Liberty's Last Stand (20 page)

“Wriston, you bastard. I got back from Dallas this morning and nobody's workin' my job site. My foreman says the equipment operators stole ever'thin' that would move on your orders. Where the hell is my construction equipment?”

“Out beside the runways, Carroll. We used it yesterday to block the runways here. Did you watch the declaration read night before last?”

“Sure did! All I can say is, it's about damn time.”

“I couldn't call and ask to borrow your stuff, but I thought since Carroll is a good man, he won't mind.”

“By the runways, you say?”

“It's damaged and tore up some, but it kept all the planes from taking off. You should be able to repair some of it. Anyway, your project is going to go slow until you get some more equipment operators. Most of yours are in the Guard and they are now on active duty and won't be back for a while.”

Carroll took a deep breath. “The yellow iron is insured, but the insurance company will lawyer up and refuse to pay unless I sue 'em, then offer ten cents on the dollar. You know that.”

“Tell you what,” Wriston said, and put his arm around the construction man. “If you eat the repair costs, we'll give you an airplane. Any one of those along the road into the base, your pick. You can put it in your front yard. When things calm down, we'll move it for you.”

Carroll's eyes lit up. “Got pecan trees in the front yard, but I could put it in the horse pasture out back. Damn, I'd like that.”

They shook hands on it.

It was noon when JR Hays, wearing a camo uniform and a pistol on a web belt, arrived at the front gate at Fort Hood, sixty miles north of Austin in Killeen. He was in the right seat of a sedan with Texas flags flying from the corners of the front bumper. Two guardsmen, a male captain and a female major, were with him. An enlisted woman was driving.

The soldier at the gate wanted to see ID, but the sergeant was right there immediately and said, “Sir, you can enter the base, but the carrying of firearms around the administrative and living areas is forbidden.”

“Who is the commanding general?” JR asked the sergeant.

“Lieutenant General Gil Ellensberger, sir.”

“Call him. Tell him Major General JR Hays of the Texas Army is sitting at his main gate and wants in to see him. You may tell him we are wearing sidearms, if you wish.”

The sergeant did as he was told. When he hung up the phone, he came out and explained to the driver of the sedan how to get to the headquarters building. Then he saluted. JR returned it.

The commanding general was in a staff meeting. The receptionist had a television in her office, and JR stood in front of it a minute watching. Armed citizens were taking over federal office buildings statewide. The FBI agents in Waco had been arrested en masse, disarmed, and jailed. DEA and ICE headquarters had been occupied, the agents disarmed and sent home.

Ellensberger came striding in. He was a tall, lanky man. He didn't look happy, but he said, “Good lord, JR Hays, as I live and breathe. I haven't seen you since Afghanistan. Come on into my office.” Ellensberger led the way and closed the door.

JR thought commanding generals' offices all looked alike: big desk, carpet, U.S. flags, mementos of the current occupant scattered around. Unbidden, he dropped into a chair.

“I retired from the army last year, General, and my cousin, Governor Jack Hays, just this morning put me in charge of the Texas Guard. Raw nepotism.”

Ellensberger let that one go by. “All our off-base telephones are down, as well as the internet. Did you have anything to do with that?”

“Jack Hays did, not me. I am here today to accept your surrender of the base and all of its personnel and military equipment to the Republic of Texas.”

Ellensberger snorted. “You know I can't do that. You can't just march in here and take over a United States military installation!”

“Gil, you don't have a choice. Texas is now an independent republic, and Fort Hood is right smack in the middle of it.”

Ellensberger waved that away. “Texas is a state in the United States that has tried to secede from the Union. We settled all that back in the 1860s. Surely you read about that. It didn't work then and it isn't going to work now.”

“We're not lawyers and I can't read tea leaves. We're soldiers, and you have an impossible military problem. How many of your troops reported for duty this morning?”

From the look on General Ellensberger's face, JR knew he had scored a hit.

“Half? Was it fifty percent?”

Ellensberger didn't reply.

“Last I heard, you had over forty-five thousand soldiers assigned here. If we blockade the base, how are you going to feed them? And for how long?”

Still no reply.

“Are you going to deploy your troops around your perimeter—how many miles of it do you have, anyway?—and defend it? How many U.S. Army troopers do we have to kill before you will surrender? Or are you going to defend this dirt to the last man and go down like they did at the Alamo? Tell me now so I can brief my staff and get at it.”

“Pfui. All the good ol' boys in Texas aren't going to whip an armored division.”

JR Hays rubbed his nose.

Ellensberger pushed the intercom button. “Bring in this morning's classified message traffic.”

In a moment a soldier came in and handed Ellensberger a clipboard. He automatically said thank you, and the soldier left.

The commanding general flipped through the messages, then handed the clipboard to JR.

“It's the one on top. Op Immediate from the chairman of the JCS, Wynette. He has ordered me to take an armored column from the First Cavalry down the interstate to Austin and surround the city. The air force is going to bomb it. We will go in after the bombers are finished and capture every politician left alive.”

JR took his time with the messages. He read the first one, then saw that Ellensberger was an info addee on a message to the B-1 bomber wing at Dyess and a B-52 outfit in Louisiana ordering them to prepare a strike on the Texas capitol in Austin. They were to wait to launch until First Cavalry had the city surrounded.

“This is insanity,” JR said, gesturing with the clipboard. “They are going to indiscriminately slaughter everyone in central Austin.”

“They're not thinking very straight,” Ellensberger admitted.

“But you are willing to be a part of this? Murdering civilians from the air? Americans?”

Ellensberger sighed. After a bit he said, “If I surrender to you, Wynette will just order the bombers to obliterate Austin ASAP. A dozen B-52s should be able to convert the heart of the city to rubble and kill a whole bunch of civilians.”

JR carefully placed the clipboard back on Ellensberger's desk. “Which side are you on, Gil?”

Ellensberger took his time answering. “As I see it, the governor of Texas and the president of the United States are locked in a hell of a political dispute. I wish they would settle it between themselves without dragging the American flag through the dirt and asking American soldiers to kill other Americans. Honest to God.”

“It isn't the governor. It's the legislature and the people of Texas who are locked in a dispute with Soetoro. Haven't you been watching television?”

Ellensberger didn't reply to that remark, either.

“But politics isn't my business,” JR murmured. “I'm a soldier.”

“Soldiering
is
politics. You know that!”

“Yes or no, Gil. I have responsibilities too.”

Ellensberger took in a bushel of air and sighed deeply. “What are your terms?”

It took a half hour for the surrender document to be typed and signed. Meanwhile JR sent the captain to the flight line to take a helicopter to National Guard headquarters at Camp Mabry in Austin with a message to Major General Gentry. Bombers were coming sooner or later to flatten Austin, and he'd better get fighters ready to fly with pilots willing to fight for Texas.

Lieutenant General Ellensberger signed the surrender. Then he went to the U.S. flag in the corner and carefully removed it from its display pole. He folded it reverently and put it into his briefcase.

“Two mornings ago,” he said conversationally to JR, “when I heard the legislature had passed the declaration and the governor had signed it, I knew this moment was coming. And I didn't know what to do. I could have asked Washington, but all I would have gotten was bullshit. I wanted some time to see what my staff thought, what the troops thought—you can't fight if the troops aren't with you body and soul. The moment of decision just came sooner than I thought it would.

“JR, I am sick to death. You and I were both at West Point, served our country—all of it. Then along came Soetoro. A progressive fascist, if there is such a thing. I figured the country could stand eight years of even the devil's rule, but I was wrong. Race was the wild card. Everyone is scared to death of being labeled a racist. If Soetoro were white he would have been impeached years ago. . . . Do you mind if my wife and I stay in our quarters for a few days? I need to figure out what to do next.”

“Whatever you need,” JR replied. Ellensberger took a deep breath and looked around the office one more time. “I fear for my country,” he said softly. “The United States may not survive this mess.”

“Texas will,” JR said with more confidence than he felt. He saluted, Ellensberger returned it, and then JR walked out to address the office staff.

“You folks in the United States Army who wish to leave can go. You folks who want to enlist in the Texas Guard can stay. You civilians have a job right here if you want it.”

The civilians all stayed. Most of the soldiers asked permission, which was granted, to go home and discuss it with their wives or just to think about things.

JR's next problem was easily solved. The aide he had brought with him, Major Judy Saar, asked, “What are you going to do about Major Nasruli?”

Nasruli was an American-born jihadist who had murdered thirteen Fort Hood soldiers several years before and wounded thirty-two more.

“Is he still here?”

“So they tell me. In the jail or detention facility or whatever they call it.”

“I thought he was convicted by a court-martial and sentenced to death.”

“Yes, sir. But he's very much alive.”

“We are not going to waste people running a jail or spend a dime of taxpayers' money feeding him,” JR Hays said. “It's high time he was dead, anyway. Dictate an execution order addressed to yourself. Put in Nasruli's rank, full name, service number, and a place for my signature. Reference the death sentence. Then get a half-dozen volunteers, get them some M4s, and put him up against a wall. Make sure he's real dead. Then come back here and dictate a press release. The army and the civilians in Washington have screwed around and screwed around, and now he's history.”

“And the body, sir?”

“Burn it.”

“Yes, sir,” Judy Saar said, came to attention, and saluted. Apparently she too thought Major Nasruli had lived long enough. In seven minutes she was back with a one-paragraph order she had apparently typed herself. JR Hays read it, signed it, handed it back to her, and went on to the next problem, which was the armored division at Fort Bliss, in El Paso.