Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

“Each of us-soldiers in the United States Army-took a solemn oath to defend this nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And defend it we did-the Cold War is over, the Evil Empire is no more, Communism is defeated. But now the threat to America comes from within. From domestic enemies. From those among us who want an America subordinate to the United Nations, subject to international laws and courts, who want to dismantle the American military-because we are the last defense of America. We cannot allow that to happen. I will not allow that to happen. Not while I can still pull the trigger.”

Seven Days in May starring Major Charles Woodrow Walker.

FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson was viewing an old grainy videotape of the court-martialed war criminal Major Charles Woodrow Walker. He was handsome, a charismatic speaker, and the leader of a plot to overthrow the United States government. He commanded a personal army of former soldiers. He was operating under the radar, back before 9/11, back when the Bureau’s domestic radar screen was filled not with Islamic extremists but with homegrown hate groups-Aryan Nation, National Alliance, the Order, the Klan, skinheads, the right-wing militia movement: a bunch of dumb-ass white boys who so hated blacks and Jews that they had retired to the mountains of Idaho and Montana to live without electricity or running water or blacks or Jews. But while the Bureau concerned itself with weekend warriors who couldn’t overthrow their own town councils if their lives depended on it, completely undetected were Walker and his soldiers, real warriors trained by the U.S. government to overthrow other countries’ governments. Walker was a clear and present danger to America: a pissed-off Green Beret can be a nation’s worst nightmare.

And the Bureau might never have learned of Walker’s plot until the military coup began if this videotape had not been sent to the FBI twelve years ago with an anonymous handwritten note that read: Patty Walker said if I don’t see her for three months, the major done killed her, and I better mail this. So I am. The package was postmarked Bonners Ferry, Idaho. The Bureau put a team in Bonners Ferry. They alerted local law enforcement and hospitals. They searched for Walker’s secret mountain compound but without success. So they waited to get lucky.

Two years later, they did.

Walker strode into the hospital in Bonners Ferry with his dying son in his arms. The hospital treated the boy and called the Feds; the FBI arrested Walker without incident and airlifted him to the maximum-security prison at Leavenworth, Kansas, to await trial for treason.

A trial that never took place.

Walker’s men took a high-ranking government employee hostage and threatened to send the hostage back in pieces unless Walker was released. FBI Director Laurence McCoy refused-until he received the first installment. McCoy released Walker, who then disappeared into Mexico. And there his life ended. Three weeks later, Major Charles Woodrow Walker died of a heart attack.

Washington had overnighted the entire file on Major Walker-the videotape, photographs, and background reports of Walker and his followers. Their military careers were classified just like Colonel Brice’s. There was no mention of Viper team or a Viper tattoo. The last item in the file was a copy of his New York Times obituary. Jan sat back. Her revenge theory didn’t wash.

Major Charles Woodrow Walker had been dead for ten years.

Bonners Ferry, Idaho, population 2,600, sits along the south bank of the Kootenai River twenty-four miles from the Canadian border, 1,800 feet above sea level, and nestled among three mountain ranges with peaks reaching 8,000 feet into the big sky. The original inhabitants of the “Nile of the North,” as this fertile river valley became known, were members of the Kootenai Nation, whose local residency dated back to prehistoric times. The white man came to this part of Idaho on his way to Canada during the gold rush of 1863; he stayed to harvest the tall timber that covered 90 percent of the land. A century and a half later, the Kootenai tribe owns the town’s only casino, the descendants of the gold rushers grow Christmas trees, and northern Idaho has become a haven for racists, neo-Nazis, and right-wing antigovernment zealots.

Only the latter fact did Ben know when he parked the Land Rover in front of the Boundary County Courthouse. He and John stepped through the icy slush and walked into the three-story white stone structure. They located the sheriff’s office; inside, a plump middle-aged woman sat at a desk behind a waist-high wood partition. Behind her desk was a door marked SHERIFF J. D. JOHNSON. On the wall next to the door were framed photographs in each of which appeared a tall rugged man with progressively less and grayer hair-and one photograph when the man had a full head of black hair, in a place Ben knew all too well.

“Here to pay a fine?” the woman asked.

“No, ma’am,” Ben said, “we’re-”

“File a complaint?”

“No, ma’am-”

“Service of process?”

John planted his hands on the partition and leaned over. “Cripes, lady, we’re looking for the freaking Nazis that kidnapped my daughter!”

The woman stared at him over her glasses. “O-kay.”

The door behind her opened, and the man in the photographs appeared, wearing a uniform like he had worn one all his life.

“Louann,” the man said, “I’m occupado tonight. Tell Cody he’s in charge.”

He noticed Ben and John; he glanced back at the woman.

“Sheriff, these gentlemen are here about some Nazis,” she said as if it were a routine request.

The sheriff gave Ben and John a law enforcement once-over-they probably appeared ragged, almost twenty-four hours on the road-then came around the partition. He walked with a slight limp. Ben stuck out his hand.

“Sheriff, Ben Brice. And my son, John.”

The sheriff’s hair was combed neatly and he smelled of cologne, as if he had just freshened up in his office. He shook their hands.

“J. D. Johnson. What’s this about some Nazis?”

Ben held out Gracie’s photo. “My granddaughter’s been kidnapped.”

The sheriff studied the photo. “The girl down in Texas.” Then he answered Ben’s unasked question. “NLETS, law enforcement Teletype.”

“We think she’s up here,” Ben said.

“Thought the abductor hung himself?”

“He was the wrong man.”

“FBI seems to think he was the right man.”

“They’re wrong.”

“Unh-hunh.”

The sheriff scratched his square jaw; his fingernails sounded like number-six sandpaper on his day-old beard.

“And you figure some Nazi-type brought her up here?”

“We were told a lot of them live in this area.”

The sheriff sighed. “That is a fact.”

“She was in Idaho Falls on Sunday evening, positive ID, with two men wearing camouflage fatigues, heading north five hundred miles in a white SUV with Idaho plates.”

“Well, that’d put them right about here, wouldn’t it?”

“Look, Sheriff, if you could give us a few minutes of your time, look at a few photos…”

The sheriff shrugged. “All right, Mr. Brice. First thing in the morning.”

“Could we do it now, Sheriff? It’s an emergency.”

“It’s also my anniversary. Taking the wife to dinner, and I gotta pick up this little bracelet I got for her…” He turned for the door. “Oh-six-hundred, Mr. Brice.”

He had his hand on the doorknob when Ben said, “You were a slick driver at Da Krong?”

The sheriff stopped dead in his tracks. His leathery face rotated around; he had a quizzical expression.

“On the wall,” Ben said.

The sheriff walked over and lifted a framed photo off its wall hook. “Me and my warrant officer. He came home in a body bag.” He paused, his eyes still on the photo; his rough fingers gently brushed dust from the glass. He cleared his throat and turned to Ben. “J. D. Johnson, captain, Marine Corps.”