Liberty's Last Stand

by Stephen Coonts

  “Their price is a letter of resignation,” Soetoro said, “and I am not going to resign this office. It would be a betrayal of all those people who believe in me.” His chin quivered. “I am America’s hope, the hope of all people everywhere to build a just society and save the planet. That is my destiny.”

  Sulana Schanck believed. “You are the hope of the world! And the world will come to your rescue. These racist pigs will not prevail!”

  Amid the coughing and fervid pledges of loyalty, the realization sank in that they couldn’t stay in the White House. The mob would return. And when it did …

  They took the tunnel to the Executive Office Building across the street, and from there went to the basement, where their staff had a fleet of cars waiting. Not everyone got into the cars, of course. Most of the senators and representatives decided not to go. One said later that he knew when Soetoro’s car pulled away that he would never see Barry Soetoro again.

  The standoff between the crowds and the police and Secret Service guarding the executive mansion ended at about midnight. A crowd of almost two hundred people, mostly men, came walking out of a side street on the west side of the grounds. With them was a large tow truck, one used to rescue tractor-trailer rigs. Leading them was a black man in the uniform of a captain of the D.C. police. They came straight to the west gate, where four D.C. police in riot gear stood guard. Behind the gate, which was closed, were a half-dozen federal police, also in riot gear. Accompanying the crowd was a television reporter and her cameraman.

  The police captain, who was unarmed, walked up to the cops, who knew him. “Guys, we are going to open that gate and go through it. You have two choices: you can shoot me or get out of the way while we pull the gate down.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Captain?”

  “I’ve joined the rebels. It is time to stop the bloodshed over Barry Soetoro. We’re going in.”

  One of the cops fingered his radio. While he was doing that, the captain gestured to the tow truck, which moved up to within six feet of the gate. Men carrying chains went around the cops and ran the chains around the gate and hooked them to the massive bumper hooks of the truck. Then the helpers got out of the way and the truck backed up with its audible warning beeping madly.

  The federal cops backed away from the gate with their weapons at the ready. One of them was already on his radio.

  That was when the senior cop on duty, a sergeant, staring at the captain whom he had served under for more than a dozen years, gestured to his mates. “Get out of the way, fellows. The captain is pulling it down.”

  The captain nodded once, and the tow truck engine revved and the driver popped the clutch. The slack came out of the chains and the gate came off its hinges and went skidding as the truck backed across the street, blocking it.

  The captain strode up the now-open drive and said to the federal police. “Shoot me or get out of the way.”

  They looked at the crowd surging forward, the television camera catching it all, and moved aside. The crowd surged onto the lawn and made for the White House. The television reporter and police captain walked, but many of the men in the crowd—it was almost exclusively male—ran ahead.

  In fifteen minutes the police captain and television reporter learned to their satisfaction that the president was not in the mansion. Only a few servants remained. Not a single staffer or aide or politician could be found.

  As the crowd surged through the first family’s quarters and the Oval Office grabbing souvenirs and vandalizing furniture, the reporter and cameraman went trotting out the way they had entered. They had footage that they needed to get on the air fast. The reporter could smell a Pulitzer.

  Grafton and I were off the ground Thursday morning when the sky was black as coal and the morning star was just ooching up over the horizon. He climbed to 4,500 feet and headed straight for Hagerstown. The little plane didn’t have a nav aid or GPS, so Grafton took a squint at the sectional chart, decided on a course, and hi-de-ho, here we go. As we flew along, I communed with Venus. Like most people, I rarely visit with the morning star. Praying that we wouldn’t make this a habit, I gazed with wonder at the sprite. The night faded, and almost as if God had taken a hand, at the proper time the Hagerstown airport appeared in the dawn haze.

  The northern army was camped on the airport grass. It was a sea of military vehicles; a few APCs; several howitzers; lots of trucks, generators, tents, portable kitchens; and several thousand people, about half in uniform. Pickup trucks and cars were parked in rows.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “That’s only about half the troops,” Grafton said. “The rest are camped at the fair ground, and a lot of the veterans are on picket duty. Martinez thinks he has about five thousand people now.”

  We landed and parked near the control tower. General Martinez was there to meet Grafton. They went over to Martinez’ ride, a pickup, and conferred while I chocked the Cessna and tied it down. I looked to see if we had collected any more bullet holes. Not yet today.

  I faced into the dawn, surveyed the encampment, and took a leak. I gave thanks that I hadn’t chosen the military as a career; the hours are terrible. Zipped up and yawned. Okay, I was ready.

  I strolled over to the meeting of the general staff at the pickup truck.

  “General Martinez says Soetoro isn’t in the White House. Civilians got in last night and found he had skedaddled.”

  “Terrific,” I said, yawning again. “If the Pentagon didn’t fly him to some third world paradise, this will be like looking for Elvis.”

  “Oh,” Jake Grafton said with a gleam in his eye, “I have a feeling he’s close. Like up at Camp David.” He pointed to the east. “Just twenty miles that way, on the other side of that low mountain.”

  I turned and looked east at the mountain bulging against the dawn sky. Actually, it sort of figured that Barry Soetoro might run to earth in that rustic presidential getaway, which was designed for defense by Secret Service and federal police. Local crackers couldn’t get within five miles of the place without alarms going off. If I were going to hide out for a while and had the federal government to pay the help, chefs included, Camp David would be high on my list.

  “Maybe so,” I said to Grafton.

  “Indeed,” he said, “maybe so.”

  He turned back to General Martinez, so I walked around the pickup truck to see if it had any dings. It looked clean. After this mess was over, maybe I could make an offer on one that FEMA didn’t need anymore. I had decided that I needed a truck. My old Benz convertible was cool, but a truck had more possibilities for a man of my métier.

  Grafton and Martinez gabbled on their handhelds a while, then Grafton motioned toward the Cessna. He shook hands with Martinez and conferred some more while I untied the plane and stowed the chocks. I climbed into the right seat and put on my belt and headset. Arranged my little bag of grenades behind me so I could reach them easily and made sure my M4 on the backseat was loaded and handy. I wished I had a flak vest to sit on, but I didn’t.

  Finally Grafton strode over, jumped into the left seat, and cranked the engine. With it at idle he put on his seat belt and headset. “Martinez will get the Predators up. They are flying them out of Dawson, so until they get here we are the eyes of the army.”

  “Roger eyes.”

  “We need to find out what happened to that column of people coming from Baltimore along the interstate and see what’s happening at Camp David.”

  “The feds will likely shoot at us if we go swanning over in this crate.”

  “Then we’ll know, won’t we?”

  The asshole! It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that if he had an ounce of sense he’d send a Predator over David, but not-a-minute-to-waste Grafton had made his decision and he wouldn’t change it. How come I always get stuck with the heroes?

  Both our side windows opened on hinges at the top to a limit of about three inches. I checked mine. It was a bit too small for me to push
a grenade through the opening. Not to worry, I could always open the door against the slipstream and drop them like eagle shit on the multitudes below. Maybe they would be inspired to keep their heads down. I reached behind me and got a couple, which I put in my lap.

  Twenty minutes later we realized that the interstate east all the way to Frederick was essentially empty. That column of Soetoro volunteers had to be somewhere, but where?

  Grafton turned toward Camp David. He was only about a thousand feet above the trees. Plumes of smoke rose from the forest, formed a thin cloud in the still air, and pointed the way to Camp David. Lots of fires down there, so there were probably lots of people.

  And sure enough, we found them. Grafton got looks through the trees at people camping, then he dropped lower and we saw vehicles by the dozens, mainly trucks. Saw the presidential buildings surrounded by lawns and stately mature trees, and many people on those lawns. Most of the people I saw had rifles. Then a few of them pointed their weapons skyward and I saw flashes against the dark of the forest floor.

  “They’re shooting at us,” I told Grafton.

  “We’re leaving,” he said, and headed west over the low mountain.

  When we were clear, he got on the radio to Martinez. “Many people around Camp David. I think you need to check it out. The man may be there.”

  “Wilco.”

  We landed at Hagerstown and I tied the plane down after inspecting it again for bullet holes. The shooters all missed. Maybe this was going to be a lucky day for me. Sarah Houston drove up in our stolen FEMA pickup, the one that had my money in it, along with spare weapons, AT4s, and my sniper rifles. I was ready for a real war.

  She was wearing jeans, a green army T-shirt, and a web belt with her pistol holster attached. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “You’re looking great this morning, lady,” I told her.

  “Have you heard that Soetoro left the White House sometime yesterday?”

  “I have.”

  “The Pentagon said he refused an offer of a flight into exile.”

  “Probably no one would accept him. He’d want to take Mickey with him, and that’s a deal killer.”

  Sarah sighed and looked at the sky and army and mountains. “I’ll be glad when this is over,” she said. She flipped a hand at the ad hoc army, now getting ready to move. “The officers say that the former soldiers and guard troopers and veterans follow orders. The civilians are here on a toot. They don’t do what they’re told unless they feel like it. They were up drinking and partying all night. Some of them didn’t get an hour’s sleep.”

  “My prediction is they’re going to get shot at today,” I said. “Some of them will run like rabbits. Don’t get caught behind them or you’ll get run over.”

  I jumped in the driver’s seat of the truck, Sarah climbed in beside me, and we went looking for Grafton, who would be at headquarters if we could find it.

  Turned out HQ was in the airport office building. Outside, I ran into Willis Coffee. “How goes the war?” I asked.

  He looked disgusted. “Two accidental shootings last night. Civilians! One dead, one injured. Amateur hour.”

  “We’ll see if Soetoro’s army can whittle them down today. They’re at Camp David, just over that little mountain to the east. The man himself may be there, so Grafton will probably have us humping hard to surround the place so he can’t sneak out.”

  “Fine with me,” Willis said. “Let’s pop him and get on with the program.”

  “You’d shoot him?”

  “That son? In a New York minute. Vaya con Dios, asshole, and bang!”

  “Where’s Travis?”

  He gestured vaguely. “Scouting somewhere. Martinez sent him out before dawn.”

  “Good luck today,” I said, and Sarah and I went inside the building.

  Grafton was conferring with Generals Martinez and Considine. I listened in and gathered that they wanted to surround Camp David as quickly as possible. Trucks full of troops and the APCs would get on the highway and go around to the east as fast as they could. Another load of troops and APCs would go around to the north. The civilians would be pointed east and told to hike over the mountain, with some professionals along to ensure they didn’t get lost in the woods.

  When the meeting broke up, Grafton said he was riding with me. “Which column are we going with?”

  “The civilians, through the woods.”

  My face must have fallen, because he said, “There’re a couple of dirt roads. We’ll take the pickup. If we do this right, the people at Camp David will think the mob coming through the woods is the main assault and leave the front door open for the pros.”

  I wondered if he was having a senior moment. “If they aren’t stupid,” I suggested tactfully, “they might think the main assault is coming through the front gate.”

  “Didn’t you see them when we flew over this morning, Tommy? The pros are dug in to defend the front gate and perimeter fence. They’re well dug in, with at least two machine-gun nests and a couple of artillery pieces that I saw. Our troops out front will set up ambushes a couple of miles from the front gate, and the defenders won’t even see them or know that they are there. With a little bit of luck, if the civilian volunteers coming through the woods can make enough noise, Soetoro will flush and boogey out the front and we’ll bag him.”

  So he intended to capture the president of the United States. “What are you going to do with him when you have him?” I asked.

  “Lock him up and let the new government worry about him. A significant percentage of Americans still think he’s God’s other son. We have got to bring people together, not drive them apart. The next government can have a trial, send him to Switzerland or Kenya, whatever floats their boat. And we can start putting America back together again.”

  “What about all these civilian volunteers? They’re undisciplined, don’t know tactics, are poorly armed, won’t obey orders—they don’t know shit about combat. They’ll panic and get shot in droves.”

  “We’re rebuilding a nation here, Tommy. It takes blood to create legends and myths. These people want to fight for their country. We’ll let ’em.”

  That was the Jake Grafton I knew, one hard man. God help all these civilians.

  There must have been three or four thousand of them, armed with everything from shotguns and deer rifles to black civilian versions of the M16. Lots of pistols. It seemed a quarter of them carried pistols and nothing else. I was appalled. If you were within pistol range of the enemy, you were too damned close.

  Trucks passed out water bottles, and cases of water were tossed in the beds of our pickups. For all those people, it was not enough. A lot of them were going to get seriously thirsty, even though the temperature was only seventy degrees. I suspected many would pass out from heat exhaustion, especially those who were overweight. Today they had a mountain to climb and a fight on the other side ahead of them. It was at least fifteen miles, I suspected, to the Camp David perimeter fence, and most of it uphill. The crest of the mountain was about a thousand feet in elevation above us.

  Looking them over, I thought the average age might be around forty. Everyone who claimed he was a U.S. Army or Marine veteran or retiree had already been winnowed out, given a uniform and a military rifle, and those folks were in trucks and APCs, going to fight the Secret Service and Federal Security police on the other side of the mountain. These were people who claimed no military experience, which meant they knew nothing of tactics or how to handle military weapons and hardware. They probably had minimum experience obeying orders, our modern world being what it is.

  And yet … it was the men over forty who interested me. Many were apparently construction workers or farmers, wearing bib overalls or work trousers and leather boots. Lean and tanned, they carried their rifles like they knew how to use them and had a rucksack or backpack over their shoulders with water, rations, and ammo. Lots of ball caps; some of them were my very favorite, John Deere. I had no doubt most of these guys c
ould walk me into the ground.

  Then there were the outdoor types, men and women, also lean, wearing walking shoes with shorts and logoed Tshirts. They all had backpacks, some of them with the logos of purveyors of outdoor gear. Many wore floppy sun hats with strings that hung under their chins. A few even had bicyclists’ water bags over their shoulders. They carried their rifles or shotguns as if they were unsure how to do it.

  And then there was everyone else. A few were teenagers, but many looked to me like they were professionals or middle managers, some pudgy, some downright overweight, wearing jeans and everything else you could imagine. Their Tshirts were from colleges, high schools, and state parks. At least a third of these folks looked as if a walk across a large parking lot would wear them out. I would have bet some of the women were soccer moms.

  Black, white, brown, Asians, with ancestors from all over the globe, they looked like America to me.

  At least three thousand of these volunteers gathered around the spot where the first dirt road left the pavement. They had walked over two miles through suburban Hagerstown to get there. It was getting on toward ten o’clock.

  With General Considine beside him, Grafton stood in the bed of the truck and shouted for them to gather around. They did. He raised his voice, and I swear, I think everyone in that mob heard him. Grafton in full cry was a primal force.

  “We’re going up this road to the top of that mountain and will hit the Camp David perimeter fence on the other side. It’s a good hike up there, and you need to keep up. Don’t fire your weapons until we make contact with the enemy. Obey your officers and stay together. No straggling. When you tell your grandkids about this someday, you’ll want to be able to say you were there at the finish, there when the dictator was captured and a new America was born. Keep your head down and shoot low. Let’s go.” And he waved his arm up the road.

  There was a fork a mile or so up the road, and he had stationed guardsmen there to divide the civilians, sending half on one road, half on the other. Travis Clay had reconnoitered both, he told Sarah and me, and both roads led to a bald spot on the mountain crest; the Camp David perimeter fence was just beyond that. “Considine will take the north fork and I’ll take the south. We expect to meet most of Soetoro’s volunteers at the bald crest,” Grafton told us as we watched our crowd trudge up the road. “That’s the fight that will flush Soetoro, I hope, and Martinez will bag him on the other side of the mountain.”