A state of disobedience

El Paso, Texas

The word had been passed quietly. The hour was set for the time when the command and staff of 1^st Marine Division could be most certain not to be interrupted by any of the division's Zampolits.

The Political Officers liked their sleep.

Quietly, too, the colonels and generals assembled in the division command post. Quietly they entered. Quietly they took their seats.

Fulton, the general commanding, entered accompanied by a pudgy, nondescript corporal named Mendez. He made a small hushing motion. Do not call "attention." Do not stand. Just listen.

"Ladies, gentlemen . . . oh and you, too, Colonel Stilton," the general lightly pointed a finger at the commander of the Army's 3^rd Cavalry. "Corporal Mendez here has come through Las Cruces recently with a load of ammunition for us. I want you to listen to what he saw there. Go ahead, Mendez."

Obviously somewhat unnerved by the presence of so much brass, Mendez began haltingly. As he saw anger growing on the dimly lit faces, an anger that matched his own, he became more eloquent. As he finished speaking he heard two colonels mutter, "Motherfuckers."

"Yes, sir . . . sirs. They were motherfuckers."

"Motherfuckers," General Fulton repeated, definitively. "Now the question is, what do we do about it? Mendez, go take a walk. What we're going to discuss . . . I won't say it isn't your business. I will say that I don't see any good reason to put your neck in a noose, too."

The general waited for the corporal to leave and close the door before continuing.

The Cavalry commander interrupted as soon as he heard the door ease closed. "Me, personally, I'm sorely tempted to beg whatever diesel you guys have, turn around, and head north shooting up federal cops all the way," said Stilton. There was a muted murmur of broad agreement.

"A worthy ambition, young Colonel. Now how do you square that with your oath of office?"

"You don't have to anyway," piped in Fulton's intelligence officer. He pointed a thumb in a roughly northward direction and announced, "The Texas Guard is already sending what looks to be a heavy battalion to Santa Fe, though I don't think they know that we know. The general knows," he continued, defensively.

"Yes, I knew. And I decided we all needed to chat before we decided what to do about it."

"What do you want to do about it, sir?" asked Stilton.

"Do about that battalion? About the federales that shot down American citizens in cold blood? Or do you mean about our general—and unfortunate—circumstances?"

"Yes, sir. About that."

Fulton flashed the briefest and smallest of smiles. "They say that a council of war never fights. Even so, that's what I'm calling here, a council of war. There are some decisions I can't make for you. I wouldn't, in any case. This is one such.

"We have three questions and three choices. The questions I have already asked. The choices are these. We can continue to do what we've been doing; moving painfully forward to try to knock the Texans to their knees as part of the federal armed forces. Alternatively, we can join the Texans and try to knock the federal government to its knees. Lastly, we can decide to just sit things out right here, call a truce, and ask the Texans for some goddamned gas and water just to survive.

"Note that the last two choices mean we will have to round up the Zampolits we've been saddled with." Fulton looked over at his provost.

"We're ready when you give the order, sir," that worthy answered, not without an undertone of happy anticipation in his voice.

Fulton nodded before continuing, "Note, here, gentlemen, that once I called this council my personal options became quite limited. I am in favor of one of those last two choices and by so stating I have effectively counseled a mutiny.

"And that's all I am going to say about it. Speak, argue . . . decide."

* * *

"Get up, you pudgy little fuck," harshly demanded the Marine holding a rifle to the nose of the division's political officer. Two more Marines, large men both, came, one to either side of the Zampolit's rather luxurious bunk in his rather expensive and air-conditioned RV.

"You're coming with us, asshole."

* * *