Fall, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
Though the oak and pine trees were thirty to sixty feet tall, there was much foliage that served to make Jeff Kreig nearly invisible. He was looking across a small clearing that started just a few feet from where he knelt, and extended some thirty yards before the woods and brush became dense again. The trees were full, and though the sun was brilliant that day, and high in the sky, the entire clearing was engulfed in shade. All around birds chirped in a symphony-like cadence. Overhead, two squirrels scurried from branch to branch.
Jeff Kreig was a boyish twenty-two, though he usually demonstrated the maturity of someone thirty-five. At five feet ten inches and 170 pounds, with a square jaw, blond hair, blue eyes, and a handsome face accented by his muscular build and thick neck, he had a composed presence that masked his frequently comic and occasionally angry moods. His hands, though large and strong—he could easily match the handshake of men twice his size—were surprisingly nimble.
Jeff inhaled deeply. From the pungent aroma of the tallest white pine, to the delicate perfume of the tiniest apple blossom—everywhere was the sweet fragrance of life and beauty.
For a moment his conscience objected to the irony that his intent, his purpose, his great effort, was to kill.
The thought quickly passed. He could see his prey through the trees.
Jeff’s pulse quickened. His muscles tightened. His breathing became rapid and deeper. Relax, he told himself.
Hours on the practice range. Several books on tactics and methodology. Months of anticipation. Days of preparations. Hundreds of dollars on lodging and greasy spoon meals. And hours of stealthy movement through this wood. All for this moment.
His prey took one more step and was standing at the far edge of the clearing—in the apparent belief that there was adequate cover.
It was time to kill.
Carefully, Jeff raised his left arm, making sure to not stir any of the brush that surrounded him—any visible or audible movement could warn his prey. Simultaneously, he drew back his right hand toward his right ear. The arrow’s razor-sharp point glistened in a thin band of sunlight that pierced the overhead tree cover. A drop of perspiration snaked its way down his forehead to his eyebrow, where it filtered through and spilled into his right eye. The salty tear stung. He fought the urge to blink.
Jeff’s muscles easily pulled the eighty pounds of tension in the compound bow. At close to 350 feet per second, the arrow would cover the distance in less than a second. If properly aimed, it would rip into its target with all of its force concentrated on its razor-sharp edges. If unimpeded by bone, the arrow could slash all the way through the body and emerge out the other side.
Jeff trained the arrow at the precise location that was necessary to strike directly in the center of the breast—now! He let the arrow fly.
The combined sounds of the vibrating bow cord and the acceleration of the arrow raced to the target about three times faster than the arrow itself. Instantly sensing danger, the victim’s eyes darted toward the sounds.
He looked right at Jeff. His eyes were big, watery, and sullen.
The arrow plunged into the center of deer’s chest and its eyes went wide in confusion. A moment later its nervous system registered the damage. The leg muscles gave way and the deer collapsed to the ground.
“You got him!” Miles said, his voice piercing the quiet of the deep woods.
Jeff swallowed hard. “I guess so.”
“Gee, don’t sound so excited. Did you see? He looked right at you!”
That, of course, was the problem.
The image of the deer’s eyes was seared into his mind. He had wondered how he would feel with his first kill. Target shooting had been a blast—he liked the silent power of archery. But he had never been into firearms hunting like so many of his buddies, or like his dad. And this was his first try at bow hunting. Perhaps it would be his last.
Jeff’s absence from the hunting ranks had never been due to any dislike of guns or killing an animal. It was principally due to the fact that deer season, which is THE hunting season in Michigan, occurred along side the wrestling season. He had been cutting weight and training in an all-consuming sport right up until he finished his second year of community college. Now, however, Jeff’s stomach was telling him that killing did not agree with him. Maybe it had been a good thing to be so involved in wrestling.
“Looks like an eight-pointer Jeff! Come on! Let’s make sure he’s dead.” Miles pushed his way through the underbrush and into the clearing.
Jeff hesitated. He had thought about the possibility that his first shot might not kill the deer. That possibility was now real, and those beseeching eyes suddenly became terrifying. How could he finish him off? Jeff hadn’t accounted for those damn eyes. A lump began to form in his throat and he thought he might be sick. Reluctantly, he pulled himself up and trudged after Miles. He put one hand to his stomach as he went.
Miles Larson was also twenty-two, but he appeared thirty-five. His hair was already receding and he kept his tight curls cropped close to his head. It was a very mature appearance, with a broad face, chiseled cheekbones, and deep-set eyes that seemed to change color with the surroundings. Where Jeff seemed young and confident, though quite harmless, unless you noticed the muscular neck and subtle signs of strength, Miles looked tough as nails. Just short of six feet tall and 190 pounds, Miles’s shoulders, arms, and thighs bristled with muscles. He frequently wore loose fitting tank tops that accentuated the many hours he spent in the weight room.
When Jeff reached the deer, Miles was already on his knees, working to free the arrow. It had been a perfect shot and the deer was quickly expiring. But there it was—a huge animal still so warm that its body steamed in the cool air. Its chest was heaving, fighting for its last breaths. Christ, Jeff thought, this is a nightmare, a living—no, a dying nightmare.
Jeff shook his head. “I’m done.”
Miles turned away from his efforts with the arrow. “What?”
“I’m never killing anything again.”
“Oh, come on. You’ll get over it once you taste this meat.” Miles went back to work on the arrow. “There, got it.” He raised the bloody arrow as if it were a trophy. There was still bright red flesh trapped in the web of the arrow’s tip.
Jeff’s stomach went sour. “No, really, I think—” A noise caught Jeff’s attention and he stopped speaking in mid-sentence. He turned his head in the direction of—
His heart instantly leapt into his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Miles had also turned and looked up. They were both staring at the business end of a Colt M16A2 gas-operated 5.56 mm automatic assault rifle.
“Who the fuck are you?” whispered the gunman, whose six-foot-four-inch frame towered over the Jeff and Miles. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues, complete with military-style black leather boots.
Jeff’s mind began to race. He and Miles had discussed the fact that they may have inadvertently wandered onto private property. This must be the owner. Crap. This was a big mistake.
On the other hand, Jeff quickly analyzed, a landowner would not likely shoot them on his own property—incriminating blood and guts are not the things one would want strewn about. Yeah, he was probably just bluffing with his… Wait a minute. What in the heck would he be doing with a military assault rifle? This was not making any sense: a nasty-looking gun, a face chiseled out of rock, and eyes that glowed with an eerie coolness… Clearly, this was one mean son-of-a-bitch.
The gunman moved forward and, forming a scarcely visible smile, jammed the barrel of the rifle into Jeff’s chest. The gunman kept a hold on the pistol grip of the m16 as he frisked Jeff with his free hand. Jeff looked down at the gun’s flash suppressor which was pushed into his coat. He could smell gun oil mixed with the faint odor of spent gunpowder.
Already upset from the deer, Jeff now started to feel dizzy and he began to panic. Faced with a deadly threat, his body was inexorably shifting into a fight or flight response. Suddenly, his eyes could see nothing but the gunman—nothing past or to either side—as though everything else ceased to exist. And what he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. Instead of the comforting sounds of rustling trees and the chatter of birds—there was deathly silence.
Jeff shook his head to force his senses back into operation. The gunman smiled, as though he could read Jeff’s mind and knew he was struggling to maintain awareness.
The gunman pulled Jeff’s hunting knife from his belt pouch. Apparently satisfied, the gunman pulled the gun from Jeff’s chest and jammed it likewise into Miles and frisked him.
The gunman stepped back, eyed Miles, and said, “We ought to have a little coon hunt.”
Jeff glanced over and saw Miles’s eyes go big around as silver dollars.
The gunman saw it too, and laughed.
Miles was as still as a granite statue. It seemed as if he might even be holding his breath.
Jeff’s mind was battling to gain awareness—cutting through the panic-induced fog… If that asshole would only put his gun barrel back on Jeff’s chest… In his senior year, Jeff had placed third at the Michigan High School Wrestling Championships. He was still very strong and fast. All he needed was a fraction of a second to grab the barrel and pull the gunman toward him… and then, amazingly, the chance materialized.
The gunman was a bit more relaxed, apparently satisfied that Jeff and Miles were now unarmed. He was standing only a gun’s length away as he again raised the m16 toward Jeff’s chest.
That was all Jeff needed.
As the M16 came up, Jeff reached out with both hands, grasped the barrel, and pulled as hard as he could—away from the gunman, causing the gunman to lose his balance and begin to fall forward. At the same time, Jeff stepped forward, into the fall, and he shot his right arm between the gunman’s legs while he thrust his left arm up to the gunman’s right arm, near the shoulder. He gripped the backside of the gunman’s triceps and pulled down with his left arm at the same time as he thrust up, with his right arm and shoulder, into the gunman’s crotch. The force of Jeff’s move raised the gunman off his feet and, for a moment, suspended him across Jeff’s shoulders, as a fireman would carry someone out of a burning home.
Jeff continued his move by rotating his shoulders—the right, down, and the left, up, the effect of which was to cartwheel the gunman to the ground. The M16, initially extended away from the gunman’s body and held only by his hands and arms, jammed into the turf and twisted out of his grip. It fell harmlessly off to the side.
In competition, Jeff usually followed his fireman’s carry with a reverse half nelson to pin the opponent’s shoulders to the mat. Instead, he threw the gunman to his stomach and promptly drove the gunman’s right arm up behind his back. Jeff slowly raised the gunman’s wrist until the he started writhing in pain. At that point, Jeff knew he had, at least temporarily, resolved the matter. He raised his head away from the gunman’s back as much to get his nose away from the stench of stale cigarettes as to locate Miles.
Miles had grabbed the M16 and had it trained in their general direction, but safely toward the ground. Jeff leaned into the gunman, applying a little more upward pressure on the wrist. It elicited another wince of pain and caused the gunman to arch his back in an attempt to ease the strain on his arm and shoulder.
Jeff tried to sort things out but his heart was pounding between his ears so hard and fast that he could barely think. He leaned a little harder into the gunman. Enough pain and neither would the gunman be able to think clearly.
The problem, Jeff realized, was that once a wrestling match was over, the opponent shook your hand and walked off the mat. This “match” was over. But letting this guy up was going to be a different story. Suddenly Jeff realized that the protrusion he felt around the man’s waist was a holstered gun. It made him wonder…
“Miles, point that thing at this asshole’s head while I check him for another gun.”
“Gladly.” Miles moved closer and put the flash suppressor to the gunman’s temple. Jeff noted, with satisfaction, that Miles had his finger off the trigger but along side the trigger guard. For their high school graduation they both received a week-long training course at the famed GunSite Training Academy—where they were quickly taught that the finger does not go inside the trigger guard unless, and until, a decision has been made to discharge the weapon.
Keeping upward pressure on the gunman’s arm and wrist, Jeff pulled the gun out of the holster at his waist and he began to search.
“Miles!” Sure enough. There was another gun. This one in an ankle holster. Jeff tossed both guns into the bushes several feet away.
“Shit!” Jeff pulled a small radio transmitter from a deep pocket on his pants.
Miles choked, “What if he used that before we got him?”
“He did,” came a voice from the woods.
Miles wheeled around in the direction of the voice. Jeff frantically scanned the bushes but saw nothing.
Again from the woods: “Drop the gun before we blow your head off!”
This time Jeff could tell the voice came from behind Miles, and as Jeff strained to see through the bushes, several men appeared, dressed in the same fatigues as the gunman they had disarmed. Everyone had an M16. They were approaching from all sides.
Miles cast a defeated glance at Jeff and, without further prompting, he let the M16 drop to the ground.
So that was that. Defeat in the instant of victory. Jeff had felt it once before—his senior year at the state-wrestling tournament—in the quarterfinal round against the reigning state champion. He was ahead by one point and he was riding and holding on to the state champion for dear life. Then, just when he thought time must be expiring, he glanced to the scorers’ table and saw the timer throw the towel out to the mat, signaling the end of the match. Jeff recalled the instant surge of triumph. Victory! But then, it happened.
For years Jeff bitterly recalled that towel seeming to move in slow motion as it tumbled through the air. It landed behind the referee and began cartwheeling across the mat. Jeff’s coaches and teammates began screaming at the referee. Time! Unfortunately, at the same instant, the champion executed a perfect reversal and, just as the referee appeared to notice the towel skidding across the mat, his hand flashed two points. Confusion ensued as the champion jumped up and began taunting Jeff and pointing his finger into Jeff’s face.
Now, years later, Jeff had that same sinking feeling. He had lost, again. Except this time, he thought somewhat morbidly, the loss might be that of his life…
One of the men spoke, “Well, look’ey what we got here. A nigger and his friend.” Jeff figured he was the leader.
Another said, “I didn’t think spooks had any brains. But this one was smart enough to toss the gun.” They all laughed.
Jeff counted five men.
The leader motioned his M16 at Jeff. “Why don’t you get off our friend before I shoot your fucking head off.”
Jeff wondered whether that might occur anyhow. Nevertheless, he got up and tried, as he did, to create some space between himself and the man he had taken down. The guy was going to be pretty pissed—and with all of his buddies around—he might come up swinging, or worse.
Jeff felt himself being pulled from behind. He saw black hands wrapped around his waist.
One of the men shouted, “Hey Sambo! Smart of you to pull your friend back. Leonard would probably like to rip his head off!” The armed men laughed.
Leonard stood and began rubbing his right shoulder. “Lets just get these fucks back to the lodge.”
Several of the men nodded in agreement, and one of the men stepped forward. “Just turn around and head toward that clearing and then left along the tree line.” The man motioned the M16 in the direction he wanted them to go.
Miles and Jeff turned around and began walking. Miles was in front and the gunmen followed Jeff. Suddenly Jeff felt a hard jolt to his back, followed by a searing pain just below his shoulder. The gunman had apparently slammed the barrel of his M16 into his back. Jeff lurched forward from the impact, lost his balance, and stumbled into Miles. He grabbed Miles’s coat to stay up. Jeff moaned as he straightened himself and moved forward in silence. His back and shoulder started to throb. Christ, he thought, this is just the beginning…
The great hall was part of Nate Smith’s hunting estate. Deer racks covered the walls, and at one end of the huge room a mammoth stone fireplace rose twenty feet to the apex of the cathedral ceiling. The lodge, largest of several structures on the huge hunting estate, was built with indigenous stone and logs, fourteen inches thick, hewn from Northern Michigan Pine. It once served the fancy of a railroad baron who passed it to his granddaughter, Catherine, whose husband, Nate, appreciated the property’s remote and secluded location. It now served as Headquarters for the American Citizen’s Militia.
Nate had gotten his start in the American militia movement in the early 1970s at the Hayden Lake, Idaho compound of the Aryan Nations. Nate grew up in the compound and was bred into the white-supremacy culture. In 1989, at the age of twenty-five, he formed a splinter group that focused on ultra-strict military discipline. In Nate’s militia there would be no beer bellies or lackadaisical handling of firearms. His men would be ready, and able, to fight.
Nate’s following quadrupled in 1992 when, at Ruby Ridge in northern Idaho, an fbi sniper fired a shot at a retreating Randy Weaver. The shot ripped through the door to Weaver’s cabin and killed his wife, Vicki, who was standing inside the cabin and holding a baby in her arms.
Six months later, Nate’s following grew tenfold when the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms (BATF) attempted to execute a search warrant at the Branch Davidian compound near Waco, Texas. After a fifty-one day siege, Attorney General Janet Reno authorized an armed breach of the compound. Seventy-six people died in the resulting fire, including twenty-one children and two pregnant women, along with Davidian leader David Koresh.
Nate spent months planning revenge, and he found his target in the Alfred P. Murrah Federal building in Oklahoma City. Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols were his front men, and it was a damn shame that McVeigh got the electric chair. He was a true American patriot. But neither ever betrayed Nate’s involvement nor his planning and explosives expertise that made it possible—and successful.
Unfortunately for Nate, few in the militia were willing to go on the offense—to use violence for revolution. Everyone wanted to train with guns; that was fun. And most everyone was willing to shoot to defend, be it their family, home, or nation. But very few were willing to take the next step—the step made necessary by the radical transformations brought about by unhindered illegal immigration and massive increases in the size and scope of the federal government.
Some of the men who called themselves “leaders” even thought Oklahoma City was a mistake! Well, getting so many children caught up… in that… even now…
Nate suddenly found his train of thought swerving direction and a knot formed in his chest…
The more he studied and memorized verses of the bible… and Jesus taking about children… So damn many little smiles and squeaky voices…
Nate shook his head to break a train of thought that was taking him somewhere he didn’t want to go…
The fucking idiots couldn’t tell the difference between Oklahoma City and the Arab attacks of 9/11 and 8/24. A bunch of towel heads killed a million Americans. Oklahoma City—well, that simply didn’t compare. It was totally different. It was the beginning of a justifiable revolution.
Nate was standing at the back of the hall, waiting for the meeting to begin. Virtually every leader in the American Citizen’s Militia was there. Each leader, represented from a hundred to several thousand regular members, drawn from every state in the union. Everyone was in full military-type dress. Everyone was armed with at least one handgun.
With his right hand resting on the butt of his .45 caliber 1911, Nate was studying faces for signs of weakness—for signs of a willingness to break from the ranks. His six-foot frame gave him a good vantage point while his cool eyes moved from face to face, occasionally catching a return glance that was, more often than not, giving back a measure of alliance. Excellent, Nate thought. His pulse quickened.
Oklahoma City had turned out to be a disaster for Nate. In a hastily called election, just two months after the bombing, Nate had lost his command to the man who was about to speak: Hartman, the wimp ass “Commander.”
With his left hand, Nate silently opened and closed his Benchmade AFCK (Advanced Folding Combat Knife). He worked the blade in total silence, wrapping his middle finger around the grip to ease—and hush—the locking action of the leaf spring. He ran his large, callused fingers along the semi-curved handle, the contours of which ensured good purchase should the knife need to be thrust—and then violently pulled down in a reverse “C” motion while twisting the blade—to eviscerate some poor sob.
Patience, Nate thought. Must be patient. Isaiah 40:31 came to him and he whispered it under his breath,
“but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.”
Yes, the sooner he could get rid of Hartman, the sooner he would be able to turn people his way. With the nuclear attack fresh in everyone’s mind, and San Francisco obliterated, those less inclined to violence were beginning to feel that Hartman was taking too much time.
The meeting was about to commence. Nate was watching Hartman pace back and forth at the head of the hall. Hartman was seemingly preoccupied and hadn’t noticed that everyone was waiting for him to speak, and some were looking around in confusion.
Instantly, Nate knew that he could not pass up this opportunity. Excitement raced through his body. What should he say? For a second he panicked. Nothing would come to him and he was afraid Hartman would wise up and begin. He had to say something. Anything. Please God, give me the words!
The words came.
Nate’s voice cut through the air. “We need to act decisively—now! If we wait, the politicians will throw a few bones out and calm everyone down. The people will never develop enough frustration, enough anger. Don’t forget how Obama did it. He instigated an economic crisis like we have never seen in our lives, and then took that opportunity to promise ‘change.’ There is no other way this country would have elected a Muslim socialist as president. And look where it got us!”
Nate paused. Heads had turned when he started. Now, more and more were beginning to look and listen.
He continued, “Right now our own country has turned against us. We are the bad guys! The world is ass backwards. The feds are spending as much time looking for us as they are for the real terrorists. Meanwhile, the public will lose its anger over Frisco. Even now, you don’t see any tv pictures of the destruction. ‘It will only make us angry at Muslims’ they say. Well, screw that!”
A chorus of cheers erupted and Nate paused.
“We need to act while the feds are still chasing towel heads. Even preoccupied with A-Rabs, FBI infiltrators have made significant inroads. We can’t be sure of our command structure forever.”
Nate ran his hands over his face and then once through his hair. There was complete silence and he took a moment to look at everyone. His heart was pounding—but this was going well and he felt a stab of shame for doubting that God would see him through. He thought of Psalm 40:1: “I waited patiently for the Lord; he inclined to me and heard my cry.”
Nate slowed his speech even more. This time, he spoke in a low, dark tone. “We can’t even be sure of it now.”
Nate glared out over everyone. Several in the crowd began to shift about nervously. He had struck a cord. Many faces were turned toward him with total interest. They were leaning his way. He could feel it. Nate again ran his hands through his hair, which had, over the years, thus become permanently parted. God was with him.
Nate boomed, “Hartman is wrong.” He slammed his fist on the closest table and everyone nearby flinched. “We have to act. We can’t wait for things to fall into place. If the A-Rabs don’t nuke us again, or poison us, every fucking special interest group, now backed by this religious and sensitivity bullshit—they are going to overrun us before Hartman does anything! Are we going to let these people…” He held out one hand and with the other grabbed one finger, and then another, as he ticked off each group: “… the niggers, the Arabs, the libs, the feds…” Then he thrust his hand up high with all five fingers fully extended, “… and every God-Damned special interest group destroy our country and our God-given rights—our constitutional rights?”
Nate again slammed his fist on the table—so hard that his hand began to throb. But more heads were nodding in agreement so he slammed the table again. Pain flashed up his arm. Sweat began to drip from his forehead. Saint Paul knew worse, he thought, and he slammed the table again. He reached into his back pocket with his throbbing hand and retrieved a small sheet of folded parchment. Gingerly, lovingly, he slowly unfolded the piece and set it on the table.
It was in his own hand, drawn with meticulous attention to detail. The flowery letter forms had been a source of wonder to him as a child, and he dedicated hour upon hour to their exact replication. The beloved document’s importance was second only to the Bible. He really didn’t need to refer to the now-unfolded sheet before him to recite the words, but he felt a certain reverence to the document’s ideals and a level of comfort with having it spread before him.
He began to speak in measured phrases:
“Whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive…
it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it,
and to institute new Government,
laying its Foundation on such Principles,
and organizing its Powers in such Form,
as to them shall seem most likely to effect their
Safety and Happiness…
…when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations,
pursuing invariably the same Object,
evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism,
it is their Right,
it is their Duty,
to throw off such Government,
and to provide new Guards for their future Security!”
Nearly everyone in the room nodded in agreement. Several cheered and threw their fists into the air.
Nate’s excitement overwhelmed the pain in his hand. His heart was racing—pounding—so hard in his chest he could hear it.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. “What would have happened if Jefferson had told Franklin, Hamilton, and the others—to go home and wait until things get worse?” Nate knew that several militias had written their own Declarations of Independence and most had borrowed language directly from the 1776 document. The leaders in attendance were steeped in the history of the American Revolution.
“Let’s hear from Hartman,” yelled someone, apparently straining to be heard over the increasing clamor of support for Nate.
When Nate had begun to speak, Hartman had been jolted out of his self-absorbed state. He cursed under his breath and immediately headed to the podium. Unfortunately, by that time, everyone was turned to Nate and listening intently.
Hartman was six feet of lean muscle, with charcoal hair and a prominent, square jaw. He had the look of a man who had been there, done that, and who could take care of things. He waited for the slightest pause in Nate’s delivery and then, thank God, someone asked for his opinion.
Hartman knew he had to begin with something clever—something that would catch everyone off guard.
He screamed at the top of his lungs, “Nate is right!”
The room fell silent. Some of Hartman’s closest supporters glanced at each other with raised eyebrows. Excellent, he thought.
“Jefferson didn’t send them home…” Nate paused and leaned out over the lectern so that he could look directly into as many eyes as possible. At the back of the room he could see Nate Smith. His face was drawn; his eyes riveted. He was massaging something in his hand.
“Jefferson didn’t send them home … because their time was right!”
Hartman stepped away from the podium and began to walk between the rows of people. He wanted eye contact—full, frontal, “in your face” contact. He directed his comments toward one leader, then another, and then another, pausing just enough to allow his words to cleave, his presence to yoke.
He lived for this. It had been a challenge to wrest power away from that madman Nate Smith. The country needed to learn a lesson only the militia could teach it, but it could be done without killing scores of innocent civilians. And surely it could be done without blowing up buildings full of children.
Hartman walked to the back of the room toward Nate. As he approached, he noticed that Nate made a quick movement with his right arm. All Hartman could see was the back of Nate’s hand.
Was he holding something?
Now was not the time to back off. Nate had challenged him and he had to respond. Hartman continued toward Nate until they stood nose-to-nose. Nate’s eyes were cool, calculating. Small beads of perspiration had formed around Nate’s mouth and forehead. Hartman could smell his breath. He could hear his breathing—that seemed, oddly, to be quite rapid for a man standing still.
Hartman was contemplating whether he should try to embarrass Nate by making him look panicky when he noticed Nate’s eyes suddenly dilate. Alarm bells rang in Hartman’s head. At the same time, Hartman recalled that Nate had been holding something—it’s a knife!
Hartman reflexively thrust both hands out in a blocking motion and simultaneously threw his body backward, away from an anticipated knife thrust—that never came.
Hartman knew instantly that he had been played like a fiddle. He felt foolish as hell and was sure he looked like he was doing some kind of weird dance. His face reddened with embarrassment.
Nate broke into a smile and began to laugh. Others followed.
Hartman was momentarily stunned and he stood gawking at Nate and the others who were laughing. After a moment, however, he regained his composure. The son-of-a-bitch was just trying to upset his speech. Hartman strained to think of something that would regain command of the situation. He scanned the room and was pleasantly surprised. Most of the leaders were frowning and shaking their heads. They seemed to take the little episode for what it was. Only a few seemed to think it was great fun. Hartman found himself speaking, “We have formed the most formidable militia organization the world has ever known.”
Then an idea struck him that he couldn’t resist. He abruptly turned toward Nate—in a flash, he drew his own Benchmade AFCK and snapped out the blade. It caught Nate off guard and he flinched.
The entire hall erupted in laughter. It was Nate’s turn to flush with embarrassment.
Hartman turned back to the audience and raised the knife into the air. “And with this knife, … we shall carve out … from this intrusive, power-grabbing, anti-constitutional president … our own life, our own—true, constitutional government.”
There were numerous cheers and a majority of heads nodded in agreement.
Someone said, “But Hartman, how long do we have to wait?”
Hartman smiled. He was back in control. “The colonial revolutionaries took years to get going. Had Adams and the others acted sooner, the revolution would not have gained enough popular support. Why, just getting and keeping enough men under arms was a problem. Had they waited longer—the British may have crushed them. This is the question all revolutionaries have faced: When do you act? From Machiavelli to Castro, President Obama to President Al-Jaber, the big question has always been timing. When do you begin?”
Someone else said, “But this is not colonial America. We have a despot government that has grown from within. Not one imposed from England.”
That was a good point, but it wasn’t relevant to when they could safely go forward. “Soon we can act,” Hartman promised. “The government will pull our chain one too many times. The Religious and Cultural Sensitivity Act, the Bureau of Socially Correct Activities. These are the last straws.”
More heads nodded in agreement. Hartman cleared his throat, and continued, “Once we see the necessary indications from the population, we will move. Al-Jaber will have his civilian army roaming the streets to enforce every little offense against minorities. He is backing us—by the millions—into a corner. Americans either have to take the bullshit of the Muslims or, if they fight back, they get arrested. Soon, it won’t be just us in the Militia. They will be arresting Americans by the thousands. Then, it will be time to move.”
Virtually all heads nodded in approval, and a few people voiced agreement, then more joined in. Several people started clapping their hands. Hartman smiled and walked toward the front of the room amid growing applause.
At that moment, the rear doors to the Great Hall burst open and everyone turned to see Leonard Williams come in and quickly make his way past Hartman to the front of the room and the podium.
Leonard said, “I found a couple of spies in the woods. I’m telling ya we better do something before we’re found out!”
Several of Nate’s supporters immediately began pounding on their chairs and shouting, “Screw Hartman! We can’t fuck around! We move now! This is bullshit!” A few of Hartman’s supporters responded by shouting back and, within seconds, all hell had broken loose. A chair flew from one side of the hall to the other and crashed against the wall, knocking into a huge, life-sized portrait of George Washington. The massive painting tilted and then slid down the wall… It hit on a corner with a thud, and crumpled to the floor. A few people began pushing and shoving. Hartman tried speaking above the clamor but it was no use. His voice was a drop in a raging river.
Hartman looked around. He thought about putting a chair on a table and standing on it. But that would make it too easy for someone to knock him off. Yet, just thinking about what to do was allowing things to get further out of hand. There was more pushing and shoving. In a moment someone was going to draw a gun.
And that gave him an idea. Hartman looked up to the ceiling. It was arched and composed of solid logs. He really had no choice. With lighting speed, Hartman pulled his Glock 27 from his inside-the-waistband holster and aimed it straight up.
He pulled the trigger twice.
The sound and shock waves from two 135-grain Cor-Bon cartridges were tremendous, even inside the large hall. Several of the men threw themselves to the floor. Others ducked behind chairs and drew their own weapons. The sound had reverberated so much that no one, except those closest to Hartman, seemed sure of who had fired the shots.
Hartman chuckled to himself. There were surprised faces; a few guns held at the ready.
But it was quiet.
Well that sure as hell worked, Hartman chuckled, as he made his way back to the podium.
Hartman had everyone’s attention, and in a show of disappointment, he cast his eyes downward and shook his head. “I am very disappointed. We have come to this point—a unified force—because we do things in an orderly manner. We must not be caught up in emotion—even against our enemies. Our response must be rational, calculated, and determined. We can’t do that by flying off the handle.” Hartman let that simmer.
One by one, men holstered their sidearms. Others nodded in agreement. Most of those who had led the boisterousness looked down at their feet, while others wore a pained expression on their face. Hartman glanced at Nate who was still at the back of the room.
The bastard was smiling!
Hartman felt a sudden chill.
Remembering what had started the ruckus, Hartman said, “Now let’s go see if these two intruders are spies or just lost hunters who happened to stumble onto our property.”
God forbid, Hartman thought, that they might be spies or government agents…
Jeff had followed behind Miles all the way to a small shed, some fifty yards from the lodge. Once inside, their hands were cuffed behind their backs. It looked to be an old tool shed. The walls were old and worn 1"x6" boards that had warped in the harsh seasonal changes. In some places the gaps between boards was up to an inch. Peering between the boards, Jeff could see someone just outside the door. The man was holding an M16.
During their walk to the shed, Jeff and Miles had discerned from the discussions among the gunman that the man they had disarmed was the leader of this security detail. His name was Leonard Williams and his buddies had gently chided him about being disarmed and subdued. To Jeff’s relief, Leonard did not seem interested in meting out any sort of revenge. He was, instead, rather professional about the whole matter.
This Leonard Williams was more concerned, to Jeff’s utter surprise, in questioning them about being spies for the government. Of course, Jeff and Miles explained that they were nothing of the sort. Unfortunately, they had unwittingly shot the deer within a few hundred yards of a very secluded and apparently secret lodge. That fact, alone, apparently made them worthy of suspicion.
“What’s going on out there?” whispered Miles, as he and Jeff stood with their faces pressed to gaps between the moisture-rotted boards.
Jeff said, “Some kind of meeting. Sounds pretty heated—Jesus Christ! Did you hear that! Sounded like gunshots!”
Miles mumbled something that Jeff didn’t understand and he let it go since he was far more interested in what was happening in the lodge. He could see only part of it since his line of sight was partially blocked by another log building. It was late afternoon, and the sun was setting over the top of the surrounding trees and the lodge.
Jeff’s heart skipped a beat as he suddenly became aware of several people—it looked like three, maybe four—emerging from the lodge. The sun’s glare obscured his view and hid their faces. At least two of the men carried rifles.
Miles saw them too. “Christ Jeff. What’s going on? They’re coming here!” Jeff didn’t say what he felt: This group of asses was probably going to torture Miles before killing him.
As the men neared, every muscle in Jeff’s body tensed. He picked up individual voices, growing ever louder—one he recognized as Leonard Williams. He caught a little of what was being said: “spies,” “government pukes.” But it made no sense. What would they by spying on? It was so ridiculous that it didn’t seem real or possible.
The men were close now. Another voice sounded familiar but was so out of context that its owner didn’t register. Miles started to say something but abruptly stopped at the sound of the men directly outside the door.
Jeff and Miles pressed themselves along the wall opposite the door. Jeff could hear nothing but the pounding in his ears. His eyes focused on the door, which would open outward.
The latch moved and the door swung out. There were voices, but they seemed muted and indistinguishable. Miles started to say something but he stopped as the barrel of an M16 appeared. The gun seemed to pause, and hang, suspended in the doorway.
Time stopped.
Jeff knew his life was about to end.
Hartman had followed Leonard Williams and two other men out of the lodge as they walked to the shed. He had been watching the heels of Leonard’s black boots as they stepped ever closer to the shed. With every step he prayed that the prisoners were just unlucky hunters who had stumbled onto the property.
There was no question what would have to happen if they were spies; they would be taken off site, executed, dismembered, and buried very deep in the woods.
Yet, if they really were hunters, how would they be able to prove it? A hunting license wouldn’t do it; real spies would certainly take the precaution of obtaining licenses as cover. The absence of wires to transmit signals wouldn’t do it; real spies often relied on their sight and hearing to record events. Hartman’s stomach turned as he realized it might be impossible to prove their innocence.
They reached the shed and Leonard went in, gun first. Hartman paused to let the other men go in, guns at the ready.
God he wanted these two prisoners to be hunters!
He took a deep breath and thought, it is what it is.
He stepped around the corner—and gasped.
Jeff, Miles, and Hartman stared at each other, mouths open wide in disbelief.
Jeff spoke first.
“Dad!”