The Wall, page 1
The Wall
The Refugees’ Path to a New Republic
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products
of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2020 Tetsuo Ted Takashima
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, and no part of this publication may be sold or hired without the express permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Takashima, Tetsuo, 1949- author.
Title: The wall : the refugees' path to a new republic / Tetsuo Ted
Takashima ; translated by Giuseppe di Martino.
Other titles: Akai suna. English
Description: New York : Museyon, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020026346 (print) | LCCN 2020026347 (ebook) | ISBN
9781940842462 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781940842479 (epub) | ISBN
9781940842486 (pdf) | ISBN 9781940842493 (mobi)
Classification: LCC PL862.A424144 A3813 2020 (print) | LCC PL862.A424144
(ebook) | DDC 895.63/6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026346
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026347
First edition 2020
Published in the United States and Canada by:
Museyon Inc.
333 East 45th Street
New York, NY 10017
Museyon is a registered trademark.
Visit us online at www.museyon.com
Printed in USA
Dedicated to all the refugees in the world and to the memory of my mother
The Wall
The Refugees’ Path to a New Republic
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1: The Desert War Room
CHAPTER 2: The Road to Cordova
CHAPTER 3: The Revolutionary Army
CHAPTER 4: Of Father and Daughter
CHAPTER 5: The Dictator and the Drug Lord
CHAPTER 6: The Other Side of the Truth
CHAPTER 7: Into the Capital
CHAPTER 8: The Final Battle
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Day was just beginning to break.
The desert sands were stained red, like a sea of blood. Hidden within stood an assemblage of over five thousand individuals.
Through the radio one Army man held to his ear, a female reporter’s voice continued describing the situation in breathless tones: “A week has passed since the caravan has set up their campsite. They have applied for asylum with the US government, but have yet to receive any reply, and are clearly reaching the end of their ropes. As we speak, reports keep coming in of refugees climbing over the wall to reach the States. America, and the world, continue to watch closely.”
At that moment, close to ten media helicopters were flitting about, the air as intensely charged as ever.
The partition at the border between America and Mexico, dubbed “The Wall,” stood nearly twenty-three feet high and spanned dozens of miles, with steel piles (nearly four inches in height and just over one inch in thickness) placed at around six-inch intervals.
“ . . . Citizens of the Central American country of Cordova are fleeing the dictatorship of President Gumersindo Cortázar, as well as the brutality of José Moreno and his narcotics cartel, Los Eternos, with no end in sight for the mass exodus. Over ten thousand have fled this year alone, and that figure will only increase. In response to overwhelming pressure from America’s far right, US President Robert Copeland is refusing to allow them entry. Troops have been dispatched in order to prevent them from setting foot on American soil . . .”
The copters overhead dipped lower.
US Army Captain Jadon Green, commander of the troops guarding The Wall, set the radio away from his ear and raised the volume. The tension was excruciating; the young men of arms were teetering on the brink. One faint spark could be all it took to light the powder keg.
Gazing ahead, they could see the expanse of the Mexican desert between The Wall’s giant steel piles. The scene on the ground was reminiscent of a Middle Eastern refugee camp, with countless tents large and small. The asylum seekers had already been eking out a life there for a week, and their numbers were growing.
What Jadon had seen in Turkey flashed to mind. The camps of Syrian refugees fleeing the Islamic State. The folks whose hopes for the future had all been swallowed by starvation and fear. The crude tents lined up on the low ground. The all-but-barefoot children begging for food, even amidst the mud on rainy days and nights. Occasionally, the residents of the site would flock to some United Nations or private charity truck carrying relief supplies. The only purpose driving the displaced was to survive another day.
The reporter’s voice jolted Jadon out of his train of thought: “ . . . Refugees are surging closer and closer toward the border, having walked around 2,500 miles since leaving their home country of Cordova one month prior. Many of them are women and children, and many are elderly. Originally, what they’re calling the caravan numbered a little more than a thousand, but its ranks swelled when they were joined by Mexican migrants, and now they’re thought to exceed the five thousand mark. Meanwhile, five hundred American soldiers are stationed to face them. The soldiers have their firearms at the ready, yet the refugees continue to advance toward the wall at the border with no sign of being cowed . . .”
As the dawn encroached, a heavy, rumbling moan rose from the distance as the stark shadows were stretching at the red sands’ horizon. An altogether new band of refugees that had marched throughout the night was approaching. Soon enough, they’d drawn close enough for the soldiers to ascertain their individual appearances.
The nervous energy seizing the soldiers grew yet more potent. They once again pointed their guns.
“Fingers off your triggers, soldiers,” said Jadon. “We’re just trying to scare them. Remember, they’re not armed. No harm will come to you, so calm down.” It did serve to soothe some nerves for the time being, but how long would he be able to keep that up?
The crowd, which was dyed as red as the desert, kept closing the distance toward The Wall, planting fear into the young soldiers’ hearts. Before they knew it, the refugees who they thought were still asleep had gotten onto their feet too. In a blink, the scarlet sunlight from beyond the dunes had given way, and a great throng was flooding the other side of The Wall.
Several men ran up to the partition and began climbing. The number of refugees sticking by The Wall kept increasing, until they outnumbered the soldiers many times over. They held ladders and ropes with grappling hooks by the plenty.
“The people at the head of the Caravan are advancing up The Wall,” stated the radio excitedly.
“Masks on, soldiers,” said Jadon. “Use the tear gas.”
At his orders, dozens of tear-gas bombs were launched. Angry roars came flying, but the refugees were not deterred. Instead, they ran toward The Wall, clinging to it in their thousands and setting upon the ascent. The soldiers defending The Wall were ready to defend their country, while hoping it would not come to a confrontation.
Then, a gunshot pierced the air. Every soul stopped in its tracks. The only commotion, the whir of the copters. Yet before the ringing of the first shot had even gone, it was joined by a whole host of automatic weapons. The gunfight was now underway.
“Hold your fire. That’s an order!” screamed Jadon, but his voice was drowned out by an unholy combination of wrathful bellowing, anguished cries, and bullets unrelenting.
The soldiers were flustered, and in the confusion, all too many just kept firing. The refugees were beating panicked retreats now, but the hail of bullets felled women and children without mercy.
“Stop! Stop firing!”
Behind the soldiers, Jadon fired a handgun into the sky. Just like that, the storm ceased.
Firearms still hot in their grips, the soldiers gaped dumbfounded. It seemed they’d returned to sanity.
It had taken a little over ten minutes for the Mexican side of The Wall to be drenched in the blood of the hundreds who now lay prone on the grit. Everywhere there was weeping, moaning, shrieking. One of the cries rang out over the din; a man raised an infant girl up for the sentries to see. Blood was dripping from her head, tinging the man’s own head in red.
“America’s killed my wife and daughter,” he cried. “They are the devil. I will have my revenge. I will kill you all.”
A woman was crumpled at his feet, bleeding from the chest and abdomen. Jadon could only stare in disbelief.
Meanwhile, at the Oval Office . . .
President Copeland was looking over the script of a speech he’d be reciting at a dinner party to which the UK ambassador was invited. Would it be a bit gauche to add a joke about how leaving the EU would definitely solve the immigration and refugee problem?
That was when Chief of Staff Albert Campbell barged in, passing by the president’s desk without a word to turn on the TV.
“What the . . .” the president found himself murmuring. Then, he turned pale.
“It’s the bit of The Wall 12 miles east of El Paso. CNN’s got the footage.” Campbell raised the volume. Gunshots resounded in rapid succession, while thousands on the Mexican side ran away in all directions, and hundreds lay bloodied and broken. “There’s been a shoot-out at The Wall. The body count is s
“Have them stop firing this instant. I ordered nothing of the sort!”
“This isn’t live. It’s already over.”
The president looked back at the screen. They were now showing medical orderlies frantically running around, with voices audible from the studio.
“The acting commander ordered them to cease firing the second they started. But the fire lasted over ten minutes.”
“Who shot first?”
“We’re looking into it.”
If we fired first, then . . . Then everything’s going to spin out of control. But Bob swallowed those words. He was going to get blasted by his constituents, his rivals, and the international community. This was a massacre, plain and simple.
“Call the secretaries of defense and state. We’re holding an NSC meeting,” said Bob, rising from his chair.
But he froze when he saw who was at the door. It was his daughter Patricia—who’d recently turned thirteen—stiff as a board, eyes glued to the screen. No doubt she’d overheard their conversation too. Her gaze turned to her father.
“Go to your room. I told you not to come here; I work here.” He didn’t mean to sound that harsh, but that was how the words came out.
Patricia dropped the file she’d been holding, and the photo of the puppy born just last week fell to the floor. That jogged his memory: She’d told him all about it over breakfast, and he’d asked her to show him. She snapped out of her dazed silence and broke into a run. “I hate you!”
That remark stabbed deep into his heart. He saw the tears welling in her eyes. She was a smart one, with an interest in politics. The full gravity of the situation couldn’t have eluded her.
The “Tragedy at The Wall” was made known to the world in real time. One hundred fifteen Cordovans were dead, 332 injured. Zero Americans were dead, eight injured.
The media and press were unanimous in decrying Washington. In addition, Captain Jadon Green was now the object of scorn and ridicule, reviled as the Border Butcher and the Killer Commander. Had he been court-martialed, he would have faced the distinct possibility of a life sentence, but he was able to secure a plea bargain at the inquiry commission thanks to his old superior, Colonel Stewart Gobel. Jadon acknowledged his own folly and his lack of experience. The military wanted Jadon disposed of as quickly as possible, so they slapped him with a dishonorable discharge. Now that that was on his record, depending on the state, he couldn’t vote or bear arms. In short order, the Tragedy had been chalked up to the grave error of a single captain, absolving the military as a whole.
The White House promptly conducted polling to better grasp the extent of the fallout. In a day’s time, President Copeland’s approval rating had plummeted 15 percent (from 52 percent to 37 percent). And the only reason it wasn’t even lower was because of the press conference he set up right on the incident’s heels, wherein he expressed his condolences to the victims and declared he would get to the bottom of the whole affair. At the same time, he stressed the rule of law in not allowing entry to the refugees who’d tried to storm their way over.
The invective that had dug under his skin the deepest remained Patricia’s “I hate you!” Even now, he could see the tears glistening in her accusing eyes.
Meanwhile, over in Cordova, dictator Gumersindo Cortázar wasted no time addressing his nation after he was apprised of the first reports: “Don’t run from your country. The Americans will just slaughter you. The only country for Cordovans is Cordova. The only country for Cordovans is right here. This is your heartland.”
Following that speech, almost no one dared leave the dictatorship anymore.
■ ■ ■
1
The Desert War Room
No sooner had Jadon entered the room than his phone rang.
He gave the screen a once-over before putting it on the table and disrobing his mud-stained outerwear. Then he pulled a can of beer out of the drugstore paper bag and chugged it all down. His body absorbed the alcohol. His muscles were tired, but he didn’t feel like falling asleep. He’d just wake from his nightmares in another cold sweat.
The room was in a motel in the LA burbs. Voices from the neighboring rooms passed through the walls as if they were made of cardboard. He turned on the TV and put it on mute.
A week had passed since he started working construction at this place. Ten-hour days, $170 a day. It was the only job he could come by while keeping his identity hidden. Such was the fate of former US Army Captain Jadon Green, ten months and counting since he left the military.
The moniker of Border Butcher had gained more traction than he’d expected. He’d been forced to change jobs nine times now. One place, he’d even gotten canned the day after he started working. The boss there simply placed a paper on his office desk, giving Jadon a defiant look all the while. Needless to say, the paper featured an article with Jadon’s photo. Jadon had to swallow the sudden urge to punch his lights out, but he balled his fists and bore it.
The internet was virtually plastered with photos and articles. Hundreds of the dead and injured, splayed and fallen before The Wall’s steel piles, and more than half of them were women and children. Some of the corpses even had bullet wounds through their heads. And behind the soldiers stood Jadon Green with his handgun, shooting into the sky. To the world, it looked as though he’d been encouraging them to fire.
They’d needed a scapegoat to pin the blame on, naturally. And he just happened to fit the bill. Still, he didn’t care to make excuses. Or rather, he couldn’t make excuses. He’d been the captain there. That was the plain truth.
After draining another beer, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the table and partook. Only, he didn’t really “partake” so much as he used it to wash it all down. Maybe it was the soldierly discipline, or whatever was left of it, that kept him from drowning in more than a certain amount. Maybe it was more out of consideration for his four-year-old daughter . . . and the child support he needed to dole out.
Ever since the day of the incident, the media and morbidly curious onlookers alike camped around the Green family home, waiting for their prey to exit. Trolls and harassers made sure their phones rang nonstop, night and day, while their tires kept getting slashed. Some nights, a stone or two would be thrown through the windows in the wee hours. Paulina had been three at the time. Every night, she’d cry. Every night.
That wasn’t even getting into the swarm of countless letters and emails. Some of the mail contained box-cutter blades. The paranoia was intense. The slightest bump in the night would cause Paulina to jolt awake and burst into tears. Shirley would hold her tight and cower with her in a corner of the room.
Eventually, Jadon had the two take refuge in his in-laws’ home. The first two months, he called every day. All the while, memories of that day would attack unbidden whenever he had a moment to think in his own home. And his insomnia only grew worse and worse. In his dreams, claws would reach out from between the gaps of The Wall. There had even been times he’d wake himself up shouting, begging them to stop.
It wasn’t long until he turned to booze. And the phone calls, they went from once every other day, to once a week, to zero from his end.
Six months later, the divorce notice came in. He couldn’t blame Shirley. He signed it and delivered it the very next day.
The smartphone on the table began ringing again. This time, he grabbed it reflexively.
“Finally picked up, huh?” Shirley said. “I called more than ten times. The child support bank transfer still hasn’t come in yet. Are you still sending it to your old friend? Because let me tell you, it’s the military that made our lives such a mess. And it’s Paulina who pays the price. Not that I don’t, either. You want to see her, don’t you? Then take responsibility and . . .”
Shirley kept talking his ear off. Jadon took the phone from his ear and found he could still hear her. This was not speakerphone.
Then, the doorbell rang.
Jadon set the phone on his bed and threw on his jacket, looked through the peephole, and opened the door. There stood a gray-haired, tall-figured man in Army uniform. His face was sun-beaten, with a scar from his right cheek down to his neck thanks to a bullet in Iraq.
