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San Antonio when he heard the news
on the radio. At the urging of Mayor Alvarez, the City Council had passed a resolution ceding Alamo Plaza and several
surrounding blocks to Mexico for the duration of the upcoming Pasco de Marzo celebration. Phil took his eyes off the road
for a second and stared at the radio, unable to believe what he
was hearing.
    But it was true, he realized as the newscaster expanded on
the story. There would be a big ceremony in front of the Alamo
on March 6th the anniversary of the fall of the old mission
to Santa Anna's army turning it over to Mexico.
    Phil's stomach clenched as a wave of sickness went through
him. Who could have come up with such a crazy idea?
    Then he remembered that the president had been in town a
couple of days earlier, meeting with Alvarez. Of course, Phil
thought. This president was a longtime believer in style over
substance, in the symbolic gesture that really accomplished
nothing. Phil had no doubt that she had played a part in this
cockeyed scheme.
    By the time he reached his office, the sickness inside him
had turned into anger. Every kid who grew up in Texas and attended public schools took a course in Texas history in the seventh grade. Phil had heard that not all states taught their own
history in school. He couldn't imagine not learning about
Texas history in school. The Alamo was just about the most
sacred place in the whole state. Making a show out of giving
it back to the Mexicans, even temporarily, was a slap in the
faces of the defenders who had died there. It was a slap in the
face of every Texan who believed in liberty. Phil wished there
was something he could do...

    But of course there wasn't. He was just a little guy, a
small-business owner, somebody who paid his taxes and employed other taxpayers and contributed to the economy.
    So in the eyes of the government-especially with the liberals running Washington again-he didn't count for shit.
Like all the other citizens who, in the eyes of those elitists,
were too dumb to know how to live their own lives or spend
their own money, he was just a cash spigot that could be
turned on every time the politicians needed more tax money
for some half-baked social engineering boondoggle.
    No, one man couldn't do anything in this world.
    "Dave? This is Phil Cody. Remember me?"
    Dave Rodriguez had just gotten home from work when the
phone rang. Constance wasn't there; this was the evening she
took a class up at UTSA. So it was Dave's habit to fix supper
and have it ready when she got home.
    He didn't want to spend a lot of time on the phone because
of that, but sure, he remembered Phil Cody, and he couldn't
very well hang up on the guy. Not after what had happened in
Kuwait....
    For an instant, Dave's mind flashed back to that day, and he
saw the whole scene again, the American troops pinned down
by the Republican Guard, the tracer rounds zipping through
the air, the bursts of sand and smoke and flame as grenades
and rockets exploded, the way the world had tilted crazily as
a rocket burst right under the rear wheels of the truck he was
driving and sent it toppling onto its side and skidding along
the roadway...
    Dave had been trying to crawl out through the busted
window before the flames reached the gas tank, but he had
gotten hung up somehow and was only halfway out. Blood ran
down his arms from the cuts made by the broken glass around the edges of the window, but he ignored the pain and kept
trying to heave himself free. Terror pounded inside him like
some kind of crazy drum solo. He knew the truck was going
to blow, and if he didn't get out in time, the inferno would consume him, too. It didn't matter that flying lead filled the air
around the truck. Anything was better than staying there and
burning to death.

    Then a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see an
American soldier who had run up to the truck despite the firefight. The guy had a knife in his hand. He