Rockets, 30mm antipersonnel shells, and machine-gun fire riddled the woods below. Rainey directed the rocket launchers, barking orders into the mike of his headset. Behind him, Metzinger’s backup force was prepared to engage the Rangers when they were dropped on the mountain.
“Ignore the gunships!” Rainey yelled. “Take out the big ones, get the personnel carriers.”
Rockets streaked through the night, some missing their mark, others clipping rotors, zapping into the fuselages, eventually finding the fuel tanks. The first two Pavelows went down in flames. Ninety Rangers and the crews of both choppers were killed instantly. But the Specters were taking a deadly toll on the ground. Rocket, cannon, and machine-gun fire chopped up the forest below the snow line. Trees were snipped off, the ground erupting with deadly missiles. Men screamed as mortar fire ripped into them.
Rainey watched as the rocket snipers around him were taken down one after another. He grabbed a Stinger, jammed a rocket into it as the ground exploded, and sent a rocket into one of the Specter gun-ships. The chopper keeled over and ploughed into the hard earth. Its rotors shattered and caterwauled down into the battle zone, chopping men down like cornstalks. Fire lit up the zone.
Rainey called up reserves from Metzinger’s backup force. They rushed up, grabbing the missile launchers from fallen comrades, and desperately tried to fight back. The second Specter took a mortal hit. It plunged toward the battle line as its pilot tried vainly to get it under control.
Rainey was directly in front of it. He turned to run as it hit the ground, showering snow and dirt ahead of it. Like a burning, out-ofcontrol bulldozer it followed him into the forest, a banshee of twisted metal and fire, and devoured Rainey before he could escape its path. Then it exploded, and the trees around it burst into flame.
In the eerie light of the fires, the big Pavelows rumbled over the side of the mountain and swept over the wreckage. Droplines were lowered and Rangers rappeled down, hit the ground, and sought cover in the tree line. Bullets peppered the ground around them.
“This is Metzinger,” the major said, his voice remarkably calm. “We got Pavelows up here. They’ve made landfall and there are others coming in.”
“Tell Rainey to bring more rocket launchers up there,” Shrack ordered.
“Rainey’s dead. I’ve got my people handling what we’ve got up here but I need reinforcements now!”
“We’ve got an intrusion along the north line and another on the south line. I can’t spare anyone else.”
In the terrible first rush of battle, Chip Metzinger was separated from his father. He heard a rumble like thunder overhead and, looking up into the darkness, saw the grim shape of an enormous twin-engine Pavelow. It was directly overhead. Fear ripped through him like electricity. He raised his M-16 and fired at the shape, the gun kicking his shoulder as he emptied a clip into the black mastodon hovering above him. Wind from its big blades swirled around him, showering him with debris. Broken branches and dirty snow assaulted him, blinding him for a moment. When he opened his eyes, he saw half a dozen grim forms dropping down toward him. He was frozen with fear. His gun was hanging uselessly at his side as he stared up. He heard the deadly chatter of several assault weapons a moment before a dozen bullets tore into his body, knocking him six feet backward. He died staring terrified into the dark sky above him.
MISSOULA AIRPORT, SATURDAY 7:29 P.M., MST
The airport was a flurry of activity. Below them, Vail and Firestone saw two C-130s squatting on the tarmac while Specter and Penetrator gunships and enormous twin-engine Pavelow personnel choppers were taking off into the night.
“My God, they’ve got Specters and Penetrators down there!” Firestone said. “And Pavelows.”
“I don’t know what any of that stuff is,” Vail said.
“Gunships and troop carriers. The Specter is one of the deadliest aircraft made. The damn things cost seventy-two million bucks.” Firestone radioed the tower for landing instructions.
“Sorry,” was the response, “this field is closed to civilian traffic. I can reroute you to—”
Vail cut in. “This is Assistant Attorney General Martin Vail with U.S. Marshal Sam Firestone,” he said sternly. “I am supposed to be in charge of this operation.”
“Sir, General James is in charge. Colonel Rembrandt is the field commander but he’s pretty busy right now.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn,” Vail snapped back. “I want some landing instructions.”
There was a moment of silence, and then: “All right, sir, if you will hold your altitude and circle southeast of the field we’ll bring you in as soon as we have a clear runway.”
“Roger that,” Firestone replied. He banked and headed south of the field. “They’re in a full-scale attack,” he said.
“What the hell happened!” Vail said, not expecting an answer.
“I guess the Man got pissed off,” Firestone said laconically.
“Pissed off? Pissed off! He’s the President, for Chrissake, he’s not supposed to get pissed off.”
“You can tell him that if you want to,” Firestone said. “Far as I’m concerned, he’s the Man. He can do anything he wants to.”
“We’ve got a war going on over there, Sam!”
To the southwest the sky was lighting up like the Fourth of July. “Judging from what I can see down below, I don’t think it’s going to last long.”
THE AIRPORT, SATURDAY 8:44 P.M., MST
“Colonel, what the hell is going on? What is the military doing here?” Vail demanded.
“Executive Order of the President,” Colonel Rembrandt said. “They shot down one of our choppers. We have engaged the enemy.”
“Where’s Hardistan?”
The colonel pointed to the plateau opposite the saddle on Mount James. “He’s there with the field commander, Major Barrier.”
Vail understood immediately that the command post was no place for him to be. His first thought was to get to Hardistan on the plateau. “I need to be up there with him,” Vail said.
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t authorize—”
Vail ignored him. He took out his secured cell phone. “I’ll see what Attorney General Castaigne says about that,” he said.
“Sir, I wouldn’t bother those people right now. The cabinet is with the President at the White House.”
“Then I’ll call every damn one of them.”
Firestone laid his hand on Vail’s arm. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “We were cut out of the loop.”
Vail’s shoulders sagged. Betrayed, he didn’t know what to do next. “Colonel,” Firestone said, “I’m a qualified pilot and have a lot of hours in choppers. Suppose I fly Mr. Vail up there in the FBI helicopter that’s sitting down on the flight line.”
Rembrandt’s earphones were squawking with the sounds of battle. He waved his hand in frustration.
“Check with the dispatcher and make sure you have a clear flight path. We got Specter, Penetrator, and Pavelow choppers all over the place up there. I don’t want you people getting eaten up by one of them.” He turned back to the battle.
MOUNT JAMES, SATURDAY 9:54 P.M., MST
The big Pavelow helicopters proved the most effective weapons against the militia. Backed by the deadly Specter choppers, they were big enough to resist the heavy winds on the mountain, and with their seats removed, could transport forty-five men into the battle zone.
Wave after wave of the big choppers swept over the mountain, then hunkered down and dispelled their cargo. But the plan to form an arc of troops and force the Sanctuary down the mountain had to be abandoned. Men scrambled over the mountain, trying to avoid mines and wire. The militia held stubbornly, refusing to give up their ground. At the top of the mountain, on the snow line, Metzinger had taken down another Pavelow. He had fallen back only when overwhelmed by numbers. In the insanity of the battle he had lost track of Chip and prayed that his son was farther downhill, away from the brutal close-quarters fight to hold the snow line.<
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Now Metzinger was forced to retreat. He and what was left of his four squads backed down the mountain, firing their M-16s and AK-47s into the dark woods. Around him was the constant din of gunfire, bombs exploding, and the worst sound of all, men screaming for help in the dark.
In the bunker, Engstrom tried to follow the war going on outside on large plastic boards but it had become futile. The Rangers were closing in on three sides. Rentz was holding the line on the north side of the battle zone, but the south side was in total chaos and he had no idea what was happening.
And still the Pavelows came in, bringing more Rangers and more firepower, their crews spraying the ground from the windows with Gatling guns, the barrels spinning in giant cylinders.
Rentz and his people were dug in a hundred yards from the rim of the north face, but the withering fire from the Specter and Penetrator helicopters was ripping his force to shreds. In the darkness, the bizarre whine of the Gatlings was terrifying as it sprayed thirteen hundred 25mm rounds a minute at the militiamen. Cannon shells ripped into Rentz’s troops, dismembering and maiming them. They inched back on their bellies just ahead of the withering firepower of the Specters.
Then Rentz heard the rumble of a Pavelow. It rose over the side of the north cliff and headed in to drop its payload. Inside, Captain Krantz directed four more airborne troop carriers as they invaded the zone from the north face.
Rentz slammed a rocket into a Stinger and aimed it straight at the cockpit. Chopper and man were almost eye-to-eye, separated only by scorched earth and the stumps of pine trees. He fired the rocket and watched it squirrel through air. It was a direct hit. The cockpit disintegrated. The stricken troop ship dipped and crashed into the north face. Inside, Captain Krantz and forty-five of his men were thrown around the interior of the big ship like Ping-Pong balls as it scraped down the side of the mountain and smashed into the bottom of a thousand-foot cliff.
A moment later a second Pavelow dropped safely on the ground and its cargo leaped out. Sergeant Williams led the charge, a 30mm Gatling gun whining and spitting in his enormous arms. He laid down a barrage and his men followed him as they charged Rentz’s tattered line. Williams saw the major stand, his teeth bared, an M-16 pointed to fire. He swung the Gatling gun around and sent a dozen 30mm slugs ripping into Rentz. They stitched up his body, ripping him to pieces, and blew off his head. His headset soared through the air and fell on the ground.
Williams kept going, the Gatling spraying death in the path before him.
THE PLATEAU, SATURDAY 11:18 P.M., MST
It had taken two and a half hours for Firestone to get clearance to take off. He guided the little chopper in from the south, skirted the cliff side, and slipped under the high ridge that protected the plateau, setting down near one of the three Humvees comprising the small command post. At the back of the plateau and hard against the side of the ridge, Hardistan, Major Barrier, and four Rangers were huddled over a map spread on the hood of the Humvee.
Vail was stunned. He was not prepared for the enormity of the battle being played out before him. The entire hill was ripped with grenade and rocket fire. The wreckage of burning choppers lit the night sky. Vail had expected a skirmish. He had flown into a war.
Barrier ignored Firestone and Vail as they jumped out of the chopper. Hardistan was genuinely shocked to see them.
“Are you two nuts! What are you doing up here?”
Vail glared at him, jerking with every explosion.
“This started out as my operation,” he said. “Are you forgetting you work for me.”
“Go back to the base,” Hardistan said without rancor. “This is far too dangerous and you can’t do anything more.”
“I thought you’d like to hear firsthand. We got the link. I could have gotten the indictments.”
“Congratulations,” Hardistan said.
Vail looked across the gorge at the battle zone. He picked up a set of earphones and held one side to his ear, listening to the sounds of battle. Men were yelling for support where there was none; dying men were crying out for their wives and mothers; some damned God, others were praying.
“Waste of time,” Vail said bitterly. “All a big fucking waste.”
“Marty, there’ll be plenty to do when this is over. There are five or six hundred men over there in the zone. There are another four or five thousand out there somewhere.” He waved his hand toward the valley.
“I can’t tell shit,” Barrier barked into his headset. “We got a half dozen Pavies down and four or five Specters. Cap’n Krantz is dead. Our people are all over the hill. It’s madness over there.”
Vail stared hard at Hardistan. He was remembering photos in the vast data files he had studied. Photographs from Murrel Bay when the FBI took down Matthews. Arkansas when Gordon Kahl got it. Waco. Ruby Ridge. Even the other night at Bad Rapids.
“You’re always there, aren’t you, Billy? Sitting in the background in a Jeep or standing in the crowd, always ready to give the big nod. That’s it, isn’t it, Billy? You’re the one that always pushed the button. You’re the fucking Angel of Death.”
Hardistan was unfazed by the remark. “I didn’t give the nod on this one, Martin. This one went right to the top.”
“Am I just paranoid? Was I brought in just to give Pennington the ammunition he needed to take down Engstrom?”
A mortar shell sighed overhead and exploded twenty feet away and Hardistan never answered the question.
MOUNT JAMES, SUNDAY 2:21 A.M., MST
The battle was continuing insanely. In the eerie light of burning helicopters and trees, the two forces were locked in deadly hand-to-hand combat, fighting with knives, pistols, bayonets, even fists. The militiamen ran over their own mines and were engulfed in their own razor wire. In close-range firefights, Rangers and militia both were shot down by their own friendly fire. The militia was overwhelmed by numbers and technology.
And there was no letup. The battle blazed on relentlessly. Some of the troops were deaf from the constant sound of gunfire. Others wanted to surrender but died before they could, as Army troops charged over their decimated positions.
Metzinger shot at targets of opportunity, making out the dark Army combat uniforms in the light of fires that speckled the entire zone.
He heard the now familiar chunchunchun overhead and looked up to see a squad of Rangers rappeling down their lines. He opened fire, which was immediately returned. He felt the vicious kick of a .30 caliber bullet tear into his thigh and another nick his shoulder.
He dragged himself away from the descending marauders and ran into a bank of razor wire. It sliced through his clothes and flesh as he rolled and kicked his way over the fence. He got to his knees and crawled forward. His hand felt the mine in the soft earth a moment before it exploded in his face.
SUNDAY 5:06 A.M.
Sergeant Williams had been carrying Rentz’s headset in his pocket since he had killed the militia officer. He took it out of his pocket and spoke into the mike.
“This is Sergeant Williams, U.S. Army Rangers,” he said. “Anybody there?”
In the bunker, Engstrom heard the soft voice. He hesitated and then pressed the button on his mike.
“This is General Engstrom, Sergeant,” he said.
“Sir, I feel compelled to inform you that you are defeated. Why not give it up and save what few men you have left.”
“I appreciate your concern, Sergeant, but we are committed to a course of action. I’m afraid there is no turning back.”
Behind him, Stampler, alias Abraham, said, “There are two women back here, General.”
Engstrom turned and looked at him with mild surprise. He had forgotten Abraham’s concubines.
“You and your goddamn whores!” Shrack snarled.
“I didn’t know it would come to this.”
“You’re the great Prophet Abraham, I thought you knew everything.” Stampler merely smiled at him. “How about it, General? Can I bundle up these young ladies and get
them out?”
“You should have done that hours ago.”
“I was busy informing the world what’s going on up here,” he said. “Like they won’t find out,” Shrack said with disgust.
“Not from our point of view. They know now.”
“That’s enough,” Engstrom said. “Do they have warm clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Well, hurry it up, then.”
Stampler went back to his quarters.
The two teenage girls cowered in his small bedroom. The bed was a snarl of bedclothes. Pillows were half out of their cases.
He handed them both heavy jackets and dark woolen caps. “They’re going to let you go back down the Hill,” he said.
“Are you coming with us?” one of the girls asked.
“Afraid not tonight. I’ll join you later down below.”
One of the girls stood up and put on the jacket. Her woolen skirt hugged her ankles. She pulled the cap down over her ears. “I’m leaving,” she said. “You can do what you want, Reba.” She left the room.
In the command room, Engstrom spoke to Sergeant Williams. “Sergeant, there are two young ladies in the bunker. They are not combatants. May we release them?”
Williams was surprised at the news. Women? In the bunker? The old general was randier than he thought.
“Yes, sir, I’ll have a man standing by on the right side of the door.”
“You’re very kind, Sergeant.”
“I got two daughters of my own,” Williams replied.
In his quarters, Stampler held out his hand toward the other girl. “Come say good night, Reba darling,” Stampler said. She came to him and he put his arms around her. “You were always my favorite,” he said. He kissed her throat, stepped around behind her, and, putting his arm under her chin, snapped her neck with his other hand. She fell without a sound. He threw her across the bed and quickly stripped off her dress. He put the dress on, then the jacket, and pulled the woolen cap down over his forehead and ears. He left the room, closed the door, and, slumping down, walked through the combat headquarters to join the other girl.
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