The Battle for Houston...The Aftermath (30 page)

Joe, David, and their group wanted to head back to their house, get out of their fancy clothes, grab some meat and come back to get the BBQ started. Martie and the two young ones headed inside to get swim suits on, and Preston hit the closest fridge for a cold Yuengling and made himself comfortable on the porch.

Mike Mallory arrived in his Cessna 210, in formation with Michael Roebels’ Beechcraft, and they headed towards the largest building once they closed their aircraft down. Preston noted that Mike Mallory had a large suitcase with him, waved as he closed his aircraft’s door, and headed to the large building with Martie’s father.

Nobody else was due to arrive; the general, the admiral, the president, and others wanting to attend the two weddings would arrive the next day, Friday, for the festivities. It was beer time in North Carolina, and he was really looking forward to hearing how his friend had been injured. It all seemed rather hush-hush!

The noise from the direction of the swimming pool began as Preston, his medal now on the table next to him dozed, eyes closed; he first heard Little Beth’s screams and then the barking of the two dogs. He smiled, envisioning what was going on.

“Asleep already?” asked Carlos mounting the steps onto the porch alone. “Sally wanted to swim and since I cannot, I decided to bring you up-to-date on Colombia.”

“Don’t you want to tell everybody at once?” Preston asked, his eyes still shut as he heard Carlos take the white rocking chair next to him.

“Much is still top secret, and on a need-to-know basis,” Carlos replied. “I just had a weird call from the president while I was changing. He had some sort of meeting with a group of corporate CEOs who seemed to have survived this catastrophe unscathed, and they are beginning to demand a few things he doesn’t want to give.”

“What things?” asked Preston, opening his eyes and looking at Carlos.

“He wants to have a private meeting with a few of us here, tomorrow—General Patterson, Admiral Rogers, and Mo Wang, of all people. It sounds important and he sounded worried. I‘ve got this weird, uncomfortable feeling that there could be another attack on our country.”

“So, what’s new?” replied Preston. “It seems everybody wants a slice of this country.”

“Preston, before we get company, I’ll fill you in on Colombia,” continued Carlos. “The reason I am wounded is that we, the Rodriquez family, were attacked inside the main governmental room by Senator Calderón, the Police Chief, Pedro Gonzalez, and four of their men posing as aides.”

“You told me there was very heavy security to get into the government chamber,” Preston cut in.

“Yes, but we also had four Seals in there, also with guns, before the fire fight. Everything happened in a split second, and it wasn’t good,” continued Carlos. “The first people shot were my uncles, the admiral, and Uncle Philippe. The admiral was hit by four bullets at point blank range from the police chief and his aides, luckily only one shot penetrated down the arm hole of his bulletproof jacket and missed most of his vital organs; he is still in intensive care, but he will live, and will continue as Admiral of the Colombian Navy. Uncle Philippe was shot in the head twice from across the table, a shot each from Gonzalez and Calderón, and was dead before he hit the ground. The damage was already done with one uncle dead and one badly wounded.”

Preston said nothing, but looked at his friend in shock. He had liked the ambassador; he was a straightforward and honest man. “Unfortunately, they had the element of surprise, and six shooters against four. Once Gonzalez shot Uncle Philippe, he, as well as one of Calderon’s “aides” was aiming at my father who was now standing next to me. I pushed him out of the way and I got the bullets meant for him. By this time, Charlie Meyers, who was standing next to me, disintegrated Pedro Gonzalez’s head. On my father’s other side, Sergeant Rodriquez was up and firing, and I think my father, being pushed by me into him ruined his aim for a split second. This second gave the four “aides” behind Calderón and Gonzalez, on the other side of the table, time to shoot the president and six of the most important government ministers before Lieutenant Paul and a fourth Seal sitting on the other side of the room blew the four “aides” to bits, I believe before I even hit the floor. As I said it was all over in a second or two.”

“The whole Colombian government in one second!” exclaimed Preston.

“Pretty close,” replied Carlos. “The most important and most powerful government ministers always sat on either side of the president.”

“What were Calderón’s sons doing?” asked Preston.

“Nothing; they didn’t move. The senator collapsed back into his chair, his right arm spewing blood from three shots from our side of the room. I was told that he just sat there looking triumphant with a broad smile on his face. The guards in charge of the captives were slow to act and by the time they moved, two Seals, Manuela, and Dani, crashed through the door offering to shoot them all if there was any movement from them or the captives.”

“I’m sorry to hear about Philippe, he was a good man,” Preston replied.

“He would have become the next president, that is why both men shot him,” continued Carlos. “The president is now dead, and the vice-president has been missing for a couple of weeks, so Uncle Philippe was sure to be the first choice to become president. While I was being rushed to the hospital, the remaining government officials decided right there and then, and with all the blood on the floor and walls, to elect my father as president… which means that now, I am the son of the President of Colombia. Unbelievable!” Carlos exclaimed.

Preston was totally silent, and again in shock. It was as hard for him to believe as it was for Carlos.

“I was released from the hospital four days later. Even though it was only a flesh wound of sorts, the bullet hit a blood vessel or something, and much of the blood on the floor, was mine.”

“It must have been close, you reaching the hospital and getting blood into you?” Preston asked.

“Yes, but don’t tell anybody. I am O-Positive, and they had me connected and were pumping blood into me minutes after the ambulance got me to the hospital. Sergeant Rodriquez and Manuela, I was told, held my wound to halt the bleeding all the way. Thanks to them I’m alive today. Please, Preston, don’t tell Sally any of this. I will tell her in my own good time in a few days when we have time to talk. Let’s get this meeting with the president over tomorrow morning, and our weddings behind us on Saturday, and then I think things will come together.” Preston silently agreed.

“What happened to the Calderóns?” Preston asked.

“They managed to keep the senator alive for a week, while I regained enough strength to leave the hospital. My father wanted to wait for my uncle, the admiral, to regain strength, but he was, and still is, in the ICU, so they decided to go ahead with the trial. The court was convened the day after I was discharged and the trial lasted two days…”

“Preston, Preston, Carlos, come and swim?” asked a dripping Little Beth from below the stairs to the porch looking up at them, her eyes pleading.

“Sorry, little girl, Carlos and I are having a meeting,” replied Preston. “I will be there shortly. Now go and play and I’ll join you when we are finished.”

“Why are grown-ups always having meetings?” Little Beth complained, shaking her head and running back to the cool water. Carlos smiled. He wasn’t able to swim yet, but the thought of it was pleasant.

“The justice system took two days to conclude the trial. Senator Calderón knew he was done for, and his sons never said a word during the two days. The Senator lambasted the government for listening to my uncles. He stated to the court that the assassinated president was a puppet of the Rodriquez family and he, and the government officials, should be on trial, not him. He reminded the court how his father was killed by my grandmother, shot at point blank range. When the court asked him about his father shooting farmers and other innocent victims decades ago, he just smiled and told the entire room that his father was just cleaning the trash out of the country.”

“Innocent farmers are trash?” Preston asked.

“He happily stated that anybody who wasn’t a Calderón today, or in the Calderón Cartel, or other family cartels, was totally unimportant to the country. He reminded us Colombians that three of his ancestors ruled this area of South America for 40 out of 120 years, and the Calderón family still had a say in the running of the country with him as senator.”

“They did?” Preston asked.

“Yes, but the judge reminded the senator that the last time the senator’s family had ruled Colombia was over 150 years ago, and the man was called Arboleda. He had taken over power in a coup, and didn’t have a very productive history, nor did any of Calderón’s earlier ancestors. There was much laughter in the court room. The judge certainly knew his history. He even mentioned that my ancestor, Mariano Ospina Rodríguez, ruled well for six years before Arboleda, I think, and men from several other good and prominent Colombian families had been president since then. And the judge reminded the senator that, although he may have forgotten, the president he had personally shot also had the last name Calderón, but that didn’t seem to matter!”

Preston looked at Carlos in shock. “The president was also a Calderón?” He shook his head; Latin America was a hard country to understand.

“That was why my uncles were always careful around the president. They didn’t know what side he was on, but now we now know he wasn’t aiding the other Calderón family.

“So, what happened?” stated Preston urgently.

“They were all found guilty of treason. Colombia did away with executions years ago because Colombia used some of the worst ways to kill people, and it was important to stop all forms of execution; but, several of the ministers who had survived the chamber massacre wanted it back, forcing my father to temporarily reinstate death by firing squad.

“Tell me one,” requested Preston.

“Ever hear of the
Colombian Necktie
?” Carlos replied. Preston stated that he hadn’t. “It is believed to have been introduced by Escobar in the fifties. In this method of killing someone, especially someone you don’t like, the victim’s throat is slit with a knife or a sharp object, and the tongue is drawn through the open wound.” Carlos imitated the act, showing Preston how and where. “The tongue is pulled towards the sternum rendering the name necktie. The victim dies of blood loss or of asphyxiation. The killing method is very disturbing and is meant to warn others, such as informers of illegal activities. I had heard of it, but never saw it myself, and don’t know anyone else who ever witnessed a victim.”

Preston wanted to be sick and looked at Carlos with his face whiter than usual.

“Unfortunately, my uncles and most of the government ministers still alive thought it necessary to bring back state executions in this new world for as long as necessary; they passed a new law the same day the Calderóns were found guilty of treason. The senator had a smile on his face up to this point, knowing that he would be looked after in prison. Everyone was sure that half of the men in the prison system, inmates and guards, would certainly see that he got everything he wished for, hence the need to bring back executions. Preston, you should have seen the senator’s smile disappear when the judge was approached by the rest of the government ministers with a Decree stating that Death by Firing Squad was now available to him as a sentence.”

“They announced this new law in court in front of everybody?” Preston asked and Carlos nodded.

“The smile left Calderón’s face and was suddenly on most of the faces in the gallery. Then he went berserk, shouting obscenities at the judge and everybody, and he was then gagged so that he couldn’t speak. The judge passed sentence, stating that five days later the four men would be shot at dawn in public by military firing squad. That happened two days before I returned.”

“Didn’t anybody try to rescue him?” was Preston’s next question.

“My uncle, the Air Force General, had 50,000 loyal troops brought into Bogotá, and nobody was allowed in or out until the executions were over. The senator was shot writhing and screaming for mercy. He was worse than a rabid dog. His sons, Manuel, Alberto and Pedro were much braver. They stood there, refusing blindfolds, smoking their last cigarettes and even tried to ignore the screaming senator, now bound to a post next to them.”

The next morning the usual flights brought in the president and several military brass, including General Patterson and Admiral Rogers.

Preston was surprised that it was to be such a small meeting, less than a dozen people, in the president’s log cabin lounge.

Only he and Carlos were asked for, and everyone else continued to enjoy the swimming and preparing the church for the Saturday weddings. Preston and Carlos had decided to get married in one ceremony, and the girls had agreed.

Preston walked in helping Carlos; Carlos’ bodyguards, ever close behind, stayed out as the doors were closed. He looked around and saw a couple of guys he did not see land earlier, Lieutenants Charlie Meyers and Joe Paul, both in their Seal uniforms. As expected, Mo and Lee Wang were there, as well as Patterson, Rogers and Mike Mallory. Three other military guards were in attendance.

Everyone sat down around the long dining room table, and the president began the session.

“I had a very strange meeting with several men yesterday after the meeting in the Capitol,” he began. The room was quiet and everyone looked at the man speaking. “This meeting had been pre-arranged through one of my staff working at the White House. Peter Westbrook, whom many of you know, ran the agricultural company
MonteDiablo
up to last year. He called the White House on a satellite phone and wanted to speak to me. I was actually here, in North Carolina, at the time and he was surprised to find out I was not available; he wanted to know where I was, but was not told. Three days later I received a call from Bill Bowers, head of the pharmaceutical group
Brűche
, who many of you know was the biggest drug company in the U.S. and, I believe the world, up to last year. He wanted a meeting to discuss matters of extreme urgency and I asked him to come to Washington the following day, if it was that urgent. I was informed by the Air Force that he arrived at Andrews in a fully-operational ten years old Gulfstream jet,. The engineers at Andrews wanted to go over it, but the pilots and an armed guard refused them entry; however, they found the exterior of the aircraft to be original and fully operational.”