Survivors – A Novel of the Coming Collapse

Luke Air Force Base, Arizona October, the First Year

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 need to travel, then the safest way will be by air. Since our Laron only seats two, we need to buy a second plane-something like ours that can burn regular automobile gasoline. With a second plane, we’ll have a seat for Linda and can bug out of here with a marginal quantity of gear.”

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 lot worse, Charley?”

“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, if I still have a job and if the company stays afloat.”

“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 need your plane, but you may soon need a serious self-defense gun. Do you know what a Sten gun is?”

“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 real, fully-automatic Sten submachinegun? Are you kidding?” he snorted. “But is that worth as much as my plane?”

“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 find most ammo calibers on the shelf.”

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.”