The Eye of Moloch

Chapter 13

From the balcony outside George Pierce’s burned-out office, Warren Landers watched as his latest domestic forward operating base took shape in the open field behind the compound. The work was proceeding apace; at last all the crates and pallets were beginning to disappear as the place transformed into something buttoned-down and functional.

Under the glare of tungsten work lights, tents and long supply shelters were going up and buried lines were being laid for power, data, water, and waste. In the distance a team of comm techs had raised a tall mast festooned along its length with gray parabolic dishes. Now that the support wires were ratcheted down to lock it precisely vertical, each antenna was being tuned and aligned to gather the many faint digital signals streaming down from the open sky.

To the east an HH-60 Pave Hawk settled through the ground effect to a rolling touchdown. A larger supply helicopter had landed an hour before sundown and was still being unloaded nearby. Even more men and material would be inbound through the night.

It had been a full day of logistics and coordination and still there was much to be done before his scheduled departure in the morning. Landers checked the scrolling time-and-events list on the touchscreen of his phone. While he was not without his concerns, and despite delays from the still-threatening weather, things had mostly gone according to plan.

A man from Pierce’s crew named Olin Simmons stood by Landers’s side on the balcony, sweating steroids and kissing ass like a champion. This was the same one who’d aimed a pistol at him when he first arrived—now he was acting as a self-appointed aide-de-camp and general teacher’s pet to the new management. It was hard to miss the man’s ambition, or his commitment to the rise of the master race; his manifesto was etched onto his skin in permanent ink. A dark, jagged “SS” dominated one side of his neck, and his right bicep bore the angular black-eagle crest of the Nazi coat of arms. The backs of his scarred fingers were tattooed with individual letters such that when he made fists side by side they spelled out “Y O U R N E X T.”

The obvious typographical error no doubt went unmentioned by his peers, at least by those who wished to keep their teeth off the tavern floor.

A bright flash lit up among the trees in the distance and after a beat the sharp sound and concussion arrived with a satisfying punch in the chest. By the character of the blast it was either a shoulder-fired LAW rocket test or a small IED. That would mean the ordnance and small-unit tactical training had gotten under way.

Earlier, George Pierce’s men had been assessed individually and assigned an occupational specialty. Any competent gunmen and sharpshooters would be used as such. A few who’d shown the needed technical and language skills were already busy inciting verbal violence and stirring up trouble across the Web, social media, talk radio, and the ham bands. Those thugs with more brawn than brains would be agitators, pickets, and provocateurs for the coming street protests and other direct actions.

So far everyone but a stubborn few had taken the transition without resistance. It wouldn’t seem such a difficult choice to make; their lives would go on essentially as before with the addition of new marching orders, financial support, and some much-needed adjustments in doctrine and leadership. Still, there were holdouts; depending on their value, the remaining dissenters would either be convinced through further inducements or dealt with in other, more permanent ways.

A man knocked politely at the balcony door and Landers motioned him through. The newcomer had a long, camouflaged duffel slung over his shoulder. The bag was caked with dirt and woodland debris, as though it had been buried for a time.

“We found this out back in the deep woods”—the man gestured off toward the general area—“and they sent me to bring it right on up to you.”

Landers dragged the bag’s rusty zipper across partway and looked inside; this might be a useful find indeed. “Has anyone opened this before me?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Good.” He refastened the bag and pulled the messenger nearer the railing. “Now listen. You take this immediately to that third tent out there; see it?” He pointed, and the man nodded. “Tell the technician in charge to run the prints first, and send the bag back to me with a full toolkit. You stay there and wait for the work to be done. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat it.”

He did so, nearly verbatim, which was no small feat given the obvious mental vacancies behind his eyes.

“Good,” Landers said. “Go get it done.”

The man gave a sharp salute and set off to do as he was told.

How refreshing to find a soul so perfectly suited to his simple work. The backbone of any radical uprising is a legion of such loyal ciphers: oblivious, barely competent, and grateful for any subservient role in a grander scheme. They weren’t all imbeciles, not in the literal sense. Some were professors emeriti, some were anchormen, some stood in the pulpit to shill every Sunday in service to the lesser gods. But from vagrant to vice president, beneath the skin these useful idiots were born from the same ankle-deep end of the gene pool. Give them a slogan and a promise, pin a chintzy tassel on their chest, and they would follow orders without a question or the burden of a moral core.

“Who’s payin’ for all this?” Olin Simmons asked. Throughout this break from the executive meeting he’d been salivating over the sights of the expanding base like a diabetic at a doughnut store.

“This?” Landers said. “For the men I report to, as spending goes this is a drop in the ocean. And the wealthy don’t waste; compared to the fortunes to be had when this is over they’re making a very small investment here.”

“Tell you what, I never would have thought it was all about money.”

“It’s not—at least not in the way you and I think of money. They each already have more money than a million men could squander in a lifetime. Money, and land, and gold, and works of art—even whole governments—those are all just things to be collected and compared, like the notches on your bedpost. They’re a simple way to keep score so they can prove who’s won in the end.”

The other man took a step closer and leaned against the railing. “Who are these people, the ones at the top, the ones you work for? You can’t tell me, can you?”

“I’m sure you’d be disappointed.”

“Try me.”

“On paper, I work for a gentleman named Arthur Gardner.”

“And he’s in the New World Order, am I right? Or the Bilderbergers? Or the CFR?”

Landers smiled. “He’s in public relations.”

“Public relations?”

“He runs a multinational firm called Doyle & Merchant.”

“Doyle & Merchant.” Simmons pronounced the names as though they left an unmanly taste in his mouth. “Sounds like a couple of San Francisco rump-wranglers.”

“Be that as it may. You can believe it or not, but as much as any single force in human history they’ve shaped the world you live in, and the world that’s about to come.”

“What with, words and pretty pictures?” He spat again. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Landers said. “And they wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Another lackey came to the balcony and informed the two that Mr. Pierce was almost ready now for the conference to resume.

Olin Simmons let out a sigh, cracked his neck, and started for the door, but Landers stopped him.

“Tell me something,” Landers said. “Are you ready for more?”

“Sure. I’m not much of a man for meetings, but this one’s blowin’ my mind—”

“No,” Landers interrupted, and he made a subtle show of looking behind him and through the open door to ensure they were alone. “What I mean, Olin, is that a time may come soon when I need more from you. And I want to know if you’ll be ready to step up and do what needs to be done when I ask you.”

Simmons pocketed his tobacco pouch and considered that for a moment. “When you ask me what?” By the sly tone of this question it was already clear he had an inkling of its answer.

“I have to trust in the leadership I leave in charge here,” Landers said. “I’m talking about Mr. Pierce, and his future with us. Just watch while we’re in there, and you’ll see what I’m seeing. Everyone must serve their purpose, and I need to decide how faithfully he’s going to serve his. Be ready to give me your counsel before I leave.”

Landers put out his right hand, and after a thoughtful moment Olin Simmons took it with a firm shake and all the gravity appropriate to the pledge of a new allegiance.