Nirsch took the flyer Chad had given him in his living room two days earlier and read it to the crowd. “What I just read to you is an open letter to everyone in the United States, written by President Hartley. He has even taken it upon himself to rename our nation!”
Nirsch paused to let people whisper among themselves, then continued.
“I was on an Air Force base when the attack happened. In the blink of an eye, I saw all power shift from the people to the government. The military has cars and trucks that run and planes that fly. They have communications capabilities and powerful weaponry. If we as a people do not fight back, we will lose everything. I see a lot of men and women among us who have fought for the ideals of America. There are several more people who should be among us, but they are not—your sons, your daughters, your mothers and fathers. Why? Because they died defending this land. I tell you now, I will not be told how to live my life. I will not allow those in power to control me. I will not let them bury and erase everything that we have fought, bled, and died for!”
A deafening cheer went up. Nirsch let them yell and talk, then quieted them.
“I am taking a group to Boise,” he said. “We are planning on removing the troops and freeing everyone who is captive. Hopefully we can achieve this with little or no loss of life.”
Someone shouted out from the crowd. “You said people are captive. But don’t people need food and medicine? It’s not an evil thing for the president to care for them.”
Nirsch scanned the crowd, trying to match the voice to a face. The man started speaking again and Nirsch saw him—Clark Gawsloave, a teacher from the high school. Nirsch had known Gawsloave for thirty years. They’d played football together in high school and had been close friends. But when Clark had left John Day to attend college, he’d changed, and their friendship had ended. By the time Gawsloave returned to teach school, he no longer shared Nirsch’s values or beliefs. They hadn’t spoken for over fifteen years.
Gawsloave had alienated himself from most of the community when he and some college friends had tried to disrupt a timber sale by chaining themselves to a ponderosa pine. Most John Day families made their living in the timber industry. They saw Gawsloave as a traitor to the community he’d grown up in.
Gawsloave walked toward the front of the crowd as he spoke: “All this talk of fighting and freeing people isn’t necessary. What are you trying to free them from? It sounds to me like President Hartley is helping those who are hurting. He’s using his influence and power for the good of everyone!”
Several people glared at Gawsloave.
“Shut up, Clark!” someone shouted.
“Nobody cares what you have to say, Gawsloave,” chimed another. “It’s bad enough our kids had to listen to your hate speech in school.”
It felt like violence could erupt at any moment. Nirsch held his hand up and shouted down to the crowd. “What makes America great is the freedom we all have to voice our opinions. Even if you don’t agree with Mr. Gawsloave, he has the right to give his opinion.”
The tension subsided some. Nirsch addressed Gawsloave directly: “Would you like to say a few words to everyone?”
Gawsloave adjusted the wire-rim glasses on his hawk-like nose, ran his fingers through greasy blond hair, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the tower with an air about him that Nirsch perceived as arrogance. The crowd parted, and Gawsloave moved through angry faces, his Birkenstock sandals stirring up a cloud of dust as they slid through the dirt and horse manure covering the arena. He climbed the stairs to the tower, pushed out his chest, and addressed the town.
“I’ve listened to what Mr. Nirschell had to say.” Gawsloave’s voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I do not agree with any of it! You all talk of war and violence. You yell and get angry at a man who is trying to look out for everyone’s safety. Finally, he has created gun-free, safe cities.”
This caused an onslaught of curses and shouts from the townspeople. Nirsch held up his hand. “Please, let him speak!”
Gawsloave continued. “He is providing people with food and medicine. You talk about those who died for your country. You would rise up and rebel against the man who brought home your sons and daughters from the unjust wars that the fascists forced us into?”
“Commie!” someone shouted.
“President Hartley tried to mend the violence and hatred that forced these people to attack us,” Gawsloave said. “We left them no choice. We have bullied the whole world for too long now! He has tried to make peace with the global community. If what you say is true and there are U.N. troops with our troops, then I say he was successful. The global community has come to our aid, to help us back on the road to recovery. I welcome them, and even go as far as to say we should invite them into our community!”
Everyone started shouting at once. People were shaking their fists and cursing Gawsloave. A chunk of dry horse manure flew through the air and struck the front of the tower, exploding in a green cloud. Nirsch had to regain control or Gawsloave would surely be killed. “Everybody, please!” he shouted. “This is not going to help! Everyone, please!
No one heard him. The crowd started to push toward the tower. Nirsch took his Sig out of its holster, pointed it at the dirt behind the tower, and fired twice.
The crowd froze. Silence instantly blanketed the entire arena.
Gawsloave stood behind Nirsch in the corner of the tower, shaking and looking like a cornered rabbit. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he’d nearly covered his head with his jacket.
Nirsch shouted out to the crowd again. “This is still America. I still call myself an American. I am still proud of the Stars and Stripes. I will act like an American and allow someone to speak freely and voice their opinion! We are meant to be a free people. Free to think any way we want. Free to hold any ideals we identify with. But all this freedom stops when it endangers the innocent and puts lives at risk. President Hartley talks of peace and being part of a collective. He talks of helping the innocent and saving lives, and then turns and takes any life that gets in the way of his idea of the perfect society. If anyone believes this way, even those among us, they are free to do so. But let those who believe in individual responsibility, not collective salvation, do what they feel is right and just. Today you have a choice. You can rise up and defend this!”
Nirsch grabbed an American flag Larry had placed in the tower earlier and waved it over the heads of the crowd. It fluttered in the wind, making a sharp, crackling sound. Everyone fell silent. Some took off their hats and placed their hands over their hearts. Nirsch continued: “Or you can forget about this flag and what it has stood for the last two hundred fifty years. This is America. We all have the freedom to choose. This choice is yours to make and yours alone!”
The crowd roared again, cheering for several minutes. When they began to quiet down, Nirsch held up his hand one last time.
“We have to stand up straight and do whatever is necessary to keep the original idea of America alive,” he said. “We must choose to live as free people in spite of the fact that those who hate freedom and everything America has stood for are doing their best to destroy it. Soon, we’ll all meet in the town of Unity. Any able-bodied man or woman is welcome. We will make plans and we will march to Boise!
“Just outside the gate here, my friend Larry is waiting at a table. He has a signup sheet. If you wish to join us and stop the tyranny that has begun, then sign up. You will be given instructions on what to bring. There is a box after each line. You can mark either box, ‘no experience’ or ‘experienced.’ If you have served in the military or law enforcement, mark ‘experienced’ and then explain your area of expertise: infantry, weapons, communications, whatever it is. We need everyone who has experience.”
Nirsch walked over to Gawsloave, put his arm around his shoulders, and led him back to where the crowd could see him. “This man has just as much right to speak as any of you. I still consider him an American, even though we disagre
e. I would gladly lay my life down to protect his right to speak freely, along with everyone else in this arena!”
They walked down the stairs together, through the middle of the crowd, and out the gate. Once they were through, Gawsloave scowled and walked away without a word or glance at Nirsch.
At midnight, Nirsch and Larry left town with a list of 480 names. Over two hundred of them had military experience. Nirsch wondered how Bill had done in Burns. If he had at least as many names as Nirsch, they had more than enough to at least bring the fight to Boise. The chance that they would win was not even 50 percent, but there was a chance, and that was all that mattered. They rode in silence, both of them thinking about the days ahead. If they couldn’t turn this around beginning with Boise, there was no hope for the future of America.
They rode into the ranch at sunrise. Nirsch paused at the gate. Without doubt, this was one of the most beautiful pieces of earth God had ever created. I am truly a blessed man. Nirsch was about to leave it all behind, to go and fight for the right to keep that blessing.
30
NORTHWEST NEW MEXICO
7:40 P.M., MAY 14
DEBBIE NIRSCHELL WOKE TO THE SOUND OF TRUCKS ON THE highway below her as the sun sank low in the west. She and her companions lay in a dry ditch on a ridge a hundred yards above New Mexico’s Highway 64. Quickly and quietly, she woke her companions. They were just thirty-five miles out of Shiprock and nearly ready to cross into Utah. They’d seen few people since they entered New Mexico. The people they had seen, they avoided. This was the first time she, Jake, and Travis and Stephanie Farrell had heard the sound of trucks.
Debbie crawled to the top of the ditch bank and peeked over. A dozen armored personnel carriers were moving up the road. The lead and rear trucks had gun turrets mounted on top. Both were manned. Jake crawled up next to Debbie and whispered in her ear.
“Who are they Mom?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
Debbie didn’t recognize the military insignia on the doors—the letters “U.C.” painted in black over a picture of golden wheat.
Without warning, the truck in the lead exploded in a fireball. The man at the gun turret screamed as the fire enveloped him. The convoy stopped. Armed soldiers poured out of the trucks. Automatic gunfire began raining on them from the ditch on the other side of the road. Several of the soldiers were hit and screamed. The turret on the rear truck sprang to life and rocked as the .50-caliber spit fire. Several men cried out from the ditch.
Debbie heard shouts in Spanish over her left shoulder. She flattened to the ground, shoving Jake down next to her. About twenty men on horseback galloped over the hill and passed her hiding place. Many wore tattered shirts and bandanas. All carried rifles. These men also attacked the convoy.
The soldiers hiding behind the trucks didn’t have a chance. They fell like dominoes. Some were dead before they hit the ground. Others lay in the dirt screaming in pain, limbs missing.
The entire attack lasted less than five minutes. When the dust had settled, almost every soldier had been killed or wounded. Four had dropped their guns and thrown up their hands in surrender. These men were lined up on their knees in the middle of the road and executed. The wounded were also executed, one at a time. A man with a pistol walked up to each screaming victim and methodically put a bullet in his head.
The attackers searched the bodies of the dead soldiers. Their weapons were evenly distributed among the raiders. Personal items were pocketed. A man got behind the wheel of each truck. They turned them east, off the road, and bounced across country out of sight. Five of the men who’d arrived on horseback stayed behind to drag the bodies into the ditch beside the road and cover them up. The same five got behind the burned-up truck, pushed it into the ditch, and covered it with sagebrush and tumbleweeds.
Two of the men remounted. They had a short conversation with the three men on the ground, then rode off after the trucks.
Debbie was shaken by the brutality of the attacks. From the way it happened and from how the Ferrells had described the gangs in Austin, Debbie thought these men must be part of whatever group had been raiding there. The fact that they were now more than nine hundred miles from home meant that whatever or whoever was directing these men had a wide reach.
The soldiers riding in the U.C. trucks were a mystery to her. She didn’t recognize the symbol and wondered if they might be good guys, combating the gangs. As she watched the filthy men drag and roll the uniformed soldiers into the ditch like garbage, she began to shake with hatred. She wondered if some of these men could have been part of the rape and murder the Ferrells had witnessed in Austin.
So far on their journey, Debbie had avoided contact with anyone. Until they knew what was happening, they couldn’t risk being seen. Yet the fact that these men had horses changed everything.
An idea began to form in Debbie’s mind. If she, Jake, and the Ferrells had horses, they could stay off the roads and go cross country all the way to Oregon. If by some chance they were spotted, having horses would make pursuing them much more difficult. They’d had several flat bicycle tires the past three weeks and had used all but one of the extra tubes, as well as most of their fix-a-flat canisters.
Debbie turned and whispered to Jake, “I need you to stay right here, buddy. No matter what happens, you need to stay here and keep quiet. Do you understand?”
Terror filled Jake’s eyes as he nodded his understanding.
Debbie crawled down the bank to the Ferrells and shared her idea. At first her companions resisted, but once she explained their supply situation and described the brutality she’d just witnessed, they reluctantly agreed.
When Debbie had thoroughly laid out the plan, she waited until each of them had taken their positions behind clumps of brush. She crawled forty yards down the ditch, removed her shirt so only her bra showed, hid her hunting knife in the front of her jeans, and peeked over the top of the ditch. They would get only one chance at this. If it worked, they’d be in fantastic shape. If it didn’t, they’d be caught and terrible things would happen.
The three men had strung thin wires across the road. Now they were kneeling and attaching the wires to metal boxes placed on either side. Debbie crawled another thirty yards. Adrenaline raced through her veins and her breathing quickened. She slipped the bra strap off her right shoulder, rubbed extra dirt on her face, limped onto the road, and walked within fifty yards of the men.
“Can y-y-you help me?” Debbie said.
One of the men looked up, then slapped his buddy on the shoulder. Soon all three stared at her with wide, lust-filled eyes.
“Please help me. I’m so hungry and thirsty.”
One of the men drew a pistol and took aim at Debbie’s chest. His buddy knocked his hand down and stood, a wide, yellow-toothed smile forming on his crusty lips. He started toward her.
The other men stood. This was Debbie’s cue. She screamed and hobbled back up the bank as the men began to chase after her. She ran into the ditch and limped toward the Ferrells’ hiding place. She reached the spot just as the men crested the hill and spotted her. She pretended to trip, and fell on the ground between Stephanie’s clump of brush on one side and Travis’s on the other.
Yellow Tooth got to Debbie first and dove for her with grunts and snorts of pure delight. His two buddies stood on either side of him, cheering him on as he unbuttoned his tattered jeans. Debbie reached for her knife as his greasy fingers tore at her pants. She thrust the knife upwards, catching him in the crotch.
Yellow Tooth screamed. Debbie withdrew the knife and thrust it at him again, this time connecting with the soft flesh of his throat under his chin.
The other men stood in stunned horror as she rolled out from under him and sprang to her feet. One of them regained his composure and started to raise his pistol. Stephanie Ferrell sprang up like a cat beside him, hitting him hard and knocking him to the dirt as her knife came down and plunged into his heaving chest up to the hilt. He tried to scre
am. Blood bubbles poured out of his mouth.
The last man turned and ran when Travis burst out of the brush. Debbie and Travis ran after him. They caught him as he hit the road and turned toward a horse and the gun that was strapped to its saddle.
Debbie dove for the man’s legs, knocking him to the ground. Travis swung a heavy tree limb toward the side of his head. The branch connected, caving in the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, twitching as the nerves searched for return signals from his lifeless brain.
Debbie sat down hard in the road and tried to catch her breath. It came in short gasps. Her muscles burned.
Jake ran up the road, tears streaming down his dirty face. “Mom, are you okay? I did what you said, Mom, I didn’t move.”
Jake hit Debbie full speed, wrapping his arms around her and knocking her over. She held him tightly for several minutes.
The Ferrells walked up. Travis was pale and shaking violently. He had tears in his eyes. His face was twisted in pain.
“We killed them,” he managed to choke out. “I-I-I’ve never hurt anyone before.”
He dropped to his knees and groaned out a prayer. “Oh, God! Please forgive me!”
Stephanie Ferrell came up behind Travis, put her arms around him, and gently held her husband while rocking him back and forth.
Debbie tapped Jake on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow her. They gathered the horses and the men’s weapons. Debbie retrieved her shirt and wiped most of the dirt and blood droplets off her face. She felt nauseated as the rush of combat slowly subsided. She’d been in dangerous situations before, but she’d never killed anyone. She was surprised at how easy it had been to take these men’s lives. Regret and remorse tugged at the corners of her mind, but somehow it didn’t feel wrong. These men were monsters. They were most likely part of the forces that killed and raped without hesitation. What Debbie had just done was justice, simple justice.
Collective Retribution Page 19
