Secrets of Liberty Mountain No Man s Land Chapter9
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Secrets Of Liberty Mountain: No Man's Land (Chapter 31) free porn video
The days melted into weeks and the weeks flowed into months as winter searched for spring. For the first couple dozen wake-ups, I started each morning with the unreal feeling that I was at the bottom of a rabbit hole. By the end of the second month, the sense of strangeness decreased, and I was able to open my eyes without breaking into a cold sweat. I was still on the wrong side of the looking glass, but Wonderland had become my home.
I didn't make a journey to Liberty Mountain to search out a place to hunker down and wait for the world to end. I'd never been a prepper and thought the Sisterhood's obsession with survivalism and their belief in the coming apocalypse to be a weird way to spend a life.
"My boss is a brilliant woman, too bad she is wasting her life up here in the mountains," I said to Darlene one morning over a cup of coffee.
"What do you mean, 'wasted,'" Darlene paused mid-sip and frowned at me.
"You know, wasted, as in unproductive. Sheila's got so much talent, 'tiz a pity she's throwing it all away," I noted between sips of Colombian nectar.
"Why? Would it be better if we worked in underground missile silos waiting for the command to exterminate all life?" Darlene tilted her head to one side and gave me one of her strange smiles.
"If the world never goes to hell in a handbasket, they’ll have squandered their lives," I sputtered lamely under my partner's steady gaze.
"If it doesn't, then we’ll have spent our lives as free women doing what we love in the company of friends in one of the most beautiful places on earth,” Darlene pointed out the window. “Shitloads better than working a dead-end job with no future, don't ya think? Now hurry up, or you'll be late to work." Darlene leaned over and kissed me and sent me on my way with a smack on my ass.
I forced myself to admit it, maybe she was right. Who was I to judge? Their lives were no more "wasted" than nuns cloistered away in convents or monks locked away in endless prayer.
Life with the clan didn't turn out to be anything like the long and glorious vacation I had hoped it would be. Rather than living a life of leisure, I found myself laboring harder than ever before. Herodian, an ancient Roman historian, once asked a Roman slave how he spent his days. The slave was reported to have replied, “Sometimes I do what I want, but most of the time I do what I must.” Amen brother, you and I are kindred spirits.
The Sisterhood never had a problem with boredom. Everyone, including me, held at least one second job in addition to our primary duties. If that weren't enough to eat up spare time, they also assigned me to be a drone operator and rifleman. My to-do list was longer than my day.
Like everyone else, I worked the equivalent of two full-time jobs and my typical work day included eight to twelve hours as Sheila's shadow and another five to seven hours working in the kitchen or the gardens in the cavern beneath Liberty Mountain. In my free time (ha!) I tried to learn how to fly the drone I was supposed to operate.
Occasionally, to catch-up on the political bullshit back home, I took a shift at the communications center. Scores of live global news channels streaming in via satellite were the Sisterhood's window on the world and an endless source of news and entertainment.
The easy-going routine of the Colony shattered like glass the day warnings of incoming ballistic missile attacks swarmed across the globe. Hawaii issued its alert with a tagline made necessary by their 2018 fuck-up. "This is absolutely not a drill. This is the real thing,"
Two minutes and twenty-two seconds passed before the Alaskan Tsunami Early Warning system was pressed into service to deliver an identical message. ICBMs were inbound and headed to the land of the midnight sun.
Within minutes the amphitheater of the multi-media center transformed itself into a situation room as every member of the Sisterhood took up their duty stations monitoring and sampling global reaction and back-channel shortwave transmissions. The flurry of activity crawled to a stop as we watched in growing horror as civil defense commands in Australia, Japan, and Canada echoed similar warnings to their citizens.
"Oh my fucking word, it's happening." Sheila's face went ashen as tears welled up in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. She gripped my arm to steady herself as she fought against gravity and despair.
The center's control officer had activated a digital timer when the first alarm sounded. Positioned high above the banks of television screens displaying all the major network feeds from around the world the doomsday clock was crossing over to the other side of midnight. Assuming the elapsed time since the commencement of the "event" was correct, we were less than ten minutes away from the start of the Third World War.
In a matter of moments, the wall of monitors in the media center went from a collage of random images to a pulsating pattern of flashing new bulletins and talking heads as one nation after another raised the alarm of Armageddon's approach.
Like a bystander watching someone jump from a burning high rise, I rode a wave of terror, and my gut turned to jelly as I waited for the inevitable splat! I braced myself against Sheila, and we clung to each other for mutual support.
As the digital clock flicked to 00:10:00 Hawaii announced, "Oops, Sorry. False Alarm." Several seconds later Alaska recalled its alarm without explanation and within a minute kangaroo-land, and our neighbors to the north both canceled their warnings. Japan, the only country to experience a nuclear attack, took another forty-five seconds to kill their doomsday message.
Mankind had been playing Russian Roulette with nuclear war for decades, and the hammer had finally fallen on a live round. Dumb luck or the hand of fate intervened. The bullet in the chamber was a dud.
After monitoring the situation for another hour, Sheila declared a Colony-wide stand-down and a day of thanksgiving. No doubt to allow her and everyone else a chance to decompress and find a clean change of underwear.
"Job well done. Fall out, liberty for all until eleven-hundred hours tomorrow," the leader commanded as she dismissed the women from duty.
When I turned to leave, Sheila's hand grabbed my shirt sleeve, "Not so fast. I'm still on duty, and so are you. There is a meeting we must attend. Follow me," she instructed as she led me to a small conference room at the rear of the amphitheater.
When we entered the meeting room, we found four of the five women from the executive committee already seated in the padded leather chairs around the conference table. Martha, my boss from the kitchen, played bartender and filled glass goblets with generous servings of the Sisterhood's delicious brandy.
The meeting, if you could call it that, was more of a group funk stuck at the intersection of 'What" and 'The Fuck.' No one said a word as we sat in silence.
I settled into the contours of my leather chair and took long slow sips of the golden brew. Brandy is the alcoholic version of "Chicken Soup for the Soul," and it was soon working its magic as a peaceful amber glow tinted the atmosphere of the room.
"What the fuck just happened?" Brandy pushed my unspoken thoughts past my lips before I had a chance to silence them.
"What do you think happened?" Sheila asked she tilted her chair back and crossed her feet on the table.
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. I took a deep breath I tried again. "I think we got a warning shot between the eyes. We are so not ready for this ..." I left the sentence unfinished as my voice went silent. I shrugged my shoulders and nodded toward Sheila and the women of the committee.
Sheila held her hand palm-up and spread her fingers open like a flower in a gesture of invitation. The floor belonged to me..
"We would be fucked if this had been the real thing. We lack the force of arms to hold this valley; We are not prepared. Not even close." I looked into the worried faces around the table.
"What about our Defense Force?" Sheila offered.
I turned to Brenda the Quartermaster, "You're the only person here with any real combat experience; do you think we could maintain this position against anything stronger than a troop of deranged Boy Scouts?"
"No. No, I don't," Brenda said with a humorless chuckle.
"We're safe, but we aren't secure. The heaviest weapons in inventory are semi-automatics for hunting. We have fifty rifles with two-hundred-thousand rounds of ammunition. There are no military grade weapons. Short of raiding an arms depot, what do you suggest?" Brenda got the implications of my question and leaned forward, narrowed her eyes and gave me a look of concerned determination.
Since this post-event gathering was a leadership meeting of the clan and I was "Hired Help," I wasn’t sure which protocol to follow. I studied Sheila's face for clues on how to proceed as I took a few sips of brandy and licked my lips.
"Speak freely so that we may better know your mind." Sheila lifted her glass of spirits above her head and pantomimed an invisible toast.
"I'm not a soldier, and I don't play one on TV, but I think we've got a problem. This place is now my home, thank you, you've all done an incredible job," I made eye contact with each sister in turn and nodded my head. I was pleased to see my complement acknowledged with a smile, nod, or at least a raised glass. "If the shit ever hits the fan there is no doubt we will be safe. However, it's one thing to survive the storm; it is another to prevail through all the years that will follow. In an all-out battle with intruders, we can't win a war of attrition. You, er, we, yes, we, need a force multiplier." I paused and scanned the faces around the table.
"Force multiplier?" Martha echoed in puzzlement.
"Yes. We need to add something to the mix to improve the odds," I said as I tried to recall some of the strategic planning sessions I had witnessed fifty or so years ago while I was in the Air Force. "Force multiplier is Department of Defense jargon for a component added to a military operation which increases a unit's combat effectiveness without a corresponding increase in personnel."
A trio of blank stares told me that they didn't get it. Only Brenda seemed familiar with the concept. "Unit morale is also a multiplier, or divider, depending on whether it's good or bad. So is training. The same number of well-trained warriors are much more efficient than an equal number of poorly trained fighters. Equipment is also a significant factor," I explained as I shifted in my seat.
"What do you propose?" Sheila "unrelaxed" and dropped her feet to the floor, sat upright in her chair and motioned me to continue.
"I don't know. We need to do a brainstorming session," I suggested.
My boss raised an eyebrow at my suggestion to turn her meeting into a think tank for creative problem-solving. I had floated a trial balloon, and like its namesake, the thought bubble floated around the room without direction or guidance while Sheila tapped the rim of her brandy glass against her front teeth while she contemplated my proposal.
After in eternity lasting several seconds, Sheila spoke words which turned my concept into concrete. "Excellent suggestion, Sky, I'm glad you volunteered," Sheila said as she winked at me and stood, glanced at her wristwatch, and addressed her companions around the table.
"We stand in recess for the next hour and will reconvene at the chat nook in front of the fireplace. Mister Wolf will lead us in a by-the-numbers, textbook, brainstorming session," my boss grinned at me as she used the base of her glass as an informal gavel, and tapped the table top.
"Really? You want me to run the group?" I looked at Sheila with alarm. "Why me?"
"Why not? It was your idea, and it's a good suggestion. We hadn't built our Athenian Library when we put together our defense system. After what happened today I think it wise we revisit our plans." Sheila's warm half-smile froze into an icy grimace as she shuddered at the fearful memory of despair when the shit almost hit the fan.
Word of our continued meeting spread quickly among the Sisterhood, and when we reconvened an hour later, at least a dozen sisters had gathered around the massive fieldstone fireplace located at the center of the cabin's great room. Curious women were seated in the cozy sunken chat-nook designed to encourage free conversation and socialization. A half circle of built-in terraced benches created a charming and informal meeting area usually reserved for evening entertainment and spontaneous jam sessions.
"Welcome and make yourselves comfortable. Events of today have raised concerns about our ability to defend our home against an armed intrusion," Sheila noted as she called the meeting to order.
"My assistant is of the opinion we are not adequately prepared to repel armed intruders in a post-apocalypse world. I am inclined to agree with his assessment, especially after today's close call," my boss said as she studied the faces of the assembled sisterhood.
"Today's brainstorming session will focus on the short-term things we can do to defend our home in the event of an armed invasion. My assistant has generously volunteered to facilitate the discussion, the floor is yours Mister StormyWolf," Sheila smiled as she took a seat and left me standing alone in front of the fireplace.
"Thank you, Sheila." I touched my eyebrow in salute and turned to face a growing gathering of women. Word of the meeting had made the rounds, and curious sisters were dropping by to see what the fuss was all about.
"For this exercise, we are going to assume today's cluster-fuck was the real thing, and the shit has hit the fan." I scanned the faces of the dozen women seated around the fireplace. I was relieved to see the familiar and friendly faces of Darlene, Serena, and her daughter, StarShine.
"Civilization has collapsed," I let the words hang in the air and paused and left the nightmare details to the imagination of my listeners. "A sizeable force of well-armed soldiers is advancing on our home." I raised my arms to encompass the Great Room and all of Liberty Mountain.
I paused for dramatic effect and lowered my voice to a threatening growl. "They have orders to," pause, "kill," pause, "capture,"long pause, "or destroy the sisterhood. Our lives and the fate of the Library of Athenia hang in the balance. What are we going to do to stop them?"
Fear and despair settled over our group as we each played out the nightmare scenario in our minds.
"We have a defense force, of sorts," I made eye contact with Sheila and Brenda the Quartermaster. "What can we add to the mix to improve the odds? What do we need to do or acquire to optimize our defense capabilities? Any suggestions?"
"We need better weapons," Brenda was the first to speak.
I used a red marker and wrote, "Better Weapons" on the large pad of paper mounted on the art easel next to me.
"Can you be more specific?" I asked.
"Automatic weapons like M16 assault rifles, AK-47s, a couple of .50 caliber heavy machine guns, or at least a few M-60s." Brenda fired off her suggestions in rapid succession.
"Cannons?" StarShine offered.
"Landmines. Lots of fucking landmines," Brenda shouted with enthusiasm.
"Invisibility cloak?" an unseen voice offered with a laugh.
"I'll put that down as camouflage." I recorded the thought on the notepad.
Over the next hour our thinktank expanded the list to include, among other things:
Airpower
Punji sticks
Boobytraps
No trespassing signs
Bunkers
Early engagement, ambushes
Better training
Lasers
Handgrenades
Poison gas
Flamethrowers
Body armor
Armored vehicles
Barbed wire
The exercise turned out to be a successful enterprise in that the Sisterhood's thinking about ways to defend their home shifted from passive to active. Over the next several weeks I worked with Sheila and her executive committee to prioritize and categorize the list of suggestions into four parts.
Items we could acquire on the open market went on one list. Equipment only available on the black-market went on the second list, and the stuff we could manufacturer found a home on the third. Everything that didn't fit the first three classifications went into a folder marked, "Wishful Thinking."
Military grade explosives proved impossible to find at any price. Instead, Sheila decided to improvise with bulk purchases of eight pound lots of black powder. Brenda used her online connections to arrange for the purchase of one hundred twenty-five units for a total of a half-ton of the explosive mix.
Our inventory of explosives would be further enhanced through the acquisition of one-thousand pounds of the binary explosive mixture used for exploding targets. Twenty fifty-pound-bags of super sensitive tannerite mixture designed to be detonated by rimfire .22 caliber rounds, or any round moving at twelve-hundred feet per second or faster.
The women of the Colony went into overdrive as they weaponized the to-do list dreamed up in our creative planning session. The suggestion to add airpower to our defensive mix resulted in plans to expand our squadron of surveillance drones by half-dozen remote control aircraft designed to carry five to ten pounds of specialized electronic equipment. Instead of hauling gear, the drones would be modified to carry a rack of four aerial pipe bombs, each weighing in at twenty-seven ounces.
The ladies from the blacksmithing and metallurgy departments were demonic geniuses. The team came up with a bomb design utilizing foot long, 1/16th-inch thick copper plumbing nipples fitted with an improvised shotgun shell detonator activated by inertia and a flat-side-down roofing nail striker. A grid pattern of shallow grooves etched into the surface of the pipe ensured that each device produced about one hundred fragments of deadly shrapnel. Plastic archery feathers served as tail fins and guaranteed a nose first ground strike when dropped from a minimum height of one hundred feet.
Test day was a blast, pun intended. I joined the crowd of curious sisters on the balcony of the cabin while Brenda put her drone through the paces in a series of test runs using dummy practice bombs. Aiming accuracy left a bit to be desired, five feet from the bulls' eye was the best she could achieve. Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and pipe bombs. We had a winner! Four ounces of black powder produced a deafening bang as seventeen thousand PSI of gases blew the pipe to smithereens.
As if the display of aerial ingenuity was not enough, the IED Team’s next creation was diabolical. I let out a sharp whistle of amazement and admiration when they presented Sheila with the prototype for a landmine activated by either pressure or remote control.
The body of the mine was a hollow baked ceramic shell about two-inches thick and the size a pie baking tin. Sixteen ounces of black powder filled the container. The device was covered by a thick coating of wax rendering it waterproof. As a bonus, the tacky surface attracted dust and dirt for camouflage. A blasting cap connected to a nine-volt battery detonated the mine if something stepped on the pressure activated trigger and completed the circuit.
“I doubt if it’ll be lethal,” Brenda caressed the IED as if it were a sleeping cat, “but it sure as hell will muck-up someone’s day.”
Several back-channel contacts established over the years provided a source, at a hefty price, for two M60 machine guns, spare parts, and several replacement gun-barrels along with five thousand rounds of belted ammunition. On the first day of May, Sheila advised her executive committee that she was ordering a four-vehicle expedition into town to acquire necessary supplies. We had two weeks to finalize our shopping list and prepare for a temporary return to civilization.
We were on a mission it to put some bite into our defensive bark.
Blaze
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