Joseph Vassaix carried an old gym satchel, the contents of which could put him away forever. Along with the satchel he was given the code-name Red Cell. On that early April morning he walked coolly across an extensive strip-mall parking lot, burdened with the fear of what he might see, or more to the point, who might see him. Dark-tinted vehicles. Men in suits wearing sunglasses. Suspicious, probing eyes were everywhere but he put them out of his mind and focused on the bakery truck parked at the outer edge of the lot. It was a cumbersome lunch-box-looking thing with a flat nose and a wide windshield across the front. A trio of colorful cartoon cupcakes with star sprinkles was painted on the sides, along with the words SMITH'S BAKERY. It was kind of new, but not really.

When he touched the steel door he had the dreadful feeling that he'd suddenly given himself away, and the police would rush in any second. The steel was cold and damp with morning dew. He wiped it off on his pants and slid the heavy door open. Perhaps it's armored, he thought, considering the weight of the door. Joseph dropped the satchel on the passenger's seat, locked the door, and glanced into the darkness of the cargo area. Racks and racks of neatly packaged bread, from floor to ceiling, along both walls. French bread, sourdough, rye, all coalesced to fill the truck with the pleasant aroma of a bakery just opening its doors to dawn's early light.

The truck started smoothly, and per his orders, Joseph drove a leisurely route around the neighborhood to identify any surveillance, then headed a few miles out of town and parked in a remote area of Sheperd's National Park. Above him, he could see the golden sunlight glittering in the treetops. Between the leaves was a deep blue sky. Silence. No one. No thing. It was there that he opened the satchel.

A Hechler and Koch MP5 submachine gun, loaded with P++ high velocity, armor-piercing rounds. The sleek black barrel glistened as he pulled it out. Joseph could smell the bitter scent of gun oil faintly from the inside mechanics. Five thirty round magazines. Though he'd only held the weapon a few times before at training sessions, it felt comfortable in his hands. In his mind however, he questioned his abilities. He was a school bus driver, not a smuggler. And definitely not a soldier.

A Sony electronic receiver to identify any devices actively transmitting a signal within a fifteen yard radius. State of the art electronic surveillance detection. The truck was clean.

Finally, the last of it was a digital data disc, about the size and weight of a half-dollar. He turned it over in his hand, admiring the brilliant spectrum of color dancing across its face. Joseph slid it into the disk drive and a brief beep erupted from the Mobile Terminal in the dashboard. Joseph leaned back in his chair. It was real. It had begun. The MP5 took on a whole new meaning, sitting there beside him. It would be his only company in Hell. His savior. He suddenly hated it. A deep, scratchy voice of an older man arose from the MT.

"Hello, Red Cell. You understand there can be no names, but I think you know who I am."

Though the man did not identify himself, Joseph knew him. He was a sergeant in the Orleans Division of the ARF. The American Revolutionary Force. Joseph knew in the hierarchy of things, that he fell under the supervision of this man. This was the man who had sent the encrypted email message containing Joseph's orders.

"I made this recording to help you through the trip. It's your first, and God-willing, it will not be your last. Sorry, I didn't quite mean it that way, Red Cell. What I mean is, I hope you will recognize your importance to the Cause. I believe you're the kind of man that will and that's why I picked you.

First order of business. There is a radio frequency scanner in the truck, underneath the CB radio. Turn it on. It will pick up all police transmissions, including tactical channels used for surveillance. Turn on the CB also. If you need to communicate with anyone, use channel 56. Lady Bug will be monitoring that channel."

Joseph clicked on the scanner, which immediately came to life with routine police calls for service and other business, all of which sounded quite foreign with its coded jargon.

"I'm going to tell you a little story. Several hundred years ago our country was in a similar position as it is on this day. And there were men, like you and me, Red Cell, who had a certain love for the freedom they saw fading away under tyrannical government. Some men sat back and watched, letting it happen, becoming slaves to an increasingly oppressive majority. But others, others chose to stand and fight. They knew the fight, the cause for freedom, was bigger than them, bigger than their families, and with that knowledge, they were resolved to give their lives for it. It is perhaps the most difficult decision a man has to make. Risk not only his own life, but that of his family. For what, Red Cell? So everyone will call you a hero? No, you don't need that. You need to know, when you lay dying, what it was worth. You'll turn to dust and blow away in the wind, and what was it all for? It's simple, Red Cell. Freedom. People think we're right-wing extremists, crazy fanatics and whatever else the G cooks up. Those men that chose to stand up when all others sat down, you might say they were crazies too. Well, we have another thing in common with those men, Red Cell. We're patriots."

Joseph paused the audio. I'm no soldier, he thought, trying to convince himself as much as the sergeant. Even if I wanted to fight, I couldn't be worth anything more than a walking sandbag to draw fire. He left the audio on pause.

Highway 98 stretched along the Gulf coast, at times flanked by snow-white sand dunes and the rich, aquamarine waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Joseph could see the magnificent vista in that huge picture-window windshield, and the serenity of it enthralled him. He was no longer smuggling contraband. He was a fisherman, about to put out to the lovely blue sea and lose himself in its embrace.

Once he crossed the Florida border the sky darkened behind a hazy gray fog. According to the news, for the last several days wildfires were consuming the state of Florida, washing the roads with heavy, acrid smoke. Joseph would catch sporadic conversation over the police scanner about roadblocks being set up and requests for additional help. He was constantly struggling to decipher the police talk.

The miserable haze became black and syrupy in spots. A roadblock was inevitable. How could they not know about the fires? Why wouldn't they warn him? Should he contact Lady Bug?

And there it was. A flurry of flashing lights, muted behind the smoke, but visible enough to chill his flesh. The brakes whined faintly as Joseph eased the truck to a stop at the end of a short line of cars. He slid the satchel onto the floorboard beneath his feet. In the car ahead of him he saw a young girl of about six, with hair as black as midnight. She was occupied with something but eventually her attention focused on Joseph.

A flurry of noise startled Joseph. It was the MT informing him that a message had just arrived. He pulled up the message screen.

>>Unforeseen events taking place. Battles have spread across Florida panhandle and are nearing your route. Security may be heavy. Proceed with caution.

Battles? Last he knew, there were small skirmishes here and there, but battles? Good God, when did they start calling them battles? Of course, his only information on the trouble in Florida came from the national media, an organization which in effect was one single entity, and its divisions, or affiliates as they called it, encompassed every major news organization across the country. And most of the minor ones too. Those that it did not possess were quickly swallowed and spit out by the massive Federal licensing machine. To keep and maintain a license, you were subject to the wrath of the tax machine. Equipment taxes, distribution taxes, broadcast taxes, taxes ad nauseum. So what Joseph knew as the front lines of a major battle, that little girl ahead of him knew as wildfires spreading across Florida. He grieved silently at her innocence.

A trooper, dressed in bulky black fatigues and wielding some type of assault rifle, walked seemingly out of nowhere and rapped on Joseph's door. When he released his grip on the steering wheel, Joseph could see the moisture his hands had left behind. He opened the small driver's door window.

"Identification."

Joseph handed him his Federal Identification Card. The trooper quickly slid it through a bar-code scanner. While the trooper was occupied reading the information off the scanner display, Joseph pushed the satchel with his feet until it fit snugly beside the gas pedal. "Where are you going, Mr. Vassaix? You are a bus driver for Orleans Parish, Louisiana. Why are you driving a bakery truck in Florida?"

Fear. He looked into the trooper's steely gray eyes and wondered if they could see him trembling, if they could see right through him for what he really was. Regardless of how Joseph felt inside, there was no questioning it anymore. He was a soldier now.

"I work part-time for Smith's Bakery and I'm making a run to Tallahassee to make a rush delivery. I don't draw enough money from the bakery to report it as a second job, so it won't show up on my FIC."

"Stand by, sir." The trooper walked away towards flashing lights. He still had Joseph's FIC.

The car at the front of the line was directed to turn around, and did so. Joseph could see an elderly man behind the wheel. He was saying something to his wife beside him, looking a little disappointed but happy. They could turn around. They could go back to their lives, never knowing what was beyond the flashing police lights. Joseph crouched casually to look at the satchel. A shrieking "Oh shit" echoed in his mind. He'd forgotten to secure the zipper and now the dark barrel of the MP5 protruded menacingly from the bag. His savior. It was beckoning him.

No.

The gray-eyed trooper materialized out of the smoke, and approached the bakery truck. He looked up at Joseph and spoke sternly.

"Open the door and step out sir. We're going to search your vehicle.

Two more men appeared from the rear of the truck and walked around to look at Joseph. These men were different. They wore olive green fatigues and web gear that was loaded with various types of killing equipment. Joseph could see a patch on the shoulder of the one closest to him. NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY. Citizens knew little of the NSA, mostly thinking it was a bunch of computer geeks playing around with algorithms all day. Joseph knew it as a bigger and badder NSA, the main opposition force, as his superiors called it. Now two of them were knocking on his door, demanding to come in, and he had absolutely no choice in the matter.

"Step out, sir," the trooper demanded.

A dreadful melancholy overcame Joseph. It was like an anesthesia numbing the fear which had been consuming him just seconds earlier. Just a matter of time now, he thought. In that time Joseph relinquished his life, his family. The whole inside him grew like a whirling vortex swallowing everything in the world he loved and cared about.

Joseph slid open the heavy door and hopped down onto the asphalt. The NSA men were imposing. They were tall and sturdy, with icey blue stares and strange-looking rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them immediately entered the truck with the trooper. The other one began to step up, then turned to Joseph.

"Are you carrying any contraband in here?"

"No."

"Where are you headed?"

"Tallahassee."

There was no way he could get to the satchel with the agent right there. He could do nothing. After an uncomfortable moment when the agent seemed to be analyzing every twitch and movement Joseph made, he stepped up and began looking over the dashboard.

"What's in Tallahassee?"

"A bakery."

"And all you're carrying is bread? Is that right, Mr. Vassaix?"

"That's right."

The agent looked at him again. Joseph felt as though he had an ARF brand on his forehead.

"You ever hear of the American Revolutionary Force?"

"Sure. Them guys want to take over the government."

"Indeed. I saw you looking at my patch and you're probably wondering what NSA is doing here?"

"Nah, I really didn't give it no thought."

"You recognized the patch, though. You recognized it and now you look pretty shaken up, Mr. Vassaix. Anything you're not telling me?"

"Ain't nothing, sir, I'm just not used to all these guns and soldiers around. I heard about these fires but I thought I could make the delivery."

"I'm not interested in these fires, nor am I interested in your bread. I'm interested in the ARF. You wouldn't be a part of that organization would you?"

"No sir. I got nothing to do with anything like that. I'm a family man, and I work hard to make a decent living." Joseph looked at the black-haired girl. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking at her father, who was outside, leaning against the car. A trooper was searching him, taking fistfuls of his shirt and squeezing them, then doing the same with his slacks until the man was a wrinkled mess.

The trooper who had been searching Joseph's truck now appeared in the driver's compartment, and slipped passed the NSA agent, mumbling something about a cigarette in the car up front. He leaped out of the truck and jogged over to the car ahead of Joseph, where he met the other trooper. Not long after that, the NSA agent who'd been searching Joseph's truck hopped out and walked over to the ensuing commotion.

The one agent remained behind, still seated in the driver's seat. He watched the arrest, only half paying attention to the troopers and his fellow NSA agent.

"Why would a man risk everything he has for something so futile as a hit of tobacco? Now his wife will lose a husband, his daughter will lose a father. What is the purpose, Mr. Vassaix? A moment's pleasure?"

Joseph heard the man crying and pleading with the troopers. The girl was now outside the car, being held back by her mother, who was being stiff-armed by the NSA agent. In a brief fraction of time Joseph's eyes met the man's. Hopelessness. Complete and utter defeat. They disappeared into the smoke. It all seemed as if it were taking place somewhere far away and a long time ago. Anywhere but America. Something stirred in Joseph. Something, it seemed, which had been hibernating all his life and now it drove forth from its deep silent sleep.

"Well, Mr. Vassaix seems your time here hasn't been a total loss. You've seen firsthand the cleansing arm of the government at work. He'll be detoxified, rehabilitated, and if it's his first offense, placed back in his home with his family, under our supervision of course, until we close out his case as successful reintegration. People like him are always a success. They do not fight the system. They may make a mistake, as he did, but he will see that the system is indeed looking out for his best interests."

Even in the smoke, Joseph could hear the man agreeing to talk, tell them everything they wanted to know about the contraband. The agent heard it too, and smiled.

"See that, he's already talking," the agent said, while examining the MT.

Joseph's heart fluttered. The disk. He took a step closer to the truck, when the agent took the audio off pause. And then the inescapable voice of his sergeant continued.

"Many have asked, as I, how can we possibly win? Well, it's in every man's resolve, that he will not lay down when the time comes, but he will stand and fight for his freedom and his family's freedom and nothing short of death will stop him. They only win, Red Cell, when they take the resolve away from you."

The agent's smile contorted into a grimace. Joseph moved like lightning. His hand scooped up the MP5. His finger frantically searched for and found the trigger and his thumb simultaneously clicked off the safety. The grimace fell apart as Joseph squeezed the trigger and unloaded a burst of armor-piercing rounds into the agent's head and chest. After each successive roar of the gun, came the heavy metallic thud of each bullet finding its mark in the agent. The flesh was shredded to ribbons, revealing the red satin luster of the metal endoskeleton underneath. The burst was deafening, and when it ceased, Joseph's ears rang painfully. Shouts arose from everywhere. It sounded as if he were in a cavern, all the noise distant and echoing.

Streams of colorful green light rained out of the smoke, from the direction of the police cars. Horizontal rain, fast. Something like the shuffling of cards sounded off in the distance. Some of the streams buried themselves in the grill of the truck, others in the road and grassy median, tearing up chunks of brown-green earth. Some tore right through the windshield, continuing into the back of the truck. He couldn't hear much of anything, but he knew they were hot. He could feel some of them brush by his open flesh. Tracers! They were shooting tracer rounds, trying to find their target.

Joseph half-dove and half-fell into the driver's compartment of the truck. He turned pressed the accelerator to the floor and the truck lurched forward with an ominous groan. The back doors, which the agents forgot to latch, flew open, and the racks of bread toppled out onto the highway, those that landed on their wheels kept rolling after the truck. Within seconds the truck hit something heavy, probably another car, and Joseph was out and on his feet before it came to a stop.

There was more yelling. Tracers continued to dance through the air, their green glow enhanced by the smoke. From a distance, it looked like a dazzling laser show. A barrage of bullets ripped through the bread racks, shredding and exploding their contents all over the highway. Joseph shoved the extra magazines into his baggy cargo pants and looked for targets. He was lying prone, behind the front wheel of his truck and he squeezed off three more rounds in the direction of the flashing lights.

Beyond the ringing in his ears there was nothing. The air was still. Time passed torturously slow. All Hell suddenly broke loose. The sky was lit up with green. A tremendous explosion nearly stole all the courage Joseph had left. The shock wave charged past him, its raw, hot breath rippling his clothes and hair. Joseph scurried away from the wheel and found another position behind the truck. Now, almost directly beside him, he could see the mother and her child. They were cowering behind the vehicle, and now that she could see him, the woman looked at him pleadingly.

"Just give up for God's sake. Give up damn you! They will kill us all!"

Despair in her eyes. He could feel it, it was getting inside him. Wasn't she the one he was fighting for? Wasn't she the reason he'd left his wife behind? And now, to look in her eyes and see her disapproval. It was about as lethal as one of those green bullets.

More voices. Though one in particular was directed Joseph's way, and spoken over some kind of loudspeaker.

"This is the ARF, any civilians please put your hands up and show yourselves."

It was a trick, of course. Joseph remained crouched behind his truck, the MP5 ready to continue the fight. The heavy metallic stink of gunpowder and smoldering metal seared his nostrils.

"Red Cell. Hold your fire. It's over. They're all dead."

It came from the CB radio. Channel 56. Joseph heard it boom inside the bullet-riddled truck. Then a tall, fifty-something man with rough features and close-cropped hair walked out of the smoke towards Joseph. He was wearing green camouflage fatigues and on his shoulder was the patch of the ARF.

"Howdy, Son. You okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

The man plucked a cigarette from Joseph's feet and lit it. He took a long, savoring drag. Joseph wondered where he'd gotten it from, then he saw them lying all strewn about, some torn and others burning.

"I've been waiting for these. You must be the supply man they were talking about."

Joseph saw a loaf of bread at his feet. It had been ravaged by a bullet, and spilling out if its hollow inside were numerous cigarettes.

He looked up at the smoking man stupidly.

"Cigarettes?"