The Eye of Moloch ow-2

by Glenn Beck

  With typical bald-faced duplicity the President had protested the clause that applied to Americans at home, even as he’d signed this abomination into law. Assuming his objections were honest, of course, they were also meaningless. In recent years Americans had seen this very pattern play out with the Espionage Act, the PATRIOT Act, the Military Commissions Act, the Enemy Belligerent Act, and other such open-ended assaults. Once the NDAA was on the books neither his own nor any future administration would be bound by their election-year pledges of restraint.

  The writ of habeas corpus had once ensured a fundamental civil right even older than the Magna Carta. Now it was reduced to a king’s option, to be selectively granted or revoked as an increasingly grandiose and militarized bureaucracy saw fit.

  A quiet rap on the door behind him nearly startled Hollis out of his chair.

  “Come on in,” he said, after he’d taken a long breath to reset his composure.

  As the door creaked open the dog poked his head in first to get the lay of the land before leading Molly inside.

  “Are you decent?” she asked.

  “I’m fully clothed, if that passes.”

  Cody brought her over to a chair near the desk, and she sat.

  “You left dinner early,” Molly said.

  “Yeah, about dinner. You know the old lady at the table?”

  “Did you see her then? She came by and read me a Bible verse earlier, kind of as a gift. She said she had something for all of us, including you.”

  “I did see her, and she saw me, too. Mercy, she’s got a scowl that would stop a Swiss watch. I haven’t gotten such an evil eye since I backed over my aunt Ruby’s coon hound.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “With all candor, she looks like Death eatin’ a Ritz cracker.”

  “Hollis.”

  “Well, you asked me and I told you. Not that it matters much, but you wouldn’t have any idea what a person like that might have to hold against me, would you?”

  “No, I said nothing but good things. And she hasn’t come by to give you anything yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “She’s already visited everyone else.”

  “Well, if I’m to judge by her demeanor tonight the only gift she’s cookin’ up for me is a butcher’s knife between the shoulder blades.” The dog had jumped onto Hollis’s bed, and after some pawing and a few rotations he settled down into a nest among the pillows. “Tell him not to get too comfortable, would you? I don’t want to seem unwelcoming, but I’m in the middle of some business here.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll go. Before I forget, we’re all going to have a planning meeting in the dining room, tomorrow morning before lunch. I just wanted to tell you that and say good night, and see if you’d gotten any news. They told me that you might be in here on the computer.”

  “I only just got started. There’s no news to speak of yet.” He studied her for a moment. “Molly, I need for you to do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “We’re safe now, at least as safe as we could hope to be. And I need for you to give some serious thought to the idea of all of us staying on here, and lying low for a while.”

  “Okay.” She frowned. “I thought that was the idea.”

  “No,” Hollis said. “This is what we talked about before, out on the trail, remember? I mean staying here and staying quiet, for a long time. Maybe for the duration, if they’ll have us.”

  She sat back. “Oh.”

  “I think after all we’ve been through that I know how you feel. It’s not easy for me to come to you and ask you to give it all up, but I’ve got a real bad feeling. Lay it off on me if you want; I’m spent, Molly, and I’m worried I can’t protect you anymore. Just promise me you’ll give it some thought.”

  Her expression didn’t change much but he could see the wheels turning. She made a subtle motion with her hand and the dog jumped down to her side as she stood to leave.

  “I’ll pray on it,” Molly said.

  “Well, amen to that.”

  When she’d gone he turned back to his research. Digging deeper now, way out in the far-left and far-right hinterlands of the Internet, he soon saw the beginnings of a rumor that was forming and making the rounds. It seemed to have started very recently and was the subject of much discussion among the basement-dwellers. With every repetition the unsupported facts gained strength and confirmation.

  As he tried to swallow, Hollis found that his mouth had gone bone-dry.

  The gist of the rumor was simple: like her blood brother Danny Bailey before her, Molly Ross and her Founders’ Keepers had now joined forces with George Pierce and his neo-patriot army to wage open war against the U.S. government.

  The battle lines were drawn, first blood had been spilled, and the legions of followers in this new alliance were being called to keep their weapons at hand and prepare in the coming days for a spectacular, devastating commencement of the second American Revolution.

  Chapter 13

  From the balcony outside George Pierce’s burned-out office, Warren Landers watched as his latest domestic forward operating base took shape in the open field behind the compound. The work was proceeding apace; at last all the crates and pallets were beginning to disappear as the place transformed into something buttoned-down and functional.

  Under the glare of tungsten work lights, tents and long supply shelters were going up and buried lines were being laid for power, data, water, and waste. In the distance a team of comm techs had raised a tall mast festooned along its length with gray parabolic dishes. Now that the support wires were ratcheted down to lock it precisely vertical, each antenna was being tuned and aligned to gather the many faint digital signals streaming down from the open sky.

  To the east an HH-60 Pave Hawk settled through the ground effect to a rolling touchdown. A larger supply helicopter had landed an hour before sundown and was still being unloaded nearby. Even more men and material would be inbound through the night.

  It had been a full day of logistics and coordination and still there was much to be done before his scheduled departure in the morning. Landers checked the scrolling time-and-events list on the touchscreen of his phone. While he was not without his concerns, and despite delays from the still-threatening weather, things had mostly gone according to plan.

  A man from Pierce’s crew named Olin Simmons stood by Landers’s side on the balcony, sweating steroids and kissing ass like a champion. This was the same one who’d aimed a pistol at him when he first arrived—now he was acting as a self-appointed aide-de-camp and general teacher’s pet to the new management. It was hard to miss the man’s ambition, or his commitment to the rise of the master race; his manifesto was etched onto his skin in permanent ink. A dark, jagged “SS” dominated one side of his neck, and his right bicep bore the angular black-eagle crest of the Nazi coat of arms. The backs of his scarred fingers were tattooed with individual letters such that when he made fists side by side they spelled out “Y O U R N E X T.”

  The obvious typographical error no doubt went unmentioned by his peers, at least by those who wished to keep their teeth off the tavern floor.

  A bright flash lit up among the trees in the distance and after a beat the sharp sound and concussion arrived with a satisfying punch in the chest. By the character of the blast it was either a shoulder-fired LAW rocket test or a small IED. That would mean the ordnance and small-unit tactical training had gotten under way.

  Earlier, George Pierce’s men had been assessed individually and assigned an occupational specialty. Any competent gunmen and sharpshooters would be used as such. A few who’d shown the needed technical and language skills were already busy inciting verbal violence and stirring up trouble across the Web, social media, talk radio, and the ham bands. Those thugs with more brawn than brains would be agitators, pickets, and provocateurs for the coming street protests and other direct actions.

  So far everyone but a stubborn few had taken the trans
ition without resistance. It wouldn’t seem such a difficult choice to make; their lives would go on essentially as before with the addition of new marching orders, financial support, and some much-needed adjustments in doctrine and leadership. Still, there were holdouts; depending on their value, the remaining dissenters would either be convinced through further inducements or dealt with in other, more permanent ways.

  A man knocked politely at the balcony door and Landers motioned him through. The newcomer had a long, camouflaged duffel slung over his shoulder. The bag was caked with dirt and woodland debris, as though it had been buried for a time.

  “We found this out back in the deep woods”—the man gestured off toward the general area—“and they sent me to bring it right on up to you.”

  Landers dragged the bag’s rusty zipper across partway and looked inside; this might be a useful find indeed. “Has anyone opened this before me?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” He refastened the bag and pulled the messenger nearer the railing. “Now listen. You take this immediately to that third tent out there; see it?” He pointed, and the man nodded. “Tell the technician in charge to run the prints first, and send the bag back to me with a full toolkit. You stay there and wait for the work to be done. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Repeat it.”

  He did so, nearly verbatim, which was no small feat given the obvious mental vacancies behind his eyes.

  “Good,” Landers said. “Go get it done.”

  The man gave a sharp salute and set off to do as he was told.

  How refreshing to find a soul so perfectly suited to his simple work. The backbone of any radical uprising is a legion of such loyal ciphers: oblivious, barely competent, and grateful for any subservient role in a grander scheme. They weren’t all imbeciles, not in the literal sense. Some were professors emeriti, some were anchormen, some stood in the pulpit to shill every Sunday in service to the lesser gods. But from vagrant to vice president, beneath the skin these useful idiots were born from the same ankle-deep end of the gene pool. Give them a slogan and a promise, pin a chintzy tassel on their chest, and they would follow orders without a question or the burden of a moral core.

  “Who’s payin’ for all this?” Olin Simmons asked. Throughout this break from the executive meeting he’d been salivating over the sights of the expanding base like a diabetic at a doughnut store.

  “This?” Landers said. “For the men I report to, as spending goes this is a drop in the ocean. And the wealthy don’t waste; compared to the fortunes to be had when this is over they’re making a very small investment here.”

  “Tell you what, I never would have thought it was all about money.”

  “It’s not—at least not in the way you and I think of money. They each already have more money than a million men could squander in a lifetime. Money, and land, and gold, and works of art—even whole governments—those are all just things to be collected and compared, like the notches on your bedpost. They’re a simple way to keep score so they can prove who’s won in the end.”

  The other man took a step closer and leaned against the railing. “Who are these people, the ones at the top, the ones you work for? You can’t tell me, can you?”

  “I’m sure you’d be disappointed.”

  “Try me.”

  “On paper, I work for a gentleman named Arthur Gardner.”

  “And he’s in the New World Order, am I right? Or the Bilderbergers? Or the CFR?”

  Landers smiled. “He’s in public relations.”

  “Public relations?”

  “He runs a multinational firm called Doyle & Merchant.”

  “Doyle & Merchant.” Simmons pronounced the names as though they left an unmanly taste in his mouth. “Sounds like a couple of San Francisco rump-wranglers.”

  “Be that as it may. You can believe it or not, but as much as any single force in human history they’ve shaped the world you live in, and the world that’s about to come.”

  “What with, words and pretty pictures?” He spat again. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Landers said. “And they wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Another lackey came to the balcony and informed the two that Mr. Pierce was almost ready now for the conference to resume.

  Olin Simmons let out a sigh, cracked his neck, and started for the door, but Landers stopped him.

  “Tell me something,” Landers said. “Are you ready for more?”

  “Sure. I’m not much of a man for meetings, but this one’s blowin’ my mind—”

  “No,” Landers interrupted, and he made a subtle show of looking behind him and through the open door to ensure they were alone. “What I mean, Olin, is that a time may come soon when I need more from you. And I want to know if you’ll be ready to step up and do what needs to be done when I ask you.”

  Simmons pocketed his tobacco pouch and considered that for a moment. “When you ask me what?” By the sly tone of this question it was already clear he had an inkling of its answer.

  “I have to trust in the leadership I leave in charge here,” Landers said. “I’m talking about Mr. Pierce, and his future with us. Just watch while we’re in there, and you’ll see what I’m seeing. Everyone must serve their purpose, and I need to decide how faithfully he’s going to serve his. Be ready to give me your counsel before I leave.”

  Landers put out his right hand, and after a thoughtful moment Olin Simmons took it with a firm shake and all the gravity appropriate to the pledge of a new allegiance.

  Chapter 14

  Before the final session of their pre-deployment conference could resume, word arrived at the Pierce compound that the remains of two men had been found, identified, and recovered from the adjacent woods.

  These had been a pair of the organization’s best commandos, both sent out in pursuit of Molly Ross on the night of her recent escape. A third was still missing in action—the nineteen-year-old nephew of the little General himself—and considering the fate of the other two and the amount of time that had passed without contact, it was only realistic to presume this young man to be dead at the enemy’s hands as well.

  As Warren Landers returned to the meeting room the other attendees were still milling about on their break, grumbling about the dismal news from the field. George Pierce sat alone, deep in study at the head of the table, with unfolded maps and a ream of handwritten notes spread around him. A Bible lay open to its final pages nearby. He continued this way, seemingly engaged in his own intrigues even after the assembly was called back to order.

  Throughout the night, Landers laid out the details of the nationwide tactical plan.

  Their orders were simple enough for men of this class to understand and carry out; no real comprehension of the broader design was required. Timing and orchestration would be the key to their role in this coup d’état, like the sequenced detonations of a controlled demolition. Without such an underlying scheme, in fact, if executed randomly and one by one these small assignments he gave might have little impact on a prepared and courageous public.

  Fortunately, prepared and courageous was not the trending status of the modern American people.

  Many thoughtful decades had been devoted to sinking deep faults into the foundation of what was once the home of the brave. Though a sad minority still clung stubbornly to their gold, God, and guns, it was fear, dependence, and submission that had finally replaced the rickety illusions of faith and freedom at the heart of the last great nation to fall.

  The strategy was sound, and he knew it would work because it always had. The principles of leveraged terror—problem-reaction-solution—had proven themselves since the ancient reign of Diocletian. Three hundred organized men can easily bring 300 million simpering cowards to their knees. Still, timing and precision were required at every step and nothing could be left to chance. Terrorism done wrong can awaken strength and unity in a population und
er attack, and that could quickly undo even the best-laid plans.

  At appropriate points he opened the floor for discussion. For the most part the men were concerned with how, where, and when, leaving the all-important why in the hands of their new leadership. During these interchanges George Pierce continued to offer nothing but the occasional terse comment and a conspicuous lack of engagement.

  Near dawn, as things were winding down, two men arrived at the conference room door. One carried the duffel bag that had been found earlier; the tags attached showed it had been forensically processed, as Landers had ordered. At a gesture from Landers the bag was brought over and slid onto the table near him.

  The second man went directly to Pierce’s side to whisper into his ear. From across the room Landers could see the color rising in his face and when the message had been fully delivered the little man brought his fist down onto the bare wood with enough force to overturn a dozen water glasses nearby.

  The meeting had come to a full stop and no one uttered a sound until he spoke.

  “They found my nephew Billy Clark,” Pierce said softly. “And they found him dead.”

  A long moment of silence ensued, apparently out of group respect for the dear departed. For Landers himself it had always been a particular annoyance to try to summon a show of sympathy when he felt none whatsoever. He took the opportunity to glance over the stapled paperwork that accompanied the canvas bag and that passed a bit of the time. After what seemed an appropriate interval he let out a deep, vocal breath and checked his watch. There was, after all, a schedule to keep.