Liberty's Last Stand

ONE

Occasionally people ask me, What were you doing that day? You know — that day, that Saturday the terrorists hit the United States hard? Again. Fifteen years after 9/11 had dropped the World Trade Center, more American blood had been spilled on the altar of global jihad.

My name is Tommy Carmellini, and the people who ask that question know that back then I worked for Jake Grafton. At the time he was the director of the CIA, the Central Intelligence Agency. Perhaps I should tell you a bit about Jake Grafton, a retired two-star navy admiral, a former attack pilot, a genuinely nice guy, and the worst enemy you could imagine in an alcohol-soaked nightmare. He was a pretty good spook too. So-so shuffling paper. He had an uncanny ability to connect the dots, not just the ones you and I could see, but the ones that only a savant could have suspected might be there.

Yet Jake Grafton was pretty closemouthed. He never talked about his boss. He took orders and gave orders and you never knew what the man who lived behind those gray eyes was really thinking. Until the shooting started. Then… well, then you found out that Jake Grafton was the perfect attack pilot. Away up there in the blue going fast, out of sight of the people on the ground, he could roll in, draw a bead with his bomb, and turn it loose. To kill you. Then he pulled out and dodged the flak and pointed his ass at the blast and left the vicinity to get on with his life. While your doom was falling from the sky, toward you. That was Jake Grafton.

So… what was I doing that day, the day the old world came to an end? Well, I was in Colorado watching the windup to a Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) exercise, Jade Helm 16.

When I got back to my hotel, the television in the lobby said over a hundred people were dead and another hundred injured, some seriously, not expected to live, after the three terror strikes. At least three of the terrorists had been Syrian refugees, and several of the others were here illegally.

Around the world, the news was all bad, but especially in the Middle East, where it looked like the Sunnis and Shiites were well on their way to a Hundred Years’ War, each sect trying to exterminate the other, and any Christians who happened to be available. There were rumors of stray nuclear weapons, and there were definitely floods of refugees — and who knew, maybe terrorists among then — pouring into Turkey and Europe.

Back in the good old USA, we were already getting started on a presidential election campaign, and it was ugly. Both sides assured the voters that if the other side won, it was the end of civilization as we know it. And then there was the Soetoro government, getting ready for a civil war.

On Sunday I flew back to Washington. The airports looked like armed camps. Armed soldiers in full battle dress were everywhere, and there weren’t many people volunteering to be victims of an airliner bombing. My plane was less than half full.

On Monday I finished my report on the FEMA exercise at my cubbyhole office at the CIA facility in the Langley, Virginia, neighborhood. When I ran out of words I decided to print out my opus and proof it. I stamped the report secret using my desk inkpad, stapled it together, and read it through. Signed it.

I had spent the two weeks of the exercise in Colorado at exercise headquarters, the buildings that the Federal Emergency Management Agency occupied on the federal reservation on West Sixth Avenue in Lakewood, a suburb of Denver. The head dog was a Homeland Security career civil servant who had obviously impressed his political bosses with his zeal and commitment to the cause of federal supremacy against all domestic foes.

When my report was ready for prime time on Monday morning, I walked it and the classified summary down the hall to the director’s office. Admiral Grafton was in, the receptionist said.

I just had time to pour myself a cup of coffee before the receptionist sent me in. Grafton was sitting there behind his desk looking sour, and Sal Molina, the president’s man Friday, was sitting across from him. Molina looked sour too. I guess the view from the White House wasn’t much better than it was from my apartment.

Grafton motioned me to a seat. I handed him my report, with the classified summary attached, and he flipped through it. He was a tad over six feet tall, lean and ropy, with thinning, graying hair combed straight back. No one would ever call him handsome, not with a nose that was a size too large. When you looked straight at him, you forgot about the nose. It was those cold gray eyes that captured you.

Molina, on the other hand, was a middle-sized guy with a twenty-pound spare tire and a shiny dome. He looked as if he were about ten years younger than Grafton, in his mid to late fifties.

The admiral tossed the report at Molina and said to me, “Tell us about it.”

“Jade Helm is an exercise about how the government will put down a right-wing uprising, or rebellion, and arrest everyone they think might be sympathetic with the rebels. They’ll use these paramilitary police they have tucked into every government alphabet agency as storm troopers and SS troops—”

That was as far as I got. Molina exploded. “Comparing the federal government to Nazis is unacceptable. I am not going to sit here listening to that kind of shit, Carmellini.”

I didn’t say anything. Sal Molina couldn’t fire me, and if Grafton did, I was ready to be on my way. Truth was, I had been in the belly of the beast for far too long.

“Go on, Tommy,” Grafton prompted, ignoring Molina.

“They’ll arrest every prominent Republican they can find and hold them in guarded camps, mainly at military bases. They have computer-generated lists. Gun owners, people who run their mouths on Facebook and Twitter, radio talk-show hosts, editors and publishers of Republican newspapers… you know, dangerous enemies of society.”

“Who ran the exercise?”

“A senior Homeland Security dude named Zag Lambert. Wore a uniform shirt and a belt with a holstered pistol. Honest to God, all he needed was a Hitler mustache. That guy should be kept in a padded room.”

Grafton sighed. Molina threw the report back onto the desk. Grafton picked it up and said to me, “I’ll read this. Thanks, Tommy.”

I got up and beat it.

Outside I rescued my cup, decided the coffee was still warm enough to be drinkable, punched the door code, and strolled into the executive assistants’ office. I worked with and liked both of them: Max Hurley, a skinny long-distance runner, and Anastasia Roberts, a black woman with a PhD whose IQ was probably up in the stratosphere.

“Hey.”

“Tommy,” Hurley acknowledged. “You were just in the pit — how is it going with Molina?”

I shrugged. “Tense.”

“They’ve been arguing for a week,” Roberts said. “These agency police forces and huge ammo buys. The White House wants the CIA to establish our own paramilitary force, and Grafton has said no. He’s defying the White House.”

They stared at me and I stared back. That meant Grafton was on the way out, and we probably were too. The new man, or woman, would bring his or her own management team.

“They don’t trust us,” Anastasia Roberts remarked, quite unnecessarily. I knew whom she meant. The brain trust at the White House, hunkered down on Pennsylvania Avenue ever since the Democrats lost control of the Senate in the last off-year election, two years ago. The Republicans already had the House. This was August. The presidential election was in November, and no matter which way it went, the current president, Barry Soetoro, was leaving on January 20. The Constitution limited the president to two terms, so the end of his eight-year occupation of the White House was in sight at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Only 151 days of Soetoro left to endure, according to the countdown counter on Fox News that one of the hosts opened his show with every day.

“You know I was out in Denver last week at the Jade Helm 16 exercise,” I remarked. “The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, NOAA, has their own private army, and some of the troopers were at the exercise. A couple dozen of them came down from Boulder, decked out in camo clothes and helmets and armed to the teeth. They bonded with the storm troopers from other agencies. In my opinion, if the water and air gurus need paramilitary police, this agency certainly does.”

“Boulder is a hotbed of sedition,” Max Hurley observed. “Washington is a hotbed of sheep.”

“The revolution will start there, no question,” I agreed. “The faculty of the University of Colorado is packed with dangerous right-wing fanatics who will lead their students in a wild charge against the Bureau of Standards, burn it down, then attack NOAA.”

“If they fire Grafton, will you stay with the agency?” Roberts asked me.

Needless to say, I hadn’t thought about that possibility. I had an apartment just up the road, my car was paid for, I was single, my mom was doing okay out in California. When I didn’t answer quickly enough, Roberts added, “I’m resigning. I’ve been offered a faculty position at the University of Chicago. If the job is still open, I can start when the new semester begins.”

I grunted. The University of Chicago was notoriously left-wing, very politically correct, and Roberts was a level-headed, pragmatic genius who had worked for Republicans on the Hill early in her career. On the other hand, she was a she, and black, and consequently could get away with a lot that would sink a white male faculty member.

Hurley admitted he was on the fence. He loved the game of analyzing raw intelligence. He said so now, and expressed the hope that he could return to the Middle East Desk.

“Nothing but bad news there,” I said, trying not to sound too downbeat.

“I think I can take it for a while longer,” he said. The cockeyed optimist.

“Negativity is the problem with this agency,” Anastasia Roberts declared. “Eventually it overwhelms you and your shit bucket overflows.”

“I wouldn’t express that opinion quite that bluntly in the faculty lounge in Chicago, if I were you,” I told her. “Clean it up for the civilians.”

We chuckled, locked up, and went to the cafeteria for lunch, where we discussed the weekend terror attacks.

I was working on a chicken salad sandwich with mustard and a slice of pickle on the side, plus a little bag of barbeque potato chips, when the televisions mounted high in the corner of the cafeteria broke away from their coverage of the investigation of the terrorist incidents to televise a live news conference with the president, Barry Soetoro. He had complete faith in the professionalism and competence of the FBI and Homeland Security Department. They were investigating. The terrorists were obviously criminals, he said, but they certainly didn’t represent the vast bulk of American Muslims or the refugees who had been admitted to the United States. He and his security team were reviewing the information the crime scene investigators were producing, and when more was known, they would be taking any steps called for.

“Does that mean you will reconsider your decision to admit Muslims to America?”

“We can’t classify people by their religion.”

“Obviously refugee screening was inadequate. What will the administration do to find the jihadists and keep them out?”

“We are looking at that.”

“A lot of people in Congress are saying your policies on illegal immigration and the admission of Middle Eastern refugees are abject failures, as proved by the events of the weekend. Would you comment on that?”

“My political enemies say a lot of things, every day. I haven’t the time or inclination to listen and comment.”

There was more, a lot more. The public was frightened and angry, and Barry Soetoro was defiant.

When the press conference was over, the cafeteria was quiet.

“It’s a miracle someone hasn’t shot at him before now,” Max Hurley observed, leaning forward at the waist and speaking softly.

But why shoot him? The Democratic nominee was Cynthia Hinton, who, according to the polls, was going to be the victim of a landslide. The Republican nominee was Jerry Duchene, the Wisconsin governor, and if the polls could be believed, he was going to be elected by a landslide. And the Congress would get a veto-proof Republican majority. The country had had more than enough of Barry Soetoro, his left-wing agenda, and his political allies, and was waiting, more or less patiently, for his final day in office. Yet the terror strikes had stirred the pot.

Back upstairs after lunch things began to pop. Were there any indications among the intelligence bits trapped in the intestines of our intelligence systems that some evil foreign power or narco-criminals or terrorist groups had plotted with or funded the Saturday monsters?

We three EAs were told to contact every department head and find out.

We spent the afternoon talking to people throughout the agency who were trying their best to find a hint, a clue, a sniff. They failed. While it is theoretically impossible to prove a negative, you can often get close enough for government work. And we did. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Of course, on television every terror organization in the Middle East was claiming credit.

I was elected to tell Grafton, and did so a bit after five p.m. He just nodded. He had spent the afternoon on the phone, presumably talking to other heads of agencies and political big shots all over town.

“Are you going home soon?” he asked. After all, five o’clock is traditionally quitting time, although not in the CIA.

“Not if you need me, sir.”

“Hang around. Sal Molina is coming over again later. I may need a witness.”

Oh boy. I wandered out past the receptionist and walked the halls a while with my hands in my pockets. Was Grafton going to resign? Or get fired?

People were standing in knots here and there, chewing the rag over the terrorist attacks. The news shows, they told me, said that Cynthia Hinton had scheduled a news conference for prime time this evening.

I was sitting in the director’s reception area when the vice director, Harley Merritt, strode by on his way to the inner sanctum. He ignored me. He had an EA with him, and she ignored me too. It was that kind of day.

They were in there about a half hour and came marching out. Grafton stood in the doorway as they crossed the reception room. He motioned to me. I went in and he closed the door.

“Molina is on his way. Sit down.”

“Is he going to ask for your resignation?” I asked. Why beat around the bush?

“I don’t know,” Grafton said crossly.

I also suspected he didn’t give a damn, but I kept my mouth shut and seated myself on the couch. Laid my notebook on my lap, so I’d be ready to scribble down orders or telephone numbers or order flowers for funerals.

Grafton picked up something from his in-basket, glanced at it, tossed it back, then rose from his chair and stretched. He reminded me of a caged lion. Waiting. In a darkened office with the lights off. Behind him the day was slowly coming to an end.

“Nations don’t just happen,” he remarked, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps composing an essay. “They are put together by groups who are convinced that the people who live within a certain area will be better off as one political entity, this thing called a nation. Nations are fragile. Homogenous nations seem to have done best through written history. Ours is anything but homogenous, a grand experiment with many people from diverse racial groups, cultures, and religious heritages, all mixed together willy-nilly and bound together politically.”

Looking back, I think at that moment Jake Grafton had a glimpse of the future, a future that disturbed him profoundly.

He sat in silence for a while, then remarked, “A government that loses, or forfeits, the consent of the governed is doomed. Invariably. Inevitably. Irreversibly.”

He was sitting in silence with the light from the window behind him throwing his face in shadow when the squawk box buzzed. “Mr. Molina.”

“Send him in.”

I went to open the door and close it behind Molina. He sat in the chair across the desk from Grafton and glanced at me. “You won’t need him,” he said to Grafton.

“He stays. Say what you want to say.”

“You need a witness?”

“I won’t know until I hear it.”

“The president is declaring martial law tomorrow. He wants you standing behind him tomorrow at ten o’clock in the press room when he announces it.”

Jake Grafton didn’t look surprised. I was flabbergasted, but since I was sitting on the couch against the wall Sal Molina couldn’t see the stunned look on my face unless he turned his head, and he didn’t.

“Why?” said Grafton.

“These terrorist conspiracies need to be rooted out. We must make sure the American people are safe, and feel safe.”

“Horseshit,” Grafton roared, and smacked the desk with both fists. “Pure fucking horseshit! Oh, a million or two jihadists would love to murder Americans, including Soetoro, if they could get here, but if they were a credible threat we’d have heard about it. This is just an excuse for Soetoro to suspend the Constitution and declare himself dictator.”

“The American people must be protected, Admiral. The president is taking no chances. No one wants to be the next victim of Islamic terrorists.”

“So he is going to rule by decree.”

“We face a national emergency.”

“And he is going to postpone or cancel the election in November. Isn’t that the real reason for martial law?”

“I’m not going to debate it, Grafton. Tomorrow at ten at the White House. Be there an hour early and we’ll have a decree signed by the president detailing the actions that he wants from this agency.”

“His staff can e-mail me a copy,” Grafton said softly. “I am not going to be a prop in a presidential power grab. Not now, not ever.”

Molina ran his hands over his face. “Jake, you don’t have a choice,” he said reasonably. “You’ll either be there or your name will go on the list as an enemy of the president. They’ll lock you up. Soetoro is playing for keeps. You can kiss your pension good-bye. Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison?”

Molina stood, put both fists on the desk, and leaned forward. His voice dropped. “You think I want to be a part of this? I have a wife and two kids. I don’t have a choice. By God, you don’t either.”

Grafton was silent, looking at nothing for a moment or two. Finally, he said, “Soetoro has been waiting for a terror strike so he could declare martial law, become a dictator, and fix all the things he doesn’t like about America.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ll bet any sum you want to name he is going to call off the election and remain in office.”

Molina straightened and made a gesture of irritation. He glanced around and saw me, which obviously startled him. Apparently he had forgotten I was in the room.

He took a step in my direction. “One word from you outside this room will put you in a cell, Carmellini.” I’d had confrontations with Molina before. I wasn’t stupid enough to open my mouth this time.

Molina swung back to Grafton.

“Be there tomorrow morning. If you aren’t, I can’t help you.”

“Me? You can’t help me?” Grafton was standing too, and he was beyond fury. He had a scar on his temple that was throbbing red. “That bastard is going to rip this country apart, and you worry about your family and pension? You think there’s a lifeboat handy that will keep you and yours comfortably afloat in this sea of shit while the ship sinks? What the hell kind of man are you, Molina? He doesn’t need you and he doesn’t need me. Get a grip, fool.”

Molina was holding on to the desk, as if he were trying to stay erect. “Jake…”

“You get out of my office and don’t ever come back.”

“It won’t be your office long. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“I don’t ever want to see your face again, Molina. Get the fuck out.”

Molina turned and walked from the room. Neither fast nor slow. He merely walked. The door closed behind him.

I was too stunned to open my mouth or move.

Grafton looked at me and gestured toward the door. “You too, Tommy. Out.”

I got my muscles working and went.

In west Texas, Joe Bob Hays’ hired man stood in the yard of the ranch house and watched the helicopter approach. It came from the east and slowed as it descended. It touched down in a cloud of dust and, after the sound of the engine subsided, the rotors slowly wound down.

A man in a suit but without a tie climbed out. A state trooper got out with him. They came walking over.

“I found him this morning, Governor, down by the arroyo trail. They killed him and cut the fence early Saturday, it looks like.”

Governor Jack Hays was Joe Bob’s nephew. He had grown up on the ranch back in the cattle days, and had gone on to law school, then into politics.

“The sheriff and his men are down there taking pictures and whatnot. I think the body is still there.”

“Let’s go. I want to see him.”

“They shot him in the head, Governor. Executed him. Blew the top half of his head clean off.”

“I want to see him. Let’s go.”

They went by jeep. In the late afternoon sun, the blood and bits of brain had turned black. Ants had gathered, and bugs…

The county sheriff was there, Manuel Tejada, and he shook hands with the governor. “I’m sorry, sir,” the sheriff said. “You know about this trail. He complained for years, and I did what I could, but I only got so many men and this is a damn big county…”

“I know.”

“They came up the trail, at least ten of them. Judging by their tracks, at least eight of them were carrying a heavy load going north, but not when all ten of them went back south. One man came up the hill here and executed Joe Bob. He would probably have died anyway from that bleeding hole in his chest, but… shit!”

“Yeah.”

“The first bullet was fired from the other side—” the lawman pointed “—over there. We found a spent .223 cartridge. Probably one of them ARs. Tracks. The tracks went through the hole and up here to where Joe Bob is, and here’s the second cartridge.”

He opened his hand for the governor’s inspection. Jack Hays merely glanced at the open hand, then said, “He’s lain out here long enough. You got your photos?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get him out of here. Take him to the funeral home in Sanderson.”

“Yes, sir,” Sheriff Tejada said to the governor’s back, for he was walking away, trying not to look again at his uncle’s remains.

Back at the ranch there was a trim, fit man in his early forties waiting beside a large pickup. His name was Joseph Robert Hays Junior, but everyone called him JR.

“They’re bringing him out of there now, JR,” the governor said, after he hugged the younger man. “Better stay here. You don’t want to see him like that. He wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

JR nodded. His eyes were dry. He had seen his share of bodies in Iraq and Afghanistan and had not the slightest desire to see his father’s remains.

The governor continued, telling his cousin what he knew. JR had just retired after twenty years in the army, retired as a lieutenant colonel, and was working as a consultant for a military contractor in El Paso, one supplying state-of-the-art night-vision equipment to the army. After he got the news, JR threw some things in his pickup and drove east.

“He was trying to protect his fence,” Jack Hays said. “They killed him and cut it.”

“I told him to put a gate in that damn fence,” JR said, “but he wouldn’t.”

“No…” the governor said thoughtfully. “That wasn’t him. There was no backup in him.” He eyed his cousin. He suspected there was no backup in Joe Bob’s son, either.

“They’ll be back,” JR said matter-of-factly.

“You going to wait for them?”

“Hunting assholes in the desert was my business for a lot of years. I suspect I know more about it than Sheriff Tejada and his deputies do.”

Jack Hays didn’t try to talk him out of it. All he could hope for was that JR didn’t get shot or caught. But JR was JR, and Joe Bob was his dad. And this was Texas. If JR shot some Mexican drug smugglers who had killed his dad, no Texas jury was going to convict him of anything.

“Fred coming down?” Fred was the younger brother, teaching school somewhere in the Dallas area.

“For the funeral. He and his wife can’t get off just now.”

“Call me when you get the funeral scheduled,” the governor said. “Nadine and I will want to be there.”

“I will, Jack.”

Jack Hays hugged JR again, then went to the helicopter and climbed in. “Let’s go,” he told the pilot.