had a scratched stock, a dented barrel rib, and a few rust spots from previous improper storage, but it was serviceable. It cost Jerome $1,400 in the rapidly inflating dollars. As a teenager he had hunted ducks with his father’s 12-gauge Model 870, so he was quite familiar with the gun’s operation. With much searching and what he considered a huge outlay of cash, he was also eventually able to buy forty-five boxes of 20-gauge shotgun shells-an odd assortment of mostly birdshot of various sizes, #0 buckshot, and a few slugs. Some of the birdshot shells were so old that they had paper hulls, and Jerome wondered if they would still fire.
On their third weekend seed-buying trip, Jerome took his family to the Hoosier National Forest, just across the river, in Indiana, to try out the shotgun. He explained and demonstrated how to load and fire the gun, and the operating of its safety button: “This gun had a duck-hunting plug in it, so the magazine would only hold two shells. But I took that out, so now it holds five shells, plus one in the chamber. Now, let me show you something my daddy taught me. Right after you shoot one shell, after you pump the action, without taking the gun off your shoulder, you right quick shove another shell into the magazine from your bandoleer. You need to learn how to do that just by touch. That way you always keep the gun’s magazine full. And then if you ever have to shoot multiple, uhhh, ducks, then you can keep pumping from a full magazine. Okay?”
“Okay, shoot one, load one, unless it’s an emergency,” Sheila echoed.
“That’s right,
They shot only the oldest shells, aiming at empty soda pop cans set up twenty feet away. This gave an impressive display of the gun’s power, thoroughly shredding the cans with birdshot. Since he had only two pairs of earmuffs, one of them had to plug their ears with their fingertips. While the gun was small for Jerome, the stock was just the right length for Sheila, who was five feet two inches and weighed just 110 pounds. Sheila soon got used to shooting the gun, obviously enjoying it. Even Emily fired a few shells, and Tyree fired three shells while sitting between his father’s knees. He was thrilled. As they walked back to his car, toting the shotgun and a paper bag full of ventilated aluminum cans, Jerome said, “Well, now we’re all ready for World War Three.”
Sheila snapped back, “More likely Civil War Two.”
Two weeks earlier, in Arizona, Ian Doyle and his Honduran-born wife, Blanca, had been sitting in their living room, watching the ten o’clock news. Their daughter was already asleep in her bedroom. The news show was dominated by reports about the stock market crash on Wall Street.
Ian asked, “Remember what your dad told us, after his vacation trip to South Africa, about how they don’t transport diamonds from the mines on the ground, only in helicopters?”
“Sure, I remember. He said the hijacking stopped after they switched to flying the diamonds.”
“Well, that has me thinking: if the economy totally falls apart-and it might within a year-if the three of us ever
Blanca answered, “Not being able to drive, that sounds pretty extreme. But I suppose it could happen.” After pondering for a moment she asked, “What about Charley, from the ultralight club? He has that tan-painted Star Streak. With that, we’d have common parts, in case we ever have to cannibalize.”
“I’ll give him a call.”
Two days later, Ian met with Charley Gordon at his home in Old Stone Ranch, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Phoenix. Gordon was overweight and balding. He wore a golf shirt and a flashy Patek Philippe wristwatch.
Ian spent twenty minutes talking with Charley about light experimental aircraft. Charley mentioned that he hadn’t flown his much recently because of chronic lower back pain.
In one of the bays of his three-car garage sat an enclosed aircraft trailer, almost identical to Doyle’s. Gordon explained that he had bought a Laron Shadow in kit form just before the turn of the century. Building it had been a two-year project. He later upgraded it to the larger four-stroke Hirth engine, effectively making it into a Star Streak. It only had eighty-three hours clocked on the new engine. Like Doyle’s plane, Charley’s Laron had the optional wing lockers for extra cargo space.
Ian asked Gordon if he’d sell his plane. He replied, “Yeah, maybe, but with inflation, I probably couldn’t replace it for less than $25,000.” He offered Ian a glass of lemonade. They settled into the living room with their drinks, and the conversation shifted to the recent stock market collapse. They agreed that it was the most dramatic economic event since 1929. Doyle then asked, “What do you plan to do if things get a
“You mean a Depression that lasts a decade or more? My house is paid for. I’m scheduled to retire in just six months-that is,
“No, I mean, what if there are riots, looting, that sort of thing. Would you move then?”
Gordon’s arm swept around the perimeter of his well-appointed living room, and he said, “My wife’s whole life is wrapped up in her antiques and her paintings. I don’t think she’d ever budge an inch from this house. So if times get hard, we’ll just hunker down right here. If it looks like the power might go out, my plan is to drain my pool and refill it with tap water.” He added with a laugh, “Then I’ll sell it to my neighbors, one gallon at a time.”
“Do you have any guns?”
“I’ve got a snub-nosed .38 and old .22 pump action.”
“That’s not exactly an anti-riot arsenal.” Doyle leaned forward and went on: “I don’t have $25,000 in cash to buy your kite, so here’s a trade proposal for you: you don’t
“Yeah, sure, I’ve seen ’em on the History Channel. The Brits used them back in World War II and Korea-oh, and in Malaya. The one where the magazine sticks out to the side.”
“Right. Well, what would you say if I traded you my Sten gun, a sound suppressor for it, a dozen magazines, and a big pile of 9mm ball ammo… That in exchange for your Laron, any spare parts you have for it, and its trailer.”
“A
“Charley, I’m not sure if you’ve shopped for guns and ammo recently, but the prices are sky-high, and you can’t even
Gordon scratched his chin. He asked, “Is that Sten registered-I mean, the $200 tax stamp thing with the Feds?”
“No, and neither is the suppressor.”
Gordon started to laugh. “Ian, you always did strike me as the kind of guy who thinks outside the box.”
Ian added bladder fuel tanks to the second Laron, just like he had already done the previous year to his Star Streak. Originally, the Star Streaks only had a range of about 320 miles at 80 percent power. The main tank held fourteen and a half gallons. The bladders weren’t connected directly to the primary fuel system. Ignoring FAA safety regulations, he installed two Black & Decker Jack Rabbit hand pumps, attaching them with Velcro cable ties alongside the front seats. Transferring fuel from the bladder to the main tank was time-consuming but fairly easy to do when flying straight and level. The bladder tanks extended the range of both planes to about 480 miles without landing to refuel.
Lars and Beth continued to stock up by ordering things on the Internet. There, prices were being bid up to the stratosphere. Lars had to pay $14 each for a handful of extra ammunition stripper clips for the M39 Mosin-Nagant rifle that he had inherited from his father. But they did find a few overlooked bargains that most people considered antiques and collectibles. These included two hand scythes and a hand-cranked bench grinder. Lars was also successful at bidding on nine filter cartridges for the ranch’s whole-house water filter.
Laine also bought dozens of three-packs of obsolete Magic Cube flash camera cubes. He explained to Beth and Kaylee that with just a piece of monofilament fishing line and a paper clip, these could be used as an improvised intrusion alarm device. The flash would both startle any nighttime intruders and alert anyone awake in the house that there was a prowler in the yard. He explained that standard flash cubes were set off with a battery, but Magic Cubes were set off with a mechanical striker. An NCO who was a Desert Storm vet had showed him the trick.
