Invasion USA (15 page)

Somebody in the bleachers called out, “What about the army?”

Tom saw Buddy's face tighten. “There's no need for the army to come in at this point. No one wants to have Little Tucson placed under martial law.”

From elsewhere in the bleachers came the shout, “You can't stop M-15, Sheriff! There's too many of 'em!”

Somewhat agitated, Buddy again made the microphone squeal for a second. “We haven't conclusively established the identity of the gunmen—”

“Hell, dozens of people heard them admit they were M-15!”

Pete took the microphone back from Buddy and said, “Folks, please take it easy. If we all start shouting, we won't be able to accomplish anything here tonight.”

The man sitting next to Tom stood up and moved to the lectern, holding out his hand for the microphone. Pete hesitated for a second, then gave it to him. The man raised it and said in a controlled, attention-getting voice, “My name is Eugene Berry. I'm the special agent in charge of the Federal Bureau of Investigation office in Tucson.” He gestured toward the blond woman. “My colleague, Special Agent Ruth Ford, has flown out from Washington to be with us tonight. The President has asked us to convey her deepest sympathy to the people of Little Tucson and Sierrita County.”

One of the city councilmen, Walt Deavers, slapped a palm on the table in front of him and in a voice that carried clearly despite being unamplified demanded angrily, “Sympathy's all well and good, but when's the President gonna
do
something to put a stop to this?”

The blunt question brought an outburst of cheering and applause from the crowd. Unruffled, Agent Berry waited for things to calm down and then said, “While the federal government stands ready to assist, this is primarily a state and local matter—”

“Sure,” the bald, irascible Deavers broke in. “When the Feds want to duck something, they say it's up to the states. But when the states do somethin' the Feds don't like, you boys don't waste any time comin' in and bullyin' everybody until you get your way!”

The audience whooped in agreement this time.

Agent Ruth Ford stood up and took the microphone from Berry. She didn't ask for it; she just took it, and although he looked like he wasn't happy about what she was doing, he gave it up.

“Perhaps I can clarify matters,” she said crisply. “Acting under orders from the President and the Attorney General, the FBI will provide logistical and technical support for local authorities, but that is all, unless and until it can be proven conclusively that federal laws were broken.”

Tom couldn't stay silent any longer in the face of this runaround. “What about those automatic weapons?” he asked. “Aren't those illegal under federal laws?”

Agent Ford turned her head and gave him a small, condescending smile. “Since we don't know exactly what sort of weapons the perpetrators used—”

“Yes, we do,” Bonnie said quietly.

Ford frowned at her. “Ma'am, you are . . . ?”

“Bonnie Brannon. I was there.” Bonnie's voice hardened. “Some of those bullets went a foot or two over my head. They killed one of my best friends and knocked her body right on top of me. I got a good look at those guns. They were Newcomb & Scheafer SST-25s, modified to fire in a fully automatic mode and accept hundred-round clips.” Agent Ford stared at her in silence for a long moment, and Bonnie finally shrugged her shoulders. “I read a gun magazine every now and then. My subscription to
the Ladies' Home Journal
ran out.”

Tom looked down at the table to keep from laughing out loud. Despite the grimness of the situation, some of the people in the audience couldn't help but be amused by the FBI agent's obvious discomfort. When Tom glanced at Buddy Gorman, he saw that even the sheriff had a faint smile on his lips.

Agents Ford and Berry weren't amused, though. Ford snapped, “Perhaps I should talk to you later and get your testimony, ma'am.”

“Perhaps you should,” Bonnie said.

Ford gave the microphone back to Pete Benitez, and then she and Berry sat down, neither of them looking happy now. Pete said, “We also have a representative of the U.S. Border Patrol with us this evening.”

A bulky, middle-aged man with a graying crew cut stood up and accepted the mike. He said, “My name is Jerry Prescott. I know what you people are thinking. You think the Border Patrol ought to stop these illegals from coming over and raising hell on American soil. I wish I could give you people better news, but the Border Patrol is understaffed and underfunded. We just don't have the money or manpower to stop more than a fraction of the illegal immigration that's been going on in this part of the country for years. That's the unvarnished truth of it.”

The blunt statement took the audience by surprise. In the relative quiet that followed it, Ford said sternly, “Agent Prescott . . .”

Prescott turned to look at her, and his face was set in resolute lines. He said, “I don't know about you, ma'am, but I'm damned sick and tired of shining people on and trying to spin everything like it's going to be all right. If the government would give us the tools, we might be able to help the situation down here. That's not going to happen, though, until they stop spending so much of the taxpayers' money on social engineering and raising the self-esteem of people who wouldn't have self-esteem problems if they weren't such goddamn lazy bums to start with!”

Thunderous cheers rolled out from the bleachers. The locals who were sitting at the tables got to their feet and joined the applause. Ford and Berry were both on their feet now, too, but they were in Prescott's face, jawing furiously at him, and although Tom couldn't hear the words, he had a pretty good idea what they were saying. They were telling Prescott that he was through as a government agent. Even though they were FBI and he was Border Patrol, they could probably pull enough strings to get him fired.

Prescott saved them the trouble and confirmed Tom's guess at the same time, by taking out the leather wallet that contained his badge and identification papers. He threw it at Ford's sensibly-shod feet and then turned back toward the crowd, lifting the microphone to his mouth again. Berry made a grab for it, but Prescott was considerably larger and shrugged him off.

“I'll tell you people the truth, and this may be the only time you'll ever hear it from the government . . . You people are on your own! You got a sheriff here who seems like a good man, but he's no match for M-15! And all of you know they're behind all this trouble. If you want to stop what's going on . . . if you want protection . . . you're gonna have to do it yourself!”

Buddy Gorman closed in on Prescott, and the whole thing seemed to be on the verge of turning into a melee. Tom wished he hadn't brought Bonnie out here. Buddy succeeded in wrenching the microphone away from the Border Patrol agent—the
ex
-Border Patrol agent—and said loudly, “Nobody's taking the law into their own hands in Sierrita County!”

An idea sprang into Tom's head, and he shouted, “Then let's stop M-15 legally!”

Buddy turned to stare at him. Tom's words were loud enough, and unexpected enough, to have caused a momentary hush. Pete Benitez spoke quickly, while he had the chance, asking, “What do you mean, Tom?”

“I mean the people of this country have a right to stand up for themselves.” Even without the microphone, Tom was making himself heard. “We have a right to do the things that need done when the government can't—or won't—do them! There's nothing illegal about people defending themselves, and citizens have a right to enforce the laws of the land! They've done it before, and they can do it again.
We
can do it!”

“You're talking about becoming vigilantes,” Buddy accused.

Tom shook his head. “Vigilantes break laws. Patriots enforce them.”

The words, simple as they were, struck a chord in those who heard them. Someone began chanting, “Patriots . . . patriots,” and others took up the chant. The words echoed in the high-ceilinged gymnasium until the windows at the top of the bleachers were rattling just like they did when the crowd bellowed, “Dee-fense!” during a basketball game. Tom stood there as the sound washed over him, a little shocked at the reaction, even more shocked that he had stood up and made a speech. That really wasn't like him. He looked over at Bonnie, who smiled in encouragement and pride but looked worried at the same time. Buddy just shook his head, and the two FBI agents both glared at Tom. Prescott gave him a thumbs-up, then turned and walked toward the exit, clearly done with this.

Pete got the microphone back and after a while succeeded in quieting the crowd. Tom and Bonnie, along with the others at the tables, sat down again. Pete said, “As you know, our mayor Millard Jeffers was one of those who was brutally murdered this afternoon. Mayor Jeffers was a fine man and a good mayor . . . but now we need someone to take his place. We need someone to lead Little Tucson in this time of danger. And I can't think of anybody better for the job than Tom Brannon!”

Tom's head snapped up at those unexpected words. He started to shake his head, but even as he did, he realized it was too late. Cheers and applause swept down from the bleachers and washed over him like a strong wave. He knew when something was barreling right at him like a freight train.

And on this hot summer evening, fate was doing just that.

15

Figuring he ought to nip this in the bud while he still possibly had a chance to, Tom held up his hands for quiet, and when the crowd settled down, he addressed Pete, Walt Deavers and the other city councilmen, and the county commissioners. “I'm honored by the offer, but I can't be mayor of Little Tucson. I don't live in the city limits, and I reckon that's a requirement for holding a city office.”

Pete still held the microphone. He said into it, “Actually, it's not. I looked it up in the city charter. In order to hold a city office, you have to either be a resident . . . or own property in the city. You own the building your auto parts store is in, Tom. That makes you eligible.”

That cut the legs right out from under his argument. He glanced at Bonnie as if asking her what the hell he should do next, but all she could do was shrug. He knew she meant that the decision was up to him.

Walt Deavers lumbered to his feet. “I looked up some things in the city charter, too,” he said. “Turns out that in the event the mayor dies while in office, the secretary of the city council is the mayor pro tem and can take over the mayor's job.”

Tom felt relief start to go through him.

But then Deavers went on, “However, the city charter also provides that the council can, at its discretion, appoint someone else to serve out the mayor's term. We've talked it over, Tom, and we appoint you.”

Another burst of applause came from the bleachers. Tom felt a sense of futility creeping into him. He sensed that this whole thing had been a setup. Pete and the city council had decided before the meeting ever began that they were going to try to railroad him into taking the job of mayor.

He turned to Bonnie again and this time asked the question bluntly. “What do you think?”

“It's up to you,” she said. “I can't make up your mind for you, Tom.”

Her answer didn't surprise him. They had always regarded each other as equals when it came to family and business decisions, talking things through until they reached a conclusion that was satisfactory to both of them. But this was a personal matter, so she was going to leave it up to him.

Unfortunately, whatever he decided would have an impact on her, too. By accepting the job, he would be putting her at risk.

Hell, she was already at risk, he told himself. They all were, as long as the members of M-15 believed that they could carry out their atrocities any time they wanted, without fear of repercussions.

Maybe some repercussions were exactly what was needed.

His head jerked in an abrupt nod. “All right,” he said. “I'm not sure any of us are doing the right thing, but . . . I'll take the job.”

Thunderous applause and loud cheers came from the bleachers. Excitement was growing inside him. Maybe he could actually do some good. An idea had begun to percolate in his brain, an idea that might just work . . .

“Anybody have anything else to say?” Pete Benitez asked when the commotion finally died down again.

Someone in the bleachers cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Give 'em hell, Tom!”

Tom just smiled and nodded.

Giving M-15 hell was exactly what he intended to do.

 

 

After the meeting broke up and the crowd left the gymnasium, Tom and Bonnie walked along the line of tables to the one where the city council members sat, along with Sheriff Buddy Gorman. With a faint smile on his face, Tom asked, “Are you boys sure you know what you're gettin' into?”

Before Deavers or any of the others could respond, Buddy said, “Tom, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure this is a good idea.”

“I'm not surprised you feel that way, Buddy.”

Deavers asked, “Just what
are
you thinkin' about doin', Tom?” Then he held up a hand and went on, “Hold on a minute. Maybe we better swear you in first, before you answer that question.”

Tom nodded. “However you want to do it is fine with me.”

Deavers reached to his shirt pocket and took out a small, black book. “I got a New Testament here. Reckon that'll do to swear on.”

The impromptu ceremony took only a moment. Tom put his hand on the New Testament and swore to uphold the laws of the city of Little Tucson and the State of Arizona. Once that was done, Deavers told him to pull up a chair and fill them in on his plans.

They all gathered around the table, including the county commissioners, except for Buddy, who got up and went over to talk to Special Agents Ford and Berry, who waited by the concession stand.

Pete Benitez asked, “What are we gonna do about M-15, Tom?”

“I don't see where we have much choice,” Tom said, “but to form a group of armed citizens to patrol the border. The way I see it, no one is protecting us—not the state of Arizona. And not Washington, that's for danged sure. What happened at the SavMart will be forgotten in a week and the rest of America will go back to sleep. Nope, we're on our own. Never thought it would come to this, but it's time to round up every able-bodied citizen of Little Tucson who has a weapon and form our own militia. I don't like the sound of that word anymore than you guys do, but dammit, a hell of a lot of our friends and neighbors were slaughtered here today and it's up to us and us alone to see it don't happen again. And if that means forming a militia, so be it.

“Ain't that taking the law into our own hands?” Deavers asked. “That's stickin' your nose in one big hornet's nest, Tom. And Buddy ain't gonna like that too much.”

“Buddy means well,” Tom said, “but we all know he's in over his head.”

“What do we call our group?” Deavers asked. “I mean, we should have a name, right?”

“You could call it the Patriot Project,” Pete suggested. “The way the people were chanting earlier, I think they'd take to it.”

Tom thought about it and nodded. “That's fine with me. I don't really care what we call it, as long as it does the job.”

“What is the job?” Deavers asked. “Stopping M-15?”

“Stopping all illegal aliens. From what I hear, some of the M-15 members pretend to be farm workers or some other sort of illegal immigrants. When they get caught by the Border Patrol, they claim to be innocent of everything except wanting a better life. That plays right into the hands of the folks who claim our borders ought to be even more open.”

“Like the lady sittin' in the White House,” one of the other councilmen said.

Tom shrugged in acknowledgment of the point. He wasn't interested in political arguments. As far as he was concerned they were a waste of time and energy, because politics was so mired down in inertia that anything substantive rarely if ever got done through that process. Things that really made a difference nearly always happened at the local level, at the grass roots.

Like the Patriot Project.

“I think we're looking at a small group . . . probably no more than a couple dozen . . . will patrol the border between Sierrita County and Mexico. From what that Prescott told us, it sounds like we can't depend on much, if any, help from the Border Patrol, so we'll have to turn back the illegals ourselves. That means everyone will have to be armed, just in case of trouble.”

“But we won't start it,” one of the men said.

“Exactly,” Tom agreed. “We'll go out of our way to avoid trouble, in fact. But if somebody starts shooting at us . . . well, nobody can expect us not to shoot back.”

“Nobody but the damn ACLU!”

That brought a laugh from those assembled around the table.

“What about turning the illegals back?” someone asked. “Seems to me like we wouldn't have any authority to do that.”

“What they're doing is against the law,” Tom pointed out. “That's why they're called illegals. And as citizens of the United States, we
do
have the right to enforce the law. You've all heard of a citizen's arrest, haven't you? They stand up in a court of law, so I reckon what we're setting out to do would stand up as well.”

“But you don't know that,” Pete pointed out. “We won't really know unless one of the cases comes to trial.”

Tom shrugged again. “You never know what a judge will say or do. A lot of them are power-crazy, too. But I'm willing to take my chances.”

“So am I,” Deavers said. “Count me in, Tom.”

The others all chimed in, pledging their support. Tom leaned back in his chair and nodded, satisfied that they should go forward with the plan. He glanced around. Freedom and justice and liberty had a habit of sprouting up in strange places. There probably weren't many places stranger for such a thing to happen than inside a sweltering high school gymnasium that smelled vaguely of sweat socks.

“We'll meet at City Hall tomorrow and start working out all the details,” he said as he got to his feet. The others nodded in agreement and stood up to leave. Tom took hold of Bonnie's arm and would have turned toward the exit himself, but Buddy Gorman called from behind him, “Hold on a minute, Tom.”

He turned to look behind him and saw Buddy stalking toward him, trailed by the two FBI agents. “What is it, Buddy?” Tom asked as his old friend came up to him.

“I heard what you're planning. You can't go through with it.”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . you just can't! It's against the law. I'd have to arrest you. And believe me, Tom, I don't want to do that.”

“Against what law?” Tom challenged. “What would you charge me with? Anyone who joins the Patriot Project will be legally licensed to carry a gun. There's no law against driving around or hiking through the countryside. And you know as well as I do that a citizen's arrest is legal, and so is self-defense.”

“Damn it!” Buddy burst out. “You
want
somebody to shoot at you, so you can shoot back!”

Tom shook his head. “That's just not true. If there's no shooting at all, that's fine with me.” He paused. “But think about this, Buddy. If somebody
does
shoot at us, chances are it's gonna be a member of M-15. Some poor migrant worker who just wants to make some money for his family isn't going to be armed and looking for trouble. If he's stopped, he'll just turn around, go back across the border, and try again some other day. The only ones who'll fight are the criminals, the same sort of lowlife scum who shot Burt Minnow and Madison Wheeler, the same kind of animals who murdered Al Trejo and put Fred Kelso in a coma and mowed down a couple of dozen people in SavMart this afternoon! Why are you worried about bastards like that?”

Buddy's face was pale and tight with strain. “I worry about the law,” he said. “That's all.” He paused and then added, “That's not completely true. I worry about
you
, too, Tom.”

Tom didn't know what to say to that. He felt the pain of the wedge that had been driven between him and his oldest friend. That was one more mark against
Mara Salvatrucha
as far as he was concerned.

Agent Ford stepped forward and said coolly, “You asked what charges could be brought against you if you go through with this, Mr. Brannon. What about conspiracy and federal civil rights violations?”

Tom met her icy gaze squarely. “Doesn't there have to be a crime in order for there to be a conspiracy? I've said it over and over. The Patriot Project isn't going to break any laws. We won't deprive anybody of their civil rights, either. We'll just tell the illegal immigrants to go back across the border. Most of them will do it. The ones who won't will be brought back here and turned over to Sheriff Gorman or the Border Patrol, in accordance with the law. What happens to them after that is out of our hands.”

“But if you're attacked—”

“We'll fight back, which we have every legal right to do.”

Agent Berry said, “You're going to regret this, Brannon. You'll have the federal government on your back for the rest of your life. You'll never file a tax return again that won't be gone through with a fine-tooth comb. You'll be paying penalties to the IRS from now on. And you and your wife will never see a penny of your Social Security benefits, damn you!”

The man had gotten so worked up during his threats that spittle was flying from his mouth by the time he was finished. Agent Ford turned to look at him, and so did Buddy Gorman. Ford said quietly but firmly, “Agent Berry, there's no need to be so upset.”

From behind them, a voice asked, “Agent Berry, do you mind if I quote you on that?”

They all turned to see that Pete Benitez had come back into the gym. He smiled at the two federal agents.

“No comment,” Ford snapped. “And anything said in here just now was off the record.”

“I didn't agree to that,” Pete pointed out. “I've been saying that my little paper can't compete with the big boys, but you know, maybe with a good enough scoop, it could. Like, say, a federal agent threatening a law-abiding American citizen with the IRS. Threatening to take away his Social Security benefits for no good reason. Sounds pretty newsworthy to me.”

“You little prick,” Berry growled as he took a step toward Pete.

Ford's hand closed on his arm and prevented him from going any farther. “Agent Berry!” she growled.

“What was that you called me?” Pete asked. “A spic? Just because my last name is Benitez? Now we've got a federal agent threatening U.S. citizens
and
using racial slurs?”

“You know what I said!” Berry shouted at him. “I called you a goddamn prick!”

“Ohhhh. Well, never mind, then.”