Rast-approved:
He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious.
(Sun Tzu)
It was Cesar Chavez’s first field assignment, and he was nervous. He was also desperately young. Emerging from the radical farming co-op culture of southern California and taking advantage of reinvigorated social programs, Chavez had been singled out for scholarships and educational promotion from the age of 12. He had graduated from high school at the age of 15, and received dual degrees in political science and business management from Stanford at 19. Speaking three languages and able to blend in with native populations all over Latin America, he was recruited into the Federal Security Office.
The ongoing conflict in Central America meant that the FSO was stretched thin in the region at the moment. Which explained why 21-year old Chavez found himself in a small truck convoy heading south out of Campeche, Mexico. His superiors reassured him that this wasn’t a dangerous assignment; he wouldn’t be anywhere near the front lines. In fact, he wouldn’t even be leaving Mexico.
Still, Chavez was worried about his cargo. The manifest said he was carrying water pumps, slack lime, tools, and piping; a clear cover for something more deadly. There’d been no trouble at the port, no problems on the long trip into the heart of the Yucatan. The trucks could only go as far as Chicanná, where a small army of porters met them. He could tell from their accents that they weren’t locals.
The large crates were loaded onto makeshift litters and carted off into the jungle quicker than Chavez would’ve thought possible. After a grueling, two-day trek, Chavez found himself looking into a narrow valley full to the brim with makeshift shelters. While the shelters were questionable, their organization wasn’t, and the orderly rows of shacks backed into a small semicircle of US Army surplus tents. In front of the shack was a raw parade ground, with supply tents and a Trans-Atlantic War vintage MASH complex flanking the newly-cleared field. Two companies were drilling on the field as Chavez approached, with several more companies jogging through the camp and signs that several more were off in the jungle (the size of the camp indicated the presence of thousands.)
A gringo in unmarked fatigues approached the human convoy and began rattling off orders in strangely-accented Spanish (the man had clearly learned the language recently, and from some poor, backwoods Guatemalan peasants.) He singled out Chavez once the crates were taken care of and approached him for conversation.
“You’re my new guy?” said the gringo in skeptical Spanish.
“Si,” replied Chavez, and switching to English, “You’re not an easy man to find, which I guess is the point.”
The gringo nodded, “Never thought I’d be back in Mexico again. Damn-sure didn’t think I’d be back with their blessing! I don’t know what kind of wrangling went on between our Top-Hats and their Top-Hats to make this happen, but it’s given these boys a fighting chance in their war.” They both turned to look at the men training under the hot Mexican sun.
The Japanese-backed reactionary forces had plunged into the spine of Central America over the last year in an effort to take the Honduran ports. They’d won several important stand-up fights early on, but soon became bogged down in guerilla warfare again. Still, they were close enough now to use their infant air force to pester the shipping in the Gulf of Honduras. Mexico’s agreement to let supplies slip in from the north- and the sudden “redeployment” of the border patrol north of Guatemala and Yukatec- meant a lifeline for the forces of the Frente Unido de Mesoamérica (FUM.)
“I’m just glad they gave me no problems on the way in. I wasn’t sure the cover would stick,” said Chavez.
“Cover? What cover?”
Chavez was about to respond when he saw the crates were being opened. Inside, the FUM soldiers found piping, water pumps, slack lime, and many large plastic drums.
“What did you think was in those crates?” said the gringo.
“Well...guns, ammo...supplies for the war.”
“These are for the war. Or maybe you just have some misconceptions about what’s going on here.”
Chavez looked around, and for the first time saw that there were women around the shacks, even a few in the ranks; kids running in and out between the houses, laundry hanging from lines, the smoke of fires and the smells of cooking. It wasn’t just an army; it was a city.
“Who was it said an army marches on its stomach? Clausewitz? Some old bastard, anyway...well, they may march on their stomachs, but they camp on their bowels. You can’t know how goddamn good it was to see you today. This-” gesturing to the unpacking process- “this is gonna make my life so much goddamn easier.”
