by Theo Cage
I looked at one of the soldiers on the porch. He was trying to hide his confusion; maintain a look of defiance and strength despite the fact that his leader had just deserted the scene without giving any further instructions.
I just wanted to get at the command centre. I wasn’t sure what I could accomplish there, maybe just pull wires and smash computer screens. I would happily dismantle Gideon’s technology, even if I only had eight remaining fingers.
CHAPTER FORTY
Eliza had the stew in a covered roasting pan. She held it with oven mitts she had made herself.
Her knees were trembling. She hoped the ankle-length blue dress she wore disguised her fear. What the stranger said kept her moving forward, down the steel tunnel, over the packed sand floor. Tamara was behind her, the glass tinkling in the lemonade jar, her little moans breaking the sound of their feet.
The tunnel was angled down and constructed from eight-foot diameter steel corrugated culvert pipe. A power line and water pipe ran along the ceiling. This was the tunnel to the bunker they had visited once when they first arrived at Parkhurst. Every commune she had lived on had one. Never this ornate or this big. She remembered seeing the huge underground storage facility with food, water and space for the one thousand residents, sitting right under the Women’s residence.
Everything at Parkhurst was first-rate. The best materials, the best craftsmanship. She wondered to herself where all the money came from, but never asked. She had never questioned their purpose or their leadership.
Her husband was a captain of one unit. He was an honest, hard working son of a tobacco farmer. No education, but he never drank – always treated their sons fairly. She hadn’t seen much of him over the past few weeks leading up to J-Day.
Eliza knew it was only a week ago when the rumor started about the fertilizer shipments. Fertilizer in the fall? She grew up on a farm like her husband. Fertilizer was something you bought in the spring.
The rumors were like gnats, flying in her face, distracting her from her labors. She would prove to everyone, once and for all, that the rumors were just something started by their enemies. What she was afraid of was being caught for even questioning the authority of those who ran the community. Her heart seemed to agitate in her chest at the thought of disobedience. Then she turned the corner and saw the guards.
There were two men. She didn’t recognize either of them. One was broad, his stomach hanging over his belt, his hair long. The other was young, thin; his head shaved, smiling at them in surprise. The bigger man didn’t look that happy.
“Sisters. I think you’re in the wrong place. No one’s allowed down here.”
Eliza smiled. “They asked us to bring you an early lunch. Since you might be here for a long time today.”
The young kid looked at her and grinned. Eliza blushed, and Tamara held up the lemonade. The bigger guard looked puzzled for a moment. Eliza guessed the comment about being there for a long time rang true to him, but he was still suspicious. He reached for his radio set, hanging off his belt.
“Your friends at the gate wanted this pretty bad. I guess we can take it back to them?” said Tamara.
“They did, eh?” said the skinny kid. “Sure smells good, Eril.” Eliza opened the top of the roaster and the smell of beef stew rose up and hit the big guard like a blow to his solar plexus. His hand stopped and he licked his lips.
“They wanted some at the gate, you say? I can see why.”
“You both deserve a lunch break. It’s going to be a long day.”
The biggest guard knelt down and took in a deep breath from the roaster. He smiled for the first time. “Beef stew’s my favorite. Ladies, you are like angels to a dyin’ man.”
Tamara poured a glass of the treated lemonade for the older guard, who took a long thirsty pull, emptying the contents. “Aaahh!” he said. “Don’t tell my Ma. But that’s better than the aide she used to make when I was a tadpole.” The skinny kid took a few sips and raised his glass to Eliza.
The diazenol they had laced the lemonade with, took effect in about three to four minutes. They had used a lot, anxious that a bit might only make the guards sleepy. The kid passed out straight away. He sat down hard on the packed sand and just fell against the wall.
The bigger guard stopped eating for a few seconds, looked at his partner strangely, and then struggled to stand up. He couldn’t. “What the hell?” he mumbled. He went to reach for his belt. Eliza wasn’t sure if he was looking for his gun or trying to hike himself up. His hand was not obeying signals. He couldn’t grip anything and his head was flopping over. He grunted, saliva running down his lip. Then his eyes rolled back.
“Tamara? We haven’t killed them have we?”
Tamara answered calmly. “No. They’re only sleeping.” But she wasn’t sure. They had used an awful lot of the powder they had taken from the medical storeroom – and the young kid drank more than a glass full.
Tamara stepped around the two prone men and pushed on the steel bar that opened the door to the bunker. She leaned half way into the opening, the hot air of the bunker and the stink of diesel fuel hitting her like a sickening wave. This wasn’t right. Was there a leak somewhere?
Eliza and her pulled the youngest guard across the threshold and dragged him to the wall behind the rusty door. The bigger guard was more of a problem. He was impossibly heavy and still had some movement in him. They struggled with him till they were both sweating. Tamara straightened out the sand and moved the remains of the food into the darker space of the bunker.
As her eyes adjusted, Eliza knew right away that something was awfully wrong.
There was no longer food or water containers present. Half the bunker was empty. In the center sat four huge circular retention ponds, about four feet high each. The stink of diesel and urea was overpowering. Eliza gagged.
“They couldn’t keep food stores down here. Everyone would smell this on it,” Eliza offered, holding her dress over her face. They walked up to the first pond, a few suspended bare bulbs the only source of light.
She clambered up the sides of the plastic wall and looked down into a deep pool of yellow paste. The smell was thick and cruel on the back of her throat.
Fertilizer mixed with diesel fuel was the composition of the bomb that destroyed the Murray Building in Oklahoma City in 1995, ignited by a third cousin on her husbands side, Timothy McVeigh. The entire bomb was no bigger than a few large storage trunks. This was what? One hundred times bigger? What kind of damage would there be? Would there even be a Parkhurst left if this ignited? Her head swam with the wonder of it all. What could the purpose be other than what Tamara had told them? It was then that the two guards they met up at the ground-level gate noisily entered the bunker, their flashlights extended.
Tamara slipped out of sight as soon as she heard the click of the steel door opening. Eliza was surprised by how quickly she had moved, assuming it was raw fear. The traces of the two flashlights were on her in seconds, the guards advancing carefully. She stood, her hands by her side. She had no idea what to do now. They were caught. Time was running out. What would it feel like being so close to such a huge fuel bomb when it exploded? Would there be any pain?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The young suicide bomber stood unsteadily, sweat trickling down his back.
He knew they had drugged him. He knew this because he sensed he couldn’t possibly feel this good knowing he was carrying twenty-pounds of C4 explosive, wrapped tightly around his chest. But he didn’t care. All of his concentration now was focused on just trying to stand as straight as possible, as soldierly as he could command, the extra weight constantly bowing him forward and over.
Standing there, waiting, he noticed for the first time the plastic explosive smelled slightly of tar – like he was standing downwind of newly pitched driveway. He liked the smell, but now it was all that he could think of. The odor was burrowing into his brain. All of his fellow soldiers, standing around him, were now bound by this pheromo
ne of destruction – unintentionally signally their intentions to each other like giant hive insects.
The other soldiers were as silent as him, their eyes on the ground or the sky or their hands, not able to look at each other, feeling their gaze might burn a hole right through the man standing next to them. That’s how powerful and intense they felt – terrified and frozen, yet God-like.
That’s what a God, does after all; gives up his human life to accomplish a greater good.
There were fifty of them – young men with scruffy beards and sideburns, wearing baseball caps and casual slacks, running shoes. They wouldn’t be carrying rifles today, which is what they were used to. They had been chosen to blend in. They would pile into cargo vans and be dropped off at various locations in Washington – at malls and monuments and in front of the police and FBI offices. They would blend in until it was time.
They had no wives, no children. If they had parents, they hadn’t seen them for years. They were bred for this duty – schooled in hate for Western culture, branded as brave and sacrificial Jihadists. For months they were fed only the finest food, the best liquor – provided only the most beautiful and compliant female companionship. They were the elite of their community. And now they will not hesitate to pull the cord on their jackets and send themselves to glory. They were Gideon’s chosen – the highest honor known to a Soldier of Patmos.
Then the cargo vans came and everyone looked up, afraid for the very first time.
This wasn’t a dream anymore. The packs they wore suddenly felt impossibly heavy. Some of the soldiers lost control of their bladders. Some mumbled favored religious passages. But the shame of not performing would be worse than death. So they climbed into the vehicles.
Their lieutenants came to join them once they were inside. He said a prayer and went around and shook hands with the boys. They were packed into the windowless vans, ten per – crowded, sitting along the bare metal sides, feeling the explosive packs dig into their backs. Their driver, looking nervous, knew how much firepower was enclosed in the confining space. Each believed a simple fender-bender could mean a mushroom cloud of C4, blood, bones and thin Detroit sheet metal.
They drove slowly and carefully down the gravel road that divided their fortress, getting curious looks from the residents. Some went west, others east.
Finally, two of the lead vans passed through the gates of the guardhouse.
Chris Hanlon was the first FBI sniper to fire. He had received a squad radio call from his commander at Quantico, who was monitoring the movement of the caravan using a high-altitude drone.
The FBI had been watching the compound for years, but more intensely these past few months. The cargo vans were of interest. They implied militia activity off the compound. And based on recon, the FBI knew the vans weren’t being used to send kids to water parks. They sat mostly unused and were only involved in periodic drills. Soldiers would line up and crawl inside. Then after half an hour, disembark.
Intel from a year ago traced a black market purchase of hundreds of pounds of C4 to Parkhurst. Hanlon shook his head when he heard. You can bribe customs officials and cops until the cows come home, but you can’t hide that much C4 from the feds forever.
The FBI was convinced the vans would be used for some terrorist activity on or around what the intel community was calling J-Day. The soldiers who had crawled inside weren’t carrying guns and were dressed as civilians. That was suspicious. Even more so, they were all wearing heavy coats on a warm summer morning.
So, one of the three snipers on point, on his stomach in the light forest across from the gates, shot out the front tires of the leading van with his MK-11. A provocation? Yes. But no one would be hurt. The vans were crawling out of the gates. They would see what the vans did next.
The second van stopped behind the lead van, which was slumped down on the shattered tires. There was no movement for several long seconds. Then the second van pulled around, spinning up dust and gravel, and passed the first.
Chris fired again twice. Two more tires exploded, and the van slewed across the road into the opposite ditch, nose down. Still, no one inside moved and no one left the vehicles. Another minute ticked by.
Then the militiamen behind the guardhouse walls opened fire on the sniper’s positions. Luckily, the FBI was hunkered down just below a slight ridge. All of the fire chewed up the hardwood and pine bows above them and spat sandy soil up into the air. Chris would always remember that day for the smell – pine scent and cordite.
The snipers were ordered not to return fire. Yet. But that would never be necessary.
The math worked against the bombers that day. Twenty of them were packed together in two vehicles. A stray bullet from one of the militia guards hit the second van, pierced the side and plowed into one of the suicide bombers, who screamed out in pain and toppled forward into the aisle. Panic filled the confines of the truck as young men looked at each other, sure that the end would come now and not later as planned.
One terrified bomber over-reacted, afraid he would die before fulfilling his destiny, and tried to escape from the van. In his haste and confusion, crawling over the other bombers, he accidentally activated his suicide vest. The C4 ignited, and the resulting explosion consumed the first van instantly. Which consumed the next cargo van in line, like a violent conga line of destruction.
The chain reaction completely evaporated most of the front gate of the Parkhurst compound, killing most of the guards and everyone else within a five hundred foot radius.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Tommy had the bear in his sights; at least he thought of him as a bear. Relentless, broad shouldered, with a big squarish head and cruel eyes. That was the cop that had towered over Gideon, his arm muscles bunched up under his jacket. He was angry; Tommy could tell. It came off the cop like waves of heat off hot pavement.
Tommy watched through the scope from the living room of the farmhouse. What could Gideon have been negotiating? There were only minutes until the launch. Gideon as usual was calm. Tommy could see his head moving, not quite a smile on his lips, when he turned back to the farmhouse. There was one other officer they had to deal with, a man who had Sherriff written across the back of his black nylon jacket in bold yellow letters. Why only two? If they suspected the scale of what was about to come down, they should have an army at the gates. Something was wrong.
Tommy had a simple solution – two shots, and the problem would go away. They could get back to the work at hand. Final tests needed to be run; Gideon’s orders had to be cleared – his ever-present checklist reviewed. But no, they were playing houseguest with two cops.
Then Tommy ducked involuntarily when he heard the gunshots from the porch. Through the scope, he watched his fellow militiamen shred the cop car. Finally, they were doing something.
Tommy ran up to the big oak door and looked out. Gideon was still standing there in the open; his hand up, the air full of gun smoke. Then the lights in the house flicked out momentarily, and the shooting stopped. Tommy looked back into the house, missing the injured woman falling to her knees outside, an important moment for everyone. But he was wondering how the power could go out with all the backup technology they had. And why his men had stopped shooting. He sensed the two cops were still huddled behind the black and white SUV, but he couldn’t see them.
Then he saw Gideon march over to the area where the resident women had gathered and disappear into the commotion.
Tommy’s face betrayed his confusion. Within seconds of seeing his leader disappear, he heard massive explosions from the front gates, which he assumed was an attack on the compound by the Army or the FBI. Then the lights in the room blinking out. The farmhouse seemed to settle into silence in a matter of seconds, ticking like a cooling engine block, the extended explosion from the distance still ringing in his head. He could also hear the battery alarms going off upstairs, one after the other. Disconnect alerts. The Internet connections were down. Phone lines had gone dead.
Within seconds, his cell phone rang.
“What’s happening with the power?” asked Gideon, sounding out of breath.
“They’ve cut us,” said Tommy. “I don’t know how. But it won’t stop J-Day. Or the server shutdowns. They’re on timers. They think they’ve got us, but it won’t effect anything.”
“I don’t give a fuck about J-Day,” yelled Gideon. Tommy had never heard Gideon swear before. “But without power, we lose our biggest chess move. The underground bunker.”
Then the power came back on momentarily. Then blinked out again. They could hear the systems upstairs cycling up then droning down into silence again.
“What’s going on?” asked Gideon.
“They’re cycling,” said Tommy. “A computer takes about thirty seconds to boot up, so they’re turning the power on and off every thirty seconds or so. The computers never get started. And the back up power from the generators never comes on because the power has to be off for over two minutes for the diesel plants to kick in.”
“We should have been prepared for this. I have to go and look after the bunker bomb. You have to get that small generator in the back field going. All I need is two minutes of power. Do you understand?”
Then Tommy got it. A few minutes of power would give Gideon the time he needed to reset the timers that would trigger the bomb in the cave.
“Do you understand?” barked Gideon, his voice ragged.
“Yes,” said Tommy.
With that, Gideon clicked off.
Tommy lifted his rifle and snugged the stock into his shoulder. Hyde’s head was increasing in size in the viewfinder. He was on the porch now, his face in shadow, approaching the front door. Tommy had the cop’s nose in his sights now, through the colored glass of the entry doors where the police officer had paused, reaching for the doorknob. Tommy squeezed lightly on the trigger, a smile forming. He was in the zone.
