A State of Disobedience

by Tom Kratman

  "Just let me know when the last of them is across," reminded Bernoulli.

  "You'll be able to see yourself; two tanks, four tracks, each with a big white star painted on front."

  Ahead, from the north, came the sound of a 120mm cannon firing, distance and distortion making it seem more like natural thunder. The captain picked up a microphone and listened briefly.

  To Bernoulli, he announced, "That was just a warning shot, nobody hit. My boys said the Corps was pushing them a little hard and they needed some breathing space. The point of the Corps is deploying now. We should get a few extra minutes."

  "Just get them over the bridge before the Corps shows up, sir, preferably with a few minutes to spare in case something goes wrong."

  After some short time had passed the pair heard, faintly, the roar of the Bradleys' diesels. They were still too far away to pick up the quiet whine of the tanks' turbines.

  "There they are," announced the captain, pointing at the small column of six armored vehicles racing towards them.

  Feeling a lump grow in his throat, Bernoulli nodded while affixing one wire to a post on his detonator. With hands trembling slightly he attached the second wire. I guess this is really it.

  "Please tell your men to hurry, sir," Bernoulli advised.

  "Yeah, I know, 'restrained response.' We don't want to have to blow up the bridge with a hundred guys from Third Corps on it when we do."

  "No, sir. Though if I have to . . ." Bernoulli left the thought unspoken. If I have to, I'm not sure I can.

  The small covering force reached the bridge then. They were close enough, and the engines racing fast enough, that Bernoulli could just make out the turbines' whining under the diesels' throbbing. Then he felt through his legs the slight tremors as three hundred tons of steel moved, and moved fast, across the bridge.

  "It's on you, now, bubba," the captain announced as the last of his vehicles passed Bernoulli's command post. "Should we take cover?"

  Distantly, Bernoulli answered, "Not necessary. The bridge will blow, mostly, down."

  "Best do it then."

  "Yes, sir." Bernoulli clutched both hands to his chest, the detonator between them. He clutched and then, unaccountably, froze.

  "Lieutenant? Are you going to blow it or not?"

  Bernoulli remained frozen. Am I going to "blow it"?

  Across the river, a few miles away up the highway, the first of Third Corps LAVs, Light Armored Vehicles, made an abrupt appearance.

  Ohh, shit. Bernoulli steeled himself. He set his jaw in a tight grimace. Then he closed his eyes and forced his hands together.

  * * *

  "Wow! Oh, my God! Holy fucking shit, that was fucking great!" The captain jumped up and down, in plain sight, shouting praise and waving two upright fingers in the general direction of the LAVs massing on the other side of the river. "Son, you done good," he continued, pounding Bernoulli on the back with exuberance.

  "I went to college to learn to build bridges, sir, not to blow them up," answered Bernoulli, trying to retain his dignity under the pounding. With one hand he dusted from his uniform fine concrete from the shattered and sundered bridge.

  With a last look at the Trinity River, now boasting a set of rapids it had never had before, Bernoulli recovered his detonator, got in his Hummer, and drove south.

  * * *

  Beaumont, Texas

  The Trinity River flowed generally north to south, passing between Houston and Beaumont before spilling itself into the Gulf of Mexico. East of that river, east also of Beaumont, ran a series of creeks, rivers, and bayous. Most of these were too swift, too deep, too muddy, or had too insubstantial a set of banks for easy fording.

  A LAV would float and even, after a fashion, swim. It took some preparation and, even so, water was not precisely the LAVs optimum environment. The Marines of the 2nd Division had LAVs, of course, as did the Army's 3rd Infantry Division, both moving quickly westward towards their final objective, Houston.

  But the Marines had more than LAVs; they had AMTRACs, Amphibious Tractors. And the AMTRACs' optimum environment was the water.

  Thus, while a mixed company of Texas Guard infantry and tanks, reinforced by some air defense, was enough to prevent a helicopter insertion to seize a bridge—as it had been up north—it was not enough to stop the reinforced battalion of Marines, swimming their AMTRACs, that crossed Cypress Creek between Deweyville and Orange, then fanned out to seize—without a shot being fired—not one but four bridges, along with their engineer defenders. The engineers, like the rest, had been under orders not to shoot.

  In panic and despair, the covering force raced back toward Beaumont and even farther westward. Sadly, they did so without so much as a single detonator to blow the bridge over the Trinity River where it was crossed by I-10.

  The road to Houston was open . . . and in less than a day.

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  "Hah!" exclaimed a jubilant Wilhelmina Rottemeyer when she was given the news. "Hah!" she repeated, "let's see that wetback wench stop us now! And her precious national guard is running like scared rabbits. Maybe we took all this too seriously."

  "They're not running, Madam President," corrected McCreavy. "They're under orders not to shoot to kill; to warn and withdraw. I'm actually kind of amazed that they're following those orders, to tell the truth. It requires a level of discipline somewhat higher than one would expect in a reserve formation."

  "Bah," answered Rottemeyer with a contemptuous snort. "They're folding, crumbling."

  Exasperated, McCreavy ran fingers through close cropped hair. "I don't know how to make you see this . . . but they're really not. All my commanders report the same. Professionally prepared demolitions, in the hands of people willing to use them, covered by forces that buy them some time and then withdraw . . . rather well, too. And we took some prisoners from the Texans. . . ."

  "I want those men to put on trial," insisted Vega.

  McCreavy ignored her. "We took some prisoners," she repeated. "They—the ones who would talk anyway—insist that their orders not to shoot are temporary and that at some point Texas will fight. They likely would have fought along the Colorado River and the Balcones Escarpment. But with things having swung our way faster than they might have liked or anticipated, my guess is that they might fight to hold Houston. And that would eat the 2nd Marine and 3rd Infantry Divisions alive. We need to approach that city very carefully."

  * * *

  Austin, Texas

  "It's disaster," admitted Schmidt. "No other word will do."

  "What can we do about it?" asked Juanita.

  "Fight? I can move a brigade from the State Defense Force into the western parts of the city. I can reinforce them with a couple of battalions of mech infantry and even a few tanks."

  "But you said the State Defense Force was mostly untrained."

  "So they are, Governor, about half trained. But they're more like completely untrained for city fighting. They're not too badly trained—provided they have some help—in defending the fortifications we have thrown up. And the heavy troops aren't the most suitable for a city either. I asked if you wanted me to 'fight.' I didn't say I could 'win.' But this is so bad . . . Juani I have got to fight."

  "You will not fight, General," insisted the governor.

  Though old and waning in strength, Victor Charlesworth had become something of an unofficial member of the Governor's Cabinet. In his best patriarchal voice he said, "I will go. I will fight them . . . my way."

  Schmidt didn't answer immediately. He took a long and very hard look at the old actor, seeking the strength, resolve and inner fire the man had once epitomized so well that even through the medium of cellulose it had shone across a million screens.

  Deciding, Schmidt asked, "What will you need?"

  Charlesworth considered. "Some way to tape a message before I leave. Maybe a helicopter to bring me into the city. A public address set and someone to man it. Some air time for you to s
end the message after I get there. Maybe a couple of policemen for escort so that when they take me it will be very noticeable. Can you do that?"

  "Helicopter's no problem. You can use mine," Schmidt offered. "I think we can set up the PA set, taping and air time, too."

  Nagy added, "I can spare a couple of my Rangers. Good men."

  "I know," grinned Charlesworth. "I've played them."

  "But Mr. Charlesworth," Schmidt cautioned, "this is not acting. If . . . no, when they take you the feds will not be playing roles. They're going to hurt you."

  "I'm an old man, General. I've lived my life and—I tell you—it's been a good one. Now? What else do I have to look forward to? Hurt me? I'm counting on it, General." The old actor smiled with anticipation.

  Juanita's stomach lurched as she realized there was one more person who needed to accompany Charlesworth. Mario is going to be so unhappy. . . .

  * * *

  Las Cruces, New Mexico

  "Hurt 'em," insisted the white-uniformed, riot-armored leader of the Surgeon General's special police. "That's the only thing these people will understand: physical pain. We'll probably be needed somewhere else soon enough. That pain will stick in their minds and keep them from blocking this road any more."

  Grimly, the men and women around the speaker nodded their agreement. They didn't salute; that was for the military types. But they went back to their units with an approximately military determination to accomplish their mission, to inflict all the pain these demonstrators could handle.

  A whistle blew. The first company of police began marching south down the highway towards the mass of wide-eyed, apparently very frightened people who awaited them. In time with half-stamped left feet came the steady thwap-thwap-thwap of riot batons striking the faces of polycarbonate riot shields. The growing sound added to the growing fright of the people in the crowd as they looked north at the mass descending on them.

  At a distance of a few hundred meters, the leader of that first company began to speak into a microphone. His message was not directed towards the demonstrators, but to his own police officers. "Form skirmish line." With clocklike precision the SGRCP began fanning out at the double, forming a line that faced south as it stretched east and west across the north-south highway.

  A uniformed Marine reservist, sitting dejectedly atop a pile of ammunition crates next to a large olive drab painted van, was astonished at the clockwork precision of the SGRCP as they formed a double line of club-and shield-bearing skirmishers, in front, rifle-carrying men and women behind.

  "Motherfuckers must train all the time," he muttered.

  From his pile of wooden crates, the reservist saw a recognized face emerge from the civilian crowd, Trooper Peters.

  Peters, too, had a PA set. Without having been addressed he announced his name and informed the SGRCP that, "These people have a lawful permit to assemble. They are here at the behest of the Government of New Mexico. They have a right to be here and the New Mexico State Police will defend that right."

  On line with Peters, and between the SGRCP and the crowd, a dozen troopers, about half and half armed with pistols and shotguns, began to form their own line.

  This time the leader of the RCP did address somebody other than his own people. "I have instructions from the highest levels on dealing with unlawful interference by local authorities. I direct the New Mexico State Police, and any other agencies of the New Mexico State Government, likewise to disperse . . . or you will be fired upon."

  The leader turned around, ordering, "Front rank; kneel. Rear rank; take aim."

  Peters, and the troopers with him, merely stood grasping their own puny weapons the more tightly. He, really none of them, could quite believe that the SGRCP was serious. This was America, for Christ's sake; police didn't fire on police.

  "Fire!"

  Without any obvious hesitation, the second rank of the foremost SGRCP company scythed down Peters and all those men with him. Some of their bullets went past the troopers into the crowd. Men and women screamed, children shrieked, as red blood began to flow onto the black-topped highway before running off to soak into the New Mexico sand.

  "At the double time . . . forward." The RCP began to wade into the crowd, adding to the flowing blood.

  Nearby, a lone, uniformed and highly shocked Marine reservist simply said, "Motherfuckers . . ."

  * * *

  Sanger, Texas

  Clear Creek, just south of Sanger, was not so grand as the Trinity, even though farther from its sources than the Trinity had been. Two bridges—one highway, one railway—spanned it within a few miles of each other. Bernoulli's orders were to prepare both to be dropped and, on the approach of federal forces, to drop them.

  It had been thought that dropping the earlier bridges, those spanning the Trinity, might delay the feds by as much as ten days. In terms of logistics capacity this had proven true; a mass of trucks had been stalled on the Trinity's northern bank, along with many combat vehicles. Others, however, whatever had been supportable by army engineer ferry, crossed quickly. And if the drivers kept a nervous eye on their fuel gauges, still they drove.

  Now, with more federals approaching the Clear Creek bridges, Bernoulli didn't hesitate. A few quick pumps of his detonator, a roll of artificial thunder and a cloud of concrete dust, and the bridges settled into ruin.

  I suppose a new hooker would have felt that way, too, thought Bernoulli as he calmly unhooked the wires from the contact posts of his detonator. The first one's the toughest.

  * * *

  Governor's Mansion, Austin, Texas

  Falling water gurgled in the fountain as Mario and Elpidia walked past. The girl's face seemed less stony, more animated, than usual. These walks had become something of a tradition. At first Elpi had walked alone. Later, Mario had merely sat nearby. Now they walked together, sometimes in silence, sometimes with talk. Today they talked.

  "I hated it, Mario. From the first one to the last I just hated it."

  "Then why . . ."

  "Why did I do it?" asked Elpi. "You're so innocent," she told the older boy, a trace of wistful longing for her own lost innocence in her voice. "I had no education; I had no skills. I had a baby to support." The girl sighed, dreadfully. "It was all I had."

  "Well, I won't judge you or anything you have done, Elpi," said Mario, almost—but not quite—reaching out a hand to stroke the girl's cheek. "And it is all past anyway."

  " 'All past,' " she echoed. " 'All.' Even my baby is dead."

  Sensing tears not far below the surface Mario started to turn towards Elpi; started and, as usual, stopped.

  Elpi continued, "He brought me great difficulty, much hardship. And yet . . . and yet . . . He was my own, my very own, baby. Some people told me to abort him before he was born. But how could I do that? He was my very own flesh."

  "You couldn't, Elpi." Mario considered, then asked, "Elpi, do you think you want to have more babies someday?"

  "I do not know. Why bring more babies into a world that kills them? Why live in a world that will murder babies?"

  "Is that why you agreed to go to Houston? I wish you would not."

  She stopped and this time she reached out a hand to a cheek. "I know. And you're sweet, too, Mario. But your mother asked . . . and then, too . . . what would your uncle have wanted?"

  Houston, Texas

  It was a flashy city, in many ways; a warmer version of multicultural Toronto. Industry, automobiles, the sheer concentration of people there, all combined to foul the air and irritate the eyes and lungs. Tall glass and steel behemoths, the runaway imaginings of modern architecture, hung predatorily over more sedate structures from Houston's not-so-long past.

  Ringed with highways that could not be demolished in time, Houston now found itself ringed in steel as well. Along the ring roads and the feeders, the Army's Third Infantry Division to the north, and the Second Marine Division to the south, swept out in long tentacles to embrace the city.

  There had been
incidents. Schmidt had attempted to bring all those actually eager to fight under his control, mostly to keep them from doing so on their own initiative. This had been only partially successful; some groups and individuals were simply too paranoid even to trust their state authorities. Thus, on the outskirts of the town, there was some sniping and there were at least two, failed, ambushes.