Down Jersey Drive-shaft

Chapter One: How They Met (or A New Job Awaits You in Sunny South Jersey)

Frederica, a.k.a Crank, places a hand on Benny's thigh. He tenses. "What I have to tell you cannot be said to anyone else, or you have to die. There's a very good reason the U.S doesn't want anyone to know about the war's new twist, and that reason is mass panic." She speaks it in perfect English, but Benny is beginning to find the thick accent to be very agreeable to his ears.

"Weird like what? Like those U-boats off shore dropped off more than Nazis?" he asks, half serious.

She turns to face him once again; shadows on her deep eyes make her appear frightening. "If it was Nazis only, we'd be doing okay. Haven't you heard about the blackout in New York City, and the one in Philly?"

"Sure, but we ration just about everything there is! I guess even electricity had to take a hit, but again, so what? I got no interest in big cities anyway. I'm a poultry farmer, period. If the mainland got invaded, call out the troops and the big guns and get to it. What garage do you really work for, and why am I involved?"

Crank of 'ST' turns on the radio. Some young cat plays piano live from a hall in Jersey City. Benny rolls his eyes so loud it makes Frederica grind her teeth.

"You're supposed to be the Lost Generation! I thought all of you guys loved jazz!"

"Give me a real orchestra any day over this chaos," Benny bemoans. "Oh, and opera! Yeah, you can't beat Caruso and Verdi. Now, you gonna answer my questions?"

She mumbles some Italian he can't possibly decipher, and cranks up the sound. Benny watches her lips move, and shakes his head again at this volatile child.

Crank displays a grin of perfect and large teeth. Her little foot renews its pressure of the accelerator. "I work for Special Technologies. At least, I have since they drafted me nine months ago. As to why I got you, Vecchio? Well, because I need you to get hold of the big guns."

"What big guns are you talking about, chickadee, and who's Vecchio?" he yells.

"Milkman is the big gun, idiota! And Vecchio means 'old' because you're old and slow to catch on!" Crank yells at the window before rolling her eyes Benny's way. "And don't call me chickadee!"

Benny folds his arms as LaDonna maxes out to one-hundred and forty miles an hour. Both parties sigh and clench their jaws. Rain begins to fall like wet gunfire outside on the highway, but it doesn't slow down the Stylemaster one bit.

"Now I see why they call you Crank," the grim poultry farmer mumbles.

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Millville, New Jersey

Army Airfield

5:05 A.M

The rain turns the long dirt road at the Millville Army Airfield into a muddy sluice. The Chevy, parked next to the white blocks of airmen's quarters, hums softly with headlights off. Crank toys with a satchel of tools while Benny looks out into the dark deluge. He sees nothing, feels horrible and worries about everything. Frederica sits cool as a cucumber.

"Soooo..." Benny begins the beguine, "where is this Milkman at, so we can get to it and I can go back to my ducks and chickens?"

She never looks away from the tools. "Don't you even want to ask me why it's called Milkman?"

He sighs more, does the head shake and grabs his heart as if it will soon stop beating. "Okay, Crank! I'm forty-four and tired and losing my mind! But sure, let's play another round of 'What's My Meaning'! Why, oh why, is it called Milkman?"

Crank closes up her satchel, satisfied with its contents. "Because of the six bottle-shaped rockets under its engine, that's why."

Benny sits up straight so fast that Crank thinks he's a rocket. "Rockets, you said? You mean Milkman is a fighter plane?" Giddiness rules his voice.