Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  The Nez Perce were the greatest horsemen, warriors, and hunters. In 1877, when the U.S. government tried to force them off their lands in the Wallowa Valley of Utah and isolate them on a barren, fallow reservation in Idaho, their leader, the eloquent Chief Joseph, challenged the United States:

  “The earth was created by the assistance of the sun, and it should be left as it was. The earth and myself are of one mind. The measure of the land and the measure of our bodies are the same. Do not misunderstand me, but understand me fully with reference to my affection for the land. I never said the land was mine to do with as I chose. The one who has the right to dispose of it is the one who created it. I claim a right to live on my land, and accord you the same privilege to live on yours.”

  When troops were sent to move the Nez Perce, Chief Joseph made a dash for the Canadian border and freedom. He led his tribe on an 1,800-mile running battle with the U.S. Army. For three months they used their knowledge of the mountains and survival skills to battle, outwit, and elude the U.S. Seventh Infantry. But at Bear’s Paw, just forty miles from Canada, the Seventh caught up with the Nez Perce. After a bloody four-day battle, an exhausted and demoralized Chief Joseph called his beleaguered tribe together and said:

  “Hear me, my chiefs, I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.”

  The Army, as usual, broke its promise to the Nez Perce that they could return to their home. Instead, what was left of the tribe was sent to a reservation in Oklahoma, where Chief Joseph died betrayed, his heart broken. But three hundred of the great plains tribe escaped Bear’s Paw and made it to Canada.

  Sam Firestone’s great-great-grandfather was one of them.

  “It was our holocaust,” Firestone said. “The politicians practiced the worst kind of genocide. They destroyed our pride and our heritage. They outlawed our ceremonial dances and our tribal religions. They forbade us from speaking our own language. But the survivors, like my great-great-grandfather, kept the traditions alive and passed them down from one generation to the next, and finally some of us brought them back to the home country.”

  “You practice that religion?” Vail asked.

  “I think Native Americans have the right idea. They believe the spirits are in nature—the earth, sky, sun, the winds. Their faith is tied to the nature of things. God is an indescribable presence. Makes more sense to me than believing a spaceship’s going to carry you off to heaven or praying to a human being whose mother was a virgin. But that’s just my opinion.”

  Vail did not answer. He looked back at the earth, then ahead toward the Bitterroot and Anaconda ranges of the Rockies. For a moment he sensed the great power of a religion that praised and honored the awesome beauty of nature. As the plane banked over the Missoula airport, he was wrenched back to the reality of his mission. He thought briefly about Jane and Magoo, waiting back in Chicago for him, then adrenaline fired his heart and he began mentally preparing for the confrontation ahead.

  Firestone had made the arrangements. They were to meet Engstrom and his minions at a restaurant called the Retreat, which Sam described as an isolated cabin in a field near Fort Yahweh, about thirty miles southwest of Missoula, hard against the Idaho border.

  As they headed down Route 93, Firestone pointed straight ahead. “Lost Trail Pass is down the road there about fifty miles,” he said. “We can buzz it after the meeting if you’d like to take a look.”

  A mile or so later he turned off the main road and took a narrow country road through the trees, toward mountains that rose sharply ahead of them.

  “Pull over a minute,” Vail said. “Gotta take a leak.”

  Firestone stopped the car at the edge of the road. The forest was fifteen feet away, and Vail walked a few feet in front of the car to relieve himself. As he stood there, he suddenly felt he was being watched. It came to him like a chill across the back of his neck. He turned slightly and squinted into the dark shadows of the thick forest. The eyes were almond-shaped and gold-flecked and belonged to a white wolf. It stepped to the edge of the trees, its breath steaming from its open mouth, its eyes never off Vail’s.

  Vail was rooted in place. His mouth dried out. Then the wolf raised its head and a mournful howl echoed through the woods.

  Should he stand still?

  Run?

  A moment later a second wolf stepped silently into the clearing, followed by two smaller animals, obviously their young. They stood behind the big white one and all stared at Vail. He started back toward the car, and as he did, the small wolf pack walked in the same direction, still hugging the edge of the forest. At the same time, Firestone eased the car forward and opened the door. As it pulled alongside him, Vail jumped in and pulled the door shut.

  As Firestone pulled away, the white wolf stepped out of the protection of the trees and walked beside the car for a dozen feet before it stopped and turned back into the woods.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Vail said breathlessly.

  “Wolves are very curious fellows,” Firestone said.

  “Curious? My heart’s about to break a rib.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt you. Wolves don’t attack human beings.”

  “Easy for you to say, you weren’t standing out there with your dick wagging in the wind. And how about that howling?”

  “He brought his family out to meet you, Martin. I imagine he saw something special about you. Wolves are very mystic creatures.” He paused a moment and added, “Maybe he smelled your urine. They can smell something three, four miles away and hear up to a mile.” He chuckled. “Maybe he was attracted to you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Wolves have the most complex social order of any animal alive. They mate for life, they teach their young to play, they have a great sense of humor, and they’re innately curious. I was in the high Rockies years ago stalking an elk. I was sitting under a tree catching my breath and this wolf saunters out. He was maybe fifty feet away. He knew I was there, he just didn’t give a shit. He stopped in a clearing and then he did the damnedest thing. He watched a daisy open. He watched it, then brushed his nose across it, then lifted up his paw, and touched it. Then he went on his way. Beautiful thing to behold.”

  “Great. Ferdinand the wolf.”

  “The Nez Perce believe they’re the most spiritual of all creatures.

  The Milky Way is called the Route of the Wolf. Leads the fallen horse soldiers to heaven. They can sense the purity of the human spirit. You got a pure heart, Martin?”

  “I don’t know how pure it is. Right now it’s beating about eight to the bar.”

  Firestone laughed. “Whatever, Brother Wolf was certainly drawn to you. Brought out his whole family to meet you. Or… maybe he called his pack together to get a last look at you before you get your head blown off.”

  “That’s very calming, thanks!”

  “Hey, if you go down, I’ll go down right next to you.” He smiled over at Vail. “Welcome to Montana.”

  And a moment or two later they rounded a bay of tall pine trees and Vail saw their destination, a one-story building of stone and wood crouched alone in the open, with the mountains brooding a few miles behind it. Eight or ten cars were parked haphazardly around it and smoke rose lazily from the chimney. A rutted road, muddied in the snow, led back to it. There was a man in camouflage pants and a fur-lined parka standing by the highway with a .30-30 held across his chest, and two more with rifles by the front door of the restaurant. A small hand-painted sign over the door announced: THE RETREAT.

  Firestone pulled to a stop as the armed guard held up his hand.

  “Hell, he’s just a kid,” Vail said.

  “Yeah, they start ’em early.”

  Firestone rolled down his window. The young man leaned over and studied them both. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, the first sprouts of a beard checkering his chin and cheeks.

  Firestone showed him his badge. “Name’s Sam Firestone, U.S. M
arshal Service. This is Assistant Attorney General Martin Vail,” he said casually.

  “You armed, sir?” the boy asked in a voice that wasn’t as tough as he wanted it to be.

  Firestone calmly reached over, unbuttoned his coat, and pulled it back. He was wearing a 9mm Glock under his right arm.

  “You’ll have to hand that over,” the boy said, dropping his voice half an octave.

  “Sorry, son, I’m a United States marshal. I don’t give my gun up to anybody.”

  The boy was thrown off by the remark. He looked toward the two guards at the restaurant, then decided to act grown-up and handle the situation himself.

  “Then this is as far as you go,” he said.

  Firestone nodded toward the vehicles parked around the restaurant. “Judging from the vehicles, you have us way outnumbered. But…”

  He reached under his arm with his left hand, took out the Glock, and dropped the clip into his other hand. He slipped it into his shirt pocket and ejected the round out of the chamber, caught it in midair, and dropped it in the pocket.

  “That suit ya?”

  The boy looked at him for several seconds, then took a cell phone out of his pocket and punched out a number. One of the men at the door of the restaurant answered it.

  “This is Ricky. It’s them,” the boy said. “The marshal’s still got his gun but it’s dry.” He listened for a moment and nodded. One of the two guards at the restaurant door waved Firestone in.

  “Thanks,” Firestone said, nodding to the young guard, and drove down the snow-encrusted roadway, swung around, and parked facing the highway.

  “Just in case we have to leave in a hurry,” he said quietly.

  Vail shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “If we have to leave in a hurry, we won’t get this far.”

  “They ain’t gonna start a war here,” Firestone said as they walked toward the eatery, their feet squeaking and crunching in the snow. “That a guarantee?”

  “Nothing in life’s a guarantee.”

  “You just keep reassuring me, don’t you, Sam?”

  The marshal smiled. “Hell,” he said, “you’ll be able t’tell your grandchildren about this day.”

  “That’ll be a trick. I don’t have any children, let alone grandchildren.”

  “Never too late to start.”

  “I’m a city boy, Sam. I wasn’t cut out for this Wild West crap.”

  “Never too late to start that, either. Besides, you’re charmed, Martin. Brother Wolf said so.”

  “Maybe you misunderstood him.”

  “Not likely.”

  The marshal took out a plug of tobacco, pinched off a piece, and stuck it under his lower lip.

  “You’re just transforming all over the place, Sam. Talking like Billy the Kid. Chewing tobacco.”

  “Home country, I revert fast. Wanna chew?”

  “Thanks anyway, I’m still trying to quit smoking. Wonder how many Engstrom brought with him?”

  “Fifteen or twenty, judging from the vehicles.”

  “Pretty shitty odds.”

  “You dealt the hand. Let’s play the sucker out.”

  As they reached the door, the two guards stopped them. Before they could say anything, Firestone took out his pistol and pulled back the carriage. He held it up in front of them.

  “Still have to pat you down, sir,” one of the guards said politely. He was a trim man in his thirties wearing camouflage pants and a heavy leather jacket with sergeant’s stripes sewed on the sleeve.

  “Is the General armed?” Vail asked before the man moved toward him. The remark caught Firestone off guard and surprised the sergeant.

  “How’s that?” the sergeant said, hesitating.

  “If you don’t trust the word of an attorney general, then we’ll have to pat down the General.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then either open the door or we’ll leave.”

  The sergeant glared at Vail, tossing all the options around in his head.

  “It’s cold out here, Sergeant. Make up your mind.”

  The sergeant shook his head but finally opened the door. Vail went in first and stood inside the door. It was a low-ceilinged room, L-shaped, with a counter and grill to the right and tables and booths in front of him, and it was dark, the only light coming from the windows. As his eyes became accustomed to the light level, Vail made out a moose head and a rainbow trout mounted on one wall. Beside the door were half a dozen pegs with old horseshoes hooked over them. The place smelled of coffee and freshly cooked bacon.

  The tables in front of him were empty except for one in a dark corner occupied by two men. One man was as thin as a scarecrow, the other was beefy with a Mormon beard. He wore sunglasses in the dimly lit corner. The counter was crowded with men in camouflage, sitting at the counter or standing beside it. A stocky, ruddy, hard-looking man with colonel’s eagles on the shoulder of his parka stood in front of them.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Colonel Shrack,” he said in a brittle voice. He looked over Vail’s shoulder and nodded to Firestone. “The General wants to speak to Mr. Vail alone. Mr. Firestone, you can join me at this table here if that’s acceptable.”

  “Fine,” Vail said.

  “I’ll just tell him you’re here.”

  Shrack walked to a corner booth and leaned over, speaking to a bald, bullet-headed man who was sitting with his back to the front door. It was Engstrom. Firestone leaned close to Vail and whispered: “I make it sixteen counting Shrack, Metzinger, Rentz, Bollinger, Rainey, and the General.”

  “Gang’s all here and in uniform.”

  “You were right, he’s showing off.”

  Shrack walked back to them. “Follow me, Mr. Vail.”

  He led Vail to a corner booth where the General was seated. He was larger than Vail had imagined, and younger-looking. He was in trim condition, with broad shoulders and a bull neck, completely bald, with thick black eyebrows shading deep-set, fiery eyes that fixed on Vail and stayed there.

  He stood up, two or three inches taller than Vail, and his hand enveloped Vail’s, closing on it like a snake squeezing a rabbit.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Vail,” he said in a voice so harsh it sounded like he had a perpetually sore throat.

  “Mine, too, General.”

  “Have a seat. Want some breakfast? Coffee?”

  “Coffee would be nice.”

  Engstrom waved his hand but still did not take his eyes off Vail. “I hear you’re some kind of lawyer,” he said.

  “Some kind,” Vail said, and smiled.

  “And now you’re with the A.G.’s office.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That Azimour woman really stuck a thorn in your paw, didn’t she?” He said it without a trace of sarcasm or mirth.

  “Well, you know how it is, the media’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Never said more than hello to a reporter.”

  “I’ve tried not to say anything at all to them.”

  One of Engstrom’s men sat a mug of coffee and a pitcher of milk in front of Vail.

  “You’ve come a long way, Mr. Vail. Must be important, what you’ve got to say.”

  “I think so.”

  “Well…” He raised his hands at his sides, palms up. “… here I am.”

  “I’m going to put the whole deck on the table, General. Ten days ago an Army weapons convoy was knocked over in Lost Trail Pass. Ten American soldiers were murdered and left in body bags. A couple of days later George Waller, a.k.a. Ralph Anderson, was assassinated in Ohio by a professional hit man. He was in the witness protection program. There are some strings connecting these two crimes together. For one, Lost Trail Pass is in your territory. For another, Waller was a potential witness for the government against the Sanctuary. No other group or person we know of had a motive to kill Waller but your outfit.”

  “It’s a church, sir, not an outfit. A Christian church.”

  “There was also a coded message left at the scene of
both crimes. Numbers. Two-three-thirteen. It refers to the chapter and verse in the Old Testament that explains the use of the word ‘Yahweh’ in place of God. As I’m sure you know, that’s also the name of your compound.” The restaurant was deathly silent except for the sizzle of bacon on the grill. Nobody moved. Sam Firestone suddenly wished his gun was loaded.

  “And as far as this being our territory, we aren’t some nigger street gang. We don’t have a territory, this happens to be the parish of the Sanctuary.”

  “According to your man Abraham, it’s a Christian army.”

  “He’s not my man, Mr. Vail.”

  “You sponsor his radio show.”

  “Is that against the law now? Has the ZOG government finally outlawed the First Amendment?”

  “His rants could be construed as a violation of certain federal statutes.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I said construed, sir.”

  “Is that what this is about? Brother Abraham speaks the truth and suddenly my church is under suspicion of… ?” He let the sentence die out.

  “General, what we’re talking about is a series of hard felonies. There’s nothing in the Constitution guaranteeing the right to murder and steal.”

  “Except in times of war. All bets are off in times of war, Mr. Vail.”

  “Oh? Did I miss something? Are you at war with the United States?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  “Do you really want to lead your people against the United States? You’re a patriot, General, a war hero. Are you suggesting leading your people into a war with the country you served with honor?”

  “Honor, eh,” he sneered. “Do you know what I did in ’Nam? Do you know what I did in Desert Storm?”

  “I know about the Phantoms. I also know the service lost track of these people after ’Nam. I know some of them became freelancers in the international intelligence community. Rogue agents, wet-boy assassins, dirty tricks operatives, you name it. They showed up in Nicaragua, Guatemala, wherever the job was dirty enough and the money was right.”