America's Trust (11 page)

Victor was a proud American, an American who believed in his right to bear arms, his right to free speech, and most importantly, his right to freedom. He climbed into his cab and took a long look back towards his store, the heart of his network. The store had supplied thousands with the kit that would be required over the coming months and years. Any and all profits had been plowed back into building and equipping the camps and training facilities across the Midwest that those same customers would be calling home as they arrived over the coming hours and days.

“Colonel,” his assistant Kyle said in greeting, stepping easily into the passenger seat of the cab. He swung his rifle off his shoulder and placed it across his legs. The rifle looked like a toy on his lap. At 6’9 and almost three hundred pounds of solid muscle, Kyle was a giant of a man. “Sergeant,” replied Victor, both men referring to each other by their previous ranks within the US Army. Kyle had served Victor throughout both his military and civilian life, and Victor was the father he had never had.

Colonel Victor King had raced through the ranks, many suggested on the shirttails of his cousin and the current president, Jack King. However, nothing could have been further from the truth. Victor King had risen through the ranks despite his overachieving second cousin. It was following a conversation with Jack that had led to his court-martial. Victor had advised Jack on how to smuggle a few fully automatic weapons back to the US from Iraq, which he assured Jack would come in handy when the Russkies finally came calling. Jack had listened with interest before promptly reporting the activity to the authorities. It was only by luck that Victor had avoided a custodial sentence and certainly not as a result of any leniency or help from Jack.

“Looks like your cousin has finally truly fucked us.”

As far as Victor was concerned, Jack King was dead. He’d died the day the military police had arrested Victor in front of his wife and daughters. Not that his wife was any better; she had abandoned him the same day, praising the Lord from delivering her from her captor. That had been the last day he had touched a drop of liquor and was the day that put him on his path to find God. In the fifteen years since, he had helped save many lost souls like himself; souls with a kindred belief that America was on a one-way ticket to damnation. The world he could see was quickly losing control. God was sending more and more warnings of a coming Armageddon, and Victor had to do something. The souls he had saved could not be wasted. God had helped him save them. God must have wanted them saved for a reason.

The Patriotic Guard of America had been a moment of clarity, unlike any he had experienced before. It offered structure and hope for the men and families that were the future of mankind. His message hit home and found an audience desperate for a new beginning, a new hope. A monthly radio broadcast quickly became weekly, then twice weekly, and finally daily. The number of listeners increased, as did the callers, all keen to understand what they needed, what they could do to help. The store and the website fulfilling the requests for what was needed to survive were a natural progression. Orders flooded in and much to Victor’s surprise, so did donations. The Patriotic Guard of America began to build the future it preached. Locations across the Midwest, far from major metropolises and prying eyes, were secured through a number of blind trusts and corporations. The Guard had many expert members to call on for any eventuality. Tax lawyers and accountants ensured nobody would ever know what the Guard had or owned. Architects and builders ensured the camps for the future would never be found unless you knew exactly where to look. And the Guard’s police force ensured that even if you did, you would never live to tell anyone you had.

Victor King was a king within his group and ruled it only as a true dictator knew how - ruthlessly.

Victor ignored the sergeant’s reference to the president. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir. The forward team are securing the fuel trucks as we speak,” replied the sergeant, instantly back to business. Victor had that affect on people.

No matter how they had planned their Code Red, one thing always came up short. Fuel. Power, heat, trucks, they all needed gas. They had looked into every other option possible but it always came back to one thing, they needed gas and a lot of it.

Victor grabbed his CB handset and, thanks to an extremely powerful antenna and a number of strategically positioned boosters, Victor hit the broadcast button and knew his voice would be audible across two thirds of the continental US. The earlier tweet would have his patriots listening intently to their CBs. Of course, you would have needed to have known the correct frequency and been tuned into a CB set from the dark ages of personal communication to hear him. However, as Victor had explained to his fold, it may have been from the past but was impossible to track in the future and in the aftermath of Armageddon, the only surefire way they would be able to keep in touch with the other groups. The likely electromagnetic pulse from the nuclear detonations would fry modern microchips. Their archaic CBs had no such newfangled modernity. Tubes and wires powered the patriots’ comms systems. They were future-proof, as Victor called them, although ironically only because they were so old.

Victor had initially planned one large camp to house his patriots. The benefits were significant both economically and militarily. However, if, as he believed, his patriots were the future of the American way of life, it was imperative that a lucky strike did not end that goal in one fell swoop. Therefore, three camps were planned but then, as the number of true patriots boomed, two additional ones were added. Scattered across the Midwest and Pacific Northwest, each camp had been carefully placed as far from any potential strike zones and civilization centers as possible. The actual locations were controlled on a strict need-to-know basis and a number of checkpoints were in place that would ultimately direct the patriots to their new homes throughout the day.

“Patriots, the day has come. We may be all that this country has to hope for in the future. What we do now, we do for greater America. Code Red, Phase Two!”

The CB crackled in response, something that was not supposed to have happened. A radio silence was in place to ensure the band was free for Victor to communicate with all his patriots. “EP, we’re coming under fire!”

EP was the Elk Point team, just twenty miles away. Victor hit the gas and raced towards the fight. The operation was simple. Twenty heavily armed men would approach the refinery and with only an elderly minimum-wage security guard at the gate, securing the four trucks would be simple. Victor shook his head. The thought of the old guy going up against twenty heavily armed ex-soldiers just didn’t seem right.

“From who?” he asked, grabbing the CB.

“FBI, Robert Hughes was an impostor!”

Robert was one of their own, or at least had claimed to be. He was an ex-Delta Force Commando. He had been welcomed with open arms into the Patriots. Men with his skills were powerful additions to the fold.

“There are another four agents that have joined him, what should we do?” asked his fuel team leader.

“Have you secured the trucks?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Drive them out of there, they won’t shoot the trucks!”

“They’re shooting everything Goddamned else!” replied a somewhat flustered battle-hardened veteran.

Victor shook his head in disbelief. His men were heavily armed but had one absolute line not to cross. Under no circumstances were they to fire their weapons within the refinery’s confines. Victor hadn’t even bothered to confirm they had not returned fire. His orders would be followed to the letter. They always were.

As Victor pushed his foot harder to the floor, the first signs of the refinery came into view - the wisps of smoke that fluttered up high into the clear blue sky. The radio had been silent for over five minutes when it burst back into life.

“We ran through their cars on the way out of there,” came the team leader’s triumphant voice, although heavily muffled by a high-pitched screech in the background. A high-pitched screech that was not only coming from the radio.

“I can hardly hear you!”

“The sirens, they’ve gone crazy back at the refinery. I think it maybe going to blow, they must have shot up some important equipment!”

Victor’s foot rose from the accelerator and the truck’s race towards the time bomb ahead reduced. A further look across at his sergeant had them wordlessly communicating and turning a sharp one-eighty. Next stop would be the camp, with four nine-thousand gallon tankers to keep them powered and ready for the new dawn.

His decision was made for him. The helicopters had, as one, turned, their mission abandoned. There was to be no mass exodus of the government. Butler’s time pressure had been relaxed. Swanson was no longer a threat to his target. He relaxed his arms, although outwardly, Swanson would not have noticed any difference. They remained raised as they had been.

“So, what now? You take me in again?” asked Butler.

Swanson hadn’t really thought through what she was going to do. She just needed to stop Butler from getting to the president, at least until she knew he was on the right side.

“You know they’ll try and kill me again, you can’t stop them,” he reasoned as the sirens grew closer.

Swanson looked at him closely. She prided herself on being an excellent judge of character, able to read people inside out. She looked at him and saw a blank sheet of paper.
Not a clue
, she thought. Something she had never experienced before. The sirens were around the corner. Her gun was still leveled at Butler’s head.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck it!” she screamed. “Put your fucking hands down,” she said, holstering her pistol and raising her FBI badge high in the air. She walked towards the siren and met the car in the road as it screamed around the corner.

“FBI, it’s fine! FBI!” she repeated over and over.

The police car drew to a stop, two officers exited and, with their hands on their holsters, walked carefully and slowly towards Swanson. She kept her hands in the air with her badge clearly showing.

“Were you involved with the shooting over at the Diner on 18
^th
as well?” asked the older of the two officers, taking her badge and checking it.

Swanson shook her head. “No but I thought I saw one of the suspects and fired a couple of warning shots.”

The officer was too long on the job to fall for such blatant bullshit. He eyed Butler closely over her shoulder.

“Who’s he?” He motioned with his chin towards Butler.

Swanson turned to look at Butler and wondered the exact same question.

“Is there a problem?” the officer asked when Swanson failed to answer. The officer once again placed his hand on his holster, focusing on Butler, while awaiting her response.

“No, sorry,” Swanson shook her head and turned back to face the officer. “Just a bit out of it, it’s not often I have to use my weapon,” she replied, sounding flustered.

The officers both smiled sarcastically. Swanson knew the reference to using her weapon infrequently would raise a reaction and divert their attention.

“I’m surprised she knew which end to use,” she heard one officer mumble to the other under his breath, before both burst into laughter.

God they were so predictable,
she thought, eyeing them both with contempt while outwardly smiling. She turned and grabbed Butler by the arm, walking away from the highly amused and so easily distracted cops.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered. “Before they start asking questions we really can’t answer.”

Butler did not need to be asked twice and followed without complaint. His most pressing concern was getting access to the president before it was too late. As the last sounds of the helicopters faded into the distance, he grew increasingly concerned. What they had witnessed was the initiation of a mass exodus plan for the continuity of government. He caught sight of the TV as they walked past the diner. A swarm of helicopters filled the screen, a ticker underneath explaining ‘early morning emergency drill wakes thousands.’

“Drill, my ass!” scoffed Butler.

“For all we know that’s exactly what it was,” replied Swanson.

“How many drills do you know that stop partway through?” He looked her deep in the eyes. He could see she was struggling with his question. “What we just witnessed was a full-scale plan in action, being averted at the last minute.”

Swanson thought back to the sight of the helicopters. None had actually reached central DC. They had all simply turned back, as if on cue.

“We don’t know what the drill may have been,” she argued weakly.

“What were they checking? That fifty helicopters could fly in one direction and then turn away again?” Butler smiled cynically. There was no doubt in his mind that what they had witnessed was no drill, and only at the last second had it been cancelled. Something very serious had just happened and he couldn’t help but think it was linked to the American Airlines crash and the death of the ambassador.