Stand Your Ground (20 page)

The word was slow to get out, but by the middle of Sunday afternoon it was becoming obvious that
something
had happened in the town of Fuego, Texas.

There had been a few frantic calls from townspeople to relatives, frightening tales of armed men in the streets killing anything that moved. Those calls had been cut ominously short.

The county sheriff had disappeared, along with several deputies dispatched to Fuego to investigate reports of a disturbance.

The Texas Rangers had sent in a Special Response Team in a pair of helicopters, neither of which had radioed back in. No one had heard from the Ranger commanding the SRT, either.

The news media had gotten wind of the puzzling situation, of course, and sent their own choppers to investigate. They had relayed back video footage of empty streets and several burned buildings that a quick Internet search identified as the locations of Fuego's churches. What appeared to be a perimeter of armed guards had been established around the town.

Several hundred people were visible from the air, huddled together in the stands at the football field next to the high school. They were being guarded as well.

It didn't take long for the pilots of the news choppers to realize they shouldn't be flying over the town. Nobody had started shooting at them yet, but that could change at any second.

They banked and flew away from Fuego as fast as they could.

A short time later, Air Force jets arrived to establish a no-fly zone over the town. The order came directly from the Pentagon.

In less than an hour, the question was on the lips of practically everyone in the country.

What the hell was going on in Texas?

 

 

The house was located in the rugged Palo Pinto Mountains, fifty miles west of Fort Worth. The only way to get there was by following a winding gravel road barely wide enough for one vehicle for more than a mile. Flanking the primitive road on both sides was an impenetrable tangle of brush, briars, poison ivy, stinging weed, live oaks, and post oaks.

The house was low and rambling and appeared to be built of logs, but that was only the outer layer, to make it look rustic and help it blend in with its surroundings.

Under the logs were thick concrete walls reinforced with steel beams.

Inside, the rustic, hunting-lodge look continued in some of the rooms, including the living room with its massive stone fireplace. But other rooms were sleek and high-tech. Hidden satellite dishes provided access to the rest of the world. Surveillance cameras covered every inch of the hundred-acre property, which had a good creek running through it to provide water. Generators powered several freezers filled with more than a year's worth of food, but enough game roamed the hills that a man who was a good shot could live for a long time just by hunting and cultivating a small, hidden garden patch.

Colonel Thomas Atkinson was a good shot.

He lived quietly here, reading, writing, watching old movies and television shows. He cherry-picked what he wanted from modern life and disdained the rest. Some people might think that made him hypocritical, but it just seemed practical to him.

And he didn't give a rat's behind what people thought of him, anyway. If they wanted to figure he was a crazy survivalist whacko, then so be it. He knew the truth.

He hadn't turned his back on the world, but he only ventured out into it when he had to.

Today might be one of those days, he thought as he stood on his front porch, a tall, rangy man whose deceptively lean form possessed a wolfish speed and strength. His graying fair hair was cut short, as was his beard.

Atkinson held a cup of coffee in one hand and a buzzing cell phone in the other. The phone's display told him who was calling.

He brought it to his ear, thumbed the button to open the connection, and said, “Hello, Governor. I take it you know more about the situation than you did when you called earlier?”

“That's just it,” Governor Maria Delgado said. “I don't know nearly enough. But something definitely has happened in Fuego. Something very bad.”

“I was watching the news a little earlier. Sounds like the town's been taken over by terrorists. Washington's established a no-fly zone.”

“Yes, and Homeland Security is going to throw up a cordon around the town.”

“Did they ask you if they could do that?” Atkinson inquired dryly.

The question brought a disgusted snort from the governor.

“Washington doesn't ask permission for anything anymore, Colonel, you know that,” she said. “It was established a long time ago that the Constitution no longer means anything. The president's word is law . . . as long as he's a Democrat.”

“Dictatorship,” Atkinson growled. The word put a bitter, sour taste under his tongue. “Too many people just don't realize it yet.”

On the other end of the connection, Delgado sighed. Atkinson could practically see her rubbing her temples in weariness.

“That problem will have to be dealt with another day,” she said. “Right now we have what may be an army of Islamic terrorists that has invaded and captured a town, for what purpose we don't know.”

“Sure we do,” Atkinson said. “Fuego commands the only approach to Hell's Gate.”

“You've been doing your research.”

“I believe in being prepared—just like the Boy Scouts.”

Atkinson was about as far from being a Boy Scout as you could get. Career military, busted in the ranks time and again for brawling, insubordination, and ignoring direct orders. More than once, he had been perched on the razor's edge of a dishonorable discharge. Only one thing had saved him.

He got things done.

Eventually he had learned to control the demons raging inside him and operate within the system just enough to thrive. His record of success in hot spots all over the world had been enough to elevate him to the rank of colonel without his ever having to kiss ass or mouth politically correct platitudes like so many other officers had done.

Then the day had come when he'd walked away from all of it to retire to his native Texas, here in these rugged, tree-covered mountains, a place that was isolated yet within less than a two-hour drive from an international airport. Atkinson could get anywhere in the world from here and did so whenever a suitable job came along.

It was almost inevitable that a maverick governor like Maria Delgado would eventually have a need for his services. Over the past couple of years they had become friends as well.

Delgado knew that when it all hit the fan with the Feds, Atkinson was one person she could count on—and the feeling was mutual.

“You need boots on the ground out there, don't you?” he went on.

“Yes. How soon can you assemble your team and be ready to move if I need you to?”

Atkinson thought for a moment and then said, “We can be in position by nightfall.”

“All right. By then we ought to have a better idea what's going on there and what Washington's reaction to it will be. If they're not going to do anything . . .”

“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.