Sorry this has taken so long, folks. I've had to re-write it numerous times, but it's finally done.
Well, this chapter, at least... grin.
*****
Cassie and Doris spent three days setting up the growing equipment in the basement of the old ranch house, while Mickey was out on patrol. They'd already decided to start with tomatoes, yellow banana peppers, red bell peppers, snow peas, and a few small pot plants, just for their boyfriend. Hanging the lights and setting up the timers, consulting several books on the subject, they were almost ready... the only problem was finding a suitable fertilizer mixture, as the old liquid plant foods from the warehouses were basically useless.
Mickey solved this problem, fitting a large bucket with a faucet at the bottom, then laying several layers of old bedsheet across the bottom, filling the bucket with grass clippings, chopped up leaves, liquified chicken, rabbit, and fish guts run through a blender, rabbit droppings from the hutches Cassie was keeping out by the garage, along with fruit and vegetable peelings and egg shells that had been run through the same blender, and topping it off with several gallons of lake water... after a few weeks of sitting in the sun, he opened the tap, pouring a few gallons of the witch's brew into bottles and pouring small amounts into the planters. The basement garden took off like gangbusters, and soon they were looking at the prospect of two crops a year, so long as they manipulated the lighting properly.
Bob Sharpe and Pete Coswell concentrated as never before, handling their respective 'smart' bombs carefully as they disassembled the two warheads. Using plastic spoons, they scooped out small amounts of the clay-like explosive the 'heads were packed with, reducing the effective loads by roughly half; they wanted to destroy a small target while not sending the shrapnel too far, endangering the American prisoners on the Chinese base. Modifying the small warheads was tricky business.
Bob had already run a test with a full strength bomb, just to give them a baseline to work with. The small bomb had completely destroyed the old dump truck they'd set up as a target, and pieces of it had gone through the walls of houses three and four hundred yards away; this was not acceptable. The radar installation they would be targeting was only three hundred yards from a building full of American women who the Chinese were using as sexual slaves, and they wanted to liberate these women alive, not hold funeral services for them.
John Corcoran, Jim Archer, Rick Jamison, and Herb Montgomery sat back a bit over a mile from the small concrete shed that was serving as their 'test target' for the reduced power smart bombs. A few hundred yards closer, there was a small team in a fairly deep fox hole, holding the targeting laser pointing squarely at the side wall of the shed.
Bob Sharpe's voice came out of the speakers of the field radio they'd brought along; "Bomb is away and approaching target."
They watched through telescopes as the small bomb entered the side of the building... the walls just collapsed, and parts of the sheet tin roof flew up in the air in pieces, none of them landing more than fifty or sixty yards from the site.
Success.
Jim picked up the mic for the field radio. "Captain Sharpe, how far away was that launch? We barely heard your plane."
"Roughly two and a half miles, Sir... these Stealth fighters are built to be more quiet than some of the jets of their day." came the reply. "F117, returning to base."
"Acknowledged. Good job, Captain."
BJ, Jeff, and Missy were walking through one of the clothing warehouses, getting together a decent wardrobe for the younger woman. Jeff sat in a chair, a bit impatiently, looking on as the girls picked dresses, pants, and blouses for Missy. BJ finally noticed this and caught his eye.
"Oh, go on, dear... I know you wanted to go to the range."
Jeff grinned and nodded... he did, indeed, want to go to the ordnance warehouse, and the attached shooting range, although not for the reason BJ thought.
"Hey, Sarge, got anything good?"
Sergaent Tim Masterson, who ran the ordnance warehouse, gave his standard reply. "Got a good dose of the clap... want some?"
Jeff grinned at the old joke... he'd had to have the joke explained to him, the first time he'd heard it... now it was just a sign that all was good in the Cave.
"I need to get some practice in for myself... an M-4 and a few hundred rounds. I also need a .22, single shot or a bolt action, preferably scoped, with targets, cleaning kit, and enough rounds to start a young woman on sniper training."
"That pretty little brunette that moved in with you and Billie Jean?"
"Now just how did you hear about her?"
"I hear Everything, young man." he replied with a grin. "Wait here a minute."
Within moments he was back, a pair of fabric gun cases and a picking basket in his hands, filled with a small cleaning kit, a pad of targets, four boxes of .223 rounds, and a five hundred round box of .22 rounds.
Opening the first case, he pulled out the M4 carbine and laid it on the counter. "No rental fee, but the rounds will cost you fifty creds. This one, " he continued, as he opened the second case, "Ruger bolt action... ten round mag, standard three to nine scope, five hundred Winchester loads, kit, and targets, five hundred creds. Remember to bring back your brass."
Jeff looked over the old rifle carefully, but could find no flaws; the bore looked clean and the wooden stock was solid.
"Four hundred, you old chiseler... we both know you've probably got fifty more just like it back there."
"Split the difference... call it four-fifty, and no charge for the .223s."
"Done! Is there anyone in the range at the moment?"
The older man shook his head, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb, and Jeff grabbed the two cases and other supplies, and went into the range to practice, and to evaluate the old/new bolt action.
Two hours later, back at the apartment, while the girls were putting away the new clothing Missy had picked out, Jeff put some steaks on the electric grill and made a few phone calls, confirming the number of people who were headed over.
