The instructor, p.5
The Instructor, page 5
Anger still sets fire to his blood. Impatience along with it, urging him to get on the road. But the old man’s insistence and assertiveness is unexpected, and it drives the intelligence-collection side of his training to the forefront. It’s something Derek can’t resist even if he wanted to. He needs to know where this is heading.
Rather than forcing further confrontation, he decides to play along. “All right, then. Lead the way.”
5
Marshal smiles and turns for the entrance. Leaving the mess, the old man walks to his right and starts along the tree line that forms the perimeter of the clearing. They pass a pair of deer carcasses hanging from a railroad tie suspended between two trees just outside the mess tent. A little ways beyond them are four wooden shower stalls, with large cisterns behind them and hoses running along the ground off to the west.
Derek’s gaze follows the lengths, seeing them stretch toward the sound of the river. He spots flickers of light through the trees, presumably the reflection of the summer sun off the breaks of the running water. It’s some distance, but he can just make out the edges of a long, rectangular structure.
Taking notice of the direction Derek is looking, Marshal glances that way before turning back over his shoulder. “That’s the old sawmill. My grandfather, God rest his soul, put his last bit of money into this land after the Great Depression cleaned him out. He thought the Adirondacks would be the next big logging territory. That tributary showed promise for getting timber downstate, but then … let’s just say progress got impeded.”
They cross through a thick stand of trees. Marshal halts them on the other side. A man with a massive beard and equally large gut sits on a camp stool. A group of boys and girls dressed in hunting camo cluster around him. The youngest is around eight, the oldest no more than twelve, yet each of them carries a brand-new bolt-action rifle. One by one, they step before the man and clear their firearm, ejecting a single cartridge before handing it over. The man places each bullet in his shirt pocket before inspecting the breach. Once he’s deemed it empty, he hands the rifle back and sends the kids across the clearing toward the cinder block building.
Marshal watches the whole process unfold with a satisfied smile on his face. Derek notices that two of the kids are already empty when they pull their bolts back. They also have a fair amount of blood on their hands and sleeves. Marshal pats them each on the shoulder as he passes them by.
“Good work, Janie. Easton. We eat again tonight because of you.”
“Thank you, Marshal.” The young girl beams.
“Thank you, sir,” Easton adds with a starstruck look.
A younger boy steps up behind them and also reveals an empty breach. His eyes, shimmering with tears, dart to Marshal before looking back at his rifle. Unlike the predecessors, he’s devoid of any blood on his person. The old man’s smile fades.
“And thank God that Janie’s and Easton’s shots were true,” Marshal says to the remaining children still waiting in line. They all stare at him save for the boy having his rifle inspected. “Still, think of how many more bellies might be full if everyone did their part. If all of you fulfilled your duty to this family. Wouldn’t that be a moment of true rejoicing? One that celebrates bounty instead of failure.”
The watching gazes all shift back to the boy. Hands trembling, he accepts his inspected rifle from the man on the stool. The boy rushes toward the clearing with his head bowed, not daring to lift his eyes and meet those boring into him. When he gets beyond the old man, the kid can no longer keep his composure and breaks down crying.
Derek holds back on his comment, a scathing remark about beating up on a kid who should have his nose in a coloring book, not a rifle in his hands. His mind immediately goes to Michael. How many times had he unreasonably expected more from his own boy? Derek tamps down the guilt before it can distract him from his observations.
As quickly as it vanished, Marshal’s smile returns. “Shall we?” The old man moves on, talking over his shoulder again as he weaves his way through the trees. “Hunting party. Just coming in from their morning shift.”
Walking by the inspection line, Derek gets a closer look at the rifles. Remington 700 SPS. Tactical versions. Matte black. Bull barrels. Each one is equipped with a high-powered scope. The kind of rifles police departments, even some military units, favored giving their snipers. Not cheap setups either, and there were at least ten kids in the group.
“Everyone has a job to do around here, even the little ones,” Marshal continues. “Heck, they’re the luckiest of us all. They only have one job to do. Now they’ll be off to their studies.”
“You send them out there to hunt with one bullet?”
“Well, resources aren’t infinite up here, but also, there’s no better way to learn than by limiting them to a single round.”
“I suppose,” Derek responds. “Although if you’re banking on kids keeping the pantry full, I would think you’d want to hedge your bets a bit more.”
“Perhaps,” the man replies without turning his head. “Maybe think of it this way, then. When they know they only have one round, they learn to hit their target in such a way that it doesn’t get back up.” The sharpness is there again. A voice teetering on the edge of violent outburst. And just like that, it’s gone.
When he speaks again, Marshal’s voice is warm and inviting. “This, Derek,” the man says, lifting his arms to the canopy above, “is what we have built here. What we are building. This is refuge. This is what we call Sanctuary. The people you see around you. These are the downtrodden. The castaways of a vitriolic society so consumed by itself that it no longer has the capacity for common human decency, much less compassion.
“We have recognized that to truly live as God’s people, we must leave the grid behind. Not just the grid, mind you, but society as we know it. We’ve emancipated ourselves. No more being subject to the corruption of politicians. No more pissing away our money into taxes that get spent overseas versus at home. We refuse to be a part of a country where queers are celebrated. Where criminals are lauded and cops are made to be the villains. ‘Ah, sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, offspring of evildoers, children who deal corruptly.’ Isaiah, chapter one, verse four.”
The perimeter tree line bends around the rough circle of the clearing. Off to their right, an open-front structure shows men working at a forge and anvils, while just next to it, others use the saws and hammers Derek heard earlier. Marshal waves. One man waves back before dressing down a sixteenish-year-old boy. Derek makes note of the religious zealotry. From watching, he records a disciplined and organized camp.
“No more, Derek. Here in this solitude, we are committed to returning society into what makes sense. Into what God intended. No government will hold sway over us any longer. We are accountable to Him, one another, and that’s all.”
They pass by cabins set back in the woods, near enough to the same style Derek saw at the outbuildings when he first arrived two weeks ago. To his left, in the clearing, a different group of men from the ones he trained move toward the cinder block building. Each one carries an AR-style assault rifle slung across plate carriers laden with magazines and other gear pouches. All four also sport a sidearm holstered in a thigh rig.
The Remingtons are one thing. These are another altogether. No way the weapons and gear could be justified by hunting.
“Nice sermon. I fail to see what it has to do with my getting paid. And what’s with the hardware?”
Marshal looks past him to the clearing, the remnants of a grimace vanishing from his face. “They, Derek, are what this has to do with you. If you’ll indulge me a few minutes longer.”
Derek shrugs, and Marshal turns back to the trees, losing himself in the foliage and songbirds. Slowly, they make their turn toward the north, the trail back to Derek’s truck just ahead of them.
“We mean to live in peace here. Truly, we do. I want nothing more than that for my flock. But in these trying times, it seems we are still to be tested. There are those whose wickedness will not relent so easily. That finds us even now.
“These hills. There is a certain … lawlessness to them,” Marshal continues. “The remoteness of these mountains means there is virtually no presence from the police up here. Perhaps the occasional DEC patrol will go through the nearby state park, but that’s it. Those conditions attract a certain element. Groups with ill intentions. Groups that are the epitome of the evil that has consumed the rest of this country. We are surrounded by wolves, Derek, and when a pack of wolves sees easy prey, they pounce.”
“I take it you’ve already had a couple of run-ins with these groups, then?” As they walk by the cinder block building, the armed men step up to a steel dutch door, the top portion swung open. A large woman fills the space, taking the rifles one by one and placing them inside. Between her, the men, and the darkness of the interior, Derek can’t see what else is behind her.
Marshal nods and continues, oblivious to Derek’s line of sight. “We have. A couple of goons cornered some of my kids. Took their rifles at gunpoint. Terrified them in the process. Others were spotted sneaking around our vehicles. Some in camp have told me they hear voices around our perimeter at night. Those men there are coming off a lookout shift. I started putting them out at night after the incident with the rifles.”
They reach a cabin with a covered porch. Marshal steps up and into the building. As Derek follows, he notices a shack to the left of the cabin. No bigger than a shed, it’s adorned with several satellite dishes and antennas. Cables run from the roof and connect to gasoline-powered generators placed next to the building.
When he steps inside, he finds a simple enough room, dimly lit and musty. A closed door is set in the left wall, a large stone fireplace set into the back one. The center of the room is dominated by a large desk hewn from oak. It’s covered in intricate scrollwork and polished to a high shine. Two chairs are set before it, a grand recliner behind. On the wall to his right, a grandfather clock ticks softly, the long pendulum swinging behind a glass door. It’s also polished and in immaculate condition.
Marshal walks around the desk, running his hand along the wood as he does so. “How about something a little stronger than coffee?” he says, opening one of the desk drawers. Glasses clink together in the process.
“I don’t think there’s anything on earth stronger than that shit.”
The old man laughs. “Yeah. Darryl is pretty brutal. I just thank God he cooks the stuff to the point we’re not dying from salmonella.” He puts two glasses onto coasters on the desktop and pours from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. Marshal picks up both glasses and hands one over. He smells the scotch before taking a long sip.
Derek takes a sip of his own. “What happened to him being a great cook?”
Marshal’s eyebrows perk up. “In your career, did you ever find it beneficial to tear up a subordinate in front of a complete stranger?”
So a subordinate is off-limits, but a kid is okay? “All the time.”
“Well, I’ll have to disagree on your leadership style there. Besides, despite the man being my second cousin, he’s the only cook we got up here.” Marshal gestures to the chairs, and they sit. Silence lingers between them. “What do you think of the desk?”
Derek looks at it again. “Yeah … it’s nice.”
“Belonged to my grandfather. The clock too. All I have left of him. Of my whole family, really, Darryl notwithstanding. When he knew the bank was coming for his factory, he got these out the night before and brought them here.” The man stares at the desk longingly.
Derek sips the scotch sparingly, knowing full well that he has a long drive still. The contradictions of the old man begin adding up. His sudden flips of aggression. The adoration for the furniture. The Bible quotes. A profile begins building of a man not completely grounded in reality. Perhaps it’s the age. Perhaps something more.
Eventually, the old man looks up. “Let me lay it all out, Derek. The good Lord was called on to be a shepherd, and it seems that I have received a similar call. Every good shepherd must not only tend to his flock but protect them from the wolves.
“When we first started out here, it was just my kin and me. Our numbers have swelled as of late. Unfortunate, in that it means more are becoming despondent, but a blessing in that they are turning to our ways. I finally have the numbers I need to put together a security team. A group of men beyond the lookouts. Men who can patrol our land and, if necessary, interdict on our behalf for the safety of all who are here.”
“You want a QRF,” Derek says. “A quick reaction force.”
“Yes,” the old man replies, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Exactly. I have the men picked out, but I need someone to assess them for me. To ensure that they are trustworthy. That they will be able to perform under fire and then, once I have approved them for it, to train them how to do so.” He pauses and stares flatly.
Derek stares back. After a moment, he sets the scotch down on the desk. “Yeah. Not interested.”
“You haven’t heard what I’m willing to pay yet.”
“Listen, Marshal. You want to secede from the Union, be my guest. I won’t stop you. I couldn’t care less what you and your flock does, but don’t ask me to join in. I didn’t spend the better part of my life defending this country just so I could come home and teach a bunch of inbred assholes how to play soldier while they turn their backs on it.”
The man’s eyebrows furrow, his face becoming even more creased. Marshal works his jaw around before responding. “I’m only going to say this once, son—”
“And you can cut out the calling me ‘son’ shit while you’re at it.”
Another long pause. “All right. Derek. Don’t assume that your service somehow elevates you above the rest of us. There are those in this camp, including myself, who have worn the uniform and spilled blood for this country. The difference is that we realize we were hung out to dry by the same country we signed up to protect.”
“Great. Good for you. You don’t need me, then. Hell, you’ve got Gil. He looks like he spent some time in the sandbox. Have him teach your boys.”
Leaning back in his chair, Marshal folds his hands over his chest. “Gil. Gil is a good man. You’re right. He was an MP in Iraq. Had a run-in with his company commander that … Well, let’s just say he’s sacrificed a lot more than most here.
“The thing that makes Gil so great is his humility. He knows that riding up and down roads laden with IEDs isn’t the same as patrolling a forest in northern New York. He freely admitted he was unequal to the task of training the team. He suggested we find someone more qualified. He truly puts the good of this camp ahead of everything, most of all his pride.”
“This is real touching and all, but I’m not the guy you’re looking for. All I did was teach survival.”
Another frown. Marshal leans over to pull out a drawer to his left. When he comes back up, he’s holding a manila folder in his hand. The old man flips it open and starts reading out loud. “Derek A. Harrington, USMC. Chief Warrant Officer Four. Military intelligence with specializations in human and counterintelligence. Infantry school in 1994. Embassy duty after that. Accepted into Force Recon, then served with dev group.”
“Where the fuck did you get that?”
Ignoring him, Marshal continues, “Warrant school and then the intel teams. Deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Libya, Syria, Saudi Arabia, the Horn of Africa. Airborne qualified. Air assault. HALO. Medic as your primary designation. Cross-trained in demolitions. Scuba certified.”
On the surface, his face is placid, but underneath, Derek is seething. He feels his teeth grinding together. His grip tightening on the armrests of the chair. It takes all he has not to leap over the desk. How the hell did this guy get my file?
“Seems like after your last deployment, you made the transition to the schoolhouse side. Instructor, small arms and crew-served weapons. Black belt and instructor in Marine Corps martial arts. Edged weapons instructor. This, though. This right here is what I found particularly interesting. SERE school level C graduate and instructor. Spent the remainder of your time in the Corps there.”
Marshal flips the folder closed and looks at Derek again. “So you see, son. You’re exactly the kind of person I need. A Special Forces operator proficient in teaching woodland survival. One that can give my men a fighting chance against these gangs and drug runners.”
It takes him a moment to gather himself. When he does speak, Derek’s voice is barely contained from breaking out into full-fledged beratement. “I’d like to get paid, and then I’d like to put you and the rest of this collection of crazy in my rearview.”
Frowning, Marshal scoops the folder from the desk. “Very well.” He bends down again. Metal on metal scraping sounds out, followed by a click. The old man starts piling stacks of money onto the desktop.
At first, he puts two stacks together and then pushes them aside. After that, Marshal starts pulling out more money. Four stacks. Seven. Ten. When he’s done, he looks back over at Derek and gestures to the smaller pile.
“That’s ten thousand dollars, on top of the five you already have, on account of this inconvenience. You can take it now and head back to your truck. So long as you remember our agreement about anonymity, that will be the end of our dealings.”
His hand hovers over the ten stacks. “But if you agree to train my men, I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars. It’s mid-June now, so let’s say by early autumn. Ten weeks to get them up to speed. That’s five thousand a week, Derek. When we get to the fall, if you tell me they need more training, I’ll pay you more money.”
Although he doesn’t look at it, Derek feels a pang in his heart over the cash. Visions of finally meeting his obligations, of an end to broken promises to his boy, briefly streak through his mind. The money could be life-changing.
