by Reed Hill
“Yeah, Dennis came and got me and we came straight over,” Tucker said quietly. Tucker was a bit of good old boy with long, downturned mustache and a high pompadour haircut that was mostly gray. Shorter than average, with his girth straining his brushpopper shirt against the oversized belt buckle and waist of his jeans, Tucker must have been pushing sixty by now. He came by the club pretty often, and was well-liked and known as more of a talker than a shooter despite the cowboy image.
“I just got here too a few minutes ago,” Brodie said. “Looks like some serious crap is going down in McAllen.”
“Mexes gone wild,” Calderon said. “Couple hundred of them, maybe more – armed to the teeth and with vehicles. Freakin’ scum of the earth, real delincuentes too, not your ordinary eses.”
“Yeah, we saw some of that at the bar,” Dennis said.
“Oh, they have some organization – it’s not some random mob.” Finnegan sat back on the bar stool.
Looking about the room, Dennis said, “Charlie hasn’t made it yet…that’s odd.”
“We’re always waiting on you old married guys,” Simmons joked. “Why would this be any different?”
“Well, as soon as he gets here,” Brodie glanced to the door and back to the TV, “I’m going to suggest that we head to the chapel and figure out what we need to do.”
There was no objection. They all knew how serious this was, and they needed to figure out what, if anything, they could do about it.
Chapter 3
Andrews Air Force Base
Camp Springs, Maryland - July 5th, 2017 – 5:02 a.m.
U.S. Attorney General Rosa Ross-Brown marched her way across the flight line toward the dropped door/stair entry to the C-37A, waving her hands and giving instructions to her two assistant despite the fact that her voice was drowned out by the spinning engines. She smiled when she saw the small carpet that led to the stairs. There's even a red carpet. The C-37 Alpha model was basically a Gulfstream V business jet fitted for government and DoD officials, and this one was on loan from SecDef for the day, since the Pentagon chief was on vacation somewhere in Europe for at least a few more days. A pair of goons in cheap blue suits and dark wraparound sunglasses stood astride the stairs waiting for the AG to board. As the chubby white assistant handed her a manila envelope stuffed two inches thick, Ross-Brown screamed a few more muffled directions and shooed her away with the flapping of her red-painted nailed fingers.
She gave a half-hearted smirk to the federal agents waiting for her as she stepped on the stairs, her ultra-white grin a stark contrast to her very dark brown skin. She looked over her shoulder, making sure the taller assistant, a young medium-dark sister with a shorn, curly nap, was trailing closely. Ross-Brown had heard people whisper that she was 'Africa black' for years, and despite being angered by it as a young woman, now she wore it like a medieval lion's mane cloak. She was wearing her dark gray Calvin Klein pant suit, the one that her daughter told her was slimming. That morning, she felt like the 'rising star' that MSCBC had called her last week.
She was the star of the Civil Rights division of the Justice Department and Deputy AG appointed by the honorable Barack Hussein Obama himself. She was at Harvard Law with Barry for two years. She was a year behind him and served as the President of the BLSA, Black Law Students Association. Nobody seemed to care that she graduated 670th out of the class of 675. She was not some trust fund baby like the rest of those folks – she had to scratch and claw her way for every inch she had ever gone in life unlike those rich bastards who came to Harvard with the silver spoon stuck so deep in their mouths she could barely understand them. And she recalled just how that place had been so goddamn racist back then, not like today at all. These damn spoiled kids graduating today have it so easy compared to the repressive days of the Reagan years, she thought.
She had been a favorite of Dr. Benjamin Ali at Palmetto State – he's one of the top figures in Critical Race Theory, and had personally overseen her senior honors thesis. The letter Dr. Ali had written for her had just been glowing, and given a perfect account about how she overcame her rise from poverty in racist-as-all-hell Kill Creek, South Carolina. Can you believe a place could actually be called such a thing? They might as well have just dropped the pretense and just called it Nigger Creek, she thought. Well, she had sure shown all those rednecks that had picked on her and called her stupid. She was the country's top attorney now and they could just kiss her black ass.
She was the leader of the groups that had organized the protest throughout the entire state over the institutional discrimination and repressive nature of standardized testing. She was the one who stood on the steps of the state capitol and burned her Law School Admission Test form. She was the one who organized the protest march on the Educational Testing Service offices in Atlanta in 1980. Rosa Ross, who her mother had named after our great lady of the movement Rosa Parks, had arrived, and folks better be prepared to get out of her way or get pushed aside.
She grabbed her compact from her handbag and checked her face – perfect. She loved that little pink Chanel compact. Michelle O had given it to her personally, with such a nice note. She probably used it more often than she needed to, but she just adored it. It probably seemed like overkill to some people to get completely made up for a trip to Andrews at five in the morning, but you just never know who might put a microphone in your face or be waiting with a camera outside her house. Only overkill if you're a nobody, she mused. And to the world, she was going places.
She shoved her trench coat at the nearer of the two federal hulks and made her way to the wide tan leather seats, wrinkling her nose at the interior's odd odor of tobacco with an hint of something grossly floral. She fell into the first aisle chair and dropped her black leather briefcase, letting her maroon Marc Jacobs bag tumble into the seat next to her as she kicked off her pumps.
As her assistant settled in across the aisle. Thankfully, she had the good sense not to say anything unless she was asked. Ross-Brown harshly intoned to no one in particular, "How long until we are in the air?"
This prompted her assistant to dig through her latptop case, but she didn't have it immediately handy and Ross-Brown sighed. She raised a finger across the aisle. "Dear, would you please dash off a quick text to my daughter?"
The assistant bent over and reached across the aisle to get Ross-Brown's wireless. She really was a lovely girl, with long legs and perfect tight, round behind. She retrieved the wireless and looked at the AG waiting for what to text. "I'm ready for you, ma'am," she said softly.
"Tell her I love her," Ross-Brown smiled at her, "and tell her I might not be back until tomorrow morning."
The assistant began typing the tiny touchscreen feverishly. She must be excited Brown thought. Two years out of Indiana law school or wherever and she's traveling with the AG to take down the governor of Texas and his good ol' boys.
Today was going to be a historical day. She was flying to Texas to put arguably America's most powerful governor in his place. Ross-Brown thought the bastard was crazy as all hell. Breaking up your own state was just pure insanity. It was obviously unconstitutional, and what he was doing was treasonous and conspiracy at least. She was going to make that subpoena stick if she had to pin it to his chest herself with a letter opener.
A man's voice came back through the cockpit, "A few more pre-flight checks, ma'am. We should be wheels up in about 5 minutes." Another sigh escaped her full lips. The goon squad shuffled past, lightly brushing her, and made their way to the last of the four rows of wide seats.
"The itinerary says 5:00 a.m. departure, ma'am," her assistant said, glancing at her watch.
Ross-Brown pushed her handbag aside and grabbed the manila envelope and opened it. The thick file folder was labeled Texas v. Ross-Brown, et al. God-cursed rednecks suing her, what a joke. She was the country's chief law enforcement officer. How dare they sue me?
She started to read the top memo when a slender male USAF Airman boarded and closed the do
or behind him as asked her if she needed a refreshment. Ross-Brown didn't take her eyes off the memo. Her reply was loud and direct as the engines started to spin up faster. She stifled a yawn and leaned back.
"Coffee. Make it black and make it strong."
*****
Texas State Guard - Domestic Operations - Command, Intelligence and Control Center
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 - 5:09 a.m.
General Dinger took a long draft of his coffee and flicked a tiny bit of snuff off his lips with his finger as he looked at the latest video from Airman Kowalsky's station. He rubbed his chest for a moment, trying to relieve the heartburn. He didn't know how many cups of coffee he had drunk in the past twenty-four hours, but it was clearly too many.
A young Airman alerted Dinger that he had General Stein on the line, so he went to his office and pushed the flashing red button as he sat down. "Bill, this is Hum."
"We've got a call with the Governor in a few minutes, so I thought we should re-group," said Stein. "I've got Brigadier General Arn Martelli with me ARNORTH at Sam Houston on the line as well. He's the commander for the 470th Military Intelligence Group at INSCOM. I thought we could bring him in and help coordinate ARNORTH intelligence and INSCOM and start getting some orientation on the scope of our problem."
"Pleased to meet you Hum. I'm here at the request of 5th Army command to help provide whatever intel and advice we can," General Martelli's accent was northern, with a staccato pace of New Yorker. "General Stein has brought me up to speed with the situation and I have read your situation report email from 4:38 a.m. today."
"Good," Dinger said. "Well, you know the situation at Ft. Bliss is a disaster, then. El Paso has been overrun and the downtown may be in the process of being occupied by what looks more like a foreign invasion more than a gang of thugs and looters."
"Yes, we've lost contact with the 204th Military Intelligence group, which is our counterpart at JTF North at Fort Bliss. I've been in touch with the deputy base commander at Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico, as well as the Garrison Commander at White Sands," said Martelli.
White Sands was home to a missile range of almost thirty-two hundred square miles in southern New Mexico, making it the largest military installation in the United States. Between its missile range and bomb ranges and the six hundred thousand acre one at Fort Bliss, it formed a contiguous territory for military testing, including a number of strategic nuclear research facilities.
"White Sands is under attack as we speak," Martelli said. "Security troops there were attempting to contact Ft. Bliss, but no one was responding there, for reasons which are obvious now."
"No one was covering their backside," Dinger said.
"Exactly," Martelli replied, "and Holloman is beginning to organize a response, but they are primarily tactical air forces. They are organizing Predator and Reaper drone surveillance at this time and plan to have drone imagery within the hour."
"What about in the south, Arn," General Stein asked.
"We have two Blackhawks monitoring the ground situation in South Texas, and I have cut tasking orders for MQ-1B Predator drone reconnaissance missions to commence at 0545 out of Ellington in response to the McAllen scenario." Martelli said.
Now we're getting somewhere.
*****
Burleson Road
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 - 5:14 a.m.
Danny Haslett pulled into the gravel pit driveway off Burleson road and stopped his twenty-five year old F250 in front of the locked gate, pushing in the cigarette lighter before getting out with the engine still running. The sign on the gate read "Central Texas Rock and Gravel" with "No Trespassing" written underneath. He jumped out and shuffled to the gate, cursing the floppy boots that were four sizes too large. He paused a moment, stroking his long orange goatee as he looked at the tiny scrap of paper which held four numbers 4 - 1 - 1 - 8 and a time: ‘7:24 a.m.’ He entered the code on the four-digit spinner lock, pushed the gate arms wide open and sauntered back to his truck.
Haslett threw the truck in drive, pulled forward and got out and re-locked the gate behind him. He pulled out his hard pack of smokes and popped one up, drawing it out with his teeth as the lighter in the dash clicked on. Danny peered at the glowing orange coil and edged the corner of the small paper scrap against the lighter watching as the paper began to give way to an encroaching black curl. Some folks just want to watch the world burn, and Danny Haslett was one of them. When most of it was gone, he tossed the paper out the window and lit up his cigarette while the lighter still had some heat. The world was so far gone in its slouching limp toward Sodom and Gomorrah, Haslett thought it would be easier on everyone if God would just smite the earth with fire and end it all.
He drove slowly down the gravel road for a few hundred yards to where the driveway opened up to the main pit. A row of cement trucks and ten-ton open-top box trucks sat lined up neatly like some platoon in formation beside the yellow double-wide which served as the office. A large white sign on top the makeshift office showed the Central Texas Rock & Gravel script in red lettering that matched the red-colored border.
Danny pulled past the office and stopped next to the first of three huge conical piles of rock aggregate. He got out and grabbed the shovel from the truck bed and started shoveling in scoops of aggregate. After ten minutes he was sweating in the cool morning air and removed his shirt, revealing the plethora of tattoos that adorned his entire back, shoulders and arms. One that took up almost his entire back was an ornately cast screeching eagle with outstretched wings clutching a cross in one talon and an M-16 in the other – an unfurled banner across the top read Semper FI. Another one at the base of his neck had a skull with an open mouth and a snake coming from each eye socket and wrapping around toward his neck. On his right shoulder was an open bible with a cursive script reading ‘Follow me into all truth’ written below it. On his left shoulder was a Celtic cross set on top of the earth with two hands clutching it with Morgen die Welt! written below.
The tattoos were enough in the joint to make the Aryans believe he was one of them and make the blacks scared of him. Pretty much everyone left him alone. Haslett preferred it that way. The fact was that Haslett was more anarchist than anything else, with a good bit of Christian identity mixed in. His odd views and volatile personality were what got him in trouble in the Marines - he was too much of a loner. The whole system was rigged against the free thinkers, just like his friends on FreeAmericans.com message boards always had said. You get into a couple of fights and suddenly you're bad for morale and a detriment to the force, facing a 'less than honorable' discharge. Screw the government – they're the problem today, not the solution.
With ten more minutes of digging, he was sure he had enough. He took a black plastic bag from the pocket of his grungy jeans, gathered some gravel into it and set it in the bed with the bulk of the aggregate. He brushed off some dust and used the old t-shirt to mop the sweat off himself. There wasn't much breeze and Haslett caught the faint scent of the cedars beneath the odor of his sweat. After firing up another cigarette, he drove his truck further down the unpaved road around the large gravel pit. Danny pulled his truck around to face the way he had come in and backed it into the tree line.
He took up the small desert-camo backpack, slung it over his shoulder and picked up the large tan duffle and headed back into the trees. It took less than five minutes to walk the short distance across the scrubby field to the stand of cypress trees and catclaw brush that he had marked with a small vertical pile of rocks yesterday.
There was catclaw and acacia brush all over the little swale, and when he made it up to the outcropping of trees, he set his bags down and took the gray long-sleeved t-shirt and the prepaid wireless from the small bag.
Pulling the shirt over his head, he noticed that the faintest streaks of orange were starting to appear on the eastern horizon above the trees as he took in the vantage point. It was slightly elevated at the top of the little swale between whe
re he stood and points north, east and west. To the north, down across the small valley and up again, he could see down the long strip of runway which ran perfectly north-south off into the darkness. It was a wonderful little view and a perfect place to watch the corporate jets come and go while snuggling with Rachel. He promised himself he would bring her back and do just that. It had been tough leaving her lying there this morning with her smelling so good and wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts. He kicked himself for not getting some action before he left, in case something bad happened.
The place also provided the ideal spot for what needed to be done this morning. The view presented unrestricted perspective of the southernmost private terminal of Austin's Bergstrom airport. He had drunk beer here and watched President Bush fly in with his buddy Ricky who worked at the quarry. Danny reminded himself to pick up a case of Bud for him later, since he let Danny have the code and didn't ask why he wanted it. He took out his knit cap and pushed his way into the brushy treed area with a bag in each hand. He emerged and grabbed the bag of rock and set it down on the perfect spot of flat ground where he had a nice little peek-through to the low terminal building.
He reached in his backpack and took out the pair of latex gloves and pushed his fingers into them while he scanned the area. It was clear, but he was sure he heard a faint pop or two several miles away to the west. He glanced at his cheap Timex watch. It showed 5:41. Now he just had to wait.
He unzipped the long duffle and set it aside turning to snatch the white cloth from his backpack along with his two shiny brass rounds of .338 Lapua which he began to polish. "Oh, my perfect little birds – you are going to fly fast and true. Aren't you?" I'll show the government how vulnerable they are – they are going to feel it today.