Firepower

by John Cutter

  “I’m not showing him everything. And you know, the FBI is well aware of this place. Have you forgotten that we escorted ATF agents through here?”

  “We had to hide two-thirds of our hardware first…”

  “And who gave us the chance to do that? Our special friends in government warned us. We are to an extent protected from the feds — by the feds! Of course, there are still people in the Justice Department who might like to infiltrate us — or even carry out a raid. They would, if we hadn’t sold the ATF on the whole ‘recreation for fans of the military lifestyle’ business. The brochures really did the trick — I’m so glad I had them worked up.”

  Colls let a sound of exasperation escape him. “Sir, we can’t trust anyone in government. How do you know your federal contacts aren’t FBI operatives undercover?”

  “Because they’re old friends! I spent many a summer night with them at Bohemian Grove. One of them was my student, another was my teacher!”

  “Suppose Bellator finds out about Firepower and tells some fed who’s not your friend, General?”

  Gustafson shrugged. “Bellator won’t find out anything I don’t want him to find out, I assure you. And — you know me, Mac. I let the gods whisper to me. I have a feeling this is the man who will change everything — I feel it in my heart. His coming here is destiny! Das ist Schicksal!”

  “Is it? What if he’s the wrong kind of destined man, sir? What if he’s a mole of some kind?”

  “Ah, well, if he turns out to be an enemy, then we’ll kill him. I’ll let you do it! If I give you the signal — you may personally shoot Vincent Bellator in the back of the head.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Three hours, sitting in a chair.

  Some of the toughest hours Vince Bellator had ever experienced. And he had undergone Ranger training, maybe the world’s toughest. He had also been in “meat grinder combat”, as they’d called it in Afghanistan. But this…

  And yet all he had to do was sit there and watch videos without showing his real feelings.

  He’d been trained for Delta Force to play a role if he were captured and interrogated. He’d been trained by the CIA to play a role working undercover in urban combat zones. He could control his features, his outward responses. He was very aware that two men were watching him.

  But inside he was a turmoil of emotions as he watched racist videos telling lie after lie, falsifying history — he had a degree in actual history — and showing violent imagery suggesting that the United States would only survive if it was cleansed of “all non-white races except some few, kept at low levels, for domestic work”.

  His three best friends in the Rangers had been black, brown, and white. The officer he’d respected most was Chinese-American. The best friend of his youth in Texas, Hector Gomez, had been killed by a white sheriff’s deputy, rumored to be a Klansman, on a flimsy excuse. Vince had strong emotional feelings about racism. He was not down with it. He supported the First Amendment rights of racists, and that’s as far as he would go.

  Vincent Bellator tried not to hate or despise any group of people. But there were exceptions. He despised dealers in hard drugs like meth and crack and heroin and fentanyl, he despised terrorists of any kind, and he despised racists. The Germanic Brethren were racists and, in all probability, domestic terrorists planning a big move. Vince had heard that some domestic terrorists in the USA were raising money for their weapons by selling meth.

  As he watched the videos, he kept his face wooden — except when he thought he should give a flicker of an approving smile. Sometimes he nodded, trying to give the impression he agreed with the utter bullshit propounded in the video.

  But inside, Vince was seething.

  Two uniformed Brethren had been sitting to either side of the screen, watching him the whole time he was watching the videos. He could almost feel their gazes on his face. The brawny guy on the left, introduced as Deek, had a close-shaven head that looked too small for his body. He had his mouth slightly open as he watched Vince, his eyes squinted. He carried a Glock niner on his hip.

  The militiaman on the right was wiry, his face angular, his nose Roman, his big hands clutching nervously at one another in his lap. He had his teeth clenched as he stared at Vince. He carried what looked like a Colt .45 revolver on his hip. On his shoulder was a ranking patch showing two stripes. Apparently, Gustafson had declared the guy a corporal. He’d been introduced as Corporal Marco Ambra.

  When they’d met, Vince had asked, “You related to Antonio Ambra?”

  Marco had smiled proudly. “He’s my father!”

  Vince had read about the guy while doing his research in Pat’s. Antonio Ambra was a notorious Italian Neofascist, arrested for possession of stolen military explosives. There were numerous connections between American Neofascists and those in Europe and Russia. German and American neofascists were known to go to special training camps in Russia, probably run by Russian intelligence.

  Corporal Marco Ambra. Overgrown, psychopathic, dangerous children playing army…

  Vince wondered how far they carried this fake military stuff. Was there a boot camp? Was Wolf Base the boot camp? Probably something of the sort.

  The last video finished in a welter of blood and martial music sampled from a scratchy 1940s German record, and then the screen went dark.

  Vince managed not to say Thank God that’s over.

  Instead he nodded his head a few times, took a deep breath and stood up, stretching. “That was heavy,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Marco. “It is.”

  “But what you think?” Deek man asked. “You ready to stand up and say no to what’s happening in America?”

  Yes, Vince thought. But not the way you mean.

  “I’ve been ready for a long time,” he said, nodding gravely. “They’re taking away our culture. We have to stop them.”

  “Hell, they’re taking away our jobs!” the big man said.

  “That too. Any chance I could get a glass of water?”

  Marco nodded. “Deek here will take you to the cafeteria. We will all have lunch. The General said he’d be there a few minutes late. I need to talk to him.”

  Talk to him? Report to him, more like. Tell him what Vince’s reaction was.

  They had lunch in the cafeteria, the women spooning the beef stew and creamed corn into aluminum mess trays. There were eighteen men present, and the three women brought pitchers of orange juice and milk to the tables, along with plates of bread and additional stew in big bowls. All three of the women were fairly attractive, and the men ogled them, but no one made a grab. Deirdre avoided Vince’s eyes but he felt her watching him as he carried the tray to a long table.

  Sitting on Vince’s right, Marco told him the men had been out “on the range” and on the training field. They were boisterous as they talked and ate, with only occasional glances at Vince. No one said anything about militia plans. They’d been told not to, Vince figured.

  When Gustafson came in, he said, “At ease, everyone.” But the rowdiness dropped away and the men spoke quietly to one another as he took a seat on Vince’s left. Colls, glowering at Vince, sat across from him.

  “I understand the videos had some impact on you,” Gustafson said.

  “Yes, they did. It’s… all stuff I suspected and didn’t really know for sure.”

  “Have you given thought to becoming one of the Brethren?”

  “Some. I need some time. Thought I’d go home and think it over.” If he looked too eager to join, it’d be suspicious.

  “Where’s home?”

  “I’m staying in a friend’s cabin.”

  “You know, we are a militia, it’s true, as per the Fourth Amendment, but we’re also sort of ‘Defense Department’ for white nationalists. We are not the — what was it the Southern Poverty Law Center called us?” He looked at Mac Colls.

  Colls snorted. “A ‘domestic terrorist bomb waiting to explode’, they said.”

  “When did they put this opi
nion out?” Vince asked.

  “Just a week ago,” said Gustafson. “We had the ATF in here a few months back, and they gave us a clean bill of health. But this kind of loose talk online may prompt some more federal harassment. I just want you to know that any actions we take are purely defensive. This country is being divided by the black slaves of the Jews — and it has been invaded by so-called immigrants. By communist organizers and the like…” He broke off, as if thinking better of what he was about to say. “Just know — we’re a peaceful organization. But we stand ready to defend ourselves.”

  “You said something about my needing to — prove myself?”

  “We’ll talk about that another time.” He ate a bite of stew, drank some juice, and added, “After we eat, I’m going to give you a short book to read about the Brethren. Something I wrote myself. Then I’m going to send you home to read it and think it over. You’ll be given a special cellphone number to call for another meeting. Pass the salt, please…”

  *

  Bobby Destry was pacing in a pattern. It kept him from flipping out.

  He would pace from the back-right corner to the front-left of the cell. Then he’d cross to the back-left. Then he’d pace to the front right. Then the back right. Then he’d do it all over again. When he got sick of it, he’d reverse the order. Then sometimes he’d make it more complicated. If he made a mistake, he’d have to do thirty pushups.

  Pace to the front-left now. Then to the back-left. Then…

  “Bobby!”

  It was Shaun Adler’s voice.

  Two strides took Bobby to the door. “Shaun! You came!”

  “Keep your voice down, man, I’m not here with permission. Take this…” He passed a pen and a notebook through the bars in the little window. “I heard you didn’t even have pen and paper so…”

  “Oh — thanks. That’ll give me something to do. I’m going crazy in here.” The words, long pent up in him, started coming out in a rush. “I keep trying to read Gustafson’s books but they just don’t seem to make any sense, the whole thing seems like it’s just talking in the dark to nobody, man, like some guy on the corner—”

  “Bobby, Christ, man, can it!” Shaun said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Keep your voice down and don’t talk like that, not even fuckin’ whispering!”

  “Look, I’ll do anything he wants if he’ll let me out of here…”

  “He said he was concerned you’d go to the FBI.”

  “Just because I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay doesn’t mean I’m a traitor to all my friends, dude!”

  “They have to be careful. They’ve got a big move coming up…”

  “I heard him say, once, something about ‘Firepower’. But he never said what it was.”

  “He says it’s, like, a need-to-know thing, and shit. We got a new guy he’s high on now — this guy disarmed all three of us on the trail when we were asking questions. Barehanded, man! He’s like a war hero or something. And he kicked Rendell Saggett’s ass! Disarmed him and kicked him to the curb, man!”

  “Whoa, Rendell? Good! Rendell is scum!”

  “Well Rendell up and left town, and took his boys with him! This guy scared them into leaving!”

  “One guy did that? Who is he?”

  “Name’s Vincent Bellator. Used to be in the Army Rangers. He’s here, on the base, right now.”

  “Vince Bellator? The Rangers? Dude — that guy was my brother’s best friend!”

  Shaun stared. “Chris knew him?”

  “Yeah! They were close! He was there when Chris died, man! Kind of a coincidence, him being… I mean, Chris would never have joined the Brethren and from what I heard, Vince didn’t seem like…” He shook his head.

  “Um…” Shaun’s brow furrowed. “Listen, that’s kinda weird. Maybe you shouldn’t mention that to anyone. Maybe I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It is a big fucking coincidence…”

  “I wonder if…”

  “What?”

  Bobby opened his mouth to say If he’s here to get me out. If my mom sent him… But some instinct told him to keep quiet. “I don’t know, man. Can you put in a good word for me, with the General?”

  “Like he listens to me? But…” There was the noise of a door opening. “Someone’s coming. I’ll try to… shit, I gotta go…”

  “Shaun!”

  Shaun rushed off, down the corridor.

  Bobby walked slowly back to his cot and sat down. Chris’s best friend. Here? At the base?

  He felt a sudden, secret hope kindle inside him…

  *

  After being silently escorted from Gustafson’s property, Vince rode the Harley to Stonewall and bought some ammo for the Desert Eagle.

  He returned to his bike, shoved the ammo in the bike’s bags, got into the saddle, and decided to call Chris’s mother while he had a good cell signal.

  She didn’t answer, so Vince left a message on her voicemail. “It’s Vince. I’m looking into that thing for you. Getting closer. It may take a while to get another message from me, but I’ll let you know eventually.”

  He hung up — and turned to see a short, stocky, scowling, fortyish man in a sheriff’s uniform walking down the sidewalk toward him. The sheriff stopped across from the motorcycle, tilted his wide-brimmed Smoky Bear hat back, and said, “Would you be the guy who got into a fight with Rendell Saggett at Tina’s place?”

  Vince considered denying it but he knew the sheriff probably had a pretty good description of him. “We got into it some, officer. I understand the man was a drug dealer. I heard him making threats to a friend of mine and it kind of blew up.”

  “Saggett seems to have vanished. You know where he went to?”

  “Seems to be gone, the way I hear it. Left town. You miss him?”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  Vince had almost said You miss the extra income? But that wouldn’t have been wise.

  The cop stepped off the curb and put one hand out, the other on the butt of his gun. “Let’s see some ID.”

  Vince shrugged and slowly took his wallet out. He handed over his driver’s license as he read the name on the sheriff’s shirt tag. M. Woodbridge.

  The sheriff looked at the license, looked at Vince, then took out his cell phone. Vince waited patiently as Woodbridge called in his DL number.

  A minute passed, with Vince glancing up the street to see if deputies were coming as back-up. But the only people on the street were a couple of guys coming out of a tavern and a gaggle of teenagers gossiping in front of a Dairy Queen.

  Woodbridge handed Vince’s license back. “Alright. Nothing on you. But that could change, you get in any more fights. You’re lucky Tina didn’t want you arrested. That your motorcycle?”

  “It a loaner from Mrs. Destry. Chris Destry was a friend of mine.”

  “Oh? Army buddies?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where you staying?”

  “The Destry cabin, off Road Thirty-two.”

  “I know it. Don’t cause a speck of trouble in Stonewall or I’ll run you in. No more — you understand?”

  “I do understand, Officer,” Vince said, putting his license in his wallet.

  Woodbridge stepped back onto the sidewalk as Vince started the bike. He backed it onto the street and rode away. Glancing in the small bike mirror, he caught a glimpse of the sheriff watching him go.

  Vince rode out to the cabin. There, he sat on the porch and read as much as he could stand of the books that Gustafson had given him so that he could be reasonably conversant in Brethren rhetoric.

  Two hours of soaking up lies, distortions, unsupported assertions, falsehoods about history, and near-psychotic rhetoric was all he could bear. Then he went about the wooded areas around the cabin, setting up old-fashioned warning lines: fishing lines attached to cans and sticks, whatever he could find that would make noise. It wasn’t impossible that Gustafson would decide he was a liability…

  He went fishing for a few hour
s, and that night he cleaned Rendell’s Desert Eagle, read twenty pages of a volume of Abraham Lincoln’s letters, which he’d brought in his pack, and went to bed.

  He lay in his bed for a while, hands laced behind his head, thinking about the encounter with Sheriff Woodbridge. It had to happen. He gets in a very public fight with Rendell Saggett, said drug dealer suddenly departs town, leaving everything in his house. Isn’t answering calls. Someone could have killed him. But then, the sheriff probably finds it hard to believe that one person killed all Rendell’s men, too.

  After the fight in Tina’s, Vince’s gut had told him that Rendell Saggett could be coming after him. So he’d set it up on his own terms. Then he waited to be sure the gang was there to kill him.

  Now to Vince Bellator, that next step, outmaneuvering and killing the drug gang, was not only just and sensible. It was plain self-defense. But the law wouldn’t see it that way.

  Should he let it bother him? Killing three men and burying them in the woods...

  Did it bother him, deep down?

  He had to say — nope, it didn’t bother him. Maybe it was all the extra-judicial killing he’d done for Delta Force. And in the Yucatan. You kind of lost your ability to let it worry you…

  He had no trouble getting to sleep.

  The next morning he went jogging, did a full regime of Ranger calisthenics, and went fishing again. Later, he forced himself to read more of Gustafson’s book. When he couldn’t stand that any more, he rode the Harley into town.

  Drinking a beer at Pat’s Eats after dinner, Vince opened his laptop and looked up the Southern Poverty Law Center article about the Germanic Brethren. The article assessed content from the Brethren’s propaganda arm and concluded: It would be easy to dismiss these NeoNazis as merely dilettantes, German-mythology fetishists, but their leader, Raoul Gustafson, styles himself as the commanding officer, the ‘General’ of a large group of armed men who wear quasi-military uniforms. He claims his Wolf Base is only a recreational center for gun and military enthusiasts. But the rhetoric speaks again and again of “revolutionary action” to restore pre-Civil War America. The Germanic Brethren are Neo-Confederates, anti-Semites, Klan-affiliated neo-Nazis — and armed with semi-automatic weapons, at least. They may well be a domestic terrorist bomb waiting to explode… They often use the white supremacist codename for “coming race war”, which is “the Big Boogaloo” or just “the boogaloo”…