A State of Disobedience

by Tom Kratman

  "What about our other states' National Guards?"

  "Willi . . . do you trust them? I mean, do you really? You call up the Guard—which does have some other heavy forces—and you might find you're just reinforcing Texas."

  Again McCreavy let out a deep sigh. "Willi . . . I am sorry but some of those states, especially those around Texas, hate you and everything you stand for. If you push, Louisiana, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Arizona . . . maybe the whole deep south and quite a bit of the Midwest might 'just say no'." Remember that red and blue map from the elections in 2000? Well, imagine the red portion in outright rebellion. It could be that bad. If you push them into it we could face a real war, and we could lose it. I can't answer for that. I won't.

  "What I have done, with the Third Corps based at Fort Hood in Texas, is to put them on alert. I have also told them to prepare to withdraw, in case you agree with me that they ought to be withdrawn."

  "Withdrawn? Why?"

  "Willi, I have spoken with Bennigsen, the commander of Third Corps. He says the propaganda coming out of Texas' governor's office is beginning to have an effect on his entire command. He says his men are 'pissed' at what happened at the mission."

  * * *

  Fort Hood, Texas

  Colonel (P) (for the army designated colonels who were selected to become brigadier generals as such; "P" for "promotable") Joseph E. Hanstadt took one final look at his computer monitor, sighed, punched his intercom, and called for his secretary.

  "Emily, set me up an appointment with the boss for sometime today, would you?"

  Without waiting for an answer, Hanstadt clicked off the intercom then turned back to his computer monitor. He stared blankly at the screen for several minutes, looking at—but no longer quite seeing—scenes of atrocity.

  Forcing his eyes away, arising from his desk, Hanstadt clutched his beret in one hand. A grimace of distaste at what he called "this headgear with too many moving parts" briefly clouded his features. Walking around the oversized desk—there were a few benefits to being the Third Corps G-4, or quartermaster—Hanstadt took several steps to reach his office door.

  He looked directly at his secretary, whose finger even now pressed the redial button on her own phone, and said, "Emily, if the boss will see me this afternoon that will be fine. If he needs me sooner, or will see me sooner, or you need me, I'll be at the chapel. And I'll leave my cell phone on." Again, Hanstadt grimaced with distaste, this time at the phone attached to his belt under his mottled uniform jacket. I hate those fucking things, he thought.

  Hanstadt made a gimme motion at his driver, who obediently reached into his pocket and turned over the keys to the G-4 vehicle. Then, wordlessly, the colonel left the headquarters by the staff door.

  The drive to the post chapel was short. Formations of troops passed here and there, marching to their duties. Preoccupied, Hanstadt barely acknowledged their presence.

  At the post chapel he parked his Army issue car, a not-too-ancient GM sedan. He could have had a new one—being G-4 had other perks too—but had settled for something a bit more worn in the interests of economy. Others sometimes laughed. That was Hanstadt; skinflint cheap wherever he could save the Army and country he loved a few dollars.

  There was neither priest nor minister nor rabbi nor imam at the chapel. Hanstadt entered to a lonely space packed with benches. If not so dreary—being multi-denominational—as a Catholic church might have been, neither was it so bright and airy as a typical Protestant one.

  But it was multidenominational. Therefore Hanstadt found padded knee rests—just as if it were Catholic or Anglican—before the altar. He took off his "headgear with too many moving parts," walked forward, knelt before his God, cupped his hands around his face, and began to pray for guidance.

  * * *

  Greenville, Texas

  "The guidance is that we have to do it, if it can be done at all, without hurting anybody. Not so much as a scratch."

  "Shit, Jimbo," drawled Davis to James. "No way. I mean there's going to be some risk anyway." Davis shook his head repeatedly while staring at the map on the table between them.

  "Then I'll have to report to higher that it can't be done. Shit. The general said this was 'important. The most critical mission of all.' " A knock came from the door frame.

  "Excuse me, sirs," interjected an eavesdropping Pendergast. "But there's maybe a solution to that problem."

  "Go ahead, Top."

  Pendergast tucked his thumbs up under his shoulder harness, leaned over, and spit some tobacco juice into a trashcan. "Well . . . you see . . . this here company is made up of about a third cops. Third platoon is nearer to half. Now sure, those guards at the mint in Fort Worth are likely to panic if they see a couple of hundred armed men rolling up on them. If they see heavy armor they will for sure. But cops? Nice friendly cops? In patrol cars? Come to help them out of a bad situation; maybe a bomb threat or something? No way. They'll let us in right quick. And then we have them. And then we bring up the rest of the boys." Pendergast's broad, triumphant smile lit the room, igniting equal smiles in Davis, James and Williams.

  Said Williams, "Did I ever mention, First Sergeant, that you have a nasty wicked mind? I admire that. For a truth I do. Why don't you send the boys to pick up their uniforms and squad cars?"

  * * *

  Main Chapel, Fort Hood, Texas

  I have worn this uniform so long, Lord, that I do not see how I could ever fit in without it. But I have seen my country change, Lord, in ways that make me not want to wear its uniform any more. Please help me decide. Please.

  Deep in prayer, Hanstadt barely startled when he felt the press of a hand on his shoulder. He recognized the press immediately. Funny how the old bastard can still sneak up on me.

  "Hello, Bob," said Hanstadt, without arising. God outranked even a three-star.

  "Emily said I might find you here, Joe."

  Hanstadt shrugged. "And so you have. What can I do for you?"

  "Joe, you have never been much of a churchgoer. What brings you here now?"

  Hanstadt shook his head with a sigh. He had reached a decision but that decision had not come easily, or without regrets. "I'm punching out, Bob. Putting in my papers."

  "Retiring? In Heaven's name, why? You have a bright future ahead of you still."

  "Retiring or resigning, whatever it takes. I'd prefer to retire."

  "Is it this thing that happened at the mission?"

  Closing his eyes, Hanstadt rocked his head in affirmation. "It's got to stop somewhere, Bob."

  It was now Bennigsen's turn to nod. "Well . . . yes . . . it has. But what can you or I do? We're just old horse soldiers. We do our jobs."

  "Not with me, Bob. Never again with me. I have had it."

  "But I need you, Joe. We have an order from the chief—"

  "That twat!" interjected Hanstadt. "She sucked her way into three stars then ate Rottemeyer to get a fourth."

  "Well . . . yes . . . that one," conceded Bennigsen. "But my orders are to prepare to pull the Corps out of Texas. How the hell am I supposed to do that without my G-4?"

  "My shop's got some good people, Bob. Most of 'em will stay."

  "And what are you going to do with yourself, Joe?"

  Hanstadt grinned broadly. "It does occur that General Schmidt might have a use for my . . . um . . . talents. And, who knows? Maybe someone with a foot in both camps might turn out to be useful to the country."

  * * *

  Western Currency Facility, Bureau of Engraving, Fort Worth, Texas

  It was early day with the sun just beginning to peek over the trees in the east. A plainclothed Schmidt and a uniformed Pendergast exchanged bright smiles as a horde of workers almost flew from every entrance to the WCF.

  "I knew it would work, sir. One little bomb threat and they are scurrying, guards and all."

  "Top, you told them it was an anthrax bomb. That's not little."

  The first sergeant shrugged. "So I lied? Fuck 'em . . . sir."r />
  Schmidt said nothing further as he strained his ears for the expected sound. Soon enough—mere minutes, actually—it came; a horde of sirens from every direction. Almost instantly the area around the WCF seemed filled with police cars, forcing their way slowly through the mass of displaced workers. There were Fort Worth Police; Dallas, too. Along came county sheriffs, a bomb squad, and even a few EMS ambulances. Every vehicle carried members of Company A, 144th Infantry.

  Down on the street by the main entrance Captain James—in a borrowed Fort Worth Police uniform—spoke into a microphone in "his" squad car. "Attention. Attention. This is a police emergency. Clear away from the building. Clear away from the building. Uniformed officers will assist you. Report to the nearest uniformed officer. Clear away from the building."

  He took a deep breath, a nervous breath—truth be told, and continued. "All Bureau of Engraving security personnel come to this location. We will need you to help control the workers. I repeat, WCF guards report to this location."

  While James was speaking two more police cars, one from Dallas and another bearing markings of the sheriff's department for the county, pulled up behind him. Four uniformed officers emerged from each.

  Even as the police vehicles rolled to a stop uniformed and a few plainclothed guards from the Mint began gravitating toward James' car. Climbing to the roof, he spoke to them calmly, much more calmly than he felt, while waiting for the rest to arrive.

  From over the police radio came the code word "Avalanche," repeated several times: the guards to the side with the rounded extension were under control. James nodded with satisfaction.

  "Was anyone left behind in the building?" James asked.

  "No, sir," said an elderly, potbellied guard, looking up. "We have procedures for this." The guard looked around, counting heads. "Everyone's here, sir."

  James heard the police radio sound, in turn, "Typhoon" and "Hurricane." The guards to the other sides were secured.

  "Very good," said James, mostly to himself. His head gave a slight nod in the direction of the eleven "policemen" around him. Instantly eleven guns were drawn from eleven holsters.

  "Gentlemen," said James to the assembled guards, "I invite and require you to surrender in the name of liberty, Texas, and—God bless her!—Governor Juanita Seguin."

  Three or four guards looked as if they might resist, glaring up at James. Yet, in the main, most of them were as annoyed with Washington as anyone in the state, or perhaps even more so. Glancing around at their fellows who were obviously pleased, those guards who might have resisted decided that discretion was, after all, the better part of valor.

  As the guards dropped their pistols, the Fort Worth Bomb Squad, also known as Second Squad, Third Platoon, A Company, entered the building.

  Washington, DC

  "That bitch has done what?"

  Vega was as furious as her President. Her rage punctuated every syllable she spoke. "She did it, Willi. Her bastards took over the Western Currency Facility in Fort Worth. And they did it without a shot being fired. Reports are still . . . umm . . . fragmentary. But there's no doubt they've taken over the building."

  McCreavy burst into the Oval Office. "Willi, we have a situation here. Fort Hood, Fort Bliss and even Fort Sam Houston, in San Antonio, are being surrounded by fully armed units of the Texas National Guard. They moved soldiers up in private vehicles while half our troops were leaving for home after their morning physical training. Then they came out, arrested the MPs at the gates and declared the posts closed. Heavy forces are moving up to reinforce the ones who came first."

  Vega's cell phone began to ring. She answered it, flashing Rottemeyer a semi-apologetic look. As she listened her face visibly whitened. "My God," was all she could manage to say in return.

  As Vega disconnected her phone, she turned uncomprehending eyes at Rottemeyer. "I don't understand, Willi. It isn't supposed to be like this."

  "For God's sake what has happened, Jesse?"

  "They're arresting all of our people down there. Everyone. EPA. Surgeon General's Office. IRS. FBI. U.S. Attorneys. Everyone."

  Again Vega's cellphone buzzed. Her face grew yet more ashen. "Willi . . . the two senators from Texas . . . and they apparently have some support from elsewhere . . . have introduced a motion in the Senate to ask the House of Representatives to impeach you."

  * * *

  Austin, Texas

  Sweating despite the season, a remarkably animated and excited Nagy spoke into a telephone in the governor's office. "That's right, Captain. I want every federal agent in the state under arrest before tomorrow morning. Every single one of them. No, I don't care about charging them, not yet. Just get them behind some wire. What if some escape? Right . . . good question. Let me think . . . ummm . . . okay, just let them go. The important thing is to restrict their freedom here. If they are in Oklahoma, there's not much they can do in Texas."

  All around the office couriers walked briskly to and fro, bringing news of accomplishments, and occasional setbacks. One such placed a file folder in front of the governor. Busy preparing to address the state legislature, the governor simply shrugged and said, "Later."

  Outside of the governor's office, the air at the capitol building was tense beyond anything known in the history of Texas since they had fought for independence from Mexico in the 1830s. Even secession in 1861 had not brought with it the sense of sheer imminence that the Seguin government's moves had. Then, like many in the seceding Southlands, Texans had thought their successful secession a "sure thing," an accomplished fact. That illusion had been blasted in the American Civil War. Now, however, few maintained any illusions that reasserting a measure of state sovereignty was more than a forlorn hope. Yet, each man and woman asked themselves, "What else can we do but try?"

  Still preparing her speech, the governor continued to pay little notice to the comings and goings of those around her. An occasional voice called out the name of an arrestee, which name the governor subconsciously filed away.

  One name, however, did get her attention. Juanita heard, "San Antonio City Police caught Harold Forsythe trying to get a flight out of the state in company with his 'legal advisor.' Our erstwhile 'Commissioner for the State of Texas' was dressed in drag. 'Kind of tastefully,' " said the arresting officer. At the name, Forsythe, Juanita immediately took notice.

  Even as Nagy said, "Put the shark and the Kommissar on the flight," Juanita countermanded, "That one, Forsythe, I want brought to me. Before we let him go I want to give him a message."

  At that moment Schmidt, returned from Fort Worth by helicopter, burst in. "We've got it, Juani, we've got it."

  The room erupted in cheers.

  "We took it intact, too. Everything we need for months of operation: presses, paper, ink; the works! A bunch of the folks that work there—most of them, in fact—agreed to stay on provided we paid them their regular wage."

  Ralph Minden spoke up, "That's a weapon in our hands, Governor. Whatever Washington decides to do, they'll do it with the specters of runaway inflation or economic stagnation looking over their shoulders."

  Schmidt added, "It'll pay for a better defense, too, Juani, if and when we actually have to fight."

  Juanita shrugged. "We agreed, Jack, that if we fight, we lose. Leaving aside the economic consequences, if Rottemeyer wins, a President who fought and won on her own authority, this country will be in a lockdown like we have never even had nightmares about."

  "Sure Juani, we agreed. Even I agree. But if nothing else we have planned works, we'll end up fighting anyway. I'd rather do it better armed than worse."

  Juanita didn't answer. She had every intention of ordering her own forces to lay down their arms before it came to fighting if that was the only way to end things short of bloodshed. Of course, she didn't intend to tell anyone that.

  "Fine, then," she told Schmidt. "What do you need? Where do you think you can get it? What will it cost? And how will we pay?"

  Schmidt, scratching beside h
is nose, answered, "Well . . . with a federal mint to do our purchasing, I don't see a problem with paying," He grinned. A mint couldn't counterfeit the money it printed as a matter of course. "Cost? Hell, we're just starting to figure that out. We've got a fair number of people, tens of thousands really, flocking to join us. A lot of them have guns they buried when Washington started taxing them so heavily. But even there, a lot of them, most really, are non-standard. So I would want at least compatible small arms. I imagine we could buy those almost anywhere and ship them through Mexico."