“Raincheck?” he said.
“You bet.” She nodded, doubting the future, fighting back her tears.
The town square was silent and empty when Puncher set out on his mission, with the first hint of morning light. He rode his old Harley, much like Justin’s but even more battered, gliding serenely along the road out of town, beneath branches just starting to bud. He wore his black leather jacket and a cocky, lopsided smile, as if he weren’t worried at all. His assignment was not too difficult: he could get shot but, besides that, not much could go wrong.
When he came in sight of the SSU base’s front gate he muttered, “This one’s for you, Jus,” and gave the Harley full throttle.
The guards in the watchtower, all four of them, watched openmouthed as Puncher drove full throttle toward the gate.
The tallest guard hoisted his rifle instinctively, although they were in no danger—it was the kid who was in danger of killing himself; the iron gate was built to stop cars.
“Be cool,” one of the others muttered. He was young and slim, and had recently made sergeant. “We got our orders, you know?”
Puncher hit the brakes at the last instant and skidded to a halt beneath the tower.
“Hey, you cocksuckers, wanna fight?” he yelled. “Come on down, I’ll blow your asses away!”
As he shouted at them, Puncher was gunning the Harley, spinning in mad circles—to shoot him they’d have to hit a moving target.
The young sergeant frowned in annoyance. “Go away, kid,” he yelled, and waved at Puncher to leave.
Puncher waved back, mimicking him. “Screw you, Pancho,” he shouted. “Chinga su madre—you dig?”
The guard stiffened. The tall one laughed, but sighted his rifle on the cyclist. “No!” the other snapped. “We have orders not to shoot. We’ll send someone out.”
Some other soldiers had gathered near the gate. Puncher saw them and knew the fun and games were over. Smooth as silk, he lit his Zippo, reached inside his leather jacket, touched flame to wick, and tossed the homemade bomb with precise nonchalance at the watchtower’s base. The explosion rocked the tower, set it leaning precariously, but did not quite topple it.
All four guards, knocked to their knees, came up cursing and firing, but by then the crazy kid was rocketing away.
“Go after him!” the young sergeant cried, opening the gate, but when the first troops stepped outside they were raked with gunfire from a distant treeline.
The tall guard scrambled down the ladder. “Wait. We are under attack,” he yelled.
Alarm sirens bit into the morning calm. Helmut was already strapping on his gunbelt, running toward the sounds of battle. The tall guard quickly explained what had happened. “It was a plan to draw us out, but the plan was bungled in execution. We have only one wounded. Shall we pursue them now?”
Helmut smiled a cold, reptilian smile. “Wait, sergeant. We have been fired upon, attacked, and we must now defend ourselves with the utmost deliberation.” He turned and marched back to his command post. Within minutes the base was fully mobilized for attack.
Devin was saying goodbye to his father when they heard the distant rattle of gunfire.
“It’s started,” Ward said, and he and Jeffrey ran to the car.
“I’ll be right there,” Devin said. He embraced his father a final time and then put his arm around Billy and led him aside.
“You’re going to fight,” Billy said. Not protesting, just stating a hard fact.
“Sometimes you have to,” Devin said. “But I still believe the best kind of resistance is nonviolent. It’s sort of funny actually, we’ve got to fight to get on the air so that I can tell people not to fight.”
“What do you want people to do?” the boy asked. “Don’t go along. America will only be divided if we let it. We can ignore their boundaries. We can refuse to participate. We can own ourselves. That’s the best thing of all.”
Billy bit his lip. “Why does it have to be you?” Devin held him close, feeling his hair soft on his cheek. “I just happen to be somebody they’ll listen to,” he said. “This has been a long time coming. Maybe it’ll be the start of something. They’ll know what to do. I’m just going to remind them.”
Billy turned his head away. “People will be killed. Maybe you.”
Devin nodded slowly. “Freedom has a price, like everything else. Some people will die, but at least they’ll have died for something. I guess you can’t five for something unless you think it’s important enough to die for.”
The boy was blinking back tears. “I want to go.”
“Next time.”
“Then don’t you go, not without me.”
“I won’t be without you, Billy. I’ll never be without you, or you without me. You stay here and help your grandfather. He needs someone strong like you. This is a good little town. If things work out, maybe we could settle down here.”
“Wherever you want is okay with me,” his son said. “Just don’t leave me. Please, Dad. I love you.”
Billy’s tears flowed freely now. Devin saw Ward and Jeffrey, waiting in the car, ready for battle; his time was up, for this morning, maybe forever.
“I love you too, Billy, more than you can know. I love your brother, too, and wish he was here. Try to remember one thing. It may not make sense now, but it will someday. I couldn’t love you this much if I didn’t love freedom more.”
He kissed the boy, held him close, kissed him again, then turned and hurried to the car. As they drove away, he allowed himself to look back and saw his father and son, arm in arm, waving goodbye.
The heavy iron gate lurched open and the first motorcycles shot out, followed by rumbling tanks and glistening armored personnel carriers. The SSU’s jet-black helicopters rose gracefully into the morning sun and hovered, like bumblebees buzzing near a flower, while the unit’s awesome ground force uncoiled like a huge snake along the road to Milford.
Helmut Gurtman smiled as he watched from his command helicopter, for he saw beauty in the power of his machines and the precision of his men. He had waited a long time for this; as he had destroyed the squalid exile camp, now he would smash the smug little town that had bedeviled him for too many months. He had left behind only a token force to guard the base, for he wanted the full iron fist of his might to pound down the people of Milford. They had almost escaped him, but this morning’s attack by the boy on the motorcycle had provided the excuse he needed: he had been fired upon and now he would fire back, with a fury these people would never forget.
Gurtman had only contempt for Andrei Denisov’s “new policy.” As a soldier in the field he knew there was only one policy, as old as war itself: the power of the conqueror that forced the submission of the conquered. Men won wars in order to enslave their enemies, not to quibble with them.
He watched contentedly as his first units entered the town. The tanks and attack vehicles unleashed a deadly barrage of machine-gun fire, shattering windows and immobilizing any would-be defenders. Within minutes his forces occupied the town square. It was here where Helmut expected serious resistance. As the merciless machine-gun fire continued, his men leaped from their vehicles and began to kick down doors, firing as they went.
Helmut watched with pride; it was a textbook attack, perfectly executed.
Except his troops found no one to vanquish; there was no one around.
He saw his men pull back from the stores, confused and huddled in the street. He soon received radio confirmation of what he had guessed: “No resistance, sir. Nobody is here.”
“They’re in the houses,” Helmut shouted. “Search the houses!”
As his men fanned out along the tree-lined residential streets that opened off Milford’s town square, Helmut ordered his pilot to land. His anger was rising; his desire to hover god-like above the attack was not so keen as his lust to plunge headlong into the heat and joy of battle.