Dear Diary: It’s Me, Jessica: Chapter 14 (Book 3)

By the author of Dear Diary: It’s Me, Jessica; The Second Year

In case you missed the last chapter, you can find it here.

Dear Diary,

It’s me, Jessica.

“I don’t think I can fit,” Jack said as he looked at the storm drain branching off of the main sewer system.

“There is no way I could fit,” Jamal declared. He was built like an NFL linebacker.

Jack, Jamal, and others who had headlights looked around at everyone.

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Their red LED lights fell on Carlos.

And me.

“Change of plan,” Jack announced after a moment of thinking.

The original plan had been for our team and Jamal’s team to use the sewer system to get to the street right in front of the compound. Then we would use the storm drain to get inside the perimeter to the curb where the storm drain comes out, just in front of the one APC(Armored Personnel Carrier) facing the entrance. Once we were all out, we’d make a full-on assault on the tents and everyone in them using the few improvised Molotov cocktails we had left.

“Carlos and Jessica will crawl through the drain pipe. The pipe is too small for them to carry a pack with the Molotov cocktails in them. So Carlos will tie this length of 550 cord to his belt. Once they get inside, he will pull the pack with the Molotov cocktails through the pipe to them. Toss two of the Molotovs under the rigs gas tanks and the others under the drum of cable. Then, run. The rig catches fire, the cable burns and, hopefully, destroys the communications to the aerostat. Questions, comments, concerns?”

“I am sensing a whole lot of ‘ifs’ in this plan, Jack,” I said with a raised eyebrow.

“Improvise, adapt, overcome,” Carlos said to me with a smile.

“Improvise, adapt, overcome,” Jack repeated, but with no grin, all seriousness.

“Okay. Let’s do it,” I stated.

“Now I see why you wanted her along with us,” Carlos said to Jack.

With a boost from Jamal, Carlos crawled into the drain pipe. Once his feet disappeared into the pipe, I followed.

The drain pipe was small, but Carlos and I had a little bit more than shoulder-width room. It was not very far, maybe fifteen or twenty feet.

Carlos reached the drain grate, and in a series of small moves, he rolled himself over. He gripped the grate and slowly pressed against it.

It would not move.

He applied a little bit more muscle.

This time, it lifted with the sound of metal grating on metal. I held my breath as the noise seemed extremely loud inside the drain pipe. Carlos did his best to move the grate over onto the pavement, making as little noise as he could but at one point, he had to slide the grate across the pavement so we could crawl through. He paused for a moment, listening for any sounds of alarm.

Nothing.

He shimmyed his way out of the opening and crawled under the APC vehicle. I followed.

From under the APC, I could see the lower half of the rig, the chassis trailer, and the ropes attached to the stakes in the ground. It was about twenty yards away. It seemed more like a mile.

Carlos was just about to start pulling the 550 cord that was attached to the pack with the Molotov cocktails in it when we heard voices approaching.

The APC had enough ground clearance we could see three sets of legs from about the knee down, walking up toward the front of the APC. They stopped at the front wheel.

I could not understand them. They seemed to be speaking in a foreign language. But from what I could tell, they seemed relaxed, even laughing a few times.

Then came the distinctive “ting” of metal, followed by the sound of a sparker wheel on flint.

They were lighting up to smoke.

Carlos looked at me and then nodded toward the street. If they took a few more steps forward, they would see the grate had been moved and the 550 cord leading from the drain to us, under the APC.

My heart was pounding in my chest so hard, I thought they would be able to hear it. I tried not to breathe too hard, but it was like I had just run a mile.

Very slowly, Carlos slipped his rifle off his back, trying to not make a sound. I looked at him questioningly. He motioned for me to do the same with my rifle and to follow him.

We quietly crawled out from under the front of the APC. The smokers could not see us. Carlos simply walked around and aimed his rifle at the startled men’s faces. All three dropped their cigarettes and raised their hands. Carlos made a gesture with the rifle’s muzzle, the universal sign to ‘turn around.’” He then pressed down on their shoulders one by one in a rough manner, shoving them to their knees.

I looked around. No one else was to be seen, but we were totally exposed. If anyone came out of one of the tents, we would be seen. My mind was racing. Carlos would have to keep his weapon on the three smokers, while I pulled the pack through the pipe, got it, ran to the rig and the trailer, lit and tossed the Molotov cocktails, ran back, did something with the smokers, and got back into the drainage pipe.

That seemed like a really long time.

The cigarettes on the ground. I could not smell their smoke. The wind was blowing the smoke under the APC.

Something Jack said suddenly popped into my head.

I glanced down at Carlos’s belt where the 550 cord was tied, but looked next to the cord, where a big fixed-blade knife was attached to his belt on his right side.

Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

I quickly slung my rifle across my back, unsnapped the safety knife strap, and slid the knife out.

“What-” was all Carlos got out.

“Change of plan!”

And I took off at a sprint for the rig and the chassis trailer angled to the drivers side of the rig and got to the first rope. It was as thick as my forearm. There was some slack in the rope, so I had to use one hand to hold it steady while sawing as fast as I could with the other. Carlos’s knife was sharp, but it still seemed to take forever. Finally the knife cut through, half of the the rope fell to the ground, the other half hung loosely from chassis trailer.

I ran to the next rope at the rear of the chassis and cut that rope.

I crab-crawled under the chassis trailer to the other rear rope on the passenger side.

This rope was taught with tension. The aerostat was high in the sky, angled away from this side of the chassis trailer. I did not need one hand to hold the rope. I used both hands to saw away at the rope as fast as I could. With that much tension, as the rope was cut, it began to unravel. When I finally cut through, the rear end of the chassis trailer actually slid across the grass and turf, exposing dirt.

I turned and ran for the front and final rope. I could see the ground was heaving on the one side of the ground stake.

It might pull out of the ground on it’s own. Or it might not.

Decision made, with both hands I furiously sawed at the rope.

Like the other one, as I cut through, the rope began to unravel. This time it seemed to unravel a lot faster.

The rear end of the chassis trailer slid again, even further. I cut through the last rope and the whole rig began to roll backwards taking up the slack of the cable drum leading to the tents.

Something else Jack said popped into my head,

“Take the shot, don’t stand around admiring your handiwork. Move on to the next shot.”

I was moving.

But I did hear shouts of alarm and the sounds of things crashing coming from behind me.

Carlos glanced over to see me coming his way. He then gave a quick butt stroke to the back of each of the smokers head’s just as I ran past him and them, for the drain pipe and crawled in as fast as I could, scraping my knuckles on concrete and metal, bruising elbows and knees as I went. I could hear Carlos behind me. I was going so fast, I ran into the pack at the other end of the pipe and nearly fell out when two pairs of hands grabbed me. They gently put me on my feet then helped Carlos out of the drain pipe.

They were two of Jamal’s men.

Before they could ask any questions, I simply said,

“Run.”

Entry two

Jamal’s men led Carlos and me through the sewer system, back to their fire station without incident. About fifteen minutes later, Jack, Jamal, and the rest of the men returned as well.

They were all smiles.

Jamal held out his big hand and shook mine,

“That was some stunt there, Rambo,” he exclaimed. He then turned and shook Carlos’s hand.

“Did it work?” I demanded.

“Oh, yes it did,” Jacked grinned.

“What happened?”

“We went back to the building we first did our RECON from. We took the ground floor and the third floor overlooking the base to provided covering fire if something went wrong. We had quite the vantage point.”

“What happened?” I asked again, impatiently.

“After you cut the third rope, the rear end of the trailer began to move. Cutting the final rope, the whole thing began to roll backward. The cable going from the drum on the trailer to the DRASH tent (Deployable Rapid Assembly Shelter) went along with the rig. All their communications and surveillance equipment ripped out of the tent. By this time the whole thing was moving at speed, the rear end of the chassis lifted clear off the ground. The rig and trailer went through the one side of their fence, across the park, across a street, and then slammed into a building. The impact broke the cable drum from the chassis trailer. The cable drum, all the communications and surveillance equipment slid up the side of the building and at the top, up into the air and kept going. By now it is miles away.”

“Where did you come up with that idea, Rambo?” Jamal asked.

“When we were checking out the compound, Jack said there were heavy ropes attached to the chassis to heavy grounding stakes around the trailer chassis to keep it from moving if the winds are strong. The smokers dropped their cigarettes, but I couldn’t smell them. The wind was blowing the smoke right under the APC. If the wind was that strong at ground level, it really must have been moving up there where the aerostat was.”

“The combined lift of the aerostat itself and the winds,” Jack grinned. “Quick thinking.”

“I was not expecting all that happened. I thought it would overturn and damage the cable drums and they would not be able to retract the aerostat. Maybe if it damaged the rig and trailer, they could not transport the aerostat. Damage the cable, and it might break free.”

“You did all that and then some,” Carlos smiled.

“I cannot wait to get back to Four Corners to tell everyone about your latest adventure. Maybe Sean could write a song about it,” Jack grinned even more.

“Jack! You would-” I stopped myself. “Yes. Yes, you would.”

About 1stMarineJarHead

1^stMarineJarHead is not only a former Marine but also a former EMT-B, Wilderness EMT (courtesy of NOLS), and volunteer firefighter.

He currently resides in the great white (i.e. snowy) Northeast with his wife and dogs. He raises chickens, rabbits, goats, occasionally hogs, cows and sometimes ducks. He grows various veggies and has a weird fondness for rutabagas. He enjoys reading, writing, cooking from scratch, making charcuterie, target shooting, and is currently expanding his woodworking skills.