by David Bishop
A Communiqué from the Headquarters of the American Militia to Restore Representative Government:
It is time to return to a government of the people, by the people, and for the people. America’s financial system is run by the Federal Reserve Bank. The unelected Fed governors regulate investment margins, the rate of interest Americans must pay, and, by extension, decide which Americans can afford to buy a home, or keep the one they already have. This must stop. We named our militia for this cause. The only thing that can stop this second American revolution is for the government to take the action demanded in this communiqué.
Our forefathers intended America to have three equal branches of government: the executive, the legislative, and the judicial. The job of the executive and legislative branches is to propose and pass laws. They are the people’s elected representative government. The courts are supposed to penalize those who violate those laws. The Supreme Court has arrogantly evolved into seeing itself as the final government. If they disagree with a law, they rule it unconstitutional. They have even decided one of our presidential elections. This tilting of the balance of power must end. The Court must acknowledge that its job is to judge those who violate our laws, not the laws themselves.
To evidence our good faith, we will stop eliminating these aristocrats under the following conditions: The Supreme Court justices are to stand down. They must hear no more cases and make no further rulings until they reaffirm their proper limited role. Legislation banishing a Federal Reserve System, by any name, must be passed. That legislation must make it a crime punishable by death for any American to again promote or encourage a privately owned centralized banking system.
You have thirty-six hours to take the first step.
Commander LW
Jack whistled long and low. “Initial observations? Anyone?”
“I see two,” Rachel said, her blue eyes darting back and forth between the communiqué and Jack. “Repressed anger not sated by the killings is all over this message. Secondly, their demands will not be met.”
Jack stood and walked around the bench to Rachel’s seat. “Is this militia or Commander LW on any of the lists of terrorists or militants you got from the CTC?”
“I don’t think so.” She pulled the lists from a folder. “Nothing even close.”
“Keep everybody talking, Rachel,” Jack said. “We need a plan to put us on the offense. I’ll be home for the next hour preparing for my meeting with the president—I’ll be back around six.”
The media wolves would soon be circling the White House. And Jack would soon find out if the president meant what he’d said about having his back.
CHAPTER 19
With two assassinations and a news release in the past twenty-four hours, the rogue Commander LW is picking up the pace. Can McCall catch up? What’s really going on?
—Mel Carsten, D.C. Talk, June 10
“Happy anniversary, Jack. I was just reading some of your old press clippings. Today is two years from the night your brother lost his life during your failed desert mission. What makes you think you can protect these officials when you couldn’t even keep your brother alive? “
“You bastard.” Jack took a deep slow breath. “It’s my job to stop you however I can, now I’ll enjoy taking you down.”
The caller hung up.
After the first call from this person, Jack had the FBI set up his phone so they could trace all incoming calls, but the caller had hung up in under a minute. Not long enough.
Jack half watched and half listened to the news networks he had running on his two home televisions. Conjecture about the American Militia flourished on one television talk show after another. He turned up the volume when Mel Carsten, the host of D.C. Talk, walked on stage. Carsten’s narrow nose and high cheekbones gave him a strong face; his open-collar blue shirt, black slacks, and tan loafers adding a casual look. Carsten took a seat in his red chair between two blue couches angled on a vee toward the cameras.
“Today,” Carsten began, “we have with us Charles Nesbit, a former member of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Section.”
Jack had known Charlie Nesbit for over a decade. The man could eat everything in sight and remain racehorse thin. He had always admired Nessy’s ability to project a casual relaxed air even when deadly serious, his appearance indicated that nothing had changed.
After the usual pleasantries Carsten asked, “Mr. Nesbit, does our government know who these people are?”
“I wish I could say yes. But to my knowledge the U.S. intelligence community has no information on Commander LW or his militia.”
“Off the record, those officials, who will tell us anything, say this LW is homegrown.”
“Looks that way. At this point there’s nothing that suggests an out-of-town team.”
“What could make this Commander LW do these horrible things? It’s not as if America fosters revolution by oppressing its citizens.”
“This kind of killer comes up with an excuse so that he can feel he’s more than what he is, a murderer. He sees injustice not seen by the rest of us. In his demented mind he assigns himself a mission to right the wrongs he perceives. A classic example would be John Wilkes Booth the man who assassinated Abraham Lincoln.”
“When you say ‘he,’ how sure are you that this LW is a man?”
“The histories of these things suggest a man, but it could be a woman.”
“Either man or woman, you see this person as mentally deranged?”
“Often militias consist of one psychotic, charismatic leader and a group of weak-minded followers,” Nesbit told him with an uneasy grin. “But the leader is always a nutcase. The Reverend Jim Jones, whose followers joined him in a mass suicide in Guyana some years ago is the sort of twisted leader I’m talking about.”
• • •
President Schroeder slammed his hand onto the arm of his couch. “This son of a bitch isn’t going to shut down anything.”
Jack could not remember seeing Sam Schroeder snap like that. The pressure on the president had to be enormous. Jack poured himself a glass of water and added a lemon wedge, giving the president a moment to calm himself.
“What do we know about this militia and Commander LW?” Schroeder asked.
“Not very much,” Jack admitted. “Nothing, is more like it. Until we got this communiqué, we didn’t even have the name. Your agencies’ preliminary findings should reach us in about an hour. We’re hoping they were able to connect them up.”
“I’ve spoken to the agencies,” the president said. “No one has anything. Have you been able to narrow the field at all?”
Jack swirled his water and looked inside the glass as if it were some magical potion that might reveal better answers.
“Other than ruling out you and me, sir, I’m afraid not much.”
“Any clues from the crime scenes?”
“No, sir. I can tell you nothing encouraging, except that we do know more today than we did yesterday.”
“And just what would that be?”
“LW has a passion he’s dying to talk about. I’m expecting there’ll be more communiqués. If we listen carefully, the odds are decent he’ll eventually put his foot in his mouth.”
Schroeder leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “I can see your wheels turning. Come on. Give.”
“The first three killings were only the officials. The most recent two included family members. This escalation could be intentional to ratchet up the level of terror or an indication that this guy is losing it.”
The president rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How can I help?”
“The likely future targets seem to be the eleven remaining governors and justices. We need to cover those officials and their families twenty-four hours a day. Electronic surveillance should be installed to see and hear anyone approaching their homes, offices, and cars. I’d like you to have the agencies handle that. Expanding my team to include protection would slow and distract us from catching this bastard. Excus
e my language, sir.”
The president grinned. “I would’ve said worse. The Supreme Court Police is charged with protecting those justices. However, the demands here may exceed their manpower. The U.S. Marshal’s Office is responsible for protecting all our other federal judges. I’ll ask them to assist and have them both coordinate with the FBI.”
“I’ll need an agent from each protective detail with whom we can interact, Mr. President, in the event we develop any information that suggests the next target.”
“Done. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. Before electronic surveillance is installed, we need to go over their homes, cars, offices, and any other places they predictably visit to look for listening and explosive devices.”
Schroeder rose and closed the drapes over the west windows to shut out the late afternoon sun. “I’ll call the chief justice. You said, ‘seem.’ The eleven ‘seem’ to be the targets. What did you mean by that? Or did I misread your inference?”
“No, sir, you did not. We know the identities of those killed, but that doesn’t mean LW won’t branch out beyond those target groups.”
“Who else?”
Crockett, the president’s collie, trotted over to lie next to his master.
“Wild guesses are all we could have at this point, sir.” Jack spread his hands wide.
“Let’s have them.” The president said, reaching down to pet the top of his dog’s head.
Jack lowered his eyelids, his brows moving closer together. “I think the Federal Reserve Act originally provided seats for the Secretary of the Treasury and the Comptroller of the Currency. My recollection is as ex-officio members. However, you should have my recall checked for accuracy before relying on it. If I’m right, those two are possibilities. LW could blame congressional leaders. In addition, the Federal Reserve has district banks, each of which has a president. They could be targets. He could come after you, sir. People have a way of blaming the top guy.”
“Sack the quarterback, eh?”
“Something like that.” Jack grinned, joylessly.
Even though the president’s body language telegraphed that the meeting had come to an end, Jack decided that there was one other matter he needed to discuss.
“There is one more thing, sir. I’d like a letter over your signature authorizing and instructing all federal, state, and local personnel, including the military, to give my squad immediate cooperation. Please include a phone number they can call if they wish to verify or complain. Otherwise, they’re to fully comply with whatever we say. I don’t want us losing time over turf issues or foot dragging.”
“I’ll have the letter brought to your office,” Schroeder assured him. “What did Harriet Miller tell me you call it?”
Jack felt his cheeks redden, “The Bullpen, sir. The name promotes a bit of esprit de corps. Millet Yorke came up with it. I’m not too sure he didn’t have that purpose in mind before I realized it.”
The president chuckled. “Before you go, any advice on this for my press conference in the morning?”
“Don’t bait him, Mr. President. I know you’ll need to say his demands will not be met. Say it plain. If and when it becomes necessary to call out this LW, that’ll be my job, sir. And I don’t know enough yet to play that card.”
“I’d still like to tell him to go take a flying—but I see your point.” The president patted Jack on the shoulder as he escorted him to the door. “Didn’t LW’s communiqué use the term ‘stand down’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a military term. Could his background include military service?”
“That term along with his knowledge of explosives, could point in that direction,” Jack admitted. “That’s very observant, sir. I wish you had the time to be a full-time member of our squad.”
“Now, your sounding like a politician,” the president said, scoffingly. “Leave that unpleasant task to me and get on your way. I want this LW and his militia put out of business, and as soon as possible. We don’t need to lose any more loyal Americans.”
CHAPTER 20
Rumors continue that the president is meeting regularly with his secret McCall squad.
—Atlanta Constitution, June 10
“Welcome back, Jackman. What’s the word from Numero Uno?” Millet asked as the squad gathered at their oblong conference table.
“The president has authorized a check for bugs and bombs in the haunts of the remaining big money guys and the Supremes—as you call them, Millet. He’s assigned the protection and surveillance primarily to the FBI. We have only one job: stop LW.”
Rachel gave Jack a thin smile.
“What did you guys come up with?” he asked.
“In his communiqué,” Colin said, “LW used eliminate, not kill, murder, or assassinate. We saw this as consistent with his delusion of a higher purpose. His use of several terms suggested that the militia has at least a few members. This may be further supported by the geographic spread of the two most recent killings, the honeymooning Breens in Oregon and the Taylor family in Cleveland. Maybe the agencies will have more.”
“The president had their reports,” Jack said. “They have nothing.”
Rachel kicked off her shoes. “We had one more idea.”
“Give.”
“We develop a timeline for the Breen murder in Oregon and work up a list of all passengers who flew into the major West Coast airports in Seattle, Portland, and San Francisco, also the smaller airports, that match up with that timeline. We do the same for the other killings, screening passengers out of the airports in Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, D.C., and Baltimore. It’ll be a big job but it puts us on the offense. Millet says he can write programs to cull out the passengers and flights that could fit at least one of the assassinations. We gather background information on as many of those passengers as possible in order to pare down the list. We can also build a database of the passengers’ descriptions to have on hand for when we find someone who has seen this guy or one of his militiamen.”
“Once we have those names,” Millet added, “we can check car rental agencies to see which of them rented cars with mileage adequate for a round trip to the murder scenes. And match up the car rental names with the air passengers.”
“How about the military and law enforcement angle?” asked Rachel.
Jack turned to Colin. “Get us a list of current and former agents and military personnel with a history of violence. And get confirmed locations on the dates of the killings for current personnel that fit that criteria.
“Frank,” Jack continued, “you and Nora visit the Oregon and Cleveland crime scenes. Rachel, arrange a military jet to meet them at six in the morning. Take a copy of the president’s letter. There should be experienced homicide cops in Cleveland who’ll likely open up to you more than they might to the feds. Depoe Bay, Oregon, is much smaller so the locals won’t likely have much experience. And find us some witnesses who saw something. Anything.”
The night wind crossing the CIA’s parking lot tossed Nora’s hair.
“Colin Stewart,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Is that Scottish or Irish?”
“Colin’s Scottish, probably ancient Gaelic.”
“Is Stewart Scottish too?”
“Stewart’s just a name I took.”
“What do you mean a name you took?” Nora asked, looking at him askance. “What’s your family name?”
“My parents left me on the doorstep of a Catholic orphanage. I grew up there and when I got old enough I claimed Stewart as my last name.”
“Why Stewart?”
“An old man who worked at the orphanage died the night before my tenth birthday, well, my anniversary of coming to the orphanage. I use that as my birthday. He told me he had no family. He was kind. A good man. I took his name.”
“So you have no known family?”
“The old man. We had each other. Now the U.S. Army is my family.”
Nora had lost
her mother, but still had her father and grandpa. She couldn’t imagine growing up without the roots of a family.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“For what? The orphanage was swell. I got no complaints.”
The faces of some of the punks Nora had arrested who had used their disadvantaged upbringing as an excuse, flashed through her mind. She looked at Colin and thought, You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.
She unlocked her car door using her remote, then looked back at him, the wind pushing her hair back from her face. “Try to get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll fall asleep thinking about you,” he told her.
“I’ll be thinking about you too.”
“Then take me home. Doing is better than thinking.”
“Oh, Colin, I’d like to. Really I would. I mean, our first night—but maybe we ought to cool it for now. That first time we didn’t know we’d be working together. You know?”
“Meet me for breakfast.”
“Frank and I are flying to Oregon and Cleveland in the morning, remember?”
He looked at her then in a way she had never seen him look at her before, and knew that she had disappointed him.
CHAPTER 21
Jealousy infects the intelligence community. No one likes McCall answering only to the president.
—Headline News, June 10
Rachel got out of her car outside her apartment building a few minutes before midnight. She dropped her purse, and swore as the contents spilled out over the pavement. After gathering up her lipstick and wallet and other odds and ends, she went upstairs and got blinded at the top of the landing by the streetlight that shined just over the roof of her building. It had happened before. She groped for the keyhole in her door, then felt the key stagger into the lock.