A state of disobedience

'Yes, Top.'

Buckling on his equipment, Pendergast tucked his helmet under his left arm, sauntered over toward the approaching line of engineer vehicles and waited.

He didn't have long to wait. As the first truck slowed to a halt, a rather splendid looking captain of engineers emerged.

'First Sergeant Pendergast, sir. A Company, 144^th Infantry.'

The engineer returned Pendergast's salute, answering, 'Captain Davis, 176^th Engineers. Where can I find your CO, Top?'

'Captain James is in his CP with our battalion S-3, sir. The S-3 is Captain Williams.'

'Thanks, Top. My first shirt should be here in a minute or two. You can show him where and how we can help you best.'

* * *

Washington, DC

Although not ostensibly designed to look down upon the United States, a spy satellite, given the right orbit, was as useful for that in the United States as for anywhere else. Or as useless, some would say. Thus, the head of the National Security Agency could pass on to the Director of Homeland Security satellite photographs and the analyses that accompanied them. Thus could the DHS bring the same to the President.

'There's no doubt, Madam President. None at all. Texas is mobilizing her own military forces. Even expanding them, it seems.'

Rottemeyer looked toward McCreavy. 'What does that mean to us, Caroline?'

McCreavy consulted her notes before replying. 'They have one more or less old-fashioned armored division. Five tank battalions. Four infantry. Four artillery. Three Engineer. The usual support.'

Rottemeyer caught on the phrase, 'Old-fashioned? That's good for us isn't it?'

Shaking her head ruefully, McCreavy answered, 'In this case, no, Willi, it isn't.'

'I do not understand.'

McCreavy sighed, then went on. 'Well . . . let me put it this way. In our entire regular force here in the States, excluding the Marines, we have not a single tank. Nor do we have a single vehicle capable of taking on a tank in a heads-up fight. Not one. Those five tank battalions have more combat power than any one of our divisions. And they could chew even the Marines, who do have tanks, if not that many of them, to bits.'

'What about our other states' National Guards?'

'Willi . . . do you trust them? I mean, do you really? You call up the Guard—which does have some other heavy forces—and you might find you're just reinforcing Texas.'

Again McCreavy let out a deep sigh. 'Willi . . . I am sorry but some of those states, especially those around Texas, hate you and everything you stand for. If you push, Louisiana, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona . . . maybe the whole deep south and quite a bit of the Midwest might 'just say no'.' Remember that red and blue map from the elections in 2000? Well, imagine the red portion in outright rebellion. It could be that bad. If you push them into it we could face a real war, and we could lose it. I can't answer for that. I won't.

'What I have done, with the Third Corps based at Fort Hood in Texas, is to put them on alert. I have also told them to prepare to withdraw, in case you agree with me that they ought to be withdrawn.'

'Withdrawn? Why?'

'Willi, I have spoken with Bennigsen, the commander of Third Corps. He says the propaganda coming out of Texas' governor's office is beginning to have an effect on his entire command. He says his men are 'pissed' at what happened at the mission.'

* * *

Fort Hood, Texas

Colonel (P) (for the army designated colonels who were selected to become brigadier generals as such; 'P' for 'promotable') Joseph E. Hanstadt took one final look at his computer monitor, sighed, punched his intercom, and called for his secretary.

'Emily, set me up an appointment with the boss for sometime today, would you?'

Without waiting for an answer, Hanstadt clicked off the intercom then turned back to his computer monitor. He stared blankly at the screen for several minutes, looking at—but no longer quite seeing—scenes of atrocity.

Forcing his eyes away, arising from his desk, Hanstadt clutched his beret in one hand. A grimace of distaste at what he called 'this headgear with too many moving parts' briefly clouded his features. Walking around the oversized desk—there were a few benefits to being the Third Corps G-4, or quartermaster—Hanstadt took several steps to reach his office door.

He looked directly at his secretary, whose finger even now pressed the redial button on her own phone, and said, 'Emily, if the boss will see me this afternoon that will be fine. If he needs me sooner, or will see me sooner, or you need me, I'll be at the chapel. And I'll leave my cell phone on.' Again, Hanstadt grimaced with distaste, this time at the phone attached to his belt under his mottled uniform jacket. I hate those fucking things, he thought.

Hanstadt made a gimme motion at his driver, who obediently reached into his pocket and turned over the keys to the G-4 vehicle. Then, wordlessly, the colonel left the headquarters by the staff door.

The drive to the post chapel was short. Formations of troops passed here and there, marching to their duties. Preoccupied, Hanstadt barely acknowledged their presence.