by Nathan Jones
Yeah, she probably did look even more frightful than usual. She hadn't even wiped off her makeup before crashing last night, a rookie mistake she could only blame on the fact that it had been years since she'd worn any.
“Give me a second,” she mumbled. After a bit of searching she found her shoes and pulled them on, then groggily emerged from her tent and went looking for some water.
She found Raul on watch, who took one look at her, grinned, and produced a canteen. “Sleep well?” he asked as she snatched it away and took several greedy gulps.
“Like a baby, up to the point I got woken up to go to another meeting with Grimes,” she grumbled, handing his canteen back. The water didn't sit well, but she felt a bit better. And her mouth didn't taste as much like rotten garbage anymore, so that was a plus; she hoped one of Grimes's people had mouthwash. “What adventures are you up to this morning?”
He grimaced and slapped the bed of the truck next to where he was sitting. “Watch. Orban and Paul are out doing some business, and since Lewis is going to be handling trading for the town I agreed to watch both trucks until noon.”
“Have fun with that.” Carrie returned to where the soldier waited, and with a polite nod he led her to the military part of the camp.
She went through the same routine she'd done yesterday to get ready: washing up, getting into the borrowed dress uniform, brushing her teeth (no one had mouthwash to share), brushing her hair until it wasn't a tangled mess, and applying makeup.
All things considered, she went for a lighter touch this time; since she couldn't hide her scars she might as well not even try, and the rest of her face didn't need much help. Back in high school, a whopping year and a half ago, her friends had complained about how lucky she was that she didn't need makeup.
The thought made Carrie smile bitterly. Nothing for them to complain about now.
She got done with plenty of time to spare, but even so emerged to find Grimes waiting for her. “Good morning, Ms. Grant,” the colonel said, smiling warmly. “Thank you again for your help.”
Carrie nodded, accepting the document case he handed her. “What's the itinerary for today?”
“One-on-one talks with the Mexican government about trade deals and convoy arrangements, to start out,” he replied. “Probably a few hours at most. Then our delegation will have a few hours to get together and brainstorm while the other delegations have sessions with the Mexicans. After that we'll all be getting together to talk about more large scale trade agreements. I expect we'll be at it most of the day, and then this evening our hosts have invited all their guests to a barbecue.” He gave her an apologetic look. “Are you free for the entire day?”
“Of course,” she replied, although she groaned inwardly. With her head pounding and her stomach queasy the day felt like it would stretch on to eternity. Also she wished she had sunglasses.
“Excellent.” Grimes motioned to the document case. “One of your duties will be taking notes. We'll be recording the proceedings, of course, so with that in mind I'd like you to mark the time every five minutes or so and briefly summarize what's been said in that time, mostly for reference, as well as making special note of anything that seems important, including when it was said. Do you have a watch or phone?” She shook her head; not here at least. The colonel didn't seem surprised. “That's fine, I'll see you're provided one.”
Focusing hard on dry diplomatic discussions so she could take relevant notes sounded like a nightmare. Carrie silently resolved to keep her drinking to times when she didn't have something important to do the next day.
Although that was a luxury she probably wouldn't get a chance to indulge in all that often, unless she could bum some more off Raul.
It took a while for the rest of the delegation to gather, but soon enough they were making their way back to the summit tent. Once they got inside she saw that the decorations and furniture had been moved around to accommodate two rows of the long tables facing off across the tent.
One side was already occupied by the delegation from Mexico. Rodriguez, seated at the center of the front tables, quickly approached and ushered the Americans to their side. Erikson and his senior staff were seated at the front tables, while Carrie joined their aides at the rear tables and found a seat behind Grimes. Their armed escort lined the wall of the tent behind them, offered seats which they reluctantly accepted without slacking their vigilance.
After a few minutes of rustling and murmured conversation as everyone took their places, followed by another ten minutes of pleasantries and formalities, summaries of which Carrie dutifully jotted in her notebook for the record, General Erikson leaned forward.
“Mr. Rodriguez,” he began bluntly. “Let's get right to the point, shall we? The CCZ is a nation of soldiers bent on invasion. I doubt they've given up their plans to take the rest of the US, and even now they're staging raids on us and Canada. They are a threat we cannot afford to ignore.”
“The President is well aware of this, General,” Rodriguez replied. “We understand and agree.”
Erikson smiled. “Then I hope you'll consider joining us in a coalition against them. Alone we're vulnerable, but all together we can keep them pinned in and prevented from doing much harm.”
“Ah, General Erikson, there is the entire issue,” Rodriguez said with a reluctant twist of his lips. “The problem with taking a side is that you then find you have enemies on the other side.”
Erikson scowled. “That's probably the least insightful thing anyone's ever said.”
The secretary shrugged. “I don't care.”
To his credit the General reined in his annoyance. “I apologize, that remark was-”
“No. I mean I do not care about your conflict with the CCZ. Nor does the President. We see no benefit to stepping into this mess, especially since we have a commodity all sides need so badly that none of you can afford to antagonize us. And if any one of you did engage in aggression against us the others would have no choice but to intervene to protect their food supply.”
“And that's it?” Erikson demanded. “What about the fact that the CCZ are the aggressors, and they're murdering and enslaving innocent people?”
Rodriguez shrugged again. “Norteamericanos are usually the ones who seem concerned with sticking their noses into the affairs of other countries in an attempt to make things better, usually with the opposite result. It is the President's view that Mexico has enough problems of our own to deal with without intervening in anyone else's. Most of our citizens are in agreement.”
The General was silent for an uncomfortably long half a minute considering that. Rodriguez had just opened his mouth to speak, likely to continue the proceedings, when Erikson beat him to it. “Would you at least consider denying trade opportunities to the CCZ? You could immeasurably aid us in our fight without needing to fire a single shot, and I guarantee once we've dealt with the enemy Mexico would be safer and in a better position to prosper as well.”
“That is a reasonable request,” the secretary began, “assuming you win. Again, taking sides makes us enemies of the other side, and the CCZ is not likely to forget such a thing.” He shook his head. “No, General. We trade with all parties, we have peace with all parties, and we demand peace of all parties amongst each other while dealing with us.”
Erikson slumped back in his seat, looking frustrated. “You're burying your heads in the sand.”
“Not at all, General. If the CCZ were to raid Mexico or attack any of our convoys, why, we would consider that a breach of our agreements. We would likely cut off all trade with the CCZ and would possibly even consider punitive measures.” Rodriguez shook his head. “However, as merciless and mindlessly aggressive as they might be when going after you or Canada, the CCZ is not stupid. As long as Mexico maintains their neutrality we seriously doubt they'll do anything to antagonize us.”
The secretary's posture changed and his tone became brisk as he reached for a ledger. “I'm afraid that's the situation, lit
tle as you may like it. Now, shall we discuss trade agreements?”
* * * * *
After Orban and Paul got back from their business around noon, Raul went to find Lewis and see if he could help out with the town's business.
It turned out he could. Since he'd been pretty successful selling his guns yesterday, his friend assigned him the task of selling the town's guns as well those chipped in by individuals like Trev. Also the spare parts, cleaning kits, and other firearm accessories.
It wasn't exactly the most demanding task, since Raul had already met most of the major vendors doing that business. But what really made it easy was the fact that the Mexican government was the biggest vendor and was offering very generous prices, driving everyone else into a competitive scramble.
It was a seller's market.
Since firearms were prohibited inside the marketplace, as Rodriguez had told them straight away the day before, Raul would need to get an appraiser to come out and inspect them at the truck. The appraisers had been instructed to perform the service free of charge, since purchasing weapons was such a huge potential benefit for Mexico, but Raul's experience from selling his own guns was that they prioritized who to help based on incentives.
Bribes, to be exact. Corruption flourished in any bureaucracy, here it was just more out in the open. They didn't ask for much, and it hadn't taken a whole lot yesterday to bump Raul up closer to the front of the line. Especially considering how much his guns had sold for.
This time around it would be even easier, since he'd just offer the appraisers a friendly drink back at the truck to enjoy while they worked.
Or maybe not. Raul had barely made it to the middle of the marketplace, where the greatest crowd of people were gathered to trade their wares, when shouting and screams were quickly followed by a wave of people shoving and clamoring. Some pushed past him going the other way, fleeing, while others with more curiosity than sense pushed forward to see what was going on.
Raul was one of the latter, although he wouldn't put it quite like that. He didn't have to make it far before the scene of the commotion came into view, and he immediately recognized the familiar sight.
It was a brawl between off-duty US and CCZ soldiers. Half a dozen of the good guys, over a dozen of the bad guys.
That didn't seem quite fair, and if any of the marketplace guards were nearby they were obviously waiting for backup before trying to intervene. Although to be honest Raul didn't need to look for much of an excuse to jump into a dustup with blockheads.
He made a beeline for one of the Americans who was down with two assailants kicking at him. One turned as Raul approached, ducking low and ready. He was a big Eastern European, not just tall but muscled, and obviously no stranger to fistfights. Raul didn't like those odds.
Luckily he had an equalizer, in the form of the quality collapsible baton he always kept with him but rarely had to use. It was still concealed at the small of his back, in semi-defiance of their hosts' rules on carrying weapons.
He whipped it out and flicked his wrist to expand it, hearing the segments click into place. The blockhead only had a moment to reassess the escalated threat level before Raul dropped low and swung for the side of his knee.
To his credit the man managed to dance aside, only taking a glancing blow that still made him snarl a curse in Russian, or maybe Ukrainian. Raul immediately followed up by rising from his crouch in a spring, slamming shoulder-first into the blockhead's chest and sending him staggering back. Conveniently that knocked the guy into his Chinese friend who was still going after the downed soldier, and both stumbled and flailed to stay on their feet.
Raul waded in, baton flicking out to hit the elbows of arms raised defensively in front of his big enemy's face while he shoved his free forearm into the smaller man and threw him back, giving himself some room. The first man's arms dropped, just for a moment, and Raul immediately tagged him in the left temple.
The enemy soldier dropped like a sack of bricks.
The second blockhead ended up tripping over the downed US soldier, or maybe the American grabbed at his feet. Either way Raul followed him down, pinning one arm with his hand holding the baton while with his free hand he punched the guy in the face enough times to be satisfying.
Once he was sure both enemies didn't have any fight left in them Raul turned to the man he'd saved, who was groggily pulling himself up to his knees. “Good to go?” he asked.
The soldier groaned. He was a bit older than Raul, a corporal. “Not really, but if these SOBs are still going after my buddies I'm ready to tear it up some more.”
“That's what I like to hear.” Raul helped the corporal to his feet and turned back to the fighting, lunging at three blockheads grappling with two friendlies.
He tagged the nearest enemy behind the knee with his baton. As the man started to crumple to the ground Raul helped him along by slamming his elbow into the side of the guy's head. The other two blockheads backed away towards the rest of their group, cursing at him in Chinese as they searched for weapons of their own to use.
Raul went after them, smashing his baton into a protectively raised forearm while twisting away from an attempt to tackle him. His assailant staggered past, off-balance, and Raul gave him a solid kick to the rump that sent him crashing to the ground.
The numbers looked about even now, a wild melee with a couple pairs of brawlers shoving and exchanging blows at the edges. He went after a large blockhead who looked like he was getting the upper hand in his slugfest, raising his baton.
Just before Raul reached his target pain blossomed across his back like he'd just been hit by a baseball bat. He spun as he fell, trying to catch himself and get a look at his attacker at the same time. He failed at both and slammed into the ground, groaning in pain and clutching at his bruised ribs with his free hand.
Then he heard the loud retort of shotgun blasts and saw other brawlers going down. Beanbags. Mexican soldiers swarmed in, waving batons of their own. “Get down on the ground,” they screamed over and over in Spanish, as well as broken English peppered with a few words in Russian and Chinese.
A few brawlers ignored them or didn't respond in time. They soon found themselves on the ground anyway, wishing they'd listened.
The next few minutes were a blur for Raul. He was dogpiled to make sure he couldn't move as his baton was pried from his grip and his arms were wrenched behind his back. Then cuffs were slapped on his wrists, and he was hauled to his feet and dragged over to where the other participants in the melee had been shoved into a huddle. Blockhead and US soldier alike were jostled shoulder to shoulder, but between the handcuffs and the guards all around them nobody tried anything.
The group was hustled off to holding cells made of chain-link fencing reinforced with steel bars, sitting forlornly on one end of the marketplace. As they went Raul saw medical personnel looking after those injured in the scuffle, with more guards hovering in case anyone was faking injuries or tried to resist.
The US combatants were put in one cell, the CCZ into another. Raul, in civilian clothes and of obvious Hispanic heritage, was a source of confusion for the guards. “Did you get caught in the middle of that?” one asked him in Spanish.
Raul shook his head and pointed to the US soldiers. “I'm with them,” he replied in the same language.
The Mexican soldiers shrugged and shoved him into the cell with the others. It wasn't a gentle push, and Raul nearly stumbled and slammed face first into the bench inside before one of the cuffed Americans awkwardly caught him with his shoulder. With a gentle shove the man helped nudge him into a sitting position beside him.
“Thanks.”
The man just grunted through a bruised or possibly even broken jaw. His face was a mess from taking several punches, and he was obviously hurting. For his sake Raul hoped the medics came to check them out soon, although he knew it could be a while. The guards would likely respond to any complaints or requests for help by saying that whatever suffering they went
through while waiting was their own fault for breaking the peace.
The minutes passed in grim silence, aside from the soft groans of injured brawlers. The two groups had been put in cells right next to each other, but neither side took the opportunity to hurl insults or taunts. Nobody boasted about the damage they'd done, either.
Raul understood. This was no soccer brawl or barroom scuffle, it had been a serious fight born of deeply held hatred on both sides. There were no points to score, no superiority to prove, everyone had just wanted to hurt their enemy in revenge for what they'd done.
After a half hour or so a blockhead officer came around and got his people out, barking at them harshly and even cuffing a few who were slow to fall in line and hustle back towards the CCZ camp. A few Americans grumbled about them being let out first, then the sullen silence resumed.
Raul wasn't sure how long he waited after that. He was still nursing a hangover and lack of sleep from the night before, so in spite of the uncomfortable conditions he'd actually fallen into a half-doze.
He was roused by a sergeant screaming at them all to come to attention.
Although Raul was no longer a soldier deeply ingrained habits died hard, and before he realized what he was doing he'd surged to his feet along with the others, coming to an awkward sort-of parade rest since his hands were still cuffed behind him.
Once his foggy mind cleared he sheepishly shifted his feet into a more casual stance, hoping no one had noticed.
Grimes was standing at the entrance to the cell, flanked by a dozen MPs and a sergeant Raul guessed was responsible for the imprisoned soldiers. The colonel glared sternly through the chain-link at them.
“I am very, very disappointed in all of you,” he began. Raul thought he meant that they'd been involved in the brawl at all until he continued. “We gave our word we'd keep the peace, and here I find you flat out attacking CCZ in the market.” He abruptly raised his voice. “So which is it? Did your discipline fail, or are you just completely lacking common sense?”
The only response he got was sullen silence.
