American Insurgent

by Phil Rabalais

  American Insurgent

  By Phil Rabalais

  American Insurgent by Phil Rabalais

  Copyright© 2018

  Story and characters by Phil Rabalais

  Covert art by Douglas Hogan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Foreword: History Repeats

  Quiet Broken

  The Exfil

  Memories

  Conflict and Resolution

  With Me, or Against Me

  Idle Hands

  The Caged Tiger

  In, or Out

  Rallying Cry

  The Game has Changed

  A Step in the Right Direction

  Old Friends

  The Pendulum

  The House of Cards

  Poking the Bear

  A Chance Encounter

  Rook Takes Knight, Check

  A History Lesson

  Healing Wounds

  The Calm Before the Storm

  The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

  When Luck Runs Out

  Shattered

  Heating Up

  A Growing Pack

  Some Lessons You Learn the Hard Way

  Doing the Right Thing

  A Long Row to Hoe

  Cry Havoc

  No Plan Survives First Contact

  Curtain Call

  The Coming Storm

  About the author

  Synopsis: One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.

  Dedication

  Firstly to my wife and daughter, who tolerated long hours and late nights while I pursued one of the only other passions I have other than my family. Also to them and several close friends for providing the blueprint for characters too rich and genuine for me to have ever made up all by myself.

  Secondly to my cohost Andrew and the patrons of the Matter of Facts podcast with whom I shared this book throughout its production, for their encouragement and critique.

  I also owe a debt that I cannot repay to a few authors who both inspired me and guided me down this path: to Franklin Horton (author of the Borrowed World series) for his encouragement and for showing me this goal was achievable, to Doug Hogan (author of the Tyrant series) for his unrestrained and helpful advice and technical assistance, and lastly to John Ross (author of Unintended Consequences) for unknowingly inspiring another writer to tell a cautionary tale from his own perspective.

  Many thanks are also in order for all of the people, and they are numerous, who have discussed the subject matter presented in this fictitious book with me to offer their own perspectives, their thoughts, and their knowledge. Without all of them, though they may not be named, this book would have fallen very short of its intent to provoke thought and question in the minds of the readers while trying to entertain them.

  Foreword: History Repeats

  Much rhetoric is thrown around regarding the civilian ownership of firearms in the context of the United States of America and its people. A modern guarantee of the autonomy and supremacy of the citizenry, or merely a leftover from a bygone era? The savior of peaceful people that enables them to protect themselves, or the source of violence that destroys countless lives every year? These are debates for which I do not ever anticipate a universal resolution, but the one idea that always stood out to me was the idea that an attempt to completely curtail the common man’s ability to own and carry firearms would lead to a civil war. In moments like this, where bold claims are made, I always look back to history to see when (not if) it will repeat itself again. Within our own history, in 1775, just such an attempt was made by the agents of King George III of Great Britain. These soldiers sought to capture the magazines that supplied the local militias with powder for their muskets, rifles, and cannon. The intent of this endeavor was obvious, to subdue the colonial militias through their disallowance of use of their arms. Let the irony of the American Revolution being kicked off by the first gun grab in this country’s history rest in your mind as you read forward.

  The rest of the details surrounding the Battle of Lexington and Concord are well noted in history. A group of men known as the Minutemen sought to warn the colonists and their militia forces of the impending antagonistic actions of the crown’s troops, such that a counter may be organized. I have always surmised, referencing our own history, for example, that were our own government or indeed any force to broadly remove arms from the people’s hands that a similar response may be brought forth. When I have had occasion to discuss this topic with natives of other countries, they are often very confused by America, with its odd customs and unique history. We are not a nation granted its freedom by a monarchy grown weary with its upkeep, nor are we a country ruled by mob or founded under an authoritarian state. America is uniquely a nation in which the power to govern the country and the individual is closely guarded by the people, a representative democracy used to bind the government’s action to the will of the people through their ability to replace their representatives, and which guards incredible personal freedoms from infringement or abridgement by the state. It is also a nation that paid a great cost in sweat and blood to wrest its very soul from the hands of a tyrannical monarchy.

  And woe to the man or men who forget the longing for freedom and the spirit of revolution lives on today in every American.

  — Phil Rabalais

  “Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.”

  ― H. L. Mencken, Prejudices: First Series

  “What country can preserve its liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance. Let them take arms.”

  — Thomas Jefferson, letter to James Madison, December 20, 1787

  Quiet Broken

  A ringing cell phone broke the quiet calm of John Arceneaux’s suburban home just north of New Orleans, Louisiana. His wife looked at him with the same worried, questioning eyes he had seen dozens of times in recent history, as she gazed at him from across the room with their daughter. He regarded the phone with curiosity, trying to decide if it was friend or foe. He lifted it, accepted the call, and greeted the unknown caller with his characteristic gruff, all-business tone.

  “John speaking, may I ask who’s callin’.”

  He spoke with ever so slight of a Southern drawl, and the blue-collar mannerisms he was raised with, polite, but no pushover. The caller’s voice was one he was unfamiliar with, yet John knew who he was…or more accurately who he represented. Ever since the laws changed, when the searches started and confiscations began taking place, a small yet vigorous group of men and women known as the Minutemen had drawn a line in the sand. Their mission was simple: to resist the confiscation of the small arms of law-abiding citizens by government agencies through any means possible. Part and parcel of this mission were phone calls like this one, sometimes hundreds per day nationwide, warning people of impending searches and raids in their area. The first of these calls were met with skepticism and dial tones, to the peril of the homeowners who found themselves subject to a search of their premises with or without their consent. Confiscation was a foregone conclusion. Jail sentences for gross offenders, owners in violation of the “Arsenal Laws,” which limited the number of firearms and ammunition anyone may possess, were doled out for those who had flagrantly violated the previous laws for the past four years before that most egregious violation of civil liberties was enacted—the full repeal of
the Second Amendment to the US Constitution.

  John’s face betrayed no alarm, for he felt none. He was not a member of this group, but being a gun owner and Second Amendment advocate prior to the repeal, he had followed their activities. He had expected this day to come eventually, and he had reflected upon his decision carefully. He knew instinctively that his life would change forever if he followed through on the course he had set for himself and his family. He had prayed on it and had come to the inescapable conclusion that the country he had enlisted to defend was no longer his own, and the men who approached his door lacked the authority to confiscate his lawfully owned property. Contrary to what they believed, just because you can convince 51% of voters to show up on election day does not grant you the righteous authority to strip from citizens those rights they had BEFORE they were written down on a piece of parchment in the eighteenth century. The government did not grant these rights, and they had no authority to rescind them.

  John listened to the warning, the warning he had heard rumors of throughout the former gun community, and set his mind about the task at hand. The intelligence offered was far more than a random crank caller, he was getting details about the size of the force, their equipment, their backup, a road map to disrupt their operation. Then he heard something he had not expected.

  “If you slip out the back door and head northeast from your present location through the wood line, we can have someone pick you and your family up.”

  The thought had never occurred to him to abandon his home and leave his property to be torn apart and taken from him, nor to turn tail and run like a coward.

  “No, sir,” John replied. “I believe I’ll deal with these uninvited guests personally, though if I’m still around after this, I’d sure like to meet you and your group.”

  Silence hung in the air, the caller obviously faced with a situation he had foreseen yet scarcely believed. On the other end of this phone, through a repeater service to prevent the call from being traced back to him yet barely a hundred miles away, was a man about to escalate this cold war into a full-blown shooting match. He had always known it would only be a matter of time until the wrong person was pushed too far by the confiscations and door-to-door searches, and then their quiet little resistance would have a decision to make. Fortunately, it was a decision made months ago by unanimous vote. The Minutemen would assist in any way possible, through civil disobedience as long as possible, and through direct action when hostilities boiled over. They had cast their lot and guarded themselves against reprisal from the state for all this time, and finally things were about to get deadly serious.

  “I understand your intent. Is your background military?” the voice asked.

  “Yes, sir, was in the sandbox back in 2004, then New Orleans in 2005,” John answered.

  “Roger. Exfil after things cool down; ensure you aren’t followed. We’ll be watching for a man with a woman and child. Don’t trust anyone; verify your pickup. And don’t leave your ordnance behind.”

  The line went dead. John pulled the phone back and regarded it curiously. He had expected to abandon his home with his wife and child after this fight and make a run for it. Now the invitation for help escaping emboldened him. No, after all they had survived, this would not be what broke them. What lay on the other side of the next ten minutes might be a mystery, but what lay before John was not. He went to his safe in the closet.

  Years ago, he had built a false wall into a closet and hidden a gun safe, then rebuilt the drywall over it. Without tearing apart the closet, you’d never know the veritable arsenal of firearms this quiet suburban home held, nor the quantity of ammunition and tactical gear. Prepper, survivalist, gun guy—whatever you called John, he was a man who believed in the Second Amendment as a preacher believes in his Bible. The right to keep and bear arms was enshrined for the sole purpose of ensuring the citizenry of the United States were free from government harassment or infringement in their pursuit of owning and carrying arms for the defense of themselves and their communities. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, that meant muskets. Muskets gave way to centerfire rifles, then self-loading rifles, and the centuries of firearm development granted more and more firepower to a single man than the previous generation ever imagined possible. Some were absolutely appalled at this development, believing only nation-states and their agents were to be trusted with such power. Thomas Jefferson and his fellows would have seen things quite differently, perhaps even fondly.

  John took precious little time to tear down the drywall, as it intentionally hadn’t been secured terribly well. The combination lock spun with a practiced hand, and the door opened.

  “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” John’s wife, Rachel, asked.

  “Yes, honey, either that or we stand by and let those men destroy our home and haul us off to prison like common criminals. If you and Kay want to run out the back door, I’ll deal with this by myself,” John replied, deadpan and without reproach.

  Rachel knew John well; they had been married more than ten years. He had his imperfections, but she had found the longer they were together, the less she questioned his judgment. He was not prone to rash decisions, nor selfishness. Quite the opposite, he was one of the most selfless people she had ever met, and he saw his place as a husband and father as one of tremendous responsibility rather than one of convenience. If he had set himself upon this course of action, then she had but two options: join him and fight by his side, or abandon him. She reached for a rifle.

  Rachel had grown up in a far more rural community than her husband had, one in which deer rifles and shotguns often accompanied students to schools so that once they had finished their studies, they could quickly find themselves in the woods, hunting game. Guns were commonplace, though not the guns her husband had collected. Next to her wood-stocked .30-06 hunting rifle stood her husband’s AR-15, arguably the scapegoat that started all of this mess. Both her Remington 74 and John’s AR were magazine-fed, semiautomatic rifles, yet a concerted effort by the media, politicians, and their useful idiots had convinced enough registered voters these firearms were the root of all evil and must be taken from people’s hands. Of course, back then, house-to-house searches were out of the question. Tip-offs led to confiscations, but people tolerated this indignity by telling themselves “they should have followed the law; no one needs an AR-15 to hunt.” Yet her hunting rifle was still legal at that time, until further indignities demanded the removal of telescopic sights (the so-called “Sniper Rifle” laws), then the required conversion of magazine-fed rifles to single shot, then the licensing requirements for all centerfire firearms. And now, men with the exact same rifles as her husband were coming to ransack her home and take him from her. She reached up on the shelf and helped herself to a box of .30-06.

  John quietly accepted the unspoken intent his wife was displaying; she was in this fight if he was. He said a prayer, not the first nor last, that his decision to fight this out would not cost him his family’s lives. He hoisted his plate carrier with Level 3 plates out of the bottom of the safe and threw it over his neck. With it came the IFAK, individual first aid kit, and spare magazines for his AR-15. This rifle, groused about by generations of soldiers for being underpowered—it wasn’t, but privates will be privates—had been so thoroughly demonized by politicians that the average civilian thought quite literally the rifle would cause the death of all Western civilization were it left in the hands of common people like John. He lifted his wife’s armor, which she accepted with a grimace. She had commented on more than one occasion that men had obviously designed these “medieval torture devices,” made all the more evident by the fact that no one had ever considered a woman’s figure when the plates were molded or bent. In this situation, safety trumped comfort, and she tolerated their weight and lack of accommodation for the female form.

  “Kay honey, come in here,” John called to his young daughter. As John’s daughter approached, quite brave for a six-year-old but obvi
ously very worried about why her two parents looked ready to walk through Mogadishu, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Honey, there are some people coming here now. I think they want to hurt me and Mom and take us away from you. We aren’t going to let that happen, but I need you to be safe and sit in this closet until this is over. Can you do that for me, honey?”

  Kay quietly nodded, then impulsively hugged her father so hard he could feel her compressing his ribs in spite of the hardened steel plates guarding his body. The closet, John knew well, had its walls reinforced with cinder blocks and sandbags behind the drywall, part of a very unconventional home improvement plan he had undertaken years ago to turn a walk-in closet into a combination gun safe and panic room. Topped off with a steel security door, it wasn’t impervious, but it would give his daughter the best chance of not being hit by a stray round of ammunition piercing the drywall of their home. He looked at his wife as if to ask if she should stay in the panic room too, but she only responded by hugging her daughter, then shutting the door.

  Husband and wife took up their positions, using the plan they had determined and rehearsed years prior as a response to home intruders. At that time, they had anticipated gang members or perhaps looters, not trained and heavily armed agents of the state, but the principles remained the same. Overlapping fields of fire would maximize their firepower, while pre-rehearsed shooting lanes kept them from flagging each other. John had a hundred and twenty extra rounds of ammunition, plus an extra sack of magazines he hoped not to need. If this surprise attack worked, they would catch their assailants in a crossfire that would surprise and confuse them. No one before today had resisted, not beyond some terse words and scuffles. No one had struck back. No one had stood their ground and said NO.

  Today, someone said enough was enough.