That she considered her success as a matter of "we" and not "I" was a subconscious admission that her success or failure would affect more than herself. Her performance, and that of five other young female officers like her, would determine if female officers would be allowed into the mainstream of the Army. So long as females, both officer and enlisted, remained restricted to combat support and combat service support branches, there would be barriers to promotion and ascent to the highest levels. Only by becoming members of the combat arms branches could women achieve real and unrestricted equality. And for this to be achieved, Nancy Kozak knew she had to succeed.
Marching into the parking lot, she looked at the back of her new company commander. Her success, and in turn, the success of the evaluation, rested heavily upon that man, Captain Stanley Wittworth. He could make or break her in a dozen different ways. From the tasks he assigned her, to the personnel he placed in her platoon, Captain Wittworth held the key to her future. Though Kozak tried to convince herself that the same was true for any second lieutenant, the consequences of her failure would be more than a simple statistic.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, Kozak almost missed Wittworth's order to halt. Catching herself in time, she came to a halt, and, on command, faced to the left. Clutching her fists and wincing, she uttered a silent curse, reminding herself that she had to keep her head out of her ass and pay attention. First and foremost, she had to keep her eyes and ears open and her mouth shut.
After dismissing the company, Wittworth wandered back to his office. He was in no hurry. All that waited for him there was paperwork and a line of soldiers waiting to see him about some damned thing or another. He didn't feel much like dealing with trivia at that moment. Instead, he needed to get his own head together. The nice, organized, and controlled world he had created for himself as a company commander had hit a speed bump named Nancy Kozak.
Although he had known that having a female second lieutenant in his company was going to bring a certain amount of problems and difficulties with it, he hadn't reckoned on some of his problems coming from his own commander. Wittworth had been hoping for guidance and support, or at least some empathy. Instead, he got nothing. What little was said appeared, to Wittworth, to be interference bordering on micromanagement.
The parade rehearsal that morning, the first official duty in which Lieutenant Kozak had participated, had served as a warning to Wittworth.
Offering what appeared to be a simple recommendation, the battalion commander had suggested that Lieutenant Kozak be placed so that she was in the right-hand file of the company for the retreat parade. Wittworth had no way of knowing that the reason the battalion commander wanted Kozak to be on the right was so that she would be visible for everyone on the reviewing stand to see when the battalion marched by. It was the battalion commander's way of proving that he had taken Big Al's "sug gestion" and become a team player, and that Lieutenant Kozak was fully integrated in the battalion, like she was supposed to be.
The message that the battalion commander's recommendation drove home to Wittworth was that she would receive more interest from the battalion commander than the average run of the mill second lieutenant.
The battalion commander, and probably the entire battalion staff, would be watching her. This, in turn, meant that he would be watching Wittworth, or at least what Wittworth's company was doing. What exactly all this meant was not entirely clear to Wittworth. About the only thing that was clear was that somehow his career was now tied to the fate of a brand-new second lieutenant, a female lieutenant at that. If that was true, then it behooved Wittworth to find out, as quickly as possible, what results the battalion commander expected. In a nutshell, he had to know whether Second Lieutenant Kozak was to be a success or a failure. Once he had that figured out, he could act accordingly.
Around one end of the dirt runway stood three buildings, all in varying degrees of collapse. The main building was a one-story cinderblock structure with a tin roof that had once served as a terminal and office. To the right was a hangar, in which two helicopters were hidden behind doors that hung from rusting hinges. To the left, in a lean-to shed that had more wooden planks missing than present, were a jeep and two well-used pickup trucks hidden under canvas tarpaulins. Built on the flood plain of the Salado river by a mining company, the airfield had been officially abandoned for over twenty years. A quick glance, from the ground or air, would have convinced the casual observer that it still was. Childress and his small crew of mercenaries had spent hours making sure the airfield appeared unoccupied. Only the occasional reflection of light from the lookout's binoculars betrayed their presence.
While Childress and the others could jokingly call the abandoned airfield the next best thing to home, the thought of having lost his precious Chinampas and having to hide like a common criminal amongst a group of cutthroat mercenaries made Alaman physically sick. In private, he would look up at the sky and ask, Why, my Lord, have you forsaken me?
Not that he expected an answer. Though his mother had endeavored to raise him in the ways of the church, the reality of life in the slums of Mexico had made Alaman a realist and a survivor. Already, in his mind, an idea for extracting revenge and restoring himself to power was forming in his mind.
While Alaman sat alone in his room in the abandoned airfield's terminal, dreaming of the future, Childress and the handful of mercenaries that had escaped from Chinampas dealt with the present. A shout from the lookout on the roof alerted them that someone was coming. Scrambling up a rickety ladder, Childress went to where the lookout was posted.
Even without binoculars, he could see the clouds of dust rising like rooster tails, indicating that two vehicles were approaching, long before he heard the roar of the vehicles' engines.
As he handed the binoculars to Childress, the lookout asked, "Delapos?"
Putting the binoculars up to his eyes, Childress did not respond at first, not until he had confirmed that there were two vehicles. "No, not likely.
Delapos and Luis had only one vehicle. I can't think of a good reason why they should have taken a chance and stolen another. They were only on a simple supply run."
"Alert the rest?"
Childress put the binoculars down. "Yes, alert the rest. But no shooting unless we have to. Clear?"
With a nod, the lookout backed away toward the ladder. "Clear."
As the vehicles approached the ford site to cross the river, they both stopped. In the lead vehicle, an open jeep, a tall lean man got out. Putting binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the airfield. Childress did likewise.
In an instant, Childress knew who it was. The maroon beret of the Foreign Legion parachute regiment and the motley camouflage jacket could only belong to Lefleur. Letting the binoculars down, Childress thought, well, you little bastard, you did show up. Though he too was a mercenary, Childress felt that Lefleur could not be trusted. As long as he had known him, Lefleur had shown no trace of humanity, conscience, or integrity. He was, Childress thought, a man who would stab his own mother in the back.
Still, they were, at least for now, on the same side and working for the same man. Standing up, he waved his right hand, shouting to his men below to stand down, that friendlies were coming in. From across the river, Lefleur saw Childress and returned the wave before getting back into the jeep. With Lefleur's men, they would have a total of twelve men, not counting the two pilots and Alaman. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Childress paused. A start for what? What exactly would they be able to do? And why? Up to this point, he, and everyone else, had been taking things one step at a time. It was time now for some serious discussions about the future.