A state of disobedience

North of Gainesville, Texas

"Mission accomplished, sir," the sergeant said to Bernoulli with a crisp salute. The "mission" had been to considerably reinforce the demolition charges previously set on the bridge to the north. From wherever it had come, General Schmidt had come through with enough—truth be told, more than enough—demolitions to bring down every bridge in the state, twice over.

Bernoulli returned the salute, then nodded solemnly. "Okay, Sergeant. Get the boys loaded up then take them to the next bridge down. I'll stay here until it's time to blow this one, then I'll join you later assuming I can get away."

"Sir . . ." the sergeant began to protest, but Bernoulli was having none of it.

"Don't argue," he said with an upraised palm. "Just go."

"Yes, sir," answered the sergeant, then, turning to the troops, he ordered, "All right, you dickheads, load 'em up. We're heading back."

Within minutes, Bernoulli was alone at his command post by the bridge complex spanning the Trinity River.

Not that he was entirely alone; nearby and ahead remained a mixed tank and mechanized infantry task force and a battery of superb New Mexican air defense artillery. But these were there for their threat value, to seem so dangerous that the federals would be prevented from grabbing the bridge with a helicopter insertion.

Yet, still, Bernoulli was alone with his mission and his thoughts.

Dark thoughts they were, full of the doubts that he never let anyone see. Am I doing the right thing? Is this the only way? Can I get by with saying "I am only following orders" when I have a choice of the orders I could follow?

A captain from the infantry interrupted Bernoulli's reveries. "I just got the word. The Corps is about ten miles out. Their point elements will be here in fifteen or twenty minutes; half an hour, tops. I told my people to get back here and over this bridge before there isn't any bridge to cross on."

"Just let me know when the last of them is across," reminded Bernoulli.

"You'll be able to see yourself; two tanks, four tracks, each with a big white star painted on front."

Ahead, from the north, came the sound of a 120mm cannon firing, distance and distortion making it seem more like natural thunder. The captain picked up a microphone and listened briefly.

To Bernoulli, he announced, "That was just a warning shot, nobody hit. My boys said the Corps was pushing them a little hard and they needed some breathing space. The point of the Corps is deploying now. We should get a few extra minutes."

"Just get them over the bridge before the Corps shows up, sir, preferably with a few minutes to spare in case something goes wrong."

After some short time had passed the pair heard, faintly, the roar of the Bradleys' diesels. They were still too far away to pick up the quiet whine of the tanks' turbines.

"There they are," announced the captain, pointing at the small column of six armored vehicles racing towards them.

Feeling a lump grow in his throat, Bernoulli nodded while affixing one wire to a post on his detonator. With hands trembling slightly he attached the second wire. I guess this is really it.

"Please tell your men to hurry, sir," Bernoulli advised.

"Yeah, I know, 'restrained response.' We don't want to have to blow up the bridge with a hundred guys from Third Corps on it when we do."

"No, sir. Though if I have to . . ." Bernoulli left the thought unspoken. If I have to, I'm not sure I can.

The small covering force reached the bridge then. They were close enough, and the engines racing fast enough, that Bernoulli could just make out the turbines' whining under the diesels' throbbing. Then he felt through his legs the slight tremors as three hundred tons of steel moved, and moved fast, across the bridge.

"It's on you, now, bubba," the captain announced as the last of his vehicles passed Bernoulli's command post. "Should we take cover?"

Distantly, Bernoulli answered, "Not necessary. The bridge will blow, mostly, down."

"Best do it then."

"Yes, sir." Bernoulli clutched both hands to his chest, the detonator between them. He clutched and then, unaccountably, froze.

"Lieutenant? Are you going to blow it or not?"

Bernoulli remained frozen. Am I going to "blow it"?

Across the river, a few miles away up the highway, the first of Third Corps LAVs, Light Armored Vehicles, made an abrupt appearance.

Ohh, shit. Bernoulli steeled himself. He set his jaw in a tight grimace. Then he closed his eyes and forced his hands together.

* * *

"Wow! Oh, my God! Holy fucking shit, that was fucking great!" The captain jumped up and down, in plain sight, shouting praise and waving two upright fingers in the general direction of the LAVs massing on the other side of the river. "Son, you done good," he continued, pounding Bernoulli on the back with exuberance.

"I went to college to learn to build bridges, sir, not to blow them up," answered Bernoulli, trying to retain his dignity under the pounding. With one hand he dusted from his uniform fine concrete from the shattered and sundered bridge.

With a last look at the Trinity River, now boasting a set of rapids it had never had before, Bernoulli recovered his detonator, got in his Hummer, and drove south.

* * *