by Helin, Don
Kramer had never driven a Jeep before, and he encountered some problems getting used to the standard transmission. Oliver had twice offered to have someone drive him, but no way could Kramer let anyone else know the exact location of the school—his guarantee that Oliver couldn’t double cross him. Kramer felt sure Oliver would if given a chance.
He had to remember his name was now Kramer, not Kaminsky. Fortunately, his friend was a little hard of hearing.
Kramer pulled up to the curb and stopped in front of the Brockman Science Building, named after his old friend Amos Brockman for his work in molecular biology research. Brockman had been Sidney’s professor at the University of Pennsylvania before Sidney had fled to Canada. One of the few anti-war faculty members at Penn, Brockman had remained in contact with Sidney over the years.
Amos had invited Sidney to visit his lab any time he returned to the States. Sidney had never planned to take him up on it until this opportunity had come along. Amos held the keys to the grammator, and that’s exactly what Sidney wanted.
The campus looked exactly like the schematic he had seen on the NRC Web site. Sidney used the schematic as a reference for Sergeant Bacher to develop the model. Three large buildings lined Main Street, the science building in the middle, and the mall lay behind the science building. The administrative building where the guards stayed looked to be about thirty yards from the science building. Yes, this would be easy. All he needed was the key.
Sidney spotted the stately gait of Amos Brockman striding down the sidewalk toward him. Amos waved, and Sidney waved back.
The years had been good to Amos. He had kept his weight down and looked to be in robust health.
“Sidney, welcome. I was so glad to hear from you.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, my friend. It has been a long time. Too long.”
“Come up. We can tour the lab, then go out to lunch.”
As they walked up the steps, Kramer popped the question. “I’ve been doing some research up in Canada and need access to a lab. Any chance I can borrow your lab for a few hours some night? I’ll be glad to do it after hours.”
“I think we can work something out. Let’s talk about it over lunch.”
Sidney smiled. “Wonderful.”
Sam sat in the audiovisual room, dumbfounded. Standing in the doorway talking to O’Brien stood Popeye. Sam’s mind raced with options.
He had to get O’Brien’s attention—and right away—before he said anything that would make Popeye suspicious. In spite of the darkness, he slipped back in the booth, making sure he couldn’t be seen. Grabbing his cell, he pushed in O’Brien’s number.
O’Brien reached down and pulled the cell off his belt. “O’Brien.”
Sam whispered, “Get out in the hall.”
O’Brien said something to the group, then disappeared out into the hallway and shut the door. “What’s up?”
“That bushy-haired guy is Popeye, Oliver’s number-two man.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Hell, yes, I’m sure.”
“Wait a minute. Let me check my list of attendees.”
Sam heard a rustling of papers.
“His name is Peter Schmidt. The list shows him to be one of the senior security coordinators. Christ, he must have been screened carefully before getting this job.”
“Well, someone screwed up.” Sam ran his fingers through his hair and kept watching Popeye. “Schmidt, that makes sense. He’s German.” Sam paused again. “We’ve got to modify what you say so he doesn’t get suspicious.”
“You caught me just in time.”
“Keep your presentation in the most general terms,” Sam said. “Mention items that we’ve gotten from scanning the Internet. Emphasize we’re alerting everyone in the northeast.”
Silence.
Sam waited. “What?”
“We’d better alert everyone in the northeast in case they’ve got contacts in other places.”
“Good point. Besides, everyone should be tightening up on security. Sounds as if it’s pretty lax.”
“Here goes.”
Sam clicked off and stared at Popeye. You slimy bastard, he thought, I’m going to get your ass and nail it to the wall.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Quentin Oliver stared into the fire. Popeye had just finished briefing him on the results of the meeting in Harrisburg.
“Like I said,” Popeye continued, “it was just a routine follow-up to the previous presentation.”
Oliver’s senses jumped to red alert. “I don’t believe they would have brought you into town a second time for a routine update. You say just before the agent was due to begin his briefing, he got called out of the room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I wonder why.” Oliver leaned back and stroked his goatee. The feds wouldn’t bring the security services for a group of nuclear facilities in for a meeting just to tell them about a routine alert based on increased chatter on the Internet. None of that made any sense.
Oliver was on high alert. They were too close to success now to let anything get in their way. “I want you to call in the men. Tell them to bring their gear and plan to stay. Once we get them here, we’ll bunk them overnight and keep an eye on everyone. No one leaves.”
“What about Thorpe?”
“I said, ‘no one leaves.’ How much clearer do I need to be?”
Popeye jumped to attention. “I understand. Do we want Thorpe to contact the woman? I know I’ve seen her someplace.”
“Have Thorpe contact her. See if she can make plans for her mother. She can be an asset to our group.”
“Yes, sir.” Popeye saluted and hurried out of the room.
Sam Thorpe sat in his office, tapping his pencil on the desk and watching the minutes tick by. How had Popeye gotten a sensitive job as security coordinator for a number of nuclear sites? Sam guessed he must have a track record that would demonstrate his hatred for the government.
Sam’s thoughts were jarred when the door banged open. Popeye stood in the open doorway.
Sam looked up. “Goddamn it, don’t you ever knock?”
“I’ve just met with General Oliver.”
Sam leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. “And?”
Popeye delivered his message in a tone as if he’d just had an audience with God and here he was, ready to share the commandments with Sam. “He wants you to contact the woman. Have her make plans for her mother. She should come in tonight prepared to stay.”
“For how long?”
“Until General Oliver says otherwise.”
“She might not be able to do that on short notice. You know, sick mother and all.”
“Contact her,” Popeye snapped. “General Oliver’s orders.”
Sam swallowed back a retort. It wouldn’t do any good to get in a pissing contest with him now. “Anything else?”
“No.” Popeye turned to leave, then looked back. “I attended a meeting today with the feds.”
Sam waited.
“They told our group to be on extra high alert for a possible attack. Apparently the chatter on the Internet has increased and security should be tightened.” He chuckled. “Security is so fucking bad.”
“Do you think we’ll have much of a problem at TMI?”
Popeye’s eyes widened. “Who said we were going to TMI?”
“I thought that’s what you were saying.” Sam paused. “I’ll call Alex. See if she can come in today and stay for the duration of the operation.”
“Let me know.” Popeye walked out, pulling the door shut behind him.
The plan must be going into effect tonight or, at the latest, tomorrow. Oliver wouldn’t have a bunch of guys standing around with their thumbs up their asses, waiting.
He grabbed his cell and punched in Alex’s number.
“Hello.”
“Sam Thorpe.”
“Hello, Sam.”
“Can you get someone to watch your mother for t
he next day or two? We need you to come in tonight.” There was silence on the line. “Don’t forget about Oliver’s offer of the money.”
“That’s what I’m thinking about.” There was another long pause. “Tell him I’ll be there before six o’clock.”
Sam stood outside the barn. A gusting wind blew the light cover of snow that had fallen that afternoon. A Jeep and three pickup trucks had been lined up in front of the fence.
Sam gathered the men around him in a semicircle. They wore their new uniforms and had camouflaged their faces. “We’ve prepared as best we can. It’s time to put that training to the test. I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished.”
Sam turned and nodded to Oliver.
“Thank you, Colonel Thorpe. Men, tonight marks a historic milestone. This is the first step in an ongoing struggle to reclaim our government and establish a new kingdom, just like the Christian Identity movement said we should. Shadow elements have taken the government from us. We aren’t going to let them get away with it.”
The men glanced at one another and nodded.
“Many of you have lost your land, your savings, your dignity. You join a long line of your brothers before you who have struck out against this tyranny. It’s time for another revolution, this time to move out the Jews and other minorities who have taken over. Our complacency has allowed that to happen, and we must stop it.” His voice rose, and he pointed at the men. “Whites will rule in this new kingdom.”
Sam had to hand it to Oliver. He had absolute control over these men. Sam caught Alex’s eye. She nodded and looked back at the general, seemingly enthralled by what he had to say.
“We’ll divide into three groups. The first group will ride with Colonel Thorpe.”
Sergeant Bacher walked over and stood next to Sam. How would he handle this guy? At some point he’d need to overcome him. That could be tricky.
“Popeye will lead the second group.”
Popeye beamed.
I’ve got your number, Peter Schmidt, Sam thought.
“Team C will ride with Boris.” Oliver looked at Alex. “Ms. Prescott, please join me in my command vehicle. We’ll minimize radio chatter until we get to our line of departure.”
The men moved to form into the three teams.
“Are there any questions?”
Buster raised his hand. “What about some fucking ammo? I don’t want to run into some building with just my dick in my hand.” His nose looked swollen, and black and blue marks circled his eyes.
Oliver stared at Buster.
Had the big man finally crossed the line with Oliver?
“Your concern is well founded, Mr. Tyson, although your rhetoric is not.”
Buster tilted his head as if he had no idea what Oliver had just said.
“We will issue ammunition at the line of departure. Are there any other questions?”
No one spoke.
“All right, it’s 1804 alpha. We’ll move at 1900 hours. Go into the farmhouse. Specialist Benson has food for you. There will be no drinking.”
The men seemed frozen in place, their eyes fixed on Oliver.
He looked around again. “Any more questions? This is your last chance.”
The men looked down, off to the side, anywhere but at Oliver.
“Good luck.” Oliver turned on his heel and walked back toward the barn.
The rotating blades shook the two men as the Bell helicopter cruised through the dark night at about 300 feet. Bob O’Brien sat in the back with earphones on, his Blackberry in his lap. He could track Sam’s movement via the tracer he had placed in the cell phone. Sam had not left the farm yet.
Lieutenant Patrick, the Pennsylvania state police contact for this operation, sat next to him looking at a map.
O’Brien depressed the talk button on his mic. “Oliver’s tricky. He’s a retired Marine so he knows convoys … plus escape and evasion.”
Patrick’s voice echoed into O’Brien’s earphones. “You’re looking at another Marine. This turkey gives all of us a bad name.”
O’Brien chuckled. “Roger that.”
“I’ve got six cars for this operation, two troopers each and then one of your agents in each car for coordination,” Patrick continued. “We’ll track the convoy with a floating square, cars following on parallel roads. We’ll keep one unmarked car a couple of miles ahead of the convoy as much as possible.”
O’Brien nodded. He had placed Agent Monar in one vehicle and Agent Stoner in the other.
“Roger,” Patrick said. “One of the patrol cars will be escorting the two swat team vehicles. We’ve got a member of the state police swat team with the FBI team and a member of the FBI team with the state police team. That should help coordination. There is a platoon of the Pennsylvania National Guard in reserve, with automatic weapons, if needed.”
O’Brien made a note on his Blackberry. “I’m going to have the Nuclear Emergency Support Team follow the guard for help with the nuclear stuff. We need them close, but not so close they’re in the way with the possibility of someone getting hurt.”
“Agreed,” Patrick replied. “The platoon’s parent company is on call. Communication with the guard is a pain in the butt … if things get hot and we need to move fast.”
O’Brien knew the different frequencies could cause a problem. “Why can’t all of us be on the same band?”
“Too easy,” Patrick replied.
O’Brien was a worrier. He had been through enough of these operations to know that something always went wrong. This one was made more difficult with participants from different units and echelons of government. “Oliver will stop at nothing to get the job done.”
“Any idea where they’re headed?”
“Here’s a list of possible sites. I doubt they’ll travel more than fifty miles from his base.” O’Brien switched his mic to internal only. “We believe the target’s a nuclear storage site.”
“I figured that when you mentioned the Nuclear Emergency Support Team.”
“Yeah. Oliver doesn’t have enough firepower to go after TMI. My money’s on a university or a hospital. Both of these worry me because of innocent civilians standing around.” O’Brien had to prevent collateral damage at all costs.
Patrick checked his map. “If it’s a university, we’ll have to isolate the students. If it’s a hospital, will we have time to get patients and staff to safety?”
“Good points.” O’Brien had briefed General Gerber on the operation. The general told O’Brien to give him updates every half hour; then he would keep the White House Situation Room up to speed.
O’Brien’s earphones cracked. “Harper at base. Over.”
He switched to external frequency. “O’Brien.” “Couple of things. The U.S. Border Patrol got a picture of Marcel Dubois crossing the border yesterday. I suspect we’ll see him before this is over.”
“Who’s Dubois?” Patrick asked.
“He’s a leader in the French Separatist Movement and apparently an old friend of Oliver’s,” O’Brien replied. “I’m not sure how he fits into all this yet. The Canadian government has been keeping an eye on him for years.”
“Harper again. You’re not going to like this.”
“What?” O’Brien swallowed hard.
“The guy Popeye, real name Peter Schmidt, is active with the Pennsylvania skinheads.”
“How the fuck does he get a security clearance?”
“Good question,” Harper replied. “Anyway, Popeye happened to be out in Minneapolis when the FBI hit that skinhead group.”
“So?”
“Alex led that operation.”
O’Brien felt the air suck out of his lungs. “Say that again.”
“The guy named Popeye was out in Minneapolis during that raid. He may have seen Alex.”
“Oh, shit.” O’Brien took a deep breath. “Sam told me that Popeye seemed to recognize Alex. She looks so different now. Let’s hope he doesn’t put it together.”
It was ju
st another curveball to worry about.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Quentin Oliver’s eyes bore into Popeye’s face. He heard Marcel take in a deep breath. “Say that again.”
Popeye shrank back and looked at the floor, obviously fearful of what Oliver might do to him. “I can’t be absolutely sure. That short, spiked hair and all the jewelry—different, you know, from the woman with the long blonde hair who led the raid in Minneapolis. She was dressed in a black suit and trench coat.”
Oliver leaned against the wall of his study. He had been so careful. If Alex Prescott was a federal agent, then Thorpe was probably undercover also. “Do we have time to send the picture to the group in Minneapolis?”
Popeye shook his head. “They’re all still in jail. The feds have brought them up on charges of assault and murder.”
“Those skinheads are a bunch of assholes,” Oliver cursed. “They deserved to be thrown in jail. Radical bastards.” He felt himself losing control. He turned to Marcel. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s too late to change course, my friend.” Marcel put his hand on Oliver’s arm. “You must move ahead with your plan. The country is depending on you. We are depending on you.”
Oliver felt a calm descending over him. “You’re right. We are marching toward our destiny. No one can stop us. At the end of the night, Ms. Prescott and Colonel Thorpe will meet with an accident anyway. Sooner, if they give us problems.”
“What do you want me to do?” Marcel asked.
“I’ll give you a map. Stay back in case there are problems. It wouldn’t do for both of us to get caught. We are too valuable to the cause.”
“Agreed.” Marcel shook hands with Oliver. “Good luck, my friend. We will break out the champagne tonight.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll leave with the prize in the morning.”
Specialist Benson had outdone himself by preparing a meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with plenty of thick gravy, and homemade muffins. Sergeant Bacher stood at one door to the eating area and Specialist Rose at the other, M16 rifles slung loosely over their shoulders, demonstrating the stakes of this operation.