A state of disobedience (8 page)

"Any artillery? Mortars?" asked Schmidt.

"My man didn't see any," Nagy responded. "That would kind of be 'overkill' anyway, wouldn't it?"

"So are tanks. So are gunships."

Juanita shuddered at the image that came unbidden of an armored vehicle crushing her brother's body into the dirt.

There were in fact only a brace of tanks, those having to be taken from storage where they had languished since the conversion of the Army's First Cavalry Division to a medium force suitable for deployment to and employment in any operation short of real war against a heavily armored enemy. Worse, the tanks had no ammunition suitable for breaching the walls that surrounded the mission.

They
did
have, however, a number of machine guns suitable for beating down fire when and if the time came for a dismounted team to carry a breaching charge forward. And the defenders had nothing that could penetrate a tank's armor. Moreover, the tanks themselves—seventy tons of moving metal—could breach most walls simply by slamming against them, though this was a tactic much frowned upon by real tankers whose job was largely keeping their tanks running.

Group Commander Sawyers, First Security Group, Presidential Guard Secret Service, patted one of the tanks affectionately.

Schmidt saw Juani's involuntary shudder, saw the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. "Folks. I think we ought to leave the governor alone for a bit."

Juanita shot him a grateful glance. At her nod of agreement the others began to file out of her office. Schmidt lagged behind until all the others had left. Then he quietly closed the door behind them.

Even before they were alone, the governor had folded her arms across her desk, laid her head upon them, and begun to weep quietly.

Schmidt hurried to her side, pulling a chair with him as he went.

Seated beside her, he patted her back affectionately. "Juani, I know how you feel right now. But we have forty-eight hours, no more than that . . . and maybe less. Have you considered calling the President to try to work something out?"

The shaking of the governor's shoulders subsided somewhat. She lifted her head up, wiped a runny nose with a hand, and sniffled, "She won't take my calls, Jack. Her chief of staff said, 'The President is too busy with the crisis.' But that's horse manure. She wants to make an example of Jorge."

"Doesn't she care about the kids in there?" asked an incredulous Schmidt. "Her and all her 'it's for the children' crap?"

Johnson Akers would do anything to save a kid. He just couldn't help it. He had never been able to help it. Shoot a criminal? Easy. Take a bullet? He'd done that, too.
Anything.
 

"Look, Mister FBI man. Sir, I'm not asking you to risk one of your precious hides getting those kids out. I'll do it."

The senior FBI man on the scene was as arrogant as any federal agent could be expected to be. From his expensively coiffed hair to his Pierre Cardin shoes to the tailored Italian suit in between, he portrayed an image of anal retentiveness difficult to equal. Even the high-fashion Gucci shoulder holster, which his suit successfully failed to hide, reeked of the proper FBI image.

What the man was not, however, was a child killer. His orders left little doubt that the priest was to die. They gave no indication that the kids must as well.

He looked over Akers—from his ten-gallon hat to his string tie to his faded denims and cowboy boots. Something about the old man must have struck a cord. Slowly the agent nodded agreement. "Okay, Sergeant Akers. You can try. I'll pass the word."

"Thank you, sir," said Akers . . . and really seemed to mean the "sir" this time.

"Padre, there's a man at the front gate. Says he's with the Texas Rangers."

"Is he alone, Miguel?"

"Si, Padre. We used a little mirror to check over the wall and around the door. Nobody but him."

With a fatalistic, and yet slightly hopeful, shrug, the priest walked to the gate. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Is this Father Montoya?" Akers queried.

"Yes. And you would be?"

"Sergeant Johnson Akers. Texas Rangers. F Company. I've come for the kids if you will let them out, Father."

An old memory tugged at the priest. He hesitated a moment or two, straining to remember. When memory struck, his face split in a wide, happy grin, his decision already made.

"Sure, Sergeant. Can you give me a little time to get them ready? And how do I know it isn't a trick to get the gate open?"

Akers voice was deadly serious. "I don't play games where children's lives are at stake, Padre."

"No. I suppose you don't. Thirty minutes?"

"Thirty minutes will be fine. I'll just wait right here." Akers leaned against the mission wall calmly, struck a match against it, and proceeded to smoke away the time.

"Oh, Sister, wait . . . just a minute . . . please?"

Sofia's face showed how she was torn. "Won't you please go with him, Elpi? You don't have to stay here."

The girl set her own face in grim determination. "I will
not
leave the padre." Her grim face melted as she hugged her infant son to her breast for what she was certain would be the last time. Tears welling, she very reluctantly passed the boy over to the arms of Sister Sofia.

"Please take good care of him, Sister. Please."

"Hush child. You know I will."

It had not been without difficulty that Montoya had persuaded the sister to leave the mission with the infants. Ultimately, though, his reasoning had prevailed. "Get out of here, Sister.
Somebody
will have to look out for the little ones."

And so the sister had formed her charges into a column of twos and let young parents like Elpidia bid choking goodbyes.

As the little ones, lamblike, followed the nun to the gate, Elpidia raced to the wall for a last glimpse.

A broadly grinning Akers met Sister Sofia as she began to lead the column of children out the gate. "Sister," he greeted.

Believing that Akers was one with "the enemy," some hundreds of whom were gathered by the operation headquarters to watch the peaceful surrender, the sister halted briefly, looked him over once, then semi-snubbed him.

"I'm Sergeant Akers, Sister. How many children do you have? And how old?"

"I have twenty-six children following me, Sergeant. They range from little Pedro, here; less than a year, up to age twelve."

"Thank you, Sister. Now if you will follow me, please."

"Very well," answered Sofia. Turning her head over her shoulder she called, "Follow me, children."

"Sister?" asked one of the elder ones, Josefina by name. "What's going to happen to us? Once it is over, I mean."

Again the sister stopped, looking mournfully behind her. "I do not know, child." She could never have imagined the years of solitary confinement that lay before her if the FBI was to have its way.

"That nun looks about ready to turn around and go back," announced the spotter of a two man sniper team from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team.

"What do I do if she does turn around?"

"Drill her," said the spotter to the sniper. "Can't let her take the kids back inside."

"Got it," whispered the sniper, settling his cross hairs on the sister's head, a foot or so above little Pedro's. Pedro was in no danger, however; the sniper was a master.

Crying, "Pedro," softly, Elpidia didn't notice that her rifle was still slung over her shoulder as she climbed the ladder inside the wall for a last glimpse of her son. Parting was more than a mother's heart, even a young mother's . . . perhaps
especially
a young mother's, could bear.

"Armed target, bearing eleven o'clock," announced the spotter. "Take it."

"On it," said the sniper, making the minute correction to the new target. A slim, long-haired target ascended into his cross hairs. The sniper's trigger finger had already been given the unvoiced command, "fire" when the more conscious part of his mind realized his target was just a young girl.

The sniper flinched in surprise, but not by much. His finger still closed, the rifle still fired, and the recoil still rocked him back.

In the sniper's view, his target—struck by her left shoulder rather than her heart, so much had his flinch accomplished—spun away and fell from view.

As if in slow motion, or in one of those dreams where one seems to move as if through a thickened liquid, Elpidia felt the bullet, heard as much as felt it pass through the complex of bones in her left shoulder, then was forced away from the ladder by the power of the blow. The ground rushed up at her, but also in slow motion. She struck the ground in a cloud of dust raised by the impact of her limp body.

Only a short moment passed before the immediate shock wore off and Elpidia was overwhelmed by the pain of shattered bone and burning bullet track. She screamed.

Miguel had already been running for Elpidia, to stop her, when he heard the bullet crack overhead. In his view the girl spun, oh so slowly, away from the ladder and collapsed to the ground below.

When he heard her high-pitched, shattering scream Miguel's mind turned half to mush.

Sofia heard the shot, then heard Sergeant Akers' mutter, "Shit," then shout "Down!" before diving himself for a nearby ditch to show the children the way. For a moment only was Sofia frozen. Then she turned and shouted, "Back to the mission, children. Run!"

Sofia did not see Akers draw his pistol. If she had, she would have seen it pointed not at her, but in the general direction of the FBI.

Gathering her skirts around her with one hand, Sofia tried to follow the fleeing boys and girls to the gate. She had nearly made it when the sniper, recovered from his surprise, put a bullet through her panic-filled brain. Little Pedro was flung forward as the sister fell.

"Hit," announced the sniper, softly.

Josefina was already at the gate when she heard the shot. By the time she turned, a fiercely wailing Pedro lay upon the mission walkway. Without hesitation, Josefina ran to pick up the child. With him safely in her arms she sprinted for the greater safety of the gate.

Though the sniper tracked her progress in his scope, he did not fire. There was no point to firing; the other children had already reentered the mission.

As Josefina reached the gate, a hard hand grabbed her clothing and pulled her inside. Then an outraged Father Montoya took a mostly covered kneeling firing position and scanned for targets. Most especially did the father look for whoever had shot Sister Sofia.

"Are you all right, Elpi? Oh, God, please be all right."

Miguel didn't have the training to know that the girl's wound was nonfatal; so far and no farther had the FBI man flinched. But she wasn't talking, she didn't seem conscious, and there was blood all over her side.

Certain the girl was dead, with a wordless cry of utter anguish Miguel began climbing the same ladder from which she had been hurled. With each step upward he muttered, "Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers."

* * *

"New target. Prior location. Eleven o'clock."

Again the sniper made a minute adjustment. Again, he commanded his finger to tighten. Again the rifle rocked against his shoulder.

"Hit," he announced.

Frustrated beyond words, Montoya saw only a spurt of dust to mark the sniper's position.
Not a chance. They're behind cover from here.
With a sigh of regret he withdrew the rifle from his shoulder, then leaned against the rough-hewn gate to close it. Once it was in place he lowered the bar.

Already some of his people were rushing to the still warm and breathing Elpidia . . . and rapidly cooling Miguel.

DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. Alvin, I know it's hard to remember. It's been a long time and a lot has happened. But try to recall and tell the Court how you felt about the mission.
A. I remember being mad. Really mad. See, it weren't a fair fight, not at all. Them poor folks in the mission, young kids most of them, they didn't stand a chance.
They made you proud though. Made you think a little on olden days . . . an' Texas . . . and a whole bunch of other things that people mostly done forgot.
My old pappy come on over to watch my TV during the assault. He kept whistling something . . . sounded sort of familiar. I asked him what it was.

He told me, "It's 'Deguello,' boy. The 'throat cut' song. And ain't they a bunch of cutthroats, too?"
MS. CAPUTO: Objection. Hearsay.
MR. STENNINGS: Not offered for the truth of the matter asserted, Your Honor.
THE COURT: Overruled.

Schmidt fumed and raged. "Murderers! Butchers! Goddamit, Juani, this has gone far enough!"

Nagy just shook his head while staring at the television. "My man Akers," he announced, "told me your brother's folks did
not
open fire at all, let alone first, Governor. No matter what GNN may be saying."

"Then what happened?" demanded the governor.

"Akers didn't know; not the whole story. But he was definite that the first shot came from the feds. The second—the one that killed the nun—came from the feds. That the third came from the feds and that there was not a fourth."

"Then what's all that shooting sound they put on the TV?"

Schmidt answered, "They dubbed it in, Juani. Afterwards."

He turned to Nagy, "How'd your man get away?"

"He said there was a ditch by the gate. That he jumped into that and waited for nightfall. Said he wasn't too worried about being shot by the mission folks, but that he wouldn't be too surprised if the feds took a shot at him. Oh, he was in a fine rage . . . and Sergeant Akers is
never
angry."