“Not the makings of a good army,” Colonel Farris chimes in.
“No, not at first. The conversion process begins with isolation from all past life and friends. They strip the newcomer of all possessions, even his or her name. Humiliation and guilt are used to dismember the former self. They indoctrinate and brainwash. They use sleeplessness and food deprivation combined with drug-induced hallucinations. I’d be surprised if our Brother David didn’t keep a healthy supply of LSD, mescaline, or psilocybin in the compound. Anyway, after they destroy the person that was, the convert gets a new identity, a new purpose in life.”
“To die?” the general asks, in wonderment.
“To die in a blaze of glory, and maybe to live forever,” Dr. Rosen says. That’s how they achieve the ultimate in sanctity. In a way, they’re similar to the Nazis in the 1930’s, who would be considered a cult by today’s standards. Hitler’s genius was that he saw that he could build a charismatic cult, not by promising creature comforts, but rather by promising struggle, danger and glorious death.”
The general shakes his head. “What about the specifics of dealing with our nut case?”
“Well, you’ve got the combination of two forces, end-time prophesy and millenarism, the predicted thousand-year reign of Christ. Many cults have been preparing for Judgment Day, engaging in ecstatic behavior through prayer, trances, hysteria, even paranoia. The Cargo Cults in Melanesia thought they could turn back colonization that way. So did the Paiute Indians not far from here.”
“What’s that got to do with Brother David.”
“Same modus operandi,” Dr. Rosen says. “All these cults traditionally regard contemporary morals and laws as irrelevant. The only thing that matters is the impending catastrophe, which to them is a glorious event. Before leading his cult to mass suicide, Jim Jones predicted a nuclear war in which only his followers would survive. David Koresh considered himself the Messiah, and an angry one at that.”
Dr. Rosen pulls out a notepad and reads from it. “‘I am your God and you will bow under my feet.’”
“I beg your pardon,” General Corrigan says.
“These were from Koresh’s final writings recovered after the conflagration in Waco. ‘I am your life and your death. Do you think you have power to stop My will? My seven thunders are to be revealed. Do you want me to laugh at your pending torments?’ Et cetera, et cetera. Anyway, you get the same drift from the Holy Church of Revelations. They have a charismatic leader, totally committed followers, and apparently no fear of death.”
“Oh, there is one difference,” the general says.
Dr. Rosen raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“These bastards have ten nuclear warheads.”
There’s a commotion at the back of the group. An aide approaches and nods toward a phone. “It’s Morning Star again, sir.”
“Speak of the devil,” the general says with a mournful smile.
The aide hits the button on a speaker phone and General Corrigan leans close to the microphone. “How are you, Mr. Morton?”
“Mr. Morton?” Amused and playful now. “You’re showing off, Hugh. Letting me know how clever you can be with a budget of just a few hundred billion. So you know who you’re up against. Only child of the famous Lionel Morton, but now just a poor country preacher with a handful of disciples. Taking on you and your minions must seem as foolish as challenging Pontius Pilate and the Legions of Rome.”
Behind the general, Dr. Rosen whispers, “Talk about delusions of grandeur.”
“I think it helps us both, Mr. Morton, to know who we’re dealing with,” the general says.
“I know what the Behavioral Science Unit must have told you. ‘Deny him his identity. Don’t feed his delusions. Make him play on our field.’”
General Corrigan kneads his knuckles into his forehead. The beginning of a four-aspirin headache. This David Morton is smart, cocky and dangerous, and he enjoys all three. Hugh Corrigan is pure military. He has covered his ass on funding, training, and deployment with the best of the Pentagon bullshitters and congressional budget cutters. He has eaten steaks and guzzled whiskey with the Armed Services Committee and remembers the names of their wives and mistresses — and never confuses them — even after a fifth round of drinks. But he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to deal with David Morton.
The general gestures toward Professor Lionel Morton, who motors over to the speaker phone, a gleam in his eye. “Why don’t you give it a try, professor?”
Morton leans close to the microphone. “Okay, Davy,” he says, his tone defiant and challenging. “Your childish dramatics have gotten my attention. So let’s get on with it.”
“Ah, the famous Professor Morton, scourge of academia, apologist for the Pentagon, unrepentant symbol of the military-industrial complex, and primary piglet sucking at the pork-barrel tit of the Air Force.” He lets his voice become childlike. “Hello Daddy.”
“Hello yourself, you self-centered, egomaniacal son-of-a-bitch.”
“Staring into a mirror can be so painfully revealing, eh Daddy?”
“This is all about me, isn’t it Davy?”
“It is ironic, Paterfamilias, that the world will remember you for what I shall do.”
“I’ve already made my mark, you little snot. You think you were reborn? Hell, I was reborn on July 13, 1948 when I saw the launch of an MX-774 at White Sands.”
“Sorry, Pops, but no one wants to hear of your past glories, not even your toady military friends.”
“What do you want, Davy?”
“I wanna be just like my Daddy,” David croons.
“You’re trying to be sarcastic, but you’re really telling the truth and don’t even know it. You didn’t think you could measure up, Davy. That’s why you became a nihilist or whatever the hell you are. I did things. I made things. I was there from the beginning, the Matador, the Snark, the Rascal and the Navaho. The Jupiter and the Thor. I built the Atlas and Titan, built them from the ground up! Damn you, do you know what that means?”
“No one cares, Daddy. No one even remembers their names. Or yours.”
The professor’s tone is mocking. “And what have you done?”
“I’ve seen the light,” David says. “And now I’ll act.”
“You’ll fail! Just like you failed at the Point. Just like you did at the Seminary. Maybe a bunch of losers and dead-head misfits think you’re the Second Coming. But I know you. I know what excites you and what frightens you. You’re the same little shit you always were, only your toys are more dangerous.”
“They’re your toys, daddy. I’m just borrowing them.”
“You always wanted what was mine. Well you couldn’t have your mother, and you can’t have my bomb! Not then, not now, not ever!”
Dr. Stuart Rosen tugs at General Corrigan’s sleeve and whispers, “I strongly advise against confrontation until the first four steps of persuasive reasoning have been attempted.”
The general ignores him, letting Professor Morton go on.
“You were a fuck-up then,” the professor says, “and you’re a fuck-up now… Oedipus!”
“Ah, there you go again, Daddy dearest. But let’s explore the analogy. I suppose I’m destined to kill you.”
“Then gouge your own eyes out,” the professor says. “Why not try that first?”
“No, Daddy, I won’t kill you, either. You must witness God’s work, his power as embodied in the missile and unleashed by me.”
“It’s my missile, Davy. You don’t have the slick code, and you can’t get it.”