Ben Shapiro - True Allegiance

The dialect drew a few chuckles. Levon smiled. They could all chuckle. Underneath, they knew exactly what he did: they no longer ran their cities. Levon Williams did.

The aircraft carrier sat moored to the man-made island atop the atolls of the Spratly Islands. The Chinese government had spent years dredging the coral reefs, turning them into military outposts in spite of international furor. The crew of the Liaoning , fully two thousand strong, had been trained aboard the ship and knew her well. They came accompanied by another seven hundred members of the air group. Beside the Liaoning sat a full flotilla of destroyers and frigates.

At 0400 hours, the flotilla, led by the Liaoning , began its over eight-thousand-mile journey to the West Coast of the United States. Admiral Chen De stood on the deck of the aircraft carrier, watching the greatest armed amphibious force ever assembled by his nation steam toward America. His orders had come through that morning. He knew that Chinese forces would be joined in the United States by coalition forces from Europe, Japan, Canada, and Russia. But by far the largest on-the-ground contingent came from China, which the new president of the United States had publicly labeled a friend and partner.

In the game of international politics, friendship and partnership only went so far, Admiral Chen knew. He had contingency plans, just in case something should go wrong. Such things were bound to happen from time to time.

Pages sprinted around the Texas House of Representatives, bearing paperwork and messages from the legislators to each other. In the hallways, congressmen berated one another, cornering each other, trying to talk some sense into each other. Cameras clogged the corridors, reporters frantically attempting to sequester some unlucky rube politician and peg him or her down on the vote.

The impeachment vote against Governor Bubba Davis was underway.

Blocks away, Davis sat in his office, the drapes closed, the room dark. He stared into the darkness, thinking about Ellen Hawthorne. He’d watched the speech from President Martin, disbelieving—there was no way that the federal government, even this federal government, could actually believe Ellen Hawthorne responsible for the worst terror attack in the history of the United States. Could believe him responsible for that attack.

But they had said it. They had declared war. His bluff had been called.

Unless he wasn’t bluffing.

Davis knew that governors all over the country were waiting, watching to see what the House would do today. He’d spoken with the governors of Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Oklahoma, Arkansas, New Mexico, Arizona, Alabama, Georgia; he’d received calls from the governors of Nebraska, Wyoming, South Dakota, North Dakota, and Montana. He’d assured them all that he had nothing to do with the attacks in New York, and that President Martin had exploited the terror attack to reassert federal authority. All of them feared for the future of the United States, but they also feared the domination of their states by an assertive executive branch prepared to declare war on its own citizens.

The federal military still had tremendous resources, but the combination of Prescott’s military cuts with the terror attack in New York had taxed them to their limits. If it came down to it, military action by the feds wouldn’t be that easy.

The thought of American men and women aiming guns at each other made Bubba Davis sick to his stomach. He hoped, in a way, that the House would go through with it, remove him from office, put an end to all of this, replace him with someone who would back down. But if the feds could trump up such a pack of lies about Ellen, what would they do to him? He’d be put on trial for treason against his nation; maybe Martin would pardon the men and women defending the border, maybe not. All of that sounded better to Bubba Davis than the prospect of a war with his own government, a government he’d fought for overseas and defended with his blood.

But they wouldn’t keep the citizens of Texas safe. Those citizens were Americans, but their rights didn’t spring from the federal government—they came from somewhere deeper. That was the only reason Bubba Davis didn’t resign and turn himself over to the feds for a trial. Polls showed that Texans were strongly divided on whether Davis should stay or go, but polls also showed that few believed Davis had been behind the attacks in New York.

The phone rang on Davis’s desk. He let it ring twice. Then he answered.

He hung up, leaned back against his chair.

He was still governor of Texas. His state was with him. Soon, he knew, he would be at war with the federal government.

Brett sat in an empty warehouse—they weren’t going to risk bringing him back to a known facility. Too high profile, too much media. He sat with his back to the wall— just like the ’Stan , he laughed ruefully to himself—his head in his thick arms. It was getting late; the sun was setting beyond the haze of the skyline, devastated once more by terror. He looked up, the sunlight reflecting in his red-rimmed eyes. “Ellen,” he whispered. “Ellen, I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t even sense it when the door creaked open and an officer in full SWAT regalia strode into the room. He was tall, broad shouldered.

Piece by piece, he began undressing.

“There isn’t much time, sir,” he said. “You need to put this shit on.”

Brett looked up at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re leaving, General.”

“How did you get in here?”

“You want to stick around here, that’s up to you, General,” said the officer. “But I have a feeling you’ll be better off taking my advice.”

Brett stood up and began putting on the police gear as the officer spoke. “General, you’re going to walk out of here. Keep your face toward the wall as much as possible. Show them this ID. It’s federal.”

Brett looked at it. “EPA? What do they have to do with this?”

The officer laughed. “The ID serves the purpose. Used to belong to a friend of mine.”

When Brett finished suiting up, the officer sat down with his back against the wall. “Only one of us can leave,” he said. “That’s you. No time to argue. Get out of here.”

Brett nodded slowly as he clipped the ID to his vest. “Thanks.”

“The car’s down the street. Two rights, then a left. Black van, license plate 3X8FFSL. Get out of here.” Then the man dropped his head to his chest as Brett opened the door.

None of the guards in the hallway gave Brett a second glance. The uniform took care of that. At the end of the hall, he took an elevator down to the street.

When he got to the street, he followed the directions to the van. As he approached, the passenger’s side door popped open. He climbed in.

A woman sat behind the wheel.

Then Brett saw her face.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, pulling her toward him as she screamed. He placed his hand on her neck, gripping it. “Why?!” he yelled. “Why would you do this? Who are you?”

Her left hand gradually came up—Brett found himself at the point of her muzzle. “Get the hell off me,” she said.

Slowly, he let go.

“My name is Soledad Ramirez,” she choked. “I’m here to get you out of the city.”

“You tried to assassinate Prescott. What do you want with me?”

Soledad looked at him seriously. “Do you want to stick around? If so, get out right now.”

Brett looked at her. “You’re that terrorist.”

“I prefer rancher. The government made me a terrorist.”