Schmidt read aloud, ' 'To the people of Texas and to all Americans: We are besieged by over seven thousand federal troops; none of them, so far as we can tell, of the United States Army or Marine Corps. We are under continuous sniper and machine-gun fire, though casualties—so far—have been light.
' 'We will never surrender or retreat. If there are neither reinforcements nor relief to come to our aid we will still never surrender or retreat. If the enemy assault us, we will still never surrender or retreat and will, by God's grace, exact a terrible price for every forward step they may attempt. Hurrah for Texas and hurrah for Governor Seguin.' '
'I
* * *
Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas
Every time Sawyers looked at the building he liked what he saw less and less. Open, no cover, clear fields of fire from positions inside he couldn't see much less hope to effectively engage. He had a battalion's worth of armored vehicles now—and didn't the army bitch over the costs in fuel of getting them here? But as to whether that would help or just give the guardsmen inside more profitable targets for the antitank weapons he was certain that they had . . . well, he just didn't know.
All in all he had misjudged the defenders very badly to date. Worse, he knew he had. He had never imagined that the Texans would attack to relieve that miserable old priest's mission. He had assumed that—faced with the prospect of a real attack to take back the Western Currency Facility—respect for the law would cause them to fold. Even when they had answered his demand for surrender with a defiant, and remarkably well-placed shot, he had still assumed that a real attack would break them.
He'd been so very wrong. And his men had paid the price for it.
Sawyers, it was fair to say, had suffered something of a crisis of confidence.
He had asked for air support; a couple of fighters to drop a couple of large bombs each. He'd asked and been told, in no uncertain terms, 'No.'
His superior at Treasury had explained, a bit. 'No, the President has outright refused to drop bombs on American soil. Bad PR, you know.'
Sawyers didn't buy it. He'd gone over her head to her boss. Similar story.
He'd pressed. Finally, it came out. 'Commander, you can't have any air support because we do not trust them not to drop the bombs on you before flying off to San Antonio to join the Texans. It's not on the news but there have been a couple of cases of that; pilots stealing their planes and defecting. More of the bastards are faking sick to avoid flying, and the President is furious about that too. Unfortunately, she can't do much. So you're on your own.'
* * *
El Paso, Texas
The fires were out at least. That much Fulton could be thankful for. There was still a godawful stench from Juarez, when the wind was just right, or just wrong. But over that the Marine Corps had no control.
Fulton made his headquarters in a now abandoned restaurant just off of Interstate 10. There, at least, he didn't have to see the sullen bitter looks the people of El Paso cast at him and his Marines.
There came a knock on his door that Fulton answered with, 'Enter.'
'Sir, Corporal Mendez reports.'
Fulton, the commander of the 1st Marine Division returned the corporal's salute and then spent a few seconds studying him. He saw the beginnings of a paunch, but that was nothing unusual in a reservist. The salute had been snappy. The driver's uniform was as clean as circumstances allowed. In all, the kid made a favorable impression.
'Relax, son. The G-4 told me I ought to see you; that you had something important to say. So spill it.'
Mendez didn't relax, not quite. Instead he assumed a stiff parade rest, eyes focused somewhere above and about one thousand yards past the general's back. He kept that position, and that focus, while relating every detail he could recall about the actions of the Surgeon General's police at Las Cruces, New Mexico.
Fulton's face kept a neutral expression throughout. When Mendez finished he asked a few questions, made a few notes on a yellow pad.
Finally he asked, 'So what do you think we should do about it, Corporal?'
Mendez looked directly at Fulton for the first time since entering his office. 'Sir, I wouldn't presume to tell the General . . .'
Fulton wriggled his fingers, dismissing the difference in rank. Still Mendez remained silent.
Ohh, thought the general, suddenly understanding. He's afraid to tell me because if he told me what he was thinking it could be construed as mutiny.
'Let me rephrase that question, Corporal. Are you happy to be here, with us, on this operation.'
'No, sir,' Mendez answered without a moment's hesitation.
'I see. Let me ask another one. Who do you hope wins this little confrontation?'
Mendez did hesitate over answering that one. He didn't know much about military law and wasn't certain he should answer it.
'Scout's honor, Corporal. Nothing you say is going out of this room.'
