart are made by Falks and Humphreys.
When you’re in Germany, can you try to find at least 20 spares for me?
Thx Bro,
Psalm 37,
Andy was able to test-fire and zero the SIG pistol on a hot afternoon two days after he bought it. Because the unit rotation was under way, and the incoming Stryker squadron’s first range fire wasn’t scheduled for another three days, the FOB’s shooting range was deserted. Unlike range fire at U.S. installations in CONUS, which was extremely controlled, things were much more casual in Afghanistan. Andy simply walked to the range and raised its red flag. There were no formalities, no inspections, no safety briefings, and no bullhorned “Is there anyone downrange?” warnings. Andy just stapled up three targets and started shooting.
Firing at first very deliberately to establish “zero” for the pistol, Laine put 250 rounds downrange without a stutter. He made a point of using each of the magazines to ensure that none of them had feeding problems. Andy was very pleased. He knew that he had a pistol that he could rely on.
It was 9:10 p.m., just past Tyree’s bedtime. Jerome had not yet come back. Sheila and her grandmother were getting worried. For the past three weeks, each workday he had carried a nearly empty backpack with him when he walked to work. Then, on his lunch breaks and after work, he went out bartering seeds and some extra hand tools in exchange for canned foods and staples like bags of breakfast cereal.
Now Sheila nervously pulled the shade aside and looked out the front window.
“He’s never been this late.”
“We need to pray,” Emily said firmly.
The next morning, after checking at the tire shop and hearing that Jerome had left at 5:30 p.m. and hadn’t been seen since, Sheila walked to the police department and asked to file a missing-person report. The harried front desk clerk replied, “Yeah, you and about five million other people.” She told Sheila that an informal check would be made and to return at noon the next day to file a report.
Two days later Sheila went again to the police department. After she had waited twenty minutes in the police department lobby, a plainclothes detective came out. After he identified himself, he told her, “I’m sorry, but there’s no sign of your husband. We checked all the usuals: the sheriff’s department, the state police, at the hospital. That took some doing, with the phones out. No luck.”
After a pause he added, “There was one John Doe, though. A black man in his thirties or forties, but they said that he had only eight fingers. Did-I mean, does-your husband have all of his fingers?”
“Yes, he does. He just lost one fingernail, working as a mechanic.”
“Then that can’t be him. Please be patient. With the phones down, he could be most anywhere and just unable to contact you. Maybe he caught a ride somewhere to make a trade and couldn’t get a ride back. It takes a long time to cover thirty or forty miles on foot. Your report said that he was a faithful husband-”
“I’m
“Okay, well, if we hear of anything, we’ll send an officer to your house.”
The following morning the same detective knocked at the Randalls’ door.
“Could we sit down and talk for a minute?” he asked.
Sheila felt a knot in her stomach when he mentioned sitting down.
After they were seated, the detective said, “Something was bothering me last night, so I double-checked with the county coroner this morning.
“It turns out that the body of the, uhh black male with no shoes, no shirt or pants, and no identification, who had been shot… it turns out that he had
“His left hand?”
“Yes, it was his left.”
Sheila turned pale, and she whispered, “His wedding ring always was a tight fit. He had to put butter or oil on his finger and pull it hard to get it off.”
7. Paperwork
“A commander can delegate authority, but not responsibility.”
L. Roy Martin had purchased his Bloomfield, New Mexico, plant just eight months before the Crunch. His reputation as a maverick Texas oilman meant that the purchase of the troubled refinery for cash and stock didn’t raise many eyebrows. The plant had been temporarily shut down by Western Refining in 2010, mostly because of insufficient feedstock in the vicinity of Bloomfield. Since then, under new ownership by a “green energy” consortium, it had been reopened, but was operating at less than half of its full capacity, with frequent layoffs and rumors of a permanent shutdown. Martin bought the moribund plant for pennies on the dollar. Most industry analysts surmised that he planned to bring it back to full operation with a couple of long-distance pipelines. The purchase announcement also made just passing mention that Martin Holdings planned to increase the refinery’s co- generation capacity.
But the news that did start rumors in Bloomfield was that the Martin family had purchased a 120-acre cattle ranch and three 20-acre ranchettes, each with modest homes. All four of these properties were on the same road as the 285-acre refining plant. A 3,000-square-foot tan metal shop building was added to the 120-acre place, which by then had been nicknamed “Martin’s Mystery Ranch” by the locals. It was a mystery why Martin would sell his 8,000-square-foot home in a fashionable Houston neighborhood and move his family to a 1,500-square-foot 1950s- era ranch house. One of the rumors was that the house had been quickly transformed to nearly 3,000 square feet after remodeling.
The ranch was better known for its natural gas output than its beef production. There were three low- production gas wellheads dotted across the place. From the S-Bar-L ranch house, the view of the San Juan Mountains far in the distance (across the state line, in Colorado) was overwhelmed by the view of the Bloomfield plant’s cracking towers and holding tanks only a half mile away. At night, the sky glowed from the light of the excess fractions being burned off.
To explain his family’s relocation, L. Roy said that he was winding down to retirement, that he wanted a slower pace of life, and that he wanted to personally oversee the operation of the Bloomfield plant, especially since this was his first refinery. (All of his previous experience had been in drilling and oil field development.) Despite these low-key public statements, there were rumors buzzing of L. Roy Martin opening up new oil fields in various parts of the Four Corners. Why else would a famed Texas oilman with a background in oil exploration move his family bag and baggage to the middle of nowhere? And why would he buy a dumpy old house out in the sagebrush when he could afford to build a mansion on the south bank of the San Juan River? It just didn’t match the public’s expectations of a Texas oilman who owned a Cessna Citation private jet, a pair of Hummer H1s, a Shelby Cobra, a restored 1963 Corvette, and a dozen motorcycles.
The Bloomfield plant was nearly thirty years old and fairly standard for a modern refinery, being set up for
