A state of disobedience (27 page)

"You will
not
fight, General," insisted the governor.

Though old and waning in strength, Victor Charlesworth had become something of an unofficial member of the Governor's Cabinet. In his best patriarchal voice he said, "I will go. I will fight them . . . my way."

Schmidt didn't answer immediately. He took a long and very hard look at the old actor, seeking the strength, resolve and inner fire the man had once epitomized so well that even through the medium of cellulose it had shone across a million screens.

Deciding, Schmidt asked, "What will you need?"

Charlesworth considered. "Some way to tape a message before I leave. Maybe a helicopter to bring me into the city. A public address set and someone to man it. Some air time for you to send the message after I get there. Maybe a couple of policemen for escort so that when they take me it will be very noticeable. Can you do that?"

"Helicopter's no problem. You can use mine," Schmidt offered. "I think we can set up the PA set, taping and air time, too."

Nagy added, "I can spare a couple of my Rangers. Good men."

"I know," grinned Charlesworth. "I've played them."

"But Mr. Charlesworth," Schmidt cautioned, "this is not acting. If . . . no,
when
they take you the feds will not be playing roles. They're going to hurt you."

"I'm an old man, General. I've lived my life and—I tell you—it's been a good one. Now? What else do I have to look forward to? Hurt me? I'm counting on it, General." The old actor smiled with anticipation.

Juanita's stomach lurched as she realized there was one more person who needed to accompany Charlesworth.
Mario is going to be so unhappy. . . . 
 

"Hurt 'em," insisted the white-uniformed, riot-armored leader of the Surgeon General's special police. "That's the only thing these people will understand: physical pain. We'll probably be needed somewhere else soon enough. That pain will stick in their minds and keep them from blocking this road any more."

Grimly, the men and women around the speaker nodded their agreement. They didn't salute; that was for the military types. But they went back to their units with an approximately military determination to accomplish their mission, to inflict all the pain these demonstrators could handle.

A whistle blew. The first company of police began marching south down the highway towards the mass of wide-eyed, apparently very frightened people who awaited them. In time with half-stamped left feet came the steady
thwap-thwap-thwap
of riot batons striking the faces of polycarbonate riot shields. The growing sound added to the growing fright of the people in the crowd as they looked north at the mass descending on them.

At a distance of a few hundred meters, the leader of that first company began to speak into a microphone. His message was not directed towards the demonstrators, but to his own police officers. "Form skirmish line." With clocklike precision the SGRCP began fanning out at the double, forming a line that faced south as it stretched east and west across the north-south highway.

A uniformed Marine reservist, sitting dejectedly atop a pile of ammunition crates next to a large olive drab painted van, was astonished at the clockwork precision of the SGRCP as they formed a double line of club-and shield-bearing skirmishers, in front, rifle-carrying men and women behind.

"Motherfuckers must train
all
the time," he muttered.

From his pile of wooden crates, the reservist saw a recognized face emerge from the civilian crowd, Trooper Peters.

Peters, too, had a PA set. Without having been addressed he announced his name and informed the SGRCP that, "These people have a lawful permit to assemble. They are here at the behest of the Government of New Mexico. They have a right to be here and the New Mexico State Police will defend that right."

On line with Peters, and between the SGRCP and the crowd, a dozen troopers, about half and half armed with pistols and shotguns, began to form their own line.

This time the leader of the RCP did address somebody other than his own people. "I have instructions from the highest levels on dealing with unlawful interference by local authorities. I direct the New Mexico State Police, and any other agencies of the New Mexico State Government, likewise to disperse . . . or you will be fired upon."

The leader turned around, ordering, "Front rank; kneel. Rear rank; take aim."

Peters, and the troopers with him, merely stood grasping their own puny weapons the more tightly. He, really none of them, could quite believe that the SGRCP was serious. This was America, for Christ's sake; police didn't fire on police.

"Fire!"

Without any obvious hesitation, the second rank of the foremost SGRCP company scythed down Peters and all those men with him. Some of their bullets went past the troopers into the crowd. Men and women screamed, children shrieked, as red blood began to flow onto the black-topped highway before running off to soak into the New Mexico sand.

"At the double time . . . forward." The RCP began to wade into the crowd, adding to the flowing blood.

Nearby, a lone, uniformed and highly shocked Marine reservist simply said, "Motherfuckers . . ."

Clear Creek, just south of Sanger, was not so grand as the Trinity, even though farther from its sources than the Trinity had been. Two bridges—one highway, one railway—spanned it within a few miles of each other. Bernoulli's orders were to prepare both to be dropped and, on the approach of federal forces, to drop them.

It had been thought that dropping the earlier bridges, those spanning the Trinity, might delay the feds by as much as ten days. In terms of logistics capacity this had proven true; a mass of trucks had been stalled on the Trinity's northern bank, along with many combat vehicles. Others, however, whatever had been supportable by army engineer ferry, crossed quickly. And if the drivers kept a nervous eye on their fuel gauges, still they drove.

Now, with more federals approaching the Clear Creek bridges, Bernoulli didn't hesitate. A few quick pumps of his detonator, a roll of artificial thunder and a cloud of concrete dust, and the bridges settled into ruin.

I suppose a new hooker would have felt that way, too
, thought Bernoulli as he calmly unhooked the wires from the contact posts of his detonator.
The first one's the toughest.
 

Falling water gurgled in the fountain as Mario and Elpidia walked past. The girl's face seemed less stony, more animated, than usual. These walks had become something of a tradition. At first Elpi had walked alone. Later, Mario had merely sat nearby. Now they walked together, sometimes in silence, sometimes with talk. Today they talked.

"I hated it, Mario. From the first one to the last I just hated it."

"Then why . . ."

"Why did I do it?" asked Elpi. "You're so innocent," she told the older boy, a trace of wistful longing for her own lost innocence in her voice. "I had no education; I had no skills. I had a baby to support." The girl sighed, dreadfully. "It was all I had."

"Well, I won't judge you or anything you have done, Elpi," said Mario, almost—but not quite—reaching out a hand to stroke the girl's cheek. "And it is all past anyway."

" 'All past,' " she echoed. " 'All.' Even my baby is dead."

Sensing tears not far below the surface Mario started to turn towards Elpi; started and, as usual, stopped.

Elpi continued, "He brought me great difficulty, much hardship. And yet . . . and yet . . . He was my own, my very own, baby. Some people told me to abort him before he was born. But how could I do that? He was my very own flesh."

"You couldn't, Elpi." Mario considered, then asked, "Elpi, do you think you want to have more babies someday?"

"I do not know. Why bring more babies into a world that kills them? Why live in a world that will murder babies?"

"Is that why you agreed to go to Houston? I wish you would not."

She stopped and this time
she
reached out a hand to a cheek. "I know. And you're sweet, too, Mario. But your mother asked . . . and then, too . . . what would your uncle have wanted?"

It was a flashy city, in many ways; a warmer version of multicultural Toronto. Industry, automobiles, the sheer concentration of people there, all combined to foul the air and irritate the eyes and lungs. Tall glass and steel behemoths, the runaway imaginings of modern architecture, hung predatorily over more sedate structures from Houston's not-so-long past.

Ringed with highways that could not be demolished in time, Houston now found itself ringed in steel as well. Along the ring roads and the feeders, the Army's Third Infantry Division to the north, and the Second Marine Division to the south, swept out in long tentacles to embrace the city.

There had been incidents. Schmidt had attempted to bring all those actually
eager
to fight under his control, mostly to keep them from doing so on their own initiative. This had been only partially successful; some groups and individuals were simply too paranoid even to trust their state authorities. Thus, on the outskirts of the town, there was some sniping and there were at least two, failed, ambushes.

The federal forces had barely noticed. Rather, they noticed barely enough to induce a bit of caution, to be ever so slightly slowed in their progress.

Thus, the west side of the city, in that area where the Texas National Guard still reigned, the federal forces had not yet taken.

In that hollow space in the federal net, a lone helicopter flew.

"Mr. Charlesworth? I am Colonel Minh. General Schmidt asked me to meet you, to assist, and to observe."

"What did you say? I can't hear a thing," said Charlesworth, cupping a hand to his right ear.

Minh made a "come with me" gesture to lead the old but still towering actor away from the helicopter and the sound and turbine-propelled stench it produced. As Charlesworth followed Minh, three un-uniformed National Guardsmen and two equally plainclothed Texas Rangers unloaded the public address system. A skinny, pretty, dark-skinned girl stood uncertainly nearby.

When they were far enough away for normal conversation to be heard, Minh repeated, "I am Colonel Minh. General Schmidt asked me to meet you, assist, and observe."

"Yes, thank you, Colonel. The General told me to expect you. Is everything ready?"

" 'Ready' is an interesting concept, Mr. Charlesworth. You served in the army, I believe. You know, then, that nothing is ever entirely ready. We are ready for this much: after you and these people with you and those who come to hear you speak are utterly crushed, we will exact a price for that crushing. We are also ready to provide the crowd you will speak to and the video cameras that will film the crushing."

Minh's eyes narrowed as he bit his lower lip lightly. "It is a brave thing that you and these people with you are about to do. Unfortunately, that bravery would go unnoticed but for the cynicism of myself and my people who will amplify your bravery and self-sacrifice to a useful level."

"Just who
are
your people, Colonel?"

"Oh, we are a mix. A mix, that is, of former Vietcong and soldiers of the ARVN, the Army of the Republic of Vietnam. And their sons and daughters, too, of course."

"Old enemies, plotting together as friends?"

Minh cast a glance heavenward, wriggling fingers dismissively. "Well, so far from our first home such little political differences as we once had seem trivial now. And we
do
share certain skills."

Charlesworth knew the rule: "
They'll talk to Martin because they don't want to talk to me."
The skills of which Minh spoke were the skills of mayhem. And that was the purpose of this entire exercise: to get an overreaction from the federals for propaganda's sake; then to give them an almost equally nasty reaction in return. NonViolent Civil Disobedience depended on this mantra: Listen to us . . . or listen to the sound of the guns.

It was a ballet; a noisy, stinky, dry, dusty, and miserable ballet. With Mexico on its right, a flank hanging in open air to the left, the Army's Third Armored Cavalry regiment—generally referred to as "the Cav" danced tentatively forward.

It
was
a dance; two unequal partners moving in time together. Ahead of the Cav, two task-organized battalions of the 49
t
^h
Armored Division fired to miss, then fell back to the next set of sand dunes or strip development. Fire and fall back; fire, make the Cav
deploy
, and fall back. Miss just close enough to frighten. Hit the occasional landmark—building or sign post—often enough to let the Cav know that the misses were deliberate. Hit very close once the day's acceptable limits of retreat had been reached.

And the Cavalry danced forward in time with the pirouetting Guard.

"I am getting as sick of this dance as I am of blowing bridges," murmured Bernoulli as the point of Third Corps approached the latest. One handed, with now very practiced ease, he squeezed and another multimillion-dollar structure shuddered, crumpled and began to collapse.

Bernoulli concentrated, no mean feat amidst the roar of thousands of tons of falling concrete, to pick out the sound of the western, Lewisville, bridge demolition. He listened for several minutes before uttering his first, "Oh, shit."

Even as he reached for his radio, the radio crackled into life. "Sir, the demo failed. I don't know why . . . maybe somebody crossed up a couple of pieces of det cord. But only about one in ten of the charges went off. That wasn't enough."

"Do you have time to reset them?" the lieutenant asked.