The Grey Man- Down South

by J. L. Curtis

  “Right there. And I see an indio that looks like the right tribe. Short pants, reed hat, and horses.”

  They walked slowly across the dirt runway, and John said softly, “You take the lead. My being Caucasian is probably not what they were expecting.”

  Montoya laughed. “Si, Señor. I will be the talking dummy.”

  As they walked up, John noted the indio was short, maybe five foot four, and might have weighed a hundred pounds. He was also young, flat faced, with long black hair, but there was really no way to tell his age, Somewhere between a kid and maybe twenty-five. New blue shirt. And that reed hat is very well done. Machete looks well used, but also cared for. And…these aren’t the horses we’re going to use. And the Spanish is too fast for me to follow. Dammit.

  Montoya shook hands with the indio and turned to John. “This is our guide. He says to call him Juan, since his real name is private. He wants us to buy food at the store while he goes and gets the horses.”

  John nodded, then said, “Hola, Juan. We’ll buy food. What do you like to eat?”

  Juan looked at Montoya, who spit out another spate of liquid Spanish, and Juan replied in kind. Montoya laughed. “He wants what he calls carmelo, in other words, candy.”

  John saw Juan nodding and smiling, and said, “Okay, let’s go get food. Did he say how many horses?”

  “Five, three to ride, two pack horses.” As they walked toward the small market, Juan disappeared down a side street toward the jungle.

  ***

  Five days later, deep in the jungle, they had stopped at a small rivulet of water to refill their canteens. Juan had been making an arc, gradually taking them further southwest, and they had run across two old strips hacked out of the jungle and crossed the river at a place he’d told them was San Miguel. John shook an iodine tablet into the canteen and handed another to Montoya. “How are we doing, do you think?”

  Montoya shrugged. “Eh, we are crossing tracks, but without coverage,” he pointed up, “I do not think we are doing much good. Those strips had trails running away from them to the northwest, and I believe if we followed them, we would find more strips, or a road or two.” He lowered his voice, “And I think Juan is purposely not leading us anywhere near any villages out here. Twice my horses wanted to go down side trails to the southwest.”

  John nodded. “I noticed that.” He looked up at the sun, then at his watch. “Maybe another hour, then we need to think about camp. I think one more day, then head back?” He pulled a topo map out of his saddlebag. “I make us about sixty miles from Miraflores. We should be able to do that in less than seven days.”

  Montoya looked at the map and cocked his head. “Makes sense. I think this is a wasted search, but I do like being out here.”

  John looked at him as he refolded the map and stuffed it back in the saddlebag. “You do?”

  Montoya grimaced. “Honestly Señor, I am tired of people. What I have seen, and the things I have learned about my own people, their greed, no, only some have that greed. Most simply want more money to have an easier life. The honchos, they want the money and the power. And power is a corrupter. What it does to men and women is not…pretty. Base desires become the norm. Life, even human life becomes cheap to them. I do not…” He shook his head sadly. “I do not want to deal with that, because I am afraid I will become one of them. In my own agency, I have seen power corrupt the leadership in some areas.”

  John shook his head sadly. “Drugs also destroy lives. That’s why we’re fighting them.”

  Montoya laughed bitterly. “And the money destroys more. The Federale officers on the border are making more in a month than they did in a year, just from the bribes. People are now fighting to get those positions, the more remote the better. And supervisors are…raising their price on those positions.”

  Juan came over and told Montoya they needed to go, he knew of a campsite an hour’s ride away. And that they were getting low on food. John caught part of it, and asked, “We need meat?”

  “Si, Señor,” Juan said with a grin, followed by another spate of Spanish too fast for him to follow.

  Montoya laughed. “He said he will hunt while we make camp.”

  Twenty minutes later, as they weaved between the trees, they heard the squealing of pigs. John stopped his horse and turned to face the noise, drawing his 1911 and slipping the safety off as the sounds moved closer. Suddenly a piglet burst from the brush, and John, without thinking, shot it as it ran past. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the middle of the trail, his horse bucking away. He shook his head as an even louder and angrier squeal sounded, closely followed by a large sow, who charged him. He realized he still had his pistol in his hand and fired the remaining seven rounds into the sow’s chest as she kept coming. She finally collapsed and slid to a stop against his boot. He scrabbled backward, reloaded and started to get up as Montoya came charging back, his pistol out. “What happened?”

  John got to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his left knee. “Appears that horse didn’t like me shooting off her.” He glanced around and saw that Montoya still had both pack horses behind his, and asked, “Any idea what happened to my horse?”

  “Juan is after it. It bolted by both of us too quick for us to grab it. You are all right, Señor?”

  John tried to bend his knee and stopped, the breath hissing out. “Not really. Apparently twisted my knee, dammit.”

  They heard a whinny and Juan trotted up, leading John’s horse, that was still rolling its eyes and snorting at the smell of blood. John bent gingerly and picked up the magazine off the ground then limped to his horse, opened the saddle bag, and broke out a box of ammo, then reloaded the magazine, ejected the spare, and topped it off. He press checked the 1911, making sure there was a round in the chamber, flicked the safety on, and put it back in the holster.

  Juan handed him the reins, then jumped down and looked at the piglet and sow, his eyes wide. He and Montoya went back and forth for a couple of minutes, and Juan took the reins back, mounted, and trotted down the trail. Montoya, shaking his head, laughed. “Apparently we are not that far from his village. He is going for help to cook the sow. And he is now scared of you and your magic pistola.” Montoya laughed again. “Oh, and we will camp here tonight. It is now safe from evil.” He got down, tied his horse to a tree, then took the reins from John and started walking his horse to another tree.

  John finally asked, “What…I don’t…I mean, I just shot the hog.”

  Montoya walked over and looked at the sow, then up at John, and used his name for the first time. “John, it sounded like one continuous roll of shots. Seven shots from a 1911, and I can cover them with my fist. In a charging sow. I’ve never seen or heard anything like that, now that was accurate shooting.” He bowed to John and smiled.

  Two hours later, Juan came back with a half dozen indio men trotting behind him. They stared at John after they examined the sow, then two of them disappeared into the jungle, coming back minutes later with a long sapling. They tied the sow to it, and piled the piglet on top. Then the older of the men said something to Juan causing his eyes to pop open. He replied, then came slowly to them. He and Montoya went back and forth again, and Montoya said, “We have been invited to their village to partake of the feast, since we are the ones who killed the sow. It is about an hour from here.”

  John nodded. “Fine. I didn’t want to stay right by the blood tonight anyway. They want us to follow them?”

  Montoya smiled. “And protect them until they get the sow back. They have all heard of your magic pistola.” John sighed as he got up and hobbled over to his horse, tightened the cinch and got slowly into the saddle.

  The feast didn’t happen until the next evening, and Montoya had watched curiously as John let the kids in the village play with his hair, and apparently wasn’t bothered by it, nor the stink of the village. “Señor John, how is it that you are not bothered by the children touching you?”

  John laughed. “Been thro
ugh this before. I was with the Montagnards in Vietnam. I lived with them for almost a year. They had never seen blond hair, or a beard, so it was an interesting few months until they got used to me. I figure this is the same. And I think we need to head back tomorrow, the most direct route. Nothing against Juan, but it’s apparent he’s also protecting his people. Our knowing where their village is will probably mean them having to move.”

  Montoya sniffed. “Well, it would probably freshen the place up a bit.” They sat in the hut, and John tried to nap, but every time he rolled over, he woke himself up. He finally took a couple of aspirin, and hobbled down to the pit where the sow was being cooked, hoping the smoke would keep the flies away. The feast was good, and they went to sleep full for the first time in over a week.

  By the time they got back to Miraflores, John was laughing at Montoya, who was glaring at the piece of pork, mumbling to himself. “Tired of that sow yet?”

  Montoya shifted his glare to John and snapped, “This thing was tough to start with, and now a week later, I think it will break my teeth. And I am craving anything but pork. If I eat pork again in the next six months, it will be too soon!” Miraflores came into sight, just across the river and Montoya smiled. “Ah, gracias Dios! Civilization!”

  After they crossed the river, they tied the horses in front of the post office, and Montoya and Juan negotiated a settlement for his services. They were still negotiating when the 172 landed and John said, “Okay, we need to wrap this up. Just pay him and let’s get over there before they leave without us.”

  Montoya laughed and handed Juan a wad of notes, as John pulled a bag of candies out of his pack. He smiled and handed them to Juan whose eyes lit up as he took the bag.

  ***

  John and Menendez sat in the courtyard, enjoying the sun and lack of wind. Menendez lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Got a new guy coming for your team. Nick Barone. He’s transferring from El Paso. Not much field experience, but we’re going to bring him down off the books.” He handed John a folded note card and added, “Can you have somebody pick him up and take him back to the house your team has?”

  “Sure. Any background on this guy?”

  Menendez shrugged. “Young. Early twenties, graduated at the top of his class, did a year up on the Texas border. From Boston, Italian and Spanish in the family, speaks Castilian Spanish fluently. Noted as a go getter.”

  John tapped the card absentmindedly. “Go getter, huh. That could be good or bad. Speaking of that, any word on how Felix is doing?”

  Menendez smiled. “He’s doing well. He’s got a team out of Panama, and they’ve gotten some good busts up there. He’s working with the Army out of the Zone and is getting along well with everybody up there.”

  “That’s good! He’s a good kid, and he’ll go a long way. Montoya is different, but he’s working out well. Definitely a team player and knows the smuggling side. He’s even improved some of our techniques.”

  Menendez laughed and held up his hands. “Don’t wanna know, didn’t hear a word you said.”

  John laughed as he put the card in his shirt pocket. “I’ll go set up for him to be met. Nothing much happening right now, but I expect to see the acetone shipments start picking up in a couple of weeks.”

  “Okay. I don’t have any intel right now that points to anything else on the cocaine side. Lots of shipping of marijuana, but most of that is by boat from the east coast. The Coasties and the Navy are getting pretty busy, as are our folks in the Caribbean. Want to go ride a boat for a while?”

  John shook his head. “Nope. Don’t do boats. That’s why I went in the Army instead of the Navy. Hell, now days I’m not even liking little airplanes.”

  Menendez chuckled as he got up. “Don’t blame you. Well, back to the salt mines. I think we’re going to get a new ambassador down here, and I’m not sure how that’s going to play out. I just hope we get another pro, not some amateur on a political payoff.”

  ***

  Within a week of Barone’s arrival, Hector had dragged John to the side at the warehouse. “John, you have to do something about Barone. He thinks since he is an American, he is in charge. He…I am afraid Pasquale is going to do something to him.”

  John sighed. “I’ll talk to him. I was trying to give y’all some space to see how he’d do, but it is not—”

  Barone barged into the room and said, “John! I need to talk to you about who is in charge down here. I’ve got some—”

  John put up his hand. “Stop right there. I will talk to you when I get through talking to Hector. Now please step outside, this is a private conversation.”

  Barone bristled, but nodded and backed out of the room grudgingly. Hector said softly, “This, this is why. Bull in a china shop. Maybe we need to castrate him.”

  John coughed to cover a laugh, then replied, “I see what you mean. Let’s get a cup of coffee, sit here a minute, then leave and send him in.” Matching words to action, he got up and walked over to the coffee pot, poured a cup, and leaned against the counter, slowly rotating his shoulder.

  Hector asked, “Shoulder still bothering you?”

  “A little. Doc said three months. But it’s getting there. It just gets stiff.” Hector poured a cup and headed for the door, saying something as he walked out.

  Barone came in, slammed the door and said, “Dammit, I’m tired of playing second fiddle to a bunch of Mex’s. I didn’t come down here to sit on my ass and get lectured while I wait around for something to do. I’ve got field experience! I deserve—”

  John came off the counter, grabbed the front of Barone’s shirt, and growled, “You don’t deserve shit, boy. You are the new kid. You haven’t proven yourself to be anything but a non-team player. And don’t even talk to me about training. You came straight out of civvie land. No military experience, no law enforcement, nothing. Pasquale is a stone ass killer. He was in the first class of their equivalent of Guatemalan Special Forces. I’m a former Green Beret, three tours in ‘Nam. Montoya was trained by the Mexican Marines as a Federale. Hector is a Mexican Marine officer! Every one of us has killed people in the conduct of our missions. How many people have you killed? Huh?” Disgusted John pushed him away, reached back, and picked up his coffee cup. “I’m waiting.”

  Barone backed up, his eyes big, and his hand going toward his waist. “Don’t even think about it. You’re off the books. I could kill you, and your ass would disappear into the jungle, never to be seen again. Either get on board with what we’re doing, or get the fuck out. I will not have you fucking up this team. Do you understand?”

  Barone jerked his hand away from his waist and gulped. “I’ll…” he sniffed. “I’ll get on board. It’s just that I don’t think it’s fair. I mean.” He held his hands up, then turned and walked out of the conference room.

  ***

  Two nights later, John went by the house for dinner and Hector told him that Barone had started pitching in, and had done good on both of the delivery trips they had done. John smiled but didn’t say a word, causing Hector to chuckle as he handed John platters of meat to carry into the dining room.

  After dinner, he briefed the team that the harvest of coca leaves had started, and they could expect to get back to searching out labs in the next month or so, in addition to looking for smugglers with the support of aircraft flying at night over Amazonia.

  Ramping Up

  As spring in the southern hemisphere cranked up, the production of cocaine cranked right along with it. By sheer luck they had managed to intercept one mule train of coca paste at Cartagena Del Chaira, based on a conversation Montoya had overheard in restaurant in Cali they were supplying with cows. 2400 kilos of paste were collected by a Policia Nacional Huey, and John laughed when they took credit for the bust on national television.

  That the restaurant was also apparently a meeting place for mid-level cartel members had apparently slipped through the cracks in the intelligence world, or the owner was paying the right people to be kept off the
list. Once Mason was advised, he managed to get a female hired as a waitress, and they began to get more and more intel from the place, along with tying a number of different sub groups and groups of enforcers to their bosses, either directly or by inference through who met with whom. That intel was kept within the DEA, for a number of reasons, not the least of which was not knowing who on the Colombian side was a paid informant for the cartels.

  John’s team moved a lot of barrels of acetone across the border, often delivering to town squares and churches in the middle of the night. After the incident in Santana where John had shot the fat cartel sub-lieutenant, they hadn’t had any other problems. They got paid on time too. Fernando noted that many of those who met with them crossed themselves when they saw who it was. “Maybe they think we are protected by the one upstairs. Nobody comes out with guns, much less points them at us now.”

  John, Montoya, and Hector sat with a topo map of southern Colombia, looking at the distribution of the acetone deliveries, and Montoya finally said, “It looks like there could be either eight or ten labs in this area,” drawing a light pencil circle about twenty miles around Pitalito. “Most of the deliveries have been within that radius and you have two national parks plus the hills connecting the two with plenty of roads into and out of the area.” He tapped the pencil on the map again. “I cannot help but wonder if Señor Mason has looked at this from his perspective?”

  John nodded thoughtfully. “I can bring it to Menendez and get him to push it to Mason. Or if Menendez isn’t around, I’ll call him direct from the embassy on a secure phone.”

  Hector added, “It’s obvious they are getting ready for a big production schedule. They must be laying in stock ahead of the pasta de coca they are expecting.”

  The next morning, John was in Morgan’s office, drinking coffee and looking at the take from the intel flights with him. Morgan sat back and picked up his cup. “John, I’m guessing there are probably three or three and a half tons of paste on the way, in just that one mule train. That’s a little over a ton of processed pure cocaine! And it looks like there might have been an additional two pass through the area within twenty-four hours on other tracks.”