Sophie sighed. She meant much more wild stuff she’d been involved in than those childish games. “Not our unit, but I’ve heard rumors about special ‘volunteer teams.’ Supposedly, they dash across the border and take potshots at federal cops or soldiers. Try to destabilize things and keep Washington too preoccupied to stomp us. Some news outlets claim they’re just trying to keep the cold war warm and not let everyone’s anger thaw. I don’t know. Who really knows what’s fact, propaganda and fact-ish propaganda anymore? Besides, even if the Eastern news is telling the truth, one person’s ‘war crime’ is another’s justifiable revenge. The Fedefucks, sorry, the Feds, started this whole war. I won’t lose any sleep if they end up biting off more than they can chew!”
“Yeah… I should be shocked at that attitude, but everyone feels the same way. Still, baby, you’re too young to be so jaded.”
“Daddy, after the last couple of months, I’m too old to be so sentimental.”
He chewed on that while she nonchalantly scooped out potato salad. He gave up. “Who am I to judge? I still don’t buy all that ‘the president is an evil dictator’ nonsense, but Washington did shoot first. As crazy as it sounds, the Federal Government has become our enemy.”
Sophie stopped in mid-bite. “Are you mocking me? I know you’ve always been skeptical of the URA experiment, and especially my service, but I’m doing great things out there.”
He yanked out his wallet and tossed her a gold-chipped ID card. “No, hon, we are doing great things.” His tone was still sour, but she ignored it and studied the badge.
“Captain Kampbell! How the hell? I mean, I love you, but you’re… Have you ever even touched a gun in your life?”
“Of course not. I’m a civilized man. Great thing is I don’t need to. Quartermaster corps. I’m one of the industry liaison people in the URA’s procurement department. It’s interesting work.”
Sophie jumped up and hugged him. “Hey, at least you’re finally onboard! Even if you’re just a bureaucrat. Somebody has to do the paperwork. You worried me for a second. Sorry, old man, but I couldn’t imagine you humping a ruck! Leave the hard work to the young people.” She playfully slapped his growing belly he half-heartily struggled to shrink.
He feigned indignation. “You little brat! You never could see the big picture. This boring ‘paperwork’ is what’s giving our rag-tag military a decent chance of standing up to the federal juggernaut. There really is no bureaucracy. At the moment, at least. You can slowly see little fiefdoms being built in some departments. Just human nature, I guess. For now though, we have a giant advantage over our East Coast counterparts. Things here are so new and, honestly, desperate. We have no lengthy review processes, project management boards or politics getting in the way. The warfighters tell me what they need and it’s my job to hunt down “off the shelf” solutions. Sometimes we’re even tossing experimental weapons and equipment straight into the field. This type of thing is just unheard of at the Pentagon.”
He downed the last of his beer and winked. “Of course I shouldn’t talk about it; especially with a simple civilian that’s not even in the real military….” Jessica grabbed a pair of beers for both of them, but intentionally spilt his.
“Wooah! Don’t take your frustrations out on my poor beer!” He slurped up the foam and wagged a finger.
“Seriously, I’ve noticed that no orders ever come from the militia, yet from what I see on TV, you people are well-supplied. Better equipped than many of our hastily raised units actually. Those corporate sponsors of yours are quite generous. Have you ever wondered why? Doesn’t that bother you?”
Sophie looked him straight in the eyes. “No. We’re not mercenaries; this is a true grassroots movement. While the regular army takes in anyone that still has a pulse, only a fraction of those that apply to ‘the Brigades’ are accepted. Honestly, I don’t care about the logistics crap behind it all. I just know that we’re really making a difference, unlike all those bullshit clubs and causes back in college. You were right; that was all child’s play.”
She raised her beer to toast. “I’m glad you finally realize that a rifle delivers a hell of a lot more social justice than any picket sign ever could!”
Senator Dimone, or President-elect Dimone, as his dwindling number of supporters called him, waved an M-16 in awe. He’d never held a gun before, let alone a so-called “assault rifle.” Pointing the muzzle around the rustic shack, the old politico appeared even more nervous than his cohorts.
“Are you sure this is really necessary?” He gripped the weapon by the trigger and fiddled with the fire selector switch. Thankfully, his followers weren’t stupid enough to give him a loaded gun.
A grizzled old man in the corner scratched his beer belly and drained the rest of his glass. “You gotta fire up the troops, Mr. President. Show ‘em you one of ‘em. Hey, can somebody bring us some more whiskey here? There’s serious work to do!”
“Right away, Grand Master Davis!” Some kid came back seconds later with a fresh bottle. “Thank you kindly, son.”
Lee Davis, Grand Master of the Lodge and Chairman of the Southeastern Constitutional Society, penciled in some changes to his famous spokesperson’s speech. “Need to tone down all these ten dollar words here, sir. This ain’t Washington!”
Across the table, Francis Pickens poured himself some of that rotgut and laughed. The former governor of Florida scratched at the chiggers and swirled his tumbler, third one in an hour, around the old hunting lodge. “Really? How can you tell?” He laughed at his own joke.
Deep in the woods and nestled up against the base of Lookout Mountain, privacy in this rickety cabin was rivaled only by the stunning view. Pickens just grunted and tilted the glass back. Much better view from there.
“Ah! Goes down as rough as those silly propaganda videos you two keep making. Does anyone still watch these things? Last one only received a thousand views on YouTube. Probably half of them federal agents!”
Dimone ignored the governor’s typical defeatism. For his part, Lee Davis didn’t care for the city-slicker governor none. Didn’t like the senator much either, but he needed the Washington insider and his sidekick as much as they needed him. Without their support, Davis’s loose coalition of anti-Semitic, anti-black and, well, anti-everything hate groups would still exist only on the margins of society.
Now though, having this big shot celebrity as their spokesperson made the wackos a political force to be reckoned with. Seeing as how the once nearly-president Dimone had lost all legitimacy himself, this band of armed misfits represented his last desperate hope to stay relevant on the national stage. Abandoned by his financial backers and wanted as a “domestic terrorist” for inspiring that disastrous standoff in Florida, Dimone didn’t have any other options.
By his standards, Davis kept a civil tongue. “I may not have your fancy book learning, Governor Pickens, but I know who our audience really is, and it ain’t the sheeple. It’s all the underground fighters out there. This isn’t a two-sided war like the Revolution, way back when. You’ve got the traditional separatists out West and those dangerous soldier-boys in Florida. Neither one will have anything to do with us. Believe me; I’ve tried to broker alliances. They both just want regime change. Neither want any real change to the, what do you call it? The status quo. Throw the rascals in Washington out and put their own SOB’s in. That’s all their plan amounts to.”
Dimone chipped in, recognizing a talking point. “That’s right. We’re the only ones trying to build a new tomorrow. We’re the only hope for real change.”