Bottger and Loco sat side by side, glaring across the desk at the tired, sweaty men who stood before them, their heads hanging down.

"Give us your report," Bottger ordered harshly.

"We were about to enter the town, Field Marshal, when two Apache helicopters came at us from the north," said the pilot.

"They had the SUSA markings on them, Herr Bottger," the copilot added.

Bottger glanced at Loco, then back at the two men. "And you didn't stay to fight?" he asked, scorn dripping from his tongue.

The pilot shook his head. "No, sir. The Kiowa is no match for one Apache, much less two. The pilot of the Defender tried to fight them, and was blown out of the sky before he could get a shot off."

"It appears the dead man was much braver than you two," Bottger said, his face turning red.

"I thought it more important to save the helicopter, sir," the pilot said, standing up straight. "I am not afraid to die, but to 270.

throw my life away when I have no chance would be counterproductive to our efforts to win this war."

Sergei Bergman leaned forward to speak to Bottger. "He is correct, Field Marshal. The Kiowas, and the men with the know-how to pilot them, aretoo valuable to us to lose unnecessarily."

Bottger took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps you are right, Sergei."

He glanced back at the two pilots. "Get yourselves cleaned up and get something to eat. We will need you again in the morning."

"Yes, sir," the two men said in unison, and saluted before turning to leave, much relieved they hadn't been shot out of hand.

After they were gone, Bottger referred to a radio report from the field.

"It appears the attack on Valapraiso was completely routed by the arrival of the American warships."

Loco nodded. "The same thing happened to my men at Ciudad de Valles.

General Enrique Gonzalez states he barely escaped with his life and that most of his men are either dead or wounded. He desires immediate reinforcements and better air cover."

"Looks like Ben Raines's men have arrived a bit sooner than we expected.

This is gonna complicate matters."

Sergei Bergman nodded his agreement. "Yes. It means it will be extremely difficult to occupy the remainder of Mexico in the time frame we first planned."

Bottger thumbed through the intel reports in front of him. "It seems a full battalion of troops has been sent to defend Tampico, and a full battalion to defend Durango."

"Our men will play h.e.l.l trying to defeat battalions equipped as well as those of the Americans are," Paco Valdez said from his seat next to Loco.

Loco nodded. "I do not believe it can be done as long as our forces are divided."

"I agree," Bottger said, his eyes fixed on a map of Mexico.

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271.

"I propose we unify our forces and concentrate on Durango. If I send my men straight from Guadalajara toward Durango, skirting the mountains to the west of the city, they can be there in two days' time." He cut his eyes to the other side of the map. "And if you order your men that are south of Tampico to strike directly west, we might be able to catch Durango in a pincer movement between our two forces."

Loco leaned over to look at the map. "I see. Together, we vastly outnumber one battalion. If we strike fast enough by having our men travel all during the night and lay low during the day, we might be able to catch the defenders of Durango off guard."

"We can transport most of the men still here in Mexico City in our C-130's and land them at Sombrerete, fifty miles southeast of Durango.

There is an old airfield there that will let the transport planes land.

If we time it right, we will then have a three-p.r.o.nged attack that will hit Durango at the same time."Bottger and Loco looked at each other and nodded. "Then that is what we shall do," Bottger said. He glanced at Sergei Bergman. "Sergei, you and Mr. Strunk coordinate the troop movements so that the attacks will occur simultaneously."

Bergman and Strunk nodded and began to gather their papers together.

Sergei knocked on Bottger's bedroom door just before midnight.

"Come in," Bottger said.

"Field Marshal," Bergman said as he entered. "The plan is done and the orders have been given. The attacks will occur day after tomorrow at dawn."

"There's one more thing we have to do," Bottger said.

"What's that?"

"Tomorrow evening I want you to send three jets loaded with our plague bombs to the north. One is to let his bombs 272.

off over Durango. The other two are to fly as far north as they can get and drop them as close to the SUSA's southern border as they can."

"But, Field Marshal, they will never get all the way to the SUSA. The air defenses are too good."

"I know that, but with two divisions of Americans here, and with several million people inhabiting northern Mexico, it will not take long for the plague to spread to the SUSA. By the time we've finished with Durango, the disease should be well established in both the SUSA and Mexico."

"You are aware the plague will devastate not only the Mexicans and Americans, but Perro Loco's troops as well?"

"Yes, but by then, we will no longer need Senor Loco or his men. Once the plague has rendered both Mexico and the SUSA impotent, it will only be a matter of occupying the countries with our mercenaries and beginning to take them over."

Bergman nodded, smiling. "And soon after the SUSA falls ill, the U.S.

will follow."

Bottger grinned. "Exactly."

After darkness fell the next day, Bottger and Bergman rode out to the Mexico City airport. Bottger had told Loco he was going to send a couple of bombers over Durango to see if they could soften the city up by dropping some bombs from a high alt.i.tude.

Loco didn't think much of the plan, but since the planes belonged to Bottger, there wasn't much he could do about it. Of course, he knew nothing of the lethal cargo in the bombs the planes carried.

Bottger and Bergman pulled up to the runway in front of the three F-l 11 's. The pilots were standing on the edge of the tarmac awaiting final instructions."Gentlemen," Bottger said, standing in front of them. "You have your orders. It is imperative that the bombs be dropped 273.

as planned. It is not important that you are precise in your targeting.

The bombs are designed to detonate one thousand feet from the ground to insure maximum spread of the bacteria contained in them."

He pointed to one of the men. "Your target is the city of Durango, or as close to it as you can get. The most important thing is to release the bombs if you come under attack, even if you are not over your target."

He glanced at the other two. '1You men are to separate and to head at maximum alt.i.tude and speed toward the southern border of the SUSA. Once again, at the first sign of interdiction or if you are fired upon by missiles, release the bombs no matter where you are. Understand?"

The men all nodded. They knew there was little chance of them returning from this mission, but Bottger had promised each of them huge sums of money in the event they succeeded, with the money to go to their families if they died in the attempt.

One after another, the jets taxied up to the end of the runway and took off, climbing at a steep angle to get as high as they could as fast as they could.

A Mexican soldier burst into the situation room at the Army base at Durango where Ben Raines and his team were going over the latest intel reports with General Guerra and his staff.

The soldier and General Guerra spoke back and forth in rapid Spanish for a moment, with Guerra's face becoming more and more worried the longer they spoke.

Ben glanced at Harley Reno. "What's going on, Harley?" he asked.

Harley, who was fluent in Spanish, leaned over and whispered, "That man is the radar operator of the base. Evidently, he's picked up three fast-moving blips at high alt.i.tude and coming this way from Mexico City.

They'll be over us in less than fifteen minutes."

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Without waiting for confirmation from Guerra, Ben turned to Corrie, his radio operator. "Get on the horn, fast, to Georgi Striginov," he said, "and tell him we need a couple of F-Ill's up here p.r.o.nto."

Corrie, who was never very far from her compact radio set, rushed to the back of the room and began the call immediately. Her low voice could be heard talking urgently to someone, but the words couldn't be made out.

After a couple of minutes, she came back over to Ben. "Georgi's second in command said he'd get right on it, but there was no way they could be here in time to beat the bogeys from Mexico City."

Ben turned to Guerra, who was listening. "Can you scramble anything that'll help us?" he asked.Guerra shook his head. "The only aircraft we have here right now ready to go are a couple of old Warthogs."

"How fast are the bogeys moving?" Ben asked the radar operator.

Harley quickly translated the question. When the man answered, he looked back at Ben. "A lot faster than the Warthogs can handle."

Ben looked at Guerra. "Scramble the Warthogs, General. Maybe they'll get lucky with one of their guided missiles."

Guerra nodded and picked up the phone on his desk, speaking rapidly into it. Then he looked up. "They'll be airborne in five minutes. If the jets coming this way drop low enough, we might have a chance."

"Better sound the air raid siren and get everyone under cover," Ben said. "If those are F-Ill's coming this way, they can carry over eleven tons of bombs and still travel twice as fast as a Warthog."

Lieutenant Colonel Jaime Fuentes eased back the stick on his Warthog, and smiled as it lifted up off the runway at the Durango airfield.

Jaime, who'd been trained at Fort Hood in 275.

Texas some ten years ago, lived to fly. To him, the war of aggression by Perro Loco was a G.o.dsend, relieving him of the boredom of the years of peace when he'd had to beg for air time to keep his skills intact.

He was a gifted flyer who'd finished first in his cla.s.s, to the surprise of the college grads he'd beaten from the SUSA schools. Jaime had only a high school education, but he'd been born to fly and the complex movements of hands and feet and eyes came like second nature to him.

The Fairchild A-10 Warthog he was flying had few rivals as a close-support aircraft, carrying both guided missiles and a 30mm cannon in its nose. Its one drawback was it was very slow, flying at only 380 knots at sea level. The F-lll's it was going up against could fly at over seven hundred knots, and were better armed.

Jaime didn't think of this as he pulled his beloved Warthog up as fast as it could go. He was going into battle, and his adrenaline was pumping and his heart was racing-in short, he was having the time of his life.

Like most pilots, he felt he was the best there was, and counted on his skills overcoming the natural superiority of the planes he was going up against.

"Hog One, this is Base, come in," a scratchy voice on his radio sounded.

"Hog One to base," Jaime answered.

"Bogeys are separating," the voice continued. "Only one bogey is headed this way. The other two are going to pa.s.s well to the west of us."

"What is the current alt.i.tude of the bogey?" Jaime asked as he stared at his shipboard radar screen to see if he could pick out the blip that was to be bis target.

"Fourteen thousand feet and dropping. It's coming in for a bombing run, Jaime.""Roger that," Jaime said, imitating the pilots he'd trained with in Texas, down to the Texas drawl they'd said it with.

He keyed the intercom switch to talk to his copilot and 276.

gunner, sitting directly behind him in the double c.o.c.kpit. "Julio, put your dancing shoes on, we're fixing to boogie."

"I'm on the dance floor, but I cannot hear the music, com-padre," Julio responded, their personal code meaning Julio had all weapons systems ready to go but the target was still out of range.

"Snap off a quick ATA to see if we can get his attention," Jaime ordered, hoping the air-to-air missile would at least get close enough to cause the other pilot to change his course away from the base.

"It's too far," Julio protested.

"I know, but lead him like you do the geese when we go hunting at the lake, Julio. Perhaps the missile's heat seeker will pick him up as he approaches."

"Si, and perhaps it will miss him, circle, and pick us up instead,"

Julio said, "but here goes nothing."

The Warthog shuddered slightly as a missile jumped from the right-wing pods and angled off to the left, toward the unknown bogey, which was still on the very edge of the plane's radar screen.

Jaime shifted course slightly to his left.

"What are you doing?" Julio asked.

"Most pilots are right-handed," Jaime explained. "I'm betting when he sees the ATA coming at him, he's going to jig to the right. I'm altering course to cut the distance down and when he jigs, I'm going to be there waiting for him."

"What if you're wrong and he jigs left?" Julio asked.

"Then we're probably dead," Jaime answered calmly, as if he knew that wasn't going to happen.

Sure enough, when the blip of the missile closed on the blip of the F-l 11, the plane jigged to the right and downward to get away from the ATA missile, just as Jaime figured he would.

Jaime's A-10 was already pointed at the F-l 11 as it dove, and he thumbed the b.u.t.ton on the 30mm cannon and simul- 277.

taneously fired another ATA, hoping if the other pilot managed to dodge one, the other would get him.

Several blips appeared on the screen as the ATA missile and machine-gun bullets arched toward the F- 111."He's dropped his bombs," Julio said exuberantly, "well short of the base."