A state of disobedience

of the sniper in his tower, the helicopters overhead, or the near random fire of the PGSS now swarming through the grounds.

That baker's dozen had a slightly larger honor guard of their dead and wounded assailants. Ultimately driven from the breaches by the PGSS, the padre had been helpless to stop the surge of armed inhumanity that had poured into the mission. They hadn't been able to stop it. That hadn't prevented them from bleeding it however.

Even now, from hastily excavated loopholes in the chapel walls, some of the defenders traded shots with their attackers.

Some still fought. Others? The priest's eyes scanned the chapel. Exhausted, was his judgment. He wasted a scornful glance upon Father Flores, cowering under a heavy sacramental alter. Unharmed, unsoiled, but also an unworthy cause to have given his children's lives for, thought Father Jorge.

He looked more carefully; began counting. Eleven of us here. Five wounded; two badly. One of the wounded boys was crying softly, trying to hold his intestines inside. Another, rapidly turning pale with loss of blood, managed to keep silent.

I wonder what happened to Julio. 

* * *

'In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,' whispered Julio as finally, finally, he found the shot for which he had been waiting. It was not a perfect shot. It was not even a particularly good one. But it was a possibility. The first possibility he had had all morning.

The HRT's ad hoc sniper tower had been modified with a steel box at its summit. From that box, sheltered from anything that was not directly in his line of fire, the sniper had poured down shot after shot into the defenders. More than half the mission dead were attributable to that sniper's deadly, accurate fire.

And Julio hadn't been able to do a thing about it. Not a thing. The sniper and his spotter had kept safely back, with a half an inch of steel between them and Julio.

And then, easy targets exhausted, the tower had turned, presenting its half open front face to Julio's scope.

Unseen by the HRT, any potential glare from the scope hidden by a deeply recessed firing position, Julio's breathing paused, his body relaxed, his finger tightened, and his rifle spoke.

The bullet flew straight and true. Before he had the remotest suspicion that he was under fire, the sniper's brains filled the small armored box in which he and his spotter sheltered, covering the spotter with blood and gore.

* * *

In the crowded headquarters Friedberg fumed and raged. Bad enough that eight BATF agents were down. Bad enough that some dozens of PGSS were down. But to kill her people? Intolerable. And she would not tolerate it.

'Get me those Army types on the line,' she demanded of one of the radio operators.

'Ma'am?' asked the cowed minor functionary; there were a number of 'Army types' supporting the operation.

'The gunships, you idiot. About time they earned their pay.'

'Yes, ma'am.' The operator spoke briefly into a microphone. 'Here they are, Ms. Friedberg.' The Director of the FBI felt a small satisfaction at seeing the trembling in the hand which offered her the microphone.

'Who is this?' she demanded.

The answer came as if through a 'sound blender' . . . the words choppy and distorted. 'This is Echo 57. Who is this?'

'This is the Director of the FBI.' Friedberg waited in vain for a suitably humble response.

'Roger, Director, this is Echo 57. You have traffic this station?' The voice was annoyingly male and had an infuriating lack of humility. There was no noticeable tenor even of respect.

'He means 'Do you have a message?' ma'am.'

Friedberg glared at the operator. 'I know what he means, you ninny.'

'Echo 57, this is the Director. I want you to attack the mission. My people are being hurt and I want it to stop.'

There was a barely perceptible pause on the other end, as if the pilots were conferring among themselves. At last came the response, 'No can do, Director. Forbidden. Illegal.'

Friedberg shrieked frustration. How dare he? 'Listen to me you nincompoop. I am the Director of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. And nothing that I say is legal is illegal. Do you understand?'

'I understand. I will not comply.'

'Get me the other pilot.'

The operator checked frequencies, but made no changes. He spoke briefly, then announced, 'Echo 63, Director.'

Friedberg forced a measure of calm into her voice. 'Echo 63 this is the Director of the FBI. Echo 57 has refused a lawful order from the President through me. Echo 57 can expect to be prosecuted when this is over. He can also expect to be found guilty, imprisoned, sodomized, and finally audited by the IRS! Now unless you want to join him in prison, I suggest you follow my orders and riddle-That- FUCKING-CAMP!'

'Don't do it, Max.'

'Echo 57 this is the Director. Shut up or I'll send you to the worst nightmare of a prison in the federal system!