Troy Rising 1 - Live Free or Die (15 page)

“Have...” the reporter stammered. This sort of thing was gold but having a heavily armed
soldier seemingly losing it was a bit flustering. “Have the insurgents been planting IEDs?”

“NO!” the captain screamed. “One of our
unoccupied
humvees was taken out by a LASER rifle. WE don't even have laser rifles! The guys who
have been so carefully and considerately shooting my boys in their thighs have LASER
RIFLES! We're outnumbered, outfoxed and outgunned. And you're worried about CARBON
DIOXIDE?”

***

“HALT, WHO GOES THERE?”

“Sergeant of the guard, asshole.”

“Respond to challenge: Done.”

“In a screwed up situation.”

“You may pass.”

“You never will. I'm serious. I've got that feeling.”

“Like the hills have eyes?”

“No, you moron. Like there are about five times our number of locals up in the hills just
trying to figure out how to get us to leave without going to trouble of killing us.”

“Does have that feeling. I'd rather be ass deep in Taliban.”

“I wouldn't go that far. But it is a terribly messed up deal.”

“Yup.”

“Ayup.”

The sergeant counted on his fingers for a moment.

“Dick, did you say 'Ayup' just a moment ago?”

“Nope. Said 'Yup.' Guy pulling the tap out said 'Ayup.'”

“Ayup.” There was a thunking sound and a clatter of metal.

“We went to a lot of trouble putting those taps in.”

“Try doing it for a living, soldier boy.”

Thunk. Tinkle.

“Quiet night tonight, Dick.”

“That it is, sergeant.”

“I seem to remember some wind from the east, though.”

“More like northeast.”

“Northeast. Could have covered a lot of noise.”

“We've got FLIRs.”

“Probably shouldn't want to flip them down, soldier-boy.”

Thunk. Tinkle.

“Probably not. Yup. Quiet night.”

“Ayup.”

***

“Howdy, soldiers,” Mr. Haselbauer said, sighing. “Come on in and take a load off.”

“Mr. Jason Haselbauer?” the lieutenant said, nervously. If the local resident started
going off they didn't have tasers. Or, for that matter, a Javelin anti-tank round. He
hadn't really appreciated being tasked with 'making friendly contact with potential local
insurgent' anyway.

“The same,” Mr. Haselbauer said, waving for the squad to come in. “We're about to set down
to vittles. Got 'nough for some hungry soldiers.”

“Uh, sir, we have our own rations,” the lieutenant said just as he caught a whiff from
inside. “But if you insist...”

***

The Haselbauer table was well set to fit a squad. Even with a couple of the daughters in
law and kids occupying the house there was enough room, and food, for six hungry soldiers.
And it was in piles as befitted a farm kitchen.

“This is... very kind of you, sir, ma'am,” the lieutenant said. It was a bit surreal. They
had good intelligence that Haselbauer was one of the heads of the local resistance,
perhaps
the
head of the regional resistance. And here they were having dinner with him. He'd met with
some absolutely known bad-guys in Iraq and Afghanistan over green tea. Sitting in a farm
kitchen in New Hampshire with a table piled with home-cured ham, turkey, corn, potatoes
and all the fixings was just... different.

“Was in the One-Oh-One in Vietnam,” Mr. Haselbauer said. “Know all about screwed up
orders, lieutenant. Gonna pray.”

“Yes, sir,” the officer said, waving at his men to bow their heads. Most of them were from
Christian backgrounds and didn't need to be prompted. Khalid was polite enough to just
pretend.

“Dear Lord, we thank You for the blessings of a full table, a stocked larder and all the
good that You have brought to this house, this land, this nation. We thank You, Lord, for
two hundred and fifty years of freedom. We thank You for bringing the blessings of peace
and prosperity to this land. We ask Your forgiveness for any way that we have transgressed
against Your will, Lord. And we ask forgiveness, Lord, for these fine young men who
through no fault of their own find themselves trapped between their orders and the oath
they swore in Your name, Lord, to uphold and defend the Constitution of These United
States against all enemies foreign and domestic. Please forgive us all our sins, Lord, and
bring us to Your everlasting home no matter how far we have fallen from Your eyes, Lord.
Amen.”

“Amen,” the lieutenant said. Suddenly he wasn't hungry.

***

“Honey, there's somebody at the door.”

Jonathan “K-9” Kolasinski got up from his computer, still mentally composing the response
he was putting on a blog, and walked to the door. He wasn't especially worried about
security. Besides the fact that things like home invasion were incredibly rare in New
Hampshire, Lovey-poo was sitting attentively by the door. Lovey-poo being a one-hundred
and eighty pound, Schutzhund trained Alsatian that at a quiet word would probably be able
to take out an entire street gang.

Jonathan was an eight year veteran of the Air Force who spent his entire career as a
'handler'. The term was 'Contingency Response.' He'd lost two partners in the MidEast Area
of Operations, one in the Sandbox and one in the Rockpile, respectively. The IED that got
Ranger also got him, which was why he was sitting in front of a computer instead of out
working the hills with the rest of the troops. Lovey-poo had retired with him and was now
well on his way to being the top stud Alsatian in New England.

Three of Lovey-Poo's harem padded into the hallway quietly as Jonathan reached the door.
Mindy was trailing because she was well into pregnancy.

“Sitz,”
Jonathan said without looking around. All three bitches' butts hit the ground as if
synchronized. He'd taken a glance through the side windows and the visitor was a short man
wearing a fur hat. Probably one of the neighbors although he wasn't immediately familiar.
And it was a cold night to be out.

***

“Hi, I'm Vernon Tyler,” Tyler said, leaning over and glancing at the four
very large
German Shepherds. All four had those fore-quarters that made them look like canine
fullbacks. What bothered him the most was that they were just
sitting
there. Quietly. That was never a good sign. “I was wondering if I could have a word.”

***

“Beautiful dogs,” Tyler said, taking a sip of tea. “Ah... German Shepherds?”

“Shepherds, Alsatians...” Jonathan said, shrugging. “Lovey-poo is a Deutsche stud. The
Germans just have better lines than the US. The bitches are US. Anna, Gretchen, Mindy,
meet Mr. Vernon.” All three of the bitches sat up and whined then lay back down.

“I'd heard you were a breeder,” Tyler said with a laugh. “They didn't quite cover it.
Schutzhund?”

“Mmmm...” Jonathan said. “To what do I owe the honor of the visit, Mr. Vernon?”

“Hate to bother you at this time of night,” Tyler said, automatically. “But it's been a
long day and miles to go before I sleep and all that. I'm sort of out taking the tenor of
the clans. You moved back here rather than being a newcomer so it's not exactly like
talking to one of the families that never has left. I've found I've gotten... straighter
answers. When there are any answers to be had. What's your take?”

He didn't really have to ask 'about the Horvath demanding the maple syrup.' It was pretty
much the only topic of conversation to be found in most of Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont
and New Hampshire.

“I've friends and family live in Boston, Mr. Tyler,” Kolasinski said, using the pure New
England 'Bah.' “So it's a hard thing to say 'Wipe out the world if you want, but we're not
going to give up our maple syrup.' It's...
maple syrup
.”

“Agreed,” Tyler said, nodding.

“What's your take?”

“What everyone in the US government, what everyone in the media, what the Glatun and the
Horvath all want to know,” Tyler said, “is what is my take. Which is a far cry from
cutting trees for a living. And the answer is... I'm taking the tenor of the clans.”

“Okay,” Kolasinski said, chuckling. “One more question and I'll try to answer yours.
Clans?”

“New England is not, by any stretch of the imagination, monolithic,” Tyler said with a
sigh. "Nor are the maple areas of Canada where I've also been. Old farming families that
stretch back to the Revolutionary period and pre-Revolution. Hippies that moved up for the
cheap land and libertarian approach. Southerners like me who have moved here so they can
be around relative conservatives. Communes. Militias. Modern lefty gay bed-and-breakfast
owners. People who want to declare independence and throw out all the lefties.

“My land grab and the Horvath threat have pretty much moved out anyone who doesn't love
this area. The one influx of Glatun credits we got is more influx than this region has
ever seen. But
nobody
wants to be at ground zero of the Horvath threat. Nobody, American or Canadian, wants to
be in the middle of a war with our own militaries. What's left are people who just refuse
to leave. And there aren't really major regional variations. Oh, somewhat when you cross
from New Hampshire to Vermont or Massachusetts but not even that too greatly. What there
are are... clans. Like thinking groups. I almost think New England needs to be
parliamentary rather than territorial but I digress. I'm taking the tenor of the clans.”

“Which group am I?” Kolasinski asked.

“You said one question,” Tyler said, smiling. “And your answer to 'what's your take' more
or less puts you in one. Generally, older, not really old but older, families that stay
here because this is home.”

“It ought to be easy,” the former sergeant said. “It's maple syrup. Who wants to die over
maple syrup?” He looked at Tyler who shrugged in what might be agreement.

“But...” Kolasinski continued, shrugging. “The government is offering to buy it. Pretty
fair price. Then they'll turn it over to the Horvath.”

“Cheaper than trying to take it,” Tyler said.

“Agreed. But. It's still taking. This isn't... This isn't what I put my life on the line
for. This isn't what I fought for. What I lost partners for and damn near my life.”

“ 'Give me liberty or give me death?'”

“More or less,” Kolasinski admitted, sighing. “I've got two kids and a wife. I have to
think about them.”

“Contingency plans?” Tyler asked.

“I was in contingency response,” Kolasinski said, chuckling. “Uh. Yeah.”

***

“This simply isn't working, Mr. President,” the Army Chief of Staff said. “We've got
twenty percent of units reporting a variety of maladies. We've issued administrative
punishments for malingering but this is more like mutiny. And as fast as they do manage to
tap trees, if they don't ruin the taps, the locals are sneaking in at night and taking the
taps out. And leaving little notes about the quality of our men's work. Last, even if
everything was working perfectly, our men are unfamiliar with the process, unfamiliar with
the terrain and it turns out to be harder to find the trees than we'd thought. There are
large stands but many of the best trees are scattered in pine woods. It simply is not
working.”

“Frankly,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said, “it's becoming a huge farce. I'm not
sure the Army, per se, is turning into a laughing stock simply because of all the press
reports where everyone's going 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge.' But the operation is becoming a
laughing-stock.”

“There are millions of lives at stake, General,” the President said. “And these people are
playing games!”

“I am fully aware of that, Mr. President,” the general replied. “That does not mean that
this is an achievable goal.”

“It might be...” the National Security Advisor said. “Oh, not gathering the maple syrup.
You only have to watch the SNL skit to see that. We just need to be clear about the goal.”

“The goal is protecting our cities,” the President said. “Whatever that takes.”

“And that may be a goal we are achieving, Mr. President,” the NSA said.

“I don't see it,” the CJCS. “At this rate we are
not
going to get any appreciable amount of maple syrup. Neither are the Canadians. They're
having the same problems.”

“That is
not
the goal,” the NSA said, again. “The goal is not getting rocks dropped on our cities. And
that goal may be achievable. We don't have Horvath internals but they must be getting most
of what we are looking at. I doubt, at this point, that they are getting any significant
internals from the resistance. What they are getting are the same externals we're getting.
'Of course we want peace in our time, but... '”

“
But
won't cut it,” the President said.

“A certain kind might,” the NSA said. “We, the... civilized? Urbanized?”

“Liberal?” the Marine Corps Commandant filled in.

“The people who are under threat,” the NSA said, sourly, “are doing our best to collect
the maple syrup that the Horvath demand. We're doing everything we can.”

“More,” the Army Chief of Staff said. “We're stepping all over every document that gives
us legal authority to exist. Necessarily, I agree, but at some point we're going to face
real
mutiny. I expected it before now.”

“We're trying,” the NSA said. “Trying
really
hard. That's clear on all the news broadcasts.”

“Yep,” the Marine Corps Commandant said. “We're being good collaborators.”

“General,” the President said. “I appreciate your feelings in this matter but the
insertions are not helpful.”

“Sir.”

“Your point?” the President said.

“The people who are incurring the wrath of the Horvath are the people in that region,” the
NSA said. “And the few contacts with the rebels that have been broadcast are almost all
contemptuous of 'city folk.' They basically are saying they don't care if cities are
nuked. It's not a threat to them.”

“ 'I'm from the South. We have our ways.'”

“Mr. President?”

“Something that Vernon said to an FBI agent,” the President said. “About I guess you would
say, manipulating the Horvath. I've been puzzled by the line. 'I'm from the South. We have
our ways.' What ways?”