“That’s what we’re taking? It looks more like a traffic helicopter than a transport.”
“Welcome to the third world.” They had reached the flight line and two soldiers reached for Amanda’s smaller backpack, leaving Mary to struggle alone. “Ahem,” she said loudly to their backs, but before they had turned a third soldier lifted her rucksack from her shoulders and very nearly took her as well. She turned to find a huge man in an ill-fitting, sweat-stained uniform. He smiled down at her and she mumbled, “Gracias.”
“If it rains I’m going to stand under him,” Amanda said as the large man one-handed the heavy bag over to the nearest helicopter.
“Not on your life. You can have your two little caballeros, but that one’s mine. What’s Spanish for bear?” She asked Amanda, but one of the soldiers had overheard.
“Oso,” he said, with Amanda’s backpack around his arm. “But oso also means ‘the fool,’ so I would not suggest calling Miguel ‘oso.’” He smiled.
Both the ladies blushed. “Okay, that was dumb of us. Do you all speak English?” Mary asked.
“Everyone in our unit speaks English, Spanish, and at least some Mayan.” He was having fun with their embarrassment. “You better hurry. Your helicopter is going to leave without you.” He pointed at a second helicopter and turned away.
Within minutes the pair, along with four others, were being strapped into the small helicopter. They each had been given a pair of headphones that had more than a passing similarity to a pair of coffee cups on end. “How do we communicate?” Amanda asked the copilot after he finished checking her harness. He smiled and apologetically shook his head. He climbed into the front seat and the engine began to whine. She scrambled to put on the bulky headphones as the pitch started to become uncomfortable and realized with near panic that no one had closed the cabin’s door. She had been the last to board the craft and had the seat closest to the now gaping exit. She tried to reach for the pilot but was firmly held by the harness. She tried screaming, but not even Mary, who sat next to her, responded. The helicopter took off at an impossible angle and Amanda clutched the arm strap above and the seat cushion below, not daring to look outside as the military base and the city of El Progresso passed beneath them. The wind buffeted her face and her short hair whirled madly.
Mary tapped Amanda’s hand and she opened her eyes. The older woman was yelling something, but it wasn’t until Amanda took off her headphones that she understood. “Next time force your way into the back seat.” She made spinning motions with her hands as the air swirled around them.
Amanda nodded and pointed at the yawning maw of the open sliding door.
“Typical,” Mary yelled, as if the omission held no threat.
It took almost an hour of flying before Amanda was comfortable enough to ease her numb hand out of the leather strap that hung from the metal ceiling. She braved a look out the cabin door and found that they had descended below the low clouds. The dark green of the jungle seemed to extend all the way to the blue of the sea, and she began to gauge their progress with the approaching shoreline. When the sea seemed so close that Amanda was certain that they had missed their landing site, the pilot leveled off just above the tree tops of the dark green jungle. She watched as the thick canopy began to thin and finally gave out altogether as open fields that once were farms slipped beneath them. She surveyed the storm’s damage and after several minutes hadn’t found a single upright structure. They swung inland slightly and passed over the smashed airport. The tower and the antennas were scattered in ruin across the single runway, and shards of glass reflected the brilliant afternoon sun. Mary was leaning into Amanda and yelled that there was no chance of landing here. The pilot had reached the same conclusion and banked sharply to the left. It was now Amanda in Mary’s lap as both women scrambled for their ceiling straps.
They doubled back into the jungle and found a clearing big enough for three of their six helicopters. Just before touching down, Amanda spotted a soccer goal high in one of the trees. The landing was surprisingly soft, and the copilot was unstrapping Amanda before the rotors had even slowed. He helped her out of the helicopter a little too aggressively and she landed on her knees in wind-whipped, waist-high grass. She scrambled out of the way as the rest of the passengers made less than graceful exits from the helicopter. Doctor Greenburg was the last out, and he nearly fell face first into the grass after his foot caught on the door railing. The copilot helped the man to his feet and then forcefully directed him to follow the other passengers to the far end of the disused soccer field. Seconds after the doctor had cleared the rotors, the helicopter took off at a thirty degree angle; it was quickly replaced by a helicopter packed to the ceiling with supplies.
“That pilot has watched too many Viet Nam movies,” Greenburg said as he neared the small band. He turned along with the rest of the team to watch the platoon of soldiers quickly empty the helicopter of its supplies and then execute the same emergency take-off. “What’s their hurry?” he asked.
“Sunset is two hours away. I’m guessing they don’t get too many hours flying over the mountains at night,” a voice from the group answered. Amanda thought it came from one of the four volunteers.
“What about the second trip, and our additional supplies?” asked another voice Amanda didn’t recognize.
“Get used to disappointment. You will be told a lot of things down here, but only a few of them will actually be true,” Doctor Greenburg added sourly as he flopped his mass into the tall grass. “Somebody wake me when things get organized.”
“So how was it?” Bernice Scott suddenly appeared at Amanda’s side.
“They left the cabin door open.”
“They do that sometimes,” she answered, watching as the team’s supplies were stacked in untidy piles. “They generally strap you in fairly well.”
“So if the pilot suddenly decided to turn right and my straps weren’t quite tight enough?”
“Then something unfortunate would have happened.” Bernice smiled and winked. “Don’t worry, I doubt you’ll have to take another helicopter. I think we’re here for the duration. Or at least until the roads open up.” Without another word she sprinted over to the soldiers as two of them awkwardly carried a large wooden crate. “Be careful,” Amanda heard her scream.
Twenty minutes later the team of fourteen and platoon of seventeen stared at a mountain of crates, boxes, and plastic as the echo of retreating helicopters faded into the living sound of the jungle. “All right, if I could get everyone’s attention!” Bernice was in her take-charge mode. “We had hoped to use the airport, but Lieutenant Garcia”—she paused and pointed with an open hand at the cleanest of the seventeen soldiers— “tells me that the security situation is still uncertain. So for tonight it is probably better if we just set up here.”
“I like the sound of that,” said the muffled voice of Doctor Greenburg, who was still reclining in the grass.
“It will give us all,” she emphasized the last word, “a chance to organize our supplies.”
“I hope you are not including me. I was promised a tropical vacation in a seaside resort,” he answered.
“Well, you are in the tropics, and there’s the sea,” Bernice retorted.
“I want a Margarita. Did we pack a Margarita maker?” Greenburg continued.
“Doctor!” Bernice now flipped into her disciplinarian mode. “We have less than two hours to create some semblance of order out of this mess. I appreciate the attempt to lighten the mood, but it’s time to work.” Her voice reverberated through the clearing.
Greenburg sat up and whispered a chastened “sorry.”
Order restored, Bernice rapidly handed out assignments. “Finally, I am going with the lieutenant and some of his men into town to make contact with the security force, and hopefully get us some wheels. Maybe even con some of the residents to come and help set things up.” She
crossed the fingers of both her hands.
“Bernice, is that wise? You just told us that the security situation was uncertain.” Doctor Jorgenson had politely worked his way to the front of the group so he could face Bernice directly.
“That’s true, but we have some local help. A number of the soldiers grew up in Tela.” Several soldiers subtly responded. “I’ll be fine, David. I know what I’m doing.” Bernice smiled, but by the expression on Jorgenson’s face he clearly remained unconvinced.
***
Amanda marveled at nature’s destructive power, but also at its resilience. Parts of the jungle had been completely flattened, as if a giant boot had stomped the trees and vines. She had been warned to expect this; tornadic winds—giant eddies in the usual straight line currents—were common in powerful storms. What was unexpected was their focal nature.
“This is amazing,” Bernice remarked as they approached a clearing half as large their landing site. Stumps of trees that only days earlier were over a hundred feet tall stood in mute testament to the power of Hurricane Michael. Their shallow roots, normally buried by several feet of decaying vegetation, baked in the afternoon sun. The detritus had been blasted into the trees that edged the clearing. “It’s like a bomb went off,” she said, slowing her pace and falling behind the Honduran soldiers.
Amanda slowed as well, and eventually the two ladies simply stopped and stared.
“Mrs. Scott,” Lieutenant Garcia called, breaking their trance. “I must insist that you stay with us.”
Amanda was surprised to see that they had tarried long enough for the squad to disperse into defensive positions along both sides of the choked road that lead to Tela. They held their weapons waist-high and scanned the jungle nervously. “Maybe we better go.” She tugged at Bernice’s blouse, suddenly aware of their situation and its potential. They hurried up to the officer, who gave a command, and the group reassembled with the women in the center. “The sound is almost deafening,” Amanda said and they continued down the narrow lane and a half road that by Central American standards was a main arterial.
“Lieutenant, how did all these bugs survive?” Bernice asked after walking through a cloud of small black midges.
“I do not know,” he answered, barely acknowledging the question as he scanned the jungle ahead.
“He’s making me regret my decision to come along,” Bernice whispered to Amanda. They both hesitated when Garcia suddenly jogged to the head of the column.
“Me too,” Amanda answered just before the lieutenant halted the squad with a raised fist. A pregnant moment passed. Garcia grunted an unintelligible command and all ten men crouched and rotated towards the forest, guns raised. Amanda and Bernice found themselves inside a circle of very nervous and heavily armed men. Instinctively, they dropped to the ground.
“Stay low,” Garcia said unnecessarily to the two women after he found his way back to them, his eyes and weapon constantly moving. Amanda stared at the jet-black rifle that swung in an arc a foot above her head. She marveled at its utilitarian design but was terrified by its capability. She knew nothing about weapons, military or otherwise, and imagined that a simple errant touch would suddenly make them go off, with obligatory lethal consequences.
A full minute passed and then Amanda heard a small pop. Just a single innocent crack, but it sent ripples of apprehension through the lieutenant. “Was that what I think it was?” She whispered to Bernice, who was inches from her face.
Before she could respond, a whole series of pops like a string of firecrackers followed. “MAC 10,” Garcia whispered. “That’s not us.” He squatted and retrieved a small radio from beneath his flak jacket. “Maya seis, Maya seis.” No one responded. He tried three more times without success and then changed the radio’s frequency. Three more times and no answer. He let loose a short string of Spanish that both ladies knew was not suitable for mixed company. He duck-walked over to a soldier, pulled a larger radio from his field pack, and then sat back to back with the man.
“Damn it,” Bernice whispered. “Smugglers. Tela is a part of the drug corridor; boats pull up in the middle of the night, take on fuel, and then are usually gone the next morning. No harm, no foul. Except five days ago a couple of boats that should have been watching The Weather Channel a little more closely pull in and then find that they can’t leave. So they stash their boats and cargo in a warehouse by the river. They must be trying to protect it.” Bernice turned to Amanda and found that her dirt-covered face had a questioning look.
“General Regara told me before we left; it’s why he sent these guys with us,” Bernice clarified
“I don’t understand. The general knew there were drug smugglers here and didn’t do anything?” Amanda tried to keep her voice low, but the lieutenant heard enough from fifteen feet away that he glanced over while talking on the radio.
“How long do you think the general would last if he started pissing off the drug cartels? It’s their way, and it’s been their way ever since we started turning a blind eye to foreign governments involved with the drug trade, so long as they hated the communists as much as we did. This is hardly the place for a political debate.” Her voice was low, but it still communicated a rebuke for Amanda’s naiveté. “Sorry,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away. Sometimes I can be a real bitch, and right now I’m a real nervous bitch.”
Garcia crawled back to the center of the circle. “We’ve been ordered back to the landing field …”
“Contact, ahead,” a voice hissed.
“Contact, left,” a second one added, followed closely by a third on the opposite side of their circle.
“Down,” Garcia said, and all ten men flattened themselves. “They probably heard the helicopters,” he said to himself and the women.
Maybe they’ll just pass by us, Amanda thought, but then took stock of the situation. Tela had one road in and one road out, and they were currently on it. Even if by some miracle they missed her group of thirteen, the presumed drug gang was on its way to investigate the helicopter landings and they would surely find her Red Cross team, which only had a handful of soldiers to protect them.
Two full minutes passed with almost no one breathing, and then even Amanda could hear them. At first it was just the snapping of a tree branch, then hushed voices followed by the smell of cigarettes, and then finally six men rounded the corner. They were dressed in fatigues and carried rifles that looked decades older than Lieutenant Garcia’s. They had their heads down and shuffled more like zombies than Honduran soldiers.
“¡Alto!” Garcia yelled and was suddenly on his feet, along with his ten soldiers. The six men did indeed stop; they stared at their clean and rested colleagues with looks that ranged from confusion to relief. “Who is your commanding officer?” Garcia demanded, first in Spanish and then in English. The six men looked at each other, wondering who was going to answer.
“He is dead,” a man in the back finally answered in Spanish. His uniform was ripped in several places, but Amanda still could read the name Listera over his left breast pocket. He was the least haggard of the group, but it still looked as if he were about to fall over. Three of his comrades dropped their weapons and sat in the dirt. “So are twelve more of us and just about everyone else in the city. There are bodies everywhere.” His voice trailed off and he too dropped his rifle and slipped into the dirt.
Garcia turned crimson and screamed, “On your feet soldiers!” Three of them, including the spokesman, slowly climbed to their feet. “You need to give me a better report than that!” Amanda didn’t need her high school Spanish to understand. “Form up!” he yelled in English and his ten soldiers immediately formed two columns. Garcia walked down the center of his men and then over the fallen branches that separated the two groups. He slowly walked among the exhausted soldiers, inspecting them closely until he reached the spokesman. “What happened here, corporal?”
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He looked confused. “There was a hurricane.”
“What happened to you, to these men, to the city?” He waved both arms, his impatience obvious.
“It started last night, a few hours after the rain began to slow.” He stood straighter but struggled for words. “Before the storm hit we had divided up the civilians into three groups, and then Colonel Mencia split our platoon into three groups to protect them. The six of us were in the storm shelters by the airport with about a hundred civilians.” He suddenly looked confused. “I think it was a hundred, maybe it was a thousand.”
“It doesn’t matter, Corporal. Where are they now?”
“We let them go, and then they all died. At least most of them, I think.” He began to lean and then sway. Garcia grabbed the man just before he fell.
“Sit down, Corporal. Can anyone else tell me what’s going on here?” The remaining men, following the corporal’s example, sat in the dirt. They stared at Garcia, and like before, no one answered.
“I think a lot of them got shot,” the corporal finally answered.
“Who shot them?”
“Colonel Mencia. But he didn’t kill them all; the Columbians killed a lot, and then we killed the Columbians.” He smiled proudly and Amanda noticed that his teeth were red.
“All right, Corporal.” Garcia softened his tone. “Listen closely; why did Colonel Mencia shoot the civilians?”
“He didn’t just shoot civilians. He shot Reyes, Quinteras, Alonsa …”
“He shot the mayor and the police captain,” another soldier added.
“That’s right; he started with them.” Listera nodded his head and stared back at Garcia.
“You didn’t answer my question, Corporal. Why did your colonel start shooting people?”
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