by John Ringo
The Haselbauer table was well set to fit a squad. Even with a couple of the daughters in law and kids occupying the house there was enough room, and food, for six hungry soldiers. And it was in piles as befitted a farm kitchen.
"This is . . . very kind of you, sir, ma'am," the lieutenant said. It was a bit surreal. They had good intelligence that Haselbauer was one of the heads of the local resistance, perhaps the head of the regional resistance. And here they were having dinner with him. He'd met with some absolutely known bad-guys in Iraq and Afghanistan over green tea. Sitting in a farm kitchen in New Hampshire with a table piled with home-cured ham, turkey, corn, potatoes and all the fixings was just . . . different.
"Was in the One-Oh-One in Vietnam," Mr. Haselbauer said. "Know all about screwed up orders, lieutenant. Gonna pray."
"Yes, sir," the officer said, waving at his men to bow their heads. Most of them were from Christian backgrounds and didn't need to be prompted. Khalid was polite enough to just pretend.
"Dear Lord, we thank You for the blessings of a full table, a stocked larder and all the good that You have brought to this house, this land, this nation. We thank You, Lord, for two hundred and fifty years of freedom. We thank You for bringing the blessings of peace and prosperity to this land. We ask Your forgiveness for any way that we have transgressed against Your will, Lord. And we ask forgiveness, Lord, for these fine young men who through no fault of their own find themselves trapped between their orders and the oath they swore in Your name, Lord, to uphold and defend the Constitution of These United States against all enemies foreign and domestic. Please forgive us all our sins, Lord, and bring us to Your everlasting home no matter how far we have fallen from Your eyes, Lord. Amen."
"Amen," the lieutenant said. Suddenly he wasn't hungry.
"Honey, there's somebody at the door."
Jonathan "K-9" Kolasinski got up from his computer, still mentally composing the response he was putting on a blog, and walked to the door. He wasn't especially worried about security. Besides the fact that things like home invasion were incredibly rare in New Hampshire, Lovey-poo was sitting attentively by the door. Lovey-poo being a one-hundred and eighty pound, Schutzhund trained Alsatian that at a quiet word would probably be able to take out an entire street gang.
Jonathan was an eight year veteran of the Air Force who spent his entire career as a 'handler'. The term was 'Contingency Response.' He'd lost two partners in the MidEast Area of Operations, one in the Sandbox and one in the Rockpile, respectively. The IED that got Ranger also got him, which was why he was sitting in front of a computer instead of out working the hills with the rest of the troops. Lovey-poo had retired with him and was now well on his way to being the top stud Alsatian in New England.
Three of Lovey-Poo's harem padded into the hallway quietly as Jonathan reached the door. Mindy was trailing because she was well into pregnancy.
"Setz," Jonathan said without looking around. All three bitches' butts hit the ground as if synchronized. He'd taken a glance through the side windows and the visitor was a short man wearing a fur hat. Probably one of the neighbors although he wasn't immediately familiar. And it was a cold night to be out.
"Hi, I'm Vernon Tyler," Tyler said, leaning over and glancing at the four very large German Shepherds. All four had those fore-quarters that made them look like canine fullbacks. What bothered him the most was that they were just sitting there. Quietly. That was never a good sign. "I was wondering if I could have a word."
"Beautiful dogs," Tyler said, taking a sip of tea. "Ah . . . German Shepherds?"
"Shepherds, Alsatians . . ." Jonathan said, shrugging. "Lovey-poo is a Deutsche stud. The Germans just have better lines than the US. The bitches are US. Anna, Gretchen, Mindy, meet Mr. Vernon." All three of the bitches sat up and whined then lay back down.
"I'd heard you were a breeder," Tyler said with a laugh. "They didn't quite cover it. Schutzhund?"
"Mmmm . . ." Jonathan said. "To what do I owe the honor of the visit, Mr. Vernon?"
"Hate to bother you at this time of night," Tyler said, automatically. "But it's been a long day and miles to go before I sleep and all that. I'm sort of out taking the tenor of the clans. You moved back here rather than being a newcomer so it's not exactly like talking to one of the families that never has left. I've found I've gotten . . . straighter answers. When there are any answers to be had. What's your take?"
He didn't really have to ask 'about the Horvath demanding the maple syrup.' It was pretty much the only topic of conversation to be found in most of Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire.
"I've friends and family live in Boston, Mr. Tyler," Kolasinski said, using the pure New England 'Bah.' "So it's a hard thing to say 'Wipe out the world if you want, but we're not going to give up our maple syrup.' It's . . . maple syrup."
"Agreed," Tyler said, nodding.
"What's your take?"
"What everyone in the US government, what everyone in the media, what the Glatun and the Horvath all want to know," Tyler said, "is what is my take. Which is a far cry from cutting trees for a living. And the answer is . . . I'm taking the tenor of the clans."
"Okay," Kolasinski said, chuckling. "One more question and I'll try to answer yours. Clans?"
"New England is not, by any stretch of the imagination, monolithic," Tyler said with a sigh. "Nor are the maple areas of Canada where I've also been. Old farming families that stretch back to the Revolutionary period and pre-Revolution. Hippies that moved up for the cheap land and libertarian approach. Southerners like me who have moved here so they can be around relative conservatives. Communes. Militias. Modern lefty gay bed-and-breakfast owners. People who want to declare independence and throw out all the lefties.
"My land grab and the Horvath threat have pretty much moved out anyone who doesn't love this area. The one influx of Glatun credits we got is more influx than this region has ever seen. But nobody wants to be at ground zero of the Horvath threat. Nobody, American or Canadian, wants to be in the middle of a war with our own militaries. What's left are people who just refuse to leave. And there aren't really major regional variations. Oh, somewhat when you cross from New Hampshire to Vermont or Massachusetts but not even that too greatly. What there are are . . . clans. Like thinking groups. I almost think New England needs to be parliamentary rather than territorial but I digress. I'm taking the tenor of the clans."
"Which group am I?" Kolasinski asked.
"You said one question," Tyler said, smiling. "And your answer to 'what's your take' more or less puts you in one. Generally, older, not really old but older, families that stay here because this is home."
"It ought to be easy," the former sergeant said. "It's maple syrup. Who wants to die over maple syrup?" He looked at Tyler who shrugged in what might be agreement.
"But . . ." Kolasinski continued, shrugging. "The government is offering to buy it. Pretty fair price. Then they'll turn it over to the Horvath."
"Cheaper than trying to take it," Tyler said.
"Agreed. But. It's still taking. This isn't . . . This isn't what I put my life on the line for. This isn't what I fought for. What I lost partners for and damn near my life."
" 'Give me liberty or give me death?'"
"More or less," Kolasinski admitted, sighing. "I've got two kids and a wife. I have to think about them."
"Contingency plans?" Tyler asked.
"I was in contingency response," Kolasinski said, chuckling. "Uh. Yeah."
"This simply isn't working, Mr. President," the Army Chief of Staff said. "We've got twenty percent of units reporting a variety of maladies. We've issued administrative punishments for malingering but this is more like mutiny. And as fast as they do manage to tap trees, if they don't ruin the taps, the locals are sneaking in at night and taking the taps out. And leaving little notes about the quality of our men's work. Last, even if everything was working perfectly, our men are unfamiliar with the process, unfamiliar with the terrain and it turns out to be
harder to find the trees than we'd thought. There are large stands but many of the best trees are scattered in pine woods. It simply is not working."
"Frankly," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said, "it's becoming a huge farce. I'm not sure the Army, per se, is turning into a laughing stock simply because of all the press reports where everyone's going 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge.' But the operation is becoming a laughing-stock."
"There are millions of lives at stake, General," the President said. "And these people are playing games!"
"I am fully aware of that, Mr. President," the general replied. "That does not mean that this is an achievable goal."
"It might be . . ." the National Security Advisor said. "Oh, not gathering the maple syrup. You only have to watch the SNL skit to see that. We just need to be clear about the goal."
"The goal is protecting our cities," the President said. "Whatever that takes."
"And that may be a goal we are achieving, Mr. President," the NSA said.
"I don't see it," the CJCS. "At this rate we are not going to get any appreciable amount of maple syrup. Neither are the Canadians. They're having the same problems."
"That is not the goal," the NSA said, again. "The goal is not getting rocks dropped on our cities. And that goal may be achievable. We don't have Horvath internals but they must be getting most of what we are looking at. I doubt, at this point, that they are getting any significant internals from the resistance. What they are getting are the same externals we're getting. 'Of course we want peace in our time, but . . . '"
"But won't cut it," the President said.
"A certain kind might," the NSA said. "We, the . . . civilized? Urbanized?"
"Liberal?" the Marine Corps Commandant filled in.
"The people who are under threat," the NSA said, sourly, "are doing our best to collect the maple syrup that the Horvath demand. We're doing everything we can."
"More," the Army Chief of Staff said. "We're stepping all over every document that gives us legal authority to exist. Necessarily, I agree, but at some point we're going to face real mutiny. I expected it before now."
"We're trying," the NSA said. "Trying really hard. That's clear on all the news broadcasts."
"Yep," the Marine Corps Commandant said. "We're being good collaborators."
"General," the President said. "I appreciate your feelings in this matter but the insertions are not helpful."
"Sir."
"Your point?" the President said.
"The people who are incurring the wrath of the Horvath are the people in that region," the NSA said. "And the few contacts with the rebels that have been broadcast are almost all contemptuous of 'city folk.' They basically are saying they don't care if cities are nuked. It's not a threat to them."
" 'I'm from the South. We have our ways.'"
"Mr. President?"
"Something that Vernon said to an FBI agent," the President said. "About I guess you would say, manipulating the Horvath. I've been puzzled by the line. 'I'm from the South. We have our ways.' What ways?"
The Marine Corps Commandant leaned back and started tapping his mouth, as if to erase a smile.
"Commandant?" the President said. "You have a comment."
"Rather refrain, Mr. President," the Commandant said, still trying not to smile. "But I think I know what he meant. Graduated from the Citadel, Mr. President."
"So you're 'of the South' as well?" the President said. "And?"
"Really rather refrain, Mr. President," the Commandant said then barked a laugh as if at a joke he'd just told. "Seriously. You do not want to know at this time. Possibly ever."
"I will, currently, accept your position," the President said, warily. "And where is Mr. Vernon? He is the one person of note who has not been heard of recently."
"Moving, mostly," the Director of the FBI said. "Scattered meetings. Turned up by surprise at some town hall meetings in New Hampshire and Vermont. Even back and forth across the border to Canada though we're not sure where or how. We're only catching traces of him. Frankly, he's about as hard to find as a much taller . . . insurgent. We're not even sure he's part of the insurgency. He's acting more like a neutral."
"I'm the President of the United States!" the President snapped. "This is . . . insane! I'm responsible for this nation! People are going to die! Cities are going to die!"
"Depends on whether he's right or not, Mr. President," the Marine Corps Commandant said, still smiling slightly. He tapped his lips again. "Depends on whether he's right about ways of the South."
"On Friday night at eight-thirty, Fox News is pleased to announce an exclusive broadcast from none other than Tyler Vernon, the maple sugar king and the man at the center of the current controversy over maple syrup production, direct and live from his home in New Hampshire. With the deadline for tapping fast approaching, we are all looking forward to what Mr. Vernon has to say . . ."
"Are we sure this is going to work?" Tyler asked, adjusting his jacket. He'd gone for the informal look for the broadcast. The jacket was a necessity because it was cold in the former mine.
"Not sure," Bruce Dennison said. "But from what we've been able to figure out, the Horvath are technologically advanced by not technologically sophisticated. They can tap any standard system. But this laser relay is going to a secure Glatun hypernode link which is, in turn, hooked up to Fox. It should look like you're broadcasting from your house."
Tyler glanced over his shoulder at the green wall then at the TV tech.
"And the green screen is . . . ?"
"Good," Ryan Gill said. He was wearing an incongruous Scottish WWI military outfit including tartan trews because, as he said, 'if he was going down he was going down in the uniform of his regiment.' "Looks just like your front room. Except for the occasional bloody puff of fog when you exhale. Hopefully, they won't notice that."
"And we're on in five, four, three, two . . ."
"Hello, Fox and thank you for being willing to make this broadcast. I feel rather odd doing this. Just a few short months ago my days were filled with the mundane tasks of small jobs. To make ends meet I worked in a grocery store, a mill and cut wood during my free time. Now, as most people know, I'm at the center of this controversy over, of all things, maple syrup and one of the richest men in the world. It has been an odd transition.
"The Horvath have demanded that everyone in this region collect maple syrup and turn it over to them, presumably for later sale to the Glatun since it is unusable by the Horvath. Just as they have demanded all this world's production of useful heavy metals. Their stated reason for this tribute is so that they can maintain the defense of this world. Tribute, however, is tribute and let us not mince words. For we have come to an important time of decision. Within the next week, the people of this region must make preparation for the collection of maple sap to be boiled into syrup. The weather is turning and the sap is starting to run. According to both the US weather service and projections by the Glatun this should be a spring of good harvest. If there is any harvest at all.
"Were I so inclined, one pair of hands simply cannot collect all the sap that must be collected. It requires many hands, many people, going out into the cold of a New England and Canadian spring, working hard for a bounty that will, in turn, continue to keep the Horvath in our skies.
"Over the last month and a half I have been travelling throughout this region, talking to people of every persuasion, getting the tenor of the residents of this region, people who do the tapping and boiling, people who depend upon the trade. I haven't been speaking with governors or Congressmen, just common folk like myself.
"There is great fear and consternation. Like myself, the people of this region never expected to be embroiled in an international, interstellar, controversy. They, we, are simple folk of the rural lands of these great nations. We get up every day and do our jobs, letting the great matters of this land and this world be handled by others. We, until this time of controversy, did not care for such matters. The seas
ons of the year affected us more than the decisions made in Washington and Ontario.
"Now, as a people, we have been called upon to make great and momentous decisions. Decisions reflecting both liberty and security. Liberty is an odd word. And for a long time it has been, in truth, degraded. Many who used the term liberty in truth meant libertine. And even those who fought in our courts and legislature over questions of liberty, in truth meant things that are minor at best and puerile at worst. As we have now found out, liberty is not about where you can put your sexual organs but about the essential question of whether we, as a people, can make our own decisions. And security is not about whether the government should be able to tap our phone but about whether we are going to be allowed to take the next breath. Will our cities be ashes? Will we live? Will our children live?