Reaching into the Humvee, Lefleur pried the radio hand mike from the dead guardsman's hand. Turning around, he handed the mike to the Mexican-American. 'Then this should be fun. Here, call Mike one Victor three two and tell them you are at…' Lefleur paused as he leaned over to shine the flashlight on the map and find the information he needed.
'Ah, here we are. Tell them you are located at checkpoint Quebec five two and the target, two Mexican armored cars, is located near target reference point… Yes, target reference point Bravo Tango zero one five. Got that?'
The Mexican-American shrugged his shoulders. 'No problem.' Keying the hand mike, he began the call.
Before he spoke, Lefleur put his hand over the mike. 'When you talk, sound excited, frightened, amigo. Sound like you are under attack. And ask for DPICM. No adjusting rounds. Let's do this right.'
Again the Mexican-American responded with a simple, matter of fact
'No problem, boss.'
Stolte, still standing behind Wecas, suddenly realized what was going on.
With an appreciation of the situation came a sudden feeling of disbelief.
For a moment, he stood riveted to the floor of the command post carrier, watching and listening while Wecas yelled at the chief of the gun section to get his men out of the sack and ready to fire. The gun section chief, like Stolte, was having, difficulty believing that they were about to execute a real fire mission. Stolte was about to interfere, asking Wecas if it was a good idea to process the fire mission without permission from battalion first, when Charlie eight eight Bravo came back on the air. Rather than interfere, Stolte watched Wecas take down the data coming in. As he did so, Stolte noticed that the voice was different. It was lower, calmer, more collected. That, however, changed when the sound of a three-round burst of rifle fire screamed over the radio, followed by a loud 'Jesus,' then silence. The attack, apparently, was still in progress.
The sudden burst of rifle fire behind his back caused the Mexican American literally to jump. In the process, he dropped the radio hand mike. Turning around, his eyes as big as saucers, the Mexican-American saw Lefleur, a broad smile on his face, standing behind him holding a smoking M-16, taken from the dead guardsman, pointed in the air. ' 'What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid bastard?'
Lefleur chuckled. 'My friend, you were not excited enough. You were not convincing. I thought you could use a little help.'
Reaching down to retrieve the hand mike, keeping an eye on Lefleur as he did so, the Mexican-American warned him that if he pulled a stunt like that again, he would shove the M-16 up his ass.
When the voice of Charlie eight eight Bravo came back on the air, it seemed more animated and a little shaken. Wecas confirmed the target location and signed off. As he began to punch the data into the TAC fire computer, Stolte, for the first time, intervened. 'Buck, shouldn't we call someone first and get permission before we shoot?'
Without looking up or stopping what he was doing, Wecas brushed Stolte off by merely mumbling that there was no time. Stolte, however, persisted. 'I don't like this, Buck. We need to tell someone what's going on before we do this. That target is across the border.'
Spinning about in his seat, his face contorted with anger, Wecas screamed at Stolte. 'People are dying out there, Lieutenant. Our people.
And we're the only ones who can help. I'll be goddamned if I'm going to sit here and let that happen.' Without waiting for a response, Wecas returned to the TAC fire computer and finished inputting the data. When he was finished, he stood up, taking the mike to the radio that the gun section was on in one hand and the hand mike to the radio that Charlie eight eight Bravo was on in the other. When the gun section chief reported that the first round was on the way, Wecas relayed that information to Charlie eight eight Bravo while Stolte stood behind him, watching in silence.
The small submunitions of the first dual-purpose, improved conventional munitions round, or DPICM, impacted less than fifty meters in front of Marti's Lynx. The surprise and shock of the chain of exploding submunitions and the sudden blinding flashes directly in front of him caused Marti' s driver to jerk the steering wheel to the right. This unexpected violent maneuver threw Marti off balance just as he was dropping into the safety of the Lynx's turret. It took Marti a second to regain his balance, and the driver a little longer to get the Lynx under control again. In that time, three more rounds from the 155mm howitzer platoon that had responded to Wecas's fire mission detonated over Marti's Lynx, raining a shower of armor-piercing submunitions down on it.
From their location at Sullivan's Humvee, Lefleur and the Mexican American mercenary observed the strike of the first volley of artillery fire.
When three rounds engulfed the Lynx that had been moving down to the river, the Mexican-American mercenary turned to Lefleur, a broad grin illuminating his face. 'See, boss, I told you the United States Marine Corps did everything right first time, every time.'
Lefleur grunted. 'So you did. So you did. In the Legion, however, we never used four rounds when one was all that was needed.' Holding up a pair of night-vision goggles that he had recovered from the body of the national guardsman he had shot, Lefleur looked to the west, across the river. 'On top of that, amigo, your job is only half done. There is another recon vehicle out there, three hundred meters west of where you just hit the moving vehicle. Let us see how well you can adjust fire.'
Proud of his handiwork, despite Lefleur's comment about wasting rounds, the Mexican-American mercenary prepared to call in the adjustment.
'Three hundred meters, you say. Are you sure?'
Without taking the night-vision goggles down, Lefleur responded.
'Yes, three hundred meters, due west.'
The Mexican-American mercenary had just finished calling in the adjustments for the next volley when a flash, followed by the streak of a tracer, announced that the second Mexican Lynx was returning fire at them. Lowering the night-vision goggles, Lefleur announced to his companion,
'I think it is time that we leave.'
As the first round from the Lynx impacted to the left and short of Sullivan's Humvee, the Mexican-American dropped to the ground. When he looked up and saw Lefleur still standing there watching to the west, the Mexican- American mercenary shook his head. 'Okay, you proved you got balls. Now let's go before you lose both yours and mine.'
The second fire mission was faster and easier. The ice had been broken.
They were committed. Though he was still uncomfortable with what was happening, Stolte did nothing as he watched Wecas process the request for adjustment and a repeat of the fire mission. Standing there, Stolte began to wonder how he had lost control of the situation. Not that he had ever been in control. Through his lack of action, he had surrendered all initiative to his sergeant, who, instinctively, had done what he had done as a young soldier in Vietnam and during numerous training exercises and drills since: receive and process calls for fire. How terrible, Stolte thought, how terrible and tragic it would be if this was all a mistake, all one big tragic and terrible mistake. Who, he wondered, would be guilty?
Who? That thought was still lingering in Stolte's mind when the gun platoon leader announced that the next volley was on the way.
Noticing that their first round had missed the American vehicle that was not yet burning, the commander of the second Lynx cut short his report to this troop commander and prepared to adjust his gunner's fire. Though he could hear his troop commander's yells in the earphones of his helmet, the Lynx commander ignored them, calmly giving his gunner directions.
There would be plenty of time to report once the enemy vehicles were destroyed.
When he was ready, the gunner announced he was firing, providing the rest of the crew time to brace for the shock of firing and gun recoil. As he squeezed the trigger, he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the brow pad of his sight. When he felt the gun fire and the Lynx rock back, then settle forward, he opened his eyes and watched the tracer of his second round arch up, then slowly begin its downward descent, holding his breath as it did so. Only after he saw his round impact on the enemy vehicle, obliterating it in a blinding explosion and great clouds of smoke and dust, did he relax and breathe again. He had no way of knowing that everyone in the Humvee had already been killed. Nor did he realize that the breath he was taking was his last, for Lefleur's estimation of the range had been very accurate, and the 155mm howitzer fire direction center and gun crews had done a magnificent job of computing and firing the mission.
