TLIAW: La Revolućion Vive!

Hope that Guetemala loses the war. And to be honest, they should. They're not Argentina, they don't have an Air Force worthy of the name.

Having said that, the US fucked Central America over, and one gets the impression that had the US tried the carrot over the stick, they'd have gotten much better results then OTL.

I hope that guatemala wins this one, even though they won't.

Hell, i just love seeing Britain getting a beating.

I'm basically going to split the difference. Guatemala definitely aren't the winners: even had they managed to annex all of Belize, the damage to their vital infrastructure is substantial (think a little bit worse than Operation Noble Anvil against Serbia) and the economic crisis caused by the war and massive government spending -and the government's response- is going to set off Guatemala's rural insurgency.

On the other hand, Britain also hasn't won. They took a significant number of casualties, and due to the population's unwillingness to either escalate their strangulation of Guatemalan (mounting terror bombing of Guatemalan cities and blockading their ports) or mount a major land invasion to liberate Belize (due to Guatemala's overland supply lines and strategic depth, it would require a more extended campaign), they'll be negotiating their way out of this.

The final result, under the new British Prime Minister, Dennis Healey, will be a divided Belize. The Guatemalans will recognize Belize and withdraw forces from its remaining territory, renouncing all further territorial claims. However, in exchange, Belize will cede all of its territory south of the Sibun River: this is Guatemala's current territorial claim in Belize, and seems to be a "reasonable" compromise, particularly because very few Belizeans live outside of Belize City. The British, who do not want a Vietnam of their very own, will accept this as the cost of doing business, particularly because the Americans will be leaning on them.

As always Azander you never disappoint

Thanks!
 
Fear, Loathing, and a Black Reverend on the Campaign Trail, 1984

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January 25, 1984
Washington National Airport
Washington, D.C.


While the drinks were a rip-off, at least the beer nuts were good, thought Reverend Jesse Jackson. He and his campaign staff were stuck at the bar in Washington’s National Airport for a few hours, waiting for their plane to be de-iced. While money was trickling in to Jackson’s campaign from all sorts of sources, corporate included, they were still an understaffed insurgency. Church’s sudden withdrawal had thrown the race into chaos, but Mondale, Glenn and Hart still had the top-of-the-line operatives and party machinery behind them. Jackson had the black community, and was making inroads among the remnants of the activist left, but he was still decidedly third in the polls.

“Shit weather, huh?” asked the man across from Jackson. Milton Coleman, reporter for the Washington Post, sipped his whiskey. One of the few black men on staff at the prestigious paper, Jackson appreciated that he had chosen to cover Jackson’s campaign rather than one of the leading white men. Jackson nodded and took a sip of his beer, feeling the foam bubble against his mustache.

“Headed up to New York, it won’t be any better.”

“You could say that again.”

There were a few moments of silence, then Coleman started again. “How do you feel about your chances in Iowa, Reverend?”

Jackson laughed. “Milton, I think you’ve read the polling.”

Coleman nodded. “You’ll need to win in states like Iowa if you want to be president.”

Jackson responded. “I think we’ve got a chance, if we can make it through the hurdles now. New York is a more natural place to start than the prairies though, for pretty obvious reasons.”

Coleman, whose notepad and pen had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, continued. “What makes New York different?”

Jackson immediately became wary. While Coleman seemed like a friend, he was still a journalist, and thus more shark than man. He clearly smelled blood. “New Yorkers live with America’s great melting pot every single day. You’ve got Negros, Chinese folks, Puerto Ricans, Italians, Poles and, uh, Jews, and that’s just Brooklyn!”

Coleman and sipped his beer. Jackson thought carefully for a moment, and then continued. “For too long, the people in power have used bigotry to divide from each other. Jim Crow pitted the poor white man against the poor black man, letting the poor white man kick the poor black man so that he wouldn’t notice he was poor. President Rumsfeld continues to pit the people against each other. I’m running because I want our country to be united. Ending racism and addressing the morally reprehensible levels of poverty ravaging America go hand in hand.”

As Coleman scribbled his notes down, one of Jackson’s aides tapped him on the shoulder. “Reverend, they’re tellin’ me our plane is ready. We need to get goin’.”

Jackson got to his feet and reached out. “Nice to spend a few with you, Milton. Hope you don’t go to hard on me in the paper.”

Coleman winked and shook Jackson’s hand. “Don’t worry, Reverend. If there was, I’m sure you’d already know.”


***


Entries from Saripedia.org

The United States presidential election of 1984 was the nation’s 50th presidential election. It was held on Tuesday, November 4, 1984. The contest was between incumbent Republican President Donald Rumsfeld and Democratic challenger, the Reverend Jesse L. Jackson. Despite a weak economy and relatively low approval ratings for President Rumsfeld, Jackson’s inexperience and a divisive, often racially-charged campaign by the Republican side gave Rumsfeld a narrow electoral victory…

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Republican Primary
Rumsfeld faced effectively no challenge for the nomination for president on the Republican ticket, with perennial loser Harold Stassen and a small-time New York comedian running under the name “Ronnie Raygun” as his two most prominent opponents. Rumsfeld could thus spend the primary period watching the Democrats tear themselves apart and looking presidential, while relying on Vice-President Paul Laxalt as his partisan attack dog.

Yet, not all was well for the President. With the invasion of Belize by Guatemala in April 1983, Rumsfeld was forced to cease shipments of military aid to the erstwhile dictatorship, which was a key American ally in the Cold War. Rumsfeld refused to fully support the United Kingdom in its tough response though, calling for peace talks and showing willingness to negotiate away Belizean independence. This caused a significant chill in Anglo-American relations, with secretary for Northern Ireland Tom King going so far as to label Rumsfeld’s policy “cowardly tripe”.

Guatemala struggled under the arms embargo, although continued to purchase large supplies of materiel from its neighbors and other allies like Chile and South Africa. As the media would eventually discover though, much of this materiel was American stock, routed through these third-party militaries. First reported by the San Diego Chronicle in June of 1983, the Guatemalan arms pipeline fiasco became an increasingly large headache for the administration. While it is unclear if the Rumsfeld administration was aware of these arms transfer –and even if they were, whether they had violated U.S. law– the steady drip-drip of scandal, exacerbated by the administration’s reluctance to hand relevant documents over to Senate and House investigations or suspend aid to the relevant militaries. This hurt the President, and made many liberal activists eager for a sharp break with the present political climate…

Democratic Primary
Contrary to the previous election, where the Democrats were relatively united while the Republicans engaged in a rough-and-tumble primary, the Democratic primary campaign of 1984 was long and undecided until just before the convention. With the death of former Vice-President Henry “Scoop” Jackson in September 1983 from a heart attack, the Democrats had no presumptive nominee. This opened the door for a bloody primary season…

Initially, Frank Church was as the favorite to win the Democratic nomination, pushed into the front-runner position by the party elite. Church, Secretary of State under the Udall administration and a popular former Senator from Idaho, had strong foreign policy credentials and was well-liked by the party’s liberal activists, while also being palatable to the general electorate. By early January, he had raised more money than any other establishment candidate. However, even with these advantages, the long-winded, liberal Church was not an heir-apparent, and seen as vulnerable. In response, a number of other mainline Democrats stepped in, including Minnesota Senator Walter Mondale, Ohio Senator John Glenn, California Senator Alan Cranston, former Florida Governor Reuben Askew and Texas Senator Lloyd Bentsen. Relying on state party machinery and attempting to differentiate themselves by focusing on specific policy areas, these candidates divided the party establishment’s support, although most party leaders fell in behind Church.

The race was thrown further into chaos when, just two weeks before the Iowa caucus, Church was hospitalized. After only a few days of rumors swirling, Church briefly rose from his sickbed to announce that he had pancreatic cancer, and was withdrawing from the race immediately. When both Senator Ted Kennedy and former President Udall refused to enter the race as an establishment “white knight” candidate, the field was left wide open…

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Meanwhile, several insurgent candidates also emerged, benefitting substantially from the divisions in the party establishment. Colorado Senator Gary Hart was a political unknown when he announced his run February 1983, barely winning 1% of the vote in polls compared to nationally-known figures. To counter this, Hart started campaigning early in New Hampshire. By late 1983, he had risen in the polls to the middle of the field, mostly at the expense of the sinking candidacies of Reuben Askew and Alan Cranston. Hart shocked much of the party establishment and the media by narrowly winning the Iowa caucus, following by the New Hampshire primary, which he won by ten percentage points. Hart immediately became the frontrunner for the nomination, as he appeared to have “The Big Mo’” on his side.

Unlike most other candidates in the race though, Hart had no clear base support group among the Democratic Party’s factions or party machinery. Instead, he criticized the current crop of candidates as "old-fashioned" New Deal Democrats who symbolized "failed policies" of the past. Hart positioned himself as a younger, fresher, and more moderate Democrat who could appeal to younger voters and other disaffected groups, while remaining moderate enough to defeat President Rumsfeld. Without a crucial base of support within a particular bloc of voters –such African-Americans or working-class whites– his support was fragile though. Moreover, activists worried about his inexperience and sometimes-nebulous rhetoric.

This came to a head during a televised debate in February between the candidates. Hart committed a serious faux pas that threw into question his grasp of foreign policy. Asked what he would do if an unidentified airplane flew over the Iron Curtain from a Warsaw Pact nation, Hart replied that he'd send up a United States Air Force plane and instruct them to determine whether or not it was an enemy plane by looking in the cockpit window to see if the pilots were wearing uniforms. Fellow candidate John Glenn, a former fighter pilot, replied that this was physically impossible, making Hart look foolish and unprepared.

Later in the debate, Walter Mondale went in for the kill, using a popular television commercial slogan to ridicule Hart's vague "New Ideas" platform. After Hart had attacked Mondale’s partial support for Rumsfeld’s policies in Central America and calling for “new thinking”, Mondale struck back. Turning to Hart on camera, Mondale said that whenever he heard Hart talk about his "New Ideas", he was reminded of the Wendy's fast-food slogan “Where's the beef?”. The remark drew loud laughter and applause from the audience and caught Hart off-guard. Hart never fully recovered from Mondale's charge that his "New Ideas" were shallow and lacking in specifics, and his support began to quickly migrate to other insurgent candidates, while establishment support began to consolidate behind Mondale and the more moderate Glenn…

Meanwhile, Sam Nunn, junior Senator from Georgia, led the party’s shrinking white Southern wing into battle. Nunn had launched an abortive primary challenge of President Udall in 1980, which brought him notoriety and name recognition among Southern whites. He ran to “take the party back from the elites”, casting himself as a tough-on-defense, culturally conservative moderate who could beat Rumsfeld at his own game. Nunn narrowly won the Wyoming and Florida primaries, securing the endorsement of Reuben Askew in the process. However, he lost Alabama and his home state of Georgia, with John Glenn nipping at his heels among more moderate whites and the large black vote overwhelmingly favoring Jackson…

The candidate who ultimately benefited the most from the disorder in the Democratic establishment, along with the collapse of Gary Hart’s campaign, was the Reverend Jesse Jackson. Jackson’s candidacy was initially seen as something between a protest and a joke. However, as the second black person to run a nationally competitive primary campaign, he immediately affirmed the importance of the black vote to the Democratic Party. While Jackson was strongly associated with the black community, his platform called for the formation of a “Rainbow Coalition” of minority groups, progressive activists and the white working class, aiming to create a “Second New Deal”. Jackson, who worked outside of electoral politics, was considered a breath of fresh air untarnished by cooperation with the Republicans or an ambiguous voting record.

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While the first several primary states were held in predominantly white states, Jackson surprised everyone by winning nearly 25% of the vote in Vermont, due to the enthusiastic support of popular Burlington mayor Bernie Sanders, although the state’s delegates went to Gary Hart. Jackson then followed this with wins in Alabama and Georgia, where high African-American turnout and division of the white vote between Glenn, Mondale and Nunn gave Jackson the margin he needed for a clear victory.

Jackson continued to surge across the country, with liberal supporters of Gary Hart and left-leaning activists shifting towards his campaign. Racialized tactics by the Nunn campaign, aiming to mobilize white voters, backfired, with Jackson gaining new supporters both out of sympathy and from his calm, dignified response to the attacks on his character. Jackson even made gains among Catholic working class voters due to his moderate pro-life stance and economic populism, promising to protect “American jobs” from foreign competition. A second place finish in Michigan behind the moderate Glenn, along with a victory in Illinois, pushed that Jackson into first place, if not by a large margin. The Democratic Party had a new frontrunner, and what many party elites believed was a serious problem…

The Democratic National Convention began without a nominee. Jackson had a clear plurality of delegates, but could not assemble a majority. The party elite faced dual fears. On one hand, Jackson was in many ways a new McGovern: far too liberal for the American electorate, with the added impediment of being African-American. At the same time, any attempt to withhold the nomination from Jackson could cause an irreversible split in the party with a third-party run by the Reverend, or at least severely reduced turnout among the party’s base. Moreover, while Mondale was the leading establishment candidate, he was seen as inexperienced, prone to gaffes and weak on foreign policy. Meanwhile, while John Glenn was a war hero and astronaut, he was a notoriously soporific public speaker who would be no match for Rumsfeld’s charisma. While the party’s “super-delegates” deliberated, Mondale, Glenn and Hart, who had won enough delegates to be a factor, tried to negotiate a combined establishment ticket, to no avail.

By the evening of the second day, with the deadlock unbroken, delegates began to migrate to Jackson’s camp: while many people had doubts about his ability to win the election, the idea of selecting a man who could be America’s first black president held a strong emotional appeal for many of the party’s activists. With their support crumbling, around 11:00pm on July 17, with his delegates steaming to Jackson in droves, establishment frontrunner Mondale agreed to cede the nomination. Jackson wasted no time selecting Senator John Glenn as his running mate in a move to unite the party. The ticket was set, and the race was on…

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The General Election
The 1984 election was extraordinarily divisive, characterized by character assassination, exaggerated claims of progress and doom, corruption, and, particularly from the Republican side, implicit and explicit race-baiting. It reinforced and deepened the country’s political realignment in the wake of Ronald Reagan’s 1980 electoral victory, with the country increasingly becoming polarized between those who saw Donald Rumsfeld as a savior from threatened chaos caused by liberals and progressives, and those who saw him as a pair of horns short of Mephistopheles himself…

Following the messy brokered end to the Democratic nomination process, and with a Republican coronation of President Rumsfeld, polling put the sitting President ahead by nearly 20 percentage points. However, Rumsfeld was vulnerable. Sharply falling oil prices and high interest rates had reduced inflation, but the economy was still growing slowly, while manufacturing jobs and other industry continued to downsize or move operations out of the United States to emerging centers of production in Asia. Rumsfeld’s strong support for free trade, including a push for more open trade relations with Mexico and the war-torn countries of Central America, were unpopular positions among the white working-class voters, so-called “Reagan Democrats” that had propelled Ronald Reagan to the presidency in 1980. Meanwhile, his other policy accomplishments –including a comprehensive tax reform and cuts to welfare spending favored by conservative Democrats and Republicans– had failed to noticeably improve the economy.

Meanwhile, Jesse Jackson, who focused his campaign on “protecting and uplifting the American worker and middle class of every color and creed” began to make rapid gains. Jackson advocated strongly from the economic left, with proposals for restored welfare programs, a national healthcare system, and new public investment, particularly in transportation infrastructure. These new measures would be paid for by reversing Rumsfeld’s tax cuts on high earners and corporations, a new bevy of taxes on luxury items and cuts to military spending. Aiming to win over white voters, he consciously ruled out reparations for slavery and expressed skepticism of racial quotas, calling them a “bribe” and advocating massively increased federal funding for state universities, colleges and public-works programs.

On foreign and social policy, Jackson was less assured of popularity. He sat outside the political mainstream by promising to end American support for the juntas that ran Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala until they held U.N or U.S-supervised elections and ceased their repressive policies. He also advocated strongly for a Palestinian state and called for a “balanced” American approach in the Middle East, alienating many Jewish voters, who in light of Rumsfeld’s strong advocacy of increased aid to Israel’s “beacon of freedom in the Middle East” began to consider voting Republican for the first time…

Jackson also advocated rolling back the War on Drugs, which hurt him among the white middle class. Finally, his position on abortion, while it had boosted his support among Catholic and other culturally conservative voters, alienated a significant chunk of his liberal base, with many women’s groups refused to campaign for him. By mid-September, Jackson was only four points behind Rumsfeld, and despite the President’s massive financial advantage, it seemed he had momentum behind him…

With the election seemingly slipping away, Rumsfeld switched tactics. While he had aimed to run a moderate campaign, tacking towards the center to win a business elite and middle class frightened of Jackson’s populist rhetoric, that strategy seemed insufficient. In increasing desperation, and with an equally desperate corporate America behind him, Rumsfeld turned towards the ugly. While local surrogates and “independent” groups funded by corporate and party backers had already started using similar rhetoric, Rumsfeld threw his weight behind a racially charged campaign against Jackson and the Democrats. High taxes would amount to, as one party ad declared “a new slavery, for the real hardworking American, to a government run by the urban machines and liberal elites”. Independent groups used even cruder language and imagery, with caricatures of brutish blacks seizing the property and women of white men…

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With months of wrangling, the candidates agreed to two debates, on foreign and domestic policy respectively, to be held on October 21 and 25. The debates were expected to be a clash of the titans. Rumsfeld had a smooth, light-hearted and youthful charm, an avatar of the corporate, besuited “American Tomorrow” of his campaign slogan. Meanwhile, Jackson had the charisma of a preacher, who could speak to the individual voter as well as he could sermonize on the “two Americas” his campaign sought to unite.

The debates, while they showcased a clash of ideologies, outwardly proved inconclusive: both candidates performed adequately and met, if not exceeded, expectations. Some voters commented that Jackson’s proposals seems vague or unrealistic, while others found Rumsfeld’s defense of his Central America policy, which had risen in the national agenda with the Guatemalan arms scandal, disingenuous. Both candidates made a significant error in the second debate, with Rumsfeld seemingly brushing off concerns about rising inflation due to high federal deficits by mocking inflation hawks as “Chicken Little, running around yelling ‘Henny Penny, the sky is falling!’”. Meanwhile, Jackson wavered when asked if he believed the Republican Party was racist, stumbling over an answer that made him seem simultaneously evasive and radical. When combined with his often-animated performance and clear frustration with the political status quo, it proved ominous for the Jackson campaign when the word most used to describe the candidate in the days before the election was “angry”…

While polls initially suggested a possible Jackson upset due to much-heightened African-American turnout, the final result was the one predicted by Democratic elites and the election’s broader polling. Sweeping the South and winning New York by a margin of less than 2,000 votes, President Rumsfeld retained the Oval Office. However, the tone of the election would alienate Democrats, and the scandals that had empowered Jackson in the first place would return with a vengeance…
 

Japhy

Banned
That was a wonderful look at the 1984 race, sad to see Rummy win again, though Guatamala seems like its going to develop into a bigger problem, and a simpler one than the Contras were.
 
Glad Jackson lost except for that Rummy won.

sidenote: arr you going to get back to Habibi or this the main TL now?
 
That was a wonderful look at the 1984 race, sad to see Rummy win again, though Guatamala seems like its going to develop into a bigger problem, and a simpler one than the Contras were.

Thanks!

Yeah, it's shitty that Rumsfeld won, but this is 1984 America. They are not ready for a black president, especially if that black president is Jesse Jackson.

Guatemala is going to be... messy. And a disaster for American foreign policy. Much more so though, it's going to be a disaster for Guatemalans.

Glad Jackson lost except for that Rummy won.

sidenote: arr you going to get back to Habibi or this the main TL now?

I'm trying with "Fear Not the Revolution, Habibi", but I'm finding it difficult to write. There is just so much to get done that it almost seems endless. This TL is about half-done, give or take 10%, and I have it plotted out fairly well.
 
So Jesse Jackson was unable to overcome Rumsfeld? Disappointing, but not surprising.

But this could have tremendous butterflies on US politics.

What is being hinted at is a political scandal that could make Iran-Contra look like child's play, so the chances of a Republican re-election in 1988 are slim.

The question is does Jackson's run push the Democratic party further to the left, or does his defeat push the the party toward the center, which really happened under Bill Clinton?
 
Rumsfeld won?

Oh shit, oh shit. hopefully this won't be another rumsfeldia.

No, it won't be another Rumsfeldia. While I like Drew's epic and find it endlessly fascinating, it's not IMO all that plausible. Rumsfeld here is not going to be a good guy or a good President, but he's not Hitler.

So Jesse Jackson was unable to overcome Rumsfeld? Disappointing, but not surprising.

But this could have tremendous butterflies on US politics.

What is being hinted at is a political scandal that could make Iran-Contra look like child's play, so the chances of a Republican re-election in 1988 are slim.

The question is does Jackson's run push the Democratic party further to the left, or does his defeat push the the party toward the center, which really happened under Bill Clinton?

He got close, much closer than the party elite thought he could. That will have knock-on effects, and the mobilization and primary victory of the "Jackson coalition" (left-wing activists, black voters and more progressive-leaning Catholics) means that they'll have a say in who the next nominee is. At the same time, there will definitely be a reaction to Jackson's loss from the party's right. The next nominee will have to win some combination of left, old-guard establishment, New Democrats and the South, and be palatable enough to the remaining factions that they don't defect to a third party or the Republicans.

As for the scandal, yes, it will make Iran-Contra look clean and dignified. It may still involve Iran (which, remember, due to butterflies is still a monarchy and is busily fighting a bloody three-war civil war between the regime, Islamists and Communists) and Central American counterrevolutionaries, but it's going to be much sketchier.

Also, apologies for the long wait between updates. I have less time than I used to, and more projects. I'll try to get something up over Thanksgiving weekend.
 

Rosenheim

Donor
Just letting you know that I love all of this. So few timelines focus on the horror of what Central America went through during this period and fewer still bother to lift up the inspiring actions of the common people that went on at the same time.

This timeline does both, and I will continue to read eagerly.
 
Just letting you know that I love all of this. So few timelines focus on the horror of what Central America went through during this period and fewer still bother to lift up the inspiring actions of the common people that went on at the same time.

This timeline does both, and I will continue to read eagerly.

Thank, I'm trying. While I'm a bit of a Central American guerrilla fanboy, I really want to tell the story of regular people experiencing so much upheaval, hope, terror and trauma.

I found my way to this and there's not more of it happening right now and that makes me sad

It's coming back. I'm finishing up La Patrie Ou La Mort in the next week (I've got the penultimate update almost done, and will try to write the final one today), then coming back to this and Fear Not the Revolution, Habibi.
 
Una Vida Revolucionaria

Ocho

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The parish called him Father Jean-Luc Champoux. The adults simply called him padre. But for Edgar and his friends, the puffy-lipped, long-nosed priest was El Pato, The Duck. His pale cheeks had grown ruddy and browned from the sun, and his voice, a throaty quack, was a favoured impression among the class’ mischief makers.

Still, the Canadian priest was a formidable teacher, beloved and feared in equal measure by his students. Depending on your behaviour, or if you answered the question correctly or read the passage with or without stumbling, El Pato would wheeze praise and toss you a candy or whip a piece of crumbling chalk at your head. Particularly misbehaved students could find themselves on the receiving end of his wrinkled brown leather belt.

“Luis, read the next passage.”

The boy to Edgar’ left began to read out loud, struggling with the difficult Biblical text. The school, part of the Catholic diocese covering this sweltering, humid expanse of northern Honduras, was poorly funded and could afford few other texts. The banana companies prefered their workers docile, but mostly simply did not want to spend the money on things they didn’t need. Their own schools for the children of workers were staffed sparsely, if at all. What the mission school lacked in materials, it made up for in the passion of the priests and nuns who taught the word of God, the Spanish language and the mysteries of arithmetic to the young.

“And God said, 'Let the water...uh...te- te-”

“Teem, Luis. Sound it out,” said the priest, calmly. Still, his hand gripped his chalk like a vise.

“Uh, teem, with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the sky.” Luis sped through the rest of the line, mispronouncing several words. He looked down, his face red and embarrassed.

El Pato smiled, and dug into his pocket, throwing Luis a wrapped candy. The boy’s face brightened as the class moved on. The priest’s gaze rested on Edgar. “Go on. Keep reading.”

While he knew he could do this, Edgar felt a shimmer of fear wash over his body. Despite all of the jokes made at his expense, no one wanted to disappoint El Pato. He was more than a priest who cared, more than a teacher whose knowledge seemed to stretch into infinity. He was nothing short of a saint. Edgar trembled, then began to read.


***​


Doce

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Ahh, Flaco, vámonos!

Edgar scampered along the lane, hurrying to keep up with Tio Javier, cane knife loosely hanging from his side. He breathed heavily and shut his eyes against the grey sky, lightening with the coming sun. Even after three months, he was still a subpar worker, constantly exhausted, and kept going by willpower alone.

Edgar had been in school full-time, along with his younger siblings, two sisters and a brother. His father, scraping their pennies together, had been able to pay for the uniform and the school fees that the mission school required and still put food on the table. He was rarely seen at home with his endless days of work, but he could be found every Sunday in the comunidad eclesial de base, the layman’s prayer service and study group.

His long hours meant that, when he didn’t return at his regular time, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. When Tio Javier arrived, Mama had assumed nothing was wrong. When he told her he had bad news, she stayed standing, pregnant, drinking her coffee. When he told her of the accident, that her husband, a man of 31 years with a gap-toothed smile, a voracious appetite for fried plantains and a vulgar sense of humor, was dead, her only reaction was to faint.

As the eldest son, Edgar was now the breadwinner. Tio Javier helped out with cash where he could, and took the child under his wing, but Edgar had to go to work. The company had tossed the family a few weeks’ wages, but to keep living in the tin-roofed house on the company’s grounds, someone would have to work the banana groves while Mama tended the new baby and took side work sewing and selling pupusas as she had always done.

They reached their designated row, and they went to work. Edgar, tall for his age if built like a beanpole, made a shallow cross cut in the stem facing the bunch, then pulled it down. The cane knife still felt odd in his hands, the grooves worked in by his father’s fingers much too big for his slim hands. Tio Javier handed him the saw, and Edgar began hacking away at the stem. People lost fingers and hands this way if they weren’t careful. The bunch began to bend, and Tio Javier lowered it onto his shoulder pad. The huge bunches weighed enough to squash Edgar into the soft earth, but Tio Javier, built like a boulder, could carry them with ease. Edgar worked his way through the stem, which finally snapped, the bunch sagging onto Tio Javier’s shoulder with a thump. Onto the next stem.

The sun had crossed the sky by the time Edgar reached his home. His mother waited in the doorway, a bowl of rice and beans in hand for him. He flopped down onto his mattress and began to shovel the food into his mouth. He was growing and would need more than his fair share in the best of times. Now, he was ravenous all the time, a bottomless pit for whatever food they could afford. He wanted to reach for his bible, continue his reading lessons, maybe sit and have a conversation with his sister. His eyes just wouldn’t stay open though. Later would have to do.


***​


Quince

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As the crowd gathered around the two chained men, the volume of argument continued to rise. Edgar couldn’t hear anything amidst the cacophony of voices, nothing but his heartbeat, pounding with a barely channeled fury, audible to him.

The rebellion had been a long time coming. The government’s policies had sent prices spiralling upwards, while the wages paid out by the banana company, while still better than most Honduran firms, stagnated. They had cut costs where they could, watering their coffee, cutting out beef, then chicken, and eventually moving into Tio Javier’s home, packing their mattresses into the cramped shack. Protest was met with violence, whether by the company’s private guards, the police, or the army. Even El Pato wasn’t immune - a few too many sermons tinged with liberation theology saw him first transferred to the capital, then spirited out of the country by the archdiocese ahead of the death squads.

The final straw had been the beginning of the rebellion. The roads were suddenly blocked by checkpoints and ambushes, and moving goods to the export harbors of Trujillo and Puerto Cortés became near-impossible. Gunfire could be heard at night sometimes. Bananas rotted in the warehouses. The company, with some legal sleight of hand, found a way to take the loss out of their workers’ paycheques. When a group of fieldhands had gone to protest this decision with the manager, they were detained by the guards and handed over to the army. Evidently, they brooked no dissent. Their bodies, Tio Javier’s among them, turned up a few days later in the groves, teeth pulled, fingers broken, and limbs and eyes missing.

In response, the workers went on strike. No one showed up to cut the bananas. The guards came to rouse the workers with beatings, but were beaten back. Edgar and the rest, pumped up on adrenaline, chased the guards, stampeding into the office lot and storming its low-hanging buildings. They hacked several guards to death, beating the rest into submission. They burned paperwork and the debt books, stole valuables from the walls and desks of the terrified Americans who ran the place and who had vacated it at the first sign of trouble.The mob though soon came to their sense. The army would be coming, and they needed guns. A few of the men produced them from under their sheds, hunting rifles and shotguns, and they had a few more guns taken from the guards, but they wouldn’t survive with what they had.

Fortunately, the army never arrived. In their place came dirty men and women from the hills, wrapped in military garb and red bandanas. They called themselves many things - comunistas, Sandinistas, guerrillas, Cristianos - and they came from many places - Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Colombia, Cuba, and even Argentina and Peru. Whatever they were, they were treated as nothing short of saints. When the army finally did come, the tired liberators in camouflage cut them to pieces, ambushing them from the trees. The plantation was for the workers’ now, the guerrilla leader proclaimed, theirs to govern as they saw fit.

Here was one of the challenges of governance. The new Comité de Defensa de la Revolución, set up by the leftists to run their plantation, had moved to try the old guards for their brutality. The tribunal had moved quickly, condemning the men for their actions. Few had spoken, and those that did had only pleaded for mercy. Sentencing, as the middle-aged Cuban overseeing the process explained, had to be done by the whole of the community. Thus the shouting.

“Kill the murderers!”

“We must be just! They are proletarians like us.”

“Have mercy, they knew not what they did!”

“That bastard killed my brother!”

The reedy voice of Raul, the sharp, one-legged company clerk turned revolutionary, sounded over the crowd. “A vote! We must have a vote!”

The crowd quieted. Raul cleared his throat. “By raised hands. In favor of exile?”

A dozen people, mostly women, tentatively raised their hands.

Raul swallowed. “In favor of execution?”

Edgar raised his hand, along with the rest. The vote was overwhelming.


***​


Dieciocho

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Ana’s hands were warm, but her body was warmer. Edgar pushed his lips against hers for another dive, another kiss. She pushed back, digging her nails into his arms. They had gone from sticks to wires to ropes, muscle snaking tightly over his bones. His skin itched, burned with desire for sin. He panted. She clawed at his back and moaned, then stopped suddenly at a crunch of gravel under a boot outside the tent. They held their breath.

“Flaco? It’s your watch,” said Inès, his cousin, in a loud whisper.

They broke out laughing. Edgar rose, struggling to find his clothes on in the dawn half-light. Ana clutched the blankets to herself. Her tight curls, a legacy of her Jamaican father, were braided into twists, cascading over her shoulder. Chuckling, she tossed Edgar his belt. “Looking for this?”

He clicked his tongue at her. “Don’t go hiding things from me, love,” he said, playfully whipping her with the belt.

She winked. “Of course not. Now, that would be a sin.”

Inès coughed impatiently outside. Edgar leaned in and kissed Ana. “I’ll be back later. More?”

She sighed, irritated. “It’ll be my watch by then, Flaco.”

He smiled. “Te quiero mucho,” he whispered.

Te quiero. Go! Don’t keep Inès waiting.”

Edgar emerged into the twilight air, shivering slightly. Inès looked and him and rolled his eyes. “Next time, be back in your own tent before your watch. It took me ten minutes to find you,” she grumbled, scratching her head through the patrol hat that covered her close-cropped hair.

“And, if you can’t? What happens? It’s not like los espectros will come out of the hills and cut us all to pieces in the time it takes to walk to Ana’s tent.”

Inès scowled, but said nothing more. She handed off her rifle, a rusting M14, and a pouch of ammunition. Most of the guns were needed at the front - rearguard militia units made due with an insufficient jumble of weapons from conflicts stretching back to the Great War. Target practice involved as much identification of the correct rounds for different guns as it did actually hitting the rusting tin cans from fifty yards.

Weapon in hand, Edgar climbed the hill to the lookout post, grabbing a greenish banana from his pouch on the way up. He swigged some water from his half-empty canteen and rubbed his eyes, then reached the top of the hill. Carlos, a stocky former fieldhand with blindness in his right eye courtesy of a childhood illness, was already there, cradling a shotgun and watching a kettle of water boil on a pit of embers. He nodded silently to Edgar as he sat down on the bench.

Edgar could see all of their little training camp and far more, out over the plantation and the former company housing lot. Many of the banana trees had been cut away, replaced by small plots of maize, beans, squash and vegetables. Wire chicken coops dotted the village. They were food self-sufficient, for good reason: the first year of the revolution had seen near-famine. Raul, now the chairman of the Committee, had made everything work out in the end. His hands might be soft rather than callused from the cane knife, but the man could work the numbers and make things happen. While half their produce went to the war effort, they controlled the rest, and the land that produced all of it.

Edgar coughed, and took another swig of water. Carlos tapped him on the shoulder, offering a cup of coffee. He hadn’t drunk the bitter brew as a child, even when he’d worked from sun-up on the plantation. Now though, it helped pry his eyes open. Despite his jokes to the contrary, Álvarez’s death squads could come out of the jungle at any time to wreak havoc on the liberated communities of the north. Thus the need for popular mobilization, even of the young, the women, and the disabled.

Edgar looked out as the sun rose, and hoped it would be a normal day.


***​


Veintitrès

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Edgar couldn’t sleep. The slapdash barricade, abandoned the night before by government troops, blocked his view of the street, but there was plenty to see. The concrete and painted cement, billboards for popular brands of soda and cigarettes, and paved streets covered in shattered glass were all foreign to him. He had never been to the big city before. Someone noticed him staring at the mess, and elbowed him in the ribs. Edgar looked over. It was Arturo, an atheist college boy with an encyclopedic knowledge of Marxism and long hair tied up in a ponytail. “Welcome to Tegu, Flaco,” he whispered, grinning wildly.

Edgar outranked Arturo by a couple of steps, but the Frente Revolucionario Unido de Centroamérica, or FRUCA, was a highly informal organization. What mattered more than rank was experience and élan, which neither man had much of. With the regime on the back foot and reliant on their Guatemalan allies though, FRUCA had pulled together every soldier they could for an offensive. The target: Tegucigalpa, the Honduran capital and the country’s largest city, conveniently located in the country’s center and surrounded by hills rife with guerrilla fighters.

Pato Company’s commander, a patrician-looking Nicaraguan named Marco, shushed them, and began to give orders with his hands. Edgar’s platoon would crawl forward and entrench themselves on the river bank, while the company machine gun would establish a position on the neighbouring building’s roof. Once that was complete, they would provide suppressive fire for an advance, while the rest of the company would mount an attack across the open ground of the bridge. The whole sector was moving, victory was in their grasp, and Marco, ever ambitious, had volunteered them to take point.

While the poor and working-class suburbs of Comayagüela had fallen quickly, and the Third Brigade - dominated by members of El Salvador’s Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo - had taken several neighbourhoods in the city’s south, the rest of the city had turned into a meat grinder. Yesterday, enemy fire petered out quickly, scrawny Honduran conscripts surrendered rather than fight, and they had advance further in the last two hours than in the last two days. The Ramos Dionisio Bejarano Brigade was eclectic: Hondurans made up roughly half the force’s fighters, with the rest mostly consisting of Salvadorans, Guatemalans, Nicaraguans and Mexicans. There were also two Dominicans and a smattering of Peruvians, who kept to themselves except when expounding their particular path of Indo-American infused Maoism. Experience and necessity bonded them together as much as ideology now.

Edgar crawled forward, gripping the handle of his cane knife for comfort. He was no soldier. It was a miracle he had survived thus far, but he prayed, kneaded his rosary and trusted that God would guide him. He made it to the river bank, and began to dig, a gardener’s hand trowel as his only tool. After fifteen minutes of solid work, he heaped a decent amount of dirt up in front of him, enough to conceal him lying prone. He checked and double-checked his Galil, and prayed.

Signals went up and down the line, and people started moving. The early morning half-light concealed them, but not for long. The regime pickets on the far bank opened up, and men began to fall. “Fire at will!” screamed Marco, and everyone began to shoot.

Edgar fired blindly at the far bank, and heard screaming erupt from there too. The men on the bridge, firing from the hip and shouting revolutionary cries, had passed the halfway point. The bark of rifles and the clatter of machine gun fire of was soon complemented by the crump of grenades. After a few minutes, they heard yelling from the far bank. “La revolución vive!” the voices cried.

Edgar rose, and began to hurry across. As he did, he looked up, and saw the sun, blood red, creeping above the clouds. He smiled. If that wasn’t a sign from the Divine, he couldn’t say what was.

 
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Spengler

Banned
How long till these Rebels success brings the US to officially enter the conflict on the side of the Plantation owners?
 
How long till these Rebels success brings the US to officially enter the conflict on the side of the Plantation owners?

The US doesn't need to do anything. At least, not officially. The CIA can continue to provide covert military aid.

And when Rumsfeld's shenanigans are exposed, it will be politically unpalatable to offer any open support.
 
How long till these Rebels success brings the US to officially enter the conflict on the side of the Plantation owners?

The US doesn't need to do anything. At least, not officially. The CIA can continue to provide covert military aid.

And when Rumsfeld's shenanigans are exposed, it will be politically unpalatable to offer any open support.

This, pretty much. I'll expand on exactly what's going on with U.S. politics, but they are mostly receiving money and weapons, with some CIA and special operations units on the ground secretly. Handing off aid to the juntas is going to blow up in Rummy's face though, especially some of the secret aspects. The fall of Tegucigalpa is going to see the Guatemalans shift strategy, and that's going to entail some nightmarish policies.
 
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