End Times

by P A Duncan

  Mai’s patience was thin almost to the point of breaking. “I’ll use smaller words if you’re having difficulty following me, Hollis.”

  “If we assault them,” Petilli said, oblivious to the byplay, “we confirm he’s the messiah. If we pull back—”

  “Not an option,” said Fitzgerald.

  Mai addressed Petilli. “Assault them, and they won’t surrender. They’ll rally to Caleb because when the end ultimately comes, they’ll be at the side of the new messiah. At that point, they’ll want to hasten the end. You could have some commit suicide or let their friends kill them, but most of them will let you kill them because it means a guaranteed spot in heaven.”

  Mai looked at the lead negotiator, Knerr. “Use those outside experts I mentioned, have them and us, all of us, develop a workable strategy, and—”

  “Two desk-bound office jockeys miles away in Quantico can’t assess the situation here with any credibility,” Fitzgerald said.

  “That would be the same office jockeys you said hadn’t weighed in at all,” Mai said.

  “You saw these memos, Hollis?” Petilli asked.

  “No one asked for their opinion. Their input was strictly voluntary, and their memos are useless except as ass-wipes,” said Fitzgerald.

  “I’d like to offer an opinion.”

  Alexei had stayed silent for so long that the FBI agents must have forgotten he was present. His comment from the rear of the room startled everyone.

  “I, too, have a military background,” Alexei began.

  “And what army would that be?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Since I defected from the Soviet Union in the 1960s, it would have been the Red Army, but that’s irrelevant. Based on my experience, I’d like to offer an opinion.”

  The FBI agents, to Fitzgerald’s dismay, gave Alexei their attention. He remained seated on the credenza, conceding it was still Mai’s show. She gave him a slight wink. She’d reward him for that later.

  Alexei pinned Fitzgerald with his icy stare. “The FBI’s culture—and an organization as large as this has its own, unique culture within an overall law enforcement culture—and its command structure set up an unnecessary, divided hierarchy,” he said. “Tactical field agents, such as yourselves, tend to trust the HRT’s situational assessments more than the BSU’s. HRT is larger, higher in the chain of command.”

  Fitzgerald sat up straight in his chair, almost preening.

  “Negotiators come from BSU,” Alexei continued, “and they often make the mistake of deferring to the HRT. HRT is the tactical side, and this may seem a logical division of authority. What happens is the two entities end up at cross-purposes. The negotiators promise something, but the HRT refuses to allow it, inadvertently or deliberately. The negotiator loses trust and credibility with the suspect, which undermines further fruitful negotiations. I submit the two organizations work better as equals, not one subordinate to the other. The negotiator’s work should not be undermined by the SAC.”

  “Your opinion,” Fitzgerald said.

  “Yes, but I have worked both the tactical and negotiation aspects of similar situations.”

  “Where?” Knerr asked.

  “Most recently in the Balkans, and I was on a weapons inspection team before the Gulf War. However, the details are classified.”

  “Of course,” Fitzgerald muttered.

  “Agent Fitzgerald,” Alexei said, “you were chosen as SAC here over several other agents with more seniority. You’re more comfortable with the tactical, and you’ve demonstrated your distrust and even dislike of the BSU. Your training, and that of most of your agents here, dealt with what it takes to hunt and capture criminals. That training emphasizes individual, not group, behavior. As a result, you refuse to accept you’re out of your league here and fixated on a punitive course of action rather than a peaceful resolution.”

  Fitzgerald’s mouth gaped then worked as he tried to find a comeback.

  Alexei looked at Mai. “Proceed with your briefing, Ms. Fisher, and I apologize for the interruption.”

  She said, “No problem, Mr. Bukharin. I’d like to provide you more insight from the BSU, but there have been no further memos, and we weren’t able to interview those agents.”

  “What are you implying?” Fitzgerald said.

  “That they were told to shut up by someone in authority over them.”

  Knerr pointed to the From line on the memo. “I know one of these agents pretty well and heard the other day he’d retired. Unexpectedly. It surprised the hell out of me, but I think I’m getting the picture.”

  Fitzgerald turned to Knerr and didn’t bother to be civil. “You don’t have a fraction of the picture, Knerr. I’m in charge here, and Director Steedley has the utmost confidence in my ability. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He gathered the memos from the table and shook the fist holding them at Mai. “You obtained these illegally.”

  “Absolutely not. When your government asked for our help, the Department of Justice provided us with copies of all pertinent documents to date. Memos, records of telephone conversations, transcripts of your negotiation sessions, etc. If you’re worried about the classification status of any material, I assure you, Mr. Bukharin and I have the highest level of clearance.”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re cleared to empty the Secretary General’s shit can. I resent your implication we’re out to get the fornicating cultists holed up in that so-called church.”

  “Our preliminary assessment is the ATF picked a bad battle to wage and dumped the outcome in the FBI’s lap,” Mai said. “I’d say involved some managerial incompetence, as well as organization insecurity about its status versus that of the FBI or DEA, plus a need to show Congress a significant budget increase is necessary. I won’t even ask about the disproportionate number of women agents brought in from all over the country to participate in the February twenty-eighth raid and whether that had anything to do with a number of high-profile media exposés on alleged sexual discrimination and harassment at that agency. Right now, though, none of that matters. What matters is no one attempted before the raid to serve warrants on Isaac Caleb in a less, shall we say, volatile manner.”

  “What are you saying?” Petilli asked.

  “Someone should have put together all the elements that constituted a red flag: an arsenal of weapons, Caleb’s apocalyptic beliefs, a fringe but fanatical religion, and a regional culture that equates gun ownership with manhood. That’s twenty-twenty hindsight, and right now it’s useless because four federal agents several private citizens are dead.”

  Beneath his breath, though Mai heard it, Fitzgerald said, “As useless as this briefing.”

  “You think the ATF deliberately picked the PELs for an investigation because of their religion?” Petilli asked.

  “No, but it looks that way to at least some of the public, to those on the fringe of society who believe the government is the enemy.”

  “Okay, so, I ask again, how do you think we should clean up this mess?”

  “Stop giving the public the impression you’re dealing with crazy people. Stop the emphasis on Caleb’s sex life. It’s titillating, to be sure, but that’s all. It has nothing to do with possession of weapons covered the National Firearms Act. The only thing it’s good for is at your press briefings where you get to throw stones at that glass house.”

  “Four federal law enforcement officers are dead,” Fitzgerald said, “in case you forgot to analyze that.”

  “I just said that, didn’t I?” Mai took a deep breath to defuse her impatience with Fitzgerald. “Gentlemen, look, I’ve worked with law enforcement agencies around the world. I understand the emotions at play when police die in the line of duty. Every time we lose a peacekeeper, we feel similar emotions. What drives us forward is finding the truth. Truth leads to justice, and justice is always far more powerful than vengeance. Changing tactics here, backing away from a violent conclusion won’t disrespect your dead. It can only honor them by showing
their blood was the last.”

  Taunton and Petilli were misty-eyed, and Knerr gave her a nod. He cleared his throat, sniffed, and said, “You said Caleb legitimizes himself in the eyes of his followers through his prophecies, which we’re fulfilling.”

  “Yes.”

  “His form of leadership is, well, charismatic, not practical, promising people their reward in heaven comes from Caleb, not from faith.”

  “Egotistical is what I’d call it, but yes. It’s all about Caleb. The prophecies, the confrontation with authority, the fact all the women in the congregation are his spiritual wives, that his children are the seed who will rule the new earth after the apocalypse.”

  “Only his children?”

  Mai nodded, and Knerr turned to Fitzgerald.

  “Hollis, I can use that in my negotiations. Remind him his children can’t inherit the earth if they are killed.”

  “Jesus, are you buying into this bullshit?” Fitzgerald responded.

  Knerr turned back to Mai. “If his followers are integrated into the group by the level of their relationship to him, that means his ‘wives’ and children are the closest. Damn, I can use that, too. You’re right, Ms. Fisher, all the negative media attention is feeding him, validating him.”

  “What’s your point?” Fitzgerald demanded.

  “Like I said, Hollis, I can use this. I can alter the negotiation strategy based on what I’ve learned here.”

  “Or you can use a third-party negotiator, one not from the FBI. Mr. Bukharin, for example,” Mai said.

  “Third-party negotiators are counterproductive,” Fitzgerald said. “They promise things we can’t deliver.”

  “Or won’t deliver from spite,” Mai said. “The FBI has used third-party negotiators before.”

  Fitzgerald snorted. “Where?”

  “Wounded Knee.”

  “I don’t see the connection, not with anything I’ve heard here.”

  “Hollis,” Knerr said, “I’ve studied that case in depth, all negotiators do. It was well before any of us here joined the FBI. American Indian Movement activists took over the town of Wounded Knee because they wanted to oust the head of the Sioux nation, who they decided was corrupt and who had enriched himself with federal money that should have been spent for the Sioux. They were armed, and the location on an Indian reservation made it the jurisdiction of the FBI. So we and the U.S. Marshals surrounded the place, coincidentally, almost twenty years to the day before the raid on Calvary Locus. We exchanged gunfire. A Marshal was shot, paralyzed. Two Native Americans were killed, but it had the potential to be a bloodbath. This was before the BSU and the HRT, and the FBI had little experience with such a large stand-off; however, they called in Native American experts, used them to negotiate, and that ended peacefully. It may have been two decades ago, but it’s a good example to follow.”

  “Now,” said Fitzgerald, “we have the HRT, and the official policy is third-party negotiators are counterproductive. As SAC, I’m responsible for adhering to agency policy.”

  Knerr studied Fitzgerald for a moment and seemed ready to argue, but he sat back in his chair, eyes on the table.

  Fitzgerald stood and stalked toward Mai. She moved, instinctively, into a defensive posture, presenting a narrower profile to the FBI agent. It was subtle, and Alexei doubted Fitzgerald noticed.

  “I’ve heard enough of this crap,” Fitzgerald said. He moved into Mai’s personal space, but she stood her ground.

  “It’s not crap,” she said. “I’ve given you supported facts, but, yes, I’ve probably talked too long. I’m available to answer any questions after I study your satellite photos of the compound for my incursion.”

  “You’re going to try to get inside?” Petilli asked.

  “No, she’s not,” Fitzgerald said.

  Alexei’s stealth approach put him right behind Fitzgerald. When Alexei said, “I beg your pardon, Agent Fitzgerald,” the FBI man startled then flushed.

  “You have no authority over us,” Alexei said, “and we have that letter of authorization from the Attorney General giving us a wide scope. If my partner plans an incursion into Calvary Locus and it meets my criteria for success, she will execute it under my authority. If you don’t provide the data she needs, she will still proceed, and we will duly note your lack of cooperation in our report.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m stating a fact. How you perceive it is your issue.”

  A staring contest began, and, as usual, Alexei’s unyielding eyes won. Fitzgerald broke eye contact, his hands smoothing his brush-cut hair.

  “Fine,” he said. “Your authority but your responsibility. When will she go?” He recovered enough to smirk. “I’ll have to alert the snipers. We wouldn’t want any accidental shootings, would we?”

  “She’ll go tonight, but pass along to any trigger-happy federal cowboy out there I’m an old hand at running to ground people who offend me. Sniping at my partner would offend me deeply.”

  His jaw working, Fitzgerald’s hands closed into fists. “The Command Center. A half hour,” he said. He about-faced and marched from the trailer, letting the door slam.

  The other agents thanked them individually and filed from the trailer.

  When he and Mai were alone, she said, “That’s not the most open mind I’ve dealt with, and it’s obvious he was privy to a lot of this information and didn’t pass it along.”

  “Fitzgerald is power-mad. You handled him well. Eight on a scale of ten.”

  “Whatever shall I do to make up those two points? He responded better to you.”

  “A certain amount of respect comes with age.” Alexei glanced out the window again to look at Calvary Locus and frowned. “You’re positive this will gain you something?”

  “The incursion? Alexei, you’re the one who taught me there’s nothing like first-hand intel.”

  “Yes, well, was that before or after I married you?”

  “Are you unnecessarily worried about me?”

  His hesitation to answer made her frown. When he did reply, he disappointed her.

  “You haven’t had action since last year in Bosnia. Are you ready for an incursion that could result in your capture?”

  The amusement left her face, and he got her cold op stare.

  “I won’t get caught.”

  15

  Judgements

  From the window of his office in the command center, Hollis Fitzgerald stared out into the night, ignoring his reflection. Calvary Locus was out there in the darkness, a darkness the FBI could see through with night vision scopes and infrared cameras. He stood with his hands clasped behind him, appearing calmer than he felt, blinking only when he wanted to, eyes fixed on the buildings he couldn’t see.

  His eyes shifted to a spot on the only high ground in the area. Calvary Locus sat on a good-sized flat expanse in the countryside surrounding Killeen, but when the HRT had moved in, they’d selected a spot where its snipers could sight down on the compound. Despite the Russian bastard’s threat, the snipers were still there, rifles still at the ready, rifle scopes fixed on the woman when she made her trek.

  If she went through with it. She’d complain about something—too hot, too cold, too something. She’d have a lame excuse to turn back. Bitches always did that, never lived up to their promises.

  He unclasped his hands and drew a photograph from a pocket of his tactical vest. He looked at the worn photo, laminated to halt its deterioration. The man in the black-and-white picture wore a police uniform and a deeply serious stare. Fitzgerald saw an echo of his own eyes and chin in the photograph of his father, the only photo he had.

  When his mother had remarried, she’d cut his father from all the family pictures and, along with his formal police portraits, had tossed anything involving the man in the trash can and set it on fire. Fifteen at the time, Fitzgerald had salvaged this one memento before the flames consumed it. He had carried it all through Vietnam, his brief stint as a beat cop, his time i
n the ATF, and now in the FBI.

  His father’s killer got what he deserved, and the cop killers here would too. Fitzgerald would see to that, as he always had, in his father’s name. No one except him could be trusted with that task. Of all the FBI agents on site, he was the only one who could do it the way it needed to be done: swift, hard, and unrelenting. He was the avenging angel, a role he would never relinquish.

  He slipped the photo back in his pocket, putting away with it the memories of his father, the ones involving drawn-back fists and the swinging of belts.

  A knock sounded at the door. Without turning around, Fitzgerald said, “What?”

  From the open doorway, an FBI agent said, “Sir, Director Steedley on line two, secure phone.”

  “Close the door.”

  Fitzgerald turned around to his desk and picked up the receiver, index finger stabbing the button labeled “2.”

  “Fitzgerald.”

  “That was quite the voicemail you left this afternoon,” Steedley said.

  He didn’t sound happy. Too fucking bad. Fitzgerald could top him in pique right now.

  “Look, the bitch is about to start her jaunt toward Calvary Locus. Tell me I can call it off.”

  “No.”

  His fingers whitened in his grip on the receiver. “What?”

  “Hollis, let them do the job they were sent there to do.”

  “And what job was that, Steedley?”

  “I thought my fax was explicit about that.”

  “And what if she’s caught?”

  “Officially, she’s not there, and her organization doesn’t exist. It’ll be her partner’s problem, not yours.”

  “You sent them here to take over my operation.”

  “No, you’re the SAC. They’re gathering information for our use, but if we want access to that information, we have to cooperate.”

  “Unbelievable. You know damned well they aren’t going to find anything to put off my plan of action.”

  “Maybe not, Hollis, but maybe they’ll figure a peaceful way to end this and make everyone happy.”