Larry followed him outside. Neither of them spoke for a moment. The wind blew gravel dust into the air, and it stuck to the blood on Mark’s face.
“You know where to find Scott Shields if he really is still around here?”
“Yes.”
Mark looked up the road where Garland Webb had vanished. Everything was completely silent again, as if the crush of steel and exchange of gunfire had never happened at all. No car had passed. The countryside spread out vast and empty, the sun high.
“How far is Shields’s place from here?” Mark asked.
“Not very, but it’ll take a long time walking.”
“I guess we’ll need a car, then.”
“I haven’t forgotten how to acquire one when necessary.”
They walked back to the truck. Larry handed Mark the two rifles without comment, and then he took the shotgun and his duffel bag. He gave his truck one last sorrowful look but didn’t say a word.
They set off together down the dusty road.
49
Eli drove to Red Lodge after the morning council. The tribes were in motion, Jay Baldwin was behaving, and Garland Webb was in position to deal with Markus Novak if he actually appeared on the trail. Eli thought that unlikely, but it was good to have safeguards. For Garland’s sake, he hoped Novak actually made it through.
His only concern-that news of her son’s arrival might unsettle Violet and throw off the morning’s rituals-had not developed. Overall, there was nothing in the warm, sun-splashed morning that suggested harm, and there were only a few remaining tasks. He wished that Janell had arrived, but he was not worried by her absence. If there was anyone among them who could be trusted to handle a crisis, it was Janell.
He stopped at a café in Red Lodge that offered Wi-Fi, ordered a coffee, and set up in a back booth where prying eyes didn’t reach. He had a backpack with four tablets and five smartphones, and he had nine messages to send. The first, a text message to Jay Baldwin:
You are sick today. Call in early, Jay-it’s the courteous thing to do. And prepare your barehanding gear. Don’t forget the hot stick! Talk soon.
That done, he turned off the phone that had sent the message, withdrew a tablet, and set to work composing a longer, more emotional note. This one was his pet project, the most difficult of all the recruitment efforts, because he’d had to pose as the neophyte in need of convincing rather than the messenger. If the plan was effective, though, the rewards would be enormous.
Using an application called an Android emulator to mask his location and make it look as if he were posting from Seattle, he logged on to a locked social network. There his name was Fasiel, and he was a twenty-seven-year-old Web developer who had converted to Islam twenty months earlier. He had posted references to the vulnerability of Seattle’s electrical grid time and again, urging his brothers to take action. The level of trust in Fasiel seemed minimal, although he was subject to recruiting efforts-Eli’s post office box in Seattle, which was checked by one of the heavily armed men who had arrived this morning to provide security support at Wardenclyffe, had received everything from gift certificates to Islamic bookstores to a box of chocolates.
Now on to the most important messages, which Eli would write essentially in nine different languages. Each extremist group had a unique jargon with a shared constant-they all appropriated certain words, terms, or ideas that made them feel authentic. In the echo chambers of this online world, where people parroted one another and an original idea was not only discouraged but feared, it did not take long to learn how to join in the chorus.
My brothers, Fasiel wrote,
By dawn tomorrow you will be aware of a great action, praise be to Allah, the most merciful and most beneficent. The American crusaders will be struck by the Sword of Allah deep in their hearts, and it will cast terror across the Western lands, and from nation to nation his power will be known. I caution you that the truth will not be told, and I suspect you will hear nothing but lies from the infidels, who will not wish to admit they could be so humbled by soldiers of the Caliphate. The crusaders will deny that they have been struck within their own fortresses and across the oceans, struck deep within their own homeland. When the news reaches you, the Americans will surely say that this strike at their hearts was made by a group of their own kuffar, their own clueless kind, and not by those who, Allah willing, will soon join you in Dabiq. Do not let the lies hide the truth, brothers. You will know of what I speak when you see the news, you will know immediately, and you must claim the work as that of the Caliphate, for I may perish in the fight and for the cause, dying without fear, dying with the promise of the Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him. Please do not delay in this: let the infidels know that it was the Caliphate’s sword that found their heart. This is just the beginning, as we know, and a warning for those who wish to take heed.
He posted the message, refreshed the page to be certain it was visible, and then he turned off the tablet, took it into the restroom, cracked the screen against the toilet tank, and let it soak in the sink until any hope of saving the device was gone. He left it in the trash and returned to his booth.
“More coffee?” The waitress was a redhead with blue eyes. Eli smiled at her.
“Absolutely. It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?”
“A gorgeous day. Hope you’ll get outside to enjoy it.”
“Oh, yes. Trust me, I intend to enjoy the day.”
When she was gone, he withdrew another tablet, powered it up, and went to a site called Sons of Freedom. There, under the identity of a forty-four-year-old gun expert and motorcycle mechanic named Joe Walden, he issued his next warning.
You all know I’ve got a connection who is BIG-TIME with military intel. I know I’ve got haters and doubters about that, but you’re about to see the proof, and it’s fucking scary if it’s true. Those army boys are scrambling today to shut down some sort of MAJOR towel-head action. I got the warning. If all of you who call me a liar and say I’m full of shit are right, then nothing will happen, and I’ll come back on here and admit it myself. But, boys? It’s going down tonight. Don’t know what, where, or when, but I got a feeling it’s going to be big-league shit, and I don’t mind telling you I’m fucking scared. I am sharing this so you all are prepared and because I love all you who are ready to fight for what is right. This shit is Islamic Jihad, ISIS or al-Qaeda or something just like them, and here’s what I’ve been told, by a guy who’d be in Leavenworth in ten minutes if anyone knew he’d whispered a word to me: When it goes down, our fucking joke of a president is going to say that it wasn’t anybody from the Middle East. He’ll say it was AMERICAN BOYS. That’s the truth. Or at least what I was told. Like I said, I’d rather be wrong than right, because if I’m right? Americans will be blamed for MUSLIM TERRORISTS. We are at fucking WAR then, you understand? So if something goes down tonight, and you hear it was anybody but the towel-heads, it’s time to wake up and DO SOMETHING. War is coming. It’s here. And I for one am not going down listening to a bunch of lies from pussy politicians who get backdoor deals from terrorist oil money. God bless you all.
Eli finished the note, read it again, and couldn’t keep the smile off his face. The language was just right. He’d seeded the clouds of fear on each side, and when the news broke, the clouds would burst.
“You are enjoying the day!”
The waitress was back, wearing a big dumb grin. “I can see your smile from all the way across the room, mister. Nice to see a happy face.”
“What’s not to be happy about?” Eli said as he pushed Send. “It’s a special day.”