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.
