Liberty's Last Stand

by Stephen Coonts

  Steiner paused and surveyed his audience on the chamber floor and in the balconies. “I do not believe—I cannot believe—that such sentiments are representative of the sentiments of the people of Texas, the physical and spiritual descendants of the defenders of the Alamo, those patriots who laid down their lives rather than surrender to the tyranny of the Mexican government. I say to you, Remember the Alamo! Remember those thirteen days of glory. Remember those brave men who laid down their lives so that Texans might be free.”

  The applause rose like thunder in the chamber. Ben Steiner mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He was on a roll now, and he knew the jury was with him. He waited until the noise died somewhat and said, “Hard, cold, and cruel will be the road ahead. Many difficult decisions will have to be made. Many will suffer, some will die. Yet I say to you, Americans everywhere will judge us by what we do here tonight. We can so conduct ourselves that future generations will glorify our deeds and honor our lives, and remember our deaths if need be…or we can surrender and throw ourselves on the mercy of a tyrant. Is life so precious that you would shame yourself to keep it? As for me, I want to repeat—and I hope someday they engrave these words upon my tombstone—the immortal words of Colonel William Barret Travis at the Alamo: ‘Victory or Death.’”

  The applause and cheering rose to a staggering volume. Ben Steiner turned around, leaned toward the speaker, and shouted to be heard. “Mr. Speaker, I move the question.”

  The Senate passed the declaration by two-thirds vote, and the majority was almost as large in the House.

  Ben Steiner went back to the podium. “My fellow Texans, we are making history tonight, history that Texans will talk about as long as there are people in Texas and men yearn to be free. We cannot tell our children and our children’s children that we passed this by a mere majority vote. I move that the vote be made unanimous.”

  The speaker called for a voice vote. The yeas had it.

  Steiner was so relieved he had to hang on to the podium to stay erect as the legislators cheered wildly.

  The leaders of both chambers signed the document and took it to the governor to be signed, which he did. He handed the signed document to the colonel in charge of the National Guard troops, one with the unfortunate name of Buster Bean, and said, “Get a loudspeaker and read this on the steps of the capitol.”

  When the crowd in the governor’s office had thinned somewhat because many of them wanted to be outside to hear the declaration read, Jack Hays asked Ben Steiner, “What did you say to them?”

  “I paraphrased Winston Churchill and Colonel Travis and appealed to their honor.”

  “I guess you convinced them.”

  “No. They knew the right thing to do. They just needed to hear someone say it.”

  The floodlights of several television stations almost blinded Colonel Bean, but at least their illumination helped him read the document.

  “The unanimous Declaration of Independence made by the elected representatives of the people of Texas in General Convention in the City of Austin on the twenty-third day of August, 2016.

  “When a government has ceased to protect the lives, liberty, and property of the people from whom its legitimate powers are derived, and for whose happiness it was instituted, and ceases to be a guarantor of those inalienable rights which are granted to every human by God Almighty, and becomes an instrument in the hands of evil rulers for their oppression:

  “When the federal Constitution of their country, which they have sworn to support, has been declared a nullity by the leader of their country and the whole nature of their government has been forcibly changed without their consent from a limited federal republic into a military dictatorship:

  “When, after the spirit of representative, constitutional government has been forcibly usurped, when the semblance of freedom has been removed and the sole power in the land is the whims of a dictator, the first law of nature, the right of self-preservation, the inherent and inalienable rights of the people to preserve their liberty, rights, and property by taking the political power into their own hands becomes a sacred obligation to their posterity to abolish such a government and create another in its stead, one calculated to rescue them from impending dangers and secure their future welfare and happiness.”

  Inside the governor’s office the amplified voice outside was quite clear. Jack Hays said to Ben Steiner, “Good stuff, but I’ve read much of that before.”

  “I cribbed it. I couldn’t do better.”

  Colonel Bean read a list of grievances, including Barry Soetoro’s declaration of martial law, the arrest of political opponents, and the de facto repeal of the First Amendment.

  He ended with this paragraph:

  “It has been demanded that we deliver up our arms, which are essential to our defense, the rightful property of free men, and formidable only to tyrannical governments.”

  “The necessity of self-preservation therefore now demands our separation from the United States of America. We, therefore, the duly elected representatives of the people of Texas, in solemn convention assembled, do hereby resolve and declare that the political connection with the United States of America has forever ended, and the people of Texas do now constitute a free, sovereign, and independent republic, and are fully vested with all the rights and attributes that properly belong to independent nations; and conscious of the righteousness of our intentions, we fearlessly and confidently commit the issue to the decision of the Supreme arbiter of the destiny of nations and mankind.”

  Colonel Bean stepped away from the podium as applause and wild cheering broke out. Beyond the National Guard troops, many of the U.S. Army soldiers began leaving in twos and threes. Here and there sergeants and officers tried to stop them, but many went anyway. The regular army officer in charge, a colonel, knew when to fight and when to regroup. He ordered his soldiers to return to base. In less than fifteen minutes, only National Guard troops remained on the capitol lawn, facing a sea of cheering civilians. Thousands of them. People poured from the side streets as the news swiftly spread and soon packed the area as far as the eye could see. Texas flags were waved defiantly and proudly.

  Texas was once again an independent nation. If the Texans could make it stick.

  SEVEN

  In Washington, Thurman Truax, the senior U.S. senator from Texas, was appalled at the spectacle on television that morning. He had been in politics since he was twenty-seven years old, which was thirty-five years ago, and he kept his ear close to the ground in Texas to find out what people were thinking, so close to the ground that the people said he had dirt in it. He had been worried for years about this independence movement and had talked about it at length with the governor, Jack Hays, who he thought was against it too. Apparently Jack Hays had changed his mind or found he was caught in a tide he couldn’t resist.

  Truax had suspected something of this sort might happen when Soetoro announced martial law, and had called the White House to tell the president so. He wound up speaking to some junior aide. The president had made his decision, Truax was told. He also shared his misgivings with the other senator from Texas and the members of the Texas congressional delegation, some of whom shared his concern, and the leadership in the Senate.

  The television was still showing video of people cheering and celebrating independence in front of the capitol in Austin when Truax called his chief of staff. He had tried five times to call the governor and had sent him three e-mails during the broadcast, but had been unable to get through. Nor could he reach any of his political or social friends in Austin. Texas seemed to have dropped right out of the United States.

  Not that he blamed Texas. Truax had fought the good fight against admitting Muslim refugees from the Middle East to America, many of whom, he suspected, were jihadists. Of course, despite Soetoro’s and the secretary of state’s bromides about security checks and vetting them, the reality was that the refugees had no identification whatsoever, a fact the president and his administrat
ion chose to ignore. And jihad had come to pass. Murder in a parochial school, on a train, in Yankee Stadium…sometimes Truax thought that the administration actually wanted some terrorist incidents. So now Texas had rebelled.

  His chief of staff had watched the broadcast too. And she also had tried repeatedly to call people in Austin and had been unable to get through. Truax didn’t wait to hear her take on the whole mess, but told her to make airline reservations to get the senator back to Texas as soon as she could this morning.

  He heard pounding on his door. When he answered it, a television reporter and cameraman were standing there, wanting an interview.

  “As you can see, I’m still in my pajamas. My office will have a statement for the press later this morning.”

  “Did you know this Declaration of Independence was going to happen, Senator?”

  “No comment.” He closed the door on the reporter, a woman with NBC, locked it, and went upstairs to dress.

  The truth was, he was appalled. Those fools in Austin had smashed Pandora’s box. Barry Soetoro would be outraged, and he was the commander in chief of the armed forces. No telling what that damned fool would do. The United States was tearing itself apart, and the senator felt powerless to prevent it. No one in Washington wanted to listen to reason. Truax well knew that every decision government made had consequences, intended and unintended. Barry Soetoro and Jack Hays were on a collision course.

  After he was dressed, the senator went to the kitchen for coffee and a boiled egg. He ate his meager breakfast in front of the television watching national coverage of the news, whatever Soetoro’s censors would permit to be aired, which was universal condemnation of the Texas political system and everyone in it. Terrorism seemed to have dropped off the news radar. Texas treason, one talking head said. Another speculated that since the president had declared martial law, the governor of Texas and members of the legislature could be tried by court-martial, and probably would be.

  Truax had had his fill and turned the television off when he heard another knock on the door. He looked out the security peephole. It wasn’t a reporter. He opened the door and found four FBI agents, who had orders to arrest him. As it turned out, the White House had ordered that Senator Truax and every member of the Texas delegation were to be arrested and held in a Washington prison for treason. An FBI agent accompanied him upstairs to get his medications.

  As he rode away in the back of a car in handcuffs, Truax pondered on the reaction in Texas when this news got out.

  One of the people who heard the Declaration of Independence read aloud heard it over the radio. As it happened, he was the captain of a tugboat in Galveston Harbor. He was always up early, planning the morning’s work on the boat before it had to get under way for the day’s tows or pushes. He took his cup of coffee out and climbed the ladder to his bridge.

  Across the harbor he could see an attack submarine berthed, USS Texas, a Virginia-class boat, only a few years old, moored port side to a pier. She had come in yesterday for a three-day port call to show the flag, entertain visitors, and let the good people of Texas see where the navy’s share of their federal taxes was being spent.

  How long would she be here now? he wondered. Bet they’ll get under way as soon as they hear the news.

  He set his cup down and ran down the ladder to his crew berthing, where his engineer and first officer were sound asleep. Those two were all the crew he had right now. The seamen who fixed things and handled lines wouldn’t come aboard until half past seven.

  “Wake up,” he urged as he shook them. “We’re going to move the tug.”

  He gave hurried explanations as they pulled on jeans and tugged on shoes.

  Ten minutes later, the tug, Mabel Hardaway, named after his wife, got under way. Captain Hardaway took it over to where the sub was berthed and maneuvered to anchor immediately behind it. To ensure the tug didn’t swing on her anchor and damage the sub’s screws, he dropped an anchor from the stern as he came up slowly, then a bow anchor. He backed down and killed the engines, then went down the outside ladder to the deck to help the first mate secure the anchors.

  That sub isn’t leaving until I say so, he thought, vastly pleased with himself.

  He got on the radio to another tug, managed to wake up the skipper, and asked it to come anchor immediately beside the submarine. “As soon as you can get here,” Captain Hardaway added for emphasis.

  Aboard Texas, the watch officer awakened the captain, Commander Mike Rodriquez, who had spent the previous evening at a dinner in his honor in a hotel in Galveston, one attended by the mayor, most of the city councilmen, and everyone who was anyone in the Chamber of Commerce. He had probably had one or two too many glasses of wine, but toasts were offered right and left and he had to do it, he told himself then.

  His head was a little thick as he listened to the watch officer. “We have a tugboat anchored immediately behind us.”

  “In the prohibited zone?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve notified the harbor police.”

  “They can probably handle it,” the captain said. “Are our guards on the pier?”

  “Yes, sir. And armed.”

  In the age of terror one can’t be too careful, the captain well knew. Local jihadists would secure undying fame in Paradise if they could damage a U.S. nuclear submarine. The FBI had assured him they were keeping a close eye on the local Muslims, of whom there were only a few. Still…

  The captain quickly donned his uniform, khakis because he wore camos only when under way and he hated them. He went to the control room, satisfied himself that everything was as it should be, then climbed the tiny conning tower to the miniscule bridge.

  Yep, there was the tug, Mabel Hardaway. What in the world was that thing doing there? He picked up a loud-hailer and pointed it at the tug’s bridge.

  “You are in a prohibited zone. Get under way and move your boat immediately.”

  “Sorry,” came the shouted reply, quite audible in the pre-dawn stillness.

  “You will be arrested if you don’t move that boat.”

  No reply.

  “Sir,” the watch officer said. “One of the sentries is running toward us. There are some civilians up there at the head of the pier.” He was using his binoculars. “Looks as if some of them are carrying rifles.” He handed the binoculars to the CO, who was staring through them as the sentry came halfway across the gangway and shouted, “Sir, those civilians say they have closed the pier. They say they won’t let our liberty party back aboard.”

  “Why?” the officer of the deck asked loudly enough to be heard.

  “They say Texas declared its independence an hour ago.”

  The captain rubbed his head. Jesus Christ, he thought. Of all the time for a port visit! He glanced back at the tug. Well, he couldn’t back out of here, even if he got all the lines off the boat.

  He looked to his starboard side. If he could swing the stern, perhaps he could back and forth using the rudder until he could go behind the tug, like a car getting out of a parallel parking place. He used the binoculars in the half-light and saw the line running off the stern of Mabel Hardaway at an angle, out into the open area he would have to use. He knew he was looking at a chain with an anchor on the end. Backing the naked screws of his boat into the chain would disable Texas.

  “Here comes another tug, sir,” the OOD said, and pointed.

  Sure enough, there it was, maybe a mile away down the harbor, coming slowly. It would certainly be here before he could get Texas free of the pier and maneuver her out of this slip. And even if he did get Texas out of the slip, the tugs could ram her and make sure she didn’t get out of the harbor.

  Damn!

  “Go below,” Rodriquez told the OOD, “and get off a flash message to SUBLANT. Tell them we are blocked in by tugboats, with armed civilians on the pier. Go.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Gulls wheeled above him as he stood alone weighing his options. Half his crew was on liberty in Galvest
on. While he could operate the boat with the duty section, he had nowhere to go with tugs in the way. His sentries could keep the civilians off the pier, for a while, anyway, unless they started shooting.

  He could scuttle the boat, sink her here in this slip. But the navy brass would have his balls if he did that and the independence news was some kind of misinformation or a political ploy to embarrass the Soetoro administration, something that could be cleared up or would go away in a few hours or days. He certainly didn’t know. All he knew was what the sentry had told him. If he scuttled Texas, she could be raised of course, and eventually returned to seaworthy condition, after she had spent a year or so in the Electric Boat shipyard in Connecticut where she was built.

  He decided to wait and see what SUBLANT said to do. He wanted someone in a much higher pay grade to point to if recriminations started. Let the admiral earn his pay, he thought as he watched the other tug ease into the slip and tie up starboard side to the pier abeam Texas. Now he was blocked in.

  When the OOD came back up the ladder he said, “Message sent, Captain.”

  The skipper pointed at the tug on the starboard side. “Go send another one. Tell them we are corked good.”

  The OOD took a quick look and disappeared back down the ladder.

  The skipper looked at the people milling on the pier. At least thirty of them, only a couple of sailors in uniform, and a police car. Maybe he should go up there and talk to the cop.

  When the OOD came back, the captain gave his instructions, went below for his ball cap, then went to the forward torpedo room and climbed the ladder through the open hatch to the main deck. He paused on the gangway and saluted the flag flying on its portable flagpole on the stern, then went ashore.

  After Colonel Curt Wriston, commander of the Texas National Guard in Abilene, saw the declaration read on TV, he tried to call his headquarters in Austin, with no success. The telephone didn’t even ring.