It's put-up or shut-up time for the local P.D., the Sheriff's office, and State Patrol. Their first trial and tribulation for Medical Mechanica's final exam; and there are no do-overs or retaking the test after class. Do they have what it takes to roll with The Red Star's Marines? Get out your notepad and pencil, and judge for yourself. Who will be granted a reprieve, and who will find themselves under Johnny Law's Hammer?
. . .
"Are there any more questions?" Captain Chojnacki looked at the SWAT teams he had been briefing for the past four hours. "Speak now, or forever hold your peace."
"What time is kick-off again?" An eager officer was reviewing his notes. All were sitting forward on their seats. This was to be their first exercise in the name of Medical Mechanica, and they were anxious to demonstrate their capabilities. It was an unspoken given The Man in Black would be appraising their every action. No one wanted to look weak.
"2200, tonight. Pay attention Roosevelt, or you're gonna miss something small that'll get you killed. Anything else? Questions, comments, concerns?"
"They won't know what hit 'em Captain!"
"Oh they will Vickers, they certainly will. In fact, you'd best be counting on it."
. . .
I made it home just moments to spare. George was getting in his truck and said he was headed for the runway. Country must have called him as well. We drove out and waited along the edge, straining up at the clear sky for any sign of an aircraft.
"Does he do this often?" I asked while George scanned with his binoculars.
"Do what? Randomly call and drop in out of the blue? With no warning, reason, or regard for operational security? That?"
"Yeah."
"I think he lives for it. How'd the morning go?"
"Tagged another tower. It was brand new, must've been to fill in an area without coverage. None are guarded or under surveillance, so there were no problems."
"Then why is your Bronco caked from stem to stern with mud?" Oh yeah…that. Well, Uncle George, it's a funny thing… "Did you decide to go muddin' while you were out?"
"No, I ran into Officer Hynen." After our shouting match over Clyde's trailer, I decided it was best to be more upfront about things. For some reason, pressure-cooking issues and hoping they went away, only made them worse. Imagine that. "We had a good talk, found out some interesting things."
"You did? How is he doing?" George gave up on the binos. "What'd he say?"
"He's doing alright, still a cop, but alright. He confirmed both the MRAP's, and the Bearcats too."
"Bearcats too? Is something going on?"
"There is. George, I'm new to this, and admit it freely, so I'm gonna be real. I'm not like you, Tommy, Shifty, or my Dad. But…"
"But what?"
"But even I can tell a crackdown is coming. And is coming soon, like, too soon. I mean a full-on, Warsaw Ghetto Uprising crackdown." George stopped looking out his window and looked me full in the face. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was gonna cry. I had a feeling he believed me, but just didn't want to. The ramifications were so terrible, he probably hoped I, despite his best intentions for me, was wrong and spouting utter, unsubstantiated bullshit. He knew I was telling the truth though, this was way too serious to just be making shit up.
"How soon, is too soon?" He asked after a long pause. "And who will be involved?" And by 'who' he meant 'Will it be Medical Mechanica Marines, or will we be forced to fight our fellow Humans?'
"We have at most two weeks. More likely we only have one week."
"That is too short. Half the men don't have armor, we don't have enough ammo, most of them aren't trained as much as they should be…okay, okay…" Before he could get off on a self-induced ramble, he took several breaths. "And who?"
"Medical Mechanica is conducting a purity test." I answered, feeling both of us die a little. I just wanna make this clear 'fore we continue on. No, I don't like cops. Lots of us don't. But do I wake up each morning and hope it's the day we gun-up and start hunting everything with a badge? No. Never have, and never will. It is one thing to wish someone would just bugger off and let you live your life in peace, but quite another when you actually have to take up arms to defend yourself, because they've betrayed their own species for power-lust and a place at the feet of their new overlords. We, and I, had signed on to kill Medical Mechanica, The Red Star, The Vinculum, as they call themselves. Not Humans.
"They have to weed out the posers and band wagon riders somehow." George sighed. "This'll be the most efficient way; setting them against their own people. Nothing we can do but adjust accordingly. You're being strangely calm about this though."
"I'm just repressing my fear for now, so I can dissolve into a quivering jelly of terror later. I'll do the dissolving while in the shower; it'll save time and cleanup." How I wish I was kidding…
"Oh, okay. Just don't get sucked down the drain when you do your dissolving."
"Imagine explaining that to the plumber. Well, yah see, my nephew turned to jellyfish in the shower, and is stuck somewhere between the drain and septic tank…"
"All because we made him talk to a girl." George saw an opening. "He couldn't get past hello."
"Hey, I can talk to plenty of girls whenever I want."
"That, what's-its-fuck, Ohm-Eagle-Spiegel, or whatever…"
"Omegle…"
"Or whatever, doesn't count."
"I don't use Omegle, first of all. And second, if I did, would that at least count as practice?"
"NO."
"Tommy said the same thing."
"Of course he did." George had himself a good chortle, then the binos were back up. "I think that's him." And indeed it was. The C-123 Country had flown last time was unmistakable with its grinning Shark's Mouth. The plane lined up with the runway like he meant to land. We had started filling in the crater over the weekend, so much for punishing Haruko. I think I'll let Naota how to punish Haruko. Hee-hee...think about it...I'm awful, I know.
"His gear isn't coming down…" George now frowned as Country approached.
"Let me see." I looked through the binos, and the C-123's landing gear was still retracted. But something was different about the back end. "Ohhh…I see what he's doing. He's got the ramp down, see?" Country flew that plane ten feet off the ground, his cargo ramp just above the dirt. As he passed, a pair of parachutes deployed from the cargo hold and dragged out series of strapped down and cushioned pallets of crates; all skidding across the shale in a flurry of prop washed up dust. His drop complete, Country raised his ramp, circled back to waggle his wings in salute, and disappeared to the south from whence he'd came. Further inspection revealed some of the crates contents, boldly stamped in military font. Atop the first pallet of ammunition SPAM-cans was duct-taped an envelope. I ripped it open and George and I both read in amused disbelief.
Cousins George, Thomas, and Jeff,
Mr. Griggs has informed me of your supply issues and difficulty in acquiring sufficient arms and ammunition. The $25,000 USD you wired him for safekeeping and for Overwatch related funding, has been spent. Before you are the products purchased, as per approval from Mr. Griggs:
-10 AK-47 rifles of the Izhmash Concern; and accessories
-50,000 rounds of 7.62 X 39mm; of Wolf Ammunition
-3,500 rounds of 0.50 BMG; of Federal Ammunition
-The remainder of funds were spent on 100 Grade Aviation 'Green' gasoline
Additionally, the following items were acquired, in the unlikely event their deployment be deemed necessary:
-7 M2HB Heavy Machine Guns of Browning North America; and accessories and tripods.
Please ensure these items are deployed properly and effectively. I apologize for the sudden nature of this delivery, but am aware Time is a resource we are in ever shorter supply. I also apologize for using a LAPES drop, but there is a little girl's birthday party I must attend; and my darling wife will turn me into stew meat if I miss it. I hope next time I will be able to stop by.
Meanwhile, in The Spirit of The Chaotic Good, I am yours in Armed Liberty:
-Country
P.S. Don't ask me stupid questions about where I find things, and I won't have to tell you stupid lies.
P.S.S. Don't shoot your eye out!
. . .
The first raid wasn't scheduled until ten o'clock at night, so Cole had some time to putter around the office. To kill the boredom, he started archiving old emails. While sorting, a new message popped up. It was from one of the Armorers. He was just as bored sitting in the station's arms locker; The Cage as it was known.
*Hey Kauffman. Heard some rumblings about a raid tonight?*
*From where, and from who? That's supposed to be classified. Need to know basis.*
*Intuition. No one signs out 10 UMP-45's, 5 M16's, 3 Rem. 870's, and 2 M24's, plus all the wrappings, without cause. That's a lot of firepower. What's up?*
*…* Cole hesitated to say, but the urge to gloat pulled relentlessly. *There are TWO raids.*
*Dets?*
*Weapons and explosives search, confiscation and seizure.*
*Fun-fun. What kind of weapons? The ratatatata kind?*
*Exactly.*
*Anyone I've heard of?*
*You could look them up. We also have tips from anons and plainclothes from gun shows. Might be full auto sears and parts, suppressors and parts. Manufacturing of full autos and conversions. Same with explosives. May be bomb/grenade/IED makers.*
*That would be a great find.*
*Preemptive too.*
*Don't need the civilians gunning up and thinking they're Rambo.*
*The more work we do now, the easier it will be later.*
*True. Hey. With anons, how did we get warrants signed?*
*That's hysterical! ?*
*Judge Ryan? Don't see it. Straight-laced guy. Major PITA*
*MIB having a talk. Judge Ryan has skeletons in closet. Will be given blank warrants to sign. We just fill in blanks.*
*The MIB? Done deal then.*
*He is very good. Can't wait for raid. Bound to be lots of good stuff. Also good for PR optics.*
*Bringing some press hounds along?*
*Hearts and minds, hearts and minds. Nab a few gun-nuts, showcase arsenals/stockpiles, demonize them. Then any resistance talk gets kibosh from get-go.*
*You've given this some thought.*
*They don't pay me just for my good looks. I'd need a raise if they did.*
*Haha, sure, sure. GTG. Duty calls.*
*Same. NOT A WORD of this leaks.*
*Yeah, sure.*
*I mean that.*
*I got it!*
*I'll hold you at your word.* Cole logged off, leaned back and stretched. A glance at his watch told him it was time to check his equipment and sight in his UMP-45. He hoped he'd get a chance to use it.
. . .
Another day done and another day of his talent wasted. Judge Ryan harrumphed and grumbled back to his chambers, annoyed how long this recent case had been running. The jury couldn't make up their minds if you put a gun to their heads. Now the courthouse was coal furnace dark and deserted save himself, and the janitor. Judge Ryan's office was similarly lit and he fumbled with the lock before doffing his robes. His suit and pants were stowed neatly in a bureau next to the door. Then, half dressed, robes in one hand, pants in the other, there was a blinding flash. A harsh, cruel laughing filled the office.
"Good evening, Most Honorable Judge Ryan!" The cackling came from the Judge's desk and he snapped the lights on. Ryan's heart nearly fell out of his chest and he choked down a scream upon seeing The Man in Black occupying his chair; a large camera in his hands. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
"Why, in THE HELL, are you in my office?! I told you I wanted nothing to do with you, or your dammed Red Star!"
"Why aren't you wearing any pants?" The Man countered. Ryan ignored this barb.
"Did you just take a picture of me?"
"I did not take a picture of you." The Man smiled, leaning in the chair with a leisurely lush.
"Then what was…?"
"I have taken several pictures of you, and video too. I do not wish to be accused of photographic manipulation, video is much harder to falsify." The Man pointed to a far corner of the ceiling, and a small hole in the crown molding. "Right up there, in the corner."
"Y-your…you…BASTARD!" Ryan spat, unable to summon a better insult on the fly. "What do you want? You already have money, wherever you get it from, and I won't touch it; not one blood stained cent!"
"I am aware you cannot be bought." The Man placed his attache case on the desk. "Quiet admirable, and impressive. Most impressive. You have also resisted even after being shown What All Could Be Yours."
"You mean that hypnotic mind trick."
"Do not patronize me. I happen to admire your resilience, it is so rare these days. It serves you well to stay within my good graces. Now, in light of you not willingly assisting me, I will instead make you."
"So what is this, some form of blackmail?"
"Not some form. It IS blackmail. I'm sure the citizens of Pennsylvania would be just beside themselves finding out that their Pillar of Righteousness, the epitome of what should be morality and integrity, is a voyeuristic pervert that pleasures himself in court…"
"I do not, fondle myself!"
"Prove you don't." The Man's toothy smile only infuriated Ryan more. It was such a smug 'gotcha' grin, it begged to be punched into scattered teeth across the carpet. All Ryan could muster was impotent rage. "I thought so. Here is what I require of you." The Man extracted several papers from his case and laid them out.
"Blank warrants. Why?"
"All I need is your signature? And why? For legitimacy. When all is said and done, the people will want answers. Giving what I must do your seal of approval will placate the people and put them at ease. 'Well…' They will say. 'Well… normally I would complain, resist. But if Judge Ryan says so, it must be alright.' That is why I require your signature. Sign, and I will cease darkening your doorstep."
"Until you need another favor, right?"
"Of course! Are you sure you're really a judge? The practical aspects of blackmail seem utterly foreign to you." The Man appeared genuinely concerned.
"I've convicted liars, cheats, con-men, and thieves more honorable than you." Ryan snarled, having presence of mind to finally get fully dressed. "I think better of them than your cowardly sneaking about."
"And I do not give a Priest's Damnation what you think." The Man sat upright, somehow seeming taller even while sitting. "I explained once already, but you require a remedial lesson. Your best interest lies in pleasing me. This planet will fall, this planet will come into the fold of The Solar Federation, and the banner of The Red Star will grace all the planet's highest and most prominent places as surely as your sun rises and sets; and you know this to be true from what I have revealed to you. Your only choice in the matter is how you will fit into this new paradigm; if at all. The Temple does not suffer grifters, or deviants. I have already dispatched two such deviants under my employ that displeased me, and am perfectly happy to eradicate a third if I deem fit; and will find a more amendable replacement before I even need to ask for volunteers. So. Judge." The Man held out one of Ryan's pens. "Let us dispense with the pearl clutching and sophistry. Sign and secure yourself good standing. Or don't, and be swept into The Red Star's dustbin."
Judge Ryan had resisted The Man in Black's overtures thus far. While his habit was inexcusable and grounds for immediate disbarring from the board, he was otherwise uncorrupted. Or at least he had convinced himself so well he truly believed his own lies. This thought had begun spinning in his head since The Man stared talking. This was The Man's desire; planting a seed of doubt in an otherwise pristine mind. All it took to take root was one slip-up on the Judge's part, one act of human stupidity, and he'd shattered his own illusion. He took the pen in a hand trembling from self-hating rage.
"What are these warrants for?"
"Do you really care, or are you merely being polite?"
"It would do well to have my story straight if, or when, I am accosted by a reporter asking questions."
"Don't worry about what to say. What do you think I am here for? I, and The Priests, will take care of everything. The words you'll speak, the praises you'll sing. Don't worry or wonder How or Why." Ryan's shame and anger melted away with The Man's assurances. It was going to be alright. The odds of him being discovered were an inevitability, but The Man was offering him an out, a trade. His authority and vested power, for discretion and leniency. Put in those terms, Ryan reasoned he'd be a fool to keep swimming upstream. Riding with the current was a sight easier, and safer. Without any further questions, he signed.
. . .
"Did your design work?" George asked. He was checking in on me in my room. "Rita said she had heard your tests on the runway."
"Nope. It did not work." I held up a blown open steel tube, peeled back ala banana. "The pressure spike was too high for this small of a volume. It blew the tube open, and then blasted the piston back through into the receiver; the rest of the parts went out the only way they could, through the ejection port."
"Oh my." George understated and I handed him the tube to examine. "How soon will you have it adjusted?"
"By tomorrow morning. I'll have a new design for Naota and Haruko to build. That I'll test tomorrow too, and they'll start production same day; if it works. Which it will. I hope."
"It will." George handed the tube back. I laid it on the drafting table next to my desk. "Don't stay up all night though. We have a morning meeting tomorrow and you cannot be sleep-logged."
"A morning meeting? That's…different."
"It's too late for tonight, but can't wait until tomorrow evening."
"Something come up?"
"Yeah, all that you told me today. Griggs will be there too."
"And there will be much rejoicing."
"Indeed. I'll let you get back to work." We said our goodnights. I turned back to my computer, the CAD drafting program, and CFD software; Computational Fluid Dynamics. Pro-tip: save yourself the trouble and don't get hooked on math. At least meth will kill you quickly. Math takes its sweet time and makes you off yourself. The now silent house made concentrating on overpressure issues difficult, so I brought up my music library and donned my headphones. Who to play…who to play…? Ah, of course! Ted Nugent. Who else?
. . .
In the early mornin' hours, there's a din in the air…
Mayhem's on the loose!
Stormtroopers comin' and you'd better be prepared!
Got no time to choose!
Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…
Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…*
. . .
Twenty officers of the State Patrol's Special Weapons and Tactics team had dismounted their MRAP's and stacked up on the front and back doors of their first house. There were nine per door, and the two with M24 sniper rifles were staked out to cover each stack. This did not include the fifty additional officers of backup, waiting just around the corner should something go wrong. A single light was on in the living room, and the flicker of a television screen flashed against closed blinds. Cole was the third man in his stack. It was his call that would set things in motion.
"All exits secured?" He whispered into his radio.
"Everything secured, cover established. Nothing gets out. No signs of activity. You are clear." The lead sniper reported he and the other sniper were set. Cole could execute at his discretion.
"Roger that. Door, you ready?" The two officers at the door nodded and readied their fifty-pound steel tube. "All teams. We are Green. Execute on my mark. Three…two…ONE."
At Cole's wording of the 'N' sound of 'ONE', the door rams smashed their targets clean off their hinges. Twenty adrenaline pumped, blood lusted and psyched up troopers swarmed the small house; each bellowing "State Police! State Police! Hands up, on the floor! State Police! Hands up!" at the top of their lungs. Most of the house was dark, except for the living room where Cole made his way. Instead of seeing the middle-aged, mustachioed man he expected, it was a fourteen year old girl, and a five year old boy; both sitting on the couch and watching cartoons.
"What the hell…?" Immediately he knew something was wrong. "Where's your father?!"
"H-he's, he's out with, with Calvin's mom. They're, they're on a, ah, a uh…" As the girl tried to explain her father, and the mother of the boy she was babysitting, were on a date, the boy began to cry. After all, his evening had taken a sudden turn. One moment had been reruns of Yogi Bear and Scooby-Doo. Now there were several tall, scary men with their faces covered in masks, helmets and goggles, all yelling and pointing big guns at his face; and was absolutely certain that somehow it was all his fault.
"Forget it!" Cole snapped and turned to his squad. "WELL?!"
"No one else here, Sir. I thought the guy we were after didn't have kids?"
"Our intel must've been off." Cole said instead of admitting to his men they were in the wrong house. "Search the place anyway, maybe we'll get lucky." Five minutes and a ransacked, destroyed house later, the officers departed in haste. Cole scribbled a note and pushed it into the girl's hands. He ordered her to give it to her father when he returned. It read: "Completed housing code inspection. Nothing taken. PA State Patrol."
. . .
Comin' up the street, jackboots steppin' high!
Got to make a stand!
They're lookin' in your window, and listenin' to your phone…
Keep a gun in your hand!
Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…
Get ready…ready…ready…Stormtroopers comin'…
. . .
"Are you sure?"
"Yessir."
"Are you SURE?"
"Y-yessir."
"That didn't sound too sure to me. Are you even sure that you're sure? You'd best unfuck yourself Cleggen, and be goddamn sure this's the right house. If you embarrass me in front of everyone again, I swear on my parent's graves I will remove your eyelids with a dull butter knife."
"Yes, yes Sir! I'm sure that I'm sure!" Trooper Cleggen, stationed in the command vehicle, promised Cole; his voice cracking under the stress. The first house had been the right number, but the wrong street. They had hit 913 Cove Street, instead of 913 Cove Road. It was the home of a known firearms collector, especially in historic military arms and civilian curios. What the officers were looking for in particular, were a few small pieces of metal that composed an auto sear.
An auto sear is a machined piece of metal only about two sugar cubes in size. It fits with five other parts similar in size, to make a semi-automatic gun, in this case an AR-15, fire fully automatic like its M16/M4 brethren. Registration, manufacture, sale, and use of these small pieces of steel is heavily regulated and tracked; usually through holders of an FFL. This house was not home to one such licensee, Mr. Barnes instead held a Curio and Relics license; which did not allow him to own any firearm under FFL jurisdiction. And, even though he had never owned or even seen an auto sear in his life, his house was getting a visit all the same.
The doors fell in just as the first house, and the State Police's SWAT team valiantly stormed an empty house. Mr. Barnes, their target, had found a hot date at the bar and went home with her, rather than back to his place. They searched the house in the same manner Jeff Carson had searched Clyde's trailer; only more so. They not only upended every cabinet, drawer, and piece of furniture, they also ripped off the sheetrock to search the walls, and tore down the ceiling tiles to access the attic.
As a C&R holder, Mr. Barnes had taken care to find the best safes money could buy. When the SWAT team's sledgehammers had failed to crack them, acetylene torches were brought in. Meanwhile, Cole and three others searched out back. A tool shed and camper were also opened by snipping their locks with bolt cutters. They did not have even a blank warrant ready for these two structures, but that didn't matter at that point. Rakes, shovels, shears, post hole diggers, flower pots, power cords, a weed whacker, and a lawn sprinkler flew out the shed door as an officer searched.
"How're we coming?" Cole was starting to feel uneasy. Toe-tapping superiors and restless reporters were waiting outside, and he had nothing to show; yet. There was also the ever present worry The Man in Black had mixed himself into the crowd to observe unnoticed. "They've got nothing out back 'cept some fertilizer."
"Can't we…ooooff!" The other officer grunted as he and a third pried at the safe door with crowbars. "…Say he was using it to make ANFO? On more pry outta do us. Put your back into it Blair!"
"Not a handful of the stuff for porch tomatoes, no."
"Too bad…got it!" CRANG! The safe's door, after half an hour of valiant resistance, finally gave. The safe was filled with mostly World War I and World War II bolt action rifles, several lever action guns, an M1 Garand, one AR-15, and a Chinese SKS with an orange fiberglass stock. There were even more pistols, mostly oddball and unique calibers from the turn of the last century. Not wanting to take chances or leave empty handed, all twenty seven rifles and thirty five pistols, and all the ammunition as well, were confiscated; and then paraded before the reporter's cameras. They would find, or invent, something to charge Mr. Barnes with later.
. . .
Two hundred down, and it's comin' 'round again…
Got no second choice.
Where's the Justice, and where's the Law?!
Raise your healthy voice!
. . .
One-month married Dorothy and Eugene Dryphus were getting ready for bed. She'd used the tiny bathroom first, then instructed him to make his shower quick; or she'd be forced to get started in bed without him.
'Wouldn't that be a tragedy…' Eugene thought of his wife waiting on soft sheets with open arms; and legs. 'Don't wanna keep her too long…' He turned off the water and reached for a towel. With the running water stopped, he could hear another noise. A heavy knocking at the front door.
"Gene, I think someone's at the door!" Dorothy called. "Can you make them go away?"
"Yeah, I hear 'em…" Now there were muffled words along with the knocking. "Of all times."
"…Open up!" THMP! THMP! THMP! "Po…Open…now!"
"What in the Hell?" Eugene didn't see any flashing lights through the windows, and since it was just past midnight, he wrongly assumed it couldn't be the police. Wrapping himself in a towel, he went first to the bedroom.
"Honey, what is it?" Dorothy's eyes were fear-filled as Eugene drew a pistol from his safe and loaded it. "Gene, what's out there?!"
"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Call 911 and have them send someone out. I'll be right…" CRANCH! The SWAT team's ram smashed into the door. It did not go down like the first two. Eugene had replaced the original with a steel core door, and installed a steel kickplate around the entire doorframe; held in place by three inch long screws. Four more swings and the door buckled in its frame. One more swing was all it needed.
"STOP! I AM ARMED! STOP OR I WILL SHOOT YOU!" Eugene squared against his front door, took a firm, two handed grip on a massive revolver, and declared his intention to defend his home, his wife, and himself. He had no idea what or who was on the other side of his door, but they had heard him.
. . .
"You hear that?!" One ram man said to Cole. "He's armed!"
"Bring up the shields, quickly!" Cole ordered and the lineup changed. Now there were two men with pistols and heavy ballistic shields who would be first through the door. "Okay! Go! Go! Go!" The door finally gave and the shields entered as soon as the door fell. Both parties, the SWAT and Eugene, were equally surprised to see the other. But Eugene fired first.
. . .
As soon as the door came down, Eugene fired at the first target presenting itself. On the black paint of the shield, its Plexiglas view slit stood out in stark contrast. Eugene was a C&R license holder, but possessed no interest in modern firearms; or really anything before 1900. He had selected the youngest revolver of his collection; only because it took metallic cartridges instead of the older loose powder and cast ball, all fired from a percussion cap, making it faster to load. Eugene was facing 2 H&K 45's, five UMP-45's, two M16A2's, and an 870 shotgun, with all their users clad head to toe in body armor, while he in a towel wielded an 1873 Colt Single Action Army revolver chambered in 0.44-40. It wasn't even close to fair.
. . .
The first officer with a shield had not expected a soggy and naked for his towel Eugene, standing boldly in his living room, and so he hesitated despite the angry black hole of the Colt's barrel staring back at him. Before he could get out a 'drop your weapon!' order, Eugene fired. The Colt was chambered in 0.44-40 Winchester, the first metallic centerfire cartridge of its kind Winchester had ever made. With a thundering BH-WHOOOOOOMMM! The living room was first lit with muzzle flash, then darkened with a cloud of black powder smoke. A 250-grain solid lead ball left the Colt's barrel at 1,200 feet per second and shattered itself against the shield's Plexiglas view slit. The bullet, made only of cast lead, lacked any structural integrity to penetrate an object harder than itself, burst into shards that spider-webbed the Plexiglas with cracks. The first shield officer flinched and reflexively closed his eyes at the Colt's flash and earsplitting report, and promptly tripped on the scuff rug just inside the door. The second shield officer stumbled on the first as he fell, and hooked his shield on the fallen man's pistol belt. He too stumbled and the shield dropped to reveal his unarmored face.
Now Eugene had an even better target. He hauled the revolver down from its recoil, thumbing back the hammer at the same time in a flawless, well-practiced motion. As soon as the front sight was leveled and on the sheet-white face of the second officer, Eugene loosed another round. This one struck the officer an inch to the right of the tip of his nose, just below his goggles. The soft lead bullet plowed through his cheekbone, widening into a flower with jagged petals, while shattering the officer's facial plate. It continued along the bottom of the brain's temporal lobe before running out of energy when it hit the combined wall of the back of the skull and Kevlar helmet behind it. The bullet did retain enough of its 1,620 ft-lb of energy to put in the helmet a sizeable crack. Down the officer went, vision in his right eye blackened and independent muscle control on his whole left side gone. He was still alive, but very much out of the fight.
Dorothy, hearing the front door break down, had leapt from the bed. Her cell phone she let fall to the floor, still on the line with the 911 Operator. As for all 911 calls, a recorder was running and caught every bit of audio. Though naked as the day she'd been born, her husband was in danger and she was going to do her best to help. While Dorothy had not grown up around guns, Eugene had been teaching her. She took the only non-pistol arm in the entire house from the safe: an 1888 Parker Brothers Hammerless 20-gauge. Eugene had only used it a few times to shoot trap and skeet at the range, so Dorothy loaded both barrels with 7 ½ shot; pellets only 0.095 of an inch in size. Perfect for clay pigeons, not armor.
Stepping over the first two, the third officer in line was followed by Cole and the rest of the stack. Eugene was cocking the Colt's hammer for a third round. The room was cloaked with black powder smoke, but Eugene's white towel was easily spotted. Cole and the third officer put the bright red dots of their sights on Eugene's navel and pulled the triggers. Both guns were suppressed and chattered with a clacking report, each putting out a ten round burst. Even fifteen feet could not account for full auto recoil, stress, nerves, adrenaline, and poor marksmanship. Only five of the 0.45 caliber rounds found their mark. Two hit Eugene's left lung, one his liver, one his stomach, and the last his upper right chest just below the clavicle. Gasping for air as his lungs collapsed, Eugene fired a last shot before falling; it blew a charred black hole in the ceiling.
The team flowed into the living room just as Dorothy entered from the hall to their right: naked and armed. If the officers had been stunned by a toweled Eugene, they were sidelined by a nude young female wielding a shotgun. The first barrel's shot went wide, making a shattered mess of the television. Their second major shock overcome, the officers returned fire as Dorothy gave them the other barrel. The fifth officer caught a dozen lead pellets in his arm, six in his shoulder, all stopped by armor, but not the five to his face. Penetrating no more than skin deep and unable to get past bone, the wounds were enough to throw off his aim; stitching a pattern of holes from floor, to wall, and across the ceiling. Instead of a tight group of fifteen bullets on her solar plexus, Dorothy only received three. One was to the fleshy part of her left thigh, one grazed her hip bone and knocked her legs from under her, and one left a graze alongside her head. Downed, she dissolved into terrified hysterics, hyperventilating as she was sure these strange men were going to brutally murder her as they just had her Eugene. Instead she was rolled onto her stomach, a pair of flexicuffs secured her wrists, and a knee was placed on the middle of her spine to pin her in place.
"Clear."
"Clear."
"…Clear." The rest of the officers announced after a sweep. Eugene's safe was already open so it required no torch. Cans of black powder, percussion caps, cast lead balls, and his other reloading supplies were taken, but it wasn't quite what they were looking for. Cole needed a certain 'Je ne sais quoi' to tie everything together. On Eugene's desk, they found it.
"Cole, got something here." An officer marched over, holding three desktop novelty items. Eugene had put them together to have something to give out at a work party. Each consisted of a small wooden placard, a deactivated MK II pineapple grenade mounted on a wooden dowel, a red tag with a #1 on it clipped onto the grenade's pin, and a metallic strip with words stamped in it: "Complaint Department: Please take a number". "Think these'll work?"
Cole took the novelties, pulled the grenades off, handed the wooded placards to another officer and instructed him to make the placards disappear, and pocketed the #1 red tags. Now all he held were three MK II grenades, deactivated by drilling a hole through their base and emptying out the explosive.
"Good work. These will work perfectly. Who'd have thought Eugene here…" Cole nudged the corpse with his boot. "Was a budding bomb-maker? It's a shame, really is. Okay people! We got what we came for! Let's get outta here and let the lab rats take over! C'mon, let's move, move, move!"
. . .
Get ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'!
We'll be ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'!
Getting' ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'!
Get ready, ready, ready…Stormtroopers comin'! Get ready…*
. . .
"THEY DID WHAT, TO WHO?!" Naota had yet to see Rig this upset, to understate the Pennsylvanian's venting rage at the shop's television. The seven o'clock news was on. He and Haruko had come in an hour early to start production of the drinking fountain parts, so they got to watch the news. A total of ten raids had been carried out the night before. Two by the Philipsburg P.D., two by Osceola Mills P.D., three by the Sheriff's office, and two by the State Police. It would have been eleven if the State's wrong address screw-up was counted, but it wasn't, so the ten count stood. All but two had gone well. One executed by the Philipsburg P.D. had resulted in the deaths of the family's three dogs. The officer that had shot the dogs also stormed the house, and there his animal charmer luck ran out. His face was raked with furrows and his left eye clawed blind by the family's cat; who then scampered uncontested out the open back door and into hiding. The other raid highlighted had been much bloodier and was driving Rig to volatile anger.
"…Eugene Dryphus, 28, of Philipsburg was accused of manufacturing grenades by modifying inert ones purchased at a gun show. His wife, Dorothy Dryphus, 27, is being charged with resisting arrest, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder, as well as accomplice charges to the grenade manufacturing. She is hospitalized with wounds sustained during a shoot-out with police and will be arraigned upon her release from the hospital. Two officers were wounded during the firefight…"
"Oh it's a firefight now?! Fuckin' bubbleheaded bimbo…" Rig violently swore. "Twenty soldiers of F-Troop against a revolver and a side-by-side…"
"Shut up, I can't hear!" Naota ordered and Rig lowered his ravings to an unintelligible growling.
"…with light shotgun wounds and is expected to fully recover. The other, Officer Roosevelt, sustained a head wound and is in a coma at Geisinger Hospital. His condition is stable, but doctors do not expect him to recover. Stay tuned for more updates on these gripping events, and we'll be right back after these messages."
"What a mess…" Mike sighed. He, Johnny, Josh, and Canti were watching as well. "And to think the cops could have just knocked."
"Just knocked?" Naota turned on his seat. "Just, like that? Knocked?"
"Uh-huh. Dryphus' were the nicest people you'd meet. Never so much as a speeding ticket from either of 'em." Mike elaborated. "If the cops had sent two regular officers, no ninja suits…" He used the backhanded term for the SWAT team's armor, masks, and helmets. "And instead of midnight, went at say, six in the evening, and said 'Hey, we'd like to have a talk, can we come in?' I bet a month's pay Gene and Dorothy would've invited them in for coffee and doughnuts."
"But instead they kicked the door in at zero dark thirty and went in guns blazing; all goddamn Robocop…" Rig's temper was flaring again. "Out of all people to raid, why them?!"
"They just said on the TV Eugene was making grenades." Naota pointed out.
"Fuck Naota, Eugene was the Boy Scout Troopmaster!" Rig was beside himself. "You're gonna believe the news? All they do is puke back up whatever shit the cops and politicians tell them. These are people who piss on our backs and tell us it's raining. You're a smart guy Naota, think, just think for a few minutes! Does it make any sense at all for a Boy Scout Troopmaster whose two main passions are old cowboy guns and banging his wife, would suddenly become a master terrorist and start making grenades with percussion caps and black powder? Does that make any sense at all?"
"Rig, how about we hear the rest of the story, before you blow a gasket, hmmm?" Johnny lit another cigarette as the newscaster came back on. "Now hush up, or I'm kicking you out."
"Photographs and more details of the Dryphus Bomb Manufacturing have just been released to us." Rig was turning five alarm red in his effort to contain himself. "Police found gunpowder, de-milled grenades, and percussion caps, as well as a cache of weapons." The camera panned to a table with 20 black powder revolvers, nineteen of them the old cap 'n' ball, three MK II grenades with the drilled holes, a half-empty box of 20-gauge shells, Eugene's reloading supplies and press, and an open double-barreled shotgun. "It is unknown at this time if the Dryphus couple were part of a larger network, or acting independently. Captain Chojnacki of the State Patrol, and Sheriff Sarabyn, both independently concluded more investigations are ongoing and more raids are scheduled to quote 'root out the homegrown radicals'. We will continue to monitor these stories, as that is all the information we have been given at this time. Our thoughts and prayers are with Officer Roosevelt, and we at the studio wish him a speedy recovery…"
Click. The TV switched off.
"Man, fuck Officer Safety Roosevelt." Now Josh chimed in.
"You don't really mean that, do you?" Naota turned in surprise to Josh. He, Johnny, Mike, and especially Rig, all had swapped their usual faces. These new ones were hard, grim, and devoid of sympathy. Friendly fabricators, replaced by…wrathful warriors?
"I say what I mean, and I mean what I said." Josh took a drag. "And I'll say it again 'till I'm blue in the face: Fuck Officer Safety Roosevelt, the crooked nag he rode in on, and the rest of the Jackboot Union."
"What, what is with you guys?! Okay, sure. The cops may have been a little heavy-handed…"
"Naota, I was in the Boy Scouts with Eugene." Josh explained. "You couldn't build a kinder, more honest guy. We went hunting once, for rabbits. He wounded one, and wounded rabbit screams are pure nightmare fuel. He never went hunting again, couldn't do it. But he still liked shooting, especially black powder stuff. And now, his hobby has killed him."
"The point being missed here…" Johnny asserted his seniority. "Is that none, absolutely none of the people raided last night, actually did anything wrong."
"Then why did the police raid them? There must've been some reason?"
"Doesn't matter." Johnny's waved cigarette traced grey tendrils of smoke. "These days they raid you first and figure out an acceptable reason later. Usually a dead suspect makes that easier, as dead men tell no tales. Which is why I'm surprised Dorothy is still breathing. Anyway. We, arguing and bitching about the cop's methods and how many merit badges Eugene had, is missing the point. What did all of the people raided have in common? Hmm? Let's start with that."
"…Dryphus, Barnes, Kane, Lee…" Rig was going over the list of people raided. Then, Naota would have sworn he heard the cylinder of Rig's brain rotate and bring a round to battery. "They all held firearms licenses!"
"Now it all looks a little clearer, doesn't it?" Johnny guided the conversation along. "All of those raided were either well-known gun collectors, as in more than ten guns according to the police, or held some kind of firearm's license. Eugene had a Curio and Relics, which means he could order anything non-automatic or under FFL jurisdiction, and was built at least fifty years ago, and have it sent straight to his front door. Barnes had a C&R, and a Destructive Device; for cannons, grenades and such. He had just got it two weeks ago and hasn't had the chance to even use it yet. There were also two more C&R's, a second DD, three licensed as manufacturers of guns, and two dealers; each the owner of the gun store in Philipsburg, and the other of the gun store in Osceola Mills. Are we starting to see a pattern?"
"They were all people who could find, build, buy, or sell, probably a large amount, of guns; and in a short time too." Tumblers fell into place as Johnny's point became clear. "Are they, are they trying to take people's guns away?"
"It looks that way, and they are starting by cutting off supply."
"But isn't that against the, what's it…" He brought back Rig's many civics lessons. "That's against the Second Amendment; the Constitution!"
"Bah." Rig spat a chunk of tobacco. "They don't let that dusty old parchment slow 'em down. Hey Mike. I'll add my month's pay to your bet, and raise."
"Raise to what?" Rig let silence hang before slowly answering.
"I bet a month's pay that we are next."
Naota about fell out of his chair. G&R Fabrication and Cranes…raided?! Rig surely had snorted his morning tobacco rather than chewed it, his brain wasn't working right. What did they have that…well, now hang on a minute. Naota conceded Rig may have a point. Having seen a picture of an auto sear, Naota figured he could easily build at least fifty of them a day with the shop's tools on hand. Building whole guns, well, what do you want? Any kind, and any color you want, as long as it's black. He had taken apart, cleaned, fired, and handled Rig's guns enough to know cruder, but still effective, versions were easily built. As far as ammunition, Rig reloaded by hand much of his own ammunition as it was both cheaper and he could maximize each round's performance. There was at least ten pounds of smokeless powder stored in a sealed cabinet by Rig's reloading bench, along with the bullets, casings, and primers. And that was just what Naota knew of, he had no idea how many rounds Rig had stored, ready and on hand. Any manner of gas, fertilizer, or chemical bomb was waiting in any of the jugs, buckets, barrels, or tanks cluttering up the shop. Thinking in those terms, Naota realized G&R Fabrication was an armory and weapons factory in waiting.
"I hate to admit it Rig…but I think you're right."
. . .
Haruko didn't trust herself to speak as she watched the news footage of black-clad officers raiding the houses. She watched in tongue biting, furious silence. All the while, her stomach churned with a sickening sense of Déjà vu.
. . .
"And that'll do for those." The Armorer finished one list of inventory logging for the confiscated arms. He reviewed the list before starting on a fresh page:
· 3 – Model 71 Mausers
· 6 – Model M Stutzen Mausers
· 4 – Model 1889 Mausers
· 27 – Gewehr 98 Mausers
· 18 – Karabiner 98K Mausers
· 1 – Gewehr 41 Mauser
· 10 – Spanish M93 Mausers
· 9 – Serbian M1899 Mausers
· 13 – 1903 Ottoman Mausers
· 12 – M1894 Swedish Mausers
· 52 – Other various Mauser variants designed for export to Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Mexico, Chile, Colombia, Portugal, Brazil, Argentina, China, and Cuba.
"That's it then?" Cole was starting to feel his lack of sleep.
"Oh no, far from it." The Armorer started a new inventory sheet.
"Come again?"
"We ain't done yet. Those are just the Mausers." The Armorer nodded at the stack of evidence crates. "There's Mosin Nagants, Winchesters, Remingtons, Enfields, Springfields, Carcano, Arisaka, Norinco, Mossberg, DPMS, Colt, Smith and Wesson, Ruger, Browning, Ithaca, Weatherby, Windham, Benelli, Kel-Tec, Savage…" Cole tried to stem the Armorer's ramblings to no avail. "And that's just the rifles and shotguns I know of, offhand. There's a few I missed. And, that's not even starting on the pistols, or what in the hell we're going to do with THAT." He nodded at the 3-Inch Ordnance Rifle, a Civil War cannon, mounted on a period accurate wheeled carriage.
"Who dragged the museum piece in?"
"Sheriff's deputies. They were so proud, like a kid with his first deer. Couldn't imagine anyone wheeling that boat anchor into battle, but you never know."
"Better safe than sorry."
"Yep. So, how is the media handling this? It's gotta be a tough sell; especially with Officer Roosevelt now Officer Rutabaga."
"No, we're actually using that to our advantage." Cole had not slept after the raids ended and his body armor came off. He had been with Chojnakci, Sarabyn, Warburg and Strong, and The Man in Black, to make sure the TV news and the papers got their stories straight. "We're going to play up the sympathy, really tug at those heartstrings. A few cameras are going to get some good footage of a sobbing wife and distraught kids, wondering why Daddy won't wake up."
"Shit, that's brutal. Although, I can see that working. Like this: 'Y'know folks, if these gun-nut whackos hadn't resisted arrest and done as told, Officer Roosevelt would be home with his kids, instead of on life support with a bullet in his brain. So, if the police order you to do something, think of the Roosevelt Children.' Something kinda like that?"
"Not something kinda like it. Something exactly like it. And we've added on the usual 'arsenals, stockpiles, caches, armory' terms, the 'nobody needs a such-n-such', we've been doing this since 1934."
"Practice makes perfect."
"Indeed. Hey, mind if I help inventory the rest?" The longer Cole stood next to the mountain of guns, the more he wanted to stay. He could sleep when he was dead. Such a trove of martial treasures, all the engineering, testing, manufacturing that went into each rifle, and the work and effort to earn the money to afford and buy it, looked to him like an oasis to a man dying of thirst.
"You…you serious? You don't mind?" Cole only half-listened.
"Not at all…" Already he was relishing this new ill-gotten hoard. The Itch was back, and with a vengeance. Enough weapons to arm a light infantry company, and all of them belonged to him. Well, not him specifically, but the State Police and now The Red Star of The Solar Federation as well. But it wasn't enough. Cole needed more, and he was going to get it.
. . .
*Stormtroopin' - Ted Nugent
Okay, turn in your grading sheets. What'd you give 'em? Pass, or fail? I would have to say Medical Mechanica would give them at least a B+. You'd have to loose some points for casualties taken, a wrong address, and one of your officers getting taken down by a house cat. Miu Miu would have been proud. But overall the raids accomplished their goals.
But now we've really gotten a good look around inside Cole's cranium, and folks...I h'ain't goin' on that ride again. It's scary in there. There's the Lord Acton quote: Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Greed takes many forms, but I think Cole's gold-fever, his Itch, is Power. Material gains are a pleasant side bonus. And that is a person you can never pay enough to leave you alone. They want everything you have, and everything you cannot give, they want too.
On a related side-note, I have recently reread the novel 'Unintended Consequences' by John Ross. If you think I am a firearm enthusiast, I am a rank amateur in the shadow of Mr. Ross. Although his book is out of print, there are many free PDF copies to be had around the internet. His book has had, and will continue to have, an influence on this story, and I highly recommend you find yourself a copy to understand why.
I think that is about all for now, unless you have something scratching at your brain I missed. If so, toss that thought into the review box and we'll hash it out! Thank you again for reading, I hope the wait was worth it. See y'all again 'round about Halloween!
One last thing. A quote from Lord Acton again, which I find more relevant to The Red Star, The Temple, and Medical Mechanica, and the authority and power they wield. Some food for your thoughts:
Authority that does not exist for Liberty, is not Authority but Force.
