Trial by Fire

14

The people of Brownsville were used to traffic jams in the summer, especially during holiday weekends as throngs of tourists poured into and out of South Padre Island to escape the Texas heat, or across the border to Matamoros in search of bargains. Labor Day weekend, the end of the summer, was traditionally the busiest weekend of the year. So it wasn't the volume of traffic or the delays caused by it that was different this year.

It was the nature of the traffic that caused people to pause, stare, and become concerned. Few Americans were prepared for the sight of a twenty-five-ton combat-loaded Bradley fighting vehicle sitting oh their front lawn. Nor were they quite ready to share Main Street with a column of M-1A1 tanks whose 120mm main guns had brought the Iraqi Republican Guard to bay.

Even the sight of the soldiers, American soldiers, armed to the teeth, was unnerving. Most vestiges of their humanity were hidden under thirty five pounds of helmet, special protective sunglasses, flak vest, load bearing equipment, desert camouflage uniform, and heavy boots. Rather than friendly protectors, the soldiers of the 52nd Mechanized Infantry Division appeared like alien invaders. Thus the descent of the United States Army upon Brownsville on Labor Day weekend did little to calm the people of south Texas. Instead of the military's deployment bringing an end to the panic and terror that had gripped the border communities, the chain of disasters that had befallen the Texas National Guard and the sudden appearance of the regular Army only served to heighten the fears and apprehensions of the Texans.

It should not have come as a surprise, therefore, that people long used to peace and able to take a stable border for granted took refuge in flight rather than face the prospect of living in a free-fire zone. Nor should it have been a surprise to local, state, and federal officials when their pleas to the people of the border areas to stay in place fell on deaf ears. The inability of the National Guard, after a barrage of media hype, to solve the problems along the border doomed claims by the federal government.

And the image of a battery of 155mm howitzers setting up in a public park, broadcast across the nation by the media, with high-explosive shells piled in the lee of a child's swing, did nothing to calm the public. So, as military convoys moved south, following in the footsteps of Zachary Taylor and John. Pershing, caravans of refugees moved north.

In the middle of this muddle, a term Joe Bob used to describe Brownsville, was Jan Fields. Her "right place at the right time" theory handed Jan and her crew an opportunity that almost matched the coup they had pulled off in Mexico City in late June. For they were there, in Brownsville, to record the reaction of the people when the president of the United States announced that he was federalizing the National Guard of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California, as well as deploying four Army and one Marine divisions to the border. Ted's camera captured the image of the members of the 52nd Division's advance party as they rolled into Brownsville in the predawn light the day before Labor Day. Joe Bob's recorder picked up the stiff and stilted conversations between officers of the regular Army and those of the National Guard as the former relieved the latter and issued them their first orders under federal control. And the ubiquitous Jan Fields, ever searching for the shot that, in a single glance, spoke louder than a tirade of commentary, was seen and heard that night and every night across the nation. In one shot, she was standing next to Mexican Army officers on the southern side of the bridge over the Rio Grande, listening to their comments as they watched American soldiers erect wire entanglements, barriers, and sandbag emplacements complete with machine guns, on the north side of the bridge. In another shot, made less than two hours later, she was seen talking to the commander of the 1st Brigade, 52nd Division, about his mission. Even Joe Bob, a man who was not easily impressed, was becoming awed by Jan's unerring ability to move through the chaos of the day and sift through the myriad oppor tunities, capturing in a few brief minutes those images and words that brought everything together in a clear, concise, and hard-hitting package.

No amount of technical training, no course of study, could produce a correspondent with the skills that Jan possessed. When asked by a cameraman from another crew to describe her, all Joe Bob could do was look at the cameraman and say, in reverent tones, "That girl's good. She's damned good."

Of course, what made her good, as she always was the first to admit, was luck and hard work. Having been in Brownsville for a week, Jan and her crew knew the city and surrounding area, not to mention where the best shots could be obtained as well as who to stroke and who could do what for them. While other news teams were pouring into the airport at Harlingen as fast as the airlines could get them there, Jan, Ted, and Joe Bob were taping. One New York news team, in an effort to make up for lost time and gain an edge, tried following Jan's van. When Joe Bob, who was driving, noticed he was being tailed by the New Yorkers, he decided to ditch them. Stopping in the middle of the street, Joe Bob stuck his head out of the window and yelled, "Eat my dust, you Yankee queers." With that challenge, he took off, driving down alleys and up one-way streets the wrong way as fast as their van could carry them. After ten minutes of fast driving and running two red lights, three stop signs, and one railroad guard that was about to close, Joe Bob managed to lose the New York news team in the worst possible part of town and still get Jan to her next appointment with time to spare. So while everyone else was trying to figure out what stories were valid and what was useless, Jan Fields was coming across with solid, well-orchestrated pieces.

What didn't come across on Ted's camera or on Joe Bob's microphone was Jan's growing sense of concern and apprehension. Part of Jan's success was her ability to see and understand the broad context of the story she was covering, and an ability to personalize that story so that it could be seen and understood by her primary audience, the American public. In most stories, Jan was able to remain aloof, emotionally and intellectually detached from the issues at hand. In this case, however, it was becoming more and more difficult.

The internal changes in Mexico, Jan now understood, were necessary, as was the deployment of some forces, by both the United States and Mexico, to the border. For the United States, it was a matter of defending against the mysterious raids, while the Mexicans were responding to the American buildup. While that was all logical, it was also logical that the military buildup, as well as the shooting incident of four days before, would create situations in which more incidents would be likely.

As frightening as a conflict between her country and Mexico was in itself, the question of where her loyalty went was even more frightening.

After all, how could she, an American, continue to produce objective stories about the Council of 13 when she knew that they were, at that moment, planning how best to kill her own countrymen? Especially Colonel Guajardo. To Jan, he had come to personify the new revolution. He was a man, she was convinced, who was capable of using anyone for whatever he wanted and, if it suited his purposes, of having them disposed of quickly, completely. Though she knew him to be educated, articulate, a family man, and in his own way quite charming, Jan also knew there was a dark side to him, a dark side that was as black and as bottomless as a tar pit.

Adding to her difficulties in reporting the story was the fact that the man she loved, Scott Dixon, was now an active player. As Guajardo represented the Council of 13 in her mind's eye, Scott was coming to represent the American soldier on the front line. Since the introduction of the National Guard, but even more so in the last two days, Jan found herself surrounded by sights and sounds that only served to heighten her feelings of concern and uneasiness. The American soldiers manning the border crossing in Brownsville were no longer simple props and objects to be used for a news story. They were real people, soldiers, soldiers just like Scott. When she interviewed commanders and senior staff officers, she found herself thinking about Scott, for they looked, spoke, acted, and even smelled like him. The dry, subtle humor and the cocky, "can do" attitude the officers displayed when interviewed could just as easily have come from Scott's mouth, for she had heard it from him many times before. Slowly, unavoidably, this story was taking on a personal twist that was becoming unsettling to Jan. Though it was only a feeling, an uneasiness, she couldn't avoid it. Soon, she knew, she would have to confront it and deal with it.

So on this Labor Day weekend, as Texas prepared itself for a journey into the unknown, Jan wondered how much longer she would be able to deliver the same cool, objective view of the crisis that everyone had grown to expect from her. She wondered how she could go back to Mexico City and treat the members of the Council of 13 in a professional, civil manner. For it was more than the memories of the criticism that Americans who had stayed in Baghdad during the Persian Gulf War had taken from their fellow Americans that concerned her. Jan had taken heat before and, in her own way, enjoyed a little controversy. It wasn't that.

It was the idea of sitting down with a man who, regardless of how justified his cause, no matter how righteous his principles, could be the instrument of death to a man Jan so loved. That, above all else, upset her, leaving her to wonder if she could do it.

That such a decision was not hers to make hadn't dawned upon her yet.

But that was not unusual in these days, for people far wiser than she still imagined that they were in control of the situation. Men in both Mexico City and Washington, D.C., continued to act as if they directed the situation. The only difference, between them and Jan was that they were not yet ready to acknowledge their own dark foreboding. Instead, they pushed aside such feelings as frivolous and continued to seek a "correct" and "logical" solution that was at the same time politically acceptable — where no such solution existed.

With a flurry, Colonel Guajardo stood up from the small desk he had set up in the operations center and walked across the room to look at the situation map posted on the opposite wall. He remained there for several minutes, his hands behind his back, studying intently the designation and location of symbols that represented new U.S. units deployed along the border. When he got bored with this, he walked over to where the assistant intelligence officer on duty sat, reviewing incoming reports and scribbling notes for himself and his subordinates. The assistant intelligence officer, used to the colonel by now, ignored Guajardo and continued to jot down notes as he pored over the messages coming in faster than he could review them.

When Guajardo tired of being ignored, he walked over to where the assistant operations officer sat. He, like the assistant intelligence officer, was reviewing incoming reports as he prepared to write his sumrrtary of the Mexican armed forces activities for the past twelve hours. Like the assistant intelligence officer, he also ignored Guajardo. It was not that either of the officers, both majors, was disrespectful. It was just that they knew that if they stopped and talked to Colonel Guajardo every time he came by and looked over their shoulders, they would never be able to get anything done. Both understood that Guajardo, with nothing of value to do, was nervous, and anxious to do something, anything, to work that nervousness off. Wandering around the operations center, looking here and there, was just his way of doing that. For those who had to work there, it was at times unnerving, but since the colonel was the minister of defense, and this was his operations center, anything he did was right and, as a result, had to be tolerated.

When he finished his aimless rounds of the operations center, Guajardo walked over to the door leading into the main corridor and stopped. He turned and looked back into the room before leaving. Everyone, he thought, was busy, doing something. Everyone but him. There had to be something worthwhile that needed tending to that only he could do. But what? At that moment, he could think of nothing. Until the Americans finished their latest deployments and made their intentions clear, there was no need to act. All units of the Mexican Army were deployed or completing deployment according to their war plans. Every one of his subordinate commanders knew what to do and was doing it. In effect, Guajardo thought, he had planned so well that he had, for the moment, put himself out of a job. If that was so, then why did he feel so uneasy about what was happening?

Turning away, he headed down the corridor to the latrine. Although there was a private facility that he could have used next to a private office reserved for him just off of the operations center, Guajardo preferred to use the common latrine. An American friend of his, an infantry officer, had once told him that as a method of checking on what the troops were thinking, he would go into the latrines used by his troops and read the graffiti they left behind. In a few minutes, he told Guajardo, he knew what officers in his unit were unpopular, and what the soldiers were unhappy about. As an aside, he also noted that he sometimes got some real hot telephone numbers. Guajardo, always one to try new things, had adopted the practice after returning to Mexico and found that it was, indeed, quite useful, as well as entertaining.

As he relieved himself, Guajardo thought it was good for his soldiers to see that he, their leader, was no different than them. There was a certain leveling that took place when men understood that their leaders were men, men who put their pants on one leg at a time just as they did, and who had human needs just as they did. Besides, Guajardo thought as he finished stuffing himself back into his trousers, he had nothing at all to be ashamed of. If anything, he could be quite proud of his manhood.

From behind, Guajardo heard the door of the latrine open slightly. The voice of the assistant operations officer hesitantly called through the partial opening, "Colonel Guajardo. Sorry to disturb you but Colonel Molina is on the phone. He would like to speak to you."

"Did you tell el presidente that I had my hands full, Major?"

There was a pause. "Ah, well, no, sir. I told him you had a pressing matter that needed your personal attention."

Turning around and heading for the sinks, Guajardo groaned. "Good lord, man! Now Colonel Molina will think I've been screwing a secretary on that beautiful mahogany desk in my private office. Go back and tell him I am on my way."

With a crisp "Yes, sir," the major disappeared and left Guajardo laughing to himself.

Deciding to take Molina's call in his private office so that he could speak freely, Guajardo seated himself at the large mahogany desk, its shiny surface clear of everything but one black telephone. Picking up the receiver, Guajardo informed Molina's adjutant that he was ready to speak to the president. When Molina came on and began to speak, Guajardo cut him off. "My friend, before you say anything, I was taking a piss."

Guajardo could hear Molina laughing on the other end of the line.

When he finally spoke, Molina asked Guajardo if he had a guilty conscience, to which Guajardo responded, no, just a full bladder. Again, there was laughter that lasted several seconds before Molina was finally able to regain his composure.

"Well, I am glad that you have things down there well in hand, Colonel Guajardo." Now it was Guajardo's turn to laugh.

When he was ready, Guajardo continued. "I am sure, Hernando, that you did not call me because you needed a break in the dull routine of running this country. How can I serve my president?"

"Actually, you've already done wonders for me, Alfredo. I haven't had anything to laugh at all day."

Guajardo, knowing that the conversation would soon turn serious, could not resist playing with his friend a little longer. "Oh? And when you need a little levity in your life, you call the Army?"

When Molina spoke again, Guajardo noted that his voice had grown serious. "Well, if I was looking for humor, I definitely would not call Barreda at Foreign Affairs."

In an instant, Guajardo understood. "Is Salvado climbing the'walls again?"

"No, Alfredo, he is well past that. Our foreign minister has gone through the ceiling. It seems that the American ambassador had no sooner left his office after explaining that the deployment of the American Army was only defensive when a special report on American television announced that a group of American congressmen had drafted a resolution that would authorize the president of the United States to invade Mexico."

Guajardo shot upright in his seat. "Are you serious? The American Congress throwing away their ability to control their president's use of the military? Did he say which congressmen made the statement?"

When Molina read the list of senators and congressmen who had al ready stated that they would support such a resolution, Guajardo could not speak. He had hoped, as had Barreda, that the American Congress would act as a brake on what they considered precipitous action on the part of the American president. Instead, if what Molina had told him was true — and Guajardo had no reason to doubt it — then the American Congress was in fact expediting, not hindering, the possible use of force.

For a moment, there was silence as both men, alone in their own offices, pondered the real purpose of this latest American action. Was it meant to intimidate them? Or was it a warning? Guajardo, as well as Molina, knew that a similar resolution had been passed by the American Congress just before the Americans commenced military operations against Iraq in 1991. Perhaps, in their own way, the American Congress was telling them that it was the eleventh hour. But for what? Finally, Guajardo spoke. "What, el presidents do you need from me?"

Understanding that Guajardo had intentionally addressed him with his formal title to signal him that it was Colonel Guajardo, the minister of defense, asking the question, Molina responded as the president. "As much as you dislike the idea, it is time for you to personally contact the military chiefs in Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia, Venezuela, and Cuba in order to establish command and control procedures for the incorporation of their forces into our defensive plans. Colonel Barreda is in the process of sending an official request to those governments for the assistance they promised."

"What about the UN and the Organization of American States? Has he called for an emergency session of those organizations?''

"Yes, Alfredo, he has done so. What happens with them is not your concern. Defense of the republic is your only concern now, my friend."

Molina's last comment was an order. For the time being, Guajardo was to remain out of international politics. Still, he could not resist the urge to add a warning. "You realize, my friend, that such assistance will not come cheaply. Each of our new allies will have a price that they will expect us to honor. Especially the Cubans, and you know I cannot trust the Cubans."

"Nor I, Alfredo, nor I. But what else can we do? Pray for a miracle?

Hope that the Americans will see the error of their ways and reason with us an equal? No, it is not their way. So long as they view us as something less than equal, as naughty children who must be taught a lesson every now and then, they will not listen to reason, from us or anyone else. As much as I hate it, I see no other course than to offer armed resistance against any and all violations of our borders."

There was another pause before Guajardo asked the question that had to be asked. He spoke slowly, clearly, and concisely. "I assume then, el presidente, you are ordering the Army to repel any and all incursions by the Americans, with the use of force if necessary."

"Yes, Alfredo, those are my orders. Do you have any further questions?"

Guajardo didn't. There was nothing more to say. It had all been discussed, it had all been debated. In order to stay in power and succeed in rebuilding their beloved country, the Council of 13 had to prove it could defend the Republic of Mexico and its people. To back down and freely allow the Americans to occupy even a single square meter of Mexico would be viewed as weakness, and the council would lose face with its people. After telling Molina that he had no further questions, Guajardo hung up the phone, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the blank walls for a moment.

Then he surprised himself by doing something he had not done since he was a little boy. In the silence of his cold, barren office, he found himself praying to the Virgin for guidance and solace.

The sudden impact of Senator Jimmy Herbert's fist on the picnic table sent a spoon flying, knocked down two paper cups full of iced tea, and brought a stunned silence to people seated at the picnic tables flanking Herbert's. Herbert, however, didn't notice any of this, for his entire attention was riveted on the only other person seated at his table, Representative Ed Lewis of Tennessee.

Lewis, used to evoking such a response from his colleagues, calmly sat across from Herbert, righting one of the spilt cups with one hand and carefully sopping up the tea with a napkin in the other. "Why, Senator Herbert, all I said was that your resolution was the dumbest piece of legislation since the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution. The only difference is that the men who drafted the Tonkin Resolution, in comparison, knew what they were getting into."

Thrusting his head closer to Lewis, his face still red and contorted with the effort to control himself, Herbert growled at Lewis, "Damn you to hell, Mr. Congressman Ed Lewis. I heard what you said the first time.

And damn you for even suggesting that what happened in Southeast Asia had any similarities with what is happening down in Mexico. The Vietnam War is over. It's history. Or haven't you heard?"

Lewis was still calmly cleaning up the mess created by Herbert. "Ah, yes, I remember the former president mentioning that." Then, pausing in his cleanup, Lewis looked up at Herbert. "But I don't think he meant that we were supposed to forget about it, and the lessons it taught us about the limitations of military intervention."

Herbert leaned back, throwing his hands up in the air. "What military intervention? We have no intention of intervening in the internal affairs of the Mexican government and my resolution does not authorize such actions."

It was now Lewis's turn to become angry. Lewis threw the sopping napkin he had been using to clean up the iced tea on the ground. "Oh, come off it, Mr. Senator! Who are you trying to bullshit? The problem with all you goddamned lawyers in Congress is that you start believing that the fancy words you use to hide the meaning of your actions fools people. Listen, do you and all your supporters really believe that your resolution authorizing the president to, and I quote, 'use whatever means necessary along, and beyond, the borders of the United States in order to protect the people of the United States and guarantee the territorial integrity of the United States,' will frighten the Mexicans into backing down and do what we want them to?" Lewis pointed his finger at Herbert to make his point. "Now, you can call the action you have authorized anything you want. But I'll tell you what the Mexicans will call it.

They'll call it an invasion."

Seeing that he had Lewis riled up, Herbert regrouped, relaxed, and, with the ease of a professional politician, let a smile light his face.

"Okay, so it's an invasion. So what? What are the Mexicans going to do?

Bombard us with taco shells?"

While Lewis's last outburst had been staged, the one he unleashed now was from the heart. "I don't believe you! You don't understand what you're doing, do you? I hope you realize that the gulf we're talking about is the Gulf of Mexico, not the Persian Gulf. Those aren't Arabs down there. They're Mexicans. Fellow North Americans. People related to almost five percent of our own population. They're not going to simply sit on their hands and watch American combat troops tromp about their country. They'll do what they always have done whenever we've gone south, they'll fight." Lewis paused, turning away from Herbert. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Besides, we don't even know if the current regime in Mexico is responsible for the border raids. For all we know, someone could be staging those raids, trying to embarrass the Council of 13 in order to get us to invade, just like Pancho Villa did in 1916."

"What difference, Ed, does it make who is responsible for the raids?

None. None at all. What matters, my dear distinguished colleague from the state of Tennessee, is that Americans are dying, right here, in their own country, defending their own borders. When it comes to defending your home and family, it doesn't matter who, in reality, is responsible for the danger." Standing up, Herbert prepared to leave, but paused long enough to finish his speech to Lewis. "Even your high-minded ideals don't matter. What matters, dear boy, is the fact that someone is threatening the United States and we, the leaders of the nation, must do something to end that danger."

Lewis, still turned at an angle, mockingly clapped his hands. "A wonderful campaign speech by any measure, Senator. The only thing you forgot was to mention Mom, apple pie, and the girl next door. The voters back home always love that."

Infuriated, Herbert was about to tell Lewis to fuck off, but held back.

Instead, he clenched his fists, turned, and went storming off, leaving Lewis alone and, for the moment, at a loss as to what to do to forestall what he saw as a disaster in the making.

While the problem that Second Lieutenant Nancy Kozak faced that evening was, in comparison, trivial to people like Jan Fields, Colonel Guajardo, and Ed Lewis, it was, nonetheless, a very real and pressing matter to Kozak. In the excitement and haste of the 16th Division's load-out and deployment, Kozak had forgotten what time of month it was. It was only that morning, shortly after breakfast, when the first menstrual cramp struck, that Kozak realized she had forgotten to throw a box of sanitary napkins in her rucksack.

Knowing full well that sanitary napkins were the last thing the company supply sergeant and battalion S-4 would think of, Kozak decided to use a field expedient napkin to hold her over until she could find some.

In the privacy of the mesquite bushes one hundred meters from her platoon's perimeter, Kozak dropped her trousers and squatted. Ripping open her personal first aid package, she took out the large compression bandage meant to be used for large wounds, and used it in lieu of a proper sanitary napkin. While it more than did the job for the balance of the day, by late afternoon Kozak could feel the compression bandage begin to get soggy. While she could, with effort, hide her discomfort, there was nothing she could do to mask the odor, especially in the close confines of the turret of a Bradley fighting vehicle on a hot summer Texas day.

Sooner or later, she was going to have to change the bandage. The question was with what? She could always use another compression bandage. The Bradley's larger first aid kit had several of them. But her crew might not appreciate that. That first aid kit was there for a reason.

It and its contents could mean the difference between life and death if they were hit. No one, even the most sympathetic member of the crew, would look kindly upon Kozak's use of medical supplies in such a manner.

While she understood that it didn't matter to them what she did with her own compression bandage, the first aid kit belonged to the crew.

As they rolled down the two-lane road, merrily ignoring the occasional cars and pickup trucks that swerved to give the twenty-five-ton tracked vehicle a wide berth, Kozak continued to work on a solution. She thought about using toilet paper, but quickly discarded that idea. A friend of hers at West Point had tried that one night during a field exercise. The only thing the toilet paper produced was a bloody, soggy mess. The bag of cloth rags they carried for cleaning their weapons and checking the Bradley's oil levels was a possibility, but not a good one. Most of them were already filthy.

When the Bradley came whipping around a curve in the road, Kozak saw the answer to her prayers. There, on the side of the road, less than one hundred meters away, was a gas station with a convenience market.

Excited, Kozak keyed the intercom and yelled to the driver to pull into the gas station and stop.

Surprised by Kozak's order and startled by her high-pitched screech, Specialist Louie Freedman jerked the steering wheel to the right and pulled into the parking area of the gas station, barely missing a pickup sitting at the gas pumps. When the track came to a stop, Kozak dropped down inside of the turret, took off her armored crewman's helmet, grabbed her web gear and Kevlar helmet, and prepared to dismount.

Her gunner, Sergeant Terry Tyson, looked at her. "What's the matter, Lieutenant? Where are you going?"

Looking at Tyson for a moment, she considered giving him a line about needing to check something out, but decided not to. Looking him in the eye, she told him the truth. "Well, if you must know, I need to go into that store to buy some sanitary napkins."

For several seconds, they stared at each other while Kozak's announcement registered. When it did, he blinked. "Oh, okay, Lieutenant. I just need to know in case the CO called."

Kozak's eyes grew large. ' 'If the CO calls, don't you dare tell him why we stopped."

"What should I tell him, Lieutenant?"

"I don't care. Tell him I'm reconning another platoon position or something. Tell him I'm going to the bathroom. Tell him anything but…"

"Okay, no problem, Lieutenant. I'll cover you."

Smiling, Kozak thanked Tyson and hoisted herself up and out of the open hatch. After she had climbed down the front slope of the Bradley and gone into the store, Freedman called Tyson over the intercom.

"Where's the lieutenant going?"

"The LT's on the rag and she needs to buy some Kotex."

Freedman was unable to tell if the tone in Tyson's voice was disgust or impatience. Keying his mike, he decided to harass his sergeant. "Oh, is that what that smell was."

"Jesus, Freedman, haven't you ever smelled a bitch in heat?"

"Yeah, Sarge, lots of times. But never in a Bradley."

With a distinct note of sarcasm in his voice, Tyson replied, "Well, welcome to the new Army. You'd best get used to it."

"Hey, it ain't so bad. After putting up with your greasy farts for all these months, I can deal with this, provided she buries them herself."

Watching his lieutenant walk out of the store, a bag under her arm and a smile on her face, Tyson didn't respond to Freedman's last comment.

Instead, he just watched his lieutenant and wondered if he would ever get used to her. Maybe, he thought, it would be easier if she was ugly. At least then, he wouldn't have to worry about hiding the occasional erection he got when they sat together in the close confines of the Bradley's small two-man turret.

After she climbed on the Bradley, Kozak put her paper sack down, reached in, and pulled out two cold cans of soda, handing one to Freedman and one to Tyson. As Tyson took his can, she smiled. "Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate your covering for me."

Tyson, opening the can, smiled back. "No problem, LT. We're a crew. Ain't that right, Freedman?"

After taking a sip of his soda, Freedman looked up at Kozak, then at Tyson. There they were, him a black kid from Cleveland, Tyson, a redneck from Georgia, and the lieutenant, a twenty-two-year-old female from some nice middle-class suburb, sitting on the border of Texas, drinking soda. Yeah, he thought, they were a crew, a real far-out crew.

"Sure thing, Sarge. Whatever you say."