Trial by Fire

21

The shock wave generated by the battle of Monterrey, what some were calling America's second Tet, was just as great in Washington as it had been to the troops who had fought it. Instead of the simple, controlled occupation of a security zone, an image that the president and his advisors had worked hard to cultivate, the American public found itself involved in a full-scale war. Though the battle was technically a victory, since the Mexicans had been forced to break contact and withdraw and all U.S. forces had more or less reached the southern limit of advance that defined the security zone, few people in America saw it in those terms. In that single attack, and the operations immediately after it, the United States Army had suffered more casualties than it had during the entire Persian Gulf War.

The impact of the battle had been magnified by the news stories, uncensored by the military. In contrast to its policy in the Gulf War, where it held a tight rein on what correspondents could see and what they could release for public broadcast, the military had felt that, due to the nature of the operations in Mexico, no censorship would be necessary.

Both the administration and the Pentagon, however, had soon regretted that decision. To counter statements made during briefings by Pentagon spokesmen, who continued to assure the public that the fight around Monterrey had been a tactical victory, newscasters freely used film footage fresh from the battlefield, showing the devastation. One network newsroom ran a two-minute segment during which the soundtrack of a Pentagon briefing was dubbed over footage showing burning American vehicles, rows of filled body bags being tossed into trucks, overcrowded aid stations, and soldiers, dazed from combat, stumbling back to the rear.

Such techniques, coupled with interviews with soldiers fresh from battle and still reeling from the impact of losing a friend, made the statements by military officials in Washington seem trite and out of touch with the reality of the situation in Mexico.

For those in Congress who had been opposed to the establishment of a security zone in Mexico, warning that such a move was not only dangerous but unnecessary, the news from Mexico was vindication. Congressmen like Ed Lewis, who had been vocal in their opposition, redoubled their efforts, taking every opportunity to drive home the point that the longer U.S. forces stayed in Mexico, the more both nations would suffer. The entire affair, Lewis pointed out, had been ill-conceived and based on too many false assumptions. On the day after the battle of Monterrey, after emerging from a special briefing at the White House for selected senators and congressmen, Lewis summed up the administration's problem. When reporters asked him what he and the other members of Congress had been told, Lewis smiled. "The president," he told the reporters, "has assured us that we have that tar baby just where we want it and, any day now, we're going to teach it a thing or two."

Into this growing controversy came Jan Fields, bearing her message for the president from the Council of 13. When she was told that it was not possible for her to deliver the message in person, as Colonel Guajardo had requested, by a condescending third-echelon White House staffer, who informed her that the president could not possibly see her, Jan decided not to get mad. Instead, she delivered the text of the message in a special fifteen-minute segment aired by the World News Network. With a summary of the events that had led up to the current crisis, along with her own observations based on interviews with participants on both sides as a lead-in, Jan delivered Colonel Molina's message. The result exceeded anything Jan could have imagined. The effect was akin to the dumping of gasoline onto a smoldering fire. Within hours, Congress, with Ed Lewis in the vanguard, opened a formal investigation into the administration's handling of Mexico since the beginning of the June 29 revolution.

That he had been called to the White House along with two dozen other congressmen and senators for a special briefing the day before had come as no surprise to Ed Lewis. That he had been invited back, alone, did.

Perhaps, he thought, the president, stung by his tar baby comment, was going to give him a piece of his mind. That caused Lewis to chuckle.

God, he thought, the last thing this president needed to do was to give anyone a piece of his mind. He already had too little to work with as it was.

Lewis was still in the midst of his private joke when the president's national security advisor came out of the Oval Office and started to walk over to him. A college professor before joining the White House staff, William Hastert gave new meaning to the word wimp. With men like this to advise the president, Lewis mused, how can he possibly go right? When Hastert reached Lewis and greeted him, there wasn't a hint of warmth in his handshake or smile. Instead, Hastert only mumbled that both he and the president were glad that Lewis had been able to make time in his busy schedule and come over on such short notice. That Hastert placed himself before the president did not escape Lewis's attention.

Wanting to understand a little about what was going to be discussed before he walked into the Oval Office, Lewis held onto Hastert's hand when they finished their perfunctory handshake, much to Hastert's discomfort.

"Who will be joining us, Mr. Hastert?"

Pulling his hand free, Hastert looked at it, then back at Lewis. "No one else, Congressman Lewis. The president wanted to talk to you in private.

The president is ready to see you."

Unable to discern the subject of the meeting, and taking Hastert's less than subtle hint, Lewis decided to trust his luck and skill in dealing with this impromptu meeting. "Well then, Mr. Hastert, we mustn't keep the president waiting. After you."

Trailing Hastert, Lewis weaved his way around the desks of the outer office and past two security men standing outside the Oval Office. Once inside, Lewis saw that the president stood motionless at the french doors behind his desk, staring vacantly out into the Rose Garden. That man, Lewis thought, is not a happy one. With his arms folded tightly across his chest, his shoulders rolled forward, and his head down, the president appeared to Lewis to be a man under considerable stress. After Hastert announced that Lewis was there, the president hesitated before turning to face the two men. When he did, he kept his arms folded and his head down, looking up instead at Lewis with eyes that were puffy and surrounded by dark circles. "Thank you for coming over so fast, Ed." Even when he dropped his arms, motioning as he walked over to an armchair for Lewis to take a seat, the president's head still drooped down, his chin almost coming to rest on his chest. "Please, take a seat. Would you like some coffee?"

Lewis was about to say no, then reconsidered. Ever since his wife, Amanda, got on her decaffeinated kick, he never passed up the chance to get a real cup of coffee when he thought he could get away with it.

Amanda had even managed to infiltrate his own office in the congressional building, instructing his staff to serve only decaf to him. Though it was a foolish gesture, out of habit Lewis looked about furtively to see if there was anyone in the room who would tell on him before he accepted the president's offer.

When everyone was seated and Lewis had been afforded the opportunity to savor his coffee, the president started. "As you so eloquently put it yesterday, Ed, we, I've got both hands full with a tar baby."

Lewis sighed. He was almost sorry that he had made that comment.

After all, it had been a cheap shot that not even this guy deserved. Still, there was nothing he could do about that now. Though he thought of apologizing, he didn't. While it might have been a cheap shot, Lewis decided, in the end it had been aH.too true.

"Ed, I'm in a very bad spot, and you know it."

Looking up from his coffee cup, Lewis smiled. ' 'You're sort of like the guy who has his private parts caught in his fly. Even though he knows he needs to do something, and soon, he also knows that, no matter what he does, including nothing, it's going to hurt like hell."

While Hastert frowned, the president laughed. "That's what I love about you, Ed. You have a unique way of putting things." Then, in a flash, the laughter was gone. "You're right, of course. We are in a bad spot and need to do something, even though it's going to hurt like hell."

For a moment, Lewis looked at the president. He agreed with neither the man's politics nor his policies. He didn't even like the president as a man. Still, he was the president, and a person. For a moment, in the president's eyes, Lewis saw a human being who was in trouble and needed help. Rather than let the president thrash about, trying to save whatever pride he could, Lewis decided to let him off the hook. Besides, it would be wrong to use the president's current predicament for political or personal ends. Whatever personal satisfaction he might derive from such an effort would be washed away by Lewis's conscience, something that he still had despite his five years in Congress. "What, Mr. President, can I do to help?"

Relieved of the need for further groveling, the president launched into his proposal. "I need someone to go to Mexico, someone with military experience, and yet not connected with the military, who can give me a clear, unbiased, and objective view of what the commanders in the field are thinking and how they view the situation, from a military standpoint."

Lewis gave the president a sideways glance. "Are you telling me that you don't trust what your own Joint Chiefs are telling you?"

"Ed, it's not that I don't trust them. It's just that I do not believe that they can be objective about this anymore. They, like the CIA, got caught short by the fight around Monterrey and active participation by the Nicaraguans.

Between trying to explain away their failures by justifying their initial positions and scrambling to make the current battle plan work, everyone in Washington has lost sight of the long-term goal, national security. I need solutions, real solutions, not fixes. And before I can come up with those solutions, I need some solid, unvarnished information."

Leaning forward toward Lewis, the president looked into his eyes while he rested his elbows on his knees and brought his hands together, almost as if he were begging. "Ed, will you go?"

For a moment, Lewis considered the president's offer. What a great way, he thought, of getting an opponent out of the way. Was the president, he thought, using the old adage that it was better to make friends rather than multiply enemies? Was he buying time, in the hope that by sending Lewis to Mexico he could appease his critics and hope that the Mexican government would buckle under? Or was the president sincere?

Was he really seeking a real solution? "Who, Mr. President, are you sending with me, whom do I answer to, and what restrictions are there on my comings and goings down in Mexico?"

The president opened his hands. "You may take whomever you like, you report back to me when you are ready, and you will have a free hand to go wherever you want and speak to whomever you feel you need to talk to. You have a free hand."

That, Lewis thought, was inviting. Turning the idea over in his mind as he took a long sip of coffee, he decided to press for more. After all, if he was going to become involved, he wanted to be part of the solution, to do something meaningful, and not just become a storefront dummy. He looked down at his cup. "If that reporter, Jan Fields, is to be believed, we have not done all we could to reach an understanding and appreciation of the situation that the Council of 13 is dealing with." With a glance over to Hasten, Lewis continued. "It says a lot when a foreign government is forced to use a TV correspondent as a means of passing messages to us." As Hasten struggled to contain his anger at the slap Lewis had given him, Lewis turned to the president. "Any solution will need to involve the Mexicans. Unilateral action, as we have seen, is a noncontender.

Therefore, if I go to Mexico, I want to have the ability to travel to Mexico City, with this Jan Fields, and open a dialogue with the Council of 13 on your behalf."

As if he had already considered that request, the president responded without even bothering to look over to Hastert. "That, Ed, is more than what I had in mind, but you're right." The president eased himself back into his seat. Though he didn't like the idea of Lewis, trailed by a high-speed correspondent like Fields, running around in Mexico City, the president decided that he had little choice. He had, in fact, decided before Lewis had arrived to accept JHSt about whatever Lewis asked, since, as he had put it so eloquently, there would be pain involved no matter what the president did. "You are right. We were, in fact, discussing just how best to respond to the council's message when you arrived. You, if you would be so kind, can carry my personal message back to the Mexican government.

When can you leave?"

"Will tonight be soon enough?"

"Tonight will be just fine. Besides making the necessary arrangements and coordination, is there anything else I can do to help you?"

Lewis was about to say no, but,changed his mind. "Yes, Mr. President, there is. Could I have another cup of coffee?"

Officially referred to as an operational pause, the order to halt all offensive operations and avoid contact with Mexican forces came as no surprise to Big Al and Scott Dixon. It was, Big Al dryly commented, about time that someone in Washington took note of the fact that maybe the Mexicans had different ideas about the presence of U.S. forces in Mexico.

Still, the cost of the battle of Monterrey, and the sudden reversal of government policy immediately after, put Big Al, and all American commanders in the field, in a difficult position.

Too much hype about their own capabilities and too little regard for that of the Mexicans hadn't prepared the American soldiers going into Mexico for the kind of war that they now faced. They were willing, one soldier told a reporter, to do their jobs. All they asked for, he went on, "was for someone to tell us the truth, for a change." Unfortunately, with "the truth" changing almost by the hour, there was little that Big Al and other commanders like him could do. Every new directive, every new change in policy, evoked the same response from him: "It's Vietnam all over again." He did what he could, and asked the soldiers in his command to bear with him.

One thing that he could do was protect his force, deploying it in such a manner that it could protect itself without leaving any elements exposed to unnecessary risk. With the 16th Armored Division spread out like it was, this would be no simple task. As the ambush on the division's own CP, and numerous other attacks throughout the division's rear areas, showed that, while the Mexicans might have given ground, they had conceded nothing.

As part of the reshuffling of forces into a defensive posture, the 3rd Brigade was ordered to release the 2nd of the 13th Infantry, which, in turn, reverted back to division control as a reserve. Because the threat from small, lightly armed raiding parties in the rear areas was greater than that of a major attack by Mexican forces, it was decided to disperse elements of 2nd of the 13th to various rear-area facilities in an effort to discourage raids.

Though many would like to believe otherwise, the influence that egos and politics have in the decision-making process is, at times, just as important in troop units as it is in Washington. The manner in which 2nd Platoon, A Company, 2nd of the 13th, found its way to the division CP to provide security is an example. When Major Tod McQuirer, the operations officer of 2nd of the 13th, was informed that they were going to be tasked to provide a platoon to the division CP for security, he saw an opportunity to help out his friend and drinking buddy, the commander of A Company.

Calling Wittworth to the battalion CP, McQuirer discussed the matter with him.

"Stan, we just got a tasking from brigade to detach one platoon to go back to the division CP in order to provide security for them." With a knowing smile, he looked Wittworth in the eyes. "Do you think you could help?"

Seeing an opportunity to rid himself of the 2nd Platoon and its platoon leader, Second Lieutenant N. Kozak, Wittworth said, "Sure. Though it will be hard, I think I can spare 2nd Platoon."

Though McQuirer knew that Wittworth was full of shit, he played along for the benefit of the officers and NCOs in the CP who just might overhear the conversation. Ever since Kozak had changed her statement about the September 7 incident, Wittworth had been looking for a way to get rid of her. The second statement had not only put Wittworth on the spot, her change of mind had shown that she didn't have the slightest thought of loyalty for him, her commander. McQuirer had agreed, especially after Witt worth showed him the part that stated her orders "were not clear and did not appear to consider the situation at our location." That had been enough. Unfortunately for Wittworth, she went on to state, "Despite repeated efforts to advise my commander of the nature of the situation, he simply repeated his initial order." The second statement resulted in Kozak's being exonerated and earned him a written reprimand. McQuirer hadn't helped Wittworth's state of mind by telling him that, if Kozak had been an ordinary infantry officer — i.e., a male — the second statement would never have been accepted.

As bad as that incident had been, it didn't even compare to what had happened outside of Monterrey on the twelfth of September. Her disrespectful manner to him on an open radio net that was being monitored not only by every leader in Company A, but also by the battalion commander, had been bad enough. That the battalion commander not only had ignored Kozak's snide comment, but had congratulated her, then and a second time after the battle, made'it worse. When, on the thirteenth of September, Wittworth went to see the battalion commander to protest, he was again reprimanded for his conduct and, this time, for his pettiness.

Kozak, Wittworth knew, had to go.

With a wink, McQuirer discounted Wittworth's feigned concern. "Well, I'm really sorry to hit you up like this, but I'm afraid you'll just have to make due with two platoons." So that it appeared to be a choice based on sound logic, rather than hurt egos, McQuirer explained his "official" reasoning. "Since your 2nd Platoon is short a platoon sergeant, and the Bradley that the platoon sergeant had been on has lost its fire-control system, they are the least combat-ready platoon. Back at the division CP, the platoon sergeant and damaged Bradley won't be missed."

Making a show of it, Wittworth sighed. "Well, sir, you're right. I guess I have no choice. When do they leave?"

For Kozak, the assignment was welcome. Getting used to Staff Sergeant Maupin as the platoon sergeant and Sergeant Kaszynski as the 1st Squad leader was no big problem. In fact, the only problem she saw that needed to be tended to was with herself. In a span of less than a week, her entire world had been turned upside down.

Up until the seventh of September, the day they had gone into Mexico after the bank robbers, Kozak had thought nothing could be worse than her first six months at West Point. The physical and mental stress and strain of that six months, however, now seemed trivial when compared to the demands of command in combat. After the firefight in Nuevo Laredo, Kozak had almost lost it when Rivera pulled the zipper up on Private Gunti's body bag. She still found it impossible to pull up the zipper on her own sleeping bag without panicking. And then there was the sight of Sergeant Rivera himself after the fight with the tanks, laid out on a stretcher, his face as white as a sheet from shock and the loss of blood.

The seemingly cold, matter-of-fact comment by his gunner, who had been sitting next to Rivera when their Bradley was hit, still echoed in her mind. When Kozak and the dismounts rejoined the Bradleys after their fight at the arroyo, and she asked how Rivera was, the gunner had looked up at her. "Oh, he'll be okay, I guess. Sarge is lucky. He only lost an arm."

It was in the calm after the battle that Kozak had been able to consider what had happened and, even worse, what could have happened. Like a person who walks away from an auto accident, it was only after the danger had passed that Kozak began to shake as the images of what might have been became clear to her. The thought that an entire enemy tank battalion might come crashing down on her and the handful of dismounts she had deployed never occurred to her before she initiated the antitank ambush. Her failure to contact Wittworth herself and push for the support they needed would have been fatal had the battalion commander not been in a position where he could see what was going on and quickly put two and two together. It was, Kozak realized, the same situation she had faced at Fort Hood, only bigger this time. It was as if she hadn't learned a thing from Captain Cerro that day. And if that were true, would she, could she, ever?

So when the order came down to 2nd Platoon, Company A, to report to the division's headquarters commandant, Kozak was hard-pressed to hide her relief. Back at the division CP, tucked safely in the division rear areas, she would have time to sort herself out. She needed time to absorb the horrors of combat. Like her nose, the wounds of her spirit and mind needed time to heal.

Like clouds on the distant horizon that foreshadow a coming storm, forces were in motion that would deny Kozak what she needed most, time.

The operational pause that was meant to provide the people in Washington with time to reassess their policy toward Mexico was a godsend to Senior Alaman. It provided him and his mercenaries with conditions that couldn't be more perfect for what they intended to do. With U.S. forces deep in Mexico, spread very thin and operating in the midst of a hostile population that provided cover for an active guerrilla force, it would be easy for Delapos's teams to move about and attack isolated American outposts and columns. That the Mexicans would be blamed for both the attacks and the atrocities Delapos's people would commit was without doubt. And for the American soldiers who would witness the results of the atrocities and have to live in fear of them, the desire to exact revenge from the nearest Mexican would, Alaman knew, soon become overpowering.

With atrocity repaying atrocity, it would not be long before the bloody cries for revenge drowned out the calls for diplomacy and reason.

It was now simply a matter of timing. As with the raids along the Texas border, Alaman warned Delapos to take his time and set the stage properly before acting. "It would be a shame," Alaman repeated at every chance, "to come this far and lose everything because we were in too much of a hurry. Time now is a friend that we can use freely. So long as we are willing to be a little patient, the opportunities that will bring us success will come our way."

All of this, to Jean Lefleur, that evening, was purely academic. He seldom bothered himself with the details of his bosses' ambitions or goals. His needs were few. In fact, his only needs were money and job satisfaction. So long as someone was willing to provide both, he was happy. As he sat in the passenger side of his newly acquired four-by-four, feet up on the dash and headed toward Sabinas Hidalgo, there was a smile on his face as he hummed old marching songs from the French Foreign Legion.

At that moment, it seemed like he had it all. Alaman's call for the mercenaries to continue their agitation in Mexico, at triple the pay they had been receiving, paid in advance, was an offer only a fool would turn down. That in itself would have been more than enough to satisfy Lefleur.

What really capped the offer was a change in his status within Delapos's small army. The American, Childress, who had served as Delapos's unofficial deputy and advisor, had fallen out of favor. Lefleur couldn't tell for sure what had caused the problem between Childress and Delapos.

Part of it, he knew, was the fact that Childress was lukewarm to the idea of committing what Childress called murder. Though the atrocities they intended to carry out exceeded what they had done in the past, however, that in itself was not enough to explain Childress's mood.

No, Lefleur thought. That was not at the heart of the problem. The real problem, Lefleur suspected, was the obvious one, one that neither man was willing to admit. Childress, despite all his training and years as a mercenary, was and would always be an American, just as Delapos could never be anything but a Mexican. The impressions and beliefs left by the cultures that had spawned them and raised them left a mark upon the two men that no amount of money could ever wash away. Childress did little to hide the agitation he felt when Delapos bragged about the manner in which the Mexican Army had beaten the arrogant gringos. Nor could Delapos ignore Childress's use of the words dago, greaser, and such when referring to Mexicans. As the war between their homelands expanded, so too, Lefleur knew, did the gap between the two men. And it was into that gap that Lefleur intended to insert himself.

No longer able to trust Childress, Delapos began to turn to Lefleur for the advice that Childress used to provide. For Delapos, so anxious to please Alaman, had great difficulty making major decisions on his own, a fact that both Childress and Lefleur had used to their own advantage so many times before. Needing someone he could trust to help him talk his way through to a decision, and unable fully to trust Childress any longer, Delapos accepted Lefleur's counsel more and more. Even the grueling task of reconnaissance, long hours of driving about coupled with the need to dodge or bluff through both Mexican and American outposts and lines, provided another chance for Lefleur to increase his value to Delapos, not to mention his salary. While Childress was left to organize and defend the base camp, Lefleur went out on reconnaissance, familiarizing himself with the ground and seeking routes that could be used for infiltration and vulnerable spots that were susceptible to attack. With intimate knowledge of the terrain and unit dispositions, Lefleur, not Childress, would be able to influence Delapos and future operations.

Armed with a false passport and other ID that identified him as Paul Perrault, a real correspondent for the French National News Network, Lefleur had no trouble moving about the American sector. Since the other men who traveled with Lefleur carried IDs that supported Lefleur's, and enough camera and sound equipment to support their claims, few Americans at roadblocks and checkpoints bothered to search them or their vehicle. Even if the Americans had found the MP-5 submachine gun under Lefleur's seat, or the weapons each of his men kept concealed within arm's reach, Lefleur felt that he could easily talk his way out of any difficulty. There were, after all, banditos about, and he as well as his crew had the right to defend themselves.

So when Lefleur and his men came up to a checkpoint manned by half a dozen MPs at the entrance to the gap between mountains that led to Sabinas Hidalgo, where the CP for the American 16th Armored Division was, Lefleur didn't give it a second thought. Still, he instinctively evaluated the situation and assessed his chances should it become necessary to fight his way out.

After they stopped a respectful distance from the wire entanglement the MPs used to block the road, a lone MP, armed with an M-16 rifle, approached them on Lefleur's side. From the rank on his helmet and collar, Lefleur guessed that he was their leader. Behind him, at the wire entanglement, stood two more MPs. One was armed with an M-16 slung over her shoulder, while the other had an M-203, which is an M-16 with a 40mm grenade launcher attached to the front hand guard. The two vehicles belonging to the MP squad were sitting on either side of the wire entanglement. Lefleur identified them as armored Humvees. Though the vehicles could easily protect the American MPs from the automatic weapons he and his team had hidden but ready, none of the MPs were, at that moment, availing themselves of that protection. Even the MPs manning the weapons mounted on top of the Humvees, an M-60 machine gun on the left and an M-19 40mm grenade launcher on the right, were fully exposed as they sat on top of the Humvee in order to escape the heat of the vehicles' interior. A sixth MP, a female, sat in the shade of the Humvee on the right. With her helmet off and her M-16 leaning against the side of the Humvee, she was busy eating from a brown plastic sack, paying Lefleur and his people no attention. Even before the MP sergeant reached him, Lefleur already had decided that, if push came to shove, they could easily take the Americans.

"Howdy. What brings you folks out this way?"

The casual approach to war and soldiering that Americans reveled in never ceased to amaze Lefleur. In the Foreign Legion, had he run a checkpoint the way this sergeant did and challenged an unidentified vehicle with such a greeting, he would have been flogged. That the Americans won so often in war proved, to Lefleur, that there was no justice.

When the MP sergeant stopped next to Lefleur, Lefleur pulled out a card that identified him as a correspondent. "My name is Paul Perrault.

I am a correspondent for the French National News Network." Then he pointed to the others in his vehicle, one at a time. "And he is my cam eraman, my sound technician, and my driver and interpreter." Each man in Lefleur's vehicle smiled and waved with his left hand as Lefleur pointed to him, while they kept their right arms close to their side.

Lefleur's response caused the MP sergeant's smile to broaden. "Oh, then you must be with Congressman Lewis's party."

Lewis's name rang a bell in Lefleur's head. He was one of the American congressmen who was opposed to intervention in Mexico. Not having any idea what the MP sergeant was talking about, but seeing an opportunity to expedite their passage through the checkpoint, Lefleur responded that they were, but that they had become separated from the congressman.

The MP sergeant smiled again. "Well, partner, you're in luck. The congressman and his party passed through here not five minutes ago, headed east. If you hurry, you can catch up to them before they get into town."

Although he still didn't quite know what the MP was talking about, Lefleur saw an opportunity. Looking away from the MP, down the road to the east, Lefleur considered the information the sergeant had so freely given him. As Lefleur pondered, for a moment, what he could do with it, the MP sergeant looked puzzled as to why Lefleur was waiting. "You know, you don't have much time. It'll be dark soon and you'll lose 'em."

If Lefleur had learned one thing in his years with the Legion, it was to trust one's instincts. Those instincts, at that moment, told him that somewhere, up on the road ahead, there was a prize waiting for him, a prize for the taking. What he would do with that prize, once he had it, he didn't know. But he knew it could not be ignored. And, Lefleur reasoned, if they were going to start a campaign of terror, this was as good a time and place as any to start.

Lefleur, turning back to the MP sergeant, smiled as he looked into the sergeant's eyes. "Yes, it is true that I do not have much time. But I have more than you."

Unable to figure out what Lefleur meant, the MP sergeant continued to stare into Lefleur's eyes, never noticing that he was reaching under his seat with his right hand.

The sudden burst of fire surprised everyone. The MPs at the wire entanglement froze as they watched the body of their squad leader fly backward, away from the vehicle he had been next to. It took them several seconds to realize that he had been shot by the vehicle's passenger, seconds that the vehicle driver put to good use. Rising from his seat, pulling out his own submachine gun as he did so, the driver popped up over the windshield and fired a short burst at the two MPs at the wire entanglement. The first burst hit the MP with the M-203 just as he was leveling it at Lefleur's vehicle. The other MP, struggling to take her M-16 off her shoulder, paused to watch her partner as he fell over backward.

Looking back at the man who had just shot him, the second MP renewed her efforts to bring her rifle into play. It was, however, no contest. The driver, satisfied that the first MP was finished, shifted his MP-5 to the right a little, took aim, and fired at the second MP at the wire entanglement. As with the first, his aim was true and the impact of his burst threw the second MP back and out of the fight even before she could get into it.

Lefleur's two men in the backseat didn't need any special instructions from him. Both, like the driver, drew their weapons out and rose up, firing at the MPs manning the heavy weapons on the Humvees as they did so. Only.the MP on the M-60 was able to bring her weapon into play before she was hit. Fortunately for Lefleur, her first burst was high and wild. The mercenary taking her vehicle under fire never allowed her the chance to adjust her aim. Her counterpart, across the road on the M-19 grenade launcher, went down before he even managed to get the safety off his weapon.

That left only the female MP who had been eating. Lefleur, satisfied that the most immediate threats had been dealt with, turned his attention to the last MP. When he looked where she had been, however, only a discarded brown plastic sack and her helmet marked the spot. For the first time, Lefleur was worried. Knowing she couldn't have gone far, he began to scan the area around the Humvee she had been leaning against.

A three-round burst, and a scream of pain from the man standing behind Lefleur, announced the last MP's presence. Though he knew that the noise behind him was the sound of the body of one of his men hitting the pavement, he paid no attention. After catching a glimpse of the offending M-16's muzzle disappearing behind the front left tire of the Humvee, Lefleur leaped out and ran toward the right side of the Humvee.

Covering the distance in four or five easy bounds, he didn't pause, but continued around to the rear of the vehicle. As he did so, he ran into the last MP as she was slowly backing around to the rear of the Humvee from her side. Without a second thought, Lefleur leveled his submachine gun at his side and squeezed off a burst into the back of the last MP, who was now less than a meter from him. The kick of the submachine gun caused the strike of the rounds to climb up the MP's back, with the first round hitting her at the base of the spine and the last one in her right shoulder.

Several more rounds flew over her shoulder, but that didn't matter. As her body collapsed, Lefleur knew she was finished.

For a moment, he stood and looked at her. What a waste, Lefleur thought, of a good woman. The idea of raping her entered his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. While such an action would have been in line with their program of atrocities, Lefleur had bigger game in mind. Lowering his submachine gun, he fired into the MP's body until the thirty round magazine was empty. That would have to do for now, he thought, as he ran back to his vehicle.

His driver, with the engine running, was ready to leave. Behind the vehicle were the other two members of his team. One man, a Colombian, was lying on the ground in a pool of blood. The other man, a Canadian by birth, was kneeling over him. Lefleur walked over, looked at the Colombian, and asked how he was. The Canadian looked up and shook his head. "What the hell did you start shooting for? We could have gotten through and they would have been none the wiser."

Lefleur was not used to explaining his orders to anyone. Besides, the Canadian knew just as well as any other man in the group that the last thing they could afford to do was to leave witnesses behind. The MP sergeant had seen his face and would, no doubt, be able to put two and two together when the congressman showed up missing. Besides, Lefleur thought, what a great way to start a terror campaign. Ignoring the Canadian's question, he asked how the Colombian was.

"He's bleeding like a stuck pig. He won't make it if we can't stop the bleeding and get some serious medical attention quickly."

Lefleur looked at the Colombian, then to the east. "All right then, take his ID and weapon. We need to get moving."

The Canadian hesitated. "We're going to leave him?"

Lefleur looked down into the Canadian's eyes. "You yourself said he would die if we didn't get him help right away. We have no way of doing that. Besides, he looks like a Mexican. When the Americans find his body here, they'll think that he is a Mexican, and blame them. It will help our efforts. Now, get moving. We have to catch up to the congressman before it gets dark."

The Canadian looked at his wounded comrade, unconscious and breathing irregularly, then back at Lefleur. Realizing that Lefleur was right, and that they had all signed on for what they knew was going to be a difficult job, the Canadian emptied the Colombian's pockets and hopped into the vehicle. Lefleur looked down at the Colombian one last time before he followed suit. He had considered finishing off the Colombian, but decided against that. To do so in front of the other two would be a bad business practice. You do not, Lefleur knew, inspire confidence and loyalty by shooting your own wounded. Besides, the American high command had placed a mandatory restriction on unnecessary movement at night. With no prospect of anyone coming by that checkpoint before daybreak the next morning, the Colombian would die anyhow, on his own. Without another thought, Lefleur walked around, got into his seat, and ordered his driver to move out to the east as fast as he could.

When the driver of the Humvee Ed Lewis was in saw the flashing headlights of a vehicle coming up behind him, he slowed down.

Noticing the reduction in speed, Lewis leaned over and asked what the problem was. The driver, twisting his head around and looking out his window to see if the van with Jan Fields and her camera crew was also slowing, didn't answer at first. Lewis repeated his question. The driver, looking back to the front, eased his Humvee over onto the shoulder of the road and stopped it before answering. "Sorry, sir, but there's someone coming up fast behind us that either wants to pass or wants us to stop."

The young lieutenant, a public-affairs officer who was serving as Lewis's escort, had been asleep. It wasn't until the Humvee hit the gravel on the shoulder of the road that he realized they were stopping. "What are we stopping for, Jackson?"

Specialist Jackson, the driver, repeated his explanation to the lieutenant.

Opening his door, the lieutenant saw the four-by-four coming up, horn honking and lights flashing. Since they were already stopped, the lieutenant saw no harm in finding out what the people in the vehicle wanted. As a courtesy, he asked Lewis, though he had no idea what he would do if Lewis told them to keep going. "If it's all right with you, Congressman, I'll find out what the problem is with these people."

Lewis, having been in the National Guard, understood these things and simply nodded his approval. Besides, he needed to get out, stretch his legs, and take a leak.

Behind the Humvee, in the van, Jan asked the same question. Joe Bob, who had been driving, just shook his head. "Don't know, boss lady.

They stopped and I thought it would be a good idea to stop too."

Though Jan didn't like Joe Bob referring to her as "boss lady," she said nothing. Instead, she opened her door and began to get out, just as the four-by-four that had been racing up the road to catch them went screaming by. Jumping back into the van and closing the door behind her, Jan looked out the window to see if there was another vehicle coming before she tried to get out again.

"Guess now you know why we stopped, hey, boss lady?"

Jan shot Joe Bob, who was laughing, a dirty look. "I'll get you, smartass."

From the backseat, Ted woke up and asked Joe Bob what was going on. "Piss break, my friend."

Jan ignored Joe Bob's comment. "Let's get out and see what's so hell-fire important."

The strangers in the four-by-four, parked on the other side of the road, didn't get out right away. Instead, they waited until the public-affairs officer crossed over to them. While the lieutenant was doing so, Lewis, along with Jackson, the driver, had moved around to the far side of their Humvee where each man took up position before one of the Humvee's tires and began to relieve himself. Joe Bob and Ted got out and did likewise behind their van.

As he sat there, watching the American officer approach him, Lefleur considered his options. Logic told him that the quickest and most efficient means of dealing with this was just to kill everyone there outright and leave. That would conform nicely to their strategy and tactics. But Lefleur also knew that this group of Americans was no ordinary group. Had they been simple soldiers, like the MPs at the roadblock, he wouldn't have given the matter a second thought. But a congressman, along with a news correspondent to boot, now this was something entirely different.

The fact that one of their own was missing might spur the rest of the American congressmen to drop their differences and press for further, more severe measures, an effort the American media would, no doubt, give great coverage to, since one of their own was also involved. Besides, Lefleur thought, he could always have them killed later if things didn't work out and deposited somewhere that would be embarrassing to the Mexican government.

Jan, ignoring the joy that Lewis and the rest got from peeing on tires, began to walk across the road to see who the strangers were. The man seated in the passenger seat, as well as the one in the rear, had already gotten out, but remained on the far side of their vehicle. They too, Jan thought, were getting ready to pee. Just as she was beginning to wonder if she was the only one who could control her bladder, she heard the front passenger in the four-by-four identify himself as Paul Perrault. Jan froze.

Looking at the man in the growing darkness, she knew that whoever he was, he wasn't Paul Perrault. Jan and Paul had been lovers when Jan had worked in Paris years before. When Jan heard him continue, stating that he was a correspondent for the French National News Network, she knew they were in trouble. While there was a possibility of there being two Paul Perraults, the odds of both of them being correspondents and working for the same agency were just too great. Without waiting to hear more, Jan turned and began to walk back-to the van as quickly as she could without raising any suspicions.

The Canadian, however, who had been watching her, noted her strange behavior, and alerted Lefleur that they had been read. After a quick glance to assess the situation, Lefleur raised the submachine gun he had been concealing and shot the lieutenant standing on the other side of the four-by-four.

The sudden rip of machine-gun fire caught everyone in Lewis's party off guard. Even Jan, her back to the four-by-four, jumped before she dove for the open cargo door of the van. The Canadian, who had been watching Jan's van as well as her, lifted his submachine gun and raked the van, from front to rear, with a long burst. He missed Jan by inches and didn't hit Joe Bob or Ted, who were standing on the other side. Still, the bursf had the desired effect, causing all the men who had been on the other side of the Humvee and van to flatten on the ground, seeking cover behind the tires they had just urinated on.

Before anyone could recover from their shock and react, the Canadian and Lefleur's driver were across the road, training their weapons on Lewis and his party. With a crisp, clear shout, Lefleur ordered everyone up and into the middle of the road. Slowly, Lewis and Jackson, as well as The emotion and fear displayed by each man differed. Jackson, Lewis's driver, was shaking as he looked at Lefleur's driver, then back to his Humvee where his rifle was still sitting in the rack. Lewis tried hard to suppress his fear, eyeing Lefleur's driver as he rose from the ground.

Behind the Humvee, at Jan's van, the Canadian gathered Joe Bob and Ted. Joe Bob, more embarrassed than shocked, eyed the Canadian, assessing what his chances were of rushing and overpowering the mercenary.

Ted, totally shaken by the incident, was slow to get up. When he did, he trembled like a leaf.

As Jan lay stretched across the front seat of the van, half in and half out, she saw the handle of Joe Bob's pistol sticking out from under the driver's seat. For an instant, she considered reaching over and pulling it out. The voice of the mercenary, the one who claimed to be Paul Perrault, stopped her. "Mademoiselle, if you would be so good as to join us?"

He was standing right behind her. Jan took one last look at the pistol, then gave up the idea. Lightning reactions had never been her strong suit.

Slowly, she eased herself out of the van.

Once Lefleur, escorting Jan, reached the others, who were already gathered in the center of the road, Lewis tried to assert himself. "Who's in charge here?"

Lefleur, without so much as a word, walked around Jan, over to where Jackson and Lewis were standing side by side. Lefleur jammed the muzzle of his submachine gun under Jackson's chin and fired a burst, showering Lewis with blood, bone fragments, and brain tissue before he could react.

Jan lost it. She was hardly conscious of the urine running down her leg as she screamed.

Ignoring Jan's screams, Lefleur smiled at Lewis. "Does that, my friend, answer your question?"

Lewis, eyes wild, also lost his self-control. "What in the hell did you do that for? Are you mad?"

Lefleur shrugged. "Why, Congressman, did you not ask who was in charge?"

"You didn't need to kill a man to prove that to me, did you?"

Lefleur looked down at Jackson's body, then at Lewis. "True, but he had to go anyway. Excess baggage. Now, talking about going, if you would all please move over to the van, we can leave."

Jan, finally able to control her voice, asked what the rest of them were thinking. "What are you going to do to us?"

Lefleur, turning away from Lewis, walked over to Jan. For a moment, he looked her up and down, a grin on his face. Joe Bob, unable to restrain himself, stepped forward, muttering as he did so, "Don't even think of it, you fucking shit."

With a simple flick of his wrist, Lefleur turned his submachine gun on Joe Bob. Jan screamed again. "No! Joe Bob! The bastard will kill you!"

Pausing, Joe Bob looked down the barrel of Lefleur's gun before backing off.

Looking back at Jan, Lefleur noticed her pants were wet. "I must apologize to the lady. It seems my melodramatics have caused you to, how can I say, lose control of yourself." Jan's face turned red from anger. He was baiting them, just playing with them and goading them to react so that he could shoot someone else.

When he saw that no one else was going to respond, Lefleur looked at the setting sun. "We are wasting time. There is a long and, for you, mademoiselle, uncomfortable journey ahead." With that, he signaled the Canadian and his driver to begin moving them to the van. Lewis, Jan, Ted, and Joe Bob were bound, gagged, and thrown into the back. Leaving the bodies of the public-affairs lieutenant and his driver, as well as their Humvee, Lefieur headed back to the base camp with his trophies. If this didn't get a rise out of the Americans, nothing would.