by Reed Hill
While Doyle enjoyed the fresh scents that passed over him as the cooling breeze floated through the orchards, his eyes were drawn to what appeared to be something like a massive lightning strike far off on the horizon to the south.
“What the hell was that?” Chase sat up in his chair and laid his cigar on the edge of the black iron patio table.
“I don’t know, Governor.” Doyle trained his eyes on the horizon, searching for any storm clouds but found none.
Chase cleared his throat after taking a tug on the cigar, “Is that the correct way to address me now?”
When Doyle’s head pivoted over his shoulder, he could see that his boss was smiling broadly and he brushed a bit of tobacco off his shirt. “Pardon me,” Doyle returned a gracious and rather formal nod, “you are indeed correct, Mr. President.” He saw Callie at the wall of windows by the glass door, and she smiled broadly at him, motioning if he wanted something to drink.
He nodded a quick ‘yes’ to her and let his eyes go back to the horizon, scanning for enemies. Old habits may die hard, but they sure come back with a vengeance when you resurrect them. He realized he was still in combat mode from last night, even after getting a little rest and talking with Callie. The guys who managed the patrols were doing a bang-up job, but Doyle was still uneasy.
He was preoccupied with the fact they shouldn’t be out in the open. There was some comfort in the scores of Oklahoma guard out on the south fields, but Jeff couldn’t break the feeling of not being at ease.
There was no denying the desire to savor the beginning of new chapter for the Governor, or the Texas President rather. That’s going to take getting used to. The soldier down deep in Doyle thought it was foolish to be taking a cigar on the patio with the U.S. armed forces turning hostile and an army of federal agents scouring the landscape for Chase. I’ll let him have the moment – he’s earned it, and so have I.
Suddenly Doyle could see the trees in the orchard trembling on the horizon, and he felt the ground start to shake under his feet. He wondered what was happening as he felt the first tremors and tried to steady himself with a hand on the patio table. As the iron furniture quaked sending a metallic reverberation all around them, he heard a thunderous roar which reminded Doyle of the sounds of a tornado that had passed near his home when he was a boy. Doyle fell to his knees. Seeing Chase drop to his hands and knees, Doyle caught a glimpse of the patrolling guard hitting the dirt on his belly. Chase’s cigar danced on the concrete, skittering across the patio and bouncing to a stop in the grass at the edge of the lanai. Doyle thought he could hear Chase praying under the roar of the tremors.
In a few moments, the shaking began to slow and eventually ceased, and Doyle got to his feet. He brushed the dust off his clothes and looked up at the skyline, “Oh my God.” Off in the distance, Doyle could see a cap of a ballooning gray cloud expanding and beginning to dissolve into the atmosphere very far away on the horizon. What kind of bomb was that?
“Was that nuclear?” Chase’s hand trembled as he picked up the burning cigar and tamped it out on the concrete.
“I don’t know,” Doyle brought his hand to his mouth. “God, I hope not.”
*****
White House – Situation Room
Washington D.C., July 6th, 8:49 p.m.
“Ma’am?” Secretary of Defense Jabarra held up the blue phone that was normally used for non-military communications typically routed from either the Oval Office or her private office. Jabarra looked at the president with an upraised brow. “There’s a conference call for you.” Jabarra attempted to remain stoic, but his face looked a little mournful, “It’s the Governors of Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, and Mississippi on a conference line and would like to speak with you...immediately.”
Denton sat motionless in the chair.
“Madam President, that’s not all,” Arthur Burke held up a black phone with a white laminated strip across it. “Margie is reporting that the Oval Office line has the Governors of Montana, Wyoming and Idaho holding as well.”
The President didn’t move, rather she sat back, appearing to study the video boards with a stoic, listless demeanor. The air hung oppressively in the cavernous, as Denton sat in quiet contemplation.
“Madam President?” Jabarra glared at the President. “You have to respond.”
Denton slowly pivoted in the chair like a weather vane spinning at the increased force of an incoming storm. She sat silently staring at the handset that Jabarra was extending toward her.
To be President is to be alone.
Chapter 19
White House – the Oval Office
Washington D.C., July 6th, 9:40 p.m.
The President walked slowly across the room to her the desk and let her weight fall into the tall leather chair. She sat slouched for quite a while just staring out toward the courtyard before turning back to her desk where most of the National Security Council had gathered.
“Well that could have gone better,” Chief of Staff Fiorino said as he stopped to stand by the President’s desk.
“Was it really that bad, Al?” The President reclined massaging her neck.
“I had to cut off the Q&A before you started to drown, Madam President,” Fiorino clutched his leather folio in front of his chest. “We’ll see how it plays soon, but I think it was nothing short of a disaster.”
“Between the ranting and pounding on the podium, I’m not sure anyone would doubt that you felt Texas deserved a strong federal response,” DHS chief Shalitino looked at the President, who was pressing a hand over her mouth.
“A more measured response would have been better, Madam President,” Arthur Burke stood with his arms straight down at his sides. “Announcing the TALON strike should have come later… It’s all water under the bridge now.”
“Perhaps not,” CIA Director Jim Douglas rocked back on his heels as he massaged his five o’clock shadow.
“Explain,” Denton spun in her chair, glaring at the CIA boss.
“Come forward with the story on the stolen TALON war heads,” Douglas said with a hint of a questioning tone. “Blame the TALON on the insurgents. You never said who fired the TALON – only that it was fired.”
“Is that possible?” Denton tapped her fingers on her lips and drew a deep breath.
Shalitino read from her laptop. “The transcript I have in front of me has you saying ‘A TALON weapon was launched against the Texas Guard at 8:50 p.m. central time’ so perhaps…”
“You’re not seriously considering…,” Arthur Burke stared at the President.
President Denton rocked back in her chair examining the ceiling for a moment.
“Do it,” she said looking at Defense Secretary Jabarra and Director of National Intelligence DiNardo. “Will, you and Peter release the news about the stolen devices.”
She glared at General Williams, who was now acting as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, “Pull the troops in Texas back out of attack formations and have them stand down, for now. That should at least buy us some time there and stave off the threats from these other rogue Governors,” the President hissed. “Latest satellite intel shows the compound surrounded by some light armor and the better part of two regiments, probably Oklahoma or Louisiana Guard.”
“We could take him, but it would be a bloody mess,” DHS chief Shalitino glanced down at the carpet.
“Let’s hold off on that. Pull the troops back. We can use the time to re-group and get a new man down in Austin,” Arthur Burke chimed in. “We lost the Texas Task Force leader and his entire team in an arrest attempt at the mansion.”
“I think you’ll want a covert team there this time too,” CIA boss Douglas said. “Much lower profile. Send in a figurehead, sure, but also have a team there, under the radar.”
“That’s good. Make it happen.” She pointed to Chief of Staff Fiorino, “Al, you work with the press secretary to spin this as insurgents. Get a paper trail started. Use our friends in the media and get social networks going
on this. We need cover. Go right to the top – no wimpy bloggers. I’m talking CNN, national news anchors, Salon, the whole deal.”
She scanned the room quickly, “Make it happen people. No loose ends. None. Scrub this thing clean.”
*****
Three Eagles Ranch
Outside of Hunt, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 10:15 p.m.
Schmidt looked at the GPS once more before pointing to the break in the barbed wire fence. “There. That’s the lane.” Lott nodded in agreement as he suppressed a yawn, and Harve Murray sat up on his seat in the back of the king-cab truck.
It had taken a couple of hours to settle down things at Carrizo Springs and Uvalde, but Oliver Lott and Harve Murray were insistent. They simply had to shake the hand of the man who led the effort to keep the Governor safe from marauders and a despotic federal government.
As they drove up the long, gravel driveway, they could see the yellow glow of fire off in the distance. Schmidt thought about speeding down the lane to investigate, but his sense overcame the impulse. Mac Harris, their contact in this area, said that the ranch was secure, and it became evident as they approached the main house.
Their headlights brought into view a line of a dozen APCs across the front of the property with the house just in view. A couple of soldiers in olive fatigues held up a palm for them to stop as they approached on foot. Schmidt brought the truck to a halt, and the soldiers strode forward with their hands on the grips of their M-16 rifles.
Schmidt rolled down the window when the soldier came close, “I’m Darren Schmidt, and I have Harve Murray and Oliver Lott with me. We’re from the Uvalde area.”
“Yes, Mr. Schmidt. They are expecting you,” the soldier pointed down toward the house. “Just park your vehicle over by the garage, sir.”
Schmidt proceeded slowly down the lane and brought the truck to a halt near ten or twelve pickups and SUVs by the garage. As they got out of the truck, they could see that the glow they had noticed was a large fire blazing a few hundred yards away in the field north of the house.
A wiry, black man with a teenager by his side met them at the main gate of the courtyard extending a hand as they approached, “Mr. Schmidt?”
“Yes,” Darren offered his hand in return, “and this is Harve Murray and Oliver Lott, from the Uvalde area.”
“Glad to finally put faces with the voices,” Harris slung his rifle behind him. “How are things down south?”
“We had to put down a pretty hard attack,” Oliver Lott looked around at the scorched lawn and scars of bullet holes and shotgun pellets in the house and walls. “Not near what you all went through, it looks like.”
“What’s going on over there?” Harve Murray gestured to the fire and the dozen soldiers tending it.
“We killed fourteen of them in all,” Harris bit his lip slightly and glanced at Schmidt. “We’re taking care of the bodies.”
“Who are the soldiers?” Schmidt glanced at the ring of commandos working the fire and gestured to those patrolling the house and grounds. “They Army?”
“Oklahoma Guard,” Harris said. “Three companies of their elite paratroopers dropped in just in time for dinner, and their armored regiment rolled in a couple hours later.”
The trio nodded without speaking, until Schmidt turned back to Harris. “How about our side? What were our losses here?”
“Four dead. The Solicitor General, Mr. Meacham is dead. One took a bullet to the leg, but he’s going to be fine. There are several of us with burns.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Murray put his hands in his pockets. “That’s a shame.”
After a long period of silence, Schmidt looked at Harris and waved toward the house, “Well, is Mr. Brodie up for a visit?”
“Let’s go in and see if he’s up and around,” Harris pivoted and led to the front porch and into the house. “He took a bullet in the torso, and it clipped a lung.”
Trooper Tompkins met them at the door and escorted them through the foyer to the hearth room. “Most of the house is asleep now. The governor took the back bedroom and has a couple of the Oklahoma guys by the door.”
About that time, Schmidt heard a door creak and the light sound of footsteps coming from the back. A haggard man in red flannel sweat pants and a white, V-neck t-shirt emerged from the hallway, teetering slowly and grimacing with each step. A thick bandage wrapped around his mid-section was visible underneath the t-shirt. He was a broad-shouldered, grizzly bear of a man, but he was also clearly worn down. This must be Nick Brodie.
Trooper Tompkins answered any doubts, “Everything’s okay Mr. Brodie. You just have a few guests.”
Schmidt, Murray and Lott stepped forward to meet him in the hearth room. They all shook hands and introduced themselves quietly, before Schmidt broke in.
“We just wanted to come up and thank you for what you did today, Mr. Brodie,” Schmidt said. He looked exhausted, and Schmidt felt as though they needed to make it quick. He glanced at Murray and Lott. “We know you’ve been through a lot, but we just wanted to see you and let you know the south side is covered for now.”
“Getting the Ham network going was Mr. Lott’s doing really,” Brodie’s voice was scratchy and a little weak. “I just spread the word up north.”
“It paid off, Mr. Brodie,” Lott said. “From Junction down to Carrizo City, there’s been minimal loss of life in the hill country. I wanted to meet the man that helped pull it together while finding a way to protect our new President.”
“Yessir, we think mighty highly of you,” Harve Murray echoed in a slow drawl as he stroked his beard. “You deserve a fair piece of credit to holding this thing together.”
Brodie lightly coughed into a handkerchief. Schmidt could see it was stained slightly with a bit of blood. “Not at all. It’s what any of us would have done.”
“Well, we know you need to get some rest, so we won’t keep you.” Schmidt patted Brodie lightly on his thick shoulder.
Oliver Lott and Harve Murray headed for the front door with the hulking trooper, and Schmidt lingered behind for one last handshake with Brodie.
“All right,” Brodie intoned quietly, shaking Schmidt’s hand. “Thank you for coming all this way. It wasn’t necessary, but I appreciate it. You all take care and watch your backs out there.”
Schmidt waited until Brodie crossed into the darkness of the hallway, where he saw the glimpse of painted toenails and slim legs at the edge of the shadow. Whoever was waiting for him gave him a hug as she took him back down the dark hall. Schmidt suddenly felt awkward, alone in the foyer, and hustled to the doorway where the trooper was waiting with Murray and Lott.
At the doorway, Schmidt gave one more look back inside. The smell of gunpowder still hung in the air, and the scars of battle were evident inside the house and all over the outside. Whatever had gone on here must have been horrific. He had the distinct impression that the place needed to be preserved as a kind of museum: the place where the Texas Republic came back to life. Schmidt shook his head and trotted to Murray and Lott who were by the waiting truck.
That’s a man who knows duty and honor. Hell, by the end, they’ll be old friends.
*****
Outside of Eagle Pass, Texas - July 6th, 2017 – 11:50 p.m.
Raúl gave himself a hard slap across his cheek. Then a hard pinch on the thigh. If he kept this up, his legs were going to look like a checkerboard of bruises before he made it home. He was using every trick in the book to stay awake as he drove. He would be there soon. It would be a miracle if he got paid after all this chaos, but he wasn’t sure he actually cared anymore. The thought of getting home to see his Josita and Julio was propelling him forward as much as the beat-up, old truck. He caught a whiff of salty air coming in from the back, and grimaced.
The attack on Papa Bear’s Den had not gone as he’d hoped. The Mara bosses would not be pleased, particularly because Hector had been killed. It was cruel to use them as a distraction while he stalked for a shot at el Gobernador,
but it had to be done. It wasn’t meant to be. He smiled. Taking down the Orange Rat took a little of the sting out of the failed mission.
Whatever Hector had tried, he had certainly faced much more and better trained resistance than any of them had anticipated. The drunks probably had failed to listen to him, and just tried to ram their way into the house. In truth, they were a band of reprobates who deserved their deaths. Raúl shrugged. The cokehead is dead, and I can’t bring him back. He had waited at the rally point for thirty minutes before giving up and heading home. He was done with this mess. Home to Josita and Julio.
At that moment, the wireless on the seat next to him buzzed with the tone of an incoming text message, and he tried to see who it was from, keeping his eyes somewhat focused on the dirt road.
Crow’s Nest? Dios Mio.
He swerved a little as he picked it up and looked at the text, his hand shaking. While he read the text, he heard a crack of a gunshot from somewhere off in the distance, which made him crouch low in the seat.
Crow’s Nest: New task. San Francisco. 48 hours. Double the normal rate.
Raúl cursed. He wanted to sleep for two days, not drive across country on a job for them. That client paid well, but…. Do I dare refuse? He slowed the truck down to a crawl and steered using his knee as he tapped out a reply.
El Chacal: Triple.
El Chacal: And 72 hours.
Maybe that would scare them off. It wasn’t like them to accept bargaining, and Raúl quietly hoped that they would refuse. These were different times, and he didn’t know how much the game had changed. Perhaps they would need him now more than ever.