A state of disobedience

Austin, Texas

The Corps entered the state capital without incident. Expecting a bloodbath, the commander had waited until he had enough artillery, most importantly enough weight of shell, to be certain of crushing all opposition, along with enough fuel and small arms ammunition to be certain of being able to clear the town and exploit the breakthrough.

This had not been easy in the face of demolished bridges and roads, burned stocks at every town they entered, and a populace gone generally sullen, hostile and very uncooperative.

Yet, the evening before the assault on Texan lines was to begin, the Texans abandoned those lines, retreating hastily but in fairly good order some miles south.

Standing beside one such, a well-excavated and revetted trench, the commander of 3^rd Corps and his sergeant major watched the stately procession of armored vehicles and accompanying infantry disappear into the suburban streets north of the town.

"Sir, I'm having a hard time believing the Texans aren't going to fight for their capital," commented the 3^rd Corps sergeant major to his chief.

The general removed his helmet and scratched his head, a bit worriedly. "I know, Top . . . but that's what we're hearing from all along the front. The Texas Guard and State Defense Force have pulled out to the outskirts, the southern outskirts, of the city."

"They've still got defenses dug south of town, sir."

"Yes, I know. I expect they'll be occupying them right now."

"You heard what happened to Governor Seguin's place?"

"I heard, Sergeant Major. I'm not sure I heard the truth though. Do you think she's really dead?"

"Dunno, boss. There were no survivors reported at the house. And her husband and son were killed. That time of the morning? I figure she was in there too and they just haven't found a body yet."

"Shame, isn't it? She was a great woman, in so many ways."

The sergeant major merely grunted a warning as none other than Harold Forsythe, Political Officer for the 3^rd Corps since losing his job as Federal Commissioner for Texas, approached on foot.

"Mr. Forsythe," noticed the general, without offering a hand.

"General," Forsythe returned, a minor note of exultation creeping into his voice. "Sergeant Major."

The sergeant major just nodded, not even offering so faint a greeting as had his boss.

"You'll be wanting to resume your duties in the capital directly," offered the general.

"Yes. How soon will the area be cleared?"

"If progress keeps up, we should be past the state house by tomorrow, about midmorning."

Forsythe smiled in anticipation of paying back some scores. The only dark spot on his future horizon was the fact that the Seguin bitch was dead. He had been looking forward to her execution with shivering anticipation.

* * *

"It's time to leave Juani. Time to leave here, to leave the state, to leave the country. We've lost."

Juanita, unanswering, just swung her head minutely from side to side. She had cried herself out hours since and seemed to have no emotion left to her, no feeling at all.

"You'll go by car. I've got an unmarked civilian sedan. There's a trunkful of money in it. It'll take you to Brownsville where one of Hanstadt's people will see you across into Matamoros. 'Patricio' told me off line that he'll arrange to give you a refuge in Panama."

Juani just continued her minuscule headshaking.

"Come on." Schmidt reached for the woman's arm.

"No!" she shouted fiercely, pulling her arm away from Schmidt's grasp. "No," she repeated, more calmly.

"Stop being silly, Governor. It's time to go . . . and past time."

"I'm not being silly," Juani retorted. "But I am not leaving until I have tried every last thing."

"We have," commented Jack. "Nothing worked in the long run. Now we have to fight. That's all that's left. I intend to do it. And you are going, first to San Antonio and then to someplace safe."

Schmidt might never have admitted it, even to himself, but the thought of his best friend's sister, who was also his governor, and even also the woman who might have, in a different and better world, become his wife, being hurt or killed had in part unhinged him.

"No . . . there's one more thing we can do."

"What?"

"Can you still get me on television, one last time?"

"Why? What good would it do?"

"I want to talk to our people."

"You want to go into the breach one more time?" asked Schmidt, somewhat incredulously.

"Jack, I have to. You say we've lost. I tell you I haven't even begun to fight."

* * *