Reaching out, Kozak took the clip from Cerro, thanked him, and began to fumble about in an effort to fasten it to the post of her unit crest. The unit crest, set in the center of her green leader’s tabs on the shoulder loop of her uniform, was located midway between her shoulder and the collar of her uniform. This made it difficult to work on while wearing the uniform. Cocking her head back and to the right in order to see what she was doing, Kozak tried holding the crest on the loop with her right hand as she attempted to fasten the clip using her left hand. Cerro watched without saying a word, a fact that made Kozak nervous and the task more difficult. After two attempts, the clip slipped out from between her fingers and fell to the ground again. Sheepishly, Kozak looked at Cerro, shrugged her shoulders and began to bend down to retrieve it.
Cerro, however, was quicker. Scooping up the clip for the second time, he stood and stepped forward. “Here, let me help. Otherwise you’ll be here all day.”
Kozak straightened up and looked forward over Cerro’s shoulder as he held the unit crest in one hand and attached the clip. Since they were about the same size, this was not difficult. Finished, he stepped back. Not knowing what else to say, Cerro blurted, “There! Now, you’re back together.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’m just a little nervous and all. This is my first assignment.”
Her smile, her statement that was nothing short of a brilliant flash of the obvious, and her manner were disarming, sincere, and, more important, very human. Cerro was at a loss for a response. Suddenly the personification of every infantryman’s worst nightmare had turned into a real person he had to deal with. Without thinking, he reacted instinc tively,
treating Kozak as he would any brand-new infantry lieutenant. “Yes, I know. And we certainly can’t have you reporting to your CO with yo ur uniform looking like shit, can we?”
As if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Kozak relaxed, a slight smile
returning to her face. “No, sir. That wouldn’t do. I ap preciate
your concern and help.” And she did. For the first time all day—in fact, for the first time in weeks—someone had been kind, had shown genuine concern for her, and had treated her as an officer. But even more important was the fact that it had been another infantry officer, a captain who was a combat veteran to boot.
Nodding, Cerro turned to unlock his car. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to report to division headquarters.”
Saluting one more time, Kozak wished him luck in his new assignment.
Chuckling
as he returned her salute, Cerro shook his head and began to climb in his car. “I’m afraid all my luck has been used up. I’m going to 2nd Brigade to become a staff wienie.”
Though she didn’t understand Cerro’s obvious displeasure at being assigned to such an important position, Kozak nodded and watched as he started his car and pulled away. Perhaps, she thought, things weren’t going to be as hard as she had imagined.
It doesn’t take a majority to make a rebellion; it only takes a few determined men and a sound cause.
—H. L. Mencken
Ciudad Victoria, Tamaulipas, Mexico
1545 hours, 28 June
The small delegation that awaited the arrival of the president of the Republic of Mexico was exhausted from days of dealing with a crisis that seemed to come from nowhere. The problem had no apparent beginning or goals, only chaos, disruption of the daily routine of the state, and now, violence. For seven days oil field workers had disrupted, then stopped work in most of the oil fields throughout the state of Tamaulipas. At first it was thought that the troubles were nothing more than an extension of the labor unrest that had been bubbling up throughout the industrial cities of the republic. On several occasions the oil field workers had more than made it known that their sympathies were with their brothers and sisters who worked in the cities. It came, therefore, as no great surprise, to those who chose to pay attention at least, that the rash of strikes should spread to the oil fields.
While his assistants and advisors sat and waited or held hushed conversations, the governor of Tamaulipas paced the length of the small
VIP
lounge as he awaited the arrival of the president and his party. Every now and then he would glance out the window to the spot where several Air Force personnel waited in the late afternoon heat for the president’s plane. It had been decided, at the recommendation of military zone commander Colonel Alfredo Guajardo, that the meeting between the president and governor be kept short and secret. Guajardo, who was now seated against the far wall of the room, had explained to the governor that a simple meeting at the airport would make security easy and would not put the governor in political jeopardy. “After all,” Guajardo told the governor, “how would it look to the people of Tamaulipas if the president had to be called every time you had a minor problem with the workers. Besides, el presidente is growing tired of his vacation and family. He will be glad to use an excuse to fly here and then return to Mexico City and his mistress.”
Although the governor did not consider the problem minor, he had agreed. After all, the president, and whomever he designated to succeed him, would have to be lived with for a long time. It would not be in the governor’s best interest to be too much in the young president’s debt publicly, or to have the president’s role in solving the problem inflated at the governor’s expense. By keeping the meeting secret, the governor could deny that it had ever happened, even though it had and everyone knew it. With his mind wrapped up in such concerns, the governor had never thought to ask Guajardo how he knew about the president’s mistress or what the president might or might not want to do. Not that it mattered, for the governor also favored spending a single night with his mistress over an entire week with his own family.
When the door of the room opened, all movement stopped as every face turned to see who was entering. The young Air Force lieutenant who had opened the door froze in midstride when he saw the roomful of solemn faces staring at him. Unsure what to do, the lieutenant looked to Guajardo.
For a moment, he stared into Guajardo’s eyes, eyes that were as cold and expressionless as his face. Guajardo said nothing, jerking his head to indicate that he wanted the lieutenant to come over to him.
Moving around the room, and keeping as far as possible from where the “governor had resumed his pacing, the lieutenant came up next to Guajardo, bent over, and whispered into his ear. There was no change in Guajardo’s expression, not even a nod. Instead, when the lieutenant had finished and straightened up, Guajardo stood, straightening the blouse of his uniform as he did so. Turning to face the lieutenant, Guajardo issued several orders to him in a low voice. The governor neared that end of the room in time to hear Guajardo emphasize that the lieutenant was to personally see that the president’s plane was taken care of, as arranged.
The lieutenant’s response was a simple, almost curt, and solemn, “It will be done.” With that, the lieutenant left the room.
Turning to the governor, Guajardo quietly announced that the presi dent’s plane would be on the ground in five minutes. The governor paused. For a moment, there was a pained expression on his face. Only after it cleared did he acknowledge the news of the president’s arrival with an absentminded nod. He resumed pacing, stopping only when the Mexican Air Force Boeing 727 finally came into sight. With a sigh, the governor nervously tugged at his tie in a failed effort to straighten it.
Ready, he headed for the door. Behind him his aides and advisors, save Guajardo, scurried to follow.
The governor emerged from the terminal just as the 727 rolled to a stop. From nowhere a throng of security men, some in uniform, others in short-sleeved white shirts, flooded onto the field and formed up around the aircraft. Behind them a truck-mounted stairway was moved into place while a fuel tanker lumbered up on the far side of the plane. When the president emerged from the 727, he paused briefly at the top of the stairs while his eyes adjusted to the bright afternoon sun. When he was able to see, the president looked about for the governor, beaming a broad smile to him when their eyes locked, a smile that belied the deep concerns he had.
Carlos Montalvo’s pace as he bounced down the stairs wasn’t quite as spry as it had been when he had been campaigning for the office of president six months ago. In those days, anything and everything had been possible. He had, or so he thought, plans and programs that, when in place, would see Mexico and its people through the social and economic problems they faced. Repayment of a staggering debt, reversal of a population explosion, halting of inflation that set new records almost daily, and, most importantly, resurrection of the people’s faith in the ruling political party, all had appeared to be within his grasp. His party, the Partido Revolucionario Institucional, or
PRI
, had been losing ground for years to both the left, represented by the Partido Socialista Unificado de Mexico, or
PSUM
, and to the right in the form of the Partido de Action Nacional, or
PAN
. The last election, won by the narrowest of margins, had been won only through sheer determination, willpower, and the loss of many ballot boxes in districts where the power of the
PRI
was questionable. As he walked down the stairs, Montalvo doubted that he had the strength, political or physical, to defeat a challenge from either the
PSUM
or the
PAN
again.
The problems faced by the republic were difficult but manageable. Or so the young president had thought when he took office in December of the previous year. The reality of the social and economic collapse that threatened Mexico had been a rude shock even to someone with as much political savvy as Montalvo. “Truth,” he had found, changed dramatically when he was handed the red, white, and green sash that represented the office and responsibility of the president of Mexico.
So too did the political landscape. Seemingly overnight the scattered and quarreling parties on the political left had found new unity and popularity. While the
PRI
still held a majority of the Chamber of Deputies, four hundred seats, more than ever before, had been lost to nonPRI candidates, mostly to the
PAN
who cried for a return to the “true Revolution.”
The once orderly and safe processes of legislation were disrupted and endangered. The non-
PRI
deputies, taking advantage of the disenchantment with the
PRI
that had so nearly defeated Montalvo in his race for president, were unwilling to rubber-stamp legislation proposed by him—legislation that was necessary to make his dreams a reality. The debates that raged on every issue, both on the floor of the chamber and in the news, stalled all effective actiqn and brought to the surface again and again the corruption, fraud, and indifference to the suffering of the Mexican people that had become the grim legacy of the PRI’s rule.
In these troubled times, the parties of both the left and right found new popularity and support from all facets of the population that traditional
PRI
methods could not discourage or beat back into line using the ‘ ‘usual’’
methods. The left and the right seemingly took turns twisting Montalvo’s programs into inflammatory issues that divided, rather than united, the people. The church, through an unnatural coalition with the socialist
PSUM
, saw Montalvo’s programs aimed at population control as a threat to its dogma. Students were finally convinced that the continuation of
PRI
dominance would favor the well connected, not the best and the brightest.
And the workers were shown that they, not the elite, would pay the bill for retiring the massive debt accumulated in the days of brighter hopes and foolish investments. Instead of being able to lead the country down the road to a brighter future, President Montalvo found himself struggling to maintain control as barriers to prevent his programs from going into effect were erected, both in and out of the government.
It did not take long for the specter of a socialist, or even worse, a communist revolt, to appear. Though no hint of preparations for insurgency or threat of violent overthrow of the government by the
PSUM
could be uncovered by the Mexican intelligence community or special security forces controlled by the
PRI
, the Army insisted that those threats were real. Caches of weapons, presumably smuggled across the border from Texas into Tamaulipas, had been seized by Colonel Guajardo’s soldiers in surprise sweeps along the border. Together with the rhetoric of the
PSUM
, which reeked of the classic communist manipulation of the people and the situation, the regional Army commanders began to increase their vigilance and the state of readiness of their troops. As a result, security was tightened as intelligence and security forces redoubled their efforts to discover the threat that the Army claimed was everywhere and was responsible for the growing unrest that was beginning to sweep the country.
The Army, long excluded from the inner circles of policy-making and decisions, remained silent and aloof from the growing political unrest and debates, turning their attention instead to preparations designed to deal with the dangers that only they saw so clearly. The only comment senior staff officers would volunteer in public were pledges to “uphold the traditions of the Revolution and the honor of Mexico” and defend the people and the Revolution from all threats, both internal and foreign. Had any of the president’s advisors paused and carefully analyzed what the colonels were actually saying, the true danger would have been appreciated.
So
the president and the governor greeted each other with minds clouded with many concerns and problems. Though Montalvo wore the stress better than the governor did, each man knew that the other was desperately searching for solutions to his own problems. The president’s concern over the problems that threatened their way of life and the political system that had ruled Mexico since 1928 was no less real than the governor’s concern over political survival. Their greetings, and the introduction to each other’s staff, were, therefore, perfunctory. As President Montalvo and the governor walked into the terminal, questions immediately turned to the matter at hand. Had there been any new outbreaks of violence? Were the police able to contain the oil workers? Had there been any acts of sabotage?