by Ralph Peters
"Perhaps," the Japanese said, "we should take increased defensive measures. Your sentinels, for instance. I've noticed that they do not have good fields of fire in all cases. The defense of your headquarters should be better organized."
Vargas hitched up his trousers, resettling the precious gunbelt he had taken from the American general. "Morita, you worry too much. I know this country. I been fighting now for six years. And I'm still here." In the background, out in the street, one of his men tuned in a radio to a station whose music combined the bright sound of horns with rhythms that made a man want to move his feet, preferably toward a woman. Someone laughed out in the darkness, and a second voice answered with a routine curse. "Anyway," Vargas said, "there ain't nobody coming up here, man. No fucking way. You need a fourwheeler to make it up that trail. And we'd hear anybody before we could even see them. And we'd see them long before they ever saw us. The only other way is to hump it right across the mountains. And, if the rattlesnakes don't get you, the sun will."
"They could always stage an air assault," Morita said.
"Yeah. But that's where you come in. With your fucking missiles. First, they got to find us. Then they got to make it through the missiles. Right? And, even if they landed the whole U.S. Army up here, we'd just shoot them down like dogs." Vargas looked at the other man with a superior smile. "Would you want to land a helicopter up here?"
"No," the Japanese admitted.
"So what are you worried about, man?" Vargas said, happier now that he had reassured himself. "Anyway, we're not going to be here much longer."
From somewhere outside of the cantina, a low throbbing sound became audible. The noise spoiled the gorgeous calm of the night.
Vargas cursed his way across the room. "I told those crazy sonsofbitches not to start up the generators anymore. We don't—"
He had reached the doorway of the cantina, where an old blanket hung at a slant. The noise was much louder now, and it no longer reminded him so much of the familiar throb of the generator.
"Jesus Christ," Vargas said. He turned back toward the Japanese in disbelief.
Morita's face mirrored exactly the way Vargas felt his own face must look.
"Helicopters," the Japanese said, half whispering.
Vargas drew his pistol and fired it into the darkness.
"Wake up, you sonsofbitches," he screamed, bursting out into the street. "The fucking gringos are coming."
Morita was already running down the dirt street toward the nearest air defense post.
The helicopters were thunderously loud now. It sounded as though there must be hundreds of them, swarming around the plateau, circling the mountaintops. Throughout the village, men began to fire their automatic weapons at phantoms.
Vargas dashed to the nearest cluster of gunmen. He slapped the first one he could reach across the back of the head.
"What are you firing at, you crazy sonofabitch? You can't see nothing."
"Gringos," the man answered.
"Save your fucking bullets. Wait till you see something. All of you — just get to your positions."
The men dispersed hastily, and Vargas trotted along in the wake of the Japanese adviser. Flares shot into the sky to illuminate the broad stretch of meadow between the village and the low western ridge. It was the only place where helicopters could safely put down. A machine gun tested its field of fire.
The helicopters could not be seen. They remained just outside of the cavern of flarelight, all mechanical bluster and grumbling. They seemed to come just so close, but no closer. Swirling around the nearby peaks. To Vargas, it seemed as though they were doing some sort of crazy war dance.
He came up to the first man-portable missile position just as the weapon's operator sent a projectile hurtling up into the sky with a flush of fire.
"Don't shoot," Morita screamed at the operator in English. He waved his hand-held radar in the brassy wash of the flares. "I told you not to shoot, you idiot. They're out of range."
The three men watched as the missile sizzled outward and upward. Then the light began to wobble. The missile self-destructed as it reached its maximum range without discovering a target.
"Put the launcher down," Morita commanded.
Even in the bad light it was evident to Vargas that the gunner had simply decided to pay no attention to the Japanese. The man could not understand Morita's English, in any case.
From the far end of the village, another missile burned up into the sky.
"Colonel Vargas," Morita said, in a voice that offered insufficient respect, "you must tell your men to stop firing. The helicopters are still out of range." The Japanese shouted to be heard over the surrounding throb and thunder, and his spittle pecked at Vargas's cheeks. "We can't afford to waste any more missiles."
Vargas was not yet ready to agree with the Japanese. Yes, the missiles had to be smuggled over an ever-lengthening route, finally coming by donkey up the mountain trail. And they truly were wonderful weapons, capable of putting the gringos in their place. But it was evident that Morita did not really understand the psychology of fighting. Vargas was ready to expend a few more of the precious missiles, as visibly as possible, to keep the gringos at a distance. He knew that the Americans had an inordinate fear of taking casualties, and even now, he thought he might just be able to warn them off. Then in the morning his force could begin moving to a new hiding place.
Suddenly, the helicopters seemed to lunge audibly toward the village.
"Fire," Vargas commanded the gunner. "Fire"
"I have to load this piece of shit first, my colonel. It's hard to do it in the dark."
"Morita," Vargas bellowed, ripping the apparatus from the hands of his revolutionary soldier. "Take this thing.
You fire it."
"They're still out of range," Morita said in a strained voice that betrayed the extent of his frustration. "Helicopters always sound louder at night. And they're echoing from the canyons. There is nothing I can do until they come closer."
"What kind of shit is that?" Vargas demanded. Maybe I should throw rocks at the gringos?"
Another surface-to-air missile sizzled up into the heavens from the far side of the village.
"It's a waste," Morita cried. "This is nothing but waste."
"You don't know shit," Vargas told the Japanese. "Why do you think the fucking gringos aren't already on the goddamned ground? They're afraid of the missiles, man." It did, indeed, appear that the Americans were afraid of the Japanese weaponry. For hours, the helicopters swooped and teased toward the village. But they always kept a margin of safety. No balls, Vargas decided. In the end, you could always back the gringos down. They expected their machines to do everything for them. But they were scared shitless when you got in close with a knife.
Intermittently, one of Vargas's men would send a burst of automatic weapons fire toward the stars. But ultimately the senseless circling and feinting of the helicopters simply had a numbing effect. The ears could barely hear, the head ached. From the panic that had gripped everyone at the sound of the Americans' initial approach, the atmosphere had changed to one of near boredom, of forced wakefulness.
"Here," Morita offered Vargas the use of his longdistance night goggles. For a while Vargas watched the black mechanical insects pulsing across the horizon. But he had seen plenty of helicopters in his day.
"No balls," Vargas told the Japanese. "They're burning up fuel for nothing, man. They're afraid to come in and land." He spat. "Shit, you know what I'd do if I was a gringo? I'd just blow this whole mountaintop to hell. But the gringos got no balls. They don't want to hurt no innocent civilians." Vargas laughed. "Morita, there ain't no such thing as an innocent man."
The deepest shade of black began to wash out of the sky, and Vargas realized that he had grown cold standing out in the night air. The sweat of fear had cooled his clothing, and he was ready to call out to one of his men to fetch his coat from the cantina when the sound of the helicopters abruptly diminished.
Vargas still could not see the enemy without the assistance of Morita's technology. But the change in the noise level was unmistakable. The helicopters were leaving. Without accomplishing anything. They had not even had the guts to make one attempt to land their cargoes of troops.
"They're going," Morita said. His surprised voice was already audible at the level of normal speech.
Vargas smiled at the weakening darkness.
"No balls," he said.
He strutted back toward the cantina, resettling his gunbelt under his belly. One more time, the gringos had failed to take him. He felt a renewed sense of confidence — and something greater, as well. It was as if the revolution, with all its excesses, with all its failures, had been vindicated in his person. And it would go on being vindicated. He would live to fuck their daughters and piss on their graves.
The scout's ramblings, all the spooky nonsense, had briefly unsettled him. But it was all right now.
"We wasted too many missiles," the Japanese said.
Vargas had been only faintly conscious of the smaller man trailing beside him in the street. He wiped his hand across the grizzle of his chin, cleaning the night from his lips. He spit into the pale gray morning.
"It don't matter, Morita. You got to learn. Those missiles were the price of victory." He laughed out loud. "The gringos were probably shitting in their pants.
Vargas pushed through the draped blanket and entered the sweet dark warmth of the cantina.
"Hey." he shouted. "Let's have some fucking light in here."
"My colonel," a voice called from the shadow's. It was Ramon, one of his captains. "I've been calling around to the outposts on the field telephone. Station number four doesn't answer."
Vargas grunted. Another deserter. He had watched his band dwindle from a full brigade in the Camacho Division of the North to the handful of half-organized survivors his will and their crimes had kept by his side. More and more, the men just disappeared into the mountains, or sneaked off to a woman in Guadalajara, or to a promise of amnesty.
The gringos were insidious. With their promises. But Varsas suspected that no amnesty would ever stretch to cover him.
A storm lantern sparked to life at the touch of a match. Through the gap in the doorway where the blanket did not reach. Vargas could see that it was already lighter outside than it was in the musty shadows of the barroom. It was a lean, half-blighted place.
"Hey. Morita," Vargas called. "Come on. We're celebrating." Vargas hammered on the bar. "Where's the fucking bartender? Hey, you bastard. Show some respect, before I have your eggs for breakfast."
"I don't want to drink," Morita said wearily. "It s time to sleep."
"First, we drink." Vargas insisted. He could feel the overtired village losing consciousness all around him. But he did not yet feel ready to lie down. There was still something chewing at him. Something he could not quite explain. He hammered the bar again. "Hey, you fucking dog of a bartender." Then he repeated himself to Morita. "First, we drink. Like two great big pricks. The biggest pricks in Mexico. Then maybe we go to sleep.
A ripple of explosions rattled the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Before the glass had finished chiming, a new low-pitched rumble filled the morning. Vargas imagined that he felt the earth moving under his knees.
"What the fuck?" he said, in English, to Morita.
The Japanese looked blank.
A few weapons began to sound. Seconds later the morning had filled with the sounds of a pitched battle. The big rumbling sound grew louder with each instant, approaching the village, a tide of noise, as unrecognizable as it was powerful,
At first Vargas thought it was an earthquake. Then another series of explosions reawoke him to the immediacy of combat.
He ran for the doorway, drawing his pistol as he went. The thundering sound, utterly unfamiliar, seemed to engulf the entire mountaintop now.
He shoved the blanket aside to the sound of shots and shouts and wild howling. Stepping down into the street, he stared off toward the long meadow that began just past the last shacks of the village. And he stopped in amazement.
Cavalry. The gringo sonsofbitches were on horses. Ghosts from another century, galloping down from the western ridge where the trail came up from the valley. He just had time to see the full spectacle of the charge, as eerie as it was violent, before the first section of horsemen burst into the main street of the village, blocking his view' of the rest of the action, The riders screamed like lunatics, firing their automatic weapons from the saddle.
"Machine guns," Vargas shouted. "Use the fucking machine guns. "
But he knew it was already too late. He fired twice in the general direction of the horsemen, while beside him one of his men fell to a sniper's bullet.
The fucking gringos had used the noise of the helicopters to cover the approach of their goddamned horses. Right up the damned trail. And they had infiltrated snipers into the village. The machine guns had never had a chance to speak.
A fucking horse cavalry charge. Who would ever have thought of such a crazy idea?
Down the street, men in U.S. Army uniforms began to swing from their saddles, smashing and shooting their way into the buildings. Others rode onward, shrieking at the top of their lungs and laying down suppressive fire in their path.
Suddenly, Vargas knew exactly who had thought of such a crazy idea. He felt his shooting hand waver. The one of whom the scout had spoken. This fucking El Diablo.
Vargas could see the details of the riders' helmets and flak jackets in the pure mountain light. He could see their jouncing hand grenades and the drab cloth bandoliers. He could see their faces. And the flaring nostrils and huge eyes of the horses.
He ran back for the cover of the cantina, careening off Morita in his haste. Instantly, the Japanese threw up his hands at the morning and tumbled back through the blanketed doorway, exploding with blood.
The bullet had been intended for Vargas.
There were times when you were beaten. All you could do was survive to take your revenge another day.
With the enemy's horses pounding in the street behind him, Vargas raced through the front room of the cantina, sweeping chairs out of his way with a crazy hand. He pushed through the living quarters of the bartender and his family. A woman screamed in the body-scented dusk, and Vargas banged his knee against a jut of furniture.
Cursing, he ripped open the flimsy back door and was about to dash for the nearest animal shed when he saw that the gringos had already beaten him to it.
They were everywhere.
He jerked inside the cantina building just as a splash of bullets struck the nearby wall.
Behind his back, the bartender's wife shrieked and prayed, while her man cursed her and told her to shut up. Annoyed at his helplessness, Vargas turned around and shot them both.
Back in the barroom, he hurriedly smashed out the storm lantern with the butt of his pistol. But it was already light enough for him to see Morita's wondering stare. The man's corpse continued to discharge blood over the splintering planks.
Outside the shooting dwindled. Vargas heard Anglo voices calling out commands in elementary Spanish. Officers to prisoners.
He crouched behind the bar. There was a broken-out the window across the room, but he knew instinctively that it offered no safety. He considered surrendering. But his fear of punishment held him back. He had done things that he did not believe the gringos were ready to forgive.
With shaking fingers, he stripped off the precious gunbelt he had taken from the American general and stuffed it into a cabinet, hiding it behind dusty bottles of beer.
He was very much afraid. And he was aware of his fear. He had not believed that he, of all men, could ever be this afraid.
Now there was only the occasional snort of a horse, a resting hoof. The world had become an astonishingly quiet place. The silence was bigger in his ears than the sound of the helicopters had been.
He heard the faint jangle of spurs
.
His shooting hand felt as wet as if he had dipped it in a bucket. He checked the slippery pistol, making sure that he had a round chambered.
The music of the spurs grew louder. He could hear booted footsteps.
Someone began to whistle.
It was morbid. Terrible. The melody was far too light and joyful. The notes cascaded through the morning, swooping like a small bird in flight. The tune was almost something to make a man dance.
The boots approached the cantina. Then everything stopped. No more metal tangle of spurs. No footsteps. The whistling, too, ceased abruptly.
Vargas hunkered lower. Unwilling to look, unwilling to risk being seen. He felt himself shaking. It was unthinkable that he might die here, in such dusty unimportance. He was not ready.
He realized that he was weeping. And praying. It had begun automatically, and he could not stop himself. Mother of God…
He heard the soft rustle of cloth, and he knew it was the blanket being drawn away from the doorframe. It was the perfect time to rise and fire. But he could not will himself to move.
The melody of the spurs began again. But the tempo was slower now, like the music at a funeral. Vargas followed each next footfall across the room. There was a heavier note as the intruder stepped over Morita's body. The spurs became unbelievably, unbearably loud.
Somewhere in the middle of the room, his opponent stopped.
Silence.
Vargas made himself ready. Hurriedly he crossed himself with the pistol in his hand. He seemed unable to fill his lungs with the breath he needed.
"Don't move, gringo," he shouted. But he could not move himself. He remained crouched in his hiding place, staring up from the canyon behind the bar, able to see only the blistered paint on the ceiling.
He clutched his gun, tightening his bowels. Imagining the other man somewhere out in the vast freedom of the room.
"I know your fucking rules, man," Vargas called out. "You can't kill me. I'm a prisoner of war, man."
Silence. It went on so long that dust seemed to settle and stale on a man's ears. Then a slow voice spoke in perfect Spanish.