The American president leered like a hyena. “You’re absolutely correct. Our beef is not against the people of Mexico, but rather that corruption you mentioned. In particular, those crooked leaders supporting our enemies. We will target them exclusively. Our only occupation operations will be against all those oil fields and refineries along the Gulf.”
He spoke to someone off screen. “How much longer, Admiral?” The president studied his watch. “You’ll understand what I mean in about an hour. Or maybe not. I don’t know if the B-2’s will be on station over Mexico City before or after we take the oil rigs.”
The president of Mexico was no stranger to realpolitik. You didn’t climb the ladder in the violent world of Mexican politics by clinging to idealistic principles. Even if he made it through whatever airstrikes were on the way, he’d never survive the vengeful oil companies and shipping interests. Those businessmen were the only allies he had with the money to counteract the influence of the narcogangs. If they turned on him, he wouldn’t last long. He bit his tongue and wrestled his temper down.
“Ok, Mr. President. I can’t imagine you called me up just to threaten my life. What do you have in mind?”
The US president leaned back. “Believe me or not, but I don’t want to go down this road. We have enough killing going on up here without exporting the war anywhere else. Now, there’s an alternative vision for Mexico’s future. This war is just about over, but the rebuilding will take a generation. We’ll need plenty of help.”
“I need more than vague promises, sir. Do you realize how much social and economic havoc locking the border down will cause? I need something concrete for the common people to believe in.”
“Fair enough. Once the URA has surrendered, visa quotas for your country will be eliminated indefinitely. Automatic and cost-free green cards to anyone with a clean criminal history. The same goes for all illegal immigrants already in country. Of course, no capital controls or other restrictions on reparation of earnings back to Mexico. I’m sure there are other details we could hammer out in more formal negotiations. I’d be happy to send a team in the morning. I expect we could work out a long term economic treaty within a few weeks.”
The president of Mexico whistled. He’d be a national hero. A legend, but this was all too good to be true. “That’s a fat carrot you’re offering sir, but how do I know you can deliver? Your Congress has shot down all these ideas in the past.”
The US president snorted. “Congress? This is wartime. All those Congress people that opposed me have long since fled to California. Trust me. You close the border with the URA and aggressively enforce the embargo, and I’ll grant you any wish list you have. I’m a ‘dictator,’ remember?”
Ten minutes later, the president hung up with the president of Mexico. The wily Latin politico squeezed the president for more concessions before finally agreeing, but it was a small price to pay. With one quick chat, he’d just done more damage to the URA’s military-industrial base than the entire federal bombing campaign ever accomplished.
“Ok, Admiral. Stand down your forces.”
He turned to his secretary of state. “Now get me the Canadian prime minister. I don’t care if NATO has been dissolved; it’s time to test if he’s still an ally.”
The president waved his empty coffee cup and hummed a tune. “Could I get a refill here? It’s going to be a long night.”
Sometimes it was fun playing tyrant.
“Let’s face it: we’re in over our heads. It doesn’t matter where they got the chemicals from; our money paid for them. You don’t think that’s going to come back and bite us at some point? We’ve created a monster with this private army of ours. That’s the bloody albatross around all our necks!”
The insurance trust manager sized up the remaining holdouts. Everyone except for a few of the banking leaders were clearly on board. He changed tack and addressed them.
“This investment has become a toxic asset. Just too risky. I, for one, am tired of throwing good money after bad. Let’s cut our losses before they cut us!” Most of the two dozen power barons around the table hrrmped in agreement.
The CEO of JP Stanley, just one of thousands of firms to split off their western operations as independent entities to avoid the federal embargo, tapped her nails gently on the table. By her repressed standards, that show of emotion bordered on a nervous breakdown.
“I won’t dwell on past mistakes, but aren’t you forgetting something? None of us has the option to cut and run. This is a case of high treason. There are no golden parachutes here. We’re all traitors in Washington’s eyes. No, pardon me, what’s the exact term the president uses? ‘Domestic terrorists.’ There won’t be any quiet retirement if we lose. All you’ll see is a cage in Guantanamo Bay while waiting for some military tribunal to flip a coin on whether you stay there for life or face a firing squad. So can we skip the wishful thinking and stay focused?”
An archconservative, billionaire media mogul sneered at her. “Come on, you’re exaggerating. As usual. Your manic hyperbole has kept digging us deeper into this mess for over a year now. I say it’s time to reverse course and put pressure on Salazar to abdicate. Let’s end this war on the winning side.”
The banker and her few allies stared down the much larger faction on the other side of the mahogany table. “I’m not talking theory. It’s already happening. Don’t you remember what happened to the founder of Space Y?”
Everyone squirmed at the reminder. A few weeks after the cold war turned hot, the legendary founder of America’s most successful private space services company set up mirror companies in California and Florida, all under the control of a trust registered in the Cayman Islands. Of course, all the proper legal niceties meant nothing to the Washington regime. On a tour of a new facility in Arizona, a lucrative joint private enterprise/military venture, he was murdered in a massive federal air raid. The Pentagon even gave a special press release bragging about, “neutralizing a high value target.” One of the most popular members of the billionaire club, his death hit home harder than all the thousands of nobodies lost in the last year.
“And if you think that’s a one-off event, have you seen the details of the president’s peace plan? Full, unconditional amnesty to all citizens and soldiers of the URA… except for those with net assets over $1 million. We must apply separately to a special military panel, which has the authority to seize any asset you own or lock you up. No lawyers, no appeals, no oversight. In the president’s own words, he’s ‘going to make the rich pay for this war.’ If that doesn’t keep you awake at night, you’re a naïve old fool.”
“Nonsense. That’s just political posturing. Nothing gets eaten as hot as it’s cooked. They might hit us up for a symbolic fine, but that’s all. Washington will be so grateful for our help in ending this conflict and in such a need to get the country back to normal, that they’ll sweep all this under the rug.”
“Okay, what about point two then? The Federal Government will not recognize any debt the URA accumulated supporting the war effort. How are you going to get paid back if Salazar’s government falls?”
A rival banker rubbed his temples. “All the more reason to stop lending them money. The URA pretender government will collapse eventually. They’re already coming apart at the seams. It’s only a matter of time before the whole thing comes crumbling down. Whatever we must write off can be made back through reconstruction loans. In the long run, peace is more profitable than war. Assuming we’re on the winning side.”