Patriots

by James Wesley, Rawles

  A few seconds before 2:15 a.m., shortly after the moon had set, Kevin stood up and stretched silently, using a fencer’s stretch. He then quietly padded toward the camp with his shotgun held to his shoulder. As he entered the dull light of the fire, he could plainly see the man on guard, who was facing away obliquely. Kevin judged the distance to his target at ten to twelve yards. To be sure that he hit his mark, he lowered himself onto one knee. As he lined up the glowing green tritium sights on his shotgun, he saw the guard’s head jerk around to face his direction. Just then, Kevin squeezed the trigger.

  The guard fell to the ground with Kevin’s first shot. Kevin fired once more at the prone form. Then he deftly shoved two fresh rounds from the buttstock holder into the Remington’s magazine. He stood and advanced toward the center of the camp, at a 90-degree angle to Dan’s line of fire. As he walked forward, Kevin could hear Dan firing from the top of the road cut. Kevin began to fire steadily as he walked, tromboning the pump action with the gun still held to his shoulder. Meanwhile, Dan was firing two rounds at each of the men in their sleeping bags. As Kevin reached the fire, he heard a click when he pulled the trigger. The gun’s seven-shot magazine was empty. He then quickly set the shotgun on the ground and pulled his Special Combat Government .45 automatic from his hip holster and brought it to bear, firing at any movement or any sleeping bag that still looked intact. None of the five bandits made it out of their sleeping bags before they were killed.

  After emptying his .45, Kevin ejected its magazine, slapped in a fresh one from his magazine pouch, and thumbed down the gun’s slide release, chambering a fresh cartridge. Dan’s HK fell silent. Much more deliberately now, Kevin walked in a slow circle around the fire, putting one 185-grain hollow point into the head of each of the bandits, to make certain that they were no longer a threat. He walked back to the downed sentry and did the same. Speaking into the microphone of his TRC-500, Kevin reported, “They’re history now.”

  Dan replied with a terse, “Roger that.”

  Kevin retrieved his shotgun from where it lay on the ground and then quickly reloaded both of his guns from the pouches on his LC-2 harness. Soon after, despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear the distinctive sounds of Dan reloading his rifle. Lendel began examining the camp in detail, while Dan continued to provide security from his over-watching position. Lendel found that all six men were quite dead. He also discovered three shallow graves at the west end of the camp. He assumed they were the bodies of the three other bandits that had been killed the previous day. He spent the next twenty minutes examining the mens’ guns and packs.

  The packs were the sort of inexpensive nylon packs with alloy frames he used to see at sporting goods stores for under forty dollars. They outwardly looked like real backpacking packs, but were imported from China. Not only were they of shoddy construction, but they were made with brightly colored nylon material. Even in the dim light of the fire, Kevin could see that they were sky blue and fluorescent orange. He snorted in contempt. One of the backpacks contained a large quantity of paper currency, which Kevin threw into the fire. Several others contained silver and gold coins, which Kevin set aside.

  Aside from some ammunition, he found nothing else of value or usefulness in the packs; mainly clothes, canned food, and liquor bottles. Most of the guns were not worth bothering with. They consisted of two badly rusted Winchester .30-30s, a Universal M1 Carbine, a deeply pitted Rossi .38 Special revolver, a Mossberg Model 500 shotgun that had been crudely sawed off. Two caught Lendel’s eye. They were a Remington Model 700 bolt-action .30-06 mounted with a Weaver K4 scope, and the riot shotgun—a well-made Benelli M/P.

  Kevin decided to collect all of the guns. At first he was only going to take the Remington bolt action and the Benelli shotgun and burn the rest. Then he realized that the others, despite their poor condition, might still be shootable and have some barter value. If nothing else, the .30-30s and the Mossberg might have some usable parts that could be bartered.

  Kevin tossed the looters’ entire pile of firewood onto the fire and threw on the backpacks. Next, he filled a sleeping bag stuff sack with the coins and the ammunition. After looping the stuff sack through his belt and tying its draw-strings to one of his web gear straps, Kevin slung the captured rifle and shotgun across his back. Dan came down the hill and picked up the rest of the guns.

  When they got back to the Bronco, their arms ached from carrying the load for the long distance. Kevin stowed the captured gear from the looters beneath the backseat. Next, they reloaded their empty magazines from the ammo in cans packed in the rig, and replaced them in the pouches of their web gear.

  After getting their packs out of the Bronco, they moved three hundred feet uphill to establish a camp. After all this, it was nearly 4 o’clock. Kevin told Dan that he was still too agitated to get to sleep. While he remained on guard, Dan pulled out his heavily patched down sleeping bag and laid it out on a poncho.

  Just before he drifted off to sleep, he said to Kevin, “Good job, Kev.”

  Lendel shook his head, as he replied, “No congrats are necessary. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. We just gave them what they honestly deserved. Now go to sleep.”

  Dan awoke at 7:30 to find Kevin cleaning his Model 870. Kevin said to Fong, “I don’t know how you could sleep like a rock after what went on last night.”

  Fong laughed quietly and said, “Au contraire! I’d only be sleeping light if those S.O.B.s were still alive.”

  While Dan put on his boots and stuffed his sleeping bag, Kevin finished cleaning his shotgun. After giving its barrel a final inspection, he slipped it back into place, slid the extra long magazine spring into position, and screwed on the extension magazine. He then reloaded the gun, carefully inspecting each number-four buckshot shell before loading it into the gun’s magazine. He told Dan, “I already cleaned and reloaded your H and K.”

  “Thanks,” Dan said.

  Kevin snapped back, “No problemo.”

  After splitting an MRE and some dried apples, they cautiously moved back to the Bronco, took down the camouflage, and loaded their gear. While Kevin was warming up the engine and refilling the radiator, Dan consulted a road map to again familiarize himself with the day’s route.

  When they stopped to disassemble the roadblock at the ambush site, they decided to pile up some of the railroad ties and set them ablaze. They dragged each of the bodies—most still in their well-ventilated and blood-soaked sleeping bags—and heaved them onto the fire. They kneeled and said a brief prayer.

  The remaining drive to the Prines’ farm was peaceful. Because the entire region was dominated by well-prepared Mormons, there was far less disruption caused by the Crunch. Morgan City was easy to find, and appeared undisturbed. In fact, the only evidence of disruption was the town’s inoperative traffic signals, and some dirty windshields and flat tires on parked cars and trucks.

  As they slowly pulled up to the Prines’ farmhouse, Ken recognized T.K.’s Bronco and ran out to greet them. He was wearing a huge grin. “What, only two of you came? I figured you’d have at least three or four guys.”

  Kevin sadly replied, “We were three, but we’re just two now,” jerking his thumb at the small pair of jungle boots protruding from the end of the rolled up ponchos.

  “Who?” Ken asked with wide eyes.

  After a few moments, Kevin blinked his eyes heavily and said, “It’s T.K.”

  The expression on Layton’s face melted.

  Ken walked back to the tailgate and stared down at the shrouded body. With his voice wavering, Layton said, “If I’d known something like this was going to happen, I’d have never sent word to the retreat. This… this is all my fault.”

  Dan Fong shook his head and said, “It wasn’t your fault, dude. It’s rough wherever you go out there. We all knew the risks. But we’re your friends. Some things are a lot more important than your personal safety. It was a matter of honor.”

  Ken stood looking into the back of the Bronc
o, still disbelieving that Tom Kennedy was dead. Kevin and Dan stood a polite distance away. After a few minutes, Ken turned back toward them, tears running down his cheeks, and shared a three-way hug. Just then, as Terry was hobbling out of the door on a pair of homemade crutches, Ken said, “I’ve never been so happy and so sad at the same time before in my life.”

  While refueling and packing up the Bronco early the next morning, Kevin Lendel gave the Prines the sealed plastic buckets of food that they had brought along, as well as four gasoline jerry cans, one of which was still partly full. After making their goodbyes, packing Ken and Terry’s gear was relatively simple. All they had were their rifles, web gear, and Army surplus ALICE packs. None of the four could avoid occasionally looking at T.K.’s shrouded body. It served to subdue what otherwise would have been an animated conversation.

  The trip home was uneventful. With the experience of the trip down, Dan and Kevin knew how to pick their return route to avoid trouble. More than halfway home, they made another “cold camp” about ten miles from where they had camped two nights before. They consciously avoided the opportunity that they had to camp in the same spot twice. The drive on the second day of the trip back was nearly as quiet as the first.

  As the Bronco drove up the hill to the Grays’ farmhouse, Shona barked repeatedly, but her wagging tail revealed that these barks were of the happy variety. Everyone at the retreat house ran outdoors for what turned out to be a painful reunion.

  Soon after they arrived, Kevin gave the captured coins, weapons, and ammunition to Todd for safekeeping. Like the equipment captured previously, these items were secured in one of the wall lockers in the basement.

  CHAPTER 19

  Hello

  “Pressure makes diamonds.”

  —Gen. George S. Patton

  Todd set aside the entire afternoon for Ken and Terry’s debriefing. Ken told most of their story, with Terry filling in the spots that Ken glossed over. Ken began, “As I’m sure you all figured out long ago, Terry and I waited too long to ‘get out of Dodge.’ We thought that once they suspended trading on the stock market that the government would do as it promised and take steps to put things back in order. I guess we violated Rule Number One: Never trust anything the government says. Anyway, we tried leaving town the night after Dan and T.K. bugged out. Unfortunately, as I’ll explain, we didn’t get very far.

  “We spent most of the last day packing up the Bronco and the Mustang. The power was out, so I couldn’t use my compressor to adjust the gas shocks on the Bronco for the heavier load. I ended up using a hand pump. We had everything loaded by about ten o’clock. Luckily we had pre-positioned most of our gear here at the retreat, so we didn’t have any trouble fitting in what we had to take with us. As we were packing we had heard a few shots. I told Terry that I thought it was just a few guys taking advantage of the blackout to settle some old scores. Actually, I was just trying to make her feel less nervous. As I look back on it all now, I think I was more nervous than she was. Terry led off in the Mustang and I followed right behind her.

  “We had planned to take the Eisenhower expressway, but we ended up not even bothering trying to get on the on-ramp. It looked like a parking lot. I could also hear more shooting going on and even see some muzzle flashes. So, I clicked on the TRC-500 and told Terry we’d try getting out through the West Side, using the surface streets. We went along fine for about ten blocks. The only problem was that it was dark. I mean D-A-R-K dark. No streetlights, no house lights, nothing. Occasionally you’d see dim candlelight in a window, but that was about it.

  “As we were approaching one corner we had to make a sudden stop, because just as we got there, somebody rolled out a big Dumpster from one side, and one of those giant metal wire spools like the phone company uses from the other. We both had to slam on the brakes. All of a sudden, the whole world exploded. There was almost continuous shooting going on. They shot out all of the windows on the Bronco, and I felt the passenger-side tires get blown out. I flopped down toward the driver’s side seat to get out of the line of fire, and in the process, I smacked my ribs against the Hurst floor shifter. It pretty well knocked the wind out of me.

  “Just then,Wham!, the Mustang plowed into the front of the Bronk. Terry apparently didn’t realize that my tires were shot out, and assumed that I had backed out of the problem. Just as I would have done, she didn’t pop her head up to check first. From right there laying down on the seat, she just reached down to the selector lever of the automatic transmission, put it in reverse, and stomped on the gas. Too bad I was in the way. She probably would have made it.

  “At this point, I yelled to her on the Trick Five Hundred, ‘If you can… bail!’ Whoever it was, they were still shooting up our vehicles pretty well. Luckily, nearly all of the shooting was coming from the passenger’s side of both vehicles, so we were able to snake out of the driver’s sides without getting ventilated. We both just grabbed our weapons and our ALICE packs. We had neither the time nor the inclination to try and carry anything else. Besides, our feet were moving too fast.

  “Terry here—who I’ve learned has a cooler head in real shooting situations than I do—came over the headset radio as I bailed out. She said, ‘By bounds, follow me. I’ll fire, you move.’ I made my rush to the side of the street and squatted down behind a parked car.

  “Then I radioed back to her, ‘Okay, Joe, I’ll fire, you move.’ Then I started the old H-and-K to work. I shot anywhere from four to six rounds with each of her rushes. It was amazing. Trasel’s training came right back. We just bounded down the street, back the way we had came, in three-to-five second rushes. Each time, I’d hear her say on the headset,‘Okay, Joe, I’ll fire, you move.’ Then I’d look for my next piece of cover and run like heck while she was popping away. We did that for about the first five rushes. We stopped shooting after that, once we realized that by then nobody was shooting back. I guess it was too dark for them to see us, aside from our muzzle flashes, so they didn’t bother wasting ammo.

  “We linked up at the end of the block, and checked each other over for bullet holes, more by feel than anything else. Miraculously, neither of us was wounded. As I mentioned before, I had gotten a good smack in the ribs. Aside from that, I was okay. Terry just had a few scratches on her right hand and right cheek from broken glass. We hunched down behind somebody’s hedge at the end of the block for about three or four minutes. Like I say, we were checking each other for wounds.

  “It was then, too, that we reloaded again. Only then did I realize that my second magazine was bone dry. I had gone through forty rounds and Terry had burned up about fifty. She had accidentally dropped the magazine that she had used up while she was running, but I still had my empty that I had stuffed into one of the cargo pockets on my trouser leg, so I had Terry stick it into one of the outside pockets of my pack.

  “Just as we were about ready to take off again, I saw somebody down at the other end of the block set off a road flare. Within a few minutes, they set up a bonfire. By the way it took off, they must have started the thing with gasoline.

  “They started pulling the contents out of the car and the Bronk almost right away. They must have realized that they hit a lucrative target, because they started yelling and screaming. They were whooping it up like Indians on the warpath. I heard Terry say,‘Those heathen bastards.’ I said to her,‘What do you say we make ’em pay dearly for it?’ She answered me, ‘I don’t know. Do you think it’s right?’And I said, “It’s as right as anything could be. They just tried to kill us, and they’ve taken almost everything in the world that’s worth anything to us. I say we make ’em pay for it, with interest.’ She just reached out and clenched my hand, real tight.

  “We lay down side by side on the sidewalk to the right of that hedge, and got into good prone positions. Terry says to me,‘I’ve got the guys to the right of the bonfire, you take the ones on the left.’ There was one guy who had what I think was my Remington riotgun and was holding it up at arm’s
length over his head. Even from the end of the block, I could hear him quite distinctly yelling,‘I got the power! I got the power!’ He was silhouetted against the fire. I picked him for my first target. I waited till I could also see several other good targets, and then I whispered,‘One, Two, Three!’ and then I cut loose.

  “We both burned off a full magazine apiece. I saw the first guy I was aiming at go down for sure, and I think I at least wounded two others. Terry was able to do a bit better, because she has a tritium front sight on her CAR-15. As it was, I could barely see my sights. That’s right, I didn’t have the tritium front sight on my H and K. I’d replaced it with standard front sight post for a high-power match that T.K., Terry, and I went to a few months before. Unfortunately, I never got around to putting the night sight back on. Pretty stupid of me. The darned thing is still probably in my desk drawer back at our house in Chicago. Heck of a lot of good it’s doing me there.”

  Terry interjected, “I squeezed off two rounds at each guy. I know for sure that I nailed three of them, and got some fairly decent shots at two others. I couldn’t be sure. Even with their bonfire, it was pretty dark. I used up the rest of the magazine sort of randomly, shooting at places they might have taken cover.”

  Ken resumed telling the story. “After we both emptied our guns, we beat feet around the corner, reloading our guns as we ran. This may sound hard to believe but we were laughing. Neither of us had ever so much as been in a fist-fight before this. We had probably killed half a dozen men, and we were laughing about it. Amazing how quickly times—or people, for that matter—change. Anyway, we stopped halfway down that block for a brief confab. We decided that to get around the riffraff that ambushed us, we’d cut south two more blocks, then turn to resume our bearing back west.