by James Codlin
Martín’s mind raced. His earpiece and the microphone remained in place, undiscovered. But the television camera and battery pack were still under the pillow.
Martín was propelled toward the door.
*
“Marty, this is Dennis. If you hear me okay, cough.”
In a moment Dennis heard two raspy coughs.
“Okay. I’ve got your confirmation. From the sounds I’m getting, you’re on the move. A quick update for you: another bloke and I were out in the Zócalo earlier today, and we saw preparations for a big event that’s going to happen soon. We think the Inquisition is going to run an auto-de-fé and you’ll be one of the convicted penitents. I just want to tell you we’ve got people working on this, and we’re going to get you out of there some way. I don’t know how or when, but I promise you, we will get you out.”
At that moment through his headset Dennis heard a loud voice saying, “Martín Ibarra Paz, stand in judgment of the ecclesiastical court of the Holy Office of the Inquisition!”
*
The revolutionaries were exuberant as they were finally released from the steel hell of the warehouse where they had been quartered for nearly a week. Their officers moved up and down the column, threatening and cajoling them into silence. By the time they had moved three miles from Albina following the Maroni River toward the southwest through dense forest, their initial enthusiasm had given way to grim determination. No more cheers and exclamations—only grunts of exertion and the muffled clinking of military hardware taped and tied to web gear.
Carolina, known to the revolutionary band as Commander Delta, marched at the head of the column. From this point position she could scan the blackness of the night sky, judging the moment when she would make her move.
*
Martín turned his head toward the source of lights that he could vaguely detect through his chemically induced blindness. The amplified voice was also coming from that direction.
“Martín Ibarra Paz, do you accept the jurisdiction of this court reviewing your heresy?” the voice asked.
Martín shook his head, trying to clear the storm that raged in his brain. The voice had told him someone would get him out. But… did he deserve to be freed? His memories reverberated with guilt and self-hatred for violating the covenant his forbearers had made with God. He needed to accept that he was unworthy of God’s grace.
“Do you accept the jurisdiction of this court?”
Martín had to try his voice several times before he finally croaked, “I do.”
“Martín Ibarra Paz, you are charged with heresy—an affront to God and all His saints. You have heard the charges against you and you have heard the evidence from men and women who witnessed your heresy firsthand.”
Martín hated his friends and relatives for denouncing him by providing this court with words that he had spoken in private moments, but most of all he hated himself for what he was: a Jew.
“Martín Ibarra Paz, will you now elect to save your immortal soul by admitting your heresy?”
Martín’s head dropped to his chest. The revulsion to his Judaism was so strong, and yet part of his mind sought to counter that revulsion—the undercurrent of pride in his heritage tried to make its way again to the forefront of his thoughts. His mind reached out but couldn’t quite reach the source of that pride. He was too exhausted to try to piece together what was true and what wasn’t. Maybe if he just told them what they wanted to hear they would let him sleep.
“Yes,” Martín croaked, as loudly as he could. “I admit my heresy.”
He began to sob.
“Martín Ibarra Paz, do you now renounce Judaism and embrace the one true faith, the one true religion, the one true God, the one true Messiah?”
Martín moved his head, stretching his coiled neck muscles. He heard himself saying, “Yes.”
“Martín Ibarra Paz, you have admitted your heresy and embraced the true faith. Now you must atone for your sins and heresy. The court directs that on this night, two hours before midnight, you shall appear in an auto-de-fé to publicly admit and atone for your heresy. Your temporal being will be cleansed by fire and you will go to Purgatory where you will be judged by God. You will be shown the torment of your forbearers, who were all heretics and are now burning in hell forever. If you truly cleanse yourself of sin, and if it is God’s will and judgment, you will ascend to heaven.
“God have mercy on your soul, Martín Ibarra Paz.”
*
Tears ran freely down her face as Gina watched the video. As the inquisitor asked whether Martín admitted to his heresy, the container door opened and Nicolás came in.
“What the hell?” he yelled when he saw the screen.
Gina faced him. She said, “The Inquisition has condemned him as a heretic, and Martín admitted his guilt.”
Nico’s body tensed with rage.
Dennis put his hand on Nico’s shoulder. “Keep calm,” Dennis said. “We need your help to get him out of there. I have an idea.”
*
Takeshi Ishikawa strode rapidly down the corridor of the presidential palace. A military aide walked beside him.
“Sir, the latest photos and acoustical pick-ups indicate a column of about a thousand troops moving south from Albina. They are believed to be seeking a crossing of the Maroni River to enter French Guiana. And our intelligence confirms that the French do not have sufficient military assets in place to defend their border.”
They stopped in front of the door to the president’s office. “So they are currently violating LU territory, and threatening French Guiana,” Ishikawa stated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well,” Ishikawa said. “We must uphold the sovereignty of the Latino Union and lend assistance to France and their department. Contact General Mello and tell him to dispatch aircraft to interdict them. Tell General Mello he is not to use force unless directly fired upon. I want him to use any means available short of attacking them to stop their movement and get them to surrender. Is that clear?”
The major drew to attention and saluted. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“You’ll have my written orders within the next hour,” said Ishikawa, who then waved his hand to dismiss the aide.
The aide double-timed to his office, closed the door, and punched a button on his phone.
“Yes?” said the answering voice.
“General Mello, we have to act quickly. Ishikawa will have new orders delivered to you within an hour.”
“I understand,” Mello replied, and the line went dead.
*
General João Mello lurched out of his chair. He opened a metal door and strode into the darkened operations center. The duty officer stood and saluted as the general approached. Mello read the man’s nametag, then spoke in a low voice audible only to the officer.
“Captain Moreno, I authenticate X-ray-Sierra-Papa.”
Moreno picked up a large black notebook from his workstation and broke the seal. He opened it, ran his finger down a column, and then across two rows.
“Authentication valid, sir.”
“Stop voice and video recorders,” Mello said, and the officer hit a series of keys on his console.
“All stopped, General.”
“I now issue a verbal order to Task Force Thirty-One operating in the vicinity of the French Guiana border. This is a violation of the sovereign space of the Latino Union. The Latino Union is required to counter this insurgency by orders of the president. The task force is to attack and destroy the rebel force with all available resources. The lead aircraft will receive a ground-based K-band beacon signal five minutes before the attack commences. Transfer the image to all task force aircraft to establish the axis of attack and initiate action. Are my orders clear?”
“Yes, General,” Captain Moreno said.
“Get me Colonel Lavigne of the French Foreign Legion in Cayenne,” Mello ordered.
Moreno picked up his phone and relayed the call request to the com
munications officer. That completed, he sat at his desk rapidly keying the attack orders into the command computer.
“Orders transmitted to, and acknowledged by, Task Force Thirty-One. Attack to commence in six minutes, K-band beacon broadcast to begin in 55 seconds.”
“Very well,” Mello said. “Put this call through to my office.”
Mello climbed the amphitheater steps two at a time, went into his office, closed the door, and picked up his phone. “Colonel Lavigne?”
“Yes, General. I’m in my helicopter, please excuse the background noise.”
“No problem, Colonel. We have an airborne task force that has been shadowing the rebel force moving south from Albina. The revolutionaries are looking for a river crossing into your department, avoiding the main highway to Cayenne by staying in the jungle. While they are still in LU territory we will commence fire because our task force has been fired upon. We’re starting an attack in a few minutes. I suggest that if you have rapid deployment capabilities you move your forces into that area in case survivors cross your border.”
“Thank you for the warning, General. I’ve had a feeling all day that the shit was about to hit the fan. Also, thanks for the military assistance—our troops are spread pretty thin here. I’m moving my men immediately.”
“Good,” Mello said. “Out.” He hung up the phone.
*
As Carolina trudged beneath the dense jungle foliage with her troops, she felt the slight vibration of her beacon receiver against her waist. “I’ve gotta take a leak,” she said to the nearest soldier. “Keep the column moving.”
The man nodded and gestured to the string of soldiers behind him. Carolina waited until they passed her, then clicked a button on the beacon and dropped it in the thick grass by the trail. Then she turned and sprinted into the dense forest. Branches tore at her face and torso as she raced ahead, struggling with her footing amid logs and tree roots. She continued to run until she came to a ravine. She slid down until the bottom arrested her descent.
Carolina checked her watch again and dropped to one knee, gasping for breath.
She pulled out a flare gun and shoved a flare into the breech.
*
The radar screen in front of Lieutenant Ramirez cast a shadowy green glow onto his face.
“Pilot, F-C-O, turn left heading zero-zero four.”
“Roger,” came the response over the interphone from the pilot of the AC-130 gunship.
A pulsing light appeared on Ramirez’s screen. “Task Force Commander, F-C-O, K-band beacon zero-two-four at nine kilometers.”
“Roger,” came the response from the flight deck. “That beacon is your target point, the axis of attack is a line extending two-zero kilometers north to two-zero kilometers south of the beacon at headings zero-three-zero, break, two-one-zero.”
Ramirez checked two other monitors. “Sir, I confirm the presence of target forces on infrared sensors and low-light-level video.”
“Wait for the signal to begin firing,” Lieutenant Colonel Branco, the Task Force Thirty-One commander, responded from behind Ramirez.
“Roger, sir,” Ramirez responded, and turned a disk on his communications panel. “Task Force Thirty-One, Lead F-C-O, putting target axis and kill zone on your repeater screens now. Commence attack upon your visual confirmation of the signal.”
*
Carolina heard the sound of the turboprop engines and checked her watch. As the second hand moved toward 12 she raised the flare pistol over her head and looked for an opening in the jungle canopy. She found one, aimed carefully, and squeezed the trigger. The flare shot upward on a flaming tail through the vegetation and up into the black sky.
*
Lieutenant Colonel Branco stood behind the copilot’s seat looking out the side windows of the C-130 cockpit. He saw a phosphorescent red ball rise abruptly from the canopy and arc through the sky beneath him. “F-C-O, I have visual on ground fire tracer rounds two o’clock, two kilometers. We are under attack by hostile ground forces. Certify that in the combat action report. Commence fire, commence fire.”
Through his headset he heard the F-C-O repeat over the radio, “Task Force, commence fire, commence fire!”
Branco watched as tracer rounds formed glowing tubes extending from 10 AC-130s flying in formation, dull red hoses streaking to the ground and performing a leisurely, undulating lightshow. From the rear of his command aircraft he could hear the whine of the electric motors rotating the multiple barrels on the two 20-millimeter and two 40-millimeter Vulcan cannons, spewing a steel hail of bullets at a combined rate of 12,000 rounds per minute. Chemical clouds wafted up from the aft cargo compartment.
The carnage on the ground was unthinkable.
*
Colonel Lavigne watched through the open door of his helicopter, looking across the river into Suriname. The navigation lights of a formation of aircraft were easily visible in the moonless night until the lead airplane banked to the left and turned off its lights. Each successive gunship did the same as they established a wide elliptical orbit. All 10 ships opened fire at the same moment, their cannons unleashing tracer rounds that looked like magenta-colored ropes extending from the black early-morning sky to the ground. Explosive rounds glittered against the black velvet of the jungle.
From his time in the infantry Lavigne knew what it was like on the ground under the gunships. The rebel soldiers had been hiking in the darkness, careless and confident that they were hidden and unnoticed. They may have heard the engines of the approaching aircraft, but probably not. The men and women in the column, nearly blind on a night like this, were suddenly surrounded by the din of death: grunts, groans, and screams as their comrades were ripped apart by the bullets. Headshots mostly, because the fire was coming from above. The lucky ones would have their brains disintegrated instantly, never feeling any pain. Others would topple to the ground and scream for help that would never come.
Lavigne tore his eyes away from the terrible strike to check his watch. By the time he looked up again, the firing had stopped. He knew it was unlikely anyone had survived the shooting, but in less than a half-hour from now two C-47 transports—aircraft from the 1930s, Lavigne thought ruefully—would land his forces in Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni. Lavigne had left just a single platoon back in Kourou after bringing most of his command here. The command post back in Paris had ordered Lavigne to temporarily fortify the border opposite Albina to block any surviving revolutionaries from entering French Guiana.
Colonel Lavigne leaned back in the web seat, expecting to feel relief now that the waiting was over. Instead he felt the familiar ache in his diaphragm and tingling around his hairline.
*
Carolina felt the ground impacts before hearing the sounds. Hunkered down in the ravine, she sensed a vibration from the dank clay under her knees and heard the dull crunching of heavy rounds thudding into the earth a short distance away.
Men and women howled and shrieked as they were caught in the fusillade from the sky. Carolina looked toward the top of the ravine and saw the lights strobing from the blackness overhead. She knew the 10 AC-130s were flying in an ellipse using the beacon she had dropped to establish the target offset, all firing relentlessly into the kill zone.
After five minutes elapsed on her watch, the shooting stopped. There was a long period of eerie silence, and then the animals of the jungle resumed their cacophony. Carolina pulled a second beacon from her pocket and activated it. Ten minutes later she heard the whumps of a helicopter arriving to pick her up.
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
Waro Moto was awakened when his private jet was 30 minutes out of San Juan Diego. He slipped on a robe and opened the cabin door, admitting an aide who had been sitting outside with a briefcase on his lap. The young man entered, bowed, and handed a pot of hot tea to Moto.
“Moto-san, the Inquisition broadcast from Mexico City will begin airing live in a half-hour, and the auto-de-fé is scheduled for 10 p.m. The decoy force in French Gui
ana was attacked and destroyed just after nightfall, and the French moved most of their legionnaires to the northwest corner of the country, at least an hour by air transport from Cayenne. Commander Delta was extracted and will lead the main attack force beginning at midnight.”
“And President Ishikawa?”
“General Mello had to advance the attack time on the rebel decoy force to avoid contradicting a direct order that was forthcoming from the president.”
Moto nodded thoughtfully. For once, everything seemed to be falling into place as planned.
“Anything on Gina Ishikawa, Lenin, or that television technician?”
“No, sir, nothing. They have disappeared.”
Moto’s short-lived contentment evaporated. “Use your powers of deduction, Fujimoto-san,” he growled. “Lenin and Gina Ishikawa have affection for Martín Ibarra. I believe they will attempt a rescue.”
“The priests assure me that will be impossible.”
“The priests?” Moto scoffed. “They are children in such matters. Send more of our men there, and tell them to be on the lookout.”
*
General Mello stood in front of President Ishikawa’s desk, making no attempt to hide the disdain he felt toward his commander-in-chief.
“You disobeyed a direct order from me,” Ishikawa said quietly.
“I had received no written order from you.”
“You know I issued a verbal order that was to be confirmed in writing.”
“It was a military decision,” the general responded. “Our task force was fired upon, and we had to launch a protective reaction strike. If you doubt that, feel free to question the task force commander or any of the crewmen.”
“I do not doubt you have them well-rehearsed by now,” the president snapped. “Just as you eliminated the audio and video feed from the command post.”
“Equipment malfunction, sir.”
Ishikawa studied the general’s face for a moment. “It was an unnecessary slaughter.”
“It was a necessary military operation to stop a violation of Brazilian sovereignty.”
“Of Latino Union sovereignty, you mean, General.”