A state of disobedience

The helicopters were distant, their steady wop-wop-wop no louder than the drone of a mosquito. Hands roughly, but no more so than circumstances warranted, pulled Montoya off of Schmidt's body. Montoya opened his eyes; friendly faces, black and brown and white. Round eyes. 

'Oh God,' he tried to whisper. 'See to my lieutenant. I'm fine, I tell you. Check Jack.' 

' 'Jack's' okay, Sergeant. He'll be fine. But let's take a look at you.' Busy hands cut away a blood- soaked fatigue jacket, slashed off torn trousers.  

'Vug! Stick 'im.' 

'What happened, Sergeant? How'd you get hit?' 

Pain began to ebb as the morphine spread through Montoya's ruined body. He found himself able to answer, if barely. 'Grenade. Couldn't get rid of it in time. Had to . . . to . . .' 

Montoya felt the calm pat of the medic. 'Later, Sergeant. For now, let's get the two of you home.'  

Opening his eyes, Montoya could actually see the medevac helicopter, though its blade was only a blur. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to the morphia. 

* * *

Father Jorge still felt the beating blades of the gunship hovering somewhere over the chapel. 'Come on, finish it,' he whispered.

* * *

'Please, God, let it be over soon,' prayed Josefina. 'Please.' All the other children were asleep, or unconscious. It was so hot, so unbearably hot in the shelter.

The little girl had tried to open the door, once she understood that it was get out or roast alive. But the door had been jammed tight. It wouldn't budge, not even an inch. She wanted to weep again. We're trapped here. Oh God, why? Why? What did we ever do to anyone?

Josefina felt the wall. It was hot, painfully hot, to the touch. With a weak little yelp she drew her hand back, wrapping both arms around the youngest, Elpidia's Pedro. In the girl's arms little Pedro shuddered once, then grew still. 'Wake up baby, wake up,' she demanded fruitlessly.

'Oh, Elpi, I'm so sorry. I tried. I really tried.'

Those were the last articulable words Josefina ever spoke, as heat drove her into unconsciousness and far, far too young a death.

* * *

Akers didn't relax even when he heard the first tanks and sirens. Not until he saw his own Texas Rangers enter the room did he even begin to think about anything but keeping the director under his muzzle.

His captain, flanked by a brace of the roughest-looking men in F Company, announced, 'Good job, Sergeant. We'll take it from here.'

'Sir? Sir, there's two dozen kids in there.'

'We know. We'll do what we can. But . . .' and the captain thought of the pillar of smoke rising from the compound.

'Yes, sir.' Akers left for a breath of air unpolluted by federales.

Once outside Akers stood at the door for a minute. Distantly he heard his captain say, 'Ms. Friedberg? You are under arrest for violation of Texas Criminal Code, Sections 19.02 and 19.03. . . .'

The irony of that was lost on Akers for the moment, though he would cherish it into his old age. He was somewhat unsurprised to see tank after tank, track after track pouring into and through the area. He was unsurprised to see scores, hundreds of the President's Elite PGSS and the Surgeon General's special police surrendering as fast as could be.

He was very surprised to see and hear a single blast from one of the Guard's main guns, followed by the near disintegration of a PGSS LAV that had been attempting to escape.

* * *

Schmidt had his helicopter set down in the middle of the smoking compound, despite protestations from his chief pilot. Alighting from the bird with two armed guards, he immediately set out for what he instinctively knew would be his friend's last refuge, the chapel.

He announced himself, 'Jorge? It's me. Jack. It's over; you can come out now. Jorge?'

No answer. Jack decided to take his chances. Jorge wouldn't shoot him by mistake. Still continuously announcing himself, Schmidt pounded the barred door with his shoulder, only after much effort to be rewarded by a sprung hinge and a—barely open path.

Inside was a scene from a nightmare. Schmidt knew it was because he had had that very nightmare repeatedly of late. Under the altar rested the remains of Father Flores, whom Schmidt recognized only by his vestments. Not far from there lay Father Montoya, bleeding from a score of wounds. Around him and by the walls lay the boys who had followed their priest into death.

Schmidt collapsed to his knees, hung his head, and wept for his dead friend.

* * *

Even as the ashes of the mission were cooling, the first book—surreptitiously subsidized by the White House— hit the bookstores: Father of Pain: The True Story of the Deadly Fanatic Catholic Fundamentalist Cult of Texas.