NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (8 page)

He looked down at the book again.

“Look at this: ‘There are three things that abide: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ Who can build a national military policy on something like that?”

“I’ll bet Westmoreland has an answer for that one,” Ert said.

“Damn right,” Bass said. “He and the rest of his cronies think they have an inside track on God. The problem is a lot of people in this country believe they do, too. It’s hard for me to know what I’m thinking, much less what God is thinking.”

“This may be beyond my job description, Mr. President,” Ert said. “But I have something I’d like to show you.”

Ert reached into his brief case and pulled out a pad with several pages of notes he had taken in Arizona while he read Josh’s journals.

“You’re not going to believe what I am about to tell you,” Ert said.

“Give me a try,” President Whitfield said.

For the next two hours, the men sat at the desk of the President of the United States and poured over Ert’s notes, notes that foretold cataclysmic events that had already unfolded and some that were yet to come.

FATHER’S DAY WEEKEND
in Texas, Georgia, Mississippi, Colorado, and Alaska, Christian Militants, now known as CMs, met to debate whether they would remain a part of the United States.

Leon Martinez had orchestrated the conventions, so that he could deliver the keynote address at each one, although he had to walk a tight rope in Texas where the sitting governor expected at least to share the limelight.

A festive spirit dominated the conventions, as if the delegates thought throwing away two hundred and thirty years of democratic tradition nothing of importance compared to the opportunity to bring in God’s kingdom. When the constitution committee presented a document that would enable a single leader to seize power in each state, without an election, and without a term limitation, the assembly stood and cheered, adopting it unanimously as if they had grown weary of democracy.

Leon played his cards close to the chest. Never did he quibble that Westmoreland was heir to the throne, although he never came right out and said so. As was his practice, he deferred any substantive questions, passing them off to delegates, downplaying their significance in the grand scheme of things.

Every day during the sessions, Flash Greenwald focused his program on what he termed the momentous destiny about to unfold. In response to every caller, he fanned the flames of secession, never failing to drop Leon’s name as the political genius behind Westmoreland’s movement.

Sunday evening, delegates in each state voted to secede.

The meaning of the vote was not clear. The delegates weren’t elected representatives of anyone. Rather they were CM hand-picked zealots on a mission.

But they carried a wallop at the ballot box, had deep pockets, and claimed to speak for God. Those who would oppose them would do so at their peril.

•  •  •

Bass Whitfield, Sherman Aloysius, Ert, and Leadoff sat in the Oval Office watching the election returns that Father’s Day. Their mood grew more somber with each announcement.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Sherman said after a while, breaking the silence.

“The hell it doesn’t,” Bass Whitfield said. “It means these bastards have used God to persuade the citizens of at least five states that they would be better off getting out of the Union. It doesn’t sound like faith to me, it sounds like treason.”

General Aloysius weighed in.

“It’s more like rebellion than treason, Mr. President. You have the power to put down a rebellion,” he said.

“I think he needs to see what the state legislatures do before he mobilizes against our own people,” Leadoff said.

“You’re right,” the general said. “But it’s time to put a military strategy together as a contingency.”

“I figured you already had that covered,” Bass said.

“I’ve been working on it,” the general admitted.

“So, what does it look like?” Ert asked.

Sherman Aloysius drew the men around the table and sketched out how he thought things would go.

“Of course, war is notoriously unpredictable,” he concluded.

“You ain’t a kidding,” Leadoff said. “We could get our asses handed to us.”

“What can we do to nip the whole thing in the bud, to cut off the threat of war before shots are fired?” President Whitfield asked.

“I am certain CM has something up its sleeve to incite the people to fight for them,” Sherman said. “That is why everything is so difficult to assess. We don’t know if it is a terrorist strike, a straight out attack on one of our bases, or what.”

“What’s the most unconventional response I can make?” Whitfield asked.

“I heard one of the Civil Rights workers say a long time ago that the main thing was that you had to be willing to accept the casualties,” Ert said. “It will be a hard saying if the time comes.”

“I’m not sure if I can stand by and allow those Christians to become that murderous,” Bass said. “At some point, we will have to stand and fight.”

Ert said, “I think CM believes that day will be far off. That Americans will be slow to fire on each other, so that they can walk away from the Union with no dire consequences. Maybe the thing to do is figure a way to squeeze them where it hurts before things gets out of hand.”

The strategy session continued deep into the night and early morning. By the time everyone got in bed, the sun was almost up.

Despite his late night, Ert rose at first light and went out on the patio overlooking the city to contemplate the next steps of the Whitfield administration. About six o’clock, he received a call from Leadoff.

“Looks like we may need to re-think that business about economic sanctions as a first step?” he said.

“Why’s that? I thought it was a good plan,” Ert said.

“Because I just got a call from Sherman,” Leadoff said. “A group of CM operatives seized control of Shiloh National Military Park this morning at day break. They’ve taken the park rangers prisoners and raised the CM flag. They are armed to the teeth and dug in for the duration.”

“Sonsofbitches,” Ert said as he hung up the phone, threw on some clothes and headed for the White House.

THE MORNING THE
standoff at Shiloh began, a tall slump-shouldered man with thinning brown hair parked at Union Station two blocks from the federal courthouse in Nashville. As he stepped out of his car, a summer squall spewed its last drops of rain, and he hiked his sport coat over his head to keep dry. In his left hand, he held a perfect bound book, shrink-wrapped to protect it from the elements.

As he walked towards the entrance to the courthouse, he saw steam rising from the sidewalk like tiny geysers, and he couldn’t avoid the rivulets draining to the storm sewers. The shoes he shined at the hotel earlier that morning, splotched by the detritus of the homeless rinsed from the harsh pavement, squeegeed on the slick marble floor as he stepped in line in front of the metal detector. By the time he placed his personal items on the X-ray conveyor belt, his shirt was wringing wet with sweat, and he looked like a wilted elephant ear in a neglected garden.

The guards went on high alert when they saw him.

“State your business, sir,” one of them said.

“I’m here to see J. Franklin Westmoreland,” the man said.

“He isn’t allowed any visitors,” the guard said. “Please take your belongings and exit through the door to your right.”

The man stood his ground, reached into his shirt pocket and drew out his business card. On the back were a name and a phone number. He handed it to the guard who looked at him quizzically.

“Captain Hollister said you should call him if you have any questions,” the man said.

The guard examined the front of the card and the hand-written information on the back. Without saying anything, he walked across the lobby to an old steel desk, picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card. The man could not make out the conversation, but could tell the guard was doing most of the listening. He saw him hang up the phone and watched him retrace his steps with a look on his face like a person wears after an ass-eating.

“Can I see some identification, Mr. Nussbaum?” he asked.

Stanley handed him his driver’s license and United States passport. The guard motioned him through the line and gave him his personal effects and the shrink-wrapped book.

“Sorry, sir. We’re a little edgy around here this morning.”

“No problem. How do I get to the jail?” Nussbaum asked.

“Take the elevator all the way to the top. When you step off, you’ll see a glassed-in cage. You’ll have to check in there.”

Upstairs the jailer in the observation booth examined his IDs and motioned for him to stand in front of the large iron door that led to the secure area of the lockup. Another jailer escorted him to the room where Leon always visited Westmoreland.

Nussbaum sat down and looked at the book as he waited. When he saw Westmoreland at the door, he held the book in his left hand behind his back, hiding it from view.

“So good to see you, Stanley.” Westmoreland beamed as they shook hands. “What a great surprise,” he said. “Sit down. We have some catching up to do.”

As soon as both men were seated, Stanley stood up again, took his hand from behind his back and placed the book in front of Frank on the table.

“I thought you might want to see a new book that is coming out today from Nussbaum Press,” Stanley said smiling.

Westmoreland left the book on the table and placed both of his hands on it for a second. Then he picked it up and held it close to his face, observing every detail on the front cover before flipping it over and doing the same for the back. He took his right thumb and poked a hole in the plastic shrink wrap. Slowly, he peeled it off until the book was free. He held the book in his left hand and ran his right thumb across the outside edge of the pages. He opened the book randomly to a spot near the middle and lifted it so that it was just in front of him at a height slightly below his chin. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if the words on the page were smoldering incense at an altar to an unknown deity.

He laid the book on the table and opened it to the first page of the text. He read a couple of paragraphs to himself. Then he turned to the last page and found the final paragraph. He glanced up at Stanley for a second, who nodded at him with his hands folded in front of him like a student waiting to see if he passed his final.

Westmoreland straightened his back and drew the book closer to him as he began to read: “I sit here in this prison cell like Jonah in the belly of the whale. But I am not in this prison because I am running from God, but because I am running to him. He has brought me to this hour, and I have given myself over to his power. I will serve him so long as he gives me breath. My fellow Christian Militants please join me in God’s Struggle to bring in his kingdom, the New Israel, and mankind’s next best hope. Amen.”

He closed the book for a second, then opened the front jacket, took a pen from his pocket and inscribed the words, “Delivered to me in prison by my friend, Stanley Nussbaum, on the day of its first publication.” Below the inscription, he signed, “J. Franklin Westmoreland.”

“Stanley, what can I say? It is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

“It is in the stores this morning, Frank. People are lined up around the block trying to buy not just one copy, but as many as they can get their hands on. I have the printers working around the clock. At the rate things are going, you will put J.K. Rowling to shame.” Nussbaum could hardly contain his excitement.

Suddenly, his mood turned somber.

“But I am worried about the movement, Frank.”

“What is troubling you?” Westmoreland asked.

“It’s your right hand man, Martinez. Are you sure you should give him free rein at this stage of the operation? I’m afraid his loyalty to you may diminish as more Christian Militants swoon over him. It’s awfully hard for a young man to tune out the siren songs of ambition,” Nussbaum said.

“I’ve given it much thought over the last weeks,” Westmoreland said. “I think we need to watch him carefully, but there is little I can do from this jail.”

“This book plus the raid at Shiloh will keep you in the public eye ’til we can get you out of here. I’ll handle your PR while you’re confined,” Nussbaum said.

Westmoreland got a strange look on his face as though he hadn’t understood Nussbaum’s words.

“What raid on Shiloh? I didn’t order anything like that,” Westmoreland said. “What the hell is going on?”

In a fit of rage, he grabbed the book and hurled it as hard as he could at the far wall of the room. Both men watched as it hit with a thud and fell to the floor splayed open, its binding split down the middle.

THE CHRISTIAN MILITANT
flag furled in the wind on top of the flagpole near the visitor center at Shiloh National Military Park. No one had seen it before, but its crimson background was unmistakable. A golden cross motif separated the flag into segments. In the upper right corner was a nail-pierced hand; in the lower right quadrant, the same hand held a sword. The golden fringe was reminiscent of royalty, a concept alien to the working class people who fueled the movement with donations from their Social Security checks. Emblazoned in the flag’s background, as a foundation for everything else, were the letters CM.

From the first day of the raid, on-lookers descended on Shiloh by the hundreds, if not thousands, only to find the two-lane access road blocked for miles in both directions by the U.S. military, which seemed content to wait things out. The Coast Guard did the same thing along the stretch of the Tennessee River that bordered the national military park. Soon the press began to call it “The Siege at Shiloh.”

Bass Whitfield was worried about comparisons between his handling of the Shiloh Siege and the fiasco with David Koresh near Waco.