Liberty's Last Stand (64 page)

Three policemen had been enlisted to help keep the crowd moving along the sidewalks. As JR watched, another police car pulled up and a captain in uniform came over. He had scrambled eggs on his hat. He saluted JR, who returned it.

“We got no notice of this move.”

“We can handle it. We figured you had enough troubles as it was.”

The cop took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his hair, then put it back on. “We sure do, General. We sure do. But with the electricity back on, maybe things will start returning to normal.”

“We can only hope.”

He pointed to JR's combat infantryman's badge on his chest. “I got one of those,” the captain said. “The Gulf War, Desert Storm.”

“Thank you for your service,” JR replied.

“Yeah. Got out and joined the police. Probably should have stayed in the army. It was a great experience, but I wanted to come home to New York. You know, you're the first general I ever talked to.”

“Well, you're my first police captain. I hope we never meet professionally.”

The cop grinned. “You're pretty young too.”

“Good whiskey,” JR confided. “Never drink the cheap stuff.”

The captain held up his hand and adjusted the earpiece in his ear. He rogered the transmission, then said to JR, “Gotta go. Got some dead people in an apartment house. Someone just found them. Been dead a few days.”

They shook hands, and the captain trotted over to his cruiser and jumped in. The driver hit the lights and siren, and away the cruiser went up the street, howling madly.

Everyone has problems
, JR thought, and got back to attending to his.

Texas
poked her photonics masts up as she approached the narrows. Loren could see the Verrazano Bridge across the narrows, and he saw ships. Lots of ships, none of them going anywhere.

“Water is pretty shallow, Captain,” Jugs said.

“Surface,” Loren said. “I'll go up to the bridge. I want to see what's in the harbor. Listen to the radio and brief me over the sound-powered phone.”

So
Texas
rose from the depths and her sail broke water. Loren opened hatches and was soon standing on the small bridge. He plugged in a sound-powered headset and talked to Jugs.

Giving heading commands, he went around ships that were anchored and under the bridge. Not much traffic on it, he noted, and he used his binoculars to examine the freighters and tankers anchored in the lower harbor, waiting for pier space.

He saw no navy ships. Not a one. Maybe there was a submarine outside the narrows, but maybe not. Maybe peace had broken out all over. The sky was empty of airplanes, even helicopters.

Staying at ten knots, Loren took the boat around Liberty Island. “Jugs, come up here.”

In about a minute she was standing beside him, gazing at Lady Liberty, the ships, and the Manhattan skyline.

After a bit she said, “It's time to go home, Lorrie.”

“I think so too,” he said, and put his elbows on the rail in front of him and breathed deep of the tangy, salty air. “Why don't you go below and send the others up here for a look, one by one.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” she said, and went down the ladder.

Loren used the sound-powered phone to order a turn back toward the narrows. George Ranta came topside, looked and laughed and pounded Loren on the back, then went below and sent up Mouse.

Two hours later, safely back through the narrows and with good water under the keel,
Texas
slipped beneath the waves. In the control room, Jugs briefed him on what she had heard on the radio. The power was back on in New York. The Pentagon was adamant that the military was not taking sides in the Soetoro administration's squabble with the states. People were being released from concentration camps in droves. Politicians were lining up at radio and television stations to be interviewed.

Maybe America—and Texas—will make it after all, Loren thought, and gave orders for the voyage back to Galveston.

It was four in the afternoon when the 3,600th gold ingot was laid in a truck and the tailgate closed. The bank's personnel were locked upstairs in conference rooms, and the fake FBI agents had put the fear of God in them.

Five minutes later the last of the soldiers and Texas Rangers were aboard the trucks and they were rolling. The traffic signals were working again, although the streets were still almost devoid of traffic. The trucks didn't stop for lights—they simply drove on through.

At LaGuardia the planes were sitting with their ramps down when the trucks rolled up, and the loadmasters used hand signals to guide the drivers into the cavernous bays of the C-17s. Every soldier helped with the tie-down chains, then the loadmasters checked everything as the ramps came up and the planes started taxiing.

When they were airborne, a sergeant passed out bottles of water and MREs to the troops. JR went up to the front of the plane and came back with an open packing case. He walked down the line of soldiers sitting beside the trucks passing out bottles of champagne. “You guys have to share. We only brought a case for each plane.”

Corks popped and happy smiles broke out.

JR went up to the flight deck and sat down in the jump seat.
By God
,
we did it
, he thought.
Fifty tons of gold
!

THIRTY-FOUR

A
riot in the streets in front of the White House and in Lafayette Park broke out between supporters and opponents of Barry Soetoro that evening. The melee quickly got out of control, so the police called for fire trucks with water cannons, which were waiting a half-mile away. And they fired tear gas grenades.

The mob wavered under the gas, but it was the fire trucks that finally dispersed the crowd. A dozen people were dead, either beaten to death or trampled, and several hundred injured.

While the tear gas wafted into the White House, the survivors of the battle surged through the streets smashing out store windows, looting, and overturning cars and setting them on fire.

In the White House, loyalists gathered around Barry Soetoro and urged him to accept the Pentagon's offer of a plane to take him into exile.

“Their price is a letter of resignation,” Soetoro said, “and I am not going to resign this office. It would be a betrayal of all those people who believe in me.” His chin quivered. “I am America's hope, the hope of all people everywhere to build a just society and save the planet. That is my destiny.”

Sulana Schanck believed. “You are the hope of the
world
! And the world will come to your rescue. These racist pigs
will not prevail
!”

Amid the coughing and fervid pledges of loyalty, the realization sank in that they couldn't stay in the White House. The mob would return. And when it did . . .

They took the tunnel to the Executive Office Building across the street, and from there went to the basement, where their staff had a fleet of cars waiting. Not everyone got into the cars, of course. Most of the senators and representatives decided not to go. One said later that he knew when Soetoro's car pulled away that he would never see Barry Soetoro again.

The standoff between the crowds and the police and Secret Service guarding the executive mansion ended at about midnight. A crowd of almost two hundred people, mostly men, came walking out of a side street on the west side of the grounds. With them was a large tow truck, one used to rescue tractor-trailer rigs. Leading them was a black man in the uniform of a captain of the D.C. police. They came straight to the west gate, where four D.C. police in riot gear stood guard. Behind the gate, which was closed, were a half-dozen federal police, also in riot gear. Accompanying the crowd was a television reporter and her cameraman.

The police captain, who was unarmed, walked up to the cops, who knew him. “Guys, we are going to open that gate and go through it. You have two choices: you can shoot me or get out of the way while we pull the gate down.”

“What the hell do you think you're doing, Captain?”

“I've joined the rebels. It is time to stop the bloodshed over Barry Soetoro. We're going in.”

One of the cops fingered his radio. While he was doing that, the captain gestured to the tow truck, which moved up to within six feet of the gate. Men carrying chains went around the cops and ran the chains around the gate and hooked them to the massive bumper hooks of the truck. Then the helpers got out of the way and the truck backed up with its audible warning beeping madly.

The federal cops backed away from the gate with their weapons at the ready. One of them was already on his radio.

That was when the senior cop on duty, a sergeant, staring at the captain whom he had served under for more than a dozen years, gestured to his mates. “Get out of the way, fellows. The captain is pulling it down.”

The captain nodded once, and the tow truck engine revved and the driver popped the clutch. The slack came out of the chains and the gate came off its hinges and went skidding as the truck backed across the street, blocking it.

The captain strode up the now-open drive and said to the federal police. “Shoot me or get out of the way.”

They looked at the crowd surging forward, the television camera catching it all, and moved aside. The crowd surged onto the lawn and made for the White House. The television reporter and police captain walked, but many of the men in the crowd—it was almost exclusively male—ran ahead.

In fifteen minutes the police captain and television reporter learned to their satisfaction that the president was not in the mansion. Only a few servants remained. Not a single staffer or aide or politician could be found.

As the crowd surged through the first family's quarters and the Oval Office grabbing souvenirs and vandalizing furniture, the reporter and cameraman went trotting out the way they had entered. They had footage that they needed to get on the air fast. The reporter could smell a Pulitzer.

Grafton and I were off the ground Thursday morning when the sky was black as coal and the morning star was just ooching up over the horizon. He climbed to 4,500 feet and headed straight for Hagerstown. The little plane didn't have a nav aid or GPS, so Grafton took a squint at the sectional chart, decided on a course, and hi-de-ho, here we go. As we flew along, I communed with Venus. Like most people, I rarely visit with the morning star. Praying that we wouldn't make this a habit, I gazed with wonder at the sprite. The night faded, and almost as if God had taken a hand, at the proper time the Hagerstown airport appeared in the dawn haze.

The northern army was camped on the airport grass. It was a sea of military vehicles; a few APCs; several howitzers; lots of trucks, generators, tents, portable kitchens; and several thousand people, about half in uniform. Pickup trucks and cars were parked in rows.

“Wow,” I said.

“That's only about half the troops,” Grafton said. “The rest are camped at the fair ground, and a lot of the veterans are on picket duty. Martinez thinks he has about five thousand people now.”

We landed and parked near the control tower. General Martinez was there to meet Grafton. They went over to Martinez' ride, a pickup, and conferred while I chocked the Cessna and tied it down. I looked to see if we had collected any more bullet holes. Not yet today.

I faced into the dawn, surveyed the encampment, and took a leak. I gave thanks that I hadn't chosen the military as a career; the hours are terrible. Zipped up and yawned. Okay, I was ready.

I strolled over to the meeting of the general staff at the pickup truck.

“General Martinez says Soetoro isn't in the White House. Civilians got in last night and found he had skedaddled.”

“Terrific,” I said, yawning again. “If the Pentagon didn't fly him to some third world paradise, this will be like looking for Elvis.”

“Oh,” Jake Grafton said with a gleam in his eye, “I have a feeling he's close. Like up at Camp David.” He pointed to the east. “Just twenty miles that way, on the other side of that low mountain.”

I turned and looked east at the mountain bulging against the dawn sky. Actually, it sort of figured that Barry Soetoro might run to earth in that rustic presidential getaway, which was designed for defense by Secret Service and federal police. Local crackers couldn't get within five miles of the place without alarms going off. If I were going to hide out for a while and had the federal government to pay the help, chefs included, Camp David would be high on my list.

“Maybe so,” I said to Grafton.

“Indeed,” he said, “maybe so.”

He turned back to General Martinez, so I walked around the pickup truck to see if it had any dings. It looked clean. After this mess was over, maybe I could make an offer on one that FEMA didn't need anymore. I had decided that I needed a truck. My old Benz convertible was cool, but a truck had more possibilities for a man of my métier.

Grafton and Martinez gabbled on their handhelds a while, then Grafton motioned toward the Cessna. He shook hands with Martinez and conferred some more while I untied the plane and stowed the chocks. I climbed into the right seat and put on my belt and headset. Arranged my little bag of grenades behind me so I could reach them easily and made sure my M4 on the backseat was loaded and handy. I wished I had a flak vest to sit on, but I didn't.

Finally Grafton strode over, jumped into the left seat, and cranked the engine. With it at idle he put on his seat belt and headset. “Martinez will get the Predators up. They are flying them out of Dawson, so until they get here we are the eyes of the army.”

“Roger eyes.”

“We need to find out what happened to that column of people coming from Baltimore along the interstate and see what's happening at Camp David.”

“The feds will likely shoot at us if we go swanning over in this crate.”

“Then we'll know, won't we?”

The asshole! It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that if he had an ounce of sense he'd send a Predator over David, but not-a-minute-to-waste Grafton had made his decision and he wouldn't change it. How come I always get stuck with the heroes?

Both our side windows opened on hinges at the top to a limit of about three inches. I checked mine. It was a bit too small for me to push a grenade through the opening. Not to worry, I could always open the door against the slipstream and drop them like eagle shit on the multitudes below. Maybe they would be inspired to keep their heads down. I reached behind me and got a couple, which I put in my lap.

Twenty minutes later we realized that the interstate east all the way to Frederick was essentially empty. That column of Soetoro volunteers had to be somewhere, but where?

Grafton turned toward Camp David. He was only about a thousand feet above the trees. Plumes of smoke rose from the forest, formed a thin cloud in the still air, and pointed the way to Camp David. Lots of fires down there, so there were probably lots of people.

And sure enough, we found them. Grafton got looks through the trees at people camping, then he dropped lower and we saw vehicles by the dozens, mainly trucks. Saw the presidential buildings surrounded by lawns and stately mature trees, and many people on those lawns. Most of the people I saw had rifles. Then a few of them pointed their weapons skyward and I saw flashes against the dark of the forest floor.

“They're shooting at us,” I told Grafton.

“We're leaving,” he said, and headed west over the low mountain.

When we were clear, he got on the radio to Martinez. “Many people around Camp David. I think you need to check it out. The man may be there.”

“Wilco.”

We landed at Hagerstown and I tied the plane down after inspecting it again for bullet holes. The shooters all missed. Maybe this was going to be a lucky day for me. Sarah Houston drove up in our stolen FEMA pickup, the one that had my money in it, along with spare weapons, AT4s, and my sniper rifles. I was ready for a real war.

She was wearing jeans, a green army T-shirt, and a web belt with her pistol holster attached. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “You're looking great this morning, lady,” I told her.

“Have you heard that Soetoro left the White House sometime yesterday?”

“I have.”

“The Pentagon said he refused an offer of a flight into exile.”

“Probably no one would accept him. He'd want to take Mickey with him, and that's a deal killer.”