Beside Hanstadt stood his newly commissioned assistant, Lieutenant Christopher Perez of the Texas Guard. In the background were two dozen Mexican workers and drivers with a dozen trucks lined up behind them for the trip to Brownsville. In the foreground, a brace of moderately ancient cargo aircraft awaited unloading. Aboard the aircraft, some hundreds of Chinese-manufactured small arms and tens of thousands of rounds of Chinese-made ammunition.
Hanstadt turned to the chief of the Mexican drivers and workers and commanded, "Unload the planes." To Chris he said, "This will be your job for the near future. Receive, account and pay for what comes here—and remember that that will start including radios, compasses, body armor . . . basically everything almost as soon as I can set up the contracts with the manufacturers and shippers. Then you'll forward it to Fort Sam Houston through Brownsville. You'll need to spot-check a bit for quality. And you had probably better hire the local Mexican Army unit for guards, especially when you have any large quantity of weapons or ammunition stockpiled here or in transit."
"How large are we talking about, sir, total?" asked Perez.
"Schmidt contracted for an even 200,000 rifles, 21,000 machine guns, 12,000 RPG-7 antiarmor weapons, and some really, really impressive amounts of ammunition. Likewise mortars and some heavier antitank systems. That's just what's coming through here. I am told there is a contract for artillery being negotiated even as we speak."
"Negotiated? Negotiated with whom, sir?"
"The Chinese," Hanstadt answered, simply. "All of this material is coming from them."
"Why should the chinks care about Texas?"
"They don't," Hanstadt admitted, "except maybe to wish we would sink into the sea. But they would much, much rather the entire United States sink into the sea . . . and perhaps they see helping Texas—for a handsome profit, mind you, to be sure—as a way to make the United States sink into the sea."
"That's going to happen, too, isn't it, sir? I mean if this thing turns into a no-shit civil war, we are finished as a country and as a power in the world."
As he had before, Hanstadt reflected that his former driver, recently jumped in rank, was by no means stupid. "Well, that's what the Chinese hope. But from our point of view, these arms may be the best way to prevent a civil war, to buy us time to find some other way."
* * *
Austin, Texas
"Nonviolent civil disobedience, Governor—NVCD for short—is the only way you have to win. It is also the only way to win while not destroying the country with a civil war." The speaker, Victor Charlesworth, was an old man now, wrinkled, beginning to stoop, slower in his speech and his movements. There had been a day, though, when he was both young, strong and more than a little handsome. Traces of those looks remained; enough to impress Juanita. When young, those looks—along with a fair talent for acting—had gotten for Charlesworth acting parts as prophets and presidents, generals and geniuses, cardinals and kings.
As a much younger man, Charlesworth had not merely acted the role of kings, he had marched with one. In Selma and Montgomery, Alabama, and in Washington, DC, he had locked arms with the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King and marched for truth, right, freedom and justice.
He was here, now; in Texas, now; in Austin, now; and in Governor Juanita Seguin's office, now, to help do the same . . . and to teach others.
Right now, he taught the governor.
"It is going to be hard for you, Governor. Hard and dangerous. You are going to have to stand on a lot of balconies. You are going to have to go out and lead your people. You may be shot. You may be arrested. Given the nature and character of the people who are running this country right now, if you are arrested you will probably wish you had been shot."
"And . . ." Charlesworth hesitated, for this next advice was possibly tantamount to telling the governor to commit suicide. " . . . and . . . you will have to travel. To open yourself up to being shot. Because Texas, alone, can't win. It can't win a civil war alone, and it can't win alone through NVCD. The states around you, as a minimum, you are going to have to visit, to see, to talk at and to. Other states too, as and when you can."
"Oh, sure," retorted Juanita. "I can just see me talking to Harvard University to sell an antigovernment message. Sure."
"Why not, Governor? I have."
* * *
Corpus Christi, Texas
Over the tang of the sea wafted the unpleasant scent of oil seeping up through the ground. Some seabirds swooped down to catch the occasional fish; others dined off scraps and garbage left on the docks. Under Schmidt's feet, the wharf boards creaked and gave slightly.
Reaching a particular boat, shiny, well kept up, smelling slightly of fish sauce, he stopped. "I have to see Mister Minh," Schmidt announced to an alert-looking Vietnamese fisherman.
"Mister Minh no see anybody anymore," answered the Viet. "He too old, too tired."
"He'll see me. We are old 'friends.' "
The fisherman peered intently in Schmidt's face, noted the uniform, noted the rank on the collar, noted the other insignia. Then the fisherman added one plus one plus one and came up with 1964–1972. "I go ask," he answered at length. "You wait here."
When the fisherman returned to the deck and beckoned he said, "Mister Minh . . . ah . . . he say 'okay, come aboard.' "
Walking the plank, then descending into the ship's bowels, Schmidt followed the fisherman to an aft cabin. They stopped briefly as the fisherman knocked lightly on the cabin door.
"Come in," said an ancient voice in slightly French-accented English.
Entering, Schmidt took in the cabin with a sweeping glance. Much to his surprise, he noticed a crucifix adorning one wall. The ancient Vietnamese man seated at the desk smiled, and explained, "I find the religion of my fathers more comforting with each passing day."
"That is a most unusual sentiment, Colonel Minh," observed Schmidt. "Most unusual for a former political officer of the Ninth Viet Cong Division," he added, somewhat wryly.
"That was long ago; a lifetime of mistakes ago. Why, you were only a lieutenant then . . . and look at you now."
Schmidt nodded. "A lifetime, yes. Long ago, yes. I suppose that's why I never reported your background to the authorities, Colonel, even though I knew you were here. I thought you had paid enough; your revolution betrayed, most of your family killed, yourself forced to flee your own country forever.
"Tell me, how does the idea of fleeing yet again appeal to you?"
"Not much," the old man admitted, his gray and balding head nodding slightly as he did so. "Is that why you have come here? To tell me to leave?"
"No," answered Schmidt. "I came for some advice and possibly a little help."
The old Vietnamese chuckled softly. "Advice? Advice is cheap. In consideration of our . . . mutual . . . yes I suppose it was 'mutual' service, I will even give it for free. Help? Well, I am an old man. I do not think I can be of much help to anyone."
Schmidt looked upward, his jaw shifting slightly to one side. "You might be surprised. But advice will do for now. Tell me, why did my side lose the war and yours win it?"
"Oh, that is easy. We won because we fought you on every possible plane, in every possible way. You lost because you could not fight us the same way. And we only had to win on one plane, in only one way, to win—eventually—on them all.
"Consider, mon General, just the scope of the conflict in South Vietnam. Around the peripheries, we employed troops, regulars well trained and fully equipped. You had to match those. This left irregulars more or less free to operate behind your lines, in the bowels of the areas you meant to control, in any case. And, if you had dispersed your troops to root out the irregulars? You would quickly have discovered how long one of your isolated infantry companies could live when attacked by a full Viet Cong or North Vietnamese regiment. The lesson would have been both painful and short."