by P A Duncan
“And throttling him wasn’t?”
“That was a man to man thing, and before you say anything, I accept the sexism of it. Now, crushing his balls I don’t object to, but the gun—”
“Alexei, I understand that, but Fitzgerald doesn’t have the final word on our plan.”
“That’s a thin and fraying thread to cling to right now, but cling we will.”
“Behind all that machismo, he has to want this resolved without any more bloodshed.”
“Mai, you have far too much faith in these Army wannabes. They aren’t satisfied being police. They want to be an army, so they dress that way. The bad guys have big guns; they have to have tanks. The ATF agents who conducted the first raid carried the same type of weapon altered for automatic fire Isaac Caleb is accused of producing. This is the we-lost-Vietnam mentality. They fucked up Ruby Ridge, and with Fitzgerald’s decision-making they’re on the precipice of fucking up this.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re in a bad mood and not only because of me.” He said nothing. “Alexei, Maeve Gleason will be waiting to hear ‘Brick Wall’ because I gave her my word. It’ll be hard to walk away if we’re ordered to.”
“But walk we will, if we have to, and, damn it, don’t pull a gun again unless you intend to use it. That’s twice in a few weeks, Mai. The third time may not be the charm.”
20
Purpose and Meaning
Somewhere in Michigan
Long drives kept him from thinking. If he focused on the mile markers, he didn’t think about anything except driving. Like how his life had no purpose. He hated admitting that to himself because it meant his father was right.
He’d gone to Killeen to find purpose, and on one level he had. Was it a purpose if you had no fucking clue what to do about it? Going home and telling his father, “I want to fight a government gone wrong, but I’m not sure how to do that” would result in another lecture about responsibility and growing up. And Granddad would wonder what was so wrong with a government he’d served and supported his whole life.
He refocused on the road. His exit was a mile ahead, and he took a quick look at the dashboard clock. After this exit, he still had an eighty-mile drive. That would put him at the farmhouse after eight at night. Right on time. He’d driven non-stop from Killeen to be there when he said he would. The fact he kept his word counted for something, at least to him.
The exit loomed, and he down-shifted. He didn’t want to speed on the ramp and attract a cop’s attention. He wasn’t too certain about the state’s law on carrying guns in cars. Staying at the posted speed limit, he soon turned onto the state road he needed. Without the mile markers to focus on, he found his eyelids drooping. He reached over and turned the tape player up as far as it would go.
The acid rock music filled the car; the cranked-up bass making his sternum vibrate. The screamed lyrics told of dying rather than giving up control and someone getting what he deserved. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and immersed himself in the lyrics. When the song ended, he hit rewind and replayed the song, over and over, until he turned down the lane leading to the farmhouse. He stayed in the parked car to let the song finish one last time, the notes echoing in the car, his pulse pounding to the beat, his breath coming in pants.
“You’re going to get what you deserve,” he murmured, though the song was over. “You know who you are.”
He waited until his breathing slowed and his pulse eased. He went to his trunk and retrieved his duffel and an MRE. When he reached the front door of the house, someone pulled it open before he could knock.
“Jay,” greeted his friend Jerry. “It was getting late. I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”
Jerry held the door open for him, and Jay entered the house. He heard a toddler jabbering somewhere and a television blaring.
“Hey,” said Jerry, “you didn’t have to bring in an MRE. Corazon can fix you some dinner. Corazon! Get down here and fix Jay something to eat!”
From somewhere in the house came a returned shout, “You want I stop cleaning?”
“Jer, I don’t need anything. The MRE is fine.”
“Keep cleaning! Make sure you dust the baseboards this time!”
Jay heard little footsteps and saw Jerry’s son running down the hall toward him.
“Jay! Jay!” the little boy called.
Jay put his duffel down and scooped up the toddler, already dressed in his Rugrats pajamas. “Hey, Kiddo.”
“I don’t see you for long time.”
“I know, Kiddo, but I’m here for a while. Hey, you should be in bed.”
“I wait up for you.”
“I told Corazon to get him to bed,” Jerry said. “She can’t do the smallest thing right.”
“Chill, Jerry. I’ll put him to bed. Come on, Kiddo, let’s go.”
When he carried the toddler past one bedroom, he glanced inside to see his friend’s wife, Corazon, on her knees, polishing the hardwood floor. She looked up at him, her gaze imploring, and he looked away. He tucked the little boy in bed and acquiesced to the “read me a story” plea.
Twenty minutes later, he came back to the main part of the house, glad to see he had only Jerry and his brother Tom for company. He joined them in the living room, heated MRE and a beer from the refrigerator in hand.
“Hey, Tom,” he said to Jerry’s brother. “Thanks for the work.”
Steely eyed and unsmiling, Tom nodded to him. “I’m thankful for the help. You understand I can’t pay much.”
“The room and board is a fair exchange, and you know I enjoy farm work.”
Tom nodded and turned back to the television where a cop show played. Jay didn’t recognize it and tuned it out as he ate the MRE.
“So,” Jerry said, “what did you find at Killeen?”
“A lot of stuff I bet they’re not showing on TV.” Jay drank some beer, feeling the rage building. “There’s, like, six, seven hundred federal agents there in a big compound that looks like an Army encampment. They don’t let anyone near Calvary Locus, but there were a lot of people there showing support. I made a few bucks selling bumper stickers.”
“Yeah. How’d you manage that?”
“Met this Aussie dude who was selling them. He had to leave and gave them to me.” He played with the food a bit. “The feds, they… They have tanks there.”
“What?”
Tom muted the television and asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. They’re like the one I rode in Iraq.”
“Goddamn it,” Tom said. “What is this country coming to?”
“Unbelievable,” Jerry muttered. “Damned FBI.”
Tom stood up. “I’m going to make some calls.”
“Who to?” Jerry asked.
“My buddies in the local militia. They’ll want to know about this. Jay, if they want to meet with you and hear about it firsthand, are you willing?”
“Any chance they got an informant in the ranks?”
“No. I grew up with these guys.”
“Are they for real?”
Tom shrugged and said, “I’ll let you judge.”
“Sure, I’ll meet with them if they want.”
Tom left the room, and Jay focused on his food.
“It was good to be there,” he said to Jerry. “I felt like it gave me a purpose.”
“What kinda purpose?”
“We’ve got to help those folks in Calvary Locus somehow. We can’t let the government use tanks against a church.”
“Yeah, but what can we do?”
“I don’t know. Something. This isn’t supposed to happen in America.”
“It happened at Ruby Ridge. That was only one family. Now, it’s a bunch of families in a church. A church. All because they want to own guns. It’s that traitor draft dodger in the White House. This is his fault. I tell you, he’s not going to rest until he’s taken all our guns. Then, where will we be? In a damned FEMA internment camp.”
“The Aussie guy also gave me
a replacement for that book you gave me back in boot camp. I’m re-reading it. I’d forgotten how good it is. You were right,” Jay said. “It’s like a handbook, a guide for what needs to be done. And some of the stuff he writes about, it’s like the Brady Bill and the assault weapons ban. It’s like he had a crystal ball.”
“The government’s been planning this a long time,” Jerry said. “Tom says the gun laws have got the militias all worked up. Lots more people are coming to meetings.”
“Maybe someone will finally do something instead of sit around and drink beer.”
Tom re-entered the room and said, “I left coded messages on the answering machines. They’ll be in touch once they make certain no one intercepted the calls. We still got frost for another couple of days, according to the forecast, but that comes from the government, so who trusts that? We can’t start the planting, but I’d like you to work on getting the machinery ready, the tractors, the seeders.”
“Sure. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning,” Jay said.
“Tools, supplies, everything you need is in the equipment barn. Jerry, tell that idiot you married to make sure the brat doesn’t bother Jay so he can get some sleep. Does she fucking do anything you tell her?”
Jay winced at the tone. “Kids will be kids,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood. “He won’t bother me. I’m beat from driving. I’d sleep through a war.”
“Yeah, well, this is my house, and she needs to do what she’s supposed to do to earn her keep. Cooking and cleaning and laundry, not talking about going to college. Like money grows on trees.”
The tone discomforted Jay, and he rose with the empty beer bottle and depleted MRE. “I’d better get to bed. Where do you want me to bunk?”
“Corazon cleaned up the apartment over the garage today and turned on the heat, made up the bed,” Jerry said. “I fixed up the bathroom, so you got a shower. Everything works. She put some towels and stuff up there. You’re good to go.”
“Okay, thanks. Tom, I’ll start at seven tomorrow, unless you want me to start sooner.”
“Don’t kill yourself, kid. Sleep in and get started mid-morning. I’ve got a meeting in town tomorrow with the extension agent, so don’t sweat it.”
“Sure, and thanks again.”
Jerry followed Jay into the kitchen. “Hey, Jay, Jerry Jr.’s coming for the weekend. Think you could take him shooting?”
“Sure, Jer, I’d love to.”
“His mother will have a shit fit, so keep it between us, okay?”
“Yeah. Look, let’s catch up tomorrow. The drive and that one beer did me in.”
“Right. Sleep well.”
While everyone slept, Jerry Parker crept down the stairs. He knew which steps creaked and avoided those spots. He didn’t turn on a light because he didn’t want to wake anyone, anyone who’d ask why he made a phone call in the middle of the night.
In the kitchen, hand on the phone, he stopped to listen. No one had followed him. He dialed a long-distance number and punched in the digits from his special calling card, the one that assured there’d be no record of his call—or so the guy who sold it to him at a gun show had said.
After two rings came a reply, “Who is calling?”
“It’s Jerry, uh, Gerald Parker.”
“What do you want?”
The person on the other end of the call had an accent, not a thick one but guttural. It took Parker a moment to understand “vat do you vant.”
“I, uh, I wanted to let you know, he got the stuff from your guy at Killeen.”
“Gut! You know what you need to do, Gerald. White power.”
“Yes, sir, I know. I will. Thank you. Uh, white power.”
But the person had already hung up.
Jay dreamed he was back in the desert, back in his Bradley. Through his night imaging system, he saw fires burning, saw the headless Iraqi ghost-soldiers wandering in and out of his field of vision.
The dream broke and shifted to Killeen, where women and children begged for mercy from black-clad federal agents, who shot them anyway. Their blood ran like a waterfall down the walls of Calvary Locus.
Another shift, and he was in the book the Aussie had given him. Blown-up buildings, people hanged from lampposts, and bodies bloating in the streets. He walked among them and read the signs around their swollen necks. “Gun Taker,” “Traitor,” “Fellow Traveler.”
He heard a voice—he wasn’t sure whose—say to him, “Sometimes the innocent have to die to make the point. It’s regrettable but necessary.”
The rest of his sleep was dreamless and black.
21
Back Story
Calvary Locus
Near Killeen, Texas
The knock on the RV door brought Alexei awake in an instant, hand going to the gun under his pillow.
“Who is it?” he called out, glancing at the empty side of the RV’s bed. Mai was with her team, training in the dark so they’d be comfortable in it during the raid.
“Communications tech, sir,” came the muffled reply.
Alexei rose, shoved the gun in the waistband of his sweatpants, and padded, barefoot to the door. He turned on the lights, opened the door, and motioned the man inside.
“What is it?” Alexei asked.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Bukharin. You had a call come in on one of the secure lines, and she said I didn’t need to know who it was and to give you this hint: rejection. She said for you to call her back ASAP. Sir.”
Alexei smiled. One of the few women he admired whom he hadn’t conquered was The Directorate’s associate director of Analysis, Grace Lydell. He looked at his watch. 0258. The rumor she never slept must be true.
“Thank you,” he told the tech. “I’ll be there shortly.”
The man left, and Alexei headed first to use the miniature toilet and splash some cold water on his face to wake him fully. Back in the bedroom of the RV Fitzgerald had let him and Mai use when it was impractical for them to return to the Residence Inn, he pulled on some sneakers and a sweatshirt. The April nights still had a chill to them, as he found when he stepped outside to go to the communications trailer.
A skeleton crew staffed it at this hour, and Fitzgerald was nowhere to be seen. Good. Otherwise, the SAC would be all over Alexei while he tried to make his call, and Alexei hadn’t recovered any generosity toward the man. The technician who’d awakened him pointed to three booths on one side of the trailer. “Any one of those, sir,” he said.
Alexei nodded his thanks and went inside the middle one. He closed the small door, sat down at the miniature table, and lifted the phone’s receiver. He brought up a number from his memory and punched it in. Grace answered in the middle of the first ring.
“Lydell.”
“Bukharin.”
“You took your time.”
“I was asleep.”
“Sleep is overrated.”
“What’s up?”
“You asked for deep background on Hollis Fitzgerald.”
“Close to three weeks ago.”
A pause. “Mai says you’re cranky when you don’t get your sleep.”
“Not as cranky as she.”
“I wanted to give you as complete a package as I could, and you didn’t say it was urgent.”
I should have, he thought. “I understand.”
“Even though nothing about it is classified, I didn’t want to send it by fax or pouch. Prying eyes and all that.”
“Good call. Fitzgerald’s control over the smallest detail here is legendary. We’re on what the FBI says is a secure line.”
“Yeah, I ran some tests when I called earlier. We should be fine. This isn’t classified, but we may or may not have obtained some of the information in a somewhat questionable manner.”
“I won’t ask. What can you tell me?”
“I’m sure you know this, but the guy’s a jerk—but a jerk who gets things done. Dad was a cop killed on duty. Mom remarried less than a year later, and he didn�
�t get along with his stepfather.”
“How do you know that?”
“Not long after the remarriage, he went to live with his paternal grandfather, a retired cop, and didn’t visit his mother’s house. She came to see him. He’s a Vietnam vet, two tours. Green Berets and then Army Intelligence. Oh, and he has an interesting Army buddy.”
“Who?”
“Edwin Terrell, Jr. Terrell was wounded on a mission, and Fitzgerald, his CO, carried him out of the jungle to a medevac chopper at the LZ. However, there’s been little or no contact between them for years.”
“Did Terrell tell you that?”
She laughed and said, “I know better than to trust his word. No, phone record and email search, though Fitzgerald did make a call to Terrell almost at the same time you and Mai arrived there. No return call from Terrell. After Fitzgerald left the Army, he joined his hometown police force. A few months after that, the ATF was hiring, and he got in. He’s noted for his zeal in pursuing cop killers and pissing off his fellow agents of the female persuasion. He’s progressed fast for someone whose superiors have labeled an average employee. My bet? He uses leverage. For example, there’s a pattern of him getting into a dispute with a supervisor. A few weeks later he gets a promotion or a plum assignment.”
“The government promotes problem employees as a way to mollify them. Go back to not getting along with female agents.”
“Women co-workers have filed a bunch of complaints against him. Some were dropped for no reason, and in several of those incidents, the women were the ones to resign.”
“Blackmail?”
“Possibly, though we couldn’t come up with concrete proof.”
“Sexual harassment complaints?”
“No. Discrimination on the basis of sex, general harassment. Here’s an example. In one ATF field office, he went into the break room one day and saw a female agent kneeling down to clean up a cup of coffee she’d spilled. He told her that was where women should be—on their knees in the kitchen. He later tried to say he was joking. I figured anyone with multiple complaints of that type couldn’t climb the career ladder, but he has. Again, in every case, the complaint was either dropped, or insufficient cause was found to support the complaint.”
