On another such occasion, John had improvised a more daring tactic when they did not have a route to get ahead of the agents. They had secured two twelve-gauge pump-action shotguns, loaded with one-ounce slugs, and when the agents were stopped at a red light, they pounced. Both men jumped out of the vehicle, rapidly approached the agents’ SUV from behind, and emptied both shotguns full of slugs through the back window directly at the seated men. The noise was deafening, and the effect both brutal and to the point. None of the four men even had time to take the safety off of their weapons.
Towards the end of their campaign, when the guard towers were only sporadically manned, John began using a .22 rimfire rifle with an improvised silencer to start knocking out the searchlights. It became obvious very quickly the camp did not have many spare bulbs, as they stopped coming on at night. John was unsure if this was to prevent further harassment, or a lack of parts, but either way gave John the result he wanted.
He quietly crept up to the front gate of the compound one morning, with a large backpack on his back. The pack contained a large quantity of black powder John and Andy had made from saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Also in the pack were several ziplock bags full of gasoline to which they had added a quantity of gelatin. The ignition device was a simple friction device hooked to a pull tab that John affixed to the gate opposite the one the pack was secured to.
The next morning, when the first vehicle went to leave the camp and opened the gate, the agent was greeted by a cacophony of noise and a hellish inferno that quickly set the front gate ablaze, to say nothing of the vehicles and the agents. Three men were burned critically, two more suffered severe smoke inhalation, one Humvee nearly destroyed by fire, and an entire day’s worth of operations scrubbed tending the damage caused.
Living in the field, or out of Andy’s Jeep, was taking its toll. The men struggled mightily to keep their hygiene acceptable and prevent any infections. Blisters were a constant struggle as well because of the humidity, sweat, and often wet environment they operated from. Ticks and mosquitoes were plentiful, making Andy wish for the cold and snow of his home state, and despite John’s intense distaste for snow, he almost agreed. Showers were via baby wipes, blister care was duct tape, and meals were whatever they had packed or scrounged. Beards grew wild on their faces. For all their efforts to take care of themselves, the constant effort, walking, and marginal nutrition caused them both to lose a little weight. It was a welcome reprieve for them to head back to Mark’s for a few nights of good meals, reloading, planning, and bomb making in the shop.
The killing was awful. John felt as if he lost a part of his soul with every life he took. He wondered where the line between freedom fighter and terrorist really was. It was during these moments of reflection he questioned so many things he had thought he knew so well when he was younger, when he was on the other end of a very similar insurgency demanding they stop acting like cowards and come out to fight. And now, he was sneaking around, bombing and shooting and stabbing and hiding and sniping, because that was the only way to fight back against the overwhelming odds. The mosquito cannot fight the elephant, but a hundred can encourage the elephant to move elsewhere. Equally awful was the frightening realization that he was beginning to feel more at home out here, murdering people by the dozens, than he did at the compound in relative safety with his family and the Minutemen…
John’s head tilted back, and he looked up to his wife and his friend. They both looked down at him silently, willing John to return to them.
“Honey?” Rachel’s voice prodded.
John focused on her. “I…I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said simply. He could feel the struggle in his mind, as the near constant stress had finally stretched him to the breaking point. “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
“What do you mean, John?” Rachel asked.
“I don’t know if I’m a soldier or your husband. When I first went out there, those first nights in the woods, I barely slept. I had nightmares about what we were doing. Every time we came home, I was relieved. Then one day I didn’t feel relieved when we came back, and I felt anxious to go back. Now when I’m here, it’s like I’m lying to myself about what I am. I feel like I’m losing myself.” John’s words tumbled out of him.
Rachel looked at Andy, and the look on his face told her everything. Even he had not realized the mental strain John had been under. That was John, he would take everything on himself, never ask for help, and not want to worry anyone. Later, Andy would recount to Rachel that contrary to John’s earlier statements, it was John who had taken the overwhelming amount of the sniper shots. John had done much of the killing. John had worked hard to shield Andy from the worst of what they were doing. And at that moment they were realizing that John had pushed himself over the edge.
A knock at the door caused Rachel and Andy to jump, but John’s reaction was what concerned them; his hand swept down to his holster and disengaged the active retention. His eyes darted up to the doorknob, his muscles tensed. There was no doubt what would happen if that door opened.
“Andy, get the door, and don’t let anyone in,” Rachel barked as she threw one hand on John’s shoulder, the other on top of his holstered pistol.
Andy reached for the doorknob and stuck his foot just behind the door, allowing him to open it but preventing it from opening farther than he wished. He was looking into the eyes of Mark…and Mark was carrying a handgun.
“Move, Andy,” Mark said simply.
“Mark, you need to step back and let us deal with this,” Andy said simply. His voice was steady but forceful. Mark could not see Andy’s M&P 9 mm in his hand behind the door, angled roughly at Mark’s chest. He had no intention of standing aside for whatever Mark had in mind.
“That man pointed a gun at me, in my home. He has to answer for that.” Mark’s voice wavered just slightly. Andy heard it.
“Mark, listen to me really carefully. John had a psychotic break. Rachel and I need a minute to get him back to himself, and you and he can talk it out to your heart’s content. But if you try to push your way into this room now, he is probably going to blow your damned head off. And if he doesn’t, I will.” Andy’s voice did not waver. He didn’t blink. He was, emotionally, back in the woods with John watching his back while the whole world tried to kill them. He was standing over John when that agent had shot him. He was protecting his friend, and he would cut a hole through anyone who tried to hurt John.
Andy nearly shot Mark through the door when he felt a large calloused hand land softly on his shoulder. He craned his head to look over his shoulder and was looking into the brown eyes of his friend.
“I got this, Andy,” John said simply.
“You good?” Andy questioned, careful to keep one eye on Mark.
“Yeah. Thank you for watching out for me,” John said genuinely. He turned his head to his wife, forced a smile, and mouthed the words I love you, then turned to the opening door and his very upset host. Mark’s holding a handgun did not escape John’s attention.
“So, you want to talk, or go ahead and try your hand at killing, Mark?” John asked, deadpan.
Mark read John’s face. The man who had retreated, both emotionally and physically, to this room with his wife was gone. He was back in control of himself, which did not immediately make him any less dangerous in Mark’s estimation. “We need to talk. Right the fuck now.” Mark turned on his heel and walked swiftly through the hallway.
Andy chuffed to himself. “I think I just heard his balls drop.”
Even John had to laugh to himself. “Go easy on him, Andy. He has a right to be pissed at me,” John said.
“Maybe, but I still say if the little peckerhead takes a swing at you, you’d be well within your rights to bend him over and paddle him in front of the whole household,” Andy said, only half joking.
John found Mark on the back porch, pacing back and forth. John just stood quietly and waited.
“I have half a mind to tell you a
nd your people to take a hike,” Mark said hotly.
John stood quietly.
“Say something, damn you!” Mark hollered.
“You didn’t ask me a question. And truthfully, I’ve had the same debate. Whether we should cut you loose and go our separate way,” John said simply.
Mark’s pacing changed course, on a collision course with John. John stood his ground and continued to stand it even as Mark loaded up a punch and aimed it at his jaw. John easily dodged the blow, sidestepped, and dropped Mark to his knees with one solid punch to the solar plexus. He stood over Mark, unholstered his sidearm, and tossed it to the porch while he listened to Mark work madly to suck breath into his lungs while his diaphragm resisted the intrusion mightily. Mark felt as though he might pass out, but he concentrated on keeping the blackness at the edge of his vision at bay.
“Feel that? That fear? Knowing I’m standing here over you, you’re on your knees, unarmed? I could snap your damned neck if I felt the urge. Shoot you. Stab you. And you can’t do a damned thing to stop me. THAT, you little shit, is what I have lived with for the last month, knowing my life hung by a thread. And the only way for me to survive another five minutes was to kill. Twenty, fifty, a hundred. How many lives can you take, how many times do you trade a human being for a few more minutes of life before it’s all you can think of? Kill, live, kill, live, KILL, LIVE!” John’s speech rose in volume and urgency.
John sat heavily next to Mark and looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry. Asshole.”
Mark blinked, trying to comprehend what he had just heard.
“I lost control, and I apologize for pointing a gun at you. I will not apologize for saving your ass, or Kevin’s, or your family’s, or greasing six or seven guys in your house today who would’ve happily hauled you off to fucking Angola. Nor will I apologize for what I am going to do to that agent you zip-tied to that chair. I’m not going to light him on fire for fun, but I will interrogate him, and anyone with a weak stomach doesn’t want to be in attendance. Mark, you aren’t my enemy, but I need you to stop being an impediment to me. Do you understand?” John said all of this with incredible patience, trying hard not to let it sound like a lecture.
Mark wrestled for the words as he worked himself to a sitting posture. “John, I am grateful for everything you have done for these people, but I can’t endorse torture. Nor can I say I’m very comfortable with a man obviously on the edge walking around armed.”
“Well, Mark, you’re going to have to make peace with a few things. Because like it or not, you guys need me if you want to get this done, and the longer we go on together, the more obvious it is you don’t have the stomach for what’s necessary. I’ll hold up my end; you hold up yours,” John said simply, in a tone that made it obvious he considered the disagreement to have been cleared up. He stood, retrieved Mark’s handgun, and offered it to him.
Mark looked up, past the butt end of the handgun to the man offering it to him. John’s face betrayed no worry that he was handing a loaded firearm to someone who just moments ago had tried to harm him. Mark couldn’t decide if it was indifference or trust that motivated John. Mark reached for the gun and placed it back in his holster as he rose.
Heating Up
Gary Shorts was lying in bed in his private quarters, hoping for an afternoon nap. He had converted one of the spare offices into a small bedroom when the attacks started, preferring to stay on post for safety’s sake but unwilling to lower himself to sleep in general quarters with the rank and file. He regarded the ceiling in the darkened room and wondered how things had gone so wrong. His appointment to this post was a career maker and promised him great promotion potential after all of the illegal firearms and criminals were rounded up in this area. And it all started that day one of his teams went missing…
“Chief Shorts, we have a situation out here,” Agent Johns voice rang out.
“What is it, Agent?” Shorts demanded.
“One of our teams went silent. They reported they have arrived at the residence on their hit list and were preparing to breach the front door, now nothing. None of them are answering on the radio,” Johns explained hurriedly.
“Get another team over there and find out what’s going on,” Shorts ordered, returning to the report he was preparing. Last week, thirty-two arrests had been made, 157 illegal, banned, or unregistered firearms had been confiscated, and nearly two tons of ammunition confiscated. All in all, not a bad week though Shorts intended to offer some sort of incentive for additional arrests and seizures. He was sent to produce results, and he intended to please his bosses so that his future promotions would be forthcoming.
“Sir, you need to come and hear this yourself,” Johns called to Shorts from the radio room.
Shorts rose, irritated at the constant interruptions, and made his way to Johns.
“I’ve got four agents down, multiple gun shots to all four. Three look like they got shot up by a firing squad, holes everywhere. The fourth one has a gunshot to the forehead execution style. Subjects are all gone, gun safe has been cleared out, and it looks like they took everything. Only thing they left behind was a couple of kid’s BB guns,” the agent on the radio reported.
The hair on the back of Shorts’s neck stood on end. Four dead agents! How in the hell had four of his men, with their armor and training and weapons, been overtaken and killed? And where were the subjects? Shorts’s eyes trailed to Agent Johns, who was equally confused by this turn of events and equally unsure how to proceed.
Then that damned unauthorized information release he had caught so much hell for started. Then the attacks on his camp and on his agents whenever they were away from camp. Finally, a few days ago Agent Johns’s body had showed up on their front doorstep, shot to pieces, dragged behind a vehicle, with that damned sign hanging around his neck. He thought all of his agents were going to walk off that day. As the situation stood, he was down to forty-seven active personnel, himself and the cook included. If this apparent antagonism turned into an outright rebellion, it threatened to cut his numbers even more. Morale was bottoming out.
Today, their hit list had included the name of one Mark Thompson. Mark Thompson, according to the NFA and NICS records searches, did not own any banned firearms. He apparently had shown proof during the amnesty period that he owned no firearms at all. Yet Shorts had received a handful of reports over the past week of people hearing gunshots in the area, so Shorts had approved a few teams to go “knock on doors” in the area and see if they could turn up anything.
The two teams had not found anything and had opted to stick together in light of the constant attacks on agents, especially when they were in the process of conducting a raid. They had reported they were heading to the Thompson residence, there was one quick report of “taking fire,” then nothing. All attempts to contact the team were unsuccessful, and it was too late in the evening to send another unit to establish their whereabouts.
Shorts had already briefed two teams to head that way first thing in the morning, armed to the teeth. They even mounted a belt-fed machine gun in the turret of one of the Humvees just in case. Shorts did not know what the other eight men had run afoul of, but he intended to fix the problem whatever it was.
Unable to nap, Shorts was still awake with his radio turned on to low volume when he started to hear the chatter.
“Prison transport heading northbound out of town, we are approaching some sort of roadblock.”
Shorts’s eyes snapped to the radio. There should be no roadblock, certainly not one in the path of that transport. He reached for the radio and keyed it up. “Shorts to transport, say again. A roadblock?”
“Yes, sir, looks like an old beater pickup truck parked across both lanes of traffic,” the voice replied.
“Drive around it on the shoulder. Continue along your route,” Shorts ordered, putting the radio back on his nightstand. What next? he thought.
Andy was crouched behind the truck, waiting for a call on his radio to indica
te whether the truck would hit the shoulder or the oncoming lane to bypass the improvised roadblock. He stood at the ready with the spike strips they had procured from an equipment depot, and equally ready to make a run for it if the bus did something unexpected like ramming the truck. “Sunrise,” came John’s voice on the radio. They were going east, or to the truck’s right. Andy wound up and deployed the strips as he heard the bus approach.
The driver had no time to react. Every tire deflated, forcing the bus to an abrupt stop. Andy shouldered his rifle and rushed to the bus’s side to prevent any guard from getting a sight line on him. John and Randall approached from the front in Andy’s Jeep, stopping the vehicle quickly and making their exit with guns drawn. They weren’t sure how many guards they would be facing, but the disabled bus would not be a good position from them to negotiate or fight from. Kevin pulled up behind the bus and keyed the mics on the radios sitting on the seat to his right. Andy and John had had the idea to modify some ham radios to transmit on military frequencies, and Kevin’s experience with electronics made that a quick, if not highly illegal, job.
“You know the FCC would have a coronary if they found out about this,” Kevin had remarked with a grin. Kevin currently had three different radios, each tuned to different frequencies in intervals to spread out the number of frequencies they could jam, hooked up to three directional antennae mounted hastily on the roof. The effect was a tsunami of radio noise directed at the bus, guaranteeing they would not be making any troublesome calls back to the camp for help. This fact the guards immediately became aware of.
“Shut that thing off, Jesus!” the guard shouted to the driver over the shriek of the radio. He reached for the radio and tried different frequencies, only to find the same result, an ear-bleeding screech on any frequency they attempted.
“What the hell do we do?” the driver shouted back. He was looking through his windshield at two men with body armor and assault rifles approaching from the front, sighted squarely on the two of them. “Man, all I got is a peashooter. We don’t have a chance.”
American Insurgent Page 17