Part 15 (1/2)

”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.”