Patriots

by James Wesley, Rawles

  Most prized for hauling and storage were the watertight “York Pack” hard portage packs that belonged to the Nelsons and Trasels. These were roughly the size of the Rubbermaid containers but completely watertight, and equipped with detachable shoulder straps. They were perfect for moving equipment to the new field site and ensuring that it would be protected from the elements. Everyone who saw the York packs wished that they owned a few, too. Firearms were stored in either hard Pelican cases or soft “Gun Boat” cases. Both were waterproof.

  There would be just enough room for everyone to sleep in the low-profile two-man tents that were widely scattered under the trees. All of them were at least partially concealed under suspended camouflage nets. Most of the tents were either the Moss Stardome II or Little Dipper models. In the years before the Crunch, Moss was known as the country’s finest manufacturer of expedition-quality four-season tents. Unfortunately, the standard colors for the Moss tents were light tan and red. In 1995, however, at the behest of one distributor, Moss began making up the tents in custom colors. They did several short production runs with dark tan material instead of red, and with forest green “rain flys” instead of tan. It was from these batches that Todd’s group equipped themselves. The tents were so far superior to their existing tents that everyone bought the Moss Stardome IIs and Little Dippers. Most of their older tents were retained for spares.

  The goats and sheep at the retreat were herded to Valley Forge. Their senior doe goat, their buck, their senior ewe, and their ram were tethered individually near the creek. The rest of the small goatherd and sheep flock stayed close to them.

  Within hours after word of the approaching Federals began to circulate, the dozens of small militias in the region activated. In just a two-day period, nine of the militias were given an enormous quantity of food and equipment by the Northwest Militia. Most of this issue was termed a “long-term loan” with no firm expectation that it would ever be returned. Including previous distributions to the militias, by Todd’s accounting, they handed out 21 guns with cleaning kits, 118,500 rounds of ammunition, more than 100 magazines of various types and capacities, 12 improvised Claymore mines, 46 improvised thermite grenades, 157 Molotov cocktails, 11 first aid kits, 3 backpacks, 12 duffel bags, 4 sleeping bags, 8 ponchos, 6 army shelter half-tents, and 23 sets of web gear. Mike’s Morgan mare and saddle were loaned to a member of the Bovill Blue Blaze Irregulars, because they operated mainly on horseback, but were short two horses. Mike allowed that they could make better use of the horse than he could.

  In addition to logistics, the local militias (or “maquis” as some of them called themselves) were given updated detailed information on rally points.

  They were told to strike any Federal or UN targets of opportunity within their areas of operations, at will. They were warned to keep their radio transmissions to an absolute minimum, or better yet, to leave their radios turned off altogether. They were also reminded not to write down any of the information or mark any maps with the information they were given. It was, as always, all to be committed to memory. This way, if any of them were captured or killed, it would deny the Federals any useful intelligence.

  Six days after their initial warning, Terry got word over the CB that the Federals had arrived in Moscow. It was on that same day that some of the bulky equipment that couldn’t be easily moved from the retreats such as the dehydrator, PV panels, radio equipment, deep cycle batteries, gardening tools, Lon’s lathe, and the bicycle/generator were placed in the LP/OP fortifications at each retreat. Many of the Grays’ personal mementos such as photo albums were stored there, as well. This gear was tightly packed and filled the LP/OPs up to the ceiling. Then the LP/OPs were carefully waterproofed with Visqueen, and their gun ports and entrances were buried. Finally, the fresh earth was camouflaged with sod that was cut more than a hundred yards away from each of the bunkers. This process turned the LP/OPs into oversized caches.

  Realizing that their house and property would probably be singled out for the wrath of the Federals, the Grays’ tractor was driven to the Andersen’s barn for safety. All of the other vehicles, except Mary’s VW, were gassed up and dispersed on logging roads within a few miles of the retreats. They were left empty, aside for some spare full gasoline cans. Mike reminded everyone to use their field SOP for hiding the ignition keys: The key was placed on the ground in front of the left front tire. Then the clutch pedal was punched in briefly, allowing the wheel to roll over the key to conceal it. In this way, if anyone from the Northwest Militia needed to use any of the vehicles, they would immediately know where to find its key.

  Before making their final evacuation, Todd asked Lon, Mike, and Lisa to stay back at his house to help him with some final preparations. Everyone else left, carrying their final backpack loads to Valley Forge. Shona went with this increment. The bitch had gone on security patrols many times, so she was trained to stay close and stay quiet. The Doyles flew their planes to the valley with their last loads. These loads included the TA-1 field telephones, a meat saw, gambrels, a gutbucket, cookware, and eating utensils. Many of these items had been overlooked before. Once there, Ian and Blanca dismounted their planes’ wings and tails, and wheeled the fuselages into the trees and concealed all their parts under camouflage nets.

  The final work at the Grays’ house took a full day. When they were done, Todd stopped to give his helpers each a hug, and he read the 91st Psalm aloud.

  In the distance, they could hear the crump of mortar shells landing. Mike commented, “Sounds like they are well off to the west, out beyond Bovill. Troy, maybe.”

  Todd grasped Mike’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good luck, Mike. If things go as I predict, I should see you at Valley Forge in two to four days. If I get there and find you’ve beat feet, I will go with the assumption that you are heading toward rally point blue, below Mica Mountain. And then if you aren’t there either, I’ll come looking for you or a message in the ‘dead drop’ at rally point green.”

  Todd looked Nelson in the eye and implored, “Now just on the outside chance that I don’t make it, promise me that you will help care for Mary and my little boy.”

  Mike replied somberly, “You have my solemn word, boss. I’ll make sure that they are safe and sound. If you don’t make it back, I’ll provide for them.” With that, Mike, Rose, and Lisa turned and headed east, in ranger file.

  Todd shouldered his pack, and picked up his HK. He paused to turn in a slow full circle, looking at his farm. “To lose all this. What a crying shame,” he said aloud. Then he headed for the point on the ridgeline he had selected and prepared, seven-hundred-and-fifty yards to the southwest.

  • • •

  Roger Dunlap had bulled ahead with his decision for everyone to stay at the Templar retreat. Despite vociferous arguments from others in his group, Dunlap decided that the odds were that the Federals would head straight north from Moscow, and bypass Troy and Bovill. As Dunlap saw it, there was no way that they could evacuate if they wanted to, anyway. Their cars and trucks weren’t working. They had several horses, but some of the group members were in no condition to walk or even ride. Three of their members were sick in bed, ill with a particularly virulent stomach flu. Another was pregnant, and a week past her due date.

  When they first got word of the Federals in Grangeville, Dunlap had ordered slit trenches to be dug on three sides of the ranch house. When they got to Lewiston, he agreed to set up a cache of supplies a mile south of the ranch house. When the Federals arrived in Moscow, he agreed to let one young couple from the group, Tony and Teesha Washington, go to “babysit” the cache.

  Everyone else agreed to stay, most of them convinced—or at least hoping—that they would be bypassed. They hoped that they would be overlooked long enough for their ill to recover, and for their expecting mom to deliver.

  A cavalry motorcycle scout zoomed down the county road near 2 p.m. He slowed when he came to the Dunlaps’ gate, and then sped up again. The Templars’ gate guard, hidden in a
n LP/OP near the county road, radioed in a report. Everyone who was able immediately went to their assigned trenches.

  The sick, elderly, and children stayed in the house. They waited.

  Just after 4 p.m., they could hear many vehicles maneuvering down the county road, and on the logging roads to the south and west. They weren’t in line of sight to the house or the gate guard. Then the sound of the engines stopped.

  Wes, the retired signalman, scampered down the connecting trench line to Dunlap. He pointed a finger in Dunlap’s face and said, “You’re a fool, Roger! I told you that we should have built a travois or two! We could have had everybody up at the cache two days ago!”

  Dunlap was momentarily speechless. He stared at Wes, and finally blurted out, “I’m so sorry.”

  Moments later, they heard the distinctive thuds of mortars being launched, far off in the timber.

  “See, I told you so,” Wes said sourly. Along with the others,Wes instinctively curled up in the bottom of his trench.

  It took a long time for the first mortar shells to land. With their high parabolic flight, it took almost twenty seconds from the time they hit the bottom of the tubes until they landed. To the Templars, the long delay seemed like an eternity.

  The first rounds fell long, on the north side of the house. The eighty-one-millimeter shells went off with a roar and threw up huge clouds of dust. They had all been set to “HE Quick,” so they went off immediately after impact.

  They missed the trenches on the north side of the house by just a few yards.

  On a hill seven hundred yards to the south, a young sergeant E-5 named Valentine from a fire support team was talking on a battered old PRC-77 field radio, and peering through a pair of cheap Simmons binoculars. With practiced precision, he intoned, “Drop one hundred.”

  The voice on the radio rejoined, “Shot, over.”

  Valentine tersely replied, “Shot, out.”

  There was a pause, and then the second barrage came. The rounds fell between twenty and sixty feet short of the trenches on the south side of the house. Dunlap’s men and women covered their heads and got as low in their trenches as possible. Rocks and dirt showered down on them. Some of them started to scream.

  Sergeant Valentine watched the impacting rounds, and keyed the microphone. “Add fifty. Fire for effect.”

  The next barrage continued for a full minute. Round after round landed in and around the ranch house.

  Valentine surveyed the impacts, and again keyed the microphone. Still looking through the binoculars, he again keyed the handset. “Reee-peat.”

  Another minute-long barrage started. Fire broke out in the house. Soon there was a fire in the barn, too. Some of the rounds fell directly into the trenches.

  The young NCO called in another laconic “Reee-peat.”

  The south wall of the house collapsed. The house and barn were now engulfed in flames.

  The mortars fell silent, and the last of the rounds whistled in. Sergeant Valentine picked up the handset and commanded, “Cease fire. Tell your section well done. Good shooting, fellas.” Then he reached into his ALICE pack and pulled out a silver tube with a white paper label. It was one-and-a-half inches in diameter, and a foot long. He pulled off its metal cap, and slipped it back onto the other end of the tube. Then, turning his head, he slapped the bottom of the tube on the ground. With a loud whoosh, a signal rocket roared out of the launcher. A moment later a green star cluster burst in the sky. In the distance, far off in the timber, he could hear two signal whistles blowing.

  Two survivors crawled up from the trenches and ran. Only one of them had his rifle with him.

  Alpha Company of the 519th Infantry Battalion began to move by bounds toward the objective. The platoons deployed on line and started to make their sweep. The two men who had run from the trenches were cut down by three bursts from an M249 squad automatic weapon.

  When the troops were in the open areas south of the burning remains of the ranch house, Ted Wallach popped his head out of his trench. He began to fire an M1A rifle. He hit two of the infantrymen from the first platoon in rapid succession at a range of two hundred yards. Then Wallach was in turn hit in the head by a hail of return rifle fire.

  After a sweep across the objective, in which the bottoms of the trenches were sprayed with fully automatic fire, the squads set up a defensive perimeter.

  Weapons that were recovered from the trenches were laid out in the circular drive. Beside them were the bodies of the two Federal soldiers that were killed, shrouded in body bags. A second more thorough search revealed the LP/OP.

  The bunker was hit by three grenades fired by an M203. The third one went through the door, killing the single sentry in it. The Templars that had died outside the house were left where they lay.

  Captain Brian Tompkins, the Alpha company commander, looked tired. He sat down in the dirt next to the outhouse—the only structure left standing at the Templar retreat—and consulted his map. He jotted down a note in a small memo pad, laid a clear plastic protractor over the map, and jotted down another note. Then he waggled his forefinger at his radioman in a come-hither motion. The radioman got up from his prone position immediately. Out of habit, he handed Tompkins the dog-eared Communications-Electronics Operating Instructions (CEOI) notebook that he kept on a lanyard around his neck beneath his ACUs. The CEOI had not been changed in nearly six months. Brian Tompkins leafed through the CEOI, skipping past the frequencies and call signs. The CEOI had been unchanged for so long that he had them memorized. He turned to the TAC code section, looked up the three letter code for administrative pickup, and made another quick notation in his memo pad. Then, he reached for the radio handset and called in a brief report:

  “Kilo one seven, this is Bravo fife niner, over.”

  The battalion’s duty radio operator replied, “Bravo fife niner, this is Kilo one seven. Go ahead.”

  Tompkins spoke slowly and clearly. “Prepare to copy… Objective Oak taken. Estimate one-niner enemy KIAs. Zero captured. Two friendly KIAs. S-1 report to follow. Send Hotel Yankee Mike to grid golf oscar fife niner eight three two fife one one. I say again, Grid golf oscar fife niner eight three two fife one one, to recover two-four captured weapons, three property booked weapons, and two bagged friendly KIAs. No intel sources available. Continuing to bivouac point Crimson. ETA four zero mikes.”

  “Please say again all after: ‘S-1 report to follow.’”

  Tompkins rolled his eyes at the radioman, who smiled and shook his head.

  Then Tompkins repeated the missed part of his report, even more slowly. “I say again: Send Hotel Yankee Mike team to grid golf oscar fife niner eight three two fife one one, for administrative recovery of two-four captured weapons, three property booked weapons, and two body-bagged friendly KIAs. No intelligence sources available. Continuing to bivouac point Crimson. ETA four zero mikes.”

  “Roger that.”

  The company commander keyed the handset again and blurted, “Bravo fife niner, out.”

  The battalion radioman echoed back, “Kilo one seven, out.”

  Tompkins passed the handset to his radioman. He said wearily, “You know, Specialist, this whole thing stinks. What the heck are we doing out here in Idaho shooting at more civilians? How many women and children do we have to kill before we’re done? And how many of us are gonna die? We just lost two more good men, and for what?”

  The radioman didn’t answer. He was wearing a thousand-mile stare.

  After a few moments, Captain Tompkins waved his arm in a “forward” motion to his platoon leaders.

  They in turn motioned their platoon sergeants forward, and within moments the entire company was on its feet and moving east, in a traveling overwatch formation.

  As they started forward, Tompkins muttered to himself, “Curse the New World Order, and the pale horse it rode in on. I pray to God that this ends soon.”

  • • •

  Todd Gray devoted the next morning to deep meditative prayer.
He spent much of his time reading Psalms from his pocket-sized King James Bible. Not long after noon, a mechanized infantry company approached his land. Two motorcycle scouts paused at the gate at the bottom of the hill. One of them shot off the padlock on the gate with an Uzi. Then they roared up the hill and dismounted behind the barn. Looking through his binoculars, Todd could see that they were both armed with Uzis. They were wearing uniforms in a flecked camouflage pattern that Todd didn’t recognize. As they crouched behind the barn, one of them pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and gave a report.

  The armored personnel carriers arrived few minutes later. They were Russian built BTR-70s that had previously been part of the former East German National People’s Army (NVA) inventory. Todd had expected German soldiers to be driving Marders or Luchs APCs. Then he realized that what he was looking at was a ragtag force that was put together in the wake of the Crunch in Europe. They were equipped with whatever was available at the time. The aging eight-wheeled machines had originally been painted gray-green by the NVA, then white by the UN, and were more recently repainted a flat olive drab green to make them more tactical. They were prominently marked “UNPROFOR” in black paint on the sides, and “UN” on the back. The latest coat of paint was starting to peel and wear off. Some of the white paint beneath was beginning to show, mainly on the high points and inside the wheel wells.

  Most of the APCs stopped at wide intervals on the county road. Two continued through the gate to the Grays’ circular driveway. They quickly disgorged one eight-man squad each. These squads searched the barn and shop, and then, hesitantly, tried to search the house. The lock on the chain-link fence around the house was not a big obstacle. One burst from an HK G36 shattered the lock and chain. The locked front door would be more difficult, as would the heavy steel window shutters. Todd chuckled when he saw the soldiers try to kick the door down. He whispered, “Knock yourselves out, guys.”