American Insurgent

by Phil Rabalais

  John closed his eyes when he felt the stinging sensation of tears. He knew Mark was right, every war risked casualties, and the one man they were laying to rest had given his life to save others. John felt foolish for dishonoring his memory by losing sight of that. “I know you’re right. Just give me a second, guys. I thought my days laying fellow soldiers to rest was long past, and it’s not something I’ve ever gotten used to.”

  With the task finished, John turned to find his wife, Rachel, sitting on the back porch, waiting for him, while Kay and George played in the yard. He sat beside her, wiping his wet eyes. She laid her arm around his shoulders, stopping when he winced. She had forgotten the wound to his shoulder.

  “You were damned lucky, John,” Rachel said evenly.

  John only nodded. The bullet that had struck his armor and glanced off, the flesh wound, could have been much worse. Closer to the plate carrier, he wouldn’t have had a scratch. An inch higher and left, he might have punctured a lung and died. These were the kinds of things your mind wanders over after the fight is over, which he couldn’t burden his mind with at the time. “I was. But I had to do this, honey. Now we have a little bit of breathing room.”

  “Breathing room for what?” Rachel asked.

  “To rest. To reload. To get ready. The battle is over, the war isn’t. We haven’t won, we’ve only just started…”

  The Coming Storm

  That evening, nearly the entire population of the United States of America sat near their televisions, their smartphones, their tablets, waiting for an emergency address from the White House. Rumors abounded about the terrorist organization that had attacked a government facility in Louisiana, and the people were scared. Reporters had all told various stories, some from unofficial sources, that this attack was provoked by a government agency exceeding its authority, but the reaction from much of the population was motivated by their fear. Sheep react equally to sheepdogs and to wolves, making little distinction. The room hushed when it was seen that the president, not his press secretary, was approaching the podium.

  Live from the White House: My fellow Americans, I am saddened to confirm that earlier reports that a United States government facility was attacked late last night are accurate. Early reports indicate severe casualties, including our local station chief, who was a veteran civil servant of more than twenty years. My condolences go out to the families and friends of our dead.

  As your commander in chief, it is my responsibility to ensure these aggressive acts are brought to heel, and the guilty punished. To that end, I am sending a resolution to Congress, which I urge they pass with all available haste, to suspend Posse Comitatus and enable us to deploy the full weight of the United States military on home soil so that we may find and capture these antagonists. The murder of these agents is only further evidence that we must maintain control over our nation, and those who would destroy the peace we have worked so hard to secure must not be allowed to succeed. We will stand together and demand in a unified voice that this aggression against our country cease, and back that demand up with the force of the world’s greatest military.

  John and Mark sat at a terminal in the TOC watching the address when John stood and turned to leave. He stopped to raid Mark’s beer fridge and grab a cigar on his way out. Mark stood to join him, following suit. He found John sitting on the back porch, in his usual spot, roasting the cigar while drawing before offering his cutter and torch to Mark. He clenched the cigar in his teeth and used one of his meaty palms to wrench the cap off his beer before taking a healthy swig.

  “What are you thinking, John?” Mark asked.

  “Suspend Posse Comitatus. That son of a bitch is going to use this to finally get the police state they always wanted. Never let a tragedy go to waste. It’s like what they did in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina all over again. Back then, they were stealing property and taking guns ‘for everyone’s own good.’ Now they’re actually going to put the Army and Marines out in the street to keep everyone safe. I swear, Mark, 1933 must’ve been a long ass time ago, because everyone forgot what happened the last time a country pulled this little stunt,” John said. His history nerd credentials were showing again, as he referenced Hitler’s coming to power, the consolidation of the federal police forces and military, and the total control over the citizenry of Germany. Only this time, John feared it would not be anti-Semitism that drove the witch hunt, but the fear and hatred of freedom itself and freedom-loving people.

  Mark nodded his worried face. “What do we do, John? This isn’t just a couple of hundred agency guys, this is the whole damned military. That’s what, a million active duty and another million reserve?”

  “Pretty close,” John said. “But there’s two things you’re overlooking. Firstly, I don’t think they’ll send all two million straight here to smoke us out. They can’t, they still have national security concerns to deal with all over the globe. That, and this might blow up in their faces.”

  “How?!” Mark demanded.

  “Because,” John said patiently, “the men and women they would send aren’t going to bomb people in a faraway land, they’re going to be sent to bomb and shoot US citizens. And that’s a very different emotional pill to swallow. Ask me how I know. The White House is used to snapping its fingers and getting what they want, but this is a situation the US public hasn’t been faced with in several generations. A lot of people are going to put a lot of pressure on Congress to keep the Army out of their damned neighborhoods, and if they value their seats, they will listen. If the White House only sends the National Guard, that works out even more to our favor, because Guard assets are local and under state control primarily. They’ll be even less sympathetic to government guys getting smoked for grabbing guns. In any case, we just keep playing our game and let them play theirs. We aren’t done yet.”

  The next morning, John and Andy had loaded up in Andy’s Jeep with Donnie. Donnie had been Kevin’s right-hand man on the sniper detail and had felt Thomas’s death more than many of the Minutemen because he had been so close to the man when he lost his life. When Thomas had been hit high in the chest that evening, he looked to Donnie right next to him, knowing his life was over. He reached out and grabbed Donnie’s sleeve as he stayed behind cover and looked into the man’s eyes and said, “Whatever happens, tell my wife I love her, and find my son.” He died moments later with his eyes open, and the sight had burned its way into Donnie’s memories. Donnie insisted John and Andy help him keep that promise.

  Kevin’s prodigious computer skills enabled him to hack the DCFS computer system and find the records of one Thomas Jameson Jr. and the address of the foster home the state had placed him in after he had been taken from his parents weeks prior. The three men left early that morning, with Andy’s Jeep loaded down with enough firepower to get out of any trouble they might come across, and an extra day’s clothing, food, and water in case they had to camp out of the Jeep before returning. The three men accepted that they were all fugitives from justice, and if caught, they might have to shoot their way out of trouble, but reuniting Mary with her son after Thomas Sr. had lost his life was the least they felt they could do.

  Two hours later, they arrived at the foster home. “Andy, let me go by myself. Maybe I can talk this out without things turning into a row. I’d rather not have to shoot these people if I can help it,” John said.

  Andy nodded. “Okay, John, but if I see some shit start, I’m coming.”

  “Fair enough, brother.” John smiled genuinely. After all they had gone through, he did feel as though these men and women he had thrown in with were more than just strangers. They were a growing family, and he was going to work hard to get these children back to their families, through diplomacy if possible, and through violence if necessary. He opened the Jeep door, careful to make sure his handgun was tucked into his jeans and not visible, and approached the front door, walking up the path from the driveway. When he reached it, he found a man roughly in his late fifties st
aring warily at him through a screen door.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  “Sir, I sure hope so. I understand there’s a young man who’s come to live with you recently, goes by the name Thomas Jameson Jr.,” John started.

  “Tommy. What do you want with him?” the man said brusquely. He was used to deadbeat parents trying to circumvent the system and come see their children after DCFS had removed them. Something about the look of this man didn’t strike him as a doper. He looked like an Army veteran, something he would recognize after his own service. He had the straight posture, the laser-focused eyes, the confident and direct speech. He also had the air of a man used to hurting people if he was forced to.

  “Sir, I have come to take the boy back to his mother,” John said simply. No point beating around this bush.

  “His mother is in jail,” the man replied.

  “She was, and her husband. I broke them out, and Thomas is dead. I’ve come to take the boy back to his mother and to explain what happened to his father,” John said evenly.

  The man’s eyes softened. He knew the boy would be crushed to hear about his father’s death. It had become obvious over the past two weeks how close they were. “How did he die?”

  “He died holding the hand of that man in the back seat of that Jeep behind me. He died with me, fighting against the same people who put him and his wife and thousands in jail just because they didn’t think their government had a right to take their guns. He died a hero, and his son deserves to know the truth and to be consoled by his mother,” John answered.

  Realization dawned on the man’s face. “You. You’re that man on the TV. The Minuteman.”

  John nodded his head. “I am. Whatever you have heard about me, or us, understand that I’m not here to harm Tommy or you. I’m just trying to put things back right. Sometimes I have to use a rifle to do that, but I was hoping not to today.”

  The man looked at John’s face and saw his emotions painted across it. “Come on in and help me get the boy’s things together. He’s a good kid. I’d have been happy to have him live with us permanently, but he should be with his mother. Just promise me you’ll protect them, son. You’re playing a dangerous game here.”

  John looked into the old man’s eyes, then up past his shoulder, into the house to the mantel above the fireplace. A picture of a younger man in uniform, wearing DCUs like John had worn in Iraq. First Marine Division. Medals and unit citations. He was looking at a Marine, one who had kicked the same sand in the same part of the world he had. A man who had seen the horrible cost of a totalitarian regime heaped upon the people under its control. A man who had witnessed the horrible cost of an insurgency upon the native land.

  “Do you think we were right to do what we have done, sir?” John asked him.

  The man paused and looked at him. “I think you knew the answer to that before you asked, and you should trust yourself that you have made the right decision. Trust yourself, and follow through with it. Let come what may, but always do the right thing.”

  About the author

  Phil Rabalais is a born Texan raised in Southeast Louisiana. He enlisted in the Louisiana Army National Guard, deployed to Iraq in 2004, and again for his state’s Hurricane Katrina relief mission. After his enlistment, Phil graduated from Southeastern Louisiana University in Hammond, Louisiana, with a BA in business management. He is a staunch free speech and Second Amendment advocate, a self-admitted prepper, and the host of the Matter of Facts podcast. The podcast is based in no small part on his belief in self-reliance, small government, and the right of people to defend themselves. He lives in Mandeville, Louisiana, with his wife of ten years and their daughter.

  Synopsis:

  One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.

  The inalienable right of citizens of the United States of America to keep and bear arms has been rescinded by the changing tides in US politics, but not all is peaceful. The Minutemen take up the task of resistance, and place themselves on a collision course with the very country they call home. What will the consequences be for the men and women on both sides of the conflict, and for their country? What happens when peaceful people are pushed to violence by intolerable circumstances? Where does one draw the line between fighting for one’s freedom, and open insurrection?