A state of disobedience

* * *

Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas

From the heavily sandbagged lookout position on the roof, the sun had not yet begun to peek over the horizon. Down below, to an e+ven greater degree, all was plunged in gloom.

The sentry on duty, Fontaine, heard the sound of diesel engines roaring in the darkness. This was nothing new; since the PGSS had been linked up with their LAVs they had made a habit of moving them frequently at night.

The sound Fontaine heard was a little different though; deeper and fuller. He decided to risk a look. Straining his eyes to make out the indistinct silhouettes he concentrated . . .

'Holy shit!'

In a flash Fontaine had ripped the field telephone from its cradle. He began frantically twisting the crank that caused a buzzer on a similar phone deep within the building to come to life.

'Major Williams, here.'

Fontaine exclaimed, with panic straining his voice, 'Holy fucking shit, sir, the PGSS have a battery of self- propelled artillery and they're taking up firing positions across from the south wall now!'

Even as Fontaine replaced the handset on the cradle a blossom of fire erupted from the centermost gun.

* * *

Austin, Texas

As it turned out it was Jack who lost his nerve when the word came. It surprised him; he had never even contemplated the possibility that the impending deaths of not quite a couple of hundred of his men could affect him so. But, with Williams' frantic voice relaying the brick by brick reduction of the Currency Facility—each sentence spoken mis-punctuated by the muffled blasts of artillery, Schmidt had found that political considerations meant less and less.

'It's not too late, Governor,' he'd insisted. 'I can still reroute that battalion to Fort Worth. They might make it in time.'

' 'Might',' echoed the governor. 'And if we did? If we did leave New Mexico in the lurch?'

'Well . . . they'll definitely go under,' the general admitted, his face and tone of voice showing great unwillingness to so admit. 'Probably within a few days. But if we don't save the boys in the Currency Facility they have at most forty-eight hours. I think not that long.'

Juani sat stone-faced, unanswering.

'Or I could send a half dozen sorties of air . . .'

'No,' she cut him off.

Juani looked down at her cluttered desk, deep in thought. When she raised her head it was to explain, 'Jack . . . we have gotten away with as much as we have, in part, because the Air Force is sitting this one out. But if we use our planes they'll feel they have to get involved. And they'll beat us.'

Seeing that Jack was still ready to argue that point she drove it home. 'How many planes do we have? Not enough, yes? How much of an . . . What's that term you use? . . . umbrella? How much of an umbrella can you put over us? Not enough, yes? How much of the supplies and equipment you need will you be able to get through Mexico when the Air Force gets involved and is shooting up every convoy that tries to cross the border? Not enough, yes?

'And how, Jack, how are we going to win on our own? If New Mexico goes under then no one, no one, no one else is going to join us.

'And then we lose.

'Now think about what 'lose' means here, Jack. It means that the people who killed my brother, killed your best friend and burnt alive a couple of dozen kids under age twelve get off scot-free. It means that we'll have Wilhelmina Rottemeyer's little spiked heels on our necks forever.'

Juani paused briefly. 'No, I take that back. 'We' won't because 'we' will be dead.'

' 'Lose,' ' she continued, 'means that the constitution as we know it will also be dead, dead, dead beyond hope of recovery. It means that our kids and grandkids will grow up learning the party line and nothing else. It means that our economy is going to be trashed by a cabal of people least well suited to running an economy.'

' 'Lose' means the end of the fucking world, Jack.'

If he was shocked by the vulgarity, Schmidt didn't show a sign of it. He said, 'Then I guess we had better not lose, Governor.'

* * *

U.S. Highway 285, New Mexico

Tripp coughed a little as he was enveloped by a cloud of dust from a rolling, blacked-out tank. He thought abstractly about perhaps ducking down and buttoning up his own armored vehicle. It would save him from the dust, somewhat, but—dammit—he wanted to see his battalion as it launched itself forward.

Not that he could see much. Not only were the vehicles blacked out but he had spaced them over a very long line of march. He was taking a chance and he knew it, both from the probability of a major accident and the frightful possibility that the Marines to the south would detect his march and beat him to Santa Fe; meeting, fighting and