Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series (2 page)

Sam had retired from the Army four months before. His ex-boss on the task force, General Paul Gerber, the deputy chief of operations for the Army, had persuaded him to go undercover and apply for a job with an international business conglomerate.

Gerber had hammered on Sam to convince him of the urgency of this mission. Sam had resisted because he’d planned to spend more time with his daughter, but he’d caved in when the general had shown him a classified Department of Defense intelligence summary, which earmarked the conglomerate as a key supplier of weapons and training to militias throughout the country. The Patriots had been singled out because of possible ties to a foreign terrorist organization.

On the icy road, Thorpe stopped the SUV and opened his window to listen. The crunching of snow signaled the movement of a small animal, probably a squirrel. Other than the wind whistling through the trees, no other sounds reached him. He consulted his strip map once more, then followed the gray, wooden fence that paralleled the road, watching for hotspots— any colors or shapes that didn’t belong in the woods. If there were cameras, they were well hidden.

The road led to a farmhouse built of Pennsylvania field stone across the yard from a dirty-white barn. The farmhouse’s green roof had lost several of its shingles, and the barn hadn’t seen a coat of paint since pioneer days. The barn’s stone foundation had crumbled, and weeds lined the base. He had expected spartan working conditions, but here it looked as though he’d entered a time warp, the arrow set on 1910.

Sam steered the Explorer to the front of the farmhouse and climbed out. Other than an industrious, red-bellied woodpecker tapping on a nearby sycamore tree, he heard no sounds of life.

He climbed the six wooden steps, picking his way around the cracked boards and up to the porch, then pounded on the door. No one answered. He pounded again and peeked inside the window, stained with paint and fogged with the grunge of time. Had he misread the directions?

He picked his way back down the rotted stairs. When the door creaked, he stopped and turned.

A gray-haired woman in a faded blue dress and white apron stood behind the tattered screen door. “May I help you?” The woman spoke with an eastern European accent. She patted the tight bun on the back of her head.

“I’m looking for General Quentin Oliver.”

“And who are you?” Her fingers fidgeted with the edges of her apron.

“Sam Thorpe. I’m scheduled to meet with him.”

She pointed. “He’s out in the barn.”

Sam pointed at the rundown building. “In that barn?” She had already shut the door, leaving him standing at the base of the stairs.

He surveyed the area, scanning the yard in grids, his eyes searching for anything out of the ordinary. Where would the hidden cameras be? The newer ones were so small that they were hard to spot.

Sam slid across the icy barnyard toward the old white building. He couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching him.

There was a double door at the near end of the barn, large enough to accommodate a tractor pulling a trailer. He decided to scope things out—walk around to the back—before trying the door.

When he turned the far corner of the barn, he sensed movement behind him, then felt the barrel of a rifle in his back.

“Who are you?” a male voice asked.

“Sam Thorpe. Who the hell are you?”

“None of your fucking business. Why are you here?”

“To meet with General Oliver.”

Those must have been the magic words because the gun barrel disengaged from Sam’s back. A hand pulled on his shoulder. Sam turned and found himself face to face with a man less than six feet tall, but solidly built, with broad shoulders. He was dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and a black helmet liner. Wraparound sunglasses covered his eyes.

His nametag read
Bacher.
The rank on his collar was that of a sergeant first class.

“What’s going on, Sergeant Bacher?” Sam asked.

The man did not reply but nodded to his left. Sam followed him back around to the front of the barn. The man slid the door to one side to reveal a second door, this one of heavy oak. “Open the door, Colonel.”

Sam paused with his hand on the doorknob, then turned the knob and pushed.

Elizabeth Henley sat on the edge of her desk in front of her freshman history class at McGill University. She waited for one of her students to answer her question, but she was greeted with blank stares and, of course, Billy Martin wiggling down in his chair to peek up her skirt.

“All right, I’ll repeat the question. What were the factors that led to the vote on the separation of Quebec from Canada?”

Molly Packard raised her hand, but Elizabeth decided to shake Billy out of his fantasy world. “Billy.”

Billy moved his eyes from her legs up to her face. “Ah, yeah?”

The rest of the class giggled as Billy’s face reddened.

Elizabeth walked the few steps to his desk. “Were you listening to me?”

He looked at the floor. “I guess not as well as I should have.”

“You may gather up your books and leave. I’ll write a note and let the dean handle this.”

“Please … my father will kill me.”

“You should have thought of that earlier.” She pointed toward the door. “Now leave the classroom immediately.”

Billy gathered his books and ambled toward the door, glancing back over his shoulder with a look asking for a reprieve—but none came.

“All right, Molly. What is your answer?”

Molly stood. “The Catholic Church was the central organizational entity in Quebec until the Quiet Revolution in 1960.”

“What was the Quiet Revolution?” Elizabeth asked.

Molly’s face brightened with her smile. “Prior to the election of 1960, Maurice Duplessis was the prime minister of Quebec. In 1960, Jean Lesage was elected. The Quiet Revolution took place during his tenure from 1960 to 1966.”

“That’s right, Molly.” A movement caught her eye. James reached over and tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him. “James, why is this important?”

James looked like the proverbial kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “Ah, would you ask that question again, Ms. Henley?”

The bell rang, announcing the end of the period. James seemed to sag in his chair.

“You’re lucky, James.” She glanced toward Molly. “Thank you, Molly. We’ll continue this next period.”

While the students gathered their books, Elizabeth walked to the front of the classroom. She turned to face the students. “I’d advise you all to review this area because it will be the focus of our midterm exam in two weeks. James, I suggest you study up because I’ll begin with you the next time we meet.”

She watched the students file out, then sat down at her desk, leaned back, and shut her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well. The nightmares flooded her mind night after night, blocking any chance of rest. And these silly boys frustrated her. They grew up to be stupid men who ended up taking over the government.

The door handle clicked. She opened her eyes to see the professor enter the room, his round face beaming. He leaned over to kiss her cheek and whispered, “The call we’ve been waiting for has come. It’s time.”

She glanced away, relief flooding her. She had waited so long. Now revenge was at hand. She smiled for the first time that day.

W
hen Sam opened the oak door, he stood in stunned silence. Hanging swag lamps lit the room. An indoor-outdoor brown carpet covered much of the floor. Warmth from a number of space heaters located strategically around the walls permeated the room.

A rectangular conference table, capable of seating about twenty people, stood in the far left corner of the room. Two twenty-plus-inch televisions had been mounted in the opposite wall—one now tuned to CNN and the other to CSPAN. The anchor on CNN was talking about the impact of the recent blizzard on the stock market.

One of General Oliver’s minions, a man Sam knew only as Popeye, beckoned to him. “Over here, Thorpe.”

Sergeant Bacher saluted Popeye, did an about-face, and marched back toward the outside door.

Sam walked across the room. A quick glance didn’t reveal any security cameras.

Popeye placed an identification card in a scanner. The door next to it opened, and he motioned Sam through the entryway.

“Hello, Sam.” General Oliver leaned back in the black leather chair and stretched out his legs on a footstool. His starched fatigues looked like cardboard, and the shine on his combat boots reflected the flames in the fireplace. “Sit down,” he ordered sharply.

A television set mounted in the far wall displayed the yard Sam had just crossed. He tried to visualize where the camera had been hidden.
How many more are scattered around the area?
he wondered. He’d need to be more alert.

Oliver blew a smoke ring from his Havana cigar. He held his glass in the air and gazed at it as if it were an old friend. “Johnny Walker Red. Nothing else worth drinking. Want one, Colonel Thorpe?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

Popeye filled a black mug and handed it to Sam. A flag printed in red on the side of the mug showed a rattlesnake curled, ready to strike. The words
The Patriots
curved above it in block letters.

Popeye’s large hands seemed disproportionate against his five-foot, six- or seven-inch frame. A full head of white hair tapered over the back of his collar, and his white sideburns met the bushy moustache that curled down around his mouth. His blue eyes, deep set in that sea of white, gave him the look of a cherub. Sam knew better than to trust that cheery face.

“Thanks.” Sam sat in one of the black leather chairs, Oliver on one side of him and Popeye standing at parade rest on the other.

An ornately carved wooden gun rack displayed an assortment of shotguns and rifles over the stone fireplace. A pair of crossed Civil War swords decorated the adjoining wall.

Sam fancied himself a student of the Civil War. “Those swords are beauties. Are they originals?”

“I’m proud of them.” Oliver pointed at one and said, “I bought that one at an auction. It belonged to General Stonewall Jackson.”

Sam nodded his approval and continued to look around. Several oil paintings of famous battles hung around the walls. The scenes in the paintings ranged from the Revolutionary War to the present. Many of them featured Marine units.

General Oliver handed his empty glass to Popeye. “Get me another scotch.”

Popeye snapped to attention as if he were spring-loaded. “Yes, sir.”

Oliver fingered the rack of pipes on the end table next to him. The pipe stems were well chewed.

Pictures of Oliver from his Marine Corps career decorated the wall behind the bar—change of command photos, promotion photos, pictures of Oliver fishing and hunting, and even one picture of him with a woman Sam figured to be his wife.

Oliver accepted the glass from Popeye and turned to Sam. “How long were you in the Army?”

“Twenty-five years.” Sam took a sip of his coffee as he continued to look around the room.

Oliver had the irritating habit of tipping his head back when he spoke so he appeared to be talking down to people. Sam’s father had done the same thing during his many lectures years ago.

“Why did you retire early?”

“It was time.” Sam crossed his legs and straightened the crease on his fatigues.

General Oliver sipped his scotch. “You served in Iraq.”

Sam debated how much to tell Oliver. “I wanted to honor those who died in the World Trade Center bombing, so I volunteered for the operation in Iraq.”

Sam’s voice carried some of his pride. “I led one of our brigade task force elements into Baghdad. Damn heady experience. Thought it would make a difference, but I realized we were causing more problems than we were solving. The average Iraqi hated us. We hadn’t changed their lives for the better. As a matter of fact, some of the international fellows from my class at the Army War College who were from the Middle East wouldn’t speak to me anymore.”

“You were quite a football player at the University of Minnesota.”

“I did okay.”

“And your younger days? In Minnesota too?

“Yes.” No way would Sam tell Oliver about being moved from foster home to foster home, ending up at a military school for delinquent boys.

Oliver nodded. “If you worked in the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations’ office and were a brigade commander, you were probably on the fast track to general. And you gave that up on a point of principle? Admirable, but misplaced.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, thinking,
This clown would be a bitch to deal with.

Oliver smiled, seemingly pleased with Sam’s frustration. “I understand you worked training issues.”

Sam nodded.

“And the task force?”

Sam took another sip of coffee to cover his surprise that Oliver knew about his participation on the Pentagon’s anti-terrorist task force. “Only one of many jobs.”

“No secrets among retirees, Sam.”

“How long have you commanded the militia?”

Oliver made eye contact with Sam. “You don’t know?”