by Paul Levine
Patting the long pocket on the pantleg, Matthew reaches in and pulls out something, not quite sure what it is. In the split second it takes for him to realize that it’s alive and that it’s head is turning, he has no time to react. The ferret sinks its teeth into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. “Ow!” he screams, jumping back. “Satan incarnate!”
Matthew is off balance as Jericho spins to his left, grabs an iron skillet from the stove, and swings a forehand with a slight uppercut. Matthew sees it coming, brings up the shotgun, but too late. The skillet clanks the barrel, knocking it skyward. A blast tears a hole in the ceiling. Matthew swings the shotgun back toward Jericho who grabs the barrel and yanks hard across his body. The gun flies out of Matthew’s hands and across the room.
Jericho drops to the floor and uses a single leg takedown to bring Matthew to the floor “You wanna wrassle?” Matthew taunts him, slipping out of Jericho’s grasp and spinning into a reverse. He grabs one of Jericho’s elbows, the other hand slips around his waist in the classic referee’s position. A two-point reverse. “I was state champion at 180 pounds,” he boasts. He breaks Jericho down to the floor, banging his head into the floorboards and scraping his ear along the wooden planks, picking up splinters. “You want to go Greco-Roman or freestyle rules?”
Jericho works his left arm free and sends his elbow backwards, bashing it into Matthew’s mouth. The commando spits out blood and a chipped tooth. “West Virginny rules,” Jericho says.
Still sprawled on the floor, they tussle, exchanging punches. Jericho clobbers Matthew with a fist, but the punch glances off his skull. Then, Matthew kicks Jericho away, and both men get to their feet, locking up, again. Wrasslin’ style. They push and shove, trying to get leverage, banging each other against the galley wall, a rack of heavy spoons and spatulas crashing to the floor.
Suddenly, Jericho lifts one leg and slams his combat boot down on Matthew’s instep. The man howls in pain, and Jericho clotheslines him with a forearm to the Adam’s apple.
Jericho slips behind Matthew, works both hands up under his arms and locks them behind his head in a full nelson. An illegal maneuver in both Greco-Roman and Olympic freestyle, but not in West Virginny. Arms straining, the veins standing out on his neck, Jericho pushes forward, bending Matthew’s head close to the old stove and the french fry vat. Matthew’s eyes are wide open, and he sees the boiling oil grow larger until it fills his range of vision, the same view Icarus must have had on his way to the sun.
Matthew tries to pitch to the right, but Jericho braces his leg and won’t allow himself to be thrown off. Matthew tries to buck his head backward and smash Jericho in the face, but the grip on his neck is too strong.
“Say your prayers,” Jericho says through gritted teeth, pushing Matthew’s head closer to the scalding oil.
“I’m not afraid to die,” Matthew rasps.
“If you help me,” Jericho says, “I’ll let you go.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Matthew hisses, his voice weakening.
“C’mon! Help me stop Brother David. He’s a madman. You must know that.”
“He’s the savior,” Matthew says through clenched teeth.
“Good, ‘cause you’re going to need him.” Jericho pushes harder, and Matthew’s face is close enough to the vat to feel the sizzle of the boiling oil.
“Go to hell,” Matthew rasps.
“After you!” Jericho gives a last lunge, dunking Matthew’s head into the bubbling oil, holding him under. “If I were you, I’d cut back on the fried foods,” he says, helpfully.
Ker-click. The unmistakable cocking of a shotgun.
Jericho looks around, sees another commando in the doorway pointing the Remington 870 at him. He pushes Matthew toward the man, takes two steps and dives into the well of the grease pit just as a shotgun blast tears a chunk out the wall above his head.
-40-
The Father and the Son
In the STRATCOM War Room, the Big Board blinks with blueprints of the missile silo and schematic cross-sections of the launch control capsule, the sump, and the sleeping quarters/galley. General Corrigan and Colonel Farris are joined by Army Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Griggs. The officers plus FBI Agent Hurtgen stand over a sprawling diorama of the 318th Missile Squadron base.
Colonel Farris uses an elbow to put himself between Griggs and General Corrigan. Farris would like to keep this an Air Force operation and the last thing he wants is Army Special Ops coming in and saving his ass. “Sir, we could zip a smart bomb right down that silo. Bingo! No more missile.”
“Bingo,” General Corrigan says softly, “no more hostages.”
“Yep,” Griggs says, using a sidestep to get back in the general’s field of vision. “When the rocket fuel blows, count on a hundred per cent kill ratio in a thousand meter radius. And that’s if there’s no nuclear reaction. If they can arm the missile and you get yourself a nuke flash, well…”
“So, our smart bomb isn’t so smart after all,” the general says.
“Sir,” Griggs says, “if I could make a suggestion. We could drop Delta Force down the elevator shaft with a simultaneous descent into the open silo and secure the area in less than five minutes.”
“Casualties?” the general asks.
Agent Hurtgen clears his throat. “The Psych Pro leaves no doubt that Morning Star, that is, David Morton, will execute the hostages at the first shot.”
Lieutenant Colonel Griggs nods in agreement. “That’s a given cost of the operation.”
General Corrigan takes it in. “So the President tells the world, ‘Sorry, we just killed the U.N.’s non-proliferation team to take back an ICBM we don’t need from a nut who probably couldn’t launch it or detonate its warheads.’”
“But that’s not the worst case scenario, sir,” Agent Hurtgen says.
“No, it isn’t,” the general agrees. “Worst case scenario, he can launch the damn thing.”
“And if he has the ability, the experts say he’ll do it,” Hurtgen adds. “The middle ground is that, failing the ability to launch, he can still arm and detonate the ten warheads.”
“What are the projections on reasonable probability?”
“Fifty per cent on the ability to launch, fifty percent on the ability to detonate without a launch,” Hurtgen says.
“The D.I.A. concurs, sir,” Colonel Farris says.
“Fifty per cent. “You pick’em. General Corrigan shows a sad smile. “You know, I’ve been in the Air Force thirty-six years.”
“Yes, sir,” chorus Farris, Griggs and Hurtgen.
“All of them with distinction,” Colonel Farris adds, polishing the general’s apple.
“Including half-a-dozen years in that five-sided building where there are more asswipes than toilets,” General Corrigan adds, eying all three men.
“Yes, sir,” Griggs responds.
Colonel Farris, who spent two years in the Pentagon as an aide in U.S. Space Command, keeps quiet, not knowing where this is going.
“So cutting through the bullshit, gentlemen,” the general says, “what you’re telling me is that we don’t have the slightest idea what Mr. Morton can do.”
No one disagrees.
“And what you’re also telling me is that the bastard’s got Uncle Sam by the balls.”
Again, no dissent is heard.
As the general ponders the situation, a thin man of fifty with a close-cropped gray beard works his way through the semi-circle of officers. Colonel Farris sees the newcomer and waves him toward Hugh Corrigan. “General, I don’t think you’ve met Dr. Rosen. He’s the expert on eschatology.”
Blank looks greet that announcement.
“End times study,” Dr. Rosen explains. “Doomsday cults, the apocalypticists.”
The general gives him the once over. Dr. Stuart Rosen wears rumpled gray trousers and a navy blue sport coat. He’s balding on top and tries to conceal it with back-to-front brushstrokes that look like a wheat field plowed by a drunken farmer.
“I’ve also handled hostage negotiations for the Bureau,” Dr. Rosen adds, “which is serendipitous, is it not?”
General Corrigan hates rhetorical questions and has little use for psychiatrists so he ignores the question and instead, asks one of his own. “Who the hell are these nuts, anyway?”
“Just the latest in a long line, I’m afraid,” Dr. Rosen says. “Cults in this country go back to the Shakers and the Hutterites. They’re mostly benign, but once in a while, you’ll get a Jim Jones or David Koresh. There is an interesting twist in this case. According to some of his dropouts, Brother David has psychic powers.”
“You mean he claims to have…”
“They gave concrete examples of his ability to ‘see’ things in their past, things no one else could know. Apparently, it was quite convincing.”
The general is incredulous. “That’s how this crackpot got his followers to attack a missile base, with an Amazing Kreskin routine?”
Dr. Rosen scratches at his beard and says, “Oh, I’m sure that helped. But cults have been seducing followers for hundreds of years with far more basic techniques. The indoctrination methods are amazingly similar, whether you’re dealing with Moonies, Hare Krishnas, or apocalyptic groups. They prey on what they call ‘sheepy’ people, depressed, borderline antisocial, lonely rejected types in search of a family. Folks with low self esteem, impressionable and malleable, some truly schizophrenic. They’re looking to a leader to solve all their problems, and indeed, all the world’s problems. They have a sense of incompleteness, maybe even self hatred.”
“Not the makings of a good army,” Colonel Farris chimes in.
“No, not at first. The conversion process begins with isolation from all past life and friends. They strip the newcomer of all possessions, even his or her name. Humiliation and guilt are used to dismember the former self. They indoctrinate and brainwash. They use sleeplessness and food deprivation combined with drug-induced hallucinations. I’d be surprised if our Brother David didn’t keep a healthy supply of LSD, mescaline, or psilocybin in the compound. Anyway, after they destroy the person that was, the convert gets a new identity, a new purpose in life.”
“To die?” the general asks, in wonderment.
“To die in a blaze of glory, and maybe to live forever,” Dr. Rosen says. That’s how they achieve the ultimate in sanctity. In a way, they’re similar to the Nazis in the 1930’s, who would be considered a cult by today’s standards. Hitler’s genius was that he saw that he could build a charismatic cult, not by promising creature comforts, but rather by promising struggle, danger and glorious death.”
The general shakes his head. “What about the specifics of dealing with our nut case?”
“Well, you’ve got the combination of two forces, end-time prophesy and millenarism, the predicted thousand-year reign of Christ. Many cults have been preparing for Judgment Day, engaging in ecstatic behavior through prayer, trances, hysteria, even paranoia. The Cargo Cults in Melanesia thought they could turn back colonization that way. So did the Paiute Indians not far from here.”
“What’s that got to do with Brother David.”
“Same modus operandi,” Dr. Rosen says. “All these cults traditionally regard contemporary morals and laws as irrelevant. The only thing that matters is the impending catastrophe, which to them is a glorious event. Before leading his cult to mass suicide, Jim Jones predicted a nuclear war in which only his followers would survive. David Koresh considered himself the Messiah, and an angry one at that.”
Dr. Rosen pulls out a notepad and reads from it. “‘I am your God and you will bow under my feet.’”
“I beg your pardon,” General Corrigan says.
“These were from Koresh’s final writings recovered after the conflagration in Waco. ‘I am your life and your death. Do you think you have power to stop My will? My seven thunders are to be revealed. Do you want me to laugh at your pending torments?’ Et cetera, et cetera. Anyway, you get the same drift from the Holy Church of Revelations. They have a charismatic leader, totally committed followers, and apparently no fear of death.”
“Oh, there is one difference,” the general says.
Dr. Rosen raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“These bastards have ten nuclear warheads.”
There’s a commotion at the back of the group. An aide approaches and nods toward a phone. “It’s Morning Star again, sir.”
“Speak of the devil,” the general says with a mournful smile.
The aide hits the button on a speaker phone and General Corrigan leans close to the microphone. “How are you, Mr. Morton?”
“Mr. Morton?” Amused and playful now. “You’re showing off, Hugh. Letting me know how clever you can be with a budget of just a few hundred billion. So you know who you’re up against. Only child of the famous Lionel Morton, but now just a poor country preacher with a handful of disciples. Taking on you and your minions must seem as foolish as challenging Pontius Pilate and the Legions of Rome.”
Behind the general, Dr. Rosen whispers, “Talk about delusions of grandeur.”
“I think it helps us both, Mr. Morton, to know who we’re dealing with,” the general says.
“I know what the Behavioral Science Unit must have told you. ‘Deny him his identity. Don’t feed his delusions. Make him play on our field.’”
General Corrigan kneads his knuckles into his forehead. The beginning of a four-aspirin headache. This David Morton is smart, cocky and dangerous, and he enjoys all three. Hugh Corrigan is pure military. He has covered his ass on funding, training, and deployment with the best of the Pentagon bullshitters and congressional budget cutters. He has eaten steaks and guzzled whiskey with the Armed Services Committee and remembers the names of their wives and mistresses – and never confuses them – even after a fifth round of drinks. But he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to deal with David Morton.
The general gestures toward Professor Lionel Morton, who motors over to the speaker phone, a gleam in his eye. “Why don’t you give it a try, professor?”
Morton leans close to the microphone. “Okay, Davy,” he says, his tone defiant and challenging. “Your childish dramatics have gotten my attention. So let’s get on with it.”
“Ah, the famous Professor Morton, scourge of academia, apologist for the Pentagon, unrepentant symbol of the military-industrial complex, and primary piglet sucking at the pork-barrel tit of the Air Force.” He lets his voice become childlike. “Hello Daddy.”
“Hello yourself, you self-centered, egomaniacal son-of-a-bitch.”
“Staring into a mirror can be so painfully revealing, eh Daddy?”
“This is all about me, isn’t it Davy?”
“It is ironic, Paterfamilias, that the world will remember you for what I shall do.”
“I’ve already made my mark, you little snot. You think you were reborn? Hell, I was reborn on July 13, 1948 when I saw the launch of an MX-774 at White Sands.”
“Sorry, Pops, but no one wants to hear of your past glories, not even your toady military friends.”
“What do you want, Davy?”
“I wanna be just like my Daddy,” David croons.
“You’re trying to be sarcastic, but you’re really telling the truth and don’t even know it. You didn’t think you could measure up, Davy. That’s why you became a nihilist or whatever the hell you are. I did things. I made things. I was there from the beginning, the Matador, the Snark, the Rascal and the Navaho. The Jupiter and the Thor. I built the Atlas and Titan, built them from the ground up! Damn you, do you know what that means?”
“No one cares, Daddy. No one even remembers their names. Or yours.”
The professor’s tone is mocking. “And what have you done?”
“I’ve seen the light,” David says. “And now I’ll act.”
“You’ll fail! Just like you failed at the Point. Just like you did at the Seminary. Maybe a bunch of losers and dead-head misfits think you’re the Secon
d Coming. But I know you. I know what excites you and what frightens you. You’re the same little shit you always were, only your toys are more dangerous.”
“They’re your toys, daddy. I’m just borrowing them.”
“You always wanted what was mine. Well you couldn’t have your mother, and you can’t have my bomb! Not then, not now, not ever!”
Dr. Stuart Rosen tugs at General Corrigan’s sleeve and whispers, “I strongly advise against confrontation until the first four steps of persuasive reasoning have been attempted.”
The general ignores him, letting Professor Morton go on.
“You were a fuck-up then,” the professor says, “and you’re a fuck-up now…Oedipus!”
“Ah, there you go again, Daddy dearest. But let’s explore the analogy. I suppose I’m destined to kill you.”
“Then gouge your own eyes out,” the professor says. “Why not try that first?”
“No, Daddy, I won’t kill you, either. You must witness God’s work, his power as embodied in the missile and unleashed by me.”
“It’s my missile, Davy. You don’t have the slick code, and you can’t get it.”
“If you thought that, if you really knew that, dear old Dad, you would have told your buddy Hugh, and he’d have dropped Special Forces down the hole quicker than you can say, ‘ICBM.’ Good-bye for now, Daddy. See you at dawn.”
-41-
Water Ride
Exhausted and dripping with grease, Jack Jericho crawls through the scrub brush on the banks of the dry river bed. A commando sentry patrols nearby. Waiting for the chance to get by him, Jericho hears what sounds like a man’s heavy breathing somewhere behind him. Then the cr-ack of a twig snapping. Jericho flattens himself to the ground.
Another cr-ack.
The bushes move beside him.
A snort.
Then a plug-ugly boar scuttles over, sniffing and licking his ugly chops. Jericho doesn’t move.
