Trial By Fire (37 page)

Putting her hands on her hips, with her chin stuck out, Jan shot back,

“Okay, you guys. How ‘bout moving your male bonding back to the hotel pool. I hear water spots is all the rage now with the guys.”

Joe Bob just smiled a big toothy grin as he continued to hold a white panel Ted was using for judging light conditions. “God, Jan, you’re really sweet when you’re angry.”

Ted, who had had his head bent over reading a light meter, looked up into Joe Bob’s eyes. “Cute, really fucking cute. Now how about holding the bloody panel still so we can all get out of here.”

Looking from Jan to Ted, Joe Bob’s expression changed to mock surprise. “Oh, what do we have here? Sympathetic
PMS
syndrome?”

Without looking up at Joe Bob, Ted continued to fiddle with his light meter. “Joe Bob, if you don’t hold that panel still and shut up, I’ll stick this meter up your backside and see just how true it is that the sun never shines there.”

Sighing, Joe Bob lamented to himself, but loud enough so Ted could hear, “Jeez, I really hate it when this time of month comes around.”

Unable to hear what Ted and Joe Bob were saying, Jan turned her attention to the story that they were to shoot tomorrow. It was already decided that the opening shot would be here, on the bridge that separated Mexico from the United States. Preliminary surveys showed that this was the best place in Brownsville for getting, in a single shot, a picture of Texas National Guardsmen and Mexican Army soldiers, each on their own side of the border, facing off.

She would start the piece by referring to the speech President Ronald Reagan had given in the early eighties in which he warned the people of America that unless they did something to stop the spread of communism in Central America, Brownsville, Texas, would become the front line.

Jan had learned from Scott to use historic quotes that appeared to be applicable. It gave people, he said, the impression that you had done some research and, therefore, knew what you were talking about. His comment was only half in jest. Though Jan loved to spend as much time as possible on research, there just wasn’t time to learn everything about a story that was really necessary. Time, and the pressing demands of the network, simply did not permit a correspondent the luxury of becoming an expert on every subject she covered. So Jan, like most of the people in her field, did the best she couldwith the time and resources available, and winged the rest.

Pulling out a small pad and pen from her pocket, Jan jotted down a few quick notes. On the bridge, they would talk to the soldiers on duty and get their impressions and comments. From there, they would go to the headquarters of the 1st Brigade, 36th Infantry Division, and interview the brigade commander. After that, downtown to city hall for an interview with the mayor, then out onto the street in the shopping district for some opinions from the people of Brownsville. Jan was hoping to get comments from both the Hispanic citizens and the Anglos, or what Joe Bob referred to as “real Americans.”

Scanning the shooting schedule before putting it back in her pocket, Jan noticed that the sweat running down her arm and hand had left a damp thumbprint on the page of the pad, smearing the ink. Looking up at Joe Bob and Ted, she called but, “Will you two stop playing grab-ass in public and get a move on.”

Joe Bob smiled and waved, whispering to Ted as he did so, “Better hurry there, friend. Her highness is overheating. Whatever it is you need, buddy, you can get tomorrow. There’ll be plenty of time.”

A snider squibbled in the jungle— Somebody laughed and fled.

And the men of the First Shikaris

Picked up the Subaltern dead,

With a big blue hole in his forehead

And the back blown out of his head.

—Rudyard Kipling,

“The Grave of the Hundred Dead’

10 kilometers northeast of san ygnacio, texas oi 15 hours, 30 August

Unable to focus his eyes any longer on the Louis L’Amour novel he was reading, First Lieutenant Ken Stolte, the executive officer of a 155mm howitzer battery, swung his feet off the table and onto the ground and put the book down on the table. As he stood, his calves pushed back the old folding chair he had been sitting on. As it moved, the chair, painted several times too often, folded and collapsed, creating a clattering that surprised the nodding duty
NCO
seated at the
TAC
fire set in the M-577

armored command post carrier. Noting the puzzled look on his sergeant’s face as he held his hands over his head, leaned back and stretched, Stolte smiled. “What’s the matter, Buck, losing it?”

Sergeant Buck Wecas saw the lieutenant stretching and the chair folded behind him on the ground. Putting two and two together, he relaxed and smiled. “No, no. Nothin’ like that. I just thought we had gooks in the wire.”

“Gooks in the wire? Where’d you hear that, in a war movie?”

Standing up, Wecas came out of the command post carrier, stepped down off the carrier’s rear ramp, and headed over for the coffeepot. “Ya know, Ken, not everyone was born yesterday. There’s still a few old farts from Nam around.”

Closing his eyes and rotating his neck as he continued to stretch, Stolte sighed. “Yeah, you’re right on both counts.” Dropping his arms, he turned toward Wecas, who was pouring himself a cup of coffee. “You’re old and a fart.”

Wecas was about to remind Stolte that his silver bars protected him only up to a point, when the radio blared:

“Mike one Victor three two, Mike one Victor three two, this is Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, over.”

Stolte looked at Wecas. “Who the hell is Charlie four Charlie eight eight?”

Shrugging, Wecas took a sip of coffee and walked over to the carrier, reaching in and pulling out a small chart that listed all the radio call signs and frequencies in use that day. “According to this, Charlie four Charlie eight eight is the scout platoon of. 1st of the 141st. Bravo must be one of the scout sections.”

As Stolte and Wecas considered that for a moment, the voice on the radio repeated the call. “Mike one Victor three two, Mike one Victor three two, this is Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, over.”

“Find out what he wants, otherwise he’ll keep callin’ and callin.’ ”

Putting the board down, Wecas climbed into the track, mumbling so that Stolte could hear, “Yeah, we’d hate to have someone call and disturb your reading with business.”

Picking up the hand mike, Wecas keyed the radio. “Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two, do you have traffic for this station, over?”

“Yeah, roger, Victor three two. I am unable to contact my higher, Tango seven Kilo six nine, and submit my sitreps. Can you relay for me, over?” .

Looking over to his chart, Wecas saw that Tango seven Kilo six nine was the call sign for the command post of 1st Battalion, 141st Infantry.

“Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Victor three two. I’ll try. If I do contact them, is there something you need to report, over?”

“Yeah, roger, Victor three two. Tell them I can’t reach them from here. I’ve been tryin’ for the last fifteen minutes. Tell ‘em I’m still at checkpoint Quebec five two and have a negative sitrep. Also, I would appreciate it if they would try to contact me, over.”

Considering the request for a moment, Wecas decided to honor it. It was not unusual for units to use other stations to relay radio traffic when direct contact had been lost. Even more common was the habit of using artillery units, such as Wecas’s, for relay. For some reason, Wecas noticed, artillery units always seemed to have better comms than line units.

Maybe, Wecas thought, it was because without comms, his firing battery would be worthless. Or perhaps, he thought, it was because the artillery attracted and kept people like him, old-timers who knew how to keep their ancient radio equipment running. Whatever the reason, Wecas knew he had to help this poor jerk out and had no earthly reason for doing otherwise. Informing Charlie eight eight that he would call his higher, Wecas ended the conversation, then looked on his chart for the frequency of ist of the 141st. Flipping the knobs to change the frequency, Wecas set the proper frequency for the ist of the 141st command radio net and passed Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo’s message to a radio telephone operator at ist of the 141st who sounded as if he was half asleep.

5 kilometers north of san ygnacio, texas

0121 hours, 30 August

After hanging the hand mike of the radio back on a hook made from a coat hanger and attached to the roll bar of the Humvee, Andy Morrezzo leaned back in the backseat and stretched. He had been twenty minutes late checking in with the battalion command post through the artillery unit. It would be another forty minutes before his next scheduled report.

That one, he knew, had to be on time. It was okay to be late on one, every now and then. But to miss two in a row was unforgivable, even if comms were bad. Scouts, according to their battalion commander, were supposed to be resourceful and tenacious, whatever that meant. Looking at his watch, Morrezzo decided that at one thirty in the morning it was hard to be resourceful. Hell, he thought, it was hard just staying awake.

Opening the door of the Humvee, Morrezzo decided to get out and walk around for a few minutes. Maybe he’d go over to the armored Humvee and see if the new kid was awake.

Carefully, Morrezzo reached over, resting his left hand on the tube of an AT-4 light antitank rocket launcher in order to reach the
AN-PVS
5

night-vision goggles sitting on top of the radio located in the front of the Humvee. Taking care not to wake Sullivan and Alison, both of whom were asleep in the front seats, Morrezzo grabbed the goggles carrying case, slowly lifted it, and eased himself back and out of the Humvee. He didn’t need to worry about waking his companions. Both sleeping soundly, neither man noticed him leave. Morrezzo didn’t bother to take his helmet, resting on top of the AT-4 antitank rockets. Nor did he, in his concern over waking his companions, notice that he had failed to turn the radio back to the battalion command frequency, leaving it instead on the frequency of the artillery unit he had just contacted.

Once outside the Humvee, Morrezzo paused, taking in a deep breath and stretching. The cool night air felt good. Though eighty degrees was still warm by any measure, eighty degrees without the sun was a damned sight better than one hundred and five with the sun and no shade. Looking about, Morrezzo allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the pale gray light of a quarter moon setting in the western sky, he could clearly make out the form of the armored Humvee parked one hundred meters to the right of Sullivan’s. Between Morrezzo and the other Humvee was a concrete and stone picnic pavilion sheltering concrete and stone picnic tables. Checkpoint Quebec five two, selected by the battalion intell officer because of its view of the road and border, had been chosen many years before by some state park official as a great place for a roadside park and picnic site for the same reasons.,

Walking over to the picnic tables, Morrezzo boosted himself up on the top of one of them. Setting his feet on the bench and resting his elbows on his knees, he opened the hard plastic case containing the night-vision goggles and took them out. Still not fully awake, it took Morrezzo forever and a great deal of fumbling to find the switch to turn the goggles on.

Finally finding it, he flicked the switch to the on position and looked down at the goggles until he saw the soft green glow that emanated from the eyepieces inside the headpiece. Ready, he lifted the goggles to his eyes and began to scan the Mexican side of the border for banditos and other such bad guys.

The image of two armored vehicles on the other side of the Rio Grande, their gun tubes pointed right at him, was, to say the least, quite unexpected.

Startled, Morrezzo jerked upright as if an electric shock had been applied to the base of his spine. Pressing the night-vision goggles tightly against his face, Morrezzo locked onto what appeared to be the nearest of the two armored vehicles and studied it for a moment. Although he couldn’t identify the French-built Panard ERC-90 Lynx for what it was, Morrezzo knew it wasn’t American and, more importantly, it was on the other side of the river. Hence, it was the enemy.

After studying the boxlike armored vehicle with the big long gun for another moment, Morrezzo threw his legs over the side of the picnic table, hopped down, and stood up, all the time holding the night-vision goggles to his face as if they were glued to it. Only after he was satisfied that the enemy vehicles were not moving and had apparently not seen him, did he turn and head back to Sullivan’s Humvee to inform him of the sighting.

The sudden shifting of his target, followed by a quick turn and movement away from him, did not bother Lefleur. He merely continued to smoothly track the target and slightly, ever so slightly, elevate the barrel of the 7.62mm sniper rifle to compensate for the increased range. When he felt good about his sight picture, Lefleur squeezed the trigger, firing a single hollow-point bullet.

Morrezzo never heard the report from Lefleur’s rifle. Nor did he feel the impact of the hollow-point round as it struck the base of his skull. And even if he did feel the impact, it was only for the briefest time, for the bullet struck true, doing what it was designed to do. Penetrating the skull bone at a slightly upward angle, the soft lead of the bullet pushed a chunk of shattered bone in front of it. As the bullet and the chunk of bone continued forward, the bullet began to slow down, spreading out into a wad the size of a quarter. In a single, continuous motion, this wad, with the bone chunk in front of it, began ripping through the soft brain tissue that stood in its path, compacting the tissue that wasn’t pushed to either side of the moving mass against the bone plate that formed the forehead.

When the pressure of the ever expanding mass of bullet, bone, and brain tissue became too great, the front plates of Morrezzo’s skull, from his hairline down to the base of his nose, blew out, freeing the wadded bullet from the mass of bone and brain tissue that had obstructed its flight path.