"Right. All right then, what if I can't find you?"

"Good point, Sergeant. If I haven't seen you by this time tomorrow I'll send someone to the middle of Oakwood to lead you to us. Fair enough?"

"Yes, sir. I'll get on with the job then, sir."

Bernoulli thought briefly and reconsidered. "Hmm. Let me see that sketch."

When the sergeant had returned it, Bernoulli looked it over again, thought a bit more and scratched out one section of the drawing. "Don't prep this section, Sergeant, unless and until I give you the word. We'll try to stretch out what demolitions we have because if the general can't come up with more, a lot more, we just won't have enough."

Fort Hood, Texas

He restrained himself from an impulse to salute that, after decades of habit, had become nearly as ingrained as breathing. "I'm Colonel-retired-Hanstadt, sir," said the now civilian clad man to Schmidt, rather unnecessarily as Schmidt knew Hanstadt from various Corps meetings he had attended over the years.

"Retired?" questioned Schmidt. "Why?"

"Well...if I hadn't retired then I could hardly volunteer to become your new G-4, could I, sir?"

Schmidt raised an eyebrow and looked without focusing at some of the decorations on the wall behind Hanstadt. Be still, my heart. G.o.d, could I use a competent G-4. Be still, my heart. G.o.d, could I use a competent G-4.

"Your forces are slowly, well...not so slowly as all that, going up to corps sized. Maybe more...no, almost certainly more." Hanstadt added, again quite unnecessarily, "You will need someone a little more experienced than what you have."

G.o.d, could I use a competent G-4, thought Schmidt, again, unnecessarily. And I seem to recall this Hanstadt being very competent indeed.

"The job is yours. You planned this though, didn't you? What else have you planned?"

Hanstadt didn't answer directly. "Chris, bring the car around. We'll show our new boss what we have planned."

The first place they visited was the main maintenance facility. There Hanstadt was able to show Schmidt not merely machinery, tools and parts, but a large and expert civilian workforce that had not, naturally-being local, accompanied the Corps on its departure.

From the maintenance facility they had driven to some few yards loaded with heavy equipment, row upon orderly row of tanks, other armored vehicles, trucks, construction equipment.

"Somehow, I think the Corps commander, General Bennigsen, wanted you to have these. Certainly he never said a word about either destroying them or taking them with him."

"Why would he do that; want that?"

"A theory? He hopes he doesn't have to fight you and, the more prepared you seem the less likely it is that he will."

"Maybe," said Schmidt, noncommittally.

"Well...come to the ASP, sir, and I'll show you why I think so."

That proved a short drive. Once there, Hanstadt led the way into the main office. There, on the wall, was a breakdown, by bunker, by type, by category-training or war reserve stocks-of all the ammunition held there.

It took no special training for Schmidt to grasp all that the wall charts implied. "He left the demo, the mines and the small arms. He took most-not all, but most-of the tank, artillery, and ant.i.tank ammunition. I think, maybe you're right. Bennigsen left us what we needed to put on a good show. Funny. Hmm. I wonder if..."

The new G-4 answered Schmidt's unasked question. "Yes, sir, Bennigsen took the nukes with him."

Schmidt thought about that, then sighed, "Oh, well. Maybe that's just as well."

"All right, then, Hanstadt; you're the new G-4 and you have your work cut out for you. However, as your first official duty I would like your driver to take me to Post Clothing Sales a.s.suming it's still open."

That too, proved a short ride. And the store was, indeed, open. At clothing sales, Schmidt left Hanstadt and the driver in the car. On his way in he paused briefly to make a telephone call on his cell phone. Though neither of the others knew it, he was calling the governor with a request. When he returned, he opened a small plastic bag and took an even smaller item out of it.

"Here," he said, pa.s.sing the stars of a brigadier general over to Hanstadt. "You'll need these to deal with my current quartermaster who is something of an arrogant a.s.s, truth to tell."

Speechless, Hanstadt looked at the stars with wonder. "I didn't retire and join you for this."

Schmidt smiled broadly. "If I thought you had, you wouldn't have them."

"I was already on the list for promotion to brigadier general, General," sighed Hanstadt. "I gave that up to join you."

Schmidt was surprised, slightly. He had not known. He said as much.

"No matter," said Hanstadt. "Even if I didn't think you were right, I'd still rather be a BG in the small army of Texas where it means something, at least for a little while, than a two star in the large United States Army...where it means less each day."

Again, Schmidt reached into the bag and pulled out a notebook and a pen. These, too, he handed over to Hanstadt. "And now, Brigadier General Hanstadt, let me explain the depths of our problems...and of what we have started to do to fix them."

Camp Bullis, Texas

Texas, as did about forty other states, maintained a state owned "defense force." This was purely voluntary; unpaid except when it might be called to state service, scantily equipped and scantily trained. It was the one force available to the governors of those states which had them that the federal government could not legally take control of.

In the case of Texas, now, the seven notional-and, frankly, nominal-brigades of its state defense force had been mobilized and were in the process of expanding at various army camps. One of these, an old installation north of San Antonio, was Camp Bullis.

The old camp had gone through many permutations in the near century of its existence. Established in 1917 and named for a brigadier general prominent in the Indian Wars, Bullis had seen troops off to both World Wars, Korea and Vietnam. It had also seen them return, those who had returned.

Reduced from a high point of thirty-two thousand acres in 1918, the camp now boasted no more than twelve thousand.

Twelve thousand acres, however, was clearly enough for the thousands of new recruits to the Texas Defense Force that a.s.sembled there to train under its 1st Brigade-a brigade in name only, further nicknamed the Alamo Guards, and soon to be named the 1 Brigade-a brigade in name only, further nicknamed the Alamo Guards, and soon to be named the 1st Texas Infantry Division. That twelve thousand acres was enough seemed especially so as these thousands of new recruits had few weapons, none of those being heavy weapons, and boasted little other equipment. Texas Infantry Division. That twelve thousand acres was enough seemed especially so as these thousands of new recruits had few weapons, none of those being heavy weapons, and boasted little other equipment.

"Weapons and equipment aren't the main problem," lamented the 1st Brigade's commander, Colonel Juan Robles, to no one in particular. "The real problem is that we haven't a Brigade's commander, Colonel Juan Robles, to no one in particular. "The real problem is that we haven't a clue clue. We're an oversized battalion of quasi military police-old, fat, and undertrained ourselves except maybe as military police."

From a high place where the San Juan Hill scene from the film The Rough Riders The Rough Riders had been shot in 1926, Robles looked down to a road where a disconsolate "company" of recruits struggled in a herd through the boot-sucking mud. Rather, it would have been boot-sucking if only they had had boots. The Nikes and Reeboks still shodding most of the men? The mud gulped these down whole. had been shot in 1926, Robles looked down to a road where a disconsolate "company" of recruits struggled in a herd through the boot-sucking mud. Rather, it would have been boot-sucking if only they had had boots. The Nikes and Reeboks still shodding most of the men? The mud gulped these down whole.

Robles muttered, "No order, no discipline. No weapons, no equipment, no uniforms. But, worst of all, no leadership and no no training. We're screwed." training. We're screwed."

"It's not so bad as all that, Juan"-the State Guard was pretty informal, as Robles' operations officer demonstrated by the use of his commander's first name. "The Adjutant General has already said that he'll send one in ten officers and NCOs by grade to distribute among the State Guard folks. That'll help. And we're starting to get a trickle of volunteers from among the military retirees. Some folks from other states are coming in too. The general even says we'll have some real uniforms soon; weapons too."

Matamoros, Mexico

No uniforms were worn here, though the two Americans carried arms under their light jackets.

Hanstadt listened appreciatively as birds sang in the warm and muggy Mexican morning. Civilian clad and traveling on a civilian United States pa.s.sport, he waited on the tarmac of the town's still sleepy airport. In his hand was clutched a bag containing several million dollars in new bills from the Western Currency Facility, each one good legal tender anywhere in the world, indistinguishable from other bills printed in the Washington, DC, facility, indistinguishable from bills printed earlier.

Moreover, and the Texans were quite sure Washington knew this, any attempt at undermining confidence in U.S. currency could have disastrous economic consequences as literally hundreds of billions of dollars salted away all over the world, largely by rich people who felt the need for "escape money," came pouring out of the woodwork and into other currencies. The United States had put up with nearly two decades of ma.s.sive Iranian counterfeiting, and the terrorism that counterfeiting funded, to avoid just such a possibility.

Beside Hanstadt stood his newly commissioned a.s.sistant, 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, compa.s.ses, 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 quant.i.ty 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 ant.i.tank 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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-s.h.i.t 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 hope. But from our point of view, these arms may be the best way to prevent prevent a civil war, to buy us time to find some other way." 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 had been shot." 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 19641972. "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 pa.s.sing 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.