Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) (18 page)

THE SIEGE OF PARKHURST

Next time you read a news report, remember this – history is bullshit. And the news is just pure entertainment. I’m not exaggerating; I was there.

There have been hundreds of accounts of the
Siege of Parkhurst.
A dozen books (two bestsellers), a million web pages, and at least one graphic novel. All manufactured out of the finest smoke and mirrors.

I feel like asking so-called eyewitnesses, “Where were you when the bullets started flying? Hiding under a hay bale in the north forty?” (That’s a true story.)

Like every battle, there were deserters who turned into great storytellers. The most inventive stories always seem to work their way to the front of the line, regardless of who is telling them.

There were very few heroes in attendance. I know, not what the historians like to hear. Kam O’Brien, the retired professor, was one of them. They don’t give out medals for these kinds of clusters, but they should.

Gideon had a complex master plan, worked out years before, that almost no one in the organization fully understood. He used the same kind of strategy that terrorist groups are known to use: compartmentalization. A fancy word for
no one knows more than they need to.

For example, Tommy McDane, Gideon’s golden boy, was apparently the only disciple who knew anything about the bomb. And none of the other lieutenants were aware of the plan Gideon had for the two tons of ammonium fertilizer packed into the compound’s storage bunkers.

A handful of Gideon’s commanders were aware of plans for a mobilization on Washington, but many said later, the ones who survived, that they thought they were going to just form a protest march. The two-dozen armored vehicles they planned to include were only there for moral support. I’ve learned that fanatics often lack a sense of irony.

Another special group, a suicide squad, was also prepared to disburse throughout Washington to key locations.

And finally, the millions of dollars of financial support Gideon supplied to every major nut job on the planet with an Internet connection, was a secret to everyone, except of course, the FBI. He had single-handedly sold the concept of J-Day to the international hacker/booter community and then funded the purchase of the tools needed by these high-tech renegades so they could pull off a massive cyber attack on the day of his choosing – the Monday he launched Armageddon from Parkhurst.

Gideon also paid for travel and accommodations so that hundreds of skilled intrusion experts (black hats they were called, referring to the fact that they weren’t on the side of the good guys) could transfer as much of their expertise as possible to interested parties in Poland, Romania, China, North Korea, Syria and Russia. He funded J-Day seminars in all of these countries for the angry and disenfranchised.

There was much more, but let’s just look at this disaster from the point of view of one very interested bystander, trained in observation, cool in a firefight, and mostly recovered. Yours truly.

When a young woman in a pale blue dress collapsed in the common area that afternoon, a strange silence came over the assembled community, that seems now to have lasted for several seconds, but on later reflection, may have only existed for a fraction of that.

If you’ve ever been in a serious car accident, the seconds before impact seem like that – everything feels suspended and drawn out – as if the coming nightmare is so horrifying, your brain can’t face reality and freezes time for as long as possible.

The young woman, her eyes already closed, seemed to float to the earth, her plain hand-made dress already permanently stained with her own blood.

My heart broke at that moment. It felt like everything was lost, and there was nothing any of us could do to change history.

I looked at Gideon. His face had changed from serene to grim. He knew then that other forces, the government he hated being one of them, were showing surprising craftiness. That’s why they had only sent in two men instead of an army. I know of course that was only an accident of fate.

A minute after Grace fell (we learned her name later); the Virginia Power Company successfully cut power to the compound. A high-pitched whine could be heard from the farmhouse; an alarm Gideon had installed to warn him of a power disruption.

I could see it on his face. The game had changed. He seemed to smile, which, if you were a resident standing across from him then, was a frightening reaction to the tragedy of the moment.

Then he made a hand gesture, which caused me to turn and throw McNulty towards the police car. I was convinced that Gideon’s soldiers on the deck were given orders to fire. But they hesitated. I know what they were thinking.
Did Gideon mean fire on the women? That couldn’t be his command.
So they turned their rifles on us. About a dozen battle-trained veterans with the best firepower money can buy, now had us in their sights.

McNulty must have sensed what was coming; he grabbed a handful of my new white shirt and pulled me down behind the utility vehicle’s front fender.

An AM-15 makes a distinctive sound – a kind of angry burp when the bullet leaves the muzzle. But when the bullet plows through sheet metal and glass, it sounds like atoms are being ripped asunder. The roar of automatic fire around us was impossible to describe.

The Soldiers of Patmos unleashed all of their pent up anger and frustration on McNulty and I, firing hundreds of rounds into his brand new ride, which was our only protection. Glass exploded across the driveway and the SUV sunk down on shredded tires.

I was kneeling on the gravel with my right hand on the ground, when I caught a ricocheting round that neatly removed my middle and ring finger. The wound instantly bled like a leaky water pipe.

McNulty was down on one knee behind me – his shiny head covered with crystals of safety glass, but luckily uninjured. He couldn’t see my wounded hand. He just swore repeatedly and yelled that he only had five hundred miles on the Explorer. All he was worried about was his precious new SUV – which was the problem with what happened next.

McNulty’s vehicle was armored with steel plate. The .223 shells the militia was using had copper jackets that would often fragment and bounce off steel, angrily headed in every possible direction. That accounted for my hand wound. Another fateful piece of shrapnel sheared off the front of the SUV and spun across the commons, hitting Grace in her upper abdomen. When she screamed and began to fall, the shooting stopped almost immediately.

When the commons went quiet, to my surprise, I saw Gideon run past the front of the destroyed car, across the turnaround and plow through the phalanx of women, many who were on the ground now with hands over their heads. Others were surrounding Grace. But Gideon didn’t stop to check on her as everyone expected. He just disappeared into a very surprised crowd.

What the hell was he doing?
He was deserting his command. I saw several of the women get up and start to yell at the soldiers on the deck of the farmhouse and in the yard. Some began moving towards us. They were yelling out names and pleading with the men.

“Don’t shoot.”

“Put down your guns.”

“Gideon wants us dead. You have to stop him.”

Gideon wants us dead?
What did that mean? Because the army or the Feds would show up soon and go to war with them? Problem was, I didn’t see any evidence of the Feds. They were politically savvy enough to stay in the background.

Something else was poking at my subconscious as well. The power alarm. Just as promised, they would whine for about 30 seconds, then go off briefly, then come on again. So the power was essentially out. Was that Gideon’s concern? No video feed to the outside world? But what could I do? If I stood up, these trigger-happy soldiers could take my head off in seconds.

Then, to my surprise, three young women walked up to McNulty and I, and took our arms in their hands. They stood us up while others crowded around us. Then they walked us out into the open towards the farmhouse.

I looked at one of the soldiers on the porch. He was trying to hide his confusion; maintain a look of defiance and strength despite the fact that his leader had just deserted the scene without giving any further instructions.

I just wanted to get at the command centre. I wasn’t sure what I could accomplish there, maybe just pull wires and smash computer screens. I would happily dismantle Gideon’s technology, even if I only had eight remaining fingers.

CHAPTER FORTY

Eliza had the stew in a covered roasting pan. She held it with oven mitts she had made herself.

Her knees were trembling. She hoped the ankle-length blue dress she wore disguised her fear. What the stranger said kept her moving forward, down the steel tunnel, over the packed sand floor. Tamara was behind her, the glass tinkling in the lemonade jar, her little moans breaking the sound of their feet.

The tunnel was angled down and constructed from eight-foot diameter steel corrugated culvert pipe. A power line and water pipe ran along the ceiling. This was the tunnel to the bunker they had visited once when they first arrived at Parkhurst. Every commune she had lived on had one. Never this ornate or this big. She remembered seeing the huge underground storage facility with food, water and space for the one thousand residents, sitting right under the Women’s residence.

Everything at Parkhurst was first-rate. The best materials, the best craftsmanship. She wondered to herself where all the money came from, but never asked. She had never questioned their purpose or their leadership.

Her husband was a captain of one unit. He was an honest, hard working son of a tobacco farmer. No education, but he never drank – always treated their sons fairly. She hadn’t seen much of him over the past few weeks leading up to J-Day.

Eliza knew it was only a week ago when the rumor started about the fertilizer shipments. Fertilizer in the fall? She grew up on a farm like her husband. Fertilizer was something you bought in the spring.

The rumors were like gnats, flying in her face, distracting her from her labors. She would prove to everyone, once and for all, that the rumors were just something started by their enemies. What she was afraid of was being caught for even questioning the authority of those who ran the community. Her heart seemed to agitate in her chest at the thought of disobedience. Then she turned the corner and saw the guards.

There were two men. She didn’t recognize either of them. One was broad, his stomach hanging over his belt, his hair long. The other was young, thin; his head shaved, smiling at them in surprise. The bigger man didn’t look that happy.

“Sisters. I think you’re in the wrong place. No one’s allowed down here.”

Eliza smiled. “They asked us to bring you an early lunch. Since you might be here for a long time today.”

The young kid looked at her and grinned. Eliza blushed, and Tamara held up the lemonade. The bigger guard looked puzzled for a moment. Eliza guessed the comment about being there for a long time rang true to him, but he was still suspicious. He reached for his radio set, hanging off his belt.

“Your friends at the gate wanted this pretty bad. I guess we can take it back to them?” said Tamara.

“They did, eh?” said the skinny kid. “Sure smells good, Eril.” Eliza opened the top of the roaster and the smell of beef stew rose up and hit the big guard like a blow to his solar plexus. His hand stopped and he licked his lips.

“They wanted some at the gate, you say? I can see why.”

“You both deserve a lunch break. It’s going to be a long day.”

The biggest guard knelt down and took in a deep breath from the roaster. He smiled for the first time. “Beef stew’s my favorite. Ladies, you are like angels to a dyin’ man.”

Tamara poured a glass of the treated lemonade for the older guard, who took a long thirsty pull, emptying the contents. “Aaahh!” he said. “Don’t tell my Ma. But that’s better than the aide she used to make when I was a tadpole.” The skinny kid took a few sips and raised his glass to Eliza.

The diazenol they had laced the lemonade with, took effect in about three to four minutes. They had used a lot, anxious that a bit might only make the guards sleepy. The kid passed out straight away. He sat down hard on the packed sand and just fell against the wall.

The bigger guard stopped eating for a few seconds, looked at his partner strangely, and then struggled to stand up. He couldn’t. “What the hell?” he mumbled. He went to reach for his belt. Eliza wasn’t sure if he was looking for his gun or trying to hike himself up. His hand was not obeying signals. He couldn’t grip anything and his head was flopping over. He grunted, saliva running down his lip. Then his eyes rolled back.

“Tamara? We haven’t killed them have we?”

Tamara answered calmly. “No. They’re only sleeping.” But she wasn’t sure. They had used an awful lot of the powder they had taken from the medical storeroom – and the young kid drank more than a glass full.

Tamara stepped around the two prone men and pushed on the steel bar that opened the door to the bunker. She leaned half way into the opening, the hot air of the bunker and the stink of diesel fuel hitting her like a sickening wave.
This wasn’t right. Was there a leak somewhere?

Eliza and her pulled the youngest guard across the threshold and dragged him to the wall behind the rusty door. The bigger guard was more of a problem. He was impossibly heavy and still had some movement in him. They struggled with him till they were both sweating. Tamara straightened out the sand and moved the remains of the food into the darker space of the bunker.

As her eyes adjusted, Eliza knew right away that something was awfully wrong.

There was no longer food or water containers present. Half the bunker was empty. In the center sat four huge circular retention ponds, about four feet high each. The stink of diesel and urea was overpowering. Eliza gagged.

“They couldn’t keep food stores down here. Everyone would smell this on it,” Eliza offered, holding her dress over her face. They walked up to the first pond, a few suspended bare bulbs the only source of light.

She clambered up the sides of the plastic wall and looked down into a deep pool of yellow paste. The smell was thick and cruel on the back of her throat.

Fertilizer mixed with diesel fuel was the composition of the bomb that destroyed the Murray Building in Oklahoma City in 1995, ignited by a third cousin on her husbands side, Timothy McVeigh. The entire bomb was no bigger than a few large storage trunks. This was what? One hundred times bigger? What kind of damage would there be? Would there even be a Parkhurst left if this ignited? Her head swam with the wonder of it all. What could the purpose be other than what Tamara had told them? It was then that the two guards they met up at the ground-level gate noisily entered the bunker, their flashlights extended.

Tamara slipped out of sight as soon as she heard the click of the steel door opening. Eliza was surprised by how quickly she had moved, assuming it was raw fear. The traces of the two flashlights were on her in seconds, the guards advancing carefully. She stood, her hands by her side. She had no idea what to do now. They were caught. Time was running out. What would it feel like being so close to such a huge fuel bomb when it exploded? Would there be any pain?