Uncivil Liberties

by Gordon Ryan

  Austin paused, scratched his chin, and looked around the table. “While these large-scale operations like the Twin Towers are disastrous, they can only be accomplished infrequently and they depend on a lapse in security. But these terrorist groups are not stupid, gentlemen. We do ourselves a disfavor to make that assumption. Terrorists have learned even more from watching our evening news. Let me ask the group a question. About ten years ago, what single event caused the most internal disruption to our citizens, albeit on a local scale, around Washington D.C.? A disruption, I remind you, that could be repeated quite easily in any environment with little risk attached? And a disruption, gentlemen, against which we have very little, if any, defense?”

  The small group of men was silent for several long seconds.

  “Urban snipers,” Captain Rossiter said.

  “Excuse me?” the CIA’s Blanchard said, leaning further forward.

  “Urban snipers, Mr. Blanchard, as General Connor projected in his written report,” the young Australian said more confidently. “One man and a rifle. Two men, referred to as the Beltway Sniper, stopped most retail business, disrupted social outings and personal shopping, and even cancelled school sports events in Virginia and the surrounding area for nearly two months over ten years ago.”

  Again the room was quiet for several seconds. Secretary Austin broke the silence. “Captain Rossiter is right on the money. We’re not talking about hijacking, or dirty bombs, or chemical or even biological weapons in our water, for that matter. From Wolff’s laptop, we’ve learned the basics of the operational plan, or at least, we’ve pieced it together from several sources of information, since Wolff only knew the types of weapons sold. We’re talking about dozens—perhaps hundreds—of two-man hit squads who will scare our citizens to death, forcing them into seclusion . . . and do the same to our friends in England and Australia, if the analysis is correct. And that, gentlemen, is a threat which will render the strongest army in the world completely impotent. The only defense is aggressive local law enforcement, and, of course, civilian militia groups acting as vigilantes who will cause us yet another type of problem all by themselves. Carry on with your briefing, Lars. Let’s distribute the specifics of what we know. Then I suggest we go home, get with our respective intelligence agencies, wring our hands a bit more, and then decide how we can counteract this new dimension of grass roots terrorism we face.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” Pug interjected, “as important as it was to us to obtain this information, doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that an operator like Wolff was scraping the barrel, being used as procurement officer for small arms? Something doesn’t ring true about this whole scenario.”

  “Are you saying this is beneath him?” Austin asked.

  “Sir, what I’m saying is that I think there’s more. That we don’t know the whole story yet.”

  Forty-five minutes later when the meeting broke up, Carlos Castro slipped alongside Cameron Rossiter as they walked down the hallway. “I was surprised to see you here this morning. Going straight to another meeting?”

  “No, we’re going to reconvene at the British Embassy at two.”

  “How about some lunch?”

  “Great. Your boss owes me dinner for a yacht charter, right?” Cameron smiled. “I’ll happily let you pay.”

  Carlos laughed. “It was a short cruise, part of it in a rubber dingy. You’ll have to settle for a hot dog and a Coke in the park.”

  “What, field rations? And here I always thought the American military had the finest kit available.”

  “We do. That’s why I’m offering you a hot dog from a corner vendor. Or would you rather have an MRE?”

  Seated on a bench near the Vietnam Memorial Wall, Carlos and Cameron watched quietly as dozens of people strolled past the glistening, reflective edifice, stopping occasionally to read the names or to place a small token at the base of a particular panel.

  “You’d think the visitors would taper off. It’s been forty years since that war ended, and people still come. Some of them never even met or knew the relative or friend they come to honor,” Carlos said.

  “A tribute to man, if not to war,” Cameron replied.

  “So how’d you get this assignment?” Carlos queried. “I thought you were just out for a summer cruise.”

  “Natural fit. I’m commander of the OAT section of our SAS counter-terrorism group. Off-shore assault team. Because I’d been in on the snatch, our CO agreed that I could carry on.”

  “Well, you were smack on the money about the sniper routine.”

  “That was General Connor’s call. But it’s how to deal with it that’s going to be the problem,” Cameron added.

  “We’re going to be hard-pressed to find a way to interdict that kind of operation,” Carlos said. “The D.C. snipers showed us that, and they were only two guys without much planning. These hit squads, if indeed that’s what this is all about, will be much more organized, probably even mobile throughout the countryside. What do your boys think? Did they concur with what the interrogation turned up? Will Australia get hit?”

  “We’re taking precautions. Australia’s on the Al Qaida hit list, that’s for sure. The attacks at Bali and Fremantle confirmed that.”

  “Well,” Carlos said, “the Aussies deserve a lot of credit, especially in your part of the world. They’ve fronted up every time this terrorist activity has risen, and they’ve been firm in supporting both the UK and the U.S. General Connor figures they’ll be targeted for sure.”

  “We’ve just elected a new government,” Cameron added. “Much more conservative. That should keep us in the fight, maybe even allow us to fight back.”

  Carlos glanced at his watch. “Hey, I’d better run. General Connor will be looking for some answers. You in town long?”

  “No. We meet this afternoon with Brigadier McIntyre at the British Embassy, and then take the night flight to LA, and on to Sydney. And congratulations on your retirement and appointment as deputy director of, what do you call it, Trojan? At least, I think I should congratulate you.”

  Carlos stood, followed by Cameron. “Take care, Cameron. I think we’ll be seeing more of each other.” He offered his hand. “Good to be working with you again.”

  “I hope it will be good, Carlos. These fanatics can make everyday life miserable if we can’t find a way to stop them. And I’ve been in the Indonesian jungle before. If we have to find some of them, it’s not a nice environment.”

  “If this threat assessment is correct, we’ll spend more time on the streets of Sydney and Washington than the jungle. Keep in touch,” Carlos said and took off across the park.

  Chapter 13

  Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington D.C.

  March

  Since leaving the CIA and accepting his appointment to Homeland Security, General Austin had been directed by President Snow to locate his primary office within the west wing of the White House, where both he and the National Security Advisor were immediately available as required.

  Across the street, in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building which housed Trojan, Pug Connor returned from a luncheon with two of the Joint Chiefs to find a voice mail requesting his appearance in Secretary Austin’s office at 3 P.M. He glanced at his watch, which read 2:40. He grabbed his notes and briefing papers from the morning meeting and walked briskly down the stairs and across the street, entering the White House grounds. As he cleared security and entered the corridor, he met General Austin just coming out of his office. Austin inclined his head, signaling Pug to follow.

  “Good timing. We’re headed down the hall,” Austin said.

  “Are we going where I think we’re going?”

  “We are. Dixie called and said the president has squeezed twenty minutes into his schedule and asked us to join him. We’ll just play it by ear. I think Admiral Barrington will be there too, along with Patrick Collins, the president’s choice for Secretary of Defense.”

  A
dmiral Barrington was outside the president’s office when they arrived, and Defense Secretary Designate Patrick Collins and newly confirmed Vice President Hank Tiarks were already in the Oval Office. Dixie, the president’s secretary, stood and motioned them through the doorway. Inside, President Snow rose to greet them.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. Let me introduce Vice President Hank Tiarks and Patrick Collins, soon to be the Secretary of Defense,” the president said. As the men shook hands, the president motioned the group to a small cluster of chairs and a large, deep burgundy leather couch. The president gave a nod to Pug, then took his seat. “I’ve read the brief on the interrogation transcripts and the overview of the attack plan. We’re short on time this afternoon, so let’s hear your analysis, Secretary Austin,” he said. “What unwelcome visitors can we expect?”

  “Mr. President, we’ve compiled a fairly confident picture that several of the various terrorist groups have concentrated their objectives and plan to hit us—and our allies, I might add—where we are most vulnerable, on our own soil again.”

  “Are you telling me we know the target this time?”

  “No, sir. The target is America—everywhere. But this time, as you saw from the summary, no airplanes, no plagues, no dirty bombs, and no chemical contamination of water supply or anything like we’ve considered, although those possibilities are always on our watch list. No, this time, Mr. President, we have reason to believe that the various terrorist groups, we don’t really know which one, intend to infiltrate America. If there is one central command, they possibly already have the people in place—small teams of snipers—in America, Australia, and England. From our experience this past couple of years, I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t have native-born Americans mingled in with the infiltrators.”

  “Snipers? And Americans, too, you say?” Snow repeated.

  “Yes, sir. Hit teams. Religious zealots, primarily. Mr. President, if you recall, there were two snipers a decade back who brought the D.C. and Virginia areas to a standstill. That’s what we believe they intend to do, but on a much larger scale. Hit us at the local level, a killing here, a killing there, a drive-by shooting in a mall parking lot, with this scenario replicated across the country every day or every week. From what we can gather, there is no large objective, no catastrophic disaster. The only possible objective of a small-scale operation like this is to terrorize neighborhoods and communities. Make our people believe that their government can’t protect them.”

  “You mean throughout the country? Random killings?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. That’s how we see it.”

  “Do you concur, Admiral Barrington?”

  “I do, Mr. President. The body count will probably not be high, statistically speaking—in fact, far less than from automobile accidents every weekend—but once the media gets on to it, we can certainly expect that as these groups take credit and try to obtain publicity for their terror tactics, the public fear will be rampant.”

  “And the Aussies and the Brits as well?”

  “Yes, sir. Our intelligence leads us to believe they’re also on the list.”

  “Issuing a higher domestic threat alert won’t do any good, will it, General Austin?”

  “No, sir. What could we tell the public? Stay home because there may be a gunman waiting on the grassy knoll? I personally think that would just fuel the panic. And that’s exactly what these people want to create.”

  The president nodded his understanding. “Then they’re correct. The government can’t protect their citizens. How do you suggest we deal with this type of threat? Pat,” he said to the designated Secretary of Defense, “How could the military be applied? Martial law? Occupy our own cities? If this shooting starts soon, similar questions are bound to come up in your confirmation hearings.”

  “Mr. President, I think Secretary Austin and Admiral Barrington have laid out the problem to the extent we understand it. In the end, if it turns out that we’re right and we see multiple sniper teams in our cities, then it will be a matter of vigilance on the part of local law enforcement, rather than the military. It’s not the kind of threat that can be repulsed by a squad of soldiers. Heaven forbid it should come to armed National Guard patrols on our streets like they had in northern Ireland in the seventies and eighties, but a public panic could eventually require exactly that.”

  “That’s drastic, isn’t it?” the president asked.

  “I hope it’s not necessary, Mr. President,” Collins said.

  “More likely, various armed militia groups, especially in the western states, will try to take the lead with uncoordinated, locally directed patrols. Roving bands of citizens, like the Minutemen who manned the Arizona and Texas border against illegal immigrants a few years ago,” General Austin added.

  “What do you mean, General? American militia?” President Snow asked.

  “Primarily the western militia groups, Mr. President. They’d find it their patriotic duty to defend their homeland, to search out and destroy the infiltrators. And they won’t be particular about the evidence they need to convict someone. The wrong skin color or foreign accent will suit their purpose. Any ethnic group different from the basic Anglo-Saxon European will be as afraid of the militia as they are the terrorists. They would both become terrorists, essentially.”

  The president leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of discontent. “That’s all we need—a few hundred self-directed posses with the hanging rope in the back of the pickup. Do we have a contingency plan?”

  General Austin answered. “Mr. President, we’re not completely helpless, but the lack of knowledge about targets, cities, or even timing is the worst problem. We can’t ask local law enforcement to go on to double shifts in a constant state of alert. They’re complaining already about the cost of overtime and man-hours. But we’re working on it. These snipers will need to communicate, to contact their central command, if there is one. We’ve asked the NSA to focus their electronic intercept search patterns for communication in that area.”

  The president rose and walked back toward his desk. “Okay, gentlemen. I appreciate your briefing. Keep me informed. Oh, by the way, General, I need to get my cabinet nominees through the Senate quickly, if we’re to deal with this threat. If these, uh, snipers are coming to America, what are the possibilities you could direct a couple of them to the Hill before the confirmation hearings get started?”

  Austin smiled broadly as he stood. “Well, Mr. President—”

  President Snow waved off the reply. “I didn’t say that, General. I really didn’t.” He continued, “Secretary Austin, if you have time, I would like you and General Connor to remain for my next meeting. Pug, this is relative to your prior assignment in California, and Secretary Austin should be brought up to speed. Joyce Jefferson served as my lieutenant governor, then she was elected governor of Arizona. She called a few days ago and asked to meet with me. She’s a wonderful person and an outstanding leader, but I don’t have a good feeling about her agenda.”

  “Yes, sir,” Austin replied.

  As the Oval Office cleared of participants from the prior meeting, Dixie stood in the doorway and guided several people into the room. “Mr. President,” his secretary said, “Governor Jefferson is here for her appointment.”

  The first person through the door was an attractive, well-dressed black woman, followed by three men. Pug immediately recognized one of them as Dan Rawlings, the California legislator with whom he had worked on the secession investigation. The other three, including Governor Jefferson, he did not know. President Snow rose to greet the group.

  “Joyce, how lovely to see you again,” the president said, kissing her cheek.

  “And you, Mr. President. May I introduce my associates. Donald Tompkins is currently serving as attorney general for the State of Utah, Harry Phillips is mayor of Eugene, Oregon, and Dan Rawlings represents the 8th District in the California legislature. Gentlemen, may I introduce the president of the United States, Wi
lliam Snow, former governor of Arizona and my dear friend.”

  All shook hands, and President Snow introduced Homeland Security Secretary Austin and General Connor.

  “Good to see you again, Dan,” Pug said, warmly shaking his hand.

  “You two know each other?” the president asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Pug replied. “Mr. Rawlings and I worked together on the California secession investigation. He provided the key bit of information that led to the breakthrough.”

  Pug smiled as Dan shook his head in disagreement. “Sorry, Mr. President, it was actually Mrs. Rawlings who provided that information. But at that time, she was Nicole Bentley, an active duty FBI agent. She was medically retired after being shot during that investigation and has since married Mr. Rawlings.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rawlings, and welcome, everyone. Please, find a seat and then, Joyce, you can tell me what brings you to Washington.”

  The group sat around the small conference area in the Oval Office and Joyce Jefferson opened the discussion.

  “Mr. President, we’re grateful for your time this afternoon. We know you’re extremely busy forming a new government and trying to put your team in place.” Jefferson hesitated just slightly, pausing to gather her thoughts. “Sir, the four of us represent a contingent of politicians from the western states. Conservative and moderate politicians,” she emphasized. “We’ve come out of respect for your office . . .” she paused again, and smiled at the president. “No, Bill, that’s not exactly true. We’ve come out of respect for you, to give you advance notice of our intentions.”

  “Joyce, we’ve been friends for a long time, haven’t we? I know that quirky way you have of buttering the bread before you slice up the sandwich.”

  Jefferson issued a slight chuckle. “Touché, Mr. President. I’ll get right to the point. Next Monday, the 25th of March, a consortium of states will be holding a press conference in Las Vegas to announce our intention to join California in seceding from the United States of America and to form the Republic of Western America. As brusque as that notion is, that’s our message in a nutshell,” she said in her well-known, no-nonsense manner.