Charles Sheehan-Miles

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Republic: Chapter Nine

Republic

Charles Sheehan-Miles

Chapter Nine

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CHAPTER NINE

JUNE 9

When Murphy awoke and rolled out of bed early the next morning, the unseasonable chill startled him. His breath appeared in a mist, and he hurried to dress in stout jeans and heavy flannel shirt. Half a dozen old, ignored pieces of wood lay in the steel basket next to the cast-iron wood stove in the living room. He hadn’t used it in almost two months. He hurried to get a fire going.

His leg ached below the knee; where by rights he shouldn’t feel anything at all. He wasn’t usually bothered by phantom pain, but sometimes, when it was cold, it was bad enough to wake him up in the middle of the night.

After he had the fire going, he had his coffee alone at the kitchen table, and stared out the window into the darkness. As usual, he thought of Martha. Once, it would have been the two of them drinking coffee together before the kids woke up and the day started. Not long ago, Valerie suggested the time had come for him to think about moving on. As if he knew how to do that. How could he move on when all it took to see her was closing his eyes? Or looking at Valerie, who looked so much like her mother it was breathtaking?

Sometimes it seemed only yesterday the Sheriff called and told him. When he thought of her on the floor of the convenience store, her lifeblood pouring out as the son of a bitch stepped over her to take a pathetic sum of cash out of the register, his fingernails bit into his palms. When he thought of her dying alone, he wanted to howl.

We were supposed to grow old together, he thought. Now I’ve grown old without you.

A car approached outside, tires crunching on the gravel driveway, slowed down, and the newspaper thumped against the side of the house. He stepped out into the cold and brought it in.

The center of the page above the fold displayed a color photograph of him in front of the podium the night before. The lurid headline said, “DHS Raids Computer Plant, Seven Killed.” The caption under the photograph read, “Lieutenant Colonel Ken Murphy of Highview speaks to demonstrators.”

Murphy scanned the article, and then wished he hadn’t. Filled with inaccuracies, it portrayed the people of Highview as a group of anti-government ideologues, lumping them in with white supremacists and the militia movement. But these folks weren’t political at all—or, more accurately, they fell all over the political spectrum. He’d spent much of night after the town meeting, on the phone with Valerie and the Mayor, trying to determine the whereabouts of the employees who’d been injured or arrested. The injured were all accounted for now—and the dead. Those arrested had been bussed the several hour drive to the Charleston federal lockup—among them, Karen Greenfield. God only knew what he was going to do about that.

Murphy finished his coffee, rinsed the cup and put it in the sink, then laced up his work boots. He woke Kenny and got him ready to go, and then they drove into town. On the way to the town square, he passed the high school. Cars already filled half the lot.

The lights were on downstairs at the Al-Khoury grocery, but the doorknob wouldn’t turn. It was still two hours before opening time. Murphy rang the bell and Samira answered the door. She was a petite girl and a stunning beauty, with luxurious black hair, pale brown skin and green eyes. In high school she’d been a solid student, but just missed being part of the popular crowd because her family didn’t have a lot of money.

She smiled when she saw them.

“Hey, Kenny, how’s it going?” She ruffled the boy’s hair. Sleepy, he hugged her.

“Ken.” Ahmed bounded down the stairs. “I wanted to say thank you, my friend. I think the calls from Congressman Clark helped free me and Hayder so quickly.”

“I’m glad. Are you okay? Any problems in town since then?”

Ahmed and his daughter met each other’s eyes, then looked back at Murphy.

“As good as can be expected. You know how it is—every time something bad happens anywhere, it is the fault of an Arab. This is how some people think.”

Samira spoke to the boy, breaking the awkward moment. “Hey Kenny, why don’t you come on up with me? Want some breakfast?”

“Yeah!” Kenny said.

Murphy held out a stuffed backpack. “Here’s his bag. The autoinjector is in there, along with an extra change of clothes. Thank you.”

She led Kenny upstairs.

Murphy turned back to Ahmed, reached in his pocket and handed him an envelope with writing on the back.

“Listen, if anything happens to me today, this is my parents’ number. They know there might be a problem. If need be, call them and put Kenny on a plane down to Georgia. There’s enough money for a ticket in there.”

They said goodbye, and Murphy backed out the door. He got back into his truck and drove over to the high school. The sky was an unforgiving grey above the trees. He hoped it wouldn’t rain.

Forty-five minutes later, Murphy saw that most of the town had gathered in front of the high school, including, to his surprise, Mayor George Machen and Dale Whitt.

Murphy didn’t hem and haw. “I’m kind of surprised to see you up here, George.”

Machen grimaced. “I am, too. I don’t approve, but the whole dang town is out. I won’t sit on the sidelines while women and children are out here fighting for their livelihood. If we all go down, we all go down.”

A line of about two hundred cars stretched down the street. The television vans were back, and bright lights shone in the semi-darkness as the cameramen filmed the gathering. A group of reporters started to approach the three who had, by virtue of speaking the night before, become the leaders of this gathering.

“Looks like it’s time for us to get rolling,” Murphy said, watching the reporters.

“Let’s not run off just yet,” Whitt said. “The press may be annoying, but they can also be our best allies.”

“Or our worst enemies,” Murphy said. “Won’t take much to make the media turn on us. You read the Gazette this morning?”

“I did,” Whitt replied. “The media will get it wrong, but the more you talk, the more chances they have to get it right. Besides, unlike yesterday at the plant, the media is here. I asked around—Barclay apparently called in a bunch of favors, told the networks there was no story in Highview. Given what happened, I expect he’s burned some bridges—the reporters aren’t happy they weren’t here when things went south yesterday. It will be harder to distort what they see with their own eyes; they won’t repeat what the DHS tells them if their own cameras show something different. It’s not all about politics—this is beyond politics.”

Murphy glanced sidelong at Whitt. From what he’d seen of Whitt, everything centered on politics.

The reporters immediately began asking questions, which were quickly dispensed with. But Murphy gained one valuable piece of intelligence from them: the armored vehicles were now brazenly parked at the front gate of the plant. He didn’t know whether to take the implied threat seriously or not. Were these people idiotic enough to attack unarmed townspeople with armored vehicles? On television, no less? Before yesterday, he wouldn’t have thought it possible. He shrugged and got behind the wheel. He would find out soon enough. He drove out of the parking lot slowly, a long line of vehicles forming up behind him.

From the high school it took about five minutes to reach the closed, locked gates. Murphy pulled to the side of the road and parked. Behind the gates were two Bradley fighting vehicles. The turrets were turned backward, with the main gun away from the crowd. At least they had that much sense.

Four agents from the DHS stood behind the gate in full combat gear, carrying rifles with grenade launchers slung under the barrels. A fifth stood to the side, digital camera in hand with a telescopic lens. He began shooting photographs of the townspeople as soon as they parked. Murphy ignored them, his face impassive. He stepped out of the truck, walked around the back where the agents couldn’t see him, and lifted an old pair of bolt cutters he’d thrown into it the night before. The officers appeared to become very agitated when he appeared again, bolt cutters in hand. One spoke into a cell phone while the others backed away from the gate, toward the armored vehicles.

Behind Murphy, a crowd gathered as townspeople parked in a line behind his and got out of their cars. The mayor and Whitt both approached him. At least two or three hundred others approached as well. Three television vans had parked to the side of the two-lane road, with cameras mounted on tripods. A reporter stood in front of the CNN van, making what appeared to be a live report. Two more reporters crouched down close to Murphy, filming him and the others as they made their approach.

“Sing. The National Anthem.” Whitt said.

“Do what?” Machen replied.

“We’re going to start singing now.”

Mayor Machen looked at Whitt with contempt. “I don’t think that’s necessary—”

Whitt, ignoring the Mayor, turned around and walked backwards beside Murphy. “Men and women of Highview, this is our plant,” he shouted. “This is our town. Federal police stand on the other side of the gate, but they cannot stand against the people. They cannot take away our rights as Americans. Let us now go forth.”

Whitt started singing the Star Spangled Banner.

The crowd followed Whitt’s lead, slowly at first, then more enthusiastically as they fell into the rhythm. Glancing back, Murphy saw tears in the eyes of some of the men as they sang. “… by the dawn’s early light….”

Murphy approached the gate with the bolt cutters as the men and women behind him sang. “…What so proudly we hailed… at the twilight’s last gleaming.”

“Sir,” called one of the black-uniformed agents, “if you do that I will have to place you under arrest. Please put down the bolt cutters now.”

Murphy ignored him. The cameramen jockeyed for position against the fence, trying to get the best shot as Murphy positioned the bolt cutters.

“Careful,” he said, glancing at the closest cameraman. “You don’t want to get a fragment of this in your eyes.”

He placed the lock between the blades and squeezed. It didn’t break, so he squeezed harder, veins popping out on his forehead. The padlock snapped with a loud crack, then clattered onto the pavement. Murphy pulled the chain loose and threw it to the side, then opened the gates.

The townspeople continued to sing. “And the rocket’s red glare… the bombs bursting in air… gave proof through the night… that our flag was still there.”

The singing sent chills down Murphy’s spine. He walked forward. The federal officers backed away and put on gas masks.

Oh, no. He’d been through the gas chamber three times in his military career. Riot gas made you choke and puke and gag, made your eyes hurt like hell. They wouldn’t be singing much longer.

He walked forward anyway, with the town behind him. “Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave….”

The feds fired three, then four gas grenades with a low-pitched pop. The grenades landed amidst the feet of the townspeople. Smoke started to billow up and someone screamed. The singing abruptly stopped. The newsmen rushed to the side with their cameras and continued to film.

Someone threw a gas grenade back at the feds. It came down behind the line of riot troops who marched forward, carrying plastic shields and batons. They moved in a phalanx and shoved the crowd back. Another scream, as a fed hit someone on the head with a baton. They fired four more grenades into the crowd.

An agent stood right in front of Murphy now. Murphy looked at the man’s face behind the plastic visor and saw fear. The agent slammed his shield into Murphy, then reached out and cracked him over the head with the baton. Murphy’s prosthetic leg slipped out from under him, and he fell back to the ground with a grunt. He felt blood in his hair and on the side of his face.

“Disperse and return to your homes,” someone called over a megaphone. “Disperse and return to your homes.”

Many in the crowd were running away now, and the line of troops had forced most of the people outside the gate. Murphy looked up, saw David Firkus’ mother. She lay on her side, her face bright red, mouth open. The tear gas rolled over her in a great cloud. Murphy crawled toward her.

“Get out of here,” one of the agents yelled. Murphy felt a kick in his side.

Murphy stood and pointed at Shannon Firkus. “She needs help.” Then he doubled over and vomited. Tears ran down his face from the concentrated smoke.

Vince Elkins had showed up at her side just as Murphy had. Mucus and tears poured from his face as he took her pulse, then cursed.

“God damn it,” he shouted at Murphy. “She’s got no pulse. She’s had a heart attack. I told her not to come out here today.”

Murphy felt the crack of a baton against his back and stumbled.

“I’m a doctor,” shouted Elkins. “This woman needs—”

The black-clad riot policeman silenced him momentarily, cracking a baton over his head. The two agents shoved Murphy and Elkins.

“That woman needs help!” Elkins screamed in the face of one of the agents. Blood ran down the side of his face. He pointed at Shannon Firkus, who still lay on the ground. This time, the officer listened, dropping to his knees beside the woman, but it was too late. Shannon Firkus, like her son the day before her, lay dead.

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