by H. L. Valdez
“Man sees the right side of his mind and the wrong side of another," the offensive smelling old man said in Japanese. “Leave the island before events get worse,”
“We can't do that,” Butch answered politely in Japanese.
"You are intruding. There is no debate, no conversation," he countered, frequently blinking his bulging eyes.
“The false shows itself. All that is true proves itself." Butch replied calmly, staring steadily at the weary soldier.
“No one can be human and not make a mistake. But a life with foolish companions is worse than death,” the worn out man said, grunting odd animal sounds.
“You’re a clever old man," Butch said softly, puzzled by his behavior, then turned to the group. “He wants us to leave.”
“The clever man knows how to tell a lie, the wise man knows how to avoid it,” he advised, scratching his filthy beard.
"Is anyone else on the island?" Butch asked gently.
"Life is an opportunity. It’s a pity a man realizes this too late," the frail old man replied, his head bobbing, scratching his sickly face with dirty finger nails.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Butch said flatly, as Spanky growled.
“Many men with guns on the other side. They have boats and two planes.”
“Arigato,” Butch said respectfully, bowing.
"You have been warned," the old man said sternly, and then turned to walk out. Instantly, Primo slapped the old soldier on the side of his head.
"You didn't have to hit him," Rita shouted angrily.
"Yes I did. He's my prisoner and he was trying to escape. Besides, I had to get his attention. He was acting arrogant."
"All right, refocus," Marco ordered, void of feelings. “Give the guy some soup, and question him," he directed, as Velvet watched Butch pull up his jumpsuit. Turning, he closed his zipper as their eyes met. Velvet was visually stimulated to shivers as they gazed into each other’s eyes searching for a deeper sense of meaning and communication. Rita looked at Velvet, then Butch, sensing an undercurrent of intensity. Turning, Rita snapped two Valiums and two Dexedrine tablets into her mouth, swallowing them dry.
From the interior of the primeval forest, the conch shell resonated with a monotonous pitch as intermittent showers turned into a steady mist. Walking from a dark corner of the temple, two primitive Iriomote wild cats yawned, stretched, and meowed their way toward the temple doorway. Spanky stood growling, watching the two high strung reddish gray cats walk skittishly out the main entry.
“They sense something and now they're leaving," Velvet said anxiously. "It’s a symbol of the wild.”
“Maybe they’re going for a piss,” Primo suggested, gripping the old man’s arm.
“You look concerned Marco, what’s on your mind?” Justin asked, as they walked toward the volcanic stone studded hearth with the old soldier in tow.
"We need more team experience to get an operational sense for each other. That's all," he answered, shaking his head.
“There is no real way we can prepare. We just have to go in there and do it,” Justin remarked.
“Conflict doesn’t have to polarize us," Marco volunteered, with detached wisdom. "But before we can be in control, we must know the pattern.
“Then work the pattern,” Primo added, leading the old man to the front of the fireplace. Rita, standing in back of the group pushed a small, round steel bore brush through her pistol barrel, then began twisting away any remaining carbon.
“You guys don’t hear well,” Rita shot back. "The old man wants us to leave. It seems this guy has some backing.”
“He has no backing. He’s still fighting World War II," Butch said impatiently.
"What's happening is what we do,” Primo said bluntly.
“Team work is critical,” Marco replied. "We must be able to suspend our feelings. Don’t let people push your panic button," he said, looking at Primo and Rita. "In conflict we must reduce stress to manageable limits,” he suggested, as Rita stood up, then swung her black leather holster naturally around her thin waist.
“I’m more afraid of those howling wolf dogs than people. But I guess tension produces new solutions,” Rita stated, buckling the holster as the group watched her knot the holster ties around her slender thighs.
“There’s a formula in place and we're going through a gestation period,” Justin said philosophically, as Primo looked at Justin.
“What are the task functions? What issues are the most important and most difficult?” Primo asked with tactical awareness.
“Money is still the best weapon,” Butch said, serving warm soup to the old man.
"Once we meet the enemy, be prepared. Ask yourself, what are your immediate steps?" Marco stated as Velvet stood by his side packing bullets into ammo clips. The group remained quiet, giving insight, reason, and intellect a chance to catch up with their emotions.
"In this type of work, we need to be good listeners and critical observers,” Velvet said, returning the stares of the group.
“The more resistance we meet, the slower the progress,” Rita blurted anxiously, returning the assembled pistol into her holster. “I’m ready!” she announced, adjusting the gun belt snugly around her slender hips as the solemn group focused on her.
"We need a flexible awareness," Marco began. "You're all good fighters, but I want you to be better. I don't want anyone hurt,” Marco stated, glancing at the tired, undernourished old man contentedly slurping his soup.
“Humph. Pep talk shit,” Justin grumbled.
"What we’re being asked to do exceeds the limits of the system. And maybe our experience base doesn't stretch that far. But I know we have the capacity for success,” Marco encouraged the team, glancing at Justin stoically.
Drifting into an intensified heightened awareness and feeling euphoric from her pharmaceutical drugs, Rita surveyed the team, assessing their social temperature. Moving toward the fireplace, she felt a deep amorous surge toward Marco, feasting on his tremendous sex appeal. He was sexciting to her as she lost herself in fantasy, slipping to the edge of moisture. With her defenses diminishing, her intrinsic and intuitive nature became radiant. Breathing deeply, she was aware that some of her feelings were drug-induced, but she had a practiced intellectual awareness from her habit that kept her centered despite her physiological state.
“Justin, I want you to search the perimeter. Stay on top of things," Marco instructed, as the group remained silent, listening to wolf dogs howling in the howling gust.
“I’ll get ready,” he said, hesitantly, grumbling under his breath.
"The world is at a crossroads in the international heroin trade," Butch stated looking at the group. "Law enforcement activity has weakened the Turkey-Italy-Marseille Narcotics Axis. We're dealing with non-traditional organized crime.” Butch said, as the group edged closer to the fireplace.
"That means we have to endure a lot of uncertainty," Velvet replied, adjusting her shoulder holster. Primo and Justin stood next to each other drinking scotch from the same canteen, intently observing the unfolding scenarios.
"Time to go," Justin said abruptly, handing the canteen to Primo. "Hold on to this, I'll need it later," he said confidently, then turned and walked away while adjusting a camouflaged bandanna around his head. Gathering his thoughts, Marco watched Justin leave as the group intensely focused on Marco standing in front of the fireplace, quietly listening to hot embers pop and crackle.
"Heroin trafficking represents mounting international security problems," Marco began. "In Japan, organized crime groups have a specialized system of monetary exchange known only by the criminal clan -- this complicates the puzzle. The heroin leaders never sign binding contracts. All major deals require a meeting of the bosses to exchange their personal word of honor. Only the Chairman of the Crime Commission can make changes or start new businesses," Marco said, as Rita ogled him.
"We're dealing with unrestrained violence," Butch said with indignation. "This situation
is uncontrollable. And I don't like that."
"You don't like it?" Primo mimicked, grinning. "Hey, it's BOHICA time, Butch! Bend-Over-Here-It-Comes-Again!" he said, then sipped his scotch. Velvet shook her head, then turned away and stoked the fire.
“Hey, the old man fell asleep,” Rita announced.
“Let him sleep, Marco answered, as Butch shifted his eyes to a piece of paper, trying to decode a message. Each person muddled over the turn of events and upcoming uncertainties. Psychologically leaking, they were preparing themselves for the transition into the world of a mobile and global police unit. Team members began retreating into themselves, and rested in accordance to their internal clocks. Lying on top of her sleeping bag, Rita stared at Marco who was deep in thought. Velvet, sitting in front of the fireplace eating soup, contemplated upcoming events. Primo cleaned and oiled the barrel of his weapon with a cloth pad attached to the end of a small steel-cleaning rod.
On the horizon, lightning streaked through low hanging, dark, water-filled clouds. The rainy season had created 80-degree temperatures and high humidity. The shrill chattering of wild birds filled the air as they nested under deep pink bougainvillea nourished by constant rain. Small tree frogs blinked as their disk-like suction cup feet held them upside down and sideways on branches. The Japan Current, coming up from the east of Taiwan, flowed toward the Northeast. Typhoons from tropical seas near the equator moved north following a course from the Philippines to Japan. Iriomote Island, surrounded by the sea, with immense forests and complicated geographical features, proved that the severity of nature could co-exist with beauty.
The Hacienda
12 July 1964. Hacienda Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. In the isolated desert location west of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range, slow moving goggle eyed chameleons changed colors searching for food in spiny cacti. Sitting in a wheelchair in the north lookout tower of the Hacienda, Nick inhaled the hot arid desert air, admiring the semi-desert scenery, nearby tracts of forest, and lush irrigated valleys while listening to the radio playing Jazz Samba by Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd. With morphine racing through his veins, Nick was peering through binoculars on a tripod, watching hulking iguanas scuttling across the terrain searching for small prairie rats. With his left arm in a sling, his white silk embroidered cowboy shirt flapped in the hot dry wind. Recovering from surgery, Nick was not able to participate in business meetings and was edgy, anticipating a raid by Mexican Federales and U.S. Marshals; however, larger international issues were at hand. North of the border in Washington, D.C., the United States was preoccupied with cablegrams dealing with the attack on an American destroyer near the shores of North Vietnam in the Gulf of Tonkin. In the Western Pacific, the seas were stormy and messages from the ship were reporting repeated torpedo attacks from North Vietnamese patrol boats. Members of the National Security Council were anxiously meeting in the Joint War Room in the White House with President Lyndon Johnson to discuss the attacks. Senator William Fulbright was busy managing the passage of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, which was treated as the functional equivalent of a declaration of war.
In protected seclusion, Nick's father, Mr. Moctezuma "Manny" Nogales, was pacing in his office in the southwest corner of the luxurious well-fortified hacienda. Pausing to sip his tequila, he was dressed in an embroidered traditional brown charro outfit, the symbol of the Mexican vaqueros. His dirty brown leather boots were a stark contrast to his pressed white shirt and creased trousers embroidered with small gold horseshoes running down the outer seam. Manny, a tall burly man with a broad thick mustache and balding crown was worried about the consequences drug smuggling was having on diplomatic relations between Mexico and the United States. Elena, Manny's daughter, rocked back and forth in a large wooden rocking chair reading, "A Moveable Feast" by Earnest Hemingway, while watching her father.
"What's troubling you, papa?" Elena asked, closing her book.
"My God, this drug business is becoming more competitive. Shoot-outs between police and narcotic pushers are growing. Even here in Mexico, the use of drugs is increasing," he said, rubbing his forehead, while pacing on the elegant dark brown, walnut hardwood floor.
"Our Hacienda is tightly secured, and under 24-hour guard. We have heavy steel reinforced doors, and chain-link fences topped with barbed wire. Guard dogs roam the compound between the fences. We have exterior walls fitted with sheets of armor plating. Don’t worry," she assured him, turning on the radio as Sublime Mujer by Vicente Fernandez began playing.
"I'm just nervous and angry," he replied, pouring another shot of tequila.
"Nervous about what?" Elena asked curiously, rocking in her chair. "We have strategically placed cinder block walls with built in gun ports all over the place. Relax. Take it easy."
"That's not it," Manny said, deep in thought. "Here we are with farmers scattered in isolated mountainous areas, and throughout their cornfields opium poppies are flourishing. To the Indian people such as the Opatas, Pima, Taqui, and Mayo, helping me means an independent existence for them," Manny said, scratching his wide shoulder.
"Papa, the farmers are forced to live with violence and the threat of violence to grow our opium," Elena replied honestly, watching her father’s pained face. “Besides, our poppies are flourishing. The farmers are doing well.”
"The best choice is beans not bullets, bread not dead. Besides, our land tracts exceed 25,000 acres and another 14,000 acres just to raise cattle and horses. I need theses farmers," he answered, sipping his tequila.
"What's the truth?" She questioned. "What's your point?"
"Right now, the Mexican government is increasing its law enforcement efforts and establishing new drug policies with America to stem the flow of illegal narcotics. We could be in big trouble," stated the untutored Manny, who had won a reputation for being a brilliant military tactician.
“Is that it?” she asked, rocking in the chair, looking at the book’s cover, then at him.
"I'm worried about the Mexican police and the Army elements that are destroying thousands of acres of marijuana and opium poppies."
"You just need a plan to deal with it, Pop. I'm sure you'll think of something, you always do," she said, trying to soothe his worries. "But, what are you angry about?" She asked in a low supportive tone.
"Nick almost died. I'm angry that my son suffered a serious gunshot wound at the hands of the Colombians. I want revenge," he said, as his fair complexion turned red with rage.
Mr. Nogales was a respected and admired big landowner. His empire extended from the nearby rugged Sonora basin that was flanked by chains of hills rising toward the northeast to the lush fertile oases to the south. Manny had no problem retaining control of vast land tracts. He protected his land holdings from government expropriation by dividing it into parcels smaller than the legal limit and then distributed the plots to family members. At the hacienda, a modest airstrip accommodating helicopters and light aircraft ensured rapid and efficient monitoring and supervision of farming activity.
Manny stopped pacing for a moment and sat on a large wooden ornately carved Italian throne chair with a high padded leather back, waiting in nervous anticipation. With all his wealth, he was deeply troubled. Pondering for a moment, sipping tequila, he rubbed the ornamental angels engraved in the wooden armrests. Sipping tequila, he stared at a worn, wooden framed photograph of his parents taken around 1910. They wore white pants, white shirts, and sombreros, the uniform of Zapata followers. In another photograph, the idealistic Emiliano Zapata was dressed in full battle attire with rifle, sword, and two bandoliers of ammunition crossing his chest. Another faded photograph was of Pancho Villa sitting with fellow revolutionary leader Zapata in the National Palace. His landless parents had joined the disciplined army of Emiliano Zapata and had become Zapatistas who had waged a hit-and-run war on federal troops and seized the land of rich hacienda owners, then gave it to the peasants. Women Zapatistas, known as Soldaderas, were wives and girlfriends who accompanied their men into battle. Th
ey were spies and gun smugglers, who foraged for food, cooked, washed, nursed the wounded, and buried the dead. The women dutifully served in the ranks, and Manny's mother was an officer in the rebel army. Soldaderas often walked, carrying bedding, pots and pans, food, firearms, ammunition, and children. In a way, the revolution assisted the emancipation of the Mexican woman. Mr. Nogales was proud of his mother's historical role and of his daughter Elena, a modern day Soldadera, who was diligently attending to Nick's health. She was tall and thin with a light complexion and high cheekbones. Her long brown hair complimented her large deep-set brown eyes. Harvard educated, she wore silver bracelets from Taxco, Opals from Queretaro, Turquoise from Zacatecas, and Onyx from Puebla. Independent like many Mexican women, she was disciplined, directed, and loyal to her family.
Feeling pensive, Manny rose and poured himself another shot of tequila to quell his intense anger, then resumed pacing. Elena stood up and walked to the small altar in the corner of the room and lit a candle while watching her father stand in front of his desk staring at the floor. His gaze went to the small altar and to a pair of clay angels known as Chia figures whose presence encouraged the growth of corn and beans. He then looked at a small statue of the patron saint of Mexico, Our Lady of Guadalupe, who returned his stare. Drawing a clean white handkerchief from his back pocket, he blotted the sweat from his forehead. Lighting another candle, Elena was startled when someone knocked three times on the splintered, weather beaten wooden door. Remaining silent, Manny stared at the door. Again, three forceful knocks. Breathing deeply, Manny stared silently at the door, leaning against his desk.
"Come in!" He shouted abruptly, with a deep voice filling the room with vibrating confidence.
"You sent for me, Manny?" Armondo Monterey asked defensively, awkwardly bumping the door open with his boot, and knocking down the black whip hanging behind the door. Manny's angry sweating face stared fiercely at Armondo who stood poker-faced.