by Roger Hayden
“Looks like you guys have been through it,” Meyers said. “I’m assuming the bullet holes etched across your car weren’t part of some restoration plan?”
She’d given all she had to make it across the border. Well, she had done it, but the ending wasn’t what she’d hoped. She’d traveled almost half the length of the country, but her sister’s house felt farther away than ever before. Brooke started retracing the past few days in her mind. Where did I foul up? When did I turn left when I should have turned right? When did I rest when I should have pushed through?
“Look, lady, I know what’s going on is messed up. I get it. But you know that I can’t let you stay here. The federal boys have been hovering around, and I can’t even take a piss without some DC prick checking on me. We’re not going to charge you with anything. You’ll spend the night here, and we’ll be shipping you back to San Diego in the morning. I’m sorry,” Meyers said.
“It’s dead.”
“What?”
“San Diego. There isn’t anything left there to go back to.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Please. There… there must be something you can do. Anything.”
Brooke’s voice cracked. Her desperation had peaked. She couldn’t have her family sent back to where they had came from. As bad as it had been before they left, San Diego had no doubt descended to something lower than hell.
“We’ll give you details of the trip in the morning. In the meantime, I can give you and your family a cell together. The man you’re with, is he your husband?” the sergeant asked.
“What about my belongings? My car? Will they be returned?”
“No. They’ll be staying with us.”
Once they were deported back to San Diego, their only hope was to head north, up the coast of California, to what remained of the redwoods. That small sliver of the state was the only green left in the Southwest. She desperately wanted to avoid that area because she knew that’s where everyone would go. That part of the state was the wealthiest, and the only way for someone to get in was with money—or service, which was more akin to slavery.
The sergeant escorted Brooke to a cell where her children were waiting and unlocked her cuffs. She dropped to her knees. John and Emily rushed to her. She clutched her children, pulling them close. This was what she still had, and it was more than enough to get her through whatever happened next.
Brent rubbed his eyes. He’d caught himself nodding off twice already. Since Tim and the others had left, there were fewer people to handle the guard shifts. He’d been pulling double duty to pick up the slack.
He couldn’t get what Brooke had told him out of his mind. It’d plagued him for the past twenty-four hours. This place is dead.
Was it, though? Brent had made it this far. His family still had food, water, and shelter. The Mexican gangs were still too unorganized to pose a serious threat. But each time he pushed Brooke’s comments out of his head, a cloud of doubt would reappear, triggered by some primal fear deep within him.
Brent tried distracting himself by taking a walk around the perimeter. Loosening up his muscles and breathing the night air might offer some relief. He pulled his jacket tight to fend off the chilled air and walked softly around the building. Everything was quiet. They hadn’t received an attack from anyone since Brooke had been here. The stress of the past few days rolled off him. They were fine.
After a few laps, Brent decided to head back inside. His hand was on the door handle when the roar of jets sounded overhead. He couldn’t see them in the night sky, but the boom from their engines shook his bones. He could hear the fighters zooming back and forth in the sky. The sound of gunfire echoed in the darkness.
The noises stirred the others awake, and Linda came outside, along with a few other group members. His daughter, Kara, rubbed her eyes and held Linda’s hand.
“Brent, what’s going on?” Linda asked.
“I don’t know. Take everyone back inside. Find a sturdy central room with no windows and stay there. Go,” Brent said.
Linda ushered the group inside, and the small cloud of doubt that Brent had had in his mind grew into a raging storm. In the distance, the terrors of his imagination were brought to life as bombs exploded over Phoenix.
She was right.
Sergeant Meyers scanned Brooke’s and Eric’s IDs into the system. When he saw that Eric had been an officer in the military, he let out a long whistle. “So that’s how they got the Claymore.”
Once he notified the federal authorities of the deportation and completed the paperwork on Brooke’s transportation, he tossed Eric’s file onto another officer’s desk.
“This one was military. Have fun with that, Chuck,” Meyers said and walked outside.
The condensation from Meyer’s breath puffed sprays of the frigid desert air. He never could understand how it could get so cold after being so hot. He lit the tip of a cigarette, inhaled, and felt the fire burn in his lungs. He let out a long, satisfying drag and watched the still-smoldering brush burned by Eric’s bomb.
Nothing he did sat well with him anymore. There was always a sour pit in his stomach, no matter what he ate or drank. It was a perpetual disdain for the country he was living in. He knew the poison of DC had spread to every corner of the United States. Everyone had made their bed, and now they were stuck sleeping in it.
Meyers smoked the cigarette until it was half gone then dropped it to the ground and snuffed it out with the toe of his boot. The twisting motions of his foot stopped when a series of gunshots was fired. His hand instinctively reached for his pistol. He squinted out into the darkness. He could see flashes from gun barrels in the distance.
The headlights of the patrol cars illuminated what looked like hundreds of people marching in their direction. The sound of tank tracks cut through the night air, and one of the tanks blasted a guard tower. The explosion decimated the post, causing a rainfall of glass, wood, and metal.
“My God,” Meyers said.
Jets roared overhead, and Sergeant Meyers rushed inside the building. Officers were scrambling everywhere. He burst into the captain’s office, where the captain was screaming into the phone. “I don’t care who you have to wake up! We need the goddamn military!” The captain slammed the phone onto its cradle, pulled a gun out of his desk, and loaded a magazine.
“Captain, what the hell is going on?” Meyers asked.
“Mexico.”
The first explosion sounded distant from inside the cell, but the next one rocked the entire building. Bits of concrete from the ceiling fell to the floor, and Brooke instinctively covered John and Emily’s heads.
Officers ran back and forth down the hallway. She rushed to the front of the cell, reaching her hands through the iron bars, trying to grab somebody’s attention.
“Please, let us out of here. Hey. Stop!”
Brooke managed to grab hold of the shirt of one of the officers, but with one powerful yank, he escaped. Another explosion, louder than the first, shook the building. The lights flickered on and off. This was too intense to be some gang. Before she had time to think about it further, Sergeant Meyers came barreling down the hallway, fumbling the cell keys in his hand.
“Sergeant!” Brooke said.
“You guys need to get out of here now. The Mexican military is marching right toward us,” Meyers said.
“The man that was with us. Where is he?”
“Look, lady, I don’t have time for this.”
Meyers pulled out the keys to Brooke’s cell.
“Please, where is he?” Brooke asked.
Meyers’s hesitation gave her hope, and after a few moments he finally headed down the cellblock. Eric was being held at the far end of the hallway. The building continued to shake from the blasts outside. Brooke cradled the back of Emily’s head as her daughter’s arms clutched tight around her. When Meyers returned to unlock the cell, Eric was with him.
“I knew I was growing on you,” Eric said.
Meyers gave a quick nod, then the four of them rushed outside. The border fence was destroyed. It had been replaced by an advancing army shooting anything that moved.
The soldiers were grouped with tanks that rolled over the Texan soil, blasting into the border patrol compound. In between themselves and the Mexican army, Brooke could see the fenced in-lot where her cruiser was parked.
“There!” Brooke shouted.
Brooke tried to stay focused on getting to the cruiser, but with the gunshots and explosions, she found her eyes roving the compound for any soldiers that were close. The compound was completely overrun. Blood-soaked officers retreated to whatever cover they could find.
If what Sergeant Meyers had said was true, and it really was the Mexican army, then this wasn’t a test of defenses. This was a declaration of war.
During the chaos, the guard at the gate of the confiscation compound had abandoned his post. Brooke found the cruiser’s keys stashed in the empty security booth and then rushed to the car with Emily in her arms. She set Emily in the back seat of the cruiser, and John helped buckle her in. She was shaking and crying hysterically.
Brooke cranked the engine to life. She glanced at the fuel gauge. They had a quarter of a tank. It wasn’t enough to get them to North Carolina, but more than enough to put some distance between themselves and the bloodbath.
“Shit!” Eric said as Brooke reversed out of the lot.
“What?”
“They took the rifle.”
The moment they were clear of the confiscation lot, Brooke turned and almost swerved into a patrol car fleeing the scene in the same direction they were headed.
Bullets continued to rip through the night air, and explosions lit up the sky in her rearview mirror. Brooke flicked on the headlights. It didn’t matter if they were spotted now. They were the least of the authority’s worries.
The cruiser was topping almost eighty when the familiar boom of jets roared in the distance. Then Brooke watched as a bomb ignited the entire compound, turning night into day with a blast that shook the ground they traveled on.
Brooke drove for an hour before she felt comfortable stopping. When the cruiser came to halt, she could feel her arms shaking.
“You all right?” Eric asked.
No. She wasn’t all right. She wasn’t okay. Her family wasn’t safe. They had barely escaped with their lives and were fugitives in a country that no longer recognized them as citizens. Her breath came out in pants, and she grabbed her chest. Everything felt tight.
Brooke closed her eyes and focused on drawing in deep, steady breaths. With each expansion and deflation of her lungs, she could feel the tightness loosening. Her pulse slowed.
When she opened her eyes, she could see Emily and John’s reflections in her rearview mirror. Emily had cried herself exhausted. John was in shock. Despite what was behind them, they were one step closer to North Carolina. They had made it onto U.S. soil. They were alive. They still had the cruiser. All wasn’t lost.
Exiled: Sovereign Land
1
The USS Ronald Reagan’s massive steel-gray hull rested in the open waters of San Diego Bay. Whitecaps rolled and crashed into the ship’s side, sending salty ocean spray into the air. Clouds from overhead shielded the water from the sun in oddly shaped patches. What sunlight did manage to escape the cloud cover illuminated the water in blues and greens, contrasting against the patches of dark where the sunlight was unable to penetrate the clouds.
The same shadows were cast in the distance, no more than one thousand yards away, where a fleet of Mexican warships waited ominously in the distance. From the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, they looked small, weak, easily crushed. But the distance deceived the mounted guns and missile systems primed to follow orders.
Captain Howard’s watchful gaze had yet to leave the threat across the horizon. As far as he was concerned, this was still his ship. These were still his waters. And if the Mexicans chose to engage in deadly force, then he would answer in kind.
Captain Ford, who had come to Howard’s aid the day prior after an already successful bout of fending off the Mexican ships, walked up behind him. He stood a good six inches shorter than Howard but had the tenacity of a bulldog.
“More warships arrived during the night,” Howard said.
“What do you think Gallo will do?” Ford asked.
“Right now he’s a mad dog foaming at the mouth, and he knows that the rest of the Pacific Fleet has been deployed north to watch over the Alaskan fisheries. If I was him, I would make my move soon.”
Howard had met Gallo years ago, before he was a general, back when the United States and Mexico were beginning talks on how to deal with the water shortages that were then turning into a crisis. The United States had still had the upper hand in brute force, so the Mexican government had no choice but to “comply” with the American president’s course of action. He remembered seeing the revulsion on Gallo’s face. He knew Gallo would give the order. He just didn’t know when.
“What’s the word from the Pentagon?” Howard asked.
“Since California’s not our problem anymore, they don’t want me to stick around for much longer. But like I told you, we have to make sure this ship is seaworthy. It’s already seen a lot of action.”
“If they attack us while you’re here, we’ll have a full-scale war on our hands.”
Both men knew what that meant if it came to pass. Metal. Blood. Death. The two captains had an understanding of when to follow orders and when not too. Those same beliefs led Howard to commandeer the USS Ronald Reagan after he was relieved of duty for not abandoning the Southwest after the exile. Unlike most of the representatives of Congress, the two men standing on the deck of that air wing knew that a country was more than just lines on a map.
“Captain!” Pint yelled.
Both Howard and Ford turned around to see Pint sprinting toward them across the flight deck. He was barely able to keep his glasses and hat on his head from his pace. He keeled over onto his knees after reaching Howard, heaving deep breaths.
“They’ve officially broken out of international waters. They’ve engaged, sir,” Pint said.
“Captain, this is still your show,” Ford said.
“Master Chief, prepare the flag bridge,” Howard replied.
The three of them marched toward the carrier’s island. The harsh shrill of sirens signaled all available sailors to man their stations. The flight deck swarmed, alive with activity. Once the captains were inside the flag bridge, first class petty officer Kent stood to salute.
“Officers on deck!” Kent said.
“At ease,” Howard said.
The flag bridge of the USS Ronald Reagan would allow Howard and Ford to conduct the entire battle from one location. Radar, missile, communications, and defense systems were all integrated seamlessly. The aircraft carrier was more than just a runway strip for the Navy’s jets; it was the epicenter of every naval battle.
“How far out are Gallo’s ships?” Ford asked.
“Half a mile, sir,” Kent answered.
“Scramble the jets,” Howard ordered.
Plane directors, arresting gear officers, and catapult officers carried out their duties with efficient mastery. The system in place could launch an aircraft every thirty seconds.
“Confirmed enemy missile launch,” Kent said.
“Deploy defensive tactics,” Howard replied.
A stream of smoke and fire erupted from the missile systems of the two American warships escorting the USS Ronald Reagan. The coordinated launch set a deadly course to intercept the incoming missiles. The missiles twisted and whined through the air at hundreds of miles per hour. Upon their contact with the enemy strike, the sky erupted with fireworks of war. Vibrations from the blasts rippled through the air and into the chests of everyone aboard the ship.
“Launch counterstrike,” Howard said.
A larger, more lethal volley of missiles set course for the attacking Mexican ships. T
he enemy warships enacted their own countermeasures but became overwhelmed. Red-and-black explosions of heat and steel rocked the Mexican warships. Howard watched smoke plume from the enemy ships. With the majority of the Mexican warships now burning, the American aircraft controlled the sky.
“Good effect,” Kent answered.
The blue western horizon became diluted with fires and smoke. The distress signals coming in from the Mexican ships began to fill airways. But there would be no response. Gallo had only attacked the lone USS Ronald Reagan because he thought the surrounding American ships would not engage. The cries for help over the radio waves would fall on deaf ears.
The president smashed the phone from his desk against the window of the Oval Office. The outburst was a result of the reports coming out of the Pacific and Texas. The president’s surrounding advisors remained silent, staring at the shattered phone on the carpet.
“How did this happen?” the president asked.
The joint chiefs, the personnel aides, the vice president, and everyone else who should have answered the president’s question turned their heads to Jones, who was alone in the back corner of the room. Jones needed to choose his next words very carefully.
“Mr. President, I think it’s first important to understand the motives behind these attacks. Perhaps Gallo’s men assumed the USS Ronald Reagan was still operating under the deserter Captain Howard’s command?” Jones asked.
“And I suppose Texas was an accident as well?”
The president’s tone was mocking, and a very noticeable twitch had formed in the corner of his eye. As much power as Jones had in Congress, he still didn’t have absolute control over the presidency. And upsetting the most powerful man in the world was not wise.
