The Western Front: Parts 1-3 Part 5

Freedom, personal responsibility and charity, what do these words mean to us, as individuals? As a people? Have these words been distorted so egregiously, that we've forgotten their true meanings altogether? It was, 'We the people,' not, 'We the centrally-planned governance.' We the people have the freedom to determine our own fate for better or worse. We have a responsibility to ourselves, our families and our communities, not some bureaucrat ten states away. We have a responsibility to the less fortunate than us. We have a responsibility to support the needs of others through our churches and our civic organizations. I know that when I give a dollar to my church, ninety cents makes it to the cause I chose to support. What government dares boast such efficiency and integrity?

There is a very real possibility that, after this election is over, you won't get any help from the Federal government, regardless if I'm elected. You have the responsibility of rebuilding your towns and cities. And it starts in your living rooms with your own families. You must elect honest, responsible, local leaders to guide your communities' rebirth. You must reestablish the rule of law and the sacred rights of property. This election is not for who'll govern you in the coming months, but for who will lay the foundation for a completely new government that will emerge in the coming years. It will either dictate to you or be dictated by you. You have a choice to make; continue on this reckless course or reign in your government before it consumes you whole.

I leave you all with this scripture from Paul to the Ephesians, 'Therefore put on the full armor of G.o.d, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.' We're not guaranteed tomorrow by this pa.s.sage, but we're guaranteed a life and legacy that is pleasing to the Lord, our G.o.d. Thank you, and G.o.dspeed."

The crowd erupted with a standing ovation. Their cheers resounded through the cafe's speakers as the senator waved and left the stage. The clamoring crowd began to wane until Senator Ames reemerged to the sounds of a cla.s.sic rock anthem. His encore appearance pressed the people into a fever. The contagion affecting the group began to infect the cafe's patrons; they also burst into a raucous display. Coffee mugs clinked in makeshift toasts and forks were thrust high in the air.

After a minute or two of pandemonium, the cafe began to calm. The mayor arose from a booth that also sat his wife and two children. He raised a hand and addressed the patrons.

"The man can work a crowd, can't he?"

Applause and cheers erupted again.

"Don't get me wrong, he is speaking my language, but let's not get our hopes too high; he's still just a man. Just like the last one, and the one before him, they all sound good until they get into office. Let us pray that Senator Ames is indeed the man we believe him to be, and we get a final chance to right this ship. But for now, let's enjoy the company of the finest people the world has to offer, each other."

Chapter 10.

Clayton Washington County, Alabama They had been lying in wait for nearly an hour in h.e.l.lcat Bayou. Clayton had pa.s.sed the time by whispering one-sided conversations to Moses and rubbing his furry head. Eventually, his loyal friend finally retired to the bottom of the boat for a much-needed nap. All alone, he lost himself in his own thoughts.

They might as well have been invisible. Even if it had been the middle of the day, the thick brush would have still concealed them from even the most observant of onlookers. He patiently watched the narrow wooden pier that extended precariously out from the opposite bank. The pier wasn't much, but it still seemed out of place. They were deep within the river swamp.

Clay reasoned the top of the bank was probably eight feet above the water. A steep slope led from the crest to the pier below. Clayton did not particularly like the high bank. He knew it afforded anyone opposite of him the high ground, and with that, the natural advantage. Of course, if the situation ever did get out of control, he did not plan to stick around. Besides, Clayton never left home without a few tricks of his own.

It was not that he expected any problems, he had known these men most of his life. Times were different now, though. Friendships were expendable if one's situation became dire enough. Still, he trusted Teddy and the deputy. The arrangement benefited both sides too, so it was in everyone's best interest to ensure it continued without any complications.

Clayton usually met Teddy Lawson and Deputy Greene once or twice a month. Most of the time, the transactions were completely legitimate. He had taken receipt of everything from mail to medical supplies and transported them across the river. He had even ferried a desperate family to the other side once or twice.

The trips across the river had become very lucrative for Clayton. It was maybe fifteen miles from the pickup to the drop-off point. The same trip by land would span over 70 miles, one way, and go as far north as the crossing in Claiborne. One would have to pa.s.s through at least six desperate and struggling towns. Safety would be compromised from the moment one was on the highway. There were innumerable bridges that could be barricaded and choke points that could be leveraged to ambush a traveler. Navigating by water was the only logical option if goods were to be moved from one side to the other.

The rivers and their adjoining sloughs and swamps were mostly void of other vessels, except for the occasional river barge that still shipped heaping loads of coal to the power plants along the river. Canoes and kayaks could be seen checking trot lines or gill nets near civilization, but the high price of fuel restricted the deep reaches to all but a few motorized crafts. Sometimes, he would go weeks without hearing another boat on the water.

This delivery was not quite as legal as most, however. Clay and Moses would be transporting sixty gallons of Washington County's finest whiskey. Since Deputy Greene was the brother of Sheriff Greene, Clayton reasoned there was not much to fear in getting caught; especially since much of it was made by the sheriff himself.

Besides, Clayton reasoned, how could the same government that destroyed commerce by engaging in such extraordinarily reckless behavior, now enforce laws that had to be broken just so a basic good could be made available? At least that was his stance whenever he had to defend his whiskey runs to Claire. It did not really matter what his stance was though, she won the argument anyway. He just thanked the Lord she still considered him worth all the trouble.

Clay examined his watch. He should have company in just a few more minutes.

He surveyed the opposite sh.o.r.e with his night-vision goggles and took an interest in the nocturnal ritual of a plump racc.o.o.n. He watched as she washed an unfortunate crawfish in the muddy water. After she finished, she clinched the mudbug in her jaws and scampered up the steep slope. Clayton noticed several tiny heads peer over the top bank. He smiled as he saw the kits and realized the meal was not for her after all. She repeated the process several times, returning to the bank to retrieve an unlucky minnow, bullfrog or crawfish.

Moses was still nestled in the bottom of the boat on an old blanket and sleeping peacefully. Clayton chuckled under his breath as he watched his partner's eyes dart rapidly under his eyelids. Occasionally, he would snort or groan to himself. Clay wondered what a Leopard Cur might dream of on such a night. He admired his partner in crime as he slept. Moses was, without a doubt, his best friend.

Moses was large for his breed, weighing nearly 110 pounds. He had marbled, blue eyes and a short, slick coat that would dry in a matter of minutes after a swim. His coat was blue with brown markings, with splashes of black around his eyes. He was descended from the Wright line of curs, an old lineage that traced their roots to Hernando De Soto's working dogs. Many of the old breeders claimed the dogs had originally descended from red wolves. Regardless of where he came from, Clayton knew Moses was as faithful a friend as could be desired.

Clay began to hear the faint sound of an engine as it rumbled through the deep swamp. He waited anxiously as the sound grew louder. Suddenly, the low rumble stopped. He heard two doors slam shut in unison. Through the thick cover of foliage and Spanish moss, he watched the family of furry bandits slip away into the night. Two figures warily made their way down the steep bank and towards the small pier.

The pier was often inundated by floodwaters and had developed a thin, slimy film of mildew over the years. Clayton knew the floodwaters had left it even more perilous than normal. He grinned in antic.i.p.ation as he watched the men.

The rotund man in the lead gingerly plodded out onto one step at a time. Suddenly, his left foot began to slide awkwardly away from him, like a child trying to ice skate. The man thrust his arms out in a vain attempt to balance himself, but it was too late. Clayton could see the panic on the man's face. Then, his right foot started to move as well. He turned his head back to the direction of the bank, as if by seeing it he might somehow conjure himself back onto safer footing. All at once, both feet swung straight out, then up. The man landed so hard on the pier Clayton was afraid the entire structure would collapse into the water.

The loud crash aroused Moses from his deep slumber. He growled in a low tone in the direction of the ruckus. Clayton clenched his teeth to keep from exploding in laughter as he rubbed the back of Moses' neck. The two men were now waving their arms at each other and attempting to argue in hushed tones. The second man eased out onto the pier and struggled to lift the other back onto his feet. Once they were both precariously standing again, the portly man retrieved an infrared flashlight from his pocket and flashed it in Clay's general direction.

Clayton crawled to the front of the boat and twisted the hand throttle of the trolling motor. The boat silently began to push through the thick cover and into the open waters of the slough. As silent as a wraith, he drifted towards them. When he was about thirty feet from the pair, he removed his helmet and lit a kerosene lantern that had been resting on the bow of the boat.

The portly man called out to the boat, "How are you, old friend?"

"Better than you are, Teddy. I doubt you'll be able to get out of bed for a week."

Deputy Greene chuckled as Ted Lawson replied, "I had hoped you hadn't seen that."

"Moses and I see everything."

"Give Teddy a break, Clayton, that's the most exercise he's had all month."

"Enough, the both of you, or next time I'll make sure one of you breaks my fall."

Clay chuckled. "Careful now Teddy, I wouldn't want to see Deputy Greene arrest you for manslaughter."

As he pulled alongside the bank, Clayton and the deputy laughed and continued the friendly banter, at Teddy's expense. Lawson smiled and laughed good-naturedly along with them.

The pair disappeared over the bank and returned with several 5-gallon jugs. One by one, they handed them to Clay. The boat squatted lower in the water with each additional jug. A whiskey run was always perilous because the vessel's ability to maneuver was greatly impeded. Clayton would have to trust that the moonless sky and his night-vision would be enough to keep him safe. They would also need to stop more often to make sure they were not being followed.

After they finished loading the boat, the conversation turned to more serious topics. They scheduled the date for the next transport and discussed what it would entail. After the terms were agreed to, Teddy disappeared up the hill for a moment and returned with a long, wooden box. Clayton grinned as he opened the box and gazed at the rifle.

He exclaimed, "Those four deliveries were definitely worth it."

"I'd say. With this monster, you're a force to be reckoned with on the water."

"Yep, but I hope I never have to use it."

"Peace through superior firepower, right Clay?"

Clayton grinned, "That's the idea. I just hope Moses doesn't bail off the boat if I ever use it."

They all laughed as the cur rolled his head to the side and stared at the rifle in confusion.

"Here," Clayton said, "help me mount it to the brackets on the dry well."

After they mounted the rifle in front of Clayton's seat, they shook hands and exchanged goodbyes. Clay checked his watch; he would have to hurry to make it across in time. He would have to wait until later to try out the gun.

He gave the men a final wave and pushed off from the pier. He extinguished the old lantern and pulled his helmet back over his head. Together, he and Moses silently trolled back across the slough.

After he was back in the cover of the thick brush, he waited impatiently for the sound of the truck cranking. Clay and Moses listened as Greene and Lawson bounced along the rough trail, eventually fading into the background noise of the swamp. Once he was satisfied that the bootleggers were safely on their way, Clay cranked his motor and idled off into the night.

Clay couldn't help but admire the bolt-action rifle that was now mounted in the center of his boat. He had never felt inadequately armed with the M1 Garand that rested at his side, but having the fifty caliber gave him a completely different feeling while on the water. With the shallow-water capabilities of the boat, the night vision gear and now the large bore rifle, he felt indomitable. The fifty reduced nearly all cover on the river to merely decent concealment.

They were much more careful than normal on the trip to the opposite side of the river. The typically-nimble craft felt sluggish with the heavy load of whiskey. Clayton had to plan his maneuvers well ahead of time to ensure he could navigate the meanderings of the rivers' cutoff. He would yank the motor's tiller hard as they approached a curve, and then drift sideways as they skipped across their own wake.

Nights such as these always drove Moses wild. He would pounce about the boat, searching for somewhere he would not slide about. As soon as the cur felt satisfied with his new perch, they would begin to drift in the opposite direction as they navigated another bend.

They burst out from underneath the dense, tunnel-like canopy of the cutoff and onto the open water at full throttle. Clayton considered the final leg of the journey the most dangerous. The banks' bluffs were higher and there were fewer side sloughs and bayous to escape into. Of course, now he had the fifty. Moses shrank into the bottom of the boat as they blew past Wolf Gut, Silver Lake and countless other backwater lakes and tributaries.

He scanned the high bluffs on either side, searching for any signs of trouble. He noted the numerous oil rigs that were barely visible from his low vantage point. He watched as the rigs' traveling blocks moved through the varying stages of their up and down cycle. He reasoned it was a small positive; at least the oil wells were still pumping.

He hugged the opposite bank as they pa.s.sed the wide sandbars just beyond Sibley Lake. They pa.s.sed several more sloughs and bayous before abruptly turning to the east. He slowed to an idle and eased through a wall of dense brush. Beyond was a narrow slough, invisible from the other side of the foliage.

They crept along in an eastwardly direction for several hundred feet. As they rounded a sharp bend, Clay killed the motor. Moses perked his ears and listened for the sounds of any interlopers. Nothing but the sounds of the swamp could be heard.

After they were both satisfied with their solitude, Clay silently trolled deeper into the swamp. They continued on for several hundred yards. Finally, they drifted into a thick growth along the water's edge.

Clayton plundered through his dry box until he found his coyote call. He licked his lips and brought the call to his mouth.

"Yip yip, hoooowwl!"

Clay sat in silence for several moments. Moses stared curiously at him all the while.

Again, he called, "Yip yip yip, hoooowwl!"

Finally, not far ahead, something called back.

"Yip-yip, hoooowwl!"

The howl made Moses anxious, but to Clay it was a welcome relief. It was the sound of another successful delivery.

"Come on Moses, let's go see our friends."

Chapter 11.

William Philadelphia, Pennsylvania The riot police tried to contain the restless crowd, but it becoming rather obvious that the protesters had come in search of trouble. The radicals were milling about Independence Park and cl.u.s.tering in small groups. They restlessly listened to different speakers discuss varying topics ranging from what to do if you get arrested, to the weak points in a riot gear uniform. The day was perfect for the event; the weather was mild and the sky was clear. The turnout was larger than even the organizers had expected.

Independence Park was over 55 acres. It housed Independence Hall, the site where the Declaration of Independence and the Const.i.tution were fiercely debated and ultimately adopted. The hall was built in the 18th century, and was the original home of the Liberty Bell. The site was chosen as the rally point for the protest mostly because of the historical significance and the size of the area.

The park was also chosen because the buildings that surrounded it were despised by many of the agitators in attendance. The Philadelphia Mint, the National Museum of American-Jewish History, the Federal Reserve Bank of Philadelphia and the Court of Appeals for the Third Circuit all towered over the park. WHYY-TV was also just north of the site, so William's event was certain to receive plenty of media coverage.

The area of the park that they had decided to occupy was slightly larger than five acres. It was bounded by Arch Street to the north and Market Street to the south.

William was hiding in Christ Church Burial Ground. He was in full disguise: a hoody, ball cap, gloves and sungla.s.ses. He did not prefer the company of his acolytes. Most of them could not even articulate what they really believed in. He supposed that was well enough, as long as they would help him accomplish his goals.

He sat alone in the walled cemetery on a solitary bench and stared at the headstones of men who had been dead for hundreds of years. He despised the values of the men that rested here, but he grudgingly admired their accomplishments.

The men in the ground around him helped mold an entire continent nearer to their heart's desire. If he should be so fortunate, he might one day mold it again. If the world was to be remolded, it would take a hot forge and a stout hammer, and perhaps a little help.

William knew he was not a good person, but he believed his goals were n.o.ble enough, perhaps even admirable. In his society one would not be allowed to be poor. One would be forcibly fed, clothed, lodged, taught, and employed whether they liked it or not. If it were discovered that they had not character and industry enough to be worth all the trouble, they might possibly be executed in a kindly manner; but while they were permitted to live, they would have to live well.

As long as the mementos of the past still endured, there would be no societal evolution. As long as the names of the men and the doc.u.ments they forged could still be remembered, there would always be those who would resist him. The past would have to be destroyed, or the population would have to be made to forget. Ignorance was indeed strength.

Back at the park, a crowd was starting to gather around the main stage. William was scheduled to address the throngs shortly. The main stage was centrally located and faced south towards Independence Hall, affording him a commanding view of his disciples. The large speakers that rested on the stage were playing "Ohio", and feeding the angst of the attendants.

A line of protesters along Market Street were hurling insults at the police. The officers stared back in stoic opposition. A steaming cup of coffee flew over the heads of the front-line agitators and exploded on an officer's helmet. The man roared and leapt forward, but his companions grabbed him by the back of his uniform and jerked him back in line. The radicals erupted in loud jeers and catcalls that only served to escalate the tension.

One defiant youth leaned forward within inches of an officer's face and began to berate him relentlessly. The crowd cheered him on as he continued with his audacious tirade. Chants began to arise from the crowd and the youth stepped back and joined in the chorus. The officer exhaled deeply and regained his composure. It was going to be a long day. Suddenly, the speakers thundered with the sound of deep ba.s.s beats. William would be onstage soon.

The mob squeezed in closer to the stage in antic.i.p.ation of his appearance. It had been several weeks since he had spoken at an event. The crowd erupted in cheers as he emerged. The beats reached a climax as he stopped at the center of the platform. The music abruptly stopped as he thrust both arms skyward.

Their enthusiasm empowered him. He could feel their energy coursing through his body with electrifying intensity. He was a fiendish parasite and they were his oblivious hosts. He grabbed and spoke.

"Greetings, Philadelphia. I'm so glad you could make it to our little soiree."

The crowd roared with approval. He allowed the applause to resonate until it naturally subsided, before continuing.

"I won't keep you long, Philly. I know you didn't come here for a lecture. You came here for some action, or perhaps reaction. I know I certainly did. I've been watching you, and the time for talk and weak-handed protests in this city is long past over.

I've watched as your leaders have stood idly by while your families starve in the streets. They can afford to send out thugs to evict you and your children from your homes, but they can't afford to feed your hungry? How long do you have to suffer while they sleep comfortably in their beds with their pampered families safely down the hall? Is this what you expect from your city? Is this what you expect from your country?"

"No!" The crowd roared back in unison.

He questioned the crowd acrimoniously, "No?"

"No!"

"They fly their war toys their drones over your city like you're rats. Vermin! Detritus! Waiting to be tossed out! They follow your every move and question your every motive. 'Papers, please!' they demand. As if you owe them anything! What do you owe them?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing?"

"Nothing!"

"If they don't approve of your actions, they kick down your door and a.s.sault your freedom that is, if you even have a home anymore. For the rest of you, they raid your tent cities and beat you like animals. Is this what you expect from your city? Is this what you expect from your country?"

"No!"

He mustered his finest sarcastic tone again, "No?"

"No!" They retorted.