by Glenn Beck
Everyone seemed to understand the need for decision, and they took on the weight of it with courage. For his part, Hollis spoke a few private words with Molly, slung the shotgun over his shoulder, and then set off down the valley to meet whatever fate lay beyond it.
At the far edge of a thick brushwood the sapling timber thinned down toward a long grassy clearing, and he saw them, about a quarter of a mile away.
There were two massive pickup trucks, fully jacked up for all-terrain and both parked sideways to the tree line. A number of people were milling about, a pair of them wrangling three large black dogs by the leash. Four men stood in the long beds of the trucks with rifles in their hands.
These weren’t official vehicles, at least they weren’t marked as such, and the type of camouflaged clothing worn by those he could see suggested a civilian hunting party rather than an organized militia. Not that it mattered much what the look of them suggested; these days wolves in sheep’s clothing were everywhere. Regardless, he would carry on as planned and see what he would see.
With his courage fully gathered he walked out into the open at a casual pace, shotgun stowed at his back in an American carry, as though he might be just another fellow sportsman strolling on toward hearth and home.
They seemed to spot him immediately, and the quiet passage of the next few seconds was revealing.
If these men had orders to shoot on sight they would have done so by then, but they didn’t. They drew together somewhat, as if in wary conference, and then spread out and squared off to wait for him. Still at long distance, he raised a hand to acknowledge the contact. No one waved back. Some did adjust the readiness of their weapons slightly, though none had yet taken aim.
As Hollis nearly reached spitting distance a young man stepped up to the edge of the high truck bed where he stood and motioned for him to stop, which he did.
“Afternoon,” the young man said. While outwardly a simple word of greeting, it was nevertheless spoken in a way that suggested the serious hazard of making any sudden moves.
Hollis glanced upward briefly, and took a moment to gauge the present elevation of the sun.
“So it is,” he replied.
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Thom Hollis. And who might you be?”
The young man exchanged an even look with those on either side of him before answering. “If you were Thom Hollis, then I figure you should know who I might be.”
He’d thought he noticed something about this gathering as he walked up, and there had been time enough since to reinforce that first vague perception. He hadn’t imagined it; there was a family resemblance among them. Prominent in some, in others barely there, an old sturdy bloodline was clearly shared among these uncles, cousins, sons, and brothers.
This meant something, but far from everything. It was only reason enough to proceed as he’d been told. “If I was to happen upon a stranger out here,” Hollis said, “and if I judged him to be a man of merit, I was advised I should ask for Silas Deane.”
These words brought on an extended and thoughtful study of his face. Though probably only seconds in length, by the time it passed the wait had felt much longer.
“That’s a shame, friend,” the young man replied at last. “Old Silas, he’s gone on to greener pastures.”
As this other half of the pass-phrase was spoken in response, though Hollis realized he should have felt something, he didn’t. Having long since abandoned hope, he had no place in his mind to receive it. He knew what he’d heard, and he knew what it meant: rescue. But there was no rush of joy, nor any other such emotion; it seemed instead as though all the preceding sleepless, harrowing miles of toil and near starvation had caught up and come down upon his shoulders at once.
His vision went a little gray and sparkly at the edges; the horizon began to tilt and swing toward a drifting axis. He noted with a strange indifference that he was falling, but as his knees gave way strong arms on either side took on the weight he could no longer bear alone.
Chapter 7
The rotor blades were still spinning down as Warren Landers unbuckled his harness, removed and hung his headset on its hook, logged the time and coordinates, and then felt for the readiness of the submachine gun in its quick-release mount by his side.
As soon as the bird was officially shut down he stowed his charts and set himself up for a smooth restart later on. With that accomplished Landers sat back with his commuter mug of hot black coffee to take in the oncoming sunrise and await the arrival of the white-pride welcome wagon.
The Pierce compound had proved nearly impossible to find in the heart of this endless, rolling green sea of trees, mountains, and meadows. Even with the Terminator-vision of forward-looking infrared sensors he’d missed it in the predawn darkness and flown right past several times. The already minimal heat signature of the place seemed to be even further masked by cooling baffles, diffuser vents, buried outlet ducts, and other stealthy tricks usually employed only by first-class indoor marijuana farms.
Those precautions—in conjunction with the ingenious way the structure and its outbuildings were virtually buried in the surrounding forest—all made this remote hideout nearly invisible, even at close range. It certainly hadn’t shown up in the few lo-res satellite images that had been available on short notice. Whatever their other failings of intellect and character, it was quite a feat for a rogue band of civilians to manage to hide so well in this surveillance age.
Even after he found them he’d had no success in trying to announce his proximity by radio, much less to negotiate clearance to land. Apparently these mongrels were interested only in talking among themselves; they maintained some kind of primitive analog scrambler on their ham signals and repeaters, and Landers hadn’t brought along the specialized equipment required to crack such an old-school code.
Though they obviously valued their seclusion, once past any tense introductions he really didn’t expect much hostility. The chopper’s rear compartment had room for half a squad of hired soldiers and a mounted minigun if he’d ordered them, but the upcoming negotiation was one he’d elected to attend alone.
Not to imply that he was without protection—this Talion-owned MD600N was souped-up and loaded-out for twenty-first-century urban riot control. As such, the machine bristled with an arsenal of autonomous, hands-free antipersonnel weaponry as well as a raft of advanced targeting and spying gear. These made the helicopter, much like its veteran pilot, more than capable of both kicking ass and taking down names.
The control panel in front of him was dominated by a large multifunction touchscreen, which at the moment displayed a live picture of his surroundings in glowing 3-D wireframe. In its onscreen image the nearby multifloor log house was shown to contain the moving hot spots of more than fifty people clumped about in several locations. Many of them appeared to be armed and all had begun to converge toward the front of the place, apparently so they could observe their new arrival more clearly.
Since this was both a surprise visit and a first in-person encounter, it seemed wisest to let them come to him in their own time. When guys like these see a black helicopter land in their front yard, you need to give them a few minutes to calm down.
At length an exploratory party appeared from around the leeward side of the house. They came slowly, guns raised and ready as they advanced across the open ground. The aircraft recognized the danger and responded by initializing its active-denial electronics. A near-ultrasonic whine ascended behind him as the weapons charged and locked on, but Landers touched the onscreen button labeled HOLD, and only waited.
Despite some dark clouds that had begun to gather to the north, it was light enough by then to see the men clearly. As he sipped his coffee and followed their approach he was vaguely reminded of another scene, though it took a thoughtful moment to make the connection. It was an image from the opening minutes of 2001: A Space Odyssey, when those early hominids had crept forth from their filthy caves one prehistoric morning
to find an unexpected messenger. They gathered around it in wonder, awestruck, marveling at the dark obelisk that had arrived from somewhere beyond their understanding to nudge them toward an evolutionary rise.
He returned his mug to the cup-holder, reached into a side pouch of his satchel in the passenger seat, took a fistful from the many pounds of Krugerrands there, and then cracked open the door and tossed a small shower of gold coins out onto the nearby ground.
At first only one of the men outside broke ranks, and then another did, and another, until finally all but one of them had laid down their weapons and dropped to their knees to hunt for the shiny treasure he’d scattered in the rough-mown weeds.
The last armed man kept his discipline, and gave a specific, silent order with a motion from the muzzle of his gun. Landers eased the door open wide and smiled his most winning smile, his hands held high in mock surrender.
“Take me to your leader,” he said.
Chapter 8
Inside the labyrinthine house the dank atmosphere was heavy with hanging smoke and the pungent stink of mold and close living. The halls were a trifle narrow, the rooms haphazardly placed, the doorways cut a little too low; refined architecture is something you so rarely notice until it isn’t there.
He’d been thoroughly searched at three different stations, and Landers was still walking at gunpoint. Nevertheless, along the way he’d begun to sense that his escorts knew how to treat a superior being when they encountered one. They’d grown effusively polite as they directed his way through all the circuitous halls. Near the final flight of stairs one of them excused himself and ran on ahead, perhaps to alert the man in charge should he wish to groom himself before the arrival of a visiting dignitary.
After a final pat-down the guard detail left him on the shag-carpeted landing at the top of the steps.
Framed by the last open doorway, George Pierce was seated at the head of an austere conference table built up of sawhorses and wavy sheets of knotty plywood. A pair of shaved-headed, muscle-bound hooligans stood by, one on either side of his highness, each doing his level best to look as threatening as possible.
Pierce himself was a slighter wisp of a man than his notorious credentials might have suggested. Not that a bantamweight should lack authority simply because of his size, but in this one’s self-conscious comportment, even while seated, he seemed determined to puff himself up in a way that only emphasized his below-average stature.
The monogrammed satchel from the helicopter’s passenger seat was on the table at the far end, already fully ransacked, pockets splayed open and contents stacked to the side. Landers’s personal effects and identification had also been laid out for examination.
“That money is a greeting to you from my employer,” Landers said. “It’s about a half million in gold, and a few hundred thousand in laundered bills—”
“My men and I can count all right,” George Pierce replied. He paused to glance again at the details of the open passport before him. “Mr. Warren Francis Landers, is it?”
“That’s correct.”
“What you brought there has bought you five minutes.”
“Well, then. I suppose we’d best dispense with all pleasantries and get down to the brass tacks.” Landers pulled a chair around and took a seat at his end of the table, flicked out his silver reading glasses and put them on, and then as an afterthought looked over the top of the half frames with a question. “May we speak freely in front of your associates?”
Pierce hesitated a little longer than he should have, and then he nodded.
“Fine.” Landers caught the eye of one of the henchmen, pointed across the table to a pair of navy blue folders from his emptied bag, and said, “We’ll need those.”
When there was no immediate movement to comply, he snapped his fingers and made a sharp come-hither gesture with his hand, as though summoning a tardy waiter for a neglected refill. With only this minor test of dominance-response the man seemed to instantly set aside his former attitude. He sprang into service like Pavlov’s executive assistant, taking up the folders and placing one in front of each of the seated men.
“We’d like some cold water also,” Landers said, and the man gave an earnest nod and left to fetch the refreshments with barely a glance back toward Pierce for his leave. “Now,” Landers said as he opened his folder to its agenda page, “the first and most pressing order of business is this Ross woman—”
“Oh, I’m way out ahead of you on that score,” Pierce said. “Thirty men left here not an hour ago, hot on the scent. She’ll be dead and gone by sundown, and damn glad by then to be that way.”
“No, she will not be,” Landers said. “I want you to call back your men immediately. We’re going to let her go.”
“We?” Pierce laughed the word aloud and nearly triggered a fit of coughing in this blurt of his amusement. “Who is this ‘we’ you’re talking about now? We? From where I sit, as of now I’ve got the better part of a million dollars and a brand-new helly-copter on my hands”—he checked his watch—“and you’ve got about four minutes left to breathe.”
“You need to call back your men, immediately.”
“Screw the four minutes.” Pierce looked up at the remaining man beside him. “Do me a favor and put a hollow-point through the empty skull of this highfalutin son of a bitch.”
The guard slipped his revolver from its holster and drew down and pulled back the hammer with his thumb, one slick motion and a steady, practiced ease with the prospect of killing an unarmed man.
Landers held up an index finger, as though to offer a polite suggestion for a wayward employee. “May I have a few last words, then?” he asked.
“This I’ve gotta hear.”
He closed the folder, removed his glasses, and calmly began.
“We’re already silent partners, Mr. Pierce, though you haven’t realized it. Aside from one notable failure last year—again involving the troublesome Molly Ross—you’ve done good work for us in the past. The source of the funding and the guidance you’ve received remained in the shadows, but we’re on the cusp of a great opportunity now, and the time is right to formalize our arrangement. You’re free to decline, of course; at the moment it seems you’re determined to do so. It’s only fair that I tell you what it means if you do.
“Until this morning we didn’t know precisely where to find you, nor had there been a particular need to do so. You enjoyed the safety of a hidden asset, but that’s no longer to be the case. Since I landed, the sensors in that helicopter out there have been collecting, and recording, and relaying a torrent of information, all about you. It’s listening to us right now. By now this headquarters of yours is pinpointed and mapped to the millimeter, and every man here has been identified and profiled with enough data to track him down wherever he might try to run. I’m sure you see how these new facts might weigh on your decision.
“Because I am at this moment overdue to check in with my employers,” Landers continued, “about twenty minutes ago a small squadron of armed Predator drones and an A-10 Thunderbolt took off from the same private air base from which I departed earlier this morning. If you’re not familiar with the primary weapon of the A-10, let me describe it for you. It’s a Gatling gun that would span this room, loaded with depleted-uranium-tipped high-explosive shells the size of a Coke bottle, and it fires those at a rate of almost four thousand rounds per minute. The only way to improve on this gun as a killing machine, its designers once said, would be to make it fly. That’s the A-10, and right now it’s coming for you.
“Understand, this is not a rescue mission. Once they’re convinced by my continued silence that I’ve failed to usher you into our service, they’ll simply erase us all, myself included, and their plans will then proceed without pause, and without you and me. And one last thing you should know, if it’s crossed your mind to try to coerce me into calling them off. It won’t work, though you’re free to waste our final minutes in the attempt.”
He leane
d forward to rest his elbows on the table. “You see,” Landers said, “if I have to die, this is exactly how I want to do it. Looking into the eyes of a man who’s about to see the wrath of hell rain down on him, and everything he’s built be destroyed, all because he didn’t have the good common sense to choose prosperity instead.”
George Pierce sat quite speechless, and one got the distinct impression this was a state with which he was rather unaccustomed.
Landers had first seen this look in a man’s eyes in the mid-1970s when he was only a fresh recruit. The circumstances of these standard introductory meetings differed, but this look never changed. It was dread mostly, gradually dawning, with the slightest whiff of desperate hope to color in the edges. To stare one’s destiny in the face is a difficult thing—to reach that decision point when a tinhorn tyrant must choose between his own shortsighted ambitions and the many benefits of taking on a smaller role in the bigger picture.
His diplomatic efforts had always been confined to domestic players: party leaders, entrenched career politicians, union officials, rising icons of various social movements, media moguls, pundits and thought leaders, judges and legislators, masters of finance and industry, so-called community organizers of all shapes and sizes, even religious figures if they’d shown the proper appetites for corruption and control.
While Landers worked exclusively within North America, his colleagues had sat across similar tables all around the globe. They’d watched this same moment of truth dawn upon a hundred self-styled luminaries: Hussein, Qaddafi, Chávez, Kim, Duvalier, Mugabe, Karimov, Amin, Shwe, al-Bashir, al-Assad, Mubarak, Thein Sein, Afewerki, Biya, Zenawi, Ahmadinejad, Castro, Assad, Déby, Obiang, Museveni, Lukashenko—as the wheels of progress turned year by year the puppet list grew longer.
