by J E Higgins
Martin Derry leaned back in a wicker chair nursing a small glass of some sort of alcoholic beverage produced by the locals. He watched the recruits take the weapons. He nodded with a sense of accomplishment. In the last few weeks, the Irishman had been quite busy between carrying out the revolution in Montevideo and teaching the recruits in the urban warfare portion of their training.
Watching the Contessa walk toward him, the Irishman declined to stand up. Instead, he offered her a small bottle of whatever he was currently drinking. Pursing his lips and wrinkling his nose indicated he didn’t like the indigenous brew very much. With a slight wave, she politely declined. Derry set his glass aside and turned to his employer.
“They look quite good,” she opened. “Will they be able to operate at the high level you have set in the last few weeks of your campaign?” She was referring to the recent attacks Derry had conducted at the casino, Parliament, and the assassination of the political strategist. In the last few weeks, he had also bombed a police precinct, headquarters of a major South American bank, and assassinated the CEO of one of Uruguay’s largest shipping firms.
“They won’t have to.” The Irishman responded after swallowing another gulp of his libation. “By now everyone is on full alert and expecting an attack. That means the next stage will be multiple attacks and smaller targets forcing them to have to spread their resources thinner and showing them the true vulnerability of their situation.”
The Contessa nodded ─ she was impressed with his plan. She had obviously chosen well by recruiting Mr. Derry. Despite his hard features and working-class demeanor, he was every bit the man he was reputed to be ─ he was a tough, an intelligent operator, and a good strategist.
“So, what is the next step?” the Contessa pressed.
“Divide them up with the bulk staying in the countryside and send a third to the city. We will carry out a series of small attacks in key locations designed to get the general masses nervous: mid-size businesses, police stations, and middle-class neighborhoods. When you get the middle and upper class in a state of unrest, it will force some drastic action. About the time they start sewing up the city and cracking down on the ghettos and working districts, which is a natural reaction to assume the poor are the culprits, then it will be time for the countryside to erupt into wild violence. Violence, by my good Colombian friends, will be directed against the plantation owners and security elements.”
“Long-term, the wealthy of the country will be in a state of panic and looking for extreme responses to all the violence,” the Contessa stated as she evaluated the plan laid out by the Irish mercenary.
Chapter 22
The Guardians of Israel were huddled in a tight little circle at the far end of the local coffee shop a few blocks from the Jewish center. Solomon Cabriza Gold, a tall young man with broad shoulders, sat at the center ─ the recognized leader. With all eyes on him, he was hunched with his chin resting on the bridge created by his folded hands and stabilized by his elbows nestled into the meat of his thighs. His attention was fixed on Myra, the young girl who had smuggled the information on Elloy Mendoza from the Rabbi’s office.
“Are you sure?” His voice was cold and deep, intimidating.
Myra examined the man interrogating her. He was well portioned with sculpted biceps that protruded nicely from under his tight-fitting black T-shirt. His face was like a chiseled picture set on an oval-shaped canvas. Solomon Gold could easily have been a magazine model with his looks, but just as easily, he could be an enforcer for a crime family with the way he could look at someone and intimidate them completely.
She tried hard to avoid his ice-cold gaze. “I am positive. I was outside the door listening the whole time.” She was struggling to keep from hyperventilating as she felt her nerves start to give way. “The katsa specifically mentioned this man.” She pointed to the small piece of paper on which she had written the name. It was now clenched in Gold’s fists. Gold expressed to the Rabbi the danger Mendoza posed and the importance of finding him. “Apparently, he is in league with the Iranians.”
Gold, at last, took his gaze off the nervous young girl and began looking at the young men in attendance. They were a good group, in their late teens and early twenties. Every one of them was athletically built. Best of all, they were hungry for a fight. They now had a chance to aid the Jewish cause and fight the enemy of their people.
“He’s right here in Buenos Aires, and we can get him,” Gold thought out loud with the deliberate purpose of opening a dialogue.
“He is a target that’s within our means to take for Israel!” Another young man exclaimed excitedly.
The group nodded their heads agreeing with his statement. It was a sign they finally had a mission their group had been seeking.
All eyes returned to Gold ─ anxiously anticipating his decision. Dismissing Myra with a wave, everyone waited for the young lady to take her leave. It was now a conversation for men. Action was called for. When she had left the room, Gold turned to the assembled group. “A katsa, an agent of Israel, considers this man a threat. What’s more, he is a threat from Iran! The katsa may have to move quietly to do something about this Cuban, but we do not!”
The attendants were all now on the edge of their seats as they fed off their leader’s energy.
“I will not let those fucking terrorists kill or threaten more Jewish lives; especially here in our own home. We will not let another community center be bombed, and we will not mourn over our loved ones again! I say we kill this Mendoza bastard ourselves and strike a blow against Iran.”
As he predicted, his speech met with resounding effect as the other men began pounding their fists against their seats.
Major Essouri could not deny being impressed. Looking through the small window of what served as Akim’s office, he watched the Lebanese recruits navigate the series of obstacles on the erected course while others moved through the various buildings practicing for urban warfare. Though they were residents of small mountain villages, they negotiated the buildings of the training site almost like professionals.
“A few battalions of men such as these,” the small Iranian shook his head as he turned and started toward his larger colleague, “and we could just go ahead and invade this country, coup d’état be damned.”
Akim was already settled comfortably in a worn roller chair that had been inexplicably procured for his office. Folding his hands under his chin, he distantly looked at his colleague while staring out the window. “They are turning into a crack team of soldiers all right.” His focus was now directed entirely toward the window. “I wait with excitement to test them out.”
Essouri nodded as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “We seem to be building a fine structure of an army out there. Honestly, the idea of working with that rather despicable character we are planning to put into power does not sit well with me.”
“But we need him nonetheless,” a voice interjected in accented Farsi. Both men turned to see the silhouetted figure of Nouri al’Marak Surriman. Dressed in his usual attire, tan slacks, and a white cotton shirt, he contrasted greatly with the camouflage adorned Iranians standing before him, especially since he was now sporting a white Panama hat.
Surriman stepped in further from the doorway. “I just came back from my visit to the village.”
“Do you have an update on the status of our weapons?” Akim spoke up.
Grabbing a wooden chair and flipping it around, Surriman sunk down into it resting his arms over the back. “They have over half the order finished. I can say that I have inspected the finished arsenal stock and tested a few random pieces myself. I can also tell you they look like the real thing and operate with the same quality.”
Both Iranians cracked smiles and rejoiced at the news. “So, is there any question of the variety?” Essouri asked trying to contain his excitement.
Taking a deep breath, Surriman shook his head. “Not so far. The short stock M-4’s look like perfect replicas of the America
n variety. The short barrel compact AKMS-74s of Russian vintage could just as easily have come from the Russian army. Presuming that most of the operation would be centered in built-up urban areas, Surriman and his handlers wanted to keep the majority of the rifles at 5.56 caliber. In the early stages, we had trouble with lettering. The first batch contained Spanish writing for the markings, the second was in Arabic. It took the third batch to finally get the English markings and Russian acrylics on them. Having no experienced translators, I had to work to overcome that hurdle.”
“And now?” Major Akim asked impatiently.
With a slight nod, Surriman raised his eyes and looked from one side to the other. “Now everything is fine. The weapons will all look like they came directly from a US arsenal or Russian factory directly to you.”
Both Iranians sighed a breath of relief. “Did you bring a specimen back for our review?” Akim asked.
“No,” Surriman replied. “An American made military assault rifle was not something I was going to risk taking across the border. It was dangerous enough if it was an obvious surplus from the cold war. But modernized armaments were guaranteed to be reported to domestic intelligence if discovered by an honest and experienced border guard. So, no, I didn’t. But I do understand your need for personal verification. Which is why I arranged the first shipment early, early enough so that you can conduct your own tests. If you discover any problems, we can rectify them before the next shipment comes.”
“How did you manage that?” Essouri asked.
Waving his hand as if gathering his words, Surriman said, “The first shipment will be small. Thirty-to-forty weapons consisting of samples of all the types specified. If the weapons meet your approval, then the second shipment will be larger. Because I can vouch for the quality, the rest will be stockpiled with markings and specific identifiers left off so we can make the necessary markings. If you have problems with more than the markings, I have already taken the precaution of reaching out to a few other neighboring villages that also specialize in this industry. I don’t like risking a greater chance of a security breach, but they will be able to make up the time and keep the supply on schedule.”
Essouri and Akim glanced at each other. They had recruited the right man for this mission. Surriman pressed further into the spine of the chair as he eyed the two Iranians. “The next step? I’m presuming we are ready to start coordinating it?”
The two majors looked at each other for a moment and gave a mutual nod. “We start preparing now for the movement portion of the plan,” Essouri replied.
Chapter 23
The two young radicals displayed a mixture of feelings ranging from giddy excitement at their first opportunity to act for the revolution to dismay that it hardly presented the hoped-for challenge. The police station was little more than a group of small adobe and wood buildings built closely together. The structures had been joined to create a single building by making a few carpentry adjustments. Aside from a metal chain-link fence, the building had little security.
Carefully, they drove closer. Their vehicle, a white Toyota van, hardly looked ominous as it continued along the road adjacent to the police compound. Based on their intelligence, the security and vigilance were lax if not to say non-existent. The front of the gate was completely open without any guards posted. Driving slowly past the compound there were only three older, pot-bellied policemen standing outside having a smoke.
“Are you ready Marcia?” the male radical asked his female partner. Taking a deep breath, Marcia nodded her head slightly. Her pale skin tone and nervous facial expression left her male partner feeling somewhat skeptical. But this late, both his question and reservations were completely irrelevant.
“Right there,” Marcia said as the van neared a gentle rise by some bushes. The man said nothing, nodding his agreement. The van was already moving slow enough to not make anyone suspicious. Seizing the small bag Marcia had sitting on the floor between her legs, she flung open the passenger side door and leaped out into the night. The van pressed on at the same slow speed.
Darkness was the perfect cover. She was dressed entirely in black, her presence went completely unnoticed as she slowly crawled up behind the berm. Once safely behind her cover, she opened her bag and produced a WASR Rumanian made AK-47 long-barrel assault rifle. Resting the weapon against the berm, she reached into the bag again and produced two fully charged banana magazines. Tucking one magazine in her belt, with the open end covered by her black sweatshirt, she carefully felt for the magazine slot of her rifle. The sweat dripping from her brow didn’t help as she struggled to not give herself away while she carefully worked in the darkness. ‘I have done this before’, she told herself as she struggled to remain calm.
Finally, she felt the magazine slide into the housing and heard the slight click locking it into place. An immense sense of relief came over her. She crawled her way up the berm until she could peek over the top and see the police barracks not more than fifty meters away. Placing her rifle into a firing position, she sighted on the light hanging over the door. The steel sights were not ideal for night shooting, but scopes could easily lose their zero with rough movement. She had not really mastered their use.
Luckily, two of the three pot-bellied cops were still standing out front which gave her a good reference point. Aligning the front sight post with the rear aperture, she sighted on one of the figures.
Meanwhile, her male accomplice pulled off the road stopping short of the tree line. Exiting the vehicle, he rounded the side and inched into the darkened corner. A passerby would simply assume he was a driver relieving himself. He calmly viewed the police barracks. The side closest to him had a fenced-in perimeter where a few patrol vehicles were kept locked up. Deciding all was well, the man edged to the back of his van. Cracking open one of the doors, he slid out a long, blue canvas bag. Slipping back to the side of the vehicle, he laid the canvas down and began unrolling it. Soon he was looking at the outline of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Unwrapping another small canvased bundle, he produced a small rocket.
He began fixing the rocket into place. When it was adjusted correctly, he stepped several feet away from his vehicle. He had seen and felt the back blast of a rocket enough times to be leery and was able to find enough darkened space to ensure he would not be immediately noticed. Taking careful aim, he sighted in the weapon. Because he was looking at a broad target, he was not too concerned with precision. Lowering slowly to one knee, he steadied himself.
The jolt of the rocket being fired was strong, but not nearly as strong as the fury of the back blast. The raging heat and sheer force created an overwhelming sensation. He watched as the rocket spiraled wildly toward its target. Moments later, the side of the police station exploded in a giant fireball.
Leaping to his feet, he quickly ran back to his vehicle. The blast had created its intended effect. Inside, one could hear the shouts of men crying out in Spanish as they struggled to understand what was going on and to carry out orders to evacuate the building.
Marcia was waiting when the front doors of the station burst open, discharging a flood of policemen and administrators scrambling to escape. Crowded together in a frenzy, they were oblivious when rounds of gunfire from across the way tore into them.
Marcia still had the porch lights to guide her, but it was the incessant cries of the evacuating people that she focused on. Careful not to overexert, she fired four to five round bursts maneuvering her weapon a few centimeters side to side to better capture the changing patterns. She had finished with her first thirty round magazine and was in the process of reloading when someone shouted. “My God! They are dead! They are dead!”
Marcia realized her targets had been noticed by the others.
More shouts came.
“We are being shot at!”
“Where is the shooting coming from?”
“I don’t know! I think from across the way!”
Deciding it was better to hold off for the mom
ent, she waited quietly. Her wait was not long. Soon she heard gunfire coming from a different direction. As planned, her accomplice had begun redirecting their attention. The police, confused and scared, were hard pressed to know what to do, and the screams continued.
When the shooting stopped, and the police focused on the tree line away from her, Marcia began shooting again. The shouts and the blurry outline of silhouettes were enough. Using four to five round bursts again, conserving her ammunition, she finished the magazine and slid backward. By now, the police had scattered, dashing into the barracks or running down the road taking their chances that they were not surrounded.
It was difficult to see how many they had killed, but the point had been made. The micro terrain helped her stay out of sight while she carefully maneuvered her way to the road in the direction her accomplice had gone. The sound of his occasional gunfire guided her to his location. In the distance, she could hear the terrified screams of the frantic people as they ran around in a chaotic frenzy.
The revolution was on.
He was impressed. That was what Kafka Dayan thought the first time he glanced at the collection of information the office of Guardian Angel Intelligence presented to him. Alyssa Rios had sat erect in her cushioned chair directly across from him and passed to him a wealth of additional information. She had pictures of convoys ─ mysterious trucks moving in the dark hours of the morning ─ and meticulous notes documenting timelines of vehicle movements, activities, and other pertinent information taken by her surveillance team.