"Something's in the wind, some sort of operation."
"Any clues?"
"Not really, but John wants me to start training on the Barrett's rifle tomorrow morning."
"Damn," Harry said. "What the hell are they going to do with that thing?"
"When I find out, I'll let you know," Ham said.
"I think this is a scary development," Holly interjected. "The idea that they might actually shoot that gun at something or somebody is terrifying."
"Tell me about this oath," Harry said.
"Well, it pretty much called for me to hand them my ass on a platter, and if I do something they don't like, they have my permission to shoot me."
"Swell," Holly said.
"Harry, did you get the scrambled cell phone?"
"It'll be here tomorrow morning, and you can pick it up tomorrow evening."
"I'm getting to the point where I really want a way to communicate," Ham said.
"Well," Eddie put in, "you can always go into Peck's study and talk to the ceiling. We'll be listening."
"Are you getting real-time transmissions?"
"As far as we know," Eddie said. "Who knows what those spooks at NSA are doing with this stuff. There may be some sort of delay piping down here to us."
"Can we find out? That's something I'd really like to know."
"I'll try," Harry said, "but those boys and girls don't talk much."
"Who else is hearing it besides us?" Doug asked.
"Hell, I don't know," Harry replied. "They could be playing it in the NSA cafeteria, for all I know. My guess would be that the attorney general is getting at least a digest of what's being said, and certainly, the director, but I asked for it to be as closely held as possible."
"Oh, by the way, the group has a name."
"What is it?"
"The Elect, and by telling you, I've just made myself eligible for a bullet in the brain."
"We came up with that name in the militia database. Now, who wants pizza and who wants Chinese?"
44
The following morning Ham packed a large duffel with clothing, including several fatigue shirts. He was going to have to sew that microphone button on a different shirt every day, he reflected. He had grown to hate and fear the recorder in his boot. It was too damn hard to turn on and off, and it had already nearly gotten him caught. He wished he had complained about it to Harry and made them get him something simpler to use. He resolved not to use it again, unless he absolutely had to.
He packed his cell phone and charger into the duffel, and as an afterthought, included a bottle of Wild Turkey. He had a feeling he was going to need a drink every now and then, if he had to start living with those people.
He drove out to the lake and found Peck.
"I expect you want to draw the Barrett's rifle and some ammo," Peck said.
"Right."
"Follow me." Peck led the way into the house, to an innocuous-looking door that turned out to lead to a cellar. Cellars weren't big in Florida, and Ham thought they must have gone to a lot of trouble to waterproof it.
The cellar turned out to be quite something, bigger than the house it served. There was a pistol-shooting range, several storerooms and what could only be described as an arsenal. "Wow," he said, when Peck opened the door.
"Yep, we're pretty well equipped, aren't we?"
Ham spotted assault weapons, grenades, shoulder-mounted antiaircraft missiles, antitank weapons and cases of handguns. Peck selected the Barrett's rifle case from a group of four. "Grab that ammunition box," he said to Ham.
Ham shouldered the 500-round box and followed Peck up the stairs, out of the house and into the sunshine. Peck put the rifle in the back of Ham's truck and got in. "We'll drive," he said.
Ham put the ammunition into the truckbed and got behind the wheel. "To the range?" he asked, starting the engine.
"Past the range," Peck replied. "I'll direct you."
Ham drove off down the dirt track that ran past the shooting range and into the woods behind.
"You know, Ham," Peck said, "you're moving very fast in this organization."
"I am?"
"You certainly are. We have a process for recruiting new members that normally takes a year or more, depending on the man. But you came to us whole, ready to go; it was like a miracle. Your army service and experience made you perfect for us, and your personal beliefs already matched ours. I want to tell you that John is absolutely delighted with you. I've never seen him so happy with a new man."
"Well, that makes me feel good," Ham said.
"I don't mind telling you that it took me a good three years to be trusted by my superiors the way John trusts you."
"I don't know anything about the structure of the organization," Ham said. "Is John the top man?"
"As much as anyone is," Peck replied. "We have a leadership made up of a council, and I guess you could say that John is the de facto head of the council."
"He's a very impressive man," Ham said.
"That's why the council trusts him. John is a brilliant planner, but a cautious one. He knows how quickly a bungled operation can bring this whole thing down on our heads, and he's intolerant of error. I can tell you that he's been planning our next operation for the better part of a year."
"What sorts of operations have you been doing in the past?" Ham asked.
"You don't want to know that just yet," Peck replied. "Too much information is not a good thing when you're new to the group. I can tell you that the operations are roughly divided into three categories: training, infiltration and what you might call fund-raising. All these are aimed at supporting operational work; you can't bring off a successful operation without all those things lined up and working."
"How do you raise funds, from the members?"
Peck smiled. "Let's just say we go to outside sources. Take a left here."
Ham turned left at a fork in the road and shortly they came to a long, narrow strip of grass. "You could fly an airplane into here," he said.
"And we do," Peck replied, nodding toward a large metal building beside the strip that had been painted in camouflage colors. "John's airplane is in there, and we get occasional other visitors, too. But the really nice thing about the strip for you is that it gives you four thousand feet clear for shooting. Stop right here." Peck got out of the truck, went into the hangar through a small door and came back with a roll of paper under his arm, "Drive down to the other end of the strip," he said.
Ham did as he was told, then he helped Peck tack targets to the trees. They were of different sizes and shapes, some were silhouettes of men.
Ham drove back to the other end of the landing strip and parked the truck. Peck took the big leather case from the truckbed and opened it. Inside were the Barrett's rifle, an aluminum tripod, some cleaning equipment and half a dozen ammunition dips.
"Let's do some loading," Peck said. He opened the ammunition box, grabbed a handful of cartridges, set them on the truck's tailgate and began loading clips.
Ham helped him. "Six-cartridge clips," he said.
"If you haven't hit what you're shooting at by the time you've fired half a dozen times, you'll have attracted enough attention to yourself that it's time to run, anyway," Peck explained. "I suggest one clip in the weapon and one in your pocket, when you're working."
They finished loading the clips. Peck set up the tripod, and screwed it into a receptacle on the rifle. "It's not exactly a handheld weapon," he said. "Not for the kind of accuracy we're looking for. When you don't have a tripod, you have to find some way to brace the thing." He handed Ham a pair of foam earplugs, put some in his own ears, then stepped back and indicated that Ham was to proceed.
Ham worked the action a couple of times to be sure it was smooth, then he shoved a clip into the rifle and worked a cartridge into the chamber. He stepped up to the weapon, sighted down the barrel, then stepped back and raised the tripod a couple of inches.
"That's right, you're tall," Peck said.