Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (4 page)

Sam waited.

“Ever hear of Benton Parten?”

Sam shook his head. The memory bank in his mental computer kept filling. He was ready to open another file drawer.

“He’s a retired brigadier general. Spent his career in charge of the design and testing of every non-nuclear explosive device used by the Air Force. Know what he concluded?”

Oliver turned and pointed his finger at Sam again. “The idea of two guys mixing barrels of fertilizer and fuel oil in a public park is crazy. Worse yet, exploding a bomb thirty feet from a hardened target and causing that kind of damage is absurd. That’s what he said. But the government discredited him. They wanted McVeigh and the militia to take the hit. The bastards lied. Did whatever was necessary to get at us.”

Sam waited.

“Well, you’d better wake up to what’s really going on before it’s too late. The CIA trains all those wild-eyed terrorists; then they use that training and the weapons we give them to come after us. Sam, we’ve got to stop these government bastards before they destroy us. And, you’re the guy to help me.”

George Case picked his way around a patch of ice and walked up the stairs to the front door of the science building. March, and here he was, chilled to the bone, when he should have been in Orlando.
Why didn’t I take the security job at Disney World?
he asked himself.
Oh yeah. My wife wanted to stay here.
“But George,” she’d said, “all of our friends are here. We wouldn’t know anyone down there. And besides, they talk funny in Florida.”

He had spent thirty years handing out parking tickets and freezing when the wind blew up the Susquehanna River. Thirty years. Finally he had worked his way up to chief of police. Wherever he went in town, he was a big deal. The waitresses served him free coffee and pie at Rhonda’s Café for lunch. Free beer at Jimmy’s after work, all the gang glad to see him.

But now he was a security guard at the college. No more free beer. No more free pie. Everyone laughed at him behind his back.

His wife didn’t care that he was unhappy. She spent three nights a week playing bridge at the old folk’s home and two nights a week playing bingo at the VFW. And what about old George? Yeah, good old George. No cushy job at Disney World. No skinny dipping with great-looking broads off the Florida coast.

“Hello, George.”

Case hadn’t even noticed Professor Thompson coming out of the door. “Ah, good evening, sir.”

“It’s going to be a cold one. I had hoped that spring was on the way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be sure to check the back doors for me, will you, George? I think I locked them, but you’d better make sure.”

“Yes, sir.” Case watched the hunched-over professor pick his way down the icy sidewalk. Maintenance had put salt on the walk, but it still was slippery. Poor old Thompson was pushing seventy.
Gonna fall on his ass one of these days.

Case pulled the master key out of his pocket and entered the building. Maybe some cute student would want to get it on with him.
Yeah, right.

S
am Thorpe stood at the head of the conference table. This portion of the room, sectioned off from the rest of Oliver’s barn by a three-foot-high wall, appeared to be about eighteen by twenty feet.

He rapped on the oak table with his knuckles. “All right, listen up. It’s time to get started.” The men sat in the wooden chairs around the table. From what he’d read in their bio sheets, most were farmers. Their ages ranged from mid-twenties up to early fifties. Many had uncombed hair and bushy beards, and wore wool shirts with jeans and boots.

The electronic gear Oliver had installed was impressive: a rear screen projector, teleconferencing capability, and computers Sam understood were linked through a local area network. Four television monitors, at least twenty inches each, stood on a long table pushed up against the wall, all with DVD and video capability for training purposes.

Four florescent lights set into the drop ceiling illuminated the room. Picture windows, with blackout privacy shades, occupied the two outside walls. In spite of all the high-priced technology, the building still had a musty odor of age and manure.

He made eye contact with each of the men as he spoke. “My name is Colonel Thorpe. I’ll be with you for the next week or so. I just retired from the Army. Twenty-five years in the infantry. My job is to mold you into teams fully capable of carrying out any mission assigned by General Oliver. What I saw yesterday looked good.” He paused. “But I know we can do better, and that’s our goal.”

The men watched him. A few looked around with a bored expression on their faces.

Sam wondered why these guys had signed up for the Patriots. More importantly, he wondered, what made them keep coming back?

Tapping his fingers on the wooden podium, he let his opening remarks sink in while he read the men’s expressions. Many leaned forward, interested in what he had to say. Two men, both with full beards, sat at the far end of the table and glared at Sam with a show-me expression. The bigger of the two had a smirk on his face as if he were challenging Sam.

“We’ll begin with communications procedures, move on to map reading, and finally weapons qualification, before we form into teams. I’ll be looking for leaders. Show me what you can do.”

Sam looked down at his notes. “I’d like each of you to introduce yourself. Give me a brief history of your military experience. If you’ve been in the service, what branch and what was your military occupational specialty?”

Sam started on his left. A skinny, sandy-haired young man looked down, hands folded. He didn’t appear to be much over twenty. His hands trembled slightly. “You,” Sam said, pointing at him. “Let’s start with you. Please stand.”

The young man stood but refused to look at Sam. His peachy face, curly hair, and slim, pointed nose gave him a look that Sam suspected women loved to mother. What the hell was he doing here?

“M-m-y name is-s M-Marshall Pearson.”

A voice called from the end of the table. “Come on, pussy, shout it out.”

Sam glared at the bearded man. “Knock it off. Let him speak.”

The man stood. “I ain’t gonna take no shit off you, Thorpe.”

Sam stepped out from behind the wooden podium. He walked to the back of the room and stopped about two feet in front of the big mouth.

The two men were about the same height. The guy had impressive shoulders, most likely from a life of working outside on a farm. He wore a red-checkered work shirt. Tan suspenders held up his jeans.

Sam flexed his biceps and leaned forward on his toes. “You’ve got a big mouth. Maybe you’d like to start.”

The man glared at him.

Sam waited.

“Call me Buster. Five years in the infantry.”

Buster’s muscular arms twitched under the sleeves of his shirt. Sam shifted his weight in case the big man made a move.

The smell of alcohol on Buster’s breath was strong, and the veins outlined along his nose and cheeks spelled a life of heavy drinking. Sam would have to face down Buster to assert his authority with the rest of the men. “What was your MOS?”

“My what?” Buster snarled. “What the fuck is that?”

“Military Occupational Specialty. You’ve been in the military; I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you. What was your job description?”

“Goddamn infantry, man. A grunt—and proud of it. What the hell did you think?”

Sam forced a smile. “Good, we’ll need a lot of grunts. You may be seated.”

The man didn’t move.

“You may be seated.” Sam returned Buster’s icy stare.

“Maybe I feel like standing.”

Sam stepped closer to Buster and looked him in the eye. “I asked you nicely to sit. Now do I need to order you to sit? I will if I have to.”

“Goddamn it, Buster, sit the fuck down.” Sam whirled to see Popeye standing behind him, hands on hips.

Buster sat.

Sam stalked to the front of the room. He glared at Popeye, then turned to face the rest. “General Oliver is paying my company good money to assist you men with training and equipment. I hope you won’t continue to waste his money.” He let that sink in before concluding, “Any questions?”

Silence filled the room. Most of the men stared at the floor.

Sam pointed at Pearson. “All right, Marshall, I believe we left off with you. Please stand again and speak loudly so we all can hear.”

The young man stood. All of him seemed to be shaking this time.

“Give us your name and any military background.”

“M-my name is M-marshall P-Pearson. I haven’t any military training.”

A snicker sounded in the background. Buster elbowed his neighbor. Sam decided to let that pass.

“Thank you, Mr. Pearson. You may be seated.” Sam made a mental note to have a talk with Marshall Pearson.

It took about forty-five minutes for each man to stand, give his name, and summarize his military service. Except for Pearson, all the men were veterans. Two had served in the Marines, two in the Navy, and the rest in the Army.

Of the Army veterans, all had spent time in the infantry. None were trained in explosives, although three had some experience in diffusing bombs. Most of the men were hunters. They seemed comfortable with guns.

Sam walked down one side of the table. “All right, what questions do you have for me?”

A rangy blond-haired man in his early thirties raised his hand. Sam pointed at him. “Hector.”

Hector stood. “When will we get some decent commo equipment?”

“Excellent question. You may be seated.” Sam paused while Hector slumped down in his chair. Sam would have to work on his lack of military bearing, but not tonight. “I’ve ordered five ANPRC-46 radios and two ANPRC-47 radios.”

Several of the men nodded.

“For those who aren’t aware, they’re FM radios we can mount on the rear of our trucks. Or we can modify them to carry in packs on our backs. We’ll be able to communicate, line-of-sight, for about fifteen miles.”

Hector straightened in his chair. “Will that be enough?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Sam replied. “I don’t know what mission General Oliver will assign us. If we need more capability, we’ll get it.”

Popeye jumped up from his chair, his round face a bright red. “It’s not up to us to question General Oliver. Our job is to prepare ourselves so we’re ready to do whatever he asks.” He slumped down and stared at Sam.

Sam was puzzled by the remark but let it go. “Now, I’m handing out the Army FM on small unit operations. I assume you’ve all had experience with field manuals. I want you to review the first six chapters for tomorrow night. We’ll be focusing on hand and arm signals. This will be helpful to coordinate our movement, particularly at night.”

A red-haired man who didn’t look more than twenty-five stood. “Fuck the communications and, how you say it, hand signals. When we gonna get out and do some shooting?” He spoke with a heavy Eastern European accent.

Sam motioned for him to sit down. “Boris—is that your name?”

Boris nodded.

“If we’re going to be effective, we need to be able to coordinate our movements. The only way to do that is to be able to communicate with one another, especially after dark.” Sam smiled. “We need to own the night.”

Several of the men nodded.

“All right, any other questions?”

Silence greeted Sam. He looked at his watch. “It’s

1950 hours, we’ve been here since 1800 hours, and I believe we’ve gotten a good start. Let’s break for tonight. Be back tomorrow at 1800 hours, sharp.”

Chairs scraped as the men rose and moved toward the door. It surprised Sam that the men didn’t talk to one another. He was used to the good-natured “grab ass” among the troops from his days in the military. They pulled coats off the rack in the corner—heavy, mostly down-filled jackets—slipped scarves around their necks, and placed stocking caps on their heads before they wandered outside into the frigid night air.

About half the men grabbed rifles that had been leaning against the wall. Sam had made a note earlier to bring in gun racks. He’d seen too many accidents with firearms and needed to establish a procedure to make sure the weapons were properly secured and had no ammunition in the chambers.

“Thorpe,” Popeye called, “in my office. He wheeled and turned toward a door off the main room. “Now!”

Popeye stormed off.

S
idney Kramer sat at his computer surfing the NRC Web site. He glanced over at the double bed he and Elizabeth shared. He was so lucky to have found her.

It had been almost twenty years since that cold, April evening when Sidney had spotted her sitting on a bench outside the bus station in downtown Montreal, a forlorn shadow in the darkness. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, huddled in a tattered green shawl, with holes in her dirty-white tennis shoes. A faded blue scarf covered her blonde hair. So little and so sad, she caught his attention.

“My name is Sidney,” he had said. “May I sit down?”

She didn’t reply, didn’t move, didn’t look at him. She looked like he had felt after the death of his mother. “You must be cold. May I buy you some coffee?”