by Frank Perry
she called. After dressing, he put his gear in the bag and saw the red light blinking on his cellphone. Rachael had left a message. They hadn’t talked for more than a week, and his heart picked up a beat. He called her immediately.
When she answered, he said, “Hi, I see that you tried calling me?”
She had just gotten home, “Yeah. I just stopped to take in the view from our perch along the Potomac -- the one across from the Cathedral. I just felt like talking to you while I was there.”
“Oh, ah, sorry. I was finishing my workout.”
“Hmm, so you’re all cleaned up?”
“Ah, yep.”
There was a pause, and he let out a deep breath waiting for her response.
“You want to come over for dinner?” Her voice seemed a little hesitant.
He couldn’t believe she said it. Neither could she, almost wondering if she’d regret it.
He tried to control his excitement, “Sure, ah, what can I bring -- correction, let me bring some steaks.”
“Sounds good. Come quickly. I’m starving.”
He sprinted out of the Gym, nearly running through the glass door. She put a bottle of white wine in the ice drawer and opened a bottle of red to let it breathe. She decided not to put on any music. She wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, or if it sent a signal they would both regret.
The Best and Worst
It took all day to collect evidence and clean up the mess on the border. The helicopter searched for the missing man, and two Mexican bodies were seen from the air. They were wounded and left by comrades in the desert for the animals.
During the cleanup operation, Stokes stood near Mike Schmitt who said, “You know, John, this has been my best day and worst day in uniform after twenty years. Go figure.”
“I know what you mean, Mike. I get to write a couple letters to families, too.”
“Yeah, something’s going on though. Taking your man doesn’t do any good and my guys just want to kill someone.”
“Yeah. Well, my troops are war vets, and they know how to kill first and sort out the good guys afterward. We could have even bigger problems if this becomes a shooting war.”
Schmitt shook his head. Throughout his career, most of the work had been about saving lives. Workers trying to get across into America were always taking chances against exposure, animals, starvation, or bandits, just to make enough money to support their families. Most of the Border Agents were humanitarians. He was also worried that innocent people would now die in large numbers.
He asked the leaders from every agency to meet back at Headquarters for debriefing. Stokes, Gorman, Diaz and one of the surviving Guardsmen drove back in the HMMWV without talking. They had lost two men that day. Stokes was determined to get one back alive. The day ended by recounting events that everyone already knew. It was a solemn meeting.
Late in the afternoon of the following day, everyone convened in the briefing room as their normal routine before going on patrol. Schmitt came in ten minutes late carrying a copy of an email. He moved to the podium and just stared at everyone. He looked down a second time and slowly shook his head. After another moment he began, "Unbelievable, unbelievable. This is a note ... ” He couldn’t speak immediately and had to pause.
“This is another message from Cardenas. It says they’re gonna kill someone as another spectacle. If you want to read what this sick bastard says, I’ll leave it up here.” Mike looked withered, but remained strong in front of the officers. “I’m going to talk to Washington. This has got to stop!”
He walked away from the podium, signaling that the meeting was over before it began. LTC Colson talked to the Guard officers while the group was dispersing. “I’m going to ask for more manpower, but I don’t think the Guard has any more to give. We can probably get some pressure on the DoD to give us some troops from Bliss, but it isn’t a long-term solution. We lost a couple of ours yesterday, at least one is dead. How can we keep our guys safe?”
No one had any answers. Gorman spoke first, “Look, Colonel, this is bullshit, if you’ll excuse my language. Our guys are getting killed and possibly tortured by Mexican bastards. The U.S. has got to respond. We did it before, and we ought to do it again.”
In 1917 General "Black Jack" Pershing had led the “Mexican Expedition” against Pancho Villa after attacks by the bandit’s gang into Texas and New Mexico.
She responded, “Look, Lieutenant, I’m as upset as anyone, but Mexico is a sovereign country and diplomats have to work it out. I’m certainly not declaring war on Mexico.”
Gorman persisted, “We went into Laos and Pakistan and other places when our troops were threatened without permission from the Governments. Let’s go into Juarez and kick some ass.”
She came back, “Rick, I’m as upset as you are. I’ll work the Government channels and see what I can do. In the meantime, you men are ordered to stand down.”
Stokes hadn’t said anything, but felt exactly as Gorman -- they all did.
They broke up, and Stokes agreed to meet Gorman at the Officer’s Club at Ft. Bliss later that evening.
Dinner
Peter arrived about an hour after Rachael’s call. She was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt, and he was dressed the same.
He’d lived with her for several months when he transferred to Washington from Illinois. It felt awkward returning as a visitor after their separation, and he waited to be invited in. She glanced into his eyes momentarily, then gestured him into the kitchen. Both felt strange in their new relationship. He hadn’t been there in months, yet it was all familiar. Peter was guarded about presuming much. She helped his uneasiness saying, “Everything is where it always was, so go to work. I’m starving.”
“Sure. Is there charcoal for the grill?”
“I haven’t used it for a few months, so there should be.”
He placed the groceries on the counter and went out the back.
Through the open window she said, “I’ll make the salad, do you want to grill potatoes?”
“Yep. I brought some along with a large yellow onion to grill.”
“Wow, really planning ahead, soldier!” She was finding it difficult to moderate the dialogue.
She started pulling vegetables from the refrigerator, enjoying having him there again.
Rachael joined him on the small porch with two glasses of Pinot Grigio, as he lit the coals. She knew he would prefer beer, but wine fit her mood.
He took the glass, smiled and looked into her eyes, but she deflected quickly. He resisted the urge to put his arms around her. Their prior relationship wasn’t built on impulse. If they were ever to regain any intimacy, there were still tough issues. She clinked glasses saying, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” The old Bogie line had just the right amount of neutrality to warm the moment, but not tip over the edge.
The rest of the evening went by quietly. It wasn’t a first date, but it had signs of a new relationship: at least, he hoped so. Around ten, it was time to go. He sensed, or hoped, that she wanted him to stay longer. As he started to rise, she wanted to talk. He sat back saying, “Rachael, this was wonderful.” He looked away for a moment, and when she didn’t respond, he added, “Hon, is there something you want to tell me?”
Like their lunch a few weeks earlier, apprehension overtook him. She seemed to understand. “Peter, I just wanted to be with you tonight. That’s all.”
Taking her hand, he said, “I don’t want to get melancholy, but I hope we can do this again.”
She kissed his cheek, then rose to signal time was up. Leading him to the door, she’d decided not to burden him with her office problems. The night had been a more than she expected, maybe a new beginning.
He gripped her hand and said goodnight.
Border Violence
The killing of Billy Ware infuriated the American public. Around Washington, meetings between U.S. and Mexican officials were happening throughout the week. In Mexico City, t
he Ambassador called on the President of the country. Some U.S. Government people, mostly Congressmen, made threats of possible invasion if it was necessary to stop the violence along the border.
In response, Mexican officials were furious. They blamed the violence north and south of the border on American drug demand. The cartels had moved into all of the border towns and major cities across Mexico. More than five thousand people had been killed in Juarez this year alone, and the number was growing twenty percent annually. The sole reason in the minds of the Mexicans was America’s righteous hypocrisy. The only reason the violence existed was American drug laws, which conflicted with the underlying demand of the population. The violence affected Mexicans more than “Norte Americanos.”
Four thousand Federal Police and the Mexican Army's 3rd Brigade of Military Police were attempting to resist the bloodthirsty syndicates along the border. At least the Mexican Government was making the case. The government was corrupt at the highest levels, and there was little anyone could do against the powerful cartels. America spent hundreds of billions of dollars trying to keep the lawlessness below the border, while Mexican officials fought the outlaws from the south. At the same time, American citizens continued spending billions for recreational drugs, no matter how blood soaked. The result was an explosive environment that left the Northern Mexican towns as battle zones with both sides pointing to the other for solutions.
Mexico pleaded with the