Secession: The Storm Read online

  As the HPD teams finished up at the hotel, he made a call to his headquarters, requesting all available information be forwarded to his smart phone. There hadn’t been much.

  Sergeant Ford, the only name he could recall from that day, was still with the New Orleans PD, now a captain in their Rapid Response Unit – a kind of politically correct name for what was essentially a SWAT team.

  Until the newscast, he hadn’t even known the name Abe Hendricks.

  When the emails from HQ began filling his inbox, Zach slowly filled in the gaps, creating a mental picture of the chain of events. Mr. Hendricks had survived his head injuries, but with some difficulty. He’d been hospitalized for over two months. Evidently, he’d hired an attorney because there was a sealed record of a lawsuit. Things got a little sketchy after that. There was another sealed arrest record for Abe, but no trial docket or list of charges. The lawsuit had been dismissed the same day as the charges had been dropped.

  Since that time, the ranger knew that Abe had relocated to Texas, procured a driver’s license, paid his property taxes, and kept his nose clean. Other than a divorce some months ago, there wasn’t any other record of the man on any law enforcement databases.

  “So fill me in, Ranger Bass,” Sam began, “How do you know this man whose desire it is to make the Guinness Book for killing more cops than Al Capone?”

  Zach told his temporary partner the story, filling in as many details as he could recall.

  “I remember reading about that gun grab,” Temple responded. “I was in college when that all went down, and one of my professors was going ape shit crazy over the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, I remember it not sitting right with me either, but if you had seen New Orleans after the storm… I’m not saying it was justified, but those cops down there were facing something no one had ever seen before. In some small way, I don’t blame the mayor, or chief, or whoever came up with that plan. Their intentions were good, but short-sighted.”

  Sam seemed to be rolling his response around in her brain for a bit, staring out the passenger window as the city passed by. Finally, “Didn’t they pass a new law a few years after that all went down? Seems like I remember reading about it.”

  “Yes, they did. There was an enormous legal debate over what powers government held when a state of emergency was declared. I guess no one had ever defined the rules as far as private firearms were concerned.”

  “The founding fathers didn’t do such a good job of that either,” Sam noted. “Just a few words here or there could have made the Second Amendment crystal clear and avoided a lot of disagreement.”

  Zach glanced over at his passenger and grunted. “Seems clear enough to me. The people have the right to bear arms. What more do you need?”

  Sam sighed, giving the ranger one of her you-know-better-than-that looks. “I should have expected that attitude from you, Ranger Bass,” she chuckled. “A hardline conservative, through and through. But your position oversimplifies the issue. The framers saw fit to insert the term, ‘well-trained militia,’ and that has opened the door to decades of debate.”

  “Not according to Alexander Hamilton,” Zach fired back. “He said the government’s army can never be formidable to the liberties of the people while there is a large body of citizens. Sure sounds like Alex intended for the people to be able to hold their own against either the feds or the states.”

  Detective Temple was impressed. “Why Zachariah Bass, I had no idea you were a constitutional expert. I could, however, counter that with a dozen other quotes that opposed Mr. Hamilton’s point of view.”

  Zach shook his head, unappreciative of her challenging retort. “They all understood the need to walk that fine line between mob rule and tyranny. A military take-over was a real threat in their world. The only way to stop that was with a well-armed citizenry.”

  “Look, I’m as ardent a supporter of the Second as anyone else,” Sam replied. “But I also know that we have to have limits. Weapons technology has advanced well beyond anything the founding fathers ever considered. We can’t have unrestricted firepower in the hands of every citizen. The mess we’re heading into is a prime example of that. The weapon this guy is wielding has already killed many good men. What if people could own battle tanks and fighter jets? There have to be some controls… some regulations, or we’ll cascade into anarchy.”

  “I’ve got a funny feeling this entire mess leads back to some asshole’s decision to confiscate arms in New Orleans. I can’t put myself in Abraham Hendricks’s head, but I bet I’m not far off base with that theory. When it comes to freedom and guns, I guess Patrick Henry summed it up best.”

  Sam interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Seriously? Are you some self-proclaimed expert on the Second Amendment? Why do I feel another verbose quote on the way?”

  Zach laughed, but then his tone became serious, “Guard with jealous attention the public liberty. Suspect everyone who approaches that jewel. Unfortunately, nothing will preserve it but downright force. Whenever you give up that force, you are inevitably ruined.”

  Half-teasing, Samantha looked at Zach and said, “So you do think every citizen should be able to own a tank?”

  “No,” Zach replied. “But regulating everyone to a bolt-action, small caliber weapon isn’t what the framers had in mind either. When tyranny arms itself with an M16, it’s tough to resist with a hunting rifle.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, if I know Agent Perkins, the guy holding up in that house is going to wish he had a tank… maybe two.”

  The Harris County Sheriff’s Department had long before enrolled in a federal program that provided surplus military equipment to local law enforcement agencies – free of charge.

  The program, commonly referred to as 1033, had provided the local law enforcement agency with over $4 million dollars in weapons, body armor, trucks and other surplus military equipment.

  The most expensive items were two “mine resistant ambush protected” armored vehicles (MRAPs). After insurgents in Iraq had taken to repurposing explosives into improvised explosive devices (IEDs), the Pentagon had rushed the development of a new class of military transport that could withstand these types of attacks. Several different versions of MRAPs had been purchased and deployed in the conflict.

  Eventually, the Iraq war ended, and the military found themselves with an excess of the colossal machines. Rather than scrap the expensive behemoths, someone in Congress decided to offer them to police departments. The cops thought that was a good idea, too, given the steadily increasing firepower they faced on the streets.

  The particular model in use by the local SWAT team was called a Caiman. With a 6-wheel drive, thick plating, and powerful diesel engine, the machine was built to withstand mines and ambushes conducted with military-grade firepower.

  Abe heard the Caiman’s rumble when it was still a half-mile away. From his second-story perch, he spotted it a short time later. It was an impressive machine.

  He sat and watched its approach, marveling at the Machiavellian image – an armored machine of war traveling down a quiet neighborhood street. “I bet they wish they had those in New Orleans,” he whispered. “They could have really gathered up some guns with a couple of those.”

  The Caiman slowed as it approached his driveway, almost as if it were a delivery truck checking house numbers. Abe was well aware of what it intended to deliver – a 10-member SWAT team concealed inside of its crew compartment.

  For a moment, it looked as if the driver was going to spare the stacked stone wall that surrounded Abe’s yard, but that assumption proved to be false. Gunning the engine, the 6-wheeled mammoth charged right through, the landscaping barrier providing no more resistance than a parking lot speed bump.

  Abe reached for a nearby bag, his hand reappearing with a hockey-puck shaped disk. Repeating the process multiple times, he soon had nine of the small units spread on the windowsill by the time the Caiman was halfway to his front porch.

  Originally
, the small disks had been magnetic lights. He’d first purchased one of the handy little units to illuminate the bed of his pickup. Battery powered with an intense attraction to metal surfaces, they were designed to stick practically anywhere.

  Now, the units in front of Abe no longer contained light bulbs, batteries, or switches. Most of their vacant, internal spaces had been packed with a homemade explosive, knowledge gained by Internet browsing. The medium velocity propellant was carefully inserted behind a concave-shaped disk of bronze.

  It had taken some experimenting, but he’d found a solution in the plumbing section of the local home improvement store. The cup of bronze pipe elbows, after substantial trimming from his garage band saw, proved to provide the perfect dimensions for what was known in military circles as a “shaped charge.”

  A visit to a local hobby shop had provided the detonator – a model rocket kit containing not only the wireless control, but a second benefit as well. The rocket fuel could be purposed as an excellent igniter for his cookie-sheet explosives.

  When Abe had first learned of his county’s possession of the heavy military vehicle, it had put a serious damper on his plans. He’d been watching the nightly news report on a hostage standoff with an active shooter when the video zoomed in on the super-sized armored car rolling onto the scene.

  It didn’t take long to ascertain the make and model, nor did it require much research to determine the Caiman’s weakness.

  The V-shaped bottom was nearly impervious to mines… capable of dealing with explosions far more powerful than anything Abe could produce. The vehicle’s sides were also designed to withstand more punishment that he could throw at it with small arms.

  But the top, like most armored vehicles, was thin and vulnerable.

  The sheriff’s MRAP charged his porch, the leading wheels slowed by the three steps rising to his threshold.

  Abe threw open the shutters, each hand wielding a magnetic “bomb-lette.” With his arms a blur, he began tossing them like Frisbees, another and then another dropping from the window directly above the advancing armored car.

  Some of the units bounced harmlessly to the ground, others stuck to the roof of thin steel plate. Reaching quickly for the hobby-store remote at his feet, Abe hit the switch just as several sniper bullets slammed into his golf-barrier.

  The actual explosions weren’t overly impressive, making far less noise than typical holiday fireworks. But the results were devastating.

  Shortly before World War II, military ordnance experts had discovered that any explosive becomes far more effective against armor if it is “shaped” like a cone or possesses concave geometry. Abe had simply adapted designs that had been around for almost 100 years.

  The bronze pipe melted as the explosive expanded, the kinetic energy forcing a jet of the liquid metal through the Caiman’s skin at several thousand feet per second.

  The driver, engine, fuel tank and several members of the SWAT team were taken out immediately. Ammunition and diesel fuel began to burn… the survivors in the back hitting the door release as black smoke began to fill their compartment.

  They began pouring out of the back, more motivated to escape their burning transport than to assault the target. Flames were now licking at the insides of the critically wounded beast, a boiling dark fog rolling into the atmosphere.

  Moving so as not to use the same window twice, Abe rushed downstairs, prepared to activate his mister or fire his AR15.

  Neither was necessary.

  Leapfrogging back toward the road, Abe spied the survivors of his attack retreating, two of their wounded being carried toward the rear of Mrs. Fullerton’s home. He decided to let them go without harassment, now worried that the burning hulk resting right next to his porch was going to set his personal citadel on fire.

  He had a thought, unsure if the police had managed to turn off the 200-foot deep well that provided water to his property. After checking the front and back yards for a secondary assault and spotting no activity, he scurried for the attached garage and switched on his sprinkler system.

  Rushing back to the living room, he was relieved to see the pulsing jets of water arching in their pre-programmed circles. He hoped it would be enough to extinguish the flames.

  Chapter 8 – New News

  Given the political landscape and right-of-center mindset of most Texans, it was no surprise to spot a group of protesters milling about, facing a line of police officers who didn’t seem amused.

  Maneuvering the pickup through the gathering throng, Zach spied several handmade signs held in the air. “No Waco HERE!” read one of the larger examples. Another asked the reader to “Remember Ruby Ridge.”

  The ranger’s favorite message read: “Feds: Take your heavy hand and go home!”

  There were already two food trucks parked along the road, short lines of hungry protesters cued to purchase burgers and tacos. The congestion was further enhanced by a substantial number of television cameras, carefully positioned to capture the best angle should a confrontation break out.

  It was a snarled circus of sound, color, and motion.

  “Don’t mess with Texas,” he heard Temple mumble.

  Zach and Sam approached just as Agent Perkins was pressing his earpiece in tight. “He did what?” the FBI man was saying, his voice clearly shocked at what he heard across the radio.

  “Son of a bitch,” Perkins continued, “This is worse than a Rambo movie. Who the fuck is this guy?”

  His expression softened when he turned and identified Detective Temple, a slight smile flashing across his lips. “What are you doing here, Sam?” he asked, clearly under extreme stress.

  “Hi, Sal. I want to introduce you to Ranger Zach Bass. I think he might be able to help you.”

  The frustration showed on the federal agent’s face, his eyes boring into Zach as his mouth was forming a rejection. “We’re getting our asses kicked right now, Sam. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have time to…”

  Zach stepped forward, inserting himself between Sam and the FBI agent. “I know the man inside of that house, Agent Perkins. I saved his life once. He might talk to me.”

  Perkins blinked, his gray matter taking a moment to assimilate Zach’s words. “You what?”

  “I saved his life once… a long time ago. In addition to that little tidbit, I can tell you why this guy has decided to tear law enforcement a new one.”

  “Okay… explain it to me.”

  And Zach did, relating the story of Abe Hendricks and post-Katrina New Orleans.

  “Holy Shit,” Perkins replied when the ranger had finished. “That does explain a lot. This guy’s been stewing on this for 11 years. No wonder he’s been one step ahead of us all the way.”

  “I can’t tell you what pushed him over the edge,” Zach continued. “Maybe it was the election… maybe his divorce… maybe a cop looked at him funny last week. But I saved his bacon in New Orleans, and he might remember me. He might talk to me.”

  Perkins looked around noting the fading light. “It’s getting too dark to try anything now. Let’s give Mr. Hendricks the night to wonder what we plan next. In the meantime, let’s see if we can work out how to get your face in front of him without it being blown off. Otherwise, I’m going to have to call Washington and ask for military assistance. I can’t risk any more men.”

  No sooner than Perkins had made his decision, than a voice sounded in his earpiece. “Sir, we are picking up electronic signatures inside the suspect’s home. They correspond to a cell phone being used.”

  “A cell phone? You mean he’s calling somebody? I thought we had his number rerouted through the Stingray?” Perkins asked, referring to the bureau’s portable cell phone tower that could intercept any mobile phone.

  “We do, sir. This phone must not be in his name or registered to the address. We’ll have the number in less than a minute and cut it off.”

  “Don’t,” Zach said, stepping close to Perkins. “Let’s see who he’s calling
. What can it hurt?”

  Perkins didn’t like the idea, standard procedure calling for any barricaded suspect to have all outside communications denied. But then again, nothing in the manual had worked so far. Speaking into the microphone, he said, “Don’t cut off that number just yet. Can you tell me who he’s talking to?”

  “Yes, sir. He was connected with a local news station – Channel 3 to be exact. But the call has already ended.”

  It took Perkins all of five minutes to locate the Channel 3 van, sitting in a virtual parking lot of reporters from every local and national media outlet. Several heads turned in surprise when Perkins strode into their camp, the expression on the FBI agent’s face making it clear his visit wasn’t a social call.