Randal huddled with his six squad leaders in the equipment room of the boathouse.
“You idiots are pathetic,” he said. “You couldn’t get your soldiers assembled. You did a miserable job getting them on the trucks, and when the time came to mount our attack on the target, you failed to respond to my commands. The only thing keeping you from execution is that I don’t have time to train another team of seers and operators, and we have another target to attack in the next three days.”
“Sir?” said one of the leaders.
“What, Carlene? What is it?” Randal said.
“The lighthouse and the island were abandoned. Our recon team scoured the place and there was not a soul in sight.”
“I don’t want to hear any of your weak excuses. You all failed to attack. You let one volunteer Coast Guard Auxiliary crew interrupt our advance. And you, Firdos, you failed to catch that other launch. You let them get away. You’re useless.” He pulled Firdos to him by the shirt front and punched him in the face. Firdos crumpled to the floor in a heap.
“We will return to the vineyard. We will regroup, retrain, and reequip. And you will be prepared to attack target number two in three days. Now get your worthless animals on the trucks and follow me back to camp.”
The men boarded the trucks and the leaders approached their cars when the blue police lights flashed into the marina’s parking lot.
“Carlene,” Randal said, “Call Andrew, quick. We need these cops hypnotized. Now.”
Carlene called Andrew. “Code blue my location, situation urgent.”
Randal looked at Carlene and walked over to the police officers. She nodded to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Morning broke on York Beach, burning off yesterday’s fog bank. Maine State Police Lieutenant Ralph Churchill and York Village Police Chief Rebecca Quigley pulled into the lot of the private marina on the Piscatagua River. As Churchill leaned out of his cruiser, Randal Sanford greeted him with a smile. An unusually pleasant sensation overwhelmed the trooper. Chief Quigley walked up next to Trooper Churchill and smiled at Randal. They listened to the nice man’s explanation of why they were there and they waved to him and his friends as they drove away in a convoy of box trucks and cars.
Lieutenant Churchill turned to the York Village Police Chief and said, “What a mix up, huh, Rebecca?”
“Yeah, and to think we might have mistakenly arrested the lot of them. I’m glad we figured it all out before we took any action.”
“Just goes to show you some of those rich folks can be really nice,” said Churchill. “That they would take the time and spend the money to give those unfortunate veterans a nice cruise in their luxury yachts. And we thought they were responsible for that Coast Guard Auxiliary boat that blew up from a faulty fuel tank.”
“Nice people,” Chief Quigley kept repeating, “real nice people. Hey, you wanna join me for breakfast, Ralph? We deserve it after this incident.”
“Sure, Chief, sounds like a good idea.”
The last of the Directorate’s vehicles pulled out of the marina’s parking lot. Rebecca reflexively pulled out her notebook and checked the license plates against her notes.
“Hey Ralph, there’s a BOLO out on this plate, Massachusetts 440-D85, silver Honda. The driver’s name is Carlene Wood,” said Rebecca.
“Any instructions?” said the state trooper.
“No, just notify FBI.”
“Aw forget it. Those feds don’t have to know everything our good citizens are doing.”
And the law enforcement officers—still in their hypnotized trances—walked arm in arm to the Sea Side Diner for their “Double Barrel Special”—four eggs, four links of sausage, and a double order of home fries. Free coffee refills.
Sandy climbed up the rocks from her ledge. She’d been watching the Directorate’s actions at Cape Neddick and Hank’s unauthorized attack on their camp. She was forming a revised defensive plan to counter the enemy’s new strategies. She knew the Directorate’s plans before they wrote them. Sandy quickly trained herself to transform her fear and worry into the mental energy she needed to lead her forces into battle.
Carlos met Sandy when she reached the yard at the top of the cliffs.
“No one has seen Gabriella for twenty-eight hours,” said Carlos.
Sandy’s appearance slid downhill since Henry left a week ago. She was always casual in the way she threw on her clothing, but now she was just plain rumpled. She dressed in black sweats, and since the fall temperatures on the shore had dipped down toward freezing, she threw a grey hooded sweatshirt on over her unlaundered clothes.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Sandy. “I refuse to believe the worst. You would think that of all the visions I have seen out there on the rocky neck, I would get some impressions of Nonina’s whereabouts, but no. Nothing. Just the actions of that lunatic army and their botched attack on Cape Neddick, Maine.”
Sandy’s hoody was still damp from yesterday’s rain. Overhead, the grey lid of clouds slowly pealed back across the sky from north to south.
Carlos said, “Dear girl, let’s go to the cottage and get you a dry jacket, okay?”
He slid his hand under her arm and led her to her house. Carlos’s wife was stirring a pot of beef stew on the kitchen stove.
“In the hall closet here,” said Sandy, pulling off her hoody. Carlos pulled a cable-knit wool sweater off its hook and held it open for Sandy to slip her arms into the sleeves.
Sandy and Carlos sat at the kitchen table. She unscrewed the pressure valve in her mind and let some of the stress seep out. The homey smell of Yolanda’s cooking, the comfort of Carlos’s words, and the familiar warmth of the kitchen embraced her.
“My husband has abandoned me and my Nonina has disappeared. God, I hope she’s not in danger. My son turns up here, but he’s only a fraction of himself. I don’t know why they released him. When he’s not conducting a combat patrol, he’s staring at the sky. And we have turned this wonderful, peaceful place into an armed camp, and your sweet family into a battle-ready infantry brigade.”
She crossed her arms on the kitchen table and put her forehead down on them. Her unwashed mop of white hair fell down over her arms. Carlos and Yolanda sat across from her and prayed silently for their dear friend.
When Sandy sat up she said, “How about some of that stew?”
After a few spoonfuls she said, “Carlos, we have a new enemy situation. We will have to restructure our defensive strategy.”
The elderly couple watched Sandy as her countenance changed from the defeated, befuddled woman to the empowered commando captain.
“What is happening?” said Carlos. “What are you seeing out there?”
“Two significant enemy actions. One, they have attempted an attack on the lighthouse at Cape Neddick, Maine, the decoy location that Gabriella had created to throw them off. She transmitted an energy source underground from the granite rocks here on our shoreline through a vein of iron ore that runs all the way to the Maine coast. She had your grandson Beto and Henry to sail to Cape Neddick to fish— establishing a human presence there. Those two elements fooled the enemy into believing that we had moved.
“Well, the Directorate launched an attack on the Nubble Light at Cape Neddick yesterday and it was a total failure. Henry and Beto in their fishing boat foiled their operation. The Directorate discovered that the Nubble Light was uninhabited.”
“Okay,” said Carlos, “sounds like a victory for our side—gave us more time to prepare defenses.”
“It would seem so,” said Sandy. “However, my son has put us in danger.”
Sandy stood up from the table, her soup bowl empty. She paced over to the dining room and stared out through the bay window at the unclouded sky.
“Hank, in his attempt to eliminate our enemy, took a small team of saboteurs and invaded their camp in Sandown, New Hampshire. He neglected to take Lucille along with him, so he had no contact with our angelic sky guard. The enemy’
s operations officer recorded Hank’s patrol.
“Hank’s team crept into their camp, which was almost deserted except for a few of their executive board members, placed explosives on all their buildings, and blew them up.”
Carlos and Yolanda could not suppress their involuntary smirks at this audacious move.
Sandy detected their response. “I know,” she said, “seems like a good move, but it will prove very troublesome for us. There is among their leadership an ingenious young technician who monitors their telepathic-telekinetic network. He’s the one who has been supervising all their murderous attacks over years. He and their executive officers survived the demolition of their encampment.
“This operations officer, I labeled him ‘Enemy Ops-1,’ lost his primary operations center with its equipment, but he had installed a portable system in the van that he travels in. Within a few minutes of Hank’s attack, Enemy Ops-1 booted up his equipment and he was able to trace Hank and his attack squad.”
Carlos’ face hardened as he absorbed this new development. “The enemy must have located our precise location. Your prophetic vision is as powerful as Gabriella’s.”
“Yes,” said Sandy. “Let’s get over to our operations center and prepare for an attack.”
Sandy gave Yolanda a long hug and thanked her for the stew and the love that helped restore her courage.
“Come here, girl,” Yolanda said. The stout Hispanic woman took Sandy by the arm and led her into the bathroom.
“Get those filthy clothes off and get in the shower.” It was an order. Sandy looked at Yolanda, sighed, and obeyed.
When Sandy stepped out of the shower, she felt another measure of stress drain out of her as she dried off and donned the clean set of clothing that Yolanda set out on the bed.
Yolanda came in and placed Sandy in front of the mirror and said, “Stay.”
She took a comb from the shelf and quickly unsnarled Sandy’s twisted nest of hair.
After five minutes of work with the comb and brush, Yolanda said, “Well it’s not what it should be, but at least you don’t look like a bum. My commander must be presentable, you understand, little girl? You gotta take care of yourself or you’re no good to any of us.”
Sandy looked at herself in the mirror. She was grateful for the attention. Then it dawned on her. This compulsive drive that forced her to work beyond her strength was the same compulsion that drove her son, Hank, as an Army Ranger. He failed to take care of himself because of his misguided drive to expend every ounce of energy on warrior work.
Sandy was experiencing it for herself—to fall into that adrenaline-induced cycle of action-response-reaction without taking any time to stop, mentally process what was going on and pray. Sandy was becoming aware of the blessing that had just befallen her through the kindness and grace of Yolanda and Carlos. Their love for her and attention broke her destructive cycle and woke her up.
“This is how it happens to them,” Sandy said to Yolanda as the women walked down the stairs to the living room in the cottage. “Soldiers, cops, firefighters, ER nurses, anyone in a high-stress job that involves traumatic incidents. It’s so easy to ignore what’s going on inside their minds while they operate under the influence of all these highly charged chemicals in their heads. There’s even an addictive kind of enjoyment, I have to admit. I can’t explain it, but when you’re charging around in a dangerous environment, making decisions, thinking the world is depending on you for survival, facing death in the teeth, you feel superhuman.”
On the front porch of the cottage, Carlos was looking out at what had become a military fortress. He spoke into his radio, giving instructions to Roberto, the Anvil Company Commander.
Sandy shook her head violently and felt herself released from under the weight of her dysfunctional obsession.
“Thank you, dear Yolanda,” said Sandy, “You’re a wonderful friend.”
“Only do what God has equipped you to do,” said Yolanda. “Do not try to take care of His business. This battle is not yours, Sandy, the battle belongs to the Lord.”
Sandy put on the clean jacket over her fresh clothes.
“What have we got, Commander Carlos?” Sandy said.
“I’m directing Roberto to build overhead protection on all the fighting positions. The enemy has indirect fire weapons. The kind that lob high over obstacles and come down from above,” said Carlos.
“Where did you get that intelligence?” asked Sandy.
“Same place you do. Evidently, this position of commander in God’s Army comes with some of that divine communication that you and Gabriella have. I saw the sky full of arrows, like a cloud, blocking out the sun.”
Sandy joined hands with Carlos and Yolanda. They prayed together. A stream of worship rose up from the porch of the cottage and a waterfall of divine courage poured down into their hearts.
“I’ll be out on Gabriella’s rock,” said Sandy.
Carlos said, “It’s your rock now too.”
Mounted bareback on Sadie, Carlos rode through the network of defensive positions at the Cielavista estate. He and Roberto had laid out the fortress with three objectives: protect their forces, funnel the enemy into one avenue of approach, and provide for an orderly evacuation.
“What are you seeing overhead, girl?” Carlos said to the horse.
Both man and horse gazed out over the ocean where the sky was painted red, amber, rust, and a deep evening azure. Carlos leaned over Sadie’s neck and absorbed what she was seeing. The angels were forming a phalanx of defensive lines—clothed in full armor, swords drawn, shields up. Michael sent out scouts to the south where a swarm of demons was marshaling.
“Ask them why they’re forming on our southern flank,” said Carlos, and he waited as Sadie got the answer and put it in her mind.
“Ah, yes,” said Carlos, “All Hallow’s Eve in Salem. The witches and warlocks and magicians are making preparations for their Black Mass, scheduled for midnight, October thirty-first. I’m sure the Directorate has included this annual satanic festival in their plans. That means our angels will have to split their forces—some shielding us from the demonic tribes in Salem, some remaining overhead, engaged in the battle against the demons.”
The Task Force Saber soldiers were hard at work improving their fighting positions, erecting roofs to protect them from indirect fire. One of Roberto’s assistants walked up to the horseman.
“Good evening, Commander Carlos,” he said. “We’re just getting ready to have our evening meal. Come, join us for supper.”
Their field kitchen under the oak trees in the woods on the western perimeter of Cielavista consisted of a simple tarp over a cooking fire next to a table. A black cast-iron kettle hung over the glowing embers from a tripod of steel rods. One soldier was ladling thick chowder from the kettle into bowls and handing them to another soldier who placed them on the table. The men and women ate standing up.
“I want you to pack six inches of earth on your overhead cover,” said Carlos. “I am expecting fiery arrows and darts as the enemy’s primary artillery.
“I estimate that the enemy will attack in two days, Halloween night. They will be depending on assistance from their demonic allies in Salem. Remember this, my brave brothers and sisters, no weapon formed against us will stand.”
Carlos spent the night stopping at all the defensive positions encouraging his troops. His last stop on Sadie was with Striker Company under Frederick’s command. There he dismounted and had them review their battle plan with him. Before the morning twilight, a young nephew came up to Sadie and gave her an apple. Carlos put his arm around the youth and asked him how he was doing.
“Uncle, I am proud to be in your service. We will win this battle,” he said, “because we trust you and we trust our Lord. A sword for the Lord and for Gabriella.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Randal and his convoy from Cape Neddick approached the driveway of their former training camp, now a pile of smoking rubble.
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br /> Romano flagged Randal down at the entrance to the vineyard. “We have relocated,” said Romano.
Randal signaled the convoy to pull over. “Why?” Randal said.
“They blew up all our buildings. No one got hurt. Follow me.”
Randal’s mouth hung open as Romano walked back to his vehicle and climbed into the passenger seat. They started to pull away, but Randal just sat there in his truck.
“Let’s go, Randal, move out,” said Romano, sticking his head out the window.
In a few minutes, Randal’s wretched attack force pulled into the gate of their new quarters, the Mountain Inn. Romano yelled to them to park the trucks and file into the lobby where they would get their room assignments. The exhausted soldiers quickly complied and the executive board assembled in the ballroom with their key squad leaders.
Randal chose a seat at the table as far from Frances as possible. The chairwoman took her position at the head of the table. The squad leaders found seats on the chairs against the walls of the room.
“We have had two setbacks,” Frances said. “One, a failed assault on Target One, which apparently was deserted, and two, we suffered an attack on our previous location. We could hang our heads and feel defeated. But we will not. We could be humiliated, but we will not be. We could fold up our operation, tail between our legs and run away, but we will not. Everyone stand and recite with me our pledge.”
In unison, the board members and the squad leaders stood and said, “We are the Directorate. We humbly accept our role as the overseers of the free world’s institutions, and where necessary we will carry out our duty to prune out those branches that hinder the healthy advancement of the American culture. Duty. Honor. Oversight. Always loyal to the Directorate.”
“Be seated. I want every one of you to sit up tall, heads raised, and take a deep breath.” Randal did as she ordered.
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