Liberty's Last Stand (17 page)

Travis Clay had been home from the Middle East for only two days and had next week off. He was just getting out of bed when I knocked on the door of his apartment. He was in his underwear when he opened the door and motioned me in. I could hear television audio from the bedroom.

He went to the kitchen and put coffee in the basket and added water. As he did the work, I leaned on the door jam and asked, “How was Syria?”

“The fires of hell have leaked through the crust there. Never trust a man who wipes his ass with his bare hand. We thought we knew where that British dude was who likes to lop off heads with a knife, but he was gone when we hit the place. The Brits were royally pissed. Words cannot express how badly they want that murderous prick. They would sell a prince and maybe a princess or two to lay hands on him for just an hour.”

“That's what they get for letting every raghead who can get there into the country.”

“Don't say that aloud to them. They don't have warm fuzzies about the politicians. And Soetoro is doing it too. Welcome to diversity.”

“So where's your significant other?”

“Rachel? She hit the road. I don't know the straight of it, but I think she got tired of waiting for me to come home and started picking up men in bars. Anyway, she left a note. Want to read it?”

“No.”

“That's good, because I tore it up.”

The coffee was dripping through, and he poured me a cup. He had to wait a minute for the pot to deliver enough for another cup.

When we were sitting in his little living room, I said, “I suppose you heard about Jake Grafton getting arrested.”

“Yeah. And parochial school murders and martial law and Texas declaring independence and all of that. The whole damned country is going to hell in a wheelbarrow. I'm thinking about pulling the plug and going to Montana. You know I grew up there?”

“I didn't know that.”

“Yeah. My folks are outfitters, fishing trips during the spring and summer and hunters in the fall. My dad told me last night I've got a job there if I want it. I'm sorta thinking I do. I don't want to go back to Syria. They're all pedophiles and wife-beaters. Sunnis and Shiites will be fighting each other for a century or two, and the truth is, I don't think it matters a single teeny tiny little goddamn who wins.”

“Probably not,” I murmured.

“The only thing I am absolutely convinced of, I don't want to die in that shithole.”

“Montana would be good.”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“Before you run off, I need some help.” I told him about Jake Grafton and my project to rescue him.

Travis Clay took it like a man and didn't cry. What he said was, “Fuck you, Carmellini.”

“You aren't cute enough.”

We batted it back and forth awhile, and I told him Willis Coffee was on board.

“Oh, hell,” he finally said. “Why not?”

Half an hour later, after we had gone through my plan from end to end, he said, “If you have to shoot an FBI agent, can you do it?”

I answered honestly. “I don't know.”

“Better get that figured out before we saddle up. I guarantee you they will shoot you and me and Willis Coffee in a heartbeat if we stop that car. That's what they train them to do at Quantico. They won't even think about it—they'll just throw lead.”

“I suppose.”

“What you need, Tommy, is a serious diversion. Think about that for a while. The feds will pull out all the stops if we snatch Jake Grafton, whether we shoot an agent or two or not. Barry Soetoro will turn purple. We must give Soetoro and the rest of them something else to think about, something with a higher priority.”

I was in a McDonald's munching a Big Mac when the phone rang. It was Callie Grafton.

“I saw him,” she said. “He looks good.”

“Great. Maybe I'll stop by this evening for a beer.”

“Sure,” she said.

We hung up.

So it was a go.

JR Hays rolled into Austin late that Sunday afternoon. He was fighting to stay awake, but he parked by the state capitol and walked across the lawn. Upstairs, he told the governor's receptionist who he was and took a seat in the waiting room. Legislators came and went, striding purposefully, almost trotting. He gathered that the legislature was in session on the other side of the building, arguing about and passing the legislation needed to convert Texas from a state in the United States to an independent republic.

An hour passed. JR dozed in the chair. The governor shook him awake. “Come into my office, JR. I apologize for the wait. We're making history and trying to give every Texan a decent place to live.”

He went into the office, and Jack Hays closed the door behind them. “Talk to me,” the governor said, and sat down behind the desk.

JR dropped into a chair and told it. “There are ten dead men at the ranch. I ambushed them last night. They were carrying about two hundred pounds of some kind of drug, and I have about a hundred fifty pounds of it in the truck. Two of the backpacks the mules carried were too full of holes to hold the stuff. One of the guards was that deputy sheriff we met before the funeral, Morales I think his name was. There couldn't be two men in west Texas tattooed like that. After the ambush, I hot-footed it out to the highway, and who should be driving up and down but Sheriff Manuel Tejada.”

“Was he in on it, you think?”

“I called him this morning, told him there had been a shootout between two drug gangs, and the stuff was lying all over. Told him I wanted to call the state police and DEA. He begged me to wait until he had come out to look the scene over. He would have probably tried to shoot me, so I boogied.”

Jack Hays was a quick study. “How do you want to handle this?” he asked his cousin.

“We have to fix it so the drug syndicate guys don't come to the ranch with enough firepower to conquer Israel and whack little old me. Plugging Tejada would have felt mighty good, but it wouldn't have solved that problem. I want to take these backpacks over to DPS headquarters, and the colonel needs to have a press conference. Show the drugs to the press. He needs to thank Sheriff Manuel Tejada for his cooperation, which was an essential element in the investigation that allowed the Texas DPS to break up this gang of smugglers.”

Jack Hays smiled. “The phones here are down. I'll take you over there. Let's go.”

The cousins drove to the state police headquarters in JR's truck. They went in to see Colonel Frank Tenney. Fifteen minutes later two state troopers armed with the key to JR's toolbox in the bed of his truck carried the backpacks full of dope up to Tenney's office.

Tenney looked the governor in the eye. “There was a warrant issued for JR over in Upshur County today. He's wanted for murder and drug
trafficking. It's signed by a justice of the peace. They radioed the news in.”

“Squash it,” Jack Hays said, waving the warrant away as if shooing a fly. “He was working as an undercover agent for the Department of Public Safety. I want you to hold a press conference, for the evening news if possible, and have the department take full credit for recovering a hundred and fifty pounds—or whatever it is—of narcotics and smashing a smuggling gang. And I want you to tell the world that it wouldn't have happened without the active help of the sheriff of Upshur County, Manuel Tejada, who gave you the intelligence necessary to break up this gang. It is unfortunate that the smugglers chose to fight rather than submit to arrest and trial by jury, but that was their choice. I want you to make the point that the Republic of Texas will seek out and actively hunt down narco-criminals. Tell the world that Governor Jack Hays has personally assured you the Department of Public Safety will get the funding and manpower needed to finally do the job right.”

The lab did a quick check and established the drug was pure, uncut cocaine, and the cops weighed the stuff. The street value they came up with was $1,360,000 at twenty grand a kilo.

Driving back to the capitol, Jack Hays told JR, “Come on over to my place for dinner tonight. We need to talk. Washington is gearing up for a war against Texas.”

“Breakfast tomorrow,” JR said. “I've been up over thirty-six hours and am going to a hotel to crash.”

“Breakfast at my house,” Jack Hays said, shook his cousin's hand, and walked into the capitol.

JR did indeed crash, but not until after he had a shower and watched Colonel Tenney on the evening news. The camera lingered on the pile of cocaine on Tenney's desk. “Breaking this gang would not have happened without the intelligence provided by and the active cooperation of Sheriff Manuel Tejada of Upshur County,” Colonel Tenney intoned, staring into the camera. “He was instrumental in helping us smash a major narcotics smuggling operation. All of Texas thanks you, Sheriff Tejada.”

JR hit the bed and slept for ten hours.

The aftermath was not slow in coming. Two mornings later Mrs. Tejada found her husband wired to a tree in their backyard. He was dead, strangled with bailing wire. She was pretty broken up about it, until she found over a quarter of a million dollars in an old chest in the guest bedroom, wrapped in a quilt her mother made over a half century ago. Since no one knew where the money had come from, she kept it and lit a candle for her husband in the local church.

When the state police finally got around to visiting the Hays ranch, they found the bodies, which had been worked on by buzzards, coyotes, and feral pigs, one of which was lying dead with the mules. It had apparently ingested enough of the cocaine scattered around to kill it, so presumably it went to pig heaven happy. The only positive identification the cops made was the body of Deputy Sheriff Jesus Morales, identified by his fingerprints and distinctive tattoos, but his boss had been dead almost a week by then, so it was decided to not make a fuss and embarrass the Morales family, who were third-generation Americans, and by all accounts good people. The other dead men were apparently Mexican nationals, so their fingerprints were passed to the Mexican DEA, which didn't bother to acknowledge the receipt of them.

When the Hays' hired man returned from his two-week vacation, he repaired the ranch fence.

But all that was aftermath, and the lives of Jack and JR Hays had moved on by then.

TEN

O
n Monday morning, August 29, JR got his pickup from the hotel valet and drove to the governor's mansion. There he discovered that the governor had a maid, who admitted him and led him to the dining room, where Jack and Nadine were buried in the
Austin Statesman
. The events of the previous day and the full text of the Declaration of Independence filled the front page. Inside were interviews with legislators and quick man-in-the street quotations from celebrating citizens of the new republic. The
Statesman
, a liberal newspaper, editorialized that the governor and legislators who voted for independence were irresponsible radicals whose actions bordered on insanity.

After the trio had discussed the events of the previous day, JR remarked about the maid. Jack said he did a lot of official entertaining so the legislature paid the salaries of a maid and a cook.

“He's in the kitchen now whipping something up. You ready?”

“Sure,” JR said.

“Jack, read that editorial aloud,” Nadine urged. So he did.

Jack said dryly, “If the
Statesman
had editorialized that we had done the right thing, I would have been really worried.”

Soon the maid served eggs Sardou with crumbled bacon, unbuttered toast, and white wine.

Jack said to his cousin, “If it's too early for you for wine, we have coffee and the juices.”

JR glanced at his watch. “I have an ironclad rule that I never drink before seven in the morning,” he said, “and it's ten after. I'll do the wine.”

Nadine took coffee with cream.

Jack and Nadine expressed the hope that the Houston rioting was at last at an end. As they ate they discussed the new status of Texas.

“Tell us what you think,” Nadine said to JR.

JR thought about his response, then said, “I'm a natural-born Texan, and I've had it with Soetoro. A few terrorist incidents don't seem to be a good reason to declare martial law. The FBI and local police can sort that stuff out. I sorta suspect Soetoro thought all that was a good enough excuse to become a dictator, but I don't know. I just caught snatches of the news, here and there.”

Nadine zeroed in. “Are you happy with independence?”

“Anyone who isn't can hit the road,” JR said. “I'm staying. But I hope you folks know that you have bought a ton of trouble. I doubt if all the U.S. soldiers and sailors and airmen will stick to Barry, but a lot of them will, and that'll be plenty. They can cause you lots of grief. Air strikes against concentrations of troops or civilians, against industry, refineries, armories, storage tanks, power generation facilities, everything you can think of, plus armored columns and infantry going through the towns and cities to take them house by house and block by block, seeking out and killing or defeating the rebels. . .it could get damned rough. The feds will ultimately lose, of course, but they will give it the old college try and kill a lot of Texans before they throw in the towel.”

Nadine jumped right on it. “Why will they lose?”

“Because control of the cities is strategically worthless. Whoever controls the countryside always wins in the end, if they keep their nerve and are willing to take the casualties. People in cities have to eat, and the food comes from the countryside. Not to mention electrical power, gasoline, and every other commodity known to man. It all has to be produced in the country or transported through the country, which means it is militarily vulnerable.”

“You think?”

“I know. The American Revolution, the French, Russian, Chinese, and Cuban Revolutions, Vietnam, Afghanistan, you name it. Control of the countryside was the essential element every time. And successful revolutions or rebellions are not the victory of a pissed-off majority, but the triumph of a dedicated minority who won't quit. It doesn't take many men. But the revolutionaries must be willing to suffer and be quite ruthless with the enemy.”

“There will be casualties.”

“A lot of them,” JR agreed, and sipped his wine. “Bloodless revolutions are usually military coups—the generals win because no one else has weapons. The people of Texas are armed. Everyone has guns, and a lot of people know how to use them. More important, some of them are willing to do so. Just having a gun isn't enough. Successful rebels must be willing to fight, to kill, and if necessary, be killed. But you know all that and declared independence anyway, so I assume a lot of legislators have some guts. Or their constituents do, which is better. Whether a dedicated minority has enough guts and determination remains to be seen. Time will tell.”

“We are hearing very little from Washington,” Jack Hays said. “They aren't going to make idle threats. When the blow falls, it will be heavy.”

“Don't wait for it,” JR advised. “You must take it to them. Seize the initiative and put them on the defensive. That's the only way. The Confederates in the American Civil War were strategically hampered by the politicians' desire to take the defensive. In war the defense always loses. If you try to defend everything, you are spread so thin you end up defending nothing. If you try to defend just a few key places or installations, the attackers will bleed you to death someplace else.”

Nadine had abandoned her breakfast. “So how do we prevail and make our independence stick?”

“Attack. As U. S. Grant said, find out where they are, hit 'em as soon as you can, as hard as you can, and keep moving on.”

“The best defense is a good offense,” Jack Hays said thoughtfully.

“Amen to that. In the military we call it seizing the initiative, forcing your enemy to react to your moves rather than you reacting to his.”

“It's the same way in politics.”

Nadine looked at her watch and said she had to leave for the university. Her breakfast was only half-eaten. She rose, got a kiss on the cheek from both men, grabbed her purse, and hurried for the garage.

Jack Hays leaned back in his chair. The maid came in with the coffee pot and poured.

When she had left again, Jack Hays asked JR, “If you were running the military show, how would you go about it?”

“That's a big
if
.”

“A hypothetical.”

“The commander must figure out what he has to fight with. That's Job One. What we have in the way of people, weapons, ammo, and transport defines our options. Our hypothetical commander must start there.”

Jack Hays nodded, sipped his coffee, and nodded again. “If I offered to make you a general,” he said, “and put you in charge of the Texas Armed Forces, which is the National Guard, Air National Guard, and every military unit within Texas, all you can grab, you'd be in charge of defending Texas. Would you take the job?”

JR grinned. “I came here this morning,” he said, “to ask for a job in the Texas Army. Any job. Soldiering is all I know. I suspect that you are going to need an army very badly, very soon.”

“General Twilley has wanted to retire for the last year, and I have been asking him to put it off and hang in there. I want you to take his place. The air guard guy is Major General Elvin Gentry. He'll answer to you.”

“Okay,” JR said.

“Before you go, I have to add the Texas Navy to your list of responsibilities. We got a nuke attack sub yesterday morning. USS
Texas
. She's sitting at a pier in Galveston, and we've got to do something with her quick before the U.S. Navy sinks her or steals her back.”

“Is she undamaged?”

“The sheriff down there thinks she is, but his nautical experience is limited to bass boats.”

“I've got an old army friend who got fed up with grunts and transferred to the navy,” JR said slowly. “He's retired now. As I recall, he was in attack subs. Smart as a tack. Went to nuke power school and did well. He's a law student now at UT. I can send him down to evaluate the boat. If we can't move and hide her, Jack, we probably ought to scuttle her right where she is so the SEALs can't steal her out from under our noses.”

“They could do that?”

“You can bet they're noodling on how to do it right now.”

Jack Hays scooted his chair back and rose. “Sounds like you need to get busy.”

“Yes, sir,” JR Hays said. “I'll do my best.”

“I'd like to introduce you to the press and the Guard brass hats this morning, but I've got to go to Houston again. We'll do the paperwork when I get back. I'll scribble a note to General Twilley. You run out to Camp Mabry, give it to him, and take command—and have him muster you up a major general's uniform.”

“Where is Camp Mabry?”

His cousin stared at him a moment before he answered, “West Thirty-Fifth Street, west of Highway One.” Then he grinned. If you don't know, ask. JR would do nicely.

The governor wrote the note in longhand, they shook hands, and JR headed for the front door and his pickup.

JR drove to the University of Texas Law School and went in. He found his friend, a muscular black man named Loren Snyder, standing in a hallway outside a classroom talking to two fellow students.

“Lorrie.” JR smacked him on the shoulder.

“JR Hays, folks. Long time no see, JR. What are you doing here?”

“Thinking of getting a law degree and wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Well,” Loren glanced at his watch. “I have ten minutes.”

“Terrific.”

JR led Loren away from the other students to a quiet corner. “Weren't you in attack submarines?”

“Yep. Sixteen years of it after the army, which my wife said was plenty long enough. Now I'm going for the gold. Going to be a personal injury lawyer and screw those insurance companies down hard.”

“Before you get to that, I need some help. I'm now a major general commanding all the military forces of the new Republic of Texas.”

“You're
what
?”

“You heard me. We acquired a nuke attack sub yesterday morning down at Galveston, and I need a quick evaluation of the boat by someone who knows what they are talking about.”

“I saw in the paper
Texas
was making a port visit there.”

“Will you go to Galveston right now and evaluate the condition of the boat? Then answer some questions for me. Specifically, can we get enough ex-sailors to move her, can we hide her, or should we just sink her at the pier so the SEALs can't snatch her back?”

“You haven't even asked me if I'm a loyal Texan.”

“Are you?”

“Well, I don't know. Haven't thought much about it.”

“You do this, I'll give you a medal to frame and hang in your law office, when you get that office.”

“You want me to go now, miss today's classes?”

“An hour ago would have been better.”

“How do I get hold of you?”

“Any National Guard armory. They can radio me a message.”

Loren gave him a sheet of paper from a notebook and JR wrote upon it, “Please allow Loren Snyder to inspect USS
Texas
,” and signed it JR Hays, Major General, Commanding, dated it, and gave it to Loren.

“Well,
that
looks official,” said Loren.

“I gotta run,” JR said. “And you do too. Saddle up.”

Brigadier General Lou l'Angistino was fifty years old, from Nebraska, an ROTC graduate who had worked his way up the ladder, flying and performing staff jobs. He flew F-4 Phantoms and F-16s, and considered it ironic that he now commanded a bomber wing. The Global Strike Command dudes must have been very unhappy when they heard. Of course, he had served a tour on the GSC commander's staff, and maybe that was why he was selected.

L'Angistino habitually went to bed at nine o'clock in the evening unless he had an official function to attend, and rose between four thirty and five o'clock a.m. He usually put a leash on his black Lab and then ran five miles, rain or shine.

The events of the previous week troubled him deeply. He knew all about Jade Helm, the plan of the Federal Emergency Management Agency to put Americans in concentration camps, and he also knew that liberals, minorities, and Democrats weren't the intended detainees. He had been appalled when Soetoro announced martial law and invoked Jade Helm.