Trial by Fire

10

Carefully rolling over onto his left side, Scott Dixon eased himself into position. Though it was still dark, he didn't need any artificial illumination for this particular maneuver. His movements were well rehearsed and the terrain before him was familiar. With great care, he brought his right hand up, easing it onto Jan Fields's bare thigh. Slowly, gently, he began to run his hand up her thigh, around to the front of her stomach, and then up until he was able to cup her right breast in his hand. The quiet darkness of their room, the warmth of her naked body against his, and the smoothness of her skin under his hand were, to Dixon, the most erotic sensations he could imagine. Tenderly kneading the breast in his hand, Dixon could feel himself becoming aroused, causing him to gradually apply more pressure and slowly intensify his manipulation of Jan's breast.

The effect on Jan was predictable. At first, she let out a low, barely audible sigh as she thrust her bottom out toward Dixon. This action accelerated Dixon's mounting desire and his manipulation of Jan's breast.

Sensing that she was ready to execute phase two, he lifted his head from his pillow, twisting his head and upper body around until he could reach the side of Jan's exposed neck with his lips. Ever so lightly, he began planting a string of kisses starting on her neck and leading up to her ear.

By the time he finished, she was beginning to wake.

Rolling over to face Dixon, Jan opened her eyes and looked into Dixon's. As she stretched, she broke Dixon's grasp on her breast and caused him to move his head away a few inches. There was a mischievous smile on her face. "And what do you want, Colonel?" Jan's voice was low and provocative.

With Jan on her back, Dixon brought himself around so that he had himself propped up with one hand on either side of her, stuck between her arm and chest. Leaning forward until his nose touched hers, he grinned.

"Well, my dear, I'm going to do what every soldier dreams of, I'm going to fuck with the media."

"You know you could get in serious trouble for screwing with the press. Let me remind you, Colonel, that I'm protected by the First Amendment of the Constitution, and you're pledged to uphold that."

Bringing his right leg around so that he now straddled Jan, and shifting his weight to his knees, Dixon moved his hands to either side of Jan's rib cage. "Oh, yeah! Is that what you think? Well, I'll show you what I'm committed to uphold right now." With that, he began to tickle her under the arms and along the base of her breasts, sending her into a spasm of laughter and beginning what, for them, was serious play.

Wearing only gray Army running shorts and a gray VMI T-shirt, Dixon wandered into the kitchen. Even the cool tile floor on his bare feet failed to rouse him out of his early morning stupor. Jan often commented that it was amazing how, in a matter of minutes, Dixon could go from being Tarzan, King of the Apes to a cast member from Night of the Living Dead. Food, mixed with numerous cups of coffee, seemed to be the only thing that could get Dixon going and keep him going.

To this end, Dixon negotiated the perils of the cold tile floor in his pursuit of nourishment and stimulants. With the grace and determination of a wire-guided antitank guided missile, Dixon moved toward the refrigerator.

Opening the door, he stood there for a minute while his eyes and brain attempted to make contact with each other. Not that there was much thinking that Dixon needed to do. Inevitably, he would remove the same items from the refrigerator that he removed every morning. The only problem he faced was locating those items. As in all homes populated by children, items stored in Dixon's refrigerator had a tendency to migrate from one spot to another in an unpredictable and random manner.

Simply because Dixon had put something on a shelf that he had designated as its proper place was no guarantee that he would find it there the next day. Whenever Dixon complained about this phenomenon, Jan would chide him, claiming that he needed to be a little more flexible, exclaiming, "You need a little challenge every now and then, Scotty."

A new challenge was the last thing Dixon needed when it came to Jan. Both of them had, from the beginning, realized that if their love affair was going to work, it would require both of them to work at it.

While Jan had been more than willing to leave behind her globetrotting as a hot-shot correspondent for WNN for Dixon, it was too much to expect her to leave her career completely. Not even in his wildest fantasies could Dixon imagine Jan playing the role of the good little Army wife. The image of Jan Fields spending her days making cookies for community bake sales and patiently waiting at home for him with a warm meal and a sympathetic ear whenever the Army decided it was finished with Dixon for the day, simply did not register. Of course, no one else shared that image either, especially since Jan Fields and Scott Dixon were not married.

Like their lovemaking, Jan and Scott's approach to life was, some would say, rather unconventional and very unpredictable. A widower, Dixon had no interest in a new wife. He had had one of those already and really didn't see the need for another. He had loved his first wife, and was sure that she had loved him. But he knew that it would be impossible to find another woman who could fill her place. Wives, he once told a sergeant, after all, were not like replacement parts. You couldn't, he said, simply wear one out, and then expect to be able to requisition a new one that would be able to fit in where the old one had been. So he had never tried. He didn't need to, for Jan was there when he needed a friend and lover who could accept him for what he was.

Slowly, Dixon began to find what he was searching for. As he found each item, he took it out with his right hand and passed it to his left in a ritual that he repeated every morning. When he finally had a tub of margarine, a jar of grape jam, and a pitcher of orange juice cradled in his left arm, Dixon closed the refrigerator and turned toward the kitchen table. For a moment, he considered going over to the counter where the bread was kept to pick up his English muffins. That, however, did not seem like a good idea, especially since there was no assurance that there would be any left. As he continued toward the table, the sound of the television being clicked on behind him told Dixon that Jan had joined him and was beginning her breakfast ritual.

Dressed in an oversize pink T-shirt that sported Minnie Mouse, Jan made sure that the kitchen television was set to the proper channel before moving to the coffeemaker. With an occasional sweep of her left hand to push her hair from her face, she went about making their first pot of coffee as she listened to the morning news.

Jan, like Dixon, wasn't in the market for a spouse. She needed something more than a husband could provide. That is why she valued Scott as a friend, a lover, and a confidant. But a husband, no. Jan, when she described the perfect husband, found herself describing her father. Her father was a sweet and kind-man, and she loved him very much, but he, or someone like him, was the last person in the world she wanted to spend her life with. In her heart, she knew she could never surrender her individuality and freedom as her mother had. Jan's mother loved her father, and she had no complaints about her life. But she had never been a happy woman. Often, as she grew into adulthood, Jan could see a sadness in her mother's eyes. It was a sadness born from dreams and ambitions that her mother had never been able to fulfill. For most of her life, she had let her dreams, like hundreds of meals, grow cold while she tended the needs of husband, home, and children. Though she admired her mother, Jan knew she could never be like her. So, she had never tried.

It had taken her years, however, to find that she couldn't have it both ways, either. The image of a cosmopolitan woman, doing whatever she pleased and passing from one affair to another as she saw fit, was hollow.

She found that she could not be a free-floating electron for her entire life.

In Scott she had found a person she could both respect and enjoy, a person so different from what she was used to, and yet so comfortable, that the thought of being without him was painful. Scott never sought to dominate or change her. Instead, he challenged her, reveled in the diversity and unpredictability that she brought into his life. She, in turn, enjoyed the idea of being a consort rather than a spouse. When asked why they didn't marry, Jan's response, only half in jest, was that her love for Scott and his friendship was far too valuable to her to screw up with marriage.

The weatherman's announcement that it would be another bright and sunny day, with temperatures reaching one hundred and five degrees throughout most of central Texas, failed to get a reaction from either Jan or Dixon. The statement by the bright-eyed and well-dressed female co-anchor that they would have more on the previous night's attacks along the border after a commercial break, did.

Finished depositing his first load on the table, Dixon turned and headed for the counter where the muffins were kept. "Another bad night for the home team?"

Jan, with another sweep of her hand, shrugged as she continued to prepare the coffeemaker. "Seems so. I suppose you don't know anything that you'd care to share with me?"

"Yeah, it's going to be sunny and hot today throughout central Texas.

How's that for a beginning?"

Jan was about to make a comment when the news show continued.

With well-practiced tones appropriate for the seriousness of the story, the perky young female co-anchor started with a recap of the morning's top story. As she had done each morning, with the help of a map in the background, the newswoman enumerated in detail the location, nature, and losses from each of the three incidents that had occurred overnight.

As the newswoman spoke, both Jan and Scott continued to move about in silence, glancing at the television screen every now and then as they continued to prepare their own breakfast. Only when the next commercial cut in did either speak.

"I just don't understand, Scott, why the CIA or the FBI haven't been able to find something. My God, it's like a plot from a cheap horror movie, bodies cropping up everywhere without a trace or clue."

Dixon grunted. "Well, my dear, don't feel like the Lone Ranger.

There's a whole bunch of people in Washington, including our dear friend Ed Lewis, who are asking the same question. I just hope those people keep asking questions and looking for the answers before someone does something unsmart and buckles under to the demands for action."

"Is there really the prospect of some kind of military action in the offing, Scotty?"

Pretending not to hear Jan's question, Dixon pulled his English muffins from the toaster and prepared to spread margarine and jam on them. Jan looked up at him and saw that he was ignoring her, a sure sign that she had hit close to home. Knowing that he would continue to ignore her if she continued to persist in her questions, Jan decided to pull her horns in.

"Busy day ahead of you?"

Relieved that Jan had changed the subject, Dixon turned his attention away from the newswoman's monotone account of the raids. In another hour he would get a detailed briefing by the division duty officer and on-call intelligence officer on all of that. Moving to the table, Dixon sat down, poured himself a tall glass of orange juice, and began to munch on his muffins, talking to Jan between mouthfuls. "Oh, nothing exciting.

Just the usual stuff. We have a couple of briefings to finish and rehearse, training inspections, and a meeting with some members of Congress and their staff. Seems we lost some facts and they feel the need to come down here and personally find them."

Though Scott tried to shrug off the congressional visit, Jan knew exactly what it was for, based on the members of Congress who had come. Congressman Harriman, chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, along with Congressman Ed Lewis from the House Intelligence Committee, had been dealing with only one subject for the past week; how would the Army secure the nation's southern border? Harriman's inquiries into plans to use the military had, to date, been stonewalled by both the White House and the Pentagon. Only Lewis's investigation into the failure of the CIA to predict the coup in Mexico, now broadened to include its inability to find an explanation for the border raids, was yielding any measurable action. The continuation of the raids, however, without producing any worthwhile clues or information, made those efforts appear to be weak and feeble. Jan knew that Scotty was working on some kind of contingency plans, and that eventually both the White House and the Pentagon would have to give in to pressure to do something. Only a show-stopping revelation would stop that.

Still, Jan knew that, when it was ime, she would find out from official sources, just like every other newsperson. She loved Scott Dixon too much to jeopardize her relationship for a fleeting news story. Deciding to avoid the subject, she asked if the reception for the congressmen was still being held that night.

Spitting out tiny chunks of muffin as he spoke, Dixon cynically remarked that such affairs were where congressmen usually looked for the facts they were after. Then, as an afterthought, he asked Jan if she was still going to delay her trip to Brownsville and attend the reception.

With a sweet smile, Jan cocked her head to one side and held her coffee cup out. "Now, Scotty dear, what do you think?"

"Just checking, just checking. You remember how to get to the officers' club, Jan?"

"Yes, dear, I do. And Scotty, please do me the favor and wash your hands before meeting me there tonight. The last time I went to one of these after-duty things it took me a trip to the cleaners to get the smell of tank out of my clothes and two days to get it off my skin."

Dixon smiled. "Why, Jan, are you objecting? If you remember, we had some of the best sex we ever had during those two days. You know how excited tankers get when they smell gunpowder and diesel."

"Scotty, if that's what it takes to get you up, then I think we need to take a serious look at our relationship."

Finished, Dixon stood up and walked around the table until he stood behind Jan. Reaching down, Dixon ran his right hand along Jan's neck and into the wide opening of the oversize T-shirt she wore. With a light, gentle touch, Dixon began to play with Jan's nipple as he bent over and kissed her on the right side of her neck. "Okay, we'll talk, but later."

While Colonel Salvado Zavala discussed the need to end bread rationing in the southern states with the minister of agriculture, Guajardo looked about the table and considered his fellow council members. How well Molina had chosen them for the positions in which they were now serving.

Colonel Emanuel Barreda, responsible for foreign affairs, was an excellent example.

Since the twenty-ninth of June, Barreda had been in almost constant motion, visiting every capital throughout Latin America as well as Japan, the People's Republic of China, and many nations in Europe. Publicly, his meetings were aimed at recognition of the new regime and laying the groundwork for economic cooperation. As an aside, Barreda was to sound out fellow Latin American leaders and find out what, if any, cooperation Mexico could expect if the United States attempted to intervene in Mexican affairs militarily. With this last item in mind, Barreda timed his visits so that each one followed, within a matter of days, sometimes by hours, a similar visit by the secretary of state from the United States. So close were their visits that in Buenos Aires, Argentina, the honor guard that had seen the American secretary of state off had to double-time over to the spot where they were to greet Barreda. In this manner, Barreda was able to gain a feel for what the United States was trying to do about the revolution while he was promoting it.

Many of the responses Barreda received were surprising. From the president of Venezuela, who had come to the airport personally to greet Barreda, came the suggestion that if the United States attempted intervention, Mexico should appeal to the Organization of American States for support. The president of Venezuela gave his personal pledge that if Mexico did so, he would support them. In Nicaragua, the minister of state, a former Sandinista general, offered to loan Mexico any weapons the Nicaraguan Army had in its vast inventory if there ever was need to defend themselves from the imperialists. Even those nations in Central and South America that publicly condemned the Council of 13 stated privately that, in a confrontation with the United States, they would support Mexico. It was, as the president of Brazil told Barreda, "time that the United States began to treat Latin American republics as equals and learn that the new American world order is not the only solution."

These pledges of support, as important as they were, could not, in themselves, protect the revolution or the Council of 13. Mexico needed to present a viable deterrent. That was what Guajardo had to provide.

Again, Molina had shown great wisdom when he had appointed Colonel Guajardo as the minister of defense. Guajardo's attendance at many United States Army schools had given him a familiarity with and insight into the American way of war that few of his brother officers could equal.

The list of schools was long and diverse, including Ranger and Airborne training at Fort Benning, Georgia, the Armor Officers Advanced Course at Fort Knox, Kentucky, the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and the School of the Americas back at Fort Benning.

All of this had been no accident. Under the old regime, Guajardo had been being groomed to be the attach in Washington, D.C., and the foreign-area expert on the United States for the Ministry of Defense.

Even Guajardo's assignment to the critical State of Tamaulipas had been part of that plan. Any move into Mexico would include an effort to seize the natural gas areas located in the northern regions of that state and the oil fields in the south. Tamaulipas's location on the Gulf Coastal Plain also made it the most vulnerable,to American forces, both land and seaborne. Such vulnerability would be too tempting to an invader looking for a quick knockout.

So Guajardo was doing what he was trained to do and what he did best, as he prepared Mexico for an invasion from the north. Like Barreda, Guajardo spent much of his time traveling. Using a pair of Bell Huey helicopters, Guajardo and his small staff crisscrossed northern Mexico, inspecting training and overseeing the arming and reorganization of local militia units. As he did so, Guajardo visited area and garrison commanders, briefing them on the part they were to play in the defense of Mexico.

The plan for this, based on an older version, had been revised by Guajardo before the twenty-ninth of June. He had personally written the threat assessment, providing both the Council of 13 and his subordinate commanders with a realistic view of what the United States was capable of doing, what it would probably do, and how best Mexico could defeat American intentions. Based on this assessment, a plan that included the needs of the Army and militia, down to the smallest detail, had been ready for execution once the council was in power.

Unfortunately, no one, not even Molina, could have predicted the strange border attacks that the United States was complaining of. Though no one doubted that something was happening along the border between the United States and Mexico, everyone was at a loss to explain who was behind it and why they were attempting to provoke the United States.

Each member of the council had his own pet theory, based on his personal and political beliefs. Zavala was convinced that the provocateurs were leftists, attempting to egg the United States into doing what they them selves could not do, eliminate the Council of 13. Colonel Angel Ruiz, minister of justice, agreed with the motivation but thought that the drug lords were involved in the raids, providing financial support if not manpower.

Molina, ever the great mediator, refused to publicly support any theory.

Instead, he took a very practical approach. It didn't matter, he pointed out, who was behind the raids against the Americans. What was important was the fact that they were occurring and, more importantly, that they were preventing the recognition of the council by the United States and driving American politicians toward extreme measures for solving the problem. To succeed, the council needed time to establish itself and its authority, reorganize state and political apparatuses, and, equally important, revive Mexico's economy. A war, regardless of how short, would cripple these efforts. With this in mind, Molina, with the backing of the entire council, gave Guajardo a free hand to deal with the problem as he saw fit. The only restriction placed upon him was the need to do so quickly and without causing the Americans any further alarm.

Guajardo, as he half listened to his fellow councilmen, wondered how he could achieve the last. Any efforts to reinforce or increase military activity in the northern states were bound to increase American suspicions and fears. How, he had asked, can a man go about arming himself without worrying his neighbor? Eventually, he pointed out, that neighbor will feel the need to do likewise in order to protect himself. Not to do so, he said, would be, in the eyes of his family, criminal. Molina, speaking for the rest of the council, simply replied, "Do your best, my friend. That is all we can ask of you."

Finished with his morning run and fresh from a shower, Scott Dixon was ready to begin some serious work. Walking through the admin section of the G3 shop in search of his first cup of coffee, he told his deputy to have someone from the G3 plans section bring all of the GREEN plans and the briefing slides for them to his office and that no one, under pain of death, was to disturb him.

While Dixon sat at his desk, sorting through the heap of papers and memos stacked in his in-box, a clerk from the plans section came into his office and set a thick green loose-leaf binder, a large covered map board, and a stack of framed transparencies on the end of the conference table that sat perpendicular to his desk. As the clerk left, he asked her to close the door behind her. For a moment, Dixon looked at the loose-leaf binder, then at the muddle of notes and papers he still had left in his in-box. He thought about leaving the in-box until later, but decided against that.

Maybe, just maybe, he thought, there might be something of importance hidden deep in there. Against his better judgment, he finished sorting through his in-box. No doubt his deputy, whose task it was to ensure that all paperwork was straight, accounted for, and on time, would be relieved.

His routine complete, Dixon took his coffee cup and the stack of papers he had reviewed and written comments on and walked out to his deputy's desk. Dropping the papers in the center of the deputy's otherwise neat desk, Dixon wandered over to the coffeepot, refilled his cup, and then returned to his office to review the GREEN plans.

The name of the division's contingency plans for intervention in Mexico had a story all its own. Before World War II, the army had a comprehensive series of war plans, referred to as the RAINBOW plans, to deal with the threats that faced the United States in 1940. These plans were based on individual single-color war plans developed by the War Department, as the Department of the Army was then known, between 1920 and 1940 to deal with each nation that was considered a threat to the United States. Under that system, any plan dealing with Mexico was referred to as a GREEN plan. The GREEN plan, the most highly developed of all the War Department's plans, was in turn a derivative of the General Mexican War Plan that was first drafted in 1919.

The 1919 plan called for sealing the borders of the United States, seizing the Mexican oil fields in Tampico as well as the coal fields just south of Texas, blockading the principal Mexican seaports, and cutting Mexico off from other Central American countries. Since many of the goals of the current.XIX Corps war plans were the same as the old GREEN plans, Dixon, with a degree in history from VMI, had decided to name the 16th Armored Division's draft war plans for Mexico the GREEN plans. Big Al, the division commander, who liked to keep things simple, had kept the name.

There were actually six different and distinct contingency plans within the GREEN plans. GREEN ONE was purely defensive, dealing only with the sealing of the border of the United States and the repelling of attacks up to the Mexican-United States border but nothing beyond. The sealing of the border, the primary operation in GREEN ONE, was only an initial phase in all other GREEN plans. GREEN TWO included the sealing of the border but assumed the active assistance of the Mexican military, which allowed combined Mexican-American operations south of the border.

GREEN THREE called for destruction of hostile forces south of the border, but assumed that the Mexican military would neither cooperate with nor interfere with those operations. GREEN FOUR assumed that the Mexican military would defend its territorial integrity if the United States attempted to follow and destroy hostile forces south of the border.

GREEN FIVE called for occupation of selected areas in northern Mexico as a buffer against incursions against the United States. GREEN SIX, the thickest of the plans, called for an all-out invasion with the goal of toppling the military regime and reestablishment of a freely elected democratic government. There was a GREEN SEVEN plan, but since it included the employment of nuclear weapons, it was classified top secret, special compartmented information, and not available to the 16th Armored Division.

Each of these contingency plans, in turn, had at least three variations.

For example, GREEN ONE-1 included only the two active-duty brigades of the 16th Armored Division. GREEN ONE-2 required three brigades, with the third brigade being the 173rd Infantry Brigade from Fort Benning, Georgia. GREEN ONE-3, also calling for three brigades, required the mobilization and deployment of the 16th Armored Division's National Guard round-out brigade from Mississippi.

While it was the responsibility of the G3 plans section to draft all the plans and their various permutations, based on the division commander's general concept of operations and Dixon's specific instructions, Dixon had to ensure that the plans were complete, made sense, and had been coordinated with the other staff sections. This was not easy, especially when Dixon often found the intelligence estimates upon which the plans were based wanting. Unable to gather their own information, the G2 intelligence section of the division depended on the intelligence estimates provided by the XIX Corps G2 section. These estimates, in turn, were based upon those produced by national-level agencies, namely the CIA and the DIA, whose products Dixon had good reason to suspect. Using those estimates for the creation of operational war plans was, as Dixon pointed out on numerous occasions, like building a house on a dung heap.

Still, until those estimates changed, they were all he had to work with.

Dixon, scheduled to brief the concept of GREEN plans to a group of visiting congressmen and their staffers that afternoon, needed to refresh his knowledge and make notes for the briefing. Under normal circumstances, he would have spent little if any time preparing for a congressional delegation. Ordinarily, few, if any, of the members of the delegation would have had any real conception of what was being dis cussed. Today, however, Congressman Ed Lewis of Tennessee would be present. Lewis, a veteran and a member of the House Intelligence Committee, knew his stuff. Dixon wouldn't be able to hip-shoot with him in the audience.

With his feet up on the table, his coffee cup in one hand, the green loose-leaf binder in his lap, the map board showing the operational graphics before him, and the slides to one side, Dixon prepared himself for the briefing.

Jan had so seldom come onto post that she had needed to stop for directions three times before she found the officers club. Embarrassed at being late, she decided to say nothing about why she was late. Instead, she entered the room where the staff of the 16th Armored Division was gathered, careful not to attract attention while looking for Scott. When she spotted him talking to the division intelligence officer, she maneuvered herself until she was able to approach him from behind. Coming up to his side, she slipped her hand around his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "There you are! I've been looking all over for you, Scotty dear."

Looking over at her, Dixon grinned. He was about to ask if she had gotten lost again when Big Al came up.

With a loud and sincere welcome, Big Al greeted her. "Well, I see Scott has unshackled you from the stove long enough to come out and join us."

Towering half a head over Big Al, Jan looked at the general then turned to Dixon. "Scott dear, do we have a stove?'!

This caused the general to laugh and Dixon to roll his eyes. Grabbing Jan by the arm, Big Al began to escort her away. "You, my dear, will probably dehydrate if you wait for that tombstone of a boyfriend to get you a drink. Come with me and let a dirty old man buy you one."

"That, sir, would be a pleasure. No doubt Scott has told you I specialize in dirty old men, which is what keeps me going with him."

Again, the general let out an unabashed laugh. "Scott, this is too much woman to be wasted on a tanker. She deserves an aviator, like me."

Dixon threw his hands out in mock surrender. "As always, sir, you know best."

With a smile the general pointed at Dixon. "Damn straight, that's why I'm the general. Now, if you'll excuse us, Colonel, I would like to introduce Jan to some people."

With Jan gone, Dixon headed for the cash bar. En route, he ran across Captain Cerro, who was carrying two bottles of beer. Dixon stopped and looked at the young officer and the beer in his hands, and raised his eyebrows. "A real two-fisted drinker."

Cerro looked at the beers, then at Dixon. "Well, no, not actually. One of them is for someone else, but I can't find him right now." Then as an afterthought, he offered one to Dixon. "Here, sir, might as well before it gets warm. I hope you don't mind Corona. I hear tell that's the official drink of the 16th."

"Actually, I'm a Coors Light man myself, but since division policy states that field grade officers cannot refuse free beer, I couldn't possibly refuse." He took a sip, then held the bottle out at arm's length. "Well, it ain't Coors, but what the hell." Turning back to Cerro, he asked how he was getting on in his new job.

As Cerro began to talk, recounting an incident of several days ago with one of the female infantry lieutenants, he realized that he had been with the G3 section for over a month, and yet this was only the second time he had had the opportunity to talk to the G3 one on one. It wasn't like Dixon had been hiding. Dixon was always there. In fact, sometimes, it appeared that he was everywhere. Even when he was out inspecting training or at a briefing, his presence still seemed to permeate the offices of the G3 section. His majors, and he seemed to have a lot of them, referred to him as El Jefe, Spanish for "the leader." He, in turn, referred to them as his Middle-Aged Mutant Ninja Majors.

The entire section, and how it operated, threatened to cause Cerro to redefine how he viewed staff officers and, in particular, Lieutenant Colonel Scott Dixon. The casual and seemingly relaxed atmosphere that had struck him in the beginning as the sign of a slack organization was, in truth, the outward indication of a well-working machine. It was a machine cast in the image of its creator, Lieutenant Colonel Dixon. Like him, the G3 section always seemed to be in motion, moving forward, in many directions, in a very deliberate and purposeful way. What was most amazing to Cerro was the efficiency of the whole operation. There was little wasted motion. In the month that he had been there, he had heard of only one meeting between the G3 and his majors, and that had lasted less than half an hour. And yet, Dixon seemed to be on top of everything.

Cerro had watched one day as a parade of officers, both G3 officers and officers from other staff sections, went into and out of Dixon's office.

Each officer, with a different subject or problem, had filed into Dixon's office, summarized what he needed from the G3, and, in turn, received guidance or new instructions from Dixon. Without skipping a beat, Dixon had listened, considered, decided what needed to be done, and issued his instructions in terms that even a finance officer could understand.

Cerro had also noticed that Dixon had no patience with people who could not think on their own, were indecisive, or could not keep up with Dixon's physical or intellectual pace. The people in the G3 shop were what someone referred to as high-speed, low-drag majors. Anyone who couldn't hack it, Cerro was told, soon found his way to the door. Though most everyone complained at times about the work load, long hours, and Dixon's treatment of them, they knew they were learning from a master and, when their time came, that they would be rewarded with a choice assignment in a troop unit somewhere in the division.

As he talked with Cerro, Dixon noticed a tall man in a light tan three piece looking over at them. For a moment, he ignored the man's presence and his efforts to attract Dixon's attention. Instead, Dixon continued to listen to Cerro with only an occasional circumspect glance to the tall man in the light tan suit.

Cerro, seeing Dixon's attention distracted by someone behind him, glanced over his shoulder, then at Dixon, who was making no effort at all to acknowledge the presence of the tall man. Instead, with his face locked in an impassive stare, Dixon continued to pay attention to Cerro. Suddenly, Cerro realized that Dixon was intentionally ignoring the man behind them. He was, in his own way, fucking with the guy, making the stranger choose between being rude and breaking in or giving up and walking away. Since Cerro had no idea who the man was, he took his cues from Dixon and continued. Dixon, slowly taking a sip of his beer, watched Cerro's eyes and continued to ignore the stranger. The stranger, for his part, was becoming agitated. Cerro, finally, threw the game by turning to the stranger and ending his conversation with Dixon.

Unable to pretend any longer, Dixon turned to face the stranger. Changing expressions from blank to surprised with well-practiced ease, Dixon acknowledged the man. "Well, Congressman Lewis, how pleasant to see you again. Been here long?"

Lewis shrugged, pretending to ignore Dixon's attempt to rebuff him.

"Not long, Colonel."

Pointing to Cerro, Dixon introduced him. "I'd like you to meet my new acquisition, Captain Harold Cerro, VMI graduate, airborne ranger infantry, and holder of the Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, and the Purple Heart."

Knowing that Dixon was also VMI, Lewis saw a chance to pay back Dixon's rebuff. "How'd you earn your Purple Heart, Captain, from one of the female cadets at VMI?"

For a second, Cerro imagined himself as a helpless infantryman pinned down between the crossfire of two opponents. Unable to figure out how best to respond, he was rescued by Dixon. "Ah, hell, no, Congressman.

Captain Cerro is a member of the old corps, when men were men and girls were dates."

A smirk lit Lewis's face. "I see. Now I understand why you have Captain Cerro in charge of the program designed to evaluate the effectiveness of female combat officers."

Lewis's comment smacked Dixon like a two-by-four. Well, Dixon thought, I should have known better than try to mess with this guy.

Begrudgingly, he acknowledged that Lewis was too sharp to play games with. Mustering a smile, he took a sip of his beer and asked Lewis what he could do for him.

"I was hoping to have a word in private with you."

"Of course." Dismissing Cerro, Dixon escorted Lewis to the patio.

"What can I do for you, Congressman?"

Lewis leaned against a table, half sitting on it. "Today, in the briefings, I detected a certain amount of dissatisfaction with both the intelligence summaries coming from the DIA and the war plans you briefed. In fact, you went out of your way to accentuate every negative aspect of the plan. I was, to say the least, quite taken aback by the fact that an officer with your reputation would get your commander to buy into such a gloomy and pessimistic briefing."

Dixon looked down at his beer, swirled the bottle, and took a sip before answering. For a moment, he tried to come up with an evasive answer, but decided to pass on that idea. It was, after all, hard to bullshit a bullshitter and Lewis, he realized, knew bullshit when he saw it. "Big Al never buys into anything he doesn't want to." Dixon let that comment hang in the air for a moment while he took another sip from his beer.

Ready, he looked Lewis in the eye. "You're right, I am not at all thrilled with what we have to work with, intelligence wise, that is. Nor am I thrilled with our strategic goals, and when I say strategic, I'm talking about political goals and objectives. I especially don't like the idea that there are people who seriously believe in using the American military to salvage a bankrupt foreign policy."

Taken aback by Dixon's comments, Lewis paused for a moment before continuing. Though Lewis had used the same arguments, and had, in a different way, said the same thing, Dixon's accusations hit him like a slap in the face. As a member of Congress, and a prominent figure in Washington, he was guilty, through association, of both the good and the bad calls that came from that city.

Though he wanted to, Dixon fought the urge to smirk. He saw that Lewis was both surprised by his response and somewhat embarrassed.

The jerk, he thought, had asked for it. Still, he had to remember that Lewis was, after all, a congressman, while Dixon was a there lowly lieutenant colonel. Lewis was the maker and giver of policy, Dixon a simple swordbearer for the realm. He therefore decided to ease off and defuse the tension between them. "Congressman, have you ever studied the Little Big Horn campaign?"

Relieved that Dixon was changing the subject, Lewis went along.

"I've read about it, but never really studied it. Why?"

"In 1875 we had elements in our country who viewed the American Indians as an 'inconvenience' to their plans. Land, and the resources those lands contained, were, in their opinion, wasted on the Indians. In order for the nation to grow, and, oh by the way, to amass a fortune for themselves, these well-meaning advocates of manifest destiny did their best to remove that inconvenience. The motivation they relied on to precipitate action was the unthinking hatred that white America had for the red savages. The tool they used was the U.S. Army."

Lewis put his hand up. "Okay, Colonel, hold it. Are you saying that today's version of the robber barons are out to start a war and that we are unjustified in defending ourselves?"

Without skipping a beat, Dixon continued. "No, I am not. I have no reason to believe that anyone in the United States is involved in precipitating this crisis. What I am trying to point out is that there are people, well-meaning people in this case, who are using their influence to apply political pressure on our national leaders to take a course of action that is both ill-advised and could result in embarrassment and disaster."

"If that is true, Colonel, why are you the first soldier I've heard come out so strongly against such an operation?"

Dixon looked at his bottle, and gave it a swirl. "There are any number of reasons for not doing so, just as there were many reasons why the U.S.

Army did what it did in 1876. First, there is the philosophy that we are soldiers and our job is simply to obey. The president and Congress decide national policy, we only execute. You know, the old 'Roger, out, can do' attitude."

"You think that's wrong?"

"It's not my place to decide right or wrong. It is my duty to point out what is possible and what is not. You see, I happen to believe in the American system. But, having said that, we cannot ignore the dark side of some of the people in the American military." Dixon lifted his beer bottle and used the index finger of the hand holding the bottle to point at Lewis. "You see, Congressman, every time the Army is ordered out, we can justify our existence. Whenever you give us a mission, we salute with one hand and reach out with the other for more funds, since every time the United States is without an enemy or a viable threat, the Army shrivels up into an unimportant and expensive inconvenience. A small Army with no mission means slow promotions and little opportunity for fame and glory."

"I thought you guys prided yourself in your selfless service and professionalism?"

Dixon laughed. "If you still believe that, I would appreciate it if you went back and looked at recordings of the news broadcasts shot during Just Cause and Desert Storm. More than a few senior commanders and officers took great pains to make themselves available to the television cameras so as to 'help' the American public understand the war. And, when it was over, they sacrificed their military careers, retiring so that they could travel the speaking circuit, for a fee of course. No, Congressman, egos and self-interest do not disappear when you put on a uniform.

Though Mexico ain't the evil empire Russia used to be, it happens to be the only game in town, for the moment."

"What's your alternative? Do nothing? Let the raids continue? Surely even you can appreciate that there isn't a single congressman or senator from the southwest who is willing to sit and do nothing in Washington while their constituents are being shot in their own backyards? The demand for direct and effective action is becoming too compelling to ignore.

That, Colonel, is a political reality."

Nodding his head, Dixon agreed. "I understand that. Just as Terry did when he left Fort Abraham Lincoln in 1876 to catch the Sioux, and Pershing went to Texas to punish Pancho Villa. We'll go where we are sent and do what we are told. That, however, doesn't mean that it's the right or proper thing to do."

Lewis grunted. "I see you believe in the Pancho Villa theory."

"Not necessarily. Though that line of thinking is, in my opinion, the most logical, no one can confirm it. And that, Mr. Congressman, is exactly my point. No one is able to confirm or deny any of the theories concerning the raids along the border. Yet, in spite of this lack of solid evidence, everyone is chomping at the bit, demanding that we commit the Army. What's going to happen, to us and the future of our two countries, if we find out, after all the shooting is over, that we shot the wrong guy?

My God, sir! Even the most brutal murderer in the United States must have overwhelming and irrefutable evidence brought against him before he is punished. Shouldn't the Mexican people be given the same courtesy?"

"We are not dealing with criminal law here, Colonel Dixon. This is not a nice, clean courtroom in some city far away. We are talking about the real world. Again, let's do a reality check here. We are dealing with politics and national passions. Both of these can be very irrational and uncompromising. When you add fear and coat that fear with liberal quantities of American blood, like the people who are conducting these raids on our borders are doing, logic goes out the window."

Dixon was about to answer when Jan came up from behind and grabbed his arm. Leaning over and planting a kiss on his cheek, she turned to Lewis and smiled. "Scotty sees nothing wrong with our strategy, so long as it includes dinner, soon. Right, dear?"

Dixon looked at Jan. The look in her eyes and her speech told him she was feeling no pain. Taking her hand from his shoulder, he lifted it to his lips, lightly kissed it, and lowered it halfway. "You, my dear, are drunk."

Pulling her hand away, Jan protested. "Drunk? I am not drunk, sir.

Your general's drunk. I'm just hungry, nay, starved. And I demand food, now."

Amused, Lewis watched for a moment before he cut in. "I had no idea you two were married."

Seeing a chance to get away from Lewis, Dixon turned to him. "Us, married? No way, Congressman. We just sleep together."

Putting her hands on her hips, her eyes aflame in mock rage, Jan scoJdedDixon. "Scott B. Dixon, how dare you imply I'm a kept woman?" She turned to Lewis. "Do you know what the B in his name stands for, Congressman? It stands for 'Bad.' And if he doesn't take me to dinner right now in an effort to make up, it's going to stand for 'bye,' as in bye-bye, gone, adios, adieu, farewell."

Dixon turned to Lewis and shrugged. "I'm terribly sorry, Congressman, but duty calls. Perhaps we can continue this later."

Lewis raised his glass. "Yes, maybe later."

After Jan and Dixon had reentered the building and were on their way to the dining room, arm in arm, Jan leaned over to Dixon and whispered in his ear. "I saw you cornered and figured you needed to be rescued."

Slowing down, Dixon turned and lightly kissed her cheek. "And that, my dear, is why I love you."

The evening shift wasn't half over and already it promised to be a slow and boring night. Tom Jerricks, sitting at the dispatcher's desk, put down the well-worn magazine he had been leafing through, then looked about the office for something new to read. He glanced at the lieutenant, sitting with his feet up on his desk watching television, then over to the shelf where the coffeepot and a stack of magazines sat.

At that moment, they were the only ones there; everyone else was on patrol. Since the beginning of August, everyone had been working twelve-hour days, six days a week. Already, that and the tension were beginning to wear on everyone in the office. No one, it seemed, was getting any smarter and none of the banditos, as the unknown raiders were being called, had been hit, let alone killed, as far as anyone knew.

It was as if they were fighting shadows. Those shadows, Jerricks knew, had teeth. On the blackboard, where the patrols were briefed, was a message, updated nightly, that reminded everyone of that gruesome fact.

Across the top was written, "Banditos 14, Border Patrol o. Don't Become 15."

Standing up, Jerricks walked over to the coffeepot, poured himself a cup, and began to sort through the stack of magazines in search of something to read. His back was to the radio when the shrill voice of a patrolman, with the sound of breaking glass and gunfire in the background, broke the silence.

"We're under fire. We're under fire. Presidio Base, Presidio Base, this is…"

Dropping his coffee as he spun around and dashed for the radio, Jerricks grabbed the microphone, hit the transmit button, and responded.

"Last station, this is Presidio Base. Identify yourself and give us your location, over."

As he prepared to call again, the lieutenant came up behind Jerricks, placing his hand on Jerricks's shoulder as he leaned over to listen to the speaker. Jerricks repeated his call. "Last station, this is Presidio Base.

Identify yourself and give us your location, over."

There was nothing. Silence. Both men looked at the radio speaker and waited for a response, just as every border patrolman on that net sat listening, waiting. When there was no further broadcast, the lieutenant ordered Jerricks to have all patrols report in, give their location, and report anything that they might know about the reported shooting.

It took what seemed to Jerricks an eternity for all of their patrols to report in. After each report, there was a pause before the next patrol checked in, just in case the patrol under attack was able to make another report. But there was no further report of an attack. Only the patrols reporting their locations and that they had negative contact came in. After three minutes, all but Ed Kimel and Hernando Juarez were accounted for.

As Jerricks called them by name, an effort that yielded no response, the lieutenant went to the map and traced their assigned patrol route. When he had a fix on the approximate location where they should have been at the time of the reported contact, the lieutenant directed the patrols on either side of them to converge on that spot. Although he knew he didn't need to, the lieutenant instructed the converging patrols to exercise extreme caution.

From a distance of two miles, Delapos could see the border patrol jeep come screaming down Highway 170 in an effort to find the missing patrol. Delapos, of course, already knew where the missing patrolmen were. He and four of his men had killed them over an hour ago. After dragging the bodies of the border patrolmen off the road, removing the radio from their jeep, and disposing of the jeep, they had moved farther north and set themselves up in a new ambush site. When his men were ready, Delapos had turned the radio on his jeep to the same frequency that had been set on the border patrol jeep, sent out a frantic distress call, and waited for a reaction.

As the border patrol jeep approached and his men prepared to fire the two Claymore mines set on the road, Delapos smiled. The reactions of the border patrol had been both timely and, as he had anticipated, predictable.

Two patrols, in two different locations, attacked by the same team, would be a first. Sooner or later, Delapos knew, the border patrol would need to admit that the situation was out of hand. If the double ambush, and the fact that the second patrol was lured in by a false radio call, didn't convince them of that, then nothing would.