Secession II: The Flood

Secession II: The Flood

By

Joe Nobody

&

P. A. Troit

Copyright © 2015

Kemah Bay Marketing, LLC

All rights reserved.

Edited by:

E. T. Ivester

D. Allen

www.joenobodybooks.com

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are products of the author’s imagination, and no relationship to any living person is implied. The locations, facilities, and geographical references are set in a fictional environment.

Other Books by Joe Nobody:

Secession: The Storm

The Archangel Drones

Holding Your Ground: Preparing for Defense if it All Falls Apart

The TEOTWAWKI Tuxedo: Formal Survival Attire

Without Rule of Law: Advanced Skills to Help You Survive

Holding Their Own: A Story of Survival

Holding Their Own II: The Independents

Holding Their Own III: Pedestals of Ash

Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent

Holding Their Own V: The Alpha Chronicles

Holding Their Own VI: Bishop’s Song

Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star

Holding Their Own VII: The Directives

Holding Their Own IX: The Salt War

Holding Their Own X: The Toymaker

The Home Schooled Shootist: Training to Fight with a Carbine

Apocalypse Drift

The Little River Otter

The Olympus Device: Book One

The Olympus Device: Book Two

The Olympus Device: Book Three

The Ebola Wall

Chapter 1

The tea was bitter and dark, its tart aroma enhanced by the scents of old wool, considerably older mortar, and a hint of myrrh.

A woman poured the blackish liquid, only the center of her eyes visible through the hajib that otherwise covered her face. After topping off the last cup, she hurried away, closing the door behind her to ensure privacy.

The six men surrounding the small screen paid her no heed. She was the wife of the host, a woman, a non-existent entity in their minds.

Once in the kitchen, she whispered a prayer to Allah, asking for protection from the warplanes that she knew hunted her husband and the other leaders of the Daesh, otherwise known as ISIS.

Despite her supplication and unwavering faith, she herded the children farther away from the rural dwelling, glancing skyward as if she could see the bombs falling. The security men surrounding the remote villa laughed openly at her paranoia.

The gathering was a rarity in several respects. Not only was it dangerous to collect so many prominent men in the same room, but also a newscast was streaming on the television. Such technology was deemed a false god and forbidden for the average citizen of the caliphate.

Regardless of such beliefs, an exception was being made today. All six sat quietly, eyes unwilling to peel away from the images being broadcast throughout the Arab world. Al Jazeera was no doubt having a banner day of advertising revenue.

We are awaiting a statement from the President of the Republic of Texas and the Israeli Prime Minister, the announcer stated. I’ve been told both men will appear behind the microphone at any moment.

As if on cue, a shifting of bodies signaled the arrival of the two leaders. One after the other, all smiles and nods, they stepped up to the podium. President Simmons of Texas spoke first.

I would like to thank the people of Israel and the Prime Minister’s staff for being such excellent hosts during these negotiations. Their hospitality and openness have reaffirmed that our two peoples have so much in common. Both nations share a love of freedom, individual liberty, and a democratic form of government.

The Israeli Prime Minister then stepped forward, a sly smile painted on his face. And both of our nations are at the top of practically every opinion poll measuring popularity.

A hearty round of chuckles and laughter circulated through the audience, despite many of the foreign press not understanding the joke. There was no reaction from the tea drinkers.

The PM continued, Seriously, President Simmons and I are pleased to announce that Israel and the Republic of Texas have come to terms on a series of historic agreements that I feel will change the political landscape of the Middle East, as well as benefit our newest friends in North America.

Despite being the worse possible scenario, the announcement drew little reaction from the six. One man gave his long, gray-black beard a pious stroke. Another sipped his tea, his steely gaze quickly returning to the broadcast.

Simmons again moved to share the massive cluster of microphones. As a starting point, we have agreed upon a bilateral defense pact that will ensure the mutual security of both of our nations. After approval by the Texas Senate, any attack on Israel will be considered an act of aggression against Texas. In kind, any aggression toward our Republic will be regarded as an act of war against Israel.

There was a round of applause from many of those present in Jerusalem, the camera pulling back to show expressions of joy and happiness from the government representatives and their teams.

Simmons continued, In addition, we have agreed upon several development initiatives between the military and industrial organizations of our two nations. Israel and Texas share the same type of terrain, and both of our military organizations are defensive in nature, so it only makes sense to cooperate in the development of weapons and technology.

As before, there was little reaction around the tearoom as the translator struggled to keep up. With a slight grunt, one of the men whispered, Dogs, cowards, and liars… all lying in bed together.

Yet another man rose, straightened his robe, and reached to power off the television. And so, our enemy grows stronger as we become weaker. Every day, the American jets harass our movements. The Kurdish infidels do not run like their Iraqi cousins, and by the hour more Iranian demons join the ranks of those who oppose our caliphate.

The eldest of the group shrugged, Allah will protect the faithful. We have accomplished much.

God helps those who help themselves, responded another. We cannot let this development go unanswered.

And do what? Attack Texas? Declare and lose another war with the Jewish pigs? We are but a flea who nibbles on the Western dog. A mild annoyance at worst. Even after our faithful assaulted that blasphemous paper in Paris and our believer executed the recruiters in America, nothing happened. We are not powerful enough to detour their campaign against us.

All the while, the youngest member of the ruling council sat silently and listened. When it became evident that no one had any particular response or plan, he cleared his throat.

Abu was only in his 50s, a mere child compared to the rest of the attendees. Despite his youth, inexperience, and questionable knowledge of the Quran, everyone became respectfully quiet when he wanted to speak. A former intelligence officer in Saddam’s army, Abu had proven his brilliance on more than one occasion.

Perhaps we are thinking about our enemies in the wrong way, he began. We are all brave men, accustomed to facing our foes straight up and toe to toe. Nevertheless, this is not always the best tactic to prevail. When the opponent outsizes and outclasses in every measurable way, the only option is to employ ruse, deception, deceit, and treachery.

The elder nodded, It is true that Allah will forgive such acts when they are necessitated to protect the faith. But as you pointed out, we are honorable men. We have no knowledge of such methods. Our souls are not soiled with such experience.

I am no expert, but it seems only logical that if Texas is strong and America is stronger, we should try to manipulate the two giants into a conflict with each other. Create a situation where they expend their resources in a battle that involves only them. Then we can engage a weakened enemy.

I think we all agree, answered another. But how? We are noble men. How do we initiate such a campaign?

Abu smiled in agreement before continuing. I, like all of you, am not qualified to manage such an approach. But I know men who are. I would suggest we elicit their help, and let them justify their own actions come judgement day.

The council members glanced at each other, silent messages passing among them. Finally, the elder spoke. I agree that such activities are justified. How expensive do you think such an endeavor will be?

Shrugging, Abu responded, Does it really matter, my friends? If we can weaken America, NATO, and Texas, we could then purge the world of these non-believers. Is the cost at all relevant?

Our oil revenues are declining, spoke up another. The infidel’s warplanes have bombed so many facilities, and the Turkish authorities become harder to bribe with each truckload of oil crossing their border. Funding… for any project… is soon going to be an issue.

Not to worry, Abu retorted. God will protect and provide for the faithful. I’m sure that includes helping us budget for such an operation. As it happens, I’ve already recruited the perfect man for the job. Some months ago, I engaged his services for a few minor initiatives against our foes. They will soon bear fruit. In fact, he’s in Israel, even as we speak. Surely this is a prophecy from Allah himself.

Zach paused to read the small, shiny brass plaque. Embassy – Republic of Texas, he whispered, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to that.

The ranger’s eyes took in the rest of the structure, scanning the tinted windows, granite exterior, and freshly painted wood trim. Not too bad for the world’s newest democracy.

The sound of excited voices distracted the ranger’s architectural admiration, his gaze traveling down Agron Street where the United States Consulate General’s compound was located.

Evidently, a motorist had made a wrong turn and found himself at the gate of the heavily fortified facility. In addition to the massive, hydraulically activated barricade, a small army of embassy security personnel blocked the driver’s way. But they didn’t venture too close.

Car bombs were a security man’s worst nightmare, and despite Jerusalem being one of the most secure cities on the planet, the threat was considered always clear and present.

As Zach watched a single, brave soul approach the vehicle, he couldn’t help but move behind one of the concrete pillars fronting Texas’s first diplomatic establishment.

The uniformed, battle rifle-toting security man exchanged a few words with the driver, and then it was all smiles and waves as the car’s reverse lights came on. Zach watched the wayward sedan back away and then continue down the street.

Exhaling, he mumbled, Thank the Lord in heaven I’m not going to be assigned here permanently. I’d be gray-headed in a week.

Flashing his badge at the threshold, Zach was buzzed into a small lobby. There, a crisply uniformed, fresh-as-homemade-apple pie ROT (Republic of Texas) Marine sat behind a waist-high counter. Good morning, Ranger Bass, the polite, young man greeted.

Zach was again buzzed through an impressively substantial door, leading to an interior that was bustling, boisterous, and in a state of total mayhem.

Rows of cubicles filled the primary space, embassy employees rushing here and there carrying laptop computers, stacks of papers, and important-looking folders. Most were sporting expressions of confusion or bewilderment, others were clearly frustrated, and a few were damned mad.

The phones aren’t working again! shouted a female voice from somewhere in the distance. Can somebody with a working cell please call Jerusalem Telecom?

Zach continued walking, occasionally having to sidestep a hurried worker or avoid a pile of binders waiting to be filed.

He passed two painters, the duo on the receiving end of a scolding from a distinctly unhappy supervisor. You promised that section would be finished three days ago. Now I’m forced to change the ambassador’s itinerary. This is unacceptable.

Eventually reaching the back of the building, Zach used his keycard to open yet another security door. He passed through the threshold and into a much calmer environment.

A yet-unmanned receptionist’s desk greeted the lanky Texan, the new facility’s personnel manager still interviewing prospects for the opening. Zach meandered by, eventually winding up in front of a door marked Security Services Conference Room.

His first move was for the nearly empty pot of coffee along the back wall. After draining the grainy remnants into a paper cup, the lawman looked for an empty seat among the gathering throng.

There was a mixture of professions present and accounted for, military uniforms from both Texas and Israel intertwined with other rangers, private security contractors, and members of the Jerusalem Police Department. The briefing was about to begin.

A stocky, bulldog of a man entered just as Zach landed in an empty chair. With the measured step of a career military officer, the most recent arrival marched immediately to the front of the room. Given his rod straight spine, squared shoulders, and high and tight haircut, any newcomer would anticipate a bellowing, full frontal assault to spew forth.

Instead, the voice that emitted from Colonel Callan’s throat was flat, even, and smooth. Zach thought the man had a secondary career narrating National Geographic documentaries. Let’s get started people. You all can finish gossiping after the briefing. We’ve got work to do.

The room settled quickly, most of those present having already experienced Colonel Callan’s management style. He might have been an eloquent speaker, but he was also known far and wide as someone who tolerated zero bullshit.

A career Marine Corps officer with countless overseas assignments under his belt, the colonel had been tasked with the new embassy’s security. Zach couldn’t think of a better man for the job.

The briefing began with all attendees receiving a hard copy of the day’s scheduled events. As Zach scanned the pages, the colonel noted any last minute revisions and personnel reassignments. It was mundane but important stuff.

The new Republic of Texas didn’t have a Secret Service, capital police force, or Bureau of Diplomatic Security to protect its elected officials. That assignment, at least temporarily, fell to the rangers, a few individuals recruited from the military, and an assortment of private firms.

Zach wasn’t considered a top-tier bodyguard. His training and education had centered on fighting crime and catching bad guys. Were it not for the fact that President Simmons and his extensive entourage were conducting their first international visit, Ranger Bass wouldn’t even be in the Middle East. He couldn’t wait for the ten-day commitment to be finished.

The briefing continued, Zach paying close attention, waiting for any specifics regarding his assignment.

Given the president’s presence in country, most of the experienced embassy staff had been tasked with protecting the top dogs. That translated into secondary priorities being handed off to men and women like Zach.

Today, as usual, his charge was the ambassador’s daughter, a 12-year old spitfire who was sure she understood the world better than anybody else. Zach and a female Israeli cop were given the job of keeping the young lady out of harm’s way. It wasn’t the ranger’s first time protecting the little snip, but he hoped it would be the last.

Glancing across the table at his co-protector, Zach flashed the attractive woman a curt nod and friendly eyes. Sergeant Penina Kott was an 11-year veteran of Israeli law enforcement, having joined the local PD after spending four years in the Israeli Army. The ranger found her competent and polite, her local knowledge invaluable given the task at hand.

The meeting broke up on schedule, the attendees mulling around for a few moments before heading to begin what would be their busiest day yet. Zach didn’t have to wait long for Officer Kott.

It looks like you’ll get to see the museum today, she greeted.

Zach thought the sergeant’s accent was kind of hot. Looks that way. I hope our charge doesn’t go wandering off again like she did in the historical district. That kid is going to give me a heart attack.

Pen nodded, Yes, she is definitely an energetic child.

Grunting, Zach had to smile at her choice of words. You’ve got to stop hanging around all these diplomatic types. It’s starting to rub off on you.

Rolling her eyes and then lowering her voice, she whispered, Being an armed babysitter isn’t all that bad. I’ve had worse duty.

Roger that.

Now that the announcement has been made, your president will be flying home. I bet you are eager to return as well.

Zach grinned, I’m afraid I’m not much of a tourist. This trip has been enlightening, but you’re correct. I miss West Texas.

Twenty minutes later they were off, an embassy driver chauffeuring Pen, Zach, and one very fidgety Missy Remolds. Have you ever been to the Bible Lands Museum, Ranger Bass? the adolescent asked from the backseat.

No, Missy, I have not. This will be a great experience for both of us.

What about you, Sergeant Pen?

Yes, I’ve been there a few times. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the exhibits.

I think I’ll start at the Age of Patriarchs display. The others seem stuffy, and I have no interest in Bronze Age artifacts or the beginnings of written communication. Besides, everyone knows China had developed inscriptions 600 years before anyone in the Middle East. Who would want to see the evidence of this society’s inferior development?

Zach tried to keep his attention focused on their surroundings, his eyes incessantly scanning for trouble. It was a difficult task, the ranger tempted by the local venues, wishing he could be a sightseer and gawk at all the attractions. Man, I would love to send Cheyenne a selfie of me floating in the Dead Sea or touring the Old City of Jerusalem, he thought. All work and no play….

Museum row was especially interesting to the ranger. Most of the structures were new construction of imposing mass, having been designed with a modern flare. This contemporary architecture stood in stark contrast to much of Jerusalem, which was bursting with historical design, populated with quaint structures, generally crowded, and unwaveringly traditional.

More than any other city in the world, Jerusalem had endured a 3,000-year history of strife. It was amazing in a way, as the town held no military or strategic value. Yet it had been conquered, rebuilt, seized, and razed again and again. Zach had read somewhere that 118 battles had been waged over the City of Peace. Go figure.

Traffic began to slow, bringing the ranger back to his professional responsibilities. Is this normal congestion, or has there been an accident? he asked no one in particular.

Pen, craning her neck for a better view from the backseat, replied with a hint of concern. There shouldn’t be any traffic issues this time of day.

The problem soon became evident; a service truck was blocking one lane, a group of helmeted men tinkering with a utility box.

I’m not falling for that old trick, Zach barked, pointing to the turn lane. Take a right here; we can go around the block.

But the driver didn’t understand. The sergeant repeated the order in Hebrew, and only then did the vehicle begin to turn.

Now why in the hell does an English-speaking embassy hire a driver who doesn’t understand the language? Zach thought, throwing the older gent a questioning glance.

A flash of black appeared, followed by an ear-splitting crash. A blizzard of glass shards filled the interior as Zach was rocked hard against his seatbelt. The embassy car, T-boned on the driver’s side, was pushed onto the sidewalk with enough force that it almost tipped over.

Missy screamed at the same moment that Zach opened the door.

The driver’s head exploded, warm blood and gristle splashing across Zach’s arm and neck as the Texan uncoiled his frame and drew his weapon in the same motion.

Zach’s ears rang from the impact and adrenaline dump. In the Texan’s scrambled brain, the only discernable sound seemed to be coming from a buzz saw. Attempting to clear the mental fog, he shook his head as he tried to regain his balance. His confusion dispersed with remarkable speed at the sight of the masked man with a sub-machine gun spitting bullets in his direction.

Three of the rounds stitched across Zach’s chest, the impact like someone hitting him square with the business end of a baseball bat. For a hundredth of a second, he wondered if his armor had stopped the incoming lead.

The ranger’s .45 caliber 1911 was climbing up, the front post now even with the sparkle of the shooter’s muzzle blast. Zach dropped the hammer.

The second round hit the assailant square in the chest, the 230-grain slug tearing a half-inch hole through the sternum and continuing until it shredded spinal cord. Some combination of nerve impulse and muscle command froze the dead man’s finger on the trigger, his weapon becoming an anti-aircraft gun as he corkscrewed to the earth.

Another attacker rounded the blocking SUV, his MP5 belching white fire. Zach managed a wild shot as he squatted to get low. His pistol barked again as the shooter’s spray flung stinging bits of dirt and chips of concrete that blurred the ranger’s vision.

Now, nearly blinded by the debris, Zach was furiously working his sidearm, aiming at the cloudy outline of the black-clad figure less than 30 feet away.

The 1911A pistol locked back empty, the ranger’s training overriding his fear. His thumb found the magazine release while his left hand fished for a full box of pills.

As the empty bounced on the sidewalk at his feet, Zach slammed the reload home at the same instant his thumb released the slide. Back in business. Looking for work.

Through ringing ears, heavy breathing, and pain that racked his torso, Zach detected another weapon barking in protest. Pen, with Missy on the ground beside her, was firing desperately over the trunk at some unseen aggressor.

The ranger managed one step when motion drew his watering eyes. Like a baseball replay of a great pitch, the slowed image of a canister flying through the air filled his vision. Grenade!

The urge to cover Missy’s prone form consumed him. He bent at the knees, straining his legs and core, readying to dive for the cowering child.

The grenade hit the pavement on the other side of Sergeant Kott, its metallic whack registering just as Zach’s boots were leaving the ground. He never felt the landing.

Over a million candles of illumination filled the air when the flashbang exploded, a striking, brilliant white light wreaking havoc on the human optic nerve. Adding to its disorienting pulse were enough decibels to shred any eardrums unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. Zach’s last thought was a childhood memory, recalling the day when a lightning bolt struck the barn.

The ranger’s lashes fluttered as he struggled to shake the remnants of his bottomless slumber and the nightmare that accompanied it… to free his mind of the haunting images of destruction and battle… of life leaking from the bodies at his feet…. Vaguely aware that he was somehow trapped in sleep purgatory, that trance-like state between his dream world and full awareness of the day, he fought his way to consciousness. Zach blinked away the disconcerting mental image, waking to the faces of Colonel Callan and two other men he didn’t recognize staring down at him. In a flash, the memory roared back, the collision, gunfight, and grenade. Missy!

The Texan tried to sit up, but Callan and one of the other men held him fast. The girl, sir. Where’s Missy?

Relax, Ranger Bass. You’re in an ambulance; we’re on our way to the hospital.

Sergeant Kott? I’ve got to help them, sir, Zach spat, trying again to rise.

For some reason, it all didn’t register in the ranger’s foggy mind. Why wouldn’t they let him get back into the fight? When the two men above him again held fast, Zach became angry, determined to rise.

Need some help here, the ambulance tech called.

Straining against their grip, Zach managed to raise his right arm off the gurney before the other EMT leveraged his weight in the struggle. Zach continued to thrash, the three men straining to hold the ranger down.

Ranger Bass! At ease! We’re the good guys, remember?

And then Zach did recall the event, relaxing instantly, a look of embarrassment crossing his face. But… I don’t… understand. Wh---what happened? Why am I going to the hospital, sir? he thought to ask.

You took three rounds in the chest. Your Kevlar stopped the lead, but we need to make sure nothing is broken. In addition, the flash-bang used against you was a big one. I want you checked for a possible concussion.

And Missy?

Zach could tell by the despondency in his commander’s expression that the girl was either dead or in the kidnappers’ hands.

Callan confirmed the worst; They snatched her.

No, Zach groaned, again trying to sit up, instigating another scuffle.

If you don’t calm down, Zach, one of these men is going to put a needle in your arm.

Again, the big ranger chilled, but he wasn’t done trying to figure it all out. Sergeant Kott? Pen?

She’s in worse shape than you are, but she’s still breathing. She’s in another ambulance right behind us.

That did it, Zach now fully grasping there was nothing he could do. Finally, he let his head fall back against the stretcher’s hard surface, a look of helplessness filling his sad eyes.

It had taken three hours before Zach convinced the docs he didn’t need to be admitted or observed. Between doctors and tests, he was constantly tasked with debriefing the Israeli authorities, everyone from the local cops to the military having him repeat his story time and again… each retelling only reinforcing his mounting sense of inadequacy.

Eventually, he found himself waiting outside the operating room, eager for any news of Pen’s condition as the surgeons worked frantically to save her life. She hadn’t been wearing armor.

Zach entered Sergeant Kott’s room wearing a sheepish look on his face while carrying a small bouquet of flowers.

He discovered his short-term partner lying with her head elevated, a jungle of tubes, wires, and monitors surrounding her. A young man was there, sitting bedside and holding the patient’s hand.

I’m sorry, Zach whispered, turning to leave, embarrassed over interrupting a moment.

Wait, the man said. You’re the Texas Ranger… Zach?

Yes, that’s me. And you are?

My name is David. I’m Pen’s brother.

The two men shook hands, David accepting the fragrant buds and setting them on a nearby table where his sister was sure to notice. I am glad you stopped by. I heard what you did on the street, he continued. I really want to thank you. One of the police officers told me you probably saved my sister’s life.

Huh? I don’t know why someone would say that. That grenade hammered me pretty hard, and I was knocked out of the fight.

According to my friend, you killed two of the cowards. Sis got one more. That left only one kidnapper standing, and that sewer rat grabbed the hostage and ran. Ordinarily, they would have stayed long enough to execute the bodyguards.

Oh. Any word on who’s behind the snatch and grab?

David’s eyes dropped instantly and his hand massaged his chin, almost as if he were questioning how much he should say. Finally, No one has come forward yet and claimed responsibility or asked for a ransom. But that’s normal nowadays. They’ll hold onto a high-value hostage like that, selling her to the highest bidder. Lately, that’s been ISIS. I’m sure your people will hear from the thugs in a week or so.

Zach was taken aback, both by what he’d just been told and by the fact that David knew so much. I didn’t know ISIS was active in Israel.

They’re not, at least not so much as we know. This job was probably pulled off by that fat bastard everyone calls the Butcher. He’s a Jordanian and runs the local organized crime syndicate. It had to be him… or at least someone who had his approval.

Zach’s thoughts were now split, part of him wondering where Pen’s brother got all this information, the other trying to digest what he was learning. The curious nature of a cop won out. So… David. What do you do for a living, if I might ask?

But Pen’s brother didn’t answer. Instead, he continued explaining the local kidnapping industry. The Butcher would never grab an Israeli citizen; he’s way too smart for that. He stays out of the limelight, running illegal schemes all over the city, but never stepping too far over the line. The authorities have arrested him several times, but he’s always managed to beat the charges.

Well, if he’s involved in an international incident like this, I’m sure they’ll be bringing him in for a little chat.… For sure that’s what I’d be doing.

David shrugged, I doubt it. It wouldn’t do any good. He’d keep his mouth shut, no matter how aggressive a motivational technique was applied. Besides, if word ever got out that he had helped us, Hamas would send down a hit squad and riddle his carcass with bullet holes.

While he appreciated David’s insight, Zach found himself growing angry. Visions of a scared, defenseless, little girl monopolized the Texan’s thoughts. There was no telling how brutal Missy’s captivity would be or what her kidnappers would do to the child. The ranger had seen some pretty ugly things in his career, and several political groups in the Middle East had gained notoriety for their heinous treatment of Westerners. There is no telling what those savages will do to that little one, he worried.

And then there was the insult to Texas. Zach had little doubt the new diplomatic relationship had played a role. Somehow, he couldn’t help but think a message was being sent to the new kid on the block. It was