Liberty's Hammer

by Reed Hill

  “What are we going to do with this guy?” Brodie whispered to Finnegan as he rubbed his stubble, masking his speech. “Do you think he’s covering his ass?”

  Finnegan reached back and scratched between his shoulder blades, watching Haslett hunch down and put his elbows on his knees, hanging his head low. “I don’t know, Brodie. The guy came to me. Volunteered the whole thing. Why would he do that?”

  “There’s got to be reason,” Brodie doubled his arms on his chest. “The whole thing just smells fishy to me.”

  “I’m just stuck on why he would volunteer it,” Finnegan put his hands down deep in his pocket, as though reaching for something that made sense. “He could have taken that to his grave.”

  Brodie sighed. Finnegan had a point, as much as he hated to admit it. The son-of-a-bitch just reeked of guilt in Brodie’s gut, but he had to concede that Haslett could indeed have kept the story to himself forever. He’s got to be hiding something. There had to be a reason why was he coming forward now.

  Finnegan’s eyes narrowed on Haslett. “Why would he come to me and lie? He could have walked away and kept that a secret for the rest of his life.”

  Brodie observed Haslett, who just sat slouching on the little concrete seat. There’s something off with this guy – I’m going to find out what it is. “For a guy who hates politicians, he sure is working hard to protect one.”

  *****

  Outside of Crystal City, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 4:15 p.m.

  Darren Schmidt wondered what he was doing in the back of a bar with twenty-five guys he didn’t know. It felt like the right thing to do, so he came with the fellows who saved his bacon out in the back roads. Schmidt’s mind raced as he sat listening to the slow, twangy beat coming from the main dance floor of the smoky two-step bar. The Department of Homeland Security had hung him and his guys out to dry, and Schmidt just wanted to be someplace where he could do some good. If he returned to HQ right away, there’s no doubt he would be suspended immediately and probably placed under protection while he was debriefed. Depending on the mood of the righteous bosses in Washington, he could envision scenarios where he could find himself in a very uncomfortable position, probably for quite a long time.

  After a few minutes with the guys who came to his rescue, Schmidt was getting the full court press from them about coming back and helping with the ‘Mexican hooligan’ problem, which they said was getting worse by the hour. It was only a few minutes later that the call came out to meet at Pokey’s outside of Crystal City in about a half hour, and here they were, crowded into the back room of the roadside bar. Schmidt had followed Rusty and the crew to the back and just decided to see if he could do some good for these guys.

  Pokey’s pretty well hit every aspect of the small town country bar that Schmidt had imagined, from the postage stamp dance floor emblazoned with colored lights to the long mirrored bar and ten beer taps. A handful of couples danced on the tiny patch of wood flooring while two dozen good old boys drowned their sorrows or celebrated their triumphs at the long oak bar or at a number of the dozen tables. The three-piece local band covered a tune from the CMA hit list from the past dozen years, and from the gray haze that hung in the air, it was clear that Crystal City didn’t enforce any anti-smoking laws, if they even had any. He pushed the smoke away from his face as they made their way to the back, and Schmidt let himself grin wondering if he would get the chance to meet a guy named ‘Pokey’.

  Harve Murray was up at the far end of the room trying to bring the large group to order by rapping his near empty mug on the marred wooden table. “People. People, I know things are getting out of hand, but let’s focus for a minute.” Harve was a tall man, about sixty, who was thin aside from the basketball he carried beneath the blue plaid shirt with fancy buttons. He scratched his thick, gray beard, tapped the mug on the table a couple more times and placed his hands in his jeans pockets as the men quieted down. The guys had mentioned he was the leader of their crew in the area. These were the men who had come together to try to organize some kind of effort to protect their small towns.

  Schmidt smiled. The group certainly wouldn’t have passed the DHS diversity assessments, because there wasn’t a woman in the room, and only a couple of non-white faces. They probably filled the age quota quite well, since he saw men from seventeen to seventy. The young ones were trying hard not to look scared, while the oldest of the group was just trying to stay awake from the way his straw cutter bobbed up and down.

  Murray clapped the mug on the table once more and raised a hand, but before he could say anything, an older man in a tall Stetson pushed the big hat backwards a bit and cleared his throat, “Harve, the problems are bad enough that we ought not be taking an hour out to sit around jabbering about them.”

  “Burt, I disagree,” Harve wedged his thumbs in between his ample belly and the brown leather belt which supported it. “I talked with Lott on the Ham, and he’s got the northern group up to about fifty guys, and the main Uvalde crew is close to that size.”

  “What does that have to do with us down here, Harve?” a fat young man with a thick mustache put his hand on the table and then took a drink from his beer.

  Murray lifted a hand, “Wait a minute and really listen to me. If this gets out of hand, we’re going to need to be talking with others, in case we see more than a couple of trucks of marauders. What are we going to do if ten trucks full of them show up somewhere, Jed?”

  The young guy just threw up his hands and shrugged, and then grabbed his beer, muttering into it.

  “These are things we need to be thinking about,” Murray said, putting a foot up on the chair. “We’ve got to be smart and work with the others to do more than protect just one ranch here and one little village there.”

  There was a bunch or murmurs of agreement and a few mumbles in opposition as well.

  “He’s right,” Schmidt stood with his hands resting on his belt. “Harve is right about talking with others.” Schmidt felt the eyes of twenty or more men turn and study him, looking at his face, commando uniform and leg holster. He adjusted his chest rig as he moved from the doorway toward where Murray stood at the other end of the big room.

  “Who are you now?” A big man with a long, thin mustache shot him a challenging look.

  “He’s with Homeland Security.” One of the guys who came to his rescue out in the spice brush weeds stepped forward. “He stopped and tried to help some kids getting harassed by Mexes out by the RV park off Route 83.”

  “Yes, thanks Rusty.” Schmidt stepped over by Harve Murray. “I’m Darren Schmidt, with the DHS’s Special Investigations Unit, in San Antonio, leader of one of our Strategic Response Teams.”

  “What are you doing way out here?” The question came from a small, older man in a fancy shirt and tall cowboy hat.

  “I led my team into Laredo to…assess the situation there,” Schmidt paused and gathered himself. The words he used were important here. He didn’t want to downplay the failure and he didn’t want to downplay the threat either. “The scenario was much worse than we at DHS had been led to believe.”

  “How so?” the old man in the tall hat pulled the glass a beer toward him and took a drink.

  “The insurgents were far greater in number than intelligence had indicated, and they had much more sophisticated weaponry than originally planned for.” Schmidt studied the graffiti carved into the wooden table in front of him.

  “How many did you lose, son?” Harve Murray put a hand on Schmidt’s shoulder.

  “The whole team,” Schmidt swallowed and looked at the old man in the tall Stetson, who just stared into his glass of brew. “I lost all my men and only one Laredo SWAT officer made it out.”

  “We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Schmidt,” Harve Murray looked at the DHS commando. Murray turned to face the larger group, “We’re facing something bigger than just hooligans out causing problems.”

  “That’s right,” Schmidt stood taller and raised his voice a bit to quell
the muttering in the crowd. “Most likely, these small roving gangs are out scouting, looking for the easiest pathways east. I can tell you that a larger force is assembled in the west in Laredo and Del Rio, and I would guess by their size they aren’t there to just sit idle. I think that they probably have plans to push eastward toward the population centers, and scouts are out trying to find the easiest path.”

  “So, there it is folks,” Murray bounced his fist lightly on the table in front of him. “We really need to be communicating with John Lott and his groups north. My last conversation, he said he had made contact with a group of twenty or so that Sherriff Johnson had put together around the Rocksprings area, and there was a group of twenty-five that had formed up east of Kerrville.”

  “That’s pretty damn good,” the young, pie-faced man said nodding vigorously.

  “That ain’t bad, but we need more men,” Harve Murray said. “Particularly up north. Rumor has it, that the biggest group is actually in El Paso, and they have some Chinese or North Korean commandos helping them out. They’re even being reinforced by groups coming down from New Mexico.”

  Chinese and North Koreans? That can’t be right. Could it? Schmidt put his hand in the air, drawing the focus back on him, “Regardless of that, we know we need to stay in communication with the groups to our north and just be vigilant in watching our area. If a larger force converges somewhere, we’re going to need to rally our men there.”

  “What are the feds doing to help us?” one voice said from the back of the room.

  “Yeah, sounds like we need the Army down here,” a different man echoed.

  “I’ve debriefed with the appropriate parties, and I can’t really say what the feds are doing at this very moment.” Schmidt fixed his jaw. The feds were obviously way behind on the intelligence, and how could he stand there and defend their inaction? The entire situation was a complete FUBB. “They’re probably just very focused on the bigger cities right now, forming a strategy to keep the larger force from taking any more territory and getting control back in the border towns.”

  “I think they’re sitting with the thumbs up their keisters,” the old man took the last sip from his glass and slapped it down on the table.

  At that moment, he felt his wireless vibrating in his front pocket. He retrieved it as he held up his, excusing himself, and making his way for the door. It was SRT headquarters. He wondered how long they would give him before calling to check up on him. He made his way through the bar and as he hit the exit to the parking lot he pushed the green ‘talk’ button on the wireless barking, “Schmidt here.”

  “Schmidt, it’s Lefty up at the Command Center.” Schmidt breathed a sigh of relief that it was Commander Lefkowicz and not the drones from the hive in Washington like before. “Where are you? There are a couple of suits from DHS San Antonio here with a couple of FBI guys and ICE plain shirts looking for you.”

  “I made a stop in Uvalde,” Schmidt was non-committal. He wasn’t sure who to trust. “I’m on my way.”

  “Schmidt, the guys know from tracking your cell phone that you’re not on the way. I overheard them talking about coming out to pick you up.”

  “I have family over here and people who are important to me that I want to make sure are safe.” Schmidt’s heart started to accelerate. Things were getting hairy, fast. He assumed he’d have a little more time to get his act together and work out what to do.

  “That doesn’t matter to these guys,” Lefkowicz spoke quickly and in a hushed tone.

  “They are just the little people that no one in big cities cares about – the ones that do the living, dying and paying the taxes. They may not be important to the numbnuts in Washington, but they are important to me.”

  “Schmidt, the bottom line is we need you at SRT HQ to debrief, as soon as possible.”

  “Well, I’m not coming in,” Schmidt stopped to look at the bar’s glowing neon sign, with the blinking and buzzing ‘o’. It was perfect in its imperfection, a lot like the country he loved and had imagined he had been serving over the years, both as an Army Ranger and DHS operative. But he could see now that the system was so large, so bureaucratic that it didn’t work any longer. All this talk over the last decade about different corporations and institutions being too big to fail – it was clear that the federal government was to too big to succeed really at anything they tried to do. He was done.

  “That’s not an option, Schmidt,” Lefkowicz’s voice was strident, firm. “I can’t help you if you don’t come back.”

  “Then you can’t help me. I resign as an officer of DHS, effective immediately.”

  Schmidt heard Lefkowicz say something as he drew back like a triple-A pitcher and threw the wireless against the brick wall of the bar, smashing it beyond any hope of repair. As he stared at the sparking mess of wires on the concrete and heard the faint, unintelligible garble coming from the tiny speaker, he noticed Harve Murray and a couple of other men saunter out the front door.

  “What was that all about?” Murray rested his hand on his holstered revolver and pushed back his hat.

  Schmidt pivoted around to face Murray, “Nothing much.” He smiled broadly and clapped Murray on the shoulder, “Just handing in my resignation.”

  *****

  Downtown

  Austin, Texas –July 5th, 2017 – 4:25 pm

  Callie smiled broadly as Bill Meacham led the way through the throng of media. She could feel the day’s events starting to creep up on her, and she stifled a yawn while she followed Meacham through the maze of cameras and microphones. The media continued to pursue them despite the fact that they had taken question after question about what had occurred in court. They had spent over half an hour addressing the reporters and taking questions. Meacham even deferred several questions to Callie as they stood on the courthouse steps. By the end, she had begun to relax and even enjoy the spotlight that Meacham had focused on her. A couple of reporters had even asked for an exclusive later after things settled down. I could get used to this.

  “Ms. Morgan, what was running through your mind when the Judge dismissed the case? How did you feel?” the young reporter stuck the microphone very close to her and she felt the heat of the camera light on her face.

  “It was a very mixed set of emotions, honestly,” Callie brushed a stray auburn lock away from in front of her face. “Our motion set us up to lose the case, so as a lawyer, you’re saying to yourself, ‘ugh, we just lost’ but at the end of the day, our efforts got Subdivision officially recognized by the United States.”

  “Yes, the Judge read the election results into the court record,” Meacham leaned back toward the long microphone. “The five states of Texas are officially part of the Union now, in the eyes of the federal government, through this decision.”

  “How does that make you feel, Mr. Meacham?”

  “Obviously, it’s a great day for Texans and a huge victory for freedom in our grand republic,” Meacham held up his hands.

  “Do you mean Texas or the U.S., sir? Can you clarify that?” the reporter pressed him, but he was turning away heading down the steps.

  “I’m sorry. We will have to leave it there for now, folks,” Meacham pulled Callie by the sleeve. “There’s still a lot of work to do. Thank you very much.”

  “Yes, on behalf of myself and the entire Administration, thanks very much for your support and your cooperation,” Callie flashed a winning smile as Meacham guided her down the steps toward the street.

  As they walked away to the far side of 8th Street, Callie thought she even saw Meacham grin a little. It was a very odd feeling to lose a case, but win in the big picture. However, they still needed to be careful. Under the hot lights of the camera crews and in front of the reporters’ microphones, they were safe from being accosted by the FBI or other federal officers. Now they were on their own again, and Callie wondered what the best way to ‘get safe’ as Jeff had suggested was.

  They made their way west with only a reporter or two shoutin
g questions as they followed the pair of lawyers, and Meacham and Callie walked rapidly to his Green Range Rover. When Meacham clicked open the locks with his key ring device, Callie threw the briefcase in the back, “Where should we go now?”

  Meacham climbed in the driver’s side and brought the vehicle to life, “I’m thinking we better get out of town, for the time being.”

  Callie frowned slightly. “I don’t know.” She glanced around and saw a couple of photographers getting a few last minute shots of them as Meacham pulled the SUV out of the parking garage and onto 8th Street. “There are a ton of Texas Rangers at the mansion. That’s probably our best bet.”

  “You know,” Meacham turned his head and glanced at Callie, “I knew there was a reason I hired you.” He stole a glance as she pulled the seatbelt across her chest, and he quickly ran his fingers through his thin graying hair. “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’m thinking we’ll be safer out there than out here dodging people in your big SUV like we’re on some cop TV show,” Callie flashed a tight smile, adjusted her suit coat over her silk shell and shifted herself in the seat slightly.

  “It’s not far,” Meacham pressed the accelerator and pushed the SUV harder down the boulevard taking a hard right on Lavaca Street. “We really could have just ditched the car and walked.”

  Callie could see the immediate regret on Meacham’s face over that statement as they crept a couple of through the mass of state trooper sedans and media satellite vans. The Lavaca street entrance to the mansion was totally blocked with media, protestors and onlookers.

  “Or maybe not.” Meacham slowed the car to walking speed trying to move through the sea of people who were crowded near the gate area and entrance to the circle driveway. Some were holding shoulder-mounted, full-size cameras. Others were clearly reporters wielding hand microphones like short swords as they waded through the mass of bodies. Many others held up small hand cams above their heads or in front of their faces, while still more young hipsters waved signs with all kinds of anti-government or socialist slogans and images.