by Leslie Jones
Driscoll rearranged two of the photographs. “Ghost suit development was all the rage what? Five or six years ago? I thought no one could make it work.”
Humor lit Jace’s eyes as his mouth twitched into a slight smile. “It’s true none of the companies could produce a viable prototype at the time. It’s a little-known fact that the CIA runs one of the best R&D labs in the world. They bought out the patents. Now the technology is used exclusively by the military.”
Castellanos stood. “Any questions for me before I turn this over to Clive? No? All right, then. I’ll leave you to work out the tactics. Clive, brief me when you’ve got a solid plan in place.”
The final tactical assault plan would be based on the exploratory plans they’d made days ago, each iteration modified as more intelligence became available. Each man at the table stayed focused, knowing they rapidly approached zero hour.
Virtually everyone at the staging area, including the press, realized an assault on Otis Fitch’s collection of houses was unavoidable. As the leader of the Citizens for a Free America, his demands during their attempted negotiations were both simple and impossible: Declare his land an independent nation and a nuclear power. Release two of his followers from federal prison. Cease the tyrannical federal control of the two nearby national forests and return the stolen lands back to mill operators and farmers. Stop taxing them, oppressing them, or trying to arrest them. Leave them the hell alone to do whatever it was they did on a daily basis, which seemed to have a lot more in common with drinking moonshine while fishing, drinking moonshine while barbecuing, and drinking moonshine while sitting around a campfire than any actual work.
The independent nation of Bubbafied Whitesonlyland would never happen. The only ones who didn’t seem to realize that were the skinheads themselves.
“I’m breaking you into four teams,” Clive Driscoll said. He read off the names of each team leader and team members. A mix of FBI, ATF, and DHS agents made up Teams One and Two. Mace was glad to see he’d chosen to leave the Delta Force team intact as Team Three. Local law enforcement made up Team Four. “Obviously this plan will be tweaked based on what Jace’s team scouts out, but you can pretty well plan on us moving under cover of darkness and starting the assault at dawn. Catch them in bed, asleep or hung over. Either one’s good.”
Driscoll flipped on the projector attached to his laptop. An aerial shot of the buildings appeared on the tripod projection screen. “Let me quickly run through the buildings we’ve identified. From east to west, we have the main house, with Otis, his wife, and three children. The barn-slash-workshop-slash-equipment shed is this center building, and we know that’s where the nuke is; the HMRU helicopter’s been doing regular flyovers. West of that are three dormitory-style bunkhouses; one for the five women, one for the four men, and one for the five children. We can see that they’re clearing land and building homes nearby, but those aren’t finished yet, so we have them all contained in this one area for now.”
Mace pointed to the screen. “Have you identified the other two buildings?”
“This thing between the male bunkhouse and the one for the children is just a big pole tent. They use it for communal dining. The one next to the women’s dormitory seems to be a canning room, but we think they’ve also dug a root cellar in it. We’ve seen them bring out jars of peaches and pickled beets, and they store their garden vegetables there.”
Mace nodded his thanks.
“Their boat is to the northwest, at the Hoosic River. It’s on a trailer, but the truck’s up at the main house, so there will be no easy escape that way. Also, the guard shack fronts the road up to the main house and is manned 24/7, so we won’t be coming straight in on the road. Everyone good so far?”
Driscoll waited for several heartbeats. When no one said anything, he gave a sharp nod.
“Good. Everyone will carry two weapons. You have your choice of an M-16 rifle or a shotgun, loaded with rubber bullets and bean bag shells respectively. You’ll also carry a sidearm, which will carry lethal rounds. Our objective is to arrest all nineteen of them with zero injuries or deaths on either side. The press has been calling this another Ruby Ridge for days. Let’s prove them wrong.”
Mace nodded along with the others, even though he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the white supremacists wouldn’t give in easily, and some injuries seemed inevitable.
“The house and the bunkhouses are the main threats,” Driscoll said. “We’re going to surround them and hit them from all sides simultaneously. Team One, the five of you will hit the main house. Keep in mind there are women and children in there, but don’t discount the possibility that some of them may also be armed. Fitch’s kids are nine and twelve; more than old enough to have been both brainwashed and taught how to shoot.
“Team Two, you’ll hit the men’s and women’s barracks. Disarm and contain them, then two of you secure the children in their barracks. Keep them contained inside.” He gave a wry smile. “We don’t need a news helicopter getting a shot of us terrorizing kids.”
“We know if there are weapons in the kids’ bunkhouse?” the team leader asked.
“Assume there are,” Driscoll said. “These are zealots, so expect armed resistance. Yes, we’re hitting them at dawn. Yes, we know where the roving patrols and guards are. Still, better safe than sorry.”
“Gotcha.”
“Team Three, you’ll approach from the high ground to the northwest,” Driscoll said, nodding to Jace. “There’s no cover closer than a hundred yards on the north edge of the property, so your approach needs to be under cover of darkness. Your objective is the barn where the nuke is, since you all have training in nuclear weaponry. And obviously we don’t want anyone getting the idea to set it off.”
Mace felt a rush of relief. Driscoll was making sound tactical decisions, making the best use of his motley crew of law enforcement and special operators.
“Team Four, you’re smoke and overwatch. Anyone who tries to escape off the back end of the property, pop smoke grenades and take ’em down.”
Nods all around ensured the professionals understood their objectives.
“The Hazardous Materials Response Unit’s helicopter will assist us with tracking anyone who tries to rabbit,” Driscoll went on. “Once we’ve made the arrests, they’ll land and take possession of the nuke. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir. What will my guys be doing?” the field artillery platoon leader asked.
“You’ll be ready to drop either explosive, illuminating, or smoke cartridges on my mark. You’re a last resort. I’m hoping we’ll be in, out, and done before any news outlets get wind of what we’re doing; but in case they show up, I’d rather the world doesn’t see us bombing homes.”
“Yes, sir. My guys will be ready.”
“Sheriff, I’d sure appreciate it if you and your men would keep our staging area secure while the main assault takes place,” Clive Driscoll said.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Any other questions?”
No one else said anything.
Jace stood. “Clive, I’ll need some of those headsets. Give us an hour, and we’ll go snoop around.”
The team fell in on their leader as he left, grinning and giving each other discreet low fives.
Chapter 40
Thursday, March 2. 3:00 a.m.
Otis Fitch’s Property. Ducard, Massachusetts.
Mace patted his horse’s sweaty neck, trying to get the damned thing to stop skittering sideways. He looked from the narrow track they followed to the steep drop on his right, and nudged the horse’s side with his boot. It snorted and shook its head.
“She can smell your fear,” Alex offered. “Loosen up your grip on the reins. And quit hanging on to the saddle horn like she’s going to buck you off.”
Mace tried to relax, but he’d been butting heads with the stubborn mare for miles. “How do you know she won’t?”
“Cripes, Mace. She’s the gentlest horse I could find in the sta
ble.”
Mace prodded the horse’s side again, and she finally eased away from the edge. “We don’t have horses in the Bayou. Are you sure this isn’t a mule?”
Alex laughed. “I’m sure. Give her her head. She knows what she’s doing.”
For the past ten hours, the team had skied, snowshoed, and crawled all over the landscape in and around Otis Fitch’s property. Leaving visible trails through the snow and trees seemed less risky than allowing an unfamiliarity with the terrain. In such a short time, no way could they know the area as well as men who’d probably lived here for generations. Still, they’d lined up good overwatch and sniper positions, marked two tripwires and four landmines, and neutralized a roadside bomb from the dirt road leading up to the compound.
Gabe, peeved to be left behind, now monitored their progress, ready to update them on any changes on the fly. He chuckled into Mace’s tactical headset.
“Did Alex mention he used to do the rodeo circuit? Rode bulls.”
“I won, too,” Alex bragged.
The horses walked in single file up the steep, icy track. Recent warmer temperatures had half melted the snow, but tonight the temperature hovered at a balmy twenty-four degrees, and snow had started falling around them.
While their two snipers worked their way into position, he and the rest of the team rode the tree line four miles above and behind the compound. From there, they would descend to the edge of Otis Fitch’s property and wait for the go-ahead.
“We’re here,” Mace said. The mare jogged sideways again. A hoof slipped on loose rocks. His mouth flattened as he looked down the steep descent. “Mule, imma ’bout to hurt you.”
Despite his words, he stroked a hand down her neck and rubbed between her ears. She shook her head, making the leather and metal bridle jingle, and followed the other horses off the track into a small clearing. The six of them dismounted.
A deputy sheriff roped the horses together while Mace, Alex, Tag, Jace, and The Sandman pulled their gear off the pack horse. When they were set, the deputy nodded farewell and began the trek back down the mountain, the horses following docilely in a line behind him. Mace patted his mare as she passed.
“Thanks for not bucking me off, mule.”
She whickered in response, perfectly calm now that he no longer rode her, and swished her tail as she followed the horse in front of her.
The five of them already wore specially made gray-and-white headgear that matched their winter camouflage clothing, but now they pulled the protective scarves up over their noses and set the attached night vision goggles. They donned their MOLLE backpacks, then each operator checked the other to ensure everything was locked down tight. Pistols strapped to their thighs and rifles cradled in their arms, they waited for Jace to give the signal to move out.
“Heads on a swivel, guys,” he said. “Let’s assume at least some of these folks have military training. We know they’re not above setting booby traps and mines, so we’ll go in slow and silent. Alex, you set with the capture gun?”
Alex patted the air rifle strapped to his pack. “I have eight tranquilizing darts. Any of the pooches that decide to come our way will get a nice little nap.”
“All right, then. Let’s roll.”
The descent down the mountainside and across the icy river took them almost two hours. Both Mace and Tag took tumbles, sliding on patches of ice and mud on the steep slope until stopped by a rocky outcrop. Despite that, they settled just inside the tree line at the north end of the property, giving the mine a wide berth, at five in the morning.
Alex set the tranquilizer gun next to him on a snowdrift. They’d seen the dogs roaming near the house on multiple occasions, but had stayed upwind so as not to be detected. Now they did not have that luxury.
The collection of buildings were a hundred yards across the tract of high, snow-covered grass. Given the cover of darkness and a great deal of stealth, the operators could cross to the barn-like structure, which the white supremacists also used as a workshop and nuclear storage facility. Mace marked the rusted-out truck and abandoned refrigerator near the barn, the stacked bales of frozen straw midway in the field, and a giant orange tractor-looking piece of farm equipment squatting nearby.
“What is it?” he asked Alex.
“Corn harvester,” the farm boy said. “It’s a self-propelled combine. It should be in the barn. Guess they ran out of room, what with the nuke and all.”
“We’re at the north edge of the property,” Jace murmured into his headset. “Disarming the tripwire now.”
Mace and Tag eased forward to the booby trap, slithering on their bellies because it was virtually invisible in the darkness. If they hadn’t already marked its location, they never would have seen it. Mace pinched the wire between thumb and forefinger, preventing it from tightening as Tag separated it from the trigger, rendering the explosive at the other end inert.
“Clear.”
With help from the helicopter’s searchlight, they had already marked the position of the two thermal imaging cameras. Now, they began the dangerous crossing to the barn.
“Hold.”
Everyone froze at Jace’s soft order.
“Roving guard at ten o’clock. One of those mutts is with him,” the team leader said. “Let’s see if they move on.”
Mace forced himself to patience as the white supremacist trudged from the men’s barracks to the barn and circled it. He continued west past the main house, then turned down the road leading to the guard shack.
“Clear. Moving forward.”
The special operators half crouched, weapons up and ready as they crunched across the meadow. Halfway to their target, the mutt accompanying the roving guard trotted back into view, coming up the track toward the main house. It hesitated, turning in their direction, and gave a questioning woof.
“Alex, you’re up,” Jace said.
The mutt, some sort of Rottweiler mix, loped toward them, its growl clearly carrying across the frigid air. Just as it began to bark, Alex fired the tranquilizer dart. The dog wobbled to a halt, then sagged to the ground. He checked the dog as they passed.
“It’s breathing easy.”
The team continued on, passing some sort of yard storage shed, complete with a painted swastika on its roof.
“Charming people,” Alex muttered.
At last, they reached the northwest corner of the mammoth barn.
“Command, this is Team Three. We’re in position,” Jace said.
“Roger,” Clive Driscoll said. “Everyone’s set. On my mark.”
Mace welcomed the fresh surge of adrenaline. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Three . . . two . . . one . . . go go go!”
Chapter 41
Thursday, March 2. 5:30 a.m.
Otis Fitch’s Property. Ducard, Massachusetts.
Mace burst through the barn door half a step behind Alex. He barely had time to register six warm bodies when someone flipped on the overhead lights. His night vision goggles bloomed out, blinding him with a solid greenish-white haze as the photons pouring in overwhelmed the amplification plate.
Cursing, he tore them off, blinking furiously to adjust to the brightness, already searching for cover. Shots rang out—the chnk chnk of an MP5, bursts from an M-16 assault rifle, the echoing boom of a shotgun. A long, L-shaped workbench, wooden top over brick, ran the width of the barn. Mace fired blindly and dove behind a table saw, Alex sliding in next to him and rolling behind a metal lathe. Neither piece of equipment provided much protection.
“Goddammit,” Driscoll swore. “It’s an ambush. They knew we were coming.”
Yeah, no shit.
He heard the sound of gunfire from outside the barn. Ten feet away, The Sandman crouched behind six black barrels on a pallet. Tag plastered himself to a support beam, risking several peeks around it.
“Three active shooters in the loft,” he reported tersely. “Nine o’clock high. One inside a stall at two o’clock. I can’t see
the others. Damnit!”
Jace rolled from behind a wood chipper and ran, bent over, to a tractor parked at the other end of the work bench, next to several animal pens. Puffs of dirt rose around him as bullets plowed into the floor. “Part of the loft is enclosed; I see a door with a shooter.”
Mace became aware of the terrified screams of horses at the other end of the barn and the bleating and squealing of animals near Jace. He pressed his back along the legs of the table saw, rifle held upright in both hands, and pushed himself up far enough to eyeball the loft. A spray of automatic gunfire slammed into the metal and the work bench around him, causing him to flinch as a shard of wood embedded itself in his neck. He reached up and yanked it out with an oath.
Tag popped out from behind the support beam, firing into the loft. Jace targeted the shooter in the enclosed doorway, hitting him squarely in the chest with a double shot of rubber bullets. The man fell backward into the straw.
The Sandman, crazy bastard that he was, started to laugh. “I’m hiding behind barrels of freaking diesel fuel. Outstanding.”
Christ.
They were sitting ducks where they were. Mace leaped to his feet, running full tilt along the left wall of the barn, beneath the hay loft. Holes appeared above him as someone started shooting through the floor; that gave him the edge he needed as he half glimpsed a shadow above him and fired. His target grunted and staggered away from the bullet holes. Mace continued to fire, emptying his magazine and swapping it out for a fresh one without slackening his forward progress. Behind him, the others leapfrogged forward, firing at half-seen targets.
“Look out!”
Alex careened into Mace, knocking him into the wall. A bullet tore a chunk out of the wooden wall where his head had been.
Somehow, he twisted around, righting himself and bringing his rifle to bear. The blast of Alex’s shotgun nearly deafened him. It hit the man who’d popped out of an empty horse stall, their fifth shooter, straight in the face, and he cursed and doubled over, clawing at his eyes. Alex leaped across the intervening space and tackled him, flipping him onto his stomach and zip-tying his wrists behind his back before the man could rally.