NEXT BEST HOPE (The Revelation Trilogy) (12 page)

“Okay, son,” the man said. “Stay on your toes. Things might get dicey around here.”

“Yessir,” the young soldier said as he watched the Special Forces man leave the restaurant and disappear into the bushes along the riverside.

“I didn’t know we had called in any Special Forces on this assignment,” he said to the guys in his unit when he got back to where they were bivouacked.

“We didn’t,” his sergeant said.

•  •  •

When Ithurial Finis reached what he thought was the best observation point he could find on the west side of the visitor center, he settled in for the night, believing God would work an historic deed at this place before the sun set again on Shiloh, the house of peace.

WHEN THE CM
Militia occupied the park, the feds shut down utilities to all the buildings in the complex including the visitor center. The sweltering heat mingled with the humidity fueled by the river only two hundred yards to the north and the intense psychological pressure of the siege set everyone on edge. They had provisions for two weeks at the outside and were beginning to wonder what would become of them when their supplies ran out.

Of the ten militia men, only two old heads had seen combat. Despite their inexperience on the battlefield, the group held together, demonstrating a high degree of discipline instilled in them by their boyish commander, Asa Cockburn, for whom they harbored not just respect for his leadership, but love for him as a person of impeccable moral courage.

Homeschooled from kindergarten to the sixth grade, Asa left the confines of his home near Denver to begin middle school at his church, the largest non-denominational Christian congregation in the western United States. When he graduated, he sought to enlist in the Marines but in the physical screening the doctors discovered a heart murmur that disqualified him from serving in the Marines or any other branch of the U.S. Armed Forces.

As a fall back, he enrolled in the University of Colorado in Boulder and was in his second semester of studies on 4/11. Shortly after the assassinations, he told his parents he was going to seek out J. Franklin Westmoreland and Leon Martinez and volunteer for whatever needed to be done to ensure a CM victory in the present crisis. When they gave him their blessing, he boarded a bus to Houston where, kneeling at the prayer altar during the invitation on a Sunday evening service, he had a chance to grasp Leon’s hand and report his pilgrimage to him. Martinez accepted his offer of service immediately, recognizing the determination in the young man’s eyes and his willingness to follow orders. He recruited him into a secret paramilitary unit, trained by none other than the great patriot, Ithurial Finis.

After three weeks of boot camp, Ithurial hand-picked Asa as the commander of the Shiloh militia and met with him, developing the plans for the attack, the occupation of the park, and, if necessary, the terms of any surrender for his platoon.

“Commander Cockburn,” one of the men said. “I reckon we are going to face a hard go of it today.”

“We’ll have to take it as it comes,” Asa said. “We have held our own for seven days against the U.S. military, I figure we have earned some respect.”

“They are toying with us, commander,” one of the older men said. “Our only choices are to give up or die fighting. We have just a day or two left to make our decision.”

Asa remained silent and positioned himself near the window that looked out on the drive in front of the building. He could see a few cannon permanently on display at the park sitting on the lawn fifty yards or so from the entrance to the visitor center. Near the cannon, the CM flag hung limp on the flagpole as if magnetized to it by the demon summer sun and the still, hot air.

He thought back on the events that brought him to this place at this time and wondered if ten lives were too high a price to pay for a squabble over political styles. He remembered riding in his parents’ Volvo station wagon to downtown Denver on a Saturday morning where they would stand on the street corner and pass out pamphlets that told street bums how to find Jesus. He thought about all the conversations he had with dope addicts and whores as a teenage boy on these Saturday skirmishes with inner-city reality, and he recalled how he loved coming home and taking a shower in time to watch a late Saturday football game or order pizza and have it delivered. And he retreated into that warm place of his soul that loved Monday mornings when his mom dropped him off at school with his lunch in a brown paper bag, and he had all day to think about literature and science, to see the pretty girls and pledge allegiance to the flag that he had lowered from the flagpole at Shiloh.

Then, as he watched out the window, he saw the strangest thing. He saw a middle-aged man, waving a white flag, walking up the drive towards the visitor center. He started to pull his ski mask over his face but thought better of it and left his head uncovered. He said to his comrades in arms, “Everybody, man your positions; someone is coming. I’m going out to determine his intentions.”

“Commander, if you go out there, you’re a dead man,” one of his men said. “You know there are snipers in the trees.”

“He’s flying a flag of truce,” Asa said. “I can’t ignore that.”

Asa opened the front door to the building and raised his right hand. “Halt right there. State your business, sir,” he said.

Brother Billy was making it up as he went, “I am Brother Billy Bright, an ordained Southern Baptist minister, sent here by President Bass Whitfield to discuss a peaceful resolution to this standoff. I am unarmed except for a New Testament I carry in my shirt pocket. You may send someone to search me if you wish.” Brother Billy raised his hands over his head in an act of submission.

Asa had his.30-06-caliber rifle trained on Billy as he spoke. When Billy fell silent, Asa walked closer to him as he pointed the rifle at Billy, cradling it against his body on the right hand side, his finger on the trigger. When he was about ten feet from Billy, he stopped and looked at the emissary in front of him. If he were a fake, he was a good one. He had all the earmarks of a middle-aged, small town Baptist preacher from his belly that hung over the belt with an extra notch punched in it with a pocket knife to make it fit, to the short sleeved shirt with a glasses case in the pocket, to the gold cross on a chain around his neck that glistened in the sunlight.

Asa finally spoke. “Brother Billy, what message do you bring from President Whitfield to the CM militia at Shiloh?”

“Son,” Brother Billy said, “the President wants to know, if you will pardon my language, what the hell you guys think you’re doing. What do you seek to accomplish? I will carry your message to him today and bring you a response in the morning. I can assure you that U.S. forces will not fire on you until I have a chance to come back and discuss his response with you. He doesn’t want to see any bloodshed here,” Billy said almost in tears.

Asa stood silently, knowing his men were watching from the building, suspecting snipers filled the trees on the alert for some signal from Billy to take him out. In a split second, he decided that Brother Billy was a man he could trust.

“We want the president to convene, on this spot, a national congress to discuss the secession of certain states into a confederacy that will bear the name of New Israel. In exchange, the states that plan to secede will enter into an agreement with the United States that will foster good will between the two countries, establish a military force for our mutual benefit and ensure open borders for our citizens who seek to pass between the countries,” Asa said.

Brother Billy marveled at the composure of the fine young man standing in front of him who could articulate such a vision under the pressure of the moment.

“If you will stand down until I can get back from Washington tomorrow, we will talk again,” Billy said.

“We will stand our ground, but take no other action until then,” Asa said.

“Then I extend to you the hand of Christian fellowship,” Brother Billy said holding his right hand out to Asa.

Asa knew whatever he did the rest of his life would be nothing compared to his actions in the next few seconds. Without lowering his gun, he bowed his head and sought divine guidance. Suddenly, he felt a peace envelope him, he knew things were going to be all right somehow.

He lifted his head and looked Brother Billy in the eyes, then stepped toward him and reached out to shake his hand.

The sniper’s bullet entered the back of Asa’s head and exited out his right temple, splattering Brother Billy with the young man’s blood.

Instantly, Ithurial knew the deed was done and turned to scramble down the hill. Before he could change his position, he felt something like a hot branding iron exploding through his left shoulder. He flattened himself on the embankment and shimmied on his back until he knew he was out of the sniper’s sight and then made off into the woods.

On the east side of the clearing, Agent Brown shouldered his rifle and ran north through the thick underbrush between him and the river, moving west along the shoreline, hoping to cut off Ithurial Finis’ escape.

Brother Billy caught Asa as he fell, and the two men went down in the grass, Asa dead on top of Brother Billy.

“Stay down, Billy,” DeShaun called rushing out of the tree line with his pistol drawn. He dove next to Billy and rolled Asa’s body off him. While he freed him, he fired a full magazine at the visitor center, above window level to keep the militia men down long enough to evacuate Billy. He half-dragged Billy out of the line of fire while he ejected one magazine from his pistol and jammed in another, continuing his barrage, holding the stunned militia men at bay until he got Billy behind the stone wall that surrounded the national cemetery where they were safe from the militia’s small arms fire.

Agent Brown came upon the spot where Finis fired the fatal shot. He saw blood and knew his shot had found its target. He followed the tracks of his prey down the bluff but lost the trail before he reached the river.

“He’s heading west along the river,” he said when he called in the report.

•  •  •

Inside the visitor center, the remaining militia men were in a state of panic.

“Let’s let ’em have it. They just killed Commander Cockburn in cold blood,” one of them said.

“The shot came from behind him. It splattered on the guy with the flag of truce. They think we fired on them,” another said.

The oldest among them said, “It’s just a matter of time now, men. Our goose is cooked. We need to get right with God and find out what he wants us to do.”

When they heard those words, the militia men first went to the windows to check for anyone storming the building, then, when they saw no attack, they began to pray for guidance in the final hours of the siege of Shiloh.

WHEN AGENT BROWN
got his mind around the fact that Ithurial Finis had slipped through his hands again, he gave up the search and scrambled over the wall to the cemetery to make his way towards the visitor center. He stayed low to the ground, but never drew any fire. He darted from oak to oak for cover until he saw Billy and DeShaun lying on the ground next to the stone fence that separated the cemetery from the remainder of the park. When he reached the clearing that stood between the tree line and the stone wall, he dropped on his belly and crawled the last twenty-five yards to them.

Silence hung over the park like low pressure that descends on ground zero just before a hurricane hits.

“Are y’all all right?” he whispered to Billy and DeShaun.

“I thought I was a goner,” Brother Billy said. “I would have been if DeShaun hadn’t gotten me out of there. So far as I can tell, both of us escaped without any wounds. Could you tell what happened?”

“I was positioned behind you in the trees. I’m sure it was Ithurial Finis who shot the boy. I winged him before he could abandon his position, but he had mapped his way out, and I was too late to catch him. I’ve alerted the Coast Guard and the ground forces that I believe he is heading west along the river,” Brown said.

“Why would he kill one of his own foot soldiers?” DeShaun asked.

“My guess is that CM is going to try to pin the responsibility for the shooting on us,” Brown said. “Finis just created the first martyr to the CM cause, a young man that never saw it coming.”

“God help us,” Billy said.

While the three men hugged the stone wall of the national cemetery trying to figure out a plan, they heard shots ring out from the direction of the visitor center. Brown edged his way to the gate of the burial ground and peered around the corner of the wall. The front door of the center remained shut. There were no federal troops in sight.

“It’s coming from inside the building,” he said. “Pistol fire.”

“Yeah, I’d know the sound of a .45 anywhere,” DeShaun, the ex-Marine, said.

“Are they fighting among themselves?” Billy asked.

“I’ve counted nine shots,” Brown said.

“So have I,” DeShaun said.

The horror of the situation struck all three men at the same time. They waited a few seconds to be sure there were no more shots, then Billy stood up with his flag of truce, waving it back and forth as he said, “CM militia inside the building. Under the flag of truce, I request permission to address the commander in charge.”

No answer.

Billy called out again.

No answer.

“Let’s go,” DeShaun said as the three of them stormed the building together.

When they got to the door of the visitor center, Brown kicked it in without breaking his stride.

They saw what they feared the most. In the lobby of the building, in an organized circle, lay the nine bodies of the militia men, each soldier dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. In the middle of the circle was a sealed envelope with only the words “The Last Testament of the CM Militia at Shiloh” hand-written on it.

Brown stuffed the envelope in his pocket and called the commander of the U.S. forces on the ground.