The sun glared a harsh red in the darkening sky. The edge of the horizon was turning that luminescent black green that had become all too common in the last year-and-a-half. Despite it being early spring, the snow still clung to the land like a baby possum to its mother—tight and unrelenting--spreading over the land in drifts up to six feet deep.
"That should do it girl." he said as he dismounted from the horse. She stood eighteen hands high and her coat was a deep rich brown with hair the length of a six-day-old beard. Lit by the halogen-xenon lamps hanging from the ceiling, the interior of the barn showed up as a fifty-by-twenty yard wooden enclosure lined with six foot wide stalls and about 15 horses.
"You got her from here?" He asked.
"Sure Matt. No problem. We still giving her oats tonight?" he responded as he began to take the saddle off of her.
"Yes, but make sure to use the grain from our southern silo. I don’t trust the stuff in the west one. It’s not ours and I think it was grown too close to the yellow zone."
His response was lost to Matthew as he closed the side door to the barn behind him and stepped back out into the night. The cold hit him like a slap in the face and the icicles that had begun to melt from his eyebrows, froze again, occluding part of his vision. A special heated track, a remnant from his father’s inventing days, had been laid on the path from the barn to the house to prevent the snow from staying on it: but there was nothing to block the windswept snow as it churned around his ankles and pierced his languid skin. Matthew quickstepped it to the house, not even glancing to his right or left as he traversed head down, leaning toward his destination.
The door convulsed inward bringing with its entrance Matthew and about two cubic feet of snow. After kneeing the door shut he stomped and shook free of his shackles of snow, the chains of frozen water falling into the receptacle placed under the cast iron barred floor. Taking off his coat he hung it on the hook, making sure it was centered under the placard marked Matthew. The hook under the one marked Susanna Armstrong had lain empty for over half a decade now. The other three pegs had coats that had been hanging there for years.
Matthew walked towards the kitchen for his tongue was the consistency of a frozen chicken patty and his lips were dead numb. As he passed the doorjamb he was greeted by a man working with dedicated persistence on the indoor grill. "Sit."
"Sir?"
"Sit." Then he continued as if almost an afterthought. "The food’s nearly ready."
Doing as he was commanded he took the stool by the counter and remained silent for over 5 minutes before he was addressed again. A plate of food slid across the counter skidding to a stop right before him. It was steaming with two extra-well done steaks, family-secret potatoes, and a thick slab of bread covered with synthetic butter. The bowl next to it held vegetable soup thick enough to stand a spoon in.
"Eat, son."
"Yes sir."
The meal began in silence; the two men only eating their food, one man belying his nervousness, the other following his Annapolis Academy training: a precise numbers of cuts, replace, spear, bites, chews, and swallows before wiping his mouth with a napkin and repeating the process. Keeping a mental count in his head, Matthew congratulated himself when his prediction of only 2.5 minutes of silence became correct as his father spoke. "It’s time to join the Rebellion son. You’ve had your time at playing pacifist and I left you alone for that time, but the wait is over. You have a responsibility to this family and to your country. No more hiding behind the ranch."
The tone struck Matthew as more ordering than asking and for some reason that irritated him. "Yes, O God of humanity. Thy wish is my command. What meager service may thy humble servant perform for the betterment of thy will."
"Don’t be sacrilegious boy."
"Oh! I’m sorry. Did that offend you? Let me be the first to offer my condolences General James Madison Armstrong Jr., UnRetired. Does that Annapolis Academy brain of yours not like sarcasm? …"
"That’s enough!" For a moment it looked to Matthew as if his father was going to backhand him, but the man who had earned his nickname "Bull" from his military peers brought his rage into check. His eyes glazed over vacant for a second, before he refocused on Matthew and continued.
"Do you understand what hypocrisy is?"
"Yes."
"Good. Do you have knowledge of what circular reasoning is?"
"What do you think."
"Point taken. Now if I told you that lying is wrong [because it’s not right to lie], but lied to you to get you to come to a surprise birthday party, would I have done the aforementioned actions?" he queried as he dumped the meat of his plate into the dog’s bowl and the rest of the food into the garbage.
"Actually both are nouns, but yes."
"Let me tell you what it means to be a pacifist. Definition states that it is the strong opposition to conflict and war. So you come to me in your elevated wisdom and tell me that you are a pacifist, that you can’t support this war. Well just in case you missed the boat, PACIFISM IS DEAD. Your ‘holy moral ground’ is more unstable than watery quicksand. Pacifism is the belief not to believe. Mankind as a whole must believe in something. We cannot exist without belief and whether these beliefs are logical or illogical, at some innate level what we believe in conflicts with what we know, who we are, or what we do. Humans don’t just hold beliefs, we can’t; we must fight for our beliefs. Why fight? That is our nature as ‘beasts’ and evolved apes. Nature does not care which of its’ fittest survive. To believe, have faith, conceptualize, to think as we know it, these traits aren’t necessary for survival. All that’s necessary for survival is being difficult to kill and easy to feed. Cockroaches which are numerous and multiply rapidly, eat very little, and can survive massive amounts of radiation that would be lethal to us highly evolved humans. They’re not bothered, because they have no need by or for these notions of civil rights, moral causes, or absolutes. So why do we fight? Why a rebellion?
Because some things are worth fighting for. Because we have a right to hold our beliefs whether that view is held by the vocal majority or not. Because when this belief harms no one, when this belief is part of our moral foundation that to be forced to withdraw it, or not abide by it is a cardinal sin."
"Is your diatribe finished, or should I wait for the movie version. Was there a point to your 290 word long monologue?"
Bull Armstrong didn’t respond but stormed out of the house in a rage that defied words. For a moment Matthew wondered if he had been too hard on Bull, but experience had taught him that a hard stance was the only stance to have when opposing him, or the opposer would get run over.
The door slid back as Matthew walked into the den. The automatic lamps turned on as the motion detector caught his presence and he moved to the cherry black leather reclining chair. Sitting back in the chair, he set his giant binder on his lap and opened it to the 84th page. The words swam before his eyes: dancing, darting, sliding. The room flowed in an out of focus as he stared at the print.
v
v
Matthew’s reading was interrupted as an ear splitting bang assaulted his ears followed by a concussive boom that shook the chair he was in and rattled the books on the shelves. As he rose to his feet and headed towards the sound, his eyes fell on the fire poker and he snagged it on his way out the door. Holding the poker awkwardly in his hands he proceeded towards the back door. The lights in the house were off and he figured that the loud cracking noise must have been the circuitbreaker. The wind was coming in from outside so the back door must have blown open. After rounding a corner Matthew’s progress was curtailed by a shiny red dot that appeared in the center of his chest.
"Don’t move."
"That’s probably a good idea."
A light illuminated his face for a brief second, blinding him, before it shut off again. "Now how many people are in here?"
"Just me."
"Fine Matthew. I need your help."
"Luke?"
"None other. Clemens. Get in here."
Silhouetted against the whiteness another figure appeared at the door. This person was leaning heavily on his rifle with a backup gun in his hand. Shouldering the door closed he collapsed on the snow strewn floor. "Help me." Luke commanded. As he bent over, Matthew saw that one of Luke’s arms had been broken. Luke had strapped his arm down to his kevlar vest.
"You can’t be here. You’re putting us all in danger."
"I’m thinking now is kind of a late time to say that." He responded as they dragged the man into the dining room and set him down on the table. The bleeding had stopped from the cold, but Matthew could see that unless drastic action was taken it would start again.
"What am I supposed to do with both of you. You can’t stay here."
"We’re here Matthew. Deal with it."
"Why are you in enemy territory anyway? You could get shot."
"He did get shot. We were assigned a deep penetration op. Take out Area 34. But it was a TARFUË op from the drop in. Intel was all wrong, and someone had leaked our mission to the enemy. The situation turned from SNAFUË to FUBARË the second we touched ground. I lost 6 of my men. I don’t know who the leak is, but when I find out, someone is going to pay in bloody spades."
"What are you going to do about his leg?"
"Do we still have those Cutco knives?"
"Yeah. They’re as sharp as ever."
"Well get me three of the table knives, the 2lb fishing line, Mom’s old sewing scissors, a lamp, the first aid kit, tweezers, and four cotton towels."
The two men got to work: Matthew retrieving the requested items, Luke setting then making a splint for his broken arm. After he finished, Luke began operating on his fellow SEAL. The kevlar body armor had taken most of the punch out of the bullet and it hadn’t lodged too deep but had just grazed the main artery running from his heart down his leg. It took about thirty minutes to complete, and the SEAL had not complained once during the procedure despite the local anesthetic not covering the entire operating area.
"I need your help, brother."
"What are you talking about?"
"My assignment. You designed and worked on the majority of the computer systems at Area 34. I can get us past the human element, you can get us past the security. I’ve still got the explosives, transmitter, and our weapons cache which is securely stored. We can still do it."
"You’re asking me to commit treason? To kill hundreds of people, so you can follow orders?"
"Have you ever heard of the Aurora Project?"
"No. What does that have…"
"The Aurora Project started about 25 years ago, its goal was to build an undetectable fighter plane that could outrace existing missiles and deliver tactical-surgical strikes to any point on the globe with a 100% survivability rating. Area 34 is where the only existing prototype is. An ace pilot with this plane would be like the Red Baron of WW1 essentially taking out all our air superiority. It must be destroyed."
"I can’t"
"Why, because you’re a pacifist? If that plane is used not only do hundreds of fighter pilots die, but instead of us being able to stop an attack like that militia ICBM launching, this plane could destroy all of Washington D.C. with a single well placed nuke. You don’t help me and you’ll be responsible for those deaths."
"That’s not right. You can’t hold me responsible for what someone else could or is going to do."
Luke’s response was cut-off as the two men heard the side door slam shut. In an instant weapons seemed to appear in both Navy SEAL’s hands, one man taking each entrance to the room. James Madison Armstrong Jr. stormed through the entranceway like a fullback through the opposing guard, a man intent on a mission. To his credit, it took him less than a second to absorb his surroundings before he reached for his sidearm, but in battlefield time he would have been dead. "Don’t move General. Clemens, track him while I liberate his weapons."
Luke covered the gap between them instantly, quickly patting down his father as he confiscated both his guns. He motioned the man to take a seat on the stool before stepping back to his comrade’s side.
"You would shoot your own father in his home?"
"You’re a traitor to the United States of America. I’d shoot you anywhere."
"Devil-spawn child."
"Stop it! Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Just Stop It!" Matthew exploded.
He glared at both men before continuing. "Just look at the both of you. You’re family. Father and Son. You would kill your own father to suit your moral obligations. And you, you would abandon one son and jail another just for disagreeing with you. What’s the matter with you people? What in hell does this have to do with forced abortions? Oh yeah, remember that? Forced abortions, the rally cause this whole war got started on. I know for a fact neither one of you likes or supports the idea, so why are you at each others throats?"
"I don’t have time for this. If he’s here, more military personnel are bound to follow. Clemens let’s go."
"Sit down." he ordered. "Both of you want me to join your respective sides. Well you’re both here, so convince me why I should join either."
Both men stared at each other, each one trying to intimidate the other into not speaking. Bull broke the silence first. His voice was steady, holding tone as if he had actually thought about what he was going to say to his youngest son this time, before he began to utter it.
"There was gigantic debate about the signing of the Declaration of Independence. In colonial times, a war against Great Britain was considered largely suicidal. But after repeated attempts by colonists to get proper representation for their people and to have a say in the laws and taxes that were passed down on them failed, they decided that morally they had no choice but to break away from Britain’s tyranny. A choice had to be made, and even though they probably didn’t like the idea of war or killing any more than we do, ethically they had to resist."
"Nice try, Dad, but too bad that has almost no bearing on what’s going on today. It’s plain and simple, no state can be allowed to secede. What makes the United States strong is just that, we’re united. If a state can decide at any time that it doesn’t feel like being part of the Union and secede, our whole national fabric will unfold…"
"Nothing personal sir," Clemens interrupted. "but if you’re going to have an extended argument would you mind giving me some morphine and letting me sleep for a while?"
The SEAL turned and gave the man an injection, noting the time and date on the wounded soldier’s forehead. The family left the man, moving into the den and sliding the door closed. Luke moved to sit down so he was facing the only entrance, Bull sat opposite him, and Matthew sat in his previous seat. He picked up the binder again turning the pages so it lay closer to the front. "Remember this picture? You taught history General. Pre-WW1. Maybe you remember this interview. You said, ‘Those who refuse to learn from history’s past mistakes are doomed to repeat them.’ What reason should I have to believe that this war is anything less than a mistake? What purpose has war served at all? Justify that the winner of war is not the one with more economically deep pockets instead of the ‘moral’ fighter."
General James Madison Armstrong Jr. looked at his son with an expression that was indecipherable. "At least I see you’ve put some thought into this. In many ways I can’t. One of the big reasons the North beat the South in the first Civil War was because they had much more money and men to throw at the South than the South could answer to. We beat Hussein in the Gulf War for the simple reason that the entire world was willing to throw both men and money at him to get the oil out of his hands. But that’s not why I’m fighting, and I sure it’s not why your brother is either."
"So what is a valid reason to fight? Don’t even pretend that it’s about abortion, because we all know it isn’t. You can’t justify all this violence that simply."
"It’s quite uncomplicated. If we don’t defend our beliefs then they mean nothing." Luke interjected.
"Could you possibly be more cryptic?" Matthew retorted.
"The Constitution of the United States was set up to preserve and protect the ideals this country was founded on. Lincoln realized that if a state could secede any time it wanted to, the ideals and precepts in that Constitution become null and void. If a state doesn’t like a law, it can just withdraw from the Union instead of using the proper channels to get its views heard. Is this view worth fighting, worth dying for? Yes. No matter what. The United States must purely remain that, united."
"Look at that flag son." Bull commanded. The General stood from his seat and walked over to the flag, displayed prominently against the wall. It was contained in a glass case that was vacuum sealed and self lit. The stars seemed to have their own glow as his hand moved over them. The blue background appeared to undulate like the unbound open sea as the stars forged their path undaunted before it. "Texas. Idaho. New Mexico. Florida. Vermont. Maryland. California. One Star is for each of these 50 states."
"Look at the stripes." The red appeared the mixture of deep burgundy and oxygen rich blood. Matthew could almost see the drops of blood from the thousands of slain soldiers who had fought under the flag for freedom, the white bandages that had wrapped their wounded limbs, the feathers of a dove, the universal symbol of peace. "They represent the thousands of men and women that have died under this union, fighting for that union to preserve, protect, and defend the United States. That is worth dying for, those ideals , those concepts, those beliefs."
"I won’t argue with you on that, except to say that that kind of idealism died in the Reagan era. But how can you kill? How can you send others, who may disagree with you on one fine point or on things worth fighting for, to their deaths? How can you?"
"I might have an answer to that." Luke interjected. "You fight and you kill for your unit, for your buddies. Because you know that if you don’t, they may not make it to the next day, and they fight for you, for the same reason. I believe in the greater ideals, in fact I’m on the side of the Union for these ideals, but I fight for the Rising Phoenix, for Clemens, for Parker, Bubba, and Richards."
"I don’t know if that is enough reason for me. I don’t think I could kill, just to keep a friend alive. I think that we should be allowed to make choices, particularly ones that deal with our rights as human beings."
"Think about it son, truly think about it, that’s all I ask."
Bull got up and spoke to Luke. "You’ve got 48 hours, before I call you in. I won’t harm either of you, but you have to leave."
General James Madison Armstrong Jr. walked out the door, without looking back. Luke looked at his retreating form. Matthew returned to thumbing through the binder, his eyebrows creased in worry.
"I’ve decided."
"What."
"I’ve made a decision. I know now that there are things worth believing in. Without ideals, no matter how outdated or unpopular, we have to have something we hold sacred. Whether religion, or just social structure, part of what defines us as human beings is our belief system. I know that if I don’t defend these beliefs, I won’t really be believing in anything at all."
"So what does this mean? What side are you on?"
…