A State of Treason

by David Thomas Roberts

  “Rose, report status,” said the commander, anxiously trying to triangulate radar interpretations coming from both towers on the speakerphone. Everyone seemed to be talking at the same time. Two blips were off the radar, but Del Rio couldn’t determine if it was Hendrix.

  Released a little more than ten seconds behind the other two missiles, the third missile was locked on the Rose. Hendrix was fully aware he was not out of danger.

  “Chaff released. Locked onto targets. Fire. Missiles away.”

  Hendrix had managed to get a radar lock on two of the Mexican Falcons sixteen miles away even as he was taking evasive actions to avoid the third Mexican missile. Lackland let out a brief and temporary sigh of relief to hear Hendricks on the radio.

  Unable to shake the third missile and out of chaff, Hendricks resorted to classic extreme maneuvers to avoid impact. The F-16 was throwing radar jamming signals out as he went into a steep dive and roll. Suddenly the missile was on the Rose and clipped the rear tail stabilizer as it exploded a few milliseconds later only feet from the aircraft.

  The young pilot’s cockpit lit up with flashing red lights and alarms.

  “I’m hit. I’m hit!” screamed Hendrix.

  “Eject, son—eject!” yelled the Lackland commander.

  “Losing altitude! Rear stabilizer damage! Pitching badly!”

  For a few seconds it was lost on everyone listening to Hendrix that the three Mexican Falcons were still bearing down on the Rose.

  “Lt. Cmdr. Hendricks, Del Rio reporting six missiles away on direct heading. Eject now, son! Eject now!”

  The Rose was a sitting duck now. Hendrix turned his attention to the incoming aircraft, one of which he still had a radar lock on.

  “Focus. Fire the remaining missiles, then eject!” he said to himself, trying to remain calm as his training again kicked in.

  “Missile away! Second missile away!”

  “Eject, lieutenant commander, that’s an order!” roared the Lackland commander.

  “Gig ’em!” yelled Hendrix as he pulled the ejection lever, a reference to his alma mater.

  Nothing had prepared him for the sheer violence of the ejection. Even though various training exercises in the Navy tried to simulate what actually occurs in a fighter aircraft ejection, nothing came close. The rockets under the pilot’s seat exploded, shooting him through the glass canopy and hurling him end over end like a just-kicked football.

  Hendrix lost consciousness in the air. U.S. Navy studies used to believe the violent collision with the canopy knocked pilots unconscious, but a growing faction believes it’s the body’s auto defense mechanism in such a traumatic situation, in much the same way people lose consciousness when falling from great heights long before they ever hit the ground.

  Briefly regaining consciousness and now separated from the seat as he flew through the air, Hendrix felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder as the parachute opened and suddenly jerked him upward as it caught air. Hendrix didn’t know it at the time, but his shoulder had been separated during the ejection through the fighter aircraft canopy.

  Through the pain, Hendricks looked up into the cloudless sky. The extreme stress of the last few minutes was surreal as he floated in the beautiful Texas morning sky. He saw the Rose twisting and tumbling toward the ground, then exploding as she was hit by two Mexican missiles on her way down.

  In another instant, he heard an explosion and looked south to see a huge fireball in the sky. Then he noticed another fireball already heading to the south Texas ground.

  Two of the three Mexican Falcons could not outrun or outmaneuver the Sidewinders Hendrix released from the Rose in her final seconds as he tried to manage the damaged aircraft.

  “Rose, Rose, Rose! Do you copy?” yelled the Lackland commander. “What’s radar show? Del Rio? Laredo? I need info NOW!”

  “Sir, we have one aircraft heading south on a heading of two four two, speed nine hundred thirteen. It appears to be one of the Mexican fighters,” replied Del Rio control.

  “Damn it! Hopefully Hendrix ejected. What is the nearest town?”

  “We lost all three of those four aircraft just south of Brackettville.”

  “Get fire and rescue moving out of Del Rio!”

  “Roger, commander.”

  “I need coordinates on the second Texas fighter!”

  “His heading is three four five traveling at fourteen hundred miles an hour. He’s burning up the Texas sky to get there!” responded a controller in Del Rio.

  “Cochise, this is Lackland command. State your heading.”

  “Lackland, this is Cmdr. Parsons with a heading of three four zero. Mexican bogey on radar. Trying to reach before leaving Texas airspace. I need orders, sir.”

  Cmdr. Delton “Tex” Parsons was a decorated F-15 pilot with over four dozen combat missions, including shooting down five Russian-made MIG Iraqi fighters, becoming the second-most decorated U.S. pilot in Desert Storm.

  Parsons heard the radio chatter and knew his fellow pilot Hendrix had been shot down. He was bursting at the seams to get this last Mexican bogey.

  The Lackland commander looked at the fifteen-something officers who had gathered in the small communications room that had been made into a makeshift situation room.

  “Gentlemen, now in addition to our little problem with the feds,” he told them, “we’ve got ourselves a genuine international incident going on here. Damn it.”

  Picking up the mic slowly and bringing it to his mouth, the commander barked orders to Parsons.

  “Get him before he gets out of Texas, commander. But, if you can’t, track him down wherever he goes and shoot his ass out of the sky!”

  “Roger that. My pleasure, sir. I’ll follow him to hell and put him there myself if I have to!”

  The Cochise, a much faster aircraft than the Mexican Falcon, closed on the Falcon quickly. At fifty miles away, Parsons released two advanced AM-RAAM missiles.

  “Missiles away!”

  “Stay on him, Commander!”

  At a speed of Mach 4, the missiles closed the distance quickly.

  The Mexican Falcon tried desperately to avoid the missiles, successfully avoiding the first one. But the second one pierced the left wing, separating it from the fuselage. Without exploding, the Falcon began a grotesque cartwheel to the ground. Seconds later, it slammed into the ground and exploded into a mushroomed fireball. The aircraft fell less than one hundred yards short of the Rio Grande on the Texas side, across the river from the border town of El Moral, Mexico.

  The small situation room erupted in applause and jubilation, but the commander stayed calm, still grasping the radio mic.

  “I need someone to call the Mexican consulate in San Antonio now!” he said, turning to a junior officer. “We need to calm the situation before it gets worse.”

  “Cmdr. Parsons, congratulations. Change heading to three five four and see if you can aid Del Rio recovery of Hendrix,” the commander said. “Keep an eye on radar. The Mexicans may launch more aircraft.”

  Over the next few minutes, the commander was on a local phone call with the Mexican consulate office in San Antonio. The consulate was surprised by the actions of the last few hours and refused to believe Mexico was involved in the DHS raid on the Swingin’ T.

  “Two more fighters scrambled from Monterrey, commander!” said the controller from Del Rio.

  “Cmdr. Parsons, more bogeys on the way.”

  “Roger that, Lackland. They haven’t hit my radar yet.”

  “Cochise, change course to one seven five. Mexico has scrambled two more fighters. We need you to be prepared to meet them at the border. Del Rio emergency will find Lt. Cmdr. Hendrix.”

  “Roger that,” responded the unflappable pilot.

  The Lackland commander hung up the mic to get back on the phone with the Mexican consulate. Meanwhile, the Mexican fighter jets were on a direct collision course with Parsons. For the next ten minutes, the commander negotiated with the consulate to end the n
ewly created crisis.

  The two Mexican Falcons came into Parsons’ radar. “I’ve got two bogeys on radar with a heading of three five zero. I can paint them right now!” said Parsons, referring to the fact that the Cochise could lock on its targets from a further distance than the Mexican Falcons.

  At the Lackland makeshift situation room, a heated discussion ensued while the commander was still on the phone with the consulate. Many wanted Parsons to take the Mexican Falcons down before he got inside their missile range.

  The commander slammed down the phone.

  “The consulate had no luck with its air force and apparently they can’t reach El Presidente! Sounds like President Johnson. Nowhere to be found when critical decisions need to be made.”

  He picked up the mic.

  “Cmdr. Parsons, reverse heading to one two zero. We are not going to escalate an already bad situation. They think you’re going to cross their airspace again.”

  “Roger. Changing course to one two zero.”

  For the next six minutes, Del Rio and Laredo air traffic control tracked the incoming F-5s.

  “This is Del Rio control. This message is a warning to the two Mexican fighter jets on a heading of zero one five. Do not cross into Texas airspace. Do you read me?”

  Both towers in Laredo and Del Rio attempted to get the Mexican air force pilots to respond, to no avail.

  “Lackland, this is Del Rio control. The incoming fighters are sixteen miles from the border and have not changed course or altered speed. We will continue to issue warnings.”

  “We just received word that Hendrix has been spotted and recovered! He’s okay. He has a separated shoulder and is banged up, but he’ll be fine!” said the commander, after hanging up a different cell phone as the room broke into applause again.

  “Sir, the last Blackhawk made landing on the Truman. The F-15s are still in the Gulf. They don’t appear to want any part of this fight,” claimed a junior officer who came running in from another room.

  “Where’s the Truman now?”

  “Speeding off on a northeasterly course.”

  “Who is tracking the F-15s?” asked the commander.

  “Ellington Field in Houston.”

  “I want to be notified immediately if they change course.”

  “Ellington and Mabry want to know if they should scramble fighters. It seems the chain of command has broken down. They can’t reach Maj. Gen. Conroy or any state officials.”

  “I don’t want to tell them the major general has been killed yet. Tell them to keep their fighters grounded but ready to scramble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, this is Del Rio. The two fighters have crossed over. They’re in Texas airspace, sir!”

  “Damn!” exclaimed the commander as he slammed his fist on the table.

  “Permission to change course, sir,” requested Cmdr. Parsons.

  “Permission granted. Commander, do not let them encroach inside the radar window for their missiles. Take them out as soon as you have radar lock.”

  “Affirmative. Roger that, Lackland.”

  “Get the damned consulate on the phone again! What the hell are they doing?” the commander screamed at nobody in particular.

  Cmdr. Parsons changed course to intercept the incoming Mexican Falcons. The very second the Cochise got within one hundred five miles, he could paint them with radar and send his advanced AM-RAAM missiles to greet the incoming Mexican Falcons.

  “Lackland, I have targets in range. Request permission to lock on radar.”

  “Permission granted. Do not fire. I repeat, do not fire your missiles,” was the command sent by Lackland.

  “Roger, lock only.”

  Cmdr. Parsons locked onto the two Mexican fighters. He knew alarms were going off in the enemy planes, and their pilots would be near panic. They had to know their only hope was to get Parsons inside their radar because his missiles had much greater range. Of course, they had another choice, and he wondered if they would take it.

  The Del Rio tower started chatting immediately.

  “Lackland, the Mexicans have just reversed course. They are bugging out!”

  Again, the room at Lackland erupted.

  “Commander, turn on your afterburners and escort our Mexican visitors the hell outta here!”

  “My pleasure, Lackland.”

  “Continue to paint them, Commander. If they flinch for one second, lock radar or change course other than returning to Mexico, smoke ’em!”

  With a one hundred fifty mile advantage, the Cochise was gaining on the Mexican jets fast, but Parsons wanted to stay outside their missile range. When the pilots got within ten miles of the Rio Grande, Parsons couldn’t help himself.

  “Adios, my friends. Wish you could have stayed longer!” Parsons sent out over his radio as he switched to the commercial airline frequency to make sure anyone on the channel could hear.

  When the planes crossed over into Mexican airspace, the Cochise was only minutes behind them and gaining fast.

  “United States fighter pilot, this is the Mexican air force. Do not cross into sovereign Mexico airspace.”

  “Piedras tower. This is not a U.S. fighter. This is Cochise, a Republic of Texas fighter!”

  When Parsons reached the Rio Grande, he lowered altitude and headed straight for the Piedras Negras airport.

  “Lackland, Cochise is in Mexican airspace!”

  “Cmdr. Parsons! What the…”

  “Still tracking those fighters, sir!”

  “Commander, return to Texas airspace with a heading of three five eight.”

  “Roger, change course to three five eight.”

  As Cmdr. Parsons changed course, he took the liberty to lower his altitude even further to two hundred feet. The control tower at Piedras Negras suddenly panicked, thinking the fighter might easily strafe the airport.

  Before much of anything could be done at the small Mexican airport other than general panic, the Cochise screamed over the control tower as Parsons dipped a wing and hit the afterburners, rattling the entire small airport terminal, hangars and tower. Parsons couldn’t help but key his mic.

  “Remember the Alamo, amigos. Remember the Alamo!”

  Chapter 16

  “Why is patriotism thought to be blind loyalty to the government and the politicians who run it, rather than loyalty to the principles of liberty and support for the people? Real patriotism is a willingness to challenge the government when it’s wrong.”

  ~ Former Texas Congressman Ron Paul

  Secy. of State Bartlett and Sen. Simpson, with two staff members each, had just lifted off in their helicopter from a private residence thirty miles west of Austin. They were en route to the scheduled morning meeting with Gov. Cooper at the Swingin’ T Ranch when the helicopter pilot got a message from the Texas Air National Guard.

  The co-pilot turned and yelled back to the occupants, “Senator, we just received a message to hold our pattern and not proceed as there is some type of air-to-air conflict going on near our destination.”

  Neither the senator nor the secretary knew exactly where they were headed to meet Gov. Cooper.

  “This doesn’t sound good,” yelled Simpson to Bartlett over the roaring of the helicopter engines and rotors.

  “No, it doesn’t,” she replied.

  Both began to look at their smart phones to see if any messages had come through to them that may give a hint about what was happening.

  “I have an urgent message from Justice!” said Bartlett. “I’m told to call Tibbs’ office immediately and not meet with Gov. Cooper!”

  “Oh, crap,” bellowed her chief of staff.

  “Tibbs knows?” Simpson was stunned.

  Bartlett stared off into the Austin sky, contemplating her next move. Somehow her cover was blown, but could she still make this meeting happen and negotiate some type of end to the crisis? Then panic struck.

  “Tibbs did something! Air-to-air conflict? Are you serious? This has
the attorney general’s signature all over it. They must have found out about our meeting and the governor’s location!”

  “Geez, let me see what the pilot knows,” said a worried Simpson.

  He unbuckled from his seat and took a few steps up into the cockpit area to speak to the pilots. The pilots gave him a headset as he knelt behind them.

  “I need to know what’s going on. Who are you guys taking your orders from?”

  “Sir, we were in contact with Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio originally, but we were switched to Texas Rangers command.”

  “Under Pops Younger?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you radio back and get Younger on the radio? Let him know it’s Sen. Simpson.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the co-pilot.

  A few minutes passed while the pilots tried to reach Ranger command. Meanwhile, the helicopter was holding a twenty-mile circling pattern over the west Austin hills.

  “Senator, we have Ranger command on radio!” called the pilot.

  The senator shuffled back to the front of the chopper and again knelt behind the pilots as he put the headset back on.

  “This is Sen. Simpson. Who’s on the line with me?”

  “Senator, this is Younger.”

  “Pops, good to hear your voice. What the hell is going on out here? We were scheduled to meet with the governor this morning. I have Secy. of State Bartlett on board with me.”

  “Senator, in the early hours, the ranch where the governor, lieutenant governor and other state officials were being housed was attacked by federal agents of some kind, probably DHS and ATF, using DHS Blackhawk helicopters. I don’t know yet where they came from or how they got in undetected.”

  “What? Oh, my God!” shrieked Simpson

  “At a minimum, the governor has been taken,” said Younger. “We have casualties on the ranch. This morning there have been air attacks on radar and control tower facilities in San Antonio, Brownsville and Corpus Christi. There have been air-to-air combat scenarios over south Texas and somehow they include operations by Mexican air force combat fighters over Texas air space. There’s an aircraft carrier off South Padre Island. We have a real crap storm going on, Senator.”