Dixon was sitting there, back to the wall and eyes closed, when a tall man with long, stringy blond hair walked in. He paused when he saw Dixon. "I'm Tim Masterson, cameraman for WNN. Can I help you?"
Dixon slowly opened his eyes and looked at the man. He seemed familiar. He had seen him somewhere before. Standing up, Dixon extended his right hand toward the cameraman. "Scott Dixon, U.S. Army. I'm looking for Jan Fields."
Taking Dixon's hand and shaking it, Tim remembered where he had seen Dixon. "You're that chap that popped those assassins back on December seventh, aren't you?"
Dixon shook his head. "Yeah, I'm that chap. Is Jan available?"
Tim's friendly look turned into a frown. "I'm sorry. You just missed her. She's already left."
Reaching down and picking up his helmet, Dixon got ready to leave. "Can you tell me where she went? Perhaps I can catch her."
"I sort of doubt that. You see, she's left Egypt. Plane took off not more than a hour ago. Headed for London, then Brussels to cover the NATO meeting. That's where I just came from — the airport, that is. Dropped her off myself."
Dixon stopped and looked at Tim for a moment. In a way he was relieved. He could postpone his problem. For a while, perhaps forever, he could avoid facing something that he wasn't ready to face. Perhaps in time he could face it, but not now. Dixon started out the door past Tim.
Tim grabbed Dixon's arm as he went by. Surprised, Dixon looked at Tim's hand on his arm, then into Tim's eyes. They were serious yet gentle. "For what it's worth, gov'nor, Jan told me she loves you."
Dixon continued to stare into Tim's eyes. They were neither condemning him nor sympathetic. Tim let go, allowing Dixon to continue.
Pausing, Dixon turned back to Tim. "Thanks for telling me. And yes, that is worth something to me. It's worth a great deal." With that he walked out.
Chapter 19
Nothing remains static in war or in military weapons, and it is consequently often dangerous to rely on courses suggested by apparent similarities in the past.
The trip from the 3rd Brigade command post to Task Force 3–5 Armor was done in total silence. The driver of Headquarters 6, the bumper number assigned to the task force commander's hummvee, kept his eyes glued to the trail and his instrument panel. Dixon hoped the lad was always that quiet. Though a casual conversation was good every now and then, there was nothing worse than having a driver whose mouth ran at a higher RPM rate than the transmission. Dixon liked to think when he was being driven from place to place. On this particular night he had much to think about.
His meeting with the commander of the 3rd Brigade had been long and quite informative. It started with a mission briefing by the brigade staff. Other than showing how the brigade viewed the enemy situation, the intelligence portion added very little to what Dixon already knew. With no organic recon elements deployed, all information the intel officer had came from the 2nd Corps intelligence summary, a copy of which was in Dixon's map case. The briefings by the brigade operations officer and fire support officer were more informative. Though Dixon knew what the 16th Division's mission was, he hadn't seen anything on how the 3rd Brigade intended to execute its assigned mission. Succeeding briefings by the brigade's personnel officer and logistics officer and commanders of combat support units attached to the brigade added little.
With the formal briefings over and a copy of the brigade operations order in hand, the brigade commander, Colonel Clyde Joy, accompanied by the brigade executive officer, had taken Dixon into his tent to discuss several matters with him. Joy went over again how he believed the operation would unfold and how he intended to fight it. Dixon learned a great deal from Joy in a very short period of time. It was critical that he be able to understand what was going on inside of Joy's head and how Joy viewed warfare. Even the words Joy used— "kill" instead of "engage," "attack" instead of "advance," "smash" instead of "destroy" — conveyed his personality and philosophy on waging war. Though some would argue that use of such colorful words was unnecessary, Dixon believed differently. The old adage "If he looks like a soldier, walks like a soldier, and talks like a soldier, by God, he's probably a soldier" was a fairly good gauge to go by when judging men. Until otherwise proven, Colonel Joy was a soldier in Dixon's eyes.
The major reason Joy wanted to talk to Dixon in private was to review how he, as the brigade commander, viewed Task Force 3–5 and its men. Joy prefaced that portion of the conversation by telling Dixon that under normal circumstances he would have allowed Dixon to discover who was good and who wasn't on his own. Given the timing and the nature of the operation, however, Dixon wouldn't have the chance. Starting with the task force's executive officer and operations officer, Joy went down the list, name by name, of the primary players in the task force. The story Joy told was not very encouraging. Under Lieutenant Colonel Vennelli, control and operation of the task force had been extremely centralized. And in a zero-defect environment, neither the staff nor the company commanders showed initiative.
Joy told Dixon that, given the prevailing conditions, the questionable ability of the officers, and the lack of time, he had a free hand in dealing with the unit's officers and NCOs. If Dixon thought that he needed to relieve a man, he was to do so. Joy would attempt to buy as much time as he could for Dixon to get a handle on things, but he didn't know how much time they had. Dixon, having listened to the 2nd Corps plans briefings, did. Whatever he had to do to make Task Force 3–5 Armor combat ready had to be accomplished within the next thirty-four hours.
Now, as the hummvee bumped and jerked along the desert track, Dixon mulled over how best to approach his assumption of command. He could go in like a lion, kicking ass and taking names. Though that might be effective in yielding some short-term results, the side effects might well spell disaster down the road. Or he could go in and let things ride as they were, dealing with each and every problem only as it came up. While he didn't know exactly how he would act, he knew how he wouldn't. Dixon had no intention of going into the unit like a lamb, the poor lost soul, the new boy on the block. Whether or not the soldiers of Task Force 3–5 Armor — officers, NCOs, and enlisted-liked him didn't matter to Dixon. Only two things mattered to him. One was that the task force made it to the Egyptian-Libyan border. The second was to ensure that most of the soldiers in that task force were still with it when they got there.
Dixon hadn't made up his mind when they pulled up near the tactical operations center, or TOC, of 3–5 Armor. Shutting off the engine, the driver pointed to the entrance of the TOC. Dixon got out and looked around. There were a number of other hummvees parked about the TOC in a haphazard fashion. None of them had camouflage nets up or even the hood raised to prevent glare from the windshield. As best he could see, there was no guard and no security about the command-post area or the TOC in particular. The TOC itself was poorly camouflaged. Its camouflage nets were dropping down and lying on the four command-post carriers and their canvas extensions. As a result, the camouflage nets did nothing, leaving the command post carriers and extensions clearly visible in the light of the three-quarter moon. Even worse, the noise of the vehicles running and the loud talking and laughing from the crowd gathered in the TOC could be heard all over the area. Dixon began to wonder if he had discounted the lion approach too soon.
Moving over to the TOC, Dixon found the entrance — three overlapping canvas flaps arranged to prevent light from escaping when someone entered or exited. It was like moving through a maze: first, you went between the first and second flaps to find the end; then you changed direction and went between the second and third flap; finally, you found the end of the third flap, then changed direction again before entering the interior. Often soldiers burdened with pistol belts, holsters, canteens, ammo pouches, protective masks, or other gear had difficulty moving through them. When frustration overcame good light discipline practices, soldiers stuck their arms through all three flaps, forced them apart, and entered straight in. With the skill of an officer who had spent many months in the field, Dixon began to tangle with the flaps.