hesitation, on order, was sobering.
How easy, Guajardo thought, it would be for the American door gunner to pull his weapon over into firing position and engage his aircraft. A simple pulling in of the right arm until the spade grips were in front of the door gunner's chest, a lifting of his left hand to the spade grips, a pause to sight the gun, and a downward motion with his two thumbs were all that was necessary for the gunner to engage Guajardo's helicopter and start a war. So simple, so easy. Yet the American would not do it, at least not yet. There were still a few hands left to be played out by the politicians and the diplomats. Until these hands were played, it was the task of Guajardo, and no doubt of the unknown American officer in the other helicopter, to keep stupid mistakes from starting something that would cost both sides more than either could possibly imagine.
An increase in the vibration of his own helicopter rattled Guajardo back to the present. He looked to the American helicopter and noted that it seemed to move forward slightly. Then there was an increase in the vibration of his own helicopter as the pilot pushed the old Bell 212 to keep up. Looking toward his own» pilot, he noted that First Lieutenant Blasio's head was turned toward the American helicopter, watching its every move and matching it. Guajardo, realizing that the American was intentionally increasing his speed, knew that Blasio could not possibly match the speed and performance of the American. The American was only playing with him, egging Blasio on until he couldn't keep up. The American would then kick in whatever power he had left and leave Blasio behind. In order to spare Blasio such an undeserved humiliation, Guajardo ordered him to stand by to execute the sharpest left turn he could, telling Blasio that he wanted to show the American the backside of a Mexican Air Force helicopter.
This order was greeted by Blasio with great pleasure, for he also realized that he must soon fall behind the American. This way, at least he could show the American some of his skills as an aviator. When he was ready, he informed Guajardo, warning everyone to hang on. 'Very well then, Lieutenant. On the count of three. One… two… three…'
As he finished three, Blasio jerked up on his lateral, twisted his collective to get whatever power he had left, and threw the stick to the left as hard as he could. The American helicopter, and Guajardo's view of the ground, disappeared in a flash as the helicopter practically stood on its side in a violent power turn. Guajardo could feel himself being forced back into the seat, as if by a giant hand, throughout the turn, by the increase in speed and climb. By the time the helicopter was back in level flight, the American helicopter was nowhere in sight.
Satisfied that Blasio's pride had been saved, Guajardo instructed him to come around and back onto their heading for Nuevo Laredo. Guajardo was anxious to arrive at the garrison headquarters there and talk to the officers of the cavalry units before they moved out for their nightly patrols. As with the other units along the border, Guajardo wanted to impress upon his officers and men the gravity of the situation. Common sense, tempered by healthy discretion, were the order of the day. Although every man was expected to do his duty, investigating anything and everything of note during their patrols, they were to do their utmost to avoid provoking the Americans. In order to rally world support and opinion in the event of a confrontation, Mexico had to be the offended party.
Standing alone, Lieutenant Augustin Marti watched the colonel's helicopter lift itself through the cloud of dust created by its own rotors and jet engines. Even after the helicopter was aloft and on its way to its next stop, Marti continued to stand there, almost as if he expected Colonel Guajardo to turn around and come back. But Marti knew that would not happen. There was much that the colonel needed to do and so little time.
Such an important man could not afford to explain everything in detail to every lieutenant in the Mexican Army. It was not up to the colonel to explain everything, for if that were the case, there would be no need for lieutenants. No, Marti thought, it was his task to understand what the colonel had said and act accordingly.
Still, as Marti turned and headed back to his platoon, he wished that he were clever enough to grasp exactly what it was that the colonel expected of him and his men. That the situation along the border was serious was well understood. One only had to listen to the news, both from Mexican sources and Spanish-speaking radio and TV stations in America, to know that there was a great deal of mistrust and tension between the two nations. Even the dullest peasant in his platoon felt a sense of foreboding as they approached their duties. All of this was known. All of this was understood.
Why, then, Marti kept asking as he slowly shuffled through the dust, did the colonel, a member of the Council of 13, feel it was so important that he take time from his busy schedule to come all the way from Mexico City and personally deliver a message such as the one he had just given?
Did he doubt the ability of the Army to act in an appropriate manner? Or was there some hidden meaning in what he had told them? Perhaps that was it. Perhaps, Marti thought, the colonel wanted them to do their duty, but not too well. Or was it that he wanted them to do their duty only so long as it did not interfere with the Americans? And what was he to do if the Americans did do something that violated Mexican territory? Marti understood the need to avoid provoking the Americans. That was simple.
But did that mean avoidance to the point of surrender? What was he to do if the Americans provoked him? And what, he thought, constituted provocation?
Stopping just short of his platoon, Marti turned and looked back in the direction that Guajardo's helicopter had disappeared. Why hadn't he asked Guajardo his questions when he had the chance? Why had he stood there, like a lump, and nodded dumbly, acting as if he understood when he didn't? Marti wondered if his pride was so important that he was willing to sacrifice himself and his platoon rather than ask questions that should have been asked, regardless of how elementary they were. Was that it? A simple question of pride?'.
Shaking his head, he turned and looked at his platoon. His sergeants I were already gathering their men in preparation for his return and final instructions. Well, Marti thought as he shook his head, the colonel is 1 gone. It is now up to me to do what is necessary. After whispering a short prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe to watch over him and his platoon, he stepped off with a confident pace in an effort to mask the doubts he felt, and prepared to execute his duties as he saw fit. After all, what else could he do? It was him, and only him, that was left. In the end, Marti thought, that must have been the way it always was. The pride and security of a nation entrusted to the hands and judgment of a junior officer and his 1 men.
Coming to the officers club had been a big mistake. Nancy Kozak knew that now. Not that it would have made any difference where she went.
Her feelings of loneliness, self-doubt, and inadequacy would have followed her wherever she went. She just thought that perhaps, at the officers club, she could escape them or, at least, submerge them for a while.
She couldn't do that in her small one-bedroom apartment, a place that she had yet to be able to call home. It was a place to sleep, a place to store her things, a place to shower and change her clothes. But it was not a home, a place where she could go and leave the world behind, where she could let herself go, where she could relax. Instead of being a nice little cozy niche, a safe haven, it seemed, at times, to be a vise, its walls closing in on her and accentuating her loneliness rather than offering an escape from it. So, instead of being a refuge, her apartment became another place that she needed to escape from.
Escape, what a thought. As Kozak stared mindlessly down at her plate, poking her chicken with a fork, she wondered what she was trying to escape from. Loneliness, yes, she wanted to do that. Everyone wanted that. But escape did not solve the problem. It only delayed resolution.
That's what she wanted. That's what she needed. A solution. But in order to have a solution, you need to have a definable problem to deal with.
And that, Kozak knew, was the crux of the matter. After being at Fort Hood for two months, she had never taken the time to sort herself out, to stop and absorb what she had learned and come up with an effective means of dealing with her new world.
The Army, she had found, was far different from what she had experienced at West Point. Although everyone had known that the real Army would be different, few of her classmates had really understood how different it would be. Though 2nd Battalion, 13th Infantry, was a disciplined unit, its discipline was different from West Point's. At times, rather than acting as a single, coherent entity operating under a hierarchical system of command, her platoon appeared to be a loose association of sergeants and soldiers who functioned as crewmen, squads, and platoon through cooperation and mutual consent. In some cases, the junior soldiers seemed to be more influential and capable than their sergeants.
