The Bigger Problem

The Bigger Problem

"Houston, we have a problem."

William Travis, leader of the American forces, was worried. He had reason to be worried. It was the thirteenth day of the siege, and thousands of armed Mexicans were on the point of overwhelming the outnumbered defenders of the Alamo.

The communicator crackled. The holographic image of Sam Houston materialized. The wrinkled forehead of the commander threatened to swallow up his bushy eyebrows.

"Yes, Travis. What's the problem that we have?" He emphasized the we.

General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna had surrounded the village of San Antonio and the ancient Franciscan mission of El Alamo. For the last twelve days the army had poured in soldiers and cannon and subjected the American outpost to daily bombardment. Santa Ana had swiftly taken control of the village and mounted several assaults on the mission and outlying buildings. So far, every attack had failed.

"I think this is it," said Travis. "This is the final assault. We're down to our last powder, we have no more cannonballs, all we can see are rank upon rank of soldiers converging on the walls."

"Yes," said Houston. "I understand you have a problem. But how is that our problem?

"My God, Sam! We're in the same army. We've signed up for this war. This is our war of Independence. This is how we establish the glorious Republic of Texas. I am a regular soldier as are so many others, and we are allied with volunteer militia and with sympathetic Mexicans, and we have pledged to oppose the regular Mexican army and its desire to take away our rights and impose an unacceptable government, a foreign government. That all makes it our problem.

Houston paused a moment before replying. "I still don't see it as my problem. Enlighten me."

"You are our commander in chief!"

"Yes, I am your commander. And what does a commander do?

Travis sighed. "He commands. He issues orders."

"To who?"

"What?"

"To whom ̶ excuse me, for a moment I forgot my education."

"Why, to us. To we followers. To we subordinates."

"To us followers. To us subordinates"

"What?"

"Sorry, I just forgot the question. What was your answer?"

"I said," said Travis, "you issue orders to your subordinates."

"Right. Now we're on track. And what do subordinates do? Think carefully."

"I think," said Travis, "I know where this is going. Listen, Sam, some weeks ago, you ordered us to abandon the Alamo, to fall back and regroup, that Santa Anna was amassing forces to the south, and that we were in danger of being outmaneuvered. But, we had our reasons for staying. We had twenty cannon, we had a fortified position, we had a sizeable group of doughty defenders, and most of all, as you know, any Texian is a match for ten Mexicanos."

"But what if," said Houston, "there are eleven, or twelve, Mexicanos?"

"What?"

"Never mind. What does Jim say?"

"Jim?"

"Colonel James Bowie. Leader of the volunteers. Lieutenant Colonel William Travis, pray tell me, what does Jim Bowie say? If I know Jim, he has half a dozen pistols, primed and ready, and is picking his teeth with that butcher knife of his."

There was a burst of static on the communicator. Sam Houston's image wavered, then steadied. There were scattered volleys of shots. Travis glanced away from the screen to take in hundreds upon hundreds of uniformed soldiers forging in, some carrying ladders. Cannon from the walls of the fort blasted away.

"Jim Bowie is . . . indisposed."

"What do you mean, 'indisposed'? That doesn't sound like Jim Bowie. Bowie is no malingerer."

"Well, he's sort of lingering . . . in bed."

"Explain that, dammit. In bed?"

"Bowie fell sick just after the siege began. He's deathly ill. But he'll fight to the last breath."

"Dammit. Dammit. What about the other Jim?"

"Other Jim?"

"Captain James Fannin. I understood you sent for him to reinforce your ranks."

"A few of Fannin's men made it through. The countryside is overrun with cavalry, but Crockett liaised with a small group and helped them into the fort. But that's it. No more help is coming. We have a problem. A big problem. We have no more balls. We're loading cannon with hinges and nails and chopped up horseshoes in lieu of canister."

"So, Davy Crockett is doing his bit? Tell me, is he still wearing that leather hunting outfit and that wacky coonskin cap?"

"Colonel David Crockett never changes. He's solid. If we didn't have him and his thirty volunteers and their long rifles, we'd have succumbed days ago. But, back to our problem. As our commanding officer, what's your backup plan? Are you going to relieve us?

"Now, Lieutenant, that's kind of hard to do. You see, I'm calling from the Lone Star. You know, the starship. We're a gazillion light years from planet Earth and orbiting the planet Xerxes. Xerxes, as you know, is a candidate for colonization. After which we'll annex Xerxes to our new republic. It's part of our grand master plan. Stevie's in Washington now, conducting diplomatic talks with the American Congress . . . "

"Stevie? Who the H is Stevie?"

"Commander Stephen F. Austin. Soon to be named Secretary of State to the new Republic of Texas. You know, Stevie is more of a lover than a fighter, so he's the right man for the right job. And there's the future to think about. Part of the plan is to annex the eventual territories of Colorado, the highest state, and big Wyoming, and salty Utah, and silvery Nevada, and delightful New Mexico, and of course, California.

"California, right. Sunny California." Travis paused and collected himself. Bullets whizzed past him, many clipping the adobe walls. He brushed dust and chips off his epaulets. "But, Sam, we have a more immediate problem. We  ̶ "

"Of course, Bill, of course. I'm fully aware of your predicament. But who created your predicament? Not me."

Volleys of gunfire pulsated through the communicator.

"Sam, for the love of God, are you going to relieve us? I see them clambering over the north wall now. We need relief now. Now!"

"Yes, Bill, I'd help you if I could. But, even utilizing hyperspace and a dozen shortcuts that I know of, we wouldn't arrive till tomorrow morning. Even then I couldn't commit our troops to a hopeless cause. So, you see, you do have a problem."

"But surely, surely, you have a backup plan. You do have a backup, right?"

"I always have a Plan B. I've ordered several batteries of Patriot missiles. A single Patriot can account for several dozen Mexicanos. You'll have the advantage then. But there is a problem."

Travis strangled a cry as soldiers poured over the low parapet into the courtyard. He fired both barrels of his pistols and drew his sword. Davy was swinging his long rifle like a club, no one had time to reload.

"The problem," Houston continued, "is that the missiles are on back order. Delivery date estimated to be a hundred and fifty years. Sorry."

Volleys of gunfire overwhelmed the transmission.

"Sorry," whispered Houston. "So sorry."