"Looks like this one's underground too," Lowboy said.
"I hope it's deeper than a missile can penetrate.” Gwen said.
"Actually, it is," Porter replied. "This facility was finished very recently and, in this location, we had the advantage of being able to tunnel deep into solid granite. We also have blast doors installed. This facility is designed to be able to withstand a strike from as many as four bunker buster missiles or a tactical nuke and remain intact. In fact, it is more secure than the bunker under the White House."
"How much did this cost?” Gwen asked.
"I am not sure," Porter said. "However, I suspect it was upwards of $400 million. Most of the materials and labor were donated by patriots, and some of the material was liberated from certain government contracts."
"Man, that's still a lot of money," Lowboy said. "I doubt that I've ever made even a few hundred thousand in my entire lifetime."
"Neither have I," Porter laughed. "I think you folks are going to like it here. We have a good crew."
Jonas stepped up to the table at the firing line. Carefully controlling the queasiness in his belly, he picked up the single barrel shotgun. It was a commonly available model that was still made in the USA. Jonas thought that this model would be simple to copy and put into production in any modern machine shop. He had plans to do just that, with a few improvements. Of course, he thought, any type of shotgun could be used to launch his remote controlled mini-missile bombs. Jonas was planning on testing the system with a pump shotgun later. The advantage of a pump shotgun would be that the patriot had the option of quickly firing several normal shotgun rounds if he or she needed to defend himself or herself immediately after firing the missile. Or, the special rounds could be loaded into the magazine and several mini-missiles fired very quickly.
He inserted a specially modified 12 gauge round into the chamber and snapped the gun closed. The round he dropped into the chamber acted like the first stage of a two stage rocket. Its entire purpose was to launch the mini-missile into the air so that the built in rocket could then take it toward the target. Once in the air, it could be guided by remote control using the built-in camera, or encrypted GPS coordinate signals sent back to the controller.
Next Jonas picked up the mini-missile and carefully slid it down the barrel. There was a small magnet at the base of the missile and another on the end of the cartridge that held the missile inside the barrel until it was fired. That way, any patriots using the system wouldn't have to worry about dropping the missile out of the barrel. However, Jonas still needed to replace the small permanent magnets he had used with electro-magnets and put a battery system and controller into the stock of the shotgun. The electro-magnets would make the missile easier to unload. For now, once loaded, the missile had to be fired. It could not be unloaded. The mini-missile controller was just a joystick device sitting on the table in front of him.
Taking a moderately careful aim at the target almost a mile away, Jonas pulled the trigger. The shock against his shoulder surprised him and hurt much more than he thought it would. This was the first time he had ever fired a gun in his life. The missile streaked toward the target as the built-in rocket engine fired some 200 feet from where Jonas was standing. Jonas quickly handed the shotgun to Porter and picked up the controller. On the video screen Jonas could see what the miniature camera in the missile saw as it approached the target. The missile could be guided with the joystick and Jonas now used the joystick to put the missile right on target. The explosion as the missile struck the target was huge. The sound would have damaged everyone’s ears if they were not wearing hearing protection. The ground roll from the explosion was noticeable under their feet, but not quite enough to disturb their balance.
Jonas smiled. The super-high-explosives in the mini-missile were of his own design. A few grams of his new explosive had the explosive force of ten sticks of dynamite and was safer to carry than anything presently on the market. The mini-missiles could each carry 276 grams of the new explosives, although, depending on intended use, it was unlikely every missile would need to carry the maximum payload of explosives.
"That was a success," Myrtle said from the sidelines. I got it all on film too.” He said holding a video camera up in the air. "We can splice the video from the missile with that and send it to John and Lorne."
"Now that is a shotgun," Lowboy said. "That will fix those FTSP goons for sure."
Jonas was lost in thought and didn't hear a word that any of the others said. He was already designing in his head the modifications he would make before the system was ready to put into production. Like Nikola Tesla, he could clearly see his designs in three-dimensional color in his mind's eye. He was confident he could have the design to the machine shop by late that evening. He would request one more prototype for testing and then he was sure that they would be able to put the system into production. He was also inordinately proud of the fact he had, for the first time, managed to fire a gun. Lowboy had helped him a lot by suggesting he think of the gun as just a big firecracker launcher. As silly as that sounded, it seemed to have worked.
Jonas had designed the system so that almost no training was needed to operate it—it was almost fool proof. Jonas did not believe that anything was truly fool proof because fools often seemed to do the impossible without even knowing it. Anyone who had ever played a video game and fired a shotgun would be able to use the system easily, though.
The next version would look exactly like an unmodified single barrel shotgun, with the batteries and fold out controller built into a compartment in the stock. As far as he knew, single shot firearms were still legal for hunters to use. He had heard a few comments about some declaration by the president about some kind of coming gun confiscation, but he never bothered himself with that sort of stuff. He was far too busy designing technology that he hoped would put his patriots on an equal footing with the feds.
Chapter 22: THE BATTLE
"An idiot is someone who believes a politician's promise.” John Debrouillard
Washington, D.C.
Mr. President. We have identified a target town in North Carolina for gun confiscation."
The president stood slowly and turned to face the secretary. "Tell me more about this town."
"Yes Mr. President, Sir. The town is named Bent Pine. It has a population of 2,705. The median income is $27,000 per year. It is difficult to know how many guns the residents of the town have, but there seem to be only a few hunters and no shooting range near the town. Based on the relatively low median income, we surmise that very few of the residents have been able to purchase semi-automatic, high capacity rifles. Therefore, we suspect that few citizens will be able to provide much resistance.”
"Also, the houses in the town are fairly well spread out, with only a few close concentrations of housing units, so that when our people strike there will be few close neighbors to realize what is happening and try to assist their neighbors."
"The town is also located between two mountains and was built between the river and a mountainside. There is only one major highway running through the town, so it will be easy for us to close off access at both ends of the town once we occupy it. We should be able to control the situation very easily"
"That sounds reasonable," the president said. "What percentage of the people in this town voted for me?"
"Almost none, Mr. President," the secretary said. "The town is very conservative and so is the state. You did not even carry the state."
"Good," the president smiled. "Will 5000 men be enough? We want to make sure this goes our way."
"Yes Sir, Mr. President," the secretary nodded his head. "I believe it will be more than enough. Our people are trained in clearing houses and have the aptitude for this. We are using DIS people exclusively. No one who has ever sworn an oath to defend the Constitution will be involved in this operation, only those who have sworn an oath of fealty to you, personally. We are also backing up our people on the ground with helicopte
rs and drones. This will be a bloodbath for any citizens who resist or own guns."
"What about the local police force?” The president asked.
"They will not be informed. On the website of the town the local sheriff states that he is a constitutional supporter. I suspect he and his staff will not survive the strike."
"Excellent," the president said. "Be sure to collect some videos for me."
"Yes Sir. As always Sir," the secretary nodded.
Bent Pine, North Carolina
Tom Coy sat high on the mountainside with his binoculars. Tom was 31 years old, a fit and recently mustered out army veteran with two tours in Iraq and two tours in Afghanistan. He had been a sniper.
He was now a member of the Bent Pine militia. Today, as usual, he wasn't wearing his militia uniform. His scoped .308 Winchester leaned against the tree beside him as he periodically scanned the highway that led into town. This was boring work, but the town and the militia had decided only nine days ago that it should be done because the sheriff had a friend in the current administration who warned him that something might be coming his way. Tom's employer, the owner of the local lumberyard, had kept him on full pay for sentry duty and the owner himself was in the yard right now running the forklift that Tom usually ran. Tom now had sentry duty three days a week.
The local sheriff, Merle, was now in his late sixties or early seventies and was a Marine Corps veteran who had served three tours of duty in Vietnam. Merle had been wounded twice and Tom knew he had been awarded a silver star, even though he had never heard Merle mention it, or anything else about the Vietnam War for that matter. What he knew he had learned from his boss at the lumberyard.
Merle, and the leaders of the militia, which included the mayor, were worried about the government. There had been much talk of gun confiscation in Congress of late, and they were concerned that it might come to pass. And then of course, there was the recent illegal executive order from the president stating that he was banning all civilian firearms in the U.S. Apparently, few, if any, in Bent Pine were willing to give up their guns. Tom had sworn an oath as a military officer to defend the Constitution from all enemies, both foreign and domestic, and he was not willing to give up his second amendment rights either.
The mayor was also worried about the possibility of an economic collapse and eventual martial law being declared. He, as were the rest of the militia, was determined that no federal police would ever be needed, or even allowed in Bent Pine. The mayor felt that having militia sentries keeping an eye on the approaches to Bent Pine made sense, especially since he and the city council had started to stockpile food and supplies (including guns and ammunition) for the citizens of the town and county just in case.
With the talk coming out of Washington, the mayor said he wouldn't be surprised if the feds might even come after Bent Pine's stockpile of food someday, even though everything had been purchased for cash and very quietly. Worst case, he thought, having sentries wouldn't hurt a thing.
When Tom mustered out of the army, he didn't know what to do with himself. The civilian world now seemed strange, and somehow unreal to him. He had horrible nightmares almost every night. There were two nightmares that were often repeated. The first one was where he was hunting in the woods and there were many small white bunnies hopping around. Since he was squirrel hunting, he ignored them, although he wondered what they were doing there. At some point in the dream, the fluffy white bunnies morphed into resistance fighters and started shooting at him. When he tried to return fire with his double-barreled 20-gauge shotgun he found that he had no ammunition. It was at that point that he usually woke up in a cold sweat with the sheet and mattress under him drenched and frigid.
The other dream was one in which everyone he passed on the street had the face of one of the people he had shot in his official duties as a sniper during his four tours of duty. Every time he awoke from this nightmare he threw up. He slowly lost weight until he looked to be a pale ghost of his former muscular 210 pounds on a five-eleven frame.
After only a month at home with his parents, he just up and left one day and set out aimlessly across the country in his Jeep CJ5. He had no destination in mind. He just wanted to get away from the home that now seemed so strange and the people he could no longer talk to, even though he loved them as much now as he had when he left. He thought that it was probably a good thing that his fiancée had sent him a Dear John letter a year before he left the Army. He had changed. He knew that. He often wondered if he would ever see the return of his old, happy-go-lucky self.
When he rolled into Bent Pine, he was struck by the beauty and serenity of the town, and how friendly the people were. While having lunch in one of the cafes, Tom met Merle. At first he had answered Merle's questions guardedly, wondering why this small-town sheriff was interested in him. Then, as he learned that Merle was a fellow veteran, he opened up a bit more. Soon he was telling Merle about his war experiences and finally broke down in tears for the first time since he had joined the army. Merle just hugged him and told him that it was going to be all right. Soon one of the older waitresses came over and hugged him too.
They put him up in the spare room at Merle's house. The next day, Merle found him a job at the lumberyard. The owner of the lumberyard was about Merle's age with white hair and a closely trimmed white beard. He showed Tom around and told him that he had been in the service with Merle and that they both understood very well what he was going through.
After working in the lumberyard for six months now, Tom was getting better and had gained weight. The nightmares still came, but with ever-decreasing frequency.
He now had a room in a downtown rooming house. He had no idea that any of these old fashioned rooming houses still existed, but he discovered he loved living there.
He was slowly making friends around town; friends he could talk to, many of whom had served in the military themselves, and many of whom had not, but who still accepted him as he was, without judgment.
What he liked best were the fishing trips to the river where they just sat in comfortable silence and fished. He always brought his catch back to the rooming house where Mrs. Samuels cheerfully fried them up for a meal. The other roomers and Mr. Samuels always thanked him for catching the fish.
No one even minded the fact that he kept his guns in his room. In fact, Mr. Samuels even offered to clean them for him if he didn't have the time.
So far, today had been just as boring as every other day Tom had spent on sentry duty. He was at one of the five sentry posts that the town was now keeping manned 24 hours a day. The mayor even provided night vision goggles for those on the night shift.
It was a beautiful, clear morning with a tangy chill in the air. It wouldn't be too long before was too cold for the fishing trips, but Merle had promised to take Tom deer hunting, and he was looking forward to that.
Tom heard the sound before he saw them. At first it seemed to be a single helicopter approaching town from the east above the highway. The sound was too loud for a single helicopter though. When he looked through the binoculars he saw that there was a line of black helicopters—a long line of black helicopters—headed toward Bent Pine. Tom was on the radio in a flash.
"Merle, This is Tom, over."
A few seconds later, "What's up Tom?"
"We have a line of black helicopters coming in from the east along the highway. There are also a lot of armored trucks and black vans coming along the highway towards Bent Pine. It looks like there are also some sort of drone transport trucks, kind of like we used overseas for smaller drones."
"Roger that, Tom. Are you sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure."
"How many men do you think and who are they?"
"I am guessing over a thousand, and I can't even see the end of the convoy yet. There could be several times that many. I think they are feds. I didn't even know there were that many of them."
"Well, I guess that fucker in the White House was serious when he said he w
anted his own million-man-army right here in the United States."
"It sure looks that way. Do you think they are coming after us, or just passing through?” Tom asked.
"I don't know. I have Betty here in the dispatcher's office calling the feds right now. We better assume they are hostile, but we need to let them fire the first shot just to be sure. Damned if I know why they are here. We are going to block the highway and I will meet them and ask who they are and what they are doing in my county. Jimmy is headed up there to relieve you right now. Can you take a position to cover us at the roadblock? We are setting up by the junkyard. I will take my hat off if it goes hot. If you see that, fire at will."
"Got you covered, Friend," Tom said. He looked back down the trail and he saw Jimmy drive up in a cloud of dust near where Tom had parked his Jeep. Tom picked up his rifle and pack and trotted down the trail to meet Jimmy.
Jimmy was carrying his deer rifle as well, and waved to Tom when he saw him. Jimmy was a deputy and was still wearing his uniform.
"It looks like some deep shit coming," Tom said.
"Feds?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"I don't trust those greedy bastards as far as I could throw a tank," Jimmy smiled and spat a wad of chewing tobacco at the ground.
Tom waved and ran to his Jeep.
Kansas City, Missouri
Lorne entered John's office and walked up behind him. John was concentrating on various maps and government documents and didn't hear him come into the room. Lorne put his hand on John's shoulder. "John, there is major trouble in Bent Pine, North Carolina. We have to go there now. The feds are attacking the town."
"It is most likely a preemptive gun confiscation move on the part of the president," John said. "That is his style."
"The grace period in his executive order isn't even over yet," Toni said from where she was standing behind Lorne.
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