Payback

48

General Túcume leaned back in the Jeep to hear the BBC reporter’s question. The man’s Spanish was very good, but it was Castilian and had a heavy English accent besides. The words were hard to catch in the open truck.

“There is quite a lot of poverty here,” said the reporter, Charles Ross. “The government can’t do more to help?”

“A question, I’m afraid, beyond my scope,” said Túcume.

“But you come from this area. These are your people, the Indians.”

“True,” said Túcume. He liked Ross; he was not as condescending as many journalists he’d met and not stupid, either. The man recognized that Túcume was a man of the people and felt a strong bond to them. Ross’ questions were actually good ones, though answering with candor was inconvenient for Túcume, who knew that the general staff would be sure to study what he said.

Then again, in a short while it wouldn’t matter what the general staff thought, would it?

“Native people want only fairness,” said the general, deciding to answer honestly. “You have to remember that since the days of the Spanish — the early days of the Spanish — the people you call Indians have been treated very badly. Even those who were leaders of the people, they were hounded and persecuted, made to give up their beliefs and convert to Catholicism. Even then, it wasn’t enough. Many were killed or reduced to peasants.”

“History is more complicated than that,” said Ross.

“More complicated than what you’ve read in books, yes. I would agree. Some Incas were allowed to remain on as leaders under the Spanish, as long as they kowtowed to their real masters. My people remained true, and they suffered greatly for it. For many generations they lived in hiding, in the jungles, far from the Spanish and the cities. That was a blessing in disguise, for it kept them pure.”

“Pure genetically?”

“In thought,” said the general. “In the way they lived. To be an Inca — to be a ruler — is not an easy thing.”

“If you feel that way, why don’t you run for political office?”

“Politics.” Túcume waved his hand dismissively. But then he grew serious, once more speaking with as much candor as possible. “I could get many votes. Here. In the country among native peoples, I believe I would have a landslide. You saw them in the village.”

“They worship you.”

“That’s too strong a word. And don’t be mistaken: they flocked around the Jeep because they know we give out presents and bring money, and they would act the same way to anyone, to even you, Señor Ross. But you noticed the respect from the little boys? Their fathers have spoken of me to them. That is something that one cannot buy with a few sols or dollars. Respect for my ancestors. That is a serious honor.”

“So why don’t you run for office?”

“You didn’t let me finish. I could do well here. But in the cities, never. I would be isolated in Parliament.” He shook his head. “I would not have my position if it were not for the war with Ecuador in 1995 and again in 1998. If others had done well, I would not be here.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“It’s true. It’s also part of the reason that my command is so far from Lima.”

As he spoke, gunfire began echoing through the canyon. Túcume cursed to himself — the encounter was supposed to be over when they arrived; he did not wish Ross to think it had been prearranged. But there was nothing to be done about that now.

Túcume grabbed his driver’s arm as the gunshots continued.

“To the side,” he said. He turned around to his aide who had the communications gear, but the man’s blank face answered his question: there had been no warning.

As the truck skidded to a stop, Túcume jumped out. He pulled his pistol from its holster, then helped Ross from the back, pulling him down and pushing him against the side of the truck for cover, as if he were the reporter’s bodyguard.

“General, what is going on?” asked Ross.

“I’m not sure. The peaks around us make the radios almost impossible to use at times. At the moment we’re out of communication. Don’t worry; we will bring this under control.”

The soldiers in the vehicle behind them had fanned out along the narrow shoulder of the road. One of them began firing.

This was definitely not part of Túcume’s plan. Seething with anger, he turned to the communications man, who had been with him for many years.

“Stay with Senor Ross,” Túcume said. “Guard him with your life.”

The aide hesitated before nodding. Belatedly, Túcume realized that he had pointed the pistol in the man’s face and he had probably thought he was threatening him. Without apologizing, Túcume turned to the reporter and handed him the pistol.

“Be careful and stay here.”

Ross looked at him doubtfully but took the weapon. Túcume rose and trotted up the road in the direction of the soldier who had started to fire. By the time Túcume reached the man, three other soldiers had joined him.

“What are you shooting at?” the general demanded.

The man didn’t hear him, squeezing off another three-round burst. Túcume put up his hand, warning the others not to fire.

“What are you shooting at?” Túcume asked again.

The man began to explain that he had seen something moving through the high grass off the side of the road.

Túcume saw nothing.

“You’ve chased him off,” he told the soldier. “I need a gun. Give me yours.”

The man handed over his rifle, then dug into his combat vest for a fresh magazine. The general took it, then began up the road. The soldiers — they were all privates — followed.

The road dipped to the right, turning around sheer rock, which formed a wall on that side of the road. A sparse field sat on the other side; its width varied from ten or fifteen yards to just a couple of feet as it followed the road around the curve. Beyond the field was a cliff.

Túcume darted across the road to the scraggly grass, then began moving ahead toward the curve. As he reached the apex of the turn, gunfire began again; it was too far away to be aimed in his direction, though the surrounding geography made it difficult to get a precise sense of where it was coming from. He signaled to the men to move with him, then trotted around the turn, pausing a moment before heading to the next, a sharp cutback that would have made the road look like an inverted 5 from the air. As he gained the straight-away, he heard the echo of voices ahead. Túcume dropped to his knee, steadying his rifle. He wasn’t a general now; his quick-beating heart had made him a young soldier again, a bold lieutenant eager to prove himself.

Two men appeared on the road, coming up from a shallow dip. They had bandanas tied around their heads, the blue scarves guerrillas here sometimes used to identify themselves to one another in battle.

Túcume sighted up his rifle but did not fire. Were they real guerrillas? Or part of the sham force that was supposed to stage the attack farther up the valley?

One of the men stopped, spotting him.

“Surrender!” he yelled.

The man squared the AK-47 to fire.

Túcume squeezed his trigger. Three bullets leapt from his M 16. Two hit their target, striking the guerrilla in the face. The soldiers behind Túcume began to fire, and the man’s companion was cut down in a hail of bullets.

“Stop,” yelled Túcume as the man went down. “Conserve your bullets! Discipline! Discipline!”

The soldiers ran forward to the downed bodies. Túcume huffed to keep up.

“There will be more!” he warned, and within seconds they heard voices and fresh gunfire. “Our people will be fighting with them,” said Túcume. “Be careful that we do not shoot our comrades. Take positions in the field. Spread out.”

Túcume knelt down next to the man he had shot, taking the guerrilla’s AK-47 and the spare magazines from his bandolier. Túcume preferred the M 16, but the Russian-made assault gun was a serviceable second choice.

Three men with bandanas ran around the bend. Túcume rose and yelled at them to surrender. One of the men began to throw down his rifle, but it was too late; one of the soldiers with Túcume began to fire. In a few seconds all three men were lying in the dust of the road.

And then something roared around the curve, dust and bullets spattering. It was a pickup truck filled with guerrillas. Túcume, still on his feet, emptied the M 16, pouring bullets into the windshield. Then he threw himself down.

The vehicle skidded across the road. A grenade exploded; men screamed and the air filled with the smell of dirt and metal turning into incandescent flames. The general picked up the AK-47 but could not find a target in the cloud of smoke and dust around him. The rocks cracked and shuddered, as if they were coming apart. Finally the cloud in front of him cleared and Túcume saw a guerrilla running toward him, gun held as if it were a sword, a wild look in his eyes. Túcume fired two bursts, catching the man in the chest. The man continued toward him. Túcume fired again, then threw himself to the right as the man ran on as if propelled by some supernatural power. Finally his legs folded beneath him and he collapsed.

The truck had overturned at the side of the road, spewing its passengers into the field. Black smoke curled from the engine compartment, and little fingers of flame poked out from the side of the hood. Túcume started to shout a warning, but as the first word came out of his mouth a fireball surged from the underside and flashed across the road. The percussion was so strong that it knocked the general off his feet.

Before he could get up, he saw a guerrilla taking aim at him at the edge of the road. Túcume tried to turn around and bring his own weapon to bear, but he felt as if he were moving in heavy oil, his body held back by some strange form of gravity. Before he could pull the rifle up, the guerrilla pushed down his shoulder, pumping the weapon’s trigger.

But no bullets came out; the guerrilla’s weapon had either jammed or gone empty. Túcume fired his own weapon, missing with his first shot but not his second. The guerrilla grabbed at his stomach, then slid down to the ground.

The clatter of gunfire began to recede. Túcume, breathing heavily, got up. One of his soldiers lay on the pavement a few feet away. At first, the general thought the man was lying in wait for more trucks, but then Túcume saw the red creases across the side of his head and turned away.

“General, we have suppressed the rebels,” said one of the privates running up behind him. The words sounded almost comical to Túcume, the report so official and antiseptic, far at odds with the chaos around them.

“Jimenez is dead,” he told the private.

The man squinted. Túcume realized the young man was in a state of shock; this was his first experience in combat.

“You did well, son,” the general told him. He gripped the young man’s shoulder, but the stony expression did not change.

“More!” yelled another of Túcume’s men. “Coming down the road.”

“Back here,” shouted Tucume. “Behind the truck!”

As the others ran to take cover, Túcume realized that this new group would not be guerrillas but his own soldiers, the men who had ambushed this group or been ambushed by them on the road ahead. Rather than taking cover, he ran toward the roadway, raising his rifle in his right hand and holding out his left. Two young khaki-clad soldiers appeared, M16s at their waists.

“I am General Túcume!” he yelled as the men squared off to fire. “We have killed the enemy.”

One of the men pressed his trigger. Bullets flew to the left of the general.

“I am your commander! Put down your gun! Put down your gun!”

Men flooded around the corner. More gunshots were fired and there were screams.

“I am General Túcume and I command you to stop firing!”

The air burned again, and the smell of blood mixed with the scent of pulverized stone.

“I am General Túcume and I command you to stop firing!”

And then there was silence. Túcume stood at the edge of the road, unharmed. The soldiers began running toward him, shouting, tears streaming down their faces, apologizing.

My ancestors have protected me, Túcume thought to himself. Yes. I knew they would.

Yes.

“Your comrades are down the road,” he told the men. “Approach them carefully. We do not want any accidents.”

By the time the Jeep caught up with him, Túcume had reached the two trucks the rebels had ambushed. Three of his men had been killed by a grenade, and two peasants who’d been nearby had been caught in the gunfire.

The two trucks were supporting the sweep into a rebel village about a mile ahead and had been surprised by fleeing guerrillas. In Túcume’s opinion, this showed that the lieutenant in charge of the element was derelict, but the man had paid with his life for his lack of preparation and awareness. The soldiers had done a reasonably good job rallying. The peaks had prevented them from communicating with the units farther north, just as Túcume had been.

The BBC reporter tried to give Túcume his pistol back, but the general told him to keep it. “It’s possible you may need it yet,” Túcume said. “It will be dark soon. I’m not sure what we’ll find ahead.”

The privates who had accompanied Túcume earlier got into the SUV and led the way. The adrenaline from the fight swirled in his veins. Images from years ago floated up from his memory — he felt as he had in Ecuador, the sting of battle pushing him on.

It was too easy to become the bull, prodded in the ring to the point of madness. He had to stay within himself. Túcume glanced at the AK-47 he still held, reminding himself that he was a general now, not a lieutenant; his ancestors might indeed be protecting him, but he must still move with the caution and prudence befitting a leader.

The guerrillas were devils, arrogant devils, believing that they had the people’s interests at heart. What did they know of his people? Only what they had learned in school, from vapid professors drunk on the sham power of words. Communism — what was that but a mad European theory, another disease to poison his people?

When the election was over he would eradicate the guerrillas. Vidal’s operation against the Senderistas would be his model. He would go beyond General Vidal; when Túcume was finished, no Maoist would remain anywhere in the Andes or the surrounding land.

“That was a brave thing you did,” said Ross from the back.

“What was that?” said Túcume, still distracted.

“Leading the soldiers.”

Túcume shrugged. “Just a soldier’s reaction.”

“Not all generals would do that.”

“True generals would. In any event, I did not think about it.”

The driver hit the brakes. Túcume turned around and saw two of his men standing in the road, hands out to stop them. One of his trucks was parked in the road ahead. A knot of men were gathered at the rear.

“General!” shouted a sergeant near the truck as he got out of his Jeep. The men around him snapped to attention as a unit. Túcume recognized the man — he had served with him against Ecuador in 1995, when he had been a rail of a boy, barely sixteen. He’d proved himself under fire and now led others as thin and raw as he had been.

Major Sican, in charge of the unit, came up and greeted him. Túcume had chosen Sican, a dull but honest man, to command the mission because he was related to one of the generals in Lima; his account to the general staff would be believed without question.

The major’s eyes widened as he saw Túcume’s uniform.

“We ran into some guerrillas trying to escape,” Tucume told him. “Otherwise we would have been here sooner.”

“There’s blood, sir. Are you hurt?”

Túcume hadn’t noticed the blood caked on his pants legs. “This is our enemy’s blood. What is the situation?”

The major looked to his left. Ross had come up behind him and had his notebook out.

“Don’t worry. He’s all right,” Tucume told the major. But then he turned to Ross and told him to put the notebook away. “It may make some of my people nervous,” he added in English. “The young men especially. Many are illiterate, and they associate writing with problems.”

Ross nodded and put the notebook away.

“There is a bunker a hundred meters beyond the village,” said Major Sican. “It is an incredible find.”

“How incredible?” asked the general.

“There is a large bomb there, with curious figures. It is a large bomb, in a crate. There was a truck nearby. We suspect it was to have been loaded and we interrupted them. The villagers say there has been no one here in some time, so we think it was a hiding place.”

“Show me this,” said Túcume.

They started up the road. After a few paces, Túcume turned to Ross and told him that he should wait near the truck.

“You promised me full access,” said the reporter.

Finally, it was as the general had rehearsed.

“I think on this—”

“You told me you never went back on your promises.”

“This area is still dangerous,” said Túcume.

“As dangerous as being ambushed? I doubt it. Come on, General. You gave me your word.”

“Come then. Stay next to my sergeant there. He is a veteran and has a good head.”

Túcume turned and gestured to the major to show the way.