Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (11 page)

      
Chaos' eyes narrowed as he considered a delicate response to Helen, "There are casualties in war, Ma'am.  If we take a force down there to the city with all those roads and open space, the Feds could swoop right in.  Other than the fact that he's your brother, Ma'am, there's no reason to risk it, certainly no tactical reason.  It wouldn't help the cause."

       
"It wouldn't help the cause?"  The steely comment incensed Helen.  "He's the leader of the Colebrook Covenant.  Without my brother, your rebels won't get so much as a tea bag from us--and that won't help
your
so-called cause."

      
"We're not suggesting an attack," Harvey negotiated.  "A small group could get in and easily stay under cover in Inner Boston.  Police and Federal Agents leave the gangs alone.  The gangs are better armed than the Feds."

      
"And my lily white face would fit right in, right?"

      
"There's also a tactical reason," Helen vied.  "The motor-guns.  They're a weapon that uses gasoline as a propellant.  For them, anything can be melted down into balls and used as shot.  If you acquired the motor-guns, you would have superior weapons and unlimited ammunition.  There's your reason--that, and our backing."

      
Motor-guns were jerrybuilt contraptions that looked like a weed-whacker with a broached barrel for cooling.  A local machinist in Boston had developed the device.  It could pop out eighteen rounds a second.  Though hodgepodged and heavy, it was the most devastating weapon in the city.  Few police officers had seen one that wasn't burping out lead balls in their direction.

      
Chaos looked at Helen and considered the advantage of equipping his rebels with motor-guns.  "'Everyone is the architect of his own fortune'," the Southerner quoted.  "In March.  We go in March."

-

Chapter 7

Dixville Notch, New Hampshire (December 10)

      
Chickadees chased the two boys up the trail in an effort to land on their caps where sunflower seeds had been placed.  The black-capped little birds were so comfortable with them, they would eat kernels out of their hands, or in this case, chase them for the snacks the Rousells placed atop their hats.  Butch and Thad had led a number of people to the massacre site.  This time it was different: Using a phony international press ID, Spectator News reporter Steve Morrison convinced the boys he was a Quebec journalist.  The reporter from Washington felt his anonymity was safe in a region where few people were able to afford television reception because of the communication tax--and he was dealing with kids.  Though the Rousells were skeptical, the stranger offered them a sizable amount of money.

      
Steve had rented a car in Quebec and drove in from the north.  He found Butch and Thad alone on a side street and convinced them he was a foreign journalist, and that foreign reporters would present the truth.  The prospect of notoriety appealed to Butch.

      
The narrow, snow-packed trail to the massacre site had become a common snowmobile route for those paying homage to the boys who died there.  Butch and Thad had skis strapped to their backpacks for the trip down.  They passed through a desolate world of snow-laden trees with humps where boulders rose and pushed the evergreens apart, at times, allowing sunshine to peek through between the treetops.  Butch and Thad drove the tips of their ski poles into the packed snow and steadily plodded up the steep trail.

      
Morrison continually slipped, often clawing on all fours or using trees along the trail to pull himself.  He endured the still cold of the forest trail, but on the edge of the massacre zone, the wind whipped up snow from the clearing and tossed it in their faces.  Covering his ears with his gloved hands, he tucked his face into the top of his coat.

      
At the Massacre site, Steve pulled a digital camera from his coat pocket and began clicking shots.  It looked desolate, as though there had never been life there.  He noticed bullet holes through the tree beside him, then other such holes in trees nearby.  "What the hell did this?"  He looked at a gaping hole through a sixteen-inch tree trunk; a tree sparrow had since nestled in the cavity to escape the elements.  The Spectator reporter stepped around to the back of the tree and found dried bloodstains.  "They shot right through the tree and killed them," he mumbled to himself.  He clicked several pictures of the phenomenon. 

      
"You said you weren't an American Reporter," Butch declared sternly.  He noticed a Spectator News identification tag on the camera.  "What's with the camera?"  The two onlookers stood side by side feeling double-crossed, Thad, the silent adjunct.  "So, that ID you showed me was fake."

      
"Look Buddy--" said Steve.

      
"It's Butch."

      
Steve reached in his breast pocket and pulled out his wallet.  He held out four twenties to Butch.  "You got your money."  The money flapped about in the breeze as the two boys scalded the stranger with their gaze.

      
"Well, if you don't want it, fine."  A shot echoed through the valley below, several miles out.  "What was that?"

      
"A Remington 306."  Butch stated flatly.  "It has a muzzle velocity of 2000 feet per second.  You're one dead Fed."  The money continued flapping in the wind as the Rousell brothers began untying the skis from their backs, preparing for the downward plunge.

      
"Boys, I'm not like the other Journalists," Steve claimed.  "I'm trying to find out the truth about Dixville."

      
Thad tugged on his brother's arm and pointed to the Boston Bruins tie pin exposed through the reporter's open coat.  Butch turned to his brother and nodded.  "You from Boston?"

      
"I grew up just outside Boston," Steve was lying again.  He didn't know what the boy's fascination was with Boston but he played along.  Steve Morrison had no place he called home.

      
Through the communication system at Max's deer camp, the Rousells sent notes to The Wizard regularly.  He had told the boys Boston was his home; the Rousells had developed an affinity for the city.  They had heard about the expedition in March and planned on going.  Butch didn't trust the reporter but admitted the connection, "The Wizard is from Boston, too.  He can do just about anything.  He's in the Vermont Covenant, ya know.  But me and my brother have to know the truth about you before we can tell you anything." 

      
Steve squatted in front of the boys.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of gum and offered them a stick.  Each boy pulled off a mitten and cautiously accepted a piece.  Steve unwrapped one for himself.  He could no longer dismiss the boys and simply get a story and go.  "I'm here because I believe the White House has blamed this massacre on the smugglers, and smugglers didn't do it.  I believe the
Feds
lied to hide something else."  Steve was careful to use their terms.  He pointed to trees at the edge of the clearing, "Now, I'm sure.  Smugglers don't have weapons that could do that.  Now, do you want to help me get the bad guys, or do I have to do it by myself?"  No response.  Steve shrugged, "The Wizard . . . can you tell me anything about him?  The Feds have him in Boston."

      
"You got that wrong.  They got the wrong guy."  Butch decided to tell him; the money was good.  And if the reporter was lying about his desire to 'find out the truth,' things would be no different than before.  He walked up to the reporter.  "Give me the money and follow."  Steve handed Butch the cash and entered the clearing with the boys.  "It's okay to come out in the open as long as you're with me or Thad.  Everyone around these parts knows us.  But there's a guy around with a Ruger semi-auto that would just as soon pop you in the face as look at you."  He turned to his brother with a smirk, then walked over to a brush pile in the center of the clearing where the AutoMan had sat.

      
Boulders and stumps held a foot and a half of snow mounded above open ground.  A pile of flowers were blanketed with a dusting of fluff; they had been laid there within the last couple of days.  Butch pointed to the larger brush pile.  "That's where the RoboGun sat, in that brush pile there.  It shot tank-killer bullets that could go through anything.  The bullets were made of depleted uranium, encased in a hardened, teflon-coated, titanium case."  Butch made it his business to know about weapons and ammunition.  He listened to Max and others talk. 

      
"RoboGun?  How do you know all this?"  Steve's mind raced with questions.  General Paz had told him about the military's AutoMan, the same type of weapon the boy spoke of.

      
"We're members of the Ghost Pack 220.  Only members of the Ghost Pack know what really happened up here."

      
The reporter became impatient with Butch.  "Well, are you kids going to tell me?"

      
They shook their heads no.  "Only the members know the real story," replied Butch.

      
"You speaking for your brother too?" asked Steve.

      
"My brother doesn't talk since the massacre but I know what he means."  Both boys stood side by side, unified in their response.

      
It occurred to Steve that the Rousells needed more from him than just the money.  "How do I join, boys?"

      
Butch lifted the side of Thad's hat and whispered in his ear.  Thad shook his head yes.  "We was held back at the end of the Pack to help as assistants to Mr. Ronolou; he was old and we could help him 'cause we're rugged.  A Scout in the middle of the Pack noticed the red lights of the sensors.  Then all hell broke loose.  The Akela took three bullets in the chest but yanked my brother and me down behind that rock over there before the bullet spray widened."

      
Steve looked in astonishment as the lad recited the folklore.  He thought no one had lived through the attack, and now, here he was in the presence of the only two survivors.  It meant an exclusive interview for him.  Steve found the story difficult to swallow at first, but as the tale progressed, with the intricate details and names--the fact that Butch described the AutoMan--the impact was overwhelming.

      
"Me and Thad popped out of the dirt over there, loaded up our friend Barry and hauled ass down the hill.  Thad's the fastest Cub in the Pack, you know."  Steve shivered in the blistering wind that now blew freely on open ground; he listened in awe to a finely honed tale of bravery, loyalty--and death.

Washington, D.C. (December 19)

      
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States."

      
"Only once in history has the life of this Union of States been so imperiled that the Federal Government found it befitting to thwart those threats by force.  In the mid-1800s, our forefathers fought against the injustice of slavery, to preserve this nation we call the United States.

      
Last week, in the outback of New Hampshire, armed hooligans killed thirty-two National Guards in a bloody shoot-out.  The next day, terrorists from the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont attacked and killed twenty-seven more.  Again, there comes a time in our existence as a nation to defend our laws, our union.

      
As President of the United States, I took an oath to uphold the law.  I am bound to preserve this union of states, and I will do so vigorously.  I will do so forthrightly, with all the militias and regular military at my disposal.  The tragedy at Dixville must not linger.  The tiny town of Colebrook and the surrounding region are held captive by thugs.  I intend to free those citizens in the Northeast and destroy the gangs gripping the region."

      
Journalists in the Press Room stood and applauded instinctively.  Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett, Vice President Margaret Sorenson, and Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz stood directly behind Winifred and clapped conservatively.  An unenthusiastic exception was Steve Morrison of Spectator News; he stood complacently and stared.  Nancy Atherton sat in her usual pose and applauded accordingly.

      
"Martial Law has been enacted during the last two years of this administration.  I will be extending Martial Law and asking for a vote of support from the House and Senate to suspend the writ of habeas corpus, so the Armed Forces can move quickly in this matter.  The military may detain suspects without due process for the safety of the public."  The President cleared his throat and looked away from the teleprompter to his audience.  "This act has the support of the American people.  No region of the country should be exempt from taxation or regulations at the expense of another."

      
The room erupted again, with reporters raising their hands for questions.  "Yes.  Ms. Atherton."

      
"Mr. President, what started the shooting in Colebrook?"

      
Clifford glanced down at his pocket computer on the podium, "A Guard attempted to question two boys about a package they were carrying.  One of the boys stabbed the Guard with a knife.  The local militia up there are apparently using children as couriers.  When the Guards tried to capture the two for questioning, shooting erupted.  The crime syndicate in Colebrook took no prisoners.  They call themselves the Covenant and they're well armed and well organized.  One more thing: In subsequent fighting, a well-trained, tactical squad inflicted many casualties in a raid on an armament cache in Lancaster, New Hampshire.  Raids by this group forced the Guard out of the region."