They trained in the deserted cornfields taken over by the banks. If they happened upon a banker, sometimes they used him for target practice. It was only fair. An eye for an eye. An ear for an ear. And Mearl wasn't talking about corn.
For three years, Mearl had drilled his men, and trained them to prepare for the black helicopters that were certain to fill the skies when zero hour came.
No one knew when zero hour was, but he was all but certain it would take place on April 19.
"Why April 19?" a new recruit asked, as they invariably did.
"That was the hallowed date of the shot heard round the world, in Lexington, Massachusetts, in 1775. That's when the First American Revolution started. In 1991, another shot was taken against tyranny at a place called Ruby Ridge on the same date. Two years later, also on April 19, the battleground was called Waco. These events turned the tide against the new tyrants so bad that on April 19, 1995, they created a diversionary tactic, blowing up that federal building in Oklahoma City.
That was the turning point. Everything after that is what we called AO-After Oklahoma. We are now at war with our own unlawful government. And we gotta drill for the next April 19 or bend our proud backs under the iron boot of Washington."
Two entire April 19s passed without incident.
Then they came. Exactly on time.
First it was the Garret cornfields. Stripped by what was described as a wind that wasn't a wind.
"What was it?" Streep demanded after rushing to the scene in his camouflage uniform on the latest April 19.
"It sounded like a cross between a tiny twister and a locust swarm," Gordon Garret himself had told him.
"Sounds like Washington to me."
"I don't know what it was, but it bankrupted me," Garret said dejectedly.
"Then you might want to take a gander at this," said Mearl, pulling an IDSM membership form and introductory booklet from the cargo pocket of his cammies.
Garret read right along.
"That'll be thirty dollars, your first quarter's dues," Mearl added.
"I'm flat busted."
"No man is busted who marches with the Iowa Disorganized Subterranean Militia," promised Mearl Streep.
The twister from hell had hit other farms, too. Not all of them in a straight line. A number were skipped.
"Collaborators," muttered Mearl. "That proves Washington's behind this. No storm or swarm picks its targets. Look at this."
They looked. Everyone saw it plain. It was as if some supernatural thing had taken random bites out of the waving green prairies and fields. But the bites weren't random. Any farm that was hit was completely destroyed. Those that were spared were absolutely untouched, not an ear as much as nibbled on. In his mind, Mearl saw them as collaborationist farms. And there were more of them than there were of the downtrodden. A whole lot more.
"We gotta take the fight to the enemy now," Mearl exhorted.
"To Washington?"
"We are gonna take Washington back for the Godfearing people," promised Mearl Streep. "First we gotta put the fear of God into Washington."
Chapter 26
When Remo returned home with the dawn, Grandma Mulberry met him with a disapproving expression and a short, pungent oath.
"Slut."
"You're pushing it, you old bag of bones. Nothing happened."
"Not mean redhead, but you. Out all night. Shame on you. Tomcat slut."
Remo inched closer. "You know I can break your neck like a twig?" he said in a low growl.
The old woman sneered back. "Master Chiun bounce your butt over moon if you do."
Remo's teeth met with a click. His hands floated up as if they had lives of their own. They hovered at choking height.
Catching himself, Remo dropped them to his sides.
"Give me a second," he told Jean, who observed the entire exchange in silent bemusement.
The Master of Sinanju was already up. He was transcending with the sun in his white muslin morning kimono.
"Hey, Little Father. I need to know some Korean."
"'I love you' is Song-kyo Hapshida."
"Thanks. But I already know that. How do you say 'F you'?"
Horror froze Chiun's wrinkles. "You have broken up with the most wonderful woman you have ever met or will ever meet?"
"No, I want to tell that rusty battleax off once and for all in language she'll understand."
"I forbid you to do this."
Remo's face fell. "Thanks a lot, Little Father."
Remo ran down the stairs and found an old Korean-English dictionary. It didn't have the correct phrase. Not even a reasonable facsimile.
Remo decided he had only one person to turn to.
HAROLD SMITH ARRIVED for work with the rising sun. He greeted his secretary, nodded to her routine "No messages" and brought up the system linked to the Folcroft Four in the basement of the complex.
He was not long at this when he heard a click behind him. He ignored it. The click came again.
This time, he turned around in his swivel chair.
There, on the other side of the picture window, hovered a common bumblebee. It bumped into the window.
"Impossible," said Smith.