***

Despite the promises of peace, Gallo’s war room was busy. Empty coffee pots and mugs, combined with the mountains of cigarettes in the ashtray, were the results of a very long night.

The sunken eyes of Gallo’s officers looked over the maps and computer screens, which tracked the assets they still had in place. Thousands of men represented by a single dot peppered the maps and screens like chicken pox. Each of them were itching, yearning to move, to spread.

The chatter and talk ended as Gallo entered. Every soldier stood at attention. There were more than a dozen of his best officers saluting him, and Gallo took in the realization that this could be the last time he received such respect.

“Where are we with our progress?” Gallo asked, saluting his men and turning them back to their work.

“Sir, our Atlantic warships are only five hundred miles from the Mexican Pacific coastline heading north from the Panama Canal,” Colonel Herrera answered. “They will arrive at the Baja Peninsula by tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent work, Colonel. Have we heard from Presidente Castell?”

“No. Still nothing on the treaty, sir.”

“Regardless, I want all our men stationed on the borders.”

“Yes, General.”

Everything was almost in place. This would be his last push, and in less than forty-eight hours, he would be either the biggest fool in Mexican history or its greatest champion. Despite the hesitancy of a few of his advisors, Gallo knew he was making the right decision.

There was no doubt the Americans were making similar moves to prepare for a coordinated strike if the talking failed. The only difference would be that if the American president signed off on the treaty, then his soldiers would strike.

Gallo stared at his chair. He was afraid that sitting down would cause him to lose the momentum he had. His feet were aching, his back and legs were tired. He could feel his eyelids struggling to remain open. Rest would come soon. It was almost done.