Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  She pointed out several buildings in the aerial shot. Two barracks, an armory, a communications center, houses for the officers, a farm with livestock, and a quadrangle in the center of it all on which there were a dozen squadrons in green camouflage, marching in perfect formation. Near the quad there was a gunnery range, every slot filled with men and women firing rifles and handguns.

  “This was shot last August. For three months in the summer the Sanctuary sponsors maneuvers in survival, guerrilla tactics, weapons modification, hand-to-hand combat, martial arts, and marksmanship at the fort. It’s a very tough course that attracts militiamen and -women from all over the country. Whole families spend their summer vacations training with the Preaching General. More and more members of the Sanctuary are deeding their homes and farms to the church. Of course, they can live there forever, and no taxes.”

  “Which is perfectly legal.”

  “Yes. The Sanctuary has become a major landowner in the state.”

  “Offhand, I’d say the Preacher has done okay for himself. None of this is against the law, by the way. They’re protected by the First, Fourth, and Sixth amendments.”

  “The Bureau is pretty certain—”

  “Pretty certain doesn’t play, General. Can you prove they’ve done anything illegal?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anything wrong with training people in military tactics at that— what’s it called—Fort Yahoo?”

  “Yahweh.”

  “Whatever. Is Fort Yahweh an illegal entity?”

  She shook her head. “Nonprofit church.”

  “Marge, you ain’t got squat on these bozos and you know it.”

  “Let’s go to my office. I need another cup of coffee.”

  Castaigne ordered two coffees from Silverman. Vail sat across the desk from her.

  “I don’t know what you want to do about Engstrom and his army,” Vail said, “but from where I’m sitting, the Sanctuary hasn’t done anything illegal.”

  “The FBI thinks they were involved in two bank robberies as well as the theft of military weapons and ammunition from the National Guard armory in Helena. The same M.O. was used in all three cases. Military planning, perfect timing—”

  “Pretty certain… thinks… supposes… you can’t prove anything.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you want, Marge? What the hell am I doing here?”

  She paused for a minute while she took a sip of coffee, then said: “The President would like you to accept an appointment as an assistant attorney general.”

  “To do what?”

  “Special prosecutor. We want you to bring a RICO case against the Sanctuary and its four churches.”

  Vail was stunned. The offer was totally unexpected, and for several moments he didn’t react.

  “You want to do a RICO on this bunch? Hell, the FBI can’t even get them for illegal parking.”

  “Bring the leaders into court for their crimes, convict them, fine them, put them away for a long time. The people will realize what this movement is all about if we take them before a judge and jury.”

  “What crimes? They haven’t broken any laws.”

  “Martin, you’re the best RICO prosecutor alive. We’re offering to make you an assistant attorney general with the FBI, ATF, DEA, IRS, Justice Department, even the Army, if necessary, at your disposal. Full sanction of the President, working directly with the Attorney General.”

  “What’s the difference who’s running the show?”

  “It hasn’t been a focused investigation. This will be a task force, Marty. A-one priority. William Hardistan, the number two man in the FBI, will be your point man. You’ll have the power to part oceans.”

  “It’s politics, and I’ve had politics up to here.”

  “You’ll be in complete charge, Marty. Only answerable to the President and me. Billy Hardistan will take his orders from you.”

  Vail stood up, walked to one of the windows, and stared out at Nielson, the FBI man.

  “It could take years,” he said. “Tracking down data, accessing the information, trying to make some kind of sense out of it all. I don’t want to turn fifty and still be trying to make a RICO case because a nut case is running around preaching revolution and the President is taking it personally.”

  Hines tapped on the door and stuck his head into her office. “I think we have a visual report from Hardistan coming in,” he said.

  “Thanks, Jimmy.” She turned to Vail. “Maybe you’ll find this interesting,” she said, leading Vail back to the ComOp. “Last night an arms convoy was ambushed in the mountains between Idaho and Montana. Two Humvees were destroyed, an eighteen-wheel semi was hijacked, and ten soldiers were murdered.”

  “What!”

  “Hardistan is on the scene. Just listen.”

  Hines said, “The weather’s so bad we haven’t been able to make visual contact, but hopefully it’s clearing up a bit.”

  The picture on the monitor was distorted and they could hear Hardistan’s voice crackling with static, and then suddenly the picture cleared. Hardistan was standing outdoors, bundled in his coat, clutching a mike in his gloved hand. The sun had not yet peeked over the mountains.

  “We copy you, Mr. Hardistan,” Hines said. “I’ve got the A.G. right here.”

  “Good morning, Marge.”

  “Morning, Billy. You’re coming in just fine.”

  “We can’t pick you up here so I’m going to give you a walk-through of the crime scene. I’m standing on the rubble on the north end of the pass. They touched off a small avalanche here and sealed off this end of the highway.”

  Behind Hardistan several powerful spotlights had been set up on both sides of the road. The video panned away from the G-man and into Lost Trail canyon. Vail stared at the screen as the camera picked up both of the burned-out Humvees.

  “What’s that on the side of the road?” he asked.

  “Body bags,” Castaigne answered. “All ten soldiers in the convoy were either killed outright or executed after the attack and laid out in body bags there beside the road.”

  “Jesus!” Vail said.

  The cameraman walked toward the row of green bags and stopped at one. Hardistan entered the picture and zipped the bag open. A young face the color of marble stared out of the bag. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. Snowflakes drifted across the picture, twinkling in the beams of the spotlights.

  “This is the man who was shot after he was bagged,” Hardistan said.

  Castaigne turned her face away from the screen.

  “We found something else interesting,” Hardistan said. He walked to the rear of one of the wrecked Humvees and knelt down. The camera moved in for a closeup. Burned into the rear bumper were the numbers 2-3-13.

  “We have no idea what this means, but it was definitely scorched into the bumper here at the scene. I’ve put our code specialists and cryptology people on it. Any ideas will be appreciated.”

  Vail watched as the camera pulled back to encompass a broad shot of the scene.

  “That’s all we’ve got so far, A.G.,” Hardistan said. “The snow and wind have either covered up or obliterated any tracks. The crime scene is severely compromised. All we have is some rounds and shell casings, the bullet that killed that young man over there, and these numbers.”

  “Thanks, Billy. I’m glad you’re there.”

  “We’ll be back in touch a little later.”

  The screen went black.

  Castaigne turned to Vail. “They killed all those young boys. All of them have been shot once behind the ear after they were wounded or killed in the attack. All but the young man with the shot in his forehead. He was obviously still alive when they put him in the body bag.” Vail said nothing. Hines had taped the satellite pickup. He rewound the tape to the close-up of the numbers and jotted them down on a slip of paper: 2-3-13.

  “Could be somebody’s birthday,” he said, half to himself.

  “We don’t know for su
re that the Sanctuary is behind this,” Castaigne said. “But the President considers this an act of war.”

  They went back to Castaigne’s office.

  “There’s still no connection to the Sanctuary,” Vail said.

  “It’s the only militia group within two hundred miles of the scene.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing, Marge, and you know it. You’re going to need access to bank and corporate records, wire taps, computer access, hard surveillance, if you want to even consider a RICO case. I couldn’t get a federal judge to give me permission to scratch my head with what you’ve shown me so far.”

  “If I can convince you there’s more to this than paranoia, will you consider the President’s request?”

  Vail did not answer.

  “Will you talk to two people?”

  “What two people?”

  “Gary Jordan is one of them.”

  “Gary Jordan…”

  “The man with the scar in the Vietnam photograph.”

  “He’ll talk?”

  “He’s somewhat of a braggart. He’s in a federal pen. You can fly out there in this plane. He’s been interviewed three times, twice by the Bureau, once by a member of my staff. I think you might turn up something we haven’t. I hear you’re very good at that sort of thing.”

  Vail glared at her for a few moments. “Who’s the other one?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you his name. But I can promise you this, you’ll be home in time for a late supper tonight.” She pressed a button under her desk and a moment later there was a knock on her office door.

  “Come,” she said. The man who entered was tall and husky. His leathery face was deeply tanned and topped by a shock of white hair. He was wearing a western-cut brown suede jacket with patches on the elbows, charcoal jeans, and cowboy boots.

  “Marty, this is Sam Firestone. I stole him from the marshal service. He’ll escort you for the day. I’ve got to fly down to St. Louis to give a luncheon speech. Take one day out of your life before you turn down the President of the United States.”

  “You don’t pull any punches,” Vail said.

  “I don’t have time to,” she replied with a smile. “You have an appointment at nine a.m. Wednesday with President Pennington. He’d like your answer by then.”

  As AMOC One took off, the man in the tower watched through his binoculars. He put them back in the case and stretched.

  “I’m gonna take a break,” he said to his supervisor. “Back in fifteen.”

  “Okay,” the supervisor said. “Bring me a hot dog with mustard and onions, and a lemonade, will you?” He handed the man a five-dollar bill.

  “No problem.”

  The man went to his locker and took out a small computer, a cell phone, and a modem, and went to the men’s room. He sat in a stall, connected the modem to the computer and the cell phone to the modem, and punched out a number. It answered:

  “HOREB CQ. U?”

  “SIMON?”

  “OF?”

  “CYRENE. 2-3-13.”

  “UR HOME.”

  “FLT PLN AMOC 1 DEST MESA FLATS. ET 0930MT. NO FLT PLN BYND. AG NOTABD. SF, UNIDM, ONLY PASS.”

  “CPY THAT.”

  “CAN U GET FLT PLN FRM MF?”

  “NO PRBLM.”

  “SELAH.”

  He clicked off the cell phone.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Now that we’re safely in the air, can you tell me where we’re going?” Vail asked.

  “Coyote Flats, New Mexico,” Firestone answered in a deep, sharp voice that almost crackled.

  “I don’t think I ever heard of a federal prison in Coyote Flats, New Mexico.”

  “Prob’ly not.”

  “What can you tell me about Gary Jordan?”

  “Not much. All I did was arrest him.”

  “Where are we going from Coyote Flats?”

  “Tell you when we get there.”

  “You don’t have much to say, do you, Mr. Firestone?”

  “Mr. Vail, I worked the witness protection program for five years. I could get somebody killed just talkin’ in my sleep.”

  Firestone closed his eyes, folded his hands in his lap, slid down in his seat, and went to sleep.

  “Paul?” Vail said.

  The steward appeared at his side.

  “I’ll bet you don’t have a six-ounce Coke in a bottle.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He disappeared and was back in a minute or two with the soft drink wrapped in a linen napkin.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “I’d be afraid to ask,” Vail replied, and went back to the ComOp. Hines was scanning four different monitors.

  “Got a minute?” Vail asked.

  “You’re the commander of this flight,” Hines said. “Just ask.”

  “How about pulling up the file on Gary Jordan for me?”

  “Can do,” Hines answered. He flicked the keys and front and profile photographs of Jordan flashed on the monitor. His graying hair was clipped within an inch of his skull. Hard muscles stood out in his neck. His eyes looked almost sleepy as they stared at the camera. A thin scar stretched from his right eyebrow, through the corner of his eye, and almost to his jawline. Below the photographs the biographical data stripped rapidly across the screen. Hines read the data as it appeared.

  “Gary NMI Jordan, white, male, age forty-nine. Born in Ada, Kansas. High school graduate. Entered the Army in 1965. Completed training as a paratrooper and applied for Special Services. In 1967 he transferred to Army Intelligence. Stationed in Vietnam, 1967 to 1975. Served in Desert Storm, 1990 to 1991. Honorable discharge 1992. Owned a small farm outside Butte, Montana. Married with two children. Joined the Sanctuary 1992.”

  Hines turned from the monitor and looked at Vail. “Jordan’s a tax protestor. He beat up a tax collector who came to deliver a lien on the farm, then took a shot at an IRS agent when they seized the place for back taxes. Turned rabbit and was captured in Boise a month later by Sam Firestone. He’s two years into a nickel for tax evasion, attempted murder, and battery. We also know that his tour in ’Nam was with the Phantoms, and we know he was the number three man under Engstrom in the Sanctuary. Black Bobby was number two.”

  A series of surveillance photos appeared on one of the monitors: Jordan standing behind Engstrom at some kind of rally; another of Jordan, “Black Bobby” Shrack, and Engstrom, their heads together, talking at a restaurant table; Jordan holding what appeared to be a press conference in his front yard; a shot of Jordan’s farm with several official cars parked around it; another of him being led in handcuffs into a federal building by Sam Firestone.

  “We have some newspaper clips that go with the photos. I’ll bring them up.”

  Vail scanned the clips but they added little to the bare biographical data.

  “We also have the Q and A on three interviews with him, and synopses of the interviews, if you’d like to read them, but the A.G. would prefer that you didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe she wants to see what you can get out of him without any notes,” Hines said with a smile.

  “Very funny.”

  “She’s tough, Mr. Vail. Usually gets what she wants.”

  “Where’d she get you, Jimmy?”

  “Secret Service. I was in line for presidential guard duty when she kidnapped me.”

  Vail was mildly surprised to hear that Hines was Secret Service.

  “Looks like pretty good duty to me.”

  “Well, at first I was pissed, but then when she told me I could have any kind of equipment I wanted, I thought better of it. This is a hacker’s delight.”

  “You’ve done some hacking, have you?”

  “I was a computer nerd in high school,” Hines said. “It wasn’t real serious, I hacked the school system’s computers and changed the grades of a friend of mine. Got six months of community service. I figured I’d never get into the Secret Service with that on my record, but they liked my ‘
talent,’ as they put it. The A.G. liked it better.”

  He paused while he pulled up one of the Jordan interviews. “By the way, sir, everybody on the plane including the pilot is either FBI or Department of Justice. We’re very good bodyguards in addition to our native talents, and that includes Silverman. He can toss a mean salad, but he can also toss you through the side of this plane.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Vail said with a smile.

  The highway was a two-lane macadam ribbon stretching toward the horizon across the flat, yellow, arid desert. On both sides of it, stretching to the gray mountains on the horizon, flat-topped mesas rose from the tablelands like giant toadstools.

  The prison appeared suddenly, off to their right, at first an indistinct wall wriggling in the heat monkeys that danced on the desert floor. As they drove closer, the walls grew taller and the place took on the appearance of a large gray square with gun turrets at its corners. Around its perimeter was a series of eight or ten jagged wire fences, perhaps ten yards apart and a dozen feet high, protecting the fortress from invasion and escape. Behind the fortress, a curtain of mountains draped from the hazy afternoon sun. This was the federal prison called Coyote Flats, the name of the nearest town, twelve miles to the east.

  To the inmates the place was known as the Grave, a reference to the stone quarry ten miles away where the men toiled seven hours a day, six days a week, under scorching heat in summer and arctic cold in winter.

  The outside fence, several hundred yards from the walls, was a fifteen-foot steel grid, trapping the prison and the wire fences within its perimeter. The inside and top surfaces of the triangular metal beams were honed to a razor’s edge. An electrified steel mesh, three feet high, topped it.

  Vail whistled softly. “So this is what a maximum security prison looks like,” he said.

  “This is what the maximum security in the country looks like.”

  A guard house stood at the entrance to the compound, a ten-foot-square building with concrete walls six feet thick. Temperature controlled at seventy degrees, and furnished with cable television, comfortable chairs, a refrigerator and cupboard, and a microwave for the convenience of the guard who stood lonely vigil, it also had a bank of TV monitors scanning the inside of the prison and a video camera that taped everyone who entered the Grave. The windows were heavily tinted. Gatekeepers were only required to spend six-hour shifts in the desolate outpost.