Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

Seven minutes later—his Army training still in full effect—dressed in loose cotton pants and a two-pocket guayabera shirt, Marcus ambled downstairs just in time to see his two younger brothers, wrestling in the living room, about to crash into the coffee table.

“¡Párese!” Without waiting to see if they would heed his command to stop, Marcus leaped forward to intercept the twins before they damaged themselves or the furniture.

“ ¡Venga en! Mother has breakfast waiting.”

The trio trooped into the kitchen. The cheerful room was painted bright yellow with a pattern of blue-and-green curls decorating the walls. Marcus gazed around at the kitchen he had grown up in and where his parents were now raising another generation. They had planned on only having Marcus, but had been surprised with the twins a dozen years ago.

Marcus suspected his father, Reynaldo, had secretly been pleased at his virility, as he doted on the boys, often mentioning his plans for them to join the family business.

Their mother, Maria, scolded them, her tone teasing as she delivered the piping-hot, traditional breakfast she always served when Marcus was home— tostadas, coquetas, rolls of ground pork and ham dipped in egg batter and fried until golden-brown and strong, sweet café con leche.

Marcus had two helpings of everything, then tipped his chair back and stifled a belch. “ Gracias, Mama.” Even though he had his own apartment in the neighborhood, Marcus loved his family and always tried to spend as much time with them as possible, especially after a mission.

“Marcus, will you take us to the movies this afternoon?”

Esteban pleaded. He was fascinated with the cinema, and was already making films in the backyard, intending to be the next Steven Spielberg or James Cameron.

His twin brother, Ismael, glared at him. “No, he doesn’t want to stay cooped up all day. We should go to the marina, see the speedboat exhibition.” A budding speedboat racer, he was as addicted to ESPN and other boating channels as his brother was to film. He could recite statistics on famous powerboat pilots, either current or past champions, with ease.

“All right, that’s enough from both of you.” Maria silenced the chattering boys with a raised finger. “Marcus has just gotten here. It’s not right for you to demand such things from him like this.”

“It’s all right, Mama, but I wanted to talk to Papa first.”

Seeing her turn back to the sink, he waved at the boys to head outside and play. Clearing the table, he brought the stack of dishes to her. “How is the store doing?” His father ran the same neighborhood grocery store that he had founded when they had first arrived in America. Marcus had been born three months afterward, making him the first Ruiz to be a natural-born citizen.

“It seems all right, although he says that the big box stores keep cutting into his business and taking his workers, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to stay open if this continues.” She turned to face him. “I’ve told him that he needs to talk to the chamber of commerce about organizing some kind of referendum, but so far he hasn’t listened.” She turned away again, rattling dishes as she worked. “Oh, Marcus, you aren’t here to listen to me prattle on so.”

Marcus took his mother’s hand, warm and rough from years of housework, and brought it to his lips for a kiss that left the smell of lemon detergent in its wake. “Mama, that’s exactly why I come here, to talk to you. I’ll head over to see Papa a bit later, but first I’ll take the boys off your hands for the rest of the after—”

The shrill chime of his cell phone interrupted Marcus, and he glanced down in surprise. He shouldn’t have heard that tone for another twenty-nine days. He looked up to his mother’s face, who also recognized the sound, and now she took his hand, clasping it between hers. “Go on, answer it.”

He flipped the phone open. “Hello…Yes, sir… No, I’m available. It’s where?… All right, I’ll pick him up tomorrow afternoon… Yes, sir… It’s all right, but let her know I’ll hold her to that. Thank you, sir.”

He closed the phone and slowly replaced it in his pocket.

For a moment, he stood there with his mother, neither of them saying anything. The chatter and shouts of the twins playing outside reached their ears.

“They need you again.”

It wasn’t a question. Marcus’s parents hadn’t been exactly thrilled when he had joined the Army, and less so when he had applied for the Ranger program. But they had learned to respect his passion for the military, and when he had taken this new job, which he described as “government con-sulting,” he knew his mother wasn’t naive enough to think it was simple travel and advising. But in their conversations, he had told her that this was what he wanted to do, to give something back to his homeland and their adopted country. Unfortunately, that also meant that there was only one answer he could give her.

He nodded.

“Oh, Marcus, you were gone so long this last time. You tell us not to worry, but I cannot help it—”

He put a finger to her lips. “I know, I know. They wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t necessary. At least it shouldn’t be too long. They said perhaps five to seven days, so I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Do you have time to stop by the store and see your father? He would be upset if he didn’t see you before you left.”

Marcus had spoken with both his parents when he had first arrived, but he’d been so tired he didn’t remember much of the conversation. “Of course, Mama. I don’t actually start until tomorrow, so at least we’ll have this day together.

I’ll be sure to spend some time with the boys, as well.” He walked to the door, then turned in the archway. “At least I’ll be doing something you always wanted for me this time.”

She frowned in confusion.

“I’m going back home.”

Major Damason Valdes sat alongside several soldiers from his brigade in a small, sweltering room, pressing headphones to his ears, straining to hear the hushed conversation in a room a few blocks away. He ignored the sweat, the smell and the restlessness of his men, concentrating instead on picking out the vital words that meant he and his unit could go in and do their job. While most other high-ranking officers in Cuba’s Revolutionary Armed Forces would have assigned this job to a sergeant, Damason was a firm believer in not ordering his men to any task that he wasn’t willing to oversee personally. As a result he’d wound up perspiring in a closed room, listening to a smuggling transaction at two in the morning.

Since the government had been forced to relax the strict sanctions against foreign trade and investment, Cuba had recovered somewhat from the crippling economic blow dealt to it by the breakup of the Soviet Union, their only benefac-tor since the early 1960s. However, with that inflow of trade had come side effects the country had been ill prepared for, such as an increase in crime. From street violence and rob-bery to drug and human trafficking, the police were hard-pressed to stem the sudden rise in illegal activity.

Well, they cannot do that and continue to monitor and report on our citizens at the same time with the efficiency the government demands, Damason thought sourly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Since much of the military had also been reassigned to civilian business projects, he had come up with the idea of using his trained soldiers as an adjunct to the police force when necessary. Formed into handpicked units, the additional men had been paying dividends in the form of a marked decrease in overall crime in the areas they patrolled. But even now he faced rising lawlessness in areas not doubly patrolled, as if the criminals had learned of the combination of police and military, and simply set up shop elsewhere. His commander, General Alejandro Marino, was putting increasing pressure on him to not let the crime spill over into the high-profile tourist areas. The vice squads already had their hands full trying to contain the prostitution that had infiltrated the luxury resorts. If our great revolution would allow educated people to earn an honest wage, then our great leader wouldn’t have joked about the prostitutes having college degrees to that American filmmaker a few years ago, he thought bitterly.