***

Gallo’s plane landed on a small landing strip near the California border just east of Tijuana. He was no more than forty miles from the fighting. Normally it was unconventional for an officer of his stature to be this close to the front lines, but he refused to sit behind a desk while his men fought one of the biggest conflicts in Mexican history.

The soldiers on the tarmac saluted, and Gallo sniffed the air. The faintest hint of smoke and hot lead filled his nostrils. He’d stayed abreast of all the reports coming in, along with his officers’ pleas for retreat, but he wouldn’t let them waiver. If this was to be their end, then he would make it the bloodiest in the history of war.

Colonel Herrera met him outside a makeshift tent beside a jet hangar. “General, it is an honor to have you on the field of battle with us today.”

“Field of battle? And where do you see a battle happening, Colonel?”

“General, we wanted to ensure your safety. It would be unwise to have you so close to the enemy.”

“For my safety or yours, Colonel?”

Herrera stood slack jawed, unable to speak. Gallo brushed past him and flung open the tent flap. All the officers stood and saluted. He stepped slowly around the men, refusing to allow them to lower their salutes. His eyes roamed over the map in the center of the room. His forces were being pushed back on all fronts: California, Phoenix, and Albuquerque. His fleet off the coast of San Diego was in shambles, and his planes were falling from the skies.

“Is this how you represent your country? Your heritage?” Gallo asked.

The officers remained silent, their arms still rigid in salute.

“Is this how you win a war?” Gallo bellowed, slamming his fist into the table and disrupting the positions of the figurines.

Herrera entered upon hearing the noise. His face was ghost white. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to form words that just wouldn’t come.

“What is it, Colonel?” Gallo asked.

“S-sir… The Americans… Our men… They’re surrounded.”

“What?”

The colonel didn’t repeat himself, but he didn’t need to. Gallo turned to one of the officers next to him, yanking his hand down from the salute. “How many men do you have stationed here?”

“Twelve hundred, General.”

“I want every soldier, officer, and able-bodied man in the area armed and mobilized within thirty minutes. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gallo turned to the rest of the officers. The red tint of rage covered his face. A vein throbbed on the side of his neck, exacerbated by the pinch of his collar. He repeated himself. “Do I make myself clear?!”

All of the officers responded with a clear and resonating “Yes, sir!”