Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

“I said, it’s your fault, Mr. President.” Ellen couldn’t hold it back any longer. A husband gone for years. A state in ruins. And this man—this man!—claiming to be the victim? “With all due respect, we wouldn’t have this situation on the border if it hadn’t been for your cheap political tactics of nonenforcement, and then forceful opposition to Governor Davis’s plans to do something to secure that border. The reason Governor Davis won’t help you is that he simply doesn’t trust you.”

Prescott looked like he’d been hit with a tire iron. His face went red, his fists clenched. “Okay, Ellen,” he said softly. “Our conversation appears to be at an impasse.”

He stared at her, enraged. Then, he continued, “Now, would you like to see your husband?”

He signaled to Tommy Bradley, who got up and opened the door to the conference room. Two Secret Service agents ushered in General Brett Hawthorne. His face was bruised, his clothes were filthy. He looked awful. His hands were gashed and scraped, the knuckles bloody.

For a moment, Ellen felt miles away. Her husband blurred through her tears. Then she ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He stood there awkwardly, then raised his hands to her head, stroked her hair. She breathed in the smell of him. The wonder of him.

Then he saw Prescott’s smiling face and came back to earth.

She kissed his cheek. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

He gently pushed her back. Then he turned to the president, his hands open, pleading. “Mr. President,” he said, “you need to call Imam Omari here, right now, and get some answers.”

“And why is that, General? We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Look, Mr. President. I spent the last day tracking down leads on one of the men I spotted in Tehran. A man named Mohammed. I tracked him down through my contact—he has him on tape talking with Omari. I got away from your boys long enough to find this Mohammed’s apartment. I fought my way through two men, one of them a henchman for Omari. And then I forced him to talk. Mr. President, I think we’re looking at a nuclear attack on American soil. I tried to track the bomb itself, but I lost the men down near the harbor when your men picked me up. I’ve seen this strategy before, in Afghanistan: they draw you in with one bomb, then use a second to kill those who help. I think what happened at the bridge was the preliminary attack.”

Prescott paused. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Then he said, slowly, “I don’t believe you.”

“You already knew,” Brett mused, enraged.

“I did. And I don’t believe your intelligence is better than my CIA, my FBI, my Department of Homeland Security. I don’t buy this Jack Bauer routine you’re putting on. I think you’ve got delusions of grandeur, and that you always did.”

“Then why am I here?” Brett said.

“Because,” said Prescott, “I want your wife to know that what happens next is up to her.”

Brett’s eyes narrowed. He had been threatened by some of the worst people on the planet, and he’d been threatened by this sorry excuse too many times. He took a step forward—and one of the Secret Service agents stepped toward him. “What is this?” Brett growled.

“Tommy, can you hand me that folder?”

Tommy Bradley shrugged almost sadly, then slid a manila folder to the president. Prescott hesitated just a moment, for the drama, then slid out three photos: one of Ellen in Hassan’s apartment, one of Hassan’s body, and the third of Brett in Mohammed’s. When Brett saw the bloodied body of his friend, he groaned audibly. “Dammit, Hassan,” he whispered. “Damn me.”

“I’m not going to ask either of you what you were doing in the apartments of dead Muslims,” Prescott said. “But these photos aren’t good for you. They won’t land you in prison, of course—we all know there isn’t enough evidence for that—but they’ll be enough to ruin your careers.”

Ellen stammered, “But you know that we had nothing to do with that. If you were watching, you know who killed that man, don’t you?”

“Actually, I don’t. I just know that after we stopped watching him, he wound up dead. And as for your crime scene, General Hawthorne, I’ve got at least two witnesses who place you there around the time of death. They won’t be great on the stand, but they’ll play in the press.”

Ellen felt the breath rush out of her. “Why—why are you doing this?”

“Because, Mrs. Hawthorne,” said Prescott, “your husband forced me into this. So did you. The president of the United States is not just a job. It’s a high office. The president of the United States cannot look ridiculous. He can’t have two-bit jackass redneck governors spitting in his eye. And he can’t have rogue generals portraying him as a weakling days after terrorists blow up the damn George Washington Bridge.

“So here’s my offer,” he continued. “We all walk out of here as best friends. Ellen, you tell the press that we’ve reached an agreement, and that the state of Texas will be removing its troops from the border. You apologize for the massacre in Mexico. And just so your boy Bubba has a fallback position, you can tell them that I’ve pledged to up the federal support on the border as soon as possible.

“As for you, General Hawthorne, you retire quietly back to Texas with your wife. You keep your damn mouth shut, because I’m tired of hearing it. And from now on, you’ve got nothing but praise for me in the media. Nothing. But. Praise.”

Ellen looked up at her husband. Saw his jaw working. She knew him. She knew what he was thinking: that this president wasn’t worth fighting for, that no matter what, he couldn’t stop Prescott from his dangerous policies, that perhaps it was time to give up and go home. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could finally just be with each other. Her heart actually swelled with hope—hope that their someday had come, even if it had to come from the madness and bullheaded stupidity of Mark Prescott.

Brett’s head fell to his chest. He opened his mouth to answer.

Before he could speak, Ellen found herself answering Mark Prescott. “Mr. President,” she said, “I’m sorry, but we just can’t do that.”

Prescott swiveled his chair to face Brett. “How about you, General? Do you want to talk this over with your charming wife?”

Brett hesitated. Then he spoke. “Mr. President, can you give us a few hours?”

Prescott smiled and nodded.

He knew when he’d made a sale.

MARK PRESCOTT HAD GOTTEN HIS moment. But now the time had come for the next step: the actual launch of the Work Freedom Program. He’d spoken with the Chinese government, and they had confirmed their prior commitment to purchase another massive round of debt. His advisors had warned him that too much leverage to the Chinese would place the nation’s finances at peril, but his own economists told him differently: the Chinese, they assured him, could afford to take a financial hit even less than the United States. By tying the two economies together, in fact, President Prescott would be doing a service for the financial future of both countries.

Now he had the opportunity to merge the legacies of Roosevelt and LBJ. The clamor for retaliation against Ibrahim Ashammi and other suspected terror networks had begun from the right—his “love” speech had staved them off for a while. But now he’d need something more. A collective effort. If there was one thing Mark Prescott had learned from history, it was the power of a grand vision, the power of a call to sacrifice.