Finishing his beer, he nodded to the unfriendly bartender and stepped down from the stool. He wandered to yet another uncomfortable seat at his departure gate not relishing the eight-hour flight. He looked down at the folded paper in his hands and smoothed it out to reread his itinerary for the hundredth time. She had always organized these things, so he was swimming in the dark by doing it alone.
The printed sheet showed details of the outbound flights, complete with the seat allocation, for Mr. Owen Calhoun and Miss Angela Holt. She should have been Mrs. Angela Calhoun by now, but when they booked their honeymoon—her choice of destination, not his—they had to use their names as they were, not how they were going to be, but she would never be Mrs. Calhoun now.
He was broke, having been strong-armed into exhausting his entire savings on both the wedding and the honeymoon, all of which was non-refundable, non-returnable, and a total goddamned waste of time and money.
As the electronic board changed above him, he saw the other waiting passengers rushing to be first on board.
Sheep, he thought nastily, all the seats are allocated and it’s not like the bloody plane is going to leave without you.
Shuffling with resigned feet, he joined the line of excited holidaymakers and stressed businessmen and women, the latter making their final calls and texts as the queue inched forwards.
Handing over his passport and boarding pass to another young woman struggling under the weight of multiple coats of makeup, he saw her opening her mouth to inform him that not everyone in his party was present. Seeing the sad look of veiled hostility on his face, she closed her mouth and silently handed back his documents after scanning them, flicking her eyes and her best corporate airline smile to the person behind him.
“26E,” said the flamboyant and ebullient male member of cabin crew with a flash of brilliantly white teeth as he handed back Cal’s boarding pass and waved him forward. He found his seat, retrieved his tablet and headphones, and stuffed his backpack under the seat in front to save the annoying ritual of getting his bag back from the overhead lockers at the other end. He strapped himself in and shot an unkind look to the empty 26F next to him.
Bitch, he thought, before putting in one earphone and swiping open the tablet to pass the time with a book and some music.
Tuesday 10:40 a.m. – Near Underwood, Upstate New York
Over 3,500 miles away from Cal’s plane as it soared upwards to turn west and cross the Atlantic, crossing the Dix mountain wilderness, a man in faded but pressed military fatigues drove a pickup along a rutted track through the woods, kept clear of snow by the heavy tree canopy.
Leland Puller’s eyes darted to his rearview mirror intermittently, his counter-surveillance training being second nature after spending his entire adult life honing them into something more intrinsic than a skill. He had been alert the whole time travelling north on Highway 87 before hitting the off-ramp and heading west into the wilderness.
As he often did, being infinitely more careful travelling to their headquarters compound hidden in the woods, he stopped the truck and got out, leaving it blocking the trail just around a sharp bend obscured by the heavy tree line.
He hefted his rifle from the passenger footwell and moved quickly into the woods, legs pistoning efficiently until he was on high ground with line of sight on the road.
Anyone following him would round the bend and be trapped. If he didn’t recognize the vehicle or the occupants, he would unload the AR15’s entire magazine, slap in another, and empty that too. There would be no warning, no questioning. Even if it was a genuine mistake and he gunned down some lost hikers, then that was just too bad. The sign on the track told anyone who could read that this was private property, and that firearms were in use there.
After ten minutes without sight or sound of anyone, he made his weapon safe and clambered back down to the cab of his truck. He stole a whimsical glance upwards, knowing that the heavy tree canopy would shield him from any prying eye in the sky.
The truck itself was legal, fully registered, as were the AR15, the Springfield in the pancake holster on his right hip, and the Ruger in the ankle holster on his left leg. If stopped by law enforcement he would keep his hands on the wheel and calmly declare to the officers that he was in possession of weapons, which he held valid permits for, and, after they had found he was doing nothing wrong, they would let him go on his way.
Carrying on along the bouncing track, he turned uphill and crested a rise which would ground anything but a tough off-road capable vehicle, before dropping down into the headquarters of the Free America Movement.
They naively believed themselves to be patriots: carefully selected, checked, courted, and recruited.
Almost all of the inner-sanctum members were former or, in some cases, still serving in the military, experts in so many numerous fields that they were effectively a small covert army by themselves. Over the years they had absorbed other organizations, small militias from various towns and cities, and held territory in a half-dozen states.
The second layer of their organization held positions of power or influence, as well as performing job roles in key locations such as working for the power grid and in airports.
They made no noise about their organization or their goals. They posted no vitriolic videos on social media, and the Department of Homeland Security had no idea who, or what they were.
They were off-grid, off the radar, and on-mission.
Leland drove toward the collection of single-story buildings and killed the engine, sliding the gear lever into park. Men and women milled around the camp, dressed similarly and all busy. Leland skirted the large satellite dish on a raised dais of concrete and walked into a wooden hut.
“Morning, Leland,” said the gray-haired but robust man sat behind a desk, his broad Boston accent dripping with comfortable confidence.
“Morning, Colonel Butler sir,” replied Leland, stiff military obedience and respect for senior ranks as ingrained in him as his counter-surveillance skills were. He didn’t salute, as Colonel Butler demanded the Movement soldiers no longer did so after his retirement.
The two men had never served together, even though both had been in-theatre at the same time in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Pullen was in his late-forties and Butler closer to sixty but both men were still fit and formidable. Leland Pullen, former Gunnery Sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, regarded the man before him with something approaching awe.
Colonel Glenn Butler, US Army, retired, was a bitter man behind his smile. He had served his life as a soldier, risen quickly to the rank of colonel and resented that the higher echelons of military command never saw his full potential. He often remarked that had he been promoted to general and been given control of troops in a war zone, then he could have easily defeated any enemy. He saw himself as a role model, a father figure to his boys, and a shining light in the future of his blessed United States of America. He was, although he hid it well, a megalomaniac with a destructive impulse to cleanse his country and purge all the perceived evil influences from it.
“I need you to head to the city, son, get our ducks in a row,” he said, rising from his chair and wasting no time on small talk.
“Yes, sir,” replied Leland, eager to comply before he fully knew what task was required of him.