by Reed Hill
Chase continued with a voice like that of a funeral director, “to make matters worse, just in the last few minutes, our Texas Guard commanders have informed me that we’re facing some kind of civil unrest in El Paso.” He looked down at a small slip of paper, “the nature of the unrest is not clear at this time, but preliminary reports indicate that the chaos is not merely civilian turmoil, but that there is a degree of planning involved, including manpower and vehicles.”
Chase looked at Doyle and his boss Joe Lopez directly. “Joe, I need you and the staff to coordinate with the Texas Guard, and Border Patrol, and the U.S. military and find out what’s going on in El Paso.”
“I know we have our disagreements with the feds, but we need to set that aside.” He studied the mass of papers before him for a moment. “The people of Texas are counting on us to protect them,” he tapped his finger on the pecan table. “And, by God, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
Doyle’s mind was racing with the news. What’s going on? These aren’t the normal summer riots in Houston and Dallas. Everyone knew that the border was a sieve for illegal drug running, prostitution, human trafficking and, of course, the ever present immigration problem. More was going on there than anyone would ever think to look for. Doyle was certain of that.
A tug on his sleeve brought Jeff back to reality. The smarmy, fat face of his boss greeted him with a curt, insincere grin, “Jeff, we have to talk.”
Doyle hated it when Lopez got all melodramatic on him. He was prone to it, even more than most people who are drawn to politics. Lopez was a conniving rat bastard, and in the realm of Texas politics, that was saying a lot.
Lopez pulled him aside near the massive coat closet by the entrance to the kitchen and dining room, and looked around before leaning toward Doyle, “Jeff, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.” His voice was almost a whisper, which was odd for the attention hound who normally bellowed and blustered for effect around the office, particularly when the Governor was around. “The bad news is: you’re fired.”
Doyle’s mind swam at hearing the words. He had worked his ass off for this man, gotten them through the special elections using Doyle’s own strategy and this was his reward. Rat bastard didn’t begin to cover it.
“The good news,” Lopez leaned even closer pressing his pointed finger into the wrinkled white dress shirt at Doyle’s chest, “is that I’m going to give you the next couple of days to impress the hell out of me and perhaps I’ll keep you on.”
Doyle felt the blood drain from his face. He was cold. Lopez pushed past him, waving at the Governor. After gathering his composure for a moment, Doyle turned to see Lopez throw a hand across the Chase’s shoulder whispering something in the big man’s ear that made him belly laugh. When the Governor stalked off toward the hearth room, Lopez turned back toward Jeff and pointed at him as if he were performing a hold up, “Don’t feel like you’re under the gun, Jeff.”
As Lopez pivoted to follow the Governor Chase, he looked over his shoulder, scrutinizing Doyle. “But you know this would be a bad time to disappoint me.”
“I get that. Your point isn’t subtle,” Doyle gripped his cheeks with a force that he would have preferred to use around Lopez’ jowls. What the hell am I going to do? I’m screwed. Doyle moved away from the closet with his fists balled at his sides. He paced toward Lopez, who had caught the Governor’s attention once more. He lifted his hand and brought it down hard on Lopez’s shoulder, right in front of the Governor. Doyle then looked up at the Governor Chase.
“I won’t let you down, sir.”
*****
Texas State Guard – Domestic Operations - Command, Intelligence and Control Center
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 3:38 am
“General, you had better come look at this,” Major Theroux waved the General over to a female airman’s computer station. Things were out of hand in El Paso; that much was sure.
Theroux’s intelligence of the past twenty minutes detailed what amounted to civilian invasion by what reports indicated were Mexican nationals and/or Chicano residents, heavily armed in some cases with armored vehicles. These weren’t orange pickers by the looks of things, either – these were real thugs. Cartel foot soldiers, most likely.
The Border Guard Station and Customs office at Interstate 110 was bombed and eventually overrun by hundreds of vehicles, some of which witnesses said looked to be old 2.5 ton M35s, the venerable military truck called the ‘deuce and half’. There were also scores of trucks and SUVs, some of which even had goddamn machine guns mounted on their roofs. At least thirty reports by citizens had come into El Paso PD and ICE of Mexicans in the “hundreds,” crossing on foot, using the outbound lane of Avenida De Las Americanas and spilling into downtown. There were a number of eyewitness accounts of numerous cars and buses of armed Mexicans storming across the Country Club Road overpass and Artcraft Road overpass, an indication the report that the Santa Teresa border station had been overrun was true.
The reports from Fort Bliss indicated that they were in the midst of a serious fight, facing what amounted to convoys of insurgents from at least three points of attack. Two Huey helicopters had apparently strafed the airfield and blown up the refueling station and several Blackhawks. The Main and Reserve barracks had been bombed, and it was unclear how many of the soldiers at the Artillery Training base were actively engaging the enemy and where. The post commander reportedly had been dragged from his residence, along with his wife and two girls, and remained missing.
Dinger moved over to the analyst’s station where Theroux pointed to one of the two large computer monitors there. The General massaged his neck, trying to remove the claws of stress that had clamped on like a vulture’s talons, “What part of El Paso is that? Is that drone imagery?” Dinger was surprised since the Texas Guard only had one squadron of drones in the 254th Combat Communications Group housed at Randolph AFB. As of his monthly briefing, only two of the six were operational due to maintenance issues.
The left screen displayed an overhead view of a city using an infrared (IR) camera. There were four separate moving columns of vehicles, each marked with red indicators, clearly being tracked. Two appeared to be moving through downtown on parallel tracks while the others appeared to be winding through the outer edges of the east and west portions of the city.
The airman tightened the focus on the right screen with a few keystrokes and mouse clicks and zoomed in tighter on a line of stationary vehicles – perhaps ten in number and all large. They were positioned at the edge of a park with baseball diamonds adjacent to a parking lot and a set of wide low buildings. The tiny flashes of light about them were clear indications of weapon discharge.
“Drone images, yes,” said Theroux as he looked up at the General, “Of the city of McAllen.”
We been caught diddling with our joysticks, that’s for damn sure. Dinger looked over to his aid, a short female airman, “Get me General Reavis’ office up at Hood, or whoever’s the duty officer at Third Corps.” The airman moved quickly toward her desk and grabbed the large three-ring binder from it. He spat a bit of juice at the trash can near his foot, “And you better get Homeland Security on the horn while you’re at it.”
*****
Federal Bureau of Investigation – Strategic Information and Operations Center
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C. – July 5th, 2017 – 3:52 am
The fifth floor Command Post was so loud with discussions and activity that Deputy Unit Chief Kevin Margolis could barely hear himself think. As the center’s duty officer for the night, he was in charge of monitoring all the activities within the windowless room that agents called “the Submarine;” and coordinating communications and command systems with other agencies. The Strategic Information and Operations Center (SIOC) was essentially a clearinghouse for all tactical information and control point for crisis management and event monitoring.
He stood at the back of the room, watchi
ng as scores of agents were attempting to manage the half-dozen emerging incidents occurring throughout the world that were of substantial interest to the U.S. The far wall was covered with huge six-foot LED screens that were displaying various television reports, satellite imagery, and drone intelligence and images for agency groups. Seven rows of desks crossed the large room theater-style, nearly full with some eighty agents and analysts processing and analyzing intelligence.
Three CIRGs, Critical Incident Response Groups, had been formed in the just the past twenty-four hours. One had been formed in response to fighting between Israel and Iran taking place in southern Syria along the Golan Heights. Iranian forces joined Syrian forces and began attacking the border fence in northern Israel. A second was tracking a battle in Mali near the village of Sari, where the Fulas and the Dogon tribesman were locked in the latest battle of an ongoing war over water and land in Mali. The third CIRG was monitoring an unannounced Chinese naval exercise in the East China Sea, in response to which the U.S. Navy ordered Aircraft Carrier USS George Washington and all of CSG-5 to patrol south in the Sea of Japan.
A dark-suited assistant poked his head through the door, “You have a call on line five.”
He grabbed the desk phone and took the call, “S-I-O-C, this is Margolis.”
“Margolis, this is Allenberg in Immigration Operations, southern region. We have a situation in Sector Four, border security, Texas.” The Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) division was the enforcement arm of the Border Security group under ICE tasked with combating criminal smuggling. “The situation there is developing, but as of now, we think it warrants examination.”
“What do you know?” said Margolis.
“As of now, the main Border guard station, Sector Four, El Paso, is off-line,” Allenberg said. “No radio contact, and video feed is down. Linewatch capabilities are unknown, presumed zero or near zero.”
Margolis took a deep draw from his coffee cup, wincing at its lukewarm temperature. “What are you requesting? We’ve got a lot of plates spinning over here tonight.”
“We wanted to see if your people had any details of activities in Sector Four, say for the past twelve hours,” Allenberg said.
Margolis was being vigorously signaled by an agent working on the China Sea CIRG, “Okay, we’ll look into it. I’ll call you back.” Margolis hung up and headed down the steps to the front of the SIOC where the agent was extending his headphones.
Don’t these DHS goons realize we’ve got a huge pot boiling over in the Golan Heights? And the Chinese are doing a massive naval exercise. Margolis didn’t have time to deal with a couple of fence-jumpers in Texas. He had CIRG teams working on international incidents. Hell, an email just came in which indicated that the 10th Mountain was being considered for possible deployment. That had to mean sending in troops to help deal with the Israeli-Iranian conflict in the Golan Heights. Can’t ICE do anything? Just watch that line in the sand there and don’t let any bad guys cross it.
*****
Biggs Airfield at Fort Bliss - El Paso Intelligence Center
El Paso, Texas – July 5th, 2017 – 3:56 am
“Tengo la solicíon,” the phrase, I have the solution, came through clearly in Daníel Sifuentes’ ear piece as he watched his team of commandos run and kneel, taking up firing positions on the front of the building. They were all clad in maroon and black striped fatigues and donned navy blue or black bullet-proof vests and hard plastic black helmets that looked vaguely like the kind cyclists wore. “Si,” Sifuentes said into the thin mic that curled around his jawline. The two young Army soldiers that knelt behind the L-shaped masonry walls flanking the entrance looked scared as they pointed their shouldered C-6 machine guns in his direction. “Toma el disparo.” Take the shot, Sifuentes said softly into the mic.
Even in the darkness of the night, Sifuentes had no trouble recognizing the building with its odd sloping roofline and hideous brick pillars. If it weren’t for the strange diagonal sloped roof and the excessive number of concrete planters, the building would have resembled the average suburban high school. The Anglos are so arrogant. The defenses here are pathetic.
The machine gunner on the right suddenly slumped down as a bullet hole appeared between his eyes, as Sifuentes heard the crack of the supersonic bullet flying overhead. Seeing his comrade go down, the remaining soldier opened fire on the throng of attackers. As several more Army soldiers appeared in the glass-doored entrance to the Intelligence Center bearing M-16s, Sifuentes heard two metallic thumps from his left occur nearly simultaneously. Just as his assault team began to return fire, the front of the EPIC entrance exploded in a ball of fire and smoke.
Sifuentes casually exited the six-wheeled Russian APC and yelled to a man across from him who stood with perhaps forty soldiers gathered near the dozen or so Humvees and large SUVs they had arrived in, “Establezcan un perimetro…aquí. Cubran nuestros culos – vamos dentro.” Establish a perimeter here and cover our asses – we’re going inside, Sifuentes ordered. He pulled out his Colt 1911 from his thigh holster and waved his squad forward. They were joined by another dozen commandos who filed forward from the other armored transport beside his.
There was some sporadic gunfire from the north, and he ducked slightly as the pings of the bullets hit the nearby transports. One man fell, grabbing his chest, and a dark pool spread from where he lay. Twenty men of his assault force returned fire on the northern location as Sifuentes jogged toward his waiting troopers.
He stopped to survey the burning entrance – no more enemy coming out, and only a few wriggling signs of life lingered amidst the small fires and smoke. Sifuentes was shocked at the lack of resistance that the gringos had been able to put up, and these poor guards were only one of a dozen examples he’d seen since they had rolled across the border a couple hours before. It was a shame that they had to die, but they were no longer welcome in our homeland. They’ve been allowed to hold our soil for too long and they’ve overstayed their welcome. Who was the philosopher that said that the tree of freedom needed to be renewed at times with the blood of patriots and tyrants?
He confidently strode across the manicured lawn of the center and grabbed the radio from his belt, “This is python. I’m heading in.” He grinned wryly as he considered the irony of his Red Viper Guard, as they stormed the entrance to the large stone building – every one of them trained by the U.S. military.
Chapter 2
Governor’s Residence
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 4:01 a.m.
“Okay, it’s clear we need to ramp up our research on the treason and sedition angles,” Cantelli’s stern tone brought Callie back to the problem at hand. He glared at his two deputies, “Jeremy, Ben – you two expedite that. We may need ammunition for oral argument on that as early as tomorrow, if everything goes south with the subpoena.” The two men nodded. “That means looking at the U.S. Alien and Sedition Acts of 1798 and the available case law on that. I reviewed a bit of it earlier this evening and I expect them to pursue a line of reasoning from the third act, Crimes Against the United States, particularly Section 1 on the conspiracy to oppose the government of the U.S. Of course, we will be named in any such conspiracy, but we need to prepare to refute this.”
Callie and Meacham huddled with Attorney General Cantelli and his two deputies, as well as a couple of staffers, in the far corner of the living room adjacent to the war room. They surrounded the massive stone fireplace, and within a few minutes started hatching a strategy to keep the U.S. from stomping the great state of Texas underfoot. Callie had always considered herself an open-minded person, and she had even cast her vote for President Obama in 2008 in her first ever presidential election. She hated to admit now that she had bought into the utopian prospect of “hope and change.” After seeing what had happened the last few years, she had really come to believe that the country was coming apart, due in large part to the legislative and legal agendas coming out of Washington, D.C.
Callie w
as taking copious notes, despite the fact that the directives were going to the AG’s team. She still couldn’t believe this was happening. They had spent so much energy preparing for the morning argument that they hadn’t paid a lot of attention yesterday to what was going on with the AG and the federal subpoena. They were due in court tomorrow – today rather – to present oral arguments of their own in the state’s lawsuit against the U.S. Attorney General.
The TBRA was designed, in large part, by the people around this fireplace to enhance border security in a major way, and Governor Chase had loved the law and signed it as soon as he was able. Chase ran on a platform that included stronger border security, even if Texas had to go it alone. The law would provide $650 million for the reinforcement of a physical and electronic barrier on the border – none of the money would come from the federal government. The bill also created a new division of the Texas Marshal Service tasked with the specific mission of border security with goal of having ten thousand marshals on the border by next year and twenty thousand by 2019. No federal money meant no federal meddling – or so they hoped.
“Ben, where are we on the matter of Subdivision?” Cantelli looked at the taller of the two deputies, a thin man with horned-rimmed glasses and a bit of awkward stance. “That’s likely to be at the core of their objections in the sedition reasoning.”
Three months ago, the Texas legislature had presented a bill to Governor Chase which used an obscure provision of the Texas-U.S. Annexation Agreement of 1845 to legally subdivide Texas into five distinct states. The brainchild of AG Cantelli, crafted with Ben’s assistance, the law was passed and presented to the U.S. Congress on April 1st. Insiders had begun referring to it with a shorthand moniker of “Subdivision.” The mainstream media had a field day with the April Fool’s Day “prank,” and it was only after a few days that they had realized it was real. Of course, that’s when the whole state had become a maelstrom of legal and political activity.