"What are you firing at, you crazy sonofabitch? You can't see nothing."
"Gringos," the man answered.
"Save your fucking bullets. Wait till you see something. All of you — just get to your positions."
The men dispersed hastily, and Vargas trotted along in the wake of the Japanese adviser. Flares shot into the sky to illuminate the broad stretch of meadow between the village and the low western ridge. It was the only place where helicopters could safely put down. A machine gun tested its field of fire.
The helicopters could not be seen. They remained just outside of the cavern of flarelight, all mechanical bluster and grumbling. They seemed to come just so close, but no closer. Swirling around the nearby peaks. To Vargas, it seemed as though they were doing some sort of crazy war dance.
He came up to the first man-portable missile position just as the weapon's operator sent a projectile hurtling up into the sky with a flush of fire.
"Don't shoot," Morita screamed at the operator in English. He waved his hand-held radar in the brassy wash of the flares. "I told you not to shoot, you idiot. They're out of range."
The three men watched as the missile sizzled outward and upward. Then the light began to wobble. The missile self-destructed as it reached its maximum range without discovering a target.
"Put the launcher down," Morita commanded.
Even in the bad light it was evident to Vargas that the gunner had simply decided to pay no attention to the Japanese. The man could not understand Morita's English, in any case.
From the far end of the village, another missile burned up into the sky.
"Colonel Vargas," Morita said, in a voice that offered insufficient respect, "you must tell your men to stop firing. The helicopters are still out of range." The Japanese shouted to be heard over the surrounding throb and thunder, and his spittle pecked at Vargas's cheeks. "We can't afford to waste any more missiles."
Vargas was not yet ready to agree with the Japanese. Yes, the missiles had to be smuggled over an ever-lengthening route, finally coming by donkey up the mountain trail. And they truly were wonderful weapons, capable of putting the gringos in their place. But it was evident that Morita did not really understand the psychology of fighting. Vargas was ready to expend a few more of the precious missiles, as visibly as possible, to keep the gringos at a distance. He knew that the Americans had an inordinate fear of taking casualties, and even now, he thought he might just be able to warn them off. Then in the morning his force could begin moving to a new hiding place.
Suddenly, the helicopters seemed to lunge audibly toward the village.
"Fire," Vargas commanded the gunner. "Fire"
"I have to load this piece of shit first, my colonel. It's hard to do it in the dark."
"Morita," Vargas bellowed, ripping the apparatus from the hands of his revolutionary soldier. "Take this thing.
You fire it."
"They're still out of range," Morita said in a strained voice that betrayed the extent of his frustration. "Helicopters always sound louder at night. And they're echoing from the canyons. There is nothing I can do until they come closer."
"What kind of shit is that?" Vargas demanded. Maybe I should throw rocks at the gringos?"
Another surface-to-air missile sizzled up into the heavens from the far side of the village.
"It's a waste," Morita cried. "This is nothing but waste."
"You don't know shit," Vargas told the Japanese. "Why do you think the fucking gringos aren't already on the goddamned ground? They're afraid of the missiles, man." It did, indeed, appear that the Americans were afraid of the Japanese weaponry. For hours, the helicopters swooped and teased toward the village. But they always kept a margin of safety. No balls, Vargas decided. In the end, you could always back the gringos down. They expected their machines to do everything for them. But they were scared shitless when you got in close with a knife.
Intermittently, one of Vargas's men would send a burst of automatic weapons fire toward the stars. But ultimately the senseless circling and feinting of the helicopters simply had a numbing effect. The ears could barely hear, the head ached. From the panic that had gripped everyone at the sound of the Americans' initial approach, the atmosphere had changed to one of near boredom, of forced wakefulness.
"Here," Morita offered Vargas the use of his longdistance night goggles. For a while Vargas watched the black mechanical insects pulsing across the horizon. But he had seen plenty of helicopters in his day.
"No balls," Vargas told the Japanese. "They're burning up fuel for nothing, man. They're afraid to come in and land." He spat. "Shit, you know what I'd do if I was a gringo? I'd just blow this whole mountaintop to hell. But the gringos got no balls. They don't want to hurt no innocent civilians." Vargas laughed. "Morita, there ain't no such thing as an innocent man."
The deepest shade of black began to wash out of the sky, and Vargas realized that he had grown cold standing out in the night air. The sweat of fear had cooled his clothing, and he was ready to call out to one of his men to fetch his coat from the cantina when the sound of the helicopters abruptly diminished.
Vargas still could not see the enemy without the assistance of Morita's technology. But the change in the noise level was unmistakable. The helicopters were leaving. Without accomplishing anything. They had not even had the guts to make one attempt to land their cargoes of troops.
"They're going," Morita said. His surprised voice was already audible at the level of normal speech.
Vargas smiled at the weakening darkness.
"No balls," he said.
He strutted back toward the cantina, resettling his gunbelt under his belly. One more time, the gringos had failed to take him. He felt a renewed sense of confidence — and something greater, as well. It was as if the revolution, with all its excesses, with all its failures, had been vindicated in his person. And it would go on being vindicated. He would live to fuck their daughters and piss on their graves.
The scout's ramblings, all the spooky nonsense, had briefly unsettled him. But it was all right now.
"We wasted too many missiles," the Japanese said.
Vargas had been only faintly conscious of the smaller man trailing beside him in the street. He wiped his hand across the grizzle of his chin, cleaning the night from his lips. He spit into the pale gray morning.
"It don't matter, Morita. You got to learn. Those missiles were the price of victory." He laughed out loud. "The gringos were probably shitting in their pants.
Vargas pushed through the draped blanket and entered the sweet dark warmth of the cantina.
"Hey." he shouted. "Let's have some fucking light in here."
"My colonel," a voice called from the shadow's. It was Ramon, one of his captains. "I've been calling around to the outposts on the field telephone. Station number four doesn't answer."
Vargas grunted. Another deserter. He had watched his band dwindle from a full brigade in the Camacho Division of the North to the handful of half-organized survivors his will and their crimes had kept by his side. More and more, the men just disappeared into the mountains, or sneaked off to a woman in Guadalajara, or to a promise of amnesty.
The gringos were insidious. With their promises. But Varsas suspected that no amnesty would ever stretch to cover him.
A storm lantern sparked to life at the touch of a match. Through the gap in the doorway where the blanket did not reach. Vargas could see that it was already lighter outside than it was in the musty shadows of the barroom. It was a lean, half-blighted place.
"Hey. Morita," Vargas called. "Come on. We're celebrating." Vargas hammered on the bar. "Where's the fucking bartender? Hey, you bastard. Show some respect, before I have your eggs for breakfast."