The Eye of Moloch

by Glenn Beck

  When we met, you and I could not have been more different. I knew you were sent to try to change me. You must know, too, that in those first days together I also saw you as a project, nothing more. Even as we fell in love each of us still thought we could win over the other. Then for the sake of keeping the peace, you finally gave it up. But I confess, I never lost my hope for you.

  If only I’d had enough time, I know you would have come around. Not because I’m so stubborn, Arthur, but because you’re so wise. With a little more time you would have seen my truth, and so I’m urging you now to continue to seek it after I’m gone.

  This terrible man you’ve worked for has done everything he could to destroy our last, best chance at liberty. I won’t ask you again to join the fight against him; that’s the only thing we ever really argued about, and I don’t want to leave you that way.

  I only ask this: just for a while, do nothing. Stop building his machine, stand away from the barriers, leave the door open, and give the good people of the United States their one true chance.

  Do that, then witness the miracle I dreamed I’d live to see; watch freedom succeed where mere mankind has always failed to create a better world for us all.

  It was a strange marriage we had, I know you’d smile and agree, but I wouldn’t have traded it; I have no regrets. Take care of yourself, Arthur, and take good care of our son. Don’t let Noah waste himself in that world that had nearly consumed you by the time we met. Like you, my love, he was born for greater things.

  Until you come home to me again,

  Jaime

  When he looked up from those words, through the tears in his eyes it was as though everything had been transformed. The old documents he’d been studying, his hands, his face reflected in the window glass, the very room around him was suddenly painted in a different light. He took in a deep breath, and just for a moment he’d allowed himself to consider the impossible.

  Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

  That burning question—whether it was safer to wager the world’s destiny on the potential anarchy of human freedom, or to trust instead the steady, merciless hand of tyranny—perhaps it had already been answered.

  Perhaps men even more astute than he had once wrestled with that same fundamental puzzle. They wrote and ratified their astounding solution in four simple pages—those pages were on the table in front of him—then they’d risked everything to establish a place—one single haven—where good people could come and prosper and live their lives free from the ceaseless meddling of the ruling class.

  They hadn’t presumed that they could save the whole world, and they’d never intended to conquer it. But if this brash experiment could manage to banish the tyrants and succeed on its own shores, and if the wider world was then saved through its example, all the better.

  Such thinking was backward, simple-minded, a laughably naïve concept completely unfit for modern governance—that’s what Arthur Gardner had always believed. These were only more lies of a different flavor than the ones he created, aimed to be embraced mainly by flag-waving, gun-toting, Bible-thumping misfits.

  But his earlier thought arose again, and it persisted: perhaps he’d been wrong.

  And so, in accordance with his late wife’s final wishes, a few days ago he’d come to a decision. While he was far from a convert, as a social scientist he’d discovered an error in his method. There was an important hypothesis that had been neglected in his work, and that must be corrected. He would do nothing more in aid of either side, then, until the matter had been put to the test.

  For this trial he would bring in a fair and impartial judge—a clear-eyed and apparently incorruptible pillar of virtue named Virginia Ward. If Jaime had been right, if these self-styled patriots truly had a cause worth fighting for, this woman would see it. And when she’d rendered her decision perhaps even Arthur Gardner might finally reconsider which side he should be on.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 22

  Virginia Ward eased her Wrangler to a crawl, leaned right, and took her eyes off the rocky, pitted road just long enough for one last check of her face in the rearview mirror. Her features were lit warm in the last light of the day and she saw what she needed to see. There wasn’t a speck of vanity in the gesture; this was a field inspection, nothing more. Surviving the night was the main thing on her mind.

  During the three-hour inbound flight she’d put herself together to make a mission-critical first impression, and yes, the woman in the mirror would deliver the needed effect. Dollar Store makeup with a hard working day’s wear; a sun-dried, honey-blond, no-nonsense hairdo, now mostly tucked up under a weathered bent-brim lady Stetson—she wore no wedding jewelry, and her Los Diablos sweatshirt was authentically faded from the decade or so since a woman of her age might have led the pep squad at Arizona State, back in her glory days. To the ruthless men she would soon be facing she’d look like a nonthreatening nobody, maybe the only neighbor willing and able to help her friends in need, the harmless and somewhat attractive single rancher-mom from the next spread up the interstate.

  In a word, she looked disarming, and that should do.

  The command post soon appeared ahead at the bleak descending end of a desert trail just barely fit for a rugged four-wheel drive. The post itself wasn’t much, and none of it had been there yesterday. A dark barracks-length tent, a hasty perimeter, and a couple of uniformed guards walking the line—still, it was the only trace of law and order in all these empty miles.

  She saw that there was a diesel generator off to the side of the tent but it was still strapped to its trailer, untouched. Apparently these geniuses had decided to let the sun go down before anyone thought to get their power going. Such a lack of foresight didn’t bode too well for the brilliance of the rest of their plan, if they had a plan at all.

  One of a pair of young sentries straightened himself up and began motioning toward a parking spot, sporting his best hard-guy face in preparation to challenge and screen the new arrival. But the wiser of the two, his weapon ready, wouldn’t peel his eyes from the long, hostile flats stretching south toward the horizon, down toward the border where the real danger lay.

  Virginia made the turn and pulled to a stop as she was directed, just to the side of a freshly planted government-issued warning sign. She scanned what it said as she unbuckled her seat belt and got her ID and her sidearm in order, and then she paused to read over the sign once again, but slowly. After seven years attached to the Special Activities Division of the CIA she’d made a lot of vivid memories, but if she happened to make it back to the motel alive tonight, this sign would get its own four-star WTF page in her personal journal.

  DANGER—PUBLIC WARNING

  TRAVEL NOT RECOMMENDED

  • Active Drug and Human Smuggling Area

  • Visitors May Encounter Armed Criminals and Smuggling Vehicles Traveling at High Rates of Speed

  • Stay Away from Trash, Clothing, Backpacks, and Abandoned Vehicles

  • If You See Suspicious Activity, Do Not Confront! Move Away and Call 911

  Then, as though to normalize the unreal content that preceded it, the last bullet included a friendly, official travel tip from the U.S. Bureau of Land Management:

  • The Bureau of Land Management Encourages Visitors to Use Public Lands North of Interstate 8

  In other words, my fellow Americans, despite those bold lines on the map that you can see with your own eyes, your fretful government strongly recommends a hasty retreat toward the distant lights of Tucson. Turn and run if you know what’s good for you, because past this point it’s every man for himself. Whatever this place is, it isn’t Arizona anymore; you’re no longer standing on the land of the free.

  Well, then, she thought. I guess we’ll have to see about that.

  Virginia pulled her satchel and her cane from behind the passenger seat and pressed a switch on the dashboard to activate an all-band communications jammer in the rear compartment. Then she pocketed the keys,
left her hat on the seat, flicked off the headlights, opened her door, and stepped out, good leg first.

  In the course of a long and painful rehabilitation she’d come to think of her left leg in that way, as her good one, though of the two it wasn’t the limb she was born with. On the positive side it could be whatever she needed it to be, with nearly all the utility but none of the frailties of mere flesh and bone. Synthetic from mid-thigh to the ground, it was interchangeable with a number of purpose-designed replacements hung in her walk-in closet at home. Most were best suited for any one application, be it running, rock climbing, biking, or barhopping. The model she’d chosen for that night was on loan from MIT, and it was special—smooth Barbie leg on the outside, bleeding-edge mechanics on the inside.

  Not that all its high-tech and titanium imparted any superhuman abilities, but while this leg looked just like a standard, stiff cosmetic prosthesis, it also restored about three-quarters of the practical function she’d had before she lost the original. And as Virginia Ward had proved to all those skeptics behind her at the last Hawaii Ironman, three-quarters of normal is about a thousand percent more than most might expect from a unilateral amputee.

  She didn’t mind being underestimated by strangers at first, not at all. In about an hour, in fact, a number of innocent lives—plus her own—would depend upon it.

  The nearby sentry was facing her as she approached. The dusk was fully descended by then and with maybe ten feet still between them he held out a flat hand and addressed her by the book, the blue-white glare from his flashlight in her face.

  “Halt!” he shouted. “Identify yourself, and let me see your hands!”

  In only these few words he’d told her more than he probably imagined. English was not this soldier’s native tongue; his accent indicated a gutter strain of Spanish, Español Mexicano, with the faint but distinctive peculiarities heard in those proud to have been born and raised in the rougher parts of the Distrito Federal.

  “Virginia Ward,” she said. “I’m expected. I’m here to see—”

  “Advance to be recognized.”

  With her patience fading fast she took a moment to bring out her ID and then came forward, the small black leather folder held open at eye level for his review. The large man briefly flicked his bright beam down to the turf in front of him, indicating without further courtesy where she should stop and await his full inspection.

  In the spillover light Virginia had spied some details of his uniform. Where a badge or an indication of rank should be, there was only a nameplate and a sewn-on yellow crest. This chintzy embroidery identified him as an employee of Talion, a mercenary services company she’d been seeing more and more of in her deployments.

  This wasn’t a military man, not a law enforcement officer, maybe not even a U.S. citizen. He was nothing more than a dressed-up, spit-shined, testosterone-swollen gun for hire.

  “Ma’am,” he said sternly as she continued to approach, “put down your bag for me, extend your arms out to either side—”

  The guy stopped talking then, and snapped to stiff attention. Evidently he’d finally caught sight of the three bold letters on the face of her ID folder, the ones that translated to shut up and stand down in every allied covert-ops phrase book around the world.

  Virginia didn’t bother to pause as she walked past the man, though she did make a mental note of the look in his eyes. He’d just seen a ghost, so it seemed, and that was as close an approach to the truth as someone like him should ever be allowed.

  • • •

  First things first: she began by sending a lieutenant outside so he could direct his men in firing up the electricity. She dismissed another soldier with orders to manage the clueless mercs and, more important, to receive the skilled reinforcements who would be arriving close behind her. Not that these new ground troops and heavy weapons would be of any help to her own solo mission, but if she should fail, this place might rapidly find itself on the southern front of a new war zone and they’d need to be ready for anything.

  With those priorities addressed, by the light of battery-powered lanterns she began the mission briefing with the other senior officers in attendance.

  What they already knew was this: A week earlier a truckload of heavy automatic rifles and cop-killer ammo had been prepared for passage out of the United States across the Arizona–Mexico border. This shipment was a small part of an ongoing and idiotic ATF gun-walking operation that for whatever reason was designed to put weapons into the hands of criminal gangs. Meanwhile, a completely separate Drug Enforcement Administration sting was in the process of spiriting five tons of primo Purple Haze and nearly a hundred kilos of nearly pure cocaine toward a distribution center in the same general area. Finally, the FBI (in cooperation with the Joint Terrorism Task Force and an armed subdivision of the Internal Revenue Service) had initiated a crafty setup that involved the delivery of several million dollars in unmarked cash to the nearby hub of a Sinaloa money-laundering enterprise.

  All the while none of these agencies had been apprised of the converging actions of the others—but through its network of moles, informants, and double agents, the Los Zetas cartel was totally on top of all three.

  As it turned out, a key target of these operations—a fearsome man known in his circles as the Executioner—was running a little sting of his own from his stronghold in Mexico. His planning was impeccable, his intel was frightfully detailed, and his men—an elite band of MS-13 foot soldiers and Sureños defectors, led by an underboss of the Texas Syndicate—proved to be far more organized and prepared than the U.S. attorney general and all the king’s horses at the Justice Department.

  The outcome had been a devastating surprise attack. When it was over, three federal agents were dead, six more were missing, and two Border Patrol officers had also lost their lives as the Los Zetas gangsters simultaneously hijacked the southbound trifecta of drugs, money, and guns.

  After lying low for a few days at a stateside hole-in-the-wall they’d switched vehicles, consolidated their swag, and then set off toward the safety of their home base in Nuevo Laredo.

  Barely sixty miles into the trip their single overloaded truck full of stolen treasures had broken down with a flat tire on the southern acres of some land owned by an Arizona rancher named Harland Dell. As the hoods were changing their tire Mr. Dell got the drop on them, apparently thinking they were just another pack of everyday smugglers or coyotes. He held the trespassers at gunpoint and called in the authorities.

  The resulting bust didn’t sit well at all with the Mexican kingpin, and it was more than just the loss of this unusually valuable shipment that enraged him. The precedent this might set for other brave U.S. citizens couldn’t be allowed to stand, and so the head man announced a vendetta: an example was to be made of this American.

  In a sudden move of unprecedented brass the Los Zetas outlaws surged across the border in force and commandeered the Dell property. They were now holding the family hostage, and the ransom they demanded was the release of their men and the return of their truck with all the spoils it contained. That’s where the situation stood at the present moment.

  Virginia checked her watch and addressed the post’s young commander. “Do you know how many of them we’re up against?”

  “About a dozen that we could see, and probably more by now. We commissioned a flyover yesterday by a Cessna 206 from the Highway Patrol. They got a fairly good view before they started taking small-arms fire and had to back off. Then this morning we got as close as we could and put up a blimp with a camera system, and the Kestrel got some even more detailed images before the bastards shot it down.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “They shot it down with a SAM, probably a Stinger.”

  “They shot down a recon blimp with a guided missile.”

  “A U.S.-made guided missile. Overkill, I know. I guess they really didn’t want to get their pictures taken.” He slid across a small stack of photographs. “Have a look
at what we got while the bird was up.”

  Though the photos were chilling they didn’t tell her much she hadn’t already suspected. The place was obviously fully occupied and well guarded. Corpses were strewn all about, probably left where they’d fallen after what must have been a short and futile defense of the property against a merciless, overwhelming invasion.

  “You’ve cut the power and the landlines to the place.”

  “Right.”

  “Has anyone spoken to them?”

  “We’ve harvested some cell numbers that they’re using”—he passed her a sheet with the information—“but listen, these guys aren’t negotiating. The last they told us was, midnight tonight they start kicking more bodies out the front door.”

  No surprise there, either. Virginia Ward was a fixer, not a negotiator. By the time she was called into service the opportunity for bargaining had always long passed.

  “Okay,” she said, as she stood. “Now I need to make a call, and I’ll need some privacy for that.”

  “I’m sorry, our comms are down here right now. It’s inexcusable, I know, it must be sunspots or something—”

  “Your comms are down because I took them down.” She stowed her pistol and her ID and then removed a special-purpose satellite phone from her satchel. “This one should punch through just fine, though. The next thing you’re going to do is collect all the radios and phones from your men, and make your orders very clear. I’ve got people coming in specifically to enforce the communications blackout. If anyone’s seen trying to get a message out of here to anyone, I don’t care if they’re telling their grandchildren good night, they won’t get a warning, they’re going to get shot. Not a word gets in or out except my own traffic and any calls coming from the perpetrators. You’ll know I’m coming back when you see me.”

  The man nodded, and then he said, “Don’t tell me you’re going down there all alone.”