MONTGOMERY, Ala.— The state of Alabama has just dedicated $6 million in federal stimulus money to combat a certain invasive weed, and the two men chosen to lead this ground war can already hear you laughing. Millions of dollars to kill some weeds? Ha-ha-ha. Oh, Nellie.

But we're not talking dandelions here. This weed is the killer weed, the nearly indestructible weed, The Weed From Another Continent—a weed that evokes those old science-fiction movies in which clueless citizens ignore reports of an alien invasion, leaving the heroes to rail in frustration:

The fools! Don't they understand? This is cogongrass!

Two weeks ago, our two heroes began operating the Alabama Cogongrass Control Center out of the drabbest office in the drab Alabama Forestry Commission building, here in Montgomery. The small room is so spare, with its empty bookshelves and bare wood-paneled walls, that it seems to exist in black and white, save for a large, color-coded map of Alabama on a table.

Dozens of tiny green bubbles dot the map, particularly throughout the bottom third of the state. Each one represents a GPS-identified location of the enemy: cogongrass (Imperata cylindrica), also known as the Perfect Weed, and considered one of the 10 worst weeds in the world.

It can take over fields and forests, ruining crops, destroying native plants, upsetting the ecosystem. It is very difficult to kill. It burns extremely hot. And its serrated leaves and grainy composition mean that animals with even the most indiscriminate palates—goats, for example—say no thanks.

“;Southwest Alabama is just solid with it,”; says Ernest Lovett, the project coordinator, as he studies his map. Soon he will be dispatching advance teams across this field of engagement to spray herbicides that are best known by their aggressive commercial names, Arsenal and Roundup.

Lovett, 61, is a big man with white hair and large ears that he's proud of. He's also proud to say he was born in a back bedroom of the family home in an Arkansas place called Needmore. After retiring from a long career in forestry, he joined Larson & McGowin, a land management company in Mobile that won the bid to halt cogongrass' advancement in Alabama.

“;I wanted one more war project before I quit,”; says Lovett, who served two years in the Army and another 23 in the Reserves.

On the map before him, the top two-thirds of the state—everything north of U.S. Highway 80—is shaded red. Lovett explains why:

“;The overall strategy: to attack. To draw a line using Highway 80 and eradicate north of it. Then, in phases, try to control it south. There will be a lot of parallel attacks.”;

His project partner, Stephen Pecot, 38, listens, grim-faced. A forester as well, he is the team's bearded academic and communications director, someone who spent a decade researching the longleaf pines of southern Georgia. He may be more liberal in his politics than Lovett, but he is no dove when it comes to cogongrass.

Left unchecked, he says, “;It could spread all the way to Michigan.”;

The story of cogongrass follows the familiar science-fiction theme of humankind reaping what it has sown, through arrogance, stupidity or some other frailty. Conduct nuclear testing, say hello to mutants. Be careless with nonnative species, say hello to cogongrass.

It is believed that in the winter of 1911-12, shipments of satsuma orange rootstocks from Japan arrived in Grand Bay, about 25 miles south of Mobile. And what was being used as packing material for these shipments? Cogongrass, of course.

For a while, government officials encouraged the use of cogongrass as a forage crop and as a way to stem soil erosion. These efforts failed, a state document says, and “;the plant unfortunately was allowed to escape”;—across southern Alabama, into Florida, Mississippi, and beyond.

Now, come springtime, you can see its white feathery tufts, surrendering seeds to the wind. Come summer, the yellow-green blades can rise 6 feet high. Then, during winter, the grass turns brown but often remains erect, as if in defiance.

Our species is often slow to notice when the natural order of things is thrown out of balance; perhaps it is because we are often responsible. This may be particularly true when the culprit is as mundane as a tall, grassy weed waving from the roadside.

Foresters and scientists, among others, have warned of a crisis for years, prompting sporadic efforts to eradicate the weed and to educate the public. “;People think this is just a grass,”; Pecot says. “;They don't understand that cogongrass can replace an entire ecosystem.”;

A few months ago, the forestry commission sought bids for a coordinator to wage “;Alabama's War on Cogongrass,”; a planned three-year battle that would use money from the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act. Of course, this meant that its top two objectives were, in order: “;Create/retain jobs for the State of Alabama”; and “;Establish a cogongrass-free zone in the state thus halting the northward movement of the plant.”;

Lovett and Pecot's company was awarded the contract just a few days ago, and they have lots to do: contacting foresters around the state who might know of cogongrass patches, securing releases from private landowners, hiring and training the few dozen people to apply the herbicide.

Lovett puts on his cap and heads out to his 2006 pickup, which has 188,000 miles on it. He has an appointment with foresters in Eutaw, more than two hours to the west. As he drives, he often frets about trucks carting infected bales of hay, spreading cogongrass seeds as they rumble along Alabama's roadways.

Pecot, meanwhile, begins a 50-mile drive west to a rural stretch outside of Selma, where local foresters have identified a few cogongrass patches. As he drives, he talks of the need to coordinate with other states, to educate, to understand that the eradication of cogongrass in Alabama alone would cost much, much more than the $6 million dedicated to this project.

“;There's probably some in this field here,”; he says, nodding at the passing green blur.

Pecot is soon in an old cotton field with Thomas Lang, a district manager for the forestry commission, and Jamie Thomas, a forestry consultant. They talk about how cogongrass is like the evil cousin of kudzu, another invasive weed that Lang says has come to take on “;a certain Southern charm.”;

In fact, when they speak of cogongrass, it is with awe for the enemy's almost extraterrestrial resilience. For example, you can't kill it with one application of herbicide. You have to return several months later and do it again.

The men are now standing in a hip-high sea of cogongrass, its tall sharp blades swaying in the soft wind. Lang takes out a small device that looks like a Geiger counter and records the coordinates: 32.33374 North and 86.99641 West. Then he grabs a shovel to pry some grass from the soil.

The shovel snaps in half—a touch of foreboding, if this were a B movie.

A minute later the man is holding aloft the root to some cogongrass, exposing the needlelike shoots that are gradually piercing the soil of the South. It looks natural, and alien, and much scarier than the Blob.