The Fourth Brigade Combat Team of the 10th Mountain Division. JR knew about them. The fact that they were being deployed from Fort Polk, the massive joint training base further south in Louisiana, to Barksdale was certainly news. There was also a brigade of airborne troops at Fort Polk, JR thought, and he listened intently to see if the garrulous bar buddies knew about them. A brigade of paratroopers dropping into Texas, or Barksdale, could cause massive problems.
He wandered on, listening. Most of the men and women in the bar were talking about the run on grocery stores and Walmarts. The lines were horrendous. One woman said she waited over an hour in line to check out. One gasoline station was completely out of gas and the clerk said they didn’t know when they could get more.
After they drank some of their beer, JR and Danaher left the mugs on the bar and went outside. Their retired military ID cards got them onto the base. They drove over by the flight line and looked at the rows of B-52s parked there. Barksdale was home to the 2nd Bomb Wing, the only outfit in the air force that still had B-52 Stratofortresses.
Huge hangars, flood-lit ramps, here and there a security vehicle. Half-full parking lots. Activity at the barracks.
The parking lots at the commissary and PX were packed, with almost every space occupied. A long line waited to get to the fuel pumps at the base filling station.
JR told Danaher about the conversation he had overheard.
“That’s no surprise,” Nate replied.
“I want you to lead an assault team in here tomorrow morning. We need to take this base and be prepared to hold it. If we can’t, we need to destroy those B-52s. Can an assault team arriving on C-130s pull it off?”
“Let’s go back to the flight line and take a look,” Danaher said.
“If it can’t, we can do an air attack tomorrow,” JR explained. “Strafe the flight lines, drop some JDAMs on the hangars and fuel farm, make a royal mess.”
“Hold that thought. I have a small set of binoculars in the glove box. Let’s trade places, and I’ll look while you drive.”
They did so. The only plane in the traffic pattern was a B-52 shooting landings, apparently on a training mission. They could hear the engines roar every time it lifted off and watch it in the pattern, a big dark-green metal cloud.
“They’re not bombing up the BUFFs,” Danaher said after a while. “No missile batteries or missile-control radars or AAA in sight.” AAA was anti-aircraft artillery. Five more minutes of looking, then Danaher said, “Let’s go home. We’ve seen all that there is to see.”
Sluggo Sweatt had Jake Grafton brought to his office that Tuesday evening. Grafton couldn’t walk, so the jailers dragged him. They didn’t bother putting him in a chair. Sluggo came around his desk and rested a hip on the edge of it and looked down at Grafton lying on the floor. Sluggo had a smile on his face.
“How are your ribs?”
Grafton tried to focus. Being dragged here had made him want to scream, so he had bitten his tongue. Now blood was leaking out his lips. He could feel it, warm and slick.
“I think we’ll take you back to your cell and let you sleep through the night. If tomorrow you don’t sign the confession in front of a television camera and read the little script we have prepared—it’s only about a hundred words—we’ll beat you to death tomorrow night. The other prisoners will hear your screams. I’ll be honest, Grafton, I don’t like you. Still, I urge you to be tough. Don’t give us an inch. Then I will have the pleasure of helping the boys work on you.”
Sluggo Sweatt smiled at Grafton. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, fluttered it, then handed it to one of the thugs and made a gesture. They dragged Grafton back to the cell. There they threw the sheet of paper on his chest and left him lying on the floor, after one of them had kicked him in the balls.
The overhead lights were on. Although Jake Grafton didn’t know it, the power for the camp was being supplied by several large emergency generators since the grid was down. With the generators snoring away, grid problems didn’t really matter to Sluggo Sweatt. He was the king of his own little empire, and he liked the feeling.
Every breath Grafton drew was agony. When the fierce pain in his testicles finally subsided to a dull ache, exhaustion overcame him and he went to sleep. He dreamed of Callie.
Armanti Hall and Willie the Wire showed up first. I got out of the van and Willie started motormouthing. “Damn, Tommy, did we have fun! You should have seen those towers come down. Man, if someone would pay me for doing this, I’d give up the locksmith business in a heartbeat.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell the fool that he was probably permanently out of the locksmith business unless a meteor hit the White House and all its inhabitants were instantly obliterated.
“How’d it go?” I asked Armanti Hall.
“We dumped towers on two different transmission lines. Just walked up to them, rigged the charges, and went on to the next one. We watched one stretch of them go down. Some of the lines broke, and the others went on the ground.”
“You two get some MREs, take a whiz, and when the other guys get here I’ll brief everyone.”
Ten minutes later Travis Clay rolled in, and five minutes after that Willis Coffee. They had each found a transmission line and put three towers on the ground. Travis, however, had done more. He came across a substation and used an AT4 to put it out of business. “That box blew apart into a thousand pieces, Tommy. It was kinda fun.”
“I’ll bet. You didn’t leave the tube there, did you?”
“Oh, no. It’s in the back of the truck.”
“Good man.”
I addressed my lock shop partner. “Tell me, Willie, now that you are back in the felony business, are you willing to pull a trigger or not?”
“Well…”
“One life sentence, two, three, what does it matter?”
“You’re suckin’ me into a life of crime, Carmellini. I’m not ready to give up pussy. I got a few good years left, dude, me and Viagra, and a couple of women who are countin’ on me to help them find a little joy in this colorless life.”
“Sarah, would you put a first aid box in each truck while I brief these guys?”
We gathered around the hood of one of the FEMA pickups. I spread out the map. “Here is where we are going to rendezvous, this bridge over the Greenbrier at Bartow. Then we’ll go to the CIA’s safe house near Greenbank. I want each of you to go to Bartow by a different route.” We traced routes with fingers in the twilight.
Then I explained the setup at Camp Dawson, how the internment compound was laid out, where the four guard towers were.
“Now, Sarah and I are going to drive in the main gate of the internment compound in a FEMA pickup. We’ll want to find out where Grafton is being held. We’ll ask to see the commandant of the camp. Meanwhile Armanti and Willie Varner, you will go through the main gate of the National Guard base and come around behind the compound. That gate was open when I went by and the Guard looked like it had moved out. Set up an M279 machine gun out back. There is undoubtedly a rear gate through the compound wire, and maybe a barracks where these FEMA dudes are bunking.
“When the shooting starts up front, the guards in the rear towers are going to be trying to see what’s happening, and from the way the camp is laid out, I don’t think they can see. They might get interested in you. If they do, open fire. If the FEMA guys stream out the back gate after the shooting starts, let them all get out. Wait until they are out, then kill them quick and fast, including anyone left in the rear towers. If the fleeing guards go into a barracks, use an AT4 on it. If they get into vehicles, use the machine gun. It is imperative that no one follow us.” I looked at Armanti and asked, “Can you do that?”
“These people aren’t soldiers?”
“Some of them might have some military experience, but now they’re civilians. FEMA paramilitary thugs, Barry Soetoro’s army. What we have going for us is surprise. We want them dead before they can figure out that they oughta shoo
t back. They aren’t holy warriors: being a martyr for Barry Soetoro isn’t on their bucket list.”
“You’re asking an awful lot of one man with one gun.”
“Willie will help.”
Armanti looked at Willie Varner, who for once kept his mouth shut.
I explained, “I don’t want the guards in the compound taking hostages, and I don’t want them following us. If we can’t take them down quick and fast, we’re going to have to clean that camp building by building.”
“Okay,” Hall said, and shrugged. FEMA’s reputation was going downhill fast.
“Willis and Travis, you guys are the front shooters. You are to wait one minute after Sarah and I go through the gate, exactly sixty seconds, then shoot the guys in the guard towers beside the road. They may have a machine gun in each tower, although I doubt it. But they might. Shoot each of them and toss a grenade up into the tower, then do the guys at the front gate.”
“I’ll take the south tower,” Willis said, and Travis nodded.
“Then come into the compound. Drive through the compound and kill anyone in FEMA green. Try not to shoot any of the detainees. My idea is to let the guards get out of the compound through the back gate before we lower the boom. When the shooting starts out back, go help with the rear towers and anyone in FEMA green still standing. No FEMA people are to be left alive.”
“Got it, Tommy.”
“Wish I had a better plan,” I admitted, “and I wish we had a few days to sniff this out, but we don’t have any more time. It’s tonight or never. Any questions?”
We cleaned up a few details, then mounted up.
Another half-assed plan with insufficient reconnaissance. That was a prescription to get my guys killed, as all of us knew, but it couldn’t be helped. We didn’t have days to set this up.
Sarah and I rolled up to the main gate of the compound in our brand-new stolen FEMA truck and I leaned out the window, which was down. I had my Kimber in my left hand, out of sight behind the door.
Three guys were lounging around, two sucking cigarettes and one arranging a pinch of Skoal in his mouth. One of the smokers looked inquisitive.
“The guy who runs this place?”
“Sluggo Sweatt.” He pointed. “That building on the left.”
“Thanks.”
I rolled on over and parked in front. I holstered the Kimber.
“Sluggo Sweatt is on the White House staff,” Sarah said.
“I’ve heard the name. Are you ready?”
“Let’s go in.”
We turned off the engine, left the keys in the ignition, walked up the three steps to the porch and went inside. The receptionist’s desk was empty, but the next room had a window and a desk with Sweatt seated behind it in an executive chair that he had apparently liberated from Office Depot. Sarah and I pulled our pistols and pointed them at him.
“See who else is in here,” I told Sarah. As she went down the hallway looking in offices I scanned the room.
“You have precisely ten seconds to tell me where Jake Grafton is, or I’m going to shoot you.” The words were no more out of my mouth than I heard M4s begin to fire bursts.
Sweatt looked startled. His eyes went to the windows. I fired a shot into his computer, and the bits of glass flew out. “Pay attention,” I said.
I heard a shot from down the hallway. Then another.
His eyes were frozen on the pistol in my hand now. One of the interesting things about a .45 is how big the muzzle looks when it is pointed right at your eyes. Only a half inch in diameter, the hole in the barrel looks like a howitzer at close range. I lined up the sights and shot his right ear off.
He jerked and blood flew all over the wall behind him as a fusillade of M4 fire behind me filled the room with noise. Then a hand grenade went off. And another.
Sluggo got the message. “He’s in a cell, down the hallway.”
Sarah came trotting back. I gave her the news.
“The keys?”
They were on Sluggo’s desk. Sarah grabbed them and ran. “If he isn’t there,” I told Sweatt, “I’m going to start shooting parts off.”
More M4 bursts, a cacophony. Blood ran down Sluggo’s neck and his face looked pasty.
In a moment Sarah was back. “He’s in terrible shape. A lot of broken ribs.”
“You keep Mr. Sweatt occupied. If he twitches, empty your pistol into him.”
She stood precisely in front of the desk and used both hands to steady the gun on his chest.
I ran outside, grabbed a medic’s pack from the bed of the truck, glanced at the gate and saw all three guards sprawled there. I ran back inside. If anyone shot at me they missed. Still some shooting going on. It would have been nice to know how many FEMA dudes we had strapped on, but we hadn’t had time for an extended recon.
I found Grafton lying on the floor in a cell, the door of which was standing open.
“Tommy,” he whispered. “Lots of broken ribs on both sides, I think.”
I cut his shirt off with my fighting knife. His sides were black and blue. Digging into the medic pack, I got out several rolls of gauze. “I gotta sit you up, sir.”
“Do it.”
I took his arms, which were bruised badly where he’d tried to cover up, and pulled him into a sitting position. He groaned. Working as quickly as possible, I wrapped him in gauze from his armpits down to his belly button. Needed three rolls to do it. Then I began wrapping him with surgical tape, as tightly as I could.
A few more shots. I was listening for the sound of a machine gun, but I hadn’t heard it yet. “Who did this?” I asked.
“Sweatt had it done. Wanted a confession. Said if I didn’t sign, he was going to personally help beat me to death tomorrow.”
“So we’re right in the nick. You lucky dog.”
Now I heard the stutters of a machine gun.
Armanti Hall had set up the M279 beside a small wooden building with a good view of the guard towers and the barracks. The fact that the only lights were in the compound and the towers were backlit probably helped. The guards, one in each tower, were looking into the light, watching the people in the compound and smoking. Armanti got the belt arranged in the gun and chambered a cartridge. When he had that attended to, he gave Willie Varner four hand grenades.
“I want you to go around on the other side of this building,” Armanti said, “where you can see the front of the barracks. Then put all four of your hand grenades on the ground. Wait until I fire, then pick up one grenade. See this pin on each one—hold the lever, pull the pin, then wind up and throw it in from the outfield. Pick up another, pull the pin, and throw it. Do it until you have thrown all four. Then lay down, right where you are, and don’t move a muscle until you hear me call your name. I don’t want you running around out here in the dark. I’ll be shooting at everything that moves. If anyone comes up on you, play dead.”
“Okay, man.”
“Can you do it?”
“I guess.” Willie Varner took a deep breath and exhaled explosively.
Five minutes later the shooting started, and to Armanti’s amazement, the man in the north tower climbed down and ran for the barracks. The man in the south tower wasn’t far behind. Thirty seconds later, as gunfire popped in the front of the compound, guards in FEMA green came running through the compound toward the back gate, jerked it open—apparently it wasn’t locked—and ran for their cars or the barracks.
Armanti waited until no one wearing green wanted out of the compound, then opened fire.
I heard the M279 open up, followed by grenade blasts. I hoped that was Armanti Hall behind the compound gunning every FEMA guard who had came out the back gate and jumped in a car or pickup. Or anyone who wanted out of the barracks to join in the fray, if there was a barracks back there.
When I finished with the tape, Grafton said, “Cut this jumpsuit off. I shit in it.”
I knew that by the smell, but was too polite to mention it. After I used my knife and he was naked
except for the tape, I got a look at his swollen balls. They were bruised almost black. I helped Grafton to his feet. “You’re going to have to walk, Admiral.”
“Give me a shoulder to hang on to.” I put the medic bag over my shoulder, put my left arm around Grafton, and took an experimental step. He wasn’t going to go down; that was one tough man. I drew the Kimber and led him down the hall.
Silence had descended on the compound. Sweatt was still in his chair, holding his ear. Blood was oozing through his fingers and running down his neck, staining his collared shirt.
Grafton paused in front of the desk and picked up a watch, put it on. Then he reached for a cell phone and handed it to me. He put a hand on my Kimber and I gave it to him.
“Sluggo, you were born eighty years too late,” Jake Grafton said as he looked down to check the safety on the .45. “You should have been an SS colonel in charge of Auschwitz or Dachau.”
He pointed the pistol and shot Sluggo in the center of his forehead. The back of the man’s head exploded onto the wall and his body rocked back in the chair. The corpse stayed in the chair, its arms dangling, its eyes pointed at the ceiling.
Grafton handed me back my gun.
“Let’s go, Tommy. Sarah.”
We both helped him down the steps and into the right seat of the pickup. Then Sarah ran around and entered through the driver’s door and scooted over.
A knot of civilians was standing there. Willis and Travis were policing up weapons and tossing them into a stack in the yard.
Jack Yocke and Sal Molina came over to the right-side window, which was down. “We want to go with you, Admiral.”
“Get in the back.”
I addressed the crowd while Yocke and Molina climbed over the tailgate. “Folks, your guards have skedaddled or died, I am not sure which. Help yourselves to the weapons. You must decide if you wish to remain here or take your chances outside. We can’t stay, and you know they’ll be back, sooner or later, when they figure out what went down here. All I can tell you is, good luck.”
I got in the pickup, carefully backed up, then put it in drive and steered toward the gate. I ran over a body of a FEMA warrior sprawled there because I was in no mood to get out and move the corpse or wait for someone else to do it.
Liberty's Last Stand Page 28
