“I’m giving the damned orders. Take all the wounded out to the base. And bring that prisoner over here. I want to look at him.”
Three minutes later Travis had him standing in the radio studio with a plastic tie around his wrists. Yep, it was Zag Lambert, whom I had met in Colorado a lifetime or two ago. He was even porkier than he had been in Colorado, with a truly awesome gut jutting out above his belt. I doubted if he had seen his dick in the last ten years unless he used a mirror. It was a wonder he could even reach it. He didn’t look as feisty now as he had in Colorado.
“Take him to Grafton,” I told Travis. “After they interrogate him, lock him up with Sal Molina. Don’t feed him for a few days. Maybe a week. Water only. He needs to lose some weight. His wife will thank us.”
“Yo. Come on, fatso.” And he led Lambert away.
“New Jersey National Guard,” I told Grafton when he called on the radio a few minutes later. “FEMA guys in trucks and two Jersey guard helicopters with grunts who rappelled down. Travis is bringing you a prisoner to interrogate, Zag Lambert, the guy who ran Jade Helm 16.”
“Good work, Tommy,” he said. “We’ll send some people to relieve you when the sun comes up, and you, Sarah, and Willie can get some sleep.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t mention that Willie had bugged out. I figured that I would run into him at Dawson in the chow hall. At least, I hoped so.
One of the choppers had crashed on a baseball diamond, and the other went into a block of old houses a quarter mile away. There were no survivors from the Blackhawks. Someone said six or eight civilians were killed in the crash into the houses; no one knew for sure. The smoke was still rising from the fire at dawn.
Thus ended the battle of Kingwood. Maybe someday they’ll put up a commemorative plaque.
I just hoped that somewhere people were listening to the radio.
THIRTY-TWO
JR Hays had four C-17s lined up, fueled, and ready to go. Aboard them were twelve trucks, three apiece. For now, the trucks were loaded with ammo, welding torches, and C-4 explosive. On the trip back, they’d be loaded with gold. He had selected and briefed his men — all one hundred of them. They were dressed in U.S. Army combat gear that would have passed the inspection of any sergeant major. The men had been briefed to shoot only in self-defense. He meant this to be a bloodless adventure.
JR had confirmed, in three satellite calls with the Pentagon, that the United States armed forces were in a state of armed truce and officially neutral in the war between the United States and Texas, and he had letters in his pockets, all forgeries on good paper with appropriate letterheads affirming that he was Lieutenant General Robert Been, United States Army, with written orders from the president of the United States, Barry Soetoro, and the secretary of the Treasury to transport the gold in the Bank of Manhattan to the New York Federal Reserve Bank for safekeeping until the current political crisis had passed. To further his ruse, he had five Texas Rangers, three men and two women, in civvies carrying FBI pistols and credentials, which Colonel Tenney had confiscated from agents in Austin. Chuy Medina had told him the bank had at least a hundred tons of gold on deposit. JR hoped to take every ounce.
Sarah and I went to the big head honchos’ meeting in the conference room of the headquarters building on Tuesday night after dinner. The place was packed, standing room only.
There were four generals: Jose Martinez, an active-duty two-star who either took leave or deserted (he wasn’t telling); Mort Considine, a retired brigadier; Lee Netherton, a retired three-star; and Jerry Marquart, a congressman if Congress ever got back in session. Jake Grafton was the general commanding, by the unanimous vote of the four, and he presided.
The big news was that radio stations along the East Coast had received duplicate thumb drives of Sarah’s recordings from Dixie Cotton; and Dixie herself was making a splash as she flitted through Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, broadcasting on her mobile radio. FEMA and Homeland were after her, but I figured they would drop the chase soon enough — news of the recordings had already gone nationwide, and the rumor was that even FEMA and Homeland were now having doubts about Soetoro.
Within twenty-four hours of the first Kingwood broadcast, more than a thousand people joined our little army — veterans, truck drivers, steel workers, mechanics, carpenters, dentists, students, housewives, eccentrics, whackos, and no doubt some true psychopaths, all angry about Soetoro’s violation of their “rights” and the “Constitution.” Many brought their own firearms.
The generals fretted about the willingness and ability of civilian volunteers to follow orders. As usual, Grafton cut to the chase. “We’ve got to keep control of our troops or we are nothing but a mob. Let’s agree right here, right now, that anyone caught robbing, stealing, raping, or murdering noncombatants will be summarily executed on the spot. Anyone accused of these crimes but not caught in the act will be court-martialed as soon as possible with the accuser and any witnesses testifying. If found guilty, he or she will be executed immediately. That will be General Order Number One.”
Further orders followed swiftly. Jose Martinez, with Mort Considine as his deputy commander, would take the units designated as the First Army, or our northern army, to Washington via I-68. Lee Netherton, with Jerry Marquart as his deputy, would lead the units organized into the Second Army, or our southern army, to Washington via Leesburg. Grafton would fly the Cessna, our only observation plane, and keep in touch with the columns via radio. Predators would scan the ground for bad guys and ambushes.
Then they got into logistics. The generals told their staff officers to stay but ordered the rest of us to get busy.
Thinking that good advice, I wandered out with Sarah and asked, “Wanta get laid?”
She stopped and did a double take, then said, “Why, Mr. Romantic, I thought you would never ask. You must be overwhelmed by my feminine charms.” She held up a palm. “Don’t explain. I would rather keep my illusions.”
“Wise woman,” I acknowledged.
“Where do you plan to conduct our tryst? The barracks is full of people playing poker, shooting craps, and listening to Barry Soetoro on the radio, and I’m not doing it in a pickup truck, period.”
“I was thinking of walking a little way up into the woods and finding a leafy glade that we could remember fondly all our days.”
“You animal! Lead on.” She placed her hand in mine.
Apparently some other couples had similar ideas, so we had to go a bit further uphill into the woods than I wanted. It was so dark we tripped over tree roots twice.
When we thought we had a private spot free from brush and snakes, we sank to the ground. “Ooh,” she said as she ran her hand around, “moss covered with sticks and stones and spiders. I’ve always dreamed of getting laid on a bed of moss, our very own private bower of carnality.”
“I’ll bet,” I said, and got busy brushing the debris off the moss.
Hours later gently pattering raindrops woke us. The night was as black as the inside of a coal mine but a lot noisier, what with drops loudly whacking leaves, which were beginning to drip on us. Sarah and I hurriedly put on our clothes and threaded our way through the trees downhill toward the barely visible lights of the camp.
When we got back to our barracks we were a little damp, so we hung our trousers and shirts and web belts on the posts at the end of the bunk and both of us crawled under my blanket. When I woke up, it was dawn and Sarah was still sound asleep in my arms.
Other people were stirring, but they studiously ignored us.
Jake Grafton came thumping in. I pretended to be asleep. He shook my shoulder anyway and said, “Come on, Tommy. See you at the plane in fifteen minutes.”