Liberty's Hammer

by Reed Hill

  “Why didn’t you check in with the Watch Commander at that time?” the HIS Regional director indicated where he saw a command error.

  “We made contact with local law enforcement in order to gain local intelligence in hopes of raising the success odds of the operation. I don’t see how you can second guess me on that.” Schmidt was irritated and wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding it.

  “You self-directed from the primary objective and moved to this water treatment facility. What was the logic in that?” the ICE official wasn’t even trying to mask her contempt at this point. “That’s a textbook mistake – re-tasking on the fly with no secondary opinions.”

  “We were there to try to do some good for the citizens of Laredo. When I said my orders were to take City Hall, they laughed in my face. Their acting commander said that the insurgents could do tremendous damage with the water facility – it provides ninety-five percent of the water for the town for crissakes.”

  “What demands or threats had been received regarding the water supply or facility, Sergeant Schmidt?”

  “None that I was aware of.”

  “What was known about the enemy capabilities or forces in the area?”

  “None.”

  “What kind of electronic, surveillance, or communication support was available for the spontaneous operation on the water facility?”

  “Again, none.” Schmidt was apoplectic. What were these tools trying to prove? Were they after a scapegoat or something? This felt an awful like some kind of witch hunt, even though they had been sent into a buzzsaw by the pencil-pushers. Schmidt pulled the car over off the highway because he couldn’t see straight.

  “I think what you are turning a blind eye to is the futility of the primary mission due to intelligence failures. Capturing city hall was busted – totally busted.” Schmidt was fuming, nearly shouting in to the wireless. “We weren’t going to get within twenty blocks of city hall. When the primary went out the window, you improvise and do some good. What did you want me to do, turn around and drive two hours back?”

  “Your team might be alive if you had done that, Sergeant,” the ICE official stabbed him, and he could almost see the smirk on her face.

  An awkward silence fell over him like a flag on the coffin of fallen soldier’s funeral.

  “I think we’re done here for now,” Lefkowicz threw him a temporary lifeline. “Schmidt, I’d suggest you come in to the Command Center back at SA and get started on the paperwork.”

  “We’d like to encourage you to make yourself available for further intel over the next twenty-four hours or so, Mr. Schmidt.” The HIS director cleared his throat. “Please stay in touch with the Watch Commander.”

  Schmidt didn’t say another word. He just slammed his fist down on the wireless like it was a scurrying spider. He was being set up to be the fall guy to cover the asses of these damned administrators. No doubt they had to explain to the big brains in Washington why their grand plan had failed, and they needed someone to fall on a grenade. He checked traffic, pulled the cruiser back on the highway, and sped off. This is what happens when the bureaucrats put politics over results – it was the problem of all government in the 21st Century.

  Schmidt was on the road back to San Antonio and a pall hung over him as Laredo grew distant in the rearview mirror. He kept replaying his final words to his men and the explosion over and over in his mind like an old newsreel. What was he doing there with a single team of SRT commandos? What were the vaunted masterminds thinking when they concocted that plan? His men were dead. He was going to have to write long emails about how they died heroically in the battle to save Laredo, when the sad truth of it was they had been sent to their deaths because of incompetence. They were gone and no spineless bureaucrat’s sympathetic words could bring them back. Schmidt gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened with rage, and he vowed that he would avenge their deaths and make their sacrifice meaningful.

  As the exit for Highway 83 for Carrizo Springs and Uvalde was about to go by, he jerked the wheel and made the exit bouncing the police cruiser across the striped exit zone. This situation was way worse than any of those jackasses could ever know from reading reports. He hasn’t going to whistle a sad tune while they led him to the gallows – not when there was so much that needed to be done.

  *****

  Outside Spring Branch, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 12:55 pm

  Danny Haslett saw the nylon gun case sticking up behind the seat of his truck and pushed it down out of sight. He looked in his rearview mirror and swerved a bit as his tires ran off the road and rumbled in the dusty gravel of the shoulder. He couldn’t shake the ill feeling he had in the pit of his stomach – his bullet had arrived at the target way too quick. There was just no way in in hell it was his shot that had killed her. He had run through it a thousand times in his mind, and there just wasn’t any way his round could travel over twelve hundred yards instantly. The bullet flight time was 1.6 seconds – he had gone through the math a dozen times. His round could never have closed the distance in the blink of an eye. That round-faced Mex running away afterwards had to have done it. There was just no other explanation that made any sense.

  And yet, there Danny was, out in the middle of that field too, taking a shot. He looked guilty too – in a way was guilty, at least in his heart if not for real. That didn’t matter, though. It wasn’t his bullet and somebody was going to find him and make him take the fall. He just knew it. He was going to be an Oswald – a dumb patsy. His mind raced to re-trace his steps.

  He thought he had covered his tracks pretty good, with the oversized shoes, and getting rid of the rifle. It didn’t mean he hadn’t left some trace behind. The way things worked these days, the damned feds would show up at his doorstep a day later with a goddamn red whisker in a Ziploc baggie, throwing him on the ground and hogtieing him, or a freaking leaf with a drop of his sweat or some other bullshit. Hell, there could have been a satellite taking pictures of his tattoos as far as he knew. There had been rumors on the FreeAmericans.com message boards that the feds had satellites that could do facial recognition. Regardless, Danny Haslett could not rid himself of the growing sense that he was good and royally screwed.

  He had thought about it the whole time he was making the chipped rock delivery. If Danny had seen the other man out in the field, then that son-on-of-a-bitch had most definitely seen him. He was probably somewhere giving Danny up to the cops right now. It was a good thing that he had told Manuel he would be gone for the day, because he wasn’t going back to the landscaping site, that was for certain. He was in the weeds, and he needed to find a way out.

  Danny pulled out his wireless, searched for a number in his contacts, and finding it, pushed the go button. After a moment of the line ringing it was picked up.

  “Finnegan here,” said the low voice.

  “Hey, Finnegan, how you doing you old bastard?” Danny tried to keep it playful, since he and John Finnegan always gave each other grief. They had met in the Kerrville VFW going on five years ago and the pair of redheads had really hit it off, despite the fact that Finnegan was a smug, ground pounder ass. They had gone after whitetail together the past four seasons and did a lot of pheasant and quail too. Finnegan was a good guy

  “I been better, I tell you what.” Finnegan sounded stressed out. “It’s been one helluva day.”

  “I hear that one,” Danny sighed. “What’s got you so wound up?”

  “I don’t know if you been watching the news, but the world is going to the crap heap in a wheelbarrow.”

  “Yeah, riots getting out of control. I skipped out on a job today because I don’t want to do any amateur bullet catching if this shit spreads.”

  “I hear ya, but I haven’t been too lucky so far with that,” Finnegan groaned. “I already been shot at today, and it’s barely noon.”

  “What the hell you been doing?”

  “My buddy has got us out patrolling for criminals – kind of a neighborho
od watch, redneck style. We wound up over to Rocksprings where this old bastard was getting shot at by a gang of Mexes gone wild. After that, I wanted to check on my mom – she still lives in Rocksprings.”

  “What the…”

  “Yeah, and then there was like four truckloads of them out at the gas station, stealing gas, and we rolled out there with the Sherriff and it turns into the O.K. Corral.”

  “No way.”

  “I shit you not – bullets flying and everything. The Deputy took one in the chest but his Kevlar saved his ass.” Finnegan was hyped and talking rapidly.

  “It is really hitting the fan now, I think,” Danny breathed heavily.

  “Now we’re trying to put together some more folks to keep watch over Kerr County and parts north – we could really use a crack shot like you, Danny.”

  “Oh, I ain’t that good. I just look like it compared to you dumbass grunts who are used to ‘spraying and praying’ all the time,” Danny said chuckling.

  “Screw you jarhead,” Finnegan laughed. “Anyhow, I’m in a need of some bullet blockers and you sure fit the bill.”

  “Sounds good,” Danny’s life as a “freelance” landscaper allowed him some flexibility, and he thought this sounded a lot better than breaking his back with Manuel sweating beside him all day. It might give him some cover fire if anyone came snooping around about the morning turkey shoot. “Where you guys at? I’ll hook up with ya.”

  “You still over in Fredericksburg?” Finnegan asked. There were some muffled voices in the background, and it sounded like Finnegan said something to somebody on his end.

  “No, I got a place in Dripping Springs this year to be closer to my landscaping jobs, but I went over to Fredericksburg to see my mom today with all the crap going on.”

  “All right,” Finnegan paused a second – there was more stuff going on in the background. “Tell you what. Head over to the Pizza Hut in Kerrville. You know where it is?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Be there at one o’clock or thereabouts. We’re trying to pull in more people, so anyone you know who knows how to handle himself – go ahead and bring ‘em with you.”

  “All right, I’ll be there,” Danny replied.

  Chapter 11

  Downtown - U.S. District Court

  Austin, Texas -July 5th, 2017 - 1:09 pm

  The old African-American clerk stood and brought the court to order announcing the U.S. District Court – Western District of Texas to be in session. Everyone rose as Wilbur Hutchins slowly paced from the steel doors toward the Judge's dais at the center of the far wall of the courtroom. Callie and Meacham faced the judge as he entered. Judge Hutchins was a small, elderly white man with very thin white hair and tiny multi-focal glasses hanging from his reddish nose. Callie smiled a bit, thinking that she could almost hear his joints creak as he treaded up the step to Judge's platform that held the tall mahogany bench, which was only wood décor in an otherwise very Spartan room.

  Callie Morgan had read that he had been appointed by President Bush the elder nearly thirty years ago after a substantial career in oil and gas as well as maritime law. Opinions really varied on Hutchins as a jurist. He had mellowed somewhat over his time on the bench, and some believed that he had strayed far from his principles over the years. Others felt he was a solid conservative who had been placed in some awkward positions and had been forced to make some unusual rulings. Regardless of the rumors, he was a decent draw for their case, compared to some of the other judges who sat for the Western District in Austin, who were very anti-states' rights or very liberal generally.

  Morgan noticed Maria Baracho trying to contain a scowl as her eyes followed the judge up to his perch at the bench. She was probably as unhappy about drawing Judge Hutchins for the case as she and Meacham had been happy. Baracho, in her mid-fifties, was a few inches shorter than Callie, about five-foot five, and looked rotund in the navy suit which was straining to contain her girth. Her hair had once been black but was now profuse with streaks of gray and shorn very short, at her flabby jowl line. Callie thought that in other attire she could almost pass for a man. Baracho was joined at counsel's table by a plain-looking young Hispanic woman in a gray pants suit, as well as tall black man in a charcoal suit who looked to be in his mid-forties. Callie didn't know either of the pair of associates, and her eyes were drawn back to the bench when Judge Hutchins banged the gavel forcefully and set down the stack of papers he was carrying.

  "The court will come to order," Judge Hutchins allowed himself to fall into the high-backed, maroon leather chair. Everyone took seats and Hutchins looked to the old, black clerk, who had remained standing, "The Clerk will read the case for the record and counsel will present themselves to the bench." Hutchins seemed old school – that could only help them Callie thought.

  "Before the U.S. District Court – Western District of Texas – come the people of the State of Texas in an action against U.S. Attorney General Rosa Ross-Brown, and others." The clerk sat and all eyes in the room turned to the attorneys' tables. By this time, the gallery of sixty or so seats had nearly filled with reporters standing ready with pads and pens, and small digital recorders, along with numerous assembled citizens.

  "Now before we go any further," Judge Hutchins peered over the tops of his small glasses as every eye in the courtroom trained on him, "I would like to note for counsel the critical nature of your presentation before the court." The stirrings of some onlookers echoed in the chamber, and Hutchins glared about the room scanning for murmurs and whispers. Waiting a moment for the quiet to return to the room, he looked back to counsel, first Baracho and then to Meacham and Callie, where his gaze stayed focused. "Under typical circumstances, this component of our procedure is pro forma. However, today, we found ourselves in a decidedly atypical time." Hutchins paused as the court recorder blithely typed on her small electronic recording device. "We don't give it much thought, and typically very little attention is required, but today is not typical. If the clerk of the court will please present the memorandum from the Secretary of State, dated July 5th, 2017."

  The old black man rose once again, and walked a thin file over from his small steel desk up the platform to the judge. The judge looked at the document through his glasses and cleared his throat lightly, "I hold in my hands a memorandum from the Office of the Texas Secretary of State, dated today, July 5th, from Austin, Texas entitled 'Certification of 2017 Special Elections'. Clerk of court, please distribute copies to respective counsel." The clerk rose from his desk and walked copies of the statement to Meacham and Morgan, as well as Baracho who looked confused and irritated.

  "I order that the clerk will enter into the court record the full statement, but in the interest of time, I will focus the court on the sections of the document pertinent to our procedures here today. The memorandum is marked under an official seal and is addressed to the officers of all Texas administrative departments, commissions, boards, and institutions. The Secretary says and I quote, 'I want to thank all the voters who took time out of their busy summer schedules to vote in this crucial special election. We scheduled the voting for the 4th so as many people as possible could participate in this important election. Voter turnout was the highest level seen since 1948. I am pleased to announce that all polling centers opened and closed on time as planned. Tabulation of returns in all counties was complete by midnight, except for one county, which is noted in the appendix of this memorandum. All County Clerks have sent certified vote counts to me (with the one exception) and as such, I have certified the following elections as final.' What follows is a lengthy listing of the certified results which I will not read in its entirety; rather the clerk shall enter them in their complete form into the court record. I will read a portion now for the bearing it has on our case, and I thank counsel for their patience in what is very unusual process.

  "'For the office of U.S. Senator for the State of North Texas," Hutchins peered over his glasses, "the results are James White, Liberty
Party, 40%, Harrold Stansfield, Republican Party, 33%; and Martha Harris, Democratic Party, 26%, Dale Klisenbarth, Natural Law Party, 1%.

  "For the office of U.S. Senator for the State of West Texas, the results are Kim Clark, Liberty Party, 30%, Marshall Teegan, Republican Party, 39%; and Martha Harris, Democratic Party, 31%.

  "For the office of U.S. Senator for the State of East Texas, the results are Philip Robinson, Liberty Party, 24%, Michael Hedges, Republican Party, 32%; and John Jackson, Democratic Party, 44%.

  "For the office of U.S. Senator for the State of South Texas, the results are Arnold Stovall, Liberty Party, 44%, Michael Hedges, Republican Party, 22%; and Nancy Smith-Perry, Democratic Party, 34%.

  "For the office of U.S. Senator for the State of Texas, the results are Theodore Guzman, Liberty Party, 49%, Sara Pope, Republican Party, 19%; and Jack Hartwick, Democratic Party, 32%.'" The clerk will enter the full account of all races for all five of the respective states from this point into the court record at a time deemed convenient to the court, no later than 5 p.m. today."

  The judge then paused and scanned counsel tables, once again stopping on Callie and Meacham, "This last paragraph of the memorandum is instructive, so I will once again quote the Secretary of State: 'With all election returns final and certified, I hereby instruct the winning candidates to present themselves to the respective legislative or administrative bodies at the commencement of the next available sessions for which they have been elected to serve. All offices, departments, commissions, boards and committees which serve under appointed or other non-elected positions are hereby assigned to the Texas Republic General Administration.'"

  Judge Hutchins placed the set of papers down in front of him and removed his glasses, looking to the back of the room and then settling on Baracho. The courtroom was silent, and Callie felt the tension as a drop of sweat caressed her, rolling down the small of her back. Maria Baracho's neck was visibly flushed, and she appeared to be struggling to maintain her composure. The judge leaned forward, and cleared his throat once more, "So, I now I ask counsel to present yourselves to this court and who you are here representing: First, defense counsel, if you please," and he looked at the attorney.