Rodriquez tapped his chest. “This isn’t the uniform of Barry Soetoro’s army; it’s the uniform of the United States Army. There’s a big difference. And this afternoon the order is going out to every army commander: we’re not arresting civilians anymore, and we’re releasing the political prisoners from every army-run camp.”
The Marine commandant’s gaze went from face to face. “Well, that’s a start, but I think we should go over to the White House, drag Soetoro and his staff out into the Rose Garden, and execute them. That prick is a traitor! He violated his oath to uphold the Constitution. He ordered officers murdered without trial. He deserves a bullet. I volunteer to take a company of Marines across the river and personally deliver one between that bastard’s eyes.”
“You’re wrong, Mort,” Bud Weiss said. “The military must remain neutral. We must publicly announce it. Confine all our forces to base. Defend ourselves, yes. But not take sides. California is a different story. Southern California has been invaded by the Mexican Army. It’s our job to defend America and shove them back.”
“What about defending America from Soetoro?” grumbled the Marine Corps commandant.
Cart McKiernan took his time before he spoke. “Mort, you know damn well we can’t lead a revolution. But that said, I’m going to start carrying a pistol, and if I ever come face to face with Soetoro, I’m going to exercise my rights as a free American and shoot him dead. Now let’s get the staff in here and get orders drafted. All offensive operations against Texas and other states are to stop immediately. All forces in the United States are confined to base except in Southern California. Bud, you are going to have to use the air force to supply our forces in SoCal. The navy will cooperate fully. Are we in agreement?”
“You understand that if we wash our hands of the Soetoro administration, Barry Soetoro is doomed,” Franklin Rodriquez remarked.
“That’s up to the American people,” McKiernan shot back. “Our problem is to preserve the American armed forces to defend future generations of Americans from foreign threats. I repeat, are we agreed?”
They were. They opened the door and the staff trooped in for orders.
The news that General Martin L. Wynette, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, had committed suicide in his office was merely a footnote to the press release issued by the Pentagon. Henceforth, the release announced, United States armed forces would take no part in or play any role in the political problems the country was enduring. All offensive operations were canceled, all troops confined to base, all ships ordered into port, and all airplanes grounded. Except, however, in Southern California, where United States forces were actively engaged in armed combat with invading forces from Mexico. The statement went further: “Unless the Republic of Mexico desires a wider war with the United States, it will recall its troops from United States soil immediately. If all Mexican forces are not back across the international border within twenty-four hours, United States forces will attack Mexican forces wherever they can be found.”
“Those Pentagon bastards just revolted against the government and issued an ultimatum to the government of Mexico!” Al Grantham roared as he read the press release. “What in hell is going on over there?”
He found out within two minutes. An icy Cart McKiernan told Grantham on the scrambled telephone, “You people at the White House are on your own, Grantham. We won’t obey your orders and we won’t fight rebel forces. We will defend the Pentagon and armed forces bases worldwide, and kick the shit out of Mexico if they don’t wise up fast.”
“This is mutiny, McKiernan. Treason. You know the penalty for treason.”
“Label it anything you like.”
“Are you demanding that President Soetoro resign?”
“I don’t think anyone on this side of the Potomac gives a flying fuck what Barry Soetoro does or doesn’t do. Please tell him I said so.” And Admiral Cart McKiernan hung up on Al Grantham.
THIRTY
We were sitting in our pickups in the parking lot of the little one-story brick office building at the Elkins airport when Jake Grafton landed in the Cessna tail-dragger and taxied up. He shut down, got out of the plane, and came strolling over. It looked to me as if his ribs weren’t hurting him too badly; his stride was almost normal.
Willis Coffee and Travis Clay had gone up the road to the main entrance of the airport and were settled in there behind trees, just in case.
Except for the two on guard duty, we gathered around Grafton. “Okay,” he said. “The road to Dawson is open. I’ll take Yocke with me in the plane. The rest of you drive on up there. There is a roadblock about five miles from the southern entrance, but they know you’re coming and will let you through. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Jack Yocke said angrily. “Just what the hell is going on?”
“We’re joining the revolutionary army,” Jake Grafton said calmly, as if that were as plain as the nose on his face.
“Did you land there?”
“No. I talked to them via radio. Tommy,” he said, “keep yours handy. Call me on one-twenty-two point nine if you have any trouble. I’ll be listening on that freq.”
“But who’s there?” Yocke asked, his puzzlement evident.
“We’ll find out when we get there.”
He walked back to his plane with Yocke trailing along. The admiral climbed in, and in less than twenty seconds the prop began turning, a little cloud of black smoke puffed from the exhaust, then the prop spun up to a blur as the engine settled into a nice idle. He swung the tail of the bird with a little blast of power and began taxiing for takeoff.
Sarah and I were sitting in the front seats of the truck, Dr. Proudfoot in the back, when the Cessna lifted off and turned northward.
“Well,” Sarah said with a sigh, “let’s go to the war.”
“You knew all about this, didn’t you?” I growled.
She glanced at me and smiled. “He is Jake Grafton, Tommy. You, of all people, should have known that he’d be a mile ahead of Barry Soetoro on the best day Soetoro ever had.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say. We picked up Willis and Travis at the airport entrance and headed up the asphalt ribbon through the mountains for Camp Dawson.
On the way I fiddled with the radio. Got a station with a seductive female on the mike who said her name was Dixie Cotton. She read the latest news releases from Washington, including one from the Pentagon that said they would no longer fight Americans, on whichever side of the political spectrum, and the ultimatum to Mexico. I wondered if that threat would frighten the Mexicans.
I found myself rubbing my sore neck and, to take my mind off it, kept playing with the radio. I finally got a station that identified itself as being in Kingwood, West Virginia, which I knew was just a mile or two up the road from Camp Dawson. “Guess the folks up there have their power back,” I said brightly.
Sarah just grunted.
“Hey, electricity means commodes flush. Don’t knock it.”
The announcer was telling people in the Kingwood area which stores were open, where they could buy food and fuel. The senior center was open, she said, and would feed anyone who was hungry.
Maybe America was starting to get back to normal. I rubbed my sore neck some more.
A reporter came crashing into the governor’s office in the parking garage under the Austin hotel with the Pentagon press release, which his newspaper had downloaded off the satellite. An aide took it into Jack Hays, who was in a meeting with bankers, college professors, and Dallas Federal Reserve officials. The subject of the meeting was the new Texas currency. As one of the Fed’s bankers, now working for the Republic of Texas, held forth on the value of money, Hays read the press release.