Though there were many women even in those elite combat units, they had always belonged to someone else, another unit, another comr mander. So Harold and Ann Cerro had never had to confront the issue and develop an appropriate set of rules.
This, Cerro decided, was not the time or place to start doing either.
When he finished seating his wife, Cerro moved around to his own chair and seated himself. As he did so, Ann leaned over toward him. "Something wrong, dear?"
Cerro looked at her, thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, nothing, why?"
Ann leaned back and gave him a sideward glance. "Don't give me that, Harold Cerro. I can tell when your mind has left the here and now.
Are you going to share your deep dark thoughts with me or not?"
While still looking into her eyes, Cerro picked up the menu and opened it. He smiled. "Dear, I'm sorry. It's all highly classified and hush-hush. If I told you, I'd have to kill you and that, my dear, would spoil my appetite." Without another word, he looked down at the menu.
Slouching down in her chair, Ann reached out with her leg under the table and kicked him in the shin. "I'll give you something that'll spoil your appetite."
Doing his best to ignore the kick, Cerro looked up. "Did you say something, dear?"
Leaning over in order to get close, Ann squinted her eyes, wrinkled her nose, and whispered, "Harold Cerro, sometimes you can be a real asshole."
Smiling,
Cerro pinched Ann's cheek. "I try, dear, I really try."
Despite the fact that the sun was well on its way down, it was still hotter than hell. Jan Fields, standing in the shade of the American customs building, was still sweating. Her bright yellow short-sleeved cotton blouse was streaked with dark spots from the perspiration that ran down her back. Even her tan walking shorts were soaked at the waistline. God, she thought, how she hated to sweat. Deciding to toss out all thoughts of feminine poise and charm, Jan reached up behind her head and untied the yellow cotton bandana that was holding her hair back. Carefully folding the bandana on her right hand, she began to mop the beads of perspiration on her forehead and cheeks, finishing with wide sweeps along the sides of her neck. Turning to Ted and Joe Bob, she called out to see if they were finished. Ted, who had his back to her, merely lifted his right hand and waved. Joe Bob, who was facing Ted, looked over Ted's shoulder at Jan and yelled, "Hey, Jan, Ted wants to know if there's something really important you need to do or if it's just one of those woman things."
Putting her hands on her hips, with her chin stuck out, Jan shot back,
"Okay, you guys. How 'bout moving your male bonding back to the hotel pool. I hear water spots is all the rage now with the guys."
Joe Bob just smiled a big toothy grin as he continued to hold a white panel Ted was using for judging light conditions. "God, Jan, you're really sweet when you're angry."
Ted, who had had his head bent over reading a light meter, looked up into Joe Bob's eyes. "Cute, really fucking cute. Now how about holding the bloody panel still so we can all get out of here."
Looking from Jan to Ted, Joe Bob's expression changed to mock surprise. "Oh, what do we have here? Sympathetic PMS syndrome?"
Without looking up at Joe Bob, Ted continued to fiddle with his light meter. "Joe Bob, if you don't hold that panel still and shut up, I'll stick this meter up your backside and see just how true it is that the sun never shines there."
Sighing, Joe Bob lamented to himself, but loud enough so Ted could hear, "Jeez, I really hate it when this time of month comes around."
Unable to hear what Ted and Joe Bob were saying, Jan turned her attention to the story that they were to shoot tomorrow. It was already decided that the opening shot would be here, on the bridge that separated Mexico from the United States. Preliminary surveys showed that this was the best place in Brownsville for getting, in a single shot, a picture of Texas National Guardsmen and Mexican Army soldiers, each on their own side of the border, facing off.
She would start the piece by referring to the speech President Ronald Reagan had given in the early eighties in which he warned the people of America that unless they did something to stop the spread of communism in Central America, Brownsville, Texas, would become the front line.
Jan had learned from Scott to use historic quotes that appeared to be applicable. It gave people, he said, the impression that you had done some research and, therefore, knew what you were talking about. His comment was only half in jest. Though Jan loved to spend as much time as possible on research, there just wasn't time to learn everything about a story that was really necessary. Time, and the pressing demands of the network, simply did not permit a correspondent the luxury of becoming an expert on every subject she covered. So Jan, like most of the people in her field, did the best she couldwith the time and resources available, and winged the rest.
Pulling out a small pad and pen from her pocket, Jan jotted down a few quick notes. On the bridge, they would talk to the soldiers on duty and get their impressions and comments. From there, they would go to the headquarters of the 1st Brigade, 36th Infantry Division, and interview the brigade commander. After that, downtown to city hall for an interview with the mayor, then out onto the street in the shopping district for some opinions from the people of Brownsville. Jan was hoping to get comments from both the Hispanic citizens and the Anglos, or what Joe Bob referred to as "real Americans."
Scanning the shooting schedule before putting it back in her pocket, Jan noticed that the sweat running down her arm and hand had left a damp thumbprint on the page of the pad, smearing the ink. Looking up at Joe Bob and Ted, she called but, "Will you two stop playing grab-ass in public and get a move on."
Joe Bob smiled and waved, whispering to Ted as he did so, "Better hurry there, friend. Her highness is overheating. Whatever it is you need, buddy, you can get tomorrow. There'll be plenty of time."
13
A Snider squibbed in the jungle,
Somebody laughed and fled,
And the men of the First Shikaris
Picked up their Subaltern dead,
With a big blue mark in his forehead
And the back blown out of his head.
Unable to focus his eyes any longer on the Louis L'Amour novel he was reading, First Lieutenant Ken Stolte, the executive officer of a 155mm howitzer battery, swung his feet off the table and onto the ground and put the book down on the table. As he stood, his calves pushed back the old folding chair he had been sitting on. As it moved, the chair, painted several times too often, folded and collapsed, creating a clattering that surprised the nodding duty NCO seated at the TAC fire set in the M-577 armored command post carrier. Noting the puzzled look on his sergeant's face as he held his hands over his head, leaned back and stretched, Stolte smiled. "What's the matter, Buck, losing it?"