Suddenly, Jericho lifts one leg and slams his combat boot down on Matthew’s instep. The man howls in pain, and Jericho clotheslines him with a forearm to the Adam’s apple.
Jericho slips behind Matthew, works both hands up under his arms and locks them behind his head in a full nelson. An illegal maneuver in both Greco-Roman and Olympic freestyle, but not in West Virginny. Arms straining, the veins standing out on his neck, Jericho pushes forward, bending Matthew’s head close to the old stove and the french fry vat. Matthew’s eyes are wide open, and he sees the boiling oil grow larger until it fills his range of vision, the same view Icarus must have had on his way to the sun.
Matthew tries to pitch to the right, but Jericho braces his leg and won’t allow himself to be thrown off. Matthew tries to buck his head backward and smash Jericho in the face, but the grip on his neck is too strong.
“Say your prayers,” Jericho says through gritted teeth, pushing Matthew’s head closer to the scalding oil.
“I’m not afraid to die,” Matthew rasps.
“If you help me,” Jericho says, “I’ll let you go.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” Matthew hisses, his voice weakening.
“C’mon! Help me stop Brother David. He’s a madman. You must know that.”
“He’s the savior,” Matthew says through clenched teeth.
“Good, ‘cause you’re going to need him.” Jericho pushes harder, and Matthew’s face is close enough to the vat to feel the sizzle of the boiling oil.
“Go to hell,” Matthew rasps.
“After you!” Jericho gives a last lunge, dunking Matthew’s head into the bubbling oil, holding him under. “If I were you, I’d cut back on the fried foods,” he says, helpfully.
Ker-click. The unmistakable cocking of a shotgun.
Jericho looks around, sees another commando in the doorway pointing the Remington 870 at him. He pushes Matthew toward the man, takes two steps and dives into the well of the grease pit just as a shotgun blast tears a chunk out the wall above his head.
-40-
The Father and the Son
In the STRATCOM War Room, the Big Board blinks with blueprints of the missile silo and schematic cross-sections of the launch control capsule, the sump, and the sleeping quarters/galley. General Corrigan and Colonel Farris are joined by Army Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Griggs. The officers plus FBI Agent Hurtgen stand over a sprawling diorama of the 318th Missile Squadron base.
Colonel Farris uses an elbow to put himself between Griggs and General Corrigan. Farris would like to keep this an Air Force operation and the last thing he wants is Army Special Ops coming in and saving his ass. “Sir, we could zip a smart bomb right down that silo. Bingo! No more missile.”
“Bingo,” General Corrigan says softly, “no more hostages.”
“Yep,” Griggs says, using a sidestep to get back in the general’s field of vision. “When the rocket fuel blows, count on a hundred per cent kill ratio in a thousand meter radius. And that’s if there’s no nuclear reaction. If they can arm the missile and you get yourself a nuke flash, well… ”
“So, our smart bomb isn’t so smart after all,” the general says.
“Sir,” Griggs says, “if I could make a suggestion. We could drop Delta Force down the elevator shaft with a simultaneous descent into the open silo and secure the area in less than five minutes.”
“Casualties?” the general asks.
Agent Hurtgen clears his throat. “The Psych Pro leaves no doubt that Morning Star, that is, David Morton, will execute the hostages at the first shot.”
Lieutenant Colonel Griggs nods in agreement. “That’s a given cost of the operation.”
General Corrigan takes it in. “So the President tells the world, ‘Sorry, we just killed the U.N.’s non-proliferation team to take back an ICBM we don’t need from a nut who probably couldn’t launch it or detonate its warheads.’”
“But that’s not the worst case scenario, sir,” Agent Hurtgen says.
“No, it isn’t,” the general agrees. “Worst case scenario, he can launch the damn thing.”
“And if he has the ability, the experts say he’ll do it,” Hurtgen adds. “The middle ground is that, failing the ability to launch, he can still arm and detonate the ten warheads.”
“What are the projections on reasonable probability?”
“Fifty per cent on the ability to launch, fifty percent on the ability to detonate without a launch,” Hurtgen says.
“The D.I.A. concurs, sir,” Colonel Farris says.
“Fifty per cent. “You pick’em. General Corrigan shows a sad smile. “You know, I’ve been in the Air Force thirty-six years.”
“Yes, sir,” chorus Farris, Griggs and Hurtgen.
“All of them with distinction,” Colonel Farris adds, polishing the general’s apple.
“Including half-a-dozen years in that five-sided building where there are more asswipes than toilets,” General Corrigan adds, eying all three men.
“Yes, sir,” Griggs responds.
Colonel Farris, who spent two years in the Pentagon as an aide in U.S. Space Command, keeps quiet, not knowing where this is going.
“So cutting through the bullshit, gentlemen,” the general says, “what you’re telling me is that we don’t have the slightest idea what Mr. Morton can do.”
No one disagrees.
“And what you’re also telling me is that the bastard’s got Uncle Sam by the balls.”
Again, no dissent is heard.
As the general ponders the situation, a thin man of fifty with a close-cropped gray beard works his way through the semi-circle of officers. Colonel Farris sees the newcomer and waves him toward Hugh Corrigan. “General, I don’t think you’ve met Dr. Rosen. He’s the expert on eschatology.”
Blank looks greet that announcement.
“End times study,” Dr. Rosen explains. “Doomsday cults, the apocalypticists.”
The general gives him the once over. Dr. Stuart Rosen wears rumpled gray trousers and a navy blue sport coat. He’s balding on top and tries to conceal it with back-to-front brushstrokes that look like a wheat field plowed by a drunken farmer.
“I’ve also handled hostage negotiations for the Bureau,” Dr. Rosen adds, “which is serendipitous, is it not?”
General Corrigan hates rhetorical questions and has little use for psychiatrists so he ignores the question and instead, asks one of his own. “Who the hell are these nuts, anyway?”
“Just the latest in a long line, I’m afraid,” Dr. Rosen says. “Cults in this country go back to the Shakers and the Hutterites. They’re mostly benign, but once in a while, you’ll get a Jim Jones or David Koresh. There is an interesting twist in this case. According to some of his dropouts, Brother David has psychic powers.”
“You mean he claims to have… ”
“They gave concrete examples of his ability to ‘see’ things in their past, things no one else could know. Apparently, it was quite convincing.”
The general is incredulous. “That’s how this crackpot got his followers to attack a missile base, with an Amazing Kreskin routine?”
Dr. Rosen scratches at his beard and says, “Oh, I’m sure that helped. But cults have been seducing followers for hundreds of years with far more basic techniques. The indoctrination methods are amazingly similar, whether you’re dealing with Moonies, Hare Krishnas, or apocalyptic groups. They prey on what they call ‘sheepy’ people, depressed, borderline antisocial, lonely rejected types in search of a family. Folks with low self esteem, impressionable and malleable, some truly schizophrenic. They’re looking to a leader to solve all their problems, and indeed, all the world’s problems. They have a sense of incompleteness, maybe even self hatred.”