When can you leave?”
“Will tonight be soon enough?”
“Tonight will be just fine. Besides making the necessary arrangements and coordination, is there anything else I can do to help you?”
Lewis was about to say no, but,changed his mind. “Yes, Mr. President, there is. Could I have another cup of coffee?”
Headquarters, 16th Armored Division, Sabinas Hidalgo, Mexico 1705 hours, 15 September
Officially referred to as an operational pause, the order to halt all offensive operations and avoid contact with Mexican forces came as no surprise to Big Al and Scott Dixon. It was, Big Al dryly commented, about time that someone in Washington took note of the fact that maybe the Mexicans had different ideas about the presence of U.S. forces in Mexico.
Still, the cost of the battle of Monterrey, and the sudden reversal of government policy immediately after, put Big Al, and all American commanders in the field, in a difficult position.
Too much hype about their own capabilities and too little regard for that of the Mexicans hadn’t prepared the American soldiers going into Mexico for the kind of war that they now faced. They were willing, one soldier told a reporter, to do their jobs. All they asked for, he went on,
“was for someone to tell us the truth, for a change.” Unfortunately, with
“the truth” changing almost by the hour, there was little that Big Al and other commanders like him could do. Every new directive, every new change in policy, evoked the same response from him: “It’s Vietnam all over again.” He did what he could, and asked the soldiers in his command to bear with him.
One thing that he could do was protect his force, deploying it in such a manner that it could protect itself without leaving any elements exposed to unnecessary risk. With the 16th Armored Division spread out like it was, this would be no simple task. As the ambush on the division’s own CP, and numerous other attacks throughout the division’s rear areas, showed that, while the Mexicans might have given ground, they had conceded nothing.
As part of the reshuffling of forces into a defensive posture, the 3rd Brigade was ordered to release the 2nd of the 13th Infantry, which, in turn, reverted back to division control as a reserve. Because the threat from small, lightly armed raiding parties in the rear areas was greater than that of a major attack by Mexican forces, it was decided to disperse elements of 2nd of the 13th to various rear-area facilities in an effort to discourage raids.
Though many would like to believe otherwise, the influence that egos and politics have in the decision-making process is, at times, just as important in troop units as it is in Washington. The manner in which 2nd Platoon, A Company, 2nd of the 13th, found its way to the division CP to provide security is an example. When Major Tod McQuirer, the operations officer of 2nd of the 13th, was informed that they were going to be tasked to provide a platoon to the division CP for security, he saw an opportunity to help out his friend and drinking buddy, the commander of A Company.
Calling Wittworth to the battalion CP, McQuirer discussed the matter with him.
“Stan, we just got a tasking from brigade to detach one platoon to go back to the division CP in order to provide security for them.” With a knowing smile, he looked Wittworth in the eyes. “Do you think you could help?”
Seeing an opportunity to rid himself of the 2nd Platoon and its platoon leader, Second Lieutenant N. Kozak, Wittworth said, “Sure. Though it will be hard, I think I can spare 2nd Platoon.”
Though McQuirer knew that Wittworth was full of shit, he played along for the benefit of the officers and NCOs in the CP who just might overhear the conversation. Ever since Kozak had changed her statement about the September 7 incident, Wittworth had been looking for a way to get rid of her. The second statement had not only put Wittworth on the spot, her change of mind had shown that she didn’t have the slightest thought of loyalty for him, her commander. McQuirer had agreed, especially after Witt worth showed him the part that stated her orders “were not clear and did not appear to consider the situation at our location.” That had been enough. Unfortunately for Wittworth, she went on to state, “Despite repeated efforts to advise my commander of the nature of the situation, he simply repeated his initial order.” The second statement resulted in Kozak’s being exonerated and earned him a written reprimand. McQuirer hadn’t helped Wittworth’s state of mind by telling him that, if Kozak had been an ordinary infantry officer—i.e., a male—the second statement would never have been accepted.
As bad as that incident had been, it didn’t even compare to what had happened outside of Monterrey on the twelfth of September. Her disrespectful manner to him on an open radio net that was being monitored not only by every leader in Company A, but also by the battalion commander,, had been bad enough. That the battalion commander not only had ignored Kozak’s snide comment, but had congratulated her, then and a second time after the battle, made’it worse. When, on the thirteenth of September, Wittworth went to see the battalion commander to protest, he was again reprimanded for his conduct and, this time, for his pettiness.
Kozak, Wittworth knew, had to go.
With a wink, McQuirer discounted Wittworth’s feigned concern. “Well, I’m really sorry to hit you up like this, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to make due with two platoons.” So that it appeared to be a choice based on sound logic, rather than hurt egos, McQuirer explained his “official”
reasoning. “Since your 2nd Platoon is short a platoon sergeant, and the Bradley that the platoon sergeant had been on has lost its fire-control system, they are the least combat-ready platoon. Back at the division CP, the platoon sergeant and damaged Bradley won’t be missed.”
Making a show of it, Wittworth sighed. “Well, sir, you’re right. I guess I have no choice. When do they leave?”
For Kozak, the assignment was welcome. Getting used to Staff Sergeant Maupin as the platoon sergeant and Sergeant Kaszynski as the 1st Squad leader was no big problem. In fact, the only problem she saw that needed to be tended to was with herself. In a span of less than a week, her entire world had been turned upside down.
Up until the seventh of September, the day they had gone into Mexico after the bank robbers, Kozak had thought nothing could be worse than her first six months at West Point. The physical and mental stress and strain of that six months, however, now seemed trivial when compared to the demands of command in combat. After the firefight in Nuevo Laredo, Kozak had almost lost it when Rivera pulled the zipper up on Private Gunti’s body bag. She still found it impossible to pull up the zipper on her own sleeping bag without panicking. And then there was the sight of Sergeant Rivera himself after the fight with the tanks, laid out on a stretcher, his face as white as a sheet from shock and the loss of blood.
The seemingly cold, matter-of-fact comment by his gunner, who had been sitting next to Rivera when their Bradley was hit, still echoed in her mind. When Kozak and the dismounts rejoined the Bradleys after their fight at the arroyo, and she asked how Rivera was, the gunner had looked up at her. “Oh, he’ll be okay, I guess. Sarge is lucky. He only lost an arm.”
It was in the calm after the battle that Kozak had been able to consider what had happened and, even worse, what could have happened. Like a person who walks away from an auto accident, it was only after the danger had passed that Kozak began to shake as the images of what might have been became clear to her. The thought that an entire enemy tank battalion might come crashing down on her and the handful of dismounts she had deployed never occurred to her before she initiated the antitank ambush. Her failure to contact Wittworth herself and push for the support they needed would have been fatal had the battalion commander not been in a position where he could see what was going on and quickly put two and two together. It was, Kozak realized, the same situation she had faced at Fort Hood, only bigger this time. It was as if she hadn’t learned a thing from Captain Cerro that day. And if that were true, would she, could she, ever?
So when the order came down to 2nd Platoon, Company A, to report to the division’s headquarters commandant, Kozak was hard-pressed to hide her relief. Back at the division CP, tucked safely in the division rear areas, she would have time to sort herself out. She needed time to absorb the horrors of combat. Like her nose, the wounds of her spirit and mind needed time to heal.
20 kilometers west of sabinas hldalgo, mexico 1935 hours, 15 September
Like clouds on the distant horizon that foreshadow a coming storm, forces were in motion that would deny Kozak what she needed most, time.
The operational pause that was meant to provide the people in Washington with time to reassess their policy toward Mexico was a godsend to Senior Alaman. It provided him and his mercenaries with conditions that couldn’t be more perfect for what they intended to do. With U.S. forces deep in Mexico, spread very thin and operating in the midst of a hostile population that provided cover for an active guerrilla force, it would be easy for Delapos’s teams to move about and attack isolated American outposts and columns. That the Mexicans would be blamed for both the attacks and the atrocities Delapos’s people would commit was without doubt. And for the American soldiers who would witness the results of the atrocities and have to live in fear of them, the desire to exact revenge from the nearest Mexican would, Alaman knew, soon become overpowering.
With atrocity repaying atrocity, it would not be long before the bloody cries for revenge drowned out the calls for diplomacy and reason.
It was now simply a matter of timing. As with the raids along the Texas border, Alaman warned Delapos to take his time and set the stage properly before acting. “It would be a shame,” Alaman repeated at every chance, “to come this far and lose everything because we were in too much of a hurry. Time now is a friend that we can use freely. So long as we are willing to be a little patient, the opportunities that will bring us success will come our way.”
All of this, to Jean Lefleur, that evening, was purely academic. He seldom bothered himself with the details of his bosses’ ambitions or goals. His needs were few. In fact, his only needs were money and job satisfaction. So long as someone was willing to provide both, he was happy. As he sat in the passenger side of his newly acquired four-by-four, feet up on the dash and headed toward Sabinas Hidalgo, there was a smile on his face as he hummed old marching songs from the French Foreign Legion.
At that moment, it seemed like he had it all. Alaman’s call for the mercenaries to continue their agitation in Mexico, at triple the pay they had been receiving, paid in advance, was an offer only a fool would turn down. That in itself would have been more than enough to satisfy Lefleur.
What really capped the offer was a change in his status within Delapos’s small army. The American, Childress, who had served as Delapos’s unofficial deputy and advisor, had fallen out of favor. Lefleur couldn’t tell for sure what had caused the problem between Childress and Delapos.
Part of it, he knew, was the fact that Childress was lukewarm to the idea of committing what Childress called murder. Though the atrocities they intended to carry out exceeded what they had done in the past, however, that in itself was not enough to explain Childress’s mood.
No, Lefleur thought. That was not at the heart of the problem. The real problem, Lefleur suspected, was the obvious one, one that neither man was willing to admit. Childress, despite all his training and years as a mercenary, was and would always be an American, just as Delapos could never be anything but a Mexican. The impressions and beliefs left by the cultures that had spawned them and raised them left a mark upon the two men that no amount of money could ever wash away. Childress did little to hide the agitation he felt when Delapos bragged about the manner in which the Mexican Army had beaten the arrogant gringos. Nor could Delapos ignore Childress’s use of the words dago, greaser, and such when referring to Mexicans. As the war between their homelands expanded, so too, Lefleur knew, did the gap between the two men. And it was into that gap that Lefleur intended to insert himself.
No longer able to trust Childress, Delapos began to turn to Lefleur for the advice that Childress used to provide. For Delapos, so anxious to please Alaman, had great difficulty making major decisions on his own, a fact that both Childress and Lefleur had used to their own advantage so many times before. Needing someone he could trust to help him talk his way through to a decision, and unable fully to trust Childress any longer, Delapos accepted Lefleur’s counsel more and more. Even the grueling task of reconnaissance, long hours of driving about coupled with the need to dodge or bluff through both Mexican and American outposts and lines, provided another chance for Lefleur to increase his value to Delapos, not to mention his salary. While Childress was left to organize and defend the base camp, Lefleur went out on reconnaissance, familiarizing himself with the ground and seeking routes that could be used for infiltration and vulnerable spots that were susceptible to attack. With intimate knowledge of the terrain and unit dispositions, Lefleur, not Childress, would be able to influence Delapos and future operations.
Armed with a false passport and other ID that identified him as Paul Perrault, a real correspondent for the French National News Network, Lefleur had no trouble moving about the American sector. Since the other men who traveled with Lefleur carried IDs that supported Lefleur’s, and enough camera and sound equipment to support their claims, few Americans at roadblocks and checkpoints bothered to search them or their vehicle. Even if the Americans had found the MP-5 submachine gun under Lefleur’s seat, or the weapons each of his men kept concealed within arm’s reach, Lefleur felt that he could easily talk his way out of any difficulty. There were, after all, banditos about, and he as well as his crew had the right to defend themselves.
So when Lefleur and his men came up to a checkpoint manned by half a dozen MPs at the entrance to the gap between mountains that led to Sabinas Hidalgo, where the CP for the American 16th Armored Division was, Lefleur didn’t give it a second thought. Still, he instinctively evaluated the situation and assessed his chances should it become necessary to fight his way out.