With a few sharp turns of the steering wheel and a casualness that frightened some, Jimmy Sullivan backed his eighteen-wheeler up to the loading dock. Sullivan loved driving the big rigs, and looked forward to the day when he would be able to own a rig himself. Glancing from the left side mirror to the right side mirror, Sullivan eased the truck back until he felt a slight thump, telling him the rear of the truck had made contact with the thick rubber bumper on the loading dock.
Shutting down his rig, Sullivan shoved his portable cassette player into his gym bag, grabbed his clipboard with the manifest on it, and began to climb down. As he did so, his supervisor, Tom Henry, yelled to him from the dock. 'Hey, Jimmy, your old lady wants you to call her right away.'
On the ground, Sullivan yelled back. 'Did she say what she wanted?'
Without looking up from the clipboard, Henry yelled back, 'Yeah, she said some guy at the armory has been tryin' to get you all day.'
Slamming the cab door, Sullivan threw the clipboard down on the ground. 'Ah shiiit. Not again.'
Looking up, Henry watched Sullivan standing next to the truck, with his hands on his hips and his head hanging down, cursing and kicking imaginary rocks with the tip of his cowboy boots. 'Hey, Jimmy.'
'What!'
Henry smiled. 'Your wife's pissed too.'
'Thanks, boss, I needed that. I really fuckin' needed that.' Sullivan picked up his clipboard, straightened out the papers on it, and headed for the phone in the locker room. He knew what the call from the armory was about. Ever since the raids along the Mexican border had begun, rumors concerning the use of the National Guard to seal the border between Mexico and Texas had been running wild. Some of the old-timers in the unit Sullivan belonged to said it was just a matter of time. The new men, denned as people who had joined after the war in the Persian Gulf, were excited. Sullivan, who had been mobilized for that war, did not share their enthusiasm.
The Guard, for Sullivan, had started as a fun thing to do. He had enjoyed his three years in the Army and saw the Guard as a means of making extra income while having the opportunity to enjoy the friendships and excitement he had experienced while on active duty, without having to put up with the chickenshit that the regular Army seemed to thrive on. Soon, the Guard took on a greater importance to Sullivan. With a wife, a son, and another child on the way, his regular income was quickly eaten up by the day-to-day cost of living. His dream of buying his own truck was quickly dying. Only by staying with the Guard, and saving every penny he made during weekend drills, could he keep that dream alive. Combined with a Veterans Administration small business loan, which he would soon qualify for, Jimmy figured he could make it.
Sullivan's plans, however, were not without their problems. His wife, a good woman by any measure, had no problems with his driving all over the Southwest for the trucking company. That, after all, was what put food on the table. Even the thirty-nine days a year he spent with the Guard were tolerable, since that would make their dream of owning their own truck a reality. For years she had accepted Sullivan's time with the Guard as a necessary evil. That attitude, however, had changed when Sullivan was mobilized and shipped to the Persian Gulf just before Christmas 1990.
With less than two days' notice, Sullivan had left his pregnant wife in Abilene as he went to war. Suddenly, because of the actions of a single man, their entire future had been threatened. It was more than putting their dreams on hold. They had done that before. When Sullivan had broken his leg and couldn't drive for two months, everything they had planned had had to be postponed. The war in the gulf, however, was different. The broken leg could be dealt with. The doctor could tell them when the cast could come off. He could prescribe what therapy was needed for full recovery and how long that recovery would take. And Sullivan and his wife could plan accordingly. The war, however, had been like a huge gaping abyss, undefined, seemingly endless, and very, very black. Sullivan's call to the colors to serve in the gulf did more than put their future on hold. It had challenged the very roots of their relationship and tested his wife's character as nothing had ever done before. The war had found both their relationship and her character lacking. As a result, their marriage had never been the same since. Sullivan's only hope, his only logical plan, to salvage his marriage and start all over again, was to buy a truck and become his own boss. Like a drowning man grabbing for something, he saw that dream as the stick that would save him. And that stick, until he got his loan, was owned by the National Guard.
Once in the locker room, Sullivan grabbed the phone, then paused, trying to decide who to call first. While there were pros and cons for calling his wife first, he decided that it would be wiser to call the armory first.
Perhaps the unit wasn't being mobilized. Perhaps there was a change on the upcoming weekend drill or an admin problem with his pay voucher.
Maybe this whole problem wasn't a problem at all. At least by calling the armory, he would be able to find out exactly what he had to deal with.
Mike Lodden, the unit's full-time training NCO, answered. 'Sullivan, where you been, boy? We've been tryin' to get hold of you since eight o'clock this mornin'.'
Sullivan wasn't in the mood for idle chatter or beating around the bush.
'I've been out earnin' an honest living. Now what's all so hellfire important that you need me for?'
Lodden skipped the pleasantries and got down to business. 'The governor's callin' out the Guard. Border patrol was hit last night and hit hard.
This mornin' at six o'clock the head of the region covering Brownsville to El Paso informed his boss in Washington that the situation was out of hand and his boys were refusing to go out on patrol. Till we get there, the border's wide open. Even the customs boys are pullin' back.'
Sullivan let out a moan even Lodden could hear. 'What about the Army? Why in the hell aren't they goin' down there?'
'Jimmy, don't you lis'n to the radio?'
'No, Mike, I don't. I'm ignorant, okay? Now tell me, if it ain't too much trouble, what in the hell are the regular pucks doin'?'
'Well, accordin' to the news and what the colonel told us, the president and the National Security Council is meetin' this morning to discuss the matter and review their options. In the meantime, accordin' to the news, the president doesn't want to do anything that would upset the Mexicans or might provoke 'em.'
'Provoke 'em! Provoke 'em!' Sullivan's screams caused Lodden to pull the phone away from his ear. 'What in the hell does that fool think the goddamned Mexicans have been doin' down here? Is he for real?'
Though Lodden wanted to end the conversation, he couldn't help but throw his two cents in. 'Well, that's what we get for electin' a bleedin'heart liberal from New England. Anyway, you need to get your butt down here yesterday. The battalion XO is leaving with the advance party tonight.'
Sullivan paused. 'You know, Mike, Martha's gonna be pissed.'
Lodden chuckled. 'I don't mean to make fun of ya, old boy, but she already is. Damned near blew my eardrum out when I called her for the second time.'
For a second, Sullivan got excited. 'Did you tell her already?'
'No, no, of course not. But be realistic, Jimmy. I didn't have to.
Women kinda know these things. It's like radar. They can pick up bad news a mile away.',
'Yeah, tell me about it. Okay, I'll be in as soon as I can. When we supposed to move out?'
'Don't know, Jimmy. But when you come in, don't plan on goin' home again. The adjutant general and the governor are in a low hover.
They say every state legislator and big-city mayor from the border area is on the phone every five minutes demandin' to know where the troops are.
Like I said, they wanted us yesterday.'
With nothing more to say, Sullivan hung up the phone and prepared to call home, then paused. As distasteful as it was, he decided that this was the kind of news he had best tell his wife in person. Turning away from the phone, he shuffled down to John Henry's office to tell him he wouldn't be in for work for a while.
No one paid any attention to the tall blond gringo sitting in the back corner with two Mexicans. In this cantina, it was not healthy to stare at anyone for too long, let alone ask questions. No one seemed to notice that the gringo had entered through the back door and everyone pretended that the pistol sticking out of his boot didn't
