“You son of a bitch! You pulled in front of me!” someone yelled to the driver of a car in the next line over. The shout was followed by the incessant honking of a horn that did not cease until a couple of policemen arrived.
“That asshole pulled in front of me!” the driver yelled to the police.
“Both of you,” the police ordered, “out of line.”
Grumbling, both the aggrieved, and the aggrieving driver were ordered to leave.
“Find somewhere else to get your gas,” the policeman said. “And don’t both of you go to the same station!”
Jake watched the two cars drive away. There was a time when he might have been amused by the little drama, but he had been seeing television reports of similar incidents all over the country. People were afraid, and the more frightened they got, the more uneasy the situation was becoming.
After a wait of about fifteen minutes, Jake pulled up to the pump and saw the price of gasoline, then gasped. It was thirty-six dollars per gallon.
“What?” he shouted. Thinking it might be a mistake, he checked some of the other fuel pumps.
“It’s no mistake, sir,” said a sergeant on the next island over, when he saw Jake checking the prices. “I stopped here yesterday and it was thirty-four dollars a gallon. I thought that was too much, but if we aren’t going to get any new oil, this is just going to get worse. I should have bought gas yesterday.”
“You had better fill your tank, Sergeant,” Jake said. “At this rate, it could be fifty dollars a gallon or more by this time next week.”
It cost Jake four hundred and thirty-two dollars to fill his tank. He was still frustrated when he reached his office. There were now more soldiers at Fort Rucker than there had been at any time since the Vietnam War, but because all training operations had stopped, except for normal housekeeping duties there was not one soldier who was gainfully employed. Jake knew that it could not last like this.
When Jake reached his office, Sergeant Major Matthews was waiting for him.
“Good morning, sir,” Clay said.
“Sergeant Major. How are you coming on your requisitions?”
“I’ve added something to the list. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. If you can think of something else we might need, by all means, acquire it if you can.”
“I already have,” Clay said. “I have twenty barrels of Mogas.”
“You have twenty drums of gasoline?” Jake asked in surprise.
“No, sir, barrels, not drums. Drums hold only fifty gallons, a barrel holds fifty-five gallons. I figured it might be good to have.”
“You figured correctly,” Jake said.
“I know gas is expensive now, but I don’t think we should use this until we have to,” Clay suggested.
“I agree,” Jake said. “We need to put it somewhere safe.”
“I thought I would hide it in a hangar out at Hanchey Field.”
“No, too many people out there. We need a more remote place than that.”
“How about one of the stagefields?”
“Yes, excellent idea,” Jake said. “And I know where to go with it. TAC-X. It’s thirteen miles away, has four buildings, and is totally abandoned.”
“All right, I’ll get a truck from the motor pool.”
“No,” Jake said. “You would have to get a trip ticket for TAC-X and since it is no longer being used, that might arouse some suspicion. I think you would be better off renting a truck.”
Jake wrote a check for two thousand dollars and handed it to him. “I hope this covers your expenses,” he said. “But I would cash it immediately. And use it up as quickly as you can. The way the value of the dollar is plummeting, it may be worth only half as much this afternoon.”
“I hear you,” Clay said. “By the way, Captain Gooding is the POL Officer. If you would happen to get a telephone call from him, maybe you could cover my ass with a bit of a runaround.
“I’ll do it,” Jake said.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Sergeant Major.”
“I’d better go find a truck.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dale County Truck Rental, Ozark, Alabama—Thursday, May 17
“You do realize that all I want to do is rent this truck, don’t you? I’m not trying to buy it,” Clay said to the proprietor. “And it is a local move, I’m not going anywhere with it.”
“You’ll have it back today?”
“I’ll have it back by six tonight.”
“Fifteen hundred dollars. And the gas tank had better be topped off.”
“All right. You’re robbing me blind, but I have to have a truck today.”
“You got a beef, Sergeant Major, take it up with President Ohmshidi. It’s his dumbass policies that have gotten us into this mess.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t argue with you there,” Clay said. “That sonofabitch has been a disaster.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me you hated Ohmshidi as much as I do? Tell you what. I’ll take two hundred fifty dollars off. You can have the truck for twelve hundred and fifty.”
“Thank you,” Clay said.
When Clay drove through the Ozark Gate he was stopped by the MP.
“You’ll have to get a visitor’s pass for that truck,” the MP said. “And I’ll need to put down where you are going.”
“I’m moving out of my quarters,” Clay replied.
The MP entered the destination into his log, then handed Clay a visitor’s pass with instructions to put it on the dash so it could be seen through the windshield. From there he drove to the POL center.
“I don’t know, Sergeant Major,” a specialist said. “I don’t feel right about loading military fuel into the back of a civilian truck.”
“What difference does it make what kind of truck you load it in?” Clay asked. “I have an authorized and approved requisition document.”
“Maybe I should call Captain Gooding and ask him what I should do.”
“Go ahead and call him if you want to. His name is right here on the requisition form,” Clay said.
“I just don’t feel right about putting the fuel onto a civilian truck,” the specialist said.
“What would make you feel right about it?”
“Well, I mean, when you figure how much gasoline costs right now . . . I’ve got a leave coming up, but I can’t go home because I can’t afford the gas.”
“How many gallons would it take you to get home?”
“About forty gallons.”
“So, what if you had enough fuel to get home, plus say, oh, about fifteen gallons more so you could run around a bit when you got home?”
“That would be fifty-five gallons,” the specialist said.
“Interesting coincidence, isn’t it, that you need fifty-five gallons of gasoline, and that is exactly the amount that is in one of these barrels?”
“Yes,” the specialist said. “Very interesting.”
“So, are you going to help me to get my nineteen barrels loaded onto this truck or what?”
“Nineteen barrels?”
“Nineteen,” Clay said.
The specialist smiled. “They are on pallets, five to a pallet. I’ll get a forklift.”
Clay pushed one of the barrels off one of the pallets. “Only four on this one.”
“We’d better hurry,” the specialist said, going toward the forklift.
Stagefield TAC-X