by P A Duncan
Alexei retrieved a single, folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket and held it out to Fitzgerald.
After snatching it from Alexei’s fingers, Fitzgerald unfolded it and read, “Provide Mr. Bukharin and Ms. Fisher any and all information they request. Cooperate to the fullest extent.”
Fitzgerald’s renewed scowl told Alexei what he thought of that.
A deep sigh, and Fitzgerald said, “In fifteen minutes in trailer number four. My senior staff will be there. You have one hour to the minute to conduct your briefing, Mr. Bukharin.”
Alexei gave Mai an almost imperceptible wink.
“Ms. Fisher will conduct the briefing. She’s far more well-spoken than I and far more soothing on the eyes.”
“I think you’ll find the FBI more than capable of following a simple briefing without resorting to eye candy,” Fitzgerald said.
“I’ll try to keep it simple for you,” Mai said, turned, and left the trailer.
Alexei smiled at Fitzgerald and followed her.
10
Sinful Messiah
The FBI had jammed a conference table sized for eight people into the large trailer, but Mai and Alexei noted the narrow quarters as they carried in the briefing packets. They put a copy before each chair and awaited their audience.
“I think you’ve already figured out Agent Fitzgerald is an overbearing asshole drunk on position power,” Alexei said and leaned against one wall of the trailer to peer out the polarized window.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
He redirected his scrutiny to her, and she sobered.
“You never mince words, Alexei. Are you telling me to watch my mouth?”
Alexei shrugged and again looked outside. The active federal compound contrasted with the lack of movement around Calvary Locus, a pale rectangle wavering in the heat rising off the farmland. What lay inside that “church” to confront an intruder, he wondered.
“I feel compelled,” he said. “One of those senior agent duties.”
“I shall be sweet and compliant.”
“On a cold day in hell. Don’t let yourself react to his behavior, but don’t take any shit from him, either.”
“I never take shite from Fibbies.”
She joined him at the window. As they watched, one of the borrowed tanks rolled toward Calvary Locus and began to circle it at a fast clip, but at a distance. Alexei wondered if it were for their benefit or if Fitzgerald was trying to get the People of the Eternal Light inside to shoot. Alexei hoped Isaac Caleb had a calmer head than that.
Alexei’s eyes drifted to Caleb’s standard atop its tall flagpole. The blue and white mimicked the Israeli flag, as did the six-pointed star, but a serpent plunged through the star’s center. Instead of a ball at the top of the flagpole, there was a Star of David. Caleb had emphasized to the outside world, the Eternal Light Prophesies’ Jewish connection, real or imagined.
“I’m thinking this will be a waste of time,” Mai said.
“This is quality information. They’ll have to reassess their approach after hearing it. Any reasonable person would.”
“Reasonable being the operative word.”
“When did you become the pessimistic one?”
“Long years of association with you, I suppose. Look at them out there. Drunk frat boys playing army would have more class. And you know my distrust of the law enforcement mentality anyway.”
Alexei smiled and kissed her cheek. “For luck,” he said.
“Somehow I think Agent Fitzgerald would disapprove of such intimacy in the midst of a serious, tactical situation.”
“Ah, that’s Hollis’ problem. Caleb is getting all he wants from his multiple wives. Poor Hollis has but the company of men, a lovely U.N. operative with an attitude, and his good right hand.”
That got a smile from her, but before she could come up with a rejoinder, the door to the trailer opened, framing Fitzgerald. He stared at the two of them, close together. Mai edged away.
Five FBI agents filed in after Fitzgerald, whose introductions of the men were borderline rude. Two of the men were closer to Fitzgerald’s and Alexei’s age, and they wore the same expression of skepticism as Fitzgerald.
No wonder my ears were burning, Alexei thought.
The other three agents were closer to Mai’s age, mid-thirties. Their expressions held no hostility, but Alexei watched each of them appraise his wife’s physical attributes as they shook hands.
As the federal agents took their seats around the table, Alexei moved to one end of the trailer and hitched a hip on a credenza there. Mai’s hands went to her French braid, seeking loose strands. None were astray, but he smiled at the reflexive action he’d observed hundreds, if not thousands, of times.
With Fitzgerald occupying one end of the table, the “head” Alexei supposed, Mai went to the other end and remained standing, a subtle designation she was in charge of the briefing. Everyone would have to look at her and away from Fitzgerald. Score one for her.
The sophisticated British accent was back when she said, “Gentlemen, thank you for making the time in the midst of a difficult situation to listen. I appreciate your commitment to finding a peaceful resolution.” She smiled at Fitzgerald. “And thank you, Agent Fitzgerald, for sparing the time. I know the tactical situation here is critical, and I’m grateful you were open to this briefing.”
She sounded sincere, so much so, the younger agents frowned. Mai’s demeanor must not have jived with what Fitzgerald had told them. Indeed, her performance was so good, Fitzgerald himself gave her a nod of acknowledgement.
All the agents except Fitzgerald began to flip through the pages of the briefing.
“I thought I’d begin by going over some details of Eternal Light history,” Mai said, “with a focus on providing assistance for future negotiations with Caleb. He was the one who initiated a shift in Eternal Light’s history, and our analysts believe that’s a key to predicting both his behavior and how he proposes to end the stand-off.”
“He’s already indicated that,” said the lead negotiator, whom Fitzgerald had introduced as Special Agent Darren Knerr. “He says he has the firepower to disable the Bradleys. That pretty much tells me he intends to fight to the death.”
“He may indeed intend that, but not for the reasons you think. The People of the Eternal Light, sometimes called Eternal Light Prophecies—I believe you call them PELs—are members of an amalgamated religion started about a century ago. The founders picked and chose from various, conservative protestant religions—Baptists, Pentecostal, Seventh Day Adventist, Mormonism, among others. Despite their acceptance of some Jewish dietary restrictions and customs, they consider themselves Christians, believe Christ is the son of God, or in their parlance, the Eternal Light.
“Eternal Light has a strong tradition of prophecy concerning the second coming of Christ. That event, they believe, will herald the end of the world, at which point those the Second Messiah chooses will ascend with him into heaven. This Messiah will leave behind twenty-four of his children—twelve males and twelve females—who will become the founders of the new tribes of Israel in a cleansed world. Original Eternal Light philosophy didn’t insist they be the Messiah’s literal children but rather his symbolic children. Caleb, however, has reinterpreted that aspect. That’s why he’s fathered so many children.
“Such prophesy is not new and certainly not exclusive to the Eternal Light. However, after several predicted second comings didn’t happen, the Elders of Eternal Light decided to stop prophesying it. Some in Eternal Light didn’t accept that change and became the Eternal Light Prophecies, an offshoot church. They continued to predict the second coming.”
“Excuse me, you’re referring to them as a church, as Christians,” said the third of the older agents, named Taunton. He wore a small, gold cross pinned to his flak jacket. He nodded toward Calvary Locus. “That’s a cult.”
“People of the Eternal Light congregations around the world would beg to dif
fer, Agent Taunton,” Mai said. “There are at least fifty congregations around the world, some following the original Eternal Light dogma, some following the prophetic offshoot.
“They have Sunday services, baptize their members, emphasize Jesus’ teachings, conduct Bible classes—they use the King James version, by the way—and run Sunday School and vacation Bible schools. They certainly don’t fit the definition of a cult, though they’re not as mainstream as, say, the Mormons. Isaac Caleb’s People of the Eternal Light have lost the recognition of the main Eternal Light leadership, but they continue to conduct services as if they were still affiliated.”
“Why did they lose recognition?” Taunton asked.
“Because they broke with long-standing Eternal Light tradition.”
“Explain.”
“The congregation here at Calvary Locus, formed some forty years ago, was a traditional Eternal Light church. Each church had its prophet, who could be a man or a woman, recognized as the congregation’s leader. Sometimes those prophets were ordained ministers, sometimes not. The congregation’s loyalty was to the overall church, not the prophet. Calvary Locus was a loose association of semi-autonomous family units, several generations’ worth. The prophet’s family was considered central, but the connection among the families was spiritual, not blood.
“Eternal Light congregations tend to fit into the communities where they’re located. They don’t dress differently, don’t look different, and their spiritual practices have a deep basis in Christian rituals. They blend in. Calvary Locus, until recently, interacted seamlessly with the Killeen community. There was little, if any, tension with local law enforcement. I think you’d find the county sheriff would say until a few months ago, Calvary Locus was the least of his worries. In fact, he’s been known to attend Sunday service there. However, as Isaac Caleb put more and more emphasis on the prophetic aspects of Eternal Light, on his prophecies in particular, he changed the focus from loyalty to the church to unwavering loyalty to him.”
“Is this leading somewhere?” Fitzgerald asked, after an exaggerated sigh.
Mai’s “Yes,” was blunt and curt. “In a prophetic movement of any kind, the prophet explains to his or her flock how current events engender a biblically ordained future.”
“Well, that would be subject to the prophet’s interpretation,” Taunton said.
“Yes, of course, and it’s true of any prophetic movement, not just Eternal Light. The biblically ordained future for these prophetic movements is the apocalyptic end of the world. The events leading up to that are called the End Times, a term used by many Protestant religions. Several apocalyptic religions, not only Eternal Light, believe we are now in the End Times.”
“As you said, some real religions believe that,” Taunton said.
“But those other religions don’t look out their windows and see what they’re told is the Army of Babylon outside. That is what Caleb is telling the people inside Calvary Locus.”
Taunton nodded and made some notes on his copy of the briefing. Fitzgerald rolled his eyes.
“Caleb as a prophet demands their loyalty. He’s the one who set his followers apart from society, expanding the structure of Calvary Locus to allow his followers to live there. Society, he now tells them, is their enemy, and now a follower’s place in the church hierarchy depends on the nature of his or her relationship with Caleb. Caleb has explained the only way they’ll get to heaven is through him.”
“Sounds like salvation,” Taunton said.
“Sounds like Isaac, all right,” Knerr added.
Taunton and Knerr had leaned toward Mai and were paying close attention. Alexei thought if she could win them over, they might influence Fitzgerald.
“Any prophet,” Mai continued, “may speak in glowing and almost Republican terms of the importance of family, of family values, and Caleb certainly does that in his sermons. However, the only families that matter to him are the ones who believe in him and his predictions.”
“Like Manson?” asked one of the other agents, Petilli.
“More like Jim Jones,” Fitzgerald said.
Mai directed her reply to Petilli. “I’ve never profiled Charles Manson, so I wouldn’t want to draw a false correlation.”
The agents must not have expected the humility. They exchanged puzzled glances. Their body language loosened up, with one notable exception. More agents took out pens and began to make notes.
Mai had also recognized she could have an ally in Taunton. She focused on him. “The focus on a prophet for salvation is a significant difference from mainstream religions.”
“Yes,” he said, giving Mai a slight smile, “you don’t find prophets in my Baptist church.”
“Excuse me,” Petilli said, “is there a discernible route by which Caleb transformed this Eternal Light congregation to the prophetic type?”
“I can tell you the route,” Fitzgerald said. “Caleb saw it as a way to get all the pussy he wanted.”
Fitzgerald’s smile was sly as he waited for Mai’s reaction. He frowned when he got none.
“Actually,” Mai said to Fitzgerald, “there is plenty of evidence Caleb agonized over his sexual tendencies. As a teen and a young man, when he was still Wayne Smith, he masturbated constantly and reviled himself for his sin. Eternal Light is a strict denomination concerning sex and sexual practices. He hoped their strictures would quell his unclean urges. When he became the prophet he decided, big surprise, his exalted status meant his urges were all right. If God hadn’t wanted him to be this way, God wouldn’t have made him this way. In Caleb’s twisted logic, his sexual proclivities were God’s way of torturing him for his humanity, the way Christ was tortured by his divinity. Caleb prophesied the returned Christ would be a sinful messiah. Lo and behold, he said, I’m sinful. I fit the bill.
“And people seeking salvation will believe. Since the Eternal Light Prophecies believe the new messiah has to leave behind all those children to create the new tribes of Israel, Caleb explained he has to have multiple sexual partners. His offspring count isn’t up to twenty-four yet. He still has some work to do.”
Mai and Fitzgerald locked eyes. His scowl remained in place, but Mai’s eyes twinkled in amusement when she said, “And that was as good an excuse as any for getting all the pussy he wanted.”
11
Sweat, Cordite, and Blood
The driver stopped his car at the gesture of the state policeman, who motioned for him to roll down his window. The driver obliged, and the cop leaned down, eyes hidden behind his mirror-lensed sunglasses.
Probably looking for something illegal. No chance of that, the driver thought. He’d locked his guns in a box and locked that inside a footlocker in the trunk. His car was clean, neat, freshly vacuumed at the last service station where he’d stopped. Nothing suspicious at all.
“What do you want up at Calvary Locus?” the cop asked.
“I wanted to stop by, show the folks up there some of us are concerned about them.”
The cop looked over the car again. “All right, but we’re limiting how many cars we let in. You’ll have to wait until a car leaves.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll wait.” However long it takes.
“Pull off the road, and you better shut the car off, not waste gas.”
The cop walked off, hitching up his gun belt, and returned to stand with two other cops at the roadblock. The driver pulled onto the shoulder of the road, shut the car off, and got out to stretch his long legs. He leaned against the car and peered toward the buildings he’d only seen on television. The afternoon sun made Calvary Locus shimmer on the horizon. He estimated it was maybe two miles away as the crow flew, but he couldn’t see much.
He went to his trunk, opened it, garnering the cops’ attention. He was quick to hold up his binoculars. One of them nodded, and he shut the trunk.
Perched on the hood of his car, he focused first on Calvary Locus. A sheet with something written on it fluttered from a second-story window, but he could
n’t make out the message.
Shifting his head a few degrees, he studied the collection of trailers, RVs, and other vehicles he supposed was the FBI base. He adjusted the binoculars focus, dropped them from his eyes, and frowned. He felt his face flush with shock and surprise, and his lips compressed into a thin, white line.
There were tanks up there. They were trying to hide them, but there were gaps in the line of vehicles. And he’d know the silhouette of a Bradley Armored Vehicle anywhere.
The sight of the tanks, the noise of the crowd up ahead, the heat took him back to the desert. For a moment he could smell diesel fumes, sweat, Cordite, and blood. Emotion welled in him again, and tears stung his eyes. He blinked them away and pushed emotion aside.
He returned the binoculars to his eyes and focused again on the tanks.
A different emotion this time. Rage. He’d been mad about a lot of things lately, but he’d never felt rage like this before. Even when his Bradley rolled across the desert spitting death, he hadn’t felt rage at the enemy. Pity, maybe, but not rage.
He liked how rage felt, hot and liberating. Rage didn’t threaten to unman him. It touched something in him, made him feel as though he should do something. Rage gave him purpose, which had eluded him for months.
He set the binoculars on the hood and looked over the people gathered beyond the roadblock. Reporters and cameramen milled about. Some people knelt in a circle on the ground and prayed. Others chanted something he couldn’t make out. A few waved signs whose messages, much like the sheet at Calvary Locus, he couldn’t read.
And he saw what was on their faces. Rage.
Impatience made him shiver. He wanted to… No, he needed to be on the other side of the roadblock, to be with people motivated to do something about what was happening here. He bet a lot of them were armed, given this was Texas. He indulged himself in imagining how he and his military training could organize those people, how he could lead them against the government bullies. Together, they would free the folks inside Calvary Locus, save the children there. Maybe afterward the people he’d freed would carry him on their shoulders. Maybe the media would get a picture of that, one he could show his father the next time he got the lecture about doing something meaningful with his life.
