Read Online Driver, T. C. by The Great Ark - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: The Great Ark
Tags: Politics
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schedule, and made it easier, yes, even possible, to avoid my ex brother-in-law right up to the last minute (ha-ha).
My last bombing run at Gumbo Station was very disturbing to me. This is not good for a professional warrior. A man can't let it get too personal. We blew up a tall dam holding back a deep blue, fresh water reservoir. I could see a young couple standing on the dam overlook outside a red Isuzu pick-up truck just before my bombs hit the cement dam face just below them. My whole squad, five more B44s behind me also drilled the dam face.
These General Sherman-like methods made me sick at heart and stomach. How precious water was in this arid climate of Africa. We fly boy warriors killed thousands of Africans with our bombs. Yes we did our level best but the truth is we were small fries in the killing game. The big, and most cost effective, killers were dirty water, AIDS, starvation, disease (malaria) by insects (by stopping DDT), civil and religious wars and of course, free abortion. World leaders are depopulating Africa. For some reason or other, elite humanist, false science environmentalists have decided that Africa must be saved from humans to save the world. Killing off all the Africans has been a top world priority for over sixty years.
Our ship's first experimental use of 'Beetle Bombs' started this last week of Gumbo Station'. These 'beetles' were large and black. They could clean corpses down to clean, white bone quickly, a marvel to watch on damage assessment photos. I thought of all the pain and death inflicted on others by yours truly and men like me. All from the safe cockpit I loved so much. I tried to pray for forgiveness, but I knew I wasn't truly repentant and therefore, totally unworthy of God's gift of grace.
The next morning I would board a helicopter, saying goodbye once more to the terrible horrors and smells of war, hopefully, for the last time. My heart was no longer that of a warrior. Knowing how and when to quit was not so easy. While running across the flight deck towards my chopper, I was against the light. The tower said nothing, thank God. I jumped in and slammed the chopper door shut, even as the big bird wound up for take-off from the ship. Sitting in the back seat already was Paul Goldwater, Sarah and Unk, a loudmouthed, Ukrainian, light skinned black man nick-named the weasel' by Captain Coe. Riding shotgun was the head of aircraft maintenance, Marshall (Duck) Moore, an Irish American who was hell to work for, but a great storyteller. Who the pilot was, I still don't know. Some Boeing company guy, I believe. This masked, mystery pilot wore a complete Blackhawk weapons system helmet, but was flying a Bell cargo chopper with no weapons. I wondered, what's up with that? Who would use that big, old heavy helmet?
Paul Goldwater, across the seat from me, shook his head and said “Oh, God! It is you! Call Coe! Let me out of this damn chopper! *#*#*#*#*#*#*
“Too late, now, boss” I said with a smile. While thinking to myself. At least that little creep Paul Goldwater was across the seat!
Thank God for small and large blessings. And so began my great Indian adventure!
Chapter 3 Lost in India
Our chopper landed on a small refueling island in the middle of the vast Indian Ocean a long seven hours later. Goldwater and I ate lunch away from the others only to trade verbal stabs with each other. Where's the love (ha-ha)? Yes, family, but neither one of us was looking forward to working together. Maybe without the evil stepsister duo, Sissy and Debbie, we two men could at least not kill each other on this trip.
“Keep your hands off of me, Paul” I shouted! Truly, we two old men (fools) nearly came to blows. Unk, Sarah and Paul each ordered a sub and a large pizza to go. 'Duck', or Marshall Moore, ordered a sub and two large pizzas with bread sticks; a deal. I thought this ' a bit much', but ordered pizza for myself, also. I guess Subway and Pizza Hut are worldwide
My last bombing run at Gumbo Station was very disturbing to me. This is not good for a professional warrior. A man can't let it get too personal. We blew up a tall dam holding back a deep blue, fresh water reservoir. I could see a young couple standing on the dam overlook outside a red Isuzu pick-up truck just before my bombs hit the cement dam face just below them. My whole squad, five more B44s behind me also drilled the dam face.
These General Sherman-like methods made me sick at heart and stomach. How precious water was in this arid climate of Africa. We fly boy warriors killed thousands of Africans with our bombs. Yes we did our level best but the truth is we were small fries in the killing game. The big, and most cost effective, killers were dirty water, AIDS, starvation, disease (malaria) by insects (by stopping DDT), civil and religious wars and of course, free abortion. World leaders are depopulating Africa. For some reason or other, elite humanist, false science environmentalists have decided that Africa must be saved from humans to save the world. Killing off all the Africans has been a top world priority for over sixty years.
Our ship's first experimental use of 'Beetle Bombs' started this last week of Gumbo Station'. These 'beetles' were large and black. They could clean corpses down to clean, white bone quickly, a marvel to watch on damage assessment photos. I thought of all the pain and death inflicted on others by yours truly and men like me. All from the safe cockpit I loved so much. I tried to pray for forgiveness, but I knew I wasn't truly repentant and therefore, totally unworthy of God's gift of grace.
The next morning I would board a helicopter, saying goodbye once more to the terrible horrors and smells of war, hopefully, for the last time. My heart was no longer that of a warrior. Knowing how and when to quit was not so easy. While running across the flight deck towards my chopper, I was against the light. The tower said nothing, thank God. I jumped in and slammed the chopper door shut, even as the big bird wound up for take-off from the ship. Sitting in the back seat already was Paul Goldwater, Sarah and Unk, a loudmouthed, Ukrainian, light skinned black man nick-named the weasel' by Captain Coe. Riding shotgun was the head of aircraft maintenance, Marshall (Duck) Moore, an Irish American who was hell to work for, but a great storyteller. Who the pilot was, I still don't know. Some Boeing company guy, I believe. This masked, mystery pilot wore a complete Blackhawk weapons system helmet, but was flying a Bell cargo chopper with no weapons. I wondered, what's up with that? Who would use that big, old heavy helmet?
Paul Goldwater, across the seat from me, shook his head and said “Oh, God! It is you! Call Coe! Let me out of this damn chopper! *#*#*#*#*#*#*
“Too late, now, boss” I said with a smile. While thinking to myself. At least that little creep Paul Goldwater was across the seat!
Thank God for small and large blessings. And so began my great Indian adventure!
Chapter 3 Lost in India
Our chopper landed on a small refueling island in the middle of the vast Indian Ocean a long seven hours later. Goldwater and I ate lunch away from the others only to trade verbal stabs with each other. Where's the love (ha-ha)? Yes, family, but neither one of us was looking forward to working together. Maybe without the evil stepsister duo, Sissy and Debbie, we two men could at least not kill each other on this trip.
“Keep your hands off of me, Paul” I shouted! Truly, we two old men (fools) nearly came to blows. Unk, Sarah and Paul each ordered a sub and a large pizza to go. 'Duck', or Marshall Moore, ordered a sub and two large pizzas with bread sticks; a deal. I thought this ' a bit much', but ordered pizza for myself, also. I guess Subway and Pizza Hut are worldwide
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