Remnant, Chapter 16

16

Tuesday night,

October Twenty-fourth,

8:50 p.m.

We were all sort of shell-shocked I think, as we watched the local rebroadcast of our ‘president’ address the ‘nation.’   I wondered in silence how many viewers had seen this charade and believed it wholly.

My discernment, or newly formed prejudice, I couldn’t decide which, was affecting what I was viewing. More than once I caught myself making snap judgments on half-completed sentences that the ‘president’ was delivering. Maybe it was fatigue, I just couldn’t tell.

“…dominant force in the  recovery of the world. We will be the leaders of this arduous task and ask the nation to support these efforts,” he said as overly enthusiastic applause rang out in the Denver convention center. I wondered, how much of the applause was recorded?

“You buying any of this, Rick?” Ron asked me. Libby was watching from behind, giving him a shoulder massage.

“Sure. The same way the Italians bought Mussolini’s schtick.”

“….strong Federal leadership of state industry, nationalization of former major agribusinesses, redoubled effort in the revitalization of the honored military, and an American based economy that will operate independently of other nations, vigilance in the status of religious factions that are hostile to the ideal of the United States….”

“What a load. Nationalization of industry,” I said, pondering the meaning.

“Just wait. I’m sure it gets better,” Alan said, his son Mark asleep on his lap. “And it’s not just industry. It’s nationalization of business. You caught that bit, buried in the flowers of prosperity.”

“And ‘vigilance of religious factions hostile to our ideals,’ don’t forget that,” I said. 

“Those opposing the Federal mandates are misguided and fail to understand the depth of the crisis at hand, and that the only solution to the lack of progress in recovery is in the full support of Federal efforts to unify industry and national ideals.  They will eventually come into the fold and understand the need for national and international recovery and unification…”

“Told ya,” Alan said.

“He can’t be serious,” Karen asked.

“Dead serious. The true believers always are, to their adoring public at least,” I said. “Re-education camps, I think China called them.”

“…military forces are fully capable of protecting the strategic resources in the United States and her territories, and willing to use whatever force necessary in order to see recovery through….”

“Now the threat,” I said. “Hitting all the bases tonight, aren’t we?” I asked to no one in particular.

“…dissent is a vital part of a healthy, free state.  However the dissent cannot be allowed to interrupt the mission of the state in the recovery efforts and future progress…”

“Thou shall not criticize the State, nor her minions, nor her policies, nor her actions,” I said, more to myself.  “Welcome to Fascist States of America.”

Wednesday morning,

October Twenty-fifth,

5:40 a.m.

I didn’t get much sleep, despite being bone tired and bothered by aches and pains.  I knew that Karen didn’t sleep much either. We spent a fair chunk of the night holding each other, occasionally whispering about all that was on our minds.

Buck finally decided that we needed company, and hopped up on the bed, soon joined by Ada. Welcome for a few minutes, but soon enough they were pushing us out of the way.

Neither Karen nor I felt the hard-charging enthusiasm to attack the day, knowing that ‘working the problem’ was far beyond our abilities to make much of an impact. After a hot shower, I anticipated an ‘average’ day. ‘Average’ of course, for anyone in the world whose country was coming apart at the seams…again. So many things were up in the air.

Karen made us some tea for an early breakfast, and a couple English muffins with real butter. Then, for me it was off to the barn for morning chores.

Egg production had fallen off fairly dramatically with the sudden cool weather, despite the lights we’d added to the henhouses, and our makeshift (ugly, but effective) insulation for the turkey and chicken houses and the pigs down at Pauliano’s.

Our own food storage (‘ours’ being our extended family on the block and our new, hand-picked neighbors) met only some of the goals that I’d set forever ago, this past spring. Potatoes had been phenomenally successful, with almost ten tons harvested, all of them the hard way, by hand. Wheat was a disappointment, I’d expected far too great a yield, and had probably been fortunate to get a little over twenty bushels per acre. Old-time dry land farmers said that we’d done quite well to get that much.  Corn did quite well, but it was a near thing. We harvested our last picking just as it turned really cold.  The term ‘we’ was figurative. I was bedridden at the time. 

Similarly, I missed the late grape harvest, Concords mostly. We enjoyed table grapes in early August, which didn’t make it out of the neighborhood. The Concords furnished us juice and jam, from nearly a hundred gallons of pressed juice. The press was put together using a hydraulic press (in a former life used for pressing in wheel bearings in our neighbors’ well equipped shop), a basket and pressing boards of white oak, and a stainless steel pot to capture the juice.  I’d gone long on ‘tools’ of all kinds for more than fifteen years, along with more spare parts than we’d ever need.   Only some had been used in the food production over the past year—it was clear that I’d overbought on many items.  I did have a soft spot for forged tools, which was right up there with cast iron cookware.

Our tree fruit harvest was good, not great, but good. We couldn’t keep ahead of it once it all started coming on. Still though, we’d dehydrated and canned more than we could reasonably expect to use in a year. Cherries, peaches, pears, apples. In the midst of dealing with a monster cherry and peach harvest (by our standards, monstrous, anyway, our tomatoes almost buried us. We traded hundreds of pounds of them, with our preferred traders and friends getting first pick. The rest, we sold in the stores.

The list went on and on. A hundred pounds of nuts- almost all English walnuts. Two tons of squash and pumpkins all needing proper storage and storage space. Raspberries, strawberries, blueberries (a disappointment!), melons….

We used all of our stockpile of canning jars, and then some. Next year, canning lids would be an issue…..along with looking for a new greenhouse skin. Our small greenhouse was in tatters, and we had a year or two on two others. Those at least were skinned with newer commercial-grade material.

“How many?” Karen asked.

“Fourteen,” I answered, shaking off the cold. “Put them in the rack in the shop.”

“Half of yesterday morning.”

“Yeah. Remember way back when, with our first flock? We didn’t get any eggs after the first snow?”

“I know. That’ll be coming,” Karen said. “You going into work today?”

“I expect so….but is the curfew still on?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t know. Nothing on radio, AM, FM or shortwave. Nothing on TV. And I mean, nothing!”

“Hmmm. Odd. I’ll call in,” I said, already heading to the County radio. “One eleven to Spokane.”

Nothing.

“Repeating, one eleven to Spokane.”  Karen was looking at me with the question-concern look on her face. She didn’t like this either.

“One-eleven, be advised this is a compromised channel,” Arlene Lomax replied.

“Understood.”

“Spokane out.”

“What was that?” Karen asked. “Compromised by who?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Nor do I have any idea of what to do next.”

“Expect someone to show up in person. That’s what I’d do.”

I exhaled deeply. “I’m so damned tired of this drama.”

“I’ll get your things. Your boots are by the hall tree.”

“Thanks.”

Carl and Kelly were up and moving about the time the Humvee showed up in the driveway, followed by two more. I hugged the kids and gave them a few marching orders for the day, knowing that any plans that I had for a ‘routine’ day were out the window. A dozen soldiers dismounted and dispersed along the street, four more moved into the yard as a young Lieutenant came to the door where I met him.

“Mr. Drummond? Lieutenant Michael West. Would you mind coming with me sir?” I gave Karen a quick kiss and reached for my pack.

“You stay safe, mister,” she said in a whisper.

“I will endeavor to do just that,” I said before responding to the young officer.

“Expected you, Lieutenant. Where to?”

“Camp Overbeck, sir.”

“Understood. Quite the detail you have here.”

“Orders, sir. You should get used to it—I think we’re your personal security detail from now on.”

“Seems a little over the top,” I said as we boarded the second vehicle, not the one in the driveway.

“Might be sir, might not be.” The driver pulled out, heading north. Camp Overbeck, named for a local soldier who had been killed in the Mexican War. A posthumous Medal of Honor winner, he had held off more than a thousand enemy at Monterrey, giving hundreds of wounded a route of escape before being overrun. “The lead crew stays at your home location while you’re away. Neighborhood patrols cover every occupied neighborhood in your city. Anyone gets out of line, it’s not good for them.”

“Where are you from?”

“Came in last Tuesday from Stockton on the train. Before that, New Mexico. Pre-War, Denver.”

“Denver’s a little different these days,” I said, referring to the new ‘national leadership.’

“Is at that. I’m pretty sure that won’t last long.”

“Could be. I think similar words were said in Eighteen Sixty-One, too, though.”

“Right enough. The Cold Civil War is over.”

“Cold Civil War?”

“All the bitching about how it’s Us versus Them.  Liberals versus conservatives. R versus D.  All of it.”

“I hadn’t really put a label to it, but that sure works.”

“Divide and conquer.”

“Well, they’ve divided.  The latter remains in question,” I said.

We’d passed over the remains of the freeway, now a single plowed lane with no signs of traffic past two static Army guard posts.  Ten minutes later, we were through the gates.

Inside one of the former industrial buildings, I was directed to a Spartan conference room, given some lousy coffee, and asked to wait. This building was on the south side of the old Industrial Park, a different building than one I’d visited back in May. This cavernous building used to house a furniture manufacturer, by the signs on the cracked walls.

A few minutes later, Elaine Cross and several junior officers joined me.

“Morning, Major,” I said as I shook her hand.

“Mr. Drummond, thank you for coming. I’ve brought in several additional staff if you don’t mind. Lieutenants Cambridge, Sugimoto, and Watts.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I said, shaking hands with each.  Watts could’ve been a tackle at West Point, pre-War. The female lieutenants, Cambridge and Sugimoto, reminded me of college students too, but were seemingly more attentive than Watts. “Major, I’m hoping you can enlighten me on what’s going on right now….”

“I’ll try, yes. For your information, I’ve already briefed the Sheriff and his senior staff.”

“Good to know.”

“Since twenty-three thirty last night, there has been widespread disruption of all local communication frequencies with false alarms, false orders, and fake news broadcasts on shortwave frequencies, and some fake broadcasts overriding the local radio frequency signals, appearing therefore to be legitimate. We’ve shut down all local radio and television stations and all municipal frequencies in order to hunt down those responsible.”

“How do you possibly do that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, but I can say, we do it pretty well.”

“When, assuming there’s a when, can we get back to normal operations? I can’t see the County operating with anything close to efficiency without good communications.”

“Unsure at present. That’s only one facet of the attacks we’re undergoing at the moment. The others include attacks on infrastructure, including power distribution, petroleum distribution, shipping…”

“Pretty much everything then.”

“Well, to summarize, yes.”

“Responsible parties?”

“Federal forces have infiltrated non-aligned states and are carrying out attacks from within. Those states that did not immediately align with the new Federal bureaucracy have been hit hardest. Those that caved, not at all.”

“Pre-positioned forces.”

“Not only forces, but equipment, targets, and strategies.”

“Local damage so far?”

“I can speak to that, sir,” Lieutenant Watts replied.

“Please do.”

Watts read me the details from a clipboard. “Explosives used on three substations served from Upriver Dam, resulting in minor damage to four feeder lines. Two municipal radio repeater installations destroyed by improvised explosives. Five separate attacks by small arms on municipal facilities including your office building, two shops facilities, and two community centers, neither of which were occupied….the attackers in three of the five cases were killed by local defense forces. The attack on the Montana and Wyoming refineries, which I believe you heard about last night, more of a regional impact of course, but certainly one that will be felt here almost immediately. Two severed railroad bridges across the Columbia River, and a third blocked due to an engineered landslide in Western Montana. Those are the ones we know about as of oh six-hundred.”

“Casualties?”

“None in these specific attacks. An undetermined number of civilian municipal personnel—meaning firemen, police, state patrol—are unaccounted for.”

“Unaccounted for?”

“Did not report for duty this morning. Military forces are checking on them at this time, but we’re stretched pretty thin.”

“Dammit,” I said, looking down at my poor excuse for coffee.

“Mr. Drummond, I believe you met with a United States Attorney, by the name of Charles Severa recently?”   Lieutenant Cambridge asked.

“Yeah, a couple weeks ago. He wanted to let us know that the Feds were taking four of our prisoners to Denver for interrogation…” I said, putting things together. “Now wait one damned minute. He was in on this?”

“No reason to believe so, although Mr. Severa has been detained in the Salt Lake area and is being questioned. After the prisoner transfer to Denver, he was reassigned to Utah. We have reason to believe that several of those prisoners are back in this region and are deeply involved in the effort to undermine legal authority.”

I sat there for a minute, rolling it over in my head.  “You are certain that they are not in Federal custody….”

“We are,” Major Cross responded.

“Then it’s a safe wager that yeah, they’re back, and whatever parts of their organization that we didn’t wipe out is back and making hay. I assume you know who you’re up against with the four that Severa kicked loose,” I said, now not buying the plausibility of Severa not knowing what would happen to four sadistic murderers.

“We do, in detail.”

“Then you also know about the threat that Ronnie Burkham and his pals represent. He threatened to gut Judge McNamara at his arraignment.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well let me give you some more background. That sonofabitch executed unarmed soldiers, killed two veteran deputies, and was part of an effort to take ME out. He tortured the Guardsmen before shooting them in the heads, in front of their families.”

“Yes, sir, we know all of this.”

“Well, let me tell you one more little tidbit. I’m probably the one who killed his Aunt Rae.  She was the ringleader of the whole deal.  Pretty good chance that I’m the one that blew her head off out at their place at Newman Lake,” I said. “So I’d be most appreciative of you putting a bullet in his head and letting me sleep a little better at night.”

“We have three thousand troops on duty in the region, soon to be double that.  We are confident that we will apprehend him soon,” Cambridge said. Pretty girl, I thought, but naïve.

“Lieutenant, pardon my skepticism, but if somebody wants you dead, you’re dead. There’s not a damned thing you can do to stop someone who’s determined to kill you.”   I turned my attention back to Major Cross.  “Major, I know it’s early in the day to ask these questions, but exactly what is the war plan that Northwest Command has brewing?”

“It’ll come out soon enough, but expect more transportation and utility disruptions until the Federal government can be defeated.”

“OK, already expected that. What are you planning for manpower and support from the civilian population? Draft? Food and housing? What exactly?”

“There is a significant chance of a draft or outright military conscription being put in place should initial counterattacks fail to bring the Feds around. I would expect that the age ranges would be between eighteen and sixty.”

“Sixty? Good God.”

“With the attrition we’ve had within the past year, I say that with a high degree of confidence,” Elaine said.

“Mr. Drummond, in looking at your Federal personnel file…” Watts began before I cut him off.

“Lieutenant, I have no personnel file,” I said, knowing that an ancient past was about to be unearthed, and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Excuse me sir, I obtained this through DoD databases showing your experience in….”

“Lieutenant, first, that was a long time ago. Second, it ended badly for all parties involved, and I was among lucky few to survive it.  Third, I swore an oath to never, ever bring it up again. Period. No one I know now knows how I spent that first year out of college, and I have had no contact with any other party involved since my resignation. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, I understand. However, your file has been continuously updated since the events in the Sudan and the retrieval of your ground team.”

“And you’ve reviewed the file?”

“That which was not redacted, sir, yes.”

“Who in Hell would care what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-plus years?”

“The Defense Intelligence Agency, sir.”

I sat there for probably a full minute before answering. “They do realize that I worked for them for what, eleven months? Exactly forty-two days in the field? The last nine of which are code-word classified for eternity?”

“I’m sure they do, sir.”

“Lieutenant, what would possess you to even look for a file in my ancient past?”

“All public officials and responsible parties are being vetted, sir, to determine a confidence and trust level.”

“This is not the Soviet Union, ladies and gentlemen. You do believe this though, that you need to background check every public official to have confidence in them?”

“There were some unfortunate incidents in other states where seemingly trusted officials handed over the keys to the Feds, Mr. Drummond,” Lieutenant Sugimoto said. “We need to keep that from happening here.”

“Well rest assured, Lieutenant, I didn’t damned near get killed in some Godforsaken armpit valley in Africa well before you were born, just to cave in to the fascisti at this point.”

“No, sir, I’m sure you wouldn’t. I’m here however, to serve as a liaison officer during the vetting process of all Metro employees and volunteer staff.”

“You’re going that deep? That’s what, eight percent of our population?” 

“Yes, sir, approximately.”

I inhaled, reflecting on the conversation. “Major, how do you intend us to operate as a public services provider without comms?”

“The bulk of public communications should be back up in twenty-four hours.  I would anticipate numerous delays in restoring levels of high confidence in police, fire and municipal communications. We basically need to target them and catch them in the act. Problem is they transmit and shut down before we can find them.”

“So can’t we rotate freq’s often enough to operate?” I asked.

“Yes sir,” Sugimoto replied, “after your communications staff has been cleared.”

“You know what this is going to do to morale, Elaine?” I asked, using her first name for the first time. “Everyone looking at everyone else like they’re the spy?”

“Yes, but it beats the alternative. In the case of communication frequencies, imagine if someone’s feeding the next days’ freqs to the enemy?”

“Fine. I concede that there may be a need. I hate the idea.”

Remnant, Chapter 15

15

Tuesday afternoon,

October Twenty-fourth,

4:50 p.m.

The ‘conference room’ was a hangar, with a video projection of the State seal showing on the sidewall, textured with rippled sheet metal, torqued in the earthquake. The entire hangar looked as if it had been twisted from the top down—the main doors didn’t open after the Domino, and the side doors didn’t seal all that well. The Guard, and later the Army, converted the big metal box to training space and set up some cubicles in the back end of the building.

“Coffee’s ready, ladies and gentlemen,” a young corporal announced. “And it’s real coffee for a change.”

“Good, I’m freezing,” Karen said to me, poking me on my good side. 

“Get some for me, too please!” Mary added.

“I live to serve,” I said in a ‘Princess Bride’ kind of way.

We’d stopped by the house on the way over to the base to tell Karen that I’d been summoned to a meeting with Mike. Alan and Mary were at the house getting some sewing supplies, and Mike extended an invitation to them to come along. Ron and Libby were tasked with keeping an eye on things while we were gone—which we hoped wouldn’t be too long.

On the way over, Mike and I recapped the afternoon and the surprisingly forceful response from the Army and the Guard to what we thought might just be a local misunderstanding. Seeing the ‘bank manager’ and his associates face-down on the snowy asphalt, hands and feet zip-tied, and then roughly loaded into a military truck, told us that this was probably much more. We also didn’t glean anything from the incident commander, other than being directed to be on time for the briefing.

Alan joined me in the coffee line, where I noticed that we had Styrofoam cups waiting for us, already filled but not ‘dressed’ with cream or sugar.

“Look it there. When was the last time you saw a foam cup?”

“Last January. Could be from old stocks, you never know.”

A disembodied voice announced that the conference would begin in three minutes, booming through the overly large speakers flanking the video image.

“Mr. Drummond?” someone asked me from behind.

“Yes?” I said as I turned around to see who it was. “Hey, Dub. You got roped into this too?” I asked of Dub Henshaw, one of our County building inspectors.

“Well, sort of. I was out here looking at roof loads and wandered in.”

“You took my question on snow loads yesterday to heart then?”

“Absolutely, especially after getting news about a dozen roof collapses in Newport, Priest River and Sandpoint this morning.”

“How’re we looking here?”

“Better, but just.”

“Dub, I’m sorry. This is Alan Bauer, my brother-in-law. Alan, Dub Henshaw.”

“Pleasure,” Dub said as he shook Alan’s hand. “Nice belt,” he commented to Alan. Alan was sporting a new hand-tooled belt for his sidearm-of-the-day. Today, it was his Colt Anaconda.

“Thanks. Hired one of my neighbors to build this rig.”  

“I’ll need to talk to him about some work,” Dub said, still looking at the detail on the belt.

“I’ll put you in touch.” I said. “Sounds like we’re about ready for the meeting.”

“Don’t get away until I talk to you about snow removal teams. Another six inches of snow here and we’re gonna see problems,” Dub said.

“No problem. Let’s talk when this is over.”

“Done.”

Over in the third row, Karen and Mary were eagerly awaiting their coffee. 

“This place is a meat-locker!” Karen said. She’d probably underdressed for the meeting. Mary certainly had.

“Sure it is. One little wood stove in an uninsulated metal building isn’t gonna heat things much,” Alan said.

“Who was that guy you were talking with?” Karen asked.

“Building inspector for the County. Structural engineer. He’s looking at snow-loads on low-profile roofs in the service area.”

“Worried they’re going to collapse?”

“They sure could, yeah. It’s October and we’ve got January snow. What’ll we have in January?”

“How do you take care of that?”

“Clear the roofs off, by hand.”

“Fun,” she said as she sipped her coffee.

“Not remotely. But it might keep a few hundred or a thousand people working over the winter.”

“Assuming you can pay them.”

“Sure, there you go throwing cold, hard fact at me again,” I said with a grin.

“Somebody’s got to. And I have a license.”

“Indeed.”

Those still standing were being prompted to sit down, as a countdown appeared on the screen’s lower right corner.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Governor David Hall of Washington, Governor Mark Santiago of Oregon, Governor Earl Westra of California, Governor Samantha Merrick of Idaho, thank you for your presence at this briefing this evening.  General Robert Anderson, commanding general of the Pacific Northwest Command, will make a short statement to those viewing this, before Governor Gregory’s prepared statement.”

“Well, doggies,” I said quietly in my best Jed Clampett imitation.  That received a poke from Karen.

“Good evening,” the General said from behind a lectern, one that I thought I recognized from Fort Walla Walla. “I am here to present to you information that will be made public within the next four hours regarding the discovery of information about pending Federal actions upon the populace of the United States and her territories.”

“These discoveries were made by Pacific Northwest Command and shared with Central and Southern Commands, and can only be regarded as a direct attack on the Constitutional rights of the citizens of the U.S. I am here to provide an outline of the proposed actions of the Federal government against the States and the local population.”

“Holy sh•t,” someone behind me said. I agreed. Karen squeezed my hand.

“Within the past several days, announcements have been made hastily, regarding the re-establishment of a Federal currency throughout the U.S. and her Territories. The monetary system was presented as following similar or identical standards to those historically in effect while the U.S. was on the ‘Gold Standard.’ What we have discovered, however, is that while the coinage is similar in size and denomination to older silver and gold-content coins, they bear little physical resemblance. Of more importance the rules under which the new Federal banks are to operate place unreasonable restrictions on the people.  Let me first explain how this information was gathered, and then I will elaborate on the Federal banking plan.”

“Intel,” the General said as he looked down at the lectern. “Intelligence was gathered through civilian and military means within the financial industry and within the United States Department of the Treasury, Federal Bank division. Much of this information was unsolicited and forwarded to intelligence personnel for analysis. We have an exceptionally high degree of confidence that the material is in fact an accurate and comprehensive overview of the Federal plans. Multiple, independent sources have provided similar or complimentary components of the ‘Central Economic Recovery Plan,’ which is the official title for instituting and controlling economic transactions in the United States.”

I looked around the few rows around and in front of me, where I noted both a degree of disgust and anger on the faces.

“On to the banking operations themselves. From our analysts, both in the military and independent and trusted members of the financial community, it appears that the Federal government intends to issue the initial ‘distribution’ of two hundred dollars, to be held on account at Federal banks, and only to be legally spent at ‘federally approved’ vendors at ‘approved’ prices. Existing silver and gold coins will be accepted by Federal banks but not ‘approved vendors’, and will be removed from circulation. By the end of the next fiscal year, non-approved silver or gold coinage or bullion will be illegal for use in the U.S. and in territorial states.”

“Additionally, no transactions of any kind will be legal unless they are conducted with Federally-issued monies, effective on the first day of the new Fiscal Year, next July. This explicitly applies to retail, wholesale, public and private transactions of any kind. In short, if you want to trade someone a steak for two dozen eggs you can’t do it legally. Nor can you cash a paycheck anywhere except a Federal bank, and you can only have a limited amount of ‘cash’ from that paycheck.”

“To summarize, the Federal government wants to control every dime you make and tell you where you can spend it and how you can spend it.”

I expected that other video conference rooms were erupting in anger around the West about now. Ours was buzzing, but settled back down quickly.

“To continue, copies of the information collected through various means will be provided to every public official on a flash-drive, to be distributed as you see fit.  The files are extensive and voluminous.”  Images of the documents the general referenced came up on the screen. They seemed quite authentic. Several were on White House stationery. One copy of an executive order bore the signature of the President.

“On to equally serious matters that are only a few weeks away, on the Federal calendar. An outline of planned Constitutional restrictions has surfaced in the last few hours, within the core of the Federal government, including milestones for their adoption by Executive Order and approval by congressional select committee. Recently-dated versions of this information have been discovered at abandoned or captured New Republic strongholds in the Eastern United States within the last three days, providing evidence of high-level collusion between New Republic and Federal leadership, long after known diplomatic contact had ended. These documents, originating within the Executive Branch of the United States Government, intend to abandon the principles on which this country was founded and seek to extinguish the light of freedom and liberty in the name of security and peace.”  

Now, our room erupted. General Morton ceased speaking to the camera, perhaps hearing the response in several of the feeds from various locations back to Walla Walla. In a couple minutes, our room had settled down, perhaps the others had as well with some prompting. Morton’s intensity…or anger…was visible in his eyes if not on his face.

“These restrictions include severely limiting or eliminating many of our basic rights, including a free press, freedom of religion, the right to keep and bear arms, the right to assemble, and dozens more, spelled out in clinical detail. Copies of correspondence regarding this will be provided to public officials, again for publication and distribution as you see fit.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the United States of America and her territories, the joint United States military commands will not follow illegal orders to circumvent the protections provided under the Constitution of the United States. I would like to assure you that Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine, and Coast Guardsmen throughout the country stand fast and defend our oaths. We will not sweep aside the Constitution and the Bill of Rights as the Executive Branch proposes.  To the contrary, we will defend them with our very lives and will tolerate neither fascism nor authoritarian dictatorships. A free and representative republic on this continent will be re-established and will use the Constitution and the providence of God as her guide.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I now present Governor Merrick from the state of Idaho.  Governor?”

“Thank you, General Morton.  Ladies and gentlemen, you have just heard a brief summary of information collected that represents the intent of the current Federal government to destroy the freedoms of the citizens of the United States. What we’re not clear on is the depths of the connections between the New Republic leadership and the Federal leadership, and how events within the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours may be linked to a larger picture.”

“I speak to you as the Governor drawing the short-straw. The Governors collected here in Walla Walla, as well as more than a dozen more are making similar briefings to the citizens of their states and territories. We are of a common mind however, in that the states will not stand for these planned actions by the Federal leadership and those pulling their strings.”

“I am here to inform the citizens of my state, and those states represented here by their respective Governors, that our states will follow the United States Constitution as legally amended, in the preservation of freedom for our citizens. Actions otherwise by the Federal Government will be regarded as illegal and subject to prosecution in the strongest terms. Actions to limit the movement of citizens, eliminate free trade, seize weapons or control state militias are unacceptable and will not stand.”

“To the representatives of the Federal Government that are behind these plots and schemes. We know that you are listening to this or will have this information presented to you. You are being given an ultimatum. You are to resign your office by November first at the latest, and to be replaced by a legally elected replacement.  Evidence of illegal actions and planned illegal actions is being gathered for prosecution to the full extent of the law.  Refusal of this ultimatum will be regarded as an act of war against these several states.”

“To our citizens, I would like to state this. The military forces within the collected states are formidable, and still perhaps the strongest in the world. We believe that the greatest percentage of our active and Guard units will uphold the oath to protect and defend the Constitution, and will not follow the shining path to dictatorship or fascism. State leaderships are united in this belief as originally stated by Jefferson, that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”

“As of this hour, all military units under State control are on full alert, and will only respond to legal orders under trusted command and control authority. This applies to strategic forces as well, I am assured.”

“None of us asked for this.  None of us wants this, but it is here and we stand fast in our beliefs. The United States of America will not be ruled under fascist, totalitarian tactics.  To the citizens of these several states, prepare and stand fast. A revolution is on your doorstep,” the Governor concluded.  “We pray that those of us that believe in the principles of the United States Constitution have the wisdom to see us through this. Good evening, and my prayers are with you all.”

Karen was squeezing my hand harder than I thought she might realize. I looked over at her and a single tear rolled down her cheek. I put my arm around her, still seated, and pulled her closer to me. We were probably all in some degree of shock from what we’d just heard and seen.

“It’s war,” she said quietly. “It’s a civil war.”

We milled around for a few minutes before an Air Force major tracked me down, and asked me for a few minutes in private. Karen, Alan and Mary waited for me, talking with Dub Henshaw and a few other folks we’d had the opportunity to work with over the past few months. Karen looked worried for me as I was shuttled out of the hangar into an adjacent group of ‘temporary’ construction trailers. One still bore the name of a former client, Kingsley Construction. I was pleased to see Bruce Weathers in attendance, along with a half-dozen other Metro staff from various departments. Several of them stood as I entered.

“Please, sit. Or in the vernacular, ‘at ease.’”

A moment later, General Robert Anderson joined us, minus rank on a digital-camo uniform. Anderson was the ranking officer in the Spokane region, putting him in charge of both ground and air operations.  That sometimes didn’t sit well with the Air Force side of the table, having a West Point graduate in the pilot seat as it were…

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining me. As you heard, we have interesting hours and days ahead of us.”

“To put it mildly, General,” I said. “I’ve not fought in a revolution before. Is there a how-to manual?” I asked with some humor to lighten things up a bit.

“We have the high ground here, obviously. But there are substantial challenges that we may see come up, which is why you’re here. You heard the short version of the presentation, I’d appreciate it if you would take the time to review the documentation in full by the end of tomorrow, and share it liberally. If you didn’t get a flash drive with the information yet, please see the warrant officer before you leave.”

No one else was speaking up. “What kind of challenges do you see?”

“The Federals still have significant military assets behind them. We don’t know to what degree they’re willing to pursue this agenda with military force. If they act, we will react. If there is an imminent threat, we will use a pre-emptory strike against their forces.”

“Bob, let me ask the zillion dollar question. Nuclear forces?”

“Nuclear weapons formerly controlled by the National Command Authority are now under the sole authority of the Joint Chiefs. Launch code protocols are in place under legal military authority with regional civilian leadership as well. We have complete control over remaining U.S. tactical and strategic nuclear weapons world-wide.”

“You’re sure.”

“We’re sure of what we have. Let me clarify. We’re sure that pre-War U.S. nuclear forces are under our control. We’re not sure of anything acquired black-bag or through New Republic operations on the Eastern Seaboard through smuggling. That might mean that foreign made nuclear weapons or delivery systems might be in Federal control.”

I sat there for a few moments, before Bruce Weathers spoke up. “What flashpoints are on the map now, General?”

“Attempted seizures of the majority of Strategic Command forces in multiple locations this afternoon, a complete blockade of traffic into the Denver and St. Louis Federal Areas, and requirements for Federal identification for any travel across state lines or into Federal zones.”

“Success on the Strat forces?”

“They took Barksdale, Whiteman, and Tinker Air Force Bases.  They attempted to take numerous assets in Texas and were soundly defeated. What they didn’t know is that the very few aircraft remaining at those bases are largely hangar queens or parts dogs. Ready aircraft were scrambled when the first illegal orders started showing up.  There isn’t much left on any of those bases that will prove to be of much use should real shooting start.”

“Tinker had Materiel Command and one of the logistics centers….” Bruce said, thinking of the impact.

“Did. Until last May. Materiel Command was shifted to Ogden and Warner-Robins. Didn’t want all our eggs in one basket.”

“That include spares?”

“It did. Critical-needs parts for remaining weapons systems are no longer present at Tinker. They do have a pile of shot up parts and fried avionics however, marked as ‘reserve ready.’”

“How long have you known about this, sir?” Weathers continued.

“I’m not at liberty to say. Longer than you might think.”

“So what do they have in terms of military assets?”

“They have a very limited number of air assets, including rotary and fixed wing aircraft. F-15’s, a couple –52’s, C-17’s, a couple AC130’s. They have very, very little in the way of ordnance or parts. They do have at least five full divisions of Regular Army and Guard mechanized units, fully capable, and that means pre-War levels.”

“What is that,” I asked. “Fifty thousand men?” 

“Easily that, yes,” Anderson responded.

“Navy?”

“All United States naval vessels that survived the war are under control of the Joint Chiefs and regional commands. From what we can determine, the Federals have no viable naval assets. Again, though, we don’t know what might be lurking in the East that slipped through U.S. naval patrols,” Anderson replied.

“What’s the sphincter-level here, sir?” Weathers asked. “These Army units firmly on their side or not?”

“We don’t know for sure. We do know that a good thirty percent of them are, and that is certain. We think of those units in terms of the old Iranian Revolutionary Guards. They’re the True Believers. It may well be that that thirty percent is making sure the remainder is staying in line.”

“Anyone on the inside?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

“Absolutely,” Bob replied. “Not everyone is on board with what the Feds are doing.  They believed they had significant air assets that vanished quite suddenly. We have multiple sources in multiple units providing intelligence at the risk of summary execution.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “What’s next?”

“Waiting game for the next few hours or days, to see how the Feds react to what the States are demanding. After that, things could go hot on us. We don’t know.”

“Expectations here? I mean, what do you need from us?” I asked.

“Things go hot, military units could be redeployed within hours. That means dramatic changes in security here locally, transport, infrastructure support and manpower. You know that as well or better than anybody else, Rick.”

“I suppose I do,” I said, turning over the implications in my head.

“One thing though, Pac Command doesn’t suspect any military action in our area. They don’t have the assets to come this far, and they have nothing in place up here according to our intel. That’s the good news. The bad news is that you’ll see a military draft. You’ll also probably see refugees come into this area from other parts of the country if it lasts that long.”

I heard a buzzer down the hall, reminding me of a cheap alarm clock.   A moment later, a burly light colonel came into the room, and whispered something to General Anderson.  He straightened up in his chair, if that was possible given his rod-straight posture, and looked out at the table before looking around at us.

“Ladies, gentlemen, I’m afraid we have a shooting war,” he said.   “Three petroleum refineries in Wyoming and one in Billings, Montana were just attacked and heavily damaged.”

I felt as if I were six moves behind in a life-or-death version of chess. “Our fuel came from Billings and from Wyoming, in case anyone was wondering,” I said.

“You’ll excuse me,” General Anderson said. “Apparently I have a war to fight.”

Remnant, Chapter 14

14

Tuesday afternoon,

October Twenty-fourth,

3:00 p.m.

Bank of the West was now branded, ‘Federal Bank.’ Not exactly an imaginative name, but they did have a colorful logo, with a stylized profile of Thomas Jefferson.  No idea what the symbolism was supposed to foster in the mind of the artist. I supposed they were aiming for ‘trust.’ It seemed to miss the mark, for me at least.

Federally-hired contracting crews were shipped in on Air Force transport early in the day, and were tasked with rehabilitating and re-branding local branch banks in more than a dozen locations in the redefined ‘urban area.’ Fourteen different crews, one per location, each equipped specifically to refurb their particular building as quickly and efficiently as possible.

It was a minor miracle of organization, certainly unlike anything that I’d witnessed in my experience with large government.

The McDonald Road building was constructed in the early Seventies, strong through its bulky reinforced concrete shell and large interior vault, weak through the triple glazed storefront. That storefront had now been almost completely replaced with ballistic and blast-resistant glazing and frames; doors replaced in a similar manner, and work had been organized to create a force-protection zone around a perimeter, similar if not identical to pre-War Federal buildings.

Our ‘skeleton crew’ workforce at County Administration was covering things for the day without any interference from me, although I could have gone to the office without too much trouble. Curfew operations weren’t exactly routine, but there was a procedures manual in place now for the eventuality. Used a dozen times since the spring, refined a little each time.

I managed to find things to do out of the office that were still marginally within my scope of work, after dropping Karen and the gang off at the house. I was sure that Elaine would take us up on the offer for a new place to live, and I thought she’d be a good fit for the neighborhood and the house a good fit for her and her family as well.

I’d decided, after getting an OK from the Army and Karen (not in that order), to ‘blend in’ a little as a ‘regular’ County employee, and not ‘the boss.’  One of the maintenance shops happened to be located six blocks from the bank project, where the day-shift supervisor, also the caretaker who lived on site, checked me out a fairly well thrashed Chevy three-quarter ton diesel utility truck, and with a little negotiation in the form of some County vouchers for the employee warehouse, I paid for confidentiality. There was one work crew assigned to the bank, to ensure that utilities were operational and any of the needs of the Federal team were met.

I decided to assign myself to that team. I’d figure out a cover story along the way.

I arrived at the bank to find two Humvees with mounted machine guns on opposite corners of the property, providing a nice field of fire on all sides. The County vehicles were parked outside the perimeter, where I was directed to park as well. The parking area had been plowed all the way down to asphalt, a rare condition in this County this year. My truck was minus its two-way radio, so I went over to the Supervisors truck to ‘check-in’.

“Afternoon. They got any work over here for us?” I asked.

“No, sir. Not a blamed thing. Everything’s up and running, but we’re not supposed to leave until they’re done. Three hours we’ve been sitting on our asses.”

“Swell.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be behind a desk somewhere?” a voice asked from behind. Mike Amberson.

“Sheriff, nice to see you,” I replied, shaking his gloved hand.  The supervisor nodded, maybe figuring things out, maybe not. I figured that pretending to be someone else was a bad idea, and gave it up. Mike was almost immediately distracted by a radio call, and moved back to his cruiser, a few feet behind my beat up Chevy.

“You a desk driver?” the supervisor asked.

“I have been accused of that, but I’m not in my chosen profession. Field work suits me more often than not, and I hate meetings. I’m Rick Drummond.”

“Ryan Wizensky. So you’re the head desk driver.”

“Only when necessary.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, boss,” Wizensky said in a matter-of-fact way, “these guys have their act together. After we activated utilities, they escorted us to the property line and we’ve just been watching the show. Those two flatbeds out front have everything they need to put this place back together. Those three semi-trailers over there have a job shack, kitchen and bunkhouse. There’s fifty-odd men on this job right now, and none of ‘em has made anything that looks like a wasted move.”

“Escorted?” I asked.

“Yeah, as in, ‘Get the Hell outta my way and off-a my job.’”

“Are they contractors?” I wondered.

“Well they aren’t Army Corps of Engineers. First thing they did was set up a countdown clock. Twenty-four hours and this place is supposed be done.”

“You heard that from the workers?”

“One of the glaziers, yeah, before those Special Forces boys shooed him back inside. Didn’t look real happy to have one of their contracting boys outside of their comfort zone.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “So none of our guys have been inside since they got here?”

“Nope. But we haven’t really any business in there.”

“Maybe I’ll take a little walk.”

“Good luck with that,” Wizensky said. “They get outta hand and we’ll toss a wrench at them.”

“You don’t carry?” I asked in disbelief.

“Sorry. My ‘wrench’ is a 30.06.”

“Gotcha,” I said.

Mike had climbed back in his unit, taking some notes on a small pad. I decided that maybe a trip inside the ‘perimeter’ was a good idea when accompanied by law enforcement. Maybe not such a good idea when going incognito.  I let myself in on the passenger side.

“How’s your day going?” I asked when he was done on the radio.

“Lousy. Yours?”

“Better than lousy. What’s up?”

“Four Regular Army dead last night. Patrol didn’t check in. Found their bodies at thirteen-hundred. All their gear gone, and their truck.”

“Where?”

“West Central. Also lost a State Trooper last night in Chewelah, and two reserve police officers in Pullman.”

“Is it a stretch that these are connected?”

“No, since all of them were head shots at distance, and all of them were stripped of their uniforms and gear.”

I stood there I’m sure looking like an idiot, trying to make some sense of it.

“You’ll figure it out in a minute,” Mike said. “Work the evidence,” Mike said. “You will not like the answer.”

“Somebody’s gathering up current issue uniforms of law enforcement and military. They’ve already proven they’re good enough or patient enough to learn the pattern language of patrol schedules and put together a series of relatively coordinated attacks. The only questions are ‘who they are’ and ‘when do they act.’”

“Right.”

“But the only important question is ‘when.’ Doesn’t matter ‘who.’”

“Right again.”

“Well the only conclusion on ‘when’ is ‘now,’ or relatively soon. Nothing else would work, someone will put things together.”

“Three for three.”

“You think the banks are the target?”

“Honestly, I think the banks are the distraction. I think the murders are, too. Instill fear.”

“What’re the targets then?”

“Everything else. Step one, instill fear.”

“What?”

“Do you think it’s the slightest bit coincidental that nationwide within the space of a day or two, the socialist experiment finally collapses with the assassination of their ‘president’, that we have a new ‘banking system’ arrive just when we need it, and little riots and pinprick attacks happen all over the country?”

“No, not really. I thought that it was probably part of the New Republic sympathizers. But I’m having a hard time connecting all of this. You said ‘step one.’”

“Right. Create fear in the population. We’ve had that in spades since January. Complete the decades-long destruction of their money. Threaten their health. Wipe out their food supply. Steal from them.  Deprive them of security.  Then come riding in on your white horse and save the day. The population will view you as their saving grace.”

Mike was right. I didn’t like the answer that was coming into view.

“And I delivered a speech that was playing right into somebody’s hand.”

“Since it was the same speech more or less all around the country, yeah. Probably correct.”

“All right, let’s play that angle. That can only mean one thing. That what is passing for the Federal government has tipped over into something decidedly ugly.”

“That is exactly correct.”

I sat there and looked at the dash, then outside to the bank.

“So how close are we to the heart of evil, I wonder?”

“Hundred and twenty feet, my guess. Problem being is that there are too many hearts to this beastie.”

“What do you know about this work crew?” I asked, pointing to the bank.

“All the workers flew in on Air Force transports first thing this morning. Trucks came in on a special freight train last night, fully loaded and ready to go. Special Forces troops, and all their gear by the way, are from Eastern Command in St. Louis, not Northwest Command. They were on the train too, by the way. And they’re not real friendly, I hear.”

“Wanna see if we can test the perimeter?”

“Sure. I haven’t been shot at in almost a whole day,” Mike said.

A few minutes later, we were inside, after a casual, nonchalant walk past the sentries and into the glassed—bulletproof glass—vestibule. 

“May I help you?” a black uniformed man asked as we entered the lobby space.

“I’m the County Administrator here. This is Sheriff Mike Amberson. Thought we’d see how things are coming along,” I said as we shook hands. He did not give his name.

“Well enough,” was the cool reply. I looked over his shoulder, and sure-enough, there was the ‘countdown clock.’  Mike was looking about, as if a tourist. I knew better.

“You folks really know how to move things along.”

“We’re under contract. Time’s money.”

“I’m wondering if you still need our county crews out there. They’ve been sitting around for a while now.”

“We might. I’m not at liberty to give orders regarding local support.”

“Well, here’s the deal. I’m not paying them to sit on their butts in the cold. There’s work to do elsewhere, and if you’re not using them, they’re outta here.”

“Not my call,” he said, before calling out to someone who may or may not have been his superior.  An inverted pyramid of a man came out of the front office cluster over to us in the lobby.

“Problem?” he asked, with no introductions.

“They’re pulling the locals,” our first contact replied.

“No, you’re not. We’re not done with them.”

“So three hours of them sitting in trucks is productive?”

“Don’t really care about their productivity. I care about ours.”

“We’re done here,” I said as I turned and headed for the door, with Mike getting there ahead of me.

“And you are who?” the Pyramid asked.

“The County Administrator.”

“You’re aiming to get arrested.”

That got my attention.  “You threatening me?”

“Damned straight I am. I’m not working for you locals, I’m working for the Federal Government.”

“Well, then you oughta get acquainted with our local law enforcement situation. In this county, the Sheriff is the law. That includes superseding any Federal order or command if it’s unconstitutional. Power comes from the people, not from the government. I take it you haven’t heard that yet?”

“Don’t really care what your rules are. I know what mine are, and mine win. Constitution’s been suspended, and I’m getting paid to do a job.”

Mike replied. “Since you’ve not provided your name, let me inform you of this: In this state, the Constitution is the law of the land first and foremost. That might not be the case elsewhere, but here, that’s the way it is. Consider your actions carefully, sir, when in this County.”

“What a load of crap. Get out of my bank.”

“Your bank?” I asked.

“I’ll be the manager of this branch when we’re done with the re-fit.”

“Then you’ll be well shy of customers, if the so-called Federal Banks aren’t operating under Constitutional law,” I answered.

“When people get tired enough, they’ll be here. Just wait.”

“Where are you from anyway?” Mike asked.

“None of your damned business.”

“Watch your step in this county, sir. You will not receive a further warning.”

That received a string of expletives in reply.

“We’re done here,” I said to Mike and our difficult ‘contractors.’ “Let’s send the boys on to their next job,” I said, not knowing if they had any other tasks for this shift.

“Do that and our security forces will deal with you,” was the reply from behind me.

“OK, fair enough,” I said. “Mike, let’s head outside and have a little talk.”

Outside, it was beginning to darken with the lateness of the day and the increasing heavy overcast. It felt like snow again.

“You ready to take this on?” Mike asked.

“Call up our friends in the Forty First to weigh in on this before I poke them in the eye again.”

“Condor,” Mike said to his shoulder microphone, “You got that?” He tilted his head slightly, listening in on a very inconspicuous earbud.

“Good. Confirm ETA and force strength,” Mike said to his radio. Mike was listening to the reply, without looking like he was listening. A full minute passed before I could interrupt him.

“You got all this on radio?”

“Had a feeling about it. Set it up before you got into my unit. Forty-First command was listening live. We’ll know in a few minutes what kind of response we’ll get.”

“What do you think about all that ‘Constitution’s been suspended’ talk?”

“Stands to reason if you’re taking over and want a clean sweep, don’t you think?”

“Clumsy strategy though,” I said.

“Clumsy maybe, but we’re still several steps behind them, and you can bet there are people—a whole lot of people—who are willing to let them run roughshod.”

“Yeah, probably true,” I said. “It does make one wonder, if these men are in fact military, or mercenary.”

“There will certainly be a conversation on who’s in command, and the nature of an illegal order, I suspect,” Mike said as his eyes moved from one Humvee to the other. We were being watched, quite noticeably.  Mike was distracted again by someone speaking in his ear.

“Affirmative. Holding in place with Mr. Drummond.”

I stood there, waiting for his delivery.

“Ten minutes.”

“Good enough,” I said. “Do we dare go get in our cars?”

“Nope. That gunner behind you just tweaked his mount toward us. I think standing here is just fine,” Mike said.

“Showdown.”

“More like Mexican Standoff.”

“We’re a little outgunned. I’ve got my .45 and four mags, not a frickin’ machine gun.”

“Not for very long we’re not.  We have three general officers on our side, and their entire commands.”

“That’ll do,” I said, more than happily surprised.

Mike and I made small talk, me kidding him about his twins and sleep deprivation, him kidding me about being an old fart with high-school age kids, getting wiser by the day. Less than ten minutes after we’d heard that the Forty-First would send a response, I could hear the echo of a Blackhawk…or two…which we hadn’t heard in weeks. Helos just didn’t fly much anymore due to the lack of spare parts. I looked over at Mike.  

“Yeah, I hear it, too,” Mike said, remaining non-chalant.

“Gunners don’t seem to think anything unusual, though.”

“Tourists,” Mike replied.

I heard the A-10 only a moment before I saw it, popping up over the trees to the north, passing low over us, and immediately snapping into a tight circle as the startled Humvee gunners obviously wondered what to do. The Hog snapped back to level and headed further east, probably for a similar action at another bank. By then though, two Blackhawks were in shooting positions, and ground troops were moving into a perimeter across the street and behind cover on the back side of the property.

I looked over at the main entry to the bank as the ‘manager’ came outside, as he was ordered to stand down over a bullhorn. The western Humvee gunner made a false move and was warned off any further futile action with a burst of fire from one of the helos. I’d never seen anything chew up pavement like that before….

Mike and I didn’t have much of a chance to move, let alone speak. When I finally came to my senses, I said to Mike, “I didn’t know they put mini-guns on Blackhawks.”

“Learn something new every day,” was his reply. He was obviously as surprised as I was at the response that the military had forwarded.   A moment later, ground troops passed us and took the bank.   Mike was listening to something on his earbud again, for a couple of minutes.

“I think we can send the boys home now,” I said.

“Yeah, and you better tell Karen that you’re headed with me to a meeting.”

“I am?”

“You are. We are required at Felts Field at seventeen-hundred hours.”

“Let me guess.”

“No need. Pacific Northwest Command is shuttling together the leadership in the region into meetings like this one. We’re being teleconferenced together with the Governor to talk about a Constitutional crisis.”

“Crisis?” I asked. “Heck. I’da called it a revolt.”