by Harold Coyle
Flying in such a manner was for more than the colonel's pleasure.
Unsure if the air traffic controllers or the radar operators in Ciudad Victoria were in Alaman's pay, Guajardo had directed that all the helicopters participating in the raid on Chinampas make their final approach low and fast, using valleys and mountains to mask detection by any radars. No one outside the Council of 13 and the men actually participating knew of the raid. Guajardo, intending to come down on Chinampas like a thunderbolt, had taken every precaution imaginable to protect the plan.
Now, with only fifteen minutes to go, he could feel his heart begin to pump adrenaline into his system. Like a runner straining at the blocks, he could feel every muscle tense, preparing themselves for sudden and violent action. In his mind, Guajardo imagined he could see all eleven helicopters screaming along at one hundred knots as they skimmed the surface of the ground. Like great javelins, the assault force was converging on their target. "Nothing," Guajardo whispered, "nothing can save Chinampas. It is mine!"
25 miles east of chinampas, mexico
0645 hours, 30 June
Absorbed in flying his helicopter, Blasio didn't notice the warning indicator until his co-pilot brought it to his attention. Even when he finally did acknowledge the co-pilot, the danger was slow to register in Blasio's tired mind. Turning to his left to the rows of warning indicators, Blasio focused on the orange flashing light, trying to read the small lettering on it between flashes. After several seconds, he decided it was the main gearbox chip collector light.
Instinctively, Blasio simultaneously pulled back on his cyclic with his right hand, eased his collective down with his left, and nudged his right pedal with his foot to reduce their speed, searching for a place to land as he did so. Noticing the change in pitch, the infantry platoon leader leaned over and asked the crew chief if they were approaching the landing zone.
Having monitored the conversation between Blasio and the co-pilot, the crew chief told the lieutenant that there was a mechanical problem and they were preparing to land.
Without hesitation, the lieutenant pushed his way past the crew chief.
Yelling so that Blasio could hear, even through his flight helmet, the infantry lieutenant demanded that they not stop, that they continue on.
Turning control over to his co-pilot, Blasio twisted in his seat to face the lieutenant. "We must land. Particles, tiny bits of metal chipped off the main rotor's gears, have reached a dangerous level in the gear box. If we do not stop and clean off the chip collector, a little magnetic plug that gathers these stray chips out of the transmission oil, the metal chips will foul the gears of the main rotor and cause it to seize up. And if that happens, we will drop from the sky like a rock and, boom, no one goes anywhere anymore."
The infantry lieutenant was persistent. "No. We cannot stop. We must continue on to our objective. We must not fail."
Tired and angry, Blasio was in no mood to risk the lives of his crew, not to mention his own, executing what he considered to be a simple troop-ferrying mission. The young lieutenant, like the major last night, was fired up by the passions of the moment. And, like most infantry officers, he could not understand the harsh reality that aircraft, and their crews, cannot be pushed beyond a certain point without paying a price.
Blasio, not really understanding the passions of the moment, and unwilling to pay the price he knew he would pay if he pushed his machine too far, was not going to relent from his decision. Besides, as Blasio recalled, even Major Caso himself had told them that their task, securing the airfield, was a supporting operation. "Look, Lieutenant, we can land, clean the chip collector off, and be airborne again in ten minutes. Flying at full throttle, we can make some of that time up, arriving in plenty of time to secure the airfield."
In response to his proposal, the lieutenant lifted the muzzle of his rifle to the level of Blasio's eyes. "We will continue on. We will not land."
Fury overcame Blasio's common sense. His face contorted in anger, Blasio screamed at the top of his lungs. "Go ahead, shoot me, you stupid bastard! Either way, we are going to land now."
Without a second thought, Blasio turned away from the lieutenant.
Grabbing his cyclic, Blasio jerked it to the right and forward as he prepared to set the helicopter down. The second Bell 212, with the rest of the infantry of Group N, traveling astern and left of Blasio, watched his maneuvering. Slow to respond to the unexpected change in speed and course, the second helicopter flew past Blasio's before its pilot could bring it about. When the second aircraft returned to its station astern of the lead aircraft, its pilot conformed to every maneuver Blasio performed, landing fifty meters from where Blasio had landed.
South of Chinampas, Mexico
0659 hours, 30 June
When San Antonia was to their right, the three helicopters of Group D
changed formation from single file to a V, with the two troop carriers abreast and Guajardo's behind them. Unable to restrain himself, Guajardo released his seat belt, grabbed the rear of the pilot's and copilot's seats, and pulled himself forward, straining to catch a glimpse of Chinampas as he did so. To his left, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Bell 206s of Group Z as they swung around the southern tip of a hill mass and began their final run toward the towers. For a second, he watched them. They were on time, and like Group D, deployed and ready. Satisfied, he turned his head to the right, in the direction in which they were headed.
Before him, as if it had suddenly popped out of the ground, was Chinampas. In an instant, he took everything in. All was in order. All was as it should be. After months of detailed planning and study, the moment was here.
Intently Guajardo looked for telltale signs of flight or resistance. There were none. No tracers from machine guns, no puffs of smoke from surface-to-air missiles being launched, no hasty activity on the airfield.
Surprise appeared to be complete.
Looking north, above Chinampas, he tried to find Group M. That he did not didn't concern him. They, no doubt, were coming on as fast as Group D and already descending. And, even if they weren't there, there was no waiting for them or stopping. Two groups were on time and committed. There was no more time for planning. No more decisions needed to be made. There was no recall. Now was the time for action.
One way or the other, the problem of Senior Alaman was about to be resolved.
Chinampas, Mexico
0659 hours, 30 June
Diaz Bella, long associated with every illegal sport in Mexico City from prostitution to cockfights, was animated as he barked at Alaman. Like most of the men sitting about the table, men who had built their fortunes by exploiting the corruption that was a way of life in Mexico, Bella felt himself lucky to have escaped from the grasp of the military coup, a feat few of their fellow associates had managed. The rolls of Bella's fat belly bumped the edge of the table, causing it to shake as he ranted and raved, throwing his arms about to accentuate his displeasure. "I am sorry if I do not share your confidence, my friend. But I do not trust these colonels in Mexico City. They are zealots. They actually believe in what they say.
They have conviction, determination, and, for the moment, power and popular support, all of which is a very dangerous combination." Finished, Bella allowed himself to settle down, taking his two hands and smoothing back his hair as he leaned back in his chair and waited for Alaman's response. Like the half dozen other men seated at the table, he had come to Chinampas to seek refuge and advice, and to plan a common response to the new threat to their livelihood.
Alaman did not immediately respond. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee, looking around the lush green garden just beyond the patio. They were excited, he thought to himself. Shaken and excited. Now, if he could maintain his composure and forestall calamity from either the new government or from within the ranks of the drug cartel and Mexican underworld, he, El Dueno, would become the undisputed leader of every aspect of organized crime in all of Mexico.
Savorin
g that thought, Alamari set his coffee cup down and began to speak. "My friend, time is on our side. So long as we don't lose our heads and hang together, I have no doubt that we can reach some type of understanding with this new government." Pausing, he looked at each man. Each man, in turn, looked into Alaman's eyes in an effort to see if he really believed his own words. Though half were still skeptical, Alaman was satisfied he had their attention. As he prepared to continue, the heavy beating of helicopter blades drawing near caught his attention.
Turning his head away from the group gathered around the table, Alaman looked across the garden toward the west wall.
For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, in a flash, two small Army helicopters came screaming across the top of the wall headed right for them. Never having seen a raid before, Alaman and most of the men at the table were mesmerized by the scene unfolding before them. Even as a second pair of helicopters came over the west wall, slowed to a hover, then began to fire on the towers while a stream of soldiers descended ropes from both sides of the helicopters, Alaman simply sat, as if he were rooted to his chair, watching in amazement as the engineer teams took out the towers. Only a loud explosion coming from the direction of the north wall, and the appearance of Childress, the American mercenary, shook Alaman from his immobility.
Grabbing Alaman's arm, Childress pulled him up out of his chair and back into the main house just as a swarm of troop-carrying helicopters popped up over the south wall and dropped down, like giant grasshoppers, right in front of the patio.
Only after his helicopter lurched up to clear the south wall did Guajardo see the two helicopters of Group M approaching from the north. Already excited, the appearance of Group M and the scene unfolding before him was both overwhelming and a relief. For never having been rehearsed, everything seemed to be coming together magnificently. Glancing to the right to see if Group N had arrived, Guajardo was caught off guard when a fireball suddenly erupted near tower 2.
Forgetting about Group N for the moment, he turned his attention toward the north wall, where tower 2 was located. Since his own helicopter had already dropped into the garden and the main house lay between him and the tower, he could not see the tower or what had caused the massive explosion. He could, however, see the fireball, now laced with black smoke, rising in the sky above the main house. In an instant, Guajardo knew that one of the helicopters had crashed or had been shot down. Judging from the angle, it had to be the Bell 206 carrying Engineer Team Z-2.
The thumping of the skids on the ground alerted Guajardo that they were in the garden. Pushing away from the pilot's and co-pilot's seats, he turned for the right door, drew his pistol, and, in a single bound, was clear of the aircraft and running for the main house.
Once he was on the ground, Guajardo began to look around in an effort to assess his own situation and the progress of the attack. At that moment, he could not tell if things were happening the way he had intended them to or not. Everything seemed unreal. Although they were running, the movement of the men of Group D to his front seemed painfully slow.
Beyond them, from the main house, there were flashes of gunfire. And beyond that, billows of black smoke from the unseen fire at tower 2. All these images flowed together and merged into a great blur one instant, then like a snapshot, a single scene became crystal clear, almost frozen in his mind. Mixed with the unfolding spectacle was a cacophony of sounds.
Muffled explosions reverberated from the walls as the engineers broke into the towers. The crack of rifle fire and the sputter of automatic weapons from his men, return fire from the house, and the zing of near misses punctured the air. Above the gunfire and explosions came the shouts of officers giving orders, sergeants driving their soldiers on, and the screams of wounded and dying men, bombarding Guajardo's ears as he tried to make sense out of the chaos in the garden.
Just short of the patio, a young private in front of Guajardo suddenly threw his arms out and went sprawling across the grass. He had been hit in midstride. His forward momentum carried him forward while his automatic rifle flew out of his hands. Without pausing, Guajardo continued past the dead soldier, grabbing the rifle and exposing himself to the same gunfire that had struck the soldier. That he was doing so did not occur to Guajardo. In fact, very few conscious thoughts crossed his mind in his mad rush for the main house. All that mattered was to reach the house and clear it as quickly as possible.
Only the quick action of Childress saved Alaman from going down in the first volley of fire that had taken out most of the associates he had been meeting with. The speed, violence, and overwhelming force of the attack made an organized defense of the house impossible. Childress realized this immediately and acted accordingly. Rather than stand and fire at the attacking Federales in what would be nothing more than a futile gesture, Ghildress grabbed Alaman in an effort to hustle him out of harm's way as best he could, leaving the others on the patio to fend for themselves.
The sudden and violent takedown, as well as the weight of Childress's body on his, knocked the air out of Alaman's lungs. Not realizing what had happened, he began to get up onto his hands and knees, shoving Childress aside as he did so. Back on his own feet, Childress rearranged his hold on the collar of Alaman's jacket and began to push Alaman off the patio, through the house, and out the front door.
As they reached the door, Alaman began to protest. "Maria! We must get Maria! She is upstairs!"
Childress, however, ignored his plea. Without a word, he shoved Alam's, assisted by a knee in the back, out the front door, glancing over his shoulder toward the patio as he did so. Alaman's organized, businesslike meeting of less than a minute ago was now a scene of bedlam and horror. Several of the men who had been with Alaman were already lying lifeless on the ground or draped across the table and chairs in awkward positions. One man, a fat dark Mexican whom Childress recognized as Diaz- Bella, jumped up from behind the body of one of his fallen associates and began to lumber toward the door of the house. An unseen assailant from somewhere in the garden ended Bella's flight with a hail of gunfire. Hit from behind, Bella jerked straight up, arching his huge belly forward as if punched in the small of the back, before he fell forward, crashing through the glass doors that led from the house to the patio.
Once in the open courtyard, Alaman looked about as the American hustled him toward the barracks buildings. To his left, the entire tower next to the north gate and the twisted wreckage of a helicopter were engulfed in flames. The fire created a thick, choking smoke that lingered in the courtyard. To his front, figures with weapons at the ready rushed out of the smoke, passed them, and ran into the house. They were members of the garrison. Childress considered stopping them and telling them that the house couldn't be held, but decided not to, not in the middle of the open courtyard.
As if to underscore how bad things were, Childress and Alaman began to take fire from somewhere to the right. At first, Childress thought the guards in the tower next to the south gate were confused by the smoke.
This time he did pause to yell at them to cease fire. Then he saw the tan uniforms and dark helmets of the federal soldiers popping up over the edge of the tower as they fired down into the courtyard below them. The tower had been lost. In a few more seconds, the house would be too.
Unless they reached the barracks before that, they would be caught in a deadly cross fire.
With another great push, Childress shoved Alaman toward the barracks and kept him going.
Guajardo, flanked by two soldiers, rushed past bodies of the criminals who had been gathered on the patio and behind overturned furniture.
Without pausing, he went through the open patio doors and into the house. As they reached the base of the spiral staircase, Guajardo and the two soldiers with him ran head-on into two of Alaman's mercenaries coming through the front door. Surprised to see the soldiers, and realizing the soldiers had the advantage, both of the mercenaries threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.
Unfortunately
for the occupants of the house, giving quarter to his enemy had never entered Guajardo's mind. With his blood up and seeking to strike out, Guajardo stopped, turned toward the nearest mercenary, leveled the rifle he had picked up, and squeezed the trigger.
The mercenary who was his first target took the full burst in the chest and was thrown against the wall. Even before the first mercenary had crumpled into a bloody heap on the floor, Guajardo turned on the second.
Seeing that the federal soldiers were in no mood to compromise, and determining that he had thrown his own weapon too far to grab it back, the second mercenary pivoted and ran back out the door.
Guajardo had no intention of letting him escape. Bringing his rifle up to his shoulder, he took careful aim this time before he squeezed off another burst. Panicked, the mercenary made no effort to bob or weave, providing Guajardo an easy mark. The first rounds struck in the lower back. The climb of the gun muzzle, lifted by firing on full automatic, raised the strike of the following rounds up the mercenary's spine to the back of his head.
Like a man who had just quenched a burning thirst, Guajardo stood motionless for a moment. With the rifle still tucked to his cheek, he looked down the barrel, through the open doorway, at the corpse of the mercenary lying in the courtyard. For a second he was oblivious to everything and everyone about him. The scurrying of the soldiers who had accompanied him into the house did not break his concentration. Nor did the popping of gunfire and roar of grenades upstairs and in rooms to either side bother him. Instead, he just stood there, savoring his success and enjoying the exhilaration of the kill. Months of stress and strain, fear and apprehension, self-doubt and second thoughts, were suddenly forgotten in the heat of action.
Only the sudden appearance of his deputy, Major Caso, snapped him back to the present. That, and the announcement that Group N was missing.