El Municiónero (5)
Ricardo dismissed my concerns with a brief wave. “No need to worry about that.”
“Why not?”
“We’ve got it squared away with the navy. Contra Almirante Martínez, who controls that area right now, will cooperate with you. The weapon crates will be tagged as relief supplies and shipped to the airport. So you’ll need to be careful with the packaging.”
Contra Almirante. I wasn’t an expert on Mexican military ranks, but I could guess it was a high one—admiral was in the title, after all. Still, if a man that senior was corrupt enough to take bribes, he’d already be pocketing tribute from Sinaloa…
This had the potential to turn into another Myanmar trial disaster. The five who’d died in the jungle back then still haunted me with bitter regret. They were lives that should have been spent more valuably.
I pressed with added suspicion. “How much can we trust this Admiral Martínez?”
“It’s not about trusting him—it’s trusting the old comrade who vouched for him. A friend’s guarantee. And that friend’s right there on site, so don’t fret too much.”
“What’s his role?”
“Major in port security. The guy your people will meet in person.”
“Name?”
“Diego. José de Diego Sváralska.”
Ricardo’s reply rang with conviction, and pride colored his voice on the name. It showed they’d prepared thoroughly—and desperately. All this was groundwork for receiving shipments across the Pacific, so if the deal with the Chief’s Northeast Asian arms dealer fell through, it’d all be for nothing.
Yet I couldn’t shake my doubts. Effort meant nothing if the outcome disappointed. Was this the rare “friend’s guarantee,” or a scam dressed up as one? The world favored the latter, so plan for the worst.
Accept the deal, but with my own safeguards…
“Well.” Clap! Ricardo smacked his hands. “I’d like your answer now.”
The eyes of an amateur negotiator fixed on me. Beyond them lurked tension, excitement, anxiety. Will he haggle the price? Is the timeline too tight? What if it fails—can we find another line in time?
Impatient fools. Rushed negotiations were always a disadvantage. Suyeon had dragged the Chinese out for weeks before closing.
“One thing.” I raised an index finger. “Accept one condition, and your brothers won’t face shortages of weapons or ammo.”
Ricardo drew a reflexive breath. “What condition?”
“Advance payment. Half the blueprints upfront.”
“Hold on…”
“And our technicians need to conference with yours via interpreter. Before handover, I have to confirm you possess the blueprints—and that they meet my standards.”
I tilted my gaze slyly. “You didn’t even consider an advance?”
Frozen like a broken automaton, the supply officer forced a stiff expression. “We verify at exchange.”
“On-site authenticity check?” Absurd. I curled a negotiating smirk. “Ricardo. I need submarine blueprints. The real deal, packed with cutting-edge tech—not some amateur semi-sub. Verifying that takes days.”
Which meant time to redirect ships mid-voyage if needed. I nailed it down. “Exactly half the drawings. Until they’re in my hands, the convoy stays in port.”
“Half’s too much!”
“No deal.”
“You!” Bang! His voice rose, but my fist hit the table. In the stunned silence, I leaned forward, voice low. “Remember, I promised not to exploit your desperation.”
“…”
“I accepted your quantities and deadlines as goodwill. Now you reciprocate. One hand washes the other—basic decency, right?”
Ricardo clamped his mouth, face sour. No counter; it was all straight talk, no hooks.
The board favored me, yet I’d offered generously. I couldn’t afford to botch this either.
His lingering unease was simple: Can we safely hand over half? Technical ignorance—or authority limits.
“Well?” I chin-nodded. Twisting his mustache irritably, he went defensive. “Give us time. We need to discuss.”
“Don’t dawdle.” As I leaned back, he rose, weariness cracking his facade.
The officers left only Miguel and Araceli downstairs, heading to the second floor. Not for chit-chat; Ricardo’s room held a serious radio rig linked to a desktop. Raoul and Jorge were just set dressing.
“Suyeon.”
“Yes.”
“Notebook and pen.”
I jotted the radio frequency as Suyeon handed them over. Miguel and Araceli twitched at the Korean but let it slide.
They’ve got satellites.
Amateur gear topped out at 30-40km effective range, max power. No direct comms to Mexico 400km away. Options: moonbounce or satellite. Moonbounce needed perfect lunar positioning, so satellite relay.
An ex-cartel exec wouldn’t rent AMSAT or commercial birds—theirs was private property.
Nothing groundbreaking. My org’s shell companies held 41 cubesats alone—1-6kg minis, launch at ~100 million won per kg. Deals halved that sometimes. NASA once vowed $1k/kg; pandemic killed it.
What impressed me was the cartel even thinking satellites. A massive conceptual leap, needing tech hires—far from their old-school turf.
The supply officer wrestled codes and radio for 20 minutes post my copy. I’d glimpsed the monitor: an emailed file.
Boring wait for me; objectively, lightning-fast call. High rank or not, no fools here.
Ricardo dropped a USB on the table. “We accept your terms.”
“Wise choice. Suyeon.”
My chief secretary plugged it into her work tablet. The PDF was converted DWG blueprints.
I skimmed page by page. HQ would confirm, but to my eye, no fakes.
Glancing up from the last sheet. “Tech exchange?”
“Chief will relay details separately. Contact methods too. Start shipping now—must arrive by month’s end.”
“Done.”
“Don’t disappoint us.”
“Don’t freak if it’s early. Prep ahead.”
“…I’ll take your word on that confidence.”
Acting tough now. I nodded casually, reassuring.
Solid negotiation. Half upfront slashed risks on the rest; techs would flag tampering fast.
Business done—or so I thought—when Ricardo tossed a curveball. “By the way, how many Tau-Runners does your outfit have?”
“Tau-Runners?”
“Y’know, those folks suddenly jacked up strong lately. We call ’em Tau-Runners or Tau-Masters here. Dunno your term. Not Bendecido, obviously.”
Not clueless—just blindsided. Abrupt as hell.
In the U.S. Southwest, these new superhuman physiques went by thaumaturgy—a dead word for magic, revived. Greek tau (T) started as acronym headletter, now meant the power source.
Tau-users were hot commodities: militias, cartels, PMCs, even sports teams.
Bendecido—“blessed ones”—Mexican slang, probably.
“Why ask?”
He dropped another oddity. “Might be smart to send Tau-Runners with the ships.”
“Mercs?”
“Nah. Just precautions. Advice—for your sake. Basic self-defense.”
Ever weirder. I narrowed my eyes. “Precautions? You said port security had it locked.”
Mexican navy UNAPROP port security wasn’t some rent-a-cop crew. Elite for maritime ops—prime watchlist for smugglers.
Admiral backing, major on-site with his team securing the exchange. What “precautions”?
Unless betrayal.
“Thing is…” Ricardo sighed it out. “Heard rumors lately around Guadalajara: armored lunatics hacking Sinaloa sicarios with longswords.”
“Armored… with longswords?”
“Yeah.”
“Temple Knights?”
“You know those farmer cosplayers. Spot on, probably. Who else fights guerrilla with plate, sword, and shield like obsessed clowns?”
Even expecting weirdness, the absurdity hit deep. I had to feel it.