Joel D. Hirst - The Burning of San Porfirio: Sequel to The Lieutenant of San Porfirio

THE BURNING OF
SAN PORFIRIO

Sequel to The Lieutenant of San Porfirio

Part II of the San Porfirio Series

Joel D. Hirst

THE BURNING OF SAN PORFIRIO

SEQUEL TO THE LIEUTENANT OF SAN PORFIRIO

Copyright 2015 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.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8518-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8519-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920914

iUniverse rev. date: 12/17/2015

CONTENTS

Dedicated to the political prisoners. When the violence extinguishes itself, you will again walk the paths of freedom.

Id like to thank my wife, Mariale, for the encouragement and support. Id like to thank Rosa Pelz, Rodolfo Distel, Luis Kofman, and the others at Grito Sagrado Press for their ongoing commitment to freedom.

El Comandante is dead, General Juan Marco Machado said, dispensing with even a cursory revolutionary salute as a greeting to the participants of the early-morning conclave. He has finally surrendered his spirit to Santa Maria Liberia. The general stared gravely around the boardroom on the bottom floor of the Nido del Condor, his private bunker, where he had assembled his inner circle to deliver the long-awaited announcement. His right hand rested nonchalantly but not accidentally on his sidearm.

Gasps emanated from the ten high-ranking military men seated around the mahogany table. Even having known that the end was nigh for the old man, it still took a herculean effort of imagination for the small group to acknowledge that he could be gone . To think and plan without him being considerednobody had ever done that.

Dead ? the propaganda minister, always the first to speak, let his words evaporate like the Andean morning mists outside the hideout.

Was it painful? asked the recently appointed defense minister.

Did he speak of me? This from the finance minister. What were his last words? A wave of murmurs from the others around the table echoed the sentiment.

What will we do now? said the energy minister.

How do we go on?

Enough, Machado said, his voice firm but quiet. He leaned forward on the table, the knuckles of his closed fists slipping neatly into the impressions he had worried into the slick finish over many years of planning and debating. Machado was stocky and round, with the characteristics of an Andean mountain boulder. His moustachemore than half graywas well trimmed, and his widows peak accentuated his long sideburns. He had a dark complexion that spoke of heritage and the biting of the highland sun through the thin mountain air. His eyes sparkled with intelligence and some hate. He looked full in the face of each of his coconspirators, and they acknowledged their leader with their silence. There will be time for all that later. Now we must act swiftly.

The man had plotted his way from the mud hut of peasant poverty to the bedside of a dying tyrant. El Comandante had been Venezuelas eternal dictatorand Machado had been his most trusted man. The men sitting submissively before him occupied the highest echelon of Venezuelas revolutionary governmentplaced there for such a time as this through the generals deft maneuvering as el Comandantes brilliance faded.

Do the communists know yet? the question came again from the defense minister. The man had been one of Machados most loyal generals and had been brought into the cabinet when el Comandantes illness had become common knowledge. He was a big man with a brutal reputation that was echoed in the scars that ran across his face, a testament to the only fighting the revolutionaries had ever doneagainst each other.

No, the praetorian guards are guarding the body, and they are all loyal to me .

What about the conspiratorsor whats left of them? That question came from the interior minister, who was an old friend of Machado from his childhood in San Vicente and who had proved his worth more times than Machado could remember. He was short and corpulent, and his copious cologne failed to mask his body odor.

What did I just say? Machado snapped.

The gringos will call for an election, said the defense minister.

For once they and the communists will agreethey may even work together to make it happen, said the foreign minister, and Sanchez is sure to see this as a chance to push us out. The foreign minister held his position due to his singular experience abroad. Decades ago, when el Comandante had started to conspire, the communists across the continent had heard tell of a promising new man in the Venezuelan military. Word had reached the foreign minister, whod been fighting in one of Central Americas endless wars, and he had made his way back to Venezuela posthaste to assist in the sedition. He was Machados main contact with the unsavory elements around the world that had so often proved helpful in moments of international pressure or internal stress. Despite his long association with Sanchez, they were not friends; Machado had bought the mans loyalty many times over.

Vice President Felipe Sanchez was a longtime community organizer and communist agitator who had made his nest at the very top of the revolutionary government through his exclusive ability to control the most radical ideological elements within the government and in the communities, especially up in the barrios. Machado had been unable to contrive a safe path to his removal, and now it was too late.

Damn what the gringos want. Spit flew out of Machados mouth, covering the interior minister in a fine mist that condensed on his glasses, which the man did not dare to wipe. They wont interfere.

But they could hit us with sanctions again, said the foreign minister.

Sanction us with what? The Russians sell us weapons, and the Chinese buy our silver. Who cares if the people cant buy fast food and soda pop? This from the head of the head of the central bank, eliciting an uncomfortable ripple of laughter from around the table. The bureaucrat was an old banker who had opposed the government until hed discovered, in a flash of inspiration, that he could make real money in the murky world of Venezuelas official financial dealings.

If there were elections, Machado said carefully, our esteemed vice president would surely win. His voice dripped with disdain. That would mean an end of privilegeor worsefor every one of you. You have not gotten to where you are by having white gloves. Remember, I know where all the bodies are buried He let his voice trail off, throwing his withering gaze at each person around the table, searching for the telltale signs of betrayal. He finished quietly, literally. The meetings participants blanched. Despite his limited height and his ample midriff, Machado always inspired fear. His pressed, olive-green uniform was accented with shining medals, a tribute to loyaltynever in battle, for Venezuela had no external enemies, but always in the protection of el Comandante. His dark caramel skin spoke of days in the field and highlighted his origins in Venezuelan povertya condition to which he would never return. And while approaching the beginning of what some would call the golden years, he was still strong and solid as the squat trees that clung stubbornly to the mountain outside his lair. The heavily engraved Makarov pistol, a gift from his Russian counterpart on one of many visits to that country, was resting in its well-worn leather holster, and the whip hanging from his belt was a testament to the creativity he employed as he carried out his responsibilities.