DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. Did you think Texas was about to lose, Alvin?
A. Well, I'd like to think I had a little more faith than that. Thing was, though, I just couldn't see how we could win.
Q. And you kept close track of it on the news?
A. I tried, what there was of news. Things got really quiet once Houston went under. All you ever saw on the TV was more and more troops building up around that area of Texas the feds hadn't taken over yet.
They used to show us a lot of what had gone on, though. I swear, if I never again see some news type standin' by a wrecked bridge and lecturing about "criminal waste" or "lawless behavior" again . . . well, if I never do it will still be too soon.
There was one funny thing about them bridge shots. See, I knew the areas of a lot of them so it wasn't too hard to place where they were taken. And even when I couldn't place 'em, there was something always the same. Lots of trucks piled up on the north sides or the east sides of the rivers, waiting for a ferry to bring 'em across.
Now, I never did any time in the army, so I didn't know what those traffic jams were doing, not in any detail. But I figured, if they really needed all them trucks . . . and most of the trucks were stuck on the wrong side of some blown-up bridges, then they had to be short whatever it was them trucks was supposed to be carrying.
Wasn't just at the bridges, neither. Seems New Mexico decided . . . I didn't know why at the time . . . to throw in with Texas. Not that we got any details, naturally. But I did notice two things. One was that the "on location" newscasts suddenly switched from Las Cruces, New Mexico to Arizona and Colorado. The other? Well, when they started mentioning the governor of that state, Mr. Garrison, the same way they talked about Mrs. Seguin? I put two and two together and came up with . . . well, two. Two states, that is.
And I knew Texas wasn't alone anymore.
* * *
"New Mexico did it, Juani. We're not alone anymore," exulted Schmidt.
"Did what, Jack?"
"Adopted the full program. Nullified the income tax withholding within the state. Started rounding up federal agents and bureaucrats. Voted an expansion of their State Defense Force and National Guard. They've also ordered all highways and railways blocked. Though, you know, Juani, they don't really have a National Guard. They sent us damned near everything they had from air defense to medics."
Juani's face took on a worried expression. "I am not sure this is a good thing or a bad, Jack. What happened?"
"The feds opened fire on the people who were blocking the highway by Las Cruces. Killed a bunch of state police; some other people, too. Garrison called an emergency session of the legislature and they voted, almost unanimously, to join us."
An image of a disarmed and already occupied New Mexico flashed through her mind, followed by one of civilians and police shot down on the highway. Juani bit her lower lip and began to rock gently back and forth. My fault, my fault, all my fault.
Not one to hide an unpleasantness, even from an obviously stressed governor, Jack added, "But it isn't going all that well. We had some time to prepare. New Mexico really didn't. Didn't have the money either. And, like I said, what they had of National Guard they had already sent to us."
Jack concluded, "Garrison, the legislature, and about fifty cops are under siege in the State House. Their phone lines are cut but they obviously have some cell phones. And there's a local news team on site too. But there's not much food to speak of and the water has been cut too. Juani, they need our help."
My fault, too, if we don't help them. "What can we do? Give me some options."
"Out west I've got three battalions, one tank and two mechanized infantry, facing off against the 1st Marines and 3rd Armored Cav. It's a risk . . . I'm told that the supply status for the Marines and Cav is very low but I don't know it is. One of those battalions of ours was the one slated to go around 3rd Corps to extract our folks in Fort Worth. If you are willing to let them go under I can strip off that battalion and send it on an end run to Santa Fe. I think the other two would be enough to make the Marines and Cav dance around and burn up whatever fuel they might have left. I think."
"You'll have to break your promise to those boys in the WCF for me to do that."
Juani's rocking grew more pronounced before she settled back in her chair. "Don't ask me to go back on my word, Jack . . . please. I promised those boys we'd at least try to get them out."
Jack, here, was pitiless. "Maybe that was a promise you shouldn't have made, Governor."
Juani felt a wave of nausea wash over her. Dammit, she was a good politician . . . and a good politician keeps her word.
"Tell me what you think I should do," she forced out, painfully.
Relenting now, Jack reached a hand over and gave her shoulder a reassuring and comforting squeeze. "I'll tell the boys in Fort Worth they can surrender at discretion or try to break out and escape and evade. Then we'll send a battalion to Santa Fe . . . if we can."
"Can?" questioned the governor.
"Between where we have that battalion and Fort Worth there's some cover. There are first class roads. There are towns to hide in. The people are mostly our people or, at worst, neutral. Between where they are now and Santa Fe it's open and mostly flat and they can only hope to make any progress without being spotted and hammered from the air. The people there will probably support us just as our own would . . . but there are a lot fewer of them. No joke, Juani; it's going to be hard."
"Okay, then. It's a risk. But it's a risk we have to take, yes?"
"I don't know," answered Jack. "Garrison's too good a man to let go under. New Mexico's too good a state, too. They supported us—openly—when no one else would.
"But, Juani, the guys in the Currency Facility are good men, too. They're big boys now, all grown up. They know the deal and I'm sure they won't hold any hard feelings.
"Fundamentally, Governor, it's a political decision, not a military one. So it's up to you."
It's a political decision, Juani echoed in her mind. My decision. No one else can make it for me. "Do it, then. Tell the boys in Fort Worth I'm so sorry." And leave me with my guilt.
* * *
It is so very much too late for guilt, and I am not big enough for all the guilt I have. I miss old Goldsmith, mused Representative Harry Feldman. Redneck New Mexican or not. He wouldn't have rolled like I have. Maybe I wouldn't have rolled—frame job or not—if he were here to buck me up.
A great wave of self-loathing washed over the New Yorker; a wave compounded of disillusionment, disgust, and despair . . . along with a heavy admixture of serious personal guilt. I have no excuse. I should have known. Ross was right all along, right about the important things anyway.
Feldman gave out a sigh that would have been audible had there been anyone else to hear it. There was not. He had found that he preferred to be alone these days; a rarity in a career politician. It was bad enough that he had to live with his own guilt and grief. Having to hide it from others, to "put on a happy face," while he was seething inside? That would have been impossible.
How did we let it get so out of hand? Everything Willi said she wanted to do for this country was right, dammit.
Feldman turned back to his speech notes. Later today he was to put on a speech in the House condemning Texas and New Mexico in no uncertain terms. Those were his orders from the White House.
Maybe—just maybe—I would rather go to prison . . . or would . . . if I weren't a coward.
* * *
Governor Garrison pulled back from the narrow window from which he had briefly glanced at the ring of federal agents surrounding the State House. His eyes wandered around the walls of the assembly to where his state police confidently manned positions to repel any assault. The thought, no cowards here, made his chest swell with pride.
He patted the shoulder of the nearest trooper, even now returning to the position he had vacated to give Garrison a quick look. No cowards.
Not only the men manning the state house not cowards; any fear they felt was utterly subsumed in sheer fury; fury and hot hatred. In the seventy-eight year history of the New Mexico State Police, thirty-one troopers had fallen in line of duty by murder or accident. In the thirty-odd minutes between the arrival of the SGRCP at Las Cruces that number had been more than doubled.
Garrison overheard the shotgun-gripping trooper who had resumed his place at the window mutter, sotto voce, "Come on, you bastards, you miserable murdering fucks. Come on and try us."
* * *
The commander of the westernmost brigade of the forty-ninth Armored Division, plus both its tank and infantry battalion commanders, looked Schmidt square in the eye, hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and said, "All Tripp, here,"—he indicated the short and stout infantry battalion commander with the pointing thumb—"can do is try. It's over three hundred and fifty miles to Santa Fe, most of that by U.S. highways, not interstates. Between the company of tanks and the two companies of mech infantry—which is all he has left anyway with one company sitting in Fort Worth—he'll be lucky to arrive with more than about two companies. The rest will be strung out behind him and might or might not join him later. At that it will take him about a day to get there. And that assumes that we don't meet any opposition on the ground or from the air."
The colonel continued, "We've had a couple of guys from the Marines and the Third ACR come over to us. They indicate that the supply status is still pretty poor. But they could rape the rest of their formation to field a force big enough to stop us and they can move faster in their LAVs, across a shorter distance, to block us. If they use helicopters, there's no question they can beat us there. If they beat us there, there's no question they can stop us before we get to New Mexico's state house."
"There's a way . . ." The brigade commander hesitated.
"Go on," encouraged Schmidt.
"General, I know you do not want this. I know we've bent over backwards to keep from killing any regulars. I even, maybe, understand and I may even, generally, approve. But if you want me to send one of my three battalions to Santa Fe I need to use the other two to tie the people facing me down where they are. This would not have been true if we had gone to Fort Worth instead.
"I need to attack—even at the crappy odds I'm facing—attack to buy time, attack to draw attention."
"Otherwise?" Schmidt asked.
"Otherwise, it's a gallant gesture but no more than that. Sorry, sir, but that's how I see it."
"I see. Hmmm. You said, 'a day.' Tell me exactly what you mean by that and how you arrived at it."
"Well, we can only move as fast as our slowest movers. Those are the Infantry Fighting Vehicles. Top speed is about forty-five miles an hour. At that speed figure on beating the crews half to death even on a good road. Figure on more breakdowns, too . . . a lot more. So I am planning no more than thirty miles an hour. Twelve driving hours for the trip, minimum. Call it fourteen to be safe. Add in rest and food breaks . . . oh, and at least one refueling, and we're talking more like seventeen hours.
"Speaking of refueling, we had a cache hidden near Abilene for the Fort Worth foray. There's no cache between here and Santa Fe."
Schmidt understood. "Can you send enough fuel trucks to make up the difference?"
"Barely, sir, but yes. In any case, continuing on, add a couple of hours to plan the final relief once we get close to the state house and we're up to nineteen hours. Once we're up to nineteen hours of continuous operations then we need to talk about some sleep before the actual relief."
"So, yes, General; a full day. If Tripp moves tactically rather than just doing a 'balls to the wall' road march it will be more like three days. I figure it's important enough to sacrifice security to speed though . . . so we'll call it a day."
Schmidt thought he had an answer, rather, a part of one. "How disciplined are your troops, Colonel?"
"Normal. Nothing special. Nothing awful, either. Why?"
Schmidt answered slowly, "Well, I am willing to let you make an 'attack' . . . but you can't actually kill any federal troops doing it."
The colonel shuddered. "No . . . we're not that disciplined. If the Marines shoot to kill, my boys will shoot back."
"Then attack without ammunition or make a mere demonstration. But do it this evening."
Tripp spoke up for the first time. "Then we're really going to leave my boys in the Currency Facility in the lurch, are we?"
"They're big boys, aren't they, Colonel?"
* * *
Deep in the bowels of the facility's security room, four men, a major, two captains, and a sergeant major met to discuss their predicament. The lights were dimmed, the better to see the television screens lining one wall. Many of those screens were blank, however. PGSS snipers had made a point of disabling any camera they could identify.
Rubbing the left side of his face, Williams said in a low voice, "And those are our choices, gentlemen: hold fast and hope the problem gets solved elsewhere, hold fast and be destroyed, or try to escape on our own . . . or we could surrender."
Williams' face set with a determined grimace. "Me, I plan on staying. And with New Mexico throwing in with us I think our chances of holding the feds off long enough went way up."
"That much is true," said James. "I don't think I would surrender anyway. If they don't hang us we'll spend the rest of our lives behind bars. But we probably don't need to worry about prison because they will hang us all."
Davis added, "I don't see how we can escape either. There are seven thousand PGSS troopers—and now they've got their armored vehicles with them—surrounding this place. We would be lucky to get two steps from any of the doors. Sure wish we'd kept our Bradleys."
"They were needed elsewhere," Williams answered. "And we weren't planning on escaping when we took this place over."
Pendergast summed it up. "I've been talking with the boys, Major Williams. Sir, they know the score. And they want to stay and fight it out. Hell, we sent the bad guys packing once already. Who says we can't do it again? At least, that's what the boys are thinking."
"You mean none of them want to surrender, Sergeant Major?"
"No, sir. They know—just like Captain James said—surrender is either a quick ticket to prison or a quick ticket to a rope. They'd rather fight it out, sir. All of them willing to talk about it, anyway.
"And sir, I know you would rather let any go that want to . . . but you can't. Every man here knows just about every booby trap and trick we've laid on. Don't think for a minute the feds won't get it out of them either. And every man knows that every other one knows. They'd shoot anyone that tried to desert themselves."
Williams began massaging both his temples. "So be it, then. We hold. Sergeant Major, send a message to Austin. . . ."
* * *
Schmidt read aloud, " 'To the people of Texas and to all Americans: We are besieged by over seven thousand federal troops; none of them, so far as we can tell, of the United States Army or Marine Corps. We are under continuous sniper and machine-gun fire, though casualties—so far—have been light.
" 'We will never surrender or retreat. If there are neither reinforcements nor relief to come to our aid we will still never surrender or retreat. If the enemy assault us, we will still never surrender or retreat and will, by God's grace, exact a terrible price for every forward step they may attempt. Hurrah for Texas and hurrah for Governor Seguin.' "
"I told you they understood, Juani . . . though I surely do wish we could get them out. They're too good a group of men to let die."
* * *
Every time Sawyers looked at the building he liked what he saw less and less. Open, no cover, clear fields of fire from positions inside he couldn't see much less hope to effectively engage. He had a battalion's worth of armored vehicles now—and didn't the army bitch over the costs in fuel of getting them here? But as to whether that would help or just give the guardsmen inside more profitable targets for the antitank weapons he was certain that they had . . . well, he just didn't know.
All in all he had misjudged the defenders very badly to date. Worse, he knew he had. He had never imagined that the Texans would attack to relieve that miserable old priest's mission. He had assumed that—faced with the prospect of a real attack to take back the Western Currency Facility—respect for the law would cause them to fold. Even when they had answered his demand for surrender with a defiant, and remarkably well-placed shot, he had still assumed that a real attack would break them.
He'd been so very wrong. And his men had paid the price for it.
Sawyers, it was fair to say, had suffered something of a crisis of confidence.
He had asked for air support; a couple of fighters to drop a couple of large bombs each. He'd asked and been told, in no uncertain terms, "No."
His superior at Treasury had explained, a bit. "No, the President has outright refused to drop bombs on American soil. Bad PR, you know."
Sawyers didn't buy it. He'd gone over her head to her boss. Similar story.
He'd pressed. Finally, it came out. "Commander, you can't have any air support because we do not trust them not to drop the bombs on you before flying off to San Antonio to join the Texans. It's not on the news but there have been a couple of cases of that; pilots stealing their planes and defecting. More of the bastards are faking sick to avoid flying, and the President is furious about that too. Unfortunately, she can't do much. So you're on your own."
* * *
The fires were out at least. That much Fulton could be thankful for. There was still a godawful stench from Juarez, when the wind was just right, or just wrong. But over that the Marine Corps had no control.
Fulton made his headquarters in a now abandoned restaurant just off of Interstate 10. There, at least, he didn't have to see the sullen bitter looks the people of El Paso cast at him and his Marines.
There came a knock on his door that Fulton answered with, "Enter."
"Sir, Corporal Mendez reports."
Fulton, the commander of the 1st Marine Division returned the corporal's salute and then spent a few seconds studying him. He saw the beginnings of a paunch, but that was nothing unusual in a reservist. The salute had been snappy. The driver's uniform was as clean as circumstances allowed. In all, the kid made a favorable impression.
"Relax, son. The G-4 told me I ought to see you; that you had something important to say. So spill it."
Mendez didn't relax, not quite. Instead he assumed a stiff parade rest, eyes focused somewhere above and about one thousand yards past the general's back. He kept that position, and that focus, while relating every detail he could recall about the actions of the Surgeon General's police at Las Cruces, New Mexico.
Fulton's face kept a neutral expression throughout. When Mendez finished he asked a few questions, made a few notes on a yellow pad.
Finally he asked, "So what do you think we should do about it, Corporal?"
Mendez looked directly at Fulton for the first time since entering his office. "Sir, I wouldn't presume to tell the General . . ."
Fulton wriggled his fingers, dismissing the difference in rank. Still Mendez remained silent.
Ohh, thought the general, suddenly understanding. He's afraid to tell me because if he told me what he was thinking it could be construed as mutiny.
"Let me rephrase that question, Corporal. Are you happy to be here, with us, on this operation."
"No, sir," Mendez answered without a moment's hesitation.
"I see. Let me ask another one. Who do you hope wins this little confrontation?"
Mendez did hesitate over answering that one. He didn't know much about military law and wasn't certain he should answer it.
"Scout's honor, Corporal. Nothing you say is going out of this room."
"Okay, then, sir. I think we ought to ask the Texans for some gas, turn around, and march back through New Mexico arresting or shooting every federal agent we can find on the way. But that's just me. . . ."
* * *
Wardroom, USS Peleliu, Gatun Lake, Republic of Panama
"Is it just me or does anyone here agree we never should have given this place back?"
The speaker's comments were greeted with snorts of assent and louder snorts of derision at the local "hosts." No one in the Navy, and few if any in the other services, had thought that giving the Panama Canal Zone back to Panama had been a very good idea. The knowledge was made all the more bitter, especially among the more senior officers and chiefs that the return of the Zone had never been necessary. Rather, so they perceived it, it had been the mistaken decision of a past—be it noted, Democratic—President also widely considered within the military to have been a national mistake. It had been carried through fruition by a man convinced beyond contradiction of his convictions and ignorant beyond ignorance of his limitations.
Now the price had to be paid, ironically by another Democrat President. Three amphibious warfare ships, carrying the better part of a brigade of Marines, had entered the Canal from the Pacific. Other ships—some carrying troops and others carrying equipment and supplies—had assembled off of Venado Beach and in the bay of Panama on Panama's Pacific side in anticipation of making the passage.
Then, with the bulk of the force sitting in the fresh water of Gatun Lake the Canal had experienced its first stoppage since 1989 and only the second one in its history as thousands of Canal workers went on strike simultaneously.
The strike was as spontaneous as a man named Patricio could make it.
The Marines were not going anywhere soon.
In the warm blue waters of the Pacific, and the steamy brown waters of Gatun Lake, mixed in among the Marines' transports were merchant ships registered around the world. Among these were several registered with and owned by the People's Republic of China.
Those ships carried arms once destined for Texas and now traded to an international arms dealer . . . but of those the Marines and Navy knew little and cared less.
The captain of the Peleliu likewise knew little of the Chinese arms. He did, however, know better than any one else in his marooned ship just how stuck they were. Even if he attempted to use the Marines his ship carried, not one of them had the first clue about operating the Canal.
The Marines were not going to be able to break this foreign strike.
A military organization—and, while the Marines were a part of the naval service, none had ever suggested they were not in every important particular a military organization—might be likened to a bizarre sort of snake. At its point there were teeth and eyes and venom. Somewhere in the middle was the fresh meal it needed and was digesting to continue on its way. What made the snake bizarre is that its tail was an enormous conglomeration of fat and flesh, muscle and machine stretching out for anywhere from tens to hundreds of miles behind it.
And the point of the beast could move little if at all faster that that fat, bloated, dragging tail.
The point of Second Marine Division (minus that brigade roasting on ships in the Gulf of Mexico) might be at the Colorado River. Its gargantuan tail was still anchored somewhere east of Houston.
In Houston itself that recent and future meal—rather, its passage point—was being squeezed.
* * *
From his vantage point overlooking the intersection of Interstate 10 and U.S. 59 Colonel Minh smiled happily at the vista spread below him.
It hadn't even been too very hard. Before they were shut down by federal authorities, the newspapers had waxed lyrical about the martyrdom of Victor Charlesworth and those who had gone to see him speak. Immediately following the shut down, posters had gone up on walls, flyers had been anonymously delivered. Speakers at a dozen platforms appeared, aroused a crowd, announced a rally and then disappeared.
The local police—before they, too, went on strike—seemed quite indifferent to the impromptu rallies.
Now Minh had the results he wanted at this stage. Thousands of cars blocked the intersection. Thousands more people demonstrated around the cars. Not that more than some hundreds of these intended a demonstration. Many, many more had been caught up in the blockage and simply had no good way to leave.
And mixed in with those demonstrators and unwitting demonstrators? A hundred or more of his own "troops" . . . his own "armed and dangerous" troops.
To either side of the blockage military convoys had been building for hours, helpless to push on either to deliver the goods or to return for more goods to deliver. This, too, was part of Minh's plan. He intended that the very people who needed federal help to clear the road block should themselves help congest that road to delay federal help.
Still, he hoped—truthfully, he completely expected—that the feds would show up eventually.
"Ah, there they are," he whispered. A mile away, plainly visible from his vantage point, the ragged lines of the Environmental Protection Police snaked around herringbone parked military trucks. "Shouldn't be long now."
Elpi watched with Minh. For the most part, and per Schmidt's instructions, he kept her in one or another of the safe houses that dotted the city. Even so, and even with some clever makeup, she would never pass scrutiny if one of the federal agents dominating the city took a careful look. For one thing, the safe houses were often in Vietnamese neighborhoods. For another, her face had become rather well known as a result of the speech she had made by Charlesworth's side.
Mostly Minh kept her off the streets. Still, for reasons more instinctive than articulable, he occasionally risked bringing her out as a witness to events.
The military vehicles had stopped well shy of the blockage, of course; soldiers were not stupid, Marines no more so, and neither soldiers nor Marines wanted to be anywhere near a potentially unruly crowd.
As the first agents of the EPP debouched into the open space Minh's people began a chant, "Charlesworth! Charlesworth! Charlesworth!" Others picked it up, even among those who had only been inadvertently stuck at the rally. Soon, the volume had grown to the point where most of the demonstrators could not hear, let alone obey, the EPPs perfunctory order to disperse.
The police formed a skirmish line. Brandishing batons, they advanced. This the crowd had to notice and many shied away, shuffling backwards around the mass of misparked automobiles and further from the threatening clubs.
Not all did so, however. Minh's people, for example, did not shy away. Of course they were for the most part in cars which they could not leave. Most especially could they not leave with the rifles those cars hid.
A command rang out in Vietnamese over a loudspeaker. A hundred rifles came out of hiding. The EPP recoiled in shock as soon as these were recognized.
The shock was short lived.
* * *
The 3rd Infantry Division had made its forward headquarters in this small town overlooking the Colorado River. Having just finished his daily tour of selected units, the Division Sergeant Major entered the command post, pulling off uncomfortable helmet and sweaty field gear as he did so.
The first thing the sergeant major noticed was an air of shock among the denizens of the command post. He stopped a passing sergeant and inquired.
"It's Houston, sergeant major; the MSR, our main supply route. It's erupted into fighting . . . low scale as near as we can tell and they're avoiding our people and the jarheads . . . but it's enough that we are effectively cut off here."
"Shit," muttered the sergeant major. "Does the old man know?"
"He's been closeted with the G-4 since we got word."
"We should have talked to Martin," said the sergeant major, under his breath.
"Huh?"
"Never mind, son. Before your time."
* * *
Not far from the ruins of the Mission Dei Gloria a very worried and a very dejected Army lieutenant general likewise sat in conference with his G-2 (Intelligence), his G-4 (Logistics) and his Provost Marshall (Military Police).
"It's just not enough, sir," announced the G-4. "Between the wrecked bridges, the sit down strikes in and around Dallas, the limits on the engineers' ferries . . . well, I can take you to Austin. But if we have to actually fight for the place there's no way I can provide the ammunition you'll need; not for weeks at best."
The provost marshal interjected, "That presumes that the federal police behind us can keep the lines open at least most of the time. I'm not too sure. . . ."
"They won't be able to," confided the G-2. "Sir, I've sent my people back a number of times to observe. The bulk of the PGSS . . ."
"Why not just call 'em what they are?" demanded the provost. "Either 'Rottenmuncher's Own' or just plain old 'SS'?"
The Corps commander unconsciously glanced around to ensure that his Zampolit was not in earshot. "We can continue to call them the PGSS," he ordered. "We all know what we mean by it."
"Sir," continued the G-2. "The PGSS and FBI are keeping the supply lines clear through and around Fort Worth and Dallas . . . but—except for the FBI, in Dallas—the way they're doing it, the way every federal agency has been doing it, is just so damned heavy-handed that they're driving even neutral folks into Governor Seguin's arms. And what's been going on in Houston? It's obvious; the Texans have a plan, a good one, and they're following it."
"What plan?" asked the Corps commander. "I see a plan to defend the rump of Texas."
"No, sir. The plan's deeper than that. The defense of that rump is intended to hold us up, to take us out of the main theater. The plan is to eat up the main theater, our rear. While we're stuck forward leaving those . . ."
"Those sloppy, miserable, bloodthirsty excuses for police officers," muttered the provost.
"Yes, them. Seguin intends to make it very difficult for us to move supplies forward. Then, when the federal police suppress that, the rear breaks out in something very like a revolution. Houston tells us that the forces for a revolution are probably in place everywhere behind us."
"Leaving us stuck at the end of a nonexistent supply line?"
"Yes, sir. I think there's more to it than that, but that—from our point of view—will be enough. If the PGSS lose control of Dallas and Fort Worth we will die on the vine here."
We could just leave them to die on the vine, thought Sawyers. They're not blocking anything. The facility is not that important really, not anymore. It's just a symbol. They can't have food for more than a few more weeks.
But, though Sawyers had tried to have the assault called off, he had been refused at the very highest levels just as he had been refused air support. He had managed to browbeat the Regular Army into giving him a half battery of self-propelled artillery.
He really didn't trust them though.
Thus it was that, with heavy heart, Sawyers greeted his subordinates as they filed into his command post for their final orders; orders certain to be final for many of them.
* * *
Tripp asked, simply, "Any final questions?" Seeing that there might be, he added, "And no, I don't mean questions like, 'Why aren't we going to rescue Major Williams and B Company?' That subject is already closed."
In the greasy and soiled garage turned into an ad hoc command post, Tripps' officers and his sergeant major shifted uncomfortably. They were no happier about leaving Williams and company in the lurch than Tripp was. They had no better answer, no better than Tripp, than to follow their orders and leave the guilt—if guilt it was—to others.
The silence, not so much sullen as sorrowful, built for a full minute before one of the staff captains, the quartermaster, asked, "Am I to be allowed to commandeer any supplies we might need on the way? Could help, sir."
"Take what you need. Give them a receipt."
"Yes, sir."
Tripp had a platoon of air defense artillery attached to his battalion. "Sir, can we get any easing of 'Weapons Tight'? My Rolands are good systems, but they need some time—at least to engage."
"No, son. Higher authority thinks the Air Force won't engage and the brigade commander thinks he can suck up the Marine's air onto the rest of the brigade. 'Weapons Tight,' it stays."
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows, lowered his eyes and made a small, annoyed symbol of his mouth. But he answered only, "Sir."
"And the condemned ate a hearty last meal," joked Davis as he and the other officers feasted on such rare and costly delicacies as packaged bread, undifferentiated meat, nuked potatoes, and squeezie cheese.
Almost all chuckled though the humor was plainly forced. James alone did not chuckle. He was sick; the doc had diagnosed pneumonia brought on by damage to his lungs during the first attack. James picked at the food with little interest or appetite. His color was pale and he seemed to have lost weight.
Suddenly, seized by a fit of coughing, James put down his plastic fork.
"You okay, bubba?" asked Davis.
"I'll be fine," he answered, without conviction.
Davis exchanged a look with Williams. No, he won't be fine.
"Captain James, I think maybe you ought to exchange places with the engineer; take over the command post and let him handle the south wall."
Recovering with difficulty from the fit of coughing, James could only nod his head reluctantly. "If you say so, boss."
"I'll leave a good engineer with him," volunteered Davis.
"He ought to be in the aid station," insisted the doctor. "But then again . . ."
"Doesn't make a whole helluva lot of difference, does it, Doc?" countered James.