Part 9 (1/2)

Montoya calmly shot the driver whose easy escape had been blocked by the tank's cannon, directly overhead. Then the emerging loader took two rounds through the belly before flopping bonelessly back downwards into the tank's bowels. When two heads appeared simultaneously in the commander's hatch he shot them as well, bone and brains and blood flying away. Father forgive me. Father forgive me.

”Padre, here!” shouted a boy as he pa.s.sed over a homemade satchel charge. The priest took it with a muttered ”thanks,” pulled the igniter and leaning around a corner tossed the charge under the tank's right tread. The burning fuse left a curly cue arc of narrow but dense smoke as it corkscrewed through the air.

”Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole! FIRE IN THE HOOOLLE!” shouted the priest as he led and herded his boys back to cover. Even as he himself leapt to safety the charge went off like a kick in the pants, knocking him head over heels to go tumbling along the ground.

Austin, Texas

”That's my boy, Jorge,” muttered Schmidt as he, the governor, and her ”war cabinet” listened in to reports coming uncensored from the scene. Half the words used were expletives and obscenities.

”f.u.c.king gas isn't working. Motherf.u.c.kers took out both tanks...Jesus-f.u.c.king-Christ they shot down the crews like dogs...Where the f.u.c.k are those G.o.dd.a.m.ned helicopters?...What in the f.u.c.k are the snipers doing?... My G.o.d...they've got guns...machine guns... Explosives...Jesus...”

Juanita looked piercingly at Schmidt. ”Where...where, General, did my brother get machine guns? Where did he get explosives?”

A tiny flicker of a smile. ”Jorge always was a resourceful sort, Governor. You know that.” Then Schmidt's face lit again in his broadest, brightest flash. ”You really want to know? Fine. I gave them to him. I'll be d.a.m.ned if my best friend and your brother was going to be taken without a good fight. They...you...can do what the h.e.l.l you want with me. But Jorge Montoya was not not going to lack the tools he needed! And can you hear, Juani? Can you hear?” Schmidt pointed at the radio, still sputtering with federal outrage. ”He's holding them; beating them.” going to lack the tools he needed! And can you hear, Juani? Can you hear?” Schmidt pointed at the radio, still sputtering with federal outrage. ”He's holding them; beating them.”

Softly, ”I wish I were there. I wish I were there.

”Do you know why I am not, Governor? Because I still hope to talk some sense into you. I still think that the girl I...voted for...hasn't got it in her to see her brother cut down by wolves in suits and ties.”

Fiercely now, ”Let me roll my division, Juani. Send Nagy there to arrest them, too. Save your brother Juani...save those children, Governor Governor.”

Juanita's mouth set as if concrete, hard, unyielding. ”Do it.”

With a triumphant shout, Schmidt headed for the door. ”You coming with me, Nagy? We can take my helicopter.”

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

The press of numbers was too great. It had always been too great. Yet Montoya had hoped that, if he put up a good fight, the feds might just back off to reconsider.

”Dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.ds don't even know enough to know we're a losing proposition.”

”What was that, Father?”

The priest shook his head. ”Nothing, Ramon.”

The defenders, what were left of them, had been forced back to the chapel. Only Elpidia, wounded and helpless in the small infirmary, the children cowering in the storm shelter, and Julio, waiting for that perfect shot, remained outside of this last ditch. A baker's dozen of the boys and girls of the Mission lay sprawled in death outside, victims of the sniper in his tower, the helicopters overhead, or the near random fire of the PGSS now swarming through the grounds.

That baker's dozen had a slightly larger honor guard of their dead and wounded a.s.sailants. Ultimately driven from the breaches by the PGSS, the padre had been helpless to stop the surge of armed inhumanity that had poured into the mission. They hadn't been able to stop it. That hadn't prevented them from bleeding it however.

Even now, from hastily excavated loopholes in the chapel walls, some of the defenders traded shots with their attackers.

Some still fought. Others? The priest's eyes scanned the chapel. Exhausted Exhausted, was his judgment. He wasted a scornful glance upon Father Flores, cowering under a heavy sacramental alter. Unharmed, unsoiled, but also an unworthy cause to have given his children's lives for, thought Father Jorge.

He looked more carefully; began counting. Eleven of us here. Five wounded; two badly. Eleven of us here. Five wounded; two badly. One of the wounded boys was crying softly, trying to hold his intestines inside. Another, rapidly turning pale with loss of blood, managed to keep silent. One of the wounded boys was crying softly, trying to hold his intestines inside. Another, rapidly turning pale with loss of blood, managed to keep silent.

I wonder what happened to Julio.

”In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” whispered Julio as finally, finally, finally, he found the shot for which he had been waiting. It was not a perfect shot. It was not even a particularly good one. But it was a possibility. The first possibility he had had all morning. he found the shot for which he had been waiting. It was not a perfect shot. It was not even a particularly good one. But it was a possibility. The first possibility he had had all morning.

The HRT's ad hoc sniper tower had been modified with a steel box at its summit. From that box, sheltered from anything that was not directly in his line of fire, the sniper had poured down shot after shot into the defenders. More than half the mission dead were attributable to that sniper's deadly, accurate fire.

And Julio hadn't been able to do a thing about it. Not a thing. The sniper and his spotter had kept safely back, with a half an inch of steel between them and Julio.

And then, easy targets exhausted, the tower had turned, presenting its half open front face to Julio's scope.

Unseen by the HRT, any potential glare from the scope hidden by a deeply recessed firing position, Julio's breathing paused, his body relaxed, his finger tightened, and his rifle spoke.

The bullet flew straight and true. Before he had the remotest suspicion that he was under fire, the sniper's brains filled the small armored box in which he and his spotter sheltered, covering the spotter with blood and gore.

In the crowded headquarters Friedberg fumed and raged. Bad enough that eight BATF agents were down. Bad enough that some dozens of PGSS were down. But to kill her her people? Intolerable. And she would not tolerate it. people? Intolerable. And she would not tolerate it.

”Get me those Army types on the line,” she demanded of one of the radio operators.

”Ma'am?” asked the cowed minor functionary; there were a number of ”Army types” supporting the operation.

”The guns.h.i.+ps, you idiot. About time they earned their pay.”

”Yes, ma'am.” The operator spoke briefly into a microphone. ”Here they are, Ms. Friedberg.” The Director of the FBI felt a small satisfaction at seeing the trembling in the hand which offered her the microphone.

”Who is this?” she demanded.

The answer came as if through a ”sound blender”...the words choppy and distorted. ”This is Echo 57. Who is this this?”

”This is the Director of the FBI.” Friedberg waited in vain for a suitably humble response.

”Roger, Director, this is Echo 57. You have traffic this station?” The voice was annoyingly male and had an infuriating lack of humility. There was no noticeable tenor even of respect.

”He means 'Do you have a message?' ma'am.”

Friedberg glared at the operator. ”I know what he means, you ninny.”

”Echo 57, this is the Director. I want you to attack the mission. My people are being hurt and I want it to stop.”

There was a barely perceptible pause on the other end, as if the pilots were conferring among themselves. At last came the response, ”No can do, Director. Forbidden. Illegal.”