American Insurgent

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American Insurgent Page 9

by Phil Rabalais


  “So what exactly do you have in mind?” Andy exhaled the smoke from his cigar.

  “Pretty simple, actually. They’re coming; they don’t know we know they’re coming. We lay a little trap for them with overlapping fields of fire and put them down,” John stated flatly.

  After years of knowing John, Andy read his face and voice like an open book. He was one of the few people Andy knew to never speak vaguely, and he meant every word of what he said. “Assuming they come in aggressively, I can agree to all that. The first move has to be theirs though, John. I don’t doubt you, but I have to see this for myself how bad they’ve gotten. Question is what do I do afterwards? Not like I’m going to sit around here and wait for backup to show up.”

  “Join us, Andy. I’m biding my time till we can hit the detention camp in New Orleans and get everyone out of there. Till then, putting some fear into these agents so they quit coming outside the wire to snatch people is the priority. I could use another good shooter with me,” John said.

  Andy dipped his head and considered it. He could see the logic in his friend’s words, and he had little doubt John would stand and fight even if he were outnumbered and alone. He and Andy would raise some serious hell in the morning, and the two of them together stood a better chance of surviving what John proposed. “I guess let’s get a move on. If I’m leaving here in the morning, I got a bunch of shit to pack.” Andy sighed.

  John smiled. “You’re saving some room for me in your Jeep, right?”

  Andy fired back, “Hell no. You screwed up my whole evening. I’ll strap you to the roof!”

  The two friends had a laugh and finished off their cigars; then they began to pack. Andy was a prepper too, and before the night was over, Andy and John would load a covered trailer near to capacity with cans of ammo, freeze-dried food, and other essentials. That task accomplished, the boys sat down to arrange a welcome for their uninvited guests.

  The next morning, three agents tried to get some sleep while the fourth drove. Comfort was not easy to find strapped into a surplus Humvee, wearing body armor. It was a skill they might have learned had any of them spent time overseas with the military, but they each rested fitfully. They had left at an unholy hour of the morning, necessitated by the distant proximity of their first target to their base camp.

  “Why couldn’t we have gotten one of the closer assignments?” one in the back groused.

  “Cram it. Either try to get some sleep or sit there quietly so the rest of us can,” came the reply from his supervisor, Senior Agent Johns, in the front passenger seat.

  The four of them rode on in silence. Each was wearing their plate carriers, but now the previously optional ballistic plates were made mandatory, along with the cummerbund and side plates. The helmets hurt their necks, but there was no good place in the cramped up-armored vehicle to put them besides their heads. The full-auto M4 carbines sat between their feet. They had been briefed that a group of agents had been ambushed recently, and their rules of engagement had been substantially relaxed. This pleased the agents greatly, but now the other shoe had dropped, and the bureaucrats had demanded increased use of protective gear.

  Andy Bob had spent most of the evening packing his Jeep and trailer with anything that would fit. Ammo, food, gear—it looked like the prepper version of the Beverly Hillbillies was getting ready to move out, he had stacked and packed his preps so tightly. He was sitting in his favorite chair, taking a few moments to relax and reflecting on the wild plan he and his friend John had hatched the night before. He had his plate carrier on the floor with his rifle and extra mags, ready to throw on at a moment’s notice, but he waited impatiently. He nudged the radio on the table next to him, willing it to beep and give him an update from his friend John. It sat silently, the only indication of its function being the dimly lit indicator atop it.

  Andy had not doubted John’s analysis of the situation. Andy well knew the treasure trove of “illegal” guns he had refused to register and later refused to turn over as the laws became ever more restrictive. John had told Andy of the agency’s aggressive posture, of the detention camps, and Andy came to the same conclusion John had years ago, which was only reinforced less than a week ago. The agents would not be bargained with, reasoned with, nor were they coming to collect overdue tax money or do a compliance check. They were here to round up those citizens who disagreed with the government’s assertion that they had the right to tear firearms directly from the hands of the citizenry, and apparently the heavier handed the tactic, the more it suited them. He did not doubt John, but he had to see for himself if things were as dire as his friend had indicated.

  John was in the wood line next to Andy’s home. He had taken a few minutes to build a hasty hide and had camouflaged himself well. He had no illusions this trick would work in all cases, but he saw an opportunity to get the upper hand on his friend’s potential assailants. At roughly two hundred yards, his .308 Winchester bolt action would have about four inches of drop from point of aim. If he put his reticle on the target’s chin, he would be putting rounds right into the chest cavity at this distance. A difference of fifty yards in either direction would change the trajectory, but not enough to stop the 168-grain boat-tail match bullets from doing their job. He had handloaded this ammo on his bench after judicious and repetitive testing to ensure the best possible accuracy. He knew to expect less than two inches dispersion at this range, a one-MOA, minute of angle, rifle and ammo pairing. The real question mark was what would the agents’ reaction be to their recent antagonizing? Would they react with caution, or would they react more aggressively? The sound of an approaching vehicle caught his attention.

  Andy heard the radio beep twice. John did not speak, and Andy knew he was keying his mic to alert his friend. He threw on his plate carrier and loaded his rifle, then made his way to the front door to look up the driveway. He saw a Humvee heading down the drive towards the front gate, which he had chained shut and padlocked. He figured he would know based on what they did at that gate what their intentions were.

  Miles away back in the Minutemen’s TOC, Mark and Kevin heard the rapid beeps too. Anyone listening in but not monitoring this particular set of frequencies for that signal would think it static, but Kevin immediately spun up their drone and got it into the air above Andy and John’s location. Its camera observed Andy’s homestead, his Jeep parked behind the home, the long driveway with its gate closed, and the wood line where they knew John was hiding. There were elements of the plan, including the rules of engagement, John had neglected to discuss with Kevin and Mark over open radio, so they placed their faith in his judgment. They watched the video feed as the Humvee approached the gate, then accelerated.

  “Ram the gate,” Johns ordered. He had no intention of stopping and exposing his men on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. The homeowner could file a complaint from his cell later about the cost to repair it. He had already ordered everyone to lock and load and to use lethal force at the first sign of trouble.

  The gate flew open, and the chain shattered as the Humvee shot straight through it. “Well, I guess that’s that,” Andy said aloud. He pulled the charging handle back on his AR-15, released it, and fired up his red dot.

  John saw the Humvee ram the gate. Well, boys, I guess that settles the question that’s been on everyone’s minds. You guys aren’t here to collect for March of Dimes after all, John thought. He got his eye behind his rifle scope and tracked the vehicle as it drove up Andy’s driveway at high speed. He had specifically chosen his hide to have a view of the front door but to make sure he wouldn’t be shooting directly at the front door. He had little doubt his .308 would blast right through the walls, and he had reminded Andy emphatically to peel off to the left of his front door and not stand behind it or go to his right.

  Andy looked down at the floor, at the tape markings John had left. “I give him one thing, his CDO does come in handy at times.” CDO was what his uncle always called “OCD alphabetized.” John had
taken the time to lay duct tape on the floor with the words SAFE and YOU GET SHOT on it to remind Andy where John’s line of fire would be. Andy retreated from the front door and took up position behind the prearranged cover he and John had set up.

  Stopping, doors open. I see a ram, rifles, body armor. Yep, same old agency. Well, you boys goin’ to learn t’day, John thought as he tightened his finger on the trigger. He watched the four men approach the front door, taking up positions on either side while the man with the ram had his rifle slung and lined up on the front door. John watched the ram come back, then rush forward, knocking the front door of his friend’s home inward off its hinges and through the frame. His Ruger M77, a humble old hunting rifle he had worked over into a respectable tack driver, thundered, and the buttpad thumped back into his shoulder as the bipod scrabbled for traction. John immediately flipped the bolt handle up and back, using the knuckle of his right hand rather than his fingers, then shoved the bolt forward and down with his palm. He fought his eye back behind the rifle scope and readied for his next shot.

  Hours later…

  “Johns, what the hell happened to you guys?!” Shorts roared at the only remaining member of the team sent out that morning. Johns had spent over an hour with the medics before Shorts was permitted to debrief him. Several shards of glass and wood had been removed from the side of his cheek and neck. He had several broken ribs and had come back covered in blood, though apparently none his own.

  “Sir, we were set up,” Johns started as he recalled his morning.

  Johns watched the ram come forward on the front door, and at nearly the same instant saw the agent swinging the ram lunge forward towards the splintering door. It would be a few seconds before Johns and the rest of the team realized he had been propelled forward by the 168-grain match bullet hitting their teammate high in the back, just above his plate carrier. The effect was immediate and predictable; the agent’s spine was shattered and his thoracic cavity pulverized by more than two thousand foot-pounds of energy.

  “Contact rear!” Johns shouted. The men swung their rifles around to scan the yard behind them where the round had apparently originated, but could see no such firing position nearer than the wood line to hide. As one of the agents began to spray bullets haphazardly towards the wood line, the sound of another rifle erupted from behind them, coming from within the home as Andy poured .30-caliber rounds from his 300 Blackout AR “pistol” towards the front door. He had correctly surmised the agents were probably on either side of the door, and knowing his friend was clear of his own line of fire, shot through the drywall on either side of the door. At such short range, Andy eschewed well-aimed shots in favor of bump firing his AR from the shoulder, emptying the magazine quickly at the agents. All three agents were hit, but their armor was catching the rounds, while Johns grimaced at the flying debris peppering him in his unguarded face.

  Johns suffered a moment of indecision, caught in a deadly and unexpected cross fire. Before he could issue the order to clear the porch, another .30-caliber round thundered out of the wood line. This one clipped a second agent just above their plate at the junction of his collarbones and neck. The unprotected human body proved little challenge for the high-velocity jacketed bullet, and three agents became two.

  “Get back to the Hummer!” Johns yelled over the sound of another full magazine being fired behind them.

  This time, judging by the flying debris and snapping sound, their closest assailant was taking more time in aiming and not only relying on suppressive fire. As they rushed towards their Humvee, Johns saw his driver take two rounds in the back and fall. His plates stopped the bullets, but as he tried to rise, he was shot three more times. Johns whirled around to face his attacker, coming face-to-face with none other than his subject, Andy Bob. “You son of a—” Johns snarled as a .30-caliber round slammed into his back and knocked him face-first into the dirt.

  “You know, you could’ve hit me if that round would’ve gone all the way through,” Andy remarked to his friend John.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t figure it had enough energy to get through Level 3 armor,” John replied.

  “And what had you so convinced they were wearing Level 3?” Andy retorted.

  “Hey, sometimes you got a pair of twos, you just suck it up and play through,” John said while shrugging his shoulders. The two men stood over the downed agent after they had disarmed him. “Now,” John said, “what do we do with this peckerhead?” Hours later...“You’re sure it was the subject of this morning’s raid and our mysteriously vanished terrorist?” Shorts asked Agent Johns, who emphatically nodded his head.

  “Positive.”

  “And they just let you go?” Shorts asked incredulously. The tale Agent Johns told was remarkable, and one he scarcely believed. Two men had set a trap that four of his agents had stumbled into. Three had been cut down, and the fourth remained only so he could deliver a message.

  “Sir, they said they want the searches to stop and for the detention camp to be opened and everyone released. Those are the terms they set,” Johns replied, deadpan.

  “And if I don’t?!” Shorts roared.

  “They said, quote, it will be open season on agents. Anywhere, anytime, no quarter. They also handed me this.” Johns passed over an excerpt from the Bill of Rights, the Second Amendment.

  A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.

  Shorts crumpled the paper and hurled it across the room. “Johns, I want these bastards, I want them dead, and I want their hides on my wall. Am I stuttering?”

  “No, sir,” Johns replied evenly. He had been bested by these men and considered it a remarkably bad decision that they did not take him out when they had the chance. He would work hard to make sure they never got another.

  The Pendulum

  That evening, Andy and John sat with Mark, made introductions, and discussed plans. “I’m surprised you let one walk away, honestly,” Mark said.

  Andy nodded his head, having had that same argument with John hours earlier.

  “It was a judgment call. I wanted them to know where we stood. Didn’t figure they were bright enough to come to those conclusions if we didn’t spell it out for them. That said, I haven’t heard any reports of the gates being hurled open, so I’ll assume they haven’t had a change of heart. I say our next move is to garner some more support from the local population by genuinely making life hell for the agency in our local area,” John explained.

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” Mark asked.

  Andy laughed and replied, “The short version, he wants to grab them by the nose and kick them in the ass until they get the message.”

  John smiled. “I believe what I said was to work to directly stymie their attempts to take more people into custody, enact those casualties we can while not exposing ourselves, and eventually, when we feel we have the upper hand, lay siege to their camp. The timing will be tricky though; wait too long, they’ll reinforce with additional troops pulled from other locations. Hit them too soon, the odds are too lopsided. We need a plan we can enact on short notice when opportunity allows. And we need the support of the local area to help us carry through with this and shelter the people we release. If you want to get Julie out, that’s what I think needs to happen.”

  At the mention of his sister, Mark started, “What do you need from us?”

  “First of all, if they haven’t realized by now they have a mole in their organization, they’re bigger idiots than I thought. I would immediately advise your man to get himself out, like, yesterday. After that, we need a secondary source of intel. I know you can’t get a drone over the compound, but we need a few in the surrounding area so we can pick up their movements. Also, I need to see how often they are restocking provisions and figure out that schedule. If we hit them right before they restock their pantry, that’s sure to put additional pressure on them. Now, that said, what are t
he other cells doing?” John asked.

  “Not as much as you are. I think they’re pretty much waiting around to see what our next move is,” Mark said. It came out as a sigh of resignation as he realized, not for the first time, that far too many of the Minutemen were reactionary in nature. John was out to fight a war; they wanted to be in the rear with the gear.

  John nodded his head. “Fine, we have our own battles to fight.”

  Later, on the back porch, Andy prodded his friend. “John, you know I trust your judgment, but…”

  “You think we should’ve smoke checked that last guy and left him for the critters to chew on,” John answered knowingly.

  “Hell yeah! Those guys busted my gate, knocked my door in—shit, they might have had it on their mind to perforate me for the hell of it, and you let one of them go?!” Andy emphatically shouted. His hands raised as if to insinuate a further question.

  “Like I said, it was a judgment call. I want these guys pissed off or scared. I poked the bear; now I’ll lay a trap for him,” John replied.

  “John, these guys aren’t playing. How long do you think it’ll be before they just send thirty or forty guys up here and burn us out?” Andy demanded.

  “They won’t know where to send them if we aren’t here.”

  “You mean…”

  “Yes, I mean we go outside the wire. Mark always said the Minutemen were modeled after a terror cell. The only thing harder to find than a cell are a couple of lone wolves. We spend a day collecting intel; then we start pecking at them. And once we start, we keep on till they start to crack. And, Andy, if you go with me, we are going to get bloody on this, brother. I aim to straight scare the hell out of those people, and I intend to take the gloves off doing it. We clear?” John questioned.

 

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