Trial by Fire

6

From the edge of the runway's apron, Lieutenant Rafael Blasio watched the young infantry lieutenant supervise the loading of his men into Blasio's Bell 212 helicopter. With quick, nervous jerks, Blasio alternated between puffing the half-smoked cigarette in his left hand and drinking cold coffee from a paper cup in his right. The rest of his crew, a copilot and crew chief, were scurrying about the helicopter, performing whatever preflight checks on the aircraft they could in five minutes while simultaneously helping the infantrymen strap themselves in. Blasio was already on edge, and caffeine was the last thing he needed. Caffeine, however, was the only thing he had to keep him going.

The day before had started at four o'clock when his commander woke him with orders to report for duty immediately. At the airfield in Tampico he and his crew were informed that the military had assumed control of the government after an assassination attempt on the president of the republic and that a state of emergency existed. For Blasio and his crew, this meant they spent the entire day shuttling troops loyal to the new military council up and down the east coast of Mexico. It wasn't until he and his crew arrived back in Tampico at eight o'clock in the evening that they received the whole story concerning the coup. By then, however, he was too tired to care. The only thing that interested him at that point was food and a bed, and which came first didn't make any difference.

Checking in with the military dispatcher at flight operations, Blasio was handed a sealed envelope stamped secret instead of directions to the nearest mess. Inside the envelope was a one-page order that instructed him to fly to the airfield at Nuevo Dolores, arriving there not later than ten o'clock that evening. It was signed by a Colonel Alfredo Guajardo, who used the title Minister of Defense. Blasio handed the orders over to the flight operations officer and demanded that they be verified.

Expecting a long delay, Blasio prepared to leave flight operations in search of food. His escape was cut short by the military commander of the airfield. Storming out of his office, and followed by the flight operations officer, the airfield commander literally leaped in front of Blasio, waving the one-page order in his face. "Who in the hell do you think you are, Lieutenant?" demanded the commander. "Are you insane, or are you a traitor?"

The suddenness of the confrontation and its violence startled Blasio.

Speechless, he stared at the airfield, commander, trying to come up with an explanation. But before he could answer, the airfield commander continued, yelling louder. ' 'Why are you trying to get out of this mission?

Can't you see that it is signed by Colonel Guajardo?"

Like a fighter hit with a series of blows that could not be deflected, Blasio reeled under the airfield commander's attack. Finally, Blasio took a step back, came to attention, and yelled as loud as he could, "Sir, I do not wish to evade my duty. But I must explain, sir."

The ploy worked, causing the airfield commander to relent and allowing Blasio a few more seconds with which to frame his response. "All right, Lieutenant, explain."

Stating his defense in the strongest possible terms, Blasio recounted the activities of his crew throughout the day, ending his account by stating that his crew needed both food and rest while his aircraft was in desperate need of a thorough maintenance check. For several minutes, the airfield commander listened in silence. When he had heard enough, he raised his hand, signaling Blasio to stop speaking.

"We have all had a very difficult day. And tomorrow, no doubt, will be no different. That remains to be seen. What I do know is that your day is not yet over. You will, Lieutenant, refuel immediately and depart for Nuevo Dolores as soon as possible. Do you have any further questions?"

From his tone, Blasio had no doubt that his explanations had been summarily dismissed and he was being ordered to move out quickly and without further protest.

Angry and tired, Blasio saluted, turned, and left flight operations.

Arriving at Nuevo Dolores at five minutes to ten, Blasio had been greeted by a young infantry lieutenant. The lieutenant had escorted Blasio to a maintenance shed at the far corner of the airfield while a ground crew prepared to tow Blasio's helicopter to the same building. In the building, serving as quarters for the lieutenant's platoon, Blasio met Major Caso, the pilot of a second Bell 212 helicopter, and the senior sergeant of the infantry platoon. Caso, who identified himself as Colonel Guajardo's deputy, was there to brief the pilots and infantrymen on an impending raid against a place called Chinampas.

Under ordinary circumstances, Blasio would have been all ears. But, as the airfield commander in Tampico had pointed out, these were not ordinary times. Worn out from the nervous strain of flying nonstop and of having no food all day, only the growling of his stomach kept Blasio awake during the briefing. Not that there was much that concerned him.

Quickly he determined that, except for the fact that they were going to land in a confined area, and there might be some small-arms fire, this was just another troop-ferrying mission. All he had to do was take off at 0621 hours, fly southwest toward Ciudad Victoria at 115 knots for thirty-nine minutes, land in the garden of some drug lord's hideout, drop his load of troops off, leave the landing zone, and fly to a rally point three kilometers southwest of the landing zone where he and the other pilots would wait for further orders. As to the rest of the briefing, Blasio paid scant attention.

While the name Alaman was vaguely familiar, sleep and food were what mattered the most at that moment.

When the briefing was finished and Major Caso departed for Monterrey, Blasio returned to his own aircraft, now parked in the hangar and guarded by two infantrymen. Both his co-pilot and crew chief were asleep on the floor of the aircraft when he reached it. For a moment, he considered waking them up to inform them of their mission, but decided against that. It was late, well past midnight, and there was no food to be had. There would be plenty of time when they were awakened at five o'clock by the infantry platoon. Instead, he pulled a blanket out of his flight bag, threw it on the floor next to his helicopter, and lay down.

Despite the fact that the floor was concrete, Blasio dropped right off into a deep sleep. Only the persistent shaking of the infantry lieutenant woke him at 0610, eleven minutes before scheduled liftoff.

Despite the beauty of the morning, Senior Alaman felt no joy. He descended the massive spiral staircase that dominated the main entrance of his home as if he were carrying a great weight. He stopped every few steps, pausing and looking about. He paid scant attention to the bodyguard seated next to the front door at the base of the stairs and, in turn, the bodyguard paid scant attention to Alaman. The other mercenary, a massive blond American, didn't concern himself with the comings and goings of Alaman or his staff. What they did was their affair. As a mercenary, he had no politics, no imaginary loyalties to principles or nations. All he had was a contract that obligated him to protect and defend Alaman and his staff. So long as Alaman fulfilled his portion of the contract — i.e., paid him on time — the American mercenary would fulfill his end. That Alaman paid no attention to them was all right by the American.

While the American mercenary suspected that Alaman's somber mood and increased security were due to the military coup that threatened to bring an end to his operation, he could not know that it was the safety and preservation of Chinampas that ws foremost in Alaman's mind. The there thought of losing the paradise he had built from nothing hit Alaman's heart like nothing ever had. In many ways, Chinampas had grown to become the personification of Alaman himself.

Born in Veracruz, Alaman had moved with his family to Mexico City while he was still a young boy. His parents, like millions of other unemployed Mexicans in search of a better life, had been drawn to the capital city. And, as with many before them, the life they found in the barrios of the city destroyed them. After several months of wandering the streets in search of work, Alaman's father went north to the United States. His mother, unable to wait for her husband to return, found work as a laundress.

Alaman, left to fend for himself, began to create a life of his own.

Even as a boy, Alaman had been very unimposing. Of average height and build, he could easily have held his own against most of the other boys in the barrio. While he enjoyed being in the company of other boys, he.was not interested in doing everything they did. This included fighting and conforming to the macho image that was the mark of a true Mexican male. Instead, beauty as expressed in the arts, fashions, and flowers — especially flowers — captured his imagination. As he grew, Alaman would seek to escape the barrio, and travel throughout the city in search of beautiful things to look at and hold. He spent hours walking through the art museum, watching painters work their oils along the boulevards, or doing petty jobs at the flower markets just to be near the beauty that so captivated him.

Such pursuits, however, left Alaman open to criticism and abuse by the other boys in his school and the barrio where he lived. Whenever possible, he avoided placing himself in positions that required fighting or exposed him to harm. When he could not, he made arrangements for others to do his fighting for him. Since he was poor and unable to pay cash for his own protection, Alaman arranged things for those who defended him. Aided by what he saw and contacts he made in his travels throughout Mexico City, he soon realized not only that he had a knack for "arranging" things for his friends, but that the process was challenging and potentially profitable. Without realizing it, he began creating a lucrative business out of what had begun as a simple quest for survival.

Over the years, as he grew and matured, so did his business. The discovery that people would pay for just about anything, coupled with his knowledge of the city and lack of moral or parental restraints, opened unlimited vistas to Alaman. While Mexico City had many who could arrange for a prostitute, drugs, or perversions of any color, Alaman had a personal charm and class that made dealing with him enjoyable both to locals and to foreign visitors. Seizing upon this advantage, Alaman developed his social graces, manner of dress, and knowledge of culture and the world. In the process, he not only improved his marketability, but his own enjoyment as well. For no one could ever claim that Senior Alaman didn't take care of his own needs, or find people willing to take care of them. One of his greatest thrills came from appearing in public with tall, thin, beautiful young women, some of whom, it was rumored, were actually female.

As he became more socially acceptable, Alaman gained access to men of greater power and wealth, for they too had vices that needed to be tended to. A better clientele meant higher fees. Higher fees resulted in greater wealth and access to art, culture, and social circles. Introduction into better social circles meant meeting new and more powerful people.

More powerful people provided Alaman new and better information, clients, and access to others. The speed with which he had amassed power, influence, and access to information was matched only by Alamo's drive to possess the beautiful things that he had only been able to view from afar when he was poor. And once he began to taste the pleasures that money and power could provide him, Alaman had become more determined to do whatever was necessary to serve those who could provide him with the beauty that he so admired.

The coup of June 29 had come as a shock to Alaman. Suddenly, a world that he had carefully nurtured, with the same care and love that a gardener uses when he tends to a rose, was threatened. For the first time in many years, Alaman didn't know from where the dangers came, and felt powerless to protect himself. Many of the government officials that had provided him with business, information, and protection were, if the rumors were true, dead. Even more ominous than that, however, was the fact that he had had no warning of the coming coup. It puzzled him, and wounded his pride, that his system of informers and friends within the ranks of the Mexican military had so utterly failed him. Such a failure cast his skills and reliability in doubt.

His slow descent of the spiral staircase was, to him, symbolic of what might happen if he could not come to terms with the new military government.

Reaching the base of the staircase, Alaman paused, looking out through the glass doors onto the garden patio where his staff and several business associates sat picking at breakfast and waiting for his arrival.

Even from where he stood, he could see that they, like himself, were confused and worried. Their solemn expressions and dejected stares did nothing to inspire Alaman.

Turning to the blond American mercenary, Alaman asked if any military or police units had been shifted during the night into positions that might threaten Chinampas. The blod American, who went by the name of Randel Childress, stood up before responding. "Senior Delapos himself flew to Ciudad Victoria and San Antonia this morning and talked to our people there. Nothing out of the ordinary was reported there or anywhere else throughout the state, Senior Alaman."

Delapos, Alaman's chief of security, was both thorough and utterly reliable. Thanking Childress, Alaman studied the American for a moment.

The American's smooth face, with soft, fine features and hardly a trace of beard, didn't match the massive body that made him an effective bodyguard. What a shame, Alaman thought. What a shame.

Pushing such thoughts from his mind, Alaman turned away, facing the glass doors that led out onto the patio where his associates, now refugees from the coup, awaited his appearance. Still, he hesitated. Perhaps, he thought, the new military council was waiting before striking Chinampas.

After all, they had an old government to dispose of and a new one to create. Or maybe they were waiting for him to come out and offer a deal.

After all, his contacts were international. There was much he could offer the new military government, a government that needed both time and money to establish itself and gain international recognition. Alaman's friends in the American Congress could be a great help to the fledgling military government. And, if what he had been told was true, one of the officers on the Council of 13 shared Alaman's preference in "women."

Sighing, Alaman pushed all thoughts out of his mind for a moment as he allowed himself to enjoy the beauty of the early morning. The fact that he was still in Chinampas and there was nothing threatening on the horizon were good signs. Given time, he was sure that he could come to some kind of accord with the military rulers of Mexico. They were, after all, men, men who had weaknesses and vices and ambitions. If there was anyone who understood this, Alaman did.

The wild gyrations of the Bell 206 helicopter flying nap-of-the-earth, mixed with the sweet smell of warm hydraulic fluid, were intoxicating to Colonel Guajardo. Looking to the radioman to his left, Guajardo could tell from the pained expression on the young soldier's face that he did not share the pleasure Guajardo derived from flying at better than one hundred knots less than fifty feet off the ground. Ahead, the two Bell 205As carrying the infantry of Group D were, like Guajardo's, skimming just above the ground as they raced north to Chinampas.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

Savoring 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.

In his haste to get the helicopter back into operation, Blasio's crew chief had stripped the threads of the chip collector, making it impossible to get it back into the main rotor gearbox. Carrying the small spark-plug-shaped chip collector over to where Blasio and the infantry lieutenant waited, the crew chief began to apologize, but was cut short by the infantry lieutenant.

With eyes wide from shock and disbelief, the infantry lieutenant pointed at the part in the crew chief's hand and yelled at Blasio, "You mean to tell me that that little thing will keep your helicopter from flying?"

Embarrassed, Blasio threw out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.

"There is nothing we can do. Without the collector, there is a hole in the gearbox. We can't fly without it."

The infantry lieutenant, horrified by Blasio's announcement, was unable to speak. He had already lost valuable time waiting in the vain hope that both helicopters could still make it. Now, realizing he had made a bad choice, he spun about and began to run toward the one good helicopter.

Jumping in, he didn't even bother strapping himself in. Instead, he wedged himself between the pilot and the co-pilot, and ordered them to take off immediately and fly to Chinampas. When the pilot told him to sit down and strap himself in, the infantry lieutenant grabbed the pilot by the collar, pulled the pilot's face to his, and yelled at him to fly his damned helicopter. The bulging eyes, red face, and spit that sprayed all over when the lieutenant spoke convinced the pilot that he had best comply immediately.

Without a second thought, as soon as the infantry lieutenant let his collar go, the pilot lifted his collective, depressed his left pedal, and eased the stick forward, lifting his aircraft off the ground and leaving Blasio with his crew and half of the infantry platoon behind.

From either side of a second-story window in the north wing of the main house, Guajardo and Caso looked out into the courtyard below. Gray and black smoke from the burning helicopter wreckage and tower 2 drifted across the courtyard, obscuring their view of the barracks, the stable, and the river gate beyond, making it difficult to pinpoint where the gunfire was coming from. The mercenaries, no doubt, were also hamstrung by the same lack of visibility. Even so, they were maintaining an effective cross fire that covered every inch of the courtyard, making a direct assault impossible. Although Guajardo had anticipated this, the failure of Group N to appear and seize the airfield made his methodical clearing operations impracticable. Time, instead of being an ally, was now against him.

A quick search of the house by the assault teams revealed that Alaman was not among the bodies there. That meant either that his primary target, Alaman, was not at Chinampas, which Guajardo thought highly unlikely, or that he was now sitting safely somewhere in the barracks building obscured by the whiffs of smoke that drifted across the courtyard. Regardless, Guajardo knew his troops needed to end the fight quickly, or find some way of keeping Alaman's people from reaching the airfield.

Otherwise, the success of the entire operation would be in jeopardy.

At the other side of the window, with his back against the wall, Caso carefully looked down into the courtyard while Guajardo searched for a solution. "As you can see, we are, as the Americans would say, at a Mexican stand-off, sir."

Guajardo didn't care for Caso's attempt at humor at a time like this.

But he said nothing, for he knew Caso was right — and there were far more important matters to be dealt with. His mind was already busy seeking a solution for the problem they faced.

The defenders of Chinampas were in a very strong position and, without Group N at the airfield to the east, they had an escape route. With the helicopters already clear of Chinampas and en route to their rally point, Guajardo had only the men of the assault force available to do whatever needed to be done in order to find and kill Alaman. Direct assault was out. Such an effort would be too costly, and he didn't have enough men for a human-wave attack. The methodical approach was out. Too slow.

Closing his eyes, Guajardo created an image of Chinampas and the area around it in his mind. Blocking out all other thoughts, he forced himself to concentrate on that image, seeking a solution.

A young engineer lieutenant, the commander of Group Z, came running into the room where Guajardo and Caso were. Seeing the colonel and the major at the window, he began to head straight for them. He paused, however, when he noticed his path was blocked by a body lying in the center of the floor. The flowing satin and lace of the young woman's nightgown was stained by blotches of blood that seeped from multiple gunshot wounds and soaked up by a vast pool of blood that surrounded the woman's torso.

Though appalled by the sight, the engineer lieutenant stood there for a moment transfixed as he studied, with a macabre fascination, the body of the tall, thin woman with boyish features. Only after Caso, turning to see who had entered the room, warned the lieutenant to stay clear of the window, did the engineer lieutenant move. Pulling himself away from the heap of body, satin, lace, and blood in the center of the room, the lieutenant came up next to Caso, carefully avoiding the open window. "Sir, I am here to report to Colonel Guajardo on our situation."

"The colonel is busy right now. Give me your report."

Looking over at Guajardo, the lieutenant wondered what the colonel could possibly be doing with his eyes closed. It looked as if he were asleep. Since he was a senior officer, and the lieutenant still did not understand the ways of senior officers, he ignored the colonel and rendered his report to Caso.

"Towers one, five, and six are secured. We lost one sergeant dead as well as an officer and a sapper wounded in taking them. Team Z-2 was wiped out to a man when the helicopter crashed into tower two. I have myself, one other officer, two sergeants, and eight sappers left." The lieutenant's voice was slightly hoarse but controlled.

Caso nodded his approval, noticing that, as he spoke, the lieutenant could not help himself as he glanced back at the body in the center of the floor. "This is your first action, Lieutenant. You will soon grow used to such sights."

The lieutenant of engineers looked at the body, then back at Caso.

Closing his eyes as he nodded, the lieutenant indicated that he was all right, wondering if he, or anyone, could really become accustomed to such sights. Opening his eyes, he probed the major's, trying to see if Caso himself believed what he said. Caso's stare, however, betrayed nothing. "Yes, sir. I, I've never really seen anything like that." He looked back one more time at the body in white behind them. "It seems a shame, such a beautiful woman should die like that."

Case restrained his laughter. "Wastage, yes, but unavoidable. Our task was to clear the building quickly and completely. 'She,' unfortunately, simply found herself in the line of fire. It could not be helped." He paused, looked from the body back to the engineer lieutenant, and then shot back: "Status of demolitions?"

"Excellent. We used only one satchel charge in each tower to gain access. All doors and gates in the towers were open. The guards had not had time to close them."

Suddenly Guajardo, without opening his eyes, called out. "Did you capture any machine guns in the towers?"

Turning from Caso to the colonel, the lieutenant responded that they had. There had been two American 7.62mm machine guns in each tower.

All were still operational.

"Do you think your men could work them, Lieutenant?" Guajardo asked, his eyes still closed.

With the confidence of a young officer who believes in himself and his men, the engineer lieutenant responded to Guajardo's inquiry in a manner that bordered on being boastful. "Yes, we can. The sergeants took them right off and checked that out. They are really quite simple weapons to…"

Guajardo, his eyes flying open, turned to the lieutenant, firing orders to him as he did so. "Have the team from tower one drop down from that tower, with both M-60 machine guns, outside the wall and move toward the north gate. The team from tower six will also drop down outside the wall, take their machine guns, and move to the south gate."

Looking to Caso, Guajardo continued to issue orders. "Leave Captain Castro and half of his Group M in the house to keep the mercenaries busy.

You, my friend, will take the rest of Group M, move through the garden, go over the north wall, join the engineers at the north gate, move to the base of tower three, and set up your machine guns to cover the footbridge and airfield from the north. The engineers, if they can, will blow a hole into tower three to gain access. Take the tower if you can." Guajardo paused, then emphasized his intent. "Regardless of what happens, set up the machine guns and keep anyone from escaping."

Caso thought for a minute. "What about the rollers on the walls?"

"They roll only one way, out. They were meant to keep people out, not in. Your landing may be hard, but you can do it. Any other questions?"

"I assume, Colonel, you will do the same in the south."

In his excitement, Guajardo had not told his men his complete plan.

"Yes. That is correct. I will send half of Group D with their commander over the south wall to join the engineers from tower six and set up their machine guns at the base of tower four. That should trap Alaman's men.

With the rest of Group D and the engineers in tower five, I shall begin the process of clearing the garage, stable, and barracks, as planned." Finished, Guajardo looked at Caso, then the lieutenant. "Do you have any questions?"

Both men shook their heads. "Good. Now hurry. Time is against us."

Exhausted from the sudden and unaccustomed exertion, Alaman sat in the corner of a barracks room, forgotten for the moment. Overwhelmed by shock and pain from his rough handling by Childress, El Dueno watched with detached interest the scene before him. It all seemed so unreal, like a nightmare. The sudden and brutal death of his associates before his eyes paled in comparison to the destruction of his beloved Chinampas. Everything that had ever mattered to him was being destroyed, piece by piece, as he sat there, and there was nothing that he could do, nothing.

Across from where Alaman sat, several of the mercenaries, who served as the garrison, took turns firing out into the courtyard and in the direction of the house. The fumes from the firing of their weapons, mixed with the smoke from the burning tower and helicopter, filled the room with a stench that seared Alaman's lungs as he gasped to catch his breath. A few feet away from him, Delapos, his chief of security, and Childress were conferring in English. Though he could only understand half of what they said, with much of the rest drowned out by gunfire, Alaman gathered that they were in agreement that their situation was hopeless and that they needed to escape.

Though he wanted to protest, demanding that they fight for Chinampas, Alaman had neither the physical strength, nor the moral courage, to make such a demand on the armed mercenaries. Although he was confused and stunned, he still had enough common sense to realize that his paid garrison did not possess the same love for Chinampas that he did. Nothing he could say at that moment, not even the promise of more money, could motivate them to do anything to save the place. Survival, the desire to live and collect that which was due to them, was all that mattered to the mercenaries.

As a businessman who had made his fortune dealing with such men, Alaman understood this. Still, the thought of losing Chinampas, and all that it stood for, brought him to the verge of tears.

While their boss struggled to control his emotions, Delapos and Childress quickly reviewed their options. Neither man could understand why the raiders, who appeared to be so well organized and led, had neglected to seize the airfield. Not that it mattered. What did matter was that this error provided them an avenue of escape. That it would soon be closed was without question. The only thing that needed to be decided was how to get Alaman, the man who paid them, and as many of the men as possible, out of the trap they were in before escape became impossible.

Despite the fact that Delapos was in charge, Childress's training as a Green Beret in the U.S. Army equaled and in some ways surpassed the skills and experience of his boss. At times Delapos treated Childress as an equal, even deferring to his judgment. So it was not surprising that, at that moment, Childress took the lead. After all, both men were professionals, and results, not formality, mattered. "Are the pilots still at the airfield?"

Delapos shook his head. "I do not know. Someone said they took off in that direction as soon as the firing started. I assume that they are still there. But even if they are not, we still need to go through there anyhow."

Childress nodded in agreement. "That's true. Now, who takes Senior Alaman and who covers the rear?"

Before answering, Delapos looked over at the men firing in the courtyard.

At times like this, it was hard to predict how they would react. As much as he wanted to leave with Alaman, he knew he had to stay since he could best control the mercenary force he had built. Looking back at Childress, he ordered him to pick three men, get Alaman to the airfield, and get him away as best he could. He, Delapos, would give Childress two minutes, then follow with as many men as possible.

Stirred from his stupor when he heard that his men were going to I abandon his beloved Chinampas, Alaman yelled from across the room,

"And how, my friend, will you do that? There are not enough aircraft at the field to get everyone out."

Surprised by Alamdn's sudden outburst, Delapos stood up, put his hands on his hips, and looked at his employer. "That is not your concern.

If necessary, we will evade the Federales on foot and work our way f north." Turning back, he looked into Childress's eyes, lowering his voice so that Alaman could not hear, as he continued to issue his orders.

"Now, my gringo friend, get our fearless leader out of here. If he doesn't get out, none of us will get paid."

Childress laughed. "Ah, a true mercenary to the last." His face serious again, he asked Delapos where they planned to rally.

"Meet us at the old training grounds, the one with the airfield, in five days. If we are not there by then, enjoy your bonus. Now go."

Guajardo had no sooner sent Caso and the engineer lieutenant off than he regretted not giving himself a more active role in the plan to finish Alaman and his men. Though it made sense in that it nearly conformed to the original plan, Guajardo didn't feel comfortable delegating such important and dangerous tasks to his subordinates while he stayed safe, secure, and worse, unable to personally expedite their execution. With everyone gone, alb he could do was wait and watch. After a few more seconds of thinking and looking around the room, now empty except for himself, one soldier firing from another window, and the body in the center of the floor, Guajardo decided to vent his nervous energy through action.

Leaving the main house through the back patio doors, Guajardo circled around to tower 5. The part of Group D that had been ordered over the wall was preparing to move out when he reached the tower. The other men of Group D, who would go with him into the garage, were already waiting at the base of the tower. Telling the sergeant in charge of that group to stand by, Guajardo entered the tower in search of the engineers.

His climb up the stairs of the tower was hindered by the bodies of three dead mercenaries, left where they had been shot by the engineers who had seized the tower. For the first time, he realized that he had yet to come across a live mercenary or member of Alaman's staff. This should not have surprised him: the same rage that had driven him minutes before to kill two unarmed mercenaries had infected all of his soldiers. That morning, in the heat of intense and close combat, no one was taking any chances. Dead men, after all, were not a threat.

Just as he reached the firing platform of the tower, a burst of automatic fire from the barracks across the courtyard hit the protective wall and roof, showering chips of concrete all over Guajardo and the engineers in the tower. Lunging forward for the safety of the wall, Guajardo plowed into the back of the engineer sergeant in charge of the team in tower 5.

The sergeant cursed, then apologized when he saw it was Guajardo.

Twisting themselves about so that their backs were against the wall facing the enemy fire, Guajardo assured the sergeant that it was all right, then asked him for a report. "They have increased their rates of fire.

They're not hitting anything, just firing very fast and all over."

Concerned, Guajardo turned around, got to his knees, and began slowly to raise his head up to the edge of the protective wall in order to see what was going on. A volley of bullets, some smacking the other side of the wall while others streamed overhead, convinced Guajardo that this was neither the time nor the place to expose himself. Dropping back down, he thought for a moment. They were probably getting ready to break and run. The increased rate of fire by some of the mercenaries was to cover the escape of the rest. Time was running out.

"Have any helicopters landed at the airfield, Sergeant?"

"No, sir, not that we have seen or heard. Of course, they could have driven a train through the gate below us and we wouldn't have heard it, or seen it. Here, we are pinned and useless."

Guajardo looked around at the four engineers in the tower, all crouched and seeking cover as best they could. In their faces he could see what he took to be anger at being ordered to such a position, with their lives so endangered, and unable to do anything. The sergeant was right. They were useless there. Turning back to the sergeant, Guajardo issued his orders, ignoring the steady hammering of bullets on the other side of the wall that offered both of them protection. "Yes, there is nothing you can do here. Take your men, go to the base of the tower, and blow a hole big enough for a man to crawl through into the space between the tower and the garage. When you have done that, and before you blow a hole into the garage, open the south gate. Do you understand?"

"Yes, we will do that." Happy to be ordered away from the tower's firing platform, and to have something to do, the sergeant smiled, got the attention of his engineers, and ordered them down to the base of the tower. As soon as the last one was gone, Guajardo stuck his head up quickly, looked about, then ran down the stairs behind the sergeant.

Without looking back, Childress led the small party out through the river gate and ran for the footbridge. Two men on either side of Alaman, holding him up as well as dragging him along, followed Childress.

A third man, taking up the rear, waited a few seconds, then ran after them, twisting about every few steps to check for danger from behind.

As he ran, Childress expected to be fired on at any moment. But nothing happened. Once they were clear of the gate, Childress noted that the smoke that obscured everything within the walls of Chinampas was absent. This both pleased him — for he could finally catch a deep breath without coughing — and worried him, for there was no smoke to cover their flight. Still, as he reached the bridge without taking any fire, Childress began to believe they would make it. He waited until he reached the other side before he stopped and looked behind.

The two men with Alaman were nearing the bridge and coming on fast.

The rear guard, still twisting about as he ran, was about twenty yards behind.

Suddenly, the rear guard stopped, dropped to one knee, and began to fire. Looking at where his fire was directed, Childress saw a group of Mexican soldiers coming around the north corner of the wall just below tower 3. One of the men in tower 3, not realizing the Federales were at the base of the tower until he saw the rear guard firing, leaned over to see what was going on below. A Mexican soldier, prepared for such an occurrence, killed the man in the tower with a single burst, sending the dead man headlong out of the tower and into the middle of the soldiers setting up a machine gun below, surprising them and disrupting their efforts to bring their weapon to bear on Childress, Alaman, and his escort.

Yelling for the men with Alaman to hurry, Childress continued his own flight to the airfield, missing the death of the rear guard when the soldiers finally were able to open up with the machine gun. The rear guard's sacrifice, and the interruption caused by the dead mercenary's body falling on the machine-gun crew, however, allowed the others in the group hustling Alaman along to clear the bridge and reach the airfield.

There, Childress found the pilots of two helicopters in their aircraft preparing to depart while the guards at the airfield were gathering in the hangar. Running to the nearest helicopter, he ordered the pilot to wait for Alaman. At the next, he told the pilot to wait for him. The second pilot, clearly shaken, reluctantly agreed. Childress next made for the hangar. In his haste, he hadn't noticed the rucksacks stacked up and secured in the helicopters.

At the door of the hangar he saw Jean Lefleur, leader of the group charged with protecting the airfield. Lefieur, a veteran of the French Foreign Legion, did not like Childress and resented the relationship he had with Delapos.

As Childress came up to him, Lefleur leaned against the doorframe.

Out of breath as much from excitement as from exertion, Childress came up to Lefleur and began to issue a string of orders. Lefleur listened in silence as Childress told him to send two reliable men with Alaman and his two men in the first helicopter, while Lefleur led the rest, on foot, north to escape and rally at their old training site, where he would meet Delapos and whatever men managed to escape from the firelight still in progress in Chinampas. Finished, Childress waited for Lefleur to act.

The sudden appearance of Childress, with Alaman in tow, put Lefleur in an awkward position. If he did as Childress instructed, then he and his men would not have the helicopters to escape in, as Lefleur had been preparing to do. Yet, if they did escape without Alaman, they wouldn't get paid. While he pondered his options, Lefleur stalled, looking down at his fingernails, casually asking if those were Delapos's instructions or Childress's.

Suppressing a desire to smash Lefleur's face with the butt of his rifle, Childress replied that they were Delapos's orders. Then, so that the other mercenaries gathered about Lefieur could hear, Childress warned Lefleur that unless they got Alaman out safely, not only would there be no pay, their chances of getting out of Mexico alive without Alaman's contacts would be nil.

For a second, Lefleur considered killing Childress where he stood.

That thought, however, quickly passed. After Childress's comments about the need to save Alaman in order to get paid, Lefleur had no way of knowing how his men would react. Therefore, Lefleur opted to take the safest option. Still, he was determined to maintain the show that he was in charge. Looking about for a moment, Lefleur paused before he turned to his assembled men. "You two, into the helicopter with Senior Alaman.

The rest of you, grab your rucksacks out of the aircraft and meet me over there, at the base of the hill. Bring only food and ammo, no personal items. Now, move." When the men had scattered, he looked at Childress, an arrogant smile lighting his face. "Satisfied?"

Too angry to respond, Childress simply turned and ran to the helicopter he had told to wait for him. Before he got in, he watched his men and Lefleur's bundle Alaman into the other helicopter. Only after they were off did Childress climb in and order the surprised pilot to fly into the courtyard of Chinampas.

Impatiently, Guajardo watched the engineers he had found in tower 5 carry out his orders. After blowing a hole low to the ground at the base of the tower near the gate, the engineer sergeant and Guajardo noted that the smoke nearly obscured the garage wall, only a few meters across from them. Cautiously, the sergeant stuck his head out of the hole to see if his men could low-crawl out without'being taken under fire from the barracks.

Satisfied that it was possible, he yelled back for one of his men to follow, then went through the hole to the gate without pausing.

Though they worked quickly and efficiently, to Guajardo the efforts of the sergeant and his engineer to return to the safety of the tower before setting off the charge appeared slow and clumsy. From the base of the tower, Guajardo watched the engineers moving back and forth from one side of the hole to the other. Only after the sergeant and his engineer had returned and the cord to set off the demolitions to blow the south gate had been pulled, did Guajardo realize that some of the men he had sent outside the wall might be on the other side of the gate.

As the fuse burned its way to the demolitions, Guajardo cursed his own stupidity while he prayed his haste wouldn't result in the death of any of his own men.

The roar of the explosion, followed a few seconds later by a shower of debris, announced that the south gate was gone. Even before the remains of the gate stopped falling, Guajardo was up and running for the opening.

Once he was in the clear, he looked about, relieved that there were no dead or wounded Mexican soldiers on the other side. This relief was short-lived, however, when he heard the sound of a helicopter leaving the airfield. Although he hoped that it was Group N finally arriving, in his heart he knew it was Alaman leaving. The flash of a red and white Bell 206 helicopter confirmed his fear.

Dejected, Guajardo stood there, watching the helicopter disappear. All of his efforts, all of the sacrifices of his men, everything, was for naught.

Chinampas might be gone, but what it stood for still lived. And so long as Alaman lived, he was dangerous.

As if to underscore his failure, Guajardo watched as a single Army helicopter coming in from the east landed at the abandoned airfield and disgorged Group N troops at exactly 0716.

Lost in his own dark thoughts, Guajardo missed the final act of the day's drama. Knowing that Delapos would never be able to make it across the bridge, Childress ordered the pilot to land in the courtyard. Both he and the pilot realized that they were in as much danger from friendly fire as they were from the Federales. Still, Childress was counting on the fact that the surprise of a helicopter landing in the courtyard would buy them enough time to get Delapos and a few men out.

What Childress couldn't know was that he had more than surprise on his side. Guajardo's order that sent most of the men outside the walls, coupled with the engineers abandoning tower 5, had left fewer than six Mexican soldiers in positions that could fire on the courtyard. Rather than a meat grinder, the courtyard was probably the safest place at that moment for the mercenaries.

The unexpected appearance of the red and white helicopter dropping into the center of the smoke-filled courtyard worked as Childress had expected. The Federales, unsure of whose helicopter it was, ceased fire.

On the other side, in the barracks, Delapos knew immediately what Childress was up to. Without a second thought, Delapos turned to the men in the room and yelled for them to make for the helicopter.

As soon as the mercenaries came out of the barracks, the few soldiers left in the house began to fire on them, but not on the helicopter. While Childress fired out of an open window at the house, Delapos threw the rear door of the helicopter open and jumped in. After two other men piled in behind him, he yelled to the pilot to go.

For a moment, there was a panic as another mercenary jumped in and a second, missing the door, grabbed the skid of the helicopter. Others, midway between the barracks and the departing helicopter, stopped, watching the helicopter lift off. Seeing that they had been abandoned, the remaining mercenaries turned around to run back to the barracks.

The soldiers, fully recovered from their surprise, fired at the exposed mercenaries. None, however, fired on the helicopter, or the mercenary hanging onto its skid. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

With all hope gone, those mercenaries still in the barracks, towers 3 and 4, and the stable decided they had had enough. So too had the soldiers. It was as if the final free-for-all in the courtyard had satisfied their lust for killing. This time, when the mercenaries appeared with their hands up, no one shot.

Chinampas was finished, but Senior Alaman, Guajardo's real target, was not.