Part 22 (1/2)

A. Well, I noticed posters going up all over town, eventually. They were kind of crudely done, if you know what I mean. Well...maybe crude isn't quite the right word; the drawings were a good enough likeness, after all.

You know the ones I mean? They showed Governor Seguin from a front view and from the side, just like she was a criminal or something. For a while there they were everywhere: ”Wanted: Dead or Alive.”

Now, of course, n.o.body ever took any credit for them. They weren't official. They didn't offer any reward or anything like that.

But it started me to thinking, which never did come too easy to me. I mean, I'm not stupid. I never read books much, but I'm not stupid.

Anyway, if the White House could pay people to march in parades, and I was pretty sure that's where that money I was handed did come from, why couldn't they make up-have someone make up-some posters like that?

Take it all together: the parades, the news that all seemed to come from one side only, the posters. What did it add up to?

To me? Well, I added one and one and one and came up with the White House. But I figure to a lot of folks, it probably seemed like it added up to real-what do you call it?-a tidal wave? Yeah, a tidal wave of support for doing whatever it took to knock Texas into the dirt.

Pickup Zone (PZ) ”Treasure,” Oklahoma

The faint nimbus of the rising sun was only just beginning to peek over the low Oklahoma hills to the east. A mild southern wind carried little dust on its breeze, and virtually none into the eyes of the Army teams overseeing the loading and departure of a battalion of PGSS ”agents” towards Fort Worth.

The helicopters themselves, however, kicked up enough dust to be an annoyance. It was an annoyance to which the Army was long since used, however. The soldiers shrugged it off.

Not so the PGSS. Unused to helicopters at best-most of them, they snarled and choked as they neared the birds designated to take them by ”chalk”-strange Army term meaning one load for one helicopter, so they had found out-to their landing zones.

The snarling was only about half due to the dust, however, or perhaps a bit less. Mostly they were frightened. They'd never been recruited, armed, organized or trained for this kind of mission. The last several weeks' intense training under qualified Army instructors had made good some of this lack-albeit not without some friction between the two. Still, the idea of close combat in buildings-the worst and deadliest kind of combat, so their instructors had told them-had not been high on their list of reasons for joining up.

With a circle of hands and a pointed finger the ground teams signaled their helicopters to take off into the wind.

Other battalions waited to load as soon as their transport returned.

Field Mess, 4th Battalion, 101 Battalion, 101st Aviation Regiment Aviation Regiment

Officers could not speak ill of the President of the United States. Noncoms and enlisted men could not insult officers but could could say whatever they wanted about the President; no rule against it. At least there was no legal and official rule against it. The political officers-the troops had already taken to calling them ”Zampolits”-might have different ideas. say whatever they wanted about the President; no rule against it. At least there was no legal and official rule against it. The political officers-the troops had already taken to calling them ”Zampolits”-might have different ideas.

Thus it was that, surrounded by officers and flight warrants of the battalion, one lone, slightly chubby first sergeant by the name of Henry looked around, saw no Zampolits, then stood upon a folding mess table and announced, ”Be proud, gentlemen, be proud. That sound you hear over toward the PZ? Why that's our own brave boys carrying the 'elite of the nation'-Rottenmuncher's Own, the arrogant c.o.c.ksuckers-into battle. What an awesome and welcome mission. What a garland for our proud unit's history. Can't you just imagine it, imagine how you're all going to feel when we get that campaign streamer that says 'Western Currency Facility' to put on our standard right next to Ia Drang and Al Nasriyeh?

”Oh, yes...something for each of us to tell our children and our grandchildren. 'Why yes, Johnny, I was there pulling pitch...or turning a wrench...or running tests of the electronics when the Rottenmuncher hammered the last shackle on the United States. Yep...that was me, your old grandpappy, helping make the world unsafe for democracy.”

Most present in the tent laughed; First Sergeant Henry was one of those characters a lucky unit has; treasured because of-not in spite of-his humor and cynicism.

One warrant pilot did not laugh. Chewing and swallowing his bite of ”undifferentiated meat with differentiated sauce” quickly, this warrant officer, CWO2 Harrington, asked, ”And what the h.e.l.l are we supposed to do, Top? We get our orders. We follow them.”

Henry's lip curled in a sneer, not at the warrant so much as at the world. ”Do, sir? Why I didn't say we should 'do' anything. Why that would be mutiny, sir, and I would, of course, never counsel mutiny. Why I would not even suggest to you gentlemen-oh, and ladies-that you remember your oaths to the country, because if I did then-who knows?-you might mutiny on your own.

”No sir, not me, never. No mutiny from this end.

”I might, though, ask the chaplain-oh, and you, too, sir,” Henry indicated with a finger the battalion's JAG officer, ”if it would be mutiny to ask G.o.d to help those men in the WCF that are going to be fighting there soon for our our freedom.” freedom.”

Henry looked around for the unit chaplain. Finding him, and catching the chaplain's eye, the first sergeant shouted, ”Hey 'Chap,' can we make this a prayer prayer breakfast?” breakfast?”

In Flight

Sawyers shouted into the ear of the newsman a.s.signed to follow him and his command into the Western Currency Facility. ”They haven't got a prayer, those dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.ds on the receiving end.”

”Why's that, Commander,” asked the newsman.

”We're trained professionals, son. Those guys are just part-timers.”

”You or your men ever clear a fortified building before?”

”A building's not fortified unless it's well defended,” countered Sawyers. ”And I don't see those amateurs putting up much of a defense. Hope they had a decent breakfast. It's likely to be their last one that isn't behind bars.”

Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas

”What's for breakfast, cookie?” asked Fontaine.

The mess sergeant sneered, not at Fontaine but at a battery of flat silver containers. ”Same as usual, bubba: undifferentiated meat with differentiated sauce; accompanied by only mildly radioactive, notionally wholesome, 'potatoes-all-rotten'; optional fake ham omelet; and some half decent coffee. We're running short on sugar for the coffee, though, so go easy.”

Cookie never had cared for being rendered half obsolete by modern T-rations.

”Sounds, umm, great, cookie. Let me have-”

Pendergast's voice thundered, ”Breakfast in the mess is cancelled. Get your a.s.ses to your battle positions. NOW, people! Move, move move, MOVE!”

Fontaine quickly added two and two, coming up with the mathematically perfect answer of, ”Hungry, and soon.” With a mumbled, ”Thanks, cookie,” he reached directly into the trays of food, extracting several slices of meat and a scooped palm-full of omelet.