by Henry Hack
The six bikers, never exceeding the thirty mile per hour speed limit, drove through the country roads making several turns. Twenty minutes later they pulled up at a large two-story country chalet set well back from the road and got off their bikes motioning for Lars and Fred to follow them inside. As soon as they entered the front door, which opened in to a large den, two bikers grabbed Lars and two grabbed Fred and roughly pinned them face forward on the wall. “Assume the position,” one of them said.
They were thoroughly searched and everything was removed from their pockets. The one who had done most of the talking threw the car keys to one of the bikers and said, “Go check their car out.”
Anticipating this possibility Lars and Fred had brought minimal cash and identification and no weapons on their trip. When their wallets were emptied and their driver’s licenses examined, the biker who went to check the car came back in and said, “It’s clean.”
“Sit down,” the now obvious group leader said, pointing vaguely around the room.
They sat in separate easy chairs and the leader walked upstairs taking their I.D.’s with him. He returned a few minutes later accompanied by another man, several years older than the six, who all appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. He said to the bikers, “You can leave now to take care of what you’re supposed to do. Eddie will join you later. Thank you for bringing these gentlemen to me. I hope they will not waste our time. Now, Mr. Jurgens and Mr. Wagner, please tell us what is on your minds.”
“Are you Mr. Ericsson?” Lars asked. “I prefer speaking to the leader of the New Vikings.”
“I am Ronald Ericsson, and this is my associate Edward Stoddard.”
“Here’s what I propose…” Lars began. He spoke for thirty minutes interrupted occasionally by Ericsson with a question.
When he finished, Ericsson said, “Intriguing, Mr. Jurgens, but you are speaking to the wrong group – that is, the wrong group at this time. But we may be of immense help at the right time.”
Lars smiled and said, “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Ericsson.”
“You are looking for a group to establish an official church. The New Vikings and others who subscribe to the so-called Nordic mystical beliefs are not interested in establishment churches or formal religions. We believe in the might and power of the hammer and the sword as embodied by Odin and Thor.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Lars asked.
“Go see the leader of the League of Christian Brotherhood.”
Lars had remembered reading about this group while doing his research and he said, “Led by the Reverend Alton Phineas?”
“Yes,” Ericsson said. “He’s headquartered in Wyoming which is perfect for your plan. I will make the introductions for you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your interest and your help.”
“My pleasure. Perhaps in the not too distant future we can help you strike the first blow. I appreciate a true visionary – Peter.”
After Lars and Fred left, Eddie Stoddard said, “Why did you call him Peter?”
“Because I figured out who he actually is – the Apostle Peter, formally of the Romens.”
“Holy crap! Was the other guy the Disciple?”
“I believe so.”
“Ron, there’s a couple hundred thousand reward on their heads. We could…”
“Eddie, that’s small change compared to what they can bring us if they succeed. Besides we have enough money for a long while. Learn to be patient.”
On the drive back to Idaho Fred said, “He knows who we are. Should we be concerned?”
“I don’t think so. If he wanted to turn us in for the reward he wouldn’t have let us out of there. No, I believe Ron Ericsson has seen the potential of our mission. Let’s see if he follows through.”
True to his word, Ericsson called Lars two days later and informed him the Reverend Phineas would meet with him and Fred three days hence at his compound near Cody, Wyoming. Lars thanked him and turned to Fred and said, “Get ready for another road trip. Ericsson came through for us.”
Lars Jurgens had not specifically focused on the League of Christian Brotherhood during his initial research, but over the next two days he studied them and their leader, the Reverend Alton Phineas, in depth. When he was satisfied he had found out all he could he said to Fred, “This looks good. We just have to convince the Reverend to follow the plan.”
“Did Ericsson tell Phineas who we are?”
“No,” he said we should tell him at the appropriate time.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if he starts blowing us off, but I’m thinking we should tell him up front, right away. That way we should get his undivided attention.”
“Sounds good, Lars. Maybe it won’t be long before I can call you Peter again.”
Jurgens’ research revealed several photographs of the Reverend Alton Phineas and he looked every inch the spiritual leader of his flock of nearly sixty-thousand. Although he and his followers proclaimed their Christian identity and beliefs, they were decidedly un-Christian and not too far removed from the dregs of the Aryan Nation creed – hatred of Jews, blacks, Latinos, homosexuals, communists, liberals, socialists, immigrants and foreigners. Lars would play upon these hatreds to achieve his own ends – the resurgence of the Romens and the fulfillment of the plans of the Savior.
Now as he and Fred were ushered into the Reverend’s well-appointed study and given iced tea, Alton Phineas smiled and said, “Ron Ericsson convinced me to see you. He said you, Lars, were a true visionary. Now you’ll have to convince me.”
“Reverend Phineas, I am the Apostle Peter, and this is my Disciple, Wilt. We are the last remaining Romens and I’m sure you are aware of our past successes. We are at your service.”
“And what do you propose to do for me?”
“Turn the tide. We are losing the battles in our great nation. The Jews, only two percent of the population, control the money and the politicians. The blacks and the Latinos comprise almost thirty percent of our population. Our race will be shortly mongrelized. Politicians at all levels are embracing homosexuality and same-sex marriages…”
“An abomination!” Phineas shouted.
“Reverend, we – people like you and me and Wilt – will be extinct if we don’t do something, and do it now.”
“I agree, but we are not strong enough to turn the tide against the heathen forces arrayed against us.”
“I respectfully disagree, Reverend Phineas. I have a plan, but I need you and your followers as the main ingredient. May I explain it?”
“Yes, please,” Phineas said leaning forward over his desk.
“I will present the broad outline and then if you think it will work, I’ll give you the details.”
“Ah, the devil is in the details,” Phineas said.
“The devil is everywhere, Reverend, but you and I will stop him.”
Lars knew he had hooked the Reverend Phineas. He said, “Let me lay it out for you, step by step. One, you must re-establish your movement as a full-fledged legitimate church with official recognition by the political powers. Two, you must encourage all your members who live outside Wyoming to move here. Three, you must encourage as many white Aryan groups to re-locate to Wyoming – whether they believe in Jesus Christ or not.”
“I’m not sure about that one,” Phineas said.
“We don’t need their beliefs, or non-beliefs, Reverend. We only need their votes.”
“Votes?”
“Yes. Wyoming has a population of less than six hundred thousand. The Aryan Nation groups total over eight hundred thousand. Like the Mormons just about own Utah, your church can own Wyoming. You will be a tax-free entity and control both the state and federal lawmakers. You will be in charge. You will determine who lives and works in Wyoming. You can exclude anyone you want – legally.”
“And if we can accomplish this what comes next – or is this the only objective?”
“What comes next, Reverend, is we take back our entire country, state by state, until we have a white Christian nation as envisioned by our Founding Fathers.”
“And where do you two fit in? Is it your goal to regenerate the Romen Society?”
“Yes and no,” Peter said. “As you build your church, we would like to make Wyoming into the first green energy, pollution-free state. And we will use our allies – the New Vikings and others like them – to discourage others to abandon the sources of pollution elsewhere as we in the Romens once did.”
“Ironically,” Phineas said, “Wyoming has a tremendous supply of coal in the ground and most of our electric power is generated by burning it.”
“We’ll continue to mine it and sell it to the Chinese,” Lars said. “Send those hundred box car trains to the coast and ship it over there. Let them kill themselves with coal gas.”
“I like your plans,” the Reverend said. “I will discuss them with my closest advisers and let you know.”
“Reverend Phineas, we must do something soon. We must be pro-active or we will lose our great country to the heathens.”
“I agree. I will get back to you shortly.”
On the long drive back to Idaho Wilt said, “You handled that well. I think he bought your whole argument.”
“Let’s hope so. We need him a lot more than he needs us.”
Three days later Peter’s cell phone rang. It was the Reverend Alton Phineas calling with good news – an invitation for them to move to the headquarters compound of the League of the Christian Brotherhood in Cody, Wyoming at their earliest convenience.
Almost three years had passed and the League of the Christian Brotherhood was now the Church of Christian Brotherhood with a membership approaching 150,000 bigoted white souls. Donations poured in freely from the membership and from donors outside the state. Most of these were large - $1,000 or more – and most were anonymous. The majority were accompanied by notes of encouragement and wishes for success in the church’s fight against the enemies of America.
Peter and Wilt were now part of the Reverend Alton Phineas’s inner circle where they were reverently referred to as the Apostle Peter and the Disciple Wilt. The Apostle and his Disciple shared a roomy house within the inner compound and a room on the second floor was devoted to their computer systems. Peter had supplemented the high-speed broadband internet service provided by the local cable company with three satellite dish feeds capable of world-wide transmission and reception. Peter looked at his Disciple and said, “Here we go, Wilt.” He pushed a blue button on his PC and smiled.
In the New York and Washington FBI offices, the Homeland Security offices and the offices of the top brass in the NYMPD, all the computer screens suddenly went black. No amount of pounding on keys, clicking of mice or banging on the monitor could bring them back to life. One minute later, a message printed in white letters appeared on a bright green background. It read, “Don’t slip back into your old ways of doing evil; you didn’t know any better then. The grass withers and the flowers fall away, but the work of the Savior will last forever. And that word was the good news that was preached to you.” I Peter Chapter One, Verses 14, 24-25.
Harry Cassidy in his Homeland Security office, Walter Kobak in his FBI office, John McKee in his Task Force office and Charles Carson in his commissioner’s office had absolutely no doubt who the message was from. The Apostle Peter had finally re-surfaced.
One minute later, certain his real message had been received, Peter pushed the button once again and all the computers sprang back to life. All those affected by the brief outage wondered when the next shoe would drop. Who would Peter target? Would he operate as the Savior had with one murder first? Had he been able to re-build the Romens to its former strength?
These and other questions were discussed on a conference call among the affected parties and, when they exhausted their inquiries, Deputy Inspector John McKee asked Police Commissioner Charles Carson for permission to increase his staff at the Task Force. Carson agreed and re-assigned Danny Boyland and Virgil Webb to him. Not wanting to send Nick Faliani back Carson chose veteran Detective Mike Morra as the third man. Walt Kobak said, “I’ll call the SAC to give you the agents you want to pair up with them, no doubt Joe Ramos, George Washington and Alicia Johnson.”
“Thanks, Walt,” John said. “I want to be prepared this time for who the hell knows what that bastard will do next.”
“Maybe Peter was just tweaking us. I mean, we haven’t heard a peep from him in years,” Carson said.
“I hope you’re right, Boss,” McKee said, “but somehow I think that computer tweak is just the beginning.”
24
The first three years in his new position in Homeland Security had been a busy and exciting time in Harry Cassidy’s life. As Director of Operations he was involved in border security, airport and port security, smuggling of weapons and drugs, and liaison with the FBI, CIA, BATF and other major police agencies here and abroad. Now, most operations were running smoothly and efficiently thanks to his abilities and expertise, and at dinner he had expressed his satisfaction to Susan. “So everything is under control in the good old U.S. of A.?” she asked.
“Pretty much so,” he said.
“Bored?”
He smiled and said, “A bit.”
“My great crusader has won all his battles. Now he turns, mighty sword in hand raised in triumph, his foot squarely on the head of the last bad guy and says, “Okay people, what the hell do I do now?”
Harry laughed out loud almost choking on a forkful of lasagne. He said, “A couple of days ago John McKee sent me a YouTube video. Remember Wile E. Coyote always trying to catch the Roadrunner and getting smashed up in the process?”
“Always loved those cartoons.”
“In this one Wile E. finally catches the Roadrunner. He turns and looks into the camera and says, “Holy Shit! I caught him! I finally caught him!” He turns back where the Roadrunner is flat under a rock, dead, and shakes his head. He turns back to the camera and in a sad, pleading voice, tears running down his face, asks, “What the fuck do I do now?”
Now it was Susan’s turn to almost choke on a sip of red wine. She managed to swallow it then laughed along with Harry. “Is that what you feel like now?” she asked.
“I’m not complaining. It’s quiet, but something always pops up. I’ll enjoy the peace for awhile. Anyway, the lack of terrorist activity makes me sleep better because of Lizzy.”
“Just following in her old man’s footsteps, you know.”
“She enjoyed her first assignment in Denver, but couldn’t resist the lure of the Big Apple and her requested transfer to New York just came through.”
“At least she won’t be directly involved in foreign or domestic terrorism, right?”
“No, she’ll be doing intelligence work. Nick Faliani will be keeping an eye on her.”
“How so?”
“Nick is assigned to the NYMPD’s Intelligence Squad specializing in terrorist activity. Lizzy will be his FBI intelligence contact.”
“Who arranged that?”
“Hey, just looking out for my kid.”
“I know,” she said. “Good for you.”
Nine days after that dinner conversation Harry came home from the office and prepared cocktails. When he and Susan clinked glasses and took the first sip of their vodka martinis, Harry handed her a slip of paper with the words that had appeared on his computer that afternoon. He said, “This same message appeared on Charlie Carson’s, Walt Kobak’s and John McKee’s computers at the same time. We made some inquiries, but so far it seems nobody else received it. Your opinion, counselor?”
“My opinion, Mr. Director, is the Apostle Peter is alive and well and has decided to let you know it.”
“Yeah, that’s what we all concluded.”
“And of course, the computer-genius apostle, a/k/a George Richter, made that message untraceable back to him, correct?”
“So far.”
“And all you can do now is to wait for his next move. The waiting game you hate.”
“We alerted all the regional Task Forces to be prepared, but for what we don’t know.”
“At least you won't be bored anymore. And Harry, you will be personally more careful, wont you?”
“Why? There’s no reason to believe Peter intends to come after us personally.”
“That crazy Khalid bin Yousef from OBL-911 did just that, remember?”
“Yeah, but the Savior never targeted us. I don’t think the Apostle will either. He’s probably too busy trying to scrape up some type of organization anyway.”
“Sometimes you drive me crazy with your macho attitude. Harry, you were shot twice by OBL-911. They came after me, you and Lizzy. They killed Jerry Campora. And they killed my best friend and your soul mate, Rita Becker. Or have you forgotten all that?”
“No,” Harry said softly. “I haven’t forgotten. But the Romens are not OBL-911. They…”
“They are responsible for killing your best friend, Pop Hunter. And didn’t Walt Kobak take a bullet to his body armor the night you took them down?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be a little careful, right? You know, look over your shoulder once in a while like the street-smart cop you once were?”
“Sure, Susan,” he said with a wistful smile thinking back to the time he walked the beat for eleven years, now so far in his past. “I promise.”
Harry Cassidy and his band of Task Force thugs that had murdered the Savior and put the Romens out of business always occupied a back corner of the Apostle Peter’s brain, but he had other concerns to address first. Foremost among those concerns was to pick up the battle where the Savior had left off – he would resume the attacks on the nuclear power industry. And if the people in charge – the politicians, the industry bigwigs and even the voting public – had any common sense left, only one attack would be necessary to get his message across and achieve his goal. And now, three years after the death of his friend and Savior, the Apostle Peter was ready to strike.