by Gary Brozek
When I finally got back to Florida and started to set up a household with Patricia and my reconfigured family, it was a real joy. Being with Patricia and the kids confirmed what I’d long suspected in the jungle: Feeling safe and secure in a relationship beat the hell out of running amok and trying to prove things to myself or other people that had no real meaning to them or to me. I wasn’t about to sit down and recite a long litany of my sins and atone for every one of them—there are only twenty-four hours in a day, after all—but our captivity had given me time to do some assessing. I didn’t talk about it much, but just as Tom had sat and thought about his house and each of the rooms and all the things he needed and wanted to do to them, I’d done the same with my own house, the self I’d lived with, and my whole life. I didn’t think that I needed to be torn down and rebuilt from the ground up, but there was some fundamental structural damage that needed to be addressed.
In the jungle, I’d gone through an honest evaluation and admission of who I was and what I’d done with my life to that point. By the time we’d gotten to our final year in captivity, I’d filled notebook after notebook with all kinds of thoughts and reflections. One day I decided that having spilled my guts for that many years, it was time to stop thinking so much about the past and focus on the present. I burned those notebooks, and while I didn’t think that I’d rise phoenixlike from those ashes, I was aware that I was one lucky guy who had received a major tap on the shoulder from the universe. Maybe that’s why I was always able to sleep so well in captivity—I was a little bit like a newborn with a clear conscience.
With Patricia, it’s been easier than I ever thought to be a devoted dad and mate. Before, I’d been able to manage just the dad part. I think I found some strength in that jungle, came to understand that carrying heavy for another person could pay dividends for us both.
During my first weeks back home, I spent a decent amount of time learning what I could about Operation Jaque. I still keep in touch with Juancho and have even exchanged e-mails with Lucho, so it’s not as if I wanted to put Colombia out of my mind completely. I admire anyone who does anything skillfully, and the Colombian military really pulled off an amazing feat. I knew that it was U.S. supported and technically assisted, but the guys on the ground who executed the mission, and whoever higher up in the hierarchy who was responsible for command and control of the operation, have my admiration.
Operation Jaque relied a great deal on the groundwork that the Colombian military had been laying for years, as well as unpredictable things such as various FARC mistakes, the pressure from the U.S. ambassador, and the deaths of the three FARC leaders. I still don’t know how all those pieces fit together, but someone up there was looking out for us. The key to the whole thing was that the Colombians had been able to turn two FARC guerrillas to the good side. Without that level of human intelligence, we’d likely still be in Colombia. The military had been intercepting FARC radio transmissions for a while. We knew that to be the case going all the way back to when we were with Milton, and one of the reasons we’d spent so much agonizing time wandering aimlessly was that the FARC realized their communications security had been breached. As a result, they had to resort to using couriers to hand-carry messages from the Front commanders to the guys in the field. Whether it was Mono JoJoy or César who were issuing them, those orders were slow in arriving and that gave the military another edge.
As much as it seemed we were hustling from place to place and being tracked, we didn’t know how close we’d come to friendlies on the ground. Finding the camera and the battery pack was a good indication of that and so were the helos overhead, but at a reception held for us, I learned that some U.S. Special Forces guys had spotted us once while we were bathing in one of the rivers. Another told me that he’d been on the ground and the strangest thing had happened—he could smell popcorn. I couldn’t believe that Enrique’s attempt to calm his outfit was sending smoke signals to our guys in-country. Even knowing all that after the fact made me feel better.
But while the U.S. Special Forces were behind the scenes and in the shadows, the Colombians were the masterminds. They were smart enough to know that they had to test whether or not their spy/couriers would be effective. They forged orders to see if the FARC would actually follow them, and a few of our movements from site to site were the products of those fake orders to Milton and Enrique. In fact, it was the Colombian government and not anyone in the FARC high command who issued the order for William Pérez and Ingrid Betancourt to rejoin us shortly before the rescue.
The Colombian military also took advantage of something else. Independent of their efforts, an actual humanitarian organization was on the ground in our area searching for us on foot. Those remarkably committed folks inadvertently played a big role in the ruse that the military created to rescue us. We had been hearing on news reports that this group was trying to find us. So when the military issued fake orders that we be taken to that location and loaded onto helos, it corroborated what the FARC had already heard about the humanitarian organization on the news. With fake orders issued from the high command, Enrique had no choice but to do what he was told. As tired as we’d grown of hearing that lame-ass excuse, in this case it actually saved us.
Enrique and César are still in custody, and their disorganization seems to be in more disarray than ever. I’d like to think that our being taken and then rescued will contribute in a small way to their downfall. We can only hope that somehow our rescue leads to the release of additional hostages. Most of my thoughts about the FARC now concern making sure that those hostages who remain in captivity are not forgotten in this country. The three of us remain as committed to them today as we were the day of our release. I’m not sure why, but for some reason, here in America, we tend not to think much about our neighbors to the south. It’s only when Chávez is tweaking us or threatening to cut our supply of oil that we pay much attention to what goes on down there. I hope that what happened to the three of us serves as a lesson that politics is personal and that human-rights issues strike very close to home.
On the whole, I try not to obsess about the FARC too much these days. A few weeks ago, I had a chance to do something that I absolutely love (besides riding my new motorcycle, of course) with a good buddy of mine. I love the fall in Florida and South Georgia. We don’t get the same kind of weather and vegetation changes folks up north do, but the temperatures are moderate and some mornings it is downright brisk. On this particular day, I was out hunting deer, sitting in a tower stand that overlooked a bean field. A bit of ground fog cotton-balled the field, and the early-morning sunlight had torched some of the dew, making it look like the land was on fire. A couple of does and a buck were nibbling at the grass along the edge. My gun was at my side, but I left it there and just continued to soak in the scene.
My buddy nudged me and said, “You got a good shot at that buck. You going to take it or not?”
I shook my head. “No. It feels good just to sit here in all this.” I raised my arms to indicate the terrain where I’d spent the better part—no, make that the best part—of my life.
“I hear you,” he said.
“You know, for the first time I think I can really say this.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not carrying heavy anymore. I’m back.”
MARC
“I feel like E.T.”
As I said those words, I meant them in more ways than one. To start with, we’d walked through a plastic-sheeted doorway of the quarantine room and all around us stood masked and gowned figures who were applauding and waving. It was overwhelming to be in the presence of people who were genuinely interested in our well-being, and more than anything that had me feeling a bit alien. When you’ve had a group of people abusing you for as long as we did, even the smallest kindness seems out of proportion.
After things calmed down and we settled into our room at BAMC, I tried to reach my family members again. Earlier in the day, I’d called everyone,
but I hadn’t been able to reach them. No one was home at my mother’s number, and I was dying to speak to my kids, but I hadn’t been able to. No one was home at Shane’s number, and I couldn’t leave a message. Finally, that night I was able to connect with my dad. To hear his voice after all that time, it was as if somehow some kind of liquid had been transmitted over the phone and had been poured into my ear, working its way down through every part of my body. Relief doesn’t begin to explain what I felt, but there was a sense of calm and security that I hadn’t experienced in so long.
My dad was understandably very emotional, and he told me how happy he was and how much he loved me. It wasn’t a time for eloquence, it was simply time to immerse ourselves in the emotions of the moment. The people responsible for our reintegration program only wanted me to speak to him for a few minutes; they’d been through this before and had a specific program designed to keep us from being too overwhelmed. I said good-bye to my father regretfully, and without realizing how strange the words sounded, I said I would see him tomorrow.
I learned from my father that my mother was in France. She’d gone there to participate in several peaceful protests and to take part in various ceremonies designed to bring attention to the plight of the Colombian hostages. Part of the plan was to climb to the top of Mount Blanc to place photos of hostages at the highest point in Western Europe. She had been informed of our rescue, and with the aid of Northrop, was on her way to Texas.
Sleeping in a real bed for the first time was wonderful, but even that comfort couldn’t prevent me from having a nightmare. All through captivity I’d dream at night that I’d been rescued. That first night in the BAMC I awoke from a nightmare in which I was in the jungle and everything that had just happened—the rescue, the flights, the return to the States, the conversation with my father—everything was only a dream and my reality was that I was still in the jungle. As clichéd as it may seem, that vivid and disturbing nightmare startled me awake, and in the darkness, I wondered if everything in that hospital room was a product of my imagination.
On day two of our return, I got to see my mother and stepfather, Mike, as well as my father, stepmother, and stepsister and brother. Again, all the visits were carefully regulated and somewhat brief. When my mother clamped her arms around me, I thought either I had become that frail or she’d become that strong. I felt like she could crush my rib cage, but I didn’t mind.
“I am so glad to see you. My prayers have been answered. I love you so much.” She kept repeating those words, and with each repetition, she held me tighter. When I was finally able to create a little bit of separation between us, I could see that the years I’d been gone had not been easy on her. I tried to tell myself that after not seeing someone for more than five years, there were bound to be changes, but her worry and anxiety had physically punished her.
“You know, Marc, we are in San Antonio—Saint Anthony. We pray to him when we lose things so that he can help us find them. You’re found.”
The following day brought my long awaited reunion with my kids. As soon as the door opened, Destiney ran into my arms and I felt my heart jump up to greet her. The little girl I’d left behind had grown so much I could barely believe it. Beneath the new hairstyle and makeup was still a kid who’d missed her dad as much as I’d missed her. Throughout our twenty-minute meeting, she clung to me.
Destiney told me the story of how she’d found out I had been taken hostage. Our bond had been so tight that when I was first abducted, Shane didn’t know how to break it to her. She told Destiney that I was working all day long and was only able to call very late at night. (I used to call home every single day.) At first, Destiney didn’t understand, but as the days passed by without her talking to me, she began to miss me more and more. She was only nine years old at the time. She was told that I was calling late at night, so she started to stay awake, waiting for my call. Each night she would stay awake later and later, waiting for me to call, until she was up all night long. But I never called.
Hearing this account of her suffering filled me with an intense and straining pain that nothing could alleviate. To be angry and hate the FARC didn’t help, to regret my decision to fly in Colombia didn’t help, to look to the future didn’t help, because none of those things would take Destiney’s suffering away. There were so many nights of my captivity when I prayed and gave thanks that it was me there in that jungle and not anyone in my family. But hearing Destiney speak, I realized that it wasn’t just me in that jungle; they we were all there—my mother, my father, my little Destiney—suffering with me.
Hugging Cody, I was surprised that he was nearly as tall as I was.
“Hey. Welcome home,” he said with a huge smile.
When he spoke those words, it was the first time I’d heard his post-pubescent voice, and I felt the rumble of it rattle my collarbone. Joey hugged me and I was amazed that he still looked just as he did before I left.
“You guys, I just can’t tell you…” I paused and in that instant a universe of emotions washed over me. “It is so good to see you guys.”
Through my tears, I saw Shane standing off to one side—nervously folding her arms and looking around the room, her eyes avoiding mine. When I approached her, she smiled wanly and said, “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you’re okay.”
From her tone and her rigid posture, the way she seemed to flinch when I put my arms around her, I knew that what I’d long suspected in the jungle was true. Shane had moved on in her life. I didn’t blame her, but it made me sad to think we’d been so deeply in love. There would be time to deal with the fallout of the end of our marriage, but it wasn’t now.
“I’m happy to see you, too. I missed you so much.” Both of us spoke like I’d just been away for a few days on a business trip; not for sixty-five months. I’d prepared myself for this moment, but I was still surprised at how much it hurt—mainly because when I looked at Shane, I sensed that the years I’d been gone hadn’t been good to her either. With Destiney clinging to me so tightly, I wondered what Shane had experienced, how painful my absence from her life must have been.
Several days later, when we were all moved into an apartment in the married service personnel’s quarters, that gulf that existed between Shane and me became even more evident. Even in that relatively small space, it felt as if I was still in Colombia and she was in Florida. The awkward silences that passed between us reminded me of the times when Tom, Keith, and I were without radios or radio reception. At least then the white noise of the static held out some hope that a transmission signal was somewhere in the area. Between Shane and me, there was only the dead silence and the recognition that I was coming back to a fractured life.
Unfortunately, what had fractured my marriage couldn’t be repaired, and Shane and I are no longer together. While this turn of events saddened me, like Keith and Tom, I had long been prepared for it. The years that had passed since Shane’s last radio message had signaled to me that things would never be the same. In captivity, I had readied myself to face it. Despite the reality, my bonds with Destiney, Cody, and Joe have never been stronger. Having them in my life every day has reminded me of what I spent five years surviving for. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God for allowing me to be an active part of their lives again.
Of all the amazing things that have happened since our return, our trip to Harley-Davidson and their kindness ranks among my favorites. When it came time for me to pick out my free bike, I didn’t want one of each in each color and level of accessories. All I wanted to do was ride, to throw a leg over and again feel that rush of wind in my face, and the distinctive potato-potato sound of that twin-cylinder engine propelling me down a twisty road. For so long the thought of bikes had been our coping mechanism. Now they were our reality.
The euphoria of rescue continued for days and weeks, and was gradually replaced by a feeling of security and contentment that I’d never known. I moved back to Connecticut to be near my mother and fa
ther and the rest of my family. I was thrilled for my Mom when she was awarded honorary Colombian citizenship for all her work—not just to get the three of us freed, but all the other hostages remaining in Colombia. They remain very much on my mind to this day. Meanwhile Northrop Grumman has done everything it possibly can to ease my transition, even though I’d only been their employee for a brief time before the accident. In Tom and in Keith, I have brothers with whom I have forged a bond that goes deeper than blood and bone to spirit and soul. We continue to talk frequently, and every day I remember anew how our friendship made survival possible.
I’m a different person now. Inevitably, we all change, but those five-plus years worked on me in some very good ways. I have a newfound appreciation of and patience for just about everything I do. The other day, I had to go to the hospital for an MRI. (I still have trouble with my knee and my back.) I was told to arrive at 9:30 A.M. for a ten-o’clock appointment. I sat in the waiting room and watched as time passed. An hour went by without my name being called. Several other patients groused about their time being wasted. I smiled at the thought that any time was a waste. At twelve-thirty, my name was finally called.
The technician was an attractive Hispanic woman who seemed no older than eighteen. As she led me down the hallway to the exam room, she kept apologizing for the wait.
“No me importa. Ninguna necesidad de disculparse.” I told her that I didn’t care and that there was no need to apologize.
“Your Spanish is very good, as is your accent. Are you South American?”
“No,” I said, laughing, “but I’ve spent some time there.”
She began explaining the procedure. When she was done, she asked, “Will it bother you to have to lie very still? Some people find being in the machine very confining.”
I shook my head and said, “No. I’ll be okay.”
When I got back home after the test, I climbed on my bike. I had no particular place to go, and no particular destination in mind. Before, when I had my sport bike, my rides were tests of courage and speed, hurtling down interstates as fast as I could on those arrow straight strips of Florida asphalt. All that’s long gone now; my adrenaline rushes have been satisfied. That day, I rode along State Route 66 enjoying a crisp and clear New England fall day. The colors of the maple trees were vibrant in the waning afternoon sunlight. Heading north, I passed along Columbia Lake, and as I cruised from shadow to sunlight, it was as if the trees in Nathan Hale State Forest were like fireworks bursting into flame and then extinguishing.