Drone

Traditionally, the president of Mexico uttered the grito from the balcony of the National Palace at 11 p.m. on September 15, as would mayors all over Mexico in their respective towns. But this year, instead of occupying the National Palace, President Barraza wanted to stand in the symbolic heart of his people.

Father Hidalgo’s church, along with the giant statue and monument towering out front commemorating him, was a big tourist draw, and the town plaza was always crowded on the holiday. But this year, the nation’s patriotic fervor had been stoked to a fever pitch by perceived American injustices and carefully orchestrated Barraza jingoism. The spirit of revolution was in the air.

For security reasons, the crowds had been kept far back from the entrance of the church, though there was a standing-room-only audience inside. President Barraza’s image was projected on a giant portable JumboTron erected in the plaza for the event, and stacks of Marshall speakers thundered with his voice as he delivered his patriotic sermon. The plaza rang with the noise of the liquored-up crowd, hundreds of popping firecrackers, blaring patriotic music, and Barraza’s ear-busting harangue.

And then the screams.

Two rockets whooshed out of the sky, smashing into the crowd like the fists of an angry god, tearing flesh, shattering bone.

The cries were drowned out by the roar of the Reaper’s turbofan engine as it swooped in low over the treetops and dove toward the wide-open doors of the church.

The drone’s wide, fragile wings were clipped off as they slammed against the heavy wooden door frame, but the large bulbous nose and slender fuselage shot through like a spear into the sanctuary. The big four-bladed prop sliced into skulls, torsos, and limbs as it raked over a line of pews. The blades finally stopped spinning when the drone ran out of fuel, but the scalding-hot engine pinned a keening middle-aged German tourist to the floor who later died of severe burns on her upper body and face.

Miraculously, the president wasn’t killed or even injured when one of the wheels from the landing gear broke loose and slammed against the pulpit where he had been standing seconds before. The members of the audience who hadn’t fared as well were wailing with pain. Medics rushed in to treat the wounded. Dozens of cell-phone cameras recorded the carnage, most of them focused on the American flag still visible on the wrecked fuselage. The big television cameras inside the church caught everything in glorious 1080p HD broadcast quality.

* * *

Hernán watched the live breaking newscast with keen interest. It was on every channel; the attack was played over and over again. With any luck, he thought, this would become Mexico’s Twin Towers moment. Then the people would rally around his brother.

But that wasn’t the plan.

Hernán wondered why the missiles weren’t fired at the church. If they had been, the church would have exploded in flames and Antonio would have been crushed beneath the smoking rubble.

That was the plan. And then the people would rally around him.

Hernán picked up his cell phone to find out what went wrong. He’d give Ali one more chance to kill heaven’s favored son.

* * *

Ali’s phone rang. He answered it with a question.

“What went wrong?”

Mo Mirza was on the other end. “It was the cheap Chinese crap. Missiles wouldn’t lock on. Had to improvise. I’m sorry.”

Ali shrugged. “It was already written in the Book.” He clicked off.

54

Gulf of Mexico

The looming shadow of a Cuban fishing trawler rose and fell in the swelling sea. It was just after midnight.

The ARM Joaquín approached cautiously. The Mexican skipper of the Azteca-class patrol boat had spotted the stranded trawler on his radar thirty minutes earlier. No distress signals were flashing on his radio. Lights out on the vessel meant no electricity. But not even a backup battery? His radioman tried to raise them, but got no response.

The dark outline of the ship looked familiar through his night-vision binoculars. It was a sturdy East German design built back in the ’70s. A limp Cuban flag hung off the stern. His radar man confirmed they were the only vessel within a reasonable distance of the stranded trawler.

A moment later, a red distress flare arced from the trawler deck. That was a good sign. He had been worried he was going to find a murdered crew or an abandoned ship that would be hell to deal with in these conditions.

The skipper gave orders to the radioman to report back to their base at Veracruz that he was lending assistance to the Cuban boat and that he would let them know when the fishing vessel was either secured or the crew rescued.

That was the last time the authorities in Veracruz heard from the captain or crew of the Joaquín.

Coronado, California