Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (34 page)

The rotating blades shook the two men as the Bell helicopter cruised through the dark night at about 300 feet. Bob O’Brien sat in the back with earphones on, his Blackberry in his lap. He could track Sam’s movement via the tracer he had placed in the cell phone. Sam had not left the farm yet.

Lieutenant Patrick, the Pennsylvania state police contact for this operation, sat next to him looking at a map.

O’Brien depressed the talk button on his mic. “Oliver’s tricky. He’s a retired Marine so he knows convoys … plus escape and evasion.”

Patrick’s voice echoed into O’Brien’s earphones. “You’re looking at another Marine. This turkey gives all of us a bad name.”

O’Brien chuckled. “Roger that.”

“I’ve got six cars for this operation, two troopers each and then one of your agents in each car for coordination,” Patrick continued. “We’ll track the convoy with a floating square, cars following on parallel roads. We’ll keep one unmarked car a couple of miles ahead of the convoy as much as possible.”

O’Brien nodded. He had placed Agent Monar in one vehicle and Agent Stoner in the other.

“Roger,” Patrick said. “One of the patrol cars will be escorting the two swat team vehicles. We’ve got a member of the state police swat team with the FBI team and a member of the FBI team with the state police team. That should help coordination. There is a platoon of the Pennsylvania National Guard in reserve, with automatic weapons, if needed.”

O’Brien made a note on his Blackberry. “I’m going to have the Nuclear Emergency Support Team follow the guard for help with the nuclear stuff. We need them close, but not so close they’re in the way with the possibility of someone getting hurt.”

“Agreed,” Patrick replied. “The platoon’s parent company is on call. Communication with the guard is a pain in the butt … if things get hot and we need to move fast.”

O’Brien knew the different frequencies could cause a problem. “Why can’t all of us be on the same band?”

“Too easy,” Patrick replied.

O’Brien was a worrier. He had been through enough of these operations to know that something always went wrong. This one was made more difficult with participants from different units and echelons of government. “Oliver will stop at nothing to get the job done.”

“Any idea where they’re headed?”

“Here’s a list of possible sites. I doubt they’ll travel more than fifty miles from his base.” O’Brien switched his mic to internal only. “We believe the target’s a nuclear storage site.”

“I figured that when you mentioned the Nuclear Emergency Support Team.”

“Yeah. Oliver doesn’t have enough firepower to go after TMI. My money’s on a university or a hospital. Both of these worry me because of innocent civilians standing around.” O’Brien had to prevent collateral damage at all costs.

Patrick checked his map. “If it’s a university, we’ll have to isolate the students. If it’s a hospital, will we have time to get patients and staff to safety?”

“Good points.” O’Brien had briefed General Gerber on the operation. The general told O’Brien to give him updates every half hour; then he would keep the White House Situation Room up to speed.

O’Brien’s earphones cracked. “Harper at base. Over.”

He switched to external frequency. “O’Brien.” “Couple of things. The U.S. Border Patrol got a picture of Marcel Dubois crossing the border yesterday. I suspect we’ll see him before this is over.”

“Who’s Dubois?” Patrick asked.

“He’s a leader in the French Separatist Movement and apparently an old friend of Oliver’s,” O’Brien replied. “I’m not sure how he fits into all this yet. The Canadian government has been keeping an eye on him for years.”

“Harper again. You’re not going to like this.”

“What?” O’Brien swallowed hard.

“The guy Popeye, real name Peter Schmidt, is active with the Pennsylvania skinheads.”

“How the fuck does he get a security clearance?”

“Good question,” Harper replied. “Anyway, Popeye happened to be out in Minneapolis when the FBI hit that skinhead group.”

“So?”

“Alex led that operation.”

O’Brien felt the air suck out of his lungs. “Say that again.”

“The guy named Popeye was out in Minneapolis during that raid. He may have seen Alex.”

“Oh, shit.” O’Brien took a deep breath. “Sam told me that Popeye seemed to recognize Alex. She looks so different now. Let’s hope he doesn’t put it together.”

It was just another curveball to worry about.

Q
uentin Oliver’s eyes bore into Popeye’s face. He heard Marcel take in a deep breath. “Say that again.”

Popeye shrank back and looked at the floor, obviously fearful of what Oliver might do to him. “I can’t be absolutely sure. That short, spiked hair and all the jewelry—different, you know, from the woman with the long blonde hair who led the raid in Minneapolis. She was dressed in a black suit and trench coat.”

Oliver leaned against the wall of his study. He had been so careful. If Alex Prescott was a federal agent, then Thorpe was probably undercover also. “Do we have time to send the picture to the group in Minneapolis?”

Popeye shook his head. “They’re all still in jail. The feds have brought them up on charges of assault and murder.”

“Those skinheads are a bunch of assholes,” Oliver cursed. “They deserved to be thrown in jail. Radical bastards.” He felt himself losing control. He turned to Marcel. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s too late to change course, my friend.” Marcel put his hand on Oliver’s arm. “You must move ahead with your plan. The country is depending on you. We are depending on you.”

Oliver felt a calm descending over him. “You’re right. We are marching toward our destiny. No one can stop us. At the end of the night, Ms. Prescott and Colonel Thorpe will meet with an accident anyway. Sooner, if they give us problems.”

“What do you want me to do?” Marcel asked.

“I’ll give you a map. Stay back in case there are problems. It wouldn’t do for both of us to get caught. We are too valuable to the cause.”

“Agreed.” Marcel shook hands with Oliver. “Good luck, my friend. We will break out the champagne tonight.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll leave with the prize in the morning.”

Specialist Benson had outdone himself by preparing a meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with plenty of thick gravy, and homemade muffins. Sergeant Bacher stood at one door to the eating area and Specialist Rose at the other, M16 rifles slung loosely over their shoulders, demonstrating the stakes of this operation.

None of the men spoke as they ate. Marshall, sitting next to Sam, just pushed the food around on his plate. Sam ate little, his stomach doing flip-flops as the tension built inside him. He needed to prevent the success of this operation without loss of life.

Sergeant Bacher had been selected by Oliver to drive Sam’s vehicle. This would give Sam a chance to pump him for information.

Sam looked at his watch. “All right. Let’s get moving. Everyone out to the trucks.”

After checking to make sure the four men in the back of the truck had all their equipment, Sam climbed into the front seat of the gray Ford F-150.

Bacher started the engine. “Don’t forget to fasten your seatbelt.” He chuckled. “Safety first.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” Sam asked.

Bacher shook his head.

“What if we get separated?”

He tapped his shirt pocket with his finger. “I’ve been authorized to open this envelope if that happens.”

Bacher picked his way down the farm lane, following Oliver’s Jeep. The truck jostled Sam as it hit ruts. As they turned left, the paved road didn’t appear to be slippery although snow had accumulated along the shoulders.

“When did you join the Patriots?” Sam asked.

“When I got out of the Army about eight months ago.”

“How long were you in?”

“Six years.”

“A couple of enlistments, headed toward being a lifer.”

Bacher laughed. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to watch World War II films with my old man. The German soldiers were so disciplined. Followed orders … got things done. Ever since then, I’ve wanted to be a soldier. Joining the U.S. Army was the closest I could get.”

They reached the next intersection. Bacher turned north to follow Oliver onto Route 235. When Route 235 intersected with Route 35 at the little town of McAlisterville, they turned right.

Bacher shifted into third gear. “The General wants us to maintain at least a fifty-yard interval between vehicles to avoid suspicion.”

Sam measured the distance with his eye. “You’re looking good.” He checked his compass. They were headed northeast. He felt his cell phone to make sure he’d turned it on.

Bacher glanced over at him. “Expecting a call, Colonel?”

Sam laughed. “Nah, guess it’s just habit.”

Bacher leaned back in the driver’s seat. “This road is a real pain in the butt, Colonel. It’s twenty-five miles of one little town after another with a bunch of farms in between. You’ve got fucking tractors pulling out in front of you all the time.”

Sam looked out at the darkness. “That shouldn’t be a problem now.”

“True, but we’ve got to watch for Amish buggies. Did you read about that scum-bag who tried to kidnap, then killed some of those Amish girls at that school last year?”

Sam nodded. “Didn’t he commit suicide?”

“Yeah. They ought to hang a bastard like that up by his balls. Make an example out of him.”

Sam looked out at the glare through the windshield as a truck passed them. Bacher was an interesting guy. Here he was so upset about the death of the Amish girls, yet he was helping that nut Oliver steal nuclear material to build dirty bombs.

Bacher pulled a stick of gum out of his pocket and unwrapped it. “I served a tour in Afghanistan with the Special Forces.”

“Understand things were pretty tough over there,” Sam said.

“No shit. I wanted to get in the mainstream, so I volunteered for Iraq.”

“You were in Iraq? What unit?”

“If ya ain’t Cav, ya ain’t shit.”

Sam smiled. “I had a Cav squadron attached to my brigade.”

“I know, Colonel, I was in that squadron.”

“You were?”

Bacher nodded. “You had a good rep with the guys. Said you were a straight shooter. Tough but fair.”

“Sounds like you were on the fast track. What made you get out?”

“Bastards came after me because of my tattoos.”

Sam remembered that certain tattoos were a problem in a couple of his battalions.

“Now with all that shit in Iraq, no one wants to serve. All the blowhards sit back and let guys die. Recruiters are under pressure to let anyone in, and they do. I had a cell of neo-Nazi guys in my unit. Goddamn officers looked the other way. We were good soldiers. Did our job. But could I get promoted? Fuck no.”

“You’re a bright guy, Bacher. You know the Army can’t keep radical guys in the ranks. Destroys morale, and who knows what’ll happen in a pinch?”

“Bullshit. Ah … bullshit, sir.’

Sam didn’t say anything. This conversation was going nowhere.

“The ranks are full of creeps. Recruiters let them in. Stacks of them, and no one gives a shit. But let me have a damn tattoo of an iron cross, then that’s the end for me. The general made me realize that I had a future with him … could do the stuff I always wanted.”

There was nothing Sam could say to make Bacher change his mind. He looked out the window, wondering where O’Brien was. The tech guys would triangulate the signal from the tracker in his cell phone to verify their location.

Sam thought about Emily, then all the other daughters who were doing their homework, practicing cheerleading, helping their parents with chores. If Oliver had his way, some of these daughters and sons, too, would have their lives snuffed out. And for some wild-ass cause. He reached up and wiped sweat from his brow.

Sam tested his radio with General Oliver. “Patriot Six, this is Patriot One. Commo check, over.”

Oliver’s voice crackled across the radio. “This is Patriot Six. Received your transmission five-by. Out.”

Sam had a VRC-47 radio so he’d be able to monitor the command net and maintain communications with the militia members in the back of his truck. Oliver stressed they should maintain strict radio discipline.

“You seem like a good shit, Colonel. That’s why I didn’t like what the general did to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, the night you got ambushed in the woods.”

Sam jerked his head to look at Bacher.

“Yeah, that was a test.”

Sam couldn’t believe it. “A test?”

“Rose is a weird bastard, a real psycho. He’s an ex-Navy Seal. Used to serve under Oliver before the kid got boarded out. Oliver challenged us to see if we could sneak up on you. Rose was supposed to track you and see how close he could get without you knowing it. Benson and I were to lay back. But Rose gets carried away in the hunt, and you know the rest.”

“I figured it out when I saw Benson’s face the other day. And Rose wouldn’t look at me.”

Sam looked over at Bacher.

He nodded. “Guilty. But you damn near beat all of us. If I hadn’t, ah …”