A state of disobedience

* * *

Fort Hood, Texas

Amidst clouds of lung-wracking diesel fumes, just as its nose was edging into Oklahoma, the tail end of Third Corps left Fort Hood. The Corps now stood at less than full strength, much less. In a way, Hanstadt was saddened to see how many had taken a variant of the choice he had.

In another way, of course, he was pleased. Kind of heartwarming to see so many troops who won't fight for that murdering cunt in DC.

Despite this, Hanstadt waved goodbye—fondly—to those who had decided to stay with the Army. He couldn't blame them, really; couldn't put on any airs of moral superiority. How it might have gone had his retirement not been fairly secure he could not say. Certainly it would have made the decision to throw in his lot with Texas somewhat harder.

Though Washington had never announced the move of the Corps in advance, it was anticipated in all corners. Even now, Hanstadt expected a Texan detachment to show up momentarily to take charge of the post. Most particularly, did he expect the Texans to want the contents of the Ammunition Supply Point, the ASP. There had not been enough trucks, enough willing manpower, or enough time to do more than empty a fraction of the munitions to be found there. Still, he had done what he could to help the Corps commander take whatever could be taken.

That was one way to make sure that none of the rest was destroyed, he thought, not without some degree of mirth.

Hanstadt paused in his reveries at the sound of footsteps padding softly up behind him. He turned to see his driver, Chris Perez, a young man from Long Island, New York who had—somewhat unexpectedly—elected to stay with his old boss.

'Yes, son?'

'Sir, we got a radio call from the MPs who stayed behind and are manning the front gate. There's a Texas National Guard two-star and he wants onto the post.'

'Ah. That would be General Schmidt. My compliments to him through the MPs and have them ask him if he would be good enough to join me in the Corps conference room.'

'I'll join you in a minute, Chris,' Hanstadt said to the driver. 'Then you can take me to Headquarters. I need to change, after all.'

As he said so, Hanstadt looked around him. Fort Hood seemed so different, now, with the departure of Third Corps. Not merely empty of manpower, it seemed to have been emptied of a certain spirit, in part a fraternal one, as well.

* * *

Rio Brazos, Waco, Texas

Shadowing Third Corps north on its way from Fort Hood, through Waco, through Fort Worth, Denton and Gainesville to Oklahoma, followed a platoon of Combat Engineers of the 176^th Engineer Battalion under the leadership of their diminutive platoon leader, Jose G. Bernoulli.

Some said 'diminutive.' To most of his platoon he was 'Little Joe.' They meant it with affection and respect.

Lieutenant Bernoulli, despite his Italian forebears and the name he bore, considered himself Texan, first and foremost, American—a close second, and Mexican last of all. He never considered himself Italian. So far as he was aware that was just a name that came over with some Neapolitan sutler to a company of Spanish conquistadors.

Bernoulli, a graduate in engineering from Texas A&M, looked over the bridge complex spanning the Brazos and added a few details and an explanatory note or ten to the drawing on the pad of paper before him. Then he tore off the sheet and handed it to one of his squad leaders with the words, 'The rest of the platoon and I are heading east to the Trinity River. When you're done prepping these for dropping wait until the demo guard'—the combat unit detailed to secure a facility, usually a bridge, that has been prepared for demolition to prevent an enemy from interfering with that demolition—'shows up and brief the platoon leader or company commander. Leave two men— two good men—with them and join us. You'll find us somewhere along the river between'—Bernoulli consulted his map—' . . . hmm . . . Oakwood and Riverside. Questions?'

'Couple, sir,' answered the Sergeant.

'Go ahead,' said Bernoulli, his face showing—and restraining—a considerable degree of impatience.

'One; do you think it's really going to come to that?'

'Yes,' Bernoulli answered, simply.

'Okay . . . then where the hell is all the demo we're going to need going to come from?'

'That, Sergeant, I do not know. Maybe General Schmidt has an answer. I, for one, do not.'

'Right. All right then, what if I can't find you?'

'Good point, Sergeant. If I haven't seen you by this time tomorrow I'll send someone to the middle of Oakwood to lead you to us. Fair enough?'

'Yes, sir. I'll get on with the job then, sir.'

Bernoulli thought briefly and reconsidered. 'Hmm. Let me see that sketch.'

When the sergeant had returned it, Bernoulli looked it over again, thought a bit more and scratched out one section of the drawing. 'Don't prep this section, Sergeant, unless and until I give you the word. We'll try to stretch out what demolitions we have because if the general can't come up with more, a lot more, we just won't have enough.'