The Face of Freedom

Benjamin Vance

Description

The Face of Freedom is a novel for all genders concerned with the current trading of Constitutional Freedoms for governmentally sponsored safety.

In this novel incompetent manipulation of political and military power draws innocent people into a turmoil of intrigue, conflict and fulfillment that demonstrates the inevitable strength of men and women from varied walks of life and diverse countries. It demonstrates how unusual, usual people can be when it's necessary to defend freedom or someone they love.

The unexpected twists and contradictions in the novel are difficult to predict, and will tempt the reader to look ahead. It can be said this book has more than one beginning and ending; not alternatives, but as in life, phases of renewal and discovery. It highlights the ease with which those in power are corrupted and demonstrates the integrity, tenacity and innate abilities of very special people, considered ordinary by those in power, to assume the noble mantle of leadership.

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Military
• War
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 09 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780985916831
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The Face of Freedom
 
Copyright 2012 by Benjamin Vance
www. BenjaminVanceBooks. com
 
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
www. BenjaminVanceBooks. com
 
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 looked to be a dining hall, were far too close together. It was understandable, since the folks involved with these organizations usually felt marginalized or forgotten by their government. If they only knew! Still, these organizations gave them something to belong to. And they always wanted to be too close together. That’s why the buildings were usually huddled up and vulnerable.
 
Most were not racists, but some were considered so, simply due to their geographic location and love of weapons and military ways. Most were “wannabes”, but there were some brilliant leaders and followers involved; a lot of ex-military. The dangerous ones were the intelligent deviants. He had to walk on egg shells at times, but always seemed to get his message across.
 
His desire was to consolidate all the minute man or patriot groups under one “organizational umbrella” in order to consolidate political power. He was succeeding; slowly. The leaders were talking and holding combined meetings to discuss strategy, logistics and recruiting. He was reasonably sure one Wyoming Senator was on his side. He and the Senator were alike in patriotism and other ideology, and his aim was to enlist more legislators like him.
 
He was brought some refreshing fruit drink and a fruit snack and told their elected leader would be with him shortly. Suddenly, he was alone in the cavernous meeting house. It smelled of the forest and of smoke, and of humans. He could hear the distant “pop, pop, pop” of a pistol being shot. The periodic pauses indicated the checking of targets, then the “pop, pop, pop” would start again. Most of these organizations were built around the second amendment right to bear arms, and most of their members loved shooting and hunting. Some just loved getting out of doors.
 
The various weapons advocates and shooter’s group organizations were always crying “wolf” with regard to second amendment rights being denied. They were right in many instances and kept the members on their toes. Some of the shooter’s organizations had become powerful lobbying groups. They used member contributions to pay Political Action Committee fees for lobbying their cause. Overall it had worked ... so far. America was armed to the teeth, so that any other country having designs on the U.S. would certainly hesitate, based on the fact that their people would get targeted from every bower and creek in the land, much like the colonial revolutionaries had done.
 
However, if one could slowly remove freedoms from American citizens and make them feel they could only be kept safe by their government, then it might be possible to slowly remove the guts from the second amendment under the guise of “All Americans deserve to feel safe in their homes”. To the walker it begged the question of how much taxes will it take to make them feel safe? How many police, how many video cameras and how many scanners in airports will it take to make them feel safe? William Shakespeare wrote “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war”. As far as the walker was concerned, the government’s motto was “Cry safety and remove the rule of freedom”.
 
His thoughts were interrupted by a large swaggering man with a shock of grey hair protruding from his olive drab green cap, and dressed in battle dress camouflage clothing. The guy reminded him of John Wayne. He had a semi-automatic pistol on his side, which as he got closer was revealed to be a 1911 model Colt. He stuck out his hand and delivered an iron grip that tried to crush. When it was returned with the same fierceness, he winced. The walker hoped it had not put the large man off. It hadn’t.
 
The man said, “God, I love a firm handshake!” He then asked if they could both sit down and talk. The walker was relieved and pleased. He had expected no less, but still… .
 
The big man introduced himself as Dr. Luke Tarwater. He was a retired gynecologist and said he knew all the gynecologist jokes. They went through the usual, “getting to know each other stuff” and Dr. Tarwater asked the walker if he would address their group that evening. It was Friday and