Trial by Fire

22

Childress stormed into the one-story cinder-block building that had housed the offices of the abandoned mining camp, pushing an Irish mercenary against the wall as he did so. Regaining his balance, the stunned Irishman was about to lunge at Childress, but missed his chance as Childress threw open the door of Delapos's office and flew into the room, slamming the door behind him.

Stunned by Childress's sudden and violent appearance just as much as the Irishman, both Delapos and Lefleur ceased their discussion and turned to stare at the tall American standing before them, his nostrils flaring and face contorted in anger. Paying no attention to Lefleur, Childress rushed at Delapos. "What in God's name do you think you're doing? Hostages were never part of the plan. And why in the hell wasn't I notified when they were brought in?"

Delapos's surprise turned to anger. "What do you mean, coming into my office like that and speaking to me like I was some kind of peon?"

Too enraged to be brushed off with such a comment, Childress raised his right hand, his index finger uncurling from a tight fist. "I asked you a question, Delapos. What in the hell are we doing with those hostages?

Have you lost your mind?"

If it was to be a challenge, then Delapos was ready to meet it. Kicking the chair that he had been sitting on out of his way as he stood, Delapos turned toward Childress and assumed a fighting stance. "I am not going to stand here, in my own office, and be threatened by you, or anyone else, in this manner. When the time comes, I will tell you what I choose to tell you. Until then, your only concern is defense of the two base camps and, while they are here, the guarding of the prisoners."

Still uncowed by the angry Mexican standing across from him, Childress continued to yell as he began to move closer to Delapos. "Have you lost your fucking mind? This is stupid, fucking stupid. When did you…"

Instinctively responding to the threat that Childress presented, Delapos reached down with his right hand and pulled a commando knife from his boot. In a single, smooth motion, he brought it up to waist level, threw his left arm out for balance, and hunched down as he prepared to meet the American.

Without thinking, Childress stopped and prepared to defend himself, reaching down to grab for his pistols There was, however, no pistol to be found. In his haste, Childress had forgotten to strap his ankle holster on.

This sudden discovery flashed across his face, causing him to pause, then step back away from the menace Delapos now presented.

Delapos, alert and ready, had seen Childress's move and knew what he was doing. He was about to lunge forward in order to strike before the American was able to bring his pistol into play, but stopped when he saw the expression on Childress's face change. When he glanced down and saw Childress's right hand was empty, Delapos relaxed slightly and checked his attack.

"Did you forget something this morning, mon ami?"

In his anger, Childress had ignored Lefleur. While keeping an eye on Delapos, Childress slowly cut his eyes to his right. Lefleur, in his indomitable fashion, was seated next to a table, lounging back in a chair with his left elbow resting on the table and his legs crossed while he slowly sipped from a beer. Finished, he held his bottle of beer out in front of him, smacking his lips and belching before turning to Childress. "It seems, my friend, you have come up empty-handed. Would you like to borrow my knife?"

Defenseless and caught off guard by Lefleur, Childress took another step back. Though he dropped his menacing stance and stood upright, he kept his guard up while turning slightly to his right so that he could watch both Delapos and Lefleur. "Was this your idea, you ignorant son of a bitch?"

Lefleur refused to allow Childress to provoke him. Instead, he just played with his beer bottle while he spoke to Childress without looking at him. "When I started, I really didn't know what I was going to do with the Americans. I suppose we could have killed them where we found them. But that seemed such a waste. Congressmen and star reporters are a rarity in these parts, you know."

As intolerable as Lefleur's arrogant mocking was, Childress managed to keep his anger in check. "So why didn't you kill them? That's what we're supposed to do. What in the hell are you going to do with them now?"

Placing the bottle on the table, Lefleur uncrossed his legs, planting both feet on the floor. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he placed his hands on his knees with an audible slap and looked straight at Childress.

"Oh, I suppose, eventually, we will kill them. In fact, Senior Delapos and I were discussing that when you, ah, decided to join us. The only question seems to be how we can do so while achieving the greatest shock value from the act. Since neither of us is as well schooled in the fine arts of terror as Senior Alaman, we decided to send a message to him and ask for his advice in this rather delicate matter."

"Lefleur, you're nuts."

Lefleur laughed. "Yes, that may be true. But at least, mon ami, I am armed."

"Get out of here," Delapos snarled. "Get back to your duties and don't ever try this again. Do you understand?"

Turning his attention back to Delapos, Childress saw that his boss and former friend hadn't budged an inch or changed expression. He still stood ready, knife in hand, to strike. Without a word, and keeping his eyes on Delapos, Childress reached behind him and felt for the doorknob. When he opened the door, the Irishman he had shoved was in the hall and waiting for him. The Irishman, however, moved away and allowed Childress to back out of the room when he saw Delapos, standing there with a look of hatred in his eyes and his commando knife in hand. Whatever had transpired didn't concern him and he had no desire to become involved in a dispute between his boss and one of his lieutenants. The pay was too good.

When Childress was gone and Delapos relaxed, Lefleur stood up. "It seems that our American friend is not happy with our decision."

"He has lost his edge. He cannot be trusted."

Trying hard to conceal his gloating, Lefleur sighed. "Perhaps, amigo, our American friend has lost his taste for American blood."

Replacing his knife, Delapos grunted. "Perhaps. Whatever the reason, he cannot be trusted."

Allowing Delapos's comment to hang in the air for a moment, Lefleur began to smile. "Well, it is getting late. I must be going. I have not finished my reconnaissance and there is little time. Perhaps, by the time I get back, you will have a response from Senior Alaman. Either way, please do me the favor of saving the Americans for me?"

Taking deep breaths to calm himself as he thought about Childress's insult and challenge to his authority, Delapos considered Lefleur's request.

"Yes, I will do that, — under one condition."

"Why, yes, of course. Whatever you say, mon ami."

"Before you dispose of the congressman and his party, you get rid of Childress. He cannot be trusted anymore."

"Ah, I see," Lefleur mocked. "A little pleasure before business. How nice."

The heat in the small metal-covered shed where Jan had been thrown the night before was stifling even though the rays of sunlight pouring through the gaps in the walls told her it was still early in the morning. As she lay there, bound and gagged on the dirt floor, looking around, Jan began to regret that she had not gone for Joe Bob's gun. At least, she thought, had she done so, her problems would be over. It would have been quick, clean, and final. This, she thought, as she looked about the shed that was no bigger than a closet, was hell.

Since their arrival at this base camp, as the Frenchman had called it, no one had come by, no one had spoken to her, no one had bothered to untie her. She had not been given anything to eat, nothing to drink, and she had been unable to relieve herself. They had simply opened the door of the shed, thrown her in, and closed the door, leaving her in the dirt to sweat and lie in her own filth. She doubted that the door of the shed was even locked. Not that it mattered. She was gagged, and bound like a calf at a rodeo, hands and feet together. Though there were cracks and gaps around the door and here and there in the walls through which light entered the small room, they were not big enough to allow a breeze in. The only things that did come into the shed through those cracks were bugs and flies, which were having a field day as they crawled all over her, and dust that settled on her body and turned to a thin layer of mud as it mixed with her sweat. As much as all that bothered her, she knew that it wouldn't be long before she was past caring. Already she could feel herself alternating between periods of faintness and nausea from lack of water. Eventually, she would either go mad or die. At that moment, she didn't care which came first.

When the door of the shed flew open, the bright light hit her face and blinded her, causing her to roll over and away from it. With her back to the door, she felt someone grab the gag and pull it away from her head, stretching the corners of her dry mouth further. For a second, there was the sensation of cold metal next to her ear, then the ripping of cloth as the gag was cut. When the gag finally fell away from her mouth, Jan let out a series of coughs.

She was still hacking away, trying to catch her breath and clear her dry throat, when the man who had cut her gag reached over her, grabbed her hands and feet, and cut the rope that had bound them together. When the knife cut through the ropes, Jan found she had no control over her arms and legs. Instead, they sprang apart like a rag doll's. For the longest time, all she could manage to do was lie spreadeagled on the floor, staring at the ceiling as she let the muscle spasms and pain in her arms, wrists, legs, and ankles subside. She was oblivious to whoever had freed her. She was even oblivious, for the first time, to the bugs, insects, and flies that were still scurrying across her body. The only thing that mattered was that she was no longer bound and gagged. Thoughts of escape were the farthest thing from her mind. All she wanted at that moment was for the pain to stop and a drink of water.

After a minute or so, a hand reached around the back of her neck and lifted. Before she knew what was happening, the stranger put a cup to her lips and began to pour water into her mouth. Although Jan wanted to drink the water, her first reaction was to cough and spit it back out. When she did so, the stranger paused for a second, allowing her to catch her breath again, before pouring more water. This time, she was able to swallow it. When the stranger went to pull the cup away again, she panicked, trying to reach up and grab the cup so she could keep drinking.

Her arms, however, would not respond. Instead, all she managed to do was shake and wiggle, causing the stranger to spill water down her face and neck.

"Whoa, lady, take it easy. Relax. There's more."

The voice was that of an American. The Army! Delta Force! They were here to save her! Jan opened her eyes. Still blinded by the bright light.coming through the doorway, she couldn't see the face or clothes.

What she could see was the outline of the man's head. His hair, she realized, was too long for an American soldier. No, she hadn't been saved. It wasn't Scott and the 7th Cavalry. But he had water. And for now, that was all that mattered.

After waiting a minute, the stranger pulled Jan up into a sitting position and offered her the cup of water. Finally able to control her wobbly arms, she took it and gulped it down. Only after she had finished it and sat there in silence, savoring her freedom and the taste of the water, did she begin to look around and wonder who her savior was, and, more importantly, what was going to happen next.

Anticipating her questions, Childress decided to tell her what he thought was safe before she began with a thousand questions. "There's not much I can tell you. In fact, the less you know, the better off you are. First, your friends are, for the moment, all right. Someone is taking care of them as we speak. Second, I can't tell you who we are, where we are, or what we are doing. Like I said, it's to your advantage that you don't know. Finally, I have no idea what's going to happen to you. Until my boss hears from his boss, I can't tell you what is going to happen."

The woman on the floor played with the cup she held in both hands for a moment before looking at him. "You mean, you don't know how you're going to murder us."

Had the woman slapped him in the face, Childress could not have been more hurt. She was right. He knew that, in the end, Delapos would have no choice but to murder her, the congressman, and the camera crew.

There was simply no way that they could be allowed to live after having seen Lefleur and his people. Such loose ends could not be permitted.

Besides, logic told Childress that the abduction of a congressman, followed by his brutal murder, fit perfectly into Alaman's strategy to enrage the American military and public. The rape and mutilation of a TV reporter, especially one who had so recently come out in support of the Mexicans as Jan Fields had, was a bonus that simply could not be passed up. He knew that she was right.

Childress sat there and looked at the woman, her words and his thoughts tearing at the lining of his stomach like a wild cat in a sack. What a loathsome creature he had become. A snake that slithered about on its belly could take greater pride in what it did than Childress could. The snake, after all, killed its victims quickly and only to feed itself or in self-defense. Lefleur, Delapos, and the others, including him, killed for money and to prove that they were real men.

It wasn't that Childress was having an attack of conscience. He had been a mercenary too long for that. In fact, in many respects, he was like Lefleur, eager to prove to himself and to his peers that he was a skilled practitioner of the fine arts of war. Unlike Lefleur, however, Childress preferred to work at long range, claiming that it took greater skill to take down a man a mile away with a single bullet. While that was true, and many of his peers agreed with him, Childress knew the real reason for his preference. At a range of sixteen hundred meters, it was impossible to see your victim's eyes. Even with a high-powered scope, the entire process was remote, impersonal, unreal. You couldn't hear the scream. It was not necessary to watch the shocked expression as the victim's life drained away. Even the smell of fear, mixed with the sweet scent of warm blood, was missing. It was, Childress thought, more like shooting targets.

This was different. Looking down into Jan's eyes, he could see the fear and hatred she held for him. When it came time, and he knew that that time would come, there would be no skill involved in killing this woman.

It would be murder, simple and outright murder.

Unable to look at Jan any longer, knowing that he was as responsible for her death as the man who would eventually pull the trigger, Childress stood up and turned away from her. It was incredible, he thought, how far from God and his beloved Vermont he had come. No matter how much he was paid, no matter how anyone dressed it up, what was about to happen would leave Childress no pride, no satisfaction, and worse, no peace.

Without saying a word, Childress dropped the canteen of water he held onto the floor, walked out of the shed, and nodded to the man posted outside to lock it.

Although Megan Lewis knew that her efforts would be futile, she asked the caller if he would hold for a moment while she checked to see if her mother was available. Carefully laying the phone's receiver on the countertop, Megan left the kitchen, tiptoeing as she approached the door of the den that her father had used as an office. Pausing before she knocked, Megan listened at the door for her mother. When she heard nothing, Megan gently tapped on the door. "Mother, it's the White House again.

The president's secretary says that the president would like to talk to you.

He wants to offer you his condolences."

Megan's efforts were greeted with silence. "Mother, please say something.

This is the third time he's called. It won't hurt to at least listen to what he has to say." Her pleading, however, elicited no response. After waiting a few more seconds, Megan sighed. "I'll tell them that you're not available, to call back tomorrow. Will that be okay, Mom?"

When even that failed to elicit a response, Megan turned and slowly walked back to the kitchen. Her mother, she knew, could be just as impossible as her father when she wanted to be.

Inside the den, Amanda Lewis sat in the chair she always sat in across from Ed's desk. She knew that her daughter, despite three years of college and grades that assured her acceptance to any medical school in the country, wouldn't understand. How could she. She was young and just beginning to learn about the real world. Megan had yet to love as she had. Megan had yet to discover that pompous titles and age did little to make some men any wiser or more compassionate. Even Ed, for all his strength, was just a human trying to make sense out of a world that, on occasion, found it necessary to turn and devour its own children in a fit of mindless passion.

When the flashing red light on Ed's phone went out, telling Amanda that her daughter had hung up, Amanda continued to stare at the phone.

Had it been like that, she thought, for Ed? One minute, there was the flickering of life, a steady glow of life, and the next, nothing? And was that all that Ed's life had been, a brief and insignificant flickering of light?

Looking about at the stacks of papers and files and books, Amanda wondered if all his efforts, all his dreams, all his hopes that lay hidden in the stacks of files and papers would, like the flashing light, disappear in an instant.

No, she thought. No, Ed deserved better than that. There was a real purpose behind what Ed had devoted his life to. What he had been doing was no illusion, no dream. His efforts to bring peace and sanity may have cost him his life, but that didn't mean that they, like him, should die.

Although she didn't quite know what she could do, Amanda decided that the dreams and goals, no matter how unrealistic they appeared at times, would not die. As he had said so many times before, a person must do more than protest an injustice, he must do something to make it right.

Amanda's refusal to allow the president to ease his conscience by consoling her was a protest, but one that would have no meaning if she didn't follow it up with action.

Moving around Ed's desk, Amanda sat in his seat, absentmiridedly opening the first file, that her hand fell upon. Reading the handwritten notes, Amanda began to look for a way to keep her husband's dreams alive and keep other wives and mothers from going through what she was experiencing. Perhaps she could make someone pay attention to what Ed had been trying to say. Perhaps she could make a difference. She didn't know if she could, but she could try, if for no other reason than to give the loss of her husband some meaning, some value.

With two men set at the roadblock, Fernando Naranjo returned to the side of the road where the other two men in his small detachment worked at starting a fire for the coffee that they hoped would keep them alert throughout the coming night. Not that anyone expected all five men to stay awake all night. After all, they were farmers and ranchers. While the duty they performed for the defense of Mexico was important, the necessity of making a living and providing for their families was critical.

Like thousands of other militiamen and members of the Rural Defense Force, Naranjo and his four men were only part-time soldiers, doing what they could when they could. That night, their task and instructions were simple: set up a roadblock just behind Mexican lines and prevent anyone, other than Mexican Army soldiers, from passing through.

Though Naranjo would have preferred to be doing something a little more active, he knew he didn't belong out there, behind American lines, with his son and oldest grandson. He was too old, too slow. Though he could have insisted on going, doing so would have been foolish vanity.

Besides, someone needed to remain behind to take care of the ranch and the women. His two youngest grandsons could not have done it on their own. So he stayed, doing what he could with the Rural Defense Force when his aging body and work at the ranch allowed him.

With great care, and using his 1898 Mauser rifle to steady himself, Naranjo began to lower himself down onto a blanket across from the two men preparing the coffee when he heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. Pausing, Naranjo leaned on the rifle and looked down the road in the direction of the sound, then over to the roadblock. His two men on the road, also aware of the sound, were turned facing down the road, their rifles at the ready. Deciding that perhaps he should wait before relaxing, Naranjo told the two men with him to wait on the coffee. Though he didn't expect any trouble, he wanted them to stay where they were and be ready to help the men at the roadblock if necessary.

With a push, Naranjo stood upright and headed down to the roadblock just as the lone vehicle came around a bend in the road and into sight.

Asleep, Lefleur didn't see the roadblock until his driver slowed, then stopped just short of it. Stirring himself, Lefleur, noting that they were not at the base camp, asked why they had stopped. The Canadian mercenary, riding in the backseat, laughed. "It is nothing. Just some old men manning a roadblock."

Sitting up, Lefleur studied the barrier to his front and the two men, rifles at the ready, standing behind it. When he saw that they were armed with 1898 Mauser bolt-action rifles, he joined the Canadian as they both tried to make a joke of the whole affair. "Which do you suppose," he quipped, "are older? The rifles or the men?"

When the old man who appeared to be in charge began to approach the vehicle, followed by the two men who had come out from behind the barrier, the Canadian chuckled. "The men. Definitely the men. How much will you bet they are out of breath before they reach here?"

As he approached, Naranjo. saw that the gringos were laughing. This angered him, for he took his duty seriously. Becoming incensed, he decided to make the strangers pay for their laughter. Pointing his rifle at Lefleur, he demanded that everyone in the vehicle show proper identification.

The sudden belligerence of the old man and the muzzle of the rifle waving two feet in front of his face wiped the smile off of Lefleur's face. The old fool, he thought, was dangerous. Raising his right hand, palm out, Lefleur gestured to the old man, while he dug in his pocket with his left hand for his false French ID and passport. Deciding that there was no need to antagonize the old simpleton, Lefleur turned over his papers.

The ID, of course, meant nothing to Naranjo, who could not read French. Determined to show that he had authority, and to teach the arrogant foreigners a lesson, Naranjo informed Lefleur that he would need to come back to the village and have the army officer in charge of his militia company check out his papers.

Suddenly, the situation was no longer a laughing matter. Lefleur and the Canadian went silent as they prepared to go for their weapons. Naranjo and his companions, however, noticed the change in attitude of the strangers.

They were ready when Lefleur's driver reached under the seat for his weapon. Without warning, the man who had been covering the driver fired. Whether he did so because he was nervous or because he saw the driver's weapon will never be known. But he did. When hit, the driver jerked upright, causing his hand to pull his submachine gun out and into the open where Naranjo, who was still covering Lefleur, saw it. As Naranjo shoved his rifle into Lefleur's stomach, the third militiaman, who had been at the rear of the vehicle, put the muzzle of his rifle next to the Canadian's ear.

For their efforts, Naranjo and the militiamen who had helped apprehend Lefleur were given the submachine guns that they found on their captives.

Not only would the modern weapon be useful when Naranjo led his men on future occasions, but it would provide proof of his feat to his son and grandchildren. The submachine gun, Naranjo knew, would become a family heirloom that was worthy to pass on to his son, just as the 1898

Mauser he carried had been passed on to him from his grandfather.

As important as this was, the gift Naranjo and his men presented Guajardo with was one beyond measure. With Lefleur, Guajardo had a key that, if used properly, would give him what he wanted most: Alaman.