An Eye For An Eye

by L. D Beyer

  The supervisor nodded, made a note on his clipboard then, without a word, headed to check on the lighting system. The driver shook his head and walked over to the Porta-Johns.

  Five minutes later, he stepped out, casually glanced around and, noting that his supervisor was nowhere to be seen, ducked under the barricade and crossed the street. Two blocks away, he hailed a cab.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Christina Thompson stood in front of the cathedral across the street from the Zócalo. She checked her watch again, knowing as she did that it couldn’t have been more than a minute since the last time she had looked. Miguel wasn’t late, not yet at least. And not according to Mexican time, she thought with a grin. He would probably show up with that happy-go-lucky smile of his any minute now and chide her for being a typical impatient gringo.

  Confident, outgoing, and adventurous, being here at the concert summed up her time in Mexico. She could have stayed in the States as her parents had wanted. More like pleaded, she thought. But she wanted to experience life, to experience another culture: the language, the food, the music, the customs, the people. And the opportunity to study abroad, to spend a semester in Mexico City, had given her that opportunity in a way that the local Mexican restaurant in Princeton never could.

  She wasn’t normally impatient, but as the crowd across the street continued to swell, she worried about finding a spot. She glanced at the crowd around her. Most had already staked out spots on the sidewalk and on the steps of the cathedral. This was probably a good spot to see the concert, she realized. It was less crowded than the square and, when the concert was over, leaving would be much easier. Not bad, she thought as she noticed people spreading out blankets on the sidewalk and unfolding chairs. Not bad, but not good enough for her. She wanted to experience the concert—to really be a part of it—and that meant getting up close to the stage. To feel the heavy thumping of the bass. To see the sweat on the singers as they gyrated below the lights. To get caught up in the moment with the crowd, swaying to the music.

  “Mi amor!”

  Christina turned with a smile and saw Miguel winding his way through the crowd.

  He stopped a foot away and spread his arms out. “See! I’m right on time!”

  She threw her arms around him. “Hardly,” she said before she gave him a kiss. She stepped back, slid her hand down his arm, and grabbed his hand. “But I forgive you. Now, come on. If we hurry, we still might be able to find a spot!”

  Hand in hand, they crossed the street and made their way through the crowd. It took almost fifteen minutes, with her leading Miguel by the hand, before they slipped through one final group of people and found themselves in front of the rope barricade, ten feet from the stage.

  “This is perfect,” she yelled.

  Miguel leaned forward and kissed her once more. “No. You’re perfect.” He smiled. She smiled back then, hand in hand, they began swaying to the music.

  They never heard the explosion. They never saw the shrapnel—the jagged pieces of the speaker frame, the ripped metal of the stage—rocketing toward them at supersonic speeds. They never felt the red hot metal slicing through their bodies. Thankfully, when the first shockwave hit them, their world went dark.

  ___

  The president smiled as he stepped into the room—a small gathering of a select group of administrators, deans, professors, and students from Howard University. He was feeling good. The speech had gone well, and the audience had seemed receptive to his thoughts on education.

  He was chatting with the Dean of the Law School and his wife when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned, shared a glance with Burt Phillips and knew immediately that something was wrong.

  “Please excuse me,” he apologized with a smile as Phillips led him several steps away.

  Philips leaned close. “Sir. There’s been a bombing in Mexico City. We don’t have much information yet, but it’s bad.”

  “How bad?” he asked, tight-lipped.

  Phillips shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. His face was grim. “Could be thousands, sir.”

  Shit, Kendall thought. It’s started.

  ___

  On the large plasma screen in the Situation Room, Matthew Richter watched the image flicker before a live video of the carnage in Mexico City appeared on the screen. The image came from one of the National Reconnaissance Office’s Lacrosse satellites.

  He studied the screen. The first thing that struck him was the emergency vehicles. Like the spokes on a wheel, flashing lights from the hundreds of fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, and military vehicles lined up in rows on the streets leading into the Zócalo. The spokes extended off the screen. Around the square, there was a ring of vehicles, those that had arrived first, he realized. They were parked randomly at odd angles.

  The scene reminded him of an anthill as thousands of rescue workers swarmed over the square. He could see the walking wounded being led away by rescuers and dozens more being carried away on stretchers. They disappeared at the edge of the screen. He glanced at a second monitor and saw the triage center, set up in the park a few blocks away. He turned back to the first screen. There were hundreds of soldiers carrying automatic weapons, but the majority seemed to be involved in the rescue effort.

  Surprisingly, the buildings surrounding the Zócalo did not appear to be damaged. But in the middle of the square, he saw the twisted metal of the stage and a half-dozen scorched vehicles, lying upside down or on their sides. Firefighters were dousing them with hoses; the steam and smoke rising into the sky.

  Richter noticed Jessica Williams by his side.

  “I just had a meeting with the embassy and with the CIA,” Williams said.

  Richter nodded, and she gave him a summary. The estimated number of casualties was staggering. The CIA was working on several theories for who was responsible for the bombing.

  “It’s possible that one of the leftist groups is behind this,” Williams continued. “Remember eight or nine years ago there were a series of attacks on gas pipelines and oil infrastructure?”

  Richter nodded. Unhappy with the last election and with claims of tampered ballots and voter fraud, a rebel group had carried out a series of attacks over the span of six months. No one had been killed and the movement had just as quickly dissolved. He frowned then noticed Williams was frowning too.

  “You don’t buy that,” he stated.

  Williams shook her head. “No, I don’t.” She paused, her eyes steady on his. “My gut tells me this was Pablo Guerrero.”

  The conversations around them suddenly died out, and Richter looked up as President Kendall entered the room. Behind him was Burt Phillips. The president stared at the screen for a second then turned to Richter.

  “Do we have any estimates?”

  Richter nodded, his face somber. “Very preliminary at this point.” He paused. “Mexican authorities estimate between one and two thousand people killed and another six to seven thousand wounded.”

  The president’s face went pale. He nodded slowly.

  “I have independent estimates from the embassy and from the CIA. They both support this.” Richter paused. “Preliminary analysis indicates some kind of plastic explosive, likely hidden somewhere near the stage.”

  The president gestured toward the screen and the still-smoking car frames. “Not a car bomb?”

  Richter shook his head then explained the analysis by the ATF. “They were caught in the blast. The fuel was likely ignited by live power cables or as a result of the explosion. ATF believes that a car bomb would have resulted in structural damage to surrounding buildings, and a much larger crater.” Richter nodded toward the screen. “The crowd absorbed the bulk of the blast. This was designed to maim and kill, not destroy buildings.”

  The president stared at the screen for a moment.

  “Mexico has instituted a no-fly zone over the city,” Richter continued. “Inbound flights are being turned around and rerouted. The FAA is working with them, and
we may need to handle the overflow along the border.”

  The president nodded.

  “Communication networks are swamped and can’t handle the volume,” Richter added. “They’re putting patches in place, but it’s likely some will fail. They’ve mobilized three army divisions, both for rescue and for security. They’ve indicated that they’re going to shut down the city.” He nodded to the screen. “And they’re going to need medical help.”

  “Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?”

  Richter shook his head.

  “But you have a hunch?” the president asked.

  Tight-lipped, Richter nodded. “Guerrero,” he said.

  The president glanced at the screen for a second then turned. “My first reaction too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “We need rescue personnel. We need medical personnel. We need doctors, nurses, whatever you can spare. We need medical supplies. And we need blood.” President Magaña’s voice sounded hollow.

  “I have two military transports with medical response as well as search and rescue teams,” President Kendall responded. “They’re in the air over Texas. I also have a FEMA team airborne. They’re waiting for my final instructions. I’ll send them immediately.”

  “Thank you, David.”

  “I’m also told that the Red Cross has been working on getting blood to you. We’ll do whatever we can to help them do that as soon as possible. We’re also mobilizing medical personnel from the private sector.”

  “Okay, we’ll take whatever you can send.” There was a pause. “I believe you have medical ships? Floating hospitals?”

  “Yes, we do,” Kendall responded after a moment. “But they’re both in port. I’ve ordered the USS Mercy to launch as soon as possible.” He glanced at Richter.

  Richter held up four fingers.

  “But the earliest they can sail is four days.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Filipe, but that’s the best I can do.”

  There was silence, then a long sigh. “I understand. I’ll take whatever help you can provide.”

  “I’m sorry it came to this, Felipe.”

  There was a pause on the line. “We knew something like this could happen, David, but what choice did we have?” There was another pause. “We can’t stop now.”

  It was a difficult decision, but the president knew that Magaña was right.

  “No, we can’t,” he said. He knew that if they did stop now, it would only get worse. He waited a second then asked, “What else, Filipe? What else do you need?”

  There was a long pause. “Your prayers, David. I need your prayers.”

  ___

  Pablo Guerrero stared at the TV as the announcer repeated again what little the authorities knew at the moment. President Magaña had declared a state of emergency, and Mexico City was virtually shut down as travel was restricted to rescue and recovery efforts. This was required, the announcer said, as authorities struggled to handle the casualties. When hospitals in the center of the city, near the Zócalo, were overrun, those injured were being transported to other facilities all across the sprawling city.

  The death count, the announcer said, now stood at thirteen hundred killed and eighty-two hundred injured. Many of those who perished or were wounded had been on the periphery of the square and had been hurt not by the bomb, but by the stampede that had followed as the panicked crowd fled the area.

  Authorities were aggressively pursuing leads, the announcer said, as the screen showed masked soldiers and police storming a compound in the southern state of Chiapas. However, no one had yet claimed responsibility. It was old news footage, Guerrero realized, from a raid last year. Cheap theatrics by the media, or more likely, he thought, government propaganda intending to show that they were aggressively pursuing those responsible. He turned off the TV and stood. There was no need for him to claim responsibility. The government knew who was behind this.

  Two minutes later, after he changed his clothes—donning a peasant’s work shirt, pants, and boots, the wide brim of the hat pulled low over his face—he stepped outside into the bright sunshine and followed the path past the pool and around the house. He had let his guard down. It was clear now that the government had been aware of his ranch and had been watching him for some time. And now Carolina was dead.

  When he passed the stables, he didn’t look up at the black mare on the other side of the ring. His wife had left him, more bitter and angry at him than at the government and the soldiers who had stolen their daughter. Still, he had taken care of her, made sure that she was safe. At the same time, he had quietly leaked word that they had both fled the ranch and, fearing for their own security, were now in hiding. But he would never leave.

  He opened the metal gate and stepped gingerly across the recently disturbed soil. He took a deep breath and laid his hand on the marble cross, still hot below the fading sun. A single tear ran down his cheek. Thirteen hundred deaths, he thought as he wiped it away. That didn’t even come close.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Patty tried the phone again, frustrated but not surprised when it went to voice mail. She didn’t leave a message. Matthew was probably huddled with the president at the moment, consumed, she guessed, by the crisis in Mexico City.

  She had spoken to him last night, or rather, she reminded herself, early in the morning. Still at work, he had sounded tired. She had told him about the students, about the seven Princeton kids who were in Mexico City for a semester. She only knew one of them, an outspoken and outgoing young lady named Christina that had been in her International Relations class two years ago. With communication networks swamped, the university still didn’t know whether Christina and the other students were safe. Matthew had promised to pass the students’ names on to embassy officials.

  She told herself to be patient, to wait for him to call, knowing that it wouldn’t likely be until late at night again. She turned to the TV in her office. The images on the screen and the announcer’s description were horrible. But she knew that what Matthew was looking at was probably worse. With the satellites, the intelligence agencies, and who knew what else he had access to, he would know far more than the news announcer. And he had sounded pretty grim last night. She hoped he would call again that evening. Even though he was only a few hours away and she knew he was okay, it would be reassuring just to hear his voice. She let out a breath. He’s extremely busy and he will call when he has a chance, she told herself again.

  The images on TV triggered something in her brain and she spun her chair to the computer on the credenza behind her desk. She pressed a few keys. After a few minutes, she found what she wanted. She glanced back at the TV and then at her watch. Only forty-five minutes until her next class. If she hurried, she thought, she might make it. She turned back to her computer and started typing, forgetting the lecture she had planned for today. Instead, she thought as she began to cut and paste, she would talk about the use of violence as a political tool.

  ___

  Guerrero studied the face on the screen. The American president was standing behind the podium, facing a room full of reporters.

  “Scott,” he said, pointing to the man from ABC.

  “Mr. President, do we have troops in Mexico?” the reporter asked.

  Guerrero leaned forward, staring at the TV.

  The president shook his head. “We do not have any combat troops in Mexico.”

  There were numerous shouts.

  “But we have troops,” the reporter persisted.

  “We have national guardsman in Mexico City—primarily medical personnel and search and recovery teams—as part of a humanitarian effort to provide relief and medical assistance in the wake of the bombing. We also have specialized teams such as the Army Signal Corps, which is working with the Mexican government to reestablish communication networks. In addition, FEMA has sent people to assist in recovery efforts, and the FBI and the ATF have sent teams, at Mexico’s request, to assist in the investigation.”

 
There were more shouts, attempts to get the president’s attention. He pointed to another reporter. “Gretchen.”

  “Sir, over the last two or three months, there has been a significant increase in Mexican police and military activity directed at the cartels. A number of cartel leaders have been killed, allegedly by covert sniper teams. Has the U.S. played a role in this?”

  Guerrero’s eyes narrowed.

  “The bombing in Mexico City,” the president said, “is a frightening reminder of the stranglehold that the cartels have on Mexican society. And, frankly, we must share the blame. Our growing demand for drugs, our inconsistent policies, our unwillingness to commit the funds needed to deal with this problem, our inability to police our borders, our focus on prohibition here while, in essence, treating the cartel problem as Mexico’s worry, our lack of focus on education, treatment, and recovery programs,” the president paused and waved his hand, “all of these things have contributed to the problem.” He shook his head. “We can no longer turn a blind eye to what’s happening south of our border.”

  The American president, Guerrero noted with a scowl, had evaded the question.

  There were more shouts, and the president pointed to another reporter.

  “There have been unconfirmed reports” the woman said, “that the U.S. has been indirectly involved in these recent conflicts. Some say directly involved. Would you care to comment, sir?”

  The president’s eyes narrowed. “Make no mistake about this. The cartels are terrorist organizations. This is something that deeply concerns us. Not only does it present a threat to Mexico, it presents a threat to us and to the world community. Consequently, we continue to work closely with President Magaña and with the Mexican government on this issue. But unlike our approach several years ago, we do not have covert teams operating in Mexico.”