I also have proof that the same people in our government that used a radical organization as cover to detonate a nuclear bomb in an American city, also orchestrated the terror attacks that rocked the nation several weeks prior. So if I have evidence that proves otherwise in regards to Houston and the terror strikes, what should I believe about Senator Ames? What should I believe about the three hundred American citizens that were captured or killed by their own government?
These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.
As of this broadcast, you are no longer citizens of the United States; you are citizens of Texas. If this assaults your sensibilities, you are free to leave. Otherwise, citizens of Texas, the republic is dead; long live the republic.
Mr. President, you’ve either purposely lied to the American people or you have been lied to by your friends. I invite you to the sovereign Republic of Texas to see the proof for yourself.”
The man stood up from his chair, walked over to the governor and extended his hand. The governor grasped his hand firmly as he shook it. The technicians in the control room beside them had erupted into cheers and applause.
“I’m proud of you; you were perfect.”
“Thanks. I can barely breathe.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Let’s go to my office for a few minutes.”
They walked down the hall in silence, the weight of the broadcast still hung heavy on the two men. He shut the door behind him and sat down across from the governor.
“How did it feel, killing me that is?”
“It felt rather strange, staring at you and all.”
“It’ll buy me a lot of time, get Washington off my back. I’m sure by now they know I’m the one that’s responsible for the secession.”
“You’re not responsible Reese, they are.”
“I know, but tell that to them.”
The governor leaned back in his chair and contemplated the future during the lull in the conversation. He retrieved the bottle of scotch and poured it into two glasses.
“What you did in Afghanistan, do you think it’s repeatable on the border?”
“With the right people, most definitely.”
“I believe I have the right people, they just need someone who has the experience. I’ve been here a long time, Reese; talked to a lot of community leaders across the border over my years. They despise these cartels and their do-nothing government as much as we do. We started out with a conventional war down there, but I don’t think we can win it like that. If we do, we’ll lose a lot of lives in the process. That’s why I need you.”
“Tell me about how you’ve been fighting them so far.”
“Well, we bombed Matamoros.”
“That’s going to complicate the situation tremendously.”
“Get some rest; I know you haven’t slept in days. You can strategize later.”
“I’ll go get my stuff together; I can sleep on the way.”
i i
Barrett stared down into the vast expanse of nothing in front of him. The distant sounds of a flock of sheep could be heard somewhere beyond the horizon. The valley below them was blanketed with yellow and white wildflowers, and dotted with prickly pears. The occasional Mexican-olive and mesquite tree towered over the barren surroundings.
He climbed out of the Humvee and walked to the front. He leaned against the hood and continued to survey the South Texas plains. Barrett watched a family of Mexican prairie dogs scamper to and fro, searching for an evening meal.
“What’re you looking at amigo?”
“I don’t know, maybe a year, maybe more.”
“No lo entiendo, amigo.”
“Alex, do you know where we can get some horses?”
“Sí.”
“We’ll probably need about twenty, maybe more; I don’t know yet.”
“For what motivo, amigo?
“We’re going south; how far, I don’t know. For how long, I don’t know. We need smart, sure-footed, long-distance horses.”
“Is no problem, amigo; I can get. You know, eh, how do you say, Araloosa?”
“Appaloosa?”
“No, Araloosa. Is what you want; I can get.”
“I need one more thing; I need a translator, someone who can speak to the locals and explain that we mean well.”
“Sí, I can get that to.”
“No, I mean-“
Alejandro laughed at his friend’s nervous response and replied, “I will go; ¡desde luego.”
Barrett chuckled at the humor and smiled at Alex. They watched at the low hanging sun rapidly approached the end of its daily ritual. The comfortable silence of two old friends felt good to Barrett, almost like home. It had been far too long; he was glad the old grudge seemed to be fading away.
“How bad will Matamoros hurt us?”
“Is bad, but los carteles do much worse to pueblo. Acciones, no palabras”
“Actions, not words?”
“Sí, is what I say.”
The conversation lulled until the sun sank below the distant hills. As darkness began to envelop the plains, Barrett walked back to the Humvee’s side and climbed in. Alex followed suit and did the same. As they began the long drive back to Port Mansfield, Barrett asked, “Do you still miss her?”
“Sí, todos los días.”
“Do you ever think it’ll ever get easier?”
“No. Do you still miss her?”
“Sí, todos los días,” Barrett replied.
“Do you think it get easier?”
“I don’t expect it does, friend. I don’t expect it does.”
i i i
The crisp, October weather could not have been more perfect. The combination of the cool wind and the warm rays of the sun felt rejuvenating to Jake. He was perched in the bow of the boat as Clayton navigated the flooded logging road with deft skill. They had spent the last hour or so tying and baiting the lines, but now came the fun part.
They passed by the first few lines without event. Jake, unhappy with the slow start, turned and shot a scowl at Clay, but he only laughed and shouted, “Give it time, son; you’re too impatient.”
“Always have been.”
As they rounded the next bend, Jake watched the braided line that hung from the oak limb. The line was tied to a point on the branch about three feet from the top of the water. It continued down into the murk another foot or two before terminating at the heavy hook.
At first the line looked like the others, hanging at ever so slightly an angle from the tug of the current. When they were several dozen feet away from the line, Clayton slipped the motor in neutral and revved it loudly. The limb suddenly disappeared below the water. Jake let out a roar of approval at the sight. Clayton eased him closer so he could retrieve the catch.
Jake plunged his hand into the water and searched for the submerged branch and line. Finally, he grasped it and began to pull it out of the water. The lack of resistance surprised him. Without warning, the line tugged him with unexpected force. Jake momentarily lost his balance and almost fell out of the boat. Clayton laughed at the predicament as he watched his son.
“Quit laughing and throw me the net, old man.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, but I can’t help it – here!” He tried in vain to restrain his laughter.