went back to their game of spades.
“Tell me gringo, do you work for the Yankee intelligence services?”
“No.”
“Not anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I didn't feel the love.”
Commadante Zero laughed.
“You and me both. So if you are not an agent of imperialism than what brings you south of the border?”
“A call for help.”
“America has already helped us enough, but thank you just the same.”
“It was a cop, one of the good ones. He would have gone to you if he thought your movement could mount an effective resistance against the cartels. The Zapatistas have been weak since you were chased back into the jungle by the Mexican military. You of all people know this. Your troops carry rusted, shot out weapons. When was the last time they did any hard military training?”
“As you can see, we don't exactly have the budget of your Defense Department, or your mercenaries in this case. We are a people's movement.”
“What if you could be more?”
Cammadante Zero took another puff from his pipe.
“I'm listening.”
“I can provide trainers, commandos who have seen war the world over. These men are experts in unconventional warfare. We can issue your men the modern weapons we capture from the cartels.”
“But?”
“But this communism nonsense still bothers me. Marxism died a long time ago and isn't coming back. I don't hold any illusions about what Southern Mexico will look like after we leave but I need your assurance that you will lead your people into something that resembles a democratic process. Replacing an oligarchy with an autocracy is unacceptable to me.”
“I thought you were a gunslinger,” the rebel leader said with a nod. “I had no idea that you were an idea man. I'm happy to hear that we think along the same lines.”
“Don't play me on this.”
Commandate Zero looked up at Deckard.
“Why don't you sit down for a moment.”
“I've got work to do.”
“It will take your men at least another half hour to finish hiding that submarine that you captured.”
“You've got eyes and ears,” Deckard inferred.
“Yes,” Zero said. “We have them everywhere.”
12
Deckard grounded his kit in their newly acquired gear room. After setting his rifle down, he ripped the Velcro cummerbund from his plate carrier and lifted it over his head. He was drenched in sweat and covered in black soot. While first platoon was out taking care of business, second platoon had been preparing the Ortega compound as their headquarters, getting everything ready for ongoing operations. One of the garages had been emptied, cleared out to make way for a load out room.
It was only by sheer chance that he was able to effect a marriage of convenience with the Zapatista rebels. He had proven his bonifidis to the rebels by taking down Ortega and striking out at Jimenez. The populist movement hated the cartels and the violence they brought to Mexico just as much as anyone else who wasn't entranced by the romanticism that surrounded the drug lords.
Drugs brought with them drug culture. Just as the addict made their entire family sick with their addiction, drugs could make an entire culture sick, their very identity seared into the drug mythology. In a country like Mexico where the government was hopelessly corrupt, the criminals were often seen as heroes. They were the underdogs.
In the third world there were few alternatives to the human-destroying authoritarian governments. Some gravitated to the cartels as a way to advance in life, at least until they no longer had a life to speak off, snuffed out by rivals or comrades for growing too powerful. Others allied themselves with the leftist rebel groups. If he had to pick between the two, Commandete Zero and his rebels were clearly the better choice. Say what you would about the Zapatistas, they were a homegrown rebellion seeking some kind of reformation. There wasn't really an equivalency between the rebels and the butchers in
“Tell me gringo, do you work for the Yankee intelligence services?”
“No.”
“Not anymore?”
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I didn't feel the love.”
Commadante Zero laughed.
“You and me both. So if you are not an agent of imperialism than what brings you south of the border?”
“A call for help.”
“America has already helped us enough, but thank you just the same.”
“It was a cop, one of the good ones. He would have gone to you if he thought your movement could mount an effective resistance against the cartels. The Zapatistas have been weak since you were chased back into the jungle by the Mexican military. You of all people know this. Your troops carry rusted, shot out weapons. When was the last time they did any hard military training?”
“As you can see, we don't exactly have the budget of your Defense Department, or your mercenaries in this case. We are a people's movement.”
“What if you could be more?”
Cammadante Zero took another puff from his pipe.
“I'm listening.”
“I can provide trainers, commandos who have seen war the world over. These men are experts in unconventional warfare. We can issue your men the modern weapons we capture from the cartels.”
“But?”
“But this communism nonsense still bothers me. Marxism died a long time ago and isn't coming back. I don't hold any illusions about what Southern Mexico will look like after we leave but I need your assurance that you will lead your people into something that resembles a democratic process. Replacing an oligarchy with an autocracy is unacceptable to me.”
“I thought you were a gunslinger,” the rebel leader said with a nod. “I had no idea that you were an idea man. I'm happy to hear that we think along the same lines.”
“Don't play me on this.”
Commandate Zero looked up at Deckard.
“Why don't you sit down for a moment.”
“I've got work to do.”
“It will take your men at least another half hour to finish hiding that submarine that you captured.”
“You've got eyes and ears,” Deckard inferred.
“Yes,” Zero said. “We have them everywhere.”
12
Deckard grounded his kit in their newly acquired gear room. After setting his rifle down, he ripped the Velcro cummerbund from his plate carrier and lifted it over his head. He was drenched in sweat and covered in black soot. While first platoon was out taking care of business, second platoon had been preparing the Ortega compound as their headquarters, getting everything ready for ongoing operations. One of the garages had been emptied, cleared out to make way for a load out room.
It was only by sheer chance that he was able to effect a marriage of convenience with the Zapatista rebels. He had proven his bonifidis to the rebels by taking down Ortega and striking out at Jimenez. The populist movement hated the cartels and the violence they brought to Mexico just as much as anyone else who wasn't entranced by the romanticism that surrounded the drug lords.
Drugs brought with them drug culture. Just as the addict made their entire family sick with their addiction, drugs could make an entire culture sick, their very identity seared into the drug mythology. In a country like Mexico where the government was hopelessly corrupt, the criminals were often seen as heroes. They were the underdogs.
In the third world there were few alternatives to the human-destroying authoritarian governments. Some gravitated to the cartels as a way to advance in life, at least until they no longer had a life to speak off, snuffed out by rivals or comrades for growing too powerful. Others allied themselves with the leftist rebel groups. If he had to pick between the two, Commandete Zero and his rebels were clearly the better choice. Say what you would about the Zapatistas, they were a homegrown rebellion seeking some kind of reformation. There wasn't really an equivalency between the rebels and the butchers in
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