Chapter 45 Land of Freedom

Colonel Rickson clambered over the aftertaste of wreckage across the deck. Lieutenant Colonel Lancaster, a step behind, crunched on broken glass and mangled metal. The bridge above them hung at a precarious angle, with shattered consoles and dangling wires. Twisted beams of fallen railings poked out, and the Aegis Combat System mast lay sprawled across the bridge deck like a slain piece of scrap metal.

The extent of the damage became readily apparent on the way up the bent steps. Shards of the helm station's windshield littered the floor. From a higher point, they could see a pool of viscous oil oozing from a ruptured generator, painting the deck and fallen rocks with a greasy sheen.

Colonel Rickson reached the outside entrance, squinting into the unknown beyond the shattered bridge window. The cove's natural amphitheater had swallowed the daylight, leaving only the apparition-like luminescence of minimal emergency lighting to illuminate the natural contours of the cove.

Even the hummingbird drone's preliminary scans couldn't do justice to the near-impossible logistical chasm they had to face.

It wasn't the sheer depth itself, though it was certainly no child's plaything either. The rain-slicked ravine plunged away in a series of jagged terraces, like a rocky staircase. The gulley snaked its way up the cliff face, twisting and turning, each with its own hairpin bend, concealing the next impossible climb. To the next treacherous drop for the next vehicle even foolish enough to attempt the ascent.

The Hummingbird drone's report was accurate in one respect. There was a space big enough to get the dune buggies out of the cove onto the highest rock shelf.

The question was. How in the world was Colonel Rickson going to get them there?

"Lancaster, can you see it?"

Lancaster's demeanor of constant professionalism melted with a concerned look in his eyes.

"This," he began.

"Is pushing the envelope past shredding it, Colonel Rickson? Don't you think?"

"I know. But it's our only option."

"With all due respect, Colonel," Lancaster retorted.

"Sending those buggies up there is a one-way ticket to a rocky graveyard. It's like asking them to climb a waterfall made out of broken glass."

"Do you play pool, Colonel Lancaster?"

"Yes, why? What's that got to do with anything?"

"If we're not going to be able to make it up there by ourselves, why don't we smash up the rocks like a pool player taking a break?"

"You mean an explosion, Colonel Rickson?"

"No, I mean a controlled avalanche. We certainly have a few demolition experts within our ranks. Think about it. It might level the proverbial rocky playing field as it were."

"It might also come down and crush us like a ton of bricks. Then none of us are getting out," Lancaster said alarmingly.

"Worse still, a detonation could alert any passersby to where we are."

"Hard decisions have to be made, Lancaster. Once Trump sees the impossibilities on his planned joyriding buggy ride, he will soon come round to my way of thinking."

"He is most likely going to strip you of your rank for sending us inside this death wish of a cave. You can bring it up with him. I would suggest getting the damage reports first. That way, you can give him no other choice. He will be pissed, though."

"When is he ever not pissed Lancaster?"

"Let's get the damage report then!"

"I can see the damage report with my own eyes. Lancaster. We have well and truly hit rock bottom, stuck between a rock and a hard place."

"Although your valid attempt at irony is commendable, Colonel Rickson. I would like to point out that my sense of humor has well and truly gone."

"Did you like it?"

"No!"

Inside the nerve center of the bridge, both Colonels instantly detected the reeking tang of burnt electronics, finding a huddle of engineers conferring by a fallen spotlight, its shattered dome spitting out just enough light for them to carry out their inspections. Chief Engineer Meldon Rigby, an experienced good-ole-boy from Texas, spotted his superiors and walked over with a tablet clutched in his greased-stained hands.

"Preliminary diagnostics, Rigby, give me the lay-up."

Rigby had a frog in his throat, his voice ragged from the smoke and soot that had entered his lungs.

"You know about the analogy of the shit sandwich? Colonel Rickson."

"I do Rigby. You tell me the things I don't want to hear. Then you butter me up with the good news. Do you have any for me?"

"Let's just say the cornbread is buttered up on the shit side today, Colonel. The port side is fucked, and the rudder is snapped like a twig. Engines kaput, propellers chewed to scrape. And we have hull breaches on two decks."

"Communications Rigby?"

Rigby twisted his crew-cut-headed tuft of ash-blonde hair outside of the observation window to the silent mast, breached across the open deck.

"Communication relays are mostly fried. We're isolated for now. But emergency power is holding, keeping our life support and minimal lights online."

"Well, that's a little bit of success," Lieutenant Colonel Lancaster said.

"And the Drones Rigby?"

"Operational, sir. Though their range will be limited without the ship's antenna boost."

Rigby tapped on his smart tablet. The hummingbird drone zipped away from the broken console only to splatter into the cliffs, followed by a nosedive into the water below with a splashy plop.

"Not so successful, then Lancaster."

Along with an endless list of concerns settled upon Rickson's scarred conscience, likewise included the human cost, a grim reminder of the price of his gamble. More could fall if Plan B doesn't work out.

"What's the casualty rate looking like, Rigby?"

Rigby's eyes dimmed. "Eight so far, Colonel. The Big Kahuna was too much for them. Of course, there are others injured. They are being attended to in the sickbay."

“Rigby, I need you to spread the word to our Marines. Let’s get a search team together to comb through every nook and cranny of this ship. Remember, not everyone on board is accustomed to life at sea. There could be other people who are hurt or worse hidden in places we’ve yet to check.”

"It looks like the Big Kahuna is out of action, then," Lieutenant Colonel Lancaster said.

"But we're not," said Colonel Rickson.

"The land mission proceeds. Twenty out. But first, we need to talk to Donald Trump about breaking up some balls!"

"He will break our balls," Lancaster said worryingly.

##########

Donald Trump ungripped the worn leather steering wheel seconds after a botched attempt at negotiating the steep incline up the slippery ravine, inevitably reaching a dead end.

The catamaran-style platform, secured by the Chinese engineers, looked like a toy next to the shattered hull of the Big Kahuna. He hopped out of the dune buggy, the night vision goggles slipping to his forehead. Crossing his arms, he felt the cold water seeping into his shoes as the level rose around them.

"This is some bullshit, Rickson," Trump grumbled.

"You've got me trapped on the edge of oblivion here!"

"Donald, why don't you come inside and take your medication?"

"I'm fine. I will be there in a minute, Melania, darling."

"Don't be long, baby! You're like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

Colonel Rickson, a granite statue beside him, swiveled his head, the night vision goggles flashing with an evergreen glow.

"Mr. President, I think you should listen to your wife," he said, his voice tight with controlled tension.

"I told you it couldn't be done."

Trump watched Melania's stylish wiggling bottom wade off the towing platform like she had just finished a turn on a catwalk in Milan.

"All that bitch ever wants is the sex and the money off my big back."

"Still, Mr. President, you don't want to be shooting your load too early. I need you in the long run."

"I laid awake all night wondering why I picked you to command my force. For the god of me, I don't know Rickson."

"I've got you this far, Mr. President. Who else have you got left?"

Rickson pointed with a gloved hand, and Trump squinted. There, like specks of fireflies crawling up the jagged scar of the cliff face, he saw the silhouettes of Marines rappelling down, ropes swaying cautiously through the night vision goggles. Each man was a spider against the immensity of rock, burdened with backpacks bulging with explosives, faces contorted in silent concentration. Trump fiddled with a grenade clip on his camo-print jumpsuit.

"What did I say before you imprisoned all of us inside this cave, Rickson? Go on, tell me."

Colonel Rickson felt slightly embarrassed to be called out so blatantly. At least Trump had the decency to do it privately instead of having to lose face in front of the Marines.

"You said it would be a suicide mission, sir."

"Exactly!" Trump said angrily.

"What's the plan, Rickson? Throw enough bodies against the rock like sacrificial lambs until all the walls cave in. Under normal circumstances, I would have you tried in a military tribunal for negligence of your duty."

"With all due respect, Mr. President, I'm not just winging it," Rickson said.

"It's a controlled avalanche. Before the climb, my demolition team pinpointed the most vulnerable and strategically impactful zones using geological analysis. Precise charges have been placed at key fault lines."

Trump went quiet for once, without the usual backchat. Rickson could see beads of sweat dripping down his suntanned forehead in the eerie green of night vision. It was a rare glimpse into the man beneath the bluster, a flicker of fear in the storm of bravado. Trump had genetically mutated into a man younger than half his years, but he was still 77 years old.

"Are you ok, Mr. President?"

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"Colonel Rickson I feel tired all of a sudden. I think I might be having a heart attack."

"The virus must be wearing off. Mr. Trump. We can pump you up with some more if you like. Do you still have a stash in your medical supplies?"

"Yeah, Melania has them in with my prescriptions."

"I need you at your fittest, Mr. President. If you want to come with us."

Trump came across as frail. "What happens when the whole damn mountain comes down on top of us, Rickson?"

Rickson helped Trump along the towing ramp back into the stern of the ship like he was escorting dear Uncle into an old people's home.

"Then, Mr. President, we pray it's a quick death. But there's another option. We stay put, pinned down in this metal coffin, waiting for those goddamn Chinese and Russian bastards to finish us off."

Trump turned around, thrusting his attention at the edge of the stern, eyes darting to the demolition team lost in the canyons on swinging ropes. Every bolt and charge had been double-checked and triple-verified. They hoisted down in the meticulous choreography of their descent back to the Big Kahuna. The distant grumble of ocean, with sweeps of wind knocking through the fissures, shadowed the inner cove in the coldness of the elements.

"Alright, Rickson," Trump said finally, with the fight ebbing away from his voice.

"Bring the whole mountain down; at least it'll be a hell of a way to go."

Tensions were running high when Colonel Rickson waded into the spacious hold to oversee the final safety preparations. Trump was assigned to a very concerned Melania Trump for nursing duties.

Marines and civilians alike received the order to strip down to the bare essentials. They formed an impromptu human chain that weaved through the corridors and mess decks. Their hands clutching a deadly carriage like a hot potato: grenades, ammo clips, anything with even a smidgeon of explosive potential.

A marine at the source passed it on to another, then another, flowing down the line. A single misstep could potentially ignite a chain reaction that could tear the ship apart.

Pyramids of padded explosives soon filled the hold. Grenades nestled into laundry carts amid shredded mattress foam; magazines were stacked delicately. Marines flocked over the upper deck, lowering the lifeboats for Asp and Dante to ferry them to the furthest reaches of the cove under the vigilante eyes of Colonel Rickson and the head of the demolition team.

Each boat, in its own right, was a ticking time bomb that could go off at any second.

Slick sweat dripped from the brows of the imprisoned Chinese engineers as they silently retracted the towing platform once the bomb squad had returned with Asp and Dante. Sparks danced and spat from welding torches, going to work on any loose rivets they could find on the metal hull.

Hatches slammed shut, sounding like the rhythmic clanging of hammers. With each secured hatch, the weight in their chests seemed to ease slightly, replaced by a desperate hope that their work would hold. Finally, Colonel Rickson slammed the last hatch shut. He and Lieutenant Colonel Lancaster exchanged a brief, tense nod full of exhaustion. Once they were satisfied, they moved up to the upper deck for a final check, where they found a few marines directing Grey and Robinson, along with Captain Lars and his co-pilot Sven, hastily unloading supplies.

The Big Kahuna's cooks came carting in from the galley with whole cuts of beef and pork, lifting them over the gunwales adjacent to the cove face.

"Heave those sacks over; we haven't got all day," the head Marine drilled at them.

Grey and Robinson tossed sack after sack overboard, their contents bursting open and floating on the shallow waves.

"You said something about resting up for a few months," Grey muttered, his back aching from the labor.

"Now I'm right in the middle of another explosion. Lugging sacks of potatoes."

Beside him, Robinson groaned as he lifted another heavy rice bag.

"Tell me about it. This old body wasn't made for this. At least His Majesty had servants to do this type shit."

Sven, the co-pilot, huffed next to them.

"Will you two stop complaining? I'm dealing with a pile of large turnips here. They are far more heavier than your potatoes."

Captain Lars swore in Danish. "Try lifting a load of butternut squashes. Why didn't I get rice duty!"

The supplies formed a haphazard buffer around the ship, bumping against the hull. Potatoes and grains swirled in the water below against a wall of meat. With a final shout from the Marines, the last load was dumped over the side.

"Finally!" said a relieved Grey.

"It's not over yet," said Colonel Rickson.

"I want all four of you to gather the civilians and tie down anything loose that could ricochet in the aftermath."

"Like what?" Robinson asked.

"Anything heavy that could fall over and block exits in the fallout," Lancaster pointed out.

"You don't want smashed glass hitting you in the face. Do you?" Colonel Rickson said.

"What can we use?" Captain Lars inquired.

"Use your brains, gentleman. Ropes, nets, bedding, mattresses—anything soft to cushion the blow. I'm trying to save your lives, guys."

Grey glanced around at the survivors of the plane crash.

"I'm speaking for all of us here. We owe you a debt of gratitude. If it wasn't for you, Colonel Rickson, we'd all be dead by now."

"I have no time, girlie, talk Grey. We could all be blown to kingdom come by the end of the night. Get on with it, go!"

A chorus of mumbled agreements rippled through the survivors. Grey, a hand on his aching back, offered a weary smile to Rickson.

"We'll handle it, Colonel. Thank you again."

With a final wave, the four disappeared, their voices fading down a set of stairs. Rickson told the last few Marines to go and babysit them. On the now-silent deck, Rickson and Lancaster stood alone, surveying the lifeboats full of explosives cornered away in the cove.

Lieutenant Colonel Lancaster said to Colonel Rickson just before he was about to put his earplugs in.

"Regarding your pool analogy earlier, Colonel, I would say, It's your break!"

##########

The silence was a living thing deep in the watery cradle of the Big Kahuna. Rickson met the eyes of his marines, taking cover in the only safety zone they had against Tomales Bay. An ocean of bodies caressed under mattresses and whatever soft materials they could muster.

Colonel Rickson's voice ripped through the confines of the stern.

"Listen up, you magnificent bastards. We're about to dance with death. And flirt with gravity. Don't you dare blink?"

Asp cracked his knuckles eagerly. "Sounds like my kinda party."

A virus filled, pumped with steroids Trump clapped his hands impatiently.

"Come on, come on, what are we waiting for? An engraved invitation? Load 'em up, let's get this party started!"

Grey and Robinson didn't quite share the same enthusiasm. Nervous chuckles rolled through the ranks, the tension momentarily dispelled by Rickson's gruff camaraderie. He saw it in their eyes: the unspoken question: Would their leader crumble under the pressure? Rickson straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to stand tall, like a lighthouse in the storm.

"Rigby," he bellowed, the engineer's head snapped up like a startled turtle.

"Status report."

"Charges set, sir. Detonation sequence initiated. Five minutes."

Five minutes. The countdown set off a tremor of fear and unspoken emotions. Cold and slithering, but Rickson wouldn't give it an inch. Not now. Four minutes. Three minutes. Two. The seconds ticked by, each one a tiny explosion before the real thing in the quiet. Rickson closed his eyes, the silence suddenly alive with the roar of his pulse, the frantic drumming of his heart.

One minute. Time stood still through the steel bones of the Big Kahuna. Rickson opened his eyes, seeing the glow of his military-grade wristwatch. Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten. One. Explosion.

The red blossomed into a wall of blinding white, a searing sun of heat erupting. The ground shuddered, and the air split with a thunderous whiplash. Tomales Bay moaned, then roared in agony as tons of rock and earth cascaded down like a jar of marbles, denting the ship in Rickson's supposed controlled avalanche. Even the two patrol ships, miles away, felt the vibration. The Big Kahuna lurched and grated, a toy boat caught in a raging torrent of destruction. The screams of women and the shouts of men could not save them. They just had to ride it out if they could survive.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, the silence returned. A stunned silence full of smoke and dust. Tear-stinging eyes ventured out from under covers. A titanic scar the size of a crater had ruptured along the whole side of the Big Kahuna. Bruised but upright, she clung haphazardly to the edge of her new reality.

Rickson violently coughed and managed to get up unscathed, luckily. Though he was unaware of the casualty rate at this point. He dared to peer through the turbulent haze—to see a vague outline of faint light venturing him forward out the hull, perhaps an exit into the outside world.

Had he pulled it off?

Through his water-logged boots, he stepped on rocks covered in a malignant stew of splattered beef and corroded dune buggy wheel axles. The cliff face was gone. The cove itself was transformed, but not like he had expected. Tomales Bay had caved in completely, as flat as a pancake in fact. Except the light was coming from an unexpected source along a natural pathway winding around the side of what was left of the cove. A few of the marines that were able to, followed him out.

Colonel Rickson walked that natural path by flashlight, slipping on his broken framed night vision goggles, picking his way further along the slippery stone to what looked like an entrance of some sort.

Swiveling his light in a wide arc. Its synthetic glow silhouetted shapes in the gloom: vault doors, a stockpile of canned food decorating the walls, medical supply kits, and generators slowly spinning idly as the dust settled. A deep antechamber lay before him, its ceiling arching high in a geological cathedral.

"By god!" he exclaimed.

Rickson played his flashlight over something glinting dully on the ground. He crouched down, brushing away the dust. Nestled in the dirt was a rusted sign, its letters just legible through decades of neglect.

"Property of the US Army Corps of Engineers," Rickson read aloud.

A slack jaw split his face in a grin.

"A bunker?"

Some of his marines joined him, following his beam. Highlighting the chamber with their flashlights.

"Now this is a surprise," one of them said.

"We need some proper lighting in here," said Colonel Rickson.

"Check to see if any of those generators are still working. Radic, you're an electrical engineer."

"It shouldn't be that hard if it's just the standard backup generators used by the American army."

Radic peeled away, searching through the dim to a far wall. He perched down to an intricate network of wires and machinery that enveloped him like a mechanical maze—a cluster of switches amidst a myriad of metal components came into view.

There was a manual transfer switch labeled 'Utility', 'Generator,' and 'Off'.

A shudder vibrated through the framework as Radic turned the switch. Then, slowly, miraculously, the darkness began to bleed away. Lights came to life, banishing the shadows. Rickson removed his night vision goggles with his mouth hung open. They had stumbled upon a secret military installation, long buried but intact, its passages no doubt honeycombing the cliffside.

Its concrete walls stretched away to a steep loading ramp. But it wasn't just supplies that filled the chamber. No, they were staring at a silent army of metal predators frozen in time.

Tanks, streamlined and deadly, had their cannons trained towards the exit ramp. Armored infantry vehicles crouched alongside them like steel hounds waiting to be let off their leash. Blue oil drums full of fuel were stacked on pallets close by. It was enough to feed the silent promise of destruction held within each gleaming turret for the 60-mile trek across the woodlands of California.

Rickson felt a thrill of awe snake through him. It was a graveyard of machines, yes, but a graveyard pulsing with the potential for resurrection. Their luck, it seemed, had finally changed. With shelter, supplies, and a concealed location, their expedition may succeed after all. And the installation beneath his feet might just provide the means for that to happen.

A crackle sounded on Rickson's radio that he figured was broken.

"Colonel? Colonel, come in!"

He grabbed the receiver from his ammo belt.

"Lancaster I'm glad you're still alive. It Looks like we struck gold out here!"

"What's your status, Colonel Rickson?"

"A military installation, far more equipped with anything than we had to offer before we blew the whole place up! I got tanks, trucks, fuel, food, and medical supplies in here. Why don't you come on down?"

"Negative, Colonel Rickson. My kneecap is blown out."

"I'm sorry for that, Lancaster! How are you all holding up in there?"

"We are looking at a severe loss of life. Many injured. Almost half the ship is gone."

"And Trump?"

"He is fine. Melania didn't make it."

He closed his eyes. Melania. The world's first lady was gone within the blink of an eye. Trump. Fine Lancaster said. But what of the other civilians? Marines who had followed his orders. They entrusted him with their lives as casually as handing him a canteen. He had led them into a death trap after all. Remorse, bitter, and sharp, tore at him. He was the Colonel, the leader, the one who should have kept them safe.

Instead, he had gambled, winning and losing at the same time. Smith, the wisecracking gunner with a penchant for country music; Hernandez, the quiet medic with a smile that could soothe a bear; young Lee, barely out of boot camp, eyes still wide with nervous excitement.

Were they still there, clinging to life underneath the debris? Or were they already beyond reach, their laughter silenced forever?

Wallowing in self-pity wouldn't bring them back. He wasn't done yet. There were survivors, lives to save, a mission to complete, and a regime to overthrow. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he shoved the grief down, burying it beneath layers of duty and responsibility.

He was Colonel Rickson, and they needed him.

Rickson left the installation, walking that sad, lonely path back to the wreckage. He held a minute-long silence, a vigil for the dead, which included Captain Lars and his co-pilot Sven, and a special mention for the late Melania Trump. Trump's eyes burned even hotter for revenge. Following Colonel Rickson's rousing speech. The land team was assembled and mobilized into the tanks and trunks. Asp, Dante, and Trump took positions in the first tanks once they were fully refueled and weaponized.

A ground force of marines took the rear gunner positions. Grey even convinced Colonel Rickson to join him for the ride-along. Robinson decided to stay put in the military installation under Lieutenant Colonel Lancaster's command with the survivors once he found a comfortable bed.

And so forth, the land attack was launched. A motorcade of Colonel Rickson's ragtag army, honing out into the open light of Tomales Bay. A short drive took them to Miller's Boat Launch, where they found the rest of the Bloodies executing a couple of Chinese and Russian helicopter pilots. They had lost the attack drone's capabilities due to the Big Kahuna's dead communication system, while gaining a couple of choppers as the new eyes in the sky.

They crunched through the branched redwood forest, disappearing into the difficult terrain of California like they were not even there.