The television was still showing video of people cheering and celebrating independence in front of the capitol in Austin when Truax called his chief of staff. He had tried five times to call the governor and had sent him three e-mails during the broadcast, but had been unable to get through. Nor could he reach any of his political or social friends in Austin. Texas seemed to have dropped right out of the United States.
Not that he blamed Texas. Truax had fought the good fight against admitting Muslim refugees from the Middle East to America, many of whom, he suspected, were jihadists. Of course, despite Soetoro’s and the secretary of state’s bromides about security checks and vetting them, the reality was that the refugees had no identification whatsoever, a fact the president and his administration chose to ignore. And jihad had come to pass. Murder in a parochial school, on a train, in Yankee Stadium… sometimes Truax thought that the administration actually wanted some terrorist incidents. So now Texas had rebelled.
His chief of staff had watched the broadcast too. And she also had tried repeatedly to call people in Austin and had been unable to get through. Truax didn’t wait to hear her take on the whole mess, but told her to make airline reservations to get the senator back to Texas as soon as she could this morning.
He heard pounding on his door. When he answered it, a television reporter and cameraman were standing there, wanting an interview.
“As you can see, I’m still in my pajamas. My office will have a statement for the press later this morning.”
“Did you know this Declaration of Independence was going to happen, Senator?”
“No comment.” He closed the door on the reporter, a woman with NBC, locked it, and went upstairs to dress.
The truth was, he was appalled. Those fools in Austin had smashed Pandora’s box. Barry Soetoro would be outraged, and he was the commander in chief of the armed forces. No telling what that damned fool would do. The United States was tearing itself apart, and the senator felt powerless to prevent it. No one in Washington wanted to listen to reason. Truax well knew that every decision government made had consequences, intended and unintended. Barry Soetoro and Jack Hays were on a collision course.
After he was dressed, the senator went to the kitchen for coffee and a boiled egg. He ate his meager breakfast in front of the television watching national coverage of the news, whatever Soetoro’s censors would permit to be aired, which was universal condemnation of the Texas political system and everyone in it. Terrorism seemed to have dropped off the news radar. Texas treason, one talking head said. Another speculated that since the president had declared martial law, the governor of Texas and members of the legislature could be tried by court-martial, and probably would be.
Truax had had his fill and turned the television off when he heard another knock on the door. He looked out the security peephole. It wasn’t a reporter. He opened the door and found four FBI agents, who had orders to arrest him. As it turned out, the White House had ordered that Senator Truax and every member of the Texas delegation were to be arrested and held in a Washington prison for treason. An FBI agent accompanied him upstairs to get his medications.
As he rode away in the back of a car in handcuffs, Truax pondered on the reaction in Texas when this news got out.
One of the people who heard the Declaration of Independence read aloud heard it over the radio. As it happened, he was the captain of a tugboat in Galveston Harbor. He was always up early, planning the morning’s work on the boat before it had to get under way for the day’s tows or pushes. He took his cup of coffee out and climbed the ladder to his bridge.
Across the harbor he could see an attack submarine berthed, USS Texas, a Virginia-class boat, only a few years old, moored port side to a pier. She had come in yesterday for a three-day port call to show the flag, entertain visitors, and let the good people of Texas see where the navy’s share of their federal taxes was being spent.
How long would she be here now? he wondered. Bet they’ll get under way as soon as they hear the news.
He set his cup down and ran down the ladder to his crew berthing, where his engineer and first officer were sound asleep. Those two were all the crew he had right now. The seamen who fixed things and handled lines wouldn’t come aboard until half past seven.
“Wake up,” he urged as he shook them. “We’re going to move the tug.”
He gave hurried explanations as they pulled on jeans and tugged on shoes.
Ten minutes later, the tug, Mabel Hardaway, named after his wife, got under way. Captain Hardaway took it over to where the sub was berthed and maneuvered to anchor immediately behind it. To ensure the tug didn’t swing on her anchor and damage the sub’s screws, he dropped an anchor from the stern as he came up slowly, then a bow anchor. He backed down and killed the engines, then went down the outside ladder to the deck to help the first mate secure the anchors.
That sub isn’t leaving until I say so, he thought, vastly pleased with himself.
He got on the radio to another tug, managed to wake up the skipper, and asked it to come anchor immediately beside the submarine. “As soon as you can get here,” Captain Hardaway added for emphasis.
Aboard Texas, the watch officer awakened the captain, Commander Mike Rodriquez, who had spent the previous evening at a dinner in his honor in a hotel in Galveston, one attended by the mayor, most of the city councilmen, and everyone who was anyone in the Chamber of Commerce. He had probably had one or two too many glasses of wine, but toasts were offered right and left and he had to do it, he told himself then.
His head was a little thick as he listened to the watch officer. “We have a tugboat anchored immediately behind us.”
“In the prohibited zone?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve notified the harbor police.”
“They can probably handle it,” the captain said. “Are our guards on the pier?”
“Yes, sir. And armed.”
In the age of terror one can’t be too careful, the captain well knew. Local jihadists would secure undying fame in Paradise if they could damage a U.S. nuclear submarine. The FBI had assured him they were keeping a close eye on the local Muslims, of whom there were only a few. Still…
The captain quickly donned his uniform, khakis because he wore camos only when under way and he hated them. He went to the control room, satisfied himself that everything was as it should be, then climbed the tiny conning tower to the miniscule bridge.
Yep, there was the tug, Mabel Hardaway. What in the world was that thing doing there? He picked up a loud-hailer and pointed it at the tug’s bridge.
“You are in a prohibited zone. Get under way and move your boat immediately.”
“Sorry,” came the shouted reply, quite audible in the pre-dawn stillness.
“You will be arrested if you don’t move that boat.”
No reply.
“Sir,” the watch officer said. “One of the sentries is running toward us. There are some civilians up there at the head of the pier.” He was using his binoculars. “Looks as if some of them are carrying rifles.” He handed the binoculars to the CO, who was staring through them as the sentry came halfway across the gangway and shouted, “Sir, those civilians say they have closed the pier. They say they won’t let our liberty party back aboard.”
“Why?” the officer of the deck asked loudly enough to be heard.