A state of disobedience

battalion to Santa Fe . . . if we can.'

'Can?' questioned the governor.

'Between where we have that battalion and Fort Worth there's some cover. There are first class roads. There are towns to hide in. The people are mostly our people or, at worst, neutral. Between where they are now and Santa Fe it's open and mostly flat and they can only hope to make any progress without being spotted and hammered from the air. The people there will probably support us just as our own would . . . but there are a lot fewer of them. No joke, Juani; it's going to be hard.'

'Okay, then. It's a risk. But it's a risk we have to take, yes?'

'I don't know,' answered Jack. 'Garrison's too good a man to let go under. New Mexico's too good a state, too. They supported us—openly—when no one else would.

'But, Juani, the guys in the Currency Facility are good men, too. They're big boys now, all grown up. They know the deal and I'm sure they won't hold any hard feelings.

'Fundamentally, Governor, it's a political decision, not a military one. So it's up to you.'

It's a political decision, Juani echoed in her mind. My decision. No one else can make it for me. 'Do it, then. Tell the boys in Fort Worth I'm so sorry.' And leave me with my guilt.

* * *

Washington, DC

It is so very much too late for guilt, and I am not big enough for all the guilt I have. I miss old Goldsmith, mused Representative Harry Feldman. Redneck New Mexican or not. He wouldn't have rolled like I have. Maybe I wouldn't have rolled—frame job or not—if he were here to buck me up.

A great wave of self-loathing washed over the New Yorker; a wave compounded of disillusionment, disgust, and despair . . . along with a heavy admixture of serious personal guilt. I have no excuse. I should have known. Ross was right all along, right about the important things anyway.

Feldman gave out a sigh that would have been audible had there been anyone else to hear it. There was not. He had found that he preferred to be alone these days; a rarity in a career politician. It was bad enough that he had to live with his own guilt and grief. Having to hide it from others, to 'put on a happy face,' while he was seething inside? That would have been impossible.

How did we let it get so out of hand? Everything Willi said she wanted to do for this country was right, dammit.

Feldman turned back to his speech notes. Later today he was to put on a speech in the House condemning Texas and New Mexico in no uncertain terms. Those were his orders from the White House.

Maybe—just maybe—I would rather go to prison . . . or would . . . if I weren't a coward. 

* * *

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Governor Garrison pulled back from the narrow window from which he had briefly glanced at the ring of federal agents surrounding the State House. His eyes wandered around the walls of the assembly to where his state police confidently manned positions to repel any assault. The thought, no cowards here, made his chest swell with pride.

He patted the shoulder of the nearest trooper, even now returning to the position he had vacated to give Garrison a quick look. No cowards.

Not only the men manning the state house not cowards; any fear they felt was utterly subsumed in sheer fury; fury and hot hatred. In the seventy-eight year history of the New Mexico State Police, thirty-one troopers had fallen in line of duty by murder or accident. In the thirty-odd minutes between the arrival of the SGRCP at Las Cruces that number had been more than doubled.

Garrison overheard the shotgun-gripping trooper who had resumed his place at the window mutter, sotto voce, 'Come on, you bastards, you miserable murdering fucks. Come on and try us.'

* * *

Pecos, Texas

The commander of the westernmost brigade of the forty-ninth Armored Division, plus both its tank and infantry battalion commanders, looked Schmidt square in the eye, hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and said, 'All Tripp, here,'—he indicated the short and stout infantry battalion commander with the pointing thumb—'can do is try. It's over three hundred and fifty miles to Santa Fe, most of that by U.S. highways, not interstates. Between the company of tanks and the two companies of mech infantry—which is all he has left anyway with one company sitting in Fort Worth—he'll be lucky to arrive with more than about two companies. The rest will be strung out behind him and might or might not join him later. At that it will take him about a day to get there. And that assumes that we don't meet any opposition on the ground or from the air.'

The colonel continued, 'We've had a couple of guys from the Marines and the Third ACR come over to us. They indicate that the supply status is still pretty poor. But they could rape the rest of their formation to field a force big enough to stop us and they can move faster in their LAVs, across a shorter distance, to block us. If they use helicopters, there's no question they can beat us there. If they beat us there, there's no question they can stop us before we get to New Mexico's state house.'

'There's a way . . .' The brigade commander hesitated.

'Go on,' encouraged Schmidt.