DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. Did anything happen between Oklahoma and Maryland, Alvin?
A. No, sir. Everything was real quiet . . . well, not counting that there were a lot of Army trucks on the road all headed the way I'd come from.
It wasn't until I reached Maryland that I saw the first anti-Texas demonstrations. I confess, those really annoyed me, being Texan and all, myself. But I never did nothing about it.
I decided I'd be better off heading a bit north and then comin' down from that direction. That, and keeping my mouth shut as much as possible.
So I went to Baltimore and looked around for a job to keep me going for a while. Found one, too, though I'd had better. Still, I wasn't ever afraid of work, only of not havin' any. So I put up with the stink of the grease and those nasty hamburgers while I settled in and looked around.
One thing I found out right quick: I was not getting anywhere near the White House. Nor any government building, for that matter. Never really thought to see my own country's capital locked down like they was ready for a siege. But that was the simple truth of the matter.
Not that I couldn't get into DC. I could and did. But I couldn't get anywhere with my truck, not anywhere useful. So I got used to public transportation—it really wasn't so bad except for the folks, some of 'em, that you had to ride with. And I did my looking on foot.
But where was I? Oh yeah, I remember. The anti-Texas demonstrations in Baltimore. I actually went and marched in one . . . sort of got curious, you see?
First thing struck me was that somebody in a suit and tie with one of them hand-held loudspeakers had everyone sort of lined up. At the end of the line was another one, a girl this time, passing out money and picket signs. She said, "Fifty dollars now. Another fifty at the end of the march. We'll have people watching from inside to see who puts on the most enthusiastic display. Bonuses for those that do."
The signs she was passing out? I only remember mine real well. It said, "Law and Order for Texas." I suppose I could agree with those sentiments; though I didn't see it maybe quite the same way that woman did.
What the hell? I needed the money. Reckon those other folks in that line must have, too.
* * *
It was a tradition in Texas; that line, those voluntary steps. Ignore the tradition? Not Captain Williams; it would simply have felt wrong.
So, taking the A Company guidon—swords being in short supply these days, he used the metal ferule to draw an imaginary line across the front of the formation, beginning with the infantry company—its headquarters and three platoons standing toward the right, going across the oversized platoon of engineers, and then to the small detachment from battalion headquarters on the left.
The line he drew was essentially invisible. Only the displacement of some of the loose gravel on the parking lot marked it in scant places. Invisible . . . and yet it was clear enough, too.
"Boys," said Williams, "boys, you all have a decision to make today. The general said 'hold to the last.' But I'm not going to make anyone stay that doesn't want to. And you ought to be told, in fairness, that this place isn't all that important anymore to us; not since we shipped out about half of its printing capability.
"Before you make any hard and fast decisions, though, I want to read you something; something from our 'beloved President.' Well . . . she's behind it even if she didn't actually write it herself."
"Listen up, boys; this is from the New York Times: 'And as for the pitiful saboteurs and counterfeiters illegally occupying our Western Currency Facility, unless they surrender both themselves and the federal property in their hands the full rigor and justice of the law must be applied to them.' "
In the ranks, ranks themselves full of law enforcement men, one police desk sergeant turned and snorted to a highway patrolman, "Saboteur? Counterfeiter? Why, Sam, I would never have suspected. Consider yourself under arrest, you 'pitiful' bastard."
If the resulting laugh was slightly strained, it still contained real humor.
A hand shot up from one of the infantry platoons. "Sir, if this place isn't that important . . . well, then why stay?"
"Ah," answered Williams. "I said it wasn't all that important to us. I didn't say it wasn't important to them. To the Treasury Department? To Rottemeyer's Secret Service and her Presidential Guard? It is very important that they take this back. To them, the place where money is printed is about as sacred as a certain spot down in San Antonio is to us."
Another hand shot up, a bit hesitantly this time. "Okay, sir. Suppose we stay. Can we hold out here?"
"Don't see why not. We've got food for months, we're armed to the teeth, we're dug in like moles. No, what I see happening is they try to take us in a rush; we stop 'em cold, bleed 'em white. And then they sit down and think real seriously about how much they want to dig us out of here. While all that's going on the general and the governor will be making things happen elsewhere.
"But I won't lie to you. That's the way I think it's going to happen. There's no guarantee. We might all be dead by staying.
"Anybody else? Any more questions? All right then. Come on, make your decision. The officers have already agreed among themselves. We're staying put. The rest of you? If you're going to stay then cross over that line."
There was a shuffling of feet and no motion forward for several long moments as pride warred with fear in the breasts of the soldiers assembled. The men seemed to be trying to look anywhere but where Williams stood on the other side of his almost imaginary line. Finally, First Sergeant Pendergast cleared his throat, loudly so that all would know what he was about to do. Then, from his position to the rear of the formation he boldly stepped forth, rendered Williams a parade ground salute and said, "First Sergeant Pendergast reporting, sir."
Behind Pendergast, a few men straightened as if pushing away their fears. Then, off to the right, one lone man stepped forward and announced, "Private First Class Jerome Fontaine. I'm staying."
Pendergast suppressed a grateful smile as Williams smiled broadly, saying, "Well there's two men among us."
Yet even as Williams said those words another half dozen had crossed from across the formation. Then came two squads, to a man, followed by fifteen more crossing as individuals. Soon, there were only a half a dozen men still standing behind the line Williams had drawn. These, married men—every one, still hesitated.
Without being ordered to do so, Pendergast trooped the line. "You, Smitty? I would have figured you to want to hang on to this place."
Smitty—Sergeant Smithfield, shamefaced, crossed over.
"Just ask yourself how you'll feel if we lose this place because you weren't here to help us, Figueroa?"
With an audible sigh, Figueroa crossed as well.
"Just ask yourself how you'll feel if we hang on to this place without you, Petty?"
Petty snarled and answered, "Never happen, Top." He too crossed.
Pendergast looked over the last three. "Go home to your wife and your seven kids, Royce. No hard feelings. Robles? I know you've got an invalid mother who needs you. Go on."
Eyes closed, shaking his head, Royce crossed, as did Robles.
The last man, Staff Sergeant Melvin La Fleur, looked the first sergeant defiantly in the eye. Tossing his rifle to the pavement he shouted, "Fuck this shit! You're all crazy as loons. I'm out of here."
Pendergast shook his head in pity.
* * *
Juanita felt a small surge of self-pity rush through her even smaller frame. What did I ever do to deserve to live in times like these?
But Jack had said that visiting Louisiana, Oklahoma and New Mexico was crucial, especially the latter. He had said that he had nothing adequate, either military or in the way of a natural obstacle, to stop either the Marine division or the armored cavalry regiment assembling at Las Cruces. He had told her that they simply could not afford a defeat or the symbol of one.
Lastly, he had insisted that cutting off the logistic pipeline from Mexico would doom them and that those troops at Las Cruces threatened to do just that. Texas was self-sufficient—"a whole other country," as the tourist ads claimed—in many respects. They had enough oil and gas. Most foodstuffs were home grown as well. But there were still things they needed.
"Juani," Schmidt had told her, "I don't want you sticking your head in the lion's mouth. But we don't have much of a choice. And I think you'll be safe; this once anyway. We can send somebody else to talk in Oklahoma and Louisiana, but New Mexico? That's got to be the biggest gun we have. And that's you."
And so, flying very low, escorted by a brace of fighters from her own Air National Guard, in Schmidt's own helicopter, with a couple of batteries of New Mexico's own—superlative—air defense artillery providing cover on the final approaches (for Schmidt had asked an old friend to help), Juani—bile rising and heart thumping, rereading her speech notes to take her mind off of gut-churning nap of the earth flying—approached the New Mexico state capitol.
With a stomach lurching drop the helicopter settled down by the simple brownish-pink stucco walls of the capitol building. Texas Rangers, among them Johnston Akers, scooted out and ran low to take up a perimeter around the governor. With a roar and a scream above, the fighters circled away to refuel, so they hoped, in Albuquerque.
New Mexico's Republican governor, John Garrison and his adjutant general, Francisco Garza, met Juani as she alighted from the aircraft. Garrison stuck out a hand. Garza saluted then asked, "And how's my old friend Jack holding up, Governor?"
"He's fine," answered Juani, breathlessly, while shaking Garrison's hand.
"We're all set for you Governor Seguin," said Garrison. "Nobody knows why you are here. Actually, nobody hardly knows that you even are here. I've got both houses assembled on the pretext of debating the present . . . umm . . . difficulties."
"Thank you, Governor," answered Juani, humbly. Jack had said it was arranged; she should have had faith.
The New Mexican legislature was, at first, shocked at the unexpected appearance. Thus, the applause that greeted Juani's entrance—once they began to overcome the shock of recognition—was much, much more subdued than one would have expected at, say, a political rally. Though subdued, yet it was sincere. She could see that from the faces of the men and women—most of them, anyway—applauding her as she walked uncertainly to the podium following Garrison's introduction, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Governor of Texas!"
Briefly, Juanita outlined the history of the crisis, what Texas was doing, the reasons Texas was doing it, and what Rottemeyer and company were engaged in to thwart them.
She concluded that portion of her speech with, "And alone, we cannot resist them, not indefinitely.
"Need we stand alone?" Juani asked, not entirely rhetorically. "We are your brothers and your sisters, your uncles and your aunts, your neighbors and your friends. Our fight is your fight. Our success, your success.
"Our loss will be your loss.
"And what does New Mexico stand to lose? Ask your governor. Ask him what it is like to have to kowtow to a Washington appointee to beg back a few dollars from the billions the federal government has taken. Ask my brother and the nearly one hundred children—a quarter of them under age thirteen—murdered with him. Ask that quarter of kids no more than twelve years old about how it feels to be roasted alive. Ask your own newspaper editors how those muzzles wrapped around their jaws feel.
"You might even ask the soldiers and marines assembling on your soil how they feel about the question.
"But while you are asking them, let me ask you. Let me ask you for help: do not let pass the supplies those soldiers and marines need to invade us and break us to Rottemeyer's will. Let me ask you to—if not join us—at least not let your own state be used as a mill to grind us to dust. Let me ask you, if you are men and women of courage, to lead your people to help us.
"And now, before they can catch me, I must go see some other people," she concluded with a most unpolitical wink. "Thank you for hearing me. Thank you in advance for helping us."
The applause, as she left, was much less restrained than when she had arrived.
* * *
Jesse Vega did not bother to replace the telephone on the receiver. Will a gleeful smile and a near cackle she disconnected then rang up the Oval Office.
"We've got that Texan bitch, Willi. She just finished speaking to the New Mexico Legislature and she's on her way back to Texas . . . yes . . . yes . . . okay . . . I want you to tell McCreavy to put two fighters at my command.
"We'll capture her little wetback ass or we'll splash it over twenty square miles of New Mexican Desert."
* * *
Juanita noticed that Johnston Akers looked worried. She enquired.
"Governor . . . ma'am . . . I'm worried about that escort. I don't like the idea of you . . . hell, of me flying up here all alone. Governor, you know that the White House has to know by now you were in New Mexico and how you got there and how you left."
Jim Beason, Massachusetts, and Mike Sperry, Texas, were the Air Force's creme de la crème—fighter jocks. Fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too.
Even so, they visibly paled as Jesse Vega's nationally recognizable voice came over the loudspeaker in the base operations room to which they had been summoned at a run. It couldn't be said that they liked that voice . . . but they had to respect the power behind it.
"We've got a situation here," said Vega. "An Army National Guard helicopter has been stolen. We have reason to believe . . . good reason, gentlemen, that that helicopter is carrying a weapon of mass destruction—biological, we believe. We know it left Santa Fe, New Mexico, less than twenty minutes ago, heading toward Amarillo, Texas.
"You are to force it to land as soon as you intercept it. If-it-will-not-land . . . shoot it down before it reaches a city. FBI, EPA and the Centers for Disease Control will be following by helicopter to take charge of the weapon as soon as you force it down."
Air Force eyes widened in faces gone paler still. This sort of thing had happened in the past, though it was rarely discussed and never in a public way. "Yes, ma'am!" they shouted as they bolted toward their waiting aircraft. Already they were calculating heights and speeds and routes to come up with a likely intercept point. "Don't worry. We'll take it down. Goddamned RIF."
Unseen across the airways, Vega smiled happily. She had not herself mentioned anything like Radical Islamic Fundamentalists, though she had expected that the pilots would leap to that assumption. She had, of course, said "weapon of mass destruction" . . . but then was not Governor Seguin a weapon that promised mass destruction to Vega's party? Was she not biological?
* * *
Johnston Akers' creased ancient face relaxed visibly when he caught the first view of two F-16s screaming in from the direction of Albuquerque.
That relaxation disappeared with the first stream of tracers that passed just off the port side.
Juanita—startled from a doze—screamed once, crossed herself and began to pray, her lips moving fervently. Akers absurdly, and with utter futility, drew his pistol. The pilot cursed, veered sharply right and began punching buttons on his radio to come up on the general aviation frequency.
" . . . dentified helicopter; unidentified helicopter: this is Goshawk seven. Land. Land now, you fucking wogs. Land now or you will be shot down."
One jet streaked by as the other lined up for a shot. The turbulence caused the helicopter to buck like some unbroken mustang.
"Goshawk are you out of your fucking minds?" called the frantic chopper pilot. "This is Lone Star six carrying VIPs from New Mexico to Texas. You've got no call to shoot us down. You've got no call to even stop us." Of course, the pilot knew the fighters had a very good reason to shoot the helicopter down. But maybe, just maybe, they didn't know that reason.
There was silence in reply. The helicopter pilot imagined a brief conversation on the pilots' own push. Then came the hoped for, "Maintain course, speed and altitude. One of us will approach."
* * *
Sperry glanced long and hard to the left as he passed the helicopter on its starboard side. Christ, they don't look much like terrorists to me.
"Jim . . . Jim, I think we've got us the wrong bird."
Beason radioed back to base ops for instructions and was somewhat surprised to hear Vega's voice come over the net.
"That is your target, Captain, that Texas National Guard helicopter. It is stolen United States' property and it is carrying a WMD. Force it to land or shoot it down."
"Ma'am, I can see into the helicopter when I pass it. There's nothing but some people aboard. No pods, no boxes; nothing but some people. It looks to be a legitimate Guard chopper."
"Those people are the weapon, Captain. Contaminated, every one of them. Now are you going to shoot it down or are you going to spend the next fifty years at Fort Leavenworth contemplating the tens of thousands of people you let die of a plague you could have prevented?"
Sperry was not fooled. He had seen the face of one of the occupants. It was a face more or less well known in some circles. Somehow, he thought that face had been praying.
He had a sudden thought . . . What the hell, it might be worth a try. Maybe Vega is ignorant.
"Jim, this is Mike, where the hell did the target go? I lost it in the weeds."
Beason, no fool, answered, "Damfino. I can't see it either."
Vega, not fooled, answered, "Listen carefully you morons. There's nothing below you but sand and rock and dust and a cactus every few miles. You haven't lost anything. Now get that helicopter," she nearly shrieked.
A voice previously unheard answered, "Before y'all do that you might maybe want to consult with us." This, too, was punctuated by a tracer stream, unaimed but plainly visible to Beason and Sperry. They automatically backtracked the flight of the tracers in their minds. Oh shit, another fighter.
"Ummm . . . and you would be?" asked Beason, wrenching around to eyeball another F-16 flying unerringly on his "six." Double shit; there's two of them.
Beason felt the inane urge to giggle over the old joke: "Sir, it's a trap. There's two of them."
"This is Lieutenant Colonel Paul Grayson—my friends call me 'Pablo,' 182 Fighter Squadron out o' Lackland. And—unless either or both you gentlemen want a Sidewinder up yo' ass—then, you suhs, are mah prisoners."
Beason and Sperry did some quick calculation, oh, very quick. They were fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too. The 182, however, was not only composed of instructor pilots—but its pilots were equally fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave . . . and experienced.
"Ah, what the hell, Mike," said Beason. "I'm a Yankee boy who's been claiming Texas as his state of residence for about eight years now. I think we have just been captured."
To Grayson he said, "And, Colonel, I appreciate your restraint."
Another previously unheard voice, this one from the helicopter, quite warmly female if a bit strained and shaky, said, "Welcome home, boys."
* * *
"What I want from you, Colonel, is a restrained response."
"Restrained, sir? We're a heavy battalion. That's not very 'restrained,' just in the nature of things."
"Nonetheless, that's what I want. At the first sign of a federal move near or behind you, drop the bridges and run back to the next set. Fight only as a last resort . . . though you can—and I want you to—make them think you are going to fight if you can figure out how to do that."
"Warning shots?"
"Maybe . . . with care . . . if they push too hard. But if you must fire, fire to frighten, not to kill or wound."
"That's one tall goddamned order, general, if you don't mind my saying so."
"There are people who are going to risk as much, colonel, and they won't have tanks to fall back on."
* * *
The legislature had voted, the people had assembled, the busses had come and gone.
New Mexico was not quite yet ready to join Texas' protest in the way Texas was protesting. Neither was it ready to leave a neighbor in the lurch. "You just don't do that, in the American southwest; you pitch in and help." That was what Governor Garrison had told the Legislature before they voted.
What had they voted for, then? They voted to pay for transportation and food, to pay for their own national guard to set up tents for, and to provide food and water for anyone willing to go to the Army and Marine Corps assembly areas near Las Cruces to protest the coming invasion of Texas. They also cast a vote for the First Amendment, especially with regards to the news media. Lastly, New Mexico had voted to send the bulk of its own national guard, one very fine brigade—the "best by test" in any component of the U.S. Armed Services—of air defense artillery to join Texas' Forty-ninth Armored Division, along with the state's other combat support unit, a battalion of six-inch self-propelled guns.
And as the Air Defense Brigade and artillery had gone, so, answering a freed, and more than a little annoyed, news media, the people had come. Not so many, of course, in any objective sense; New Mexico was not a populous state. Yet there were enough. From Lordburg, from Deming, from Alamogordo and Albuquerque, from Socorro and Santa Fe, they came. They came in numbers enough to block the highways through Las Cruces; to block the flow of fuel and parts and ammunition to the cavalrymen and marines rotting in dusty tent cities between Las Cruces and El Paso.
And those people sat on the roads and would not move.
Normally, of course, the armed forces would have called on the local police authorities to disperse the protesters.
"That's not going to work here," muttered the commander of the Marines. "I don't even want to ask. Hell, the State Police are out there with the protesters, keeping order."
"We could clear them out ourselves, sir," answered an aide. "Or tell the Army to do it."
"No, Johnny. The cavalry colonel has already told me, in so many words, 'Don't ask.' And I don't know what we'll do if the police and the guard open fire. Then too, what will those Texas boys at El Paso do if it does turn nasty?"
"No," the marine sighed. "No. We'll buck this one up to higher."
* * *
"It's spreading," said McCreavy, simply, to Rottemeyer.
"What's spreading?" asked the President.
"The 'Rebellion,' if you want to call it a rebellion."
Rottemeyer forced a calm into her voice she didn't quite feel, suppressing a shudder in her stomach she very much felt. "What now?"
"New Mexico. The Army and Marine force there is cut off from supply by protesters. The government down there is supporting the protesters, supporting them strongly."
"Define 'strongly.' "
"Transportation. Supply. Housing . . . of a sort. Police protection." McCreavy hesitated slightly, then added, "Military protection, too, though they have ordered most of what they had to Texas."
"And this means to us? To our plans?"
"It means that that force can go to El Paso and maybe a hundred miles beyond. Maybe less; the supply usage factors have hardly been updated since the Second World War and they are probably unrealistically conservative. In any case, when they run out they stop for lack of gas. Then they die for lack of water. The protesters . . . I should say the police . . . are letting enough water and food through now."
Carroll, ashen-faced, added, "It's . . . umm . . . worse than that, Willi. The state has ordered police protection for newspaper editors and other media types. Project Ogilvie is dead in New Mexico . . . dead for now anyway. We're having to beef up efforts in the adjoining states to keep them down."
Carroll gave a rueful and reluctant smile. " 'Course, not all the reporters are being too very brave. The state can't protect all of them from us; only the major editors, really. So the reporters are, some of 'em, using bylines like 'Spartacus' and 'Frederick Douglass'—I'm pretty sure I know who that one is. He's black, the treacherous, short-sighted bastard."
"Shit. Can we switch some police down to New Mexico to disperse the protesters?"
Vega answered, after a fashion, "Can we? Surely. But what's available? What's available that could do the job? The Surgeon General's Riot Control Police would be . . . umm . . . let's say that faced with armed and organized opposition they would be overtasked. The Presidential Guard could do it. But they're set for a different mission. Willi, I warned you we had to take control of all the law enforcement agencies in the country, to create a true national police. But no, you wouldn't listen."
"I listened, Jesse. But it wasn't yet time for that."
"Sure. Well, maybe that's so. But now it is too late. Do you want the PG's to pull off of the Fort Worth mission and go to New Mexico?"
Rottemeyer turned again to McCreavy. "How quickly can you turn them around once they take the currency facility?"
"And send them to New Mexico? Six hundred miles? A week . . . with luck. It will have to be planned."
"Okay," she told McCreavy. "Start planning."
To Vega she said, "They can take care of New Mexico after they take care of Fort Worth."
* * *
They had armored vehicles. They had other heavy weapons. They had troops, mostly fairly well-trained for their usual missions. They had a logistic and administrative tail.
What the PGSS lacked was helicopters.
Oh, there were a few somewhat plush command and control jobs available . . . "for the brass," as they say. But as far as moving any substantial number of Treasury agents (for they carefully preserved the fiction that they were merely agents of the public fisc)?
None.
For this, they needed the Army. And the Army duly and dutifully complied by sending down nearly half the 101st aviation group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky, that half being somewhat reinforced by the helicopters of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, at one time known as Task Force 160.
And yet using helicopters is not something that comes naturally to a military organization. True, some of the PGSS had previous military experience working with choppers. And yet many did not. As organizations, none of its battalions had any.
* * *
Juanita pointed to the helicopter idling on the pad beneath her office window. "And I told you, Jack, I will never get on one of those things again. No. Not. Ever. Never."
"Oh, Juani, be realistic, would you? You're expected in Fort Worth here shortly. The troops are standing by," Schmidt cajoled.
The governor answered with a grimace, "I know, I know. But, Jack I just can't. I . . . I wet myself when I saw those bullets—'tracers' you called them?—fly by. You have no idea . . ." Suddenly nonplussed, Juani stopped. She knew that Schmidt had a very good idea of what it was like to be in a helicopter someone was shooting at.
Still, no crybaby was Juanita. Even as her lip began to quiver, she admitted, "All right, all right. So you have an idea. But, Jack, I was never so terrified in my life."
Schmidt lifted one inquisitorial eyebrow. "You think those men in the currency facility aren't terrified, too, Juani? But they're there anyway doing what they have to. So now you, Governor, need to do what you have to. In this case that means following me downstairs, getting on that helicopter; closing your eyes and pissing yourself if you have to, to see those men who are going to die for you."
Juani's own eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no. Don't say that. Don't say they're going to die, let alone that they're going to die for me. I can't bear that idea."
"And it won't be any easier after you meet them, I know. But you have to. So come on. Now."
Finally, with reluctance bordering on terror, the governor agreed.
"And don't sweat it so much," said Schmidt. "Security here is pretty good, really. And I've already arranged for escorts going both ways. They may know where you are when we take off. They won't know, generally, where you're going. And on the way back we can take any old route we need to."
* * *
"And remember," said Williams, "we have got to pinch off any penetrations before . . ."
Even through the thick brick walls, deep in the bowels of the facility, the steady slashing of the helicopter's rotors could be heard and felt. "It seems the governor and General Schmidt are here, sir," commented Pendergast.
"Fine," answered Williams. "I'll keep the officers here. Could you send a party out to escort them inside, Top?"
"Yessir," agreed Pendergast, turning immediately to leave. "No problem. In fact, I'll go myself."
At the exterior wall the first sergeant slipped through a mousehole broken through the bricks. All the normal doors had been sealed or, in some cases, sealed and booby trapped. Emerging into the pale afternoon daylight on hands and knees, Pendergast arose, brushed some dirt off of his uniform, and hurried to where Schmidt and Governor Seguin waited on the concrete.
Johnston Akers, ever suspicious where the governor's safety was concerned, took one look at the First Sergeant's slung rifle. He then immediately began to draw his pistol.
"None of that, Ranger," commanded Schmidt. "This one's on our side."
Akers considered. Yes, it must be so. He slid the pistol back into its holster and grinned an apology at the first sergeant.
"Indeed I am," answered Pendergast, ignoring the Ranger's previous moves. "And so are we all, here. Governor, General? Will you all be kind enough to follow me? You too, Ranger. You're welcome inside."
* * *
"Watch your head there Governor. It's low and crooked."
"Thank you, First Sergeant. Or can I call you 'Mike'?"
"Mike would do mighty fine, ma'am. Or "Top"; that's what the troops usually call me."
Stifling a small curse at scraped knees, Juanita emerged into a rat maze. What's more, it seemed to her a rat maze designed by psychotic elves on LSD.
Whatever the Western Currency Facility had once looked like—no doubt a more or less regular printing plant with offices, hallways, open spaces—on the inside it resembled this no more. Eyes growing ever wider, Juanita swept the open hall into which the mouse hole led.
"Where are the doors?" she asked Pendergast, since the two leading out had been sealed with barbed wire.
"I'll show you, ma'am." Then Pendergast pushed aside a desk behind which was another mousehole. "We've sealed—blocked anyway—every normal door and crawlspace. Made our own, so to speak."
"But . . . but why?"
The first sergeant smiled. "Governor, it's routine. Even so, the people coming here are bound to have the floor plans for the place. They might even have rehearsed an attack based on those plans. Bound to fu—. . . err—. . . screw 'em up once they get in and find out the plans make no sense anymore."
The governor had a sudden image of a mouse caught in a maze. "Ohh. Yes, I could see that."
Behind Juanita, Schmidt suppressed a slight smile. She's sooo innocent.
"Now if you will follow me, Governor, General, I'll take you on the roundabout tour before we go see Captain Williams."
* * *
"I'm afraid you're going to have to crawl through this one, too, General . . . Governor."
Schmidt, unsurprised at the mass of barbed wire hanging in midair in the corridor, simply got down on his belly and started to crawl. Juanita looked at the great wad of tangled up barbed wire very dubiously.
"No need to worry, ma'am," said Pendergast, pointing at some smooth and thin black wire. "See, it's held up there pretty well."
"But what good is it, Mike, if you can just crawl under it?"
"Well, Governor, we can crawl under it, sure. Then we cut the wires holding it and it drops down. A stone cold bit—. . . err . . . pain to move. Especially since we'll likely be shooting at anyone that tries."
Schmidt asked, "Shooting, grenading . . . hmm . . . Top, where are your claymores?"
Pendergast thought briefly, tapped a finger against his lower lip, then pointed up at the ceiling tiles. "Two up there, General, plus another at each end of the corridor, buried in the walls."
"Very good."
The party moved further upward, to one of the two large rectangular projections jutting up from the roof of the building.
"Can't take you onto the roof, ma'am. Nor even you, General Schmidt."
"Booby trapped, Top?"
"To a fine art, sir."
"What are you going to do once they clear the traps? The roof here doesn't look like you can hold it by fire from the inside."
Pendergast shook his head. "No, sir. Too thick. If they want to pay the price to clear a section of the roof we can't do much to stop 'em. We do have a few small holes cut that the guys can donate grenades through. But any kind of bunker we put up there would need a manhole and that would just be a way for the other fellows to break into our defenses. We've also cut some narrow half-moons in the roof to push through some claymores taped to poles." Pendergast gestured first at one such half-moon cut through the ceiling; then at a stack of poles—to which had been attached the claymores—standing in one corner.
"And then, once they do break in, we fight 'em for every inch; counterattack where we're able. We've been practicing for that every moment we weren't busy digging in. But the captain could tell you more about that than I could."
Pendergast led the way downward towards the command post for the defense. Reaching it at length he knocked and announced, "Governor Seguin and General Schmidt, sir."
Williams called, "Attention."
Schmidt let the men stand that way for only the barest fraction of a moment before commanding, "Captain Williams, gentlemen. Be at ease. The governor is an informal lady."
At Schmidt's order Williams, Davis, and James visibly relaxed. A stiff-backed Fontaine, detailed to bring up some snacks from the WCF cafeteria, however, didn't.
Juanita noticed. "You too, young man. I'm just the governor. You're a lot more important. You're a citizen."
Fontaine glanced a query at Pendergast who nodded, Yes, you too, dummy.
"You can leave, Fontaine," added Pendergast.
"First Sergeant . . . Mike . . . I wonder if you wouldn't mind having this young man wait, either here or outside. I've seen nothing but senior people. I'd like to talk to him."
"You heard the governor, Fontaine. Wait outside."
"Yes, Top."
"And now, ma'am," began Williams, "let me tell you how we're going to hold this place. . . ."
An hour and a half later Schmidt thought, and not for the first time in his life, Briefings suck. Then he heard the engineer captain, Davis, say something that caught his attention. "Aces and eights? Dead man's hand? What do you mean, Captain?"
"Eleven tons of ANFO, General, down below. If they take this place, they're going to take a bunch of dust."
"What's he mean, Jack?"
Schmidt sighed. Juani was not going to like this. "In poker, 'Aces and Eights' are known as the 'dead man's hand,' Governor. And ANFO is Ammonium Nitrate–Fuel Oil explosive. He means that, as a last resort, they'll blow the place sky high."
The governor was horrified. "But what about the wounded?"
Davis explained. "Ma'am . . . after what we are going to do to them before they get even halfway through clearing us out? There aren't going to be any wounded; not of ours anyway. They'll kill everything. Anyone would."
"I see . . . well, we can't let that happen." She turned to Schmidt. "Jack, is there any way we can get these boys out after they've bought a little time for us?"
Schmidt and Williams exchanged knowing glances. In your dreams, Governor, in your dreams.
"Governor . . . Juani . . . it's possible I could do an end run around Third Corps when it rolls in, fight my way to this facility and extract the same way. Possible, but not likely."
Juani was adamant. "Whatever it takes, Jack. I will not leave these boys . . . men, rather, without some hope of rescue."
"You're the boss, Governor. I'll start planning it. Go on, Captain," ordered Schmidt. "Let's finish this up."
"Yes, sir. Well, the last thing I had to cover was auxiliary power. Seemed likely they'd cut off the electricity once they were ready, so we've set up three generators to take up the slack. It isn't enough for environmental control or anything but it should keep enough of the lights and the intercom working. Oh, and the security cameras . . ."
* * *
"Can you hold this place for us, Private Fontaine?" queried Juanita as she and Jack waited for Williams and Pendergast—involved briefly in a discussion with the other leaders—to join them and escort them out.
"We can surely try, ma'am. And we sure intend to try. No matter what."
Juanita thought about that "no matter what"—thought about "aces and eights," too—and felt her eyes begin to mist again. She averted her face while blinking a few times to clear them.
"Is there anything I can do?" Juani asked the young soldier.
Fontaine thought briefly. "I kinda hate to ask, ma'am . . . but there's one thing. I wonder . . . well, I'd appreciate it if someone could look after my momma." Fontaine gave a smile somewhat rueful. "And, you know? Old Iron Mike? The first sergeant? He's harder than woodpecker lips, no mistake. But he's a mighty good first sergeant. I wonder if, maybe . . . someone could make him a sergeant major before it's . . . you know . . . too late. I think it would mean a lot to him."
Schmidt smiled and reached into his pocket, extracting two small cellophane wrapped packets. "Go get 'Major' Williams and 'Sergeant Major' Pendergast, would you, son."
* * *
"Send the car away, Jack. We'll go back by helicopter."
"Are you sure, Juani?"
"I'm sure. If those men in there can do what they seem determined to do then I'll be damned if those people in Washington are going to frighten me out of the air. We'll take the helicopter."
"That's my girl, Juani. . . ."
* * *
Elpidia had thought she was alone in the house. Normally—every day, of late—the governor had gone to her office, the father of the family to his, and even the youngest boy, Mario, to school long before Elpi even awakened.
The girl was surprised, therefore, to hear the sounds of sobbing, quiet but distinct, coming from the governor's home office.
Also quietly, Elpi walked to the door. Shyly she knocked.
"Who is it?" asked the governor in a quavering voice.
"Solo yo, Gubanadora . . . just me, Governor, Elpi. I heard crying. Are you okay?"
Juani hastily dried her eyes on her sleeve and answered, "I'm fine Elpi," in a voice that gave the lie to the claim.
Elpi walked in, invited or not. "What's wrong?" she asked.
At the query Juani burst into fresh tears. She half bent and wrapped her arms around herself to try to control the trembling. Rocking back and forth she moaned over and over, "They're all going to die . . . they're all going to die . . ."
Elpi was literate in English, but freshly and barely so. She could make out the headlines from the newspaper laying on Juani's desk. "The Eyes of Texas are Upon You." She read a few lines, painfully slowly. It seemed to her that the state's free press was being a little irresponsible in putting any blame on the governor for the state of affairs. She came to the line, " . . . and the men who are about to die in Fort Worth . . ."
"Who is going to die?" the young girl asked.
It came out almost as a shriek, "All those men in the currency facility are going to die and who knows how many others? And it's all my fault . . . mine, mine, MINE! Oh why, oh why couldn't I just leave it alone? Why did I have to start this whole thing?"
Elpi walked over to Juanita and put a warm hand to her quaking back. When this did no good the girl bent her head down, resting a cheek upon the quivering shoulder of the Governor of Texas and whispered, "You didn't start anything. Neither did your brother. This was started by the people who throw riot police at people who protest killing little babies. It was started by people who attack churches and burn children alive."
"You didn't start it Governor . . . but you have to end it. You have to see us through this."
Twisting around, Juanita pulled the girl into her shoulder and sobbed, "I know."
* * *
Behind Juani, standing at the podium, a map of Texas and its surrounding states shone against a screen. News cameras panned across her, the screen, and on to the raptly listening legislators. This broadcast was going out live to Texans, and via continuous streaming on the Internet to the rest of the United States. A Chinese company had rented Texas the use of a satellite to bring the word to the rest of the world.
"This is what we know," began Juanita. Instantly, at Schmidt's direction, several dozen symbols appeared on the map behind her.
"To our west, just across the border with New Mexico, the bulk of the 1st Marine Division and the Army's 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment stand poised to invade. To our north, in southern Oklahoma, is the Army's Third Corps. This force has in it the 1st Cavalry Division, the 1st Infantry Division, 4th Infantry Division, and about two thirds of the 101st Airborne Division, a helicopter heavy formation."
"East, in Oklahoma, is the 18th Airborne Corps. This group has been reinforced by, again, about two thirds of the Second Marine Division. The rest consists of two brigades each from the 3rd Infantry Division, the 82nd Airborne Division, and the 10th Mountain Division.
"Southwards, the Navy and a brigade of Marines are blocking our coast and poised to descend upon it. We have reports—reliable reports—that a portion of the 1st Marine Division has boarded ship to pass through the Panama Canal to join the fleet assembling in the Gulf."
At this last bit of unpleasant news the legislators, those at least siding with Juanita, gave an audible groan.
Not everyone was on her side of course. Some were ambivalent, others hostile. Many were simply frightened and this news—though not unexpected in broad terms—made them more so.
Juani looked out, smiling, at a known opponent, Imogene Cochran, seated about center in the room. Imogene—pinch faced and severe—was of the rather rare far left variety of Texas Democrat. She returned Juani's smile with a sneer.
"We are prepared to fight them," Juanita announced baldly, voice ringing loud and clear through the hall. "On the Gulf Coast beaches, in the cities, in the towns, in the field . . . we are prepared to . . . but surely we do not want to," this last was spoken in a stage whisper.
"We will hold off from fighting until the very last extremity.
"Something else we know: officials named by the White House have been integrated into the regular armed forces down to battalion level. These men . . . and a few women . . . are backed by federal police forces and appear to have the duty of insuring that the orders of the White House are enforced."
Juani gave a smile that was perhaps slightly out of place. "It seems that Washington does not trust its own army. Kind of makes you wonder whether, if Washington doesn't trust the armed forces, perhaps—just maybe—we can."
Most of the legislators joined Juani's smile at the jest. Imogene merely looked furious.
Juani took a deep breath, steeling herself. The next part was going to be difficult. She pushed a button on the podium. The symboled map disappeared leaving a blank screen in its wake.
"Did you ever notice how, when Somali kids are starving, the papers and television screens are full of pitiful pictures? Did you ever notice how, when Kurdish kids are driven from their homes you can hardly pick up a magazine without being bombarded with big, innocent eyes? A California girl gets kidnapped and murdered and the media pastes her picture across the nation.
"Why do you suppose we've never seen a single picture of any of the kids burned alive in Waco?" She tapped the button on the podium once again and the screen behind her lit with a portrait of a smiling little Mexican girl.
"That's Josefina Sanchez." Juani tapped the button again and the screen split. On the right side appeared the obscenely charred corpse of a very small person, curled into a fetal position and holding a smaller bit of once-human charcoal between arms and chest. The legislators groaned.
"That is also Josefina Sanchez. In her arms is a little baby . . . what is left of one . . . named Pedro."
A tap of the button and the picture zoomed in to focus on the little shriveled bundle that had been found wrapped in Josefina's arms. Another tap and it focused further onto Pedro's face, little carbonized teeth faintly visible inside a burned and distorted mouth, empty eye sockets staring from blackened face.
Again she tapped the button and a full color picture of Pedro at his first birthday party appeared on the right side of the screen. Thank God I didn't let Elpi come to this and told Mario not to let her near a television or computer, thought Juani, fighting down her own gorge.
Juani continued to tap, interspersing normal pictures with pictures of the recovered, charred bodies. At each she announced a name, "Maria Ramirez, aged nine . . . Pablo Trujillo, aged eleven . . . Peter Smith, aged eleven . . . Colleen Drysdale, aged ten . . . Katherine Collins, aged eleven . . . David Robles . . ." About halfway through there was the sound of someone wretching.
"You have no right," shouted Imogene. "You have no right to show us these things. It isn't decent."
Juanita scowled. "No right, Imogene? No one had a right to do to these kids what was done to them. And you don't have a right to bury your head in the sand and ignore what was done to them. Admit it, that's the real crime in your mind. Not the killings, but upsetting you." Bitch.
"Enough, anyway," Juani continued. "The rest of the pictures wouldn't show you all anything you don't know now.
"But you all needed to see why I decided to resist. It wasn't my brother and it wasn't even that . . . that . . . that bastard of a 'United States Commissioner for the State of Texas,' Forsythe, that Washington stuck me with. It wasn't the taxes and it wasn't the jobs and it wasn't even over the control they were taking in the schools.
"I just don't want to live, don't want any of our people to have to live, under a government that will do this; murder a bunch of kids then wrap itself in a shroud of sanctimonious hypocrisy and pretend nothing ever happened.
"One last thing before I go: we are about to be invaded. Washington will no doubt decide to call it something else . . . but an invasion is what it is. I am not going to ask every Texan to fight the invasion. In fact, except for those many thousands who have joined our National Guard and State Defense Force, I am going to ask the rest of the state not to fight.
"But I am going to ask, in fact I am going to beg of the people—here in Texas and elsewhere in the United States—do not fight . . . but do not cooperate. Block roads, interfere with supply columns, stop trains, swarm over airfields. In short, make this invasion impossible to supply and federal control impossible to maintain.
"If you will do this, I think we can win."
* * *
Hanstadt never did quite buy in to the whole nonviolent civil disobedience idea. It just wasn't in his nature. He measured things materially; so many guns, so many tons of rations, so many artillery shells . . . so much X . . . so many Y. That was what made him a prize as Schmidt's G-4 and something of a cipher for the governor's other plans.
"How many shells did you say came with those things?" he asked, pointing a finger at a passing CONEX on its way to Camp Bullis. He had to shout to be heard over the roar of massed diesels.
"Carl" answered, "Seven hundred fifty rounds, mixed high explosive, illumination and smoke, with each 85mm gun. two-fifty to three-fifty with the others. Plus you're getting a fair number of pure ammunition loads."
"And you say these things are self-propelled?"
"The SD-44s, the 85mm jobs, are auxiliary-propelled. That is, they have an engine, a steering wheel, a driver's seat and a small gas tank. For the 122s and 152 you're going to have to rig up something on your own and use civilian trucks."
"And the manuals are inside?"
"Every CONEX comes with a manual and firing table printed in Spanish. I figure you have enough Spanish speakers in Texas. Though, I've got to tell you, those manuals were translated from Chinese by people maybe none too good. You'll have some problems."
Hanstadt normally wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, but these guns were no gift. Texas had paid for them with the ships about to be seized while going through the Panama Canal. They had also forked over no small amount of cash for all the stock to Materiales de Seguridad, SA, the Mexican-incorporated, Panamanian-run arms company that had held these particular weapons.
He figured this entitled him to check the teeth. "Where and why did you get all of this? Why did you hide it?"
Carl hesitated before answering. Some of what Hanstadt was asking was very close-held. In the U.S. military and intelligence communities it would have been called "Special Compartmentalized Information." "We bought it from China, Russia and North Korea when this sort of thing was a glut on the market. We have kept almost two-thirds of it out of Panama expressly to avoid antagonizing the United States. And that is all I can say . . . except that some Panamanians have been in the surreptitious arms business for quite some time . . . TOW missiles to Iran in the 1980s . . . rifles and mortars for Croats in the 1990s . . . that sort of thing."
"Fair enough. Though I insist that it is not fair for you people to grab over five hundred newer and heavier guns we paid good money for and replace them with three hundred fifty lighter and older ones for even more money."
Carl shrugged. "General . . . if we didn't get them those arms were going to be seized anyway. We are also, as part of the deal, paying very good money to arrange a strike on the Panama Canal when that brigade from the 1st Marine Division is stuck in the middle of Gatun Lake between the locks. That strike is going to cost us money and cost us big. You are hardly paying any more than what this is going to cost us and I think you should stop bitching about it. You are getting some artillery and you ought to be happy with that. Me, personally, I think my boss is making a mistake."
"A mistake? My ass. You're screwing us plain and simple."
Carl shrugged again and began to walk towards the line of tractors hauling the flatbed trailers northwards.
"Where are you going?" demanded Hanstadt.
"Why, I'm going to turn these trucks around since you seem to think the deal is so bad."
"Now wait a minute . . ."
"Then stop bitching about it."