by Helin, Don
“Where is this university?”
“Quentin, I think I’ll keep that information to myself for awhile. I don’t want you to go getting any ideas that I’m not needed.”
Oliver sat back. A long silence settled in the space. Maybe Kramer was smarter than he’d given him credit for.
“I’m going to require a vehicle to drive over and see a former classmate of mine,” Kaminsky said. “Make sure I can get into the lab. And, my good friend, I want to go alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sam looked at his watch—three o’clock. He had time to walk up the farm road before the men arrived. Maybe he could spot something that might give him a clue to Oliver’s intentions.
When he stepped outside, he did a few exercises to stretch his back. The pain in his side from the attack had subsided, although he still felt periodic twinges. No one had claimed credit for the attack. He had a good idea of at least two of the attackers, but he couldn’t figure out why they’d done it.
The fields lining the lane were quiet, just the soft hiss of the wind in the pines. Crows cawed in the distance, probably driving off a hawk. He sniffed the air and smelled manure; some farmer must have been spreading it on his fields.
He turned to the right and walked up a slight incline toward the storage shed. Passing the garage, he saw a heavy-duty lock on the side door. Did Oliver have antiaircraft missiles stored in there?
Sam walked around the barn and started up the path toward the north field. The crack of rifle fire sounded from the range. Someone must have been getting in extra practice.
When he rounded the corner of the barn, Marshall Pearson, rifle pressed against his shoulder, squinted at the target.
Sam stood by the barn for about ten minutes watching Marshall. The rifle wobbled in the kid’s hands when he squeezed off a round. He flinched each time he pulled the trigger. All the rounds missed the target. Marshall would never hit anything if he kept shooting like that.
He walked up behind Marshall and tapped him on the shoulder.
The young man jumped, then turned back toward Sam.
Sam pushed the barrel of the rifle down range. “Keep that damn thing pointed at the target.”
Marshall’s wide-eyed face turned pale. He reached up to pull the earplugs out and dropped them in his pocket. “I-I-I-m so-r-ry. I didn’t hear you.”
“You’re flinching. You’ll never get a tight shot group like that.”
Marshall’s faced dropped. “I’ll never learn how to shoot. I’m a failure.”
Sam still couldn’t figure out why Marshall had joined the Patriots. He sure as hell didn’t belong in this militia unit. “How about if we work on it together?”
Marshall’s face lit up. “Y-you’d do that, for mme?”
“Sure. But you’ve got to pay attention to what I tell you.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Sam smiled at the young man’s eagerness. “Face down range, and lay down. Spread your legs out flat. Try and make sure your body is centered.”
Marshall got in position.
“Job one is to keep that weapon pointed down range. Don’t ever point it at anyone unless you intend to shoot, and when you do shoot, don’t miss. Is that clear?”
“Yes-s, sir.”
Sam knelt down next to Marshall and helped him position the rifle. “Keep it tight against your shoulder. If you don’t, the butt of the weapon will jump and bruise the hell out of you.”
Marshall managed a faint smile. “I know.” He flexed his shoulder.
“All right, now jam the rifle into your shoulder and line up the target with the sight on your weapon. Make sure the target is sitting on top of that little notch at the end of the barrel. Remember: it’s your best friend. And in some cases, it may be your only friend. When you’re ready to shoot, take a deep breath and hold it. You’ll do better if you hold your breath when you fire.”
Marshall positioned the rifle and sucked in a deep breath.
“Wait a minute. Put in your earplugs.”
“O-oh, yeah.”
Sam stepped back.
Marshall fired three shots. They all went wide of the target.
He pulled out the earplugs. “D-darn.”
“Have you zeroed your weapon?”
Marshall looked at Sam as if he’d just been asked if he’d ever been to the moon.
Oh, damn, Sam thought, this is gonna take a while. “You need to zero your weapon to make sure what you see through the sight is the same thing your rifle is pointed at.”
It took about fifteen minutes, but Sam showed Marshall how to zero his weapon. The young man took up his position and put in his earplugs. He took a deep breath, then fired. The bullet ripped into the paper target about three inches off the center.
Marshall’s face lit up. “I hit it.”
Sam felt like cheering, but he kept a stone face. “You need to practice at this distance, then gradually move the target farther out. When you move the target to one hundred meters, you’ll need to use a pair of binoculars to see your score, or use a spotter.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you live around here, Marshall?”
Marshall hesitated. “I live on my uncle’s farm about ten miles from here. It’s about halfway to Mifflintown.”
“Have you lived there all your life?”
“I moved here from Wisconsin when my parents died seven years ago. My uncle agreed to take me in. He wasn’t wild about the idea but needed the help. I’ve lived here ever since.”
“How did you meet General Oliver?”
“My uncle is a friend of his. H-he served with the general when he was in the Marines.”
“I see.” Sam stood up. “How about if you and I go over to my office and get a cup of coffee?”
Marshall looked around, perhaps concerned that he might be accused of being teacher’s pet.
“That’s all right. No one needs to know.” Sam smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
Marshall flinched.
“Oh, the shoulder. Sorry.”
Marshall opened the door to the storage shed and locked his weapon in the rifle rack. He walked with Sam back toward the barn.
“Don’t forget to return the key.”
“No-o sir, I w-won’t.”
Sam held the door for Marshall. “When I was in school, my sergeant taught me how to shoot. I was having a hell of a time keeping the rifle steady, just like you. So I asked him what I was doing wrong.”
Marshall followed Sam inside, glancing around as if he’d done something wrong.
He closed the door. “What did your sergeant say?”
“He told me that when someone has a problem like mine, inability to hit the target, it’s normally the nut behind the butt plate.”
Marshall stared at Sam with a blank look. “That doesn’t make any sense. The butt plate is at the rear of the weapon.” Then his face broke into a grin. “I get it.”
“Yep, I was the nut behind the butt plate.”
Sam unlocked his office door, walked over to the coffeepot, and poured two cups. “I can’t guarantee how good it’ll be.” He pointed to a chair across the desk.
Marshall took a sip of coffee. “Did you go to a military school?”
“Actually I got put there by the court because I was called an unruly kid. The foster homes wouldn’t put up with me.”
“You were in a military school for troubled kids?”
“I spent four years there before I went to the University of Minnesota.”
Marshall thought for a moment. “You know what it’s like to get bumped around.”
Sam nodded. “Sergeant O’Leary helped straighten me out. If it hadn’t been for him, I’m not sure what would have happened to me. Whenever I screwed up, he brought me into his office for what he called his ‘Back to Jesus’ talks. Actually they weren’t talks. More like one-sided tirades where he did all the talking. I just stood there at attention and listened. I guess I didn’t listen that much at first
, although I sure did later.”
Marshall started to laugh. “I understand those.”
Sam watched Marshall then said, “You don’t seem to fit in with these other guys.”
Marshall sat silent for a few minutes. “M-my uncle told me this was my opportunity to become a m-man and do something g-good for my c-country.” He got silent again and sipped his coffee. “I’m not sure that I b-believe him anymore. He expects me to s-succeed so I’ll do my b-best.”
“Maybe between the two of us, we can both succeed.”
“I th-thought it was awful when those m-men got shot. Th-that’s not right.”
Sam didn’t reply.
“That was a really p-pretty girl I saw you with at the b-bookstore. What was her n-name again?”
“Alex.”
“Isn’t that a boy’s name?”
“It’s short for Alexandra. She’s from Minnesota. She came here to take care of her sick mother.”
“I looked her up on a computer but couldn’t find her.”
Sam’s heart sank. “Why?”
“Just to see if I could. I love to work with computers.” He seemed to push his shoulders back. “I was vice-president of the computer club in high school. I found you on the DOD database. You retired after twenty-five years in the military and have a daughter who lives in Minneapolis.”
Sam gulped. “Where did you get all that?”
“From the Army’s personnel roster.”
“I thought that roster had access security to protect the information.”
“Not a big deal to break into databases.” Marshall looked down. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Sam shook his head and reached for the pot. “More coffee?” When Marshall talked about computers, he didn’t stutter.
“No, but thanks … I’d better get going.” Marshall opened the door, looked both ways as if he were a kid about to cross the street, then walked out into the main conference room.
“What the hell are you doing in there?” Popeye’s voice boomed.
“Colonel Thorpe asked me to step inside for an evaluation.”
“All right. Get moving.”
Popeye poked his head inside Sam’s office. “What was that all about?”
“You heard him.”
Sam was impressed with Marshall. He’d come up with a plausible explanation—fast. And best of all, he’d faked out Popeye.
“It’s not for you to interact with the students, particularly Marshall.”
Sam walked around the desk and stared down at the man. “Goddamn it, Popeye, quit telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. If you don’t like something, take it up with General Oliver.” Sam pushed him away. “Otherwise stay the fuck out of my business.”
Popeye straightened his shirt. “Be careful, Thorpe. Be real careful.”
Marcel Dubois heard a car door slam in front of the farmhouse. He brushed a piece of lint off the front of his green uniform and adjusted his wraparound sunglasses. The front door opened, and Elizabeth Henley walked into the room.
“Good evening, Seventeen. You’re right on time.” The way her breasts filled out her uniform pleased him. His latest mistress had moved to Quebec City, and he missed his twice-a-week afternoon sessions with her.
Elizabeth came to attention in front of him and saluted. “Good evening, sir.”
“Relax, Seventeen.” He pointed to the couch along the far wall. “Take a seat. I wanted to congratulate you on accomplishing your mission. The professor is at the target site, thanks to your work.”
She leaned forward on the couch. “That’s wonderful news. When is the mission to begin?”
Marcel straightened. “That’s not for you to worry about, Seventeen. Sometimes you ask too many questions.”
Elizabeth jumped up and stood at attention. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m just excited to see our operation succeed. What can I do to correct my mistake?”
Marcel could contain himself no longer. “Take off your uniform.”
“Sir?”
“I said, take off your uniform, Seventeen. I shouldn’t have to tell you twice.”
“Yes, sir.” Elizabeth smiled and unbuttoned her shirt, slowly pulling it off. She sat down on the couch and took off her boots, then stood and dropped her pants, bending over to kick them off. She stood in front of him in her white bra and panties.
“All of your clothes. You must learn to follow orders, Seventeen.”
“Yes, sir.” Elizabeth reached back and unhooked her bra, slipping the straps down her arms.
Marcel felt himself becoming aroused.
She bent over and slipped her panties down her hips and kicked them away.
“That’s better, Seventeen. You are very beautiful.”
Elizabeth stood at attention in front of him. “So are you, sir.”
Marcel reached over and cupped her firm breast with his right hand, feeling satisfaction as her nipple hardened. “I have special plans for you, Seventeen.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
Marcel stepped back and began to unbutton his shirt. Such a delectable morsel, he thought, a shame to waste it. When he tired of her, he’d have to take care of her like all the others. She now knew too much.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sam stood at the podium in the front of the conference room. “General Oliver will be here in a few minutes.”
The men straightened in their chairs. They looked sharp in their black uniforms, boots shined. Many had even trimmed their beards and gotten haircuts.
“I’ve given him my assessment of your training status. Most of you did well on the rifle range. Your experience with weapons shows.”
They poked one another. Several smiled.
“Commo procedures, now there’s another story.”
Twenty pairs of eyes stared at him, smiles dying on their faces.
“Depending on our mission assignment, we’ll need to focus …” Sam didn’t get a chance to finish before the door opened. Sergeant Bacher stepped inside, then slipped back against the wall at attention. General Oliver swept into the room.
Popeye jumped up and yelled, “Attention,” as if he had hemorrhoids and had to get his butt off the chair.
All the men stood, some faster than others.
Buster banged his head on a light fixture hanging over the table. “Son of a bitch.”
Sam stifled a snicker.
Oliver stalked to the head of the table, turned, and looked over the group. “You may be seated.”
Chairs scraped as the men took their seats.
“It’s time to move to the next level.” Oliver extended his hand toward Sam. “Thank you for your efforts in training the men, Colonel Thorpe. Now we must initiate practice on an actual target.”
Sergeant Bacher turned and walked over to the general’s office. He returned carrying a model of several buildings and set it on the conference table. The men leaned forward in their chairs, as did Sam.
“This, gentlemen, is our target.” General Oliver allowed time for that to sink in. “I will not tell you exactly where it is located, but rest assured that once we accomplish our mission, we will have the capability to deliver a severe blow to our corrupt government.”
Sam stared at the mockup. Three two-story buildings were placed along a street, then three more buildings across what looked like a mall. At one end of the street stood four one-story buildings in a cluster.
Oliver nodded to Sergeant Bacher, who opened the door to his study. Professor Kaminsky waddled into the room, puffing on his ever-present cigarette.
“Gentlemen, this is Professor Sean Kaminsky. He despises our government as much as each of us does and is here to help us achieve our destiny.”
The professor pulled out a handkerchief, mopped sweat from his forehead, then nodded at the men.
General Oliver sat in a chair drawn up by Sergeant Bacher. “Professor, the floor is yours.” He pulled off his helmet liner and placed it under his arm. The overhead light reflec
ted off his bald head.
Sam wondered about Sergeant Bacher’s story. Oliver and Bacher must have met sometime during the general’s career. He handled himself well. Sam moved closer to hear Kaminsky’s presentation.
“Gentlemen.” Kaminsky pointed at the building in the center of the three on the right. “This is the target building. Its exact location must remain anonymous for now. We’ve made sufficient changes so that no one will know the exact site until D-Day, but the dimensions are close enough for practice.” He pointed at a building next to the target. “This is the administrative building where the security personnel stay when they are not walking their routes.”
Professor Kaminsky let that sink in for a moment. When the men looked back up at him, he continued. “Our goal will be to obtain enough cesium-137 from the target building to make a package of seven dirty bombs.”
The men looked at Kaminsky. Some seemed to have fear in their eyes.
“You may not be familiar with the components of a dirty bomb.” He reached down and lifted a small chart board onto the table. “What you see here is a drawing of a bomb.”
One man drew his breath in sharply.
Sam studied each of the men, trying to determine whom he might be able to turn to help him. He had a couple of ideas. Maybe it was finally sinking in that Kaminsky and Oliver were planning to maim or kill large groups of their fellow citizens.
Kaminsky pointed at the chart. “For those of you who are familiar with a bomb, you’ll notice that much of the inside is the same as any other bomb—explosive material, triggering device, and timer. But after we complete our operation, we’ll be able to add enough cesium—137 to magnify the effect of this bomb.”
The men exchanged glances with one another.
“And,” continued the professor, “just think of the fear factor we’ll instill with the idea of nuclear radiation floating in the skies over Philadelphia or one of the other major cities on the East Coast.”