kill, they forget that killers owe no loyalty to anyone, and trust no one.
Mercer said, “I will collect that debt.”
“Yes. Good.” He looked at Mercer. “Perhaps someday you will tell me why you are helping us.”
“I believe in the Revolution.”
Gomez smiled. “I think not.”
“Perhaps, General, you will someday tell me how you went from American lackey to American hater.”
Gomez’ smile dropped. “I was never an American lackey. I took their hospitality and their training and I use it to fight them.”
Mercer was sure that General Gomez had made that decision after the fact—when Chávez took power, and when career choices needed to be made. If the wind started blowing the other way, General Gomez would present himself at the American Embassy with his U.S. Army training certificate in hand, asking for a job. Mercer had seen this in Afghanistan, where local loyalties shifted like the sand dunes. The world was corrupt, and the only loyalty that lasted was to one’s self.
Mercer recalled a time when he thought differently. He thought of the day at the induction center in San Diego when he’d raised his right hand and sworn allegiance to the Constitution of the United States, then took the literal and figurative step forward and shook the hand of the officer who’d sworn him in. Congratulations, son.
Kyle Mercer had come a long way since then… like a man whose lover and soul mate had cheated on him, made him into an angry and untrusting mutation of his former self. And there was no going back. No forgiveness. No road home.
He looked at Gomez, who was staring at him.
Gomez asked, “What is on your mind?”
“Nada.”
Gomez knew not to press Comrade Kyle on any issue, so he asked, “When can you begin your work?”
“You’ll know when the first corpse shows up.”
“The journalist is particularly troublesome.”
“I’ll send you his eyeballs in a box of chocolates.”
Gomez didn’t know if the American was joking or serious. “That won’t be necessary.” He pulled a thick envelope out of his pocket and put it on the table. “The eagle flies today,” he said, using the GI slang for payday.
Mercer pocketed the envelope without acknowledging Gomez’ attempt at humor or bonding or whatever. The envelope would contain about two thousand American dollars in small bills—the monthly costs of keeping his forty men paid, at ten dollars a month, and the Pemón at two dollars, with the remainder of the money going toward food, supplies, medicine, and incidentals—beans, bandages, and bullets, as they used to say. Anything left over paid for the whores, the occasional airfare to Ciudad Bolívar or Caracas, and Señor Kyle’s R&Rs at the Hen House—though there would be no further R&Rs. Also, Mercer had no doubt that General Gomez pocketed some of the American dollars for himself.
Camp Tombstone was on a shoestring budget, even by the standards of the bankrupt Venezuelan government. But when Mercer’s men started fighting the American-backed insurgents, their budget would increase, and so would their ranks. Mercer looked forward to the coming battles.
“Thank you for making the trip, General. Safe journey to Caracas.”
Gomez was not used to being dismissed, but he turned to leave, then asked, “Is there anything you need here?”
“One less general.”
Gomez forced a smile, to show he shared the Yankee humor and was not offended. He said, “I leave you with one piece of advice, señor—the Americans have always hated their traitors more than they’ve hated their enemies. They will treat a defeated enemy well. They will never forgive a traitor.” He added, “They are coming for you.”
Mercer nodded—but he had not betrayed his country; he was a man without a country to betray. In fact, he had become an enemy combatant and should be classified as such under the Geneva Conventions. His real crime was that he, Captain Mercer, had walked away from his men and his duty. He had deserted. And for that, the Army would put him in prison for the rest of his life—or if the Intel people got to him first, they would end things a different way.
Gomez said, “The more enemies of the state that you kill, the stronger the regime becomes. The regime can protect you.”
“Bad motivational talk. You learned nothing from the Americans. Good day.”
Gomez needed to have the last word. “Arrogant. You mistake that for machismo.”
Mercer didn’t reply, and Gomez turned and left the hut.
Mercer watched him as he walked through the clearing, toward the river and the boat that would take him to the Kavak airstrip and a