Tyranny in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  He glanced at her. “So, you’re telling me to be on my best behavior?”

  “Exactly, I’m telling you not to let your macho get in the way of their macho.”

  “Okay, okay. What’s the word for pussycat?”

  “Minino.”

  He grinned at her. “Then you can just introduce me as El Minino.”

  She shook her head. Sometimes she wondered if all Coop’s brains were in his nether regions, down below his belt. At least it seemed as if that was what controlled his thinking.

  Coop took a left turn just past the city-limits sign, which read Chatumal, and drove down the main street, which was made of dirt and just as potholed and rough as the crosscountry road had been.

  “Not exactly Mexico City, is it?” he asked, glancing at the chickens and dogs and cats that seemed to outnumber the people in the town.

  Jersey followed his look. “Yeah. You can see why the people down here are ready to follow anybody who says they can deliver them from this squalor.”

  “There it is,” Coop said, inclining his head toward a seedy building made of soiled and blackened adobe with a sign over the door, La Gazapera, and a crudely drawn picture of a rabbit going down a hole.

  He pulled the Falcon to a stop in front of the doorway. “You think it’s safe to leave the car unattended?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. We might come back to find the tires missing, but they won’t be able to get in the trunk where the interesting stuff is.”

  Coop grabbed his Colt .45 and stuck it in the back of his belt while Jersey slipped her K-Bar assault knife inside the front of her pants. “Remember,” she said, “let me do all the talking.”

  “Of course,” Coop replied sarcastically. “After all, you’re in charge.”

  Jersey shook her head, mumbling “asshole” under her breath.

  Coop replied with “arrogant bitch” as he followed her into the darkness of the bar.

  Both wrinkled their noses at the heavy smell of stale beer, old smoke, and marijuana and the stench of open toilets in the rear of the place.

  “Nice ambience,” Coop whispered to the back of Jersey’s head as he followed her toward the bar.

  A heavyset man with a shiny gold tooth in the front of his mouth grinned at Jersey. “Welcome, señorita,” he growled in Spanish, his eyes roving freely over her body.

  Jersey didn’t answer as she took a seat on a tattered bar stool and swiveled around to check out the occupants of the room. Coop didn’t sit, but stood next to her, his fingers flexing in anticipation of grabbing his .45 at the first sign of trouble.

  Several of the tables were occupied by middle-aged men, all of whom looked beaten down by life and seemed to be trying to drown their misfortunes in large beakers of beer.

  At the very rear of the room, in a corner even gloomier than the rest of the place, Jersey spied three men at a table. The one in the middle was younger than the others and had the look of danger about him. That’s our man, she thought, and pushed off the stool and walked to approach their table, letting a little swagger enter her gait.

  The man at the table glanced at her, then directed his attention to Cooper. Typical Hispanic attitude, Jersey thought, thinking the male has to be the one in charge.

  “El Gato Selva?” she asked, letting him know she was the one to discuss business with.

  “Sí,” he answered.

  As he spoke, the two men with him stood and flanked him, their hands inside their coats, ready to draw if they saw any threat to their leader.

  Jersey sat down, while Coop remained standing behind her chair, his eyes on the bodyguards, letting them know he too meant business. She studied El Gato, letting him see her examine him. It was time to set the ground rules of their relationship, and she had no intention of playing second-fiddle. He was short, as most of his people were, and his face showed scars of adolescent acne and some other rather interesting scars. Either he’d been severely abused as a child, or he’d spent considerable time being questioned by someone who didn’t much care if he survived the ordeal. Probably a little of both, Jersey concluded, considering the man’s present occupation and hatred of Perro Loco.

  Finally, Gato smiled, though it didn’t change the overall impression of danger he exuded like some exotic aftershave. “If you’ve quite finished, perhaps we can begin our conversation?” he asked in slightly accented English. Evidently he didn’t want the other patrons of the bar to be able to understand their talk.

  Jersey nodded and also spoke in English. “I am told we have mutual interests,” she said.

  “Concerning?”

  “A certain man nearby,” she said. “A man we both would like to see disappear.”

  “Does this man have a name?” he asked, picking up the glass in front of him and swirling the amber-colored liquid in it around.

  Jersey leaned her head closer and whispered, “Perro Loco.”

  El Gato grinned. “Sí. Your information is correct. I would not shed too many tears if I learned of his . . . demise.”

  “I was told, if the price were right, you might take a more active interest in seeing that Perro Loco contracts a fatal illness.”

  El Gato shrugged. “I am a businessman. Tell me of your offer.”

  “I have one thousand dollars American in gold coins, and all the equipment you’ll need to get the job done.”

  “What equipment?”

  “Two Heckler and Koch model G3 SG/1 sniper rifles, two car-bombs for attachment to his automobiles, and an S-11 Stinger antiaircraft missile to use on his helicopter if need be.”

  El Gato’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the wealth of armament she’d brought. “That is indeed a lot of equipment.”

  He glanced at his guards, then back at Jersey. “But, señorita, what is to prevent me from taking your money and your guns and not providing the service you request?”

  Jersey smiled, and the look in her dark eyes made El Gato lean back in his chair and visibly pale.

  “Then my next visit to your country will be for you, El Gato. And the offer will concern not only you but your wife, your children, your friends, and everyone who has ever known you. Do I make myself clear?”

  Even though they could not understand her words, El Gato’s guards took a step forward at the threat in Jersey’s voice, only to stop when Coop’s .45 suddenly appeared in his hand, pointed at their boss’s face. El Gato licked dry lips and held out his hands when Coop eared back the hammer.

  “Of course, señorita. I was just joking, for it is as much to my benefit as it is to yours to see that bastardo Perro Loco killed.”

  “Good. Then we understand one another,” Jersey said in a soft voice, all hint of the hardness of a moment before gone. “Where can we make the exchange of equipment?”

  “I have a track parked in the rear of the bar. Just pull around the corner and you can follow us into the jungle. There are too many prying eyes in town to make the switch here.”

  As they climbed into the Falcon, Coop grinned. “Charming character. In my high school he would have been called Pizza Face.”

  Jersey looked at him. “Did you see his eyes? I have a feeling anyone who called him that would wake up minus important parts of their anatomy.”

  “Yeah, he did look kinda mean at that.”

  “You can bet on it, Coop. Anyone who lives down here and has the cojones to go up against the local bandit leader is plenty tough.”

  They drove around to the rear of the bar, and saw a large four-wheel-drive pickup with large knobby tires on it parked there. As it drove off, they followed, bumping and bouncing over the ruts in the road.

  “What do you think, Jerse?” Coop asked, his face serious for once. “You think they’re gonna try and hijack our weapons and gold, or do you think they’ll play straight?”

  She shook her head. “I have no friggin’ idea, Coop, so let’s make sure we’re ready to dance if that’s what they want.”

  She reached under the seat and brought out a .45 of he
r own, jerked back the ejector slide to put a bullet in the firing chamber, and stuck it in the front of her pants, letting her shirt fall down over it. Then she felt under her inside left pants leg to make sure her K-Bar was loose in its scabbard and ready for action.

  Coop watched her with interest as she went through these motions. As much as he teased and kidded, and at times lusted after Jersey, there was absolutely no one he’d rather have at his side if there was going to be serious trouble. She was a stone killer when need be, and if she ever felt the slightest fear, she’d never shown it to him.

  The truck they were following turned left at the end of the alleyway, and followed a road that soon deteriorated into not much more than two ruts in the red dirt of the jungle. As bushes, elephant-ear plants, and trees closed in on both sides of me trail, brushing the sides of the Falcon, sweat began to pop out on Coop’s forehead.

  “I don’t like this, Jerse, I don’t like it at all,” he said.

  “Me neither, Coop. Me neither,” she answered, her eyes flicking back and forth, watching the thick foliage on both sides of the car, her hand resting on the butt of her .45.

  NINE

  “It is an older model, this Blackhawk,” Eduardo said as he cleaned his hands with a rag. “But it has many advantages. It has two turbine engines. If a SAM missile takes out one of the turbines, a good pilot can still fly it in safely.” Eduardo had been working on the Blackhawk for weeks, scavenging abandoned British bases in Belize for parts.

  Since the British pulled out many years ago, there had been no protectorate agreement for tiny Belize and the country was all but lawless. Small bandit gangs had roamed the streets of Belize City, looting stores, taking whatever they wanted. But that was before Comandante Perro Loco came from Nicaragua with his armies. His best soldados slaughtered leaders of the gangs during a nationwide manhunt. Order was restored. In spite of the bloodshed, often including the killing of innocent bystanders, Comandante Perro Loco was a Belizian hero to the masses. The streets of Belize City were quiet now.

  Loco examined the dark gray aircraft. “Only four missiles in the launching tubes,” he said, his pox-scarred face a mass of lines when he frowned.

  Eduardo shook his head. “The fifty-caliber machine guns have plenty of ammunition, comandante, but as you say, mere are only four missiles. They will have to be used sparingly. They are small air-to-ground rockets of a special type. They will be very hard to find, although they have very powerful warheads, or so we are told.”

  “We may find them in Mexico. Will this machine fly the way it is?”

  “Sí, comandante. But there is little fuel. A helicopter such as this requires large amounts of fuel and has very limited range.”

  “Fuel is always a problem. The Mexican government has big underground storage tanks close to Mexico City. One of our first objectives will be to capture those fuel reserves and the tanker trucks to haul them. It won’t be a problem. The Martinez government is weak and corrupt. We should take their military bases easily. We will march through Michoacan to take the capital in a few weeks, but we will need this Black-hawk and the other helicopter gunships to give our grand troops and armored divisions air support for the attack.”

  “It is almost ready for battle, comandante,” Eduardo said. “I only have a few more minor adjustments to make with the tail turbine and the targeting devices. I need less than a week to make the changes. It will fly now, but there are problems with the Heads Up Targeting. I can fix it, but I will require a few more days.”

  “Can you fly me to my hacienda at San Ignacio? I wish to see how well it flies.”

  “Now?”

  Loco nodded, his gaze still roaming across the sleek lines of the aircraft.

  “Of course, comandante.”

  “I’ll tell my driver to take the jeep back. Let me know as soon as you are ready to leave.”

  “The gunship will be ready to fly in five minutes. Is there a landing pad close by?”

  “Only a small opening in the jungle. My men keep the vines and grass cut away.”

  “Give me five minutes,” Eduardo said, tucking the red rag in his back pocket as he hurried off toward an empty aircraft hangar at the end of a shell-pocked runway where Soviet-made missiles had landed during the big war, the war to end all wars that went around the globe in a deadly, worldwide holocaust ending in political and military mayhem.

  Loco strolled toward his battered military Jeep, a vehicle captured in Honduras when the bombs began to drop, wondering about the two soldiers from President Osterman. Was it wise to form an alliance with a weak government? Radio reports said that General Raines had crushed most of the USA’s forces in North America.

  “Drive to San Ignacio,” he told the driver. “Radio the hacienda. Tell them I’ll be arriving in a helicopter in half an hour. And tell them to make certain the landing place is well guarded.”

  “Sí, comandante.” His aide started the jeep and backed away from the landing strip.

  Loco was still puzzled by the unexpected appearance of the two American soldiers, and President Osterman’s offer. He made up his mind that he would use it to his advantage. If conditions were right he would meet with Osterman and agree to join forces with the USA . . . without telling her that his plans were on a far larger scale. He intended to control the former United States himself.

  When the time was right he would crush the weakened armies of the USA and take control of the entire North American continent. All he needed was time, and a small amount of luck when they marched across Mexico looking for fuel, armored equipment, and ammunition.

  The rhythmic thump of huge rotor blades filled his ears as the old Blackhawk took off. Eduardo, a trusted helicopter pilot and chopper flight instructor, was at the controls. Loco watched the ground fall away beneath the helicopter’s skids as the craft rose above the jungle canopy outside of Belize City, its prop-wash swirling the palm leaves below.

  These powerful American gunships could quickly turn the tide in any conflict, he knew. Strafed from the air by heavy machine-gun fire, enemy ground troops made easy targets, and with enough rockets even an armored division could be taken out in a single pass with well-armed helicopters.

  Good, he thought. Air power will take us across Mexico in short order. The Mexicans have few SAM batteries and only a handful of radar installations still working. Taking Mexico, using the element of surprise, should be relatively quick with low casualties. One of the major elements in their attack would be the Comanche and Apache helicopters his men had captured from the Mexican government.

  Loaned to the Mexican authorities initially by the American DEA agents to fight the drug lords of the south, they’d been abandoned when the big war started and were now in the hands of Perro Loco.

  One of the major advantages of the Comanche helicopters was their invisibility on radar screens. Made from a synthetic material, they created no blips on conventional radar screens. With the Comanches flying in front of the Apaches and the Hueys, Loco’s strike force would sweep across Mexico virtually undetected.

  “It seems stable,” Loco said into the mouthpiece of his headset.

  Eduardo nodded. “It operates very smoothly, comandante. I can have it ready to fight in five or six days, if all goes as well as it should.”

  Flying westward, Loco glimpsed the dim outlines of jungle mountains ahead. San Ignacio lay in a valley near the Guatemalan border, sheltered by huge palm trees. “You will be rewarded for your dedication to our cause, Eduardo,” he said. “Very soon we will empty the treasuries of Mexico. You will be well paid for what you have done.”

  “Gracias, comandante. As you must know by now, I am only loyal to you.”

  Loco leaned back in his seat, watching the Toledo District of Belize pass below them. He paid no attention to the whine of the twin turbines or the clatter of the main rotor, thinking about the bold move he was making.

  All of Central America was in chaos. No leader had emerged to take control . . . not yet. Since h
e was a boy, the oldest son of Manuel Arango, he had known that he was destined for leadership of some land.

  The time was at hand. The norteamericanos were fighting each other. General Raines was expending his military might in conflicts all over the world, depleting his arsenals, losing men and precious war matériel to crazed fanatics like Bruno Bottger in Europe and Africa. Raines had battled countless others over the years since the final devastating holocaust.

  It was curious that Ben Raines had not met his match in wars around the globe. Some said he was a military genius, while his detractors called Mm brash, foolhardy, a risk-taker. Loco had decided long ago that General Raines was simply lucky. Lady Luck would smile on some men and shit on others.

  Perro Loco had always been lucky.

  The Blackhawk settled slowly toward a patch of bare jungle floor near Loco’s mountain hacienda, rocking and bucking against the prop-wash. It had required only fifteen minutes for the gunship to take him close to the Guatemalan border east of San Ignacio.

  Half a dozen armed guards stood at the edges of the landing pad. Radio communications had indicated that all was clear for them to land.

  Loco had maps to study before Paco brought the two Americans to the hacienda. There was much to be done to prepare for an invasion of Mexico and the splintered remnants of what had once been the United States.

  * * *

  A blast of machine-gun fire came from one side of the jungle road. Bullets thudded into the jeep caravan commanded by Paco Valdez. Three jeeps with mounted machine guns in the rear came to a halt as Paco jumped out with his Remington Model 870 shotgun cradled in his arms, dashing for the protection of jungle undergrowth.

  “Bandidos,” Paco hissed, scanning the jungle with practiced eyes, searching for muzzle flashes or wisps of gunsmoke in the canopy shadows.

  “Sí,” said Juan Medina, Paco’s driver for many years during the bandit wars. “Only two. I will take Rudolfo and get around behind them.”