“I would rather stay here with all of you,” she said, referring to their underground base beneath the Fortuna Mountains.
“I feel safe here,” she added. “I’m not ready to return to the world. I don’t know that I ever want to.”
They accepted her decision and adopted Milagros into their community. Four years later, he cannot imagine Fortuna Base without her. In their care and company, Milagros Delatorre’s body and spirit all but recovered from the ravages inflicted by her years as a child sex slave. Only her memory suffered still from the tragic trauma of her adolescence.
Milagros has seen a few pictures of her parents since her rescue. There is one in particular that she keeps on her at all times. She looks at it often. The wallet-sized photograph is of her parents and herself outside a pale-pink, shotgun house. She knows every detail of the photo by heart, but the smiling faces of her parents stir no memories of her lost years. Neither does the laughing face of her younger self, hanging knee-high from their arms. Delatorre remembers nothing of the world the image portrays.
“They might as well be pictures of strangers,” she told Manny. “I have a thirteen year hole in my memory. You wouldn’t think such emptiness in the mind would feel so heavy on the heart, but it does.”
“I think, maybe it’s because you watched them being killed,” Manuel told her. “Maybe the sight of them in that ditch you dream of, it was too much for your young mind. I think your memory erased them completely so that you will not remember what was done to them.”
“That’s what Padre Negro says,” she said. “Do you think I will ever remember?”
“I don’t know,” Manny answered. “Let’s hope so.”
“Yes, let us hope.”
Beside him in the cab of the truck, Milagros lowers the binoculars and puts them away in the glove box. Out of it she pulls a Smith and Wesson M&P SHEILD 9mm compact pistol. She chambers a round and slips the small pistol into the holster taped to her right hip under her skirt. She then pulls out the larger Sig 1911 45 and hands it over to Manuel. He too chambers a round, leans forward in his seat and tucks the pistol under his belt and shirt at the small of his back. A few minutes later, they reach the north gate as the second of the school buses is cleared through the gate in the south end. As they hoped, soldiers start coming out of the barracks in twos and threes, eager to ogle their entertainment for the night.
“Look at those animals,” says Milagros. “They can’t wait to get their hands on those children.”
“But they won’t get a chance,” Manuel says soothingly. He stares ahead, smiling at the guard behind the sliding gate. “As long as we keep our cool and do what we got to do, the kids will be safe. A piece of pie, remember?”
She gives him a broad smile. “Si, a piece of pie.”
The guard who approaches the driver’s side of the truck is a small, dark man with the high cheekbones of an African. He looks the two of them over, his eyes lingering over Milagros a little longer than on Manny. “Joyeux Noel,” he says in greeting.
“Feliz Navidad,” Manny and Milagros respond cheerfully.
Morales hands him the manifest through the window. Milagros opens up a compact and begins applying lipstick.
“Ah si,” the guard switches to Spanish after a quick perusal of the papers. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The guard hands the folded sheets back to Manuel and points him to the two story building. “Unload over there.”
“Gracias!”
They drive through the second gate. Manny backs the truck into the parking space in front of the mess hall. The two of them hop out, Milagros with the manifest on a clipboard. They proceed to the back of the truck as two UN soldiers step out of the mess hall. The two peacekeepers smile at both Manuel and Milagros, but their attentions settle on her.
“Ah, the hooch is in the house!” The tall, pale one says in a British accent.
“Hooch?” Milagros asks with a slight cock of her head.
“Booze,” says the soldier, mimicking the act of drinking. “You know, cerveza… trago…”
Milagros smiles sweetly at him. “Si, senor.”
“That’s grand,” the British lieutenant says. “Give it here and I’ll sign for the delivery.”
“I’m sorry, senor,” says Milagros. “El Commandante must sign.”
“I’m afraid he’s busy.”
“I’m afraid I no deliver.”
The soldier looks from Milagros to Manuel.
Morales shrugs his shoulders. “Me no hablo Ingles.”
“Very well,” the lieutenant concedes. “Go get the Colonel, corporal.”
The smaller, equally pasty-skinned soldier at his side darts back into the building behind them.
Milagros watches as the children are gathered and lined up by a pair of soldiers. She figures there are sixty, maybe seventy of them, mostly girls. She guesses the average age of the group at fourteen.
“Are you throwing them kids a Christmas party?” she asks.
“Something like that,” the lieutenant responds with a slight smile.
“They no look too happy.” Milagros says. “Not for kids invited to a Christmas party.”
“They’ll cheer up soon enough,” says the peacekeeper.
“When you give them Christmas presents, right?” Milagros says cheerfully.
“Exactly,” says the UN soldier curtly. “Now if you will open the truck, my men can help you unload it.”
“First commandante comes and signs, then I open truck.”
Manuel is amused by how easily her sweetness keeps the soldier’s exasperation in check. He is equally tickled by how difficult a time the man is having keeping his eyes off her cleavage. Beyond Milagros and the lieutenant, Morales keeps an eye on the other soldiers gathering at the buses. He counts thirty-one milling about in the square watching the kids. They are unarmed and should be easily corralled, he thinks. The two in the towers and the two at the gates however are armed with automatic rifles and could make a bloody mess of the operation. Manny is counting on the element of surprise to spare them that possibility.
On cue, the Mexican jeeps arrive at the south gate. The driver of the lead vehicle engages the guard in conversation. Manuel turns his head and makes out the dust plume of the Hummers approaching from the north. Visits to the UN bases by the Mexican military and the American border patrol are not uncommon. The soldiers at the gates and on the towers are alert but not overly wary. They are however, no longer looking in the trucks direction. Perfecto, he thinks.
The lieutenant pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “You’re one tough nut, senorita.”
“I no crazy, senor,” Milagros says, feigning offense. “I just do my job, just like you.”
The soldier shakes his head and laughs. “I no call you crazy. I call you tough.”
Milagros turns a skeptical eye on him.
He offers them each a cigarette. They graciously decline. He lights up and begins puffing away at it. “Any plans for your holidays?”
Milagros sidles up to Manuel and gives his right bicep an appreciative squeeze. “We got very special plans.”
“How does a fellow get so lucky?” the soldier asks with a smile.
“He no habla too much, that’s how,” she says.
“I see,” he says. “You like them strong, silent types.”
“Si,” she answers. “Especially silent.”
The soldier takes the hint and a step back to smoke his cigarette in silence. A minute later his comrade returns with the Colonel in tow. The small, baldheaded Asian scowls at Manuel as he comes out through the mess hall doors. Manuel gives him his best simpleton’s smile and points at Milagros. The Colonel’s demeanor changes immediately at the sight of Delatorre.
“What’s the problem here, young lady?”
“No problem senor,” Milagros answers sweetly.
She hands the Colonel the manifest and gestures to Manny to open the truck doors. Manuel pulls a key ring out of hi
s pants pocket. The commandant scratches a quick signature at the bottom of the manifest and returns the pen and clipboard to Milagros. She drops the pen and bends at the waist to retrieve it. The soldiers all look her way. Morales throws open the doors. Behind them, Jimmy, Dan and Jason stand with M-16s held at the ready.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! You Hos!” The three say in unison.
The Colonel, the Lieutenant and the corporal turn to face the new voices. Manuel and Milagros pull out their pistols. The corporal throws his hands high in the air.
Manuel tips his Stetson at the soldiers. “Nobody ever expects the Spanglish Inquisition!”
“What is the meaning of this?” the Colonel demands.
“We’re crashing your little child-molesting party,” Delatorre says.
Manuel grabs the Lieutenant and spins him around. Milagros does the same to the Colonel. They put the barrel of their guns to the backs of the peace-keeper’s heads and push their hostages towards the front of the truck. Dan and Jason hop off the back. Jimmy stays aboard, covering the door to the mess hall.
“Face down on the ground,” Dan orders the corporal.
“Hands behind your head,” Jason adds with a kick to his heel.
The soldier complies immediately. Jason and Dan follow Milagros and Manuel to the front of the truck, covering either side of the two. A few of the soldiers by the buses notice their approach. Their ejaculations of surprise draw the attention of the guards at the gates and on the towers. Milagros and Manuel angle their prisoners, placing the soldiers between them and the weapons that are now pointed their way. Beyond the fence, their comrades impersonating Mexican soldiers and American Border Patrolmen pull their weapons. They train their guns on the guards, suddenly splitting the attention of the peace-keepers. Everywhere in the camp, heads of UN soldiers swivel left and right trying to take everything in. The children break their lines. Frightened, they shrink back towards the buses in a tightening cluster.
“Tell your men to drop their guns,” Milagros says.
“Kofi! Arnaud! Drop your weapons!” The Colonel cries out to the guards on the north side of the compound
“Chung! Lombardi! Drop your weapons!” The Lieutenant orders the two on the south end.
The guards at the gate comply. The blue helmets on the towers hesitate, holding their rifles at the ready, looking for a shot. Some of the milling soldiers back off with uncertain steps while most of them freeze in place.
“You will be the first to die when the shooting starts, Colonel,” Milagros whispers and cocks the hammer.
“Drop your weapons!” The base commander bellows. “All of you! Drop your weapons!”
After another long, tense moment, the weapons are dropped from the towers.
Dan and Jason sprint to the gates and open them. The Jeeps and Hummers enter the compound. Ten minutes later all the UN soldiers are accounted for, gathered face down around their flagpole.
The base is theirs.
“Piece of pie,” Milagros says, regarding the scene.
She and Manuel hammer fists in congratulations.
Washington, DC
19:01:16
Leonard Brewer sits in the back of the Lincoln Towne Car with the Mayor of DC, Barry Marion. Leo Brewer, as he prefers to be called, is six feet tall, pale, blue-eyed, his head topped with a mane of thin, light blond hair that reaches half way down his back. Barry Marion is three inches shorter, bald and dark of eye and complexion. Leo is twenty-nine years old and from the farm country just outside the small city of Evansville, Wisconsin. Barry is twenty-one years his senior and from the inner city of Washington DC. The surface differences are not important to the two men. Ethnicity, age and backgrounds are mere, nearly irrelevant, incidentals to them. They are brothers under the skin, bonded by a shared passion. At their core, they could not be more alike in that which really matters to them both, the acquisition and exercise of power. Their ultimate ambitions are also different, but that too is incidental to them, a detail to be addressed in the future.
Leo and Barry met during the uprising in Madison Wisconsin at the beginning of the decade. Marion was an executive of the Teachers Union at the time and Brewer was one of the college students who joined the union protests against the State’s new Republican governor and his plans to enact fiscal austerity measures. From the first, theirs was a natural, synergistic pairing of ambitious, alpha personalities. In their own individual ways the two were expert manipulators of mobs. Barry Marion became one of the better known faces of the protest, a telegenic orator, fiery and charismatic. Leo was Marion’s tech-savvy aide who, behind the scenes and through labyrinthine layers of social networks, organized and executed their secret stratagem of what would come to be called, enhanced democracy.
Their stratagem was a simple but muscular implementation of the ‘Rules for Radicals’ created by the founder of modern day community organizing, Saul Alinsky. They decided however, that it was not enough to merely isolate and demonize the opposition as Alinsky taught. Their opponents would also be harassed, bullied and, if need be, assaulted into submission. Toward that end, the Emails, phone numbers and addresses of Republican legislators and those of their families and even their known donors and voters were published, texted, tweeted and posted everywhere. The mobs were then encouraged to make their displeasure known to them by visiting their homes and offices, haunts and schools. These pointed protests were combined with a campaign of random flash-riots throughout the city to great effect. It won the day for the Public Service Unions. The planned austerity measures were abandoned after only a few weeks when the governor and a dozen Republican legislators fled Madison and went into hiding from the angry hordes.
After Wisconsin they met with equal success in Indiana, Ohio and New Jersey. A year later their tactics won a Public Service Union for federal workers and Congress, reading the writing on the wall and the roiling masses on the streets, passed the Card Check Law which helped swell the ranks of Labor Unions across the country. Less than ten years later the auto, airline, oil, gas and coal industries were nationalized through their combined efforts. The unions then went on to press their growing influence and advantage through the courts. They were victorious there as well, getting the Supreme Court to declare the laissez-faire policies of ‘Right to Work’ states unconstitutional.
All of it thrilled Barry Marion. He rode the rising tide of Union power to the Mayor’s office in DC. Along the way, Marion was able to make the Socialist Party a viable political contender. Unlike the Mayor of DC however, Leonard Brewer is not a Socialist. Leo is a Maxist. He has no wish to replace the Capitalist system with a Socialist one. In fact, he sneers at the very suggestion that there is an appreciable difference between the two models.
The Maxist movement, of which Brewer is a founding member, was born in a drum circle on the floor of the state house of Madison Wisconsin. It began with he and a handful of hardened, professional protestors discussing how best to fully implement the Cloward and Piven revolution in America and beyond. Richard Cloward and Frances Piven were college professors much in vogue in progressive campuses. They advocated the radical idea of destroying the US economy in order to re-create it in a form more agreeable to their Socialist ideals. The collapse of the economy could be brought on, they claimed, by getting enough people on public assistance to drain the nation’s resources, thereby maxing out the system. While Leo’s group lauded the idea of doing away with Capitalism and America, they did not believe that the Socialist ideals which Cloward, Piven or even Alinsky promulgated would be much, if any, of an improvement. Both systems served mankind at the expense of the planet and that was unacceptable to Leo and his fellow young and radical environmentalists. Over days and then weeks, Leo and his fellow protestors, who had taken to calling themselves ‘The Coven’ because of their decidedly Wiccan worldview, concluded it was not enough to flood the Welfare rolls and crash the US economy. They would not limit themselves to so paltry a purpose.
‘If Gaia, if our Mother Earth is
to be saved,’ the Coven claimed in the opening statement of their anonymously posted manifesto. ‘The world of man must be destroyed!’
Maxists declared all-out war on civilization.
‘It is not enough to oppose this government, that government or even all governments,’ the Maxist manifesto insisted. ‘It is no longer enough to confront the WTO, IMF, USA or any other contender for world domination. It is no longer good enough to demonstrate and protest. Ours is the day and the way of destruction! All culture, religion, morals, mores, aesthetics and standards, must be obliterated. Every rule that holds civilization together must be broken!’
Newsweek called the Maxists, ‘Nihilists on steroids!’
The movement grew by leaps and bounds under the aegis of the Occupy America demonstrations that spread across the country in the spring of 2011. It was the perfect environment to feed its viral growth. The Maxists mixed in among them, recruiting, inspiring and leading. They became the Occupiers’ shock troops, the front line in every confrontation with the authorities. The Maxists provided muscle and backbone to the otherwise weak-willed, unwashed throngs that made up the bulk of the demonstrators.
By the summer of 2011 there were over a hundred city downtowns occupied around the country. The movement grew in boldness as it grew in numbers, openly defying police forces everywhere. All the while, many a politician dismissed the violence and the vitriol and celebrated the phenomena as ‘An American Spring.’ Celebrities left their multi-million dollar homes for getaway weekends, slumming in search of solidarity-cred among the rich-bashing revolutionaries. Stores of superlatives were exhausted by the media in describing the idealism, hopes, visions, dreams, ambitions and intentions of the demonstrators.
The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE Page 21