Authors: Lars Teeney
The Friars continued down a road that lead out of town to the south for about half a mile. It led to the roughly-constructed, but thoroughly-solid fort. The fort was laid out in a hexagonal shape so that there was a wall of artillery facing the enemy from any direction. As the Friars drew closer to the fort they could make out the many howitzer gun emplacements around the parapet and lower levels. The Friars came upon a guarded gatehouse, which had already received word to let the Friars into the fort. They rode through the gatehouse and into the fortress courtyard. Men and boys scrambled around on various errands: some moved food and provisions, others drove ox teams hauling wagonloads of shells and ammunition. The Friars could see that the fort was well armed and provisioned. The men seemed to be in good spirits but looked to be ill-trained.
They continued traveling through the fort
and out the rear gate. The path led down to a marina where maroon-stained,
rusted-hull, vessels were moored. These ships were trawlers that looked barely
able to float. The Friars approached the docks where the vessels rested.
“It looks like we have found ships for
Monsignor Carafa. He will need to know about this area,” Friar Francis stated.
“Do you think there are enough?” Friar Leo
asked.
“Yes, these ships look like they will do
the trick,” Friar Pius observed, “Tell Friar Benedict that his services will be
needed, soon,”
“Let us return to the Monsignor, he will be pleased to hear this information. Hopefully, he will be able to negotiate for their use,” Friar Francis stated through the fabric of her veil.
The Friars galloped back toward the
fortress from the docks full of rustic hulks. The gatehouses opened to let the
mounted knights through, and they headed toward the center of town where
Monsignor Carafa had been received at the Town Hall.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Monsignor Carafa moved through the front entrance of the plain-looking, cinderblock and plaster structure. From the outside, the structure was very Spartan: fairly rectangular and without frills. It had been painted white and on the front of the building above the porch was the phrase “Municipio de La Chorrera”, painting in big, black, block letters. Monsignor Carafa felt underwhelmed with the state building. He had always made his seat of power in the medieval Spanish cathedrals that were woven into the fabric of Latin America. The cathedrals in all their splendor had always added credence to his claim of divine ordainment.
When Carafa passed through the threshold
of the building he was not prepared for the opulence of the interior, which was
in stark contrast to the outside. He could clearly see where the budget was
expended for the town hall. The foyer was painted a deep burgundy color, with
flocked wallpaper strips that occurred in ordered regularity along the walls.
The furniture looked to be antique with ornate, dark-stained wood and black
upholstery. Grand staircases, lined with white marble, with dark gray veins,
rose up to the second level and flanked the double doors that lead to a huge,
gala hall. A porter approached Monsignor Carafa and gestured for him to follow
his lead into the gala hall. Monsignor Carafa gazed at the carved relief
ceiling that filled the area overhead. He could make out scenes from western
mythology depicted with intricate detail in the reliefs.
Carafa approached a large, wooden table that supported a variety of refreshments and grazing foods. A round platter of tostones was laid out, fried to perfection and golden brown. It was accompanied with a mojito, garlic dipping sauce. Bollos: corn dough wrapped in warm plantain leaves, sat stacked in a pyramid. Another platter supported a pile of Carimañola, which were a type of yucca fritter, stuffed with cheese and spiced ground beef. A variety of fruit juices and alcoholic drinks were also served. Carafa poured himself some coconut milk and sipped out of a metal goblet. He also downed a couple of tostones while he waited. He stared at a stately portrait of a man in full dress uniform with medals pinned to his breast. He had a round face, and it was deeply pockmarked. Carafa walked over to glance at the golden plaque below the portrait. It read: “Manuel Noriega”. Carafa reasoned that this was some great war leader ancestor to Manuela.
“Monsignor Carafa! So glad you could join
me at my humble residence! Care for a drink?” Manuela picked up a crystal
carafe of red wine and poured herself a chalice-f, wafting the aroma toward
her nose.
“No thank you, my lady. I do not partake in
the consumption of alcohol. But, I thank you for you hospitality,” Monsignor
politely declined, but something deep inside him did crave a drink. He
suppressed the urge with zealous faith in God.
“My lady, it makes me glad that our two
organizations could avert a fight and work together for a common goal. I am
sure any arrangement we can agree upon will be mutually beneficial,” Carafa
stated, sounding overly officious.
“Pietro, my dear, we cannot skip pleasantries and jump directly into business. Don’t be such a killjoy.” She walked around the side of him with a drink in hand, brushing a fingertip lightly around his chest and shoulder. He nearly recoiled because he was not used to the wanton touch of a woman, but something about it was pleasantly comforting to him. It was a touch that blunted his red, hot passion for violence.
“Well, what did you have in mind, Manuela?
I am not accustomed to pleasantries,” Carafa confessed to her in a calm voice.
“I, on the other hand, am very fond of
pleasures. In fact, so are all the leading families of La Chorrera. We thrive
on the finer things in life,” Manuela explained between sips of wine.
“Yes, it is apparent that vice and worldly
desires run rampant here,” Carafa retorted, washing down a bit of tostone with
water.
“Yes, Carafa. There is a balance at play here. A delicate economy has developed in the region over last hundred years. It is a vast, interconnected economy, stretching far to the south, and all the way to the gates of New Megiddo in the north, and beyond. It relies on certain players and locations remaining intact.” Manuela finished the last of her wine and approached the platter of Carimañola. She picked one up and lightly nibbled at the end.
“Yes, I gleaned that much, Manuela. As you can see my Order has conquered a large swath of Central America. I have been put on earth to reconnect these continents to the Catholic faith: a Kingdom of the Lord on Earth. I plan to advance south with my armies, further still,” Monsignor Carafa exclaimed to her with great confidence.
“Pietro, my family would never dare stand
in the way of your progress. I think what you and the Order are doing could be
of great benefit for the disparaging lands of Latin America. A unified empire
could provide stability and wealth beyond measure.” Manuela’s eyes lit up at
the thought of all the potential wealth.
“As you know, Manuela, my Order is locked
in a war of conquest against cartel-held lands. We will liberate these lands in
the name of Jesus. Nothing will change that,” Carafa said sternly, with arms
crossed.
“Oh yes! Pietro, I am in agreement with you. The cartels have grown too bold for their own good. They stand to be taken down a notch. They prey on the defenseless towns and villages of the region and it must stop. But...” Manuela paused mid-sentence leaving Carafa in suspense.
“But, what?” Carafa asked, anxiously.
“But, your crusade against the cartels has been severing vital smuggling routes; routes that have been long-standing. If they are all cut the entire economy collapses, and we risk incurring the wrath of stronger, richer powers beyond that of the cartels,” she warned.
“What? New Megiddo? They are planning for
their Evangelical Rapture to occur very soon. They will not be a factor,”
Carafa scoffed at her warning.
“The Church and the Regime may go up in smoke, but that does not mean the hydra will have died despite the loss of the head. There is a deeply entrenched ruling class that cares little who proclaims to run things so long as their interests are left intact. Prohibition is good for business, but if you systematically dismantle the apparatus of distribution the true nature of things shall become apparent.” Manuela was deadly serious now. Her inviting smile was gone and warmness drained away momentarily.
“Well then, what would you propose, since
you fear these shadows so much?” Carafa asked intently, with a crooked smile.
“Pietro, I propose that you leave the Noriega family and our business partners in place, free to conduct our business as before. Also, we need smuggling routes left intact, including routes previously severed. If you entrust me as chief liaison to the cartels under your new Regime, I can promise you that I can keep the cartels away from territorial ambitions.” Manuela knew how to lay out her terms in a concise manner.
“What you ask me to do his contrary to
what my campaign goals are. What guarantee do I have that the cartels that I have
defeated will not regroup and retaliate when the Order’s defenses are down?”
Carafa asked, being skeptical.
“Pietro, my dear, most of the members of
the cartel that attacked the towns and conquered territories were rogue elements
acting on their own. The families that finance the cartels are within my social
strata. I can assure you, they only care about the distribution of product—not
statehood.” Manuela certainly had a convincing argument. Any short-term
arrangement could always be broken by the Order if he felt the need to remove
the Noriega clan from power.
“Fair enough, Manuela. However, there is another matter. Beyond my long-term goals, there is an urgent short-term matter. I have connections with the Church of New Megiddo, and they have tasked me with a mission to rid them of dangerous enemies: Apostates. It will be a lucrative contract, and if you assist the Order, you will receive a fair amount of it.” Carafa tried to entice her.
“Yes, I remember you had mentioned this Apostate fleet sailing for the Strait from the north. You have come to the right person. There is a reason we built a fort at the entrance to the Strait,” Manuela said confidently.
“The fort is key, but my terms are that I
need those old ships you have moored out at the marina near the fort,” Carafa
stated.
“Very well. I will get villagers to relinquish those vessels. They are rust buckets anyhow. Hardly combat worthy, though.” Manuela was a bit confused.
“Not to worry, they will not be used in
combat.” Monsignor Carafa did not elaborate.
“Well, well. This makes me very pleased
that we are now allies. However, there is one more thing that I require from
you to seal the deal.” Manuela had poured another glass of wine. She looked at
him with interest.
“Oh? What would that be?” Carafa narrowed
his eyes with suspicion.
“A handshake of course.” Manuela held her
hand out in front of her. Carafa looked at her hand then up at her eyes. She wore a smirk on her face.
“Okay.” He clasped her hand with his. She
held it tightly, then, began to walk in the opposite direction, attempting to
lead him to the marble staircase. He protested slightly but did not pull his
hand away.
“Manuela, what—” She cut him off as
he spoke.
“Nonsense, priest. Now you must prove to me that you are not a gelding!” she commanded sternly. He looked puzzled, then, he felt a burning in his mind. Something told him to put the woman in her place: to take charge of he situation like a God-fearing, obedient servant of Christ. His pragmatic side had told him that what he was doing was for the bigger picture. So, he let her guide him, up the marble stairs, down an ornate corridor, through massive, wooden, double doors, and into her private chamber.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Monsignor Carafa and Friars had ridden on horseback down to the marina at the rear of Fort Noriega. The Order members were drawn up in a row on a ridge overlooking the marina and Panama Strait waters. It was a sweltering day, and the sky was clear and direct sun rays beat down on their garb. Numerous seagulls circle overhead, some dived for small fish. Monsignor Carafa felt revitalized this morning. He was almost in a cheerful mood, and he moved with renewed purpose. It seemed that the late night regimen worked wonders for revitalization.
The surrounding waters had been whipped-up and agitated by scores of rusted-out trawlers that struggled out from the docks, into the Strait. The rickety hulks limped out across the water, nearly to the opposite shore of the Straight. The old ships formed a rough line across the Strait, like a convoy of ships, but closely situated to one another. Once the ships had reached their destinations, the anchors were lowered by skeleton crews. The crews began to evacuate each ship, boarding dinghies, and motorboats, they all made for shore, leaving the rustic vessels derelict. Friar Benedict had been watching the progress from down on a jetty. He walked town the other Order members in a half-waddle. As he approached he performed a clumsy bow to the Monsignor, then gave a thumbs up gesture. Carafa nodded approvingly from atop his mount.
Friar Benedict turned to the ships out in the Strait and smiled gleefully. He watched intently as the dinghies full of men rowed toward shore and the motorboats careened away from the line of trawlers. After several moments of waiting the boats were clear and were safely ashore. Friar Benedict had a satchel strapped across his shoulder. He reached into it and pulled out a nondescript pen sized object: it featured a small, red button on top of it. When Friar Benedict depressed the button the fireworks started. One after another massive explosions tore through the hulls of each ship at the waterline. Cavernous holes were forced open, causing a surge of sea water to be sucked into the cavities. As each ship took on more water the vessels listed this way and that. Soon fore and aft sections of the vessels floundered and sank beneath the waves. The depths of the Straight were relatively shallow so when the ships sank and settled at the bottom, portions of the cabin and masts pierced the surface.
With just a push of a button, the Order had scuttled a fleet of trawlers and fishing vessels in a manner that any ship attempting to traverse the line would run aground on wreckage, or at the very least slowed to maneuver through the dangerous labyrinth of sunken obstacles. The final piece was in place for the Order’s ambush. Carafa was pleased with how everything had fallen into place. His plan thus far had developed without a hitch.