Trial by Fire

7

From his office, Scott Dixon could look out his window onto the parade ground in front of division headquarters. He enjoyed his window, especially in the summer, when a large number of units conducted change of command ceremonies on the parade ground. During June and July, a week didn't go by without a ceremony, or rehearsals for it. Despite the fact that most Army parades lacked the precision and pomp of a VMI parade, they were still the best free show in town.

What Dixon enjoyed about the 16th Division's parades was the ceremonial horse platoon and the field artillery section. At the insistence of a former division commander, the 16th had formed a horse platoon to match the one used by the other armored division at Fort Hood. The next division commander, being an artilleryman, created a two-gun artillery section, patterned after the ceremonial half-section of artillery at Fort Sill, to go along with the horse platoon. The only difference between the guns used by the Fort Sill artillery section, which used World War I-era guns and uniforms, and those used by the 16th Division's, was that the 16th used two 12-pound smooth-bore Napoleons and matching caissons while their crews wore post-Civil War uniforms.

With the addition of the two ceremonial units, 16th Armored Division parades had a flair that few other units could match. During the ceremony, the horse platoon, outfitted with broad-brimmed Stetsons, dark blue shirts, and sky blue trousers seamed with broad yellow stripes, would form to the left of the battalion or brigade that made up the bulk of the parade. The artillery section, with similar uniforms but red stripes on the seams of their uniform, formed to the left of the horse platoon.

When the two ceremonial units had been formed, there was lively debate by traditionalists over this, referred to as the great horse debate. According to tradition, the more senior service or branch held the position to the right, the position of honor. Artillery officers argued that the field artillery, the more senior branch, should be posted to the right of the horse platoon. Armor officers, who were in the majority within the division, argued that they deserved the post of honor. The infantry officers in the division, like the third child in a family, switched sides depending on their mood, just to piss the other side off. Before Dixon became the G3, or operations officer for the division, the placement of the guns of the artillery section and the horses of the horse platoon was often switched, based upon the leanings of the officer in charge of a particular ceremony.

Dixon had no sooner assumed his duties as the G3 than he was confronted by two of his high-speed, low-drag majors concerning the great horse debate. The majors, in an apparent effort to put the bum's rush on the new man, cornered Dixon and tried to convince him that the artillery should be on the right. Dixon, befuddled by the seriousness these men attached to what he considered such a trivial matter, made a snap decision, his first as the G3. Without allowing them to finish their argument, he put up his right hand in order to silence them. When they had stopped speaking, he announced that, so long as he was an armored officer and the 16th remained an armored division, the horses would go on the right, period. Thus, on his first day, he unilaterally ended the great horse debate and established himself as an officer who neither tolerated nor offered bullshit, in any way, shape, or form.

Now, over a year later, Dixon was pleased every time he saw the horse platoon and artillery section march by. Though he hadn't given the decision any serious thought, it had been the right one, for it looked right.

The horse soldiers, led by their platoon leader and the guidon bearer, belonged in the lead, as the cavalry always had. Then came the guns, the heavies who did the real killing. And finally, the supply wagon, the ever-necessary tail of any unit, with its four-mule team, teamster, and mascot dog.

After passing the reviewing stand, while the battalion or brigade performing the ceremony and the division band moved off to one side, the horse platoon would wheel about and come back to form a skirmish line, pistols drawn and at the ready. The guns of the artillery section, galloping up from the rear, would pass around the flank of the horse platoon, unlimber, and prepare to fire. Each gun, under the command of the section leader, would fire two rounds. After the reverberation of the second volley drifted away, the horse platoon leader would raise his saber, signaling the bugler to sound the charge. Bringing his saber down while spurring his horse, the platoon leader would scream "Charge!" so that all could hear and lead his platoon past the guns, at a dead run, on line, across the length of the field while the division band played "Gary Owen." The artillery section, limbering their guns as soon as the horse platoon had passed, would follow at a gallop, the gunners waving their hats at the applauding crowd as they went by. And as a grand finale, the supply wagon would bring up the rear as fast as the four mules could take it.

Regardless of how many times he saw it, Dixon loved the show. Like most officers, he was conservative, finding security and comfort in the traditions, order, and regulations that governed military life. The horse platoon and artillery section were a link to the past, a salute to the simpler days when soldiers did soldier things and everyone understood what being a soldier was all about. How wonderful, Dixon thought, life in the Army would be if all we needed to worry about was being a good horseman, a decent shot, and a capable leader.

Leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the windowsill, Dixon was sipping coffee and watching a battalion of the 2nd Brigade prepare for a rehearsal when his sergeant major walked into his office.

With a booming voice that could wake the dead and a cheerfulness that Dixon could never muster that early in the morning the sergeant major announced his presence. "Ain't it a great day to be in the Army, sir?"

Without moving from his position or turning toward the sergeant major, Dixon responded with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Sergeant Major Aiken, every day is a great day to be in this man's Army."

"This person's Army, sir. Remember, the Sweet 16th is on the cutting edge of social and cultural advancement."

Although Aiken couldn't see it, he knew Dixon had winced. Dixon winced every time someone referred to the 16th Armored Division as the Sweet 16th, a nickname applied to the division in private conversations ever since it had been selected to be the unit to conduct the Evaluation of Female Combat Officers, EFCO for short.

"Yeah, right, Sergeant Major. How foolish of me to forget." Not that Dixon could forget. It was easier to forget how to breathe than to be a member of the 16th Armored Division and forget that they were about to become the test-bed unit for the introduction of females into combat arms units. Everyone in the division, male and female, officer and enlisted, had an opinion. Even the wives had an opinion. For three months the division, in particular the three battalions that would be receiving the first female officers, had been preparing for the evaluation. It had not been easy.

Though most of the officers and men in the targeted units were prepared to accept the inevitable, there were a few holdouts. Some combat arms officers had voiced their objections, and a few had threatened their resignations, including the commander of one of the battalions selected to participate in the evaluation. All of that ended, however, when Major General Alvin M. Malin, the commander of the 16th Armored Division, was "adviced" of the situation. Nicknamed "Big Al" because he was so short, Malin was a man who neither tolerated dissent when an order had been given nor believed in half measures when action was called for.

Within minutes of hearing of the battalion commander's threat, Big Al personally marched down to the commander's office, walking in unannounced.

Taking a seat across from the surprised commander, Big Al, in a very friendly voice, told the lieutenant colonel that he was there to personally pick up his resignation and approve it on the spot. Flabbergasted, the battalion commander tried to explain, but Big Al cut him short, telling him to shut up and support the program or hand over his resignation.

The commander of the 2nd Battalion, 13th Infantry, backed down, apologizing for running off at the mouth and promising to support the program, one hundred ten percent.

Big Al's surprise attack had, for the most part, the desired effect.

Unquestioning cooperation and team playing became the order of the day.

Still, there were whispered comments and dissent in the ranks. Even in Dixon's own section, there were doubts about the wisdom of putting women in combat units. On the previous Friday, to Dixon's surprise, the captain in his section charged with coordination of the overall program for the division came in and asked Dixon to reassign him to other duties on the grounds that he could not support the program. While Dixon admired the man's honesty, he could not allow an officer who did not support Army policy and the Army equal-opportunity program to walk away without comment. After all, Dixon knew that officers could not be allowed to pick and choose what they did and did not want to support.

To Dixon, a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute with twenty-one years of active duty and two wars behind him, it was an all-or-nothing proposition for an officer. Within a matter of hours, the officer was reassigned and Dixon had prepared an adverse evaluation that, in a peacetime Army, would effectively be a show-stopper to the captain's career.

The entire affair was made easier since the captain had waited until the very last minute, just as the female officers were coming on board, to make his opinion known. That he chose to do so on a Friday, putting the coup de grace on an already doomed weekend, allowed Dixon to actually enjoy writing cutting comments on the captain's evaluation report.

Two months before, Dixon had planned to take a long weekend in conjunction with the 4th of July and go down to South Padre Island with his two boys and Jan Fields, the woman he had been living with for the past three years. The military coup in Mexico, however, had caused Jan to drop out. The chance to be the World News Network senior correspondent in Mexico City was simply too tempting for Jan to pass up.

Dixon, though put out, didn't complain. After all, she had given up a better position with WNN to become, as she referred to herself, a camp follower. The loss of the project officer for EFCO had finished the weekend.

Instead of sitting on the beach on South Padre Island with his two sons, Dixon had sat in his office at Fort Hood with the division personnel officer looking for a suitable officer to become the new stuckee for EFCO.

After looking at dozens of officers' records, they both agreed upon a new officer just coming into the division, a young captain by the name of Harold Cerro.

Waiting to go in and be interviewed by the division G3, Captain Harold Cerro sipped at the coffee he had been offered and watched the comings and goings of the people around him. He was already pissed off by the fact that his assignment to a brigade staff had been changed, removing him still farther from "real" soldiers. At least at brigade level, Cerro thought, he would have had an opportunity, every now and then, to smell the horseshit and gunpowder. On division staff, all he'd get to smell was the horseshit.

Already in what could be described as a deep funk due to his sudden reassignment, Cerro could find nothing impressive about the division staff that morning. Everyone, officer and enlisted, seemed to move at a half speed, lackadaisical pace. In most of the line units he had been in, there had always been a high degree of crispness in everything they had done, including their conversations. Here, everyone just sort of moseyed about, lost in their own little world as they drank coffee, shuffled paper, and became annoyed anytime a telephone rudely interrupted their sedate pace and required them to answer it. This, Cerro thought to himself, was going to take some getting used to.

As he pondered his fate, a sergeant major came up to him, a smile on his face and his right hand stretched out. "Captain Cerro, I'm Sergeant Major Aiken. Welcome to the G3."

Caught off guard, Cerro shifted his coffee cup from his right hand to his left, stood up as he did so, grasped the sergeant major's hand, and lied. "It's a pleasure to be here, Sergeant Major."

Aiken looked into the captain's eyes for a moment as they shook hands and smiled a shy, knowing smile. "I'm sure it is, sir. I'm sure it is."

The smile and comment did not escape Cerro's notice, and the look of concern on his face did not escape Aiken. "Sir, the G3 will see you now.'' Without waiting, Aiken turned and stepped off to lead Cerro to the G3's office. After quickly putting his half-empty cup down on the floor next to the seat where he had been sitting, Cerro turned and scurried after the sergeant major.

By the time Cerro caught up to the sergeant major, he was standing outside the G3's door. Without a word, Aiken motioned that Cerro was to enter. As Cerro passed him, Aiken mumbled, "Vaya con Dios." Although he didn't respond to the remark, Cerro wondered why in the hell the sergeant major had said that.

The G3's office was, relatively speaking, small. At one end was a simple and functional wooden desk facing the door. In front of the desk, a long wooden table with five chairs around it was set perpendicular to, and butted up against, the wooden desk. To Cerro's left was an overstuffed chair and an end table with an old unit history of the 16th Armored Division on it. Farther along the wall to his left was a wooden bookcase filled with a combination of field manuals, military history books, and loose-leaf binders of assorted colors and sizes. On the wall where the bookcase sat were two small-scale maps, one showing Germany and Eastern Europe and the second showing the Persian Gulf region.

A third map, on the wall behind the desk, was a special overprinted map of Fort Hood that showed all the ranges and training areas on post. Behind the desk, seated in a large executive-style chair, with his feet propped on the windowsill, sipping coffee as he watched a parade rehearsal, was the G3.

Coming up to the edge of the long table, Cerro stopped, came to the position of attention, saluted, and reported. "Sir, Captain Harold Cerro reporting for duty."

Dixon had heard the captain enter his office. He had even heard the sergeant major's snide comment. The booming voice of the young captain, artificially dropped a couple of octaves so that he sounded huskier, more masculine, did not surprise Dixon. In fact, Dixon half expected the captain to end with the traditional, "Airborne."

Without facing the captain, Dixon took another sip of coffee before moving the cup from his right hand to his left and returning the captain's salute rather casually. "Take a seat, Captain Cerro."

For a moment, Cerro was taken aback by the casual, almost slovenly attitude of the G3. No wonder, Cerro thought, the G3 staff moves around half-stepping. They get it from the top. Heaving a sigh, Cerro dropped his salute, and took a seat at the head of the long table, waiting for the G3 to speak. The G3, however, didn't pay any further attention to Cerro. Instead, he continued to watch the parade rehearsal outside his window.

With nothing better to do, Cerro turned in his seat and also watched.

Down on the parade ground, the marching unit was just completing its final turn before passing the reviewing stand. The battalion commander, followed by his four staff principals, was in front of the reviewing stand, saluting the reviewing officer. As this was only a rehearsal, a major from the G3 shop was acting as the reviewing officer, returning salutes and taking notes on deficiencies as elements of the marching unit went by.

Following the battalion staff came the companies, led by their captains and guidons. Cerro watched as the commander of each company gave his orders. First came the exaggerated preparatory command, ' 'Eyes,'' which alerted the company to what command was about to be issued. At the same instant the commander gave the preparatory command, the guidon bearer hoisted the guidon as high as he could. This was an old tradition, done in the days when commanders used the guidon to signal their commands to subordinates who could not hear them over the sounds of battle.

After a pause, the commander shouted a crisp, curt "Right," the command of execution. In unison, the commander's head turned to the right as his right hand shot up to salute the reviewing officer. The guidon came down with an audible snap to signal the command of execution had been given. In the ranks of the company, the right-hand file continued to look straight ahead while every head in the two files to the left snapped to the right. The company held this position until its commander had passed the reviewing stand and reached a marker that told him the trail element of his unit had cleared the reviewing stand. At that point, he gave the order,

"Ready," pause, "Front."

Company after company marched by, with the national and regimental colors between the second and third company. As they passed the reviewing stand, the regimental colors dipped to a forty-five-degree angle in salute to the reviewing officer, but the national colors remained aloft, dipping for no man. This was the only time the reviewing officer initiated the salute, honoring the national colors.

Cerro had seen all of this before and didn't really understand the G3's fascination with the parade — since, no doubt, the G3 had seen it far more often. Cerro was becoming quite uncharitable in his thoughts concerning his new superior until the horse platoon came by. Though the sequence was the same, there was more flair and drama, a flair and drama that Cerro found himself caught up in, as the horse platoon leader brought his drawn saber up before his face as he gave the preparatory order. Bellowing "Eyes" for all he was worth, the horse platoon leader snapped his saber down, catching a glint of sunlight on the polished blade as he did so. He held it there, with a stiff extended arm, as he issued the execution order, "Right." The horsemen and their mounts, passing two by two before the reviewing officer, did so with a precision and a casual ease that Cerro marveled at. No doubt, he thought, the horses, their heads held high, required as much drill as the troopers did. Following the horse platoon came the field guns. Each gun, pulled by four horses, had a crew of four, two men riding the trace horses, the ones on the right, and two men riding on the caisson.

While their passing in review in itself had been interesting, the maneuvering and mock battle, followed by a mounted charge afterward, was, for want of a better word, exhilarating. As Cerro watched in fascination, he could feel his pulse rate increase. This, he thought, this was a ceremony worthy of the United States Army.

As the horse platoon leader rallied his troopers, Dixon spun around in his chair and faced Cerro for the first time. "Ever see a cavalry charge before?"

Cerro, surprised by the G3, shook his head. "No, sir, not really."

Leaning back in his chair, Dixon spoke, studying the new captain as he did so. "Back when the Army did things like that for real, everything was simple, manageable, understood. The commander, riding a few paces in front of his troopers, would see and study the enemy, the land, and his objective. He could take it all in with a single glance. Using what he saw, along with his training, experience, and judgment, he'd issue a quick and simple order. He could do it on his own, since units were only as large as a commander's voice could carry. And the maneuvers were simple drills, something that a good troop had practiced many times. When he, the commander, felt all was ready, he would raise his saber and give the order to charge. In a matter of minutes, it would be success, or failure.

Simple, clean, and quick. In the words of Major Joel Elliott at the Wash ita, 'Here goes for a brevet or a coffin!' "

Cerro, sitting at the far end of the table, waited for the G3 to continue, or to tie his little story in to some profound thought. As he waited, he couldn't help but get the feeling that he was being set up for something, especially since Dixon had used Major Elliott's quote. Elliott, an officer assigned to the 7th U.S. Cavalry Regiment in 1868, was last seen alive leading a group of eighteen troops in pursuit of a group of fleeing Cheyennes on the first day of the Battle of the Washita. His body, and those of all eighteen troopers, were found almost two weeks later. Elliott had gotten his coffin. Was that, Cerro thought, what the G3 was preparing him for, a bullet or a brevet? That suspicion was justified as the G3 continued.

"Have you ever heard of the program called Evaluation of Female Combat Officers?"

That was it. Without another word, Cerro knew what was coming.

Still, he hesitated for a moment before answering. When he did, Cerro tried hard to maintain an even, calm voice. "Yes, sir, I am familiar with the program."

Dixon picked up a small square paperweight and began to play with it, looking at the paperweight instead of Cerro, causing Cerro to wonder if Army lieutenant colonels used paperweights in the same manner that Navy captains used ball bearings.

As Dixon spoke, Cerro could feel his shoulders, already dangerously close to the floor, slump down even further. "Well, by this time next week, you will be more than familiar with it. I have decided to assign you to the G3 training section as the individual training and gunnery officer for the division. One of your responsibilities will be monitoring and coordinating the EFCO program for the division. While you will have other duties, including being the division point of contact for the skills qualification testing, small arms and gunnery training, special schools, etc., none of them compare to the importance of EFCO. That is a very high-vis program that I expect you to remain on top of." Stopping his fiddling with the paperweight, Dixon looked up and into Cerro's eyes before continuing. "Understood?"

Although Cerro didn't have any idea what all his responsibilities and duties concerning EFCO would entail, he understood the sensitive nature of the program, the publicity it had received and would continue to receive, and the controversies that would be generated when the results were released, no matter what those results were. For a moment, Cerro z pondered all of this, trying hard to come up with an appropriate response.

Looking back at the G3, he suspected he was waiting for some comment that would offer him a clue as to how Cerro felt about his assignment.

Remembering that a little humor, employed at moments like this, had more than once gotten him out of a tight spot, Cerro smiled. "Gee, sir, you had me going there for a — while. I thought you were going to give me something really tough to deal with."

Caught off guard by Cerro's comment, Dixon looked at Cerro, then smiled. Well, he thought, if he wants to fuck with me, two can play at this. Leaning forward, putting his elbows on the desk and his hands together, Dixon looked Cerro in the eyes. "In that case, do you think you could also handle training ammunition?"

The first thing that popped into Cerro's head was "Oh, shit, I misjudged this guy." That thought must have turned his own smile into a worried look, for after a brief pause, Dixon winked and smiled. "Next time, trooper, look before you leap. Understand?"

Cerro shook his head. "Target, sir, cease fire."

Standing up, Dixon walked to the door. "Your period of grace is over.

Time for you to go to work. Follow me and I'll introduce you to Major Nihart, the G3 training officer."

Turning off the road on which 2nd Brigade headquarters was located and into the parking lot behind the headquarters building for the battalion, the soldiers of 2nd of the 13th Infantry prepared to come to a halt. For Second Lieutenant Kozak, it had been a good start. Drill and ceremony, after four years at West Point, including one year as a cadet battalion commander, had at least prepared her for parades. Now, she thought, if the rest of the next year goes this easy, we've got it made.

That she considered her success as a matter of "we" and not "I" was a subconscious admission that her success or failure would affect more than herself. Her performance, and that of five other young female officers like her, would determine if female officers would be allowed into the mainstream of the Army. So long as females, both officer and enlisted, remained restricted to combat support and combat service support branches, there would be barriers to promotion and ascent to the highest levels. Only by becoming members of the combat arms branches could women achieve real and unrestricted equality. And for this to be achieved, Nancy Kozak knew she had to succeed.

Marching into the parking lot, she looked at the back of her new company commander. Her success, and in turn, the success of the evaluation, rested heavily upon that man, Captain Stanley Wittworth. He could make or break her in a dozen different ways. From the tasks he assigned her, to the personnel he placed in her platoon, Captain Wittworth held the key to her future. Though Kozak tried to convince herself that the same was true for any second lieutenant, the consequences of her failure would be more than a simple statistic.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, Kozak almost missed Wittworth's order to halt. Catching herself in time, she came to a halt, and, on command, faced to the left. Clutching her fists and wincing, she uttered a silent curse, reminding herself that she had to keep her head out of her ass and pay attention. First and foremost, she had to keep her eyes and ears open and her mouth shut.

After dismissing the company, Wittworth wandered back to his office. He was in no hurry. All that waited for him there was paperwork and a line of soldiers waiting to see him about some damned thing or another. He didn't feel much like dealing with trivia at that moment. Instead, he needed to get his own head together. The nice, organized, and controlled world he had created for himself as a company commander had hit a speed bump named Nancy Kozak.

Although he had known that having a female second lieutenant in his company was going to bring a certain amount of problems and difficulties with it, he hadn't reckoned on some of his problems coming from his own commander. Wittworth had been hoping for guidance and support, or at least some empathy. Instead, he got nothing. What little was said appeared, to Wittworth, to be interference bordering on micromanagement.

The parade rehearsal that morning, the first official duty in which Lieutenant Kozak had participated, had served as a warning to Wittworth.

Offering what appeared to be a simple recommendation, the battalion commander had suggested that Lieutenant Kozak be placed so that she was in the right-hand file of the company for the retreat parade. Wittworth had no way of knowing that the reason the battalion commander wanted Kozak to be on the right was so that she would be visible for everyone on the reviewing stand to see when the battalion marched by. It was the battalion commander's way of proving that he had taken Big Al's "sug gestion" and become a team player, and that Lieutenant Kozak was fully integrated in the battalion, like she was supposed to be.

The message that the battalion commander's recommendation drove home to Wittworth was that she would receive more interest from the battalion commander than the average run of the mill second lieutenant.

The battalion commander, and probably the entire battalion staff, would be watching her. This, in turn, meant that he would be watching Wittworth, or at least what Wittworth's company was doing. What exactly all this meant was not entirely clear to Wittworth. About the only thing that was clear was that somehow his career was now tied to the fate of a brand-new second lieutenant, a female lieutenant at that. If that was true, then it behooved Wittworth to find out, as quickly as possible, what results the battalion commander expected. In a nutshell, he had to know whether Second Lieutenant Kozak was to be a success or a failure. Once he had that figured out, he could act accordingly.

Around one end of the dirt runway stood three buildings, all in varying degrees of collapse. The main building was a one-story cinderblock structure with a tin roof that had once served as a terminal and office. To the right was a hangar, in which two helicopters were hidden behind doors that hung from rusting hinges. To the left, in a lean-to shed that had more wooden planks missing than present, were a jeep and two well-used pickup trucks hidden under canvas tarpaulins. Built on the flood plain of the Salado river by a mining company, the airfield had been officially abandoned for over twenty years. A quick glance, from the ground or air, would have convinced the casual observer that it still was. Childress and his small crew of mercenaries had spent hours making sure the airfield appeared unoccupied. Only the occasional reflection of light from the lookout's binoculars betrayed their presence.

While Childress and the others could jokingly call the abandoned airfield the next best thing to home, the thought of having lost his precious Chinampas and having to hide like a common criminal amongst a group of cutthroat mercenaries made Alaman physically sick. In private, he would look up at the sky and ask, Why, my Lord, have you forsaken me?

Not that he expected an answer. Though his mother had endeavored to raise him in the ways of the church, the reality of life in the slums of Mexico had made Alaman a realist and a survivor. Already, in his mind, an idea for extracting revenge and restoring himself to power was forming in his mind.

While Alaman sat alone in his room in the abandoned airfield's terminal, dreaming of the future, Childress and the handful of mercenaries that had escaped from Chinampas dealt with the present. A shout from the lookout on the roof alerted them that someone was coming. Scrambling up a rickety ladder, Childress went to where the lookout was posted.

Even without binoculars, he could see the clouds of dust rising like rooster tails, indicating that two vehicles were approaching, long before he heard the roar of the vehicles' engines.

As he handed the binoculars to Childress, the lookout asked, "Delapos?"

Putting the binoculars up to his eyes, Childress did not respond at first, not until he had confirmed that there were two vehicles. "No, not likely.

Delapos and Luis had only one vehicle. I can't think of a good reason why they should have taken a chance and stolen another. They were only on a simple supply run."

"Alert the rest?"

Childress put the binoculars down. "Yes, alert the rest. But no shooting unless we have to. Clear?"

With a nod, the lookout backed away toward the ladder. "Clear."

As the vehicles approached the ford site to cross the river, they both stopped. In the lead vehicle, an open jeep, a tall lean man got out. Putting binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the airfield. Childress did likewise.

In an instant, Childress knew who it was. The maroon beret of the Foreign Legion parachute regiment and the motley camouflage jacket could only belong to Lefleur. Letting the binoculars down, Childress thought, well, you little bastard, you did show up. Though he too was a mercenary, Childress felt that Lefleur could not be trusted. As long as he had known him, Lefleur had shown no trace of humanity, conscience, or integrity. He was, Childress thought, a man who would stab his own mother in the back.

Still, they were, at least for now, on the same side and working for the same man. Standing up, he waved his right hand, shouting to his men below to stand down, that friendlies were coming in. From across the river, Lefleur saw Childress and returned the wave before getting back into the jeep. With Lefleur's men, they would have a total of twelve men, not counting the two pilots and Alaman. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Childress paused. A start for what? What exactly would they be able to do? And why? Up to this point, he, and everyone else, had been taking things one step at a time. It was time now for some serious discussions about the future.

Without a word, Guajardo, his hat pulled low over his eyes, his head fixed straight ahead, entered the outer office. Mechanically, he walked past his secretary and adjutant and headed straight for his own office, where he entered without a word, quietly closing the door behind him.

For a moment, the secretary and the adjutant looked at each other. Then, without uttering a single word, they busied themselves with whatever it was they had been doing. Both knew that Guajardo, having just returned from reporting to Colonel Molina on the raid at Chinampas, needed to be alone.

With his hands clasped together at the small of his back, Guajardo stood at the window, rocking back and forth on his heels as he looked out at the street below. That his meeting with Molina could have been worse was the only bright thought that lightened his dark mood. Knowing that Guajardo openly despised his adjutant, Major Puerto, Molina had arranged that Puerto be on an errand while Guajardo was in the office. For himself, Molina could not have been more understanding, without being condescending.

Guajardo, after having ignored the advice of almost everyone on the council concerning the plan for the elimination of Alaman and Chinampas, had come prepared to hand over his resignation. Molina, anticipating his friend, was ready for such a move. He spoke to Guajardo as a brother, neither condemning him nor ignoring the issue. He freely admitted that the loss of Alaman was a disappointment in an otherwise flawless seizure of power. That, however, Molina pointed out, did not justify losing one of the council's most capable members, and that this was no time for heroic gestures. They had all faced the prospect of failure, he continued, and still did. Now was not the time to start tearing apart the system they had built so carefully, simply because perfection had not been achieved on the first day. Though he would consider accepting his resignation, Molina asked Guajardo, as a personal favor to him, to reconsider his position and stay with the council. When the two men parted, they were choked with emotion, embracing each other as brothers.

During his return to the Ministry of Defense, Guajardo had realized he would not resign. As terrible a burden as his failure would be, to abandon the people's struggle simply because of a matter of honor would be foolish. Molina knew this, and so did Guajardo. Perhaps, Guajardo thought, this was a good thing. A man, regardless of who he is, needs to be humbled, in order to be reminded that he is only human. Yes, I must learn from this.

Guajardo did not hear the first soft knock at the door. The second, a little louder, caught his attention. Without moving, Guajardo called out, "Yes?"

The door opened wide enough for the adjutant to slip partway into the room. "Sir, Lieutenant Blasio is here as ordered. Shall I have him wait?"

Looking at his watch, Guajardo noted that Blasio was ten minutes early. "No, send him in."

The adjutant disappeared, closing the door. A moment later another knock. Again, without moving from his position at the window, Guajardo called out, "Enter."

Guajardo heard the door open, then close, followed by four short steps ending with the clicking of two heels brought together. "Sir, Lieutenant Blasio reporting as ordered."

Guajardo did nothing. Up to that moment, he hadn't thought much of what he would do with the man who had compromised the attack on Chinampas. He had read the reports from both Blasio and the lieutenant who had commanded the platoon Blasio had been transporting. Both men were good men who had done what they had thought appropriate. So what was he to do with Blasio, the man who, through an error of commission, had allowed Alaman to escape?

Turning, Guajardo laid eyes on the lieutenant for the first time. He was still standing at attention, his hat tucked under his arm, his eyes fixed on Guajardo. What, Guajardo thought, am I to do with you, my friend?

Walking around to the front of the desk, Guajardo paused, then leaned back against it, half sitting, half standing. Folding his arms, he continued to stare at Blasio. Was there, Guajardo thought, any difference in my failure in judgment in using so complex a plan for Chinampas, and this lieutenant's for landing his aircraft due to a relatively minor mechanical problem? And, Guajardo asked himself, were they in fact failures, or simply a series of bad decisions made independently of each other, that, together, had created a failure? Guajardo, after all, knew that he had come so close, so very close to pulling off the raid as he planned. Only Blasio's forced landing changed that. And why, he thought, place all the blame on Blasio? The infantry lieutenant commanding Group N could have continued immediately with the second aircraft instead of waiting for Blasio to finish. Did that mean the infantry lieutenant was responsible for the failure?

Looking down at his shoes for a minute, Guajardo decided that it would be wrong to punish this officer for doing what his training had dictated. As senior aviator on board the helicopter, he was responsible for the lives of his crew, his passengers, and his aircraft, all of which were valuable commodities in the understaffed and underequipped Mexican Army. Had this been a peacetime exercise, Guajardo knew that Blasio's decision to land at the first sign of trouble would have been the correct one, just as Guajardo's plan of attack would have been considered an acceptable option.

Looking back up at Blasio's face, Guajardo studied the lieutenant for a moment longer before he decided what to do. "Do you know why you are here, Lieutenant?"

Turning his head to look at the colonel, Blasio responded promptly.

"Yes, sir. To explain my actions during the raid of Chinampas and receive whatever punishment you deem fit, sir."

For a moment, Guajardo hesitated. Blasio, as Guajardo had been, was ready to atone for his error. But we cannot afford such sentiment. Molina was right about that. There is too much to do and there are too few good men. In an instant, Guajardo decided.

"Lieutenant, I do not need you to explain your actions. Your report, and that of the infantry officer commanding the assault force, were quite satisfactory." Guajardo paused, allowing Blasio to sweat a little longer.

"As for your punishment, you will be relieved from your current posting and be assigned to my staff as my personal pilot."

Not quite understanding what he had heard, Blasio turned toward Guajardo.

"Excuse me, sir. Am I to understand that I am to be your pilot?"

With an expression that betrayed no emotion, Guajardo responded,

"Yes, that is correct. Now, you will report to my adjutant for further instructions. Once you have found quarters, you will find yourself a good watch. I demand punctuality. Understood?"

Blasio, struggling to maintain his decorum, simply responded, "Understood," leaving Guajardo's office as quickly as possible, as if he feared the colonel would change his mind.

Finishing their meals, the three men picked at bread or sipped coffee as they talked amongst themselves. Freely switching from French to Spanish, then to English and back in an effort to impress each other, the three men discussed their future plans. Delapos, for all his bluster, would, with little doubt, stay with Alaman. "Things will, eventually, settle down, and when they do, there will be the need for a man like Alaman."

Besides, Delapos said, they were both Mexicans. Despite the hard times, he had confidence things couldn't get worse. Childress toyed with the idea of going back north. It had been, he claimed, too long since he had seen real snow. It was time to head back to Vermont and enjoy some of his pay. Lefleur, a Frenchman through and through, talked only of Paris, then perhaps a job in Africa, where he had served with the Legion. It was idle chat, no different than that of any other soldiers who had, in reality, no clear idea of what the future held for them.

From out of the shadows of the doorway of the terminal office where the three men sat, Alaman emerged. He had been listening to their idle chatter for several minutes in an effort to gauge their dedication and attitude. When he was satisfied that he had a feel for where each man stood, he came forward.

The sudden appearance of Alaman caught the three mercenaries off guard. Turning to face the apparition, Delapos began to stand. Alaman indicated to Delapos to keep his seat with a motion of his right hand.

Striding over to the one side of the table where no one was seated, Alaman stood there for a moment before speaking. Then, almost shyly, he asked if he could have a moment of their time.

Since their arrival, this was the first time that Alaman had come forward and addressed them, either separately or together. Now, standing there before them was the man who had once considered his power in Mexico equal to that of the country's president. Though his clothes showed spots of dirt and were stained with sweat marks, they were neatly arranged, like his hair. With an air of confidence that made him appear larger than he was, Alaman looked at each man without speaking. Each of the mercenaries, realizing that he had a proposal, said nothing when he looked at them in turn. When Alaman began to speak, they were all ears.

"If we are to believe the news on the radio," Alaman stated, "there is no possible way for me to reestablish my operations under the current regime in Mexico City. The military appears to have a solid base of power and no viable opposition. In addition, the Council of 13 has gained great popular support from both the middle and lower classes. The council's program of taking immediate and direct action against corrupt officials and government employees, while encouraging the people to help them track down and identify those officials, seems to have captured the imagination of the people. The people are finally being allowed an op1 portunity to vent their frustrations against a government that has long abused and ignored them and provided us with a 'comfortable' environment to work in."

As Alaman spoke, he began to circle the table. Delapos, always cap tivated by his fellow countryman's fairy-tale success story, watched every move Alaman made and took in every word. Childress and Lefleur, on the other hand, began to wonder where Alaman was going with this lecture. Both men shot furtive glances at each other before turning back to watch Alamdn.

"Under these circumstances," Alaman continued, "there is little that we, the four of us and the handful of guards who survived the raid, can do on our own to remove the new government or alter its policies from within. The climate," he stated as he paused, lifting his right hand up to his side and holding the index finger of that hand in the air for dramatic effect, "is not suitable for us at this time. But that does not mean that all is lost." As a conclusion to his meandering introduction, Alaman stated,

"If someone were to remove the new regime, then things could once more return to normal. It is up to us, the four of us, to precipitate that change."

As Alaman spoke, Delapos nodded every so often in agreement. As a Mexican, he understood. Childress, poker-faced, sat and listened in silence, knowing that the other shoe was about to drop. Lefleur, though he was just as curious about what Alaman had to say as Childress was, feigned a lack of interest. When Alaman paused again, the three men looked at each other, then back at Alaman. As their leader, and the one most loyal to Alaman, Delapos asked the question that was on all their minds. "How, Senior Alaman, do you propose we do that?"

With a smile that lit his entire face, Alamin whispered, as if he were saying a prayer in the Catedral Metropolitan, "The Americans, my friends, the Americans. They will be our salvation."

Alamans comment caught Childress and Lefleur off guard. They had been expecting something more dramatic, such as assassination or bribery.

Only Delapos understood. In a flash, he jumped to his feet and embraced Alaman. "Brilliant, senor! Brilliant!"