18

Dawn seared the eastern horizon. Weaving through the dark mountains, the formation of three helicopters searched for a nameless pueblo of indigenasin a canyon without a name. Soldiers stared through the Plexiglas doors of the UH-1 troopships to the shadowed canyons and mountains of the Sierra Madres. Colonel Gonzalez swept the distant ridges with the optics of his binoculars.

Cursing into the intercom, Gonzalez demanded, "Give me the frequency of the plane again!"

"Yes, Colonel," the helicopter copilot answered.

Static hissed in the colonel's headset, then the pilot of the light plane accompanying the troopships answered. "I have not yet seen the village, Colonel."

"Why this problem? You found the filthy place! You have the coordinates!"

"Sir, it was another pilot who flew for that operation. The coordinates recorded in the flight book are approximate. I am rising to a greater altitude now. I am sure I will spot the helicopters of Lieutenant Colomo immediately. Only another moment of patience, please."

"Copilot!" Gonzalez shouted. "Get me the liaison unit."

More static erupted from the speaker as the frequency changed to the UHF band, linking Colonel Gonzalez's troopship with the troopship carrying Colonel Jon Gunther and his squad of elite International commandos.

Colonel Gunther watched the landscape pass below him. Red dawn light illuminated the eastern ridges; the canyons and western slopes remained draped in night. He attempted to match the mountain ridges to his topographic map. The voice of Colonel Gonzalez interrupted him.

"Colonel Gunther, forgive the delay. I ordered the pilot of the plane to rise to an observation altitude. We will have our landing zone in only another moment."

Scanning the dawn sky, Gunther saw red light reflect from the wings of the observation plane. The aluminum napalm canister under the plane flashed like a beacon as the sun glanced off it.

"This confusion wastes fuel," Colonel Gunther spoke into his intercom.

"True," Colonel Gonzalez answered. "I will discipline the pilot who failed to record the correct coordinates. There is a message now. One moment..."

Static ended the transmission. Colonel Gunther thanked Jehovah he had never accepted a Mexican in his liaison unit. His pilots and soldiers all came from the other nations of the International. To serve him, he accepted only elite of the death squads of Argentina and El Salvador, the bravest of the Chilean and expatriate Bolivian soldiers, the strongest Americans, the most technically adept French. He would not trust his security to the paramilitary scum collected by their Mexican allies.

For too many generations, the blue-eyed Mexicans of Castilian heritage had enjoyed the luxury of easy dominion over the indigenasand mestizos. Vain with the glory of a revolution fought by armies of destitute soldiers promised land and equality, the Castilian Mexicans rode to power on a wave of blood and rhetoric. Since their independence from Spain, the Mexican elite had squandered uncounted thousands of soldiers in pointless wars with the United States, Guatemala and El Salvador. Defeat never silenced the ranting Castilians. Though only wealth and privilege separated the Castilians from the mestizos, they declared racial distinction.

The International needed Mexican allies. Gunther did not. If the International did not require the billions of American dollars earned by the heroin trade, Colonel Gunther would have never encountered the petty, pompous, blue-eyed Gonzalez.

Now, the repeated failures of the Mexicans to liquidate the American antidrug operatives required Colonel Gunther to commit his men. The restraints of secrecy and time forced the Fascist colonel to limit his commitment today to liaison. But he had mobilized other International units. They would arrive at Rancho Cortez the next day. The Mexican colonel had only one more day to kill the Americans.

"The pilot has sighted the landing zone!" Colonel Gonzalez declared.

"Where is the fighting?" Gunther looked out to see the two Mexican helicopters veering away to the east.

"There is a problem with the radio link. After I establish command, we will join the attack. Lieutenant Colomo will brief us on the ground."

"I want an overflight of the fighting, Colonel!" Gunther demanded.

"It is not possible now!"

"Do as I say, Gonzalez! I am in command here!"

Static cut the link.

"The fool!" Gunther shouted. "That posturing playboy. That..."

"Colonel Gunther," his pilot's voice interrupted his anger. "I heard him. I also monitored the other transmissions. Allow me to suggest we avoid landing with the other helicopters."

Calmed by the intelligent and professional manner of his trusted pilot, Gunther said, "Please explain."

"The Mexican said there was a problem with the radio link. The truth is, there is no radio link."

"What? He has no contact with the force on the ground?"

"The pilot in the plane sees Mexican soldiers and helicopters. But there is no communication with the ground. For what reason, we do not know."

Gunther consulted his topographical map. "If these coordinates are correct, there is a second hill to the east of where the little colonel will land. However, my map does not indicate flat area. If it is possible..."

"My Colonel," the pilot interrupted. "I have the same map. If there is an area three meters by three meters, I can land this aircraft."

Lyons sprinted up a path, his muscles laboring against the weight of his weapons and equipment. At the top, he found himself alone in the brush and weeds. He scanned the horizon. No helicopters, no planes. He waited as the pulse thundering in his ears slowed. He heard no helicopters. He looked down the trail and called out, "Vato! Yaquis!"

"Norteamericano!" a voice answered. "Aqui!"

Faces appeared. Vato and a group of Yaquis already waited. Lyons crawled into the dense matting of stubby brush. The Yaquis lay camouflaged in fighting holes. Domes of lashed-together brush, dry weeds and dust-colored cloth concealed them as they waited for the helicopters. The only openings in the camouflage faced across the canyon, toward the death trap.

Snaking under the camouflage, Lyons took a fighting hole next to Vato and his spotter, where he could serve to relay Vato's instructions to the groups across the canyon. The teenager who would spot the targets for Vato's rifle passed Lyons his FN-FAL para-rifle.

Minute after minute passed. But the helicopters did not come. Lyons and the Yaquis waited, every tension-filled minute an hour.

Through the high-powered optics of his binoculars, Lyons searched the opposite ridge for any discordant element or image — as the Mexicans in the helicopters would do before they landed. He saw the uniformed Yaquis in their places. A hundred meters to the north, where brush and dust-colored cloth camouflaged Blancanales and the machine gunners, Lyons saw nothing.

Lyons put down the binoculars and prepared his weapons. Though the Atchisson would be useless at this extreme range, he checked the selective-fire assault shotgun and loaded it. He laid the weapon at the side of his fighting hole, the bandolier of 12-gauge magazines ready. Then he swung out the stock of the NATO-caliber FN-FAL rifle and peered through the sight. Snapping out the magazine, he looked at the top cartridge. He saw a Winchester soft-point hunting round, with the tip hollowed out and filled with some dark substance.

"Que es?" Lyons asked the spotter. He pointed to the tip of the bullet.

"Huvacvena," the teenager told him.

"A poison made from huvacvena," Vato explained. "It causes flesh to die."

His hand radio clicked. Lyons reloaded the rifle and keyed a response. "What goes? Where are the helicopters?"