Crislip looked back at the guard. There was just a sliver of moon and enough starlight to see him clearly, standing there in the road looking this way, no doubt wondering what the colonel was going to do about this stubborn rancher.
“Mr. Lipscomb and Mrs. Lipscomb—” he looked at the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Ruby.”
“And Ms. Ruby Lipscomb. I am here obeying the orders of my superior officers, and the men with me are obeying my orders. We are doing our duty. Now I am asking you nicely to please get in your truck and drive on into Borger or return to your home.”
“You’re gonna blow up this bridge, ain’t ya?” Lipscomb said, scrutinizing Crislip’s face.
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, we ain’t goin’ anywhere. We use this bridge to get back and forth to town, and so do our neighbors. Our tax dollars built this bridge, and we ain’t gonna let a bunch of Soetoro’s soldier boys blow it up. You people get in your helicopter and get the hell outta here.”
“There are ten of us, Mr. Lipscomb, and we’re all armed.”
“I ain’t packin’. My wife and daughter ain’t packin’. But if we have to go home and get our rifles and start shootin’, we will. You people ain’t blowin’ up this bridge without a fight… and that’s my final word.”
Crislip walked over to the guardrail on the edge of the bridge and looked down. The soldiers in the riverbed had finished placing the charges under the bridge and were unrolling det cord.
He turned around and found Lipscomb beside him.
“You people must be idiots,” Lipscomb said. “Blowin’ a bridge in the middle of the Texas panhandle ain’t no way to win friends. You think that’ll make us submit?” He spat onto the pavement. “When they hear about this glorious military raid in Austin, no doubt they’ll decide to drag Texas back to Soetoro’s slimy embrace, kiss his shitty ass, and beg for forgiveness.”
Crislip tried to decide what to do.
“Meanwhile the folks who live around here ain’t got no bridge, thanks to the United States Army and Barry Soetoro.”
The colonel examined his options. He could have his soldiers drag these three people off this bridge and blow it. Or he could tell the Lipscombs to go get their rifles and blow it while they were gone. Or…
He took a deep breath of that foul stink of cow shit. “How the hell do you stand the smell?” he asked Lipscomb.
Lipscomb sniffed the air. “Oh, the cows. You get used to it.”
Kevin Crislip grew up in Des Moines, son of a lawyer. His mother’s father had been a farmer, growing corn on three sections of land every summer. Kevin had loved his visits to his grandparents’ farm. There he learned to drive a tractor, shoot a rifle — learned what hard work was.
After four years at West Point and twenty-three years in the army, four deployments in two wars, here he was standing in the darkness on a bridge in the middle of nowhere breathing that pure Texas smell, arguing with a rancher who really didn’t deserve to lose his bridge to make Barry Soetoro happy.
The colonel made his decision. He leaned over the guardrail of the bridge. “Lieutenant,” he called.
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s been a change of plans. Remove the charges from under the bridge, and let’s go back to Colorado.”
“Ahh…”
“Do it,” the colonel said.
“Yes, sir.”
And that is what they did. The three Lipscombs were still standing in the middle of the bridge when the twin-rotor helicopter lifted off with all the soldiers aboard.
With the electricity off in much of east Texas, the prison, its power provided by emergency generators, seemed an oasis of light that Saturday evening. Although it was only six and darkness was several hours away, the institution’s floodlights were all lit. That was an irony that didn’t escape the seven armed men in National Guard camo uniforms who pulled up to the main gate in two Humvees with fresh Lone Star flag insignia painted on the doors. Behind them was a National Guard bus that contained another ten soldiers, also sporting newly painted Lone Star flags.
“It’s after visiting hours,” the bored gate guard said. The officer in charge, a colonel, displayed a letter. He passed it through the window to the guard, who picked up a telephone on his desk and made a call.
From his right front seat in the Humvee, the colonel had a good view of the star-shaped building, the tiny barred windows, the guard towers, and the double-chain-link fence topped by concertina wire that encircled the entire facility. Popular legend had it that there had never been an escape from the prison, and the colonel could see why.
After a few minutes, the guard said, “I’m going to open the gate and you drive in and park by the stairs. Someone will be down shortly to escort you.”
That is how it went. Ten minutes later the colonel, whose name was embroidered on his left chest, and a captain were sitting in the warden’s office. The warden was eating from a heaping plate on his desk, apparently his supper.
The colonel passed the warden the letter, which was on the stationery of the governor, now president, of Texas. The warden dropped his eyes to the signature. Jack Hays.
The warden, Arlen Kirkpatrick, was forty or so pounds overweight, was balding, and had prominent jowls. Kirkpatrick picked up a bite of fried chicken with his fingers as he started to read. He read in silence. In the document, President Hays summarily relieved him, thanked him for his past service, and appointed Colonel Ezekiel Holly in his place. Warden Kirkpatrick was told to report to the Bureau of Corrections as soon as possible to be reassigned or, if he wished, placed on the retired list.
He read the letter quickly, abandoned his dinner, then read it again much slower.
He dropped the two sheets of paper on the desk and looked at the colonel. “What did I do to earn this honor?”
“Obviously, the president is putting the military in charge of the prisons for the time being. He said he intends to see that you are reassigned to another prison when the crisis is past.”
Kirkpatrick shook his head in amazement. “Colonel Holly, someone has lost their senses. Soldiers aren’t trained to run prisons. Our inmates are some of the worst in the system. Only a fool would send you here.”
“You are entitled to your opinion.”
Kirkpatrick picked up the letter and read aloud, “The Republic can no longer afford the past level of outlay on prisons… Having full faith and confidence in Colonel Ezekiel Holly, I have ordered him to assess the prison population at your facility and recommend which prisoners should be released early.”
The warden stared at Holly. “Does this mean…”
“Indeed, there may be some early releases,” Colonel Holly said with a curt nod. “Texas is fighting for its life and must save dollars wherever it can. The president thought extraordinary measures were necessary.”
“I must verify this with the president,” the warden said.
“Certainly.”
“But I cannot. The electricity is out and the telephones are dead.”
Colonel Holly’s face was impassive.
“I will not admit you to the prison proper until I can verify this with President Hays.”
“Just how do you propose to do that?” Holly asked softly.
“Well, wait until power is restored, I suppose.”
“Mr. Kirkpatrick. I have sixteen armed soldiers with me. Do I have to bring these troops in here and forcibly remove you from this office?”
“Now see here—”
“If that is what I need to do, please excuse me.” Colonel Holly stood. “I must be about it. I have my orders.”
“Sit, Colonel, sit. Please.” Arlen Kirkpatrick knew when he was beaten. He pushed his unfinished dinner out of the way. “What can I do to help?”