Ken Goddard - Double blind

"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.

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.