by Mike Maden
“Then why didn’t President Myers come to us and request an Authorization to Use Military Force in this case?”
“Why should she? AUMF is derivative of WPR and, as we’ve stated, we don’t believe that WPR applies. Which leads to my second point. President Myers believed this nation faced an imminent security threat from the cartels and their affiliates, and deemed immediate action necessary, as is her prerogative as commander in chief. The purpose of WPR is to prevent the United States from entering into another decade-long debacle like Vietnam. But the president has no intention of waging an extended conflict against the narcoterrorists. It’s a limited, well-defined action. So once again, the WPR doesn’t apply.
“Third, the WPR only requires the president to report to Congress the deployment of U.S. forces abroad within forty-eight hours, not request permission to deploy those forces. For the record, no U.S. military personnel have been dispatched to Mexico, only unmanned drone systems, so by definition, the WPR once again does not apply.”
“You’re splitting hairs on that one,” Diele insisted. “American drones are being flown by American personnel, even if they are located in Fort Huachuca, Arizona.”
“We’re both lawyers, Senator. Splitting hairs is what we do best.”
A laugh rolled through the gallery. Diele lightly tapped his gavel.
“But the most important point is this. President Myers did not seek the advice and consent of Congress prior to this action because she believes Congress is increasingly irrelevant to any of the solutions this nation needs, including the present crisis. In fact, Congress is the cause of many of the crises we face.”
The gallery exploded with cheers and applause, and a scattering of boos. Some senators threw up their hands in disgust; others applauded. A few grabbed their microphones and began shouting at one another. Diele gaveled the room into silence under penalty of expulsion.
“For the record, Ms. Lancet, you are aware of the doctrine of the separation of powers? The three separate and distinct branches of government? It comes from that pesky little document known as the Constitution of the United States.”
“I am indeed, sir. So is the president. Her desire is that the Senate and the House live up to the responsibilities of their respective institutions. Case in point. President Obama launched over three hundred drone strikes against Pakistan in his first term in office—also a sovereign, independent nation like Mexico—and not a single congressional vote was ever taken on any one of those strikes. In fact, since the first known drone strike in 2004, at least forty-seven hundred people have been killed.”
“Those drone strikes were conducted under the AUMF,” Diele insisted.
“But there was no AUMF for Libya when President Obama committed American drones to combat in Libya—another sovereign nation, by the way—for the purpose of helping to topple the existing government, which, ironically, was an American ally in the fight against al-Qaeda. The Libyan action was not an act of self-defense, no American lives were at risk, no treaty commitments to an ally were invoked. More to the point, no congressional approval was apparently needed, nor was congressional interest aroused in the slightest. By your definition, President Obama invaded a sovereign state and did it without a declaration of war, which, under the separation of powers doctrine, is your assigned constitutional responsibility.”
Myers’s supporters on the committee applauded, as did a number of people in the gallery. Diele gaveled them quiet. Lancet continued.
“The United States has not declared a war since 1941, but the litany of conflicts we’ve been in—‘wars’ by any other name that involve the loss of American lives—is incredible: the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the first and second Gulf wars are just the big ones. There were twice as many covert operations that were no less acts of war, including a dozen coups d’état in Asia and Latin America during the hottest years of the cold war. So the president’s question for you, Senator, is why has Congress been so interested in fighting wars over the past seven decades but not in declaring them?”
“The president should be worried about fulfilling the legal responsibilities of her office, not lecturing us on how to conduct our affairs.”
“Her legal responsibility is to protect and defend the nation. This nation has suffered grievously for a lack of leadership, particularly from Congress. She hasn’t tried to avoid the Constitution, Senator, she’s trying to invoke it. You know the numbers as well as anyone: drugs have killed far more Americans than any foreign enemy from any war we’ve ever fought. And what have you done about it?”
Diele banged his gavel.
“You will show respect to this committee or you will be held in contempt.”
“Mr. Chairman, you first came to Washington over thirty years ago. What was the national debt when you arrived? What was our balance of trade? What was the annual budget deficit? What was the price of the average home? How much did it cost to educate a child? How much was a gallon of gas? Please name for us, for the record, one significant social problem this Congress has not exacerbated, let alone resolved.”
Diele banged the gavel again and again as the gallery howled with delight.
“I am going to hold you in contempt, Attorney General Lancet, if you don’t control your tongue.”
“As every public opinion poll has demonstrated for the last twenty years, sir, the American people already hold Congress in contempt. For the sake of the Republic, and for the legitimacy of this institution, it’s time for you to help us fight and win this horrific war being waged against our cities, our culture, our children. Help us—or get out of the damn way.”
Lancet grabbed her satchel and stormed past the cheering gallery that stood and clapped for her defiant performance as she marched toward the exit.
Diele banged his gavel in vain, trying to call the hearing back to order. When his colleagues began to rise and quit the room, he banged the gavel again and announced the hearing dismissed until further notice, but the damage had already been done.
The television cameras caught everything, just as Diele had hoped. He just hadn’t planned on getting his ass handed to him by a Junior Leaguer like Lancet.
Fortunately for Diele, there was one man who had watched the entire scene with a great deal of interest. Ambassador Britnev had the weapon Diele needed to bring Myers down, and he was sure that the broken old man he saw on his television screen would be desperate enough to use it.
44
Yucatán Peninsula, near Peto, Mexico
Victor Bravo complained that he hadn’t had a beer in a week.
He and his men had been hiding from the American satellites swinging overhead in an abandoned mission compound and he couldn’t exactly run down to the local mercado and restock the refrigerator.
Eleazar Medina took Victor’s thirst as a sign from God.
Raised in a devoutly evangelical home in rural Guatemala, Eleazar was one of fourteen children of a lay Foursquare Gospel minister in a remote village in the north. All of the Medina children had been forced to memorize whole books of the Bible, but 2 Samuel was a favorite of Eleazar’s because it was the passage of the Old Testament from whence he had gotten his name. “Eleazar, son of Dodo” was one of David’s “mighty men of valor,” and little Eleazar’s skinny brown chest puffed out three sizes larger every time he recited it boastfully to his childhood friends.
But that had been a long time ago, and Eleazar was a different person now, one of Bravo’s most trusted lieutenants. He’d done terrible things for Bravo, things for which he’d often prayed for forgiveness, but the guilt always remained. He could never quite get the feeling that the blood on his hands had been washed off even though the blood he’d shed had been, well, necessary, hadn’t it?
As soon as Bravo had said he wanted a beer, a familiar verse came back to Eleazar: Y David dijo con vehemencia: ¡Quién me diera a beber del agua del pozo de Belén que está junto a la puerta!
Eleazar remembered that the verse was from 2 Samuel 23:1
5. And didn’t his father always say, God always makes a way of escape?
There was no question in Eleazar’s mind that God was opening a door for true forgiveness for him, if he would just have the courage to step through it. Just like Victor Bravo, King David was hiding in his wilderness stronghold in the midst of his enemies when he longed for a drink from a faraway well. And wasn’t Eleazar, son of Dodo, one of the three mighty men who fetched it for him?
“I’ll get you some beer, hermano. Leave it to me,” Eleazar said.
Victor’s eyes narrowed.
“No. It’s too dangerous. You might get killed.”
“I’d rather die trying to steal a cold beer than wait for a hot rocket to fly up my ass,” Eleazar answered cheerfully. Everybody in the room laughed, including Victor.
“Okay, then. Get me some beer. We’ll keep our asses locked up tight until you get back.”
The other men howled with delight and stared at Victor hopefully. He laughed again, reading their minds. “Get enough for them, too!”
Eleazar threw a sloppy salute and scrambled away with a grin plastered across his face. Moments later, he leaped on an ancient moped and gunned the lawn-mower-size engine, scrambling out of the walled compound and onto the dirt path that wound through the jungle back toward Peto. Eleazar hoped his cell phone still carried a charge.
* * *
Three hours passed. The heat of the day rose like a tide from hell, wrapping the compound in a shroud of suffocating humidity. The sentry stood underneath the stone portico of the abandoned mission. It kept the sentry out of the sun, but it didn’t help him cool off. He wished he was inside the sanctuary where it was cooler. Bravo and the others were enjoying their afternoon siesta, snoring in hammocks slung between the columns.
The sentry checked his canteen. Empty. He’d drained it an hour ago. But if he came off the wall to refill it, he’d be shot for abandoning his post. He’d just have to tough it out a few more hours and then he could get a drink of water and even get some shut-eye, too.
The sentry heard the whine of a truck engine approaching through the trees. He needed to check it out, but he was under strict orders to stay under cover if at all possible, just in case there was overhead surveillance. He stayed underneath the roof line and raised his binoculars. What he saw made him laugh.
That pendejo Eleazar.
A big beer delivery truck came lumbering out of the trees, rolling slowly over the deeply rutted dirt road. The logo on the side of the beer truck was a giant Mayan head, drawn in the traditional style, tilted back and chugging down a cold bottle of Sol. A local pop radio station blared inside the cab.
The sentry raced down the wooden ladder and ran across the compound to unlock the front gate. He could already taste the cold beer splashing in the back of his throat.
The truck stopped on the other side of the locked gate. Eleazar grinned inside the air-conditioned cab. He was gesturing Hurry up! through the cold windshield that was fogging up against the warm, damp air outside.
The young sentry unbolted the iron gate and swung it open on its rusty hinges. He jumped up on the truck’s running board on the driver’s side as Eleazar pulled in.
The sentry tapped on the cool glass. Eleazar rolled the window down. The truck’s refrigeration unit roared overhead.
“Where did you steal this from, hermano?”
“Back in Peto. It was at the Super Willy’s across from the zócalo. I don’t think they’ll miss it, do you?” Eleazar beamed with pride.
“If they do, too bad for them!”
Eleazar stopped the truck in the middle of the compound, several feet from the church. He leaned on the horn.
“What are you doing?” the sentry asked.
“Waking those lazy asses up. Time to drink some beer.”
“Let them sleep! More beer for us.”
“Don’t be such a greedy pig. We’re socialists now, remember?” Eleazar leaned on the horn again. A few bleary-eyed comrades stumbled out into the bright light. Their faces lit up when they saw the truck.
“Let me in the back,” the sentry begged.
“Not yet.”
“Give me the key or I’ll bust it open.”
“Just wait. Trust me.” Eleazar finally saw Victor emerge into the shadow of the front portico. He stood there, smiling, clasping his hands together and shaking them like a rattle by his head, the universal sign of approval.
“Fuck you, Eleazar. I want some beer,” the sentry said.
“Just wait a minute, will you?”
Victor ambled out into the harsh sunlight, making his way toward the truck.
The sentry dropped down onto the ground and headed for the back of the truck.
The first Bravo out of the church was just a few feet away from the truck now, licking his lips. But Victor was still too far away.
The thirsty sentry swung the back door open. He saw the muzzle flash from the suppressed end of a pistol. The hollow-point slug punched a small hole into his forehead, but the subsequent intracranial shock wave blew out the back of his skull and all of its contents while he was still on his feet. His corpse was knocked to the ground by the first soldier out of the truck.
Eleazar felt more than heard the squad of Marinas scramble out of his vehicle. Seconds later, they fanned out around the compound. Eleazar remained locked in the truck as ordered.
An eight-bladed Draganflyer X8 surveillance rotocopter zoomed over the compound. The drone was flown by another squad of Marinas that had followed Eleazar’s truck from Peto a half mile back.
The Marinas had told Eleazar to stay in the truck no matter what, out of concern for his safety, but as he watched Victor Bravo race unnoticed back into the church, Eleazar feared Victor would get to the escape tunnel and seal the entrance before the Marinas could reach him.
Eleazar couldn’t let the Devil get away. How else could he pay his debt to God?
Eleazar grabbed his pistol out of the glove box, leaped from the cab, and tore after him. An AK-47 opened up. Bullets clawed him from his groin to his belly.
Eleazar clutched his stomach. His hands were full of intestines, pink and wet with blood, like an offering.
Eleazar’s wobbly legs gave way. His eyes dimmed.
He felt himself falling into the darkness, afraid that God wouldn’t catch him.
45
Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.
Victor Bravo was dead.
Hernán drained his third glass of whiskey. He was worried.
Without cartel muscle behind them, the fragile web of Barraza alliances—strung together by fear and corruption—would quickly melt away. And then the mice would come out to play with their machetes, seeking revenge.
Hernán could run. He had a chalet in Switzerland, a flat in Paris, and a fat bankroll stashed in Paraguay. Life could be good.
His other option was to answer the damn phone. The one flashing Victor Bravo’s number, even though Victor was dead. Answer it, even if it was a mouse calling him.
“Yes?”
“Señor Barraza, I know you were a friend of Victor’s.”
“What do you want?”
“He was a friend of mine, too. My name is Ali Abdi. We need to talk.”
Ali understood Hernán’s situation perfectly. Offered the use of his trained men, fiercely loyal to him. “You know what they’re capable of doing.”
“Houston?”
“Of course.”
Hernán was intrigued. “Your services in exchange for what?”
Ali explained. The terms were acceptable. More than acceptable. Hernán agreed. They worked out a plan.
No need to leave Mexico after all.
Hernán smiled.
Poured himself another whiskey. Time to call in favors from his friends in Caracas and Havana. Start the plan rolling ahora.
He drained his glass.
Fuck the mice.
* * *
Two days later, one of the big media conglomerates began running a Victor
Bravo memorial piece, extolling his virtues as an advocate for the poor, his charitable work among the campesinos, and the vast array of clinics, orphanages, and education centers he’d built around the country over the last two decades. The show featured glowing interviews with grateful farmers, Indians, admiring telenovela stars, and several staged “man-on-the-street” encounters, and all of it was scored with popular folk music that had been written about him over the years. The media conglomerate—a big supporter of the Barraza campaign during the last election—had already put it together even before the death of Victor Bravo. With orders from Hernán, they released it to any television station or cable satellite programmer that wanted to run it free of charge.
The hugely popular show was picked up immediately by the Spanish-language networks in the United States. Local news shows then ran their own follow-up programming, tying together all of the recent events, including the terrible border-crossing situation affecting so many Hispanics in both countries. Like their English-language counterparts, Telemundo, Univision, and the other majors had distinct political agendas that favored a particular point of view slanting against the Myers administration, which was increasingly vilified on these networks because of the new border regulations. What most Anglos didn’t realize was that Spanish-language news shows were the number one rated shows of any language in Los Angeles, Dallas, Phoenix, and Houston. The Victor Bravo mythology—and his death, which was now being characterized as a martyrdom—was spreading like wildfire on both sides of the border.
Bay of Campeche, Mexico
One hundred and seven miles offshore from Veracruz, a PEMEX oil rig, the Aztec Dream, was topping off a giant oil tanker with crude pumped directly from the gulf floor. Bill Gordon was the offshore operations engineer (OOE), which made him the senior technical authority on the PEMEX rig. The middle-aged Texan in the burnt orange UT Longhorns ball cap had worked on offshore oil rigs all over the world, including the Persian Gulf, before joining PEMEX.