A State of Disobedience

by Tom Kratman

  This had not been easy in the face of demolished bridges and roads, burned stocks at every town they entered, and a populace gone generally sullen, hostile and very uncooperative.

  Yet, the evening before the assault on Texan lines was to begin, the Texans abandoned those lines, retreating hastily but in fairly good order some miles south.

  Standing beside one such, a well-excavated and revetted trench, the commander of 3rd Corps and his sergeant major watched the stately procession of armored vehicles and accompanying infantry disappear into the suburban streets north of the town.

  "Sir, I'm having a hard time believing the Texans aren't going to fight for their capital," commented the 3rd Corps sergeant major to his chief.

  The general removed his helmet and scratched his head, a bit worriedly. "I know, Top . . . but that's what we're hearing from all along the front. The Texas Guard and State Defense Force have pulled out to the outskirts, the southern outskirts, of the city."

  "They've still got defenses dug south of town, sir."

  "Yes, I know. I expect they'll be occupying them right now."

  "You heard what happened to Governor Seguin's place?"

  "I heard, Sergeant Major. I'm not sure I heard the truth though. Do you think she's really dead?"

  "Dunno, boss. There were no survivors reported at the house. And her husband and son were killed. That time of the morning? I figure she was in there too and they just haven't found a body yet."

  "Shame, isn't it? She was a great woman, in so many ways."

  The sergeant major merely grunted a warning as none other than Harold Forsythe, Political Officer for the 3rd Corps since losing his job as Federal Commissioner for Texas, approached on foot.

  "Mr. Forsythe," noticed the general, without offering a hand.

  "General," Forsythe returned, a minor note of exultation creeping into his voice. "Sergeant Major."

  The sergeant major just nodded, not even offering so faint a greeting as had his boss.

  "You'll be wanting to resume your duties in the capital directly," offered the general.

  "Yes. How soon will the area be cleared?"

  "If progress keeps up, we should be past the state house by tomorrow, about midmorning."

  Forsythe smiled in anticipation of paying back some scores. The only dark spot on his future horizon was the fact that the Seguin bitch was dead. He had been looking forward to her execution with shivering anticipation.

  * * *

  "It's time to leave Juani. Time to leave here, to leave the state, to leave the country. We've lost."

  Juanita, unanswering, just swung her head minutely from side to side. She had cried herself out hours since and seemed to have no emotion left to her, no feeling at all.

  "You'll go by car. I've got an unmarked civilian sedan. There's a trunkful of money in it. It'll take you to Brownsville where one of Hanstadt's people will see you across into Matamoros. 'Patricio' told me off line that he'll arrange to give you a refuge in Panama."

  Juani just continued her minuscule headshaking.

  "Come on." Schmidt reached for the woman's arm.

  "No!" she shouted fiercely, pulling her arm away from Schmidt's grasp. "No," she repeated, more calmly.

  "Stop being silly, Governor. It's time to go . . . and past time."

  "I'm not being silly," Juani retorted. "But I am not leaving until I have tried every last thing."

  "We have," commented Jack. "Nothing worked in the long run. Now we have to fight. That's all that's left. I intend to do it. And you are going, first to San Antonio and then to someplace safe."

  Schmidt might never have admitted it, even to himself, but the thought of his best friend's sister, who was also his governor, and even also the woman who might have, in a different and better world, become his wife, being hurt or killed had in part unhinged him.

  "No . . . there's one more thing we can do."

  "What?"

  "Can you still get me on television, one last time?"

  "Why? What good would it do?"

  "I want to talk to our people."

  "You want to go into the breach one more time?" asked Schmidt, somewhat incredulously.

  "Jack, I have to. You say we've lost. I tell you I haven't even begun to fight."

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  "Do you suppose the bitch is really dead, Caroline? God I hope so."

  The general felt a small quiver of disgust, not an emotion she had ever before associated with Wilhelmina Rottemeyer. She answered, coldly, "I don't know. No one knows."

  Willi looked at her number one military advisor suspiciously. "What's your problem?"

  "I can't go on with this, Madame President," McCreavy said with reluctance.

  "With what?" demanded Rottemeyer. "It's almost over. A few more days, a week at most, and all of Texas will be back under control. Another few days and New Mexico will be broken, too."

  "You don't understand, do you?"

  "Understand what? I understand that they've abandoned their capital, that their troops are pulling back. That Houston is being brought back under control."

  McCreavy sighed. "Nothing is under control. The hostages you made of the Marines' families? I just found out this morning. They've been freed. Apparently the Marines who took the base back kept up appearances for a bit while they worked out some details. Now you can expect the Marines there by El Paso to join the Texans. And word has gotten out. The Second Marine Division has sent emissaries to the Texan forces facing them and declared a truce. Those two Marine brigades at sea in the Gulf of Mexico? Same deal. And the 18th Airborne Corps has said to hell with you too."

  "I'll have them all shot!"

  Again, McCreavy sighed. "Then you'll have to give the orders yourself, Willi. I'm through." With that McCreavy reached into a jacket pocket and removed a letter which she presented to Rottemeyer. "That's my resignation."

  Before going on, McCreavy forced away the beginnings of a sob. When she continued, it was to say, "And I'll be moving out today, Willi. All my things will be gone by this afternoon."

  Rottemeyer's eyes opened wide in shock and horror. "Caroline, you can't be serious. You can't leave me."

  Tenderly, for she still felt some tenderness toward her President and now former lover, McCreavy reached out a hand to stroke a face. "I must, Willi."

  Austin, Texas

  Juanita sat patiently while the studio makeup man applied a few finishing touches. Holding very still, she attempted to make some order out of the chaos of jumbled thoughts and psychic agonies running through her mind.

  The word had gone out over the airwaves, via telephone, and on the Internet, that there would be a major address by the governor. Of course, that word had gone out before her house was bombed and before she was listed as missing and presumed dead.

  I'll just have to hope for the best, she thought as the makeup man stepped back, inspected, and turned and departed.

  In moments, the studio chief began a verbal countdown, ending with, "You're live, Governor."

  Across Austin, across Texas, and even across the world, people watched their screens and monitors as the olive skinned-woman lifted her face to the camera.

  "Rumors of my death," she began, wearing a somewhat strained and forced smile, "have been greatly exaggerated."

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  "The bitch is still alive," fumed Carroll, using a remote control to turn on the television in Willi's office and bring up the right channel.

  "That's not possible. You assured me she was dead."

  "Yeah, well," drawled Carroll, "I was misinformed."

  All present turned their eyes to the television screen where Juanita Seguin was just finishing up her speech.

  "She's assembling a mass of people to march against 3rd Corps," announced Carroll for those present who had missed that part. "And we don't have any law enforcement people right with that Corps."

  "None?" asked Rottemeyer.

&nb
sp; "None. The force we would have had there, the Presidential Guard, is scattered to the winds. One group, the one we sent to Camp Pendleton in California is effectively destroyed. The others are in bad shape after taking back the currency facility. Most of the rest are tied down policing the supply routes and controlling the major cities. The Environmental Protection Police are knee-deep in alligators in Houston. The SGRPC are for the most part incarcerated and awaiting trial in New Mexico. The FBI was stretched just to provide a force for Dallas.

  "Third Corps is on its own. And, given events, I don't know if you can trust them."

  Rottemeyer pushed a button on her desk intercom. "I need to speak with Harold Forsythe."

  * * *

  State House, Austin, Texas

  "The President for you, sir," announced a flunky.

  Forsythe took the cell phone, answering happily, "Forsythe here, Madam President . . . ah, yes, we've heard rumors to that effect . . . no, Willi, I haven't seen a television lately . . . Yes, yes . . . I'll certainly talk to the military commander here, Madam President. . . ."

  Handing the cell phone back to his flunky, Forsythe pondered the information he had just received from Rottemeyer. A mass march? Here? Against the Army's guns? What could they hope to prove by it?

  * * *

  The Texas Rangers had been the first to arrive at the rally point, an intersection of First Street, SW, and Oltorf. They first cleared the immediate neighboring buildings and then radioed for the Public Address people to bring in the microphones and loudspeakers. Juanita and Jack showed up just as the last connection was being made between microphone, amplifiers, and speakers.

  The people began to assemble to hear the governor moments later. Businesses had closed in anticipation of the coming occupation. There were many people available, from all stations and walks of life. Of those available, many came. They came from poor barrios where spoken English was a rarity. They came from upper-crust mansions along the river. They came from everywhere in between as well.

  Juanita had never said what she wanted them for. All that her recent TV and radio broadcast had conveyed was that she wanted to speak to them. Many assumed it was to lay down her mantle as governor. Some came, indeed, as a last gesture of respect for what Juanita had tried to do, even if she had, as she apparently had, failed.

  The crowd was solemn. Solemnly, the recently widowed Juanita Seguin mounted some steps to address them.

  Before beginning to speak, Juanita looked to the north, trying vainly to discern the thin pillar of smoke that she knew arose above the ashes of her husband, her son and many of her friends, aides and co-workers. The crowd followed the governor's gaze as if they knew what she was thinking and for what she was looking. Some of them may have known what she was thinking. All knew, in their hearts, what she was feeling.

  "My husband is up there," Juanita began, pointing north across Town Lake. "My son, Mario, as well. I intend to go there now, whatever or whoever bars my way, and see to their bodies."

  "The Rangers are coming with me." Juanita glanced over at Nagy, who nodded a firm agreement. "The Forty-ninth Division is coming with me." Schmidt scowled but ultimately agreed.

  "I'd like you all here to come with me, too.

  "You think we have lost? I've lost the larger and better part of my family but I haven't 'lost.' Texas seems better than half occupied but we haven't lost either.

  "Even as I stand here speaking to you now the Marines between here and El Paso are trading cigarettes and stories with our own National Guard troops that were facing them. General Schmidt tells me that as soon as we can refuel the Marines and the soldiers with them, we will have three new brigades to defend ourselves with.

  "Houston is still fighting. And the soldiers and marines between here and Houston have said 'enough.' They will not act against us on behalf of that woman in the White House any longer.

  "All that remains is the force to our north, the force that is sitting on the bodies of my family. Do you think they are sitting on those bodies because they want to? Because they believe in and support a government that kills helpless people without reason or even warning?

  "No. Those uniformed men and women up there are our friends. They do not want to be here. They do not want to support our enemies or the enemies of the country and Constitution that were ours.

  "Now come with me; come with me to recover the bodies of my family; come with me so I can show you that—while we have enemies, enemies of liberty—we have friends too."

  And with that, Juani offered her right arm to Schmidt, her left to Nagy, and stepped off into the street.

  * * *

  It was the second largest-capitol building in the United States, second only to the national capitol in Washington, as a matter of fact. Even more, Texas' legislative building was the taller of the two by fifteen feet.

  From the front steps Forsythe looked down the central walkway, the walkway flanked by greenery and monuments, the greenery being flanked in turn by a driveway to each side. To his right front arose a faint trace of smoke from the charred ruins of the Governor's Mansion.

  Pity, he thought. I had hoped to move in there myself.

  The driveways in front of Forsythe linked just before the main gate, a wrought iron screen held up by reddish stone pillars. On the other side of the gate, and the low stone wall that surrounded the capitol area and fronted on Eleventh Street, soldiers armed and with bayonets fixed stood in unwavering lines.

  * * *

  Rangers and guardsmen joined the arm-linked, walking wall as Juanita passed. Some, lacking faith in the result, did so only because they had faith in her. Schmidt had faith in neither, but was determined to see things through with Juani, wherever events might lead them.

  Behind the line of arm-linked men and women, civilians, some with children, fell in behind.

  Inevitably, an old black woman, certainly spurred by memories of an earlier struggle, began to sing in a high, weak voice. The words were simple and well known. In seconds, so it seemed, the crowd had drowned out the older woman.

  * * *

  The lyrics, when he first sensed—more than heard—them, touched a note with Forsythe. He, too, had once been young and idealistic. He, too, had once sung the simple song.

  He pushed the feeling away, brutally.

  * * *

  Juani and her leading rank turned half right on Barton Springs. Keeping to a slow and stately pace, they crossed Riverside. At South Congress the point turned north again to cross the bridge over Town Lake. With each turn and each passing step a few more people, sometimes a few hundred more, added their weight to the procession.

  By the time the lead reached Tenth Street the crowd had swollen to nearly 100,000 people.

  The song had grown to be very loud by that point.

  * * *

  The Capitol was where the action was, where the threat was, and perhaps most importantly where his Zampolit, Forsythe, was. Thus, accompanied by his sergeant major, the commander of Third Corps made sure it was also where he was.

  The troops along Eleventh Street had their faces turned away from him toward the approaching crowd. It didn't matter; the faces of his officers told the general everything he needed to know.

  The boys just do not want to be here; do not want to be doing what they're doing.

  This was followed by a more ominous thought: And they can't be relied on to do it, either.

  Forsythe approached. "What are you going to do about this riot, General?" he asked, a trace of personal fear in his voice.

  "What riot?"

  "That riot; that unruly mob headed this way."

  The general sneered. "I don't see any unruly mob. I see a peaceful procession of citizens coming to their state capitol in peaceable assembly."

  "You idiot!" Forsythe exclaimed. "When I tell the President you'll be lucky to stay out of a cell at Leavenworth. You have one chance to avoid that and that is to disperse that mob."

  The sneer never left the soldier's face
. "That's what you want, eh, Mr. Forsythe? You should be careful what you ask for."

  Turning to the sergeant major the general ordered, "Top, bring me a loudspeaker, would you?"

  * * *

  Even over the singing coming from behind her, Juani's heart skipped a beat when she heard the order coming over the loudspeaker, "First Squadron, Seventh Cavalry: one magazine, lock." The general was careful not to use the word "load."