“What the hell you doing in Washington? I thought you quit your job,” he said.
“I did quit.”
“Hell, so did I. When they arrested Jake Grafton, I turned in my building pass and drove out of there.”
“I still have the building pass. Maybe I ought to mail it in. They might come looking for it.”
Willis snorted and leaned on his hoe. “I doubt if anyone at Langley has the time. Ol’ Harley Merritt is on the bridge now and Soetoro is cracking the whip. Merritt is looking for traitors within the agency. Maybe he’ll find one, but I doubt it.” He spotted a weed and attacked it.
“Maybe they’ll invent some, like they did with Grafton.”
Willis leaned on his hoe again. “Yeah,” he said.
“I need your help, Willis, to rescue Grafton. You probably heard they accused him of conspiring to depose Soetoro. Blow him up. Try to turn America into a democracy.”
“I heard.” He stood there awhile, surveying the weeds in his agricultural project. Then he threw down the hoe. He dragged over a chair and sat in it. “I got a wife and two kids. The kids were on a sleepover last night. I need another job, one that will pay the mortgage and grocery bill. I can’t afford to go tilting at windmills.”
I played my ace. “If you were in some ISIS dungeon waiting for your appointment with the knife, you know that Jake Grafton would move heaven and earth to get you out. Whatever it took. Whether State gave its okay or not.”
He jerked as if I had stuck the knife in him right there. He refused to meet my eyes.
After a bit he said, “Tell me about it.”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Martin L. Wynette, was summoned to the White House that morning. Wynette was a sycophant, a paper-pushing soldier who had never seen combat but had kissed a thousand asses on his way up the ladder. He was known throughout the military for his role in destroying the career of a lieutenant colonel teaching a course at the Joint Forces Staff College about Islamic extremism and jihad, a course suggested and approved by the college. Some Muslims got wind of it and wrote a hot letter to Barry Soetoro, who ordered the offending officer disciplined and the course dropped. Wynette did the dirty work without protest. Of course Wynette knew that Soetoro’s father was a Muslim, his chief political advisor was a Muslim, and a sizable chunk of the American population thought he was too, but after all, the American people had voted Soetoro into the White House, twice, so Wynette was certainly willing to let the prevailing wind flap his flag.
This morning the general was escorted into the presence of the anointed one, who was beyond fury. He was outraged and shaking, at times almost incoherent. Texas had to be punished, he told General Wynette. “Texas must be taught a lesson that the people there will never forget. What are you people in the Pentagon going to do to smash them?”
The truth was that the military had no contingency plans to attack Texas, or New York City or Honolulu or Des Moines or anywhere else in the United States. But General Wynette told the president, “Staff is working on it, sir. I assume you want boots on the ground.”
“Boots on the ground, bombs on target, and the heads of every one of those sons of bitches in the legislature. And that governor — I want him alive. You go get them, General. Go to Texas and kick ass. Go as soon as you can get there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dismissed, he marched out to the limo waiting to take him back to the Pentagon wondering if the president really meant for Martin L. Wynette to personally go to Texas to direct the invasion. Certainly not. He must have meant that figuratively, General Wynette decided. He settled back into the comfy leather seat of the limo.
Other than that, Wynette thought, the president had been specific enough. Bomb the hell out of those rebels, then invade. Air force fighter-bombers blasting refineries, factories, power plants, and oil fields would get those fools’ attention. A naval blockade would stopper their ports and screw them down hard. Then the U.S. Army would go charging through Texas like Wynette’s hero, George Patton, went through Germany. As Georgie used to say, “Like crap through a goose.”
When he drove through the little town of Langtry, JR Hays saw Texas flags flying in front of every house and building, every business. Must have been a hundred of them. Was this Texas Independence Day? No, that was in March. He shrugged and kept driving.
Del Rio also looked as if it were having a flag festival. Texas flags were everywhere, flying, hanging, tacked to buildings, strung across the street. He pulled into a filling station and went in for a piss and a Coke.
The people inside greeted him like a long-lost cousin. “Happy Independence Day.”
“I thought that was in March.”
“That was then, this is now. Today. Early this morning Texas declared its independence. Haven’t you heard?”
“No.”
The young man behind the counter with rings in his ears and one in his nose pointed to a newspaper. “Special edition,” he said. The headline took up all the space above the fold: “Texas Free, Again.” The kid was wearing a pistol in a belt holster.
“How about that,” JR said.
“Already we got some troubles,” the kid said. “Mexicans tried to force the bridge from Ciudad Acuna this mornin’, tryin’ to get across. Must have figured that without the feds we’d be runnin’ around with our thumbs up our asses. Some of the guys went down there with their rifles and put a stop to that shit. Shot some of ’em. They’re layin’ out there on the bridge bleedin’ all over. The Mexicans won’t expose themselves to drag them away and our guys ain’t goin’ to go to their rescue. They can crawl back to Mexico or lay there and die.”
“Hmm.”
“State trooper was in here a little bit ago and tol’ me all about it. Eight or ten got across before the shootin’ started. Folks are roundin’ ’em up and gonna make ’em walk back over the bridge. Some other guys are goin’ through the city right now roundin’ up illegals to take the walk. Feds ain’t protectin’ them anymore.”
“Where are the feds?”
“Home, I reckon. They’re all Texans. They don’t like that asshole Soetoro either, but it was do it his way or get fired.”
After he went to the men’s room, JR picked a Coke from the cooler and took it to the counter.
“American money still good?”
“The boss ain’t tol’ me not to take it. Reckon the politicians will have to figure all that stuff out.”
“I guess so,” JR said. “Happy Independence Day.” He paid and walked out.
Outside, he looked around. There wasn’t an American flag in sight. Just lots of Lone Star flags.
Being human, he wondered about his pension. Twenty years in the army and now no pension. He felt like one of those Mexicans bleeding to death down on the bridge over the river.
He started the truck and screwed the plastic lid off the plastic bottle and took a sip. Then the implications of independence hit him. Texas was going to need an army. Maybe he could join. Hell, soldiering was what he knew how to do; it was the only thing he knew how to do. He would ask Jack about that.
At a stoplight he lit another Camel.
Damn! The Republic of Texas. How about that!
Travis Clay had been home from the Middle East for only two days and had next week off. He was just getting out of bed when I knocked on the door of his apartment. He was in his underwear when he opened the door and motioned me in. I could hear television audio from the bedroom.