Once they were back in farmland, Ken commented, "They looked pretty lean, for cops."

"Well. You make a cop walk most places instead of drive, and take away his supply of donuts . . ." Terry joked.

Ken finished her sentence, ". . . and he just might start looking athletic."

They pressed on in the direction of Ames, Iowa. After their experience in Marshalltown, they avoided towns altogether. This often required lengthy circ.u.mnavigations. As the spring turned to summer, Ken and Terry saw fewer and fewer motor vehicles in operation. The little gasoline left was obviously being preciously guarded.

Following the advice of the Marshalltown police, they swung far around Des Moines and Omaha. From the vicinity of Ames, they walked another 650 miles west and slightly north, skirting far around Sioux City and Sioux Falls. Because of their stealthy "TABbing," they averaged only four or five miles a night.

They would occasionally find places to barter some of their handful of silver coins for food. But often, they would eat gleanings. Sometimes they would have the chance to shoot a rabbit or a pheasant on the ground with Terry's CAR-15 or with their .45 pistols. Twice, they were lucky enough to find deer to shoot. On each occasion, they spent three days camping in one place, gorging on venison and making jerky. They even cooked and ate the marrow from the large bones. And in both instances they were careful to bury the bones and gut piles so that their camp would not attract the attention of scavengers. In all, their hunting consumed only thirty-one cartridges that spring and summer. They didn't pull the trigger unless a single shot was absolutely sure to "bag a critter."

In late July and early August, they found three weeks of work harvesting pears, strawberries, and raspberries in Mission Hill, just east of Yankton, South Dakota. They were paid 25 cents in pre-1965 silver coin per day, plus one hot meal per day, in exchange for ten-hour days of hot, sweaty harvesting work.

The farm owner offered to keep their packs and rifles safely locked in his guarded house each day. This was the first time in nearly a year that they didn't have their rifles in their hands when they were outdoors. Ken and Terry felt practically naked, carrying just their .45 automatic pistols.

It was in Mission Hill that they also first started trading with Yankton Sioux. They traded two deer hides, seven rabbit pelts, and three pheasant pelts for some antelope jerky, bar soap, and salt. The natives proved hospitable, easygoing, and fair traders. But it was obvious that they were desperately poor. Ken's comment to Terry was "They were poor before the Crunch, but now all they have left is their pride."

14.

In the Footsteps of Josephus.

"There are certain principles that are inherent in man, that belong to man, and that were enunciated in an early day, before the United States government was formed, and they are principles that rightfully belong to all men everywhere. They are described in the Declaration of Independence as inalienable rights, one of which is that men have a right to live; another is that they have a right to pursue happiness; and another is that they have a right to be free and no man has authority to deprive them of those G.o.d-given rights, and none but tyrants would do it. These principles, I say, are inalienable in man; they belong to him; they existed before any const.i.tutions were framed or any laws made. Men have in various ages striven to strip their fellow-men of these rights, and dispossess them of them. And hence the wars, the bloodshed and carnage that have spread over the earth. We, therefore, are not indebted to the United States for these rights; we were free as men born into the world, having the right to do as we please, to act as we please, as long as we do not transgress const.i.tutional law nor violate the rights of others. . . . Another thing G.o.d expects us to do, and that is to maintain the principle of human rights. . . . We owe it to all liberty-loving men, to stand up for human rights and to protect human freedom, and in the name of G.o.d we will do it, and let the congregation say Amen."

-John Taylor, 1882, Journal of Discourses, Volume 23, p. 263.

Muddy Pond, Tennessee.

July, the Second Year.

Life in Overton County was just starting to get back to normal when the first Provisional Government units pa.s.sed through. Since the town was within the four-hour-drive-time local security radius of Fort Knox, Muddy Pond was in one of the first areas to be pacified by the ProvGov. The new administration at first seemed well intentioned and benevolent, but people soon saw its sinister side.

The nationalization programs and the controls began gradually. At first, the ProvGov seized only key industries and utilities. But later, smaller companies were taken over, some seemingly on a whim. People wondered why a padlock manufacturing company would be nationalized. And why would a silver refinery have to be nationalized?

Likewise, the wage, price, currency, and credit controls started small, but gradually grew to gargantuan proportions. Just a month after the ProvGov troops arrived, there was a dusk-to-dawn curfew, with shoot-on-sight orders for violators. But even daylight hours weren't safe, as Ben Fielding discovered.

Early one afternoon, all of Ben's family except Joseph was at home listening to some Messianic music on Rebecca's iPod dock. They often gathered in the living room to do so, on the days that the power was on. The children liked to hear the music played loudly, and they sang along and danced. Their fun was interrupted when they heard some long bursts of automatic weapons fire close by their house. They looked out their living room window and saw a convoy of UNPROFOR coalition vehicles strung out for a quarter mile on the county road. The trucks and APCs had stopped and turned out onto either side of the road in a herringbone pattern. The wild firing continued for thirty seconds. They heard a few shots. .h.i.t the roof of their house. The firing finally stopped when the convoy commander in the lead Marder APC repeatedly honked his horn.

Ben and his family fearfully watched as men ran back and forth between the vehicles. They expected more trouble, so Ben took the precaution of running all the pages of his address book through his cross-cut paper shredder.

Five minutes later, a UNPROFOR patrol approached the front door. A German soldier shouted with a heavy accent, "Man of the house, come out!"

Ben walked out with his hands on top of his head, and said, "The only others here are my wife and children. Please leave them alone."

The patrol leader unslung a rifle from his shoulder and held it out. Ben recognized it as his son's .22, now missing its bolt. The soldat asked, "Your gun, is this?"

"Yes, I believe that is my rifle, but I'm not certain. If that is mine, then it is registered in my name, in full accordance with the law. Where did you find it?"

"It was being carried by a young, er, man, now dead."

Rebecca began wailing.

"Have you any other guns in the house?"

"No."

The soldiers spent an hour noisily ransacking the house, while others held Ben and his terrified family at gunpoint outside. Their youngest daughter, just recently out of diapers, wet herself as they waited. One team searched the house, while another searched the barn and outbuildings. Ben alternated between intense feelings of fear and anger at the situation. They watched helplessly as the soldiers carried off Rebecca's jewelry box, her iPod and dock, and many other small possessions. This included nearly 200 rounds of .22 hollow points that were taken as "evidence."

Finding nothing actionable, the soldiers left without explanation or apology.

Ben and Rebecca went inside to find the house a shambles. Several stretches of Sheetrock in the hall and master bedroom had been kicked in and the upholstery on their couches and two of the mattresses had been slashed open. Two cabinets had been pried completely off the walls, and were left dumped on the floor, coated in Sheetrock dust. There were shattered dishes and plates littering the kitchen and dining room floors. A broken pipe was spraying the front bathroom cabinet with water. Ben soon turned off the well pump and shut the valve for the service line to the house. That stopped the water from further flooding the bathroom and hall.

After a pair of honks, the UNPROFOR convoy left in a cloud of dust and diesel smoke.

Ben and Rebecca walked out to the north end of their property to look for Joseph. After ten minutes of searching, they found his body eighty yards from the county road, and about 300 yards from the house. He had been shot six times in the back and b.u.t.tocks. Two gutted quail were still in his game bag. His white T-shirt was red with blood, and his blue jeans were stained red to the knees.

For a half hour, Ben sat cradling the lifeless form of his eldest son, crying and rocking. Tears ran down his face. Nearby, Rebecca and their three surviving children sat hugging each other in a huddle, crying, moaning, and praying aloud. Finally Ben stood up. He looked down at his son's corpse and said, "You wait here. I'm going to get a shovel, a sheet, some water, towels, and olive oil."

He was back a few minutes later and almost immediately began to dig. As Ben dug just a few feet from his son's body, he said forthrightly, "We'll find no remedy or recourse in the courts, Rebecca. These are tyrants, tyrants. I need to fight them."

He then continued working quietly, digging into the soil and small rocks with fervor. He didn't stop until the grave was head-height deep. Blisters were forming on his palms, but he hardly noticed. As Ben dug the grave, Rebecca washed her son's body, and rubbed olive oil onto his skin.

They gently lowered Joseph's body into the grave and Ben folded the boy's arms across his chest. They shrouded the body with a sheet. Rebecca helped Ben back up out of the grave. After saying prayers, each member of the family poured in a shovelful of earth. Rebecca then did most of the shoveling as they refilled the grave, weeping yet again.

After the grave was refilled and mounded, each family member selected a stone to mark the site. Ben found one beside Joseph's favorite fishing hole.

They recited the Kaddish, a sanctification ritual in Judaism, found in the Siddur, the Jewish liturgy book read in Jewish temples on the Sabbath and High Holy Days.

Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh rabba. Be'alma di vra khir'uteh veyamlikh malkhuteh veyatzma purqaneh viqarev qetz meshieh beayekhon uvyomekhon uvaye dekhol bet yisrael be'agala uvizman qariv ve'imru amen. Yehe shmeh rabba mevarakh le'alam ul'alme 'almaya Yitbarakh veyishtabba veyitpaar veyitromam veyitna.s.se veyithaddar veyit'alleh veyithallal shmeh dequdsha, brikh hu. Le'ella lella mikkol min kol birkhata veshirata tushbeata veneemata daamiran be'alma ve'imru amen.

(May His great name be exalted and sanctified is G.o.d's great name in the world, which He created according to His will! May He establish His kingdom and may His salvation blossom and His anointed be near. During your lifetime and during your days and during the lifetimes of all the House of Israel, speedily and very soon! And say, Amen. May His great name be blessed forever, and to all eternity! Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, above and beyond all the blessings, hymns, praises, and consolations that are uttered in the world! And say, Amen.) As they walked away from the grave and back toward the house, Rebecca carried the shovel. With both sadness and anger, she spat, "Yes, go. Fight them! You have my blessing. Don't worry about us. We will be safe and waiting here. The Lord will protect all of us, and provide for all of us."

That evening, with aching hands, Ben dug up the length of eight-inch-diameter PVC pipe buried beneath their pair of grated trash-burning barrels. The PVC cache tube contained Ben's heavily greased guns: a Galil .308 rifle, a Browning A-5 semiauto 12-gauge shotgun, and an HK USP .45 Compact pistol. All three guns were considered contraband, so they hadn't been registered under the recent edicts. Packed along with the guns there were seven Galil magazines, three 200-round battle packs of Portuguese 7.62mm ball ammunition, and seven boxes of shotgun sh.e.l.ls, each wrapped in separate Ziploc bags. After he had cleaned and loaded the guns, Ben organized his backpacking gear. He put the Galil and magazines in a guitar case, padded by extra clothes.

As Ben organized and packed his gear, Rebecca served the children some leftovers. They had to eat sitting on the couch, because the kitchen was still littered with broken gla.s.s. After they had eaten, Ben gave each of his children lengthy hugs. He told them to be brave and reverent, and to obey their mother. He tucked them into bed and said prayers with each of them.

Back in the living room, Ben spoke with Rebecca, who was busy sweeping up gla.s.s. "The chances that they'll return our .22 rifle are about .001 percent, so I'll leave you silver that you can use to buy another .22 rifle for small game. And I'll be leaving you the 12-gauge for anything bigger, man or beast. I think under the old chest freezer would be a good hiding place for it. Did you notice that the soldiers didn't touch that? You can ask some of the neighbor men to help you patch up the house."

She set down the dustpan and came into the living room with Ben. As he continued packing, he said, "I need to be on my way, tonight. It is easier to fight from outside barbed wire than from inside it. We're lucky that I didn't get arrested today. I don't want to give them another chance. Now listen carefully: I want you to tell people that I was arrested and taken away tonight. Otherwise, they'll ask questions when they see that I've gone. In addition to the Army, there are at least three agencies of the ProvGov and four security contracting companies that are independently arresting people and hauling them off to camps, or I suppose for immediate liquidation. The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. So by blaming them for my disappearance, you'll put yourself in the clear."

"And also make the Hutchings government look even worse," Rebecca added.

Ben nodded and said, "That's right. It's a win-win. They use psychological warfare on us, so it's only fair that we return the favor."

He let out a breath and went on. "Now I'll be going to Nashville to see some old friends. It's safer for both of us if I don't tell you exactly who."

"Okay."

Ben finished strapping his sleeping bag onto his pack. "I'm leaving you most of our silver. I can't be sure, but I'll do my best to send you money from time to time. Whenever I enclose a letter, you have to promise me that you'll burn it, right after you read it."

"I promise."

Then he shouldered his pack and gave his wife a two-minute hug and a kiss. Ben touched the mezuzah on his way out the door. On the porch he snapped closed his backpack's bellyband clasp, and picked up his guitar case. He turned to face his wife again in the doorway. "Trust in Adonai and May His Ruach HaKodesh (Holy Spirit) comfort you during the days you sit Shivah for Joseph. I will remember Joseph with you and will pray the Kaddish for him every day. I will pray every day for peace, safety, and that you would be comforted by the Lord, despite my absence from your side. Remember that Joseph is 'asleep.' He loved the Lord Yeshua and is with Him, at this very moment. Ani meohev otach yoter Midai!"

"I love you without measure as well," she said as he turned and walked out into the darkness.

15.

Vigilantes.

"Every man who goes into the Indian country should be armed with a rifle and revolver, and he should never, either in camp or out of it, lose sight of them. When not on the march, they should be placed in such a position that they can be seized at an instant's warning; and when moving about outside the camp, the revolver should invariably be worn in the belt, as the person does not know at what moment he may have use for it."

-Randolph B. Marcy, Captain, U.S. Army, The Prairie Traveler, 1859.

Muddy Pond, Tennessee.

August, the Second Year.

After his son Joseph was killed, Ben immediately traveled to Nashville. There, he arrived on the doorstep of Adrian Evans. Adrian had been a junior partner at his old law firm. He was the firm's gun nut and had been the one who first taught Ben to shoot. He also brought Ben to his first gun show, where he bought his HK USP .45 pistol. Adrian had always struck Ben as an odd duck who was "always thinking outside the box." It was Adrian who had advised Ben to buy all his guns secondhand from private party sellers, rather than from licensed dealers. "When it comes to guns and ammunition, never leave a paper trail," he had always insisted.

Adrian, now working as a handyman and housepainter, offered to have Ben stay at his house. He promised to link Ben up with a friend who was in the nascent resistance movement.

Neither Ben nor Rebecca had any military or law enforcement experience. Ben had attended just a few Krav Maga martial arts cla.s.ses, and he was only an occasional recreational shooter with no formal training. He regretted not taking more cla.s.ses before the Crunch. He realized that he needed to get some training in a hurry, or he'd have a short life expectancy as a resistance fighter. So, at Adrian's suggestion, Ben sought the help of Peter Moeller, a retired neighbor who was a Vietnam veteran and longtime compet.i.tive shooter. With mostly dry practice and some .22 rimfire training in his bas.e.m.e.nt, Ben became a much more competent shooter. Under Moeller's tutelage, Ben also learned the basics of combat fieldcraft, first-aid for gunshot wounds, and land navigation. Ben began running, stretching, and calisthenics every morning. He also read and reread every book that he could find on guerrilla warfare.

Diving into Adrian's book collection, as well as Moeller's, Ben read a variety of books that ranged from texts like Guerrilla by Charles W. Thayer, Guerrilla Strategies by Gerard Chaliand, and Total Resistance by H. Von Dach. Adrian also insisted that Ben read the lengthy novel Unintended Consequences by fellow attorney John Ross. As Adrian said, "This ain't your everyday novel. You'll end up taking notes. Trust me."

Through Adrian, Ben was put in touch with a resistance group that was being formed locally to conduct arson and sabotage. They called themselves the Matchmakers.

By prearrangement, Ben first met the sabotage group's recruiter at a local bar. Initially, Ben was enthusiastic about the Matchmakers' plans, but this turned to disappointment as the group endlessly built incendiaries, trained, and practiced. But their few operations were against relatively soft targets of no significance.

The Matchmakers met sporadically after-hours at a Nashville dye plant. From the outset, Ben was not impressed with their organizational structure or their operational security (OPSEC). He thought they talked too openly of their plans and that the group was too large. With eighteen members, the resistance group's size would have been more appropriate for more overt guerrilla warfare, rather than just the sabotage that they planned. In Ben's estimation, sabotage teams should have no more than five members, and just a three-member team was ideal. He eventually convinced the unit to break into three smaller cells. Eventually, Ben left the Matchmakers after concluding that they were long on talk, and short on action.

Now physically fit and better trained, Ben moved out of Adrian's house and joined a seven-man raiding team, with members mainly from Crossville. They called themselves the Cantrell Company, in honor of Charles Cantrell, a Tennessee-born Medal of Honor recipient in the Spanish-American War. Here, Ben got his first taste of combat, in a series of raids and ambushes, most within thirty miles of Crossville. Ben developed a reputation as a daring fighter willing to take risks. Eventually, he became the team's most frequent point man. He developed a specialty in sentry removal. Eventually Ben was recruited out of the Cantrell Company to join the Old Man's reconnaissance team.

While he was first with the Matchmakers, Ben learned how to make thermite, which later proved to be a valuable skill. In addition to using some of it himself to weld shut artillery breech blocks, Ben pa.s.sed along his thermite mixing knowledge to four other independent resistance groups.

The Resistance was impossible for the ProvGov to isolate and defeat because it was essentially leaderless. Anyone who tried to establish himself as a "spokesman" or "commander" was quickly and quietly told to shut up or shut down. Instead of a formal hierarchy, decentralized cells, led by subject matter experts, characterized the Resistance. This gave each resistance group a distinct personality and modus operandi. They numbered anywhere from lone wolves to teams of about thirty. Typically, however, most teams or cells were made up of three to ten people. Each team had a specialty, such as demolition, arson, vehicular sabotage, thermiting, reconnaissance, logistics, couriering, sniping, or a.s.sa.s.sination.

The beauty of leaderless resistance was that the small cells were difficult to identify, locate, or penetrate. This frustrated the Hutchings government, which had hoped for a quick solution to the guerrilla war. The lack of a hierarchical structure made it impossible to neutralize the groups. For years, the U.S. Army had emphasized social network a.n.a.lysis and organizational-level a.n.a.lysis, as taught in the joint Army/Marine Corps Counterinsurgency Field Manual. The FM 3-24 doctrine and elaborate matrixes and time-event charts were of no value when resistance was leaderless and fought primarily by small cells that intentionally set no patterns.

As part of their subterfuge, many of the resistance groups had fict.i.tious leaders. Often they had elaborate mythologies that were sometimes so believable that they had ProvGov agents busy for weeks, chasing ghosts. For example, in Arizona, the myth of "Conrad Peters" was developed, based on the name of a real-life individual from Scottsdale who had actually left the country to do missionary work in Mexico just before the Crunch. But according to the mythology, "Peters" led a group that hid out in the Superst.i.tion Mountains east of Phoenix. In New Mexico, "The Paulson Project" supposedly had a secret arms factory in Albuquerque. There was none. In Texas, to supplement three genuine companies there were nine ghost companies of Republic of Texas militia that spread tales of fict.i.tious troop movements throughout the state and even across the Mexican border. In Wyoming, "Colonel Reed" reputedly led the Free State Irregulars. In Utah, there were regular sightings of the enigmatic "Roger Williams," who supposedly led four sabotage teams. None of these individuals ever existed. Closer to the seat of the ProvGov, the Alvin York "Brigade" was in actuality just sixteen men and women.

Actions by other groups operating from a distance were often attributed to the fict.i.tious groups, to sidetrack pursuing ProvGov agents and maneuver units. GPS coordinates of disused camps deep inside BLM and National Forest lands were often leaked, just to get the ProvGov to go investigate. Sometimes, these ruses would include raids on lightly manned garrisons, after their units were confirmed to have departed in search of the phantoms.

Waterville, Vermont.

August, the Second Year.

A tip from a confidential informant had pinpointed the house as the hideout of a resistance cell. Arriving before dawn, a French forward observer team in civilian clothes carried a tripod-mounted AN/PED-1 lightweight laser designator rangefinder (LLDR) to a hilltop. They had it set up just as the daylight was broadening and they could make out the house below. Looking through the LLDR, the team leader thumbed the designator's laser beam on and walked the pip on top of the house that matched the GPS coordinates, distance from the hilltop, and the description from his briefing the previous evening. He locked down the LLDR's manual adjustments and gave the tripod a couple of slight test b.u.mps, and was satisfied that the pip hadn't moved. "Bon, a.s.sure," he mumbled to himself.

The French caporal-chef radioed in, "This is FIST Three. Lima-designated fire mission, vicinity Waterville, per OPORD Sierra. I now have steady lase. Confirm target designation number Bravo-one-four-niner-eight-niner-two, at 1302, Zulu. One round, H-E Quick. Fire at will."

Less than a minute later, he heard the reply, "Shot, over."

Then, far in the distance, he heard a single bark of an artillery piece. He carefully kept the laser pip centered on top of the center of the house. Without glancing away from the LLDR's eyepiece, he pressed his handset and said, "Shot, out."

Out of habit, he started counting the time of flight in seconds in French. He saw a bright flash, as a 155millimeter artillery sh.e.l.l detonated in the house. Then, after a brief lag-caused by the difference between the speed of light and the speed of sound-he heard the distinctive roar of the artillery sh.e.l.l detonating, and the sound echoed up and down the valley.

Releasing the trigger on the designator and again keying his radio handset, he said, "Splash, over."

Dogs at a dozen nearby homes began a cacophony of howling and barking. A car alarm near the target house began warbling, no doubt set off by the sh.e.l.l's concussion.

The fire control center replied, "Splash, out."

The Frenchman took one last look through the scope and saw that what was left of the house was now engulfed in flames. He gave a thin smile and reported, "Target destroyed. End of mission. Packing up here. Will RTB in approximately thirty-five mikes. Out."

His two security men were French privates. They wore blue jeans, Land's End jackets, baseball caps, and sungla.s.ses. They were both armed with Clairons-their nickname for FAMAS bullpup carbines. The caporal-chef carried only a holstered HK USP 9mm pistol. The security men helped him carry the folded tripod and the case for the LLDR down to their black 2014 Range Rover. Another successful mission, with no muss or fuss. They hadn't even gotten their hands dirty.