A state of disobedience (29 page)

"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 1
^st
Marines and 3
^rd
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 3
^rd
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.