“We have no secure way to communicate with JR Hays,” Jugs objected.
“After a while we can poke up the mast, listen to the radio, and learn what’s happening. Right now, I think it imperative we get gone before the SEALs come, and you all know they will.”
“Sure as God made little green apples,” Junior agreed.
“So let’s check all the circuit breakers and emergency alarms, then fire off the tea kettle. Stations everyone.”
“Your first command,” Speedy said with a grin.
“And probably my last,” Loren Snyder admitted. “Miz Aranado, you and Speedy bring the batteries online and let’s do it.”
Four minutes later the batteries brought the boat to life. Lights came on, air began circulating, computer displays came to standby. Back aft Speedy Gonzales checked the emergency alarms one by one. Loren Snyder snapped off his flashlight and smiled. It was as if he had returned to something he had loved and missed. He thought for three seconds about law school, and snorted. Someday, maybe.
General Martin L. Wynette, the Joint Chiefs, and their staff were having a terrible morning. The news of the surrender of Fort Bliss, after a mutiny, cast a pall on their planning to invade Texas. Large numbers of troops that refused to obey orders, or refused to fight, or went AWOL was a nightmare that the U.S. armed forces had never before dealt with. It raised the question of whether any troops ordered to attack Texas could actually be relied upon to do so. It seemed to the planners that the answer to that question would determine what could be done, and when. Of course, the White House staff was outraged and said the military was dragging its feet in the face of treason. That comment was grossly unfair, and even Martin Wynette was severely irritated by it. Everyone in the E-Ring offices of the Pentagon knew that imprudent action would lead to even more severe condemnation of the military.
The loss of USS Texas gave the navy serious heartburn. Some advocated launching Tomahawk cruise missiles at the attack submarine while she lay at the Galveston pier, but the chief of naval operations, the CNO, Admiral Cart McKiernan, was having none of it. “We spent 2.6 billion dollars for that boat that we had to squeeze out of Congress like it was blood,” he roared to the Joint Staff. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to order her destroyed until we’ve tried every other option. We may desperately need her if Iran and China get feisty. Those rodeo cowboys in Galveston are going nowhere in that boat; the very idea is ludicrous. Now you people get a SEAL team saddled up to go down there and get her. Have them take some submariners with them. I don’t give a damn who the SEALs have to kill or how they do it, but I want that submarine back in one piece. Understand?”
That was yesterday. In the wee hours of this morning it looked as if the SEAL team needed at least another twenty-four hours to get ready. People and equipment had to be moved into position and it all took time, a fact that infuriated the White House staffers sitting in on the pre-dawn meeting, who knew absolutely nothing about logistics. While they ranted, the lights and computers in the Pentagon flickered and went out for a few seconds until the building’s massive emergency power system automatically came online.
The sabotage of the natural gas trunk line from Louisiana had forced several natural gas power plants in the area to shut down until gas could be rerouted over the network. The shutdowns of the power plants blacked out cities in northern Virginia and Maryland. Then the problems began to cascade. The computer system that controlled the electrical grid, automatically rerouting electrical power to restore it to deprived areas, began to do precisely the opposite. It demanded power from the stricken plants, and when there was none to be had, began shutting down the grid across the northeastern United States. In seconds, the power was off from Chicago to Boston and south all the way to Richmond. Air conditioners quit, elevators jammed, computers died, the telephone system went down, water and sewage pumps failed.
I found out about the power failure about seven that morning when I sneaked from Sarah Houston’s bed and padded into her kitchen to make coffee. The kitchen lights wouldn’t illuminate. Suspecting the worst, I opened the door of a very quiet refrigerator. No light inside. Oh boy. I jabbed the remote to turn on the television, just in case, but no soap. I thought maybe it was the circuit breakers, but I didn’t know where her panel was. I tried my cell phone: no service. So it wasn’t the circuit breakers.
I went back to the bedroom, woke Sarah, and told her the news.
“Perhaps my little program worked,” she chirped, pleased with herself.
“Maybe the juice is only off in this neighborhood.”
“You are always so cheerful, Tommy. And at this hour of the morning.”
“I’m a natural-born optimist,” I objected. “In fact, I’m so optimistic that I think we should throw on some clothes and hot foot it over to the lock shop. If the outage is regional, we don’t have to wait until tonight to hit that warehouse. We can do it as soon as we can get there, and should.”
“But I’m not packed.”
I was already dressing and didn’t reply. Sure enough, forty-five minutes later we were in my car on our way. Sarah’s a trooper.
And the power was off everywhere. Traffic was light. Why go to work if nothing at the office or factory will function, if the malls, grocery and convenience stores, and gas stations are closed?
The guys were waiting at the lock shop. “How’d you do it, Sarah? How did you kill the power?”
“I waved a wand,” she said.
In addition to the Wire, Willis Coffee, and Travis Clay, there was one other guy there, a big black guy, really buff, who hadn’t had a haircut or shaved in months. His name was Armanti Hall, and I knew him, although not very well, because he and I had done some training together a few years back. He was in a sour mood, didn’t say a word.
“Armanti was waiting for me last night at my place,” Travis said. “He wants to go with us, and he has a pickup with a bed cover.”
“Did you brief him?”
“No. He doesn’t give a damn what we’re up to. I’ll tell you about it later.”
We unloaded the lock shop stuff from the van and began packing it with stuff we thought we might need in our war on FEMA and Barry Soetoro. Took some propane bottles and a torch, a box of tools, two crowbars, and some other things. I took my bag of cash and my weapons and ammo from the car and packed them in the van. The other guys had some small duffle bags of personal items, so we threw them in too.
Armanti and Willis muttered to each other while we loaded up. They decided to ride in Armanti’s pickup together. We locked up the shop and my car and saddled up. Willie Varner and Travis rode in the back of the van and I drove, with Sarah Houston in the right seat.
After we were off the Beltway headed for Leesburg, I asked Travis what the story was on Armanti.
“He just got back from Syria a couple days ago. He thinks the agency will be looking for him soon, maybe to turn him over to civilian prosecutors.”
“Lovely. Want to tell us about it?”
“They had him working with the Brits, trying to find the executioner. Last week sometime he went into a building to drag out a guy they wanted to question, guy who they thought was a big dog in ISIS. Hall is an expert in unarmed combat and he thought he could put him down quick, minimum fuss, minimum time, and carry him out.”
Travis glanced at Sarah and stopped talking. I prompted him.
“Anyway, he got in okay and started searching the house. Couldn’t find his guy. He went up the stairs to the third floor and walked in on the guy. The shit was trying to get his dick into a six-year-old girl. You know those guys are pedophiles, child-fuckers?”