The Powers That Be. Cliff Ryder
closed the phone and slowly replaced it in his pocket. For a moment, he stood there with his mother, neither of them saying anything. The chatter and shouts of the twins playing outside reached their ears.
“They need you again.”
It wasn’t a question. Marcus’s parents hadn’t been exactly thrilled when he had joined the Army, and less so when he had applied for the Ranger program. But they had learned to respect his passion for the military, and when he had taken this new job, which he described as “government consulting,” he knew his mother wasn’t naive enough to think it was simple travel and advising. But in their conversations, he had told her that this was what he wanted to do, to give something back to his homeland and their adopted country. Unfortunately, that also meant that there was only one answer he could give her.
He nodded.
“Oh, Marcus, you were gone so long this last time. You tell us not to worry, but I cannot help it—”
He put a finger to her lips. “I know, I know. They wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t necessary. At least it shouldn’t be too long. They said perhaps five to seven days, so I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Do you have time to stop by the store and see your father? He would be upset if he didn’t see you before you left.”
Marcus had spoken with both his parents when he had first arrived, but he’d been so tired he didn’t remember much of the conversation. “Of course, Mama. I don’t actually start until tomorrow, so at least we’ll have this day together. I’ll be sure to spend some time with the boys, as well.” He walked to the door, then turned in the archway. “At least I’ll be doing something you always wanted for me this time.”
She frowned in confusion.
“I’m going back home.”
6
Major Damason Valdes sat alongside several soldiers from his brigade in a small, sweltering room, pressing headphones to his ears, straining to hear the hushed conversation in a room a few blocks away. He ignored the sweat, the smell and the restlessness of his men, concentrating instead on picking out the vital words that meant he and his unit could go in and do their job. While most other high-ranking officers in Cuba’s Revolutionary Armed Forces would have assigned this job to a sergeant, Damason was a firm believer in not ordering his men to any task that he wasn’t willing to oversee personally. As a result he’d wound up perspiring in a closed room, listening to a smuggling transaction at two in the morning.
Since the government had been forced to relax the strict sanctions against foreign trade and investment, Cuba had recovered somewhat from the crippling economic blow dealt to it by the breakup of the Soviet Union, their only benefactor since the early 1960s. However, with that inflow of trade had come side effects the country had been ill prepared for, such as an increase in crime. From street violence and robbery to drug and human trafficking, the police were hard-pressed to stem the sudden rise in illegal activity.
Well, they cannot do that and continue to monitor and report on our citizens at the same time with the efficiency the government demands, Damason thought sourly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Since much of the military had also been reassigned to civilian business projects, he had come up with the idea of using his trained soldiers as an adjunct to the police force when necessary. Formed into handpicked units, the additional men had been paying dividends in the form of a marked decrease in overall crime in the areas they patrolled. But even now he faced rising lawlessness in areas not doubly patrolled, as if the criminals had learned of the combination of police and military, and simply set up shop elsewhere. His commander, General Alejandro Marino, was putting increasing pressure on him to not let the crime spill over into the high-profile tourist areas. The vice squads already had their hands full trying to contain the prostitution that had infiltrated the luxury resorts. If our great revolution would allow educated people to earn an honest wage, then our great leader wouldn’t have joked about the prostitutes having college degrees to that American filmmaker a few years ago, he thought bitterly.
Pressing the earphones tightly to his head, Damason heard the words he had been waiting for. “Here is the money—fifty thousand dollars. Now, let’s see the merchandise.”
What sounded like a cargo door of a panel truck was opened, the racket nearly deafening in his ears. He held his hand up, index finger pointing up, and felt all of his men straighten to attention. Pistols and rifles were quietly checked as he listened for the signal to begin the raid.
The small microphone he had cannibalized from a drug dealer’s karaoke machine last year transmitted the frightened whimpers of the “merchandise” the dealers were haggling over—women. They were to be transported to Mexico and used there or in the United States as sex slaves, then killed when their usefulness was at an end. The inhumanity made Damason’s blood boil. These men were dealing in human lives as casually as if they were selling cattle, inflicting degradation and suffering on hundreds, maybe even thousands of women. Until tonight.
Damason’s middle finger popped up next to his index. The deal was almost consummated. The money was fake, of course. Real dollars had to be pumped into Cuba’s flagging economy, to prop up the claims of excellent health care and free education, both of which were provided, but at a terrible cost.
Just when he was about to order his men to move out, a distant rattle caught his attention. It was the sound of another door opening, the garage door to the building. Shouts of “¡Policía!” and “¡No muévase!” rang in his ears.
“¡Mierda!” He yanked off the earphones. “That pig Gustavo went in too soon! Come on!” Drawing his .45, he yanked the slide back and led his men out the door and down the narrow alley to the crumbling building where the transaction was supposed to be taking place, berating himself for letting the police sergeant in on the raid in the first place. Damason knew how ruthless these slave traders were. He’d seen the report of them throwing their living cargo overboard when accosted by Cuban or U.S. Coast Guard patrols, hoping the ship would stop for the former captives and allowing them and the rest of the cargo to escape. And even now, as he led his men to the garage, he heard gunshots as the smugglers tried to blast their way out of the trap.
Damason assigned two men to head around the back to see if they could catch the thugs by surprise, while the rest of them took positions at the front of the building and readied their AK-47s. “The truck can only come out this way. Remember, if they try to escape, shoot only at the tires unless you have a clean shot at one of them. They’ll still have the women as hostages in the back.” It had gone ominously silent inside, with only a hanging light swinging crazily.
He pointed at two more of his men. “Take cover across the street at the corners and make sure that truck doesn’t leave.” To the other two men he said, “Follow me.”
Damason bent over and trotted to one side of the door, his two men right behind him. He smelled gunpowder and blood and heard a truck engine turning over. He ran to the other side of the closed door, then motioned his men to pull it open.
Headlights pierced the darkness as they did so, lighting up the alley as the truck rumbled forward. Automatic-weapons fire strobed the night as a man leaned out the passenger window, spraying bullets into the street. As the truck swerved into the narrow road, Damason stepped up onto the running board and slammed the butt of his pistol into the driver’s head. The man fell over, rendered unconscious by the blow. On the other side, the shooter slumped half out of the truck cab, his chest spouting blood from the gunfire of his men.
The truck, still in gear, lurched toward the other side of the street. The two men there ducked back into the alley as Damason wrenched the wheel to the left, turning the vehicle down the street with the barest scrape of a dented fender against the nearby building. He popped the door open and shoved the smuggler over, grabbing for the gearshift and kicking at the clutch to bring the truck to a stop before it plowed into something. With a screech of clashing gears, it shuddered to a stop in the middle of the street.
Damason turned off the engine, grabbed the motionless driver