Against All Enemies

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Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Notice
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1

APRIL 25

CHAPTER 2

LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA MAY 11
THE VIRGINIA MILITARY INSTITUTE, LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA • MAY 11

CHAPTER 3

CENTRAL WYOMING MAY 11

CHAPTER 4

BOISE, IDAHO • MAY 18
HEADQUARTERS, IDAHO NATIONAL GUARD, BOISE, IDAHO • 19 MAY

CHAPTER 5

NORTH OF COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO • JULY 6

CHAPTER 6

NORTH OF COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO • JULY 7
POCATELLO, IDAHO • JULY 7

CHAPTER 7

BOISE, IDAHO • SEPTEMBER 12TH
GOWEN FIELD, BOISE, IDAHO • SEPTEMBER 12

CHAPTER 8

FORT CARSON, COLORADO • OCTOBER 15TH

CHAPTER 9

FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA • OCTOBER 16

CHAPTER 10

BOISE, IDAHO •OCTOBER 25

CHAPTER 11

BOISE, IDAHO • EARLY MORNING, OCTOBER 30
BOISE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, BOISE, IDAHO • EARLY MORNING, OCTOBER 30
BOISE, IDAHO • EARLY MORNING, OCTOBER 30
THE GOVERNOR’S MANSION, BOISE, IDAHO • MORNING, OCTOBER 30
BOISE, IDAHO • AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 30
FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA • EVENING, OCTOBER 30

CHAPTER 12

FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA • EVENING, OCTOBER 30
GOWEN FIELD, BOISE, IDAHO • NIGHT, OCTOBER 30
SOMEWHERE OVER NEBRASKA • JUST PAST MIDNIGHT, OCTOBER 31

CHAPTER 13

GOWEN FIELD, BOISE, IDAHO JUST PRIOR TO DAWN, OCTOBER 31

CHAPTER 14

GOWEN FIELD, BOISE, IDAHO DAWN, OCTOBER 31

CHAPTER 15

BOISE, IDAHO AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 31

CHAPTER 16

BOISE, IDAHO EARLY EVENING, OCTOBER 31

CHAPTER 17

FORT CARSON, COLORADO SPRINGS • NOON, NOVEMBER 1ST

CHAPTER 18

FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA • MORNING, NOVEMBER 2
IDAHO CITY, IDAHO • MORNING, NOVEMBER 2
BOISE, IDAHO • NOON, NOVEMBER 2
BOISE, IDAHO • EVENING, NOVEMBER 2ND

CHAPTER 19

WEST OF SNOWVILLE, UTAH • MORNING, NOVEMBER 5
NORTH OF BOISE, IDAHO • NIGHT, NOVEMBER 5

CHAPTER 20

BOISE, IDAHO • AFTERNOON, NOVEMBER 7
THE IDAHO-UTAH BORDER, SOUTH OF STONE, IDAHO • EVENING, NOVEMBER 7
BOISE, IDAHO • EVENING, NOVEMBER 7

CHAPTER 21

ALONG THE IDAHO-NEVADA BORDER • ONE MINUTE PAST MIDNIGHT, NOVEMBER 8
WEST OF ROGERSON, IDAHO • EARLY MORNING, NOVEMBER 8
BOISE, IDAHO • MORNING, NOVEMBER 8
OFFICES OF THE GOVERNOR, BOISE, IDAHO • NOON, NOVEMBER 8
ALONG INTERSTATE 84, EAST OF BOISE, IDAHO EVENING, NOVEMBER 8
THE GOVERNOR’S OFFICE, BOISE, IDAHO • EVENING, NOVEMBER 8

CHAPTER 22

BLACK MESA, IDAHO MORNING, NOVEMBER 10
BOISE, IDAHO AFTERNOON, NOVEMBER 10
BOISE, IDAHO EVENING, NOVEMBER 10

CHAPTER 23

WEST OF BLACK MESA, IDAHO EARLY MORNING, NOVEMBER 11
SOUTH OF HAMMETT, IDAHO 0305, NOVEMBER 11
SOMEWHERE ON DEADMAN FLATS, IDAHO • 0318, NOVEMBER 11
BENNETT AIRFIELD, DIXIE, IDAHO 0330, NOVEMBER 11
SOUTH OF HAMMETT, IDAHO 0345, NOVEMBER 11

CHAPTER 24

GOWEN FIELD, IDAHO MID-MORNING, NOVEMBER 11
HAMMETT, IDAHO NOON, NOVEMBER 11
ALONG MORES CREEK, IDAHO EARLY EVENING, NOVEMBER 11

CHAPTER 25

BOISE, IDAHO MORNING, NOVEMBER 12
BOISE, IDAHO • 0440, NOVEMBER 12
THE CAPITOL BUILDING, BOISE, IDAHO • 0455, NOVEMBER 12
MOUNTAIN HOME AIR BASE, IDAHO 0500, NOVEMBER 12
WASHINGTON, DC 0705 (EASTERN), NOVEMBER 12
ACROSS FROM THE CAPITOL BUILDING, BOISE, IDAHO • 0510, NOVEMBER 12
GOWEN FIELD, BOISE, IDAHO 0515, NOVEMBER 12
THE CAPITOL BUILDING, BOISE, IDAHO • 0530, NOVEMBER 12

EPILOGUE
Also by
Praise for Harold Coyle
AUTHOR’S NOTE
MORE THAN COURAGE
Copyright Page

PROLOGUE

LEXINGTON, MASSACHUSETTS • APRIL 19, 1775

The sight of file after file of redcoated soldiers marching boldly onto the green was unnerving. Nestled between his fellow militiamen, a young New England farmer who went by the name of Ned Smith nervously shuffled about as he watched. Every so often he would cast an anxious glance to his left and right in an effort to gauge the response of his companions. Rather than offering some measure of reassurance, however, the sight of their grim faces and his company’s pathetically thin ranks only served to heighten his apprehensions.

Never having been in combat, Ned had no clear idea what awaited them once the British had completed their deployment from a line of march into one of battle. What little his captain had been able to teach them during their musters on this very green did little to prepare him for the sights he now beheld and the sensations they were evoking within him. Never one to be shy about voicing his opinion, Ned wondered if it would make him look cowardly if he called out to his captain and asked if he thought it wasn’t a good idea to stand down and disperse. In Ned’s mind they had pushed their defiance as far as they dare. To linger here in the face of such overwhelming odds would be foolish.

Yet stand their ground they did. Silently the band of militiamen waited. Across from them the rhythmic tromping of marching feet mixed with the rattle of muskets and gear, stirring the chilly morning air and blood of all present. Every so often this muted cacophony of noise was punctured by crisp commands barked by stern-faced English officers. With machinelike precision the solid phalanxes of the King’s troops responded by wheeling about this way and then that in preparation for the pending contest. While few of the rank and file expected they would need to do more than present their muskets and make ready to fire in order to chase away the rabble across from them, none doubted that they would prevail.

This confidence came not from arrogance, but from a simple appreciation of the facts, the same facts that Ned Smith was so keenly aware of. This was not the streets of Boston, where roving mobs felt free to hurl taunts and insults at a handful of British soldiers standing their posts. If it came to it, this would be their sort of scrap, a stand-up fight, the sort they had been trained for. Given a chance to play this little drama out to its conclusion, there was not a soldier present who doubted that they would prevail. The only regret that some entertained as they waited was that they would not be given a chance to do so. They would be held back, as they always were, from meting out the just punishment the wretched colonial rabble deserved. After having endured the outrageous treatment that they had been exposed to for so long, all felt the urge to set the record straight and put the colonials back in their place.

Standing before a collection of men who were his neighbors and friends, Captain John Parker was at a loss for words. He found himself unable to muster up a pat response, or find a witty saying that could ease the apprehension that he shared with men he had gathered together in defiance of the orders issued by officers of the King. In time, he knew he would have yield to the regulars now assembled before him. But he was determined to do so only at the last possible moment, and only after making it clear that they were simply giving ground, and not the principles which had compelled them to make this stand.

Behind Parker, Ned Smith waited with growing concern. Though he could feel the shoulders of his companions on either side rub his as they shuffled about nervously, the young farmer felt very much alone. Absentmindedly, he fingered his weapon’s lock as he watched, waited, and prayed.

Ned was no stranger to this piece. He had used it to slay many a squirrel, and, when the occasion presented itself, a rabbit. These little forays beyond the neatly plowed fields of his family farm had been, for him, an enjoyable break to the monotony of daily chores that made those who farmed here as hardy and tough as the land they tended. Whether he sallied out on his own or in the company of friends, the excitement of hunting his prey, and putting his skills to a test, never failed to bring joy to what would have been an otherwise drab and uneventful existence. Perhaps that was why he answered the call by the local militia captain. The militia company was, for Ned, an adventure, a chance to shed the last vestiges of his childhood and stand with the men of his community, for the first time, as an equal.

While such whimsical goals had sufficed to get him into the ranks then, Ned was quickly becoming aware that it would take more than that to keep him rooted to this spot as he watched as untold numbers of tall grenadiers marshaled before him. This was no longer a game that was being played out by radical politicians. It was no longer a pleasant diversion from the drudgery of farming the rocky plot of earth his father had willed to him. This was a serious matter. These were soldiers of the King, the finest musketeers in the world. Everything from the bayonets that caught the glint of the early morning sunlight to the cold, hard expressions worn by the soldiers who made up the long red ranks told young Ned Smith that trouble was but a hair’s breadth away.

On either side of him stood his fellow militiamen, men who had been encouraged by their community leaders, families, and peers to stand up for what they had been told were their rights. Now, like Ned, they stood there in silence, arranged in what passed for a line of battle. Each and every one of them watched the swift, precise movements of professional soldiers arrayed before them. Everything about the English, from the ominous sight of their unsheathed bayonets, to the solid ranks that seemed to stretch across the green and beyond, made Ned and his companions painfully conscious of their own vulnerability. “They’re like a machine,” the youth muttered to no one in particular. “They’ll sweep us aside like so many cinders.”

An older man, a grizzly coot dressed in a homespun vest and a coarse muslin shirt, leaned on his musket as if it were a walking stick. He surveyed the scene before them through narrow, squinted eyes. “They’re just as nervous about this as we are,” he stated bluntly. “See,” he indicated with a nod toward the far end of the green, “how their officers are circling and wandering about.”

“Well,” a gruff voice replied, “their officers may be a bit uneasy, but watch out for their lads. Have you taken note how they eye us with the contempt of Boston thugs. Mark my words, they’re spoiling for a fight, lads.”

While the gruff voiced militiaman’s statement may not have held true for all of the King’s men, it certainly summed up Private Robert Johnston’s attitude. Like so many of his companions, he was growing impatient with his own skittish officers. Worked up into a near frenzy by the tensions that had been building up, Johnston stepped out of ranks and began shouting oaths for all he was worth. Like many of his mates he ignored his officer’s threats to cease yelling and stand to attention. He was tired of standing in ranks like a great bloody statue, forced to endure everything from taunts to stones thrown at them by damned colonists like those across the way without being allowed to respond. “Look at ’em,” Johnston hissed as he thrust his fist out toward the line of militia, some sixty yards away. “They stand there, armed to the teeth, in clear violation of the King’s law, and dare us when they know there isn’t an officer in our regiment with the backbone to give the order.” Glancing at a young subaltern doing everything he could to shove the men of 4th Regiment of Foot back in line, Johnston grunted. “I don’t know who disgusts me more, our own officers who shy away from a real brawl like a spring virgin or those damned hooligans who call themselves patriots.”

Johnston’s companion, a pale, thin fellow named Martin who was also enflamed by the moment, didn’t respond to his comrade’s comments. Instead, he contented himself with fingering the musket held close to his side as he eyed the gaggle of militiamen gathered opposite them. All that stood between these lines were a handful of mounted British officers who rode between the two lines of armed men in an effort to defuse the situation. Finally, Martin spoke as he eyed a particularly nervous looking colonist who appeared to be backing away from the fray. “One good volley,” he finally muttered menacingly. “Let us hit with one good volley and we’ll end it right here.”

With a grunt, Johnston nodded his agreement. “Aye, that we would. Let ’em see a bit of their own blood spilled. Perhaps that’ll make ’em a bit more mindful of the King’s law.”

“If not the King’s law,” Martin snapped, “at least we would teach the bastards a bit of respect for his troops.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the next, Johnston was about to hurl a volley of fresh insults when their lieutenant, his face as red as the scarlet coat he wore, passed before him. Sword drawn, he pushed Johnston on the chest with his free hand and shouted. “Hold your place. Keep silent and hold your place, or it’ll be the cat-of-nine for you.” Without another word, the young officer continued down the ranks until he stopped in front of another offender and repeated his threat. With a sideward glance, Johnston looked at the officer, then over at the rebels. For a moment, the musketeer weighed the merits and risks of continuing with his taunts. Only after considerable thought and the memory of the drummer’s lash biting into his flesh did Johnston relent. The release of his pent up anger and frustrations, he concluded, was not worth the punishment. So Johnston pulled himself erect, tucked his musket into his side, and contented himself with watching the confused scene unfold before him in silence.

If it were a simple matter of numbers and demonstrated abilities with weapons, or logic and common sense, this strange confrontation would never have occurred. The armed men who eyed each other across the flat expanse of village green were, after all, Englishmen. Both were ruled by the same King. They shared a common language. The institutions and practices that governed their day to day life had sprung from the same roots. In times gone by, they had fought a common foe under the same banner.

Yet Ned Smith and many of his fellow New Englanders no longer saw themselves and the King’s men as fellow countrymen. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the English soldiers who closed Boston to all commerce had been transfigured into something else. Rather than guardians, they had become intruders, men from a foreign land sent by a distant government to deprive Ned and his fellow New Englanders of their rights and their liberties.

Of the many issues that had propelled these two armed bodies to assemble across from each other in the cold dawn light, there were but two that compelled the militiamen to stand their ground as long as they did, and the English soldiers to seek battle without a hint of hesitation. For the militia, the sight of the redcoated troops on the ground which they called their own brought home to them the harsh reality that the issues of freedom and liberty were no longer abstract thoughts bantered about by rebel rousers in Boston’s public houses. The agents who possessed the will and means to deprive them of both were there before them, but a stone’s throw from their own front doors. While each of the militiamen knew they could capitulate and escape with their lives, all understood that the price of doing so would be surrendering the freedoms and right they had come believe were God given.

There was nothing abstract at all about the forces that propelled the regulars. They represented the King. Every English law and every English institution was on their side. As the duly appointed defenders of the King and Parliament, it was their lot in life to follow his orders and enforce the laws of the land. They had been dispatched not to judge right or wrong. Nor were they there to listen to the grievances of the provincials. The soldiers had come across the Atlantic for no other purpose than to carry out their orders and put an end to all resistance, by whatever means. And the means upon which they relied was not a judge’s gavel or a lawyer’s petition, but a Tower musket, caliber .75 equipped with an eighteen inch triangular bayonet.