Homeland Security

by William L Casselman

  “Are there any females or kids down there?”

  “Didn’t you get my information?” Clay asked.

  “That’s a good twenty-four hours old. I’m interested in now.”

  “As of midnight, we have seventeen females of assorted ages and nine school-aged kids. The children belong to camp officers. I think they have them around to fool the satellites or anyone stumbling across the camp. They also use the kids to carry racist pamphlets into their schools or shopping centers in the valley. But the women… the ones in the bunkhouses, there are some real tough fighters down there and all of them former military. Most of them were MP’s in either Iraq or Afghanistan. One of the ladies is a Third Degree Black Belt, so watch out for her. She’s a tall blonde with long legs, and she doesn’t like men much.”

  “We were told to expect a well-armed group…automatic weapons and possibly grenades. Is there anything heavier…any machinegun emplacements, LAWS or Claymore minefields? ” The leader went silent when he heard one of his men approach from the guard post.

  “We found them both snoozing away like little kids. Had the both of them secured in handcuffs and gagged before they even woke up. I decided to leave two men there and one man to keep a watch on the perimeter in the event they have someone checking these posts.”

  “Good,” the supervisor said. He then notified the Command Center and briefed them that Captain Jefferson was located, is safe and his squads now have the northern, western and eastern perimeter positions secured. “We’re ready to move in upon your command.

  “Standby,” an unidentified voice said over the radio.

  “Hurry up and wait,” Clay whispered and then added, “Just like the Army.”

  “Yeah, but you guys have some pretty lax security here. No need to hurry. Those clowns are lucky we just don’t slit their throats for sleeping on guard.”

  Then Clay asked, “Like I told San Antonio, a bunch of couch potatoes… but very dangerous ones with all this weaponry in their hands.” Clay was all set to move out, and then he asked out of curiosity, “Are you guys with the FBI Hostage Rescue Team?”

  “Captain, just like you Delta Force boys, we don’t even exist…got it?”

  “Not a problem,” Clay replied. He was used to all the secrecy in working special ops but thought he’d ask anyway. Ever since leaving the Green Beret to become a member of Delta Force, he hadn’t realized how many top secret special action teams existed in the federal system and military service. He had worked with three separate Seals Teams, various federal teams, and even some secret organizations from other countries. But going undercover with a racist militia organization in his own country was something real new for him, and he hoped he would never have to take on a similar assignment again. There were times he wondered if it was even legal, using military personnel for domestic operations. He recalled something called the Posse Comitatus Act in the Constitution. But he obeyed orders and left the legal matters to the big heads above his pay grade and hoped for the best.

  When the order to move finally came in seven minutes later, a three-man team took out the guard shack at the main gate without firing a shot. Once those two guards were down, six five-man action teams silently moved into the camp. Four separate sniper teams had taken up positions on the hillsides to cover the teams’ approach. One sniper team was now installed atop the water tower. The powers that be had originally planned to use sleep gas on the barracks but realized it wouldn’t have worked all that well because there was no glass in the windows, only screens to keep the flying bugs out. So, it was decided to go in with good old fashioned flash-bang grenades, to light up the rooms and cause mass confusion with the non-lethal explosives. Another four-man action team moved in to secure the headquarters building, while four-two man teams were assigned the officer’s tents. In the meantime, another six-man team was sent up to secure the guard post and roving patrol along the southern perimeter. Here they reported finding all three men playing poker and greatly shocked to find a lot of weapons pointed in their faces.

  The highly trained teams moved in utter silence, using their infrared goggles to help them see and detect any human movements, which included their teammates. One team member was startled when a deer suddenly jumped into his path, but he had enough fire control training and experience not to shoot the defenseless creature.

  So, without an actual shot being fired and a couple dozen flash bang grenades being used, the highly confused White Fist faction of the KKK was taken into custody without any major injury to good or bad guys. Even the leggy blonde with the martial arts skills was taken down before she could even get a move into play. There were some hurt egos, a lot of profanity and verbal threats about knowing this senator or that judge, which was all recorded. In no time at all, the men and women were safely herded aboard special jail buses in whatever they were wearing. The buses had moved in as soon as the camp was secure and the prisoners were driven back down the mountain for a prolonged stay at the government’s expense.

  FBI and Homeland Security Intelligence Teams were then allowed to take the headquarters building and barracks apart, which lasted into the morning hours. They quickly found the money to be used by the White Fist to take out their assigned targets; fifty-five thousand in twenty dollar bills. Then once all the belongings, weapons and anything else vital to the investigation were removed, the camp was photographed in great detail and then by order from Washington, it was to be burned to the ground. A Forrest Service Firefighting Crew of men and women wearing yellow helmets and matching protective gear was on hand in the morning to conduct the destruction and prevent the fire from spreading into the woods.

  Clay was now sleepy by the time the Forrest Service Crews arrived, and he hoped someone had cooked up some strong black coffee. He stood by a typical FBI Chevrolet Suburban, his helmet still on and his face mostly covered to protect his identity by a black baklava. He’d see these people soon enough when he had to testify in their trials, but he wanted to remain faceless for now. He had quickly learned the KKK hotline was spread throughout the country, and he wanted to keep his face and identity unknown for as long as possible.

  With a gloved right hand, Clay wiped sweat from his eyes and looked up to see a senior FBI agent approach with two large paper coffee cups in his hands. The man wasn’t wearing a tactical uniform or the typical FBI all-weather jacket, but Clay knew he was a Federal Agent. He stood well over 6 feet tall, had wide shoulders, and wore the famous Fed’s extremely dark glasses. He also knew who Clay was, which told him the man was FBI. When the older man reached Clay, he handed him a black coffee and apologized, “Sorry no sugar or creamer. We got the coffee from the fire crew.” The older man looked about the camp for a moment and watched all the activity and the amount of evidence being secured for transport and then, after removing his dark glasses, he offered his right hand to Clay.

  In a sincere tone, he said, “Captain Jefferson, I’m Special Agent in Charge Watson. I wanted to say that you’ve done one heck of a job here. There’s no telling how many people may have died if these nuts had been able to carry out their attacks. With some of the evidence they’ve already found, we’ll be knocking on a lot of doors; arresting a good many KKK members and other white supremacists.”

  “Thank you, sir and thanks for the coffee,” Clay replied. “I’m sorry to say, they’re a few good, but misguided kids in that group, poisoned by the hardliners and radicals. They’ve come from broken homes and fed all this racist crap. I only wish we could save some of them.”

  “I’d like to ease your mind by saying it’s possible, but unfortunately, Captain I doubt it will happen for these people here… except for the younger children. Most likely they’ll end up in foster homes, while the others are all headed for federal prison. Once inside they’ll have to join a white racist group to survive their time, or end up knifed some night by a Black gang.” The agent pointed to the last bus going by, “By the time they come out, even these nice kids as you used the term, will be har
d-line Klansmen or neo-Nazi’s.”

  Clay could only nod his weary head in response. He’d been on the run all night, to help with the various intelligence teams. He then asked, “How much C-4 or Semtex did you locate in the armory?” He knew they still had some because he was training some of the older men in the proper usage of it. A certain amount was set aside for the assigned missions, but the teams needed to know how to use their equipment to be effective.

  “I haven’t gotten the totals yet, but one of your Army EOD people said there’s at least enough explosive charges in that one building to blow up the Capitol Dome. He believes the Semtex is all from Mexico too, wrapped the way the Mexican military packages it. This means they probably have a connection with one of the better-equipped drug cartels… something we’ve been worried about for some time.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen any Mexicans here since I arrived, but that doesn’t mean the cartels haven’t moved the stuff across the border and into the hands of the KKK.”

  “This was one serious group of loonies,” SAC Watson said, as he cleaned his sunglasses and put them back on.

  “Sir…I am in dire need of a shower, a good meal, and hopefully, a week off to sleep and catch up on some football.” Clay turned around to hand his shotgun over to an FBI evidence technician. “It’s empty and here are the rounds.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Being a good technician, the woman verified the weapon was in fact cleared and then walked away to record the weapon’s brand and serial number with the rest of her evidence. An extensive search will be made with all the serial numbers to determine where the weapons were purchased, possibly giving the FBI new locations to put under observation or even provide enough probable cause to raid some places for the sale of automatic weapons, grenades or other illegal firearms. The used Glock he purchased second hand and wasn’t about to let the Feds have their hands on it, and he did like his new Buck knife and saw nothing illegal about it.

  The older agent laid his right hand on Clay’s shoulder and said, “Captain, the shower and meal I can grant you, but that week off you want is out of the question for now. You’ve been ordered to Washington ASAP, and I’ve got a special plane waiting for you on the tarmac in Atlanta for a quick flight north. An FBI agent will be waiting for you in DC to drive you directly to FBI Headquarters…” Watson stopped as his cell phone rang. He listened to the caller for a moment and then hung up without saying anything. He then turned back to Clay, “Sorry, Captain, the shower is going to have to wait too. People in DC are in flashing red it seems.”

  “Aw, man, don’t tell me they’ve already picked another job out for me!” Clay shook his head in resignation. He’d been going from one assignment to another since he left the 82nd Airborne to join the Green Beret. Though he’d been in Iraq once, Afghanistan twice and served black ops assignments in North Africa, he still hadn’t been home on leave in 6 years. Not that it really mattered all that much. His maternal grandfather had died while he was in Iraq, leaving him without any relatives in Alaska, other than some cousins he never got along with for being part white. His father’s family never wanted anything to do with him either for being part Indian. His grandfather had written his father’s parents after the accident, and the only reply stated they thought he should stay with his “Indian family.” Clay often thought he’d look those relatives up someday to simply spit in their faces, but never did. Clay’s dad was with the US Army Infantry and on assignment to Fort Wainwright, when he met his soon to be wife at a downtown Disco club. She had left the Indian way of life of Minto for the big city lights of Fairbanks. According to his grandfather, his daughter had only known Clay’s father for a short time before they were married in a civil ceremony and they had lived on Post. The Minto family only met Clay’s father once in the two years before the accident, and that was for his grandmother’s funeral in Minto.

  So Clay was raised according to his grandfather’s Athabascan ways. He learned to fish by pole, dip netting and the usage of fish wheels, the proper ways to clean and dry fish, how to trap and to hunt. He had bagged his first bull moose when he was twelve years old and shot his first Grizzly when he was thirteen. He respected his grandfather’s traditional religious beliefs, but while attending college at the University of Alaska-Fairbanks, he had given his life over to the Lord Jesus Christ at Door of Hope Church. His grandfather was not offended, for he knew his grandson must walk his own path, and it was while attending college, Clay also made the decision to enter the ROTC program. Along with his BS Degree in Animal Husbandry and a minor in Geology, he earned his 2nd lieutenant’s gold bar and a seven-year hitch in the U.S. Army.

  His college was paid for with the insurance money from his parent’s accident. His grandfather had placed it all into a credit union savings account in Fairbanks, having no need of the funds himself for the raising of the boy. With interest, the money grew to quite an amount and paid his entire four years of schooling, along with a new dark blue Ford F-250 4x4 and a little extra besides Clay kept in savings for the day he decided to buy a house and wanted a sizable down payment. But he ended up selling the new truck two weeks before leaving for his second deployment to the sandbox. He added this money to his savings account and dreamed of the day he met the right girl and settled down on a cushy 20-year retirement as a Major or Lt. Colonel. But as of yet, he hadn’t met her, and for now, he easily lived off his captain’s pay. Especially with all the extra allowances he received for being on Delta Force; jump pay, combat pay, TDY pay when assigned to the Feds, overseas pay and couple other special payments from foreign governments for services rendered and the US government allowed him to keep. His bonus money never came to too much, but it helped cover the costs of his undercover work- especially those charges he couldn’t turn in receipts for; paying off informants and buying contraband to keep his various covers up. An AK-47 didn’t come cheap, even on the back alleys of Libya.

  The last of the prison buses left the compound, escorted by joint FBI and Tennessee State Police vehicles. As of yet, the news services had not received any word about this raid, but once prisoner processing began, word would get out and the FBI would have to have their briefing officers ready to handle an army of pushy news people shoving their microphones into everyone’s faces. Expensive KKK and Aryan Brotherhood lawyers would be on the steps of the courthouses citing civil rights violations, while minority leaders would be for once commending the efforts of the federal officers for raiding this foul camp of would-be killers.

  Clay turned his body armor over to FBI personnel, slipped his pistol behind his back and pulled his sweaty t-shirt down over it and rode down the hill with the senior agent and two other FBI agents. “Look…Sir, I stink! I really need to wash up before I go aboard any aircraft, much less see anyone in DC.” Clay began to wonder if they all bought their sunglasses at the same store or if the FBI bought them in lot and issued them. For himself, he wore the same sunglasses he carried with him through North Africa, scratches and all.

  “Sorry, Captain. The order was ASAP, and it came from upstairs and in my case that meant pretty high up. But don’t you worry; the aircraft comes with a lavatory.” The supervisor then ordered the driver to turn the air conditioning up. Clay hadn’t realized he dropped off to sleep until he opened his eyes and saw he was at a small private airport and a government Leer Jet was awaiting him. He thanked the senior agent, climbed out of the vehicle wearing the same clothes he’d worn all night and walked aboard the plane, where he was promptly asked to identify himself by a very pleasant, but official mannered, government flight attendant. She was wearing a blue two-piece pantsuit, white shirt and her blonde hair was worn in a longish ponytail. Clay also noticed her eyes were a cobalt blue and he was suddenly wishing this would’ve been a longer flight. He then noticed she was armed with a small automatic pistol on her right hip and began wondering where that lavatory was. He had too much coffee last night and early this morning and hadn’t had a chance to use the restroom.

  Identi
fied and processed, he was handed a black leather fold-over suitcase containing some of his own clothes- which he was told also held a newly purchased dark blue sport coat, black pants, a light blue long-sleeved dress shirt still in the wrapper and a navy blue tie. Thankfully, the FBI had checked his shoe size and provided a pair of simple dress black shoes and new dress black socks. He was directed to the back of the plane, where a restroom offered him enough space to change clothes and take a sponge bath. Not quite the shower he was promised, but it provided him with a traveler’s kit; including a razor, two white washcloths, and a very large shower towel. He felt amazingly better afterward. Once he was dressed and seated, the plane began taxing down the tarmac. Within moments the aircraft was flying at thirty-thousand feet and on its way north. By the time Clay had enjoyed a micro-waved roast beef sandwich, a bag of chips and an ice-cold soda, the aircraft was preparing to land outside the nation’s capital. He thought about asking his hostess for her phone number but decided against it. This next assignment could be sending him anywhere on the planet, and he didn’t have time to begin a relationship.

  Once the plane was parked, the door was opened, and Clay found another 2016 Black Suburban waiting for him. Making him wonder, with all these new vehicles the government buys, how could the car companies be having such money problems?

  2 - BACK TO ALASKA

  J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING- FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  WASHINGTON D.C. 8:37 P.M. 13 SEPTEMBER

  Weary-eyed from lack of sleep, Clay finally arrived at the government’s F.B.I. building and entered through one of the more photographed entryways in the US Capital. Forgetting to identify himself and show his credentials, he suddenly found himself setting off the entry’s security alarm system and caused everyone nearby to freeze in place, their eyes now wide in apprehension as the federal security detail reacted. In mere seconds, he found himself shaking his head from side to side, his arms now held high above his head, of course, his face now flushed with embarrassment, for failing to advise the guards of who he was and display his credentials. His Glock .45 caliber Pistol had set-off the alarm system and his state of fatigue he had forgotten he was still “packing” it.