Double Blind (39 page)

"I planned to talk to Mr. Boggs about that once he got home from the hospital. I'm sure the entire situation was simply an accident on his part. As you can see, we don't have many streetlights around here, and it's pretty hard to see anything that early in the morning anyway. My homeowner's policy should cover the repairs just fine, but to tell you the truth," the neighbor paused, "I was hoping . . ."

"That's why I stopped by," Lightstone interrupted, reaching for his wallet. "Wilbur's terribly embarrassed about the entire incident, and doesn't want you inconvenienced any more than you've already been, so he asked me to try to set things right if I can."

Lightstone pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and extended them toward the man. "Will this cover the necessary repairs?"

"But that's . . . exceedingly generous," the neighbor protested as he accepted the money after only the briefest hesitation.

"No, not at all. It can take a lot of time to locate a contractor, and then oversee the work. Besides," Lightstone added with a wink, "this way, neither you nor Wilbur need to bother your insurance agents, fill out all that paperwork, or more importantly, run the risk that they might raise your rates. You know how those things always seem to work out in the insurance company's favor."

"Don't they ever," the neighbor nodded his head vigorously.

"Anyway," Lightstone went on, "I know Wilbur would be grateful if you'd consider the money as his apology until he can get back home and apologize in person."

"Of course," the neighbor assured the agent hurriedly, trying very hard not to smile. "And please, if there's anything else I can do for Mr. Boggs . . ."

"Well, there is one thing." The wildlife agent smiled. "I'm trying to help Wilbur get all the paperwork together on the accident, and we're having trouble locating the people who took him to the hospital. I was wondering . . ."

"I'm afraid you'll find that's pretty typical for local government around here," the neighbor smiled apologetically. "If our fire department's records are anything like those at city hall . . ."

Henry Lightstone nodded his head. "I understand completely."

It took the persistent ex-homicide investigator an hour and a half to determine that the extent of Wilbur Boggs's injuries got him transferred to Providence Hospital in nearby Medford . . . and the better part of another two hours to finally track down the supervising floor nurse at Providence Hospital, where he learned that patient John Doe — now positively identified as U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Resident Agent Wilbur Boggs — had disappeared.

Chapter Thirty-seven

After the unnerving arrival of the woman and her terrifying pet, the men of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal could come to no agreement about how to respond to the Sage's most recent pronouncement.

Or more to the point, even if they should respond at all.

Some of the men thought it unwise to violate their long-standing security policy and allow any more strangers into the compound, no matter how compelling the reason.

Others questioned the wisdom of allowing the crazy old seer into the compound any more either.

But these naysayers comprised a very small minority, and in truth, didn't feel entirely convinced by their own arguments.

So, at eight o'clock that Saturday morning, it came to pass that when the Sage's ancient motorbike finally puttered up the narrow, winding dirt path, all sixteen of the ranking officers of the Brigade (after ordering the women to prepare for a sudden and immediate evacuation to the back-canyon caves with little or no warning) waited nervously at the forested entrance to their well-concealed mountain-canyon training grounds, weapons at the ready.

Much to the Brigade members' surprise, five camouflage-garbed men riding atop five new, heavy-duty, camouflage-painted, four-wheel RVs — each with several wooden crates strapped to the back carrier — immediately followed the old man in a single file.

The Brigade's elder, a white-haired man of indeterminate age who proudly displayed the rank of colonel on his faded and tattered cammo gear, waited uneasily until all six men had disembarked from their vehicles.

Then, when it became apparent that the Sage cared more about cleaning his sunglasses than in making proper introductions, the group elder sighed, took in a deep steadying breath, and stepped forward.

"Good morning, gentlemen, I'm Colonel Rice, commander of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal." He made a deliberate effort to conceal his anxiety by speaking in a slow, deliberate voice as he extended his hand. "Welcome to our compound."

"Thank you, Colonel. Glad to meet you, sir." Sergeant Aran Wintersole came to attention, snapped a proper salute, then stepped forward to clasp the Brigade commander's hand.

The salute took the militant commander by surprise. For a moment, he wondered if he should release the other man's hand and return the salute, or simply continue on as if nothing unusual had happened. That became a moot point, however, when he established contact with cold pale gray eyes of the man standing ramrod-straight before him, and felt a sudden, terrifying pressure on his bladder.

"And you are?" He struggled valiantly to keep his voice from breaking.

"First Sergeant Aran Wintersole, sir."

The group elder's eyes flickered down to the small, black, first sergeant's insignia on Wintersole's camouflaged collar, and then to the small unit patch on the man's left shoulder.

"Army Rangers?"

"Yes sir. Third Battalion, 54th Army Ranger Reserves, sir."

The militant group leader immediately recognized that the professional soldier standing before him undoubtedly possessed far more military skills and experiences than he had ever dreamed about. And the fact that this man — a first sergeant in the Army Rangers, for Christ sake! — was visibly unarmed, as were the other four soldiers who accompanied him, made him all the more intimidating and dangerous. A most unnerving realization.

"And what brings you here, Sergeant?" the group elder asked uncertainly, uncomfortably aware that, in addition to having possibly committed a grave error by allowing these men to see the entrance to their training facilities, he'd done absolutely nothing in his life to earn the pair of black eagles sewn into the collar of his field uniform.

"Resupply, sir."

"Resupply?"

In typical fashion, the Sage had told the Brigade little in his latest pronouncement, beyond that the battle between light and darkness could not commence until the Brigade was properly equipped . . . and that one of the chosen ones — the fearsome warriors who would lead the forces of darkness and light into battle (although the Sage's rambling commentary hadn't made it clear which side this newcomer might represent) — would arrive tomorrow morning, at 0800 hours sharp, to equip the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal for battle.

"Be there or prepare to disband the Brigade in shame!" the Sage had yelled out over his shoulder as he gunned the motorbike and disappeared in a cloud of rancid blue exhaust. But the Brigade leader didn't recall the old man saying anything at all about resupply.

"That's correct, sir. Your brigade is scheduled for resupply from existing National Guard reserve unit stocks. Your allotment consists of twenty each refurbished M16A1 assault rifles; one hundred thousand rounds of five-five-six ball ammo; two hundred twenty-round magazines; four magazine loaders; twenty sets of web gear, complete with canteens and first-aid kits; a reloading kit for five-five-six military ball; sufficient supplies — bullets, powder, and primers — to reload an additional fifty thousand rounds; and twenty cleaning kits. Sir."

The militant colonel's mouth fell open.

"The . . ." It took him a few tries to get the words out. ". . . National Guard is providing us with M-l6s?"

"That's correct, sir."

"But . . ." The militia colonel shook his head several times, trying to rearrange the incomprehensible facts in his mind.

"I take it this was unexpected, sir?" Wintersole smiled politely.

"Uh, yes . . ." The group elder nodded his head, a dazed expression apparently frozen on his face.

"If I may say so, sir, you might be surprised at the number of people — and the positions they hold — who strongly advocate and support the efforts of patriot groups such as yours."

A sudden glimmer of comprehension lit up the group elder's dull eyes.

"You mean . . ."

"It's not my place to speak for these people, sir," Wintersole informed the older man. "My orders are to deliver the weapons and supplies to your unit, and to provide any additional training that you and your men may require in their use."

"Training?" The militant colonel simply couldn't keep his lower jaw from dropping.

"Yes sir. My men and I are prepared to demonstrate current fire-team assault tactics, and to run every member of your Brigade through a basic familiarization course on the M16A1. The course consists of two hours of basic weapon familiarization; two hours of range work, selected fire, prone position; and two hours of fire-team assault tactics, select and auto. I understand you have training facilities and firing ranges we could use?"

"Uh . . . yes, we do," the group elder somehow managed to choke out the words.

First Sergeant Aran Wintersole looked down at his watch. "Then with your permission, sir, perhaps we can begin."

"You mean now?"

Wintersole settled his cold pale gray eyes on those of the militant colonel, who trembled at the mere thought of the idea.

"Yes, sir," the hunter-killer team leader replied evenly. "My men are ready to begin the demonstration and the training whenever you are, sir."

Thirty minutes later, the sixteen highest-ranking members of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal — who were already sweating and out of breath from unloading the four-wheel RVs — gathered around a cluster of picnic tables, where Wintersole's men arranged twenty black-matte-finished assault rifles, stacks of cardboard ammunition boxes, magazines, and webbing gear before putting on their own black nylon web gear.

The Brigade members then watched warily as one of the Rangers walked to the end of their target range and randomly set a total of eighteen sand-filled tin cans on the ground, on top of large rocks, and on varying flat surfaces of the six crudely welded target holders. Then they all stepped back and drew in their breath in unison when Wintersole picked up one of the lethal-looking rifles and casually drew and released the bolt-retracting lever with a loud CLACK! to verify an empty chamber.

"Gentlemen," he began in a voice that carried the authority of hundreds of instructor hours at Fort Bragg, "the weapon you will be training with today is the United States Army M16A1 assault rifle chambered for 5.56mm ball ammo. The M16A1 is gas-operated, magazine-fed, and equipped with a selective-fire lever for semi- or full-automatic fire. It is capable of delivering firepower at a target, at a sustainable rate of seven hundred high-velocity rounds per minute, to a maximum effective range of three hundred yards. In the hands of a properly trained soldier, the M16A1 can accurately place rounds on target out to five hundred yards. Today, however, we will focus on the capabilities of this weapon at standard close-combat distances."

After verifying that everyone wore ear protection, Wintersole picked up one of the loaded magazines, automatically tapped the base of the aluminum magazine against the tabletop to properly seat the rounds, and then walked to the middle firing position of the small range at the twenty-five-yard marker.

At the direction of the other four Army Rangers, the visibly intimidated militant Brigade members formed a loose semicircle around the formidable-looking first sergeant.

"Until you are told differently by your range instructor, you will leave the selector lever of your weapon set to the SAFE position." Wintersole spoke in a loud instructor's voice as he snapped the magazine into the receiver of the assault rifle, then drew and released the bolt with his left hand to feed the first round into the chamber, keeping his right index finger across the outer edge of the trigger guard and away from the trigger.

"When you are instructed to do so, you will use the thumb of your right hand to move the lever to the upright, SEMI-AUTO firing position." Wintersole snapped the small firing lever into the indicated position, then brought the weapon around one-handed with the barrel pointing straight up in the air so that everyone could see what he had done.

"You should never have to look to verify that your weapon is in the semi-auto firing position," Wintersole told them emphatically. "You will keep your eyes downrange on the target, and verify the firing status of your weapon with your thumb. Is that clear?"

Sixteen heads nodded vigorously.

"The rear sights of the M16A1 are adjustable. However, I cannot overemphasize the fact that a properly trained soldier should be able to combat-sight his weapon with two rounds."

Turning to face the downrange paper targets, Wintersole brought the M16A1 up to his shoulder and squeezed off two quick shots.

The first bullet struck approximately two inches to the right of the center-of-chest mark. A second bullet hole appeared dead center in the black silhouette target's forehead.

"Based on the impact points of those rounds," Wintersole went on calmly, "you ought to be able to correct your aim and hit your target."

In one smooth motion, the hunter-killer team leader brought the weapon up to his shoulder and — with legs and hips steady, and rotating only his shoulders — began rapidly firing single shots. . . BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM . . .

. . . sending expended casings, ruptured tin cans, and explosions of sand flying in the air in all directions until the M16Al's bolt finally snapped against an empty magazine.

A moment later, the last of the eighteen shattered tin cans rolled to a stop in the projectile-softened dirt.

Every member of the Brigade stood paralyzed with shock as Wintersole casually redirected the barrel of the M16A1 back up in the air, thumbed the select lever to the SAFE position, and then handed the still-smoking weapon to one of his men.