by Tom Kratman
There was silence in reply. The helicopter pilot imagined a brief conversation on the pilots' own push. Then came the hoped for, "Maintain course, speed and altitude. One of us will approach."
* * *
Sperry glanced long and hard to the left as he passed the helicopter on its starboard side. Christ, they don't look much like terrorists to me.
"Jim . . . Jim, I think we've got us the wrong bird."
Beason radioed back to base ops for instructions and was somewhat surprised to hear Vega's voice come over the net.
"That is your target, Captain, that Texas National Guard helicopter. It is stolen United States' property and it is carrying a WMD. Force it to land or shoot it down."
"Ma'am, I can see into the helicopter when I pass it. There's nothing but some people aboard. No pods, no boxes; nothing but some people. It looks to be a legitimate Guard chopper."
"Those people are the weapon, Captain. Contaminated, every one of them. Now are you going to shoot it down or are you going to spend the next fifty years at Fort Leavenworth contemplating the tens of thousands of people you let die of a plague you could have prevented?"
Sperry was not fooled. He had seen the face of one of the occupants. It was a face more or less well known in some circles. Somehow, he thought that face had been praying.
He had a sudden thought . . . What the hell, it might be worth a try. Maybe Vega is ignorant.
"Jim, this is Mike, where the hell did the target go? I lost it in the weeds."
Beason, no fool, answered, "Damfino. I can't see it either."
Vega, not fooled, answered, "Listen carefully you morons. There's nothing below you but sand and rock and dust and a cactus every few miles. You haven't lost anything. Now get that helicopter," she nearly shrieked.
A voice previously unheard answered, "Before y'all do that you might maybe want to consult with us." This, too, was punctuated by a tracer stream, unaimed but plainly visible to Beason and Sperry. They automatically backtracked the flight of the tracers in their minds. Oh shit, another fighter.
"Ummm . . . and you would be?" asked Beason, wrenching around to eyeball another F-16 flying unerringly on his "six." Double shit; there's two of them.
Beason felt the inane urge to giggle over the old joke: "Sir, it's a trap. There's two of them."
"This is Lieutenant Colonel Paul Grayson—my friends call me 'Pablo,' 182 Fighter Squadron out o' Lackland. And—unless either or both you gentlemen want a Sidewinder up yo' ass—then, you suhs, are mah prisoners."
Beason and Sperry did some quick calculation, oh, very quick. They were fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too. The 182, however, was not only composed of instructor pilots—but its pilots were equally fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave . . . and experienced.
"Ah, what the hell, Mike," said Beason. "I'm a Yankee boy who's been claiming Texas as his state of residence for about eight years now. I think we have just been captured."
To Grayson he said, "And, Colonel, I appreciate your restraint."
Another previously unheard voice, this one from the helicopter, quite warmly female if a bit strained and shaky, said, "Welcome home, boys."
* * *
Denton, Texas
"What I want from you, Colonel, is a restrained response."
"Restrained, sir? We're a heavy battalion. That's not very 'restrained,' just in the nature of things."
"Nonetheless, that's what I want. At the first sign of a federal move near or behind you, drop the bridges and run back to the next set. Fight only as a last resort . . . though you can—and I want you to—make them think you are going to fight if you can figure out how to do that."
"Warning shots?"
"Maybe . . . with care . . . if they push too hard. But if you must fire, fire to frighten, not to kill or wound."
"That's one tall goddamned order, general, if you don't mind my saying so."
"There are people who are going to risk as much, colonel, and they won't have tanks to fall back on."
* * *
Las Cruces, New Mexico
The legislature had voted, the people had assembled, the busses had come and gone.
New Mexico was not quite yet ready to join Texas' protest in the way Texas was protesting. Neither was it ready to leave a neighbor in the lurch. "You just don't do that, in the American southwest; you pitch in and help." That was what Governor Garrison had told the Legislature before they voted.
What had they voted for, then? They voted to pay for transportation and food, to pay for their own national guard to set up tents for, and to provide food and water for anyone willing to go to the Army and Marine Corps assembly areas near Las Cruces to protest the coming invasion of Texas. They also cast a vote for the First Amendment, especially with regards to the news media. Lastly, New Mexico had voted to send the bulk of its own national guard, one very fine brigade—the "best by test" in any component of the U.S. Armed Services—of air defense artillery to join Texas' Forty-ninth Armored Division, along with the state's other combat support unit, a battalion of six-inch self-propelled guns.
And as the Air Defense Brigade and artillery had gone, so, answering a freed, and more than a little annoyed, news media, the people had come. Not so many, of course, in any objective sense; New Mexico was not a populous state. Yet there were enough. From Lordburg, from Deming, from Alamogordo and Albuquerque, from Socorro and Santa Fe, they came. They came in numbers enough to block the highways through Las Cruces; to block the flow of fuel and parts and ammunition to the cavalrymen and marines rotting in dusty tent cities between Las Cruces and El Paso.
And those people sat on the roads and would not move.
Normally, of course, the armed forces would have called on the local police authorities to disperse the protesters.
"That's not going to work here," muttered the commander of the Marines. "I don't even want to ask. Hell, the State Police are out there with the protesters, keeping order."
"We could clear them out ourselves, sir," answered an aide. "Or tell the Army to do it."
"No, Johnny. The cavalry colonel has already told me, in so many words, 'Don't ask.' And I don't know what we'll do if the police and the guard open fire. Then too, what will those Texas boys at El Paso do if it does turn nasty?"
"No," the marine sighed. "No. We'll buck this one up to higher."
* * *
Washington, DC
"It's spreading," said McCreavy, simply, to Rottemeyer.
"What's spreading?" asked the President.
"The 'Rebellion,' if you want to call it a rebellion."
Rottemeyer forced a calm into her voice she didn't quite feel, suppressing a shudder in her stomach she very much felt. "What now?"
"New Mexico. The Army and Marine force there is cut off from supply by protesters. The government down there is supporting the protesters, supporting them strongly."
"Define 'strongly.' "
"Transportation. Supply. Housing . . . of a sort. Police protection." McCreavy hesitated slightly, then added, "Military protection, too, though they have ordered most of what they had to Texas."
"And this means to us? To our plans?"
"It means that that force can go to El Paso and maybe a hundred miles beyond. Maybe less; the supply usage factors have hardly been updated since the Second World War and they are probably unrealistically conservative. In any case, when they run out they stop for lack of gas. Then they die for lack of water. The protesters . . . I should say the police . . . are letting enough water and food through now."
Carroll, ashen-faced, added, "It's . . . umm . . . worse than that, Willi. The state has ordered police protection for newspaper editors and other media types. Project Ogilvie is dead in New Mexico . . . dead for now anyway. We're having to beef up efforts in the adjoining states to keep them down."
Carroll gave a rueful and reluctant smile. " 'Course, not all the reporters are being too very brave. The state can't protect all of
them from us; only the major editors, really. So the reporters are, some of 'em, using bylines like 'Spartacus' and 'Frederick Douglass'—I'm pretty sure I know who that one is. He's black, the treacherous, short-sighted bastard."
"Shit. Can we switch some police down to New Mexico to disperse the protesters?"
Vega answered, after a fashion, "Can we? Surely. But what's available? What's available that could do the job? The Surgeon General's Riot Control Police would be . . . umm . . . let's say that faced with armed and organized opposition they would be overtasked. The Presidential Guard could do it. But they're set for a different mission. Willi, I warned you we had to take control of all the law enforcement agencies in the country, to create a true national police. But no, you wouldn't listen."
"I listened, Jesse. But it wasn't yet time for that."
"Sure. Well, maybe that's so. But now it is too late. Do you want the PG's to pull off of the Fort Worth mission and go to New Mexico?"
Rottemeyer turned again to McCreavy. "How quickly can you turn them around once they take the currency facility?"
"And send them to New Mexico? Six hundred miles? A week . . . with luck. It will have to be planned."
"Okay," she told McCreavy. "Start planning."
To Vega she said, "They can take care of New Mexico after they take care of Fort Worth."
* * *
Pickup Zone (PZ) "Treasure," Oklahoma
They had armored vehicles. They had other heavy weapons. They had troops, mostly fairly well-trained for their usual missions. They had a logistic and administrative tail.
What the PGSS lacked was helicopters.
Oh, there were a few somewhat plush command and control jobs available . . . "for the brass," as they say. But as far as moving any substantial number of Treasury agents (for they carefully preserved the fiction that they were merely agents of the public fisc)?
None.
For this, they needed the Army. And the Army duly and dutifully complied by sending down nearly half the 101st aviation group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky, that half being somewhat reinforced by the helicopters of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, at one time known as Task Force 160.
And yet using helicopters is not something that comes naturally to a military organization. True, some of the PGSS had previous military experience working with choppers. And yet many did not. As organizations, none of its battalions had any.
* * *
Austin, Texas
Juanita pointed to the helicopter idling on the pad beneath her office window. "And I told you, Jack, I will never get on one of those things again. No. Not. Ever. Never."
"Oh, Juani, be realistic, would you? You're expected in Fort Worth here shortly. The troops are standing by," Schmidt cajoled.
The governor answered with a grimace, "I know, I know. But, Jack I just can't. I . . . I wet myself when I saw those bullets—'tracers' you called them?—fly by. You have no idea . . ." Suddenly nonplussed, Juani stopped. She knew that Schmidt had a very good idea of what it was like to be in a helicopter someone was shooting at.
Still, no crybaby was Juanita. Even as her lip began to quiver, she admitted, "All right, all right. So you have an idea. But, Jack, I was never so terrified in my life."
Schmidt lifted one inquisitorial eyebrow. "You think those men in the currency facility aren't terrified, too, Juani? But they're there anyway doing what they have to. So now you, Governor, need to do what you have to. In this case that means following me downstairs, getting on that helicopter; closing your eyes and pissing yourself if you have to, to see those men who are going to die for you."
Juani's own eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no. Don't say that. Don't say they're going to die, let alone that they're going to die for me. I can't bear that idea."
"And it won't be any easier after you meet them, I know. But you have to. So come on. Now."
Finally, with reluctance bordering on terror, the governor agreed.
"And don't sweat it so much," said Schmidt. "Security here is pretty good, really. And I've already arranged for escorts going both ways. They may know where you are when we take off. They won't know, generally, where you're going. And on the way back we can take any old route we need to."
* * *
Fort Worth, Texas, Western Currency Facility
"And remember," said Williams, "we have got to pinch off any penetrations before . . ."
Even through the thick brick walls, deep in the bowels of the facility, the steady slashing of the helicopter's rotors could be heard and felt. "It seems the governor and General Schmidt are here, sir," commented Pendergast.
"Fine," answered Williams. "I'll keep the officers here. Could you send a party out to escort them inside, Top?"
"Yessir," agreed Pendergast, turning immediately to leave. "No problem. In fact, I'll go myself."
At the exterior wall the first sergeant slipped through a mousehole broken through the bricks. All the normal doors had been sealed or, in some cases, sealed and booby trapped. Emerging into the pale afternoon daylight on hands and knees, Pendergast arose, brushed some dirt off of his uniform, and hurried to where Schmidt and Governor Seguin waited on the concrete.
Johnston Akers, ever suspicious where the governor's safety was concerned, took one look at the First Sergeant's slung rifle. He then immediately began to draw his pistol.
"None of that, Ranger," commanded Schmidt. "This one's on our side."
Akers considered. Yes, it must be so. He slid the pistol back into its holster and grinned an apology at the first sergeant.
"Indeed I am," answered Pendergast, ignoring the Ranger's previous moves. "And so are we all, here. Governor, General? Will you all be kind enough to follow me? You too, Ranger. You're welcome inside."
* * *
"Watch your head there Governor. It's low and crooked."
"Thank you, First Sergeant. Or can I call you 'Mike'?"
"Mike would do mighty fine, ma'am. Or "Top"; that's what the troops usually call me."
Stifling a small curse at scraped knees, Juanita emerged into a rat maze. What's more, it seemed to her a rat maze designed by psychotic elves on LSD.
Whatever the Western Currency Facility had once looked like—no doubt a more or less regular printing plant with offices, hallways, open spaces—on the inside it resembled this no more. Eyes growing ever wider, Juanita swept the open hall into which the mouse hole led.
"Where are the doors?" she asked Pendergast, since the two leading out had been sealed with barbed wire.
"I'll show you, ma'am." Then Pendergast pushed aside a desk behind which was another mousehole. "We've sealed—blocked anyway—every normal door and crawlspace. Made our own, so to speak."
"But . . . but why?"
The first sergeant smiled. "Governor, it's routine. Even so, the people coming here are bound to have the floor plans for the place. They might even have rehearsed an attack based on those plans. Bound to fu—. . . err—. . . screw 'em up once they get in and find out the plans make no sense anymore."
The governor had a sudden image of a mouse caught in a maze. "Ohh. Yes, I could see that."
Behind Juanita, Schmidt suppressed a slight smile. She's sooo innocent.
"Now if you will follow me, Governor, General, I'll take you on the roundabout tour before we go see Captain Williams."
* * *
"I'm afraid you're going to have to crawl through this one, too, General . . . Governor."
Schmidt, unsurprised at the mass of barbed wire hanging in midair in the corridor, simply got down on his belly and started to crawl. Juanita looked at the great wad of tangled up barbed wire very dubiously.
"No need to worry, ma'am," said Pendergast, pointing at some smooth and thin black wire. "See, it's held up there pretty well."
"But what good is it, Mike, if you can just crawl under it?"
"Well, Governor, we can crawl under it, sure. Then we cut the wires holding it and it drops down. A stone cold bit—. . . err . .
. pain to move. Especially since we'll likely be shooting at anyone that tries."
Schmidt asked, "Shooting, grenading . . . hmm . . . Top, where are your claymores?"
Pendergast thought briefly, tapped a finger against his lower lip, then pointed up at the ceiling tiles. "Two up there, General, plus another at each end of the corridor, buried in the walls."