The Face of Freedom
Copyright 2012 by Benjamin Vance
World rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise for public use, including Internet
applications, without the prior permission of the author except
by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be
printed in a magazine, newspaper or on the Web.
Edited by Stephanie D. Dykehouse and Shela Lynn Thurston
Cover design and interior layout by Brandi Hollister
Mullins Creative, www. MullinsCreative. com
Published by Benjamin Vance Books
Converted by http://www. eBookIt. com
ISBN-13: 978-0-9859-1683-1
This novel is dedicated to
all present and past Freedom Fighters
who have saved their peoples or nations,
against all odds
and against all detractors who,
in the face of adversity,
said it couldn’t be done.
It is dedicated to
those who protect the rights of others,
whether they be human or animal.
It is dedicated to
those who consider themselves
custodians of the earth,
are concerned that
our only home
is being abused,
and who fight for a clean earth
and battle to protect its species.
It is dedicated to
those who always strive for
honor and integrity,
despite the absence of notoriety,
fame or fortune,
And it is dedicated to my wife,
who still reminds me
to seek the best in people.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?
1.
He never tired of the gentle “squish, squish, squish” sound his boots made as he slowly walked the third or fourth mile of the damp forest road outside Helena, Montana. It was vaguely like a soft rhythm he and the road had established. Otherwise, he’d kept as quiet as possible and seen a camp robber jay, something that looked like a small weasel and several large doe watching back. A little squirrel followed him up the road at one point, seemingly wanting a handout.
He was in no mood for handouts though. He was a man on a mission. The rich smell of life and death in the thick evergreen rain forest was primeval. His senses welcomed the pleasant reality of his surroundings. This was the way humans were supposed to live. This was Eden. If only he could accept, and believe that.
The twenty first century was still in its teens and the world had become an alien place for the principles he held dear. He meant to change that … if possible. He had a calling. He would succeed or die trying. The world would be better after he was dead, or at least no worse off than it was. He had to try; with every fiber of his body and his soul, he had to try.
It was sometime near 5:00 p.m. when he saw his first listening post; probably manned by two people; not entirely hidden, but barricaded well. They didn’t stop or challenge him; they just watched and radioed ahead. This was still National Forest land, so they wisely chose not to stop him. He figured he would meet the barrier about half a mile on. Not far enough, but these minute-man groups all had their own methods and protocols.
He came upon a beautifully clear, narrow, gravel bottomed creek that crossed the road, and tiny brown trout went shooting away from him, mimicking their powerful grown salmon cousins. Not wanting to muddy it up, he easily jumped its smallest width, continuing his march.
He soon came to the entrance, indicating to all encroachers; this was the private land of the “Freedom Force Rangers”... strength unknown, but intentions admirable, he guessed. He stopped, stood quietly and waited for acknowledgement. It came in the form of a young, clean shaven man in his late twenties. He was armed with a 9mm semi-auto pistol. It was holstered in a black plastic, quick-draw. He was not threatening. He didn’t have to be, since the walker and the young man were being watched by two riflemen about a hundred meters to his right and left.
“How are you sir?” offered the young man.
“I‘m just fine, thank you. I’m here to help save our country; can I come in and be sheltered?”
“Yes sir, you can. Are you armed?”
“In my backpack.”
“Please don’t attempt to remove it until we’re well within the confines of our haven. We were hoping you’d come our way.”
“Thank you. I’m honored to be here and honored you can welcome me.”
He’d visited seventeen of these “Minute Man” posts in the last six months, and was beginning to draw attention from local and state governments. His speeches and his charisma were welcomed by many, but also feared by those in power. He had to do what he had to do. So far he’d been blessed with only a few close calls.
There’d been that black “County-Mounty” in Wyoming who stopped him on the road to Greybull. He’d been insistent the walker get in the car and be transported to another location near the Montana and Wyoming borders. He’d been very direct with the officer and asked why he didn’t want him in Wyoming. The officer guessed who he was and suggested he was a bigot.
The walker explained he didn’t care about the color of a person’s skin. What he cared about was whether a person was a patriotic American. The back and forth conversation lasted ten minutes and resulted in the officer finally letting him continue. It really was a mystery, since he’d never been a particularly convincing orator. His sincere conviction may have been the key. He was preaching the sermon of “we”. Politicians had been preaching the sermon of “us and them” for far too long. He would change that … if he could.
He followed the young minute man to the central meeting hall. It was a well-constructed log structure with thick walls and roof. It should have been concrete. The other smaller buildings, which included living quarters, sanitary facilities and what