American Insurgent

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American Insurgent Page 19

by Phil Rabalais


  Some Lessons You Learn the Hard Way

  The evening had been spent in the main living area, and a very frank conversation had with all in attendance. Not only were the recently released captives given their options, but also the various volunteers Mark and Kevin had attracted while John and Andy conducted their campaign against the agency personnel and the camp for the previous four weeks. John and Mark, in equal parts, laid out what they had in mind. Details were sparse until it could be determined who was in and who wasn’t, but John spared no vocabulary communicating exactly how bloody the coming night could end up, that injuries were a foregone conclusion, and casualties certainly possible.

  After their impromptu briefing, fourteen of the twenty-two fugitives volunteered along with all eight of Mark’s volunteers. Anyone lacking the courage, or the motivation, to participate in this attack or remain at the compound for support was politely shuffled out to a waiting van, as Mark had arranged a safe house for them for a few days before he would take on the task of figuring out where to resettle them, or simply releasing them.

  Now that John clearly saw the size of his pack, he, Andy, Mark, and Kevin all participated in interviewing every one of them to determine the level of their firearm proficiency, their individual skills, and particular attention paid to anyone with military, LE, or hunting experience. John had a plan, he had his men and women, and he had to figure out where all of the pieces of this puzzle fit together. This would be a multifaceted operation, one in which there would be ample opportunity to help both here at the compound, on the outskirts of the camp providing support, and in the team who breached the camp and participated most directly in the attack. For that, John needed men he could count on to act decisively, and he would need to spend most of the next day learning the team, coordinating their movements, and learning to work as a pack rather than a bunch of individuals. It was daunting work.

  Kevin, the former F-Class shooter from California, headed up the sniper detail. He found among the volunteers eight with substantial hunting experience. While not up to his level of shooting, these were men and women who intrinsically understood how to lead targets and account for holdover at ranges under three hundred yards, and knew enough anatomy to place their shots where they would put their targets down. Kevin would need to look through their growing armory and secure as many bolt-action rifles with magnified rifle scopes as possible, including John’s and Andy’s if necessary. He might also need to press these people into service on the reloading bench to build up as much ammo as possible in the time they had available. And spend time adjusting the rifle scopes to work with individual lengths of pull, and cut down stocks if needed. The challenge was daunting.

  Mark would run the TOC at the compound, oversee the drone operators, and manage communications once they were online. Mark had argued against Kevin going with the sniper teams, but Kevin insisted he was the best long-range shot in the entire cell, and Mark reluctantly agreed. Mark instead fell back on the other drone operators and commo guys Kevin had been training over the past weeks. A couple of the volunteers who showed skill flying the drones, a father and teenage son pair who flew model airplanes together, were welcomed into the TOC and quickly put to work learning the controls and getting familiar. Mark was also happy to add another IT worker to the TOC.

  Several of the remaining volunteers who lacked the firearms-handling experience to join the assault, or the computer or radio experience to man the TOC, were put to work in a massive support operation by Vicky and Rachel. Housing, clothing, and feeding this small army was going to be a chore in and of itself, to say nothing of managing the homestead.

  John, Andy, and Randall surveyed their six volunteers: two former police officers, three military veterans, and one security guard. None had what John would count as substantial experience with direct-action assaults, including John. He wished he could have lucked into an infantry vet for this team and would have happily handed the team off to the more experienced man. Andy was quick to point out that during the past month they had done nothing but accrue experience far in excess of what they previously held.

  “Andy, the problem is we have always had the advantage. The numbers were never that lopsided, two on four at the worst. We always had the element of surprise. We struck from the shadows and could have disappeared just as fast. This time, we are kicking this dragon in the balls and sticking around for the fireworks. This could get really bad,” John explained.

  Andy looked his friend squarely in the eye. “John, if you think we can pull this off, I’m in one hundred percent. If I have to drag your ass home, we will pull this off and get back here. Don’t talk like you’re quitting before we’ve even started.”

  John nodded, his mind still troubled. “Okay, then let’s get these men armed and get started right now. It isn’t too late; we can get some practice in while it’s dark, do some weapons handling in the daylight, and fix any issues we find tonight. Hopefully by tomorrow we’ll be ready.”

  John and Andy met Kevin in the shop as he was sorting through the various weapons they had collected, looking for suitable rifles for his sniper team. He also grabbed a few standard M4s they had lifted from dead agents, intent on using these for suppressive fire.

  “I’d kill for a belt-fed machine gun to send along with you guys. That would really help us out if things get hairy,” John said flatly.

  Kevin nodded enthusiastically. “Tell me about it, but a handful of full-auto M4s ought to fill in. I already grabbed anything with a scope on it, and I’m bringing along my FAL and my F-Class rifle. I guess this is what you had in mind, hitting their depot and dragging guns home every time you got the chance.”

  “That was the idea. An army needs the tools of its trade. Which reminds me, see that big hard case right there? Make sure you take it with you, and remind me to show you how that works. It may come in handy,” John replied.

  “Will do. What’s your plan? My guys are going to be in here all night loading match ammo. Figure I’ll let ’em sleep through most of the day so their eyes are rested.”

  “We’re getting our group out in the field behind the property right now. Going to work on coordinated movements, nonverbal communications, learning to sweep rooms, and that sort of thing—how to work together without flagging each other. There’s a lot to learn and very little time to learn it. At some point, it probably wouldn’t hurt to show everyone here how to use a C-A-T tourniquet and a pressure bandage, just in case,” John said, both to exchange information and organize his thoughts verbally.

  “Yeah, we can put Vicky on that. She worked as an RN for years before George was born,” Kevin related.

  John silently kicked himself for never wondering how she had come by her obvious skill tending wounds. “Good enough for me. I hope we aren’t bringing wounded home, but this could turn into a real flap really quick.”

  The conversation wound down and the men set about their own individual tasks. John and Andy had secured enough Glock 17s and M4s for each of their six men.

  “You know, you ought to leave that hipster pistol here and take a Glock,” Andy chided.

  “Listen, dickhead, you ease up on my CZ,” John poked back.

  “All I’m saying is we need to all carry the same ammo and mags. Hell, you’re the military guy, you know this,” Andy continued.

  John absolutely hated the idea of ditching his CZ for a Glock. He had detested the guns since his first introduction to them and found the idea of carrying one personally aggravating. But he didn’t disagree with his friend. He did insist on keeping his personal AR instead of one of the full-auto M4s. Andy likewise kept his. The lack of automatic fire would be more than made up for by their familiarity with their own firearms they had personally built.

  John asked Mark to task one of his people with securing clothing and sturdy footwear for everyone. The first stop was the shop, where the various spoils of Andy and John’s raids were being housed. Most of the members of their rapidly growing cell found matchi
ng sizes within the piles of boots, trousers, and shirts intended for the same agents who hunted them now. Those that didn’t left their sizes with Vicky to go secure in the local community in the morning since she was one of the few left at the site the agency didn’t have on a “capture or kill” list at this point. Mark would later insist on sending an armed escort with her as a precaution that John happily welcomed. John was relieved to see Mark finally seemed to have his head fully in the game, planning ahead for unforeseen events.

  John and Andy drilled their six-man group for several hours that evening almost until daybreak. Simple things like light discipline, only illuminating a potential target for a second to identify and shoot, not flagging teammates with the muzzle of their weapons, transitioning from rifle to pistol and back, tactical reloads—all these things had to be drilled and practiced.

  “I think they’re getting it, John. You can tell these guys are the right ones. They didn’t take a ton of training to fall back into their old habits,” Andy encouraged.

  “Agreed, just need to work on hand signals and coordinated movements after they get some sleep. We can do that in the light where we can see each other better, but I wanted to get started in the dark and stress them out to see how they reacted. The eight of us have a real chance to pull this off,” John said in agreement. “There is one thing though, Andy. If I go down, you have to keep these guys moving. Do not stop for me and get yourselves killed. Just Charlie Mike and finish this.”

  Andy looked to his friend with an obvious look of shock. “I’m not leaving you behind, John. Rachel would literally kill me with her bare hands if I come home without you.”

  “If I go down, and you guys try to pull security around a dead body and get shot to pieces, the agency will come after this cell and tear it apart. All the work we did, every life we took, everything will be for nothing. We have to end this tonight, or we might as well all die in that place,” John said with finality. “Promise me.”

  Andy couldn’t form the words and merely nodded. He questioned to himself if he could do it, if he could leave his friend behind wounded or dead. He did not question whether or not John could, and held no malice towards John for that revelation. John was not the same man he was a month ago, or years ago when they met. He wasn’t the same carefree, jovial man he had once known. John was a soldier again, and he would not let anything cloud his mind from the mission ahead. Andy realized, not for the first time, he had to find that same mindset sometime in the next twelve hours.

  The weary assault force walked off the field behind Mark’s home around 0300 that morning. John went to his room where his family was. Andy had relocated out to the barracks with the other single men, giving his room freely to one of the husband and wife pairs who had joined them recently. Many of the assault force simply collapsed into their bunks and were fast asleep in moments. John insisted on showering and addressing some hot spots that were developing on his feet from the long day-and-night operation and training he had endured before crawling into bed with his wife.

  His sleep was fitful, dreaming of the violence he had brought to people throughout the past month and of the violence that lay ahead of him. The agent whose throat he had cut, and the look of shock and fright on his face as he could not draw his next breath. The sniper attacks. The body bouncing along behind Andy’s Jeep on the way to the compound’s front gate. The agent he had executed in Mark’s shop. He saw every face, every man, and their angry looks stared at him accusingly for taking their lives from them, for taking them from their families and friends.

  He awoke with a start, quickly sliding his watch onto his wrist and checking the time: 0700, a late start for him most mornings but a justified one after the day they had previously. Still, he had a lot of work to do.

  He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands to encourage them all the way open, then noticed his wife absent from his bed. In her place was his daughter, Kay. She was softly snoring, her hair draped over her face like a blond curtain. She had always made a habit of crawling into bed with one of her parents whenever one of them, usually John, had left for work in the morning. He gently leaned across the bed to kiss her forehead and pull the sheets up around her shoulders, then felt a single tear slide out of the corner of his eye as he prayed he would see her grow up. He willed it away, reminding him the only way to that end was through this camp tonight. There could be no life without freedom, no peace before war; he could not raise this child in a country that wanted to imprison or execute her father. He had to see this through.

  After pulling on his jeans, threading his Cobra belt through the loops, and pulling on a shirt, he holstered up and left the room quietly. He found no others awake at this hour, only his wife taking a shift at the TOC, monitoring radio traffic. “All quiet, honey?”

  She jerked, not realizing someone else was awake. John could move his 240-pound frame so quietly across a room when he intended to, it was easy to be snuck up on, especially when usually his heavy steps marched across the floor, announcing his approach. “Good morning, love. Everything’s quiet. Sounds like the agency isn’t sending out a single patrol this morning. I’m not sure if that’s lack of manpower or they’re just scared, but nothing is coming our way. Vicky left with her escort just a few minutes ago, heading into town for some provisions and clothing. She said to radio her if you need anything before she gets back. And Kevin and his snipers were up till 0600 loading ammo and working on rifles. He said to expect them to be down for a few hours longer than usual to get them rested.”

  John nodded. He and Vicky had had a rough start to this unlikely relationship he had developed with Mark’s cell, but he had to give credit where it was due, she was all in. “I think we’re fine. We have plenty of equipment and ammo from raiding supply shelves and taking what we can off dead agents. I’m going to get a mug of coffee and head into the shop to get everyone’s gear together. I’m sure some of these guys will have their own thoughts on arranging gear, but I need to at least get their shit together and get mags loaded before they wake up. We have a lot of work to get done before this afternoon.” John kissed his wife on the lips, lingered just for a moment, treasuring that kiss like his very breath, then made his coffee and went about his task.

  John headed into the shop to secure plate carriers, magazine pouches, individual first aid kits, hydration bladders, and small assault packs for his team. He and Andy already had all this equipment, having brought it with them out of their preps, but his team had come to them with nothing more than the prison jumpsuits they wore and needed a full complement of everything. The irony that he was arming and equipping them with the stolen equipment of the very agency that hunted them, some of it from the dead agents who had worked so hard to imprison them, was not lost on John. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought.

  By the time Andy found him in the shop, he was at the workbench, working the Uplula benchloader, with several cans of 5.56 in front of him, empty magazines on his left and a growing stack of full magazines on his right. He had also made a point of loading eight mags with only twenty-eight rounds for easier loading on a closed bolt before the men went hot, denoted by a strip of electrical tape around the magazine body.

  “You got an army you’re trying to supply?” Andy said, half joking.

  “Actually, yeah. I figure with the setups for all of our plate carriers, I need four mags each for the eight of us, I have a speed pouch on my battle belt for one more, and I have assault packs for all of us I intend to stuff with some extras along with smoke grenades and those CS grenades we found. Just trying to plan ahead. If this turns into a row, we don’t need to run out of ammo trying to shoot our way out. And with the M4s these guys are using, if they flip to full auto, they can burn through some ammo quick,” John reasoned.

  “Need a hand?” Andy offered. He could see the sweat through his friend’s T-shirt and see him shifting his bulk back and forth on the wooden stool. He wondered how long John had been working that morning, and worried he wo
uld burn himself out if he kept pushing.

  “Thanks Andy, I’m good. I could use another refill on the coffee, and after that I need you to go get the rest of our team up. See if someone from HHC is getting breakfast started, and get those men eating. Lots of protein, easy on the carbs, and make sure they check their feet for blisters and their bodies for chafing. We can’t afford to have a man down for silly shit before tonight,” John answered.

  “HHC?” Andy questioned.

  “Sorry, old habits. HHC is the acronym for headquarters company. I’m falling back on my Army vocabulary,” John said, ramming another thirty rounds into a magazine.

  Andy nodded and went off to accomplish his task. John looked to the pile of magazines on his right. Figuring eight men, four magazines for a basic loadout each, plus five more in each assault pack, he was about two-thirds of the way to being finished for his assault team. Once he had that done, he would spend another hour loading magazines for Kevin’s sniper support team. They would have to task someone to finish loading so John could get to work with his team, but it would give them a head start. Many hands make light work was the phrase John had grown up with and the work ethic he had been raised with.

  Doing the Right Thing

  John Arceneaux was the oldest of two boys. He had been largely raised by his stay-at-home mother, while his father worked hard to provide a living for his family. Money was tight, but they never went without. He had learned often and early the value of pinching pennies, budgeting, and not being wasteful with anything. Chores around the house were modest when he was young, growing with him. What was once feeding the family dog and taking out the trash grew into John doing small home repairs with his father and helping work on the family cars. John’s mother and father worked relentlessly hard to teach their children the value of hard work and patience. John’s father found quickly that his oldest son grasped this first lesson much more readily than the latter.

 

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