Reign of Terror

assistance recovering our men.”

  Commandante Sanchez quickly nodded his head once. Stokes left to go pack. He dreaded the phone call he would make to Carolyn before leaving for the border. On short notice, he wouldn’t have time to explain his action to Gorman who was still sleeping at Bliss.

  On his way back to the BOQ for his travel bag, he called Shields before calling Carolyn. Shortly after answering, Peter yelled, “Are you nuts? John, Juarez is a big city, and you don’t have a chance in hell of finding the guys. What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know, Peter. I thought that it made sense and still do. It would be worse for me if I didn’t do anything at all.”

  Peter yelled, “I can understand what you feel man, but this is insane! What about your men on this side? What about Carolyn?”

  “What would you do, Peter? Just stay safe and let those guys get butchered on the tube again?”

  There was a brief pause before Peter answered more calmly, “Look, John, I don’t have your responsibilities.” He reflected on his promise to Carolyn.

  “You’re not makin’ this any easier.”

  “I don’t want this to be easy. What did you think I would say?”

  “Peter, you have to help me with Carolyn if she calls you.”

  “John, of course, I’ll do whatever I can.” He said it, but dreaded it at the same time.

  “Okay, Thanks. I’ve got to call her now.”

  Several hours later, Stokes arrived at the border. The call to Carolyn had not gone well, but he tried not to think about it.

  The bottom line from Carolyn through her hysterics and sobbing was something like, “John, You’ve got to stop being a cowboy and realize that you have a family. Don’t we mean anything to you? Soldiers take risks, like your man. You can’t risk your life in heroics. If you do this, you might as well stay in Texas.”

  The conversation ended when he said, “Goodbye -- I love you,” and she couldn’t respond in her emotional state (or chose not to respond). It seemed to Stokes that Gorman was the only one who understood why he needed to go south.

  Peter almost threw the receiver at the phone cradle. He thought, “What the hell are you thinking, John?” After simmering for a few moments, he realized John was right, but he was also wrong in some ways. Peter was mostly mad that John was going alone. They had gone together with Peter leading on prior missions. It wasn’t unusual to be isolated in hostile territory in their profession, but at least John had always had Peter nearby in the past. He sat at his desk safe in Washington with fists clenched in front of him. He knew Carolyn would call him, and he didn’t know what to say.

  After long contemplation, his cell phone vibrated, and he reluctantly looked at the display. He was surprised to see Rachael’s name. “Hello.”

  “Peter, I just got a call from Carolyn Stokes!” They had met when Rachael and Peter were both hospitalized in Illinois, following John’s first counter-terror mission with Peter. Carolyn and John had frequently talked about the love match between Peter and Rachael, and she didn’t know their engagement had ended.

  He spoke reluctantly, “Let me guess, she was upset about John’s volunteering to go into Mexico.”

  “Hell, yes, she’s upset! Did you know about this?”

  “He called me half an hour ago -- I told him it was nuts.” He held the receiver away from his ear, expecting the next blast.

  “You macho SOBs! He’s got kids, Peter! What are you guys thinking?”

  “Rachael, I had nothing to do with this. I told him not to do it. I told him all about his responsibilities. Hell, I promised Carolyn that he’d be safe, and then he pulled this stunt.”

  “You guys will say anything, Peter, just to avoid serious discussions. She’s scared to death. Can’t you understand!” He held the phone away again.

  “Rachael, I thought so, but I probably made things worse when I promised her. I honestly never thought John would be reckless.”

  “Peter, this goes beyond reckless, he’s suicidal. It’s not his fault that men were lost. He’s just adding himself to the casualties. Can you imagine what will happen to her, you, us, if he ends up on YouTube!”

  He sucked in a deep breath, “I don’t know what else I can do.”

  She screamed in his ear, “Call him and end this!”

  He didn’t want to yell at her, “I can’t do that. I already tried.”

  “Then try again, and tell him that Carolyn doesn’t deserve this. Call his C.O. and get him to cancel this. I don’t care how you do it, just stop this!”

  She hung up.

  Peter just looked at the phone and wanted to break it in half. She had included “us” in the mix. He was just on the verge of hoping that there was an “us” again in his future. This was beyond unfair. His friendship with John Stokes was crushing every relationship Peter had. Rachael was mad at him, Carolyn was mad at both men. Damn you, John!

  He also knew Rachael was right. He had to end this, not just because his relationship with Carolyn and probably Rachael was in the balance, but because he cared more for John Stokes than any man alive. He would not talk to the C.O. or to John again until John called him. He would, however, start gathering all the information he needed to help John -- if there was anything. But first, he knew that he had to talk to Carolyn, even though he had no idea what to say.

  In Country

  Stokes reported at the border crossing when instructed. He wore blue jeans and a Phish tee shirt, carrying a large new duffle bag. He had $500 in his wallet from visiting the ATM at the base credit union and wore a red Chicago Bull’s ball cap. He looked similar to the hundreds of soldiers from Bliss that crossed into Juarez each night for the cheap bars and girls.

  The Mexican Guard sat in the hot booth, looking about as excited as a TSA inspector. He handed Stokes’ military ID back and signaled him to pass by with a hand motion. When John said he was supposed to meet someone, “a Federale,” the Guard stared at him as though he didn’t speak English. “Como?”

  “Someone is supposed to meet me.”

  Once again, the guard flailed a hand, indicating that he wanted John to move on. In frustration, John walked about five paces past the booth, dropped his bag on the dusty sidewalk and stood waiting. After almost an hour, he was getting angry when an old dirty blue Chevy sedan with a vague symbol on the door pulled across traffic. The driver signaled for John to get in, saying something in Spanish. He opened the back door and tossed in his travel bag before climbing in. Once inside, he realized that he had thrown it onto an upset passenger on the other side. “Oh, sorry.”

  The driver made an abrupt U-turn with horns blaring around him as he headed into the city. John looked at the passenger, who was in a rumpled tan uniform, “Look, I said I was sorry. Do you speak English?”

  The man glared back, “Yes.”

  “So, where are we going?”

  “We go to policia station.”

  The car crept through congested streets for another half hour in silence. Horns blared and people yelled after every movement. The police obviously were given no priority. John’s fellow passenger remained silent, maintaining a constant stare out of the side window. Judging by the number of AK assault rifles carried openly on the sidewalks, the police were seriously out gunned with their handguns.

  The car finally stopped at a dark building with archways along the front and a faded “Hotel” sign that pigeons used for target practice. The man in back gestured, saying, “You stay here.”

  “What about the police station?”

  “Not now. Later.”

  John tried to protest further when the man continued, “We come tonight. Now is your time to be out.”

  John grabbed his bag and said nothing to either officer before they drove off, leaving him on the curb. He wasn’t familiar with the city and decided it was better to follow directions than wander around. He walked quickly inside.

  At the front
desk, two young American men with telltale short haircuts and a couple local girls were bartering for a single room “for a few hours.” When John stood behind them in line, the discussion ended, and the two men split the room cost in cash. He waited for them to be out of earshot before transacting for his own room.

  The pleasant woman at the counter said, “How long you will stay, Señor?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe three nights.” He actually had no idea and was packed for a week. She rotated the oversized ledger book on the counter and asked him to write his name. She then entered a room number. After getting a key, he went to the room, overlooking a busy street. He had asked for a room away from the “by-the-hour playrooms,” unsure if the clerk understood. His room was basic, with a small sink and running water. The toilet and shower were shared down the hall. The windows were opened when he entered and provided the only air circulation. There was no air conditioning, fan, or heat, and there were no screens on the windows. The windows had a filmy appearance with a thick coating of dust on the frames. Exhaust smell was strong with a faint odor of untreated sewage carried by the slight breeze. Overall, it was exactly how he pictured Juarez, and it also gave him a preview of what the Mexican officials thought of his assistance.

  He lay on the single bed, listening to the street noise and thought about his call with Carolyn. It hadn’t gone well, but was no worse than he expected. She felt powerless to change his mind. She feared for his safety and for the