The War of the Americas - One Year Later

Dear Sylvia,

I very much hope this letter finds its way to you. Mail service in the Baja peninsula was never very good before the war, and now, well, let’s just say there are very few mailboxes in the jungles of Baja where I have spent the past year leading a guerilla style counter-insurgency campaign against the invading American forces. Fortunately for Mexico, while the United States was busy preparing for World War III, arming itself to the teeth with nuclear weapons and training for massive conventional military conflicts and anti-terrorist actions in the middle east, Mexico focused on preparing for exactly what it now faces. It is ironic that the protective umbrella of the United States military is the very thing that gave us the freedom and space to do that and now America is paying the price for its reckless invasion in blood and treasure because of it. Mexico has also greatly benefited from Americas’ right wing politicians’ ridiculous anti-science agenda. The refusal to allow soldiers deployed to Mexico to be vaccinated against Dengue fever and other mosquito borne viruses has taken a terrible toll on US forces here, as have other diseases Mexicans have long since become immune to or vaccinated against. Cases of Tuberculosis and malaria have surged along with cholera. All these diseases are slowly depleting the morale and overall fighting capability of the American military in Mexico. And of course, it has been greatly accelerated by the total cessation of all mosquito and disease control efforts by Mexican government personnel since the invasion with predictable results. Finally, stories of the terror of screwworm with maggots erupting from soldiers’ skin, have resulted in a reputation for danger in the Baja peninsula which has generated much fear among the American public and US fighting forces. You have no doubt heard stories of mass defections and refusals to deploy from all branches of the US military. Despite the public executions of many mid and senior level military leaders for acting in defiance of the President’s orders those defections have continued. I am sure you must also be aware that many top American research scientists have sought asylum in Mexico seeking protection from persecution at home. This has been a major boon to Mexico’s prominence in the international scientific community. Meanwhile America’s reputation continues its long, slow slide into the gutter. Of course, you know all this, and I am not writing this letter to point fingers or denounce America for what it has done. There are plenty around the world who have and will continue to do that for Mexico.

I am writing instead to tell you how sorry I am over the death of your husband, Dr. Dominic Platt. Even though I never had the pleasure of meeting him, the stories of him you shared with me, and your obvious deep love for him, convinced me that he was a man I would have very much liked and a man deserving of respect both in life and in death. I want you to know that I had no part in the attack on the Army Ranger rescue mission which downed the chopper carrying your husband, killing him on impact. The attack was carried out by Mexican drug cartel irregular forces acting without specific orders from the military but well within their rights to do so under the truce agreement signed between their leaders and President Scheinbaum. I cannot denounce them for their actions, and had they been under my command I would have ordered the attack as well. They have been hailed as heroes by ordinary Mexicans across the country and their brave actions have been used to rally the Mexican people in support of the war effort. Even though I also applaud their bravery I cannot join in the celebrations of their actions because I know of the pain it has caused you.

Most of the cartel militia who took part in the attack were torn to shreds when the circling AC-130 gunship opened fire after the downing of the American chopper. However, at least six survived and they brought with them two bodies recovered from the wreckage, one of which was your husband. As soon as I learned of this, I instructed the men to have him cremated and his ashes sent to me. I did this in the hope of one day being able to return them to you and perhaps in doing so bring you some measure of comfort and closure over his terrible loss. If you can make your way to the coordinates indicated below in the time window shown arrangements have been made to have you escorted to your former home on the Baja coastline at Playa Blanca in your old neighborhood of San Antonio Del Mar. The neighborhood, along with almost all others in that part of the Baja Peninsula, has been deserted since shortly after the start of the war. Some persecuted American’s fleeing their homeland have attempted to resettle there but they face execution on site if seen by American forces which regularly patrol the area. In that, they are no different than any Mexicans who are seen alive. We do have many intelligence agents on the ground and understand the timing and rhythm of the American patrols enough to ensure your safety. Of course, there are no guarantees as American spy planes and satellites also constantly monitor from above and will send patrols to investigate any suspicious activity.

I will meet you when you arrive at your old home with the ashes. I can keep you safe for no more than 4 hours. In that time, you must decide what you want to do with his ashes and recover whatever you can carry from your home. After that, you will be returned to the coordinates from which you came. I do this as a personal favor to you. If my men are attacked or harassed in any way during your transport you will never see your husbands’ ashes or your former home again. I suggest you act in secret and do not inform your CIA handlers of where you are going or what you are doing. If you have influence over military patrols or reconnaissance activities in the area, I suggest you use it. Finally, my apologies for any rough treatment you receive. It needs to look like you are being kidnapped and taken against your will. I understand you could likely fight off the men who will be abducting you, and you should fight, at least a little to help sell it, but don’t kill anyone please and let them win in the end.

Sincerely,

General Juan Antonio Vasquez

As soon as Sylvia finished reading the letter from the General, she took a moment to memorize the coordinates then walked slowly to the fireplace in her home in Arizona, set it gently down amongst the fake wood, turned on the gas and burnt it to ashes. She had stayed in Arizona after her return with the surviving members of the Army Ranger team sent to rescue her and the ten remaining Americans who had managed to survive alongside her after their escape from Diablo del picacho prison. That secret Mexican military installation, now destroyed by US bunker busters, had been in the heart of what was once Baja Norte, Mexico. That Mexican state, along with Baja Sur to the south no longer existed and the entire baja peninsula had been renamed New California after its invasion by the United States and Mexico’s surrender of the territory. She never left Cochise County Arizona, which was the home of Fort Huachuca, the army base from which that rescue mission had originated. She had nowhere else to go. She had no siblings; her mother had died many years ago and her father remained in prison. He was a malignant narcissist who had tortured her as a child and young woman and then through manipulation and deceit managed to obtain custody of her only daughter Sarah from a previous marriage to Dom. He had brainwashed Sarah to believe her mother was a drug addicted prostitute who hated her and had surrendered her willingly to him. Eventually he had been linked to a series of mysterious deaths which culminated in an investigation that ultimately revealed that he had killed at least 8 people and possibly more over a period of 15 years, with the last murder shortly after his 70th birthday. The press had dubbed him the grandpa killer because of his advanced age. Sarah had disappeared shortly after his arrest and had not been seen nor heard from since. As fiercely as Sylvia loved her and missed her, she also feared what might happen if she ever did resurface. There could be no doubt she held nothing but hatred in her heart for her mother. Sylvia’s own father would have made sure of that. She had been subjected to his manipulations and brainwashing for years and was sure he had done the same to Sarah. Given his hatred for Sylvia for escaping his grasp, he surely had invested much time and energy in programming her to hate her mother exactly as he did.

She watched the smoke rise briefly from the burnt remains of the Generals letter then went immediately to her bedroom, gathered the supplies she believed she would need, and hurried out the door, not even bothering to lock it as she left. This was a bad habit she had picked up from Dom, and that thought of him, even after a year of grief and mourning brought a tear to her eye and reignited the flame of anger that had burned so brightly in her heart since his death. She would have her revenge. She had sworn that to all the Gods that might exist in the universe. In her mind everything had crystalized and had become very simple. The greys of ethical questions and moral objections had faded, replaced by a stark black and white. People were reduced to only three types, those that could and would help her, those that could not or would not, and those that got in her way or attempted to stop her. The first type of people had value to Sylvia, and she would be or do whatever was needed to make use of them. The second type she avoided or ignored. The third either got out of her way or she would kill them. Outwardly she had barely changed and to her research colleagues and CIA handlers she seemed to be the same Sylvia, older and sadder perhaps, but beyond that exactly as before. That is what she wanted them to think. What they did not know and could not know was that she no longer cared for any of them. She had given up on caring about people or things. Their only value for her now was as tools she could use if needed or discard if they slowed her down or got in her way. She neither needed nor wanted friends, not real friends, and she certainly needed no other man in her life. She had one objective now, to find and kill anyone who had played a role in Dom’s death. If she thought someone could help her, she would happily call them a friend or play whatever role was needed to get that help, but it would only be a role, she would always only be acting.

She was not sure if the General was truthful in his denial of involvement in the death of her husband, but she would find out. If he was not being truthful, he would pay with his life, exactly like everyone else who had been involved. It was liberating in a way to no longer feel guilt. She could hear Dom’s voice in her head each time she acted in a way he would call unethical or wrong. It was a blessing to hear him in her mind, and it always brought a swell of emotion which she quickly brushed aside and then locked away deep inside. Emotions were for a later time, now was a time for action. She would apologize to Dom in her mind, telling him she was sorry, but that she had no choice, his death must be avenged, and she must do these things for him. She must honor his memory, so the world would not forget him, and so that she would not forget him. She knew he would call it all bullshit and tell her she was wrong, that he wanted no revenge on his behalf, that he was satisfied with his life and how he had died. And she knew he was right, but none of that mattered. There was no longer a right and a wrong, there was only an objective, a mission to be accomplished, and she would do anything in her power to accomplish that objective. Fortunately for her and unfortunately for her enemies her power was considerable, and she would use all of it in any way required.