Anatomy of a Rebellion

Chapter 7

Union

To Percy's surprise they did not go through debrief; they were all sent immediately home. He wondered if it was an oversight created by misplaced paperwork or a misstep done on purpose. Although he tried to put any questions or worries he had into the back of his mind, he was unable to detach himself from his job and his crew. He wondered if anyone else was having the same problem. It would be understandable considering they had lived with their career every day for over two solid years.

Wallace erased that idea from Percy's head the minute they arrived in Union. Immediately he was rattling off what they needed to do that night. He listed, "First, find the Chaplain, then go to Tom's, check on my old man, see if Adela still lives here…"

Percy shut him off. Their cab had pulled up to the Presbyterian church at close to 2100hours; while the sun was just drifting behind the horizon, Wallace had enough ideas to fill a week. Out of his window Percy gazed up at the tall structure to the tip of the tower. It seemed as though it was pointing towards the heavens, like it was challenging Percy to reach up and steal a star.

"Hey! Dude, get out!"

He realized Wallace had already climbed out of the cab and paid the driver. Silently he followed suit. With his bag slung over his shoulder he moved quickly and left Wallace a few steps behind. The two reached the church entrance. Percy pushed lightly on the door and it creaked open. They peered inside but the dust and darkness covered their vision. Only the fractured moonlight that came through the stained glass windows eased their eyes.

They caught the sight of someone resting on the front pew. Without a word between them they approached the faceless stranger. Before they reached the front, the stranger turned around. They halted, like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar they stared wide-eyed back.

"Oh," the young man said, "it's just you two. Thought my dad finally wanted to talk."

They had felt as though they had just looked back through time. The sturdy build, wrapped comfortably in a recruit's uniform; the dark locks, resting wistfully above those dark eyes; the square chin, holding a handsome smile – it reminded them of Warren Taylor, some twelve years earlier. But the young man resting on the pew was not the man they had affectionately called The Chaplain.

The two older men surrounded the younger and sat beside him. The inner battle he waged was evident on his face; he crinkled his lips and narrowed his eyes, and never once did his gaze move from the floor. His hands played aimlessly with his service cap in an attempt to distract himself. However, with the curious stares of two soldiers upon him, he opened up.

He said, "I thought this would be the best place to gather my thoughts. Thought maybe that I would get renewed confidence." He stopped. Silence gripped him long enough to swallow. "My dad hasn't talked to me since I joined. Mom has done her best not to act sad, and I don't think my siblings really understand. Did you have this same problem, Wallace?"

Percy wasn't offended that he wasn't asked. He joined alone, essentially an orphan, while Wallace had a loving family in Union. It was also true that Wallace was much closer with the youngster named Royal. In many ways, the kid viewed Wallace as a father figure or uncle.

"Don't bother them so early, Royal," a commanding voice requested. "They have just arrived."

The three turned towards the entrance. There, disappearing into the darkness save the rounded collar around his neck, was Warren Taylor. He approached them ghostlike, with never a sound emitting from his steps. He stopped in front of them, a disappointed frown on his face. He didn't look at anyone other than his eldest son.

"He looks good in that uniform," Wallace commented. Warren looked to his old army buddy, and for the first time in years, made eye contact. "He looks like you."

"How have you been?" Warren asked. The sudden change in topic didn't go unnoticed, but there was never a chance for it to be pointed out. "I assumed you would be with your family."

"Come on, man. Can't a guy relax first?" Wallace grumbled.

"I take it you haven't heard about your brother," Warren said.

Wallace couldn't help but show confusion and a slight hint of fear. He asked, "Which one?"

"Alan," Warren answered. It was quiet between all four of them. When Wallace didn't inquire further, it was explained to him, "He's dead."

Wallace took a sharp intake of air and held it. The seconds ticked by like minutes as all waited for some sort of emotional response. But there was none; the Sergeant just said in a weak voice, "Take me to him."

"Royal," Warren said. The command was clear. The young man stood and motioned for Wallace to follow. The two shuffled out, with Royal tossing careful glances to his seemingly emotionless elder. Once they were gone, Warren said, "Why didn't anyone tell him?"

"I don't know," was Percy's honest answer. His heart felt heavy for his friend.

Warren took a seat next to Percy. They hadn't seen in each other in years, but no distance or time could take away the friendship they forged on the battlefield. Although there was nearly a decade of difference in their age, Warren treated Percy as an equal; it was the opposite for the Major, however, as he revered Warren in an almost godly light.

"Why my son would join, I will never know. To put his mother through that much worry…" he sighed, expressing his annoyance. "She's been through enough thanks to me. I fought for years so my family would never know war, so they would know only liberty and our Lord's grace. Yet now I realize how futile it was. War is in our country. I fear that one day my children will know neither liberty nor God, nor justice of any kind."

"When did know you wanted to be a minister?" Percy asked.

The question surprised Warren, but he could see the intensity on Percy's face and felt obligated to answer. "I've always known," he said. He felt as though there was something more so he probed deeper. "Are you questioning your commitment to the Army? You've served plenty of years."

"I know."

"You're very intelligent," praised Warren. "Always silent and always listening. You can analyze a situation and know any outcome. But you lack belief, passion."

"What should I do?"

Warren smiled for the first time that night, "Only you know the answer to that."

"I'm frustrated," Percy admitted. "I lost twenty men in a week – more than I had lost in two years. Did arrogance prevent us from performing to our utmost, were we sloppier than normal, did I make the correct decisions? All of them lost to a group of untrained gangsters."

"Perhaps you did not want to fight them," Warren suggested.

"That's ridiculous. They are enemies of the United States and they were shooting at us. Of course we wanted to fight them."

"Enemies of the United States, yes, but were they your enemies?" Warren asked. Percy said nothing; it was taken as a sign that the conversation was over. Besides, it left the Major with a lot to think about. Warren clasped a strong hand on his friend's shoulder and said, "You'll figure it out. I have faith in you."

Meanwhile, Royal and Wallace had made themselves comfortable outside. On the grass near his brother's gravestone Wallace rested in silence; Royal sat next to him, a sign of curiosity and camaraderie. The marker was so simple that Wallace felt it couldn't measure up to his fantastic older brother, yet he was unable to voice such a thought. Anger clouded any feeling of sadness. He wondered why no one bothered to tell him.

"My dad is kind of stubborn," Royal suddenly said. It was a welcomed break in the silence. "He heard people were being arrested, or something, over their churches. He said he wouldn't leave his church, citing something about how religion is a part of this nation."

"I was born a Protestant. But I was forced to fight a religious war for my country. Even if they won't admit it, that's what it is. Christians versus Muslims, even though they're both born from the same place, the same ideas," Wallace said.

"Do you believe in Jesus?"

"There may have been a man named Jesus," he answered, "but I don't believe he was the son of God. Even if he was, I would never believe in a God so cruel that He would have His own son killed in such a way. He must be a sadist, and He'll never be the object of my worship."

"I didn't realize you were an atheist," the boy said in a disappointed tone. "Dad says that religion is important in times like these. He said that when things are out of control, people turn to religion for guidance and strength. It offers answers to difficult questions and a way to explain things we don't understand."

"Do you believe that?"

Royal didn't answer. Instead he asked, "Why did you join the military?"

Wallace raised his eyebrows. It was the first time he had ever thought about it. He answered, "It just seemed like the right thing to do. There were people I wanted to protect. I'm a simple man; I don't want to liberate anyone or whatever. Those concepts have no place in my life."

"What if the people you care about feel oppressed?"

There was no time for Wallace to answer. Warren and Percy had come out to join them on the grass, interrupting their conversation. Warren said, "Royal, why don't you head home? I'm sure your mother would like to see you."

He stood, brushed the grass from his pants and said, "Yes, sir."

As his son turned to walk away, Warren said, "Son." Royal halted and turned to face his father. "I'm proud of you," he said.

"I know, dad," was the response.

Percy watched the exchange in interest. It was curious to him how Warren had just moments earlier sounded angry about his son's decision, but now he was proud of him. Percy figured it wasn't that Warren was ever angry; instead, he was probably worried. So worried, in fact, that he wasn't sure how he should react. For a moment, Percy wondered if that was the way all families reacted. If so, how would a man like Warren handle hearing about the death of his son?

The thought of Warren losing a son to war gave Percy a headache. Fortunately, it was eased when Wallace suddenly stood and said, "How about we go get some drinks?"

No one protested. The Minister led his friends through town – a town that hadn't changed much since their last visit. While the street lamps seemed dimmer and there was less commotion, it felt like the same town of old. The conversation between them was limited. A few times Wallace would divert from the path in order to peer into a shop window – "This is new!" – but anything of substance was sparse. It allowed the three men plenty of time to think and collect their thoughts, so when they did arrive at their destination they felt as though they had everything well and sorted out.

Tom's Tavern was the establishment they had marched to. It appeared lifeless on the outside. Wallace smashed his face against one of the windows and stared inside. Most of the stools and chairs had been flipped onto the bar or tables. The only light came from directly behind the bar and upstairs. There were two men resting at the bar and one man behind it.

Warren swung open the large wooden door and ushered the others inside. The door closed behind them with a loud CRASH. The man behind the bar, Tom, looked up to see who it was. He said, "It's Sunday. We're closed."

"Don't give us any s**t, Tom Cat," Wallace said with a grin. He was the first of the three to reach the bar. He leaned over and gave the bartender a friendly handshake. Percy avoided the gesture and silently flipped a stool down and took a seat. There other's followed, and they sat Percy, Wallace and Warren.

"Thanks for letting us in," Warren said.

Tom waved his hand and said in a reassuring tone, "Ah, what's it matter? A trio like you deserves the attention I suppose. I told everyone you would go somewhere." He grabbed three glasses and a bottle of rum. He filled two of them with rum before ducking under the bar to grab a gallon of milk.

"We went somewhere but we came right back," Wallace said.

Tom stopped just short of filling the last glass with milk. "You're not back for good, though," he pointed out.

"Hopefully we have until Christmas," Percy chimed in. Tom nodded and then continued to fill that last glass. He handed the two filled with rum to Percy and Warren before he gave the one with milk to Wallace.

"Hey!" Wallace complained. "Why the hell did you give me milk?"

"You're already goofy! You don't need any alcohol," Tom said. Percy handed Wallace his glass and the two made a silent trade.

Just as Wallace grabbed his glass of rum, one of the men at the other end of the bar shouted. "Are you out of your mind?!" his voice boomed. Both of the strangers glanced over at Percy's group to see if they had heard; after checking, they continued their conversation, but in whispers. Naturally, the odd behavior of the two men peeked Wallace's interest. It wasn't everyday tourists stopped by their farm town.

Wallace left the others and made his way down to the strangers. His approach was silent despite his heavy boots and the wooden floor. He tried to determine where they came from. One was well dressed, with polished shoes, fitted slacks, and a designer vest atop a white dress shirt; his mahogany hair was short and gelled neatly to the right. The other wore a plan grey t-shirt along with beat up and stained work boats covered partially by ragged jeans; his black hair was covered by a backwards baseball cap. They looked like two different creatures.

He observed them for a while at a close distance and found it odd they hadn't acknowledged him. It was about forty-five seconds before the man in the vest faced him. He did so with a smile, and cheerfully greeted, "Good Evening Sergeant Chevalier!"

"How do you know my name?" Wallace demanded.

"Well, it's hard not to notice when your nametag is in such close proximity to my face," was the man's dry response. Wallace realized he was crowding the man, but just to spite him, refused to take a step back. "Regardless, wasn't it a major oversight on your part to get so close without first making sure I was unarmed?"

Wallace felt something poke his belly and he looked down. The man had pulled a pistol on him; instead of backing down, he got more annoyed. "Pull the trigger, pretty boy," he taunted.

The others hadn't seen the gun due to the angle, but once they heard Wallace make the jeer, they reacted. Percy put his hand to his own gun. Tom immediately ducked behind the bar, wanting to avoid any bullets if shots were fired.

Help came in the form of Warren, who jumped and shouted, "What?!" Without wasting a moment he swiftly approached, grabbed Wallace, and pushed him aside. The move took everyone by surprise. With the gun pointed now at his own gut, Warren said, "Guns are permitted only to be carried by law enforcement and military personnel. I demand identification."

"It's always been easier to get things illegally rather than legally," the man said. He placed the gun back into the holster near his vest. Then he offered a grin and a shrug rather than paperwork. "Unfortunately, I don't carry any form of identification. I find it best that a man act as his own proof of existence and self, rather than a government issued stamp. I will, however, introduce myself. My name is Freddie, and the man next to me is Huck."

By this point Percy had migrated to the group. To Freddie he ordered, "If it is against the law to carry firearms, I'm afraid I'll have to ask for you to hand it over."

"Major Raymond, you're just the man I came to see. I wanted to thank you for your kind treatment to my shooter. I told her she would starve and that she should have backup or more supplies, but the silly girl didn't listen to me," Freddie said.

"I'm sorry?" Percy said, confused.

"Rita," Freddie said. "The woman who assassinated Prieto and Juarez. We thought for sure you'd kill her if she was caught."

Wallace interjected. "Wait. You're the guy behind that? You son of a b***h!" he moved to knock Freddie out; however, Warren grabbed him and his grip prevented Wallace from moving forward. "We had the chance to gather intelligence on the cartel movement and prevent the death of hundreds of Americans!"

"You really think the American government would have allowed you to capture and interrogate them?" Freddie questioned. "If word got out you held two men captive – one a Columbian General and another a member of the Mexican government – a full scale war would start."

"What do you think we're fighting now?" Wallace asked.

"Compared to Europe and the Middle East? A schoolyard skirmish," Huck chimed in.

"But the world needs to know if the Mexican government is supporting the cartels," Wallace insisted.

"America already knew," Freddie informed them. He grabbed a large folder that rested on the bar. It was so full of papers that it was overflowing and in disarray. It was handed to Percy, who merely gave Freddie a confused look.

"What is this?" he asked. "It looks like a bunch of paper."

"That is all the information I have gathered on you and your men over the past two years," Freddie said. "Go ahead and read it."

"Where would you get that much information?" Warren asked.

"I have eyes and ears everywhere," Freddie answered. "I know of every confidential conversation and classified mission from all nations of the world."

"I don't believe you," Wallace said.

Freddie smiled, "Why don't you ask that lovely Lieutenant of yours to run a report on me? Mackenzie Lynn Ross, twenty-four years old, one hundred seventy centimeters, fifty-nine kilograms, and a very distinct scar on her left shoulder blade from a ricocheted bullet."

Percy had been flipping through the papers and hadn't paid much attention, but the description of his officer down to a personal scar made him look up. "There are about three people in the world who know about that scar," Percy said. "How would you know?"

Again, Freddie grinned. This time he stood and Huck followed. Before they left the establishment, he said, "As I said, ask her to run a report. Tell her to search for Freddie – with two d's and an i e – and Huckleberry O'Hara. Let me know what you find out."