Piranha Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  “I still don’t get it,” Morgan said. “How could any loyal, patriotic American soldier get so turned around as to go to work for the Cubans? We may not be at war with them or anything, but damn, they’re still commies.”

  “He’s no patriotic American,” Felicity said softly. She shivered as if ice water had been poured down her spine, her brow furrowed and she looked at Morgan. He saw fear widen her eyes and then fade. “You know, I’ve been living day in and day out with an American military man. After all these years out of uniform you’ve never shaken the style, the posture, the walk, even the haircut.”

  Felicity faced Bastidas who was pacing before them. “You were never an American officer, ‘Captain’. How could you be the dedicated man with the promising future we were told about, who volunteered to serve his country?” She leaned forward as far as she could, glaring into that crooked smile. “You’re not Francisco Bastidas at all, are you?”

  “Very good.” Bastidas smiled, in sharp contrast to the shock on Morgan’s and Barton’s faces. Bastidas put his foot on the chair and leaned an elbow on his knee. “You’re right. I’m not.”

  “And when you talk about your loyalty to your country, you’re talking about Panama every time, right?”

  “You have an astounding mind.”

  “The old false flag gambit,” Morgan said. “I got suckered by the oldest trick in the business.”

  “But how is it you were able to pull this off?” Felicity asked. For a moment, Morgan thought Bastidas would walk out, but the smirk on his face meant his ego wouldn’t let him. He gave them an appraising look and tapped ash from his cigar onto the floor.

  “I suppose you’ve earned the right to know my story before you die.”

  -27-

  Morgan wished he could fidget. His rear end was getting numb. He wanted to move, but the green duct tape, what he had called hundred-mile-an-hour tape in the Army, held his legs tight. The straight jacket completely immobilized his upper body. Frustrated, he glanced at Felicity, thinking how much worse this must feel for a person with breasts. She didn’t seem concerned about it. Her attention was all on Bastidas.

  He had one booted foot up on his chair again. He took the fat Cuban cigar out of his mouth and blew a thick cloud of smoke at his captives. His smile nearly drowned the rest of his face and two maniacal eyes glowed above his ravaged cheeks.

  “As the little chica has guessed, I was not always Francisco Bastidas,” he began. “I was born Juan Fernando Garcia. I lived within thirty miles of this spot all my life until the change. I grew up a patriot just as you did, Mister Stark, except that you grew up in a free nation. Mine has been captive all its life. First enslaved under the Spanish. Then yoked by the Colombians. Then, when you needed the damned canal, the United States controlled us.”

  “Hey, it’s not like Panama’s some puppet state for the USA,” Morgan said. “Not today.”

  “Nonsense!” Bastidas stood over Morgan now, looking down at him. “Your hold on our politicians is so deeply rooted that you no longer need to keep your army here. I grew up hating you all. As a youth I joined a group that realized action was the only way to secure our national pride and identity. There were several competing factions in those days, all well meaning, some just misguided. Some demonstrated against Yankee control of our canal. Some started riots.”

  “Your boys were into killing, I take it,” Barton said.

  “We took action!” Bastidas said, raising a fist before his face. “Much of what we did was credited to others. I was but a child but I rose quickly through the informal ranks because I was quick, and strong, and daring. I could get into enemy camps when no one else could. That was my strength. I was known as El Escuchador.”

  “The Listener,” Felicity said.

  “Yes, and what I was able to find out was valuable. With what I learned I was able to make contact with the Cubans, who I knew could eventually bring the revolution to my country. But in nineteen seventy-two my life changed.”

  Bastidas paced around the chair, past Herrera’s larger form. The cigar hung loose in his mouth. His voice seemed even squeakier than usual. “I was spying on a group of our national guard. Unexpectedly, a group of American soldiers practically wandered right into their camp. There I was, caught in the middle of a fire fight. The Americans were massacred of course. They aren’t warriors. But in all the action, I was captured. Naturally, the National Guard took everything from the Yankees. Weapons, uniforms, everything. And they took me with them to their new camp.”

  “Now I get it,” Morgan said, nodding his head. “I know these people tend to torture symbolically and I just couldn’t square the story we got with what happened to you. They probably just beat you the first three or four days, huh?”

  “They left me naked,” Bastidas said through clenched teeth. “They kicked me and beat me for days. No food. Little water. They wanted to know where my people were. I gave them nothing.”

  “Right,” Morgan said. “So then they decided to mark you as a spy.”

  “My own knife,” Bastidas said, hatred curling his lip. “They heated my own knife red hot and pressed it into my face. Here! And Here!” He held his hair back, pointing to his face. From his expression it was clear the pain was still very much present and real.

  “Then they must have figured out who you were,” Morgan said, prodding him. “There was only one thing to do, huh? Only one punishment appropriate for The Listener.”

  “Yes! Yes! They did this!” Bastidas pulled his hair back on both sides with his thumbs. Felicity averted her eyes from the raw, angry open holes on either side of his head. “They did this to me, the greatest patriot of the nation. They did this with a dull knife while I sat strapped to a chair.” His eyes became vacant, far away. “The pain was…it went on forever and there was no way to escape it. I screamed. Oh I screamed. I screamed for them to kill me. The pain nearly drove me…I had only my hate and my anger to keep me going.”

  Morgan was sure the torture had driven him over the edge. Anyone could see he was insane. Why wasn’t he wandering the jungle babbling?

  “How did you survive?” Felicity almost whispered.

  “How?” Bastidas repeated, drawing on the cigar. “The greatest irony of all. The Americans found me. My guard released me to go into the woods to go to the bathroom, you see. He was carrying a gun and I think they were really taking me out to kill me. I was too weak to resist them. Then gunfire came out of the woods from everywhere. I scrambled for the main tent in the compound. If I had a choice I didn’t want to die naked. Isn’t that stupid? But then I heard the American voices approaching, and a different idea came to me.”

  “From here it’s obvious, even to me,” Barton said. “A real soldier would’ve grabbed a gun and gone down fighting. Being a coward, I figure you got yourself into an American officer’s uniform, grabbed a set of dog tags that had a Latin name on them, and played dumb.”

  Bastidas swung a booted foot across Barton’s face. Barton shook his head to clear it, and spit blood on the carpet. His act drew encouraging smiles from Morgan and Felicity. Bastidas spoke as he walked away.

  “I was not thinking of myself. I wanted to place myself in a position to do more than kill one or two Yankee soldiers.” He spun, grinning at them. “The Americans were so stupid. I couldn’t answer any of their questions so I just kept saying I don’t remember. An American Army doctor actually came up with the amnesia story. I just spoke little and looked around. I was a hero, after all, and they treated me very well. Once taken to safety I studied the real Bastidas’ records and slowly recovered. As it turned out, he was only a part time soldier in the California National Guard. In his normal life he was a college professor. I imagine he ended up on duty in Panama just because he spoke the language.”

  “And I found papers in his personal effects. Notes. Things no one had ever seen. Once out of the army I reestablished contact with my Cuban friends. I showed them these mysterious notes. They told me my new identity was
a genius of an engineer and a pretty good physicist. He had some exciting new ideas and he was going to turn them all over to the Army. Can you imagine it? I made millions of dollars with his notes and some hidden assistance from Castro’s people.”

  “Okay, I still don’t see it.” Morgan spoke partly to get a break from Bastidas’ maddening squealing. “You found notes that, with Uncle Fidel’s financing, lead to a fusion reactor. I assume you only revealed bits and pieces to the Pentagon, but you got them to finance The Piranha. You took money, men and material assistance from the Cubans. They must want The Piranha but, you’re not giving it to them?”

  “Those idiots think I’m a loyal communist. In fact, my goal is loftier than just overthrowing the government here or even laying the groundwork for Pan-American socialism. I’ve realized the reason every other nation wants to rule my people. With this atomic bullet, I can remove that reason, and the Panamanian people will at last be free to truly rule themselves.”

  During ten seconds of silence, Felicity’s face slowly phased from confusion to realization. She turned to Morgan with shock in her eyes.

  “Okay, Red. Why don’t I see it?”

  “You’d never see it,” she said. “You and Barton are mercenaries, essentially logical men whose basic motivation concerns what you’ve got to gain. You deal with cold hard realities. Bastidas, on the other hand, is insane.” Then she turned to face her captor.

  “It’s the canal, right?” she asked. “You figure Panama’s history of subjugation stems from everyone wanting to control the strategically placed isthmus. Take out the canal, you take out the reason for anyone to be wanting to control Panama. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “That’s nuts,” Morgan said.

  “Only to a narrow minded fool,” Bastidas shouted. “Why do you think I went to the city yesterday? I withdrew all my liquid assets and transferred everything to my Swiss account. With the power of The Piranha, I’ll destroy the cursed canal and render the whole area unusable. Then Panama will be able to find her own destiny.”

  Keeping her voice calm, Felicity said, “You’re certifiable, you know. Your paranoid delusions extend to your whole country. That canal keeps your economy alive, it…” A knock at the door interrupted her. Chief Pizarro’s face poked in.

  “There are preparations, Captain,” he said. “You’re needed.”

  Bastidas headed for the door, talking over his shoulder. “Yes, there is more to be done, but I think all the players should be a part of the big finish. I’ve decided you three must be on that historic journey,” “You can go out in…what do the Americans say?” Bastidas stopped at the door and turned to face them. “Oh, yes. A blaze of glory.”

  -28-

  The smoking room was silent for nearly five minutes after Bastidas left. A crack had appeared in the sky’s gray shell. Felicity watched dust floating in a long column of sunlight connecting a window with the floor. She used the light beam as a meditative focal point. When she returned to herself, she was again ready for action. There was a lot to do and little time for doing it. Barton’s face hung vacantly. He looked beaten.

  “Doesn’t he know if he torpedoes the canal he’ll be the most hunted man since Hitler?”

  “He won’t use a torpedo,” Morgan said, twisting to face him. “He said the area will be unusable. He’s talking radiation. I figure he’ll jam the sub into the canal and set off the reactor. The Piranha is the atomic bullet he was talking about. We’re talking the world’s biggest fusion bomb here. Then the canal’s wrecked, and the radiation prevents a new one for a lot of years, maybe decades. The world economy will be crippled if everything has to go down around the cape.”

  “A lot of his countrymen will die,” Barton said.

  “Not just them.” Morgan tried to wipe the sweat from his face with his shoulder. “Panama’s one of the world’s top places to retire to, and a world class tourist location. There’s likely twenty thousand Americans in Panama City alone. Not a big deal maybe if he comes in from the north, but a southern approach, blowing out the Mira Flores Locks, will put Panama City in the kill zone.”

  “What about the army?” Felicity asked, “Or the navy, I guess. Won’t they stop him?”

  Barton shook his head. “The Army? Navy? Girl there ain’t no army or navy. After we came in and yanked Noriega out, in ’89, Panama abolished its military completely, and the Panamanian Public Forces are a joke.”

  Felicity faced Morgan. He gave her an expectant stare, waiting for her to come out of her reverie.

  “So, how do we get out of these things?” he asked with a half smile.

  “Take me a while,” she answered. “Once my legs are free I can shake the jacket.”

  “Oh, you’re a magician too?” Barton asked sarcastically.

  “Escape is one of my special skills, yeah,” she said.

  “Ignore him,” Morgan said. “How can I help?”

  “Aren’t you guys even scared?” Barton sounded a little hysterical. “They’ve got us cold. We can’t even move.”

  Morgan looked over Felicity’s head, still smiling. “Be quiet friend, or I shall have to chastise you.” The smile dropped, and a truly intimidating hard look replaced it.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Felicity said. “People get claustrophobic in these jackets. Can you get the hair band out of my hair?” She twisted so the back of her head brushed his face. After a brief hesitation, Morgan grasped her hair band in his teeth. Felicity leaned forward as he pulled back. Hairs popped and small whimpering sounds escaped from Felicity’s throat. She flinched, but did not complain.

  At last Felicity’s hair came free of the elastic band. She sat back against the wall and said “On my knees.” Morgan hopped to his left. His upper body fell forward into her lap. The hair band fell across her taped knees. He tried to sit back up, crashing his right shoulder into her breasts on the way.

  “Watch it, buster. That hurts.”

  “Sorry, Red,” Morgan said after regaining his balance.

  Barton looked on, astonished.

  “How can you joke around at a time like this? And what are you doing?” A sharp look from Morgan silenced him. He watched in silence as Felicity took three deep breaths.

  With a final exhalation she bent forward, putting her mouth on the hair band. Strapped inside of it were various spring steel lock picks. Ignoring the canvas cutting into her waist, she sorted through them with her tongue. It was delicate, painstaking work, but she soon pulled out a particular shiny metal bit.

  The pick she laid on top of the hair band was an inch and a half long and three-quarters of an inch wide over half its length. The rest was only a quarter of an inch across, ending in a slight hook. She sat up, relieving the stress on her shoulders and sucking in a deep breath. Flipping her head got her long red hair out of her eyes.

  “That’s the best one,” she said, not looking to either side. “If you can get a grip on it with your teeth, I think the edge is sharp enough to cut the tape with.” She looked at the ceiling and sighed. “With my legs free I’m thinking I can wiggle out of this damned straightjacket.” Then under her breath, “I hate doing straightjackets.” With that, she started a series of breathing exercises.

  “Well, I’m not too sure about this,” Morgan said, “but I’ll give it a shot.” It always seemed that when the action started one of them naturally took charge and the other fell into step. This time, Felicity was driving and he had to play his role.

  She did not react when his chest crashed onto her thighs. With a little experimenting, he found his best grip on the pick was with the handle clenched between his left molars. A fair amount of squirming brought his face to her ankles. Everything between his waist and neck hurt. Coarse canvas cut into every crevice of him, and breathing was strained.

  “If crazy people got to try this for a while,” Morgan said through clenched teeth, “they’d go sane and stay that way.” Then he started slitting the tape between Felicity’s ankles. It was slow work, ripping
a few fibers at a time, and he knew they had no guarantee no one would come to check on them. Time lost its meaning soon and his world was reduced to a few inches of leg and tape, the ripping sound of tape fibers and a cramp in his neck that got more painful by the second.

  Felicity’s perfume wafted into his nostrils as he neared the top of her shins. Where would she put…ah! He remembered seeing Claudette dab scent behind her knees. A smile relaxed his face for a moment, and the pick snagged in the material under him. A wrong twist, and the fatigued steel snapped.

  “Damn,” Morgan said into Felicity’s legs.

  “What happened?”

  “I broke the lock pick,” Morgan said.

  “Shit!” Felicity slammed her head back into the wall, her lips curled in and clenched tight, her green eyes misted with water. “How the bloody hell’d you manage that? Tis the holy all of it now.” Her voice shook with frustration and her brogue came out in force. Now what? That was her only plan. No one else there could escape a straight jacket, of that she was certain. But even she couldn’t do it without her legs free.

  “Jesus, girl, it wasn’t his fault.” It was Barton, sounding startled by the first really crude language he had heard Felicity use. “He couldn’t see anyway. The damn thing got hung up in the skirt material.”

  “Shut your gob you…what?” Felicity cut herself off. She had almost responded too soon.

  “He cut high enough to reach your skirt,” Barton said. “The material hung up that little blade he had. I saw it.” Morgan had just managed to flip himself upright. As Barton’s words sank in he sighed with relief. Felicity began to chuckle.

  “You mean these idiots didn’t strip me? Well, hell.” Felicity lay back and started dragging herself across the floor by her heels. This was no time for modesty. Slowly her skirt, wrapped with tape, rode up over her hips. In moments her legs were completely free. She stopped for a brief moment to rest, sitting up.