Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (19 page)

      
Lucas became sarcastic, "So what you're saying is that the most powerful military force in the world can't take on a few hundred rebels.  I get the impression you like these guys."

      
"You don't understand the importance of knowing the enemy.  And yes, if I could choose a group of soldiers to serve under me, it would be the Tobacco Boys.  Unfortunately they're the enemy.  I'm not saying we can't beat them.  I'm saying it will cost us casualties.  One thing that helped us in Georgia was that we split them off from the citizens who supported them.  They have to eat.  They have to sleep.  When they're out of their element they become easier to locate--as I suppose they are in Boston now."  The separation of the Mountain Boys from their base made Greely reconsider.

      
"Would you be interested in heading this thing up?" the President asked.

      
The Colonel had anticipated the question:  "If I can do it my way.  That would mean bring in my own divisions with the most modern equipment.  For example: I want the team of Seals now stationed in the Amur region of Russia.  I need them today.  They've had experience with snipers and house-to-house fighting.  But if there's too many civilians getting hurt, I'm the one that calls it quits.  Then we would just have to wait for them to leave the city."

      
"Those terms are fine," said President Winifred.

      
Greely looked the President straight in the eye.  "I've got to ask just one question first, sir.  I don't mean any disrespect by it.  Did our troops have anything to do with the Dixville incident?" 

      
"No, they didn't.  It is a ridiculous notion prompted by Spectator News.  It's purely political.  I had nothing to do with Dixville, and quite frankly, I'm surprised you would ask something like that."

      
"I had to ask, sir.  Morale is low with the communications blackout on the military.  Keeping the troops in the dark only spurs rumors."

      
"Rumors is the operative word, Colonel."

      
The Colonel accepted the assignment and was given full reign over the troops and equipment used.  He wanted to start immediately while the Tobacco Boys were still severed from the North Country.

Boston (1:00 p.m. on March 17)

      
From Chaos' vantage point, atop the sixty-two-story John Hancock Tower, tiny streets were cluttered with insect-like vehicles.  They crowded and honked, anxious to pass through Columbus Avenue before the strip shut down for the annual St. Patrick's Day Parade.  The gold dome of the State House gleamed like a Christmas ornament behind Boston Common.  Other historical sights of Old Boston were also in view: the Park Street Church and Granary Burial Ground just beyond the Common and a distant pinnacle of the Bunker Hill Monument across the Charles River, three miles off.  The Old State House peeked between the skyscrapers of downtown.

      
Huge military transport planes circled the sky above the city like predatory birds, holding their flight patterns for a turn to land at Logan International Airport across the Harbor.  A Navy ZF-4 Pursuit plane roared over the Hancock Tower at a low altitude.  "They know we're here," shouted Chaos.  "Don't uncover those guns," he directed Wolfenstein.  "For all they know we're up here to see the parade."

      
Chaos moved his command center in the early morning hours to an empty warehouse off Boston Harbor just as a precaution.

      
John Hancock's rooftop was an excellent communications point from which they sighted in a Masada's laser to a receiver node at their warehouse.  They also had a line-of-sight to communicate with attack packs stationed around the JFK Building where the Feds kept Max and three Virginians.

      
Chaos noticed the stark Bunker Hill monument across the Charles River and wondered . . . .  He went to the edge of the building and uncovered part of a Masada and focused the 100x scope on the viewing nest at the top of the monument.  Two of Tumult's Mountain Boys looked back at him through Masada scopes of their own.  Looking through the scope, Chaos waved.  They waved back.  If they had had one of the copper woven hats and amplifier he could have sent them a message.

      
"What is it?" asked Helen--with Steve Morrison listening intently.

      
"Tumult had spotters behind the church at Bunker Hill all this time.  He knew where we were.  They must use the location to receive and send visual signals."

      
"I thought you guys were on the same team.  If he knew where you were," Helen questioned, "why didn't he contact you?"

      
"Like I said, we have a philosophical difference.  You'll get to ask him yourself.  Der Dutchman's pack spotted Tumult heading our way with an attack pack.  You know, as much as we disagree, we both know we're going to have to work together to get out of this.  Those aren't passenger planes.  The Feds are moving in troops."  He pointed to the sky.  "We have to get Max and get out of here when this mob leaves the parade,
before
the Feds blockade the city.  We could hold them off in the city all right but we don't have provisions."

      
"I'd like to understand the dynamics of this place," Chaos pondered allowed.  "Excluding the gangs, of course, we haven't had ill will from the people here."

      
"How do you view yourselves as rebels?"  Steve Morrison cut into the conversation.

      
"Is this for your own curiosity or some kind of interview?"

      
"You could call it an interview."

      
"How do I know you'll get it right?  I have trouble understanding how you media boys prostitute yourselves day after day by supporting the failed policies of the White House.  Rural, hardworking people are being punished."

      
"First of all, I can't help but get it right; you're sending it out for me.  Just edit anything you don't like and feed it through the phone line."

      
"You just don't get it, do you," the Southerner countered.  "We struggle for freedom.  This nation is all over the globe fighting tyranny, protecting the freedom of other people around the world, while communities at home aren't allowed to help themselves.  Granted, with all of us, it's personal.  In some way, we've suffered loss of property, livelihood," and nodding to Helen beside him, "some lost loved ones.  But it's the principle of it.  It's bad government, and America wasn't this way years ago."  Chaos pointed his finger to the streets below.  "The urban people might control the votes to keep these fools in power, but we can control the countryside.  Without the land, they cannot eat."

      
A voice came from behind them, "You always gave a good speech, little brother."

      
Helen whirled around to see Tumult, looking her over lecherously.

      
He smiled at her reaction.  "She looks surprised.  I'll bet he didn't tell you we were brothers," said Tumult.

      
"No."

      
"It's not something he's proud of," Tumult continued.  "My little brother thinks I'm a psycho, but when things get tough, I wind up saving his ass.  Ain't that right?"  Tumult looked to Chaos.

      
"I sent you a message about coming here for Max," Chaos said quickly, obviously irritated.  "And I don't appreciate this cat and mouse game you've been playing in Boston.  You're screwing up the mission by hitting on the gangs.  Look, they're flying in Regular Army."  He pointed across the harbor to the airport.  "For all we know there's even ships loaded with more troops and supplies on the way."

      
Morrison discreetly scribbled notes on a pocket computer as they spoke; Tumult notice.  "Who's the nerd?  A historical recorder?  You think you're making history here or something, little brother?"  Tumult walked deliberately between Helen and Chaos to the tripod Masada with a blanket draped over it.

      
"I'm a reporter for Spectator News," Steve announced.

      
Tumult looked through the scope at the Bunker Hill Monument, ignoring his soldiers' waves.  "He doin' a story on you?  You running for President, little brother?"  Tumult chuckled.

      
"They're sending in a censored story," said Steve.

      
"And who the hell asked you," Tumult answered the reporter not taking his eyes off the scope.  He loosened the lock on the weapon as he watched the protest gathering at the front of The Old State House a mile and a half away. 

      
Local residents had gathered in the square at the very point the Boston Massacre had taken place centuries before.  This time they took advantage of the St. Patrick's Day press coverage to protest against the lack of protection from the gangs, the cutbacks in health care, and the reduction of social security.  The leader of the rally recited party demagoguery about fascists and fairness.  Further down Columbus Avenue gays, lesbians, and representatives from a Native American group stood in formation and held their banners for the St. Patrick's Day Parade. 

      
"'A hundred fools do not make one wise man,'" said Tumult quoting Adolf Hitler.  He refocused on the protest gathering at the Old State House.  "So, little brother, is this what you're down here for, to fight for the freedom of freaks and afros.   And hell, I can't tell what
that
is," he discreetly punched a timer on the number pad of the Masada as he spoke, "a girl, or a boy, or one of those animals they surgically change for the county fair."

      
"They have the right to say what they think," stated Chaos.

      
Tumult turned away from the scope, "Well, I'm getting sick and tired of the whining."  He logged in three consecutive shots and pressed ENTER.

      
"Your own men have trouble accepting the Nazi theme you've embraced.  But listen, we have to work together if we're going to get out of here."

      
"Piss!"  Tumult re-covered the Masada, stood up, and glanced at his watch.  "When you say work together, you mean do it your way.  You sent me the goddamn message about coming here before we could even talk about it.  We're supposed to be a triad, little brother.  That's three groups that function as one.  You haul your ass off and do stuff on your own.  I started this goddamn thing to begin with.  How do you think you got through college?  Huh?"

      
"Well--" He began.

      
"I sent the goddamn money to Mom.  She sent it to the Citadel.  Those weren't scholarships, you stupid shit."

      
Helen and Steve looked at one another, stunned.  The conversation caught Wolfenstein and his pack's attention.  Tumult continued, "I was raising hell with the Feds and raising money for you while you were screwing around with the girls in college.  I get sick and tired of having to explain myself to you.  You try and make me out as some wacko Nazi around my own men.  I don't appreciate that.  You need to worry about your own people.  I had to pick two of your Virginian men out of a building last night.  And taking care of them were two boys."  He points his finger at Helen, "They said this bitch is in charge of everything.  Piss!  I'm getting sick and tired of covering your ass."  He glanced down at his watch. 

      
"Boys?"  The statement surprised Chaos.

      
"Boys.  You got that right.  They had a dog with 'em.  And one of the Virginians had the shit shot out of his leg.  We might have to cut the thing off."

      
"You're not cutting that leg off because I'm going over there," Helen vowed to Tumult.  She was aghast; Helen couldn't imagine how Butch and Thad could have made it to Boston.  So far away.  She wanted to help the wounded Virginian, yes; but primarily, Helen wanted to get the Rousell brothers away from Tumult.  

      
"Who runs this outfit, little brother?  Those boys right about her being in charge?  Are you so penie-tied by a woman that she's calling the shots?"

      
Chaos' patience was at its limit.  He wanted to work with Tumult and get through this ordeal, but he'd put up with the humiliation long enough.  The 'little' brother, along with other demeaning comments in front of his men grated on him.  But Chaos didn't want to let his ego get in the way of a compromise with his brother.  As diabolical as Tumult was, he always prevailed, landing on his feet despite insurmountable odds.  Chaos respected that part of his brother.  He always had.  There were times growing up when he watched his older brothers get away with outrageous antics.  Chaos watched and kept his mouth shut--always the good boy.  Tumult had maligned him back then as well.  Things hadn't changed.  "There's no working with you, is there?"

      
"Sure there is.  I'm leaving the city now before the Feds block us in.  Pack up your stuff and let's go," Tumult ordered.

      
Chaos glanced over at Helen before speaking, "We can leave in a few hours."

      
"That's too late," said Tumult.  "I can't believe you're going to put your part of the Triad at risk for one man.  Especially, when you really came down for the motor-guns."