Novels for Android and Windows Phone, Novels by Blair Smith

Occupy CPAC paid $60 a day to protest

2012-02-18T19:56:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Cancer drug reverses Alzheimer desease in mice

2012-02-18T15:25:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Chapter 12e Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-18T09:11:00.001-05:00

"We got the go-ahead from Tumult to find the sniper with our dog," Butch loudly announced to all. "Tumult said the Virginian is supposed to head it up and we're to down them surgically. No fires."

"Just how're you going to do that, squirt?" asked one of Tumult's rebels.

Butch pointed to Tater. "Dogs hear and smell one hundred times better than people. She'll freeze when she spots something. Me and Thad will go to handle her."

Six rebels looked at the golden retriever, now laying with her chin on her paws. One of them commented, "I hope the hell you know what you're doing. That dog don't look like no Rin Tin Tin." Tater rolled her eyes toward them with a pouty gaze.

Chaos received the signal: The Wizard had sent falsified E-mail to the JFK Building and ordered the Feds to transfer Max and the Virginians to another facility in Boston. The Wizard and some of his friends had rescued the captives without a shot. The group now planned to neutralize a tank at Arlington Street in forty minutes. Chaos didn't ask for details. The Boston natives rigged a gas tanker truck with a flare so it would blow up on impact with the Abrams 111 tank on Arlington.

Sensors in the tank picked up the truck advancing. The crew inside thought nothing of a truck coming down the street until it kept picking up speed. Then they noticed the burning flare taped to its roof. They didn't understand the significance, but knew something was up. They spun the turret around.

It was too late. The truck, with the trailer and all its gallons of fuel, smacked into the tank lunging, both forward on impact. Though the Boston man driving had jumped out just before the hit, the blast threw him back. Flames set fire to his clothing. He remained on the ground rolling over and over to get it out. Eventually he simply removed his pants and shirt. Grateful to be alive, the man staggered off the road to lay in the cool grass of Boston's Public Garden.

The Abrams 111 took off down Beacon Street trying to escape the inferno. The tanker had plunged into the turret of the Abrams tank. The tank's gun speared through the cab and into the tank of fuel behind. Its tank of fuel had folded like an accordion and clung to the Abrams in a death-grip. The resulting blast and flames were sucking the oxygen from within the Abrams. Fire engulfed the entire street and spread west as the damaged tank fled. Spilled, flaming gas followed the vehicle two blocks before the tank overheated. Its own fuel joined the illumination. A neighboring tank emerged from a side street and sat motionless, watching its kind wither in flames.

Chapter 12e Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Barnes and Noble try to reverse Microsoft's patent in court case

2012-02-18T09:08:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Chapter 12d Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-17T12:17:00.000-05:00

"Commander Chaos went runnin' down the side of the tower, pushed off, shot a hole through the glass and swung in. Slicker than shit."

"Is he all right?" Helen followed up.

"I guess so. We received a message from them sayin' the rest of them would follow and leave the tower shortly."

Helen added, "They'll appreciate any help you give them."

"We're not going there. We're supposed to set fires on the north and east side behind the snipers. The winds should drive it to them. The boss' idea," the rebel said, reluctant to lay claim to the notion.

The Virginian cut in, "There's nothing but apartments and townhouses there. People's homes. There might still be folks in some of them."

"Just following orders. We can't locate them the way they shoot from the hollows of the buildings, especially in this light. They're wearing thermo stuff."

As attack packs talked at the base of the monument, Butch and Thad slipped up the stairs, Tater chasing them. At the top, Butch told Tumult how Tater had spotted gang members in the streets ahead of them, allowing them to maneuver through Old Boston without getting captured. "Me and Thad have been staying with the Mountain Boys all winter. We know the whistles and stuff. But if you don't want me and Thad to help spot that sniper, the Virginian can do it with Tater. He's worked with her, too. He'll tell ya."

Tumult turned to Glitch with a grin on his face, "We're not going anywhere, are we Glitch?" The rebel leader liked the notion of two gutsy kids and a dog, leading an attack pack and doing something grown men failed to do. It was downright inspirational.

"Well, Chief," Glitch took a final draw from his cigarette and tossed it out the window, "if that dog could spot 'em, it would save burning up all these homes and pissin' a bunch of people off."

"Yes," Tumult agreed. "All right, you two just get the hell out before I change my mind. You got an hour. And take the Virginian with you to head the pack."

After the Rousells left, Tumult thought aloud, "I'm impressed with those little sons-a-bitches."

"Heard say," Glitch added, "those boys were at Dixville." He glanced down at his bandaged-up thumb as he said it.

"Do tell!" Tumult nodded his head and scrunched his lips, "Tough little bastards."

Chapter 12d Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Amazon erodes book pubishers' bussiness

2012-02-17T12:14:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Chapter 12c Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-16T08:39:00.001-05:00

Three rebels ran down the spiral staircase to the base. "Those son-a-bitches will need those thermo-suits after we're done with them," said Tumult after the three young men raced out of sight.

"When we goin'?" asked Glitch.

"We're goin' to head out real late tonight, but before we do, we're going to set as many fires as possible to keep the Feds busy. It would be nice if my little brother and his group took off at the same time. They'd have trouble chasing us if we took off in all directions."

"Not all directions," Glitch looked off at the Atlantic.

In a small room at the base of the monument, Helen worked desperately on the Virginian's leg. His friend assisted her by handing her instruments and dabbing her forehead to capture sweat droplets forming. She heard about the attacks on the Hancock Tower and found her mind wandering off to conversations among Tumult's Mountain Boys in the other room.

Tater lay on the floor below the wounded man's bed, lending moral support with her sympathetic gaze. The animal could smell the traces of death--the blood and flesh of open wounds, the antiseptic used in surgery--the same odors that surrounded her during Barry's demise. She got up and trotted out the partially closed door to the main room of the Obelisk to join Butch and Thad where the bulk of Tumult's rebels waited.

Butch, Thad, and Tater had gotten to Boston by hiding on a seafood truck. Because Colebrook was at the end of the route in their delivery, it had been a straight trip to Boston's docks. The boys and dog simply climbed aboard while the driver was inside the Colebrook diner; they hid behind empty boxes. But the Rousells were in Boston two days before the time The Wizard was to meet Chaos at Union Wharf. They had heard the Virginians shooting it out with a gang. After they teamed up, it had been Tater with her keen senses that helped them evade the hoodlums of Boston. Then they had found Tumult's rebels.

Helen hadn't had the chance to fully express her outrage with the boys; she was frantically trying to save the Virginian's leg. She had assisted in operations before but found that actually doing the cutting was totally different. The motor-gun shot had shredded the leg, five balls in all. Helen was concerned with leaving the young man without use of his leg. The knee was in terrible condition. She tried to reconnect muscle, but without additional blood to replace blood lost, Helen finally wrapped it up and injected him with a heavy dose of antibiotics. "Hope this works out. I'm not a surgeon, but I got out all the shot and tried to line some things up in there. It's important you keep it still for awhile."

"Thanks, ma'am." The wounded rebel was conscious through the operation. All Helen had for anesthesia was a local.

"I need to slow down in my old age, anyway," the rebel was still sweaty from his fever. The antibiotics would help, but not right away. "You'd best get back while you can. You know, ma'am, if you weren't with us, you could probably just walk out of here. They're not looking for someone like you at the check points."

"You're sweet," she held his hand. "But I am with you."

Mountain Boys began gearing up in the main room. Helen overheard their comments about the Hancock Tower and went out to the main room. "What about the Mountain Boys in the Hancock Tower?" she couldn't help but ask.

Chapter 12c Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Obama painting goes viral

2012-02-16T08:35:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Chapter 12b Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-15T07:18:00.001-05:00

The little figure bounced off the top of the Hancock Tower and ran down the glass. Maroon and purple blends reflected his image as the sun set to the west. After dropping four stories, Chaos jumped away from the glass wall and pulled a Glock from his belt. He shattered the glass with autopistol fire as he swung into a room.

"Would you look at that son-of-a-bitch go! Ignoring the fact that my little brother is a bleeding-heart, he has balls the size of the Goodyear Blimp. Son-of-a-bitch! He is good, running down the side of the building like that." Tumult lowered his binoculars and nudged Glitch. "You gettin' all this?"

Glitch nodded his head adding, "What can we do for 'em over there, boss?"

"Nothing. I won't help 'em. Besides, we lost our window of escape just going over there and warning 'em. I'm getting sick and tired of covering my little brother's ass when he screws up. We're taken on sniper fire as it is, being this close to the airport."

Tumult's communication hub at the Bunker Hill Monument loomed two hundred and twenty-one feet atop a hill overlooking Boston. The 6,700-ton granite obelisk represented heroism and glory. Now, with a panning view across the Charles River to the south, Logan International Airport to the east, and remaining suburbs of the north and west, the mystic pinnacle with its small viewing ports dotting the surface, lived up to its mystique. Tumult could view all parts of the city and signal down to his rebels positioned between the monument and the Charles River. Less virtuous revolutionaries now held the site, but they were every bit as dangerous.

"A message, sir." A young rebel held the earphone to his head. "They say, they're coming off the top and will try and break through the tank line within the hour." The rebel waited for a response from Tumult to recite a message back to the attack packs on the tower.

"Tell them, good luck." Tumult paused a second. "Yeah. And tell them to be sure and kick up that kill ratio. Yeah."

A sniper bullet passed through the crowded bird's nest at the top of the Bunker Monument. One Mountain Boy received the bullet through the side of the face, before it proceeded on to hit a standing man just below the chest, finally striking a third rebel through the arm before it continued through the opening out the other side of the Monument.

"Piss! You boys can't spot that guy?" Tumult was livid. Flesh and blood spattered all over the place. The bullet had missed Tumult by inches.

"The light's not good, sir, and they're in thermo-suits," one rebel responded.

Tumult started yelling. "Then get your ass out there with an attack pack and get behind those guys! Start setting some fires! Wind's blowing this way! Go burn those sons-a-bitches out!"

Chapter 12b Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Google and Motorola Patent Deal

2012-02-15T07:08:00.000-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

The next supercontinant

2012-02-14T21:36:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Chapter 12a Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-14T06:53:00.001-05:00

The attack packs from the JFK Building had rescued Max and the Virginians but they encountered trouble getting through the Fed's sixteen-block perimeter surrounding the Hancock Tower. The infantry wasn't the problem, Mountain Boys picked them off with Masadas. It was the Abrams tanks. The tanks had line-of-sight to each other, so just scrambling radio communications wasn't enough. Then too, none of the tanks could be downed. New adapters shielded the vision ports from snipers. One problem became clear: Without taking at least one tank out of action, it was unlikely they would get through the perimeter.

Chaos signaled the packs on the ground to head back to the docks and plan their exit out of the city; it was hard to justify a rescue for so few. Getting by the Abrams tanks would cost so many casualties. The Mountain Boys on the Tower were now on their own. This didn't mean they were giving up; it only meant they would have to find their own way. The two attack packs below the blasted floor, kept the Army Regulars from coming up, but Chaos had to devise a way to get by the level with the blown-out stairway and elevator hub.

As far as they knew, the Mountain Boys had cleared Federal snipers off the tops of buildings to the north. Chaos donned a harness, clipped a repelling loop behind himself at the waist and slipped a cord through it. "Wolf, when I get below, just have the others clip on and follow. By the time we get down to the base of the building the darkness will help us."

Chapter 12a Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Booktango: Best eBook publisher for distribution and royalties

2012-02-14T06:48:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

eBook sale up 130% at Hachette Book Group

2012-02-13T20:46:00.000-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Chapter 12a Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-12T12:30:00.001-05:00

Glitch nodded his head adding, "What can we do for 'em over there, boss?"

"Tell them, good luck." Tumult paused a second. "Yeah. And tell them to be sure and kick up that kill ratio. Yeah."

"Piss! You boys can't spot that guy?" Tumult was livid. Flesh and blood spattered all over the place. The bullet had missed Tumult by inches.

"The light's not good, sir, and they're in thermo-suits," one rebel responded.

Tumult started yelling. "Then get your ass out there with an attack pack and get behind those guys! Start setting some fires! Wind's blowing this way! Go burn those sons-a-bitches out!"

Chapter 12a Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

eBooks sale up 130% at Hachette

2012-02-12T12:29:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Booktango best for eBook publishing

2012-02-11T22:19:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Chapter 11j Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-11T12:47:00.001-05:00

Mountain Boys continued firing as Federal Troops withdrew from the Prudential Tower. The rebels fired shots at glass panels surrounding the hole so winds could feed the flames.

Chaos smiled at his troops' expertise and crawled back to the northeast side of the building with Henchman's attack pack. They signaled the communications node near the JFK building.

Shots were still fired by Federal troops, but they were from lower elevations on surrounding buildings and from further away. Though outnumbered, the Mountain Boys had regained the edge of higher "ground." The rebels could now look downward at Army snipers on three sides.

Steve Morrison pulled a digital camera out of his coat pocket and zoomed in on the Prudential Tower. Smoke and flames billowed out of the hole just below the top floors. Dead Army Regulars were scattered randomly near roof lips and walls, they lay draped over their weapons. The Mountain Boys had their heads over the kneewall on the west side still scoping the tower. Shooting from the Prudential had stopped; other rooftops on the west side of the Hancock Tower couldn't harbor Federal sniper.

The reporter noticed a Federal soldier lying face down on the rooftop of the Prudential Tower. The soldier's head rose and appeared to be scoping in on their location. Steve pulled away from the camera's eyepiece and looked at the others along his side of the building to see if they had seen. No one appeared to be startled. Steve looked again through his camera to see if he was imagining things, and saw a flash from the muzzle of the Federal Trooper. "Look out!" He leaped over to Wolfenstein and pulled him down from the wall as the bullet popped the scope of the Masada he had been looking through.

The tackle peeved Wolf at first. Then he noticed the scope shattered on his rifle. Other rebels saw the flash and returned fire. The Fed rolled behind a wall and scurried to the security of lower levels in the blazing Prudential Tower.

Wolfenstein had never felt comfortable saying thank you, but this time he came right out with it: "Much obliged." Wolf had overheard Morrison begging different rebels for gum the past two days. He pulled out a pack from his shirt pocket and handed it to the reporter.

"Thank you," Steve responded pensively. Behind the cover of the two-foot knee wall, Morrison thought as he unwrapped a stick and put it in his mouth. He surprised himself. He had never felt a part of any group. Hell, he really didn't like them; they were so stoic and self-righteous. Yet, somehow, through their struggle to survive, he had developed a kinship. Their fate was now his fate. The reporter tried to steady his camera on the neighboring tower again but found his shaking hands made it impossible. As he worked on his rifle, Wolf glanced up and noticed Steve's distress.

Steve turned and slouched down with his back against the wall and watched: Syntax helped Chaos set up a Masada for a communications link to attack packs at the JFK Building, passing his commander the headset that plugged into the circuit board with his one remaining hand, Syntax's other hand had nearly been shot off by a sniper round. Step-n-Time, leg bound and bloodied, peeked over the lip of the south wall for hidden snipers, then lowered his head to the rooftop to bring color back to his pale face. Step's buddy lay lifeless beside him, his side pack open, the red disk case removed--a dead man's reflective words to a world that had only spoken harshly to him. The reporter lifted his camera and began taking pictures of the people committed to this struggle for freedom.

Chapter 11j Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Bread is the culprit for to much salt

2012-02-11T12:44:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Primordial ocean on Mars

2012-02-10T23:33:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Chapter 11i Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-10T12:21:00.001-05:00

Steve Morrison was crouched beside the Mountain Boy hit with the bullet. Speckles of blood dotted the reporter's face and neck. He sat below the lip of the wall looking dumbfounded.

Splat! Another rebel got hit squarely in the binoculars on the other side of Morrison. The young Vermonter fell with his splintered face on Morrison's lap. "Oh God!" the reporter exclaimed.

"I see him. I see him, sir," yelled a rebel. "He's 97 degrees southeast. About a kilometer out."

Wolf looked down at his map below the lip of the building, "On top of the New England Life Building."

Chaos yelled across the tower, "Hold it, Wolf. You have to assume there's snipers on every side."

"Jet coming, sir!" The Mountain Boys with Masadas set their weapons at an estimated lead-speed of 300 to 400 mph, at a trajectory of one kilometer. As the jet approached, eleven riflemen rose, propped their weapons on top of the wall and fired. Four of Wolfenstein's pack rose at the same time, sighted in on the New England Life Building, and fired on the sniper.

Splat! Splat! Two more Mountain Boys' heads popped open like melons. But two of the bullets from Wolf's pack smacked the face of the Army sniper. Blood spattered up into the facemask of the trooper.

Smoke seeped from the ZF-4's engine. Instead of banking and firing a shot, the craft tilted in the direction of Logan International Airport.

Wolf got a good look at the sniper through his scope, "They're wearing thermo-suits, sir," he reported to Chaos. Thermo-gear looked like a camouflaged, space suit with a twenty-foot vacuum hose extending out the end to a vent fan. It sucked air through the gear to cool its occupant. The thermo-gear prevented heat signature to appear through an infrared scope, making a sniper difficult to spot.

Splat! A third rebel received a bullet through his shoulder that went through his chest cavity and out the opposite side. Chaos saw the hit and realized the shot had come from the direction of the Prudential Tower. Splat! Another Mountain Boy downed, caught through the thick of the neck.

"Everyone, to the west rim!" Chaos yelled. The Prudential Tower was the only building tall enough to allow snipers to shoot effectively into the top. Mountain Boys huddled against the west wall for cover. Syntax got shot in the hand on his run to the other side, leaving a trail of blood from where he was hit.

Wolfenstein grabbed the paralyzed Steve Morrison by the scalp en route and pulled the reporter to his feet, tugging him to the other side of the building by his hair. Steve hit the knee-wall hard with his shoulders and back. "Thanks, Wolf," said Steve after recovering. Wolfenstein looked back at him as he flipped levers on his rifle and shook his head in dismay at the dazed reporter.

Mountain Boys detached the scopes of the Masadas and individually popped up and scanned the Prudential for targets. Upon locating one, they reattached the scope behind the wall and came up for a shot. "Got one, three meters left of the north corner." The scene looked like a shooting gallery arcade from the Prudential's viewpoint, with Mountain Boys popping their heads up and down at various places across the west side of the John Hancock Tower's roof. "Got number two, midsection and back in." Leg-men like Bird Dog popped up with binoculars to spot targets; they retreated below the lip to yell out coordinates, "Target, seven meters north of the corner, on the edge." Three Mountain Boys with Masadas popped up for the target, calling out the kill simultaneously: "Third target down, seven meters north of the corner, on the edge."

As the Mountain Boys systematically spotted and shot Army Regulars, another ZF-4 swooped in from the other side of the Hancock and leveled another AT-2 Shredder missile at the third level down, taking out the other stairway. The smoke buildup below forced more Mountain Boys out of the building.

Chaos crawled over to confer with Wolfenstein. "What do you think their strategy is with the missiles, Wolf?"

"I can tell you that a group of Regulars ran into the base of the building. Our boys below the blowout points can keep them from coming up the stairwells but I don't know if we can get down to support them--or get off the building at all."

"My thinking too, by surgically striking only the top floors, there isn't much damage done to the building. The Feds must think most of us are here," Chaos speculated, "and by knocking out the stairs and elevator shaft they think they've got us trapped."

"And they're right," Wolf replied. "But we still have over 200 guys scattered around in the city. All we have to do is get enough open space to laser a message to them. If we didn't have to fend off snipers from the Prudential Buil--"He noticed a small speck in the sky. From the speed and proportions of the craft, they recognized one of their model planes.

Chaos and Wolfenstein turned to one another recalling the model planes they had brought with them. It was the Starling, a brown and black-colored plane with the name Starling Striker painted on its wings. The craft flew a fraction of the speed of ZF-4s, but as it passed near the Hancock Tower, the Mountain Boys held their fire and watched Starling buzz by, zigzagging through air currents.

Down on the street, half a mile away, one Mountain Boy aimed his infrared gun at the model plane as another rebel held binoculars to the technician's eyes. The man's tongue lashed vigorously about his open mouth as he moved the levers side to side, controlling the fragile but deadly craft as it fought the currents 790 feet up.

Federal soldiers saw it coming. The Starling jerked side to side, finally floating through a broken panel of glass to the Prudential Tower's innards. "Whooooom!" Flames from the blast blew out three glass wall panels from their mounts. Another panel, nearly intact, plunged in a free fall toward the street. A looter carrying a TV looked up to see the glass literally pass before his eyes and shatter into tiny fragments that exploded on contact with the pavement. Particles shredded the man's pants and lacerated his legs. He felt lucky until he looked for the TV he had held; it lay broken on the pavement with the bloodied stubs of his arms on each side of it.

Chapter 11i Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

Clint Eastwood not an Obama supporter

2012-02-10T12:17:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Preventing the flu

2012-02-10T02:22:00.001-05:00

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Chapter 11h Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-09T12:25:00.001-05:00

Chaos pointed to Der Dutchman's pack as a signal to go. They scurried about collecting their gear. He moved close to Helen, speaking softly, "I don't want you to go. I'll send a medic to stabilize him 'til they get him to the wharf. And they can bring back the Rousells."

"Would you rather lose one of your men? You really don't have medics. Believe me, Chaos, after what I've been through this past year, nothing can hurt me."

"But Helen, it would hurt me if something happened to you."

She grabbed her two backpacks and followed the others, looking back before entering the stairway. Their eyes met as she disappeared through the doorway.

Chaos turned the opposite way and scanned the skyline toward the JFK building. He wondered if he was making the right decision staying in Boston to get Max; Tumult's instincts were always right.

Suddenly, "Pooh, pooh, pooh," came three silenced shots from the Masada pointed toward the Old State House.

Mountain Boys attacked the Masada's tripod from all directions. The first one there tackled the weapon. "Holy shit!" said Bird Dog. "How the hell did that happen?"

Chaos pulled up binoculars to scour the city below. A faint flurry of gunfire came from the rally in front of the Old State House.

City Police began firing into the crowd. The protesters dispersed in terror. A semicircle of officers remained--two of them lay dead within the ranks, with four dead civilians sprawled and bleeding on cobblestone. A sizable chunk of stone had been split from a rock marking the first Boston Massacre.

(Two hours later)

Prudential and Hancock Towers gleamed and swayed, stretching far above natural heights--discrediting Babel's folly and affirming human capability. Made of glass and steel, they flexed in heavy winds--several feet at times--as a sparrow fluttered to and fro toward a crevice in the Old South Church below. Chaos watched the small bird's struggle. A Navy, ZF-4 Pursuit plane streaked past at subsound; the jet's roar chased the craft a quarter mile behind it.

The ZF-4 went well beyond the Hancock tower to pitch and roll for a return sweep of the building. This time the craft took a lower path and launched an AT-2 Shredder missile, then launched a second Shredder seconds later as the ZF-4 veered off target. Copilot Bronsen guided the missiles in through fiber-optic cable the size of fishing filament. Through her virtual-reality visor, she flew on the tip of the Shredder--accuracy on such a weapon could not be understated. The first missile blasted a gaping hole in the glass observatory two floors down, taking out a stairwell in the building. Racing through the first hole, the second missile entered the interior of the building and detonated at the elevator hub. Smoke billowed out the stairwell leading to the roof as Mountain Boys came out from behind the smokestack.

"Get out the Masadas. If they make that mistake again, we'll nail them," Chaos talked tough, but he wondered why the jet had shot missiles below the apex of the building and didn't strafe the rooftop. "How is it down there?" he asked one of the men who emerged from the smoke.

"The north side got hammered. The stairway and main shafts are collapsed. There doesn't seem to be any fire though. Just smoke."

Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! One of Wolfenstein's bunch fired on Army Regulars running into the base of their building.

Splat! A bullet caught a rebel in the head making him slump to a heap on the roof's tarmac top. The bullet continued through, hitting Step-n-Time in the thigh. "Damn!" he dropped to the roof and immediately yanked a wrap from his side pack and bound it. Everyone dropped to the rooftop. Rebels on that side of Hancock Tower peeked over the two-foot knee-wall through their Masada scopes or binoculars.

Chapter 11h Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

A look at eBooks

2012-02-09T12:24:00.001-05:00

Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning

Pirates and Creators in Publishing

2012-02-08T21:23:00.001-05:00

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Chapter 11g Novels for Android, Windows Phone, Http://SmithLiterary.Com, Middle School eLearning, Blair Smith

2012-02-08T13:09:00.001-05:00

"Boys?" The statement surprised Chaos.

"Boys. You got that right. They had a dog with 'em. And one of the Virginians had the shit shot out of his leg. We might have to cut the thing off."

"You're not cutting that leg off because I'm going over there," Helen vowed to Tumult. She was aghast; Helen couldn't imagine how Butch and Thad could have made it to Boston. So far away. She wanted to help the wounded Virginian, yes; but primarily, Helen wanted to get the Rousell brothers away from Tumult.

"Who runs this outfit, little brother? Those boys right about her being in charge? Are you so penie-tied by a woman that she's calling the shots?"

Chaos' patience was at its limit. He wanted to work with Tumult and get through this ordeal, but he'd put up with the humiliation long enough. The 'little' brother, along with other demeaning comments in front of his men grated on him. But Chaos didn't want to let his ego get in the way of a compromise with his brother. As diabolical as Tumult was, he always prevailed, landing on his feet despite insurmountable odds. Chaos respected that part of his brother. He always had. There were times growing up when he watched his older brothers get away with outrageous antics. Chaos watched and kept his mouth shut--always the good boy. Tumult had maligned him back then as well. Things hadn't changed. "There's no working with you, is there?"

"Sure there is. I'm leaving the city now before the Feds block us in. Pack up your stuff and let's go," Tumult ordered.

Chaos glanced over at Helen before speaking, "We can leave in a few hours."

"That's too late," said Tumult. "I can't believe you're going to put your part of the Triad at risk for one man. Especially, when you really came down for the motor-guns."

"We can't." Chaos replied in a submissive tone, "Is it all right if an attack pack and medic go over and picks up the boys and the wounded Virginians?"

"Oh, certainly." Tumult looked at his watch again. "I think you know where we're at." He waved to his men across the city at the Bunker Hill Monument and walked over to Wolfenstein's group to pick up a Masada wrapped in a blanket. Tumult unraveled it and looked at the circuit board taped to the stock, with a small condensor mike attached to it. "So this is how you communicate now. You beam over to someone's little beanie and speak." He pointed a red beam at the hat of one of Wolf's men and spoke into the device. "Hello there." The soldier jerked from the overpowering reception at such close range. "Can you hear me?" asked Tumult. The soldier nodded yes. Tumult walked over to the man and took his hat and receiver. "I appreciate the fact that you share your technology with the other triads, little brother." He rewrapped the weapon and hat in the blanket, "One word of advice on this escape plan of yours: Create a diversion that will keep the Feds occupied." He walked to the door, looking at his watch one last time. His attack pack had gone before him. "Are you boys coming with us or what?" Tumult walked down the stairway.

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Apple unveils eBook tool

2012-02-08T13:07:00.000-05:00

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Smartphone shipments top other computer sales

2012-02-07T22:54:00.001-05:00

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2012-02-07T12:15:00.001-05:00

"They're sending in a censored story," said Steve.

"And who the hell asked you," Tumult answered the reporter not taking his eyes off the scope. He loosened the lock on the weapon as he watched the protest gathering at the front of The Old State House a mile and a half away.

Local residents had gathered in the square at the very point the Boston Massacre had taken place centuries before. This time they took advantage of the St. Patrick's Day press coverage to protest against the lack of protection from the gangs, the cutbacks in health care, and the reduction of social security. The leader of the rally recited party demagoguery about fascists and fairness. Further down Columbus Avenue gays, lesbians, and representatives from a Native American group stood in formation and held their banners for the St. Patrick's Day Parade.

"'A hundred fools do not make one wise man,'" said Tumult quoting Adolf Hitler. He refocused on the protest gathering at the Old State House. "So, little brother, is this what you're down here for, to fight for the freedom of freaks and afros. And hell, I can't tell what that is," he discreetly punched a timer on the number pad of the Masada as he spoke, "a girl, or a boy, or one of those animals they surgically change for the county fair."

"They have the right to say what they think," stated Chaos.

Tumult turned away from the scope, "Well, I'm getting sick and tired of the whining." He logged in three consecutive shots and pressed ENTER.

"Your own men have trouble accepting the Nazi theme you've embraced. But listen, we have to work together if we're going to get out of here."

"Piss!" Tumult re-covered the Masada, stood up, and glanced at his watch. "When you say work together, you mean do it your way. You sent me the goddamn message about coming here before we could even talk about it. We're supposed to be a triad, little brother. That's three groups that function as one. You haul your ass off and do stuff on your own. I started this goddamn thing to begin with. How do you think you got through college? Huh?"

"Well--" He began.

"I sent the goddamn money to Mom. She sent it to the Citadel. Those weren't scholarships, you stupid shit."

Helen and Steve looked at one another, stunned. The conversation caught Wolfenstein and his pack's attention. Tumult continued, "I was raising hell with the Feds and raising money for you while you were screwing around with the girls in college. I get sick and tired of having to explain myself to you. You try and make me out as some wacko Nazi around my own men. I don't appreciate that. You need to worry about your own people. I had to pick two of your Virginian men out of a building last night. And taking care of them were two boys." He points his finger at Helen, "They said this bitch is in charge of everything. Piss! I'm getting sick and tired of covering your ass." He glanced down at his watch.

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Romance blooms on eBook format

2012-02-07T12:12:00.001-05:00

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The Pandora's box of privacy

2012-02-06T14:53:00.000-05:00

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2012-02-06T13:44:00.001-05:00

"I'd like to understand the dynamics of this place," Chaos pondered allowed. "Excluding the gangs, of course, we haven't had ill will from the people here."

"How do you view yourselves as rebels?" Steve Morrison cut into the conversation.

"Is this for your own curiosity or some kind of interview?"

"You could call it an interview."

"How do I know you'll get it right? I have trouble understanding how you media boys prostitute yourselves day after day by supporting the failed policies of the White House. Rural, hardworking people are being punished."

"First of all, I can't help but get it right; you're sending it out for me. Just edit anything you don't like and feed it through the phone line."

"You just don't get it, do you," the Southerner countered. "We struggle for freedom. This nation is all over the globe fighting tyranny, protecting the freedom of other people around the world, while communities at home aren't allowed to help themselves. Granted, with all of us, it's personal. In some way, we've suffered loss of property, livelihood," and nodding to Helen beside him, "some lost loved ones. But it's the principle of it. It's bad government, and America wasn't this way years ago." Chaos pointed his finger to the streets below. "The urban people might control the votes to keep these fools in power, but we can control the countryside. Without the land, they cannot eat."

A voice came from behind them, "You always gave a good speech, little brother."

Helen whirled around to see Tumult, looking her over lecherously.

He smiled at her reaction. "She looks surprised. I'll bet he didn't tell you we were brothers," said Tumult.

"No."

"It's not something he's proud of," Tumult continued. "My little brother thinks I'm a psycho, but when things get tough, I wind up saving his ass. Ain't that right?" Tumult looked to Chaos.

"I sent you a message about coming here for Max," Chaos said quickly, obviously irritated. "And I don't appreciate this cat and mouse game you've been playing in Boston. You're screwing up the mission by hitting on the gangs. Look, they're flying in Regular Army." He pointed across the harbor to the airport. "For all we know there's even ships loaded with more troops and supplies on the way."

Morrison discreetly scribbled notes on a pocket computer as they spoke; Tumult notice. "Who's the nerd? A historical recorder? You think you're making history here or something, little brother?" Tumult walked deliberately between Helen and Chaos to the tripod Masada with a blanket draped over it.

"I'm a reporter for Spectator News," Steve announced.

Tumult looked through the scope at the Bunker Hill Monument, ignoring his soldiers' waves. "He doin' a story on you? You running for President, little brother?" Tumult chuckled.

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Can Liberals publish conservative books?

2012-02-06T13:39:00.001-05:00

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eBooks for the masses

2012-02-05T22:47:00.001-05:00

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2012-02-05T11:27:00.001-05:00

Boston (1:00 p.m. on March 17)

From Chaos' vantage point, atop the sixty-two-story John Hancock Tower, tiny streets were cluttered with insect-like vehicles. They crowded and honked, anxious to pass through Columbus Avenue before the strip shut down for the annual St. Patrick's Day Parade. The gold dome of the State House gleamed like a Christmas ornament behind Boston Common. Other historical sights of Old Boston were also in view: the Park Street Church and Granary Burial Ground just beyond the Common and a distant pinnacle of the Bunker Hill Monument across the Charles River, three miles off. The Old State House peeked between the skyscrapers of downtown.

Huge military transport planes circled the sky above the city like predatory birds, holding their flight patterns for a turn to land at Logan International Airport across the Harbor. A Navy ZF-4 Pursuit plane roared over the Hancock Tower at a low altitude. "They know we're here," shouted Chaos. "Don't uncover those guns," he directed Wolfenstein. "For all they know we're up here to see the parade."

Chaos moved his command center in the early morning hours to an empty warehouse off Boston Harbor just as a precaution.

John Hancock's rooftop was an excellent communications point from which they sighted in a Masada's laser to a receiver node at their warehouse. They also had a line-of-sight to communicate with attack packs stationed around the JFK Building where the Feds kept Max and three Virginians.

Chaos noticed the stark Bunker Hill monument across the Charles River and wondered . . . . He went to the edge of the building and uncovered part of a Masada and focused the 100x scope on the viewing nest at the top of the monument. Two of Tumult's Mountain Boys looked back at him through Masada scopes of their own. Looking through the scope, Chaos waved. They waved back. If they had had one of the copper woven hats and amplifier he could have sent them a message.

"What is it?" asked Helen--with Steve Morrison listening intently.

"Tumult had spotters behind the church at Bunker Hill all this time. He knew where we were. They must use the location to receive and send visual signals."

"I thought you guys were on the same team. If he knew where you were," Helen questioned, "why didn't he contact you?"

"Like I said, we have a philosophical difference. You'll get to ask him yourself. Der Dutchman's pack spotted Tumult heading our way with an attack pack. You know, as much as we disagree, we both know we're going to have to work together to get out of this. Those aren't passenger planes. The Feds are moving in troops." He pointed to the sky. "We have to get Max and get out of here when this mob leaves the parade, before the Feds blockade the city. We could hold them off in the city all right but we don't have provisions."

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NBC; new eBook initiatve

2012-02-05T11:23:00.001-05:00

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2012-02-04T14:56:00.001-05:00

The President cut in, "If we locate their headquarters, we could use an optic-guided missile or even conventional artillery to take out their nest cleanly."

"That smart weaponry is only as smart as the people using it. Keep in mind, they're not afraid to take casualties."

Lucas became sarcastic, "So what you're saying is that the most powerful military force in the world can't take on a few hundred rebels. I get the impression you like these guys."

"You don't understand the importance of knowing the enemy. And yes, if I could choose a group of soldiers to serve under me, it would be the Tobacco Boys. Unfortunately they're the enemy. I'm not saying we can't beat them. I'm saying it will cost us casualties. One thing that helped us in Georgia was that we split them off from the citizens who supported them. They have to eat. They have to sleep. When they're out of their element they become easier to locate--as I suppose they are in Boston now." The separation of the Mountain Boys from their base made Greely reconsider.

"Would you be interested in heading this thing up?" the President asked.

The Colonel had anticipated the question: "If I can do it my way. That would mean bring in my own divisions with the most modern equipment. For example: I want the team of Seals now stationed in the Amur region of Russia. I need them today. They've had experience with snipers and house-to-house fighting. But if there's too many civilians getting hurt, I'm the one that calls it quits. Then we would just have to wait for them to leave the city."

"Those terms are fine," said President Winifred.

Greely looked the President straight in the eye. "I've got to ask just one question first, sir. I don't mean any disrespect by it. Did our troops have anything to do with the Dixville incident?"

"No, they didn't. It is a ridiculous notion prompted by Spectator News. It's purely political. I had nothing to do with Dixville, and quite frankly, I'm surprised you would ask something like that."

"I had to ask, sir. Morale is low with the communications blackout on the military. Keeping the troops in the dark only spurs rumors."

"Rumors is the operative word, Colonel."

The Colonel accepted the assignment and was given full reign over the troops and equipment used. He wanted to start immediately while the Tobacco Boys were still severed from the North Country.

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Mastering Microsoft Forefront for eBooks

2012-02-04T14:54:00.001-05:00

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It's not the media, it's the market

2012-02-04T00:29:00.001-05:00

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2012-02-03T19:10:00.001-05:00

"We have elite troops, Colonel," Lucas' tone changed to a more defensive pitch. "Our military is the best in the world. We protect our vital interests on every continent."

"They're the best in conventional fighting," asserted Colonel Greely. "And you're absolutely right, they're all over the world fighting terrorism. Not here. See, when the Tobacco Boys break the line and when they're shooting it out with our troops only meters away, they have the upper hand. They are not afraid to get close and personal. They don't panic under fire. Our troops haven't seen man-to-man combat in so many decades, kids nowadays freak out in close ground fighting. The Tobacco Boys thrive on that. They're also equipped with the Israeli Masadas, the most advanced sniper rifle designed to date. It has an extensive range and with the right bullet, can penetrate light armor. In the Carolinas they used 'em to shoot out our vision blocks and sensor ports on our Abrams tanks. They literally blinded us. When a trooper opened a hatch to see, Tobacco Boys launched a bullet inside the thing. Do you know what a loose bullet does inside a tank?"

"Well, not real--" The President was at a loss for words.

"It bounces around inside until it goes through enough bone and flesh to stop it--if it doesn't detonate a cannon shell first."

"We need to refocus here," said Lucas Bennett. "You're here to tell us what you know about their tactics and what can be done. They are beatable; you proved that in Georgia."

"I didn't. If you count the numbers, they killed a lot more of us than we did of them. Of course it wasn't reported that way. When it was all said and done, it was the swamp that killed a lot of the rebels. As for tactics, I would never engage them in a city. No commander would want house-to-house fighting with that bunch."

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Volcanos may have sparked Little Ice Age

2012-02-03T01:32:00.001-05:00

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2012-02-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

Washington, D.C. in the early morning (March 17)

The last foreign encounter that had taken place in mainland American was the War of 1812. The British invaded Washington and burned the White House. From that point, all other threats to the American way of life came from within. At the turn of the 21st century little wars raged throughout the world. A nuclear flare-up occurred between India and Pakistan. The combined populations of the two countries dropped from 1.5 billion people to nearly half that.

And then the Israeli conflict. Just before dusk on April 9, 2011, three short-range, nuclear missiles were launched from Lebanon at the cities of Haifa, Nazerat, and a military base in a valley near Afula, biblically referred to as Armageddon. The Israeli anti-missile system hadn't had time to react quickly enough, the missiles obliterated their targets. Israel retaliated by launching an array of warheads from submarines in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. Nuclear blasts flashed cities in Syria, Lebanon, Libya, Jordan, Iraq, and Iran within the hour. So came the reputation of the long-range sniper rifle: the Masada. The Israeli policy of appeasement vanished. Terrorists bent on the destruction of the Jewish people were identified and targeted for extinction by the legendary weapon that fired silently from miles away. Israelis developed special bullets with propellant and tail-fins and a sensor tip that followed a laser to its target.

Colonel Francis Greely, 20th Special Forces Group (Airborne) had been at most global conflicts concerning U.S. interests, advising, heading covert operations, arming rebels to topple tyrants in Third World countries. He stood resolute before President Winifred and Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett twelve hours after their discussion at the White House reception the night before. He was a much older man than they had envisioned; wrinkled skin and gray, thinning hair, he was thin to the point his back and shoulders hunched. Greely did not look like typical soldier stuff. But he had served in countless global conflicts throughout his career.

President Winifred asked Greely why Paz had resisted ordering an attack on the rebels in Boston. "General Paz didn't order his soldiers into Boston because it would have been a bloodbath for our troops, worse than a replay on the Tobacco Wars," the Colonel explained.

Lucas objected, "But we've got the technology and the manpower."

The Colonel corrected him, "We have the technology."

A gap in conversation widened as the President and Chief of Staff looked at one another. This man wasn't what they had expected: a curt, opinionated, son-of-a-bitch, he didn't even look military.

"You were in command of the Okefenokee campaign, correct?" Winifred asked.

"Correct, sir, and that's how Paz and I know this isn't a band of hillbillies with shotguns. They are well disciplined and dedicated to a cause. The Media blew things out of proportion down South. They are not a bunch of rednecked racists. Oh, you have individuals with their own opinion on things, but overall, they think of themselves as freedom fighters. That's the worst kind of enemy you can go up against. They had a number of things going for them in the Carolinas: They had the support of the people in the region and an erratic, unorthodox fighting style, which accounted for the high kill ratio they inflicted on us. And they had advanced weaponry. Most of all, they have topnotch fighting men."

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2012-02-01T13:43:00.001-05:00

"I'll get some FBI agents to try and trace the source of the letter through the Internet service provider. The rebel might have written it long before. The sheriff in Lexington also reported a number of large trucks pulling out of his town. Whether the trucks were full of men or equipment or empty was uncertain. We should assume they were armed rebels. I would presume they're in Boston to either get cash or get one of their Covenant leaders out; the convict's name is Max Sessal. We thought he was The Wizard. But now we know he's not." Lucas turned to the map and zoomed up New England, typing in numbers on the portable computer. "Assuming the rebels were divided evenly, there might be about three hundred in Vermont and three hundred across the river." He typed the numbers in on the large map on the wall as he spoke.

"And now three hundred in Boston," Clifford Winifred finished the theory for him. "The question is, Why so many to get one man out, unless your assumption was wrong and that the man in custody in Boston is The Wizard?"

"One of the compound officials overstepped his bounds and used a drug to loosen Sessal up. Ah, the official was reprimanded for it of course. Somewhat. You know what I mean." A smirk at the corners of his mouth formed as Lucas typed.

"That leaves a lot of unanswered questions, Luc. I think they're looking to get weapons or ammo in Boston. Check with the military on this and find me someone who dealt with this bunch before; we need to know their tactics. The last thing we need are the casualties we had in the Tobacco War. That little run-in above Boston with only one van-load was costly as it was. We'll take out their group using overwhelming force."

"What about Kyle?"

"Yes. Get him immediately. We need to keep the Tobacco bunch there in Boston."

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2012-01-31T22:08:00.000-05:00

"Lucas looks somewhat distressed over there," Sorenson placed her empty glass on the tray of a passing sheik. He stopped and offered her a second. She shook her head, "No, thank you." He moved on. "Doesn't that queer little man ever unwind?" Sorenson observed of Lucas Bennett. "I'd love to set him up somehow so Winifred had to replace him."

"That would be tough to do," said Paz. "He's always thinking. We'd be smart to make our move before they make theirs."

Sorenson looked at the Secretary of Defense and slithered her lips to a smile as she strolled to mingle with First Lady Patricia Winifred's group in another part of the Arabian Room. She knew enough not to ask; she didn't want to know what Kyle was going to do.

Lucas Bennett received a micro disk from an aide and promptly pulled out a pocket computer from his breast pocket to load it in. He grinned as he read the note. "This is interesting. It's a letter to a sweetheart from one of the Tobacco Boys. Evidently, they write their own eulogy." Lucas jumped windows on his computer and beeped a message to the aide who had delivered the disk, to return.

The aide had just left the Arabian Room and had nearly passed through what had been the Green Room, now the Greek Buffet Hall. He heard the beep from the computer in his jacket, opened it to read the message, and returned to Bennett.

"How did they come by this?" Lucas asked the aide.

"The young lady it is addressed to in South Carolina received the letter and called us. Then she transferred the file online. She said she 'felt it was her duty to let us know.'"

"Thank you," Lucas replied. The aide turned on his heel and left.

Lucas handed the computer to the President, "This is interesting, Cliff. This says they're a thousand strong and growing--and they're down in Boston."

Winifred studied it for a moment, but became distracted nervously, brushing his fingers through his hair. Seconds earlier, he had glanced to the side of the room to find Nancy Atherton watching him. She was a bystander in a group engaged in their own conversation. Dressed in a tissue thin, pink and purple dress, Nancy shot a seductively long stare across the room at Clifford. The overacted display pulled a smile out of him.

"Mr. President?"

"Oh. Yes, Lucas. Let's go to the Map Room. This could be the break we need."

"You want Kyle to meet us there, of course?" Lucas watched the President's face for a response, testing him.

"I think not. We'll hold off on Paz's reaction on this one."

They went through the same door as the aide had, crossing through the Greek Hall, eventually down narrow stairs that led to the Map Room.

The room hadn't adopted the international flavor as other chambers in the White House--basic, but modernized. In Franklin Roosevelt's day, leaders plotted war strategies using color-coded pins on a large world map stretched across the wall. Now the room was totally electronic with a giant screen replacing the maps. A small portable computer controlled the larger display.

President Winifred closed the door behind him, all the while looking at the computer note on his pocket PC they had intercepted. "I don't quite understand this note, Luc. 'Now, we are over a thousand strong and growing.' How did this rebel die? There's nothing going on in the North Country right now. But there were some Mountain Boys killed above Boston, and rumors of some in Boston. But a thousand? How could they hide a thousand white guys in that city?"

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2012-01-30T13:35:00.001-05:00

Winifred responded, "Sorenson has access to a lot of confidential information, if she only knows where to look. We can't trust her. And I wouldn't sell Paz short. He might be working her." The President scooped some black, Iranian caviar with a cracker and held it just inside the cage for the falcon to snatch. "Kyle's too much of a political animal to go taking off on his own. He was in charge of the Dixville operation. We only told him to stop the smuggling. He knows he could be hung out to dry with the rest of us. You're making too much of this, Luc." The President sipped his sherry as he smiled and nodded at Senator Chavaza of California passing by. Both the President and Lucas Bennett looked again across the room at Kyle and Vice President Sorenson who now looked back at them. The two parties forced smiles and raised glasses to one another in a distant toast.

"I don't think there's a damn thing they can do. We're talking impeachment here," Sorenson vented absolutely. "Of course, my ass is in the same sling." She paused thinking, "What do you see as a next step?"

General Paz cleared his throat before speaking, "I think we need to act rather than react. There are a number of scenarios that could be played out: All this could be delayed and Winifred could get reelected. Or, due to some negative press, you could lose the election. In which case, the party in power would most likely call for an inquiry and indictments. And seeing how I was in charge of the Dixville operation, I would take the fall as well, I suppose, justifiably so," Kyle added regrettably.

"Don't you find it a little suspicious," Lucas continued as he rubbed the tattoo on his cheek, "that Kyle has been unable to squash the backwoods rebellion in the North Country, or even put a stop to the CB broadcasts coming out of there. Jesus, CB broadcasts! We're dealing with a bunch of woodchucks! There's been unrest other places, and we've pinpointed the leaders and brought them in. I think you need to consider getting rid of him. If you replaced him there's nothing he could do about it."

"I'll need to think about it," said the President. "What bothers me is that he has no motive to jump ship, and everything to lose. He'd be all but admitting involvement in Dixville. I don't understand that. Even Sorenson would be implicated." He turned his gaze from the other side of the room back to his Chief of Staff. "Well, she could be implicated. Just her knowing and not doing anything smells of cover-up."

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Hawii wants to keep track of website visits

2012-01-30T13:32:00.001-05:00

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2012-01-30T01:27:00.001-05:00

She accepted his explanation but found it awkward bringing up the next subject. "I spoke with the reporter today. Did you know their news agency was the first to publicize the Dixville Massacre as it really happened? That's what postponed the Feds immediate invasion of New Hampshire and Vermont."

"'Postpone is the operative word, too." The Southerner caught himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's been a long day."

"Morrison said we could check his pictures and report before sending it out. He wants his camera back."

"I don't have a problem with that as long as one of our men is with him at all times. He can stick with Wolfenstein's group. But you let him know that tagging along with an attack pack can be dangerous."

Washington, D.C. (The evening of March 16)

What had been the East Room of the White House was now the Arabian Room. The influential politicians of Washington showed up at the reception and passed through a replica of Babylon's Ishtar Gate--the entrance to the temple of Bel built by Nebuchadnezzar in 575 B.C.. The hand-hewn trim made by American forefathers had been removed, replaced by graven images of the bull of Adad and the dragon of Marduk. The beasts were scattered symmetrically across the tiled wall. Security personnel, dressed as sheiks, stood indignantly at the entrance. Beyond studded doors made of Lebanon Cedar, were crowds of cordial people smiling deceptively.

The White House had been remodeled during Harry S. Truman's administration--also a time when they shored up the original sandstone walls and added one hundred and thirty-two rooms to the existing sixty-two. The total cost by the end of 1952: $5,761,000.

That wasn't uncommon. Other administrations added pools or spas or jogging tracks. Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy completely refurbished the interior in the early 1960s, followed by a permanent art collection assembled in 1964 by Lyndon B. Johnson.

But the executive quarters had to be brought up to the times, representing the Global Village the U.S. had become a part of. Lyndon's collection of American art had been taken down. The Early American furnishings collected by Jacqueline Kennedy had been replaced by 18th century furniture from France or Germany or the Orient--always authentic. Every room had a national theme.

"Look at that bitch," muttered Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett to President Winifred. "She's working everyone. You were wondering where she got her info about Dixville, well there you go." They looked across the breadth of the tiled room to see Vice President Sorenson and Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz chatting with drinks in hand. The two smiled and nodded to one another. "He's the one who told her. He's gotta be."

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Obana says college costs must be kept in check

2012-01-30T01:24:00.000-05:00

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2012-01-28T12:57:00.001-05:00

Helen jammed the bloodied wraps in plastic bags and savagely tossed them in a trash can below the table. She slowly wiped the table down with a strong bleach solution. "No, I haven't been to the site."

Steve's comment loosened stark images of that day. She continued fussing with supplies. Steve noticed Helen's mood shift. "I'm sorry. I just want to do my job, that's all. Could you see if Chaos would let me have my camera back? Those guys can censor everything I send out. In fact, they can E-mail it to my editor. I don't have a problem with that. I could at least write about the North Country, we're not there anymore. I wouldn't blow your cover here. Keep in mind, if it wasn't for our break in the Dixville story, the Feds would probably have attacked the North Country by now."

Helen relented, "I'll say something to him, but no promises."

"Thanks. And one more thing, got any gum?"

Two other packs returned that afternoon. One had cased the JFK Federal Building off New Sudbury Street and taken digital photos of it. Using spotting scopes, they had located Max on the fifth floor. The intelligence encouraged Chaos: Security was lax at the Federal Building and short-manned. He concluded the easiest way to manage the escape was the most direct approach: Infiltrate the Federal Building and cut communications. Then get Max the hell out of Boston during the rush of the St. Patrick's Day parade. They would disassemble the motor-gun they had captured and make duplicates of it when they returned to the North Country.

A third group searched the city for Tumult. They knew he was here because they found his calling card, an African-American spiked to a sheet of plywood, dead. Chaos decided to continue with the plan without a rendezvous with Tumult.

Chaos met Helen that evening in a room on the second level of the church; it had served as the priest's residence at one time. Though starkly furnished and filled with musty traces from neglect, a single oil lamp created a romantic glow. It was quiet in this part of the city. The blocks surrounding the church were crisscrossed with narrow streets bordered by rundown townhouses.

Helen and Chaos had been attracted to one another since their first meeting in the sugarhouse. Chaos was good looking all right, his soft brown eyes his most defining feature. And he was solid, without a stitch of fat. He was capable of charming the pants off a woman, literally.

But the foreplay was more verbal than physical, with the Southerner asking about her personal life, the food she liked, what clothes she liked to wear. Until then, Helen hadn't thought of herself as a catch; the image of a chunky mom was still engraved in her psyche. Chaos made her feel beautiful again. More than that, in the midst of a decimated city, his quiet persuasion engendered a feeling of security. The tender romance that ensued helped her forget the tragic loss of her son, if only for a moment.

"You're not going to stay through the might?" Helen asked as Chaos got out of bed and began dressing.

"I have to sleep with the men. It's good for morale. It's hard to explain. I don't want to put myself at a higher level or anything. I'm the commander, yes, but if I'm not with them, I'm not one of them." Seated in a straight-back chair, he began buckling up his shoes.

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Anonymous Strikes

2012-01-28T12:53:00.001-05:00

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2012-01-27T12:34:00.001-05:00

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You just don't start snooping into things that don't concern you!"

"I'm sorry." Cold stares pierced through Helen as she got up and stood in judgment. "I had no idea."

"Hold it, guys," Chaos intervened, "get back where you belong." The group shuffled off.

"Well, aren't you going to say something?" asked Helen.

"You're right, you didn't know about our letters home. And you didn't know that taking a detour would cause things to end up the way they did this morning. No one knew. The Wizard didn't explain why he gave us directions to go the long way to the electronics warehouse." He put an arm on her shoulder. "One thing's for sure: Mistakes are costly in this game. And it is a game we need to play well."

Chaos' comment helped Helen realize how simply changing routes could lead to such dire consequences. To that point, she hadn't felt responsible for what had happened this morning. She would think things through more carefully from now on.

Later that morning Steve Morrison approached Helen as she treated another soldier, "Helen, I need to talk to you a minute."

She turned. "Oh," her tone dropped an octave as she saw who it was. "What do you want?"

"What went on over there? And what the hell happened this morning? I'm here to help you guys get the truth out."

"I wouldn't know about your article. I don't read tabloid journalism," Helen said coolly. She shifted to a more pleasant tone as she addressed the young soldier. "What's your name again?"

"Van Gogh, ma'am." He smiled. "I got called that 'cause I'm a leg-man. If they tell me to go, I go." His smile broadened.

The grin was contagious. Helen returned the smile, "My name's Helen."

"Everyone knows who you are, Ma'am."

"Thank you, that's sweet. Would you see me tomorrow so I can change the bandage?"

Van Gogh nodded and grinned as he left to rejoin his attack pack.

"You're real sweet on these guys," Steve commented sarcastically.

Helen clenched her teeth, "Now what do you want?"

"I'm a prisoner here. They tell me when to sit, when I can go to the bathroom; I'm under guard at all times. Oh crap, here comes my shadow," Morrison whined in a murmur as Wolf's group broke up. A young rebel walked over to them.

"Ma'am, is this man bothering you?" asked the man.

Morrison hung his head. Helen responded, "No, I'm fine, Sunny Boy. We're just having a private chat." The rebel walked off to another part of the church and sat down, still observing his assignment from a distance.

"Jesus, what is it with these names? Bubba or Jeffro, won't do? Everybody's a nickname around here. These hillbillies are going to get us killed. I just came along as a reporter. I don't want to get in the line of fire when the Feds crash in the door. Have you seen the Dixville site? Trees were blasted in half. Boulders were chipped away like plaster. As rugged as these guys think they are, they haven't a chance against that kind of automated technology." Seeing her face, Steve suddenly realized what he had said by mentioning Dixville.

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2012-01-26T13:00:00.000-05:00

Chaos turned and went down the steps he had come up. He suspected that Helen had something to do with the decision; she had the map of the city. But ultimately, Wolf was in charge; and he knew procedure. At the top of the narrow staircase, dimly lit by a small octagon window above, Wolfenstein paused in the glow of variegated blues from the leaded glass. The typical stagnant smells of a closed up building filled it all--muffled voices drifted up from the chapel. Wolf hung his head in regret.

Helen had had no idea that each soldier prepared their own letters home in the event of their death. She found a memory disk inside a red carrying case on a table in the chapel and thought it might have been the one that belonged to Crucible. She put it in a pocket computer and viewed it:
Dear Ambrosia,
I am Randall Colby, you might remember me from high school. If you receive this note it means I've passed away. My pack leader told us to prepare a letter to our loved ones; you came to mind.
I'm not sending this to you to make you feel guilty or to imply that you thought you were better than others. To the contrary: You're a special soul that radiates goodness beyond your physical beauty. This letter is to let you know who I am and what I've done, and that I wasn't the geek in high school everyone thought I was. You are now the protector of my secrets and the keeper of my most cherished thoughts.
I was one of the few to survive the Tobacco Wars, escaping with men like Wolfenstein, Six Pack, and Henchman. Now, we're over 1,000 strong and growing. We're defending the families of the Dixville Massacre. We share a kindred spirit here. Commander Chaos says we struggle for freedom.
Please remember me.
Randall

Helen felt responsible for what had happened--knowing it could have been prevented if she hadn't taken them through the center of town when they returned. Then to peer into the soul of the earnest young man she had talked to just hours before....

"That's a man's personal property. Nobody looks at that but their loved ones!" stated a rebel coldly.

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2012-01-25T12:39:00.001-05:00

In the main chapel of the church, Helen and Wolf sat to the side; others went about their own business. The hum of varied noises squelched private conversations. "I'm so sorry this happened," Helen said as she bound up Wolf's arm; she had no idea changing the route would cause such a catastrophe. The motor-gun ball had gone in just below Wolf's elbow and came out near his wrist.

Wolfenstein held his arm suspended in mid-air; he hadn't flinched through the cleaning or wrap-up but now his pain showed. Speckles of sprayed blood from balls whipping into Crucibles' head spattered Wolfenstein's face and beard. "They just started shootin'," he said.

Helen sighed with a crack in her voice as she spoke, " . . . and that poor boy."

"Name was Crucible."

"What?"

"We called him Crucible because he went into the fire and came out unscathed. He was right beside me when we escaped the Feds by goin' through the Oke swamps. Some of them got alligatored or just plain lost from the group, but Crucible stayed right by me. Did exactly as I told him. He was a good fighter, Ma'am. You could always trust Crucible to hold up his end. He wouldn't back off for nothin'. It wasn't right that those Afros just shot him like that. I'm pissed off. I'm sorry, I usually don't talk that way in front of a lady but he was a good boy. He shouldn't have been gunned down like that. Is that the way these Afros fight down here, just haul off and shoot somebody for just driving down the street? They don't know us from Adam."

"Well, I don't--"

"I mean, even if they were out to hijack the truck, they didn't have to shoot the driver. You think they just shot him 'cause he was a white boy? There were other trucks on that road."

"Probably not. Maybe it was the out-of-state plates."

"He must have had six holes in his head before you could even blink. I'm not pleased about this. Not pleased at all."

Helen gave up trying to join his soliloquy conversation. He hadn't heard her. This was the most she had ever heard Wolfenstein speak. Helen saw the sentimental side of the gruff, bearded man, but the vengeful rhetoric that followed, frightened her. She attempted to change topics. "How did you get this scar?" Helen referred to the one on his thumb pad she found while cleaning him up.

Wolfenstein looked at her strangely. "We get cuts all the time, ma'am."

Chaos walked by, "Wolf, I need to talk to you a minute." The two of them walked to the back of the chapel, and ascended a flight of stairs to the second level, and stood at the top of the landing. "I'd like to find out why you came back a different route from the electronics supply outlet. The route through Old Boston was out of your way, you know. You had no trouble getting there."

Wolf blinked several times. The blood loss, along with the walk upstairs, made him woozy. He hesitated, and looked down on Chaos saying, "I'm sorry, sir. I screwed up."

"I'm not lookin' to place blame, Wolf."

Wolf's tone became harsh. "I'm not lookin' to place blame either, sir. It's my responsibility."

"I understand. Enough said," Chaos nodded. Many people across the country considered the rebel forces from the North Country, terrorists. 'Integrity has no need of rules,' Albert Camus had said. Like Chaos, Wolfenstein fought for what was right. Chaos never questioned that; it's just that Wolf was unable to express himself.

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2012-01-24T12:01:00.001-05:00

Wolf looked around Helen at Crucible and saw the slumped body over the steering wheel with multiple holes through his face and head. Wolf's face muscles went limp. He sighed, "Get into Crucible's side pack there and pull out the red disk case." Helen timidly unzipped and dug through the side pack, eventually finding the red case and handing it to the pack leader. Wolfenstein then pulled out a sterilized wrap from his side pack and bound his arm, tying it with his teeth and remaining hand. "Much obliged," he mumbled as he walked to the back of the truck. He left Helen alone in the cab with the bloody corpse.

Still in shock, Helen reached up to feel Crucible's carotid for any sign of life. After actually looking at the young man's head, she realized how stupid it was to check for a pulse; his head was nearly fragmented by motor-gun balls. She slumped back to the floor, "Oh, God," she muttered, wondering about the significance of the memory disk.

Bird Dog sprinted down the alley. As leg-man of an attack pack, his job was to sprint ahead of the group to capture and hold a tactical position, or to run down strays like this. Leg-men were lean and in good aerobic condition.

Bird Dog spotted a blood trail halfway down the alley and stopped abruptly at a dumpster. He held his breath a second and listened--and heard a voice.

A black face popped out from the edge of the doorway with a cellular in one hand. He spotted Bird Dog and shot four rounds in his direction, pinging the dumpster with each round.

Bird Dog stuck his gun out shooting five rounds back, followed by gunning-to-the-source, the technique of walking toward the target using constant gun fire to keep them at bay--shooting at any head or hand poking out of cover. Bird Dog chipped away at the brick's edge en route, finally closing in and shooting the victim with three rounds at point-blank range. Black Rhino bullets shredded on impact, tearing large portions of bone from the victim's skull. Blood and human tissue plastered the cove where the gang member lay.

The African-American sat slumped in the entrance clutching a Mexican version of a Beretta in one hand and a cellular phone in the other. A balky voice squawked from the telephone. Bird Dog picked it up. "Hello."

"Who the hell is this?" an authoritative voice asked from the other end.

"This is Bird Dog, sir. Who is this?"

"What kind of stupid name is that?"

"Ah, well--"

"Did you kill my boy?"

"I'm sorry, I had to, sir. I was taking fire and my orders were to stop his escape."

"What gang are you?"

Bird Dog paused a second and looked at the scar on his right thumb. "Ghost Pack 220, sir."

"You son-of-a-bitch! You're outa town. You wait right there, I'm going to come over and shoot your ass myself." The line went dead.

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2012-01-23T14:16:00.001-05:00

Problems arose on their return to the church. The Wizard's directions seemed to take them out of their way; from the map, Helen could see a much shorter way back to the church. She convinced Wolfenstein to take the shorter route through the heart of town.

The ambush happened on Washington Avenue, southwest of Old Boston. Members of Tar's gang saw white guys in the truck cruising the strip and phoned ahead with cellulars. A motor-gun pummeled the driver's side blowing apart Crucible instantly. Wolfenstein took a hit to the forearm and dropped to the floor, pulling Helen down with him. Wolf pushed the brake pedal by hand; the truck skidded to a stop.

Steam oozed out of the front of the truck. The mist hissed, and meandered upward from an apparently lifeless hulk. Six lanky gang members dressed in spandex with turned up baseball hats approached the rig cautiously. An alien silence reigned, but not for long. The gang members flinched as they heard the accordion door roll open at the back of the truck. They all aimed that direction while glancing skittishly at the cab windows. The man with the motor-gun in the gang revved the Husqvarna two-cycle engine and grinned.

At a dead run, three Mountain Boys leaped like gazelles out the back of the truck and shot in mid-air, taking out two and wounding two more before even setting foot on pavement. They continued sprinting for cover behind vehicles fifteen meters down the street. Four more Mountain Boys followed, but this time they dropped straight down and shot from behind the rear wheels of the truck. As the man with the motor-gun tried to follow the sprinters down the street, a myriad of bullets from the second team of gunners vented him, leaving him dead where he stood. At least one motor-gun was now in their possession. One gang member escaped up an alley. It all happened in two seconds--choreographed death as an art form.

Wolfenstein whistled for someone to come to the cab. A young, long-legged rebel named Bird Dog opened the door. "What's the status?" asked Wolf.

"One of them went up an alley."

"Get 'em, Bird Dog."

Bird Dog flipped a lever ejecting the 33-round clip from the bottom of his Glock 24 and shoved a fresh one in the handle as he rounded the front of the truck in an accelerating sprint down the alley. Helen began crawling out the door of the cab. Wolf grabbed her belt and kept her in. "You keep your ass on the floor."

"What!"

"I handle the skirmishes." Wolf moaned as he crawled over her, oblivious to the blood streaming down his arm. "If you have a problem with that, take it up with the boss when we get back."

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2012-01-22T11:47:00.001-05:00

Chapter 10

Old Boston, late evening (March 15)

Helen and Chaos' company found a place to sleep the next night in a large abandoned church tucked among rundown townhouses. Narrow streets laced the area. Beside the church's double doors, the engraved A.D. 1887 announced the building's permanence despite the decay around it. The chapel's gray stone construction, now colored black from years of pollution, was stacked four stories high and spanned nearly a quarter block. It still served as a refuge for those in need. Inside, laminated arches spanned the sixty-foot ceiling--the stale aroma of old. Ornate carvings of Angels watched from above, as did a house sparrow, nestled in a grassy pocket on the ceiling. The broken panel at the top of a leaded glass window was the sparrow's only escape.

Four model planes, wingspans each stretching eight feet, loaded with explosives had been brought from the trucks and hung on the walls. All were named after inconsequential birds: a smaller aircraft called the Starling, a black-capped plane called Chickadee, the bicolor gray and white Junco, and then the Sparrow. The technology came from Snake's element of the Triad in Vermont. They flew the models visually using infrared transmitters.

At 5:00 a.m. the next morning Helen attended a meeting with Chaos and his attack pack leaders. She listened to him lay out a tentative plan: The first day, they would purchase electronic parts for laser senders and receivers to maintain secure communications in the city; then locate for purchase motor-guns from a cooperative gang; and rescue Max from the Federal Building the second day and go.

It was an ambitious first day but they didn't know if the Feds knew they were actually in Boston, or realized the sheer size of their expedition--about three hundred in Chaos' group alone. Chaos wanted to complete his business and get out quickly, knowing that the Feds would eventually decipher their coded radio signals. For all they knew, the Feds could be preparing to blockade the city.

Helen rode the streets of the Back Bay section of Boston in a semi-truck filled with three attack packs. The New Hampshire Covenant maintained control of the money through Helen. Wolfenstein was in charge of tactical decisions.

Wolf rode in the cab with Helen. Any conversation Helen initiated with the man ended in "yep," or "nope," or other short responses. Helen thought it might have been because she was the only woman on an excursion of all men, but Wolfenstein was that way with everyone.

The driver of the rig, Crucible, was sociable. The awkward, freckled-faced young man was more inclined to talk about himself and the events at hand, foregoing the quiet, macho routine Helen saw in the pack leaders. "This is the first time I've ever been in a big city. I'd hate to get lost here," stated Crucible.

"It's not so bad once you learn a few of the major arteries." Helen navigated the group using a detailed, city map on a pocket computer. Every street was marked.

Crucible chattered about the Tobacco War, his home in South Carolina; a friendly, gullible young man, he hadn't stopped talking since Helen had initiated the conversation. Helen asked him if he really might settle in Colebrook.

"I found my home," Crucible replied soundly. "My home is the Pack. And of course, the Pack is stationed in Colebrook. We share a common cause."

Wolfenstein pulled his gaze from the passing buildings and looked across the cab at the young man.

Crucible clarified his statement. "Well, it is." Wolf turned his gaze back to the window.

One thing was for sure: Wolfenstein was no dolt. He watched everything. When they passed a metal fabrication shop, he stopped and took Helen inside and purchased 2' x 8' sheets of plate steel to line the inside of the truck. Helen paid while Wolfenstein directed a welder to cut anchor holes in the iron for mounting. In forty minutes they were off again, heading to an electronic wholesale house The Wizard had indicated.

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2012-01-21T15:05:00.001-05:00

Tumult's technician, Glitch, stood out of hearing as Demig finished his conversation. Unlike most of the men in all three units of the Triad, Glitch was pushing sixty years of age. Though not officially a commander, technicians were respected and gave orders because of their vital importance to the group. They stayed out of firefights, going into risky situations only to fix tactical gadgetry. Glitch was lean, and a heavy smoker. Deep wrinkles streaked his face and neck, particularly his forehead when he squinted or smiled. He had previously worked outdoors as a power-line repairman. Glitch was an amiable man and beyond those years of having to prove himself to anyone. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Tumult who turned to face him. "I'm getting a jamming signal to the northwest, bearing 315 degrees. The signature matches our equipment."

Tumult put his hands on Glitch's shoulders, squinting his eyes as a snake-lipped smile formed, "Chaos is on his way. Is it so close that we can't listen to local radio?"

"We can get local stations."

"Glitch, let's you and I go in and roll ourselves a smoke and listen to what the media says is happening. Then I'll make my guess at what that sly son-of-a-bitch is up to." They walked to the back room, Tumult's arm over the older man's shoulder as though they were old pals.

Chaos' triad was to rendezvous in Lexington. The local sheriff had become suspicious of the group of young men around town and had done a photo ID check through Fednet; Helen and Chaos' faces had been matched. The Mountain Boys fled Lexington but the Feds had been alerted, closing in on them by ground and air. Chaos' had left an attack pack of Virginians as a decoy. As the Virginians headed east, the larger force of rebels had gone west to catch Highway 90 to Boston.

With their frequency jammer signal, the Virginian attack pack had lured the Army east to the Walden Pond area. They had taken the side roads mostly, eventually pulling their gear, and walking through wetlands and timber stands. Army Regulars surrounded them. Three rebel snipers outside the encirclement, armed with Masadas, had shot nine Army Regulars from three hundred and eighty meters out. Government soldiers who saw their buddies beside them slump dead, fired more vigorously at the larger group before them; the Army recruits had no idea snipers had shot them from behind. A nine man attack pack broke through the perimeter and had begun eating away at both sides of the circle, all the while, snipers in the distant hills really did the dirty deed. By the end of the skirmish, 31 Regulars lay dead, only three of the Virginians had been taken captive, and two rebels had made it past Army Regulars and headed to Boston.

As Tumult and Glitch walked to the back room to listen to the Government version of events at Walden Pond, Demig stood reluctantly considering the gruesome task of nailing up the African-American's feet. Feeling a bit squeamish on returning, he stuffed the Black man's mouth with a used hanky and set out spiking the feet into the board. Finally, he drove a spike through the cheek bone as two more men stopped the victim's head from bobbing. The boy-faced rebels subduing the victim kept checking each other's expressions for some reaction of protest.

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2012-01-20T15:13:00.001-05:00

Tumult's Attack Packs in Old Boston (the evening of March 15)

Four rebels held a captured gang member down and outstretched his palms as Demig drove a 20-penny spike through the Black man's flesh into a sheet of three-quarter-inch plywood.

"Ahhhhh! I can't tell you what I don't know. Please! Please! I can't help you. The gang leaders were Sable, Pumice, and Tar. I told you that." The gang member turned the other way as Demig held the nail to the pad of the other hand and solidly swatted the spike with the hammer through flesh and bone into the wood below. "Ahhhhh!" The victim's face beaded with sweat. His mind raced to understand why the southerners tortured him--"Sable's place is on Washington Avenue. I told you that."

Tumult's Mountain Boys had occupied a rundown housing project in the heart of Boston. Dark, sooted buildings exposed the structures' jagged features: broken windows, fallen sections of brick, crude textures of masonry. Gads of CB antennas pointed to hope across the skyline.

Spiked to the plywood and looking up at a water-stained ceiling, the Black man regretted pulling a gun on one of the rebels. Now, dull light from a propane lantern illuminated the walls with a beige glow. The people before the lamp performed their macabre drama on the shadowy wall, where black-hearted antagonists acted out a ghastly scene. He watched the prone silhouette on the wall and wondered if it was really him.

"You told us that before," said Demig. He walked over to Tumult who instructed a recruit, and waited for a break in conversation, "Sir, I don't think he knows rat shit."

Tumult ignored Demig and continued instruction. A few minutes later, the recruit returned to his pack, leaving Demig and Tumult alone: "Well," said Tumult, "finish him off by nailing down his feet." He thought a bit. "And put one through his face. Sink the head of the nail right to the cheekbone. I can't stand a man that whines." Tumult turned about, ready to check out another attack team.

"But, sir. He doesn't know."

Tumult nodded his head and paused. "That's not the point." He explained in a quiet, polite manner, "See, we're establishing relations with the indigenous people here. When the gangs see us on their turf, I want them cowarding in corners, not taking potshots at us from windows and doorways. That spiked up afro will send a message to all the monkeys out there, and in turn, we'll have fewer casualties. When I'm finished, they'll be giving us all their motor-guns."

"I see."

"Well, that's the problem, Demig. You don't see."

"Sir?"

"How long have you been with me?"

"Three years."

"I would think by now you would know you don't question the chief's orders."

"Sorry, sir."

"Demig, you're a valuable fighter. In fact, you're like a little brother to me, but don't question my judgment again or your ass will be nailed to a board, too."

"Yes, sir." And Demig knew he meant it; he knew what Tumult was capable of.

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2012-01-19T12:29:00.001-05:00

Helen and Chaos stood awkwardly as they gazed down at the screen that lit up their faces with its chill-blue glow. "If that's it, I guess I'll turn in." She started to go but wondered, "Do you have family in the Carolinas?"

Chaos directed her to a bundle to sit. He found himself a spot on an ammo box. Chaos started with his life as a boy on his father's tobacco farm: He spoke about his brothers and the shenanigans they got into, the Sunday afternoon church socials, the volleyball and softball games. It was a reflection of gentler days when his family lived in the same house; the three brothers conspired together in mischief--and sometimes fought. "The Tobacco Tax broke my Momma and Pappy. The Feds kept saying 'grow corn, grow cotton.' It's not that simple when everything on the farm is geared for growing one crop. It's quite an investment to re-equip a whole farm, especially when there's no money to do it with. Like many others in the Carolinas, we sold some of our tobacco on the black market to help feed ourselves. When the Feds came and confiscated the farm, it broke my folks' hearts. It killed my Pappy; he stopped working altogether--died a year later." Chaos stopped a moment before saying it, "Shot himself, actually. From that point on, my brothers and I went from raising tobacco, to raising hell."

She hesitated to ask, "And your brothers?"

"Well, let's just say they're doing their part for the cause." Chaos couldn't tell her Tumult and Snake were his brothers. Everyone concealed their identity using nicknames; relatives were never spoken of.

Helen winced. She found solace by sharing hardships. A veiled force tugged tears from the edge of her eyes. It made her reflect on her own plight. Her question had been answered: Why these Southerners were here to help them. They shared the same heartache, the same enemy.

"Ma'am, we didn't get to the North Country by accident. We came out of the Oke Swamp in Georgia and heard about the Scout Massacre through The Wizard's CB skip. Feds used those AutoMen against us in our fight; we knew what it was like in Dixville. Nothing human could have been that merciless. I convinced Tumult we belonged here. Besides, being around you people helped us forget about our problems. I know about your loss, Ma'am. And I feel it is particularly difficult for the mothers of those boys. Their bond is much closer." He quoted a portion of a poem he had written:

"There is a place in mothers' memories

where ageless children say kind words,

when aspirations pause

and life alone enjoyed."

She wiped her eyes and smiled in relief. The words sent chills through her. His verse described her condition exactly; the difficult trials of parenting had faded. Brighter scenes remained. "I guess I owe you an apology. I thought you guys were a bunch of disgruntled rednecks. But how did you link up with someone like Tumult, and where do you guys get these names?"

"Everybody has a--well, call it a soldier's name, so the Feds can't trace us to our folks back home. As for my name, it kinda came about because of the combat tactics I use. My real name is Virgil. Please call me Chaos. Say what you want about Tumult, but you want him on your side. Granted, he's a Nazi and a racist, but in a fight he's exactly as his name predicts. He started the Tobacco Wars. They were called the Tobacco Boys back then." Chaos smiled reminiscing. "My brothers brought me into the group the day I graduated from the Citadel."

"I've heard of that," said Helen.

"What you heard about it was gracious, I'm sure. Everything I learned there about tactics and strategy was worthless after doing maneuvers with the Tobacco Boys. They started out as a paintball league, you know." Helen nodded. "Oh, yeah," continued Chaos, "they fight in packs of twelve to penetrate enemy lines, then they shoot 'em up from the inside. The Feds wind up shooting their own guys with friendly fire while the Tobacco Boys know exactly where their troops are because of our communication systems. Communication is critical with that type of helter-skelter combat. Tumult's paintball league developed that fighting style and with it, we've pushed back Guard battalions ten times our size in the Tobacco Wars, inflicting tremendous casualties."

"Your group doesn't seem to be racist like the others."

"Oh, I'm not one of them. Tumult's part of the triad shares the Klan's mind-set. Snake is more reasonable. One thing's for sure, Ma'am: You want these SOBs killing their people and not our people. When the smoke clears and fair government is restored, they can go back to their paintball tournaments and the keg parties that follow."

"I know you're sincere but I have trouble sharing your optimism."

"Despair makes optimists of us all. I have no other course."

Helen felt a sense of security with Chaos. She was attracted to his brown eyes and sincere disposition--and of course, his charm. The incident at the house had bothered her earlier, the fact that he might be a wanton killer beneath the Southern chivalry. But that had been laid to rest tonight. He was compelling in a quiet way; she understood why he had the trust and loyalty of his young rebels.

Toward the end of their visit they kissed, but like the Southern gentlemen he was, it went no further. His powerful arms wrapped around her, made her feel secure. Even though the threat of an Army reprisal was always there, she had a protector, Chaos: the philosopher, the poet, the warrior.

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2012-01-18T12:53:00.000-05:00

"I disagree with Tumult's ideology. But, sir, that fanatical little Nazi got beaten by the sword."

Chaos turned and led Helen to his tent on the edge of the encampment. Inside, he pulled a pocket computer from a front pack beneath his coat and laid the unit near a larger unrolled view screen. The vinyl-like monitor glowed when receiving the signal, displaying what appeared on the small PC. He brought up a map of the compound in Boston where the Feds held Max.

Helen preempted the Southerner's briefing, "I want to get something straight: We're getting Max, right?"

"Correct. Attack packs will take you and Max out of the city immediately. Another group will remain behind as a distraction."

"One other thing bothers me," Helen continued. "This seems to be a large group of well-trained fighters here. Why so many?"

"E-mail from The Wizard said that there were a number of large gangs in Boston. If they are united under one leader as they were awhile back, this endeavor might be in jeopardy. Our mission is twofold: One, to gain custody of Colebrook's Covenant Leader; and two, to purchase as many armaments as we can carry back. If we run into a problem, I want enough forces to deal with it."

"One of Colebrook's Covenant Leaders? You make my brother sound like a military objective."

"He is a military objective, Ma'am. Honest leadership is a treasure in these times. Getting him out of Boston and back to the North Country is our first priority." Chaos turned his attention back to the view screen and began explaining the map.

Helen watched distantly and rubbed her hands on the sides of her snowsuit. She felt a streak of uncertainty race through her--the very thought of attacking a Federal compound. "Excuse me. How many guards are there at this compound?"

"It's a small compound. About thirty to forty in all, with perimeter guards armed with Colt pistols."

"How can we be sure this is going to succeed?"

"We can't be sure it's going to succeed." Chaos waited for Helen to absorb this possibility. "It's natural to have last-minute shakes. I assure you, Ma'am, we plan to go in cleanly and come out cleanly. We're not looking to shoot guards just doing their jobs. If there's a mishap though, we will have the forces to secure an exit out of the area. The other team leaders and myself have learned a lot from The Wizard about the city. Our connection with him there is crucial." Helen nodded her head and looked at the map on screen. "The plan is simple." Chaos continued. "Two of our boys go in as Max's attorneys. They'll be placed in a private room for a conference. Our men will overpower the guard at the door and tie him up inside the room. They'll signal us at the window so we know where they are, we'll get them out of there with a tether stretched to another building. They'll be on the ground at the secured end of the tether ten seconds after the window is taken out. Perimeter guards will be held at bay with cover fire."

"It sounds easy."

"You need to understand, Ma'am, that the Federal Government is a huge bumbling bureaucracy, manned by very complacent, pencil pushers. That's why this country is the way it is."

"I'm sorry," said Helen. "I guess I am getting the last-minute jitters. This whole trip to Boston isn't what I thought it would be. I expected a small crack team would quietly go in and come back out--something more sophisticated."

"That's why you're fortunate to have me." Chaos grinned. "You're just having honeymoon jitters. Once the strike team penetrates the compound and executes the plan, you'll wonder how we ever pulled it off."

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2012-01-17T14:59:00.000-05:00

Chaos entered the group and poured a steaming cup of tea from a metal pot poised at the edge of the fire. He looked around cautiously; lively discussion was absent here. He brought the tea to Helen. "Hi. I thought you might appreciate some warm, mint tea. Keep your gloves on, it's a little hot." He sat down beside her. "This time of day is nice. If there's cloud cover, we sit around the fire and shoot the bull. Someone usually has a comment about Crucible over there. With those freckles, it looks like he stood behind the wrong cow."

"Thank you." She smiled. The steamy cup radiated between her hands as she huddled to the glow of the campfire; damp March air swiped her back. The rebels' confirmation of their devotion to the Covenant's cause had suddenly bolstered her spirit. To that point, she had felt alone, many miles from home.

Most of the Tobacco Boys had come to the North Country after hearing The Wizard's broadcasts about families left shattered from the Massacre. Helen had met Chaos only twice before this. He charmed everyone. Helen also felt the allure: His good looks weren't the only attraction; he was mysterious in his own way, never really talking about himself. His philosophical quotes showed he was a thinker, possibly well educated--not like Tumult and Snake, the white trash that led the other factions. Chaos seemed kind.

The incident at her house that morning disturbed her; she had never seen the warrior side of this group. Helen realized the Tobacco Bunch were responsible for hundreds of casualties in their own uprising and wondered if they would have ordered the reporter killed or if it was all an act.

"This is as good a time as any to ask," said Helen. "How will you get Max out?"

"Well," an awkward hesitation ensued, "Ah...I could show you."

Helen glanced at Steve.

Steve blurted, "I don't think it's likely I'll sneak off to a pay phone out here and warn anyone." Steve looked past the Southerner's charm; he hadn't forgotten about the incident that morning.

"I'm sorry, you're absolutely right. It's not likely you would tell anyone of the plan, but it is possible. The fact is, only myself and five others in this expedition know where we're going and what we're there for. What the soldiers don't know they can't tell. It's not that they're traitors to the cause, it's just that the Feds have been known to use chemicals to jog memories. At least that happened to us in the Tobacco Wars."

"Can the Federal Government drug prisoners like that?" the reporter questioned.

"Mr. Morrison, you haven't had the pleasure of meeting Tumult, my overseer. Unlike myself, he is compelled to quote Adolph Hitler. His response to you would be: `You stand there with your law. I stand here with my sword. We shall see who prevails.'"

The reporter quipped back, "But Hitler didn't prevail."

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2012-01-16T14:17:00.001-05:00

Chaos' company traveled in groups of about fifty each, on different routes toward the coast of Maine. Point teams with cash in-hand forged ahead to secure trucks and vans for transport in Portland. The groups communicated only with the laser transmitters, devices the technician had managed to rig on riflescopes. Point troopers for each company would laser information back to the headgear of someone in each group, but the communicator only worked if there was direct line-of-sight. Maine's flatlands made it difficult to get enough elevation to scope-in the receiver and speak to them. Snowmachines blazed a trail as the rest of the expedition used cross-country skis.

They weren't the redneck dolts Helen thought them to be. Many of them were from the North Country. They ranged in age from seventeen to thirty. A surprising number were from the Midwest. She recognized three young men from Colebrook. They greeted her by name. When they spoke to Helen, or even Steve, they used Ma'am or Sir. They were a disciplined lot who appeared to be in good condition, skiing thirty miles the first day proved that.

Point teams prepared camp and collected firewood; cloud cover allowed them to have a fire that night. When Helen's group arrived in the valley, a warm yellow glow seeped through the trees ahead. A spot had been cleared in the snow for Helen's tent. One of the young men detached a tent and flung it into the air where it instantly uncoiled into a five-man tent, her quarters for the night. Steve Morrison had to bunk up with four rebels; he was expected to endure the austere conditions the fighting men did.

After dinner, everyone sat around the many campfires and chatted or listened to CB radio skip. Most listened to channel 6, The Wizard's station. Tonight, their guest host was 606 from South Carolina, a prerecorded broadcast.

Steve Morrison sat beside Helen at a fire. The reporter still brooded over the incident at Helen's house. "This must be the most idiotic thing I've ever done in my career--what's left of a career--if I survive this. Hell, we could be jumped by Army Rangers right now and shot." Helen gave him a perturbed glance. "What?" Steve didn't understand. "I know you people lost a lot in the Dixville Massacre, but going up against the government is pointless. You must realize you can't win."

"I guess it doesn't matter anymore. When my son's life was taken, so was mine." Helen turned and looked squarely at the reporter, "Have you ever loved someone so deeply? No parent should ever outlive their child."

"Well, I don't know--"

"No. You don't know. If you knew, you wouldn't be sitting here whining. What happens to me doesn't matter. The Feds did more than murdered sixty-four kids; they crushed our dreams. They took our children. They violated our homes." Helen shook her head, "And we're pissed. We are so pissed! There's your story, reporter. Write it down." Helen reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a electronic notepad, "Here. Use this."

Steve took it from her and began scribbling down the words, then stopped. He looked up like a scolded puppy. "I don't need to write it down. I'll remember."

The exchange between Helen and Steve had stilled other conversations around them. Only distant mumbling could be heard at other fire circles. Eventually, Steve struck up conversation again by asking rebels around the fire where they were from. One young man said he was from North Carolina, another, Georgia. Crucible was the youngest of the original Tobacco Boys who survived the Tobacco Wars. Still freckle faced at 20 years old, in a southern drawl, Crucible declared his home was Colebrook.

"How's that?" Morrison questioned because the southern accent was obvious.

"It's like the boss says," the rebel quoted Chaos, "you know you're home when you're willing to fight for it." The lad looked at Helen, "Right here's our home, Ma'am. We're here for you." Other rebels at the fire circle nodded in agreement.

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2012-01-15T14:03:00.000-05:00

Helen patted Tater on the head. She had warmed up to the animal since the Dixville ordeal. Tater reminded her of Barry; the dog and boy had been inseparable. But taking the dog to Boston wouldn't be right. And Thad, needed the companionship more than she.

Butch led Tater off and waited by Max's truck. They waved good-bye as the procession of snowmobiles with sleds took off down the trail. Two or three people rode on each rig. Chaos was in the middle of the pack and gave the boys a thumbs up and winked as he roared by. Butch and Thad returned the signal. Other soldiers did the same, the boys returning the sign as each passed. Helen responded with a wave and a restrained smile as the caravan trailed off through puffy flakes and disappeared into the forest.

Butch and Thad watched the sound until it diminished into the distance. They looked at one another, then down at Tater. Thad nodded to Butch.

Butch understood, "Right, Thad. They ain't seen the end of us." He pulled an electronic notepad out of his pocket and turned it on. A note appeared: Union Wharf, Boston. "Nope, they ain't seen the end of us."

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2012-01-14T14:49:00.001-05:00

Butch and Thad emerged on skis from their trail through the hemlocks. Tater bounced off the porch to greet them. With tail wagging, she pushed her head into a flurry of patting hands. Chaos came over to greet the Rousells.

"I got E-mail yesterday from The Wizard," Butch reported to Chaos. "He's on his way to Boston and said he would try to work on a phone link and send me a note while he's there. He said he'll meet you at Union Wharf on the 17th."

"And I don't know what he looks like," Chaos responded.

"He'll know you." The Mountain Boys were out of their element in Boston; the inner city was nearly all African-American.

Chaos just smiled. Butch had begged him to go with them a week earlier. He knew the boy was being coy. Butch had met The Wizard; yet he never disclosed details about him. The Rousells maintained their allegiance to Helen, despite their awe of the armed fighters.

Two rebels carried Helen's gear out and packed it on a sled. She found a spot to sit on top and tightened up her white parka in preparation for the trip. Butch, Thad, and Tater approached her.

"Any orders for us while you're gone?" Butch asked.

"Yes. Don't talk to any more reporters, Butch. You almost got the guy killed. And don't go around cutting people. Keep that knife in your pocket."

Helen waited for some kind of finality. "What is it?" The boys gave a Scout salute. Helen hesitated but finally did a halfhearted salute of her own. After an awkward pause, Thad gave Helen a hug. She instinctively returned the squeeze, absorbing the sensation of little arms looped about her neck--the small, vulnerable frame of a child. A swarm of memories returned--of Barry--of sunny days. She wiped a tear from her eye with her mitten. "We gotta go while the snow flies." She sniffed and avoided looking up at them as the boys walked off. "Hey," she called after them, "you boys take care of one another. And take care of Tater for me," Tater still sat resolutely beside her sled. The golden retriever looked up at Helen with a trusting lap-dog grin. Helen shook her head no, "Sorry girl. You have to stay."

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2012-01-13T14:26:00.000-05:00

On hearing the comment, Helen turned to look at Wolfenstein, the man now standing by his vehicle, wiping snow of gauges. Wolfenstein towered to six foot, four; topped with massive shoulders and a burly face, hair ran down his neck and into his coat. He held a Glock autopistol with a thirty-three round clip extending out the handle; an M-30 Strafer rifle was strapped over his shoulder. "You have got to be kidding," she muttered to herself. For a reason she couldn't define, Helen trusted Chaos to do the right thing.

"Spectator News was the first to break the Dixville story. I'm on your side," Steve pleaded with the Southerner. "Jesus! They're not really going to kill me, are they? I'm just a journalist."

"I can't let you go," said Chaos.

"I want to go with you. Think of me as insurance, a way to document what really happens. Otherwise the public only hears the White House spin on things."

Chaos loved seeing Steve squirm. Rebels hated the press, reporters always twisted the truth to fit their political persuasion. "A patrol saw you with the Rousell boys on Dixville Mountain a while back. Did those boys cut you?"

The reporter forced a smile, "They got me good." He pulled off a glove and showed him.

Chaos hadn't planned on hurting Steve, but he wanted to scare him enough to discourage the reporter from giving Spectator News information detrimental to their cause, if given the opportunity. Chaos didn't trust the reporter to keep his oath made to the Ghost Pack. "Thomas Paine said: 'Reputation is what men think of us; character is what God knows of us.' I realize honor and integrity may be new concepts to you boys in the media, but you're bound by the Ghost Pack Oath. If you betray us, there will be no place on the earth you can hide. You will do exactly as Wolfenstein says; you'll be with his attack pack. If you're seen making radio or phone contacts without clearing it with him, Wolf will decide what to do with you. Is that understood?"

"I understand."

"Then, welcome to the Mountain Boys." Two men with scarred thumbs shook hands as puffy snowflakes fell about them. The vague outline of Dixville Notch posed an ominous reminder of their fragile alliance.

Chaos walked back to the skidoos and ordered two men to take the reporter in the house to check him for radio devices and equip him with a white parka and proper footwear. "We got to get out of here while we still have the cover of snow blocking Hawkeye."

Hawkeye was the name the Mountain Boys had given to a spy satellite positioned over the region. An unscheduled launch at Cape Kennedy in December caused Snake to believe the Feds launched it just for them. He claimed he hadn't seen that satellite up there before. So Chaos took no chances; they waited until cloud cover to travel. Even nighttime wasn't good enough. They speculated that the satellite might be equipped with thermoscopes that could spot clusters of people moving on the ground by tracing body heat.

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2012-01-12T13:55:00.001-05:00

One of the original Tobacco Boys, Wolfenstein had fought with Tumult, Snake, and Chaos in the Carolinas. He had been at the forefront, second in command in Chaos' triad. Unlike Chaos, Wolf, as some called him, was quiet, mumbling out orders that were followed without question. He made no excuses, nor did he accept excuses from subordinates. Wolfenstein was noted for his intolerance. Most rebels thought of him as mean.

"You're early," Helen said, surprised to see him.

Wolf didn't reply, just continued his examination of his captive. He uttered simply, "We heard a shot."

"It was nothing. He was just leaving."

"Do you always shoot at your guests?" Wolf yelled from his snowmobile.

"He's a reporter," Helen replied.

"That explains it." Wolfenstein nodded to the soldiers to grab the reporter. Rebels escorted him off the porch with gun barrels still pressed to Steve's neck. "We'll take care of it from here, Ma'am."

"What do you mean?" Helen wanted clarification.

"Ma'am, he knows too much."

"You're going to kill him? He doesn't know anything about what we're doing."

"He can see the packed snow machines and sleds. He knows we're on the move." Wolfenstein turned his back to her and calmly watched his rebels tie up the reporter.

"Let's see what Chaos says," Helen contested.

"Yes, ma'am."

Helen looked back at the row of armed men mounted on snow machines.

Chaos zipped toward them from the back of the caravan. He pulled up to the porch, only to find himself rushed by Helen pleading for the life of the reporter. Chaos looked at Wolfenstein as Helen talked to him. Wolfenstein shrugged.

"Hold it. Hold it." Chaos raised his hands. "Please." He looked to Helen, "Wolf wouldn't hurt anyone." Chaos got off his snowmobile and headed toward Steve Morrison.

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2012-01-11T11:33:00.000-05:00

Helen didn't look like a hardened leader. With the anxiety from Barry's death and her self-destructive fast, she had slimmed to the delicate weight of her younger years--displayed quite effectively through her thin, gray T-shirt and faded jeans.

Steve noticed. He also noticed the camping gear stacked in the room just off the kitchen. "You going somewhere?"

"What do you want?" She ignored the question.

"I want to know everything. The details. Everything. I want to talk to all the leaders of the Ghost Pack, the Mountain Boys, the Covenants; I want to be where the action is."

"To sell news stories."

"I don't deny that. This is my job."

"What about other journalists? What do they do?"

"I'm not them. I don't get into politics. I am completely unbiased."

Helen lowered her head and shook it. "I can't believe it, I almost fell for that line. Get out of my house!"

"Look, I'm not leaving here without a story." Steve Morrison sat down with a smug glint in his eyes and stared back at her. His gaze turned to astonishment when Helen lifted the revolver and blasted it by his head. The impact of the muzzle blast jolted him off his chair onto the floor. With wide eyes, Steve shook his head; he nearly choked on his gum. After regaining his voice, "Why'd you do that?"

The deafening boom of the small-caliber gun startled Helen, too. The blast inside the room contained the sound. In a jittery voice now, "If you don't get out of my kitchen, I'll shoot you where you sit!" Helen pointed the gun at the reporter. She knew she had to get rid of him before the Mountain Boys came to pick her up.

Steve went to the door. "You didn't have to get violent, lady! I'm trying to help you."

"I thought you were neutral."

"Fine, lady!"

Steve stepped onto the porch. As he tried to turn in retreat, two Glock 24 autopistols jabbed him on both sides of his neck like bookends. The men pinched the muzzles to his throat and pinned the reporter against the doorframe. One of the guys looked for a sign from the large, bearded man with a furrowed brow seated on a snowmobile parked in front of the place: Wolfenstein.

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2012-01-10T08:51:00.001-05:00

Chaos squinted and thought before speaking. A smirk formed across his lips: "That would give one laser communicator to each attack pack in my group."

She looked out the window and pondered. She had no idea how large an attack pack was.

Helen's house (March 12)

Helen returned to her house after the Mountain Boys drove the Feds out of the North Country. It felt good to be surrounded by familiar antiquities--if only for a short while; she packed in preparation for their trip to Boston. Helen represented the Vermont and New Hampshire Covenants on the excursion. She was also in charge of the $980,000 brought to purchase supplies and weaponry.

With Max gone, Helen had ended up as Colebrook's Covenant leader. She hadn't sought the position, but the local Covenant, composed of Mrs. Larson, Harvey Madison, and Mr. and Mrs. Philbin, had chosen her. Vanessa Larson wanted the position but no one trusted her; Vanessa's passion for vengeance blurred her judgment. Helen had accepted the position, and in doing so, made a decision to get involved in the struggle. She just hadn't envisioned being in charge of it.

"Spectator News was the only major news organization to run your version of the Dixville Massacre," Steve Morrison stated flatly from Helen's porch. "We broke the story first."

"I appreciate the notion that you didn't let the facts ruin a perfectly good story. Look, I've got other things to do right now." Helen began closing the door. Steve stuck his boot in the crack. In answer, a 22-caliber barrel nosed through the crack of the door at his face. "I would appreciate it if you got your foot out of my door, buster!"

"You wouldn't shoot me, would you?"

"Do you want to find out?" Only a sliver of Helen's face could be seen and the deadly black hole of the barrel showed through the gap. "This is only a twenty-two, but it has Rhinos in it and it'll poke a hole in your face you'll really notice!"

"Hold it! Hold it! Your dog brought me here. See? The Rousell boys had me follow your dog here. Really." Steve didn't think she would shoot but he pulled his foot out of the door anyway. He had interviewed enough people in his career and instinctively knew when someone was serious--chewing his gum more vigorously now.

Helen widened the door and saw her dog Tater standing in fresh snow. The fluffy stuff lightly coated her back and head. "So, my dog finally came home." Then Helen got to thinking, "What boys?"

"Butch and his brother."

"Butch! Take off your gloves." He did, and exposed an ugly scar on his right thumb. Stitch marks remained from when he had had it taken care of by a doctor. "I hope he cut you deep."

"Deep enough to require stitches. Can I come in?"

She widened the door and dropped back into the kitchen. Tater bounded onto the porch and through the door. "Butch said he was just going to prick me to draw blood. That little prick pricked me all right."

Helen looked down at her watch. "You have five minutes and then you leave." Tater pranced in circles on her rug near the door and pawed at it before laying down. Small snowballs stuck to the longer hairs of her underbelly and legs. The golden retriever grunted as she hit the floor, planting her chin on her paws. Tater's eyes darted from Steve to Helen in an alert response to their curt discussion. "I have no idea what you want," she said.

Butch had told Steve Helen was the Akela, the leader of Ghost Pack 220. Steve thought this meant she headed Colebrook's rebel movement. But the reporter wondered when he found her alone at home. It never occurred to him Butch was referring to his Scout leader, though in Butch's mind the commander of Ghost Pack 220 was of formidable stature.

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2012-01-09T08:54:00.001-05:00

Chaos had made a seven-mile trip on skis from Crystal Mountain to make the request. "It's simple, and we already have the laser sights on our rifles. You see, friendly fire is our worst enemy in our style of fightin'. Our boys overwhelm a point on the enemy's perimeter and raise hell from within, splitting up into teams and overpowering separate pockets of resistance. The enemy winds up shooting at themselves in the confusion. We need to know exactly where our boys are. The whistles are fine for close communication but we need something secure to send messages longer distances. I don't know why your people held this laser info so close to the chest. It's a closed system. Even if the Feds knew about it, they couldn't intercept it.

Chaos noticed the cable slithering from the back of the portable computer that led to the bottom of a closed window. He shook his head and smiled, "You folks are so clever. Shootin' a beam all the way to Island Pond. That's amazin'. That Wizard's quite a guy. I'm eager to meet him. He should be working for NASA or something."

"There you go. It's sent." Helen couldn't tell him very much about the laser system. She wasn't sure whether to trust them. The scene was intimidating, six formidable looking men dressed in white camouflage gear; they all stared down on her. Chaos seemed pleasant enough; Helen wanted to believe him. But she knew that Tumult, the man in charge of everything, was a racist, a chauvinist, and a jerk.

"Our technician thought the laser device could carry voice signals," Chaos continued. "We have enough components for say--six senders. A receiver node could be made of woven copper strands and used as a hat. I'd like to hear The Wizard's opinion on that."

The Rousell boys listened intently. They were caught up in the intrigue--Helen was more leery. She suspected Chaos had well over a hundred men, but she wanted to know. "If we somehow got the components in Boston, how many communication systems are we talking about?"

"About eighty for starters."

Helen looked down and nodded, "Will that number cover most of the Mountain Boys?" It was a cat and mouse game between Helen and Chaos.

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2012-01-08T06:58:00.001-05:00

Max's deer camp, New Hampshire (February 5)

"Why do you want to use a laser sight on a rifle to communicate?" asked Helen. "Doesn't it bother you to have someone aiming at you with a rifle when they want to send a message?" Chaos had asked Helen to send a note to The Wizard requesting the schematic diagram of their laser device. The Southerner was preparing line-of-sight communications for their trip to Boston in March. He intended to use the laser sights on their rifles as a carrier beam. Helen glanced over to the Rousells with a stern look because they had led the Mountain Boys to Max's deer camp.

Chaos had learned about their laser communication system from the eleven new recruits Snake sent from Vermont's Northeast Kingdom. He thought the system could be used in battlefield communication. Until now, they had used high frequency whistles to stay in constant contact, but the range was limited.

Chaos had brought six men with him on his visit to Max's deer camp. All of them were armed with a rifle or autopistol. A heavy fellow, their technician, drew a schematic drawing of the device he thought would work, but he wanted a copy of The Wizard's plan.

Butch and Thad sat on the bunk in Max's tiny communication shack. It was standing room only. The weaponry of the soldiers mesmerized them. Three of the rebels had M-30 Strafers, complete with laser sight. Two others had longer barreled sniper rifles made in Israel: The Masada.

The Masada had three scopes: a day scope, a night scope, and a heat scope that were used to find their targets. A laser directed the projectile to the ruby-red hot point. Limbs unfolded from the barrel and butt to anchor the weapon securely. Two buttons controlled stepping motors for final adjustments. A small, on-board computer with a digital readout embedded in the stock, calibrated wind speed, barometric pressure, temperature, and trajectory; from this data, the computer made minute adjustments to the aim. The rifle wasn't designed to be held and fired, but could be. Its firing pin was triggered electronically by push button. Butch and Thad studied every detail of it--amazed by the size of the bullets on the belts looped over their shoulders.

Butch and Thad had often visited the Mountain Boys' campsites. Butch told his story of the Dixville Massacre to anyone who would listen, gaining new converts with every telling. In return, the Mountain Boys accepted them as one of theirs. They taught the boys their ultrasonic whistle signals and even gave them the mouth reeds and ear receivers to hear it with. The Mountain Boys whistled simple commands and used Morse Code for more complicated instructions. The Rousells used the whistles to send Tater commands; animals could hear the high pitch tone without a receiver.

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2012-01-07T06:35:00.001-05:00

"Ms. Sorenson, our only contact up there was made ill by his ex-wife-- And where do you get off needing to know anything? Just get to the point. I've got too much to do, to be sitting here listening to this."

"I know about Dixville. And I know about AutoMan. This crusade you're on in the Northeast has to stop. The troops are needed in the Amur Valley. The Russian problem you got us involved in hasn't gone away."

"Is this a threat?" Winifred spouted.

Sorenson got up and walked to the double doors in back and turned for a final word, "Steve Morrison will have company slinging accusations your way. The rest of the media can't ignore the Vice President's claim as well. I think it would start a congressional investigation before the elections. That wouldn't be good." Margaret Sorenson knew Winifred would do anything to stay in office.

Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz waited for her just down the hall from the Oval Office. Nearly at attention with his hat tucked under his arm, he waited for the result of her meeting.

The narrow corridors of the White House were common places for staff to chat, sometimes jest, but often there were prearranged meetings among supposed passersby. The halls were a good place to speak of private things, a place without ears. Kyle strategically positioned himself in a blind spot where surveillance cameras couldn't record their meeting. If staff passed by, the conversation would shift to small talk.

As soon as Vice President Sorenson was close enough Kyle asked, "Did you record it?"

"Yes, but he didn't say anything," Sorenson replied. "He looked stressed. I'm certain he'll pull the troops out of the North Country. They need some downtime up there until we can sort things out."

"As I said, I couldn't allow this to go on. I appreciate your intervention, ma'am, and I'll keep you briefed--discreetly, of course." The General abruptly walked in the opposite direction, nodding to staffers approaching him in the hall.

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2012-01-06T06:47:00.001-05:00

"Let me in!" Clifford could hear his Vice President's booming voice beyond the Oval Office door. "No, I did not have an appointment," Margaret Sorenson opened the door, forcing her way by Chief of Staff Bennett. "Get out of my way."

Bennett followed, "Sir, she didn't have an appointment."

"That's okay, Luc," he said. Then he spoke to Sorenson, "I'm sure this is important if you feel you have to intrude."

"We need to speak alone," Sorenson insisted. Bennett closed the door but stayed inside. "Without him," voiced the Vice President as she rolled her eyes back toward the Chief of Staff.

Winifred nodded to Bennett. Bennett shut the door firmly as he left the room.

"I hate that sneaky pervert," Sorenson declared resolutely. She had always wanted to say that. The Vice President was fifty-nine years old with dark hair streaked by gray strands. She displayed a firm and sometimes charming personality; but this wasn't one of those times. She had served as governor in the state of California for only two terms before Clifford Winifred requested her as his running mate. He chose her because she was female, which appealed to the progressives, and because she was repulsively conservative, pandering to another constituency. As an African-American, she helped capture the urban vote. But California's fifty-four electoral votes were her most appealing quality. This assured Winifred's election in a very close, three-way race. In his Inaugural speech, the President vowed to use the talents of the Vice President as an active partner to ease the burden of his office. After three years, that promise had yet to be realized. She walked up and stood behind one of two, seventh century rosewood chairs bound in aged leather and studded with hand-forged nails. She clutched the top of a chair, imbedding her nails into the leather. "Are we alone?" she asked.

The peregrine falcon peered at her from behind its wrought-iron bars. Like its relatives in the hawk family, the bird's intense vision focused in on one's eyes, searching for fear. Sorenson never liked the creature and couldn't understand why anyone could appreciate such an aloof animal that projected contempt with every glance. She felt President Winifred surrounded himself with scheming personalities--individuals as well as animals.

"What's that supposed to mean?" President Winifred replied.

"Is this conversation being recorded?"

"I record nothing in this office. You'll just have to take my word on it, Ms. Sorenson. This couldn't have been addressed at a Cabinet meeting?"

"No. It couldn't." She circled the chair and sat down, pausing to look at the front of the desk before turning up to confront the President. "I need to know what you're doing in the North Country. What's your intelligence?"

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2012-01-05T08:38:00.001-05:00

Nancy Atherton raised her hand again, requesting, "Follow-up, please," as other reporters jiggled around her like fleas.

"Ms. Atherton."

"When will you regain control, and how many casualties are we willing to take in the process?"

"We aren't willing to take any casualties, Ms. Atherton. But we will minimize deaths by using overwhelming force. What the Guard didn't have in the North Country was heavy armaments. When we go back, it will be in full force with air support."

"Here, Mr. President. Here. Mr. President. Mr. President." A cacophony of voices resounded throughout the room.

"Ms. Kristen Mallory from TBS News."

Kristen shook her head and swayed her blond hair out of her eyes. She briefly glanced at Steve Morrison before she spoke. "Why did the Colebrook smugglers use depleted uranium bullets--more commonly called tank-killers--against Pack 220 in the Dixville Massacre, but not one bullet of this type was used against the Guard in New Hampshire or in Vermont?" She turned to Morrison with a satisfied slither on her lips.

Winifred looked down at the pockettop screen searching for an answer. He could feel his neck warm and suspected his face was reddening. "Well, you must be referring to the baseless accusations in the Spectator News." He punched buttons on his computer as though scanning for notes. "We are uncertain that the bullets you're talking about were used by the smugglers at Dixville--"

"Oh yes," shouted Ms. Mallory. "I have one right here from the massacre site." She lifted a small wooden box and opened it. A bullet sat tucked inside the lead-lined container. She used a pair of tweezers to lift the bullet up for all to see. "How would a group of backwoods smugglers get hold of such a sophisticated piece of technology?"

"It is very likely that New Hampshire smugglers had some sophisticated weaponry at Dixville," stated the President. "Guards come home on leave; one or more could have worked in requisition. With all the weapons caches throughout this country, armaments could have been stolen by people from within--small amounts, of course," Clifford tilted his hand toward the reporter who displayed the bullet, "the reason for the limited production of such projectiles." Winifred scratched his nose and looked directly at the inquiring reporter. "I'm not sure what you're implying. Are you suggesting, Ms. Mallory, that the United States Military, under the command of the President of the United States, set up and murdered those boys at Dixville? And if so, for what reason?"

Ms. Mallory stammered, "Well, ah, perhaps it was a mistake--"

"Absolutely, Ms. Mallory, and you made it," Winifred continued. "Journalists have a duty to dig out and report the facts--not to opinionize and then present it as fact."

"I was at the site--" Steve Morrison blurted.

"This concludes the news conference," said the President, stepping up to the mike, "since there seems to be no further substantive questions." The President and Cabinet members walked from the Press Room, leaving journalists waving hands and yelling unsolicited questions.

Clifford Winifred spoke freely to Paz in the corridor off the Press Room. "What the hell prompted that Spectator reporter to go up there in the first place? He could have been shot. And his accusations only encouraged the Covenant to react."

"I have no idea, sir. Morrison is different from other reporters," the General concluded. Paz always told the President what he wanted to hear, meanwhile, he had successfully planted the seed of truth.

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2012-01-03T08:40:00.001-05:00

Washington, D.C. (December 19)

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States."

"Only once in history has the life of this Union of States been so imperiled that the Federal Government found it befitting to thwart those threats by force. In the mid-1800s, our forefathers fought against the injustice of slavery, to preserve this nation we call the United States.

Last week, in the outback of New Hampshire, armed hooligans killed thirty-two National Guards in a bloody shoot-out. The next day, terrorists from the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont attacked and killed twenty-seven more. Again, there comes a time in our existence as a nation to defend our laws, our union.

As President of the United States, I took an oath to uphold the law. I am bound to preserve this union of states, and I will do so vigorously. I will do so forthrightly, with all the militias and regular military at my disposal. The tragedy at Dixville must not linger. The tiny town of Colebrook and the surrounding region are held captive by thugs. I intend to free those citizens in the Northeast and destroy the gangs gripping the region."

Journalists in the Press Room stood and applauded instinctively. Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett, Vice President Margaret Sorenson, and Secretary of Defense Kyle Paz stood directly behind Winifred and clapped conservatively. An unenthusiastic exception was Steve Morrison of Spectator News; he stood complacently and stared. Nancy Atherton sat in her usual pose and applauded accordingly.

"Martial Law has been enacted during the last two years of this administration. I will be extending Martial Law and asking for a vote of support from the House and Senate to suspend the writ of habeas corpus, so the Armed Forces can move quickly in this matter. The military may detain suspects without due process for the safety of the public." The President cleared his throat and looked away from the teleprompter to his audience. "This act has the support of the American people. No region of the country should be exempt from taxation or regulations at the expense of another."

The room erupted again, with reporters raising their hands for questions. "Yes. Ms. Atherton."

"Mr. President, what started the shooting in Colebrook?"

Clifford glanced down at his pocket computer on the podium, "A Guard attempted to question two boys about a package they were carrying. One of the boys stabbed the Guard with a knife. The local militia up there are apparently using children as couriers. When the Guards tried to capture the two for questioning, shooting erupted. The crime syndicate in Colebrook took no prisoners. They call themselves the Covenant and they're well armed and well organized. One more thing: In subsequent fighting, a well-trained, tactical squad inflicted many casualties in a raid on an armament cache in Lancaster, New Hampshire. Raids by this group forced the Guard out of the region."

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2012-01-02T09:54:00.001-05:00

It occurred to Steve that the Rousells needed more from him than just the money. "How do I join, boys?"

Butch lifted the side of Thad's hat and whispered in his ear. Thad shook his head yes. "We was held back at the end of the Pack to help as assistants to Mr. Ronolou; he was old and we could help him 'cause we're rugged. A Scout in the middle of the Pack noticed the red lights of the sensors. Then all hell broke loose. The Akela took three bullets in the chest but yanked my brother and me down behind that rock over there before the bullet spray widened."

Steve looked in astonishment as the lad recited the folklore. He thought no one had lived through the attack, and now, here he was in the presence of the only two survivors. It meant an exclusive interview for him. Steve found the story difficult to swallow at first, but as the tale progressed, with the intricate details and names--the fact that Butch described the AutoMan--the impact was overwhelming.

"Me and Thad popped out of the dirt over there, loaded up our friend Barry and hauled ass down the hill. Thad's the fastest Cub in the Pack, you know." Steve shivered in the blistering wind that now blew freely on open ground; he listened in awe to a finely honed tale of bravery, loyalty--and death.

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2012-01-01T07:36:00.001-05:00

"A Remington 306." Butch stated flatly. "It has a muzzle velocity of 2000 feet per second. You're one dead Fed." The money continued flapping in the wind as the Rousell brothers began untying the skis from their backs, preparing for the downward plunge.

"Boys, I'm not like the other Journalists," Steve claimed. "I'm trying to find out the truth about Dixville."

Thad tugged on his brother's arm and pointed to the Boston Bruins tie pin exposed through the reporter's open coat. Butch turned to his brother and nodded. "You from Boston?"

"I grew up just outside Boston," Steve was lying again. He didn't know what the boy's fascination was with Boston but he played along. Steve Morrison had no place he called home.

Through the communication system at Max's deer camp, the Rousells sent notes to The Wizard regularly. He had told the boys Boston was his home; the Rousells had developed an affinity for the city. They had heard about the expedition in March and planned on going. Butch didn't trust the reporter but admitted the connection, "The Wizard is from Boston, too. He can do just about anything. He's in the Vermont Covenant, ya know. But me and my brother have to know the truth about you before we can tell you anything."

Steve squatted in front of the boys. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of gum and offered them a stick. Each boy pulled off a mitten and cautiously accepted a piece. Steve unwrapped one for himself. He could no longer dismiss the boys and simply get a story and go. "I'm here because I believe the White House has blamed this massacre on the smugglers, and smugglers didn't do it. I believe the Feds lied to hide something else." Steve was careful to use their terms. He pointed to trees at the edge of the clearing, "Now, I'm sure. Smugglers don't have weapons that could do that. Now, do you want to help me get the bad guys, or do I have to do it by myself?" No response. Steve shrugged, "The Wizard . . . can you tell me anything about him? The Feds have him in Boston."

"You got that wrong. They got the wrong guy." Butch decided to tell him; the money was good. And if the reporter was lying about his desire to 'find out the truth,' things would be no different than before. He walked up to the reporter. "Give me the money and follow." Steve handed Butch the cash and entered the clearing with the boys. "It's okay to come out in the open as long as you're with me or Thad. Everyone around these parts knows us. But there's a guy around with a Ruger semi-auto that would just as soon pop you in the face as look at you." He turned to his brother with a smirk, then walked over to a brush pile in the center of the clearing where the AutoMan had sat.

Boulders and stumps held a foot and a half of snow mounded above open ground. A pile of flowers were blanketed with a dusting of fluff; they had been laid there within the last couple of days. Butch pointed to the larger brush pile. "That's where the RoboGun sat, in that brush pile there. It shot tank-killer bullets that could go through anything. The bullets were made of depleted uranium, encased in a hardened, teflon-coated, titanium case." Butch made it his business to know about weapons and ammunition. He listened to Max and others talk.

"RoboGun? How do you know all this?" Steve's mind raced with questions. General Paz had told him about the military's AutoMan, the same type of weapon the boy spoke of.

"We're members of the Ghost Pack 220. Only members of the Ghost Pack know what really happened up here."

The reporter became impatient with Butch. "Well, are you kids going to tell me?"

They shook their heads no. "Only the members know the real story," replied Butch.

"You speaking for your brother too?" asked Steve.

"My brother doesn't talk since the massacre but I know what he means." Both boys stood side by side, unified in their response.

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2011-12-31T07:34:00.000-05:00

Dixville Notch, New Hampshire (December 10)

Chickadees chased the two boys up the trail in an effort to land on their caps where sunflower seeds had been placed. The black-capped little birds were so comfortable with them, they would eat kernels out of their hands, or in this case, chase them for the snacks the Rousells placed atop their hats. Butch and Thad had led a number of people to the massacre site. This time it was different: Using a phony international press ID, Spectator News reporter Steve Morrison convinced the boys he was a Quebec journalist. The reporter from Washington felt his anonymity was safe in a region where few people were able to afford television reception because of the communication tax--and he was dealing with kids. Though the Rousells were skeptical, the stranger offered them a sizable amount of money.

Steve had rented a car in Quebec and drove in from the north. He found Butch and Thad alone on a side street and convinced them he was a foreign journalist, and that foreign reporters would present the truth. The prospect of notoriety appealed to Butch.

The narrow, snow-packed trail to the massacre site had become a common snowmobile route for those paying homage to the boys who died there. Butch and Thad had skis strapped to their backpacks for the trip down. They passed through a desolate world of snow-laden trees with humps where boulders rose and pushed the evergreens apart, at times, allowing sunshine to peek through between the treetops. Butch and Thad drove the tips of their ski poles into the packed snow and steadily plodded up the steep trail.

Morrison continually slipped, often clawing on all fours or using trees along the trail to pull himself. He endured the still cold of the forest trail, but on the edge of the massacre zone, the wind whipped up snow from the clearing and tossed it in their faces. Covering his ears with his gloved hands, he tucked his face into the top of his coat.

At the Massacre site, Steve pulled a digital camera from his coat pocket and began clicking shots. It looked desolate, as though there had never been life there. He noticed bullet holes through the tree beside him, then other such holes in trees nearby. "What the hell did this?" He looked at a gaping hole through a sixteen-inch tree trunk; a tree sparrow had since nestled in the cavity to escape the elements. The Spectator reporter stepped around to the back of the tree and found dried bloodstains. "They shot right through the tree and killed them," he mumbled to himself. He clicked several pictures of the phenomenon.

"You said you weren't an American Reporter," Butch declared sternly. He noticed a Spectator News identification tag on the camera. "What's with the camera?" The two onlookers stood side by side feeling double-crossed, Thad, the silent adjunct. "So, that ID you showed me was fake."

"Look Buddy--" said Steve.

"It's Butch."

Steve reached in his breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. He held out four twenties to Butch. "You got your money." The money flapped about in the breeze as the two boys scalded the stranger with their gaze.

"Well, if you don't want it, fine." A shot echoed through the valley below, several miles out. "What was that?"

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2011-12-30T09:02:00.001-05:00

"And my brother Max. We need to get him out of a compound in Boston." Helen's tone shifted to a regrettable pitch.

Chaos' eyes narrowed as he considered a delicate response to Helen, "There are casualties in war, Ma'am. If we take a force down there to the city with all those roads and open space, the Feds could swoop right in. Other than the fact that he's your brother, Ma'am, there's no reason to risk it, certainly no tactical reason. It wouldn't help the cause."

"It wouldn't help the cause?" The steely comment incensed Helen. "He's the leader of the Colebrook Covenant. Without my brother, your rebels won't get so much as a tea bag from us--and that won't help your so-called cause."

"We're not suggesting an attack," Harvey negotiated. "A small group could get in and easily stay under cover in Inner Boston. Police and Federal Agents leave the gangs alone. The gangs are better armed than the Feds."

"And my lily white face would fit right in, right?"

"There's also a tactical reason," Helen vied. "The motor-guns. They're a weapon that uses gasoline as a propellant. For them, anything can be melted down into balls and used as shot. If you acquired the motor-guns, you would have superior weapons and unlimited ammunition. There's your reason--that, and our backing."

Motor-guns were jerrybuilt contraptions that looked like a weed-whacker with a broached barrel for cooling. A local machinist in Boston had developed the device. It could pop out eighteen rounds a second. Though hodgepodged and heavy, it was the most devastating weapon in the city. Few police officers had seen one that wasn't burping out lead balls in their direction.

Chaos looked at Helen and considered the advantage of equipping his rebels with motor-guns. "'Everyone is the architect of his own fortune'," the Southerner quoted. "In March. We go in March."

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2011-12-29T08:14:00.001-05:00

"First of all, they're not my friends. They're associates. And Tumult thought it would be a good idea if I spoke with you myself. Do you mind?" Chaos gestured to sit down. Helen shook her head yes as he took off his coat and draped it over a nail near the door. He sat down at the table across from Harvey. They looked at each other warily.

"Coffee?" asked Vanessa. Her question broke the men's gaze.

He nodded yes. "I'm Chaos. I'm more of the tactician. I also train the recruits in fighting and survival skills. My politics are light-years away from the others, but I respect them for their ability to fight and elude the Feds. You might view them as redneck lowlifes," he smiled, "but they're a force to reckon with." Mrs. Larson handed him the coffee. "Thank you, Ma'am. You're very charmin'." Chaos handed out compliments easily; he smiled at the sizable woman before sipping. Then he paused to reflect before speaking, "There aren't as many of us now, but we're growing in numbers. It's like the philosopher Dryden said long ago: 'Courage comes from hearts and not from numbers grows.' We do share a common cause: freedom from oppressive government." He sipped again. "This coffee is absolutely delicious, ma'am. You're so gracious." He sipped again. "At the end of the Tobacco Wars they had us cornered in Georgia's Oke bayou. We took out two Feds for every one they got of ours, and they had topnotch equipment. Tumult came up with the notion of usin' reed shafts as snorkels and crawlin' through swamps on our bellies to the river, and eventually out of there. Twenty-six of us got out that way." His story held the listeners spellbound. He smiled, "We had leaches all over us." Helen and Vanessa cringed. Chaos laughed. He put a hand on Mrs. Larson's knuckles, "I would show you the markings from it, but that would be inappropriate in the presence of ladies."

Harvey enjoyed the tale. It might have been true; they had gotten out of their predicament somehow. But he could see the man's magic had less to do with 'tactics' and more to do with charm. The Southerner didn't appear to be a bigot like the other two, but the strong southern drawl seemed to contradict racial and ethnic enlightenment.

They talked of the future throughout the evening: of Colebrook, of the country--their fate if the Feds chose to advance into the perimeter in force. One thing was agreed: Winter was not a good time to force the soldiers out of Colebrook. Chaos would arrange to keep his portion of the rebels in a more isolated region northeast of Dixville Notch. In exchange for protection, the Colebrook Covenant would feed and outfit them. The Covenant had a sizable amount of cash tucked away; donations to Dixville families were still pouring in from around the country. Though not stipulated exactly, from the quantity of supplies he asked for, Helen got the impression his force alone numbered well beyond two hundred. He wouldn't say.

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2011-12-28T08:03:00.001-05:00

"The Feds got him," Mrs. Larson spoke up. "We're here in his place. You got a problem with that?"

"It's just that we expected Max," replied Chaos.

"Is this all ya got?" asked Snake. His brother Tumult waited to hear the reply.

Vanessa retaliated, "I got news for you dipsticks: Looks are deceiving. I've killed a Fed in my day." The comment sounded ridiculous coming from the obese woman. Tumult smirked at the imagery her claim concocted.

Helen didn't blink, maintaining her stalwart pose. "According to Max, you said we share the same cause."

"Well, now, did I say that? 'Great liars are also great magicians,'" Tumult quoted Hitler as he turned and left.

Chaos and Snake hesitated to go. A nagging question held Snake back, "How do you communicate without getting caught?"

"You haven't paid for that one, partner," said Vanessa coldly. "I'm sure it's inferior to anything you've got."

Snake flipped her the bird and followed Tumult out the door.

Chaos spoke softly to the three Covenant members, "Let me talk to them. I'll be right back." He grabbed his coat and hat.

Away from the shack, the two Southerners mumbled between themselves. Tumult pulled out a small case of filterless, home-rolled cigarettes and lit up; his cradled hands blocked the wind. He enjoyed the cigarette, squinting with each suck, holding the smoke in and pushing it out his nose and mouth.

Chaos caught up with the two at the edge of the tree line. Tumult wanted nothing to do with the ragtag locals, but Chaos saw their value in supplies and refuge. "If you don't have the support of the people, you have no base; we need a haven."

"I don't deal with weenies and dykes, but if you think you can get something from them, you're welcome. They might be good for something other than defecating, copulating, and procreating." Tumult turned and crunched off through the snow.

Snake held back. "Just find out how they're talkin' to the Vermont Covenant. We've got boys scattered everywhere in these parts with no secure way of talkin' to 'em." Chaos nodded as Snake turned and followed Tumult.

"They're talking out there." Helen peeked through the window like a conniving child. She considered the Southerners the answer to Colebrook's struggle and the return of her brother Max; they were the ones with the skill and resolve to follow through with a fight. Chaos seemed polite, a southern gentleman of sorts. He was cute, better groomed than the others, with dark brown eyes capped by long lashes.

Harvey's voice was filled with disdain: "We're better off without that crew. They have no loyalty to anything."

Helen pulled back from the window; she paused for a moment: "The third one's coming back." She went over to open the door. "Did your friends agree?" she asked, closing the door behind him.

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2011-12-27T15:25:00.001-05:00

The Philbin's sugarhouse near Colebrook (December 6)

They hid in darker places of the night and spoke in whispers of sedition: of killing and injustice, of fairness--desperate people seeking retribution. Vanessa Larson slurped and stared into her cup of coffee. Helen paced across the floor, stopping occasionally to watch a sound she heard. Harvey Madison stared at the door of the shack reciting articles of tolerance to himself. Beyond the door, three dark figures walked on crunchy snow in the shadows of the pines. They stopped at the edge of the clearing and waited for a cloud to pass in front of the moon.

Mrs. Larson answered the door of the sugarhouse. Three men dressed in white camouflage walked in and bunched up on the left side, kicking snow off their boots. The tallest man named Tumult had a wiry look about him, hunched and slightly bow-legged, the posture of a toughened rodeo cowboy. He stopped and stared at the three locals with disdain; they were not what he had expected.

Tumult had always had a dark side, but what the Tobacco Tax had done to his mother and father gave him an excuse to kill. He was a racist. He was a Nazi. And he despised anyone who defied him.

Snake, also with raven hair, shared the same physical characteristics but with black, plastic glasses. He removed his glasses and cleaned off fog using the tail of his flannel shirt that extended below the white jacket. His expression was less hardened than Tumult. Snake was not only leader of one of the three militia forces, he was also the technician for his group. He made it his job to keep up with technology for all three militias. Snake and Tumult were brothers. And in his mild-mannered way, Snake was the only one who could reason with Tumult. This talent didn't make Snake less dangerous; he simply understood the power of manipulation. Like Tumult, Snake was cunning, but he didn't share the extreme ideology.

Austere, the maple-sugaring shack consisted of open timbers on walls and ceilings. Sixteen-penny nails driven into studs held web-covered sapping tools. Thousands of feet of plastic tubing hung in coils from the walls. A propane lantern hung from a coat hanger and cast tilted shadows of varied shapes with its yellow glow. The latent sugaring shack still housed an overbearing evaporator that filled a third of the place. Dry heat from the woodstove below the evaporating vats drew out the bitter scents from green, cherry logs that were corded beside the firebox.

The three Southerners looked about the room at Mrs. Larson, Helen, and the short plump Harvey Madison. "Holy Jesus," Tumult finally said. He broke his stare, looked down and sighed, "This is it? This is your so-called Covenant. I walked all this way for this? Piss!" He started putting his gloves on again.

"Hold it," whispered the third Southerner. "We gotta hear 'em out," he whispered. "We can't just go. They could offer shelter and supplies." Chaos was the youngest of the three. His chiseled, gladiator build tapered to narrow hips. Removing his coat, beneath his shirt he exposed bulging biceps with cords of muscles that rippled with each move. His dark hair was cut short, giving him a cleaner, military look. He didn't appear threatening at all, nodding and smiling when he entered. Unlike the other two, Chaos joined the cause in the Carolinas out of principle: The Tobacco Tax had destroyed their family farm. The three Covenant leaders noticed the difference: He was willing to talk. Chaos turned to them, "Where's Max?"

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2011-12-26T08:44:00.001-05:00

"I've never heard of such a thing. Why did you choose me to tell this to?"

"I believe Spectator News will follow-up on this story. If this thing in the Northeast is going to end, it has to come out in the open." The General began collecting his things to leave. "I have another meeting."

"I'd like to find out as many details as possible before I publish." Morrison chewed excitedly now. He was the only reporter with a source like this. The story of the decade, and mine. "Winifred has a good relationship with the media. If this is going to be a pissing match between the President and me, I want a full bladder. Where can I find out more."

General Kyle Paz dropped a ten on the table to cover the drinks and tip. "At the Dixville Massacre site you can see the physical evidence. Hopefully, if they know you're coming, you won't get shot."

"Hopefully! What do you mean by that?"

"They hate reporters up there." With his hat tucked under his arm, Paz weaved between tables and chairs on his way to the exit.

After Paz had left, Steve pulled his computer out of his pocket and turned off dictation mode. He had it all digitally. He thought about how he could get into the Dixville area without the locals knowing he was a reporter. He spoke to himself aloud, "'Hopefully I won't get shot' . . . Shit!"

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2011-12-25T21:43:00.001-05:00

Washington, D.C. (December 4)

"What do you know about the Dixville incident?" asked Paz. The Secretary of Defense sat across from Steve Morrison of Spectator News in a restaurant located near the outskirts of Washington D.C. General Paz positioned himself so he could view the rest of the establishment, particularly the entrance. Waitresses and busboys rushed from table to table, scurrying to keep up with the noon rush. A myriad of conversations riddled the room as the two studied each other's faces for clues.

Steve chewed his gum anxiously, he wasn't sure how to proceed. Kyle had phoned him, extending an invitation for drinks. The Secretary of Defense hadn't clarified his intentions. Another oddity: from the background noise, Steve could tell the General had made his call from a pay phone. Steve knew Kyle had a reason for inviting him there. It wasn't social; such a thing doesn't exist in Washington D.C.

The General was probing, "What do you know about the Dixville Massacre?"

"I only know what I've heard through the media," replied Steve, smiling at his own joke. When Kyle failed to react, Steve continued seriously, "I listen in on the CB broadcasts out of the North Country. Some nights I can pick it up. They tell a different story than the President."

"What's coming out of the North Country is true."

The reporter stopped gnawing his gum, "What?"

"You heard me." Kyle confirmed.

"Why am I here, General?" Steve knew this new information source was a big break for him, but he couldn't understand why Paz would divulge such information. The General could be indicted.

Paz had trouble telling him. He looked away as he spoke, "We are on the brink of a reelection year and--"

"The Massacre? What really happened, General?"

"What would you say if I told you that the Dixville Massacre was a tragic mistake, and that some of us in the military would like to set the record straight before the North Country starts their own revolt."

"Whose mistake?"

"As commander of the armed services, mine." The General finally turned and looked squarely at Steve. "I could live with the version of events the media tells, but I'm not about to see more civilians sacrificed up there to cover-up what happened. It has to stop. Intelligence has it that some of the Tobacco Boys have found their way up there and have built up a militia of over one hundred men. We increased the number of battalions in the North Country, but it seems like every other day one of our troops is shot in the tri-state region. We believe it's them. They're the only ones with the skills to evade us like that. Their cause has widespread support by the locals--and for good reason. There's a lot of pissed-off civilians since the Dixville thing. This is nothing like the Tobacco uprising that began with taxes. These people lost their sons, nephews, and grandsons. This has stirred up a bunch of folks and turned into a regional fight. I don't want to see this country torn apart because of my screw-up. Revenge can be a powerful motivator, especially when a bunch of kids were--well, accidentally murdered." Steve was stunned. He couldn't believe he was the only one hearing this. He looked around to see who else was in the room. Kyle went on, "What killed those kids was a MAN, a Multi-sensory Automated Neutralizer, designed to take down ground movement. The troops call it AutoMan. They weren't designed to take out targets below a certain weight. Tanks and full-grown people with weapons, yes. Not kids and wildlife."

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2011-12-24T08:04:00.000-05:00

It snowed like a banshee in heat last night. All roads closed. No problem, I drive the optic highway. Get out of my face, ace! Move over, rover! I'm coming through with all RAMs running. Beep! Beep!

Using Max's laptop computer, Helen responded to the maniac communication person in the Vermont Covenant, code named Hman. She was at Max's deer camp with Butch and Thad, Tater curled up by the wood stove. It was direct E-mail, but they still couldn't be explicit; the System Operator running the Web site could read any letter if she chose. Helen pushed back from the table, "Butch, you and Thad jump on your skis and get a message to the Philbins. Tell them I'm safe at Max's camp and that the Vermont link is up and running. Tell them that according to information across the river, Max is in custody and has been taken to Boston already."

Just after the Colebrook Covenant meeting yesterday, four federal agents picked up Max on Main Street. The Feds believed Max was The Wizard. Under the temporary martial law, citizens could be detained without due process. Max had been one of many the government suspected who had been incarcerated.

The boys slipped their gear on and started out. Butch turned and gave Helen a Scout salute before going--Thad as well. Helen forced a smile and saluted in response, but she had other things on her mind.

As a fugitive, she had come to stay at Max's deer camp. The Rousell hideout was virtually concealed, plants had covered it even before the big snow, but it was small and dreary inside. At least the deer camp had windows. And, before Max had been taken, she relieved her brother at the communication site so he could spend some time at home. Helen learned that Butch and Thad spent a lot of time at the deer camp. They were the ones who turned on Max's computer and checked the E-mail when he didn't return. It had occurred to Helen that the Rousells might be skipping school; now, she was sure of it.

During these days in hiding, Helen had plenty of time to ponder her situation. Turning to the window, she looked across the span toward Sugar Hill. Puffy snow coated everything, accumulating up to eight inches on narrow tree limbs. It was a windless storm where large flakes floated down and set quietly in place. She had watched it through the night; it gave her time to reflect. Helen had considered turning herself in; so far she had only been responsible for distributing prescription drugs and doping her ex-husband's drink. Bitterness convinced her not to. The Feds were responsible for the death of her son, and Bradley was a part of that group. Up to this point, she had not been involved with the Covenant.

Helen pulled the picture of Barry out of her shirt pocket and stared at it. She spoke aloud to herself, "This is a town where people stop their cars to let you cross the street. My biggest gripe used to be cleaning up after the dog." Tater's eyes rolled up and her tail flopped once, knowing Helen spoke of her. She reached over and patted the animal's head. "I don't know what to do now. I guess I don't see much of a future for me, Tater."

She thought about Max. "He was so sure of himself. 'There are still things worth fighting for,' he would say if he were here." Lifting the picture of Barry again, she gazed at it and smiled. Tears formed and rolled down her cheeks; she could taste the saltiness as one crossed over her lip.

Helen had been an avid reader. She particularly appreciated poetry. A single verse from a poem she had read in high school haunted her: Crush my dreams and I'll awaken. Though her life had been ordinary, her son Barry had been exceptional. A child who had been a total joy to be with was taken from her by a heartless administration concerned only with preserving itself. At the time, she hadn't known what the verse to the poem meant. "Max is right," Helen spouted to herself, "there are things worth fighting for." She had awakened.

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2011-12-23T10:29:00.001-05:00

Colebrook Covenant Meeting (Noon, November 11)

Mr. and Mrs. Philbin, a sixty-year-old couple, graciously allowed the Colebrook Covenant to use the basement of their one hundred eighty-year-old home for meetings. There were five members present: Mr. and Mrs. Philbin, Harv Madison, Max Sessal, Vanessa Larson.

It was the oldest house in Colebrook; the original stone wall was around much of the basement. Years ago, the former owner had laid brick across a rear entrance, the remnants of a passageway once part of the underground railroad used to smuggle slaves to safety over a century ago. Now, a fluorescent light illuminated the drab surroundings. Organized clutter of stacked canning jars, boxes, and shelving lined two walls.

Scattered conversations vied for dominance.

Max yelled out, "Hold it. One at a time!"

Harv Madison, short, plump, with black bushy eyebrows, spoke out from the silence, "I say, go ahead with what we're doing. We can only supply Helen with an attorney." The Feds had launched the raid on Helen's house based on her revelations to Bradley; they thought The Wizard was in town, possibly set up in her home. No one in the Colebrook Covenant knew Helen had gone with the Rousells; they presumed she had been arrested for drugging her ex-husband with prescription medicine. Under present martial law, suspects could be detained for an undetermined length of time.

Max wasn't about to give up that easily. "Someone with experience might be able to get her back. I met three guys from the South the other day. They want to arrange a meeting with us. I believe this bunch was involved in the Tobacco War rebellion." Five years ago, the Federal Government had taxed tobacco farmers so heavily they began selling their crops on the black market. Federal agents began seizing farms. An organization called the Tobacco Boys formed. Like their ancestors of the Civil War era, they were superb fighters. Last year, the White House sent Army Regulars to Georgia and quelled the uprising. Massive casualties were incurred on both sides. "They wouldn't say how many there are in their group, but I got the impression the number is sizable. They might be the ones to get Helen back before she's moved out of the area. Since the Dixville Massacre, we've received money from all over the country--a little over two million dollars so far. We could easily back them." It was ironic: President Winifred's plea for contributions to the American people to help the families affected by the Dixville Massacre would be used to fight his administration.

Harv wanted to quell this talk of bloodshed. "I think you should meet them, but to step into a fight using these Tobacco Boys is crazy. I've been in the military. We don't want to get involved with a militia. We don't know who these guys are or what they believe. We certainly don't want anymore deaths."

"Unless it's a Fed," Mrs. Larson cut in. "Were any of your kids murdered?" The huge woman was adamant. Excluding Harv Madison, everyone in the room had lost a loved one in the Dixville Massacre: Mrs. Larson, a son; the Philbins, a grandson; Max, his nephew Barry.

"Well, no."

"Then shut up," she snapped.

Max intervened, "So what do you suggest, Vanessa?"

"I want to be there when you meet them," she responded soundly.

Colebrook, New Hampshire (November 12)
Subject: Bean Town
Date: Sunday, 12 Nov. 2023 9:13:054
From: Hman <blue_jay@quebec.net>
To: Xman <sparrow@quebec.net>
Cc:
Attachments:
A most elated howdy to you all. Got your note, goat. Communication is critical. I'm the man with the plan and have control of the bowl. Was there ever any question? I don't think so, joe.
I heard that the hawk came and kicked the Xman out of the house. Not to worry, Murry. Take your time slime. They took the Xman to the Bean Patch in the Black Hole. I just know these things. I'm in the know, you know.

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2011-12-22T07:50:00.001-05:00

"A gun is no good unless it's loaded. You can't shoot an empty gun."

"Let me have it."

"I can't do that, it's my Uncle's."

Butch pulled the knife out of the flame and waved it through the air to cool it, then wiped the soot from the blade with a filthy hanky he pulled from his back pocket. Helen shook her head, So much for cleanliness, she thought. "Now Butch, don't you cut me much."

"Trust me. Just enough to bleed." He held her thumb and sliced her.

"You cut me deep!" She put it in her gown. "I trusted you!"

"It's got to make a scar."

"Now give me the gun!"

"I can't, it's my Uncle's.

"You have to. I'm your new Akela." The name Akela, means "a good leader," a word taken from the Jungle Book. The title is introduced in early Cub Scouts and carries through Boy Scouts. Respecting authority is a main facet of Scouting.

So Butch knew what that meant. He could officially become a Scout again--eventually an Eagle. He handed over the weapon. "There's sixteen of us in all. Every time I tell about the Dixville Massacre I get a new member to the Ghost Pack."

Thad snuggled up on the mattress beside Tater, with an unzipped sleeping bag over both of them. Butch dropped thicker logs in the fire for the night and went to his mattress to turn in as well. "That's your place, where you are." Butch pointed to the remaining cushion where Helen sat.

Helen recognized Barry's sleeping bag at the head of the mattress. She reached for the bundle and unrolled it.

"When's our first meeting?" Butch inquired.

"Sometime soon. Someplace secret. I don't know." Helen lay on her side and watched the fire. Butch did the same. Tater and Thad slumbered; Tater twitched in a dreamscape chase for a rabbit.

Helen gazed hypnotically at the fire's dance. So much so soon: First she had lost her son, now the rest of her life was gone. How could she survive living out here? She wondered if any place existed for a single, middle-aged woman wanted by the law; she felt very alone.

Tater stirred from her sleep, walked over and lay on top of the sleeping bag next to Helen. She licked her hand. She patted the dog on the head. "What do we do, girl."

Butch heard the comment. "Don't worry Ms. Conrad. Me and Thad will always be here for ya."

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2011-12-21T10:45:00.001-05:00

"There's nothing wrong with being afraid, but you boys need a normal life. You shouldn't be sitting around planning how to attack the Feds."

"We used to do a lot of stuff in Scoutin' but we're not members anymore. I can never be an Eagle Scout unless there's an Akela. So we're starting our own secret pack, Ghost Pack 220. We're rebuilding the troop. Gettin' more kids every day."

"So people join every day, huh?" Helen treated everything Butch said with suspicion. He had a way of talking as though all-knowing.

"Yep. Every day." Butch began telling her about Dixville Notch: how Mr. Ronolou had had him and Thad drop to the rear of the troop and help as his assistant; how Mr. Ronolou jumped in front of the bullets while he yanked them down behind a rock when the shooting started. "I was going to go get Barry but Mr. Ronolou wouldn't let me go. The Akela said I couldn't. A Scout always obeys the Akela, ya know. Mr. Ronolou got up and took twelve hits to draw the robot gun away for me and Thad so we could escape. That's rugged." Butch shook his head agreeing with himself. "When the Feds arrived in the copter and were checking out the scene, a Black guy looked right into our hiding spot, but for some reason he didn't tell on us. Then after they flew off, we jumped out of the dirt and started making a stretcher for Barry. They patched him up, ya know, but then left him there to die."

"I know." Helen knew Butch exaggerated about Mr. Ronolou taking twelve bullets, but she wanted to hear more.

"Thad was the last person Barry talked to." The glow of the fire flickered across the boy's face as he spun his tale--his narration compelling. "Barry told Thad he loved ya."

The phrase jerked tears from Helen's eyes. She winced and looked to Thad who nodded. "Butch Rousell, you'd better not be feeding me another cock-and-bull story!"

"No, Ma'am. Cross my heart and hope to die. Honest to God. Right, Thad?" Thad bobbed his head earnestly. "Anyway, that was the last time my brother said anything. I think he's got the ghost."

"The ghost?" Helen knew he was making things up now. They looked at Thad sitting across the fire.

"The ghost," Butch confirmed. "Like on the old Star Trek movie where Spock transferred his soul into Doctor McCoy. I think they're sharing the same body." Butch was careful not to word this part of the story as fact. He didn't want to offend.

"Well, how big is your Ghost Pack?" Helen jumped back to a less sensitive topic. Tater rested by the warm rocks surrounding the fire. The heat converted their damp, dreary surroundings into a cozy cocoon, forcing the cold to retreat out the very gaps it had entered. It was a camp-out, the dark cedar timbers replaced a black forest; the blazing fire leaped and snapped.

"You want to join?"

"What?" The boy's question startled Helen out of a daze.

"The Ghost Pack? Ya know, be a member?" asked Butch.

She shrugged, "What do I have to do?"

"You already did the first part. You heard the story about the massacre at Dixville Notch. Next, you have to cut your thumb." Helen cringed. Butch unloaded his jacket pockets looking for his pocketknife. A small, 22 revolver was among the items that came out.

"Is that thing real?" asked Helen.

"Oh, you bet. Borrowed it from my Uncle." He opened the knife and slipped the blade in the fire. "This kills all the germs, ya know."

Helen rolled her eyes at the dramatic presentation. She knew that if she went along with this thing, she'd have to give the cut a heavy dose of antiseptic. But her attention was drawn back to the gun. "Is that thing loaded?"

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2011-12-20T08:40:00.001-05:00

Helen dropped her clothes and held the dog away. "Please Tater, give me some space." To Tater, this was all an adventure.

"We kicked their ass, Thad," Butch boasted. "I flattened every tire on their cars with my Scout knife while they were up at the house." He looked over to Helen. "I see you rescued Barry's mom. That's rugged, Thad. Real rugged." He said to Helen, "Me and Thad take care of our own, you know," Butch noticed she was shivering; he went over to a trunk, opened it, and pulled out a jacket to put around her. "We won't let the Feds get ya. You're safe here. Only Thad, Barry, Tater, and me know about this place--and now you, of course. Not even Max knows about it."

Helen looked at the jacket and noticed it was Barry's. Butch saw her expression. "That's Barry's. He still has stuff here. We started this place in the spring. It sure came in handy. It sure did."

Helen didn't say a thing--just sat glumly and watched the fire regain life from the added twigs. It smoldered and popped--eventually, spewing out flames, adding new life to nearly dead embers. Ashen smoke strayed side to side, eventually wading to the peak and out the opening at the top of the hideout. A scent of burned cherry lingered from the smoke trail. She watched--and listened to Butch ramble.

"And we've got food. Thad, get Ms. Conrad some food."

"No, thanks, really."

"No," continued Butch. "We got plenty." Thad handed a pack of cookies to his brother; he opened it and handed them to Helen. "We got enough to hold out three weeks and that's not counting food we could get hunting. Tater's a tracker, you know. If you get lost in the woods we could find you with her. She's got a real good nose. The best nose on a dog I ever seen. The Feds are too stupid to use dogs. But if they did we have trip lines and snares all over the place; the snares would catch a dog."

Helen opened the pack and pulled a cookie out, smelling it before biting into it. "Do the snares catch Tater?"

"Caught her once, then she learned. Most dogs wouldn't learn like her. Tater's smarter than most dogs. We hooked up a harness on her; me, Barry, and Thad had her help us drag logs up here for the hideout. Oh, she's still your dog. We just exercise her. Barry would want that. Tater has taken a real liking to Thad though."

Tater raised her eyes at the mention of her name. She lay stretched out on her own padded bed next to the warm rocks that circled the fire, poised and waiting to absorb any heat that oozed between the gaps in the stone. The dog lay her head on the fluffy cushion with eyes open and recharged from the activity of the evening. Helen watched the animal and realized this was a frequent experience for Tater. It explained why the dog had stayed out all night since the Rousell brothers started borrowing her. "Doesn't your mother say anything about you boys running around all the time. I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but shouldn't you be home?"

"It's okay with Mom as long as we don't hurt anyone. That's what she says, 'As long as you don't hurt anyone'."

"Butch, does your mother know where you are, and some of the things you two do?"

"Mom drinks a little. And she goes to bed early if her boyfriend isn't staying over; if he is, they like it when we go out. Sometimes we stay here. Sometimes we stay at Max's deer camp. Me and Thad are rugged. We're the last of Pack 220. We're not afraid of nothing. If me and Thad come across another robot gun and see the red lights come on, we know exactly what to do. We'd shoot out the sensors. It's got to have sensors to see the motion and heat. And we carry flares too. We can light 'em and throw 'em out as decoys. We're ready, Ms. Conrad. A Scout's always prepared." Thad shook his head, agreeing with his brother.

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2011-12-19T09:02:00.001-05:00

Colebrook, New Hampshire (Evening of November 10)

Helen woke from her dream and sat up in bed. The pounding on the kitchen door at last awakened her; she rolled over and turned on her lamp to look at her watch. "Good Lord, it's one in the morning." She put on her slippers and robe, "This had better be good!"

Thad and Tater waited at the door, peering away from the house into darkness. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. A snap in the brush made him jerk back to that direction. Tater perked her ears and flared her teeth.

The porch light came on. "What are you doing here?"

Thad strained, trying to speak.

"Well, what is it?" She could see from the boy's panicked look, something was wrong. Tater continued staring out into blackness and took several steps toward the woods, ready to strike. "Is it Max?"

"Thad shook his head no."

"The Feds?"

He shook his head yes and opened the screen door. Grabbing her robe, he began tugging.

"Are they coming?"

He shook his head affirming it and drew her out the door.

"No. I have to get some things." Helen ran in and grabbed pants, shirt, and boots, then ran to Barry's room and snatched the picture of mother and son at Cascade Falls. She paused a moment--and found Thad tugging on her robe again. Seconds later, the two were out the back door with Tater in pursuit.

When they finally dared to stop and turn around, they could see flashlight beams darting about the house from their vantage point in the thick pines up the hill. Holding her bunched clothes under an arm, Helen watched the enemy ransack the only home she had ever known, in their search for her. Tater cocked her head, her eyes danced, following the flashlight beams below. In early December, snows had melted, but the bitter, damp air quickly chilled the motionless trio. Thad grasped Helen's hand and led her fumbling through the darkness. Tater paused for a moment to watch their home defiled by strangers, unable to protest.

The Rousell hideout was a large wooden teepee made of cedar logs with mounded dirt; moss and ferns covered the structure. An opening at the top allowed smoke to escape from a stacked-stone firebox inside. The rocks radiated warmth from an earlier burn; red coals remained. Thad gestured to Helen to sit on one of the mattresses as he went about feeding the coals with kindling stacked around the walls of the structure.

Helen sat shivering and hapless, hugging the only things she had left in the world. She watched the boy purposefully go about his chores. There is no expression of fear in this child's face, she concluded. She couldn't help but wonder what they went through at the Dixville Massacre. After Thad's mute effort to warn her at the house, she knew the tragedy had had a traumatic impact on him. He noticed her watching him and looked back.

"Whee te whee teeeeah," Butch's secret whistle pierced the air.

Thad responded with the same shrill pitch. Moments later Butch flipped up the tarp and paraded in. Tater bound through the door behind him, tail wagging. She had gone back to check on Butch after escorting the two to safety. She lapped Helen's face.

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2011-12-18T08:48:00.000-05:00

Max concluded, "They already know The Wizard is somewhere in Vermont." Consoling Helen he continued, "The Wizard left already; I don't think much harm has been done."

Max was still concerned, "But Bradley knows that I've done a lot of work with electronics; it's too much of a coincidence. The Feds will check me out. I'll try to send a message through the link to Vermont tomorrow, then go back to Colebrook and lay low for a while." Speaking to Butch, "You boys will have to take Helen back to her house. Send Thad back if you notice unusual traffic through the valley." Butch nodded.

"I'm so sorry!" Tears ran down Helen's face. "I'm so stupid."

Max held her by the shoulders. "Listen, little sister, you have to go back. You have to act like nothing happened--and if Bradley asks you anything, give him info that sounds good but is totally false. Then they won't know what to believe."

By now Thad had awakened and stumbled over to the group. He put his arms around Helen's neck; the hug from his small slender body surprised and comforted her.

"Don't worry, boss," Butch declared all-knowingly. "Me and Thad won't let nothing happen to your sister."

Helen had breakfast ready for Bradley when he walked into the kitchen. He put his arms around her waist as she flipped an egg over in the skillet. "I've got to give a talk to a co-op in St. Johnsbury this morning, but I'd like us to spend the rest of the day together." He nibbled her ear.

"I'd like that, too. I'll bake your favorite pie for dinner," said Helen as she glared coldly at the wall behind the stove. "Be sure to drink the fresh-squeezed orange juice on the table over there. It will cure what ails you." Helen had no intention of baking a pie that day; her orange juice would take care of that. It would make him violently sick in about an hour.

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2011-12-17T09:40:00.000-05:00

She slept breathing heavily, again reliving the Dixville scene in a struggle to give Barry life in the back of Max's truck. She wiped sticky blood on her dress and reached back to find her son's face, to breathe life into him again. The smell of raw gut permeated the air as she groped about the bed, searching. At last she realized where she was. It took a second to recall the night's events, then she noticed Bradley wasn't in bed any more. Car lights glowed beyond the trees. She slipped on her robe to investigate.

Though Helen knew the trail that went by Barry's lean-to, it took awhile for her eyes to adjust. She crept toward the light slowly. Late November air chilled her to the core; her sweat-soaked gown stiffened from the cold. She watched Bradley talk to the men in the white car. The rear license plate was intact; locals clipped the upper right corner of the plate. "You bastard!" she mumbled. Bradley was one of the Feds--the people responsible for the murder of her son.

Something moved in the brush near her. Tater sat a few feet away and watched the same scene with interest. Like the Rousell brothers, the dog had become a survivor, reverting to her roots with the wild. "Let's go, girl," said Helen. "We've seen enough." Helen went back to the house, changed into a clean gown and went back to bed.

Bradley skulked in five minutes later and dropped his pants before slipping under the sheets. Helen lay awake in bed for an hour until she was certain he was asleep.

Then she slipped out, donned hiking clothes and boots, and grabbed a flashlight. She and Tater hiked toward Max's deer camp at Van Dyck summit. Max had been working all day setting up the communication link between the covenants. After making several wrong turns, Helen finally followed the dog to Max's camp.

"The Feds know about The Wizard," blurted Helen as she burst into the room.

Max could hardly see who it was at first. Luckily he recognized the voice; he lowered his shotgun. "How'd they find out? Do they know I'm here at the camp, or what?"

"They just know The Wizard is in the area," said Helen, nearly crying. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!"

"The Wizard left already." Max pulled a chair over, "Sit down. Now, collect your thoughts," he insisted. "Tell us exactly what happened."

Butch and Thad were also at the deer camp. They had come to meet The Wizard and help set up the communication system. Groggy, Butch crawled out of his sleeping bag on the opposite side of the shack. He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand as he approached to listen.

Helen continued with her story, "Well, I spent the day with Bradley and mentioned The Wizard and that the Vermont and New Hampshire Covenants were setting up a communication link. This evening, I saw him talking to the Feds out on the main road."

For the Vermont Covenant, The Wizard had designed a closed communication system that used lasers. A modem fed a signal into a beam and used unidirectional nodules as receivers. The signal followed a cable from the receiver, and was spliced into a telephone line. E-mail went to an Internet service provider in Quebec and then returned to Island Pond, Vermont. If ever discovered, the Feds wouldn't be able to tell where the signal originated. They would have to search a six-mile radius, giving the Covenant time to leave.

"I never liked that bastard!" stated Max shaking his head. "Never did. Did you tell them anything about the communication link? What type or where we're mounting it?"

"No. I didn't know."

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2011-12-15T07:00:00.001-05:00

Helen placed the cookies on napkins and went back to the sink to draw two glasses of water. "I don't have milk, boys. I hope this will do." She sat down and sipped her coffee. A minute passed before anyone said anything. "So, how's school going?"

"Pretty good," answered Butch. "The teachers don't yell at me like they used to. Mrs. Harley knows about the Dixville Massacre. She tried to make me and my brother go see a shrink friend of hers but I told her, 'There's no way in hell me and Thad is going to see a damn shrink.' Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot we shouldn't swear."

"Go on."

"That's it. Well, that and there ain't no more Scoutin'. No one wants to start a new troop. Me and Thad ain't even official Scouts anymore. After the massacre, the Colebrook selectboard told the Daniel Webster Scout Council to take me and Thad off the roster--like we died up there or something." He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. "I might as well have, I'll probably have to start as a Wolf again," Butch whined. "I'll never be an Eagle at this rate." He looked up at Helen with questioning eyes. "Moms can be Akelas. Down at Lancaster there's one. And I saw one at the regional Pinewood Derby last year."

"Sorry, I can't help you. I've got problems of my own. Besides, I'm not a mom anymore." It hurt to say it--the fulfillment she had had as a mother, the beaming pride of having a good boy as a son. Helen recalled the time Uncle Max surprised Barry with a puppy. Only four years old at the time, Barry had groomed the pup, fed it; he put the animal in a box next to his bed that night. The two had become inseparable. Barry named it Tater; the puppy loved pushing potatoes across the floor with its nose. Though Helen had been perturbed at Max for springing the present on them, she soon realized the value of Barry having a companion. Tater walked Barry to the end of the lane each morning to catch the bus--and greeted her son as he got off the bus after school. Every day it was a race to see who would get to the house first. Tater always won.

"Ma'am," Butch whispered to Helen. "You okay, Ma'am? Ma'am?"

"Yes. Yes." After returning from her daze, Helen forgot what they had been talking about. "How you doing, Thad?" Thad looked out the window and didn't respond.

"He's doing fine but he don't talk," Butch spoke for him.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you mean, he doesn't, or can't, or what?"

"He just doesn't want to."

"Does he talk to you?"

"No, but I understand what he means. See, ever since the massacre he's got the ghost."

"He's got the ghost, huh." Helen had been around Butch enough to know he had a propensity to spin tall tales, turning the ordinary into something grander. But Thad, he had been a reserved boy before the tragedy. This is probably why teachers want to get Thad psychological help, she concluded.

Helen tried to get Thad's attention, "So Thad, will you talk to me?" He remained fixed on an object out the window. "Just say hi or something." He wouldn't respond. Helen put her hand on his; she realized she wasn't the only one suffering. After Barry's death, Thad needed a friend. The despondent dog upstairs needed a boy. "I'll get Tater."

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2011-12-14T08:05:00.000-05:00

Lucas Bennett, Chief of Staff, waited in the short hallway outside. "That was the best news conference I've ever seen you do, Cliff. You had them by the crotch. And that white guy, he must have defecated in his boxer shorts. We'll never see his moronic face in the news business again."

"I did chew that kid's ass out, didn't I?" The President smiled, the moistened eyes vanished. "I can see this incident as a turning point for this country, Luc. This tragic mishap could give the people something to rally behind."

As the President spoke, Bennett noticed Winifred's zipper had been left down. He pointed.

Winifred noticed his Chief of Staff's gesture. He looked around and discretely zipped up his pants. He whispered to Lucas, "Do you think anyone noticed?"

"Your suit jacket most likely covered it," consoled Lucas quietly. "And you were behind the podium the entire time."

"Oh." Winifred thought about the incident as he ran fingers through his hair, then smiled and waved at approaching senators.

Colebrook, New Hampshire (September 2)

Weeds had started taking over the trail that crossed Mohawk Creek and cut through the pines to Helen's house. Just off the trail, Barry's lean-to now housed other creatures: a pair of chipmunks stored hickory nuts in one of its many caches at the base; field mice roamed through the shelter unencumbered; a fat, gray spider waited at the edge of her web, poised to crawl up and lunch on anything entangled in its snare.

At the trail's end, Helen's house was surrounded by thick pines and carpeted by a layer of dead pine needles. It hadn't changed. But the sun cut through the needle canopy at a lower angle. The greens of nature that were so vibrant a month earlier had dimmed to olive. A Wild Cucumber pod exploded and sprayed its seeds twenty feet away. Late summer weeds lost their flowers, holding burs in their absence. And a golden retriever did nothing but lay on the bed in Barry's room, dry and clean and away from it all.

Helen sat in a chair at the kitchen table and drank coffee--listened to the gossip of CB channel six. She hadn't gone to church since the funeral. Helen could not believe in a God who would allow such a horrible thing to happen to her boy. She got up from her chair when someone knocked at the door. The Rousell brothers. Helen opened the door and spoke glumly, "Hi boys. What can I do for you?"

"Well, ah." Helen's appearance astounded Butch. She looked like a zombie, sickly, with sunken eyes. "Thad and me just thought that Barry would have wanted someone to take Tater out every once in awhile."

"You two pretend to know what Barry would have wanted?"

"We was Barry's best friends."

Helen realized how she sounded. "Well, come in." She gestured at the kitchen table, inviting them to sit. "You two want cookies?" Both nodded. She searched through the bottom cupboard and found some old, stale ones still around from before Barry's death. In fact, the shelves and refrigerator were bare.

Helen had little use for food, living by herself. She drank coffee in the morning and alcohol of some sort at night. She waited out her time in the place; with no job she couldn't pay the mortgage. Electric bills kept piling up; she had been behind on them even before she had lost her job at the hospital. In the month since Barry's death she lost fifteen pounds. The anxiety and despair never went away. Seeing the radical changes in Barry's mom since Dixville, with the vacant eyes and drawn cheeks, made the Rousell boys uneasy--such a rapid transformation they had never witnessed.

"You okay, Ms. Conrad?" Butch asked softly.

In a resigned tone, "I'm all right." With a tired smile, "I'm all right," she repeated. "And thanks for asking." The two menacing little Rousells whom Helen always felt had had a negative influence on Barry now seemed angelic. Butch, usually loud and boastful, said please and thank you. Helen knew they had been through a lot, and wondered how the last boys of Pack 220 survived the horror of that day. Butch told the Dixville story to adults only a couple of times--and never spoke of it again. "How many cookies do you want, two or three? Barry usually had three for a snack."

"Three, please."

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2011-12-13T09:03:00.001-05:00

Journalists packed the White House Press Room. They jotted down notes on pocket computers; some gave preliminary commentaries to viewers from where they stood in the crowd. Nearly a third of the Press Corps were young, pretty women. They played to the President's partiality to blondes. In the past, the color red attracted the attention of some presidents, now puffy blond heads dotted the room. Veteran reporters overlooked the President's obsession with blonds, Winifred represented their political ideology. The few repulsed by the display kept it to themselves--not wanting to be estranged by their own.

Nancy Atherton gave preliminary comments before a camera about "The Dixville Massacre," as the media had dubbed it. She wore a purple pantsuit with a strand of pearls hanging well into her unbuttoned shirt. Her blond hair fluffed out from her ears, precisely displaying looped earrings. Not a blemish could be found on Nancy, an appearance so crisp, so clean, so proper, few men approached her for a date. They considered her out of their league.

"Ladies and gentlemen, The President of the United States," stated a young woman from the podium. Taped commentaries ceased, silence swept the room. People talking among themselves stopped in mid-sentence and turned to listen as President Clifford Winifred pushed buttons on a pocket computer and scanned the teleprompter in front of him. He began to speak, but caught himself with a quick gasp for breath, then paused as though holding back tears. Everyone waited anxiously. "My fellow Americans, few tragedies cut so deeply to the soul as the loss of children. I can't pretend to feel the pain the Dixville families are going through at this moment. Those boys were American children and when their souls left this planet, some of us went with them. Excuse me." President Winifred turned away and wiped his eyes with a hanky and resumed his spot at the podium with resolve. "I promise you, as your President, I will find the perpetrators of this hideous act and bring them to justice. There is no place on earth those murderers can hide!" He hit the podium with his fist. "If they flee, there's no country far enough! If they fight, there is no army great enough! Let God be my witness to this oath!"

Journalists applauded and cheered the President; his words moved them. President Winifred's sincere address caused eyes to moisten. The tragedy extended well beyond New Hampshire and touched every parent in the country.

"As tragic as this massacre was, we must not let the children of Dixville die in vain. Our fractured nation has many serious wounds. The blood of those boys will bind us and renew our efforts to help the poor working class families they came from. And as a nation, we can reassert our efforts to rebuild America and console the Dixville families, renewing their faith in a government that protects them."

Applause erupted from the audience. Clifford waited. "There are many of you out there who want to help. You can. The White House will send investigative teams and troops to the region to catch these terrorists. Though this nation is financially strapped, we're asking for any support the American people can give to the families in crisis at Dixville. The American heart is an inexhaustible resource that has never failed us in times of tumult, during war, or in the times of economic hardships of today. We will endure the Dixville tragedy, more united as a nation, setting aside all our ethnic and religious differences to focus on a common cause. To the Dixville families: Our hearts go out to you in this time of grief."

Clifford paused and turned from the cameras to reporters in the audience. "I'll take questions now."

Every hand in the room went up, some reporters waving their arms to capture the attention of the President. Nancy Atherton casually raised her hand from the far left side of the room. "Ms. Atherton from CBS News," said the President.

"There were reports that a boy nearly survived the attack. Could you confirm or deny that?"

Clifford pulled out an electronic note pad from his coat pocket that had details of the incident. He studied it, "The accounts from Dixville varied. Smugglers still have a grip on the region, and the grief-stricken families at the scene were unable to give details because of the hysteria that followed. There was an incident reported about a boy who somehow survived the slaughter. Families at the scene said the boy's dog sniffed out the trail and found him at the ambush site. The child's mother was there and struggled to keep her son alive, but to no avail. The boy died on the emergency room table."

Reporters jumped from their seats, waving hands, calling out.

"Yes, Ms. Swanson of NBC News."

NBC journalist Kay Swanson, an African-American woman, scanned her notes before asking, "Did the boy say anything about what he saw?"

"All indicators point to smugglers. The Dixville Notch area has been active with groups moving drugs, weapons, and such. We had sent teams to the area, which made it more difficult for them. Evidently the smuggling ring wanted to send the Federal Government a message. Unfortunately, a Scout troop received it."

The flurry of waving hands and calls from the group returned. This time President Winifred recognized a Caucasian male. "Yes. Steve Morrison." The President recognized the redheaded reporter from Spectator News.

Though young, Steve Morrison had covered a number of assignments around the globe. His father had been a journalist--always on the road. Morrison followed those footsteps. Home to him had been the pocket computer he used to write. His few friends would often see him staring at the screen. The reports, with digital imaging, could be sent from bars, motel rooms or lobbies, anywhere he had phone access. When asked about his home Steve would recite motel rooms where he stayed. He had just returned from the Amur Valley, Russia. There, American troops aided the Russian government in containing a Jewish group vying for independence. Steve considered himself an objective journalist, and didn't placate the White House as many of his colleagues did. His coverage of the Amur revolt did not support the White House. Winifred choosing him was a surprise. The reporter quickly pulled the gum from his mouth before speaking, "Sir, evidently the accounts from the families at Dixville varied widely in content and cooperation. In fact, the town of Colebrook blockaded the roads of the village and, at gunpoint, prevented reporters and government officials from going in. What would explain this, Mr. President?"

President Winifred looked to the floor impatiently. He shook his head before speaking, "Have you no shame, Mr. Morrison," the President glared at him. "To stand there and imply that grief-stricken parents would hold back the truth . . . you have no business wearing that press badge and being in the same room with the rest of these fine people." He backed away from the mike with moistened eyes. "I'm sorry. This Press Conference is over." Clifford stormed through the side door of the Press Room.

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2011-12-12T09:09:00.001-05:00

In the hall, General Paz caught Thomas and spoke in a low voice. "Captain, I want you to know, I'm with you on this. Everyone is at fault here."

"Yes, sir."

"Charles, don't 'Yes sir,' me. You've been through too much."

Captain Thomas looked away to a distant place. "They were all young boys. Gut shot, most of them. General Beaudock ordered me to leave a wounded one. A boy about the same age as my son." His eyes began seeping. "I have trouble sleeping. I'm sure the others on my team feel the same. No one talks about it, General. The President doesn't have to worry about any of us saying anything. It isn't something you brag about."

"This isn't over," said Paz. "I'll keep in touch."

The helicopter whirled and turned out of control, plunging downward toward certain death. Raindrops hit like darts on Billy's face through the broken cockpit's windshield. North winds bit to the bone and stirred him to consciousness. He yanked the controls of the helicopter upward. In his eleven-year-old fantasy, William Winifred could hardly feel his arm from the gunshot wound he received during his escape. The bullet numbed his left side all the way to his fingertips, but he could move it, if he willed. He continued through the storm-drenched cold, feeling nothing but the spectra of death chasing him. Then something flashed from the foothills below, it had to be a Stinger missile, Billy thought. He popped the decoy flares and cut right, narrowly averting the Sung vase on a stand next to the wall in the corridor. He gently landed the toy helicopter safely onto the red carpet before his father's private office.

William Winifred had never had an episode so close. That could have been the end of Government Operative 440, Billy Winifred--and the 1031-year-old Sung vase in the hallway. He pulled out the two-inch pilot from the toy helicopter and adjusted his helmet and arms. He checked the rotor; that was the weakness of this model.

The office door flung open and CBS Correspondent Nancy Atherton walked out as she chatted with the President. It was another private interview. She nearly stumbled over the boy's back as he crouched over his model. "Shit. What the--" She caught her balance with a hand on his back. "William, what are you doing?" Her face flushed.

"Checkin' my copter. See, they got to be serviced every thirty-six hours." It surprised William, too. His brown, innocent eyes gazed upward without allegation.

His father came to the door. "William, you need to play some other place. Lots of people come and go here." He turned to Nancy, "Are you all right, Ms. Atherton?"

"Oh yes. I'm fine." She skirted around the child, "Thank you for the interview, Mr. President. We'll have to finish it another time," she let the words dangle as she continued down the corridor.

The boy looked up at his father and lifted the helicopter to be admired.

The gesture startled the President from his view of Ms. Atherton leaving. "Oh, nice gadget, son." Winifred looked at his watch. "Oh!" The news conference.

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2011-12-11T09:12:00.001-05:00

The shop's showcase window exploded as Tater burst through it. She dove for Tumult's throat with all her teeth bared. During the struggle with the beast, Helen groped about the floor in search of the 22 revolver. Finding it, she called Tater off. The animal staggered to the edge of the room and lay down. Much of the blood remaining on the enemy, belonged to her.

Helen tugged up her jeans with the other hand as she approached her adversary who still lay on the floor. "Your rule, as I recall, is shoot African-Americans and maim whites. I can live with that." She leveled the 22 at his crotch and fired.

"You whore." The bullet missed his genitalia and struck the edge of his upper thigh.

"Let's go, Tater." Helen quickly pulled her clothes together and left. The dog didn't follow. "Come, Tater." Tater lay motionless on the floor, her eyes glazed. She had used every ounce of strength to rescue Helen; none remained for herself. "Oh, Tater." She went over to her dog and looked. Tumult began to move toward her. "Hold it right there, buster! Another move like that and I'll empty the rest of this gun on you."

That stopped him, but Tater was wrecked: One bullet had caught her in the neck, another in her lower rib cage.

Helen lifted her pet with a grunt, and left. Forty meters down the hall the unmistakable vroom of a motor-gun revving up echoed through the empty corridor. Helen realized she had forgotten to dispose of his weapon before leaving, and maybe she hadn't maimed him. I should have shot the bastard three times. She picked up her pace. Her arms began to burn already from carrying Tater. A hail of motor-gun balls sprayed the corridor, stray ones shattering showcase windows on both sides of them. Helen and Tater turned the corner as balls whizzed by into the shop at the end of the hallway.

Helen scurried across a glass-enclosed walkway that led to the shopping complex on the other side of the square. She checked for open doors--finding none. Her arms sagged with the weight of the dog. Helen gave up looking for an open room and frantically bolted down two flights of stairs and left the building onto the street. Her first intention was to race to the warehouse. Think this time, Helen said to herself. That bastard knows where I'm going. More cautiously now, she prowled up Chatham Street and circled back to Quincy Market. She waited on the glass walkway she had crossed before. From that vantage point she could view any shadows moving in the courtyard or hear Tumult approach from the corridor in either building.

It was a relief to put the dog down. Her arms hung limp by her side as she rubbed each elbow in turn. Helen kneeled over Tater. She felt overwhelming sympathy for her pet. It crossed her mind that if she wasn't carrying the dog she could have outrun Tumult to the warehouse. After all, he was shot. She knew something kept her clinging to the animal: Tater was the last vestige of her son's life; she was another being with a shared love for Barry.

Helen stroked Tater's head, "You're a good pup." The dog only blinked but she had heard it. Helen took off her jacket and girdled Tater's midsection. She wrapped the animal's neck with her blouse and hugged her bloody pet. "You'll be all right. I'll take care of you now." As she said it, from her crouched position with arms about the dog, Tumult appeared at the end of the courtyard. He followed her trail, scanning the ground for sign. Helen looked down the hall and saw the drops of blood. "He trailed us," she whispered to herself.

Tumult stood just below the glassed walkway. The man looked at the pecks of blood leading toward the stairway to the side. Helen raised the revolver and clicked off three rounds through the glass just as the Virginian had instructed her. "Pop! Pop! Click. Click."

After the shattered panel fell, Tumult stood below in the opening holding his face; a bullet had struck his nose. To Helen, the rest happened in agonizing slow motion. Tumult pulled his hand from his bloody face and yanked the starter cord to his motor-gun. The stream of balls began shattering the entire glass enclosure, strafing back and forth across the walkway.

Nuggets of glass hailed down on woman and dog, engulfing them in a shower of pointy teeth that pricked with every hit. Helen leaned over Tater to shield her from the rain of glass as she crawled and tugged, staying low to the concrete floor that provided refuge.

The only remaining garment Helen had on her upper body was her bra. Tiny lacerations tattooed her back. She was paralyzed by the shower of glass that pummeled her. Finally, small hands grabbed her and tugged her forward. Thad had run off from Tumult's attack pack and circled back.

On hands and knees, pulling Tater, Helen crawled toward the main building. Crystal nuggets cut her hands and knees. The glass enclosure gave way to cool, fresh air. Helen felt the warm blood from the plethora of cuts as they pooled together and oozed down her side in streaks. The shooting had finally stopped when Tumult emptied his ammo hopper. He clutched his face as he headed back in the direction of Bunker Hill.

In the hollows of the building, Helen patted Tater's head and rested against the wall. Thad began taking his jacket off to put around her. They were about five blocks away from the wharf.

"Ya found her!" Butch declared. He had made his escape from the attack pack by claiming he had to go to the bathroom and sneaking off. When the rebels had gone to look for Butch, Thad ran away to distract them. Leg-men from the pack raced after him. When they saw they couldn't gain on the boy, they dropped their guns and ammo to lighten their load. It was still no use, Thad knew he could outrun the larger leg-men. And he did.

Now, with lacerations of his own on the back of his head and neck, Thad stood over Helen; she was shaking from the encounter. He had overcome his own fear to save her. Helen knew that. She got up and hugged the boy. "Thank you." He looked away and responded with a jittery smile; she had very little on.

Butch picked up Tater with a grunt, "Gotta go." They headed toward Union Wharf.

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2011-12-10T08:41:00.001-05:00

She raced down the hall checking for open doors. Tater pranced behind, not understanding the urgency. Finally, on the third level Helen found an open door, closed it, and hid behind a counter inside.

With her weapon drawn, she waited quietly for what seemed like hours. She could feel her own heart pounding, her breathing seemed rapid and loud.

The shop door opened and closed. Helen decided to confront him. She stood up, sending one round into the ceiling to let him know she was armed, "Pop."

"Hold it! Hold it! We were just looking for you. Where did you go?" Tumult had left his motor-gun in the hall. He hadn't known she had a gun.

"We? I saw the attack pack move off," She could hardly keep the gun from shaking.

"The first group is looping around to secure the area. They're coming back."

"Yeah, right," Helen commented sarcastically. "I'm going the rest of the way alone. It's only about five blocks. Why did we stop here in the first place, so close to our destination?"

"Like I said, to secure the area."

She wanted to believe him but knew better. "Thanks, but I'm going the rest of the way alone. How did you find me?"

"You left your dog outside the door."

Helen shook her head realizing her stupidity. "Just get out." She extended the gun.

"Okay. I'm leaving." He eased out of the shop, letting the dog in as he closed the door behind himself.

Helen waited a minute before going to the door. As she turned the knob it burst open on her, the door slamming her in the forehead. A hand reached out from the darkness and grabbed her gun hand, yanking her into the hallway.

Tater did not misread this sign. She lunged at Tumult. By then, he had twisted the gun from her grasp and shot three rounds through the darkness at the animal. Tater hobbled backwards and collapsed in the hall.

"You bastard! You shot my dog," shrieked Helen, incredulous.

He yanked her back into the shop and closed the door. "You shouldn't have had the thing jump me. Besides, that mutt would have interfered with our intimate moment, unless you're into the animal thing."

"What's your brother going to say?"

"Like I said: Our family shares. Even if he did mind, we don't exactly get along anyway."

Helen kept backing away from him, groping around in the dark for something to defend herself with; she knew he couldn't see any better than she could in the murk. She found a table lamp and swung at him. The lamp struck him on the forearm. "You bitch!" he swore, but the strike also knocked the 22 revolver out of his hand. He grabbed Helen's wrists and spun her to the floor. Tumult clumped both her wrists into one grasp and pressed them down above her head. His remaining free hand unzipped her jacket and in one motion stripped all the buttons off her blouse.

Helen, with clinched teeth, "Get your damn hands off me! I'm warning you!"

He opened her jeans and wrestled them down to her thighs. "You're warning me? You're in no position to warn me." He unhooked the front of her bra and began massaging her breasts. "You know, I've always appreciated these. They're the first things I noticed about you. I see they're perky from the cold."

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2011-12-09T10:22:00.001-05:00

"You're scaring me," Helen confessed.

"Tumult's taking you back to Chaos' triad, isn't he?"

Helen thought about his statement as she looked at him. Neither one blinked. She knew what he meant by the question: From all appearances, Tumult hated his brother, and anyone associated with him.

Helen went out the door to the main room. The Virginian gave a thumbs-up sign to the boys, the jagged scar on his thumb visible.

Two attack packs followed, Tumult armed with a motor-gun.

They headed down the west slope of Bunker Hill into the tight, narrow streets that bordered it. The whole area around the Hill was nothing but townhouses, packed together so tightly that concrete choked off greenery of any significance. Fire would have ravaged the area. And the historic colonial homes, as run down as they were, would have been gone with only their brick shells and foundations remaining. It occurred to Helen that the people of Boston were lucky to have young men of character like the Virginians. Even the gruff, burly Wolfenstein had a kinder side she had come to realize.

While hiking through the suburban maze of crowded homes, one attack pack gained a lead of two hundred meters. This was deliberate: If Feds or gangs hit the lead pack, they would whistle back enemy numbers and location so the following team could flank them. The Mountain Boys had it down to a science. Using the laser sights on their weapons, attack packs had scrimmaged constantly in their off-hours in the North Country, a sport very similar to paintball but with better range and without the sting of a high-speed ball.

After leaving the residential section they traveled below an elevated highway that hid them from possible spotters; cloud cover remained, making for an unusually dark night. Helen found it difficult to follow the rebel in front of her. No one spoke; only random, dull footsteps were heard down the desolate highway.

Visual and sound deprivation heightened other senses. Varied, damp smells rose from the Charles River, some odors natural, some oil residue. But Helen knew something was going on among them. Tater's ears twitched and perked, trying to recognize whistled commands. They spoke a language of their own, an invisible dialect of another species, in a world they knew all too well. The regimented movements of Mountain Boys peeking around corners with readied autopistols and sprinting from cover to cover gave Helen a sense of security, knowing these assassins were there to protect her. Despite that, the sense that something was about to happen nagged at her. Though the Rousell children were not her own, she had an urge to hold them, particularly Thad. The boy had gone through so much, yet still continued to try and right the wrong put upon them at Dixville. Though mortified by events around him, Thad continued; courage is nothing less.

Tumult told the lead pack to scout ahead and wait for them at the warehouse. Brandishing a motor-gun, he stayed behind at Quincy Market to meet the second group. Members of the pack forced open a door in one of the buildings and took a break from the hike. Helen waited inside the structure with Tater.

Quincy Market was a complex of small shops and restaurants, an open mall of sorts with long continuous buildings on each side of a closed-off street. Years ago specialty shops dominated the mall--some of the best dining in Boston could be found there. Small vending carts with blue canopies dotted the square in those times; people of many colors crowded the square to browse.

Helen roamed through the halls of the abandoned complex and found herself in a glass atrium watching Tumult talking to members of the pack under a shredded canopy in the square below. She could see the shadowy Mountain Boys take the Rousell brothers toward the elevated interstate and counted to herself: one, two . . . eleven. She jolted. Oh shit! Tumult was the only one remaining. Even in the shadows she could see him look her way.

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2011-12-08T09:38:00.001-05:00

Attack packs geared up inside the monument; they wanted to leave before the Army decided to encircle Bunker Hill with tanks. The radio frequency jammers did a masterful job of delaying tanks from moving forward. Not having rapid communication threw the Feds into a tizzy, bumping their communication technology back two hundred years. Orders had to go by carrier and rebel snipers were scattered everywhere to assassinate the messengers.

"That laser communication shit could give our boys an edge on gettin' around," Tumult remarked as he joined Helen outside for a chat. They were alone. "Why do you think my little brother didn't share that technology with me?" He put his arm against the wall behind her and leaned in closer.

Helen didn't like his intrusion, "It was The Wizard's doing. He designed the thing. I don't think there's any big scheme or anything. Your brother just asked The Wizard if such a thing was possible and when we arrived in Boston they got the parts and made them. Don't be paranoid."

Warm spring breezes drifted up from Boston Harbor to create a mist that crawled and clung to lower altitudes below the monument. Once dense enough, it would creep its way upward to the base of the obelisk. Within that fog, a vapor ebbed and flowed, picking at human remains for any morsels of life it might have missed.

Tumult saw the backdrop as romantic. He leered over her with a lap-dog gaze expecting some kind of response. Helen assumed it was his way to intimidate, but she wasn't about to give in to the fear: "I don't know what the point is of all this posturing," she looked at his arm propped against the wall, "I'm already interested in someone else."

"There's something my little brother didn't fill you in on: Southern families share things." It became a stare down.

The wet, joyous nose of Tater vaulted up into their faces and broke it up. Helen blessed the pet's intrusion. The Virginian, Butch, and Thad followed behind with the attack pack and an African-American Army Regular as prisoner. "The perimeter is secured, sir."

"Take the nigger inside," Tumult ordered.

Helen was the last to come in, and found a crowded room of Mountain Boys around the black Army Regular seated on the floor. "Why'd you bring the monkey in?" Tumult asked him.

"We pinned him down and he gave up." The question seemed odd to the Virginian, then he remembered hearing about the gang member's crucifixion. A warm rush that started at the top of his neck raced down his spine. It dawned on the Virginian that this part of the Triad didn't take prisoners. Chaos had his rebels shoot prisoners in the leg and leave them.

"We can get information from him," Butch chimed in.

"Niggers don't know nothing to tell us, boy," Tumult declared. "We shoot white Feds in the knee, but niggers, we just shoot 'em. Pop! Pop! Pop!" In one motion, Tumult had whipped a gun out from his shoulder holster and placed three rounds in the man's face. He turned to the Virginian, "You're new in this group, but we don't take prisoners. No place to put 'em."

It even stunned the Mountain Boys watching, most of Tumult's group were from the North Country. Butch and Thad just stared wide-eyed as the soldier quivered, squirting blood. Helen walked through the group and latched onto the boys; she took them to the little room where Chaos' wounded rebel lay and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the door and looked at the floor stupefied.

Butch, still dazed from the incident, "That ain't fair, shootin' 'im like that."

Helen put her arms around the Rousell brothers. She was nearly in tears. "Now listen to me, Tumult is an evil man. It doesn't matter who it is, you don't murder people because of their beliefs or color. We'll get out of this, but don't think for a minute that that man was justified murdering someone like that." She jolted as the door opened.

The Virginian and Tater came in. "Are you all right?"

Helen nodded and swallowed, "I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. That man is the Devil." Helen looked at the wounded man she had worked so hard to save. "What's going to happen to him? Does Tumult take his own wounded?"

"I have to stay with him," the other Virginian uttered. "Tumult said he wouldn't let me return to Chaos' unit."

"But why?" Helen asked.

"Either Tumult likes me because I routed out that sniper," he said, "or it's just another way to annoy his brother. He won't let us go back with you; Tumult's keeping my wounded friend with his group so I don't bolt. That man is diabolical, all right. Don't worry though, when he's better, we're going back to Chaos' group. I can't put up with this."

"God, I can see now why Chaos didn't tell me Tumult was his brother."

"Tater and the boys can go back with you. Do you have a gun?" Helen nodded yes with a look of concern--the 22 she had gotten from Butch earlier. The Virginian pulled out his Glock Autopistol from his belt to demonstrate. "Make sure your safety is always off so when you go to use it, it will work," he continued. "Always pull off three rounds at a time if you want to be sure of hitting something." He took the ammo clip out of the handle and held the gun with both hands, "Bam, bam, bam. Always pull off three rounds at a time." He put the clip back in the gun and placed it back in his belt. The rebel's demonstration had Butch and Thad's full attention.

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