Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection

by Stuart Woods

  “You did it!” he yelled gleefully. “Those sons of bitches are on the fucking air!”

  Doug and Eddie were pounding on his back, congratulating him.

  Holly came and put an arm around him. “My old man!” she exclaimed. “How did you ever do it?”

  “You’re not going to believe it,” Ham said. “Our lessons ended this morning, and after we took the damnedest oath you ever heard, John ripped up his class notes and burned them in the trash can, and the smoke detector in the room went off. John remembered I said I’d been installing them, and he asked me to fix it.”

  “And you switched detectors?”

  “You bet your sweet ass I did. Have they been talking?”

  “Yes,” Harry said, “and they were talking about moving you out to the lake.”

  “Yeah, Peck brought that up, but he didn’t push it. He wants me to keep a week’s clothes out there, just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Something’s in the wind, some sort of operation.”

  “Any clues?”

  “Not really, but John wants me to start training on the Barrett’s rifle tomorrow morning.”

  “Damn,” Harry said. “What the hell are they going to do with that thing?”

  “When I find out, I’ll let you know,” Ham said.

  “I think this is a scary development,” Holly interjected. “The idea that they might actually shoot that gun at something or somebody is terrifying.”

  “Tell me about this oath,” Harry said.

  “Well, it pretty much called for me to hand them my ass on a platter, and if I do something they don’t like, they have my permission to shoot me.”

  “Swell,” Holly said.

  “Harry, did you get the scrambled cell phone?”

  “It’ll be here tomorrow morning, and you can pick it up tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m getting to the point where I really want a way to communicate,” Ham said.

  “Well,” Eddie put in, “you can always go into Peck’s study and talk to the ceiling. We’ll be listening.”

  “Are you getting real-time transmissions?”

  “As far as we know,” Eddie said. “Who knows what those spooks at NSA are doing with this stuff. There may be some sort of delay piping down here to us.”

  “Can we find out? That’s something I’d really like to know.”

  “I’ll try,” Harry said, “but those boys and girls don’t talk much.”

  “Who else is hearing it besides us?” Doug asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Harry replied. “They could be playing it in the NSA cafeteria, for all I know. My guess would be that the attorney general is getting at least a digest of what’s being said, and certainly, the director, but I asked for it to be as closely held as possible.”

  “Oh, by the way, the group has a name.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Elect, and by telling you, I’ve just made myself eligible for a bullet in the brain.”

  “We came up with that name in the militia database. Now, who wants pizza and who wants Chinese?”

  Forty-four

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING HAM PACKED A LARGE duffel with clothing, including several fatigue shirts. He was going to have to sew that microphone button on a different shirt every day, he reflected. He had grown to hate and fear the recorder in his boot. It was too damn hard to turn on and off, and it had already nearly gotten him caught. He wished he had complained about it to Harry and made them get him something simpler to use. He resolved not to use it again, unless he absolutely had to.

  He packed his cell phone and charger into the duffel, and as an afterthought, included a bottle of Wild Turkey. He had a feeling he was going to need a drink every now and then, if he had to start living with those people.

  He drove out to the lake and found Peck.

  “I expect you want to draw the Barrett’s rifle and some ammo,” Peck said.

  “Right.”

  “Follow me.” Peck led the way into the house, to an innocuous-looking door that turned out to lead to a cellar. Cellars weren’t big in Florida, and Ham thought they must have gone to a lot of trouble to waterproof it.

  The cellar turned out to be quite something, bigger than the house it served. There was a pistol-shooting range, several storerooms and what could only be described as an arsenal. “Wow,” he said, when Peck opened the door.

  “Yep, we’re pretty well equipped, aren’t we?”

  Ham spotted assault weapons, grenades, shoulder-mounted antiaircraft missiles, antitank weapons and cases of handguns. Peck selected the Barrett’s rifle case from a group of four. “Grab that ammunition box,” he said to Ham.

  Ham shouldered the 500-round box and followed Peck up the stairs, out of the house and into the sunshine. Peck put the rifle in the back of Ham’s truck and got in. “We’ll drive,” he said.

  Ham put the ammunition into the truckbed and got behind the wheel. “To the range?” he asked, starting the engine.

  “Past the range,” Peck replied. “I’ll direct you.”

  Ham drove off down the dirt track that ran past the shooting range and into the woods behind.

  “You know, Ham,” Peck said, “you’re moving very fast in this organization.”

  “I am?”

  “You certainly are. We have a process for recruiting new members that normally takes a year or more, depending on the man. But you came to us whole, ready to go; it was like a miracle. Your army service and experience made you perfect for us, and your personal beliefs already matched ours. I want to tell you that John is absolutely delighted with you. I’ve never seen him so happy with a new man.”

  “Well, that makes me feel good,” Ham said.

  “I don’t mind telling you that it took me a good three years to be trusted by my superiors the way John trusts you.”

  “I don’t know anything about the structure of the organization,” Ham said. “Is John the top man?”

  “As much as anyone is,” Peck replied. “We have a leadership made up of a council, and I guess you could say that John is the de facto head of the council.”

  “He’s a very impressive man,” Ham said.

  “That’s why the council trusts him. John is a brilliant planner, but a cautious one. He knows how quickly a bungled operation can bring this whole thing down on our heads, and he’s intolerant of error. I can tell you that he’s been planning our next operation for the better part of a year.”

  “What sorts of operations have you been doing in the past?” Ham asked.

  “You don’t want to know that just yet,” Peck replied. “Too much information is not a good thing when you’re new to the group. I can tell you that the operations are roughly divided into three categories: training, infiltration and what you might call fund-raising. All these are aimed at supporting operational work; you can’t bring off a successful operation without all those things lined up and working.”

  “How do you raise funds, from the members?”

  Peck smiled. “Let’s just say we go to outside sources. Take a left here.”

  Ham turned left at a fork in the road and shortly they came to a long, narrow strip of grass. “You could fly an airplane into here,” he said.

  “And we do,” Peck replied, nodding toward a large metal building beside the strip that had been painted in camouflage colors. “John’s airplane is in there, and we get occasional other visitors, too. But the really nice thing about the strip for you is that it gives you four thousand feet clear for shooting. Stop right here.” Peck got out of the truck, went into the hangar through a small door and came back with a roll of paper under his arm. “Drive down to the other end of the strip,” he said.

  Ham did as he was told, then he helped Peck tack targets to the trees. They were of different sizes and shapes, some were silhouettes of men.

  Ham drove back to the other end of the landing strip and parked the truck. Peck took the big leather case from the truckbed and o
pened it. Inside were the Barrett’s rifle, an aluminum tripod, some cleaning equipment and half a dozen ammunition clips.

  “Let’s do some loading,” Peck said. He opened the ammunition box, grabbed a handful of cartridges, set them on the truck’s tailgate and began loading clips.

  Ham helped him. “Six-cartridge clips,” he said.

  “If you haven’t hit what you’re shooting at by the time you’ve fired half a dozen times, you’ll have attracted enough attention to yourself that it’s time to run, anyway,” Peck explained. “I suggest one clip in the weapon and one in your pocket, when you’re working.”

  They finished loading the clips. Peck set up the tripod, and screwed it into a receptacle on the rifle. “It’s not exactly a handheld weapon,” he said. “Not for the kind of accuracy we’re looking for. When you don’t have a tripod, you have to find some way to brace the thing.” He handed Ham a pair of foam earplugs, put some in his own ears, then stepped back and indicated that Ham was to proceed.

  Ham worked the action a couple of times to be sure it was smooth, then he shoved a clip into the rifle and worked a cartridge into the chamber. He stepped up to the weapon, sighted down the barrel, then stepped back and raised the tripod a couple of inches.

  “That’s right, you’re tall,” Peck said.

  “Just getting comfortable.” Ham sighted again, then flipped off the safety. He took aim at a full-length target of a man, sighted on the middle of the chest and fired, making a big noise. A moment later, the .50 caliber bullet struck the target dead in the crotch, exploding a big chunk out of the tree it was attached to.

  “Right on line, but low,” Peck said, looking through a small pair of binoculars he had produced from a pocket.

  Ham made a small adjustment in the sight. “Nice that there’s no wind on the strip, since we’ve got trees on both sides,” he said.

  “You can’t hit anything with this weapon if there’s wind,” Peck said. “We wouldn’t ask you to shoot under those circumstances.”

  Ham gripped the big rifle again. He fired, and the middle of the target’s chest disappeared.

  “Right on,” Peck said, checking through his binoculars. “Try for a head shot.”

  Ham fired again and took off the target’s left ear. “My fault,” he said. “I pulled too quick.” He tried again and blew off the target’s head.

  “That’s terrific shooting,” Peck said.

  “I’m ready to go to work,” Ham replied. “I’ll do whatever I can to help. When do I start?”

  Peck smiled. “How about next week?”

  Forty-five

  HAM FIRED THROUGH THE MORNING AT TARGETS of varying sizes, hitting everything with monotonous regularity.

  “Tell me, Ham,” Peck said. “How do you sight this thing in if you’re in a place that’s new to you?”

  “Will we know the distance ahead of time?”

  “Approximately.”

  “If somebody can pace it off, then I can preset the elevation; windage is another thing. I’ll just have to guess, and I can’t guarantee you a kill on the first shot.”

  Peck nodded gravely. “That’s about what I thought.”

  “Would this be in a public place?”

  Peck nodded again.

  “You planning to use explosive shells?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I’d suggest firing a nonexplosive round the first time, followed by an explosive one. Won’t take more than a couple of seconds to adjust the sights.”

  Peck nodded thoughtfully, then he looked at his watch. “Let’s get some lunch,” he said.

  They got back into the truck, and Ham headed back toward Peck’s house, but halfway there, he was directed to make a right turn, toward the lake.

  “Let’s drop your gear off at the bunkhouse,” Peck said.

  “Okay.”

  They arrived at a low, clapboard building, and Ham got his duffel from the back of the truck. It was much like a military barracks, one big room with a small office and heads at one end. There were two dozen bunks, and a dozen of them had gear piled on them.

  “Pick a bunk,” Peck said.

  Ham chose the bunk nearest the heads. “Looks like you’ve got some new arrivals,” he said, nodding toward the luggage on the other bunks.

  Peck nodded. “By the way, have you got a cell phone?”

  “Yep. In my duffel.”

  “Let me have it.”

  Ham retrieved the phone and handed it to Peck, who slipped it into a pocket. They got back into the truck, and Ham resisted the urge to ask why Peck wanted his cell phone. Peck answered his question anyway.

  “We’ve been locked down since nine o’clock this morning,” Peck said. “Nobody leaves for any reason, not even to buy groceries, without John’s permission. Nobody makes a phone call; nobody sends smoke signals; nobody uses a reflecting mirror. Nobody travels or communicates, unless he wants to catch a bullet.”

  “Okay,” Ham said, because he couldn’t say anything else. “When do we jump off?”

  “Next week. You’ll be told when you need to know.”

  Today was Wednesday, Ham reflected, and these people were planning something very public the following week, and he had no way to communicate with Holly or Harry.

  They drove back to the main house, got in line for food and sat at a picnic table with John.

  “Peck told you we’re locked down?” John asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That okay with you? You got any loose ends that need tidying?”

  Ham shook his head. “I’m ready to go when you are.”

  “I know you are, Ham. I think I’m beginning to know you better than you know yourself. I’m not ready to tell you what we’re doing, but I can tell you this: you’re going to be doing something good for your country and for the group. And you’re going to enjoy it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ham replied. “Excuse me, I’ve got to take a leak.” He took his tray back, then walked toward the house, thinking furiously, trying to work out a plan. He entered the house, and on the way to the john, looked into Peck’s office. A group of men was in the middle of some sort of discussion. He used the toilet, then slowly washed his hands, taking as much time as he reasonably could.

  He left the john and walked back down the hall. Just ahead of him, the group from Peck’s study were filing out of the room, no doubt headed for lunch. He made a show of looking at some flyers on a bulletin board, advertising right-wing literature for sale by mail order, then, when the last of the group was out of the house, he ducked into Peck’s study.

  He stopped directly under the smoke detector. “This is Ham,” he said. “Listen up. They’re planning something for next week, I don’t know what or when, and the place is locked down, so I can’t leave. You’re going to have to get a phone to me, and it’s going to have to be by water. I’m staying at a bunkhouse down by the lake, looks like a military barracks. I’ll try to leave a light on to guide you. Put the phone in a plastic bag and leave it under a rock on the shore as close to the bunkhouse as you can. Do it tonight. I’ll find it. That’s all.”

  He hurried back to the picnic table and joined John and Peck.

  “You were a long time,” John said.

  Ham patted his stomach. “I was a little late this morning; usually my bowels go like clockwork.”

  John nodded. “Peck tells me you’re ready with the Barrett’s rifle,” he said. “I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.”

  “Given the circumstances, what I’ve got to do is practice sighting in the rifle with one shot,” Ham said.

  “I want to work on a moving target, too,” Peck added. “Just in case.”

  “Good idea,” John said. “You never know what might happen, the target could be rolling.”

  “Can you slow it down?” Ham asked.

  “Probably.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

  “You see?” John said to Peck. “I told you he was a can-d
o guy.”

  Forty-six

  HOLLY LEFT HER HOUSE WITH DAISY AT SUNSET, ran through the dunes with her for a while, then went next door to Harry’s rental. To her surprise, she smelled cooking.

  “You guys get tired of Chinese and pizza?” she asked, letting herself in through the beach door.

  “I got a steak here for you,” Harry replied. “How do you like it?”

  “Medium rare. Did you get any wine?”

  “I bought a mixed case,” Harry said, nodding toward the carton. “I figured we’d be here long enough, and I was getting tired of beer.” Harry flipped a steak over.

  “Eddie, what did you get from the compound today?”

  “Zip,” Eddie said. “I don’t even know whether it’s working.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better find out?”

  “Harry, you’d better call somebody,” Eddie said.

  “I’ll call my contact at home after we eat,” Harry replied. “I’m not too exercised about this. It’s early days in this surveillance.”

  “I don’t want to miss a thing,” Holly said. “You know, I thought Ham would be here by now.”

  “Maybe he went home to change or something,” Doug said.

  “Maybe, but he’s been here by sunset just about every night.”

  They dug into their steaks and baked potatoes. “The wine’s nice,” Holly said.

  “Australian,” Harry replied. “Black Opal.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” She suddenly remembered that she hadn’t opened a bottle of wine since Jackson’s death.

  “The scrambler phones came,” Harry said. “I got one for you, too, so we can talk between the houses without having to worry about ears.”

  “Good,” Holly said. She looked at her watch again. “I’d like to call Ham. He shouldn’t be this late.”

  “No good, Holly. The bug is still on his phone.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, and resumed eating.

  They were scraping the plates when Holly stood up. “I’m going out to Ham’s,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Doug, go with her,” Harry said. “Meantime I’ll make that call.”

  Holly and Doug walked next door with Daisy to pick up Holly’s car, and shortly, they were driving north on A1A.