A State of Disobedience

by Tom Kratman

  * * *

  Father Jorge still felt the beating blades of the gunship hovering somewhere over the chapel. "Come on, finish it," he whispered.

  * * *

  "Please, God, let it be over soon," prayed Josefina. "Please." All the other children were asleep, or unconscious. It was so hot, so unbearably hot in the shelter.

  The little girl had tried to open the door, once she understood that it was get out or roast alive. But the door had been jammed tight. It wouldn't budge, not even an inch. She wanted to weep again. We're trapped here. Oh God, why? Why? What did we ever do to anyone?

  Josefina felt the wall. It was hot, painfully hot, to the touch. With a weak little yelp she drew her hand back, wrapping both arms around the youngest, Elpidia's Pedro. In the girl's arms little Pedro shuddered once, then grew still. "Wake up baby, wake up," she demanded fruitlessly.

  "Oh, Elpi, I'm so sorry. I tried. I really tried."

  Those were the last articulable words Josefina ever spoke, as heat drove her into unconsciousness and far, far too young a death.

  * * *

  Akers didn't relax even when he heard the first tanks and sirens. Not until he saw his own Texas Rangers enter the room did he even begin to think about anything but keeping the director under his muzzle.

  His captain, flanked by a brace of the roughest-looking men in F Company, announced, "Good job, Sergeant. We'll take it from here."

  "Sir? Sir, there's two dozen kids in there."

  "We know. We'll do what we can. But . . ." and the captain thought of the pillar of smoke rising from the compound.

  "Yes, sir." Akers left for a breath of air unpolluted by federales.

  Once outside Akers stood at the door for a minute. Distantly he heard his captain say, "Ms. Friedberg? You are under arrest for violation of Texas Criminal Code, Sections 19.02 and 19.03. . . ."

  The irony of that was lost on Akers for the moment, though he would cherish it into his old age. He was somewhat unsurprised to see tank after tank, track after track pouring into and through the area. He was unsurprised to see scores, hundreds of the President's Elite PGSS and the Surgeon General's special police surrendering as fast as could be.

  He was very surprised to see and hear a single blast from one of the Guard's main guns, followed by the near disintegration of a PGSS LAV that had been attempting to escape.

  * * *

  Schmidt had his helicopter set down in the middle of the smoking compound, despite protestations from his chief pilot. Alighting from the bird with two armed guards, he immediately set out for what he instinctively knew would be his friend's last refuge, the chapel.

  He announced himself, "Jorge? It's me. Jack. It's over; you can come out now. Jorge?"

  No answer. Jack decided to take his chances. Jorge wouldn't shoot him by mistake. Still continuously announcing himself, Schmidt pounded the barred door with his shoulder, only after much effort to be rewarded by a sprung hinge and a—barely open path.

  Inside was a scene from a nightmare. Schmidt knew it was because he had had that very nightmare repeatedly of late. Under the altar rested the remains of Father Flores, whom Schmidt recognized only by his vestments. Not far from there lay Father Montoya, bleeding from a score of wounds. Around him and by the walls lay the boys who had followed their priest into death.

  Schmidt collapsed to his knees, hung his head, and wept for his dead friend.

  * * *

  Even as the ashes of the mission were cooling, the first book—surreptitiously subsidized by the White House—hit the bookstores: Father of Pain: The True Story of the Deadly Fanatic Catholic Fundamentalist Cult of Texas.

  Interlude:

  From: Lone Star Rebellion: A Study in Asymmetric Revolutionary Warfare, Copyright 2078, Colonel Jonathan Hightower, Parameters

  * * *

  From the beginning the governor of Texas was faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem. On the face of it, her state was outnumbered by a factor of about twelve in both economic and population terms. The federal government had de facto, if not de jure, control over the media, thus over what common people thought across the country. That same government was also firmly in the hands of a cabal not merely hostile to Texas and Governor Seguin, but one imbued with a hatred bordering on—in some cases crossing over to—the fanatical. That government also had economic clout never in history equaled, let alone surpassed. And it, with its entire armed force's mustered perhaps twenty to twenty-four times the power of Texas' own National Guard, exclusive of nuclear weapons.

  Moreover, the fronts on which this campaign would come to be waged were varied, amorphous and vast. Texas would have to meet—not necessarily defeat but "meet"—the federal government on no less than seven of these "fronts." These were: economic, military, propaganda, legal, domestic political, Texan political and civil disobedience.

  Only in the last did Texas have any obvious advantage.

  Chapter SEVEN

  From the transcript at trial: Commonwealth of

  Virginia v. Alvin Scheer

  * * *

  DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED

  BY MR. STENNINGS:

  Q. Keep going, Alvin. Tell the judge what you saw and how you felt about it.

  A. I saw the thing on TV. After the fighting was over, you know? When the National Guard and the Department of Public Safety folks started uncovering the bodies? God, it was awful. Poor little charred, shrunken things being lifted up out of that hole in the ground, some alone, some clutching onto one another. One case stuck in my mind; stayed there for weeks. It was a little girl—I think it was a girl but she was so bad it was hard to tell, no hair, clothes turned black—sorta wrapped around what was left of a baby. That one put my wife to throwin' up.

  And one old man, looked like my grandfather from what I remember of him, just standing there, crying and crying.

  Then the TV cut off and we didn't get no more news about the mission for a while. . . .

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  "Shut it off, shut it off for Christ's sake!"

  Obediently, Jesse Vega, the Attorney General for the United States, flicked the President's television away from GNN's live coverage of the mission.

  Willi Rottemeyer stormed and fumed, drumming a small fist furiously against the top of her ornate desk. "How dare those bastards put this on the air? How dare they?"

  Vega put down the remote control and shrugged. "I've already put out the word to shut that broadcast down. And sent a few people to have a little chat with someone in Atlanta who thinks he's important. But there's going to be some fallout from this, Willi. Serious fallout. I think they'll actually try Friedberg. It's Texas, too, so they just might kill her . . . execute her."

  Rottemeyer was completely a political animal. Her mind immediately began sorting out the forms in which that "fallout" might materialize. Nearly as quickly she began reviewing plans to limit it. One such plan involved the expression "sacrificial lamb." Then she thought, no, with Friedberg in Texas Ranger custody I need Vega to get through this. Shit! Who would ever have thought that prissy little wetback twat Seguin would have it in her? Bitch!

  Rottemeyer hit a button on her intercom. "Get me Governor Seguin on the phone." To Vega she said, "Get me my Cabinet."

  * * *

  Austin, Texas

  "It's the President for you, Governor."

  Juanita's mouth made a small moue of distaste . . . and not a little outright loathing. She thought briefly before announcing, "Tell the President that 'The governor is busy with the crisis.' I think she'll understand that."

  Leaning back in a leather conference chair, Schmidt gave off a loud guffaw. Now this is the Juani I almost asked to marry me. Would have too, if it weren't for what happened to her brother. Maybe even then, if she hadn't gone into politics. Well, no matter. She picked a good man and I'm glad for it.

  "It isn't funny, Jack," the governor insisted.

  Schmidt raised an eyebrow. "On the contrary, Governor,
that was the only funny thing about this mess, since it all began."

  "Fine then; funny to you. Me? I want to get my hands on that bitch's neck and squeeze til her eyes pop out. What she did to Jorge? What she did to those kids. She's not my President anymore either, Jack."

  "No?" Schmidt asked, rhetorically. "Well, if we don't do something, and quick, she's going to keep on being our president. And she's not going to stop until she's crushed us like a softboiled egg."

  Silently, Juanita nodded. Then she asked, "But what can we do? Secession? Not a chance, Jack. That silly myth that we alone can legally secede? It's just that, a myth, a legend."

  "No," Schmidt agreed, a mixture of desire and reluctance clouding his voice. "But we have to do something."

  Spanish eyes flashed, dark and determined. "Give Friedberg and her people back? I won't do it. They committed murder of Texans on Texas soil and I am going to see them tried. I am going to think of Jorge and those little kids and I am going to smile when I sign the death warrants."

  Juanita sighed. "But I won't have the chance to do that, will I, Jack? Just as you said, she's going to crush us. She's already moved to cut off our side of the story from the rest of the country."

  Schmidt buried his nose into shallowly cupped hands; thinking, calculating. Okay . . . secession is out. And even if we could do it, why should we give up a weapon in the enemy's camp? How much good might we get out of a filibustering senator? Maybe quite a bit. And if we did it anyway? The rest of the states would have to either join us and split the country or force us back . . . because they can't tolerate having a democratic majority in both houses forever; which losing Texas' votes would cause.

  Hmm. What's left?

  Schmidt suddenly stood up and walked to the phone on Juani's desk. Muttering, "There are weapons and then there are weapons," he dialed a number from memory. "Is Stone there?" he demanded. "This is General Schmidt."

  "Major Stone? Look, it's like this. You are called up to serve your state at the governor's order. Moreover, pursuant to section seven of the constitution of the State of Texas the Governor has authority to 'call forth the militia to execute the laws of the state, to suppress insurrections, repel invasion, protect the frontier from hostile incursions by Indians and other predatory bands.' It's that 'predatory band' provision that concerns you. So you're called up and all your techno-geeks are called up too, the male ones anyway. Tell the women we'll pay 'em National Guard rates if they volunteer, but we can't make 'em take the deal."

  "Calm down, Stone. We're not sending you to the Mexican border. But there are some scenes that the television stations, notably GNN, are refusing to carry. . . . Yes, that's right, from the Mission. I want them going out over the Internet, continuously. Can you do that? . . . Good. Get hopping major." Schmidt hung up the phone.

  "What the hell are you doing, Jack?"

  "First and second steps, Juani. Seize the moral high ground and blind the bastards. Stone runs one of the major Internet nodes in the country, right here in Austin. Good man, for all that he's a dumb ass tanker in the Guard. We'll get our story out; for a while anyway. And the only way for them to stop us is to cut off communication between Texas and the rest."

  "But that's all we can do for now, that and do some planning. I think you need your cabinet on this one, Juani. The cabinet and maybe a few legislators too."

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  McCreavy was at something of a loss. Yes, she was Chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Yes, she was an honest to God four star general with the promise from her President of a nearly unique fifth star soon to be forthcoming. Yes, she was very smart, very insightful. "An Intelligence Officer of rare promise." So a general had written of young Second Lieutenant McCreavy.

  What she was not, was a combat soldier. Comfortable with maps, with statistical analyses, with reports of doings from across the world; she was most uncomfortable with real conflict and decidedly uncomfortable with real people. "My battalion commander is a posturing simpleton with no better idea of how to lead than to threaten my sergeants with relief to cover her own mistakes and failings." So had a young captain written, many years after the general, and with greater—albeit not complete—truth. The real truth lay somewhere in the middle.

  Sadly, the system being the system, the captain's comments never made it into McCreavy's file whereas the general's did.

  Still, McCreavy was the best Rottemeyer had in a case like this. And if not so wonderful as the general had made her out to be, neither was she so wretched as the captain's words would indicate.

  And she did have a fairly complete military education.

  "Militarily we can take them, Willi, but you'll have to pull troops in from all over the country. We might have to abandon some . . . ummm . . . outposts too."

  "Outposts?"

  McCreavy looked up before answering. "Overseas outposts. We might need them."

  Continuing, she said, "Texas has about a division and a bit more. But it's a heavy division. Tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, that sort of thing. We don't really have any forces like that left in the Regular Army or Marines within the United States. Everything was lightened years ago to make them more deployable. Only reason the National Guard still has real tanks is that they are always last in line for new equipment. And we have one heavy corps, really just a big division itself, in central Europe."

  "Outposts?" Rottemeyer asked again.

  "Peacekeeping," McCreavy answered, simply.

  "We can't do that," insisted Rottemeyer's Secretary of State. "The world is in very delicate condition right now and if we were seen to be pulling out . . ." He let the words trail off.

  "Worse than that, Willi," chimed in her bald-headed political advisor, John Carroll, speaking in a thick Southern drawl. "A hefty chunk of your support comes from people who want us involved in solving the world's problems. You abandon them; they might abandon you. I can name at least five senators that could turn if you were to pull out of Somalia and Rwanda alone. Then there're the ones who like having an American battalion between Egypt and Israel. Then, too, you've already lost a couple of people over that damned broadcast that idiot Ted let go out."

  CIA interrupted. "It's still going out. I was waiting for the right time to mention it."

  "What? How?" Rottemeyer demanded. "If that fucking Turn . . ."

  "No, Willi. Internet," CIA interrupted. "Austin is about third in the country for software and computer design. They have their own node right there. They're making available continuous . . . well, call it what it is . . . propaganda to every home and business computer in America."

  "Goddammit this has got to stop!"

  CIA shrugged. "We can stop it. Interfere with it anyway. All we have to do is cut off telephone service to and from Texas. FCC could do it by tomorrow; next day at the latest."

  "Do it," commanded the President.

  Somewhat curiously, though, at least three members of Rottemeyer's Cabinet had marched in protest over Richard Nixon's having bugged George McGovern's campaign headquarters in 1972, had marched in protest over domestic surveillance being conducted by the CIA, not one thought it remotely inappropriate for CIA to be monitoring internal affairs any longer. They were the personification of perceived morality being a function of whose ox was being gored. Nor did any raise a voice in protest over the President's order to cut communications with a large and populous state.

  "Wait," insisted McCreavy. "Can you stop telephone service within Texas? Given the number of cell phones in this country? No? I thought not. Willi, if you cut off external service—land lines and cellular both—we won't have a clue as to what's going on there, we'll lose control of the people we have there, but they'll still be able to plot and plan together. I think you ought to think about this very carefully."

  * * *

  Austin, Texas

  The conference room was crowded and smoky; the governor was of the opinion that a man—or woman—ought to be allowed his vices if it helped
him work better. She herself didn't smoke. She could easily tolerate those, like her husband, who did.

  Schmidt smoked. Under circumstances like these he smoked continuously, big nasty fifty-ring-gauge Churchills. "Well, Governor, militarily I can't promise you much hope. They can't take us quickly, no. But, ultimately, if we're left on our own, they can take us. Then we're stuck with guerilla war; always hard on the people. And no guarantee we could win that, if it came to it."

  Juanita could tolerate the smoke billowing from Jack's nasty Churchill. She didn't have to like it. And she could see some of her other advisors beginning to turn a pale green. "Could you at least hit the damned filter and the fans I had installed so you could indulge your nasty vice?"