Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series

by Helin, Don

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Sam opened the oak door, he stood in stunned silence. Hanging swag lamps lit the room. An indoor-outdoor brown carpet covered much of the floor. Warmth from a number of space heaters located strategically around the walls permeated the room.

  A rectangular conference table, capable of seating about twenty people, stood in the far left corner of the room. Two twenty-plus-inch televisions had been mounted in the opposite wall—one now tuned to CNN and the other to CSPAN. The anchor on CNN was talking about the impact of the recent blizzard on the stock market.

  One of General Oliver’s minions, a man Sam knew only as Popeye, beckoned to him. “Over here, Thorpe.”

  Sergeant Bacher saluted Popeye, did an about-face, and marched back toward the outside door.

  Sam walked across the room. A quick glance didn’t reveal any security cameras.

  Popeye placed an identification card in a scanner. The door next to it opened, and he motioned Sam through the entryway.

  “Hello, Sam.” General Oliver leaned back in the black leather chair and stretched out his legs on a footstool. His starched fatigues looked like cardboard, and the shine on his combat boots reflected the flames in the fireplace. “Sit down,” he ordered sharply.

  A television set mounted in the far wall displayed the yard Sam had just crossed. He tried to visualize where the camera had been hidden. How many more are scattered around the area? he wondered. He’d need to be more alert.

  Oliver blew a smoke ring from his Havana cigar. He held his glass in the air and gazed at it as if it were an old friend. “Johnny Walker Red. Nothing else worth drinking. Want one, Colonel Thorpe?”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  Popeye filled a black mug and handed it to Sam. A flag printed in red on the side of the mug showed a rattlesnake curled, ready to strike. The words The Patriots curved above it in block letters.

  Popeye’s large hands seemed disproportionate against his five-foot, six- or seven-inch frame. A full head of white hair tapered over the back of his collar, and his white sideburns met the bushy moustache that curled down around his mouth. His blue eyes, deep set in that sea of white, gave him the look of a cherub. Sam knew better than to trust that cheery face.

  “Thanks.” Sam sat in one of the black leather chairs, Oliver on one side of him and Popeye standing at parade rest on the other.

  An ornately carved wooden gun rack displayed an assortment of shotguns and rifles over the stone fireplace. A pair of crossed Civil War swords decorated the adjoining wall.

  Sam fancied himself a student of the Civil War. “Those swords are beauties. Are they originals?”

  “I’m proud of them.” Oliver pointed at one and said, “I bought that one at an auction. It belonged to General Stonewall Jackson.”

  Sam nodded his approval and continued to look around. Several oil paintings of famous battles hung around the walls. The scenes in the paintings ranged from the Revolutionary War to the present. Many of them featured Marine units.

  General Oliver handed his empty glass to Popeye. “Get me another scotch.”

  Popeye snapped to attention as if he were spring-loaded. “Yes, sir.”

  Oliver fingered the rack of pipes on the end table next to him. The pipe stems were well chewed.

  Pictures of Oliver from his Marine Corps career decorated the wall behind the bar—change of command photos, promotion photos, pictures of Oliver fishing and hunting, and even one picture of him with a woman Sam figured to be his wife.

  Oliver accepted the glass from Popeye and turned to Sam. “How long were you in the Army?”

  “Twenty-five years.” Sam took a sip of his coffee as he continued to look around the room.

  Oliver had the irritating habit of tipping his head back when he spoke so he appeared to be talking down to people. Sam’s father had done the same thing during his many lectures years ago.

  “Why did you retire early?”

  “It was time.” Sam crossed his legs and straightened the crease on his fatigues.

  General Oliver sipped his scotch. “You served in Iraq.”

  Sam debated how much to tell Oliver. “I wanted to honor those who died in the World Trade Center bombing, so I volunteered for the operation in Iraq.”

  Sam’s voice carried some of his pride. “I led one of our brigade task force elements into Baghdad. Damn heady experience. Thought it would make a difference, but I realized we were causing more problems than we were solving. The average Iraqi hated us. We hadn’t changed their lives for the better. As a matter of fact, some of the international fellows from my class at the Army War College who were from the Middle East wouldn’t speak to me anymore.”

  “You were quite a football player at the University of Minnesota.”

  “I did okay.”

  “And your younger days? In Minnesota too?

  “Yes.” No way would Sam tell Oliver about being moved from foster home to foster home, ending up at a military school for delinquent boys.

  Oliver nodded. “If you worked in the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations’ office and were a brigade commander, you were probably on the fast track to general. And you gave that up on a point of principle? Admirable, but misplaced.”

  Sam leaned back in his chair, thinking, This clown would be a bitch to deal with.

  Oliver smiled, seemingly pleased with Sam’s frustration. “I understand you worked training issues.”

  Sam nodded.

  “And the task force?”

  Sam took another sip of coffee to cover his surprise that Oliver knew about his participation on the Pentagon’s anti-terrorist task force. “Only one of many jobs.”

  “No secrets among retirees, Sam.”

  “How long have you commanded the militia?”

  Oliver made eye contact with Sam. “You don’t know?”

  Sam shook his head.

  General Oliver swished the ice in his glass, the rattle of the cubes sounding a little like Sam’s heartbeat. “Long enough. How did you feel about the task force going after terrorists?”

  Sam shrugged.

  “Didn’t you think what a bunch of bastards those terrorists are?” Oliver leaned back in his chair.

  “I did wonder. Why?”

  “How long you got?” Oliver looked into the fire for a moment. “Do you know what happened to the Weavers at Ruby Ridge? I mean the real story, not the bull crap our government puts out.”

  Sam shook his head. He had been briefed on Ruby Ridge but wanted to hear Oliver’s side of the story.

  “Come on. Let’s take a walk. I’ll tell you what really happened. Since we don’t have all day, I’ll give you the executive summary.”

  Professor Sidney Kramer hurried down the hall toward his classroom. He had a bounce in his step since he’d shared the good news with Elizabeth Henley.

  After his basic chemistry class, he would hurry back to his apartment and continue to surf the Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s Web site.

  Kramer wasn’t an expert on dirty bombs, but the NRC made it easy. They tracked radioactive material at more than 21,000 sites through routine applications for license renewals. One application he found contained a map of a natural gas pipeline under the facility and outlined the damage an explosion could cause.

  Payback time.

  The U.S. government had screwed him. They hadn’t left him any choice. Damn them! They had made him run to Canada to avoid the draft. There Kramer had worked as a graduate teaching assistant in Montreal saving money to move his sick mother to Canada. When Kramer returned to Philadelphia to pick up his mother at the senior center he was told she had died.

  The nurse at his mother’s senior center had tried to be kind. “She died in her sleep. Didn’t suffer at all.”

  “Didn’t suffer!” he’d screamed. “She died alone, without family, all because the government forced me to run!”

  His mother had understood he needed to stay with her and not go into the Army. Not like his father,
the old fart, who would have rolled over in his grave if he’d found out Sidney hadn’t gone into the service. He would have said Sidney needed to do his part.

  Kramer was so deep in thought that he passed the door to his classroom. He stopped and looked around. Thankfully, no one had noticed.

  When he entered, the students straightened in their seats. He was ten minutes late; unusual for him. The little shits were probably hoping they could skip out.

  He glanced out of the corner of his eye and winked at Mary Beth Jackson. He figured it was his responsibility to guide his students, particularly the attractive ones, on their academic journey, and she had a great body.

  Kramer straightened his stained tie, opened his notes, and began to lecture.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gravel crunched under their feet as Sam and Oliver walked across the yard toward what looked like a triple garage with a house on the far side. A five hundred-gallon propane tank stood to the right of the garage. A thin line of smoke seeped from the chimney, blown horizontal by the gusting wind. The yard stood quiet: no people, no animals, no birds. Sam felt as if he should whisper.

  A Buick that looked like a remnant from Sam’s youth was parked next to the tank, its rocker panels rusted, the windshield cracked, and four windows busted out. The car might have been in running order, but it didn’t have a license plate.

  Oliver’s voice snapped Sam back to the present. “Randy and Vicki Weaver grew up in Iowa, just a couple of farm kids. Weaver was a good kid; loved baseball and fast cars. He got average grades in school. You know, kind of the all-American kid.” He pointed up at the farmhouse. “You met Mrs. Williamson.”

  “She wasn’t too friendly. I told her that I was looking for a General Oliver.”

  “And?”

  “She asked who I was.”

  “Good; that’s very good. I can’t be too careful with the shadow government chasing me.”

  “I introduced myself. Told her that we had a meeting.” Sam chuckled. “I realized how stupid that must have sounded. Not a soul around, and I was looking for a meeting.”

  “As it should be.” Oliver stopped walking and watched Sam. “Then what happened?”

  “She pointed me toward the barn.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Around the back corner of the barn, a man in black fatigues came up from behind. Ticked me off I let him get the drop on me. Turned out it was your guard, Sergeant Bacher. When I told him I was to meet with you, he shouldered his M16 and led me inside.”

  Oliver got a pained expression on his face. Bacher would get his butt chewed.

  “You’ve done an impressive job with camouflage. Now, tell me more about the Weavers.”

  “Both of their families were devout Christians.” Oliver pointed toward the garage. “Let’s walk up there.”

  The garage and house combination looked to be the best maintained buildings on the site. The garage had only one story, but the house sported a second floor with new siding. The front of the house faced west and the garage side, east.

  “Randy Weaver’s father got into trouble with a couple of local congregations because of what people called his ‘too radical beliefs.’ He had difficulty finding a church conservative enough for his views.

  “Vicki was a pretty girl, smart as a whip. Everybody liked her. She was vice-president of her Future Business Leaders of America chapter and a leader in school. The two kids met at community college.”

  “Wasn’t he Special Forces? He must have been an okay guy.”

  Oliver fidgeted with the hearing aid behind his left ear and leaned toward Sam to hear. Sam was unfazed, having a number of friends who, like Oliver, had “artillery ears.”

  “Damn right,” Oliver answered. “They met during the height of the protests, but Randy chose to serve in the Army. Kid wanted to do something for his country. Found a home in Special Forces. He got frustrated that he never made it to Vietnam.”

  When Oliver reached the door to the house, he slid aside the metal plate over a keypad and punched in a code. Oliver pushed the door open. Sam followed him inside.

  Oliver crossed a living room, not much larger than fifteen by twenty feet, equipped with a ratty, overstuffed couch, four mismatched chairs, and an antiquated RCA television set. A stack of videos littered the weathered coffee table. Pictures of military units hung around the walls.

  Oliver clenched his teeth. “Benson will have to clean up this pigsty.” He led Sam up about ten stairs. “Here is where the men sleep when they’re preparing for a mission.” He paused at the top, then continued the story. “Most guys during that time were trying to bug out of the war, you know … run to Canada, the yellow bastards, but not Randy.”

  Sam nodded.

  “The Weavers became active in a religious movement called Christian Identity. Ever hear of it?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “This is our future, Thorpe. Once I’m in charge, I’ll require everyone to be a member of the Christian Identity. Put those damn minorities in their place.”

  Sam made a mental note to get more information about the Christian Identity Movement.

  They entered a basketball-court-sized room with double bunks along both sides of the walls and lockers between the bunks. It looked as though the room could accommodate about forty men. A latrine stood at the far end.

  Oliver continued, “During this same time period, the Weavers became more and more concerned about what their children were learning in school. Apparently, their daughter attended a Halloween party they thought Satanic.

  “Vicki kept having a vision about a cabin in the mountains that called out to her. They finally sold their house in Iowa, packed up, and moved west.”

  “Weren’t they white supremacists?” Sam asked.

  Oliver’s face grew rigid. He gritted his teeth again. “Hell, no. They were white separatists. There’s a big damn difference, Thorpe, and you have to understand it. All they wanted to do was to live with their own kind and be left alone by the fucking government. Is that too much to ask?”

  Sam shook his head while he memorized the nametags on the bunks.

  “Randy and Vicki settled in northern Idaho, a place called Ruby Ridge, named for the Ruby River. Hell of a beautiful place. Have you ever been there?”

  Sam shook his head again. During his briefing on Ruby Ridge by the FBI, he had studied the terrain features on a map. Looked like a place he’d enjoy fly-fishing.

  “But you know what?” Oliver’s voice rose. “The government bureaucrats wouldn’t leave them alone. An undercover agent set Randy up. The bastard got him to sell a couple of sawed-off shotguns for a few bucks. Not that big a deal during that time period but sawed-off shotguns are illegal. He was charged with a felony. The court later called it entrapment.”

  Oliver turned. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs. I’ll show you the garage.”

  Sam followed Oliver down the stairs. “But what he did was against the law.”

  “You and I both know all kinds of assholes who were doing a lot worse. The government wanted to make an example of Randy. They were going to do whatever it took. The court issued a warrant for his arrest. What he did wasn’t even a felony.”

  Sam followed Oliver through a kitchen past a refrigerator, freezer, and large gas stove. A room off to the right contained a table large enough to seat about twenty. Oliver opened the door to a garage. There were three pickup trucks and two Jeeps parked inside.

  Sam surveyed the tools and supplies in the garage. “The garage doesn’t look this large from the outside.”

  “It’s my motor pool.” Oliver beamed; then his smile disappeared. “The agents went after Randy. They surrounded his home. Three agents sneaked onto his land. Randy’s boy was outside checking the perimeter and must have heard them moving through the brush. He probably thought they were deer. He shot and wounded one of the agents. Fuckers shot back. They killed the boy. Kid was only sixteen years old.”

  Sam winced, his sixteen-year-old da
ughter’s face entering his mind.

  “Sixteen. The next day a sniper blows Vickie’s head off. Know her big sin? She had the nerve to stand in the doorway of her house holding her baby. Blew her head off. And they did it right in front of her kids.”

  Sam studied a workbench that covered the length of the garage. He picked up a metric wrench and blew out his breath in exasperation.

  Oliver grabbed a timing light. “We do most of our own maintenance. I recruited an old motor sergeant of mine to keep things running. Guy’s a hell of a mechanic. He’ll be here later this evening.”

  Sam walked to the end of the garage, then back. A former battalion and brigade commander, he had spent a lot of time in motor pools. “This place is well equipped.”

  Oliver put down the timing light and nodded.

  A large metal lock hung on the door to an adjoining bay. “What’s in there?” Sam asked.

  Oliver grimaced. “Ah, nothing of importance.”

  Sam would need to convince the motor sergeant to let him look inside that area.

  “Anyway, the siege goes on for eleven days. The Feds control all the media, so no one knows they killed the wife and kid. Finally, Bo Grites comes in and negotiates a settlement.”

  “Grites.” Sam paused for a moment. “Isn’t he the Special Forces officer?”

  “One and the same. Great guy. After all this, the government finally hauled Randy into court. And you know what?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “He comes out scot free. Bastards killed his wife and kid for nothing. People wonder why I hate ‘em.”

  Sam followed Oliver back through the kitchen and toward the front door. “Hard to believe the government set him up.”

  “Join the real world, Thorpe. It happens all the time. People just don’t know about it. Christ, FDR allowed 2400 guys to go to their death at Pearl Harbor so we’d enter the war. That didn’t have to happen.”

  Oliver pulled the front door shut and locked it.

  “And you know what, the same thing happened with Oklahoma City.”