Bobby Akart - First Strike

One couple came regularly, and the other had never been to Florida. They were residents of Colorado. As if on cue, just as they arrived at the thatched covering, Bob Marley’s music began to softly play through the speakers that dotted the beachfront. It set the tone for the group to observe the turquoise waters swarming with fish that day.

“Would you mind telling us about the Conch Republic?” asked the man from Colorado politely, pointing at the flag gently flapping in the breeze.

Hank smiled and nodded. This question was often asked while he interacted with guests. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his Conch Republic passport. The novelty item, issued by the official Conch Republic office in Key West, was bent and cracked from decades of spending time in Hank’s pockets. He studied its crest, a combination of the Conch Republic flag, a dolphin jumping out of the water, and a sailing ship on the ocean. He ran his fingers across the official motto and read it aloud to his guests.

“We seceded where others failed.”

He handed the passport to the man from Colorado, who opened it and began to flip through its pages. It looked as official as any passport from any nation he’d visited.

As they admired it, Hank explained. “Here’s what happened. Many folks down this way believed the United States declared war on the Florida Keys. In April of ’82, as part of its anti-drug programs, the U.S. Border Patrol set up a roadblock and customs checkpoint just before A1A crossed over to the Florida mainland, which, as you probably know, is the only way in or out of the Florida Keys.

“It was the first time the U.S. government had set up an armed checkpoint that was within the territory of the U.S. itself and not actually at any internationally recognized border. Customs agents began checking IDs and systematically searching every vehicle leaving the Keys, looking for drugs. Within hours, the stopped cars had produced a traffic jam nineteen miles long, forcing travelers to wait for hours before being allowed to continue on.

“Over the next few days, as word spread across the country about the massive delays, tourists began cancelling their Key West vacations. Delivery trucks from the mainland stopped going to the Keys. The businesses, like ours, that were so dependent on outside tourists and supplies, were completely paralyzed.

“It so happened that Skeeter Davis, the owner of the Last Chance Saloon right in front of where the border patrol had set up the roadblock, was a friend of Key West mayor Dennis Wardlow. After a day, he was on the phone to the mayor, asking if he could do anything about the situation. The Key West City Council met and decided to have their lawyers seek a federal court injunction to force the border patrol to lift the roadblock.

“To avoid the traffic, Mayor Wardlow and a few other officials flew to Miami to make their case. On April 22, the court ruled against them and refused to issue an injunction. As they were leaving the courthouse, reporters asked him what the city would do next, and Mayor Wardlow announced to the reporters, ‘We’re gonna go home and secede. Tomorrow at noon, the Florida Keys will secede from the Union!’”

The group laughed as Hank relayed the mayor’s words with an excited voice as if he’d uttered them himself. He’d told the story hundreds of times before, so he continued with the unwritten script that he’d recited from memory and practice.

“Well, the story flew around the country, and when the Key West city government gathered at Clinton Square, in front of the old customs building, at noon on April 23 to formally announce their secession, they were surrounded by reporters from across the US. They were also surrounded by federal agents wearing earphones and blue suits, who stood out amongst the locals, who were wearing tee shirts and flip-flops.

“The mayor stood on the back of a flatbed truck and announced that since the U.S. government had decided to treat the Keys as a foreign country and had already established the border to be at the Last Chance Saloon, Key West might as well be a foreign country.

“He declared himself to be the prime minister before presenting the Conch flag just like the one above us. He even had a pledge of allegiance.”

“Do you know it?” asked one of the guests.

Hank smiled and placed his right hand over his heart. “Of course, I’m a Conch.” The group chuckled as he turned reverently to face the flag and recited the pledge.

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of my tiny island nation. And to the Republic for which it stands. One nation, under the sun, indivisible, where the liberty is true and the justice is divine. Long live the Conch Republic!”

Hank thrust his fist into the air as the group of four guests cheered him on. Everyone exchanged high fives, and Hank imagined they’d be racing down the highway shortly to join the movement.

Hank left out the part of how the newly anointed prime minister then formally declared war on the United States of America, and for one full minute, the citizens of the new Conch Republic attacked the US Navy and Coast Guard officials who were present by pelting them with stale Cuban bread. It was all in good fun, of course, but would generate a far different reaction if it had occurred today.

While the guests got a good laugh, Hank felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was a text message notification from Peter.

Peter: Call me. 911.

Monday, October 21

Washington, DC

The U.S. Department of State was headquartered in the Harry S. Truman Building in an area of Washington, DC, known as Foggy Bottom. It was one of the oldest neighborhoods in the District located just west of the White House. In the nineteenth century, Foggy Bottom received its name because it was in a low-lying marshy area near the Potomac River. Fog, and later industrial smog, would settle there, lending the appearance of a perpetually cloud-covered part of the city.

The State Department had been labeled with the metonym Foggy Bottom when the Truman Building was constructed in the late 1940s. Peter’s friends would often ask him, “How are things over at Foggy Bottom?” Today, the answer was not so swell .

He paced the grassy lawn across C Street from the Truman Building. The National Academy of Sciences was closed for refurbishment, so pedestrian traffic was light. It was the only place he could think of without prying ears.

“Come on, Dad,” he muttered as he checked his phone’s display for the fifth or sixth time. Finally, the phone rang, and Peter picked up the call before the first ring finished.

“Son, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Dad. I’m fine. Listen, I need to tell you something. Nobody outside Foggy, um, the State Department is aware of this yet. Definitely not the media, okay?”

“Sure. I understand. What’s up?”

“My friend at Defense tells me Pakistan is on a war footing with India. Here’s the thing. The Kashmir region—the disputed borderlands between India, China, and Pakistan—has always been a flashpoint for a war. Overnight, there were tit-for-tat airstrikes across the cease-fire line established by the UN last year. These two have been fighting over the Himalayas for nearly forty years.”

“Son, that sucks, but how does that affect the U.S., or me for that matter?”

“An hour ago, India sent military jets into Pakistan and bombed its nuclear facility at Chashma. Dad, this is two hundred miles into the center of Pakistan from the Indian border. Islamabad is freakin’ pissed!”