by Blair Smith
Steve took it from her and began scribbling down the words, then stopped. He looked up like a scolded puppy. "I don't need to write it down. I'll remember."
The exchange between Helen and Steve had stilled other conversations around them. Only distant mumbling could be heard at other fire circles. Eventually, Steve struck up conversation again by asking rebels around the fire where they were from. One young man said he was from North Carolina, another, Georgia. Crucible was the youngest of the original Tobacco Boys who survived the Tobacco Wars. Still freckle faced at 20 years old, in a southern drawl, Crucible declared his home was Colebrook.
"How's that?" Morrison questioned because the southern accent was obvious.
"It's like the boss says," the rebel quoted Chaos, "you know you're home when you're willing to fight for it." The lad looked at Helen, "Right here's our home, Ma'am. We're here for you." Other rebels at the fire circle nodded in agreement.
Chaos entered the group and poured a steaming cup of tea from a metal pot poised at the edge of the fire. He looked around cautiously; lively discussion was absent here. He brought the tea to Helen. "Hi. I thought you might appreciate some warm, mint tea. Keep your gloves on, it's a little hot." He sat down beside her. "This time of day is nice. If there's cloud cover, we sit around the fire and shoot the bull. Someone usually has a comment about Crucible over there. With those freckles, it looks like he stood behind the wrong cow."
"Thank you." She smiled. The steamy cup radiated between her hands as she huddled to the glow of the campfire; damp March air swiped her back. The rebels' confirmation of their devotion to the Covenant's cause had suddenly bolstered her spirit. To that point, she had felt alone, many miles from home.
Most of the Tobacco Boys had come to the North Country after hearing The Wizard's broadcasts about families left shattered from the Massacre. Helen had met Chaos only twice before this. He charmed everyone. Helen also felt the allure: His good looks weren't the only attraction; he was mysterious in his own way, never really talking about himself. His philosophical quotes showed he was a thinker, possibly well educated--not like Tumult and Snake, the white trash that led the other factions. Chaos seemed kind.
The incident at her house that morning disturbed her; she had never seen the warrior side of this group. Helen realized the Tobacco Bunch were responsible for hundreds of casualties in their own uprising and wondered if they would have ordered the reporter killed or if it was all an act.
"This is as good a time as any to ask," said Helen. "How will you get Max out?"
"Well," an awkward hesitation ensued, "Ah...I could show you."
Helen glanced at Steve.
Steve blurted, "I don't think it's likely I'll sneak off to a pay phone out here and warn anyone." Steve looked past the Southerner's charm; he hadn't forgotten about the incident that morning.
"I'm sorry, you're absolutely right. It's not likely you would tell anyone of the plan, but it is possible. The fact is, only myself and five others in this expedition know where we're going and what we're there for. What the soldiers don't know they can't tell. It's not that they're traitors to the cause, it's just that the Feds have been known to use chemicals to jog memories. At least that happened to us in the Tobacco Wars."
"Can the Federal Government drug prisoners like that?" the reporter questioned.
"Mr. Morrison, you haven't had the pleasure of meeting Tumult, my overseer. Unlike myself, he is compelled to quote Adolph Hitler. His response to you would be: `You stand there with your law. I stand here with my sword. We shall see who prevails.'"
The reporter quipped back, "But Hitler didn't prevail."
"I disagree with Tumult's ideology. But, sir, that fanatical little Nazi got beaten by the sword."
Chaos turned and led Helen to his tent on the edge of the encampment. Inside, he pulled a pocket computer from a front pack beneath his coat and laid the unit near a larger unrolled view screen. The vinyl-like monitor glowed when receiving the signal, displaying what appeared on the small PC. He brought up a map of the compound in Boston where the Feds held Max.
Helen preempted the Southerner's briefing, "I want to get something straight: We're getting Max, right?"
"Correct. Attack packs will take you and Max out of the city immediately. Another group will remain behind as a distraction."
"One other thing bothers me," Helen continued. "This seems to be a large group of well-trained fighters here. Why so many?"
"E-mail from The Wizard said that there were a number of large gangs in Boston. If they are united under one leader as they were awhile back, this endeavor might be in jeopardy. Our mission is twofold: One, to gain custody of Colebrook's Covenant Leader; and two, to purchase as many armaments as we can carry back. If we run into a problem, I want enough forces to deal with it."
"One of Colebrook's Covenant Leaders? You make my brother sound like a military objective."
"He is a military objective, Ma'am. Honest leadership is a treasure in these times. Getting him out of Boston and back to the North Country is our first priority." Chaos turned his attention back to the view screen and began explaining the map.
Helen watched distantly and rubbed her hands on the sides of her snowsuit. She felt a streak of uncertainty race through her--the very thought of attacking a Federal compound. "Excuse me. How many guards are there at this compound?"
"It's a small compound. About thirty to forty in all, with perimeter guards armed with Colt pistols."
"How can we be sure this is going to succeed?"
"We can't be sure it's going to succeed." Chaos waited for Helen to absorb this possibility. "It's natural to have last-minute shakes. I assure you, Ma'am, we plan to go in cleanly and come out cleanly. We're not looking to shoot guards just doing their jobs. If there's a mishap though, we will have the forces to secure an exit out of the area. The other team leaders and myself have learned a lot from The Wizard about the city. Our connection with him there is crucial." Helen nodded her head and looked at the map on screen. "The plan is simple." Chaos continued. "Two of our boys go in as Max's attorneys. They'll be placed in a private room for a conference. Our men will overpower the guard at the door and tie him up inside the room. They'll signal us at the window so we know where they are, we'll get them out of there with a tether stretched to another building. They'll be on the ground at the secured end of the tether ten seconds after the window is taken out. Perimeter guards will be held at bay with cover fire."
"It sounds easy."
"You need to understand, Ma'am, that the Federal Government is a huge bumbling bureaucracy, manned by very complacent, pencil pushers. That's why this country is the way it is."
"I'm sorry," said Helen. "I guess I am getting the last-minute jitters. This whole trip to Boston isn't what I thought it would be. I expected a small crack team would quietly go in and come back out--something more sophisticated."
"That's why you're fortunate to have me." Chaos grinned. "You're just having honeymoon jitters. Once the strike team penetrates the compound and executes the plan, you'll wonder how we ever pulled it off."
Helen and Chaos stood awkwardly as they gazed down at the screen that lit up their faces with its chill-blue glow. "If that's it, I guess I'll turn in." She started to go but wondered, "Do you have family in the Carolinas?"
Chaos directed her to a bundle to sit. He found himself a spot on an ammo box. Chaos started with his life as a boy on his father's tobacco farm: He spoke about his brothers and the shenanigans they got into, the Sunday afternoon church socials, the volleyball and softball games. It was a reflection of gentler days when his family lived in the same house; the three brothers conspired together in mischief--and sometimes fought. "The Tobacco Tax broke my Momma and Pappy. The Feds kept saying 'grow corn, grow cotton.' It's not that simple when everything on the farm is geared for growing one crop. It's quite an i
nvestment to re-equip a whole farm, especially when there's no money to do it with. Like many others in the Carolinas, we sold some of our tobacco on the black market to help feed ourselves. When the Feds came and confiscated the farm, it broke my folks' hearts. It killed my Pappy; he stopped working altogether--died a year later." Chaos stopped a moment before saying it, "Shot himself, actually. From that point on, my brothers and I went from raising tobacco, to raising hell."
She hesitated to ask, "And your brothers?"
"Well, let's just say they're doing their part for the cause." Chaos couldn't tell her Tumult and Snake were his brothers. Everyone concealed their identity using nicknames; relatives were never spoken of.
Helen winced. She found solace by sharing hardships. A veiled force tugged tears from the edge of her eyes. It made her reflect on her own plight. Her question had been answered: Why these Southerners were here to help them. They shared the same heartache, the same enemy.
"Ma'am, we didn't get to the North Country by accident. We came out of the Oke Swamp in Georgia and heard about the Scout Massacre through The Wizard's CB skip. Feds used those AutoMen against us in our fight; we knew what it was like in Dixville. Nothing human could have been that merciless. I convinced Tumult we belonged here. Besides, being around you people helped us forget about our problems. I know about your loss, Ma'am. And I feel it is particularly difficult for the mothers of those boys. Their bond is much closer." He quoted a portion of a poem he had written:
"There is a place in mothers' memories
where ageless children say kind words,
when aspirations pause
and life alone enjoyed."
She wiped her eyes and smiled in relief. The words sent chills through her. His verse described her condition exactly; the difficult trials of parenting had faded. Brighter scenes remained. "I guess I owe you an apology. I thought you guys were a bunch of disgruntled rednecks. But how did you link up with someone like Tumult, and where do you guys get these names?"
"Everybody has a--well, call it a soldier's name, so the Feds can't trace us to our folks back home. As for my name, it kinda came about because of the combat tactics I use. My real name is Virgil. Please call me Chaos. Say what you want about Tumult, but you want him on your side. Granted, he's a Nazi and a racist, but in a fight he's exactly as his name predicts. He started the Tobacco Wars. They were called the Tobacco Boys back then." Chaos smiled reminiscing. "My brothers brought me into the group the day I graduated from the Citadel."
"I've heard of that," said Helen.
"What you heard about it was gracious, I'm sure. Everything I learned there about tactics and strategy was worthless after doing maneuvers with the Tobacco Boys. They started out as a paintball league, you know." Helen nodded. "Oh, yeah," continued Chaos, "they fight in packs of twelve to penetrate enemy lines, then they shoot 'em up from the inside. The Feds wind up shooting their own guys with friendly fire while the Tobacco Boys know exactly where their troops are because of our communication systems. Communication is critical with that type of helter-skelter combat. Tumult's paintball league developed that fighting style and with it, we've pushed back Guard battalions ten times our size in the Tobacco Wars, inflicting tremendous casualties."
"Your group doesn't seem to be racist like the others."
"Oh, I'm not one of them. Tumult's part of the triad shares the Klan's mind-set. Snake is more reasonable. One thing's for sure, Ma'am: You want these SOBs killing their people and not our people. When the smoke clears and fair government is restored, they can go back to their paintball tournaments and the keg parties that follow."
"I know you're sincere but I have trouble sharing your optimism."
"Despair makes optimists of us all. I have no other course."
Helen felt a sense of security with Chaos. She was attracted to his brown eyes and sincere disposition--and of course, his charm. The incident at the house had bothered her earlier, the fact that he might be a wanton killer beneath the Southern chivalry. But that had been laid to rest tonight. He was compelling in a quiet way; she understood why he had the trust and loyalty of his young rebels.
Toward the end of their visit they kissed, but like the Southern gentlemen he was, it went no further. His powerful arms wrapped around her, made her feel secure. Even though the threat of an Army reprisal was always there, she had a protector, Chaos: the philosopher, the poet, the warrior.
-
Tumult's Attack Packs in Old Boston (the evening of March 15)
Four rebels held a captured gang member down and outstretched his palms as Demig drove a 20-penny spike through the Black man's flesh into a sheet of three-quarter-inch plywood.
"Ahhhhh! I can't tell you what I don't know. Please! Please! I can't help you. The gang leaders were Sable, Pumice, and Tar. I told you that." The gang member turned the other way as Demig held the nail to the pad of the other hand and solidly swatted the spike with the hammer through flesh and bone into the wood below. "Ahhhhh!" The victim's face beaded with sweat. His mind raced to understand why the southerners tortured him--"Sable's place is on Washington Avenue. I told you that."
Tumult's Mountain Boys had occupied a rundown housing project in the heart of Boston. Dark, sooted buildings exposed the structures' jagged features: broken windows, fallen sections of brick, crude textures of masonry. Gads of CB antennas pointed to hope across the skyline.
Spiked to the plywood and looking up at a water-stained ceiling, the Black man regretted pulling a gun on one of the rebels. Now, dull light from a propane lantern illuminated the walls with a beige glow. The people before the lamp performed their macabre drama on the shadowy wall, where black-hearted antagonists acted out a ghastly scene. He watched the prone silhouette on the wall and wondered if it was really him.
"You told us that before," said Demig. He walked over to Tumult who instructed a recruit, and waited for a break in conversation, "Sir, I don't think he knows rat shit."
Tumult ignored Demig and continued instruction. A few minutes later, the recruit returned to his pack, leaving Demig and Tumult alone: "Well," said Tumult, "finish him off by nailing down his feet." He thought a bit. "And put one through his face. Sink the head of the nail right to the cheekbone. I can't stand a man that whines." Tumult turned about, ready to check out another attack team.
"But, sir. He doesn't know."
Tumult nodded his head and paused. "That's not the point." He explained in a quiet, polite manner, "See, we're establishing relations with the indigenous people here. When the gangs see us on their turf, I want them cowarding in corners, not taking potshots at us from windows and doorways. That spiked up afro will send a message to all the monkeys out there, and in turn, we'll have fewer casualties. When I'm finished, they'll be giving us all their motor-guns."
"I see."
"Well, that's the problem, Demig. You don't see."
"Sir?"
"How long have you been with me?"
"Three years."
"I would think by now you would know you don't question the chief's orders."
"Sorry, sir."
"Demig, you're a valuable fighter. In fact, you're like a little brother to me, but don't question my judgment again or your ass will be nailed to a board, too."
"Yes, sir." And Demig knew he meant it; he knew what Tumult was capable of.
Tumult's technician, Glitch, stood out of hearing as Demig finished his conversation. Unlike most of the men in all three units of the Triad, Glitch was pushing sixty years of age. Though not officially a commander, technicians were respected and gave orders because of their vital importance to the group. They stayed out of firefights, going into risky situations only to fix tactical gadgetry. Glitch was lean, and a heavy smoker. Deep wrinkles streaked his face and neck, particularly his forehead when he squinted or smiled. He had previously worked outdoors as a power-line re
pairman. Glitch was an amiable man and beyond those years of having to prove himself to anyone. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Tumult who turned to face him. "I'm getting a jamming signal to the northwest, bearing 315 degrees. The signature matches our equipment."
Tumult put his hands on Glitch's shoulders, squinting his eyes as a snake-lipped smile formed, "Chaos is on his way. Is it so close that we can't listen to local radio?"
"We can get local stations."
"Glitch, let's you and I go in and roll ourselves a smoke and listen to what the media says is happening. Then I'll make my guess at what that sly son-of-a-bitch is up to." They walked to the back room, Tumult's arm over the older man's shoulder as though they were old pals.
Chaos' triad was to rendezvous in Lexington. The local sheriff had become suspicious of the group of young men around town and had done a photo ID check through Fednet; Helen and Chaos' faces had been matched. The Mountain Boys fled Lexington but the Feds had been alerted, closing in on them by ground and air. Chaos' had left an attack pack of Virginians as a decoy. As the Virginians headed east, the larger force of rebels had gone west to catch Highway 90 to Boston.
With their frequency jammer signal, the Virginian attack pack had lured the Army east to the Walden Pond area. They had taken the side roads mostly, eventually pulling their gear, and walking through wetlands and timber stands. Army Regulars surrounded them. Three rebel snipers outside the encirclement, armed with Masadas, had shot nine Army Regulars from three hundred and eighty meters out. Government soldiers who saw their buddies beside them slump dead, fired more vigorously at the larger group before them; the Army recruits had no idea snipers had shot them from behind. A nine man attack pack broke through the perimeter and had begun eating away at both sides of the circle, all the while, snipers in the distant hills really did the dirty deed. By the end of the skirmish, 31 Regulars lay dead, only three of the Virginians had been taken captive, and two rebels had made it past Army Regulars and headed to Boston.