End Times

by P A Duncan

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One of our military contacts is checking him out, but your opinion matters to my father and to me. It looks like a New York license plate on the car. Get the number so one of our sheriff friends can run it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He doesn’t look like he brought any food or water with him. Take him a couple of bottles of water.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And, Radd, be sure not to tell him anything about our home. I’ll be the one to tell him about that.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Radd picked up a paperback book from a box of them and got two bottles of water from the RV’s refrigerator.

  “Now, we’re air conditioning the fucking Texas countryside,” said the other man. “Close the door.”

  Radd did as he was told.

  “G’day, mate. You look like you could use some water.”

  The man sitting on the hood of his car hoped he hadn’t jumped at the sound of the other voice. He looked over his shoulder, ever wary of strangers. Average height, average weight, mid-thirties, looked like he worked out. The guy didn’t seem to be a threat. Could be undercover FBI gathering info on the bystanders. Aussie accent could be fake.

  Sunlight glistened off the beads of condensation on the water bottles the man held, and thirst won over caution.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I was almost thirsty enough to buy an overpriced bottle from one of the vendors.”

  The Aussie handed over three bottles. The man opened and drank a third of it and placed the others against his windshield.

  “You been here long?” the man asked.

  “A couple of days.”

  “I meant in this country.”

  “Oh, yeah. About ten years. Married an American Sheila, became a citizen, though I’m not too proud of that right now, seeing this.” He extended his right hand. “Quentin Radley. People call me Radd.”

  The man shook the offered hand. “Jay Jenkins. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here, mate. What brought you here?”

  “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing on TV, you know. American citizens being held hostage by their government because they own guns.”

  “Another reason I left Australia. Here I can protect myself and my family and have the tools to do it, but this pissed me good, mate. I used to be in the Australian Army. That…” He nodded toward the federal enclave. “…looks like a bloody military camp.”

  “Yeah. They got tanks up there, like the one I was in.”

  “You serve?”

  “I’m out now. Desert Storm.”

  “Ah, yeah. Missed that one. Did some peacekeeping with the fucking U.N. Wish I could erase that from my record. So, how do you think this is going to end up?”

  “Nothing good, especially with the FBI and ATF involved.”

  Jenkins’ hand squeezed the water bottle so tightly, Radd was certain water was about to spew everywhere.

  “It’s getting so all you have to do is own a gun now to get put on the Feds’ hit list,” Jenkins said. “But nobody wants to do anything about it.”

  “Do you?”

  Jenkins gave a short laugh. “Take on the federal government by myself? I know how that would end up. Look at what happened to the Weavers up in Idaho.”

  “Ah, that was beyond tragic, mate. I couldn’t believe something like that could happen here. A real eye-opener.”

  “That’s why this fiasco doesn’t surprise me. The guys in charge here? Same people who screwed up Ruby Ridge, same people who killed a boy and a woman holding her baby.”

  “Yeah, so much for the land of the free, home of the brave,” Radd said. “Say, are you staying for a spell, mate?”

  “Yeah, cops gave me two days.” Jenkins’ eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “I’ve got to head back to me job. I was selling some bumper stickers. Maybe you could take that over.”

  “I’m strapped for cash, man. I can’t buy them from you.”

  “Oh, I’m not out to make money, mate. Let me pass ‘em along to you. You can give ‘em away if you want. The message is what’s important.”

  “Okay, sure,” Jenkins said, but Radd heard the uncertainty. “Drop them off any time.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Radd pulled a paperback book from his hip pocket. “Here. You might find this a good read to pass the time.”

  “I’m not much on fiction,” Jenkins said, “except for science fiction.” Frowning, he took it and studied the cover: silhouettes of a man and a woman, their backs touching, guns pointing in opposite directions. The Turner Diaries. “Oh yeah, an Army buddy gave me a copy a few years back. I lost it at some point during a move. Great book.”

  Radd smiled at him. “Well, then, mate, there’s your replacement. Time for a re-read, eh?”

  Jenkins laid the book on the hood of his car. “Yeah, thanks, and thanks again for the water.”

  “No problem, mate. See ya around.”

  Jay Jenkins, as he called himself here, waited the rest of the afternoon for the Aussie to return and gave up when the sun touched the horizon. He slid down from the hood and retrieved an MRE from the stash in his trunk. When he opened the driver side door, he jumped back a step.

  On the front seat sat a small box from Kinko’s, missing its top. He saw the neat stacks of bumper stickers inside.

  The Aussie bastard was a presumptive son of a bitch.

  But he’d gotten the box inside the car without Jay’s being the wiser.

  Now, that was impressive.

  14

  Credible Opinions

  No, Agent Knerr. That’s the opinion of two FBI agents.”

  The FBI agents all leveled puzzled frowns at Mai’s statement. Well, Fitzgerald’s perpetual scowl was now more of a glare. Mai looked over at Alexei. He nodded for her to not wait for the query.

  “The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit has studied apocalyptic groups like Caleb’s and can offer a credible opinion,” she said.

  “In what way?” asked Knerr.

  “They understand group dynamics with a religious background, and they understand as well you have to take a group’s religious beliefs seriously, regardless of how outside traditional beliefs they may seem.”

  “People with traditional beliefs sometimes find it hard to do that,” Taunton said. “I’m not making an excuse for intolerance. It’s hard for me, as a Christian, to accept that Isaac Caleb shares my beliefs.”

  “Remember, Caleb believes he’s every bit the Christian you are.”

  “Let’s get back to the BSU,” Knerr said.

  “Why?” Fitzgerald said.

  “I know a lot of the guys at BSU. I’ve worked with them many times, Hollis. I want to hear what they have to say.” He looked at Mai, his face expectant.

  “They believe,” she said, “further negotiations must be directed toward the group and not only Caleb. Before you can do that, you have to show them you understand the group dynamic—exactly what I’ve been endeavoring to do here. You have to understand as well, right now their worldview is only what he’s told them.”

  “That makes them as loony as he is,” Taunton said.

  “That’s the kind of attitude you can’t take,” Mai said. “Consider for a moment if I said to you, ‘Believing a guy died and rose from the dead makes you a loony.’”

  Taunton shifted in his chair, his spine stiffening, his frown indicating how he felt about that. After a moment, his features relaxed. “All right, yes, I see what you mean.”

  “When you refer to him publicly as a loony, a crazy man, or a cult leader, you assail not only his core beliefs but those of everyone inside Calvary Locus. What would you do if the government you serve suddenly started ridiculing Christians?”

  “I’d stand fast with my church and my fellow Christians,” said Taunton.

  “Why is that?”

  “We share beliefs, we… I get it. What can we do about it?”

  Mai said, “The rhetoric from this side has
to stop. It doesn’t matter if he keeps it up. You can’t respond in kind. In your negotiations, speak to Caleb but address yourself to the group.”

  “We have followed our procedures to the letter,” Knerr said.

  “From your negotiation manual, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Written procedures are, by their nature, inflexible. Caleb has told his followers you’ve brought the war here to them. You can’t follow procedures essentially developed for criminals who take hostages against their will. You have to debunk him and, thus, disillusion his followers. You need access to the right experts to guide your approach, not simply a cult deprogrammer and disgruntled former Eternal Lighters.”

  “What kind of experts?”

  “Baylor University up in Waco, about an hour away, has a department of people who study, in depth, all sorts of religions, but especially apocalyptic ones. Use the social science these experts can provide to analyze this situation and develop a resolution specific to the beliefs the people at Calvary Locus have.”

  “Social science?” Fitzgerald said. “This is a tactical situation requiring appropriate strategy, not psychobabble. By the way, you’re wrong. No one at BSU has weighed in on this situation.”

  Mai kept her smile subdued; as much as Alexei she loved catching people in a lie.

  From a folder she’d brought in with her, she withdrew a sheet of paper and placed it in the center of the table so everyone else could see it. She looked at Fitzgerald. “This is a situation of such a delicate nature that social science is the only way to address it unless you want a mound of bodies.”

  Fitzgerald’s lips gave an uptick, and Mai filed that away.

  “Military strategy,” she added, “will only exacerbate it.”

  “The United Nations solution for everything,” Fitzgerald said. “Social workers and committees.”

  Mai gave Fitzgerald her darkest, hardest expression, and his eyes broke contact for a second. When she spoke, the sophisticated British accent had some of the harsher tones of Belfast.

  “I’m no social worker, Agent Fitzgerald. Believe me; if there were an army of insurrection barricaded in Calvary Locus, you’d have our best technology and weaponry here to assist you. What you have in that church is a group of people who believe they’re about to meet their god, and when they look outside, they see you poised to give them that—just as Isaac Caleb has predicted.”

  With Fitzgerald’s mouth open to respond, Mai pointed to the sheet of paper on the table and said, “Don’t take my word for it. That is a certified true copy of a memorandum from two FBI agents in BSU to you, Agent Fitzgerald, as SAC here in Killeen, with a copy to Director Steedley.”

  Knerr, the most centrally seated of them, pulled the memo toward him, and the others gathered around him.

  Fitzgerald moved from the relaxed, almost casual, posture he’d affected and glared at Mai, eyes narrowed almost to slits. Anyone could see the rage rolling off him, but Mai kept her expression neutral, dispassionate.

  “Please note,” Mai said, not breaking eye contact with Fitzgerald, “what those agents have to say about the ATF’s original raid.”

  Knerr’s voice was close to querulous as he read, “Isaac Caleb has been brainwashing his followers for a long time, and he has convinced them a battle with the outside world will get them to heaven. On February 28, 1993, the ATF fulfilled his prophecy. Caleb has convinced his followers the end is near, as he predicted, and that they are surrounded by an enemy who must kill them.” Knerr looked up at Mai, his jaw slack.

  He read more. “They go on to say, quote, the previous strategy of negotiating while increasing a tactical presence will not work in this instance. Every instance of increasing tactical personnel validates Caleb’s prophetic warnings. Moreover, it tells the PELs that predicted attack is forthcoming and that the end is near, an end they believe is their salvation, end quote.”

  Knerr’s hand shook as he wiped sweat from his upper lip. He read again, “Quote, we reiterate, Caleb has emphasized to his followers if they die defending their church and their faith, they will be saved.”

  “A promise,” Mai murmured, “made to Christians for two millennia.”

  She took another sheet of paper from the folder and gave it to Knerr.

  “These same two agents cautioned the SAC… Why don’t you give us the exact words, Agent Knerr?”

  “Quote, in this situation employing the usual psychological warfare will only further convince Caleb and his followers you’re not interested in negotiating a peaceful resolution and that the end is near, end quote. Well, that’s exactly what’s happened.” Knerr looked over at Fitzgerald, who was too busy glaring at Mai to notice.

  Knerr looked at Mai again and said, “In the first days after we got on scene, I thought the restraint we showed was a good start. We opened negotiations, and we made genuine progress because we built some trust. That was when many of the adults and the children came out, or, rather, Caleb let them leave. Then—”

  “Then, I arrived as SAC,” Fitzgerald said. “The FBI HRT rules of engagement call for increased tactical presence, and that’s the way to handle this.” He smirked at Mai. “People like you understand psyops,” he said. “You should be in your element here.”

  “People like you?” Petilli echoed. “She’s an analyst, right? One of our analysts?”

  Fitzgerald’s smirk deepened, and he looked at Petilli. “She’s a spy.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Bukharin and I are employees of the United Nations, assigned to the Secretary General’s office,” Mai said. “That’s all.”

  The smile still played on Fitzgerald’s lips. “Oh, my mistake,” he said.

  “But you talk the talk,” Petilli said, frowning.

  “I have military training,” Mai said. “Group Captain Fisher, RAF Reserves, at your service.”

  She glanced at Alexei, imperturbable as ever, and he gave her a slight nod.

  Fitzgerald’s smirk faded as he turned to the other agents. “Listen up, everyone, we keep up the pressure on those crazies. We tighten the noose, and they’ll give.”

  “Tighten the noose?” Mai said. “By denying children milk after you promised their parents they’d get it?”

  Fitzgerald pointed a finger at her. “If you can’t stomach the thought of tactical strength used against cop killers, ‘Captain’ Fisher, leave.”

  Mai replied, “That’s Group Captain. HRT protocols, as I’ve indicated, are for situations where suspects hold hostages against their will. The People of the Eternal Light are with Isaac Caleb because they want to go to heaven. If I wasn’t clear about that, let’s have a look at another memo from BSU to the SAC.” She took a third sheet of paper from the folder. “BSU FBI agents pointed out to the SAC that Calvary Locus is sacred ground to the people who live and worship there.”

  “Sacred ground,” Fitzgerald said, shaking his head. “Give me a break.”

  “What else would it be with a church on it, a church which holds regular services and includes a graveyard for church members?”

  Petilli said, “But is a church worth dying over? I mean, if Caleb wants to be a martyr, okay, but all those other people. Is it worth it?”

  “To them it is,” Mai replied. “And there is precedent in this country for followers of a particular religion to defend themselves and their property. The Mormons and the Catholics have done it, and the entity they had to protect themselves from was government. Caleb, who has prophesied that an ‘evil government’s army’ will come to spark the end times, points to you as the face of that evil government.”

  “Then, maybe Hollis is right. If Caleb has conned all those people up at Calvary Locus, maybe we need to keep the pressure up—”

  “The final BSU memo to the SAC makes the case that Isaac Caleb is far from a con artist. The memo sets up the reasons why a show of force will only strengthen Caleb’s resolve. True con artists turn tail and run when confronted with legal authority.”

&nb
sp; “Look,” Petilli said, “if I looked out my window and saw us outside, I’d be pissing my pants, biblical prophet notwithstanding. Why doesn’t that scare them in Calvary Locus?”

  “Because you’re fulfilling Caleb’s prophesy, whether you accept that interpretation or not. He’s told them an Army of Babylon had to attack and kill them for them to get to heaven, and that’s exactly what they want.”

  “So, what do we do?” Petilli asked.

  “Don’t give them what they want. Take control from Caleb. Do the opposite of what he’s expecting, what he’s telling the people inside you’re going to do.”

  The FBI agents exchanged looks, and Mai snuck another glance at Alexei. He nodded, indicating she was winning some of them over, but she also saw Fitzgerald’s continual glare. How much longer she could go without reacting to it, she wasn’t certain.

  “So,” she said, “you’re at a critical point. Your actions in the next few days will either confirm Caleb’s prophesy or discredit him. Which do you want to do?”

  Petilli tapped his finger on the table with some impatience. “You’re here to advise us, so advise us.”

  Mai thought that obvious, but she answered him. “Pay attention to your listening devices, to what you hear him saying. If he says, ‘God has told me they’re going to attack tomorrow,’ you back off. If he talks about how outnumbered they are, send agents away and make certain they see it over there. Don’t do what he says you’re going to do. Don’t fulfill his prophecy, and you take the power from him.”

  “Okay, I see. I think,” Petilli said. “As more and more of his predictions go awry, they’ll realize he’s not the voice of God, that he’s wrong; wrong about everything.”

  Finally, she thought, someone gets it. “Then and only then will you see them pressing him to let them go. No one wants to be associated with a false prophet, especially with heaven in the balance. However, if you assault Calvary Locus exactly as he’s predicted, where do you think that places Caleb among his followers?”

  “I don’t know,” Fitzgerald said, with a deep sigh, “but I bet you’re going to tell us.”