Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

Brett was coming home.

She repeated the thought in her head on a loop. Her stomach clutched tightly inside, a combination of joy and nervousness more profound than she’d felt on the day of her wedding. She realized that she hadn’t seen her husband for a year. That she’d given up on ever seeing him again.

She turned up the volume on the television.

“…and we never leave our men and women behind,” Prescott said confidently into camera. “General Brett Hawthorne has a heroic tale to tell, and he will tell it as soon as he arrives back in the United States and has time to recover with his beautiful wife, Ellen. But he, like our other heroes, deserved to come home.”

The anxiety in Ellen’s stomach turned to indignation. It wasn’t enough for the president to make political hay off her husband’s rescue after abandoning him in Afghanistan. Now he’d turn Brett’s homecoming into a case for widespread troop withdrawals. She should have figured that would be the next shoe to drop.

And sure enough, Prescott jumped into that case with both feet. “I vowed on the day I became president that I would bring our troops home, that I would end wars of aggression we have fought halfway around the world,” he said, using language stronger than he had ever used. Of course, he could afford to, after this public relations triumph. “And now, I will make good on that promise. Brett Hawthorne’s rescue marks the beginning of the final phase of my plan to bring every American home from Afghanistan. Welcome home, General. And may God bless you and your wife and all the men and women of our armed forces serving in harm’s way. And may God bless the United States of America.”

Ellen angrily switched off the television. Then she leaned back on her couch and closed her eyes.

The phone rang. Ellen hastily checked her bedside clock—it read 7:56 a.m. She’d overslept; she’d taken a sleeping pill to calm herself down after the president’s speech. Bubba had given her the morning off. “Hell, you deserve it,” he’d said, “even if that husband of yours did get himself caught.”

The determinedly cheery ring continued. She leaned over, picked up.

“Ellen Hawthorne,” she said groggily into the phone.

“It’s me, baby.”

Involuntarily, tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, God, you’re all right. Brett…”

“We don’t have time, baby. I’m here, I’m fine. I can’t tell you where I am right now for security reasons—we’re not in American airspace yet—but I need you to call Bill.”

She immediately snapped to attention. Brett didn’t need the loving wife right now—he needed the partner. She’d put on that hat so many times, it sprang to her without delay. “What’s going on?”

“I need you to conference in Bill. He’ll know.”

“Why can’t you call him directly?”

“I can’t explain.”

“I’m your only call? They’re monitoring it?”

“You got it.”

She scrolled through her cell phone until she came to the name: Bill Collier. She dialed. On the first ring, General Collier picked up. “This is Bill.”

“Bill, this is Ellen. I’ve got Brett on the other line. I need to conference you in.”

“Do it.”

She put them on the party line. “Okay,” she said, “we’re all together.”

“Thanks, babe,” said Brett.

“Glad to hear you alive and kicking, kid,” said Collier. “Thought you’d bitten it that time.”

“Bill, I need you to get your boys on something. I need them to find a known associate of Ashammi’s. Name’s Mohammed.”

“Well, why don’t you give me something tougher to do? Like find a specific Mexican named Juan?”

“He’s coming to the United States. He’s about five foot nine, one forty. Skinny, maybe seventeen years old. Blue eyes, angular face, sharp, big nose. Get your boys on it. There’s not much time.”

“You got it, Brett.” General Collier hung up.

“Are you okay, honey?” Ellen asked, after she knew Collier had clicked off the line.

She could hear him sigh audibly. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t know what I’m doing here, why I’m doing it. What they did to my guys in Afghanistan…”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

“Ellen, I wasn’t supposed to live. That wasn’t the message I gave. I blinked ‘AIRSTRIKE.’ Not tactical mission. Not rescue. Airstrike.”

“But sweetheart, you’re alive. You’re coming home. I know you feel guilty. I know you never meant to leave your men behind. But you alive is better than you dead.”

“Me alive isn’t better than Ashammi dead. He was there, Ellen. He was there . I gave them the location; I knew they’d have time to take the shot. But Prescott, damn him, didn’t have the balls. He just didn’t. And now Ashammi’s out there, planning. He’s smart, Ellen, smart as hell, and he’s steps ahead of us. We were lucky to get out of there alive. If it hadn’t been for a stupid thug named Yusuf, we’d all be dead, and Prescott would have an international incident on his hands anyway, dead Americans and their body parts spread all over Tehran. Damn the man. Damn him .”

She found tears in her eyes again. Her man, her strong, unwavering man, so ready to die. “But you’re coming home, sweetheart. You’re coming home.” On the other end of the phone, she could hear her husband exhale.

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “I’m coming home.”

“Take a bullet for you, babe,” she said.

“Take a bullet for you, sweetheart.”

The line clicked dead.

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.”