Firepower

by John Cutter

  FIREPOWER

  John Cutter

  Copyright © John Cutter 2021

  This edition published in 2021 by Lume Books

  30 Great Guildford Street,

  Borough, SE1 0HS

  The right of John Cutter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  When Vince Bellator first heard the rattle of gunfire, he figured it was hunters. Out of an old combat reflex, he assessed the source, making it about a quarter mile southeast. It was early October, a sweet-smelling dusk in Southern Appalachia, and Vince figured he was hearing a sample of the local deer-hunting season.

  Wearing a brown leather WW2 vintage pilot’s jacket, a green army t-shirt and hiking boots, Vince had started the hike in the Blue Ridge mountains a few days before. He’d worked his way down into northern Alabama, camped in Cheaha State Park in Alabama last night. But this morning he’d trekked out of the state park, onto the big federal forest reserve, and he’d done it on purpose. Vince wanted solitude.

  Vince was thirty-three years old, in good shape, having no trouble with the full backpack and no fear of the wilderness. An Army Ranger and Delta Force operative till three years ago, he’d always aced wilderness training.

  A few more gunshots sounded. No problem, easy enough to avoid the hunters. But then he heard quite another gun — this time the unmistakable rattle of machine gunfire. He knew from the sound it was a Browning M2 — a classic weapon. If they were using that for elk hunting, there wouldn’t be much left of the animal.

  He heard the machine gun rattle again and decided it wasn’t hunters after all. Could be automatic-weapon enthusiasts, maybe moneyed wannabes selling access to a machine gun. Gun-fun, under the radar. They were chewing up some target, likely a tree stump, with fairly expensive rounds. After a minute, a breeze from that direction brought him the distinctive smell of the .50 caliber ammo. He smelled something else that surprised him. Tracer ammo had a particular odor of its own. Why were these guys using tracer bullets? It was dusk, not night, and the bright tracer streaks wouldn’t shine out.

  Vince’s route would take him fairly close to the firing range. He was heading through the Talladega National Forest, on his way to a lonely place outside the preserve; a spot called Dead Springs, where he expected to find no one at all — nothing but an empty cabin. It was a place that a comrade-in-arms had asked him to visit, to ‘take care of a little job for me’. And in fact, Chris Destry had been dying in Vince’s arms when he asked him to bury a certain something at the cabin.

  Striding along the scant trail, his boots crackling in the first layer of fallen leaves, Vince heard another long strafe of gunfire, a little closer now. He shrugged; he could skirt away from the gunners, whoever they were, when he got a little closer. He’d still find the cabin. He had a reliable sense of direction.

  Another four hundred yards along the ridgetop, as the shadows of the oaks and longleaf pines stretched out to crisscross the thin trail, Vince began to hear the faint sounds of men’s voices. The gun enthusiasts. Too far to hear what they were saying.

  A glimmer caught his attention, high in a pine tree nearby. He made out a lens up there, flashing in the failing light from the west. A camera. Was that some kind of wildlife observation cam? Or something else?

  He was aware that he was not here legally; he’d soon be crossing into private land belonging to Chris’s family to go to the cabin, but right now he was still in a National Forest preserve. Not supposed to just wander around here without permission, though that was just what he was doing. Too bad the camera had caught him there. No big deal; if he ran into a forest ranger of some kind, he’d pay a fine and move on.

  It was about time to leave the trail, anyway, circle off to the northwest to avoid the gun range. He looked for a good place to cut into the woods — then became aware that someone was coming up the slope toward him, off to the right. He could hear them pushing clumsily through underbrush, grunting with effort. Sounded like three men.

  He thought about ducking into the underbrush to avoid them. But he was still on National Forest land. These guys didn’t sound like rangers. Nor was this their private property — they didn’t own the land any more than he did. Did they even have permission to put up those cameras?

  Better have a look at them. He instinctively wanted to know who was in the area. These guys were within a couple miles of Dead Springs, which was where he planned to spend the night.

  Vince shrugged out of his backpack and leaned it against a pine trunk. Best to be unencumbered when encountering strangers in a remote area.

  He waited, and then the three men came puffing up onto the trail and came to a stop about twenty feet away, staring at him. They were all wearing paramilitary garb — and they all carried AR-15 rifles.

  “Well there he is,” said the shorter of the three men, “big as life.” He wore a paramilitary cap, half covering his short blond hair.

  “He’s a big dude, alright,” said the pudgy, red-faced man beside him. There was a certain swagger in their banter that Vince attributed to the AR-15s. Carrying automatic weapons made some people feel powerful.

  The short guy and pudgy one had the same type of cap, the same cammies, unmarked by any insignia. The third man said nothing. He was darker, deeply tanned, black hair, no cap, lips pursed in his craggy, pocked face. He had the stripes of a master sergeant on his cammie jacket. But apart from the marks of rank, no insignia. All three men had their fatigues tucked into military-issue boots. Were they from some kind of National Guard training program? But they would have the insignia for that.

  “Ya’ll are trespassing,” said the pudgy man.

  “This is the Talladega National Forest, isn’t it?” Vince asked calmly.

  The man blinked and shuffled his feet. “Ye-es. But this trail is right on the edge of private property. And it’s not an authorized trail.”

  “You work for the US Forest service?”

  “Well — no.”

  “You have some kind of special permission to be here yourselves?” Vince made it sound as if he was just curious.

  The big man with the sergeant’s stripes answered for pudgy guy. “That’s not at issue.” He had a deep, rumbling voice. “We belong here. You don’t. We saw you on security camera; we came to tell you to turn back.”

  “That a federal security camera?” Vince asked, as if only casually interested.

  The sergeant frowned. “Doesn’t matter whose it is.”

  “Colls, I don’t think this guy gets it,” said the short guy with the blond hair, talking to the sergeant.

  “Don’t use my name in the field without authorization,” growled Colls, glaring at the shorter man. “And you address me as Sergeant.”

  “Okay, fine — what we going to do about the intruder, Sergeant?”

  “I’m just passing through,” Vince said. “I’m on my way to private land. I have permission to camp there.
I came from this direction because I wanted to see the Talladega forest. If you boys can move out of the way, I’ll head on.”

  Colls shook his head and hefted the AR-15. “You’re not passing through here. You’re going back the way you came. You find some other route to where you’re going. But not in this forest. Not at all.”

  “You going to use that rifle on me if I don’t go back the way I came?” Vince asked. He had no gun himself, not with him. Just a razor-sharp army-issue combat knife, neither too big nor too small, in a metal sheath on his right hip. It had served him well on a number of night missions.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Colls. “We’ll use our rifles only on assigned targets, or in self-defense. There’s three of us. You’ll go, alright.”

  “‘Assigned targets’? You fellas have regulations and everything! Nice and shiny. Who are you… serving with?”

  “We’ll ask the questions,” said the red-faced guy, stepping forward, now jabbing the AR-15 toward Vince. “Sarge, what if he’s FBI?”

  Colls grunted. “Not impossible.” He scowled at Vince. “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours — I mean, besides Colls?” Vince asked. “I’ll show you my ID if you show me yours. All I have is a driver’s license.” He smiled sadly at the pudgy guy. “I’m afraid I’m not with the FBI. Nothing so interesting. I’m an out of work freelancer, taking a hike.” The concern about the FBI reinforced Vince’s suspicion that these men were from some off-brand militia.

  “Just show me your ID,” Colls said, pointing the rifle at Vince. “Now.”

  Vince gave them a faint smile. Inside, he was taut, feeling anger build. He didn’t like anyone to point a gun at him. Ever.

  But he stretched, as if loose and bored, then shrugged and said, “I guess I’ll have to revise my plan.” He looked at the AR-15 in the hands of the nearer, red-faced man. “That’s a nice new weapon you’ve got. Selective fire?” Smiling, Vince took a couple steps toward the pudgy man, keeping the militiaman between himself and the other two, as if he wanted to admire the gun. He noticed pudgy guy hadn’t taken the safety off on his rifle. “What load you use?”

  “Stop right there!” Colls growled. “Give me your ID and then put your hands up!”

  Vince shrugged. “Sure thing.” He reached into a pocket, slowly, so as not to make the militiamen nervous, and drew out a wallet. There was very little in the wallet. It was slim. It contained a Veterans Administration card, a driver’s license, and a thousand dollars in cash. No credit cards. Nothing else.

  He took out the driver’s license, replaced his wallet, humming “Strangers in the Night” as he did it — and suddenly skimmed the plastic-encased license at Colls’ feet. The three strangers automatically looked at it.

  Colls bent to pick it up — and Vince made a series of moves in under two seconds.

  Vince stepped in close to the pudgy guy, grabbing the barrel of the AR-15, jerking it from the militiaman’s hands before he could move, instantaneously ramming it back into the man’s gut. Pudgy guy gasped and bent double. With one hand, Vince reversed the AR-15. With the other, he grabbed pudgy guy by the neck and dragged him up to block the muzzle of the short guy who was trying to move into a firing position.

  The militia sergeant was straightening up, the license in one hand, rifle in the other. Neither he nor the short guy could hit Vince from where they were without killing their buddy.

  “Freeze!” Vince snarled.

  He had the rifle pointing at the sergeant, its stock braced on his hip, his finger on the trigger. He hadn’t had time to take the safety off too — but he figured they weren’t going to see that from where they were.

  The pudgy guy was wheezing, Vince’s hand tight on his throat, hopelessly trying to claw away the hand that choked him. His face was turning scarlet.

  The short blond guy was gaping at Vince.

  “You tell me your name — your real name — and I’ll let you three live,” Vince told him.

  “Shaun Adler!” the short guy blurted.

  “Dammit, Shaun!” Colls snapped.

  “And the other two, Shaun?”

  “Mac Colls and Wynn Foster!”

  “Goddamn you, Adler!” Colls roared.

  “Now drop your gun,” said Vince. “You too, Sergeant. Do what I say and you can all walk away. Fail, and I’ll cut you three down like weeds. I’ve killed enough men, it’ll come easy.”

  Adler dropped his gun.

  Licking his lips, Colls looked into Vince’s eyes — then he took a long breath — and angrily tossed his own rifle aside.

  Vince shoved Foster into the short guy so they both fell backwards, one atop the other.

  “Now what?” Colls growled, and the two other militiamen untangled and got gasping to their feet.

  Vince took the AR-15 into both hands, leveling it at Colls from waist height. Almost as an afterthought, he flicked off the safety. He knew by the weight of the gun that it was loaded. “Now,” Vince said, “this.”

  He swung the muzzle of the gun a couple inches over and squeezed the trigger, sending a short burst into the dirt of the trail between Colls and the two men.

  “Yah-h-h!” wailed Foster as he turned and bolted into the forest to Vince’s right.

  The other two raised their hands. “Don’t shoot!” Adler squeaked.

  Vince grinned. “I just did!” He nodded toward his driver’s license, still in Colls’ left hand. “Sergeant, lay that on the trail there. Then you take Shaun here and follow Foster off into the brush. Go on back to shooting your playthings at targets. And don’t fuck with me ever again.”

  “What about our weapons?” Colls asked, putting the driver’s license on the ground.

  “I’ll wreck two of them. I’ll keep the third. I’m going to be moving fast and carefully through the brush. You won’t be able to track me. If you come looking for me, I’ll nail you.”

  Between grating teeth, Colls said, “You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”

  “I truly do not care who you are. I mind my own business, whenever I can. Chalk the loss of your weapons off to the learning curve.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at Colls’ head. “You’ve got a two count. One…”

  Colls turned and strode off to Vince’s right, into the brush, Adler scrambling after him.

  Vince went to the verge of the slope and peered down through the underbrush. He could see Colls and Adler half sliding, scrambling down the hillside.

  Vince removed the ammo from two of the rifles then smashed the weapons against a granite outcropping till they were unusable and beyond repair.

  He picked up the intact rifle, his license, and his backpack, and headed off into the deepening shadow of the brush, making his roundabout way toward Dead Springs.

  *

  “What did you get off his driver’s license?” Gustafson asked.

  Colls handed him a sheet of paper with the info written on it. “Wasn’t time to get a lot of it, sir. His name is Vincent J. Bellator. Residence is given as Harstine Island, Washington State. I didn’t have time to get the street address but how many Vincent J. Bellators could there be on some island in Washington?”

  Raoul Gustafson nodded as he looked at the paper, his coke bottle-lens glasses flashing in the caged overhead light of the bunker. A stocky, middle-aged man, he wore paramilitary desert cammies, and on his shoulders were a general’s four stars. “Vincent Jack Bellator? Do you know that Bellator is Latin for warrior?”

  Colls shook his head. He wasn’t surprised that Raoul knew it. Gustafson had a PhD. He’d been a professor, but they’d booted him out of the post for Holocaust denialism.

  “I’ll run it past my contact in the State Department. He’ll get this man’s records. We’ll find out soon enough if he’s a federal agent of some kind.”

  The two men were standing in Gustafson’s small Operations Office in the Germanic Brethren bunker complex. The entrance of the Wolf Base complex was a mile f
rom the border of the Talladega reserve. Mostly subterranean — built into the side of a steel granite ridge — the complex rose at the center of Gustafson’s four hundred-acre property.

  A man with $180 million of inherited tobacco money to spend, Gustafson had given the complex every relevant amenity. Barracks with showers and latrines, air conditioning and central heating, well-stocked kitchens, extensive storerooms for food and munitions and medical supplies, an armory, a basement brig, and high-powered communications gear that kept him in touch with Brethren cells around the country.

  Gustafson turned away, going down the hall to the comm room, calling out, “Sit down, have some coffee if you want, and wait for orders, Mac.”

  Mackenzie Colls didn’t feel like sitting — he was too tense, too angry. But the habit of obedience to General Gustafson was strong, and he sat in the creaking gray-metal folding chair in front of the oak desk.

  Quietly fuming, Mac Colls went over the incident again in his mind. Bellator had humiliated Colls and his patrol detail. The others were the weaker elements of the Brethren, and perhaps they deserved it. But Colls was a seasoned soldier. He was a former Marine; he’d fought in the Iraq war. He’d received a bronze star and two purple hearts. It was true he’d been dishonorable discharged — but that was all part of the conspiracy against him. When they’d found out he had let his men use “enhanced interrogation” on the suspected Al Qaeda operative and, indeed, had executed the man himself to shut him up, the MPs jumped at the chance to get rid of him. They knew his feelings about Densmore, the black captain who so blithely ordered Colls around. Mac Colls had worked hard to put together a platoon of white nationalists — and Captain Densmore had broken it up.

  Never again, he’d vowed, after his discharge, would he bear a humiliation from an enemy of the cause. He could barely stay in his seat now; he was itching for orders to find this Bellator and kill him.

  Still, whatever Gustafson’s orders were, Colls would follow them. Gustafson had found Colls on the streets in Atlanta, living in an old Buick LeSabre, drunk and angry and aimless. The general had given him a new life, a new direction. Colls had been waiting for a leader, a true believer like Raoul Gustafson, all his life. General Gustafson was the man to lead the Brethren in the coming race war.