Trial By Fire (65 page)

In his own roundabout way, the G2 was preparing to make a point, a point that Dixon wished he would get to. “Okay, so this ambush isn’t like the others. What’s it mean?”

A smile lit across the G2’s face. “The Mexican Army didn’t ambush the MPs or Lewis. Their story that they don’t know anything about the ambushes, and the one being put out by the government, is true. They didn’t do it.”

Dixon shook his head. “Okay, you’ve lost me. Seems like the info about the weapons being left behind is all very nice, but doesn’t mean much by itself. Anyone can make a mistake. Hell, I got two weeks’ worth of duty log that will prove that.”

The G2 held out a small folder with yellow top secret cover sheets.

“That Mexican we found at the MP checkpoint that was hit came to last night long enough for our people to interrogate him.”

Dixon, wide awake now, sat up. “And?”

“Well, what he said, by itself, didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Most of what he gave us was gibberish. He’s in really bad shape, you see.

Doctors say he should have died. But that’s not important right now.

What is important is that the little info he gave us, combined with other bits and pieces, like the fact that no weapons were taken from either site, adds up.”

Dixon was becoming impatient. The G2 was beginning to ramble.

“Adds up to what?”

Not to be rushed, the G2 used his fingers as he enumerated his points.

“First off, he’s not a Mexican. In fact, he’s not even working for the Mexican government. That we know. As it turns out, he’s a Colombian mercenary. The
CIA
confirmed that a few hours ago. Seems he’s working for some drug lord he kept.calling El Dueno, that’s Spanish for ‘manager.’

We’re not sure why he’s called that, but right now, that’s unimportant.”

Dixon

threw his hands up. “Look, I’m beat. Could you please tell me what is important?”

The G2 looked around to see who was in the room. Then he pushed the folder a little closer to Dixon. “I can’t tell you. Not in here. It’s classified, special compartmented information. You can either read this or come over to my shop and I’ll brief you on what we think this Dueno dude’s been managing.” After Dixon took the folder, the G2, unable to restrain himself, added, “If half the shit that’s in there turns out to be true, our fearless leader in the White House and half the CIA’s staff better find themselves new jobs.”

Palacio Nacional, Mexico City, Mexico

0915 hours, 18 September

With their meeting coming to an end, Molina turned to Barreda. “Then we are agreed, Felipe. Your actions must be timed so as to ensure that Colonel Guajardo will have achieved everything that he can. Do you see a problem with that?”

Barreda shook his head. “No, there is no problem from our side. The problem all hinges on what the commander of the American 16th Armored Division decides to do. I will be prepared to go either way. If the American does not agree to the meeting that Alfredo is trying to set up, or if they run to their government after the meeting and drop the matter into their State Department’s hands, then I will contact the American charge d’affaires and give him everything we have. If, on the other hand, the American division commander agrees to cooperate with Alfredo, then I wait to meet with the charge d’affaires until seven am on the twentieth.”

Closing his eyes, Molina nodded. “Things will go better for you, Felipe, and for us, if we are able to point to a success.”

“As Alfredo and I have pointed out, Carlos, that depends upon the Americans themselves.”

Opening his eyes, Molina turned to Guajardo. “Is there no way to go in and destroy the mercenaries’ base and free the American hostages ourselves? Must we depend on the Americans?”

Guajardo answered without looking up from the folder in front of him.

“Yes, we could try. And I can give you my assurance that none of the mercenaries would escape. But I cannot guarantee the safety of the Americans, especially since we know that there are traitors amongst us, even on the council.”

Guajardo’s comment about traitors on the council made Molina flinch.

He, and he alone, had invited each and every man on the council to join.

The idea that his judgment had been flawed, and could result in the total failure of their efforts, struck him hard. “What makes you think that the American soldiers will be able to do any better than your men?”

Looking up at Barreda, then over to Molina, Guajardo answered slowly and deliberately. “Nothing, absolutely nothing. They, like us, will be going in blind. The big difference is that they will be in control. It will be, essentially, their operation and, God forbid, their failure if the hostages die in the process.”

Molina stood up from his seat at the desk, looked down at the papers that Guajardo had handed him, glanced over to his minister of defense and friend, and sighed. Lifting his face toward the ceiling before looking down at Guajardo again, Molina took a deep breath, then sighed again.

Turning away from his desk, Molina walked over to the window. With his hands behind his back, he looked blankly out into the square below.

After a minute or two, he turned his head slightly toward Guajardo. “Had you come to me with a story that the man in the moon was waiting to see me outside my office, I could not have been more shocked.”

Looking back out the window, Molina folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “Are we being too clever, my friend? Are we trying to be too clever for ourselves? I still feel the better, safer course would be simply to announce publicly what we know, or turn over the information we have on the mercenaries to the Americans. This military operation of yours, Alfredo, and Felipe’s diplomatic brinksmanship, is risky.” Pivoting, he looked at Guajardo. “No, I believe we should simply tell the Americans what we know and be done with this.”

From his seat, Guajardo looked down at his hands, held loosely in his lap. “We must be realists, who deal with the truth as it is, not as we would like it. We all know that as soon as we pass any information through formal channels, no matter how hard we try to safeguard it, Alaman will know. My God, we cannot even trust our own brothers on the council.” Guajardo looked up and fixed his eyes on Molina’s. “Yes, this entails great risk. But if we hope to end this, we must accept the risks. And part of those risks include using the American military to free their own people.”

“Do you agree, Felipe?”

“We must not ignore the fact,” Colonel Felipe Barreda pointed out,

“that a success in this operation will provide both of our nations with an opening for an honorable resolution to this conflict. I fully agree with Alfredo. There is too much at stake to gamble on our ability to pull this off. Even an American failure will give me a basis for opening a dialogue with them.”

Turning about, Molina walked to his desk, gathered up Guajardo and Barreda’s report, and waved it at Guajardo. “You two realize that if the Americans refuse to believe us, then we may not have a future. The future of Mexico that we have brought our people will be one of disgrace and conquest. A future dominated by the gringos and drug lords. Is that what our efforts will bring us?” Letting the papers fall from his hand, Molina walked away from his desk again.

Guajardo’s retort was given in a calm, determined voice. “I intend to ensure personally that everything happens as we have planned.”

Walking around to where Guajardo sat, Molina stopped and looked down at him. “I am sorry, my friend, I cannot allow you to do what you are proposing.”

Guajardo slowly rose. Looking his friend in the eye, he smiled. “Carlos, my friend, I am not asking for your permission. I seek only your blessing.”

Blinking, Molina realized that Guajardo was serious. “It is bad enough, Alfredo, that we are going to do this without consulting the other members of the council. When they find out, I will need you here, at my side while Felipe deals with the American diplomats.”

The smile left Guajardo’s face. “Where I go, as the minister of defense, is purely an operational matter. Since this operation concerns national security and, as such, falls completely within my authority as the minister of defense, it is my responsibility to ensure that it is carried out as planned.”

There was a pause for several seconds as both men looked at each other. Finally, Molina grasped Guajardo’s arms. “You are a fool, Alfredo, an old and stubborn fool.” Then, slowly, a smile crept across Molina’s face. “You do not know how much I wish I could come with you. When do you leave, my friend?”

“As soon as I notify my adjutant to deliver the letter to the Americans, I will depart for Saltillo.”

As his eyes began to moisten, Molina squeezed Guajardo’s arms. “Vaya con Dios, my brother. Vaya con Dios.”

3 kilometers northeast of monterrey along the pan american Highway, Mexico

i 130 hours, 18 September

‘‘Hey, Sarge! We got someone coming up the road and he’s in a hurry.’’

Though most of the men at the roadblock didn’t understand the warning specialist Terry Alison blurted out, his high-pitched squeal was all that was needed to tell them that something was coming down.

Scrambling for their weapons and gear, the men of Staff Sergeant Darrel Jefferson’s squad raced for their positions while Jefferson, with flak vest open and web gear flopping about, ran to join Alison. Like a runner stealing a base, Jefferson slid into the narrow opening of the forward bunker, almost hitting Alison in the rear with his boot as he came to a stop.

Alison heard Jefferson but did not move. Leaning forward, he was steadying his M-16 on the sandbags as he tracked the approaching vehicle.

Even when Jefferson came up next to him and spoke, Alison kept his rifle trained on the approaching target.

“Okay, hot shot, whatta we got?”

“A jeep of some kind. He’s tooling up the middle of the road like nobody’s business.”

Picking up a pair of binoculars from a case next to the bunker’s forward aperture, Jefferson rested his elbows on the sandbags and brought the binoculars up to his eyes. Jefferson studied the approaching jeep. “Do you see a white flag?”

“I see two, Sarge, one on each side of the bumper.”

Lowering the binoculars, Jefferson grunted. “Yeah, I see ‘em too. Do you suppose they want to talk?”

As if on cue, the jeep slowed, then stopped about one hundred meters short of the bunker where Jefferson and Alison sat. Both men could clearly see the two Mexican soldiers sitting in the open jeep staring in the direction of the bunker, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from the Americans.

“Well, either that or these people have a real death wish.” After a second, Alison turned and looked at Jefferson. “Well, Sarge, what do we do?”

“You stay here. I’m going to see what they want.”

Leaving the bunker, Jefferson ordered the other members of his squad to hold their fire. Then, after calling for one of the men nearest him to follow, Jefferson turned and began to approach the passenger side of the stationary jeep while he directed his companion with his right hand to stay behind him and to his right.

When he reached the jeep, Jefferson placed the butt of his M-16 on his right hip, muzzle pointed to the sky. The passenger, an officer wearing a clean uniform, had no weapons showing. Assuming that he spoke English, Jefferson decided to skip the formalities since this officer was, after all, the enemy. Besides, Jefferson had no idea of what the officer’s rank was. For all he knew, this could be nothing more than a second lieutenant.

“What do you want?”

“I am Major Antonio Caso. I am here on behalf of Colonel Alfredo Guajardo, the minister of defense for the United States of Mexico. I have a personal message from Colonel Guajardo for the commanding general of the 16th Armored Division.” ,

Jefferson looked at the Mexican officer for a moment. The first thought that popped into Jefferson’s head was one of dread: Shit, why in the hell does this kind of stuff always happen to me? Manning an outpost was one thing. He knew how to deal with that. Talking to the enemy and receiving personal messages for the division commander was something that was a little bit more than he could deal with. Still, he had to do something.

After all, this Mexican was obviously serious. “Let me see the letter.”

Without flinching, Caso shook his head. “I am sorry, Sergeant. I cannot let you have the letter. My orders are to personally deliver it to your division commander.”

Seeing that the major’s eyes betrayed no fear, no hesitation, Jefferson knew that he was serious. Without another thought, he decided it was time to pass this off to someone who got paid to deal with this kind of crap. “Okay, Major, you and your driver stay right here. I’m going to get my CO out here. He’ll know what to do.” Suddenly, Jefferson laughed as he thought about his young company commander. Like hell he’ll know, Jefferson thought. Like hell.

63 kilometers north of monterrey, mexico

2230 hours, 18 September ‘

As

they waited for the Mexican Army colonel to be shown in, Big Al sat in a chair turned sideways at an old wooden table, staring at the floor with a vacant look on his face while Dixon nervously paced. The only sound was the hiss of the kerosene lantern that sat on the table and provided the only light in the room.

That he was allowing himself to be sucked into this was as much a surprise to Malin as it was to his staff. Big Al had no doubt that what he was about to do far exceeded his authority. Both he and Dixon knew that, when this incident was reviewed by people back in Washington, D.C., sitting in air-conditioned offices after having had a good night’s sleep in a clean bed followed by a hearty breakfast, no amount of reasoning or logic would be able to save them. After all, the entire affair sounded more like a script from a mystery movie than a military operation.

From

the beginning, everything, from the appearance of the Mexican Army major to their covert meeting in an old ranch house just behind the front line trace, was so unreal, so new. Even the means of contacting the Mexican minister of defense had been strange, almost comical. When Dixon had asked Major Caso how they were to give Colonel Guajardo their response, Caso had informed them that the postmaster in Sabinas Hidalgo had a secret phone line that the leader of the local guerrilla unit had been using for receiving his orders and reporting American troop movements. “We are,” Caso told the Americans with a smile, “keeping that line open so that, when you are ready, it will ring in Colonel Guajardo’s forward command post in Saltillo.”