“It’s a big stinkin’ issue all right,” Fontenot agreed.

“This local Governor is a real character, isn’t he? A stunt like this… There must be better ways for a state politician to provoke the feds.”

“Green Huey is crazy. But he’s the people’s kind of crazy, these days. The State of Emergency, the budget crisis — it’s no joke down here. People really resent it.”

They stopped near the searing glare of the copter lights. An Air Force lieutenant was addressing a pair of day tripping Texan civilians through the open window of the couple’s car. The lieutenant was a young woman: she wore a padded blue flight suit, a body-armor vest, and an elaborate flight helmet. The helmet’s screen-crowded interior was busily ticking and flashing as it hung from her webbing belt.

The Texan man looked up at her cautiously, through the driver’s window. “It’s what?” he said.

“An Air Force bake sale, sir. Louisiana bake sale. We got your corn bread, your muffuleta bread, croissants, beignets… Maybe some chicory coffee? Ted, we got any of that chicory coffee left?”

“Just made us a fresh carafe,” Ted announced loudly, opening the steaming lid of his rickshaw. Ted was heavily armed.

“What do you think?” said the driver to his wife.

“Beignets always get powdered sugar over everything,” the Texan woman said indistinctly.

“How much for, uhm, four croissants and two coffees? With cream?”

The lieutenant muttered a canned spiel about “voluntary contributions.” The driver retrieved his wallet and silently passed over a debit card. The lieutenant swiftly slotted the card through a cellular reader, relieving the couple of a hefty sum. Then she passed the food through their window. “Y’all take care now,” she said, waving them on.

The couple drove away, accelerating rapidly once their car had cleared the line of fire. The lieutenant consulted a handheld readout, and waved through the next three cars, which all bore Louisiana plates. Then she pounced on another tourist.