by Ryan King
Harold waited to see if anyone would answer, but the room was dead still. What are they thinking?
"What's the plan boss," asked Jim loudly breaking the spell.
Harold smiled and felt a deep gratitude to the big man, "The seven men on death row awaiting execution will be executed despite any pending appeals. The appeal process is effectively over. Also, any inmate serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole will be executed. Any inmate who has attacked a guard or staff member since the bombs fell, will be executed."
Harold paused to allow for righteous protests of indignation, but there was nothing other than a light of understanding in the faces of a few. He continued on.
"All trustees will be freed. Everyone else is up for a review process based on their criminal convictions and behavior as a prisoner. Inmates will be allowed to speak for themselves at the review panel made up of selected individuals seated in this room. Until the process is complete, inmates will not be allowed out of their cells except for the review panel, execution, or release."
Harold stopped talking and looked around. He was still expecting a flurry of indignant protests, but the room was as still as a crypt. The faces looking back at him largely reflected relief, their breath visible in the cold room. They realize this ordeal is nearing an end, however terrible that end may be.
Big Jim Meeks eventually spoke up, “Terrence told me yesterday they can’t run the gas chamber without electricity, and we’re nearly out of fuel for the generator.”
Harold let out a long strained breath, “Execution will be carried out by a firing squad made up of volunteers. If there are no volunteers, I will personally carry out the executions. I will also make the final decision as to who will be released and who will be executed based on the recommendations you bring me after each review panel. We need to move fast. I’m talking about having this done by the day after tomorrow.”
Finally, a murmur of protest bubbled up from the crowd. Bobby Wilson, the prison’s doctor, stood up and the room went still again. “Harold, leaving the morality of this aside for a moment, we have over two hundred fifty inmates here. Do you really think we can do what you ask in a day and a half?”
“Bobby brings up a good point.” Harold said, “We need to make the review boards quick…very quick. We also need to release as many prisoners as possible. We’re going to have to trust in the fact that these men can live the best way they can. Those that we think will only use this as an opportunity to prey on the weak and defenseless cannot be released.” Harold wearily rubbed his head again. “Look, I know this is hard and unsavory, but I see no other way. I welcome any other ideas.”
No one spoke and many just looked at the floor. Harold expected some in the room would not help, but he was glad they at least remained silent.
Jim broke the silence again. “How do we start this?”
“That’s easy,” said Harold with a grimace. “Death row.”
Chapter 11 – The Big Raid
Major General Butch Matthews thought that any plan that went exactly as planned was probably destined for a big painful surprise, and the excursion to Fort Campbell went almost too well. The toughest part of the mission so far was negotiating and re-negotiating the fifty or so miles of blocked roads leading from the Jackson Purchase to the abandoned army post. They had brought a wrecker to help pull abandoned vehicles out of the roadways.
Butch thought it was also smart that they came with plenty of armed soldiers. Although there weren’t yet any issues, Butch just felt like he was being watched, and in his experience that feeling usually came right before someone started shooting at him.
Master Sergeant Johnny Robels was true to his word. After making their way through an unmanned checkpoint along the back edge of the post that morning, they first proceeded to one of the brigade motor pools and commandeered several large five-ton trucks as well as a six huge fuel tankers. They then drove to base fuel points, cut the locks off the fuel tank covers, fired up a generator, and filled the vehicles and the fuel trucks to the brim. The fuel wasn’t a major objective of their plan, but when Butch saw the tankers, he just couldn’t resist.
Robels next took them to the base ammunition supply point, where he pulled a big ring of keys out of his pocket and proceeded to open the large heavy doors to the squat structure built into the grassy hillside.
Once inside, Butch was relieved. His plan rested on their ability to arm themselves quickly. When he saw the inside of the huge underground warehouse, he knew they had found what they were looking for.
Not only were there large pallets of 5.56 rifle ammunition, there was 7.62 and .50 caliber machine gun ammunition. 60 and 80 millimeter mortar rounds, 40 millimeter grenades, claymore mines, antitank mines and rockets were in abundance. After conferring with Robels, Butch left half of his men to load up the ammunition and took Robels and the other half to several unit arms rooms nearby to procure weapons.
Getting into the arms rooms was much harder than getting into the ammo supply point, but Robels was an old hat. They dug into each concrete arms room from above using pickaxes and sledge hammers. Robels explained that the ceiling was the weak point of these ‘vaults’, which mainly relied upon electronic measures and warning signs to deter anyone from trying to get in. After cutting locks off weapons racks, they loaded several thousand M4 rifles, a few hundred machine guns, and as many grenade launchers as they could find. Additionally, they loaded dozens of mortar tubes from the division headquarters arms room. Butch almost didn’t bother with the night vision goggles, knowing they would be useless without batteries, but in the end he grabbed twenty pairs of these as well. They also secured Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifles from the 5th Special Forces Group arms room, as well as radios and medical supplies.
Initially, Butch also had planned to take uniforms, equipment, backpacks and other basic items, but they simply did not have the room after loading all the weapons and ammo. They had already fueled up more trucks and were at maximum capacity with two soldiers per vehicle, one driver and one man riding shotgun. Besides, there were lots of places to get equipment and uniforms even if they were forced to make them. Weapons and ammo were another story.
Finally, near dusk, everyone was ready to depart. They locked the ammo supply point back up, having not even made a significant dent in the massive stock of ammunition. The men worked straight through in a fever without a break. They were tired and soaked through with sweat. The base itself was strangely quiet. They didn’t see anyone, but felt unseen eyes upon them. Robels noted there were still individuals and small groups of soldiers around when he departed several months ago with his family, but he guessed they drifted away on their own when food became scarce.
Butch decided he did not want to spend the night on the base and ordered everyone to load up. They would drive at least an hour west and then camp out in some field if needed.
Butch was in the lead vehicle with Robels bringing up the rear. They were in a long slow convoy several hundred meters long, heading back out the same way they had approached. Although Butch knew this was a tactical mistake, he just did not want to waste time stopping to clear another route until they were some distance away from the post.
He was starting to relax as they rounded the final turn approaching the post checkpoint. As the small building came into view, Butch saw a tree about two feet thick lying across the road. He told the driver to slow to a stop and the trucks behind him did the same.
Butch got out of the truck and looked around. The silence was disturbing, not even a bird or a breeze broke the stillness.
He looked more closely at the tree and saw the base glistening pale with a clean cut as if by a chainsaw. He turned to the rear of the column and started screaming and waiving his hands, “Back up, back up now!”
He hardly got this out before he heard a large explosion to the rear followed by another smaller explosion and Butch saw a tall tree slowly topple across the road behind their last vehicle.
A perfect textbook linear ambush, Butch noted. We’re dead if these guys know their business. Butch reached into the truck cab and pulled out his newly acquired M4 rifle. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.
A loud voice boomed out from his front. “Lay down your arms. You are trespassing on a U.S. Army installation and are hereby under arrest.” Butch looked in the direction of the voice and saw nothing but the checkpoint, but then noticed a bullhorn attached to the roof with a wire running off into the wood line. “You are surrounded. Lay down your arms now!”
Butch only thought for a few seconds before walking to the front of the convoy and laying down his rifle on the road. He raised his hands out to his sides in a non-threatening manner. Butch turned back to his driver. “Radio everyone and tell them to get out of their vehicles and lay down their weapons.” The wide-eyed driver looked at him, but finally understood and grabbed one of the newly acquired rechargeable radios. “Slowly!” Butch hissed at him. He knew there were rifles trailed on them and any sudden movement could be easily misinterpreted.
Butch eased back towards the guard shack and the bullhorn. He was tense, but heartened by the fact that there was no shooting yet. Whoever was out there seemed to identify themselves as a military organization. Hopefully this meant they were disciplined and not just bandits.
How is this going to go down? he wondered. They're acting like they're still soldiers. Well, two can play at that game.
He made a quick decision and slowly dropped his arms. Once they were down he hooked his thumbs into the pistol belt of his military combat uniform which he was now grateful he wore. In his best command voice he yelled out, “I am United States Marine Corps Major General Butch Matthews. I wish to speak to the commanding officer of this unit.” Silence greeted Butch’s declaration. He would have to play this out now and hope his hunch was right.
Butch summoned years of ingrained authority, forgetting where he was for a moment, simply accepting that he would be obeyed, yelling out, “If there is an officer here, he will report to me…RIGHT…NOW!” Butch waited again, but began to glare at the woods as he paced from side to side letting impatience show.
He paced back and forth glaring into the wood-line for perhaps thirty seconds before he heard a stirring to his rear. Butch turned and saw a tall athletically built man of about twenty-five purposefully making his way towards him at a light jog. The man was in an Army combat uniform and carried his M4 in the ready position. The man met his gaze and without hesitation jogged up to him before stopping and rendered a crisp salute.
“Sir, First Lieutenant Jason Green reporting. Please forgive my actions, sir, I mistook you for thieves.”
Butch regarded the young lieutenant for a long moment. The officer was shaved, his weapon was clean, and the ambush executed with precision and discipline.
“Lieutenant Green, are you in command here?”
“Sir, I am. I was a platoon leader, but my battalion commander left me in charge of the battalion’s single enlisted men after putting everyone else on block leave. They were all supposed to be back two months ago, but no one has returned.” The lieutenant breathed deeply as he paused and then went on. “Some of my men deserted, and I have consolidated every other man I came across on this base.”
“How large is your command?" Butch asked.
“I have one other junior lieutenant and one hundred forty-three enlisted men."
"What are your current orders?"
"Our orders are to maintain order and discipline in the battalion areas, but since everyone has left, I took the liberty of extending that mission to the entire base. As far as I know, I am the senior ranking officer on this post.”
Butch was shocked. “You are guarding this based with one hundred forty-three men?”
“Yes, sir, as much of it as we can manage. Most of what we deal with is small groups of hungry trespassers.”
Butch decided not to ask how they “dealt with” these trespassers. Probably the same way he would. He looked more closely at the man who seemed so professional and serene. Men found many different ways of coping with stress and this man was firmly grasping his duty.
He came to attention and the lieutenant followed suit. “Lieutenant Green. You are hereby reassigned to my command. You and your men will come with us. This base is to be abandoned as an untenable position. We are establishing further positions to the west.”
The young man looked as if Butch had just punched him in the stomach. “Sir, do you mean to say that you are taking away my command?”
Butch smiled comfortingly. “No, son. You will maintain command of your men. You are to be commended. As of this moment you are hereby promoted to Captain.”
The distress on Lieutenant Green’s face vanished in an instant and replaced by a proud smile, “Thank you, sir.”
Butch began walking back towards the rear of the convoy and Green fell in beside him. “You will need to clear this road by morning. We will bivouac with you tonight and tomorrow you will come with us. Do you have vehicles?”
“Yes sir, and you’ll be safe for the night here, no one bothers us.”
Butch stopped and looked into the wood-line, still not seeing any of Green's men. He felt confident they would be safe.
Green saluted Butch again, “By your leave sir.”
Butch nodded and watched the man walk away and raise his rifle parallel to the ground over his head and give a piercing whistle.
About sixty soldiers in uniform quickly materialized out of the forest and without further orders secured both sides of the road.
Butch let himself relax, thinking that he would not want to go against these men under any circumstance. He was glad they were now on his side.
Chapter 12 – Death and Freedom
Harold Buchannan pushed the plunger of the syringe and watched the look in the man’s eyes slowly change from panic to calm. He stopped struggling against the table restraints as the lethal dose of morphine entered his bloodstream and moved towards his heart. Doctor Bobby Wilson stood pensively across the room watching in clear distaste. Harold didn’t much care for it himself, but it was better than the alternative.
My initial plan was a good one, he thought, but I probably should have foreseen the problems.
The firing squads went smoothly at first. His men were marksmen and professionals. Moreover, the inmates on death row had long ago accepted the fact that execution was their due and their resistance had been minimal. Most of these approached their death with resignation and some even said dignity. The shots were clean and death was quick.
Problems arose when they began with those serving life sentences and the men who guilty of committing murder since N-Day. These seemed to have some sort of fantasy about walking away from their situation. They were most vocal in their innocence and in attacking the legitimacy of their executions, demanding to see lawyers and to speak to the governor. Many broke down and begged loudly for their lives.
Harold discovered that his trained and hardened marksmen couldn’t fire a true shot when the target was a man looking at them and begging not to die. They tried having the prisoners hooded, but it didn’t help much and Harold just couldn’t bring himself to gag the men. These prisoners were consistently either only wounded or all four firers impossibly missed from only twenty feet.
The breaking point came when Harold gave the command to fire and nothing happened. He repeated the order more forcefully and someone started to speak. Harold knew what was coming next, there would be appeals to reason, and mercy, and more discussion. All of it would be aimed towards relieving the executioners of their duty and their guilt. Harold felt the guilt of what they were doing too, but knew the job had to be done.
As the firers looked at him while lowering their weapons sheepishly, Harold drew his pistol and walked purposefully up to the prisoner tied to a post. The man must have sensed what was happening because from beneath his hood he began screaming, “Oh, God please no! No, no, NO!”
His words were cu
t off as Harold shot the man in the side of the head from a foot away. He dropped the pistol to his side so the others could not see his hand shaking. Knowing he could not trust himself to maintain his composure, Harold looked at everyone and walked with outward calm to his office where he shut the door. Once there he pulled a bottle of scotch from the cabinet and with difficulty poured a small amount into a glass instead of drinking directly from the bottle as he wanted to. The liquid burned as it went down his throat and seemed to steady his nerves some.
Harold craved another drink, but was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop and if he lost control of himself now, everything could break down. He put the bottle away and went into the bathroom down the hall to splash water on his face and noticed the small specks of blood spattered on his face, hands, and clothes. After washing up and changing clothes, Harold went to find Doctor Bobby Wilson.
“Sure, enough morphine can kill a person, easier way to go too. I thought you would want to save it for possible injuries or even surgeries.”
“I do,” Harold sighed, “but I don’t think we can go on with the firing squads. We’ve got at least a dozen more and the guards are already at their breaking point.”
“Well,” said Wilson, “we probably have enough morphine to do the job, but you have to know up front that as a medical professional, I will not participate. I’ll tell you how to do it, and must out of duty advise against all this business, but I won’t stand in your way.”
“Thanks,” said Harold, not sure if he meant it or not.
“Should be easy to do,” continued the Doc. “All the tables have straps and restraints. Just have the guards bring them in here and secure them. You then take 120 milligrams of morphine, maybe 150 to be sure, and inject it into a vein in the arm. They’ll go right to sleep…and die.”
