Firepower

by John Cutter

  “You don’t get to make plans for this base,” Colls said.

  “Yes, leave that sort of planning to me,” Gustafson said, nodding. “Did you see Deirdre Johansen out there, Vincent?”

  “When I was on the trail? No sir. I saw her when she brought us some juice before the run.”

  “That was the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes sir. Is she alright? She’s not missing, too?”

  “She’s just fine.” The General tapped his fingers some more and then said, “Okay, Vincent, hit the showers.”

  Vince saluted and left the room — thinking, suppose the team searching for Deek Fisk found the body? They’d realized that she was in the woods at the same time that Deek had vanished. Put that together with the dead man, the hidden body. The snapped neck…

  He had been the last man here to see Deek Fisk. Maybe they’d work it out. Meaning he needed to get his knife, keep it on him, and think about how to make a move if they came to “take him into custody”. Get the jump, bring the knife out, blade to the heart with one hand, take a gun with the other, open fire, head for the emplacements on the roof — burst out behind those guys, kill them, then head out along the ridge top…

  A vague plan, and just one option.

  But it seemed to him that Gustafson didn’t want to believe Vincent Bellator was responsible for the disappearance of Deek Fisk. Gustafson seemed to prize Vince. He had some plan for him. A particular use…

  Which was… what?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They were out on the rifle range. Vince was sitting on a hay bale, Shaun Adler standing beside him, watching him use some very small gun tools to adjust the sights on the M4A1 carbine Shaun was practicing with. It had stopped raining but the ground was wet, giving out low streamers of mist, and clouds churned overhead. Eight men were lined up to their left, taking pops at man-shaped paper targets set up on bales against a grassy hillside. Vince, the best shot on the base, had been asked to help out with instruction. He had mixed feelings about it. He was teaching men to shoot better — men who might well shoot at him sometime.

  “Vince?”

  “Yeah, Shaun?”

  “You know Bobby Destry?” Shaun asked.

  “Never met him but his brother showed me his picture. Heard some about him from his mom.” He tightened a tiny screw on the rear sight. “You a friend of his?”

  “Um…” Shaun glanced around to see who was listening. “Well — yeah. He’s in the brig here.”

  “Yeah? What he do to end up there?”

  Shaun sighed. “Depends how you look at it. He left; just wanted out. Wasn’t sure about the mission. Couldn’t commit.”

  “Which mission?”

  “Well — war. Race war. Taking back what’s ours.”

  “What was his hurry? That war coming soon?”

  “Rumor says soon. But you know — just rumors.”

  Guns popped and banged and rattled up and down the line. Targets blew apart. And Vince thought, Soon? Does Agent Corlin know?

  “So — what about Bobby Destry?”

  “It’s just that… he could’ve got away clean, but he came back here to try to talk me into going with him. He said they were lying to us, that the videos, the lectures — some of it was lies. Maybe more than some. I was thinking about going with him but, you know, I got nothing else going on in my life. I was having a lot of trouble till this place straightened my ass out. I don’t want to end up like my brother, you know? And…” He licked his lips, and then spoke as if trying to convince himself. “…I’m sure of the mission. The Brethren mission. Right? And you — you’re sure of the mission, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  He looked at Vince as if wondering how sure he was.

  Vince said nothing.

  Shaun cleared his throat and said, “So, I’m glad I stayed. I mean, you know what’s what.”

  Vince felt a sharp twinge, hearing that. He kind of liked Shaun Adler, and it didn’t feel good to deceive him. Maybe there’d be a chance to help him, later on…

  Shaun shook his head. “But… I feel bad about Bobby. He should have a right to his own opinion, you know? America and the… the Second Amendment?”

  “First Amendment. But yeah. He should have that right.”

  “Gustafson seems to think you’re our new star around here, Vince. I was wondering if you could say a word to him — see if he’ll think about letting Bobby go. I’m small potatoes, man, but you…”

  “I haven’t been here long. Not even half a potato yet.”

  “You’re the most expert guy we’ve got. Rumor is he has something big planned for you.”

  “Something to do with Operation Firepower?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. But I guess Gustafson’s going to make some big announcement at the Erntefest.”

  “Which is — what?” He’d heard the term before somewhere…

  “The harvest festival. Like in old Germany. The Brethren have it every year.”

  Then Vince remembered where he’d heard the term Erntefest. From Aktion Erntefest — the Nazi code name for the program to exterminate the Jews…

  *

  Vince had just finished the morning round of Centurion training, beneath a sullen gray sky threatening rain, when Mary Lou, the stocky, black-haired Shield Maiden came to get him. “The General would like to see you.” She had a slight Serbian accent. She smiled at Vince, in a way that made her cheeks widen and her receding chin seem to vanish into a dimple. “Um — right away, if you please.”

  “Sure thing. Tell Marco, will you?”

  He jogged up toward the open gate of the compound and in a few minutes was standing at parade rest in front of Gustafson’s desk. Behind the seated “General” was a PC screen hanging on the wall.

  “You asked to see me, General?”

  “Yes, have a seat, Vincent.”

  Vince sat at the chair across from him. “Any word on Deek Fisk, sir?”

  “No. We’ve put out a national alert for him, as we suspect he’s simply deserted. It happens, now and then. Such men must be found and…” He shrugged. “Let’s concentrate on the business at hand.” Gustafson opened a laptop and tapped a key. A map-style layout of a group of streets and buildings, unlabeled, appeared on the big screen, in brown, white, green and blue. Gustafson took the laptop in his hands and turned to look at the map.

  “Vincent — you were an officer, with a lot of combat experience, much of it in urban battlefields. I need your know-how, your experience — some advice, really. It’s for a… writing project. I’m doing a book about tactics, you see. So a what-if situation.”

  All this sounded rather rehearsed to Vince, as if Gustafson had sketched it out in his mind ahead of time.

  Inside a green circle was a rectangle, probably meant to represent a large building… There were few other details. A blue indicator might indicate a river running a little distance behind the building. Five streets ran orthogonally from off the map to meet the circles.

  “This is a hypothetical battlefield situation?” Vince asked.

  “Purely hypothetical. Now…” Gustafson tapped the laptop and an oblong of red appeared on the screen. “Here you see a substantial gathering, perhaps a thousand people, on a green in front of a large building.” He used the laptop cursor to indicate the red blob and the big rectangle. “Now, looking at the terrain, what would be the most efficient way, short of a bombardment or truck bomb, to attack that gathering, with maximum effect in the shortest time?”

  “I don’t know what the ranges are, the distances between objects; I can’t see most of the terrain. I don’t know how many soldiers are involved. If you give me a clear picture of the whole scenario, sir, I can advise you.”

  “Hmph.” Gustafson stared at the image for a moment, then shook his head. “I cannot… at this time…” He broke off and switched off the image entirely. “Perhaps when you’ve proven yourself. And in fact, that’s the other matter I wanted to talk to you about. I believe
the time has come…”

  “Yes sir? For what?”

  “I need you to kill some people for the Brethren. Certain people in a certain place. Then we’ll know you are one of us.”

  Vince waited a beat, then another. Then he nodded. “I’ll need to know who and where before I can get it done, General.”

  Gustafson told him.

  Before returning to Centurion training, Vince went to the library and pulled the Slavic/English dictionary one inch out from the other books.

  *

  A little before nine that night, carrying pen and paper, Vince returned to the Wolf Base library, took out a volume of Goethe and brought it to a corner table. He waited, leafing through the book to look busy and to keep his mind occupied. But he was tired — lifting three hundred-pound logs will do that to you — and he was puzzled. How was he going to handle this?

  The targets Gustafson had given him were supposedly treasonous former Brethren, who’d started their own white nationalist faction. Theoretically, the world would be better off without them. They were just more domestic terrorists waiting for their moment, waiting to figure out exactly who to massacre, and how.

  But he only had Gustafson’s word for that. There could be a hundred complications. They could have kids around them, for starters.

  There was an option outside the box. He could make his move now. He could kill Gustafson, Mac Colls, all the key inside people here. He could release Bobby Destry, get into the armory, find the explosives, destroy their base — and the other Brethren probably wouldn’t carry out the plan. They’d be leaderless…

  But then, killing Bin Laden hadn’t stopped Al Qaeda. And from what Vince inferred, Gustafson was modeling the Brethren on international terrorist groups. Which would mean he had many cells, spread around the country. They likely each had certain orders…

  He read a bit of the Goethe translation from Faust:

  “I see my discourse leaves you cold;

  Children, do not take offense;

  Remember that the Devil is old,

  Grow old yourselves, and he'll make sense!”

  Maybe I’m not quite old enough to understand the Devil, Vince thought ruefully. What was Gustafson really up to?

  The layout of streets, that rectangular building…

  “Mr. Bellator — can I join you?” It was Deirdre, carrying a book to the table, a shy expression on her face. Like a lonely librarian wanting polite male company.

  “Please,” he said, gesturing at the chair. He scribbled a quick note.

  “I saw you had the Goethe out — I thought we could discuss it,” she said, sitting down. “I’m trying to use it to improve my German…”

  He shoved the note at her: Any chance this room is bugged?

  She shook her head. She was librarian here, and a federal agent. She’d checked.

  He spindled the paper up and shredded it to tiny pieces as he murmured, “Couple things. First is, Gustafson showed me some street plans… Said it was a hypothetical for a battle. Wanted some tactical advice, how to get in, do the most damage, and exfiltrate. I said I’d need more information. He didn’t want to give it to me — though it was supposedly all just a thought experiment. I think it’s their target. And I’m pretty sure it’s the Lincoln Memorial.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh God.”

  “He said something about a big gathering planned there.”

  She glanced at the door. So far no one had come anywhere near the library. “Something’s coming up — the Black Caucus is planning some sort of pre-election presentation at the memorial. Lots of black senators, big shot endorsers. Public invited. And of course, the Brethren hate Abraham Lincoln…”

  “Yeah. You’d better get a warning out.”

  “Any more details?”

  “I did get the impression he was thinking about using troops. He wants to create something like a real army.”

  “That’s a big order, getting enough people there. But he probably has a lot of decoy activity planned. Simultaneous attacks in other places. I get hints of that from Wynn Foster. What was the second thing?”

  “I’m supposed to prove myself before he’ll trust me and give me the lowdown on their big plan. And he wants me to do it by killing some people. Claims they’re white nationalists — but they’re some kind of hated rivals, who’ve been spreading dirt about him. Run by a guy named Dex Stirner up in a place called Cracker Barrell, Georgia.”

  “Stirner! The leader of the Ragnarins?”

  “Yeah, he mentioned Ragnarins.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment and said, “And you’re supposed to kill him?”

  “Yes. I mean, if he’s what Gustafson claims, maybe—”

  “He isn’t! Not anymore. He’s one of ours. He’s… I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “You just did.”

  “Yeah.” She looked at him with a kind of bemused irritation. “I do not understand why I trust you so much. But I do.”

  “I stepped in when the asshole had you down.”

  “I’d have gotten out of that.”

  “You sure? He was a pretty big guy and he had the jump on you.”

  “Well — probably, anyhow. I meant to thank you for that.”

  “Not necessary. How come they picked a woman to worm into this outfit? I’m sure you know your job, but the Brethren are mostly male.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Because Gustafson’s pretty much an incel. Contempt for women. Uses them sometimes but he doesn’t take them seriously. He thinks they’re no threat.”

  “He should meet some of the Kurdish women soldiers in Iraq. They’d kick ass on him and his men, easy.”

  “I met them myself. The photo in the file wasn’t the first time I saw you. I was a heli pilot in Iraq.”

  “Which service?”

  “Air Force. I flew you and two other Delta Force into South Syria for a night mission.”

  “Insert outside Al-Bukamal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That was you! I knew the pilot was a woman, but under the goggles and helmet and comm gear…”

  She nodded. “You couldn’t see me but I saw you and the other two. You were with a black noncom and a white lieutenant.”

  “Yeah. Lonny Freeman and Chris Destry.” He thought about Chris’s hand buried under the cabin porch. “Chris was killed by cartel shitbirds in the Yucatan. He’s the reason I’m here. Bobby’s his brother.” She took this in, and he asked, “So from there you went to…” He lowered his voice a little more. “Defense Intel?”

  “Yeah, for two years. Finished my tour in a basement at the Pentagon. Listen.” Deirdre lowered her voice a little more so he had to lean closer to hear her. “Dex Stirner is a Bureau asset. We turned him. He’s giving us a lot of good information. You can’t kill him. Could be that Gustafson wants to kill Stirner because he found out he’s talking to the FBI about him.”

  “But I need Gustafson to trust me. Because just stopping one attack isn’t going to keep them from carrying out mass murder, Deirdre. If he trusts me… I can find out what the Bureau needs to know.”

  Male voices in the hallway. Marco and Wynn walked by, not even glancing in the library. Deirdre opened her book, pretending to pore over it. Vince frowned over his Goethe. He and Agent Corlin were silent till they were sure the men were gone.

  Then she said, “Stirner has been requesting a move to witness protection. He must know someone’s planning to kill him…”

  “There is one possibility,” Vince whispered, leaning a little closer. “But I’ll need some information…”

  *

  It was the night of Erntefest. Overhead, a waxing moon went from shine to dulled glow to shine again as clouds rushed past it. Vince was standing outside the compound, one of a row of men in paramilitary uniforms, each of them pointing a long silvery cop flashlight upward, shining beams of light at the sky in lieu of torches.

  But real torches, their flames guttering in the late October wind, we
re emerging from the gate of the compound. They were carried by twenty-one Brethren who’d come that morning from across the Southeast to take part in the ritual. The men, all in uniform, paraded out through the gate and moved to the other side of the access road, so they stood across from Vince’s row. A wooden dais was carried into place in the gate, whereupon the three Shield Maidens stepped up onto it. They wore Valkyrie-style costumes, with wings and Viking regalia. Backlit, they sang through wireless throat mics along to canned German music. The words were German. They looked quite solemn.

  Deirdre could have been an actress, Vince thought.

  A spotlight struck the flagpole as the American flag was drawn down, and another flag went up: the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging, a triskelion formed of three number sevens, black on a white circle; a wheel of sevens around a central point. It wasn’t a swastika but the triskelion had that gruesome panache.

  Nazi assholes, Vince thought. But the expression on his face was reverent.

  Gustafson took the dais next, reading in German from Nietzsche, then from Mein Kampf and from the lyrics to the Ring of the Nibelung. Vince had just enough German to work out the source material.

  It seemed to go on and on.

  Then Gustafson addressed them directly, his voice booming from the public address system. “Brethren! Shield Maidens! Heed me! Soon, the great movement will begin! The world will change — beginning with this nation! The way has been prepared! Our people are everywhere! It will only take a spark and spark will light a torch! Torch will light torch and the greatness of America will return! The White Man will rise once more to his rightful place! Power will arise from fire! And fire will bring us power! Do you heed me?”

  “We heed you!” the men roared in response.

  “Do you feel the fire in your bellies?”

  “Yes!”

  “Do you feel the power of the fire?

  “Yes!”

  “Will you take the torch when the call comes?”

  “We will!”

  “Now — we will feast! We will gather in the courtyard, where victuals are laid out for our late supper. Beer will flow like fellowship and fellowship like beer! Bring your torches, electrical and fiery, through the gate, and they will be collected. Let the feast begin!”