American Insurgent

by Phil Rabalais

  “I couldn’t get enough matching head stamp brass to do a lot of load tuning for everyone else’s rifles, but I did go through them and cull the ones with drastically different internal volumes. I’m loading 168-grain Sierra MatchKings in all of them over 42.5 grains IMR 4064 since a lot of our guys are shooting .308 Winchester,” Kevin explained.

  John nodded. “Same load shoots under a minute in my gun. I’ve got about a hundred loaded if you or your guys want to take them with you. They’re loaded on damned near the same equipment you have here, and all the same headstamp.”

  “I’ll take you up on that, though I could use a hand loading the rest if you can spare some time,” Kevin said.

  While he and John worked to convert the box of bullets and bucket of brass into useable, match-grade ammunition, John asked Andy to spend some time loading magazines for their rigs. Per John’s request, he wanted one magazine with twenty-eight rounds for his rifle (he always liked to download a magazine two rounds to keep loaded on a closed bolt), three magazines for his plate carrier, and one more for the speed holster on his battle belt. That satisfied, plus Andy’s magazines loaded, he then set about loading every spare magazine he and John had to store in assault packs for the two of them. Normally, the two of them would be carrying a fair amount of ammo, but balanced against the need for shelter parts, food, water bladders, etc. Indeed, the two of them typically carried a medium rucksack each and dropped them hundreds of yards back in the woods before they would resume their antagonization of the camp. This time, they were carrying much smaller packs filled almost exclusively with loaded magazines and spare medical gear to supplement their IFAKs. The idea was if they were stuck there long enough to need food or shelter, they were both dead already.

  John took note of a third set of equipment on the bench where Andy was working. His puzzled look caught Kevin’s eye. “I hauled that out of my footlocker in my room. Figured just in case, I’d better check it out and get loaded up.” John was looking at a FAL, a nicely built one apparently off a demilled parts kit, sitting on the bench next to a body armor set similar to his own. The FAL shot 7.62 NATO, and while it lacked ammo commonality with more ubiquitous AR-15s, it gained a sizable range and power advantage. “You’ve got good taste, Kevin. Now I see why you keep stocked up on .308 brass.”

  Meanwhile, in the wood line east of the Minuteman compound, the lookout gazed west through a high-power spotting scope down the road. Traffic was a rarity this far out of town, but it had been drilled into them over and over the importance of acting as the cell’s early warning were a raid to come to their doorstep. The tripod-mounted spotting scope’s 60X magnification lent a considerable advantage to the spotter in this endeavor. A speck on the distant horizon could be easily seen, a distant vehicle identified, and precious minutes of advantage given to the cell if he spotted a potentially hostile vehicle. Most days went with him calling in an approaching vehicle, obviously civilian, and listening to the lookout on the other side confirm it did not stop nor double back towards the compound. He reflected on how he came to this moment, sitting in the woods swatting at bugs while his friends were all out chasing skirt at the local state college.

  He had been barely a teenager, but unlike many teens, he didn’t want video games and the latest electronics. His home was littered with mounts and trophies from his father’s long hunting career. Richard Senior, called Jack by everyone in creation to distinguish him from his son, had spent time overseas as a professional game guide before returning to the United States to continue the trade. That was barely two years before hunting game became so heavily regulated it was impossible to make any kind of a living helping people hunt. His father didn’t take too kindly to the intrusion into his career and personal life by the government, but being close to retirement age anyway, he made do. Growing up the son of a lifelong hunter, what Richard really wanted was a rifle of his own. Not the little 10/22 he had shot for years, on its third barrel already, but a big-boy centerfire rifle like his dad’s .308 or .30-06. It was with phenomenal irritation then that his father had to explain that such firearms could not be simply bought and given to “children,” as had been common years prior.

  “What do you mean I can’t have a rifle? I’ve been shooting since I was eight,” Richard asked emphatically.

  Jack sighed, thinking this would be difficult to explain to a reasonable person, let alone a thirteen-year-old. “Son, the government passed laws making it so you can’t own any centerfire rifle till you’re twenty-one. Even then, you got to apply for this crazy-ass license, and I hear a lot of people are getting turned down. Even the ones who have been hunting for years.”

  Richard’s face betrayed pure puzzlement and outrage at the idea. “But don’t you have a LOT of those rifles already? What about those?”

  “Son, if you take one of those rifles out of this house with your own two hands, you may be arrested. I don’t mean like the sheriff will bring you back here, or I’ll have to go pick you up at the station, I mean straight to prison because you are in possession of a centerfire rifle without a license. Maybe when you’re older we can get you licensed, but right now, it just isn’t possible. I’m sorry, son.”

  It wasn’t two years later the rifles Jack owned weren’t just heavily regulated, they didn’t just require a license, they had to be registered, just like “assault weapons” years prior. Jack trusted his government about as well as many people did, and refused to. Richard was not with his father when he was stopped at a checkpoint in town and his old lever-action rifle discovered behind the seat of his old pickup truck. From friends of his father, he heard that he had been arrested for being in possession of an unregistered centerfire rifle and had been taken to prison for it. Jack had never cheated on his taxes, never harmed a person, Richard didn’t think he’d ever heard his father have a cross word with anyone. Just having a damned rifle made him a criminal.

  He had just returned his eye to the spotting scope after a stretch and rubbing his sore eye when he could just make out an approaching vehicle far off in the distance. “New York calling on channel.” The decision had been made months prior to assign call signs of New York and Washington to the roadside lookouts, along with Cali and Florida to the wood line sentries south of the compound to disguise their relative locations. “Vehicle approaching. Cannot identify yet. Over.” He heard the distinctive double clicks of someone keying the mic twice to confirm receipt, then returned his attention to the eyepiece. The vehicle was dark colored, probably a truck based on height, but he couldn’t be sure till it approached closer.

  Then the lookout on the other side called in, “Washington. I see a second vehicle behind the first, following very close.”

  As the seconds ticked by, New York and Washington came to the same conclusion almost simultaneously, which sent their hearts into their throats. “New York. Hostiles inbound. I repeat, hostiles inbound!” The east side lookout had just identified two agency Humvees, painted black, closing on the compound at high speed. He prayed and willed them to continue on their way and not stop, until he saw the front bumper of the lead truck dip and the rear truck slow to match it.

  In the workshop no one had a radio, but John heard the flurry of activity in the main room and stuck his head out the doorway. “What’s wrong?” he asked of the first person who ran by.

  The man’s wild eyes and fear told the story before his words could. “Agents, they’re here!”

  John whirled in place, almost running full steam into Andy and Kevin. “Grab your rifles!” he bellowed to them. The three men launched themselves at the kits Andy had just been prepping, throwing on body armor and loading rifles. John ran into the main area, grabbing a radio and turning up the volume. “Two trucks just turned down the main drive heading to the compound. No air assets apparent. I count at least three or four guys per truck.”

  “Sonofabitch!” John exclaimed to himself. His thoughts immediately turned to his wife and daughter. He didn’t see them in the main room, nor ou
t the back door. In the moment his indecision got the best of him; should he make ready to defend the compound, or run to his family’s aid? Could he even find them before the agents hit the front door? “Cali and Florida, any report?” John yelled into the mic.

  “No report, all quiet down here,” came the reply.

  “New York and Washington, if anyone goes to flank the building, you two had better let us know in advance. Hold your position. Be our eyes.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Andy!” he yelled.

  Andy turned the corner, walking quickly but unhurriedly, rifle at low ready, armored up for a fight. The weeks spent with John outside the relative safety of the compound had worn a kind of quiet confidence in situations like this into him, and John couldn’t see an inch of panic on his face. Only resolve.

  “I need you and Kevin to hold that front door. If you hear guys coming around the sides of the house to the back door, you all collapse down that damned hallway. You can’t let them hit you in the nose and the ass at the same time, you’ll be cut to pieces.”

  “Where you going?” Andy asked. No reproach, all business.

  “I have to find Rachel and Kay.” John’s eyes communicated the panic his voice did not.

  “Go, I got this,” Andy said. He began directing traffic, barking orders. A month ago, his harsh voice and profanity would not have been received well. Today, with agents on their doorstep, suddenly everyone appreciated having their own tamed wolves in the henhouse. Everyone cleared the living area, retreating to the back of the house, while Andy and Kevin stacked up behind cover, aiming at the front door.

  John raced down the hallway to the bedrooms. “Rachel!” he called out.

  When Mark ran into the hallway, he was nearly thrown clear through a wall by 240 pounds of armored freight train carrying a rifle. “John, I’ve got them. They’re with my family in a safe room. We’re good,” Mark said emphatically. He recognized the mental state John was in, and it took a second for the realization to hit him.

  “Then get a rifle and stay with them. Anyone but us comes through that door, Mark, you burn them down, no hesitation.” John turned and ran rapidly back to the living room as the sound of a wooden doorframe being struck with a battery ram sounded through the house. John thanked himself for insisting that door be reinforced as a precaution.

  John had taken the liberty, and hadn’t really asked Mark for permission to modify his house, of heavily reinforcing the front and back doors. The cheap hardware-store screws securing the doorjambs, frame, hinges, and strikers had been replaced by three- and four-inch deck screws. John would’ve preferred more invasive strengthening, but settled for less obtrusive but still effective. It must’ve worked reasonably well since the ram bounced off the heavy wooden door rather than simply knocking the frame in, but John saw daylight and knew one more strike would send the door in. He shouldered his rifle, brought the red dot to bear on the front door, and waited.

  Beep, beep. “Two runners heading around back!!!” sang the radio.

  John’s attention turned from the front door to Kevin and Andy on the other side of the living room. They had taken up positions to shield themselves as best they could from the front door, but they were sitting ducks to an attack from the back of the house. He yelled as loud as he could for them to fall back to him, but it was too late. The front door came off its hinges.

  John immediately turned his attention to the two agents running in behind the falling door. At ranges inside a typical home, aiming was not a time-intensive nor careful chore, and it was not now. John’s rifle tracked right to left in pursuit of the black-clad men from the doorway. Every time his glowing red reticle struck one of the men, his finger began a rapid staccato tapping of the trigger, sending 55-grain full-metal-jacket rounds sailing across the room towards his targets. He struck each man several times in the side, neck, and arm. As the first two men fell, he tracked back towards the door in search of more targets. This entire turn of events was not consciously contemplated by John, nor by Andy or Kevin on the other side of the room, it was simple training put into action. They did not have to burden their minds with additional time spent sifting through the faces looking for foes or friends, anyone coming through the open doorway after it had been knocked in was by definition unfriendly.

  John’s mind just barely registered the sound of the back door being shot off its hinges, apparently by a shotgun meant for breaching doors. As the door sagged inwards, time slowed to a crawl. The rifle in John’s hands felt unnaturally heavy and sluggish to turn, but turn it did towards the back door. Andy and Kevin were laying down fire on the front door while shielding themselves from return fire, and neither could afford the seconds to confront this threat to their rear. John assumed two assailants, but could not count on the odds only being that lopsided. He placed his reticle on the chest of the first agent, tapped the trigger twice, and the third time was not greeted by the feeling of recoil and the flash of a round being discharged. He felt and heard nothing but an empty rifle.

  As the first man fell, his partner raised his rifle in John’s direction. John dove to the floor, knowing the drywall corner he hid behind would offer him no cover from the incoming fire. The sounds of gunfire rang out as John released his grip from his rifle and moved to unholster his sidearm. With a practiced movement, his thumb came down to disengage the active retention of the Blade-Tech duty holster; then he firmly pulled upwards toward his armpit to unholster the gun. He rolled to his side to bring the gun into a two-handed grip, extended his arms, placed the front post on his assailant, and pulled the trigger just as the agent had finished swinging his rifle to his left to fire at Andy and Kevin.

  John’s first shot went wide, barely missing. In John’s haste, he had not accounted for the fact that handgun sights are calibrated to be fired with the handgun oriented vertically, and with the gun held sideways in John’s improvised position, the sights required correction. He adjusted and tapped the trigger twice, dropping the agent. He rolled in the other direction to check the front door, seeing no more movement there, then stood and approached the agent he had just shot to find him writhing on the floor. He stomped heavily on the wrist of the man’s arm that was holding his rifle, crushing the small bones and causing the hand to go limp. He then produced a small knife to cut the man’s sling and disarm him. He likewise removed his sidearm.

  “Kevin, Andy, you two okay? Anyone outside check in!” John shouted into the mic while scanning the home. He counted one dead agent at the back door, one he was holding his handgun on, and six by the front door. He hoped that was all of them. “Kevin, Andy, answer me!”

  Mark entered his once quiet living room, his AR-15 held at low ready, and his face fell. Andy was on his back, with Kevin working feverishly to get his body armor off.

  When Luck Runs Out

  “That lucky son of a bitch,” John said to no one in particular. He was sitting on the back porch, smoking a cigar with a clenched fist while trying mightily not to crush it. Rachel sat next to him, holding her husband. She had not felt fear like this since the day their own home had been raided, and she had allowed herself to believe Mark’s compound was a place of safety for her and her daughter. She now realized how incredibly naive that assumption had been, both hers and everyone else’s. There was no safe place anymore.

  When John threw himself to the floor, the agent had incorrectly assumed he had struck his target and moved to engage the two men to his left. John’s first shot missed just as the agent fired his first shot from his M4 at Andy, striking him in the side. Kevin immediately recognized the danger and swiveled his rifle towards this new threat, but there was no way he would beat the agent to the shot that would kill him. It was with mingled wonder and mercy, then, that John’s next few 9 mm shots rang out from his CZ, striking the agent and knocking him down. John, knowing 9 mm had no chance of penetrating any Level 3 armor the agent was likely to be wearing, hurried to the agent to disarm him and ensure he was really out of the fight. It was at that mo
ment Kevin looked down to Andy’s prone shape on the floor and saw the blood running out from under his armor.

  Kevin had immediately flipped Andy onto his back and began unfastening his armor, fearing the worst.

  “Motherfucker, watch it!” Andy bellowed. He hadn’t decided if he was hit or not, feeling the pain but not the impact of the agent’s shot. Right at that moment, he felt a searing pain in his side that was greatly exasperated by Kevin’s rough handling.

  “Hold still, dammit!” Kevin shouted to Andy as he cleared his armor and yanked up his shirt. Kevin discovered the round had creased Andy’s side and just grazed him. A few inches one way, he would have had a punctured lung and almost certainly have died. A few inches the other way, the agent would have missed entirely. Life in a firefight was just that way.

  John reflected on the last ten minutes of his life, on how fast their luck had changed TWICE. He now worked to calm his nerves and steady himself for what had to come, when Rachel spoke. “I thought we were safe here.”

  “So did Mark. So did I. I feel foolish for that now, but I admit it.” John sighed. “Not that this changes anything.”

  “THIS doesn’t change anything?!” Rachel nearly screamed. “Your friend got shot, you almost got shot again, and eight agents just ripped our only safe haven wide open! What hasn’t changed?!” Her eyes searched the side of her husband’s face for some clue as to the insanity that had gripped her husband.

  “Nothing. We were going to hit that prison transport tonight, and we still are. If we don’t keep these agents off balance, I promise you those eight agents will be followed by eighty tomorrow. Then five hundred next week. What do you think would have happened if we’d sat in our home waiting for the next round of agents instead of retreating here? Well, honey, this is the Alamo. There is nowhere else to go. Either we keep fighting, or we abandon the fort and scatter. We’ve come too far for that,” John explained.