“What was that last part, about bad things happening?” Nick asked Cody.
“That,” Cody said in a broken voice, “was what Thomas Jefferson said while he was writing the Declaration of Independence.”
“Holy mackerel!”
“Exactly,” Cody answered.
After a long moment Cody stuck his hand in the safe and found a pistol, an older model it seemed, though Cody was completely unfamiliar with firearms. There was a small box of ammunition, apparently for the pistol too. Behind it was a woolen sock filled with what felt like coins. Cody picked it up. It was very heavy. He untied the top of the sock and poured out a few coins. There were old silver dollars from the late 1800s and the early 1900s, mixed with older quarters. These were pure silver, unlike the plated coins of today, and their value had steadily risen over the past decades. Three additional heavy socks, equally filled, rested on the bottom of the safe.
“Jack must have been saving these coins for a long time,” Cody said.
“Apparently,” Nick said.
“I’m going to leave this stuff here for now. We need to go to the police,” Cody said in an urgent tone. He put the socks and pistol back in the safe, locked it with the key, and tossed the blankets on top. He slid the key in his pocket, and then also put the letter in his pocket.
Both men looked at each other. “This shouldn’t have happened,” Nick said with a twist of rage in his voice.
“Damn straight,” Cody said. “Somebody needs to do something about this.”
Chapter 7
Somebody was doing something about it.
Two hundred eighty heavily armed troopers stood motionless awaiting their orders at the command center. The new regional high school five miles on the outskirts of the city was an ideal headquarters for this small district. It had been commandeered at the start of the event, not a full day earlier. All the facility’s ingress-egress ports were easily guarded. It was far enough from the main population area to be tightly secured. The building and parking lots were large enough to accommodate the massive number of transports and detainees that were expected. It was the perfect facility with only one way in and one way out.
The soldiers were geared up for action with their semi-automatic AK-47 assault rifles and SIG P226 Elite side arms. They wore all black, cold-weather uniforms and were protected by full-body Kevlar vests and Blackhawk ballistic Kevlar helmets different from any military garb ever seen on the street. The uniforms showed no forms of identification. There were no badges or shields or emblems or patches of recognition. There were no signs of rank attached to their sleeves or lapels or helmets. And of course there were no name tags.
They weren’t the usual security type personnel hired by banks or research buildings whose purpose was mainly as a visual deterrent to potential illicit behavior. They weren’t regular soldiers ready to fight for and defend their nation. They weren’t National Guard weekend warriors working outside their zones. They weren’t part of local police forces who had taken oaths to serve and protect their citizenry.
These professional units were hired for one thing, and one thing only.
The forces comprised of well-trained, rogue American soldiers and a much larger, but less qualified, foreign militia. The Americans were well compensated for their services. Most of them were active duty military soldiers, the ones who had, for selfish reasons, broken away from their main corps whose purpose was to protect the nation.
Others were hard cases, disgruntled retired veterans who had, in their opinion, been done a great disservice by their government, either through neglect or outright disregard. The rest of the Americans were reassigned law enforcement officers who had figured the odds and moved to the dark side. These men had no allegiance to their country. They were loyal only to the people who paid them. They had forsaken their oaths to defend their native land in turn for the chance to alter the nation’s path with the possibility of getting rich.
The foreign troops, imported under the guise of international cooperative training programs underwritten through subversive treaties, came from various countries around the world. They numbered nearly half a million, surreptitiously hidden from the general population in various preparation stations throughout the country.
The largest contingency of imported militia was from China. Most of which were low level communist soldiers anxious to fight the White Devil and eager to make more than two dollars a day. Their homeland government had worked out a deal to supply second rate troops to the new American forces in return for future agreed upon favors and rights in the fertile western states.
Brigades of Russian troops similarly transported to secluded Army bases had gladly taken up arms against their American counterparts. They too were determined to wipe out their decadent foe with the assurance of getting rich doing it. Other employed militia enticed with the promise of amnesty and untold entitlements included tens of thousands of undocumented soldiers from south of the border. They willingly joined the private ranks to battle the soft and rich residents they were assigned to gather.
There were several advantages of using foreign troops. They took orders well from their American superiors, expecting their just rewards in the end. They worked extremely cheaply when compared
to American soldiers or experienced ‘for hire’ mercenaries. They could be vicious in the field, and having no loss of love for their target population, they had no second thoughts about brutalizing their marks.
Plus, and most beneficial to those in charge, these blended misfits were ultimately easily expendable when the proper time came.
The soldiers’ mission was to clear the entire district of all citizens known to have harbored unpopular opinions against the newly established leadership. There were many to be dealt with. Tens of thousands resided in this tiny southwestern district alone. Having been secretly monitored and scrutinized by various ‘national security’ agencies, some for many years, most of the people here were on the dreaded list, though, without their knowledge.
The infamous list is quite extensive. It had been devised by various governmental agencies whose main focus is to identify extremists and potential terrorists, both foreign and domestic. The inclusive and exhaustive list, backed by newly signed laws under the wide auspices of national security, covers all partisan sectors of the population. Conservatives, right-wingers, constitutionalists, gun owners, educators, business owners, and Christians are among the most watched over.
Fort Huachuca, the sister city of Sierra Vista, and surrounding towns are located in the southern portion of what is officially referred to as FEMA Region 9. Arizona, Nevada, and California make up this geographic region of the continental United States. The Federal Emergency Management Agency had been established back in 1978 under guidelines which differed today. Its main mission was to respond to natural disasters in the U.S. and attempt to aid those citizens affected by the disasters. All told, ten regions in the country were established for similar purposes.
But, like many official government agencies, FEMA’s function had been drastically changed. In 2003, FEMA was absorbed by the newly established Department of Homeland Security, altering its fundamental mission. National security had become its mainstay.
The projected numbers of dissidents is unusually high in this corner of Region 9 due to the strong affiliation with Fort Huachuca, home to a major military intelligence contingency and the Electronic Proving Ground. The base is the economic anchor of the large county, and as such, controls the financial viability of the area. The huge Army base is situated at the foot of the Huachuca Mountains near the
southern tip of the Rockies, a picturesque area not far from Mexico. Established in the 1880s, the post had over the years become a key military facility focused on national defense and an attractive spot to thousands of retired veterans and their families. Because of the close proximity to the military facilities and its services available to those who had served, many ex-service men and women reside in Sierra Vista, the mid-s
ize city located just outside the fort’s main gate.
It is generally recognized that most military personnel, retired and active, tend to be loyal to the older form of national allegiance. They had devoted their lives to their beloved country. They had served and were wounded and many died for the principles they believed in. They were patriots of their nation, aligned in the truths which they had been taught and learned and respected. They believed in the sovereignty of their country and the greatness of their homeland. Not lightly, they had taken oaths to protect this country of theirs from all enemies, both foreign and domestic.
And so, they were considered suspicious and dangerous.
These sons and daughters of America had an obsessive disposition toward national pride, historical integrity, and self-reliance. Despite any personal differences, as a group they would stand tall to protect their country. That was the main reason they were targeted out as potential opponents to the good of the new leadership’s agenda, what some would call the New World Order. They were essentially all on the list held by those in charge.
The combat ready troops at the high school knew what their orders were and exactly what was expected of them. Their training for this event had been intense and clear. Their task wasn’t so much to defend and protect as it was to intimidate and secure. Their job was to aid in changing the face of America, no matter at what costs. All forms of aggression were considered acceptable to the end.
They were called to order, about to enter the first phase of the new nationwide offense. Operation Rescue was prepared to kick off. The people of this small community, just like thousands of others throughout the United States of America, would soon learn of the sweeping changes to come.
Chapter 8
Cody and Nick looked at the bodies of their neighbors, Jack and Edith, frozen as one into eternity. The men slowly backed out of the house. Nick snuffed out the candles in the front room with his fingers. Cody pulled the front door shut and drew it tight enough to stay closed. Later he would return to gather the items which Jack had left him.
It was mid-morning, the sun remained hidden behind the storm clouds, and the cold seemed to worsen.
“You ready?” Cody asked Nick.
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s go.”
Cody looked over at his house. Robin was looking out the living room window through the drawn curtain. She smiled and waved at her husband and he waved back. In a few hours this whole fiasco should be over and done with, he said to himself. Soon he’d be enjoying a nice turkey dinner with his family.
The two walked up the road toward the top of the hill. They had a long hike to the police station. It could take an hour or longer to get there. The sidewalk was slippery in places and the persistent cold wind didn’t make it any easier to navigate their way.
“That was horrible back there,” Nick said.
Cody didn’t say a word. It was more than horrible. It was disconcerting. A lot of questions began working their way into his mind. Why did Jack and his wife have to die? The answer was, they didn’t. Why did he have a gun and all those silver coins? Maybe he was paranoid or just cautious. Why did he leave them all to him? Cody didn’t believe Jack and Edith had any children. And what did Jack mean in his cryptic message? What was all that about this being bad times and terrible people and protecting his family? Why were these bad times? And who were the terrible people?
The old man was losing it, Cody thought.
The men reached the top of the hill. They would head north at the Coronado intersection up to the main road. Several cars were parked haphazardly in the middle of the street and along the curbs. The drivers must have lost power when the blackout hit. The cars were simply abandoned where they had died, blocking the streets from all directions.
Up ahead, Cody could see Coronado Drive. It was usually thick with traffic, but this morning he didn’t see or hear any. Well, it was Thanksgiving morning, he thought.
“This feels strange,” Nick said.
“Very peculiar,” Cody replied.
At the corner of the intersection he looked both ways. There were dozens of deserted vehicles scattered everywhere. Some had their car hoods open. A city police car with its driver’s side door still open, rested at an awkward angle against the sidewalk.
“Very peculiar,” Cody repeated himself.
He saw a couple of people bound in overcoats and wrapped in blankets walking north toward town. Cody nodded at one of them as he passed. He and Nick weren’t the only ones searching for answers. The two men walked without speaking, their hands jammed deep in their jacket pockets, their faces looking downward for ice slicks. Their ears and noses were red from the cold. Their eyes squinted nearly shut as if to stay warm. Puffs of hot vapor escaped their mouths as they continued.
Cody’s mind returned to Jack’s letter. The old man had written that Cody should know about past events being ignored because he was a history teacher. It was as if Jack was chastising him for allowing
something to happen. What exactly did the old man mean by that? Cody had an idea, but he didn’t really want to accept the truth.
The most pressing thing that bothered Cody about the letter, however, was the quote Jack had written. “Bad things happen when good men do nothing.” Cody had taught that actual Jefferson passage in his history classes. He had skimmed over it along with many other
pertinent sayings attributed to great American leaders. Washington, Franklin, Adams, Hancock, Jefferson, and more. He had glided over significant historical events in American history in a perfunctory manner. Names, places, events, dates. Mere lists of information required to pass the course.
That was the kind of history he had been teaching his students. But Cody knew there was something much more than plain facts taken from a text book. He was bothered by what Jack had written and what he had been reminded of.
By this time they had walked over a mile.
“The traffic lights are out up ahead,” Nick mumbled. “The blackout is wider than we expected.”
“Let’s keep going,” Cody said. “We’ll go to Safeway farther up. Maybe they have electricity.” The cold wasn’t affecting him as much now. Maybe because his ears were numb and he was still thinking about that damn letter in his pocket.
Once they reached the intersection of Coronado and Golf Links a loud noise caught their attention. It sounded like an engine on a sick lawnmower. In the morning overcast they saw two lights coming down the street going too fast for the slick road conditions. It was a car, or a truck, or some odd shaped vehicle. Headlights were weaving around abandoned cars stranded on the street like it was moving through an old pinball machine. The vehicle drew closer and hit the corner barely slowing down.
Cody and Nick jumped from the sidewalk to get out of the way from the reckless driver. It was a van and it swerved sharply and slid onto the walkway, stopping inches from the astonished men. The vehicle was one of those old Volkswagen bus vans. It had once been painted a two-tone green and white. But that was at least fifty years ago, back in its heyday as a hippie mobile. The side panels were beat to hell and several windows were held in place with layers of duct tape.
The driver manually rolled down his side window. “Whoa, dude! That was intense! Hope I didn’t freak you out. Friggin’ brakes need a tune-up.” Earsplitting noise from an ancient eight-track tape player filled the van and drowned out what he was saying. “You guys okay?” the driver asked.
Cody and Nick couldn’t hear a word this crazy dude was mouthing. The driver finally figured it out.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.” He stretched over and lowered the music to a less piercing level. “Hey! You dudes want a ride?” he asked.
The two understood and nodded.
“Well, hop right in,” the driver said. “Use the back door, the side ones don’t work. And don’t mind the crap inside. I’ve been meaning to clean it up.”
Cody and Nick jumped into the back and crawled forward over piles of boxes and
clothes cluttering the inside of the stripped out van. Cody climbed over the bench seat and sat down. Nick found a solid box in the back and sat on it close to the front. The men introduced themselves to the odd driver. The heater was cranking in its attempt to keep the van warm, but it was losing the battle.
“Thanks,” Cody said. “Damn cold outside.”
“Friggin’ glacial dude. Been tooling around town all morning, checking out the scene. It’s wild, man. My name’s Zeke, but my close friends call me LuNar.”
Zeke must have been in his mid-sixties. He had a long gray ponytail, a scraggly white-gray beard, and a crazy look in his eyes. He wore a baseball cap emblazon with ‘PEACE’ on the front and a vintage Army fatigue jacket from the Vietnam War era.
The first thing Cody thought of was this weirdo was a remnant from the free-spirited, make-love-not-war days of the 1960s. LuNar was an appropriate name for this senior whacko on the loose. Cody and Nick introduced themselves as they tried to rub some life back into their ears. As they began warming up they could smell a distinct, though faint, smell of marijuana inside the van.
“Nice to meet you,” Zeke said. He steered his way back onto the road and drove north along Coronado Drive. “Where you dudes headed to?”
Nick told Zeke their plans to reach the police station to figure out what was going on and find out if help was on its way.
“Haven’t seen a single car on the road. Not one that’s running, anyway,” Zeke commented. “Friggin’ weird, man. No lights, no traffic, no nothing.”
Cody had to stop him. “Ah…Zeke. How is it that no other cars are working in this entire area, but your van is?”
“Oh, that,” the old hippie said, as if it was obvious. “Betsy’s an oldie. She’s…”
“Betsy?” Nick interrupted.
“Yeah man,” he said patting the top of the dashboard with tender loving care. “This is my girl. Might not look pretty right now, but she’s special.”
Treasonous Behavior- in the Beginning Page 6