The Executive Order

By Tom Winstead

The Executive Order received from the president of the United States ordering the closure of the terrorist detention center located in Cuba, began a series of events by unknown individuals who have secretly infiltrated the US Government at the highest levels. The mission is to take over the government and convert it into a new culture and nation. It begins when Colonel James "Bull" Miller receives the order and vows on the graves of hundreds of fellow soldiers, that he will never release the dangerous terrorists from GITMO Prison, to be sent to the mainland US, or back to their own country so they can fight against us again. He calls on other former military friends and patriots for advice and assistance. His venture recruits like minded members of both political parties of Congress, the FBI, CIA and Secret Service to prevent the take over. These modern day patriots come together and unite in an unusual coup that stops a coup!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098382926

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The day-to-day fight and struggles to keep the gates of Guantanamo Prison (GITMO) closed, at all costs, and not releasing any of the dangerous, imprisoned, battlefield hardened, terrorists is the sworn goal of Colonel James A. Bull Miller, Commander of GITMO. He has vowed on the graves of hundreds of his fellow warriors, fallen on the field of battle, at the hands of these jihadist bastards, that he will take any and all steps necessary to keep from releasing them! Including refusing to obey a Presidential Executive Order! And if it becomes necessary to replace the President of the United States, by whatever means it takes! Little did he know the ultimate price—it takes more than a coup to stop a coup!

"United States presidents issue executive orders to help officers and agencies of the executive branch manage the operations within the federal government itself. Executive orders have the full force of law when they take authority from a legislative power which grants its power directly to the Executive by the Constitution, or are made pursuant to Acts of Congress that explicitly delegate to the President some degree of discretionary power (delegated legislation). Like both legislative statutes and regulations promulgated by government agencies, executive orders are subject to judicial review, and may be struck down if deemed by the courts to be unsupported by statute or the Constitution. Major policy initiatives require approval by the legislative branch, but executive orders have significant influence over the internal affairs of government, deciding how and to what degree legislation will be enforced, dealing with emergencies, waging 72-hour length strikes on enemies, and in general fine-tuning policy choices in the implementation of broad statutes." (Wikipedia)

"WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to affect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience has shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their Duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future Security…"

(The Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776)

CHAPTER ONE

It was a horrible, unbelievable night with merciless screams of terror filling the hot, steamy, and stale night air. Terrifying squeals from the scores of desperate men wailing and begging for help. Cries of, They are torturing me, someone please—I’m dying, they’re killing me! The pleas and screams of pain from the frantic souls only bounced off the thick, unhearing uncaring concrete walls of the prison cells. Clanging sounds of metal slamming against metal, more screams, more yelling and howling, Get me out of here! I’m dying. Somebody please help me! You nasty, filthy American Infidel pigs are killing me; let me out, I’m going home soon! I will have your heads on the end of my sword. Allah be praised!

Suddenly, a hand grabbed him by the collar of his prison uniform and lifted him completely off the ground leaving his feet dangling. The southern sounding voice of the big hand came out loud, clear and strong, You ain’t going nowhere but to hell, you ‘sum-bitch! The big hand threw the mouthy prisoner back across the wall of his cell. Scared and suddenly very quiet, the prisoner turned his head to see who had jerked him up and threw him; all he saw was one big, tall U.S. Marine Sergeant standing outside the cell door with a smile on his face.

The screaming and yelling and threatening stopped as quickly as it had begun; the cacophony of voices turned to loud fits of laughter, replacing the screeching and yelling. Suddenly, the air became filled with stinking, acrid smoke rising from inside the cell blocks. Mattresses burning! The slow burning material of the cotton-filled mattresses created foul clouds of smoke that drifted upward into the night wind, which carried it along for the ride. The night air quickly became filled with the sinister smell of urine and feces and no telling what else the prisoners had done on the bedding. The nasty, foul smell rose and drifted across miles of the Island of Cuba.

We are going home soon and you filthy-ass American Infidel pigs will still be here! More laughter, You cannot do anything about it. Your President has said that we can go home and be free; he has signed the order already! Maybe we will see you another time on the battlefield where we first met. We will have your heads! The President is our friend and ally; you are helpless American pigs. We will be in heaven with our virgins and you all will be in hell! Allah Akbar!

One hundred armed U.S. Marines had surrounded the prison fortress and established a perimeter; as one, they slowly began to move the line closer, tightening the perimeter around the compound. No one gets out and no one gets in, except whom they wanted. Another fifty U.S. Marines, half armed with automatic weapons, half with large fire hoses and clothed in firefighting equipment, entered the gates of the compound where the shrieking, laughing prisoners were gathered, screaming filthy comments at the firefighters and guards, We are going home and you will stay in the prison; we will be free men. More laughter.

The lead firefighter, a senior, seasoned non-com, grinned and looked back over his shoulder and nodded. Suddenly the air, the cell blocks, the entire compound was filled with high pressure water from half a dozen large fire hoses! Prisoners were knocked over, end-over-end when the water hit them, slamming them against the walls of the cells lifting them completely off their feet, slamming them down against the concrete floor, upending the contents of the cells turning beds upside down, extinguishing the flaming, stinking, bedding.

The fire hoses would open and close intermittently; as soon as prisoners could get to their feet, another powerful stream of water would knock them down again.

There were screams of, You cannot do this to us; we are American prisoners of war. You cannot treat us this way; please stop, stop! The Geneva Convention protects us!

Tell it to your friend, the one who is sending you back home, you assholes! someone shouted.

—Lieutenant Colonel Ron Philips, Deputy Commander of this paradise in the South Atlantic, called Guantanamo Bay or GITMO for short, was back at his desk after the prisoner’s passions had quieted. It was late, but before calling it a night, he completed his Report To The Commander: Activities, Events, Disturbances of the evening. Then, he went to bed.

As I walked through the door into my office, a hand with a cup of hot coffee reached out and said Good morning, Colonel Miller, I saw you coming and already had the coffee made.

Thanks, Penny; after the weekend events, this is a good beginning for a new week.

I sat down at my desk and picked up the reports from the various teams and their responsibilities. I shuffled through them one by one until Ron’s report came up, it read: All quiet and peaceful in the compound and cells. No unusual activity. I smiled at Ron’s report, and then picked up and opened the large envelope that had just arrived from the Department of Defense (DOD). It was marked OFFICIAL on both the front and back covers.

Inside was another large envelope, this one marked TOP SECRET. I opened it and inside was a cover sheet that was also marked TOP SECRET. I removed the cover page and began reading: Executive Order 13492. It had come directly from the White House, through the five-sided palace known as the Department of Defense (DOD), and was signed by the President of the United States himself:

By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, in order to effect the appropriate disposition of individuals currently detained by the Department of Defense at the Guantánamo Bay Naval Base (Guantánamo) and promptly to close detention facilities at Guantánamo, consistent with the national security and foreign policy interests of the United States and the interests of justice, I hereby order as follows:

Bullshit! I said, talking to myself, or maybe just thinking out loud; I already knew what was coming next; Transferred to another ‘United States detention facility’, my ass! We can’t—I will not—send these Al-Qaeda assholes to the mainland where they can blow up something there. I’ll shoot the bastards myself! They’ve already killed too many of our troops in Afghanistan and Iraq. I’m not about to sit by and watch them kill our families too.

I kept reading: Sec.3 Closure of Detention Facilities at Guantánamo. The detention facilities at Guantánamo for individuals covered by this order shall be closed as soon as practicable, and no later than 1 year from the date of this order. If any individuals covered by this order remain in detention at Guantánamo at the time of closure of those detention facilities, they shall be returned to their home country, released, transferred to a third country, or transferred to United States detention facility in a manner consistent with law and the national security and foreign policy interests of the United States.

I’m not transferring them anywhere, I thought. I’m going to appeal this nonsense. "Khalid Sheik Mohammed, one of the top Al-Qaeda leaders before he was captured; Ramzi Bin Al-Shibh, connected directly with the September 2001 hijackings; Abu Zubaydh, linked to Osama Bin Laden and several other Al-Qaeda cells. These are just a few of the more dangerous prisoners we keep here. One hundred eighty-two detainees considered too dangerous to send back to their own countries—plus, another six hundred we think are less dangerous.

No way in hell! I will NOT release them or send them to some ‘country club’ prison in the U.S. I don’t know what, but something has to be done and some-damn-body has to do it!

I was so pissed, I guess I must have been talking pretty loud to myself; the door popped open and my secretary rushed in. Are you alright, sir? she asked, adding, I wondered who you were yelling at; I thought maybe I had screwed something up!

No, no, Penny, everything’s okay, I replied. I’m just upset at all this crap about releasing these bastards and sending them to the mainland.

Sergeant Penny Fulbright was one tough soldier and a good secretary, always there and ready to help with whatever needed to be done. She usually anticipated my needs and was ready with an answer, or would just hand me a cup of coffee and smile. She was usually right too. Before being assigned to GITMO, she was a Psychological Operations (PSYOP) team member and had served a tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. As a PSYOP Specialist, she fit in well here with the different jihadist terrorist nationalities we entertain. Her training and experience in psychological warfare came in handy when trying to deal with these butthole of society detainees.

Not to mention that Penny was a very attractive, blonde, mid-thirties, career-minded person with fifteen years in. Her husband had been killed by an IED in Afghanistan three years ago while on patrol. She had seen some combat and came under fire. She hated those sorry sons-of-bitches about as much as I did.

I took another look at the Presidential memorandum dated December 15, ordering Thomson Correctional Center in Thomson, Illinois, to be prepared to accept transferred Guantanamo prisoners. No DAMN way! I thought.

Colonel James A. Jim (aka Bull by close friends) Miller! I sat there thinking and reflecting on days gone by. I had received my commission the hard way—on the damn battlefield—not through some school, like most. And there had been many different battlefields. I was the senior non-commissioned officer with the U.S. Army’s Rapid Deployment Force—made-up of the 1st and 2nd Ranger Battalions and the 82nd Airborne when we hit our first combat role.

Operation Urgent Fury it was called, and we hit the island of Grenada in 1983 in a low-altitude airborne assault. The mission: to save a group of U.S. medical students studying at the island medical university. Hopefully, the mission would also restore the former democratic government and get rid of the dictatorship that had taken over.

Immediately running into more opposition than we had counted on, we found ourselves fighting trying to save our own ass, trying to just survive until we could get established. Suddenly, a grenade exploded nearby. I turned just in time to see Captain Dan Smith, our platoon leader, blown apart.

I realized that now I was the ranking non-com and person in the field, so I quickly re-grouped the men and assumed command. We were taking fire at an alarming rate. We had to do something, and fast. We hunkered down and told the men to provide fire-cover for me. I made my way around and behind the machine-gun nest that had us pinned down. I lobbed a couple of grenades into the nest and opened fire with an old Thompson .45 caliber machine gun that I picked up from one of the dead commie soldiers.

After blowing the nest to hell and back, and running out of ammo on the Thompson, I grabbed up a thirty-caliber, M19 Browning machine gun, threw two bandoleers over my shoulder, and scared shit-less, ran screaming like a mad-man. I rushed the enemy at a full-run with the .30-caliber blasting in every direction as I ran.

It must have scared the crap out of those Communist-Grenadian Army bastards because they turned and started running in the opposite direction. I didn’t stop until I ran out of ammo and they were out of sight. I went back to the command center and began helping load the wounded and dead on a helicopter that had been called in to pick them up.

Somebody told someone that I had done something special and should receive a medal for it. About all I remember is that those sons-of-bitches were shooting at me and I was going to shoot back.

Two months later, when all the fight was out of the pro-communist Grenadian Army, General Schwartzman personally pinned the Silver Star on my chest while I stood at attention. As he came close enough to pin the medal on, the General told me that I was now Captain James Bull Miller. He said I was getting a battlefield commission as a captain.

In reading the citation, General Schwartzman said, In complete disregard for his own safety, Sergeant Miller rushed the enemy machine gun nest and destroyed it, killing a large number of the enemy. Again, in complete disregard for his own life and safety, Sergeant Miller, thinking of the safety of his men, and having run out of ammunition, picked up an enemy weapon and rushed the remaining enemy position until they dispersed and retreated.

Leaning back in my chair and putting my feet up on the desk, I thought, That was a long time ago, I don’t remember all of that. I just know; you shoot at me, I’m going to shoot back.

Now, here I am, Colonel Bull Miller, Commander of GITMO. It could be worse, I guess. Hell, I’m lucky to be alive. I have seen combat in the invasion of Panama; I was even with the troops in that damn politically made disaster and chaos in Mogadishu, in Somalia; and every war since, in one way or another. I’ve been in Kosovo, Afghanistan, Iraq, and the Gulf.

Hell, I thought to myself, Those weren’t wars; those were just political campaigns. We didn’t go in to win or kick ass and get out. We were just trying to satisfy a bunch of politician’s egos and help them win elections. They didn’t give a shit about the troops!

But what the hell can a dime-a-dozen, bird-colonel do about any of it, I thought. Well, somebody has to do something, even if it means getting shot by a firing squad, so it may as well be me.

I had plenty of time in service to retire, and nothing much else to lose. I picked up the phone and called base operations at the GITMO air field. And set-up a 0600 flight for the next morning, Friday, to Eglin Air Force Base (AFB) in Florida—headquarters for the Southeast Military Command.

A long-time friend from Vietnam, Marine Major General Gary Dutch Hall, was commander of the Southeast Command. He had injuries and medals to show from Korea and Vietnam: a Silver Star and a Bronze Star from Korea; two Bronze Stars with a couple of oak leaf clusters for valor from Vietnam; holes in both shoulders; shrapnel in his back; one leg missing from the knee down; and wearing a prosthesis for a leg and foot. Dutch was one tough marine. He had refused to let the Corps discharge him for medical reasons. He put up a helluva fight until he convinced a couple of review boards that he still had a lot of fight left in him.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Dutch at Eglin AFB. After all the times Dutch and I had spent together, military protocol wasn’t that important.

After the third ring, General Hall’s office, a sweet, lovely sounding voice answered.

This is Colonel Miller at GITMO, I said, Is General Hall in?

I thought to myself, Penny sounds prettier and sexier when she answers my phone. Just then, Dutch picked up,

Bull Miller, how the hell are you? He began. I thought we were going to get together a couple of months ago.

I’m doing great, Dutch. Just wanted to let you know that I’m coming your way tomorrow morning and wanted to drop in on you if your schedule permits; I’ve got some things I’d like to discuss with you, I said.

Come on up; we’ll have a drink or two over dinner at my house, so we can have some privacy. You know, I’ve got some stuff running around in my head too. I look forward to seeing you, he replied.

CHAPTER TWO

As the military Lear jet aircraft touched down at Eglin AFB and rolled to a stop in front of the base operations building, I looked out of the window and saw a military staff car sitting there. It had a flag mounted on the front bumper; the flag had two stars and was flapping in the breeze. Well, I thought, Old Dutch has come out to greet me. But I wasn’t too sure what he would think after I told him on the phone what I wanted to talk about. That was a plus! Maybe Dutch wouldn’t offer me a court martial after all.

As I stepped off the bottom step, I saluted my ‘two-star’ friend, and he returned my salute. We shook hands, smiled at each other as we walked to the staff car. There was no rank involved—just two old-time, combat friends making up for lost time by bringing each other up to date on their activities since the wars.

As we approached the car, the driver saluted and opened the door; we returned the salute and got into the back seat. Dutch told the driver to take us to the Officer’s Club.

Breakfast is on me, said Dutch, We can catch up on what’s been happening and tell some ‘war stories.’ Besides, I want to hear more about what you have in mind about this GITMO closing crap. This is not the time to be thinking or talking about closing GITMO and moving those jihadist bastards here to the mainland.

My thoughts exactly, I said.

Mulling this over in my mind, I thought, I believe I have found an ally in General ‘Dutch’ Hall. I knew Dutch had really close contacts in the Pentagon, up to and including the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Sometimes, when Dutch was called to Washington, he had lunch with the Chief, the Secretary of Defense, and other VIPs from different departments and agencies.

We were seated at a corner table in the main dining room of the O club.

It’s nine-thirty. Let’s have a late breakfast and see if we can solve the world’s problems. It shouldn’t take more than an hour, Dutch said and laughed.

I laughed too, saying, You’ll change your mind when you hear what I want to talk with you about.

That sounds pretty serious, said Dutch.

It is. This most likely will be the most serious conversation you’ve ever had, I told him, and then added jokingly, In fact, you may even want to recommend me for a court-martial.

The waitress came, took our order, and then left us to our conversation.

Dutch, I began, you recall my telling you about the Presidential Executive order I received from the White House, and how upset I am about it?

Yeah, he replied. I also remember how pissed you were when you called me. He hesitated and then continued, I can’t say I blame you for being upset; I don’t like it either. How many lives have we lost trying to capture that bunch? And now they want us to send them to some ‘country club’ prison in our own country. Besides, we have spent millions on these Jihadist SOBs. They’ve lived better at GITMO than they, or their families, ever did or even knew existed. I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to transfer them to some stateside facility.

I reached in my briefcase and pulled out the Executive Order and handed it to him.

Read that and tell me what you think, I said.

Dutch took the paper from me and started to read. After about a minute, he laid the paper on the table between us. He looked out of the window, deep in thought, saying nothing—just looking out and keeping silent. Several minutes passed before he looked back at me.

Just then, the waitress brought our breakfast of scrambled eggs, grits, bacon, toast, and more coffee. We ate in silence, both of us in deep thought. After eating, Dutch looked up.

Bull, he began speaking, We’ve got a problem in this country. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I don’t know just how to fix that problem, at least before the next election cycle. I’m not even sure it will be fixed then; depends on who goes in. Bull, you and I … have always faced problems, and never considered that they might be too big for us to handle. We just got busy and took care of the situation. I’m not sure how we can handle this one, or if we even ought to get involved.

After a moment’s pause, he continued talking. I know what I’d like to do to some of those bastards. Come on. Let’s head over to my office, he said as we got up and headed out to his staff car.

Dutch continued talking as we drove to his office, I wonder just what is going on in the President’s mind for him to consider moving some of the most dangerous individuals in the world to one of the states. It doesn’t make much sense.

According to the news, his ‘advisors’ are going along with him, I said. They’re not telling him all of the potential dangers involved in having them in a civilian prison. Besides, he doesn’t have the constitutional authority or the ‘balls’ to order the transfer on his own. He has to go to Congress, and they have to authorize such actions. Just look at the background of his so-called advisors; several are Muslim, and his top advisor, his Chief of Staff, Susan Brice, swore allegiance to the Muslim faith, on the Koran I believe, when she was appointed and sworn in, I added.

Depending upon his motives, Dutch sort of mumbled, like he was deep in thought, I think it borders on treason. It’s like ‘aiding and abetting’ the enemy.

Still thinking out loud, he continued in a very soft voice, Seems to me that the constitution says something about getting their just powers from the consent of the people, and if they don’t, the people have the right to change or get rid of that government and put a new government in place of the bad one.

Dutch, do you know what you’re saying? I asked. Man, if the wrong person was to overhear that remark, it would mean court martial for both of us! But, I will have to say, I have been taking a close look at the constitution myself, these past several days.

Arriving back at Dutch’s office we went in; I sat in front of his desk in a large, dark brown leather chair. Dutch sat down behind his desk, checked his messages and told his secretary to hold his calls, unless someone extremely important called.

Dutch turned to the credenza behind his desk and pulled out a book. He opened it to a pre-marked page and started to read out loud, WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to affect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience has shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their Duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future Security…

Dutch stopped reading