The Conspiracy of American Democracy
A Father’s Revenge
A Novel by Robert G. Strickland
The Conspiracy of American Democracy: A Father’s Revenge
Copyright © 2015 Robert G. Strickland
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, by any means or by any form, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author, in any matter whatsoever, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in newspapers, magazines, news articles or reviews.
Inquiries may be made to the author at: [email protected]
Visit Robert G. Strickland’s web site at: www.theconspiracyofamericandemocracy.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Valerie Riviera of StylePoint Design
Interior Design: Robert Dyer of StylePoint Design
Edited by: Valerie Riviera of StylePoint Design
www.stylepointdesign.com
ISBN-13: 978-1505881806
ISBN-10: 1505881803
Printed in U.S.A.
This book is dedicated to:
Julie
There are no words available in any language that reflects what your love means to me.
My Mother
The matriarch of an American patriot
Meghan and Tara
My two wonderful daughters—blessings in my life
And to all Patriots across our land — Never give up the fight!
Table of Contents
Preface
Chapter 1: Alexei Vadim
Chapter 2: Lily and Abby
Chapter 3: Pop’s Funeral
Chapter 4: The Plan
Chapter 5: Tennessee
Chapter 6: Leaving Camp
Chapter 7: The Alabama Militia
Chapter 8: Planning for War
Chapter 9: Adam, Hannah, Lily and Paul
Chapter 10: The Last Supper
Chapter 11: It All Makes Sense Now
Chapter 12: Leaving for Schenectady
Chapter 13: The New Hampshire 27th
Chapter 14: The Battle Near Schenectady
Chapter 15: Departure for Vermont
Chapter 16: The Road to Vermont
Chapter 17: The Iowa Militia
Chapter 18: The Final Preparations
Chapter 19: The Beginning of The End
Chapter 20: The Battle in Brattleboro
Epilogue
References
Coming Soon: The Conspiracy of American Democracy:
Book 3: The Florida Campaign
Contact Robert G. Strickland
Preface
Return to Table of Contents
A war was coming! Everybody knew it, everybody saw it, but no one admitted it. In the days leading to the end, politicians, media outlets, citizens and world leaders all acknowledged it. The democratic society known as America, was over. The wonderful experiment that began in 1776 had concluded. The only thing left was a date of death to put on the proverbial tombstone.
But, what about the American citizens? What was their part in all of the implosion of American society? There were two opposing sections of American society at the time. The entitled who wanted money for nothing and the conservative valued hardworking middle class who wanted to earn their way. The workers were fed up with big government, fed up with politicians and they were just plain fed up with everything. As a result, Militias sprang up in states, counties, and towns. The right to keep and bear arms reared its head to fight corrupt politicians. No, middle class Americans would not go down without a fight. They never had given in before and they would not give in now.
In the good old United States of America, land of the free, home of the brave, there was to be one more war. The old timers would call it the war to end all wars. Armageddon was mentioned almost daily as churches filled their pews with people praying for divine intervention. Inevitably the war was coming to our own American soil. As socialist troops prepared to fight the resisters, Russian troops trained in their homeland for imminent deployment to our shores. The war was coming, and the war was coming fast.
In the book of Revelation it is written:
“And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him.”
—Revelation 6:4
What came next within the borders of America could not have been scripted any differently in a big budget Hollywood blockbuster movie. The end was near, the horse of war was riding, and to all involved, the thought that the end of the world was upon us was embedded deeply in their minds, hearts and souls. We would live a day to day existence, scavenging for food and searching for water. The economy had crumbled, there were no jobs, and human necessities were scarce. Health issues, such as influenza strains immune to antibiotics, were rampant. Measles, Ebola and the like attacked Americans like a plague.
Survivors raided closed up stores for what was left of canned food and supplies. Ammunition, knives and guns were taken off of dead resisters and Socialist soldiers.
Socialists breadlines much like those of the great depression sprang up in what was left of the big cities. If this was not the end, we were scared of what would be the end. If this wasn’t Armageddon, we did not want to know what was.
Chapter 1
Alexei Vadim
Return to Table of Contents
“It boils down to this: we should have done with humbug, and let war be war, and not a game ... If there were none of this magnanimity business in warfare, we should never go to war, except for something worth facing certain death for.”
—Leo Tolstoy
I thrust the bayonet upward and it plunged deep into my adversary’s chest. I watched his eyes bulge wide as the crimson blood escaped the corners of his mouth and ran down his hard chiseled chin. I yanked the bayonet from his chest and watched as he fell into a ball of flesh on the muddy battlefield.
Wiping the rain from my eyes, I looked to my left and saw Adam embroiled in a fierce battle with a soviet soldier. My, how things have changed since I met Adam in that old nasty sewer three weeks ago. Adam was a man’s man who stood about six feet tall, and still had that crazy looking slight tilt to his head. I really need to ask him what happened to his neck, to make him look like that, I thought to myself. He was a slim and trim beast of a man, probably no more than a hundred seventy five pounds. He had a full beard and mustache that was jet black to match his long mane of jet black hair; hair that disappeared below his shoulders almost halfway down his back. After last night’s battle, some of the soldiers had started calling him Samson after the biblical character. Adam obviously works out, though I have not been around him long enough to see it. His biceps bulged underneath his torn t-shirt and his chest was huge. He looked like an old time bodybuilder, who walked around with his chest arriving five minutes before the rest of him got there. His forearms were massive and as he gripped his weapon of choice, an old Winchester Model 94 rifle, the fibers of his muscles twitched. Yep, he was a man’s man alright.
Adam and the Russian struggled with neither one getting the upper hand. Adam was holding a nice old Spyderco knife with a serrated-five-inch blade in his left hand.
The Russian fought with what appeared to be an old rusty bayonet from some old rifle that probably didn’t exist anymore. I ran toward them sloshing through the rain covered battlefield in an attempt to help Adam with his fight, “Hold on Adam, I’m coming to ya,” I yelled just before I was tackled by a socialist soldier who came from out of nowhere. “You stupid ass commie bastard!” I yelled out as we engaged in a hand-to-hand battle, while rolling around on the ground. Our rifles were slung over our shoulders as we struggled to our feet to face each other. As I stood there, soaking wet, I wondered how I was going to get a good hold on this soaking wet and muddied Russian. The rain was coming down hard, like cats and dogs as my mother used to say.
This man was huge. “Where the hell did they manufacture all of you big ass men?” I mumbled to myself as I stood erect to meet him face to face. This man was probably six-foot-five and weighed at least three hundred pounds. He had a large belly that hung out in front of him over his thick leather belt, but he was a beast of a man no doubt. I could tell that he was sizing me up as we stood there much like two wrestlers sparring before going to the mat.
I was no slouch either. Standing six-feet-four-inches tall when barefoot, I was an okay soldier myself. Trying to maintain a thirty-six inch-waist on a 245 pound frame, I towered above most men, but not this one that stood before me. My short-cut-dirty blonde hair gave me a definite military look, so I am sure he was wondering if I was with a militia, or a straight up military man. I used to be in the gym every day lifting weights, doing push-ups, pull-ups and a variety of exercises that had my body looking like something chiseled into a statue in ancient Rome. I never did like body hair, so I used to shave daily I have very little chest hair. Now, my body was even leaner than before the war, more because of diet than a workout regimen. I had a small pencil thin mustache that just wouldn’t grow any larger, and a scruffy several days old beard.
My adversary and I began swapping punches and jabs and started grappling each other in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Gunshots were ringing out all around us. Explosions were happening all over the battlefield and smoke filled the air. Tanks were rolling, and drones were flying in and dropping small, shrapnel bombs onto the battlefield. As we stood there sparring, my thigh began screaming in pain. I made the assumption that his tackle tore the stitches loose from the injury that I had received in last night’s battle. The Soviet soldier put his right hand around the back of my neck, pulled my head closer to his so that our eyes met. He was strong as an ox, I thought to myself. As he held my head close to his, our eyes were fixed upon each other, the soldier looked me in the eyes and stated with a heavy accent, “Today you die, you filthy American.” I immediately dropped to my right knee, which released his hold on my neck and caught him off guard. Almost simultaneously, I took the old 5.11 tactical boot knife that I kept in my right boot, and thrust it upward deep into his groin. Unable to control himself, he screamed in agony as I began twisting the knife in small semi-circles inside his blood soaked groin area. I felt crunches within his nether region as I continued twisting the knife side to side. I drew the knife out, and then stood quickly before he could gather himself and I jammed the knife into his right eye socket and twisted it yet again. “You first, jackass!” I proclaimed, as he raised his arms to grab at my arm and then became motionless and fell to the ground, as he bled out and died on the battlefield.
As I stepped over and picked up my old trusty Glock 19 off of the muddy ground and put it in its right hip holster, I looked over and saw that Adam had moved on to another battle with yet another Russian soldier. Prior to the battle, Adam and I had perched snipers on the ridge at the top of the hill to our east. Those snipers were systematically taking out the battle drones with their old Remington 700 LTR .308 rifles. The hum of the drones and the clank of the tanks began to fade, as the Russian supported socialist army withdrew from the battle. As the smoke began to clear, I surveyed the casualties. There were bodies lying everywhere. While we didn’t lose this particular battle, we certainly didn’t win it either. As I looked across the landscape, I saw the charred and smoking grass. The burning, crashed battle drones lay upon the field making loud banging, clanging and whirring noises, as the electrical circuits died out. I saw blood mixing with the driving rain as it ran like tiny rivers across the field from the bodies that were piled up around us. No, we did not win this battle; but, some of us would live to see another day, while others would not.
War! For whatever people think they know of war, they do not. People think of battles lasting for hours or even days. While I guess that can occur on rare occasions, for the most part battles are quick and decisive. The soldiers, especially in hand-to-hand combat situations, quickly grow tired and weary. They withdraw or retreat and await another battle on another day. War is hell as they say, but thankfully, it is not all day, every day.
It was 2023 when the first Russian trained soldiers began arriving on American shores. At first, we were told that they were coming to train our socialist army for peacekeeping missions. Later we learned that they were here to supplement Obama’s socialist army in a war to gain control of the resisters. With many of the militias in hiding and making surgically executed strikes on the Socialist army; we knew what they were really here for. Our battles had hit the socialist army hard and our presence had been felt. The Russians were here to strike back at the militias in a decisive manner. They were here to regain control of a war that was taking a positive turn toward the resisters.
President Obama issued a proclamation that “…the Socialist army and the Russian army will unite to create a more efficient army that will effectively fight for the peace that we all desire; the peace that we all expect; and the peace that we all deserve.”
What he was really doing, was creating an army that would be second to none in the history of mankind. What he did not plan on was the determined steel resolve of the state militias. The old English soldiers had the Minutemen as their adversaries in 1776. The Nazi’s had the Allies in the 1940’s, and The Viet Cong had South Vietnam in the 1960’s and the 1970’s. Even the famed Red Russian Army of the 1980’s had the determined Afghans. And now, the Socialist army had the Patriotic militias. In the history of the world, countless wars were won or staved off by the oppressed. Many a man who wanted to rule the world underestimated their opponents. Would that occur now? Only time will tell.
“Major, what’s your report?” I asked Adam as he approached me from the south.
With a bit of a smirk, he replied, “General, I’m still having a hard time getting used to that Major title. Looks like over two hundred casualties on our side and close to five hundred on theirs. We didn’t lose any ground, but we didn’t pick any up either.”
After last night’s battle I had executed a battlefield promotion for Adam and promoted him to Major.
A battlefield promotion (or field promotion) is advancement in military rank that occurs while deployed in combat. A standard field promotion is advancement from current rank to the next higher rank; a ‘jump-step’ promotion is advancement from current rank to a rank above the next highest. Battlefield promotions are predicated on extraordinary performance of duties while serving in combat or under combat conditions.1
Adam earned that promotion and he deserved it. Hell, he saved Hannah’s life for goodness sakes.
“Are you ever going to get rid of that Glock?” Adam asked as he pointed at the worn-out, mud-covered Glock 19 on my hip.
“Why should I? It still works, and as I recall, it has saved your ass once or twice already” I said as I slapped Adam on the back.
“Touché General” Adam replied, Touché”
“Besides,” I said, as I tapped my fingers on the butt of the Glock, “this old battle master has been with me since I bought it brand new at the old Fuquay Gun back in North Carolina in 2012,” I said, as I lost myself in thought. My God, has it really been that long since I bought this Glock? Fuquay Gun! That store used to be my regular hangout back in the day, back
before Obama ruined everything. Back before that old gun store went the direction of all the others back in 2018. “Damn bastard,” I said.
“What was that General?” Adam asked.
“Ahh, nothing, just thinking about Obama,” I said, as I grimaced in pain, and as my leg still throbbed from being speared in last night’s battle. “Will we ever get a foothold on these damn Russians?” I asked as I tore my pant leg open to reveal the torn, open stitches.
“I think we just did,” Adam said as he pointed behind me.
Turning to look behind me I immediately recognized him. Since 2023 he had been like a scourge upon our land. He was a holy terror to our troops. Just the mention of his name would destroy morale. He was a man with no conscience, a man with no rules of conduct, a man with no soul. A man I knew all too well.
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