Prologue

As I approve of a youth that has something of the old man in him, so I am no less pleased with an old man that has something of the youth. He that follows this rule may be old in body, but can never be so in mind.

-- Marcus Tullius Cicero

Campos, Colima, Mexico - Tomorrow

The old man reached for his cup of café, sitting on the concrete bannister where he’d placed it.  As he brought the thick, white porcelain mug to his lips, he noticed steam still rising from the brew.  He took a tentative sip.  Still, too hot.  He put the cup back down.  Better to wait a few more minutes, so he could enjoy the full flavor.  After all, his morning coffee was one of few pleasures left in a life that had been full of adventure.

He placed both hands, palms down, on the bannister and listened.  He could hear the small waves gently slap the sand at the beach, just one large dune away.  The fog was dense this morning.  He could barely see the sidewalk downstairs.  A thick soup, this.  As thick as anything he encountered in his thirty years on the sea.  He loved the sea.

If he’d been in uniform he would resemble so many stereotypical retired captains on their balconies, looking through a spyglass, pining for another ship.  But he was never stereotypical.

Standing at, just under, two meters, he was large for a Mexican.  His height and strong build served him well as a captain of men.  He kept his silver hair cropped close and his face with a closely cropped beard and mustache.  His hair stood in contrast to his dark skin, and his hawkish nose gave him the regal look of his Aztec ancestors.  If one were to try to compare him to a noted personality, he would agree that the longtime spokesman for a popular Mexican beer would fit him best if one were to have seen him at sea.  Growing his hair and beard a bit longer in central Mexico was uncomfortable, however, so he opted to keep both trimmed short.  He often thought of doing away with the facial hair altogether when the heat and humidity would make it itch.

At just over 70 years of age he looked sixty.  He always ate right and kept himself fit.  Not too much tequila.  Not too many tacos.  He fought off the cerveza belly for so long he found it easier to just give up drinking beer altogether.

He prided himself that he was still muscular, and women noticed.  Alright, older women noticed, attractive, older women, all of which found his stories of the sea riveting.

But, they were mostly attracted to his rare demeanor, that of a gentleman.  He wanted nothing from them save for a moments respite from the toils of the day.  They found that very refreshing, and he was often rewarded in bed for his lack of effort in trying to get them there.

   

He had never married.  The sea wouldn’t allow it. It was his one failing, his one begrudged stereotype.  Like career sailors down through history, the sea was his mistress, the ship his wife, the crew his family.

No woman in every port, however.  He associated himself with only a few ladies at a time, around the world.  Not that he ever sought out a ‘type’ of woman, but they all seem to come from well to do families, mature, and well mannered.  They would attend plays and opera, dine at fine restaurants, and, if the opportunity presented itself, stay at four star hotels.

As for the families of these ‘companions,’ he was always well received.  He knew how to behave in polite society.  His mother taught him well the art of etiquette.

His father, a well to do doctor, from Mexico City, had died when he was too young to remember.  The only memory he possessed was handed down by his mother when graduated the ‘Heroica Escuela Naval Militar,’ the naval academy in Veracruz.  It was a gift given to his father, by his grandfather, when he graduated medical school, an expensive, solid gold watch.   And, like his father, it was the only jewelry he ever wore.

This morning he presented himself in pleated khaki trousers, and an open collar, white cotton, sport shirt with sleeves rolled back a bit.  A brown leather belt, matching tasseled loafers, and the gold watch, rounded out the ensemble.  Not stereotypical.  As was his habit, he opted for no socks, a habit rewarded by his mother’s constant chiding.

The moisture from the morning fog carried little chill for it being this early.  It was comfortable. He was comfortable.  There were footfalls behind him.  He listened as the intruder to his solitude quietly approached, stopping just behind him to one side.  A hand reached to lift the cup, checking fullness.

The hand was horribly scarred.  Scarring that continued up the wrist to disappear beneath the cuff of the crisp, white chef’s blouse.

He paid it little notice, having grown use to the sight.  He did glance briefly at his own hand, resting next to the cup, and saw the concrete of the bannister in the spot his missing little finger occupied for so many years.  He sighed and resumed looking into the fog as he quietly asked, “Yes, Juan?”

Juan spoke softly, a hoarse whisper, in as much respecting his master’s quiet moment, as it being the limit of his volume.  Anything louder would be an unintelligible rasp.  “Capitan, the café, it is too hot?”

“Not too hot my old friend.”  He lied.  “My mind is elsewhere, I fear.”  Continuing the small untruth, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip.  It had cooled a bit.  “You see?  Fine, as always.”

“Not too sweet?”

“Have you found a larger teaspoon?”  He smiled as he lightly admonished his companion.

This was not like Juan, asking so many trivial questions to which he fully knew the answers after so many years of service.  “You seem on edge this morning.  What bothers you?”

“My apologies, senor, it is this fog.  I have never seen it so thick.  And, it is too quiet.”

“You becoming an old woman, Juan.”

He heard the distinct sound of a pistol’s slide being pulled back, and gently brought back forward.  “An old woman that is still capable of protecting you, mi Capitan.”

The old man smiled into the fog as he replied, “I have no doubt of that.”  He didn’t have to ask why Juan was carrying the weapon.  The old S&W .45 had belonged to Juan's grandfather, and had been handed down from his father.  It was all he had to remember family, and it was never far from reach.

Juan Carlos Trujillo was a crack shot, having collected many awards for marksmanship, before the accident.  The Capitan personally witnessed one competition where Juan, smiling, calmly challenged the results.  Juan had fired ten shots, hitting the target once in the bulls-eye.

The spotter had seen the small hole in the bulls-eye grow slightly larger and informed the judges of a rare possibility. They all moved down to inspect the sandbag behind the target and watched as the spotter pulled out his knife and dug ten slugs from the only hole.

Juan’s hoarse voice cut into the memory.  “Would you like some desayuno, senor?  Perhaps, chilequiles?  The tortillas are aged enough to make it, just so.”  

He smiled at Juan’s description.  His mother had always made him chilequiles.  She would tell him, “Matias, the best use for old tortillas is chilequilles.”  She would say they gave the dish a special texture.  Of course, she was never wrong.  Not that he could remember.

Once the tortillas were sautéed with fresh salsa, she would place two over-easy eggs on top and crumble hard, salty queso and well-done bacon over all, including a large spoon of her fresh frijoles.  She was not one to ruin good frijoles by making a thin paste out of them. No refried beans for her son.  In all his years at sea, Juan was the only cook that could make the dish close to his mother's.

“That would be fine, Juan.  And perhaps some juice of the naranja?”

There had been no fresh oranges at the Mercado so Juan grudgingly offered, “We have it in a box only, mi Capitan.”  Then, remembering, he quickly added, “But, with pulp!”

The gentleman smiled then teasingly took on the look and an air of wealthy disappointment.  “Sera suficiente, buen hombre.  It will have to suffice.  Oh Dios mio!”  He look upward as if appealing to God.  “How plebian of us.  How have we come to this?  Boxed juice?  Is there no justice?”  He winked at Juan and said, “In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy your robust café.”

Juan smiled in return and retreated back into the hacienda.

Matias Ortiz de Avendano, Capitan de Navio, Repubica de Mexico; Ship Captain, retired to his ocean side hacienda these last ten years, and bored out of his mind.  He had bought the twenty hectare ranch early in his career, building onto it a little at a time.  Had he considered, he might have held off the construction until retirement.  However, it was all but finished by the time he left the sea, so there was little left to do but enjoy it.

The fog had not dissipated when he drained the last of his café from the mug.  He heard the metallic clink of silverware at the table, to his left.  Juan’s voice rasped from the same direction, “At your pleasure, senor.”

Matias lifted his hands from the concrete, “Gracias, Juan.”

He lifted the mug by the rim and brought it to the table.  Juan reached out his scarred hand and accepted the mug as he pulled the wicker chair out for Matias.  Matias sat and scooted the chair in toward the table as Juan dropped a cloth napkin onto his lap.  The juice was poured, a steaming plate of chilequilles, and a real porcelain cup and saucer with more café was at the ready.

Juan reached into the breast of his white blouse and brought forth the morning newspaper, laying it just to one side, within Matias’ reach.

Matias knew, after years of service, Juan would not leave until he lifted his fork and the first bite of food.  He brought his fork up with a small bite, closing his eyes and savoring the flavor, making sure his facial expression relayed the enjoyment.

He opened his eyes and nodded to Juan.  “Como mama hizo.  As always, Juan, like mama’s.”

He saw Juan’s expected smile as it transitioned from the scar tissue on the right side of his face to the ruggedly handsome features of a well-built man of forty-five on the left.

The fire had claimed most of the surface flesh on the right side, from the arm, up the neck, and to the gray hair just above the ear.  The ear was only slightly scarred, so it still resembled an ear.  The flames stopped burning flesh before the eye and the nose, and would have consumed the lips, had Juan not turned them inward, biting down on them from the pain.  If he had screamed he would have inhaled the searing air and died an agonizing death.

His hair above the left ear was turning a distinguished gray.  As a young man with the Marine Airborne Battalion, he was a life taker and a heart breaker.  Now, after several surgeries, he looked better than most had hoped.  He had said enough was enough.  No more surgery.  No more pain.  He had looked in the mirror, after the last round, and simply stated, “It is what it is.”

He and the Capitan became acquainted in 2003, after the Battalion transitioned into the Naval Special Forces, or the FES, the Fuerzas Especiales, in late 2001.

******************************

Juan prided himself on living the motto of the FES: Fuerza, Espiritu, Sabiduria; Force, Spirit, and Wisdom.  He was very good at his job.  He had excelled in survival and sniper training.  He moved up in rank quickly.

He had just received his rating for bomb dismantling, when everything in his life fell apart; when, he did the unthinkable.

They had been called in to diffuse a terrorist bomb at federal gas storage facility.  The bomb was very advanced technologically and far beyond his young team’s capabilities.  He reported this to the on-scene commander who was located a safe distance from the device.  Juan saw a safer option.

Juan advised the commander that he could pick up the locked vehicle, gently, with a fork lift and move it safely away and detonate it remotely.  The commander didn’t see that as learning how to diffuse bombs, however.  The commander responded with some drivel of, “You won’t learn if you don’t do,” and told Juan to get back to his team and do what they were trained to do.

Juan was heading back toward the bomb while advising his team by radio of the decision, when one young troop pulled out a screwdriver in preparation to remove the cover on the device.  He leaned in to the weapon for a closer inspection.

Juan was still twenty meters away when he was blown back another twenty by the blast, as the screwdriver jumped out of the troop’s gloved hand clanged onto the magnetized metal bomb casing, closing a circuit and activating the magnetic trigger.

To this day, no one knows why the gas storage tank withstood the blast.  The damage would have been devastating had it breached from the detonation.  Losing three of his men for stupidity was bad enough.

With blood leaking from his nose and ears, and suffering from shock, he managed the shaky walk back to the command vehicle, where he proceeded to beat the hell out of a dazed on-scene commander.

He was busted all the way down from the rank he had worked so hard for and sent to a ship as just another galley hand.

His first day at duty, his uniform being spotless and freshly pressed, he was assigned to take the ship’s captain his morning meal.  Upon arriving at the Capitan’s office, he knocked once and entered.  Having a mind for faces, Matias immediately recognized him as the sharpshooter he had seen a couple of years before.

They talked of the situation as Matias ate, complaining about the food quality and finally pushing it to one side saying, “If I can find someone that knows how to make decent chilequilles, I will die a happy man.”

“Mi Capitan, permisso por favor.  It requires stale tortillas, aged perfectly.  And,” he looked to the plate as he continued, “both eggs need to be over-easy, till the whites are cooked.  These are not done.”

Matias told Juan to send the ship’s chef to him as soon as the morning meal was served to the crew.  He smiled as he thought about the chef having to work around his own personal cook.

******************************

Juan’s voice brought him, once again, from memories as he set his fork down and lifted the cloth napkin to dab his mouth.  “You were hungry this morning, senor.  May I bring more café?”

“One more cup, Juan, por favor.”

As Juan retreated with the soiled dishes, he also retreated to another memory, one of an explosion in the galley during his routine inspection.  Of hot oil blown throughout and set ablaze; of the large bun oven that had fallen, crushing and pinning his finger, and of Juan, hovering close beside in a white galley uniform, splashed in that same burning oil, grasping desperately to find something on the counter above.  Then came the momentary searing pain as Juan severed his little finger with the red hot knife tip, freeing him from the immoveable oven, and carrying him to safety as the fire control team arrived to put Juan out before attacking the galley.

The smell of fresh coffee replaced that of burning flesh, and brought him back to present.  The cup was almost to the table when Juan dropped it the last few millimeters as he whipped his .45 from behind him and pulled Matias from his chair to the tiled patio.

Matias felt a movement in the patio before he heard what sounded like a train rumbling by.  Juan lifted Matias to his feet and pulled him out from under the covered terraza, and well into the open area by the pool before they were both knocked from their feet and onto the tile once again.

The earthquake was worse than usual.  They were used to the occasional 2.5 or 4.5, but this was much bigger.  There was a loud sound as if a large boulder had cracked under stress, then quiet as the rumble receded, along with the fog as a breeze stirred it quietly away.

Juan helped Matias to his feet while checking him for injury under the pretense of brushing the Capitan’s clothing off.

Matias held up his hands for Juan to stop his as mothering and said, “Basta, basta, estoy bien.  I am fine.”

The breeze increased a bit and the fog was dissipating rapidly as they looked around the terraza, searching out damage.  A few glazed terra cotta tiles from the roof seemed to be the only apparent damage on this level.  They went to the banister overlooking the ocean, looking down to the lower level.  Everything else seemed to fare well.

Juan was looking right toward the driveway and called out, “Ven pronto, Capitan!  Come quickly!”

Matias rushed to his side and Juan pointed downward at the drive.  The tarmac driveway had cracked, and the far end had dropped half a meter.  The crack widened into a rift as it ran down the hill toward the large dune that separated the rancho from the beach.

As one side of the property dropped across the rift, the dune had dropped on one side as well, and the shaking had vacated the sand from a new access to the beach.  The pass was large enough to drive a dump truck through.

Juan was not big on humor, but he asked his boss, “I suppose an easier pathway to the beach, so you don’t climb the dune, is now a moot point?”

Matias ignored him as he studied the high side of the new pass.  He went back to the table and found his binoculars sitting one of the chair seats, swinging them around and focusing on the dune.

 Juan prodded, “Senor?  Que ves?”

He passed the glasses to Juan.  “You tell me what you see?”

Juan focused in on the dune, looking at the wide swath cut through it.  He studied for only a moment before he made out the object of the Capitan’s interest.  It blended with the gray sand perfectly which made it difficult to see at first, but as the sun peeked through the fog there was more contrast and shadow.

Juan’s brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.  Large and tapered edge, like the leading edge of a circular wing, it was sticking out of the dune only a meter.  The sun glinted on a metallic surface.

Matias looked to his companion.  “No thoughts, mi amigo?”

The aftershock caught them both off guard, and knocked them to the patio again.  Both looked up to ensure the roof wasn’t giving way.  Plaster and concrete cracked this time, but the reinforcing rebar held it firm.  They helped each other up, again.

Juan was first to notice the difference in the object.  The aftershock had shaken it loose and moved it across the pass the first quake had cut.  The beach side of the dune had collapsed back across the far opening, blocking view of it from the beach.  Matias took the glasses back from Juan.

The object was circular, about ten meters across and two meters thick toward the middle, with what was left of a bubble canopy on top.  Halfway to the canopy was a seam that ran around the craft, seemingly dividing the thinner outer rim from the thicker inner hub.

Matias still had the glasses to his eyes, but the craft was clearly visible to Juan.  “About your thoughts, Juan,” Matias chuckled, “anything to offer?”

Juan muttered more to himself than an answer to Matias, “Madre de Jesus, it looks like a flying saucer.”

“Si?  You think?”  He handed the glasses back.  “Look to the top of the disc and enlighten me further.”  He waited until he thought Juan had the spot in his sight.  Juan couldn’t miss the familiar tetragrammadion symbols, svastika in Sanskrit, one on either side of the canopy.  Seeing Juan’s draw drop slightly, he continued, “Why is there a World War II Nazi flying saucer buried on my property?”

He couldn’t help but grin.  For Matias, life just got interesting!