Invasion USA

by William W. Johnstone

  An affirmative rumble came back from the crowd assembled in the bleachers, which fell silent as Pete continued, “Thank you for coming this evening. I don’t have to tell you what happened this afternoon, or how shocked and horrified we all are about it. Some of you lost loved ones in this tragedy. Many of you have friends or relatives in the hospital right now, fighting for their lives. Sheriff Gorman has agreed to come here tonight and give us a statement on the most up-to-the-minute developments.”

  A little lukewarm applause sounded from the bleachers as Buddy stood up and came to the lectern to take the mike from Pete Benitez. He brought it a little too close to his mouth, causing a brief squeal of feedback before he lowered it and said without preamble, “The death toll from this horrible incident stands at twenty-three.”

  Someone else died since that newscast he and Bonnie had seen earlier, Tom thought.

  “The investigation is continuing,” Buddy went on, “but at present we don’t have any suspects in custody. I’ve requested assistance from the state police, and the FBI and the Border Patrol have also agreed to consult with us.”

  Somebody in the bleachers called out, “What about the army?”

  Tom saw Buddy’s face tighten. “There’s no need for the army to come in at this point. No one wants to have Little Tucson placed under martial law.”

  From elsewhere in the bleachers came the shout, “You can’t stop M-15, Sheriff! There’s too many of ’em!”

  Somewhat agitated, Buddy again made the microphone squeal for a second. “We haven’t conclusively established the identity of the gunmen—”

  “Hell, dozens of people heard them admit they were M-15!”

  Pete took the microphone back from Buddy and said, “Folks, please take it easy. If we all start shouting, we won’t be able to accomplish anything here tonight.”

  The man sitting next to Tom stood up and moved to the lectern, holding out his hand for the microphone. Pete hesitated for a second, then gave it to him. The man raised it and said in a controlled, attention-getting voice, “My name is Eugene Berry. I’m the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation office in Tucson.” He gestured toward the blond woman. “My colleague, Special Agent Ruth Ford, has flown out from Washington to be with us tonight. The President has asked us to convey her deepest sympathy to the people of Little Tucson and Sierrita County.”

  One of the city councilmen, Walt Deavers, slapped a palm on the table in front of him and in a voice that carried clearly despite being unamplified demanded angrily, “Sympathy’s all well and good, but when’s the President gonna do something to put a stop to this?”

  The blunt question brought an outburst of cheering and applause from the crowd. Unruffled, Agent Berry waited for things to calm down and then said, “While the federal government stands ready to assist, this is primarily a state and local matter—”

  “Sure,” the bald, irascible Deavers broke in. “When the Feds want to duck something, they say it’s up to the states. But when the states do somethin’ the Feds don’t like, you boys don’t waste any time comin’ in and bullyin’ everybody until you get your way!”

  The audience whooped in agreement this time.

  Agent Ruth Ford stood up and took the microphone from Berry. She didn’t ask for it; she just took it, and although he looked like he wasn’t happy about what she was doing, he gave it up.

  “Perhaps I can clarify matters,” she said crisply. “Acting under orders from the President and the Attorney General, the FBI will provide logistical and technical support for local authorities, but that is all, unless and until it can be proven conclusively that federal laws were broken.”

  Tom couldn’t stay silent any longer in the face of this runaround. “What about those automatic weapons?” he asked. “Aren’t those illegal under federal laws?”

  Agent Ford turned her head and gave him a small, condescending smile. “Since we don’t know exactly what sort of weapons the perpetrators used—”

  “Yes, we do,” Bonnie said quietly.

  Ford frowned at her. “Ma’am, you are . . . ?”

  “Bonnie Brannon. I was there.” Bonnie’s voice hardened. “Some of those bullets went a foot or two over my head. They killed one of my best friends and knocked her body right on top of me. I got a good look at those guns. They were Newcomb & Scheafer SST-25s, modified to fire in a fully automatic mode and accept hundred-round clips.” Agent Ford stared at her in silence for a long moment, and Bonnie finally shrugged her shoulders. “I read a gun magazine every now and then. My subscription to the Ladies’ Home Journal ran out.”

  Tom looked down at the table to keep from laughing out loud. Despite the grimness of the situation, some of the people in the audience couldn’t help but be amused by the FBI agent’s obvious discomfort. When Tom glanced at Buddy Gorman, he saw that even the sheriff had a faint smile on his lips.

  Agents Ford and Berry weren’t amused, though. Ford snapped, “Perhaps I should talk to you later and get your testimony, ma’am.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Bonnie said.

  Ford gave the microphone back to Pete Benitez, and then she and Berry sat down, neither of them looking happy now. Pete said, “We also have a representative of the U.S. Border Patrol with us this evening.”

  A bulky, middle-aged man with a graying crew cut stood up and accepted the mike. He said, “My name is Jerry Prescott. I know what you people are thinking. You think the Border Patrol ought to stop these illegals from coming over and raising hell on American soil. I wish I could give you people better news, but the Border Patrol is understaffed and underfunded. We just don’t have the money or manpower to stop more than a fraction of the illegal immigration that’s been going on in this part of the country for years. That’s the unvarnished truth of it.”

  The blunt statement took the audience by surprise. In the relative quiet that followed it, Ford said sternly, “Agent Prescott . . .”

  Prescott turned to look at her, and his face was set in resolute lines. He said, “I don’t know about you, ma’am, but I’m damned sick and tired of shining people on and trying to spin everything like it’s going to be all right. If the government would give us the tools, we might be able to help the situation down here. That’s not going to happen, though, until they stop spending so much of the taxpayers’ money on social engineering and raising the self-esteem of people who wouldn’t have self-esteem problems if they weren’t such goddamn lazy bums to start with!”

  Thunderous cheers rolled out from the bleachers. The locals who were sitting at the tables got to their feet and joined the applause. Ford and Berry were both on their feet now, too, but they were in Prescott’s face, jawing furiously at him, and although Tom couldn’t hear the words, he had a pretty good idea what they were saying. They were telling Prescott that he was through as a government agent. Even though they were FBI and he was Border Patrol, they could probably pull enough strings to get him fired.

  Prescott saved them the trouble and confirmed Tom’s guess at the same time, by taking out the leather wallet that contained his badge and identification papers. He threw it at Ford’s sensibly-shod feet and then turned back toward the crowd, lifting the microphone to his mouth again. Berry made a grab for it, but Prescott was considerably larger and shrugged him off.

  “I’ll tell you people the truth, and this may be the only time you’ll ever hear it from the government . . . You people are on your own! You got a sheriff here who seems like a good man, but he’s no match for M-15! And all of you know they’re behind all this trouble. If you want to stop what’s going on . . . if you want protection . . . you’re gonna have to do it yourself!”

  Buddy Gorman closed in on Prescott, and the whole thing seemed to be on the verge of turning into a melee. Tom wished he hadn’t brought Bonnie out here. Buddy succeeded in wrenching the microphone away from the Border Patrol agent—the ex-Border Patrol agent—and said loudly, “Nobody’s taking the law into their own hands in Sierrita Count
y!”

  An idea sprang into Tom’s head, and he shouted, “Then let’s stop M-15 legally!”

  Buddy turned to stare at him. Tom’s words were loud enough, and unexpected enough, to have caused a momentary hush. Pete Benitez spoke quickly, while he had the chance, asking, “What do you mean, Tom?”

  “I mean the people of this country have a right to stand up for themselves.” Even without the microphone, Tom was making himself heard. “We have a right to do the things that need done when the government can’t—or won’t—do them! There’s nothing illegal about people defending themselves, and citizens have a right to enforce the laws of the land! They’ve done it before, and they can do it again. We can do it!”

  “You’re talking about becoming vigilantes,” Buddy accused.

  Tom shook his head. “Vigilantes break laws. Patriots enforce them.”

  The words, simple as they were, struck a chord in those who heard them. Someone began chanting, “Patriots . . . patriots,” and others took up the chant. The words echoed in the high-ceilinged gymnasium until the windows at the top of the bleachers were rattling just like they did when the crowd bellowed, “Dee-fense!” during a basketball game. Tom stood there as the sound washed over him, a little shocked at the reaction, even more shocked that he had stood up and made a speech. That really wasn’t like him. He looked over at Bonnie, who smiled in encouragement and pride but looked worried at the same time. Buddy just shook his head, and the two FBI agents both glared at Tom. Prescott gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and walked toward the exit, clearly done with this.

  Pete got the microphone back and after a while succeeded in quieting the crowd. Tom and Bonnie, along with the others at the tables, sat down again. Pete said, “As you know, our mayor Millard Jeffers was one of those who was brutally murdered this afternoon. Mayor Jeffers was a fine man and a good mayor . . . but now we need someone to take his place. We need someone to lead Little Tucson in this time of danger. And I can’t think of anybody better for the job than Tom Brannon!”

  Tom’s head snapped up at those unexpected words. He started to shake his head, but even as he did, he realized it was too late. Cheers and applause swept down from the bleachers and washed over him like a strong wave. He knew when something was barreling right at him like a freight train.

  And on this hot summer evening, fate was doing just that.

  15

  Figuring he ought to nip this in the bud while he still possibly had a chance to, Tom held up his hands for quiet, and when the crowd settled down, he addressed Pete, Walt Deavers and the other city councilmen, and the county commissioners. “I’m honored by the offer, but I can’t be mayor of Little Tucson. I don’t live in the city limits, and I reckon that’s a requirement for holding a city office.”

  Pete still held the microphone. He said into it, “Actually, it’s not. I looked it up in the city charter. In order to hold a city office, you have to either be a resident . . . or own property in the city. You own the building your auto parts store is in, Tom. That makes you eligible.”

  That cut the legs right out from under his argument. He glanced at Bonnie as if asking her what the hell he should do next, but all she could do was shrug. He knew she meant that the decision was up to him.

  Walt Deavers lumbered to his feet. “I looked up some things in the city charter, too,” he said. “Turns out that in the event the mayor dies while in office, the secretary of the city council is the mayor pro tem and can take over the mayor’s job.”

  Tom felt relief start to go through him.

  But then Deavers went on, “However, the city charter also provides that the council can, at its discretion, appoint someone else to serve out the mayor’s term. We’ve talked it over, Tom, and we appoint you.”

  Another burst of applause came from the bleachers. Tom felt a sense of futility creeping into him. He sensed that this whole thing had been a setup. Pete and the city council had decided before the meeting ever began that they were going to try to railroad him into taking the job of mayor.

  He turned to Bonnie again and this time asked the question bluntly. “What do you think?”

  “It’s up to you,” she said. “I can’t make up your mind for you, Tom.”

  Her answer didn’t surprise him. They had always regarded each other as equals when it came to family and business decisions, talking things through until they reached a conclusion that was satisfactory to both of them. But this was a personal matter, so she was going to leave it up to him.

  Unfortunately, whatever he decided would have an impact on her, too. By accepting the job, he would be putting her at risk.

  Hell, she was already at risk, he told himself. They all were, as long as the members of M-15 believed that they could carry out their atrocities any time they wanted, without fear of repercussions.

  Maybe some repercussions were exactly what was needed.

  His head jerked in an abrupt nod. “All right,” he said. “I’m not sure any of us are doing the right thing, but . . . I’ll take the job.”

  Thunderous applause and loud cheers came from the bleachers. Excitement was growing inside him. Maybe he could actually do some good. An idea had begun to percolate in his brain, an idea that might just work . . .

  “Anybody have anything else to say?” Pete Benitez asked when the commotion finally died down again.

  Someone in the bleachers cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Give ’em hell, Tom!”

  Tom just smiled and nodded.

  Giving M-15 hell was exactly what he intended to do.

  After the meeting broke up and the crowd left the gymnasium, Tom and Bonnie walked along the line of tables to the one where the city council members sat, along with Sheriff Buddy Gorman. With a faint smile on his face, Tom asked, “Are you boys sure you know what you’re gettin’ into?”

  Before Deavers or any of the others could respond, Buddy said, “Tom, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “I’m not surprised you feel that way, Buddy.”

  Deavers asked, “Just what are you thinkin’ about doin’, Tom?” Then he held up a hand and went on, “Hold on a minute. Maybe we better swear you in first, before you answer that question.”

  Tom nodded. “However you want to do it is fine with me.”

  Deavers reached to his shirt pocket and took out a small, black book. “I got a New Testament here. Reckon that’ll do to swear on.”

  The impromptu ceremony took only a moment. Tom put his hand on the New Testament and swore to uphold the laws of the city of Little Tucson and the State of Arizona. Once that was done, Deavers told him to pull up a chair and fill them in on his plans.

  They all gathered around the table, including the county commissioners, except for Buddy, who got up and went over to talk to Special Agents Ford and Berry, who waited by the concession stand.

  Pete Benitez asked, “What are we gonna do about M-15, Tom?”

  “I don’t see where we have much choice,” Tom said, “but to form a group of armed citizens to patrol the border. The way I see it, no one is protecting us—not the state of Arizona. And not Washington, that’s for danged sure. What happened at the SavMart will be forgotten in a week and the rest of America will go back to sleep. Nope, we’re on our own. Never thought it would come to this, but it’s time to round up every able-bodied citizen of Little Tucson who has a weapon and form our own militia. I don’t like the sound of that word anymore than you guys do, but dammit, a hell of a lot of our friends and neighbors were slaughtered here today and it’s up to us and us alone to see it don’t happen again. And if that means forming a militia, so be it.

  “Ain’t that taking the law into our own hands?” Deavers asked. “That’s stickin’ your nose in one big hornet’s nest, Tom. And Buddy ain’t gonna like that too much.”

  “Buddy means well,” Tom said, “but we all know he’s in over his head.”

  “What do we call our group?” Deavers asked.
“I mean, we should have a name, right?”

  “You could call it the Patriot Project,” Pete suggested. “The way the people were chanting earlier, I think they’d take to it.”

  Tom thought about it and nodded. “That’s fine with me. I don’t really care what we call it, as long as it does the job.”

  “What is the job?” Deavers asked. “Stopping M-15?”

  “Stopping all illegal aliens. From what I hear, some of the M-15 members pretend to be farm workers or some other sort of illegal immigrants. When they get caught by the Border Patrol, they claim to be innocent of everything except wanting a better life. That plays right into the hands of the folks who claim our borders ought to be even more open.”

  “Like the lady sittin’ in the White House,” one of the other councilmen said.

  Tom shrugged in acknowledgment of the point. He wasn’t interested in political arguments. As far as he was concerned they were a waste of time and energy, because politics was so mired down in inertia that anything substantive rarely if ever got done through that process. Things that really made a difference nearly always happened at the local level, at the grass roots.

  Like the Patriot Project.

  “I think we’re looking at a small group . . . probably no more than a couple dozen . . . will patrol the border between Sierrita County and Mexico. From what that Prescott told us, it sounds like we can’t depend on much, if any, help from the Border Patrol, so we’ll have to turn back the illegals ourselves. That means everyone will have to be armed, just in case of trouble.”

  “But we won’t start it,” one of the men said.

  “Exactly,” Tom agreed. “We’ll go out of our way to avoid trouble, in fact. But if somebody starts shooting at us . . . well, nobody can expect us not to shoot back.”