Prometheus Wakens - 13. Chapter 13:Death Squad

Chapter 13: Death Squad

The control of a large force
is the same principle
as the control of a few men:
it is merely a question
of dividing up their numbers.
—Sun Tzu Maxim 5-1

The storm in Chicago was over, and I had returned Pav’l to his reality.

“I am close to receiving my American citizenship, and have been accepted at university,” he had explained. “I owe money to a friend in California, whom I must repay. I will find another job.

“Someday, perhaps, might I return for a visit? But this is not my home.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure the boys would like to see you.”

* * * * *

Alder, the dryad-of-the-day, tossed auburn bangs from his eyes and announced, “Death will arrive shortly, if that is convenient.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. We had been in the conference room for several hours, and were overdue for a break.

“Hazel, who was once Death’s boyfriend, asks if he might help serve.” Alder blushed slightly when he said that.

“Yes, please tell Hazel he would be welcome.”

Alder grinned. “Hazel will be very happy,” he said.

Death—now known to me as “George”—strode up the pea-gravel path at the head of a column of twenty youngsters. Their very modern—and somewhat anachronistic for 18^th century Greece—camouflage uniforms made them appear older, but their cheeks were fresh and clear, and none looked to be older than about 18. Then I saw their eyes.

“Death, be welcome,” I said, thinking that in front of the soldiers, I should address him formally. “Soldiers from the ancient past, be welcome.”

“How did you know?” he asked. “And, please, call me George.”

“Their eyes, George,” I said. “Their eyes are much older than their faces.”

George nodded, and gestured to one of the ancient boys.

“I am Ajax of Locria,” the boy said. “The first time I died was during the Trojan War in this reality. I was fourteen years old, and have that aspect. I died at Gettysburg, more than 150 years ago and in South America only a decade ago. Those deaths were in another reality. I have died many times, and always as a soldier. I know Death and Mars quite well.” He chuckled. “And yet I am happy for the chance to fight in this war you are planning.”

“I am Theseus,” the next soldier said. “Not the son of Poseidon nor of the king of Athens, but a foot soldier in the army of Troy. That was my first death. I was eighteen years old and have that aspect. About sixty years ago, I died in Indochina in another reality. I am also happy to be on what will surely be the winning side of a war!”

The others had similar stories. Most had been soldiers since the Trojan war, although some had memories of unnamed battles before that. Some had died more recently than the wars in Indochina of the mid-twentieth century in my reality; one said he’d died in Afghanistan less than six months ago. Several had died in the Revolutionary War, just fought between England and the American colonies in this reality.

After all had told their stories, I asked Alder and Hazel (who had greeted George with a kiss, to George’s delight) to get some help from other dryads, find more chairs and tables, and provide refreshments. While they did so, I took George aside.

“I thought people lost their memories when they left Pluto’s realm,” I said.

“Only if reborn,” George said. “These came directly from there, and with the approval of Pluto.”

“Oh?”

“Pluto is not taking sides,” George said. “Allowing these, and other heroes, to retain their memories is something he’s done before. He is, for the moment, neutral.”

“Is it important that he be firmly on our side?” I asked. “And, if so, how might we sway him?”

Before George could answer, Alder announced that Mars was on his way.

The soldiers knelt on the flagstones the instant the sixteen-year-old god of war appeared. I think he surprised them when he stepped to Iolaus, who was closest, took his hand, raised him to his feet, and said, “Welcome, Iolaus, welcome all of you. Please stand proudly, heroes! I know you all, and I know of your deeds.”

The boys stood, stiffly, still at attention, though.

Mars continued. “Death had told me his plan. I am pleased that so many responded.”

“There were more,” George said. “When they learned of the mission, many volunteered.”

Mars nodded. I kept quiet. This was his show, and George’s. My boys were not as circumspect.

“Does this mean we won’t get to fight?” Alder asked.

“And that we won’t get uniforms?” Hazel added.

“That is entirely up to Lucas,” Mars said. “But it does mean that you will not have to be in the front lines until you have some training and experience. That, I believe, was Lucas’s concern.” He looked not at Hazel or Alder, but at me. Thank you! I sent, and caught his wink.

“Time for tactical planning?” I suggested. “And finding quarters for the Heroes Brigade.”

“Hestia has arranged their quarters,” George said, “and has constructed a barracks just at the edge of your estate, toward the town.”

I could have been put off by what had happened: Death and Mars had collaborated with Pluto to create an army; Hestia had collaborated with them to build barracks. Then I remembered Sun Tzu’s commands to delegate. Apparently, the others had remembered it first.

The dryads seemed to accept the soldiers with good graces, despite their concern that they’d not get to fight. Alder had called in reinforcements to feed them while Mars, Death, and I discussed plans.

“The first thing you must do is select their general,” Mars said. “They must have a leader.”

“But you—” I began.

“I will not lead them. Nor may any of us. Once the battle is joined, the gods must stand aside. I will be there, in my aspect as Mithras. Death will perforce be present, as well. However, what we can do is limited by our Authorities, and those do not include leadership in battle.”

He thought for a moment. “Nor do yours, I think.”

“Certainly I have no experience or knowledge that would tempt me to lead, even if I could,” I said. “Who would be the best choice? You can tell me that, can’t you?”

Mars nodded. He and Death exchanged a glance, and it was settled.

“Jason. The captain of the Argo,” Mars said. “He commanded many, over a long period of time, and through great perils.”

I thought about the story of Jason and the Argonauts from my reality. “Jason’s reputation was spotty,” I said. “Some of his deeds—”

“Like many of the stories,” Mars interrupted me, “there is more fiction than truth. Jason won the fleece legitimately. King Aeetes reneged on his bargain. It was he that Jason slew in his escape. Drastic punishment for breaking an oath or a bargain was quite common in that time, and was blessed by the goddess Tisiphone, the punisher of oath-breakers.”

“And Talos? Did Jason’s wife kill Talos so that the Argo could pass Crete?”

“Wife?” Death chuckled. “You must remember that the stories in your reality were rewritten by the early Christian monks for whom homosexuality was anathema. In order to make him fit their image, they gave Jason a wife, Medea, but the early Catholic Church fathers’ latent homosexuality and their dedication to a patriarchal church and to the stories of the Old Testament came through. Medea was cast as evil, an avatar of Eve, for whom they also blamed original sin. No, Jason was—and is—gay.”

“I assume,” I said, “that will not be a barrier to his leading these boys?”

Mars detected the irony in my question, and laughed. “No, Lucas, not a barrier. All the heroes are gay or bisexual. You would be hard pressed to find a hero who was not. Remember, all of these boys trace their lineage to the same ancient world.”

We met with the assembled soldiers to make the announcement. Jason accepted his task. He appeared to be about sixteen, somewhere in the middle of the age range of the Heroes Brigade. He did have a je ne sais quoi that seemed to captivate the other soldiers, as well the dryads.

Jason selected Ajax as his second. They joined the adults in our planning. I thought to ask the dryads to be sure the other heroes were fed and entertained, but didn’t need to. There were already more dryads than heroes, and something of a party on the patio.

I watched during supper how Alder interacted with one of the heroes, and then called him to me.

“Alder? Would you like to spend this night with Pandion?” I named one of the heroes. “And, if you do, would you come back to me soon? I know Ginkgo can adjust the schedule, if you were to tell him I asked.”

Alder blushed. “Yes, Lucas. I didn’t know how to ask you, but you are so wise . . . ”

I winked. “Don’t tell anyone, but I may have plans, myself.”

I invited George to be an overnight guest, knowing that he would invite Hazel to his bed. Then, I approached my objective.

“We have exchanged confidences,” I said. “We have exchanged kisses. I believe that there has been something more than simply friendship in both the confidences and the kisses. Am I wrong?”

“No, Lucas, you are not wrong. I have found you attractive since we first met, and you appeared to me as I was, a youngster just finding his sexuality. I know what that is, for your relationship with the dryads is something that cannot be hidden.”

He saw my reaction—concern and perhaps a little fear.

“Please do not be worried,” he said. “As you were told, that relationship is based on love, and is blessed by Aphrodite. None of us would challenge her. Not that I would want to.” He grinned.

“Yes,” Mars said. “I would like to remain overnight, and sleep with you.”

I carefully blocked Death and Hazel, in the next room, and focused on Mars. We both were in our attributes as sixteen-year-old boys, even though we were both ancient. We were boys who were close to the peak of their sexual ability, their power, and their strength. That we were both immortal gods, with power unimaginable, only enhanced that.

The next day I found the patio to be clear, the extra chairs and tables to have disappeared (or in storage somewhere), and a Locust waiting for Mars and me when we arrived for breakfast. Locust, Robinia pseudoacacia, whom I decided to call Robin, informed me that Death and Hazel had left, and that Alder had been put into the rota, as he called it, in three days. “He will need some time in his tree to regain his strength,” Robin said, and then giggled.

After breakfast, Mars and I went to the “planning room,” as I was thinking of it. From Athena’s list, Mars had identified the first target: a drug-processing laboratory near the docks of Lazaro Cardenas, Mihoacan, Mexico.

“I considered Cartagena, Colombia where there is a laboratory and a port. However, Lazaro Cardenas seems a better target. It is the home of one of the three most powerful cartels in the world. A laboratory on the docks operates with the full knowledge of the Knights Templar, the name adopted by the cartel that rules the State of Mihoacan. The more important and powerful members, or carteles, share in its ownership. By attacking it, we also serve notice that the docks, themselves, may not be safe for the carteles. And this seaport is an important transportation nexus.”

That afternoon, which was the next morning in Mexico, Mars took Jason, Ajax, and me to Lazaro Cardenas. Although we could make the Heroes as well as ourselves invisible to mundane eyes, we dressed to resemble the peasantry of that city in case we needed to interact.

“I know no Spanish,” I said.

Ajax smiled. “In my last incarnation, I fought in several CIA operations in South America. My Spanish is quite good. I will translate, if you wish.”

Jason started to speak. I knew what he was going to say: Lucas is a titan; he will learn the language the first time he hears someone speak it. But he did not. Rather, he thanked the boy.

“Until Lucas learns the language, I’m sure he will appreciate your help.”

That’s part of his leadership, I thought. He thinks before he speaks—and he thinks quickly. He knows how to make someone feel good about themselves. And, he knows how politely to manipulate a titan!

“The laboratory is not guarded by the federales or local police, both of which know not to interfere with the Knights Templar. It is guarded by carteles and mercenaries armed with this reality’s most current weapons,” Mars began. “There are, however, no sophisticated security systems: no closed-circuit television, no retinal or fingerprint scanners at the entrances. Just hard men with semi-automatic assault rifles, anti-tank rockets, and grenade launchers.”

“Who do they expect to attack? Why anti-tank weapons?” I asked.

“Not for tanks, but for trucks, possibly loaded with explosives, and driven by members of rival gangs,” Mars said. He pointed to the street leading to the warehouse. “Those vehicles? They’re not parked at random. They form a barricade that forces a vehicle to slow on the way to the warehouse.

“Among the poor, the drug lords can easily find suicide bombers. They promise to take care of the families of the dead. They’re pretty good about honoring those commitments, too. It costs very little, actually, to keep someone from starving in a city with an unemployment rate of nearly 30% and where a peasant’s average income is less than a dollar a day,” Mars added.

“There is their weakness,” Jason said. We were still about a quarter mile from the warehouse, and I couldn’t imagine what he had seen.

“Watch that truck. It’s destined for the warehouse. It stopped at the coffee shop. Someone got out, entered the coffee shop, and returned with coffee. Watch. It will be allowed past the barriers.”

“How do you know?” Mars asked.

“It is the same pattern as the previous truck,” Jason said. He grinned, I think he was secretly pleased to have seen something missed by the god of War.

“I think,” Jason said, “I would like a cup of coffee. Lucas? Would you please join me? Mars and Ajax, would you please remain outside and watch this pattern?”

Mars and I exchanged a thought that we kept hidden from Jason. He’s certainly comfortable with command, Mars sent, if he’s so quick to order around a couple of gods.

He did say ‘please,’ I sent back, and felt Mars’ grin at that thought.

Jason and I did not appear out of place in the coffee house. It took several minutes to get our coffee, perhaps because the barista provided go-cups to a man who walked in after us.

Is he from a truck? I asked, sending an image of him to Ajax and Mars.

Yes. It was Ajax’s voice. I’d expected Mars to answer, and then realized: these boys are immortal heroes; they’re bound to have picked up some powers over the centuries.

The warehouse was busy accepting shipments of pasta—concentrate from the cocoa leaves—that had come overland from the Andes. The other customers in the coffee house seemed not to stay for more than 30 minutes or so, and Jason didn’t want to call attention to himself and me. After about half an hour, we changed places with Mars and Ajax.

“We didn’t see how they communicated with the barista,” I said as we passed in the street. Mars nodded. And you look right cute in that outfit, I sent.

It was involuntary, but true. He was wearing sandals, and white trousers and shirt—a peasant outfit. Most of those were loose; his was tight, and revealing.

Thanks, he replied. You’re cute, too.

We had to bring in several more shifts of coffee-drinkers from among the Heroes Brigade before we figured out the system. The truck’s make, color, and license number were written on the bill used to pay for the coffee. As soon as the barista received payment, always for two cups, black, to go, he would fiddle with the cash register. It was a computer terminal, and we guessed the information written on the money was going to the guards at various checkpoints.

Easy-peasy, I thought.

It wasn’t going to be easy, though. Mars overruled the idea of bringing in our own truck, loaded with soldiers rather than pasta. “Too great a risk,” he said. “Further, we have only one day of data. What if they change their procedures from day to day? We need more information.”

It was perhaps mid-afternoon in Lazaro Cardenas when Mars called it a day, and we all went back to Thermai. It was still just noon, there, and I realized Mars had slipped us backwards nearly 12 hours.

He caught my thought. “It’s better that you—and the heroes—stay awake a few hours extra than that you spend too much time asleep. You and they may be a little more tired than usual, tonight, but you can easily deal with that.”

Mars had left, pleading that Athena needed him to help deal with some problems in France. Apparently, their revolution was getting out of hand. The Heroes were all in barracks somewhere downhill from my home. Robin had supper ready for me, and joined me at table and afterwards, in the shower. I think he was disappointed to have been left out of the visit to Mexico, and so I gave him my full attention, carefully washing every part of his body, even kneeling on the floor to wash his feet. As I washed him, I made mental notes of where he was ticklish and where he was sensitive in other ways to touch, and later in bed made good use of that knowledge. When I finally brought him to climax, there was no room in his mind for disappointment.

Mars was right to have vetoed an immediate raid. There were no trucks making deliveries of pasta the next day, or the next. It took us two weeks of monitoring to realize that it was only on certain days that they accepted shipments of pasta. The procedure, however, was the same: a truck’s description written on a bill used to pay for coffee.

“Not enough days to understand their pattern,” Jason said. “We should, however, be in place and ready to attack on the next pasta delivery day.” Mars nodded, and it was agreed.

Jason had established a curfew for the Heroes, which I seconded for the dryads. They were all up early each morning. A few were sent, two-by-two, to Lazaro Cardenas for coffee. If there were no trucks by 10:00 AM, the boys—heroes and dryads—were free until dinnertime, after which time the curfew was once again in force. It was Death who showed us all how to “slip” backwards in time in order to coordinate morning in Greece with morning the previous day in Mihoacan.

It took two weeks before: “Two trucks, already,” one of the coffee-shuttle boys reported. Instantly, the call went out. It took only minutes for the Heroes Brigade to assemble.

It took the dryads a little longer, but Jason had barely begun his talk before they, too, were assembled.

The Heroes wore modern uniforms and carried modern weapons—modern for my old reality, that is. We had discussed sending them in disguised as peasants, but they had rejected the notion. “We should not sneak in, we should not be afraid of who and what we are,” Jason said. The other Heroes agreed, and Mars let me know privately that he concurred with Jason’s decision.

The dryads, twice the number of the heroes, wore white hospital “scrubs” but with flack jackets under their shirts, and white helmets. Armbands and helmets bore the red cross of a medic. I doubted that it would make any difference, but it might, and I was determined to overlook nothing that could give them even a bit of safety. It had not escaped my attention that the heroes were giving the dryads weapons and tactical training, but for this raid, the dryads would be medical personnel, only.

It was easy-peasy. Ajax, on point, translocated to the street outside the warehouse. On his signal, the rest of the Heroes translocated in, flooding the loading dock the instant the door opened for one of the trucks.

An interior door, leading to the huge bay where pasta was processed, was open. The guards were caught completely unaware. Before they could get their safeties off or a round in the chamber, the Heroes gunned them down. Within seconds, dryads followed the Heroes, grabbed children from the processing floor and popped to the Temple of Asclepius on Sicily we’d coopted to be our hospital. When the last child was removed, and on Jason’s signal, the Heroes tossed in flash grenades, and popped back to my island.

There had been no reluctance on our part to kill the guards or the people “supervising” the children, nor afterwards were there regrets, especially after we became familiar with the condition of the rescued children. Their bodies were flooded with cocaine and the poisonous chemicals with which they were forced to work, despite the face masks they wore—little more than painters’ masks, and ill-fitting at best. All of the children had venereal diseases from the men who held them captive. Many were wasted from malnutrition. It was going to take a long time to restore them to health—mental and physical. I was grateful for the dedication of the demi-gods and mortals who operated the temple to Asclepius.

I thought that the dryads might want to party with the Heroes that night, but quickly understood how deeply the day’s events had affected them both. Not so much the killing, but facing the reality of the children’s treatment and condition. Although I was usually reluctant to spy on either my boys or the Heroes, I did a scan of the barracks. All the boys were cuddled with others; all were offering comfort.

I had released the day’s dryad, an Oak, to participate as a medic in the raid, and was prepared for his shock and horror. Like the boys in the barracks, Oak and I cuddled. I focused on reassurance and love, confidence and pride, and felt him sending those thoughts to the others.

Chapter End Note: Please Google “ted talk rodrigo canales” for an 18 minute lecture on “The Deadly Genius of Drug Cartels,” especially if you don’t believe the numbers published herein. The USA is the largest market for illegal substances and accounts for more than half of the world trade. There are more than 55 million users in the USA, who create a market estimated to be between $30 billion and $150 billion per year. In order to support the USA market for illegal drugs, between 10,000 and 15,000 people die in “drug violence” each year in Mexico, alone.

An image of Jason, captain of the Argonauts and Commander of the Immortal Heroes’ Brigade may be found at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Jas%C3%A3o_e_o_Velo_de_ouro_-_Bertel_Thorvaldsen_-_1803.jpg.