Unfortunately for the occupants of the house, giving quarter to his enemy had never entered Guajardo's mind. With his blood up and seeking to strike out, Guajardo stopped, turned toward the nearest mercenary, leveled the rifle he had picked up, and squeezed the trigger.
The mercenary who was his first target took the full burst in the chest and was thrown against the wall. Even before the first mercenary had crumpled into a bloody heap on the floor, Guajardo turned on the second.
Seeing that the federal soldiers were in no mood to compromise, and determining that he had thrown his own weapon too far to grab it back, the second mercenary pivoted and ran back out the door.
Guajardo had no intention of letting him escape. Bringing his rifle up to his shoulder, he took careful aim this time before he squeezed off another burst. Panicked, the mercenary made no effort to bob or weave, providing Guajardo an easy mark. The first rounds struck in the lower back. The climb of the gun muzzle, lifted by firing on full automatic, raised the strike of the following rounds up the mercenary's spine to the back of his head.
Like a man who had just quenched a burning thirst, Guajardo stood motionless for a moment. With the rifle still tucked to his cheek, he looked down the barrel, through the open doorway, at the corpse of the mercenary lying in the courtyard. For a second he was oblivious to everything and everyone about him. The scurrying of the soldiers who had accompanied him into the house did not break his concentration. Nor did the popping of gunfire and roar of grenades upstairs and in rooms to either side bother him. Instead, he just stood there, savoring his success and enjoying the exhilaration of the kill. Months of stress and strain, fear and apprehension, self-doubt and second thoughts, were suddenly forgotten in the heat of action.
Only the sudden appearance of his deputy, Major Caso, snapped him back to the present. That, and the announcement that Group N was missing.
In his haste to get the helicopter back into operation, Blasio's crew chief had stripped the threads of the chip collector, making it impossible to get it back into the main rotor gearbox. Carrying the small spark-plug-shaped chip collector over to where Blasio and the infantry lieutenant waited, the crew chief began to apologize, but was cut short by the infantry lieutenant.
With eyes wide from shock and disbelief, the infantry lieutenant pointed at the part in the crew chief's hand and yelled at Blasio, "You mean to tell me that that little thing will keep your helicopter from flying?"
Embarrassed, Blasio threw out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
"There is nothing we can do. Without the collector, there is a hole in the gearbox. We can't fly without it."
The infantry lieutenant, horrified by Blasio's announcement, was unable to speak. He had already lost valuable time waiting in the vain hope that both helicopters could still make it. Now, realizing he had made a bad choice, he spun about and began to run toward the one good helicopter.
Jumping in, he didn't even bother strapping himself in. Instead, he wedged himself between the pilot and the co-pilot, and ordered them to take off immediately and fly to Chinampas. When the pilot told him to sit down and strap himself in, the infantry lieutenant grabbed the pilot by the collar, pulled the pilot's face to his, and yelled at him to fly his damned helicopter. The bulging eyes, red face, and spit that sprayed all over when the lieutenant spoke convinced the pilot that he had best comply immediately.
Without a second thought, as soon as the infantry lieutenant let his collar go, the pilot lifted his collective, depressed his left pedal, and eased the stick forward, lifting his aircraft off the ground and leaving Blasio with his crew and half of the infantry platoon behind.
From either side of a second-story window in the north wing of the main house, Guajardo and Caso looked out into the courtyard below. Gray and black smoke from the burning helicopter wreckage and tower 2 drifted across the courtyard, obscuring their view of the barracks, the stable, and the river gate beyond, making it difficult to pinpoint where the gunfire was coming from. The mercenaries, no doubt, were also hamstrung by the same lack of visibility. Even so, they were maintaining an effective cross fire that covered every inch of the courtyard, making a direct assault impossible. Although Guajardo had anticipated this, the failure of Group N to appear and seize the airfield made his methodical clearing operations impracticable. Time, instead of being an ally, was now against him.
A quick search of the house by the assault teams revealed that Alaman was not among the bodies there. That meant either that his primary target, Alaman, was not at Chinampas, which Guajardo thought highly unlikely, or that he was now sitting safely somewhere in the barracks building obscured by the whiffs of smoke that drifted across the courtyard. Regardless, Guajardo knew his troops needed to end the fight quickly, or find some way of keeping Alaman's people from reaching the airfield.
Otherwise, the success of the entire operation would be in jeopardy.
At the other side of the window, with his back against the wall, Caso carefully looked down into the courtyard while Guajardo searched for a solution. "As you can see, we are, as the Americans would say, at a Mexican stand-off, sir."
Guajardo didn't care for Caso's attempt at humor at a time like this.
But he said nothing, for he knew Caso was right — and there were far more important matters to be dealt with. His mind was already busy seeking a solution for the problem they faced.
The defenders of Chinampas were in a very strong position and, without Group N at the airfield to the east, they had an escape route. With the helicopters already clear of Chinampas and en route to their rally point, Guajardo had only the men of the assault force available to do whatever needed to be done in order to find and kill Alaman. Direct assault was out. Such an effort would be too costly, and he didn't have enough men for a human-wave attack. The methodical approach was out. Too slow.
Closing his eyes, Guajardo created an image of Chinampas and the area around it in his mind. Blocking out all other thoughts, he forced himself to concentrate on that image, seeking a solution.
A young engineer lieutenant, the commander of Group Z, came running into the room where Guajardo and Caso were. Seeing the colonel and the major at the window, he began to head straight for them. He paused, however, when he noticed his path was blocked by a body lying in the center of the floor. The flowing satin and lace of the young woman's nightgown was stained by blotches of blood that seeped from multiple gunshot wounds and soaked up by a vast pool of blood that surrounded the woman's torso.
Though appalled by the sight, the engineer lieutenant stood there for a moment transfixed as he studied, with a macabre fascination, the body of the tall, thin woman with boyish features. Only after Caso, turning to see who had entered the room, warned the lieutenant to stay clear of the window, did the engineer lieutenant move. Pulling himself away from the heap of body, satin, lace, and blood in the center of the room, the lieutenant came up next to Caso, carefully avoiding the open window. "Sir, I am here to report to Colonel Guajardo on our situation."
"The colonel is busy right now. Give me your report."
Looking over at Guajardo, the lieutenant wondered what the colonel could possibly be doing with his eyes closed. It looked as if he were asleep. Since he was a senior officer, and the lieutenant still did not understand the ways of senior officers, he ignored the colonel and rendered his report to Caso.