Throughout the flight, Miguel Coral had remained silent except when asked a question. He responded in monosyllables and short sentences, speaking Spanish if Blancanales questioned him, answering Lyons and Gadgets in English. Now he stared down at the fertile lands.
"That is why I became a drugerro," he told the North Americans.
Lyons looked down on the fields. He saw only endless rows of crops glittering with water. "What are you talking about?"
"Water and land," the gang soldier explained. His words came slowly, with resignation. "The rich and the foreigners get the land and the water. Mexicans only work."
"So you killed some cops. Did that get you the land you wanted?"
Coral looked at Lyons, not with anger, but studying him, as if attempting to understand the blond man who sneered at him. Before Lyons could speak again, Blancanales spoke to the Mexican. "Yesterday you told me you wanted to buy a rancho outside Hermosillo. Is the land there like this?"
"There is the land of the companies. That land is always green. Then there is the desert. My father had twenty acres of sand and cacti. He drilled for water, but they did not find water. He borrowed money from the bank for a deeper well, but he did not find water. The bank took his land. The bank and the government brought water, and now a foreign company grows tomatoes there. I wanted green land, so I ran the drugs to the border. I made money, but never enough to buy land with water. Then the police wanted to take my marijuana for their own gang, and then my dreams were over."
Blancanales nodded, then said, "But I thought foreigners couldn't own land in Mexico."
"They make corporations with the banks. Sociedades anonima. Anonymous societies. The campesinos have no hope."
"The socialist explanation of the dope gangs!" Lyons said with a laugh. "The heroin gangs are poor down-trodden peasants trying to improve their lives. Explains everything. Dead cops, all the murders, the corruption, a million addicts."
"Be cool, will you?" Gadgets interrupted.
"When we make it to the City of Dope, our continued existence might depend on Senor Coral. So be cool, all right? Until you know what you're talking about."
Gadgets stared at Lyons, and the Ironman turned away and looked out the window. The Wizard knew that something had been eating away at his friend's mind like a cancer since the beginning of the Coral bust. He knew of only one thing that could be driving the load of anger Lyons was carrying. Flor.
Coral continued quietly, without anger. "It is different here. It is not like North America. If you had walked with me through my life, through the lives of my people, you would know. Do not judge me until you know."
The intercom blared. "Mountains coming up. That's the River Mayo down there, if you want to check your map. Three or four minutes to the scene of the action."
Looking down, they saw brush and trash heaps smoking from a hundred fires. The jet passed over a highway and railroad. To the south, villages and small farms lined the banks of a muddy stream winding through rocky flood plains and tangles of cane. Cottonwood trees and cornfields identified the farms that had year-round water. But they left the green oases behind in only another minute of flight.
Their jet traveled over mesquite and cacti. Cattle paths and motorcycle tracks scarred the flatlands. The plane banked slightly to follow a dirt road into the foothills.
They saw the undulating folds of the dry mesquite-pocked hills. Beyond the hills, mountains rose against the horizon like an unforgiving wall of gray stone, range after range fading into the distance and glare.
"Here's where we are." Blancanales pointed out their approximate position on his chart.
"But where are we going?" Gadgets wondered out loud. "All I see is nadaland."
"I'll ask the driver," Lyons said, going to the pilot's cabin. He slid the door open. "You spot the action?"
"Not yet." Davis motioned Lyons to the copilot's seat. He took binoculars from a map compartment and passed them to Lyons. "Look for dust. This time of year, if a truck's on a road or they're using helicopters or planes, you can see the dust plumes from miles away."
With the high-powered optics, Lyons searched the wasteland. To the east, directly ahead, he saw rock and sand and desert brush, but no roads or farms. Several miles to the south, he saw a village — a patchwork of green cut by the straight khaki line of a dirt road.
Davis scanned the Mexican army radio frequencies. A burst of static indicated a distant transmission. A squawk answered. Davis fine-tuned the frequency and listened to the Spanish words.
"That could be them," Davis said.
"You going to radio for their location?" Lyons asked.
"Not if I can avoid it."
"Is this checkout secret?"
"Not really. But it might offend them if they thought..."
"They're spending U.S. taxpayer's money and you're worried about offending them?" Lyons challenged.
Davis laughed. "You're one guy who won't make friends and influence people in Mexico."
"We could be up here all day looking for them." Lyons pointed to the vast expanse of the desert and mountains. "If they are out here, and we miss them, you'll be taking back a report that could make for some problems. Unjust accusations and all that."
"You talked me into it." Davis took the transceiver microphone and spoke in Spanish, identifying himself and mentioning the magic initials, DEA.
A voice answered immediately, and Davis spoke with an operator. After a further few seconds of static, a man identifying himself as an officer came on the frequency. Davis talked with the officer, exchanging numbers and compass headings, then signed off.
"That's them. They're in trucks, busting a mule train loaded with opium. They want us to overfly and try to spot any other mules in the hills. It'll take a few minutes, then we'll be back on track to Culacan."
Following the coordinates, Davis veered to the northeast. Lyons kept the binoculars focused on the wasteland. He saw only eroded gullies and cattle tracks. There were no roads, no farms, nothing green but the mesquite.
After three or four more minutes, they spotted the OD trucks. Tire tracks led from the west.
Soldiers milled about in the mesquite trees and rock spurs. Tarps covered the cargo beds of the stake-sided trucks.
But Lyons saw no mules.
"You said they busted a mule train?" he asked Davis.
"Yeah, that's what he told me." Davis leaned to the compartment door and spoke to the others. "Take a look. Condor Group commandos down there. Searching the unmapped wilderness of the Sierra Madres for doper desperados."
Davis put the jet into a wide turn to circle the trucks. Lyons kept the binoculars on the soldiers. He saw a soldier snap back the cocking handle of an FN-FAL rifle. Suddenly the tarps on the backs of the trucks flew open.
"Get us out of here!" Lyons screamed. "It's an ambush!"
Davis recoiled from Lyons's shout in his ear. Lyons shoved the control yoke and the jet lurched. Something slammed the fuselage and then wind shrieked through the interior of the passenger cabin, sending papers swirling. Gadgets and Blancanales shouted to Lyons.
As Davis drove the plane into a hard turn, Lyons strained against the G-force to jam the binoculars to his eyes. He saw a flame streak from the back of a truck, then another, then another. His gut knotting, he recognized the launchers they shouldered. Soviet SAM-7 antiaircraft rockets.