False Flag

by Bobby Akart

  Willis was born in the working-class Boston neighborhood of Dorchester, which was known for hockey-playing Catholic kids and the birthplace of the famous Wahlberg actors. The path of his life would more closely follow another famous resident of the old neighborhood—gangster Whitey Bulger.

  He grew up fatherless, and after his mother died when he was fourteen, he found himself alone and struggling to survive. Willis learned to protect himself by bulking up his body with an extreme weightlifting program and the use of steroids. At seventeen, he was stronger than most adults and easily landed a job as a bouncer at an after-hours Asian nightclub. While working late one night, he helped save the life of a high-ranking member of the Ping On gang who had come under assault. This landed him in their good graces, and Willis was essentially adopted by the gang.

  Over time he rose through the ranks and became the leading oxycodone importer from South Florida—a three-billion-dollar-a-year industry. He also became known as the White Devil. Now, the days of organized crime were over, and the fear of being hunted by the feds had passed. Willis had one goal in mind, and that was to preserve Chinatown for those he considered family.

  “This way,” said a short, stocky guard in Mandarin. He swung the rifle barrel like it was a policeman’s traffic baton. Julia, followed by Sarge and Steven, descended the stairwell into a dimly lit bar. They were greeted by several other men who immediately separated the three members of the Loyal Nine and frisked them. One of the men became a little too friendly with Julia during the process, but she gave Sarge a reassuring look.

  “Come sit down,” came a voice out of the darkness past the pool tables. A faint red candle burned on a table in the corner. The sound of a chair sliding on the floor indicated they were going to greet their guest.

  Sarge was amazed at the size of Willis. He towered over Steven, who stood six feet three inches. He wore a black polo shirt that barely contained his biceps. The White Devil looked more like a white elephant. Sarge spoke first.

  “My name is Henry Sargent, but you can call me Sarge. This is my brother, Steven. This is Julia Hawthorne.”

  Julia, who knew the White Devil’s story from years of media coverage, immediately engaged him in Mandarin. This proved to be an excellent way to break the ice, and Willis relaxed.

  “Please, call me John,” he said laughingly. “Only my wife does anymore, and the lawyers, of course.”

  “Thank you for seeing us,” started Sarge. “You don’t know us, and we only know you by reputation. I believe you are a devoted husband, and I know that you have a heartfelt sense of community. Your choice of career is none of our business.”

  Willis laughed again. “I can say this with absolute certainty. Whatever has happened in this country sure is bad for my business. Nobody could buy my products even if I could manage to find any to sell!”

  Sarge humored the notorious gangster by laughing with him. We need this guy’s help—for his muscle.

  “Let me get right to the point because time is an issue for us both,” said Sarge. “There has been a new governor appointed by the President. He is power hungry and will stop at nothing to control anyone who resists his demands.”

  “What does he demand?” asked Willis. He leaned on the table, clearly interested in Sarge’s information. His muscular arms bulged as he flexed his fingers.

  “He intends to enforce the martial law declaration announced by the President last week,” replied Sarge. “He has recruited an army to help him with the task of confiscating weapons, food, and supplies from any source available, including people’s homes.”

  “What kind of army?”

  “The kind that poses a direct threat to you and those that you are attempting to protect,” replied Sarge. “He gave a blank check to La Mara Salvatrucha and the unified black gangs out of the south led by Jarvis Rockwell to enter Boston without fear of retribution by law enforcement.”

  “I know J-Rock,” said Willis. “He’s a punk. Guzman heads up the Hispanics. He’s crazier than those ISIS fucks. How do you know this?”

  “We just know,” replied Sarge. He couldn’t give away too much information received from their new mole—Captain Gibson.

  “What does this have to do with me?” asked Willis.

  “The Callahan Tunnel is shut down,” replied Steven. “The only open route across Boston Harbor is through the Ted Williams Tunnel. Get the picture?”

  “Yeah, by the time the MS-13 clear the Fort Point Channel, they’ll be right here at our doorstep.”

  “Exactly,” added Sarge. “We need your help to stop them or at least thin their ranks before they can roll into Boston and make life rough for all of us. J-Rock will be our responsibility.”

  Willis leaned back in his chair to stretch. He looked at Steven as a boxer would assess his adversary. “Just who are you, exactly?”

  “We’re just a group of people who love Boston and our country,” replied Julia. “We don’t want to see our city destroyed by people who would take advantage of others during this crisis. Despite our differences in ordinary times, we share a common purpose now. Protect our homes and the people who are vulnerable to opportunists.”

  Willis sat quietly for a moment and then spoke to Sarge. “You know they call me the White Devil, and there is a reason for that. You’re asking me to take on those head-choppin’ assholes from El Salvador, which I’m capable of doing. But I’m supposed to count on you to take on J-Rock and his boys. I can get on board with the enemy of my enemy is my friend thing. J-Rock and his kind won’t hold back, and you don’t look like no White Devil to me.”

  “I’m not,” said Sarge, pointing to Steven. “But he is.”

  Chapter 18

  Thursday, September 15, 2016

  8:00 p.m.

  630 Washington Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Steven gathered the group leaders of the Mechanics in the Boston area for the first time. The city was becoming more dangerous by the day, and the level of desperation of ordinary Americans was unprecedented. People who were self-reliant were being targeted by those who had not prepared or by a newly burgeoning criminal element of hopeless survivors. Those who were used to accepting government handouts were still given a preference but demanded more. Lawlessness became the norm, and Steven knew it was by design. The takers were getting even with the makers.

  They chose an iconic location in Boston that was full of symbolism. The forty-three-thousand-square-foot building located at 630 Washington Street was centrally located and bordered their new allies in Chinatown, who provided round-the-clock security.

  The first floor, formerly the home of Dunkin’ Donuts, contained a full kitchen, which Steven had equipped with a generator that utilized the building’s exhaust system to vent the fumes. The second floor was a large open space furnished with tables, chairs, and large chalkboards. This was ideal for large gatherings, like the one this evening.

  The third floor was used for office space prior to the cyber attack, but it was now retrofitted to conceal supplies and weapons for the use of the Mechanics. A thorough search might reveal the hiding places Steven devised, but a cursory examination by the untrained eye would not.

  The fourth floor provided barracks and sleeping quarters for displaced members of the Mechanics and their families. Because of its close proximity to downtown, the fourth-floor barracks was originally considered temporary housing. The fifth, or top floor, provided Steven’s hand-chosen leaders a permanent place to live. Following the new alliance with the White Devil, many members of the Mechanics now called 630 Washington Street their home.

  It was the symbolism of this location that was ironic. It was the site of the famous Liberty Tree. At the time of the revolution, a great elm tree stood in front of a grocery store here. It had wide spreading beautiful branches, and for many years was the center of business in Boston’s original South End. Several large elms grew nearby, and this area was known as the Neighborhood of Elms.

  On August 14, 176
5, this particular tree was selected for hanging the effigies of those men who favored passage of the detested Stamp Act. On September 11th, a three-by-two-foot copper plate, with large golden letters, was placed on its trunk bearing the inscription The Tree of Liberty.

  Thereafter, nearly all the great political meetings of the Sons of Liberty, and their insurgent arm known as the Mechanics, were held in this square. Embedded in the wall of the building located at 630 Washington Street was a tablet marking the spot of the historic landmark, bearing the inscription Sons of Liberty, 1766.

  The British made the Liberty Tree an object of ridicule. During the siege of Boston in August of 1775, a party of British Loyalists defiantly cut it down. The Liberty Tree, which was planted in 1646, stood strong for one hundred and twenty-nine years. It was at this spot that the seeds of liberty were sown by the original Loyal Nine.

  Steven looked at these brave men and women who comprised his modern-day Mechanics. All were prepared for this eventuality, but none could have imagined the battles would be in defense of their freedoms. It was time to get the evening started, so he quieted down the crowd.

  “Listen up, everybody, we need to get started.” The raised voices died to a murmur as the Mechanics gathered around. Steven continued. “First, let me thank Don Scott, the regional supervisor for the REI sporting goods outlets in the Boston area, for gathering up these BaoFeng radio units and the Goal Zero portable solar panel chargers. Let your employer know how much we appreciate their generosity.”

  Scott stood up and received a few pats on the back. “No problem.” Scott laughed. “I paid them with a check when I dropped off the keys to the stores the other day.”

  “Just add it to your expense report, Don,” said Steven. He laughed as he watched Sarge hand out the new frequency codes. “Radio comms are critical to us now more than ever. We are all going to be involved in armed confrontations. Not only will the radios allow us to report intel, but they will enable you to request help if you are overrun.”

  “These are your new active channels,” interjected Sarge. “Prior to the cyber attack, we all communicated through MURS channel 3, 151.9400. Those of you are active HAMRs know this to be a common channel utilized by like-minded patriots around the world. Steven and I believe that the government knows this as well.” Sarge stood back and yielded the floor to Steven.

  “The bottom line is that we can’t trust the bastards,” said Steven. “I believe people like us are being targeted by the government, especially in light of the martial law declaration. We have to be mindful of shortwave listeners, other ham operators, or Citizen Corps personnel monitoring conversations via radio scanner.” Steven took one of the frequency flyers from Sarge and held it face forward to make his point.

  “As you know, there is no such thing as a secret frequency,” he continued. “Anyone with a scanner can push the seek button and lock onto your conversation within minutes. We believe the government may be utilizing spectrum analyzers or scanner features like Close Call and Signal Stalker to monitor frequencies. Don helped us put together an SOP—standard operating procedure—for comms.”

  Scott stepped forward and added, “Never give away your location if at all possible. Pay particular attention to the channels I’ve identified here as tactical. If you face a possible capture situation, or in the event of suspected eavesdropping, announce your desire to go to our backup frequencies, which you will find attached as page two. These should be committed to memory. In that event, announce the change to everyone using the code word Brady. Think of Tom Brady calling an audible during a play. This will alert everyone to the fact that our tactical frequencies have been compromised, and to utilize 151.600 until we can assign new tactical channels.” Scott stepped away and gave the floor back to Steven.

  “On the next matter, it turns out we correctly anticipated the moves of our new governor,” said Steven as he was greeted with a chorus of boos. He laughed until they subsided. “Staging the break-ins at Atlantic Tactical, Boston Firearms, and the other local gun stores was genius. This left his Citizen Corps goons walking out of the stores with nothing but their pricks in their hands.” Steven shared high fives with the Mechanics. It was important to establish esprit de corps, a sense of enthusiasm and devotion, amongst the Mechanics. They would begin to risk their lives for their families, neighbors, and country tomorrow. This camaraderie would help keep them alive.

  Steve went on to describe the mission of the Mechanics for Friday night. Using his most trusted lieutenants, he divided them into groups and assigned the highest-capacity armories to each. He and Brad determined it would not be possible to stop all of O’Brien’s men on their raids of the Massachusetts Guard armories Friday evening, nor did they want to. As Brad said, sometimes you had to give a little to avoid suspicion. Three-quarters of O’Brien’s men would not return on Saturday, having been abducted and locked up at the former federal prison facility at Fort Devens. The President had ordered, through Pearson, the inmates there released. Brad intended to fill it back up with O’Brien’s thugs.

  Before he gave Sarge the final words of encouragement, he added, “All we can do is delay the governor and his Citizen Corps butt-buddies. At some point, the President will order the military into Boston to shut down dissent and our insurgent activities. I hope that our soldiers will obey their oath to the Constitution and stand down. As a soldier, I would never turn on my fellow Americans. Let’s continue to be a gnat in their ear. Let things play out. Above all, survive. Always live to fight another day.”

  “Choose freedom!” came a shout from the rear of the room. Yells of choose freedom echoed throughout the room.

  Chapter 19

  Thursday, September 15, 2016

  9:00 p.m.

  630 Washington Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge took in the whole scene for a moment. These three dozen plus strangers were taking up arms to fight a tyrannical government, just like his ancestors had done two hundred and fifty years ago. It was a humbling experience for Sarge as the Mechanics shouted choose freedom. When he began writing the book one year prior, he never imagined that its words would inspire Americans to this level of patriotism. Based upon the reports they were receiving all across the country, freedom-loving Americans were surviving and standing up for their rights. Now, he was doing the same.

  Sarge raised and lowered his arms, motioning for everyone to quiet down. Although chairs were available, no one sat in them. Their adrenaline and excitement ran high—much like it did for the colonists during those historic meetings at the Liberty Tree.

  “My friends, America is the most exceptional nation in the history of the world because our forefathers had vision. That vision guided them in creating the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights. They are unequivocally the greatest political documents ever written.

  “Our founding documents provide something vastly different than almost any people of any government has believed in human history. Most governments in the past have believed that might makes right. The king or ruler has all the power, and the people are expected to be dependent subjects. Out of fear of repercussions, most of the dependent class accepted their fate.

  “Not in America. Our Founding Fathers said no. They believed that God gave us our inalienable natural rights. No government, or the individuals who are responsible for its operation, could possibly possess the power to violate these God-given rights.

  “Government was never intended to be the source of our rights, and the Constitution was never meant to be interpreted as a source of giving a greater power to one man in Washington or an unelected tyrant over here at 99 High Street!” The Mechanics cheered Sarge’s words. They were looking for a leader. In this moment, Sarge knew it was time for him to fill the role that so many encouraged him to assume.

  “In our country, over time, the rule of law and the freedoms to which we have grown accustomed have been lost. With few exceptions, Americans were too ignorant and unconcerned
to do anything about it. The more often the rule of law was set aside, the more difficult it became to reestablish it. Now, the rule of law envisioned in the Constitution ceases to exist except as a distant memory.

  “The reality is that a cloud of tyranny has descended upon America. Our President, and those who think like him, recognizes that for tyranny to be successful, the American people must first be disarmed.

  “As history has proven time and again, a disarmed populace can easily be led to slaughter. But unlike the tens of millions executed in ethnic, religious and political cleansings of the last two centuries, Americans have a rich tradition of personal liberty and the right to bear arms. It is embedded in our culture and guaranteed by our Bill of Rights.

  “Even before the attack of September third, those who would ignore the Constitution within the halls of government knew that if they pushed too far, they might incite a revolution. After the declaration of martial law, the time to revolt may be upon us.

  “The Second Amendment wasn’t enacted just to arm hunters, as this President would have you believe. It is there for the American people to defend themselves against the criminal element, to protect themselves against terrorists and radical ideology, and it’s also there to push back against a tyrannical government that has overreached its power.

  “This President does not trust the law-abiding American citizen, especially in this time of turmoil. His solution is to disarm us, but I submit to you, my friends, this has caused a revolution in America, the seeds of which are happening in buildings like this one all across the nation.” Sarge paused to allow some applause and shouts of encouragement to subside.