The Surge - 03 (23 page)

“And you trust me with such devices?”

“Yes … as much as our circumstances allow. If you turn the bacteria against my organization, surely you know we would react in kind. What was it the Soviets and the Americans used to call it when their thousands of hydrogen warheads threatened each other?”

Z-44 laughed, “They called it MAD or Mutually Assured Destruction.”

Vincent nodded, “Yes. I remember now. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that between us.”

“We have prepared the delivery system as per your instructions. We also agree with your choice of targets, although our friends in the Knights Templar aren’t going to be happy with either of us when they figure out we’ve unleashed the plague in their territory.”

Vincent shrugged, “We gave them every opportunity to join us. Instead of sitting and talking like civilized men, they attacked your people and mine. Perhaps they will listen the next time we make a reasonable proposal.”

“Perhaps,” the Zetas leader responded, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe such a thing could ever occur.

El General turned and waved at his party, the signal sending a single man to the middle of the corral. Z-44 mimicked the motion.

A duffle bag was exchanged, the two steel canisters inside. After verifying the contents were not explosive devices, the Zeta man nodded at his boss.

Vincent extended his hand, which was accepted by the rival crime lord. “Until we speak again.”

“I hope your travels are safe,” Z-44 responded. “We will make the delivery tomorrow morning, just after dawn. We will discuss the next phase after watching the results.”

“Agreed.”

After departing from Los Arcos, Z-44 had ordered the two canisters repackaged. Special fire extinguishers had been prepared, and soon the deadly bacteria were wearing a disguise that would fool even the most vigorous searcher.

Not that such an event was anticipated.

As they drove west across Los Zetas territory, Z-44’s convoy passed through a countryside that his organization controlled with an iron fist. Mayors, police chiefs, politicians, and even federal law enforcement were all on his payroll. The only real threat would be a surprise incursion by some units of the Mexican military, and even then, he would receive several hours warning.

Still, Z-44 didn’t want to take any chances.

Of all the cartel leaders, he had been both the first, and most enthusiastic in forming an alliance with El General. The plan was brilliant, workable, and would bring Mexico out of the quagmire that had plagued his country for decades. He wasn’t going to be the one responsible for any failure or setbacks.

As they drove through the state of Coahuila, the crime boss’s thoughts roamed between the past and future, envisioning what he hoped would be the results of El General’s devious plot.

He remembered joining the Mexican Army as a young man, his intelligence and athletic ability soon earning him quick promotions. Then one day, he’d been invited to see if he could make the cut and become a member of an elite unit of Special Forces.

Reeking of patriotism, full of invincibility, and wanting more from life than what his dusty village could ever offer, he’d gladly accepted the posting.

The training had been brutal.

Then, an event occurred that changed Z-44’s outlook forever. He had been chosen for a special honor. He would be attending a Special Warfare class in America, the four-week program being hosted at Fort Bragg in North Carolina.

It was the first time the young soldier had travelled out of his native Mexico, and the experience changed him forever.

He and a handful of other troopers flew into Atlanta where a bus from Fort Bragg picked them up. Z-44 recalled his astonishment at the vast wealth that rolled past the bus’s windows.

At first, he’d believed the American driver was simply passing through the wealthiest areas, trying to impress the foreign visitors. It was soon obvious that wasn’t the case.

Sergeants lived in housing that was superior to that provided for brigade commanders in Mexico. The Americans used ammunition without any thought of the cost. Helicopters carried soldiers into battle rather than flying officers to visit their mistresses. Even the lowly privates had automobiles, mobile phones, and color televisions in their off-base apartments.

The food, medical care, equipment, and morale were all far and above anything the young Mexican trooper had ever experienced. As time passed, the realization dawned that he served a second-class nation, both economically and militarily. It was disheartening.

His feverish patriotism and loyalty wavered. For months, he tried to move on, but the same old internal debate raged. Why? Why was his homeland not a first-world power? Why did his people live in such poverty? Was it the government? Corruption? The cartels? Was America to blame?

Over time, the frustration welled up inside him. The eventual resolution to his mental conflict was a common escape. “Patriotism is an extravagance. It’s obviously every man for himself,” he realized. “No one is going to give me anything. I will only ever have what I can take, and I can take a lot.”

When a recruiter for Los Zetas started buying rounds of beer at an off-base cantina frequented by Z-44’s unit, the cartel pitchman had found it easy to lure the highly trained troops. “You have earned the benefits of free enterprise,” he stated. “The rewards will be enough for you and your families to live a quality of life beyond your wildest dreams.”

Four years later, Z-44 had found himself in charge of Los Zetas after his boss had been killed by Mexican Marines in a government raid.

The convoy finally arrived at the small town of Cordova, an agricultural village residing on the edge of Los Zetas territory. From here, it was only a short flight into the heartland of the Knights Templar cartel.

Waiting for them was a Polish built, M-18 Dromader, a frumpy-looking aircraft popular with crop dusters all over the world. To Z-44, the damn thing looked like a cross between a camel and a battle tank. One of his men, a private pilot, had stolen the plane less than two hours ago.

The Zetas hustled to install the canisters, paying special attention to the instructions provided by El General’s men. The pilot kept his distance, watching the activity with a nervous eye.

Once the plane was ready, Z-44 approached the flyer and said, “You know the targets. Those tanks will only provide 20 seconds each of spraying, so the accuracy of your bombing runs is critical. We’ll pick you up in a few hours.”

“Yes, Jefe.”

Sensing the man’s apprehension, Z-44 patted the pilot on the shoulder – a rare display of compassion to a subordinate. “Wear the mask and gloves, and you’ll be enjoying dinner with your family this evening and for many more to come. The bonus I am paying for this job will make you a wealthy man.”

The Zetas crew watched as the plane rumbled down the remote dirt strip and then leaped skyward. A wave of panic shot through the men on the ground when the pilot banked steeply and flew by at a low altitude. “Is he spraying us?” someone shouted as the plane passed overhead.

For a moment, Z-44 wondered.

Staring up as the plane shot past, he could see the masked face of the pilot looking down, his white-gloved hand waving a friendly gesture.

They watched the aircraft turn to the west, its droning motor’s hum fading into the distance.

For just a moment, Z-44 wanted nothing more than to stand and watch, unsure if his legs would move. It finally occurred to him what he had just done. For the first time in his adult life, the cartel boss experienced the deep frost of absolute terror.

What had he just unleashed? What sort of horror was in the crop duster’s tanks? It was as if he had just launched a nuclear missile – a weapon that couldn’t be called back. There was no radio in the plane. There was no recalling the germs.

For a brief moment, Z-44 wondered if the American President Harry Truman had experienced the same emotions when he’d ordered the atomic strike on Japan. Did that leader have regrets? Did he wonder what hell he had unleashed upon his enemy? Did he ever sleep again?

Standing around, waiting for their boss’s next command, the Zetas crew had no idea of the doubt and insecurity that rushed through Z-44’s veins.

Z-44 began to rationalize.
For there to be the revolution my people need, some must be sacrificed. There are always casualties with change. There are always those who must perish for the greater good
, he thought.

The rhetoric helped push down the fear and trepidation that were building in his core. He couldn’t make the negative emotions disappear, but he could control them. He wondered for a second if they would ever go away entirely.

Still, he couldn’t let his men see his feelings. He had to be strong. Finally, when the black dot of the aircraft disappeared in the distance, he turned and said to his waiting crew, “Let’s go get a cold beer. I’m thirsty.”

The stockyards outside the town of Amecia were packed, the border closure with Texas having an enormous impact on one of Mexico’s most lucrative, legal exports – beef.   

The few people who noticed the crop duster paid little attention to the tiny plane. The area was brimming with farms and orchards; family owned businesses that raised potatoes, blackberries, limes, and or course, maize. Such aircraft were a common sight during certain phases of the multiple growing seasons. 

The vaqueros working at the yards were an exception.

“What is that idiot doing?” asked one weathered cowboy, leaning against a fence after just having separated two competing bulls. “He’s going to spook the cattle!”

At 150 feet above the extensive facility, the pilot turned a knob in the cockpit and flipped a small switch. For less than 10 seconds he held down on the valve’s control, allowing the odorless, colorless aerosol to flow from the canisters under his wing.

He made a wide turn, ignoring the waving hats, middle fingers, and clenched fists from the vaqueros below. The massive, compacted herds were already jumpy. If some of the stock were damaged or the fences were pushed down, all hell could break loose, and men could lose valuable jobs.

When the pilot made a second pass, a supervisor was calling the local police.

Before anyone at the rural station answered, the plane vanished to the east.

The pilot’s next target nagged at the man’s soul.

The Guadalajara metro area boasted the second largest population in Mexico. The pilot was thankful Z-44 hadn’t ordered him to spray the city.

Instead, he was to follow the passenger rail line heading north and west to Tijuana. There, just outside the suburban outskirts, he would find a large train station.

As he flew toward the extensive cityscape, the roadways became wider and far more congested. “It’s rush hour,” he shouted over the drone of the plane’s engine. “The train station will be packed.”

As the miles went by, he began sweating. His family had ridden along that same railroad, a short spring vacation just a few years ago. He could still remember the packed cars and excitement in the air. His sister had been travelling to see the ocean for the first time. His father was going to take his sons fishing in the Pacific.

The pilot’s chest began to hurt, and for a moment, he thought he was going to vomit in his mask. That thought led to even more distress as he realized his chances of being infected with the poison under his wings would greatly increase if he wasn’t breathing filtered air.

He couldn’t do it.

For a brief moment, he thought about returning with the second tank full and pleading for Z-44’s mercy. He decided against that plan, as his death was practically guaranteed, and it would be a slow, painful demise. Los Zetas did not suffer incompetence, cowardice, or failure.

In a panic, he reached for the dash and dumped his cargo, paying no attention to what was underneath his plane. For 20 seconds, at 240 kilometers per hour, the deadly bio-toxin sprayed from the tank.    

When his finger closed the valve, the pilot suffered his second panic attack. “What if Z-44 has people watching the train station?”

He decided to fly over the facility, just in case. Who would know? It wasn’t his fault that the tanks malfunctioned. How could he be blamed for the bioweapon's failure?

Below the crop duster, Hugo Garcia and his family were traveling toward the coast on Federal Highway 70. Hugo, an assistant restaurant manager in Guadalajara, was already angry with his wife, and their vacation was less than two hours old.

She hadn’t had the kids ready when he returned home. They had gotten a late start, and now he was gridlocked in a combination of weekend and rush hour traffic.

Hugo noticed the small plane flying parallel with the highway and welcomed the distraction. Anything was better than staring at the bumper of the oil burning, old Chevy he’d been following for the last 45 minutes.

When a slight mist blurred his field of vision, the frustrated motorist had scanned the sky, looking for clouds. “Where is that moisture coming from?” he asked his pouting wife. “The weather report didn’t say anything about storms on the way.”

He realized it wasn't raining when his windshield wiper smeared the substance. It required three blasts from the washer before his line of sight was clear.

“Whatever it was, there was a lot of it,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I can see the cars behind us cleaning their glass as well.”

Satisfied that his long-awaited holiday wasn’t going to be ruined by hostile weather, Hugo’s thoughts returned to the traffic, wondering how many more miles it would take before he was free of delays.

The disease spread through the stockyard like wildfire.

At first, the authorities thought the respiratory infection was merely due to the overcrowding. They did their best to separate the ill animals, including shipping some apparently healthy stock to neighboring facilities.

At the same time, the hospital at the resort town of Puerto Vallarta found themselves treating an unusually high number of cases involving what looked to be a resistant strain of pneumonia. Within 24 hours, the facility had identified patient zero as one Mr. Hugo Garcia and his entire family.

The first animal death was quickly followed by the demise of Mr. Garcia’s wife. Within 48 hours, the World Health Organization was mobilizing a team to travel to central Mexico. Before they could board a plane, over 13,000 head of cattle had perished.

It was the death of the first cowboy working the Amecia stockyards that ignited a state of emergency throughout the Mexican healthcare system. It was extremely rare that the same bug infected humans and animals. Alarm bells were sounding in Mexico City.

That reaction, however, was benign compared to panic that ensued when a message appeared on several internet social media sites. The same video was delivered to every major news organization in the country and was soon being broadcast all over the world.

A handsome young actor, dressed in a conservative silk suit, appeared stately sitting behind an expensive-looking, mahogany desk. Staring square into the camera, he began: “My countrymen, it is with the greatest urgency that I come before you. We have become aware of the most horrible, despicable act being unleashed on the Mexican people. I speak to you as a representative of the organization commonly called the Gulf Cartel. I say to you with confidence that members of the federal government in Mexico City, as well as the leaders of the Knights Templar and several other cartels, have unleashed a terrible weapon on our citizens. We have undeniable proof that the slaughter of cattle being reported in Amecia and the sickness spreading along the Pacific coast are the results of a biological weapon that was developed in Texas.”

The announcer paused, giving his words time to sink in before continuing. “Agents working for several key elected officials, in conspiracy with certain criminal organizations both in Mexico and Texas, have banded together in an attempt to overthrow the government in Mexico City.”

The narrator became angry, his voice showing the first emotion of the well-rehearsed presentation. “I know that our organization is often lumped into the same category as many of the criminal gangs that operate in our great nation. Not long ago, much of this soiled reputation was deserved. Today, however, we come before you as concerned, common citizens. Today we are Mexicans … patriots who love our country ... everyday men and women who wish to make our neighbors aware of this heinous act.”

“I am here today to pledge to all of you that this corruption will not stand as long as my compadres and I draw air into our lungs. I promise each and every citizen of Mexico that we will use all of the resources at our disposal to fight this gang of megalomaniacs who will stop at nothing to consolidate their control over our lives.”

The actor appeared as though he was close to tears, such was the depth of his apparent despair. “To the Army, I pray you remain vigilant. Those of you who do not join this rebellion will be attacked with the same weapons of mass destruction that have already been unleashed and are killing hundreds of innocents. To those in the government who are not involved in this treachery, again, I warn you to remain alert. The men behind these acts of terrorism will use every means at their disposal to destroy you and your families if you do not comply.

“To the people of Mexico, I ask that you join us in this crusade to eliminate this threat and restore peace and honor to our country. The government in Mexico City must resign. The military commanders and their corrupt infrastructure must resign. Our justice system no longer serves the people and must be replaced. It is time for a new revolution, my friends. It is time that the people took back our great nation and restored Mexico to her rightful place in the world community before these madmen kill us all.”

No more than two hours after Vincent’s video nearly overwhelmed Mexico’s internet capability, Z-44 produced a similar online manifesto, pledging his support and decrying the holocaust that was poised on Mexico’s door.

Before the end of the day, no less than seven cartel leaders had reiterated Vincent’s message, all pledging their private armies to fight for the “cause” and put an end to the slaughter of the Mexican people.

The Chapultepec Forest was one of the largest city parks in the Western Hemisphere and had been inhabited since pre-Columbian era. It was often called the “lung” of Mexico City, the heavy foliage, and dense plant life deemed critical to filtering the air of the world’s 10
th
most populated metropolitan area.

At just under 1,700 acres, “Grasshopper Hill” was not only home to numerous historical and cultural attractions, but also contained a section called Los Pinos (
The Pines
) - the official seat of the Mexican Executive Branch.

After receiving several calls from fretting state governors, President Salinas summoned his leadership to a special meeting to discuss the cartels’ videos and their extravagant claims. Early signs of panic were being reported, resulting in numerous regional authorities beginning to ask troubling questions.

The cabinet members were all in their respective seats when the chief executive entered the conference room. As usual, it wasn’t long before the different camps formed, each growing emotional and intense as the discussion matured.

“They are only trying to stir up trouble,” the Secretary of the Interior informed the president. “There is a minor infection that has impacted a few unfortunate souls, as well as a virus reported in a single stockyard. We should not succumb to this attempt at extortion.”

“It just goes to show how desperate they have become,” added a general from the other end of the table. “The secession of Texas, combined with our forces killing or capturing their leadership, has them reeling. This is just a ploy to regain the initiative, nothing more.”

The Secretary of Health, however, wasn’t so sure. “The information I’m receiving is worrisome, Mr. President,” she chimed in. “While we’re still waiting for the official report and lab results, my people in the field are concerned.”

A burst of conversation, protests, and side discussions filled the room, more than a few of the gathered officials trying to be heard at the same time.

President Salinas let the hubbub continue, but not for very long. Holding up both hands, he signaled for quiet. “I don’t expect anyone to have all of the answers just yet,” he stated calmly. “What I do need is a consensus on how to react to this provocation.”