FreeAmericans responded furiously to this new information, drawing the obvious conclusion that the dead Dobermans, the ten millimeter brass, the backhoe and the ready TV crew meant that the Edmonds fire was surely another government sponsored arson and murder attack, designed for public consumption, in order to heighten the perception of a rampant “militia” threat.
Fitz could not recall ever seeing a reply posted by “Virginia Peanut” before, and clicked on the name to get his posting history on FreeAmericans. Fitz was not in the slightest bit surprised that Virginia Peanut had signed onto FreeAmericans only today, meaning that the information could be false, planted by a “troll” for an unknown reason. But it was more likely that the new poster did in fact have first hand knowledge, and was afraid to post under a traceable account, so he had created a new one with an instant Hotmail or Yahoo email address. Fear was in the air, and such precautions were only reasonable.
A new internet acronym had been born on FreeAmericans in the past two weeks: LAL, which was not to be confused with LOL. LAL stood for “lock and load,” it meant that some kind of a shooting war could break out at any time, and the midnight knock on the door could be the “gun Gestapo” coming for you. Many FreeAmericans wrote that they did not plan to “go quietly” if they received a midnight battering ram or flash-bang grenade greeting from Uncle Sam’s black-clad minions.
Unlike the majority of network news consuming drones who they derided as “sheeple,” FreeAmericans were not fooled by recent events, and while many of them had hidden their now illegal semi-autos and scoped rifles, virtually none had turned them in or destroyed them. Thousands of FreeAmericans had even informally organized a nationwide campaign to mail pictures of their so-called “assault rifles” and “sniper rifles” to Washington as a stark warning.
This new information from “Virginia Peanut” about the fatal Burgess family house fire pushed Mark Fitzgibbon, the semi-retired computer network consultant, over the precipice he had been balanced on the edge of for the past two weeks. He disconnected from the internet and clicked off his computer, and sat alone in the dark for long minutes staring at the illuminated face of his digital desk clock.
Mark Fitzgibbon had not always been an old fat bald guy, a revelation which might have surprised most of the people who knew him today. In fact, in a much earlier life, he had been involved in certain activities on the behalf of his government, which were not completely unlike what he was seeing on television and reading about on the internet this September.
In a previous life, a much younger (and leaner) Mark Fitzgibbon had been a Navy SEAL, leading teams of mainly ethnic-Chinese Nung mercenaries throughout the Mekong Delta and all the way up into Cambodia, on missions which were in some ways similar to what he was now observing in Virginia. But that had been in a foreign country during a prolonged and vicious guerrilla war, and his targets had in fact been secret Viet Cong “tax collectors” and spies and terrorists, living undercover lives in the Republic of Vietnam.
Fitz had only been an E-6, a Petty Officer First Class, during his second tour in-country, but running “PRUs” or “Provincial Reconnaissance Units” was not a task which was assigned according to rank. Most of the other SEALs in the Rung Sat Special Zone operated in seven man squads and 14 man platoons, as he had on his first tour with SEAL Team Two’s Third Platoon in 1967. But because of his obvious ease with the local cultures and his amazing aptitude for Asian languages, he had been approached by the local mission of the “Christians In Action” about operating with the PRUs, wiping out secret VC where ever they could be found. (It hadn’t hurt that he was a dark-haired “black Irish” and stood only five foot eight: he could blend in better than most Americans in an all-Asian patrol file.)
He had agreed to lead the PRU mercenaries on behalf of the CIA, he’d done his new job and done it well, and he’d had no regrets. Their targets had been bloody-handed communist butchers, who ruled in secret by murdering and terrorizing the inhabitants of any hamlets which wavered in their support for the Viet Cong communists, or dared to back the RVN. These VC terrorists, who wore no uniforms, were merely being paid back in their own coin, and Fitz had zero regrets about sending them to hell a few years ahead of schedule.
But this time Mark Fitzgibbon, fat and old as he was, decided that he would not sit passively by while his own government ran a new “Operation Phoenix” against its own citizens, right here in the USA. He walked to the kitchen and opened a cold Harp Lager, brought it back to his office, and closed the door.
Then in secret, he prepared and loaded a more dangerous weapon than the FBI or the BATF had ever faced in their long histories of battling Mafiosi, drug cartels, outlaw biker gangs, spies and terrorists. Fitz had designed and created this unique weapon long before, largely as an intellectual challenge, but he had hoped that the circumstances would never arise where he would have an actual reason to use it. That began to change after the Stadium Massacre, and now, two weeks later, he was beyond the slightest doubt or possibility of hesitation.
Tomorrow morning he would fire his home made weapon directly at the federal government.
33
The rest of the Special Training Unit was finishing breakfast in the mess trailer or was outside doing physical training in small groups when the Gold Team rolled into the annex. Hours before, not long after Victor Sorrento had been smoothly snatched, Michael Shanks had phoned back a coded message indicating that his mission had failed. The black SUVs and the Virginia Power commo support van rolled into the vehicle hangar, and twelve tired and sullen operators and three tech support guys got out; scratching, stretching, spitting and muttering. They had put the bench seats back into their Suburbans for the long highway pursuit.
Blue team members in PT gear and running shoes immediately began to razz them, looking in the open vehicle doors. “So where’s your prisoner?” They peered under the seats and among the gear bags in back, saying, “He must be in here somewhere” and, “Damn, that Gittis must be a little shit.”
In return they got only scowls, curses, and brown gobs of Copenhagen snuff spit at their feet.
Shanks said “Yeah, assholes, next time we’ll take the corner bar, and you can drive 300 freakin’ miles in the pouring rain to Hickory Goddamn North Carolina!”
“Hey, if the Gold Team can’t hack it…”
Bob Bullard walked up, hands in his pockets, expressionless, and the banter and insults stopped. He didn’t PT with the young operators, and was already in his personal “field uniform” of a khaki-colored Dickies work shirt and matching trousers. A cocked and locked .45 government model pistol was holstered on his right hip.
“Okay Michael, let’s take it to the office. We’ll debrief last night, and talk about what’s coming up next.”
****
There was already a pot of strong coffee brewed up in the kitchen corner of the office, along with an open box of convenience store donuts. Bullard, Silvari, Jaeger and Shanks sat around the beat-up conference table, Joe Silvari was enjoying his morning Pepsi with a cigarette. (No one ever mentioned second-hand smoke in the STU: any such whiny expression would earn an immediate smoke cloud blown in the offended party’s face, and a casual but quite earnest invitation for him to try to put it out.)
Bullard led off. “Malvone’s up in DC. He’ll be down later today, maybe. Hammet’s at the Norfolk Field Office; he’s going to swing by the Joint Task Force ops center and then come down later. Robbie’s family has his body, we’ll see if we can cut some guys loose for the funeral when we find out when it is. The troops are all up and fed, so let ‘em PT until 0900, then get them on gear maintenance while we work on the mission planning.”
Silvari was blowing smoke rings, Jaeger was rocking back on his chair, and Shanks appeared much more interested in his coffee. In fact, any of them could repeat Bullard’s words back almost verbatim; it was just that visibly paying close attention to leaders was considered uncool, almost as bad as brown nosing.
The STU
was a unique group of characters, with a serious anti-authority streak running through them. After all, Wally Malvone had hand picked them, and they were all trouble makers of one sort or another. Their only loyalty, if it could be described as such, was to each other. Among the STU Team members, the greatest possible sin was showing weakness under pressure, or fear in the face of danger. This welded them into an effective force, but one which considered itself apart, and not beholden to any authority outside of themselves.
Bullard continued. “Tim, send some guys up to Home Depot and get a new hot water heater, a big one. The shower situation is totally unsat. And make sure they know we’re in isolation here, and that OpSec still comes first. No bar hopping, zero, nada, I won’t tolerate it. Home Depot and back; we can’t afford to get sloppy.
“I know it’s a little basic down here, tell the boys we’re looking at some local motels. No promises, it’s still up in the air. It’s not the money that’s the problem, it’s maintaining operational security, and that depends on them.
“Anybody got any bitches I haven’t covered?” Nobody did. “Tim, you don’t need to go over last night’s mission; I already heard it and there’s not much to learn from telling it again. Blue Team did a real slick ‘old buddy’ op on the plumber, just like a training exercise. Tim, you’ll get to work on him after PT, okay?”
Tim Jaeger remained expressionless, not wanting to be seen gloating after what had admittedly been an easy operation. “Sure. He should be ready to talk by now. We left him in the hurt locker over night.”
Bullard turned to the Gold Team Leader next. “All right Michael, go ahead and tell us about Gittis.”
Michael Shanks, unshaven and bleary eyed, still wearing yesterday’s green plaid shirt and jeans, sipped some more coffee, sighed, and began his story. “Well, you know that commo got a fix on his cell phone down I-85 around Durham, and we took off after him around 19:30. Once we had his cell phone codes cranked in, the techs were able to keep it transmitting, sending out its ID every three minutes, you know the deal. So we figured it would be a straight forward chase; just a lot of driving to catch up, and then we’d get him when he stopped for the night. We’re making ninety to his seventy on the GPS map plotter, so it’s just a matter of time.
“North Carolina state police tried to pull us over once, but we used the grill lights, flashed our FBI creds, said howdy on the radio and kept on trucking. After that, they stayed out of our way. We figured Gittis was going to stop for the night sooner or later, but he just kept on driving.
“This side of Hickory we finally caught up to him. He made a gas stop, but it was at a terrible location for a snatch. He just got his gas, pulled through, and kept going. The place was too small and well-lit, and there were too many witnesses around. The Suburbans would have stuck out too much if we took him there. Maybe we should have gone for it, I don’t know… Anyway, around 12:30 he pulled off at a rest stop. And by the way, it wasn’t a Winnebago: it was a fifth-wheel trailer behind a big black Dodge Ram crew-cab truck.
“So we hung back; there’s almost nobody there. Gittis pulled in on the tractor trailer side of the rest stop, so we parked on the car side, and I got out with Baltero to do a little recon. Pistols only, under our raincoats, with suppressors and white lights. We found his trailer and watched him from the bushes between the car side and the truck side of the rest stop. Gittis got out and made a check on his rig, then he went inside it; it’s got a side door at the back. We didn’t know if he was going to go to sleep for the night, or just use the john and then keep driving.
“So we were playing it by ear. I was making up two plans: a dynamic entry by the full team later on if he went to sleep, and an immediate action drill if he got out to start driving again. So Baltero and I stayed in the shadows, and worked our way around him until we were about ten yards behind his rig, still mostly crouched down in the bushes. The trailer’s side door was on the driver’s side, the same side as us.
“We were only there a minute or two, scoping it out, and the side door popped open. Gittis stepped out and turned toward the truck: he was leaving. So I decided to go for it and do an immediate action with Baltero. We looped behind him; it was dark, he’d parked in a spot with no lights. It was drizzling, so our approach was nice and quiet.
“He opened up the truck’s door, I’m ready to yell “freeze, police!” and blind him with my gun light if he turned, and that bastard spins around and starts shooting! Just like that! He must have had ESP, or maybe he saw us in the side mirror, or heard us, I don’t know, but he made us somehow. Anyway, Baltero caught two in his vest, and I nailed him with my Glock. Double tapped him, killed him. It couldn’t…I couldn’t, there wasn’t anything else to do when he turned and fired first. We just didn’t expect it, I never saw it coming, never saw the gun; it was just out. BAM BAM! A Browning Hi-Power, nine mill.
“So I called the rest of the team on the tac channel to hold them off when they heard the shots. It was already over, and I didn’t want too many footprints on those muddy paths. We took his wallet and his cell phone and pager to make it a robbery, like a mugging gone bad. And we took his gun, of course. Baltero went into the trailer real quick and grabbed his laptop and some notebooks, and we went back through the bushes to the car side of the rest stop, and then we all took off. We purely screwed the pooch Bob, and I accept full responsibility. I didn’t take into account he might make us and shoot first. I shouldn’t have gone for the immediate action; I should have waited him out, and kept following him.”
“You positive he’s dead?” asked Bullard.
“Yeah, very positive. Two .45 caliber silvertips through the heart.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No. Well, I guess it’s possible, but we didn’t see any. There were a couple of eighteen-wheelers parked on the main lot about two- or three-hundred feet away. Gittis was pulled over near the return lane to the highway where it was darker, all by himself.”
“Did you see any local LEOs?”
“No, none. No cops.”
“Okay then, lessons learned. Shit happens. Going for the immediate action drill on him half-cocked wasn’t a great idea, but I can see you didn’t want him driving another three-hundred miles. So what’s done is done… And we can’t get lax, we have to assume these dirt bags are armed at all times, and act accordingly. When we get time we should schedule some more snatch and takedown training. No doubt about it, Blue Team had the easier op last night. Shake it off, do better next time. How’s Baltero with getting tagged in the vest?”
“He’s sore as hell; we weren’t wearing our plates so he got some nasty bruises. But he’s a professional; he’s okay with it… It won’t turn him flaky, if that’s what you mean. He’s half Mex and half Apache, and he doesn’t rattle. That’s why he’s my point man.”
“Good, that’s what I want to hear. Go get breakfast, and give your guys a couple hours of rack time if they need it. Hammet’s at the Joint Task Force getting up to speed. When he gets back we’ll decide who we’re going after next, unless Wally calls us with a new mission first.”
****
Brad used the pay phone outside the restaurant to call East Sails, and ask about the status of his genoa jib. They were treating themselves to a sit down breakfast at the pancake house on Magruder Boulevard in Poquoson, and planning their day. It was still overcast after last night’s rain, but the streets were dry, and it was warm enough for him to dress in his preferred polo shirt, khaki boater’s shorts and docksiders. When he came back inside he tried to appear nonchalant as he slid into the booth across from Ranya. Their breakfasts were finished and cleared away except for their coffees; she was reading today’s newspaper. An aerial view of the line of cars and emergency vehicles at the Hoffler Boulevard exit ramp was on page one, but he noticed she was reading an article on the Sanderson assassination investigation on an inside page.
“The sail’s ready; we can pick it up any time.” This meant Guajira would be ready to sail away as so
on as the new jib was installed. The East Sails loft was only ten minutes away in Newport News. He couldn’t read her reaction; Ranya was wearing wrap-around fake Oakley-style sunglasses and a black Ruger firearms ball cap. Her brown ponytail was pulled through the opening at the back of the cap. She was being very cautious, using the hat and shades as a form of disguise, he thought. As soon as she had pulled off her motorcycle helmet, she had put on the hat; she seemed seriously worried, almost paranoid, about being recognized. The logo on the front of the hat was of the stylized Ruger gothic eagle embroidered in red; only a shooter would recognize its significance, to the rest of the world it would be meaningless.
Ranya had explained to him that she had gotten all sorts of firearms-related gear through Freedom Arms; the manufacturers frequently sent out promotional items pushing their lines. She had always enjoyed wearing t-shirts and hats from Colt, Glock, Winchester and Remington at school for the shocked and stammering reactions they had caused; she enjoyed upsetting the PC sensibilities of the typical anti-gun university liberals. Now these hats and t-shirts were a last connection to her past, the past that had gone up in flames. She had brought the Ruger hat to the boat after she had taken the truck to her apartment to pick up the clothes and things she needed. All that she owned she had either recently purchased, or she had brought down from UVA; everything else had, of course, burned with her house. She was wearing her jeans and jean jacket and boots; her Yamaha was parked outside next to his pickup.
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