Judgment Day (41 page)

Proctor leveled the rifle, the barrel hidden by the shadow of the eave. The Magnum load would give him the distance, but if the target was moving, estimating lead would be difficult.

"Remember the sixth commandment, sir," Rich said.

"Smith should have remembered it."

Proctor rested the rifle on the ledge, since his broken wrist made it hard to hold. He studied the van through the scope. Two men were standing on the far side—one of them could be Smith but he couldn't be sure which.

"We've committed no crimes," Rich said. "We've only acted in self-defense."

Through the scope, Proctor saw a third man approach the other two, disappearing behind the van. Then two men appeared, walking toward a police car—they were standing in the open, believing they were out of range. When they paused at the car he got a good look at the men—one of them was Smith. Now he steadied the crosshairs on Smith's neck. Over that distance the bullet would drop. By aiming at his neck he should get a hit in the torso.

"If you do this there's no turning back, sir."

"I know," he said.

"Are you with me, Rich?"

"All the way," Rich said after a brief pause.

Proctor squeezed the trigger. The report of the rifle was like the crack of thunder. When he steadied the scope again, all the men were down behind the squad car. He could see their heads huddled around someone on the ground. Then the federal snipers opened fire again, pelting all sides of the house. He hunkered down, facing Rich for the first time.

Like so many of his generation, Rich revered the New Testament, relegating the Old Testament to history and prophecy. It was the kind of Christianity that made for pacifists, Christians who refused to defend the faith, letting their culture slip away bit by bit rather than fight for its soul.

Rich and the others looked grim, understanding their situation. They had two dead, and one injured, but they were ready to fight for their freedom, ready to die for God and for what their country had once been. Then the building began to vibrate.

Careful to stay out of sight, they peeked out windows and peepholes. Rumbling up the road was a tank. When every man had a look, they again turned to their leader. Closing his eyes, Proctor scanned the forces gathering outside the walls. Now he understood—there would be no siege and there would be no survivors.

"There will be no negotiations and they won't let us get our side of the story out to the world. They'll wait until dark. Then they'll be coming in force."

His men knew what to do, but first each went to his family, reassuring them, making plans in case they were separated, praying for God's protection. Proctor tried to pray, but his thoughts kept coming back to the demon. He'd never seen evil in a purer form. It was clear that Satan and God had gone to war and Proctor had faith that God would eventually win the war. What Proctor didn't know was who would win this battle.

CHAPTER 78 ASSAULT

The pounding [of the Branch Davidian Compound] began a few minutes after 6 A.M., when an armored combat engineer vehicle with a long, insistent steel nose started prodding a corner of the building. Shots rang out from the windows the moment agents began pumping in tear gas. A second CEV joined in, buckling walls, breaking windows, nudging, nudging, as though moving the building would move those inside.

—
TIME
MAGAZINE, MAY 3, 1993

M
ark was in the underground hangar, studying the plans for their next space transport. After Ruth's disappearance, Ira had become a hermit, barely eating, losing weight, refusing to work, leaving Mark to pick up his load.

"Mark, George Proctor called," Shelly said. "He found Ruth!"

"Put him through."

"We were cut off," Shelly said. "Mark, you better come to the communications center, there's something you need to see on TV."

The communications center was a large room filled with computers and monitors, transmitters and receivers. Designed for only a handful of workers, it was now filled with a crowd that had gathered to watch the monitors. The crowd parted to let him pass and stand behind Shelly at one of the consoles. The monitors showed an aerial view of a tank parked outside a large building—a farmhouse that had been added onto haphazardly. Suddenly a puff of smoke erupted from the barrel of the tank and a rock wall in front of the house exploded.

"That's George Proctor's place," Shelly said. "That's where Ruth is."

"What?"

Suddenly Ira pushed through those gathered in the communications center, spinning Shelly in her chair to look her in the face.

"Ruth? They said you found Ruth!" Ira said.

"Calm down, Ira," Shelly said. "George Proctor radioed the New Hope station that he had found Ruth. Before we could find out where she was the signal was lost." Pointing to the monitors she said, "That's George Proctor's place, Ira. There's been shooting. Some FBI agents have been killed. Ruth maybe inside."

Now video showed a stretcher loaded into an ambulance, the body covered, one end soaked with blood. Another image cut in, another stretcher, this time a man writhing in pain, clutching his blood-soaked stomach.

"But what about Ruth? They can't break in, they could kill her."

Evelyn appeared, wrapping her arm around Ira, comforting him.

"Shelly, are we relaying communications for the FBI?" Mark asked.

"I'll call Sandy."

While Shelly contacted Sandy aboard New Hope, Mark watched the tank systematically destroying the fence in front of Proctor's refuge. The helicopter providing the images was at some distance, the image unsteady. Panning back, they could see activity all around the main complex, men taking cover behind cars, rocks, trees—anything that would stop a bullet. Proctor's military savvy led him to clear a wide killing field around his building. Infantry crossing the open spaces would be subject to murderous fire. So would anyone escaping from the building.

"Sandy has localized the FBI signal. We're relaying for them between Idaho and Washington, D.C."

"Tell her to break in, Shelly," Mark ordered. "They need to know that Ruth may be inside."

The drama on the screen continued, the tank finishing its work on the fence. Then the turret of the tank rotated, pointing toward one end of the building. A puff of smoke and the corner of the building exploded, debris erupting from the explosion like the spout of a whale.

"Shelly, has Sandy gotten through to the FBI?"

"They won't talk to you," Shelly said.

"Then cut off the relay until they do," Mark ordered.

The barrel of the tank's cannon now pointed at the opposite end of the building, and it too exploded, collapsing in on itself.

"Shelly?"

"We cut them off, Mark. But they refuse to talk with us."

"Oh, sweet Jesus, protect my Ruth," Ira prayed, while on the screen the battle continued.

CHAPTER 79 CONFLICT

The only thing better than the honor of dying for my country would be the glory of dying for my God.

— GEORGE PROCTOR

P
roctor's ears were still ringing from the explosion of the second shell when they called again.

"The hour is up, Proctor," Hernandez said. "The men come out first, hands in the air. Then the women and children."

"We won't be taken alive," Proctor said solemnly.

"Don't be a fool, Proctor," Hernandez said. "We don't want a massacre."

"I gave you my terms. I'll testify to a neutral panel of judges."

"You come out now and you'll get your day in court. That's all I can promise."

"Any deaths will be on your head, Hernandez."

"At least send out the women and children."

Hanging up, Proctor signaled to Rich. Every gun opened fire on the tank, peppering it with small arms fire. Ricochets whined in every direction, the hidden FBI and ATF agents hugging their protective cover. Then the tank started forward, rumbling toward the center of the complex.

"It's time, Rich," Proctor said.

Rich pulled half the men from their positions, sending them to the basement, while the remaining men increased their rate of fire. Proctor followed his men down to the well-protected room in the center of the complex, where the women and children huddled, then down to the lowest level. There he directed three men with sledgehammers to bust through a thin section of concrete wall. The burly men made short work of the temporary wall, revealing a tunnel. When the rubble was cleared he called to Marilyn to bring the children down. Just as they had practiced in numerous drills, the children came down single file, following Marilyn and Ruth. Proctor threw a toggle switch and the tunnel lit up, one of his men leading the way into the tunnel, Marilyn and the others following.

After making sure the evacuation was under way, Proctor and two men entered the prison wing, not bothering to turn off the lights. For most of the prisoners it was their first look at the man who visited in the dark; a middle-aged man, muscular in build, with icy blue eyes. No less terrifying.

"What's happening?" Lichter asked. "I heard an explosion."

The others shouted too, frightened by the commotion above them. Proctor ignored them, going directly to the end cell. The man who had attacked the
Rising Savior
with a missile was sitting on his bunk, calm.

Pointing his gun, Proctor said, "Turn around."

The man obeyed and Proctor unlocked the cell. Two guards cuffed him.

"I knew you'd come," the man said.

"Keep your mouth shut or I may change my mind."

Ignoring the pleas of the others, they left the cell block, pausing while the last of the women and children filed down the stairs and into the tunnel. Proctor ordered two of his men to take charge of the mercenary. The prisoner was pushed into the tunnel, a guard in front and behind.

"You can't let him go," Rich said.

"I swore before God that I would set him free, and I will."

"He's killed before and he'll kill again," Rich said.

"There is a way, Rich."

Leaving the basement, Proctor climbed into the din above, reaching the main hall just as the tank crashed through the porch and into the front wall, the door frame splintering, the steel door knocked back into the room. With a roar of turbine engines the tank backed away, turned, and aimed for another section. Sending Rich to the upper floors of the opposite wing, they raced to the top levels ordering the riflemen to withdraw in stages, sending half down immediately. Manning a gun port himself, Proctor looked for the tank but the angle was poor, the tank punching a hole in the wall at the other end of the building. Instead he sighted on the communications van and put rounds into its already peppered side. His first round drew fire, the federal snipers having located the gun ports.

When the tank rolled around to the other side, Proctor sent half the remaining men to the basement, while he and the few left fired their weapons as fast as they could, trying to mimic a larger force. Then he saw a flash and the wall next to him exploded, knocking him off the platform. Dazed he held his head in both hands, head aching, one ear bleeding. When the pain subsided he rolled over to see a gaping hole. Someone grabbed his arms, pulling him toward the stairs just as bullets rained in the opening. Helped to his feet at the staircase, he stumbled down while another explosion rocked the building.

When he reached the bottom, Rich and four men came running from the opposite wing, joining them in the center room.

"They're opening holes in the second story," Rich said, then, "You're hurt!"

Proctor looked at his side where three large slivers of wood protruded, his shirt shredded and blood-soaked.

"It's not bad," Proctor said. "Pull them out!"

Without hesitation Rich yanked the three slivers in quick succession.

"There's a lot of little ones that will have to wait," Rich said.

"Is everyone accounted for?" Proctor asked.

"We're the last," Rich said.

Just as they turned to go the clink of a tear-gas canister sounded in the next room, followed by the hiss of gas. More clinking and hissing, as canisters entered from all sides. Then a new sound, a muffled explosion, then a flash.

"Incendiary grenade," Rich said. "They're burning us out."

"They never planned on taking prisoners," Proctor said.

Called paranoid their entire lives, there was no satisfaction in having your worst fears about your own government confirmed.

The smoke from the fires was thick and dark, the flames spreading along the ceiling, creeping toward them. Suddenly the wall behind them caved in, the tank having punched through to the center of the building. The tank backed out, revealing a clear path to daylight.

Hurrying down the stairs and through the hatch below, they pulled it closed behind them. Rich started for the tunnel but Proctor deviated, entering the cell block. Holding his bleeding side, he hurried to the far end and began unlocking each cell, working back to the door. Then he paused, looking back

as the prisoners began to emerge, fearful of him and of the sounds they could hear above them.

"There's still time for you," Proctor said. "Go up two flights of stairs and then out the back."

Then he ran to the tunnel, pausing inside to throw another switch. Then counting slowly to ten he ran down the tunnel to Rich. There was a muffled explosion at the count of ten, followed by the collapse of the opening, the end of the tunnel filling with rubble.

"Will the prisoners make it?" Rich asked.

"They put their faith in the world instead of God. Now their fate depends on that world."

CHAPTER 80 CONFLAGRATION

Buzzards circled overhead and the wind blew hard on the day the Branch Davidians died.

—
TIME
MAGAZINE, MAY 3, I 99 3

S
moke poured from every window in the building where Ira's beloved wife had taken sanctuary. Flames had eaten through the roof on one end and licked at the holes blown in the walls by the tank shells. Helpless, Ira could only cry, eyes fixed on the battle being played out on national television. The FBI steadfastly refused to talk with Mark, even though he had ordered New Hope station to cut off the communications relay. The FBI was furious about the loss of communications and threatened legal action against Mark and the Fellowship for breaking in on official communications and for obstruction of justice. All Mark's pleadings fell on deaf ears, and he was reduced to watching passively with the rest of the world, their technology useless to help Ruth.

Now flames burned through the roof in the front of the building, bright orange tongues licking through black smoke. Both ends of the building were on fire now, the flames spreading quickly through the wood-frame structure. "How many children are inside?" Mark asked, afraid of the answer.

None of Mark's people knew, but as if in answer to the question, the

television reporter covering the conflict said, "We understand there are fifteen or twenty children inside. That's from the ATF agents who have had the fundamentalist cult under surveillance."

Suddenly Wyatt Powder broke in from the network studio in New York. He had nothing to add, since he was nearly three thousand miles away, but this was the latest "story of the decade" and Wyatt Powder wasn't going to let a third-rate reporter from a network affiliate in Idaho get the credit.

"How sure are they on the number of children, Cliff?" Powder asked.

"It's their best estimate, Wyatt," the reporter replied, responding as if he and the network anchor were friends. "They were running a school on the property and that estimate of the number of children would be based on normal attendance. However, I must reiterate that it is just an estimate."

"Have they let any of the women or children come out, Cliff? Or are they determined to sacrifice innocent children for their cause?"

"We've seen no one come out, Wyatt. As you know there is precedent for self-immolation among right-wing extremists like these. The agents here say the fire has spread much faster than would be typical of a wooden structure like this one. They believe the cult may have used gasoline to spread the fire to prevent any of their members from changing their minds and escaping."

"Fundamentalists have been known to do that, Cliff," Wyatt agreed.

"Can you see—"

"Sorry to cut you off, Wyatt, but something is happening in the back,"

Cliff said, interrupting the network anchorman.

The aerial camera zoomed in on a body lying behind the building. As the camera came around they could see another body lying just outside a gaping hole in the back of the building where black smoke was billowing out. Suddenly a man ran out of the smoke, only to be peppered with bullets two steps later.

"It looks like some of the cult members have been shot, Wyatt."

The reporter ignored the fact there were no weapons with the bodies.

"Do you see any children, Cliff?"

"Negative, Wyatt."

Next a woman broke from the building, her hair and clothes on fire. Now holding their gunfire, they saw her make it halfway across the clearing before she collapsed, rolling on the ground, a ball of flames. An ATF agent broke from cover, removing his jacket as he ran, throwing it over the burning woman, then beating out the remaining flames with his hands.

"Ruth?" Ira said mournfully. "Is that Ruth?"

"I'm sure it's not," Evelyn said, not sure at all.

"That's right," Shelly said. "She was a very short woman."

The agent who had extinguished the woman now stood, holding his hands out, turning them over as if he was in pain. Just as others were emerging from hiding to assist him, the agent collapsed, clutching his leg.

"He's been shot," Cliff shouted over the air waves. "He tried to save that woman's life and they shot him."

Every hidden agent fired on the opening now, killing anyone else who might have tried to escape the flames. The wounded ATF agent was dragged back to cover, the burned woman left in the grass, her clothes still smoldering. The helicopter moved on, circling the structure, looking for more drama. It was a fire story now, the images all of flickering flames and billowing smoke. Soon the third floor collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the sky, and one by one the walls collapsed inward, feeding the central fire that burned white-hot. Ammunition and explosives detonated, blowing debris as far as the road and the woods outside the compound, and there was brief pandemonium as small grass fires were extinguished. From a wisp of smoke, to conflagration, to dying embers, it was all captured on digital video, a permanent record of the end of George Proctor and his movement.