After an awkward moment, Guajardo placed his right hand on the captain's shoulder. "It was a good kill, Captain. I do not begrudge you that. But it was only one kill. The American 16th Armored Division alone has 316 Bradleys. If we hope to make an impression upon them, we must make every shot and every life count. You understand, don't you?"
The captain of cavalry looked down at his feet, then up to Guajardo's eyes. "Yes, Colonel, I do. Forgive me for being so foolish. This is, you see, my first battle."
Grasping the back of the captain's head, Guajardo shook it. "You do not need to apologize. This is new to all of us. Now, quickly, move your people before those other 315 Bradleys come thundering down on us."
"Colonel Dixon, the 9th Cavalry is in contact!"
The sudden announcement, blurted over the helicopter's intercom, caught Dixon dozing off. Up since 0200 hours that morning after less than two hours sleep, Dixon had been on the move since then. He had been on hand in Laredo when the Mexicans had blown up two of the three bridges on the Rio Grande in the faces of the Special Forces teams that had tried to seize them at H-Hour, 0400 hours. After that, he had driven south of Laredo to watch the river crossing of the 2nd of the 13th Infantry, lead unit of the 2nd Brigade. When he saw that all was going well there, he had flown over to Roma, where the 1st Brigade had its forward command post, to see how their.initial operations were going. Only after Dixon had been satisfied that all was in order did he return to the division tactical command post, or TAC CP, located outside of Laredo, to monitor the battle and confer with the corps G3 over a secure land line.
Arriving at the TAC CP shortly after 1000 hours, Dixon had been off again by 1200 after receiving an update from the division assistant intelligence officer, his own current operations officer, and conferring with Big Al, the commanding general, whom Dixon had met coming in as he was going out.
It was not surprising, then, that the steady beating of the helicopter's blades and the rhythmic vibration of the engine were all that was needed to put Dixon to sleep. Blinking his eyes, Dixon looked about for a moment in order to get himself oriented. Once his head was as clear as it was going to get, he hit his intercom button. "Say again that last report, Chief."
His pilot, Chief Warrant Officer 3 Bomaster, realized, from Dixon's voice, that he had been asleep. "We just heard a spot report over the division command net that 1st of the 9th Cav had made contact. No grids or specifics were given, sir."
Taking a deep breath, Dixon pulled the map case that had partially fallen off of his lap up to where he could see it. In one corner of the map case was a small card that had the call signs and frequencies of selected division units on it. Finding the frequency for the 1st of the 9th Cavalry Squadron's command net, he reached over to the command and control console of the helicopter, and set that frequency on one of its FM radios.
As soon as he did, the silence of the headset he wore was shattered by a string of excited conversations. The use of illegal call signs, and familiarity with the voices, made it easy for Dixon to identify who was talking on the radio. The squadron commander, using his nickname Scout 6, was grilling his A Troop commander, who responded to the call sign Alpha 6. Every now and then, the squadron operations officer, with the handle Scout 3, would cut into the conversation with a question. The operations officer, however, was for the most part ignored, as squadron commander talked to troop commander.
"Alpha six, say again the location of the ambush, over."
"This is Alpha six. I do not have a six-digit grid on it. We have only an initial contact report, over."
"This is Scout six. As I recall, an initial contact report includes location and nature of contact. If you have that information, then pass it on.
If not, tell me, so I can get division off my back, over."
There was a pause. From the squadron commander's tone of voice and questions, Dixon could tell that he was about to lose his temper. Not that he blamed him. It was obvious, from the short conversation that Dixon had already heard, that the troop commander was waffling, that one of his lead elements had screwed up and been caught, and that the troop commander was in the process of trying to cover either his own stupidity or that of one of his subordinates. Dixon could almost picture the A Troop commander, sitting in his command post, trying to come up with at least some kind of useful information to mollify his enraged squadron commander.
The urge to protect his troopers, not to mention his own pride and career, Dixon knew, was strong. While such sentiment was laudable and acceptable by many in peacetime, in combat, when timely and accurate reporting meant the difference between success and failure, there was no room for such sentiments. Failure equaled lives lost for nothing and that, to Dixon, was intolerable. Unable to restrain himself, Dixon was about to key the radio and turn the screws another notch. The squadron commander, however, beat him to the punch.
"Alpha six, this is Scout six. Okay, lad, answer me, yes or no. Do you know where the contact took place, over."
"This is Alpha six. Negative."
"Do you have contact with the element in contact or anyone who can observe them, over."
"This is Alpha six. Negative."
"Do you have any idea of the size, location, or nature of the enemy force that was engaged, over."
"This is Alpha six. Negative."
There was a pause. When the squadron commander came back, he did not bother to hide his anger. "Alpha six, do you fucking know anything?
Over!"
Again, there was a pause before the troop commander replied. When he did, his voice was low, almost sheepish. "This is Alpha six. Roger.
A scout track from the Alpha two one element moving south on the main red ball called in that he was under fire. Alpha two one has been unable to contact him after that report. Over."
The squadron commander articulated the anger that Dixon felt. "You mean to tell me that you had one Bradley, all by itself, running down the main road? That you may have pissed away the lives of five men just to find out there's Mexicans out there who are willing to fight?"
After a moment, a moment that Dixon knew had to be the most difficult one in the life of the young A Troop commander, he came back and answered his squadron commander. "This is Alpha six. Affirmative.
Over."
Having heard enough, Dixon turned the radio off. For a moment, he merely stared out the window of the helicopter, watching the sparse vegetation of northern Mexico go by. Why, he thought, did every war have to start the same way? Why did young soldiers always have to pay with their lives so that their leaders could learn their trade? As much as Dixon felt sorry for the troop commander, he knew that he had to go. Not only had he sinned by sending out a single vehicle on recon, he had tried to cover up his mistake. Officers, especially cavalry officers, who thought that it was permissible to submit false or inaccurate reports in combat could not be tolerated. Too many lives rode on the decisions that were made based on what the cavalry reported. Besides, after the verbal beating and public humiliation the troop commander had received on the open-air radio net, Dixon knew the troop commander's confidence would be broken beyond repair. So, to the five scouts who everyone was now assuming were out there somewhere killed or wounded, Dixon added a sixth casualty, the troop commander, who would become a psychological casualty, probably for life.
In the current operations van, located in the division main command post, Cerro turned the FM radio frequency from the cavalry squadron command net back to the alternate division command net. Like Dixon, he had been listening to the squadron commander, eavesdropping as they called it. Like Dixon, he was depressed after listening to the conversation, but not for the same reasons. The A Troop commander, Cerro felt, had been incredibly stupid. Relief, Cerro felt, would be too good. For what the commander had done, anything less than public castration would be too light a punishment. The thought of sending a lone scout out into hostile territory was, doctrinally as well as in terms of common sense, nothing less than criminal.