The Mighty

Pirate would have heard the warning sounds if he kept the windows down as Rod instructed. But a few minutes after leaving the buried tractor trailer and the body of its forlorn driver, Pirate raised the windows on the snogo to sneak a little heat, and punched a CD into the music player. Distracted, he only saw the ice monster, the soul robber of snow fields, as it pounced. The Wide Winged Beast, this crusher of mortals, bounded from among the drifts, blasting through the tops of the the buried trees -- clanking and snarling as it pounced, wide tracked, on the slow snogo Pirate drove. Pirate shifted the converted SUV into second gear as he accelerated, spinning the steering wheel right through the steering inhibitors of recent design. The vehicle spun out of its makeshift tracks and into a shallow chasm in the snow -- a snogo no mo' but out of the clutches of the beast.

The windows were up and buried in the snow. But Pirate could, if he took his coat off, skinny through the sun roof or try the rear hatch with his coat on. He climbed over the two cases of frozen Pizza and the tool box and shovel toward the rear hatch.

But he stopped. He heard foot steps in the snow outside. And then a voice, tentative and inquiring, "You OK."

"I'm suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-ly, ah, conduct! And it was your conduct that was disorderly." Pirate liked the world to know when it caused him stress. "And if OK is being buried alive in a glacier, I'm OK."

"You exaggerate," said Rod.

"What the hell you doing here anyway."

"I came looking for you."

"Well, I ain't found until I'm out of here."

"I'll dig out the back a bit and you can come out that away."

Pirate heard steps go and come back. He wanted to harangue Rod but Rod was a stoic and wouldn't harangue back. He would just absorb the harangue like a black hole sucking in matter. It would make him heavier, too, adding weight and gravity to his moroseness. Rod took things personal, and would act wounded and then Pirate would have to apologize but that wouldn't be enough. And then Rod would be there, Obese in his moroseness, which he would wear like a fat suit. Besides, a harangue would make Rod dig slower and cause Pirate to be stuck inside longer. On the other hand, a good harangue would pass the time nicely. Finally, Pirate compromised by crawling up front and putting the music on. Whatever this music was it was lousy music, some screechy, angry girl, not at all like lady Rose, who he now kind of missed and who bellowed like a woman, not some ditsy girl angrily screeching out lyrics that should have been done like a polka -- the My Guy's a Bug polka. So Pirate turned it back off. About that same time the back hatched popped open.

Pirate was set to climb out but Rod began climbing in. "I hope you don't want to cuddle," said Pirate.

"Ah-huh!" said Rod. "You broke the steering limiters."

"Inhibitors," corrected Pirate. "I broke the steering inhibitors. I'm an uninhibited guy. Besides, it was either that or death. What the hell is that thing you're driving? You were driving it, right?"

"Oh, that?" said Rod. "That's the Cold Rod. It's like a hot rod--"

"Only, Cold! Ain't it kind of vain, naming it after yourself?"

"It ain't named after me," Rod said, modestly. "Why don't you straighten out the steering wheel and turn the snogo off. It's going to melt its way down to China."

Pirate realized the snogo's engine still ran. He straightened out the steering wheel and turned off the ignition before climbing out.

The cold rod was a white four-wheel drive pick-up truck perched on top of four pairs of tracks -- one pair for each wheel. The tracks stuck out beyond the front and back end of the truck above, and stuck out on each side as well. The truck wheels didn't have tires, but instead gears that linked into other gears that reached down between the tracks to drive them. The truck was grimy, but the same light gray as the snow. But the tracks and metal below were brown, black, and dark gray, while the driver's cab windshield was the navy blue of a cyclops' eye. "The cold rod has articulated steering," said Rod. "As it moves, hydraulics can nudge the front tracks to the right or left. It's got a high steering radius. So you got to think in terms of curves, rather than angles. So it's not real articulate."

"Inarticulate," Pirate corrected. He thought Rod might be trying to make a joke and, being a nice guy, Pirate thought he'd help. "Us articulate people call it 'inarticulate.' That's not meant as a criticism, by the way, leveled by an articulate guy against the other sort. However, in this case inarticulate steering may not be the right term. I'd call it, let's see, stutter steering."

"Stutter steering," said Rod, with a precisely measured packet of mirth. "Stutter steering, that's good."

Rod tried to pull something he identified as "the sled" off the back of his truck -- or Cold Rod, as he called it. It was a predominately flat piece of wood and plastic. Pirate thought it only proper he help, and grabbed one side. Once they had it positioned, Rod took a cable and hooked it up to the SUV and quickly had it out of the shallow snow chasm, and took a look at it. "The tracks held up OK. They didn't slip off until you broke the steering limiters."

"Inhibitors," Pirate corrected.

"Point is, it was driver error."

"What you mean by driver error?"

Rod paused, while his mind retrieved the mechanics definition of the term. Pirate didn't want to hear it. "Ain't it Ironic," he said, as he allowed Rod to return to work. "There are two vehicles on the road in all north Ohio and they get in a wreck in the middle of a farmer's field. Explain that one to the insurance agent."

"When you alter the vehicle enough," said Rod, as the power winch pulled the snogo/SUV onto the sled, "You are no longer covered under your old policy."

"They are still licensed vehicles," said Pirate.

"Licensed for what?"

"You mean," Pirate mused, "We are operating outside the law? Floating above the regulations? But without permission?"

Rod worked rather than mused. As he lashed the Snogo to the sled he said. "Go on. Get in the cab of the Cold Rod and get warm. I'll be done in minute."

"It's Monster Ice, not Cold Rod," Pirate corrected. "The Monster Ice Tracked...The Monster Ice Tracked Incisor, we'll call it Mighty!"

"Incisor? Isn't that like a tooth?"

"Tracked...tracked engine. Monster Ice Tracked what I said. Mighty."

"Wouldn't that be MITE? As in tiny insect--or maybe an expression of probability? Might be this. Might be that."

"Mighty! We are going to pronounce it Mighty. It don't matter what the acronym is, see? No more acrimony about acronyms! We can always stick in something to give it the sound of 'why?' at the end. Or is it e?" Pirate was about to give up on naming things. It seemed like mind stretching work, at least with Rod around. "Well, one thing I learned: you can work and be picky at the same time. You driving?"

"Damn straight I'm driving."

Pirate found getting into Mighty mighty difficult. That is because the cab of mighty was mighty high -- the High and Mighty Command Cab, as it were. He first got onto the front passenger side pair of tracks, but found he could not open the door and stay on the tracks. Then he got on the back pair and found he couldn't open the door. So he got off the tracks to open the door and found he was sinking into the snow, which began to give way under him and soon got in his boots. So he got back on the front pair to open the door and on the back pair to climb in. Only it was more of a stretch and a crawl to get off the rear track and into the cab and as he did it he realized how tired he was. It took Pirate so long to get in that Rod got in at almost the same time.

Rod put his seat belt on, so Pirate did the same. "The wide tracks make it stable," said Rod, "as long as the snow crust don't give way under it." He put it into gear. "The gear ratio is altered a bit. Normally, you start this baby out in second. But since we're pulling a load, I'll start in first." Rod directed mighty along Pirates old track for a bit and then veered off, following the track that Mighty had put down earlier. They crossed Brood Creek, which emptied into the lagoon on the lake, using a bridge which had snow piled on top between the bridge supports. The Mighty had busted through before, and just barely passed under the central support beam. On the other side of the bridge there was a deep dip in the landscape of snow and the track led under some utility wires and then came out near the bank of the creek. Pirate briefly feared that the sled with the snogo attached mighty slide down the bank and into the creek. But Rod seemed unconcerned. He was near his garage and handy to equipment that could handle most challenges he would encountered. For him any screw up would just provide more enjoyment. He was the sort that could finish one crossword puzzle and immediately start another. Pirate felt one should savor one's accomplishments for a while, or for a long while -- depending on the accomplishment.

They dropped off the snogo on a snow platform by Rod's garage and then Rod told Pirate they had an errand to run. Pirate wanted to get back and take a nap but he was trapped into going along.

Rod took the Mighty down a trail someone had marked for him. Fairly soon they came to the farm field with the cattle grazing on the hay the farmer had dug out. It was, in fact, the same field Pirate and Fred had commented on earlier. Rod and Pirate used the power winch to drag hay bundles out from under snow and position them so they could be accessed after the next series of storms. Then they loaded a hay bundle onto the sled, apparently by way a payment (though Pirate did not know what use Rod would have for the hay) to drag it back to Brood.

Just before they left, Pirate spotted Paul's Party returning from the Industrial Park. They were on the other side of the valley, across both Brood creek and the smaller Indian Run that had done in the truck and driver. So Pirate tried to yodel like an alpine goat herder, to get their attention. And he yodeled again, but not very well, all and all. Still, they looked his way. And someone called back. "Is that Pirate?" And Pirate heard it and called back, "sure is. It's Pirate!" And it felt good, in that moment, to be alive and tired.

2.
The first meeting was about to get underway in Washington and Sandy still had much to do to produce her presentation for the next day. Greg had only given her the most general idea of what he wanted and it was a sure thing he'd come back and throw whatever she produced into the shredder. Then again, he might not since he might use it even though he told here he wouldn't. One thing was sure, he certainly was not above keeping her guessing.

It wasn't until she got on the plane that she got a good idea of his plans. Apparently the government was set to write off what was formerly known as "The Great Lakes Region" as well as much of the Northeast. Greg saw no reason to let everything contained in those regions go to waste. So he had gone back to the ancient maritime notion of "Salvage." Basically, if you find it and can put it to use, it's yours.

Sandy was writing provisions to stick in the bill that had just past the Interim Congress the day before. It was growing at the rate of 2,000 pages of thick legal language a day, so no one had time to read it. It was estimated that by the end of the next week it would reach 36,000 pages -- which seemed quite enough for the time being. In fact it never would take final form, with additional pages added on a whim. But not just any whim: Al Insky's whim. He controlled the official word processor of the Interim Congress. It was an ancient model that would be hard to hack. To Al it was an updated version of Clay Tablets, where "The Living Laws" of the Interim Congress were kept and could only be tampered with by a select few. These laws may be prepubescent now, but promised a robust and romping adolescence leading, in turn, to a deep voiced and well hung adulthood. Insky saw it all quite clearly.

Al sat at the head of the round table, around which the Principles -- or at least the principle Principles -- were gathered. The principle staff of the principle Principles were aligned behind like a pyramid -- with the main guy at the top. And Sandy noticed they were all guy guys and none of them girl guys. Apparently, the Secretary of State was somewhere in Africa, the Secretary of Education was touring a school, the Secretary of Housing and Urban Development was stuck in New Orleans and the Secretary of Health was in the hospital -- perhaps sick, perhaps visiting, perhaps touring -- after a botched abortion or perhaps many -- whose botched abortion and how many and who done the botching, Sandy did not know. In any case, she was glad these women were not there since other woman invariably ganged up on her and she didn't need that.

Sandy sat immediately behind Greg and was one of the few women of any rank in the room. Even the menials providing the extra chairs and filling glasses with water were male. Apparently, this is what results from feminists supporting chauvinist for high office: a lady sandwich. The wet and soggy bottom bun was mostly men -- most of whom seemed reconciled to their new, step-n-fetch lot in life. Then women dominated the middle ranks with a layer of men -- ivy league macho types, for the most part -- at the top. Whatever coup d'etat the ladies had planned obviously wasn't happening today. How they could allow themselves to be outmaneuvered this way was beyond Sandy.

Of course even the men present regarded her with suspicion -- even the men she had previously charmed and seduced and who hoped to once again be victimized. No one here trusted her, even though she had the highest national security clearance imaginable. But her political clearance was suspect. Most that would occur in the following days -- at least in the important later sessions -- would be political. For those who had not met her, the very fact that she sat in the first rank behind Greg meant she was a highly skilled (and highly paid) hired gun. Her reputation for turbo charged, ruthless efficiency (with Greg providing the turbo-charging) had preceded her. In fact there were only three men in the room who did not fear her: Gregor Strasser, because he thought he knew how to control her; Al Insky, because he no longer knew fear; and Hal Bore, because he no longer knew.

Her job now was to listen, learn, and calculate.

3.
From Al's point of view, the initial meeting went rather well. Of course the hard bargaining would come later. But he expected everyone would get pretty much what they wanted, since he invested a lot of time making sure that everyone involved knew the stakes and the situation. If their was a pie to be divided up, it was now a mud pie that, after slicing, might slide off the spatula while serving.

Al knew Greg thought it more like baked Alaska, and wanted a huge serving for himself. But that was OK. Al needed Greg now, and would continue to need him for months to come. Al would see that Greg got much of what he wanted, and Al knew Sandy -- an act of nature in her own right -- would be the implementing force in Greg's plan. If Al looked at her with an admiring eye that day -- and he did -- it was as much for that reason as her beauty.

While preparing for these meetings, he wrote a speech on the very topic of Greg and Sandy and the others in the room, one that would never be delivered and one that no one else would ever read. It was a speech that he put in his top secret speech bank -- a speech that was frank and devastating in its analysis and identified conspiracies and acts of criminal incompetence and treason, most of which had not yet happened. This speech would help him formulate his strategy going forward. One that was sobering, yes, but in its own way inspiring, too -- but only after certain purification rituals the speech called for were performed, scheduled for a later date. There were three people in that room who faced the future with confidence and excitement: Al and Greg, because they knew what they were doing, and Sen. Hal Bore because he didn't.

The meeting took place in Washington, while the government was stuck in snow. It started with an ice storm that made the streets and walkways unnavigable. Then came three feet of snow in a city where six inches was enough to spread panic. A quasi melt briefly followed, then another foot and a half. Then some melting and freezing and more ice storms and snow. It sapped the spirit of all around. The administration brought in the military to clear the streets since the local authorities proved helpless. The government workers still thought it best for the nation that they stay home and collect sick leave. Considering the overall situation, they had a point. How does one pursue one's normal duties in such an abnormal situation? And that is what this group hoped to do over the next few days: establish the New Normal, and implement it over the next 100 days. In fact, it would be called "The Program for the New Normal," which everyone thought a reassuring name for. The program was intended to provide much for government workers, at all levels, to do.

The first meeting aimed to bringing everyone up to speed on the big picture -- not just in the US but around the world. First, in the middle east US forces were finding themselves in the middle of a multi sided war over Iraq and Kuwait which included the Iraqi's -- who started out wanting Kuwait (that old bugaboo of theirs) and given what the Iranians were up to, the Kuwaitis may well have wanted the Iraqi's to want them (reports were confused on this point). In any case the conflict soon included Turkey, Syria, Iran, Saudi Arabia and various "out of theater actors" such as Russia, China and India, who all wanted a chunk of Iraq for themselves or their clients, with no one quite sure which client was theirs. Because of poor communications, the administration had given permission to the local US commanders to take force protection measures. The local commander responded to the first "terror attack" on US forces by taking out much of the Iranian "Revolutionary guards," much to the dismay of the Iranian Regime, who thought it unfair that the US fought back so hard. They threatened the use of Atomic Weapons they supposedly did not have, in a quantity that everyone hopes was an exaggeration. The US units were hold-up in the Western deserts of Iraq, consolidating around two Air Bases near the Jordan border. Jordan was quietly resupplying them, but did not want to play host to the US forces nor did Jordan want them to leave.

Still, attacks on Americans had stopped almost everywhere. Of course, they all knew knew the massive retaliation by that commander was a reckless gamble but it did seem to have paid off, at least for the time being. Still, much of the US military was stuck out in 'Injun country" -- as the racists use to say. In fact, even Europe was fast becoming Injun country. So Insky wanted them back. But the world did not want to give them back. They were viewed either as a stabilizing force or hostages, depending on who was doing the viewing. At some point, they would start viewing them as dead meat.

Though the events were more than likely unrelated, after the commanders retaliation against the Iranians, domestic terror attacks seemed to have stopped. But the ones that occurred were damaging enough. There'd been a couple of successful terror attacks and some damaging sabotage.

The latest news on the surface to air missile that took out an Airbus full of "contingency evacuees" from northern Europe was the same as the previous: it was fired by "they knew not who" for reasons "they knew not what." Northern Europe was cold, but not yet snowbound, and still governed by the global warming orthodox. Still, many of the powerful were getting their families out, to beat the rush, as it were. It was a shame that those who searched for safety were the victims. But were they the target, or just at the right altitude at the wrong time?

On it's way down, the Airbus took out a commuter plane that was, ironically enough, full of climatologists heading for a meeting that had been moved from Washington to Atlanta on account of inclement weather in DC. Fortunately, there did not seem to be a shortage of climatologists. In any case, they put out the story it all resulted from a mid-air collision.

Then there was the paramilitary group that attacked an evacuation center in Tennessee with automatic weapons, grenades and suicide vests. Though they were highly trained paint ballers, they were ill-prepared when the women and children started shooting back. As a result the terrorists were quickly dispatched after they took out the security guards and well before taking over the refugee school, which seemed to be their objective. The story was put out that it was the actions of a disgruntled Red Cross employee and gun nut that resulted in several deaths.

It was not known if these attacks were the result of rogue actors taking advantage of an opportunity to disrupt the hated nation when it was most vulnerable, or an enemy intelligence agency activating sleeper cells for that same purpose. So far, the feared terror offensive had not yet materialized.

As for the Refugee Camps, the bad news was that they were severely over crowded already. The good news was, with the arrival of Hurricane Demetrius and the spawn storms to the south, transportation had broken down to the point that people could not travel to the camps.

The bad news: getting supplies to the camps was proving difficult. Apparently, the new smart communication system was sabotage, which was Kind of OK with Insky -- there was simply too much communicating going on. But to add to the mess, the new, partially installed Smart Grid -- designed to cleverly move electricity about the country -- had a stroke, what with so many power surges and cut offs, and short circuits occurring. The result was that power throughout much of the US had simply gone out.

But all this was beneath the pay grade of those assembled. They were there to plot the way forward. And in this case, the plans really were plots.

The last part of Chapter Six, "The Mighty," is here.