JR climbed up into several of the stands just to look at the terrain. Shooting at people from one of these things, with people shooting back, would be suicidal.
So what were the possibilities? Ambush the bad guys as they exited their vans in Mexico, or on the trail to the river, or as they crossed the river, or cutting the Hays fence, or somewhere on the Hays land, or out near the highway as they threw the backpacks over the fence, or anywhere along the return journey.
He saw no people during his tour, but he did spot two kudu. Gorgeous creatures.
Any ambush site would have to allow him to shoot, move, and survive. The shooting would be easier with his state-of-the-art night-vision equipment.
What if he got two or three of them? Or five or six? Those who escaped would tell their bosses back in Mexico, and next time he would be facing a company of hired killers, perhaps as many as fifteen or twenty heavily armed gunmen with automatic weapons.
Late in the afternoon, JR got out his new AR-15, cleaned it thoroughly, and mounted a scope on it, a regular 3 by 9 variable. He suspected the battle might drag on into the morning, and he should be well armed if it did.
After fifty shots he was sure of the scope’s zero and comfortable with the trigger. He took the rifle into the house and opened all the windows to let the breeze air out some of the heat. He cleaned his rifle thoroughly again. Then he got busy fixing dinner. Poured some bourbon and drank it as he ate out on the ramada with the sun setting.
While JR was scouting the ranch, Jack Hays was under political siege in Austin. The Texas independence crowd was getting really worked up, especially after they saw copies of the directives — there were four directives, so far — about life in an America ruled by martial law under Barry Soetoro. The press was to be censored; television shows preapproved; news would be government press releases, which would be read without comment; and military courts would replace civilian ones. Gun sales were forbidden, and all guns would be turned in to military arsenals that would be designated in a few weeks.
The directives said nothing about the upcoming November election, but the feds obviously were planning a long spell of martial law, so pessimists could read between the lines, and did.
Meanwhile, inner-city riots around the country were getting worse, as the civil authorities let crowds burn and loot. Any persons in the riot zones were fair game for the mobs. The military that now were under federal control, the U.S. Army and National Guard, did nothing. Government spokesmen on television blamed the right-wing conspiracy, evil men who didn’t believe in progressive goals and wanted to use low-wage earners as slaves in the capitalist economy. Translated, that meant evil whites who wanted to exploit semiliterate, unskilled minorities for the minimum wage.
Jack Hays spoke to the National Guard brigadier in charge of Houston, James Conrad, three times that day. The first call went like this: “What’s happening?”
“I need orders from Washington, Governor. I was told to await written orders. Until I get them, I can’t do anything.”
“Washington knows that people are getting murdered in Houston and having their homes and businesses destroyed, right?”
“Sir, I have sent in reports every hour. I don’t know what else to do. If I go into the riot zone on my own hook in disobedience of orders, I’ll be relieved and court-martialed and they will put someone else in my place, someone who will obey orders.”
“Are you going to keep the mob inside the riot zone?”
“No one has said anything to me about that. Governor Hays, I’m just a soldier. I obey orders and I give orders. Right now, I am awaiting orders from the national command authority.”
“That’s Soetoro, right?”
“Yes, sir. The president.”
“Call me when you hear something,” Hays said, and General Conrad promised he would.
Jack Hays called in Colonel Frank Tenney, director of the Texas Department of Public Safety (TxDPS), who commanded the state police. Hays told him about the call with Brigadier General Conrad of the National Guard. “We can’t let those rioters burn down the city and murder people. I want you to get as many of your men as you can and encircle the area. Let the National Guard do its thing, but don’t let those rioters out of the zone they are in right now. And evacuate anyone willing to leave. You have a copy of the riot plan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then use it.”
“I would, but FEMA’s Texas chief told me I have no authority, except as he gives it to me in obedience to the president.”
Jack Hays had pretty much had all he was willing to take. Without really thinking through the possible ramifications, he said, “You go get that bastard and take him with you. I want him right up front when I give the order to go in there.”
“You know there will be trouble. FEMA has their own private army, armed to the teeth.”
“And they aren’t doing anything about this riot. Go get the bastard. Disarm and arrest anybody that gives you trouble. That office is in Texas, and in Texas we run the show. Texas is ours.”
“You’re goddamn right it is, Governor.”
“Then get ready to go into that riot zone and arrest those thugs when I give the order. Get the Houston police to help. Call me when you are ready to do it. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
When Colonel Tenney left his office, Hays sensed he had crossed the line. He asked the Texas Ranger outside the door to come in and explained the situation. “I need your boss as soon as he can get here. We are coming to a crisis.”
“Yes, sir.” The ranger was on his cell phone as he walked from the room. Primarily criminal investigators, the Texas Rangers — there were only about 140 of them — were a division of the TxDPS.
The Constitution of the State of Texas required the governor to maintain public order and enforce the laws — and Jack Hays meant to do that. Under state law, he could assume command of the TxDPS during a public disaster, riot, or insurrection, “or to perform his constitutional duty to enforce the law.” As Jack Hays saw it, Barry Soetoro could not relieve him of this responsibility or void the statutes or Constitution of the State of Texas for any reason whatsoever. Jack Hays had sworn to uphold the law and, by God, he was going to do it or die trying.
His decision made, he called in the leaders of the legislature to brief them.
It was three o’clock that Friday afternoon when Jake Grafton was led into an office in the admin building of Camp Dawson. He wasn’t wearing handcuffs. The room looked like what it used to be, a crowded office for low-level bureaucrats and staff officers of the West Virginia National Guard. Now it appeared to be full of FBI agents.
“We want to ask you some questions,” the man behind the desk said. He was a White House aide, maybe in Soetoro’s inner circle, or only one level away. His name was Harlan Sweatt, known to the world as Sluggo. He was balding, with a double chin and a serious spare tire that was hidden behind the desk. Jake recognized him, although the two had never met.
Grafton dropped into the chair across from Sweatt. Scanned the other agents in the room, four men and one woman. All looked as if they hadn’t had much sleep, and no wonder, busy as they must have been rousing citizens from offices, golf clubs, bars and beds, and transporting them here to this mountain concentration camp.
“Ask away,” Grafton said.
“I am not going to read you your rights,” Sluggo said, “because your rights have been suspended by the declaration of martial law.”
“I didn’t know that the president had the power to suspend the rules of criminal procedure or the presumption of innocence or the right to be represented by counsel.”