by Brad Willis
CHAPTER 8
Miami Bureau
BREAKING UP WITH SOMEONE has always been painful for me, but it seems to be a pattern in my life. Mary Beth and I have been living together for more than a year. She has generations of family in Boston and wants to stay. There’s no doubt that I’m leaving. We’ve been growing apart anyway, especially with my career always coming first, not to mention that I’m testier these days as a result of the nagging ache in my back. In no time at all we are saying our final good-byes and I’m gone.
After a few weeks at NBC headquarters at 30 Rock learning the ropes, I’m off to Florida. It’s early 1990, and Miami is a cultural confluence, in rapid transition from a languid resort town for snowbirds to a bustling city of international trade and intrigue. There are neighborhoods of conservative Cubans who escaped the Castro regime. Impoverished Haitians who fled the tortures of Papa and Baby Doc Duvalier. Business moguls from Rio, Bogota, Santiago, and Buenos Aires. Hip entrepreneurs opening dazzling clubs in trendy South Beach. Drug lords from Colombia living incognito in lavish mansions on inland waterways.
With my housing allowance, I can afford to lease a condo on the top floor of a high-rise with sweeping views of the Miami skyline, the bridge to Key Biscayne, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Brilliant sunrises dance across the marble floors and tinge the walls with golden hues. Sunsets reflect off the downtown skyline and light the horizon in splashes of pink and red. It’s my very own Rainbow Room, a perch on top of my new world. I’m flushed with excitement… and a little caution. As soon as I can, I find a top-notch massage therapist and arrange for him to come at a moment’s notice to work on my back.
NBC’s Miami Bureau sits on the outskirts of Miami in a non-descript, two-story, white building with dark, reflective windows to mitigate the scorching Florida heat. The minute I step inside, I feel the legacy of the great correspondents who came before me. The bureau came of age in the 1970s during the revolutions in El Salvador and Nicaragua, and the region remains important to NBC News. There are solid stories for me to cover in Miami, but most of my assignments are where I really want to be—down in Nicaragua, Colombia, Guatemala, and El Salvador.
As I travel Latin America, I finally understand why countries here are called banana republics. In the late 1800s, bananas were unknown in North America. Then an ambitious railroad builder from Brooklyn married the daughter of the president of Costa Rica and launched an empire. As he built new railroads, he planted bananas alongside the tracks. Soon, he established numerous plantations and created what became the largest company in the world at that time: United Fruit, with farms, factories, and plantations throughout Latin America.
United Fruit acted like a colonial overlord—controlling commerce, transportation, communications, and the political processes of countries throughout the region. It bought the unconditional support of right-wing dictators who maintained their power by terrorizing their citizens and arresting those who defied their regimes. Workers in the fields were driven off their family farms, paid survival wages, and exposed to working conditions teeming with toxic chemicals and disease. Attempts to unionize and improve conditions were met with brutal force. Peasant uprisings were viciously suppressed. Thousands were tortured or killed. The U.S. State Department consistently supported United Fruit, and the company enjoyed close ties with the CIA, even working with them to overthrow popular leaders and replace them with easily manipulated puppet regimes. The locals in every country nicknamed United Fruit El Pulpo, the octopus.
I discovered the dark side of United Fruit years earlier while I was an investigative reporter at KCRA-TV in Sacramento. I had uncovered a Nazi war criminal living in a retirement home less than ten miles from our TV station. Otto Von Bolschwing was an SS intelligence officer for the masterminds of the Holocaust. After the war, he was given safe haven in the United States, where he worked for the CIA. United Fruit, I ultimately learned, provided his cover job and false identity. As I would discover during my investigations, Von Bolschwing was one of hundreds of Nazi war criminals in the secret program.
The CIA and United Fruit were behind the right-wing military during a bloody, twelve-year civil war in El Salvador that ended in a stalemate, with some negotiated reforms but mostly business as usual. In Nicaragua, however, workers’ advocate Daniel Ortega and his Sandinista Liberation Front managed to galvanize the poor people and, in 1979, overthrew longtime dictator Anastasio Somoza. In subsequent elections, Ortega became leader of the country.
Now in 1990, Ortega is facing the first serious challenge to his presidency. He’s up for reelection against a former colleague named Violeta Barrios de Chamorro, who is being backed by the United States as well as conservative Nicaraguan and foreign business interests who are hoping to re-establish dominance and recover valuable businesses and estates the Sandinistas seized and turned over to workers after the revolution.
“The United States speaks a great deal about liberty and freedom, but it suppresses poor people around the world so that its corporations can make great profits,” Ortega says, making his case to our cameras in the living room at his modest home in Managua, Nicaragua. It’s in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of the city amid rolling green hills dotted with banana trees. Ortega is sipping a mojito, a cocktail that originated in Cuba. Not wanting to be rude to President Ortega, of course, I sip one myself. It’s a sweet blend of sugar cane juice, lime, sparkling water, crushed mint, and white rum. It was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite drink, and I recall having one too many at his favorite haunt, La Bodeguita del Medio, a historic restaurant and bar in Havana, Cuba.
“We have brought justice and dignity to our country,” Ortega continues. “Why does your country seek to turn back the clock?”
The Berlin Wall has just fallen, but the Cold War continues. Ortega has close ties with Cuba, embraces socialism, and is vilified by the American government as a threat to the entire region. It’s the “domino theory,” holding that if one country goes socialist, they all will, posing a dire threat to the United States and democracies throughout the world. The Cold War advocates never mention, however, that the real threat of a workers’ revolution is to companies like United Fruit and the billions in profits they make exploiting third-world labor and resources.
“Maybe your movement swung the pendulum too far the other way,” I say to Ortega as our cameras roll. “There have been abuses and injustices committed by both sides, no?”
“Yes, and we have reined those in. We have punished the perpetrators. Still, this does not compare to more than a century of violence, exploitation, and suffering that your country has supported.”
With Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega, Managua, 1990.
When I sit down with Violeta Chamorro, she counters Ortega’s argument. “The economy is in shambles. The poorly educated workers cannot run the factories and farms they have been given. The original owners do not deserve to lose their holdings. There must be an accommodation.”
“Some say you are too beholden to the United States,” I respond. “That you will turn your country back into little more than a banana republic.”
“This is not true.” She is firm. Dignified. “I fought against that, and now I am struggling for a better future for all our people.”
I can understand where President Ortega and challenger Chamorro are coming from. Their conflicting views are both valid. In the real world, it’s never good guys versus bad guys. It’s always shades of gray. Ulterior motives. Power struggles. Best and worst intentions. Often at the very same time.
Some accuse the media of liberal bias, but I hear a full array of viewpoints and perspectives at NBC and from colleagues in the field. Sure, there are raging liberals and ardent conservatives, but most are moderates. I’m not interested in taking sides and have never voted a party line. I’ve met few politicians I really trust and none whose rhetoric I take at face value. Our job as journalists is to do our best to find the truth and report it, avoiding outside influences and opinions. I d
on’t feel Ortega is more correct than Chamorro, or vice versa. As long as I get on the air with a story, I couldn’t care less who wins.
I stay in Nicaragua through the election as Chamorro pulls off an upset victory. There are festivals and protests simultaneously in the streets, live shots to do for Nightly News, packaged reports to produce for the Today Show. By the end of it, my back is on fire again from all the travel and constant standing. I’m popping meds like they’re chicharrónes, the deep fried pork rind snacks so popular in Latin America. My evening glass of wine has become two. Sometimes three. At least I’m in good company. We’re all fairly accomplished drinkers, those of us addicted to exotic settings and occasional war zones.
Back at the Miami Bureau, I’m in survival mode again, carefully hiding the truth about my back from everyone. Some social events are obligatory, but after a few minutes of standing and making casual conversation I start to grit my teeth, look for the nearest exit, and seize my first opportunity to slip out unnoticed. Chronic pain makes me this way: on edge, nervous about the next flare-up, worried that at any moment my life will come crashing down all around me. Every time it flares up I feel a mixture of anger and fear coursing through my veins like hot sauce, which only makes me tenser and exacerbates the pain. Sometimes I want to scream. Other times I want to cry. But I stuff it all inside and just keep shoving myself forward, always diving into the next story.
As the spring of 1990 unfolds, money is tight at NBC, and the network’s interest in Latin America is waning. There’s talk of consolidation and bureau closures. Miami is rumored to be high on the list. My colleagues exchange worried glances, have hushed conversations, and secretly send out resumes. I can’t even process the idea that I could be laid off after being here less than a year. I can’t imagine any other life. I don’t even believe one exists for me.
Then, on August 2, 1990, President Saddam Hussein of Iraq invades Kuwait.
CHAPTER 9
The Persian Gulf War
SADDAM HUSSEIN has been making threats against Kuwait for months, but his invasion still catches most of the world by surprise. Norman Schwarzkopf, head of the U.S. Central Command, had been predicting a limited attack to seize the rich Kuwaiti oil fields. Instead, within hours, Iraqi forces have taken downtown Kuwait City and are headed south toward Saudi Arabia.
The Pentagon fears that Saddam’s forces could roll into Saudi Arabia next, giving Iraq control over much of the world’s oil supplies. This triggers the largest buildup of American forces since the Vietnam War. Members of the U.S. Army 82nd Airborne Division, along with 300 combat aircraft, are quickly flown into strategic bases throughout Saudi Arabia.
By the end of September 1990, close to 200,000 American personnel have been deployed to defend the Saudis in Operation Desert Shield, soon to be renamed Operation Desert Storm. Schwarzkopf and other American commanders believe an offensive to liberate Kuwait City remains too risky against the heavily armed, well- entrenched Iraqi forces, so they call for international support and prepare for the largest military offensive in history.
“Are you willing to volunteer to go to the Middle East and cover the war?” Don Browne asks, knowing my answer already. Since our lives will be at risk, network legal policy requires that we volunteer rather than be assigned to the story. That limits legal exposure for the parent company, General Electric, should we be killed in action.
“When do I leave?”
“This weekend. I already have your ticket arranged. We’ll take care of your bills while you’re gone.”
“How long will I be there?” I ask, trying to gauge NBC’s commitment to the story given its financial woes.
“As long as it takes,” Brown replies. “Three months, six months, a year. Nobody knows. Just get going and keep your head down.”
I buy a new pair of boots, have my doctor write six months’ worth of prescriptions, pack my bags, empty my refrigerator, and give the bureau details for handling my bills. NBC is already beginning to send its own army into Saudi Arabia, and the coverage will cost a fortune. I’m now convinced the Miami Bureau is going to close, so I say good-bye to my Rainbow Room, knowing I might never see it again.
Dhahran International Hotel in Saudi Arabia sits on the Persian Gulf about 200 miles south of the Kuwait border. It’s a perfect headquarters for the international media. The massive lobby is thronged day and night with journalists from around the world. I’m beyond ecstatic as I wade through the crowd, check in at the reception desk, then hunt for our bureau. It’s one of scores of news bureaus that have been set up in every available conference room, office, and suite, and it takes a while to find. When I do locate it, I meet a dozen NBC producers, photographers, and editors for the very first time, feeling like I’ve truly joined the network’s global family.
Desert Storm is expanding fast, as two dozen other nations send in troops. They’re called Coalition Forces, but it remains largely a U.S. effort. More than 540,000 American troops will pour in, with Britain a distant second, providing only 43,000 soldiers. Because the military can’t accommodate hundreds of reporters in the field, the major national broadcast and print media outlets are being assigned limited slots for “pool reporters.” These chosen few will be posted with divisions of the Army, Navy, and Marines. Their reports will be pooled, shared with the media back at the hotel for their own broadcast purposes.
We have several correspondents here, all with more tenure than I, but NBC has given me one of its few spots: pool reporter for the Marines. I immediately realize it’s more important than ever to conceal how bad my back is. Anyway, I’m ready to do anything and everything asked of me. The betting is that the Army, with its massive numbers, heavy artillery, and tanks, will be the first to surge into Kuwait. That is the prime place to be as a pool reporter. But I’m happy just to be picked, and I prefer the Marines. They’re rougher around the edges and quicker on the move.
Then comes the bad news. Before any of us are allowed into the field as pool correspondents, we have to pass a physical. It’s not a doctor’s office workup with temperature and blood pressure. It’s a workout with a minimum of fifty sit-ups, twenty-five push-ups, five pull-ups, and then running a loop behind the hotel that looks to be almost a mile. The push-ups and pull-ups are the easiest for me and I get them out of the way quickly. I have to fake the sit-ups, being constrained by my brace, yet I manage to get through it. But the running?
I was never a runner. I hated it when we had to do the weekly mile around the track in high school. Whenever the coach wasn’t looking, I’d dive behind the bleachers, hide until the final lap, then sneak out, and sprint in while trying to conceal the guilty look on my face. And I certainly haven’t tried to run since fracturing my spine four years ago. The mere thought of it hurts.
Am I going to fail this test and be sent home or ordered to sit in the hotel bureau and log videotape? No. I’ve gotten this far, back pain and all, and nothing is going to knock me out of this game. I take a few deep breaths at the starting line and decide to go as fast as I can. Just go, just go, just go, I scream silently to myself with every breath. After twenty yards, my heart is pounding and my back is throbbing. Down a dead-end street behind the hotel…looping back now through a parking lot…almost last in my group.
Just go, just go, just go. Crossing the finish line, I’m in a daze. I must get to my hotel room. I can’t let anyone see me limp. Stopping a bellhop in the lobby while panting like a mad dog, I hand him a wad of Saudi riyals. “Bring enough ice to my room to fill the bathtub please. Right now, please. Right away.”
I stagger to the elevator and lie down inside of it when the doors close. I crawl to my room and swallow a load of Motrin and slip a handful of Valium under my tongue. Next, I open a bottle of Chivas Regal and gulp down a shot. Alcohol is illegal here. An American woman I met at the hotel restaurant is a flight attendant for the Saudi Royal Family’s private fleet of jets. She smuggled the bottle to me as a gift, along with a tin of expensive Beluga caviar. I smi
le at the hypocrisy of the royals in this Islamic monarchy, whooping it up on their private jets filled with booze and beautiful women while Saudi citizens caught drinking are punished with public lashings. I swig another shot and feel it burn all the way down to my belly.
The bellhop arrives and pours the ice in the tub. I hide the Chivas behind my back and try not to breathe in his direction. I tear my clothes off the moment he closes the door, struggling with my jeans and boots because of the pain shooting through my back. As I finally pull my socks off, my legs are on fire. My spine feels like it’s been hit with a grenade. I spread a bath towel over the freezing bed of ice and lie down in the tub, the bottle of Chivas clutched in my left hand and the tin of caviar on my belly. Ahhhhh.
One week later, I’m sitting on a narrow wooden bench in the rear of an open troop truck, bouncing through the desert. It takes all day to reach the Marine encampment. I have to cinch my back brace tight, clench my teeth, grip the railings, and wedge my boots against a heavy wooden ammo box to support myself the whole way. When we finally arrive, I learn we’re a hundred miles inland and less than five miles from the Kuwait border and Iraq’s army. For now, this is the front line of the ground war.
The desert is flat, barren, and endless, except for a berm, a long mountain of sand that’s been bulldozed along the border to slow down Saddam’s tanks if they invade Saudi territory. We’re on one side of the berm. Iraq’s notorious Republican Guard is on the other. Literally dug in. Its artillery is camouflaged, tanks are buried under the sand, and troops are holed up in underground bunkers. The Marines are all business, exercising and holding strategy sessions throughout the day. Their toughness is remarkable and their commitment is unshakeable, but I also sense apprehension and a silent fear. Many of these men have yet to turn twenty, and most have never seen combat.