Ken Goddard - Double blind

Only after they finished the soy burgers and exchanged their empty plates for hot cups of herbal tea and chocolate did the conversation turn back to the government.

"You think the people around here are fed up with the way the government runs things?" Wintersole asked casually.

"Oh hell yes!" The Sage nodded emphatically, his reddened cheeks almost glowing beneath his raggedy beard as he launched into a topic clearly dear to his heart. "A lot of folks around here been that way for twenty years or so."

"What do you mean?" Wintersole appeared confused by the old man's words.

"Ever heard of a group called the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal?"

Wintersole shook his head. "Can't say that I have."

"Bunch of people who got fed up with the government telling them what to do, when, where, and how, so they up and moved… right out here to these mountains." The Sage's waving hand encompassed much of the surrounding landscape.

"A brigade's a couple thousand soldiers minimum," Wintersole commented casually. "Are there really that many of them?"

"Nah, more like a couple squads at best." The Sage smiled. "Oh, they've got the rank for a brigade. Lord, do they ever! Bird colonel, light colonels, and majors everywhere you look. But the last time I checked, they were a little short on noncoms and ground troops. Fact is, they ain't got any. Guess they figure they'll fill the ranks when the balloon goes up and all locals rally around the flag."

"Sounds like they're running away from reality."

"Sure they are, but the funny thing is" — the old man shook his head sadly — "they really didn't escape at all, because they can't seem to wean themselves off the government tit, and the government's still telling them they can't do this, can't shoot that, can't do much of anything without a permit.

"And they don't like that at all," he added ominously.

"They sound like my kind of people." Wintersole leaned slightly toward the old man. "I don't like being told what I can hunt and where I can hunt, either."

"A lot of people feel that way around here," the Sage agreed, then looked around to see if anyone else was within listening range. "In fact," he added in a lowered voice, "it wouldn't surprise me none if these Seventh Seal folks took it into their heads to do something about it."

Wintersole smiled.

"Like what?" he asked. His eyes made their routine sweep of the enclosed porch. "Picket the local post office?"

"I doubt it," the Sage replied with a sly smile. "Not their style."

"You're suggesting they might take a more direct approach?"

"They just might," the old man acknowledged. "But I don't think they'd get very far," he added glumly.

"Really?" Wintersole drummed his fingers lightly on the table. "Why not?"

The old man shrugged impatiently. "Hell, everybody knows they're just plain outgunned. Bunch of shotguns and hunting rifles won't do them much good against an FBI SWAT team."

"Depends on what you're talking about," the hunter-killer team leader replied. "In the right hands, scoped hunting rifles and shotguns could do a lot of damage against a small police or county SWAT team, maybe three or four men. But you're right," he conceded thoughtfully. "They try to go up against one of the FBI Hostage Rescue teams, that's a different ball game entirely. They'd need modern assault rifles, grenades, and night-vision gear at a minimum, not to mention a whole bunch of trained people with logistics, communications support, trained military leaders, the works. And if they're that big, the FBI's just going to step back and call in one of the National Guard units."

"Well, at least that'd be more of a fair fight, local boys against local boys." The Sage smiled.

"I don't think so." Wintersole shook his head. "Doesn't matter how big, well trained, or well-equipped this militant group of yours may be, if they ever went up against something like an air mobile maneuver battalion — 750 trained troops armed with light assault weapons, state-of-the-art communications, air support — they wouldn't last more than a couple of hours, tops. And that's being pretty damned optimistic."

"You sure about that?" The old man peered at him quizzically.

"Positive."

"Sounds like you know something about this kind of business."

"I know how it works," Wintersole replied. "And it's not pretty. Trust me.

"You were in the military, I take it?"

"That's right."

"But you're not any longer… retired, maybe?"

"Maybe."

The old man stared intently at Wintersole for a few moments.

"That's an evasive answer," he finally declared.

"Yes, it is," Wintersole agreed.

"Well then," the Sage said after another long moment, "maybe you're just the guy who can explain something I've always wondered about."

"What's that?"

"Posse comitatus."

Wintersole shrugged. "What about it?"

"I want to know how it works. Seems to me I remember hearing that the American military can't be used to do police work."

"They can't," Wintersole replied evenly. "So what? The federal government isn't going to stand for an open rebellion. You can just flat count on that. They'll let the police, FBI, or whatever, take on the small groups, no problem. But the first time an anti-government organization takes over government property, sets up a perimeter, and plants a flag that says 'come get me if you dare,' you can bet some local National Guard lieutenant colonel will get orders to take his battalion though a live-fire exercise right over the top of that flagpole."

"No shit?"

"None whatsoever," the hunter-killer recon team leader stated emphatically.

The old man sat in silence, apparently disconcerted by this latest bit of information.

"Well, hell," he finally said, "I don't think these people are planning on a full-scale battle anyway. They just want to make a statement. You know, like at Concord right before the Revolutionary War. Show them big boys back in Washington that they can't push true American patriots around forever."

"Now that's a different ball game." Wintersole nodded approvingly. "If all these people want to do is make a statement, that can be accomplished with a small tight group… assuming they're properly armed, trained, and motivated," he added meaningfully.

"Yeah, well, the way I hear it, it's kinda hard to get yourself properly armed and trained and all that if you haven't had much in the way of disposable income for the past twenty-some years," the Sage responded glumly.

"Sounds like this group needs to find themselves a sugar daddy."

"'Course they do. But how the hell do they go about finding someone like that?"

"Maybe all they have to do is offer the right person a nice cup of hot herbal tea," Wintersole suggested, tapping his finger lightly against his cup.

The Sage eyed his two guests carefully.

"You know," he lowered his voice, "I've been telling them all along somebody like you would show up someday."

"What do you mean, 'somebody like me'?"

"The forces of darkness and light are coming, just like it says in Revelations. I told them that. Nothing is ever as it seems, but the signs are everywhere." The old man smiled proudly.

"And how did they respond?" Wintersole asked cautiously.

"I don't think they believed me."

The old man stuck a long, gnarled finger into the nearly empty cup and discontentedly stirred the dregs of his now-cold hot chocolate.

"What do you think it would take to change their mind?" Not a trace of sarcasm colored Wintersole's delivery.

The old man hesitated.

"You mean about you being one of those forces?"

"That's right."

"Well, knowing these folks the way I do" — the Sage leaned forward and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level again — "I'm guessing they'd either want to see the color of your money or the quality of your hardware."