by Bobby Akart
“During the early morning hours, hundreds of refugees made their way from the Red River checkpoint into Wichita Falls, largely passing by Burkburnett. We began to receive reports of—”
Deur shook his head in disbelief. “Let me interrupt you right there. How can our personnel out of Sheppard miss hundreds of people walking down the interstate to Wichita Falls? Heck, to get to Midwestern, they practically walked right past the base.”
“Sir, I’m not making excuses, but our quick reaction force was focused on closing the floodgates, so to speak. We stopped the refugees from crossing first, with the intent of mopping up the rest today.”
“Okay, got it. I take it this initial group disbanded as it reached Wichita Falls?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct. We are working with local law enforcement in the city to locate them now. There are reports all over Wichita Falls of breakins, assaults, and shootings. It’s incredible how a hundred desperate people can create a chaotic situation so quickly.”
“Let’s get back to the campus,” started Deur. “What’ve we got?”
“A hostage situation, sir. At least a dozen or more have been observed at a dormitory named Legacy Hall. While power was shut down to all the facilities at Midwestern except for a maintenance and administration building, Legacy Hall remained open to the displaced students and a few faculty members from out of state. Well, you know what I mean.”
Deur shook his head. He too was having trouble transitioning from being part of a state to a newly formed country. He had made the mistake of mischaracterizing Texas at a recent meeting with Burnett, which drew her ire afterwards. He had held his tongue during the conversation because she was aware he had misgivings about the secession push initially. Deur needed the job, and those within the Burnett administration didn’t have to worry about where their next meal was coming from. His thoughts and opinions were, therefore, safely tucked inside his mind.
“How many hostages?”
“Maximum head count, according to Midwestern officials, is near two hundred thirty.”
Deur recalled what he knew about the college. They had celebrated their two-hundredth anniversary earlier in the year and boasted about their proud history. Through the years, the college had been recognized as one of the top public liberal arts colleges in the U.S. It strived to attract out-of-state students with special tuition rates. Based upon this fact, Deur was somewhat surprised that the number of misplaced students still residing in Legacy Hall wasn’t much larger.
He brought up an archived summary of the housing units at Midwestern. Legacy Hall was their newest co-ed dormitory, housing primarily lower classmen. Based upon the design drawings, Legacy Hall was capable of housing five hundred students.
His commander’s estimates meant the building was half full, a considerable amount considering the firepower the hostage takers possessed. Between the weapons lost by their own men, coupled with automatic rifles of unknown origin found at the scene, it was likely the men who had taken control of the building were all heavily armed.
“Do you have an extraction plan?” asked Deur.
“No, sir, not as of yet. The ground level of the facility includes limited entrances, all of which appear to be barricaded and guarded. The upper levels are the residential suites, and our sniper teams stationed on the adjacent buildings report that the students are being used as human shields by their captors as they observe our maneuvers around the dorm.”
“Okay, Commander,” started Deur. He needed to inform President Burnett, but he wanted to get his key personnel in place first. She’d be looking to him for answers. “I’m going to deploy our units from the 71st Troop Command here at the Bee Cave Armory in Austin. As you know, they have worked closely with the feds in the past when they mobilize for large-scale social unrest situations and counterterrorist operations. They’ll take the lead on the rescue mission.”
“Sir, what should I do in the meantime?” asked the commander.
“Cordon off the perimeter, get your men in place in order to contain the situation, and don’t do anything that’ll get those kids killed. I’ll be in touch after I speak with the president.”
Deur disconnected the call and set the phone on his desk, which was cluttered with written reports and maps. The digital age had been placed on hold, and his job had reverted back to old-school methods, which included mounds of paperwork.
He allowed himself a moment to think. If the president was upset about last night’s debacle, she’d bust a gut over two hundred plus college kids being held hostage. And what made matters worse, they were technically American citizens within her charge. Ugly didn’t begin to describe it.
Chapter 45
December 10
Bee Caves Armory
Austin, Texas
Sitting atop a hill in the now upscale Bee Caves neighborhood of Austin was a seldom talked about, and mostly unknown, armory with roots that swirled in Cold War intrigue. The smallish, twelve-acre site located off Bee Caves Road was once simply referred to as The Hilltop, but was now home to the 71st Troop Command of the Texas Military Department.
Initially utilized as an outpost to provide law enforcement assistance in the event of a mass-casualty event in Austin, Bee Caves’ role expanded during the cold war. Because of the importance and close proximity of Bergstrom Air Force Base, an integral part of the U.S. Tactical Air Command, the site was utilized as a fire control center and air defense facility.
During the Cold War, the suburban hilltop location had all the equipment necessary to track inbound targets and launch defensive surface-to-air missile strikes. Because of its proximity to residential areas, the Air Force chose to operate the missile defense aspect of Bee Caves under cover. The missiles were hidden in tents surrounded by large berms, protecting them from enemy attack and nosy neighbors.
As the Cold War ended, the facility’s mission shifted. The missiles were removed, the 111th Area Support Group was installed, and the military operations took on a peacetime feel, except for the special operations team created to respond quickly to high-value target operations directly under the purview of the Department of Defense.
These operations varied from hostage-rescue missions, such as when the young school-age girls were captured in Somalia, to extraction of embassy personnel in potentially hostile situations. The 111th was trained for the hostage scenario under way in Wichita Falls.
When a series of military cutbacks took place ten years prior, the 111th and its personnel were absorbed into the Texas Guard and fell under the command of the 71st Troop Command. Their missions were the same, acting as an adjunct arm of the Department of Defense, but as a part of the Texas Military Department. The specialists at Bee Caves also provided material support to civil defense authorities.
Captain Doug Garland, a compactly built Irishman originally from New York, had the look of a Special Forces soldier in the sense that he did not look like a soldier at all. He was wearing khaki pants and a Vineyard Vines polo shirt, not unlike any resident of the surrounding Bee Caves community. But the thirty-nine-year-old captain had countless deployments under his belt around the globe.
Captain Garland commanded fifty-five soldiers based at the 71st. In a given year, he’d send his teams to a dozen different countries. When he received the call from Deur, he grimaced when he realized this would be the first deployment of his teams onto U.S. soil, or what used to be U.S. soil.
He summoned his top lieutenants and shared the intelligence received from Deur over the phone. He assured them that the situation at Midwestern was fluid, but that might change by the time they arrived there.
“Gentlemen, we treat this like every mission. Instructions to the teams are the same. Don’t bring anything that makes you look military. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here in terms of the hostage takers, but we certainly don’t want them to think we’re juicy targets.”
The extraction mission, dubbed Operation Mustangs in honor of the Midwestern school mascot, wou
ld commence as soon as the teams were on the ground and in position. They would take helicopters into Sheppard Air Force Base and ride in civilian vehicles to the campus. The captain warned his lieutenants against escalating the situation because of their mere presence.
Within an hour, the teams were assembled and loading their tactical gear into helicopters at nearby Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, where the now closed down Air Force base had existed.
When one thought of American Special Ops, they thought of SEAL teams, largely because of media mischaracterizations. In reality, the SEALs were a tiny fraction of American Special Operations. The Army dominated Special Ops, and proper references when referring to Special Forces would be directed at Green Berets.
The Green Berets under Captain Garland’s command, like their counterparts in the Army, were nicknamed the Quiet Professionals, primarily at their annoyance of all the attention SEAL teams got. Captain Garland once said jokingly, “What are two things a SEAL gets when he finishes a mission? A movie deal and a book contract.”
While the SEALs got the glory for missions like capturing bin Laden, Army Special Forces got tasked with operations which were a lot longer, messier, and more complex. Operation Mustangs would be no different.
Garland’s unit made the trip to Sheppard in just over an hour. Upon their arrival, the Air Force base was bustling with activity. Large makeshift detention facilities had been built in an open field near the runways. Armed patrols walked the perimeter, which was wholly enclosed by two rolls of concertina wire.
Dozens of people wandered aimlessly within the compound, sometimes stopping to talk, but mostly appearing to be in a daze. Captain Garland assumed these people were captured after the debacle at the Red River. Their demise briefly crossed his mind before he turned his focus back to this mission.
He was escorted into the base command offices, where he was briefed by Sean Varnell, a lieutenant colonel with the TX-QRF. The information provided by Varnell was essentially the same as Garland had received from Deur. The only thing new was a head count of the hostage takers, which now appeared to be seventeen.
Within an hour of their arrival, the TX-QRF had supplied Garland and his men with supplies and vehicles to hunker down for an extended standoff. Both commanders agreed that this standoff should be resolved by negotiation rather than gunfire, if possible.
Garland provided the lieutenant colonel these parting words as his team saddled up and headed toward Midwestern. “Victory in situations like these does not necessarily mean we engage the hostage takers in some form of combat. Despite the fact they have the upper hand, at least in their minds, at the end of the day, they are sleeping a long way from home, away from their families, and in an uncertain, dangerous environment.
“Make no mistake, my teams are made up of seasoned professionals who are just as adept at psyops as they are at killing. We will take whichever route the situation dictates, without hesitation.”
Chapter 46
December 11
Near Campo, Colorado
“It’s gonna be really cold tonight, Coop,” said Riley, who had a knack for predicting changes in the weather based upon which of his former rodeo injuries hurt the most. The concept that aches and pains correspond with, or even predict, upcoming changes in the weather had been around since the days of ancient Greece. The typical explanation from the medical community was that the drop in barometric pressure that comes with a storm causes soft tissue and lubricating fluids around joints to expand, which in turn irritates nerves. Oftentimes, significant injuries could cause sensitivities around arthritic joints, resulting in increased pain associated with weather changes.
In any event, Riley, the Armstrong family’s walking, talking barometer, was usually spot on with his predictions. Cooper looked toward the western sky and studied the clouds. The quickly forming gray cloud formations were being created by strong updrafts of air. Thus far, they’d been fortunate to travel through mild weather by December standards. The dense, towering clouds forming toward the Rockies seemed to confirm Riley’s internal barometer—the pressure was dropping and a cold front was on the way.
“Palmer, let’s do some quick calculations,” started Cooper. “I’ve got enough fuel to get us to Texas. If we run out, I figured we’d look up some of our buddies in Amarillo and borrow a few horses. Heck, that red Texas soil will be so beautiful, I could run to the ranch.”
“Yeah, we’re gettin’ closer,” said Palmer, who leaned to the right and looked past Cooper toward the growing cloud formation. “But I agree with Riley, a storm’s comin’, and we can’t outrun it.”
She studied the map again and attempted to calculate the mileage. She glanced up at the fuel gauge, and then her attention was back to the map.
“I think the next town is called Ocampo, or somethin’ like that,” said Riley.
“Campo, not Ocampo,” mumbled Palmer. “Okay, here’s what we’ve got. Campo doesn’t appear to be very large based on what I can tell, and we’re only about fifty miles to the state line and another ninety miles or so to Amarillo after that.”
“It’s two hundred miles to the ranch from Amarillo,” added Cooper. “No matter how you cut it, we’re two days and two full tanks of diesel from home. How far is it to Campo?”
“Riley, what’s that sign say up ahead?” asked Palmer.
Riley pulled out the binoculars and tried to hold them steady. Red Rover rode more like a hay wagon than a G-Wagon.
“Cargill, with an arrow pointing east,” he replied.
“Okay, we’ll be in Campo in five minutes,” said Palmer.
Cooper rolled his head on his neck to release some tension. Throughout their trip, they’d exercised extreme caution as they approached any town or major road intersection. Those initial days in Canada had taught them that locals became very territorial after TEOTWAWKI—the end of the world as we know it. Every traveler was eyed with suspicion or as a source of something valuable they wanted.
As a result, a three-hundred-fifty-mile day trip, which would ordinarily take ten hours at Red Rover’s pace, required three days in a hyperaware, almost paranoid, post-apocalyptic world.
“Y’all know the drill,” started Cooper. “Weapons ready. Binoculars scanning for anything that can be perceived as a threat. If need be, we’ll park the truck and do recon before we approach the town.”
“Sis, do we have any backroad options?” asked Riley, who’d become suddenly serious. He had a way of changing from a laid-back, seemingly unexcitable guy, to one whose Spidey senses kicked in along with his adrenaline.
“No,” she replied. “Just like the last hundred miles, we are in no-man’s-land.”
The trio continued slowly down U.S. Route 385, which had carried them from Wyoming and could take them to the highway’s termination in Odessa, Texas, if conditions allowed.
“Here we go, y’all,” said Cooper. “Look alive.”
The live oak trees lining the two-lane highway as they entered town reminded Cooper of the Texas Hill Country. Several stalled vehicles were up ahead, and he slowed to maneuver the truck through them. Every structure, every stalled vehicle, and every out-of-place fallen tree presented a potential threat. Traveling home in this stressful environment meant they could never let their guard down. Never.
“It’s a straight shot all the way through town, Coop,” observed Riley as he refocused his binoculars. “I do see a couple of people standing up ahead at an intersection. I believe we’ve grabbed their attention.”
Cooper asked, “Are they armed?”
“No rifles,” replied Riley.
“Is there a bailout option in case there’s trouble?” Cooper was assessing his options.
“Gravel parking lot to the right by an RV park.”
“Palmer, where does the side street take us?” asked Cooper.
Palmer grabbed the map and gave it a quick check. “Don’t know, Coop. It’s not on the map. If we gotta use it, use it. We’ll figure it out.”
Riley lifted his rifle so he could quickly fire through the sliding passenger-side window of Red Rover. Then he let out a laugh. “Or as Pops used to say, act like you own the place.”
Tensions were high as Cooper drove past the man and teenage girl standing on the side of the road. The looks they received were of astonishment and curiosity, and not hostility. The young girl waved, and Riley spontaneously waved back. Nothing to see here, moving along.
Riley and Cooper monitored their side-view mirrors to confirm they weren’t being followed. They both exhaled a sigh of relief as they continued heading south.
“Look, Boise City, twenty-eight miles,” said Palmer, pointing toward a highway sign as they left the outskirts of the small town. “That’s halfway to Texas!”
Excitement began to build as they realized their long journey was almost over. Cooper thought of the number of times the three of them had returned from a long rodeo trip and high-fived one another when they crossed the Texas state line. He imagined their jubilation would be tenfold this time.
The houses became fewer and far between when Riley exclaimed, “Lookey there, if it isn’t Clarence’s Truck Stop. Just in time for a refuel and a hot dog.”
“Very funny, goober,” said Palmer, who tried to swat her brother but missed as he quickly moved his head.
Their older brother intervened. “Get serious, y’all. We’re gonna see if we can top off here and fill up the cans. That’ll be enough to get us home.”
Riley readied his rifle, and Palmer manned the binoculars once again. Cooper pulled over to the side of the road so his navigators could surveil the truck stop.
“It’s more of a gas station than a truck stop,” Riley pointed out. “There are diesel pumps and large white fuel storage tanks. I see a red pickup parked at one of the pumps. Also, the plate-glass front door seems to be broken out.”