That was a lot of people to get caught in a crossfire.
“The question is,” Rivera said as he frowned down at the information, “how many of them are armed?
And of those armed, how many are willing to offer resistance?”
“Tex said that most of them had no weapons. That there was a hard core of supporters from the churches of the three preachers, but that everyone else was without arms, and that a lot of those were apathetic.”
Rivera didn’t seem reassured. “So how many is this hard core? Fifty? That still leaves a lot of bystanders.” He looked grim. “Or hostages, however they want to play it.” Jessica looked at him. “We own the night,” she said. One of the Army’s unofficial mottoes, proudly proclaiming that they could move and fight as well in darkness as they could in the day. Rivera looked at Jessica for a long moment, then nodded. “It’s best that everyone wakes up tomorrow morning and finds out their camp’s under new management.”
“I think that’s how it should be played.”
He stroked his chin.
“Well,” he said, “let’s look at a map.”
“There.” Pointing. “The key to the position. This big tank, or whatever it is.”
“Tex said it was a catfish pond,” Jessica said. “Ten acres.”
“That’s where the sniper was, according to Tex. Just one man. We could put a battalion in there and they wouldn’t see us unless we wanted them to.” Rivera looked at the photograph. “Can we see any sentries on that embankment? If I were trying to hold that camp, I sure as hell would put people up there.” The latest photographs from Rails Bluff had just come in. Jessica had managed to get an Air Force RF-16, the reconnaissance version of the F-16 fighter, tasked to her command from a combat wing in Texas. The RF-16 had overflown Rails Bluff at high altitude, presumably without anyone on the ground taking notice, while snapping one detailed photo after another. The results had been flashed to Jessica’s command tent, printed, and were on her desk within two hours of the sortie’s landing. Jessica took her magnifier, bent over the photo, looked down at the catfish pond through her left eye. There were strange little flashes in the corner of her eye, and she shifted the magnifier to the right.
“I don’t see any sentries there,” she said.
“That camp’s spread out along the road, made up of smaller camps lined up in a long row. With the unmarried men at one end, the unmarried women at the other.” Rivera grinned. “They’re not so much interested in defense as keeping the single men and women as far apart as possible. We can flank the camps and cut one off from the next. Particularly if we can maneuver out of that catfish pond.”
“Sorry to interrupt, General.” One of Jessica’s staff standing by the door and offering a folder. “The latest weather forecast.”
“Thank you.”
Jessica looked at the satellite photos, the attached isobar map, the analysis, and didn’t know whether to feel relief or not. The strong high-pressure system that had been sitting on the south-central U.S. since just after M1 was finally moving. A big wall of low pressure was dropping out of the Rockies across the plains, bringing cooler, wetter weather.
It would be a relief to be out of the heat for a while. But as the whirling high-pressure area was shoved eastward, the moisture it had been sucking out of the Gulf of Mexico and dumping on the western plains would move with it. Torrential rains pouring across her entire area of operations weren’t going to make her primary job any easier, not when half the country was flooded and the rest was bogged in the muck.
“This is going to help us,” Rivera said. “In foul weather the camp sentries are going to be spending their time under cover, not looking for us.”
“It may affect our ability to surveille the area.”
“Can we get another photo mission scheduled before sunset? The long shadows would be valuable in showing us anything we’ve missed.”
“The Air Force is cooperating.” She gave a laugh. “They’re just like the Army—in the national emergency, the glamour units are tired of taking a backseat to the support elements.” She glanced quickly at Rivera, suddenly aware that she’d just been tactless. Keep your opinions to yourself, she mentally snarled.
“No offense,” she added.
Rivera grinned. “No problem,” he said.
“They’re coming,” Frankland said. “The black helicopters are coming. They’ll be back, and we have to be ready.”
He had his most loyal people gathered around him on the highway in front of the church, and even there he had to talk loudly over the boom of the loudspeakers. He had cranked the volume up all over the camp so that the inmates couldn’t ignore the Word. He knew he had only a short time to get his message across before the Pale Horseman rode into town with an unsheathed sword.
“It’s been a whole day, practically,” said Martin, the guide for the Second Thessalonians. “Are you sure they’re really coming? Maybe the Army has other things to do.”
“Don’t you think Satan has an enemies list?” Frankland said. “Don’t you think we’re on it?” He had felt the black helicopters hovering over him all night long. He’d felt the touch of their rotating wings on the back of his neck while he crept forward to the old Swanson place to light his gasoline bomb and throw it into the ruins. He felt it when Stone and his family fled the flames and ran into the bullets of his supporters. He felt it as he grabbed Stone’s wife and surviving child and flung them into his truck, then lit out at full speed for the camp. He knew the enemy was there. He knew he had to get back to the camp and make ready. The terror of Satan’s dark wings drove him on. That was why he’d left Stone and his daughter lying in the dust instead of bringing them back for burial. He knew he had so little time left.
“Satan never sleeps,” said Magnusson. “I should know. I let some people get away yesterday because I let them bluff me. It was the Devil who put that bluff in the boy’s mind, I know that for sure.” Frankland glanced over the highway. “What I want to do is make this place defensible. Sandbagged emplacements on the corners of the camps. Slit trenches for the people to shelter in.” He pointed at the catfish farm. “And I want to emplace some of you there. I’m not going to let somebody with a gun catch us napping again.”
Most of the guides and guards nodded and looked severe. A few seemed hesitant. Frankland looked at one of them, turned on his silky, persuasive voice.
“Do I want a battle?” he said. “No. But we haven’t thought enough about our security, and yesterday we paid the penalty. I want everyone here safe. And they’ll only be safe if we make them safe. Then we can be like the angels around the Throne, spending our days chanting ‘Holy, holy, holy, Good God Almighty.’ We’ll be safe.”
“‘Lord God Almighty,’” someone corrected.
“Sorry,” Frankland said, “I misspoke.”
He wasn’t sure whether he’d succeeded in motivating them or not. He made assignments, put people in charge of his new projects, then crossed the camp to his home.
Dr. Calhoun had been moved to the room where Father Robitaille had died. Calhoun was alive, his pulse strong, but he had been unconscious since morning and his abdomen was rigid and hard as iron around the bandaged entrance wound. He wouldn’t live more than a day or two, and would probably never wake.
Sheryl and Reverend Garb watched in silence over the dying man. Garb looked somber. He had been very quiet since the incident the previous morning and spent much of his time in prayer. Sheryl wore her reading glasses and had her art on her lap, working nimbly with tweezers and tiny bits of postage stamp confetti. She had started a new project to keep hand and mind occupied—the Book of Daniel this time, Frankland noticed, the beast with seven horns.