Cerro had also noticed that Dixon had no patience with people who could not think on their own, were indecisive, or could not keep up with Dixon’s physical or intellectual pace. The people in the G3 shop were what someone referred to as high-speed, low-drag majors. Anyone who couldn’t hack it, Cerro was told, soon found his way to the door. Though most everyone complained at times about the work load, long hours, and Dixon’s treatment of them, they knew they were learning from a master and, when their time came, that they would be rewarded with a choice assignment in a troop unit somewhere in the division.
As he talked with Cerro, Dixon noticed a tall man in a light tan three piece looking over at them. For a moment, he ignored the man’s presence and his efforts to attract Dixon’s attention. Instead, Dixon continued to listen to Cerro with only an occasional circumspect glance to the tall man in the light tan suit.
Cerro, seeing Dixon’s attention distracted by someone behind him, glanced over his shoulder, then at Dixon, who was making no effort at all to acknowledge the presence of the tall man. Instead, with his face locked in an impassive stare, Dixon continued to pay attention to Cerro. Suddenly, Cerro realized that Dixon was intentionally ignoring the man behind them. He was, in his own way, fucking with the guy, making the stranger choose between being rude and breaking in or giving up and walking away. Since Cerro had no idea who the man was, he took his cues from Dixon and continued. Dixon, slowly taking a sip of his beer, watched Cerro’s eyes and continued to ignore the stranger. The stranger, for his part, was becoming agitated. Cerro, finally, threw the game by turning to the stranger and ending his conversation with Dixon.
Unable to pretend any longer, Dixon turned to face the stranger. Changing expressions from blank to surprised with well-practiced ease, Dixon acknowledged the man. “Well, Congressman Lewis, how pleasant to see you again. Been here long?”
Lewis shrugged, pretending to ignore Dixon’s attempt to rebuff him.
“Not long, Colonel.”
Pointing to Cerro, Dixon introduced him. “I’d like you to meet my new acquisition, Captain Harold Cerro,
VMI
graduate, airborne ranger infantry, and holder of the Distinguished Service Cross, Silver Star, and the Purple Heart.”
Knowing that Dixon was also
VMI
, Lewis saw a chance to pay back Dixon’s rebuff. “How’d you earn your Purple Heart, Captain, from one of the female cadets at VMI?”
For a second, Cerro imagined himself as a helpless infantryman pinned down between the crossfire of two opponents. Unable to figure out how best to respond, he was rescued by Dixon. “Ah, hell, no, Congressman.
Captain Cerro is a member of the old corps, when men were men and girls were dates.”
A smirk lit Lewis’s face. “I see. Now I understand why you have Captain Cerro in charge of the program designed to evaluate the effectiveness of female combat officers.”
Lewis’s comment smacked Dixon like a two-by-four. Well, Dixon thought, I should have known better than try to mess with this guy.
Begrudgingly, he acknowledged that Lewis was too sharp to play games with. Mustering a smile, he took a sip of his beer and asked Lewis what he could do for him.
“I was hoping to have a word in private with you.”
“Of course.” Dismissing Cerro, Dixon escorted Lewis to the patio.
“What can I do for you, Congressman?”
Lewis leaned against a table, half sitting on it. “Today, in the briefings, I detected a certain amount of dissatisfaction with both the intelligence summaries coming from the
DIA
and the war plans you briefed. In fact, you went out of your way to accentuate every negative aspect of the plan. I was, to say the least, quite taken aback by the fact that an officer with your reputation would get your commander to buy into such a gloomy and pessimistic briefing.”
Dixon looked down at his beer, swirled the bottle, and took a sip before answering. For a moment, he tried to come up with an evasive answer, but decided to pass on that idea. It was, after all, hard to bullshit a bullshitter and Lewis, he realized, knew bullshit when he saw it. “Big Al never buys into anything he doesn’t want to.” Dixon let that comment hang in the air for a moment while he took another sip from his beer.
Ready, he looked Lewis in the eye. “You’re right, I am not at all thrilled with what we have to work with, intelligence wise, that is. Nor am I thrilled with our strategic goals, and when I say strategic, I’m talking about political goals and objectives. I especially don’t like the idea that there are people who seriously believe in using the American military to salvage a bankrupt foreign policy.”
Taken aback by Dixon’s comments, Lewis paused for a moment before continuing. Though Lewis had used the same arguments, and had, in a different way, said the same thing, Dixon’s accusations hit him like a slap in the face. As a member of Congress, and a prominent figure in Washington, he was guilty, through association, of both the good and the bad calls that came from that city.
Though he wanted to, Dixon fought the urge to smirk. He saw that Lewis was both surprised by his response and somewhat embarrassed.
The jerk, he thought, had asked for it. Still, he had to remember that Lewis was, after all, a congressman, while Dixon was a there lowly lieutenant colonel. Lewis was the maker and giver of policy, Dixon a simple swordbearer for the realm. He therefore decided to ease off and defuse the tension between them. “Congressman, have you ever studied the Little Big Horn campaign?”
Relieved that Dixon was changing the subject, Lewis went along.
“I’ve read about it, but never really studied it. Why?”
“In 1875 we had elements in our country who viewed the American Indians as an ‘inconvenience’ to their plans. Land, and the resources those lands contained, were, in their opinion, wasted on the Indians. In order for the nation to grow, and, oh by the way, to amass a fortune for themselves, these well-meaning advocates of manifest destiny did their best to remove that inconvenience. The motivation they relied on to precipitate action was the unthinking hatred that white America had for the red savages. The tool they used was the U.S. Army.”
Lewis put his hand up. “Okay, Colonel, hold it. Are you saying that today’s version of the robber barons are out to start a war and that we are unjustified in defending ourselves?”
Without skipping a beat, Dixon continued. “No, I am not. I have no reason to believe that anyone in the United States is involved in precipitating this crisis. What I am trying to point out is that there are people, well-meaning people in this case, who are using their influence to apply political pressure on our national leaders to take a course of action that is both ill-advised and could result in embarrassment and disaster.”
“If that is true, Colonel, why are you the first soldier I’ve heard come out so strongly against such an operation?”
Dixon looked at his bottle, and gave it a swirl. “There are any number of reasons for not doing so, just as there were many reasons why the U.S.
Army did what it did in 1876. First, there is the philosophy that we are soldiers and our job is simply to obey. The president and Congress decide national policy, we only execute. You know, the old ‘Roger, out, can do’
attitude.”
“You think that’s wrong?”
“It’s not my place to decide right or wrong. It is my duty to point out what is possible and what is not. You see, I happen to believe in the American system. But, having said that, we cannot ignore the dark side of some of the people in the American military.” Dixon lifted his beer bottle and used the index finger of the hand holding the bottle to point at Lewis. “You see, Congressman, every time the Army is ordered out, we can justify our existence. Whenever you give us a mission, we salute with one hand and reach out with the other for more funds, since every time the United States is without an enemy or a viable threat, the Army shrivels up into an unimportant and expensive inconvenience. A small Army with no mission means slow promotions and little opportunity for fame and glory.”
“I thought you guys prided yourself in your selfless service and professionalism?”
Dixon
laughed. “If you still believe that, I would appreciate it if you went back and looked at recordings of the news broadcasts shot during Just Cause and Desert Storm. More than a few senior commanders and officers took great pains to make themselves available to the television cameras so as to ‘help’ the American public understand the war. And, when it was over, they sacrificed their military careers, retiring so that they could travel the speaking circuit, for a fee of course. No, Congressman, egos and self-interest do not disappear when you put on a uniform.
Though Mexico ain’t the evil empire Russia used to be, it happens to be the only game in town, for the moment.”
“What’s your alternative? Do nothing? Let the raids continue? Surely even you can appreciate that there isn’t a single congressman or senator from the southwest who is willing to sit and do nothing in Washington while their constituents are being shot in their own backyards? The demand for direct and effective action is becoming too compelling to ignore.
That, Colonel, is a political reality.”
Nodding his head, Dixon agreed. “I understand that. Just as Terry did when he left Fort Abraham Lincoln in 1876 to catch the Sioux, and Pershing went to Texas to punish Pancho Villa. We’ll go where we are sent and do what we are told. That, however, doesn’t mean that it’s the right or proper thing to do.”
Lewis grunted. “I see you believe in the Pancho Villa theory.”
“Not necessarily. Though that line of thinking is, in my opinion, the most logical, no one can confirm it. And that, Mr. Congressman, is exactly my point. No one is able to confirm or deny any of the theories concerning the raids along the border. Yet, in spite of this lack of solid evidence, everyone is chomping at the bit, demanding that we commit the Army. What’s going to happen, to us and the future of our two countries, if we find out, after all the shooting is over, that we shot the wrong guy?
My God, sir! Even the most brutal murderer in the United States must have overwhelming and irrefutable evidence brought against him before he is punished. Shouldn’t the Mexican people be given the same courtesy?”
“We
are not dealing with criminal law here, Colonel Dixon. This is not a nice, clean courtroom in some city far away. We are talking about the real world. Again, let’s do a reality check here. We are dealing with politics and national passions. Both of these can be very irrational and uncompromising. When you add fear and coat that fear with liberal quantities of American blood, like the people who are conducting these raids on our borders are doing, logic goes out the window.”
Dixon was about to answer when Jan came up from behind and grabbed his arm. Leaning over and planting a kiss on his cheek, she turned to Lewis and smiled. “Scotty sees nothing wrong with our strategy, so long as it includes dinner, soon. Right, dear?”
Dixon looked at Jan. The look in her eyes and her speech told him she was feeling no pain. Taking her hand from his shoulder, he lifted it to his lips, lightly kissed it, and lowered it halfway. “You, my dear, are drunk.”
Pulling her hand away, Jan protested. “Drunk? I am not drunk, sir.
Your general’s drunk. I’m just hungry, nay, starved. And I demand food, now.”
Amused, Lewis watched for a moment before he cut in. “I had no idea you two were married.”
Seeing a chance to get away from Lewis, Dixon turned to him. “Us, married? No way, Congressman. We just sleep together.”
Putting her hands on her hips, her eyes aflame in mock rage, Jan scoJdedDixon. “Scott B. Dixon, how dare you imply I’m a kept woman?” She turned to Lewis. “Do you know what the B in his name stands for, Congressman? It stands for ‘Bad.’ And if he doesn’t take me to dinner right now in an effort to make up, it’s going to stand for ‘bye,’ as in bye-bye, gone, adios, adieu, farewell.”
Dixon turned to Lewis and shrugged. “I’m terribly sorry, Congressman, but duty calls. Perhaps we can continue this later.”
Lewis raised his glass. “Yes, maybe later.”
After Jan and Dixon had reentered the building and were on their way to the dining room, arm in arm, Jan leaned over to Dixon and whispered in his ear. “I saw you cornered and figured you needed to be rescued.”
Slowing down, Dixon turned and lightly kissed her cheek. “And that, my dear, is why I love you.”
Presidio, Texas
2355 hours, 11 August
The evening shift wasn’t half over and already it promised to be a slow and boring night. Tom Jerricks, sitting at the dispatcher’s desk, put down the well-worn magazine he had been leafing through, then looked about the office for something new to read. He glanced at the lieutenant, sitting with his feet up on his desk watching television, then over to the shelf where the coffeepot and a stack of magazines sat.
At that moment, they were the only ones there; everyone else was on patrol. Since the beginning of August, everyone had been working twelve-hour days, six days a week. Already, that and the tension were beginning to wear on everyone in the office. No one, it seemed, was getting any smarter and none of the banditos, as the unknown raiders were being called, had been hit, let alone killed, as far as anyone knew.
It was as if they were fighting shadows. Those shadows, Jerricks knew, had teeth. On the blackboard, where the patrols were briefed, was a message, updated nightly, that reminded everyone of that gruesome fact.
Across the top was written, “Banditos 14, Border Patrol o. Don’t Become 15.”
Standing up, Jerricks walked over to the coffeepot, poured himself a cup, and began to sort through the stack of magazines in search of something to read. His back was to the radio when the shrill voice of a patrolman, with the sound of breaking glass and gunfire in the background, broke the silence.
“We’re under fire. We’re under fire. Presidio Base, Presidio Base, this is . . .”
Dropping his coffee as he spun around and dashed for the radio, Jerricks grabbed the microphone, hit the transmit button, and responded.