Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

At the moment, his face looked closer to lobster crimson.

“Well, go fuck yourself then,” he spluttered, slamming the phone down on his carefully crafted maple desk.

He looked up. “Oh, hey, Ellen. Glad you’re back.” He walked over and wrapped her in a bear hug. “Ain’t nothin’ to say ’bout Brett. Except that he’s a tough, mean son of a bitch. If anybody can get his way out of that one, it’s your old man.”

Ellen nodded curtly, then sat down on the nearby settee. She didn’t want to talk about Brett, even with Bubba. “Governor, what’s the story here? My e-mail has been overflowing. I’m getting panic messages from the rest of the team.”

Bubba planted himself heavily on the flowered couch across from her. “I’m putting more troops on the border.”

“You know that’s just for show.”

“Not this time, it ain’t.”

Ellen felt an uncomfortable cringe rise in the middle of her stomach. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?”

Bubba scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’ve seen the people outside. They’ve got a right to expect that they’re safe in this state. That’s why they elected me. It’s why they keep electing me.”

“And you are keeping them safe, Governor.”

“The hell I am. Have you seen the crime statistics in El Paso? Used to be one of the safest cities in the state. Now it looks like goddamn Phoenix. I’ve got kidnappings. I’ve got killings. I’ve got local police in a tizzy, and I’ve got citizens pledging to go rogue if they don’t get satisfaction from the government.”

A shadow of a weary smile crossed Ellen’s face. “So what else is new?”

“I’m not going to stand for it anymore.”

“What can we do? You saw what they did to Vivian. And the feds hamstrung us.”

“Not anymore.”

The cringe became a pit. “What are you planning?”

“I’m going to give them the authority to shoot, Ellen,” Davis said softly.

She couldn’t stop herself before the words came out: “You must be out of your mind.”

“I’m not. I’ve only been out of my mind to think anything would change. I talked to Prescott yesterday. He’s stonewalling me. Threatened to send the feds against us, to arrest our boys, to arrest me, if I do a damn thing to stop this war. And it is a war. I knew Vivian, too, Ellen. I recruited her to the office. Knew her from when she was a little girl and took piano lessons with my wife. That funeral was the last one I’ll be a party to.”

“No, it won’t,” Ellen said. “Not if you do this. It’ll just be one among many. Do you think Prescott is bluffing? It’s just what he wants. He wants another Waco. And even better, a Waco created by one of his chief political opponents. Who do you think will stand with you? The media? They’re in his pocket. Even your own allies will desert you. They’ll call you a secessionist, a rebel. They’ll string you up and you know it. Your allies are your allies right up until they’re not.”

“No,” Bubba said slowly. “I don’t think that’s right.”

“Oh, really? What’s going to stop them? That little mob outside?”

“That little mob,” the governor of Texas said, “isn’t so little. I’ve got polls right here that say that seven out of ten of ’em think we ought to militarize the border.”

“That doesn’t mean they’ll stand up to feds if Prescott gets mean. Polls don’t mean a thing when the rubber hits the road. Hell, polls were in favor of the Afghanistan War, until things got tough. And Brett found out how bad things can go when the public abandons you.”

Bubba Davis stood up, began pacing, his boots thumping on the carpet. “What do you suggest I do, Ellen? We arrest border crossers, and the president just releases them. He just doesn’t give a damn about us down here. We’re political playthings for him, a convenient enemy so he can run his party-building scam, calling us racist rednecks.”

“And you want to hand him that label on a silver platter?”

Bubba walked over to the windows at the back of his office, looked out at the hot Austin noon, the heat baking the grass beneath. The protesters screaming, sweating. He couldn’t hear them, but he could see their mouths work, screaming at him to do something .

“Got any other options?” Bubba finally said.

Ellen went silent.

“Then it’s settled. Draft me a statement. I’m gonna put these bastards on warning.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. They won’t do shit. I know a coward when I see one, and Prescott’s yellower than dehydrated dog piss.”

“What if you’re wrong, Bubba?” Ellen asked. “Are you ready for war with your own government?”

Bubba looked at her. Then his eyes seemed to focus far off. “They’ve been at war with us for a long time. I know. I went to war for them. I’ve been abandoned by my government once. I’m not going to be the one doing the abandoning this time.”

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR came at nearly two o’clock in the morning.

It didn’t wake Soledad—she barely slept these days, given the small city of SWAT team and surrounding militia members that had built up in two concentric circles around her home. It was tough to get exercise on the ranch now that she risked arrest if she strayed too far from her front door. Some of the militia members—now they called themselves Soledad’s Soldiers—rode their motorcycles down the slight incline, kicking up dust in their wake, every few days and brought her groceries; one of them made sure that each time SWAT cut off her electricity, her generator got fixed.

But she’d basically been under house arrest for weeks, and she was damn sick of it. Too much time in one place made her anxious. Even the occasional big media spread didn’t seem to lift her too much anymore—she felt like the whole game was rigged. She was either hero or villain. She was always the story. Never Emilio and Juan. It was always Chris Matthews on the nightly news calling her a traitor or Michael Savage calling her a freedom fighter. It was always one or the other.

And it just didn’t mean a damn thing. The state government went right back in and created an emergency dike to stop the river from flowing. Her farm went dry. The only difference between before and after the bombing was the military encampment around her house.

It just sat there.

Every day, the militia dwindled. Every day, a few more of the bikers peeled off, took their rifles and skedaddled. You couldn’t expect them to stay indefinitely, after all. They had lives, families. And as the media attention waned, as the standoff lasted, more and more of them had to leave.

But SWAT remained.

Then, over the past two or three days, SWAT began to grow. She noticed a few more Humvees show up. Then some choppers. Their incessant flyovers kept her up at night, even when she was lucky enough to fall asleep.

But she was awake now. The knock startled her anyway. She had always figured that when the invasion came, it wouldn’t come with a warning “shave and a haircut, two bits” thump on the door, but with a small battering ram through the door.

She opened it. A SWAT officer stood there, his gun down by his side. When she opened the screen door, he sidled in without permission, holding his right arm out, palm facing her, signaling for her to keep quiet. He shut the door stealthily behind him. Then, noticing her eyes fixed on his weapon, he placed it gently on the dining room table.

When he took off his helmet, she noticed his bright blue eyes. They stood out more because they were red-rimmed, whether from lack of sleep or from crying, she couldn’t tell. The man stood no more than five foot ten, well built, Caucasian. A thatch of mussed brown hair stood nearly on end. He moved forward quickly and grabbed her by the arm. She could feel his powerful grip through her thick robe.