No, it was not the fate of the scouts or their troop commander that concerned Cerro. It was the death of innocence that depressed him. Right up to H-Hour, just before the Mexicans dropped the bridges into the Rio Grande, there had been division staff officers who had believed that the Mexicans, knowing full well that it would be futile to resist any American military initiative, would do nothing. After all, as the division G2 pointed out, in 1916, when Pershing chased Pancho Villa into Mexico with three U.S. Army brigades, the Mexican Army had done nothing other than put on a show of force. This attitude, with reports from J-Stars and long range ground recon teams, which had reported that major Mexican units had already withdrawn south, had encouraged the feeling that this exercise would be a piece of cake. The G3 plans officer, a major of great intellect, had thought that the division would push south to Monterrey unopposed, occupying and patrolling its assigned sector while the two governments negotiated. When all the media hype had died down, which he estimated would take no more than six weeks, and both sides could reach agreement without losing face, he had predicted, U.S. forces would declare the operation a success, disengage, and withdraw north.
The shedding of blood, on both sides, however, made such a scenario unlikely. As the sinking of the HMS Sheffield and the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano during the Falklands War had demonstrated, once blood has been shed and the resulting national passions unleashed, talk of logic and common sense is drowned out by the cries for revenge and victory to justify the sacrifice. Blood, once spilled in the name of God and country, could only be satisfied with more blood. That the Mexicans would have allowed the Americans to enter their country unopposed had, in Cerro's mind, been a foolish notion to begin with. All that remained to be seen, at this point, was how much Mexican pride was worth, how much the American government was willing to sacrifice to support an ill- chosen policy, and how much of a sacrifice the American public would tolerate once it found out that there could never be a clean, decisive victory.
Standing up, Cerro looked about the van. Such thoughts were, at times, mind-boggling, especially for a not- so-young-anymore infantry captain. Turning to the operations NCO, he asked what was for lunch.
Reaching down into a box of MREs under his desk, the sergeant grabbed a brown plastic sack, pulled it out, and read the label.
'Gee, sir. You're in luck.' Tossing the plastic sack to Cerro, he waited until Cerro had caught it before he announced, with a great flourish,
'And the captain gets, ta-da, pork patties.'
Making a face, Cerro looked at the black lettering on the pouch to confirm the sergeant's verdict. Then he turned to the other people in the van and said, 'Well, it's a dirty job, but someone's got to eat 'em.' With that, he pivoted and left the van in search of a quiet, shady spot where he could choke down his lunch unmolested by the thoughts and noise of war.
More accustomed to critics, Jan was, for a moment, speechless. The sincerity of the compliment, given at such a time, by a man who had much to do, struck a chord in her heart. Here, she thought, was a man of great passions and thought. A man who, despite his heavy duties, felt the need to take the time to personally thank her for something she would have done anyway. For the longest time, she struggled in an effort to come up with a response that was appropriate. In the end, she could not. The best that she managed was a simple thank you, whispered in tones that told Guajardo her words were heavy with emotion.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence, the kind of silence that fills a room when great passions are alive and where there are a man and a woman, alone. Clearing his throat, Guajardo offered Jan another cup of coffee. Though she didn't want one, she accepted his offer. Freed from the silence by action, Guajardo leaped from his seat and walked to where the coffeepot sat, and back to Jan's chair. As he poured for her, he turned to the next matter at hand.
'You realize, Senorita Fields, that you are the only American who has availed herself of the opportunity to talk to each and every member of the council since the twenty-ninth of June?'
Jan hadn't thought of that. In a way, the idea appealed to her. She could use that angle. Then, in the next instant, what he had just told her hit her like a slap in the face. Her country, her beloved America, which at that moment was in the process of invading his country, had not taken the time to sit down and talk to the people who were its declared enemies.
How could that be? Looking up as Guajardo resumed his seat across from her, she pointed out that she knew that the American secretary of state had met with Foreign Minister Barreda on three different occasions and that a special White House envoy had been to see Colonel Molina, the president of the council, twice.
Guajardo chuckled, leaning back into his seat. 'You did not listen to what I said, senorita. I said, talk to us. Your representatives did not talk to us. They lectured us, they threatened us, they even tried to dictate to us. But talk, as you and I have, never. Not in July. Not in August. Not ever. A meaningful dialogue cannot be established between men when one enters the room with an arrogance nurtured by an assumed superiority that his culture and position encourages. Though each of your nation's representatives was an educated man, each thought — correction, knew — he was right and we were wrong. Every representative that your president sent could never overcome the idea that the person he was talking to, my brothers, were poor, misguided soldiers, untutored in the skills of politics and diplomacy. In the same way that Lyndon Johnson viewed Ho Chi Minh as a peasant and terrorist and based his policies accordingly, your representatives see us as petty dictators and buffoons.'
Guajardo paused. He realized that his tone had turned bitter and harsh.
He could see it in Jan's face. Grasping the arms of his chair, he looked up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths in an effort to compose himself before he continued. Ready, he looked back at Jan, who sat wide-eyed and waiting.
'Forgive me, Senorita Fields. But these are very trying times. I did not mean to frighten you or take my frustrations out on you. I am afraid that your pleasant visit has been ruined by my lack of self-control.'
Jan shook her head and shrugged, telling him that it was no problem, that she understood.
'Senorita Fields, I would like you to do one more thing for me, a personal favor, if you would?'
Jan told him she would, anything.
'Your CIA, no doubt, knows,you are here this morning. I made no effort to keep it a secret. They, the CIA, will, no doubt, contact you. When they do, tell them you have a message from the president of Mexico, a personal message that is for the ears of the American president only.'
Jan blinked. God, she thought to herself. Joe Bob was right. She should have stayed away. Now she was becoming involved in secret messages, the CIA, and God knew what else. Still, she simply nodded and said she would do her best. What else could she do? To start with, she was, she realized, at that moment the original captive audience. The image of Princess Leia telling Darth Vader to piss off popped in and out of her mind in a flash.
As real as that thought was, accompanied by an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability, it was not the deciding factor that made her accept Guajardo's 'request.' The idea of being offered an opportunity to do something real, something tangible to end this war, was very compelling to Jan. It was more than a sense of duty to God and country, though that was present. Instead, she was being offered the chance to do something that would take Scott out of harm's way, to do something to protect the man she loved from the dangers he so willingly thrust himself into. That alone was justification to deliver Guajardo's message.
'Tell your president about us. Tell him what you think of us. Use your words to create in his mind an image of each of us, as people, not as members of the enemy government. Then tell him what you saw, and what you think of us, of Mexico, and what we are doing. If you have gotten this far, and he is still listening, then give him this message. We do not want trouble with the United States. Our futures, like our histories, are interwoven. One cannot exist without the other. We are, in many ways, the same. We are both, in our own eyes, great people, with a pride in our heritage and dreams for a better future. All we ask for is an opportunity to work for that future, in peace, as we see fit. We are asking for nothing that we do not already have, except peace and respect. And tell him, Senorita Fields, if he cannot see fit to grant us peace, then tell him we have no choice but to fight for that respect on the field of battle, a field of his choosing.'
Arriving late in the afternoon by helicopter, Guajardo prepared himself for the first major confrontation between his forces and the Americans.
Noting the time on a wall clock, he knew it would be dark soon, time for his soldiers, like the predators of the desert, to begin to stir.
