A state of disobedience

Western Currency Facility, Bureau of Engraving, Fort Worth, Texas

It was early day with the sun just beginning to peek over the trees in the east. A plainclothed Schmidt and a uniformed Pendergast exchanged bright smiles as a horde of workers almost flew from every entrance to the WCF.

"I knew it would work, sir. One little bomb threat and they are scurrying, guards and all."

"Top, you told them it was an anthrax bomb. That's not little."

The first sergeant shrugged. "So I lied? Fuck 'em . . . sir."

Schmidt said nothing further as he strained his ears for the expected sound. Soon enough—mere minutes, actually—it came; a horde of sirens from every direction. Almost instantly the area around the WCF seemed filled with police cars, forcing their way slowly through the mass of displaced workers. There were Fort Worth Police; Dallas, too. Along came county sheriffs, a bomb squad, and even a few EMS ambulances. Every vehicle carried members of Company A, 144^th Infantry.

Down on the street by the main entrance Captain James—in a borrowed Fort Worth Police uniform—spoke into a microphone in "his" squad car. "Attention. Attention. This is a police emergency. Clear away from the building. Clear away from the building. Uniformed officers will assist you. Report to the nearest uniformed officer. Clear away from the building."

He took a deep breath, a nervous breath—truth be told, and continued. "All Bureau of Engraving security personnel come to this location. We will need you to help control the workers. I repeat, WCF guards report to this location."

While James was speaking two more police cars, one from Dallas and another bearing markings of the sheriff's department for the county, pulled up behind him. Four uniformed officers emerged from each.

Even as the police vehicles rolled to a stop uniformed and a few plainclothed guards from the Mint began gravitating toward James' car. Climbing to the roof, he spoke to them calmly, much more calmly than he felt, while waiting for the rest to arrive.

From over the police radio came the code word "Avalanche," repeated several times: the guards to the side with the rounded extension were under control. James nodded with satisfaction.

"Was anyone left behind in the building?" James asked.

"No, sir," said an elderly, potbellied guard, looking up. "We have procedures for this." The guard looked around, counting heads. "Everyone's here, sir."

James heard the police radio sound, in turn, "Typhoon" and "Hurricane." The guards to the other sides were secured.

"Very good," said James, mostly to himself. His head gave a slight nod in the direction of the eleven "policemen" around him. Instantly eleven guns were drawn from eleven holsters.

"Gentlemen," said James to the assembled guards, "I invite and require you to surrender in the name of liberty, Texas, and—God bless her!—Governor Juanita Seguin."

Three or four guards looked as if they might resist, glaring up at James. Yet, in the main, most of them were as annoyed with Washington as anyone in the state, or perhaps even more so. Glancing around at their fellows who were obviously pleased, those guards who might have resisted decided that discretion was, after all, the better part of valor.

As the guards dropped their pistols, the Fort Worth Bomb Squad, also known as Second Squad, Third Platoon, A Company, entered the building.