A state of disobedience

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.

* * *

Austin, Texas

'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.'

* * *

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

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.

* * *

Austin, Texas

'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?'

* * *