by Reed Hill
Double time and a half. Life was good.
“Scramble, scramble, scramble…,” the monotone voice came over the loudspeaker in the lounge and pulled him back to reality. “Team Bravo…Team Alpha – scramble, scramble, scramble.”
The emergency dispatch call alerted the two teams hanging out in the basement of the San Antonio office of the Department of Homeland Security of a critical event, and Schmidt leapt up from his seat and trotted toward the room’s exit.
He ran out the large steel double doors with the rest of the commandos, but instead of heading right out to the garage, he took a left and went into the command center, which was just down hall. Schmidt entered the small room, which had a couple of BDU-clad analysts in front of eight very large computer screens hung from ceiling and stacked two-high on their desks. The watch commander handed Schmidt a printout, “We have command authority orders from Washington.”
“What’s the mission?” Schmidt asked.
“Looks like it’s counter-terrorist in nature – although it doesn’t necessarily spell it out that way,” Watch commander said. “Read it en route. I’ll be in touch with details.”
“City Hall?” Schmidt said, frowning, as he looked at the Watch Commander and headed for the door.
“That’s what it says. Get going. We can break it down while you make the drive. The police have lost control of the situation and are asking for help.”
Chapter 6
Governor’s Residence
Austin, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 8:45 a.m.
An icy chill on her arm woke Callie from a momentary slumber as she jerked her head up and saw a frosty bottle of water extended from the tall Deputy Chief of Staff. "You look like you could use this," he smiled, and pushed a white powdered doughnut on a napkin across the coffee table. "Plus, little energy food to keep you going."
She thought that his line was either the worst pickup she had ever had tossed at her or he was a really nice guy. She chided herself about being skeptical – not all men were like Kent. Some of them were genuine, honest rather than calculating and controlling. She just didn't seem to attract many of them. Even after five years away from him, Callie still felt a need to protect herself. As she played with the little, gold cross at her neck, Callie had the sense that this one was authentic and kind, rather than another attractive hunter moving in on its prey. She hoped the former as she sat up and glanced up at his welcoming face.
The broad, handsome smile was a comfortable sight in what had been a world of frowns and scowls in the Governor's residence for the past twenty-four hours, "I'm Jeff Doyle by the way."
Callie straightened up and took the water bottle, "Callie Morgan…thanks for this." Callie smiled, brushed her hair from her face, and cracked open the water. "I've seen you at a few events in the past year or two - nice to finally meet you."
"Same here," Jeff said sitting down on the far side of the long leather couch opposite her. "I'm pretty sure I saw you here at the mansion for some occasion or another. You work for Meacham, right?"
"Yes, I'm in the advocacy and research group, and I do a fair amount of argument for Meacham as well," Callie took a sip from the bottle and looked into his light blue irises. She thought she saw kindness in his eyes. I could give this one a chance, even if he's conservative.
"So I've heard," Jeff said, letting a corner of his mouth turn up. "And from what I've seen and the way you feed your boss notes, I would say you have a head for politics as well."
"Oh, I don't know," Callie passed off the compliment with another sip of water. "I was just looking out for my boss on that. I didn't pass him the idea. Maybe only a phrase or two."
Jeff leaned back and threw his arm up on the side of couch, "You shouldn't be so modest. That won't take you very far in the politics racket." Doyle laughed and looked away. "At least that's what my boss tells me."
"I don't know," Callie said, looking up at the pol's kind, tan face. "I'm just a West Texas gal who likes to argue." She smiled broadly and turned toward him a bit. He was handsome, that was certain. She thought that perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but his five o'clock shadow and rumpled suit seemed as charming as his wide smile.
"Well, I don't want to overstay my welcome," he shifting a bit. "I just wanted to make sure you got something to eat."
"Not at all," Callie picked up the doughnut, broke off a piece and handed it to Jeff. "Why don't you join me? You probably haven't eaten in hours either. That is, if you think you can stand eating with a liberal." Callie flashed a tight smile. "Plus, I hate to be the only one getting powdered sugar on my clothes."
"Don't mind if I do," Jeff reached out and took the doughnut, and his hand brushed against hers for a just a moment. "Liberal, huh? How can you stand it in this administration?"
Truth be told, she wasn't sure any more if any label really fit her. She wanted to help the poor, abused and downtrodden. However, after having seen progressive policies fail at just about every turn, with nearly unlimited money spent the past decade, she just didn't know if she believed any longer. Add in the fact that she was very socially conservative by her own definition if not that of others, she just didn't know how to approach politics any more. She believed in justice, honesty, looking out for the little guy and civil liberty. Oh Lord, that sounds an awful lot like those Liberty Party loons.
"My weakness for doughnuts is only exceeded by that for truth and justice, I suppose." Callie played with the powdered delight, "There doesn't seem to be much of those things in many politicians these days, no matter the stripe or flavor. I think Chase is honest and cares about civil liberties, so I could get behind that, even if his rhetoric isn't as sweet as the other side's. I think he wants to do good for Texas, and doesn't mind if he pisses some people off."
"I hear you," he played with the water bottle he held. "I think he is genuine and honest, and that counts for a lot with me." Jeff’s eyes studied her, "I have a weakness for sweet things, myself." Now that was line. Not a bad one really. Seemed sincere.
"Well then, Mr. Doyle," Callie joked, "you should have brought two doughnuts."
*****
Woodbridge, Virginia - July 5th, 2017 - 8:50 am
Margolis and Burke exited the white Lincoln, and Burke turned deliberately to the driver holding the door open for them, "Wait here until we return, Karl, but you don't need to keep it running." Margolis had trouble masking is admiration for the Director. Burke seemed an honest sort, and based on the sparse car ride conversation, Margolis could see how he had risen to so many lofty positions over the years.
Burke explained that, in contrast to the high-class portraits written about him over the years, he had grown up poor on a dairy farm in western Massachusetts and made it to Yale on a scholarship. He actually hated the trust fund crowd and secret club cronyism, and vowed when he left that he would fight against that kind of power at every turn. That promise had led to an almost fifty year career trying to look out for the little guy. Margolis was glad there were still people like him in government concerned with the common man. Although he thought it odd that Burke hadn't expressed much interest when Margolis related his own childhood growing up in the hills outside Chattanooga, Tennessee only to go on to Vanderbilt and an MBA at Duke.
"Very well, sir," the chauffer tipped his cap and waved an open palm toward the residence.
Burke buttoned his navy blazer and led the way up the long brick path to the front door of the massive colonial home, "Did I tell you I worked as a chauffeur at the Martha's Vineyard in the summer before my junior year at Yale?"
"No, you hadn't mentioned that, sir." Margolis scratched his cheek as he stepped down the long pathway.
"Probably the best and at the same time, the worst summer of my life," Burke shifted the briefcase he held from one hand to the other. "So many young girls getting treated poorly by the rich bastards on the island. It was good to be the guy whose shoulder they could cry on," he said with a raised eyebrow. "Of course, the payment for that was a respectab
le number of thrashings at the hands of the golden boys of the Vineyard, some of whom still give me an extra hard handshake today."
"Is that right?" Margolis said. A Hispanic man in his mid-fifties carrying a bundle of miniature American flags caught Margolis' eye. The man was stooping to pick up a flags which had been planted about every five feet around the edge of the brown-mulched landscaped exterior of the house.
"Oh yes, but I've more than repaid them for those particular wrongs," Burke smiled wryly as he rang the doorbell.
A very old-looking black woman in a yellow dress and white apron opened the door, "Morning, Mr. Burke, the Director is expecting you in the parlor, so please go right in."
"Thank you, Clara." Burke stepped through the open doorway.
"Can I get either of you gentlemen a refreshment?"
"No thank you, Clara. We don't want to trouble you," Burke said walking down the entry. An old black man in blue slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt stood atop a ladder removing some red, white and blue ribbons from the high walls of the grand entry hall. "We won't be long this morning."
"All right, well you just let me know if you change your mind, sir."
"Sorry to intrude on your morning, Clara. I know you are trying to clean up after the event last night and get house back to normal."
"Not at all, sir," said Clara kindly. "We were so happy to have you and the Mrs. last evening when you didn't have so much to deal with. You men just work so awful much."
As they passed to the end of the entry, Margolis saw a rotund man, with receding black hair appear and extend his hand. In his late-fifties, National Security Advisor Joseph Ganetto had a bit of an owlish appearance from the round face and horn-rimmed glasses and was shorter than he looked on television. The harsh New Yorker had built a reputation as policy enforcer on the hill and then grown it as Deputy Director of Homeland Security under President Obama. Ganetto was rumored to have been the person in charge of managing the list of domestic terror groups at DHS, and some said he actually was working with CIA as well as DHS.
"Arthur, thanks so much for coming out." He led them into the parlor, which was richly appointed with federal period furniture, and offered them a drink while he made a Scotch neat, for himself. "Either of you care for coffee or…something stronger?"
"Not at all, Joe. Happy to make it out," Burke waved off the drink. "We have a developing situation, uncovered by Mr. Margolis that we, at the Bureau, think needs to be on your radar." Burke gestured toward Kevin, "Do you know Kevin Margolis? He's one of the Bureau's Deputy Assistant Directors, Intelligence and Planning."
"I'm afraid not. It's a pleasure, Kevin." Ganetto extended his hand. Margolis did his best to make eye contact as they shook and Margolis swallowed hard. Ganetto offered them chairs in the grand room.
"Kevin was running a Critical Incident Team early this morning, based on a growing level of evidence that suggests a problem in the southwest." Burke sat down in the high, navy-colored chair. "Early signs indicated perhaps summer riots getting out of hand, but this border issue appears to be substantial and looks to have signs of planning and coordination."
"And the episode at the airport involving the Attorney General makes for a scenario that seems less and less like a coincidence." Ganetto studied his drink.
"No kidding," Margolis chuckled slightly. "This is probably driving the internet nutjobs over the edge with all the conspiracy fodder."
"Ours is a business that doesn't allow us the luxury of coincidences," Burke crossed his legs and adjusted the crease in his slacks.
"Right," Ganetto took a sip of the golden liquid from the crystal tumbler. "Well, let's get into it. Lay it out for me."
"Kevin, why don't you walk us through it, beginning with events prior to launching the CIRG," Burke crossed his hands on his lap and looked at the younger agent.
"Sure," Margolis opened file with some notes and glanced at them fast, "I was managing the South China Sea CIRG and the Iran-Iraq CIRG when a new one came through, based on a call from an ICE field officer for South Texas."
"So, you started out thinking it was a snipe hunt, because you had international incidents brewing?" Ganetto said as he sipped his drink.
"In a way, yes," Margolis said, "but all I had to do was start digging in order to find out it was developing into big game."
"It's a damn safari, based on your assessment of the file, Arthur," Ganetto said.
"Indeed," Burke said. "We may end up needing to get out some big guns before it' all over."
"Just take me back to the beginning and start there, Kevin," Ganetto drained the last of the Scotch and went to the table and grabbed the tall crystal snifter.
"You know, I think I'll have that drink," Burke said, leaning back and unbuttoning his jacket.
*****
Downtown - City Hall
El Paso, Texas - July 5th, 2017 - 8:55 am
Daníel Sifuentes strode to the top of the steps and climbed to the hood of the large olive drab armored truck. Hearing the moving cheers of the crowd, he held the Kalashnikov rifle above his head and the roar of his men went even louder. Over two thousand of the legión had gathered at the City Hall at his insistence. They had routed the policía from downtown and setup the roadblocks and checkpoints as planned. After the success of the initial push, he wanted to congratulate them and inspire them.
The legion, the army, had done admirably and the crowd was tired but rowdy. The majority of them consisted of many hundreds of familia veterans, soldiers hewn in the forge of a nearly two decade long territorial guerra. They would be used for a more productive purpose now that the cartels were reconciling. In the crowd also were many Chicano recruits who had been waiting on the U.S.-side two or three years for the order to come. Now the day finally had arrived, and more of them had come pouring into the streets than Sifuentes had imagined was possible. These men are useful. Yes, quite useful. The biggest worry that Sifuentes had was that the irregulars and Chicanos wouldn't fight or wouldn't show in enough numbers. No problem. They were many and very passionate, muy apasionado, very passionate indeed.
It was that kind of passion that would be needed if the new state of Mexico Norte was going to be able to be born at this precarious time. The Reconquista had finally begun after decades of waiting for the right time and the right circumstances. Mexico Norte was going to become a reality. He just knew it to be so. And wouldn't he, Daníel Sifuentes, be a fitting governor for the new state? Sifuentes bared his teeth and howled for the crowd. The mockery of the plan being launched on the night of the Anglos' Independence Day was palpably delicious, and he continued to smile broadly. They had passion and he hoped that would make up for their lack of training. They aren't my Red Vipers, but they will suffice.
He looked out over the two thousand plus men, seeing the five hundred or so red-camo clad soldiers. What kind of idiot government would expel such men from their military and deport them? Sifuentes still marveled at the myopic, disastrous decision to deport all active-duty and recently retired or former military who had joined as non-citizens. What law-making body would do such an obviously hypocritical, treacherous thing after so many had lost their lives in wars for the corrupt Anglo government? The law wound up being a clarion call against the Anglos for bringing about la revolución, and the peace-making and cooperation between the major cartels had propelled them to action. Sifuentes considered how many men had responded to the call two years ago, those who had been so treacherously deceived with false promises of citizenship only to denied it and expelled? Thousands in a handful of months became fifteen thousand within eighteen.
All the while obtaining weapons and armored trucks cast off and abandoned by the excessive and wasteful government and its bloated defense contracts. Do they even care what happens to these vehicles once they leave the shores of the U.S. for their foreign wars? Apparently not, as the armored vehicles and weapons were easier to obtain and exchange than the raw materials and final product of the cartels' main trade. If t
hey were called farm equipment and construction parts, the inspectors who couldn't be paid off rarely even looked in the shipping containers. The irony of taking back their homeland with troops trained and supplied the very country they were attacking was simply delicious to Sifuentes, and so exemplified the modern Estados Unidos.
Excessive.
Uncaring.
Selfish.
The United States had this coming after so long, so corrupt a history of intervening in places around the world for such transparently egocentric, exploitative reasons. The U.S. had turned lazy and irresponsible at the same time it had grown in arrogance and superiority. Everyone but their own people seemed to know that the country was bankrupt. And yet, still they went on with such pride and thoughtlessness. Absurd. Just watch their television for a week. Their culture is morally bankrupt and hollow. They had become Rome waiting for the Visigoths to come over the mountains. Helena would approve, even be proud, of him helping to take down such a crass and conceited society. It would be tragically sad if it weren't so infuriating.
Sifuentes lowered his rifle and tried to calm them down a bit so he could make a few remarks in perfect Spanish, with just a hint of Colombian accent, "Many thanks my brothers. Many thanks. Now, let me say a few words.
"While your brothers risk their lives in and about this city, it's an honor to address those of you who have helped us gain back our lands thus far. We have struck from the cover of night like a coiled rattler, sinking our teeth into the leg of the imperialist, usurpers and have won a great victory. Soon we will go for the throat!
"Our brothers have struck also in Nuevo Mexico, Arizona and California. We pray that they have enjoyed the same success that we have. Our ferocity and strength are unmatched by our soft, privileged foes, no doubt, but we must press forward with the same force and passion. There is much work to be done.