[h3]1939[/h3] [b]Denver[/b] The deuce and a half rolled down the highway towards the city. A dozen men sat in the back of the truck’s cargo hold with rifles and helmets. Closest to the exit was First Sergeant Charlie Braddock. Braddock and his platoon were just a small part of the massive convoy heading into the city. The 1st Montana, the Republic’s first and so far only army, had been called in to Denver to assist with the offensive to push federal forces out of the city. Back in the early days of the war, the western armies had swept through Colorado and into the Midwest before being slowly pushed back to the Rockies. All the republics and independent city-states from across the west were mustering manpower, a seven nation army, to help with that offensive. Word among the armies was that this offensive, if successful, could end their war. With the federals already bogged down with the south, a strong showing by the west might make the government call for peace so they could focus on one war at a time. For Braddock and his men, it would be their first real taste of combat. They’d had some skirmishes up near the Canadian border, raiders from Saskatchewan trying to take advantage of the confusion and anarchy in the US. The pirates were driven back where they came from, more than a few bloodied and dead. But Charlie knew that hadn’t been real combat. Not like what they were getting ready for. The truck suddenly came to a screeching halt. Braddock nearly fell off the bench seat, would have had he not caught himself at the last moment. The men talked among themselves while Braddock lifted the canvas tarp of the truck and looked out. “Jesus Christ,” he said to himself. Without talking to his men, he jumped out of the back of the truck. He found he wasn’t the only one. Other men were coming out of the trucks and on to the stalled traffic on the highway, the convoy stretched back miles and miles until you couldn’t see it. But none of them were looking at the roads. They were looking at the sky. Planes, so many that they caused the afternoon sky to turn into dusk as they flew overhead. Their engines were so loud that the men had to yell over the noise to be heard. They were thousands of feet in the air, but Braddock could easily tell that they were the big bodied bombers on a run. Some of the soldiers on the ground opened fire with their rifles, but most were too stunned by what they were seeing to respond. Braddock turned around at the sound of the booms. The armada in the air began to drop their bombs on the city of Denver. The men of the 1st Montana could just look on in horror at the destruction before them, the explosions that came one after another so quickly that it sounded like the roll of a snare drum, the flames leaping up hundreds of feet into the air. The sound of a closer plane drew Braddock away from the carnage. A fighter plane buzzed low over the convoy and strafed the area with its machine gun. Braddock hit the deck. Dirt and grass exploded around him as bullets whizzed by. He heard a few men nearby scream and fall to the ground. After the plane had passed by, he stood on shaking legs and turned back to Denver. He saw that the entire city was engulfed in flames. Braddock could feel tears stinging his eyes from both the intense heat and the emotion of it all. Even from this far away, he could hear the screams and smell the burning of flesh. [h3]Montana Now [/h3] [b]Chinook 9:18 PM[/b] Vic Klein was used to contemptible looks. He’d grown up in a rough neighborhood in Minneapolis, too short and too skinny for his own good. A tough upbringing had turned him into a kid who could take a few licks, and give more than a few out himself. That childhood, plus a career in the Minneapolis PD, made Vic impervious to hard stares and cold looks. The look he was getting from Bob Dixon was certainly one of the coldest and hardest he’d ever received. The two men sat at Vic’s desk at the courthouse. Sheriff Braddock and Jason Crowder were in the basement, the sheriff booking the man for assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder. “What kind of name is Klein?” Dixon asked with contempt. “Certainly not a Montana name.” “I’m from Minnesota,” Vic said nonchalantly. He knew what Dixon was getting at, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The question was one he'd heard all his life, even in Minnesota. It was how people called him a Jew without calling him a Jew. “My wife is from Chinook. We moved here a few years ago.” Vic shifted and rubbed the back of his neck. He purposefully pulled at the Star of David necklace he always wore so Dixon could get a good look at it. Antisemitism was nothing new to Vic. He’d been called jewboy by people as long as he could remember. “Now, Mr. Dixon,” he started back at his typewriter. “Let’s get this statement out.” “I don’t want to give a statement,” hissed Dixon. “I want to get my employee back to Jordan’s Crossing. Our production at that site hinges upon him. Mr. Crowder is a very important petroleum engineer for Dixon Oil." “He’s also drunker than a skunk,” Charlie Braddock said as he stepped into the office. He breezed through the office in that cool, confident way Vic was always envious of. Nobody made an entrance like the sheriff. “And he’s under arrest, charged with multiple felonies.” Sheriff Braddock sat at his desk and propped his boots up on it. “What if the man he stabbed declines to press charges?” Dixon asked. “We’ll ask him,” replied Braddock. “Just as soon as he wakes up from that coma. I don’t know about you, Mr. Dixon, but if I was put in a coma I would be awfully keen on pressing charges against the guy that done the comatosing.” “Dixon Oil is an international company, sheriff, it spans over four continents. Jason Crowder is a big part of that international machinery. If he’s in jail, then my company is losing millions of dollars.” Braddock leveled his gaze at Dixon and regarded him coolly. “I guess Mr. Crowder should have thought about that before he stabbed a man near to death. Judge Howard will arraign him tomorrow, set his bail. But for now, Mr. Dixon, he is staying downstairs.” Dixon stood in frustration. Vic stood, one hand on his gun, as Dixon walked to Braddock’s desk and slammed his first against the surface, just inches away from the sheriff’s boots. “You’re making a big mistake, Braddock.” The sheriff stood. Up close, he was a few inches taller than Dixon and he made sure Dixon was aware of the difference in height. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Dixon, before you end up in the holding cell with Crowder.” Dixon took a step back. He looked the sheriff up and down. Vic saw the man’s face shift, his anger evaporating into something else. Whatever it was on his face, Vic was certain he didn’t like it at all. “You’re about the right age, sheriff,” he said too calmly. “Did you serve in the war?” “12th Infantry Division, 1st Montana,” Braddock said without hesitation. “I was in the air corps,” Dixon said with a smirk. “I served my country with honor. How about you?” “I was proud to serve Montana. We didn’t have a tinpot dictator like Dugout Doug in Montana.” Dixon nodded and started towards the door. He stopped short and turned back to look at the sheriff. “You know, I flew bombers for the air corps. 1st Montana, they were in Denver, right?” He continued on, not letting the sheriff answer. “Well so was I. I was above Denver, sheriff. Fought in that battle.” “That wasn’t a battle,” Braddock whispered. “It was a goddamn slaughter.” "Just remember who won the war, and who lost it, sheriff. The people of Blaine County like a man who betrayed his country?" "They like a man who stayed true to his country, even when his government was being true to them. It's why they elected me, and they keep on electing me." "We'll see about that." Dixon winked and left the office without another word. -- [h3]Los Angeles [/h3] [b]Downtown 7:55 PM[/B] An usher led Jessica Hyatt to her seat. She was among the last people to be seated in the theater. Almost every seat in the small venue had been filled by men and women in their finest formal wear. Jessica’s bright red dress made her stand out, more than a few heads turned as she walked down the aisle. The color of the dress was done on purpose, to stand out and to show her true red colors to the group assembled. She recognized more than a few faces in the crowd. The performance promised to be a who’s who in LA’s elite leftist society, and Jess was at least a nominal member of that coterie. Her seat ended up being just three rows away from the stage, halfway down the twenty seat row. It was perfect seating, a prime spot to conduct her performance. She knew Parker was somewhere in the auditorium, watching her while his agents watched and recorded the people who came and went. If the Pinkertons were here, then the LAPD Red Squad had to be here as well. Jessica saw a small entourage being led to a seat at the front row. Two men flanked a woman on either side. The two men were tall and handsome, one of them she recognized from films but did not know his name. The woman wore a plum gown and her light brown hair was cut short above the ears. The woman turned and looked out at the crowd. She was beautiful, but not conventionally so. Her nose was too short and there seemed to be old acne scars on her cheeks. But it was how she broadcast herself to the world that made her beautiful. A clam elegance and grace, a playful smile on her lips at all times. It was a look of confidence. After a look at the audience, she settled in to a seat between the two men just as the lights flickered in warning of the coming show. At exactly fifteen minutes past eight, the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. Harvey Edwards hobbled out to thunderous applause. He wore a simple brown suit and red tie, a matching pork pie hat on his head. His iconic sunglasses hid the eyes that had been rendered useless by bomb shrapnel. Everyone in the room, and all over the world for that matter, knew the story of the old bluesman who had been collateral damage during the war and used that to write songs decrying the unjust policies of the southern states. But after the war, he'd turned his focus to the US and how they continued to uphold Jim Crow and silenced critics. For his troubles, he had been given the choice of jail or exile. He was only here after years of negotiating between the US and Chinese governments. The old man gave a slight bow to the crowd before walking to the stool where a guitar case rested on it. A lifetime of performance gave him the muscle memory to nimbly place the case at his feet and open it. Out came a simple acoustic guitar. The crowd cheered again when they saw the words ‘This Machine Kills Dictators’ scribbled on the body of the guitar. He flexed his hands, the long fingers with their calluses working the frets up and down. The room went still and quiet as Edwards began to strum. When he sung, a raspy voice that came from a lifetime of smoking, oozed from his mouth and circulated through the auditorium without the help of amplification. “I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me. Says I ‘but Joe, you’re ten years dead.’ ‘I never died,’ says he. ‘I never died,’ says he.” Respectful applause followed the break of the first verse as Edwards went into the song. From her seat, Jessica had an odd thought that almost made her laugh. She held it up until the second half of the song. “’Joe Hill ain’t dead,’ he says to me. ‘Joe Hill ain’t never died. Where working men go out on strike, Joe Hill is as their side. Joe Hill is at their side.’” Jessica couldn’t contain herself and had to let loose a burst of giggles. The entire situation was so… bizarre. She was among a group of privileged people who had paid hundreds of dollars for tickets to a show where an exiled negro sang songs that extolled the virtues of the working class. Never mind that all of men and women surrounding her had never had to work and to strike and to suffer for their beliefs, like Joe Hill or even Harvey Edwards. They were armchair warriors trying to buy their bona fides. The absurdity of it all made her cackle with glee. After a couple of dirty looks, the people around her began to shush her. She had to move now before she lost her composure all together and couldn’t get her speech out. With laughter still in her voice, she stood and shouted loud enough to make Harvey Edwards stop playing. “The United States is a nation of oppressors, and the oppressed. While we sit here and pat ourselves on the back for our beliefs, negroes in the south are being lynched , the LAPD continues its anti-negro containment policies that is just thinly veiled racial genocide, our civil liberties are raped by the Pinkertons, we must take action. It is not enough to have progressive beliefs, we must also--“ That’s as far as she got before a chorus of boos began to drown her out. Part of it was because she was challenging them, throwing the injustice in the world back in their faces and that no matter how many concerts they went to, it wouldn’t change. But she figured most of them were booing because she was interrupting the show they had paid good money for. Two ushers came into the aisle and passed by the people sitting beside her to take her out. She resisted until one of the ushers picked her up and drug her away, to the sound of applause and cheers. As she thrashed, she saw the woman in the plum grown watching her with a playful look on her face. They briefly made eye contact briefly, but long enough for the woman to smile at her and nod.