by Reed Hill
Callie found a cream silk shell and stripped off the worn Baylor t-shirt so she could throw it on, along with a new bra, snatched her black work heels and headed for the door. She slipped on the shoes and grabbed her laptop case by the door where she had left it three hours before when she had gotten home. She hustled down the stairs and rummaged through the outside pocket of her case for her keys.
She slid into her little silver Mazda, which she had parked on the street. The convertible fired up fast, and she sped down Colorado Avenue. Even though she was only eight blocks from the governor’s mansion, she didn’t want to waste the time walking or risk arriving disheveled and out of breath. A quick check in the rearview mirror revealed her makeup from last night still intact, and she chuckled, pushing a glob of mascara away. She rarely wore any base, preferring to enhance what God gave her with just a little lipstick and mascara, with maybe an occasional touch of blush on her light, silky skin. She clicked her tongue in protest as she rubbed the tiny wrinkles at the edges of her eyes. We lawyers sure are a vain lot.
She allowed herself a slight grin, despite the stress. This legal battle with the federal government was taking its toll on her, and the strain of how fragile things had become in the country was too. She had been privy to many documents over the past four years, but you didn’t have to be a legal eagle to see that all the legislative muck and administrative mire were there to whitewash an old house that was falling down. Her summers chasing butterflies in the garden on the farm outside Sweetwater seemed so far away. How she longed for that simpler life.
The past year certainly had been a political whirlwind. The masochistic fracture of the Republican Party a few years back had caused the rise of the Liberty Party. The three-way split of the electorate ultimately led to Mallory Denton’s election in the fall. The high hopes Callie had for President Denton’s agenda turned to disappointment. Denton’s policies were as aggressive toward civil liberties as Obama’s, if not more so. There was a metric ton of new regulations coming out the Environmental Protection Agency. While Callie considered herself a “green” thinking person, the new EPA regulations were just poisoning the business climate.
Obamacare was the law, and people had begun to adjust after several years of turmoil and resistance. At the time, Callie had thought it sounded like a good plan, but even she had to concede that the Affordable Care Act had become a ravenous leviathan when it consolidated Medicare and Medicaid. It now consumed 45% of the federal budget. She could overlook the money, but the real problem was that care was worse. Twenty-five percent of the doctors practicing in 2012 had left the system, either through retirement or opting out. No one wanted to talk about rationing of care, but she knew it was real from her parents’ experiences – she didn’t want to think about the QE panels set up in the counties. Quality and Efficiency was the directive, but the results had been too few resources for the number of sick people.
Ten years ago, she would have said that the Liberty Party was a bunch of whackos, but in these tumultuous days, they were the only ones who seemed to care about the Constitution. As a lawyer, she had come to see that the Liberty Party leaders were the only ones standing up for what the Founders had set forth for the country, and really its only real hope for the future. That’s also why she appreciated Governor Chase. He wasn’t taking any crap from those who wanted to scrap the Bill of Rights and kill civil liberties in America. Her dad remarked that he didn’t mind her working for the government if it was for that man.
Chase’s lobbying the state senate for a border protection plan in the wake of the disastrous immigration deal cut in Washington had resulted in the Texas Border Reinforcement Act. The controversial plan essentially undercut the federal government’s seeming desire to let Texas be a turnstile for the steady stream of illegals that were flooding over the border. She wondered if whatever was going on had anything to do with her and Meacham’s defense of the TBRA. They were scheduled to present oral arguments later this morning in Texas court, in their lawsuit against the U.S. Government over the legality of the TBRA. Though only two weeks had gone since its passage, the Act was in jeopardy already. The U.S. Attorney General wrote them a “hammer letter” ruling the law illegal by fiat and ordering them to cease any initiatives toward altering the existing physical, electronic or other aspects of the border defenses. Callie had presented more than twenty oral arguments in state district court in the past four years, but none was more important than this. Today’s court date was a pleading against the hammer letter, and Callie couldn’t stop thinking about it.
She approached the Governor’s mansion slowly, looking for a parking spot among all the cars on the street. She maneuvered her little convertible between a massive 4x4 truck and a maroon SUV on the street nearly a block away, and hurried toward the historic colonial. She made her way past a small group of college hipsters holding signs and shouting, and hurried up the mansion’s sidewalk, before being stopped by a pair of uniformed Texas Rangers at the gate shack. She hurriedly dug up her credentials, which were clipped to a gold chain, and presented them to the troopers and looped it over her head.
A few people she recognized from the Justice department were on the front veranda, and she worked her way quickly up the circular driveway, past a number of Texas troopers on the lawn. She nodded in acknowledgement as she combed her fingers through her hair and brushed away the tiny bit of sweat moistening her hairline. This is big time serious. Lord, help me keep my head about me today.
*****
Fort Bliss – north El Paso, Texas
July 5th, 2017 – 3:20 a.m.
“Contact left!” Army Staff Sergeant Ken Mathews called out to his squad mates. The swarthy sergeant scratched his five o’clock shadow and took another look through his binoculars, “Coming toward the wire, nine o’clock, three hundred yards!”
“What the hell is going on sar’nt?” a young private to his left said, cheeks flushed red as he raised his M-16A2 and scanned west from their position, looking for targets. The rest of the twenty-man squad followed suit and kept eyes open.
“Just keep alert, private,” he barked. “HQ says there’s crap happening all over El Paso, so we better be ready to rock and roll.”
The dull drone of engines wafted toward them, and the sergeant spotted the headlights approaching their position. The lights bounced as they passed over U.S. 54, and the sergeant could see the faint flicker of fires off in the distance in the area of the Pershing and Government Hill districts to the southwest. The indistinct rumbles that followed indicated to the Iraq-war veteran that explosions were maybe a mile away.
“What the Sam Hill…” the Mathews mumbled as his eyes focused on the pair of M113 Armored Personnel Carriers (APC) that rumbled toward them from the west, nearing the chain link fence on the far side of fields, where the grunts played flag football and soccer under the Texas sun. The fields just north of the Officer’s Club were scrubby and brown from months of El Paso heat. It had been a blistering day, but the desert air was forty degrees cooler now.
A second set of headlights appeared, then a third and a fourth. The low warbling of several Humvees accompanied the engines of the APCs as three or four of the armored SUVs appeared in the area near the bigger APCs. The first of the APCs seemed to have U.S. Army markings, although the darkness made it difficult to tell, even looking through the binoculars. A dozen more sets of lights followed behind.
The sergeant raised his hand and made a fist, signaling to his platoon, “Hold your fire. Looks like friendlies.”
His brow furrowed. He wasn’t aware of any planned missions with orders that would take them outside the wire, and certainly not near downtown. Of course, they were getting scattered cross-talk on a number of channels that some celebrations there had turned ugly, and there was some rioting. Police sirens had been going off all over for the past hour or so.
Mathews had set up his squad at the far end of the main post by the ‘O Club,’ in the bushes at the edge of parking lot. They h
ad good visibility to the west and to the south, but he was beginning to regret that decision. They stopped their perimeter patrol to check out the explosions from downtown El Paso and the sounds of civilian mayhem just across US 54 in the Grandview district, but they were a bit too exposed.
The approaching vehicles sped down Fort Boulevard, but crossed the highway, bounding over the curbs and motoring toward the frontage road adjacent to the fields. From the bob of the lights, they were moving rapidly. He heard the buzz of helos, not civilian, probably Kiowas, echoing off in the distance from the south, as the vehicles bounded toward them blowing through the chain link fence. What the…
A lean and freckled-faced private, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, stood and peered over the bushes he had been squatting behind. His buddy, a small black specialist with an MP sleeve insignia, reached up to tug his ACU jacket. “Get down idiot.” As his hand grabbed the desert-camo sleeve of the red-head, the private’s body went limp and crumpled. The private dropped his M-16 and clawed at his neck where his Adam’s apple used to be, as crimson spurted from a nasty gash.
When Mathews heard the call “contact right!” from the side of his squad. A few rounds whizzed nearby, followed closely by the cracks of small arms fire. “Multiple targets, on foot, zone is hot. North, two hundred yards! At least a dozen!”
The sergeant let the binocs fall to his chest, and looked to the north as rounds hissed by like mad hornets. He saw two dozen or so men closing across the tennis courts on foot, all Mexicanos, dressed shabbily, wielding a variety of rifles. “Get down! Get some me cover fire! North. Return fire!” He swiveled about, checking his six and saw another twenty or so coming from the south near the main Officer’s Club building. A couple of officers were already sprinting toward them when they collapsed.
Just as he was reaching to call in his contacts, the radio on his shoulder crackled to life, “This is Biggs AP-Three, we have vehicles from the north. Looks like ten Humvees and several APCs and...crap,” the voice paused for a moment. “At least twenty more, mostly SUVs and a few trucks.” The transmission was punctuated by the sound of gunfire and a nearby explosion, and a scream very close to whoever was transmitting. “We’re taking fire here. Lots of targets – commandos in red tiger BDUs. Any patrols, we need support. Biggs Northeast! Over.”
A different voice jumped in as well, “Enemy targets. Pleasanton Barracks east side. Forty to fifty, with seven or eight vehicles, mostly civilian Mexes with some Red-camo soldiers. SMGs and rifles – some sidearms. Zone is hot, over.”
Still another transmission broke through, “Enemies on the ground, Lee Road. Southeast Gate. Same. Maybe fifty Mexican escoria, real trash. Ten APC and various vehicles armed,” the sound of gunfire rang behind the voice. “They’re pouring down Lee road from the airport – zone is definitely ho--” The transmission ended abruptly and growled noise for a second before giving out.
His squad dropped to the their bellies and started spraying fire to the north, sending the marauders diving behind fence posts and the few garbage cans that ringed the courts. His guys found cover as best they could near the light poles and their four patrol Humvees.
Adrenaline flooding his system, Mathews took a deep breath and grabbed his radio to call in his situation. “Patrol Group Two, Officer’s Club, west side. A dozen enemy vehicles west. Twenty targets on foot from the south. Defensive position.”
Another call came in as the sergeant ended his transmission, “—taking fire. Two helos, civilian birds with door gunners—.” The call ended as abruptly as it started.
Sorry, wish I could help ya buddy, but we’re in deep shit here.
*****
Governor’s Residence
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 3:32 a.m.
Texas Governor Frank Chase stood at the head of the huge pecan table with his broad arms crossed in front of him. It was at times like this that the stories of him being a football star at A&M seemed believable, because he was a hulking figure at six-foot three and every bit of two hundred fifty pounds. His face was a bit haggard and he badly needed a shave, looking older than his fifty-two years when he stroked his thinning salt and pepper hair.
Jeff Doyle, Deputy Chief of Staff, wondered if the rumors were true that Chase had been targeted by the CIA. Regardless, the situation had clearly deteriorated enough that Chase was calling for an impromptu Cabinet meeting in the middle of the night. Doyle was always amazed that an ‘Average Joe’ like him had somehow managed to make it inside the executive branch of the most prosperous state in the union. He had told himself when he got out of the army and started college that no one was going to out-work him, and so far that had served him well. In just nine years, he had gone from interning with a state senator to Deputy Chief of Staff for the Governor.
Doyle and his boss, Chief of Staff Joe Lopez, made the decision not to leave when the Governor went to lie down for a “few minutes.” It had been just after midnight when the fireworks had stopped and nearly all the precincts had called their races. Governor Chase had made congratulatory remarks to all the victorious U.S. Congressmen and U.S. Senators in the new elections. The first battle in the war of Sub-division had been won: the elections had been completed without incident. With the disapproving tone coming from the regime in Washington, Doyle half-expected to see National Guard troops roll in and block election sites. The governor, his staff and, supposedly over seventy members of the Texas Legislature were considered ‘persons of interest’ in a federal investigation of seditious and treasonous actions. The grapevine whispers indicated that a federal grand jury had already indicted them all. Doyle tried to brush all the turmoil from his mind and focus on the problems at hand.
He saw Governor Chase suppress a yawn as he looked over some papers in the dining room. As far as Doyle knew, that break was Chase’s only sleep in the past forty-eight hours. Chase was back stalking the residence in about an hour. In that hour, they had converted the Executive Dining Room into a “war room” of sorts, given that the Governor’s day office wasn’t set up for all the computers and papers they had spread out all over the massive dining table.
The room was ringed with his cabinet, as well as four uniformed Texas Rangers standing by stoically in their off-white summer Stetsons. An additional dozen Rangers patrolled the perimeter of the mansion’s exterior, and a team of Texas National Guard special warfare operators had taken up residence in the basement. It was then that a auburn-haired young woman in a gray suit, with Justice Department credentials around her neck, caught Doyle’s eye as she glided into the room and smoothly sidled up to Solicitor General Meacham. He had seen her at several functions in the past couple of years, but her name slipped his mind. He vowed to correct that and chalked it up to the lack of sleep. She lightly touched Meacham’s elbow and whispered something to him as the Governor cleared his throat, bringing the room to his attention.
“I know most of you were just here last night for fireworks and barbeque, and I’m told some of you never left. If that’s the case,” he scowled, “there’s fresh coffee in the kitchen.”
There were a few cordial chuckles and Chase allowed a brief smile, but it didn’t help raise the somber mood in the room. Yesterday afternoon at four-thirty, attorneys for the Justice department had attempted to serve the Governor with a subpoena to appear at the U.S. Attorney’s offices in Austin tomorrow for a ten a.m. to “interview” with the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Texas. The Governor refused to answer the subpoena, allowing the Texas Rangers to block their way to the door of the residence. Camera crews captured the images of the Rangers barring the path to the mansion. It was likely a PR disaster in the making, but it was necessary to buy time, his boss had argued to the Governor. Doyle thought it was a great decision to delay, but of course his boss Joe Lopez had poo-pooed it. That is, until the Governor went with it – then it became his own idea. Lopez was well connected and decent campaign manager, but he wasn’t much of a political thinker. Doyle eyed the shor
t, jowl-laden Latino from across the room, snorting at his combover and ridiculous narrow mustache. I could do his job. I could do it better.
“In all seriousness, the situation has gotten much worse since last night. The elections went off without a hitch, so we’re proceeding with the setup of four new states as of this evening.” He paused for a moment to let a few cheers and whistles fade away. Doyle let his eyes slip to the lady from Justice again and they momentarily made eye contact as she adjusted her credentials. He forced his eyes back to the governor. He found it difficult not to look at her with those emerald eyes and creamy skin.
“In case you missed the evening news, most of us here are suspected of treason and sedition according to our benevolent leaders in Washington. We all know what’s at stake here – the U.S. is resolved to bringing us to our knees. Attorney General Cantelli tells me that the U.S. Attorney plans to pay us a visit with FBI officials today and they have every intention of executing the subpoena. Is that correct, Bob?”
The Texas AG took a half step toward the Governor, “That’s right, sir. I’m told they intend to come between eight and nine a.m.” Bob Cantelli was average height and flabby, mid-sixties, and very bald. He was a drinker with a notoriously bad temper, but that fiery persona helped explain why he was such a tremendous attorney and advocate for Chase. “They have every intention of forcing you to come down to the federal building. I’m told that U.S. Attorney General Brown will be there in person.” Cantelli mentioned the U.S. AG’s name with one eyebrow slightly raised.
“We knew this would happen,” Governor Chase leaned forward putting his hands on the long table. He looked up and scanned a few of the faces in the room, Doyle’s among them, before settling on Meacham. “So I need the legal team to think about what the next move should be.”