A state of disobedience (21 page)

"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 101
^st
aviation group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky, that half being somewhat reinforced by the helicopters of the 160
^th
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."