And shit. The officers had emptied their bowels and bladders into their tailored fatigues.
As Lyons pushed aside the door, the Fascist and the Mexican traitor convulsed, arching their bodies, kicking with their legs in an attempt to push themselves backward through the wall. Animal groans came from their throats. Stepping back, Lyons spoke to Vato in a whisper, "What did you do? Tell me..."
"We put all of the Mexicans in a line. We put these two at the end. To be last. And as all the others went to the gods, they watched. When there was only the two, we went to them and said they were the prisoners of the North Americans. If the North Americans wanted them to live, they would live. And if not, then they would be offered, like all the other soldiers."
Lyons laughed. Vato spoke to the Yaqui guard and they laughed also. In the shack, the prisoners thrashed and groaned, beating their bodies against the mud-plastered sticks.
"Very effective," Lyons told the Yaquis, then he went to the prisoners. To play on their fears, he slipped out his double-edged boot knife. He squatted in front of the gray-uniformed Nazi and tore off the man's blindfold.
The man shook with fear. Blinking against the light, his eyes rolling in their sockets, the blond European-featured Fascist cringed. Lyons grabbed the Fascist's hair and immobilized his head. With the tip of the knife, he cut the tape over the prisoner's mouth.
"Who are you?" Lyons demanded. "Where do you come from? Who is your commander?"
The Fascist stared at Lyons. His voice trembled with panic. "You're a white man... why are you with them? These animals... why do you betray your country? Your race?"
Lyons repeated. "Who are you? Where do you come from? Who is your commander? Answer or die."
The prisoner summoned up his arrogance. "I am an officer of the International. All the power of the International stands behind me. Free me, and as a white man, you can expect mercy... and a position in the New Reich."
Lyons watched and listened as the Fascist spoke.
"You cannot hope to withstand the onslaught of the Reich. The elite of the hemisphere stand united. Even your government, your leaders stand with us, united!"
The knife blade pressed against his mouth stopped his words. "Just answer the questions, filth." Lyons's anger raged through his words.
"I am Captain Graefe of the International, advisor to the International Group of the army of the Republic of Mexico," the Fascist proudly trumpeted.
"Americano!" the Yaqui guard called to Lyons.
"Que?" Lyonsrushed outside.
The Yaqui pointed to a mirror flashing with the dawn light from the eastern hilltop. Lyons saw Vato already running for his position across the canyon.
"Ellos vienen. Vayase! El Brujo lo necesita."
Lyons dashed back into the shack. He replaced the blindfold on the Fascist. As Lyons unrolled fresh tape to blind and gag Graefe, the Fascist said to him, "Now is your chance to save yourself! You face overwhelming force. Nothing can withstand the armies of the New Reich. Take this chance to..."
Tape stopped his words. Lyons looped the tape over the prisoner's mouth, then put a wrap around the man's head to hold the blindfold in place.
"I'll be back," was all he said, a cold fury in his voice.
Lyons ran.
18
Dawn seared the eastern horizon. Weaving through the dark mountains, the formation of three helicopters searched for a nameless pueblo of indigenasin a canyon without a name. Soldiers stared through the Plexiglas doors of the UH-1 troopships to the shadowed canyons and mountains of the Sierra Madres. Colonel Gonzalez swept the distant ridges with the optics of his binoculars.
Cursing into the intercom, Gonzalez demanded, "Give me the frequency of the plane again!"
"Yes, Colonel," the helicopter copilot answered.
Static hissed in the colonel's headset, then the pilot of the light plane accompanying the troopships answered. "I have not yet seen the village, Colonel."
"Why this problem? You found the filthy place! You have the coordinates!"
"Sir, it was another pilot who flew for that operation. The coordinates recorded in the flight book are approximate. I am rising to a greater altitude now. I am sure I will spot the helicopters of Lieutenant Colomo immediately. Only another moment of patience, please."
"Copilot!" Gonzalez shouted. "Get me the liaison unit."
More static erupted from the speaker as the frequency changed to the UHF band, linking Colonel Gonzalez's troopship with the troopship carrying Colonel Jon Gunther and his squad of elite International commandos.
Colonel Gunther watched the landscape pass below him. Red dawn light illuminated the eastern ridges; the canyons and western slopes remained draped in night. He attempted to match the mountain ridges to his topographic map. The voice of Colonel Gonzalez interrupted him.
"Colonel Gunther, forgive the delay. I ordered the pilot of the plane to rise to an observation altitude. We will have our landing zone in only another moment."
Scanning the dawn sky, Gunther saw red light reflect from the wings of the observation plane. The aluminum napalm canister under the plane flashed like a beacon as the sun glanced off it.
"This confusion wastes fuel," Colonel Gunther spoke into his intercom.
"True," Colonel Gonzalez answered. "I will discipline the pilot who failed to record the correct coordinates. There is a message now. One moment..."
Static ended the transmission. Colonel Gunther thanked Jehovah he had never accepted a Mexican in his liaison unit. His pilots and soldiers all came from the other nations of the International. To serve him, he accepted only elite of the death squads of Argentina and El Salvador, the bravest of the Chilean and expatriate Bolivian soldiers, the strongest Americans, the most technically adept French. He would not trust his security to the paramilitary scum collected by their Mexican allies.
For too many generations, the blue-eyed Mexicans of Castilian heritage had enjoyed the luxury of easy dominion over the indigenasand mestizos. Vain with the glory of a revolution fought by armies of destitute soldiers promised land and equality, the Castilian Mexicans rode to power on a wave of blood and rhetoric. Since their independence from Spain, the Mexican elite had squandered uncounted thousands of soldiers in pointless wars with the United States, Guatemala and El Salvador. Defeat never silenced the ranting Castilians. Though only wealth and privilege separated the Castilians from the mestizos, they declared racial distinction.
The International needed Mexican allies. Gunther did not. If the International did not require the billions of American dollars earned by the heroin trade, Colonel Gunther would have never encountered the petty, pompous, blue-eyed Gonzalez.
Now, the repeated failures of the Mexicans to liquidate the American antidrug operatives required Colonel Gunther to commit his men. The restraints of secrecy and time forced the Fascist colonel to limit his commitment today to liaison. But he had mobilized other International units. They would arrive at Rancho Cortez the next day. The Mexican colonel had only one more day to kill the Americans.
"The pilot has sighted the landing zone!" Colonel Gonzalez declared.
"Where is the fighting?" Gunther looked out to see the two Mexican helicopters veering away to the east.
"There is a problem with the radio link. After I establish command, we will join the attack. Lieutenant Colomo will brief us on the ground."
"I want an overflight of the fighting, Colonel!" Gunther demanded.
"It is not possible now!"
"Do as I say, Gonzalez! I am in command here!"
Static cut the link.
"The fool!" Gunther shouted. "That posturing playboy. That..."
"Colonel Gunther," his pilot's voice interrupted his anger. "I heard him. I also monitored the other transmissions. Allow me to suggest we avoid landing with the other helicopters."