True Allegiance

One minute and twenty-nine seconds later, Bill Collier received a call from his wife, Jennifer. He let it go to voice mail. He was busy tracking down a man named Mohammed with ties to Ibrahim Ashammi.

The first phone call Ellen received came from Bubba. He told her to turn on the television. When she did, she saw the George Washington Bridge tilting in slow motion, cars falling into the Hudson. She saw the close-up helicopter footage of women and children screaming in their vehicles as the two-level bridge collapsed in on itself. She saw anchors weeping openly, real-time footage of relatives taping “HAVE YOU SEEN” posters to a makeshift bulletin board at the new World Trade Center. She saw President Prescott vow to track down the perpetrators of the attack, announce that America needed to pull together, despite its differences, announce that he would be mobilizing National Guard troops across the nation to travel to New York City for rescue and cleanup. She sat glued to the television for two hours.

Then she heard a knock at her door. When she opened it, Bubba was standing there. His face looked gaunt, ashen. She ushered him into the living room, where he settled his bulk onto her leather couch.

“I got a call from Prescott,” he said. “He wants our boys out there ASAP.”

“I know. I saw it on the news.”

“I won’t send them, Ellen.”

She shuddered involuntarily. “You know by law that you have to. The National Guard can be mobilized by the president once a national emergency has been declared.”

“Under Posse Comitatus, that isn’t totally clear. But this ain’t about law anymore, Ellen. It hasn’t been for a long time. We pull our troops off that border, and I’ll have more dead ranchers on my hands, more children floating up in that river. I don’t have the stomach for that.”

“There’s another river with dead kids in it, Bubba,” Ellen said.

He shot her a hard look. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve seen the footage, too. And I’m damn sorry about it. But I’m not governor of New York. I’m governor of the Republic of Texas, and my first duty is to this state. We give up those troops, we might as well let Prescott open the border officially to the cartels and the smugglers. They’re the only thing standing between us and a full-scale invasion.”

“The invasion is slow motion. That situation in New York isn’t.”

He exhaled heavily. “I know that, too. But I just don’t trust Prescott. Once he mobilizes the National Guard on behalf of the feds, he can put them wherever he wants—and he can put them where I can’t order them to do a damn thing. Listen, Ellen, I’m not here to argue. I’m here to plan. And let me tell you, girl, that I’m doing this one way or another. If you can’t commit to helping me, I’ll find someone who will. There won’t be any hard feelings.” He paused. “But if you’re with me, Ellen, if we can stand together, we can get through this.”

She glanced at the television. The rescue crew was pulling another body from the water—a young girl wearing a Disneyland sweatshirt. It was footage, Ellen knew from 9/11, that they’d only show today, during live coverage—then the psychiatrists would explain to the network brass that showing such images was “triggering,” and the pictures would disappear to spare the sensitivities of the American viewer. The scrolling chyron underneath the picture flashed quotes from Prescott’s speech: “PRESIDENT: WE WILL STAND TOGETHER… PRESIDENT CALLS UP NATIONAL GUARD… PRESIDENT TO REDEPLOY TROOPS TO NEW YORK AS THEY ARRIVE FROM WAR ZONES ABROAD… PRESIDENT VOWS TO ‘TRACK DOWN THE PERPETRATORS’…”

Bubba said, “Ellen, it could get this bad for everyone down here, too. You’ve seen Prescott. You know him. That’s why we have to protect ourselves.”

“And what will Prescott do to us if we turn him down?”

“I know what he won’t do,” Bubba answered. Ellen lifted an eyebrow. “He won’t send the National Guard.”

Ellen shook her head. “I need to think about this, Bubba.”

“Don’t take too much time. I’m going to make this move, Ellen. You’ve stood with me the whole way, down the line. But if you can’t be with me this time, I’ll need your resignation on my desk this afternoon. There’s just no time left.”

Soledad

Minot, North Dakota

THEY’D MADE THEIR WAY to the farm gradually. At first, there were only a few—friends and family of the militia members, an agglomeration of survivalists and nuts. I don’t belong here, Soledad thought. Then she realized that they were here because of her.