Chapter 11: Hello Irene

Saturday Evening May 24
A small airport in LA, flying to a small airport in Detroit, then Marta’s House

At the airport a private jet was waiting. Tango and Irene were already on board. I introduced Qwit to Irene as one of my maternal uncles.

Irene was the newest addition to the soldiers the Patron keeps in LA, she had arrived last Thursday to serve the next two year in the Patron’s military. She is a cousin of Bente, the girl Tango was going to marry in July.

As this was our first meeting Irene addressed me as “Prince” and tried to bow, but I said that was not a good look in LA and is just silly in the airplane.

“The term ‘Prince’ is overused here. Besides all the visiting royalty and rock stars and self-appointed, Hollywood has given us artificial royalty like a Prince of Bel Air. Call me ‘Paulo’ when needed, it brings to mind my parents, and through them our shared relatives. Relax, we are informal here. Have you seen our bloodlines?”

“Yes, Paulo. We share blood as close as 4 generations back.” Based on our customs, 4 was the limit for close relations between colony members. Of course, that did not consider her German grandfather. She looked more like 50/50 German and Spanish.

“That record is not accurate, but the full story is confidential.” I liked to keep a little mystery with the new people.

At this point Irene wanted to know what she was doing here, and she looked confused about several things. This was not what she expected.

I explained we were flying to Detroit and would return Monday afternoon, probably with another indian or two. Marta’s house was a base the soldiers sometimes used, so this was part of her orientation, although right now nobody was there from the colony; the Detroit estate was essentially Marta’s home and therefore an indian base. Outside of some wholesale trade the Patron did not care to sell drugs in Detroit, it was a messy market, dangerous if you are not immersed in the local underworld. But the Patron used the port to resupply our ocean-going ships and bring his drugs to mid-America, well away from the competitive and well-patrolled southern border.

I explained that we would be Marta’s guests, there would be several indians there and two other guests. I was going to see one of the guests, but it was critical that this guest not see my face just yet, so special arrangements were in place.

“The guests have not been sworn, they do not even know of the Patron, so they can’t know any secrets. Also, they can’t know my name, if need arises you are to call me ‘Martas son;’ that will not be a lie since Marta raised me as a son. But it would be good for you to know her well.”

Marta’s second guest was Maria formerly of Brazil, she was collateral in terms of her involvement and she probably blamed me for her confinement in Detroit. Maria had good reason, her previously law-abiding husband was in my debt and on the run. It was all because of Gracie, but we didn’t need to talk about that.

Irene had served in the military of a Latin American country until she was running a Surface-to-Air Missile group. For her retirement package she ordered her group on a training exercise that setup near a ‘party’ waterfront, then gave her troops the weekend off, with some extra money to party in her memory. The few security troops on guard duty were overcome by the Patron’s people. The Patron’s drive-on freighter loaded a radar unit, a command trailer, a pair of trailers with short-range missiles and a tracked vehicle with a long range missile battery. The trucks pulling the trailers carried a full set of reloads plus self-defense weapons and even hand-held anti-air missiles that were so handy. It was quite a haul, the Patron’s biggest contribution ever.

I asked Irene what she thought of the operation last night; she was new so she did not participate, but was allowed to observe.

She said that as a military operation it was a very impressive trick. I mentioned that the Iron Alley had been used 8 times in the 12 years we controlled it, full-size GM SUVs were the vehicle of choice for so many security and criminal factions in LA, plus 4-door full-size pickup trucks were becoming more popular so it would still serve for a couple of more years. The Alley was set for them, we had other traps for narrower vehicles.

She recognized that it was a very effective as a live trap. “The only way to avoid capture is suicide ... has that ever happened?”

“With the type of people who start a gun battle of public streets? No, character is not their long suite, and thinking ahead they have to delude themselves that there is a way out, so that does not happen. Usually we get shooters who are high on drugs. Because we have a secure facility we can mine their brains for information.”

“Then you insure they do not talk about it afterward,” she said.

I mentioned that when we did what we had to do it was no loss to society.

After that we talked about her background at the farm and in service. She and Bente are second generation descendants of some “Scandinavians” (with very German accents) who came to the colony after World War 2, running from the homeland when their loyalties became liabilities and their knowledge became valued assets thanks to political change. They rejected slavery from the East and the West, opting for the third choice - South America. One of our people got them to our colony. They made most of the journey in what was formerly a German long range submarine that was now sitting in a river some days away from the farm.

Both girls were from the third generation with German blood, which was the first to be let into the farm itself; the original Germans and their children were isolated in a special compound. The Patron did not trust Germans who were running from their country in a stolen sub and had a variety of poisonous political philosophies at the ready. Europe had paid a terrible price, three times in less than 50 years, for allowing Germans with strong opinions to express themselves. (As descendants of Spain we considered the war in Spain to restore the monarchy a separate exercise of German and Socialist meddling, resulting in the calamity of a left-leaning democracy.)

When the Germans arrived and sought refuge the Patron introducing women (volunteers) from the farm into the German compound to settle the men, motivate them, and to refresh a gene pool which was always a concern. Our Germans were mostly handsome scholars engaged in research and they appealed to ladies they considered very attractive. In time, as a reward for loyalty and productive service, they were given opportunities to contribute their genes. The original Germans, their new wives and their children all lived in the German compound, with the German’s children meeting both men and women from the farm. German grandchildren were allowed into the farm at the age of 5.

At 12 Irene expressed an interest in service to the Patron so she was sent to Lima where she learned about modern life in Latin America and developed language skills. At 18, using forged papers, she entered the military of a Latin American nation. She got some special forces training but with hard work and especially math skills she achieved her aim for something specialized with a longer service life and command span. In her case she ran the radar for, and then after 6 years basically commanded, a ground-to-air missile battery. She had officers, mostly recent college grads, who soon found a nearby brothel. She had aimed high and achieved what she aimed for. She was the first woman from the farm to achieve such a command goal in military service. When she retired she brought all her toys along and the Patron was very pleased.

One day she might be my supreme military commander.

Irene was not over-blessed by nature with beauty, plus her face bore a 4-inch long knife scar from a man with a military badge who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. The encounter was in a very dark alley, early in her service career. He was off-duty but in uniform from a military police unit; he saw her in a service shirt, and thought that she would be easy pickings for the evening’s entertainment. She had a knife and skills which he did not expect, so he was the one who was penetrated by 6 inches. Repeatedly. Once he was down she made sure he never had a reason to approach another woman; just a quick cut and the world was a better place.

She made sure the guy didn’t die, where is the fun in that? She wanted him to appreciate a long life without his little friend. She called for medical help on his radio. His friends nearby bandaged him so he would not bleed to death.

By chance one of his friends found her in the dark. He did not see her face but he discovered her dagger, it was placed to insure his silence. She gave him a scar “to collaborate” his impossible story. After the encounter that man spread tales of his friend “heroically” aborting an assassination. “The woman with those high skills must be working for one of the cartels.” Well, I guess self-aggrandizement was what one expected from that breed of swine.

I filled her in on 49, Irene did not know my involvement with the gang, and was stunned to learn how large it was. On top of that, Irene could not believe I was actually on patrol for a gang I headed, “that is grunt work,” she said.

I replied that any effective leader had to keep an eye on everything, and keep my power under wraps. “In the US, especially in this state, the idea of self-importance and democracy pervades every part of society. If I want to keep my power, even in the gang I must play the role suggested in the book entitled ‘The Prince’ and the other works by Machiavelli, which were published more than a half century before the land of the farm was first seen by white men.”

She had not read those books, but now resolved to do so.

To lighten the conversation with a personal item, Irene said she had met the Captain, who was one of my bastard uncles and therefore a retainer of the Patron’s. She knew the man had two wives, and how he acquired them. She wondered if she might one day enjoy two husbands, but was really prodding for my view on various subjects.

“Well, he picked his up before he left the military, using his charm,” I said. “Their previous husband and father had promised to whip them both because that was his nature. Your record says that, despite the great treasure and opportunity, you came alone.”

“None of the men I commanded were worth my consideration,” she said with a grin. “It was why I always carried a knife. I would have brought one of my men if he were worthy, or even interesting, but really they were all scum.”

“Are my guys treating you okay?”

“Those men are great, real professionals. I expected something, hazing or stuff about being a female, but there was none. I got privacy and respect. It is a sign of a good com...”

I didn’t let her finish that. “They are good troops, experienced and dedicated professionals. As you saw, we have to operate at a high level here. You, and they, would not be here without the support to the Patron. Support goes both ways.”

I mentioned that I expected to have two or three wives, it was the custom for the Patron, and as a tradition it goes back to the breeding ways of both groups. However, unlike today’s Patron who has multiple wives from the farm because of gene pool considerations, I had responsibilities to four “tribes” of very different peoples: the mainly Spanish descendants of the colony, the tribe of the Indians on the mountain with their pre-Inca ways, the gang in LA which was immersed in American culture, and the small merchant fleet based in Spain that had been run by monks for a couple of centuries. “Traditionally, marriage of royals was used to bind principalities together in peace. Linked to that was the fact that princes and princesses rarely got to choose their mates. However, in this case I will be the principal leader of all four groups, so there is no obvious princess for me to wed. I am sure my grandfathers will decide something. It is more like ancient times, when leaders had a wife from each group.”