"You're soldiers," he announced.
"Yes," admitted the taller of the two, the one who had introduced himself to Elpi as "Patricio." "Rather, we were. Astute of you to notice. Think of us now as being no more than your friendly, neighborhood arms dealers."
"No astuteness necessary. You walk, you stand, you shake hands like soldiers. A blind man could see it. Moreover, you"—an accusatory finger pointed at Patricio—"sound like you're American . . . from the northeast, I think."
The tanned man simply shrugged. "We both are." Then he reached into a briefcase and handed over a video tape. "Watch this. Then we'll talk."
Schmidt fumbled uncertainly with the tape player in Juanita's office until she, herself, came over and fixed it. Then she and Jack watched the video conference between the two presidents in silence.
When the tape was finished, Patricio made a head gesture to his assistant who walked to the VCR and retrieved the tape.
Patricio cleared his throat. "Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I am here to tell you that your heavy weapons shipment from China is going to be stopped."
"Then we're screwed," announced Schmidt, simply.
"Not necessarily," said Patricio. He looked at his assistant, pointedly. The assistant shrugged, it's up to you, boss.
Reaching into his briefcase Patricio pulled out a thin sheaf of paper. This he handed over to his assistant with the question, "How much of this could you make up?"
The assistant flipped through pages, occasionally looking upwards to do an apparent mental inventory.
"Carl, here," explained Patricio, "is our organization . . . ummm . . . you would say 'G-4' or maybe quartermaster. Can you bring your G-4 here, general? Maybe we can help each other."
Schmidt went to the telephone to call his headquarters.
"Well," announced Carl after some reflection, "We do not have exactly the arms these people are going to be losing. But we can make up a fair amount of it. It's going to be lighter stuff, lighter and older, that we can trade you for this."
"Trade?" asked Schmidt.
"Yes," answered Patricio. "You sign over the rights to your heavy Chinese arms to us. We provide you with arms, mostly Russian and Chinese, that we currently hold. Though where you trade us a 122-millimeter gun, you are only going to get an 85-millimeter in return."
"That's piracy," insisted Schmidt.
"No," countered Patricio, "it's business."
Chapter Twelve
From the transcript at triaclass="underline" Commonwealth of
Virginia v. Alvin Scheer
DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. Did anything happen between Oklahoma and Maryland, Alvin?
A. No, sir. Everything was real quiet . . . well, not counting that there were a lot of Army trucks on the road all headed the way I'd come from.
It wasn't until I reached Maryland that I saw the first anti-Texas demonstrations. I confess, those really annoyed me, being Texan and all, myself. But I never did nothing about it.
I decided I'd be better off heading a bit north and then comin' down from that direction. That, and keeping my mouth shut as much as possible.
So I went to Baltimore and looked around for a job to keep me going for a while. Found one, too, though I'd had better. Still, I wasn't ever afraid of work, only of not havin' any. So I put up with the stink of the grease and those nasty hamburgers while I settled in and looked around.
One thing I found out right quick: I was not getting anywhere near the White House. Nor any government building, for that matter. Never really thought to see my own country's capital locked down like they was ready for a siege. But that was the simple truth of the matter.
Not that I couldn't get into DC. I could and did. But I couldn't get anywhere with my truck, not anywhere useful. So I got used to public transportation—it really wasn't so bad except for the folks, some of 'em, that you had to ride with. And I did my looking on foot.
But where was I? Oh yeah, I remember. The anti-Texas demonstrations in Baltimore. I actually went and marched in one . . . sort of got curious, you see?
First thing struck me was that somebody in a suit and tie with one of them hand-held loudspeakers had everyone sort of lined up. At the end of the line was another one, a girl this time, passing out money and picket signs. She said, "Fifty dollars now. Another fifty at the end of the march. We'll have people watching from inside to see who puts on the most enthusiastic display. Bonuses for those that do."
The signs she was passing out? I only remember mine real well. It said, "Law and Order for Texas." I suppose I could agree with those sentiments; though I didn't see it maybe quite the same way that woman did.
What the hell? I needed the money. Reckon those other folks in that line must have, too.
* * *
Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas
It was a tradition in Texas; that line, those voluntary steps. Ignore the tradition? Not Captain Williams; it would simply have felt wrong.
So, taking the A Company guidon—swords being in short supply these days, he used the metal ferule to draw an imaginary line across the front of the formation, beginning with the infantry company—its headquarters and three platoons standing toward the right, going across the oversized platoon of engineers, and then to the small detachment from battalion headquarters on the left.
The line he drew was essentially invisible. Only the displacement of some of the loose gravel on the parking lot marked it in scant places. Invisible . . . and yet it was clear enough, too.
"Boys," said Williams, "boys, you all have a decision to make today. The general said 'hold to the last.' But I'm not going to make anyone stay that doesn't want to. And you ought to be told, in fairness, that this place isn't all that important anymore to us; not since we shipped out about half of its printing capability.
"Before you make any hard and fast decisions, though, I want to read you something; something from our 'beloved President.' Well . . . she's behind it even if she didn't actually write it herself."
"Listen up, boys; this is from the New York Times: 'And as for the pitiful saboteurs and counterfeiters illegally occupying our Western Currency Facility, unless they surrender both themselves and the federal property in their hands the full rigor and justice of the law must be applied to them.' "
In the ranks, ranks themselves full of law enforcement men, one police desk sergeant turned and snorted to a highway patrolman, "Saboteur? Counterfeiter? Why, Sam, I would never have suspected. Consider yourself under arrest, you 'pitiful' bastard."
If the resulting laugh was slightly strained, it still contained real humor.
A hand shot up from one of the infantry platoons. "Sir, if this place isn't that important . . . well, then why stay?"
"Ah," answered Williams. "I said it wasn't all that important to us. I didn't say it wasn't important to them. To the Treasury Department? To Rottemeyer's Secret Service and her Presidential Guard? It is very important that they take this back. To them, the place where money is printed is about as sacred as a certain spot down in San Antonio is to us."
Another hand shot up, a bit hesitantly this time. "Okay, sir. Suppose we stay. Can we hold out here?"