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, Alamdn 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.
25 miles south of chinampas, mexico
0645 hours, 30 June
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!”
25 miles east of chinampas, mexico
0645 hours, 30 June
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.
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.
South of Chinampas, Mexico
0659 hours, 30 June
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.
Chinampas, Mexico
0659 hours, 30 June
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.