Secession II: The Flood

by Joe Nobody

  Another wave of large aircraft descended from the south, the new arrivals filled with airborne infantry rather than bombs. Before the dust began to settle from the B-52 strike, the air above Syria’s two main hydroelectric dams was dotted with parachutes.

  Over 80% of the population in ISIS-controlled territory received its electrical power from the two massive hydro-electrical facilities, and both were heavily defended.

  Each was soon to be visited by over 3,000 of the Republic’s most capable light infantry. The caliphate sought to rule with a philosophy that dated long before the invention of electricity, and the Texas Airborne was about to help them establish the ambiance of that period.

  Less than four hours after the operation began, a parade of cargo vessels appeared on the Mediterranean’s horizon. One after another, they streamed toward the Syrian port, massive container ships and freighters laden with the weapons of war.

  The Texas 7th Cavalry was arriving, the Lone Star nation’s heavy infantry division considered by many to be one of the most potent fighting forces on the planet. Dusk was just settling when the first M1A3 Abrams main battle tank was gently lowered to Syrian soil by a cargo crane. There were over 1300 more massive machines left to unload.

  Interspaced with the vessels carrying the division’s hardware glided numerous, glistening white cruise ships, each a temporary home for thousands of the 7th officers and enlisted. The first of them to disembark found a homemade sign at the bottom of the gangplank, “Welcome to Syria, courtesy of the ROT Marines.”

  “How are the negotiations going?” President Simmons asked his aide. “I need some good news.”

  “China would love to sell us the steel we so desperately need. We, of course, have an excess capacity of oil and natural gas. While it would seem like a match made in heaven, there still appears to be some sort of issue, and our team isn’t quite sure what the problem is. When their head delegate asked for a private meeting with you, it ignited hope that the mystery would be resolved.”

  “Any idea on what bee is in their bonnet?”

  “The most difficult discussions so far have centered on currency valuation. Both oil and steel are commodities, and subject to global markets setting the price. Their official line boils down to a bunch of crap… some skepticism about how we are going to manage our international banking given that we aren’t a member of the World Bank and haven’t registered our currency on any of the exchanges.”

  Glancing at his watch, President Simmons nodded. “But you don’t buy the official line?”

  “No, no one on the negotiation team does. We think they’re getting cold feet about the counterfeit money scheme and our preparations for war.”

  Simmons nodded. It made sense.

  The relationship with China wasn’t the only one that was suffering due to recent headlines. A manufacturing contract with a major German firm had been canceled yesterday. Negotiations with Detroit’s automakers had been canceled two days prior.

  Making matters worse, Washington seemed to be fanning the flames of discontent.

  While the fledging Republic struggled to build infrastructure, establish trading partners, and navigate a global minefield of issues and politics, the White House seemed to take great joy in making Texas look like a fool.

  Simmons had heard rumors that the power brokers running the U.S.A. were having “Secession remorse,” and their actions seemed to prove it.

  Finally rising from his desk, the Republic’s chief executive shook it off. He couldn’t control what the crybabies in Washington were doing or saying. He could only steer the new nation’s destiny via direct action and honest dealings.

  “Let’s go see what our Chinese friends have to say,” the president suggested with a renewed vigor.

  The two Texas officials left the president’s office and made their way to the executive conference room. The Chinese delegation, consisting of only two men, was already seated.

  Simmons pasted on his brightest diplomatic smile, entering the room with his hand extended, “Gentlemen! It is such a pleasure to meet with you!”

  The Republic’s top elected official seemed unfazed by the stoic, all-business faces that coldly accepted his greeting.

  A few moments later, everyone was seated around the huge table.

  “I’ll make this short and blunt,” began the Asian representative. “The People’s Republic of China is unwilling to accept the latest proposal offered by the Texas negotiators at this time. Furthermore, we see little value in a continuing dialogue.”

  Simmons was stunned by the rejection. “With all due respect, sir, why? Why this sudden reversal in position?”

  The man shrugged, as if Simmons’s question wasn’t all that important. “My country chooses its trading partners carefully, Mr. President. We look at commitments in the long term. Stability, international perception, and a track record of upstanding global citizenship are all important aspects of any relationship.”

  Simmons decided to remain silent, hoping the representative would expand his reasoning beyond the blurb of political double-speak. He did.

  “The People’s Republic, as well as numerous other foreign governments of significance, is most concerned about the financial stability of your nation. Texas is moving toward a war that could result in fiscal devastation. This fact is in addition to a string of incidents that leads us to question if your new nation is mature enough to honor its side of any agreement. Since some portion of our trade arrangement is based on credit accounts for both parties, we feel it within the boundaries of the current negotiations to have these concerns.”

  Simmons was shocked, barely containing the indignant phrases forming in his throat. He somehow managed to retain a statesman-like tone. “Sir, we’ve had some of the world’s most respected economic minds study, review, and approve of our future plans. We can manage our affairs and still be a stable trading partner.”

  “Time will tell, Mr. President. Perhaps we can reopen these discussions after current events play out. In the meantime, we wish you well.”

  While President Simmons wasn’t always the most polished or diplomatic man in the room, he was far from stupid. Grasping the message being delivered from Beijing, he shook his head in disgust. “As you wish, sir.”

  Without another word, the two Asian diplomats rose to leave.

  The exchanged handshakes were cold, the frustration of both parties thick in the air. After the visitors had left, Simmons’s aide turned and expressed a rare bout of emotion. “Damn it! We need that steel. We need markets for our petroleum products. Somehow, I feel like Washington has something to do with this. The White House is peddling influence and calling in favors.”

  The president shook his head in disagreement. “No, Scotty, I don’t think that’s it. They are worried about Texas becoming another rogue nation. They already have their hands full with the North Koreans. Sure, Washington isn’t happy about our recent actions, but the Communist Party in China is extremely vulnerable right now. I think we’re rocking the global boat a little too much for their comfort.”

  As was his habit, the aide pondered his boss’s remark for several seconds before speaking. Finally, he said, “Is it ever good to scare the hell out of a giant?”

  Simmons grinned, “We’re surely about to find out. Our new nation might not have any friends left after the next few months have passed.”

  Chapter 12

  It was three days before the first brigade of the 7th Cavalry was ready to roll.

  With the Marines securing the beachhead and surrounding area, the lead units of the heavily armored juggernaut crossed into Syrian territory headed east and toward the heartland of ISIS.

  Most of the officers planning and leading the campaign were veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts. They had learned the lessons well, and they were not willing to make the same mistakes that had plagued the U.S. Army for years.

  The best military minds from Texas knew that a force-on-force encounter was extremely u
nlikely. ISIS stockpiled very few tanks… and even less ammunition. There were no known air assets in the extremist’s order of battle.

  The knowledge translated into a very unusual forward element striking out across the arid countryside. Instead of leading with scout Humvees or tanks, it was the division’s minesweepers that took the lead positions. ISIS would do as the Iraqi and Taliban insurgents had done for years, lay roadside bombs and hope to slow the Texans down with attrition and decaying morale.

  Another tactic often employed by the caliphate’s “soldiers” was to approach an enemy’s lines in automobiles owned by private citizens. Dressed as civilians, with women and children in tow, the camouflaged offensive force would actually be loaded with explosives rather than the week’s groceries, book bags and video games.

  When in close proximity, the suicide bomber would detonate, killing as many foe as possible. Again, the Texas officers were ready for this tactic, ordering their men to fire upon any approaching vehicle, no matter how innocent looking. It was brutal and risky… but necessary.

  Twenty miles inland, the first major surprise of the Texas invasion occurred. Instead of continuing east and south, the lead column turned north toward the Turkish border. When reports of the maneuver reached the ISIS commanders, a mini-celebration broke out. The cowards were afraid to enter the caliphate.

  Their joy was short-lived.

  On D-Day plus two, the second and third brigades followed, multiple columns of unstoppable armor leaving the coast and then turning north. The Texas Army released a video flyover to the news media, the brief recording showing miles of miles of war machines advancing across the desert hills.

  It was on D-Day plus four that the ISIS leadership finally figured it out. The Texans were forming a blockade along the border with Turkey. All of their televised tough talk and bravado had offered misinformation, deliberate falsehoods used to confuse the enemy.

  At first, the ISIS commanders didn’t know what to make of the strategy. They had been marshalling their troops and assets to engage the infidels on their own terms, deep inside their home turf. Now, after scrambling and wasting precious resources to position their forces, there was no one to fight. It was puzzling.

  But not to everyone.

  It was the mullah who controlled the finances of the organization who sounded the first alarm. The Texans were going to deny access to the thousands of smugglers who sold their oil via the black market in Turkey.

  The routes used to sneak goods and people between the two countries were generations old, often managed by the same families for hundreds of years. Some estimates put the number at over 300 separate crossing points along the 500-mile shared border.

  Despite Turkey’s NATO membership and their being a declared enemy of ISIS, the bootleg oil had continued to flow nearly unabated since the radical group had established itself in the Syrian heartland just to the south. It was the caliphate’s primary source of revenue and hard currency.

  By D-Day plus seven, the Texas forces were in position. They didn’t have to cover the entire border, as hundreds of miles were impassable due to steep mountain ranges and rugged terrain. Again, the planners had been prepared, accessed satellite imagery and detailed oil exploration maps that had been compiled over the previous decades.

  In fact, only about 400 kilometers of blockade were necessary, a task easily accomplished by the forces deployed along the border. No oil was going to pass into Turkey.

  The 7th began digging in, building fortified firebases and laying miles of minefields. Not a single causality was reported.

  Ghost watched the invasion from his flat in Nicosia, Cypress, less than 100 miles away from the Syrian shore. The busy sidewalk cafes, constant stream of shoppers, and delightful weather outside his balcony were in stark contrast to the images displayed via his satellite dish. Were it not for the 24x7-news coverage, the ongoing conflict could have been on the other side of the planet.

  That was just fine with Ghost.

  After the violence and subsequent close call in America, he needed the down time, returning to his hometown to soak up the sunshine, sip first-rate Greek frappe, and absorb the sights and sounds of his childhood island. It all served to bleed the stress from his body and allowed his mind to reset.

  Having no commitment to one side or the other, his interest in the events playing out on the mainland was more from a perspective of opportunity than rooting for any cause or flag. He knew his own limits and drive. In a few more days, he’d become bored and fidgety.

  From what he could discern, things weren’t going well for those who ran the caliphate. That was no surprise.

  Texas was playing it smart, letting the radical government burn through its money, starving it of resupply. This was basic warfare strategy, employed since the invention of organized aggression. Probably even before that.

  For those reasons, it was no surprise when the message came through. One of the ISIS leaders, the man who had initially hired him to attack Texas, wanted a meeting. The location, however, was a bit of a shock. According to the email, Abu was on the island of Cypress.

  He had typed the return message carefully, agreeing to the semi-coded correspondence’s implied place and time.

  Glancing at his watch, Ghost pulled on a lightweight sports jacket and exited the flat. It was only 12 blocks to the coffee shop. He’d met Abu there once before.

  As always, Ghost was vigilant, arriving early to ensure their meeting was confidential. He wasn’t overly concerned as this was his home turf, and a few key government officials were on his payroll. He would know if any surveillance was afoot. Not even Interpol could operate on Cypress without his knowledge.

  The two men greeted each other with a hug and a pat on the back. Despite the welcoming gesture, Ghost knew immediately his client wasn’t a happy man.

  “No one saw this coming,” Abu began, referring to the invasion. “No one predicted that the Texas military would simply blockade the border and wait for us to starve. They control the dams, so there is no electricity, and thus little commerce is taking place. We can’t collect taxes and fees if people aren’t working. The same is true of the oil revenue. They flattened the big fields. It will be months before we can draw the black gold from the ground. But with the blockade, we can’t even sell our reserves.”

  “You wanted them close to you,” Ghost replied evenly. “You wanted them within your reach.”

  “We wanted them to fight, not build minefields and hide behind fortified walls with constant air cover.”

  Ghost shrugged, “You cannot control your enemy on the battlefield. You must adapt, or the caliphate will fall.”

  With overwhelmingly piercing eyes, Abu studied the man across from him as if he were looking for some sign. Finally, he spoke. “This is why I am here. I know of no one as creative as the Ghost. Your efforts against Texas were successful, with perhaps the exception of the hijacking. Even that drew headlines and generated fear in our enemy’s homeland. We are so close to turning America and Texas against each other. We must think of something that will put them at each other’s throat.”

  Ghost had to hand to the man; he’d been thinking the exact same thing. “There is a way that will most likely produce results, but nothing is guaranteed in love or war. It will be very expensive as well. Very.”

  Waving a hand through the air, Abu dismissed the concern. “You speak of money when our cause is about to wither up and die by the infidel’s hand. Enough of this nonsense. Tell me of your plan.”

  For the next hour, Ghost explained his concept, delving into enough detail that the ISIS leader left the meeting with a confident stride and uplifted attitude.

  Again, Ghost found himself in the employ of the caliphate.

  They journeyed from all over the Republic… tall, stoic men wearing Western hats, their best shirts, and polished boots.

  Hinton’s casket was closed, a fact that bothered Zach more than he’d anticipated. It would have been good to look his old fr
iend in the face one last time.

  The ranger’s mood was already foul, the authorities in Arkansas grilling Sam and him over and over and over again. Every decision had been tested, reversed, and dissected from all possible angles. And that was just the FBI.

  Zach glanced over the gathering lawmen, his mind wondering how many of them put part of the blame for Hinton’s demise squarely on his shoulders. No one had stated such a position, but he knew some of them were thinking along those lines.

  He felt alone and isolated, now the black sheep of what was one of the closest-knit communities in existence. What made it all so much worse was the fact that he was guilty as charged.

  Throughout the ranks of law enforcement, Zach’s decision at Bubba Bender’s cabin was well known. While Colonel Bowman and the major had kept Zach and Samantha’s pictures and names out of the headlines, the rank and file was well aware of the incident and who was involved. The oilfield equipment landing in Syria was a critical case, and information was shared openly across the various agencies of the Republic.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, it went deeper than that.

  Lawmen were lawmen, regardless of whether the badge said they were FBI or the Crenshaw Police Department. It was a profession that required skepticism to survive, teaching a man to question everything. Zach’s actions and deeds were no exception.

  Just like the FBI in Arkansas, Zach’s fellow rangers would be mentally dredging up every incident from the past. Already, the U.S. agents had hammered relentlessly on the incident involving the assault of a federal officer, his shootout with the deputies in Louisiana, the theft of a police car, and finally the killing of Major Alcorn.

  Despite the ballistics clearing the ranger of any wrongdoing with Bubba Bender, that entire incident was still an open case.

  No, Zachariah Bass had a long and violent history in his file. Like any other criminal, his record was part of the story.