A state of disobedience (20 page)

Briefly, Juanita outlined the history of the crisis, what Texas was doing, the reasons Texas was doing it, and what Rottemeyer and company were engaged in to thwart them.

She concluded that portion of her speech with, "And alone, we cannot resist them, not indefinitely.

"Need we stand alone?" Juani asked, not entirely rhetorically. "We are your brothers and your sisters, your uncles and your aunts, your neighbors and your friends. Our fight is your fight. Our success, your success.

"Our loss will be your loss.

"And what does New Mexico stand to lose? Ask
your
governor. Ask him what it is like to have to kowtow to a Washington appointee to beg back a few dollars from the billions the federal government has taken. Ask
my
brother and the nearly one hundred children—a quarter of them under age thirteen—murdered with him. Ask that quarter of kids no more than twelve years old about how it feels to be roasted alive. Ask your own newspaper editors how those muzzles wrapped around their jaws feel.

"You might even ask the soldiers and marines assembling on your soil how they feel about the question.

"But while you are asking them, let me ask
you
. Let me ask you for help: do not let pass the supplies those soldiers and marines need to invade us and break us to Rottemeyer's will. Let me ask you to—if not join us—at least not let your own state be used as a mill to grind us to dust. Let me ask you, if you are men and women of courage, to lead your people to help us.

"And now, before they can catch me, I must go see some other people," she concluded with a most unpolitical wink. "Thank you for hearing me. Thank you in advance for helping us."

The applause, as she left, was much less restrained than when she had arrived.

Jesse Vega did not bother to replace the telephone on the receiver. Will a gleeful smile and a near cackle she disconnected then rang up the Oval Office.

"We've got that Texan bitch, Willi. She just finished speaking to the New Mexico Legislature and she's on her way back to Texas . . . yes . . . yes . . . okay . . . I want you to tell McCreavy to put two fighters at my command.

"We'll capture her little wetback ass or we'll splash it over twenty square miles of New Mexican Desert."

Juanita noticed that Johnston Akers looked worried. She enquired.

"Governor . . . ma'am . . . I'm worried about that escort. I don't like the idea of you  . . . hell, of
me
flying up here all alone. Governor, you
know
that the White House has to know by now you were in New Mexico and how you got there and how you left."

Jim Beason, Massachusetts, and Mike Sperry, Texas, were the Air Force's creme de la crème—fighter jocks. Fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too.

Even so, they visibly paled as Jesse Vega's nationally recognizable voice came over the loudspeaker in the base operations room to which they had been summoned at a run. It couldn't be said that they liked that voice . . . but they had to respect the power behind it.

"We've got a situation here," said Vega. "An Army National Guard helicopter has been stolen. We have reason to believe . . . good reason, gentlemen, that that helicopter is carrying a weapon of mass destruction—biological, we believe. We know it left Santa Fe, New Mexico, less than twenty minutes ago, heading toward Amarillo, Texas.

"You are to force it to land as soon as you intercept it. If-it-will-not-land . . . shoot it down before it reaches a city. FBI, EPA and the Centers for Disease Control will be following by helicopter to take charge of the weapon as soon as you force it down."

Air Force eyes widened in faces gone paler still. This sort of thing had happened in the past, though it was rarely discussed and never in a public way. "Yes, ma'am!" they shouted as they bolted toward their waiting aircraft. Already they were calculating heights and speeds and routes to come up with a likely intercept point. "Don't worry. We'll take it down. Goddamned RIF."

Unseen across the airways, Vega smiled happily. She had not herself mentioned anything like Radical Islamic Fundamentalists, though she had expected that the pilots would leap to that assumption. She had, of course, said "weapon of mass destruction" . . . but then was not Governor Seguin a weapon that promised mass destruction to Vega's party? Was she not biological?

Johnston Akers' creased ancient face relaxed visibly when he caught the first view of two F-16s screaming in from the direction of Albuquerque.

That relaxation disappeared with the first stream of tracers that passed just off the port side.

Juanita—startled from a doze—screamed once, crossed herself and began to pray, her lips moving fervently. Akers absurdly, and with utter futility, drew his pistol. The pilot cursed, veered sharply right and began punching buttons on his radio to come up on the general aviation frequency.

" . . . dentified helicopter; unidentified helicopter: this is Goshawk seven. Land. Land now, you fucking wogs. Land now or you will be shot down."

One jet streaked by as the other lined up for a shot. The turbulence caused the helicopter to buck like some unbroken mustang.

"Goshawk are you out of your fucking minds?" called the frantic chopper pilot. "This is Lone Star six carrying VIPs from New Mexico to Texas. You've got no call to shoot us down. You've got no call to even stop us." Of course, the pilot knew the fighters had a very good reason to shoot the helicopter down. But maybe, just maybe, they didn't know that reason.

There was silence in reply. The helicopter pilot imagined a brief conversation on the pilots' own push. Then came the hoped for, "Maintain course, speed and altitude. One of us will approach."

Sperry glanced long and hard to the left as he passed the helicopter on its starboard side.
Christ, they don't look much like terrorists to me.
 

"Jim . . . Jim, I think we've got us the wrong bird."

Beason radioed back to base ops for instructions and was somewhat surprised to hear Vega's voice come over the net.

"That is your target, Captain, that Texas National Guard helicopter. It is stolen United States' property and it is carrying a WMD. Force it to land or shoot it down."

"Ma'am, I can
see
into the helicopter when I pass it. There's nothing but some people aboard. No pods, no boxes; nothing but some people. It looks to be a legitimate Guard chopper."

"Those people
are
the weapon, Captain. Contaminated, every one of them. Now are you going to shoot it down or are you going to spend the next fifty years at Fort Leavenworth contemplating the tens of thousands of people you let die of a plague you could have prevented?"

Sperry was not fooled. He had seen the face of one of the occupants. It was a face more or less well known in some circles. Somehow, he thought that face had been praying.

He had a sudden thought . . . What the hell, it might be worth a try. Maybe Vega is ignorant. 

"Jim, this is Mike, where the hell did the target go? I lost it in the weeds."

Beason, no fool, answered, "Damfino. I can't see it either."

Vega,
not
fooled, answered, "Listen carefully you morons. There's nothing below you but sand and rock and dust and a cactus every few miles. You haven't lost anything. Now get that helicopter," she nearly shrieked.

A voice previously unheard answered, "Before y'all do that you might maybe want to consult with us." This, too, was punctuated by a tracer stream, unaimed but plainly visible to Beason and Sperry. They automatically backtracked the flight of the tracers in their minds.
Oh shit, another fighter.
 

"Ummm . . . and you would be?" asked Beason, wrenching around to eyeball another F-16 flying unerringly on his "six."
Double shit; there's two of them.
 

Beason felt the inane urge to giggle over the old joke:
"Sir, it's a trap. There's
two
of them."
 

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Paul Grayson—my friends call me 'Pablo,' 182 Fighter Squadron out o' Lackland. And—unless either or both you gentlemen want a Sidewinder up yo' ass—then, you suhs, are mah prisoners."

Beason and Sperry did some quick calculation, oh, very quick. They were fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too. The 182, however, was not only composed of instructor pilots—but its pilots were equally fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave . . . 
and
experienced.

"Ah, what the hell, Mike," said Beason. "I'm a Yankee boy who's been claiming Texas as his state of residence for about eight years now. I think we have just been captured."

To Grayson he said, "And, Colonel, I appreciate your restraint."

Another previously unheard voice, this one from the helicopter, quite warmly female if a bit strained and shaky, said, "Welcome home, boys."

"What I want from you, Colonel, is a restrained response."

"Restrained, sir? We're a heavy battalion. That's not very 'restrained,' just in the nature of things."

"Nonetheless, that's what I want. At the first sign of a federal move near or behind you, drop the bridges and run back to the next set. Fight only as a last resort . . . though you can—and I want you to—make them think you are going to fight if you can figure out how to do that."

"Warning shots?"

"Maybe . . . with care . . . if they push too hard. But if you must fire, fire to frighten, not to kill or wound."

"That's one tall goddamned order, general, if you don't mind my saying so."

"There are people who are going to risk as much, colonel, and they won't have tanks to fall back on."

The legislature had voted, the people had assembled, the busses had come and gone.

New Mexico was not quite yet ready to join Texas' protest in the way Texas was protesting. Neither was it ready to leave a neighbor in the lurch. "You just don't do that, in the American southwest; you pitch in and help." That was what Governor Garrison had told the Legislature before they voted.

What had they voted for, then? They voted to pay for transportation and food, to pay for their own national guard to set up tents for, and to provide food and water for anyone willing to go to the Army and Marine Corps assembly areas near Las Cruces to protest the coming invasion of Texas. They also cast a vote for the First Amendment, especially with regards to the news media. Lastly, New Mexico had voted to send the bulk of its own national guard, one very fine brigade—the "best by test" in any component of the U.S. Armed Services—of air defense artillery to join Texas' Forty-ninth Armored Division, along with the state's other combat support unit, a battalion of six-inch self-propelled guns.

And as the Air Defense Brigade and artillery had gone, so, answering a freed, and more than a little annoyed, news media, the people
had
come. Not so many, of course, in any objective sense; New Mexico was not a populous state. Yet there were enough. From Lordburg, from Deming, from Alamogordo and Albuquerque, from Socorro and Santa Fe, they came. They came in numbers enough to block the highways through Las Cruces; to block the flow of fuel and parts and ammunition to the cavalrymen and marines rotting in dusty tent cities between Las Cruces and El Paso.

And those people sat on the roads and would not move.

Normally, of course, the armed forces would have called on the local police authorities to disperse the protesters.

"That's not going to work here," muttered the commander of the Marines. "I don't even want to ask. Hell, the State Police are out there with the protesters, keeping order."

"We could clear them out ourselves, sir," answered an aide. "Or tell the Army to do it."

"No, Johnny. The cavalry colonel has already told me, in so many words, 'Don't ask.' And I don't know what we'll do if the police and the guard open fire. Then too, what will those Texas boys at El Paso do if it does turn nasty?"

"No," the marine sighed. "No. We'll buck this one up to higher."

"It's spreading," said McCreavy, simply, to Rottemeyer.

"What's spreading?" asked the President.

"The 'Rebellion,' if you want to call it a rebellion."

Rottemeyer forced a calm into her voice she didn't quite feel, suppressing a shudder in her stomach she very much felt. "What now?"

"New Mexico. The Army and Marine force there is cut off from supply by protesters. The government down there is supporting the protesters, supporting them strongly."

"Define 'strongly.' "

"Transportation. Supply. Housing . . . of a sort. Police protection." McCreavy hesitated slightly, then added, "Military protection, too, though they have ordered most of what they had to Texas."

"And this means to us? To our plans?"

"It means that that force can go to El Paso and
maybe
a hundred miles beyond. Maybe less; the supply usage factors have hardly been updated since the Second World War and they are probably unrealistically conservative. In any case, when they run out they stop for lack of gas. Then they die for lack of water. The protesters . . . I should say the police . . . are letting enough water and food through now."

Carroll, ashen-faced, added, "It's . . . umm . . . worse than that, Willi. The state has ordered police protection for newspaper editors and other media types. Project Ogilvie is dead in New Mexico . . . dead for now anyway. We're having to beef up efforts in the adjoining states to keep them down."

Carroll gave a rueful and reluctant smile. " 'Course, not all the reporters are being too very brave. The state can't protect all of them from us; only the major editors, really. So the reporters are, some of 'em, using bylines like 'Spartacus' and 'Frederick Douglass'—I'm pretty sure I know who that one is. He's black, the treacherous, short-sighted bastard."