A state of disobedience

Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas

"And the condemned ate a hearty last meal," joked Davis as he and the other officers feasted on such rare and costly delicacies as packaged bread, undifferentiated meat, nuked potatoes, and squeezie cheese.

Almost all chuckled though the humor was plainly forced. James alone did not chuckle. He was sick; the doc had diagnosed pneumonia brought on by damage to his lungs during the first attack. James picked at the food with little interest or appetite. His color was pale and he seemed to have lost weight.

Suddenly, seized by a fit of coughing, James put down his plastic fork.

"You okay, bubba?" asked Davis.

"I'll be fine," he answered, without conviction.

Davis exchanged a look with Williams. No, he won't be fine.

"Captain James, I think maybe you ought to exchange places with the engineer; take over the command post and let him handle the south wall."

Recovering with difficulty from the fit of coughing, James could only nod his head reluctantly. "If you say so, boss."

"I'll leave a good engineer with him," volunteered Davis.

"He ought to be in the aid station," insisted the doctor. "But then again . . ."

"Doesn't make a whole helluva lot of difference, does it, Doc?" countered James.