"And how, Jack, how are we going to win on our own? If New Mexico goes under then no one, no one, no one else is going to join us.
"And then we lose.
"Now think about what 'lose' means here, Jack. It means that the people who killed my brother, killed your best friend and burnt alive a couple of dozen kids under age twelve get off scot-free. It means that we'll have Wilhelmina Rottemeyer's little spiked heels on our necks forever."
Juani paused briefly. "No, I take that back. 'We' won't because 'we' will be dead."
" 'Lose,' " she continued, "means that the constitution as we know it will also be dead, dead, dead beyond hope of recovery. It means that our kids and grandkids will grow up learning the party line and nothing else. It means that our economy is going to be trashed by a cabal of people least well suited to running an economy."
" 'Lose' means the end of the fucking world, Jack."
If he was shocked by the vulgarity, Schmidt didn't show a sign of it. He said, "Then I guess we had better not lose, Governor."
* * *
U.S. Highway 285, New Mexico
Tripp coughed a little as he was enveloped by a cloud of dust from a rolling, blacked-out tank. He thought abstractly about perhaps ducking down and buttoning up his own armored vehicle. It would save him from the dust, somewhat, but—dammit—he wanted to see his battalion as it launched itself forward.
Not that he could see much. Not only were the vehicles blacked out but he had spaced them over a very long line of march. He was taking a chance and he knew it, both from the probability of a major accident and the frightful possibility that the Marines to the south would detect his march and beat him to Santa Fe; meeting, fighting and defeating his battalion in detail.
* * *
El Paso, Texas
The word had been passed quietly. The hour was set for the time when the command and staff of 1st Marine Division could be most certain not to be interrupted by any of the division's Zampolits.
The Political Officers liked their sleep.
Quietly, too, the colonels and generals assembled in the division command post. Quietly they entered. Quietly they took their seats.
Fulton, the general commanding, entered accompanied by a pudgy, nondescript corporal named Mendez. He made a small hushing motion. Do not call "attention." Do not stand. Just listen.
"Ladies, gentlemen . . . oh and you, too, Colonel Stilton," the general lightly pointed a finger at the commander of the Army's 3rd Cavalry. "Corporal Mendez here has come through Las Cruces recently with a load of ammunition for us. I want you to listen to what he saw there. Go ahead, Mendez."
Obviously somewhat unnerved by the presence of so much brass, Mendez began haltingly. As he saw anger growing on the dimly lit faces, an anger that matched his own, he became more eloquent. As he finished speaking he heard two colonels mutter, "Motherfuckers."
"Yes, sir . . . sirs. They were motherfuckers."
"Motherfuckers," General Fulton repeated, definitively. "Now the question is, what do we do about it? Mendez, go take a walk. What we're going to discuss . . . I won't say it isn't your business. I will say that I don't see any good reason to put your neck in a noose, too."
The general waited for the corporal to leave and close the door before continuing.
The Cavalry commander interrupted as soon as he heard the door ease closed. "Me, personally, I'm sorely tempted to beg whatever diesel you guys have, turn around, and head north shooting up federal cops all the way," said Stilton. There was a muted murmur of broad agreement.
"A worthy ambition, young Colonel. Now how do you square that with your oath of office?"
"You don't have to anyway," piped in Fulton's intelligence officer. He pointed a thumb in a roughly northward direction and announced, "The Texas Guard is already sending what looks to be a heavy battalion to Santa Fe, though I don't think they know that we know. The general knows," he continued, defensively.
"Yes, I knew. And I decided we all needed to chat before we decided what to do about it."
"What do you want to do about it, sir?" asked Stilton.
"Do about that battalion? About the federales that shot down American citizens in cold blood? Or do you mean about our general—and unfortunate—circumstances?"
"Yes, sir. About that."
Fulton flashed the briefest and smallest of smiles. "They say that a council of war never fights. Even so, that's what I'm calling here, a council of war. There are some decisions I can't make for you. I wouldn't, in any case. This is one such.
"We have three questions and three choices. The questions I have already asked. The choices are these. We can continue to do what we've been doing; moving painfully forward to try to knock the Texans to their knees as part of the federal armed forces. Alternatively, we can join the Texans and try to knock the federal government to its knees. Lastly, we can decide to just sit things out right here, call a truce, and ask the Texans for some goddamned gas and water just to survive.
"Note that the last two choices mean we will have to round up the Zampolits we've been saddled with." Fulton looked over at his provost.
"We're ready when you give the order, sir," that worthy answered, not without an undertone of happy anticipation in his voice.
Fulton nodded before continuing, "Note, here, gentlemen, that once I called this council my personal options became quite limited. I am in favor of one of those last two choices and by so stating I have effectively counseled a mutiny.
"And that's all I am going to say about it. Speak, argue . . . decide."
* * *
"Get up, you pudgy little fuck," harshly demanded the Marine holding a rifle to the nose of the division's political officer. Two more Marines, large men both, came, one to either side of the Zampolit's rather luxurious bunk in his rather expensive and air-conditioned RV.
"You're coming with us, asshole."
* * *
Washington, DC
"Willi? Willi, wake up. We've got a problem, a bad one."
Rottemeyer sat up instantly, unconsciously brushing McCreavy's hand from her shoulder. "What is it, Caroline?"
"First Marine Division—well, the two thirds of it that is in Texas anyway—has mutinied. They've arrested their political officers and I have unconfirmed reports that they have sent parlementaires to the Texans."
"Oh, my God. What's this going to do to us? And what's a 'parlementaire'?"
"A parlementaire is someone sent to negotiate with the enemy. I think the Texans are either going to gain the better part of 1st Marine Division or, as a minimum, the Marines are going to bow out and release the Texans that are facing them to facing somewhere else . . . like against the rest of our force."
Open-mouthed and wide-eyed, Rottemeyer exhaled forcefully. "Why?"
"I don't know. There're nothing but rumors. But it might be because of the way the Surgeon General's police freed up the supply lines to the Marines that ran through Las Cruces. They were pretty heavy-handed, Willi."
"Well they had to be," the President retorted. "The Marines themselves needed that highway opened."
"Yes, the Marines needed the roads opened. And maybe the SGRCP did have to play rough," McCreavy admitted. "But the effect has not been good. Willi, I am worried about 2nd Marine Division now. And even the Army . . ."