A state of disobedience (19 page)

Elpi opened the office door and announced, "There are two men here to see you, Governor. A 'Patricio' and a 'Carl.' "

The deeply tanned man with the fierce blue eyes glanced appreciatively at Elpi—a pretty girl was a pretty girl—then shook Schmidt's hand and the Governor's warmly before taking a seat with his assistant in the governor's home office. Though both the men were clad in civilian dress, it was no difficult task for Schmidt to see through that.

"You're soldiers," he announced.

"Yes," admitted the taller of the two, the one who had introduced himself to Elpi as "Patricio." "Rather, we were. Astute of you to notice. Think of us now as being no more than your friendly, neighborhood arms dealers."

"No astuteness necessary. You walk, you stand, you shake hands like soldiers. A blind man could see it. Moreover, you"—an accusatory finger pointed at Patricio—"sound like you're American . . . from the northeast, I think."

The tanned man simply shrugged. "We both are." Then he reached into a briefcase and handed over a video tape. "Watch this. Then we'll talk."

Schmidt fumbled uncertainly with the tape player in Juanita's office until she, herself, came over and fixed it. Then she and Jack watched the video conference between the two presidents in silence.

When the tape was finished, Patricio made a head gesture to his assistant who walked to the VCR and retrieved the tape.

Patricio cleared his throat. "Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I am here to tell you that your heavy weapons shipment from China is going to be stopped."

"Then we're screwed," announced Schmidt, simply.

"Not necessarily," said Patricio. He looked at his assistant, pointedly. The assistant shrugged,
it's up to you, boss.
 

Reaching into his briefcase Patricio pulled out a thin sheaf of paper. This he handed over to his assistant with the question, "How much of this could you make up?"

The assistant flipped through pages, occasionally looking upwards to do an apparent mental inventory.

"Carl, here," explained Patricio, "is our organization . . . ummm . . . you would say 'G-4' or maybe quartermaster. Can you bring your G-4 here, general? Maybe we can help each other."

Schmidt went to the telephone to call his headquarters.

"Well," announced Carl after some reflection, "We do not have
exactly
the arms these people are going to be losing. But we can make up a fair amount of it. It's going to be lighter stuff, lighter and older, that we can trade you for this."

"Trade?" asked Schmidt.

"Yes," answered Patricio. "You sign over the rights to your heavy Chinese arms to us. We provide you with arms, mostly Russian and Chinese, that we currently hold. Though where you trade us a 122-millimeter gun, you are only going to get an 85-millimeter in return."

"That's piracy," insisted Schmidt.

"No," countered Patricio, "it's business."

DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. Did anything happen between Oklahoma and Maryland, Alvin?
A. No, sir. Everything was real quiet . . . well, not counting that there were a lot of Army trucks on the road all headed the way I'd come from.
It wasn't until I reached Maryland that I saw the first anti-Texas demonstrations. I confess, those really annoyed me, being Texan and all, myself. But I never did nothing about it.
I decided I'd be better off heading a bit north and then comin' down from that direction. That, and keeping my mouth shut as much as possible.
So I went to Baltimore and looked around for a job to keep me going for a while. Found one, too, though I'd had better. Still, I wasn't ever afraid of work, only of not havin' any. So I put up with the stink of the grease and those nasty hamburgers while I settled in and looked around.
One thing I found out right quick: I was not getting anywhere near the White House. Nor any government building, for that matter. Never really thought to see my own country's capital locked down like they was ready for a siege. But that was the simple truth of the matter.
 

Not that I couldn't get into DC. I could and did. But I couldn't get anywhere with my truck, not anywhere useful. So I got used to public transportation—it really wasn't so bad except for the folks, some of 'em, that you had to ride with. And I did my looking on foot.
But where was I? Oh yeah, I remember. The anti-Texas demonstrations in Baltimore. I actually went and marched in one . . . sort of got curious, you see?
First thing struck me was that somebody in a suit and tie with one of them hand-held loudspeakers had everyone sort of lined up. At the end of the line was another one, a girl this time, passing out money and picket signs. She said, "Fifty dollars now. Another fifty at the end of the march. We'll have people watching from inside to see who puts on the most enthusiastic display. Bonuses for those that do."
The signs she was passing out? I only remember mine real well. It said, "Law and Order for Texas." I suppose I could agree with those sentiments; though I didn't see it maybe quite the same way that woman did.
What the hell? I needed the money. Reckon those other folks in that line must have, too.

It was a tradition in Texas; that line, those voluntary steps. Ignore the tradition? Not Captain Williams; it would simply have felt wrong.

So, taking the A Company guidon—swords being in short supply these days, he used the metal ferule to draw an imaginary line across the front of the formation, beginning with the infantry company—its headquarters and three platoons standing toward the right, going across the oversized platoon of engineers, and then to the small detachment from battalion headquarters on the left.

The line he drew was essentially invisible. Only the displacement of some of the loose gravel on the parking lot marked it in scant places. Invisible . . . and yet it was clear enough, too.

"Boys," said Williams, "boys, you all have a decision to make today. The general said 'hold to the last.' But I'm not going to make anyone stay that doesn't want to. And you ought to be told, in fairness, that this place isn't all that important anymore to us; not since we shipped out about half of its printing capability.

"Before you make any hard and fast decisions, though, I want to read you something; something from our 'beloved President.' Well . . . she's behind it even if she didn't actually write it herself."

"Listen up, boys; this is from the
New York Times
: 'And as for the pitiful saboteurs and counterfeiters illegally occupying our Western Currency Facility, unless they surrender both themselves and the federal property in their hands the full rigor and justice of the law must be applied to them.' "

In the ranks, ranks themselves full of law enforcement men, one police desk sergeant turned and snorted to a highway patrolman, "Saboteur? Counterfeiter? Why, Sam, I would never have suspected. Consider yourself under arrest, you 'pitiful' bastard."

If the resulting laugh was slightly strained, it still contained real humor.

A hand shot up from one of the infantry platoons. "Sir, if this place isn't that important . . . well, then why stay?"

"Ah," answered Williams. "I said it wasn't all that important to us. I didn't say it wasn't important to
them.
To the Treasury Department? To Rottemeyer's Secret Service and her Presidential Guard? It is very important that they take this back. To them, the place where money is printed is about as sacred as a certain spot down in San Antonio is to us."

Another hand shot up, a bit hesitantly this time. "Okay, sir. Suppose we stay. Can we hold out here?"

"Don't see why not. We've got food for months, we're armed to the teeth, we're dug in like moles. No, what I see happening is they try to take us in a rush; we stop 'em cold, bleed 'em white. And then they sit down and
think
real seriously about how much they want to dig us out of here. While all that's going on the general and the governor will be making things happen elsewhere.

"But I won't lie to you. That's the way I
think
it's going to happen. There's no guarantee. We might all be dead by staying.

"Anybody else? Any more questions? All right then. Come on, make your decision. The officers have already agreed among themselves. We're staying put. The rest of you? If you're going to stay then cross over that line."

There was a shuffling of feet and no motion forward for several long moments as pride warred with fear in the breasts of the soldiers assembled. The men seemed to be trying to look anywhere but where Williams stood on the other side of his almost imaginary line. Finally, First Sergeant Pendergast cleared his throat, loudly so that all would know what he was about to do. Then, from his position to the rear of the formation he boldly stepped forth, rendered Williams a parade ground salute and said, "First Sergeant Pendergast reporting, sir."

Behind Pendergast, a few men straightened as if pushing away their fears. Then, off to the right, one lone man stepped forward and announced, "Private First Class Jerome Fontaine. I'm staying."

Pendergast suppressed a grateful smile as Williams smiled broadly, saying, "Well there's
two
men among us."

Yet even as Williams said those words another half dozen had crossed from across the formation. Then came two squads, to a man, followed by fifteen more crossing as individuals. Soon, there were only a half a dozen men still standing behind the line Williams had drawn. These, married men—every one, still hesitated.

Without being ordered to do so, Pendergast trooped the line. "You, Smitty? I would have figured you to want to hang on to this place."

Smitty—Sergeant Smithfield, shamefaced, crossed over.

"Just ask yourself how you'll feel if we lose this place because you weren't here to help us, Figueroa?"

With an audible sigh, Figueroa crossed as well.

"Just ask yourself how you'll feel if we hang on to this place
without
you, Petty?"

Petty snarled and answered, "Never happen, Top." He too crossed.

Pendergast looked over the last three. "Go home to your wife and your seven kids, Royce. No hard feelings. Robles? I know you've got an invalid mother who needs you. Go on."

Eyes closed, shaking his head, Royce crossed, as did Robles.

The last man, Staff Sergeant Melvin La Fleur, looked the first sergeant defiantly in the eye. Tossing his rifle to the pavement he shouted, "Fuck this shit! You're all crazy as loons. I'm out of here."

Pendergast shook his head in pity.

Juanita felt a small surge of self-pity rush through her even smaller frame.
What did I ever do to deserve to live in times like these?
 

But Jack had said that visiting Louisiana, Oklahoma and New Mexico was crucial, especially the latter. He had said that he had nothing adequate, either military or in the way of a natural obstacle, to stop either the Marine division or the armored cavalry regiment assembling at Las Cruces. He had told her that they simply could not afford a defeat or the symbol of one.

Lastly, he had insisted that cutting off the logistic pipeline from Mexico would doom them and that those troops at Las Cruces threatened to do just that. Texas was self-sufficient—"a whole other country," as the tourist ads claimed—in many respects. They had enough oil and gas. Most foodstuffs were home grown as well. But there were still things they needed.

"Juani," Schmidt had told her, "I don't
want
you sticking your head in the lion's mouth. But we don't have much of a choice. And I think you'll be safe; this once anyway. We can send somebody else to talk in Oklahoma and Louisiana, but New Mexico? That's got to be the biggest gun we have. And that's you."

And so, flying very low, escorted by a brace of fighters from her own Air National Guard, in Schmidt's own helicopter, with a couple of batteries of New Mexico's own—
superlative
—air defense artillery providing cover on the final approaches (for Schmidt had asked an old friend to help), Juani—bile rising and heart thumping, rereading her speech notes to take her mind off of gut-churning nap of the earth flying—approached the New Mexico state capitol.

With a stomach lurching drop the helicopter settled down by the simple brownish-pink stucco walls of the capitol building. Texas Rangers, among them Johnston Akers, scooted out and ran low to take up a perimeter around the governor. With a roar and a scream above, the fighters circled away to refuel, so they hoped, in Albuquerque.

New Mexico's Republican governor, John Garrison and
his
adjutant general, Francisco Garza, met Juani as she alighted from the aircraft. Garrison stuck out a hand. Garza saluted then asked, "And how's my old friend Jack holding up, Governor?"

"He's fine," answered Juani, breathlessly, while shaking Garrison's hand.

"We're all set for you Governor Seguin," said Garrison. "Nobody knows why you are here. Actually, nobody hardly knows that you even
are
here. I've got both houses assembled on the pretext of debating the present . . . umm . . . difficulties."

"Thank you, Governor," answered Juani, humbly. Jack had said it was arranged; she should have had faith.

The New Mexican legislature was, at first, shocked at the unexpected appearance. Thus, the applause that greeted Juani's entrance—once they began to overcome the shock of recognition—was much, much more subdued than one would have expected at, say, a political rally. Though subdued, yet it was sincere. She could see that from the faces of the men and women—most of them, anyway—applauding her as she walked uncertainly to the podium following Garrison's introduction, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Governor of Texas!"