The War in 2020

emotional people, man. Luis, he's just worn out from all that traveling. And he's excited to be back with his brothers. But he ain't afraid. That ain't even possible. He and I been fighting together since Zacatecas. I seen him kill half a dozen Monterrey government sonsofbitches with his bare hands.' Vargas paused to let the effect of the exaggeration sink in. In truth, the only time he had seen Luis kill a man with his bare hands had been the time the scout strangled a prisoner.

'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