Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  There was a moment of silence as the cabinet members digested what they had just heard.

  “Before anybody says anything,” Pennington said, “I think we can assume this is not a foreign attack. I can’t imagine foreign terrorists pulling off a trick like this.”

  “All of the men were killed?” Marge said.

  Pennington nodded.

  “I find it hard to believe that Americans would perpetrate something like this.”

  “Oh, come on, General,” Simmons said. “How about the World Trade Center, Oklahoma City?”

  “The Trade Center was foreigners. Oklahoma City was a couple of militia nuts. This was obviously carried out by a lot of people.”

  “A handful. Ten or twelve,” Pennington said. “They had the element of surprise, darkness, a storm. Ten men could easily have done the job. And very quickly. Bing, bang, boom, and out. Classic guerrilla assault.”

  The red phone rang and Hooker snatched it up.

  “Claude Hooker here… Hello, Mr. Hardistan, hold for the President, please.”

  Pennington took the phone.

  “Hello, Billy, sorry you’re stuck out there, but I can’t think of a better man to have on the scene. I’m putting you on the speaker.”

  He pressed a button and hung up the phone. Hardistan’s voice came in strong and clear.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m afraid there’s not much we can do right now. It’s still snowing and probably will until mid-morning. It’s colder than a witch’s heart, and this is the darkest place I’ve ever seen in my life. Just setting the scene for you.”

  “Perfectly,” Pennington said. He told Hardistan who was in the room with him. “So what have you got for us?”

  “Mr. President, this was a very carefully planned assault. They took out ten men and two vehicles, stole a semi rig, and sealed off both ends of the pass where the attack took place, all in about five minutes. The snow was a break for them. My assumption is they got inside information on what time the convoy was leaving, knew where it was going, and had rehearsed this operation to a fare-thee-well.

  “The convoy left an arsenal near Spokane last night at five p.m. Its destination was the Air Force base at Mountain Home, Idaho. Normally about a five- to six-hour drive. There were three vehicles, two Humvees with four armed guards in each, and an eighteen-wheeler loaded with weapons and ammunition, a driver, and relief driver. The Humvees bracketed the semi.”

  “What the hell were they doing out in that godforsaken place in a blizzard?” Pennington asked.

  “It’s SOP when moving this kind of cargo to drive at night when there’s very little traffic, Mr. President. The blizzard was unexpected, a shift in the weather. I’m having a manifest of the cargo faxed to Colonel Hooker and the Director, but I think it’s worth mentioning here that part of the cargo was a thousand pounds of C-4 explosives in half-pound packets.”

  Pennington knew what a half pound of C-4 could do. That amount of the puttylike plastic explosive could take down a 747. Five pounds, placed strategically, could waste an entire shopping mall. It was also difficult to make and extremely expensive on the arms black market.

  “My God,” Pennington said. “What were they sending C-4 to an air base for?”

  “The cargo was going to be air lifted to Fort Ord, sir. Anyway, one leg of the convoy’s trip took them down U.S. 93, south from Missoula into Idaho. The road is bordered on the west by the Bitterroot Mountains. Very rugged. Peaks up to ten thousand feet. On the other side of the road is the Bitterroot River, and then the Anaconda Range, also very rugged terrain.

  “At one point, 93 takes a jog eastward for a hundred yards or so, then turns back to the south. High cliffs on both sides of the road. It’s called Lost Trail Pass. Aptly named.

  “We have an ear witness who says the attack started at 10:27 and the noise ended at 10:32. Five minutes. Judging from the crime scene and the witness, when the convoy got into that straight stretch heading east, the front and back Humvees were hit with rocket fire. At the same time, a strike force jumped the cab of the semi and killed both men. Obviously they were careful to avoid any weapons fire on the trailer itself. All eight of the soldiers in the Humvees were also killed, several with an insurance shot behind the ear. Explosions were triggered at both ends of the pass, which created small avalanches and sealed off the pass. I’m surmising that the hijacked truck went south. Turning it around in that narrow space so they could head back north would have been difficult and time-consuming, and the description of the ear witness indicates the south end of the pass was sealed last. Two charges were set off there.”

  “We have any leads at all, Billy?” Simmons asked.

  “None. It was close to eleven before the explosions were reported, another hour by the time local police got there. The state troopers got there at twelve-thirty, and Geoff Isaac out of our Missoula office was on site by one-thirty with a fully equipped service van and five special agents. I got here at two-thirty in a chopper out of Butte. As of now, the ambushers have a window of almost five hours and we’re hampered by a snow storm. The weather’s estimated to clear by mid-morning, and by then we’ll have up to a foot or more of snow over the entire area. Tracking will be impossible. If there are any hard tracks, they’ll be covered and washed out when the snow melts. Hard evidence will also be severely compromised, if there is much hard evidence. These birds were very thorough.

  “I have agents coming in from Butte, Boise, Missoula, and as far south as Salt Lake City. The Army is sending another fifty men down. I’ve ordered a massive chopper search of the entire area as soon as weather permits, but we’re talking about mountain terrain, deep valleys, a lot of low-lying fog in some areas.

  “Our men will coordinate the search for physical evidence and interview locals with the help of the sheriff’s department. He knows everybody in the area.

  “There’s one other thing, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, Billy.”

  “They put all ten of the victims in body bags and laid them out military fashion beside the road.”

  “My God!” The President’s face flushed. He balled his fists and slammed them down on the arm of the rocking chair. “God damn them!”

  “It gets worse, sir. We believe that one of the GIs was still alive. He was shot in the forehead while he was lying in the body bag. We recovered the bullet from the ground under his head. Probably a .50 cal Israeli Eagle pistol. So far it’s the only piece of real evidence we’ve got.” Pennington stood up and walked across the room to his desk. “I want your candid opinion, Billy. You think this was a militia operation?”

  “Well, it was certainly well-planned. A professional job from the front. And laying out the bodies could be some kind of warped military tribute.”

  “Bunch of savages. An act of terrorism against the people of the United States, plain and simple. This smells like the Sanctuary to me. I think Engstrom has finally gone around the bend. He’s declared open warfare on the U.S.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You agree?”

  “Sir, I’ve been on the site thirty minutes and I can’t see across the road. I’d hate to make any guesses at this point.”

  “That was an outstanding report under very difficult conditions, Billy. You are to be commended. Thank you. You’ll keep us informed?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “I want you to report directly to Claude Hooker.”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hardistan hung up the phone and turned to Isaac.

  “Top of the list, Mr. Isaac, find that goddamn truck.”

  The President’s face was red with anger after the call. He was grinding one fist into the palm of his hand.

  “That bastard Engstrom,” he said.

  “Excuse me, sir, but isn’t that a bit of a stretch—” Simmons said. “You heard what Hardistan said,” Pennington growled back, cutting him off. “A well-planned military operation, and right in Eng-strom’s backyard
. A cold-blooded ambush of American soldiers and equipment. A goddamn act of terrorism. Who else would be up to it?”

  “The Posse, the Covenant, Aryans, some skinhead offshoot. It could be any of them.”

  “You think a bunch of pimply-faced kids with their heads shaved could pull off a stunt like this?”

  “Some of the others could.”

  Pennington walked back to the group.

  “Think about that. The only militia group even close enough to pull it off is the Aryans in Utah. The others would have had to travel hundreds of miles into strange terrain. Not likely. And what would they do with the semi? Hell, what is anyone going to do with this eighteen-wheeler? It’s hardly inconspicuous.”

  “If they were smart enough to pull off this coup, you can bet they knew exactly what they were going to do with it,” Marge Castaigne said.

  “And by sunup they’ll have a six, seven hour jump on us. Let me tell you, Engstrom may be a religious nut, but he’s a brilliant tactician. It smells like his work.”

  “I’m just saying we have to be discreet….”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Harry, I’m not going to call a press conference and accuse the Sanctuary. But this goes on top of the agenda. We took forever to wake up to the fact that Engstrom and his outfit were serious threats. Now we have to make up for lost time.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Mr. President. We’ve got a file on the Sanctuary of the Lord that would fill the Smithsonian, and not one iota of evidence to prove they’re guilty of anything.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President,” Marge Castaigne said, “I’d like to make a suggestion.”

  “By all means,” the President said.

  “For over a year now we’ve been sniffing around General Engstrom and the Sanctuary, and so far we’ve got bupkus. If you’re convinced that they are involved in serious crimes—murder, robbery, money laundering, crimes against the government—then I’d like to bring in a special prosecutor, set up a task force… and bring down a RICO case on them.”

  “Oh my God,” Simmons said, shaking his head.

  “What’s that mean?” Pennington demanded of the Bureau director. “I mean, what can a special prosecutor do that we aren’t doing already?” Simmons complained.

  “Focus on the problem,” Castaigne said flatly.

  Simmons glared at her but said nothing.

  “If there’s a case there, we’ll find it,” she added.

  “Sounds like you have someone in mind for this job,” Hooker said. She nodded. “That’s right, I do.”

  “And who is this legal magician?” Simmons sneered.

  “Martin Vail.”

  “He the one that stole that Illinois case out from under Pete Riker?” Hooker asked.

  “When it comes to RICO, nobody can touch him. Got the biggest RICO judgment in history. Ninety million.”

  “That was the Atlas-Western case, right?” the President said. “He put Tom Lacey and whatsisname from Atlas—”

  “Grossman,” Simmons said.

  “Right, Grossman. They both got some serious time, didn’t they?” Pennington smiled. “Never liked either one of them.”

  “They never contributed a dime to your campaign,” Hooker said. “Maybe that’s the reason.”

  They all laughed.

  “Look, Mr. President, the Bureau is straining as it is,” Simmons implored. “RICO requires a lot of FBI participation—”

  “I’m aware of that, Harry. I also know if the Sanctuary—or any other paramilitary group—is getting this… dangerous, we need to give them A-priority attention.”

  “We’ll do that, sir. I’ve got the Deputy Director on the scene—”

  “Luck, Harry, luck,” Pennington cut him off. “Hardistan just happened to be a hundred miles away.”

  Rebuffed, Simmons sat back on the sofa and stared at the floor. Like all human beings, Pennington was a flawed man. His flaw was that he felt things too deeply, was too passionate in his friendships, in his work, in anger, love, war, and hate. His cabinet members recognized his seething rage, controlled but volcanic. He could end a discussion with a look, by the way he cleared his throat, or by stone silence. One moment he could handle a monumental calamity with inhuman calm, the next, a simple act of abuse or unkindness could set off an implosion.

  At the moment, he was imploding just thinking about General Joshua Engstrom and the Sanctuary of the Lord and the Wrath of God. He did not feel compelled to explain to his assembled staff why he felt this rage or why he knew—knew—that Engstrom was behind the ambush in Lost Trail Pass.

  The room fell quiet. Pennington walked to the window overlooking the rose garden and thought about his son and grandson practicing clever soccer moves on the lawn.

  Supposing it was them, the President thought, supposing they were stretched out in the cold in body bags. Innocent kids doing their job. Would I feel any more strongly than I do right now? The answer was no. He had a quick flash back to Vietnam, sitting in his room in Saigon, writing letters of condolence to parents back in the World.

  “This is a personal thing,” he said. He turned back to his staff. “I understand what Marge is saying. You set up a task force and put the right person in charge, they’ll make it happen. If it’s there, they’ll dig it out.”

  “These things take years,” Simmons argued. “It took, what, six years to get Gotti?”

  “General, how long did it take your man to bring down Lacey and, uh…”

  “Grossman,” the Attorney General said.

  “Yes.”

  “Less than two years,” Castaigne answered.

  “And what will this entail?” the President asked. “By that I mean, what’s the scope of this project?”

  “We’ll have to gather evidence to prove criminal collusion between the entities comprising the Sanctuary.”

  “They’re churches,” Simmons said. “That adds to the problem.”

  “Not really,” the Attorney General disagreed. “We make the case and we seek warrants against the principals and their underlings. Probably General Engstrom, the commanders of each of the four units, and a half dozen others, plus any citizens or institutions—banks, businesses, radio stations, anything used as a front for criminal activity connected to the defendants. If the institutions happen to be churches, so be it. Once we start, the gloves are off.”

  “This is going to cost a bundle,” Brodsky remarked.

  “A bundle,” Castaigne said with a nod. “I couldn’t even guess the cost. Once we get all this data together and have a case, we’ll have to find a federal judge who’ll grant us blanket warrants because the four churches are located in two different states. Once that’s done, we can legally proceed against them, lien on property, including their weapons, vehicles, bank accounts, anything that was acquired with criminal funds.”

  “And the fun begins,” Simmons said.

  “What do you mean?” Pennington asked.

  “Bringing them in. They won’t go gently. And the trial could take two or three years.”

  “I’ll be out of office before that.”

  “Mr. President,” Hooker said, “you’ll be here for at least six more years.”

  There was general approval and agreement from the cabinet members.

  Brodsky said, “It could be a public relations coup for us if we prove these people are hijacking trucks, killing people, robbing banks, money-laundering.”

  “We’re not going to have another Waco or Ruby Ridge,” Pennington said emphatically. He paced across the room and back and stopped in front of the sofas. “I like it, General.”

  “If we have the cases—” Simmons started.

  “We’ll have the cases,” Castaigne said sternly, cutting him off. “We will take down the big shots, take all their toys away from them, put ’em out of business, drop the ringleaders for twenty years each, and fine them a couple of million dollars. That will make the biggest impression on the public… and the rest of these hate groups.”

  “I
don’t want to give the impression we’re against all militias,” the President said. “Some of them are perfectly legitimate.”

  Wen Greer stepped in. “Sir, I spent twelve years in the Rockies, a lot of it in Montana. They’re great people and I doubt that they’re sympathetic to Engstrom and his movement, but they have an ardent sense of fair play and common decency.”

  “I copy that, Wen.”

  “If they’re clean,” Castaigne said, “they have nothing to worry about.”

  “General Engstrom could be a problem,” Simmons said. “He was a hero in three wars, battlefield commission in Korea when he was nineteen, held the line at Chosen Reservoir.”

  “Who didn’t?” the President snapped.

  “Of course, sir. I’m just saying—”

  “I know what you’re saying, and I’m telling you he’s a goddamn Bible-spouting glory boy. A sorehead. Made a fool of himself and retired in rank. Now he wants to get even by blowing up the whole country.”

  “He’s got people around him far more dangerous than he is.”

  “He’s the one in the kitchen,” the President said firmly.

  “Of course, of course. I just mean, you know, he still has a following. We wouldn’t want to create another John Brown.”

  “We already have,” Brodsky offered. “He’s a raving lunatic.”

  “If we do this,” Pennington said, “I’d like them in court in eighteen months. It would be a great help in the next election.”

  “What do we really know about this guy Vail?” Hooker said.

  Castaigne opened her briefcase and took out a file folder. She handed it to the President. “This is a top security check on Vail and his staff. Also a synopsis of the Illinois trial—I had the transcripts sent to me daily.”

  The President was impressed. “How long have you been thinking about this, AG.?” he asked.

  “Since we first started talking about Engstrom and the Sanctuary. About a year.”

  He looked at Castaigne. “Can he deliver a RICO case in a year and a half?”

  “I really don’t know. I’ll have to ask him. I’ve never met him, by the way. He may turn us down. He’s very independent.”

  “What’s he doing now?”