Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) (25 page)

      
"I've got bad news," The Wizard announced to Chaos.  "I'm staying here."  He noticed the Southerner's expression.  "I'm sorry, but I have to stay.  We're starting a Boston Covenant.

      
The Rebels had gained a lot of respect for The Wizard.  He had helped recover Max.  He was also the man responsible for their exclusive communication.  While all other radio frequencies were jammed, the Mountain Boys could talk to one another.  That was a tactical edge.

      
"We can't leave you like this, not after all you've done to help the North Country."  Chaos knew they would suffer major losses if they even postponed leaving.  "We've got to go tonight if we're going to escape from the city."  He also understood the chance The Wizard was taking by staying in Boston to start a Covenant.

      
"I can't just leave my home, not with gangs running the city."

      
Steve had been at the edge of the group listening in.  He recalled words spoken by the young man at the campfire days earlier.  He blurted the phrase aloud: "You know you're home when you’re willing to fight for it."

      
Chaos recognized his maxim, words he had said to rebels in training earlier.  He smiled at Steve, pleased to see the slogan returning to him through someone else.  It sounded good.

      
The Wizard shook his head, "I guess that's true.  That's why I've got to stay, despite the gangs."

      
One of the Virginians, spoke up from the group.  "I could stay and help."  A second Virginian added, "I'm in."

      
"Me too."

      
"He saved our asses on the tower," Der Dutchman stated.  "I can't speak for my pack but I could stay until Boston has attack packs of their own."  Others in Dutchman's pack nodded yes.

      
"I don't know what to say," The Wizard responded.  "A couple of attack packs could take on any gang.  I sure appreciate the help."

      
"If three fully armed attack packs volunteered, would you be able to hide them from the Feds in the city?"  It concerned Chaos that his men might be getting caught up in the passion of the moment.  "These white faces will stick out in Inner Boston."

      
"There's no problem hiding them," Wizard declared.  "We'd love to have them stay in our apartment complex.  We wouldn't have to pay extortion money to the gangs anymore.  The thugs wouldn't be hanging around recruiting our kids either."  The Wizard buttressed that line, "We could create a perimeter of lookouts to laser in and warn of any Fed movements in the city.  That would give the attack packs time to shift to more secure locations if the Feds did locate us."  The Wizard realized that with a couple of experienced attack packs, pushing gangs out of the city would be easy.  The prospect wasn't exclusive to The Wizard, all the Boston natives would glow with the idea of restored liberty.

      
A short time later, Butch and Thad approached The Wizard as he spliced into a fiber-optic phone line to send the Dixville imaging to Spectator News for Steve Morrison.  The Wizard noticed them staring.  He knew them from Max's deer camp and had regularly corresponded with the boys by E-mail.  "Hi, boys.  How is your Scout group holding up?"

      
"Good, but we want you to have this Scout book.  We want you to help us expand the Ghost Pack in Boston."  Butch handed his Scout book to the Black man.  "The Oath and stuff is in there." 

      
The Wizard stopped his task to receive the book.  He could tell the boys were sincere.  "Thank you."  The Wizard looked bewildered.  "So what do I do to recruit for your pack, read the book or something?"

      
"There's more to it than that.  They have to hear the story of the Dixville Massacre to be a member of the Ghost Pack.  Ya know, me and Thad are the last of the original Pack 220."  The Wizard nodded his head; so he had heard.  But Butch began telling the story of Dixville.  Like a relay baton passing, the lore of the massacre was re-told.  The legend passed on.

Gloucester, Massachusetts (March 18)

      
Tumult's heel stepped squarely on the back of the starfish, forcing the yellowy innards from its carcass oozing out around the edge of his shoe.  "Piss!  Where the hell are we anyway?"  He felt the slippery goo underfoot.  "Piss!  I stepped in dog shit or something."  He rubbed his heel off on a clean section of the beach.  Fog enveloped everything, limiting visibility to a mere fifty meters, only the bluffs of the narrow beach could be seen beyond the immediate area.

      
He found out about his brother's escape from the city.  A guard from the remaining attack packs under The Wizard had contacted one of Tumult's patrols and informed them of recent happenings.  Tumult was irate on hearing that his brother left three fully geared attack packs under the command of an afro.  He sent five packs back to recover the group but Tumult's Mountain Boys found them untraceable.

      
Tumult's injury ached as he scanned the shoreline; he held the dressing over what was left of his nose.  Even with his facial wound he had led his men out of what appeared a hopeless situation.  The man had tenacity.  Following his brother's lead, Tumult had boarded his attack packs onto the USS Constitution and had commandeered the nation's oldest commissioned warship out to sea.  A diesel engine in its stern had navigated the sailing ship into the deeper waters of Boston Harbor, through the narrow channel of President Roads, eventually merging into the vastness of the dark gray Atlantic.

      
The USS Constitution, known as Old Ironsides, veteran of numerous engagements with pirates, and victorious in multiple battles against the British in the War of 1812, was now wrecked on the rocks in view of Gloucester's Fishermen Lost at Sea memorial.  On behalf of the cause, Tumult shipwrecked it.

      
Two Mountain Boys returned from Gloucester and reported to Tumult and Glitch that phone service was out.  "I don't understand," said Glitch.

      
"We don't need to understand," Tumult directed four attack packs with concealed Glocks to secure trucks and buses for transport.  "If this outage is around for only two hours it will put us out of reach."

Washington, D.C. (March 18)

      
Colonel Greely sat impatiently in one of the seventh century, rosewood chairs facing the President's desk.  Perched in its cage near the window, the falcon ominously surveyed the skies with apprehension.  The Boston Fiasco, as Greely referred to it, was unresolved.  If some of the Mountain Boys were still in the city, he wanted to isolate them and extract them.

      
The Colonel knew for certain that they had left in the night; enough ships were stolen in the harbor to transport a small army.  Another disturbing fact: A Navy, ZF-4 Pursuit had been downed by a hand-held rocket, a U.S. model.  But what really threw the nation into a tizzy was when a group of Mountain Boys from outside the city severed the fiber-optic trunks of all the larger cities throughout New England.  They were more than just severed, they were blown out, leaving behind a melted tangle that would prove difficult to restore.  All monetary transactions ceased throughout the East.  It impacted financial markets nationwide, not to mention worldwide.  The Colonel was not pleased to be called in, "I don't have time for this dog defecation, Mr. Bennett.  What are we waitin' for?  I got things to do."

      
"We're waiting for the President of the United States, Colonel," Chief of Staff Lucas Bennett said soundly as he rubbed his tattoo with a finger.  The Colonel's very presence irritated Lucas.  "I think that's reason enough, don't you?  If you hadn't screwed up in Boston we wouldn't be having a strategy meeting."

      
"You Federal Boys are into meetings, aren't you?" Colonel Greely jeered.

      
"We're into getting things right."

      
"Why is it someone always has to be at fault?  Can't things just happen?  Couldn't the other guy have done something right? Or doesn't that work in politics?"

      
"You had them on the tower, Colonel, and you blew it!" the Chief of Staff criticized.  "We have to take out that Tobacco Bunch before the fall elections.  At any cost!"

      
"So this is about getting you reelected.  Well, I wasn't about to blow up an entire skyscraper and damage other buildings around it to get you reelected.  And they aren't Tobacco Boys, as you like to call them.  We ID'ed some of their dead and they're from all over the country.  Some from Missouri.  The gangs in Boston referred to them as Ghost Pack 220.  That was the pack number of the Dixville group of Scouts killed, wasn't it?  I need to know the whole story, Bennett.  Are all the rumors about Dixvil--?"  The Colonel stopped in mid-sentence to stare at a speck in the sky over D.C.'s downtown.  "That's not a real plane."  He squinted and leaned forward.  "It's a scale model of a bird."

      
On the White House rooftop, special agent Ron spoke in monotone as he lowered his binoculars, "It's just a freaking model plane."  He pinched his cigarette by the stub to put it out in a small metal container he used as a portable ashtray.  Ron found the concealment a necessity with smoking prohibited on White House grounds, "Don't get all torqued up about it."  His partner Paula began flipping switches on the Stinger HHR, preparing it to fire.  "I'm tellin' you, Paula.  You're gettin' torqued up for no reason.  It's just another freaking kid fartin' around."  He turned back to see the model plane bearing down on them faster than expected.  "Shit, Paula, got that thing ready yet?"

      
The plane launched a flare.  A split second later Paula fired the rocket, which zipped past the model plane, following the heat of the flare.  It found the flare just beyond the walking mall on Pennsylvania Avenue.

      
Greely watched it all from the Oval Office, the best seat in the house.  In awe, he uttered, "Those clever bastards."

      
Lucas ran to the door when he realized what was happening, but only got halfway there before the craft crashed into the top of the bulletproof glass with a resounding boom.  Though the three-inch glass didn't break, the explosion forced it from its mounts, toppling the four-hundred-pound pane inward on top of Greely.  His skull was instantly crushed, along with the seventh century desk and chairs.

       
The impact shook the entire West Wing of the White House.  Seconds later, President Winifred opened the side door that joined his office, and saw the devastation.  Chief of Staff Bennett looked back at him in horror from the other side of the room, turning his stare to Winifred's unzipped trousers and open shirt.  Nancy Atherton, with an unbuttoned top, poked her head over the President's shoulder to catch a firsthand glimpse of the damage. 
What a scoop
!  She frantically put herself back together and attempted to call in the event on her cellular phone. 

      
"The phones are still down!" Nancy shrieked.  She turned back to the President, "Can't you do something about that?"

      
Security personnel flooded the room with drawn Uzi machine-guns; the woman in charge hustled the President back into the adjoining room, "You have to stay out of sight.  We're open to snipers now, sir."

      
Winifred stared in disbelief at the mess: the seventh century desk and chair crushed, the French Savonnerie pile carpet spattered with Greely's blood.  And then the falcon, feathers were flared and mangled beyond recognition.

Colebrook Congregational Church (March 19)

      
Helen said her peace at the edge of the First Congregational cemetery.  They buried Tater beside Barry's plot in a private funeral ceremony.  The animal had died from internal injuries.  Twenty-four boys and Helen encircled the animal's grave in the damp night air.  A chilled moon in the east illuminated gravestones marking the Scouts who had died in the Dixville Massacre.

      
Earlier as they rode home from Maine, Helen found out from the rebels that Butch and Thad's mother had left in the fall.  She also learned that throughout the winter the Rousell brothers, with Tater, had camped with the Mountain Boys, or at Max's deer camp, or in their own secret hideout.  As Helen watched Thad, in tears and without voice, place his cherished Arrow of Light Award on Tater's grave, she realized someone had to take responsibility for them.  She would do it.

      
Ever since the Dixville Massacre, Butch had been busy rebuilding Pack 220.  Most of the new recruits were Thad's age or younger.  Sam Larson, one of the larger boys in the Pack, sobbed through the ceremony.  All of them had lost a brother or relative in the Dixville Massacre; and Tater was considered another one of the pack to die.  "She was a good dog," said Butch in his eulogy, "and did everything we asked her to.  She was as much a part of Pack 220 as anyone.  Now, she's with her best friend, Barry.  Don't worry though, girl; we'll get 'em back.  No one murders a Scout without payback." 

      
Helen looked from face to face as Butch spoke.  Now their grim expressions didn't look like those of children.