A special thanks to P&S Universe writers @General_Paul, @Tsar of New Zealand and longtime contributor @Unknown for creating the foundation of this spinoff in the open thread for P&S, When the Wind Blew. I decided to throw my hat in the ring of my all-time favorite AH story/universe (minus my own, of course ;) ) and help write this story. I hope you all enjoy it, and I look forward to comments, contributions, and good discussion.

And now, Protect & Survive Miami: End of Watch!
October 28, 1983
Miami, Florida

Detective Jan Klima stared out in into the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

This city is going mad on this shit.

Growing up in Omaha, he'd been descended from one of the myriad ethnicities that came to that city at the turn of the century to find work in Omaha's burgeoning meatpacking industry. A graduate of the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, followed by Officer Candidate School, Klima mercifully escaped the hellhole that was the Vietnam War, instead serving as a field-grade officer in the 68th Armor Regiment of the 8th Infantry Division. After serving his five-year term, Klima chose to leave the Army, not because he hated it, but because of the woman he'd met on leave in Miami, Rosa García. Rosa and Jan had fallen for each other instantly one night in 1976, the dark-skinned college student at the University of Miami dancing inside one of the discos and the lean, blond Army officer who just happened to bump into her while getting a drink there. That connection was so strong that Jan decided by the next morning to not stay on in the Army, and pursued a job with the Miami Police Department.

As a retired military officer, Klima was able to bypass the lower ranks and was hired as a detective-cadet. His instincts for danger saved the lives of several civilians one night, when he glanced at a nearby liquor store on his way home and immediately recognized something was amiss. For years, Klima was never able to articulate what told him to stop, but in doing so, he broke up an armed robbery by double-tapping the two robbers in the head with his Smith & Wesson Model 25-5 revolver. He made the local news, and the front page of the Miami Herald in a profile the following Sunday. Klima's superiors saw that he was born for this, and he went from trainee to Detective Second Rank.

But that was all in the past.

Now he stood on a beach, having just found two Cubans, face down, hands tied, with most of their heads missing from what were clearly gunshots at point-blank range. Like many of the other bodies he'd found this way in recent months, they were tied to the drug war raging in the back alleys and abandoned warehouses of the glitzy city. Cocaine was everywhere, and while the bankers and the rockstars were snorting it in their high-rises, Klima was cleaning up the mess it was causing.

Nine victims in two weeks. Nine executed men, Cubans all. Who would want to be part of this madness? Was the money worth dying like this?

Klima put out his cigarette in the sand and walked back to his Dodge Diplomat unmarked police car. As he got inside and pulled out onto Bayshore Drive, he turned on the radio to catch the 7:30 news bulletin on WNWS 790.

"Good morning, Miami. Our top story this morning is trouble in Berlin. A shootout took place across Checkpoint Charlie last night between West German police and East German soldiers. There were several dead and multiple casualties after the thirty-minute exchange of gunfire started by..."

Oh, no. Oh no no no. This is how we always feared it would start.

"...spokesman for President Reagan said that the exchange of gunfire stemmed from East German border guards trying to contain protests by the Berlin Wall and firing wildly, striking two West Germans, and provoking the melee. The spokesman went on to say that they hoped no further bloodshed would take place, and called on the Soviet government to pull back from any further confrontation."

Klima shook his head and continued towards headquarters. He had a job to do. He just prayed the world wouldn't blow up when he was doing it.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 1
October 31, 1983
Miami, Florida

"Troubled times
Caught between confusions and pain, pain, pain
Distant eyes
Promises we made were in vain
In vain, vain"

In a warehouse tucked away in the shadow of the Palmetto Expressway, business was being transacted. Crates were opened, and false bottoms were removed to reveal tightly wrapped plastic packets filled with white powder. Cocaína, they called it in all of the Spanish speaking nations south of the United States. Here, it was coke, cocaine, blow, snow, and a host of other nicknames. It didn't matter to the man in the black button down shirt and white pants. All that mattered was that he brought it in, and people bought it from him in droves.

The packets were cut open, mixed with baking soda to leaven it out and stretch the supply, and then resealed in small vials and baggies, handed out to the myriad blacks, Cubans, Mexicans, and, in a few cases, well-connected whites, who delivered only to the cream of the crop in this city. They, in turn, flocked out to their corners, abandoned houses, vans, wherever they could keep away from the prying eyes of the Miami cops, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the FBI, and anyone else who had an interest in removing this source of profit for the hustlers. At least some of the cops could be paid off. The DEA and FBI agents that used to be so pliable just a few years ago had been rotated out, with fresh young men on the scene, filled with patriotic duty. Every time an approach was made, to the disgust of the man in black and white, they followed the advice of that frigid woman in the White House and said no.

After some hours, the vans pulled away, and silence descended upon the warehouse. The man walked to his "working" car, a ten-year old Dodge Challenger, and pulled out of a loading dock door, driving into the gathering gloom. He loved his fancy cars, the Ferrari and the Porsche and the Mercedes-Benz, but in this neighborhood, such a car would draw attention, and not drawing attention kept the man alive, happy, and profitable.


Klima walked into his house in Coral Gables after a long day. Thankfully, no more dead bodies had turned up, but he had a caseload a mile high, and unsurprisingly, too many of his victims weren't in any files. The FBI had only begun using computers to search fingerprint files a couple of years ago, but the system was not as reliable as one would hope, especially since photocopying wasn't all that old either. Klima hoped Xerox and IBM could figure out a better way soon, but in the meantime, he had scant leads and a lot of frustration piling up.

At least he had Rosa, and his young daughter, Adriana, four years old. Rosa had gotten a degree in architecture, and spent her days working on a drafting table and sometimes at night on the dining room table. The job was flexible, though, allowing her to come home whenever she needed to tend to Adriana, and she could bring home her work when she did such things. It was a nice job for Klima's beautiful wife, now 28 years old. He was proud of his wife, proud of himself...except for one thing.

If only I could bring 8th Infantry here. We'd have every last one of these druggies ferreted out within a month. Fucking drugs. Almost ruined the Army, now it's killing our cities, and I can't seem to put a dent in it.

Klima locked up his gun inside a nightstand drawer that he'd made for that purpose, then took off his clothes and stepped in the shower.

Why the hell did I move to this humid place? Oh, yeah, my hot wife. Klima smiled at that thought, basking in the lukewarm water he liked after the heat that categorized the average Miami day. He emerged from his bathroom to smell roasted pork. God, I married a great woman.

Klima pulled on a polo shirt and some shorts, walking out of the bedroom to hear the shrieks of Adriana as she chased around her puppy. He walked into the kitchen, kissing his wife on the neck as she cooked dinner. "Hi, baby," Rosa said. "Any progress today?" "No, honey," Klima said. "It's like I'm chasing a ghost. There's no trail. No fingerprints. We can't ID the victims, so I don't know how the hell to figure out who to ask. Someone has to screw up eventually, I just wish they'd hurry up and do so."

"Jan, you said these are all Cubans, right? Our community is tight. We all escaped the same place for the same reasons. Too many of us don't trust outsiders because we've been burned. My father will tell you: white men from CIA came in, promised we could overthrow Castro, and then left a couple thousand Cubans to the whims of Castro. My father's generation has passed on this distrust of outsiders to many of their children. You need a Cuban to partner with, babe."

Klima pondered that. It made sense. Memories ran deep in Hialeah, he knew. Whenever he went to visit his in-laws, people looked at him a little longer.

"I think you're right, Rosa. I'll ask the lieutenant for help tomorrow."

"You know, sweetie, there's one thing you can relax about."

"What's that?"

"Dan Rather said on the news a little while ago that the Soviets are removing their tanks from East Berlin. I know how worried you were the other day. Now, let's go eat. We've got to take Adriana trick or treating still."
I think the Miami area would at least be hit with three warheads: one over downtown Miami, one over the Port of Miami, and one over Homestead AFB south of the city. The blast over the Port of Miami essentially flattens most, if not all, of Miami Beach.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2
November 7, 1983
Hialeah, Miami, Florida

Detective Klima pulled into the parking lot of the small Cuban restaurant. The lieutenant had taken Jan's suggestion that he get a Cuban partner to help with the Cuban murders, so Senior Patrol Officer Luis Cárdenas was removed from his posting in the Liberty City neighborhood and sent downtown to Homicide. The pairing would be "for the duration of the investigation." Cárdenas, for his part, silently hoped he'd get a promotion if they succeeded in breaking the drug ring behind the murders.

On the patio, a number of older men were sipping coffee and playing dominos, the same scene that was repeated endless times throughout Hialeah/Little Havana. Salsa music came from a small transistor radio on one of the tables. Walking inside, Klima and Cárdenas went to speak with the owner, who'd fled Cuba in his early twenties when his father died in the aftermath of Batista's fall. Jorgé Pérez was now in his mid-forties, running this restaurant, talking with everyone who came through, and listening closely. He was talented at these things, and together with his wife, who ran the kitchen, he'd become successful at being a restaurant owner and at knowing everything that happened in his neighborhood.

"Que bolá, Jorgé!" Cárdenas exclaimed as he approached the counter. The two men bear-hugged. "Luis, papo, your arms are starting to look like that wrestler in Rocky III, what's his name," Pérez said. Cárdenas smiled. "You mean Thunderlips, or Hulk Hogan."

"Yeah! That's the guy! You could take him, brother."

"Jorgé, I hit the gym, what can I say, better than you." Cárdenas playfully backhanded Pérez's growing belly. "He's got about ten inches on me, though, I think I'd be in trouble if we fought. Anyway, that's not why we came."

The owner motioned them to the corner of the counter, and busied himself pouring coffee for the two men and himself. He leaned in close. "Those perros that got themselves killed, yes, I know. They're all playing a dangerous game, getting involved with this basura. I can't tell you who's in charge of it, other than a few whispers I've heard. He's a very smart, angry man. Some of the other old-timers who stop in have seen him. Drives around in some flashy cars, always wearing sharp clothes. They call him El Caracortada."

Klima asked, "What does El Caracortada mean?"

Pérez said, almost with a hint of menace, "The Scarface."

Klima blinked. "That was a nickname for Al Capone. Capone was a lot bigger deal, though, everyone knew him. This guy seems like he's a ghost."

Pérez nodded. "Some people around here compare him to Capone, but he also has a large scar above his left eyebrow. Rumor has it he took a beating when he was starting out three years ago. Those same rumors said that he got ahold of the man who beat him a year later and fed him to the crocodiles off Key Largo."

"Jesus!" Cárdenas replied. "What kind of puto is this guy?"

"I don't know, papo, and I don't want to know. Go ask Miguel out on the patio. He's heard some things about this guy, too. I suspect one of his nephews works for The Scarface. Whenever he talks about him, it's always in a low voice. You boys need to be careful, and Luis, teach your gringo partner how to dress around here. He doesn't fit in." Pérez finished his coffee. "I need to get going. Talk to Miguel, see if he'll say anything, and then buy some new clothes, lo tengo?" The officers shook his hand and left.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" Klima asked.


El Caracortada was sitting in a chair on his balcony, enjoying the sun, smoking a large Cuban cigar. He'd been in a Cuban jail when he was freed to be a Marielito, one of many that Castro sent to cause his American adversaries trouble. His boat was lucky. It had evaded the Coast Guard and landed in Coconut Grove, where the passengers were spirited to Little Havana in a van. To the generation that fled Castro twenty years prior, these were heroes deserving of help. The man got a job working in a cigar shop, rolling cigars expertly. It was about six months after he landed in Florida that a flashy man came in the shop to purchase some cigars. The flashy man had moved marijuana for over a decade, amassing substantial sums of cash, and he saw potential in the young man behind the counter. He took him under his wing, taught him the drug trade, how to bribe the local cops, everything. After a year, the young man broke away to ply his skills in the hot drug: cocaine.

Miami was teeming with people who loved the rush of the white powder. Poor blacks, rich whites, teenagers, athletes, rock stars, actors and actresses. Nobody could get enough, and the market was cutthroat. It was early on that the young man was indeed beaten by a competitor, and how he first earned the name El Caracortada. A month later, that competitor had become a meal for the fearsome crocodiles that roamed South Florida, and The Scarface took over his business.

Now, he had a large home in Bal Harbour, and he built the balcony so he could look out to the ocean, the way he came here to America. It was calming, and he needed calm. His volcanic temper was well known to his subordinates and the dealers he supplied. Those who crossed him, well, they ended up brutally dead. His loyalty to those who were loyal was just as well known. The best workers got bonuses. He looked out for their families. He was like a feudal lord of old, ruling over his stretch of land, meting out rewards and punishments as he saw fit.

In the background, the news break began on his radio. "It's 2:00 pm, and it's time for the news this hour. Mayor Ferré held a news conference just a couple of hours ago, and he addressed the spate of murders in the city.

'I want to assure residents of the city that these murders are being vigorously investigated by the Miami Police Department and their fine detectives. We believe what we're seeing is nothing more than turf wars over drugs, and we are determined to bring it to an end. Every last one of these dealers will be caught, and we will convict them.'

The Mayor announced that Miami PD will be hiring more officers to increase patrols in the neighborhoods of the city, and vows to make significant progress by the start of next summer.

Meanwhile, in international news, talks resumed in Geneva between negotiators from the United States and the Soviet Union over the deployment of intermediate range..."

He clicked off the radio. I rule this town, he thought. The politicians think they control it, but I control the people behind them. That's power. I'll always find more dealers. They can't stop people from their greed, their vice, their ambition. These fools can't stop me.

He finished his cigar and closed his eyes for a nap. What good was power if you didn't take time to enjoy it?
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Frankly, Klima, if you want shelter for your family, I'd go to Naples or Fort Myers or, hell, Fort Pierce; they're unlikely to be targeted...

Methinks the drug dealer's business will take a big hit from the Exchange...
Frankly, Klima, if you want shelter for your family, I'd go to Naples or Fort Myers or, hell, Fort Pierce; they're unlikely to be targeted...

Methinks the drug dealer's business will take a big hit from the Exchange...

You think? The Drug trade is about to become worthless as money also become pointless and the USA and the world goes up in smoke.