“John,” he said one day, “there are three ways to get ahead in life. You can be born rich, and we weren’t. You can be born lucky, and I don’t think we have much of that either. Or you can work hard, really hard. If you outwork the next guy every day, even when you don’t think you have anything left to give, you’ll get ahead one day. But you have to learn some patience along the way. You have to learn to work twice as hard and wait twice as long for the moment when you can get ahead. If you learn to do both of those things, you’ll be just fine in anything you do.”
John took his father’s words to heart, even if patience was a hard virtue to learn for him. When he grew bored with high school, his grades slipped. This was more due to John’s boredom with primary school than any lack of intelligence, but his father drove the point home that he had to finish his commitments. It was another lesson for him, to persevere even when he was ready to quit and move on to something else. Along the way, probably after a failed attempt at mowing the lawn properly and having to mow the entire lawn a second time, he learned that the fastest way to accomplish a task was to do it right the first time.
John’s father also taught his son the two lessons that led to his greatest confrontations throughout his life: to always do what he thought was right no matter the consequences, and to make his own decisions. “You have to make your own decisions, not follow what everyone else is doing. I’m not going to be around forever to watch out for you. You have to learn to take care of yourself and make your own decisions because ONLY you will suffer the consequences for them, good or bad. And you have to be really careful not to do the wrong thing just because everyone else is doing it. If you do what you think is right, then you’ll accept the consequences just fine.”
It was with great frustration that he was reminded of these words when his son wanted to enlist in the Louisiana National Guard when he was only seventeen. They had fought and argued, neither willing to give ground. John’s father wanted to protect his son from the reality of one day going to war, remembering the way he had seen friends come home from Vietnam decades prior. John wanted to serve his country, to protect others, to do his part to secure the country that had given him the freedoms he treasured. “Dad, you always told me I had to make my own decisions, to do what I thought was right. This is right. Not everyone can join the military, but I can. Someone has to go because not everyone can.”
John’s father eyed him with a look of pure frustration. “But why is that someone you?”
John just looked up at his father and replied, “Because I can, and others can’t.” It was a simple, but not flippant answer. John saw himself as having a duty to protect others, no different than defending smaller and weaker kids from being bullied in school years prior. He had to go, because he was able and others were not. Someone has to go drive away the wolves so the sheep can live in peace. It would be some years before he could find the words to describe to his father what he felt, but that was his way of seeing it. His father signed the paperwork, and John shipped off to basic training between his junior and senior years of high school.
At seventeen years old, he was five feet seven inches tall, weighed 175 pounds, and was every bit the idealistic young kid most seventeen-year-olds are. The day he graduated basic training, his parents saw a young man two inches taller and nearly fifteen pounds lighter, with a hardened look in his eye. Their son, whom they had worked so hard to raise, had become a soldier.
Years later, after his deployment to Iraq and Hurricane Katrina, John had left the National Guard and settled into the quiet life of a husband and father. John’s father had no illusions about who his son was after all these years. He was a doting if not stern father, a loving husband, a hard worker and good provider for his family. He was also every bit the idealist he had been years prior, occasionally prone to diatribes about the government overstepping their authority on a host of issues from free speech to illegal search and seizure. John’s most vitriolic speeches were reserved for the state’s curtailment of gun rights.
“Dad, I don’t know what it’s going to take for people to wake up and get it through their thick skulls. I mean, in 1778 we only had one gun law. That law says ‘everyone can have any damned gun they please, and the government can’t screw with them about it.’ Then we get laws making ‘short-barreled’ shotguns and rifles illegal ’cause no military uses them, even though they did. Then we get laws making full-auto guns more heavily regulated, even though the previous law heavily implied the government couldn’t regulate firearms used by the military, which full-auto guns damned sure are. Then states and cities start passing handgun laws, and we have to waste years fighting them before the Supreme Court strikes them down, but SCOTUS won’t state plainly what the Second Amendment has always meant and clear out all these existing infringements. And no one gets upset or protests. It’s like people don’t mind handcuffs as long as you don’t put them on too tight.”
John’s dad was not as vocal about the issue as his son, but he too was troubled by what he saw as a progressive but constant move towards restricting people’s rights and freedoms. It troubled him, but his personality was drastically different from his son’s. “I think if the day comes they outlaw it all, I’m going to have to hide my guns. No way I’m handing them over while the government and criminals all keep theirs.”
John looked to his dad and shook his head. “Did it ever occur to you the day they try to take your guns isn’t the day to hide them. That’s the day to load them.”
“What are you saying, John?” his father asked.
“I’m saying, Dad, if the government, or anyone, ever comes to my door to take what’s mine, they are going to have to fight to take them. No different than anyone else kicking down my door to take my family or my property. I don’t care who it is, they have no right to take my freedom or my property, and I won’t allow it. It just isn’t right.” John said this levelly, without blinking. He just met his father’s eyes and said, plainly, he would shoot anyone who tried to disarm him.
“Can’t fight the whole government, son. No one can.”
“I can’t. You can’t. A hundred of us can’t. A thousand can’t. But sooner or later, the numbers will add up, and yes, you can absolutely fight the government. Remember the Alamo? Those men held their ground knowing they couldn’t win, but their sacrifice motivated the rest of what would be Texas to fight the Mexicans for their state.”
“So you’re saying you’ll be a martyr.”
“No, I’m saying I will do what I think is right, damn the consequences. If enough people do what I do, then we’ll win. If there aren’t enough people left in the country who have the balls to do the right thing, then it’s better I not live to see it,” John said. The anger in his voice wasn’t directed at his father, it was directed at the millions he knew would accept that yoke of tyranny rather than fight. For themselves, for their country, for their rights. Just like 1775, those with the will to do the right thing would be the minority while the rest of the country would stand in the middle like sheep. John knew there would be far more sheep among his countrymen than sheepdogs. But no matter what, he would do the right thing.
John’s attention snapped back to reality as he reached into the ammo can in front of him and felt sheet metal. He glanced at his watch and realized now was a good time to leave the rest of the loading to the next person, go get breakfast in his belly, and get his team together with all their equipment.
He knew he was looking at adding forty to fifty pounds of gear to each of his team in the way of body armor, magazines, rifles, belts, sidearms, and their small packs. They needed to get all their gear sized to them individually so it wouldn’t move around on their bodies unnecessarily, and they could get used to the additional weight and bulk. Things they had practiced the previous evening, like weapon transitions, were made more difficult by the addition of body armor. Running, and more importantly changing direction quickly or stopping, would be very different with the additional weight on
their upper bodies. John expected the three veterans on his team probably had worn armor before; he heavily doubted his two LEOs and the security guard had. He thought it best to bring everyone up to speed together, and quickly.
He found his team sitting at the table with Andy, vigorously replacing the calories they had lost the previous evening. All were dressed in the Dickies tactical pants Andy and John had fished out of their pile of tactical gear pilfered from the agency storehouses, and an odd assortment of T-shirts apparently from various sources. Each also looked very refreshed by the long sleep they had that morning. Some opted for shaving, while others let their beards grow in. They looked like what they were, not professional soldiers, but like a militia. Each also wore their sidearm on their belt, causing John to wonder if that was their own unanimous decision or at Andy’s insistence.
“Get some grub in, guys. We have some work ahead of us. I’ve got everyone’s gear put together and magazines loaded, but we need to get everything sized to you and do some drilling with the extra weight so you aren’t surprised by it later. Andy, where’s Rachel?” John asked his friend.
“She’s out back with your daughter, eating on the porch,” Andy replied between bites.
John grabbed his plate and headed out to sit with his family, reminded again that the time he had with them was precious and possibly very short. He found them at the table on the back porch with Mark, Vicky, and George. He sat and thought they looked absolutely ordinary sitting here together eating breakfast, belying the reason these people were all joined together right at that moment. “How did it go this morning, Vicky?” John asked.
Vicky worked to swallow a spoonful of eggs before she spoke. “Fine, John. We didn’t run into any trouble, and I got a couple of days’ clothes for everyone. Fortunately, Mark has always been a closet prepper, so we had plenty of hygiene supplies and toiletries to cover everyone else. If we take in anyone else, we’ll have to figure out living accommodations. Our house and the barracks are almost filled to capacity.”
John nodded. “Mark and I will need to have a conversation about everything after this evening is done. I’m thinking the thing to do is to split the cell in half after this is over. Not sure what everyone else’s feelings are, but the bigger we are, the bigger the target. Splitting our manpower but staying coordinated gives us some insulation and eases the load on your guys. I know this has to be stretching your resources to feed and house all these people.”
Mark nodded. “It’s a stretch, but this is what we signed on for, John. I’m glad you got these people freed. We’ll figure out the details after tonight, but putting that camp out of commission once and for all is going to take a lot of pressure off of us. We won’t have to hide quite so much anymore. What are you guys up to today?”
“As soon as they finish breakfast, I’m getting them into all their gear, and we’re doing a dress rehearsal of sorts. Few men react well to having fifty extra pounds of gear strapped to them, and they need to figure out how that weight and bulk will change things. We’re also working on our nonverbal communication today, hand signals and learning to work as a team. Once we get inside the compound, I anticipate splitting us up. An eight-man team has a lot of potential for flagging and friendly fire. We need to be able to anticipate each other’s movements, to know where the guy on your right is going to go before he goes there,” John related to everyone.
“Sounds like that’ll take a lot longer than a morning to teach,” Mark remarked.
“Usually, yes, but it is the hand we’ve been dealt. We can’t put this raid off any longer, so ready or not, we’re going in tonight,” John replied. He sat between his wife and daughter, eating in silence as his mind wound through the task ahead of him. As he had admitted before, his specialty in the military was hardly the sort of assault and direct action they had in mind for this raid, but between the eight of them, that was the task ahead, and John intended to rise to the occasion. He was just finishing his meal when Andy led the procession of armored, rifle-toting men out the back door towards the field. John went to stand and Andy waved him off.
“I’ve got them for a minute. Eat with your family. Mike over here”—Andy indicated to one of their assault team who was also a military veteran—“suggested some buddy rushes, whatever the hell those are.”
John mentally filed away the face and name of the team member who appeared to have recalled some of his long-ago military training and had the confidence to rise to the occasion when others did not. If the occasion came to split his team, he would tap this man to lead the other half and keep Andy with him. He finished breakfast with his family while watching the men practice advancing on a target, one covering the other, and noted that he was right to insist on drills this morning. They were initially clumsy with the added weight influencing their balance, figuring out how to shoulder the rifle around their plate carriers and find their magazines for reloads. Practice brought proficiency, and inside of a half hour, the men looked much smoother.
After John left the table, he armored up and joined his team. They worked on hand signals, drilling them to watch the team leader for direction and learning to coordinate their movements without speaking. John well knew the noise of the assault, the constant gunfire and yelling of less disciplined people, would make verbal communication much clumsier and slower, not to mention giving away their own position. By insisting on near silence, they could exercise another small advantage.
After an hour, the men retreated to the barracks, dropped their armor on their bunks, and reviewed the drone camera footage of the camp. John identified the location to breach the wall, pointed out the guard towers, and warned his men of the locations of the main office and the agent barracks and of the prison barracks. He severely doubted, having just shipped out their prisoners, that the camp would have any more, but it was something they had to verify. John also asked Andy to remind him to pack a second small assault pack with a few spare Glock 17s, magazines, smoke grenades, and IFAKs just in case they found prisoners who needed to be armed.
The plan was simple, if not audacious. Kevin’s sniper team—now awake and in the shop, working feverishly to prep their own gear and load more .308 Winchester ammunition for their sniper rifles—would take out any exterior lights while leaving the interior ones lit both to illuminate their targets and to blind them to activity outside the wall in the shadows. Under their cover, Randall would back their van-turned-enormous-breaching-charge up to the southeast corner of the detention camp. They would detonate the van to destroy the wall and cause as much confusion and havoc as possible; then John’s eight-man assault team would enter the compound.
John had made it abundantly clear to everyone they were not going to take prisoners; they were going to destroy the camp and every agent within. While this news caused some worried looks as the men wrestled with their consciences, it drew no argument. Everyone was well aware of the hell these agents had brought to these men, their families, and their neighbors, and the weight that placed on one side of the scale had to be balanced with their lives. It was a simple, if not brutal truth.
After their training and briefing, John regarded his watch to see it was 1500, 3:00 p.m. in civilian terms. He released the men to spend time relaxing or with their spouses if present, for two hours, to meet up at the TOC at 1700 sharp “ready for war,” as John put it to them. John went first to check in with Mark and see how he and the TOC were doing with their preparations, then to Kevin to check and see if they needed help.
“We’re good, just about to finish up,” Kevin replied. “Every sniper has two hundred rounds for their rifles, and my support guys have twenty mags each for their M4s. I don’t figure we’ll need that much, but if we need to use suppressive fire to hose down the camp, we’ll burn through quite a bit. And we’re stationary, so we can camp a little heavier than your guys.” Kevin’s assessment of the situation was spot on, and John found nothing else to recommend.
“I’m getting my guys together in the TOC at 1700
—sorry, 5 p.m.—all dressed for the party. I figure we need to leave here at 1730 on the button. By the time we reach the camp, it’ll be after dark. We can all roll together. Your guys will have time to circle around in the tree lines before we have to get started, so you don’t have to leave early or rush. I have a handful of penlights we can use to signal to each other around the camp when everyone is in position. You still have that radio rig in your van we can use to jam their comms?” John asked.
“I do, but that also jams ours. I worry if you guys don’t have radios to communicate back and forth with each other and us, you’ll run into trouble,” Kevin cautioned.
“We’ll be using hand signals for most of it, but I concede your point. Say jam their comms from the moment of the first sniper shot, plus about three minutes after we enter the camp. We’ll have them on the back foot, and shutting down their comms will hurt them a lot worse than us. After that, they’ll be in the fight, comms or not, and you can kill your jammer so we have comms back. Sound like a plan?” John reasoned.
“It does,” Kevin answered. “You think we can pull this off?”
John looked at Kevin, reaching for his words. Here was a young man, several years his junior, who John was just realizing had undergone a drastic change since the open hostilities had started. Once an idealistic, liberal hipster millennial, precisely the sort of person John would have openly derided, Kevin was now a very different man. He had spent the last twenty-four hours committing multiple felonies and plotting to murder a few dozen agents of the United States federal government because their actions disagreed with his ideals and with the US Constitution. He had been an idealist, then a zealot, and now he was an honest-to-God insurgent. The journey he had walked to where he stood today was a very different and much longer journey than John’s. John had always been emotionally prepared and equipped to defend his family and himself from anyone, violently, ruthlessly. John only needed to be provoked. Kevin was the polar opposite. He had turned from a sheep into a sheepdog.
American Insurgent Page 20