Trial by Fire

Epilogue

The pace at which Molina led the American delegation through the corridors of the presidential palace was slow and deliberate. He hoped to allow them an opportunity to think about what he had just said, and also to view some of the murals that adorned the walls. Perhaps, Molina thought, the Americans will begin to appreciate that we are a proud people with a proud past.

Though Ed Lewis did not understand Molina's intent, he nevertheless was struck by the beauty of the murals. While the secretary of state and his assistants moved briskly behind Molina, holding hushed conversations amongst themselves, Lewis followed at a leisurely pace, looking at the colorful and vibrant murals as he passed them. As beautiful as they were, Lewis thought, they were trying to tell him a story, a story that he didn't know. When he came across a mural showing a number of men, Lewis finally recognized one of the faces. It was Pancho Villa. Pausing, he looked at the face for a moment, then at the others around it. He noticed that Villa's face, the only one he knew, was only one of many and, more importantly, did not occupy a central or important position.

How terrible, Lewis thought, the only famous Mexican whose face I recognize is one we consider a bandit.

It was several moments before Lewis, lost in his thoughts, noticed that he was no longer alone. Turning his head to the left, he was not at all surprised to see that President Molina had come up from behind and was standing next to him looking at the same mural. Without looking over at Lewis, Molina began to speak, using hushed, almost reverent tones.

"These murals were painted by Diego Rivera between 1929 and 1935.

They trace the history of our country from the Aztecs up to the end of the Revolution. This one depicts the fathers of our Revolution, the men who gave us modern Mexico."

Lewis was about to ask who each of the figures was, but decided that, at the moment, it would be inappropriate. There was, after all, still much that needed to be worked out between the two governments. The disengagement of forces, the joint manhunt for Alaman and his network of informers, and a joint border patrol agreed on over the past week were only Band-Aids. To solve the problems that had plagued their two nations, Lewis knew, would take years. With a sigh, he turned to Molina.

"There is much, Mr. President, about your nation that we must learn. I only hope that we can find the time and a common voice."

Molina looked at Lewis and smiled. Taking his arm, he began to lead him down the corridor. "We, Congressman Lewis, must make that time. We are, after all, men, not victims. If we do not make the effort to learn how to live with each other, then it is our fault'' — he pointed back to the murals — ''not theirs.''

Although he was surprised to see Delapos, Alaman was genuinely glad.

There was, he told Delapos, much to do now that the Americans were preparing to withdraw from Mexico. After a warm embrace, the two men, accompanied by two associates Delapos had brought, walked along the beach. Though Delapos's two companions looked vaguely familiar, especially the blond American, Alaman paid them no attention. With few exceptions, he never bothered learning the names or faces of the hired help.

Although Alaman listened attentively to Delapos as he explained what had happened in the end, Alaman was not interested in the past.

Though he was disappointed in their failure, especially since they had come so close, he was a businessman who could accept his losses and move on to new business without much trouble. When Delapos was finished, Alaman began to outline his new strategy for returning to Mexico.

By the time he had finished, they had reached a secluded part of the beach. Pausing, Delapos asked Alaman why, when he could live in a place such as Grand Cayman, he insisted on returning to Mexico. "Despite the many attractions that a place such as this has," Alaman said as he spread his arms out, "my first love has always been Mexico."

Delapos nodded in agreement. "Yes, Mexico. She is a lovely and demanding mistress."

"Come," Alaman told Delapos, "enough of this longing for Mexico.

We shall see her soon enough. Let us return to the house and celebrate your return from the dead properly." Turning, Alaman began to walk back up the beach toward the house.

IDelapos, however, did not follow. By the time Alaman stopped to find out why he was not coming, Delapos's two companions had stepped forward. After taking one more look at his former employer, Delapos turned his back and walked a little farther down the beach, leaving Alaman staring at the two men for the longest time. Finally, the taller of the two stepped forward, removing his sunglasses and reaching behind his back with his right hand. When his right hand came back to his side, it held a pistol with a silencer attached.

Rather than fear, anger welled up in Alaman's face. "What treason, Delapos, is this? Do you now conspire to murder me? For what purpose do you do this?"

Delapos did not answer. Instead, the tall man with the pistol replied to Alaman's challenge. "How dare you speak of treason and murder? How dare you speak of Mexico with such loving words after what you have done to her?"

Turning to the tall one, Alaman demanded to know who he imagined he was, to speak to him in such a manner.

Alaman's words did not bother the tall man. In fact, they seemed to have no impact on him. Not even a hint of a smile showed on the tall man's face as he responded to Alaman's insults. "If I have committed murder, it has been, truly, for the people of Mexico. Unlike you, I seek nothing for myself. It is for our children, the children of Mexico, that I have done what I have done."

Alaman was becoming more angry. "Who are you, you bastard?"

"I, Sefior Alaman, am Colonel Alfredo Guajardo."

Alaman's angry expression dropped, replaced with a stunned look.

How, he thought, could that be? The chief of the Mexican Army? Here?

Regaining his composure, Alaman pointed to the blond American next to Guajardo. "And he?"

The American, in broken Spanish, responded that he was CIA, here to bring Alaman to justice.

Looking back at Guajardo, Alaman regained his composure. "Ah, I see. The Americans. You have surrendered the pride and glory of Mexico to be a hired gun for the Americans."

Guajardo, tiring of the conversation, looked at the American, then at Alaman. Knowing the American's command of Spanish was limited and confined to Castilian Spanish, Guajardo began speaking to Alaman using the Mexican twist of the old language. "Senior Alaman, in the name of the Republic of Mexico, and its people, I charge you with high treason and murder. As a member of the Council of 13, I find you guilty and sentence you to death."

Unable to keep up with what Guajardo was saying, the CIA man was shocked when Guajardo lifted the pistol in his hand and fired three hollow point 9mm bullets into Alaman's stomach. As Alaman fell to his knees, his face turned up to Guajardo and his eyes betraying his surprise, the CIA man yelled at Guajardo, "You said we were bringing him in! You said that you were going to turn him over to us!"

After he watched Alaman keel over face first into the white sand, Guajardo turned to the American. "I lied."

Leaning back and turning in the hatch of her Bradley, Lieutenant Nancy Kozak took one long last look at Mexico. How much, she thought, had changed in the last month. At least, the way she looked at the world, and herself, had changed.

It was wrong, she knew, to say that she had grown up. By any measure, she had been an adult before she had gone to Mexico, before she had gone to war. Perhaps, she thought, the veterans of the Civil War put it best. She had, as they would say after participating in battle for the first time, "seen the elephant." And, like them, her life would never be the same again.

While it would be a while before she understood the full effect of the war on her, she realized a few things now. The desire to be the first female infantry officer, to prove that women could do anything, didn't matter to her any longer. In truth, she really didn't know the answers to those questions and others like them. Others, she knew, whether they truly understood the nature of the problem or not, would decide those issues. What did matter to Kozak that day, as she led her platoon back north into the United States, was that she belonged where she was. She had not only earned the right to be called a combat leader, she was one, in body and spirit.

Leaving the bridge, the column Kozak's platoon was in turned to move onto the interstate and continue north, out of town, to assembly areas. At the turn, Kozak noticed a Humvee parked under the shade of a tree. A woman and an officer, whom she recognized as Lieutenant Colonel Dixon, were sitting on the hood of the Humvee, their feet resting on the I-beam front bumper. Both of them were sipping sodas from oversize cups and watching the column go by. Coming to a rigid position of attention, Kozak rendered Dixon a sharp hand salute, holding it until she had gone well past his Humvee.

After returning Kozak's salute, Dixon picked up his forty-four-ounce drink and took a long sip. He watched a few more Bradleys go by before he said anything to Jan, who was busy with her own drink. "So, you were saying that our young hero is raising hell with the nurses."

Finishing her sip, Jan let a tank go by before she tried to answer.

"What I said, dear, was that Captain Cerro had been raising hell with the nurses until his wife got to town today. The head nurse said his wife has gotten him straightened out."

Dixon raised an eyebrow. "You mean he's healthy enough for that already?"

Jan looked at Dixon. "Healthy enough for what?"

"Sex."

"Scott Dixon, I said nothing about sex."

"Yes, you did. You said his wife got him straight today."

Making a face, Jan didn't reply. Instead, she turned her attention to taking another sip and watching more tanks go by. After a few minutes, Dixon sighed. "Talking about getting things straight. Do you think, Jan, that a high-speed news correspondent could ever find true happiness married to a broke dick tanker?"

Jan took a sip of her diet Coke before answering. "Maybe. Why, do you know a broke dick tanker who has the hots for a reporter?"

Dixon, after taking a sip from his drink, looked at her. "Maybe."

For several minutes, neither of them said anything as they continued to watch the column as the tanks finished passing and another unit of Brad leys began to go by. To the west, the sun was beginning to dip low on the horizon, casting its reddish-orange rays on everything it touched. Dixon looked at the sun, then at Jan. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, do you think a news correspondent could be happy married to a broken-down tanker like me?"

Jan looked Dixon in the eyes. "Is this a proposal?"

"Maybe."

Pulling the straw from her drink, Jan played with the ice in her cup.

"Ever notice how much ice they give you in these things? It's almost criminal."

Dixon, serious about his proposal, was tiring of the game they were playing. Taking Jan's hand and pulling her to him, he decided it was time to get a straight answer. "Damn it, Jan, yes or no."

Knowing that he was on the verge of losing his patience, Jan decided to play out Scott's own little game a little longer. With a feigned look of confusion on her face, she cocked her head to one side. "I'm sorry, what was the question again?"

"Jan, will you marry me?"

With a mischievous smile and a sparkle in her eyes, Jan took another sip of her Coke before she looked at Dixon. "Maybe."