measures there will be no future for our children or us.”
Now, noted Darren, Petsch started screaming again.
“Unless you’re brain dead you can see that the government’s now the enemy of God and of our white race. The government has fallen treasonous and the penalty for treason has always been death.”
The crowd went wild. People stood, clapped, and jumped in the air shouting “amen, hallelujah” and “give’m hell preacher.” The snaggled-toothed lady joined the hallelujah choir. She stared down at Darren as she clapped and screamed as if to say, “Take that you son-of-a-bitch heathen!” He felt sad that so many felt so disconnected from their nation’s political processes and thought in such simplistic terms. He didn’t have much time to grieve as the crowd quieted and Petsch began again.
“The founders of our nation understood all this. In the Declaration of Independence they stated that the people had the ‘right and duty’ to throw off a treasonous government.” Petsch paused, walked back and forth on the rostrum as though trying to think of the next point, stopped, stared hard at those in the front rows, then began again in a soft, pleading tone. “I know these are hard words. This has not been easy for those of us who have been the solidest of citizens, whose ancestors founded and shaped this nation, who’ve lost loved ones defending it or have shed blood ourselves in those wars, to come now where we have to take up arms to defend the nation against our own. Patrick Henry once asked, ‘Is peace so dear that it should be bought with the chains of slavery?’ Slavery, some will argue, is preferable to death. Others will say that Christians should never take up arms. I think killing is only justified when one is convinced that Satan needs killing. Satan has taken our government and is gradually killing us off. The time has come when we can do no other under God. In Hebrews chapter nine, twenty-second verse, we read: ‘Without the shedding of blood, is no remission of sins.’ Amen.
Another round of applause, cheers, and amens followed Petsch as he returned to his seat. Earl looked at Ron Chapmann, nodded his head slightly and Chapmann and White quickly left the rostrum. They followed the large bearded man waiting at the doorway, through a bunch of supporters that had crowded around the edge of the rostrum, out a side door and, Darren later learned, into a waiting car.
Earl gave up trying to get the crowd settled back down for a formal closing. People wandered around. Kids ran amuck. He approached the mike and shouted, “Goodnight!” Few even heard the announcement.
Hopkins and Blaylock had a problem. They had seen White and Chapmann disappear but couldn’t follow. The word had silently spread and a number of the muscular and obese patriots, including the stringy, snaggle-toothed gal at the end of the next row and her pudgy little man, blocked the aisles. The two men gave up and waited for the crowd to disperse. They slowly edged down the row to their right where a dozen or so clustered in twos and threes discussing the speeches. They smiled and cordially joined the discussion of one small group after another until they reached the rear exit.
As they climbed into Blaylock’s rented Ford Taurus to leave the meeting, Darren said, “Man let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah, you seemed uncomfortable. You’ll get used to that.”
“Maybe. They certainly got our number tonight. Besides the speakers we wore the only business suits.”
“Ah hell, even if we’d worn some old work clothes they would’ve spotted us. They can spot us feds a mile off. I’ve come to think we must develop a certain smell!”
“Where do you think Chapmann and White disappeared to?” Darren asked.
“Don’t know, but don’t worry. We’ve got ’em covered,” Blaylock said.
“What do you mean?” Darren asked.
“Some of our boys in a new surveillance helicopter followed White in here and they are waiting for him at the airport to take off. They can listen in on every conversation.”
“Wow,” Darren exclaimed.
Blaylock dropped Darren off at the Airport Holiday Inn on his way to catch a night flight back to Chicago.
Meanwhile, Chapmann and White flew out of the Bellingham Municipal airport into a clear night sky aboard White’s Cessna 210. They climbed to fifteen thousand feet on a southeast heading through the valley south of Mount Baker for the little airport in Amak. They landed a few minutes before ten p.m. Chapmann thanked White for the ride and jumped out and scrambled into the waiting car. White taxied for takeoff as Ron Chapmann’s wife, Jill, drove off. Grass and gravel flew as her tires spun. She turned south on highway 215 to pick up the highway to Conconully and home.
“How’d the meeting go?” Jill asked.
“Great. But I suspect we had a couple of feds there. Earl and his men snuck us out a side door and we must have driven down every back alley in town before getting to the airport.”
“You know the feds monitor every move we make,” Jill said.
“Yeah. On the way back I could swear I saw one of those black helicopters off to our right. I had an edgy feeling during the whole trip. Spooky.”
“Ummmm,” she said. “Well, I guess I should break some bad news to you.”
“Oh God, what now!”
“I returned yesterday afternoon to find paper and stuff all over the house.”
4
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Monday, February 10
While Darren attended the Bellingham meeting, Mideast terrorists prepared to ship the first load of Russian arms to the super patriots in the United States. Mr. Ghaleb, a.k.a. Mohammed Javad, a former colonel in Iran’s army and now advisor to several Arab leaders, returned The Medallion to its owner in Istanbul. His colleagues scattered to report to their respective organizations.
Ghaleb returned to his sixth floor apartment and office in Istanbul’s oldest district of Stamboul. He felt ecstatic after dropping by the Iranian Embassy and reporting his progress. Iranian officials seemed delighted with his achievement. He hummed the Iranian national anthem as he returned to his apartment.
His wife looked up from her sewing and with a furrowed brow asked, “What are you so happy about?”
“Ah, woman, my president thinks I will be a national hero if I can get these arms to the Americans!”
“Really?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, as his head nodded rhythmically. He sauntered into the room overlooking the street that served as his office and sat at the ornate mahogany desk. Putting down her sewing, his wife followed and moved quickly to close the louvered windows to shut out the noise from the narrow, cobbled street below. Family pictures decorated the otherwise bare walls. A hand-made rug covered most of the wooden floor.
“Maybe you are just being used by the right-wing religious fanatics,” she said.
“Ahhh, woman,” he said, with a wave of his hand and a sneer on his face.
Ghaleb’s wife picked up another sewing task she had left earlier and after a period of silence and without looking up, asked, “When are we going to move to America
