Joel D. Hirst - The Lieutenant of San Porfirio

The Lieutenant of
San Porfirio

Joel D. Hirst

The Lieutenant of San Porfirio

Copyright 2012 by Joel D. Hirst

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-3949-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3950-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3951-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912914

iUniverse rev. date: 11/03/2015

Contents

For those who seek freedom: may you never tire.

I would like to thank my lovely wife; for countless hours, discussions and ideas as this story took shape. I would like to thank all those who continue to fight for their freedoms against yet another generation of dictators; they are the inspiration for this story and it is written for them. I would like to thank Caroline Alethia for her help in editing. And Id like to thank the team at I-Universe for all their support.

I t was early morning in the Revolutionary Socialist Republic of Venezuela. Despite the hour, Lieutenant Juan Marco Machado found himself crammed tightly in the belly of an armored personnel carrier. He looked down at the new bars on his shoulder and repeated aloud his new rank. Lieutenant . He smiled a lopsided grin. Much more commanding than Sergeant . His meager worldly possessionsthe bounty of decades of faithful revolutionary servicehad been carefully packed inside four large black plastic garbage bags and crammed into the crevices of the APC. The rusting eyesore idling around him was a relic from the Second World War, sold to the Revolutionary Socialist Armed Forces of Venezuela (FARS for short) by the Russian weapons dealer Rosoboron Export for a songand an expensive maintenance contract. Machado was on his way to his new life in San Porfirio de la Guacharaca, the capital. Clutched tightly in his left hand was his new AK-103, given to him only yesterday along with his medals and his promotion. He lovingly caressed the grip of his new weapon, feeling the smooth plastic and the clammy metal, and sighed. Im a soldier of the revolution, and Ive finally been noticed. My years of guarding tollbooths and power installations have finally paid off.

As he adjusted his unwieldy mass in the tight space, lifting the plain opaque bottle brimming with bootlegged whiskey that hed been energetically attempting to empty since daybreak but whose contents never seemed to go down, he banged his war-injured ankle on a large pile of unused shells that had rusted firmly to the metal floor.

Oof! Remembering his pain, and the source of his medals, he gave himself a salute and a grin. He was lifting the sweating bottle for another toast when he heard an unwelcome order intrude over his loudly idling metal bar and pierce the alcohol-induced buzz hed been nurturing.

Teniente Juan Marco Machado, one of his superior officers, a captain, yelled down into the belly of the aging weaponry.

Si, mi Capitn. Machados voice cracked as he emerged sheepishly from his tank, squishing his expanding gut through the hatch and trying to balance himself unsteadily on the small platform. Behind and in front of him, the line of APCs and jeeps was assembled, ready to ferry chickens and goats to feed San Porfirios starving poor.

A ray of sunlight from the bright equatorial sun hit Machado directly in the eye, making him squint. The tangy saltiness of the sea and the pungent smell of fish wafted from the docks as the early morning fishermen returned with their nights catch. These smells, to the lieutenant the smells of Venezuela, mixed easily with the humidity and lush vegetation of the junglepunctuated by diesel fuel from the idling convoy. Through the morning sunlight he saw the Caribbean turquoise sea glistening, giving way immediately to the deep green of the jungle. The small garrison town he was leaving, forever, was nestled between the two on the perfect white beach. A dirt road cut the dejected town in half. The steeple of the centuries-old Catholic Church, the only construction higher than two stories, grasped desperately toward heaven as if trying to escape the squalor around it. Santo Tomas was a miserable town. Its only value was a deep-water port that, being the closest to San Porfirio, made it of strategic importance.

Aghem. Teniente Machado cleared his throat. At your orders. And he threw the well-practiced, crisp revolutionary salutehis middle and index finger making the sign of V for victory while tapping the back of his wrist to his foreheadattempting to look his new part. Machado had never been fully satisfied with his appearance. He was several inches shorter than he would have liked and was what some people described as stocky, though he preferred big-boned. His brown skin was a salute to his mixed-race heritageblack slaves from the Caribbean, Indians from the interior, and white landowners who spread their seed around lasciviously. He had short-cropped, curly black hair pelo malo as they offensively called it in Spanishand a well-groomed mustache.

Congratulations on your medals and your promotion, young soldier. Stand straight and tall so that they shine in the Venezuelan sunlight, the garrison commander, a captain, said. Let me see. The captain squinted as he leaned upward. Ah, yes, one for courage in action and one for injury in the line of duty. You are truly a testament to the revolution.

Si, seor . Thank you, seor , Machado said. I am but a faithful servant of El Comandante.

We shouldnt have left you alone to guard that bridge, the captain said, his right hand stroking his silver-streaked goatee. These things get out of hand. Youre lucky you werent seriously injured by those students.

Yes, sir, these student marches are becoming dangerous, Machado said, thinking at the same time, Thank God nobody was there to see me fall out of my tank trying to buy that empanada from a street vendor.

As es . The captain nodded in affirmation as if to a silent prayer. We are grateful for your sacrifices for the fatherland.

The honor is mine, for the glory of our invincible revolution, and I am thrilled that my superiors have seen fit to increase my responsibilities. I will seek to forever be a humble servant of El Comandante. Machado was anxious to return to the sweltering comfort of his private party, and as his well-tended buzz began to lose its edge, he was becoming slightly irritated.

Is there anything else, sir? He shifted his weight off his injured ankle, which responded in relief with a strange popping sound.

But the garrison captain wasnt done dispatching the convoy; it being the only thing he had on his agenda for the day, he wanted to talk.