Liberty's Last Stand

by Stephen Coonts

  Grafton swung out and began a straight-in to the parking lot. There were light poles here and there, but most of it was empty. He pulled up on the bar between the seats, which put in half flaps, then pulled again for full flaps and we were on final doing about seventy miles per hour. He plunked that thing in a three-point landing within twenty feet of the edge, just clearing some power wires, avoided all the light poles, and slowed to a taxi. Then he braked to a stop and pulled the mixture knob out. The prop swung to a stop as a Humvee came rushing up.

  Grafton killed the mags and master switch and we got out. Two soldiers jumped from the vehicle with guns in hand. Optimist that I am, I left my M4 and bag of grenades in the plane.

  “My name is Jake Grafton. I want to see the CNO or army chief of staff, if they are around.”

  “Sir, you aren’t supposed to land here.”

  “Right. Now get on the radio and find out if Admiral McKiernan has the time to see Jake Grafton.”

  Fifteen minutes later we were in some kind of situation room still wearing our sidearms. At least they weren’t going to arrest us on the spot, I thought, which was a relief.

  Grafton shook hands all around—the room was full of admirals and generals—enough brass to make a few dozen monkeys. He was even courteous enough to introduce me, although all I got from the heavies were nods, then they ignored me. They all knew him and were obviously happy to see him. The commandant whacked him on his back so hard I worried about his ribs, but Grafton didn’t wince.

  “Was that you we saw flying around the White House a few minutes ago?” someone asked, and Grafton admitted it was.

  “The FAA will mail you a flight violation.”

  On a console were three large screens showing the mob surrounding the White House. It only took me a moment to figure out that these pictures were the datalink video from drones. A large map of downtown Washington covered one wall. It was held there with masking tape, so it hadn’t been there long.

  I watched the video while Grafton chatted and the brass nodded at the screens and shook their heads. “He’s going down before long,” one general said.

  Everyone seated themselves in chairs and Grafton got right to it. “Is it true that the military is no longer taking sides in this civil war?”

  “That’s right,” Bud Weiss, the air force general, said. “We’re America’s armed forces, not Barry Soetoro’s.”

  Jake Grafton nodded. “I had hoped that you would see it that way.”

  Cart McKiernan explained, “Marty Wynette committed suicide in his office two days ago. This war against Texas and Soetoro’s enemies had gone far enough, so we decided the best course for the military was to remain neutral.”

  Fifteen minutes later I thought I had the picture. The military was devoting its efforts to pushing Mexican forces out of California. A very unhappy Barry Soetoro was hunkered down at the White House fulminating and making big noises, but so far he had left the Pentagon, and the Marines surrounding it, alone—probably because he had nothing to bother them with.

  “What does Jack Hays down in Austin say about all of this?”

  “I talked to him earlier today on the radio,” the army general, Frank Rodriquez said. “He says if we leave Texas alone, Texas forces will leave our troops and military installations alone. I guess you could call it a truce.”

  Grafton gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from an aide. He sipped it and told the brass, “There are a bunch of folks, about three thousand, but the number is growing by the hour, heading this way from Camp Dawson in West Virginia. They’ll probably be here tomorrow.”

  “Who is in charge of this group?”

  “I guess I am,” Grafton said with a smile. “We intend to enter the White House and arrest Soetoro, if we can get there before that mob beats us to it. His days are almost over.”

  “Then what?” some general asked.

  “We need to get the United States up and running again. Get the power turned on nationwide, get water flowing through the pipes, and restore public order.

  They weren’t yet ready to talk about tomorrow. “What do you know about this White House recording that is all over the radio dial? We think three or four stations are broadcasting it.” General Weiss said that and he gestured at the video screens. “That is what has them stirred up. The big problem is that that mob is made up of people who hate Soetoro and people who think he is the risen Christ and is being viciously slandered. We have people down there reporting on what’s happening. That thing may turn into a battle royal between the two groups right there in Lafayette Park, a bloody riot.”

  Grafton replied, “I authorized secret electronic monitoring of the White House about six months ago. We used an Israeli program to turn all their cell phones, computers, and surveillance equipment into listening devices. The signals were gathered by the White House Wi-Fi system, encrypted, and sent to us. My tech staff” (that was only Sarah Houston, by the way—she was going to smile when I related this remark to her) “waded through hundreds of hours of conversation, but edited our take down to the pithiest sixty hours. That is what the radio stations are broadcasting.”

  Rodriquez whistled. “That stuff is dynamite.” He jumped right to the key point. “So you knew Soetoro was planning to declare martial law for weeks before he did it?”

  Grafton merely nodded.

  “How many weeks?”

  “Two months,” Grafton said.

  As they digested that revelation, General Runyon said, “You should have told us.”

  Grafton made a face. “There is always the question of whether clandestine recordings are genuine, and that cannot be answered to a certainty by listening to them. Even if you concluded that I was as honest as Diogenes, what would you have done after you listened? The American people needed to see the reality of a dictator in the White House, not listen to him scheming. Now they have seen and believe and most are ready to listen. The die-hards, a minority, are convinced the recordings are a plot to slander the saint; nothing on God’s green earth will make them change their minds.”

  The military brass sat and looked at each other. “He’s right, you know,” Cart McKiernan said. No one wanted to argue. All eyes went to Grafton.

  Grafton took another sip of coffee. “You made the right decision when you pulled your troops to the sidelines. The American people need to solve this problem. And I think they’re about to.”

  That was the moment when I knew my country had a future. Jake Grafton talked about the rebuilding mission ahead, and the Pentagon generals and admirals listened carefully to every word.

  I slipped out of the office, closed the door behind me, and asked the aides in the reception area how to get to the men’s room. A major escorted me, and when I had lightened the load, I asked if there was food available. There was. The major and I had a delightful late breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, fried potatoes, and toast with real butter.

  I was in an expansive mood. The major wanted to talk about the splash the Soetoro White House conversations were making. I wasn’t about to tell him that was a Sarah Houston/Jake Grafton production, so I just listened. When he had expressed his and his colleagues’ stupefied amazement, he segued to the subject of the rebels coming to town. I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much.

  “Who is leading the rebels?”

  “Admiral Grafton, the officer who flew me here. I think you lead a rebel army by moral suasion. That’s Jake Grafton. I used to work for him but I quit. Now I do what he asks or tells me to do because he’s Jake Grafton and I’m me.”

  “What’s going to happen to Soetoro?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” I said. “If Grafton has an idea, he hasn’t shared it with me. I doubt if he does. He’s sorta playing the melody by ear. May I have another cup of coffee?”

  We both went and filled our cups. Seated again, the major said confidentially, “The betting in my shop is that Soetoro will fly to Iran and ask for asylum.”

  “Maybe the ayato
llahs will put him to work in a bomb factory,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think he’s going to get rich making speeches,” the major declared.

  “Probably not,” I agreed and finished the coffee.

  THIRTY-THREE

  JR Hays’ convoy arrived at the Bank of Manhattan. He walked across the plaza, accompanied by his five fake FBI agents and two officers armed with M4 carbines. He pushed on the revolving door.

  To the vast relief of JR Hays, the door wasn’t locked. In seconds they were inside and crossing the lobby, which actually had a good crowd of civilians lined up facing only three tellers. JR strode over to the receptionist and announced he was here to see the president of the bank.

  “Mr. Gottlieb?”

  “If you please.”

  “I don’t know if he is available just now. I’ll check.”

  She made a call and read his rank and name tag into the telephone. With the instrument in her hand, she asked, “May I tell him what this matter is about?”

  “Government business,” JR said curtly and directed his gaze around, as if he were a bit peeved to be kept waiting. The two soldiers in combat gear, Colonel Adam Holt and Lieutenant Colonel Charley Grayson, adjusted their helmets and fingered their carbines, which looked black and ominous and very out of place in this marble temple to capitalism. People eyed the soldiers, who didn’t seem at all self-conscious.

  “If you will follow me, gentlemen… .” The receptionist opened a short door and admitted them behind the counter, then led the way to a bank of elevators. They were lifted up, up, up.

  The president’s office was in the executive suite. They were shown to a conference room, one with a long, polished mahogany desk and portraits on the walls of past bankers who had presumably gone on to an honorable retirement and whatever was awaiting them after that.

  JR and his men cooled their heels for four minutes by JR’s watch when the door opened and a man in his fifties bustled in. He was wearing a rumpled shirt and slacks and carrying his shoes in his hand.

  He proved he was a top-notch executive by going straight for JR, whose silver stars gleamed on each shoulder. “I apologize, General,” he said, “but since the power has been off I have been sleeping at the office.”

  JR looked the president up and down and gave a quick, tight smile. He stuck out his hand. “Lieutenant General Been, sir.”

  “I’m Abraham Gottlieb.”

  JR introduced the two soldiers in combat gear and the FBI agents, who whipped out their credentials.

  “The army and the FBI,” Gottlieb said, merely glancing at the credentials. The agents put them away and JR tried not to relax. None of the photos on the credentials matched the faces of the people holding them. That was one of the little hurdles he had to clear, and he was over.

  “Let’s sit down,” JR said to Gottlieb. He reached into his tunic and pulled out two letters and handed them to the banker. One was a letter on White House stationery to Lieutenant General Robert Been, United States Army, ordering him to proceed with whatever troops he thought appropriate to the Bank of Manhattan and transport the gold in the bank’s vault to the New York Federal Reserve Bank for safekeeping. The other letter was on Treasury Department stationery and was addressed to Mr. Gottlieb. The secretary of the Treasury regretted the necessity of moving the bank’s gold, but threats from mobs and various unnamed rebel forces required that the gold in bank vaults in New York be moved to one central location where it could be guarded by the army.

  Gottlieb seemed to shrink. He wiped his forehead and read both letters again while the lieutenant general reached into his tunic and brought out another sheet of paper. “Your copy of the president’s letter, sir. I need to keep the original. If you don’t mind.”

  The banker surrendered the document without a murmur. “I never thought it would come to this,” he said, and swabbed his brow again. “I’ll have to verify these letters of course, and if they are genuine, you may have the gold. Unfortunately most of our staff aren’t in the bank today, although the vault is open so our customers can withdraw gold.”

  “Just how do you propose to verify these letters?” JR snapped.

  “Well…” Gottlieb tried to compose himself. “The telephone system, internet, and telex are down, so I suppose I’ll have to send a bank officer to the New York Fed to see the chairman there. He should have received similar documents.”

  This was the make or break moment. JR looked at the banker, overweight, with fleshy features, measuring him. “Mr. Gottlieb, as you know, the president has declared martial law. The army is running America now, subject to the president’s orders. As far as you are concerned, I am the army. I own New York and everyone in it.”

  “Yes, sir, but we have our procedures, which the SEC and banking authorities require us to—”

  “Mr. Gottlieb, my troops are now surrounding the Fed—your messenger would not get through. You have just read the president’s and secretary of the Treasury’s orders, and I am obeying them. If I run into any difficulties, these agents of the FBI are authorized to arrest you and your staff.” JR simply stared at the banker, daring him to open his mouth. As briefed, the senior woman removed a set of handcuffs from her purse, and Gottlieb’s eyes went to them. Obviously he knew that people on Barry Soetoro’s shit list were being hustled off to concentration camps.

  “We are not going to be delayed by disloyal people, Mr. Gottlieb,” JR intoned, as if he were talking to a buck private who had his shoes on the wrong feet. He stood, signaling he was through talking. “Now call down to your lobby and tell the head cashier to stop passing out gold. All of it is going to the Fed. When the army has it in our trucks, I’ll give you a receipt for every ounce.”

  Without waiting for a response from the banker, JR turned to the colonels and said, “Gentlemen, let’s get at it.”

  He turned back to Gottlieb. “If you wish to put on your shoes, sir, you may come to the vault and help supervise my troops, and ensure the receipt is properly prepared.”

  The banker slammed his feet into his shoes.

  JR spoke to his FBI agents. “It looks as if your services aren’t needed today.”

  “We’ll stay, just in case,” the senior woman said and slid her handcuffs back into her purse.

  JR Hays made sure his missive from Barry Soetoro was safely in his pocket. The letter from the Treasury secretary lay on the polished mahogany where Gottlieb had left it. Maybe, JR thought, he should frame the president’s letter and a copy of the one from Treasury. They were great pieces of work, signed by the best forger in the Texas prison system.

  He strode out of the conference room, looking every inch a man in complete command, the general from central casting.

  When I got back upstairs after brunch, my escort found that the brass had moved from a situation room to an office on the E-Ring. They were huddling behind closed doors. I asked one of the outer-office types if Grafton was in there, and informed he was, headed for the door.

  “You can’t go in there unless they send for you,” I was told.

  I smiled to show I could forgive a social faux pas. “I’m Grafton’s official biographer. He wants me there unless Mother Nature shrieks for my attention. It’s just one of his peccadilloes.” I opened the door, slipped in and closed the door behind me.

  Grafton glanced my way but continued talking. I dropped into an empty chair near the door.

  Grafton said, “As I see it, our first priority must be getting people out of Soetoro’s concentration camps. Then, in no particular order, we must get electrical power, telephone, and internet service restored nationwide; get police and firefighters back on the streets and highways; and tackle the humanitarian problems this mess has caused. I would bet there are forgotten and abandoned elderly, sick, and addicts tucked away in odd corners dying of malnutrition and dehydration. In other words, we must get the nation moving again.”

  “What about the states that declared their independence?” the bluesuiter, Bud Weiss,
asked.

  “It wasn’t just Barry Soetoro who caused this mess,” Grafton replied, “it was a vast overreach by the federal government, by which I mean the executive, judiciary, congress, and bureaucracies.”

  “That’s not our business.”

  “It’s our business if we’re rebuilding this country. Frankly, gentlemen, if we’re going to restore the United States of America, we need a constitutional convention to decide if we really want the federal government to rule America, or if we even want a federal system. I don’t know the answer, but I know that without a political settlement to resolve lots of festering issues, this nation will fracture into several nations.”

  “You’re saying we need a new constitution,” Cart McKiernan murmured with his chin down, looking at Grafton over the top of his glasses.

  “The states are going to have to figure that out,” Grafton said with a gesture of irritation. “The military needs to stabilize the country and get it running again so the politicians can ruminate and negotiate without the house burning down around them.”

  Grafton stood up and started shaking hands. “Gentlemen, I want to thank you for your time this morning. This is our country. Soetoro won’t be here long. The sooner he’s gone, the better.”

  General Rodriquez said, “Still think we should call the White House and offer to fly him out of the country?”

  When I heard that my eyebrows went up toward my hairline.

  “Yes,” Jake Grafton said. “Tell him the military won’t protect him. In my opinion America will be better off going forward if people don’t have his blood on their hands, but—” He raised his hands in a shrug. Then he said his goodbyes. I opened the door and followed him out.

  Fifteen minutes later, when we were in the Cessna and he was taxiing around the parking lot to find a lane for takeoff, I asked Grafton why he recommended flying Soetoro into exile.

  “None of the leaders at Dawson can control our little army, and that’s only one of at least eight or ten armed mobs marching on Washington. They’ll kill Soetoro if they get their hands on him. If they do, his supporters will try to make him a martyr. A lot of people still think he’s the black messiah, beset by evil enemies on all sides.”