NationStates Jolt Archive

Pedro Santana, Hispaniola

Close to the banks of the Rio Artibonito in Elías Piña on what once was the Dominican-Haitian border, this wasn't much of a city, with little more than four thousand urban and rural residents according to the last count, in 2002, but then perhaps this wasn't much of a country. Judging by the nature of her clandestine broadcasts, listenable only here and in near-by villages in this part of the Cordillera Central, Comrade Rose seemed sure at least that it had potential.

She had few listeners, even within her transmitter's limited range, but still she went on, attacking the establishment, attacking Ciudad Real, and celebrating the invulnerability that she claimed for what she called the Red Fortress, an allegedly rebel-held expanse of the central mountains, where soldiers feared to tread.

Lazing under the early afternoon sun, the officers at the small -and dilapidated- local police station listened to Radio Revolution and joked about how long it had been since Rose insulted or threatened them directly, and about how they could 'straighten her out a bit'.

Evidently, the two gentlemen who'd just pulled up outside the station, on a clapped-out old motorcycle, took offence to the colour of their tongues at this juncture. The Ejército Rojo badges sewn on to their olive-drab sleeves should perhaps have given them away, but who'd been looking? "Viva Rosa!" cried the one up front, hurling a molotov cocktail as he did. It crashed to earth in a blast of fire between three of the idling officers, and even as it did the man was emptying the eight-round magazine of his 9mm Tokeelam automatic pistol, built in Beddgelert exclusively for Tamil Eelam, a feat he quickly accomplished in full. Immediately he began spinning the back wheel of his bike and kicking up dust to join the black smoke already rising outside the station. With the bike pulling away, the second man, clinging to the back, ten times darker than his Hispanic comrade, directed barely-aimed automatic fire from a .30" Cristobal Modelo 62 submachine-gun, designed in large part by a Geletian under the Principality and produced by the Dominican Republic prior to the take-over and unification of Hispaniola. "Vive la Revolution"! his parting cry, given in a broad Haitian accent.

As a plume of black smoke rose over Pedro Santana, Rose's broadcast turned to satisfied and exaggerated reportage of a defiant and precise blow struck against the local lackeys of a corrupt imperial authority. "Salve el pueblo que intrépido y fuerte, A la guerra a morir se lanzó..." she began to sing, as she brought her broadcast to a close and prepared to pack-up and move further into the hills. Vicente and Victor would be back, soon. Rose could barely contain her excitement, and nor could they.

Pedro Santana, Hispaniola

Across the town’s plaza, directly opposite the police station (indeed the police station for the entire municipality), sat La Cantina. As usual Sergeant Jose Ramirez, el commandante, was holding court there with the town’s elders; holding forth about how his ‘system’ would win the lottery long before those of his fellow septuagenarians. Before noon they drank strong café, after noon they drank equally strong cerveza.

It was after noon.

Slowly the cantina’s lone fan swung around in a circle, and cigar smoke wafted up to form a thin haze. On the bare wall was a small photo of King Carlos II, encased in glass.

Julia, the proprietress, leaned against the bar fanning herself: all her customers equipped with a cold beverage. The mildly rotund Sergeant Ramirez was spitting out next week’s numbers, a guacamole-dipped tortilla in one hand and a Corona in the other. Around him some of the elders nodded sagely, others shook their head skeptically.

At a dusty table in the bar’s center the Mayor, Señor Calloso, played checkers with Señor Rodolfo, Pedro Santana’s richest man and the owner of the coffee plantation, the town’s largest employer. It was Señor Calloso’s lucky day—for once, he was winning.

“King me!” the mayor cackled, rubbing his hands together.

Before Señor Rodolfo could answer a loud explosion rocked the cantina…a fireball rose from the police station across the street. As one, every head in the bar snapped to see what was happening.

“What the hell,” Sergeant Ramirez muttered before standing shakily. That was all he got out, because like everyone else when the machine gun started to fire he was pressed to the floor.

Seconds later, seconds that seemed like hours, the rapid gunfire stopped. The sound of a rickety motorcycle slamming into gear was heard. The men slowly rose to the sight of two olive dressed men zipping away on a motorbike, leaving chaos in their wake. Then the rattling of the darker man’s sub-machine gun caused them to cower yet again. Consequently it was about ten minutes before the men began to drift out of the Cantina.

The police station was burning brightly; outside, on the veranda, three of Sergeant Ramirez’s men burned also, quite dead.

Sergeant Ramirez led the collection of elders to the burning station, flanked by two of his living deputies. “Nombre de Dios,” said el commandante quietly, in absolute shock. He didn’t quite comprehend what was happening. Townspeople were drifting down the streets towards the police station, their collective whispering painfully audible.

It didn’t occur to Jose Ramirez to order them back.

Sunset, several hours later…

In the Post Office (the new police headquarters for Pedro Santana) on yet another side of the town square Sergeant Ramirez looked wearily out the window. A still-smoldering police station and three body bags on the plaza were painful reminders of the day’s events. His remaining five deputies were huddled together drinking quietly. What the hell had happened? He still didn’t have so much as a clue. He sighed, braced himself, and took another jigger of rum. A radio in the corner played weak Mariachi. Outside the townspeople talked in groups excitedly.

Could things be any worse?

When his empty shot glass began to vibrate subtly, then noticeably, on the table he knew the answer. Yes, things could.

The unmistakable whop whop whop of a Bell UH-1H flooded over the town, drowning out quiet conversation. Illuminated by the sunset the camouflaged helicopter thudded over Pedro Santana at low altitude, signal lights flashing. Then the Huey banked around sharply, the royal emblem of Nueva España now visible on its opening slide-door.

It was maneuvering itself to land in the town square. Gathering his police hat in hand Sergeant Ramirez waddled out to greet it, one hand held aloft to shield his eyes from the dust cloud. The ear-splitting sound of the helicopter’s landing overwhelmed the quieter noise of the radio’s Mariachi music cut off and replaced with something else.

With a final gust of air the Huey touched down. Yet the rotor continued to spin as a quartet of men disembarked. Three were in the army uniform of the Hispaniola Legion, carrying heavy duffle bags. The fourth figure was dressed differently, in a creased business suit. It was the man in the business suit who saw Sergeant Ramirez, and seemed to recognize him. With a hand gesture the four men began a brisk walk over to Ramirez.

As quickly as it had landed the Huey lifted up again, thundering away into the distance.

“Sargento Ramirez,” said the man whose business suit, upon closer inspection, was crumpled, the collar open with tie loosened “yo soy Oficial Castaneda, Agencia Real de Investigación.” Sergeant Ramirez felt his stomach descend to his feet.

“I came from Santo Domingo as soon as I had heard what happened.” Officer Castaneda was standing very close to Jose now, and the soldiers had fanned out behind him.

Numbed still from the ‘incident’ and completely, in general, shocked, a part of Sergeant Ramirez’s mind wondered how the provincial authorities could have found out about the event so quickly. In his stasis, el commandante had yet to file his report.

The intelligence agent turned aside from the policeman and nodded to someone standing behind Ramirez.

“Thank you very much, Señor Calloso, for your prompt phone call. Now, gentlemen, we must speak immediately.” The quartet marched up to the post office.

Sergeant Ramirez turned to the mayor, a look of painful betrayal plain on his face. He did not even need to ask ‘Why?’, the question was palpable. Señor Calloso shrugged indifferently: “My nephew needs a job.”

The mayor then turned and followed the recent arrivals. His head spinning, Jose struggled to catch up.

Inside the Post Office, now the police headquarters, Officer Castaneda was speaking: “… besides that our greatest priority here is secrecy. Outside of Pedro Santana no one is to know of what happened today—it would worry people needlessly. Now, I have an idea about what we can tell the townspeople…”

The ARI agent stopped speaking abruptly, craning his head to hear the radio, listening to it for the first time.

“Salve el pueblo que intrépido y fuerte, A la guerra a morir se lanzó…” crooned a feminine voice. With each syllable, Jose noticed a vein grew on Castaneda’s neck. As the message ended with ¡Viva la revolución! the Oficial looked at Sergeant Ramirez with a murderous glare.

“What in the hell was that, Sergeant?”

Although he had heard their broadcast before, Ramirez sensed now would not be a good time to reveal that. Instead, he did the smartest thing he had done all day. He said:

“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never heard it before.”

In two lightning quick movements Oficial Castaneda picked up the radio and smashed it to the floor. “By God, I intend to find out!” he yelled thickly.

Sergeant Ramirez, remaining intelligent, kept his eyes to the floor.

Just thirty-eight hundred metres one way, and a hundred and eighty metres closer to heaven, Vicente Batistuta and Rose Lefebvre were still locked in a mutually-grinning embrace, unable to take their positively luminous eyes off one another, she thrilled by her sweaty, gasoline-scented Guevara, he fit to burst after taking traitors' lives in his woman's name. Victor Wiltord had acquired a straw hat and a cigar, and, still clutching his submachine-gun, was gazing out over the landscape below, signs of the town just visible below.

Near by, three more men sat around some assorted kit. Some radio equipment, a gas camping stove, and some packs containing who-knows-what? Hatuey -surely a nom de guerre-, obviously of at least partial Amerindian extraction and possibly from the Central American mainland; Aimon Le Guin, reading as ever; and Cristobal Alvarez, almost flat on his back, smoking and throwing pebbles at nothing in particular.

"Aaah!" Alvarez grunted, sitting up. "Come on! Put him down and let's get at them!"
"What do you think, Victor?" Le Guin's question got everyone's attention. Why was he asking Wiltord? He never said anything, and the only opinions that mattered to Aimon were to be found on paper. There was a considerable pause.

Wiltord spoke, finally, in a measured tone. "It was nine against six. Now... it's six against six. We should finish all them bastards. Before them government troops come."

More glances were exchanged. Then, still holding Lefebvre, Vicente spoke up. "All right. At midnight. We'll take the night duty." he gave a sideways nod to his girl, "They're bound to have moved to the post office. I burned the station pretty good. Hatuey and Victor will go to Ramirez's house. Aimon and Cristobal can move the gear to Point July. We'll rendevouz there at six and plan our next move."

Pedro Santana Outskirts, 00:35hrs

Lefebvre and Batistuta had only made about fifty yards progress in the last five minutes. They'd started to worry that perhaps it was too early to be back, and that many people may still be awake. Rose had a Tokeelam pistol in one hand and a satchel full of improvised explosive devices and dynamite in the other, Vicente was clutching a .30 Light Rifle Model 2, like Wiltord's Modelo 62 submachine-gun designed by a Geletian and built for the now-defunct Dominican Republic shortly after WWII.

Having crawled across a field on the edge of town, the pair were fixing a propaganda poster to a wooden telegraph pole by the side of the road, Rose posting it while Vicente crouched in undergrowth to cover her. They had been right to worry, and to take precautions, for just as she was fastening the bottom of the poster, admitting responsibility for the day's events for the Red Army of the Quisqueyan Republic, and promising liberation for the island, Rose heard a hiss from her comrade that made her freeze. Someone was coming. She hugged the pole on the side away from the road, and waited. And waited.

"Old-man Seba!" Exclaimed Batistuta at last. "What are you doing out at this time, you terrible old bastard?" "Vicente, Vicente! Oh, my Rose! It is you! Thank God I found you. Listen, you're not going into town, are you?.."

Outside the residence of Sgt.Ramirez

With no means of staying in contact with their comrades, Wiltord and Hatuey had not the benefit of old man Seba's warning about the arrival of a helicopter and troops from the capital. And they were working on the assumption that Batistuta and Lefebvre would be attacking the Post Office at the same time as they hoped to be getting the Sgt. in his sleep. Or perhaps he'd still be up, but at least in the middle of a bottle of I can't believe what happened today tonic.

The two, dressed in their olive uniforms and armed with a submachine-gun, a pistol, and a bag full of various charges, took a few deep breaths and prepared to kick in Ramirez's door...

Pedro Santana, 12:35 a.m., Casa de el Sargento

Mostly at this hour the Pedro Santana was sound asleep, exhausted after the traumatic day. But if one was to follow the Camino de las Estrellas down past the town plaza then one would have noticed that the hamlet’s police prefect still had his lights on.

Sergeant Ramirez’s casa was not particularly grand, like the concrete manor house Señor Rodolfo maintained on his coffee plantation. But it was certainly de la classe compared to the hovels, shanties, and hard-pressed lodgings that comprised the majority of the isolated town. A two story adobe structure, it looked somewhat colonial and mostly tacky, yet the abode had the advantage of a walled courtyard and an atrium within.

In fact Jose was neither drinking, nor alone. Sitting across the linoleum kitchen table from him was Oficial Castaneda of the ARI, still at this ungodly hour asking the police chief questions. He was compiling detailed notes, and right now he wrote furiously on a large yellow legal pad.

“Sergeant,” said the intelligence man flatly “I find it impossible to believe that this attack came out of nowhere! What is going on in Pedro Santana?” Castaneda smacked his hand on the table for emphasis, putting down his pen and sitting back in his chair. “Of course these assassinations are related to that radio broadcast. Now you will tell me why you have neglected this matter!

Police sergeant Ramirez put out his cigarette in an ashtray already brimming over, grinding the butt down with impatience. He looked down at the table for a split second to gather his nerves. He must not let it slip he heard that broadcast a few months past. Then he looked up. “Sir, this is the first major incident in this town, this district, in at least fifty years…maybe the first ever. We are too remote to be used as a traffic point for any criminal organizations! Sir, please, how could I have prepared for a shooting fight, at siesta, when my last official action was arresting donkey thieves?”

“Shut up with your siestas! You have a serious problem in Pedro Santana, sergeant, three of your policemen were killed. This was a professional assault.” He stood up, calming down a bit. He stroked the stubble on his chin and assumed an intellectual air. “Yes, they were professionals; I have already surmised what we are dealing with is a new, violent, non-government narcotics cartel masquerading as some sort of Communist insurgency, as preposterous as that sounds. Obviously they have come to secure a drug-shipment route. Mayor Calloso was wise to send for me, considering your blatant ineptitude.”

Jose could not believe his good luck. Well, good luck in a manner of speaking. In the last few minutes Sergeant Ramirez had come to the conclusion this was not a drug attack, drug traffickers would have made a peaceful offer before violent action. Then there were those radio broadcasts. This was a well planned insurgent-esque crime. Despite his threats Ramirez was fairly certain that without proof Jose knew beforehand about those strange radio broadcast Officer Castaneda had no real evidence. And he had given up on that line of thought. For the moment Ramirez was safe, he even entertained the thought he might keep his job.

“Sir,” said Sergeant Ramirez meekly “I know this country like the back of my hand.” A total lie. “We’ll have them in a matter of hours sir, they can’t hide.”

Officer Castaneda was incredulous. “You had better pray we find one, sergeant, because all the blame for this” he was pointing at Ramirez now “will land squarely on your shoulders. You will, without question, be sacked.”

Ramirez became even meeker. “Forgive me, Officer Castaneda, I am just a local cop, not a detective from the capital. I do my best sir, I am just not as smart as you. I am thankful for your assistance, and I know with your leadership we’ll have those drug-fueled gangsters in no time!”

Obviously Castaneda was susceptible to flattery. Though still gruff the ARI operative was no longer really angry. He nodded and took a glass of water from the sink, drank it and turned about, leaning on the counter. “Tomorrow we will organize some of the town’s menfolk, search the wilds hereabouts, and take our suspects…” he never finished his sentence. He made a quick cutting motion with his hand, signaling Ramirez to be quiet too. In a liquid movement he turned off the lights.

From where he stood by the sink, Oficial Castaneda had a long-view of the courtyard and its gate through a large bay window. The gate was slowly swinging shut, having just been opened.

Shadowy figures were moving across the courtyard.

Castaneda couldn’t see much, but he saw there was more than one. And he also saw that one figure was carrying something.

Jose, having snapped his head about, saw it too. Jose also knew what it meant. His mind raced, seconds became hours. His fears were confirmed. Something major was going on here, drug traffickers would never hit twice so soon. As impossible as it seemed, that voice on the radio had been real. The thought was crystal clear: My God, they are here to kill us. He couldn’t help himself, he had to stand up, adrenaline flooded through him.

Castaneda seemed to know it too, even in the dim visibility Ramirez could see the intelligence officer’s face was in open shock. But Castaneda’s training took over; as deftly as he turned off the light he produced a Glock 9mm pistol from his vest. Ramirez followed suit, drawing his own Smith and Wesson .39 revolver. Before he could take up a position Castaneda grabbed his arm.

“Get out quickly,” Castaneda whispered “Out the back. Sound the alarm. If we act quickly we may catch one. I will provide a diversion. Now go!” Castaneda raised his Glock and took a few shots at the front wall and windows. The flashes lit up the dark house, and two windows shattered. Then Officer Castaneda hurled himself behind a wall and scanned for a target, feeling very confident: hoodlums, in his estimation, were no match for a genius. He smiled. In his minds eye Castaneda saw his name in the headlines “The man who stopped a criminal rampage in remote Pedro Santana”.

Ramirez had needed no encouragement, he hurled his bulky frame out the rear exit at breakneck speed. Running faster than he had in years Sergeant Ramirez took off pell mell for the Post Office.

Then he heard shots behind him. Now terrified Jose squeezed off a shot from his own revolver into the air, and the sound went off like, well, a gunshot at night. Despite being short breathed Jose yelled as he ran:

“¡Ayúdeme! ¡Ataque! ¡Dé la alarma!

Sergeant Ramirez fired off another shot for good measure and continued running at breakneck speed.

The Church bell started to ring.

Ramirez residence

Hatuey and Wiltord were the Red Army's strongest and perhaps most obviously serious recruits. Both less excitable and talkative than Lefebvre and Batistuta -though, if the police station attack was any evidence, Victor was apt to be carried along with the drama in the heat of the moment- and both in far better physical shape than the scrawny Alvarez and foppish Le Guin.

As they drew up close to the door, thinking they'd made it across the courtyard without being spotted, Wiltord began in English, which the French and Spanish speakers had elected to use in mixed company, "One... two..." and then, as Hatuey drew back and prepared to put in the boot, Castaneda's shots clapped in their ears and the big Indian toppled over backwards in alarm, dropping his satchel full of explosives as Victor flattened himself against the wall beside the door and reverted to his mother tongue. "Merde!"

Hardly an instant later he was flapping his hand in the direction of the explosives and gesturing for Hatuey to make use of them. As his comrade, still flat on the ground, tore open the satchel and looked to the shattering window through which the muzzle flare had been seen, Wiltord took a couple of long, rapid strides forward from the wall to the middle of the courtyard and spun about with a cry from the middle of his broad chest as he depressed the automatic trigger on his twin-trigger submachine-gun and emptied twenty-five .30" carbine rounds in the general direction of the windows. His purpose, apparently, was to cover Hatuey just long enough for him to hurl in a pipe-bomb comprised of cheap miner's explosives and rusty old nails, having lit the fuse dangerously close to the business end.

The two shots from the Sergeant's revolver caused the two men, both hurling themselves back to the ground in the courtyard, to exchange worried glances as they surmised that Ramirez may not be alone, and this may be about to go horribly wrong. But there was a bomb about to go off, and no opportunity to discuss their options!

Old Man Seba's place, eastern edge of town

If they thought that they could hear gunshots, the church bells left Rose and Vicente in no doubt. Their comrades were in trouble. "Shit!" Batistuta hissed. "Shit!" again a second later. In this moment the excited young revolutionary, who saw himself as the group's leader and a hero in the making, was realising that perhaps he'd taken himself too seriously in the beginning when he said that they should not use mobile phones lest the authorities listen in or track them. Why would they have been wasting resources on a group whose existance couldn't possibly have been known until this morning? Now they had no way to contact their comrades, and couldn't decide whether to flee or rush to their aid.

"Here, take my shirt. Put on my hat." Said the old farmer, suddenly taking fatherly charge of these young people. His age only become more apparent as he painfully removed his shirt, exposing his gaunt and bent frame to observation. "Go, pretend you're nobody. Then you can see if there's any chance to help. And he gave Vicente a tatty old sack to hide his carbine. Already Seba was jostling Rose out the back door and telling her to go find Aimon and Cristobal. "He'll be fine, nobody will be looking at a farmer in all this commotion, the whole town's going to be in a fuss. Go on!"

And so as Rose ran off across the field, looking back every few steps and tripping more than once, her lover, fumbling to keep hold of his rifle and make certain that it was obscured by the sack as he pulled down the brim of Seba's straw hat, made his way into town, doing his best to look like any other confused local. But while others might be making for the square, he would try to slip away to the Sergeant's house, and hope to find his comrades well.

A very hectic Pedro Santana

Sergeant Ramirez stumbled at the post office’s railing, doubling over to catch his breath. Still holding his revolver Jose coughed violently in an attempt to restore his breathing. All around him Pedro Santana was subsumed by chaos: today’s attack on the police station ought to have been enough material for a good year’s rumors and speculations, gunshots and alarms the same night had quite over-stimulated the hamlet. Lights came on, first a few sprinkled around the town, then more coming on in waves.

The church bell of Nuestra Señora de las Montañas rang wildly, lacking completely its usual Sunday rhythm. The man frantically and the bell rope was, appropriately enough, the last notable of the town to introduce…Padre Augusto.

Excited townspeople hung back at the periphery of the plaza but in the post office and on its veranda the three Hispaniolan Legion regulars from the capital and Pedro Santana’s remaining five police officers gathered around Sergeant Ramirez. The townsfolk, after their initial frenzied gathering, were now speaking quietly but animatedly while the law enforcement men were putting on their uniforms and checking their weapons. The town’s police officers each had a .38 revolver and two of the five were armed with Remington 870 twelve-gauge pump shotguns too. As for the uniformed regulars they carried AK-47s, all were locked and loaded.

Ramirez gathered his breath to speak, but was cut off.

A massive explosion rocked the town—not gunfire this time, not even a Molotov cocktail, but an actual bomb. A dirty black cloud rose quickly and unevenly into the night time sky. The criminals had bombed his house, Jose realized, and also killed a royal agent within hours of his arrival. Such massive calamities nearly forced Ramirez into inaction, stupefied, yet faced with the prospect of joining Castaneda he swung back into gear.

“Troopers!” he yelled out at the Hispaniola Legion regulars “To my house! Bring me one of the bastards alive, kill the rest. Miguel, show them the way!” In rough formation the three soldiers led by police officer Miguel Lobos sped down the dark streets, weapons in hand, to surround and attack the attackers of el casa del Sargento.

“The rest of you, secure the Plaza! You, Fernando, get a call through to the capital and tell them what’s going on here!” Three cops fanned out, one with a shotgun, to secure the plaza while Fernando ran inside the post office.

Closer at hand Ramirez noticed another screech and whir: someone had hijacked the police jeep, the town’s most reliable transport! As it careened by Ramirez saw Señor Calloso the mayor wave and smile. “Son of a bitch!” Sergeant Ramirez yelled, shaking his fist at the quickly fading vehicle.

Casting a few looks around the plaza, and a significant look at the rising fire that was formerly his house, Ramirez went into the post office. At the large radio station Fernando was chatting rapidly, totally engrossed in making his report. Jose slipped by Fernando and then out the back door. He stood for an instant, clearly weighing his options and considering the events of the day.

Without so much as a look back Sergeant Ramirez waddled off into the undergrowth and quickly as he could made off toward the highway.

Casa Ramirez

With almost powdered glass on their backs and soot in the air, Wiltord and Hatuey picked themselves up and proceeded into the house with caution. All the caution of a charging rhinoceros, anyway, as Wiltord hurled himself through the shattered windows with one hand on the sill an the other on his SMG and Hatuey put a shoulder to the now-damaged door.

They stood together for almost two seconds, silent, looking at the body within.

"That's..."

"It's not Ramirez. It a city boy!" Wiltord sounded serious, even angry. "That fat fuck was running, that what we heard. I'm gon tear him belly out!"

Without saying anything, Hatuey stopped him. Mutual respect between the two warriors saw them both out the back way and off towards the hills, some minutes behind Rose.

Moments later, Batistuta arrived, looking sheepish and doing a terrible job of impersonating an innocent local farmer interested in the ringing of the bells. Why would he be at the Sgt's house if that were the truth? The house was empty. Vicente poked his head into the courtyard. Broken windows, smoke-blackened walls. No blood out here, nobody around. He turned to leave. Movement in the field. He gave a birdcall that Hatuey would recognise. A bit out of place at this hour of night, of course. No immediate reply. Shiiiit.

Vicente retreated into the house and made for the phone. He'd call Old Man Seba and ask for an update. He gave no thought to the possibility of the Sgt. questioning an unfamiliar number on the bill or any more modern method of tracking, he just wanted out. "My friend, my friend, they're not here! I think I'm surrounded!..."

"Hide! Hide! I'll go up the hill and bring them back to help you. Hide!"

Batistuta found himself under the Sgt.'s bed. How absurd!

Casa Ramirez

Unaware that he was now the highest ranking official left in Pedro Santana Officer Miguel Lobos led point on perhaps the only effective force the municipality had organized this tragic, tragic day. Two to his sides and one behind him were regulars detached from the Hispaniola Legion, the infantrymen now devoid of a commander since a pipe bomb eliminated Oficial Castaneda. They held their AK-47s slightly downwards, in the posture which precedes attack. Their uniforms didn’t quite fit, and their helmets were not properly on their heads, but they were the most militant response the optimistic communist insurgency would receive from a backwater province that evening.

Officer Lobos himself had a pump action Remington 870 and right now its business end was pointed at the smoking remains of Sergeant Ramirez’s once pretty house. He stopped and ducked behind a stack of crates. He waved his hand, motioning the soldiers to get into attack position then looked around at the house, scanning around the courtyard for movement. Slowly and deliberately Miguel Lobos pumped his shotgun, then made the sign of the cross. He was reasonably sure they might capture someone, but he had no clue there was no longer a command to bring prisoners to.

Taking a deep breath the policemen slid from behind the crates and crept towards the smoldering house, crouched and ready to attack. His two flank guards were sweeping up behind him and before long three of the four were inside the courtyard. Lobos walked into the deserted house and saw Oficial Castaneda’s body, and also saw the scattered papers and investigative notes of the former Agencia Real de Investigación operative.

These were precious, Lobos noted, and must be got back to whatever authority could be found. He allowed himself the glimmer of a smirk as he bent down and collected the papers. After all, Lobos thought, if it were him turned in these notes, well, this might not turn out so badly after all.

The fourth man in the squad didn’t make it in the courtyard. As he was about to step through the gate that had been pried open just minutes earlier the infantrymen caught site of something moving in the grasses beyond the street, indeed quite far away in the distance. Still, he was on edge after the day’s events, and was sure he saw something.

Hoisting up his AK-47 Private Ortiz let loose a long spray of automatic fire, loudly and copiously.

“¡Allí! Ataque allí!” he belted out. Ortiz’s barrage sent tracers all along the road’s edge, up and down the field, but at a distance it would be almost impossible to hit anything, if he even saw someone clearly to begin with. However that didn’t stop Ortiz who, with jaw set determinedly, slammed in another clip and let loose another spray of fire. The loud bangs rent the night apart once again for Pedro Santana and put all the squad on edge.

They particularly set Officer Lobos on edge. With Castaneda’s rent suitcase tucked under his arm and the Remington pump action once again held aloft the policeman would quickly sweep over the house once more, looking for any other evidence, before seeing what the hell was going on outside.

That was how he found himself in Sergeant Ramirez’s bedroom.

Behind the Sgt's house, Wiltord and Hatuey went prone as 7.62x39mm bullets flew over their heads. An AK-47 on full automatic, aimed by the sort of person who would fire it on full-automatic mode in the first place, at night, over some dozens of metres, had at best a marginal chance of doing any deliberate damage. But... tracers?! This wasn't the usual local business! On the other hand, it meant that they could see the exact point from which the seemingly random fire was originating by following the tracers back to their source. Victor slowly raised his SMG, finger on the single-shot triger. He waited for a second as tracers flew over head, and discerned their source easily enough, then... bangbang! two shots from the field to the source of the tracers. Probably got him. "Let's go." he didn't give Hatuey a choice, grabbing him by the shoulder as he turned to run. The two took off like nobody's business. A couple of .30" carbine rounds may not have killed the guy even if Victor was dead on target, but they weren't going to head over there and check. Now it was all about the sprint to the wilderness that surrounded the remote little town.

Inside, Vicente tried to hold his breath. Feet fell in the room... he considered his options. Safer to hide?

No! Tomorrow there would be an investigation into the shootings, and what sort of idiot would hide all night at the crime scene? He had to go! He could see a foot on the floor next to him. Maybe he won't check under the bed... why would he, in this situation? Ah, who's that going to help!? Suddenly, Vicente slid out, flat on his back, carbine in hand. He was beyond terrified, a 24yr old half convinced that he was about to die. He looked up at Lobos, and raised his weapon. "Freeze!" He said, loudly but without shouting, half conscious of alerting others who must surely be downstairs. His voice cracked a little as he said it, and he flicked the safety catch back and forth once just to impress upon his target the sound of a gun.

Fully committed to a course of action, Batistuta still had no idea how he was getting out of here.

Up in the hills, Rose met with LeGuin and Alvarez at Point July, audaciously close to the fringes of the forest, such as it was, actually closer than the point to which they'd retreated after the initial police-station attack, and updated her comrades as best she could. "Leave the kit... who's going to steal from the Red Army on a night like this?" That was Aimon's deft observation as the three, armed to the teeth, headed back down to extract their comrades. Coming back for a third time in one night, clearly, was not the style of any old rebel, nor a self-interested drug lord. It smacked of some persistant warrior culture or other, didn't it?...

Santo Domingo de Guzmán, Hispaniola, El Reino de Nueva Espana

The Evening News…

Jose Ortega slumped down into his worn-out easy chair. With a heavy sigh he reclined and with and a crisp pop he opened his bottle of Corona-beer; de facto adult beverage of Nueva Espana.

The economy was miserable, wretched. Since the economic crisis began tourism had fallen in the seaside Caribbean metropolis, and it was on tourism Senor Ortega depended, selling his cheap trinkets to mostly Quinntonian tourists.

“Bah, hell,” said Jose, with a click of the remote turning on his dilapidated television.

The television displayed a perky busty young Latina, chattering away toward her camera lens.

“…meanwhile, as economic conditions in the kingdom continue to devolve, with some analysts now mentioning the possibility of inflation in the Real, Ministro de Tesoro El Duque de Jalisco Carlos Slim de Mercedian arrived this morning in New York City.”

The plump Treasury Minister was shown waving as he waddled down the airplane boarding ramp, then the monitor again displayed Pepita Rosas.

“His mission to speak with Quinntonian financial authorities is described by our sources in El Palacio de Ayuntamiento as a task of the utmost importance. De Mercedian is expected to meet next week in Washington, District of Christ with his Quinntonian counterpart, in an effort to create some sort of bilateral fiscal response to the impending crisis of credit in the Western Hemisphere.”

Next on the monitor was a snippet of a small island hamlet in flames and chaos.

The caption read Massacre in Pedro Santana.

“In other news chaos visited the small town of Pedro Santana earlier this week.”

The television showed a wrecked town with several burning buildings, among them the police station. Overhead several Robinson helicopters buzzed around like angry blue-bottle flies. On the ground it appeared military officials were touring the devastation escorted by heavily armed troopers, by their uniforms regulars of the Hispaniola Legion. Many were the corpses, covered vainly by body-bags that flapped in the wind.

The voice went on while the scene of havoc was portrayed.

“According to the Interior Ministry, which only this morning relayed the story, militant narcotics smugglers went on a rampage of destruction in the unsuspecting town. We don’t have any definitive date on how many officials and civilians were killed, however we have just learned that an ARI agent sent in to investigate certain tips, presumably sent in by local policemen before their assassination, and was himself killed. The town’s police prefect, Sergeant Ramirez, is still missing. His Excellency Archduke Carlos de la Fuente y Bourbon, speaking from the Palace of Governance in Santo Domingo this afternoon, has promised a large reward for any information leading to the capture and arrest of the perpetrators of this heinous, heinous act.

The camera flashed to Archduke Carlos de la Fuente y Bourbon himself, King Carlos II’s jocund uncle, speaking to an assembly of reporters in the Palace’s atrium:

“We will find the base criminals who have committed these pointless murders,” said the Archduke “, and let the word go out, here and now, that I am making it a personal matter to prevent any such violence from occurring again. Our kingdom has enough problems right now, I am speaking of the economy and declines in trade, and the last thing we need, and what we will not tolerate, is the preying upon of our decent subjects by this perverted criminal element.”

“They will be found, and they will be punished.”

Jose Ortega found the story very interesting. What had happened in Pedro Santana?

“Maria,” he called to his wife “,come have a look at this!”