The Coming Storm: Liberators Part 3

"Little bit of advice, partner: Never think that you can help a woman deal with something like that. If she has not taken up smoking or some other addiction, she likely already has a line on how to fix it herself. Women tend to talk about the thing for the sake of the thing, where you and I as guys are talking about this to try and find a solution. Women are weird that way. Has she told you about her ex?"

"No."

"I'm guessing that you are gentleman enough to not bring up the subject." Joshua grunted an affirmation and Dustin let out a long exhalation. "Then I think that you're going about this the right way. Two points of observation: She is not going to expose the most vulnerable part of her life, that being her sons, unless she's really sure that you are worthy of that level of trust. Secondly, you had better not burn that bridge if she is a keeper. Is she a keeper?"

"I really believe that she is. I know that it seems too soon to tell, and that there is this rule somewhere that you have to date for longer than we've been seeing each other, but to be honest with you, Dustin-"

Dustin interrupted. "You'd better be honest with more than just me, Josh! Are you being honest with yourself?"

"Honestly, I love her. At least the version of her that I have in my head. When I'm brought into the rest of her story, then I might feel different or perhaps stronger-but I really think that she is the one."

Dustin knew Joshua very well, and he wanted to give him the a.s.surance that he heard every word that he said, and to give him an out if he wanted to end the conversation. So Dustin ended with, "Brother, I'm really glad that we had this talk. Seriously."

7.

THE CROSSING.

How complacent we become when we sit secure, hedged round by laws and protections a government may provide! How soon we forget that but for these governments and laws there would be naught but savagery, brutality and starvation!

For our age-old enemies await us always, just beyond our thin walls. Hunger, thirst, and cold lie waiting there, and forever among us are those who would loot, rape, and maim rather than behave as civilized men.

If we sit secure this hour, this day, it is because the thin walls of the law stand between us and evil. A jolt of the earth, a revolution, an invasion or even a violent upset in our own government can reduce all to chaos, leaving civilized man naked and exposed.

-Louis L'Amour, Fair Blows the Wind East of Seattle, Washington-October, the First Year Phil's drive across the Snoqualmie Pa.s.s was nerve-racking. Though the pa.s.s was clear of ice and snow, there was heavy traffic, of all descriptions, heading east. Overloaded vehicles were the norm. He noticed that many drivers were hunched up close to their steering wheels, looking tense.

Although it would have been far more direct to take Interstate 5 north to British Columbia, he knew from AM radio reports that the border crossings had at least a three-hour delay. And of course the guns that he was carrying would have put him in handcuffs immediately, given Canada's draconian gun laws.

He was heading for the town of Oroville, Washington. Normally a five-hour drive via the Snoqualmie Pa.s.s and Highway 97, it took him nearly seven hours with the heavy traffic in the first stretch. The traffic had lightened up considerably north of Wenatchee, and it was almost normal when he got north of Omak.

As he drove, he punched the radio's Seek b.u.t.ton regularly and often switched from AM to FM, trying to catch as much news as possible. Reports were filled with frightening incidents of galloping inflation, large-scale street protests and riots in most major American cities, emergency executive orders, bank closures, and a full-scale panic on Wall Street.

He knew that Oroville was along a "porous" stretch of the border that had often been used by narcotics smugglers. Four years earlier, he had investigated an industrial espionage case where a set of mil-spec composite aircraft wing tooling had been smuggled across that stretch of border, destined for mainland China. The perpetrators were never caught, but Phil had filed the border crossing location away in his memory as a useful tidbit.

He arrived in Oroville late in the day, and low on fuel.

As he waited his turn in the long queue at the Cenex gas station, he removed his Garmin GPS receiver from its dashboard bracket. He programmed the leftmost loop of Meadowlark Road into the GPS. After twenty minutes in line, he reached the pump and was horrified to see gasoline priced at twenty-eight dollars per gallon and CASH ONLY. Despite the high cost, he filled his tank completely. The 26.5 gallons cost him $742. There were police officers responding to some sort of scuffle inside the station's convenience store, so he didn't dare go in.

The new routine at the station was interesting: Gasoline was no longer self-serve. Since the digits on the pump's display couldn't accommodate more than $9.99 per gallon, they had it marked "$2.80," with a handwritten sign above that read: MULTIPLIED BY 10. An attendant carrying an FRS walkie-talkie would approach each car near the head of the line to preapprove it to buy gas or diesel, which meant showing him at least five hundred dollars in cash. Then, once at the pump, payment was demanded in advance. Meanwhile, an armed security guard stood by, holding a Mossberg shotgun and watching the proceedings closely.

Phil timed his arrival at the border for precisely 5:00 P.M. He hoped this would coincide with a shift change for border patrol agents on both sides of the border, so there would be a lower chance of encountering a patrol vehicle. All that stood between him and Canada was one hundred yards of gra.s.sy meadow and a three-strand barbed-wire fence in the middle of it.

Across the border was a web of roads that had been punched in and graveled for a housing development that never happened because of the economic downturn that began in 2008.

Phil's hands were shaking as he walked to the fence, holding a pair of compound aircraft snips. These high-leverage cutters made quick work of the fence wire. Heavily tensioned, the wires whipped back as they were cut just to the right of a cedar pole H-brace. (He realized that someone would eventually have to repair the fence to prevent cattle from becoming illegal aliens. Cutting it there would make retensioning the fence wires much easier for whoever did the repair.) The T-posts were s.p.a.ced twelve feet apart, so it wasn't difficult to fit his pickup through the gap in the fence. He eased the pickup forward and across the uneven pasture ground, whistling nervously. He wondered about cameras and sensors but trusted that the law of averages was on his side.

Only ten minutes later he was driving through Osoyoos, British Columbia. He didn't dawdle, but he was careful to observe the speed limit signs. He wanted to be outside of the fifty-mile-wide border enforcement zone as soon as possible.

His GPS trip planner estimated a 630-mile drive to reach his destination of Bella Coola, which would take about thirteen hours in normal driving conditions.

Reaching the point of exhaustion, he pulled onto a small road that went into Crown land. He followed the road for several hundred yards and then pulled off on a logging road, where his pickup could not be seen.

Shutting down the engine, he a.s.sessed his situation: He'd apparently made his border crossing undetected. The gas gauge read just over a half tank. He didn't have any Canadian currency, but he did have a handful of pre-1965 U.S. silver quarters and dimes, as well as one half-ounce Canadian Maple Leaf gold coin that he'd bought during a dip in precious metals prices in late 2013. He prayed that it would be enough to get him to the McGregors' ranch.

Phil spent a fitful night trying to sleep in the cramped cab of his pickup, with his sleeping bag draped around him. He was still feeling tense from his journey, and it was also chilly. Worried about wasting precious fuel, he didn't start the engine to run the pickup's heater. In the end, he got only about four hours of sleep. At first light, he stepped out of the cab and relieved his bladder.

As he continued west of Kamloops, it was obvious that he was in an Indian tribal region. The local Indians, called "Aboriginal," "Indigenous First People," or "First Nations Peoples" in British Columbia, were hardworking and fairly self-sufficient. But the same signs of neglect that characterized tribal housing in U.S. reservations were obvious here. Many houses had wrecked cars up on blocks in their front yards.

On an empty stretch of Highway 97, he spotted a GMC pickup abandoned by the side of the road. He backed up and stopped to look at it. The truck had obviously been stripped. An orange adhesive Royal Canadian Mountain Police (RCMP) MOTOR VEHICLE ACT DERELICT NOTICE sticker was on the windshield, with a July date, and two initialed updates in August and September. The pickup was missing its pa.s.senger-side door, tailgate, spare tire, and two wheels. The hood was raised. Phil walked over to it and leaned in to see that the radiator, fan, and water pump had also been stripped from the engine.

Walking around to the back of the truck, he saw that the license plate was still there, and that its inspection sticker was valid for another seven months. That sticker, he surmised, was what had kept the truck from being towed away, to date. He used his Leatherman tool and removed the screws from the license plates. Carrying the plates to his truck, he debated whether it would be safer for him to continue to travel with his Washington plates or to switch to the BC plates.

Just before reaching the town of Cache Creek, he pulled onto a quiet side road and switched the plates. He continued on, and then stopped at a Sh.e.l.l Canada gas station. His GPS travel planner told him that gas stations would be few and far between for the rest of his drive to the Bella Coola region. A large hand-painted sign declared: NO GAS-SORRY.

He pulled up to the pump and was greeted by an elderly First Nations man, who was wearing jeans and a stained Edmonton Oilers logo sweatshirt with frayed cuffs.

The man said, "We're closed."

"How about if I pay you in gold?"

"Nuggets? Some of them is fakes."

"No, this." He held up the half-ounce gold coin, tilting it intentionally to reflect the glint of the rising sun. He had it turned so that the Maple Leaf logo side of the coin faced the man.

The old man smiled and came over to examine the coin. He exclaimed in the Chinook jargon, "Skook.u.m!" (This was one Chinook word that reached deep into the interior of Canada.) Phil nodded and said, "I only need half a tank, but this is a half-ouncer, so that's enough gold for at least a couple of fifty-five-gallon drums."

"I'll trade you that half tank, plus thirty-five gallons in cans."

Phil shook his head, still smiling, and said, "A half a tank, plus thirty-five gallons in cans, plus ten silver quarters in change would make it square. Have you got any Caribous minted between 1952 and 1967-the eighty percent silver kind?"

The old man scratched his chin and said, "Yeah, but do you know what five-gallon cans-empty cans-are selling for these days? They're plenty scarce. Right now I'd rather trade you more silver Caribous than I would gas cans."

Phil grinned and said, "That's my offer-I'm sticking to it."

The old man laughed and said, "Okay. Huy-huy. You got yourself a trade."

The odd a.s.sortment of gas cans fit in the bed of the pickup only after some gear was moved to the rear driver's-side seat. There simply wasn't room for one bin, so Phil unpacked it and wedged all of its contents into nooks and crannies both in the cab and in the bed of the pickup. As Phil did so, the old man noticeably ogled the ammo cans and gun cases but didn't say anything about them.

Of the seven fuel cans, no two were alike. Some of the gas cans looked ancient, while others were fairly new plastic containers. One of them had the annoying CARB-compliant nozzle, which had been mandated in recent years, but the station owner a.s.sured him that none of them were "leakers." In a separate transaction, by trading back one of the silver Canadian quarters, Phil got an a.s.sortment of nozzles so that he'd have one for each type of can.

Now confident that he'd have more than enough gas to get him to the ranch, Phil set off again. The old man waved good-bye with his right hand, while his left hand was thrust into his front pocket, clasping the gold coin.

8.

CUP OF JOE.

A mighty fortress is our G.o.d, A bulwark never failing; Our helper He amid the flood Of mortal ills prevailing.

For still our ancient foe Doth seek to work us woe; His craft and power are great; And armed with cruel hate, On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide, Our striving would be losing,- Were not the right man on our side, The man of G.o.d's own choosing.

Dost ask who that may be?

Christ Jesus, it is he, Lord Sabaoth his name, From age to age the same, And He must win the battle.

-From the lyrics to "A Mighty Fortress is Our G.o.d" (a hymn written by Martin Luther, paraphrasing Psalm 46) LaCroix Homestead, Kearneysville, West Virginia-Two Months Before the Crunch Megan had put the boys down for an afternoon nap, which meant that they would spend forty-five minutes giggling and likely not sleep, but it was worth the effort if they did. It was Sat.u.r.day and Malorie was busy doing side work fixing vehicles to earn some money for herself. She usually took clients by word of mouth only and arranged parts and consumable supplies during the week, giving her the opportunity to work nonstop on a Sat.u.r.day when Megan was home.

Megan was moving some electric fencing in quiet reflection when she caught herself saying out loud to the curious sheep nearby, "I need to decide about Joshua." She pounded in the grounding rod and set the charger on the fence before heading over to Malorie. She rarely disturbed her sister when she was working to earn money; Megan was well aware what Malorie had given up to come be with her. Megan grabbed two cold National Bohemian beers from the refrigerator on the back porch and headed out to the shop.

There exists a nexus of unspoken communication between sisters that is not understood outside of that relationship, a connection that meant not having to say anything before introducing a topic. Megan saw Malorie's legs sticking out from underneath the F-250. She turned down the volume on the radio, touched the cold bottle to Malorie's calf to get her attention, and said, "He's a good guy and deserves my decisiveness."

"I know that you don't get personal over high-side e-mail, and it's only been five months since you started having lunch together. Where does that leave you?"

"That's just it, I don't know. I'm very hesitant to have him come to Kearneysville to meet you and the boys-it's a huge risk. What if the boys don't like him, or what if they really do like him and then the relationship deteriorates between us? You know that I do all that I can to protect Leo and Jean, and if I bring Joshua across the boundary of my life to their lives it changes things."

"I haven't met him." Malorie grabbed the right-side mirror to help herself up from the creeper. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, took a long swig from the bottle to counteract the August heat, and asked, "What would Papa say about him?"

"Joshua is not a logger, and he was raised in a Catholic orphanage, not the backwoods of Maine. I doubt that he could set a choker line or sharpen a saw chain, but he is very grounded and a good Christian man-I think that Papa would approve once he got to know him."

"You weren't there when Papa died in that logging truck rollover, but those few weeks before the accident he seemed to know about his impending death-he became quite chatty."

"Papa? Je ne comprends pas."

"Yes, Papa! He would still continue to drink a lot after Mom was killed by that drunk driver, but he somehow sensed that his time was short and would give me these long monologues on life and what was important. It kept me up until late doing my homework, but I would trade all my frustration then for another opportunity to hear him again now. Do you remember what his favorite saying was?"

"I think so-it was, 'I already told you no.'"

"Not that one." The two sisters enjoyed a long laugh together before Malorie said, "Le genie est une longue patience."

Megan c.o.c.ked her head and offered, "It would seem that after five months I'm becoming impatient perhaps?"

"You don't give yourself enough credit. Things broke down with Eric before he asked for a divorce, n'est-ce pas?" Megan nodded and Malorie continued. "It's been three and a half years now since Eric left, Leo is five, and Jean is a precocious three. If nothing changes in your situation, then you are not going to progress past where you are now. Those boys need an opportunity, more than the pittance Eric pays you every month. I know that you're having a lot of trouble trying to reconcile how much you disagree with what the Agency is doing domestically and the fact that you have to work for them to make ends meet. Someday that will have to end, because you will not be able to live with yourself if you stay there. Moreover, Leo and Jean need a mother and a father-you don't expect me to teach them how to pee on a tree, do you?"

They laughed, and without saying any more Megan collected the bottles and put them in the recycling bin while Malorie slid back under the truck to finish replacing the universal joints. Megan reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, and stood on the corner of the property where she could get the best signal and dialed Joshua. After two rings, he answered, "Hey, good lookin', how are the ch.o.r.es coming along? Did the boys go down for a nap?"

"Joshua, would you like to come over next Sat.u.r.day? There's a great coffee shop that I'd like to take you to after you have a chance to meet Malorie and the boys. Can you come for lunch?"

"I will move heaven and earth to make it, if need be."

The following Sat.u.r.day, Joshua was prompt. He had two Hot Wheels cars in his cargo pocket and he carried a plate of vegetable rolls for lunch. Megan came out of the house with the boys holding her hands while Malorie emerged from the shop with grease on her arms.

Seeing Malorie for the first time gave Joshua the opportunity to compare Megan alongside her sister, and their differences were apparent immediately. While Megan was a cla.s.sic beauty, Malorie was taller, with sharper facial features. She could have worked as a model. Both sisters were brunettes with blue eyes, although Malorie's hair was a shade lighter than Megan's. Megan's hair was longer, reaching the middle of her back, when unbraided. Malorie had the fashion-model cheekbones, but Megan had the prettier smile. They both had pale complexions and a strong LaCroix family resemblance that was distinctively French-so much so that both would have fit in without comment if they were included in a "Beauties of Quebec" calendar.

"Did you find the place easily?" Megan asked.

"I did." Joshua took a knee to be on the same eye level as the boys, and he said, "h.e.l.lo, you must be Leo and you must be Jean. My name is Joshua, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." The boys knew enough to offer their extended hand to shake Joshua's, but had not learned the art of eye contact or a firm grip yet. "I heard that you boys liked to eat your vegetables, so I brought these veggie rolls for us to have with lunch."

None of the interaction was lost on Megan, who was warm but not overly affectionate with Joshua in front of the boys. She was not experienced in how to navigate the situation and Joshua was very cautious to pick up on her signals and tread lightly. Malorie came over, and after she was introduced said, "Cool Jeep. Megan tells me that you did a small-block Chevy swap."

"I had it done, since I'm not set up at my apartment to do that kind of work. Everyone recommended Sam up at Mid Atlantic in Glen Burnie. I went to talk to him because originally I thought about swapping a 4BT c.u.mmins into the Jeep. Sam knew his stuff and said that the twelve-valve 6BT was likely a better candidate and would work with the longer wheelbase on my Jeep. But in the end, those drive trains are heavy, require a lot of suspension work to accommodate the extra weight, and are expensive and hard to come by, so a small-block swap was less expensive, by a large margin. I love it. I'm guessing that Megan told you about my spare HEI circuit board?"

"No, she left that part out. But you can be sure that your stock value went up with her when she heard that, though! Going for EMP-proof?"

Joshua smiled and said, "I'm guessing that the a.n.a.lyst gene is dominant in the LaCroix DNA."

Megan asked, "Who's hungry?" and the boys responded loudly and raced each other round to the back porch. The five of them sat down at the table, where lunch was served. Megan looked at Joshua, squeezed his hand, and asked him if he would pray before their meal.

After lunch, Malorie offered to clean up and put the boys down for a nap. Joshua discreetly asked Megan if it would be okay if he left the Hot Wheels cars on the couch where the boys could find them after their nap. Megan kissed the boys and left with Joshua to go get coffee at the Black Dog Cafe.

As Joshua pulled down the driveway, a chicken strutted out at the Jeep and then ran off of the gravel driveway. Joshua looked over at Megan-realizing that he had never seen her in jeans before but certainly wasn't disappointed-as he said, "Leo and Jean are great boys! Very polite, and they listened to their mother very well; I know that you're proud of them, as you should be."

Megan smiled and her piercing blue eyes caught his. "b.u.t.ter me up all you want, but you're still buying the coffee."

As they cruised along the back roads, Joshua slowed down to enjoy the scenery and found that comfortable RPM in fourth gear that allowed him to hold Megan's hand and not have to shift. The weather was perfect and the whole firmament seemed to resound with praise toward its Creator with lush green in every direction that they could see. Joshua eased the Jeep into the dirt parking lot close to both the farmers' market and the Black Dog Cafe. "Aw, too bad the farmers' market is only open on Wednesdays; I could really go for some fresh vegetables and local honey!"

Joshua continued to hold Megan's hand as they walked up to the door of the Black Dog Cafe. He held the door for Megan, and she waved to Marcy as they walked in. Megan looked over to Joshua and said, "I am going to the little girls' room, just get whatever Marcy recommends for me-she knows what I like." He nodded back and walked up to the counter to order.

Joshua brought her coffee, some freshly baked goods, and a tea for himself back to the table where Megan was sitting. He was hoping for a long afternoon of conversation with her, because there is really nothing like falling in love at a coffee shop. It would have been nice to take her to Montreal, but Charles Town, West Virginia, was as good a place as anywhere to talk for a few hours.

"It was nice to finally meet Malorie. She really seems to know her vehicles. And your boys are quite handsome and well-behaved-I can say that now that I've made good on buying you coffee, ma cherie. They certainly seem like a lot of fun. Are they a help around the homestead?"

Megan averted her gaze and traced her finger across the lace holes of her Dr. Martens unconsciously as she answered. "I think that they've had to grow up faster than I would hope. I was expecting the Thomas the Tank Engine stage to last a lot longer than it has, but the boys really have become good workers around the homestead. Auntie Malorie cracks the whip between snacks, hikes, games of tag, and extra stories." Megan smiled, locked eyes with Joshua, who was listening attentively, and said, "They don't understand why Eric isn't there, but they do very much realize that he's absent."

Joshua reached out and put his hand on her hand, gently squeezed it, and did not say anything as Megan continued. "Hawaii was paradise. Eric and I were very much in love as newlyweds. Eventually, we both came down on orders together-compa.s.sionate a.s.signment, of course-to come to Fort Meade. It was hard to get promoted in the Marine Corps when you're having children-that is a fact. So I was pa.s.sed up for two promotions and was seemingly locked in at being a corporal. As an NCO I had plenty of responsibility, but as an E-4 it's hard to live on such a small paycheck. Eric was in the navy and we were fortunate to be stationed together. The world was our oyster, or so we thought. We found this house in the country and we bought it. Eric wanted to raise the boys far out of the pressure cooker of the Beltway metropolis, but then not long after we got settled into our new routine and duties, Eric came down on orders to deploy again as a 'Sand Sailor.'"

Joshua asked for clarification. "Sand Sailor? I'm afraid that I haven't heard the term before."

"It's navy slang for a 'fish out of water' or a sailor who is deployed in the desert. It's almost always used as a pejorative term."