Flashing his wicked smile as he had before, Lou patted the machinegun he cradled in his arms. “You won’t have to worry about that.”

With a wary nod, Osborn continued. “We’ve come a long way since our first maneuver. During that time we’ve lost a lot of good men at Ruby Ridge, Waco, and West Texas, men who stood their ground alone and outnumbered. Men who fought for what they believed in. Well, it’s time for us to stop dying alone under the guns of a government that has abandoned the Constitution and the people it was written for. Starting right here, right now, we’re going to serve notice to the Federal government that we’ll not let our brother patriots be picked off one by one. We’re going to show them that they cannot go about the country, killing off God-fearing Americans, whenever someone has the courage to stand up and disagree with them. Keep that in mind,” Osborn concluded as he stood up and took up his M-16, “those people out there besieging our brothers are the real traitors. They’re the ones who chose to turn their backs on the Constitution and its laws. So don’t hesitate to do what our forefathers had the courage to do.”

Finished with their meal, Ben Branson and Kyle Millner dallied in the warm, well lit mess tent and chatted over the next day’s activities as they sipped coffee. Except for a group of three off duty U.S. marshals seated in one corner, Branson and Millner had the mess tent all to themselves. Outside, the only noise that interfered with their quiet conversation was the steady hum of generators and an occasional vehicle as it went about tending to any one of a variety of housekeeping chores.

The reactions of Millner, a long time veteran of Federal service who had been in his fair share of tight spots, and Branson, who was rated as one of the Bureau’s top field men, to the sudden long, high pitched burst of machinegun fire that ripped through the night air were hesitant. Trained to assess the situation and formulate a plan before making a move, Ben Branson sat bolt upright in his seat, looked about, and tried to determine if the firing was coming from his perimeter or the militia’s positions. Millner, aware that something was terribly wrong, was up and out of his seat, headed for the entrance before Branson saw he was gone. “Get off your dead asses,” Millner yelled at the covey of marshals gathered in the corner, “and follow me.”

Only when a second, long, staccato burst began to rip through the mess tent did Branson slip from his seat. Bent over double, he made his way past the rows of empty tables and headed for the opening at the end of the tent that Kyle Millner had already gone through with his fellow marshals in tow. Ignoring the crisp, sharp sounds of bullets as they flew blindly through the green canvas tent, smashing whatever happened to be sitting in their line of flight, Branson pressed forward. He fought the urge to throw himself onto the ground and its relative safety. Instead, he focused his entire attention on the flaps of the tent, left partially open by the last of Millner’s men. Like a ball carrier charging for an opening in the opponent’s line, Branson aimed his head for the gap and kept going.