“Yes, Governor?”
“I’ll be damned,” Maria Delgado said, “if I’m going to let a bunch of crazed, fanatical barbarians massacre innocent Texans and get away with it.”
Atkinson chuckled and told her, “That’s exactly what I thought you were going to say.”
He broke the connection and started making the calls he had to make.
The broadcast networks had interrupted regular programming—even NFL coverage—in order to present special reports on the apparent violence in Fuego, even though details were still pretty sketchy. One pundit, looking properly solemn as he was interviewed by a news anchor, said, “It’s a terrible shame, but I’m afraid as long as we have such a pervasive gun culture in this country, tragic incidents like this one are inevitable. When you have a bitter political minority that believes the only response to their continued lack of power is to pick up a gun—”
“Wait a minute,” the token conservative on the panel—who was probably there mostly because she was an attractive woman—interrupted. “Are you saying that whatever has happened in this little town in Texas, Republicans are to blame?”
“Texas is one of the last Republican strongholds in the country.” The response was delivered with a smug smirk.
“What about the speculation that this is a terrorist incident, that the shooters are in fact Middle Eastern—”
“If you want to resort to pandering to the right-wing extremists in this country and indulge in such blatantly bigoted racial profiling—”
“The call to the county sheriff ’s office from the local police dispatcher said the men doing the shooting were Arabs!”
“That’s just a rumor, and I don’t think we should give it any credence. Muslim leaders here in this country and around the world have assured us time and again that they want only peace. It’s the homegrown terrorists we have to worry about, the gun nuts, the Bible-thumpers, the anti-government fanatics—”
“Like every mass murderer who went on a shooting spree in the past twenty years.”
“Exactly!”
“All of whom, if they had any discernible political leanings at all, were left-wing Democrats.”
In the booth, the director blurted, “Cut to a commercial!” then leaned back in his chair and cupped a palm over his forehead in distress.
“I should have shut her up one exchange earlier,” he moaned to one of his assistants. “Letting that out on the air might cost me my job!”
“But wasn’t what she said true?” the assistant asked.
“Haven’t all the mass shooters been Democrats?”
“That doesn’t matter! The head of the network news division used to work at the White House!”
But a few minutes later it was all moot. At every network, broadcast and cable, except for one, the orders came down from corporate offices. For the time being, there was a total news blackout on the situation in Fuego.
Nobody had to ask where those orders originated. Nobody would come right out and say it . . .
But they came from Washington.
From the White House.
Phillip Hamil felt nothing but contempt for the man brought before him. One of the guards kicked the back of the infidel’s right knee. The man gasped in pain as his leg buckled. The guard kicked him again, this time in the other leg.
The American wound up kneeling in front of Hamil—as was only proper.
Sooner or later, all Americans would kneel before the warriors of Allah . . . or else they would die.
Of course, many of them would die anyway, whether they knelt or not.
The biggest problem with America, as Hamil saw it, was that it had too many Americans in it.
He and his fellow holy warriors would do something about that. Today had been a good start.
For the moment, though, Hamil could make use of this man. He said, “What’s your name?”
One of the guards prodded the American in the back of the head with a machine gun muzzle to make him answer quicker.
“It . . . it’s Lomax,” the man said. “Bob Lomax.”
“You work for the cable network whose logo was on the side of the truck where we found you?”
“That’s right,” the stocky, graying infidel answered. “I’m a . . . a news producer.”
“Well, I have some news for you, Mr. Lomax,” Hamil said with a faint, mocking smile. “Can you guess what it is?”
Lomax swallowed hard and said, “You and your friends have taken over the town?”
“That’s right. And you’re going to play a very important part in our plan.”
“Me?” Lomax’s voice was weak and terrified.
“Yes, of course.” Hamil gestured to his men. “Help Mr. Lomax to his feet.”
Finding the cable news van with its satellite transmission equipment was a stroke of luck. Hamil’s men had brought along their own communications equipment, but what was in the van was even better. State of the art. Hamil was glad the vehicle hadn’t been blown up as his men were blasting their way into the prison. As soon as he’d heard about it, he had ordered that the van and its occupant be brought to him.
When Lomax was standing again, shakily, Hamil went on, “You’re going to help us get our message out to the American people, Mr. Lomax. You see, we’re the ones who have been wronged here, and people will understand that once we’ve explained the truth.”
“O-okay.”
“You can broadcast live to the entire country, can’t you?”
“I can send a live feed to New York. It . . . it’s up to somebody there to push the button that actually broadcasts it.”
“I’m sure your associates in New York will cooperate.” Hamil didn’t mention that several executives at the very network under discussion had connections to his organization. “Do you need any special equipment besides what’s in your truck?”
Lomax shook his head and said, “N-no, that’s it. The truck has its own power source. I can bounce a signal off the satellite with it just fine.”
“Very good,” Hamil said with a nod. He turned away and added over his shoulders to the guards, “Bring Mr. Lomax and his van. We’re going to the football field.”
Only one network had the feed, but that didn’t matter. The others became aware of it within seconds and their anchors began talking about it, even though being scooped and upstaged like this had to rankle.
In the White House, an aide charged into the President’s living quarters but skidded to a halt when he saw that the nation’s chief executive already had the TV on, tuned to the right channel.
A solemn-faced newsman was saying, “—warn you that we don’t know exactly what you’re about to see, but we take you now to Fuego, Texas, for this live statement.”
The scene changed. A sleekly handsome man stood in the open with a football stadium behind him. There were no graphics on the screen except for the network’s logo in the lower right-hand corner.
“My name is Dr. Phillip Hamil,” the man on the screen said.
That came as no surprise to the President. Phillip Hamil had attended more than one state dinner in the White House. The President considered him a friend.
“Recently a great injustice has been done to my Muslim brothers,” Hamil continued. “After being unjustly imprisoned by an oppressive, imperialist American government, some of them for many years, these political prisoners, these freedom fighters, have been incarcerated in a facility known by the unholy name of Hell’s Gate. This is a slap in the face of all devout, peace-loving Muslims, and so we have been forced to take action to address this wrong.”
The President’s aide said, “I don’t understand it. We arranged it so they could be tried in civilian courts. That’s what they wanted. Some of them were probably going to be acquitted, for God’s sake! Then they could sue the U.S. for millions of dollars.”
“Some things are more important than money,” the President said.
The aide stared at him in surprise.
On the TV
, Hamil went on, “A group of my Muslim brothers and I, known from this day forward as the Sword of Allah, have occupied the town of Fuego, Texas, which is near the infamous prison where our other brothers have been locked up. This is a peaceful occupation. The citizens of Fuego are cooperating with us.”
The aide said, “There are rumors that they’ve killed hundreds of people there.”
The President lifted an elegantly manicured hand and motioned for quiet.
“At this time we are in the process of liberating the prison and freeing those political prisoners. When this is accomplished we will leave as peacefully as we came. In the meantime, to assure that there will be no interference with our efforts in this holy cause, the citizens of Fuego have volunteered to serve as living shields. They have gathered here, in this stadium you see behind me, and any efforts by the American authorities to prevent the Sword of Allah from completing its quest will result in a terrible tragedy.”
The aide couldn’t hold it in. He blurted, “Good Lord! He just threatened to kill all those people if anybody tries to stop them! He’s probably planning to blow up that football stadium!”
The President turned his eyes away from the TV screen just long enough to give the aide a steely-eyed glare. He said, “You should know better than that, Dan. Our Muslim brothers wouldn’t do such a thing. Islam is a religion of peace.”
“But sir, he said—”
“Dan . . . you’re starting to sound like a Republican.”
The aide’s eyes widened, his face turned pale, and he swallowed hard. There was no mistaking the threat in the President’s voice.
On TV, Phillip Hamil was saying, “—accordance with sharia law, all legal and security matters in Fuego are now under control of the Sword of Allah. In the name of religious freedom, we demand the cooperation of all local, state, and federal authorities. All outside military and law enforcement personnel are therefore banned within a ten-mile radius of Fuego until we have achieved our aims, which are holy and legitimate. Any infringement of this ban will result in drastic action for which the followers of Islam are not responsible. Control of the region will be returned to those authorities when the will of Allah is done.”
He paused, then concluded, “Allahu akbar! God is great!”
The satellite feed went dead.
The President picked up a remote and muted the TV sound as news anchors and pundits began blathering excitedly. He said, “The Pentagon has already issued a no-fly order around the town, correct?”
“Yes, sir. And Homeland Security has established a perimeter, but I’m not sure if it’s as far back as what Dr. Hamil just demanded. We didn’t know exactly what they were going to want.”
“See to it that the perimeter is pulled back to the full ten miles. In addition, I want everything in the next five miles beyond that evacuated. Use the Army if we have to.”
“Some people will say that you’re capitulating to terrorists.”
The President waved that objection away as if it were unimportant.
“Would those people ever vote for me anyway, no matter what I did?”
“No, sir. But after the Casa del Diablo affair, you need to be careful about using the military here at home.”
The President’s head lifted, and an arrogant, supercilious sneer appeared on his face.
“Elections have consequences, Dan. We learned that ten years ago. I’m the President. I can do anything I damned well please, and fifty-one percent of the people who bother to vote will still love me and vote for me. So what else matters?”
What else indeed?
One thought kept nagging at the back of the aide’s brain as he hurried to do his master’s bidding, though.
Those people down in Texas, the ones at the prison and the ones in the little town . . .
They were on their own.
CHAPTER 28
Texas Ranger Lt. Dave Flannery came swimming back up out of darkness, a clinging black oblivion that seemed to have had him in its grip forever. He winced as light struck his eyes, then tried to say something and grimaced again because of the pain in his mouth and across his face.
He remembered seeing a piece of debris flying across the helicopter’s cabin at him just before he blacked out during the chopper’s crash landing. Obviously that debris had knocked him unconscious.
“The lieutenant looks like he’s comin’ around,” somebody said. The words sounded hollow and far away to Flannery. Too many loud noises had partially deafened him. He could only hope that his hearing would get back to normal as time passed.
Squinting against the light, he looked around and saw to his surprise that he was sitting in a gully, with his legs stretched out in front of him and his back propped against a dirt bank about ten feet tall.
Quite a few people were clustered around him, including a couple of men in khaki police uniforms, a slender, brown-haired woman who looked like she might be pregnant, and a big, blond teenage kid whose eyes were red and swollen from crying.
“What . . .” Flannery forced out through his painfully swollen lips. “Where . . .”
“Take it easy, Ranger,” the lean, sandy-haired cop said as he hunkered on his heels in front of Flannery. “You’re all right for now. Something clouted you a good one across the face, but other than that you don’t seem to be hurt.”
“Who . . . are . . . you?”
“Officer Lee Blaisdell, Fuego PD.” He inclined his head toward the other cop, who was young and, Flannery now realized, looked like he might have Down syndrome. “This is Officer Raymond Brady, our dispatcher.”
“Where are . . . the rest of your officers?”
Talking was getting a little easier for Flannery now that he was using his mouth more, but he felt a warm trickle of blood on his chin, too, as it oozed from his cracked, swollen lips.
“I’m afraid we may be the only ones left,” Blaisdell said, “except for one other fella who’s down at the end of this arroyo keepin’ an eye out for those murderin’ bastards.”
“Where . . . are we?”
“About half a mile northeast of Fuego High School. That’s where we pulled you and some of your men out of that helicopter that crashed in the middle of the football field.”
“I . . . remember. You say you have . . . the other members of the SRT?”
“The Special Response Team? We got five of you out of there, Lieutenant. The pilot and one of your men were already dead. And I’m sorry to say, another one died of his injuries on the way out here. But there are four of you left who aren’t in too bad of a shape, three cops, and six members of the Fuego High School Fighting Mules football team.” Blaisdell clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Thirteen fellas to take back a town from a whole army of terrorists. That’s pretty unlucky odds no matter which way you look at it.”
The brunette said, “There are fourteen of us. You’re forgetting about me, Lee. Fifteen if you count Bubba here.”
She smiled and pointed at her stomach.
“Dadblast it, Janey—” Lee Blaisdell began.
She ignored him and said to Flannery, “I’m Janey Blaisdell, Lieutenant. And you might not think it to look at me, but I’m a better shot than Lee here.”
“I wish I could say I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blaisdell,” Flannery said. “But under the circumstances . . .”
“I know,” she assured him. She held out a half-full bottle of water. “I’m sure you’re probably thirsty.”
“I don’t know if I can drink with my mouth like this. And I’ll get blood on the bottle—”
“I don’t reckon any of us are too worried about a little blood right now,” Lee said. “There’s liable to be a lot more spilled before this is over.”
Lee spent the next fifteen minutes explaining to Lt. Flannery as much as he knew about what was going on in Fuego. One of the other Rangers had told Lee what Flannery’s name was while the lieutenant was still unconscious.
While he was kneeling down doing that, Janey stood beside a
nd a little behind him and rested her hand on his shoulder. They had been doing that a lot ever since Lee had rushed into the little rental house with Raymond and Martin right behind him. Touching each other, reassuring themselves that the other one was still alive and unharmed—at least for now.
After all the terrible things that had happened, it was a little hard to believe that both of them were still all right.
Lee didn’t have any illusions about things staying that way, though.
While he and Janey were still hugging each other, they had heard the explosion from the nearby football field and since Lee wanted to get out of Fuego anyway and that was on the way, they had gone to check it out.
By the time they’d gotten there, the helicopter was burning, Chuck Gibbs was dead, and half a dozen players from the football team were standing on the sidelines with some unconscious lawmen, not knowing what to do next.
Somebody had had to take charge. Lee didn’t particularly want the job, but he figured he was the one to do it.
A whole convoy of vehicles might attract attention, he’d decided. So they had piled the unconscious Rangers in the back of Ernie Gibbs’s pickup, along with the weapons the football players had taken from the chopper before it blew up, and everybody had climbed in the back with them except Ernie, Lee, and Janey, who sat between the two men while Ernie drove.
The kid struggled to hold back tears of grief over his brother’s death, but he was keeping himself pulled together as well as could be expected.
Lee told Ernie to head for the arroyo where they were hiding now. He was familiar with the place from all the times he had hunted jackrabbits out here. They had followed a dirt road for a quarter-mile or so, then Ernie had driven through a barbed-wire fence and headed across country.
The hole in the fence was liable to attract attention, and the pickup left tracks on the ground that could be followed, but those things couldn’t be helped.
Maybe the bloodthirsty sons of bitches who had taken over the town would be content with the havoc they had already wreaked. Maybe they wouldn’t come looking for any stragglers who had gotten away.
Stand Your Ground Page 20
