Independence Day

Until the moment he sauntered out of Chinandega’s bright blue Policía National headquarters, Isai Vargas was only a name and a mugshot to the undercover detective assigned to follow him. Vargas had been picked up the night before for questioning about his possible ties to the Heroes, a gang of transportistas newly formed in the wake of the fall of the Cachiros, who once controlled the drug route through Nicaragua to North America. 

Vargas was taller than the detective expected, and dressed more like a university student than a gang member. He wore a white shirt, jeans, expensive running shoes, and carried a rucksack slung over one shoulder. 

As he watched Vargas descend the stairs to the street, Detective Ariel Sánchez thought that, at 24, Vargas should be looking at a bright future. Instead, the odds were that he would die early, or spend his life in and out of prison. 

The September sky was clear, promising fine weather and a large turnout for Independence Day, and the city’s Patron Saint Festival of Villa Nueva. So many strangers in town would make it easier for Sánchez to follow Vargas, who headed down Calle Central Este and across NIC 50 to the Parque Central, where hundreds of festival goers enjoyed the live music, and kept the many street vendors busy.

But Vargas was oblivious to the festivities as he pushed his way through the crowd and continued at a fast pace through the park to Calle Norte. By the time Sánchez caught up with him, he had crossed the street and was entering the brilliant yellow Parroquia Santa Ana, which glowed in the sunshine like hope itself.  

Sánchez stepped into the cool limpid light of the church and once again admired its remarkable alter dominated by several tortured icons portraying the stations of the cross. He crossed himself, reminded again that life is a serious affair, with death as the final reward.

Vargas disappeared inside the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, just as several children ran up to Sánchez hoping to sell him pieces of candy and gum. He gave them each a few centavos, and then joined a group of tourists on their way into the chapel. 

Vargas stood near the statue of Sangre de Cristo with his twenty-one year fiancée, Omara Pérez. She wore a sleeveless white blouse, jeans, and a pair of leather sandals. A single braid of her long black hair rested across one shoulder like a pet snake.  

While Sánchez mingled with the other visitors he overheard their conversation.

“My sister Alma has made the arrangements,” Pérez said.

Vargas closed his eyes and sighed. “You promised me you’d wait another month.”

“And then, what?”

“We will have enough money to get married, to raise a family.”

“What is the good of money, if you lose your soul in the bargain?”

Vargas took both her hands in his. “Be reasonable, Mari. How can we make a new life in Costa Rica without money? Already there is talk of the border closing to Nicaragüenses. Without means, we are parasites in their eyes. And what chance does our unborn child have for a good life? Give me one month more and we will start a new life away from here.”

Pérez bowed her head in resignation, but Vargas pressed her, “Will you give me the month, or no?”

“One month,” she said. “Not a day more” 

Vargas watched her walk away, his expression changing from one of anger to remorse. 

While Sánchez waited to see what Vargas would do next, a middle-aged American couple handed him their camera and asked him in English to take their picture. 

In those few seconds, Vargas slipped away. Sánchez rushed out of the chapel, and into the street, but it was too late. Vargas had vanished. 

Sánchez strolled into the park, the most likely place Vargas would run, and spotted Omara Pérez buying a tiste and a quesillo from a food vendor. She paid for her order and carried it to a nearby bench. 

No more than a minute passed before a black SUV burst into the park and came to a halt beside Pérez. Two armed masked men sprang out of the vehicle. One of them grabbed Pérez, and carried her away, leaving behind a trail of spilled food and drink. The other man pointed an automatic rifle at Sánchez and ordered him to kneel with his hands on his head while he patted him down. When he discovered the detective’s Beretta 92, he ordered him to march to the SUV, where he was pushed into the back seat next to Perez. 

As the vehicle sped out of the park, Sánchez saw that no one was alarmed; the food vendor was pushing his cart in the direction of the church, the music had resumed playing, and the revelers carried on as if nothing had happened. 

He sighed, and observed, not for the first time, that the prevalence of excessive violence in his country had made most of its citizens so jaded they had become as complicit as the perpetrators. Two people were kidnapped at gunpoint in the light of day, he mused, and no one, out of a crowd of hundreds had intervened. 

While his partner drove, the man with the rifle examined Sánchez’s papers. “Pepe, it is our lucky day,” he said. “The old man is no tourista. He is detective Ariel Sánchez.”

Pepe squinted at Sánchez’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “You were following Vargas’ woman, no?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve heard the name Sánchez before,” Pepe said, returning his attention to the road. “Back in the day, I heard there was a cop named Sánchez, a regular one man army fighting against drug traffickers. But, you cannot be the same as him, old man. You look to be past your prime.”

“Death will close your eyes, before mine,” Sánchez said, with a silent promise to make it so. 

Pepe laughed. “You see, Lucas, He is not only old, but crazy, too. If he tries anything, shoot him and try not to kill the girl in the bargain.”

For the next twenty minutes the SUV sped east on 27A toward the coast, while Lucas kept his rifle pointed at Sánchez’s chest, and his eyes fixed on Pérez. 

Pepe turned onto NN-276 at El Realejo, not much of a place now, but centuries ago, it was a major seaport. After traveling a few kilometers, he left the road to follow a tangled trail to the banks of the Estero Paso Caballos.

Pérez and Sánchez were marched onto a floating dock, at the end of which, a motor yacht was tied up, its twin outboards idling. The captain, a barrel-chested man dressed all in white like a campesino, smoked a cigar, and listened to a boom box softly playing a popular Godoy brothers song, Nicaragua, Nicaraguita. Sánchez thought the song as good an anthem as any to play at the end of his life of service to his country.

An unpleasant looking boy of no more than 15, stepped off the boat and approached them, his automatic rifle at the ready. He looked at the prisoners without changing his expression. Sánchez got the feeling that if ordered to do so, he would think nothing of emptying his rifle’s entire magazine into both of them.

“Watch him, Jiménez. He’s a copper,” Pepe said, showing him Sánchez’s gold shield.

The boy glanced at the badge and gave the detective another look. “He will be no trouble,” he said, clearly not impressed.   

As he handed them off to Jiménez, Pepe boasted, “El Jefe will be most happy to know we got your sorry ass. Don’t you see you let the Americans brain wash you? When will you cops understand that cocaine fuels our country’s economy. One day, all drugs will be legal here, and it will be possible to grow rich without killing each other, or going to prison. But for now, the old ways prevail.”

Once they were on board, Jiménez cast off the dock lines, then took a seat in the stern, while the captain steered the boat into the estuary waters, and headed downstream.

Sánchez stole a glance at the shore. The SUV was gone, and the floating dock was submerged. He was not hopeful of a good outcome. 

Pérez was suffering from shock. Her shoulders were shaking as if she were cold despite the heat. When Sánchez attempted to comfort her, Jiménez lowered his rifle and warned him to be silent.  

After thirty minutes of enduring the bites of swarming mosquitoes, Sánchez heard the distant sounds of civilization, and got a whiff of the acrid stench from the Corinto chemical plant. The port was not far away, he thought, possibly less than a mile. 

But the busy port was not their destination. The captain throttled the twin outboards down, and steered into a wide lagoon, setting off the startled cries of herons. Before long, they pulled alongside a derelict freighter surrounded by the  rusting hulls of other ships. Apparently, the spot had become a graveyard clogged with disabled ships towed and abandoned here. 

Jiménez grabbed the end of a rope ladder hanging off the port side of the freighter and ordered his prisoners to climb to the deck Once they were on deck, the boy clambered over the gunwale with his rifle slung over his shoulder, and a powerful lantern in one hand. He marched them at gunpoint to the ship’s galley, where he told them to go inside and sit on the floor with their hands behind their heads. 

“If Vargas is man enough to become a Hero, I will come for you tomorrow afternoon,” Jiménez said, shining his light in their faces. “Otherwise, you will both die here. The port authority plans to blow up this stinking ship and the rest of these rust buckets the day after tomorrow so they can create a bird sanctuary in its place. A stupid idea, no?” And then, he was gone, locking the galley door behind him. The tap, tap of his boots on the deck grew fainter, and then, not more than a minute later, they heard the throaty roar of the twin outboards churning in the water as the yacht pulled away from the ship.

Neither spoke for some time. Finally, Pérez touched the detective’s shoulder and whispered, “Is he really gone?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“So, you are a cop?”

“I am.”

“Do you know, was my novio Isai working for the police as an informant?”

“No.” 

“A pity,” she said. “But, I doubt he could serve two masters.”

“Try to get some sleep,” Sánchez said. “At first light, we must find a way out of here.”

Sánchez was used to sleeping anywhere, but the cramped galley smelled of rot and the floor was covered with grime. Eventually, he fell asleep listening to the rats scurrying somewhere below decks. Just before dawn, he woke to the sound of Pérez vomiting into the sink. Morning sickness, he thought. “How far along are you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “The clinic was crowded with so many seriously ill patients, that the doctor only confirmed my pregnancy—no exam, no sonogram. My menses was late for some weeks before I was tested.” Pérez touched her still flat belly. “Perhaps three months?”

While they waited for first light, Pérez told Sánchez some of her story. She had grown up the only child of a physician. She met Vargas at university. Eventually they became engaged, and made plans to move to Costa Rica, where they hoped to have more opportunities. And then, she became pregnant. “Before today” she said, “I was willing to end my pregnancy to prevent Isai from ruining his life by joining the gang. My aunt arranged for it to happen as soon as I returned to Managua. But, now, I see it doesn’t matter what I wanted. Perhaps, God has other plans for us, Mr. Sánchez."

It struck Sánchez as ironic that Pérez and Vargas had both been willing to kill in order to have a future. Vargas, for his part, would have been obligated to commit a senseless, random murder to become a gang member, and make enough money to leave the country. To prevent her fiancé from joining the gang in the first place, Pérez was willing to abort their child. For too many in the world, he thought, it has come to this: Survival means kill, or be killed. 

Regardless, Sánchez liked Pérez. What’s more, he thought that whether he appreciated it or not, Vargas was indeed a fortunate man to have her affection. In another age, she might have fallen in love with a rebel leader, and willingly died at his side for what she believed was a noble cause. 

Finally, sunlight streamed through the only window in the galley, a grease covered portlight situated about a foot above the work counter. Sánchez climbed onto the counter and wiped the glass clean with a rag. A gull sat on the gunwale drying its wings, herons waded in the shallows of the lagoon, and scattered along the sandy shoreline, alligators dosed in the first rays of the sun.  He could just make out a buoy with a flashing red light floating in the middle of the lagoon. A yellow banner with red letters waved in the breeze and announced: ¡Muy Peligro! ¡No Entrar!  He had little doubt that the freighter, as well as the other derelict ships were already wired with explosives to be detonated remotely tomorrow. 

For a few minutes, Sánchez worked at the portlight, but it was welded shut on the outside. He climbed down and gave the bad news to Pérez. 

“So we are two sardines in a can without a can opener,” she joked.  

 “If we had the right kind of can opener, you could squeeze through the opening and save the day.” 

Pérez looked hopeful. “What kind of a can opener do you need?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

They searched the galley. For their efforts, they netted a depleted fire extinguisher, an axe with a broken handle, a half empty propane tank, a deck of cards, and a few centavos in loose change. At the bottom of a locker, Sánchez found a Playboy magazine rolled up around an emergency flare. He gave up a silent prayer of thanks.

Pérez surveyed the pile. “Now what?”

“I have an idea. Pray that it works.”

Armed with the flare and the propane tank, Sánchez climbed onto the counter, lit the flare and held the flame against the portlight until the glass glowed. Next, he opened the valve on the propane tank, and held the nozzle so the escaping gas—at minus 40 centigrade— would freeze the already fissured glass. When the tank was empty, he took the fire extinguisher from Pérez and pounded it against the brittle glass like a battering ram until the glass shattered. 

A cool breeze and the cries of gulls rushed into the suffocating gloom of the galley. Sánchez chipped away at the remaining glass fragments with the ax. It was less than a meter’s drop to the deck, but the opening was far too small for him.

He lifted Pérez up and helped her out the opening, feet first. There was not a centimeter to spare, but she made it through. Seconds later, she dropped to the deck, and opened the galley door. Other than a few minor cuts on her arms and legs, she was fine. 

At the end of the gangway, a lifeboat was hanging halfway over the side. Sánchez freed the tangled gear, and lowered the boat.  Hand in hand, they leaped feet first  into the slick, oily water, swam to the lifeboat and climbed in. 

They freed the snagged lines and the boat drifted into the lagoon where it joined the strong current flowing to the Caribbean. Within a few minutes, it was clear that the boat was leaking and taking on water faster than they could bail it out with just their hands. They swam away from the boat, treading water as it sank, while they took turns crying for help. 

Pérez spotted it first and began waving at a small fishing boat which had appeared out of nowhere and was heading toward them. Their savior was an old man wearing a panama hat. He flashed a toothy grin. “Good morning,” he cried, “May I be of service?” 

Within the hour, they arrived alongside a rickety dock hidden in the wetlands above the seaport. As soon as they were ashore, the old man, who never uttered another word, waved to them, and steered his boat back into the main waterway. They owed their  lives to an anonymous fisherman who appeared from nowhere, asked for nothing in return for his help, and then, disappeared. It is the decency of such humble men, Sánchez thought, that forms the bedrock of humanity. 

As the sun rose, they followed a trail to a private marina with a payphone, where Sánchez used the centavos he found in the galley to call the private number of a high-ranking official who owed his life and reputation to him. The answered immediately. “How can I help you, detective?”

Sánchez explained the situation. The VIP agreed without hesitation to facilitate Perez’s journey to Costa Rica and provide money. “Will you accompany her?” 

“My journey lies elsewhere,” Sánchez answered, without knowing exactly where.

The next morning, Sánchez said goodbye to Omara Pérez at the Corinto Migración office. Despite a few bandages, she looked radiant and greeted him with a smile. Neither of them mentioned Vargas, whose mutilated body had been left in front of the Chinandega police headquarters the night they were kidnapped. 

When it was time for her to leave, Pérez hugged her benefactor and whispered, “Boy or girl, my child will bear your name,” she promised.

“I have no doubt that you will be a fine mother, Omara,” he said, handing her an envelope full of enough cash to last her for several weeks in San José. She would have only the bare essentials, he knew, but she would be free. To her parents and the world at large, Omara Pérez was missing and presumed dead. If the Heroes knew she was still alive, they would hunt her down and kill her to save face. 

Sánchez realized that it was also his own Independence Day. His old life was over. His apartment in Managua, his car, his career—all of it, belonged to a dead man. Somehow, he felt relieved. Tomorrow, he too, would have a new name and a new life. And then, who knows?

[First Published on January 2021 by The Ice Colony’s Lo Fed Chronicle—Contest Winner]