Though Wecas didn't understand exactly what was happening, he understood that whoever was calling was hurt, frightened, and in need of help. In Vietnam he had heard many calls like this one. Young soldiers, often alone and in combat for the first time, trying to find someone, anyone, to help them and their buddies. Although the voice calling itself Charlie eight eight Bravo wasn't the same one that had called before when they couldn't reach their own battalion CP, it didn't matter to Wecas. The first caller might already be dead, or wounded. Wecas didn't know. Nor did that matter.. What did matter was that the fear, the excitement, the anger that came out of the radio speaker in the command post carrier was real. Someone, another American soldier like him, was in trouble out there. Wecas was not about to let him die alone.
"Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. Can you give me your location and a target reference point? I can have a fire mission for you in a minute, but I need your location and a target reference point, over."
The shooting had stopped. For a moment, there was an eerie silence, punctuated only by a low roar of flames consuming the armored Humvee and an occasional pop-pop as small-arms ammo in the armored Humvee cooked off. Thankful that someone had answered his call, Alison calmed down and considered what he should do next. He had no idea who had fired upon them and only a vague idea where the fire had come from.
Though he thought that the attackers were close and somewhere to the front, he couldn't be sure. Whoever had fired on them was, no doubt, still out there. They might even be closing in. If that was the case, he needed to get out of the Humvee and hide, or at least get into a position where he could defend himself. Dropping the radio hand mike in his lap, Alison reached behind for his M-16 rifle. As he did so, a series of sharp pains wracked his body. Laying the rifle across his lap, he realized that escape would not be possible. Though he didn't know how bad he had been hit, he. intuitively understood that he would not be able to get out of the Humvee and evade his attackers.
"Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. I say again, give me your location and a target reference point. I need your location and a target reference point, over."
Looking at the radio, Alison realized that his only salvation was to give whoever Mike one Victor was what he asked for. Letting go of his rifle, he seized the radio hand mike with his right hand and the map, which was wedged under the radio, with his left hand. As he put the map in his lap, he keyed the radio. "Last station, this is Charlie eight eight, give me a minute, over."
Calmer now that he had someone out there ready to help, Alison pulled the flashlight off of the clip that held it to the front windshield frame, flicked it on, and began to search the map for a mark that showed where they were. When he found the point on the map, Alison held the index finger of his left hand on the spot while he keyed the radio mike with his right hand.
He was about to speak when the door of the Humvee flew open.
Jerking about to see what was happening, he looked up. In the darkness, he could see no facial features, no details, only the black outline of shoulders and a head. He didn't even see the automatic pistol as the apparition shoved it into his face. All Private Tod Alison felt was the sudden shock of the cold metal barrel slam into his jaw before the apparition pulled the trigger.
Wecas watched the orange radio call light come on, signaling the beginning of a transmission. Prepared to copy the information he had requested from Charlie eight eight and punch the data into the TAC fire computer, the sudden blast that came out of the radio speaker, followed by the call light going off, caught Wecas off guard. For a second, he didn't move, waiting for the radio to come to life again. Stolte, now standing behind Wecas, looked at the radio, then at Wecas. "What was that all about?"
Though Wecas knew, he didn't answer. Instead, he keyed the radio mike. "Charlie four Charlie eight eight Bravo, this is Mike one Victor three two. I say again, give me your location and a target reference point.
I need your location and a target reference point, over."
Finished, Wecas picked up the hand mike for the radio set on the firing battery net and gave the fire direction center an order to be prepared to receive and fire a real mission.
Lefleur was in the process of putting his automatic pistol back into its holster when the orange call light of the Humvee's radio came on and he heard a voice, asking for a location and target reference point. Looking at the radio, then down at the body in front of him, he noticed a map.
Picking up the flashlight and shining it down, Lefleur studied the map. As he did so, one of his men came up behind him.
"Everyone in the other vehicle is dead. Poof, all gone. And one of the Mexican recon vehicles is moving down to the river to get a closer look."
The voice, belonging to a Mexican-American mercenary, gave Lefleur an idea. Turning to his man, Lefleur surprised him. "Amigo, do you remember how to direct artillery fire?"
Straightening up and puffing out his chest, the Mexican-American responded with pride, "I was in force recon for three years. Every marine in force recon knows how to call for and direct artillery fire. Child's play, there child's play."
Reaching into the Humvee, Lefleur pried the radio hand mike from the dead guardsman's hand. Turning around, he handed the mike to the Mexican-American. "Then this should be fun. Here, call Mike one Victor three two and tell them you are at…" Lefleur paused as he leaned over to shine the flashlight on the map and find the information he needed.
"Ah, here we are. Tell them you are located at checkpoint Quebec five two and the target, two Mexican armored cars, is located near target reference point… Yes, target reference point Bravo Tango zero one five. Got that?"
The Mexican-American shrugged his shoulders. "No problem." Keying the hand mike, he began the call.
Before he spoke, Lefleur put his hand over the mike. "When you talk, sound excited, frightened, amigo. Sound like you are under attack. And ask for DPICM. No adjusting rounds. Let's do this right."
Again the Mexican-American responded with a simple, matter of fact
"No problem, boss."
Stolte, still standing behind Wecas, suddenly realized what was going on.
With an appreciation of the situation came a sudden feeling of disbelief.
For a moment, he stood riveted to the floor of the command post carrier, watching and listening while Wecas yelled at the chief of the gun section to get his men out of the sack and ready to fire. The gun section chief, like Stolte, was having, difficulty believing that they were about to execute a real fire mission. Stolte was about to interfere, asking Wecas if it was a good idea to process the fire mission without permission from battalion first, when Charlie eight eight Bravo came back on the air. Rather than interfere, Stolte watched Wecas take down the data coming in. As he did so, Stolte noticed that the voice was different. It was lower, calmer, more collected. That, however, changed when the sound of a three-round burst of rifle fire screamed over the radio, followed by a loud "Jesus," then silence. The attack, apparently, was still in progress.
The sudden burst of rifle fire behind his back caused the Mexican American literally to jump. In the process, he dropped the radio hand mike. Turning around, his eyes as big as saucers, the Mexican-American saw Lefleur, a broad smile on his face, standing behind him holding a smoking M-16, taken from the dead guardsman, pointed in the air. ' 'What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid bastard?"
Lefleur chuckled. "My friend, you were not excited enough. You were not convincing. I thought you could use a little help."
Reaching down to retrieve the hand mike, keeping an eye on Lefleur as he did so, the Mexican-American warned him that if he pulled a stunt like that again, he would shove the M-16 up his ass.