“I, for one, am not letting them take everything I’ve worked for. That my family’s worked for. If they come after me like they came at Ruby Ridge, they’d better be prepared to die.”
One part of Kyle’s mind stepped back at that point, marveling at just how odd the world was getting. From a general discussion of the economy, the price of gas, and the difficulty of getting fertilizer, all at once they were back on Ruby Ridge. And what was even more worrisome was that no one else found it odd.
“Maybe we ought to be ready for something like that,” one of them said hesitantly. They all, even Kyle, turned to Gus expectantly. The silence settled over them.
“It wouldn’t hurt any,” Gus allowed. “There are people out there that think like we do. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to them. It would just be talking, that’s all.”
People out there. Kyle knew what Gus was talking about. While he tried to keep up with the newspapers and magazines, the Internet was now his main source of information. He’d read about the groups that organized around the country, read through their various manifestos and articles and declarations. Most of them were tax protesters. He’d also read the IRS rebuttal to the claims that income tax was unlawful, and he knew what happened to most of the ones that refused to pay taxes. They went to jail on a federal beef.
No, those homegrown militia tax protesters didn’t have anything going for them. And even if they did, they didn’t have a chance against the federal government.
But despite Kyle’s intellectual conclusions, there was something in his gut that howled in warm recognition of the sentiments expressed on some of the Web sites. It was something he didn’t like about himself, particularly when it came to the racist stuff. And yet, underlying all the distasteful stuff, there was something that appealed to him. Something that echoed what he was feeling right now about his country, the one he’d served in the Army, the one he’d been taught to love. Whatever else they had wrong, they had one thing right. The country was going down the tubes.
“I’ll ask around,” Gus said, making eye contact with each one of them in turn. “I’ll just ask. You understand this isn’t anything we ought to be talking about with other folks. Just us, here. No outsiders.”
Kyle felt the small shiver of eagerness and excitement that ran through the group. They were all feeling that compelling need to do something, anything. But what?
As the group broke up, the men making their way back to their women, who were herding the children back toward cars, Kyle felt that same surge of hope.
Maybe there was something they could do. At the very least, they could be ready for anything that came.
When they got home, Kyle’s new dog, a Rottweiler-Doberman cross, greeted them enthusiastically. He was an impressive animal, with the build of the Doberman except for the head. He had large jaws, the joints massive and distinct under his skin, the jaws powerful. Kyle had already seen him deal with one coyote, and he knew that if the dog got his jaws on something, it wasn’t going anywhere.
The dog approached them slowly, waiting to be invited closer, and then leaned against him as Kyle proffered his hand for a scratch. Betsy herded the kids inside, and then turned to him. “Just what was that all about?” she asked.
“What was what about?”
“Back at the church. The five of you looked so serious.” She paused to stroke the dog affectionately. “We all noticed it.”
“Nothing in particular. Just, you know — talking. About the way things are.” Kyle looked away, refusing to meet her eyes.
“What does that mean?”
Kyle saw the look of uneasiness on her face, and reached out to draw her close. He would give a lot to spare her any worry, but if Gus was right, there was no way around it. “It’s probably nothing, honey,” he said. “But just in case there’s a problem, any kind of problem, I think we ought to have an emergency plan. You know, just some general guidelines about what we do if trouble starts.”
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, trying to pull away from him. “Kyle, you’re starting to scare me.”
“Any kind of trouble. It’s not just for us — it’s for the kids.” He tried to smile. “Honey, it’s just something we need to talk over.”
Later that night, after supper, after the kids were out, they talked for a long time. Kyle discovered that Betsy was just as worried as he was about the way the country was going. And when they finally got through the initial fear and anger, they were in complete agreement about what they would do. If it ever came to that.
FOUR
Lance Corporal Barry Griffin, USMC, was on his first deployment as a member of a recon team. His first assignment after boot camp had been as a member of the security force on board USS United States, and he found while he had a natural aptitude for the military lifestyle, he chafed at seeing other, more senior Marines load up in the helicopter and head for land on special missions while he guarded the door to the admiral’s cabin.
Oh, sure, he understood that the new kid had to pay his dues, and he wasn’t the only one on security duty. Still, as the cruise stretched on, he found himself determined to find a more active, a more — well, Marine — job within the United States Marine Corps. At his first opportunity, he applied for reconnaissance training.
The year of schooling had been alternately boring and everything he’d dreamed of. Over a twelve-month period, he’d earned dive, jump, and reconnaissance sniper certifications. The practical classroom sessions he found useful only so far as they would support the actual practice of his new skills, but he quickly discovered that knowledge was power. Jumping out of airplanes or drawing a bead on a bad guy’s head, he found himself in his element. During the simulated graduation exercises from reconnaissance and Ranger training, he knew he was in his element.
His orders to the USS United States had come as a pleasant surprise. God knows he’d spent enough time learning his way around the ship on his first cruise that he didn’t mind skipping that part of the transfer. He already knew the damage-control stations, the galley hours, where the best bunks were, and that the gym was better equipped than most shore stations. It was with a good deal of pleasure that he reported back on board, and soon found himself heading for the gym attired in minimal workout clothes while other jar-heads took up his former duty of guarding doors. Life in recon, at least on board the ship, consisted mostly of eating, working out, weapons training and cleaning, and staying ready.
His first mission to shore had sounded like a piece of cake. He and a first sergeant went in by rubber raft to a remote part of the Iraqi coast. Evading the military patrols, both friendly and enemy, as well as a host of smaller fishing vessels and massive commercial tankers, they went ashore in the dead of night. From there, a quick overland hike to check out the suspected terrorist training camp. They snooped around the perimeter, scurrying for cover in the barren land, and found little more than abandoned tents and bunkers.
Inside one of the bunkers was where the real surprises were. From a seemingly innocuous Quonset-type construction, the bunker spread down two levels. In the lower levels, they found caches of weapons, rations, and one other surprise — an Iraqi soldier, dead, desiccated, awkwardly sprawled on the concrete deck. They checked out the weapons first, including an abundance of medium-range ground-to-ground attack projectiles and a number of sets of MOPP gear.
As Griffin searched what appeared to be the barracks, he was surprised to find that whoever had occupied that area had left behind a good deal of personal gear. Not just clothes and uniforms, but also the pictures of families, toiletries, books — most of them appeared to be the Koran, but he couldn’t be certain of that. The sort of stuff you expected a man to take with him even if he was in a hurry.