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“It is an older model, this Blackhawk,” Eduardo said as he cleaned his hands with a rag. “But it has many advantages. It has two turbine engines. If a SAM missile takes out one of the turbines, a good pilot can still fly it in safely.” Eduardo had been working on the Blackhawk for weeks, scavenging abandoned British bases in Belize for parts.

Since the British pulled out many years ago, there had been no protectorate agreement for tiny Belize and the country was all but lawless. Small bandit gangs had roamed the streets of Belize City, looting stores, taking whatever they wanted. But that was before Comandante Perro Loco came from Nicaragua with his armies. His best soldados slaughtered leaders of the gangs during a nationwide manhunt. Order was restored. In spite of the bloodshed, often including the killing of innocent bystanders, Comandante Perro Loco was a Belizian hero to the masses. The streets of Belize City were quiet now.

Loco examined the dark gray aircraft. “Only four missiles in the launching tubes,” he said, his pox-scarred face a mass of lines when he frowned.

Eduardo shook his head. “The fifty-caliber machine guns have plenty of ammunition, comandante, but as you say, there are only four missiles. They will have to be used sparingly. They are small air-to-ground rockets of a special type. They will be very hard to find, although they have very powerful warheads, or so we are told.”

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“We may find them in Mexico. Will this machine fly the way it is?”

“Si, comandante. But there is little fuel. A helicopter such as this requires large amounts of fuel and has very limited range.”

“Fuel is always a problem. The Mexican government has big underground storage tanks close to Mexico City. One of our first objectives will be to capture those fuel reserves and the tanker trucks to haul them. It won’t be a problem. The Martinez government is weak and corrupt. We should take their military bases easily. We will march through Michoacan to take the capital in a few weeks, but we will need this Blackhawk and the other helicopter gunships to give our grand troops and armored divisions air support for the attack.”

“It is almost ready for battle, comandante,” Eduardo said. “I only have a few more minor adjustments to make with the tail turbine and the targeting devices. I need less than a week to make the changes. It will fly now, but there are problems with the Heads Up Targeting. I can fix it, but I will require a few more days.”

“Can you fly me to my hacienda at San Ignacio? I wish to see how well it flies.”

“Now?”

Loco nodded, his gaze still roaming across the sleek lines of the aircraft.

“Of course, comandante.”

“I’ll tell my driver to take the jeep back. Let me know as soon as you are ready to leave.”

“The gunship will be ready to fly in five minutes. Is there a landing pad close by?”

“Only a small opening in the jungle. My men keep the vines and grass cut away.”

“Give me five minutes,” Eduardo said, tucking the red rag in his back pocket as he hurried off toward an empty aircraft hangar at the end of a shell-pocked runway where Soviet-made missiles had landed during the big war, the war

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to end all wars that went around the globe in a deadly, worldwide holocaust ending in political and military mayhem.

Loco strolled toward his battered military Jeep, a vehicle captured in Honduras when the bombs began to drop, wondering about the two soldiers from President Osterman. Was it wise to form an alliance with a weak government? Radio reports said that General Raines had crushed most of the USA’s forces in North America.

“Drive to San Ignacio,” he told the driver. “Radio the hacienda. Tell them I’ll be arriving in a helicopter in half an hour. And tell them to make certain the landing place is well guarded.”

“Si, comandante.” His aide started the jeep and backed away from the landing strip.

Loco was still puzzled by the unexpected appearance of the two American soldiers, and President Osterman’s offer. He made up his mind that he would use it to his advantage. If conditions were right he would meet with Osterman and agree to join forces with the USA … without telling her that his plans were on a far larger scale. He intended to control the former United States himself.

When the time was right he would crush the weakened armies of the USA and take control of the entire North American continent. All he needed was time, and a small amount of luck when they marched across Mexico looking for fuel, armored equipment, and ammunition.

The rhythmic thump of huge rotor blades filled his ears as the old Blackhawk took off. Eduardo, a trusted helicopter pilot and chopper flight instructor, was at the controls. Loco watched the ground fall away beneath the helicopter’s skids as the craft rose above the jungle canopy outside of Belize City, its prop-wash swirling the palm leaves below.

These powerful American gunships could quickly turn the tide in any conflict, he knew. Strafed from the air by heavy

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machine-gun fire, enemy ground troops made easy targets, and with enough rockets even an armored division could be taken out in a single pass with well-armed helicopters.

Good, he thought. Air power will take us across Mexico in short order. The Mexicans have few SAM batteries and only a handful of radar installations still working. Taking Mexico, using the element of surprise, should be relatively quick with low casualties. One of the major elements in their attack would be the Comanche and Apache helicopters his men had captured from the Mexican government.

Loaned to the Mexican authorities initially by the American DEA agents to fight the drug lords of the south, they’d been abandoned when the big war started and were now in the hands of Perro Loco.

One of the major advantages of the Comanche helicopters was their invisibility on radar screens. Made from a synthetic material, they created no blips on conventional radar screens. With the Comanches flying in front of the Apaches and the Hueys, Loco’s strike force would sweep across Mexico virtually undetected.

“It seems stable,” Loco said into the mouthpiece of his headset.

Eduardo nodded. “It operates very smoothly, comandante. I can have it ready to fight in five or six days, if all goes as well as it should.”

Flying westward, Loco glimpsed the dim outlines of jungle mountains ahead. San Ignacio lay in a valley near the Guatemalan border, sheltered by huge palm trees. “\bu will be rewarded for your dedication to our cause, Eduardo,” he said. “Very soon we will empty the treasuries of Mexico. You will be well paid for what you have done.”

“Gracias, comandante. As you must know by now, I am only loyal to you.”

Loco leaned back in his seat, watching the Toledo District of Belize pass below them. He paid no attention to the whine

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of the twin turbines or the clatter of the main rotor, thinking about the bold move he was making.

All of Central America was in chaos. No leader had emerged to take control… not yet. Since he was a boy, the oldest son of Manuel Arango, he had known that he was destined for leadership of some kind.

The time was at hand. The norteamericanos were fighting each other. General Raines was expending his military might in conflicts all over the world, depleting his arsenals, losing men and precious war materiel to crazed fanatics like Bruno Bottger in Europe and Africa. Raines had battled countless others over the years since the final devastating holocaust.

It was curious that Ben Raines had not met his match in wars around the globe. Some said he was a military genius, while his detractors called him brash, foolhardy, a risk-taker. Loco had decided long ago that General Raines was simply lucky. Lady Luck would smile on some men and shit on others.

Perro Loco had always been lucky.

The Blackhawk settled slowly toward a patch of bare jungle floor near Loco’s mountain hacienda, rocking and bucking against the prop-wash. It had required only fifteen minutes for the gunship to take him close to the Guatemalan border east of San Ignacio.

Haifa dozen armed guards stood at the edges of the landing pad. Radio communications had indicated that all was clear for them to land.

Loco had maps to study before Paco brought the two Americans to the hacienda. There was much to be done to prepare for an invasion of Mexico and the splintered remnants of what had once been the United States.

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A blast of machine-gun fire came from one side of the jungle road. Bullets thudded into the jeep caravan commanded by Paco Valdez. Three jeeps with mounted machine guns in the rear came to a halt as Paco jumped out with his Remington Model 870 shotgun cradled in his arms, dashing for the protection of jungle undergrowth.

“Bandidos,” Paco hissed, scanning the jungle with practiced eyes, searching for muzzle flashes or wisps of gunsmoke in the canopy shadows.

“Si,” said Juan Medina, Paco’s driver for many years during the bandit wars. “Only two. I will take Rudolfo and get around behind them.”

“Make it quick,” Paco snapped. “Tell Arturo to make sure nothing happens to the two americanos. El Comandante wants to question them or I would have already killed them.”

“Si, jefe,” Juan said, moving off into the jungle.

Paco’s gaze stopped where a banana plant stalk moved in an unnatural way.

There, he thought, raising the Remington to his shoulder. “I send you to meet your ancestors,” he said quietly.

The explosive blast of the shotgun ended the silence gripping the rain forest as the load of needle-sharp flechettes was fired. The flechettes, finned one-inch-long razor-sharp projectiles, had a velocity of two thousand feet per second and could penetrate a flak jacket at four hundred yards. A muffled scream came from the banana plant as its leaves were shredded like confetti.

A dark-skinned Caribe toppled forward among the stalks with blood pouring from multiple wounds, his flesh ripped from his body. He clutched a machine gun to his chest as he fell.

“Die, bastardo,” Paco whispered, moving quickly to another spot in the vines to keep from making a target of himself for the other bandits.

He slipped quietly through the undergrowth, toward a spot where he had heard gunfire when the caravan was attacked.

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Paco knew the jungle. His boots made no sound as he closed in on his enemy, a dagger in one hand, his Remington in the other. Paco’s heart beat rapidly and his breath came in short bursts at the prospect of an up-close kill. The thrill of anticipation and his blood lust was almost sexual in its intensity for him.

Armando Diaz held the M-16 to his shoulder. He was afraid now. Paulito was dead. It had been Paulito’s idea to capture a jeep so they could form the beginnings of a revolutionary army in the Orange Walk District. Armando was alone, and he knew he was in serious trouble.

He backed away from a breadfruit tree, using all the stealth a lifetime in the Belizian jungles had taught him. It was time to retreat, for there were too many jeeps and too many soldiers to fight.

As Armando suspected, these were soldiers in the service of the infamous Perro Loco. It had been a deadly mistake to shoot at them so soon, before he and Paulito could identify them as murderous henchmen loyal to Comandante Perro Loco, the mad dog killer. Armando was only fifteen, too young to match wits with experienced soldiers. He barely knew how to fire the automatic rifle he carried.

He heard a soft noise behind him. He glimpsed a quick flash of sun on metal as something sliced across his throat. He felt excruciating pain, glancing down at a fountain of red pouring across the front of his shirt.

Armando sank to his knees, dropping his rifle, wishing for all he was worth that he could be with his mother now.

The jungle went dark around him.

Paco stood over the fallen boy, bis eyes glittering in the soft light of the jungle as he licked the blood off his blade.

“Nothing tastes as good as the blood of a traitor,” he mumbled to himself.