by Helin, Don
His father yelled back at her, “Marcel is twenty years old. He must see what kind of a government this is!”
After church, Marcel and his father stood outside St. Mary’s and waited on the sidewalk. Father Joseph led them in prayer. “Holy Mother, make our leaders see the error of their ways. Our sacred bond with Thy Holy Church cannot be broken. The government must not come between His people and our way of life.”
“Amen!” the group yelled. This seemed to give them all hope.
The group marched down St. Catherine Street toward the ministry, Marcel and his father in the front row. When they neared the ministry, soldiers moved to stand between the marchers and the capitol
“Stand back!” Father Joseph called. “We mean you no harm. We want to express our concerns.”
A uniformed colonel stepped forward. “We understand, Father, but you must turn back. We have our orders.”
“My son, let us pass. Just like Jesus rode a donkey into the city for his appointment with Pilate, so must we be allowed to step forward and lodge our protest.”
Marcel’s father hurried forward to stand next to Father Joseph. “We cannot allow this injustice to stand. We must bring back our sacred way of life.”
“No,” the colonel called. “Turnaround. Do not make us hurt you.”
Marcel’s father snapped. He ran toward the colonel, waving his arms in the air.
A voice yelled, “Stop!” A shot rang out. Marcel’s father dropped to the pavement, blood streaming from his chest.
Marcel hurried to his father and fell to his knees, blood staining his hands and the front of his pants.
The priest leaned over him and put his arm on Marcel’s shoulder. “Step back, my son. We will get your father help.”
“No.” Marcel curled his arms around his father. “Papa, wake up.”
Someone shoved Marcel aside, and he turned.
Pierre knelt beside him. “Those bastards have shot Father.”
The colonel eyed Marcel’s brother. “Pierre Dubois, you are on our wanted list. I must arrest you. Come with me.”
“I will not leave my father.”
The colonel stepped over. “You are Pierre Dubois. I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Get back, pig,” Pierre yelled. “You’ve killed my father.”
The colonel grabbed Pierre’s shoulder. “You must come with me.”
Pierre stood and reached into his pocket.
“Stop!” cried the colonel. “Don’t move!”
It all happened so fast. Pierre pulled his hand out of his jacket, and one of the soldiers shot him through the head. He dropped to the ground, dead before he hit the pavement.
Marcel still had the prayer book that had been wedged in his brother’s right hand.
Marcel’s father had not awakened. Those two bullets had ensured that Marcel would never speak to his father or brother again. Marcel had sworn to avenge those murders, determined that the FLQ must rise again from the ashes of this disaster.
Marcel lit another cigarette, the memories circling in his mind.
He had been true to his vow. Convinced that he could push for separation from the animals who’d killed his father and brother, he had joined the Parti Quebecois when Premier Henri Bourassa’s liberal government had come to power in 1976. But in 1980, only 40 percent of the electorate voted for separation from Canada. Marcel couldn’t believe it. He wondered if these people were blind to what was happening.
Marcel had joined the Army to prepare himself to fight for his beliefs. At only five foot, three inches tall, he’d needed a special waiver because of his height. The recruiter had told him he was too short. Marcel worked hard to prove himself every step of the way. The other men had laughed at him in basic training, but he’d shown them. He graduated first in his class and had been first in everything ever since.
His mother had pleaded with him not to go into the Army, but he hadn’t listened to her. He’d wanted training in mobilizing and equipping large numbers of men. The FLQ would rise again.
In 1995, another referendum was held with 49.4 percent of the province voting for separation. Marcel was convinced that the election had been rigged. Now was the time for action. The government would be sorry for what they had done.
Marcel’s mind returned to the present. He wiped the tears from his eyes and straightened his tie. Pushing back his shoulders, he walked into the restaurant.
His wife flicked a piece of lint off his collar and kissed his cheek. He picked up a pile of menus, forcing a smile back on his face, and greeted his next customer.
This next revolution would not be quiet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alex Prescott pulled a cigarette out of her black purse. “You are a big guy. They weren’t kidding about that.”
“You’re not supposed to smoke in here. Don’t draw attention to us.”
“Shit.” She grimaced and stuffed it back into her bag.
Her long delicate fingers were decorated with black nail polish, but she wore no wedding ring on her left hand.
Sam had to smile. “You’re not what I was expecting.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
She shifted in her chair. “Alex is short for Alexandra. My family’s Greek. My father knew I would be Alexander Popogolis. The name Alexander means ‘strong and manly.’ The term comes from Alexander the Great. You know, defender of mankind and all that crap. He never quite forgave me for being a girl. Imagine getting all that worked up about some little thing hanging between your legs.”
Sam looked down and sipped his coffee. “Why Prescott? What happened to Popogolis?”
“Of the many bad decisions I’ve made in my life, marrying Willy Prescott has got to stand at the top of the list.” She smiled, her white teeth perfectly aligned and accented by the black lipstick and blue eye shadow. “It got me away from my father and pissed him off. Believe me, that’s worth a lot. I use Popogolis at work even though it’s one hell of a mouthful. I decided to use the name Prescott undercover.”
Sam nodded. He had left home almost thirty years before, spending time in one foster home after another, and hadn’t seen either one of his parents since.
“Yeah, don’t go there.” Alex stirred two packets of sugar into her latte. “I’m wearing a wire that will pick up our conversation, so give me the details. We can lean close to one another and look like star-crossed lovers. I’ll drive down to the Pentagon tonight. Meet with General Gerber and select members of the anti-terrorist task force in the morning. He’s looking forward to hearing what you’ve found out so far.”
Sam couldn’t see where she could hide a microphone under that tight outfit.
She nodded to her right. “Bob’s my guardian angel. He’s got an ear phone in that hearing aid so he’ll be able to monitor our conversation.”
Bob O’Brien stood near the front door of the bookstore looking through some of the new bestsellers. He had been the CIA rep on the anti-terrorist task force for the past year. Sam enjoyed Bob and his wife, Jasmine, who was Jordanian. He was the perfect CIA agent—not too tall, not too short, not too fat, not too thin. If Sam were pressed to describe him, it would be difficult. Bob stood a little less than six feet tall, with short brown hair and plain-framed glasses. He probably weighed around 180 pounds, with no obvious features that you’d notice. He could disappear into a crowd with the best of them.
“May I call you Sam?” she asked.
Sam nodded and cracked a smile.
“What?”
“I’m still getting used to you.”
“One of my many strengths.” She grinned.
Sam couldn’t help but grin back.
“When the FBI’s previous representative on the task force resigned, I asked if I could replace him. You know I didn’t have a snowball’s chance until this assignment came up. The brass figured Oliver’s bunch would never suspect me.”
“Are you assigned in D.C.?”
“Place is a trip; love it. But I’m
on the road a lot so don’t spend much time there. I got back recently from heading up a sting operation in Minneapolis. We pinned a bunch of crazy skinheads to the wall.”
“Minneapolis is my home.”
“I know all about you. Believe me.”
Sam did. “Why are you involved with the skinheads?”
“I’m assigned to the FBI task force going after hate groups trying to overthrow the government. That helped me get this job.”
“Oh.”
“Now tell me about the Patriots. I hear they’re a tight-knit group.”
“And serious about what they believe,” Sam added. “What they’ve accomplished so far is impressive. They’ve spent some time training as a unit, but they need more—and that’s where I come in.”
“They’re located outside of Harrisburg?”
“The site’s about thirty miles northwest of Harrisburg, just east of a small burg called Thompsontown.”
She sipped her latte and nodded. “Quentin Oliver’s father bought the farm in 1960. He farmed it until his death. Oliver rented the place to a neighbor who grew corn and soybeans. A county road divides the land, seventy-five acres on one side and a little under one hundred on the other. He retired from the Marines as a colonel.”
“They say a Marine never retires. Once a Marine, always a Marine.” Sam laughed. “A jarhead.”
Her face broke into a grin. “A jarhead?”
Sam liked that smile. “Their heads are shaved so closely that it makes them look like a jar.”
“My fellow agents who are Marine vets would take exception, but that’s tough.” She chuckled. “It seems that Oliver was on the fast track to general when he got on the wrong side of an affirmative action complaint. He must have a command presence like General Patton.”
Sam took a sip of coffee. “The guy hates blacks, Jews, and anyone tied to the government.”
“Probably doesn’t care much for women either unless they’re on their backs,” Alex said.
Sam looked down at his coffee cup again.
“Sorry if I’m embarrassing you.” She laughed and ran her fingers through her short hair. “You may remember back in the mid-’90s, the Army had a mess on their hands with skinheads inside the force. A large neo-Nazi skinhead gang had formed inside the 82nd Airborne Division. Can you believe it? Members actually saluted the Nazi flag, distributed hate literature on base, and held parties where they blasted the government for their too liberal treatment of minorities.”
Sam nodded. “I happened to be assigned to the Infantry School at Fort Benning at the time. One of my buddies from the Armed Forces Staff College, guy by the name of John Wilson, had been the XO of a battalion at Bragg. Poor bastard got relieved when the scandal broke.”
Alex continued. “The whole mess started when Robert Hunt, a member of the National Alliance and on active duty with the 82nd Airborne Division, put up a billboard saying, ‘Enough! Let’s Start Taking Back America,’ and listing the neo-Nazi group’s toll-free number.”
It all came back to Sam. What ever had happened to Wilson? He’d just fallen off the radar. The Army way—fast track to no track.
“Didn’t some soldier kill a black couple?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, a real bad deal. He gunned them down in a random roadside shooting. The soldiers involved were eventually all sentenced to life in prison. Nineteen other soldiers received dishonorable discharges.”
“How was Oliver involved?”
“He stayed on the fringes, but we believe he attended some of the skinhead meetings. A witness claimed he did, but Oliver said he didn’t. It was a sergeant’s word against an officer’s—and a hotshot Marine lieutenant colonel at that. The government never followed up. They had their hands full with the problems in the division.”
Sam leaned back and looked around. He saw nothing suspicious. The young couple still sat in the corner, laughing with one another.
“We’re tracking information that the skinhead movement is once again using the military to receive training.” Alex sipped her latte. “With all of the retention problems because of the war in Iraq, recruiters aren’t looking too closely at the backgrounds of some of their new recruits. If we’re not careful, things will build back up again like the old days at Fort Bragg.”
Sam nodded. “I’d heard that. Man, I’d hate to see it happen.”
“Oliver stayed pretty clean until he finally got caught using the ‘n-word’ about a bunch of young black Marines. The kids reported him to the Marine Corps Inspector General. After their investigation, he got retired early. I’m sure he’s still pissed.”
Every time one of the Barnes & Noble staff cranked up the espresso machine, Sam had to lean forward to hear Alex. “He let loose with a tirade against minorities and the government that supports “em.”
“What do we know about his militia?” she asked, fidgeting with her spoon.
Sam figured she missed her cigarette. “Most of his troops have some combat experience. They’re farmers, with not much education. You know, outdoors kinda guys.” Sam paused. “I’m trying to figure out what makes them join Oliver’s militia.”
Alex nodded in agreement. “What time are you headed back?”
“I need to be there by six o’clock for my class. Oliver gave me one week to complete the training. My butt if I don’t.”
“Don’t want to lose that.” Alex laughed and wiggled her eyebrows. “We’ll establish points where you’ll be able to communicate with me.”
“Here’s fine with me. Not many of Oliver’s troops are likely to come into a bookstore.” Sam chuckled. “Oliver told me he has plans to take action after we complete the training.”
“Any idea what?”
Sam shook his head. “Guy’s convinced the government has lied to the public on numerous occasions. For example, he told me that the Oklahoma City bombing was a government plot. Implied we could have stopped it but didn’t.”
Alex shuddered.
Sam looked away.
The espresso machine fired up again. “You’d think they could find a quieter way to make one of those damn things.” Sam paused. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah. The first night, he took me out on a live fire demonstration. Only his troops didn’t know it was live fire. I’m sure he ordered his Black Shirts to open up on at least two and maybe three men advancing up a hill during the exercise.”
Her face dropped in dismay. “He killed them?”
Sam nodded. “Said that would teach the others a lesson to keep their heads down.”
“Did you say Black Shirts?”
“Yeah. His enforcers.”
“What happened to the bodies?”
Sam shook his head. The chatter in the coffee shop had picked up. It seemed to rise and fall like an ocean wave. He leaned forward and whispered, “You know what, none of the guys seem particularly concerned about the shootings. I think they’re scared to death.”
She looked out the window for a moment, tapping her fingers on the table. When she turned back, she must have caught him looking at her chest. She smiled. “What else?”
“About half the men seem interested in what I have to say. The day after the shooting, I met a bunch of them. I don’t know if there are others I haven’t met yet.”
“What drives them to join the movement?”
“Save our country for the whites. Oliver calls it his destiny. He told me his version of Ruby Ridge. He makes a compelling argument about how the government screwed up. I suspect, like always, the truth is somewhere in between.”
“That’s been my experience.”
“Oliver makes it clear he’s not going to let the government tell him what to do. He’s got a strategy to do something about it.”
“Did he say anything about Waco?”
Sam shook his head.
She leaned back for a moment to organize her thoughts.
Sam looked away.
Alex reached down to her belt and flicked a switch. “You know, you’re gonna have to a
ct like a real male and look at my boobs. Otherwise, folks will get suspicious.” She smiled. “I understand it’s a guy thing.”
Sam glanced back at her breasts, then looked down at his coffee cup.
She reached down to her belt. “I’ll turn the mic back on now. The size of the militia movement varies by state, but it grew in numbers for about two years after Oklahoma City. Today, more and more of the original members view the militias as a threat rather than a salvation.”
“Not Oliver.”
“After Oklahoma City, the radical fringe broke away from the larger masses. The FBI finally woke up to the fact they’d messed up at Ruby Ridge and Waco.”
Sam nodded. “Oliver’s view of Ruby Ridge damns the FBI and ATF.”
“Not without some justification,” Alex replied. “More coffee? Let’s look like we’re having fun.”
She walked over to the counter and ordered another latte, Sam right behind her. “My pal’s gonna pay.” She laughed and wiggled her rear. The clerk laughed, too.
Sam pulled out his billfold and paid for the latte and another coffee for himself. “Women.”
“Don’t ya love us?” Alex swung her hips back to the table.
“Yeah, right.” Sam felt himself warming to Alex.
When they were seated, Alex continued. “The various after-action reports were critical of the FBI and the ATF. After Waco, better detective work preempted a number of bombings. More importantly, we took a more measured approach to confrontations.”
“Gun control’s a big issue, isn’t it?”
Alex nodded and started playing with the spoon again. “Congress passed the Brady Bill in the mid-’90s. The white supremacist movement saw it as a plot to disarm them. And at the time they were already torqued because of Ruby Ridge and Waco.”
“I’d read that.”
“We haven’t had any gun control legislation since the Brady Bill,” Alex said. “I love guns myself, but what does the average guy need with an Uzi?”
“Well, I can tell you,” Sam said, “Oliver’s militia is alive and well, and he hates the federal government.”
“The concerns are out there, and it takes very little to stir them up. They’re pros at using the Internet to market their stuff. It gives them the capability to get their word out in a hurry.”