The Liberty Covenant

by Jack Bowie

  Holly’s friends stood mute, looking back and forth at each other, trying to understand what had just happened. After a minute, O’Grady spoke up. “Hey, we’re all real sorry for Annie, Macon. But you’re right. She’ll be better off this way. And I’ll feel a helluva lot safer. I never did trust ol’ Cal at my back.”

  His colleagues shook their heads in agreement.

  “This does leave a hole in the squad,” Holly continued. “Tommy, I want you to take over security. We need a real hard ass to keep things in line. And you sure as hell fit that bill.”

  “Shit, Macon. Thanks. I’ll get right on it.” Wicks seemed genuinely pleased. This could turn out better than Holly expected.

  “Give you a chance to get closer to Gary, too,” Holly added. And whatever he gives you’ll serve you right.

  “Hey, Ricky,” Holly called to the back, “pour us all another round. We’ll drop one for Cal, the lousy sonovabitch.”

  They went through two more rounds sharing stories of the Gathering. Holly kept hoping they would all leave soon. He still had to figure out how to tell Annie about Napes.

  “What’s with the two guys in back, Ricky?” O’Grady asked, nodding his head at a table in the far corner. The two men seated there were the only others in the place.

  “Came in about an hour ago, all dressed up like that. Been nursing two lousy beers ever since. I don’t like ‘em.”

  “Sitting a little too close for my good,” said Wicks.

  “Maybe we oughta have some fun,” O’Grady added. “What ‘ya say?”

  “Do whatever you want,” Holly replied as he downed the remainder of his beer. “Just don’t do it in here. Ricky and I ain’t gonna fix up your messes.”

  “Whatever you say, Macon,” Wicks said. “You’re the boss, right?”

  Right, Tommy. I’m the boss. And don’t you ever forget it.

  Chapter 25

  Tyler, Georgia

  Sunday, 11:00 p.m.

  The call from Gary had come at nine thirty that evening. Holly was still exhausted from the training, and slightly hung over from their celebration at Ricky’s, but he was sober enough to know not to argue with his benefactor. He had had barely enough time to call his team, get out to the farm, and gather the equipment before it was time to leave. There were only four of them now—Holly, Wicks, O’Grady, and Dalton—so they all piled into O’Grady’s van and waited for their orders.

  “What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Wicks began. “I can barely see much less run an op. I was all ready to get it on with Lou Ann.”

  “Then stick your damn head out the window and take a deep breath, Tommy,” Holly spit back. “‘Cause it’s goin’ down with or without you.”

  “What’s goin’ down, Macon? Where are we going?” O’Grady asked.

  “Up to the county courthouse,” Holly replied. “We’re gonna simplify a lot of folk’s lives. Everything in the back, Ricky?”

  “Just like you wanted, Macon. But what do we do when we get there?”

  “We play it the same as the assault exercise. That was our rehearsal.”

  The Gathering’s night exercise had been a mock search and destroy mission on an “enemy position,” which in that case was an aged barn in the back of the farm. Holly had thought at the time that the exercise had gone pretty well. He had serious questions whether they could repeat the performance tonight.

  “Shit, Macon. We had Alexander leading us then,” Dalton said.

  “Well now you got me,” Holly replied. “Christ, it was only yesterday. Quick in, quick out. Y’all just watch out for civilians. We can’t afford another screw-up like the Guardian.”

  “Yeah, well we ain’t got the asshole with us tonight either,” O’Grady added.

  The loss of Napes apparently hadn’t had a big effect on his confederates.

  Holly checked his watch. 11:10. Time to go.

  “Let’s get going, Sean.”

  * * *

  The Middleton County Courthouse was an antebellum mansion whose history dated back to before the Civil War. Built by General Redford Travers, its centerpiece was four huge sculptured columns that graced the front entrance, inviting lucky guests into what was once the center of culture and hospitality for most of southeastern Georgia. The property had stayed in the Travers family until 1929 when the Great Crash had finally brought the dynasty to an end. The estate had bounced from bank to bank until 1940 when the county’s previous courthouse had been hit by lightning and burned to the ground. The County Commissioners decided the Travers Mansion would make a wonderful replacement and had taken the property by eminent domain. They had sold most of the surrounding land for a tidy profit, and renovated the home into a functional, if overly ostentatious, municipal building.

  They arrived at 11:50 and O’Grady pulled the van into a dark corner of the parking lot adjacent to the Courthouse.

  “Any guards around?” Dalton asked.

  “No guards,” Holly replied. “Gary said there could be a janitor cleaning up. If he’s there, Tommy and Sean, you take care of him. Nothin’ more than necessary. Just get him out of the way.”

  “Got it, Macon,” Sean replied. “Come on, Tommy. Try to hold your lunch a little while longer.”

  “Screw you,” Wicks muttered while running across the front lawn after his partner.

  Holly watched as they disappeared behind the shadows of the pillars.

  “You okay, Ricky?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah. Feeling lots better, Macon. Maybe those pills Doc gave me really do work.”

  “That would be great, Ricky. I wouldn’t have called you except . . .”

  “I know Macon. We’re short-handed as it is. I can pull my weight.”

  “Hope so, Ricky. Let’s get this shit out of the van.”

  They unloaded eight canisters and laid them out carefully by the side of the vehicle.

  “You take the left side,” Macon waved at the near end of the mansion. “I’ll handle the right. Set ‘em for ten minutes from now.”

  “Right, Macon. You got it.”

  Each man grabbed two canisters and headed into the darkness.

  When Holly returned to the van five minutes later, Dalton’s second pair of canisters was gone. He looked around quickly for his friend but saw nothing but the black shadow of the courthouse.

  No point in waiting. He disappeared with his last load.

  Twenty yards from the van Holly heard a sound behind him. He slid to the ground, rolled the canisters away from his body, and grabbed his Colt. Slowly spinning on his stomach he scanned the area. Nothing.

  Then it came again. From the direction of their van. In the dim moonlight he saw a figure hunch over and grab the side of the vehicle. It was Dalton having another coughing spell. Shit! Maybe it had been a mistake to bring him along. They were running out of time.

  He glanced at his watch, 11:56. Only four minutes left!

  He gathered up the canisters from the lawn and took off for the back of the property.

  * * *

  “Where’s Macon?” Wicks called as he and O’Grady ran up the van.

  “Don’t know,” Dalton replied. “We took off together. I got back a couple minutes ago and his canisters were gone. He was doin’ the far end.”

  “Shit. What if he doesn’t get back? He’ll get us all caught.”

  “I’ll go look for him,” Dalton said, turning toward the mansion. “We can’t leave him.”

  O’Grady grabbed at his colleague. “Nobody’s leavin’ now, Ricky. And nobody’s getting’ caught. Macon’ll be back just fine. Now, get your asses in the van. When Macon comes, we gotta get outta here fast.”

  “But what if he . . .”

  “In the van, Ricky,” O’Grady yelled. “Now!”

  They piled in the vehicle and waited anxiously, scanning the property for any sign of their leader.

  “What’s that on the front of the house?” Dalton asked.

  “What ya mean, Ricky?” Wicks asked.


  “You know damn well what I mean, Tommy. There’s somethin’ on one of them pillars. What is it?”

  Wicks and O’Grady swapped glances. Finally O’Grady spoke. “There was this old black guy cleaning the floors. We were gonna just tie him up and throw him on the lawn. For sure. Then he goes and calls me a friggin’ Irish drunk! Said we were nothing but goddamn Nazis. What the hell does that asshole know about patriotism? My family was fightin’ for freedom when he was runnin’ around naked in Africa. I tied him to the goddamn pillar. Let him see for himself what we’re fighting for.”

  “Jesus, Sean. I thought you weren’t gonna . . .”

  An explosion rocked the van and all eyes leaped to the Mansion. The canister charges had two purposes: first, a shaped high explosive breached the integrity of the structure, then a second blasted napalm into the exposed voids. The incendiary flashed white, instantly turning the building into a pyre. While the explosive’s report still echoed in the cool night, the mansion was engulfed in flames.

  “We gotta get out of here, Sean,” Wicks cried. “They’ll be coming soon.”

  “We ain’t leavin’ without Macon,” O’Grady commanded.

  Suddenly the rear doors of the van flew open and Holly jumped in the back. “Get us out of here, Sean,” Macon ordered between gasps.

  The van spit gravel and dirt as it escaped toward the highway.

  “What happened, Macon?” Dalton asked once they had gotten underway. “We were startin’ to worry.”

  “I knew I wasn’t gonna be able to get back before the explosives blew. I was afraid to head straight across the lawn so I circled back behind. Good thing too. Shit that fire was hot! Anybody inside?”

  O’Grady gave a dark stare in Dalton’s direction. “Just the janitor. The old guy was clear when we left him. Feisty old fart though. Kept screaming about his courthouse.”

  Holly turned and looked back at the old courthouse through the rear windows. There was nothing more to say. Nothing that could be undone. The records of two hundred years of human sweat, tears, and pain were reduced to ashes in a matter of minutes.

  “What the hell good was this anyway, Macon?” Wicks asked as they pulled onto State 805. “The Feds have got copies of all this stuff don’t they?”

  “Sure they do. Somewhere. But this’ll set ‘em back years. Time for some folks to get on with their lives and back on their feet. And remember it ain’t just this courthouse. We’re sendin’ a message to all those damn cowards. Ain’t nobody gonna take away our rights without a fight.”

  As the van headed back toward Tyler, the glow of the Travers Mansion disappeared like a setting sun below the horizon. It reminded Holly of the scene from Gone with the Wind. The flames, the smoke, the terror. Only this time he was the invader. Would the others really understand?

  * * *

  Gary leaned back in his chair and reviewed the message. All of his cells had reported in. There had been a small glitch in Oregon. He should have realized it was too early on the West Coast, but the body would never be found and the militiaman’s family would be well compensated. Synchronicity was critical to the desired effect.

  He hit “Send” and the encrypted message flashed into the ether. He didn’t know the actual location of the Commander. Only that the address he had been given would be mapped to another, and then to another. Finally arriving at its proper location.

  The plan was going well. If they only knew what was coming.

  Operation BRAVO completed. All units report success.

  CHARLIE preparations progressing.

  Mold successful. HALFTIME on schedule.

  Chapter 26

  National Counterterrorism Center, McLean, Virginia

  Monday, 1:00 p.m.

  “Gentlemen. And lady.” Garcia gave a condescending nod in Flynn’s direction which the Special Assistant completely ignored. The advisory group meeting had started with Carlson requesting an analysis of militia activity from the Homeland Security representative.

  “As you are aware, DHS has had a focused intelligence program on the para-military movement since 2003. It has grown significantly over this period, our best estimates now recognizing almost eighty thousand members associated with greater than four hundred so-called ‘militia’ organizations.” He pressed a button on the laser pointer, and a map of the United States appeared on the display at the front of the conference room. It was blotched with small red circles, prominent areas showing in the Northwest and Southeast. “As you can see, geographically we have the heaviest concentrations in Montana and Idaho, but over forty States have identified militia cells. We continue to treat the movement as a serious threat to national security.”

  Slattery sat back in his chair behind Markovsky watching the spectacle proceed. Why Garcia was giving the briefing he would never know. The FBI and Homeland had been feuding ever since the younger organization had been formed in 2002, but everyone knew Flynn was the more knowledgeable, and rational, representative at the table. Carlson may have picked Garcia just to piss her off. For her part, the Special Assistant seemed unfazed, silently scribbling on a pad of paper while her colleague presented his report.

  “Until now, however, criminal activity on the part of the movement has been local and relatively minor.”

  “Excuse me, Jerry,” Scott interrupted, “but I would hardly call Oklahoma minor.”

  “Certainly, David. I did not mean to diminish the tragedy in Oklahoma City, but that has never been shown to be associated with direct militia influence. It was simply the unconscionable act of a small number of individuals. Likewise, while they attracted much media attention, the incidents in Waco and Idaho were also localized. They have not, up to now, had significant impact on the overall security of the nation.

  “This moderate result is primarily due to the lack of organization within the movement. Most cells operate completely independently, having little or no contact with members from other locations. Even where some larger structure is present, such as the Montana Militia, common activities are more ideological than operational. The primary use of Montana’s Web page is for recruitment and spreading of propaganda.”

  “I presume this evaluation is based on something more than cursory Web surfing?” Stroller asked.

  “Of course,” Garcia replied. “We have been monitoring their overall Internet traffic and our analysis confirms this evaluation. But you bring up an important point. You must understand that we have only limited resources available to track this activity. To use an analogy, we are sampling the movement rather than studying it directly.

  “The results of the past few weeks, however, represent a significant escalation of activity. Seven days ago militia incidents were reported in Georgia, Tennessee, and Kansas.” The map behind Garcia cleared and three spots appeared. “Analysis by the FBI, supported by intelligence from Peter, suggested this was a coordinated effort by unknown parties. We have dispatched National Response Teams to the three sites, but subsequent investigations have not clarified the source of this threat.

  “Last night, another set of incidents occurred. Six attacks, all at midnight, on county courthouses from Oregon to Maine. The buildings were bombed and burned, destroying all of their documents: land deeds, court proceedings, and criminal records.” Six new circles appeared on the maps.

  “Copies of these documents must exist somewhere,” said Stroller.

  “Of course. Most of the data is stored in any number of electronic databases from law enforcement organizations to banks. But all of this will take time to reconstruct. This was not a debilitating strike, but yet another warning. This is a war, gentlemen. Someone is escalating a confrontation with the government. The question is, what will be our response?”

  “Thank you, Jerome,” Carlson replied from the end of the table. “While I do not agree with your use of the word ‘war’, I believe we now have sufficient evidence that someone is testing our resolve and reaction capability. That is why I asked Jerome and his team at Homeland to
prepare this overview. It is clear to me that some individual, or group of individuals, is using the local militia movement as a front for their own agenda.”

  “You’re saying the problem isn’t with the militia?” Stroller asked.

  “Exactly, Claude. We must avoid a confrontation with an ill-defined, diffuse movement, and focus on the specific threat.”

  Slattery couldn’t help but smile at Carlson’s skills in political bullshit. He couldn’t ignore the threat but was doing his best to deflect the advisory group’s focus away from his paramilitary buddies and toward some shadowy conspiracy. It would have been comic except for the fact that the IMAGER intelligence backed him up.

  “Peter,” Carlson continued, “is there any new data from your informant that would help us locate the source of this coordination?”

  “We are continuing to try to make contact, General,” Markovsky replied. “We are hopeful that the agent will have additional information, but there is always the possibility that . . .”

  “I take that as a no, Peter,” Carlson snapped. “Mary Ellen, could you give us some details on the attacks? I presume the FBI has started its investigations?"

  Slattery glanced over at Flynn and caught her showing an unusual smile. She tore the top sheet of paper from her pad, folded it carefully, and placed it in the pocket of her jacket.

  “Mary Ellen?” Carlson, repeated.

  “Yes, General.” Flynn rose to face the group. “As Jerry described, the six sites were spread throughout the country. All of our teams have not reported, but from the five for which we have preliminary reports, we can draw some very strong conclusions.

  “All the attacks occurred at exactly midnight, Eastern daylight time. This is the same as the time of the first set of attacks. There have been five casualties reported; four maintenance staff and one terrorist. It appears that attempts were made to clear any occupants from the courthouses, but these staff were killed none-the-less. We cannot tell at this time if their deaths were intentional, the result of poor execution, or due to overly aggressive attempts at self-defense.