Tyranny (24 page)

“General Milburn is standing by, sir.” As the head of the Joint Chiefs, Milburn had an office here in the White House, as well as at the Pentagon, and was on call 24-7.

“Get him here. I have an important question to ask him.”

Jessup thought she knew what that question was.

Unfortunately, she didn't know what the answer would be.

 

 

General Thurgood Milburn walked into the Oval Office ten minutes later, his cap tucked under his left arm. His grandfather, a great admirer of Thurgood Marshall, had asked the general's father to name him after the famous jurist and Supreme Court justice. Of course, at the time Thurgood Milburn had been just a little black baby in Alabama, with very little to indicate that sixty years later he would be the top brass in the American military.

He came to attention and saluted. The man behind the desk was the Commander-in-Chief, after all, even though he despised the military and everything about it except the power it gave him. The President waved a hand negligently, which was as close as he ever came to acknowledging a salute from a soldier, let alone returning one.

“Sit down,” he snapped, then grudgingly added Milburn's rank, “general.”

Milburn thought about saying that he was all right standing, but he couldn't quite bring himself to be that insubordinate. Instead, he said, “Thank you, sir,” and took a seat in one of the comfortable leather chairs in front of the desk.

It didn't feel so comfortable at the moment, however.

“You know what I brought you here to ask you,” the President said.

Milburn had a pretty good idea—he had seen the news reports from Texas, too—but he wasn't going to admit that.

No, if the son of a bitch behind the desk had something to say, he was going to have to come right out with it.

“No, sir, I'm afraid not.”

The President's lips twisted in a snarl as he leaned forward.

“What question have we been asking officers for twenty years now?” he demanded.

“You mean whether or not we we'd be willing to give the order to fire on American citizens in the case of insurrection or other national emergency.”

“That's right. You said you were, or else you wouldn't be where you are now. You wouldn't even be in the service anymore.”

“Yes, sir, I said that.” Milburn took a deep breath. “But I'm very glad that I've never been put in that position, as are all the other officers I know.”

“Well, that's where we are now,” the President snapped.

Milburn shook his head slowly and said, “There's not any insurrection or national emergency that I'm aware of, sir.”

“Those bastards in Texas!” the man behind the desk yelled. “That old man who won't get the hell off his ranch!”

“I was under the impression that case hadn't been settled yet. Anyway, with all due respect, sir, it seems to me that a property dispute doesn't really rise to the level of—”

“The man is defying the federal government! That's treason!”

“Not technically.”

Milburn's mouth was dry. He knew that if he wanted to save his career—if he had any sense of self-preservation at all—he'd be agreeing with the President and falling all over himself to promise to do whatever was necessary to give the man what he wanted.

Unfortunately, a tiny but maddeningly persistent voice in the back of Milburn's head kept telling him that if he did that, he might as well be shuffing bare feet in the dirt and saying,
Yassuh, bossman
.

Deep down, that was the way most Democratic politicians saw members of his race anyway, he knew. Even the ones who shared that heritage with him.

The President was on his feet now, leaning forward and resting his hands on the big desk as he glared at Milburn.

“If I say something is a national emergency, then it's a goddamn national emergency, is that clear, general?”

“Most of the time, yes, sir. But not if it involves killing American citizens. That's not what the armed forces are for.”

As you'd know if you had any clue to what we're really like, thought Milburn.

“So, if I tell you I want the army to go in and clean out everybody who's on that ranch, are you saying you won't give the order?”

Milburn took a deep breath. This man was the Commander-in-Chief. The Constitution said so.

But that same Constitution had been willfully, even gleefully, ignored by the past four presidents, he recalled.

“No, sir,” he whispered. “I won't give that order. Not so you can get your hands on some old man's ranch.”

The President stared at him for several seconds, then exploded in a barrage of racial slurs and curses. A man's true colors always came out when he was under enough stress. Finally, he calmed down enough to say, “You're done, Milburn. You're relieved of command. You're not a general anymore. You're not even a soldier anymore.”

On the contrary, thought Milburn, he actually felt more like a soldier than he had for quite a while.

He got to his feet and said, “That's fine, sir. I assume I'm dismissed?”

“Get your black ass out of here!”

Milburn started to turn away, but then the President stopped him.

“What about all the other officers below you? Are they going to say the same thing?”

“I don't know, sir,” Milburn answered honestly. “I'd like to think most of them would. I believe most of them will, if you back them into a corner over something like this.” He paused. “It takes a lot to get an American soldier to spill his countrymen's blood.”

The President slumped back into the chair behind the desk.

“Fine. Get out.”

Milburn's step was brisk and his back was straight as he left the Oval Office. He was even smiling a little. He didn't know what the future held for him, but he was almost looking forward to it for a change.

 

 

When Angela Jessup came back into the Oval Office a few minutes later, she said, “I take it the general didn't tell you what you wanted to hear.”

“Take care of him,” the President growled. “Make him sorry he was ever born.”

“Of course.”

The President sighed and said, “The worst of it is, he's got me worried that no matter who I promote to replace him, the answer is going to be the same. Those damned soldiers only want to follow orders when they agree with them.”

Jessup weighed her options and decided to go with the truth.

“If you push them too hard, sir . . . they might decide to push back.”

For a second, the President's eyes went wide with fear. He had to be aware of how tenuous his hold on power really was. Despite the effort to militarize the agencies, bureaus, and departments under his direct control, and the ongoing program to weaken the actual military, if it came down to a fight he knew which side would probably win . . . and it wasn't his. A military coup was so far outside the main currents of American thought that it had never been regarded as a serious threat to any administration . . . but it wasn't impossible.

“All right,” he muttered. “If we can't use the military to get what we want, then we'll just have to do something else.” He seemed to relax slightly. He even leaned back in his chair as he went on. “Luckily, we have other options. Get me the Secretary-General of the UN on the phone.” He thumped a fist on the desk. “We'll teach those damned Texans to act like they still have rights!”

F
or the rest of the day Monday, the news media was clogged with coverage of the showdown at the entrance to G.W. Brannock's ranch. Reporters stood in front of the now-famous gate and intoned solemnly about the unlawful defiance of the federal government's edicts and the potential for domestic terrorism by the right-wing extremists who supported Brannock's position. The White House press secretary issued a statement saying that the President was deeply disturbed by the clash and hoped that it could be brought to a peaceful conclusion. One network did a special report called
STANDOFF IN TEXAS!
, while another ran a special with the ominous title
A SECOND AMERICAN REVOLUTION?

All the pundits agreed that eventually Brannock and his supporters would back down. Otherwise, the government would have no choice but to send in troops to clean them out, no matter how bloody that might turn out to be.

There were only a few dissenting voices crying out in the wilderness and warning that graphic, bloody images of American citizens gunned down by American troops might in fact
cause
the very uprising that everyone seemed to fear.

But Monday slid into Tuesday with nothing else happening, then Wednesday, and still peace prevailed over the Brannock ranch. More of the defenders drifted away and headed back to their homes, but enough remained on hand to maintain a constant vigil at the gate and patrols along the fence that bordered the highway.

The world held its breath. If nothing happened soon, the news cycle would move along and there would be something else for the cable networks to yammer about twenty-four hours a day.

 

 

“Governor Delgado wants me to come to Austin,” Miranda told Kyle Wednesday evening as they sat on the porch with G.W. “She didn't say exactly what it's about, but I'm pretty sure it's something to do with the land grant.”

“Maybe they've found something that proves it's a phony,” Kyle said.

“That's what I'm hoping,” Miranda said with a nod. “If it is, then maybe this long nightmare will be over.”

G.W. rocked back and forth slowly as he said, “They'll just come up with somethin' else.”

Kyle and Miranda turned to look at him. Kyle said, “You mean some other excuse to try to seize the ranch?”

“Yep. It's pretty obvious by now that they want it—danged if I know why—and they're not gonna stop at anything to get their hands on it. Anyway, even if the governor's got proof the land grant is fake, what're you gonna do with it?”

“Shout it from the rooftops,” Miranda said. “Spread the news as far and wide as I can through the media.”

G. W. grunted.

“The government'll claim it was all a misunderstandin',” he said, “and the press will downplay the whole thing until everybody forgets about it. Then they'll spring some new claim, and the whole thing'll start over again.”

“Well, you're sure a pessimist this evening,” Kyle said.

“Just tryin' to be realistic,” G.W. insisted. “But I could be wrong. Lord knows, I have been plenty of times before. And don't think I don't appreciate what you're doin', Miranda. I know that if there's really a way out of this, you're more likely to find it than anybody else.”

“I'm glad you have that much faith in me, G.W.,” she said. “I hope I can justify it.” She turned to Kyle. “Do you want to come to Austin with me?”

“Of course, I do,” he answered without hesitation. They had become closer than ever the past couple of days as they spent most of their time together. “But I can't.”

“Don't stay on my account,” G.W. told him.

“I'm not.” Kyle grinned. “I just want to be here to see it when Grayson gets his butt handed to him again. I missed it the last time.”

“And it's a good thing,” G.W. said. “If you'd been there, you might've jumped right in.”

“Dang right I would have.”

“That wasn't the deal I made with Grayson.”

Miranda said, “You're lucky those other agents honored that deal. They could have opened fire.”

G.W. sighed and said, “Yeah, I know. There's a part of me that still wishes everybody else would just clear out and leave me here to face this by myself. It's my ranch, after all. At least it is until I'm gone.” He looked over at Kyle. “Then it'll be your spread, son. I don't have anybody else to leave it to.”

“Now, don't start talking like that,” Kyle told him. “You're gonna be around for a long time yet.”

That brought a laugh from G.W. He said, “In case you hadn't noticed, I'm old. No matter what happens with the government, I don't have that many more years left in this world. I don't plan on dwellin' on the fact, but there's no point in denyin' it, either.”

“Right now let's just concentrate on keeping the BLM off your land,” Miranda suggested. “Governor Delgado's sending a helicopter for me in the morning. I'll call you as soon as I find out anything.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” G.W. said as he got to his feet. “Right now I'm sorta tired. Reckon I'll go on in and let you young people enjoy the rest of the evenin' out here.”

Kyle knew his grandfather was going inside so he and Miranda could be alone. He appreciated that consideration, too, and wasn't going to argue with G.W. about it.

There was no telling how long Miranda was going to be gone—or what might happen while she was in Austin—so he wanted to enjoy the time they had together.

 

 

The helicopter arrived a little before nine o'clock the next morning, setting down not far from the ranch house. Miranda, who had gone back to her apartment in Sierra Lobo several days earlier and packed up enough things for an extended stay at the ranch, waited until the dust had settled and then left the house carrying an overnight bag.

Kyle and G. W. stood on the porch watching her go. Kyle had already said his good-byes to her and still seemed to taste her kiss on his lips. Both men waved as she paused in the chopper's doorway and lifted a hand in farewell to them.

The rotors began to turn again, and a moment later the helicopter lifted off and zoomed to the east. Kyle had a lump in his throat as he watched while it dwindled to a tiny dot in the sky and then disappeared.

“She'll be back, son,” G.W. said. “Don't worry.”

“I know,” Kyle said. “But will we still be here?”

“One way or another, I will be,” G.W. said with grim determination.

They went back in the house, and a short time later G.W. announced that he was going out to check on his stock.

“Those cows don't know a damned thing about politics,” he said, “and if they did, they wouldn't care. Somebody's still got to look out for 'em.”

“Roberto and the regular hands have been doing that,” Kyle pointed out.

“Yeah, and I trust those fellas completely. But I like to lay my own eyes on things, too. Want to come with me?”

“Sure,” Kyle said. “There's nothing going on here.”

Less than a minute later, he had reason to regret saying that. He figured he must have jinxed things.

He and G.W. had just stepped outside to go get in the pickup when they saw dust boiling up from the road. Somebody was coming from the direction of the gate, and in a hurry, too.

“Damn it,” G.W. said. “That looks like trouble.”

Kyle knew that prediction had to be right.

A moment later one of the jeeps used by the defenders raced up to the ranch house. The driver called to them, “Somebody's coming! Lots of somebodies!”

“Let's get out there,” G.W. told Kyle. They ran to the pickup.

When they were in the truck, speeding toward the gate, G.W. took his phone from his pocket and handed it to Kyle.

“See if that gizmo's workin',” he said.

“No service,” Kyle reported. “Just like before.”

Cell phone service had mysteriously reappeared after the confrontation with Grayson, but now it was gone again and that was yet another indication of bad trouble on the way, thought Kyle.

Men were crowded up to the gate and fence when they got there. They jumped out of the pickup and hurried to join the others. Kyle peered along the road to town and saw a dark mass of vehicles rumbling toward them.

“Those look like trucks of some sort,” G.W. said.

“They're troop transports,” Kyle said, remembering his days in the army, relatively brief though they had been. “They're going to war against us, G.W.”

With a sigh, G. W. said, “Never thought I'd see the day when American troops would be used like this.”

“Wait a minute,” Kyle said, frowning. “I'm not sure they are. Something's not right about those trucks. . . .”

As the vehicles came closer, he thought he realized what it was. He asked for a pair of binoculars, and one of the men thrust some into his hands. He raised the glasses to his eyes and peered through them.

“Those aren't American trucks,” Kyle reported a moment later. “They've got the United Nations insignia on them, and they're flying United Nations flags.”

“Good Lord,” G.W. muttered.

The trucks, more than a dozen of them, didn't pull up on the side of the highway next to the fence. Instead, they circled out into the open country on the other side of the road, swinging around wide so that they came to a stop pointed toward the fence where Kyle, G.W., and another six or seven men stood tensely.

Troops began to pour from the backs of the trucks. They wore fatigues and bright blue helmets.

“Son . . . of... a . . . bitch,” G.W. said slowly with heartfelt passion. “That fella in the White House did it. He sicced the damn UN on us.”

“That's sure what it looks like,” Kyle agreed. He focused the binoculars on the uniformed men scurrying around and got another shock. “That's not all, G.W. It looks to me like every one of those soldiers is Chinese.”