I didn’t trust Grant. No great shocker there. Grant was Martin’s friend. Co-worker. Comrade in arms. Whatever. It didn’t make a difference to me. I didn’t know him from a hole in the wall.
I trusted Martin. Sort of. He was still my brother, and that had to count for something, but a part of me wondered whether his training in the Corps and experience overseas changed him too much—made it impossible for him to come home.
How could I ask him about this? How could I ask him if I was supposed to be the patsy? He’d deny it, of course. He’d have to. He was the one who dragged me into it. Which meant I was either getting paranoid, or my brother’d lied to me from the beginning.
I wanted to believe I was just paranoid.
I was reasonably certain Jerry wouldn’t lie to me. I don’t think he had a duplicitous bone in his body. Of course, there was just as much chance that Jerry was the patsy as me.
It didn’t make sense, though. There were only four of us. What would they need a patsy for? And why pin an assassination attempt on me or any of us, especially since I could finger the rest of them?
On the other hand, there was the simple fact that they weren’t telling me everything. They’d admitted as much by keeping the militia connection from me. I wanted to know what else they were hiding.
That Friday we piled into Grant’s SUV with the M107s hidden in the wheel well in back, buried beneath four bedrolls and duffel bags, a cooler of beer, a second cooler of food and a set of collapsible camping chairs. I noticed Grant tucked a .38 in the glove box. Just in case we got pulled over for any reason, he’d explained. I wanted to challenge him about that. Our beef wasn’t with the local cops—or even the State police—and the thought that one of them might get killed so we could swing a little practice time in with the M107s was beyond ridiculous.
On the other hand, even a brief traffic stop could prove disastrous if the cop asked to inspect our vehicle. One look at those M107s and we’d be done for.
Don’t know how much use the .38 would be one way or the other, though. Most cop cars I’d ever seen had cameras in them, and they were sure to record the license plate number even before getting out of their vehicle.
All this ran through my mind as we pulled onto the road, heading east down 104 toward the Adirondacks. I could’ve mentioned it to him, but I had a feeling he’d just snarl about working with civies, call me “Cherry” again, and point out how he’d already thought of all that.
Nope. Better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. I think Mark Twain said that one.
We spent four hours on the road, taking 104 east through Oswego to hook up with 81 North for a spell, then turning east again outside of Watertown. I know we took Route 56 into the mountains, but after that, I was totally lost. Grant had some address programmed into his GPS unit and made so many right turns down winding roads into nowhere that I was sure we’d wind up in Canada before long.
Abruptly, Grant pulled to the side of the road, muttering, “Hang on a sec,” as he stepped out of the vehicle. He crossed over to the far side and began pulling at a downed log, moving it into the road.
“Now what is he up to?” said Jerry, craning his head around to watch Grant through the windshield. Martin leaned back in his seat and yawned.
After a few minutes, Grant returned to the SUV and switched off the GPS. We drove around the log into a clearing in the woods. Again, Grant stopped and got out. I unrolled my window and peered through, watching as he crunched through the snow back to the log, pulling it into place. I snorted. It was such an obvious tactic, and except for the tire tracks in the ditch, if you didn’t know what to look for, you’d never find the hidden entrance.
Soon we were bumping along a snowy path that could barely be described as a road. Branches and leaves lashed the sides of the vehicle, and at one or two spots, I was sure we would’ve gotten stuck. We came to what might have been a fork in the road. One path veered uphill along rough boulders. The other followed a gradual, sloping decline along a smooth path. I nearly objected when Grant chose the rougher road, switching into four-wheel drive and jostling us roughly as we crested the mound of boulders. On the other side, we found an easier path made smoother by crushed stone glazed over with a thin coating of ice.
“Where’d that other trail go?” I asked.
Grant glanced back in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling. “After another mile it drops off into a bog.”
“Beautiful. Anyone ever get stuck out there?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Never looked.”
I chewed my lip and looked out the window. Who in their right mind would build such a road? I knew the answer before the thought finished forming. Someone who didn’t want to be found.
After fifteen minutes, we turned sharply and stopped in front of a steel barricade. Grant put the car into park, shutting off the engine. I undid my seatbelt and reached for the door handle.
“I wouldn’t do that, Cherry.”
I paused, hand on the door handle. “Okay. Why not?”
“You just sit tight a bit. They’ll let us through in a minute or so.”
I wanted to know who they were. “Do they even know we’re here?”
“Oh yeah. See that motion sensor up there? Soon as we came around the bend we rang the doorbell.”
“So we just sit here?”
“Best way to avoid getting shot. Somebody lost would just turn their car around and go. Cops would get out to investigate. We’re just gonna wait politely.”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
After five minutes a man in a ski cap and camouflage overalls appeared on the other side of the gate, carrying an SKS assault rifle. He unlocked the gate and swung it far enough to come through, then closed it again.
Grant unrolled his window.
The man dropped the barrel down, pointing it right at us. “State your business,” he demanded.
Grant let loose a blue streak. “Point that thing somewhere else, Rick!”
The man Grant called Rick hesitated, but then lowered the barrel toward the ground. “Sorry, Grant. State your business.”
“Training cherries like you. Open the gate.”
“Password?”
“It’s me, Rick. I don’t need a frickin’ password.”
“Sorry,” said Rick. “Can’t let you in without the password.”
“You believe this?” Grant said to Martin. “Open the glove box.”
Martin opened the glove box and set the .38 in Grant’s open hand. “I got your password right here, Cherry!” he hollered, pulling the revolver free of its holster.
Rick raised the SKS and fired, the round cracking air and splintering the tree branch just over our truck. Jerry and I swore and ducked as Rick leveled the gun, sighting down the barrel at Grant.
“You’ve got five seconds to get the hell out of here! Four! Three! Two!”
“Rosebud!”
I watched from behind the seat as Rick grit his teeth then lifted the SKS back to his shoulder. He saluted smartly and opened the gate to let us pass. Grant shook his head, handing the revolver back to Martin, who quaked with laughter.
“You really think he’d have shot us this time?” Grant muttered.
“Yeah, I think so,” Martin chortled.
Grant shifted into gear. “That’s a little more like it, Cherry,” he called out to Rick, returning the man’s salute with a narrow grin as he drove us into the compound.
“All right, ladies,” he said, reaching back and tapping us both on the shoulders, “you can get up now.”
Jerry and I sat back up, glancing around at the bivouac that opened around us.
“Welcome to Camp Nundawa Ono.”
Ten
“Nundawaba Uno what?”
I was grateful Jerry’d said it, and not me.
Grant didn’t seem to mind. “Nundawa Ono,” he repeated. “It’s Seneca for ‘people of the great hills.’ It’s what they call th
emselves.”
“Weren’t the Senecas located out west? Near Buffalo?”
“Still are,” said Martin. “Take I-90 far enough, you pass right through the sovereign nation of the Seneca people. This part of the country belonged to the Oneidas, I think.”
“Okay,” I said, “so why name this after the Senecas?”
“Most aggressive tribe in the Iroquois Confederacy,” beamed Grant. “Totally sovereign. Still willing to take on the government. Seemed appropriate.”
I stared out the window at the complex sprawled around us. A dormitory rose two stories on the left, next to a smaller unit Grant said was the armory. The main building lay directly ahead. It housed the kitchen, mess hall, and meeting rooms. A long porch wrapped around the front and one side, and beneath the overhang, a cork bulletin board that read “Daily Activities” hung on the wall.
Grant pulled into a parking space in front of the main building. Three other cars were parked there, each bearing a blanket of snow. One of them had a bumper sticker that said, “Gun control means a firm grip.”
I watched Grant and Martin climb out of the vehicle and sat there a moment longer before feeling ridiculous. I glanced at Jerry. His face was as blank as the ground outside.
“Think they’ll shoot us if we get out?”
“Huh?”
I repeated my question.
He grinned and shook his head. “Sorry. I was someplace else. Come on, I gotta pee.”
I followed him out of the SUV and onto the front porch. The air was damp and chill. I shivered, watching my breath come out in a dissipating vapor. Together we mounted the steps and burst through the wooden doors.
Inside, Jerry disappeared down a hallway marked “Restrooms,” while I shuffled over to the large fire pit in the center of the room. An enormous black stovepipe hung from four chains over the fire pit, like an upside down funnel. Beneath it, a few logs smoldered. I sat with my back to the fire and looked around, grateful for the warmth. A moment later, the front door banged open and shut again. I shivered and caught the eye of Rick the guard. His lips were set in an unpleasant frown. Hair parted in the center descended on either side of a weathered face, with furtive eyes sunken beneath thick blond eyebrows. He nodded curtly in my direction and stalked off toward the kitchen.
A moment later, he reappeared with Grant and Martin in tow. “Dumbest stunt you ever could pull,” he was muttering.
Grant smiled and slapped him on the shoulder, “Don’t worry yourself, Cherry. You did fine.”
Despite Grant’s assurances, Rick looked anything but fine. Or satisfied. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at the ground. “So what’s the plan?” he finally said.
“Well, I want to get these cherries some lunch, and then I figure we’ll head up the face in about an hour or so.”
“All right. You want me to unlock the armory?”
“Nah. We’re all set. Just take a radio with ya. I’ll give a holler when we reach the summit.”
“Yes sir. You might wanna dress warm. There’s a front supposed to be coming through sometime tonight.”
“Cabin got propane?”
Rick shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t know who used it last. There’s at least a half a cord of firewood stacked inside, though.”
“That’ll have to do, then. Anyone else around?”
“Maybe half a dozen guys down by the swamp. Booger’s got ‘em running drills.”
“All right. Let Boog know we’re up there, but tell him to keep it on the down low. I don’t want anyone coming up while we’re there. You stickin’?”
“Can, if you need me. Marcy wants me home, but I can always make a phone call.”
“No need. Tell her I said hi. Maybe she’ll make us one of those pies again.”
“I’ll let her know you asked.”
“You do that. Wait for my signal, then go ahead and bug on out. I’ll see you again at the rally on the thirtieth.”
“Yes sir.”
“You did good, Corporal. Dismissed.”
Rick saluted, then turned on his heel and left. Martin and Grant came over and sat by the fire.
“Little baby’s all growed up,” said Martin.
Grant snickered. “He’s getting there. Hope he tells Marcy about them pies.” He looked at me. “You like Mincemeat? Marcy makes the best.”
I shook my head. “Not really a fan.”
“Your loss. We’re gonna grab ourselves some grub first, then I’ll take you up the mountain. Where’s Jerry?”
I nodded toward the restroom. “Using the can.”
“All right. Let’s get started.”
***
We made ourselves a hearty lunch then loaded up four backpacks with food supplies, clothes, and our bedrolls. On top of that, Grant handed the M107s and ammo to Jerry and me, saying, “Time to earn your stripe, boys.”
I wanted to point out that we hadn’t enlisted in any army, but there didn’t seem to be much point. At one o’clock sharp—thirteen hundred hours, according to Grant—we started up the mountain.
The hike was slow going as we clambered over large rocks and across large swaths of frozen earth. The early snows had barely pierced the forest’s canopy, and the rust-colored pine needles beneath our feet provided a dry but dubious footing. More than once I skidded unevenly across the ground, certain I was about to twist an ankle or wrench my knee. After a half hour, I was sweating profusely. Pain shot through my calves and thighs. I glanced at Jerry, who fared little better.
I’d been on numerous hikes in our back woods and along the trails through the nature preserves and parks near home, but none of that prepared me for this climb. My shoulders and back burned from carrying the gun and backpack. I stopped and stretched, eyeing Martin, who walked beside me.
“How much farther?” I muttered. Martin shook his head, grinning.
“Holy cats, Cherry, you whining already?” said Grant. “I didn’t just hear you ask, ‘Are we there yet,’ did I?”
“Go to hell.”
Grant turned and stalked back to me. He pulled the M107 off my back and reached for the backpack. “Already been there,” he said. “Thought I’d share the experience.”
“Next time how ‘bout a T-shirt, instead? Or maybe one of them snow globes?”
He shook his head. “C’mon. Give me your pack. We’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”
“Robert Frost,” I said. “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I let the pack fall off my shoulders. He swung it up onto his back next to his own, turned, and trudged up the mountain. I hung my head and followed.
Martin squeezed my shoulder. “Now you’re learning, little brother.”
I looked to Jerry, who watched us from the corner of his eye. His cheeks were flushed. “How you doing, Jerry?” I asked.
He blew out a breath. “I’m holding out,” he muttered, and started walking again.
***
I was relieved when Jerry only lasted fifteen minutes more. He was, after all, a little bigger than me. Martin took his pack and gun, and together we followed the two ex-soldiers up the rest of the ascent. We reached the summit a little after fifteen hundred hours. I don’t know the name of the hill we’d climbed, but it offered us a three hundred sixty degree view of the surrounding mountains and valleys. In the distance we could see the ponderous profiles of the high peaks to the south and east looming over our small achievement. I suddenly felt insignificant.
A hunting cabin squatted just on the other side of the summit, burrowed beneath the crown of pine and all but invisible except from where we stood. I wondered if anyone but those in Grant’s militia knew of its existence. Grant handed the M107s to Martin and brought Jerry and me into the cabin. He had us lay out our bedrolls and stock the pantry with the food we brought while he dragged in some firewood and inspected the room. Then we returned to the peak.
Martin had both guns loaded with silencers attached and placed on the summit face, their muzzles pointing away toward n
othing. He stood beside them, staring through a pair of binoculars at a distant hilltop, the radio pressed to his ear.
“All right, try it now,” he said. “A little more—hold it! That’s perfect.” He handed the binoculars to Grant. “See what you think, chief.”
Grant took the field glasses and studied the mount. “That’s good, Corporal. Thanks a million.” He saluted the hilltop and turned to us.
“All right, Cherries,” he said. “Now the fun begins.”
Eleven
“Peter, let’s start with you. Take a gander through that scope and tell me what you see.”
I lay on my stomach beside one of the M107s and put my eye to the scope. Training it across the valley, I caught movement on the far hillside. “Son of a gun,” I muttered. “What is—is that a ski lift?”
“Used to be,” said Martin. “We brought it over here and reconfigured it.”
“I’ll say.”
Through the scope, I watched as a string of department store mannequins suspended from poles waltzed through the air. At the end of their circuit they turned and flew back the way they came. Pulling away from the scope, I studied the hillside with my naked eye, barely discerning the figures moving across the open grade.
“It’s kinda like one of them old carnival shooting galleries,” said Grant. “Super-sized.”
“‘Cept this ain’t some mechanical duck hunt,” I muttered.
“No, it ain’t.”
“I gotta see this.” Jerry kneeled beside me, lifting the other M107. “Wowee,” he breathed. “What’s the range?”
“A little over two thousand meters.”
“That’s at the extreme high end for accurate.”
Martin crouched between us. “Gentlemen, we are gonna train with these weapons for the next six days. We will eat, sleep, and breathe the M107. We’ll shoot them in all kinds of weather and under every circumstance imaginable. Rain, snow, or shine, we will become the masters of this gun. Any questions?”
Jerry said, “Yeah, is there anybody over there? ‘Cause I don’t want nobody wandering around up there while we’re over here firing off these cannons, know what I mean?”
The Spirit of Resistance Page 6
