Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  The rain began to fall in sheets, adding to the already melancholy mood inside the pickup.

  “You don’t have any problem getting wet, do you?” Zach asked, tracing her movements as she pulled the seatbelt across her lap.

  The passenger’s eyebrows knotted, chasing her face into a full-fledged grimace. “And just what is that supposed to mean, Ranger Bass?”

  “You just have such a sweet personality…. You know, sugar melting in the rain... that’s all I meant.”

  An innocent grin crossed her lips. “Uh-huh. Keep it up, Zach, and these slick hands may experience an accidental discharge of my firearm - directly into one of your sensitive areas.”

  “This is an outrage, President Simmons. It’s bad enough that Texas refuses to join the United Nations and has yet to ratify a single international treaty. But now… now, you’ve gone and given ISIS about the best propaganda generator and recruiting tool those ruthless bastards could ask for. Isn’t anyone minding the shop down there?”

  The first president of the new nation glanced at his aide, taking a deep breath to control his temper and maintain a diplomatic tone. “Madam President, I assure you there is more to this story than meets the eye. That shipment of parts could have come from any number of third parties. I’ve already spoken with the chief executive officer at the manufacturer, and he assured me that his company did not sell any equipment to Syria. Furthermore, I’m assigning the Texas Rangers to unravel this entire ordeal. I’m making it their top priority.”

  “Perhaps,” Heidi Clifton inhaled. “Perhaps not. Greed knows few boundaries, sir. Regardless, ISIS is splashing pictures and video of Assad’s forces receiving tons of cargo with ‘Texas’ stamped on the side of the crates. Those bastards claim to have physical proof as well. I’ve got everyone from the Saudis to the King of Jordan calling the State Department and raising hell.”

  Simmons let a little more exasperation enter his response. “First of all, Mrs. Clifton, the Saudis or anyone else with a beef is welcome to call us directly. Why they would come to you with a complaint about the actions of another sovereign nation is beyond me. Secondly, even if this account were true, I’m not so sure it would be the international incident everyone is making it out to be. From where I’m sitting, Assad is the only one who is gaining any ground against ISIS at the moment. His forces seem to be the only ones holding their own and taking the fight directly to the enemy.”

  “Are you saying that Texas is going to support Assad? Are you actually taking that position?”

  “No, please don’t twist my words, ma’am. But we both know it is a legitimate question. Is supporting the enemy of my enemy really such a terrible transgression? Which is the lesser of the two evils, Mrs. Clifton? Assad or ISIS?”

  “Neither is acceptable, and everybody knows it.”

  Simmons grunted, “Ma’am, that’s the difference between your international policy and ours. We look at Syria and say, ‘The choice is not ours to make.’ The U.S.A. looks at the same situation and says, ‘We don’t like either of the frontrunners. Neither is acceptable, so we’re going to try and bolster a third party.’ The problem is… there is no third party to support.”

  “We can’t solve every problem around the globe, Mr. Simmons,” came the terse reply. “But that doesn’t mean we can put on blinders or stick our heads in the sand. History has proven that American isolationism leads to bigger problems in the future. You should keep that in mind as your government forms its foreign policies.”

  Rubbing his temple, Simmons replied, “Madam, I’m well aware that Washington would like nothing more than for us to be good, little neighbors, keep our mouths shut, and walk in unison with our ally to the north. But there is a reason why we separated, and I would ignore our differences at my own peril. Texas doesn’t see everything the same way as the U.S. That is a fact that we must both learn to deal with.”

  “We didn’t grant secession so that Texas could start causing global issues and destroying years of diplomatic investment. Like it or not, the world still views your nation as part of the United States. I would be having the same conversation with the prime minister of Canada if the Canucks had screwed up this badly.”

  The call lasted another 10 minutes, the conversation accomplishing little more than exasperating both leaders.

  After disconnecting the line to Washington, Simmons stared at his aide with a helpless expression. “Of all the subjects we need to address… of all the problems that plague both of our nations, she wasted every precious minute on this stupid Syrian thing. It’s no wonder the planet is such a mess. Doesn’t anyone know what’s important anymore?”

  “It will pass, sir. International incidents such as these burn bright and hot for the 24-hour news cycle and then fade away. I suggest you take a few moments and clear your head before meeting with the rangers.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Simmons replied, trying to rub the stress from his temples.

  A gentle rap on the doorframe caused both of the Republic’s top men to start. “Sir,” began the slightly embarrassed admin, “The Secretary of Commerce is on line one. He said it’s urgent.”

  “What now,” Simmons grumbled. “This can’t be good.”

  “Peter, how are you this morning?” greeted the president.

  “I wish I could report better news, sir, but I just got off the phone with a representative from OPEC. It seems this morning’s breakfast television has angered some of our oil producing neighbors, and there is a call to boycott all equipment made in Texas.”

  Simmons was astounded. “Are you serious? Just because some asshole hijacked a shipment of parts? What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but if an embargo actually materializes, it’s not going to go over well. Oilfield tools and equipment are some of our nation’s leading exports. Tens of thousands of jobs depend on that industry.”

  Two minutes later, after ending the call with his cabinet member, Simmons was again rubbing his temples.

  The ever-present aide cleared his throat and said, “I’d love to give you time to digest this latest event, sir, but your meeting with the rangers starts in a few minutes. Hopefully, they’ll clear this entire mess up in short order.”

  Simmons glanced up and acknowledged the advisor’s statement with a nod. “God bless Texas… and her rangers,” he mumbled.

  Zach found the conference room three minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin. He was surprised to see only a handful of rangers waiting inside. None of the faces were familiar.

  When he’d joined the elite organization a few years before the secession, their number had been less than 200 lawmen. Now there were ten times that many and more joining their ranks every day.

  Despite their relatively small number, the pre-secession members had been spread all over the Lone Star State, many in remote areas. Even when conferences, training, or other events called them together, there rarely was time for a lot of socializing. Today was no exception.

  Sam picked an empty seat, removing her hat and setting it on the table’s mahogany surface, joining the host of other nearly identical ornaments.

  The rangers didn’t have an official uniform. In fact, regulations merely stated that officers should dress in “proper western attire and present a professional appearance at all times.”

  For years, individual company commanders would dictate how the men under their command would appear while interacting with the public. Over time, with the advent of the internet and cell phones, the organization began to loosely standardize. White hats were currently vogue.

  Sam drew a lot of attention, mostly due to her being only one of three lady rangers presently serving. She, like her male counterparts, was dressed in khaki slacks, starched white shirt, and obligatory string tie. Despite her best efforts and conservative attire, the male eye was still drawn in her direction. Zach wondered how much it bothered her. Thoughts of Cheyenne’s troubles dealing with her adolescent years drifted into his m
ind. The similarities between the two women in his life were astounding.

  A few moments later, President Simmons burst into the room, closely followed by Putnam, two other company commanders, and the man commanding the rangers, Colonel Bowmark.

  All of those attending stood to show respect, the act seeming to cause the Republic’s top man a flash of embarrassment. “Please, gentlemen… and lady… be seated.”

  “As I'm sure most of you are aware, the world is in an uproar over the accusation that one of our nation’s manufacturers has apparently been selling oilfield equipment to the Syrian government. I just got off the phone with President Clifton and assured her that our finest law enforcement officers would get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible. That’s why I asked the Colonel to call all of you here.”

  Simmons scanned the room and then continued. “I can’t stress how critical this situation is to the Republic. This is extremely damaging to our image and reputation, occurring just as we’re working to establish several key trading partners. The ongoing tariff issues with our former countrymen are likely to get worse before they get better, and our nation needs to present itself as a responsible international citizen and trustworthy associate.”

  The Republic’s first president seemed reassured when several heads nodded in understanding. The support brought a thin smile to his lips.

  “And with that, I’ll get out of your hair and back to governing. God bless Texas.”

  Colonel Bowmark wasted little time, stepping to the front of the room before the chief executive was even out the door.

  One team of rangers was assigned digital forensics duties, tracing the electronic correspondence, bill of lading, purchase orders, and other paperwork.

  Another unfortunate lawman was given the task of coordinating with the American FBI and intelligence services, an endeavor everyone in the room knew was a dead end.

  When it was Zach and Samantha’s turn, the officers were relieved to be given a field assignment. “Rangers Bass and Temple, you are to follow the cargo’s trail from where it was machined in Houston to its eventual shipment and delivery.”

  The assignment made sense, especially given Sam’s years on the Houston police force and her knowledge of the Bayou City’s terrain.

  Each ranger was given a package of information pertaining to the case, as well as the data required to access the law enforcement database where a computerized system of filing would assist with coordinating the multiple teams.

  “We run our investigations in the cloud now,” Zach leaned over and whispered to his partner. “Or is that a fog?”

  And then the briefing was over, no one having any additional questions for Colonel Bowmark.

  As Zach and Sam shuffled out of the room, the lady ranger stopped short as if she’d suddenly remembered something important.

  “What the matter?” Zach asked.

  “I forgot to ask Colonel Bowmark for a copy of that all-exalted ranger handbook.”

  “Now is not the time anyway,” Zach responded a little too quickly. “You see, I’ll get in trouble for not having provided you a copy. All new rangers are supposed to be issued one by their training officers,” he recovered. “Besides, you’re doing so well, I just really haven’t made it a priority.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, why don’t you perform your duties and find me a copy while we’re here in the headquarters building?”

  “I would, but we’ve got to be busting trail for Houston. You heard President Simmons – this assignment is critical. Besides, I heard that the revised edition is on backorder anyway – so many changes had to be made since the Lone Star State became a new country and all.”

  And without another word, Zach pivoted and made for the door.

  Sam rolled her eyes in exasperation and then followed her partner. “Backorder, my foot.”

  Most men would have found the tiny cabin and coffin-like berth cramped at best, claustrophobic at worse.

  Not Ghost. He’d survived much tighter spaces, endured far less accommodating quarters.

  The relaxing, constant throb of the freighter’s massive diesel, combined with the ship’s gentle sway as it crossed the Atlantic, were like a mother’s soothing lullaby, pulling him into the depths of a sleep he hadn’t experienced in years.

  But such a place was a two-edged sword for the Arab. The images that paraded through his dreams were all too familiar, the reoccurring nightmares having fueled an emotional rage that had powered him through most of his adult life.

  The vision was striking, a broad-shouldered, eagle-eyed man riding with his upper torso extended from the turret of a massive, Soviet T-64 battle tank.

  Behind him, an armored column stretched for over three miles, hundreds of treds and wheels disturbing the fine dust of the Golan Heights as the Syrian army poured across the line of demarcation.

  Due to headquarters warning that the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces) may have mined the area, Colonel al-Shaar wasn’t in the lead vehicle. From the expression on his face, the officer wasn’t happy about it. But orders were orders.

  The colonel was a recruiting poster for the Syrian Army. With coal black hair and substantial mustache accenting his hawk-like features, the brigade commander had risen quickly through the ranks. Aggressive, intelligent, and an excellent student of modern armored warfare, he commanded one of his king’s most highly trained, best-equipped combat units.

  Five kilometers of Israeli territory was behind them before the colonel would accept that the planners had indeed gotten it right this time. The Zionist dogs were celebrating their holiest day, Yom Kipper. They were unprepared, taken completely by surprise, and soon Syria would again hold the strategically critical Golan Heights.

  But it was more than mere territory that drove Colonel al-Shaar. He wanted to reestablish credibility for the Arab warrior, desperately desired to make amends for the thrashing Israel had delivered to her Muslin neighbors during the Six Day War.

  At 10 kilometers, al-Shaar began to worry. They should’ve encountered some resistance by now. The few radio reports that drifted across the expansive front confirming that the IDF was indeed intent on standing and fighting. So where were the two brigades expected to engage them?

  At 12 kilometers, al-Shaar called a halt.

  Once, early in his career, a Soviet trainer had stressed an important rule of war. If things are going smoothly, you’re probably walking into an ambush.

  That would make sense, the Syrian commander thought. The Jewish pigs had to know they were outnumbered and outgunned. Their only tactical option was to lay an ambush and hope to surprise the hard-charging enemy from the east.

  Al-Shaar was also well aware of the devastation that could be inflicted by such a maneuver. He wasn’t going to stumble into anyone’s trap and watch his men wither in a kill zone.

  The first order was to move his armor into defensive positions, a command that consumed 90 minutes. Next, he sent scouts forward to twice their normal distance… and waited.

  An hour passed, and then another before the first reports started drifting in. There was nothing but open desert before them.

  Still hesitating, al-Shaar considered what would appear to be a miracle. Had the IDF collapsed? Had his enemy already retreated?

  He made his decision quickly, ordering the reformation of their column. They would continue, cautiously, onto their original objective.

  Another two hours passed before the brigade was again ready to take ground. Just as the lead scouts were moving to the front of the force, a transmission sounded over the command frequencies – all units of the Syrian Army were to retreat. The IDF had broken through and Damascus was now in danger of Jewish counter-attack. Every man under arms was needed to defend the capital.

  Despite the deep REM, Ghost frowned, some defensive part of his brain wanting the nightmare to stop. It didn’t. It never did.

  The dream fast-forwarded, instantly leaping forward several weeks. There, resplendent in his best dress uniform
and at full attention, al-Shaar stood in front of the Syrian Army’s High Command.

  “This tribunal finds you guilty of treason, cowardice in the face of the enemy and conduct unbecoming an officer of his majesty’s army,” announced a gray-haired man in the gaudiest of uniforms.

  “If your brigade hadn’t faltered, Colonel, the Israeli forces would have been compelled to pivot and address the threat imposed by your penetration. Instead, your decision and direct orders to delay allowed our enemies to regroup. In addition, the six hours you spent idling in the desert gave the IDF time to mobilize four armored battalions of their reserves. Your actions are one of the primary reasons for our defeat, sir.”

  A second man then cleared his throat and stared the colonel directly in the eye. “The penalty for treason is death. This tribunal, as well as his majesty King Assad, hereby orders that you be executed by firing squad immediately.”

  A woman’s voice sounded in the background, a weak, sobbing, “No. Please no.”

  For the first time since the trial had begun, Colonel al-Shaar broke discipline and turned to see his wife. Their eye contact was brief, as the officer was immediately bookended by four burly soldiers who moved the prisoner toward a nondescript door.

  Again, the colonel’s wife let her protest be heard, a pleading, tearful outburst begging for her husband’s life. It was to no avail.

  Six rifles were raised and aimed at the officer’s chest after the brief walk to the military compound’s courtyard. The order to fire came without hesitation, the man once hailed as the next member of Assad’s inner circle crumpling to the ground as most of his torso was ripped to shreds by hot lead.

  Ghost leapt from his berth, his sleep abruptly terminated, anger filling his mind’s sudden void.

  He’d had the same dream for most of his adult life, the reoccurring nightmare now a permanent feature of his nocturnal existence.