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."
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?"