During their briefing, the subject matter turned to the Florida Keys. The governor of Florida was no longer responding to the Helton administration’s attempts to intervene. Even direct communication attempts with Monroe County leaders failed.
“They’re calling themselves the Conch Republic, Mr. President,” said the chief of staff of the Army.
“You can’t be serious,” said the president sarcastically. “Are they actually claiming to secede from the Union?”
The general rolled his eyes and smiled. “Sir, they claim they already did many decades ago. Now they’re simply formalizing their declaration. Their words, not mine, sir.”
“Well, our nation, and this administration, will not be insulted by their insolent declarations of independence, or whatever’s on their minds. It’s insurrection against our government, and I want it quashed by whatever means necessary. I can’t allow this concept of a Conch Republic, or banana republic, to take hold. Texas is a difficult enough situation to deal with. Counties or geographic areas trying to assert their separation from our nation need to be dealt with harshly.”
The general continued. “Sir, as we speak, our troops are pulling out of the rally point in Homestead, halfway between Miami-Dade and the two bridges being held by the locals. We will use Army logistics bulldozers to force the concrete barriers off the bridges. Our troops, led by armored personnel carriers, will enter Key Largo. We suspect the locals will lay down their arms or run screaming into the night.”
The general had just finished his sentence and laughed along with the other military personnel in the briefing. Suddenly, one of his aides entered the conference room and interrupted their playful banter at the expense of the Florida Keys. He read the note and then nodded to his aide, who scurried out of the conference room.
“Mr. President, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” the general said as he rose from the table. “We have reports that the locals have detonated explosives under the supports of one of the bridges. A two-hundred-foot span has collapsed into the water.”
“Explosives? Collapsed? Were any of our people hurt?”
“Unknown at this time, sir.” He turned his body toward the door.
“Wait. Did you say there was a second bridge?”
The general nodded.
“Protect it, dammit! Use air support. The Coast Guard. Whatever it takes. Do not allow them to cut themselves off!”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, November 5
Overseas Highway at Cross Key
Florida Keys
Eventually the lane leading off the Keys contained only a handful of elderly people and families who walked away from the checkpoint. Around the bend, floodlights washed the highway as more concrete barriers blocked both sides of the road in a staggered fashion. This was apparently designed to let vehicles through one car at a time. On the other side of the highway, the grassy shoulder was littered with stalled cars that had been pushed off the pavement to make way for others.
Voices were raised as he approached the checkpoint, where armed guards threatened to shoot the refugees despite the fact some of those who were trying to gain access claimed to have proof of residency. A scrum of several dozen people was occurring around the folding tables where men and women in plain clothes processed the refugees.
Peter had to take a second look when he saw the blue flags of the Conch Republic flying in the breeze behind the intake tables. At first, he rolled his eyes at the lunacy. You can’t secede from the United States. Then he thought, Or could you?
Regardless, he needed to get through the checkpoint because the only other option was to hop over the barrier and wade through the mangroves. That was a surefire way to get snakebit or lose a limb to an alligator.
One of the gatekeepers shouted to his personnel, “We’ve got to move it along, people! I’ve got orders to shut it down.”
The crowd of refugees immediately responded.
“Shut what down? You can’t!”
“Let us in first!”
“Please, we came all this way!”
“We’re so close. You gotta let us in.”
Peter sensed what was about to happen. Whoever had dreamed up this secession thing must be aware of the troops amassing in Homestead. Out of fear, they planned to isolate themselves from the rest of the country. Blowing up the toll bridge was just the first step. They might destroy the short span over Jewfish Creek at Anchorage Resort or the longer stretch that crossed Lake Surprise. Either way, his access to home would be taken away.
He furrowed his brow and set his jaw. Being polite wasn’t gonna get him anywhere. He shoved his way past several people, who became agitated. Peter didn’t care. He needed to get someone’s attention before they pulled the entire operation to the other side of those two bridges.
He elbowed his way past several men, who grabbed at his backpack in an attempt to sling him to the ground. Peter angrily swung around and pulled his pistol on them.
“Gun!”
“He’s got a gun!”
“It’s the man in camo!”
The supervisor of the intake process had had enough. “That’s it, people. We’re outta here.”
“You heard the man, soldiers! Weapons hot!”
Peter stopped in his tracks. He knew enough about military parlance to realize there were soldiers of some nature standing on the other side of those barriers with what could be automatic weapons. They’d cut him and everyone around him to ribbons if he forced the issue.
“Please! Let us in, mister!”
“Yeah, we have a condo in Islamorada. I have our deed with me!”
Peter was unsure of what to do. He had no identification that showed residency. He didn’t have a deed to a condo. He didn’t have a library card. All he had was his name.
He used the same ploy that had worked when he walked out of the conference center in Abu Dhabi. It had worked when he approached the old couple in North Carolina, who’d proven so helpful. He holstered his weapon and raised his hands as he pushed his way to the front.
“Hey! I’m Peter Albright. Does anybody know me?”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, November 5
Nashville, Arkansas
That night, after hours upon hours of traversing the back roads of four states, they found a secluded place to sleep in the back of a cemetery just west of Nashville, Arkansas. While they both found it creepy sleeping among the dead, they also felt they were less likely to encounter other people in the offbeat location.
The farther they drove south and east, the more traffic they encountered. Gas stations were closed and mostly looted. The types of vehicles varied, but they were few and far between. Lacey surmised gasoline would be even more difficult to find now. In the several-hundred-mile radius surrounding the Denver metropolitan area where the electromagnetic pulse had the greatest impact, new vehicles were disabled. Owners of vintage trucks like the McDowells’ and the Otero County Sheriff’s Department were the few who truly needed gasoline for transportation purposes.