Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  His thoughts then turned to the people of Syria. There had been talk around the water cooler and across the airwaves, open speculation about why the good people of the region didn’t rise up and solve their own problems. Why were such atrocities tolerated? How could the leaders of ISIS maintain their control over the citizenry?

  While he tried to avoid any involvement in political discussions, Zach knew the answers to those questions. How many times had he encountered an abused wife who stayed with the drunken, violent husband? Why did people in a neighborhood tolerate the meth lab down the street?

  Over and over again, the ranger had seen it. Every lawman had.

  There was some vein of humanity in the victim that allowed the bully to dominate… that loved the abuser… that continued to turn the other cheek.

  His mind returned to one of his first cases in West Texas. He closed his eyes as the memory replayed, as if to lessen the pain. It all began when his path crossed with that of an attractive, young woman who drove herself to a local hospital for treatment. The ranger remembered her tears, streaming past the dark, purplish bruises that surrounded both of her eyes. She struggled to answer his questions, unable to breathe through her broken nose.

  “Do you want to press charges?”

  “Oh, no. No, sir. He just drank a little too much tonight is all. Really, he’s a good guy. Really he is,” she managed through the sobs and pain.

  “The doctor tells me this is the third time this year you’ve shown up here with similar injuries. You don’t have to stay with him. I can help you get out of there and into a better place.”

  “I’ll be okay,” she managed through a forced smile.

  “Do you want me to go talk to him? I might be able to put some sense into his head,” Zach had offered.

  The concept had frightened her, a telltale indicator of unrelenting obsession and violence. “No, please don’t,” she’d rushed. “Really, I’ll be okay.”

  A month later, Zach was watching the EMTs load her lifeless body into an ambulance. Her husband was still inside the home, half of his brains scattered on the living room wall. He’d killed her and then shot himself with a 12-gauge.

  Were the people of Syria and Iraq any different?

  Why would any line of reasoning or logic predict a different outcome?

  Strolling to the bathroom, Zach checked his appearance in the mirror one last time before beginning his day. He realized there was a scowl on his face, wondered if the president’s speech was affecting him more than he wanted to admit.

  America, and the new Republic as well, fell victim to street gangs, corrupt politicians, and organized crime. Despite a well-established justice system and the world’s most extensive law enforcement organizations, such felonious groups survived – often with full knowledge of the surrounding citizenry. Wasn’t that demonstration of tolerance and head-in-the-sand attitude a parallel to the Syrian people allowing ISIS to rule their lands?

  Zach’s thoughts returned to the recent example of Crenshaw where the small town chief of police was as corrupt as any he’d seen. Was the act of trapping out-of-state travelers and eventually milking them for thousands of dollars any worse than what ISIS was doing to the citizens of the Middle East? Even if Moose hadn’t actually raped him, the mere threat would be considered torture by any civilized standard.

  The mayor had received numerous reports of the perversion of justice, so did the councilmen. The locals knew what was going on, yet no one had come forward or said a single word. Some of the residents were scared; others wanted to avoid stirring up trouble. Every man, woman, and child… everyone in that tiny community either knew, didn’t want to know, or was looking the other way, fostering an environment where evil could proliferate. An organization like ISIS would thrive in in Crenshaw, Texas, Zach considered.

  Only when the victims were miles away and safe did they start squawking. Why should anyone expect anything different from the Syrian people? If anything, beheadings, stonings, and other barbaric punishments would make tongues less likely to waggle.

  And to make matters worse, the operation in the remote Texas town was still exploiting victims. He was sure the rangers would fix that soon enough, but that wasn’t much condolence to those people still sitting in the Crenshaw jail.

  Heading for the truck, Zach’s mind then switched to the assignment of the day. Sam and he were to return to Arkansas and assist the local authorities with their investigation surrounding the incident at the farmhouse and associated activities.

  Ranger Bass sighed as he started the pickup. In reality, their orders were to travel to Arkansas to be interrogated and abused verbally for a week, maybe 10 days. It would start with the FBI. After they were finished, the state police would take over. And then, probably the worst of all would be the local sheriff, a man most likely embarrassed that a terrorist cell was operating right under his nose.

  To make matters worse, right in the middle of the countless debriefings and endless hours of having his judgement questioned from every possible angle, Sam and he would have to return to Texas for Hinton’s funeral.

  Zach missed the big guy already, the new ranger’s selfless act replaying over and over again in Zach’s mind. Truly, Hinton was the hero. Without Buck’s sacrifice, the hijacking would have gone as planned, and thousands might have perished.

  Zach backed his truck out of the driveway, taking one last glance at his humble dwelling. He knew it was going to be a long time before he saw his home again.

  Rolling toward Dallas, his melancholy mood brightened somewhat. At least he wouldn’t have to endure the torture alone. Ranger Temple would accompany him through the entire ordeal. They would help each other through it.

  While the Texas House and Senate debated the president’s request, the Lone Star nation’s Commander in Chief exercised his constitutional right and ordered the Republic’s sole carrier battle group into theMediterranean Sea.

  NATO, led by the United States, protested the move. With the aircraft carrier Ronald Regan as the centerpiece, the 11 warships imposed a 150-mile “safe zone” that denied all air and surface traffic in the vicinity. Concerns over safety, gridlock, and economic impact consumed the European airwaves. Texas pushed back, citing that American carrier groups had been plying the same waters since WWII without incident.

  Television newscasts and internet media played endless videos, most showing thousands upon thousands of troops preparing for war. In Corpus Christi, ROT Marines were filmed boarding the Republic’s array of amphibious assault vessels, the decks bristling with helicopter gunships, landing craft, and Abrams tanks.

  The normally touristy Galveston was being transformed as well. Houston news stations broadcasted images showing mile after mile of railroad cars loaded with heavy armor, artillery, and Apache helicopters. All were destined for the seaside city’s docks where huge ocean-going freighters waited to receive the deadly cargo. Beaumont, the Republic’s second-largest port, was the benefactor of even larger shipments.

  Texas had inherited roughly 9% of the U.S. Armed Service’s inventory after the secession, which on paper didn’t appear so daunting. Still, that heirloom made her the fourth most powerful military on earth.

  The other nations of the world took one of two stances, either erupting in protest or remaining silent on the sidelines.

  About the only friend supporting Texas was Israel. When higher levels of activity were detected around the Republic’s air bases, many analysts began speculating that the Lone Star Air Force was moving planes to forward operating bases outside of Tel-Aviv where they would have very short flying distances to targets in Syria and Iraq.

  ISIS rattled its sabers to a volume not heard since Saddam Hussein had predicted “the mother of all battles,” while facing the coalition’s significant offensive buildup. A call went out to all believers to take up arms, give money, and send fighters to defend the caliphate.

  When asked about his foe’s activities, President Simmons’s response was a
classic. “I hope all who believe in their cause make every effort to join them in Syria. It will save us a lot of time and trouble if we can eradicate them all in one place.”

  Above all else was the concern for the people of the region.

  No world leader could defend ISIS, nor could any sane voice support the brutal regime in Damascus. The only option left for blustering politicians and anti-war protesters was to raise concerns for the poor civilians who would be caught between the two opposing armies.

  Again, Simmons spoke clearly and defiantly. “Anyone who remains around the targets we’ve identified is in danger. We are going to obliterate the enemy’s capability to harm us. If I were a civilian in certain parts of Syria, I’d be getting out. Evacuees will be able to return soon. We won’t be there long.”

  Everyone from President Clifton to Russia’s Prime Minister used the potential of a humanitarian crisis as a safe sanctuary from which to protest Texas’s efforts. Most people could see through their objections. Neither nation wanted to lose regional influence.

  Syria’s neighbors remained mostly silent. The Saudis publically expressed concerns, but didn’t invest much energy in the effort. They were as scared of the ISIS monster living on their doorstep as anyone. Jordan, Lebanon, and even Iraq had little to say.

  It was the commanding general of the ROT Marines that landed the most damaging propaganda blow against the world’s latest oppressors. During a pre-departure briefing, in front of thousands of men readying to board their transports to war, the gung-ho officer held up a printed manual.

  Resembling a high school textbook, the general commanded, “If your hearts have any doubt about the evil we seek to eliminate from this earth, you must see this book. It is published by the Islamic State Research and Fatwa Department.”

  Several of the seated ranks chuckled, thinking their commanding officer was jesting. He wasn’t. “Gentlemen, unfortunately, I’m not joking. Our foe in Syria has established just such a government entity and this is one of their actual publications. It is a manual on how to own slaves, or more precisely, female sex slaves. It provides guidelines for the purchase, feeding, care, and rape of girls as young as 11. It employs a warped understanding of the Quran to justify such acts. As a result, there are now slave markets and government-owned facilities for the viewing, inspection, and purchase of female slaves. It has become quite the burgeoning industry.”

  The commander paused, scanning the grave, young faces he was about to lead into battle. “This is why men and women like ourselves exist. This is why we train, sacrifice, bleed, and put our lives on the line. We are here to crush such evil. To grind it into dust under the heels of our boots. Because if we don’t… if our kind didn’t exist… this wickedness would spread and fester. I ask each and every one of you, do you want your sisters, mothers, daughters, and nieces subjected to slavery?”

  “No, sir!” the collective voice boomed.

  “Do you want some man purchasing your daughter for his carnal pleasure?”

  “No, sir!” the voice thundered, even louder than before.

  “Then follow me, because I’m going over there and put a stop to this. I’m going to a foreign land, leaving my loved ones behind, and putting my life on the line. Why? Because it’s the right thing… the high ground… and because there’s no one else more qualified to wipe out this evil before it spreads. Come with me, and let’s wipe these bastards off the face of the earth! Are you with me?”

  “Yes, sir!” the voice roared, many of the Marines standing to shout.

  “Semper Fi!” the general ended, saluting, and then confidently stepping away.

  The video, of course, went viral on the internet. It wasn’t the general’s pep talk that fascinated so many, but rather the manual he had held. The NY Times verified its authenticity a few days later. Public outrage intensified.

  The airwaves vibrated with speculation, military talking heads and regional experts all offering their opinions regarding how effective the Texas military would be if the campaign ever were implemented. Predictions of heavy causalities weighed on all concerned. However, there was also a positive aspect, a rising nationalistic pride, a feeling of accomplishment now that someone was actually doing something about those madmen and their caliphate.

  Despite the bravado, Zach and Sam could sense the cloud of foreboding and general melancholy that covered their nation like a cold morning’s fog. War was on the horizon, and notwithstanding all of the swagger, nearly every person living in the Republic was impacted. How many caskets would come home, draped with a flag containing a lone star?

  “I’m convinced that there is an organized, purpose-driven operation responsible for all of this. I can just feel it in my bones,” Zach told his partner. “The oilfield parts… the counterfeit currency… the hijacking… it’s all related somehow.”

  Nodding, Sam replied, “I agree, but the feeling in your bones isn’t going to be enough for President Simmons or the world stage. We need proof. Hard, solid, evidence. Unless we can come up with that, a lot of brave, young men and women are about to die.”

  The debate inside Texas’s Congressional halls had lasted almost 10 days, ending in a nearly unanimous vote. The world’s newest Republic was going to war.

  Her citizens held their breath, praying for military family and friends, doing their best to offer support and display their patriotism. The world watched with mixed emotions, waiting for the inevitable. They didn’t have to wait long.

  Less than six hours after the final Senate vote was tallied, a series of white streaks sped across the Syrian sky. Those who knew of such things identified them immediately as the com trails generated by extremely high-flying aircraft.

  Texas had eight B-52H heavy bombers in her fleet of combat aircraft, and the generals wasted little time deploying the “buffs.”

  Their storage racks were full of dumb bombs, tipping the scales at a staggering 500 pounds per warhead. Each of the huge, 1950’s era jets carried dozens of the massive weapons.

  The formation separated as soon as the pilots passed over the Syrian coast, individual aircraft changing vectors for runs against previously designated targets.

  There were five primary oilfields under ISIS’s control, the largest of which covered almost 150 square miles. Two of the warbirds peeled off, the Omar field in their sights. Other, less prolific facilities would receive their share of attention as well.

  Despite all of the major refineries being under Damascus’s control, ISIS still managed to smuggle $2-3 million dollars’ worth of oil per day onto the black market. The Lone Star Air Force was about to put a huge dent into that revenue stream.

  As the small fleet of bombers crossed into Syrian airspace, thousands of ROT (Republic of Texas) Marines were disembarking from the assault ships off the coast, the port city of Latakia just 20 kilometers away. Their mission was simple. Take the port and surrounding town so Texas could move in its heavy divisions.

  As the assault ships neared the coast, three heavy cruisers from the carrier battle group began firing their salvos, targeted gun and anti-aircraft positions of the Syrian military designated by drone flights just an hour before. The incoming fire was accurate, the entire sequence of identification, location, and trajectory all controlled by microchips.

  After destroying the close-in facilities with their deck guns, the big ships began unleashing Tomahawk Cruise Missiles directed at objectives further inland.

  The Marines, now motoring for shore aboard hovercraft, landing vehicles, and helicopters, watched as thousands of pounds of explosive ordnance flew over their heads. No one had ever seen anything like it.

  When the first wave was a mile from shore, the gunships appeared. Wave after wave of Cobra helicopters roared overhead, bristling with missiles, rockets, and deadly chain guns. The leathernecks began whooping and cheering as the deadly warbirds made for the coast.

  And then the first Marines landed, spilling out and rolling ashore, spreading quickly to achieve their
objectives.

  There was some resistance, but it was half-hearted and completely ineffective. A few bouts of small arms fire, two snipers, and one ultra-brave tank crew tried to counter the invaders. All of the defenders were neutralized within minutes.

  Hundreds of miles inland, the first two B-52s reached their targets. Streams of bombs began falling from the underbelly of the massive machines. While the drop may have looked haphazard, in reality it was carefully controlled to achieve maximum damage from the carpet of explosives about to impact the desert.

  The detonation of a single 500-pound bomb literally shakes the earth, generating 3 pounds per square inch of overpressure out to 100 yards. That’s enough to collapse the wall of a house or the lung of a human. The blast from hundreds of such explosions is an experience unlike any other in warfare.

  During the First Gulf War, the U.S. Air Force intentionally ordered the B-52s to drop such weapons “near” an Iraqi division in order to avoid collateral damage. The objective was to demoralize the ground troops. It worked, with thousands surrendering after only a few days of bombardment. Some of the enemy soldiers claimed they hadn’t slept in over a week, bounced and tossed around in their bunkers as the bombs continued to fall.

  The Texas Air Force had no intention of missing its targets. With their payload fused for delayed detonations, the steel-cased bombs struck the desert below, burrowing into the sand, and then exploding.

  Seismic sensors as far away as India detected the event, the Texas Air Force essentially creating a manmade earthquake. As the shock waves spread through the loose Syrian soil, well casings as far as 200 feet below the surface shattered and collapsed, underground transfer pipes folded like paper, and entire sections of valves, pumps, and control stations were instantly destroyed.

  In less than 20 seconds, one of the world’s most productive oilfields became nothing more than a cratered swath of worthless real estate. It would take years to rebuild the infrastructure, and in the meantime, ISIS wouldn’t be pumping oil.