"What's a matter, Superman, someone tuggin' on your cape too hard?"
Dixon turned to Jan, her defiance now turned to a smile, a mocking smile.
"No, it's just been one of those days. Two days to go and everyone suddenly is getting nervous and wants to change things." He turned his head and looked in the direction of the Americans still waiting in the shade of the bleachers. The Egyptians had all left. "Well," he continued, turning back to Jan, "since you know so much, there's no harm in introducing you to the star of this performance — Captain Cerro!" he called out to a man a few feet away.
Cerro came up to Dixon, saluted, and reported.
"Captain," said Dixon, "I'd like you to meet Ms. Jan Fields, the hottest little TV reporter this side of the Nile. Jan, Captain Harold Cerro, commander of B Company, 1st of the 506th Airborne, Air Assault."
Though Jan was displeased, to say the least, with the manner in which Dixon introduced them, she saw a great chance to get some interviews with the people who would be participating in the exercise. Turning on her charm, she began to fire questions at Cerro about his unit, its mission, and the demonstration.
Cerro hesitated, turning to Dixon with a worried look. Dixon knew the question. Nodding his head, he indicated that Cerro didn't need to worry about what he told her; Ms. Fields was clear. Satisfied, Cerro began to answer her questions in a careful and deliberate manner.
Dixon walked away to wait until they were finished. For a moment, he felt bad about handing Fields off to Cerro — but only for a moment. He knew that had he stayed, eventually he or Fields would have taken a cheap shot, pissed the other off, and began a fight.
When Jan finished with Cerro, she walked over to where Dixon was sitting, going over a briefing book and making notes. "I'm finally going to be able to get the last of the Neanderthals on tape. What a treat!"
Dixon looked up at her and smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you, but that's been changed. Seems like someone decided that the presidents deserved higher-paid briefers than Colonel Hafez and I. This morning we were replaced by the commander of U.S. brigade that's deployed over here and the commander of the Republican Brigade. The only thing Colonel Hafez and I have to do is make sure that everyone is in their places with bright smiley faces on the seventh."
Jan frowned. "What a shame! I was so looking forward to listening to you try to answer Congressman Lewis's questions. That would have been a wonderful experience."
Dixon looked up. "Lewis? What the hell is that little communist doing here?"
Seeing that Dixon was surprised, Jan decided to have a little fun. "Communist? The distinguished congressman from the state of Tennessee would beg to differ with you on that. He happens to be a war hero and a leading spokesman for quite a few groups concerned about America's international policy and disarmament."
Closing his book and getting up, Dixon skewed his face into a frown. "He's a fucking communist. He took that war-hero image and used it to get elected. As a distinguished member of Congress, he's done more damage to the military's recovery and buildup in one year than the KGB could possibly hope to do in ten. That rotten little shit should get an Order of Lenin for his efforts."
Enjoying the fact that Dixon was pissed, Jan continued to egg him on. "Didn't you two serve together in Iran?"
Looking down at the ground, Dixon thought for a moment, deciding whether or not to answer. Then he thought, What the hell. "Yeah, we sort of served together. He was the XO of a National Guard battalion from Memphis that was ordered to move forward to counterattack and relieve my battalion, which was surrounded. The Soviets had broken through us earlier in the day and ripped us apart. Intelligence reports given to the National Guard unit before they attacked mentioned a Soviet recon battalion. Lewis's unit expected only scattered and light resistance from depleted Soviet units. They were unprepared for an encounter with a full tank regiment that the Soviets had moved forward after nightfall. The two units, Lewis's and the Soviet tank regiment, had a meeting engagement in the dark which neither expected or were ready for. They fought for eight hours." Dixon paused. His eyes were blank and staring into the distance. His face showed no expression. "When it ended, it was a draw — a draw that cost the Guard unit over 60 percent casualties. Lewis knew most of the men that had died and took it hard. A lot of people in Memphis did too. It was one of those things, you know — friction of war. You will never have one hundred percent intelligence in war, especially when someone breaks through like the Soviets did. There were bits and pieces of units all over the place, many of them out of contact with their higher headquarters. That things happened the way they did shouldn't have been a surprise."
Dixon paused again. Jan saw he was lost in his story, oblivious to the world around him. She also saw in his eyes that what he was recounting was painful. Suddenly, for the first time, she felt sorry for Dixon. She had seen what wars did to people. Though she had never had to pull a trigger or order others to do so, she had little doubt that it had to be difficult. What she saw in Dixon at that moment was a man who had had to do both and had found the experience shattering.
Dixon continued. "But Lewis didn't see it that way. He blamed the Army for sending his unit, a Guard unit, forward to be sacrificed to save a 'regular Army' unit. When he got home, he demanded an investigation into the conduct of the battle, then the war in general.
His efforts gained in popularity in Memphis, which was stunned by the loss of so many of its citizens. When the congressman from that district attempted to fend off the investigation, he signed his political death warrant. Lewis was elected in his place and took his fight to the Hill, where he enlisted the support of every radical liberal against rearmament he could find in the House and Senate." Standing up, Dixon sighed, looked out to the horizon, and mused, "And to good effect. We' re no better off fighting the Russians today than we were three years ago." Turning to Jan, he let a faint smile light across his face. "But why am I telling you this? You're the one with her finger on the news."
"Can I quote you on this?"
Giving her a dirty look, Dixon didn't answer. Instead, he changed the subject. "I'm getting ready to head into the cantonment area. Do you know your way back?"
Seeing the change in Dixon's mood and tired of her game, Jan thanked him but told him she and her crew needed to survey the site for the best camera angles and location for the mikes. Without so much as a wave, Dixon climbed into his vehicle and roared away in a cloud of dust.
Colonel Hafez took evening prayer alone in his tent that night. In the stillness of the early evening, he prayed hard. First he prayed for guidance, then the wisdom to make the right choice. Finally, he simply asked God to see him through the next day. He ended his prayers by placing his fate in God's hands.
Finding no answers and little comfort in prayer, Hafez turned his attention to preparing himself for the next day. First he cleaned his pistol, taking care to ensure that all parts were clean and functional. When he was finished, he loaded a full magazine, chambered one round, and put the pistol in his holster. Finished with that, he laid out his uniform, checking the ribbons, the insignia of his rank, and his crests.
Satisfied with that, he turned to his last chore, a letter home. For the longest time, he considered not writing anything. What was he to say? What could he say? He still did not know what he would do when the moment came. His attempts at writing a letter showed this. After writing three paragraphs, he stopped and tore it up. It sounded like a suicide note. His second letter was no better. After two paragraphs it sounded like a press release from a radical Islamic group. Hafez tore it up too.