Prepper's Crucible - Volume Six: The End by Bobby Andrews

were having enough success to keep the
loyalty of most of the citizens, and everybody knew the Army was on the way. It
was only a question of time before we would take everything back.”
    “Is this when you think you went from being a
partisan group to being a militia?”
    “Yeah. Cory and I
agree on that point. Once we started taking direction from the military, the
prime objective was to disrupt their supplies by train. So Cory moved to Tucson for three months and directed operations there. Tim took
command of our operations in Northern Arizona and he traveled to Flagstaff to
coordinate with the militia there. There was a small Army
Reserve base there that the Mexicans took over and used, but there were
also around 60 reservists there, and they formed the core of that cell. They
were even more active than we were, and pretty quickly gained control of their AO at night. By that time we
owned the night as well, but couldn’t operate openly during the day. The
Mexicans pretty much stayed in town on their bases. They patrolled during the
day, but went into a defensive posture at night, so we became more active
raiding static targets.”
    Horace was furiously scribbling notes, trying to
keep up with Eric’s monologue and held up one hand to indicate he needed time
to catch up with the narrative. Eric paused, looked at him curiously, and
Horace said, “you have no idea how valuable this information is. You’re
covering a period of our history that we know almost nothing about, except for
some dry facts.”
    “You know,” Eric said, after taking a deep breath,
“I saw a documentary on TV about us and the war, and I pretty much laughed
through the whole thing. Everybody makes such a big deal out of what we did.
What nobody seems to realize is that if the Mexicans had sent Sanchez in first,
there probably wouldn’t have been a resistance. But Santamaria gave us no choice. From the moment they
arrived, they started killing and raping, and confiscating weapons people
needed to survive.” Eric paused, clearly thinking about what he was going to
say next.
    “I’m not sure that would be the case,” Horace
answered. “There were different Mexican commanders all over the Southwest, and
resistance movements everywhere.”
    “Horace, there were no heroes or military geniuses
in the group. We fought to stay alive and get vengeance for loved ones. We were
all, at first, terrified at what we were doing. But it was better than being
plucked off the street, at random, and being executed like cattle.”
    “If that’s the case, Cory wouldn’t have agreed to
lead the militia,” Horace responded. “That just made him more of a target than
lying low, or just running his one cell.”
    “He didn’t have a choice. The Air Force would not
accept more than one leader for the state. They objected to the chain of
command not being simple and clear. They pretty much conditioned their
assistance on Cory taking the job. Come to think of it, that man has spent his
entire life doing things he hates to do.”
    “That’s what made him great man.”
    “He still is,” Eric pointed
out.
    “I know.”
    “You know, he would never agree with that
characterization of him. He never thought what he did somehow singled him out for attention.”
    “That’s part of what makes him great.”
    “Let’s go see if he’s awake,” Eric said. The two men
stood and left the room, walked up the stairs, and entered Cory’s room. A nurse
was just leaving with a half-eaten tray of food, and Cory was
propped up in his bed, watching TV.
    “Are you strong enough to continue?” Horace asked.
    “Of course. What do you
want to know?” Horace flipped back through his notes and read for a moment,
then looked up. “What can you tell me about Bill Johnson? You said earlier he
was a godsend.”
    “He was. Bill was a sergeant in the Air Force. He
was an African American, and really made the difference in terms of us getting
the war to end. He did our first