Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (27 page)

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

Marcel stepped back and began to unbutton his shirt.
Such a delectable morsel,
he thought,
a shame to waste it.
When he tired of her, he’d have to take care of her like all the others. She now knew too much.

S
am stood at the podium in the front of the conference room. “General Oliver will be here in a few minutes.”

The men straightened in their chairs. They looked sharp in their black uniforms, boots shined. Many had even trimmed their beards and gotten haircuts.

“I’ve given him my assessment of your training status. Most of you did well on the rifle range. Your experience with weapons shows.”

They poked one another. Several smiled.

“Commo procedures, now there’s another story.”

Twenty pairs of eyes stared at him, smiles dying on their faces.

“Depending on our mission assignment, we’ll need to focus …” Sam didn’t get a chance to finish before the door opened. Sergeant Bacher stepped inside, then slipped back against the wall at attention. General Oliver swept into the room.

Popeye jumped up and yelled, “Attention,” as if he had hemorrhoids and had to get his butt off the chair.

All the men stood, some faster than others.

Buster banged his head on a light fixture hanging over the table. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam stifled a snicker.

Oliver stalked to the head of the table, turned, and looked over the group. “You may be seated.”

Chairs scraped as the men took their seats.

“It’s time to move to the next level.” Oliver extended his hand toward Sam. “Thank you for your efforts in training the men, Colonel Thorpe. Now we must initiate practice on an actual target.”

Sergeant Bacher turned and walked over to the general’s office. He returned carrying a model of several buildings and set it on the conference table. The men leaned forward in their chairs, as did Sam.

“This, gentlemen, is our target.” General Oliver allowed time for that to sink in. “I will not tell you exactly where it is located, but rest assured that once we accomplish our mission, we will have the capability to deliver a severe blow to our corrupt government.”

Sam stared at the mockup. Three two-story buildings were placed along a street, then three more buildings across what looked like a mall. At one end of the street stood four one-story buildings in a cluster.

Oliver nodded to Sergeant Bacher, who opened the door to his study. Professor Kaminsky waddled into the room, puffing on his ever-present cigarette.

“Gentlemen, this is Professor Sean Kaminsky. He despises our government as much as each of us does and is here to help us achieve our destiny.”

The professor pulled out a handkerchief, mopped sweat from his forehead, then nodded at the men.

General Oliver sat in a chair drawn up by Sergeant Bacher. “Professor, the floor is yours.” He pulled off his helmet liner and placed it under his arm. The overhead light reflected off his bald head.

Sam wondered about Sergeant Bacher’s story. Oliver and Bacher must have met sometime during the general’s career. He handled himself well. Sam moved closer to hear Kaminsky’s presentation.

“Gentlemen.” Kaminsky pointed at the building in the center of the three on the right. “This is the target building. Its exact location must remain anonymous for now. We’ve made sufficient changes so that no one will know the exact site until D-Day, but the dimensions are close enough for practice.” He pointed at a building next to the target. “This is the administrative building where the security personnel stay when they are not walking their routes.”

Professor Kaminsky let that sink in for a moment. When the men looked back up at him, he continued. “Our goal will be to obtain enough cesium-137 from the target building to make a package of seven dirty bombs.”

The men looked at Kaminsky. Some seemed to have fear in their eyes.

“You may not be familiar with the components of a dirty bomb.” He reached down and lifted a small chart board onto the table. “What you see here is a drawing of a bomb.”

One man drew his breath in sharply.

Sam studied each of the men, trying to determine whom he might be able to turn to help him. He had a couple of ideas. Maybe it was finally sinking in that Kaminsky and Oliver were planning to maim or kill large groups of their fellow citizens.

Kaminsky pointed at the chart. “For those of you who are familiar with a bomb, you’ll notice that much of the inside is the same as any other bomb—explosive material, triggering device, and timer. But after we complete our operation, we’ll be able to add enough cesium—137 to magnify the effect of this bomb.”

The men exchanged glances with one another.

“And,” continued the professor, “just think of the fear factor we’ll instill with the idea of nuclear radiation floating in the skies over Philadelphia or one of the other major cities on the East Coast.”

Sam took several deep breaths.

“Questions?” Kaminsky opened his hands to signify his congregation should come forward with their concerns.

Buster leaned forward. “How the fuck do we prevent ourselves from getting contaminated?”

Sam stood. “When you ask a question, stand and give the professor your name.”

“Thank you, Colonel Thorpe,” the professor said. “That would be very helpful.”

Sam smiled at Buster. “Well?”

Buster stood, his eyes locked on Sam. “Tyson. How do we stop from getting contaminated from this wild shit?”

“Let me handle that.” General Oliver pointed at the mockup. “We’ll divide into teams. Only a few of you will actually get close to the material. It will be stored in a lead case and, as long as that case is not opened, there will be no danger to our teams. We’ll make sure the team that goes inside receives additional training.” He looked around the table. “Anything else?”

Hector raised his hand and stood. “How long do we have to prepare?”

General Oliver motioned with his hand. “Until I say we go.”

Sam stood and looked at the men. “We’ll be ready.”

“Thank you, Colonel Thorpe. You need to advise me when you think our teams are prepared. I’ll expect you and Mr. Lindsay to work together on that.”

Sam glanced at Popeye, who kept his eyes focused on General Oliver.

“Other questions?” The general looked up and down the table, his eyes going from one man to the next. “Ask them now because once we begin the training, it will be too late for any of you to turn back.”

Silence filled the room while each of the men thought about this latest warning. Sam hoped Marshall wouldn’t say anything. He caught Marshall’s eye and shook his head. Marshall leaned back in his chair.

“All right,” Oliver said, “we have things to do. Colonel Thorpe, please work with Mr. Lindsay to develop that plan. Have it on my desk in the morning.”

Sam nodded. He needed to talk with Alex. She’d be at the pub in Thompsontown each evening from seven to nine. Sam had to get there tonight so she could get word to General Gerber on this latest development.

Oliver turned to walk back into his study, and Sergeant Bacher pulled the door open for him. Professor Kaminsky followed the pair.

The mockup on the table reminded Sam of the cost of failure.

Sam pushed the door open and walked into the smoky pub. A Willie Nelson song floated across the room he’d walked into many times before. The mahogany bar on the left ran the length of the room. Five men and one woman hung over the bar in what looked like reserved spots. Most of the men wore cowboy hats and stared down into their beers.

Two men who looked to be in their early twenties were shooting pool at one of three tables. One wore his baseball hat backwards on his head and dressed in jeans and sneakers. The other wore the more traditional country garb—jeans, a cowboy hat, boots, and a red plaid shirt.

The lights in the bar stayed low, so it was hard to see all the tables. A chandelier made of deer antlers decorated the center of the room.

Alex sat at the bar in her Harley Davidson jacket. When she turned to look back, the earrings in her left ear reflected the dim light over the bar. The bulky jacket concealed her Glock 21.

To the right of the bar and parallel to it were six round tables. A rectangular mirror reflected the many bottles along the shelf behind the bar.

The bartender was an antique named Jasper. Sam figured he’d been tending bar here, with the same cigarillo hanging out of his mouth, since he was ten years old. No question, Jasper was an integral part of the landscape.

Jasper was an avid outdoorsman. His trophy large-mouth bass hung behind the bar in a place of honor, a rack from a twelve-point buck had been mounted against the opposite wall, and a grizzly bear skin from his one trip to Alaska graced the corner wall. Jasper could spend hours telling anyone who’d listen about that trip to Alaska. In just the short time Sam had been coming into the bar, he had heard the story enough times he could repeat it almost verbatim.

“Bud, Sam?” Jasper called out when the door slammed.

“Damn straight.”

“How about an order of wings?”

“Not tonight.” Sam had other things on his mind.

“You got it.” Jasper reached down into the cooler for the Bud.

Sam greeted a couple of the locals, patting them on the shoulder, then hoisted himself onto a barstool next to Alex.

Jasper set the beer in front of him and plopped down a dish of peanuts. “Cold enough for you?”

“Not yet.” Sam took a long pull on his beer and popped some peanuts in his mouth. “Somebody didn’t get the word that spring is supposed to be on the way.”

He made eye contact with Alex in the mirror.

She smiled at him. “Howdy. Your name’s Sam, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Name’s Alex, mister tough guy. Remember?”

Sam didn’t respond at first. He looked over at her. “Oh, yeah.”

“I’m staying with my momma. She’s having a bitch of a time with her lungs. I told her to quit smoking years ago, but would she listen? Hell, no.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Guess I ain’t got much credibility to tell her to quit.”

Sam nodded.

“You look familiar to me. Ever been to Minnesota?”

“I grew in Minneapolis. Played football at the university.”

“That’s where I saw you. I was a football groupie. You were pretty darn good. Always wondered why you didn’t head to the pros.”

“Had to get out and earn a living. Newly married, couldn’t chance the pros.”

Alex glanced behind her. “What the hell is that over in the corner?”

“Ask Jasper.”

Jasper heard his name and sauntered over. “That, my lady, is a bobcat. I shot that big hummer two years ago. Mounted him for all the world to see.” Jasper spent the next ten minutes telling Alex about his hunting prowess and how he’d tracked the bobcat.

The story had played for Sam so many times that he knew how and when it would end. He stood and stretched. “What say we move over to a table? These barstools hurt my back after while.” The soreness in his side continued to plague him.

“Sure.”

“Buy you a drink?”

“That’d be nice.”

Sam held up two fingers. Jasper reached down in the cooler for the beers.

“Want a glass for your beer?”

Alex nodded.

“You know, real men can’t ask for a glass for their beer, comb their hair at the bar, or demand some clown turn down the jukebox even if they can’t hear a thing.” Sam laughed. “It’s a bitch being a guy.”

“Screw it. Cancel the glass. I’ll be a real man for a night.”

Sam slapped her shoulder and laughed. “Way to go.”

Jasper called out, “Hey, Sam, did you hear the one about the two old guys sitting at the bar?”

“No,” Sam replied, “but I think I’m about to.”

“The bartender is cleaning glasses, see. One of the old guys looks at the other and says, ‘where you from?’

The other guy says ‘Harrisburg.’ The first guy says, ‘I’ll be damned! So am I. Where in Harrisburg?’ ‘Second Avenue.’ The first guy says, ‘I’ll be damned! So am I.

Where on Second Avenue?’ ‘Second and Reilly.’ ‘I’ll be damned! So am I.’ The phone rings and the bartender answers it. He says, ‘Yep, things are really quiet tonight except for the O’Malley twins arguing again at the end of the bar.’“

Sam laughed, and so did Alex. “That’s a good one, Jasper.”

Jasper’s smile died and he looked down, his face seemed to droop.

Alex grabbed a handful of peanuts and popped them in her mouth as they walked back to a table.

“Jasper seems like a nice guy,” Alex said, “but he looks depressed.”

Sam chuckled. “He’s a fanatic Philadelphia Eagles fan … in a perpetual state of mourning when the Eagles blow a chance at the Super Bowl. Poor guy won’t perk up until next season. Then he’ll be on a high until they screw it up again.”

Sam looked around. The surrounding tables stood vacant. No one seemed to care what they were talking about. “We got a briefing from Kaminsky tonight. The plan is to break into a facility and steal enough cesium—137 to make seven dirty bombs.”

Alex grimaced.