Trial by Fire

9

Watching Second Lieutenant Kozak as she conducted her final precombat inspection of the 2nd Squad, Sergeant First Class Rivera wondered what it was with infantry second lieutenants. Perhaps, he thought, Fort Benning makes them that way. It had to be. After being a platoon sergeant with the same platoon for twenty-six months, he was in the process of breaking in his third brand-new, fresh-from-Fort Benning platoon leader.

And each and every one came into the platoon full of piss and vinegar, ready to set the world on fire, and hell-bent for leather to lead a bayonet charge.

Even his new lieutenant, a woman for Christ's sakes, was just as gung ho, and as intolerant of anyone who wasn't, as his first two lieutenants had been. It wasn't until they became captains, or so it seemed, that they discovered that just maybe sergeants weren't so dumb after all. Rivera wondered if his counterparts in the field artillery and tank corps had the same problems. Probably did, he thought. A lieutenant, after all, was a lieutenant, was a lieutenant, was a lieutenant. Maybe the first sergeant was right. He always told his platoon sergeants to save their breath when dealing with new officers. Instead, he told them, they should just take their new lieutenants out into the boonies and beat them senseless with a two-by-four for a half hour before starting their training. That was the only way, the first sergeant contended, that you could, A, get rid of some of the foolish stuff they filled their heads with at Benning, and, B, be reasonably sure you had their attention.

That day's operation was a prime example. The platoon's mission was to establish an outpost forward of the company's battle position. The task, as it was explained by the company commander, was rather simple.

One squad was to move forward where it could observe the main avenue of approach into the company's engagement zone. All Wittworth wanted was a few minutes warning so that he could coordinate the direct fires of the company with the indirect fires of the artillery.

Lieutenant Kozak, however, felt that it would be better if an antiarmor ambush was established in addition to the outpost. Rivera pointed out that the purpose of the outpost was to provide security and early warning to the company, nothing more. The lieutenant, however, believed that they could do that just as easily by establishing an ambush. An ambush, she pointed out, would begin the process of attrition and perhaps confuse the enemy as to where the company's main positions actually were. Rivera made an effort to point out that they stood just as good a chance of becoming confused as the enemy. It didn't take long, however, before he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. Watching her eyes and listening to her tone of voice as she explained her reasoning in great detail, Rivera decided that perhaps it was best to let the lieutenant have her way. Sometimes, he knew, it was better to leave lieutenants to discover the grim facts of life themselves. Perhaps she just might pull it off, though he doubted it. She was, after all, here to learn, and Rivera knew that sometimes the best lessons in life came from the biggest screwups.

If Rivera's goal was to let her learn the hard way, Kozak did everything she could to help him. The plan she had come up with the previous night placed one squad, armed with a single Dragon antitank guided missile, half a dozen antitank mines, and four light antitank rocket launchers, on the forward slope of a hill. The squad's M-2 Bradley was concealed in a hide position on the reverse side of the hill. Not only did it not have any field of fire, it was over a kilometer away from where the dismounted members of the squad would be waiting in ambush. As tactfully as possible, Rivera pointed out that the dismounts would never be able to make it back up the hill to their Bradley. The enemy force, he pointed out, would overrun the dismounts, pound them with artillery, or simply deploy and gun them down when the dismounts tried to move.

Again, Kozak explained that dismounted infantry, taking advantage of the confusion caused by the ambush, would never be seen by the enemy.

With a bland expression, achieved through years of practice, Rivera gave a dry "Yes, ma'am" and went about organizing the platoon's battle position while the lieutenant prepared her operations order. As he did so, he wondered where he could find a two-by-four at that hour of the night.

What never occurred to Rivera as he ambled away was that, for the first time, he hadn't thought of Kozak as a woman first. Instead, he had subconsciously lumped her into the same category as every other infantry second lieutenant he had ever known, and had treated her accordingly.

Though not a red-banner day for women's rights, it was, nevertheless, a necessary step if the platoon was to become an effective unit, and not just a showpiece.

From the front seat of Scott Dixon's Humvee, Captain Cerro watched Second Lieutenant Kozak prepare her antiarmor ambush. While the squad setting up the antiarmor ambush might have been able to get away with occupying its positions after dawn, the movement of their platoon leader from one place to another in an effort to check weapons and fields of fire compromised the entire ambush site. Even without binoculars, at two hundred meters Cerro could see people moving and bushes shaking. He had no doubt that the enemy scout track two hundred meters further up the road, hidden in a shallow arroyo and covered with camouflage nets, saw everything.

As Cerro waited for the inevitable, Specialist Eddie Jefferson, nicknamed Fast Eddie, sat next to Cerro, intently studying Cerro's map and the notes written on the margin of the map case that detailed Kozak's plan. Bored, Cerro turned to Fast Eddie. "What's so interesting?"

Eddie furrowed his brow in confusion, answering Cerro without looking away from the map. "This here plan, sir. It don't make any sense at all." Draping the map across the Humvee's steering wheel, Eddie pointed to the blue symbol on the map that indicated where Kozak had placed the antiarmor ambush. "Look. That dumb bitch puts her squad here, on the wrong side of the hill," running his finger from the squad symbol to a blue symbol for a Bradley, "and the Bradley all the way over here, on the oth,er side of the hill. No way they'll make it back."

Wincing, Cerro reminded Fast Eddie that he was talking about a lieutenant and "bitch" was not quite appropriate terminology. Eddie looked over to Cerro. "Oh, sorry, Cap'n." Then, turning his attention back to the map, he continued. "And on top of that, that dumb lieutenant puts the Bradley in a hole where it can't use its sights or shoot."

Shaking his head, Cerro gave up. Eddie Jefferson appeared to be a good troop, intelligent and motivated. There was no need to hassle him.

After all, Kozak was being a bit dumb and it showed. Christ, Cerro thought, maybe he should have sent Eddie out there to set up the outpost.

He couldn't have done any worse than Kozak was doing.

As they continued to watch, it occurred to Cerro that if Eddie, sitting here with a map, could figure out the lousy spot the squad was in, the men in the squad had to know it. If no one else, at least the platoon sergeant and squad leader must have realized that the plan wouldn't work the way Kozak had briefed it. If that were true, Cerro wondered if the NCOs in the platoon had pointed it out to their lieutenant and been overridden by an eager beaver LT with a better idea, or if they had kept their own counsel and were letting Kozak make a fool out of herself. Either way, he was not happy with what he saw, although he could understand it if Kozak had overridden the NCOs. As a young, hard-charging airborne infantry lieutenant, Cerro had once thought that he could conquer the world single handed. It took a few years and a war to convince him that he was outnumbered and needed, on occasion, a little help. His battalion commander had referred to that process as becoming a mature leader. His first sergeant had called it pounding some sense into Cerro's thick head.

With nothing better to do, Cerro asked Eddie how he would have set up the outpost. They were in the middle of this discussion when another Humvee, flying the orange flag of a fire marker team, rolled up to where Kozak's dismounted squad was located. The driver, leaving the road, slowly began to drive along the tree line where the antiarmor ambush was set up. The passenger in the fire marker Humvee, holding a box of artillery simulators in his lap, took one simulator at a time, held it at arm's length, pulled the white cap and string that activated the simulator with a quick jerk, and threw it into the tree line as they went by. After dropping half a dozen simulators that were meant to represent three volleys fired by a 155mm artillery battery, the Humvee drove away, leaving Kozak's squad in the process of putting on their gas masks.

The squad had just finished that task and were settling back down when a line of four enemy Bradley fighting vehicles, with 25mm cannon and 7.62mm machine guns firing blanks, burst out of the tree line across the narrow valley from Kozak's squad and began to advance against the squad's position. Though the fire was inaccurate, the speed and violence, not to mention the surprise, unnerved Kozak, who stood up and ordered her squad to withdraw.

There was, however, little chance of the squad making it. A healthy infantryman, with equipment, can run one kilometer in five minutes, or at best four and a half. A Bradley, moving at twenty miles an hour, can cover the same distance in less than two. It was, as Eddie had predicted, no contest. Nor was the confrontation between the four attacking Brad leys and the squad's lone vehicle. Because the squad's Bradley was on the other side of the hill, the first indication that the crew had that they were under attack was the flashing of their kill light. Listening to both A Company's radio net and that of Kozak's platoon as he watched from the G3's Humvee, Cerro heard no one report the engagement. As far as Captain Wittworth, Kozak's company commander, was concerned, at that moment, everything was in order. Because of Kozak's failure and the swift, well-coordinated attack by the enemy on her squad, Wittworth wouldn't get the two-minute warning he had been counting on.

"How long that take, Cap'n?"

Cerro looked at his watch, then at Kozak's squad as they moved out of their positions, into the open, and fumbled about. "Three minutes, four if you count the artillery."

Eddie let out a sigh. "Geez, ain't that some shit. Four minutes to fill ten body bags. Hope she learned somethin'."

"Oh, I'm sure she did. But, just to make sure, Eddie, let's mosey on over there and have a talk with the young lieutenant while her company gets overrun."

Grinning, Eddie fired up the kumvee and drove over where Kozak's squad was rallying. As he did so, Eddie took great care to watch for the rest of the attacking enemy company as it rolled south down the road in an effort to catch up with its four lead Bradleys that had overrun Kozak's squad. The squad was still getting out of their masks, looking for a green key to turn off the buzzer on the MILES belts that had been activated when lasers simulating enemy gunfire had hit them, and accounting for weapons and gear, when Cerro arrived.

Already angered and upset by the total failure of her squad's ambush, Lieutenant Kozak became depressed when she saw that the bumper number of the approaching Humvee identified it as the division G3's vehicle.

The appearance of a captain, and not the G3 himself, did nothing to improve her state of mind. The captain, no doubt, would tell the G3, who in turn would tell the division commander, who in turn would tell the corps commander, etc., etc., etc. Still, there was nowhere to hide and no escaping the inevitable. It had been her plan and now she would take the beating.

Going up to the Humvee after it stopped, Kozak saluted and reported to the captain in the passenger seat even before he had a chance to get out.

The captain, returning her salute with a casual wave of his hand, reached over to retrieve his map from his driver and climbed out without a word.

Moving around to the front of the Humvee, he laid his map out on the hood, looked at it for a moment, then turned to Kozak. As he did so, she recognized him as the same captain that she had bumped into on her first day at Fort Hood. Remembering the small kindness he had shown her when she had lost a clip off of one of her badges, she was about to say something about that, but then decided not to. That had been, she realized, another time and place. Right now, under the circumstances, it didn't seem like a good idea to start with idle chatter.

When the captain was ready, Kozak realized her assessment of the situation, this time, had been on the mark. Captain Cerro, his eyes shaded by the brim of his helmet, stared down at her. "Lieutenant Kozak, what was your mission?"

Assuming a relaxed position of parade rest, she looked up at Cerro's hidden eyes. "To establish an outpost with one squad, sir."

"What, Lieutenant, was the purpose of that outpost?"

"To provide early warning to the company of the enemy attack."

'And did you accomplish that mission, Lieutenant?"

Kozak hesitated before answering. Maybe she did. Perhaps the Bradley had reported in. Or maybe the company had heard the engagement. She didn't know and told Cerro that she wasn't sure, attempting to explain that maybe the squad's Bradley had escaped and reported, or had reported before it had been destroyed.

Cerro, however, didn't let her finish. "Why don't you know, Lieutenant?"

"Well, I am temporarily out of contact with my platoon."

Placing his hands on his hips, Cerro leaned over toward Kozak, the brim of his helmet almost touching hers. His voice, when he answered, was harsh and cold. "Temporary my ass, Lieutenant. You're permanently out of contact with your platoon. Your ability to move, shoot, and communicate was degraded one hundred percent for eternity. That's because you're dead, remember? Dead, D-E-A-D, dead. And do you know why you're dead, Lieutenant?"

Taken aback by Cerro's aggressive stance, Kozak was about to take a step back, but changed her mind. Instead, she held her ground, allowing the brim of her helmet to make contact with the brim of Cerro's. "Yes sir. We screwed up."

"Correction, Lieutenant, you screwed up. Again, what was your mission?"

As Kozak pondered Cerro's last repetitive question, she fought back the urge to move back and away from him. She could feel his breath on her face and the unrelenting pressure of his helmet touching hers. His stance was, she felt, quite intimidating. No doubt, she thought, it was meant to be. For a moment, she allowed her eyes to drop down and look at the narrow space of ground that separated the toes of her size-fiveand-a-half narrow combat boots from his eleven wide jungle boots. She hadn't been treated like this since she was a plebe at West Point.

Then, suddenly, it dawned upon her what Cerro was driving at. Looking Cerro in the eye, Kozak regained her composure. "Our mission was to provide the company with an early warning so they would be ready when the enemy came. By concentrating on the antiarmor ambush, and not putting the Bradley where it could use its sights to see the enemy and its radio to report, I set us up for failure."

After a pause, Kozak noticed a slight softening in Cerro's expression.

Though she wouldn't call it a smile, it was close enough. Standing upright, and folding his arms across his chest, Cerro, and Kozak in turn, relaxed. "Bingo, Lieutenant. You win your first brass ring. Your commander, no doubt, expects you to take the initiative. And, if he's anything like me, doesn't explain everything, including his reasons for giving certain orders, to his people every,time. What that means, is that you are going to have to learn when you can use your initiative, and when you need to follow his orders to the letter. I'm here to tell you, learning that isn't easy. Some people never do. Hopefully, you will. Understand?"

Kozak nodded. "Yes sir, understood."

"And another thing, Lieutenant, you need to use your NCOs." Turning to where Kozak's squad was assembling, Cerro waved his hand.

"Your platoon sergeant never should have let this happen. If he warned you and you ignored him, that's an ah shit on you. If he didn't, then he isn't doing his job and you need to talk to him. Bottom line, Lieutenant, is that while you are getting paid to think, you don't have a monopoly on it and, more important, you don't have the experience yet. Your NCOs do. Use 'em. Clear?"

Again, Kozak nodded. "Yes, sir, clear. It's just that, well, this was my first time out and, well, I wanted to make an impression. You understand, don't you?"

For the first time, Cerro laughed. "Yeah, I understand. And you succeeded.

You've made one hell of an impression on this squad, the rest of your platoon, and no doubt, your company commander. You better hope he has a short memory or a forgiving streak a mile wide."

Kozak winced. She was not looking forward to explaining herself to Captain Wittworth. Cerro, seeing her squirm, put his hand on her shoulder.

"Listen, I know exactly what you did and why you did it. Every new second lieutenant that's worth a damn comes out of Benning hell-bent for leather, ready to make his mark on the world. If he's a natural, and very lucky, he pulls it off. If he's like the rest of us, he makes a lot of mistakes and gets beat up often before he learns his trade." Turning his head toward the squad, Cerro pointed. "Don't ever forget, Lieutenant, that the lives of those soldiers depend on you and your decisions. So don't let your ego, pride, and ambitions override your common sense and training."

He looked back at her, and their eyes met. "Do what's right, and what you're told, and you'll do all right. Got it?"

For the first time, Kozak smiled. Stepping back, she saluted Cerro.

"Yes, sir. Got it. Thank you, sir, I appreciate it."

Again, with a casual wave of his hand, Cerro returned her salute. "No problem, LT. That's what I get paid for. Carry on."

Slowly walking along the beach, with his right hand resting on the smooth and narrow hips of his latest lover, Alaman found it difficult to believe his good fortune. Everything, even the reactions of the American public and their government to the first small raids along the border, was playing into his hands.

Leaving the chore of creating a viable force from the remnants of his personal bodyguard that had survived the Mexican Army raid at Chinampas to Delapos, Alaman had left Mexico, seeking a secure base from which he could mobilize his vast resources, talents, and network to achieve his goal of returning to Mexico. Though his reputation was tarnished as a result of his failure to foresee the military coup, there were many who still needed Alaman's talents and connections. Some even shared his dream of a new Mexico where their opportunities to conduct their illegal trades would be greater, not less, than before the military coup of June 29. It was, therefore, not difficult to find a place that suited his needs and tastes. At the home of an associate on Grand Cayman Island in the Caribbean, Alaman had found an ideal site where he could work from.

Building upon the contacts he had had in the United States before the revolution, Alaman quickly found new contacts, including people within the United States Border Patrol, who could provide the information that Delapos and his team leaders needed. With information on everything, ranging from schedules and patrol routes to weapons used and personalities involved, Alaman's tiny army hoped to create an effect all out of proportion to its size. With that in hand, and anticipating future needs, Alaman was currently working on establishing contacts in the Texas National Guard, a feat that was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.

Still, all in all, Alaman was more than happy with how things were progressing.

Delapos, assisted by Childress and Lefleur, had recruited, armed, and organized six teams as a start at the abandoned airfield along the Rio Salado. By using the collective knowledge and experience of those mercenaries, coupled with Alaman's money, connections, and unique organizational talents, they would translate Alaman's strategy for the reestablishment of his business in Mexico into action.

That strategy was as simple in concept as it was complex to execute.

The key elements were the fear among the leaders of Mexico of America intervening in Mexico's internal affairs, and the American habit of doing so. The fear was both natural and historical. Historically, it was the end result of a collision in 1836 between a growing United States, eager to fulfill its manifest destiny, and newly independent Mexico. It had become an article of faith for years that the? Anglo-Saxon population had achieved moral ascendancy over their poor, misguided southern brothers with the defeat of the Mexican Army by Sam Houston and the Army of the Republic of Texas on the banks of the San Jacinto River on April 21, 1836. Since that war, Americans had seldom hesitated to intervene in Mexico whenever they felt that it was to their advantage. In addition to a divergence of national goals and prosperity, underpinning this unhappy history was an assumption of racial superiority on the part of most norteamericanos in their dealings with Latinos.

From the first hours of the coup by the Council of 13, the resurrection of these fears and feelings had been fueled by both the Mexican and American media. Although the council tried to be sensitive to American concerns, it had many hard choices to make and few good solutions.

Inevitably, it had to take actions that were not understood, or were frowned upon, by the United States. The American media naturally picked up on this friction, which was exacerbated by the fact that in the United States it was an election year with few issues of importance to separate the candidates. Politicians in the United States, regardless of their party affiliation or position, were being hammered from both the left and right. Conservatives pushed liberal politicians to ensure that American business interests in Mexico and the territorial integrity of the United States were protected. The vision of revolution spreading north through the huge Hispanic-American population of the Southwest sent shivers down the back of every self-proclaimed patriot. From the left, demands that the conservative politicians take action to halt civil rights violations resulted in daily demonstrations in both Washington and in state capitals throughout the Southwest. What exactly needed to be done to protect the United States and the poor oppressed people of Mexico laboring under a military regime was a matter of great and heated debate. Plans ranged from recognition of the current regime to direct and immediate intervention.

It was, as Alaman pointed out, as if a boat were sinking and no one could decide what to do to stop it. As the parties argued, Alaman planned to use his tiny army to set the boat on fire.

With the warm waves of the ocean washing over their feet as they slowly walked along the shoreline, Alaman explained to his lover, called Anna, how he would make the military buffoons in Mexico City pay for what they had done to him. "At this minute, my love, I have forty men spread out along the border of Mexico and the United States, men with no other purpose in life than to kill Americans and spread terror along the border.

Most of these mercenaries, some of whom are former leftist guerrillas, are all experts in antiterrorist operations or have been terrorists themselves.

None of them, to a man, has a single moral fiber in his body. They are mine, and will soon create the havoc that will sweep me back to my beloved Mexico."

For her part, Anna merely listened as he spoke of his plans and the actions of his tiny mercenary army. She was content to allow Alaman to pamper her in ways she had never been pampered before while she indulged both his sexual appetite and his need to brag, both of which seemed insatiable. With only a slight nod of her head, Anna listened as they walked and Alaman droned on. "Assigned a sector along either the Texas or New Mexico border, each team, with six to eight men, is allowed to develop its own techniques, schedule, and operations. The only restrictions I have placed on them is their choice of weaponry, the vehicles they use, and almost total segregation between the teams. Weapons, of all caliber and type, are limited to what is currently issued to the Mexican Army. Likewise, the vehicles used by the teams must be either the same type as used by the Mexican Army or equipped with tires used on Mexican Army vehicles. Communication, either by radio or telephone, is forbidden. Even in extreme emergencies, the teams are not permitted to contact Delapos, whom I hold responsible for supervising the actual operations. Instead, Delapos comes to me for my orders and, in turn, travels from one team to the next, reviewing their past actions and approving the team leaders' plans and issuing new instructions, when necessary. In this way, only I and Delapos know where everyone is and what is actually happening along the border."

Pausing, Alaman looked out at the rising sun. "This, my love, is beautiful. But not as beautiful as in Mexico. You will see."

Taking her cue, Anna bent down, kissing him softly on his lips, then along the side of his neck. Running her hands along his naked side, Anna lowered herself to her knees, lightly kissing his chest. When her hands reached his waist, Anna inserted her ringers between the waistband of Alaman's swim trunks and.his body. Catching the waistband with her thumbs, she lowered the trunks to Alamans knees. All the while, Alaman continued to stare out over the ocean as he took Anna's head and gently guided her to him. "You will see, my love. I promise you."

Peeking out through the narrow gap between the edge of the camouflage net and the ground, Childress made a quick scan of the horizon. Seeing no motion, he turned his attention to the road that ran at an angle to their position, some one hundred meters away! Starting at the small culvert that concealed a forty-pound cratering charge, Childress ran his eyes along the length of dirt road until it disappeared over the horizon, some five kilometers in the distance. Nothing would be able to come and go along the road without his men being able to see it.

It had taken Childress over two days to find this spot, a spot which, for his purposes, was ideal. The gully where he and two other men, manning a.30-caliber M-1919 machine gun, lay hidden, provided both cover and concealment from the road. It also offered them an excellent covered route of retreat back to their vehicles, hidden farther down the gully. A branch of the same gully, off to their right, provided the same features to the other three men of Childress's team. In this way, if something went wrong with the ambush, both sections of his team would be able to make it back to their vehicles secure m the knowledge that their opponent would be unable to see them, let alone put effective fire on them as they did so. This last item was all-important to the six men protected from the searing morning sun by the tan and brown nets. They were, after all, doing this for the money. Neither glory, nor honor, nor decorations motivated them. A medal presented to a next of kin posthumously had no meaning. The only bottom line that mattered was a healthy bank account and an equally healthy body with which to enjoy it. Escape routes, both primary and alternate, were therefore a critical element of every plan for Childress and the other team leaders of Senior Alamans private army.

To achieve the effect Alamaii desired, every raid had to be as bloody and terrible as it was precise and swift. Lefleur, who had the honor of striking first, had set the tone. To create the desired effect, nothing had been left to chance. Binding one of the border patrol officers and shooting him execution-style had been intended both to infuriate and to horrify those who found him, and the media that reported the incident. The wheel tracks, going into and out of the point where Lefleur had forded the Rio Grande, had been found and plaster casts dutifully made. Also found and identified by the highly trained FBI forensic experts had been a pile of

30-caliber ammunition, an unusual caliber used by few modern machine guns. So as not to make the setup too obvious, Lefleur left no other traces. As it was, the 5.56mm slugs found in the skull of the executed border patrolman and the.30-caliber slugs found in his partner were enough to get the FBI onto the trail Alaman was baiting.

Childress, for his part, preferred to do things in a big way. Having worked with explosives, he liked the effect a little well-placed C-4 could achieve in short order. Besides, he felt Lefleur's approach was far too subtle. While anyone could obtain 5.56mm and.30-caliber ammunition, few people could legally buy a standard military cratering charge. The significance of this would alert even the dullest investigator.

In case, however, this failed to put those coming behind them on the right trail, Childress had added a twist that was unpopular. The idea of making a hit in broad daylight had at first been greeted with horror by his men. The idea of tromping about in the open desert in broad daylight seemed, on the surface, suicidal. Childress had explained, however, that Americans found it difficult to maintain a high state of vigilance around the clock. There was, he noted, a tendency to be on guard at night, and then, when the sun came up, to relax. "The enemy," he had pointed out, "always attacks at dawn in the movies." Besides, he had continued, smugglers, pushing both drugs and illegal aliens across the border, normally operated at night, avoided contact, and fought only when cornered.

They didn't lie in ambush and blow up roads in the middle of the day.

Only well-trained soldiers did that.

A slap on the shoulder and a finger pointed to the west alerted Childress to the approach of the border patrol. As predicted, there were two jeeps headed their way. Both had their canvas tops off, but their windshields up. Childress thought this was a mistake. Had he been in charge of that patrol, he would have ordered the windshields down to provide a better view and to prevent flying glass in the event of a hit.

The two vehicles, traveling fifty meters apart, each contained two border patrolmen. Even from this distance, Childress could see that the passenger of each vehicle held a shotgun across his lap. Another bad call, he thought. Shotguns were great for coyotes and close-in work. Against automatic weapons at long range, they were useless. Childress faced the man to his side. "These people aren't taking this seriously yet."

Tightening his grip on the machine gun's handle as he tracked the second vehicle, the man shrugged. "That, my friend, is fine by me."

Further conversation was cut off by the detonation of the cratering charge.

As the front tire of the lead jeep reached the culvert, one of Childress's men in the other gully twisted the red handle of the blasting machine. The result achieved bordered on perfection. The lead jeep was lifted off the road and flipped end over end amid a growing pillar of black smoke and brown dirt. The driver of the secojid jeep panicked, hitting his brakes and cutting the steering wheel. The sudden locking of the brakes and the turn, coupled with the jeep's own forward momentum, caused the second jeep to turn over as the machine gunner next to Childress opened up with a long burst that racked the jeep as it rolled over and over down the road toward the growing pillar of dirt and smoke. The machine gunner continued to fire until the jeep made one final flip and disappeared into the gaping crater where the road had once been.

Even before the first jeep finished its wild tumbling and crashed with a great thud, Childress knew they had succeeded. There was, he knew, no way that anyone in the second jeep could have made a radio call. There just hadn't been that kind of time. Five seconds, maybe ten, was all it had taken. Two days of planning and recon, six hours of waiting, and ten seconds of killing. That, he thought, was the way it should be.'

Standing up, he grabbed the camouflage net and began to pull it down, yelling for the others with him to get the gun and move out. They had done what they had set out to do. "Now it was up to others to harvest the crop that they had so carefully sown.