Jason couldn’t do anything but forge ahead. “Yes, I believe he was wearing garments.”
Masterson stood up abruptly and the bishopric followed suit.
“Gentlemen, this is a problem,” Masterson gloated. “We may need some time to pray about this and talk more with the stake president. Maybe we should call Church headquarters.”
As the men filed out, Masterson made sure he was last out the door. He turned back and quietly took at parting shot at Jason and Jeff.
“You aren’t the only ones around here with guns, you know.”
“That man is a threat to everyone,” Jeff fumed, pointing a thick finger at the door.
“This is my ‘ten acres.’ Let me handle it,” Jason argued.
Jeff held up his hands, “So we’re not counting on the ward for anything, right? No men from them. Right?”
“I think all we can expect for now is more hand-wringing,” Jason agreed. “Those guys are going to delay until it’s too late. Move the barricades down the hill and keep recruiting from outsiders.”
“Started yesterday.” Jeff wasn’t a man to wait for anyone’s say-so.
Jeff stood on a bluff overlooking the main road, Vista View Boulevard, from the backyard of one of the McMansions. The owners had disappeared, probably staying with family or “bugging out” somewhere. He saw that more and more these days.
Jeff considered this road the greatest likelihood of attack. It was one of three major roads climbing to the neighborhood around the Homestead. If you drew a line from the population centers of Salt Lake City directly to the Homestead, this road fell exactly on that line.
There were six other streets that reached up to the Homestead, but those streets would force an attacker to fight through a mile or more of neighborhood—burning time and ammunition. Jeff ordered his men to set up permanent barricades on all six connecting streets, and he had three QRFs ready to pounce if anyone tried to advance up those residential streets. He could focus his main effort on Vista View Boulevard.
Nine times out of ten, a soldier could count on people traveling established paths. Men felt somehow safer, more in control, when using the clearest and easiest route. Human psychology betrayed a man in numerous ways. The United States trained Jeff, over decades, to exploit them all.
Capitalizing on lines of natural drift was Ambush 101, in the Encyclopedia of American Ass Kicking. From the bluff where he stood, Jeff could rake an attacking force with fire. He would have to design blocking positions and counter-flanking positions on the road itself. The more he looked at it, the happier he felt. This road served up strong advantages. He would have to sucker an attacking force into committing itself here if at all possible. Even then, no experienced military commander would fall for it.
Jeff knew to prepare for the most obvious attack first. Later today, he would figure out how he would assault this area if he were the enemy, and then he would concoct defensive plans against those assaults as well.
Jeff climbed back aboard his OHV and drove down to the lower barricade at the bottom of the hill. He had ordered a tent erected and a dry erase board set up.
“Will Trade Bread for Work as Security Guard.”
“Looking for: former military, trained in firearms, tradesmen (wood, metal work, mechanical).”
One of his men, an old Marine named Carl, interviewed potential soldiers from the tent city that had sprung up below the barricade. A line of men stretched over a hundred yards, waiting to be interviewed.
Jeff popped into the back of the tent. Carl was in the middle of an interview. The old Marine sat facing a moderately fat man, balding, wearing dirty khaki pants and a filthy polo shirt.
“Where did you receive your firearms training?” Carl sighed, apparently having the same conversation for the umpteenth time that day.
The man pulled at his collar. “I’ve been a lifelong hunter and my brother-in-law is a highway patrolman. He took me out shooting many times.”
“Okay,” Carl said. “Please clear and safe this.” He handed the man a beat-up Glock handgun.
Sweat sprung from the man’s brow. He took the Glock from Carl, looked at it from a variety of angles, sweeping himself, Carl and Jeff with the barrel. He pressed the magazine release and dropped the mag into his lap. With his free hand, he picked up the mag.
“It’s empty and safe.” The man looked at Carl and Jeff with obvious hope.
“Thank you for waiting in line. I’m sorry. You’re not what we’re looking for.” Carl looked down at the clipboard in front of him, abandoning the man’s eyes.
“I can learn. I can learn anything real fast. I managed people at the largest call center in the state. I was a senior director. Give me a chance,” he pleaded.
“I’m sorry. Please respect my decision.” Carl looked up and shouted, “Next man, please.”
Another man, younger than the first, but equally as unlikely, stepped into the tent.
“Hold up,” Jeff interrupted. “Can you give us a minute?”
The next interviewee stepped back outside and the bald man stood up, defeated. He handed Carl the empty Glock.
“My family has nothing to eat. You’ve got to give me a chance. My kids are hungry.” The man switched from begging to anger in a split second. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Give me some bread for my family.”
Jeff and Carl looked at the man, and then at each other. Unless the man had a bomb under his polo shirt, he wasn’t a physical threat to either of them.
“Stop,” Jeff warned. “Just leave before you earn yourself a broken arm.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. He turned and walked out of the tent.
“Jesus,” Jeff swore, turning back to Carl.
“It’s been like that all day.” Carl looked down at his clipboard. “I’ve only found six guys out of maybe two hundred who could fight their way out of a Ziploc bag.”
“Why are you asking for woodworkers, metal workers and mechanics?” Jeff pointed at the dry erase board outside.
“I added that because I’ve talked to guys all morning and only found one guy who could clear and safe that gun without looking like a goddamned Girl Scout. Hell, at this point, I’d take a Girl Scout. I added the wood and metalwork thing because I figured I could at least train someone who worked with their hands. All I’ve been getting are cubicle monkeys and human resource managers with expertise in the Equal Opportunity Employment Act.” Carl had to look down at his clipboard for that one. “So far, most of the guys I’ve had in here who are worth a damn don’t speak English.”
Jeff thought about that for a second. “Most of the guys I’ve trained over my career didn’t speak English. I suppose I would need to speak Spanish, right?”
“Si, Boss.”
“No hablo Español,” Jeff said, still thinking. “Okay, let’s change your board. Get rid of ‘trained in firearms’ and add ‘farm work, welder, auto body, and mechanical maintenance.’ Getting rid of the firearms thing should cut down on creampuffs who think they’re outdoorsmen. Maybe add ‘law enforcement,’ too. I’ll send someone else down so two of you can interview at the same time.”
Jeff’s radio crackled. “Crandall to Jeff, over.”
Jeff had his own assigned frequency. The hand-held radios pinged off the repeater at the Homestead so he could talk to his crew anywhere on the hill with perfect fidelity.
“Jeff, over.”
“Something odd’s going on here on the ridge. It looks like a deliberate push. Six to twelve men, and they’re ignoring our warning shots. Over.”