The Story of the Century: Revised Edition

By Karl Eysenbach

Mankind is such a stupid beast. After starting World War III, Earth has managed to climb back to where it was. Trillionaires still rule the world. There’s a world government, but for no good reason, it has a military-intelligence complex that is out of control.

A mining project in the Magaden Peninsula threatens an intergalactic communications network that insures the integrity of the entire Milky Way galaxy. A group of aliens was sent to Earth to repair a transponder that is a vital link in the network, but their galactic overlords discover the threat from the mining project. They think that maybe mankind should be eliminated.

In Los Angeles, two people fall in love. Clem Reader is the LA News Chief of ABN, and Saroyan Pashogi is the world’s most famous and beautiful movie star. For some reason, the mysterious conglomerate, Lodestar starts feeding Clem information that the government is suppressing evidence of what it knows about space aliens. And the national security state starts taking action to silence Clem and eliminate everyone who has any knowledge of its secret information. By sheer luck, Clem gets in a position to meet Attu – a space alien assigned to fix the transponder. By what he says to Attu – Clem manages to save the world

The Story of the Century is a story about how two ordinary people can have an influence on the world far beyond what anyone could possibly imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 21, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595628094

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Copyright © 2009 Karl Eysenbach.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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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 author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-0-5955-2757-1 (sc)

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iUniverse rev. date: 04/29/2022

ONE SECOND BEFORE MIDNIGHT, DECEMBER 31, 256

INSIDE AMMUNITION BUNKER G7

FORT HUACHUCA, ARIZONA

Part of the problem was – that no earthling knows how to use it. Imagine that someone gives a caveman a computer, a smart caveman. He’s curious and patient, using his analytical skills, but he’s still a caveman. Generations of scientists gave their best shots at reverse engineering the thing, but they’ve all walked away scratching their heads.

It isn’t very big – only one meter by 1.5 meters by .8 meters, weighing almost a ton. A plain matte silver rectangular box with four male and eight female plugs stuck in and out of the body. The metal box is all of one piece, welded together a molecule at a time with a material that burns up the world’s most powerful lasers and drills. While engineers classify it as a magnetic interferometer, it’s known as the bread box to the people who guard it.

It was retrieved from a delivery vehicle that crashed in the woods near Kecksburg, Pennsylvania on December 3, 1965. And the magnetic interferometer just stumped every human scientist who came in contact with it. Unlike Roswell or Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, the magnetic interferometer is one piece of alien equipment that has never had a single leak about its existence. For decades, it was stored at the Los Angeles World Air Force Base, but for some unknown reason – one of the last acts of the dying American civilization was to transfer the thing to Fort Huachuca. After World War III, World Expeditionary Forces found it in Year 12 while looking for other things. Of course, all of this alien technology continued to be the deepest and darkest secret in the world even after the Great Atomic War.

The World Government, like the US Government before has placed total restrictions on the President, prohibiting him/her from having any need to know. Going public means telling people that the government lied. There are things that the government is powerless to control. It would imply that man is truly a feeble-minded creature. And besides, if the government admits the existence of little green men, then the little green men might come. So there is this feeling – that you and I and Jesus, Buddha, Mohamed, and Moses all rolled into one are nothing but stupid, ignorant frail human beings compared to the civilizations circling Alpha Centauri or parts of the Rigel system. If the government admits the existence of little green men, then the little green men might come from behind the duck blind they’re in right now. Earth would be like the Aztecs greeting the arrival of the white gods from Spain, and it’s well known about how well that worked out for Aztec society.

The powers that be deny that the government has any contact with any extraterrestrials. Business gets done through a tiny entity known as the Coordinated Partnership. The rest of the government is in the dark. When an inquiring UFO-ologist makes an inquiry of government records, the response is always:

All records have been searched. In response to your information request, the World Government has done a comprehensive information search, and we have found no evidence or information pertaining to the possession of extraterrestrial artifacts.

The answer remains the same. But this directive of the government is at a dozen grades above top secret:

Any unauthorized release of information on the knowledge of alien contact is a threat to world security, and any person responsible for disseminating such information will be terminated with extreme prejudice. 5

JANUARY 7th, 10 AM

SEA OF CORTEZ

Each man knows that he has a very short time to live, but they don’t care. By fate or by choice, they’ve found themselves doing a whole series of dangerous jobs in fishing and smuggling. But on top of it all, more than one trillion dollar corporation has been paying them to blow up bridges and rob banks as the Aztlan Liberation Front. Why? Nobody knows. Right now, they’re smugglers.

They picked up the diamonds in a bag of peanuts from Frog on the beach at San Felipe. After refueling at Bahia San Jorge, Antonio, Pelon and Ivan head south until they reach home base in San Mateo. They convoy with two other boats, and within an hour, they stow their gear in rooms in Hotel Punta Borrego. They’re the only people here, except for the caretaker.

The best way to visit the hotel is by landing on the dirt airstrip nearby; but the hotel never advertises, and it’s always empty. Despite this, the Hotel Punta Borrego is clean and luxurious beyond belief. It has thirty rooms, a professional staff during the month of August when the cartels have their executive meeting, an Olympic sized swimming pool, tennis courts, and a nine-hole golf course.

The fishermen cut their engines near Isla Santa Isabel, near the reefs where the waters are crawling with fish. Within a couple of hours, Jorge and his friends catch some giant sea bass that must weigh a hundred kilos each. The boats race each back to the hotel, getting there in no time. Their boats are so fast that they can beat a car on the highway.

Once onshore, they stow their gear and turn their attention to the finny giants lying in the bottom of the boats. They gut and clean them, cutting the fish into manageable pieces that are stored in the kitchen’s giant walk-in coolers. The next morning, the fishermen sit on the terrace finishing up their huevos rancheros and chorizo, when they see the two engine private plane coming in on its approach pattern. They run to the caretaker, who gives them some keys. And the six men commandeer Jeeps to meet the small plane. As soon as the propeller stops moving, the men unload duffle bags from the plane. Only after the fishermen are done, do they begin emptying the jerry tanks of aviation gasoline to refuel the plane for its turnaround. The fishermen return to the kitchen, dragging in the khaki bags. Then the long process begins by taking packets of white powder out of the duffle bags, placing them deep inside the cavities of the fish. wrapping the packets in butcher paper, and carefully placing filets into Styrofoam coolers, before dumping ice to fill the white chests.

The next morning, the boatmen take the half hour journey north to San Bernardo, landing in front of the bright orange fish processing plant with the RPM logo on it. Jorge and Vladimir walk into the manager’s office and pay for the fishermen’s visit with what’s been left in the bag of peanuts that he had eaten on his trip down from the Bahia San Antonio. Skipio Completo, the Filipino plant manager, dumps the peanut shells onto his desk and smiles. He finds that the diamond count is satisfactory, and he takes out a loupe. Inserting it in one eye, he examines the diamonds one by one. This pleases him too. The blue and white diamonds are of very high quality. Getting out of his seat, he shakes Pelon’s hand.

Jorge smiles. Someday I would like to actually put my name in your hotel register. I would like to stay here with my wife. Both men smile at the joke. Just then Ivan and Puto walk into the building and stop in front of the office.

What do you have here? The fish plant manager asks. Jorge replies, Five hundred kilos of sea bass wrapped and ready to go.

Well, unload those coolers. Put them on the back of that flatbed truck, and we will go to the refrigerator line. The men snap to it, pronto. Jorge gets in the truck cab with the manager, and Puto, Vladimir, and Fidel walk the hundred meters to the large metal building with no windows. Inside the cramped and shabby office, the hard faced plant manager takes one package of fish outside of a cooler, carefully opening the packages as if they were Christmas presents. He unwraps the fish and opens ten random plastic bags with a surgical knife just enough to place a tiny amount of powder onto white filter paper. Then he carefully reseals each bag with strapping tape. Taking an eyedropper out of his desk drawer, he puts the smallest amount of thick clear liquid on the powder samples. The powder fizzes and turns the same shade of bright yellow. He compares the color to a chart on his desk.

Very good. Looks like they’re all 99% pure or better.

What do you expect? Jorge replies. It’s always the same. It’s never anything except the best. Pelon doesn’t like the fish plant very much, but he waits for the plant manager to get through with his paperwork. Procedures are procedures, you know. I’ll find out the exact weight of the fish later. Completo pauses and lights a cigarette. With that, the short, very thin man goes to the wall safe and takes out stacks of $100 bills still in their currency wrappers.

The gross is $10,000 for the services of you and your men, but we are withholding $2,000 for the usual fees and taxes. This is a polite way of telling Jorge that the fish plant will handle the job of bribing and paying for the cooperation of local officials. The fishermen are going to take home $1,000 each. This sounds like a big sum of money, but most of the fishermen have as many as twenty people in their family that they need to support. Jorge stuffs three empty duffle bags and cash into one bag, and he walks outside with a broad smile. They get into their boats, and they shove off for the short hop to Bahia San Mateo.

As the narrow fiberglass boats skip along the waves, the men smile and shout at each other, happy that they’ve evaded the naval patrols one more time. The boats slow as they go past the headlands, entering the shallows of the bay. The fishermen anchor in their usual spots, some children watch them as they look for clams. They keep their distance. Everyone climbs out of their boats into the shallow water and begins the process of shuttling back and forth, unloading the gear to where their trucks are parked.

Ordinarily, the men would go home and spend a week or more with their wives and family. They would make trips to Cachanilla to deposit their money and to purchase supplies. Some would have patronized the Red Pelican, the local ladies bar, where they could purchase the comfort of a woman. But not today, there’s only limited time. As a group, the little convoy of pickup trucks pulls up in front of Carmelita’s General Store. The men get out of the trucks, gathering around Jorge, waiting and listening as he takes out his smartphone, calling a nearby Marine base.

Is Sergeant Homero there? (pause) Sergeant Homero, this is Jorge Estrada. How are you doing? Are your children well? I was wondering if our training session was still on. It is? What time? (pause) Where should we meet you? (pause) That’s good. We’ll all meet you tomorrow morning at 0600. Thank you very much. We’ll see you then.

As Jorge hangs up, he can hear the collective groan from the men. Guys, I know you don’t want to do it, but remember. This is what the big money is all about. RPM personally approved this. If we complete the training and we do the job, we can all retire. Be ready to go by five o’clock tomorrow morning. Vladimir and I will pick you up.

The next morning two dusty, bruised looking pickup trucks with three men each head south on the two-lane blacktop past the Marine base. They turn right onto the gravel road that goes to the microwave tower. After three kilometers and a few hundred meters of elevation, there’s a fork in the road. They turn right again, going onto a narrow dirt path with way too many large rocks, sharp curves, and washouts. Going up and down the mountain for forty more minutes, they come to where the hills turn into a box canyon. An olive drab military lorry is parked at the base of the cliff, not far from where once long ago,-- families of prehistoric Indians lived.

Sergeant Homero is waiting for them as the beat up trucks stop, raising a cloud of dust. The fishermen get out of the vehicles. There’s no need for introduction. They form a straight line in front of the military man, waiting for him to begin this day’s lesson. The fishermen are standing at ease. Sergeant Homero is a handsome man, well built. But he looks bitter, and he has good reason to be. He’s been passed over for Sergeant Major, and that really sucks really bad. Lots of suck-ass politics in the Army. Sgt. Homero is stationed in this desiccated shithole, while his extra creepy brother Ferdinand is an major sitting in the lap of luxury in Kuala Lumpur, working in some worldwide monitoring post. Hey, thanks a lot Ferdie for all yer support! He helps cut some orders from a general that is above Top Secret.

Something else is bothering the sergeant. Homero thinks to himself, Oy vey! Train these fishermen on SEAL tactics in top secrecy! Now if that don’t take the cake! He still has trouble believing that he’s doing this, and he would have refused if he hadn’t seen the orders addressed to himself from the Office of the Secretary of Defense. So he did as he was told. He’s already put these men through the equivalent of basic training, and he’s surprised to see that they are as tough as they are. Week by week, he’s taught them and supervised them as they’ve gone through the training in various small arms. They’ve already been on some tactical games deep in the mountains and out in the middle of the flat Vizcaino desert, and all of this has to be done off base and under deepest cover of secrecy. Not even the base commander knows where he’s done with this crew, or what he’s doing today. God only knows what half-baked scheme in Kuala Lumpur this operation was about.

I know that the World government is screwy, and half of it’s corrupt, but what in God’s green earth do these people have to do with the price of tea in China? he thinks to himself.

Good morning, gentlemen. He points to the back of the lorry. As you can see today, we are going to learn how to assemble, disassemble, and transport heavy machine guns. We will do this without being detected by the enemy, and we will do this quickly and quietly. As secret as his training is, Sergeant Homero does not know that the fishermen know a much bigger secret than he does, or that at the end of their training, that the good sergeant will die in a mysterious automobile accident.

JANUARY 8th, 4 PM

SINGAPORE

EXECUTIVE OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE

Secretary of Defense Rigoberto Corozon is standing in front of his work table. He is looking at his wall screen, reviewing a copy of the November meeting of the Coordinated Partnership’s Special Functions Subcommittee as it deliberates on Agenda Item #9.

Agenda Item #9 was about a need to move a piece of alien technology out of a secure location, where it had remained under government control for centuries. Dr. Wong Fat, the Professor of Physics is the chair. Ordinarily, Admiral Sakimota would be the Defense Department’s representative for this year. Unfortunately, Admiral Sakimota came down with the Zeta variant, and Corozon had to make a last minute appointment of General Caramehni to his place.

General Caramehni is a fool and an asshole. These are his good points. Corazon decided that it would be prudent just to sit in on the meeting to keep an eye on the good general. Another reason for sitting in was Guillermo Slim. Slim is the right hand man to Hop Ming, the CEO of Lodestar. Corazon punches the play button on his computer to review the video feed of #9. The blue light of the screen bounces off Corazon’s face.

TOP SECRET / EYES ONLY

SECURITY CLEARANCE: MARY

COORDINATED PARTNERSHIP SPECIAL FUNCTIONS SUBCOMMITTEE

AGENDA ITEM #9

NOVEMBER 21, 256

IN ATTENDANCE:

DR. WONG FAT, CHAIR

GENERAL VISHNU CARAMEHNI

VICE CHAIR GUILLERMO SLIM

SECRETARY OF DEFENSE RIGOBERTO COROZON

DR FAT: We are here today because there is a need to transfer a magnetic interferometer from Fort Huachuca, Arizona in the Western America District to an undisclosed location in Baja California, Mexico. We’re waiting to confirm the exact time and place for transfer. Is there any discussion?

GEN. CARAMEHNI: Just let me say, I want to go on record as vehemently opposing this action. This piece of equipment has been under government custody for as long as the World Government has existed. In fact, its control extends back much further in time than that. I see no reason to jeopardize what is still an extremely rich source of scientific and technological inquiry.

DR. FAT: I couldn’t agree more with you, General, but we have to deal with the facts as they have been presented. Both the World Security Findings and the Lodestar documentation prove that the thing must leave our custody.

MR. SLIM: I’d like to say that our organization did not initiate this request. It was passed on to us. However, since we are in the position of dealing with a mess of broken eggs, we can at least make an omelet out of it. I’m sure we all realize that we have to say goodbye to the magnetic interferometer. Probably, none of us will ever see it again, and that’s a tragedy. However, we can do something about this situation.

Since, technically, Lodestar has always been in possession of the interferometer, I would propose that for one month, this should actually be the case. Our research facility in Hermosillo would be an ideal temporary resting-place for the equipment. December is an excellent time because we can give anyone who is nonessential personnel paid leave for the holidays

Dr. Fat can convene any group of scientists that he wants to, to examine, study, and perform tests. The World Government can supply all the necessary equipment and logistics for this operation.

SECRETARY COROZON: I’m not so sure that the government is so capable of providing logistical support right now. There are continuing severe problems that we are facing in Sierra Leone, Liberia, and the Ivory Coast. We’ve already read in the press about the tragic breakdown that happened last week. I expect that there will be a full scale Congressional inquiry into the matter in a very short period of time. Just thinking on my feet, I would propose that the Mexican government be responsible for handling the operation from Fort Huachuca to Hermosillo.

MR. SLIM: That sounds like an excellent idea. Have President Hok give Gov. Salinas a call, and I will speak to the Governor personally. Once the interferometer is in our hands, we will fly the equipment to the Marine Base in La Paz.

DR. FAT: Of course there is the issue of getting the interferometer from the Marine base to the undisclosed location. Are there any problems with that?

SECRETARY COROZON: None that I can think of. It’s just a matter of dropping the thing off in the desert, isn’t it?

GEN. CARAMEHNI: I disagree completely, Mr. Secretary. The magnetic interferometer is such an important piece of equipment, it’s the crown jewel in our entire collection. I hate to say it, but the Marine Corps has been responsible for the vast majority of leaks coming out of the situation in West Africa. Wouldn’t you agree with me, Mr. Secretary?

SECRETARY COROZON: Well, it’s true. We’ve been having major problems in that area. It’s an ongoing problem, and it’s caused not only me, but the President, many sleepless nights. What would you propose, General?

GEN. CARAMEHNI: I’m glad you’ve asked me this question. I believe there have been too many security lapses in the Marine Corps lately, and yet all of the Lodestar documents call for the Marines in Baja to be the final agency responsible for transport.

MR. SLIM: I’d like to reiterate. To be fair, just because these documents come from our cover, it doesn’t mean that we’re responsible for issuing them, if you know what I mean.

DR. FAT: We all know that, Mr. Slim. But there is an issue about logistics. What do you propose, General?

GEN. CARAMEHNI: I would propose taking the issue of final transport completely off the books. Let’s just say for the sake of secrecy there was an independent group -- a totally reliable and secure group; a group that was totally responsible to the highest authority that could insure delivery of the magnetic interferometer to exactly the right place. The issue of plausible deniability would be absolutely secure.

SECRETARY COROZON: I for one, General -- don’t see any reason why a Marine detachment isn’t capable enough of going to final delivery. I do not like this plan at all!

GEN. CARAMEHNI: First, let me say that I understand and sympathize. Secondly, we are all concerned about security leakage. Third, I have good knowledge about the existence of a reliable outside group. Have you ever heard of the Aztlan Liberation Front, Mr. Secretary?

SECRETARY COROZON: Aren’t they the ones involved in bank robberies and other illegal activities in Mexico? It’s preposterous that Marines would hand such a sensitive piece of technology to drug dealers and terrorists!!

GEN. CARAMEHNI: Precisely. I have here quite a lot of evidence that I’ve been compiling from internet traffic intercepts. I’d like to pass these copies around to everyone for inspection. As you can see from the highlights on page 49, we have established definite links from the Aztlan Liberation Front to RPM and Victor Covarrubio. From there we have traffic intercepts that go from Lodestar -- to the highest and most confidential places-- including deep space. Please look at this for a while.

TRANSMISSION PAUSE

It’s here that Secretary of Defense Corozon wipes whatever smile he might have had right off of his face. That fucking bastard Caramehni had him by the balls! He didn’t want to think about the blackmail that hung over the relationship he had with his aide. Maybe Caramehni knew about that, and maybe he didn’t. And there was the possibility that the general had picked up on the Secretary’s personal tax avoidance strategies. That asshole had sucked Lodestar into his net, too! Wasn’t that just tidy? He fast-forwarded towards the end of the meeting..

DR. FAT: Then it’s agreed that we can forward these recommendations on the movement of the magnetic interferometer on to the President for his final approval. There is the understanding that Mexico’s participation will be involved, and the Secretary of Defense’s office will be responsible for assisting in any off the book requirements for giving the Aztlan Liberation Front the tools they need to do the job. Do we have any objections? All in favor, say, Aye. All opposed, say, No. The Ayes have it. This meeting is adjourned.

END OF TRANSMISSION/BLUE SCREEN

FEBRUARY 1st, 5:30 AM

4378 ADMIRABLE WAY

RANCHO PALOS VERDE

He wakes up with a terrible hangover. Even though the volume is low, the sportscasters still stand in front of him, reminding him to get up. Looking through them, he can see that his bedroom is a mess.

Well Juan, it looks like America is going to go to the World Cup Finals against China.

That’s right, Chao. The Los Angeles goalie, Rhadavan Khrishna was the superstar in yesterday’s shootout with Brazil.

They drone on until Clem tells them to shut up. He shouldn’t have stayed up so late milking that source about the water situation in California, but that’s just a small part of the job. He orders strong coffee, raisin bread with apricot jam, and orange juice from the robot, and he takes a shower while the kitchen is processing it.

What a dump! He told his missus to get the hell out three months ago, and now he is going through the worst emotional stage of his divorce from Salma. The big house is half empty from the things that she took, and papers and cardboard boxes litter what was once a tasteful upper-middle class residence. The divorce has made him work three times harder than he before, all in an attempt to forget his life. That means getting to work an hour early.after boozing it down until 2AM. But it also means that he’s slowly but surely driving himself into a pit. What else is there to do though?

Breakfast is waiting for him when he gets out of the shower. The hangover is killing him, but the car is waiting outside to take him to the office in Long Beach. Clem Reader is the name of this guy, but it’s a secret name that only Clem knows, and he never tells anyone about it. Everyone else calls him CR. His formal name is Clem Reader Castellon, or C.R. Castellon as he’s known professionally. His secret name has to do with why he has such a problem with alcohol.

The sun is low in the horizon, shining through the lifting fog; and the sea’s almost calm. The vision of finding Salma in bed with the two young artists flashes through his mind for the ten thousandth time, and he tries to concentrate on what he’s going to do this morning at work. Clem is looking at a bad day. His boss Pablo Lopez’s a well-meaning guy, but they have issues to discuss. As the car drives through the port area, Clem figures that he’s done less than splendidly well on his last piece of reporting.

7:05 AM, FEBRUARY 1st

ASIA BROADCASTING NETWORK (ABN)

FOURTH FLOOR, 411 W. OCEAN BLVD.

LONG BEACH

The car pulls into the parking garage, and Clem punches the elevator button for the fourth floor. The ABN office takes up the entire floor, and as Bureau Chief, Clem is the boss of 30 people. He walks through the bullpen of the people still working on the night shift to his corner office with the glass partition, and his office is filled with files with stacks of press releases and blurbs filed neatly on the floor. The large flat screen video monitor is playing the ABN broadcast, but today he quickly turns it off. Running his fingers through his hair, Clem goes to the video conference room and dials up the boss in Singapore. After about a second, Pablo Lopez’ face appears on the screen with the night time view of Singapore Harbor in the background. Pablo is the Western Hemisphere Chief Editor for ABN, a company man for twenty years and Clem’s boss for four years. The short, fat, balding man is sitting behind his desk smoking a cigar.

Good morning, CR. Nice of you to get to work early. What’s the deal on your Bollywood sex symbol?

Clem tried to clear his head before he spoke. Boss, I’m sick of doing investigative pieces about Gary Chindowarry’s taste in tuxedos. Can’t I get a real piece of news to wrap my hands around?

"Well, -- you know, that’s what the public wants! We’re in the business of keeping eyeballs. Comprendas?"

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But I’m sick of this Bollywood beat. Is there any possibility of doing something a little more weighty on issues, like the beat on the defense industry?

Lopez’s intelligent eyes look at him for a moment, and he’s silent. Finally he speaks.

Look, this last feature you put together was crap, and you look like crap too. You’re losing your edge, and you look completely burned out. I need better stuff than this shit, and I’m spiking your story.

This hits Clem like a fist in his stomach. He feels the cold sweat, suppressing his nausea.

Okay. Okay. You’re right and I’m wrong. You know Boss, I’ve been working for three years, and I need a break. I’ve built up a little vacation time. Is it okay if I take time off?

Lopez put his hands on his stomach, and he thought for what seemed forever. Clouds of cigar smoke formed around his head. Okay. You’ve got two weeks off starting tomorrow. I want you back on the job and ready to go on the 15th.

Clem thanks him more than once. Then he goes out to the bullpen, and does his job for the rest of the day. That night, he goes home and packs for Baja. He’ll be there in time to help with a quinceanera.

FEBRUARY 4th, 8 PM

SOMEWHERE ON A ROCKY ROAD 5 KM SOUTH OF CACHANILLA

The brand new Honda pickup is rocking down this ravine, tossing like a boat in a stormy sea, when BANG! Blue sparks fly everywhere and everything goes black. A tall rock has punctured the ion exchange box in the hydrogen fuel cell. Carlos Castellon does his best with duct tape and a flashlight, crawling underneath the truck. But the only thing he manages to do is to tear and dirty his clothing.

Of course, it would have been better if he hadn’t tried driving on that boulder-strewn dry riverbed in the first place. Being stuck 5KM from Cachanilla, and 10KM from home is not very much fun. It’s dark, and it’s getting cold. Carlos figures out that the best thing to do is to walk to Ernesto’s house. Ernesto Vargas is the company mechanic, and he’s about a kilometer from where the truck broke down. After what seems like an eternity, Carlos stumbles to the mechanic’s house, lucky to be able to find his way by following the wheel ruts in the so-called road.

It’s too late already, and Carlos gets to the small, dilapidated concrete block house with its yard filled with engine parts, small children, and a couple of black dogs with their ribs sticking out. The dogs run around and bark at Carlos as he approaches the little front porch with the rusty and bent tin roof. Ernesto’s wife Lupe came out to see what the commotion was about, and the sight of Don Carlos, tired, sweaty from the trail makes her rush to clean off the old metal lawn chair, offer humble apologies, and run inside for a large glass of water.

Ernesto comes out, and wants to talk a little bit about the quinceanera, But Carlos is in a hurry, and he has no time. Ernesto! Ernesto! I’m so lucky that you’re here! I need to borrow your truck and then I’ll return it right back to you. I can’t give you details, but it’s a matter of life and death! This is not the first time that Ernesto has had to save Carlos’ bacon. There were two other times when Carlos had to borrow the truck, and each time was a major pain in the ass. But, oh well!

Ernesto grins and says, No problem! As long as you pay for hydrogen.

Carlos pulls out a $20 bill and says, Is this enough?

Oh Senor, you are more than generous. Don’t even worry! You can drive the truck back to your hacienda, and I’ll pick it up tomorrow.

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you, Ernesto! Carlos gives Ernesto a large heartfelt embrazo. By the way, the GPS on your truck still works, doesn’t it? The very respectable businessman is on his way to meet with a combination narcotrafficker/guerilla fighter.

THREE KILOMETERS NORTH OF EJIDO SAN MATEO

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER

The GPS system on the dashboard of this beaten up Toyota pickup leads Carlos to this location. Although it isn’t far from where he lives -- the Mexican desert gets wild and remote not far from any human use. The moment the two beach chairs appear in his headlight he stops and turns off his headlights. Then he cuts the engine and gets out holding his gym bag and flashlight, walking towards the chairs. He sits down in one of them, and he waits. In the blackest sky he can see thousands and thousands of stars along with Jupiter, Mars, and Orion. In a few minutes, a black clad figure wearing a mask appears winding his way down the hillside towards the cliff edge. Getting to the folding chair, he shines the flashlight on his face and says, "Greetings! How is Dona Victoria? I hear you’re going to have a quinceanera for your niece Sara Reyna soon. By the way, what happened to you? You look horrible!"

Carlos replies, "My pinche truck got stuck on a rock, and I had to hurry to Ernesto’s residence to get a way to be here with you on time." With some difficulty, Carlos gets out of his chair and gives Jorge a brief embrazo. Jorge Ramirez Castellon is the black sheep of the family -- the oldest son of Carlos’ brother who lives out by Bajia San Ignacio. As sleazy as your relatives may be -- in Mexico, family is still family. Carlos knows all about Jorge’s smuggling and narcotrafficking. And there are all sorts of rumors about Jorge’s personal relationships with an imaginary light. Solidarity and empathy is important.

Jorge pauses before he gets serious. Then he says, What I’m going to tell you is the most important news in the entire world. It’s the biggest thing that you’ll ever do in your life. I’ve been told that you’re a good friend of Jose Labastida in the Interior Ministry. Is that correct?

Carlos is caught off base, but he answers, Yes, he and I talk from time to time about road projects and things going on in Mexico City. Why do you ask?

Do you have his phone number?

Carlos pulls out his cell phone and scrolls down. See? Here. That is Sr. Labastida’s phone number. What is this all about? What do you want?

Jorge stares intently into Carlos’ eyes, and he takes out a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. These are the instructions you need to follow. Call Senor Labastida at that particular time and tell him exactly what’s on this piece of paper. Your life. My life. The life of the whole world is depending on you calling the Interior Ministry at that exact time, using precisely this language.

Carlos is looking at Jorge quizzically. This is all very strange. I don’t understand at all what you are talking about.

Jorge says, Do this to save the family. All of our lives will end badly if you don’t follow these instructions. The whole world is in your hands. Jorge puts the paper into Carlos’ hand and he says, Yes! It is that important! Do you understand?"

Carlos nods and says, Yes -- even if I don’t know what this means. He puts the paper in his pocket while Jorge waits in the dark.

ONLINE MESSAGES

Today is the first day of the rest of my quinceanera. I am now no longer a virgin. UNCLE RAMON….

Learn to eat more ostiones…..

ROBERTO Y BONITA ….

Uncle Juan says, Never again!!...

I agree with Uncle Juan. God bless Saracita, and thank Him for sending us Clem. AUNT VICTORIA…

FEBRUARY 4th, 10 PM

EJIDO SAN MATEO

CASA DE PIEDRA

The quinceanera just keeps rolling along at Uncle Carlos hacienda, La Casa de Piedra. Ejido San Mateo has less than 300 souls, and almost everybody is there, with a sizable component from Cachanilla and San Bernardo too. The people of one community always gossip and say bad things about each other, but all of this is forgotten when a fiesta is being given. Most people put on their Sunday best to celebrate Sara Reyna, on her fifteenth birthday.

This is about as good as any quinceanera could be. Hundreds of Japanese lanterns have been hung from the trees. The quantities of food and drink are prodigious, and it’s all tasty beyond belief. Aunt Victoria assigns Clem the task of being an assistant host. Victoria is steaming because Carlos is nowhere to be found. Clem’s very busy consulting with the band, pouring drinks, bussing tables, and being charming to everyone in the way that good waiters are. He’s working extra hard, because Carlos (the host) is conspicuously absent. This gives a little edge both to Clem and the whole fiesta. Bandera music, cerveza, and various