James Rawles - Founders

“Will do, sir,” Andy answered.

The next morning, Andy walked up General Olds’s driveway just as Olds was coming down the steps. Both men were dressed in well-worn Army PT sweats, with black bottoms and gray tops.

“Good to see you, Andrew. You’re prompt, as always.”

After wordlessly doing some stretching exercises, Andy and the general started out at a lope, running side by side. They soon settled into a steady, familiar “Jody” running pace. There was no vehicle traffic.

Ahead of them, a platoon of soldiers ran in formation singing a familiar “Jody” tune—but with some lyrics in German and Dutch. The platoon crossed the intersection in front of them, heading toward Agony Hill. Seeing them reminded Andy of when he was posted at Fort Hood five years before. The only difference was that they had dispensed with the road guards in optic orange vests, and instead they now had four soldiers with loaded M4s—two ahead and two behind the formation—as ATEs—Anti-Terrorist Escorts.

After the sound of the platoon had faded into the distance, Olds said in a casual voice, “It’s good to be able to talk freely without a lot of European backstabbers listening.”

Laine nodded, and Olds continued, “Let me fill you in. The New Army is essentially a sham. It is a cover for a foreign occupation force. Don’t have any illusions: The UN is calling the shots. Anyone that steps out of line gets shown the door—that is, if they’re lucky—or they conveniently disappear—with that blamed on resistance kidnappers—or they have a sudden ‘heart attack,’ or they ‘commit suicide.’”

Andy groaned and said, “That’s not too surprising.”

“You’ve probably heard that the ProvGov is expanding in all directions, and now controls about half of the land area in CONUS, and 70 percent of the population. The motivation is loot. Everyone right down to the infantry privates gets some loot. The Tooth-to-Tail Ratio has been stretching more and more toward bureaucracy and do-nothing general staffs, as everyone and his uncle want to share a piece of the action.”

Olds shook his head from side to side, saying, “Someday this institutional sickness has to end.”

They continued on, at a comfortable and familiar pace. Andy was glad that they were running early in the morning, before the temperature rose. Fort Knox was famous for its hot, humid summer weather. General Olds seemed deep in thought. They jogged on in silence for several minutes.

Finally, Olds commented, “All this looting… They don’t need any encouragement from the higher echelons. You see, once they occupy a region, they start to strip it of any valuables that are compact and portable, mostly gold and gemstones and guns—especially handguns. But they’re even after jewelry, elephant ivory, high-end electronics and ebook readers, things of that nature. Silver is just too heavy to carry, so if they get any, they very quickly try to swap it twenty for one or even thirty for one for gold or platinum. They want compact but valuable loot that they can take with them when they go back home, O-CONUS.”

“I see.”

“In the Plains states, it was essentially a race between the unit commanders to see who got to loot each city first.”

“In-credible.”

“The modus operandi is hideously simple,” Olds continued. “They roll into a town and declare it ‘pacified.’ Then they start interrogating and find out where all the jewelers, coin dealers, and gun dealers live. Those that don’t agree to be ‘taxed’ to the tune of 40 percent of their inventory get either shot or arrested for being ‘terrorist sympathizers.’”

Olds snorted to himself. “At first, I was hoping that all this would soon stop, but it hasn’t. It’s actually become institutionalized. We have independent infantry brigades out there that have practically gone rogue, that have been out of contact with us for months at a time, hopping from town to town. When they do cycle back to Knox, they come home packing heavy.”

“That’s unconscionable.”

“But that’s not all, Andy. There are also the rapes and the child molestations. There are some very sick puppies in the UN forces, and within the civilian rank and file of the ProvGov. It seems to attract the sickos. Some of the worst of them gravitate to the frontier, where they can get away with more. We call it the ‘leading edge’ or the ‘bleeding edge.’”

By the tone of the general’s voice, it was apparent to Andy that he was fully sympathetic to the Resistance. Olds seemed to have drawn the same conclusion about Andy Laine. They ran on for several more minutes, in silence. Then Olds asked, “What’s your view of the strategic situation?”

“The Army seems to be getting stretched thin,” Andy answered. “There’s almost 3.8 million square miles in the United States. As the Army spreads out, it has to leave garrisons in each region. The troops are getting spread thinner and thinner. It’s like the board game Risk, but for real.”

Olds nodded in agreement. “Speaking of risks, just before I rotated in from Germany, an infantry colonel and two MI majors here at Knox tried to plan a coup, but they were detected and shot, very early on. I don’t know whether it was bad OPSEC, or bad COMSEC, or just a talkative wife, but the whole operation got blown. They drove those three officers out to the North Range maneuver area, and shot them in the back of the head. They tucked them into a ditch with a backhoe. The ProvGov didn’t even try to make a secret of it. I think they wanted it to be known: ‘This is what happens to any Valkyrie wannabes.’ Things have been very quiet since then.”

“So now?”

“Now we watch, wait, and coordinate some plans, very quietly,” Olds replied.

Five Miles West of Leitchfield, Kentucky

December, the Second Year

Ben Fielding had no previous military experience and just a bit of field experience with the Matchmakers. And of course there was the incident behind the Full Moon Saloon, long before the Crunch. But that occasion he considered just instinctive self-defense and God’s protection. Despite his lack of formal training, Ben soon excelled at patrolling. He had keen senses and better-than-average night vision. He learned how to move almost silently. He originally carried his big Galil .308 rifle, but he later began carrying a suppressed MP5-SD slung with a single-point sling instead. He sent the Galil home for the safekeeping of his family in Muddy Pond, via a courier. He enclosed a note that read simply: “All is well. Keep the faith. B.”

Ben habitually wore a sniper’s camouflage face veil/scarf that had been “liberated” from a dead Austrian sentry. He liked the versatility of the scarf. In cold weather it could be worn as a muffler. And he found that he could quickly don it as a face veil when he was approaching UNPROFOR positions. This obviated the need to put on face paint.

While most of the members of the reconnaissance team wore Woodland or MultiCam pattern BDUs or OCPs, Ben wore all civilian clothes. His clothes were typically green denim jeans and a brown shirt. In cold weather he added a brown Australian’s oilskin drover’s jacket with a corduroy collar that had been given to him by Adrian. Because he didn’t like the way they blocked his peripheral vision, Ben never wore hats with brims. Sometimes, when the weather got unusually cold, he would wear a green knit cap, but never over his ears. To Ben, all his senses were crucial. For wet work, situational awareness often could make a split-second difference between life and death.