The alliance lasted exactly seventy-two hours.
Long enough for the broadcast. Long enough for the photographs of McCarthy and K-40 shaking hands. Long enough for the people of Mexico to see their president embrace the devil.
Then it shattered.
No one knew who fired first. The official reports blamed "C.O.S.S. aggressors" violating the newly "liberated" border zones. The cartel's dark channels claimed the Mexican Army had launched a preemptive strike on a C.O.S.S. logistics hub in Michoacán. The truth, as always, was buried somewhere between the lies.
What mattered was this:
The Mexican Civil War had begun.
President Emmanuel McCarthy stood before a map of Mexico in the presidential bunker, his white suit immaculate despite the hour. Generals surrounded him. UPN commanders. Advisors who hadn't slept in days.
"Two hundred eighty thousand soldiers," he said, voice calm, paternal, absolute. "The largest military force in Latin America. Fifty thousand cartel thugs with clown paint and stolen rifles."
He turned to face them.
"This is not a war. This is an extermination."
The generals nodded. The UPN commanders smiled behind their visors. The advisors calculated casualty projections.
Two hundred eighty thousand vs fifty thousand.
Simple math.
They didn't know K-40 had been doing math his entire life.
The first move was Colima.
The smallest state. The weakest defenses. The Mexican Army's 4th Infantry Division rolled across the border from Michoacán with tanks, artillery, and three thousand soldiers. They expected resistance. They prepared for blood.
They found empty streets.
C.O.S.S. had retreated hours earlier. No fighting. No sabotage. Just... gone.
The generals celebrated. "The cowards run!" they declared on national broadcasts. "The Serpent retreats! The Purified State advances!"
McCarthy smiled for the cameras. "Colima is liberated. Morelos will follow. Mexico City itself will be cleansed."
The army advanced.
Morelos fell in two days. Light resistance. C.O.S.S. forces melted away before contact.
Mexico City fell in five. The capital—McCarthy's own stronghold—was "liberated" from C.O.S.S. influence. The generals paraded through the streets. The people watched from behind closed curtains.
Tlaxcala fell in a week.
Three states. Four if you counted the capital. All "liberated." All "cleansed."
The Mexican Army had won the fastest campaign in modern history.
They didn't notice that C.O.S.S. hadn't fought back.
They didn't notice that every "liberated" state was a trap waiting to spring.
While the army celebrated, C.O.S.S. insiders worked.
They had been planted years ago. Low-level positions. Mechanics. Logistics clerks. Supply sergeants. Men who had taken C.O.S.S. money to look the other way, to stamp the wrong form, to "lose" a shipment.
Now they activated.
In Colima, the "liberated" military depot exploded at 3 AM. Two hundred artillery shells. Forty tanks. Thirty supply trucks. All destroyed by a single mechanic who had "accidentally" rigged the fuel lines.
In Morelos, communication towers went dark. The army's forward command lost contact with headquarters for six critical hours. When the signal returned, the coordinates had been scrambled. Reinforcements were sent to empty fields while C.O.S.S. units moved freely through the mountains.
In Mexico City, a logistics coordinator "misplaced" the ammunition resupply orders. Frontline units ran out of bullets while C.O.S.S. snipers picked them off from rooftops.
In Tlaxcala, a supply sergeant "accidentally" sent the winter gear to the southern desert while sending the summer uniforms to the frozen mountains. Soldiers froze in their sleep while C.O.S.S. patrols watched from the tree line.
The cost was impossible to calculate.
But the pattern was clear.
The Mexican Army wasn't advancing.
They were being led.
While the army celebrated "liberating" four small states, K-40 consolidated.
Jalisco. Sinaloa. Durango. Zacatecas. Tamaulipas.
Five massive states. Five fortresses. Five fronts where C.O.S.S. had spent years building tunnels, stockpiling weapons, training soldiers, and preparing for exactly this moment.
The Mexican Army had taken territory.
C.O.S.S. had taken position.
K-40 watched from his Durango hacienda, eating breakfast—something simple today, just eggs and tortillas—while Galván updated the maps.
"They've taken Colima, Morelos, Mexico City, and Tlaxcala," Galván reported. "Casualties on our side: minimal. Sabotage operations: successful. Insiders: all in position."
K-40 nodded slowly.
"And their supply lines?"
"Stretched thin. Overextended. Dependent on roads we control."
K-40 smiled. Not a wide smile—just a slight curve at the corner of his mouth.
"Then we let them stretch further. Let them think they're winning. Let them commit more troops, more resources, more of their precious army to holding ground that doesn't matter."
He sipped his coffee.
"When they're fully extended—fully committed—we cut the line."
Galván nodded.
"The strong front is ready. Jalisco alone has fifteen thousand fighters. Sinaloa twelve thousand. Durango eight thousand. Zacatecas ten thousand. Tamaulipas five thousand. We have reserves, supply caches, and escape tunnels throughout."
K-40 set down his cup.
"Good. Now tell me about Michoacán."
Michoacán was the problem.
K-40's home state. Mrs. Blanko's home state. The place where both of them had been born, had lived, had become who they were. It was also the staging ground for the Mexican Army's entire southern campaign.
The 4th Infantry Division had launched from Michoacán. Their supply lines ran through Michoacán. Their morale was highest in Michoacán.
K-40 needed to bleed them there.
Galván pulled up the intelligence.
"C.O.S.S. maintains a major drug warehouse outside Uruapan. Large enough for fifty fighters, significant weapons stockpiles, and enough product to fund a small army. The Mexican Army has located it."
K-40 raised an eyebrow. "They found it?"
"Insider tip. One of our own, feeding them exactly what we want them to see."
"And?"
Galván smiled—a rare expression for the perpetually neutral accountant.
"They're attacking tomorrow. Four hundred soldiers. Helicopter support. Artillery."
K-40 considered this.
"How many of our people inside?"
"Thirty-three."
"And the explosives?"
"Planted throughout. Remote detonation. The warehouse will cease to exist the moment they breach the inner perimeter."
K-40 nodded slowly.
"Thirty-three men. A good death?"
Galván's expression flickered—just slightly. "They volunteered. They knew the mission."
K-40 picked up his coffee again.
"Then let them be martyrs. Let the army have their 'victory.' Let them celebrate killing thirty-three of my soldiers while two hundred fifty of theirs die in the explosion."
He paused.
"And make sure the cameras are rolling. I want the world to see what a 'Purified State victory' looks like."
The attack came at dawn.
Four hundred Mexican soldiers surrounded the warehouse. Helicopters circled overhead. Artillery shells pounded the perimeter. The thirty-three C.O.S.S. fighters inside returned fire—just enough to look like a real defense, not enough to win.
The army breached the outer wall at 6:47 AM.
They pushed through the courtyard at 7:12.
They reached the inner warehouse at 7:34.
And at 7:35, the world ended for them.
The explosives detonated in sequence. First the outer ring—trapping the soldiers inside. Then the inner warehouse—vaporizing the C.O.S.S. fighters and the first wave of attackers. Then the supply caches—ammunition, fuel, product—all igniting in a chain reaction that leveled the entire complex.
The helicopters pulled back. The artillery fell silent. The surviving soldiers—those still alive, still conscious, still breathing—stumbled through the smoke, looking for comrades who no longer existed.
The final count:
C.O.S.S. dead: 33.
Mexican Army dead: 250.
Mexican Army wounded: 140.
Mexican Army missing: 11.
A "victory" that cost seven Mexican soldiers for every cartel fighter.
McCarthy's generals called it a triumph. "We destroyed their warehouse! We killed their fighters! The Serpent bleeds!"
But in the Durango hacienda, K-40 watched the footage and smiled.
"Two hundred fifty soldiers," he murmured. "For thirty-three of mine. And they think they won."
He turned to Galván.
"Prepare the counter-offensive. Jalisco first. Then Sinaloa. Let them taste what a real war feels like."
Galván nodded.
"The strong front is ready."
K-40 looked at the map—at the four "liberated" states, at the overextended supply lines, at the soldiers freezing in Tlaxcala while their commanders celebrated in Mexico City.
"The mistake," he said quietly, "was thinking this was a war of territory."
He stood.
"It's a war of attrition. And they just lost two hundred fifty men for nothing."
The Michoacán slaughter changed everything.
The Mexican Army had lost a quarter of its best division in a single explosion. The survivors retreated, demoralized and broken. The generals, humiliated, demanded revenge.
McCarthy appeared on national television that night, his white suit pristine, his voice steady.
"The enemy hides behind explosives and cowardice," he said. "But purity will prevail. We will advance. We will cleanse. We will win."
Behind him, the map showed the four "liberated" states glowing with Purified State colors.
It did not show the five massive C.O.S.S. strongholds waiting in the north.
It did not show the stretched supply lines, the sabotaged equipment, the freezing soldiers, the empty ammunition.
It did not show the trap.
In the shelter basement, Miguel watched the broadcast with Javier and Elías.
"He's going to lose," Miguel said quietly.
Javier frowned. "Two hundred eighty thousand soldiers. Fifty thousand cartel. How?"
Miguel pointed at the map.
"K-40 isn't fighting for territory. He's fighting for time. Every day the army spends in Colima, in Morelos, in Mexico City—every day they celebrate 'victories' that cost them more than they gain—is a day they're not attacking the real strongholds."
Elías nodded slowly. "Attrition. Exhaustion. Overextension. Then the counter-strike."
Miguel met his eyes.
"And when the army breaks—when McCarthy falls—what's left?"
The question hung in the air.
C.O.S.S. Sixteen states. Fifty thousand fighters. Global reach. And a leader who had just demonstrated that he would sacrifice thirty-three of his own to kill two hundred fifty of theirs without blinking.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
The civil war had begun.
And the Trinity, hiding in a shelter basement, suddenly understood:
They weren't watching two armies fight.
They were watching a predator digest its prey in slow motion.
Mexican Army:
-
Total forces: 280,000
-
Committed to southern campaign: 45,000
-
Killed in Michoacán slaughter: 250
-
Wounded: 140
-
Missing: 11
-
"Liberated" states: 4 (Colima, Morelos, Mexico City, Tlaxcala)
C.O.S.S.:
-
Total forces: 50,000
-
Committed to strong front: 50,000 (Jalisco, Sinaloa, Durango, Zacatecas, Tamaulipas)
-
Killed in Michoacán: 33 (all volunteers, all martyrs)
-
Wounded: 0
-
Missing: 0
-
Actual controlled territory: 16 states (including the 4 "liberated" ones—still under cartel influence via insiders)
The Trap:
-
Mexican supply lines: Stretched across 4 newly "liberated" states
-
C.O.S.S. supply lines: Concentrated in 5 fortified strongholds
-
Mexican morale: High (false victories)
-
C.O.S.S. morale: Patient (waiting to strike)
SCENE: GUERRILLA WARFARE
The Mexican Army had the numbers. The Mexican Army had the tanks. The Mexican Army had the artillery, the helicopters, the satellite imagery, the supply chains, the training manuals, the generals with stars on their shoulders and decades of experience.
None of it mattered.
Because the Mexican Army was fighting a nation.
The propaganda called it "liberating C.O.S.S. territory from cartel control."
The reality was simpler: No one wanted them there.
In Jalisco, farmers watched army convoys roll past and remembered the UPN raids on their cousins' villages. In Sinaloa, shopkeepers who had paid "protection" to C.O.S.S. for years knew exactly what would happen if McCarthy's "purity" arrived: their daughters arrested for being in the wrong place, their sons disappeared into Tier 2 camps, their businesses seized for "contamination."
In Durango, grandmothers who had lost grandchildren to both sides made a cold calculation: K-40 was predictable. You paid your tax, you kept your head down, you survived. McCarthy was a storm—unpredictable, ideological, and hungry for sacrifice.
The choice was obvious.
So when the army arrived, they found empty streets and locked doors. No welcome committees. No grateful citizens. Just silence and the feeling of being watched from every window.
And at night, the silence broke.
C.O.S.S. didn't fight like an army. They fought like a disease.
Small teams. Three to five men. Local knowledge. Hit a convoy, disappear into the hills. Blow up a supply truck, melt back into the population. Ambush a patrol, vanish before reinforcements arrived.
The Mexican Army called it "insurgent activity." The generals called it "cowardice." The soldiers called it hell.
A typical operation:
21:00 Hours - Jalisco Mountain Road
A C.O.S.S. lookout spots the convoy twenty minutes out. Three supply trucks, two armored personnel carriers, forty soldiers. Standard resupply run to a forward operating base.
The ambush team has fifteen minutes to prepare.
They're not professional soldiers. They're farmers, mechanics, former NGNC fighters who escaped Nayarit. But they have three things the army lacks: local knowledge, desperation, and supplies.
The pipe bombs are buried in the road—improvised, yes, but packed with enough fertilizer and shrapnel to turn a truck into confetti. The Molotov cocktails are stacked behind rocks, ready to turn the mountain pass into an inferno. The rifles are C.O.S.S.-supplied—AK-patterns, reliable, familiar.
The convoy rolls into the kill zone.
The first pipe bomb detonates under the lead APC. The explosion is deafening, orange against the night. The second bomb catches the rear truck, trapping the convoy between walls of fire.
Then the Molotovs arc through the air, shattering against the remaining vehicles, spreading fire across fuel tanks and ammunition.
The soldiers scramble out, disoriented, burning. The ambush team opens fire from the hills—thirty seconds of sustained shooting, then silence, then retreat.
By the time reinforcements arrive, the convoy is destroyed, seventeen soldiers are dead, and the attackers have vanished into the darkness.
They leave behind nothing but fire, bodies, and the message:
You are not welcome here.
Not all the resistance was organized.
The Zeta Killers—the biome of hyper-violent psychopaths who had terrorized Nayarit—had been scattered after Tommy's death and Bob's occupation. Some fled north. Some went underground. Some found new purpose in the chaos of civil war.
They weren't fighting for K-40. They weren't fighting for any cause. They were fighting because the war gave them permission.
In the mountains of Zacatecas, a Zeta Killer cell ambushed a Mexican Army patrol not for strategic gain, but for entertainment. They took prisoners. They recorded videos. They sent the footage to army command with a simple message: "Come get your boys."
The army sent a rescue mission.
The Zetas killed them too.
K-40, watching from Durango, made a cold calculation: the Zeta Killers were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and morally repugnant even by his standards. But they were also useful. They tied up army resources. They spread terror. They made every mountain road feel like a death sentence.
He didn't control them. He didn't need to. They were a force of nature, and nature was on his side.
The Mexican Army had factories manufacturing bullets, artillery shells, spare parts.
C.O.S.S. had garages, barns, and desperate ingenuity.
The pipe bombs were simple: steel pipes, gunpowder from dismantled ammunition, nails and glass for shrapnel. A farmer who had never built anything more complex than a fence could learn to make them in an afternoon.
The Molotov cocktails were even simpler: bottles, gasoline, a strip of cloth. A teenager could throw one from a rooftop and disable a vehicle that cost the army millions.
The IEDs—Improvised Explosive Devices—were more sophisticated. Pressure plates stolen from construction sites. Fertilizer from agricultural co-ops. Detonators smuggled from C.O.S.S. stockpiles. Buried in roads, hidden in culverts, waiting for the next patrol.
The army responded with jammers, drones, electronic countermeasures. But you can't jam a wire. You can't drone-spot every patch of dirt. And every road, every bridge, every mountain pass was a potential grave.
The official reports tried to spin it.
"Minor resistance encounters."
"Insurgent activity contained."
"Supply chain disruptions manageable."
But the numbers told a different story.
In the first month of the civil war:
-
Mexican Army convoys destroyed: 47
-
Mexican Army patrols ambushed: 82
-
Mexican Army soldiers killed: 1,200+
-
Mexican Army vehicles lost: 140 trucks, 23 APCs, 8 tanks
-
C.O.S.S. fighters killed: ~300
-
Civilian casualties (caught in crossfire): Unknown. Uncounted. Unmourned.
The army was losing four soldiers for every cartel fighter. They were burning fuel, ammunition, and morale chasing ghosts through mountains they didn't understand.
The generals demanded offensives. The soldiers wanted to go home. The politicians in Mexico City gave speeches about "inevitable victory" while their supply lines bled out on mountain roads.
McCarthy appeared on television every night, his white suit pristine, his voice steady, his promises hollow.
"We are winning," he said. "Purity prevails. The contaminants retreat."
In Jalisco, a farmer watched the broadcast and laughed. Then he loaded another pipe bomb into his truck and drove toward the next ambush site.
The journalists who managed to get close asked the question: why?
Why would civilians—farmers, shopkeepers, grandmothers—risk everything to fight for a cartel?
The answers varied.
*"Because my daughter got forty years for a joint at a party. McCarthy did that. K-40 never touched my family."*
"Because the UPN came to my village and took my son. They said he was 'contaminated.' I haven't seen him in eight months. At least with C.O.S.S., I know where my enemies are."
*"Because McCarthy lies. He says he's purifying us. He's just feeding us to his camps. K-40 is honest. He wants money. I can work with that."*
"Because when the army came, they shot my brother for 'suspicious behavior.' He was fishing. He was always fishing. He wasn't suspicious. He was just poor."
The common thread was not love for C.O.S.S. It was hatred for McCarthy.
K-40 understood this. He had always understood it. He didn't need loyalty—he needed the Purifier to be worse. And McCarthy, in his arrogance, had made himself exactly that.
K-40, watching the casualty reports from his Durango hacienda, reflected on the nature of power.
McCarthy was a liar. He promised purity and delivered camps. He promised protection and delivered raids. He promised order and delivered chaos dressed in rainbows.
The people could not trust him. They could not predict him. They could only fear him—and fear, K-40 knew, was a poor foundation for loyalty.
K-40 himself was different. He was predictable. He wanted money, power, territory. He killed anyone who got in his way. He ate children's hearts because he enjoyed them, not because he believed it made him righteous. He was a monster, but he was an honest monster.
And in a world of lies, honesty—even monstrous honesty—had a strange appeal.
The people of Jalisco, Sinaloa, Durango, Zacatecas, Tamaulipas knew what they were getting with K-40. They paid their taxes. They kept their heads down. They survived.
With McCarthy, they had no idea. Every knock on the door could be the UPN. Every birthday party could end in zip-ties and forty-year sentences. Every child who left the house might never come back.
So they fought.
Not for the cartel. Not for K-40.
For the simple, desperate hope that the devil they knew was better than the devil they couldn't predict.
The generals demanded a decisive battle. A single, massive engagement where the army's superior numbers and firepower could crush the cartel once and for all.
K-40 refused to give it to them.
He understood something the generals didn't: wars are not won by battles. Wars are won by the side that can keep fighting longest.
Every ambush cost the army men they couldn't replace.
Every destroyed convoy cost supplies they couldn't rebuild.
Every week of guerrilla warfare cost morale they couldn't restore.
C.O.S.S. could fight like this for years. They had the territory, the local support, the supply caches hidden in every village.
The Mexican Army had a clock. And the clock was ticking.
In Mexico City, McCarthy stared at maps that showed his "liberated" states glowing with victory. He did not see the bleeding supply lines. He did not see the frozen soldiers in Tlaxcala. He did not see the convoys burning in mountain passes.
He saw what he wanted to see.
And K-40, in Durango, smiled.
The trap was closing.
SCENE: THE FIRST WEEK - BLOOD ACCOUNTING
The numbers came in fragments.
Broken radio transmissions from ambushed convoys. Medevac requests that piled up faster than helicopters could fly. Body counts compiled by exhausted officers who had stopped flinching days ago.
One week.
Seven days since the Mexican Army had marched south to "liberate" C.O.S.S. territory.
Seven days since McCarthy had promised a quick, decisive victory.
Seven days since 280,000 soldiers had learned that numbers meant nothing in a war against a nation.
Mexican Army losses (Week 1):
-
Killed in action: 4,172
-
Wounded: 8,900+
-
Missing: 1,200
-
Vehicles destroyed: 213 trucks, 47 APCs, 12 tanks
-
Convoys lost: 89
-
Forward operating bases overrun: 14
-
Morale: Collapsing
C.O.S.S. coalition losses (Week 1):
-
C.O.S.S. sicarios killed: 1,800
-
Zeta Killers killed: 900
-
Guerrilla fighters killed: 2,100
-
Total: 4,800
The math was devastating.
The Mexican Army—the most powerful military force in Latin America—had lost nearly as many soldiers as the entire C.O.S.S. coalition combined. And unlike the coalition, the army couldn't replace its losses. Every dead soldier was a trained professional who had taken years to develop. Every destroyed vehicle was millions of pesos that the treasury couldn't replace.
The coalition, by contrast, had a recruitment pipeline.
Fifty thousand C.O.S.S. sicarios formed the professional core. These were K-40's soldiers—trained, equipped, loyal. They held the strongholds, guarded the supply caches, and provided the heavy firepower when needed.
Twenty thousand Zeta Killers formed the chaos element. Unpredictable, uncontrollable, and utterly merciless. They didn't hold territory. They didn't follow orders. They simply appeared where the army was weakest and made the night unforgettable.
Seventy thousand guerrilla fighters formed the insurgent mass. Farmers, shopkeepers, grandmothers, teenagers—people who had picked up rifles because they feared McCarthy more than they feared K-40. They knew every road, every mountain pass, every hidden trail. They fought from their own villages, slept in their own beds, and melted back into the population when the army came looking.
One hundred forty thousand total fighters against the Mexican Army's two hundred eighty thousand.
The army still had the numbers.
But the coalition had something more valuable: the ground itself.
Jalisco bled first.
The 12th Infantry Brigade had pushed twenty kilometers into cartel territory before the guerrilla attacks began. Not coordinated assaults—just a constant, grinding attrition. A sniper here, an IED there, a mortar round at dawn.
By day three, the 12th had lost 300 soldiers and hadn't advanced another meter.
By day five, their supply lines were cut.
By day seven, they were retreating, leaving behind 87 bodies that couldn't be recovered.
Sinaloa was worse.
The mountains turned every patrol into a death sentence. Zeta Killer cells roamed the high passes, ambushing isolated units and vanishing into the fog. The army sent helicopters; the Zetas shot them down with captured MANPADS. The army sent drones; the guerrillas shot them with hunting rifles. The army sent soldiers; the soldiers didn't come back.
Durango held.
K-40's home state was the best defended. Tunnel networks, hidden bunkers, supply caches everywhere. The army didn't even try to advance—they just shelled the mountains from a distance and hoped.
Zacatecas became a graveyard.
The 4th Cavalry Regiment attempted a sweep through the southern valleys. They rode into a killing zone—five hundred guerrilla fighters on both ridges, channeling the cavalry into a canyon of fire. By nightfall, the regiment had ceased to exist.
Tamaulipas fought like Nayarit had fought.
Street by street. House by house. Every window a sniper nest, every door an IED, every civilian a potential fighter. The army took ground, but they took it in body bags.
In Mexico City, McCarthy's generals presented the numbers with ashen faces.
"Four thousand one hundred seventy-two confirmed dead," the Defense Minister said. "Another eight thousand wounded. Over a thousand missing."
McCarthy stared at the map. The four "liberated" states still glowed with Purified State colors. But behind them, the strong front loomed—Jalisco, Sinaloa, Durango, Zacatecas, Tamaulipas—untouched, unbroken, waiting.
"And the enemy?" McCarthy asked.
The Defense Minister hesitated.
"Our estimates... approximately forty-eight hundred killed across all three groups. Sicarios, Zetas, insurgents."
McCarthy's jaw tightened. "They lost more than we did."
"In raw numbers, yes, Mr. President. But..."
"But what?"
The Defense Minister met his eyes. "They can replace theirs. We cannot replace ours."
Silence.
McCarthy turned back to the map. The rainbows on the wall seemed to flicker.
"Then we need more soldiers," he said quietly. "Conscription. Mobilization. Every able-bodied man in Purified Territory."
The generals exchanged glances.
"Mr. President, conscription will be deeply unpopular. The people are already—"
"The people will do what they're told," McCarthy snapped. "Or they will be purified."
In Durango, K-40 reviewed the same casualty reports with quiet satisfaction.
Galván read the totals aloud. "Our losses: forty-eight hundred. Theirs: forty-one seventy-two. Favorable ratio, but not as favorable as the Michoacán slaughter."
K-40 nodded slowly. "The insurgents are taking heavier losses than the sicarios. That's acceptable. They're replaceable."
"The Zeta Killers are not."
"No," K-40 agreed. "They're not. But they're also not controllable. Let them burn themselves out. They're useful for now."
Galván pulled up another screen. "Recruitment is up. In Jalisco alone, we've gained three thousand new guerrilla fighters this week. People fleeing the army advance. People who lost family in the bombing. People who simply hate McCarthy more than they fear us."
K-40 almost smiled.
"Fear is temporary. Hate is permanent. McCarthy has given us a gift."
He stood, walked to the window. Outside, Durango was quiet—the quiet of a state that had chosen its monster and was willing to defend that choice.
"One week," he murmured. "Four thousand of theirs. Less than five thousand of ours. At this rate, they'll run out of soldiers long before we run out of ground."
Galván nodded. "The projections suggest they can sustain this casualty rate for approximately six months before their army becomes combat-ineffective."
"And after six months?"
"Then we advance."
K-40 turned from the window.
"Prepare the second phase. More insurgency. More pressure. Keep them bleeding. Don't let them rest."
Galván bowed slightly and left.
K-40 looked at the map—at the four "liberated" states, at the bleeding supply lines, at the army pinned down in territory that meant nothing.
"The Purifier wanted a war," he whispered. "Now he has one."
In a field hospital outside Guadalajara, a young soldier named Ricardo stared at the ceiling. Both legs were gone below the knee—shrapnel from an IED that had turned his convoy into a fireball.
His commanding officer sat beside him, holding a clipboard with forms that needed signing.
"You did well, son. You'll get a medal."
Ricardo didn't answer. He was thinking about his village, about the UPN raid that had taken his brother last year, about the irony of fighting for a president who would have locked his brother in a camp if he'd lived.
"They told us we were liberating them," Ricardo whispered.
The officer didn't respond.
"Why are they fighting us? We're the army. We're supposed to be the good guys."
The officer looked away.
"I don't know, son. I don't know anymore."
In a cave in the Jalisco mountains, a guerrilla fighter named Elena cleaned her rifle by lantern light. She was twenty-three. Before the war, she had been a teacher.
Now she killed soldiers.
Not because she hated them. Not because she loved K-40. Because the UPN had come to her village last year and taken her little brother. He was fourteen. He had been caught with a joint at a party.
Forty years.
Forty years for being fourteen and stupid.
She hadn't heard from him since. He was in a Tier 2 camp somewhere, maybe alive, maybe dead, maybe wishing he was dead.
When the army came, they wore the same uniforms as the UPN. They carried the same rifles. They answered to the same president.
So she fought.
Not for C.O.S.S. Not for K-40. For the chance that one day, the camps would open and her brother would walk out and she would be there to hold him.
And if she died before that day?
At least she died fighting the people who took him.
Week 1 Casualties:
The Ratio:
-
Mexican Army losses: 4,172 dead
-
Coalition losses: 4,800 dead
-
Almost 1:1 in raw deaths, but the army lost trained professionals while the coalition lost replaceable insurgents
The Trajectory:
-
At this rate, the Mexican Army will lose ~200,000 soldiers in one year
-
The coalition can replenish losses indefinitely from the population
-
The army cannot