Myrmidon

CHAPTER NINE

Belcher stepped down into the dirt road in front of the clinic and out into the open. He looked up at the drone, then took off his hat and waved at the unmanned plane. “I hate to be uncharitable, but I question your style, Agent,” he said.

Chapel wasn’t technically an agent of any governmental organization, bureau, or department, but he didn’t bother correcting the man.

“You started out with something like manners,” Belcher went on. “You come here alone, you don’t threaten anyone. Not what I would expect from the federals. But then you bring along one of those. You come acting like a man, like a real man, but backed up by a robot—the very symbol of the government we despise. You understand that, right? I just bet you do. When I was a soldier, back in the last century, we understood that men fought men face-to-face. You put your arms up against the other fellow’s, you put yourself in jeopardy, to prove you had the right on your side. The government today, they’d just as soon use drones. Sit in a room half a world away sipping coffee and blow away the bad guys on a computer screen. Like a damned video game. Because that’s what war is to your government, isn’t it? Just a game.”

“I took it pretty seriously myself, in Afghanistan,” Chapel said.

“Oh, you’re a veteran, are you? From the look of you, I’d say air force, am I right?”

Chapel wasn’t sure if Belcher was trying to insult him. “Army. Just like you. Except I was in the Rangers.” He wanted to point out that he hadn’t been dishonorably discharged, either, but he didn’t want to go down that path.

Belcher nodded in appreciation. “First boots on the ground. There’s a proud tradition there. But now we have these things.” He pointed one finger up at the drone. “All right, point taken—it’s no game. No, warfare by robot is business. The business of control. Every day, your government works to take a little more control of how Americans live their lives. These robots let them do so with impunity.”

“Mr. Belcher, I’m sorry, but I didn’t come here to talk philosophy or politics,” Chapel tried, trying to steer the conversation back to the guns.

But, apparently, Belcher felt the need to deliver a sermon, first. “Do you know they’re pushing to get every child in this country fingerprinted before the fifth grade? Oh, they say it’s so they can help find them if they get abducted. You and I know the real reason, though. The same reason they fingerprinted us when we signed on.”

Chapel frowned. “So they could identify our bodies if we were killed in action?”

“So that if we—or those children—ever commit a crime in the future, they can scoop them up right away. They’ve got databases on everything we do, every time we use a telephone, every e-mail we send—”

“If we could just talk about Favorov,” Chapel tried.

But Belcher was on a roll. “This town was my father’s dream. That’s why it bears his name. He wanted to create a world where men—yes, white men—could be truly free. Where no one had to watch them all the time like disapproving parents. All the parents here love their children. They believe in them.”

“Please, Mr. Belcher, I—”

“There are over three hundred kids here,” Belcher said, “many of them just babies. If you send in your jackbooted thugs to take these alleged guns back by force, can you really guarantee their safety?”

Ah. Interesting. Chapel saw, suddenly, exactly why Belcher had felt the need to rhapsodize on freedom and control. He’d put Chapel in a corner where if he insisted that Belcher turn over the guns, he was going to have to take responsibility for any children who were hurt in the process. Which was also a way of saying, if a little obliquely, that the town of Kendred would fight to the last man to keep the guns. Without admitting to anything criminal or making any threats.

Impressive, Chapel thought. The man was a born negotiator. But, luckily, Chapel had his own cards to play. “I can guarantee nobody is hurt here, babies or children or adults, if you’re willing to cooperate. If you and I hash this thing out, just two men talking face-to-face. I can also guarantee you that I’m your last chance to avoid an armed confrontation with a government that can blow this town off the map without putting a single soldier at risk. We don’t need to take the guns back, Mr. Belcher. We need to destroy them. I’m here to hold out an olive branch in the name of limiting collateral damage. But if I fail—if I can’t reach an agreement with you—then we come back with the sword.”

“Good,” Belcher said.

“Good?”

“I like to know what game I’m playing, you see.” He reached over and slapped Chapel on the arm in a playful manner. “I like to know what’s at stake. Come and walk with me—we’ll head over to the warehouses, and maybe we can finish this up before suppertime.”