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?"
"Huh? Oh sure, Juani," said Schmidt, pushing a button on a rather expensive air filter, turning on a window fan and opening another window a crack for good measure. "Happy now?"
"I'm a long way from happy . . . but it will do. Now what about Fort Hood?" asked the governor.