by Marvin Tyson
December’s Soldiers
By Marvin Tyson
December’s Soldiers
Copyright © 2018 Marvin Tyson
(Defiance Press & Publishing, LLC)
First Edition: May 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author and publisher. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. The author and publisher retain the sole rights to all trademarks and copyrights. Copyright infringements will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-948035-06-4 (Hard Cover)
ISBN-13: 978-1-948035-11-8 (Paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-948035-05-7 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018938162
Published by Defiance Press & Publishing, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
Editing by Janet Musick
Interior designed by Deborah Stocco
Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books
Bulk orders of this book may be obtained by contacting Defiance Press & Publishing at or Midpoint Trade Books at www.midpointtrade.com
Publicity Contact: www.defiancepress.com OR (713) 429-4366
FOR TEXAS, FOR TEXAS!
by Marvin Tyson
When I walk where Crockett walked, or Bowie breathed his last,
Where they stayed and stood, as they could see, the Reaper riding fast.
That hallowed ground where Esparza and young Espalier died,
That self-same soil where families knelt and new-made widows cried.
The place where heroes’ bodies burned, and angels softly wept,
Where dear-bought days meant Texas lived while Santa Anna slept.
My eyes fill with tears of pride, my heart within me burns,
My thoughts, my dreams, and all I am, ever homeward turn
to Texas! to Texas!
Those patriots of Alamo were Texas’ Spartan band.
They gave their all so we could live and love in freedom’s land.
Those sacred walls, those cobblestones, and every open space
Serve to mark where they last stood, and fell in God’s good Grace.
We owe these men to serve as well, to stand, and never quake,
To give our all for freedom, if “all” is what it takes!
To Travis, McCoy, and Dickinson, to Losoya and all the rest,
We must pledge our Texan hearts and lives, and all that we love best
for Texas, for Texas!
To gaze across the Trinity, from Anahuac on the Bay,
Where the first man died for Texas, but freedom won the day.
Patrick Jack and Travis, helpless both and bound,
Muskets aimed at each man’s heart, staked out on the ground
Called for Johnson to attack, even if they fell,
To call the tyrant’s bluff, and send Bradburn straight to hell
for Texas, for Texas!
The time may come again, and soon, to hear the bugle call,
Remember then those bodies burned outside those hallowed walls.
Alamo, Goliad, Coledo Creek: let their mem’ry never fade.
Yes, remember every Texan, and the sacrifice they made
for Texas, for Texas!
Those souls who rest in God’s strong arms look down at us today.
Dare we say, “I’M TEXAN!” if we give it all away?
The freedom bought with Texan blood on the fields of Texas then
Should be as dear to us today as it was to these brave men!
The liberty so dearly bought should be of no less worth
Than its value was when their life’s blood watered Texas earth!
So steel your hearts, hone your blade, and keep your powder dry.
Those who walk this hallowed ground will once more hear the cry,
for Texas, for Texas!
Macau, China
“A bad run of luck, huh, Mr. Jackson? Or should I call you Mr. President? I’m afraid I don’t know the protocol for an ex-president of the United States of America,” Stan Wong, owner of the Emperor Casino, remarked as he gazed across at Corbin Jackson, former president of the United States. They were in the Diamond VIP Zone, a special gaming room for the casino’s most prestigious VIPs, located on the sixth floor.
“It really doesn’t matter, Stan, or should I call you ‘Mr. Wong’?” Jackson shoved a pile of chips across to Wong, then flipped his cards face down on the brick red, felt-topped table in disgust. They had failed him again.
The ex-president and Stan Wong had known each other for so long that they both chuckled at this awkwardness, but it was the first time they had seen each other since Jackson was defeated in the last U.S. presidential election.
Jackson had won and lost so many millions of dollars gambling with Wong over the decades in Macau that they could read each other like a well-worn book. Unfortunately, there had been few wins and a ton of losses over the last few years for Jackson, and he had exhausted every line of credit he had, both in Macau and in Monte Carlo, over the last two years. He’d also lost two sizable fortunes, left to him and his wife, as the last heirs in both families.
“I’m probably close to being an ex-husband, too,” Jackson smiled wryly. There was no doubt in his mind that his wife would leave him when she finally found out the truth about just how broke he had made them.
“Do you need me to extend your line of credit again, Corbin?” asked Wong. “I know you’re good for more if you need it.”
“No, Stan, I’m done. I’ll send you a check when I get home if that’s okay.”
Wong came around the gaming table and rested his hand on Jackson’s tuxedo-clad shoulder. “Let me see if I can help you right now, Corbin,” he said. “I understand more than you think. Please come to my office; there are people there who can settle your debts right away if you like.”
Jackson gazed up at the casino owner skeptically. He had no idea what Wong was talking about, but he was desperate. Desperate enough to go find out what Wong had in mind. It couldn’t hurt to listen.
He followed Wong to the elevator, and they descended to the lobby. As the men walked across the casino floor to Wong’s office, Jackson was awed by the real gold bars embedded under his feet, just as he had been the first time he saw them years ago.
In Wong’s opulent office, surrounded by curtains of gold woven together with silk and an ornate desk resting on sculpted carpet, three Chinese men dressed in suits that obviously cost many thousands of dollars, with shoes to match, stood as Wong ushered Jackson in.
“Mr. Jackson, please meet Mr. Liao Shen and the Chang brothers, Mark and Mickey.”
As they shook hands, a young lady entered, took drink orders, and left, pulling the door closed behind her.
“She speaks no English,” Mr. Wong said, “so we can conduct our business at any time.”
Mickey Chang spoke first. “Mr. Jackson, we have watched your misfortune for a long time. We know the amount of debt you have incurred is substantial and we can help you, if you will help us.”
He paused as the girl returned with a tray of drinks, which she placed on the desk. Again, she just smiled and left the room, closing the door.
“Are you interested, Mr. Jackson?” Chang asked.
“What can I help you with?” Jackson asked, bewildered. “It seems to me you’re doing
okay without any help from me. Besides, other than some connections in the world of politics, I have nothing to offer.”
“Oh, but you do,” Mark Chang disagreed. “We would like to acquire oil leases in the U.S. that are not available to non-citizens. If we had an American partner, especially one of your stature, we could gain access to those leases and, in return, we can make you a very wealthy man once more, a man without gambling debt, a man with honor restored.”
Then Wong spoke up. “You see, Corbin, we come together at a very opportune time. The Chinese government is planning to let our gaming licenses expire without renewal so they can grant them to families better connected to Party officials on the mainland. At the same time, you find yourself in financial difficulties of your own. You, and perhaps one or two well-respected American friends of yours, can partner with us to gain the leases, and we can use the money we have accumulated in gaming and other enterprises to pay off your debts and restore you to your previous state of wealth.”
“I’m not aware of any large numbers of leases coming open any time soon,” Jackson countered. “The folks who hold them now will probably just renew.”
“We have a plan to change that,” said Wong. “We need to instigate a costly conflict between the newly independent Republic of Texas and its previous partner states in the U.S. You would be the prime tool―the catalyst, if you will―to drive a wedge between Texas and the U.S. that would cost them both billions, which will drive lease prices high enough that few would be able to match the many billions we can invest in them.”
Liao added, “If you use the considerable influence you wield with the American media to inflame the passions of the American people against Texas, and the passions of the people of Texas against the U.S., the administrations of both countries will be forced by the outcry to stockpile arms and perhaps even go to war. That would open the door for us to offer above-market prices for these leases, then use the sheer volume of oil we control to raise oil prices globally,” Wong said, wrapping up the plan.
They waited patiently while Jackson considered the offer, his brow knotted in thought. They knew he had no choice.
Finally, he nodded, but there was a haunted look in his eyes.
The group then settled in to work out the plan in detail.
Kurdistan, Northern Iraq
A young Marine captain peered into the screen of a laptop propped up on shipping cartons inside a dark tent in the desert. The night wind howled and screeched like a demented dervish around the tent, causing the heavy canvas walls to snap and pop, and shaking the AK-47 leaning against the tent’s center pole. It was bitterly cold outside, but it was at least tolerable, if not comfortable, inside the tent. His ranku choxa, traditional Kurdish clothing, was enough to ward off the cold, and one of his Peshmerga comrades checked on him from time to time to see if he was hungry or thirsty. It might have been only because of his value to them as an intelligence operative, but it seemed to him they genuinely cared for his comfort and well-being.
As if on cue, one of the Peshmerga came into the tent, a swirl of the devil wind and miniature snowstorms following him in. He was carrying a pot of chai, along with a bowl of rice and roasted chicken. He set the food on top of a footlocker. “Eat?” he asked the captain in his own English. “Chai?”
The captain barely looked up from his task, just shook his head.
“Girl?” the soldier asked, grinning from ear to ear.
The young officer stared at the Peshmerga sergeant, then gave up, laughing out loud. “No, no eat, no chai, and absolutely no girl!”
The Iraqi pointed to the provisions. “Later,” he said, still smiling.
“Yes, I’ll eat and drink later, my friend,” the Marine agreed.
The sergeant turned and stepped back out into the night, again letting in the swirling wind and snow as he left.
The captain sighed and turned back to his work. He was a specialist at hacking into all kinds of computer networks, including military networks, and he was fluent in several Kurdish dialects, which made him particularly valuable in providing information to his Peshmerga contacts about the plans and movements of their friends and enemies alike, specifically ISIS and the Iraqi military on the border with Kurdistan. He kept his people informed of troop, heavy weapons, and supply movements across the entire region, sometimes even before the affected ISIS commanders knew.
The captain’s clandestine and primary mission, however, was a covert operation, tracking oil money from sales made by ISIS, and then to arms merchants and/or shippers. He would relay that information via satellite phone back to his superiors stateside by code. His searching showed that most of it went in and out of one of three numbered accounts in Switzerland.
But a single errant keystroke, probably struck in his haste to finish his project before his impending rotation back to the States in two or three days, left the young man dumbstruck as he stared at one particular Swiss account on the screen before him. It left him seething with anger. If what he saw was attributable to the man it seemed to be, this was the most detestable of crimes, and it left the captain angry and bitter for more than one reason.
That accidental stroke set him on a long trail of deceit and treachery that he felt sure would be dangerous and deadly, and was likely to lead to conflict, even warfare, between the U.S. and Texas. He tracked billions of U.S. dollars and some of the world’s most evil men through more than four countries, and he knew he had to help stop what he clearly saw happening.
His next coded message on his satellite phone translated, “Extraction needed ASAP. Authorization DRAGONFLY.” Dragonfly was the code name for a deputy to the U.S. Secretary of Defense.
It was only minutes before he got a reply. “Dragonfly authority recognized. Heavy inbound 0800 yours. Out.”
The reply told him that a Chinook helicopter would be outside his tent at eight a.m. local time to transport him to Erbil International Airport, where a private plane leased to the CIA would take him back to Washington, D.C. after fueling stops in Berchtesgaden, Germany, and another in Gander, Newfoundland.
After what would probably be three or four days of debriefing by people from the Department of Defense, the CIA, and other agencies, he planned to take a short trip home, where he could begin tying all the information he had discovered to the people responsible. Who knew? With any luck, some of the people throwing questions at him for the next few days would be smart enough to tie their own shoes. That would be unusual, but it was a possibility. He chuckled a little as he thought about that, then his thoughts turned deadly serious once more.
What he found had full potential to bring down some of the most powerful and influential people in the world, including some of the best-known and well-respected U.S. political figures.
Chapter 1
“Well, Mrs. Travis, we did it. Texas is now its own nation.”
Marty Kert, the former governor and interim first president of Texas, tapped his Stetson against his leg as he looked over the gravesite of Mrs. Sylvia Travis, the woman who’d stood behind him, guided him and helped bring Texas to this place in history. Even now, he could feel her light touch on his shoulder, and he smiled through tears.
He could still see her as she was when he first met her, pacing and talking with her hands as she carried on a cellphone conversation in the corner of the small bar across from the boxing ring. She was slim, her silver-streaked blonde hair pulled back in a neat chignon, make-up impeccable, wearing a cobalt blue silk blouse over a pair of jeans with rhinestone trim on the pockets. He couldn’t tell how old she was, but he guessed between forty and sixty.
“You said we’d get here and, as usual, you were right. It was amazing. I wish you’d been here to see it.” He lifted his gaze to the horizon and sighed a bit enviously. “You have a much better view, though.”
Mrs. Travis’ final resting place was on the side of a small hill overlooking the Colorado River, and Marty thought it was the most beautiful gravesite in all of Texas. Right now,
frost covered the landscape in eerie white, but she would be able to see the crystal clear water of the river flowing by and smell the flowers in the springtime. Knowing her lifetime love affair with flowers, gardens, and the scenery here, he felt her warmth in his heart as he spoke to her softly, bending down to place a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses on her grave.
“Of course, this means life is going to change,” he said. “I don’t think it’ll change as much here in Texas, because everybody will know I’m still just Marty Kert. But the rest of the country is going to have a field day with this, and I’m really not looking forward to it.”
Mrs. Travis had introduced him to Texas politics―not just the highlights and the glitter of it, but the seamy underside where things weren’t always on the up and up. She wanted him to understand it all, regardless of its color, so he’d be the best “inside man” around. She made him see Texas the way she saw Texas, as an independent republic, not just one more state paying money into a bloated, corrupt federal system.
And she had helped make it happen.
A discreet cough from behind him reminded him he was out of time.
“I’ll meet you at the car, Jake,” he said over his shoulder. He heard his driver walk away, his footsteps crunching on the white gravel path. Then he leaned in a little closer so only Mrs. Travis could hear him. “And this, Mrs. Travis,” he said, “is just the beginning.”
He turned and strolled down the rock-lined path leading back to the main parking area where Jake Lambert, dressed in black jeans, a red shirt with a bolo tie, and black alligator boots, leaned against the side of the heavily armored Cadillac Escalade. He’d been Marty’s driver/bodyguard for several years, was a former Navy Seal, and usually an easy man to get along with.
Marty could see his own reflection in the darkened glass windows as he approached the vehicle. Even to himself, he looked younger than his thirty-eight years; he was clean-shaven, with strong facial features, including a slightly crooked nose, a souvenir from one of his boxing matches. Today, he wore a black topcoat over a charcoal gray suit. His slate-grey eyes, alert and intelligent, peered out at the world, and he looked ready to tackle all the problems that came with being the interim president of a new nation.