Survivors – A Novel of the Coming Collapse

officers would control the operation. Eventually, Hutchings became little more than a figurehead. The real power in the country was held by the UN administrators. They had their own chain of command that bypassed the Hutchings administration, and they had direct control over the military.

One closely guarded secret was that Maynard Hutchings signed an agreement that promised payment of thirty metric tons of gold from the Fort Knox depository to defray the costs of transporting and maintaining a mixed contingent of UN peacekeepers, mostly from Germany, Holland, and Belgium. The gold was shuttled out of the country in half-ton increments in flights from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. There had also been the offer of Chinese peacekeeping troops, but Hutchings insisted that no Asian or African troops be used on American soil, saying, “I want it to be all white fellas that’ll blend in.”

In early December, Lars Laine made an appointment to meet with L. Roy Martin at his office. Although Laine’s daily “uniform” around the ranch was a pair of khaki pants and a digital ACU shirt-his best bet to blend in, given the predominant local sagebrush over sandy soil-he decided to brush his tan leather combat boots and wear his full ACU uniform. He even “de-sterilized” it, slapping on a Velcro flag on the shoulder, a subdued oak leaf on the center of his chest, and a “LAINE” nametape. Beth suggested that he wear his tan eye patch, saying, “It’s better you look rugged, rather than him spending the whole time eyeballing your glass eye.” Only Beth could say something like that to Lars without him feeling the least offended. She always knew what to wear to a party.

As Lars drove back from shopping, he passed a group of men who were constructing a reinforced fighting position beside the road on a low hill, about halfway between Farmington and Bloomfield. It was obviously part of the sheriff’s posse work on Bloomfield roadblocks that he had heard about. They observed his passing vehicle suspiciously, and two of them stepped toward their rifles until they saw the license plate prefix.

Lars drove up to the refinery’s gates and was not surprised to see that they were closed and manned by a pair of guards armed with both M1A rifles and holstered pistols. One of them had a clipboard. Lars rolled down his window and announced, “Major Lars Laine. I have an appointment with Mr. Martin.”

Lars was asked for his ID, and the guard took twenty seconds to closely examine it, comparing it with the notes on his clipboard. This obviously was not just a perfunctory “Wave them through” sort of stop. As the guard was looking at Laine’s driver’s license and military ID card, Lars sized up the guard: He was in his early thirties and had a buzz cut. He had the bearing of an Army or Marine Corps veteran. He wore unmarked ACUs, desert boots, IBA, and slightly scratched Oakley sunglasses and a tan baseball cap, for the full-on Special Forces “operator” look. And just as he was being handed back his ID cards, Lars noticed a woven texture on the back of the well-worn clipboard. It was one of the “executive protection” Kevlar clipboards that he had seen in Iraq. Clearly, these guys were not your everyday rent-a-cops.

The guard whispered a code phrase on a handie-talkie, and ten seconds later the electric gate opened. Lars drove up to the plant’s administrative office, a nondescript windowless concrete slab tilt-up building that looked recently constructed. He stepped out of the cab and slung his Valmet across his back.

To Lars, the building looked normal except that he could see a parapet of sandbags at one corner of the roof. And then as he approached the building he noticed the front door, which had probably originally been glass, had been replaced with what appeared to be plywood, painted dark gray to match the building.

A neatly printed sign with an arrow read, “Press buzzer and identify yourself. Door is heavy: Pull hard!” Lars pressed the button and looked up at a CCTV camera. “Major Lars Laine.” A moment later a buzzer sounded and Laine pulled the door open. It was indeed very heavy. As he swung it open, he could see that the plywood was just a veneer, covering an unpainted sheet of half-inch-thick plate steel. After he stepped through, the spring-loaded door automatically closed behind him with a click. Laine turned to see that there was a green indicator light shining above the door and that there were heavy metal brackets installed to manually bar the door. He turned forward again to see that he was in a narrow passageway just over three feet wide and nine feet long, with a cinder-block wall on one side, the building’s slab outer wall on the other side, and tongue-and-groove eight-inch planks sheeted above. At the end of the hallway was another door, also steel, this one unpainted, and he was again under the lens of a CCTV camera. He heard the inner door being unbarred. After a pause, a woman’s voice on the intercom announced, “You may proceed.”

Pushing open the inner door, which seemed even heavier-it looked like three-quarter-inch plate steel-Lars came into an entry foyer. A trim woman in her thirties with a stubby “breaching” riot shotgun slung at her side greeted him, “Good morning, sir, Mr. Martin is ready to see you. Follow me.” She walked him past mainly empty desks to the far end of the building. Lisbeth would have been happy to see that Lars was giving attention to the secretary’s Remington riot gun and not her rear end.

As Laine was ushered into Martin’s office, he was taken aback to see that instead of a paneled executive office, it appeared to be a converted storage room, with no decorations. Martin had a round face and a middle-age paunch. He wore suit pants, a polo shirt, and small Giorgio Armani wire-framed eyeglasses. Martin had what Lars called a desk jockey physique.

Martin was seated behind an odd square desk that was constructed a bit like a church pulpit, with slab sides that went all the way to the floor. A Kenwood multiband transceiver and a police scanner sat stacked on one corner of the desk. Their antenna co-ax cables went straight up to the ceiling, adding to the utilitarian look of the office.

“Take a seat,” Martin said, with a wave.

As he did, resting the Valmet across his thighs, Laine realized that the desk where Martin sat was probably constructed out of plate steel and just covered with wood for show.

Martin began, “I’ve heard some good things about you.”

“Likewise. And I’m impressed with your security around here.”

“You were in the Army?”

“Yeah, I was branched Civil Affairs. I got out as an O-4.”

Martin responded, “I heard that was becoming its own branch just as I was leaving the Army. Times change.”

“Yeah, Iraq and Afghanistan changed a lot of things for the Army. ‘Low Intensity Conflict,’ ‘Nation Building,’ all that.”

Recognizing the distinctive “cheese grater” black fore end on Laine’s rifle, Martin intoned, “That’s a Valmet, isn’t it?”

“You sure know your guns. Yes, it’s a Valmet. It belonged to my father. Before he passed away, he collected guns from Finland, since he was Finnish.”

“But I thought your family name was English?”

“Lane, without the i is English, but Laine with the i is fairly common for folks of Finnish descent.”

“Oh, I see.” After an awkward pause, L. Roy asked, “Can you sum up your military experience?”

“I did three tours: one in Afghanistan, and two in Iraq. I spent a lot of time outside the wire. Civil Affairs officers mainly do host country liaison. That got dicey at times. I was an IPI liaison. That stands for ‘indigenous populations and institutions.’ I picked up a bit of Pashto and a conversational level of Arabic. I was nearly done with my third tour when I got this present, courtesy of some jihadi othek who was given some electronics goodies by the Iranians.” Laine raised his prosthetic hand and rotated it at the wrist. “So I hear that you want to set up roadblocks, like the ones they’re building around Farmington.”

“That’s right. But I’m getting some resistance from the Bloomfield City Council. They think I’m an alarmist.”

“They ought to go visit Phoenix or Denver. That would give them a whole new attitude, right quick.”

Both men nodded.

Laine asked, “Say, before we talk too much grand strategy, can you tell me how you’re keeping the refinery operational?”

“With a bit of Yankee ingenuity,” L. Roy laughed. “The staff here is excellent. You’ve got to understand that most modern refineries run a ‘closed-loop’ twenty-four-hour-a-day continuous operation. The alternative to continuous ops is ‘batch’ operations. Batch ops are usually confined to a specific grade of product, like diesel, and any operation waste is tanked. In the old days they simply pumped this waste in a nearby ditch or, if they were really ‘green,’ they put it in a clay-lined open holding pond.

“To run a continuous op, you of course need continuous feedstock that can meet the minimum ‘throughput’ and tankage for product storage for final distribution. The tricky thing is that all aspects have to be balanced to