Gather The Seekers

by Vince Milam

  GATHER THE SEEKERS

  A Novel

  Vince Milam

  Published internationally by Vince Milam Books

  © Vince Milam Books 2016

  Terms and Conditions:

  The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.

  All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer:

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  www.vincemilam.com

  Acknowledgements:

  Editor – David Antrobus

  Cover Designer – Rick Holland / My Vision Press

  Theological Consultant: A good friend and Benedictine monk with a PhD in Spirituality.

  Put on the whole armor of God,

  that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.

  Ephesians 6:11

  Chapter 1

  Sheriff Cole Garza took Nadine May’s phone call, apprehensive and more than a bit wistful. They hadn’t talked in over a month. She delivered no greeting.

  “You’ve got to get going, Cole. Right freakin’ now!”

  “Hey, Nadine.” He smiled and shook his head. “Get going where?”

  “Copano Bay. Strontium-90. For an RDD. Dirty bomb.”

  She was clearly on a tear about something, her voice excited, urgent.

  “How about giving that to me in English?” he asked.

  “Radioactive material. Smuggled from an offshore freighter in the Gulf. Headed, via speedboat, for pickup in Copano Bay. You with me?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’ve alerted the FBI and DHS. The FBI scrambled their helicopter out of Corpus Christi, but DHS won’t arrive for an hour. Get moving, cowboy!”

  Rockport, Texas, sat on the north end of the Laguna Madre, a hundred-and-fifty-mile-long shallow saltwater lagoon. A narrow strip of land called Padre Island separated it from the Gulf of Mexico. Cole’s watery turf as sheriff of Aransas County encompassed numerous bays, inlets, and islands.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  Silence ensued. Alright, alright. Nadine’s a lot of things, but wrong on this stuff isn’t one of them.

  “Sorry. Okay. Tell me again what’s happening,” Cole said. “Stront— What? An RDD?”

  “Hells bells, Cole,” she said. “Go start the boat and get moving. I’ll fill you in when you’re underway. Take backup. These guys are plenty dangerous.”

  There—right smack there—stood one of the reasons they no longer dated. They’d given it a shot for six months but had agreed to separate at Nadine’s urging. “I don’t get you,” she had said when they broke up. “I mean, we’re on different frequencies. Half the time I have to explain things six ways to Sunday before you get it. Wears me out.”

  The whole incompatibility thing was plopped right on the table, once again. Her admonition about getting underway contained undertones of “Cole, try and keep up.” Well, no one kept up with Nadine. He made a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.

  “Fine. Call me back in ten minutes. I should be underway by then.”

  He ended the call and stared out his office window. The antique roses he’d planted and nurtured, nestled outside the window, swayed and bobbed in the Gulf breeze. The tranquility was punctuated by the laughter of some children outside, their lilting sound drifting through the open window. Rockport. And now some kind of dang mess with radioactive material and smugglers, as per Nadine May.

  Then his office door flung open, banged against the doorstop, and presented Father Francois Domaine. The priest paused at the entrance for effect, a lavender polo shirt stretched tight across his ample midsection and draped over white peasant pants. He charged the sheriff and grabbed him in a bear hug. Cole patted Francois’s back with one hand and leaned away from the embrace. He bobbed like a prize fighter, using his height advantage to avoid Francois’s attempt at cheek kisses.

  “Francois!” Cole said. “What brought you to town?”

  Cole knew. Deep down, he knew. Nadine’s call, Francois’s sudden appearance—the fuse had been lit. Oh, man. Not again. An unscheduled Francois appearance at any time didn’t bode well. Cole loved his French friend—an affection developed through past hellish endeavors with the priest and Nadine—but a claim from Francois that danger stirred would cause a man’s cheeks to tighten. And not the face cheeks.

  “Mon cher ami!” Francois exclaimed. He ceased his attempted kisses and stepped back, maintaining a grip on Cole’s torso. “Do not be daunted by my appearance! I have been guided here! Danger stirs!”

  Deputy R.L. Harris watched from the open door and grinned at the sight of a short, round foreigner assaulting his boss.

  “I ain’t daunted, Francois,” Cole said and turned in Francois’s grip to address his deputy. “Go start the boat, R.L.”

  “Un bateau? We venture forth on a boat? Tres bon.” Francois stepped back, forefinger pointed toward Cole. “The Enemy stirs, mon shérif. Another quest is underway!”

  Francois again hugged his friend, his rotund body belly-slamming Cole against the desk. The sheriff reciprocated with more half-hearted back pats.

  “R.L.—go start the damn boat.”

  “You sure you don’t require a little help, Sheriff?” R.L. asked as he continued to lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the show.

  “Let go of me, Francois. I mean it.” Francois released his hug. “R.L., there’s a job opening at Whataburger you may be interested in if that boat’s not ready when I get there.”

  The deputy rolled his eyes and turned to exit the building. Francois used both hands to smooth his hair, lips pursed, joy in his eyes.

  “Nadine just called me. About radioactive material. Please tell me your arrival doesn’t have anything to do with that,” Cole said.

  The priest extended his arms away from his sides and cocked his head, apparently chagrined at Cole’s statement. “But of course it does, mon ami. My arrival—an event, it may be said, in which I expected a much warmer welcome—is related to our Nadine’s findings, whatever those may be. Of this, I am sure.”

  Cole sighed and stared at the floor.

  The Frenchman stepped forward and placed both hands on Cole’s shoulders. His voice changed and carried a grave timbre. “One of them, mon grand shérif. Indeed. Another of them, creating horror, terror. I was unaware of our Nadine’s involvement, but clearly there is une association. An evil association to these events.”

  Cole raised his head, glanced at the priest, and fixated on the roses outside his window.

  “Should we not hasten to the boat?” Francois asked. “The Enemy is near.” He patted Cole’s arm, turned to the door, and said as he exited, “You are chosen, Cole Garza. You, of course, know this. We must engage in battle once again. Immédiatement!” He sandal-flopped further along and paused to turn and wait, steadfast eyes gazing at Cole’s hesitation. “As always, do not fear,” Francois called, his voice now gentle and assuring.

  It isn’t fear. I’m just tired of it. Tired of my sorry ass always right in the middle of these hellish events.

  He straightened his shoulders, checked his .40 caliber Glock pistol, and grabbed his Stetson from an old railroad spike embedded in his office wall. Well, life threw curveballs, plain and simple. Batter up.

  And Francois had a point—he and Francois and Nadine had been chosen. No rhyme or reason, but they’d sure enough been chosen. He strode toward Francois. Alright. Alright. Let’s roll.

  Cole paused in the hallway to address his French friend. “Hold on, amigo. Nadine said these folks we’re after are big-time da
ngerous.” The implication offered an opportunity for Francois to stay behind in Rockport.

  The Frenchman rolled his eyes, lit a Gauloises, and blew smoke above his head as he moved toward the doors of the Aransas County Sheriff’s Office. “Kindly cease such absurdities,” he said over his shoulder as his cigarette hand gestured a chopping motion forward. “Allez!”

  Cole sighed. “This is a non-smoking building, Francois.”

  “Which is why, you may observe, I depart this building at a rapid pace!” The priest’s voice echoed along the single story building’s hallways. Francois flung open the double doors to the spring air of Rockport, turned, and waited to address Cole. “You must focus, mon ami! Our quest is underway!”

  They hustled the three blocks to the docks where R.L. waited onboard the Sheriff Department’s vessel—a tunnel-hulled twenty-one-foot boat with a 250 horsepower Yamaha outboard engine, designed to run in water as shallow as eighteen inches at fifty miles an hour. Cole waved a hand at a few sport fishermen loading bait and beer on the fine spring day. The engine idled as he boarded to stand at the center console and take control of the vessel. “I didn’t introduce y’all,” he said as Francois climbed onboard. “R.L., Father Francois Domaine. Francois, Deputy R.L. Harris.”

  “Bonjour, le député.”

  “Howdy. You’re a priest? You don’t look like one.”

  Cole eased away from the dock.

  “Oui. I sojourn incognito.”

  “You look like one of the folks from our mayor’s art festivals,” R.L. said.

  “Firepower?” Cole asked. R.L. would understand what he meant and it ended the “Francois as artist” conversation.

  “Two AR-15s, two 12-gauge pumps, one .308,” came the reply as the deputy stowed the boat bumpers.

  “Good. We may need them.”

  “What’s this about, Sheriff?” R.L. asked.

  “I’m fixin’ to find out any minute when Nadine calls back,” Cole said as he turned the boat toward open water and locked eyes with his deputy. “But it ain’t good, R.L. You can pretty much count on that.”

  Chapter 2

  Cole ignored the No Wake zone and goosed the engine. With hydraulic planers, the boat leapt up on the water’s surface and flew forward. Francois, unprepared for the acceleration and thrown toward the stern, grabbed the center console, muttering, “Mon Dieu!” He recovered and, after several failed attempts to light another cigarette, leaned toward Cole behind the windscreen and tried again until his Gauloises flared. He adjusted his round-framed, green-tinted sunglasses. “And so,” Francois began as he spoke against the wind and engine noise. “My sense, my gift from God, had me return to your domain last night. Comprenez-vous?”

  Ten miles to the entrance of Copano Bay and Cole intended to make it in under fifteen minutes. “Yeah, I get it,” he said. “A little heads-up would have been appreciated.”

  A typical southeast breeze brought a chop to the water’s surface, which failed to register with the boat as it skimmed the small wave tops. “I mean, if I have one of those things traipsing around in my backyard I’d appreciate some notice,” Cole said, loud and emphatic enough to both be heard above the noise and to reiterate his point.

  Francois ignored the comment and pointed in the direction of Copano Bay. “The Enemy is there. In that direction.”

  Cole lowered his sunglasses to eyeball the priest over the top of the frames. “Yeah, I get that too. Thanks. By the way, those green glasses don’t go with the shirt.”

  Francois wafted a hand. “Please cease all attempts to discuss fashion with me. And you were not alerted because the sense, the radar as you put it, had not defined the location other than the general area of Corpus Christi. Quite near you, mon ami.” He paused to smoke and check his hair, now windblown. “I should have worn a cap. One even without your fashion approval.” The boat planed across the water at high speed as Francois continued. “Another quest. Near your town. Très étrange, no?”

  Cole leaned into the Frenchman’s face. “Yeah, it is. And I’m tired of strange. Damn tired of it.”

  Francois returned a shrug.

  Cole cleared Rockport’s jut of land and turned the boat to the north. “What’s also strange, compadre, is for you to show up without any dang warning. You may want to remember I’m sheriff down here. If some major apocalypse is heading my way, I need to know. Sabe?” Cole verged on yelling to overcome the engine noise.

  Again Francois ignored his comment, raised his voice, and provided his own unique insight. “This one is sly. A deceiver, of course, but one prone to flee. To vanish. This I know.”

  “This one has help, Francois. Something about nuclear material. It’s not acting alone.” The “it” was living evil. A demon.

  “To be sure. And, as in our previous endeavors, you shall confront the human elements while I do battle with the demon. I shall assume you will do so with your typical American tendencies. Much shooting and, perhaps, some massive explosions.” Francois paused to take another drag on his smoke. “Perhaps a boat this time? Flying through the air? On fire?”

  Cole ignored Francois’s cultural commentary as the phone in his shirt pocket rang. He retrieved it and throttled back to cut the noise. “This is Sheriff Garza.”

  “Listen, Cole,” Nadine said. “I just ran more algorithms. The data still points to Copano.”

  “So does Francois.”

  “Francois? Francois is with you? He’s supposed to be in Chicago at a conference. Why didn’t you tell me Francois was coming? Are you trying to hide him from me?”

  R.L. moved to stand beside Cole, binoculars to his eyes while he scanned the few upcoming sport fishing vessels. “What’s the bottom line, Nadine?” Cole said. “And what are the odds anyone could hide Francois?”

  The priest listened with intent to Cole’s side of the conversation and wafted a hand, smiled—clearly pleased to be recognized as a force unhidden.

  “Okay. Bottom line. A large supply—fifty kilos—of radioactive material. Strontium-90. Russian. Perfect for an RDD. Radiological Dispersal Device. Dirty bomb,” Nadine said.

  Cole tapped R.L. on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows. “Find anything?” R.L. shook his head and continued to scan the distance with the binoculars.

  “How many bad guys?” Cole asked.

  “Undetermined. I’m working with DHS for approval of satellite coverage of the area now. I hear a boat motor in the background. I assume you’re close.”

  The Highway 35 bridge loomed ahead, marking the entrance to Copano Bay. “Why here? Why Copano?”

  “Why not?” Nadine asked. “A freighter offshore. Calm Gulf waters. Speedboat rendezvous. Hundreds of isolated areas in your neck of the woods to offload.”

  Cole knew every backwater and estuary in the upper Laguna Madre, and for a small boat to unload to a waiting vehicle required a road. And roads were few and far between if these terrorists used Copano Bay. Ranch land, uninhabited, constituted most of the property surrounding Copano’s waters. Cole steered the speeding boat under the bridge and headed west into the twelve-by-six-mile bay.

  “My money is on St. Mary’s Road. Near Plummer’s Slough,” Cole said. “That’s Refugio County. Call Sheriff Baler for me. Tell him what’s going on. Ask him to head down St. Mary’s Road.”

  Flocks of seagulls hunted patches of Copano, focused on young shrimp. The V-wakes of redfish and trout cut through the shallows chasing the same. The boat’s GPS navigation system sounded a frantic alarm as they approached an oyster bed inches below the surface. The underwater obstruction would tear the hull of his boat wide open. Cole, anticipating the alarm, swerved to the north and then tracked west again once clear of the obstacle.

  “Okay. Will do,” Nadine said. “Don’t let Francois get hurt.”

  “Where’s the cavalry?” Cole asked her. “And how close do we get to this strontium stuff?”

  Francois edged toward the bow, nose in the wind. He ceremoniously removed his sunglasses and placed them in
his shirt pocket of smokes. His right hand continued to grasp the console for balance. His left arm rose and pointed straight ahead. “There!” he called, and turned to Cole. “The Enemy. There!”

  “I’ve gone over that.” Nadine’s voice rose with irritation. “The FBI has a chopper in the air out of Corpus. DHS is flying a jet from Houston. I’ve hitched a ride with them. We’ll be there shortly. The radioactive material should be in safe shipping containers. Chill on that. Help Francois. I know why he’s there. It’s one of them again.”

  “Call Sheriff Baler, Nadine. Right now. Please. I gotta go.” He ended the call and surveyed the Copano Bay approach. He pointed toward the weapon compartment and nodded at R.L., who lifted the lid, removed two AR-15 assault rifles, and chambered a round for each. The deputy placed one against the center console for the sheriff.

  Cole threw the throttle forward and they flew across three feet of water, the opposite shore now visible. Francois would provide bird-dog duties to point out the right direction with that weird internal radar of his, honing in on evil. Honing in on one of those damn things.

  Cole’s cell phone rang again and he answered to hear, “Sheriff. Will Stinson.”

  “Little busy, Will. Can I get back to you?”

  Cole throttled back again, and the boat settled in the water. He wanted to give R.L. time to scan the distant shoreline with the binoculars.

  “No, you cannot. I’m here in Copano, fishing. With Grady. You know Grady Hempstead? Anyway, there’s a bunch of fellas pulled up to shore near St. Mary’s Road. Unloading stuff. I cruised over to see what the hell was going on, and a couple of those sumbitches pointed weapons at us.”

  Francois shifted to and fro as he cast focused stares at several directions ahead. He clenched and unclenched his fists, clearly frustrated.

  “You stay away from them, Will,” Cole said. “Scoot away. I’m close by.”

  Francois became more agitated, turned once to Cole as if to speak, chewed his thick mustache, and focused ahead again.