But the Marines had more than LAVs; they had AMTRACs, Amphibious Tractors. And the AMTRACs' optimum environment was the water.
Thus, while a mixed company of Texas Guard infantry and tanks, reinforced by some air defense, was enough to prevent a helicopter insertion to seize a bridge—as it had been up north—it was not enough to stop the reinforced battalion of Marines, swimming their AMTRACs, that crossed Cypress Creek between Deweyville and Orange, then fanned out to seize—without a shot being fired—not one but four bridges, along with their engineer defenders. The engineers, like the rest, had been under orders not to shoot.
In panic and despair, the covering force raced back toward Beaumont and even farther westward. Sadly, they did so without so much as a single detonator to blow the bridge over the Trinity River where it was crossed by I-10.
The road to Houston was open . . . and in less than a day.
* * *
Washington, DC
"Hah!" exclaimed a jubilant Wilhelmina Rottemeyer when she was given the news. "Hah!" she repeated, "let's see that wetback wench stop us now! And her precious national guard is running like scared rabbits. Maybe we took all this too seriously."
"They're not running, Madam President," corrected McCreavy. "They're under orders not to shoot to kill; to warn and withdraw. I'm actually kind of amazed that they're following those orders, to tell the truth. It requires a level of discipline somewhat higher than one would expect in a reserve formation."
"Bah," answered Rottemeyer with a contemptuous snort. "They're folding, crumbling."
Exasperated, McCreavy ran fingers through close cropped hair. "I don't know how to make you see this . . . but they're really not. All my commanders report the same. Professionally prepared demolitions, in the hands of people willing to use them, covered by forces that buy them some time and then withdraw . . . rather well, too. And we took some prisoners from the Texans. . . ."
"I want those men to put on trial," insisted Vega.
McCreavy ignored her. "We took some prisoners," she repeated. "They—the ones who would talk anyway—insist that their orders not to shoot are temporary and that at some point Texas will fight. They likely would have fought along the Colorado River and the Balcones Escarpment. But with things having swung our way faster than they might have liked or anticipated, my guess is that they might fight to hold Houston. And that would eat the 2nd Marine and 3rd Infantry Divisions alive. We need to approach that city very carefully."
* * *
Austin, Texas
"It's disaster," admitted Schmidt. "No other word will do."
"What can we do about it?" asked Juanita.
"Fight? I can move a brigade from the State Defense Force into the western parts of the city. I can reinforce them with a couple of battalions of mech infantry and even a few tanks."
"But you said the State Defense Force was mostly untrained."
"So they are, Governor, about half trained. But they're more like completely untrained for city fighting. They're not too badly trained—provided they have some help—in defending the fortifications we have thrown up. And the heavy troops aren't the most suitable for a city either. I asked if you wanted me to 'fight.' I didn't say I could 'win.' But this is so bad . . . Juani I have got to fight."
"You will not fight, General," insisted the governor.
Though old and waning in strength, Victor Charlesworth had become something of an unofficial member of the Governor's Cabinet. In his best patriarchal voice he said, "I will go. I will fight them . . . my way."
Schmidt didn't answer immediately. He took a long and very hard look at the old actor, seeking the strength, resolve and inner fire the man had once epitomized so well that even through the medium of cellulose it had shone across a million screens.
Deciding, Schmidt asked, "What will you need?"
Charlesworth considered. "Some way to tape a message before I leave. Maybe a helicopter to bring me into the city. A public address set and someone to man it. Some air time for you to send the message after I get there. Maybe a couple of policemen for escort so that when they take me it will be very noticeable. Can you do that?"
"Helicopter's no problem. You can use mine," Schmidt offered. "I think we can set up the PA set, taping and air time, too."
Nagy added, "I can spare a couple of my Rangers. Good men."
"I know," grinned Charlesworth. "I've played them."
"But Mr. Charlesworth," Schmidt cautioned, "this is not acting. If . . . no, when they take you the feds will not be playing roles. They're going to hurt you."
"I'm an old man, General. I've lived my life and—I tell you—it's been a good one. Now? What else do I have to look forward to? Hurt me? I'm counting on it, General." The old actor smiled with anticipation.
Juanita's stomach lurched as she realized there was one more person who needed to accompany Charlesworth. Mario is going to be so unhappy. . . .
* * *
Las Cruces, New Mexico
"Hurt 'em," insisted the white-uniformed, riot-armored leader of the Surgeon General's special police. "That's the only thing these people will understand: physical pain. We'll probably be needed somewhere else soon enough. That pain will stick in their minds and keep them from blocking this road any more."
Grimly, the men and women around the speaker nodded their agreement. They didn't salute; that was for the military types. But they went back to their units with an approximately military determination to accomplish their mission, to inflict all the pain these demonstrators could handle.
A whistle blew. The first company of police began marching south down the highway towards the mass of wide-eyed, apparently very frightened people who awaited them. In time with half-stamped left feet came the steady thwap-thwap-thwap of riot batons striking the faces of polycarbonate riot shields. The growing sound added to the growing fright of the people in the crowd as they looked north at the mass descending on them.
At a distance of a few hundred meters, the leader of that first company began to speak into a microphone. His message was not directed towards the demonstrators, but to his own police officers. "Form skirmish line." With clocklike precision the SGRCP began fanning out at the double, forming a line that faced south as it stretched east and west across the north-south highway.
A uniformed Marine reservist, sitting dejectedly atop a pile of ammunition crates next to a large olive drab painted van, was astonished at the clockwork precision of the SGRCP as they formed a double line of club-and shield-bearing skirmishers, in front, rifle-carrying men and women behind.
"Motherfuckers must train all the time," he muttered.
From his pile of wooden crates, the reservist saw a recognized face emerge from the civilian crowd, Trooper Peters.
Peters, too, had a PA set. Without having been addressed he announced his name and informed the SGRCP that, "These people have a lawful permit to assemble. They are here at the behest of the Government of New Mexico. They have a right to be here and the New Mexico State Police will defend that right."
On line with Peters, and between the SGRCP and the crowd, a dozen troopers, about half and half armed with pistols and shotguns, began to form their own line.