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
