“‘The path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, shining brighter and brighter until midday. But the way of the wicked is like the darkest gloom; they don’t know what makes them stumble’,” Anna quoted from the Book of Proverbs.
Frances screamed, “Don’t try that crap with me, you traitor. You hate your country and you have tried to infiltrate our ranks. You are a liar and a hypocrite. We are America’s only hope out of all this chaos. We will lead the sheep into green pastures, not your weak emasculated excuse of a god.”
“Good bye, Frances.” Anna pressed the “end call” button on her phone, and she found herself involuntarily taking off her shoes and shaking the dirt off the soles into the waste basket.
Frances O’Donnelly continued her rant into her cell phone for several minutes, unaware that Anna had hung up. She was dressed in grey-green digital camouflage fatigues. A tactical holster strapped to her thigh hung from a black nylon belt. Frances wore the Glock 17 nine-millimeter pistol with the same ease that most women wore a scarf.
She paced back and forth in her office at the newly acquired Mountain Inn in the midst of the Pawtuckaway Forest, ten miles north of their former encampment at Zolino’s Vineyard. The Vibram soles of her tan combat boots pounded the hardwood flooring.
“Can you hear me, you miserable whore?” Frances shouted. “Answer me, you ignorant tramp!” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Hello? Hello? You coward. You hung up on me. You will be sorry. I will deal with you soon, and it won’t be pretty.”
Then she realized she was yelling into a dead connection and that Romano Goldstein was observing her from the doorway of her office.
Frances hurled the phone at the nearest wall where it splintered into pieces.
“What do you want?” Frances said.
Romano cocked his head to the side and gave Frances a look that she took to be judgmental.
Frances felt him scolding her with his eyes, then he said, “Nice to see our chairwoman has it all together today. We are ready to move out to our assembly area in Massachusetts. When you come down from your tirade, you might wish to join the convoy.”
“You’re such a pompous jerk, Romano, you know that? Always the morally superior one, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you something: if you had half the….”
Romano stepped close to Frances and grabbed her by the shoulders, “Get ahold of yourself, woman.” He shook her violently. “This is no time for emotion. We all need cool heads. We demoted Randal for this very reason. Now Frances, look me in the eye.”
Frances restrained herself. Her right hand was on the stock of her Glock, and she knew she could draw it, even with Romano’s hand on her arm. Her chest was heaving. Whatever it was that had come over her was sifting away under the weight of Romano’s calm authority.
“Okay, Romano, I got it. Get your hands off me.”
Romano backed off. “The units have formed up in order of march. The convoy is ready to depart. You must address the fighters.”
Frances walked down the long driveway alongside the line of vehicles. She had personally selected the cars and trucks they would use for the drive to their four assembly areas on Cape Ann. No two were alike. Frances had given them fifteen different routes to their assembly area. She had clothed her soldiers in casual civilian clothing, and she arranged each vehicle group to appear like families or students or workers.
As she passed the van driven by Randal Sanford, she caught the vicious sneer on his face. She had found it necessary, upon Randal’s demotion to squad leader, to have Andrew reprogram his mind and create a veil of restraining energy around his body as a means of rendering him compliant to Frances’ orders and instructions.
With bullhorn in hand, Frances mounted a boulder so all the drivers could see her. She readied herself to address the war party.
Frances was barely aware of the almost imperceptible humming noise that vibrated from Romano Goldstein’s voice box. Unconsciously every member of the Directorate’s attack force was humming one of the notes in the eerie chord designed by Goldstein to alter the state of the atmosphere around each vehicle and around their brains. Once the discordant notes began vibrating through the air, no one but Romano Goldstein and Andrew Johansen were aware of the noise.
“Soldiers of the Directorate,” Frances addressed the convoy. “You are embarking on the most important battle in the history of the United States of America.”
Her voice was not her own. It was empowered by a force beyond her control. Over the past few days, Frances allowed herself to become seduced by this strange dark force because it gave her the sense of fulfillment that neither Anna Stone’s warmth nor the vodka could give her. Her new spiritual energy gave her the strength to assert herself over everyone. She was well aware of the commanding impact she was having on these men who were driving to their deaths.
“Failure is not an option. Your squad leaders will not hesitate to kill anyone who shows cowardice or reluctance in the attack. You will move forward into the enemy’s defenses and drive them into the sea. They are vermin. They are subhuman. They are destroying America and they must be terminated. You are the instrument of the Directorate’s wrath to exterminate this fly in the ointment.”
Through the windshields of the vehicles near Frances, she could see the eyes of the soldiers bug out, their mouths and nostrils gaped open, entranced by the harsh dissonant harmonic that defied natural acoustics.
“You are no longer humans with natural emotions,” Frances said. All of the former beauty of her face was contorted into a mask of raging fury. “You. Will. Obey. My. Commands.”
Some of the soldiers were bleeding from their ears and noses.
“Repeat after me,” said Frances, “I. Will. Obey.”
And she kept up the chant as the company of robotic troglodytes chanted back in that eerie, piercing wail, “I. Will. Obey.”
Then to Andrew, “Andrew, reduce the hypnotic chord to operational mode.”
The enormous wormlike electromagnetic field around the convoy abated as the drivers started their engines. The soldiers recovered from the intense brain-numbing charge and they entered a relaxed mode, still quietly humming the notes of that horror-movie chord.
Frances’ driver held her coat open and she slipped her arms through the sleeves and buttoned it over her military battle dress. She jumped into the command van. Andrew sat in the back, concentrating on his screens, viewing FITO’s troop movements at Cielavista. The Directorate’s attack force rumbled south through New Hampshire toward Cape Ann.
Henry gave Beto a gentle shove to wake him. “Coffee’s on, buddy.”
“What time is it?” said Beto, squirming out of his berth in the comfortable cabin of Water Walker.
“Zero-five-thirty. I’m going to put on a pot of oatmeal, okay?”
“Yeah, good,” said Beto. He shoved his muscle-bound arms into the sleeves of his thick canvas jacket and clomped up the steps to the main deck.
Beto sipped the strong black coffee and looked out over Gloucester Bay. In a few minutes Henry joined him carrying the coffee pot and two bowls of oatmeal with raisins, almonds, and honey. He set them down on the table between the two swivel chairs in the helm and the two fishermen bowed their heads. Beto blessed the breakfast.
“What do you make of that weather pattern?” said Henry, looking out to the south.
“I know; strange, right?” said Beto. He gazed south at the predawn sky.
Henry said, “Those clouds slither around like a swarm of snakes. See how they churn around the full moon, blocking it out and then letting it shine through? Weird.”
“Never seen anything like it,” said Beto. “What’s the Doppler Radar showing?”
Henry scrolled the computer screen to the weather mode and focused in on the shoreline to their south.
“Look. A tight, local weather system hangs steady over the city of Salem. The movement of the pattern is violent, flaring out in all directions like rays of some kind of ionic energy,” said He
nry.
“What are you planning for today?” asked Beto.
“Well, we need fuel, so we’ll run over to Rose’s Marine at seven when they open. I’d like to have them look at Water Walker’s prop too. We may have nicked it when we hit that driftwood yesterday. Probably get underway around—what ?— noon or so.”
Beto checked the fishing report, “They say they’re getting yellowfin and bluefin out in the deep waters.
“Small craft warnings later today,” Beto clicked over to the marine weather website. He read, “In effect 5:00 p.m. EST this evening. Southwest winds 20 to 30 knots, gusts up to 40. Seas 2 to 5 feet.”
“So what do you think, Beto?”
“This trawler is made to take those big waves, so I say go for it,” he said.
“We got a plan then,” said Henry.
Over the rim of his coffee mug Beto looked at Henry’s eyes. Henry caught him staring at him.
“What?” said Henry.
“Nothing, amigo, nothing,” Beto said. “I’m loving this new Captain Courageous I’m fishing with. The old Henry I once knew and loved would have left the boat at the mooring and headed for the high ground in weather like this. Believe me, I’m not complaining. Those tuna are hungry and we have plenty of bait. Let’s get this baby fueled up and serviced and head out.”
Henry took their bowls and spoons to the galley, threw them in the sink, and left them there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sandy began the battle briefing with prayer. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for leading us in all our preparations for this battle against your enemy. We thank you for providing us with these angelic warriors to protect us from evil forces in the heavens. We are Task Force Saber. We belong to you. Amen”
“Amen,” echoed the assembled warriors in the briefing room of the barn. Every leader and every warrior was present for the battle briefing except those manning the observation and listening posts on Cielavista’s perimeter.
“Each of our commanders will brief his portion of the operation,” said Sandy. “But first I want to tell you how impressed I am with you. Our American colonial minutemen would be proud of you. I know that God’s grace has empowered you all to band together against our evil enemy. I thank God for your humble obedience to his commands.
“Commander Carlos, begin the tactical review of our mission.”
Sandy was so familiar with the war plan she hardly heard Carlos’ words. She had combed over every detail, refining, rehearsing, assembling all the resources. She knew precisely what each subordinate unit was going to do every second of the battle. Still she agonized over lethal violence looming on the horizon.
She stood against the wall of the barn, arms crossed over her chest, one boot cocked against the wall. She disengaged her overextended mind from the battle ahead. In these rare retreats from her mental immersion in the battle plan, she felt like an underwater swimmer breaking the surface and filling her lungs with fresh air.
Sandy’s mind wavered. She savored her newly found powers of prophesy and telekinesis, but she worried about Gabriella. She admired Carlos’ amazing ability to train a family of landscapers into a crack fighting force, but she struggled with Hank’s erratic behavior. She relished her role as the senior leader of Task Force Saber, but her heart ached at her separation from Henry. Even as she watched Henry and Beto on Gabriella’s sky screen defeat the Directorate’s amphibious attack at the Nubble Lighthouse, she craved her husband’s presence.
Sandy tuned in to the battle briefing.
Carlos carefully presented the scheme of maneuver. “Anvil-Alpha will take your positions on the perimeter and engage the enemy as he approaches. You will be prepared to fall back to your prepared positions in phases, taking advantage of our natural terrain features.” Carlos pointed to the gravel road that followed the valley through the center of Cielavista.
“Striker-Charlie, you will attack the enemy force as it breaches our perimeter, here,” Carlos pointed to a section of the perimeter’s defensive line. “Conduct an orderly retreat back down the prearranged route, drawing the enemy into our trap.
“Anvil-Bravo, you will occupy these positions at the rear of Cielavista on the ledges overlooking the ocean. You will hold the enemy in place until I give the order to evacuate.
“Striker-Delta, you will take up your ambush positions here,” Carlos pointed to the heights on both sides of the valley. After you let Striker-Charlie deploy past you to their ambush position, you will rain down the wrath of God on the enemy with maximum explosives and firepower.
“This is the primary kill zone.” Carlos pointed to the section of the valley that had once been his prized flower garden. “The enemy attack force will be trapped on four sides. I estimate that by the time they reach the kill zone, we will have reduced their numbers by fifty percent.
“The battle here will be violent. At my command, we will conduct an orderly exfiltration of the battle zone.”
A new image came up on the screen. Carlos pointed out the four escape routes down the ledges to small craft moored at the base of the cliff.
“You all have rehearsed our evacuation procedures, and you all know which set of ropes you have been assigned. As soon as each boat is full, it will take off to the rally point two miles north on the coast.
“God is for us. Who can be against us?” Carlos said and he passed the pointer to Roberto, Commander of Company Anvil.
Sandy’s hand fell on Cinnamon’s nose as the faithful pony nuzzled her side. She looked over at Hank who sat on the barn floor with the Australian Shepherd across his lap, the Bull Terrier under his arm, and the two Wolfhounds at his feet. He was unconsciously stroking the thick white hair on John’s broad chest. His eyes were glazed over. Sandy knew he was far away from the briefing room. Her feelings of helplessness gnawed at her heart.
She shook herself back into the job at hand. The briefing was over. They were all looking at her. Carlos had called on her to pray. She didn’t know what to say, so she repeated the warrior’s psalm.
“Blessed be the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle; my lovingkindness and my fortress, my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield and He in whom I take refuge, who subdues my people under me.”
They all looked into her eyes and she looked back into theirs. “A sword for the Lord and for Gabriella,” she said.
“A sword for the Lord and for Gabriella,” they repeated.
Behind the wheel of the sixteen-passenger Mercedes van with smoked side windows, Carlene drove to their assembly area. Firdos sat next to her, studying the GPS map on his mobile phone. Twelve large infantrymen sat in the rear, all stoned on Romano Goldstein’s pharmaceutical cocktail.
“How you doing there, Firdos?” said Carlene. She glanced at her faithful disciple’s unreadable face.
Firdos kept his eyes on his small screen, but his mind chased off in another new direction. He contemplated the implication—that for the first time in his life someone seemed to care about how he was doing. His obsession with this woman swelled up inside him. His imagination took him to scenes with her that sent him into fits of arousal he could not control. Now he perceived something deeper.
“Fine, I guess,” he said. “Do you care?”
It was a blunt, simple question, but Carlene had connived every step of her control over her emotionally impaired pawn.
“I am pleased with your performance, Firdos,” she said. “You have proven very useful in your role as a seer. Now we expect you to lead troops in combat. I want to know how confident you are in that role.”
“I will do anything you ask of me to the utmost of my ability,” Firdos said.
“What more could we expect of you?” said Carlene. “Now give me a detailed briefing on what you are going to do in this attack.”
Firdos turned to face Carlene. He recited his part of the attack plan in the same digital tone as a recording device. “I exit this van in the field where we park and inspect my men to make sure
their weapons are loaded and their arrows are properly secured for easy reloading. Before we leave the field, I make them repeat their instructions to me.
“We take the dirt road from the field to our position at the attack site. My squad will be in the center of the line of attack in the woods on the opposite side of the road from the entrance to FITO’s encampment.”
Carlene interrupted his recitation, “What are these FITOs?”
“They are insects that must be crushed,” Firdos recited. “They have no business taking up the air they breathe, the food they devour, or the space they inhabit. Those filthy worms have infected the noble efforts of the Directorate. We will annihilate these foul cockroaches tomorrow on Halloween.”
Firdos looked to Carlene for approval.
“Well done, Firdos,” said Carlene, “now continue.”
The diagram of the objective appeared in Firdos’ mind—a mile wide and a mile deep, mostly thick forest, with the estate at the far end near the cliff overlooking the ocean. Firdos could envision the symbol on the battle map signifying his squad at the head of the attack force. Alpha Company had the sector to his left and Charlie Company had the sector to his right.
“My squad is Bravo Company’s lead element of the center sector,” Firdos said. “The bell at Saint James Episcopal Church will strike twelve times. At the first toll our artillery begins their barrage. At the third toll my squad advances across the road and charges into the enemy’s perimeter. We will engage their defenses and kill them until we reach the cliff where we will consolidate with our adjacent units and secure the objective. No prisoners. We kill them all.”
“What else?” Carlene said.
Firdos looked out the windshield. The vanilla fragrance from Carlene’s perfume warmed his chest. “The first man in my squad to hesitate in our attack I will kill,” Firdos said.
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