Liberty's Last Stand (22 page)

That Sunday afternoon chairman of the JCS General Martin L. Wynette was back at the White House. He hadn't had a day this bad since he was a plebe at West Point, way back when. President Soetoro, Vice President John Rhodes, and their aides surrounded him at a conference table and wanted to know how and when the armed forces of the United States were going to crush the Texas rebellion. The general had two aides with him, a Major General Stone and a brigadier, but the questions were directed at him, and the politicians weren't happy. They wanted action now.

“Willy-nilly bombing and invasion without a plan will get us nowhere,” the general explained. “We are working around the clock to formulate a coherent plan that will accomplish a military objective, which is the occupation of an enemy state.”

“That's not it,” Soetoro said, thumping the table. “The military objective is to destroy the political opposition in Texas.”

“Your political opposition.”

“You're damned right. Those who oppose the progressive policies of this administration, earth-friendly policies that will benefit all future generations, policies designed to take care of those today who are unable to participate in our high-tech economy, whether from institutional racism or white privilege or the circumstances of birth, are indeed
my
political opposition. They oppose America! Your job is to kill or capture them. Now—how are you going to get it done?”

“The navy will launch two Tomahawk cruise missiles at power-generating facilities in Houston later tonight, after dark in Texas. Your staff told me they want bombs falling immediately, so I gave the order. We are planning more strikes on the power plants—”

“Planning?”

“Scattering cruise missiles around like grass seed isn't going to kill or capture your political opposition, Mr. President. These strikes must be in coordination with armed invasion, or we are simply wasting missiles.” Wynette felt his irritation leaking through.
He
was the military expert. None of these political types had ever spent a single day in uniform, unless they did a stint at scout camp once upon a time. Hell, they didn't even
like
soldiers, whom they often referred to as neolithics.

“So when is the invasion?”

“Sir, as I said, we are working around the clock to produce a plan. Going in half-cocked and getting our asses shot off isn't going to get us any closer to your objective. When we go in, we want to win.”

“So when? Tomorrow? This week? Next week? Next month? Next year?
When
?”

“I would say next week. We must move soldiers and equipment from all over the country, figure out the logistics—”

“Bullshit,” Soetoro's senior political advisor, Sulana Schanck, said acidly. “This isn't the invasion of Germany or Iraq! Your opposition is a mob of crackers with deer rifles who will shit their pants when the shooting starts and run like rabbits.” She obviously was a believer in direct speech.

The thought shot through Wynette's head that British General Thomas Gage had that same opinion when he marched his troops from Boston to seize the arms and powder at Lexington and Concord, but he had the sense not to air it. He did, however, screw up the courage to say, “The Texans did a number on General Santa Ana, as I recall.”

“Damn it, General,” Soetoro roared. “I don't want a history lesson! I want you to take the United States armed forces down there and kick butt. If you can't do it, we'll find someone who can.”

Wynette automatically dropped into his ass-kissing mode. “We'll get it done, sir.”

“And how come the brass in charge of these military facilities in Texas are busy seeing how fast they can surrender? Are they a bunch of traitors?”

“Sir, I have ordered investigations. The commanders will be held responsible for their actions.”

“Firing squads will stiffen some backbones. The sooner the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When the invasion starts, I want you down there in the lead tank, General. Do you understand? If you fuck this up, don't come back alive.”

“Yes, sir,” General Wynette said.

Late Sunday afternoon as JR Hays settled into one of the passenger seats of a U.S. Army executive jet, normally used to ferry flag officers around, he took stock of all the things he needed to get done and hadn't been able to attend to today. Everything needed to be done immediately. He hoped that Air National Guard Major General Elvin Gentry had hit the ground running. Air traffic facilities and their radars, in addition to fighter planes, bombers, helicopters, had to be seized by the Guard. Without ground control sites pinpointing incoming enemy planes, fighters were handicapped severely. Gentry also needed to ground civilian air traffic and confiscate every jetliner he could lay hands on so they could be used to ferry troops.

Just thinking of all the critical tasks and decisions that had to be attended to made JR's head throb and gave him a sense of anxiety that he was having trouble shaking off. The fact that the feds were equally inundated didn't help much to ease his frame of mind. If the feds got licked, they had forty-nine other states to play in. If Texas got licked, a whole lot of Texans were going to die in the aftermath.

The three Apaches and one Blackhawk that he had launched from Fort Hood were going to make a pit stop for fuel in Pecos. Unfortunately the weather was rotten around El Paso. Thunderstorms full of rain and lightning were drifting in from the west and southwest, bringing low ceilings and visibility in addition to their usual goodies.

He had no plan for forcing the 1st Armored to surrender. He had learned long ago the truth to the old maxim that no plan survives contact with the enemy, so he made none. First he had to learn what the situation was in El Paso and at Fort Bliss, then he could plan. The Apaches and the Blackhawk were arrows in his quiver. The National Guard commander, Wiley Fehrenbach, scion of the Hill Country Fehrenbachs, and his old civilian contractor boss, Pete Taylor, would know, so he would land at the civilian airport and seek them out.

He had been lucky to get into West Point, and soon hated the place. He decided to stick with it and do his required service afterward, then bail. Before he could get out, along came Kosovo. The experience left him with a profound respect for the men and women who served in the army. In Afghanistan, then Iraq, and two more combat tours in Afghanistan, their valor had left him humbled and awed. Leading troops had been the great experience of his life. The military bureaucracy—full of paper-pushers and desk soldiers angling for promotion—had defeated him when the Holy Warriors could not. He knew he had to get out when he hit twenty years, and he did.

Now he was on the cusp of a horrible dilemma, which he had helped bring on. It looked as if killing some American soldiers might well be on the menu. The hard fact was that if Texas was going to win its freedom, mortal combat was inevitable. If not here, then other places. And the sooner it was done, the sooner the bloodletting would be over.

Combat had taught JR to find strength in God when he doubted if he had enough, and so he prayed a little as the jet lifted off. He had long ago come to grips with his own mortality. He had once written a quotation from Stonewall Jackson in the front of his Bible: “God has fixed the time for my death. I do not concern myself about that, but to be always ready, no matter when it may overtake me. That is the way all men should live, and then all would be equally brave.”

Be always ready. Go meet your maker with a clear conscience.

Another lesson he had learned in combat was to sleep whenever possible. He had done all he could, and could make no plans until he knew the situation he faced, so he reclined his seat as far as it would go, leaned his head back, and went to sleep.

THIRTEEN

T
ravis Clay, Willis Coffee, Willie Varner, and I sat in the work area behind the lock shop display room drinking beer and watching television. The front door was locked.

Barry Soetoro was on the tube breathing fire and damnation. Beside him stood General Martin L. Wynette, USA, looking every inch a soldier, with enough ribbons on his chest to decorate the Light Brigade. I had heard that Wynette had actually never heard a shot fired in anger, except for some outgoing artillery barrages fired several miles away, yet he looked fierce and determined, ready to chew nails. I thought it was his square jaw and steely eyes that created that impression, which had taken him far.

Apparently Willie the Wire was also impressed by the general, because he remarked, “He oughta be in movies. Central Casting must have sent him over to the White House.”

Soetoro was reading from a teleprompter, as usual. I wondered who wrote his stuff: “. . .are going to crush the rebellion in Texas. The traitors who survive will be tried for treason. I appeal again to the sane people in Texas to put a stop to the foolishness of the legislature and the governor. They are the ones who will suffer, who will pay for the stupidity of their state officials. The price will be high. . .”

He went on, telling about the Texas press release reporting the execution of Major Nasruli, the convicted Fort Hood jihadist. To hear Soetoro tell it, the execution was a personal insult to him. “True, Major Nasruli was awaiting execution, but the timing and manner of that execution, if I allowed it to go forward at all, was at
my
discretion. Many and diverse interests were at stake, including our relationship with many Muslim nations, and my judgment on this matter was rendered a nullity by a Texas National Guard officer who violated federal law. . . .”

He talked some more about the heavy burdens of the presidency, then got back to the sins of Texas. “I have ordered General Wynette to prepare a military response to Texas' blatantly illegal and violent act of secession. We will use the entire might of the federal government to stamp it out, to crush it. We owe the loyal citizens of the nation nothing less. One hundred fifty years ago Texas and other states tore this Union apart in a futile attempt to defend indefensible slavery. Now Texas is tearing this Union apart in order to defend an indefensible, reactionary vision of America that the rest of the country rejects. I can assure you that as president of the United States and commander in chief of the armed forces, I will do my duty as Abraham Lincoln did his, I will not let this stand. I will preserve the Union.”

Wynette nodded several times during this rant, almost as if he were whispering amens.

Soetoro took no questions from the gathered reporters, but stepped aside to give Wynette the podium. “You may have heard rumors,” Wynette said, “that the commanding generals of a few of the United States military installations in Texas surrendered today. Actually, the facilities were delivered to the enemy by treachery. We are investigating. I promise you that the Benedict Arnolds responsible will be court-martialed for treason. If they are found guilty and given the sentence that the law prescribes for that crime, they will be executed. You may have also heard that some of our soldiers and airmen have joined the enemy's ranks to fight against United States forces. I cannot comment on the truth of that rumor, but I will state that any American soldier, sailor, airman, or Marine who does indeed join the enemy's ranks will be charged with desertion. I remind any member of the American military listening to this broadcast to remember where their loyalty lies.

“We will soon begin military operations against the rebels in Texas. We cannot be responsible for the loss of innocent lives; that responsibility rests with those who have rebelled against the lawful government of the United States and taken up arms against it.”

Wynette ducked questions too. He followed Soetoro and Vice President Rhodes back into the bowels of the White House.

“Lots of treachery down in Texas,” I remarked.

The network went back to showing footage of the rioting in Baltimore.

“Those scenes were shot at the riot last year,” Travis said. “I've seen those shots a dozen times. The TV people get around the censor by showing old footage.”

I went over and snapped off the television. I would have used the remote but Willie had laid it somewhere, lost it I suppose.

“They're going to start killing people,” Willis Coffee said bitterly. “He isn't even going to negotiate.”

“I doubt if Texas would negotiate with him,” I remarked. “If you were them, would you negotiate with that megalomaniac?”

“No,” Willis admitted.

“I think those folks down in Texas are going to need a lot more killing than Barry Soetoro thinks they will,” Travis said softly. “It's that Alamo thing. They get it with their mother's milk. Texas, Texas, Texas, like it's the promised land that God gave them.”

“Maybe he did,” Willie the Wire muttered. “For sho', he didn't give us anythin' to brag about here in Washington. I wouldn't risk a fingernail for the whole damn district.”

We were batting things around when someone knocked on the front door of the lock shop. Willie went to see who it was, and came back with Sarah Houston. She looked particularly delicious that evening in her going-to-work outfit, a nice, knee-length dress with a belt that emphasized her figure. She was shod in a set of black pumps and had her purse over her shoulder.

I introduced her to Willis and Travis. She looked us over and said, “All the usual suspects.”

“Want a beer?” Willie asked, ol' Mr. Hospitality.

“No,” she said, and looked around for something to sit on. Willie took a box of junk off a chair and arranged it for her. She seated herself, arranged her legs in the required position for female television journalists, and tugged her dress down a millimeter. She placed her purse on the floor beside her. Royalty come to call on the peasants.

“So when are they going to move Jake Grafton?” I asked.

“I don't know. I doubt that it will be any time soon. They are frying other fish. They have a long list of people to arrest and incarcerate. They are working on a list of people who have shot their mouths off on Facebook and other social media.”

“So there is no hurry,” Travis remarked.

“I wouldn't say that,” she said. “The White House classified net is full of e-mails about this right-wing conspiracy, and Jake Grafton is near the head of the list. They're manufacturing evidence, trying to decide the best way to spin it for the public. They're going to try a dozen or so people to justify Soetoro's decision to invoke martial law.”

“What about terrorism? All those jihadists Soetoro let in?”

“The FBI is having some difficulty finding a sufficient number. They have their hands on a lot of Soetoro's domestic enemies, and Grafton, so. . .”

None of us had anything to say to that. If they got Grafton into a federal prison, not just a concentration camp, there was no way we could get him out without an army.

She let that soak into our beetle brains, and then said, “A snatch on the highway isn't going to work. That was Tommy's idea, I think.”

I nodded.

“You were also talking about a diversion, Tommy, and I decided the best one was probably to kill the power grid in the northeastern United States.”

Willis Coffee's eyes bulged. Travis whistled. I wasn't surprised, knowing as I did how Sarah's mind worked. This was a woman who arranged for a gang of Russian ex-sailors to steal an American attack submarine a few years ago. When Sarah Houston set out to do something, she didn't believe in half measures.

“Holy damn,” Willie the Wire said.

“So how in the world are we going to do that?” Willis Coffee demanded.

“We don't have any explosives, and we can't easily lay hands on any,” Travis Clay pointed out. “Even if we had a truckload, we can't run around the countryside blowing up a hundred substations.”

“Maybe drop a hair dryer in the bathtub,” Willie the Wire suggested.

Sarah Houston went on as if she hadn't heard them. “The power grid is stretched to the max in August in the Northeast. It operates at one hundred percent of capacity much of the time running air conditioners and the like. The power companies use computer programs to automatically feed power around problem spots to prevent taking down the net. Computers are cheaper than new power-generation plants. They have hardened that computer system somewhat over the last few years in response to the perceived terrorist threat, but it is still vulnerable. I can put some code into the programs that will make the system default into the problems, not away from them, and that will quickly overload the system and take it down. All over the Northeast. From Cleveland to Maine and down to Cincinnati and Richmond.”

We sat in silence digesting that. Finally Willis asked the obvious question. “How are we going to create problems?”

“We are going to have to knock out some key transformers and sub stations. I have compiled a short list of the most critical ones.”

He was a sucker. “So how are we going to do that?”

“With explosives,” Sarah said matter-of-factly. “Shouldn't take a whole lot, but it will take some. As you may know, most of the federal agencies are stockpiling ammunition at warehouses in secret locations to use against the right-wing conspiracy, or if the locals get rowdy. Also in those warehouses are modest stocks of C-4 and enough tear gas to gas everyone east of the Mississippi. I made a list of the four closest warehouses. One of them is in Leesburg, a huge facility FEMA leased from Walmart.”

“So you want us to start by breaking into a warehouse?”

“If you want to give Barry Soetoro a crisis to worry about besides chasing you and Jake Grafton, you are going to have to make it something that really gets his attention.”

“Texas might be enough,” Travis Clay opined.

“You think?”

“Uh, no.”

Willis Coffee said, “Maybe killing the power grid is overkill. Modern cities can't work without electricity. Windows won't open, water pumps won't work, commodes won't flush, elevators won't work, lights won't work, medical equipment won't work, refrigerators won't work, microwaves won't work. Depending on how long the power stays off, some people could starve or die of heat exhaustion or dehydration.”

That's when I got into the conversation. “Barry Soetoro has torn up the Constitution. He's going to try a dozen innocent men for a crime he's invented. He's declared war on America. Texas has taken up the gauntlet. Now we must decide if we are willing to fight for America and let the chips fall where they may, or whether we would rather just pull our heads down, tuck our tails between our legs, and let Soetoro and Martin Wynette kill anyone they want. They are going to whack Texas hard. They are going to whack Jake Grafton. And believe me, given half a chance they'll whack us.”

They sat staring at each other.

“I was listening to the president on the radio while I drove down here,” Sarah Houston said. “I would rather crawl into a hole out of the line of fire, but the fact is we have reached the point in America when it is time to choose a side.”

“Jeez,” Travis said softly. “So we have to burgle a government warehouse, blow up some power substations, and then break into Camp Dawson and snatch Grafton from under the noses of God knows how many troops and feds. You and your little projects, Tommy.”

“Yep,” I said heartily. “Gotta choose sides and smell armpits, guys. What say we all go to dinner and think this over before the power goes out. I'm buying.”

Willie Varner nearly broke his leg hopping off his stool.

We went to a white-tablecloth restaurant, even though the only one of our group dressed for it was Sarah. She led the way inside and favored the maître d' with a smile, so we were seated in a corner.

“Sorta like the last supper,” Willie opined, then asked the waiter, “What's the most expensive Scotch you have on your shelf?”

It was something I'd never heard of.

“I'll take a double of that, neat,” my lock shop partner told the waiter, and smiled at me. Sarah ordered a bottle of eighty-four-dollar wine, and my two covert warriors ordered draft beers. I ordered a bourbon on the rocks.

All of us had the sense not to even whisper about our planned operation to spring Grafton, or any of the other mayhem we had planned. We talked about riots and politics and whether Texas could win.

After they had sipped their drinks and studied the menu, Willie ordered the most expensive steak, and Willis Coffee and Travis Clay did the same. I shrugged and ordered one too. Sarah took her time and ordered a piece of bare salmon with some lemon wedges and a small salad.

The bill was going to be a whopper, but I wasn't worried. I planned to use my CIA credit card to pay for it. I figured it would be a week or so until the clerks at Langley got around to turning the card off, and anyway, they could just deduct the amount from my severance pay, which I doubted I would ever get.