The Wrong Man

94

The men recited the words from memory, by rote, as they continued their preparations.

“I understand that the cause is greater than the individual. I understand that sacrificing this life for the cause will open up a new and richer life in the hereafter. I understand that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. I understand that revolution is not only a right but an obligation. I understand that bigotry and hate cannot be answered with tolerance but with intolerance. I understand that those who take up arms against us cannot be answered with peace but with like arms.”

The men were inside a storage unit, all of fifteen feet high, twelve feet wide, and thirty feet long. No windows, no furnishing, not even a traditional door-just an automated garage door at the front of the unit. The You-Ride truck had been stored here since they cleared it out of the silo at Summerset Farms-a bit earlier than they’d expected, because of that lawyer who Manning always complained about.

But they’d always planned that tonight-the night before the attack-they would stay here, given the proximity to the city. It was cramped and dingy, but it didn’t really matter any longer. It was a sacrifice that paled in comparison to the one they’d be making very soon.

“I understand that the cause is greater than the individual. I understand…”

One man-Olsen-was performing a mechanical inspection of the You-Ride, checking tire pressure, the battery and engine, looking for anything that could go wrong tomorrow morning. The second man-Briggs-had the job of inspecting the equipment. He insured that the fuses were in proper and working order in the driver’s cabin. He confirmed that the protective plastic tubing, covering the fuses as they traveled underneath the driver’s cabin and up into the rear cargo area, were still intact. He checked the connection between the fuses and the blasting caps in the cargo area. He made sure that the slack in the plastic tubing was fastened securely against the wall of the cabin, preventing the accidental detachment of the fuses from the blasting caps in transit.

The third member of the three-man team, Roscoe, slept. They had to take turns, only one man at a time. Everyone was hyped up, wired at the prospect of tomorrow, but Manning had been clear about it-everyone had to get at least four hours’ sleep at some point before the big event. Focus and discipline, a proper execution, were impossible without some amount of sleep beforehand.

It was almost midnight. It was almost December 7.

In thirteen hours, this country would change forever.