Gypo Pirates

The term “gypo logger” originated in the Pacific Northwest and described any guy with a pick up truck and a chain saw that set himself up as an Independent Logging Contractor. It seems appropriate to now call any Somali fisherman with a boat and an AK-47 a “gypo pirate”. In the last year, piracy off the coast of Somalia and in the Gulf of Aden has grown dramatically with some 92 ships being attacked. A handful of these yahoos in a high-speed outboard, armed with automatic weapons and RPGs can easily overpower the unarmed and thinly-manned freighters. The game: move the ships into a nearby harbor on the Somalia coast and hold the ship and crew hostage for ransom.

It’s a growth industry. Estimates vary, but it appears the pirates made at least $40 million last year. The pirates, who likely could not effectively run a hot dog cart, live like Columbian drug czars. Ports like Eyl are booming with ransom money being spent by the pirate princes to purchase mansions and expensive cars.

This week the pirates captured the Sirius Star, an oil tanker about the size of a Nimitz Class aircraft carrier carrying $100 million dollars of oil. This ship joined some 14 others with 300 crewmen as hostages awaiting ransom payments. Insurance companies and ship owners are trying to figure out what to do. The UN and the International Maritime Organization dither while shippers consider the option of going around the South African cape to avoid the area altogether, adding 12 days to their voyage. Shipping costs are going up 25 to 30%.

Somalia, of course, has no real government and has been run by warlords and Islamic terrorists for years. They can’t or won’t do diddily about it. Compounding the problem is the political correctness about “human rights”. I read a lengthy piece the other day written by two lawyers who agonized over where and how to try these international criminals. Last year the Danish Navy captured six Somali pirates and being unable to figure out where to prosecute, simply turned them loose. This sort of thing cannot be regarded as a helpful. To me, the whole jurisdictional issue is irrelevant. I say the few that survive capture (and I would hope not many do) should be tried in International Waters by the Captain of the largest ship in the area.

In the good old days, punishment for piracy was keel hauling or swinging from the yardarm. Maybe sailing into these pirate havens with a few of these guys hanging aloft might send a signal to other gypo pirates?

These pirates operate well out to sea with small boats supported by “mother ships” (usually captured trawlers). Last week one of these ships made the mistake of firing on an Indian Navy vessel, the INS Tabar. The Tabar shot back and sunk the mother ship. Good start.

“So Dick”, you ask. “What do you suggest?” Glad you asked. For openers, as soon as a freighter sends an SOS that they are being attacked I would dispatch jets or helicopters and sink the mother ships and any small boats around it. That might give them something to think about.

As to the ships now being held hostage… I’d give the pirates 48 hours to release the ships and crew. If they don’t, I’d send in Special Ops teams to take back the ships. The US has the SEALs, the Brits the SBS and all other countries the equivalent. The boarding parties would be supported by snipers in helicopters and small boats who would take out any pirate who stuck up his pointy-head. If resistance comes from the bridge or other protected cover, let the helos blast those locations with rockets and missiles. Yeah, you’d damage the ships but the repairs would be cheaper than the ransom.

But, you say, “What about the crews being held hostage?” Most, I understand, have been taken off the ships and are held ashore in Somali ports. President Jefferson sent the newly minted Marines to take care of the pirates off the “shores of Tripoli” over 200 years ago. I’m sure the Marines would welcome a reprise. I’m also sure the British SAS and the French Commandos would be happy to join in the fun. Fast roping into each of the places where the hostages are held (I’m confident our intelligence boys know exactly where they are) they would make short work of the ragtag criminals. The pirates could be advised that if a single hostage is killed that we will take no prisoners. When all the crews have been rescued, I would send in the jets and wipe out every port where the pirates have operated along the Somali coast. Simply sink every boat, blast every pier and destroy every warehouse.

Naturally, none of this will be done. The international community can’t even bring itself to deal with Iran and their nuclear weapons program even though everyone knows they will start a nuclear war one of these days.

I do know that if I owned one of the freighters plying these dangerous waters, I would be talking to Eric Prince, the CEO of Blackwater. I’d hire some of his heavily armed dudes to ride shotgun on my ship and instruct them to blast out of the water any small boat that got in range.

Good reading: this WSJ article on modern pirates.

Where’s the Bottom?

Another very bad day on Wall Street… the Dow down 427 points, closing below 8000. More bad news out of the banking industry, the Big Three execs in Washington begging for cash to stay alive and Paulson zigging and zagging over what to do with his $700 billion. Not the kind of news to send folks out to the auto mall to purchase a new set of wheels or give the broker a call to pick up a stock or two. Everyone is waiting for the next shoe to drop. Actually it reminds me of that recent TV ad where it’s raining shoes. (Funny. I can’t recall what they are selling.)

Frankly, I think Paulson would like to punt the whole $700 billion TARP thing down the road to the next administration and let Obama’s new Treasury Secretary figure it out. That way he could sneak out of town and not take the blame when it doesn’t work. The whole thing smells like they have no clue.

The Big Three automakers were operating on a flimsy business model before they got whacked by the duel tsunamis of the spike in gas prices to over $4.00 per gallon and then the credit meltdown. Decades of increasing concessions to the UAW and the accumulated deadwood of their own management and distribution network (they have way too many dealers) placed them at a big disadvantage to the foreign manufacturers. They have huge liabilities for their retirement and health care programs and they must pay nearly full wages to tens of thousands of laid off workers. The sum of all this means that their cost of producing a car is some $1600 to $2000 more per car than their Japanese competitors. Their loaded cost per worker hour is $72 vs. $42 for Toyota. Some business model.

In addition, Congress has placed some formidable obstacles in the way. As pointed out in an excellent piece in the Wall Street Journal today, Congress imposed the CAFÉ fleet-mileage standards that forced the Big Three to produce low mileage cars at a loss to sell their profitable and popular SUVs. Bowing to the green lobby, Congress will not allow the automakers to include in their CAFÉ calculations the autos they make abroad. This simple change alone, says the WSJ, would likely save Chrysler from bankruptcy. Nor will the greenies consider allowing the car companies to sell in the US their highly efficient, small diesel cars so common in Europe. Anyone who has rented a car in Europe has likely driven one of these little beauties. Quiet, peppy and non-polluting, they get great mileage. The environmentalists won’t permit the increase in the supply of diesel either. That’s why it costs more than gasoline. Never used to, and now it’s killing the trucking industry.

So, with all this against the auto industry does it seem like a great idea to throw $25 billion more at them? I think not. It’s only the beginning. Unless the Big Three can restructure their labor and distribution costs they are never going to be viable. And, unless Congress acquires some common sense about the penalties they impose with their mileage standards, even restructuring may not do the job.

Unfortunately, it looks like the incoming Obama Administration may make it worse. Bush refused to grant California a waver to impose a 23% reduction on greenhouse gas emissions from autos by 2012 and a 30% reduction by 2030.

That would have required the automakers to produce special cars for the California market. A killer. Obama promises to reverse the Bush policy. If he’s going to do that, sending the auto guys any amount of money is pissing it down a rat hole.

I believe, however, that Detroit will get the money, if only because the politicians are afraid to let them fail. Besides, the Democrats owe Michigan and Ohio. Bush will go along because he won’t want the demise of the US auto industry to happen on his watch. He’ll think, “Let the Democrats deal with it after January 20th.” Thus, the problem will be postponed and until the auto industry gets sorted out and banking stabilized, guessing where the bottom is can only be a WAG (Wild Assed Guess).

Tom

The sun was well up and the frost melted by the time the old man loaded his gear in the Jeep and pulled out of the driveway. He had lingered over breakfast, taking a second and a third cup of coffee. Millie left him alone, knowing he had to do this at his own pace and feared that if she talked about it, she might lose her tenuous grip on her own emotions.

The knobby tires hissed and sang on the damp blacktop as the old man headed east into the countryside, passing woodlots and stubble cornfields, pasture and the fallow fields of the CRP Program. He drove slowly dreading the three-act play he had scripted for this day.

The small brass bell on Tom’s collar tinkled as he attempted to rise. He whimpered with the anticipation he always showed when they were going hunting. But, this time his whines were tinged with pain. Tom’s hips had deteriorated badly in the last couple of years. The old man had started giving him aspirins imbedded in soft cheese after each hunt. It helped.

But now, the cancer thing …. The vet tried to break it to him gently, “Hell, Tom’s twelve years old—nearly thirteen. That’s old for an English Setter.” Then he said, “You’ll know when it’s time to bring him in.”

Tom struggled to his feet and shuffled unsteadily forward until he could rest his chin on the old man’s shoulder. He choked back a sob. They had often traveled like this, with Tom whining in his ear, seemingly urging him to drive faster. The Jeep swung into a tight curve on the narrow country road and Tom lost his footing and toppled over. The old man swore, “Dammit. Lay down, Tom. Stay!”

In the month since the visit to the vet Tom had gone downhill fast and the old man knew it was time. Hated it, but knew. The vet said he’d wait for him.

He’d hunted alone in the early season leaving Tom behind. The dog had not appreciated that. Over the years he always knew that when the hunting coat and boots came out, it was time to go hunting. Even if sound asleep at Millie’s feet in the sewing room, he would come bounding into the hall like a three year old hopped up on Sugar Pops. Not wanting to torment Tom, the old man had started sneaking his gear out to the truck at night when the dog was zonked on his bed by the fireplace. Full of painkillers, Tom never noticed.

Hunting without your dog, he found, was like dancing alone. He’d enjoyed the brisk autumn days walking the hardwoods for grouse and stomping the ditches for pheasant, but it was not the same. His bag was lighter too. He had cursed two weeks ago when he lost a downed rooster. Tom, even a year ago, would have found that bird. He always did.

He braked the Jeep and swung into the farm drive way. Past the white clapboard house and around behind the weathered barn, he turned on to a dirt lane angling up the hill. He slipped the Jeep into four-wheel drive and slowly made his way up the rutted track. At the crest of the hill he spotted a battered white Chevy pick-up parked about 100 yards ahead.

Joe, the owner of the farm, crawled out of the truck smoking a cigarette. They were old friends and the old man hoped Joe would forgive him for being late. Joe waved as he pulled the Jeep up and parked on the verge 40 yards short of the pick-up.

Stepping out of the Jeep, the old man watched Joe signal the direction of the wind with a sweep of his arm and he waved in acknowledgement as he felt the light breeze on his face. Joe went to the back of the pick-up and reached into a wooden crate and after a bit of a struggle, extracted a rooster pheasant. Cradling the pheasant in his arms, Joe started walking down into the field of grass and low brush. He stopped at a thick bush about 20 yards in and after tucking the bird’s head beneath his wing, spun the bird in a circle half a dozen times. He then tucked the pheasant down into the bush and started back toward the truck.

“He’ll sit there a little while,” thought the old man. He opened the back gate of the Jeep and reached for his tattered hunting coat. As he shrugged it on Tom made his way to the back and started wagging his tail. When the old man reached for his gun case Tom gave his face a couple of wet licks. “Ready to go, buddy?” He asked. Tom waved his flag-like tail in response.

The gun was an old Fox side-by-side in 20 gauge. The bluing had long ago been worn off and the stock had plenty of dings, but the sheen of oil spoke to how well the old man took care of his gear.

He lifted Tom gently out of the truck and set him on the road. Snapping on his lead and grabbing the shotgun the old man and his dog entered the field. They angled across the wind. The old man wanted to get directly downwind of the bush that held the pheasant. Tom, though unsteady, had his head up, sampling the wind and working that trademark white flag of a tail back and forth. When they were directly downwind and 15 yards from the bird they did a left turn. He reached down and unsnapped Tom’s leash. “Find the bird, Tom,” he said.

Tom moved forward, staggering slightly, but he had caught a whiff and was closing in. Three feet from the bush Tom froze in a classic point, head and tail high with his left foot up and curled. “Whoa,” said the old man quietly. He dropped two shells into the open Fox and snapped it shut. Walking forward slowly past the dog he said “whoa” once again. He gave the bush a vigorous kick. Nothing. He kicked again and took a couple of steps. With a cackle and roar of wings the pheasant burst from the grass 10 feet to his left. The bird had run when he walked in and now was angling back the way they’d come. He brought up the double barrel swiftly and swung, fired and…. Missed! His second shot brought the bird down in a puff of feathers. “I guess we’re both getting old Tom,” he muttered.

Tom had seen the bird go down and was struggling through the thick grass in that direction. The old man quickly overtook the dog and snapped the leash on again. “Easy Tom. We’ll find him.”

The rooster lay in plain sight, gleaming in the fall sunlight, its gaudy colors a stark contrast to the dull brown grass. Tom gently picked it up and they started slowly back to the Jeep. He looked up to wave his thanks to Joe, but the pick-up was gone. He’d have to phone later with his thanks.

Halfway back to the Jeep Tom stopped. He could go no further. He tried to get Tom to release the bird, but Tom would not let it go. “All right you stubborn shit,” he said and picked up the dog. He carried Tom back to the Jeep with the bird dangling from his mouth. Only when the old man had set Tom in the back of the Jeep did Tom release the bird. He then lay down on his blanket, guarding his prize.

The vet was waiting when the old man carried Tom into the office. The place was deserted, as it was Sunday morning. Another debt to be paid. “You ready?” asked the vet.

“Yeah, I guess,” replied the old man. “Shot a bird over him this morning.”

“So I see,” replied the vet with a slight frown, noting the old man's muddy boots tracking up his spotless floor.

Tom lay calmly on the stainless steel table. He knew the vet and the old man rubbing his speckled head and scratching his black ears soothed him.

“This won’t hurt him,” assured the vet. “He’ll get sleepy and then it will be all over.” The vet slipped the needle into Tom’s paw and the dog jerked at the sting.

The old man gripped Tom’s head and stared into his eyes. “So long old friend” he choked. And then it was done.

The vet said nothing as the old man gathered up Tom’s limp body and carried it out to the Jeep. Tears ran down through the gray stubble on his cheeks and dripped off his chin as he wrapped Tom gently in his blanket. He climbed in the Jeep and drove slowly away.

The Jeep followed the narrow country road lined with hardwoods gaily displaying their fall colors in the bright afternoon sunshine. The old man took no notice. Turning on to little used dirt track the Jeep continued diagonally across the ridgeline, coming to a stop at a small clearing. The old man picked up the blanket wrapped bundle from the back of the truck and set off following a faint game trail through the trees. After 100 yards he emerged into the open. To his right a large meadow sloped down the hill, to his left an extensive stand of second growth hardwoods and mixed pine blanketed the ridge. At the edge of the field stood an ancient and massive birch tree and beneath the protective branches of the birch loomed an open grave. Next to the grave a large pile of stones and small boulders stood like a sentinel.

The old man paused at the edge of the hole before gently lowering his burden into the opening. He removed a dog collar from the pocket of his hunting coat and buckled it around a low hanging branch before removing his coat and grasping the shovel leaning against the tree. He began filling the hole.

Brushing the dirt from his gnarled hands on his jeans, the old man sat on a log and studied the pile of stones. “Those rocks should discourage any coyotes from messin’ with you.” He said. The old man fished a crusted briar pipe from his pocket and stuffed it with dark tobacco from a worn leather pouch. When he finished the ritual of lighting the pipe, he wrested a can of beer from his hunting coat. Popping the top and flicking the foam off his fingers he raised it in a silent toast toward the pile of stones. “I guess you know why I picked this spot, Tom. This is where you finally figured out we were supposed to do this hunting thing together. In those early days I was thinkin’ about renaming you 5K, ‘cause where ever I was, you were about 5K somewhere else.”

Taking a long pull on the beer, the old man continued, “When you pointed that ol’ ruff cock bird right under that birch and brought him back to me with your teeth chattering in excitement, a light bulb went off in your head. You’d figured out that we were doing this as a TEAM. Things got lots better after that.”

The old man drained the beer and relit his dead pipe. “I won’t say you were the world’s greatest setter, but you were a good one. You were a sweet and gentle dog, and Millie loved having you around the house. Jeff loved you too. Hell, the two of you grew up together learning how to hunt. I’m sure he’ll be stopping by once he gets back from Iraq.”

He stood, shook the dregs from the can and stuffed it in his battered hunting coat as he slipped it on. He picked up the shovel and came briefly to attention. “Semper Fi, old pal.”

And with that the old Marine turned and limped back the way he had come.

© 2008
Author's Note: This is my first attempt to place some fiction on the blog. Certainly a departure from my "right wing rants" as one of my readers so charitably puts it. If you like "Tom"... great. If not, feel free to offer constructive criticism or suggestions on an alternative hobby. Don't recommend golf. I've already proven I'll never be any good at that damn game.

After the Euphoria

“Poor people have been voting for Democrats for fifty years and they’re still poor.”
Charles Barkley

So, history has been made. The first black man has been elected President of the US. Joining him are overwhelming majorities in both houses of Congress. Together they form the most left wing government ever to preside over the country. Sure, there have been times when the Democrats held both the White House and Congress. LBJ had it and brought forth the “Great Society”, a massive expenditure of money and social programs enacted to wipe out poverty.

It didn’t.

He also escalated the conflict in Vietnam started by Jack Kennedy into a full-fledged debacle. He wisely decided not to run for reelection.

Carter had Democrat majorities in both houses following the Nixon disaster and managed to make a muck of just about everything. Reagan tossed him out on his ass after one term. Though Reagan had a Democrat Congress to contend with, he was immensely popular and adept at taking his case directly to the people. He cut taxes, stifled inflation and brought on a generation of prosperity. He handed off the Presidency to Bush 1 who foolishly broke his “no new taxes” pledge and pissed off the Republicans. They broke ranks and voted for third party candidate, Ross Perot. That gave Clinton the White House and a solid Democrat majority. Bill and Hillary over-reached with tax increases, gays in the military and an attempt to take over the health care system. Two years into Clinton’s first term, Newt Gingrich engineered “The Contract with America” and swept the Democrats from power in the House and Senate.

From 1996 until 2006 The Republicans held Congress and with the election of Bush in 1998 had for a time complete control. They messed it up, abandoning their own conservative principles, spending money like drunken fools and shipping home pork. The Contract with America was forgotten in the hope of hanging on to power. The Democrats regained the House and Senate in the 2006 elections. But, with Bush’s veto and enough Republicans in the Senate to maintain a filibuster, they were able to hold off the worst impulses of Pelosi and Reed. Now that faint restraint is gone.

Any Republican would have had an uphill battle in this election. In the early going the country had grown tired of the war in Iraq and very tired of George Bush. As the surge succeeded that issue fell off the table only to be supplanted by the economy. While the bursting bubble of the housing debacle and the consequent financial fallout cannot really be blamed on Bush, he takes the heat. It’s normal.

Despite these obstacles, I think McCain would have won except for one simple fact: Obama is black. Of course, he is a gifted orator and clever at evading tough questions. But, had he been white and espoused his socialist claptrap, he would have come under greater scrutiny. The media, enamored with the narrative of a black man as President, ignored his flip-flops, gaffs and questionable associations with radicals and racists. They were completely disinterested in his massive and questionable fundraising. They ignored his close association with ACORN and chose not to investigate his missing birth certificate, school or medical records or those missing years in his biography. Consequently, the US has just elected, as Tom Brokow admitted on the Charlie Rose Show the other day, ‘a guy we don’t know’. Gee Tom, whose fault is that? You pompous assholes in the MSM were so busy with tingles going up and down your legs that you couldn’t vet this guy? It’s a bit late to worry about where he’s taking the country now.

Naturally, minorities turned out in massive numbers to vote for the black man. No surprise there. College students and the young also registered and voted for the first time. For the young and idealistic who toil over textbooks and ideas and not as taxpayers yet, Obama represented a celebrity. “Hope and Change.” Hope for what? Change to what? Doesn’t matter. In our You Tube culture he is the perfect candidate. White liberals and moderates who could demonstrate their lack of prejudice and assuage white guilt by lining up and voting for this charismatic black man joined them.

One of my three faithful readers emailed me today and said he was troubled by the adoration shining on the faces in the crowd as they listened to Obama’s acceptance speech. I agree. Since we do not really know who this guy is yet and what he will do, it seems a bit early for hero worship. After the euphoria wears off and the Democrats begin to “fundamentally change America” we will see if there’s any buyer’s remorse. And, Barkley is right….. The poor will still be poor.