by Jerold Last
A book hung from a cord attached to the open door of the guardhouse. It contained a log of vehicles passing the checkpoint, noting the times they passed in both directions, going and coming. Apparently the guardhouse was staffed during the day until 5:30 PM, about sunset, then ran on the honor system at night. Bruce didn’t feel very honorable, so skipped signing in. He walked out to the middle of the road, signaling the truck to come and pick him up. It was there in less than a minute.
A longish drive south brought the group of commandos to the broadly curved geographic formation that looked like the ankle of the island, and eventually would lead them around the sole, arch, and heel of the giant’s foot. They passed two more guardhouses standing dimly lit and empty beside the road. Each sighting of a potential trap required them to stop several hundred yards before the guardhouse. Bruce carefully checked for guards after a nerve wracking stealthy approach before signaling all clear so they could continue. Precious time was wasted at each stop, but they had no choice. If they were captured on the island it meant massive embarrassment for Ecuador and serious jail time for Bruce and the soldiers in General Aleman’s elite commando force.
The road widened at the arch, remaining much wider than on the eastern side of the island for the rest of their trip. The truck continued around the bottom of the horseshoe, then around to the eastern portion of the road driving north. The “highway” turned to well-graded dirt and crushed shells and coral, which allowed the vehicle to maintain its speed. They were rapidly approaching the next hazard, the gated British checkpoint they had seen on the satellite photos and maps. Bruce directed the driver to slow down and approach the gate cautiously.
The “gate” was unattended and turned out to be nothing more than a treadle-operated pole that sensed the truck’s approach and lifted to let it pass. An empty guardhouse beside the eastern pole support suggested things could have been worse if the base was operating under high security rules.
A tiny voice spoke in Bruce’s ear saying, “This is too easy. Something’s wrong here.” Bruce played back the events of the last half hour in his mind. He’d “felt” the presence of eyes watching him and the truck at each of the empty checkpoints. The same sixth sense had saved his life several times in Iraq and Afghanistan, so he knew better than to ignore it. Bruce felt the pressure of hidden eyes on him here. But, they were committed to the task so he didn’t say anything to his companion in the cab of the truck. Bruce knew that he too must have been feeling the same thing if he’d ever actually seen any combat.
Less than ten minutes later the truck reached East Port, where the road was once again paved. A few more miles to the north was the abandoned coconut plantation where a large sign marked the turn onto another dirt and crushed shell road into the plantation. Bruce felt the presence of hidden watchers again as he read a large sign informing visitors that entrance was restricted and dire consequences awaited those who transgressed. The truck slowed down and transgressed eastward.
The “lieutenant” drove slowly and carefully, noting side roads as we passed by. The weak crescent moon reflected enough light from the invisible sun somewhere over the horizon to see nearby, but not much more. Bruce checked his map under the dim light produced by the instruments on the dashboard. It looked like they’d pass the first of the new fences on their right in less than 200 meters. The night-vision goggles allowed the driver excellent visibility without having to reveal the location of the truck by using headlights. Bruce put on his pair of goggles, turned to the back of the truck, and whispered loudly in Spanish, “it’s time for all of you to put on your goggles so you can see in the dark. We’re almost there.”
Bruce scanned as far as the night-vision goggles allowed him to in all three directions he could see from his seat high in the truck’s cab. Whoever had designed and built the fence was lazy and had constructed the south portion parallel to the existing road and set back only about 25 meters, rather than concealing it beyond the edge of the old coconut forest. The fenced-in area was mostly visible from the road. In addition to the open wooden fence built like a horse corral, the fence also served as a support for long stretches of turkey wire that filled the spaces between the wooden rails. A newly graded dirt road ran perpendicular to the old road they were on all the way to the animal corral, and continued on around the enclosure. Inside the fenced-in area they could see grass, shrubs, ponds, occasional coconut trees, and small constructed wooden enclosures. The entire fenced-in area was a rectangle about the size of a football field. He couldn’t see any sign of hidden watchers, but he continued to feel their presence and was certain they were somewhere out there.
A little more than an hour and a half after they started from the airfield they finally came to the end of their long slow trip to the potential tortoise farm. Bruce turned to the driver to give him instructions. “I think we’re almost exactly where we need to be. Can you back the truck up along the side road here until it’s against the fence, and stop there?”
“Sure. Hold on, it may be a little bumpy.”
Less than a minute later, they were backed into position against the fence.
The walkie-talkie in Bruce’s pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and pressed the “speak” key, saying “Si, que pasa?”
They had left one of the commandos just beyond the sign indicating the turnoff to the plantation to watch for any patrols coming along the main road. Whispering in Spanish the commando told Bruce, “I see headlights coming up the road from the south. It looks like a jeep or something about that size.”
“Stay still and watch them. If they keep going by, tell me what you saw. If they stop, let me know what’s happening. If they get out of the car, let them walk past you, get behind them, and disable the jeep. We’ll have to make a run for it or disable them.”
Bruce whispered to the driver what was happening. The driver made a hand signal to the rest of the commandos in the back of the truck. Everything came to a halt. The group remained in the truck, maintaining a disciplined silence.
Time passed at a snail’s pace. After what seemed like an hour, but was more like a minute, the walkie-talkie vibrated again. The familiar whisper in Spanish came over the air. “They slowed down, aimed a spotlight up the road past me, and kept going. Then they sped up and are out of sight. There were two of them in an open jeep. I didn’t see any guns, but wouldn’t have seen pistols from my angle. Both wore military fatigues, no insignias of rank. What do you want me to do now?”
“Stay where you are and wait there till they come back. If they pass the turnoff and keep going, walk down the road until you find us. If they slow down or stop, let me know immediately. Stay under cover just in case they double back.”
“Si,” came the whispered reply.
Bruce thought quickly about the hidden watchers he had sensed during the trip here. The tiny voice in his brain calculated speeds and distances, concluding the two soldiers in the jeep couldn’t have been the hidden eyes he’d sensed. He made a command decision: If the watchers were content to just watch, his force would complete their mission. No harm, no foul! If the watchers actively interfered, his commandos would respond with the minimum non-lethal force necessary to subdue them and complete their mission. The same applied to the two soldiers in the jeep.
It was easy to jump over the fence from the bed of the truck and get inside the corral. The men spread out and started searching the large corral. It was a grassy area where the tortoises could graze and eat. What had looked like ponds were actually large mud baths in which the Galapagos Tortoises loved to bathe and cool their cold-blooded bodies. Shrubs, bushes, and coconut palms promised a large supply of leaves for food.
Within five minutes, one of the men found the first tortoise. He called for help. Between two of the men they were able to carry the 175-pound, 1.5-meter long tortoise to the inside of the fence across from the truck bed. Two other men had climbed into the truck. Between the four of them they got the animal into the truck bed on his back, which effectiv
ely immobilized him. The commandos continued searching the field with the aid of their night-vision goggles. Over the next half-hour, they found several more tortoises, all about 150-250 pound juveniles, all over 1 meter long, which they carried to the truck. Some were sleeping in the grass, others in the wooden shelters.
The commando who’d been posted as a guard at the turnoff walked down the road to where the truck was parked, climbed over the fence, found Bruce, and joined the search for tortoises. “The jeep came back at normal speed, didn’t use a spotlight, and kept on going without slowing down for as long as I could see their lights. At a guess, we’re safe now until their next regular patrol, which won’t be for at least a couple of hours if they are responsible for covering the entire road between here and the harbor area on the other side of the island. What should I be doing now?”
“Why don’t you walk back to the truck and give them a hand preparing to load any more tortoises we find. You should collect plenty of grass and leaves for soft bedding to put in the truck, and for later on in the Gulfstream. Just in case you guessed right about the two hour interval between patrols, walk back to the crossroads and keep your eyes open after you finish preparing the truck.”
“Ta,” the soldier replied using the regional slang term, a contraction of “esta bien” meaning OK, or that’s good.
It took four hours to thoroughly search the enclosure and remove fourteen of the stolen Galapagos Tortoises, including a few larger animals than the first ones they’d found, into the truck bed. It took another hour to carefully drive back to the Gulfstream, this time bypassing the guardhouses without stopping, and to transfer the animals and all of their gear to the plane. For the moment the huge animals were allowed to crawl around the bedding in two large storage compartments in their new $65 million home, but they would need to be secured in flight. Bruce had felt the presence of the watchers intermittently, but no overt moves were made to interfere with his force capturing and removing the tortoises. He still felt the presence of surveillance on the parked plane so remained alert.
The “lieutenant” and one of the commandos returned the truck to the motor pool, stopping along the way to quickly clean the interior to make it less obvious that giant tortoises had been in the truck, and to wipe the dust that had accumulated driving on the dirt road off of the exterior. They rejoined the rest of the crew for a well-earned cerveza and rest break. It would be getting light in another hour or two, and they still had to secure the tortoises for the long flight home.
Bruce and one of the commandos had thoroughly scoped out the plane on the long flight over the Pacific Ocean. There were two compartments for storing luggage or cargo, both pressurized and heated, which should make nice tortoise hotels for the return trip. They had rigged padding for the floors and walls beforehand. The leaves and plant material went in on top of the padding before the tortoises were introduced to their temporary quarters for the trip. While the truck was being returned by “the lieutenant” and Juan, Bruce and the remaining commandos secured the tortoises for flight using ropes, straps, and bungee cords to prevent the animals from being thrown around and possibly injured. The leaves, grass and padding underneath would also protect the plane from tortoise litter and allow for a quick cleanup back in Baltra.
A rough calculation had said it would be awfully crowded, but the tortoises would fit, eight in the back compartment and six in the front hold. The tortoises could handle not eating food or drinking water for months by just relaxing and slowing down their metabolism. In fact, they were valued passengers on 17th- and 18th-Century sailing ships because they could go for a full year without eating or drinking anything, then serve as a source of meat to feed the hungry crewmembers en route to wherever they were going. Everything was in place and ready to go with plenty of time to spare when the jeep pulled up to the Gulfstream to deliver General Aleman and his co-pilot to the waiting plane. It was still dark, but dawn was breaking.
The general climbed into the plane carrying a large thermos of coffee with a U.S.N. logo and looked at Bruce. “How did it go?”
Bruce smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign.
“Great,” said the general. “Let’s get out of here as fast as we can. We’ll catch up on the details after we’re airborne.”
The plane taxied over to the refueling area, where a crew of four technicians attached wide fuel hoses and tie-downs to the appropriate ports on the wings of the Gulfstream and started pumping. Twenty minutes later the general signed some paperwork and we were cleared for takeoff.
A few minutes later the plane taxied down the runway to the south and we were off of Diego Garcia, free and clear. After the plane had leveled out at cruising altitude, the general walked back into the cabin to sit next to Bruce. He had two cups of coffee in his hand. He offered one to Bruce, who accepted it with alacrity. He also ordered one of his commandos to scout out the galley and make breakfast for all.
The general sipped some coffee from his cup. “Tell me about what happened after I left the Gulfstream last night, Bruce. Thanks to the Navy’s generosity, we can fly directly back to Papeete and skip the jog over to Sri Lanka. That’ll get us back to Baltra half a day sooner, even with all the extra weight to carry. I thought the plane felt a lot heavier on takeoff than it did from Baltra. Can I assume we have passengers?”
Bruce swallowed some coffee and put his cup back in its holder. “Yes, General Aleman, we have a full load of Galapagos Tortoises on board and everything went well. Your men had no trouble borrowing a truck for us. It was almost too easy. The security was primitive, with guards walking predictable routes in plain sight, leaving plenty of time between rounds to grab a truck. When we got to the gate on the road around the lagoon where the checkpoint was supposed to be, it wasn’t manned either.”
General Aleman looked at Bruce for a moment or two. “You know, I’ve been thinking about why your whole raid on Diego Garcia went so smoothly and easily. The base commander is nobody’s fool and security was far too lax for a major military base, even in peacetime. I wonder if Eduardo left an electronic trail when he downloaded the surveillance photos we all looked at from the satellite. It would be easy for the NSA to have pinpointed the location of his computer in Ecuador, maybe even as accurately as the Galapagos Islands. Let’s assume that’s what happened. What do you think the base commander on Diego Garcia would have done if he was warned there was unusual interest in his little island coming from the same direction as where his two little problem children planned to take their honeymoon?”
Bruce thought it through for a short time. “He’d check out the areas corresponding to the specific images Eduardo downloaded: the landing strip, truck maintenance facility, the road between the landing strip and the old plantation, and the plantation itself. We would have given him the plans for the whole operation.”
“Keep going,” urged the general.
Bruce thought things through before answering. It certainly would explain his sense of being under surveillance for the entire time they were on Diego Garcia, as well as why nobody interfered with their extraction of the tortoises. “You may be right that the commander had his security detail deliberately make things easy for us. It makes me wonder if he hadn’t found out what the Smarts were up to and saw our visit as an answer to his big problem. He would have found the tortoise farm and could have put two and two together to implicate the Smarts. He had two choices then: stop us, or help us if we showed up. Sure enough, we showed up, well ahead of schedule thanks to the Gulfstream. And he was clever enough to let us do all of the dirty work for him. He arranged for the lax security at the truck facility and for the empty guardhouses.
“You know what? I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened. I had a strong feeling we were being watched at every step we took, but there wasn’t any interference with our taking the tortoises from the facility. I think maybe instead of an illegal raid on a well guarded military base, we just had a very realistic training exercise for your commandos!”
&n
bsp; “I’m inclined to agree with you, Bruce,” answered General Aleman. “Where exactly did you find the missing tortoises?”
Bruce finished his narrative about the raid. “Suzanne’s theory was right, as usual. The stolen tortoises were in a corral in the old coconut plantation, and the fences we saw on the satellite surveillance photos were part of the enclosure. We found fourteen Galapagos Tortoises in the corral. They’re all stowed as cargo on the plane. Fortunately for us, all of them were still young, so except for a few 300 pounders they only weighed from 150 to 250 pounds each. That’s probably what got the park ranger in the Galapagos killed. They were stealing the immature tortoises from the tortoise-breeding center on Santa Cruz Island.
“When Detective Obregon notifies the Navy, he should advise them to collect DNA evidence from the corral to prove the Smarts stole the tortoises from the Galapagos Reserve. That should be easy, since half of the tortoises we found were sleeping in the wooden enclosures inside the corral. And they need to look very carefully in case we missed any tortoises or eggs in the dark. There may be some more there, including a few big ones, to return to Ecuador.”