Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  Major Barrier was to take several squads of Rangers in Humvees and trucks up the road to the plateau and establish a forward command post there. The plan was to rake the battle zone with machine gun and rocket fire from helicopters, then drop Krantz’s Ranger force in a semicircle, along the snow line and down the north and south sides of the battle zone. Their mission was to drive down the mountain and in from either side, always directing their fire down the mountainside so they did not get in each other’s line of fire. They would force Engstrom’s troops into the saddle. The Ranger squads on the south side of the stream would command the bridge, and the militia force would be sitting ducks. Trapped in the saddle, they would be forced to surrender.

  THE HILL, SATURDAY 4:33 P.M., MST

  Twenty miles away, Engstrom gathered his officers and noncoms at the bunker for last-minute instructions. Beside him, as they had been in Vietnam and Kuwait, were Bobby Shrack, Dave Metzinger, Karl Rentz, and Ray Bollinger. The other commander was James Joseph Rainey, the ex-Ku Klux Klansman who had joined the Army of the Sanctuary early on. Two dozen men were crowded into the main room of the command post that had been carved into the face of the mountain.

  The concrete bunker was located at the very center of the battle zone and was protected by a perimeter of razor wire and mines. It had concrete walls and contained a large room, which was the main communications center, sleeping quarters for the command officers, and a small radio studio with sleeping quarters adjoining it. Adjacent to the rather confined communications center, crates of ammunition, automatic rifles, rocket launchers, and rockets were hidden in a series of tunnels.

  The most dangerous cache was nearly a ton of C-4 plastic explosives stored in one-pound demolition packs wired with fuses and blasting caps. This was Engstrom’s “secret weapon.”

  Engstrom had his own battle plan if attacked—although he did not believe the Army would attack the mountain. It was his belief that the Army and the FBI would set up a blockade and eventually force him to surrender. But if they did attack, he was prepared to resist at all cost to protect what had become known as “The Hill.”

  The arrival of military forces changed all that. It now appeared that an attack on the stronghold was a possibility.

  The previous night many of his troopers had deserted the mountain fortress. His diehard force was now depleted to about six hundred men, but they would all fight to the death.

  Engstrom, a brilliant strategist if nothing else, had reasoned that an assault would be launched on three sides of the stronghold, driving down the mountain. His defense plan was to surround the bunker, his troops protected behind wire and mines. They would fire outward, away from the bunker and toward the invaders, thus preventing his men from shooting each other.

  Engstrom knew he could not win such a battle. In his heart he knew the Apocalypse could be near at hand. Heaven was in the palm of his hand. He would die in the fields of Parousia.

  At the back of the room, Abraham watched the General bolster his troops. In his private quarters, two teenage women had been “entertaining” him for days. Abraham knew he could not leave the fortress. Down below, the FBI, the Army, the ATF, and Vail were waiting. Now would have been the perfect time to send the women out of the bunker. But he decided to keep them there. Why deprive himself? he thought.

  “I’d like to offer up a prayer for all of us here gathered,” the General said.

  “Amen to that,” one of the men said.

  Several of the officers and noncoms got down on their knees. Shrack stood beside Engstrom, his hard features masking whatever he was feeling at the moment.

  “I was thinking earlier today about Revelations,” Engstrom said. “Chapter Fourteen seems appropriate. And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people. Saying with a loud voice, fear God, and give glory to Him; for the hour of His judgment is come: and worship Him that made heaven and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of water. Amen.”

  A chorus of “amens” rose from the group.

  “Well, I suggest you go out into this cold night and be with your men,” Engstrom said, and they began to filter out of the command center. Shrack took out a cigar, bit the top off, and spit it in a waste can. “Falling back on your old ways, Colonel?” Engstrom said.

  “I prefer the taste of tobacco to the taste of ashes,” Shrack said.

  “I never knew you to be doubtful of things, Bobby.”

  “We’ve never been this far up the creek before, Joshua.”

  “God’s watching over us.”

  “He sure as hell better be.”

  WASHINGTON, SATURDAY 6:52 P.M., EST

  In the war room at the White House, President Pennington paced back and forth before a large model of Mount James while battle maps were mounted on the walls. Several officers were in charge of keeping the map up to date as the battle progressed.

  Twenty minutes earlier, Abraham had gone on the radio live to preach about the coming Apocalypse, his fiery oratory filled with references to the rogue President who was moving troops into the Missoula area and the treachery of the government. General James listened intently, shaking his head as Abraham raved on for nearly thirty minutes. The preacher concluded with verses from Luke that sounded more like a warning than scripture.

  “When ye shall hear of war and commotions be not terrified: for these things must first come to pass… and great earthquakes shall be in diverse places, and famines and pestilences; and fearful sights and great signs shall there be from the heavens… Then let them which are in Judea flee to the mountains… for these be the days of vengeance, that all things which are written may be fulfilled…”

  “There he goes editing and paraphrasing again,” James said. “He left out the part about leaving the mountains.”

  “Turn that damn thing off,” Pennington said.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Pennington looked at his watch. He had summoned Marge Castaigne, Jerome Brillstein, the Secretary of Defense, Claude Hooker, FBI Director Harry Simmons, and Wayne Brodsky of the ATF. He wanted them there if they did indeed launch an attack. Castaigne and Brillstein had disagreed with his decision to send troops into the area, and the legal aspects were murky, but Pennington had fallen back on the War Powers Act of the sixties and, more recently, the antiterrorist laws.

  “I’ll only order a strike if they provoke an attack,” Pennington had told them. But Brillstein remembered a previous discussion when Pennington had suddenly snapped at him. “God damn it, Jerry, if we don’t stop him now, the right-wing nuts in the country will think they can walk all over us.” Brillstein had decidedly mixed feelings about Pennington’s motives.

  Hooker and Simmons had agreed with him, likening the crisis on Mount James to a cell of terrorists plotting to overthrow the government.

  Pennington had made his decision without fretting over it, especially after the fiery deaths of eleven FBI agents in Michigan and the attack on Vail that had left a twelfth dead. He was more convinced than ever that Engstrom had to be put down. In Pennington’s mind it was a revolt.

  Regardless of what his cabinet thought, Pennington felt his decision would be accepted by the voters, especially when he told them what a sustained blockade would cost in tax dollars. He was prepared to take full responsibility for the executive order that could send American troops against American citizens. His decision was firm. A single act of aggression by Engstrom’s army would set off a civil war on the border between Montana and Idaho.

  MOUNT JAMES, SATURDAY 5:56 P.M., MST

  With darkness, a harsh wind moaned down through the trees from the peak of Mount James. Metzinger and his son were huddled around a small fire that flickered in the wind. It was raw cold but the youth did not complain.

  “Chip, I think you should go back home,” Metzinger said. “This is no place for a sixteen-year-old.”

  “I been in the militia
since I was fourteen, Pa,” the teenager answered. “I’m not leavin’ you.”

  “Go down and be with your ma, she needs you now.”

  “My place is with you.”

  “Chip—”

  “Forget it, Pa. I ain’t leavin’ without you. What would the General say, he heard you talkin’ like this?” His father did not answer, and Chip asked, “What do you think’s gonna happen?”

  “Aw, hell, at first light the General will sit down with that Vail guy and get things straightened out.”

  Chip shuddered and tried to shake off the cold. “Wasn’t like this in ’Nam, was it, Pa?”

  “Not likely. Just the opposite. Hot, humid, buggy. You could grab a handful of sweat out of the air. In Kuwait it was hot and dry. Mouth’d be full of dust, you couldn’t spit to save your life. But I tell you, it was better than this. I never did like the cold.”

  Chip laughed. “Then why’d you decide to live in Montana?”

  “Because it’s our home. It’s God’s country. I love it, just the nights that get me. Too cold.”

  Behind them a voice said, “You must be proud of your boy, David.” They looked up, and Engstrom was towering over them, his eyes blazing from inside the hood of his parka.

  Metzinger and Chip jumped to their feet and saluted. “No need for that,” the General said. “I just thought I’d have a prayer with the men. Sit down.”

  Metzinger and his son sat and huddled near the fire.

  “Any news?” Chip Metzinger asked.

  “No. You scared, son?”

  “Too cold to be scared,” the teenager answered.

  “No matter what comes to pass,” Engstrom said, “remember the words of Luke, Twenty-one to Twenty-eight. And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh. Heaven and earth shall pass away: but my words will not pass away. Watch ye, therefore, and pray always, that ye may be accounted worthy to escape all these things that come to pass, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

  “Amen to that,” Metzinger said, but there was sadness in his voice. “Amen,” Chip repeated.

  The General moved on and they could hear him speaking to others in the darkness. “…And in their mouth was found no guile: for they are without fault before the throne of God.”

  Metzinger put his arm around his son and pulled him close.

  THE HANGAR, SATURDAY 6:05 P.M., MST

  The sergeant walked through the crowded hangar, stopping occasionally to give the troops a pep talk. A young Ranger had moved away from the crowd. He knelt against a wall, sipping bottled water, and was obviously deep in thought. His blackened face was serious as he stared down at the concrete pavement.

  “How ya doin’, soldier?” the sergeant asked.

  “Not sure, Sarge.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

  “I never thought we’d be killing Americans when I joined the Rangers.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Rizzo, sir.”

  “Well, my name’s Sergeant Williams. Jason Williams. I been in this man’s Army twenty-eight years and I never thought so either. But our commander in chief says these men are traitors. They conspire against the government and rob and kill for their own glory.”

  “I’m having a hard time thinking about killing a bunch of farmers from Montana,” the soldier, who was barely in his twenties, said.

  “They’re not farmers, they’re highly trained guerrillas who mean to take down our government and disgrace the flag. Remember what happened in Oklahoma City, don’t you? You think about that. Think about your mother and sister back home, what would happen to them if these renegades ever busted out of here.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll do that. I’ll think about that.”

  “Good. You’ll do just fine. You’ll do what you’re ordered to do, Rizzo. I have no doubts about that.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  MOUNT JAMES, SATURDAY 6:22 P.M., MST

  When the sun dropped behind the western mountains, darkness quickly enveloped Mount James like a cloak. There was hardly a moment of dusk. As ordered, two Specter choppers eased around the south face of the mountain and flew to within a hundred yards of the battle zone. Night scanners searched the darkened face of the mountain, seeking the entrance to the bunker. The crew was looking for activity, and they found plenty. Figures scurried from the entrance carrying rocket and grenade launchers and M-16 automatic rifles, illegal weapons that had remained hidden until now. In the back of the chopper a specialist marked the locations of the surface-to-air rocket launchers on a grid of the battle zone and radioed the information back to the Missoula airport command center.

  Colonel Rembrandt, an unlit cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth, turned to his adjutant.

  “The rats are coming out to play,” he said, and transmitted the information back to the White House war room.

  At the mountain a second government chopper swung in behind the first. Together they scanned the battle zone, studying the positions of the Stinger surface-to-air rockets.

  In the bunker, Shrack, Engstrom, and Rainey, the Ku Klux Klanner rocket expert, watched, on night monitors, the two choppers move in closer.

  “Seventy-five yards,” Rainey growled. “They’re spotting our positions, General.”

  Engstrom pondered the situation. He did not want to fire the first shot, but he knew the assault on the Hill would have to come from a string drop. The heavy winds would prevent the use of paratroopers. The shoulder-mounted Stinger and 72-E5 rocket and missile launchers were their first line of defense. Their mission was to take down the personnel choppers.

  Rainey, who had instructed the rocket squads, was cold and calm. He was a short block of a man with a handlebar mustache and a buzz cut. He watched the monitor with his hands on his hips, waiting for Engstrom to make a decision.

  “General?”

  Engstrom turned to Shrack. “What do you think, Bobby?”

  Shrack knew the consequences but he also understood the problem. “Either we take them out and protect our missiles or we may as well give up,” he said. “It’s our first line.”

  “We can fire a low shot and warn them off,” he said.

  “Fuck that,” Rainey said. “Either we take them out or roll over like a bunch of puppy dogs.”

  Shrack hated Rainey but respected his opinions. “If we can repel their first attack, it will shake up Pennington,” he said. “He may not want to risk a heavy loss up here.”

  “He wouldn’t have moved his troops in here if he wasn’t ready to go full barrel,” Engstrom said. He turned to Rainey. “Fire a warning shot and see how they respond,” he said.

  “Shit,” Rainey said disdainfully. He turned, walked down the long tunnel, and exited the bunker.

  Two militiamen squatted near the entrance with shoulder-mounted Stingers. Rainey peered at the blacked-out Nighthawks through his night binoculars.

  “Gimme that,” he said, and took the shoulder-mounted weapon. “The General wants to play games with those birds.”

  He aimed the Stinger low and fired a shot. The rocket whined out of the barrel and whooshed off into the night with its tail afire.

  In the chopper, the pilot saw the flash, then saw the fiery tail of the rocket pass under his belly.

  “We are under rocket attack!” he yelled into his mike.

  Below him, near the saddle, a young militiaman saw the rocket streak over and miss and thought the attack was under way. He fired several bursts from his M-16 up toward the sound of the chopper. Several rounds pinged against the underbelly of the Nighthawk.

  “We are under rocket and ground fire, sir,” he said.

  In the White House, James turned to the President. “They’re starting it,” he said.

  Pennington looked at him and said, quite calmly, “Tell them to return fire and move out,” knowing full well the consequences of his words.

  Rembrandt heard his orders over his e
arphones. He relayed them to the chopper. The pilot lowered the nose of the craft and fired his machine guns toward the hill. The bullets stitched across the hard earth and ripped into the chest of one of the militiamen. He was slammed back into the side of the hill and was dead where he fell.

  “Son of a bitch!” Rainey yelled. He grabbed another rocket. “I’m gonna get me one of the fucking President’s seventy-million-dollar play toys.”

  He aimed the Stinger and fired. The rocket streaked through the night sky. As the Specter swerved to leave, the rocket ripped into its belly. The pilot felt the hit, felt his chopper spin on end and go out of control.

  “Mayday, mayday!” he yelled, and a moment later the gas tanks exploded. The stricken chopper dipped over on its side, plunged into the side of Mount James, and erupted in flame.

  In the bunker, Engstrom and Shrack watched as the chopper died.

  Engstrom was as calm as the ice on a lake. He picked up a remote switch and pressed it. The bridge connecting the plateau to the battle zone was ripped to pieces by two C-4 charges. The debris collapsed into the roaring stream below it.

  “General,” Shrack said, “we just declared war.”

  A hundred miles away, Martin Vail and Sam Firestone were heading back to Missoula in Firestone’s small plane. Vail had left Parver, Meyer, and Flaherty in Helena to continue interrogating Granger and Wolf. With their testimonies and Gondorf’s he had enough to seek indictments against Engstrom and his staff. It would be the beginning of the end for the Sanctuary of the Lord. He was anxious to tell Hardistan in person and then call Marge Castaigne. Neither he nor Firestone were aware of what was happening in Missoula. They had not been listening to the radio and Pennington had not advised either of them about the alert. They had no idea what they were flying into.

  CHAPTER 38

  MOUNT JAMES, SATURDAY 7:09 P.M., MST

  The first drop was a disaster.

  Led by assault choppers, two Specter gunships swept in over the south face of the mountain and hugged the snow line. Fighting the bruising winds that battered the peak of Mount James, they opened fire with 25mm Gatling guns and 40mm Bofors cannons, clearing a path for the big Pavelow choppers behind them. Below them, half a dozen militiamen with Stingers and 72-Es were waiting. The Specters raked the forest below the snow line with rocket and machine-gun fire. Behind them, hovering over the rim of the south face, Pavelow troop carriers waited to deliver the first Ranger contingent.