The three Anglos still stood by the door of the mini-market when Salvitor walked out after recovering his change for the gas he had purchased. The afternoon sun cut across the roof of the small chain store, illuminating the white men's faces but leaving the lower portions of their bodies in a dark shadow. One, shorter and much older than the other two, had muttered insults at Salvitor, when he first passed by them to entered the store. Salvitor had glanced at his three companions standing near their car, as if to remind the whte men he wasn't alone, glared at the short Anglo and then ignored him.
That was impossible now because the American, who wore his graying brown hair down to his shoulders, was standing in Salvitor's way, refusing to let him pass. Glaring had been a mistake, Salvitor knew, but he couldn't act like a stupid peasant and pretend not to understand English, no matter how hard he tried.
The little man, who was little only in comparison with Salvitor's six and a half feet, stepped in front of him again, when he tried to edge past. After a few moments in which the American stared up at Salvtor's clean shaven face, he said, "He is a proud one, isn't he, guys."
One of the two young men standing to Salvitor's right, cackled with glee. "Sure is, Dean. I bet he's got one or two senoritas in his casa."
Attempting an ingratiating smile that was only patronizing, Salvitor said, "Por favor, Se–or, tu hablas espa–ol? Yo, no entiendo ~inglese."
"Bullshit!" muttered Dean, as he continued to stare at Salvitor's face.
There was nothing very remarkable about the Mexican's appearance, especially considering the mini-market's location on the edge of the Imperial valley at the southern end of California. Many men who looked like Salvitor, regularly passed by this "Last Chance for Gas, Next 60 miles" every day. He was dressed as they usually were, a pair of slacks, an open collared shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing a silver chain that lay in in a ruff of dark chest hair. Salvitor's companions, who were watching with extreme attention, were dressed in a similar manner; one wore a slightly greasy summer baseball cap with a John Deer patch on its front.
"What you got to be so proud about, wet-back?" Dean asked quietly.
"Por favor, Se–or. Yo no entendo."
"Bullshit, I say again. You understood me perfectly well when I called you a wet-back." Stepping closer to Salvitor, and emphasizing each word by poking Salvitor in the chest with his finger, "Has bean on the brain caused you to forget how to hablo ~inglese?"
His black eyes flashing as he once more attempted to control his voice, Salvitor said, "No hablo ~inglese. Por Favor, con tu permiso ..." and again attempted to step around the smaller man. Suddenly he realized that the American and possibly both of the younger men were reeking with beer.
The shorter man reached down to his boot, pulled out a shiney hunting knife, and attempted to slash Salvitor's abdomen in one swift motion as the Mexican attempted to pass. Catching a flash of sunlight off of the blade in the corner of his eye, Salvitor desperately grabbed for Dean's slashing arm. Stopping the blade, inches in front of his face after receiving a cut to his left bicep, Salvitor grunted from the effort as he attempted to keep his holds on the American's right wrist and his throat. Both men shifted and strained, moving in a complete circle almost as if in some strange dance. A frozen moment passed in which both groups of companions stared stupidly at their friends' struggle.
Both young Americans shouted at the same time. The one who had spoken earlier, said, "Cut his Mex ass, Dean!"
The other attempted to step in behind his friend, while yelling, "What the fuck are you doing Dean?"
The men traveling with Salvitor moved as one, jerking open the tailgate of their station wagon and began desperately ripping open containers, carelessly spilling foam packing beads onto the parking lot.
Thinking that his adversary might be distracted by the other American's efforts to stop the fight, Salvitor attempted to kick Dean's instep. But Dean was paying more attention to Salvitor and the knife than to his friend's futile efforts to separate them. Dean tried to pull Salvitor and himself over onto the sidewalk but Salvitor stepped into the move and nearly reversed the knife into Dean's neck. Neither had gained in his efforts to trick the other and they moved around one another again, each attempting to impose his own will on the knife.
The struggle continued for a few moments more as Salvitor forced Dean to stop circling. Absently, Salvitor registered the loud mouthed American's scream of alarm when Dean hesitated for a moment and cast a glance behind himself. When the American realized that he was staring directly into the barrel of a nine millimeter automatic pistol, his body seemed to turn to putty. Salvitor was so intent on the knife, that he nearly slit the man's throat, giving the American a shallow cut running across his collar bone before he could stop himself.
Air huffed in and out of Salvitor's chest as he watched his friends roughly throw the three Americans to the pavement. Now he noticed that LupŽ only carried the pistol that had stopped the fight but Alejandro had his favorite sawed off shot gun in his hands, while Issac was actually brandishing his assault rifle. When he could speak, he asked LupŽ for his pistol, and told him and the others to get in the car.
While Issac tried to put the "cargo" back into some semblance of order, Salvitor walked over to where the American named Dean lay. The arrangement to conceal the weapons in the car would only pass a cursory inspection now but there shouldn't be any trouble before they got to San Diego now that they had a full tank of gas.
Speaking to the Americans' backs with feigned courtesy, Salvitor said, "Well, Greengos, with your permission, I will leave you now. It will be best if you don't get up until you can't hear our car anymore." He turned to walk back to his car but then walked back to where Dean was laying and kicked him in the head. "Bastard!" he murmured as he walked back to the car.
The store's only clerk, a thin young woman lay sobbing on the floor behind her counter as Salvitor and his friends drove away. She had called the police the moment she saw what was happening outside but they wouldn't arive for another fifteen minutes, at best. Surely, there had to be some other way to earn the money she needed to go to college, full time.
*****
LupŽ sat opposite Salvitor in the front seat of their yellow station wagon as they accelerated out of sight of the mini-market. Each man was a bit shaken by the the violence they had just escaped. No one was ready to say anything when LupŽ coughed and shifted in his seat as if to find a more comfortable position. Issac and Alejandro were staring out the opposite sides of the car, as if the tan boulders and rocks lacking any sort of vegetation suddenly occupied all of their attention.
Yet it was LupŽ, efficient LupŽ, who broke the silence, determined to make the best of a bad situation that hadn't been planned for.
"We have to report in, Salvitor."
"I know, I just wanted to drive a moment before talking to the Major."
"We shouldn't have stopped for gas!" said Issac.
"We should have put bullets in their brains!" retorted Alejandro.
"Look, I should have checked the car for gas. It was my responsibility; but I was impatient. So we paid for it. Actually, the Americans paid for it. Its over now, let's report in. I will take the responsibility and that will be that," replied Salvitor.
LupŽ removed the cigarette lighter from its recess and inserted a plug from a small case that sat between himself and Salvitor. While the radio was linking up with the base station in San Diego and establishing a mutual frequency hopping pattern, LupŽ quietly asked, "Is that it, really? What if they decide to follow us, Salvitor?"
He responded, "Can anyone see them? Get the binoculars out and see if they are coming behind us, Issac."
After a few moments of scrambling in the cargo area, Issac began scanning up and down the road they had already traveled over but he could see no vehicles he recognized from the mini-mart parking lot. That didn't mean much though, because the Americans could have parked their vehicle in several places the Mexicans wouldn't have been able to see. During this time a tone sounded from the radio and LupŽ placed a thin headphone/mike set over his head and began reporting what had happened at the gas station. Major Fernandez was very upset and urged them to avoid any more attention. Over the loudspeaker they heard, "Just get to the safe house, ditch the car, and don't cause any more trouble!" Fernandez was shouting by the end of this sentence.
Salvitor just gripped the wheel tighter and continued to drive on in silence. After closing the connection with the base station, LupŽ watched him drive, precisely and mechanically for a mile or so and then, looking out into the desert, washed by the afternoon sun, and said, "You really shouldn't have lost your temper, Salvitor. It just made things worse with the American. If only you could learn to bend your spine a bit and cower."
"My father cowered for the white men all his life. He picked their fruit, built their houses, watered their lawns and what did he get, a few dollars a month to live on and ruined health. When he couldn't work anymore, he began to beg from tourists. It was when I saw him holding his cup out to some fat greengo bitch that I decided to leave. I wanted more and I found a way to get it in the Army. I will not bow to the Americans like my father did. Never."
"I know how you feel, but you must not jeopardize the mission. We have to put aside personal insults when we are trying to avenge the honor or our nation. That has to come first, don't you agree."
Sighing, Salvitor said, "You are technically right, as always, LupŽ. But a man can't live on technicalities. I tried to bend but I can't change my nature, not even for the sacred honor of Mexico."
Alejandro, who appeared to be asleep was nudged by Issac who was leaning over the back of his seat looking at the cars behind them through the binoculars. "Its your turn, knuckle head. My eyes are starting to water."
"Oh, all right, but you must at least talk to me or else I will go to sleep. I hate road trips."
LupŽ tuned the car's sterio to a local station that broadcast from Mexico but played American classic rock music. "I'm surprised that the government allows that to be broadcast. I find it disgusting how even Mexican citizens help the greengos destroy our culture and replace it with their own," mused LupŽ with a prim frown on his face.
He reached out to turn the radio to another station, but Salvitor said, "Leave it; I like this kind of music."
LupŽ was about to reply when the back rear window shattered, spraying glass all over the back seat. The explosion of the widnow was followed by a silence filled only by the rushing of the wind as the car continued to role down the highway.
In his rear-view mirror, Salvitor saw a brown four wheel drive pickup begin to weave in and out of traffic, three of four cars behind them. Another shot whistled past the passengers heads, leaving a large hole in the front wind screen. The shots had to be coming from the brown pickup. It was acting very abnormally, and Salvitor could now see that there was a man standing in the back holding a rifle or some type of gun. Crushing the accelerator to the floor, the car began to sluggishly increase its speed, while Salvitor rapped out orders.
"Issac, get the rifles out and some ammunition. Alejandro, didn't you see that pickup? Never mind, get a the grenades out and help Issac with the rifles. LupŽ, call the major and tell him that trouble has found us again. Keep the connection on line, we may need some recommendations. Move gentlemen."
Issac and LupŽ, nodded their heads in assent and shouted out, "Yes sir!" but Alejandro didn't respond. He still sat in his seat as if asleep. Suddenly, the back of Salvitor's neck began to crawl as he realized why the front wind screen hadn't been broken by the first shot.
"Never mind, he's dead. Issac, don't just sit there and stare; get the rifles."
Issac turned away from his friend as if he was still just "resting his eyes" and began to rummage through the containers that held the rifles and ammunition. Foam packing beads spilled out the back of the car to be spread all over the desert as it continued to accelerate, slowly.
This time, Major Fernandez sounded completely calm and professional when LupŽ put his message over the loud speaker. A new voice was included, as well, that of the battalion commander. After encouraging them to try not to attract attention but to also not to take any unacceptable risks, the commander turned the mike back over to Major Fernandez. After a few more words of encouragement, the link fell silent though it remained open.
The brown pickup was gaining on Salvitor as he raced past the few other cars on the freeway. When the car reached ninety and would go no faster, Salvitor knew he couldn't out run the pickup. They would surely out gun the Americans though.
Salvitor continued to weave back and forth across the four lane highway hoping hoping to confuse the Americans aim as they continued to slowly gain on the station wagon.
"Have you got the rifles yet, Issac?"
"Here," he said, as he handed a pistol to Salvitor and a rifle to LupŽ. "I couldn't find the grenades. I know they're in here, but I think they are on the bottom. We'd need to stop to get them out."
"Don't worry about them," shouted Salvitor as another bullet whistled through the car. "Just start shooting back!"
The brown pickup was no more than one hundred yards behind the station wagon when LupŽ clambered over the top of the front seat and knelt next to Alejandro's body. He and Issac began firing. After a few moments hesitation, the pickup fell back and also began weaving back and forth across the road to avoid the Mexican's increasingly accurate fire. White moke began to pour from under the hood of the pickup.
At this moment, the station wagon, which had been serviced frequently but inexpertly, began to slow no matter how hard Salvitor pressed the accelerator. He wasn't much on religion but now he frantically beseeched the Holy Mother in a low voice to send a saint to fix the car.
Realizing the vulnerability of their prey, the Americans closed upon the station wagon again, cutting in front of a compact car and causing it swerve wildly. No matter where Issac and LupŽ shot at the pickup, its occupants managed to coax it forward to within fifty yards of the rear of the slowing station wagon. Inserting fresh magazines in their rifles, LupŽ and Issac began to shoot at the driver and passengers in the wildly dodging pickup. The gunman in the back of the pickup fell, and LupŽ thought he had hit the driver.
The roar of shotgun pellets crashing into the right rear of the car startled the its occupants but they continued to return fire on the pickup. Twice more, in quick succession, pellets smashed through the car from the back end. Salvitor saw that LupŽ's face was shredded and bleeding and his own neck and shoulders were covered with stinging pain. There was a sickening thud and then the whistle of the rifle shot and Issac was knocked from his precarious perch on the back of his seat; fell into the foot well behind the front seat.
LupŽ continued to fire, as he muttered, through his pocked face, "This just isn't going according to the plan, not at all."
The speed of the car stabilized at sixty miles per hour and Salvitor continued to swerve across the freeway trying to be a difficult target. The pickup edged closer, though; Salvitor realized that LupŽ wasn't firing very often. When he encouraged his friend to continue firing, the reply was, "I cant keep my eyes clear of blood long enough to get a target."
Salvitor was beginning to panic as the highway began to run along a boulder mountain on one side and a sharp canyon on the other. If the pickup got any closer, the Americans would be able to overwhelm them with shot gun blasts.
"LupŽ, find Alejandro's shotgun and get ready to fire as they come along side. I'm going to slow down."
Slamming on the brakes, Salvitor locked up the station wagon's wheels and the pickup swerved to avoid hitting them and passed on the left side. He saw that LupŽ was thrown sidways against the front seat but the shotgun barked twice behind Salvitor's head as he again urged the car to accelerate. Salvator now began to fire the pistol Issac had given him out the driver's window while the pickup also slowed to match his new pace. All too soon, the pistol was empty and the pickup swerved closer. It was pumping out dirty black smoke and all of its windows had been destroyed but the pickup's driver continued to match Salvitor's efforts to accelerate or slow down. Again, LupŽ fired the shotgun at the pickup but this time it was answered in kind and he fell, spasoming briefly.
At last, in desperation, Salvitor swerved toward the battered pickup in an attempt to ram it off the road. In the time before the two cars crashed together, two shotgun blasts crashed from the pickup. Salvitor felt a wave of pain wash across the left side of his body.
The lucky driver of the pickup was able to slam into the station wagon and redirect its course away from the pickup. This impact caused the pickup's already damaged engine to rip out of its mounts. The pickup began to slow trailing smoke, flames, and pieces of machinery.
The station wagon continued on the new course the impact had given it. Sunned by the collision and his own wounds, Salvitor was unable to realize that the steering column had locked. As the car plunged through the barrier and over the edge of the canyon, Salvitor could only think of his father and shame.
The first explosion, after the station wagon hit the bottom of the canyon, killed Salvitor and LupŽ; the other two were already dead. The explosions continued for a few minutes, as the ammunition that the car was carrying cooked off in the flames that swept through the car. Only after several minutes did the explosives of various types stop going off and the fire settled to the intensity of a large bonfire.
The only living occupant of the pickup, Dean, the driver, was killed when he found himself trapped in the driver's compartment as it was engulfed in flames.
*****
The conference would be successful. Yes, even though the two most important members of the Economic Unity commission would be unable to participate. The Mexican Foreign minister was sick with the flue and with his heart condition the doctors wanted to keep track of his condition. The American, having much less of an excuse, though he too would have to be accommodated, was also unavailable; something about a military readiness test in the Russian Federation that he had been asked to observe and that had bearing on the military alliance he was presently negotiating. Yet most of the other major players were going to be present for the second high level discussion on how to organize the transition from the present separate national economies of the two nations to the single unified economy called for by the treaty of Union.
Moderator Peter Defoe, responsible for both the logistical planing necessary to organize a conference and the actual mediation of disputes during the meeting between the ministers of two states that had a mutual history of distrust, was proud that he was able take in stride the last minute cancellations of the two most important members of the council and still continue to organize a conference that would be able to achieve something.
The Council for the Economic Integration of the Mexican Republic and the United States was the greatest event of the moderator's career and he wouldn't allow it to be destroyed or turned into a petty little nothing, simply because the two nation's foreign ministers were otherwise occupied. This meeting would produce substantial results if he had to forge the ministers signatures to the agreements they would hammer out.
Peter Defoe was considered a meticulous diplomat by his peers, who some said was more willing to haggle over the arrangement of the flowers on the negotiating table than to make compromises about serious issues. He knew that his critics always told the story about his stint with the U.N. commission on the preservation of historical artifacts in war zones. He had made significant progress toward getting an agreement with the leader of a Bosnian independence army when the the Serbian delegation balked at sitting down at a round table, rejecting the possibility that the Bosnians receive the same respect as a nation as they did.
The solution had been obvious, or at least had seemed so to Peter, rather than try to convince both sides to respect one another, he had simply found six tables of different shapes and sizes, asked both sides to chose the one they wanted to use. His colleagues dismissed such efforts as ridiculous and more cuttingly, poor diplomacy because he made no attempt to reconcile the two sides; yet the agreement had been signed and for a short time, fighting in the historic sections of Bosnia had been reduced to such small amounts that the people who lived in these protected territories had actually begun repairing the buildings that had already been damaged. Though much of these areas were later destroyed, Peter felt that his efforts were somewhat successful because by removing all legitimate military targets from these areas, civcilian casualties were lighter and attacks harder to justify.
Yes, Peter Defoe concentrated on details, details that often seemed to be ridiculous in comparison to the problems he had been sent to negotiate. But it was just such attention to small details that had kept the Americans and the Mexicans sitting at the table when both sides were having daily reports of attacks across the border during the summer of ninety seven.
Peter's attention to detail and the ability to focus on nonvolatile and non emotional issues had kept the Economic Union Council meeting though all the threats, attacks, and bombings. Now, three years after the last important incident, there was finally a real chance that the two nations would not only integrate their economies, relieving some of the poverty that was so pervasive in Mexico and link American capital to Mexican labor, but that the history of arrogance and insults on both sides would be forgiven and they could become the partners geography intended.
Peter examined the conference room as his assistant, George Ramirez, arranged the pencils, pads, and other accessories necessary for high level discussions. When he noticed that there were the standard yellow legal pads at some of the delegates seats but that others had white pads, he swiftly remarked, "Either get more yellow pads or else put all white out, George. You should know better than that."
George nodded assent without looking up at his chief. Peter was hard to work for and was a bit of a martinet about setting up for a conference, but he had a point. Even though most of the delegates at this meeting were academics and bureaucrats, it was still best to observe the diplomatic forms. "Treat each side equally so that discussions won't get bogged down in insubstantial issues. This means give them each the same number of pencils, with the same name, sharpened to exactly the same degree. A little attention to details such as these may mean the difference between three weeks at the table and six months and still no agreement in sight." This was Peter's own advice to his students when he took a sabbatical to teach a class on foreign relations.
The room was perfect as far as George could tell, and his sense of the small detail was becoming nearly as sharp as Peter's. The flags were both clean and new, correctly placed behind the head of each delegates table. The chairs were neatly aligned. Even the carpet, a pale shade of amber was clean.
George had been surprised that Peter had asked him to become his assistant after he graduated from school with his foreign relations degree still hot from the presses. Peter's class was the last George took before he graduated and had nearly convinced him to return to school and become the Doctor his mother had always encouraged him to be. That the heart of diplomacy was cold analysis of the minutest of details of situations had suddenly and sharply shattered George's vision of himself as a heroic mediator, negotiating the treaty that saves the world from total destruction. All he could see in Peter was an accomplished diplomat who seemed to be nothing more than a glorified bureaucrat. By the time he was halfway through the class, George had decided he didn't want to become anything like Peter.
But he had stayed in the class and tried to argue against Peter's dry and boring vision of what diplomacy meant. After receiving a failing grade on his final paper, George spoke to "Professor Defoe" to see if he could convince him to change the grade, but it wasn't George's grade that changed, but his mind.
"Professor, I don't understand why you gave me an F on this last paper. You attacked it, not on the grounds that I was arguing poorly or missed the point of the assignment but because I came to a different conclusion than you." As he gave his little, rehearsed speech, he was momentarily astonished to notice that the professor who preached meticulous attention to detail had an office that looked like a tornado had passed through it, not once, but many times.
"I found your argument to not only be unoriginal and derivative, but also lacking a firm grasp of reality in the world. You focussed on the supposed 'glorious achievements' of diplomats of the past; their almost, quote, miraculous efforts to save the world during the Cold War between the U.S. and the old Soviet Union, is one example of your over enthusiasm I might mention," the professor said with a slight smile.
George had heard of professors who totally trashed their students papers at their office hours, almost as a game. Despite his anger, he tried to get the professor to give him a more reasonable critique of the paper.
"Sir, I find your statements a bit hard to understand. I used the examples from the cold war simply to show how the present thinking on the diplomatic method had been proven correct. I may have allowed my own enthusiasm for these methods leak into my paper, but I still believe I fulfilled the requirements of the assignment."
Peter Defoe sighed; "Young man, I will tell you this. You have a vision of what diplomacy should be like that is glorious and that I firmly wish all young diplomats had. Yet you can never forget that the world is not ideal. You have been taught to think of problems in their ideal terms and seek solutions accordingly. Yet, often, the men you will deal with are irrational, motivated by greed, or one of a million other things that make them ignore logic. You must always try to achieve your ideals of what diplomacy can do, but you have to learn how to achieve them in the real world and not in some academic fantasy land where all problems have quick and logical solutions."
Stunned and a bit confused, George felt his past understanding of the role he would play as a diplomat or moderator in more modern terms, slipping from his mind's grasp. This man wanted him to abandon the philosophy about how the real world worked that had taken him the last four years to create. The moment was almost as painful as the day he had learned his biological father had been killed by the American border patrol.
Seeing the confusion on his student's face, the professor continued, more gently perhaps but just as inexorably.
"You have to face the fact that not everything you learn in school is applicable to the real world. There is no magic to diplomacy or special formulas that make it work. It only consists of the constant struggle of the moderator to keep some very angry people talking and not killing each other. It doesn't always work and I sometimes wonder if you young people would keep entering the profession if you realized the success rate of diplomatic missions is just a bit better than that of the batting average of a baseball player. But we do have successes, the ones that seem to have struck your imagination. Hold on to that beautiful dream but never forget that you live in the real world and must use its methods.
"If you can learn this, the F you received for this paper will be more valuable to you than all of the A's and B's that you have received in your life."
At this point, George's mind was in such turmoil that he could think of nothing else to say; as he returned to his apartment from school that day, George realized that he hadn't introduced himself to the professor. Somehow Defoe had known who he was and what his paper was about.
George finished the class and received a B in it. Graduation was exciting but George was still troubled by his final conversation with Professor Defoe. During a frustrating summer of waiting for responses to the applications and resumes he had sent out and working as a waiter at a fish-market/restaurant, George gradually came to the conclusion that Defoe was correct in many ways. George would never be able to see the world the way Defoe did, as a series of details that would give the moderator the key to solving a dispute if he was aware of enough of them. Yet, a more realistic view of the world and the diplomats place in it was necessary so that a man wouldn't lose hope the first time he failed, as the Japanese Modorator seemed to be doing at this moment in the negotiations between the Brazilians and the Peruvians.
Almost as if he had been waiting for George to make this decision, Peter sent a letter to George asking if he would be interested in becoming his assistant. There wouldn't be the same chance of promotion or of independent action as there would be when working on Capital Hill or at the U.S. State Department but that George would gain valuable experience. Peter said he was in need of someone who wasn't bound by convention but was willing to learn some of those conventions.
After a brief period of consideration George accepted and became Peter Defoe's assistant; it was just one of the numerous titles he held but the one he always kept in mind as he worked with Peter. As he began to uderstant his job, George realized the tremendous advantage he held over his peers by being the chief assistant of a U.N. Independent Moderator.
The United Nations had created the position of Independent Moderator as the number of regional crisis mushroomed in the chaos of the the early ninety's. Faced with such a great explosion in the need for unbiased people with diplomatic skills to send to trouble spots to help the combatants help themselves end their conflicts, the U.N. began aggressively recruiting from the foreign services of it's member nations. Recruits were offered a chance to work as independent diplomats that hadn't been available for over a century. The Independent Moderator was completely responsible for the solution he worked out and there would usually be no interference with his negotiations but he was still directly responsible to a governing committee appointed by the Security Council.
Many diplomats had eagerly joined the U.N. program, at first, thinking there was a chance for greater power and prestige than in their national services and so the early years of the program reflected their "all for glory" approach to diplomacy. Because of the lack of public recognition that most of the early Moderators sought, a failure of morale nearly resulted in the programs destruction. Then, almost as if some higher force demanded that the organization continue to exist, a new type of man began to join the program, men like Peter Defoe, who saw the position of Independent Moderator as a chance of be a more effective diplomat, unconstrained by their countries particular foreign policy of the moment.
Gradually, the Moderators had become a staple of the diplomatic environment. As their reputation for fairness and commitment to finding common ground for all parties in a dispute grew, groups began to demand that the Moderators be called in. Though many of the "Western" nations denied the need for such interference, even they began to have a moderator organize and chair their negotiations to guarantee fairness.
As he had worked with Peter Defoe for the past fifteen years, George had come to believe that the U.N. Independent Moderators had brought the world one step closer to the U.N.'s vision for the world: that all nations would beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Eventually, George hoped to become Moderator himself; but that was in the future, a time when he had learned all he could from Peter.
For now, George needed to finish setting up the conference room and then get ready to greet the delegates as they arrived. Of course he could have had one of the secretaries set up the room, but then he couldn't guarantee that it would be done correctly; Peter's details again. "In fact, you are becoming almost as bad if not worse, than him," George thought as he bent down to pick up a piece of lint from the carpet.
Peter had watched the young man work for a moment and then left the room to look over the short speech he would give to open this second conference. It was short, polite, and encouraged the delegates to work hard to have something ready to sign for the next meeting. Yet as he looked at the speech, Peter couldn't help thinking about George, both as a student and the man he had become during the past fifteen years.
George was as much like a son as Peter's own son had been. Perhaps, even more so because of the time Peter had spent with George going over the small details of a treaty to end a war; the experience of riding across the African veldt in a jeep without springs to negotiate some land sale or the time they had hidden in a school some place in Kazakhstan while a sniper tried to kill them.
David was a son who Peter was as proud of as a father could be but they had never understood one another. When David became a soldier, Peter nearly wanted to die because he felt he was such a failure as a father. Margaret, beautiful Margaret, who Peter knew he didn't deserve, had tried to help him, to give him some solace.
Yet, it had been George who had shown him that David was in his own way doing exactly what his father had taught him to do: he was attempting to preserve peace and protect the innocent. It was through George's patient arguments and reasoning that Peter had finally been able to sincerely wish his son well in his chosen career thus heal the rift that had developed between them. It was also George who had helped Peter overcome his tremendous anger at America when David had been killed in the border skirmishes with the Mexicans. Though the pain was still great, and there were moments when Peter could hardly believe that the son he had taught to fish in the cool mountain woods of Colorado was dead, he was able to continue to strive for a more peaceful world because he realized that David, though he was willing to kill for peace, had, in the end wanted his father's method to succeed and remove the need for war.
George was ready to be a Moderator in his own right; he certainly had the experience, in fact he was one of the oldest assistant moderators in the organization. Many people had worked for Peter during his career as a Moderator occupying several positions. The size of the staff Peter used on a mission varied with the task, yet, for the past fifteen years George had been on every mission Peter took on. It was time, Peter admitted as he sat staring unseeingly at his speech, for him to kick George out of the nest or he would be stuck and be a very good assistant but nothing more. David had taught Peter that you had to let your son try to face the world in his own way; George was unconsciously teaching him that sometimes you had to force your son to make his own way.
It was clear, though he would miss him terribly, George must become a full Moderator after this mission was finished and Peter would give him greater responsibility for the rest it. Peter felt as if David were congratulating him for passing another test of parenthood, this time on the first try.
*****
Colonel Jaun Carlos Ortega was nervous as a recruit facing his first inspection. The drive up to San Diego from the staging area outside of Mexicali had been uneventful. Oh, there, was a nervous moment as he was crossing through the U.S. Border checkpoint, but the American had merely scrutinized Ortega's and his passengers' forged papers identifying them as legal residents of the U.S. and after briefly glancing at his small red sports car had waved them through. Nothing else had happened since Jaun Carlos, his Adjutant, Major Raul David Fernandez, and two staff captains had arrived in at their hotel in Mira Mesa. Yet the nerves Jaun Carlos had never felt before entering battle were becoming increasingly irritating.
Perhaps it was the men he was with; none were familiar except Raul. All were men, "volunteers," from throughout the Mexican Army. Certainly there were a few faces he recognized but Jaun Carlos was becoming increasingly aware that he would be commanding men among whom he had no familiarity or trust, in the most complicated and difficult mission he had ever been assigned. Not for the first time Jaun Carlos wished he was using the fifth regiment , his old command, for this action. That, because of the nature of this mission, was impossible. Perhaps these boys were ready, perhaps not; one thing he was sure of was that they were unprepared to die because Jaun Carlos knew he was not ready. Yet die they must if the mission was to succeed.
The men were all beginning to arrive at the assembly points in groups of three and four. They were scattered across the city and couldn't be distinguished from the rest of the citiy's Hispanic population as long as they weren't stupid. The Americans were so sure that they were secure in their glorious city just minutes away from the Mexican/American border. But, why shouldn't they be? They had never been attacked; no American from this area, other than some of the soldiers, had heard the sound of angry gunfire. Surely even the soldiers were less cautious and more relaxed because San Diego was their home and the Mexicans had never seriously threatened the boarder here, let alone made a major attack into the U.S. That last fact was about to change and the history of the Americas would enter a new, hopefully better phase.
Most of the hundred and fifty men in Jaun Carlos strike force were reporting that they were ready, but he knew that some would never report in. Two young soldiers, enjoying the end of the intense training they had undergone before the mission had gotten drunk and started a brawl their first night across the border. The American police had stopped the fight before both were killed but after checking their papers, the two soldiers from the first platoon had been held by the Border Patrol as suspected illegals.
****
The case of Lieutenant Salvitor Cristobal had greater consequences, for the mission. There would be no trouble with the American authorities. The police decided that the car's occupants had died in the explosion following the crash. They cited the incident as another example of Mexican drug runners killing themselves before they had a chance to kill American kids with their dope. The explosion had incinerated any hint of Cristobal's purpose in the U.S. that the Americans might find by examining the car.
The whole incident was a tragedy with vast implications, though. There wouldn't be anyone available to command Cristobal's platoon. This would greatly increase the difficulty of an already hugely complex mission. At a personal level, Jaun Carlos felt extreme, unreasonable rage at the Americans for the senseless death of Salvator Cristobal, a man they would have had a chance to kill with his comrades if only they had allowed him to arrive in San Diego. For the first time in his career, Jaun Carlos realized that he would not cry for the first American he killed on this mission. Perhaps the others, if he lived long enough, but not the first.
Raul came to his room in the hotel and broke in on his dark circle of thoughts, to inform Jaun Carlos that the men had all checked in and were ready to drive to the final assembly point.
"Have them go ahead and leave, Raul. As the Americans say about their fine city, 'There is always traffic.' Have them don their "uniforms" and await H-hour."
"They know the drill, Jaun Carlos. It will go just like we practiced it," the younger man said.
"No Raul, it won't go like we planned it, nothing ever does in war. But the operation should go smoothly."
As Raul turned to leave, he said, "We need to leave in about ten minutes. I'll get our gear together."
"I will be ready."
The old warrior smiled as he watched his young friend leave. They had been together for years, too many years to count, ten in all honesty but if you have only nine fingers ... Jaun Carlos had thought very little of the tall, dark, and extremely precise young soldier he had first met in Raul. Certainly he was a good soldier as far as the direct soldiering skills went, but Raul had difficulty in understanding the consequences of his action. He tended to be a superb tactical soldier, but tended to flounder at the strategic level. Though Jaun Carlos had grown extremely fond of him, Raul had never improved. Now, Raul would never have a chance for great rank in the army, though the reason for that was independent of his skill to understand strategy.
Raul had saved Jaun Carlos life more than once and had become less of a subordinate than a companion. For this reason, Jaun Carlos was heart sick, though he immediately gave his permission when Raul made his request to be part of the present mission. Raul's feelings about the Americans, the anger he felt at the supposedly mortal insults they hurled at Mexico, and his humiliation at his peoples inability to shake off their poverty without the Greengos help, all made Raul David Fernandez the perfect choice to be second in command on this mission.
As they drove out of the motel's parking lot, Jaun Carlos mourned for the men he was leading into battle.
*****
Peter Defoe had been greeting the delegates as they arrived at the entrance to the Forward Progress conference center. The Forward Progress Group was a private think tank concerned with improving relations in the western hemisphere. The chief of the organization, Warren Billow, had graciously donated, not only the use of the center for this conference, but also his services as logistics coordinator, thus freeing Peter and George to focus on the more important details of the set up and other parts of preparing for the conference. Warren, a short and slightly balding man, was also helping greet the ministers, again reducing the strain on Peter. Forward Progress had committed its reputation to the success of the treaty but were also backing that up with all the assistance Peter could desire.
Most of the self-important ministers from both countries had arrived by now in their dark limousines. Now it was mostly academics and bureaucrats who were pulling up in their self driven sedans, sometimes two or three per car.
Peter greeted each man in the same manner as the government ministers: a warm smile, firm handshake and a few words expressing their mutual desire for progress on the treaty. Though the academics couldn't directly shape policy, the politicians, though they would never admit it, tended to listen if the scholar had a strong opinion on a subject. The bureaucrats were nonentities in the negotiations, a fact some of them were painfully aware of, though they would implement whatever decision their ministers made. Peter firmly believed, though, that in spite of a man's uselessness to the negotiation process, he deserved respect. Peter had been pleasantly surprised on numerous occasions when the effort he put into being pleasant to such men had caused them to implement a treaty that they were personally inclined against.
George stood behind Peter and gave each man a second handshake and smile. As the last three academics arrived, professors at the Institute of the Americas, George motioned to attract Peter's attention. It was time for him to go in and begin getting the delegates settled.
The crowd was surprisingly large but quiet for this kind of event. The local police along with the body guards the government ministers brought were providing security for the conference. There was little for them to do except look important and board. Unlike the first conference, there weren't even any protesters in the crowd. The onlookers were mostly just office workers from the complexes that surrounded the Forward Progress conference center on their lunch breaks. There were a few strangely dressed people in the crowed, but there were always people like that in any crowd.
Peter motioned George to lead the way into the conference room as the last delegate's car was parked by an attendant. Inside the main room, they found, not chaos, but a disorganized scene of men who were just beginning to put down some of their distrust for one another. Aquantances from the past conference were being renewed. Others who had known each other before the conferences began were asking about families and sports. Rather than acting like men whose countries had been tottering on the edge of war many times during the past fifteen years, these people were acting like close friends. For the first time on this mission, Peter felt a real hope that lasting change in the relationship between the two countries. If the two Foreign Ministers could see this scene of friendship, they would surely regret missing the meeting.
It would be a good conference, Peter thought as he said, "Gentlemen and Ladies, let us begin so that we may continue the great work we started at our last meeting."
*****
Though Louis wasn't wearing the same silly uniform as his colleagues sitting in the van across the street were, he still felt as conspicuous as a stripper at a nuns convention. Pablo was probably sitting there, pointing out how little Louis looked like a board American Policeman and so much more like a scared private on his first inspection. Louis could imagine the comments about how he must have pisses his pants when the police Sargent had told him to move to watch the street corner opposite the entrance to the conference center. Louis hadn't spoken but simply nodded and moved to his new position. Nothing was blown and the man had walked off to adjust the rest of the "American" police.
It had been surprisingly easy to kill and replace the American he was impersonating, but Louis would always remember the look of surprise on his victim's face as the knife slid into the mans neck and he realized that Louis was not a friend from his police department. The body had been easily disposed of and Louis had managed to direct most of the man's blood away from him; aside from a few brown spots on his hands and shoes, there was no evidence of to give him away.
Most of the American policemen had been "replaced" by now, just in time too, because Louis would be killing the two body guards with his police special as soon as the men in the van jumped out and started throwing their grenades into the crowd. After that happened life would become very complicated; Louis had to kill as many of the body guards as he could before they figured out what was happening and sealed the entrance to the conference center. During this time, he would presumable be shot at and most likely hit by one of the people he was attempting to kill.
That future was one he didn't want to think about. It was better to pretend he was a board American policeman.
*****
Louis was nervous, Pablo knew, but he had little sympathy for him; at least he had something to do while he waited. For the thousandth time, Pablo pushed back his "burnoose" or whatever the hell this thing was that the Arabs wore on their heads. Pablo secretly believed that the reason the mission's planners had decided to dress the assault force as Arabs was that the people they attacked would fall down laughing when they saw the Mexican Army's attempt to create such dress.
But Pablo would be doing the laughing once the Americans found out that his rifle and grenades were real and deadly. Pablo felt no fear of death, or at least very little, but he could hardly stand the waiting. Pablo knew that some time in the future, if he had a future, he would go crazy while waiting and would blow some important mission. Oh well, a man had to live with the fate God gave him.
*****
The attack, both swift and vicious, followed the pattern terrorists had been using for the past generation. When the signal was given, two blasts on a whistle, Mexican soldiers who had infiltrated the police began systematically killing all the security officials who hadn't been replaced by one of their own men. From cars of all descriptions parked across from the Forward Progress conference center, men dressed like Palestinian freedom fighters, jumped out and began shooting and lobbing grenades into the crowd that was still dispersing. Immediately, from side streets and and alleys, cars began block the street at both ends and in numerous sections in the middle. From these cars, new attackers sprang out, also dressed as Arabs and spraying the crowd with machine gun fire.
Within moments of the beginning of the attack the security force assigned to protect the Conference on Economic Unity was reduced from thirty-five to seven. Most were killed without realizing they were in danger. Of those who lived through the shock of the first fifteen seconds, several died as they rushed with blind loyalty to block the entrance to the conference center with their bodies. Others, who were thinking more calmly or too scared to run, sought cover and attempted to kill their unknown attackers. These men were swiftly silenced as, in some cases, two and three grenades found their hiding places. Ultimately the only men of the external security force who survived were those who hid and escaped later.
The threat from the security force was eliminated within a minute and a half of the beginning of the attack. By two minutes, the attackers were pouring into the Forward Progress building and fighting their way to the conference room. By the end of the fifth minute of the attack, silence of a sort descended on the ravaged street.
Outside, people were afraid to move; yet, some realizing that the attackers attention was on the building, tried to lead groups of scared citizens down the street. For all those who tried to get off the sidewalks and seek shelter, there were others who had been shot or wounded by the first phase of the attack, though. Some moaned as they bled but others didn't.
Finally, after the tenth minute of the attack, a short man in the same uniform as the rest of the attackers walked out of the conference center and began directing some of his men to watch the corners of the streets and keep track of the people milling around on the sidewalk across from him.
Then with a voice that needed no amplification to be clearly heard, the man said, "You people who are not wounded have thirty minutes to clear the street of this trash. After that time, we will kill anyone who moves on this street. You may also want to tell your authorities what has happened here."
With these words, the terrorist leader turned and reentered the conference center.
As the meaning of the man's words sank in, people began to move through the street checking each body to see if it was alive. Most, were wounded, some lightly, but others would never move again.
One woman, an investment banker named Chelsie McPherson, who seemed to be less affected by shock began to organize the efforts of her colleagues and well within the time limit given by the terrorist leader the street was clear. No one moved on the street after the time limit unless he wore the terrorists uniform. And after another hour even this activity stopped.
The police finally blocked off all the streets leading to the Forward Progress center a few minutes after the first hour of the attack.
*****
The gunfire and explosions had begun, just as Peter was saying Good Afternoon to the delegates, contradicting his words. The whole attack was so bizzare and unexpected that Peter was still unsure of just what had happened outside the conference center. The leader of the "terrorists" - they seemed too organized to really be what they claimed - had found Peter after the shooting stopped and told him to keep the ministers together, see to any wounded, and to keep all of the people trapped in the conference center from doing "something stupid". The man, who stood straighter than any Marine Peter had seen, then turned and left the diplomat to fulfill his instructions.
When the soldiers began to remove thier headgear and set up thier weapons, Peter realized that the leader's accent was that of a cultured Mexican; the ammunition cases the men brought into the center were labled in spanish; when the men spoke it was with rough tones in the same language. Clearly but just as surprisingly, all these men were Mexican soldiers. The thought that the Mexican Army might try to prevent the conference from occuring had been considered and then dismissed because the high command was desperatly interested in buying modern weapons. After the first conference, no one believed violence could end the process of reconciliation and therefor there would be no attacks. Obviously, Peter realized, it was impossible to understand the mind of a radicle.
Once the conference room was in some sort of order, some sitting down and quietly discussing the attack while others just sobbed, Peter was led by one of the guards through the building to discover the fate of the center's staff. Most of the staff were uninjured or only slightly wounded and had been patched up already. Yet, when Peter entered Warren's office he was immediatly confronted with a sight he could barely face. The wall and floor behind Warren's enormous oak desk, was drenched with blood. Waren's body was on the floor, at least Peter assumed that was his covered form next to the book shelves that contained his works about peace.
George seemed to be numb but functional; he was in charge of the conference room and would continue to be so, as long as he didn't recieve any more shocks for a while. All of them would be fine, if the terrorists didn't shock them anymore.
Yet, Peter was sickened and angered beyond anything he had ever felt before when he saw the carnage on the street. People had already begun removing the bodies, some alive but others obviously dead. The first thing that struck Peter was that there was literally blood pooling in the gutters. Many of the wounded, febaly attempted to move themselves, perhaps fearing that the shooting would begin anew, or just reliving those horrible moment when thier bodies were violated with lead and steel.
The worst part of this vision, though, were the soldiers, who stood, some calmly smoking, watching the despearate office workers try to gently remove the ruins of bodies these men had made. Surely the "terrorists" could not be as calm as they looked; these people wern't soldiers, only civilians, people who never immagined the sky could fall with such fury.
The last event in Peter's tour of horror, was a brief explosion somewhere in the building followed by gunshots. The guard looked up, briefly smiled and said, "Holdouts," probably referring to members of the security force who hadn't given up.
There was nothing to be done, Peter decided. The "terrorists" had complete control of the building, and probably most of the streets leading up to the Forward Progress center. No, Peter saw that his duty was, in fact, to keep the hostages, for that is what all of them were, safe and alive by complying with the attackers orders. Maybe he should try to talk to the leader, though. He was a Moderator, after all ...
*****
The police, hastily blocked off all routs leading up to the conference center after they realized that something terrible had happened there. Nobody was sure what had realy transpired, except for the fact that huge numbers of civilians had been wounded when the attack began. There was no firm fix on how many attackers were in the building, but the victems reports ranged from as little as ten to as high as eighty. The best estimate was that there were something like twenty terrorists armed with assault rifles and grenades, though they may have used up all of thier grenades in the first attack.
The large numbers of wounded were a shock that most of the police officers had trouble understanding. They had never seen that many bodies all at once before. The attack was troubling; though the attackers objective had obviously been the conference building, they had killed as many people in the crowd as they could.
The Swat Team would arrive soon and the Federal cops were on their way. Some of the policemen wondered if those forces would be enough. When one of the swat team members was shot through the head when he tried to get into a sniping position, some of the officers felt a sense of impending doom.
*****
Killing the police sniper had been a foolish accident, or at least unintended, but perhaps that was all for the best. Raul had already strongly chastened, threatened with summary execution, the man who had made the shot. He then proceeded to compliment the man on his skill and set him to watching for other activity in the adjacent buildings. Juan Carlos could see why the Mexican Army had found Raul so useful; the men he commanded would accept his punishment, glory in his praise, and willingly follow him to Hell as they probably were at this juncture. Just so long as Rual had someone to plan the final assault on Hell's citadel, these men were an army that would overthrow it's king.
But in the realm of more Earthly matters, the killing of the American sniper had shown that the forces the Americans had on hand were unwilling to engage. Presently both sides of the conflict had little understanding of what the opposing force was made up of. Yet, Juan Carlos held the advantage at the moment because he was familiar with how the Swat teams of America's police departments worked. They would be horribly surprised later, if they weren't already warned by the carnage of this afternoon's attack.
The attack had gone badly, not for the Mexicans but that didn't comfort Juan Carlos. He had sworn that he wouldn't cry for the first American he had killed, but he hadn't realized that the first bodies he would see would be those of a wounded office worker clutching her dead son to her bleeding face.
There had been no reason not to realize that a crowd would be present for the arrival of the ministers at the conference, if for no other reason than some change in a monotonous summer lunch in the business district. Yet, Juan Carlos had never given much thought to the numbers that would be present or the effect of his instructions on the men. A few civilian casualties were to be expected in an attack of this nature and had been allowed for as another brutal part of a brutal plan.
The grenades and the charging riflemen had all been intended to demoralize and destroy the security group as a cohesive force. They had in fact been the perfect weapons to kill and injure the crowd of civilians that had collected opposite the entrance to the conference center and on the sidewalk next to it. Enraged with the killing and their commanders' propaganda, the men thought nothing of killing these innocent humans. They thought nothing, because for the long seconds of the attack, they were nothing but disintegrating flesh and pools of blood to be stumbled over and waded through.
But as Juan Carlos had run through the gauntlet of exploding grenades and dying humanity with the command group, he had registered it all. Almost as if God intended to etch the images of the chaos his careless orders had created onto his brain, Juan Carlos absorbed immages of his men in action. Surely no other army had been so ruthless; here a man swayed on his feet for an eternity as a charging soldier had shot him repeatedly, while just a few feet away, a woman stared at her missing wrist as she was pelted with grenade fragments.
When they entered the conference center, the door beckoned like the mouth of a furnace. Inside, Juan Carlos found more of the work of his men, the bodies of security guards and other civilians were strewn about the hall, some still moving. Finally, the director of the center had been found, shot by a soldier high on adrenaline, who saw the letter opener in the directors hand as knife.
But finally quiet had returned, if you could call the screams and whimpers of the wounded and frightened people in the building quiet. After he had spoken to the survivors, Juan Carlos had Raul begin organizing the defense of the conference center he had planned months ago. There would be no unforeseen accidents in this part of the plan he and General Diego had worked out. If the American police attacked, they would die.
While Raul worked with the noncoms and out lined the Colonel's plans, Juan Carlos got a detail of men who were awaiting assignment to begin unloading the supplies of ammunition and weapons that the Mexican Government had unknowingly smuggled across the border under the seal of inspection by Mexican Officers. The Americans would be surprised when they encountered, not only his men's rifles and grenades, but also a squad of anti-tank missiles and mortars.
An hour after the attack, Juan Carlos was as pleased as his present mood of shock and horror would allow him to be, with Raul's report that all the men were in position and the street had been cleared of people. The vehicles the men had arrived in were positioned to offer defenders the most protection while giving an attacker little cover. The machine guns had clear fields of fire on three sides of the building and two men from the anti-tank squad were watching the forth. All the men had ten grenades and as much ammunition as they could hold. The hostages were safe in one of the auditoriums being watched by three lightly wounded men; there were one hundred and twenty six hostages, fifty three of whom were part of the conference. The rest were civilians who worked at the conference center or security personnel. Of the hostages only twenty two were wounded, all lightly.
"The men have also brought in Corporal Munoz "special packages", and he has asked when you want him to set them up," said Raul as he finished his report. The "packages" were filled with enough plastic explosives to destroy the conference center and some of the buildings that surround it. Raul knew they would be used to guarantee that the "terrorists" could escape. Only Raul and Corporal Munoz specialists knew that the explosives were present. Many of the men were a bit leery of high explosives, though many of their personal weapons were much more dangerous than a lump of C-4.
"He can start setting up now, but tell him not to insert the detonators until I tell him too. We don't want the Americans to open their present too early."
"We lost three men in the attack. The first two were shot as they entered the building. The other was killed by the damned Greengos in the street. He was wounded and some civilian, when the guard wasn't looking, chocked him to death. I shot the man, Myself. The other casualties were mostly just scratches; ten in all.
"Raul, you really mustn't hate the Americans so much. If you let your feeling rule your actions, nothing can be accomplished. We may have to kill them but we will do so for good reason and not out of revenge. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir!" Raul shouted, momentarily angry. About to storm off, he turned back and said, "Juan Carlos, I will hate whomever I chose, but I will obey your orders ... as always." This last was said with a smile.
As Raul walked off, Juan Carlos realized that he would have to be more careful about suppressing his feelings in front of his men. Raul must never understand the true reasons for his commanders horror at the days events much as he must not understand the true nature of General Diego's plan.
Now, we must await the American's first overture. They were most likely to offer to negotiate at first while they tried to attack the conference center, but in light of the attack's devastating effect and the shots that had already been exchanged by the police and Juan Carlos men, they might be planning an attack first.
Only time and the fading twilight would tell. The police would make the next move and Juan Carlos would respond. This would be more like true warfare, not the slaughter of innocents.
*****
The commander of the Swat team was dead and two of his men were seriously wounded. There were about two hundred scared cops stationed in the buildings facing the Forward Progress conference center by the time the sun went down. There were still some civilians trapped in those buildings, but they would be gone within a half hour. Now was the time for a decision on what to do about the murderers who had seized the conference center and all the people. Police Captain Ralph Davidson, the head of police for Nueva Buena, was subordinated to people who were only concerned with drinking coffee and covering their asses.
Some of the Commissioners wanted to call in the National Guard, the Army, or even the F.B.I. so that they could remove the responsibility for this horror from their own hands. That would happen soon enough, but local police had to try to handle the problem on their own. "Lives are at stake; people may be dying in there," Ralph thought. "Besides, what was the use of having a negotiating team if you didn't use it when a real problem arose."
Yet, as maddening as these ostriches were, Ralph felt horror at what one of the Commissioners, David Jenkins, running for reelection in the fall, proposed. Jenkins' suggestion was to send the swat team, backed by line officers, charging into the building, guns blazing. Fortunately no one had been stupid enough to support Jenkins, but Ralph was too familiar with the Commission's screw up's to be comforted by this fact.
What Ralph wanted to do, and what he would do in about a half hour if the Commissioners would listen for five minutes, was to send a negotiating team out to make contact with the terrorists. Get them talking and we might find out something interesting like how many hostages the terrorists have killed at this point, Ralph thought, grimly.
The Commissioners, once they understood his plan, would give him discretion to implement it, though. At that point, after contact was established, something might be accomplished without more violence. But if things got out of control, if the terrorists weren't reasonable, or the people on his side weren't reasonable, Ralph knew that the "situation" would degenerate into a bloodbath that would leave many more people dead.
There are so many possible ways to screw up that only God could keep them from happening, Ralph conceded. But God was going to need some help on this one.
*****
Newly promoted Sargent Enrique Torez, wasn't nervous, scared, or even bored. He was sleeping at the moment and some of the words he uttered in his sleep, revealed that he was enjoying his phantom senorita too much for corporal De Leon's personal happiness. Why should he stand guard while Ricky, who just three days before had been a corporal like himself, had wet dreams. There was little to see in the street outside the conference center, though Jose occasionally thought he detected some movement in the shadows at the end of the street, close to the police road block. Ricky was dumb; here they were in as much of a "combat situation" as either of them had ever been in, and he was sleeping on guard duty. Jose cursed under his breath, and continued to do both his own job and that of his nominal superior as he had done for most of the time the two men had known each other.
Suddenly, light flared from just beyond the road block and a vehicle began to roll forward. Along with the van's own headlights, the American's had rigged several portable lights to shine on the cars that the terrorists had parked in the street. Moments before the police van began to roll forward, Jose grabbed the radio and reported the Americans' first move. After giving this information to the Colonel, Jose noticed several pairs of feet walking behind the van, silhouetted by the lights. Apparently the Americans didn't trust the "terrorists" to give their van safe passage.
Kicking Ricky, Jose began reporting his estimate of the number of men coming with the van and the positions they were taking as they drove past the first barrier the Mexicans had set up. Once Ricky saw what was happening he began calling the rest of the men in the first platoon on the sound powered phone to warn them to keep an eye out for the American infiltrators.
When the slow moving van and half of it's contingent of walking policemen were one hundred and fifty feet from their position, Ricky use the loud speaker built into the car they hid behind to tell the van to halt as the Colonel had ordered. Jose reported that the missing policemen had taking sniping positions in the first barrier. The were completely exposed to the tender mercies of the third platoon on the roof of the conference center but either didn't realize or didn't care.
The van stopped as ordered and the men behind it went to ground and disappeared into the shadows. Jose quickly moved his night sight goggles down to give him a nearly daylight level view of the street in front of him. The policemen were sloppy; darkness would conceal you but it wouldn't stop a bullet aimed by someone who could see in the dark. He wouldn't be killing them just yet, though, that is unless the policemen made a menacing move.
"Get out of the van slowly, and walk forward about a hundred feet. Do not do anything foolish or it will have grave consequences for the hostages." Ricky smiled at Jose as he said this last. There would be grave consequences for the hostages, no matter what happened, here. The policemen should be more worried about themselves.
Two men stepped out of the van and with a loud hailer of his own, one said, "We are here to talk to you about the release of the hostages. This is a very difficult situation for us to understand. We need to talk so that there can be no more needless bloodshed."
"Stay where you are and some one will be out to meet with you shortly."
The young captain was already in fact sitting next to Jose. He seemed both nervous and excited; he knew that if the Americans decided to fight, he would be dead in the course of the next five minutes. But nobody really believed that the American Police officers would fire on the Mexicans. They wanted their hostages back alive, didn't they?
After about five minutes of waiting in the damp night air, the Captain rose and began walking toward the American negotiators.
*****
Ralph was unhappy, not much more than a hairs breadth away from turning in his resignation, going home, and watching this debacle unfold on the news. Jenkins was in fine form this evening. The voters would love his get tough attitude as long as the terrorists cooperated and didn't respond with their own brand of getting tough. If they did, all bets were off and Ralph didn't believe the lives of the hostages were worth a plug nickel.
The concept had a theoretical value that would certainly impress the voters. What better way to find out what the terrorists wanted than to capture one of them and make him talk. How Jenkins planned to make a man who was quite likely willing to die for his god, country, or whatever, before he spoke and not violate the constitution, was a question that was brushed aside as enthusiasm for the the plan spread through the commissioners and the thinned ranks of the the Swat team.
The plan, to use the negotiators and the Swat team to capture the terrorist's negotiator, was being put into action at this very moment. The response of the terrorist himself would be critical; if he warned his companions before the men in the swat team could grab him, something would happen. Ralph wasn't sure he wanted to speculate on what the outcome would be.
When it happened, Ralph made no attempt to restrain himself as he smashed David Jenkins frozen, self-congratulatory smile into pulp.
*****
Jose was puzzled by the movements of the Americans; they were slowly moving closer to the group standing in the light from the Americans police van. They continued demonstrate their belief that the darkness provided them with protection. Soon they would be in a position surrounding the Mexican officer and the negotiators, yet they were easy marks for all of the men in Jose's platoon.
Quicker than he could register, the Captain's gun appeared in his hand and he shot one of the American negotiators. What the hell is he doing, Jose thought as he began firing round after round into the Americans around the van. The Captain was now running toward him, and Jose shouted out for the men to give him covering fire. From the roof of the conference center, there was a flash and a pop, after the officer had reached the safety of Jose's position. As Ricky began working to cover the man's wounds with the bandages he carried, the van the Americans had driven disintegrated in a large fire ball.
The chaotic shooting continued for only a few seconds after the explosion of the anti-tank missile. There were no targets left; the Americans had either escaped or were lying in the street. Ricky looked up at Jose, his hands covered with the dying officer's blood. "He's not going to make it. We need to get him back to the conference center."
"Shut up a minute, Ricky. The Colonel wants to know what happened."
The Colonel sounded so angry that Jose was sure he didn't want to face him in person at that moment, even if the fight wasn't his fault. Jose was told to bring the wounded Captain back and give a report immediately, though. As he scrambled back to the command post with the Captain between himself and another trooper, Jose wondered why he had wanted to strike a blow to restore Mexican honor.
*****
George could hardly believe what he was hearing when Peter told him about the attack on the American negotiator team. Apparently one of the negotiators had attempted to force the terrorists' contact man into the van they had arrived in while his partner had held a gun on the man. Reacting quicker than George knew he would in the same situation, the Mexican negotiator, Philippe De Hora, had shot one of the policemen and ran toward his own men. Though he was shot several times while returning, Philippe had survived to report his actions to the terrorist leader, Juan Carlos, as Peter called him. As far as Peter could tell, most of the police men had been killed after the fight started. Now both sides were simply waiting, though.
Obviously the Americans had gravely miscalculated; somebody had to be criminally insane to approach the terrorists and then try to kidnap one of them. No negotiator would do that. No sensible man would do that. Somebody had authorized the snatch and run operation, but the problem was that, as in most situations calling for the skills of a Moderator, the person making the decision didn't usually have to pay for the it's consequences.
For some unfathomable reason, Juan Carlos had decided that to release twenty of the unwounded hostages and all of the wounded with the message that an equal number would be killed if the Americans tried to attack again.
"This is really weird, George. Nothing is happening like it should in a traditional terrorist attack. Juan Carlos argued with his first officer for ten minutes before he talked to me. They had obviously reached some agreement but the Major, Raul, seemed very unhappy."
"Why is he releasing these people now? How come this 'terrorist', who is obviously a military man, acting more rationally than the local police?"
George had no answer, and was slightly surprised that Peter was able to look at his situation in such dispassionate and disinterested terms. Yet when he looked back at the days' events, George did see that the attackers behavior was very unexpected.
Changing the subject now, Peter said, "We have to select twenty people to leave. They all have to be people who aren't part of the conference. I would like to send you out, but the Major wouldn't allow it. Get people who can carry the wounded and do be discreet. I am going to tell the rest of the people as this group is leaving but I don't want any panic or disruption."
"I'll get started immediately. Should we try to send out a message?"
"No, I don't want to upset the Major. I don't think Juan Carlos wants to kill anyone, but Raul is a different story. He reminds me of the Russian officer who killed the Senior American Diplomat in Moscow and nearly got me. We need to be careful, but there might be a chance that we can help things settle out without bloodshed."
"Why don't you try talking to Jaun Carlos to see if you can find out what he plans to do?"
"I might later, but I will need you to talk to the major, Raul, so I can get a few moments alone with him. Right now, lets worry about getting those hostages selected."
George nodded and began to organize the lucky hostages who would be leaving.
*****
Jaun Carlos stood on the stage in front of the assembled diplomats and the conference center's staff. Apparently, the absence of those leaving the center hadn't been noticed, yet. Raul stood by Jaun Carlos' side, holding an assault rifle he had borrowed from one of the men. Jaun Carlos had nearly ordered him to leave it behind in the director's office but decided to hold his tongue over such a small matter. Raul was still seething that Jaun Carlos had decided to release some of the hostages after the Americans had attempted to kidnap and wounded, perhaps fatally, the man the Mexicans had sent out to negotiate. Why reward them for their treachery? Jaun Carlos, himself had been surprised and saddened by the behavior of the Americans. Someone on the other side hadn't learned the lessons of places like Munich, the Beirut skyjackings, and Waco.
But it was stupid and dangerous to keep this many people as hostages. The wounded would require attention of some of the hostages who would themselves have to be guarded. The rest of the hostages might eventually realize that there were almost as many of them as there were terrorists. The sooner he could release everyone but the diplomats, the sooner Jaun Carlos could fulfill his primary mission of holding the building for as long as possible and inflicting as many casualties on all the people who came to attack as he could.
Raul refused to see these points, though. He saw returning the hostages as a sign of weakness and even momentarily accused Jaun Carlos of being sympathetic to the Americans. Though this was closer to the truth than the young man suspected, he was himself surprised at his own statement. Quickly he had reversed himself and said that he would do what ever Jaun Carlos ordered. This statement didn't comfort the Colonel, though, because he knew that eventually Raul would realize that the supposed goals of the mission were not those Jaun Carlos was following and he would then have to either stop his friend or perhaps betray what he considered to be his honor.
When the hostages who were being freed entered the room as a body, Jaun Carlos began to speak to the people docily sitting in audience. "Your government is very stupid. Could they not look at the streets in front of this building and realize that they are dealing with men who are very serious. Instead, they act like men from one of your action movies. What kind of people do they think that we are that they will not hesitate to attack a man we sent to speak with them in good faith that he would be given safe conduct. As a result of their stupid action, most of the attackers were killed on the spot. Because we were granted vengeance on those who actually perpetrated this attack, there will be no reprisals on you ... this time. I am releasing twenty of your number, and those who were wounded when we seized this building, with the express intention that you will carry a message to the commander of the forces who attacked my negotiator. I want those of you who are leaving to tell him of what you saw in here. Tell them how many men I have and what kind of weapons. And, tell them that if he attacks again, I will kill twenty of the people who remain in this room. That is all."
Jaun Carlos, tuned to Raul and said, "Send them out to the first barrier with and escort. If you are fired on announce that they are being freed. If the Americans continue to fire, kill the hostages."
"Yes, sir." there was no smile on Raul's face now.
Motioning to Peter Defoe, who stood at the left edge of the stage, he said "Come see me in about ten minutes and I will have further instructions for you."
Peter nodded and said nothing. Details of the days past events continued to flood his mind.
Jaun Carlos and Raul both walked out and returned to the former director's office. The colonel sat down tiredly in the visitors chair that had been moved around behind the large desk to replace the one that had been destroyed this afternoon. He suddenly realized that he hadn't had time to eat since this morning and began to search through the pack he had put on the desk earlier this afternoon. He quickly found a package that was a direct copy of American NOSH(NOurishment, Self Heating) rations; breaking the tab on the bottom of the packet to begin the warming process, Jaun Carlos noticed that Raul still standing before the desk, starring at him.
"What do you want, Raul? I was just going to eat and rest a few minutes before I spoke to Mr. Defoe."
Looking down at the floor for a moment, Raul said nothing. Then straightening his posture and looking directly into is Colonel's eyes, he said, "I want you to know that I love you like a father but I won't let you blow this mission, Jaun Carlos. The fucking American have to pay."
Suddenly cold, Juan Carlos wasn't hungry anymore. Keeping his features stern and angry, he said, "I don't like your tone, Major. If you have any criticisms of my actions, state them now. Otherwise you have no right to be so impertinent. I am doing my best to fulfill the duty given me by our commanders. Only they have the right to judge me. I have allowed our friendship to make our relationship too informal. Let me remind you then, I am a colonel and you are a Major. Besides, what do you really know about strategy, anyway. Leave me now."
Angry and perhaps, even hurt, Raul stormed out of the office and slammed the door. Jaun Carlos could barely restrain his tears as he bit into the tasteless meat patty that was too hot on one end and nearly frozen on the other. He had to divert Raul's attention and perhaps, destroying their friendship was the best way but that didn't make it any easier. "The things my country requires me to destroy," thought Jaun Carlos as he quickly finished his meal.
*****
At first when Ricky had heard that the Colonel was releasing some of the prisoners he was so angry that he didn't stop cursing for several minutes. Twice, he tried to convince Jose to go with him back to see the colonel or perhaps the major and ask for confirmation of the order in person. But eventually he settled back onto his pack, drowsily told Jose to hold the fort, and fell asleep again. More angry at Ricky for being such a gold brick, Jose didn't think much about the impending release of the hostages until a private crawled up to their position behind the second barrier of cars.
"We're going to walk the prisoners out to the first barrier. Keep us covered," said the private.
"Sure. That's all I have been doing, tonight. Covering people who go out there and get shot." Jose smiled to make it a joke.
The private's face didn't even flicker as he turned to crawl back to his comrades waiting with the hostages. Perhaps he hadn't heard or just hadn't wanted to hear.
As the hostages filed past Jose and and Ricky's position, some struggling to carry others who were wounded, he again lowered his night vision goggles and began to carefully watch the first barrier for any sign of movement by the American police. Surely they would do nothing, now, though.
The action was equally tragic or comic, depending on your perspective. Jose couldn't help laughing hysterically as several shots rang out from snipers on the building to his left. Several of the hostages fell, though none of the Mexicans appeared to be hurt. Barely able to prevent his mirth from leaking into his voice, Jose announced through the loudspeaker he had used earlier, "Fucking Americans! If you wanted us to kill your hostages, why didn't you just say so? We just released those twenty but we still have many others."
While he said this, the Mexican soldiers guiding the hostages to the last barrier between them and the police, ran back past Jose's position. The hostages themselves continued to stand where they were when the shots rang out; some began to scream, others just stood there, mute as if awaiting their fate.
Jose's mirth had settled to giggles by the time the Americans sent some people past the first barrier to collect the hostages and the wounded. This time Jose did nothing to hinder their efforts. He finally noticed the tears streaming down his cheeks when Ricky yawned, said something about not getting a good sleep since he joined the army, and went back to sleep.
Several more shots rang out into the night, this time from the Forward Progress center's roof. Each shot was fired at the two swat team snipers who had fired moments before on the Mexicans with the hostages and each of the shots hit. Neither man would be punished by his superiors because both were killed.
*****
George hovered at Peter's side as they stood before the entrance to Warren's office. Both men were uncomfortable with what they were about to attempt to do. Trying to encourage himself, as well as George, Peter said with a smile, "It wont be quite as tough as the time we prevented that Armenian intelligence officer from executing the Turkish mercenaries."
George merely blinked; after a moment, though, he nodded, then pointed toward the door, and knocked.
Juan Carlos called for Peter to enter and looked up in surprise when his assistant strode in beside him.
"What do you want?" the colonel asked George.
"Some of our people are getting tired. There isn't much room to lie down in the auditorium. Would you allow us to find a new room with more floor space?"
Thinking for a moment, Jaun Carlos said, "It would have to be a room in which you will all fit at once. I don't know if there is another place that is suitable. I will send Major Fernandez out to look for one."
"Would it be O.K. if we looked now?"
Raul shook his head but Jaun Carlos looked from Peter's face to that of George and said, "Fine. Major Fernandez, help this man find a suitable room. Be back in ten minutes. If you can find anything better than the auditorium, then have the hostages moved there. Otherwise, come straight back."
"No, I must stay for this meeting."
"I will be fine, Raul. I don't think Mr. Defoe will cause me any trouble and if he does you can kill his assistant." Jaun Carlos wore a thin smile while George paled slightly.
"But ..."
"No, that's an order Major."
"Come with me!" Raul grabbed George's elbow and shoved him out the door.
"I was going to tell you to select another twenty people to be the next batch released but I guess you have something you want to say, Mr. Defoe."
Ignoring the invitation to state the purpose of George's quest for a better room, Peter instead asked, "So you have decided to release another group?"
"Oh, no, not yet. This might also be the group that gets executed if your American police do something stupid again, like trying to kidnap one of my men."
Momentarily speechless, Peter thought of how much harder it would be to select the next group knowing this.
With an exasperated air, the colonel asked, "Again, what is it you wanted to say?"
"I am puzzled by you, Colonel. You are not like most of the terrorists I have had the misfortune to run across or read about. For a man who has presided over an extremely irrational event you are perfectly rational and lucid."
"War is rationalized, irrationality. I don't know what you think a military man is supposed to be like but our careers focus around using ordering principles and logic to create large amounts of chaos and destruction." Growing tired of the discourse, Jaun Carlos said, "Look, I just used up a great amount of trust with my executive officer and we were already having difficulties. Will you please state what you came here to say?"
"Fine. I have a feeling that you don't believe in what you are doing. Terrorists usually are so committed to their cause that every act, no matter how brutal, is justified in their eyes. You haven't acted like that. You allowed some brutality, but stopped it in other cases and even ignored opportunities to gain what some might call legitimate revenge. All of this leads me to believe that you are searching for a way to end this without more bloodshed. Am I correct in this belief?"
"I would love to end this without more people being killed but that is not what I was assigned to do. If your police will cooperate, no more civilians and perhaps not even any of the diplomatic staff will be hurt, though."
"Why not release us now, then?"
"Because the crisis hasn't progressed far enough, yet. Only then will I release you because our purpose for holding you will have been fulfilled."
"What is your purpose, here?"
"I would have told your police, if they had ever asked, that we wanted the Economic Unity Commission disbanded, the trade regulation protocols in the North American Free Trade Agreement renegotiated, and American military bases within one hundred miles of the border removed."
"No one would have taken those demands seriously."
"Of course not," exclaimed Jaun Carlos. "But it would have shown that some Mexicans were willing to fight and die to preserve Mexican sovereignty and all that goes along with such a statement."
"But what is your real purpose?"
With a sigh, Jaun Carlos said, "Oh, don't think that because I am unenthusiastic that those words don't reflect my real purpose. I am an officer in the Mexican Army, after all."
"Well, ... whatever your demands are, I offer my services as a Moderator. Perhaps the police will be willing to negotiate and we could find a compromise that will satisfy you," Peter offered with resolution.
Jaun Carlos laughed, and then, seeing Peter's face, said, "No, I don't mean to insult you. No I was just laughing at the thought that we should offer to negotiate before the police do. No, I don't think that would be very useful to my mission. Please go back to your people and select another twenty. I will let them leave at midnight if the police behave. I will then release the rest of you, on the same condition, some time tomorrow."
Dismissing Peter from his attention, Jaun Carlos began to rummage through his pack for a canteen. Perceiving that the conversation was over, Peter turned and strode out of the room.
When Raul returned a few minutes later, he asked suspiciously, "What was that all about?"
Ignoring the major's question, Jaun Carlos asked, "Did you find a suitable room?"
Raul waved dismissively and said, "Of course not. The Auditorium was the best room and that was why we took the hostages there this afternoon. What did you tell the American Moderator?"
"He asked me what we wanted. I was so pleased that someone finally wanted to know, I told him our demands."
"Don't toy with me, Jaun Carlos. What was so important that you send me out of the room?"
"Defoe offered to negotiate between us and the Americans. I politely declined. I had you leave because I didn't think he would make the offer with you in the room. Don't worry, Raul, I didn't make a secrete pact with him to betray the men to the American police."
"You shouldn't joke like that, Jaun Carlos. Your attitude is beginning to worry me. I should be present for all of the meetings you have with this man, from now on."
Ignoring the warning in Raul's tone, Jaun Carlos said, "Again, I remind you that I am a Colonel, Major. I will decide when you stay and when to send you out to fetch coffee."
As Raul stomped out of the office, Jaun Carlos began digging through his pack once more, this time in search of his pistol.
*****
Ralph had to admit that the Feds had arrived in style; five grey sedans screeched to a halt beside two police vans the commisioners were using as a "command" post. This new arrival brought the commissioners desulatory conversation to an end with the hope, it seemed, that someone who knew what they were doing was about to take charge. Both of the men who stepped out of the first car were wearing rumpled suits in neutral shades of gray. Neither man could identify who seemed to be in charge when they arrived at the circle of camp stools the commisioners were now occupying.
Standing to the side and seeing the newcomers' confusion, Ralph, who was now back in his superior's good graces because of his stand against Jenkens, introduced himself and the remaining commissioners. David Jenkens had been helped to one of the ambulances once Ralph had been pulled off of him. Apparently he was suffering more from his bruised pride than the one Ralph's fist had given him. Each of the other commissioners had separately come up to him and tried to guiltily explain their reasons for supporting Jenken's stupid idea in the first place.
Almost in overcompensation, the commisioners didn't issue any orders without asking Ralph's opinion. All of their cow towing wouldn't change the fact that Ralph was resigning just as soon as the crisis was resolved, though.
One of the newcomers introduced himself saying, "We are from the Federal Interstate Police Beuro. My name is Dale Streever, and this is my associate, Roger Drepsle. Our purpose, and the purpose of the men we have brought is to act as liason between local police and any federal forces that might be needed to resolve this situation."
Ralph was a bit taken aback. What were federal forces and how might they help resolve this situation? Having a hunch, perhaps even a sick premonition that this night of fuckups was only going to get worse, he asked, "What kind of help is the FIP ready to offer? So far we have lost over half of our swat team and three of my negotiating team."
"We are ready to bring up a full FIP negotiating team as well as more heavy weapons trained personel. My superior has also told me that there is a Marine company standing by at Pendalton, and possibly a SEALs team, as well."
"I don't need more men with guns running around out there, Streever. What I need is some calm people who no how to hand hostage situations."
"Of course we will try to work with you as much as possible Mr. Peters, but once you ask for help from the FIP we will decide how to give you that help. Besides, considering how many casualties your men have taken don't you think this situation is a bit extreim. This is my superiors position anyway. A little more trained firepower won't hurt anything."
Several shots rang out into the night, as if to emphasize these last words, from the direction of the forward progress center. Ignoring exchange of silent looks between Streever and Drepsle, Ralph ran out of the "command" center to the baricade and asked the officer on duty there for a status report.
"Don't know whats going on, sir. Maybe one of the terrorists saw another guy he wanted to swat."
"Shut up, asshole."
Soon, the terrorists announced that the swat team was shooting at the hostages that were being released. Ralph wondered why all the stupid people seemed to be working for him tonight.
Once the wounded were sepparated off from the merely treaumatized and everyone began to calm down, the hostages began to relay the message the terrorist commander had told them to give. Ralph found the agreement of the numbers of terrorists in the forward progress building that the hostages gave to be the most unsettling fact of trying to understand this situation. Clearly, there were over one hundred terrorists in the building, all armed with modern military infantry equipment and provided with copious amounts of amunition. The terrorists were more like soldiers than fanatics. What was the purpose of expending this much effort and hurting this many people. It had to be something to do with the conference.
Ralph had to deal with another sticky matter, though, before he had time to think about the implications of his logic. He was quickly engaged in trying to explain to the released hostages why the police had fired on them when the terrorists were releasing them.
His well intentioned words about the anger of seeing their friends shot and unavaoidabe lapses in discipline offered no comfort to those who had been hurt. Ralph felt especially inadequate when he tried to talk to the people who had been wounded by the terrorists and then hit again by police bullets. After standing for a few moments, watching the paramedics work, and suffering under the glare of one slightly wounded hostage, Ralph returned to the "command" center to find that it had become one in fact.
As so as he had left, the FIP officer had begun to set up an electronics suit that one of the techs told him the FIP never opporated without. "We're able to pull in satelite feeds from anywhere in the world and transmit via the same linkup anything the terrorists might want to say."
Streever smiled when Ralph walked up to him, ignoring the scowl on the local policeman's face, and said, "What do you think? We have the electronics in place an my men are already discussing with your guy how we are going to coordinate." Finally noticing Ralph's lack of interest, he asked, "What's wrong?"
"How soon can you get your men up here. Some of my SWAT troops are starting to lose controle and are firing on anything that moves outside of that building. They have also been periodically exchanging shots with the terrorists."
Ralph picked up one of the camp stools and absently began to open and closing it, while he said, "I've ordered them not to fire unless fired upon, but I don't think that will stop them. It's funny how quickly a police officer can become an angry, bitter man with a gun."
Ignoring the opportunity to gloat about the request for armed troops, Streever said, with real sympathy, "The marines will be here in two hours. I will see about getting a unit from our special action team sent out. If you want, I can also send some of my staff out to your SWAT team positions to steady them a bit."
"I would appreciate that. Look, Dale, I didn't mean to come off so strong but we have to turn off the violence now, not increase it. It seames like everything I do has no effect on what is happening in that building or out here, for that matter. I just don't want anyone else to get hurt."
"Don't wory, Ralph. We're going to make sure that doesn't happen. Right?"
The Marines came roaring out of the night two hours later, just as Streever had predicted. Ralph hadn't expected them to arrive by helecopter and was even less prepaired for the continuous swooping presence of the two ancient Apache helecopters, overhead. They were all part of the plan, Streever said. Ralph was begining to wonder what the plan was and who was really in charge.
Anyway, there were now one hundred and twenty marines and asorted officers now waiting quietly in a compact body beside the command center now. Ten of them had been sent out to replace the remainder of the SWAT team, which now consisted of seven unwounded officers. It had been quiet since the SWAT team shot the hostages but who knew how long they would be able to contrle themselves. It was better to get these tramatized officer out of the line of fire and hopefully away from their guns.
*****
Copyright 2000, Robert G. Werner
robert@inreachtech.net
The good time is approaching,
The season is at hand.
When the merry click of the two-base lick
Will be heard throughout the land.
The frost still lingers on the earth, and
Budless are the trees.
But the merry ring of the voice of spring
Is borne upon the breeze.
-- Ode to Opening Day, "The Sporting News", 1886