Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (15 page)

      
"It sounds easy."

      
"You need to understand, Ma'am, that the Federal Government is a huge bumbling bureaucracy, manned by very complacent, pencil pushers.  That's why this country is the way it is."

      
"I'm sorry," said Helen.  "I guess I am getting the last-minute jitters.  This whole trip to Boston isn't what I thought it would be.  I expected a small crack team would quietly go in and come back out--something more sophisticated."

      
"That's why you're fortunate to have me."  Chaos grinned.  "You're just having honeymoon jitters.  Once the strike team penetrates the compound and executes the plan, you'll wonder how we ever pulled it off."

      
Helen and Chaos stood awkwardly as they gazed down at the screen that lit up their faces with its chill-blue glow.  "If that's it, I guess I'll turn in."  She started to go but wondered, "Do you have family in the Carolinas?"

      
Chaos directed her to a bundle to sit.  He found himself a spot on an ammo box.  Chaos started with his life as a boy on his father's tobacco farm: He spoke about his brothers and the shenanigans they got into, the Sunday afternoon church socials, the volleyball and softball games.  It was a reflection of gentler days when his family lived in the same house; the three brothers conspired together in mischief--and sometimes fought.  "The Tobacco Tax broke my Momma and Pappy.  The Feds kept saying 'grow corn, grow cotton.'  It's not that simple when everything on the farm is geared for growing one crop.  It's quite an investment to re-equip a whole farm, especially when there's no money to do it with.  Like many others in the Carolinas, we sold some of our tobacco on the black market to help feed ourselves.  When the Feds came and confiscated the farm, it broke my folks' hearts.  It killed my Pappy; he stopped working altogether--died a year later."  Chaos stopped a moment before saying it, "Shot himself, actually.  From that point on, my brothers and I went from raising tobacco, to raising hell."

      
She hesitated to ask, "And your brothers?"

      
"Well, let's just say they're doing their part for the cause."  Chaos couldn't tell her Tumult and Snake were his brothers.  Everyone concealed their identity using nicknames; relatives were never spoken of.

      
Helen winced.  She found solace by sharing hardships.  A veiled force tugged tears from the edge of her eyes.  It made her reflect on her own plight.  Her question had been answered: Why these Southerners were here to help them.  They shared the same heartache, the same enemy.

      
"Ma'am, we didn't get to the North Country by accident.  We came out of the Oke Swamp in Georgia and heard about the Scout Massacre through The Wizard's CB skip.  Feds used those AutoMen against us in our fight; we knew what it was like in Dixville.  Nothing human could have been that merciless.  I convinced Tumult we belonged here.  Besides, being around you people helped us forget about our problems.  I know about your loss, Ma'am.  And I feel it is particularly difficult for the mothers of those boys.  Their bond is much closer."  He quoted a portion of a poem he had written:

"There is a place in mothers' memories

where ageless children say kind words,

when aspirations pause

and life alone enjoyed."

      
She wiped her eyes and smiled in relief.  The words sent chills through her.  His verse described her condition exactly; the difficult trials of parenting had faded.  Brighter scenes remained.  "I guess I owe you an apology.  I thought you guys were a bunch of disgruntled rednecks.  But how did you link up with someone like Tumult, and where do you guys get these names?"

      
"Everybody has a--well, call it a soldier's name, so the Feds can't trace us to our folks back home.  As for my name, it kinda came about because of the combat tactics I use.  My real name is Virgil.  Please call me Chaos.  Say what you want about Tumult, but you want him on your side.  Granted, he's a Nazi and a racist, but in a fight he's exactly as his name predicts.  He started the Tobacco Wars.  They were called the Tobacco Boys back then."  Chaos smiled reminiscing.  "My brothers brought me into the group the day I graduated from the Citadel."

      
"I've heard of that," said Helen.

      
"What you heard about it was gracious, I'm sure.  Everything I learned there about tactics and strategy was worthless after doing maneuvers with the Tobacco Boys.  They started out as a paintball league, you know."  Helen nodded.  "Oh, yeah," continued Chaos, "they fight in packs of twelve to penetrate enemy lines, then they shoot 'em up from the inside.  The Feds wind up shooting their own guys with friendly fire while the Tobacco Boys know exactly where their troops are because of our communication systems.  Communication is critical with that type of helter-skelter combat.  Tumult's paintball league developed that fighting style and with it, we've pushed back Guard battalions ten times our size in the Tobacco Wars, inflicting tremendous casualties."

      
"Your group doesn't seem to be racist like the others."

      
"Oh, I'm not one of them.  Tumult's part of the triad shares the Klan's mind-set.  Snake is more reasonable.  One thing's for sure, Ma'am:  You want these SOBs killing their people and not our people.  When the smoke clears and fair government is restored, they can go back to their paintball tournaments and the keg parties that follow."

      
"I know you're sincere but I have trouble sharing your optimism."

      
"Despair makes optimists of us all.  I have no other course."

      
Helen felt a sense of security with Chaos.  She was attracted to his brown eyes and sincere disposition--and of course, his charm.  The incident at the house had bothered her earlier, the fact that he might be a wanton killer beneath the Southern chivalry.  But that had been laid to rest tonight.  He was compelling in a quiet way; she understood why he had the trust and loyalty of his young rebels.

      
Toward the end of their visit they kissed, but like the Southern gentlemen he was, it went no further.  His powerful arms wrapped around her, made her feel secure.  Even though the threat of an Army reprisal was always there, she had a protector, Chaos: the philosopher, the poet, the warrior.

-

Tumult's Attack Packs in Old Boston (the evening of March 15)

      
Four rebels held a captured gang member down and outstretched his palms as Demig drove a 20-penny spike through the Black man's flesh into a sheet of three-quarter-inch plywood.

      
"Ahhhhh!  I can't tell you what I don't know.  Please!  Please!  I can't help you.  The gang leaders were Sable, Pumice, and Tar.  I told you that."  The gang member turned the other way as Demig held the nail to the pad of the other hand and solidly swatted the spike with the hammer through flesh and bone into the wood below.  "Ahhhhh!"  The victim's face beaded with sweat.  His mind raced to understand why the southerners tortured him--"Sable's place is on Washington Avenue.  I told you that."

      
Tumult's Mountain Boys had occupied a rundown housing project in the heart of Boston.  Dark, sooted buildings exposed the structures' jagged features: broken windows, fallen sections of brick, crude textures of masonry.  Gads of CB antennas pointed to hope across the skyline.

      
Spiked to the plywood and looking up at a water-stained ceiling, the Black man regretted pulling a gun on one of the rebels.   Now, dull light from a propane lantern illuminated the walls with a beige glow.  The people before the lamp performed their macabre drama on the shadowy wall, where black-hearted antagonists acted out a ghastly scene.  He watched the prone silhouette on the wall and wondered if it was really him. 

      
"You told us that before," said Demig.  He walked over to Tumult who instructed a recruit, and waited for a break in conversation, "Sir, I don't think he knows rat shit."

      
Tumult ignored Demig and continued instruction.  A few minutes later, the recruit returned to his pack, leaving Demig and Tumult alone: "Well," said Tumult, "finish him off by nailing down his feet."  He thought a bit.  "And put one through his face.  Sink the head of the nail right to the cheekbone.  I can't stand a man that whines."  Tumult turned about, ready to check out another attack team.

      
"But, sir.  He doesn't know."

      
Tumult nodded his head and paused.  "That's not the point."  He explained in a quiet, polite manner, "See, we're establishing relations with the indigenous people here.  When the gangs see us on their turf, I want them cowarding in corners, not taking potshots at us from windows and doorways.  That spiked up afro will send a message to all the monkeys out there, and in turn, we'll have fewer casualties.  When I'm finished, they'll be giving us all their motor-guns."

      
"I see."

      
"Well, that's the problem, Demig.  You don't see."

      
"Sir?"

      
"How long have you been with me?"

      
"Three years."

      
"I would think by now you would know you don't question the chief's orders."

      
"Sorry, sir."

      
"Demig, you're a valuable fighter.  In fact, you're like a little brother to me, but don't question my judgment again or your ass will be nailed to a board, too."

      
"Yes, sir."  And Demig knew he meant it; he knew what Tumult was capable of.

      
Tumult's technician, Glitch, stood out of hearing as Demig finished his conversation.  Unlike most of the men in all three units of the Triad, Glitch was pushing sixty years of age.  Though not officially a commander, technicians were respected and gave orders because of their vital importance to the group.  They stayed out of firefights, going into risky situations only to fix tactical gadgetry.  Glitch was lean, and a heavy smoker.  Deep wrinkles streaked his face and neck, particularly his forehead when he squinted or smiled.  He had previously worked outdoors as a power-line repairman.  Glitch was an amiable man and beyond those years of having to prove himself to anyone.  "Excuse me, sir," he said to Tumult who turned to face him.  "I'm getting a jamming signal to the northwest, bearing 315 degrees.  The signature matches our equipment."

      
Tumult put his hands on Glitch's shoulders, squinting his eyes as a snake-lipped smile formed, "Chaos is on his way.  Is it so close that we can't listen to local radio?"

      
"We can get local stations."

      
"Glitch, let's you and I go in and roll ourselves a smoke and listen to what the media says is happening.  Then I'll make my guess at what that sly son-of-a-bitch is up to."  They walked to the back room, Tumult's arm over the older man's shoulder as though they were old pals.

      
Chaos' triad was to rendezvous in Lexington.  The local sheriff had become suspicious of the group of young men around town and had done a photo ID check through Fednet; Helen and Chaos' faces had been matched.  The Mountain Boys fled Lexington but the Feds had been alerted, closing in on them by ground and air.  Chaos' had left an attack pack of Virginians as a decoy.  As the Virginians headed east, the larger force of rebels had gone west to catch Highway 90 to Boston.

      
With their frequency jammer signal, the Virginian attack pack had lured the Army east to the Walden Pond area.  They had taken the side roads mostly, eventually pulling their gear, and walking through wetlands and timber stands.  Army Regulars surrounded them.  Three rebel snipers outside the encirclement, armed with Masadas, had shot nine Army Regulars from three hundred and eighty meters out.  Government soldiers who saw their buddies beside them slump dead, fired more vigorously at the larger group before them; the Army recruits had no idea snipers had shot them from behind.  A nine man attack pack broke through the perimeter and had begun eating away at both sides of the circle, all the while, snipers in the distant hills really did the dirty deed.  By the end of the skirmish, 31 Regulars lay dead, only three of the Virginians had been taken captive, and two rebels had made it past Army Regulars and headed to Boston.

      
As Tumult and Glitch walked to the back room to listen to the Government version of events at Walden Pond, Demig stood reluctantly considering the gruesome task of nailing up the African-American's feet.  Feeling a bit squeamish on returning, he stuffed the Black man's mouth with a used hanky and set out spiking the feet into the board.  Finally, he drove a spike through the cheek bone as two more men stopped the victim's head from bobbing.  The boy-faced rebels subduing the victim kept checking each other's expressions for some reaction of protest.

Chapter 10