Trial by Fire

23

Sitting alone, at the end of a long table, Lefleur stared at the two Mexican soldiers at the door. Though the accommodations in the Mexican jail were far better than he had imagined, such thoughts did nothing to dispel his anger or embarrassment at having been caught by peasants. It had been such a stupid affair. A stupid and unnerving affair.

When there was a knock at the door, one of the soldiers turned and opened a small viewing window in the center of it to identify who was on the other side. Closing the viewing door, the soldier unbolted the door and opened it to allow the visitor in. As soon as the door began to open, the soldier returned to his position, but came to attention, shouting an order for the other guard to do likewise. Not having seen such a reaction from his guards before, Lefleur figured that he was about to meet someone important.

The Mexican Army colonel who entered, followed by a lieutenant, was tall and lean. Lefleur gave him the once-over. There were few ribbons on his chest, which meant that the colonel had done nothing to earn his rank, or else he was a modest man, something Lefleur doubted. It was not possible, he knew, to be a colonel and be modest. The colonel wore his hat with its brim pulled down so that his eyes were not visible. He was here, Lefleur decided, to intimidate him. He thought about that for a moment, then laughed to himself. What could a Mexican colonel possibly do to him that a good sergeant in the Legion, and half a dozen trained professionals after that, hadn't already tried?

As he was studying the colonel, Lefleur did not notice that the lieutenant who accompanied the colonel had dismissed the guards, closing and bolting the door after they left. Taking up his station at the door, he nodded to the colonel that he was ready.

Taking off his hat, Guajardo placed it on the table, then slowly walked past Lefleur so that he was now behind him. Guajardo stood there for a moment before starting, as if he were pondering his first question. When he finally spoke, it was in English. "I already know what brings you to Mexico, Senior Lefleur, so we can dispense with many of the preliminaries."

Lefleur, without looking at Guajardo, decided to play with the colonel.

Folding his arms in front of his chest, Lefleur protested. "My name, senor colonel, is Perrault, Paul Perrault. I am a correspondent for the French National News Network. I have no idea why I am here and demand that I be allowed to see a member of the French embassy staff."

Lefleur could hear the colonel heave a great sigh before he spoke again.

"Do not, Senior Lefleur, play the fool with me. Your friend the Canadian was most talkative."

Unable to help himself, Lefleur quipped, "Well, if the Canadian was talkative, then you do not need me."

There was a pause. Unable to see the colonel's face, Lefleur did not know how his comment had gone over. The lieutenant at the door, still wearing his hat, betrayed no reaction. So Lefleur sat there, waiting.

"Ah, well, Senior Lefleur, as I said, your friend was most talkative.

But no more. Alas, he was not as hardy as we had thought. His physique was very deceptive. You see, your friend died an hour ago."

For the first time, Lefleur felt a twinge of fear. Though he tried not to, he stiffened slightly at the news of the Canadian's death. For a minute, Lefleur tried to convince himself that the Mexican colonel was bluffing.

They would not beat or torture a man to death. They were professional soldiers. Yet, in the back of his mind, he knew it was true. He had no idea who this colonel was or what he wanted. But he did know that Mexico was a country in the middle of a revolution and at war with the United States. Given those circumstances, and if what the colonel said was true, Lefleur realized that anything was possible. It was time to start cooperating, a little. "What is it, Colonel, that you want?"

Without hesitation, the colonel responded. "I want Alaman."

Lefleur hesitated. The Canadian had talked a lot. Still not ready to roll over, Lefleur shrugged and threw his hands out to his side. "I am sorry, Colonel. I cannot help you. I do not know a person by the name of Alaman."

Though he had expected the Frenchman to play games with him, Guajardo was still angered by the man's manner and arrogance. Looking over to his side, Guajardo snapped, "Juan, your pistol."

Marching from his post at the door, past Lefleur, Juan came up to Guajardo, unholstered his pistol, and handed it to Guajardo. The sound of the pistol's slide being pulled back and released, an action that chambered a round, caused Lefieur to flinch. Lefleur could hear the lieutenant pivot and begin to head back to the door, where he resumed his post. Lefleur noticed that there was a slight smile on his face. It was a wicked smile, a smile that increased Lefleur's apprehension. Whatever was going on, Lefleur realized, had been planned and rehearsed.

"Senior Lefleur, if you would be so kind as to place both hands on the table, palms down and fingers aprt, we can continue our conversation."

Having no idea what was going on, Lefleur complied. He could feel the sweat begin to bead up on his forehead as he placed his hands on the table.

Without a word, without a warning, the pistol flashed past the right side of Lefleur's head. Before he could react, Guajardo placed the muzzle of the pistol on the lower knuckle of the right-hand pinkie and pulled the trigger.

Expecting a violent reaction, Guajardo pulled away and to one side as Lefleur pushed himself away from the table, howling like an injured animal. Guajardo, seeing the chair begin to slide back, stuck his foot behind its rear leg, stopping it from sliding any farther, and causing it to tip over. The chair tilted back, then toppled, sending Lefleur sprawling on the floor, blood squirting out of the nub on his right hand where a finger had once been.

Once he was able to recover from the shock and surprise of being shot, Lefleur grabbed his right wrist with his left hand and looked at the nub.

As he was studying the damage, he began panting, almost unable to breathe. Guajardo, who had taken a step back, looked down at Lefleur and smiled. "Senior Lefleur, you may, if you choose, continue to be stubborn. But I must warn you, I will surely outlast you. You see, I have fourteen bullets left. You, only nine fingers."

Lefleur had had enough. He was, after all, only a mercenary. There was no honor in dying for Alaman. There was nothing worth throwing his life away for. It was not in his own interest to continue with this insanity.

As soon as he had composed himself, he blurted that he didn't know where Alaman was. He was, he explained, only one of many mercenaries.

Guajardo walked over and looked down at Lefleur. "Yes, that may be true. But you are going to take me to the man who does know where Alaman is. You will, my friend, lead me to Senior Delapos and deliver him to me. For if you do not, I will personally see that your death is a slow and painful one, the kind where the victim's voice gives out from incessant screaming days before the body dies. Do we understand each other, senor?"

The calm that Dixon tried to feign fooled no one. Though he was far from being a basket case, Big Al considered putting him on furlough for a week, maybe two. Big Al, however, appreciated that such a move would only serve to magnify Dixon's sense of loss. So long as he continued to function and perform his duties, the division commander would leave Dixon be. In his own time, in his own way, Big Al knew that Dixon would finally come to grips with the loss of Jan Fields.

It was not that anyone had given up. On the contrary, the president, under pressure from Congress and the media, and fueled by Amanda Lewis's agitation, was making every effort to find out what had happened to Congressman Ed Lewis, Jan, and her crew. From the branch of the Red Cross that dealt with prisoners of war, to the United Nations, representatives of the United States were demanding that the Mexican government stop denying any knowledge of the incident and surrender the hostages immediately. The Mexican government, for their part, denied that it had any part in or any knowledge of the incident.

The CIA, working inside Mexico, could not find any evidence that they were lying. On the contrary, their agents reported that several Mexican intelligence and police agencies were also involved in trying to find Congressman Lewis and party. Though some believed that the efforts by the Mexican intelligence agencies were a sham, created to back the Mexican government's claim that it had no knowledge of the incident, it could not be ignored.

Within the 16th Division's sector, ground and air patrols, starting at the site of the abduction and spreading out in ever-widening circles, continued to search for the raiders and for Lewis and party, or for any clue as to where they might have disappeared to. That Lewis and the members of his party might be dead was not discounted by anyone. Included in the instructions of all patrols involved was to keep an eye open for anything that resembled freshly dug graves.

Though Big Al favored these actions, he was concerned that his soldiers, incensed over what the media were calling the brutal murder of the MPs and Lewis's military escort, might seek revenge on innocent Mexicans.

Already there had be.en two incidents in which nervous guards, already on edge due to the sporadic guerrilla attacks that were becoming more and more numerous, had fired on civilians. If this were allowed to continue, Big Al could face a situation that would compel him to quit the area that his division had paid so much to take.

Cerro walked into the current-operations van, ready to relieve his counterpart from the night shift, Captain Mark Grumpf. Cerro was about to slap Grumpf on the back when he noticed Dixon, sitting at a field table in the corner. Alone, his head propped up with his right hand, Dixon was poring through the duty log, reading every entry and report. Cerro leaned over and whispered in Grumpf's ear, "How long has he been here?"

Grumpf looked over at Dixon, then to Cerro. "He left at oh-two hundred this morning and was back in at oh-five thirty."

Cerro stood up and looked at Dixon for a moment. He felt sorry for the man. A few years before, Dixon had lost his wife in a bombing while he was assigned to the Middle East. Though Cerro had been told that they were estranged, the loss had to have been hard on him. Now, in the middle of a war, he had lost his…

Cerro paused. He didn't quite know what to call Jan Fields. What was Jan Fields to Dixon anyway? A lover? A friend? A roommate? It was a strange relationship, at least for the military, which prided itself as being the last great bastion of conservative values and such. No one talked about Jan and Dixon's relationship, but it was one that meant a grpat deal to Dixon, and one that he never tried to hide or apologize for. To be sure, Jan was good-looking, for an older woman. And she had a great personality. In many ways, she matched Dixon perfectly.

Still, Cerro couldn't figure out what to call the relationship between them. Perhaps there wasn't a name for it. Perhaps, Cerro thought, the relationship they had was like Dixon's military career, one of those things that simply defied definition and refused to be classified.

Shaking his head, Cerro was about to join Grumpf, who had moved to the map in preparation for giving Cerro a quick update, when the division G2 came rushing into the van. "Scotty, we've got 'em."

Startled, Dixon looked up at the G2 with blurry eyes. "Got who?"

"Remember me telling you that I thought it was strange that there were no weapons missing from the MP or Lewis ambush sites?''

Not really remembering, Dixon nevertheless nodded his head in order to get the G2 to make his point a little faster.

Continuing, the G2 pointed a finger toward Dixon to emphasize his points. "In every other ambush, those that we know were made by units of the Mexican Army or guerrilla units led by Mexican Army officers, every piece of equipment and weapon that looked like it would be of value was missing. Even when they didn't overrun the unit under attack, the Mexican guerrillas were reported to take what commanders in the field considered extraordinary risks to collect whatever they could before withdrawing. You see, the Mexican Army, especially guerrilla units, are still quite poor when it comes to weapons and equipment r and they refuse to miss an opportunity to make up that deficiency." The G2 was talking too fast for Dixon to follow, but Dixon didn't stop him. He was too tired and only wanted the G2 to finish. "In addition, in the two cases where prisoners have been taken by the Mexicans, the International Red Cross had the full name, rank, and Social Security number of the prisoners within twenty-four hours."

In his own roundabout way, the G2 was preparing to make a point, a point that Dixon wished he would get to. "Okay, so this ambush isn't like the others. What's it mean?"

A smile lit across the G2's face. "The Mexican Army didn't ambush the MPs or Lewis. Their story that they don't know anything about the ambushes, and the one being put out by the government, is true. They didn't do it."

Dixon shook his head. "Okay, you've lost me. Seems like the info about the weapons being left behind is all very nice, but doesn't mean much by itself. Anyone can make a mistake. Hell, I got two weeks' worth of duty log that will prove that."

The G2 held out a small folder with yellow top secret cover sheets.

"That Mexican we found at the MP checkpoint that was hit came to last night long enough for our people to interrogate him."

Dixon, wide awake now, sat up. "And?"

"Well, what he said, by itself, didn't make a whole lot of sense. Most of what he gave us was gibberish. He's in really bad shape, you see.

Doctors say he should have died. But that's not important right now.

What is important is that the little info he gave us, combined with other bits and pieces, like the fact that no weapons were taken from either site, adds up."

Dixon was becoming impatient. The G2 was beginning to ramble.

"Adds up to what?"

Not to be rushed, the G2 used his fingers as he enumerated his points.

"First off, he's not a Mexican. In fact, he's not even working for the Mexican government. That we know. As it turns out, he's a Colombian mercenary. The CIA confirmed that a few hours ago. Seems he's working for some drug lord he kept.calling El Dueno, that's Spanish for 'manager.'

We're not sure why he's called that, but right now, that's unimportant."

Dixon threw his hands up. "Look, I'm beat. Could you please tell me what is important?"

The G2 looked around to see who was in the room. Then he pushed the folder a little closer to Dixon. "I can't tell you. Not in here. It's classified, special compartmented information. You can either read this or come over to my shop and I'll brief you on what we think this Dueno dude's been managing." After Dixon took the folder, the G2, unable to restrain himself, added, "If half the shit that's in there turns out to be true, our fearless leader in the White House and half the CIA's staff better find themselves new jobs."

With their meeting coming to an end, Molina turned to Barreda. "Then we are agreed, Felipe. Your actions must be timed so as to ensure that Colonel Guajardo will have achieved everything that he can. Do you see a problem with that?"

Barreda shook his head. "No, there is no problem from our side. The problem all hinges on what the commander of the American 16th Armored Division decides to do. I will be prepared to go either way. If the American does not agree to the meeting that Alfredo is trying to set up, or if they run to their government after the meeting and drop the matter into their State Department's hands, then I will contact the American charge d'affaires and give him everything we have. If, on the other hand, the American division commander agrees to cooperate with Alfredo, then I wait to meet with the charge d'affaires until seven am on the twentieth."

Closing his eyes, Molina nodded. "Things will go better for you, Felipe, and for us, if we are able to point to a success."

"As Alfredo and I have pointed out, Carlos, that depends upon the Americans themselves."

Opening his eyes, Molina turned to Guajardo. "Is there no way to go in and destroy the mercenaries' base and free the American hostages ourselves? Must we depend on the Americans?"

Guajardo answered without looking up from the folder in front of him.

"Yes, we could try. And I can give you my assurance that none of the mercenaries would escape. But I cannot guarantee the safety of the Americans, especially since we know that there are traitors amongst us, even on the council."

Guajardo's comment about traitors on the council made Molina flinch.

He, and he alone, had invited each and every man on the council to join.

The idea that his judgment had been flawed, and could result in the total failure of their efforts, struck him hard. "What makes you think that the American soldiers will be able to do any better than your men?"

Looking up at Barreda, then over to Molina, Guajardo answered slowly and deliberately. "Nothing, absolutely nothing. They, like us, will be going in blind. The big difference is that they will be in control. It will be, essentially, their operation and, God forbid, their failure if the hostages die in the process."

Molina stood up from his seat at the desk, looked down at the papers that Guajardo had handed him, glanced over to his minister of defense and friend, and sighed. Lifting his face toward the ceiling before looking down at Guajardo again, Molina took a deep breath, then sighed again.

Turning away from his desk, Molina walked over to the window. With his hands behind his back, he looked blankly out into the square below.

After a minute or two, he turned his head slightly toward Guajardo. "Had you come to me with a story that the man in the moon was waiting to see me outside my office, I could not have been more shocked."

Looking back out the window, Molina folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. "Are we being too clever, my friend? Are we trying to be too clever for ourselves? I still feel the better, safer course would be simply to announce publicly what we know, or turn over the information we have on the mercenaries to the Americans. This military operation of yours, Alfredo, and Felipe's diplomatic brinksmanship, is risky." Pivoting, he looked at Guajardo. "No, I believe we should simply tell the Americans what we know and be done with this."

From his seat, Guajardo looked down at his hands, held loosely in his lap. "We must be realists, who deal with the truth as it is, not as we would like it. We all know that as soon as we pass any information through formal channels, no matter how hard we try to safeguard it, Alaman will know. My God, we cannot even trust our own brothers on the council." Guajardo looked up and fixed his eyes on Molina's. "Yes, this entails great risk. But if we hope to end this, we must accept the risks. And part of those risks include using the American military to free their own people."

"Do you agree, Felipe?"

"We must not ignore the fact," Colonel Felipe Barreda pointed out,

"that a success in this operation will provide both of our nations with an opening for an honorable resolution to this conflict. I fully agree with Alfredo. There is too much at stake to gamble on our ability to pull this off. Even an American failure will give me a basis for opening a dialogue with them."

Turning about, Molina walked to his desk, gathered up Guajardo and Barreda's report, and waved it at Guajardo. "You two realize that if the Americans refuse to believe us, then we may not have a future. The future of Mexico that we have brought our people will be one of disgrace and conquest. A future dominated by the gringos and drug lords. Is that what our efforts will bring us?" Letting the papers fall from his hand, Molina walked away from his desk again.

Guajardo's retort was given in a calm, determined voice. "I intend to ensure personally that everything happens as we have planned."

Walking around to where Guajardo sat, Molina stopped and looked down at him. "I am sorry, my friend, I cannot allow you to do what you are proposing."

Guajardo slowly rose. Looking his friend in the eye, he smiled. "Carlos, my friend, I am not asking for your permission. I seek only your blessing."

Blinking, Molina realized that Guajardo was serious. "It is bad enough, Alfredo, that we are going to do this without consulting the other members of the council. When they find out, I will need you here, at my side while Felipe deals with the American diplomats."

The smile left Guajardo's face. "Where I go, as the minister of defense, is purely an operational matter. Since this operation concerns national security and, as such, falls completely within my authority as the minister of defense, it is my responsibility to ensure that it is carried out as planned."

There was a pause for several seconds as both men looked at each other. Finally, Molina grasped Guajardo's arms. "You are a fool, Alfredo, an old and stubborn fool." Then, slowly, a smile crept across Molina's face. "You do not know how much I wish I could come with you. When do you leave, my friend?"

"As soon as I notify my adjutant to deliver the letter to the Americans, I will depart for Saltillo."

As his eyes began to moisten, Molina squeezed Guajardo's arms. "Vaya con Dios, my brother. Vaya con Dios."

''Hey, Sarge! We got someone coming up the road and he's in a hurry.''

Though most of the men at the roadblock didn't understand the warning specialist Terry Alison blurted out, his high-pitched squeal was all that was needed to tell them that something was coming down.

Scrambling for their weapons and gear, the men of Staff Sergeant Darrel Jefferson's squad raced for their positions while Jefferson, with flak vest open and web gear flopping about, ran to join Alison. Like a runner stealing a base, Jefferson slid into the narrow opening of the forward bunker, almost hitting Alison in the rear with his boot as he came to a stop.

Alison heard Jefferson but did not move. Leaning forward, he was steadying his M-16 on the sandbags as he tracked the approaching vehicle.

Even when Jefferson came up next to him and spoke, Alison kept his rifle trained on the approaching target.

"Okay, hot shot, whatta we got?"

"A jeep of some kind. He's tooling up the middle of the road like nobody's business."

Picking up a pair of binoculars from a case next to the bunker's forward aperture, Jefferson rested his elbows on the sandbags and brought the binoculars up to his eyes. Jefferson studied the approaching jeep. "Do you see a white flag?"

"I see two, Sarge, one on each side of the bumper."

Lowering the binoculars, Jefferson grunted. "Yeah, I see 'em too. Do you suppose they want to talk?"

As if on cue, the jeep slowed, then stopped about one hundred meters short of the bunker where Jefferson and Alison sat. Both men could clearly see the two Mexican soldiers sitting in the open jeep staring in the direction of the bunker, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from the Americans.

"Well, either that or these people have a real death wish." After a second, Alison turned and looked at Jefferson. "Well, Sarge, what do we do?"

"You stay here. I'm going to see what they want."

Leaving the bunker, Jefferson ordered the other members of his squad to hold their fire. Then, after calling for one of the men nearest him to follow, Jefferson turned and began to approach the passenger side of the stationary jeep while he directed his companion with his right hand to stay behind him and to his right.

When he reached the jeep, Jefferson placed the butt of his M-16 on his right hip, muzzle pointed to the sky. The passenger, an officer wearing a clean uniform, had no weapons showing. Assuming that he spoke English, Jefferson decided to skip the formalities since this officer was, after all, the enemy. Besides, Jefferson had no idea of what the officer's rank was. For all he knew, this could be nothing more than a second lieutenant.

"What do you want?"

"I am Major Antonio Caso. I am here on behalf of Colonel Alfredo Guajardo, the minister of defense for the United States of Mexico. I have a personal message from Colonel Guajardo for the commanding general of the 16th Armored Division.",

Jefferson looked at the Mexican officer for a moment. The first thought that popped into Jefferson's head was one of dread: Shit, why in the hell does this kind of stuff always happen to me? Manning an outpost was one thing. He knew how to deal with that. Talking to the enemy and receiving personal messages for the division commander was something that was a little bit more than he could deal with. Still, he had to do something.

After all, this Mexican was obviously serious. "Let me see the letter."

Without flinching, Caso shook his head. "I am sorry, Sergeant. I cannot let you have the letter. My orders are to personally deliver it to your division commander."

Seeing that the major's eyes betrayed no fear, no hesitation, Jefferson knew that he was serious. Without another thought, he decided it was time to pass this off to someone who got paid to deal with this kind of crap. "Okay, Major, you and your driver stay right here. I'm going to get my CO out here. He'll know what to do." Suddenly, Jefferson laughed as he thought about his young company commander. Like hell he'll know, Jefferson thought. Like hell.

As they waited for the Mexican Army colonel to be shown in, Big Al sat in a chair turned sideways at an old wooden table, staring at the floor with a vacant look on his face while Dixon nervously paced. The only sound was the hiss of the kerosene lantern that sat on the table and provided the only light in the room.

That he was allowing himself to be sucked into this was as much a surprise to Malin as it was to his staff. Big Al had no doubt that what he was about to do far exceeded his authority. Both he and Dixon knew that, when this incident was reviewed by people back in Washington, D.C., sitting in air-conditioned offices after having had a good night's sleep in a clean bed followed by a hearty breakfast, no amount of reasoning or logic would be able to save them. After all, the entire affair sounded more like a script from a mystery movie than a military operation.

From the beginning, everything, from the appearance of the Mexican Army major to their covert meeting in an old ranch house just behind the front line trace, was so unreal, so new. Even the means of contacting the Mexican minister of defense had been strange, almost comical. When Dixon had asked Major Caso how they were to give Colonel Guajardo their response, Caso had informed them that the postmaster in Sabinas Hidalgo had a secret phone line that the leader of the local guerrilla unit had been using for receiving his orders and reporting American troop movements. "We are," Caso told the Americans with a smile, "keeping that line open so that, when you are ready, it will ring in Colonel Guajardo's forward command post in Saltillo."

Still, Big Al had decided that it was a chance worth taking. Therefore, without so much as a word to the corps commander, Big Al and Dixon had gone to the ranch that served as a battalion CP to meet with Colonel Guajardo, minister of defense and member of the Council of 13, in order to find out what he knew about Congressman Lewis and Jan.

When the door opened, an infantryman, his M-16 held at the ready, entered the room, then stepped aside to make way for the tall Mexican officer who was following him. In the shimmering light, both Big Al and Dixon recognized Colonel Guajardo. Stepping up to the edge of the table, opposite where Big Al was seated, Guajardo stopped and saluted. "Colonel Alfredo Guajardo, at your service, General Malin."

Big Al, caught off guard, stood, returned the salute, and then, without thinking, reached over the table and offered Guajardo his right hand.

Mechanically, Guajardo took the general's hand and shook it. For a brief moment, while they still held each other's hand, the two opposing commanders stared into each other's eyes. It was as if they were gauging each other's strength and honesty.

Big Al took his seat while Guajardo pulled a chair out on his side of the table and sat down. Dixon, standing in the corner, caught the attention of the infantryman who had escorted Guajardo into the room. "That will be all, soldier. Close the door when you leave."

Without hesitation, the soldier saluted Big Al with his rifle and left the room, executing sharp, quick turns as he did so. When the door shut, Big Al waved over at Dixon.

"This, Colonel Guajardo, is Lieutenant Colonel Dixon, my operations officer."

Guajardo and Dixon looked-at each other and nodded. How peculiar, Guajardo thought, that he should finally have the opportunity to meet Jan Fields's lover under such circumstances. Still, Guajardo knew, these were strange times. At times like this, nothing, not even this improbable meeting, a meeting between men who were supposed to be trying to kill each other, was odd.

Not understanding why Guajardo was staring at Dixon, Big Al hastened to explain his operations officer's presence. "I brought him along as a sort of note taker, nothing more. You see, Colonel, my memory isn't what it used to be." Then Big Al turned and shot Dixon a glance that could only mean "Keep your mouth shut and ears open."

Guajardo nodded. "I understand. It is no problem." Then, leaning forward, he placed two folders before Big Al. "I am in your debt for honoring my request for a parley. Under the circumstances, had you refused, I would have understood."

Big Al grunted. "Hell, Colonel. After the thumping your people gave me outside of Monterrey the other day, my career is in the shitter anyway."

The attempt by Big Al to put him at ease, and the compliment, whether intentional or not, pleased Guajardo. Perhaps, he thought, this would not S be as hard as he had expected. "The folders in front of you, General, each contain a copy of a report I submitted after interrogating a mercenary being employed by a man named Alaman."

At the mention of Alaman, Big Al snapped his head around and looked at Dixon. Guajardo saw the reaction and the surprised look on their faces.

They already know, he thought, something about this. But how? Was their CIA that good? When Big Al looked back at him, Guajardo continued.

"Rather than my trying to explain, it might help if you both read through these. The translation of the report is far better than my English."

Big Al handed one of the folders to Dixon before he began to read his copy. As the two men read, Guajardo watched them, looking for a reaction.

When neither man showed any, Guajardo knew that the Americans already knew something about Alaman and his mercenaries. For a fleeting moment, Guajardo panicked. Were the Americans, he wondered, in league with Alaman? Had they, in order to provoke a war with Mexico and occupy its northern states, used Alaman to instigate a war? Were the Americans capable of such a thing?

Guajardo's mind was still racing with such thoughts when Dixon, and then Big Al finished reading the report and closed the folders. Tossing his copy onto the table, Dixon turned to Big Al. "It agrees with what the G2's people got out of the Colombian."

Big Al nodded. Then, seeing that Guajardo was looking at them with quizzical eyes, he explained. "We found a wounded Colombian mercenary at a checkpoint that Alaman's men hit ten kilometers from where we found Congressman Lewis's vehicle and the dead escort officer and driver." Big Al thumped the report with his finger. "Although he didn't provide as much detail as this Lefleur character, everything that he told us agrees with what Lefleur said." Big Al paused, sucking in a deep breath before he continued. "We, our nations, have been had. The question is, Colonel Guajardo, what do you expect us to do? Why did your government not take this through diplomatic channels to my government? Why go through us?"

"That will be done, at the proper time. But first, there are things that need to be done before Alaman and his people find out how much we know about them. To do these things, I need your help, General Malin.

And you, mine. You see, my government has already been corrupted by Alaman. There are members of the Council of 13 who no longer support our efforts and have been providing information to this bastard. Although I could, eventually, pull together a force of loyal soldiers, it would take too long. My best and most capable leaders are scattered all over Mexico, many of them operating behind your lines as leaders of guerrilla units. By the time I pulled them back, your congressman and Miss Fields would be dead."

The mention of Jan's name caused Dixon to straighten up. "You know where she is?"

Guajardo nodded. "Lefleur has agreed to lead us to their base camp."

Big Al looked at Dixon, then Guajardo. "This man has already betrayed his boss and comrades. Can he be trusted?"

Guajardo's response was dry and cold. "Lefleur is a mercenary. Trust has nothing to do with this. His only concern is money and survival. He must survive in order to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Lefleur has no loyalty to Alaman. He would receive no bonus that he could enjoy by dying for him. There is no honor or principle attached to what Lefleur has done. He is a businessman, a man who provided Alaman a service and received money for that service. Right now, Lefleur is no longer in a position to provide that service or to be paid. At the present time, it is in his own best interests to cooperate." Then, as a fleeting smile crept across his face, Guajardo added, "Besides, Lefleur and I have an understanding."

After thinking about Guajardo's response, Big Al looked at Dixon, then back to Guajardo. "You obviously have something in mind, Colo nel."

"Yes, I do. Based on what Lefleur has told me, the congressman and Miss Fields are, probably, still alive. But that will not last for long. Once the mercenaries figure out that Lefleur is not coming back, they will assume the worst and move their base camp. When they do this, we will have nothing. Therefore, it is critical that we act soon if you are to save your people and I am to find a way to Alaman. Therefore, I am offering you the services of Lefleur as a guide, and safe passage through our front lines and into our rear for a raiding party."

Dixon came over to the table and leaned over toward Guajardo. "If you know where this base camp is, and you have Lefleur as a guide, why do you need us?"

In tones that were dispassionate and cold, Guajardo explained. "The mercenaries are holding an important member of your Congress and a noted television reporter hostage. Even if you believe this report, how would your government and your people react if, during a raid by my people, your congressman and reporter were killed?"

Dixon stood up. Jan had told him, on several occasions, that Colonel Guajardo was a cold, calculating bastard. While what he proposed made sense, it didn't make it any more palatable. If the Mexican Army tried to save Lewis and Jan but failed, they would get the blame. By letting the Americans go in, the Mexicans got rid of the mercenaries and, as a bonus, washed their hands of all responsibility for whatever happened to Lewis and Jan. It was, for Guajardo, a true win-win situation.

JBig Al, coming to the same conclusion as Dixon had, thought about Guajardo's offer. "What, Colonel, do you expect in return?"

"First, I will accompany the assault. I will bring Lefleur with me. He should prove useful in helping us find our way about. Second, I will use my own helicopter. Although I realize that my Bell 212 will be slower than your Blackhawks, it is important that I go into battle in one of our own aircraft, not an American aircraft."

Dixon shot a glance at Big Al. Big Al could tell by Dixon's expression that he didn't like the idea of including a Mexican helicopter in any operation they would be running. But Big Al, who had worked with other military forces, understood exactly what Guajardo was doing. As the minister of defense, the leader of the Mexican armed forces, and a member of the Council of 13, Guajardo was an important man in Mexico. As such, he had an image which he had to maintain. Even though the operation would be an all-American effort, it would be politically suicidal for Guajardo to be carried into battle in an American helicopter. For him to do so would make it look as if he didn't trust his own pilots and equipment and, more importantly, that he had to depend on the Americans for everything. That would never do in a nation where appearances were often more important than fact. Although it was pure tokenism, Big Al knew the Mexican helicopter had to go and, more importantly, it had to make it.

"Finally," Guajardo continued, "I must be given the one named Delapos, who is the leader of these mercenaries, alive, at the end of the raid."

For a moment, Big Al waited for more demands. But there were none.

"Is that all? What about after the raid?"

Guajardo smiled. "We, General, are soldiers. What happens after the raid is best handled by the politicians and diplomats. It would be foolish for us to become involved with anything other than the immediate problem."

Both Big Al and Dixon agreed. By keeping it at that level, they would be able to justify their action. Although the rules of engagement that they currently were operating under forbade U.S. forces from crossing over the front line held by Mexican forces, they did allow commanders to take whatever actions they deemed necessary to protect American lives. As Big Al saw it, he had the authority and the responsibility to do what Guajardo proposed. Without any further thought, Big Al decided to do it.

When he stood up, Guajardo did likewise.

"When, Colonel Guajardo, do we go?"

"Tomorrow."

Big Al and Dixon started planning while they were en route back to the division main command post. Poring over data concerning the area of operations and disposition of Mexican forces as well as information provided by Lefleur that Guajardo's aide had given them, they developed several options and discussed them. By the time the general's command and control helicopter landed at the CP, they had already come up with a basic concept and some rules of engagement that would govern the operation. One thing that both men agreed on was that the fewer people that knew and were involved, the better.

Once they were on the ground, they called in the division G2. Together, in a van that served as the commanding general's office, Dixon and the intelligence officer drafted a plan that Big Al approved. Next came the question as to what forces would be used and who would command them. Dixon recommended that Captain Cerro, an officer who had conducted numerous air-assault operations, be designated as the ground force commander. Big Al concurred and sent his aide to roust Cerro out of bed.

Next, the question of troops came up. It was decided that only a single infantry platoon, supported by attack helicopters, would be necessary.

Fewer people on the ground and fewer aircraft in the air meant less confusion. With so little time to prepare, it was mandatory that everything be done to keep the plan simple. Besides, the division had to stay within its limited resources. The division did not have a lot of UH-60

Blackhawks available for troop transport. So one platoon, possibly reinforced, was the limit. The division aviation officer concurred. Since he would plan and coordinate the air movement, he had been added to the growing conference. There would be no time, he pointed out, for the air crews making the raid to do a rehearsal before the actual event. If for no other reason than that, it was critical that the number of aircraft involved be as few as possible.

When Cerro arrived, Dixon quickly briefed him on the mission, his role, and what had been discussed up to that point. When he was asked if he had any recommendations as to where the platoon should come from, Cerro didn't hesitate. He told Dixon that the 2nd Platoon, Company A, 2nd of the 13th Infantry should go. They were, after alii right there at the division CP, they had been tested in combat and had done well, and they were rested. When Big Al asked who the platoon leader was and Cerro informed him, there was silence in the van.

In the silence that followed Cerro's recommendation, he watched Dixon look at Big Al, and Big Al, in turn, look back at Dixon. Cerro knew what the problem was, a problem no one, apparently, was going to be the first to mention. Looking at Big Al, Cerro stated, without any flourishes, without undue emotion, that Nancy Kozak was as good as they came and if he was going to go in, he wanted her and her platoon to go with him. Big Al smiled as he looked about the room. "Well, that's good enough for me. Scotty, would you have my aide go get Lieutenant Kozak?"

Shaken out of a sound sleep, Kozak took a minute to understand that the man who was shaking her was the general's aide. It took her even longer to understand what he wanted. Crawling out of her sleeping bag, she rummaged about for her gear for several minutes, slowly pulling herself together as the aide waited impatiently. Finally ready, Kozak followed the aide to the general's van.

Though she had seen the vans that made up the division main command post, she had never been in them. It was, to her, like entering another world. The radios, telephones, computers, and other electrical equipment that did things she had no idea about made her platoon's radios look puny. As they went through vans, along ramps, past staff officers, and around desks piled high with stacks of paper, Kozak didn't notice a single officer below the rank of captain. She was, she realized, walking through the rarefied air of a higher headquarters. She hardly noticed the stares of both staff officers and NCOs who wondered, just as she did, what she was doing there.

Finally, they arrived at the commanding general's van. The aide knocked, then opened the door without waiting for a response. He, however, did not go in. Instead, he motioned for her to enter. As she walked into the van, her helmet on and rifle slung over her right shoulder, she felt like a Christian entering the arena. The stare of the faces that turned toward the door as she entered only served to reinforce that feeling.

Once inside the door, Kozak stopped. Reaching across, she grabbed the sling of her rifle with her left hand and saluted with her right. "Sir, Lieutenant Kozak reporting."

For a moment, Big Al looked at her. Her uniform was dirty and torn.

Her gear was hanging about her loosely. Her face still showed the results of her broken nose, and of her having been awakened in the middle of the night: patches of black and blue under drawn, baggy eyes.

Turning to Cerro, Big Al dryly commented, "I thought you said they were rested."

Cerro shrugged. "Sir, that's what a well-rested infantryman looks like."

As Dixon, the G2, and the aviation officer laughed, Kozak looked at Cerro, then at the general. When she spoke, she surprised everyone but Cerro. Though her comment made no sense, its meaning and the enthusiasm with which it was delivered were understood by all. "Sir, 2nd Platoon is ready and can do."

The laughing stopped. Big Al looked at Cerro and nodded his approval.

"If the rest of the platoon is like her, they'll do."

Then, after looking at Cerro and then the general, Kozak asked, a little less enthusiastically, "Excuse me, but what is it exactly, sir, we're supposed to do?"