A state of disobedience (16 page)

In another way, of course, he was pleased. Kind of heartwarming to see so many troops who won't fight for that murdering cunt in DC. 

Despite this, Hanstadt waved goodbye—fondly—to those who had decided to stay with the Army. He couldn't blame them, really; couldn't put on any airs of moral superiority. How it might have gone had his retirement not been fairly secure he could not say. Certainly it would have made the decision to throw in his lot with Texas somewhat harder.

Though Washington had never announced the move of the Corps in advance, it was anticipated in all corners. Even now, Hanstadt expected a Texan detachment to show up momentarily to take charge of the post. Most particularly, did he expect the Texans to want the contents of the Ammunition Supply Point, the ASP. There had not been enough trucks, enough willing manpower, or enough time to do more than empty a fraction of the munitions to be found there. Still, he had done what he could to help the Corps commander take whatever could be taken.

That was one way to make sure that none of the rest was destroyed, he thought, not without some degree of mirth.

Hanstadt paused in his reveries at the sound of footsteps padding softly up behind him. He turned to see his driver, Chris Perez, a young man from Long Island, New York who had—somewhat unexpectedly—elected to stay with his old boss.

"Yes, son?"

"Sir, we got a radio call from the MPs who stayed behind and are manning the front gate. There's a Texas National Guard two-star and he wants onto the post."

"Ah. That would be General Schmidt. My compliments to him through the MPs and have them ask him if he would be good enough to join me in the Corps conference room."

"I'll join you in a minute, Chris," Hanstadt said to the driver. "Then you can take me to Headquarters. I need to change, after all."

As he said so, Hanstadt looked around him. Fort Hood seemed so different, now, with the departure of Third Corps. Not merely empty of manpower, it seemed to have been emptied of a certain spirit, in part a fraternal one, as well.

Shadowing Third Corps north on its way from Fort Hood, through Waco, through Fort Worth, Denton and Gainesville to Oklahoma, followed a platoon of Combat Engineers of the 176
^th
Engineer Battalion under the leadership of their diminutive platoon leader, Jose G. Bernoulli.

Some said "diminutive." To most of his platoon he was "Little Joe." They meant it with affection and respect.

Lieutenant Bernoulli, despite his Italian forebears and the name he bore, considered himself Texan, first and foremost, American—a close second, and Mexican last of all. He never considered himself Italian. So far as he was aware that was just a name that came over with some Neapolitan sutler to a company of Spanish conquistadors.

Bernoulli, a graduate in engineering from Texas A&M, looked over the bridge complex spanning the Brazos and added a few details and an explanatory note or ten to the drawing on the pad of paper before him. Then he tore off the sheet and handed it to one of his squad leaders with the words, "The rest of the platoon and I are heading east to the Trinity River. When you're done prepping these for dropping wait until the demo guard"—the combat unit detailed to secure a facility, usually a bridge, that has been prepared for demolition to prevent an enemy from interfering with that demolition—"shows up and brief the platoon leader or company commander. Leave two men—two
good
men—with them and join us. You'll find us somewhere along the river between"—Bernoulli consulted his map—" . . . hmm . . . Oakwood and Riverside. Questions?"

"Couple, sir," answered the Sergeant.

"Go ahead," said Bernoulli, his face showing—and restraining—a considerable degree of impatience.

"One; do you think it's really going to come to that?"

"Yes," Bernoulli answered, simply.

"Okay . . . then where the hell is
all
the demo we're going to need going to come from?"

"That, Sergeant, I do not know. Maybe General Schmidt has an answer. I, for one, do not."

"Right. All right then, what if I can't find you?"

"Good point, Sergeant. If I haven't seen you by this time tomorrow I'll send someone to the middle of Oakwood to lead you to us. Fair enough?"

"Yes, sir. I'll get on with the job then, sir."

Bernoulli thought briefly and reconsidered. "Hmm. Let me see that sketch."

When the sergeant had returned it, Bernoulli looked it over again, thought a bit more and scratched out one section of the drawing. "Don't prep this section, Sergeant, unless and until I give you the word. We'll try to stretch out what demolitions we have because if the general can't come up with more, a lot more, we just won't have enough."

He restrained himself from an impulse to salute that, after decades of habit, had become nearly as ingrained as breathing. "I'm Colonel—retired—Hanstadt, sir," said the now civilian clad man to Schmidt, rather unnecessarily as Schmidt knew Hanstadt from various Corps meetings he had attended over the years.

"Retired?" questioned Schmidt. "Why?"

"Well . . . if I hadn't retired then I could hardly volunteer to become your new G-4, could I, sir?"

Schmidt raised an eyebrow and looked without focusing at some of the decorations on the wall behind Hanstadt.
Be still, my heart. God, could I use a competent G-4.
 

"Your forces are slowly, well . . . not so slowly as all that, going up to corps sized. Maybe more . . . no, almost certainly more." Hanstadt added, again quite unnecessarily, "You will need someone a little more experienced than what you have."

God, could I use a competent G-4, thought Schmidt, again, unnecessarily. And I seem to recall this Hanstadt being very competent indeed. 

"The job is yours. You planned this though, didn't you? What else have you planned?"

Hanstadt didn't answer directly. "Chris, bring the car around. We'll show our new boss what we have planned."

The first place they visited was the main maintenance facility. There Hanstadt was able to show Schmidt not merely machinery, tools and parts, but a large and expert civilian workforce that had not, naturally—being local, accompanied the Corps on its departure.

From the maintenance facility they had driven to some few yards loaded with heavy equipment, row upon orderly row of tanks, other armored vehicles, trucks, construction equipment.

"Somehow, I think the Corps commander, General Bennigsen, wanted you to have these. Certainly he never said a word about either destroying them or taking them with him."

"Why would he do that; want that?"

"A theory? He hopes he doesn't have to fight you and, the more prepared you seem the less likely it is that he will."

"Maybe," said Schmidt, noncommittally.

"Well . . . come to the ASP, sir, and I'll show you why I think so."

That proved a short drive. Once there, Hanstadt led the way into the main office. There, on the wall, was a breakdown, by bunker, by type, by category—training or war reserve stocks—of all the ammunition held there.

It took no special training for Schmidt to grasp all that the wall charts implied. "He left the demo, the mines and the small arms. He took most—not all, but most—of the tank, artillery, and antitank ammunition. I think, maybe you're right. Bennigsen left us what we needed to put on a good show. Funny. Hmm. I wonder if . . ."

The new G-4 answered Schmidt's unasked question. "Yes, sir, Bennigsen took the nukes with him."

Schmidt thought about that, then sighed, "Oh, well. Maybe that's just as well."

"All right, then, Hanstadt; you're the new G-4 and you have your work cut out for you. However, as your first official duty I would like your driver to take me to Post Clothing Sales assuming it's still open."

That too, proved a short ride. And the store was, indeed, open. At clothing sales, Schmidt left Hanstadt and the driver in the car. On his way in he paused briefly to make a telephone call on his cell phone. Though neither of the others knew it, he was calling the governor with a request. When he returned, he opened a small plastic bag and took an even smaller item out of it.

"Here," he said, passing the stars of a brigadier general over to Hanstadt. "You'll need these to deal with my current quartermaster who is something of an arrogant ass, truth to tell."

Speechless, Hanstadt looked at the stars with wonder. "I didn't retire and join you for this."

Schmidt smiled broadly. "If I thought you had, you wouldn't have them."

"I was already on the list for promotion to brigadier general, General," sighed Hanstadt. "I gave that up to join you."

Schmidt was surprised, slightly. He had not known. He said as much.

"No matter," said Hanstadt. "Even if I didn't think you were right, I'd still rather be a BG in the small army of Texas where it means something, at least for a little while, than a two star in the large United States Army . . . where it means less each day."

Again, Schmidt reached into the bag and pulled out a notebook and a pen. These, too, he handed over to Hanstadt. "And now, Brigadier General Hanstadt, let me explain the depths of our problems . . . and of what we have started to do to fix them."

Texas, as did about forty other states, maintained a state owned "defense force." This was purely voluntary; unpaid except when it might be called to state service, scantily equipped and scantily trained. It was the one force available to the governors of those states which had them that the federal government could not legally take control of.

In the case of Texas, now, the seven notional—and, frankly, nominal—brigades of its state defense force had been mobilized and were in the process of expanding at various army camps. One of these, an old installation north of San Antonio, was Camp Bullis.

The old camp had gone through many permutations in the near century of its existence. Established in 1917 and named for a brigadier general prominent in the Indian Wars, Bullis had seen troops off to both World Wars, Korea and Vietnam. It had also seen them return, those who had returned.

Reduced from a high point of thirty-two thousand acres in 1918, the camp now boasted no more than twelve thousand.

Twelve thousand acres, however, was clearly enough for the thousands of new recruits to the Texas Defense Force that assembled there to train under its 1
^st
Brigade—a brigade in name only, further nicknamed the Alamo Guards, and soon to be named the 1
^st
Texas Infantry Division. That twelve thousand acres was enough seemed especially so as these thousands of new recruits had few weapons, none of those being heavy weapons, and boasted little other equipment.

"Weapons and equipment aren't the main problem," lamented the 1
^st
Brigade's commander, Colonel Juan Robles, to no one in particular. "The real problem is that we haven't a
clue
. We're an oversized battalion of quasi military police—old, fat, and undertrained ourselves except maybe as military police."

From a high place where the San Juan Hill scene from the film
The Rough Riders
had been shot in 1926, Robles looked down to a road where a disconsolate "company" of recruits struggled in a herd through the boot-sucking mud. Rather, it would have been boot-sucking if only they had had boots. The Nikes and Reeboks still shodding most of the men? The mud gulped these down whole.

Robles muttered, "No order, no discipline. No weapons, no equipment, no uniforms. But, worst of all, no leadership and
no
training. We're screwed."

"It's not so bad as all that, Juan"—the State Guard was pretty informal, as Robles' operations officer demonstrated by the use of his commander's first name. "The Adjutant General has already said that he'll send one in ten officers and NCOs by grade to distribute among the State Guard folks. That'll help. And we're starting to get a trickle of volunteers from among the military retirees. Some folks from other states are coming in too. The general even says we'll have some real uniforms soon; weapons too."

No uniforms were worn here, though the two Americans carried arms under their light jackets.

Hanstadt listened appreciatively as birds sang in the warm and muggy Mexican morning. Civilian clad and traveling on a civilian United States passport, he waited on the tarmac of the town's still sleepy airport. In his hand was clutched a bag containing several million dollars in new bills from the Western Currency Facility, each one good legal tender anywhere in the world, indistinguishable from other bills printed in the Washington, DC, facility, indistinguishable from bills printed earlier.

Moreover, and the Texans were quite sure Washington knew this, any attempt at undermining confidence in U.S. currency could have disastrous economic consequences as literally hundreds of billions of dollars salted away all over the world, largely by rich people who felt the need for "escape money," came pouring out of the woodwork and into other currencies. The United States had put up with nearly two decades of massive Iranian counterfeiting, and the terrorism that counterfeiting funded, to avoid just such a possibility.

Beside Hanstadt stood his newly commissioned assistant, Lieutenant Christopher Perez of the Texas Guard. In the background were two dozen Mexican workers and drivers with a dozen trucks lined up behind them for the trip to Brownsville. In the foreground, a brace of moderately ancient cargo aircraft awaited unloading. Aboard the aircraft, some hundreds of Chinese-manufactured small arms and tens of thousands of rounds of Chinese-made ammunition.

Hanstadt turned to the chief of the Mexican drivers and workers and commanded, "Unload the planes." To Chris he said, "This will be your job for the near future. Receive, account and pay for what comes here—and remember that that will start including radios, compasses, body armor . . . basically everything almost as soon as I can set up the contracts with the manufacturers and shippers. Then you'll forward it to Fort Sam Houston through Brownsville. You'll need to spot-check a bit for quality. And you had probably better hire the local Mexican Army unit for guards, especially when you have any large quantity of weapons or ammunition stockpiled here or in transit."