Deciding it woujd be unwise to jump out in front of the infantry battalion, Cerro waited for it to pass. With a measured pace that now bordered on a dead run, row after row of infantrymen passed by. In step and leaning forward as their commander picked up the pace, the troops, on cue from their sergeant major, began to clap their hands every time their left foot hit the ground. Like a locomotive, the infantrymen bore down, closed the gap separating them from the artillerymen. In their rush, they never noticed the rabble that the artillery unit had passed.
For a moment, Cerro felt a pang in his heart, knowing that he would not be able to join a unit such as this one. His assignment to the brigade staff condemned him to a unit that, when it ran as a unit, would no doubt resemble the rabble that the artillerymen had passed. The only reason Cerro had escaped the unit run that morning was because he was still inprocessing and new. This had saved him from that morning’s run.
Nothing, however, would save him next week.
As he was silently bemoaning his fate, Cerro looked up just in time to see a female, dressed in the same T-shirt and shorts as the infantry battalion, go by. It took him a few seconds to recognize her as the same woman he had run into the day before while inprocessing. Her long auburn hair, pulled back and held by a clip, swung from side to side as she ran. That, coupled with a physique that was unmistakably female, set her apart from the rest of the formation. Her appearance caused Cerro to reconsider his own plight. As much as he knew he would be like a fish out of water on the brigade staff, his predicament, he thought, was nothing compared to what the female lieutenant faced.
When the infantry unit finished passing him, Cerro shook himself out one more time before stepping off and joining the flow of running soldiers, adding the sound of his pounding feet to that of a division on the move.
The pace, even when the battalion commander picked it up to pass an artillery unit, was easy for Second Lieutenant Nancy Kozak. At West Point she had earned three letters in track and field, and at the Infantry Officers Basic Course at Fort Benning she had maxed the standard physical fitness test, the same one the male officers in her class had been required to pass. Physically, she was ready. Mentally, however, she wasn’t sure. While she had gone over in her mind, again and again, what she would do and how she would handle herself, no mental drill could prepare her for her introduction to the unit, in particular the men in the platoon she was expected to lead.
From the company commander down to the lowest private, everyone in the unit treated her with the respect and deference that was appropriate for her rank and position. Her conversation with her platoon sergeant, the only
NCO
in her platoon she had had any time to talk to, had been short, functional, and punctuated with many “yes ma’ams” and “no ma’ams.”
Throughout that conversation, she had been unable to gauge how the sergeant—Sergeant First Class Leon Rivera—felt about her. His manner, like his conversation, was functional and correct. Nothing in his tone of voice, in his expressions, even in his eyes, betrayed his feelings. The only thing she noted was that Rivera, like everyone else in the company, had a tendency to stare at her, and that the term ma’am did not come easily to him. More than once, Rivera, used to operating in an almost exclusively male world, had responded with “Sir.”
The staring, more than anything else, affected Kozak. As hard as she might want to, she could not blend in. Through a simple biological function, started at the moment of conception, Nancy Kozak had become a woman. While that was not a curse, it would definitely be a handicap in her efforts to become an effective combat leader. That thought, and a thousand others, tumbled through her head as she ran beside her platoon, her long auburn hair gently .swaying from side to side.
Promptness contributes a great deal to success in marches and even more in battles.
—Frederick the Great
Nuevo Dolores, Mexico
0615 hours, 30 June
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.
Chinampas, Mexico
0615 hours, 30 June
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 Alamn 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, Alamdn 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.