Some still think this might be a peaceful coup. What idiots, I think to myself. There has already been too much bloodshed. Coincidentally, as if my thought were being proven right, the deep voice of a soldier comes onto the radio. “We are here with a member of the 735th squadron who was stationed at Palmero Fort. All we have been told is that something terrible happened there, and it involves Ramon Perez’s murder and the group that allegedly killed him.”
“We found out about Ramon Perez’s murder hours after the fact. Ordinarily high grade murders would be left for the Cambian government to sort out, but the President gave orders for us to settle this difficult matter. Of course, this is all in the interests of peace.”
Peace, I think, yea right. The President wants to settle this because the Cambian government no longer exists, and this is a perfect opportunity to prove our country’s-aka the President’s- superiority. The government loves to be the big shots.
“Our General gave orders to only send a few troops; after all we didn’t want to spark a war.”
Well they sure didn’t do such a great job at preventing that. I cross my arms and disdainfully continue listening.
“Could you describe to our listeners the details of this situation?”
“My squadron tracked the group to a small village just west of
our base. Most of the guys in my team were new, and they didn’t have much experience with stealth. So, they invoked the effortless strategy of ‘shoot now, question later’. The general wasn’t happy when he found out we directly went against his orders, but it was too late to repair what had happened.
We stormed the village and found it abandoned; or so we thought. The village was close to the shoreline. We saw footprints in the sand, and followed them to a rocky beach. It was outrageously sunny, blinding even. I could barely see anything without squinting.
Suddenly one of the new guys realized why the village was so quiet. He started shouting ‘They’re here! They’re here!’”
That’s stealthy.
“Nearly a hundred locals stormed out from behind rocks, trees, from under holes dug in the sand - some were even holding their breaths in the ocean - and each of them had some type of gun, knife, or machete. The entire village must have been waiting for us. It was the ultimate ambush. We panicked and opened fire.”
“Did you subdue your aggressors?”
“At first we had the upper hand, the locals scattered like flies. But our twenty machine guns with minimal ammunition didn’t last long. When our gunfire ceased we saw that all we had done was open a can of worms. The locals bolted out from their hiding spots and let us have it. We were no better off than fish in a barrel. I’m one of the lucky ones; all they got was my shoulder.”
“Did they give any names?” The reporter asks eagerly, wanting to make a break in this story.
“I heard a few names thrown around. I kept hearing ‘nuevo revolucionarios’,” he says, straining to pronounce the words correctly through his southern accent, “and NR, for short I assume. I think that’s what they call themselves.”
“Was there anything to suggest a leader?”
“Oh yes, there was one man in particular who was obviously the
leader. Relatively tall, sinister look, a scar on his left cheek, I believe he’s called Gonzalez. The first name escapes me, but it started with a J…Joe? Justin? Jeremy?” The soldier aimlessly rambles off names as he searches his brain, “It could be anything.”
“You heard the man. Everyone out there keep your ears peeled for a Mr. J. Gonzalez. He’s bound to be an integral part of this issue. One last question sir, what is going on at Palmero Fort now?”
“As everyone is no doubt aware, they have closed their doors and are defending their premises with the upmost courage and strength.”
I click off the radio; this is old news. When Palmero Fort
received news of their dead, there was an instantaneous lock down. No one got in, no one got out. Or almost no one did. There was a rumor that any American whose life is threatened, or who is simply afraid, can come to Palmero Fort and they will be safe. This was six days ago. I figure they’re still in there, guarding Cambia’s last American stronghold.
The scariest part of this fiasco is that Cambia is a mere ninety miles away. There are rumors, terrifying stories the widows tell as they rock back and forth on their wooden porches, of a planned invasion of our country.
Alejandro, my boyfriend, doesn’t believe these rumors. He plans to become a fighter pilot after high school. My mind can easily picture him in the cockpit of a fighter plane over some wavy ocean; his strong arms tightly gripping the steering, never losing control. The idea of the military failing to protect its people is completely incomprehensible to him.
I am not so easily convinced. After all the terrorist threats, murdered innocents, and crime sprees that I’ve witnessed, my faith in every protective force waned. Alejandro can’t even fully protect me, contrary to what he says. His mantra is: “I’ll always be there”. Exceptionally cliché as that is I admit it’s cute, in a naïve sort of way.
To be honest I don’t trust anyone much anymore, at least not when it comes to impossible promises.
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