The Western Front - Parts 1-3 (Western Front Series)

by Archer Garrett

  To say his campaign had not been traditional was quite the understatement. He had no polls analyze, no television personalities to chat with, and no presidential debates to square off in. Some parts of the country had probably not heard anything from him in months. Other people might have heard his name mentioned on the nationalized radio and television stations, but it would have been a complete take-down by the marionettes. A few independent media outlets were bravely carrying the torch, but they were under constant assault by increasingly oppressive regulations aimed at elimination or assimilation. The machine of disinformation was fully mobilized against freedom.

  In spite of, or maybe because of every concerted effort to silence or disparage him, the strength of his message grew in favor. The truth of his words blazed like a wildfire across the nation. Everywhere he went, he was met by people who longed to hear his vision of a new America, or rather a very old America – the original America.

  He had shied away from the urban areas of course; they were simply too chaotic for him to control. He was afraid that agents of the opposition would try to sabotage his rallies and pervert them into violent clashes with protesters. The small towns across America, however, had welcomed him lovingly and with open arms. Every additional stop inspired him and burdened his soul at the same time.

  If there is an election, he thought. If there is an election and it isn’t halted; if there is an election, and it isn’t halted, and if it is even reasonably close to being even reasonably fair, we just might have a chance.

  The rail turned east just above the tiny town of Floyd and followed the banks of the Cedar River for a short distance. Occasionally Ames would catch a glimpse of the muddy waters between the thick growths of oaks and maples along the bank as he lost himself in his own thoughts.

  But there won’t be an election. And if there is, it certainly won’t be free and fair. So why am I still doing this? But, I can’t quit now; there has to be a record that someone took a stand. God will not hold us guiltless…

  The senator had just fallen asleep when his senior aide nudged his shoulder.

  “Sir, can we have a word?”

  The senator yawned and stretched his arms wide as he replied, “Of course, what is it?”

  “Let’s talk about this one alone.”

  Ames nodded and arose from his chair.

  “Folks, let’s break for the evening. Go down to the dining car and get something to eat, or catch a couple hours of sleep in your room. We’ll meet back here at eight o’clock to go over tomorrow’s agenda.”

  The group quickly dispersed, leaving only the senior aide and the head of the senator’s Secret Service detail.

  “Wade, tell me what’s going on?”

  Wade, his senior aide, sat across the table from him and began, “We don’t want to alarm you, but we’re starting to get some chatter about a possible attempt on you in the near future.”

  “We’ve been hearing that for weeks, maybe months.”

  The agent interjected, “Sir, this time it’s different. I’m getting information from some of my contacts in the CIA this time. We should take the utmost precaution until the election. I recommend we abandon the train and transition to buses so that we can secure a wider perimeter of protection around you.”

  “We’ve been over this a dozen times; the answer is still ‘no’, guys.”

  His aide leaned in and pleaded, “Jackson, this is Wade your friend, not Wade your aide talking now, okay? Please trust us on this one.”

  Jackson Ames sighed and stared at the ceiling for a few moments before replying, “I’ll consider it, but I have to hear the details. I don’t need a handler; you can talk straight with me, you know that. Now, tell me what you’re hearing.”

  Wade deferred to the agent.

  The man considered his words for a moment before beginning, “Sir, it’s not so much what I’m hearing, it’s who I’m hearing it from and how it’s being told to me. If I put the intel in a report and submitted it to you, it wouldn’t appear that different. On the surface it sounds like the same threats: during your speeches and in between stops. During the speeches we’re afraid of a sniper attack and in between stops it’s a strike against the train.”

  “All old news; I’ve heard it all before. Lone wolf gunmen and unorganized revolutionaries don’t particularly worry me; that’s why you’re here. So what is different about the chatter this time?”

  “It’s where I’m hearing it from, or rather, where I’m not hearing it from; none of it is coming from DHS or the Secret Service. I’m getting the same warnings as usual from them, the lower-level threats like you mentioned. What has me so concerned is how I’m getting the information from my friends in the CIA. It’s coming through third parties, rather than the agents themselves. It’s as if they’re afraid to openly contact me – and these aren’t the type of men and women that’re afraid of much.”

  “I’m still not hearing specifics; level with me.”

  The two men glanced ominously at each other. Wade proceeded laconically, “We’ve got spooked spooks that’re sending us warnings that you’ll be the target of a high-level assassination attempt, and they’re going to act soon.”

  “Wait, what? Who are they?”

  “The government, sir; or at least someone within the government.”

  “The govern-the government? Our government?”

  “We’re being advised to pull you out of the campaign immediately. That’s probably the only thing that will call it off, and our contacts aren’t even sure that’ll work. You’re the closest thing we’ve had to a George Washington in a long time and they don’t want this to spiral out of control any more than it already has. What if Washington had died at Yorktown, at the end of the war and the birth of the nation? Can you imagine the chaos? That’s what the agents that’re warning us are comparing it to, and it’s their job to war-game scenarios like this. They’re not in the business of being sensational.”

  Ames rested his elbows on the table. He closed his eyes as he massaged his temples. He sighed deeply before opening them again and staring blankly past the two men. The room was silent for what seemed like an eternity before the senator finally spoke.

  “How sure can you be that what you’re hearing is true?”

  “I wouldn’t believe a word, if it wasn’t for the men I’m hearing it from. They've done their due diligence and must believe it themselves; that’s why they won’t contact us directly. They don’t want to tip their hat to the people around them.”

  “Who’ve you told?”

  “Who can we tell?”

  The senator nodded. He stood and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his sport coat. He paced the perimeter of the war room deep in thought. The men stood and watched as he paced, waiting for direction. Ames paused, dropped his head and stood in silence for a minute or two. When he was finished, he opened his eyes and turned to them.

  “Even if I retreat, they’ll come after me?”

  “They might; we’re not sure.”

  “Oh, they will. I’m scalped if I do and scalped if I don’t.”

  The two men stood in silence, not knowing what to say to a man with a mark on his head.

  “Washington, huh?”

  Confused, the two men nodded and cut their eyes to each other, not sure of the point the senator was making.

  He continued, “What do you know about the battle of Monongahela?”

  They both looked at the senator blankly before Wade replied, “I can’t even say that word.”

  “Apparently not much,” Ames murmured, “Okay, here’s a primer: during the French and Indian War, a British force commanded by General Braddock was making its way to take Fort Duquesne. The fort was essential to gaining control of the area. Among his officers were Colonel Thomas Gage and a young George Washington.

  The path Braddock chose through the thick, Pennsylvanian forests was narrow and unaccommodating. Their progress slowed to a crawl because of the widening of the path that wa
s necessary to move the heavy artillery and supply wagons along it. Ultimately, Braddock made the fatal decision of splitting his forces into two groups. Gage was sent forward with over half of the forces. The remainder of Braddock’s men stayed with the slow-moving supply train to continue the difficult task of clearing a path for them.

  Gage’s men were beset by a group of French and Canadian soldiers and Indian warriors. The Indians used the forest to their advantage and engaged in guerilla tactics. Gage and his men were routed. The larger British force was surrounded and in complete disarray. They withdrew back down the narrow path and collided headlong with Braddock’s remaining force, further adding to the chaos and confusion.

  The British forces faltered as the Indians surrounded them and began the massacre. The scene was horrific; the Brits were scalped as they fell on the battlefield. The Indians filled the air with the sounds of their whoops and wails, further adding to the terror.”

  “Psychological warfare at its best,” Wade interjected.

  “Without a doubt it was. So, the Indians had learned to aim for the British officers. The British had no noncommissioned officers. If one fell in battle, there was no man trained to step in and take his position. A fallen officer left a void that could not be replaced. Out of eighty six British officers, twenty six were killed and thirty seven were wounded. After Braddock was shot in the lung, the majority of the forces broke and retreated.

  The battle had been going on for hours at this point. Washington’s had two horses shot out from under him, but he keeps grabbing another and to galloping up and down the ranks. He’s shouting out orders and rallying men to hold their positions and to continue the fight. While the other men are cowering or retreating outright, he is the focus of the battlefield.

  The Indians know he’s obviously an officer, so they focus their attack on him, but they can’t hit him. Wide-open shots and they just can’t kill this man. They’re in complete disbelief. Realizing something is amiss, the chief calls off the attacks against Washington. He realizes that this day is not the day Washington is to die; the Great Spirit has a plan for this man.

  Washington continues to hold the line while the wounded escape. When he finally falls back, the Indian warriors set about scalping the dead and drinking the rum in the supply wagons, rather than pursuing the British. Washington’s bravery and the scouts’ frenzy was all that saved the remaining troops.

  Washington later wrote to his brother and said that he found four bullet holes in his coat that day. He couldn’t explain how he wasn’t hit, other than Providence. Never, not then or ever, was he wounded in battle.”

  The room was silent for a few moments.

  Wade rubbed his scalp uncomfortably and finally replied, “That’s a really powerful story, but Jackson, we have to decide what we’re going to do.”

  “I just spent five minutes telling you what we’re going to do.”

  Confused and frustrated, his most senior aide and trusted friend threw his arms in the air and exclaimed, “You’re not making any sense; what are you talking about?”

  The senator crossed the distance to the two men with a purposeful stride. He looked each man in the eye before continuing, “We hold the line; we rally as many as we can. We give this wounded nation an opportunity to regroup. We don’t dismount, we don’t flee. I’ll live like Washington or die like Braddock, but I’ve no other option before me. Now leave me, I need some time to myself.”

  Chap ter 23

  Reese

  Austin, Texas

  The road to Austin had been a taxing, five-hour drive; much longer than it should have taken him. The battered, GMC Suburban was not in as good of condition as Reese had originally surmised. It had overheated twice during the trip. He had eventually managed to exchange it for an old Dodge pickup that had been on the side of the road just east of Wyldwood. The pickup smoked fiercely and emitted a loud knocking sound from under the hood if he drove it over 50 mph, but so far it had not failed him.

  The first checkpoint had been at the outskirts of Valle Del Rio. Reese was glad he had exchanged the bloody and battered SUV for the old truck. He did not need anything that would raise suspicion and slow his journey even more. He had flashed his government credentials at the checkpoint and after a few minutes of private discussion between the sentries, and a radio conversation with their superior, he had been allowed into the city. He hated to flash the badge because of the possibility of alerting Washington to his location, but he had no other choice.

  As he made his way through the city, he was amazed at the damage it had sustained. It appeared half of the city had been burned to the ground. Everywhere he looked, there were soldiers: on the roofs, at intersections and blowing past him in heavily-armed convoys. Austin apparently had it much worse at some point. With the National Guard now purposefully visible at every street corner, order seemed to have been precariously restored.

  He circled the capitol grounds before making his move. Reese noticed that the governor’s mansion had been completely gutted by a structure fire. It was not the first time the mansion had been burned. Less than ten years ago a Molotov cocktail nearly destroyed the mansion. The arson was believed to have been perpetrated by a radical, anarchist group that also had planned to attack the Republican National Convention that same year.

  As he finished his lap around the capitol, he turned off of East 11th Street and onto the capitol’s south drive. He was immediately met by several well-armed guardsmen at the gate. He slammed the truck into park and hung both arms out of his window, while smiling politely at the soldiers as they approached. The first sentry snatched the credentials from Reese’s right hand and scrutinized them warily. The second man kept his carbine aimed at Reese.

  “You’re CIA, huh?”

  “Yes sir; Reese Byers, Special Operations Group within the Special Activities Division of the CIA.”

  The soldier scanned the truck. “I presume this is not official business?”

  “Actually it’s strictly business. I’m here to see the governor.”

  “I thought guys like you traveled in better style than this,” The soldier said as he continued to scrutinize the badge.

  “Look guys, I seriously don’t have time for this. Please tell the governor that Agent Byers is here to see him.”

  “The governor is in a meeting, sir.”

  Reese was exhausted and irritable from the long drive and lack of sleep. He snapped back, “Well interrupt the meeting kid. I don’t think you understand the urgency of the situation.”

  “I don’t think you understand the urgency of my post, sir. You’re not getting through this gate.”

  “Listen here you little-“

  The second soldier stepped in between the two men and tried to diffuse the situation before it escalated further.

  “Sir, excuse me for a moment; what he means is that we need you to sit tight for a few minutes. We need you to keep your arms fully outside of the vehicle at all times. We’ll radio the capitol and if the governor knows who you are, they’ll send an escort out for you. Until then, like I said, please sit tight.”

  “Thank you, that’s all I asked.”

  The first soldier shot an angry scowl at the second man, but he ignored it. The second soldier was obviously quite used to his partner’s poor behavior. Reese continued to hang out of the truck as instructed as he watched the second soldier walked back behind the gate and radio the capitol. After several minutes of waiting, the man returned and said, “Governor Baker said to send you through without escort. Pull straight ahead and park in front of the steps. He’ll be waiting for you at the entrance.”

  The first soldier stood in astonishment as Reese shot him a wink and a smile as he pulled the battered truck through the gate. Reese drove past the statues and fountains that dotted the green along the edge of the entrance drive. As he parked in front of the towering Italian Renaissance Revival styled structure, Governor Baker stepped out and exclaimed, “Special Agent Reese Byers, government
spook extraordinaire; how’ve you been?”

  ***

  Baker and Reese talked as old friends do, while the governor gave an abbreviated tour on the way to his second office, seventy feet underground. The original underground construction had been four floors and was completed in 1993. After September 2001, a previous governor had decided to add two additional underground floors, bringing the total subsurface floor space to nearly three times the above ground area. The underground facility was sprawling and unimaginable in size and scope. It was truly a sight that had to be seen to be appreciated, Reese thought to himself.

  At the end of a long hall, the governor opened a door and led Reese into his “deep office” as he called it. The room was surprisingly warm and inviting, unlike the rest of the underground facility. The walls were rich with the history of the state. There were pictures of Texas Rangers from long ago, Wild West lawmen and landmarks of the old republic.

  The governor retrieved a bottle of bourbon from the bottom desk drawer and poured two tumblers half-full of the rich, caramel-colored liquid. Baker brought the glass to his lips and relished the strong drink, but Reese did not reach for his; he knew he could not allow his senses to be numbed any more than they were.

  “Reese, I’m glad you’re here; I thought you were dead. I’ve been trying to reach you for quite a while now.”

  “I’ve been on assignment. I had no communication with the outside world beyond my handler. I’m here now; what was it that you needed?”

  Governor Baker sighed, “Things have been tough here, tougher than most places. I’m sure you noticed that on your way through the city.”

  “Yeah, Austin looks more like a warzone.”

  “It’s the whole state. God help us, it’s been worse than you can imagine. We’re less than a hundred miles from the western front of a war zone. San Antonio is a border town now.”