A state of disobedience (6 page)

DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

BY MR. STENNINGS
Q. So what did you do about it, Alvin?
A. Do? Me? I didn't do a damned thing . . . excuse my language. Didn't see where there was anything I could do. Me being a kinda' little fish in a pretty big pond, and all. I saw on TV where somebody decided they could do something about it, though. Quite the thing, it was. News stations didn't hardly cover anything else for weeks.
Seemed some priest, the Catholic kind, I mean, well . . . when the government tried to bust into his church? Done kilt 'em. Most of 'em. Least that's what the TV said.
There were troops everywhere. Coming off planes from Washington. Unloading them things something like tanks but on wheels . . . that was that new "Presidential Guard, Secret Service" group. PGSS they called it. Something in that name rung a bell . . . the name and them black uniforms they wore. But I wasn't sure what. Like I said, I ain't no educated man.
 

They were landing by helicopter from all over, too. Surrounded the place.
Another funny thing. First few days? There were mostly Texas police surrounding the place. By . . . oh . . . lemme see . . . maybe three days later? Nothing but feds and reporters.
And all the reporters? Well, wasn't too much difference among 'em. All the same story. "Priest was a pervert." "Murderer, too," so they said. "Tax evader." (I says, 'Good for him, if he was.') Weren't but two weeks after the feds took over from the state that the books were comin' out. I didn't read none of 'em, mind you. But I remember seeing the title of one:
Father of Pain,
they called it.
The books came out just about the time everything began to cool down.

"Jesus.
Jesus
! JESUS! what am I going to do, Jack?"

Juanita, agitated beyond measure, paced frantically around the governor's office. "He's my
brother
—I am not going to let him be killed. I . . ." She stopped because she had not the first clue as to how she was going to do anything. When she still had had control of the situation her brother had refused to listen to her and surrender. Now that that control was not oozing but pouring through her fingers?

"What am I going to do, Jack?"

Though he showed it less, Schmidt himself was seething inside. He
knew
that Montoya was not, could not possibly be, guilty of any real crime. "I don't know either, Juani. Jorge is . . . well . . . when he sets his mind on something you just can't change it. I know. I've tried."

Unseen—so he hoped, in the dim, green-filtered light of an early jungle morning, Sergeant Montoya's fingers gently closed the eyes of the last remaining of the ARVN rangers. "Take his soul unto you, O Lord. His name was Tri and like me, he belonged to Your Church." The Vietnamese, wounded in half a dozen places, had added a seventh wound, biting completely through his lower lip to keep silent as he died. 
 

"Leave me, Jorge. Now. Before it is too late." 
 

Montoya ignored his chief. It was light enough to see by now. He removed his helmet and load-bearing equipment, placed his rifle against a tree, and drew out his map and compass, using the compass to orient the map to the ground.
 

"We're about fifteen hundred meters from the alternate PZ"—the pickup zone . . . a place where helicopters pick up soldiers. "Since we're overdue, they should be looking for us there. I think we may have lost the VC."  
 

"Jorge . . . if you make it back . . . Tell Juani, would you . . ." 
 

"Don't be silly, Jack. We'll both make it. Besides, she already knows." 
 

"But he and those children don't stand a chance."

Schmidt thought carefully before speaking further. "Ummm . . . Juani. They might stand a better chance than you . . . or anyone . . . might think."

Muttering, Father Montoya cleared away the detritus of the dank closet until a smallish wooden trunk was revealed. The trunk, footlocker to be precise, was painted green and made of cheap plywood—military issue. He drew the footlocker out into the light then pushed it—after his beating he lacked the strength easily to carry it—across the floor toward a simple wooden chair. The trunk was stenciled—how the letters had faded with the years!—with montoya-s, jorge, ssg, co b, 3
^rd
bn, 5
^th
sfg(a).

The priest fished in his pocket for a set of keys, then sat in front of the trunk and opened the lock; lifted the cover.

A sad smile of days gone by briefly lit Montoya's face. His hands lovingly removed a circle of heavy green cloth. Attached was a small metal device. Montoya read softly,
"De Oppresso Liberi."
—
to free the oppressed
.

We failed, but at least we tried.
The memory drove away a few years and a few injuries.

Gently the priest set the beret on the floor and removed a neatly folded set of starched jungle fatigues, the slash pockets on the jacket's breast surmounted by cloth strips bearing his name and us army. These had no real sentiment attached; he had merely worn them his last day in the army. Boots and load–carrying equipment joined the jungle fatigues.

Beneath these were several boxes of letters; from his sister, from Isabel whom he had once thought to marry, from Jack, too, though those were somewhat more recent.

The letters went atop the fatigues. Montoya stopped and stared at a long, soft, green case.

"A chance? What are you talking about?"

Schmidt bit his lip and cocked an eyebrow. "After Jorge was 'wounded' . . . when he got out of the hospital . . . I . . . ah . . . made him a little present.

"Something . . .  um   . . . special. I doubt he would throw away a present . . . not this kind surely."

The governor's eyes widened. "You didn't?"

"Old friend," whispered the priest. "Old friend, I have need of you now."

Quivering hands seemed to steady slightly as they took a once familiar grip on a once all-too-familiar implement. Even as his left hand lifted the canvas case, the fingers of the right ran a zipper along the side. Zipper undone, the priest's fingers scooped the rifle's butt from the pocket formed, took a grip and pulled it from the case. A simple twist and the serial number was exposed. Habit long unpracticed still caused the priest to read softly, "120857."

Deciding to take up a rifle again had been difficult for the old priest. His first instinct had been to send Elpidia and Miguel out of the mission, to take the blame for the shootings upon himself. He'd realized quickly that that would never work, certainly not so long as one of the agents had survived. Even if he hadn't stopped Miguel, he had no faith in either Sister Sofia's or Father Flores' ability to withstand rigorous interrogation.

Still he had tried to send the two far away. He had several thousand dollars stashed away; enough, surely, for two nice kids to get a fresh start.

Miguel had been reluctant, but willing. Not for his own sake; he would never desert his priest for that, but for the girl's.

Elpidia had killed the notion. With a will and determination to match even Montoya's, she had simply stated, "No. Never. Not for anything."

Her large, innocent brown eyes flashed fire at the priest's insistence. "I WILL NOT GO!" Would she have stood up so firmly without the careful building of strength of heart and mind under the priest's tutelage? Montoya thought perhaps not.

In any case, naturally, Miguel couldn't leave either. Pride would have forced him to stay if love had not.

With Miguel staying on—again, naturally—none of the other boys would leave either . . . nor the girls.

Even Sister Sofia refused the priest's command. With eyes filled with tears and rabbit-frightened, fast-beating heart she too said, "I stay here."

Resigned, head shaking, the father had limped to his quarters to pray for guidance.

It was difficult to pray, what with the shriek of sirens and the flash of blue lights through the narrow mission windows. If true guidance had come, it had been only in the form of one flash of such light. This, glancing off an icon, had caused the priest's eyes to come to rest on a closet door. A locked door.

"Old friend," he whispered again setting the rifle down and patting it.

Beneath where the rifle had lain rested two bandoleers of ammunition, 140 rounds each of 5.56mm, and seven 20-round magazines, empty. These joined the rifle, the beret, the jungle fatigues, the boots, the web gear.

Beneath all lay a green plastic folder, the Department of the Army crest emblazoned on it. Montoya opened it and began to read, silently:

The Distinguished Service Cross is presented to SSG Jorge Montoya-Serrasin for courage in action above and beyond the call of duty, Qui Nhon province, Republic of Vietnam. . . .

Schmidt gave a little bad-boy nod. "Ummm . . . yeah . . . I did. His very own rifle, too. And let me tell you, it was no easy thing getting an M-16 through customs. But a few thousand piastres to an acquaintance in the South Vietnamese foreign ministry . . . a diplomatic pouch . . . and . . ." He shrugged.

"Oh, Jack," Juanita half moaned. "He's gonna get killed." Her shoulders shuddered as tears filled her eyes. "My only brother . . ."

"Then let me go save him now, Juani. Call off the cops and I'll put a cordon around the mission the First Cav Division would think twice about forcing, let alone the FBI."

"It isn't just the FBI, Jack. BATF—well, Treasury including BATF and the IRS—want him for tax evasion . . . the guns . . ."

"Oh, what fucking—pardon my French—absolute bullshit! He's got a church. Church property used for church purposes is
not
taxable."

"You think they care, Jack?"

Rottemeyer sat at her desk in deep consultation. Around her, at a conference table perpendicular to the desk, sat her wheelchair-bound attorney general, Jesse Vega, and Caroline McCreavy—the President's lover and also the new Chairperson of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Likewise notable were Rottemeyer's surgeon general, the head of the Treasury Department, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Louise Friedberg.

"I don't care about the kids," said Friedberg, furiously. "I don't care about any outmoded, patriarchal Catholic church. I don't care about the governor of some backwards state down by Mexico. They killed my people and I care about that. I care that they end up dead. I want their grandchildren to have nightmares about what comes from fucking with the FBI. I want these people's
ghosts
to be sorry and afraid."

Wilhelmina stared stonily. She could not, not
quite
, gainsay the director. After all, it was her Bureau that had uncovered (the irresponsible press said "fabricated" . . . well, they used to say "fabricated," the American press was brave only when they were not pressed) the charges of statutory rape against former Senator Goldsmith. Goldsmith's suicide, following his exposure, show-trial and conviction, had been icing on the cake. Fortunately, the senator had been old and only two federal agents had been required to hold him down and force a pistol into his mouth. Rottemeyer approved of certain necessary actions having as few witnesses as possible.

Goldsmith had only been the first. One by one the Republican members of Congress had been entrapped . . . or for the few—like Goldsmith—who truly were honest and upright . . . simply framed.

Nor had her own party been spared the needed correctional measures. It was to Friedberg and her Bureau that Rottemeyer owed the sudden conversion of Senator Feldman from slightly left of center supporter to ax wielder for the Oval Office. Amazing what the discovery of a previously unsuspected Panamanian bank account could do to political convictions. Or, if not a Panamanian bank account, then any of a number of other crimes could be discovered.

Of course, that was only half the story. In addition to using her Bureau to beat down the opposition it was also necessary, occasionally, to use it to protect the truly worthy . . . which is to say, the politically reliable. The senator from Massachusetts with his penchant for fat teenaged boys, for example; the other with his penchant for thin teenaged girls; for example. The congresswoman from Los Angeles with ties to the Mexican drug cartels, for example. The mayor of the City of Washington, for example, and potentially every one of the pushers, prostitutes and pimps who worked for him.

Yes, Friedberg's loyalty and diligence, as well as that of her Bureau under her direction, deserved special treatment.

"Caroline, can your people take out this damned priest?" asked the President.

McCreavy pondered. She shook her head. "Bad idea, Willi. Posse Comitatus"—the law which forbade using the military for civil law enforcement.

Vega snorted in derision. "Oh,
that
."

McCreavy never had liked Vega, there being a strong suspicion of a previous intimate connection with the President. Still, she was polite. "Not just 'Oh,
that.
' I can give the orders. I just can't guarantee they will be obeyed. And
'that'
would make things potentially much worse."

Rottemeyer's face assumed a puzzled, perplexed look. "I don't understand, Caroline. You've been purging the officer corps for some time now. How many can be left who would not obey your orders?"

"Most," McCreavy admitted with a sigh. "You have to understand these people. The last seventy years have made them
good
at hiding their thoughts and feelings. Sure I got rid of the stupid ones easily enough; the ones who shot their mouths off once or twice. But most military people have merely kept silent. You might say that they damn our programs and policies by faint praise. I wouldn't trust them to break the law on this."