The Heretics of St. Possenti

by Rolf Nelson

  “Is there someplace more private we can talk?”

  The deputy looked around at the virtually empty street and laughed. “Not really. But if it makes you more comfortable, there is decent coffee at the gas station, which is usually quiet.” He nodded toward the place kitty-corner from where they were.

  Reno sniffed and nodded. They walked over in silence.

  After getting a coffee and taking a seat at the single small table with suspiciously comfortable seats, Agent Horiuchi got right to the point. “I was told you have had some contact with an operation near here that claims to be a religious nonprofit which makes ammunition. What can you tell me about them?”

  “Nice folks. Really nice. Very supportive of the local community and well liked. One of them saved my life a few years ago when….” Angelo’s eyes narrowed. “Why, exactly, do you need information on them?”

  “Not your concern. What can you tell me about their compound? Aerial photos make it out to be about four hundred feet on a side.”

  The deputy looked acutely at the man across from him. Skull shaved, sunglasses even inside, a crisp shirt and jacket over a regulation shoulder holster. He sat back and laughed out loud. “Reno, you’re going to raid them, aren’t you?”

  “Shut up! Not so loud,” Agent Horiuchi hissed.

  Angelo shook his head with a smile and looked down as he stirred a little more creamer into his coffee. “Man, are you guys walking into a minefield.” He looked up. “No. Actually, it’s a lot worse than a minefield. I’m sure it’s not your plan, but someone higher up just saved your life.”

  Mark gave the local deputy a what do you mean? look.

  “The Abbey of St. Possenti is a very peaceful place. It’s full of very good, very peaceful men. But it’s full of men who know what non-peaceful really means. And it is the very last place on God’s green Earth that you’d want to raid in force for some suspected paperwork violation even if you have artillery and close air support on call.”

  “They have filed a large amount of clearly fraudulent tax return data. They have multiple layers of shell corporations. It’s the sort of setup we see when people want to hide transactions and income. They make it look like a religious educational nonprofit, but they are paying millions in Pittman Robertson excise taxes, which would only be due if they have tens of millions in revenues and substantial profits, but they pay zero income tax. Zero. They claim zero employees, and nobody from this area is claiming any taxable income from any of their corporations. That just doesn’t add up. They are stealing that money straight out of government coffers!”

  “Don’t know anything about the tax side of it. But there is no question they are religious and educational.”

  “No honest faith-based organization would ever make ammunition. None! It’s such a stupid scam I have no idea why they were not shut down before now. But they will be. We will march in there with an entire platoon of guys, take every scrap of paper and computer record they have, and get to the bottom of it all. Make no mistake, it will be a very thorough operation.” Reno lowered his voice, which had been slowly rising with his anger. “So what can you tell me about their compound?”

  “Just to make sure I understand you correctly,” Angelo said, slowly swirling his coffee and looking intently at the agent’s reaction. “The plan is to take a platoon of wannabes to make a raid on a battalion of infantry vets with serious combat experience, guns, PTSD, a private ammo factory, a custom-built castle-like stronghold with bulletproof walls, and a deep devotion to God, mission, and one another? Guys that I know from first-hand experience are very good with guns. And cool under pressure. Very good, and very cool. Uhh… no, I don’t see anything that might possibly go wrong. In fact I see great saving in retirement payments in your department’s near future. I’m sure it would cause the abbot great distress… but I’m pretty sure they could make every one of your raid team disappear everywhere but Sunday confession. And they’d like as not confess to each other, say one rosary in penance, and then take a vow of silence.”

  Reno looked back at the deputy, his expression blank.

  Deputy Gonzales noted a pickup truck rumbled slowly past in the reflection off the coffee machine and park at the store. “C’mon.” He rose and walked across the street to where the agent’s car, his SUV, and now the pickup were parked. He didn’t look back to check to see if the agent was following. Halfway to the store, the agent caught up with him. “It’s Tuesday,” the deputy said cryptically.

  He led the agent into the store, up one aisle and down another, saying hi to the manager as he passed. He paused in aisle 3 of the grocery portion of the store to grab a box of crackers. Further down the same aisle was a pair of monks in brown habits loading up two carts. Angelo looked at them, then pointedly looked at Agent Horiuchi, and without a word he paid for the crackers and left, trailing a somewhat confused agent. When they got to where Reno’s car was parked, he just said, “Follow me,” before he hopped into his own SUV and drove off.

  When Gonzales finally pulled off the road and parked next to a large and nondescript building, the agent behind him was livid. He’d tried to call the deputy several times, but Angelo had refused to pick up.

  “Where the HELL do you think you are going?” he demanded when he jumped out from his sedan. “What is this place?”

  “Exhibit A. The ammo factory.”

  Reno pulled his eyes off the man before him, whipped around to stare at the building, and then followed the uniform as he walked toward the door. “No, no! You are going to give away the operation! Stop. I demand you halt!”

  “Mister, I’m saving your life. Shut up and walk.”

  Deputy Gonzales knocked on the locked door. When a voice issued from a speaker next to it asking who it was, his reply was simple. “Deputy Angelo Gonzales. Is Abbot Tom or Brother Hugh here?”

  “No, it’s… let me see. I think the Father Abbot is saying Mass about now, and Brother Hugh is likely instructing on the range. Are you here to pick up the county’s 9mm order?”

  “Order? Oh, that. No, hadn’t planned on it. It’s ready then? Already?”

  “Sure. Locals move to the head of the order line. Can your vehicle handle the 600 pounds?”

  “Should be able to. Yeah, since I’m here, why not?” He looked at the agent fuming next to him. “Got a friend along. Can he get a quick tour?”

  “No problem,” came the voice from the speaker. The door buzzed as the latch clicked open. Gonzales pulled the door open, and they walked in through the security “airlock” doors. Inside was a clean, orderly plant, packed to the rafters with machines humming along, heavy-duty industrial shelving stacked with product and raw materials, and busily working monks in habits as well as a few men in street clothes. All wore hearing protection from the noise.

  The tour didn’t take long, after which the deputy’s SUV was loaded with 20,000 rounds of 9mm ammo. There was no question in Agent Horiuchi’s mind that it was a legit ammo manufacturing plant with a huge stock on hand, and the men inside certainly looked like monks, and the men in normal clothing were being trained and sounded like they were newbies getting shown the ropes. But it’s easy to put on a front if you are expected, he told himself, and he didn’t know what Gonzales’s connection to them was yet.

  The drive to the abbey was not very eventful though he thought the stonework around the entrance looked impressive, and the gate was massive enough that he figured if it was closed against them, it would take an MRAP or bigger to breach it. Fortunately, they had one lined up. Off-road vehicles could drive around it perhaps though that route looked dicey, what with soft, well-plowed fields and drainage ditches. Or were they drainage ditches? As he looked at them more closely, he wasn’t so sure of their purpose. The drainage looked conspicuously generous. But at least he was getting a firsthand look at the place, so the raid plans would have few surprises.

  Gonzales pulled to a stop before the gate and rolled down his window. The gate guard/porter rose from his open,
tiny, and medieval-looking but covered shelter where he’d been meditating and politely asked their business. He looked very much the part a monk, with a robe and a cowl. After exchanging a few brief words with the deputy, he opened the gate and waved them past.

  The deputy drove slowly on the curving road. The landscaping on each side looked nice, with orchards, vines, and groves, but it gave him very poor visibility. He had no idea what he might see around the next corner, and the curves were such that anyone driving on the road would have to go slowly. Any surprise would be close.

  He didn’t see any of the many places that might be able to see him back.

  Coming around the curve, he saw the twenty-plus-foot stone wall, huge gate tower, contoured ground, and arching church roof from ground level. The sight brought his mental plans up short. He’d seen aerial photos of a large square, big enough to land choppers in, even as large as a CH47. But assaulting this place… suddenly didn’t look so attractive. The orderly rows of trees and berry bushes, men working in the plowed fields, a platoon-sized group of men in mixed short habits, similarly colored tunics, and street clothes, carrying Pulaski tools, and singing a cadence-like hymn as they walked briskly out toward a space obviously being cleared by hand to extend the orchards, all gave the impression of a beehive of activity. Very orderly, disciplined, and energetic male activity.

  When the low-riding SUV parked next to an older, heavily modified, and very out-of-place-looking beige building, he was uncertain. He stayed in his car while the deputy hopped out and talked with a passing brother briefly, who directed him to another one. The deputy waved him over. Reluctantly, Reno exited his vehicle and stepped onto the packed gravel. Angelo made introductions. “Reno, this is Brother James. James, Reno. He’s a federal compliance inspector being given the runaround, and I thought a tour of the place might be just the thing to help straighten things out. And I’d like to say hi to Brother Hugh Antczak if he’s available.”

  James looked at Reno acutely but said nothing immediately, and Reno said nothing back.

  “Certainly. Right this way.” The tour was a cursory one, pointing out major features and activities, many of which appeared to involve instruction of newer people who wore similar brown tunics or ordinary street clothes. The stretching and calisthenics going on in the central courtyard, surrounded by the still unfinished walls and with choir practice and sounds of instruction carrying clearly on the afternoon air, was much more than an obviously pieced together show for a ruse.

  The walk up to the range was beautiful and surprisingly quiet. When they arrived, a class was just breaking up, and the novices were getting ready to practice their rifle work while the more experienced monks spotted and coached them. Hugh’s face lit up with a grin when he saw the deputy, and he greeted him with a warm hug.

  “Bless my eyes! How are you doing! Is the shoulder finally all healed up now? You were still in PT last I saw you. Full duty?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine! Doing fine, thanks to you. I bumped into Maria and little Hugh the other day. They are both doing well, and he’s getting big! A high-speed little guy getting ready for kindergarten now.”

  Hugh held out his hand to Reno. “Brother Hugh, currently the primary range instructor for the postulants and struggling novices here at the abbey. Any friend of Angelo’s is welcome here.” Hugh looked at the dress and attitude while the deputy made the introduction. “Not here as an applicant, I’m guessing.”

  “No. I’m not interested in mysticism or religious things.”

  “So you are here for…?”

  “He thinks your educational and religious nonprofit status is a sham,” Gonzales said bluntly. “I’m here to save his life before he raids the place.”

  The first round went off, an 8mm Mauser four positions down, making Agent Horiuchi jump. Hugh handed them earplugs and pushed his own electronic earmuffs up off his neck and over his own ears. They retired to the modestly sized and somewhat soundproofed range control room, where they talked for nearly a half hour.

  Hugh kept an eye on the range while they talked. Angelo briefly explained how they’d met. Hugh was open about all the things they spent money on for training, feeding, supplying, and supporting four hundred men and why he was there. He was just as open about the many things that were on the when-we-can-afford-it list.

  When it looked like the shooters were swapping positions with their spotters, Hugh suddenly asked Reno to pick a number from one to thirty.

  “Thirty,” came the crisp response.

  Hugh stood, walked briskly from the room to the line, and then walked to the far right side. “Position thirty. Brother Leander, a moment if you will.” The man in ordinary clothes was getting comfortable behind the scope and handing a stripper-clip of ammo to the brother in full monk’s habit with a rocker and star on the back.

  “Yes?”

  “What have you learned in the last week?”

  Leander shrugged and rattled off a list of things from cooking to windage.

  “How’s it shooting?”

  “Sighted in for two hundred. I think. Groups are the size of a barn door.”

  “May I try?”

  “Certainly, Brother.”

  Hugh called in a loud voice, “Quiet on the line!” Hugh took the postulant’s rifle from the rack behind the line and looked at the sights carefully. He loaded it with five rounds from the stripper clip and then worked the action on the Mossy M44. “Spot for me,” he asked Leander quietly as everyone else on the firing line looked on expectantly. Hugh folded the bayonet out into the extended position.

  “D’oh!” said Leander, wincing and realizing the mistake that his coach had deliberately not reminded him of. Standing like a statue, Hugh raised the rifle carefully, sighted, and fired.

  “Two inches high,” said Leander, eye on the scope.

  Hugh worked the action and fired again. A moment later the ping of lead on a 10” circle of steel reached their ears. Leander didn’t need to say anything. Another shot, another ping. Two more shots in the next ten seconds, two more lead splatters on the steel plate. Hugh handed the rifle, bolt open, to Leander. “Works fine. Details are important, Brother Leander. Here and elsewhere, every day. You were not the first to make that mistake, and you will certainly not be the last. Carry on.”

  The others on the line grinned and joked softly about the rookie mistake—some hoping to avoid it, others having experienced it themselves—while Leander replaced his rifle on the rack behind the line. On position six the postulant in street clothes quietly folded out the bayonet on his own rifle to the amusement of his spotter.

  Hugh looked down the line. “Volley fire on the 400-meter target for position fifteen! That’s to the immediate left of the road. Make ready. On my mark!” There was a scramble to adjust sights, load, and acquire a comfortable firing position. Up and down the line there were hurried instructions and corrections by the spotters to make sure the marksmen were lined up on the right target and comfortable. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Everyone ready? Spotters?” He checked the line. All the spotters gave a thumbs up. “Breathe in. Three, two, one, FIRE!” All thirty of the rifles crashed with near simultaneity. The ground around the steel at 400 meters erupted with dirt and dust. The plate was bounced around mightily under the onslaught.

  “Excellent, excellent!” called out Hugh. “Spotters, call your corrections if you have them! Another shot in twenty seconds!” Hurried talk and then another volley went downrange as before. More hits this time. “Okay, as you were. Back to your normal targets, brothers! Well done. Very well done, indeed! Thank the Lord and your spotters there was no crossfire on the last volley!”

  Hugh turned his attention back to the robed monk who had been Leander’s spotter. He was somewhat older than most of the men on the line and had a star between a single chevron and two rockers on his back. “How would you feel if the abbey went away, Brother Whidmer?” he asked as quietly as the range noise would allow.

  The man frowned deepl
y. “I would be deeply disappointed. Very deeply. The abbey is saving lives and souls every day. I’d keep on praying for them. Many churches need priests these days. But I’m sure many of these good men would take it very badly. This has been their lifeline, a return to sanity for them.”

  Agent Horiuchi considered the display of marksmanship he had just witnessed, the number of men he’d seen and heard about, and the stacks of ammunition piled neatly in the range control room and at the manufacturing facility. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as the Atacama.

  Epiphany.

  He understood what Deputy Gonzales had meant.

  The raid as planned was not simply a bad idea. It was absolute suicide. The monks had a fire-watch, and men were up at all hours of the day and night. Yes, with the element of surprise they might be able to round up and subdue many men. Yes, many might meekly turn the other cheek and let the lawyers sort it out. But the chance of surprise for everyone was very slim at best, and it would only take this range full of men described as struggling to turn any ordinary platoon-sized element he could gather into so many bullet-stops… and this was only a fraction of the four hundred supposedly here. After the first shot fired was heard, there’d be no cheek left to turn and no turning back; these vets would assault through the ambush. If more than a few of the rest were anywhere nearly as good as Brother Hugh was so readily able to demonstrate… well, it wasn’t quite a Matthew Quigley bucket shot, but as someone who struggled with the timed ten-meter E-silhouette during qualifications, for Agent Horiuchi it was quite impressive enough.

  Education was clearly happening.

  They were clearly religious.

  There couldn’t possibly be profits enough from an operation so small with costs this big. They had to be spending a lot of money on these men. If it were a government operation, it would be well into seven figures a year at the very least. There was no way from what he could see that they could support this many men on one little ammo factory even if it were run entirely by volunteers as he was told.