As they pulled out of the Pemex security checkpoint, the paved road ended. For the next hour, Unit 47 would crawl along the terracería —a treacherous ribbon of crushed limestone and mud that cut through the humid Tabasco jungle.
The bus rattled over a bridge spanning a murky river. Below, a crocodile slid off a mudbank.
“Go ahead, Javi. Desert conditions today. High winds. Take it slow,” crackled the reply. transporte de personal pemex
“Radio check, Base. Transporte de personal, Ruta 7-A, Cunduacán to the Dos Bocas complex,” he said into the microphone.
The dew on the windshield of the Mercedes-Benz bus hadn’t yet evaporated when Don Javier turned the key. The engine’s deep, reliable rumble was the only sound in the Villahermosa depot at 4:45 AM. He ran his calloused hand over the dashboard, checking the pressure gauges for the fiftieth time. This was Unit 47, La Dama de Acero —The Steel Lady. As they pulled out of the Pemex security
“Hold on,” Don Javier announced over the PA. “We’re going off-script.”
Don Javier caught the boy’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Oyé, Luis,” he said without turning around. “My job is to get you there. Doesn’t matter if it’s a storm or a narcobloqueo up ahead. I will get you there. You just focus on learning the valves. I focus on the road.” Below, a crocodile slid off a mudbank
“Relax, kid,” laughed a grizzled pipefitter named Chuy. “That’s just the halcón . We’re the ants. The ants get there first, and the ants build the nest.”