Retribution Road

by Jon Coon

  “You’re blocking my sun. You need to go for a swim and cool off. My suit is staying on and so is yours.”

  “Look, you saved my life back there in the jungle, and I thought—”

  “Paul, I love you. I do. You saved me too. I’d have died back there. You have no idea what my life was like. And I would love to make a life with you. But not yet. Not until we can stand on our own two feet and pay our own way. And not until I can give myself to you and not have to worry about the consequences. We can’t stay here forever, and we need to have a plan. You work that out and we’ll have something to talk about.”

  “I wish my granddad hadn’t sold the ranch. I love it here.”

  “Would you be happy mucking out stalls for a living? I think that might get old after a few years.”

  “All right, I’ll come up with a plan. But the most important thing is that we’re together. I love you, Angie. I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

  “My name is not Angie, it’s Angelica. Let’s start there.”

  The morning of September sixteenth was a bluebird day: not a cloud, not a whisper of wind. The flags were flaccid on the distinguished visitor’s platform, the display and vendor tents lined the old runway, and stands to accommodate ten thousand waited.

  Gabe and Carol were in Rainbow Chaser’s gondola a thousand feet above the field where Gabe manned the large digital camera. A new crew sat at the controls, and Carol monitored the radio, an open channel to all the planes. As the sun rose, miles of cars filled the parking lot, and then families filled the stands.

  At ten, the first plane, one of the last DC-3s still in service, roared into the sky with a troop of military skydivers.

  Nearly eighty years old, the “Gooney Bird” was popular with skydivers since the D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944, when US paratroops jumped from her round belly into Normandy, France.

  While the audience waited for the plane to gain altitude, several dignitaries, including the president, were introduced to the crowd’s cheers. Seated in the presidential box, the Caldera family, minus Juan, were honored guests. Lareina was regal in a stylish reproduction of an early-nineteenth-century vintage dress, and the four kids were also in costumes commemorating the war of independence.

  Anticipation built as the plane gained altitude, and then the announcer pointed his arm toward the sky where the team of skydivers jumped and formed an eight-man star as they fell from the heavens. As they lost altitude, they broke formation into a line, and one after another deployed red, white, and green parachutes. Colored smoke streamed behind them, and then the last deployed a Mexican flag, streamed from his shroud lines. Television cameras broadcast the event live throughout the country. It was a proud day for Mexico.

  A large target had been painted in the grass directly in front of the stands, and the first jumper nailed it, rolled his chute, and cleared the landing area just in time for the second, who came in with the same precision and cleared the LZ just as ably. When the last was down, with the flag flying all the way and the national anthem blaring from loudspeakers, the crowd rose to its feet with applause and cheers. The jumpers lined for deep bows. The show had officially begun.

  There were vintage aircraft from every conflict Mexico had participated in. A mock dogfight directly over the stands thrilled the audience as nimble biplanes danced and dodged. Next, three jets made roaring low passes, and a trio of heavy bombers made a formation run over the field.

  “Where are our planes?” Carol asked. “It looks like the show’s nearly over.”

  “It’s only beginning. Trust me,” Gabe said. “Just remember, it’s only a show.”

  Then, from out of the sun, the two B-25s and the Lockheed A-26 Invader flew toward the stands and specifically toward the flag-flying podium of politicians and distinguished guests. Machine guns opened fire, and explosions trenched the field towards the spectators.

  Terror hit the audience like a hard rain as the planes pulled up, and a dreaded black star—the emblem of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, infamous for their bloody attacks against the government in 1994—was clearly visible on each of the green fuselages.

  The planes broke formation. One strafed the tarmac while another fired into the old airport building behind the stands. Fire rose from the roof, sending customers screaming, not knowing which way to run to shelter. The third plane unleashed a torrent of napalm on the hangars Tom’s team had occupied and then rolled back toward the distinguished-patron seating area. The machine gun blast was deafening as the plane made its pass at what felt like only inches overhead.

  Then, from the east, the other two CAF planes, now painted with Mexican insignia, gave pursuit of the Zapatista planes, firing machine gun bursts and tracer rounds. Two big and too heavy for aerobatics, the planes still managed a deadly dance over the field. Then, one of the Zapatista planes streamed fire and smoke. It made a run toward the far end of the field and disappeared behind trees and a low hill. The plane in pursuit followed, still shooting. There was an explosion, followed by a ball of fire reaching high into the sky.

  The two remaining Zapatista planes fled the field with two pursuit craft still firing from behind, trying for another kill.

  “Oh my God,” Carol said. “What was that?”

  “That crash wasn’t in my script,” Gabe answered. “I don’t know what that was.”

  “Take us down if you can,” he said to the pilot.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Those are not my orders.”

  “Your orders?”

  “Yes, sir. My orders are to fly back to Palenque and load this thing back in the C-130. As quickly as we can.”

  “Who gave you those orders, may I ask?”

  “Captain Bright, sir. The young lady’s father.”

  The flight took the airship over five hours, and while Carol paced and fumed, Gabe got on the internet and read the news. The government statement said that while the president, the Calderas, and most of the distinguished guests had escaped unharmed, there had been numerous casualties and injuries caused by the panicked crowd that required hospitalization. The raid was blamed on the Zapatistas and retaliation was promised. The president was mobilizing the military and stating loudly that the time for any Zapatista sympathizer to safely live in Mexico had come to an end. And that specifically meant the cartels and left-wingers who had resisted government efforts to save the last of the Lacandon Jungle.

  “I think I understand it,” Gabe said. “I think I understand what he did.”

  “Tell me, because I haven’t a clue.”

  “Your dad knows the government has been turning a blind eye to the drugs, either because they are involved or because they are afraid. But the communists, the Zapatistas, are growing stronger with help from Caldera and others. The only way to stop the cartels from taking over is to force the government to fight back. Stopping the cartels cuts off funding to the communists. But the government was reluctant to do that for fear of what the cartels would do in return. Now the whole country has witnessed the Zapas attempt to kill the president. And everyone knows who funds the Zapas. Your dad just forced the government’s hand. Now they have to fight back. It was one hell of a show.”

  “But all those people killed the news just reported—”

  “No, the government reported. Let’s just wait and see.”

  They crossed the mountain ridge south of Palenque and the magnificent Misol-Ha waterfalls to the municipal airport north of the city. The C-130 and the four CAF planes waited. The planes had been scrubbed, removing the combat green and Zapatista markings. As they traveled, Gabe wondered why, after the near killing of El Presidente and the “distinguished guests,” not to mention the destruction of the old airport, the Mexican Air Guard hadn’t followed the planes.

  Unless …

  It took a crew of ten to land the blimp, and once on the ground, the crew set to work deflating and disassembling it. Gabe and Carol went to find Tom and to find out what the devil was going on. Carol strode so quickly
across the field Gabe had to hurry to keep up.

  “Henry, where’s my dad?

  Henry Atkins looked at them and shook his head. “It was only supposed to be a show.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Carol, I’m sorry. Your dad was in the B-25 that went down. We don’t know what happened. By the time we got there, the fire had destroyed the plane. I’m so sorry.”

  Carol fell back against Gabe, but she didn’t go down. She straightened herself and fought back the sobs. “What do you mean, it was only a show?”

  “Let’s find somewhere to sit, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “No. This is fine. Tell me now,” she demanded.

  “It was all a show. We were shooting blanks. The explosions were pyrotechnics Chuck had set in advance, like he does for the movies. And it all came off without a hitch … until your dad’s plane went down. Like I said, we haven’t a clue what went wrong.”

  “So it was about the communists?” She took a step back and looked for something to hang on to. Not finding anything, she grabbed Gabe’s arm.

  “And the cartel. Your dad’s friends here knew the odds were great that a percentage of government were on the cartel’s payroll. So there had to be something so spectacular it couldn’t be swept under the carpet. And with the deal they just made with our president to help solve the illegal immigration problem, our government was able to offer more incentives for them to stop drug trafficking.”

  “Even our government was in on this?”

  “All the way to Pennsylvania Avenue. Your dad had a lot of friends.”

  “Friends like Senator Bob Benson?” The tears broke through.

  “Exactly. And there’s something you need to see. Your dad was concerned about the workers who would have nothing without the income the drugs provide. So he went to Bob Benson and made a deal. It’s all here on his laptop. Sit down and you can read it.”

  She sat in a folding chair in the shade of the plane’s wing, wiped her eyes, and read what Henry showed her. When she finished, she stood and closed the computer. She looked at Gabe, and her gaze was stone-cold.

  “Gabe, you said Caldera’s wife has four kids, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We need to meet her. If she cares anything about those kids, she needs to see this. Do you know where to find her?”

  “That’s going to be tricky. They don’t like us much.”

  “I don’t like them much either, but whatever it takes, this has to stop. Help me, please.”

  “I think Jimmy found them with the satellite. I’ll call him.”

  Gabe returned a few minutes later with a page full of notes. “They live in the mountains above the Usumacinta River. There’s a landing strip on the property. I’ve got the GPS numbers.”

  “Henry, I need to borrow this plane.” She didn’t say please.

  “Are you sure you don’t you want someone to go with us?” Gabe asked. They were sitting in the cockpit, brakes on, engines revving.

  “You mean someone more likely to get you back in one piece? Relax. It’s like riding a bike, and I never fall off.”

  She gave the instruments a final check and released the brakes. The old B-25 rolled down the tarmac, raised its tail, and lifted skyward. “Feel better now?”

  “Yeah, but isn’t that the easy part?”

  “Now you know what I felt like on those ghost dives back home in the river. Believe me, this isn’t nearly that scary.”

  “Ah, we’re dropping in unannounced at the home of the biggest drug lord in this country, and that’s not scary?”

  “I’ll just tell him I want to have tea with his wife and maybe save the lives of their kids … and mine.”

  “I’m really sorry about your dad, Carol. I’m in shock that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me what was really going on.”

  “I’m his only daughter, his only child, and he didn’t trust me either. Let’s just wait until this is over to have that discussion.”

  She flew southeast from Palenque to the river, wide and brown, and followed it south along the border with Guatemala. They flew over denuded jungle, reduced to fallow fields and burned-out pasture. Closer to the jungle, the farms improved. Then they were over the remains of the Lacandon Jungle, tropical rainforest unequaled for its biodiversity of both flora and fauna.

  They passed the town of El Porvenir, one of the many Maya ruins tourist sites, and Gabe, who was tracking their progress on his computer, said, “We’re getting close.”

  They followed a large meander in the river, and at a point where at first there was nothing but jungle, a magnificent stone hacienda, four stories high with balconies on each floor, emerged as if cut out of the mountain face. On the plateau behind it was a grass runway. Carol circled, reducing power and altitude.

  “It’s been a while. You might want to tighten up.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  She came in low and slow, touched down cleanly, and taxied to the end of the field. There, she turned back into the mild wind and cut the engines.

  “Well that’s a surprise,” she said with a determined set of her jaw. “We made it.”

  “I never doubted. Not for a minute.”

  “Liar. Shall we walk up to the house?”

  “We might want to just sit tight. Looks like there’s a reception committee.”

  Two SUVs were winding down the drive from the house. They pulled up to the plane in short order and stepped out with automatic weapons Gabe guessed were Uzis.

  “Vete! Vete! Get out!” the men shouted.

  Gabe cautiously opened the door and stepped out onto the wing with one hand up. He helped Carol with the other. They stood with their hands up, waiting.

  “What’s her name again?” Carol asked.

  “Lareina. ‘The queen.’”

  “Please, we need to talk with Señora Caldera—Lareina. It’s very important.”

  “Who are you?”

  The English was good, the inflection and composure threatening.

  “Carol Bright, Captain Bright’s daughter. You destroyed our ranch.”

  “That might not have been a positive opener,” Gabe said. His hands were still in the air.

  “I want them to know who we are.”

  The English speaker made a short call, then said, “Get down. Señora will see you.”

  They climbed down and were frisked efficiently, then herded into the vehicles. They parked on a stone terrace at the back of the lavish home and were escorted by elevator to the top floor. Señora Caldera met them at the elevator with two guards and led them to couches on the veranda. She wore a floor-length pool wrap, and her hair was in a towel.

  “Is your husband here?” Gabe asked.

  “I understood you wanted to speak with me.” The reply was cool and matched her demeanor. “Speak.”

  “My father was killed today in this war between our families, our countries, and I want it to stop. We both have children. Your husband’s men shot and kidnapped my son. You destroyed our ranch—”

  “You destroyed my home and killed my parents.”

  “Yes, and if we can’t reach a truce, this will never stop while any of us or our children are still alive. I’m so sorry about your parents and your brother. That was a terrible thing. But so are the deaths of kids who overdose or go to prison because they’re addicted and dealing.”

  “Our children are starving. Our people don’t have clean water to drink or bathrooms to bathe. They can’t read, and the US, with all its wealth, turns its back on us. Why should we care what happens to your children when our own are dying?”

  “Lareina—if I may call you by your beautiful name—you and I can stop this. Won’t you hear me out? Please?”

  Lareina hesitated. Her own hatred had built a wall so high, so thick, it was nearly impossible for her to hear anything coming from the other side of it.

  Carol pleaded. “Please, Lareina. For God’s sake, for the sake of your children and mine
as well, please hear me out.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  “You and your husband have been buying land in the Lacandon Jungle, is that right?

  “Yes.”

  “And you know there is oil there. A huge pool of oil.”

  “Yes. We think that’s true, but we bought it to protect what’s left of the jungle, not to plant oil wells for you or any other capitalist pigs.”

  “Lareina, it’s possible to have oil, make enough money to feed the starving kids you care about, and still protect the jungle. New technologies have proven that over and over again. My father’s friend, Senator Benson, owns one of the largest oil companies in Texas. He understands that without jobs, without food, drugs are your only lifeline. That’s why he and some of his friends are willing to build your oil fields, then you can hire your own people and give them decent lives and fair wages. There’s enough oil here to make Chiapas the wealthiest state in Mexico. And we can stop the killing.”

  Lareina tilted her head and said nothing. Suddenly, the veranda doors burst open, and her twin daughters ran laughing into her arms. Dripping wet in swimsuits, they cried, “Come back to the pool! Come back to the pool!”

  “In a minute, my darlings. Mami has business with these friends. Go back to Elenora. I’ll be there shortly.”

  She watched the girls retreat, then turned back to Carol and Gabe. “It was very brave of you to come here, but am I to assume that your CIA or DEA is on its way also? Will you blow up this house the way you did our others?”

  “I think that depends on the agreements we make today,” Gabe said. “You and your husband have a reputation of charity for your people. If you can stop the drugs and stop whatever it is the Zapatistas are planning, I think our governments will be kind.”

  “It appears the choices you give us are not really choices at all.” There was still a hard edge to her words.

  Carol was silent, so Gabe answered. “Oh, I’m sure you could go into hiding, rebuild your empire, go back to this endless, meaningless war, but you know how that will end. Juan will be killed and then your sons, and unless you are very lucky, you and your girls as well. Then someone worse, someone who cares only about the power and the money, will take your place. And the people, the children you care about, will have nothing, and they will die as well. But there is a better way. There has to be.”