Authors: Ken Goddard
"Really? I thought grizzly claws were a lot sharper than this." The hunter-killer recon team leader fingered the tips that were nearly as blunt as a child's finger and studied the Sage suspiciously.
The old man shook his head. "That's a common misconception. Cat claws are sharp. Bear claws are powerful. Fact is, a bear like that one" — the Sage gestured at the necklace in Wintersole's hand — "could probably rip a car door right off its hinges, if it had a mind to."
The expression on Wintersole's face changed perceptibly as he continued examining the ornament.
"Yes sir," the Sage went on, "all things considered, a grizzly's just about the most powerful animal you're ever gonna ever run across in this life. Unless, of course, you go looking for one of them polar bears. But I don't think you'll be finding many of them critters here in Jasper County." The old man chuckled.
"No, I suppose not." Wintersole reached into his pocket, drew out a band-wrapped roll of money, and tossed it onto the table.
"Eleven hundred dollars," he announced flatly. "I decided to increase our contribution to your hot chocolate fund. I've noticed it gets very cold around these mountains at night."
"And speaking of hot chocolate . . ." The Sage smiled in anticipation.
Wintersole turned around in his chair, then froze . . . as did communications specialist Azaria.
"I thought I heard somebody out here," the woman explained softly. "What can I get for you folks?"
"A large hot chocolate for me," the old man ordered quickly. "Then you can whip me up one of them soy burgers, extra onions."
"Extra onions, you got it." The woman nodded, not bothering to use the order pad in her apron pocket. "And you folks?" She turned to the other two, then quickly realized that neither of them paid her any attention.
"Don't worry, she's fine," the woman assured them, tugging slightly on the thick chain leash — that was hooked to what appeared to be a transmitter collar — to bring the large cat closer to her leg.
Wintersole stared at the dilated pupils in the center of the bright yellow eyes in absolute fascination.
"What an incredible animal," he whispered almost reverently.
"Don't let her hear you say that," the woman advised. "Sasha thinks she's just as human as I am. Or maybe it's the other way around, I'm never quite sure." She smiled. "I raised her from a kitten, and she's very attached, but surprisingly interested in people . . . and pretty good company, too," she added, tugging at the leash again, which caused the large cat to yowl in annoyance, "when she's not being pigheaded."
"You don't think she'll ever hurt someone?" the communications specialist asked uneasily.
"Oh, I'm sure if anyone ever tried to give me a bad time, she'd tear them to shreds in a matter of seconds," the woman declared with certainty. "But that's one of the reasons I consider her good company. So, what will you have?"
"The same," Wintersole responded indifferently, his eyes still fixed on the glowing yellow eyes that observed him with an intensity that seemed far more predatory than curious.
"Me too," the communications specialist added uneasily.
"Okay, the hot chocolate'll be coming right up," the woman announced cheerfully, and disappeared into the main building with the cat following close at her side.
"So, what do you think?" the Sage asked. "Pretty classy dame for a US government postmaster . . . or postmistress, or whatever they call them nowadays. Or maybe you didn' even notice," the old man added with a chuckle.
"No," Wintersole replied, "I didn't."
While they waited for the food to come, the three conspirators sipped hot chocolate, indulged in idle conversation, and watched a few locals wander down the lighted path to the converted garage to drop off mail, check on their post-office boxes, and share a few tidbits of gossip.
However, Wintersole paid very little attention to the conversation. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the doorway to the converted mill, pensively sipping his drink until the woman finally reappeared with their orders and the cat at her side. Then his cold, gray eyes lit up with intense interest.
This time, however, he paid very careful attention to the woman as well as the cat.
As they ate, Azaria casually questioned the Sage about the origins of the necklaces, and the old man explained how nothing was ever as it seemed, but you could often make sense out of the illusions if you paid close attention.
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."
Wintersole smiled pleasantly.
"That could be arranged."
"Then," the old man went on, "I imagine they'd probably want to ask you a few questions."
"Such as?"
"Well, if it was me, 'What's in it for you?' would be right up there at the top of the list."
Wintersole chuckled mechanically.
"Let me ask you something." His eyes again swept the enclosed porch for any sign of eavesdroppers. "How do you think they'd feel about talking to a businessman with an ulterior motive?"
The old man cocked his head curiously.
"Is that the same thing as a hidden agenda?"
"No, it's not." Wintersole leveled his cold gaze at the old man. "'Hidden agenda' is a term that government bureaucrats use."
"That's kinda what I thought, too." The fire's reflection flickered in the dark lenses of the Sage's glasses.
"You think I'm a government spy?" Wintersole favored the old man with a pitying look.
"Don't matter much what I think. But I can tell you right out, that's the first thing these people are going to think." The Sage nodded slowly. "The very first thing."
"Which means they'll probably want to know more about my business . . . and my ulterior motives."
The old man smiled. "I think you can count on that."
Wintersole stared momentarily at the doorway to the inn before speaking.
"How do you think they'd feel if I told them that my, uh, associates and I share many of their views, but we prefer a much more direct means of carrying forth our message?" he asked.
"And just what does 'more direct' mean?"
"For starters," Wintersole replied, "we have no intention of waiting twenty years to make our statement."
"Ah." The old man nodded, then added suspiciously: "So if you're in such a big hurry, I guess that means you just want to use these people for your own purposes."