Green Ice

by Gerald A. Browne

  That was why Panama was perfect for an incident, Miguel said.

  The Panama Canal is forty-two miles long. In most places it is five hundred feet wide.

  It takes about eight to nine hours for a ship to pass through. The average rate of traffic is thirty-five ships a day, mostly in the twenty- to forty-thousand-ton class. It cannot handle a ship exceeding sixty thousand tons.

  Usually, there is a back-up of ships waiting to go through the Canal. They tie up or anchor at Colón on the Atlantic end. And at Panama City on the Pacific end. The ships in holding positions enter the Canal according to the order assigned them in advance by the chief pilot of the Canal Zone Company.

  Altogether the Canal has twelve locks. Six going east, six going west. There are three sets of locks at Gatun, one set at Pedro Miguel and two sets at Miraflores.

  Miguel intended to sabotage them.

  All twelve locks.

  In effect, wipe out the entire Canal.

  And Wiley would help.

  Wiley with his knowledge of electronics, would play a vital part. They had already been through much together; they would go on to share this greater glory, Miguel said.

  The Canal was vulnerable.

  Despite the fifteen thousand troops that guarded it.

  SOUTHCOM, the U.S. Armed Forces Southern Command, had fourteen bases in the Zone. Army, navy, air force. There were underground tunnels, gun and missile emplacements, landing fields and the most sophisticated security and attack warning devices. The CIA also had a large and very active base in the Canal Zone.

  No matter. The Canal was vulnerable.

  It would be relatively easy to buy information from someone in the Chief Pilot’s Office. Especially when the information would seem innocuous. All that would have to be known in advance was what ships in what order were scheduled to pass through the Canal on a given day.

  From that, Miguel said, they would be able to work out a timetable. There was a required rate of speed at which ships traveled from one set of locks to another, and routinely, it took a ship thirty-eight minutes to make its way through a lock. Thus, they would be able to determine ahead of time precisely which ships would be in which locks at a certain moment. Twelve ships in the twelve locks. Six headed for the Pacific, six bound for the Atlantic.

  Before those particular ships entered the Canal, while they were still in holding position, they would be armed. Packs of C-6 plastic explosives, at least twenty pounds to the pack, would be attached magnetically to their hulls—on each side of their bows, and starboard and port of their sterns. Below the waterline. That would be accomplished at night by an underwater team. Not a tough task, really. The divers would only have to swim around the ships and plunk the explosives in place. Two men would be able to arm a ship in a matter of minutes.

  Each of the explosive packs would contain a detonator. Remote controlled.

  The bursting charge and the heaving force of that much C-6 would be extremely powerful. For example, the explosive force of a single pack would be enough to blow a railway locomotive twenty feet in the air and probably to pieces.

  The master remote control would be situated at some high vantage point, such as on a mountainside overlooking the Canal near the town of Nuevo Emperador.

  At the moment when all twelve ships were in the locks, the remote-control button would be pressed. (Perhaps Wiley would have the honor.)

  All forty-eight packs of C-6 would explode.

  Some of the ships would have their bows close to the gates of locks that were about to open for them. Others would have their sterns just beyond gates they had passed. The gates, although five feet thick, would be blasted apart. They were old, had been in use for nearly seventy years. They would be torn from their hinges as though they were ordinary doors.

  Possibly the dam at Gatun Lake could also be blown. A single well placed pack of C-6 would do it. That would flood the lower locks. Millions of tons of water would crush all the United States installations. The 163-square-mile lake would drain, leaving ships high and dry. The channel of the Canal would have hardly enough water left in it for a rowboat.

  The Canal would be rendered useless. Perhaps it would never be restored.

  A retributive day for imperialism.

  A shining one for Colombia.

  Appropriate that emeralds from Colombia’s own ground should make it possible.

  It was evident Miguel had done his homework on Panama.

  Wiley’s first question concerned the crews on the explosive-bearing ships, their welfare.

  Miguel said three thousand had been killed in Pearl Harbor. He wanted a positive reaction, approval from Wiley and Lillian. Didn’t Wiley believe they could pull it off?

  Wiley had to say yes.

  What about the electronic requirements? Were they feasible?

  No problem, Wiley thought it best to admit. He made up for his lack of enthusiasm by nodding thoughtfully and appearing intensely intrigued.

  Lillian tried to seem genuinely fascinated.

  Miguel left early the next morning for Barranquilla, where he would meet a representative of someone who might purchase as many as a hundred thousand carats. The buyer was from Japan. Miguel would make the price irresistible. He took along an honest sample of stones.

  Wiley and Lillian got up at ten. Neither had slept well. Both had avoided discussing Miguel’s proposed incident.

  Lillian finally brought it up, asked offhandedly if it really, honestly, no shit, could be done.

  Wiley told her, no shit, it could.

  She said it seemed farfetched.

  He said he wished it was, but that anyone who wanted to do it and had the financial wherewithal could damn well do it.

  She looked off and said Miguel meant well.

  Then why didn’t he do something sane, like send out two or three hundred letter bombs, Wiley said.

  He just might.

  Wiley was for their leaving that moment.

  Lillian didn’t think that would solve anything.

  With the emeralds, Wiley added.

  No comment from Lillian.

  Was she playing with the idea of going ahead with Miguel and his scheme? Did she have that much of a hate-on for the United States?

  It wasn’t that and had never been that, she said.

  What to hell, then, was it?

  She was no deserter. She remembered when everyone had run out on her, left her holding the cause. The dreadful disillusionment, how awfully alone she had felt.

  This was different.

  It was, wasn’t it?

  Wiley reassured her it was only about ten percent similar.

  She was concerned about what would happen to Miguel.

  More to the point, what would happen to all those men and families in the Canal Zone.

  She knew, of course, and admitted, that Wiley was right. To stop Miguel they really would have to take the emeralds, wouldn’t they?

  Yes.

  She remarked knowingly how inconvenient and convenient that was.

  Wiley told her it was the only way, that they had done it and now would have to undo it.

  They went out to the same military-surplus store as before. Bought two metal footlockers, four hefty padlocks and fifty bath towels. Returned to the house to pack.

  The Cubans were off somewhere, hadn’t been around all day.

  Lillian spread a towel in the bottom of one of the footlockers. Wiley layered it with emeralds, which another towel covered for another layer of emeralds.

  They got them all padlocked in, the three hundred million dollars’ worth.

  And because of the towels there was hardly a rattle.

  They loaded the footlockers into the rented car, drove to find a public phone and a directory for the city of Cartagena.

  The third call Wiley made to Cartagena was to a novelty shop on Calle de Quero. A woman answered and, when Wiley inquired, said she was the owner, Señora Silva.

  Wiley told Señora Silva his name was B
ryan Beckley. He represented a company in the United States that offered some very novel items. He was planning to be in Cartagena soon, perhaps by the end of the week. He would like to visit the señora’s shop and show her his line.

  He pulled out all stops, called on his full reserve of charm. Had to be sure, with so much at stake.

  The señora got it. Her voice fluttered, had a little more lilt to it when she said she would be glad to see what Señor Beckley had to offer.

  Wiley asked if by chance Señor Silva would be there?

  Only if by chance he could rise from the grave, the señora said lightly.

  Wiley told her that in that case he had some very entertaining items that might interest her. The sort of things available only in places such as Denmark.

  Could he not be there before the end of the week? she wanted to know.

  He was afraid not. But might he ask a favor? He would like to send his trunks on ahead. Two of them. Perhaps she would keep them for him until he arrived.

  She’d be glad to.

  Hasta luego.

  Wiley and Lillian went straight to the estación de ferrocarriles (literally, the station of iron rails). They shipped the two lockers by freight. The next train to Cartagena was about to leave on track seven.

  They just made it.

  Now they had been on it for almost four hours. It was eight o’clock, getting to be night outside.

  The train passed over the Magdalena River and stopped in the town of El Dorado.

  Wiley couldn’t see even the top of Lillian’s head at that moment. She was scrunched down, perhaps napping. He recalled the trivial premise that the constant motion and erratic vibrations of trains, motorcycles and such made women feel sexually aroused. Maybe, but if so, it was another of their libidinal advantages, he thought. All it was doing for him was making his coccyx sore.

  Some vendors came aboard at El Dorado.

  Lillian sat up and bought two cheese tamales, a Roman Cola and a banana.

  When the vendor got to Wiley, he bought a meat pie, a sticky chocolate-filled pastelito and a lemon drink. Everything except the drink tasted better than he expected, probably because all he’d had that day was a cup of yesterday’s coffee and half a bowl of the perpetual zuki beans and rice.

  From another vendor he bought a tiny cross, which he held to his eye to see the image of the Virgin through a peephole. Anything to pass the time.

  He gazed out. The train was now following the course of the Magdalena, a wide river with some flecks of orange on its far side where it was catching the last of the sun.

  He wished it was a nice normal trip and they were the norteamericano tourists they were pretending to be. Instead, they were on the run. All of Miguel’s lefties would be after them now. And also, The Concession, although it probably didn’t know yet who to look for and might not ever. Kellerman would have his Conduct Section men on the move. And then there was General Botero and the entire Colombian army. For the moment, Miguel and his comrades were the worry. They could be anywhere and they knew who to look for.

  It was enough to make Wiley slouch, turn toward the window, put all his weight on the right side of his rump and tuck his head down behind his shoulder.

  Shortly before midnight the train reached Puerto Berrío. As it pulled in Wiley noticed a group of soldiers outside the station. A search party? Maybe he was being paranoid. Anyway, the army wouldn’t be searching for them. Maybe they were looking for deserters or poachers or …

  Wiley got up and went down the aisle. On the way he poked Lillian’s shoulder emphatically.

  She joined him forward between cars.

  The soldiers were starting their search back a ways, about three cars.

  Wiley opened the train door on the side away from the station. He jumped down to the roadbed, turned to help Lillian, but she was already in midair, landed beside him. He reached back up and shut the door. It was dark on that side. They paused there to decide which was the best direction to run. The soldiers were going through every car. Wiley and Lillian heard them on the platform talking to one of the conductors, asking about two norteamericanos, a man and woman. The conductor said there were several norteamericanos aboard but not a man and woman together.

  No doubt now who they were looking for, Wiley thought. The army? That meant General Botero, and that meant Kellerman and Argenti and everyone else was on their ass for the robbery. How had they found out? He must have overlooked something.

  They hurried across two sets of tracks to a wire fence and along the fence until they came to an opening. Then they were on a side street of the town.

  All the streets of Puerto Berrío were like side streets. Unlighted except for a couple of cantinas.

  Wiley and Lillian heard the train pull out. Perhaps the soldiers had questioned other second-class passengers who knew two norteamericanos had been aboard. The soldiers might search the town.

  Wiley and Lillian made their way through the town and then cut back across the railroad tracks to the Magdalena. There was a bridge. Making sure the way was clear, they went across.

  On the other side of the river was Puerto Olaya, a different town of the same sort. From the bridge they had noticed barges tied up along the bank. They went around and down to the riverside.

  Besides the barges there were three tuglike boats. One of the boats had a light on. Wiley and Lillian went aboard. The cabin door was open. In the cabin in a bunk was a boy of about sixteen. He was reading by the light of an oil lamp. Actually he was looking at pictures in an overhandled eight-year-old copy of Playboy.

  They had caught him at a secret moment, and he was embarrassed.

  Wiley asked for the captain, owner or whatever.

  The boy said he was all those.

  Wiley had no immediate choice but to believe him, asked, was he going down river to the Caribbean?

  In the morning.

  Would he take them as passengers?

  It was not a usual request, especially from norteamericanos.

  Lillian explained they had stepped off the train for a moment at Puerto Berrío and it had left them stranded. They would pay for their passage, of course.

  The boy liked the look of Lillian, and he didn’t try to hide it. How much would they pay?

  Wiley answered fifty dollars at the same time Lillian said a hundred.

  The boy accepted Lillian’s offer by introducing himself: Javier Bravo.

  31

  The Magdalena was wide but difficult to navigate. Many shallows and sandbars, and the water entertained itself often with devilish little whirlpools. White herons in the jungle trees along the shore were flushed and remained unsettled till the boat went by. There were sudden, rather teasing rainstorms, a great deal of intense lightning but, strangely, no thunder.

  Any doubts Wiley had about Javier Bravo’s qualifications as captain were put to rest the first morning. The sixteen-year-old took the river as though it were a boy’s everyday path. Anticipated the way it ran, accepted its hazards and noted its changes. He stood at the wheel wearing only a pair of khaki-colored cotton trousers and a visored cap that had once been white. The cap was too large for him, but he’d put paper inside the inner band to make it fit. It appeared as though it was always about to fall over his eyes.

  Javier had never been to school. The river and the boat were all he was supposed to learn. His father had fallen overboard a year ago on a trip upstream. The water took his father, but Javier held no bad feelings for the river. Nor did he completely believe when the priest told him it was God’s will. If anything, it was his father’s. Javier went to church only if he happened to be in a port on Sunday and also if on that Sunday it wasn’t raining or too hot or he didn’t sleep late.

  On this trip Javier’s boat was pulling eight barges. Four loaded with rice, two with iron ore, two with coffee. Rather unconsciously Javier would glance back to see that all was well with the barges. They were linked together closely, and it was possible to climb from the boat to the fi
rst barge and then from barge to barge.

  The first night they moored in La Gloria.

  Javier gave up his bunk to his passengers.

  Wiley and Lillian felt safe and slept well.

  On the third night they reached Barranquilla, where the river contributed to the Caribbean. They tied up at one of the minor docks. Wiley gave Javier an extra hundred in his handshake for being such a good captain. Lillian gave him a hug and a kiss between the eyes. They went ashore, asked the first man they saw in a car if he’d drive them to Cartagena. It was about seventy miles west on the coast. They told the man they’d pay five dollars a mile. He told them he would drive to Chicago at that rate.

  They arrived in Cartagena at eleven that night. There were many large luxurious hotels, such as the Caribe. They were tempted, could use a little first class for a change. But they couldn’t risk it. They settled for a front room on the second floor of a private house that took in tourists. It was on Calle Bonda, practically in the heart of the old walled city.

  Across the street from the tourist house was a combination taverna-lonchería called El Globo—The Balloon. While Lillian prepared for bed (a wash basin in the corner but the toilet down the hall) Wiley went across the street to El Globo for two fried-egg sandwiches and four bottles of beer, a local beer called Poker.

  When he returned to the room, Lillian was on the floor, the bedspread under her, her feet propped on the bed. She sat up for the food. Wiley undressed. Last off were his socks. He took the banded wads of hundreds from them. The money had made an impression on his lower legs. And it was a relief to have that matched pair of brilliant-cut twenty-carat emeralds out from between his big and second toes. He placed the money and the two emeralds on the night stand and sat on the spread opposite Lillian.

  A paragraphic moment. His point of view toward her shifted. He was able to see her more as a person than as his love object. He contemplated her—her, intent on the sandwich and the beer. It was strange that she should need to eat and drink. He wondered what her hunger and thirst felt like. There was a childishness to her face, scrubbed honest, an innocence to her arms and shoulders and the recesses of her collarbones. In their time how many different ways would he see her?