Glenn Beck - The Eye of Moloch

“That’s okay, I’ll go. Before I forget, we’re all going to have a planning meeting in the dining room, tomorrow morning before lunch. I just wanted to tell you that and say good night, and see if you’d gotten any news. They told me that you might be in here on the computer.”

“I only just got started. There’s no news to speak of yet.” He studied her for a moment. “Molly, I need for you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“We’re safe now, at least as safe as we could hope to be. And I need for you to give some serious thought to the idea of all of us staying on here, and lying low for a while.”

“Okay.” She frowned. “I thought that was the idea.”

“No,” Hollis said. “This is what we talked about before, out on the trail, remember? I mean staying here and staying quiet, for a long time. Maybe for the duration, if they’ll have us.”

She sat back. “Oh.”

“I think after all we’ve been through that I know how you feel. It’s not easy for me to come to you and ask you to give it all up, but I’ve got a real bad feeling. Lay it off on me if you want; I’m spent, Molly, and I’m worried I can’t protect you anymore. Just promise me you’ll give it some thought.”

Her expression didn’t change much but he could see the wheels turning. She made a subtle motion with her hand and the dog jumped down to her side as she stood to leave.

“I’ll pray on it,” Molly said.

“Well, amen to that.”

When she’d gone he turned back to his research. Digging deeper now, way out in the far-left and far-right hinterlands of the Internet, he soon saw the beginnings of a rumor that was forming and making the rounds. It seemed to have started very recently and was the subject of much discussion among the basement-dwellers. With every repetition the unsupported facts gained strength and confirmation.

As he tried to swallow, Hollis found that his mouth had gone bone-dry.

The gist of the rumor was simple: like her blood brother Danny Bailey before her, Molly Ross and her Founders’ Keepers had now joined forces with George Pierce and his neo-patriot army to wage open war against the U.S. government.

The battle lines were drawn, first blood had been spilled, and the legions of followers in this new alliance were being called to keep their weapons at hand and prepare in the coming days for a spectacular, devastating commencement of the second American Revolution.

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.