and spun, ready to kill again.
It was Paul Green, a mechanic at the field.
The two men stood for a moment, looking at each other.
“You played hell, Jim,” Paul finally said. “I heard about Jeanne—I’m sorry.” He looked at the lumps on the grass, gathering dew. “What now, buddy?”
The two men had gone through school together. Jim leveled with him. “I head for Tennessee, to the Park. Might as well tell you, I’ve been part of the Rebels since ‘97.”
Paul smiled in the darkness. “Hell, Jim, everyone in town knew that. You want some company?”
Jim pointed to his private, twin-engined plane. “Let’s get ‘er gassed up and get gone. I got no reason to go home, now.”
EIGHT
In the southwest part of the nation, Colonel Hector Ramos’s Rebels began their search of deserted military bases, looking for weapons. In some bases, the military can be devious in hiding the main armament room, and it takes an ex-military man to find them. Hector knew right where to look.
“Hola!” Rosita Murphy said, stepping down into the coolness of the long corridor, gazing at the long rows of M-16s, M-60 machine guns, and other infantry weapons.
Hector grinned at the small woman. “Nice to know the Irish in you can still be overriden by your mother’s tongue.”
She returned his grin. “My mother made sure I could speak both languages, Colonel. I gather these,” she waved at the rows of arms, “go to Tennessee?”
“You gather correctly.” He looked at the new member in his command. The little green-eyed, Spanish-Irish lady was quite a delightful eyeful. “Ever met General Raines, Rosita?”
“No, sir. But I’m told he is quite a man?”
“He is that, little one.
“He married?”
Hector’s grin widened and his dark eyes sparkled. “No.”
She glanced up at him. “Why are you grinning at me, Colonel?”
He shrugged. “
“Umm,” she replied, as she watched her commanding officer direct the removal of the weapons, most of them still encased in cosmoline, gleaming in grease under the beams of light from heavy lanterns now being placed in the corridor.
Unknowingly, she half turned toward the east, toward Tennessee.
General Bill Hazen, once the CG of the 82nd Airborne, another ranking officer who had seen the senselessness of attacking Tri-States and ordered his men out, stood in the rubble of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, directing the search for weapons, just as he had done at Fort Riley and Schilling AFB. He had encountered very little resistance. And what he had met had been put down brutally by his men, many of whom were paratroopers who had left Tri-States’ battlegrounds with the Old Man, not liking the idea of American fighting American.
When the old base had been searched, General Hazen pointed the truck convoy east, toward Tennessee.
In the east, General Krigel was having a fine old time in his searches for weapons. Krigel had been the first ranking officer to refuse to fight in Tri-States.
The commander of the federal forces, Major General Paul Como, stood listening to Brigadier General Krigel, growing angrier by the second.
“The bridges around the area been cleared?” Como asked. He knew they had not.
Krigel cleared his throat. “No, sir. The Navy SEALs have refused to go in. They say they won’t fight against fellow Americans. Some of the people in Tri-States were SEALs.”
“I don’t give a goddamn what they
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I would sure hate to be the person who tried that.”
Como ignored that, fighting to keep his anger under control. He glanced at his watch. “All right, then—the hell with the SEALs. Get the Airborne dropped. It’s past time. What’s the hangup?”
“The drop zones have not been laid out.”
“What!”
“Sir, the Pathfinders went in last night, but they all deserted and joined the Rebels. To a man.”
“They refused to lay out the DZs. Sir, they said they won’t fight fellow Americans, and anyone who would is a traitor.”
“Goddamnit!” Como yelled. He pointed a finger at Krigel. “You get the Airborne up and dropped. Start and push—right now. You get those fucking Rangers spearheading.”
Krigel shifted his jump-booted feet. The moment he had been dreading. “We… have a problem, sir. Quite a number of the residents of the Tri-States… were… ah—”
“Paratroopers, Rangers, Marines, Air Force personnel.” The CG finished it for him. “Wonderful. How many are not going to follow my orders?”
Krigel gave it to him flatly. “About fifty percent of the Airborne have refused to go in. No Rangers, no Green Berets, no SEALs. About thirty percent of the Marines and regular infantry refuse to go in. They said, they’d storm the gates of hell for you, with only a mouthful of spit to fight with, but they say these people are Americans, and they haven’t done anything wrong. They are not criminals.”
The news came as no surprise to General Como. He had discussed this operation with General Russell, during the planning stages, and Como had almost resigned and retired. But General Russell had talked him out of it. Como was not happy with it, but he was a professional soldier, and he had his orders.
Krigel said, “General, this is a civilian problem. It’s not ours. Those people in there are Americans. They just want to be left alone. They are not in collusion with any foreign power, and they are not attempting to overthrow the government. Paul,”—he put his hand on his friend’s shoulder—“I still get sick at my stomach thinking about those Indians. Granted, we didn’t do those things, but we were in command of the men who did—some of them. It was wrong, and we should have been men enough to have those responsible for those… acts shot!”
General Como felt his guts churn; his breakfast lay heavy and undigested. He knew well what his friend was going through; and Krigel was his friend. Classmates at the Point. But an order was an order.
Como pulled himself erect. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You’re a soldier, General Krigel, and you’ll obey orders, or by God, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?” Krigel snapped, losing his temper. “Goddamn it, Paul, we’re creating another civil war. And you know it. Yes, I’m a soldier, and a damned good one. But by God, I’m an American first. This is a nation of free people, Paul? The hell it is! Those people in the Tri-States may have different ideas, but—”
“No, sir,” Kigel said, a calmness and finality in his voice. “I will not obey that order.” He removed his pistol from leather and handed it to General Como. “I’m through, Paul—that’s it.”
General Como, red-faced and trembling, looked at the .45 in his hand, then backhanded his friend with his other hand. Blood trickled from Krigel’s mouth. Krigel did not move.
Como turned to a sergeant major, who had stood impassively by throughout the exchange between the generals. “Sergeant Major, I want this man placed under arrest. If he attempts to resist, use whatever force is necessary to subdue him. Understood?” He gave the sergeant major Krigel’s .45.
