Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  “If what you’re saying is true, you also know that their biggest client was their own government, the government that trained them, robbed them of their youth and their souls, then cut them loose and used them for its own purposes. You know that, too?”

  Vail didn’t show his surprise. He stared at the General for several seconds, then nodded slowly. “It would be a natural assumption.”

  Engstrom leaned across the table and said in a rasp of a whisper, “I saved their souls. I offered redemption, the forgiveness of Christ. I offered them the opportunity to march with Christ against the Devil.”

  “And the Devil is the U.S. government?”

  “Its minions and its servants. You know who you really work for, Mr. Vail? The Zionist government. The Jews. The niggers. The Irish sinners in Boston. Whoremongers and drunks. We are immaculately trained Christian soldiers, sir, the kind of men and women who would die the worst kind of death before uttering a word to the enemy or surrendering.”

  “It’s an exercise in futility, General.”

  “Really? You read your Bible, Mr. Vail?”

  “Not on any regular basis.”

  “That’s a shame. You ought to take a look occasionally. Are you familiar with the Philistines?”

  Vail nodded. “Jordan gave me that lecture. David and his slingshot against the nine-foot giant. Nothing is impossible for the righteous. Jordan laid it all out, General. I repeat, what can six thousand soldiers do except create a momentary crisis?”

  “There are between fifty and a hundred thousand members of militia groups, Mr. Vail. With sympathizers, the numbers go as high as a million. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for the apocalypse to set them free. Waiting for the New American Revolution to kill political leaders, bomb buildings, carry out guerrilla warfare on the streets, refuse to pay taxes. This started long before I came on the scene, Mr. Vail.”

  “But now you’re the lightning rod?”

  Engstrom’s eyes blazed and his lips curled back. He stood up, raised his fist toward the ceiling, and glared down at Vail.

  “I am the prophet of Yahweh!” he bellowed. “The Lord speaks with my voice! Give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Romans, Chapter Twelve, Verse Nineteen.” Across the room Firestone stole a glance at his watch. Do it now, he said to himself. Do it, Martin.

  Vail reached into his inside pocket, took out a sheaf of folded documents, and splayed them out on the table like playing cards.

  “General, these are Title Three search and seizure warrants against you, your key officers, and all your bank records. They were signed by a federal judge. They also permit a hard search of your facility known as Fort Yahweh.”

  He took out his cell phone and punched out a number. Hardistan answered almost immediately. “This is Billy. We’re in place.”

  “He’s been served. Just a minute.” Vail looked at Engstrom. “General, this is William Hardistan, Deputy Director of the FBI. He’d like a word with you.”

  He held the phone toward Engstrom. The General stared at it as if it were a glowing coal. Finally he took it.

  “General Engstrom,” he said slowly. Savagely.

  At the front of Fort Yahweh, Hardistan faced the corporal at the gate. Behind him, Humvees and weapons carriers were lined up. ATF, FBI agents, and snipers in body armor and blue jackets were lined up like an army. Above them, Nighthawk choppers hovered like bats from hell.

  “Sir, this is Billy Hardistan,” the Deputy Director said into his cell phone. “You know who I am.”

  “Of course.”

  “The FBI and the ATF are in place and in force here and in seven other locations named in the search warrants Martin Vail just served on you. We don’t want violence here, General. You’ve been served. These are legal search warrants. Please advise the young man at the gate—I believe his name is Starret—to step aside.”

  Engstrom did not answer immediately. He had been tricked and he knew it. A confrontation at this point would be disastrous.

  Finally: “May I speak to Starret?”

  “Of course.”

  Hardistan handed the cell phone to the corporal. “Your commanding officer wants a word with you,” he said.

  The corporal, a hard-bitten veteran, glared at him, then took the phone.

  “Corporal Starret, sir.”

  “Starret, you recognize my voice?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Step aside, Corporal. Let them in.”

  The corporal looked shocked, even though he knew there were only a handful of men on the base.

  “Yes sir.”

  Engstrom handed the phone back to Vail, who cut the connection.

  In the darkened corner across the room, behind the sunglass lenses, Abraham’s eyes glittered as he stared across the room at the man he hated more than he loved Satan. He’s fifty feet away, he thought. One bullet is all it would take.

  “We didn’t want another Waco or Ruby Ridge, General,” Vail said.

  “I could take you hostage right now.”

  “You could, but it would be a dumb move and you know it. It would all end out here in the middle of nowhere. Your entire command staff is in this room.”

  Vail punched out a number on the cellular phone and waited for an answer.

  “Coming out,” he said. He clicked it off, slid the aerial back into the slot, and dropped the phone in his pocket “There are two Nighthawk choppers sitting about a quarter mile out there,” he said, waving vaguely toward the rear of the restaurant. “They’ll be real upset if we don’t leave now.” He got up and slipped on his coat. “Been a pleasure, General.”

  “You’re even more devious than I was led to believe,” Engstrom said, his eyes narrowed and cold.

  “You had bad intelligence.”

  Vail walked to the door and left, followed by Firestone.

  Engstrom got up and stared out the window as the car drove down the road toward the highway. From out of the shadows, Abraham tapped his way across the restaurant. He stood behind the General and leaned close to his ear.

  “He needs to be killed, General,” he whispered.

  “That won’t change anything.”

  “It’ll rattle them, slow them down. All we need’s a little more time. And I will set my face against you, and ye shall be slain before your enemies and they that hate you shall reign over you. Leviticus, Chapter Twenty-six, Verse Seventeen.”

  Engstrom watched the sedan turn onto the highway and head back toward Missoula. A minute or two later one of the Nighthawks clattered across the treetops and swung in behind it. Engstrom’s jaw tightened.

  “Then let it come down,” he said.

  CHAPTER 26

  It was almost ten-thirty when Billy Hardistan showed his ID to the Secret Service agents and entered the service entrance of the Mayflower Hotel. He walked through the kitchen and ID’d himself again as he entered the stairwell. From the ballroom crowded with political contributors who had paid a thousand dollars to eat stringy chicken and asparagus and pay homage to the world’s most powerful human being, he could hear the President wrapping up a rousing speech.

  Hardistan took the stairs to the third floor. There were two Secret Service agents at the door to the corner suite that was Pennington’s hideaway, a place where he could hold meetings not on the daily agenda. Hardistan nodded and showed his ID once again.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hardistan,” one of the agents said.

  “Anybody else here yet?”

  “Yes, sir, the A.G. and Mr. Hooker.”

  Hardistan nodded and entered the three-bedroom suite, which was tastefully furnished with American antiques. Both Hooker and Castaigne had poured themselves drinks and were seated facing each other on two sofas separated by a coffee table.

  “Hi, Billy,” Castaigne said brightly when he entered.

  “Marge, Claude,” the FBI man said, nodding at both of them.

  Hooker smiled and raised his glass in greeting. “How’s
he doing down there?” he asked.

  “Sounds like he’s wrapping it up now,” Hardistan answered. He put his briefcase on the table, took out a large manila envelope and his cell phone, attached a small audiotape recorder to it, and dialed a number.

  “Echo, this is Coach. Have you got the run? Good, my audio is running, run tape please.” He listened for several minutes, then said, “Excellent. Thank you, Echo.” He disconnected the phone and recorder.

  “What?” Hooker said.

  “More of the same.”

  “Christ!”

  Hardistan took out a videotape and several large photographs and spread them on the table. Both Hooker and Castaigne joined him and stared balefully at the display.

  “My God,” Hooker said. “What is the son of a bitch up to?”

  “He’s preparing to defend his mountain,” Hardistan said, almost casually.

  “Since when did it become his mountain?” Hooker growled.

  Before Hardistan could answer, the door opened and two Secret Service agents entered. They checked all the rooms, the baths, and the windows, then escorted President Pennington inside.

  “Good evening, everybody,” the President said as he entered the room. He was obviously energized from his speech.

  “How’d it go?” Hooker asked.

  “Great. Full house. The National Committee ought to kiss my ass. So, Billy, where do we stand?”

  “These photos were shot about 1600 Mountain Time. The AWACS just completed another run. I have a videotape of it, but these pictures should help orient you.”

  There were eight photos in all. Four were taken from thirty thousand feet; the other four were digital blow-ups of the same area. Hardistan described the terrain as the others checked the overhead views of Engstrom’s sprawling tract. They were looking straight down from thirty thousand feet. On the left side of the vertical photos, to the east, was Fort Yahweh, a cluster of buildings surrounded by a high fence. Rising sharply from the edge of the compound was a towering mountain capped by a nine-thousand-foot peak. The top half of the mountain was heavily forested in pines almost to its ragged, snowy crest. The bottom part of the mountain was precipitous, a series of sharp cliffs and waterfalls plunging straight down almost to the base. A narrow road wound up the side of the mountain to a small plateau about halfway to the top. A small bridge led across one of the gorges to a saddle at the edge of the cliffs.

  The saddle marked the lower edge of the Sanctuary’s training ground, a steep, harsh survival ground three miles wide and a mile high. Below the shelf were the deadly cliffs that loomed over Fort Yahweh.

  The back side of the mountain, which marked the border of Idaho and Montana, was even more dangerous, a series of deep gullies and gorges stepped with shelves.

  “Treacherous,” Castaigne breathed with awe.

  “In more ways than one,” Hardistan answered. “You can use these photos to orient yourselves while I play this tape. This was recorded thirty minutes ago.”

  Hardistan put the video in a VCR and pressed the play button. The same view of the fort and its mountain sentry slid below the plane as an identification specialist described the scene in a monotonous but efficient tone.

  “Sharpshooter, this is Echo One.”

  “Copy that Echo One. Do you read our transmission?”

  “Loud and clear, Sharpshooter. We are taping.”

  “Copy that Echo. This is Sharpshooter on course due south from Canadian border over the Idaho-Montana border. Altitude 28,500, speed five hundred. Time: 1941 hours, Mountain Standard.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Approaching target. Do you read?”

  “Roger. My God, they look like ants.”

  Far below, heat sensors registered dots, like moving measles, all over the mountain.

  “We’ll run a grid on the video and get an accurate count. Looks like they’ve doubled since last night. Zooming in to ten-to-one.”

  The camera zoomed down a hundred yards above the peak of Mount James. The ants now appeared as moving, white stick figures against the rubble of the forest.

  “Those ‘ants’ are Engstrom’s soldiers, Echo One.”

  “Copy that! What are those rectangles down by the entrance gate?”

  “School buses. Thirty-eight passengers, up to fifty with standing room. Those three probably delivered 135 to 150 personnel.”

  “They’re moving out.”

  “Going to pick up another load. And those barracks, the long buildings at the rear of the compound near the base of the mountain, hold ninety men each. That’s another 270.”

  “How about those thin lines all over the mountain?”

  “That’s wire. Look in the upper right quad of your screen.”

  “Roger that.”

  “That’s a group of four or five men around a tree. They’re stringing wire. Our profile indicates it’s razor wire. Lower left quad, a single man appears to be burying an explosive device, probably a claymore mine or possibly a bouncing Betty.”

  “Jesus!” Pennington said.

  “They’re on the back side of the mountain, too,” Echo One said. “That’s a roger. They’re all over the terrain.”

  “Turn that damn thing off,” Pennington snapped.

  Hardistan turned off the recorder. “It’s more intense tonight. We don’t have the grid count yet, but it will be in the six to seven hundred range. They’re using eight-man survival tents in the target area, sleeping and working in shifts. And there’s almost three hundred more quartered in the barracks.”

  “What the hell are they doing?” Hooker asked.

  “Digging in. They’re bringing in their troops at night in school buses and vans. Been doing it since we searched the fort and served the entitlements.”

  “What’s he think he’s going to do?”

  “Defend his territory. This is their monthly training exercise. Usually only seventy-five or a hundred people.”

  “Let ’em try,” Hooker snapped. “Back in the early eighties, the Order sent a declaration of war to Congress. The Bureau took out Gordon Kahl, sent the leader, Wayne Snell, to the gallows, and put twenty-four of them away for life. And that was the end of the Order.”

  “There were less than a hundred members in the Order, Claude,” Hardistan said. “We’re talking about several thousand trained troops, with almost a thousand in the area already, probably armed with automatic rifles, grenade launchers, antitank weapons, ground-to-ground and ground-to-air missies, claymores, and three to four tons… tons… of C-4.”

  “Jesus, that’s enough to take out a city the size of Missoula,” Pennington said.

  “That’s right. They also have an enormous supply of AMFO— they’ve been stockpiling ammonium nitrate for two or three years. Every farmer in the Sanctuary has been buying it.”

  “Which could be stashed all over the state,” Castaigne said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Can we provoke them?” Hooker asked.

  “If Vail didn’t provoke them when we delivered the warrants, I don’t know what will.”

  “What do you mean?” Castaigne asked.

  “How about the attack on the convoy?” Hooker went on, ignoring her question. “Killing U.S. soldiers in ambush. Can’t that be considered an act of war?”

  “We can’t prove it was them. We’re sure it was them, but we can’t prove it,” Hardistan said.

  “Any leads on the semi yet?” Castaigne asked.

  “No. We’ve been all over those mountains with choppers, satellite scans, AWACS, and on foot. I think it’s possible we’ll never find it. But we know they’ve got AT-4 Vipers, 72-E5 66mm antitank guns, Dragon missiles, Stingers, M-16s, and enough ammo and rockets to start World War Three. And it’s stashed in that mountain somewhere.”

  “He’s going to have to make the first move,” Hooker said.

  “Christ, robbing banks, armories, killing people… if that’s not the first move, what the hell is?” Pennington roared. They all walked to th
e sofa and sat down.

  “Dave, draw me one, will you?” Pennington said to one of his Secret Service men as he took out a cigar. “Sorry about smoking,” he said. “I’ve been entertaining these money boys for four hours without a smoke.” As he lit the cigar, the agent poured him a stout glass of Jack Daniel’s, dropped in two ice cubes, splashed water in the drink, and handed it to the President, who nodded his thanks.

  “We need one hard case before we can mobilize a proper force, box him in, and order him to surrender his men and his weapons,” Castaigne said.

  “Box him in?” Hardistan said. “He’s got those mountains mined, razor-wired, protected by well-trained guerrilla warriors. If I brought in every FBI and ATF agent I can find, I still wouldn’t have enough manpower to box in a fortified mountain.”

  “He’ll never surrender. He’s got to be taken out. And now’s the time,” Hooker said.

  Hardistan nodded. “His entire staff and all his handpicked personnel are either up there now or on their way.”

  “We can’t trust the National Guard,” Hooker said. “Many of them have family who are members of the Sanctuary. What we need is highly trained specialists who can handle the terrain and get the job done.”

  “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Castaigne asked.

  No answer. Then Marge Castaigne’s eyes suddenly widened.

  “Oh my God!” she muttered. They all looked at her. “Do I have to remind you it’s against federal law to use American troops against U.S. citizens?”

  “Unless they declare war on us,” Hooker said.

  “I don’t think Engstrom will do that without aggressive provocation,” Hardistan said.

  “Well,” Hooker said, “one thing’s for damn sure, the Boy Scouts can’t handle this operation.”

  The A.G. was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

  “Marge,” the President said with a smile, “why don’t you go home. It’s getting late.”

  He stood up. She looked at him for a moment and got up and followed him to the door.