A state of disobedience

Austin, Texas

'Oh, isn't this a great day for the Republic?'

Governor Juanita Montoya-Serasin de Seguin (D, Tx)—she went by her husband's name, Seguin—smiled benignly upon her tall, slender, graying adjutant general. In her size seven dress—not bad for a mother of four strong boys—and with her pretty Mexican peasant-woman face, she radiated maternal warmth and caring. Some said that was what had gotten her elected—'How can you vote against your mother?'

But Juanita was much more than a face. A shrewd politician? Both her rivals and her supporters said so. A woman of principle? There too they agreed, though some of them had, sometimes, disagreed with those principles. Especially did those of her party but not of her state disagree. Juanita was far too conservative to suit the social- democrat core of her party. In point of fact, she was far more conservative than many a northern Republican. Texas had always been a funny place; Texas politics rarely quite matched those of the rest of the country.

'You didn't like Willi's speech, Jack? I thought she did a fine job . . . speaking, that is.'

Glaring balefully at his chief (the adjutant general for the State of Texas, like all National Guard officers, took his oath of office to his governor), Major General John Lewis Schmidt answered, 'I could care less about the speech, Juani. What scares me . . . terrifies would be more like it . . . is that that . . . that . . . that woman has complete control of the federal government for at least the next two years. Worse, she's got dreams and some of them are doozies.'

'Dreams? You think?' Juanita laughed. She knew that Rottemeyer had big plans for her presidency; big plans for society. Some of those dreams Juanita even agreed with, relatively conservative democrat or not.

Schmidt huffed. 'You're just trying to get my goat,' he snorted. His sun-worn, leathery face creased in a broad smile. 'Still pissed about the pranks your brother and I used to play on you?'

'Oh, that was long ago. Before the war, even.'

'Yes,' answered Schmidt, dreamily, 'it was before the war.'

* * *

'Incoming!'  

Lieutenant Schmidt pressed himself deeper into the muddy earth of the paddy as the air was split by the shattering crump-crump-crump of enemy mortar rounds. The stench of human feces filled his nostrils, causing his stomach to lurch in protest. Scant inches above him jagged, razor sharp pieces of 82-millimeter mortar shell casing whined past like so many giant, malevolent mosquitoes on a homicidal binge. 

Around Schmidt a platoon of Vietnamese Rangers—those left alive—cowered under the withering hail. He risked a look around and saw the unit's Vietnamese officer running away, his cast off equipment flying behind him. 'Useless dink,' he muttered. 

A body flopped to the mud next to him. Schmidt tightened his grip on his rifle and began to turn before he heard a calm voice—under the circumstances a remarkably calm voice, 'If we can hang on until night we ought to make it, Jack.' 

The lieutenant smiled. 'You mean, sir, of course.' 

'Sure, Jack . . . I mean, 'sir.' ' The speaker scratched his nose with a finger, the middle finger of his left hand. 

'Any chance for artillery, Sergeant Montoya?' Schmidt asked, pretending not to have noticed that his subordinate was giving him the universal salute. 

'Not a chance. The VC got the radio when they got the radio man.' 

'Shit!' 

' 'Shit,' ' echoed the stocky little Tex-Mex sergeant. Still with a voice of calm he said, 'Not a total loss, though, since that was Lieutenant Dong's excuse for taking off. And we're better off without him. I'm going to get to work on setting up whatever we can of a perimeter.' Without another word he crawled off toward a knot of soldiers hiding, poorly, in a little shell crater. 

Where does he get it; the courage, the calm? wondered an admiring Jack Schmidt.

* * *

'Jack? JACK?'

Focus returned to the old general's eyes. 'Sorry, Juani. I was . . . wandering. Thinking about Jorge. It occurs to me that at the precise moment we were caught in that ambush your new president and her ex were calling us murderers and baby killers. Jorge Montoya: a baby killer!'

* * *

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

' . . . in nomine Patrii, Filioque et Spiritu Sancti.' 

A very young baby squalled under the Baptismal waters pouring from the vessel in the hands of Father Montoya.

Holding the baby, Elpidia—the diminutive fifteen-year-old mother—looked up at the priest nervously. The Latin words were close enough to the girl's native—albeit poor—Spanish that she sensed the meaning of the words, if not their theological implications. There had been little of God in the girl's short, unholy life. In truth, there had been little of anything good. Drugs, sex, sex for drugs, sex for money to buy drugs; these had been her universe and her faith.

But that had changed. . . .

* * *