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Clark’s story places “Icarus” in the role of a high-reaching government official who, just maybe, hasn’t thought things through as much as he imagines. It’s rich with plot, intrigue, and excellent characters.

In his bio, he writes, “I joined the U.S. Naval Reserve at age 17 as Apprentice Seaman, and received an Honorable Discharge as Chief Petty Officer at age 36. My experiences at sea and in various ports have left a lasting impression on me and are reflected in my fiction.”

“Aiming High,” was originally published under the title “Getting the Message,” as one of the 17 narratives in his short-story collection, Once Upon a Decade: Tales of the Fifties (Comfort Publishing, 2011). The image for this story is a picture of Clark with two ceremonial guards in Buenos Aires, in 1984.

You can find his website, along with his 17 published books, here.

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Aiming High 

By Clark Zlotchew

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“Gallegos must die!”

López struck the desk with his fist. “If that fool proceeds with his so-called reforms, the peasants will end up owning the entire country while our holdings are dissipated. And mind you, Guerrero, it’s not mere selfishness on our part. I’m sure you realize, my dear general, they wouldn’t even know what to do with the land. The poor devils are like children. They need us to…to guide them.”

General Guerrero raised an eyebrow. “Your concern touches me, López.”

Noticing López’s frown, the burly general dropped the sarcastic tone. “Come now, López, you civilians always need high-sounding motives. That’s fine, but save all that for the outside world. I’m a military man. What interests me is the method for putting it over successfully. I am still not entirely convinced that such a thing is possible.”

López brushed a speck of dust from the lapel of his pin-striped suit. Then, attentively inspecting his buffed nails, he looked up and commented, “My dear General Guerrero, you’re quite blunt. You understand tactics, but not tact.”

“López, López, López…. Enough of this prattle.” Guerrero sounded weary. He gazed at the palm trees swaying beyond the window. “You’re not down at the International Journalists’ Club, and you’re not talking to your fellow civil servants at the Presidential Palace….”

Guerrero noted the look of wounded pride on López’ angular face, and softened his tone.

“All right, all right…. You are not a mere ‘civil servant.’ You are the faithful private secretary, advisor, confidant and ghost writer of our beloved President Gallegos. Seriously, I do recognize your talents. You know that. Otherwise I would not even be discussing this matter with you.”

General Guerrero paused to inspect the gold braid dangling from his khaki tunic, and then continued in soothing tones. “After all, you control all the communications media, and through them you can influence both our own people and the opinion of other nations. I would not even consider this enterprise without your participation. But remember, López, with all due respect, you need the Army to carry off any practical plans to dump Gallegos, and I am the one who has the Military in his pocket.” He smiled ferociously. “I am the Military!”

General Guerrero saw that López gestured as though he intended to comment, but decided to ignore him. He continued speaking.

“Now, López, I agree that each of us stands to lose a great deal personally should our great President Gallegos carry out his miserable reforms, but you’ll have to convince me you have a workable plan before I can go along with you on this. I am not simply going to liquidate Gallegos and then take over with the Armed Forces.

“I don’t want us to end up like Cuba. World opinion is important. And, no matter what you may think, the people of our own country are an even more important factor. Because—and you must never forget this—the Army is composed of men; these men have families, you know? Wives, children, brothers, sisters, cousins, in-laws, friends… And their friends have families too, and in-laws, and…”

“Yes, yes… You don’t have to draw pictures for me.”

“Oh, do I bore you, López…? Well, just bear with me a little longer. I am a simple soldier, the son of a simple peasant. I like to have everything clear, absolutely clear.

“As I was saying, our soldiers have families and friends: a numerous and complex network of relations. And who are their friends and relatives and in-laws? Just who are they, eh? I’ll tell you: they are the people, our people. And if the people revolt, are their sons and brothers going to fire on them? Well, are they? Tell me that!”

Seeing that López was staring at the ceiling as though to shut him out, Guerrero lowered his voice and continued in a more personal tone. “Maybe you think I don’t understand these matters, eh? Well, don’t be fooled. Now, come, López. Show me. Convince me. Persuade me. I have plenty of time to listen. Go on, take your time.”

The thick-set man in the khaki uniform selected a cigar from the humidor on the impeccably arranged desk of First Secretary López. He calmly passed it under his nose to savor the aroma, then settled back in the leather armchair. He deliberately bit off the cigar end, spat the bit of tobacco casually onto the thick carpet and leisurely proceeded to light the cigar, giving his entire attention to the operation. He impassively gazed at the cloud of pungent blue smoke drifting toward the spruce little man behind the huge desk, wiped the back of his hand across his bristling moustache, and finally looked directly at López.

López controlled his irritation with the General’s lack of diplomacy. He realized that behind the provincial accent was a shrewd mind, and that the gaudily-medalled military tunic represented a formidable power. López, the attorney, son of a once wealthy land owner, needed this peasant, this former laborer from the banana plantations of the coast, this devil who had reached his high position by means of his wits and ruthlessness. “Very well,” López said, “it’s quite simple….”

“Even for me, eh?”

López disregarded the sarcasm and continued. “I have already taken the precaution of having a document forged….”

Guerrero interrupted once more with a sly laugh. “Forged? I am truly shocked, First Secretary.”

López’s eyes narrowed to slits, and the pencil he held in his hands snapped. “As I was saying, this document ‘proves’ that President Gallegos intends to utilize the land to be expropriated, not for redistribution among the peasants, but for the purpose of leasing to ‘foreign interests’—the document does not name the United States directly, of course—allowing these interests to exploit the lands and the peasants on them in return for Gallego’s personal profit.”

López paused and looked at General Guerrero for some sign of admiration or at least of approval. Seeing that Guerrero merely nodded, López asked, “Perhaps you’re wondering if the forgery is convincing….?”

The General dismissed the suggestion with a careless backhanded gesture. “You know your business, López, the legal material…” the General commented wearily. “Continue.”

“Very well. You will deploy your forces at strategic points. You will arrest President Gallegos, the President will lamentably be shot to death…trying to escape, of course. And I shall take charge of the propaganda to appear on radio, newspapers and all other national media as well as seeing to it that the foreign embassies and journalists are provided with the proper report of the events. Gallegos will be thoroughly discredited; you will be a national hero, and….”

“And am I not so already?” Guerrero interrupted, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“…and I shall modestly and reluctantly accept your impassioned pleas for me to take over the Government and guide our people in their time of need.”

“Yes, modestly and reluctantly, but you will accept, will you not?” Guerrero smiled broadly.

“Can you handle the details of the military operation?”

The General said nothing. The smile disappeared from his face as he tossed his cigar butt in a high arc which ended squarely in the wastepaper basket across the room.

López was quick to notice the purposeful silence. He hastened to continue, “Very well, General, let’s set the date and smooth out some of the rough spots.”

“Who else knows of this plan, López?”

“No one but Consuelo.”

The General suddenly leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over. “¡Coño! Your wife? What the devil is wrong with you?!”

“Please, please, my friend, calm yourself. I know, I know…. She is a woman, and women like to talk. Besides, they’re too compassionate, and she might feel sorry for dear old Gallegos. My dear General, you have such stereotyped ideas of women, sexist ideas. Consuelo is not like the females you have been accustomed to in the brothels of our lovely Capital, or the ones you have…known…in the fields of your home province.

“Consuelo is beautiful and charming, indeed, but she is also clever, quite clever indeed. She is self-controlled. And she knows that what is good for me is good for her too. She knows how to ‘grab the pot by the handle,’ as you country people say. Actually, she will be an asset. She will charm the foreign dignitaries and the people will idolize her, absolutely idolize her.”

General Guerrero set his chair back in place and seated himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then responded in a conciliatory tone. “Excuse my outburst, Mr. First Secretary. You are right, of course. I ought to know by now that you do not act on impulse. You are very methodical, very scientific. And of course you are correct in saying I am not accustomed to women such as she. I shall have to broaden my horizons. Yes, yes, yes. I can see that you are right. She will be an asset.”

* 

The new Commander-in-Chief of the Republic, President Miguel Ángel López, lounged in his leather swivel chair behind his enormous mahogany desk, rifling through the late President Gallegos’ private documents. Methodically scrutinizing his predecessor’s personal files, twenty-seven hours after Gallego’s death and precisely ten hours after López’ mildly exuberant acceptance speech, the new President encountered a large manila envelope in the L file, with his name—López—scrawled across it in Gallego’s handwriting.

A sudden foreboding prompted López to hesitate before reaching into the envelope. He extracted a smaller envelope bearing his full name and an address in Geneva, Switzerland. A moment later his unsteady hand broke the official seal and extracted the document. He found the current month and year at the top with the space for the day left blank. His overwhelming curiosity won out over his almost equally powerful sense of dread; he forced himself to concentrate on the neatly-typed message. Beads of perspiration appeared on his customarily cool brow as he read.

Sr. don Miguel-Ángel López Marín
First Secretary of the Republic

My Dear Friend López:

You will be in Switzerland as my Ambassador Plenipotentiary when you open these sealed orders. Although you will be comfortable in your new assignment, you will doubtless wonder at my reticence in disclosing the real purpose for your transferral to a point so distant from your beloved homeland (and I have no doubt you are aware of there being a motive other than the official one). My heart is heavy at having to inform you of the true situation, but I know you will understand and trust my judgment.

To come directly to the point, our General Guerrero has made it clear, in his peasant frankness (and pardon my own bluntness), that he covets your loyal wife.

You may be outraged at my choice of solution in this matter; however, I beg you to understand, dear friend, the delicacy of my position. While you are my most trusted friend and invaluable aide, Guerrero is unmatched in our nation for military capabilities. He enjoys the complete confidence of the Army (justly so) and is of the utmost importance to the security of the State in our present border difficulties with our “good neighbors” to the south.

I know you are well aware of this fact; therefore, pardon me for belaboring it. I stress all this because I feel that your justifiable anger, upon being made cognizant of the General’s designs on your charming wife, might possibly obscure your cool contemplation of the matter.

Guerrero has actually proposed that I execute you on some trumped-up charge. In this way he hoped to be free to pursue your totally innocent wife. Although he appeared to resign himself to accepting my refusal, I fear this excellent soldier can prove to be completely unpredictable in affairs of the heart. In fact, I sincerely believe that I alone, my good friend, am the only force on this earth protecting you from death at his hands!

In view of my friendship for you and, at the same time my absolute need of Guerrero in the present situation (and I emphasize the word present), I feel the only solution at this juncture is to put great distance between you and your honorable lady, on one hand, and our bullheaded General on the other. I implore you not to be offended at my disposition of this distasteful situation—a disposition which is only temporary, I assure you– and to place your full confidence in me. I am convinced you will do so upon reflection.

I feel it my solemn obligation to apprise you of this abhorrent state of affairs in the event something untoward should befall me; I cannot live forever, you know. In fact, my old friend, there are sound medical reasons which would tend to indicate a much shorter life span than I would have hoped to enjoy.

I cannot adequately express to you in words the anguish I experience in having to communicate to you this unpleasant matter. You will, of course, burn this document immediately after having read it.

In the certainty that you will strive for the welfare of our beloved Republic while in Switzerland as you always have done at home, I warmly embrace you and remain your most attentive colleague and devoted friend,

Jose Maria Gallegos y Saenz
President of the Republic,
Commander-in-Chief of Armed Forces

 

The document trembled in López’s clammy hand. His eyes involuntarily wandered back to the phrase: ONLY FORCE ON THIS EARTH…DEATH. He turned away from the black letters on the white paper, but saw the same words blazing electric blue before his feverish eyes. They flashed on the desk, on the carpet, on the wall, on the door…

The tramp of military boots echoing along the corridor riveted his attention to the door.

Rifle butts pounding on that door reverberated through the spacious room. The Presidential Chamber vibrated with every blow, resounding like the crepe-decked drums at military executions. López’s silk shirt was drenched with sweat. The words ONLY FORCE…DEATH glowed dully before the door, throbbing in time with the blows. Transfixed, he stared at the door. His mind could not erase that one word: DEATH.

From beyond the door, a provincial voice derisively roared. “Open, Private Secretary!”

END

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© 2018 Clark Zlotchew. The content of this article, except for quoted or linked source materials, is protected by copyright. Please contact the author for usage.

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