Starving Port (1)
November in Mexico was one of those countries where the Chinese pneumonia outbreak was still very much ongoing. The steady stream of dozens of new cases per day provided ample grounds for foreign ministries around the world to issue regional travel advisories. If the official stats in a place like Mexico showed only dozens of cases, the real number had to be in the hundreds. And yet, Puerto Vallarta remained a safe resort haven, untouched by the plague. The state government, strapped for cash, had poured all its resources into sanitizing the area to lure in wealthy tourists. Even to my Golden Age's Eye, there wasn't a trace of pestilence.
But the government's efforts were in vain. A global economic crisis triggered by the pandemic and crashing oil prices had obliterated tourism demand entirely. On top of that, Mexico's already notorious security was hitting new lows amid the severe downturn. Murders, kidnappings, rapes, looting, riots, arsons, and constant cartel skirmishes. Even this supposedly safe Puerto Vallarta saw black smoke rising sporadically from the slums. In the end, the late-autumn port—famed as a resort destination—was shrouded in a gloomy silence.
I arrived at the harbor a full fortnight before the scheduled delivery of our cargo, before we'd even set up a command post. I spent those first four days solely on site reconnaissance. On the fifth day, around noon, I stopped at a roadside restaurant where lively music had been replaced by a public broadcast news channel.
The report was about how security gaps had become the primary worry for the impoverished, while demand for private security firms was surging. The announcer's voice was as dry as the city's mood. Nothing new for this country—just a plunge into an even deeper abyss than the bottom we'd thought we'd hit.
"It's hard to survive. The Americans aren't coming this year. Damn! You can't even make 50 pesos working all day."
That was the waitress I'd seated across from me, venting. Our group was the only clientele in the place, so the server had readily agreed to chat until more customers showed up. Kyung-tae and Suyeon had moved to a nearby table for the moment. The rest of the security detail—two teams—waited outside in their vehicles.
"Americans usually flock here, right?"
She nodded vigorously at my question.
"Yes. This place used to explode in population every winter. Rich old folks from North America would spend their winters here, nice and warm. We scraped by the last six months hoping against hope for winter... but..."
A deep sigh escaped her.
"Well, in the end, we're totally screwed. All those hotels and resorts are on the brink of bankruptcy. Some have already shuttered. We're done for."
"I get it. Must be tough."
"Really tough. If you believe we're pinning our hopes on you folks as the first customers of the day? No sign of this slump letting up."
Fifty pesos was less than 3,000 won. Chump change even in low-cost Mexico—barely enough to scrape by. Propping my chin, I watched her eyes keep drifting hungrily toward the food I'd left half-eaten, my appetite gone. Her throat bobbed once. She was in a spot where even a full day's work barely covered the cheapest meal on the menu here. Staff discount or not, this was upscale tourist fare.
Like African laborers on cocoa farms. They pick beans their whole lives without ever tasting chocolate. Exploitation was human nature, inevitable wherever profit could be chased. Nothing shocking about it. Mexico was still two or three times better off than the African average. Besides, her candid griping felt more like a ploy to upsell for bigger tips. Otherwise, who'd just blurt out "I'm poor" like that?
"Clear this away, and order whatever you want."
"Pardon?"
"It's on me. You haven't eaten yet, right?"
"R-Really...?"
I nodded calmly, giving her certainty.
"Don't worry about the price. Order till you're stuffed. And throw in a horchata while you're at it."
She hesitated, then hunger won out. After a quick word with the boss—a burly guy—she rang the kitchen bell for her order and returned.
"Th-Thank you. I'll dig in."
Her cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and flattery. A lone guy sending his entourage away to chat with her? She had to figure I was into her. And she had the looks to back it up. The boss watched from afar, looking grumpy but not hating it. No customers meant desperate times—sales were sales.
She cleared the table, sat back down, and smiled.
"You're a kind gentleman. And your Spanish is spot-on. Not Chinese, by any chance?"
"No. From Korea."
"Corea?"
"Corea del Sur."
"Ah, South Korea! I saw it on TV all the time. They say you handled that damn Chinese plague better than anyone. Masks that actually work, test kits you can trust—unlike the Chinese crap. Even mighty America got a ton of help from South Korea this time."
"So I've heard."
"It was so satisfying. All that arrogance, and it turns out they're just rich idiots."
Yeah. America: wealthy, powerful barbarians.
"Maria."
I read her name tag.
"Between America and China—which do you hate more?"
Her bunny eyes blinked, then she groaned, deep in thought. America, who invaded, stole half the country, and still treated Mexicans like potential illegals without shame. China, who exported the plague, turning the world to ash and making even daily bread a struggle.
She answered soon enough.
"China."
"As expected. Others too?"
"Most, probably. When you're starving to death, the Chinese piss you off more. Hate their denial that it started there, the junk they send as 'aid,' charging premium for masks and kits they unleashed in the first place."
Hate poured out fluidly. Just as I'd predicted. Patriotism crumbles before an empty stomach. Maria flashed a grin and continued.
"Since you said you're not Chinese..."
"What?"
She glanced around, hand to mouth, serious.
"In my opinion... Taiwan is number one."
Pfft! Water sprayed from nearby. Suyeon set down her cup, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, the other pressing her forehead. Kyung-tae, clueless on Spanish, blinked in bewilderment, soaked.
Suyeon apologized, massaging her temple. Kyung-tae waved it off: "No, noona. This is a reward for me, Kim Kyung-tae. A reward."
That only darkened Suyeon's face further. Maria jumped up, grabbed a towel, and played waitress proper, dabbing Kyung-tae's face and neck. He accepted, then deadpanned in English:
"Man, the rewards just keep coming."
Service workers here needed English—it decided tip sizes. Maria burst out laughing at his joke. Settling back, more relaxed, she spent twenty minutes badmouthing China and sharing neighbors' woes over skipped meals. Her "Taiwan number one" bit was her own loyalty test, it seemed.
"Mary! Aqui esta tu orden!"
The cook yelled from the kitchen, leaning out. Maria turned and hollered back:
"Bien voy a estar allí!"
She winked at me and spun away.
"Just a sec. Be right back."
I watched her bouncy stride, mulling her raw hate for China. Seeing that poison spread worldwide? Quite satisfying.
Escaping the frying pan only to land in the fire? No thanks.
I opposed the Round Table Cabinet because they sure as hell wouldn't abandon hunting my eyes. Destroying them meant a world where no one hunted me—a peaceful life. That simple wish set me apart from the imperialists infesting the world. Their greed was endless; mine had a humble end.
The imperialist-stuffed Chinese Communist Party was a massive threat to that endgame. Topple the Round Table into a dystopia run by those red-coated frauds? Where would my peace come from then? I couldn't let them trample my dream.
The problem: population was becoming asymmetric warfare. China's official 1.44 billion—unofficially 1.5 billion. Awakened with circuits would grow into unstoppable forces.
I pinned hopes on the U.S. president reelected early this month.
Crazy in many ways, but that's why he does what sane folks won't. Like ignoring tribal sovereignty with an executive order to bomb the Desert People's holy site.
Gripping anti-China reins, campaigning on it to win—he was already sharpening fangs against China fiercer than before. A madman nursing a grudge. The China virus nearly tanked his term. He had indirect support from political foes and plague-hit nations alike.
Hong Kong, chaotic with protests all year, was now a steel spike in the mainland's gut. Kyung-tae called it "I see a kill corner." Whatever that meant.
Dr-r-r—
Maria wheeled back a serving cart, setting my horchata first.
"Here, your extra horchata."
Creamy pale liquid—rice-milk base heavy with cinnamon and vanilla. Then mains: five dishes. Desserts: two. I flashed her a measured, tool-like smile as she eyed me. More would be impossible anyway.
Cart cleared, she dug in with relief, chattier now. I nodded along, slipping in keywords.
"The cartels?"
Her eyes widened, then she nodded glumly.
"Well, tough times for everyone. Cartels guarantee food, so lots are tempted. Plus—"
"Plus?"
"Dad says it's rough for them too. That's why they're devouring each other. People have what people need most, right? Cheap lives make recruiting easy—big fights break out often."
"Sound advice. What does your father do, Miss Chun?"
"..."
I apologized into her deepening gloom.
"Sorry. Shouldn't have pried."
"No. It's the Chinese's fault anyway. He used to work at the port authority right there..."
Even civil servants—the last bastion of order—were getting axed. Her words confirmed it: Puerto Vallarta, Mexico entire, was a dry tinder pile doused in gasoline. Any cartel with cash and guns could swell ranks endlessly. Precariously so.
Already underway in Guadalajara.
Houston to here: three days. In that time, Guadalajara spiraled. No hiding it anymore.
The so-called "Meat Shield War"—Templar Knights torching, Sinaloa counter-firing—turned Mexico's second city into 1990s Baghdad.
Not just there. Sparks everywhere: unstable streets, cities worldwide. Variations in scale, form. Global slump, political chaos, surging powered folks—like parched forests awaiting embers. Calm on surface, seething with heat, ruin, death below.
Flip side: I could leverage it for insurance. Prevent any outsiders' funny business too, while at it.