by Bobby Akart
“The President claims he is doing his duty by acting in the interest of protecting the American people. He quickly pointed out it was his number one responsibility to keep Americans safe. He hasn’t learned from history, or the Constitution, although he supposedly taught constitutional law.
“He took an oath, like all governmental officials, to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. His first responsibility as President is to uphold the principles of freedom that define our nation. He has broken his oath of office by trampling on the Constitution for the illusion of security.
“There are many Americans who welcome this because they are afraid. Their security is threatened. I believe this short-term thinking creates a much more menacing state of affairs in the long term. By doing nothing, our implied acquiescence to these intrusive government actions results in another stone laid on the path to tyranny.”
Sarge paused and looked around the room. The eyes of his fellow patriots gave him the answer he sought.
“Our price,” he started and then hesitated. “Our price to be paid is making the difficult choice between security and liberty. We have to choose fear or freedom. But I must caution you, my friends, freedom isn’t free.”
Chapter 39
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
7:15 p.m.
Citizen Corps Region I, Office of the Governor
99 High Street
Boston, Massachusetts
O’Brien stood alone atop 99 High Street. The cool fall air chilled him slightly, so he fastened his jacket. It had been a productive and interesting day. He was starting to feel the euphoria of power that had enveloped him three weeks prior. Lighting another cigar, he was anxious to get started. But first, there were some important decisions to make.
He heard the rooftop door slam and turned to see La Rue escorting Pearson to the table. A bottle of whisky awaited the men. Pearson, who had eluded capture, had spoken with O’Brien yesterday. He was very grateful to clear up the misunderstanding and was anxious to report his information to O’Brien. La Rue had details of his missing men as well. O’Brien poured a glass of whisky for each of them and took a swig, swallowing hard as he downed the glass completely. He quickly poured another.
“Gentlemen,” said O’Brien, raising his glass, “enjoy.”
“Thank you, Governor,” toasted Pearson. “It’s good to have our problems resolved.”
“It is, Pearson,” said O’Brien. “Let’s try to move forward and put things back on track.”
“Agreed,” he replied. “I have some information that relates to our colonel. Apparently, he’s known as a wild card, frequently bucking command when he sees fit. He is tolerated because of his stellar combat record and connections in high places.”
“How high?” asked La Rue, taking a sip of the whisky.
“The highest,” replied Pearson. “He has passed over several cross promotions to commands that would have given him more visibility within the Corps. My source tells me he was in line for a full bird anyway. He must have clout in the Pentagon or the White House.”
“Is he untouchable?” asked La Rue.
“No.”
“Governor, I have confirmed our suspicions,” said La Rue. “Our missing men are being held at Fort Devens under armed guard at the former federal prison camp there. I have men observing Devens round the clock. They recognized some of their buddies through a window. They are not allowed outside of the building where they are housed.”
“What about my guns?” asked O’Brien.
“I can’t say with certainty, but I know the MBTA vans are not there,” replied La Rue.
“I can help you there,” interrupted Pearson. “The images you told me about on the phone are real. The trucks were found abandoned in various wooded locations on the west side of the Hudson. The trucks were moved across the state line into the Albany area before the borders were closed due to the Indian Point meltdown.”
“This is one sly bastard,” said O’Brien. “How does all of this relate to the Quabbin Reservoir?”
Pearson looked at La Rue, who gestured for him to go first in responding.
“Back in the spring, Quabbin Reservoir was acquired by a trust, and the area specifically located on the Prescott Peninsula was supposedly designated to be a safe haven for abused mothers and children.”
O’Brien looked from Pearson to La Rue and back to Pearson. “Well, was it?”
“We don’t know for certain,” replied Pearson. “No one has seen the facility. In fact, no one has been allowed on the Peninsula since a very well-orchestrated campaign event, which included Hillary and Senator Morgan.”
O’Brien studied the two for a moment and then asked, “Is there any reason to believe it’s not a home for wayward souls?”
“It’s the level of security, Governor,” replied Pearson. “The place is crawling with either active-duty military or former private contractors. These guys are real pros and have the gear to support the theory that they are former members of the armed forces.”
“I think Colonel Bradlee has something to do with this,” added La Rue. “I find it very suspicious that he’s lost so many men to defections. And how did he hijack our guys and the trucks. He had to have a lot of help to pull that off.”
“So you think that Bradlee is holed up at Prescott Peninsula, hiding under the skirts of widows and orphans or some shit?”
“There may not be any widows and orphans, Governor,” replied Pearson. “I think it’s a ruse for something bigger.”
O’Brien poured another drink. “How are we going to get to the bottom of this?”
“Archibald, your Citizen Corps leader in Belchertown, is planning a raid on Prescott Peninsula,” said Pearson. “He’s coordinating with hundreds of local men to raid the shores by boat and storm the front gates. They think there’s food being protected, and they’re hungry.”
“Good,” said O’Brien. “I heard a saying once, the rich swell up with pride, but the poor rise up from hunger. Let the people take what they need and deserve.” He stood and poured the last of the whisky into his glass.
“Marion, I want my men back,” started O’Brien.
“I understand, Governor,” he replied. “But I need more than what we have. Do you want me to load up the gangbangers and unleash them on Fort Devens. That could get really ugly, fast.”
Suddenly, the eastern sky lit up as if Fenway Park had sprung to life for a night game. O’Brien abruptly turned to look over the roof’s half wall.
“Right on cue, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward Boston Harbor and the wharfs along Seaport Boulevard. “Help has arrived.”
Six Watson-class prepositioning ships were making their way to dockage at the piers. Provided to the United Nations by the administration years before as part of its downsizing program, these vessels contained the unique all-white paint and distinctive U.N. logo in black. The ships, manufactured by Cabot Industries, were each capable of carrying three hundred troops with a nearly four-hundred-thousand-cubic-foot cargo area for all types of vehicles.
A Russian-made, all-white Mi-26T helicopter flew up and down the harbor from the North End to Castle Island Park. The sound of the rotors was deafening as the noise reverberated off the skyscrapers of Boston. A slightly smaller gunship, the Mi-24, moved at a lower altitude, buzzing northward toward the Charlestown Navy Yard and back again.
A variety of armored vehicles began to slowly disembark onto the wharfs. Medical trucks towed howitzers from the cargo hold. Finally, the Indian Army T-72 tanks rolled out of the bowels of the ship. O’Brien began to laugh.
“Boys, now I’ve got my army.”
Chapter 40
Thursday, September 29, 2016
6:00 p.m.
Town Hall
Belchertown, Massachusetts
Archibald stood alone in the shadows of the town hall, pulling his jacket closed as the night air began to displace the day’s unusual wa
rmth. Residents from the surrounding areas came to hear his final speech before the anticipated raid upon Prescott Peninsula.
Pearson was already sitting on the stage. When Archibald first received the wanted poster, he thought something was amiss. Pearson hadn’t acted like a man who should be on the run for treason. Archibald was never accused of allowing Pearson the opportunity to escape, but it was not his intention to detain the man either. As a result, he gained a friend in Pearson and an alliance, of sorts.
Belchertown was perched atop a hill overlooking the Connecticut Valley to the west and the Quabbin Reservoir to the east. The Church of Christ’s spire, which was nearly the eighty-foot height of the town’s water tank, was visible for miles in all directions. Originally settled as part of the Connecticut Western Reserve, the surrounding lands were granted to Jonathan Belcher, who later became the royal governor of Massachusetts.
Belchertown made history in 1774 as the first municipality in the country to refuse to pay its taxes to the Loyalist English government in America. Archibald studied the history of his small town. It was storied. On a night just like this one, in 1774, the people of Belchertown came together and created a militia, a small fighting force, under the leadership of Captain Caleb Clark. They proudly marched east to join their fellow patriots the day after the Battle of Lexington. Over half of the men residing in Belchertown saw service in the Revolution, and the other residents, although poverty stricken and hungry, were active in supporting the fight for freedom by giving their time and what belongings they had.
While their cause was noble, the aftermath of the Revolution for the citizens of Belchertown was devastating. The men returned home from the War broke, and their farms were damaged from neglect. The fledgling government faced enormous debt and financial challenges. Washington’s solution was to levy taxes upon the farmers’ land. The farmers’ solution, true to their predecessors’ penchant for rebellion, was to refuse to pay the tax and take up arms.
At the time, Massachusetts was plagued with bad harvests and economic depression. The high taxes and enforcement procedures of the federal government threatened farmers across the union with the loss of their farms. A former captain in the Continental Army, Daniel Shays, recruited men from across the state, including many from Belchertown. At first, Shay encouraged his followers to harass local merchants, lawyers, and supporters of the state government. In late 1786, the men of Shay’s Rebellion made an ill-fated attempt to capture the federal arsenal at Springfield. The state militia successfully defended the armory, crushed the rebels in several engagements, and the rebellion was over.
Although Archibald knew Shay’s Rebellion never seriously threatened the stability of the United States, it greatly alarmed politicians throughout the nation. Archibald needed to lead his people on a rebellion of a similar nature. It was a rebellion against an unknown enemy. He had to rely on limited planning, but hope for raw emotion. He needed to prepare them for battle, much like Captain Clark did on the Belchertown common two hundred and thirty years before.
He walked alone across the fading green grass as it became dormant for the winter. The crowd of primarily men gathered around the stage. Some carried their weapons and others held the hands of their wives. Do they know the risks of rebellion?
“Everyone, please gather around. We need to get started.” The crowd pushed closer to the stage, which had become a permanent fixture in front of the town hall. Once again, as in the eighteenth century, the center of a community’s universe became the town’s common.
“Thank you all for coming this afternoon,” started Archibald. “After the cyber attack, our world became much smaller. There weren’t any more planes to catch or buses to ride or cars to drive to the Hampshire Mall over in Amherst. Except for those few who still have gasoline, our world has become limited to the distance we can travel on foot or by horse or on a bicycle.
“We have always been a close-knit community, and today, the importance of community has never been greater. My friends, the days of driving into your garage and quickly closing the door behind you in order to avoid a conversation with your neighbor are over. Now, you must rely on your neighbor for protection and perhaps to save your life.
“We have rallied as a community and attempted to rely on help from our government to survive. We’ve all come to the realization that help is not coming anytime soon. It’s time to help ourselves!” Archibald raised his voice to a few cheers and shouts of approval.
“One of our own, Jimmy Fulks, who is a neighbor, a friend, and a family man, was gunned down by armed men right over there on Prescott Peninsula.” Of course, Archibald, and only two other men, knew that Jimmy fired the first shot at the woman standing guard at the gate. But he needed to rally his constituents and give them a cause. Creating a martyr out of Jimmy Fulks was the perfect pretense to rally his people to fight. “Doesn’t Jimmy deserve justice?”
“Yeah,” came a chorus of shouts from the crowd. Archibald allowed them to settle before he continued.
“We’re all hungry. We’ve seen the elderly die of starvation and our children suffer from lack of nutrition. I look into your eyes and see the despair that is frankly un-American. This needs to change!” he shouted. “We’ve observed enough about the people on Prescott Peninsula to know that they’re well fed and properly housed. Can we say the same about ourselves or our neighbors?”
“Nooo,” shouted the crowd. He was inspiring them.
“In times like these, it is not fair for some Americans to live high on the hog while others die of starvation. It is not fair for some to have a comfortable roof over their head while the rest of us face the uncertainty of a harsh winter without heat. It is not fair for someone to get away with murdering one of our own!”
Archibald stood back and took in the shouts of encouragement. He glanced back at Pearson, who nodded with approval.
“Are you with me?” he shouted.
“Yes!”
“What I see before me is a whole community coming together in defiance of death. I see men and women who agree that it is time to take what we need to survive. Why should a few have so much when they can help so many?”
The people were cheering now. They’re ready.
“You’ve come here as a community. Will you fight as a community to survive?”
“Yes!” they shouted.
He allowed their screams to die down once again. Archibald breathed deeply and exhaled before finishing.
“Tonight and tomorrow, I want you to rest. Spend time with your families. Steady your nerves and ready your mind. The time for planning is over. The time for starving is over! The time to fight for our fair share has come!”
Archibald stood back from the podium and raised his hands, encouraging the crowd to cheer. Now, he was a leader of men.
Chapter 41
Thursday, September 29, 2016
5:30 p.m.
Mount Zion
Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts
“Come on, it’s gettin’ dark out here,” said Will Allen to his younger brother, M.C.
“No shit, Sherlock, and cold too. Ain’t we got enough already?” replied M.C. as he sloshed through the muck along the shore of the Quabbin Reservoir. He stumbled slightly and got a little too close to his brother, who reacted quickly.
“Be careful, dude. You gotta pay attention with this shit,” Will said as he stood to the side. He decided to follow his brother to the edge of the shore. As they approached the aluminum flat-bottom boat pulled onto the muddy beach, the faint sounds of yelling carried across the serene water of the lake. They both placed their contributions into the boat and went back into the woods for more.
“I know, we do this for a livin’. Well, at least we used to.”
“We’re getting’ paid, Mikey, in the new form of currency,” said Will.
“Yeah, food. BFD. How much we gonna git, you think?” asked M.C. Then he added, “And stop calling me Mikey. You did that in front of that fellow yesterday.”
“Whatever. Listen, we’re gonna get more than them others, and we don’t have to worry about gettin’ our asses shot off Saturday.” Will continued deeper into the woods, using his retractable snare pole as a walking stick.
“I ain’t arguin’ with the gig. I’m just sayin’ we’ve been at it all day. That fella ain’t gonna know how many we got so far. The only folks that’ll know are the ones across the way.” M.C. swung his forty-inch hook over his shoulder to point toward Prescott Peninsula, narrowly missing his brother.
“Dammit, Mikey,” Will shouted. “I’m gonna throw your dumb ass in this hole up here if you don’t straighten up. Now bring that light so I can see.”
“Look there at them babies. I see their eggs too.”
“Shhhh,” cautioned Will as he steadied himself. M.C. shined the light, illuminating the rock outcroppings that made up a den of dozens of timber rattlesnakes. “Look at ‘em all.”
In the spring, Massachusetts Division of Fisheries and Wildlife had relocated hundreds of timber rattlesnakes to this fourteen-hundred-acre island in the middle of the Quabbin Reservoir. The timber rattlers were becoming extinct around the state and the head of the department elected to use the island as a breeding ground to prevent the timber rattler from going extinct. The rattlesnakes were relocated from all of the surrounding states to Mount Zion, much to the dismay of the residents of Belchertown.
During public hearings, the townspeople showed up in droves. The residents pointed out that rattlesnakes could swim and might find their way onto public access lands that were used for fishing and hiking. Others asked valid questions like “when the inevitable happens, and a hiker gets bit by a rattler, who’s responsible?”
The environmental groups who supported the project were represented by the only environmental law attorney in the county—Mr. Ronald Archibald. Archibald conducted his own research. Although he allowed the proceedings to continue without comment because he didn’t want the snakes over there either, he readily supplied the ammunition to gain public approval to his proxies.