by Reed Hill
“We have the paperwork that has already been prepared for the 5th Circuit, which covers the Southern District of Texas and the Western District – it’s materially the same as this most recent case, obviously,” Chief of Staff Fiorino moved and stood in front of the President’s desk.
“Well, I should think so,” Denton took a long draw from the crystal tumbler and leaned very far back in her black leather desk chair. “It should never have been forced to come to this! I mean this is moot court material. I mean really.”
“I agree, Madam President,” Fiorino shifted his feet slightly, “it should have been a real loser for Texas, no question.”
“It’s inexcusable. Who made the argument for us?”
The Chief of Staff consulted his leather folio, “Maria Baracho.”
“Oh God,” the President spun around in her chair, pounding the arm of the huge leather chair. “I was at a luncheon with her several years ago. She’s a valuable advocate for a number of issues, but Christ, she’s a goddamn moron without a prepared text. Even with it, she sounds like…well suffice it to say that erudite she is not.”
“I think U.S. Attorney Padilla made the assignment assuming he would be able to consult with Baracho on it.” Fiorino scribbled a notation in his folio. “I’m told that the Texas Solicitor General and his team were…particularly effective.”
“Well I guess so, but it would have helped to have someone on our side that didn’t go to East Texas A&M or wherever Maria went to night school. She’s great for us on race issues, but she never should have been making argument for anything bigger than a land use case or some racial discrimination action. This is too big.”
“I would tend to agree ma’am.”
“Get someone else on it for the new round of argument, Al. No excuses.”
“It’s being handled, Madam President,” the Chief of Staff consulted his notes once more.
“Good, make sure that it is. We can’t have amateurs in this next round of court,” the President sat and crossed her legs, drumming her fingers against the desk for a few moments. Her eyes narrowed and then glanced at Fiorino before settling on the Secretary of Defense Jabarra, “The larger issue here is that the Subdivision of Texas threatens the unity of the greater republic. Those bastards are inviting rebellion.”
“No question about that,” Fiorino paced over next to Jabarra and slid a memo onto the President’s desk.
“What’s this?” the President looked at the paper as if it was laced with anthrax.
“It’s the official report of the Texas Secretary of State certifying the special elections – look at the part I highlighted on the last page. The last paragraph.”
As Denton read silently her lips became increasingly tense. She threw off her reading glasses, which slammed into the phone, “…‘positions are hereby assigned to the Texas Republic General Administration’. Are they serious?”
“I can assure you that they are.” Fiorino slid another set of papers across the desk. “Here’s the law that enacts Subdivision. Again, refer to the highlighted sections on the last two pages.”
Denton reclaimed the readers from the desk and flipped to the last reading silently for a moment. “President of the Texas Republic…” she muttered pushing the papers away as if they were threatening to bite. The President rose and snatched the whiskey glass from the desk, stepping to the window. “We have to put that down as soon as possible. Get working on a plan.”
“We’ll get going on it right away,” Fiorino found new rigor in his spine as he snapped up taller.
“I’ll not have any rebellion on my watch,” she sipped from the tumbler and thoughtlessly reached back to set it on the desk while she stared out over the grounds. The ornate glass teetered on the edge of the President’s desk and fell. It hit the leg of the chair and shattered, falling to the carpet in too many pieces to count, and the President coldly stared at the pieces of glass before turning back to the window. “I will not be the President that allows this Union to be torn apart by Texas, or anyone else.”
Jabarra let his eyes linger on the broken glass before setting his gaze on the President, “We also really should discuss the Atlanta problem as well as the Chicago incidents. Shall I gather the NSC? Everyone is here in the West Wing, ma’am. All but General Stanton.”
“I suppose so,” the President’s focus remained out beyond the walls of the White House, even as a young page entered to pick up the broken glass near her feet. Fiorino craned his neck trying to see what Denton was looking at. “But gentlemen, give me five minutes right now, if you please. No more questions,” Denton stood like a wax museum statute as the page left with the pieces of glass.
“As you wish,” Secretary Jabarra moved to leave the room. “I’ll call General Stanton over and send word when everyone is convened.”
There was no response from President aside from a raised finger from the hand that guarded her mouth as she stood silhouetted against bank of tall windows.
“She must feel all alone in the world,” Jabarra whispered to Fiorino as the pair left the office.
Fiorino whispered, “To be President is to be alone.”
*****
Outside of Crystal City, Texas - July 5th, 2017 – 5:28 p.m.
Darren Schmidt watched as the squat radioman dialed in the portable Ham transceiver to the frequency he consulted on the back of the small business card. Harve Murray and Rusty were with him in the quad cab truck, since Harve asked him to come along as they talked to Lott’s Uvalde group.
On the drive up to the little hilltop off Cometa Road, Schmidt gave them a brief background and told them of his eight years as an Army Ranger and ten years with DHS an SRT operative and team leader. Harve Murray hadn’t flinched or even said anything after he finished. He seemed content to let the short, fat driver of the car fiddle with the radio while Murray enjoyed the view looking out over Comanche Lake and the crossing gravel arteries that cut up forested little valley.
“What’s the word? You getting that thing honed in right?” Murray swung around in the front seat with his back to the door so he could face the radio without craning in neck.
The rotund cowboy worked the radio for few more moments and finally his face lit up, “I think this is it.” He listened for a second or two and handed the hand mic to Harve Murray.
“Bravo-Whiskey-Three-Oscar-Six, broadcasting from Crystal City. Is Tango-Charlie-Seven-Victor-Niner out there, over?” Harve Murray spoke slowly into the handset, as he slouched in the big leather seat.
After a few moments, a garbled but discernible voice came through, “Tango-Charlie-Seven-Victor-Niner, roger we read you. This is the Uvalde regulars, go ahead Oscar-Six.”
“That’s them,” the short guy in the driver’s seat adjusted a couple of knobs on the mobile unit ever so slightly. “They are TC7V9 in Uvalde. That’s John Lott’s group.”
“Oscar-Six, we have good signal. RST is a four-eight-eight. All is FB here. What is your status, over?” Murray looked casually at Schmidt and crossed his feet near the floor.
“Victor-Niner, good signal here yes. I’d say RST is a four-seven-seven. Juliet Lima says we’re all in place here. Total for Uvalde is seventy, that is seven zero. That is up twenty from our eyeball QSO this morning with you, over.”
“Oscar-Six, we read you. Our numbers here are thirty, three zero with a few more coming. Has there been contact with the Northern group, over?”
There was a pause and Schmidt wondered what was going on. As he was about to ask, the voice on the radio came back, “Victor-Niner, that’s a negative. We plan to QSO after we finish here, over.”
“Oscar-Six, okay, roger that. We’ll continue to monitor, and we’ll check back in two hours if no other contact is made, over.”
“Victor-Niner, okay we copy that Six. We’ll talk in two hours, I repeat, two hours if no other contact is needed, over.”
“Oscar-Six, okay, stay safe out there OM. Oscar-Six, over and out.”
“Victor-Ni
ner, you do the same, Six. Victor-Niner, over and out.”
Schmidt wasn’t sure he followed all of that, and he sat back in the rear of the quad cab. Harve Murray replaced the mic at the radio in the console and spun to face Schmidt and Rusty, “Okay, Lott’s group is seventy men strong, now, so that’s good news.”
“Yeah,” Schmidt looked out the side of the cab momentarily and then fixed his eyes back to Murray. “I got that. And we’re up to thirty down here? Are we expecting some more folks?
“We have the word out,” Murray placed one hand on his considerable belly and re-settled himself against the door. “We’re expecting a handful more, friends and family mainly.”
“I see,” Schmidt relaxed a bit and let his head lean against the window. He blinked slowly.
“Let’s get out of this cab,” Murray pulled the door latch, scowling. “This twisting to look at you fellas is hell on my back.”
Schmidt grinned and exited after the radioman, standing next to Rusty as they gathered at the back of the truck. He gave his neck a good rub before settling his elbows back on the side of the truck bed, kicking his feet back. “So, what’s the plan now?”
Harve Murray plopped down on the open tailgate and pushed his hat back a bit, “We’ll want to continue our patrols. We’ve had a few incidents with one or two trucks of marauders, but nothing more than run-offs as they stole gas or food.”
“That’s positive.” Schmidt adjusted his tactical vest and put his arms back down.
“What we’re looking for is a larger group of four, five or more vehicles that look like they’re wanting more than food and a fill-up.”
“Yeah, that’s when the stakes get raised and people really get hurt out here.” Schmidt looked around from the little rise and noticed the beauty of the rolling hills, and the rivulet that flowed to the Nueces River somewhere down there. Such a stark contrast to the ugliness of that was going on.
“Right,” Harve Murray rose and put his hand on Schmidt’s shoulder. “I’m going to have you come with me and Jasper here, to help coordinate our men if we get into anything. It’ll be good to have a man of your talents with us.”
“All right,” Schmidt rested on the truck bed as Murray walked around his outstretched legs, and went back to the hood of the car where he took in one long look over Crystal City. Schmidt joined Rusty and Jasper who wandered over to Murray and peered out at the town. Their shadows stretched out in front of them and down the hill, making them look like giants.
“This place needs us to be men of courage, gentlemen.” Harve Murray put his hands in his pockets. “Does anyone think different?”
They heard nothing but the warm, whistling southern breeze as it blew down brushy slope toward the town. He hoped Jenna and Maddy were doing okay, and that they had people of character guarding over them, keeping them safe. Schmidt felt alive, invigorated by the words. He closed his eyes and let the breeze pass over him.
Courage.
*****
Three Eagles Ranch
Outside of Hunt, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 5:55 p.m.
Callie felt a nudge on her shoulder and she rolled her head over. It was like someone had stuck a knife into her neck. The muscular Ranger touched her shoulder once more, “Ms. Morgan, we’re about there now.”
Callie blinked and sat up in the seat, and again the stabbing pain skewered her neck.
“Take it easy, now. You’re probably going to be pretty sore from the knock on the head you took. I let you fall asleep about a half an hour ago, against my better judgment,” the trooper let a dry smile appear on his lips, but it was gone quickly.
Callie almost couldn’t take the pounding in her head. It was as if a dozen Comanche medicine men decided to use her skull to pound out the beat for a war dance. She looked out the window as they eased down dirt road out in the middle of the county. Callie could see a barbed wire fence off in the distance across fields of scrubby grass and stands of cedar and oak trees. It was beautiful land, and she guessed it was somewhere in the hill country based on the rolling knolls and canyons she saw to the south and the rocky outcroppings which dotted the horizon.
“Tango-Two-Four this is One-Seven, over,” the trooper spoke into the radio mic hooked to his shoulder near his epaulet. “Don’t worry. I’m just telling the other troopers we’re arriving.” He offered a quick glance to Callie and then put his eyes back on the road scanning the area.
“Go ahead, One-Seven, we read you, over,” a voice on the radio replied within moments.
“We’re coming in, Two-Four” we should be there in just a minute. He looked at the GPS unit in the dash of the cruiser. “We’re less than a mile out. Be advised I’m bringing in an injured and one code blue, over.”
“Copy that One-Seven, we’ll have some folks here to help you and your passengers. Come on in, over.”
They made one last turn off the dirt road onto a different lane that wasn’t much more than worn tire tracks cut in the bristled grass. The fields were a bit greener there, and she saw a couple of horses making a meal of the greenery as she caught sight of a few red rooftops up ahead.
When they came over a rise, Callie could see what looked like an old Spanish villa dominated by a huge ranch home with curved arches and a high-pitched terracotta roof with three fireplaces. At a distance, the house was breathtaking and sprawled out in three wings encircled by a fancy low stucco wall. A large two-story garage stood behind the house across from a small building that flanked a large, shimmering blue swimming pool gated by a black iron fence. Beyond a very large, overgrown garden rich with flowers and vegetables of many varieties stood two large buildings done in the same mission architecture, a large stable with attached tack rooms and a tall barn behind the stable. A huge orchard stretched for several acres to the south from the stable and barn.
As they drove closer, Callie could see that the place was quite aged and suffered from disrepair, with numerous places where the stucco had fallen off and the wrought iron fences, gates and embellishments had become rusted. Callie played unconsciously with the cross about her neck. At one time, this ranch had surely been the envy of the county but it badly needed repairs. “Where are we?”
“I can’t tell you that ma’am, for your safety as well as others’. I can tell you this isn’t anywhere near Austin.”
As they pulled down the long lane, Callie saw dozens of trucks, cars and SUVs parked all around the garage. She sat up and felt a twinge of pain in her neck again, and decided to take it slow. The trooper pulled the cruiser to a stop next to the garage by a white Suburban beside a row of SUVs and full-size trucks. She could see several people had gathered on the front walk next to the low stucco-walled entrance to the courtyard in the front of the house. A large trooper in his brown uniform and straw hat was next to three others. A slim woman in her mid-thirties about five-eight with golden-highlighted chestnut hair and pursed, red lips under a sharp nose stood with her arms folded across her chest. She was beside a broad-shouldered, haggard man with a light brown crew cut and stubbly beard. Another man stood by, dark-featured, tall and lean. Lord, it was Jeff. He was okay.
A huge weight of uncertainty lifted from her seeing Jeff. Callie resisted the urge to bolt from the car and instead let the trio come to them, led by the trooper who brought her. Before she was even out of the car, the woman had her arm gently around Callie’s shoulders, steering her toward the main house, “Ms. Morgan, I’m Sara Brodie. Come this way and we’ll get you cleaned up.” In a moment, she saw Jeff in front of her and she stopped. When she saw his eyes, she just leapt into his arms.
He held her for what seemed like quite a while before she slid out of his arms, letting him hold her hands. The embrace was almost too intimate for two people who didn’t know each other well, but his eyes were so comforting. “I’m glad you’re okay.” She was tempted to pull her hands back, but she resisted and just let their warmth soothe her. “I was worried when I heard about Bill.”
She could feel her eyes well
ing up, “I was concerned about you too, and the Governor.” She fought the instinct to pull away – she pushed away the feeling that she didn’t know him well enough. Callie put all her focus on him and let the pain, the anguish and the fear fade away. She felt the lightest caress of his lips on her cheek for just an instant. Just for a moment. She reached up and touched his face, and he closed his eyes at her caress. This is real. This is how you let someone in.
She felt a soft touch on her arm, taking her up the walkway to the house. Callie didn’t want to be pulled away, but the gentle, soothing tug brought her up the sidewalk. Sara Brodie was next to her offering a relaxed smile, “I think a nice hot bath, is going to do you a world of good.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful.” Callie brushed back her hair and pushed away the moisture from the corners of her eyes and the walked through the grand foyer and through a formal living room appointed with modest Aztec and Toltec themes. “You’re going to go through the master bedroom back there.” She lifted a painted nail toward the long hallway. “There are fresh towels on the sink, and I set out that teal robe for you too.”
The tanned, kind woman was close, almost nose to nose with Callie, and she looked into those eyes and murmured gratefully, “You’re too kind.”
Sara gave her a brief, warm hug and led her down the hallway, “You’re about my size, so I’ll get you a change of clothes and set them on the bed for you.”
“Thank you so much,” Callie felt her eyes brimming with tears again and pushed down the feeling as she made her way through the high-vaulted bedroom and into the large bathroom. The bath was already run and teamed with bubbles. She saw the steam rising to obscure the wall-to-wall mirror behind the double sinks, so she brushed it away so she could see herself. She flinched as she took off her suit jacket from how much of wreck she was as much as the pain. She had blood splatters all over her jacket and blouse, as well as her face and neck. When her hand got tangled by the dozens of tacky globs of red in her hair, she started weeping. Thank you God, for saving my life.