Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty)

by Blair Smith

  Chaos noticed the cable slithering from the back of the portable computer that led to the bottom of a closed window. He shook his head and smiled, "You folks are so clever. Shootin' a beam all the way to Island Pond. That's amazin'. That Wizard's quite a guy. I'm eager to meet him. He should be working for NASA or something."

  "There you go. It's sent." Helen couldn't tell him very much about the laser system. She wasn't sure whether to trust them. The scene was intimidating, six formidable looking men dressed in white camouflage gear; they all stared down on her. Chaos seemed pleasant enough; Helen wanted to believe him. But she knew that Tumult, the man in charge of everything, was a racist, a chauvinist, and a jerk.

  "Our technician thought the laser device could carry voice signals," Chaos continued. "We have enough components for say--six senders. A receiver node could be made of woven copper strands and used as a hat. I'd like to hear The Wizard's opinion on that."

  The Rousell boys listened intently. They were caught up in the intrigue--Helen was more leery. She suspected Chaos had well over a hundred men, but she wanted to know. "If we somehow got the components in Boston, how many communication systems are we talking about?"

  "About eighty for starters."

  Helen looked down and nodded, "Will that number cover most of the Mountain Boys?" It was a cat and mouse game between Helen and Chaos.

  Chaos squinted and thought before speaking. A smirk formed across his lips: "That would give one laser communicator to each attack pack in my group."

  She looked out the window and pondered. She had no idea how large an attack pack was.

  Helen's house (March 12)

  Helen returned to her house after the Mountain Boys drove the Feds out of the North Country. It felt good to be surrounded by familiar antiquities--if only for a short while; she packed in preparation for their trip to Boston. Helen represented the Vermont and New Hampshire Covenants on the excursion. She was also in charge of the $980,000 brought to purchase supplies and weaponry.

  With Max gone, Helen had ended up as Colebrook's Covenant leader. She hadn't sought the position, but the local Covenant, composed of Mrs. Larson, Harvey Madison, and Mr. and Mrs. Philbin, had chosen her. Vanessa Larson wanted the position but no one trusted her; Vanessa's passion for vengeance blurred her judgment. Helen had accepted the position, and in doing so, made a decision to get involved in the struggle. She just hadn't envisioned being in charge of it.

  "Spectator News was the only major news organization to run your version of the Dixville Massacre," Steve Morrison stated flatly from Helen's porch. "We broke the story first."

  "I appreciate the notion that you didn't let the facts ruin a perfectly good story. Look, I've got other things to do right now." Helen began closing the door. Steve stuck his boot in the crack. In answer, a 22-caliber barrel nosed through the crack of the door at his face. "I would appreciate it if you got your foot out of my door, buster!"

  "You wouldn't shoot me, would you?"

  "Do you want to find out?" Only a sliver of Helen's face could be seen and the deadly black hole of the barrel showed through the gap. "This is only a twenty-two, but it has Rhinos in it and it'll poke a hole in your face you'll really notice!"

  "Hold it! Hold it! Your dog brought me here. See? The Rousell boys had me follow your dog here. Really." Steve didn't think she would shoot but he pulled his foot out of the door anyway. He had interviewed enough people in his career and instinctively knew when someone was serious--chewing his gum more vigorously now.

  Helen widened the door and saw her dog Tater standing in fresh snow. The fluffy stuff lightly coated her back and head. "So, my dog finally came home." Then Helen got to thinking, "What boys?"

  "Butch and his brother."

  "Butch! Take off your gloves." He did, and exposed an ugly scar on his right thumb. Stitch marks remained from when he had had it taken care of by a doctor. "I hope he cut you deep."

  "Deep enough to require stitches. Can I come in?"

  She widened the door and dropped back into the kitchen. Tater bounded onto the porch and through the door. "Butch said he was just going to prick me to draw blood. That little prick pricked me all right."

  Helen looked down at her watch. "You have five minutes and then you leave." Tater pranced in circles on her rug near the door and pawed at it before laying down. Small snowballs stuck to the longer hairs of her underbelly and legs. The golden retriever grunted as she hit the floor, planting her chin on her paws. Tater's eyes darted from Steve to Helen in an alert response to their curt discussion. "I have no idea what you want," she said.

  Butch had told Steve Helen was the Akela, the leader of Ghost Pack 220. Steve thought this meant she headed Colebrook's rebel movement. But the reporter wondered when he found her alone at home. It never occurred to him Butch was referring to his Scout leader, though in Butch's mind the commander of Ghost Pack 220 was of formidable stature.

  Helen didn't look like a hardened leader. With the anxiety from Barry's death and her self-destructive fast, she had slimmed to the delicate weight of her younger years--displayed quite effectively through her thin, gray T-shirt and faded jeans.

  Steve noticed. He also noticed the camping gear stacked in the room just off the kitchen. "You going somewhere?"

  "What do you want?" She ignored the question.

  "I want to know everything. The details. Everything. I want to talk to all the leaders of the Ghost Pack, the Mountain Boys, the Covenants; I want to be where the action is."

  "To sell news stories."

  "I don't deny that. This is my job."

  "What about other journalists? What do they do?"

  "I'm not them. I don't get into politics. I am completely unbiased."

  Helen lowered her head and shook it. "I can't believe it, I almost fell for that line. Get out of my house!"

  "Look, I'm not leaving here without a story." Steve Morrison sat down with a smug glint in his eyes and stared back at her. His gaze turned to astonishment when Helen lifted the revolver and blasted it by his head. The impact of the muzzle blast jolted him off his chair onto the floor. With wide eyes, Steve shook his head; he nearly choked on his gum. After regaining his voice, "Why'd you do that?"

  The deafening boom of the small-caliber gun startled Helen, too. The blast inside the room contained the sound. In a jittery voice now, "If you don't get out of my kitchen, I'll shoot you where you sit!" Helen pointed the gun at the reporter. She knew she had to get rid of him before the Mountain Boys came to pick her up.

  Steve went to the door. "You didn't have to get violent, lady! I'm trying to help you."

  "I thought you were neutral."

  "Fine, lady!"

  Steve stepped onto the porch. As he tried to turn in retreat, two Glock 24 autopistols jabbed him on both sides of his neck like bookends. The men pinched the muzzles to his throat and pinned the reporter against the doorframe. One of the guys looked for a sign from the large, bearded man with a furrowed brow seated on a snowmobile parked in front of the place: Wolfenstein.

  One of the original Tobacco Boys, Wolfenstein had fought with Tumult, Snake, and Chaos in the Carolinas. He had been at the forefront, second in command in Chaos' triad. Unlike Chaos, Wolf, as some called him, was quiet, mumbling out orders that were followed without question. He made no excuses, nor did he accept excuses from subordinates. Wolfenstein was noted for his intolerance. Most rebels thought of him as mean.

  "You're early," Helen said, surprised to see him.

  Wolf didn't reply, just continued his examination of his captive. He uttered simply, "We heard a shot."

  "It was nothing. He was just leaving."

  "Do you always shoot at your guests?" Wolf yelled from his snowmobile.

  "He's a reporter," Helen replied.

  "That explains it." Wolfenstein nodded to the sold
iers to grab the reporter. Rebels escorted him off the porch with gun barrels still pressed to Steve's neck. "We'll take care of it from here, Ma'am."

  "What do you mean?" Helen wanted clarification.

  "Ma'am, he knows too much."

  "You're going to kill him? He doesn't know anything about what we're doing."

  "He can see the packed snow machines and sleds. He knows we're on the move." Wolfenstein turned his back to her and calmly watched his rebels tie up the reporter.

  "Let's see what Chaos says," Helen contested.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Helen looked back at the row of armed men mounted on snow machines.

  Chaos zipped toward them from the back of the caravan. He pulled up to the porch, only to find himself rushed by Helen pleading for the life of the reporter. Chaos looked at Wolfenstein as Helen talked to him. Wolfenstein shrugged.

  "Hold it. Hold it." Chaos raised his hands. "Please." He looked to Helen, "Wolf wouldn't hurt anyone." Chaos got off his snowmobile and headed toward Steve Morrison.

  On hearing the comment, Helen turned to look at Wolfenstein, the man now standing by his vehicle, wiping snow of gauges. Wolfenstein towered to six foot, four; topped with massive shoulders and a burly face, hair ran down his neck and into his coat. He held a Glock autopistol with a thirty-three round clip extending out the handle; an M-30 Strafer rifle was strapped over his shoulder. "You have got to be kidding," she muttered to herself. For a reason she couldn't define, Helen trusted Chaos to do the right thing.

  "Spectator News was the first to break the Dixville story. I'm on your side," Steve pleaded with the Southerner. "Jesus! They're not really going to kill me, are they? I'm just a journalist."

  "I can't let you go," said Chaos.

  "I want to go with you. Think of me as insurance, a way to document what really happens. Otherwise the public only hears the White House spin on things."

  Chaos loved seeing Steve squirm. Rebels hated the press, reporters always twisted the truth to fit their political persuasion. "A patrol saw you with the Rousell boys on Dixville Mountain a while back. Did those boys cut you?"

  The reporter forced a smile, "They got me good." He pulled off a glove and showed him.

  Chaos hadn't planned on hurting Steve, but he wanted to scare him enough to discourage the reporter from giving Spectator News information detrimental to their cause, if given the opportunity. Chaos didn't trust the reporter to keep his oath made to the Ghost Pack. "Thomas Paine said: 'Reputation is what men think of us; character is what God knows of us.' I realize honor and integrity may be new concepts to you boys in the media, but you're bound by the Ghost Pack Oath. If you betray us, there will be no place on the earth you can hide. You will do exactly as Wolfenstein says; you'll be with his attack pack. If you're seen making radio or phone contacts without clearing it with him, Wolf will decide what to do with you. Is that understood?"

  "I understand."

  "Then, welcome to the Mountain Boys." Two men with scarred thumbs shook hands as puffy snowflakes fell about them. The vague outline of Dixville Notch posed an ominous reminder of their fragile alliance.

  Chaos walked back to the skidoos and ordered two men to take the reporter in the house to check him for radio devices and equip him with a white parka and proper footwear. "We got to get out of here while we still have the cover of snow blocking Hawkeye."

  Hawkeye was the name the Mountain Boys had given to a spy satellite positioned over the region. An unscheduled launch at Cape Kennedy in December caused Snake to believe the Feds launched it just for them. He claimed he hadn't seen that satellite up there before. So Chaos took no chances; they waited until cloud cover to travel. Even nighttime wasn't good enough. They speculated that the satellite might be equipped with thermoscopes that could spot clusters of people moving on the ground by tracing body heat.

  Butch and Thad emerged on skis from their trail through the hemlocks. Tater bounced off the porch to greet them. With tail wagging, she pushed her head into a flurry of patting hands. Chaos came over to greet the Rousells.

  "I got E-mail yesterday from The Wizard," Butch reported to Chaos. "He's on his way to Boston and said he would try to work on a phone link and send me a note while he's there. He said he'll meet you at Union Wharf on the 17th."

  "And I don't know what he looks like," Chaos responded.

  "He'll know you." The Mountain Boys were out of their element in Boston; the inner city was nearly all African-American.

  Chaos just smiled. Butch had begged him to go with them a week earlier. He knew the boy was being coy. Butch had met The Wizard; yet he never disclosed details about him. The Rousells maintained their allegiance to Helen, despite their awe of the armed fighters.

  Two rebels carried Helen's gear out and packed it on a sled. She found a spot to sit on top and tightened up her white parka in preparation for the trip. Butch, Thad, and Tater approached her.

  "Any orders for us while you're gone?" Butch asked.

  "Yes. Don't talk to any more reporters, Butch. You almost got the guy killed. And don't go around cutting people. Keep that knife in your pocket."

  Helen waited for some kind of finality. "What is it?" The boys gave a Scout salute. Helen hesitated but finally did a halfhearted salute of her own. After an awkward pause, Thad gave Helen a hug. She instinctively returned the squeeze, absorbing the sensation of little arms looped about her neck--the small, vulnerable frame of a child. A swarm of memories returned--of Barry--of sunny days. She wiped a tear from her eye with her mitten. "We gotta go while the snow flies." She sniffed and avoided looking up at them as the boys walked off. "Hey," she called after them, "you boys take care of one another. And take care of Tater for me," Tater still sat resolutely beside her sled. The golden retriever looked up at Helen with a trusting lap-dog grin. Helen shook her head no, "Sorry girl. You have to stay."

  Helen patted Tater on the head. She had warmed up to the animal since the Dixville ordeal. Tater reminded her of Barry; the dog and boy had been inseparable. But taking the dog to Boston wouldn't be right. And Thad, needed the companionship more than she.

  Butch led Tater off and waited by Max's truck. They waved good-bye as the procession of snowmobiles with sleds took off down the trail. Two or three people rode on each rig. Chaos was in the middle of the pack and gave the boys a thumbs up and winked as he roared by. Butch and Thad returned the signal. Other soldiers did the same, the boys returning the sign as each passed. Helen responded with a wave and a restrained smile as the caravan trailed off through puffy flakes and disappeared into the forest.

  Butch and Thad watched the sound until it diminished into the distance. They looked at one another, then down at Tater. Thad nodded to Butch.

  Butch understood, "Right, Thad. They ain't seen the end of us." He pulled an electronic notepad out of his pocket and turned it on. A note appeared: Union Wharf, Boston. "Nope, they ain't seen the end of us."

  -

  Chapter 9

  - Chaos' company traveled in groups of about fifty each, on different routes toward the coast of Maine. Point teams with cash in-hand forged ahead to secure trucks and vans for transport in Portland. The groups communicated only with the laser transmitters, devices the technician had managed to rig on riflescopes. Point troopers for each company would laser information back to the headgear of someone in each group, but the communicator only worked if there was direct line-of-sight. Maine's flatlands made it difficult to get enough elevation to scope-in the receiver and speak to them. Snowmachines blazed a trail as the rest of the expedition used cross-country skis.

  They weren't the redneck dolts Helen thought them to be. Many of them were from the North Country. They ranged in age from seventeen to thirty. A surprising number were from the Midwest. She recognized three young men from Colebrook. They greeted her by name. When they spoke to Helen, or even Steve, the
y used Ma'am or Sir. They were a disciplined lot who appeared to be in good condition, skiing thirty miles the first day proved that.

  Point teams prepared camp and collected firewood; cloud cover allowed them to have a fire that night. When Helen's group arrived in the valley, a warm yellow glow seeped through the trees ahead. A spot had been cleared in the snow for Helen's tent. One of the young men detached a tent and flung it into the air where it instantly uncoiled into a five-man tent, her quarters for the night. Steve Morrison had to bunk up with four rebels; he was expected to endure the austere conditions the fighting men did.

  After dinner, everyone sat around the many campfires and chatted or listened to CB radio skip. Most listened to channel 6, The Wizard's station. Tonight, their guest host was 606 from South Carolina, a prerecorded broadcast.

  Steve Morrison sat beside Helen at a fire. The reporter still brooded over the incident at Helen's house. "This must be the most idiotic thing I've ever done in my career--what's left of a career--if I survive this. Hell, we could be jumped by Army Rangers right now and shot." Helen gave him a perturbed glance. "What?" Steve didn't understand. "I know you people lost a lot in the Dixville Massacre, but going up against the government is pointless. You must realize you can't win."

  "I guess it doesn't matter anymore. When my son's life was taken, so was mine." Helen turned and looked squarely at the reporter, "Have you ever loved someone so deeply? No parent should ever outlive their child."

  "Well, I don't know--"

  "No. You don't know. If you knew, you wouldn't be sitting here whining. What happens to me doesn't matter. The Feds did more than murdered sixty-four kids; they crushed our dreams. They took our children. They violated our homes." Helen shook her head, "And we're pissed. We are so pissed! There's your story, reporter. Write it down." Helen reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a electronic notepad, "Here. Use this."