by Helin, Don
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
“Thy Kingdom Come crackles with authenticity.”
~ CJ Lyons, bestselling author of Lifelines
DEDICATION:
To Elaine, for her love and support.
Published 2009 by Medallion Press, Inc.
The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2009 by Don Helin
Cover design by James Tampa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 9781933836973
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
To my critique group—Cathy, Carmen, and Laurie— and to Dennis and the members of the Pennwriters Fourth Wednesday writers group. Thanks, guys.
To the staff of our local library and post office for your ongoing support.
To my fellow Thrillerwriter Debut Authors. What a great bunch.
To everyone at Medallion Press—a great Team. Thanks.
CHAPTER ONE
Icy wind blew across the Appalachian ridge, the gusts unusually cold for late March. Sam Thorpe crouched near the edge of the shale ridge. He focused his binoculars on the militia members coming up the hill.
Sparks flashed as tracers from the Heckler and Koch submachine gun behind him kicked up dirt around the men. Sam’s gut twisted when two of them dropped. “These bastards are firing live ammunition. Stop them!” He’d seen people die in combat, but this was different. This was murder.
The man standing next to him watched the advancing line through his binoculars. Quentin Oliver, self-appointed one-star general and commander of the Patriots, smiled. He stood taller than Sam’s six foot four inches, but was thinner, with a sharp face and a nose hooked like a falcon’s beak. “This is war, Colonel Thorpe. Soldiers who don’t do things properly die.”
Sam resisted the impulse to swear at Oliver. This wasn’t war, just a training exercise, for Christ’s sake. Instead, Sam cursed his boss on the Pentagon’s anti-terrorist task force who had persuaded him to go undercover to determine the mission and organization of the Patriots.
Oliver stroked his white goatee with a gloved hand while keeping his eyes trained on the scene below. “We’ll show those government bastards. We pure-blooded Americans are sick of their bullshit. No one’s going to take our guns away.”
Sam zipped his field jacket up to his neck. The chill he felt had little to do with the temperature.
Oliver walked toward his Jeep, then turned back to Sam. “We need to prepare. Are you going to help us?”
Sam nodded toward Oliver, hesitant to say anything.
Quentin Oliver sat at the conference table in his office, doodling on a tablet while he listened to the speakerphone. One voice belonged to Aly Kassim, vice president of one of America’s largest corporations; the other to an old friend, Marcel Dubois, a retired colonel in the Canadian Army.
Oliver had spent a great deal of money to ensure secure voice communication by installing scramblers on each of the three phones involved in the call.
Specialist Douglas Rose, a slender young man in black fatigues, leaned over a computer terminal at the far end of the table, typing in action items from Oliver’s comments.
Oliver’s Black Shirts were absolutely loyal to him. They were his enforcers. The other militia members were scared of them.
He swished the smoke from his cigar away from his face with his right hand. “I suspect it will take about two weeks before we’re ready to move.” He had learned during his career in the Marines to be patient. “The men need more training.”
“You are so right, my friend. Training is critical,” Marcel said, his French accent flowing out of the speakerphone. “We learned that, yes?”
“You understand, don’t you, Marcel?” Quentin Oliver and Marcel Dubois had graduated from the Naval War College together. Both had been lieutenant colonels at the time, Oliver in the Marines and Marcel a foreign student from Canada. Oliver continued, “I plan to give Thorpe one week to prove himself.”
“Tell me about Thorpe,” Marcel said.
“Go ahead, Aly,” Oliver replied. “You hired him.”
Aly’s voice came through the speaker. “He led a mechanized brigade in Iraq. Before that he spent four years in the Pentagon working training issues. He’s frustrated with the government and feels they aren’t doing enough to combat foreign terrorism. That’s in our favor. His interviews went well, so we hired him a month ago. He’s been through our orientation. This is his first assignment.”
“Sounds like a good candidate. Hopefully he’ll be enough, how do you say it,” Marcel chuckled, “pissed off at the government to be of assistance to our cause.”
“Oliver, do you think Thorpe will be up to the task of training your soldiers?” Aly asked.
“I’ll reserve judgment,” Oliver replied.
“He has a great deal of experience working with soldiers,” Aly said. “That should expedite the training.”
Oliver nodded. “Thorpe watched our exercise earlier this evening. When he left, he seemed upset at my methods.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Marcel said.
“I require absolute obedience. If my soldiers do not perform up to my standard, or if they try to leave, they will be dealt with. And their families as well.” Oliver could visualize Marcel on the other end of the phone stroking his small black moustache as he pondered the words. “Thorpe’s scheduled to arrive tomorrow at zero nine hundred hours.” He nodded toward Rose, who made another note.
“When are you coming to pick up the professor?” Marcel asked. “We can have a class reunion over some Merlot.”
Oliver sent a smoke ring into the air. “Depends on
when I can break away.”
Aly’s voice chimed in. “Why not send Thorpe?”
Oliver thought for a moment, weighing the pros and cons, as always. “Good idea.” He tapped his fingers on the tablet. “We’ll get him in the middle. He won’t be able to back out without leaving something on the table.”
“The border patrol is less likely to stop a retired colonel and look too closely at his passengers,” Aly said.
“I like the way you think.” Oliver paused. “Marcel, why don’t you alert the professor?”
“With pleasure,” Marcel replied. “Is this Thorpe to be trusted?”
“We’ll see,” Oliver said. “If not, I’ll take care of him. In any event, I suspect he’ll meet with an accident by the end of the training period.”
“When should I plan to arrive?” Marcel asked.
Oliver traced the crease on his starched fatigues. He knew that Marcel’s French Separatist movement was planning some surprises for the Canadian government. “I think it’s best if you wait and come later. We can’t take any chances on tipping our hand.”
“I’ll need advance warning to make arrangements to transport our weapons back to Canada.”
“I’m aware of our agreement.” Oliver nodded to Rose again.
Rose flashed his familiar smirk.
There was silence; then Aly’s voice came over the speaker. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll notify Thorpe.”
“I think we’d better close for now,” Oliver said. “I’ll schedule a call for tomorrow at 1800 hours to update you on how Thorpe did his first day.”
Rose made a note without being asked.
“Fine with me,” Aly said. “Oliver, let me know if you need additional supplies or equipment. We’ll ship it right away. You have top priority.”
“As it should be.” Oliver pushed the button to disconnect the call, then rocked back in his chair. He had been planning this operation ever since the Marine Corps Inspector General had written the report that forced him out and cheated him out of his promotion. He had made one little mistake. Those blacks thought they ran the show. He was just straightening them out. After all, he was the colonel. They were just enlisted pukes.
CHAPTER TWO
Sam Thorpe turned left off the black top onto a dirt lane exactly 4.2 miles from Route 322, a different area from the one he had been at the night before. Satisfied he had turned at the right place, he slipped his rented Ford Explorer into four-wheel drive, and picked his way around the ruts, a more difficult feat now because of the patches of ice on the road.
Sam had retired from the Army four months before. His ex-boss on the task force, General Paul Gerber, the deputy chief of operations for the Army, had persuaded him to go undercover and apply for a job with an international business conglomerate.
Gerber had hammered on Sam to convince him of the urgency of this mission. Sam had resisted because he’d planned to spend more time with his daughter, but he’d caved in when the general had shown him a classified Department of Defense intelligence summary, which earmarked the conglomerate as a key supplier of weapons and training to militias throughout the country. The Patriots had been singled out because of possible ties to a foreign terrorist organization.
On the icy road, Thorpe stopped the SUV and opened his window to listen. The crunching of snow signaled the movement of a small animal, probably a squirrel. Other than the wind whistling through the trees, no other sounds reached him. He consulted his strip map once more, then followed the gray, wooden fence that paralleled the road, watching for hotspots— any colors or shapes that didn’t belong in the woods. If there were cameras, they were well hidden.
The road led to a farmhouse built of Pennsylvania field stone across the yard from a dirty-white barn. The farmhouse’s green roof had lost several of its shingles, and the barn hadn’t seen a coat of paint since pioneer days. The barn’s stone foundation had crumbled, and weeds lined the base. He had expected spartan working conditions, but here it looked as though he’d entered a time warp, the arrow set on 1910.
Sam steered the Explorer to the front of the farmhouse and climbed out. Other than an industrious, red-bellied woodpecker tapping on a nearby sycamore tree, he heard no sounds of life.
He climbed the six wooden steps, picking his way around the cracked boards and up to the porch, then pounded on the door. No one answered. He pounded again and peeked inside the window, stained with paint and fogged with the grunge of time. Had he misread the directions?
He picked his way back down the rotted stairs. When the door creaked, he stopped and turned.
A gray-haired woman in a faded blue dress and white apron stood behind the tattered screen door. “May I help you?” The woman spoke with an eastern European accent. She patted the tight bun on the back of her head.
“I’m looking for General Quentin Oliver.”
“And who are you?” Her fingers fidgeted with the edges of her apron.
“Sam Thorpe. I’m scheduled to meet with him.”
She pointed. “He’s out in the barn.”
Sam pointed at the rundown building. “In that barn?” She had already shut the door, leaving him standing at the base of the stairs.
He surveyed the area, scanning the yard in grids, his eyes searching for anything out of the ordinary. Where would the hidden cameras be? The newer ones were so small that they were hard to spot.
Sam slid across the icy barnyard toward the old white building. He couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching him.
There was a double door at the near end of the barn, large enough to accommodate a tractor pulling a trailer. He decided to scope things out—walk around to the back—before trying the door.
When he turned the far corner of the barn, he sensed movement behind him, then felt the barrel of a rifle in his back.
“Who are you?” a male voice asked.
“Sam Thorpe. Who the hell are you?”
“None of your fucking business. Why are you here?”
“To meet with General Oliver.”
Those must have been the magic words because the gun barrel disengaged from Sam’s back. A hand pulled on his shoulder. Sam turned and found himself face to face with a man less than six feet tall, but solidly built, with broad shoulders. He was dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and a black helmet liner. Wraparound sunglasses covered his eyes.
His nametag read Bacher. The rank on his collar was that of a sergeant first class.
“What’s going on, Sergeant Bacher?” Sam asked.
The man did not reply but nodded to his left. Sam followed him back around to the front of the barn. The man slid the door to one side to reveal a second door, this one of heavy oak. “Open the door, Colonel.”
Sam paused with his hand on the doorknob, then turned the knob and pushed.
Elizabeth Henley sat on the edge of her desk in front of her freshman history class at McGill University. She waited for one of her students to answer her question, but she was greeted with blank stares and, of course, Billy Martin wiggling down in his chair to peek up her skirt.
“All right, I’ll repeat the question. What were the factors that led to the vote on the separation of Quebec from Canada?”
Molly Packard raised her hand, but Elizabeth decided to shake Billy out of his fantasy world. “Billy.”
Billy moved his eyes from her legs up to her face. “Ah, yeah?”
The rest of the class giggled as Billy’s face reddened.
Elizabeth walked the few steps to his desk. “Were you listening to me?”
He looked at the floor. “I guess not as well as I should have.”
“You may gather up your books and leave. I’ll write a note and let the dean handle this.”
“Please … my father will kill me.”
“You should have thought of that earlier.” She pointed toward the door. “Now leave the classroom immediately.”
Billy gathered his books and ambled toward the door, glancing back over
his shoulder with a look asking for a reprieve—but none came.
“All right, Molly. What is your answer?”
Molly stood. “The Catholic Church was the central organizational entity in Quebec until the Quiet Revolution in 1960.”
“What was the Quiet Revolution?” Elizabeth asked.
Molly’s face brightened with her smile. “Prior to the election of 1960, Maurice Duplessis was the prime minister of Quebec. In 1960, Jean Lesage was elected. The Quiet Revolution took place during his tenure from 1960 to 1966.”
“That’s right, Molly.” A movement caught her eye. James reached over and tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him. “James, why is this important?”
James looked like the proverbial kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “Ah, would you ask that question again, Ms. Henley?”
The bell rang, announcing the end of the period. James seemed to sag in his chair.
“You’re lucky, James.” She glanced toward Molly. “Thank you, Molly. We’ll continue this next period.”
While the students gathered their books, Elizabeth walked to the front of the classroom. She turned to face the students. “I’d advise you all to review this area because it will be the focus of our midterm exam in two weeks. James, I suggest you study up because I’ll begin with you the next time we meet.”
She watched the students file out, then sat down at her desk, leaned back, and shut her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well. The nightmares flooded her mind night after night, blocking any chance of rest. And these silly boys frustrated her. They grew up to be stupid men who ended up taking over the government.
The door handle clicked. She opened her eyes to see the professor enter the room, his round face beaming. He leaned over to kiss her cheek and whispered, “The call we’ve been waiting for has come. It’s time.”
She glanced away, relief flooding her. She had waited so long. Now revenge was at hand. She smiled for the first time that day.