Trial by fire: a novel

by Harold Coyle

  24.

  The Spartans do not ask how many the enemy number, but where they are.

  --Agis of Sparta

  7 KILOMETERS NORTHWEST OF SAN LaZARO, MEXICO

  0600 hours, 19 September

  Carefully picking his way through the loose rocks of the gully, Childress paused as he left its cover. To his front, the ground finally began to flatten out. Though the sparse chaparral that seemed to spread out before Childress without end appeared desolate and uninviting, it was far more hospitable than the barren hills behind him. He would be glad, he thought, to leave, for this land, like his profession, no longer suited him.

  From the east a sudden breeze swirled around him, sending a chill down his spine. Looking to the left, he could see the sun peeking over the tops of the Sierra de la Garia. It was not, however, an inviting sun.

  Instead of the usual pale yellow ball of fire that he had come to associate with this part of the world, Childress watched as a strange reddish-orange orb struggled to climb above the distant mountain peaks. The glow that it cast across the plain before him bathed everything, even the colorless rocks at his feet, in an eerie, almost blood-red hue. While Childress viewed this strange sight, an old sailor's ditty about the sky came to his tired and troubled mind. The lines ran through his head as if someone were behind him, whispering them in his ear: "Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning."

  Glancing over his right shoulder, Childress looked back at the twin peaks of the hills he had passed through for any activity or signs that he had been followed. There were none. Not that Childress had expected any. He had been careful to avoid the sentinels posted around Delapos's base camps. Since it had been his task to set up security for the base camps, and he had personally walked the hills, he knew where every outpost and sentinel was posted.

  The greatest threat, when he and Delapos had been setting up the camps, had appeared to be from the hills to the north and east that dominated the mines and mining camps that they were using. If a raiding force was able to secure that high ground while blocking the trails leading from the east and west into the camps, escape would be difficult, at best.

  Since seizing the high ground and attacking downhill was a technique favored by both the Americans and Mexicans, Delapos had put most of his efforts into guarding against such an attack from those hills. Since the approach from the village of Ejido de Dolores provided an attacker with a quick and direct route into the base camps, it also had received a great deal of attention. By the time they got around to the south and east, there had been few assets left to guard against attack from those quarters. Not that either man considered an attack from those directions very likely.

  Both expected that any attacker, if one came, would be drawn to the natural benefits of the northern and western approaches.

  It was for those reasons that Childress chose to leave by the southern route now that he had decided it was time to terminate his association with Delapos, Alaman, and their schemes. He had, Childress decided, overstayed his welcome in Mexico. Though he was a mercenary, and felt no need or desire to apologize to any man for that, he was not a terrorist.

  He would leave such things to men like Lefleur, who saw no difference between the profession of arms and murder.

  To his front, the red stain of the morning sun was beginning to fade.

  The sun, a little higher in the sky, was beginning to wash out. Adjusting the straps of his rucksack, Childress prepared to continue his journey to San Lazaro, then south to Saltillo. Eventually, all of this--Delapos, Lefleur, the desolate landscape, and the war--would be behind him. With luck, he would be back in his beloved Vermont in time to see the foliage change and watch the first snow fall.

  Headquarters, 16th Armored Division, Sabinas Hidalgo, Mexico

  0715 hours, 19 September

  Even though Kozak hadn't told the members of her platoon the nature of the mission, they could tell. Instinctively, in a way that only a long serving soldier knew, every man could sense that something was going down. As she followed Captain Cerro down the ranks of her platoon during his first precombat inspection, Kozak could see the emotion each man felt in his face. Most showed a confidence that bordered on arrogance.

  The faces of other soldiers, despite their best efforts to hide them, betrayed small, unmistakable signs of fear. A few were even impatient.

  Though they didn't know where they were going, when they were going, what they would do when they got there, or why, all they wanted to do was to get on with the mission, whatever it was.

  Passing from one soldier to the next with little to do but look each man in the eye as Cerro inspected him, Kozak wished that somehow some of the confidence she saw in some of their faces could, like magic, flow from them to her. But she knew that such things did not happen. The confidence she needed that morning had to come from within. No one, not the general with all of his rank and authority, not Colonel Dixon with his plans and reputation as a fighter, not even Cerro with the air of professionalism and confidence that he wore like a cloak, could give Kozak what she needed most. Only trial by fire would tell if she was what she had so long pretended to be, a soldier.

  As much as she would have liked to believe in herself, the two fights which she had already participated in hadn't given her the assurance that she was what she wanted to be. Though the two fights, the one in Nuevo Laredo and the one north of Monterrey, had been very different, they had been similar in one important point. In each case, Kozak had simply reacted. Neither situation, even the battle against the tanks, had given her an opportunity to think more than one or two minutes in advance. Everything had been quick, unexpected, and unpredictable. They had been more like car wrecks than battles. Though she had done well, or so she was told, Kozak still lacked the confidence that came from knowing, in her heart as well as her mind, that she had what it took to be a leader.

  So she both looked forward to and feared the upcoming raid. No wargame or drill, no reading or lecture, no badge or ribbon, no peacetime test or physical exam, could tell her, or any infantryman preparing to go into battle, if she was a true combat leader. Not until it came time to go over the top, to face, as they used to say, the push and pull of the bayonet, would she know for sure if she was a combat leader.

  Nearing the end of the last rank, Kozak wondered how many good men had been lost in battle because, at the last minute, their leader suddenly discovered that he didn't have the right stuff. How many graves were filled with the corpses of trusting soldiers who were betrayed by a system that allowed untried and unfit leaders to take them to war. Pausing, she looked back along the rank she had just passed, praying to herself that her vanity and ego, her single-minded drive to be the first woman infantry officer, wouldn't cost these men their lives.

  From the shade of one of the CP's vans, Dixon watched Cerro and Kozak complete their inspection. They would, he thought, make a good pair.

  Cerro had more than enough confidence for both of them, and Kozak had a quiet, businesslike manner that made shoestring operations like this one possible.

  From the east, the beating of helicopter blades through the quiet morning air announced the approach of the Blackhawks. Squinting, Dixon searched the sky until he saw the five helicopters. Though the operation needed only four, three in a pinch, Dixon had decided to add a fifth as an added margin of safety. They had only one chance to get this thing right and he didn't want what happened to the Teheran raid to happen tonight. He had, after 1

  all, a personal stake in the success, or failure, of this operation.

  The choppers were no sooner on the ground than Cerro gave the order to commence loading. Besides Kozak's platoon, two medics and an extra radioman for Cerro would go. The radioman, at Cerro's request, was Dixon's own driver, Fast Eddie. Though Eddie, like Kozak's platoon,

  ¦

  didn't know where he was going, he was glad to get out of the division ¦

  main for a while, even if it meant ca
rrying a radio.

  Besides the rations and water they would need for the next twenty-four hours, and their basic load of ammunition, Cerro was taking nine AT-4

  antitank rocket launchers to be divided between the three squads, and two M-60 machine guns with 600 rounds per gun. Though the banditos, as everyone now referred to the mercenaries, didn't have anything bigger than a pickup truck, rocket launchers and M-6os would be useful in taking out machine-gun positions or banditos holed up in a building that 40mm grenades and the 5.56mm squad automatic weapons could not reach. Cerro had even tried to get a 60mm mortar, but couldn't find one in time. The consummate American warrior, Cerro was in love with firepower; the more, the better.

  Once the helicopters were loaded, they would take Cerro's force to an isolated spot where he could brief the ground force, conduct some rehearsals, link up with Colonel Guajardo and his helicopter, and rest his troops. By noon, he would have everything except the Apache attack helicopters in hand, briefed on the mission, and at least one short rehearsal completed. If necessary, he would then have the balance of the afternoon to refine his plan, conduct another rehearsal, or rest his troops.

  Either way, Cerro showed no worry about being able to make their ; scheduled 2100 hours liftoff time.

  "I thought I would find you here, Scotty."

  Turning, Dixon didn't even salute Big Al as he came up to stand next to him and watch the ground force prepare for departure. Instead, he stood there for a moment without looking at the general, then spoke.

  "Have you reconsidered my request, sir?"

  Without turning toward Dixon, and not wanting to rehash the converation, Big Al simply told him no in a manner that could leave no doubt in Dixon's mind that all discussion was at an end. After a couple of minutes' silence, however, during which Big Al began to feel like a heel, he turned to Dixon. "Look, Scotty, you're too goddamned old to be crawling around in the dark, on your belly, like a twenty-two-year-old ranger candidate. And it won't do you any good to remind me that the Mexican colonel is at least five years older than you. I'm not responsible for him." Big Al paused, softening his tone before he continued. "Besides, the last thing we need is a person emotionally involved, like you, dicking around out there tonight. Given your current state of mind, not to mention lack of sleep, you'd be of no use to the mission or Jan, not to mention yourself. As much as I would love to let you go, Scotty, I am ordering you to stay."

  Dixon had expected Big Al's answer. He knew Big Al was right. He knew that it would be pointless for him to go out there. That wasn't his kind of war. That wasn't what he was trained for. He would be, as Big Al pointed out, a threat, not an asset. Dixon had done everything he could to plan and prepare the mission. All of that was, he knew, logical and correct. Still, the thought of staying behind, doing nothing while others prepared to go out and save the only person in the world that really mattered to him, cut him to the bone. The idea that he had done his best, and that that might not be good enough to save Janr broke down whatever restraint and reserve of calm Dixon had left. As he watched Cerro walk from helicopter to helicopter, making sure everyone was in place and all was ready for liftoff, tears began to streak down Dixon's cheeks. Big Al pretended not to notice. Instead, he just stood next to his G3, watching the helicopters as, one by one, they lifted off and disappeared to the south.

  4 kilometers east of ejido de dolores, mexico

  1200 hours, 19 September

  Delapos turned away from the window and again began pacing the small room that served as his office. He did so for several minutes before he stopped by the window, looked out in the direction of Ejido de Dolores for a minute, and went back to his pacing. The thought that he could lose both Childress and Lefleur did not seem possible. It did not seem fair, either, especially since Lefleur had dumped the American congressman and his companions and left, leaving him the responsibility of deciding what to do with them. It would have been better, Delapos kept thinking, if the fool had simply killed the Americans and been done with them. As it was, if neither Lefleur nor Childress showed up, and he received no suggestions from Alaman, he would have to decide how and when to dispose of the matter himself.

  While he was pacing, the idea that the two of them, Childress and Lefleur, were in league, and had deserted together or betrayed him, crossed Delapos's mind briefly. He quickly dismissed that thought, however.

  The only thing those two had in common was the naked hatred each had for the other, a hatred that Delapos had used, on occasion, to his advantage. No, he thought, those two could never work together on their own.

  Though there was always the chance that one or both of them had been captured, Delapos was sure that he would have heard, by now, of such a thing or, worse, have had a visit from the Mexican Army. There was nothing, however, that indicated any danger. Still, as a precaution, he had ordered the number of outposts and lookouts on the hills to the north and west doubled. He had even sent extra people into the villages to listen for news of any increased patrols or activities by the Mexican Army. If there was trouble coming, Delapos felt comfortable that he would hear of it in time to flee.

  That, however, did nothing to relieve his concern and apprehensions concerning the whereabouts of his two best men. Stopping at the window again, he looked vacantly toward the west, trying to clear his mind. He would give them until that evening to show up before he notified Alaman and began preparations to move his base of operation. He was too committed to Alaman's program of terror to let the mistakes of a few of his people, no matter who they were, stop him from succeeding. If, in the end, they could do what Alaman said they could, and Alamn regained the power and status he'd had before the June 29 revolution, Delapos could end his wanderings and retire a rich and powerful man in his own right.

  Yes, he would do that. In the morning, if Childress or Lefleur still hadn't shown, he would begin sending his people and equipment out to the alternate location before they commenced their operations on the twenty-first. As for the Americans, they would be disposed of as part of the move. He would send the Americans out with the first team. They could be killed somewhere along the way.

  Turning away from the window, Delapos resumed his pacing but abruptly stopped when he was struck by a sudden inspiration. What if, he thought, he sent that first team out before dawn with the dead Americans to Saltillo, where his men could leave their fresh bodies at the doorstep of the military garrison wrapped in the morning paper. Such an act would be a worthy beginning to their war of terror. Besides, it would pass on to the Mexican government a problem that not even the cleverest member of the Council of 13 could explain to the Americans. Yes, he would do that.

  10 kilometers south of sabinas hldalgo, mexico

  1758 hours, 19 September

  Sucking in his breath, Lieutenant Blasio looked at the gathering of American pilots, then marched over to join them. It would be difficult, he thought, to work with these men. After all, only a few hours ago they had been the enemy and would be, perhaps, again tomorrow. Still, if his colonel felt comfortable with the Americans and could work with them, so could he. The men he would work with were, after all, aviators, no different from himself.

  When he was within a few feet of the American pilots, their conversation began to die out as one of them noticed him and then, attempting to be discreet, warned the others that "he" was coming. By the time Blasio joined the circle of aviators waiting for their final briefing, the silence was total. The American Army colonel, the aviation officer for the 16th Armored Division, who would be giving the briefing, glanced at his watch before he looked about, first at his people, then at Blasio. Satisfied that everyone who needed to be there was present, he began.

  , "Okay, since everyone is here and eager to start, we'll begin early. By now, you've all had an opportunity to look over the route and the order.

  The key to this operation, as if you haven't heard it enough today, is simplicity and synchronization. Although there are only, relatively speaking, a few airc
raft involved, and we're going to be playing follow the leader, everyone needs to be on his, or her, toes and ready to take the lead at any time. Should you find yourself in the lead, remember the lowest common denominator."

  When the American colonel mentioned lowest common denominator, he was looking at Blasio. Though he could feel the anger in him welling up, Blasio did not show it. Instead, he returned the colonel's stare without so much as a blink. Why, Blasio thought, did the Americans think themselves so superior simply because they had better machines? Without having to ask, he knew that he had more flying hours, under worse conditions, than most of the American pilots sitting there. It was only natural, since Mexico had so few helicopters and so many demands.

  With, perhaps, the exception of the colonel doing the briefing and one or two of the older aviation warrant officers, Blasio knew in his heart that he would have little difficulty matching or besting the skills of any pilot there, given a machine of equal ability. And yet the gringos assumed, just because they had newer, faster, more complex, and more expensive aircraft, that they were somehow better than he. While he would never be able to change their minds, he was determined to give the gringos a reason for doubting their groundless preeminence. Blasio knew that he not only had to defend his own pride--he was, that night, representing the honor of all Mexican military pilots. He would not let them down.

  As the American colonel continued, Blasio had to push those thoughts from his head. The briefing was being given in English. Though he spoke and understood English, he had to give all of his attention to that effort.

  "Right, from the top, one more time. At 2100 hours, three hours from now, the lead Blackhawk, the CG's command and control bird, will lift off carrying Captain Cerro, his RTO, and two two-man pathfinder teams.

  Colonel Guajardo of the Mexican Army and a guide will follow the CG's bird in his own helicopter."