Indivisible (Overlooked by Liberty) by Blair Smith Page B

squarely at Steve.  "I could live with the version of events the media tells, but I'm not about to see more civilians sacrificed up there to cover-up what happened.  It has to stop.  Intelligence has it that some of the Tobacco Boys have found their way up there and have built up a militia of over one hundred men.  We increased the number of battalions in the North Country, but it seems like every other day one of our troops is shot in the tri-state region.  We believe it's them.  They're the only ones with the skills to evade us like that.  Their cause has widespread support by the locals--and for good reason.  There's a lot of pissed-off civilians since the Dixville thing.  This is nothing like the Tobacco uprising that began with taxes.  These people lost their sons, nephews, and grandsons.  This has stirred up a bunch of folks and turned into a regional fight.  I don't want to see this country torn apart because of my screw-up.  Revenge can be a powerful motivator, especially when a bunch of kids were--well, accidentally murdered."  Steve was stunned.  He couldn't believe he was the only one hearing this.  He looked around to see who else was in the room.  Kyle went on, "What killed those kids was a MAN, a Multi-sensory Automated Neutralizer, designed to take down ground movement.  The troops call it AutoMan.  They weren't designed to take out targets below a certain weight.  Tanks and full-grown people with weapons, yes.  Not kids and wildlife."
           "I've never heard of such a thing.  Why did you choose me to tell this to?"
           "I believe Spectator News will follow-up on this story.  If this thing in the Northeast is going to end, it has to come out in the open."  The General began collecting his things to leave.  "I have another meeting."
           "I'd like to find out as many details as possible before I publish."  Morrison chewed excitedly now.  He was the only reporter with a source like this.  The story of the decade, and mine.   "Winifred has a good relationship with the media.  If this is going to be a pissing match between the President and me, I want a full bladder.  Where can I find out more."
           General Kyle Paz dropped a ten on the table to cover the drinks and tip.  "At the Dixville Massacre site you can see the physical evidence.  Hopefully, if they know you're coming, you won't get shot."
           "Hopefully!  What do you mean by that?"
           "They hate reporters up there."  With his hat tucked under his arm, Paz weaved between tables and chairs on his way to the exit.
           After Paz had left, Steve pulled his computer out of his pocket and turned off dictation mode.  He had it all digitally.  He thought about how he could get into the Dixville area without the locals knowing he was a reporter.  He spoke to himself aloud, "'Hopefully I won't get shot' . . . Shit!" 
     
    The Philbin's sugarhouse near Colebrook (December 6)
           They hid in darker places of the night and spoke in whispers of sedition: of killing and injustice, of fairness--desperate people seeking retribution.  Vanessa Larson slurped and stared into her cup of coffee.  Helen paced across the floor, stopping occasionally to watch a sound she heard.  Harvey Madison stared at the door of the shack reciting articles of tolerance to himself.  Beyond the door, three dark figures walked on crunchy snow in the shadows of the pines.  They stopped at the edge of the clearing and waited for a cloud to pass in front of the moon.       
           Mrs. Larson answered the door of the sugarhouse.  Three men dressed in white camouflage walked in and bunched up on the left side, kicking snow off their boots.  The tallest man named Tumult had a wiry look about him, hunched and slightly bow-legged, the posture of a toughened rodeo cowboy.  He stopped and stared at the three locals with disdain; they were not what he had