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.
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 Alaman 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.