The Montevideo Game

by J E Higgins

  The true rallying cry that had them all gathered quietly at the far end of the Jewish Community Center was the thought of little Myra. She hadn’t even wanted to be involved in this. They had, to their thinking, practically bullied her into it. Now, she had died right along with the Rabbi. What lingered strongly in their minds was the image of her when she had been found. It was Gold and some of the others who had walked in on the ghastly display left by Mendoza’s men. The Rabbi had been torched and carved up as if by a butcher slicing meat for market. But the sprawled corpse of the little teenage volunteer, her face bruised to a dark black, her panties ripped off, and the pool of blood that had formed from between her legs made it all too apparent what savagery had befallen her.

  It was a vision that none of them could get out of their minds. The Guardians had done this to her when they failed to kill the Cuban. He had been allowed to retaliate. It was an act that had to see justice done. Not justice by the police but justice directly from the Old Testament.

  None were as hurt as Gold. He had been the leader, the instigator, the one who had pushed Myra into this. As he sat there ruminating, his mind was on one thing ─ he would make this right. The Jewish cause must still be fought for, but Elloy Mendoza was going to die this time around.

  After nearly three years of continuous missions around the world Captain Rafael Tobrega could appreciate the quiet, despite the long drive and abject boredom. There amongst the farmlands that lined the West Uruguay countryside he was free to let his mind focus on more relaxing thoughts. He was no longer in the wilds of Africa chasing insurgents in service of whatever peacekeeping mission the politicians felt the need to embroil him in. The tension of having to keep fully alert at all times for the unseen enemy was not burning him out.

  Yes, there had been the reports he had heard of radical guerrillas terrorizing the place. But, he had felt that such things were often overblown. And regardless, everything seemed to be in the city, not much to talk about in the countryside accept for a few police stations, possibly. Besides, he rationalized, a military transport was a much harder target than a casino or a muddling politician.

  Leaned back in the passenger seat of the military humvee that led the four-vehicle convoy, Captain Tobrega watched out the side window to try and capture the last bit of scenery before the last haze of sunlight finally vanished. Next to him, driving, was a nineteen-year-old private. He didn’t have a chance to catch the young soldier’s name before they had taken off from base. And so far, the relation had remained entirely silent between them. The captain could see, even in the fading light, that the soldier was nervous and probably dying to have some form of conversation. He seemed the type, by the captain’s estimates, who would have a serious social life. The captain didn’t budge, between his missions and his artistic love of scenery, he just didn’t have any want to open the door to idle small talk.

  It was fortunate, that the dirt road they drove on had been freshly smoothed and was thus free of the usual potholes, dips and blankets of rocks that made most journeys so unpleasant. As an added benefit the roads were also mostly out in open country as opposed to the narrower, and often, treacherous ways through jungles and forests. It seemed like a ready-made package for the war wherry captain.

  “Ah sir.” The young driver quietly spoke as he reached over to shake his commander. Turning his attentions from the window, the captain found himself looking at the boney frame of his driver.

  “What is it?” The captain asked half yawning.

  “Up ahead, sir.” The driver replied, pointing his finger forward.

  Turning his attentions, now out the windshield, the captain grumbled as he observed what looked to be flashing lights of police vehicles not far up the road.

  “As if I thought this was going to be an easy job.” The captain muttered under his breath. “Keep pressing forward.” He commanded as he reached for the radio affixed on the dash board and called back to the trailing convoy vehicles to alert them.

  Nearing the flashing lights, the captain was now able to see a collection of police cars half circled around an auto accident. To the dismay of the soldiers the accident seemed to consist of a giant hauling truck half fallen into a ditch, with the rest heaved out over the road. Whatever road was not barricaded by the mammoth vehicle, had been covered by a blue Mitsubishi van. From the look of the scene Together the two formed a perfect herring bone configuration that made it impossible to bypass.

  Two uniformed police stood guard ahead of the scene. One of them, who appeared in the headlight, to be the senor of the two, raised his hand motioning the convoy to stop. Instinctively, the driver slowed the vehicle in response. However, he continued to let it idle forward awaiting orders from his superior.

  The captain motioned the driver to completely stop and put on the breaks. Having done so the driver gripped the steering wheel while the captain jumped out and started for the police. With nothing but vehicle lights to provide any vision, the soldier was stuck looking at two complete silhouettes that were slowly approaching. Coming to within arm’s reach Captain Tobrega extended his arm to the closest policeman. It was reciprocated as the policeman extended his own.

  “How long do you think this will all take to clear?” Tobrega asked.

  “Difficult to say.” The policeman responded as he looked back behind him to see the wreckage. “We just cleared the casualties a little while ago and are waiting for a tow truck to come move this.”

  The captain scratched his chin as he sighed with exasperation. In his semi-lucid state, he had neglected to notice that the policeman’s accent was not native to the region. He started back to the Humvee and had only walked a few steps when the booming sound of an explosion echoed loudly and nearly took him to the ground. Looking up the captain watched in horror as the last vehicle of his convoy turned into a roaring ball of flames. He had no time to react before another explosion erupted with a loud thunderous roar.

  It was the exhaustion and somber state of mind the veteran soldier had allowed himself to fall into that he was not able to react with his usually honed instincts and conditioned skills. It was seconds, that felt like hours, that he seemed locked in a state of confusion. By now the earth-shattering sounds of explosions had since been replaced with the all too familiar sound of gunfire. Only it wasn’t a few shots popping off erratically, as what he had tended to come across in his missions in Africa. This time, it wasn’t random, it was a barrage of concentrated gunfire that could be heard clanking against mettle as if pierced the remain vehicles of the convoy.

  With his combat senses returned the captain turned immediately back to the police, who he presumed to be the most immediate fighting force available. Pivoting in a complete about-face he opened his mouth to begin giving orders when he saw a gun clutched in the hands of the policeman he had just been talking to. Two shots fired from the cop’s gun in rapid succession. Both hit directly in his chest, cutting straight into his heart. The shock had not reached him yet as he started forward. His mind slowly wrapping around what had just happened to him.

  Venzuelo Zamora, had seen it many times during his years with the ELN. Gunshots never bring people down right away. He was not at all phased by the Uruguayan soldier he just shot continuing to walk towards him as if nothing had happened. Nor was he at all confused by the soldier failing to draw his weapon and continuing to speak to him about the attack going on without registering the betrayal. A short time later, the soldier reached within touching distance of Zamora before he dropped to his knees and then crumpled completely to the ground.

  By now, what was left of the convoy, was engulfed in either flames from rocket propelled grenades. Or being torn to shreds by the blanket of gunfire coming from a small clump of bushes some little ways off to the side and now from the supposed wreckage on the road. Venzuelo Zamora held back with the force that took up positions amongst the wreckage and shouted commands to his forces. Watching how coordinated his students were as they maneuvered, used controlled wel
l aimed bursts and keeping in concert with each other, he felt a sense of pride at how well he had trained them.

  Bullets buzzed about as they tore through the light mettle sheeting of the Humvee. The private was now curled up in a ball just underneath the steering wheel. Tears poured from his eyes as he froze in paralyzed fear. He had been in the army less than eight months. When he joined, he had thoughts of getting away from his small village, getting some job training he could take to the city and if lucky see some of the world beyond rural South America. He had never really considered that he would actually ever be in combat. His whole body began to shake as he realized his commander was not coming back, the gunfire and explosions weren’t stopping. Outside he could hear the screams of the other soldiers, the ones still alive. They were feebly calling out for help, intermingled with the occasional attempt of someone trying to shout orders to respond. But nothing was happening no one managed to successfully take charge and retaliate.

  The attack lasted all of ten minutes before all gunfire fell silent. Venzuelo Zamora, observing the situation called for his forces in the bushes to hold fast as he dispatched a team from the wreckage group to move up on the remains of the convoy. With guns up at the ready, a team of ten assaulters began moving forward. Clearing the cover of the wrecked vehicles they moved forward in a line in a tactical bound, with every other person moving a few feet forward stopping, dropping to a knee and keeping cover on the convoy while the next line moved ahead of them. They continued this relay until they were at the front of the first vehicle in the convoy.

  Carefully they moved forward in pairs of two aiming at an angle so as not to hit each other with cross fire. Behind each gunman was a second hold a flashlight looking into the cab. They were quick to find the teary eyed private sunk down under the steering wheel. In shock, he seemed unaware that he had been shot as the assaulters quickly saw the pool of blood he was soaking in. Two bullets were fired into by the closest gunman, who without second thought led everyone on to the next in the convoy.

  Zamora listened, from his vantage point, to the combination of his people speaking to each other and the random shots fired when they found survivors. The Colombian nodded with satisfaction. His training had paid off. His natural instinctive disdain he held for any government soldiers made the killings feel more like vindication than murder.

  The assaulters had been eager to engage the military after they had heard about the attacks carried out by the retaliatory group the Soldiers of Retribution. These terror attacks were carried out against the workers of Uruguay, the people Zamora’s students were fighting for. What was made worse was when articles from recently formed underground newspapers asserted that this new vigilante group was an instrument propped up by the army to inflict retribution and intimidation as the response.

  When the recruits at the camp were afforded this information, they were livid and demanded revenge. What was not known to anyone was that the mysterious underground newspaper saying this was being bankrolled from secretive accounts controlled by foreign business interest under Selena de Alvarez.

  Chapter 30

  It had been a long and excruciating process going through the plethora of documents seized at the camp. Somehow, between the Israelis, Plūcker, and the Negress, they managed to discover a trove of information. A treasure of regional news sources from around lower South America followed. There was a flood of stories discussing the rash of violence plaguing the tiny country of Uruguay.

  Now, sitting in the back office of Plūcker’s bar, Dayan and the old katsa were beside themselves. The information outlined a broad and intricate plot. From the sources acquired, it was obvious this operation was already well underway. The situation was made even more disturbing by the recent reports about the assassination of Rabbi Kovinski and the attack on Guardian Angel Intelligence. It was all too convenient to think the two incidents were disconnected from the current operation. So, the question remained ─ what to do next?

  Cohen sat somberly in his chair contemplating their next move. Plūcker and Dayan reread some of the reports and documents in an attempt to glean some gem that would offer an idea. But it was obvious the enemy had established themselves and were carrying out their operation. Furthermore, their chief intelligence sources had virtually been eliminated, most likely by the Iranians. They were flying blind and, more than likely had targets on their backs. The elephant in the room that no one asked about but was on all their minds: How badly have they been exposed?

  “As I see it,” the old katsa broke the silence as he rose to his feet and began pacing. “We have to assume the Iranians know someone is onto them. We left no trace of who we are with the GAI, and I would argue that Kovinski would have never cooperated. If anything, he would have given misleading information to the enemy.”

  “We don’t know what was obtained at the GAI headquarters,” Dayan interjected, as he lay sprawled across a nearby couch. “Ms. Rios has no loyalty to us but was very protective of her people. She wouldn’t hesitate to give up information on us if a gun was put to her head. Especially, if she blames us for putting her in this situation.” The commando rubbed his forehead. “Realistically, even if she didn’t give up anything, we still don’t know what was salvaged from the raid on her office. I mean, I know they have me on at least one and possibly more high definition security cameras. For all we know, Rios, as a precaution, might have been trailing us too. And, if those files exist...?”

  “Well, nobody’s here right now,” Plūcker interrupted. “It’s a safe bet they haven’t found too much. And given what I’ve heard about the degree of wreckage, it’s doubtful they’ll really find anything.”

  “Plūcker’s right. We have to assume that since we’re in the same city, they would have been here by now if they had anything, so we also should assume we are safe and should continue our operation,” Cohen added, noting that Plūcker wore a hard, contemplative frown. Dayan tapped his thumbs across his chest. He was staring up at the ceiling. Realizing the old man’s gaze demanded a response, Dayan finally rolled his head to look at Cohen and gave a reluctant nod of approval. His people were on board to continue the mission.

  “What is our next step?” Dayan asked. He untangled himself from the cushion, slid off the couch and stood up.

  Cohen, at the same time, sunk back into his chair, rubbing his chin. “I have documents and proof of our initial fear that we have an Iranian presence and mission. We can send this to our embassies in South America. However, it’s all too general, and diplomatic pressure takes time, especially if we have to wait for the Israel Foreign Ministry to be briefed, decide on a course of action, and issue instructions. Even then, it would be doubtful our country alone would have the clout to affect any outcome. We can’t assume any other countries would be inclined to move on this issue.”

  “So, we’re back to the dealing with it ourselves scenario,” Dayan cut in with clear exasperation, “which ultimately means some highly illegal and totally unsanctioned missions into a sovereign nation and possibly killing political figures.”

  “I understand your concern lad,” Plūcker sympathized. “But, sometimes nasty things have to be done for the good of the cause. I mean back during the Troubles in Ulster, when I was with the LVF, we often had to do unpleasant things for the right outcome.”

  “Spare me your Loyalist rationalization for how you justified it,” Dayan was adamant. “It’s the same rationalization every terrorist uses when they do heinous things. And that’s what these are, heinous actions. I’m not a terrorist. I’m a soldier, and I like having boundaries when I operate.”

  “You killed plenty of people during your services for Sheyret 13,” Cohen interjected. “I killed terrorists. I killed enemy soldiers. I killed hostiles in a complex battlefield. But I kept it to hostiles. I didn’t go around killing politicians because they were crooked. I just don’t like playing God.”

  “What would you suggest then?” The old katsa asked quietly, open to alternate suggestions. Ev
eryone in the room knew there were none.

  Despite his evangelizing, Dayan realized that as well. Walking around the room, he clicked his teeth and made a full circle before speaking. “The problem that we have is to identify our chief targets. We don’t know if the Iranians reached out to numerous people or just one who is possibly building a network on their own. It means the difference between eliminating a few over several.”

  “I doubt the Iranians recruited more than one,” Cohen said. “They would not risk exposure trying to recruit and build a network. This is not the Middle-East. It is not familiar territory where they have had years of established connections. They are operating in a largely foreign world; they must tread lightly. It makes sense they would conduct studies and target a person with great care. They would have to keep their recruitment small and pointed. Either they would carefully choose a single individual with influence in all the right spots to obtain the needed outcome or, at the most, a very small handful of people.”

  Dayan thumped his hands against his chest. “In the end, we don’t know. Until we figure out who Iran’s chief guy is, we can’t investigate him to get the whole picture.”

  “Perhaps we might,” Plūcker interjected.

  The Israelis turned to face the Irishman, who was eyeing a printout from an Uruguay newspaper. Plūcker raised the article he’d seen. “I’ve been noticing a pattern here. It would seem that certain demands have been voiced for the Uruguay president to declare some form of Martial Law.”

  “That would be expected, considering the panic created from all the violence,” Cohen replied.

  “True,” the Irishman said. “But, I’ve kinda been noticing, as I read some of these articles, that a certain name keeps appearing in favor of this action. He is a member of their Parliament named Oskar Straudner. Apparently, he’s a member of the Partido Nacional or National Party ─ the country’s leading rightwing political party.”