David Golemon - Ripper

“Your target area, Lieutenant, is this compound.”

The taller and far-younger first lieutenant stood confused as he studied the map in the light of the small lamp. “General, have we received intelligence other than our earlier reports that say Villa is two hundred miles to the south and nowhere near this hacienda?”

General John Joseph “Black Jack” Pershing kept his eyes on the map and didn’t look up at the man standing to his left. He nodded his head and then took a breath.

“Pancho Villa is not our task here this morning, Lieutenant.” Pershing finally looked up and into the cold eyes of the blonde-haired First Lieutenant George S. Patton. The aide held his ground as the general waited for the inevitable question.

“We’re using the president’s official mandate to cross into Mexico, and the capture of Pancho Villa is not in the directive? May I ask the general what the objective is?”

Pershing finally reached out his hand, and one of his aides that had been standing off to the side filled it with a large manila envelope. The general held the envelope with both hands a moment and then as if he had drifted away in thought and body looked around him slowly as if he were looking at something deep inside the fog bank.

“Reminds me of the morning just before the fight at San Juan Hill in Cuba,” Pershing said as he glanced skyward.

Patton could see the general not only looking at the fog surrounding them but also looking back at his days as a young lieutenant in the 10th all-Negro cavalry, thus his moniker — Black Jack.

Pershing slowly looked down at Patton and then his eyes went to the sealed envelope he held. He placed it on the map and slid it across. “Sorry for drifting. Your orders Lieutenant, precise and clear-cut. You are to cross the Rio Grande River and enter Mexico and destroy the hacienda indicated on the map at the aforementioned coordinates. You will treat all persons you come in contact with as hostile. After the property’s population is…,” the general looked away for the briefest of moments before finishing. He touched his graying moustache and then caught himself once more … “eliminated, the hacienda and outbuildings are to be burned. No structure is to be left standing.”

Patton looked at the envelope. He knew he didn’t need to read the orders inside. The general’s demeanor told him what he needed to know. He had just been given orders for a murder raid across the border into a sovereign nation.

“Your main target is an American citizen. He owns the property and is responsible for all that has happened there.” Pershing looked at Patton and his visage became stern. “The American’s name is Professor Lawrence Jackson Ambrose. You are to confirm the death of this professor personally, Patton. This order comes directly from the president of the United States. You are to eliminate everyone in the compound and burn any papers, laboratory equipment, or specimens you may come across.”

“Villa being in this neck of the woods was only a ruse to send in the troops?” Patton finally asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant, a ruse, lie, use whatever word you want,” came a voice from out of the fog.

Patton turned to see a small man in dungarees and a blue denim work shirt. The man actually wore a kerchief around his neck and a black cowboy hat cocked jauntily to the right side of his head.

“This is Lt. Colonel John Henry Thomas, a personal representative of President Wilson. He is present this morning to assure the president that the mission parameters have been fulfilled.”

Patton looked the man over. “What is your unit, sir?”

“Lieutenant!” Pershing said in anger at the presumption of a first lieutenant questioning not only a lieutenant colonel but also a representative of the president of the United States.

“I am attached to the National Archives, Lieutenant. And while my answer creates more questions as to my affiliation, that will have to be enough, okay Lieutenant?”

“I have my men to watch out for, sir, that is my only concern.”

“You not only have them to watch out for young lieutenant, you have me. And as you now know, I have at least one powerful friend in office. So don’t let me down, son.”

“Yes, sir, but these orders are ambiguous at best.”

“Exactly, because we don’t know what it is we will find across that river,” said the small man as he removed his hat and wiped the brim with another handkerchief he produced from a pocket.

“Just follow your orders, Lieutenant.” Pershing once more looked up and into the thickening fog. He placed his hands behind his back, turned away, and slowly moved a distance from the armored car. “Good luck Lieutenant, Colonel Thomas … God’s speed.”

George Patton watched as Black Jack Pershing melted into the thick veil of fog. He looked at the envelope in his hand and then quickly unbuttoned his tunic and slid the orders inside. Patton turned and made his way forward toward his waiting company.

Ten minutes later elements of the 8th United States Cavalry crossed the Rio Grande into Mexico.

The two Apache scouts from C Troop, only recently released from their imprisonment in St. Augustine, Florida, returned from the small valley that hid the hacienda. One of the men shook his head and removed his campaign hat, allowing his long black hair to shake free of its confinement. Lieutenant Patton waited for the report as patiently as he could, knowing that the lt. colonel from the National Archives was listening intently.

“Nothing but women and children as far as we can see. They seem to be doing their chores and nothing else,” the larger of the two Apache scouts said as he replaced his hat. “The fog has almost completely lifted near the hacienda, so we will have no cover in the charge.”

Patton looked down at his pocket watch, which was almost impossible to see in the night. He looked up and saw that every minute they delayed the attack allowed the fog to lift that much more.

“Five fifteen in the morning and women are already doing their daily tasks.” Patton looked at the two scouts and then over at the mysterious man sent here by the president. “Doesn’t seem too damn threatening to me.” The young first lieutenant shook his head. “I sure hope Washington knows just what in the hell they are doing.” Patton looked away from Lt. Colonel Thomas, clicked the cover of his pocket watch closed, and then turned and mounted the large roan, which pawed the ground anxiously.

“The orders regarding the women and children, Lieutenant, do they still stand?”

Patton looked down at Second Lieutenant Roland McAfee, a recent graduate of West Point on his very first field assignment, then again at the man from National Archives. Patton then scowled at the colonel and angrily shook his head. “No. If hostilities are evident, only then are the men to fire on anyone. If you can, I want the women and children scattered. Our main target is this Professor Ambrose and any other men of fighting age in the compound. I am not firing on women and children. Now, report to your troop and let’s get this over with.” Patton looked once more at the colonel. “Report it if you want to Colonel. I will not kill women and children without more of an explanation from Washington as to the why of it.”

Thomas looked taken back. “Lieutenant, you are in operational command of this mission,” he started and then smiled. “Hell, son, I would have refused that order myself.”

“Yes, sir,” McAfee said looking from Thomas and back at Patton, not understanding the back and forth between the two officers.

“Colonel Thomas, just who in the hell are you, really?” Patton asked, knowing this man wasn’t just an ordinary U.S. Army officer.