A state of disobedience

Presidential Guard. They should be able to handle the problem.'

* * *

Las Cruces, New Mexico

The Marine Corps Reserve truck driver—he was a California boy named Mendez—looked out at the sea of humanity blocking the highway before him. 'Whew; I didn't think New Mexico had this many people in it.'

'What you carrying, son?' asked the state trooper balancing on the truck's running board while hanging from its rearview mirror.

'I'm not sure I should say, sir.' The driver looked down at the trooper's chest and read a name tag, 'Peters.'

The trooper—Peters—smiled grandly. 'Well, you can say or we can just arrest you now; whatever's your preference.'

The driver gave off a loud sigh. 'Ammunition, mostly.'

'Ah, I see. Well . . . come with me. Let's see if your truck is properly marked.' The trooper stepped down.

The driver emitted another sigh as he opened his door to follow.

'It's always amazed me how often you guys hauling ammo fail to put up the signs required by federal law,' commented the trooper as he ripped a 'Danger-Peligro' sign from the side of the truck, folding it and tucking it in his shirt.

'But . . . but . . .'

'And another thing; you know how often you mix up incompatible loads of ammunition? Why, it's a national disgrace,' he added while tearing off another bit of paper, this one stating in precise terms what kind of ammunition the truck was carrying.

The trooper looked the driver squarely in the eye and ordered, 'Son, you are just gonna have to unload this here truck and let me inspect it.'

'But, sir . . . it's over twenty tons of ammunition. I can't, I just can't; not in less than a week.'

If possible the trooper's friendly smile grew broader and grander still. 'I know.'

* * *

La Union, New Mexico

The 1^st Marine Division command post fairly crackled with energy. It crackled with radio transmissions as well.

The barrel-chested, iron-jawed major general in command, one Richard Fulton, stared with disgust at the charts hanging from the tent's frame along its walls. These showed all the pertinent information on the division, from personnel to logistics. It was the last which raised Fulton's disgust.

His unit's supply status merely raised the disgust, however. The voice coming from a radio's speaker gave it force. The Division's 'Zampolit'—the Russian word had gained wide currency by now—sitting in a corner, amplified it even more.

He listened to, 'And so, yes, despite your logistic inconveniences, you are ordered to proceed into Texas, commencing tomorrow morning at 0400, liberate El Paso, then proceed generally east along Interstate 10 to San Antonio. As you proceed, you are to drop off adequate forces southward along the Mexican border to seal that border as you go.'

Fulton clenched frustration into a balled fist. 'General McCreavy . . . you realize, do you not, that I have the fuel to get to approximately Van Horn, Texas, before my tanks are bone dry? And that is assuming I do not have to fight the Texans on the way. They can pull back, wait for me to run out of fuel, then beat the hell out of me. That's open country, great for tanks, not so great for infantry. And my force is mostly infantry . . . and the Texans—the ones facing me anyway—are mostly not.'

'We are working on your logistic problems from this end, General Fulton. By the time you reach the eastern edge of El Paso, you can expect a clear supply route.'

'I'll believe that when I see it. But fine then . . . fine. I'll start moving in the morning.'

* * *

Marietta, Oklahoma

Nobody felt like singing 'Garryowen' this morning.

It was a perfect time for it; the sun rising in the east, the smell of fresh diesel and motor oil on the gentle breeze, hundreds of thousands of tons of steel rolling in a long massive pike down the highway.

Still, nobody felt like singing.

Third Corps was coming back. They had left at command and now they were returning at command. They had left with reluctance and now they returned with much the same feeling.

Silent and sullen, the drivers and commanders scarcely risked a glance at the protesters lining either side of the highway. Yet they did glance from time to time and they did read some of the signs the protesters carried. 'Don't mess with Texas,' said some. 'Thou shalt not kill,' said some few others, a message pretty much lost on the professional killers of the Third Corps.

'The South shall rise again,' 'Lee surrendered; we didn't,' and 'Get Washington off our backs,' were sentiments many, many of the officers and men of the largely southern and largely rural corps shared fully.