“So you think she’s alive and well and trying to take up where she left off?” Coop asked.
Mike shrugged. “I don’t know, Coop. One radio transmission isn’t much to go on, and Perro Loco has been keeping a pretty low profile down in Belize somewhere.”
Ben picked a letter opener up off his desk and began to fiddle with it as he thought. After a few moments, he pointed it at Coop. “In any event, I think we should nip any attempt to stir up trouble on our southern border in the bud. Coop, I want you and Jersey to head down there and make sure Perro Loco, or Mad Dog, or whatever he calls himself, doesn’t live to give us any problems.”
“But Ben—” Coop started.
“I know, you don’t exactly fit in down there, but Jersey knows Spanish, and with the right makeup can pass as Hispanic. You won’t be able to get close enough to do the job personally, so you’ll have to hire it done.”
Jersey tested the blade on her K-Bar with her finger, finally satisfied with its edge. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Every leader in South America has plenty of rivals or enemies who want his job. It shouldn’t take us too long to discover some who’ll take Perro Loco out if we give them the right equipment to do it with.”
“Exactly,” Ben said. “Take what you need, a couple of good sniper rifles, some explosives and car-bombs, you know the drill.”
“Come on, Coop,” Jersey said, a glint in her eye. “I’m gonna teach you how to work undercover.”
Coop let his lips curl in a smart-ass smile. “Oh, is that a promise?”
Jersey glared at him, then smiled back. “On second thought, I’ll just introduce you to a couple of babes down there. Those women all carry knives and know how to use them, and they just love gringos.”
Coop strutted across the room. “One night with me, an’ they’d forget all about their knives.”
As they left the room, Ben heard Jersey mutter “pencil dick,” followed by Coop growling “slut.” He shook his head. “If those two don’t kill each other on the mission, I think our worries about Perro Loco are over.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, tapping his ashes into the trash can next to Ben’s desk. “But what about Claire Osterman?”
“I want you to get in touch with Otis Warner and let him know we have information she may still be alive. And try and figure out if he knows it already when you talk to him. We don’t need anything getting in the way of this new peace proposal.”
“Will do,” Mike said.
SEVEN
In the seedy underbelly of Belize City in Central America, in a dark seaside bar named the Gray Gull, a heavy-faced, thick-muscled native of Nicaragua sat nursing a Belikin beer. His given name was Dorotero Arango. A long scar crossed his right cheek. Since the wars began raging all over the world, he’d become known as Comandante Perro Loco. In Spanish, the term simply meant Commander Mad Dog. He liked the nickname. It fit his temperament, his style. His closest associates called him “Loco.”
He was feared throughout Central America for his ruthlessness, his blood lust, his penchant for killing. He commanded a mercenary army, more of a marauding bandit gang than a group of organized soldiers. Today, at the Gray Gull, he had begun to plot one of the boldest moves in his life with his second in command.
He spoke to Paco Valdez, a Belizian assassin with a fearsome reputation of his own. Perro Loco spoke English. Belize was an English-speaking country since its days as British Honduras so long ago. “To the north all is chaos. Ben Raines and his Tri-States forces have all but crushed President Osterman’s USA—what is left of it. Now is the time to reap the spoils. Raines is far to the north. We can gather a huge army from all over Central America, for many men here are hungry, desperate. I’ll promise them riches . . . whatever we can take as we move northward across Mexico. I can make them rich men. With Raines and his forces occupied thousands of miles away, no one has the military capability to stop us.”
“It is a good plan,” Paco said, gazing out a window at the gulf. He was tall, powerfully built, with an old bullet wound in his forehead. “Thousands of hungry men will join us. Former soldiers from Guatemala and Nicaragua have no money, no food, no jobs, no hope. They will listen. I have heard reports that there are twice that many jobless men in Costa Rica and El Salvador. Most of them will be willing to fight for our cause. Food, and the promise of a small amount of money, will bring them to us. They will be ready to die for a chance to make money and to get food for their wives and children. And do not forget the starving men in Honduras. There are food riots in the streets of Tegucigalpa. Women and children are starving to death in the jungles.”
Loco nodded. “There is military equipment all over Costa Rica and Mexico. The government treasuries are virtually bankrupt. Now is the time for us to strike, before they grow any stronger north of the Mexican border. It is the Rebel Army of Ben Raines that we have to worry about. He will be a formidable adversary.”
“We have five thousand men now,” Paco said. “But most of them are poorly armed. We need guns and ammunition. Trucks to carry our soldiers across Mexico. Starving men cannot march more than thirty miles a day. Trucks and gasoline will be of the greatest importance.”
“Air support also will be crucial,” Loco said, tipping back his beer. “We have nine of the American-made helicopter gunships, Apaches, and two of the more advanced Comanches, as well as the older UH-1’s. Eduardo is working on the captured Blackhawk, a good fighting machine.”
“Striking from the air will save us hundreds of casualties when we cross Mexico,” Paco said.
Loco shrugged. “Who will be counting bodies? If we lose a few thousand soldiers, it is the price to be paid for victory over the Martinez government in Mexico and this Rebel General Ben Raines.”
“I agree,” Paco said.
“Fuel is a problem. And we have so few trained pilots who know how to fly these killing helicopter machines.”
“We will find new recruits in Mexico, comandante,” Paco said. “During the drug wars thirty years ago, the Americans were kind enough to train Mexican pilots in the use of their helicopter gunships in order to battle the drug lords.
“There is still the matter of fuel. Since the final war began, many of the refineries have closed or been blown to pieces by Rebel bombs.”
Loco agreed silently, thinking. “We can capture fuel tank trucks in Mexico City. The Federates have been reduced to a few hungry soldiers who have not been paid in months, even years. They will not put up much of a fight . . . In fact, many of them will probably join us.”
As Loco was speaking, a lanky soldier in a khaki uniform came through the back door of the bar. An AK47 on a leather strap dangling from his right shoulder, he walked toward the table where Paco and Perro Loco sat.
“Comandante,” the soldier said, giving Loco a lazy salute. “We have two prisoners outside in the alley. They say they are from President Osterman of the USA. We found them trying to cross the border at Corozal.”
“What are their names?”
“One of them is a gringo whose name is Grimes. The other is a latino named Mendoza.”
“What do they want with us?” Loco asked.
“Mendoza says they have a message for you, comandante. We surrounded them in a jeep in the Orange Walk district, only a few miles from the Yucatan.”
Loco looked at Paco. “Why would the President of the USA send messengers to me now? It has been many months since we last spoke and she has not contacted me since.”
Paco shrugged, as if the question mattered little. “We can find out very quickly, comandante. I will kill one of them now. The other one will tell you the truth when he sees his friend die.”
Paco drew a long pointed dagger from a sheath inside his boot, admiring the blade. “I will cut his throat and let the other one watch him bleed to death. He will speak true words when he sees his companion die slowly.”
Loco stood up, fisting his beer. “Let us see what they have to say.”
Paco followed Perro
Loco to the rear door of the Gray Gull with his knife beside his pants leg, tapping the cloth as if it were impatient for the taste of blood.
Two young American soldiers sat against a wall of the bar, bound hand and foot. One of them, a boy with red hair, had a deep gash across his forehead and he appeared to be only half conscious, his eyes vacant and staring.
Four of Loco’s uniformed soldiers stood around the pair, rifles aimed at the prisoners.
Loco leaned over them, examining their faces. Paco was beside him, grinning, his eyelids drawn into narrow slits as he stared at the prisoners.
“Who sent you?” Loco asked. “Who gave you my name, and told you where to find me?”
The latino named Mendoza spoke. “President Osterman told us where to find you, comandante. She has an offer she wants to make you, and she wouldn’t risk trying to reach you on a shortwave radio transmission unless it was scrambled. We didn’t know what frequency to use.”
“An offer?”
“Yes, comandante. We have been driving across the Southwest and Mexico for two weeks, trying to reach you.”
“And what is this . . . offer?”
Mendoza swallowed. “Our President would like to arrange a meeting with you.”
“A meeting? What kind of meeting?”
“As you must know by now, General Ben Raines and his SUSA forces have attacked us. Our casualties have been very high. We lost valuable equipment . . . airplanes and helicopters and tanks, to General Raines’ armies.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Loco asked.
“President Osterman believes that the war has been costly for the SUSA as well. Despite the fact that Ben Raines has won, his arms inventory is seriously depleted. Our intelligence sources tell us that he is pulling his men back. He apparently does not intend to occupy the territory he has conquered. The President feels that if a strong attack came from the south, from Mexico, Raines would be unable to defend two fronts. She would like to talk to you about an alliance.”
“Why has she waited so long to contact me again?”
Mendoza hesitated, as if he knew nothing about the past negotiations. “President Osterman was in a plane crash, comandante. She has only recently recovered from her injuries enough to resume leadership of our country.”
“So, now the female presidente needs the help of Perro Loco to win her war, eh?”
“You are considered to be one of the most powerful leaders in Central America, she told us. President Osterman wants to talk to you in person about the details, for even a scrambled radio message might be intercepted by the SUSA, but she believes there would be enough spoils of war if Raines was defeated to divide between the USA and your armies. She thinks the alliance would be good for everyone. She intends to offer you everything south of Texas if you agree to join us in our war with the SUSA.”
“Why should I believe you?” Loco asked. “Maybe you are only SUSA spies trying to trick me . . .”
“I have a radio frequency in my pocket. You can contact the President yourself if you have any doubts. She asks that you send a scrambled message. I have the encoding information with me. I also have it memorized. I can send your reply myself, if you wish. President Osterman will only discuss the details of an alliance with you in person. She does not trust the radios or our codes. There have been spies among us. Most of them are dead now, or gone into hiding.”
“Shall I kill him?” Paco asked while Loco was thinking. “He may be a spy, as you said.”
“Not yet,” Loco replied, piercing the captive soldiers with an icy stare. “Take them to our headquarters at San Ignacio. Drive through the mountains so no one will see you. Bring them to my hacienda. I will stop at the airstrip to see about repairs to our captured Blackhawk helicopter. Make certain neither one of these men escapes.”
Paco’s grin had no humor behind it. “Do not worry, comandante. They will not escape.” He held up his dagger. “My blade is hungry for blood. It has been weeks since I killed anyone with it. For a man to have a good day, he should kill someone before breakfast.”
“The smell of fresh blood is good,” Loco agreed, “but an alliance with the colossus to the north might taste even sweeter.” He turned to go back in the bar. “I will inspect the helicopter first. I should be at San Ignacio in a couple of hours.”
Paco knelt down and placed the tip of his knife against Mendoza’s neck near his windpipe. “Get up, gringo,” he spat. “I will take you to our jeeps.”
“My partner can’t walk,” the American protested. “When one of your guards hit him over the head with his rifle butt, he was knocked out. You can see the cut on his forehead. If you’ll untie my hands, I can help him to the jeep.”
Paco was angry over missing the chance to kill an American soldier. It had been over a week since he’d murdered anyone and he was getting impatient, as an alcoholic does when denied the chance to drink.
“My men will carry him,” he snarled. “Now get up and follow me down this alley . . .”
Mendoza struggled to his feet, wishing like hell someone else had been sent to talk to these crazy men.
EIGHT
“Are you still sulking?” Jersey asked Coop as they bounced across the Yucatan Peninsula.
Coop took his eye off the rutted, potholed, miserable excuse for a road they were on long enough to raise his eyebrows and plant an innocent look on his face. “Who, me? Sulk? Why would I do that,” he said, speaking loudly so he could be heard over the coughing, sputtering engine of the fifteen-year-old Ford Falcon they’d bought in Campeche, Mexico.
Ben had put Jersey in charge on this mission, and it’d been her plan for Coop to fly them to Mexico City in one of the SUSA’s small jets, then take a military HumVee to Campeche. There they would purchase an inconspicuous automobile with a trunk big enough to hold the sniper rifles, car-bombs, and the handheld Stinger antiaircraft missile they had with them. After they had their cover in place as two ex-soldiers of the Mexican Army now out of work, they would drive across the peninsula to the small town of Chatumal, just across the border from the Belizian city of Corozal.
Ben’s contacts in the friendly government of Mexico had identified some men in Corozal who wouldn’t be averse to seeing Perro Loco have an unfortunate accident, or so they’d been told.
Jersey grinned. “Go on, admit it, Coop. You’re pissed off ’cause Ben put me in charge on this mission.”
“Bullshit!” he exclaimed, his fingers tight on the steering wheel and his gaze straight ahead.
“Hey, lughead, it’s only because I speak better Spanish than you do. It’s no reflection on your vaunted manhood”
He finally turned to look at her. “What makes you think I’m pissed?” he asked.
She threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Coop. You’ve been puffed up like a toad for the past two days. And when you didn’t even make a cursory pass at that cute little secretary in the Mexican Counsel’s office, I knew something was seriously wrong.”
“She wasn’t my type,” he said sullenly, putting his eyes back on the road.
“Ha! She was under thirty, female, and had huge . . . well, her measurements were enough to wake you from a dead sleep.”
Coop’s lips curled in a small grin, the first Jersey’d seen in several days. “She was amazing, wasn’t she?” he asked dreamily.
Jersey folded her arms and leaned back against the seat. “Good to have you back, Coop.”
Coop glanced over at Jersey, noticing the heat from the desert and their lack of air-conditioning was making Jersey sweat through her Army T-shirt, and the wet cloth was clinging to her breasts like a second skin, her nipples plainly visible through the thin cloth.
“Speaking of amazing measurements,” he said, letting her see where he was staring.
She quickly pulled the cloth away from her breasts and sat up. “Coop, don’t you start on me now . . .”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Prudence,” he said. “I was just warning you to cover ’
em up. We’re almost to Chatumal an’ if you go to our meeting with these rebels lookin’ like that, they ain’t gonna be thinkin’ about Perro Loco.”
Jersey reached over the seat and grabbed an old, threadbare Army shirt and pulled it on. They’d gotten the clothes from the Mexican government to fit their cover story. “Okay, point taken. Now, when we get into town, see if you can find a bar named La Gazapera. That’s where we’re supposed to meet our contacts.”
“La Gazapera? What’s that mean in Spanish?”
She grinned. “It has two meanings. One is Warren, as in rabbit warren.”
“What’s the other?” he asked.
“Den of Thieves,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Not very subtle, but then Mexicans have never exactly been known for their subtlety when they’re planning a revolution.”
“And the man we’re gonna be meeting?”
“He calls himself El Gato Selva.”
“Which means . . . ?”
“The Jungle Cat.”
“Jesus!” Coop laughed. “The Mad Dog, The Knife, and now The Jungle Cat. Don’t any of these guys use real names down here?”
Jersey looked at him, her face serious. “Coop, you’ve got to remember. We’re here in southern Mexico, the land of Macho, spelled with a capital M. Most of these leaders and their followers are less than one generation away from being peasants, fighting for enough food to keep from starving. It’s the motivation that’s driven countless revolutions over the years.”
“So, they take some crazy macho name, convince a few starving peasants to follow them around the jungle waving stolen rifles and guns that are ten years out of date, and suddenly they’re all Pancho Villa?”
She shrugged. “That’s about the size of it. Now, when we meet this guy, he’s bound to have a couple of tough bodyguards watching our every move. They don’t trust anyone down here, and if we make one false move, they’ll kill us without batting an eye.”
Tyranny in the Ashes Page 5