Firepower, John Cutter [best summer reads .txt] 📗

glow to shine again as clouds rushed past it. Vince was standing outside the compound, one of a row of men in paramilitary uniforms, each of them pointing a long silvery cop flashlight upward, shining beams of light at the sky in lieu of torches.

But real torches, their flames guttering in the late October wind, were emerging from the gate of the compound. They were carried by twenty-one Brethren who’d come that morning from across the Southeast to take part in the ritual. The men, all in uniform, paraded out through the gate and moved to the other side of the access road, so they stood across from Vince’s row. A wooden dais was carried into place in the gate, whereupon the three Shield Maidens stepped up onto it. They wore Valkyrie-style costumes, with wings and Viking regalia. Backlit, they sang through wireless throat mics along to canned German music. The words were German. They looked quite solemn.

Deirdre could have been an actress, Vince thought.

A spotlight struck the flagpole as the American flag was drawn down, and another flag went up: the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging, a triskelion formed of three number sevens, black on a white circle; a wheel of sevens around a central point. It wasn’t a swastika but the triskelion had that gruesome panache.

Nazi assholes, Vince thought. But the expression on his face was reverent.

Gustafson took the dais next, reading in German from Nietzsche, then from Mein Kampf and from the lyrics to the Ring of the Nibelung. Vince had just enough German to work out the source material.

It seemed to go on and on.

Then Gustafson addressed them directly, his voice booming from the public address system. “Brethren! Shield Maidens! Heed me! Soon, the great movement will begin! The world will change — beginning with this nation! The way has been prepared! Our people are everywhere! It will only take a spark and spark will light a torch! Torch will light torch and the greatness of America will return! The White Man will rise once more to his rightful place! Power will arise from fire! And fire will bring us power! Do you heed me?”

“We heed you!” the men roared in response.

“Do you feel the fire in your bellies?”

“Yes!”

“Do you feel the power of the fire?

“Yes!”

“Will you take the torch when the call comes?”

“We will!”

“Now — we will feast! We will gather in the courtyard, where victuals are laid out for our late supper. Beer will flow like fellowship and fellowship like beer! Bring your torches, electrical and fiery, through the gate, and they will be collected. Let the feast begin!”

The celebrants cheered at that, and Vince marched with them through the gateway, where they handed in their flashlights and torches and headed for the tables set out to both sides.

Vince got a paper plate of food and mingled. He stood there, toying with his food and listening, close to the beer barrels, hoping someone in the know would get drunk enough to talk about Operation Firepower in his hearing. As he ate, he heard the Brethren mostly talking about how big their four by four trucks were and what football teams to bet on. Then Gustafson was there, laying his hand on Vince’s arm.

He drew Vince aside. “Vincent — your mission takes place tonight.”

“Yes sir?”

“Yes… In fact, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut your celebration short. Mac and Gunny Hansen will escort you to the roof of this complex — all the way on the top of the ridge. There is something you haven’t seen there. It’s quite well hidden. A helipad!”

“Who’s flying it, General?”

“Marco is a skilled heli pilot. He’s already up there. Your weapons and the briefing material on your target await you in the helicopter. Mac will go along.”

“I don’t think I want anyone underfoot during the operation, sir.”

“He’ll remain on the heli. And now…”

Mac Colls and Gunny Hansen, both armed with Glocks, stepped grimly up to them.

“Let’s go, Bellator,” Mac said brusquely.

Glad he had his combat knife with him, Vince followed them into the bunker and up many flights of metal stairs to a steel door. Colls unlocked it and they went up another three flights to a steel ladder built into a concrete wall. It rose to an open trap door.

Colls called out, “Sergeant Colls coming up with two!”

“Come ahead!” called someone above.

Colls climbed the ladder, and Vince followed.

They emerged in an emplacement, a steel and concreted semi-cupola, overlooking the compound and the land beyond.

Turning to look east, through the open back of the emplacement, Vince could see the silhouette of a twin-turbine H225 rotorcraft. It was one big chopper…

“Get aboard, Bellator,” Colls said.

*

The big helicopter’s rotors hammered against the night sky as Vince gazed out the window at the moon-glimmed peaks of the southern Appalachian Mountains.

Vince was buckled into a seat on the forward port-side of the heli. Colls was just across the aisle from him. Marco was flying. Mac Colls glowered straight ahead.

No love there, Vince thought, amused. He’d like to see me fail in this mission. Or better yet — die.

Vince opened the briefing folder again, rechecking the map and “mission estimates”.

Estimated adversaries: four to six. Heavily armed. Uzis, assault rifles.

Primary mission: eliminate Dex Stirner. A photo of Stirner was included. Secondary mission: eliminate his men.

Gustafson’s got a lot of confidence in me, Vince thought ruefully.

Stirner was apparently in a farmhouse atop a hill just half a mile west of the Oostanaula River. There were no houses close by.

Vince’s loadout wasn’t bad. He had already inspected the FN-SCAR — light Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle — with six clips in a belt. Gustafson, as a civilian, wasn’t supposed to be able to have access to an FN-SCAR. Vince had used them extensively in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan