A state of disobedience

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Virginia v. Alvin Scheer

DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

BY MR. STENNINGS:

Q. And when did you get the idea in your head that maybe something could be done?

A. I guess it was not too long after someone finally decided to do something, about them kids in the mission, at least, if not the entire problem. 'Cooler heads prevailed,' as they say. We were all plumb sure that the feds would just go in and kill 'em all. But we were wrong . . . sort of.

Still and all, one of the folks surrounding the place—he was one of us, a Texas man, go figure—decided to give it a try. I don't know what he said to 'em, both the folks in the mission and the ones outside. Whatever it was, it seemed to work.

I got myself and my wife up early to watch it on the TV. Even Daddy came over to see. One lone man, wearin' one lone star, standin' outside the mission walls waiting for the kids to come out.

Made me proud, it did.

Course, you couldn't see the man's face or anything. There must have been a dozen TV cameras on him, but they were all back where it was safe and he . . . well, he was up front where it wasn't.

* * *

Qui Nhon Province, Republic of Vietnam, 1966

'We should be safe here for a while, Jack,' Jorge lied, as he gently laid Schmidt down on the base of a muddy ditch. 

Montoya, even carrying Schmidt, reached the PZ before the helicopters. So, apparently, did the Viet Cong. So, for that matter, did Sergeant Tri. It was this, seen as if close up through the lieutenant's binoculars, that caused the sergeant to whisper, 'Christ have mercy.'  

Tri's head was perched atop a red stained pole, his eyes still closed as Jorge had left them. 

'Wha'? What is it, Jorge?' 

'Nothing, Jack. Nothing. Just relax and wait for the choppers to come.' 

Montoya searched through his own pouches for ammunition. Finding a bare three magazines— those only courtesy of looting the dead, previously—he began to rummage through Schmidt's own harness.  

Call it . . . ninety rounds. Five frags—fragmentation grenades. One claymore. Couple smoke; one colored. Jack's .45 and twenty-one rounds for that.  

As he coolly set up the claymore to fire down a likely trail that led onto the PZ, Montoya began whistling something, a faintly Arabic sounding tune. 'Deguello,' it was called. It seemed appropriate. 

As he worked, Montoya heard the sound—indistinct, faint—of a brace of Hueys. 

* * *

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

The sound of the helicopter was strange to his ears. It was straining, so much was obvious. But the strained pitch was not that of the Hueys with which the priest was familiar. Perhaps one of those new jobs; a 'Blackhawk,' Jack called them.

Montoya strained his eyes against the midnight gloom. Yes, there it was. A helicopter, some pendulumlike thing swinging underneath.

This was nothing new. Forces had been building up around the mission for days. Some came by helicopter, some by automobile and truck, some by the light armored vehicles, LAVs, favored by the PGSS. Oftentimes the helicopters swung overhead for a view. So far the priest had refused to open fire on them. 'Let them fire the first shot,' he had ordered.

Most of the helicopters had kept high; out of practical range. Curiously, this one did not. With each passing second the priest's grip on his rifle grew tighter, unseen fingers whitening from the pressure. As the chopper came over the low mission wall he shifted to a firing stance. Then he recognized the pendulum, two big cubes swinging underneath. A slingload? Nobody assaults with a slingload. The rifle lowered.

The helicopter's nose pulled up slightly, raising a cloud of dust and grit. The pitch changed yet again as it settled closer to the ground. The priest saw the crew chief leaning out, watching for the load slung underneath to touch down. When it did the chief put a hand to his throat, said something that would have been unintelligible to anyone not on the same intercom system, and waved to the priest. Montoya waved back.

The helicopter moved forward and lowered itself again, this time until the higher cube touched down. The priest perceived, dimly, some kind of flexible strap falling over the second cube. Then the Blackhawk, black indeed in the moonless night, pulled up and away.

Montoya waved again as he walked forward toward the netted cargo that had been left for him.

He pulled away a letter he had found 'hundred-mile-an-hour' taped to the side.

'Dear Jorge,' the priest read in the bright oval cast by his flashlight. 'In all the world there is nobody to whom I owe the debts and favors that I owe to you. Please accept these small tokens of my personal esteem in this, your hour of need.

Sincerely,

Jack

P.S. The ammunition is on the bottom layer of this load; the rifles and such on top. Most of the rest is food, some body armor, gas masks, and some medical supplies. There's one radio and half a dozen batteries. Good luck, friend. I'll do what I can. I am trying. There's a cell phone in there, one of those disposable jobs. Give your sister a call, why don't you.'  

* * *

Austin, Texas

'Yes, Rodg'—ah . . . mission accomplished? Great. Great news, friend.' With a lighthouse-beam smile, Schmidt replaced the telephone on its cradle and returned to the governor's conference table.