Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  Engstrom and Shrack were staring at the maps. They paid no attention as Stampler and the young girl walked down the long tunnel and unlocked the double steel doors. Behind him, Stampler could hear Shrack’s heavy boots coming toward them. He took the girl by the arm and hurriedly left the bunker.

  A Ranger was waiting for them. He escorted them away from the bunker and into the trees. Here and there in the darkness there was the pop pop of intermittent gunfire.

  “I’ll lead you up the south side,” the Ranger said. “We can take you out in the next chopper.”

  Stampler fell in beside him. As they walked through a dark patch of trees, he pulled a knife and stepped up so close the Ranger felt his hot breath on the back of his neck. Stampler snapped his head back and deftly cut the soldier’s throat. The man gasped once and fell dead at Stampler’s feet. The girl turned wide-eyed and looked at him. He slashed her viciously from the front, killing her instantly. He threw off his jacket and pulled the dress quickly over his head. He took the Ranger’s body armor and field jacket and put them on. Then he blackened his face with dirt, put on the soldier’s cap, took his gun, and headed up the hill as fast he could.

  Sergeant Williams stood on a patch of unscorched earth and spoke into Rentz’s microphone. “General, I admire your guts, but this cause is lost. Give it up now before anybody else dies. Let’s you and me see the sun rise together.”

  “Those are kind words, Sergeant. Where are you from?”

  “Charleston, South Carolina, sir. My daddy fought in World War Two. He was the first black man to run for Congress in South Carolina. Got beat, but at least he had the privilege of running.”

  Shrack chuckled and shook his head. “Wouldn’t you know,” he said.

  “You want to surrender, Bobby?”

  “What the hell for? To do life in the Grave or end up strapped to a table with a needle in my arm?”

  The General flicked up the black metal cover that protected the red button. It was connected to detonation cords that fused the C-4 cache nearby.

  “We did pretty good, Bobby, considering they sent the whole U.S. Army against us,” Engstrom said. He smiled at Shrack and they shook hands.

  High above, Stampler reached the snow line and dashed south, toward the narrow corridor of land that led down the hill to the plateau. With luck he could make it there, maybe even find Mordie and get the hell out.

  “Sergeant Williams?” Engstrom said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do you know your Bible?”

  “I read a verse every night, sir.”

  “This is from Revelations. And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air; and there came a great voice out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying it is done. And there were voices, and thunders, and lightnings; and there was a great earthquake such as man has not seen since men were upon the earth. And every island fled away, and the mountains were not found.”

  He pressed the button.

  A thousand pounds of C-4 exploded simultaneously, setting off rockets, missiles, mortar shells, ammo, fuel: all of the contraband the Sanctuary had stolen through the years and hidden in the mountain.

  The side of the mountain erupted like a volcano. First, it burst with a great storm of concrete, dirt, and smoke.

  The earth trembled like an earthquake for miles around.

  Then followed the fireball. It was the size of two city blocks, boiled up from the furnace of death, swirling into the sky and lighting the night like a birthing sun. It thundered down the face of Mount James, creating a vacuum that sucked everything up into it. Pine trees were torn from the earth, sucked into the sky, and cremated. Men disappeared into the all-consuming orb. Snow turned to water, boiled, and turned to steam. The earth under the terrifying ball of fire was fried as the howling juggernaut of flame consumed everything in its path.

  On the plateau, Firestone grabbed Vail and Hardistan and dragged them over the side of the embankment, but Major Barrier, knocked to his knees, stared dumbly as death engulfed him.

  They tumbled down thirty feet and cowered under overhanging roots and earth as the great river of fire roared down toward them, was deflected by the high ridges around the plateau, and swirled off into the sky. Trees and debris went with it. The three men held onto each other and to the roots as the heat sucked at them, burst over them, and boomed into the sky. The command Humvee was lifted and thrown over the side of the steep cliff. It exploded as it fell down into the gorge and crashed a few yards from them. Major Barrier’s body followed it. Scorched and burning, it dropped from the sky like a smoky scarecrow and thudded to earth nearby.

  Vail gasped for air, felt its heat inside his chest, and gagged.

  Then, just as suddenly, a rush of cool air followed the sphere of fire. Vail, Firestone, and Hardistan stared up at the great fireball, watching it rush away into the heavens. It was an awesome sight as it boiled into the sky. A few moments later ashes and burning refuse showered down on the destroyed mountain.

  Stampler cowered in the wreckage of one of the Pavelows. The explosion was below him, but the force of it knocked him out of the wreckage, tumbling him down the side of the hill. He rolled in the snow to snuff out the flames that licked at his clothes and face. Then he raced into the trees on the high south side of the mountain and stood there as the bunker disgorged its cloud of death.

  Twenty miles away the earth trembled and the windows in the airport control tower rattled in their frames.

  Colonel Rembrandt stared in disbelief as the great fireball rose into the sky, turning night into day.

  “Oh my God,” he gasped. He took off his headset and dropped it beside him on a table while General James demanded to know exactly what the hell was going on.

  CHAPTER 39

  A bloodred sky greeted the morning, staining long fingers of thin cirrus clouds. Vail, Hardistan, and Firestone were huddled under the ridge that had saved their lives. Barrier and his men had not been as lucky. The major’s body still lay at the bottom of the steep embankment where the devastating fireball had dropped it. One of the Humvees lay crumpled in the trees, where it had been tossed like a toy, several hundred feet away. The chopper and the third Humvee were still burning.

  Barrier’s three aides were nowhere to be found.

  By dawn’s light the road leading to the valley was a cluttered mess. Charred trees and debris had clogged it for several hundred feet. Across the gap, in what had once been Engstrom’s sanctuary, only an enormous gaping hole remained. On the high side, wreckage of Pavelows and Specters were all that remained of the task force. The snow—from where the snow line had been halfway to the peak of Mount James—had melted. Miraculously, eight wounded Rangers who were awaiting evacuation had been spared.

  A thin veil of ash covered everything.

  The three survivors on the plateau were without communication, food, or water. In the darkness after the holocaust, they heard choppers and saw the thin fingers of searchlights perusing the ruins. With first light, they would be seen and rescued from their perch. So they waited.

  The trauma of the explosion had left them shaking and in shock. They huddled together speechlessly. There was nothing to say.

  Above them, Aaron Stampler—the Abraham of Engstrom’s madness— staggered down the hillside, through shattered trees and ruptured earth, toward the ridge that protected Vail, Hardistan, and Firestone. He still wore the dead Ranger’s clothes, and the side of his face was burned and his hair was singed to the scalp. Sweat from the terrible heat had erased most of the blackness from his face.

  He, too, was traumatized, shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. He was carrying an Army .45 in one hand and a canteen in the other, having filled it with snow that had melted, providing him with water. There were three cartridges in the clip of the pistol and one in the chamber—in case he got into trouble. He had long since discarded his contact lenses.

  Stampler stumbled down the hillside toward the ridge. The road was clogged with rub
ble but he knew he could get through the debris. Once in the valley, he felt he could escape the bedlam surrounding the battle on Mount James. He had found an ID card in the uniform he stole. As he approached the ridge he could see the burning chopper but was not aware that below him, under the ridge, was Martin Vail.

  He struggled toward the plateau and as he neared the foot of the steep drop he stopped. Three men were huddled together in deep shadows. The sun was not high enough in the sky to shed light in the natural alcove and it was difficult to make them out. He backed up the ridge, out of their sight, and pondered what to do. Obviously, they were waiting to be rescued. Stampler decided his best option was to go back to the top of the ridge, play dead until they were gone, then continue his trek to the valley. But as he turned to go back a voice stopped him. “Hey soldier!”

  He turned. A tall man in an FBI jacket was standing below him. “Come on down,” the FBI agent called to him in a friendly voice. “We’ll be picked up shortly.”

  Stampler sat down and skidded on his rump to the foot of the ridge. The agent stuck out his hand.

  “I’m Billy Hardistan,” he said. As they shook hands, he added, “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “I was up on the snow line,” Stampler said. “There’s some wounded guys up there. I don’t think anybody else made it.”

  “You’re one lucky soldier,” Hardistan said. “That’s an ugly burn, let me take a look.”

  As Hardistan studied the raw flesh on the side of his face, Stampler could see the other two men emerge from the shadows.

  “Got any water in the canteen?” Hardistan said. “We need to clean that wound up a bit.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Stampler mumbled.

  Then he looked over Hardistan’s shoulder.

  And stared straight into the eyes of Martin Vail.

  Jesus!

  His hand inched down and grasped the butt of the .45.

  Vail looked at him and started to say something.

  Then Vail’s expression froze.

  “My God!” he cried, his eyes widening with disbelief. “That’s Aaron Stampler!”

  Stampler smashed his elbow into Hardistan’s face and pulled the gun. Firestone’s hand swept under his arm but he was a second too late. Stampler fired a single shot. A second later Firestone’s Glock roared. The bullet tore through Stampler’s neck. He reeled backward and fell into the burning chopper. His clothes burst into flame. He rolled frantically, trying to get out of the tangled mass of metal, but it only embroiled him deeper in the burning plane’s wreckage.

  As he shrieked in pain, Firestone turned to Vail.

  The single bullet had ripped into Vail’s chest. It felt like a baseball bat had hit him. He fell straight to his knees and leaned forward, supporting himself with one hand.

  Firestone raced to his side.

  But Vail did not see him. His mind tumbled madly back through time. He thought of Stampler, a trial many years ago and Stampler’s blood spree when he was released from the mental institution. Then his fevered mind turned to Jane and Magoo.

  Yes, he thought, I can do that….

  He looked up at Sam Firestone and the world faded to white.

  He collapsed in Firestone’s arms.

  Across the plateau, Stampler had stopped screaming. His eyes bulged from the melting flesh of his face as the fire consumed him.

  In a corner of the intensive care unit at the Missoula hospital a curtain had been pulled around Vail’s bed. Jane Venable sat beside him, clutching his hand. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, and behind him, past the lifelines and tubes that were sustaining him, the heart monitor beeped as the green lines of its graph charted his fight for life.

  The doctor stepped into the cubicle every few minutes to check the instruments. His face revealed nothing.

  The bullet had nicked Vail’s heart and he had lost a great deal of blood before rescue teams reached him. Pints of blood had pulled him back from the rim of death but the prognosis was grim at best.

  Outside in the hall, Vail’s beloved Wild Bunch, Billy Hardistan, and Sam Firestone watched the clock. He had been in surgery for hours. Now there was the agony of waiting.

  Venable spoke constantly to Vail, reavowing her love for him, talking about Magoo and how they would find him a proper mate, softly telling him of the plans to restore their cabin by the lake.

  His hands were cold and his face was drawn.

  Then she felt him squeeze her hand. His eyes fluttered and opened and he smiled. Feebly, he moved his other hand to the mask and tried to pull it down.

  Jane moved the mask down for just a moment and kissed him. Then he whispered something to her. She leaned over, her ear almost touching his lips, and listened. Tears flooded her eyes.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”

  She turned to the nurse.

  “Is there a chaplain here?” she asked.

  “Of course,” the nurse replied.

  “Could you find him, please.”

  Fifteen minutes later, while his heart struggled to keep the monitor beeping and his staff and new friends stood by, Martin Vail and Jane Venable were married.

  EPILOGUE

  For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground,

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

  —Richard II, Act III, Scene 2

  It was a bright morning in April, unseasonably warm for Washington, when the limo pulled up to the main entrance of the White House. A young naval attache was waiting. He opened the door and helped the pale visitor from the car.

  “Good morning, sir,” the officer said. “Welcome to the White House.”

  The visitor leaned on his cane. “Last time I came here,” he said with a wry smile, “I came in the side door.”

  The officer offered his arm and helped him up the steps.

  In the Oval Office, Claude Hooker and President Pennington were in conference when Mildred Ewing, the President’s assistant, tapped on the door and stuck her head in.

  “He’s here,” she announced.

  Pennington nodded. “Good. Good,” he said. “Show him right in.”

  A moment later Martin Vail entered the room. He seemed grayer than Pennington remembered from their first meeting and he had lost weight.

  “Martin,” Pennington said, “good to see you again. You remember Claude Hooker.”

  They all shook hands and then Pennington said, “Claude, will you excuse us, please?”

  Hooker was obviously disgruntled at being asked to leave, but he nodded and exited the room.

  “Well, Martin. You look just fine, just fine.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “And how is Jane?”

  “She’s on extended leave,” Vail answered. “Been playing Florence Nightingale to me and Magoo. He’s our dog.”

  “Yes, I remember. Quite the hero, as I recall.”

  “He took a bullet that was meant for me.” Vail said.

  “Let’s sit over here.” Pennington led Vail to the two sofas and they sat opposite each other. Pennington was an arranger. He moved things around on the coffee table as they spoke, finally stopping when he had put everything in symmetrical order.

  “I’ve been following your recuperation. The operations went well, I understand.” It sounded more like an apology than a statement of concern, as if Pennington were looking for an opening to get into the conversation.

  “It took four operations to get my heart ticking properly but I feel fine,” Vail answered. “Still haven’t got my sea legs back.”

  “I want to thank you for all you did,” Pennington said. “You and your team did an admirable job putting the RICO case together. Unfortunately, Engstrom and his boys chose death before dishonor. But the dust has finally settled; things are shaking out nicely.”

  Maybe for you, thought Vail, but not for Marge Castaigne. Not for Jesse James and Harry Simmons. All had “officially” accepted responsibility for the holocaust on Mount James and tak
en the hemlock cocktail, retiring or resigning in the wake of the tragedy, thereby absolving Pennington of the decision to attack the Sanctuary with military force. In the three months since the attack, Pennington neatly had removed himself from the fiasco while publicly “accepting responsibility” for it. “So, what are you planning to do once you’ve fully recovered?”

  “I haven’t really thought much about it, Mr. President.”

  “Your people have done well cleaning up the RICO case. They certainly have proved our point.”

  Vail did not answer. He just stared intently across the table at Pennington.

  “I was thinking,” said Pennington. “We expect to have an opening in the Fifth Circuit, probably before the end of summer. I think you would make an excellent judge.”

  So—there it was. It had taken Pennington less than five minutes to cut to the chase. Vail had remained conspicuously silent during his lengthy recuperation, maintaining a “no comment” posture for which he was well known. Now the President was offering up a respectable lifetime job as a payoff.

  “I can think of a lot of judges who would turn positively apoplectic at the mere thought,” Vail said.

  Pennington chuckled. “Oh. I think not,” he said solicitously. “You certainly have the experience and background. And your respect for the Constitution makes you an excellent candidate.”

  “I appreciate the offer, sir,” Vail said. “But no thanks.”

  “I see,” Pennington said. “Perhaps… you have something else in mind?”