Liberty's Last Stand

TWENTY-EIGHT

The CH-47s dropped Colonel Kevin Crislip and his troops of the 10th Special Forces Group at six bridges across the Canadian River in the Texas panhandle, five highway bridges and one railroad bridge. The Canadian was not much of a river, merely a wet, sandy depression in that cap-rock country, but knocking the railroad bridge down would prevent any trains from using the railroad until it was replaced. The destruction of the five highway bridges across the Canadian would severely inconvenience truckers, who would have to go east to the main body of Oklahoma or west to New Mexico to find an alternate route south.

Colonel Crislip thought this whole mission a bad joke, political revenge on the Texas politicians who had embarrassed Barry Soetoro, but General Seuss and his staff had been trading messages with the Pentagon, so here the Green Berets were, blowing up bridges in the panhandle, each demolition team delivered by helicopter. Crislip consoled himself with the thought that these demolition jobs were good training, if nothing else.

Each bridge had one demolition team assigned and it was delivered by a Chinook, which moved safely away from the bridge after off-loading the team, their explosives, and a few guards. Colonel Crislip accompanied the team blowing the bridge north of Borger. He stood in the warm Texas night listening to crickets and inhaling the faint aroma of cow manure drifting on the breeze while the team worked. Crislip sent the guards up the highway on either side of the bridge to stop traffic. There wasn’t much. A semi came from the north fifteen minutes after they arrived and was waved on through. Five minutes later a pickup full of Mexicans who had been drinking came from the direction of Borger. They were going back to the ranch, they said, so the guard waved them across the bridge. They went by Crislip saluting and shouting and laughing. Although the Mexicans could see the helo parked in a nearby pasture, they couldn’t see the soldiers working under the bridge, so they certainly couldn’t warn anyone that the bridge was soon to be destroyed.

The colonel had never actually demolished a real bridge before; he went down the riverbank and stood underneath, looking up, ten feet, with a flashlight to see where his troops put the charges. They seemed to know what to do and how to do it.

They were planting C-4 charges, which the experts at Fort Carson had assured the colonel were quite enough to put the bridge in the sand of the Canadian River, if, the experts said, they were placed properly.

Always the big if, Crislip fumed. So if any bridge remained standing after its charge was detonated, his troops would take the blame. Wonderful!

He climbed back up the bank and was standing beside the highway listening to the crickets and savoring that stockyard smell when a battered old pickup coming from the north was stopped by the guard. Crislip walked over, just in time to hear his soldier tell the driver to turn around and go home. There were two other people in the truck’s cab, Crislip saw, two women.

“Let him across the bridge if he wants to go,” the colonel told the guard as he walked up.

The driver, who looked to be in his fifties and was wearing a ratty ball cap, asked, “Who is the head man here?”

“I am,” Crislip said. “Colonel Kevin Crislip, United States Army.”

“I live just a little west of here, and we saw you people come in on that helicopter after dark and we been watching you. What the hell is going on?”

The dashboard lights let Crislip see the other passengers, one a woman about the driver’s age and the other a teenage girl. “That’s none of your business, sir. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Zeke Lipscomb, buddy. And telling me to mind my own business ain’t the way we do things here in Texas.”

“Mr. Lipscomb, this is army business. Cross the bridge or go home.”

“I’ll cross.” He put the truck in motion, drove it a hundred yards and stopped right in the middle of the bridge. He killed the headlights, parked the truck, and he and the two women got out.

Crislip strode toward them. The guard was going to accompany him, but Crislip growled for him to stay put.

“I told you to drive across,” he said to Mr. Lipscomb, who had a female on each side of him.

“Well, I didn’t. And I ain’t a gonna. We kinda think you soldiers are up to no good, and we’re not going to let you get away with it.”

Crislip sighed.

The older woman, presumably Mrs. Lipscomb, spoke up. “You federal troops got no damn business in Texas, Colonel, and you know it. We done declared ourselves a separate nation.”

Crislip looked back at the guard. There was just a sliver of moon and enough starlight to see him clearly, standing there in the road looking this way, no doubt wondering what the colonel was going to do about this stubborn rancher.

“Mr. Lipscomb and Mrs. Lipscomb—” he looked at the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Ruby.”

“And Ms. Ruby Lipscomb. I am here obeying the orders of my superior officers, and the men with me are obeying my orders. We are doing our duty. Now I am asking you nicely to please get in your truck and drive on into Borger or return to your home.”

“You’re gonna blow up this bridge, ain’t ya?” Lipscomb said, scrutinizing Crislip’s face.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, we ain’t goin’ anywhere. We use this bridge to get back and forth to town, and so do our neighbors. Our tax dollars built this bridge, and we ain’t gonna let a bunch of Soetoro’s soldier boys blow it up. You people get in your helicopter and get the hell outta here.”

“There are ten of us, Mr. Lipscomb, and we’re all armed.”

“I ain’t packin’. My wife and daughter ain’t packin’. But if we have to go home and get our rifles and start shootin’, we will. You people ain’t blowin’ up this bridge without a fight… and that’s my final word.”

Crislip walked over to the guardrail on the edge of the bridge and looked down. The soldiers in the riverbed had finished placing the charges under the bridge and were unrolling det cord.

He turned around and found Lipscomb beside him.

“You people must be idiots,” Lipscomb said. “Blowin’ a bridge in the middle of the Texas panhandle ain’t no way to win friends. You think that’ll make us submit?” He spat onto the pavement. “When they hear about this glorious military raid in Austin, no doubt they’ll decide to drag Texas back to Soetoro’s slimy embrace, kiss his shitty ass, and beg for forgiveness.”

Crislip tried to decide what to do.

“Meanwhile the folks who live around here ain’t got no bridge, thanks to the United States Army and Barry Soetoro.”

The colonel examined his options. He could have his soldiers drag these three people off this bridge and blow it. Or he could tell the Lipscombs to go get their rifles and blow it while they were gone. Or…

He took a deep breath of that foul stink of cow shit. “How the hell do you stand the smell?” he asked Lipscomb.

Lipscomb sniffed the air. “Oh, the cows. You get used to it.”

Kevin Crislip grew up in Des Moines, son of a lawyer. His mother’s father had been a farmer, growing corn on three sections of land every summer. Kevin had loved his visits to his grandparents’ farm. There he learned to drive a tractor, shoot a rifle — learned what hard work was.

After four years at West Point and twenty-three years in the army, four deployments in two wars, here he was standing in the darkness on a bridge in the middle of nowhere breathing that pure Texas smell, arguing with a rancher who really didn’t deserve to lose his bridge to make Barry Soetoro happy.

The colonel made his decision. He leaned over the guardrail of the bridge. “Lieutenant,” he called.

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s been a change of plans. Remove the charges from under the bridge, and let’s go back to Colorado.”

“Ahh…”

“Do it,” the colonel said.

“Yes, sir.”

And that is what they did. The three Lipscombs were still standing in the middle of the bridge when the twin-rotor helicopter lifted off with all the soldiers aboard.

With the electricity off in much of east Texas, the prison, its power provided by emergency generators, seemed an oasis of light that Saturday evening. Although it was only six and darkness was several hours away, the institution’s floodlights were all lit. That was an irony that didn’t escape the seven armed men in National Guard camo uniforms who pulled up to the main gate in two Humvees with fresh Lone Star flag insignia painted on the doors. Behind them was a National Guard bus that contained another ten soldiers, also sporting newly painted Lone Star flags.

“It’s after visiting hours,” the bored gate guard said. The officer in charge, a colonel, displayed a letter. He passed it through the window to the guard, who picked up a telephone on his desk and made a call.

From his right front seat in the Humvee, the colonel had a good view of the star-shaped building, the tiny barred windows, the guard towers, and the double-chain-link fence topped by concertina wire that encircled the entire facility. Popular legend had it that there had never been an escape from the prison, and the colonel could see why.

After a few minutes, the guard said, “I’m going to open the gate and you drive in and park by the stairs. Someone will be down shortly to escort you.”

That is how it went. Ten minutes later the colonel, whose name was embroidered on his left chest, and a captain were sitting in the warden’s office. The warden was eating from a heaping plate on his desk, apparently his supper.

The colonel passed the warden the letter, which was on the stationery of the governor, now president, of Texas. The warden dropped his eyes to the signature. Jack Hays.

The warden, Arlen Kirkpatrick, was forty or so pounds overweight, was balding, and had prominent jowls. Kirkpatrick picked up a bite of fried chicken with his fingers as he started to read. He read in silence. In the document, President Hays summarily relieved him, thanked him for his past service, and appointed Colonel Ezekiel Holly in his place. Warden Kirkpatrick was told to report to the Bureau of Corrections as soon as possible to be reassigned or, if he wished, placed on the retired list.

He read the letter quickly, abandoned his dinner, then read it again much slower.

He dropped the two sheets of paper on the desk and looked at the colonel. “What did I do to earn this honor?”

“Obviously, the president is putting the military in charge of the prisons for the time being. He said he intends to see that you are reassigned to another prison when the crisis is past.”

Kirkpatrick shook his head in amazement. “Colonel Holly, someone has lost their senses. Soldiers aren’t trained to run prisons. Our inmates are some of the worst in the system. Only a fool would send you here.”

“You are entitled to your opinion.”

Kirkpatrick picked up the letter and read aloud, “The Republic can no longer afford the past level of outlay on prisons… Having full faith and confidence in Colonel Ezekiel Holly, I have ordered him to assess the prison population at your facility and recommend which prisoners should be released early.”

The warden stared at Holly. “Does this mean…”

“Indeed, there may be some early releases,” Colonel Holly said with a curt nod. “Texas is fighting for its life and must save dollars wherever it can. The president thought extraordinary measures were necessary.”

“I must verify this with the president,” the warden said.

“Certainly.”

“But I cannot. The electricity is out and the telephones are dead.”

Colonel Holly’s face was impassive.

“I will not admit you to the prison proper until I can verify this with President Hays.”

“Just how do you propose to do that?” Holly asked softly.

“Well, wait until power is restored, I suppose.”

“Mr. Kirkpatrick. I have sixteen armed soldiers with me. Do I have to bring these troops in here and forcibly remove you from this office?”

“Now see here—”

“If that is what I need to do, please excuse me.” Colonel Holly stood. “I must be about it. I have my orders.”

“Sit, Colonel, sit. Please.” Arlen Kirkpatrick knew when he was beaten. He pushed his unfinished dinner out of the way. “What can I do to help?”

“Bring your senior staffers in, tell them you have been relieved, and go home.”

“Only the night guards are here. We are finishing the dinner hour, then the prisoners will be locked down for the night.”

“That will do.”

“What do you intend to do, Colonel?”

“That isn’t your problem. As I said, I have my orders. I suggest you make a copy of that letter, keep the original, and let me have the copy.”

Arlen Kirkpatrick rose from behind his desk, made the copy on a machine in the outer office, called in the senior people on the night shift, and introduced Holly. The warden shook hands all around, the guards wished him well, and then he departed, leaving his half-eaten dinner on the desk.

Holly called for the records. His armed staff found seats in the outer office while the night shift, mostly guards, carried in the records in alphabetical order.

Holly read for several hours as darkness fell and made notes. He sent the captain and the senior NCO, a staff sergeant, to ensure the prisoners were indeed locked in their cells. Then he sat in the warden’s office and watched the security monitor high on the wall shift automatically around the security doors and corridors. About midnight, the guards were called in. “Gentlemen, we are sending all of you home for the evening.”

“You can’t do that,” one of the guards said curtly. “Regulations require—”

“The military is now in charge of this facility. With the prisoners locked up, I have enough men to see that they remain behind bars through the night. Report tomorrow at your usual shift time.”

The guards didn’t want to go, but Ezekiel Holly looked stern and every inch a senior military officer used to being obeyed. They went by the armory, turned in their weapons, which were locked up, and filed to the courtyard in front of the prison for their cars. One of the soldiers closed the gate behind them. Soldiers replaced guards at key checkpoints throughout the prison.

The colonel nodded at the security monitor. “Get all the tapes, or if the feed goes on a computer, the hard drive.”

When that was done, the colonel led a half-dozen soldiers, all that remained after the guard positions within the prison and at the gate were manned, to the security checkpoint outside Cell Block A. When they got there, the colonel consulted a list he had made from examining the files.

“James Abbott,” the colonel said. “Bring him here.” Two soldiers left their weapons on the desk and went through the checkpoint. Another manned the panel that opened the cell doors in the block.

In a few minutes, Abbott appeared. He was a pasty-faced man of medium height with a prominent spare tire. His hands were cuffed into a wide leather belt that encircled his waist, and he had cuffs on his ankles that were held together with about fifteen inches of chain. He had lively eyes and a semipermanent smile upon his lips. One of the Texas Guard soldiers that had accompanied Holly to the prison stood behind him.

“Mr. Abbott, according to your file, you were convicted of raping and murdering four girls. The Texas Rangers believed you raped and murdered at least six other girls over a period of nine years, but you refused to admit the crimes or tell where the bodies were buried.”

Abbott said nothing, merely looked from face to face with nervous eyes, wearing that smirk.

“You were sentenced to life in prison without parole.”

The smirk didn’t change.

“Do you want to tell us now how many other young women you murdered?”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

In the silence that followed, Ezekiel Holly looked at his list. When he looked up, Abbott had said nothing and was still wearing that semipermanent smirk.

Holly nodded at two of the guards who were still wearing sidearms.

The soldiers grasped Abbott, one on each arm, and started leading him to the corridor that led to the courtyard one story below.

“Hey,” Abbott said, trying to resist. “Where are you taking me?” That is when he really looked at the face of the soldier on his left side. “I know you,” he shrieked. “You are the brother of—”

He refused to walk, so the soldiers dragged him along, supporting his weight.

A minute later a young man was brought in, also wearing shackles and manacles.

“Jason Brodski. Apparently you opened fire with an assault rifle in a movie theater and killed a dozen people and wounded thirty-three more. Your attorneys argued that you were insane, and the jury rejected that defense. They convicted you but couldn’t agree on the death penalty, so you were sentenced to life without parole. Is that correct?”

A sneer crossed Brodski’s lips. He was a slightly built white man with a mop of unruly black hair and pimples. “Yeah,” he said.

“Mr. Brodski, the world has turned. The Republic of Texas is not going to force taxpayers to pay for your maintenance and medical care, nor for the guards to watch you. You will be executed tonight.”

“What the fuck! You can’t do that! Goddamn, I know my rights. I want my lawyer. I—”

Holly nodded to the two armed soldiers near Brodski, who grabbed his upper arms and removed him through the open security door along the corridor. The smell of feces was in the air. Holly glanced down the corridor and saw a dark stain spreading on the seat of Brodski’s pants.

The next prisoner was standing in front of Holly when the muffled sound of a shot could be heard through the window overlooking the interior basketball court.

“What was that?” the prisoner, a Latino, asked nervously. “What the fuck is going on here?” He had a thick accent, glowered, and shifted from foot to foot.

“Alfredo Mendez, citizen of Mexico. Apparently you were an assassin for a Mexican drug syndicate, and you were convicted of murdering six men with an automatic weapon as they sat in a Del Rio beer joint.”

Mendez merely glared. “What the hell is this, anyway?”

Another muffled shot could be heard from the basketball court.

Alfredo Mendez looked around wildly as the first two soldiers returned carrying the empty shackles and manacles. They handed them to the unarmed soldiers and grabbed Mendez.

“Madre de Dios! No! I can pay. My patron swore—”

The soldiers took Mendez down the corridor, still swearing and shouting.

The next man was a hulking black with scars on his face and tattoos on his knuckles and forehead. He had apparently been spending a lot of time in the weight room, because he was heavily bulked up.

“James Elvin Dallas,” Colonel Holly said. He looked Dallas straight in the eyes as he recited, “You were convicted of raping three women. Then, while in prison, you beat a man to death, apparently because he refused to be your butt-boy. It is thought you killed another with a homemade shiv, but you were never charged due to lack of evidence.”

“So?”

“Did you ever wonder what became of your victims?” Holly’s eyes scrutinized Dallas’ face.

Dallas’ eyes were roaming, measuring the men in the room.

Another shot was heard from the courtyard.

James Elvin Dallas went nuts. He lunged sideways and tried for the rifle on the table. Four of the soldiers tried to subdue him. That task was only accomplished when one of the soldiers struck him repeatedly on the head with a rifle butt. As Dallas lay immobilized upon the floor, Holly pulled his service pistol and, from a distance of one foot, shot him between the eyes. Brains and blood splattered across the concrete floor.

“Take him to the courtyard,” Holly ordered, “and shoot him again.”

The next prisoner was large and sloppy, with greasy, curly black hair springing from his head and his chest. He had a full beard too — something that had been banned in Texas until last year. “Muzzaffan Mehsud. You were convicted of throwing acid in your wife’s face because she went shopping without your permission. You were sentenced to twenty years.”

The man spat at Holly, who merely nodded to the soldiers. They took Mehsud away as he shouted, over and over, “Allahu Akbar.”

After three more men were removed from Cell Block A, the colonel led his soldiers to Cell Block B.

“Francisco Colon, you are a serial rapist. At least six girls, none older than fourteen.”

“You fuck! I know my rights. You can’t revisit a sentence.”

“Did you ever wonder what happened to the girls you raped?”

“Everyone heard the shots from the courtyard. You can’t get away with this.”

“One of the girls, Judy Martinez, committed suicide six months ago. She had been in psychiatric care for four years. Apparently she could never come to grips with the fact that animals like you roam the streets. Her father paid ten thousand dollars to hear that you were dead.”

“Fuck you!” Colon lowered his head and launched himself at Holly. He didn’t get there. The men on either side dropped him on his face on the concrete floor, smashing his nose and releasing a torrent of blood. Semiconscious from the impact, he was carried to the courtyard.

The next man was a white man, medium-sized, with a full head of hair. He could even be called handsome. He was calm. “We heard shots. Are you executing people?”

“Robert Winston Carrington. You were convicted of running a Ponzi scheme that took in over twelve million dollars, most of which you squandered to pay for an extravagant lifestyle.”

Carrington glanced at the bloodstain on the floor from Colon’s nose, then his eyes came back to Holly. “I didn’t kill anybody,” he said.

“Did it ever occur to you,” Ezekiel Holly said conversationally, “that prisons exist for two reasons? The first of course is to keep the guilty in, and the second is to keep the victims out.”

“They were all greedy bastards and got what they deserved.”

“As we all shall, rest assured. Two of your victims committed suicide. Many were reduced to penury after a lifetime of work because they believed in you, trusted you. We are here tonight as surrogates for your victims.”

Holly nodded at the soldiers, and they took Robert Winston Carrington away. He walked with his head high. Maybe, thought Colonel Holly, he doesn’t believe he will really be executed. Or, perhaps, he doesn’t care.

Three minutes later another shot was heard.

When Colonel Holly and his soldiers left the prison at three that morning, thirty-two corpses were laid out side by side on the prison basketball court, where they were found by the day shift.

Warden Arlen Kirkpatrick was summoned, and he sent a man to Austin. When the man returned two days later, he reported that no one at the Bureau of Prisons, in the governor’s office, or at Texas Guard headquarters had ever heard of Ezekiel Holly. The governor’s signature on the letter was a forgery.

Perhaps fingerprints might have identified Colonel Holly, but all the other soldiers wore tactical gloves. When the Texas Rangers finally sent a man around to hunt for prints, more than a week had passed and the task was hopeless.