Rainbows End

Chapter 1

Palmer McIntyre sat on his porch enjoying the morning view of the shallow valley below. The narrow-broken skyline of Gallatin, Missouri could be seen peeking between the rustling tips of lush green trees in the distance. Listening to the morning news on the old radio, a broadcast caught his attention.

"This is Roger Cross with breaking news; A Russian airliner with more than 200 aboard crashes in the Sinai; here with the story is Janine Hall."

"Good evening Roger; the Kolavia Flight 7K9268, an Airbus A320, went off radar 23 minutes after taking off from the Sharm el-Sheikh International Airport in Egypt, Sergey Izvolskiy told the media citing preliminary data.

The plane departed the Red Sea resort of Sharm el-Sheikh, near the southern tip of the Sinai, on a flight to St. Petersburg, Russia, and vanished at 6:20 am. local time.

Russian state media reported that many of the two hundred seventeen passengers were Russians returning from vacation. The passengers were reported to include seventeen children.

Authorities are saying the plane crashed nearly vertically, something that would not have happened if there was one engine failure or even two engines. It would have glided to the ground, not flipped over in a vertical position.

ISIS has claimed responsibility for destroying a Russian passenger jet in response to Vladimir Putin's decision to bomb jihadi targets in Syria, although both Moscow and Egypt have denied any possible terrorism link.

Egypt has been battling insurgents in the Sinai who are aligned with the terrorist group ISIS. However, it is not known that this played any role in the crash.

Reporting live from Cairo, this is Janine Hall."

Turning off the radio, and to his dog Spike, he said, "The world's going to hell in a hand-basket. Those dumb-ass Jihadists can't recognize a Russian bear when they see one and just pissed-off Poppa Bear! The shit's about to hit the fan, and pretty soon, townsfolk will be thinking a lot different about you and me."

Most residents knew his name, but little beyond that; considering him non-threatening, they would nod politely and move on. The kids in town called him the Junk Man, since he owned and operated the only local salvage yard tucked behind his house in the hills.

Daily contact with backyard do-it-yourself auto mechanics pretty much ended with the arrival of computerized automobiles; except for the waitress at the town café and the owners of the local grocery or hardware stores, his only other interaction with humans turned into selling scrap metal to recycling foundries three or four times a year. By no means rich, he lived a modest, yet comfortable life.

~ ~ ~ New York City, New York ~ ~ ~

Stella Preston entered the glass turnstile doorway of the Morning Star News. Passing the security desk, and by habit, tucked the morning edition under her arm on the way to the elevators. Tuning out coworker chatter, she rode the cramped box to the seventh floor, thinking of her story deadline due tomorrow.

Stopping by the small break room, she poured herself a cup of coffee and walked to her desk, plopping into her chair. "Fucking managing editor," she thought, "giving me a nowhere assignment about a bunch of dorks reenacting a Civil War battle! Authentic my ass, how can two dozen overweight ass holes portray a battle that involved thousands? And the so-called leader digging the crack of his ass and then smelling his fingers; disgusting cretin, made me want to puke!"

She was shaken from her thoughts by someone calling her name, "Hey Stella, seen today's headlines?" She unfolded her paper and read the article about the Russian airliner.

"Now there's a story worth reporting," she thought, opening her laptop and beginning her report.

~ ~ ~ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania ~ ~ ~

Nervously shifting from foot to foot, and scratching the track marks on his arm, Darrell watched the alley. Philadelphia always offered easy marks, if you took the time to notice.

"Come on Darrell, this is a waste of time," Julie Washburn whined.

Looking at his strung-out girlfriend, he asked, "And do what Julie?"

"Maybe some of the others have scored, let's go back to the crib and see," she pleaded, desperately needing a fix.

"Fuck that, you heard what Mitch said! We find out what's going on here, or don't come back," he answered.

Julie, absentmindedly picking a scab on her once flawless face and wobbly with need, asked, "Are you sure Raymond hacked the security code?"

"Dude's never been wrong before," Darrell replied, his eyes never leaving the alley.

~ ~ ~ Salt Lake City, Utah ~ ~ ~

Agent Wilcox dropped the surveillance report onto the Utah ATF district supervisor's desk, and said, "Here's the report on Joshua Felder and his followers, there's a lot of activity, but nothing actionable Sir. Infiltrating his group might turn up something, but that would take months and agency resources we can't spare."

Supervisor Osborne looking at the thick folder asked, "What's it say?"

"He preaches the typical anti-government diatribe spewed by any other paramilitary religious fanatic; another Waco in the making," Wilcox answered.

Osborne sighed, and said, "Where do these nut jobs come from."

~ ~ ~ Odessa, Ukraine ~ ~ ~

The shipping vessel, , quietly slipped away, her decks stacked with cargo containers as the tired engines pushed her massive bulk forward.

Leaving the seaport of Odessa, she made her way into the open waters of the Black Sea, setting course for Istanbul's Bosphorus Strait leading to the Mediterranean.

After months of clandestine negotiations, millions of dollars in bribes procuring false shipping manifests, trusted crewmen and a single shipping container; ISIS terrorist Mahmoud Al Abradda had his prize jewel, a short range 80 kiloton nuclear SCUD missile.

Standing on the bridge wing, he whispered to the wind, "Allah Akbar."

Chapter 2

~ ~ ~ Gallatin, Missouri ~ ~ ~

"Russian jets targeted ISIS positions earlier today, causing violent demonstrations throughout Syria and most of the Mideast. Diplomatic relations have been severed while rumors of foreign embassies, preparing for evacuation, cannot be confirmed. All foreign governments have issued travel advisories for the area as the crisis escalates out of control.

Reporting from Cairo, this is Janine Hall."

Sitting at a table in the town café and listening to the report, DJ asked Palmer, "What do you think about all this?"

"Those ISIS maniacs are going to start World War III if they don't stop pissing off the Russians, and if Putin has his way, anyone found shielding those crazy bastards will join them on his nuclear hit list," he answered.

"Damn Palmer, don't be shy, tell us what you really think," DJ exclaimed!

~ ~ ~ New York City, New York ~ ~ ~

Stella tossed her keys, purse and mail on the dining room table and pouring herself a glass of wine; she walked to the plush couch and relaxed, kicking off her heels.

"What a miserable day," she thought to herself, "Another 8-paragraph article that nobody will care about or read. And to think, I went to college for this shit! God, my life sucks!"

Taking her wine with her, she soaked in a hot bath.

~ ~ ~ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania ~ ~ ~

Darrell watched a well-dressed man emerge from the alley doorway, closing the door and entering a code, he locked the keypad box. Dropping the key into his jacket pocket, the man walked away down the busy boulevard.

Quickly crossing the street, Darrell approached the man, and with a slight bump, deftly plucked the key from his pocket.

"Sorry man," Darrell said moving away.

Rejoining Julie, and showing her the key, he said, "We wait until its dark, then we go in."

~ ~ ~ Aboard the Armoosk ~ ~ ~

The Armoosk, entering the Mediterranean, increases speed to 23 knots and in four days will reach the Strait of Gibraltar. Joining ISIS two years ago, their beliefs more in line with his own; Mahmoud had presented his well-thought-out plan to its leaders and after gaining their approval, set his deadly plan in motion.

~ ~ ~ Gallatin, Missouri ~ ~ ~

"And in the news tonight, John Pilger has this report."

"Good evening Roger; Wall Street took a heavy hit today as stocks plummeted over 160 points, meanwhile US citizens emptied grocery shelves stockpiling food and water worried over the troubling Mideast crisis.

Also, in the news; Russian President, Vladimir Putin, stated from Moscow earlier today; the taking of innocent Russian lives will be met with swift and forceful justice. ISIS, you have been warned!

This is John Pilger, reporting live from New York."

~ ~ ~ Philadelphia, Pennsylvania ~ ~ ~

Darrell slipped into the alley with Julie close behind; using the stolen key, he opened the keypad and entered the code supplied by Raymond. A second later, with a soft buzz and single click, the door unlocked. Once inside and closing the door behind them, Darrell turned on the lights.

His eyes went wide in shock, never expecting to find a sophisticated laboratory, he stared disbelieving. The entire floor was filled with glass walled rooms; each containing expensive equipment.

Microscopes, centrifuges, graduated cylinders and beakers, Bunsen burners, arrays of glassware interconnected by tubing for chemical processing; it was mind blowing!

"I thought this might be a gambling den, hell, even a whorehouse; not a fucking lab," Darrell exclaimed!

Julie asked, "What we gonna do with this shit?"

"This place can't be legal; no company logo on the door and why stuck back in an alley? It's not the equipment; it's what they're making. It must be some kind of experimental drug," Darrell said.

Standing by glass front refrigerators, Julie said, "There's all kinds of vials stacked in trays over here."

Darrell asked as he walked toward her, "Anything you recognize?"

"No, they're all clear liquid with some kind of code on the labels," she answered.

Darrell opened the door and looked at random bottles, saying, "Take them all; Mitch will know what to do."

For the next 15 minutes, they loaded duffel bags with anything they could carry of value, and then left the lab.

Chapter 3

~ ~ ~ New York City, New York ~ ~ ~

The managing editor, called Stella to his office before lunch, and said, "Recent events in Syria has created public interest in how to survive a crisis of disastrous proportions. There are a lot of doomsday preppers out there, and most of them don't know their ass from a hole in the ground, but our sources say there's one in Missouri that's got his shit together and has been preparing for years. His name is Thomas McIntyre, and lives near Gallatin Missouri. I want you to go there and interview him; I'm sure the local Sheriff can tell you how to find him. That is all."

Seething, Stella stopped by her desk, grabbed her laptop and went home to pack; all the while thinking, "Civil War reenactments, church bake sales and now doomsday wackos! Three days driving to Missouri, if I take my time. The more I think about it; I may keep driving. I hear California is nice this time of the year!"

~ ~ ~ Aboard the Armoosk ~ ~ ~

Watching the Rock of Gibraltar slide by and entering the Atlantic Ocean, Mahmoud thought of his dead family; a wife and two children, killed by drone strike. Simmering with anger at the impersonal nature of their death, and leaving no remains to be buried, his grief found no comfort or solace.

Five days on a cargo ship, he could wait a few more; his revenge waited silently in a cargo container. Allah Akbar, yes, God is great.

~ ~ ~ Gallatin, Missouri ~ ~ ~

Gravel crunching under car tires brought Spike to his feet barking; a short while later, the brightly-colored patrol car stopped in front of the house.

County Sheriff Richard Ralston stretched as he got out of the car, walked up to the porch and patting Spike on the head, said, "I thought a dog like you would keep better company than his sorry ass," and then shaking Palmer's hand, continued, "How've you been Palmer. It's been a while."

"Doing fine, unless you're here to arrest me," Palmer answered, and asked smiling, "What brings you all the way out here Sheriff?"

"Sure, the hell isn't the coffee you make," the sheriff teased.

"I was about to have another cup. You want some," Palmer asked?

"Sure, I haven't had a good bowel movement in weeks," Ralston answered smiling.

Sitting at the kitchen table, steaming cups in hand, Palmer asked, "What's up Richard?"

"A woman dropped by my office earlier today, claimed to be a journalist of some kind and, unbelievably, looking for your grandpa Tom," he answered.

"Did she say why," Palmer asked?

"Some kind of survivalist story she's doing. Said with the recent media scare about social and economic collapse, public interest has peaked on the subject and her employer wants her to do an article, maybe more," the sheriff answered.

Palmer frowned, and asked, "What makes you think I know anything about it?"

The sheriff laughed, and said, "Come on Palmer, it's no secret. Everybody in town knows you have a fortified bunker somewhere back in these hills. Of course, they all think you're crazy, stockpiling for a day that may never come."

"And what do you think," Palmer asked?

"We've known each other for years, what you do is your own business, and as long as it isn't against the law, it's none of mine," the sheriff returned, and then asked, "What should I tell her?"

"I'll meet her at the town café at noon tomorrow, and we can discuss it," Palmer answered.

The sheriff stood, and emptied the almost full cup in the sink, and said, "Will do; by the way, your coffee still tastes like shit," and walked out the door.

Chapter 4

Turning heads as she walked through the café, Sheriff Ralston escorted a strikingly attractive woman toward Palmer's table.

An expensive form fitting skirted business suit accentuated her sculpted figure while a lace trimmed V-necked blouse, struggling to contain its contents, revealed milky cleavage that shook daringly with each step of her shapely legs.

Her dark Auburn hair, twisted into a French bun and unruly tendrils tumbling provocatively alongside her cheeks, framed her impeccable creamy skin and swan's neck.

Perfectly crescent-shaped eyebrows hovered over effervescent aqua eyes partially hidden by sumptuous dreamy lashes and separated by an elegant and slender nose perched above oxbow lips that begged to be kissed.

Sheriff Ralston made the introductions, "Palmer; I'd like you to meet Ms. Stella Preston. Ms. Preston this is Palmer McIntyre."

Palmer asked that they join him, and Sheriff Ralston, having business to attend to, politely declined.

Ms. Preston, sitting in the offered chair, opened the conversation by saying, "I assume the sheriff told you why I'm here. My employer, Morning Star publications, asked that I interview a survivalist. The original intent was to interview Thomas McIntyre, your grandfather, known to my employer. We wish to extend our condolences for your loss."

"Gramps passed away almost four years ago; he raised me from a child and taught me survivalist methods. I inherited the property at his passing and have maintained the lifestyle ever since. How do you plan to go about this interview," he asked?

"Over the course of several days, if that would be all right with you," she answered, and then continued, "I'd like this to be a documentary of sorts, not just a quick overview. Offer you a chance to express your thoughts and reasoning behind your efforts; the commitment, planning, and labor involved. Materials, supplies, the methods you'll employ, should the need arise; something of substance."

Palmer listened and watched as she explained her agenda. She was intelligent, articulate, and expressive; fully aware of her female virtues and subtly using them to her advantage.

"Ms. Preston, that was an impressive pitch, but what you're asking can't be done sitting at this table. The only way is to spend some time living as a survivalist. Are you willing to give up your modern amenities, such as cell phones, hotels, restaurants, and satellite TV? Live off the grid with minimal conveniences?" Palmer asked watching her reaction.

Without batting an eye, she answered, "This may come as a surprise, but I was hoping for just that kind of experience. The real deal, so to say."

Palmer decided that if she was bluffing, he'd call her on it, and offered, "If the shit hit the fan this instant, would you be ready to leave?"

"If that were the case, would I have a choice," she asked?

Palmer stood, and said, "Very well, follow me."

They exited the café, and he led her to his truck. Opening the passenger door, he said to Spike, "Get in the back," and the dog immediately obeyed.

"Do I have time to get my bags," she asked?

Palmer answered, by asking, "Ms. Preston, if your life depended upon getting to shelter quickly, would you hang around to pack?"

Getting in the truck, she answered smiling, "Point taken, and call me Stella."

"Since this is an exercise, call your boss and the sheriff, explain what's going on and where you'll be, the Sheriff's men will take care of your belongings, turn off your phone and call me Palmer," he instructed.

As the sheriff hung up the phone, he laughed, and thought to himself, "I hope she knows what she's getting into."

~~~~~

Stella quietly assessed him as he drove out of town; impressed by his immediate response to her request indicated a confident self-reliant man of purpose and quick to action.

Long black hair, reaching mid shoulder blade and pulled back into a ponytail, high cheek bones and strong jaw, gave him a slightly American Indian look. Piercing steel gray eyes, intelligent and alert, commanded a person's attention under their gaze.

A little over 6 feet tall and a dark-blue cotton shirt, commonly worn by garage mechanics, covered his broad shoulders and trim waist while powerful arms steered the truck along the narrow back roads.

A dozen or more miles from the town, they weaved their way through a salvage yard, exiting the far side; then onto an overgrown dirt path leading to a large, solid and heavy looking gate flanked by cargo containers. Palmer got out, removed a padlock, and swung the gate open. After driving inside, he closed and barred the gate.

Stella, standing outside the truck, stared in disbelief; surrounded by tall dark-stone bluffs on three sides and stacked cargo containers behind her, the compound formed a protective bowl. In ancient times, it could have been a courtyard surrounded by castle walls.

To her left, she could see several vegetable gardens, and beyond these, open front sheds with hoes, rakes, shovels and various other hand tools. Along the back bluff, a large steel door set in the cliff face and framed by two open air pavilions. One sheltering a stone oven, barbecue grills and surrounded by work tables; the other covered a half-dozen picnic tables. To her right, a row of port-a-potty's, several large storage tanks with various labels, and antique farm equipment.

"This is quite a bit for one person," Stella said.

Palmer answered, saying, "It was never intended for one person. My grandfather understood long-term survival depended upon a group of people working together. This compound can support about fifty; follow the rules and work hard, you can stay, if not, I'm sure you can imagine the outcome."

"Sounds pretty harsh," she said.

"Not really when you think about it, everyone gets tired of freeloaders. How much more would those feelings be commonplace when you're struggling to survive," he asked?