A state of disobedience (31 page)

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.

DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. So it pleased you, did it, Alvin, that Texas wasn't alone anymore?
A. Oh, yessir. Not that I thought New Mexico added much. But I figured it might be important that the governor didn't look so much like some sort of lone wolf like they was trying to paint her.
Q. Sure. I understand how that might be so. So what did you see next, Alvin?
A. Next? Well, next on the TV was the assault on the currency facility. And those poor bastards . . . pardon my language . . . they were sure enough alone. I didn't have no TV, like I said before, so I watched it on the TV at a bar near where I was staying. Well, that is I got to see the outside of it anyway. I had to buy more beer, a lot more, than I really like to drink to stay and watch it through to the end.

From the heavily sandbagged lookout position on the roof, the sun had not yet begun to peek over the horizon. Down below, to an e+ven greater degree, all was plunged in gloom.

The sentry on duty, Fontaine, heard the sound of diesel engines roaring in the darkness. This was nothing new; since the PGSS had been linked up with their LAVs they had made a habit of moving them frequently at night.

The sound Fontaine heard was a little different though; deeper and fuller. He decided to risk a look. Straining his eyes to make out the indistinct silhouettes he concentrated . . .

"Holy shit!"

In a flash Fontaine had ripped the field telephone from its cradle. He began frantically twisting the crank that caused a buzzer on a similar phone deep within the building to come to life.

"Major Williams, here."

Fontaine exclaimed, with panic straining his voice, "Holy fucking shit, sir, the PGSS have a battery of self-propelled artillery and they're taking up firing positions across from the south wall now!"

Even as Fontaine replaced the handset on the cradle a blossom of fire erupted from the centermost gun.

As it turned out it was Jack who lost his nerve when the word came. It surprised him; he had never even contemplated the possibility that the impending deaths of not quite a couple of hundred of his men could affect him so. But, with Williams' frantic voice relaying the brick by brick reduction of the Currency Facility—each sentence spoken mis-punctuated by the muffled blasts of artillery, Schmidt had found that political considerations meant less and less.

"It's not too late, Governor," he'd insisted. "I can still reroute that battalion to Fort Worth. They might make it in time."

" 'Might'," echoed the governor. "And if we did? If we did leave New Mexico in the lurch?"

"Well . . . they'll definitely go under," the general admitted, his face and tone of voice showing great unwillingness to so admit. "Probably within a few days. But if we don't save the boys in the Currency Facility they have at most forty-eight hours. I think not that long."

Juani sat stone-faced, unanswering.

"Or I could send a half dozen sorties of air . . ."

"No," she cut him off.

Juani looked down at her cluttered desk, deep in thought. When she raised her head it was to explain, "Jack . . . we have gotten away with as much as we have, in part, because the Air Force is sitting this one out. But if we use our planes they'll feel they have to get involved. And they'll beat us."

Seeing that Jack was still ready to argue that point she drove it home. "How many planes do we have? Not enough, yes? How much of an . . . What's that term you use? . . . umbrella? How much of an umbrella can you put over us? Not enough, yes? How much of the supplies and equipment
you
need will you be able to get through Mexico when the Air Force gets involved and is shooting up every convoy that tries to cross the border? Not enough, yes?

"And how, Jack,
how
are we going to win on our own? If New Mexico goes under then no one, no one,
no one
else is going to join us.

"And then we lose.

"Now think about what 'lose' means here, Jack. It means that the people who killed my brother, killed your best friend and burnt alive a couple of dozen kids under age twelve get off scot-free. It means that we'll have Wilhelmina Rottemeyer's little spiked heels on our necks forever."

Juani paused briefly. "No, I take that back. 'We' won't because 'we' will be dead."

" 'Lose,' " she continued, "means that the constitution as we know it will also be dead, dead, dead beyond hope of recovery. It means that our kids and grandkids will grow up learning the party line and nothing else. It means that our economy is going to be trashed by a cabal of people least well suited to running an economy."

" 'Lose' means the end of the fucking world, Jack."

If he was shocked by the vulgarity, Schmidt didn't show a sign of it. He said, "Then I guess we had better not lose, Governor."

Tripp coughed a little as he was enveloped by a cloud of dust from a rolling, blacked-out tank. He thought abstractly about perhaps ducking down and buttoning up his own armored vehicle. It would save him from the dust, somewhat, but—
dammit—
he wanted to see his battalion as it launched itself forward.

Not that he could see much. Not only were the vehicles blacked out but he had spaced them over a very long line of march. He was taking a chance and he knew it, both from the probability of a major accident and the frightful possibility that the Marines to the south would detect his march and beat him to Santa Fe; meeting, fighting and defeating his battalion in detail.

The word had been passed quietly. The hour was set for the time when the command and staff of 1
^st
Marine Division could be most certain not to be interrupted by any of the division's Zampolits.

The Political Officers liked their sleep.

Quietly, too, the colonels and generals assembled in the division command post. Quietly they entered. Quietly they took their seats.

Fulton, the general commanding, entered accompanied by a pudgy, nondescript corporal named Mendez. He made a small hushing motion.
Do not call "attention." Do not stand. Just listen.
 

"Ladies, gentlemen . . . oh and you, too, Colonel Stilton," the general lightly pointed a finger at the commander of the Army's 3
^rd
Cavalry. "Corporal Mendez here has come through Las Cruces recently with a load of ammunition for us. I want you to listen to what he saw there. Go ahead, Mendez."

Obviously somewhat unnerved by the presence of so much brass, Mendez began haltingly. As he saw anger growing on the dimly lit faces, an anger that matched his own, he became more eloquent. As he finished speaking he heard two colonels mutter, "Motherfuckers."

"Yes, sir . . . sirs. They were motherfuckers."

"Motherfuckers," General Fulton repeated, definitively. "Now the question is, what do we do about it? Mendez, go take a walk. What we're going to discuss . . . I won't say it isn't your business. I will say that I don't see any good reason to put your neck in a noose, too."

The general waited for the corporal to leave and close the door before continuing.

The Cavalry commander interrupted as soon as he heard the door ease closed. "Me, personally, I'm sorely tempted to beg whatever diesel you guys have, turn around, and head north shooting up federal cops all the way," said Stilton. There was a muted murmur of broad agreement.

"A worthy ambition, young Colonel. Now how do you square that with your oath of office?"

"You don't have to anyway," piped in Fulton's intelligence officer. He pointed a thumb in a roughly northward direction and announced, "The Texas Guard is already sending what looks to be a heavy battalion to Santa Fe, though I don't think they know that we know. The general knows," he continued, defensively.

"Yes, I knew. And I decided we all needed to chat before we decided what to do about it."

"What do
you
want to do about it, sir?" asked Stilton.

"Do about that battalion? About the federales that shot down American citizens in cold blood? Or do you mean about our general—and unfortunate—circumstances?"

"Yes, sir. About that."

Fulton flashed the briefest and smallest of smiles. "They say that a council of war never fights. Even so, that's what I'm calling here, a council of war. There are some decisions I can't make for you. I wouldn't, in any case. This is one such.

"We have three questions and three choices. The questions I have already asked. The choices are these. We can continue to do what we've been doing; moving painfully forward to try to knock the Texans to their knees as part of the federal armed forces. Alternatively, we can join the Texans and try to knock the federal government to its knees. Lastly, we can decide to just sit things out right here, call a truce, and ask the Texans for some goddamned gas and water just to survive.