Patriots

by James Wesley, Rawles

  With their evenings and weekends free, however, the ghillie construction work went quickly. They laboriously shredded the edges of each of the strips, to give them a frazzled, uneven appearance. After the poncho was done, Matt used more of the burlap to cover one of his boonie hats. The burlap hung down to his shoulders in the back. The full coverage ghillie effect was completed when a camouflage face veil was worn beneath the hat. When the entire ensemble was completed, he soaked it in Flamecheck FC-1055 fabric flame retardant.

  Chase decided to make an even more elaborate ghillie. His was similar to those he had seen commercially made by Custom Concealment. He started with a set of Army surplus mechanics’ coveralls that was one size larger than he would normally wear. He did this because he had heard from a man at a gun show that the material in the overalls would gather together as each successive band of camouflaging material was sewn on. The man was right. By the time he was done sewing on twelve pounds of garnish, the overalls fit Chase nicely.

  Since the ghillie material came down over the top of his boots, the effect of the suit was astounding. Even when standing up, Chase looked like a bush. When he tried on the full suit, hat, and face veil, he proclaimed:“Look at me, I’m the incredible shambling mound!” Before it went into storage in its duffel bag, his ghillie suit was also treated with Flamecheck flame retardant.

  When they were done making the ghillie overalls and cape, the Keanes had a lot of shrimp net and burlap material left over. They eventually used most of it to make ghillie covers for each of their CFP-90 backpacks, and covers for each of their long guns. The backpack covers were attached with sewn-in rings of elastic material they bought from a fabric shop. The long gun covers were specially designed to not interfere with the operation of the gun’s actions. It took several tries to get them just right.

  • • •

  When the dollar started its dive and the riots began in the north, “Jason” and “Travis” gave two days’ notice at their jobs. They spent nearly all of their saved cash on canned foods. With the galloping inflation, their money didn’t buy much. At the end of his last day at the warehouse, Matt got another twenty-gallon drum of unleaded premium gas. His boss gave it to him in lieu of his last week’s paycheck. That evening, Chase dropped off the key to their rental trailer with the manager, and told him that they were moving out immediately. It didn’t take long to pack up the back of the pickup, drive to the storage space, load the other drums of gasoline, and hitch up the trailer. They were on the highway by 8 p.m. They drove in shifts to West Yellowstone, stopping only to refuel. They camped near West Yellowstone for one night. Then they did another marathon drive to Spokane. Most of their drive had been uneventful, but they arrived to find a city in flames. There were more than twenty fires burning out of control in the downtown Spokane area.

  Except for the prolonged power failure, things were fairly normal in their parents’ neighborhood. There was no answer when they rang the doorbell, and the front door was locked. They got through the back door by reaching in the dog door to unlock the back door lock; a trick that Matt had used on the door for many years. It was clear that their parents, sister, and dogs had made a rapid departure. Coat hangers were scattered in their sister’s room. Some dog food was spilled on the garage floor. The pantry was empty. The hand tools and chain saws were gone. Most of the dishes, pans, cutlery, and clothes were missing. All of the camping gear, fishing equipment, archery gear, and guns were also gone. The family’s car, Suburban, and utility trailer were absent.

  None of the furniture except a futon had been taken. After surveying the house, Matt and Chase met in the living room. Chase said, “It definitely doesn’t look like burglars did this—much too systematic. Looks like they just decided to take a philter. If I know Dad, he went up to the cabin.”

  Matt and Chase left immediately for the Kaniksu National Forest, in Pend Oreille County. Their father had a cabin there on a deeded mining claim, fourteen miles east of Chewelah,Washington. As they wound their way up Flowery Trail Road, Chase wondered out loud, “Are they going to be up here, or over in Montana with Uncle Joe?”

  When they arrived at the cabin there were shouts of joy, dogs barking, and a torrent of conversation. Everyone tried to talk simultaneously, both about the current situation and about where Matt and Chase had been for the previous four years. Their mother and father looked noticeably older. Eileen was by then twenty-one years old. One of the family’s dogs had been hit by a car during Matt and Chase’s long absence. It had been replaced by a pair of golden retrievers to keep their aging dachshund company. Their father said that the dogs were “city bred” and “worse than useless.” He complained, “They don’t watch for intruders worth a darn, and they bark at the game and scare it away.”

  While their mother started a stew for dinner, the rest of the family spent some time going through Eileen’s “Fugitive Scrap Book.” It contained dozens of newspaper clippings, the “Radical Right Gone Wrong” article, fourteen letters to the editor that had run in the Spokesman newspaper, one of the Gun List reward ads, and a FBI wanted poster that Eileen had taken from the local post office.

  One article that Chase found considerably alarming was a piece from USA Today that had a color picture of Chase’s motor home. The article had run the very same day that he had left the motor home in North Dakota. Another USA Today article that ran the following week described where the motor home was abandoned, and was titled, “Keanes in Canada? The Hunt Continues.”

  As they leafed through the scrapbook, Eileen kept up a running monologue, describing the media hoopla, “You probably saw this one… and, of course, you saw the video….”

  Matt answered, “No, we never saw the video of the shootout, just a still shot from it. We didn’t have a TV at the trailer.”

  “You didn’t see it? You’ve got to be kidding! Nearly everyone in the country saw that video! It’s ironic that you two are in the tiny minority that didn’t see it. It was on the network news two days in a row, and on CNN about a bazillion times—you know how they keep repeating things. Mom taped it and sent a copy to Uncle Joe and Aunt Ruth. Then a while later it was on America’s Most Wanted. I saw it again last year. They put it in a PBS documentary on the militia movement.”

  That evening over dinner, Eileen teased her brothers about their acquired southern accents. She said, “I’ll bet you spent all your time sipping mint juleps and taking those southern belles to cotillions.”

  Mrs. Keane was beaming. She was happy to have the family together. Mr. Keane voiced his concerns to Matt just after dinner. He breathed, “You don’t know what kind of stress you boys have put your mother through, Matthew.From seeing that video and from what I read in the papers, I’d say you showed very poor judgment. You should’ve just let them arrest you, and argued it all in court.”

  “You weren’t there, Dad. They were about to splatter us all over the pavement. That trooper had made up his mind, I could tell. That’s why I ran. And they shot first.”

  His father sighed. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now. It’s history. It’s time we got back to more pressing local concerns. I just thank the Lord that you boys made it here to help us out.”

  The small cabin was crowded. To save on floor space, Mrs. Keane made three hammocks out of spare blankets for Matt and Chase.

  That winter they ate the dogs.

  CHAPTER 8

  M-C-Ls

  “A stone’s throw out on either hand from that well ordered road we tread, And all the world is wild and strange: Churel and ghoul and djinn and sprite Shall bear us company to night, For we have reached the Oldest Land Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.”

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Most of the coffee—all except for a small “emergency” reserve—ran out in January. Lisa Nelson was the one most vocal about it. As she was making one of her last cups of coffee with a miniature packet of Taster’s Choice that she’d scrounged out of an MRE, she quipped, “I was mentally prepared
for a world without electricity, or refrigeration, or gasoline. I was ready for the rioting, the worthless greenbacks, and the umpteen uncertainties. But life without French Roast? Now that’s a tragedy of epic proportions.”

  The monotony of winter, with its interminably boring and chilly shifts of LP/OP duty, was broken on the afternoon of February twelfth. Dan Fong was on duty on the LP/OP. He called in a terse message on the TA-1: “Deliberate, front. Two men. Armed. Pushing a cart. From the east. Five-hundred meters, moving slowly.”

  All of the members of the group knew the drill. They had practiced both hasty and deliberate ambushes dozens of times in the last three months. Todd, T.K., Mary, Mike, Lisa, and Jeff sprinted down the draw to their positions.

  Kevin and Rose stayed behind to “hold the fort.” Meanwhile, Dan held his position at the LP/OP, which served the double duty of overlooking the ambush site. His job was to take out anyone who tried to maneuver behind and outflank the ambusher’s positions. They had been in their freezing spider holes for what seemed an eternity but was in fact only five minutes when they heard Mike blow his whistle. In unison, they popped their heads and shoulders out of their holes, and pointed their weapons at the road. Still a cop at heart, Mike yelled:“Freeze, or you’re dead men!”

  Ten minutes earlier, two young men, one tall and angular, the other short and overweight, were trudging along the county road at a snail’s pace. Both carried heavy packs, and it was the short man’s turn to push the cart. He whined, “David, my pack’s too heavy and my shoulders are killing me. I’ve just got to get rid of some of this weight.”

  “Just shut up and deal with it, Larry,” the tall man replied. “You’re always complaining. Do you hear me complain? My pack’s just as heavy as yours.”

  They continued down the road. The only sounds were the crunch of the frozen gravel beneath their feet, and the steady rhythm of their breathing.

  Approaching a side road that looked like dozens of others they had passed before, they heard a shrill whistle. A moment later, four men and two women armed with riot shotguns and assault rifles sprang as if by magic from underneath the “junk” by the side of the road.

  When ordered to freeze, they did exactly as they were told. “Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot!” Larry exclaimed, as he dropped the handle of the cart.

  “Drop the rifles!” Mike Nelson ordered. Without hesitating, Larry and David shrugged their slung rifles off of their shoulders, sending them clattering to the frozen ground. “Now the packs,” Nelson commanded. They complied just as quickly. With a flick of the muzzle of his rifle, Mike gestured and said,

  “Now you—the gun belt.” It too hit the ground with an unceremonious thud.

  “Put your hands on top of your heads and step back five paces, then kneel upright.” They followed Nelson’s command. Once they were on their knees, Mike added, “Now cross one leg over the other.”

  “We’re just refugees, we don’t mean any harm. We’re just passing through,” David cried feebly.

  “That remains to be seen.”Without turning his head, Nelson ordered, “Jeff! Frisk them.”

  With that, Trasel set down his Remington riotgun, and jumped out of his spider hole at the far west end of the kill zone. He then circled behind the two “refugees.”

  Trasel methodically searched the two men. He even had them take off their boots. All that he discovered in his search were some empty candy wrappers, one pack of cigarettes, a twenty-round Mini-14 magazine loaded with hollow point ammunition, a disposable lighter, two pocket knives, and two spoons.

  Neither man carried a wallet. Jeff threw the contents of their pockets into a pile a good distance away from the two men. “They’re clean now,” Jeff reported, as he stepped aside.

  By a prearranged SOP, Mike and T.K. got out of their positions shortly after Jeff got back into his. T.K. questioned the two strangers while Mike began to search their gear. “Where are you from, guys?” T.K. asked with a friendly voice.

  “Denver!” blurted out Larry.

  “Denver, huh? That’s a long way off. You didn’t walk all that way, did you?”

  “No, we drove until we couldn’t find gas, and ran out. We’ve been on foot for more than a month. Look, we’re not looking for any hassles. If it’s money you’re after, David and I can give you some. Just let us go!”

  “We’re not interested in your money, or your possessions—we don’t steal from anyone—we’re just interested in fully knowing your intentions,” T.K. retorted. He breathed deeply and went on, “Now then, we are going to find out just what you are up to….”

  David broke in, “That’s not your job. You don’t—you don’t—have any right to take the law into your own hands.”

  “The only law left, at least around here, is in the chamber of this little persuader,” T.K. mused, patting the top handguard of his CAR-15.

  Mike looked at their guns first. One rifle was a Remington Model 700 bolt-action chambered in .270 Winchester. It was equipped with a three-to-nine power adjustable Leupold scope. The other rifle was a Ruger Mini-14, loaded with what appeared to be a forty-round magazine. Mike had never seen a magazine for a Mini-14 of such prodigious capacity before. He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled to himself, “I suppose it would work, but how would you get into a good prone position using it? How useless.”

  The handgun, which was still strapped into a fancy tooled western style holster, appeared at first to be a Colt .45 “Peacemaker.” On closer inspection, it was in fact an original Colt single action, but chambered in .357 magnum. It had a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. Mike had once read that some “third generation” Colt single actions were made in .357, but he had heretofore not yet encountered one. All three of the guns were fully loaded. Next, Mike shifted his attention to the packs.

  For a few uncomfortable moments, T.K. stood exchanging nervous glances with the two strangers. Their gaze was broken when Mike exclaimed, “Holy crud, look at this.” He held up two baseball shaped grenades that he had found in the outer pockets of one of the packs. He closely examined the yellow markings on the green painted grenades. “These are live frags all right. There’s six of them here. Four of them are still in cardboard shipping tubes with the paper tape seals intact.”

  “What are we going to do, Mikey, call the BAT-Fags on them?” T.K. asked with a chuckle. After a few moments, he added, “I suppose if they didn’t rob or kill anybody to get them, there’s no law left to say that they can’t have a half a dozen ’lil old M26 frags. What else do they have in those packs?”

  Mike let out a slow whistle as he poured out a large jumble of coins, wristwatches, gold chains, rings, and bracelets from a heavy sack. He gave a brief, matter-of-fact inventory. “They’ve got the whole gamut here. Silver dollars, Krugerrands, Pandas, Maple Leafs, a couple of Platinum Isle of Man Nobles, and a Platinum Koala. The watches look like they are mainly Rolexes and Tag Heuers. A lot of ’em still have price tags hanging on them.”

  With an odd lilt to his voice, T.K. asked, “I suppose that you’re going to tell me that you owned all that stuff before the Schumer hit the fan? Let me guess… you were in the jewelry business.”

  “Look, look, we can explain, we found all that….” Larry said, peevishly.

  T.K. frowned.

  “Shut up, Larry,” David muttered under his breath.

  In a sharper voice, Kennedy mocked, “Oh no, let’s let Larry tell us where you ‘found’ all those valuables.”

  Silence.

  “Where were you two heading?”

  More silence.

  “All right, step back from the road toward me five paces and sit down. Leave your hands on your heads. We’re going to have us a little talk,” T.K. said.

  The two strangers did as they were told. T.K. backed up at the same time, so that the strangers would not close the distance that divided them. After the two men had sat down on the ground, T.K lowered himself into a squat, with his CAR-15 resting across his knees. Watching these proceedings, Mary
leaned over to Todd in the hole next to hers, and commented, “There’s nothing lower than looters.”

  Todd replied with a nod.

  Mike, still digging through the two strangers’ packs, started reeling off an inventory of ammunition that he had found:“Two and a half boxes of .270, a bandoleer of 5.56 mm ball, about forty rounds of .357 magnum, ten rounds of .38 special bird shot, and six loaded twenty-round mags for the Mini-14.

  Three of them are loaded with ball, the other three are loaded with hollow points.” Next, he held up and waved six English copies of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. Nelson commented dryly, “Looks like these two are a little leftward leaning.”

  “Are you communists?” T.K. asked.

  Larry nodded yes, while David nodded no.

  T.K. spat out, “Let’s get our act together, shall we? If you can’t give me straight answers, we might just have to trade off and question you in continuous shifts. It might get a bit cold out here tonight.”

  “We’re both party members,” Larry announced. “We joined in college….”

  “Shut up, Larry,” David cursed again, louder this time.

  “Oh no, let Larry talk. If you can explain yourselves satisfactorily, we’ll let you go on your merry way, or on your Long March, or whatever it is you want to call it. We aren’t interested in your politics. That is your own business and none of ours. It has no bearing on the determination that we are trying to make,” T.K said.

  Both David and Larry got perceptibly more nervous when Mike shifted his attention away from the backpacks to the cart. It was a typical two-wheeled garden cart, much like the Grays’, equipped with bicycle tires. It was covered by a small blue plastic tarp held down with bungee cords.

  Looking at the cart, David said anxiously, “That’s just our food. You don’t have to search that.”