by Mike Jenne
Lewis covered the remaining details of the scheme and then asked, “Any questions?” With no response, he shook hands with Henson. “Good plan, Matt. Let’s make this happen.”
6:50 p.m.
As Henson checked the Volkswagen’s engine and brakes, Glades and Baker smeared their faces with a thick mixture of loam camouflage paint and soot from sugarcane ash. They worked together to ensure that their Caucasian coloring was completely obscured, even using their fingers to work the makeshift greasepaint into their nostrils and deep into their ears.
“So, Matt, what do you think?” asked Baker, grinning fiercely. “Dark enough to suit you?”
“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would have taken you for a couple of blackface minstrels,” commented Henson. “All we need is a banjo and a washboard, and the three of us could stage an old-timey vaudeville act.”
He checked the safety on the M10 submachine gun loaned by Finn. It wasn’t the feared Uzi machine pistol favored by the fearsome Tonton Macoutes, but it was sufficiently close enough in appearance that most casual observers probably couldn’t tell the difference, particularly in bad light. Besides, he was fairly sure that few Haitians had witnessed an actual Uzi and were still alive to describe it. He tucked the stubby M10 into his shoulder bag. With the gun’s added weight, the bag hung ominously at his side.
Glades double-checked his own M10 before pulling a dark suit jacket over his white guyabera short. Donning a Panama straw hat like Henson’s, he said, “Like you said earlier, when we hit the door, both of us need to move calmly and deliberately, like we own the whole damned universe. The game’s over if we act nervous or antsy. Got it?”
“Got it,” answered Henson.
Peristyle de Beasujour, Dondon, Haiti
7:48 p.m., Saturday, March 14, 1970
Struggling to comprehend his surroundings, Carson questioned whether he was asleep or awake; with every hour that passed, his world seemed to spiral further downward into a progressively surreal nightmare. People had been arriving for hours; just when he thought the cramped space could not possibly accommodate any more bodies, a few more packed in.
Some sort of voodoo rite was in full swing. A small ensemble of musicians gathered to play on a bizarre collection of instruments. Four chanting men pounded on makeshift drums, while several others blew into pipes and hollowed bamboo joints, creating weirdly ethereal music that Carson found frightening and yet somehow captivating.
Barely clothed men and women swayed and gyrated to the hypnotic music, gravitating towards the decorated pole that was the hub of the event. Moving in a rhythm-induced trance as the drums pounded at a feverish tempo, some twirled and shimmied, while others, apparently imitating savage animals, stooped over and grunted.
The frenzied celebration was lit by candles. In the sputtering light, the ghastly wall murals seemed to come to life. The hideously smiling specters pulsated, as if anxious to emerge from the orange-painted concrete to join the festivities.
Small clay pots smoldered with a mixture of charcoal and vile incense. The air was so thick with odors that Carson could scarcely breathe. He stayed close to the floor, where the air was at least slightly cooler, protecting his burned hand and leaning to his side to shield Ourecky.
Most of the revelers kept their distance, but some—particularly a few young men with rum heavy on their breaths—drew close enough to prod him with sticks. He saw that some of the men casually flaunted machetes, and dreaded what the night might hold in store.
With crazed eyes, perched on an elevated wooden platform, the bare-chested sorcerer with frayed red pants held sway over it all. Moving with an almost hyperkinetic intensity, he frequently looked at his captives, wearing a sinister grin that sent a wave of fear down Carson’s spine. He trusted that they would be rescued, but now he wondered if their rescuers would arrive in time to deliver them from this evil.
9:02 p.m.
Seated outside the Volkswagen bus, they waited. In a hushed voice, Lewis transmitted over the radio: “Assault, this is Recon Six. We are in position? Are you set? Over.”
“Recon Six, Assault is set and waiting,” answered Henson.
“Roger. Be advised that there are now approximately fifty adult subjects inside the structure and six outside,” said Lewis. “No vehicles on site. No visible weapons except machetes. Over.”
“Recon Six, this is Assault,” replied Henson. “We copy fifty subjects inside and six outside. No weapons visible. Over.”
“Assault, roger on all. The field is yours. Execute at your discretion. Over.”
Henson keyed the mike and said calmly, “Assault. Roger. Stand by.”
Like commuters in a suburban car pool, the three men climbed aboard the waiting van. Baker took the driver’s seat. Henson sat in the right seat and Glades crouched in the back.
“Ready?” asked Henson, looking towards Baker.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Baker turned the key and the Volkswagen’s motor rumbled to life.
“How about you, Henson?” asked Glades, adjusting his woven straw satchel. “Ready?”
“To be honest, I’m starting to have some misgivings.”
“Henson, you have a good plan. Cease with the negative thoughts. Shut up, put your head down, and execute. This is the moment of truth, gentlemen. Ready now?”
“Ready,” answered Henson. “Roll it, Baker.”
Baker jammed the vehicle into gear and pulled down on a short dirt track and onto the gravel surface of the northbound road that paralleled the river. Henson keyed the radio and transmitted, “Assault is moving.”
“Assault, this is Recon Six,” answered Lewis in a whisper. “I copy you are moving.”
Henson clicked the transmit switch twice. So as not to attract undue attention, the Volkswagen bus putted along at a virtual snail’s pace, not exceeding twenty-five miles an hour on the gravel road. Baker occasionally had to beep his horn and weave to avoid strolling pedestrians, as well as stray goats and chickens wandering in the dark.
“I cannot believe that I’m riding in the back of a damned Volkswagen bus to conduct a raid,” said Glades, holding the back of Henson’s seat to maintain his balance. “Man, I could probably walk faster than this damned thing.”
9:24 p.m.
“This is Menard. You’re about a minute out,” stated Glades, consulting the map as they drove.
Henson nodded and said over the radio, “Recon Six, this is Assault. We’re one minute away. Got an update? Over.”
Lewis’s voice came back over the radio. “Assault, Recon Six. No change. Still estimate fifty subjects inside structure. Be aware that there are approximately fifteen children playing outside, about twenty feet in front of the entrance. Pilots are still located in same position inside structure. Over.”
“Good copy,” replied Henson. “See you shortly. Out.”
A few moments later, Glades announced, “That’s it, two hundred meters ahead on the left.”
Driving as if he was casually pulling into the parking lot at a neighborhood grocery store, Baker downshifted and pulled into the grassy area in front of the peristyle. Coasting around in a wide buttonhook maneuver, he braked to a smooth stop so the blunt front end of the Volkswagen bus was pointed out towards Highway Three, ready for an immediate departure. Pulling out the parking brake, he left the engine idling. “Good luck,” he said.
Henson drew a deep breath, swung his door open, and stepped down from the micro-bus. Slipping on his mirrored sunglasses, he swaggered towards the peristyle with malicious purpose. Although he was sure that Glades was the best man to play the part, he still wasn’t entirely confident that the subterfuge would work.
Stealing a quick glance back over his shoulder, a chill passed through his body. Glades looked almost precisely like the first Tonton Macoute he had seen at the airport when he initially arrived in Haiti. Henson knew that the Army Ranger was essentially just a hillbilly from West Virginia, but now even he could not be convinced that he was not
a stoic pillar of pure black evil.
In front of the peristyle, multi-colored pennants popped and fluttered in the breeze. As Lewis had reported, about a dozen children were playing outside. Seeing Henson and Glades approach, the children screamed like crazed banshees and scattered like leaves in the wind.
Striving to maintain focus, Henson was surprised at the music and chants emanating from the peristyle. The rhythms tugged sharply at him, drawing him in, like it was sucking him into a vortex. It was unnerving, like the eerie music somehow was triggering a connection to his distant past, rippling through space and time and his ancestors’ souls to remind him of his African heritage. Pushing those thoughts aside, he arrived at the door and stepped inside.
As he crossed the threshold, a woman’s shrieking disrupted the proceedings. “Tonton Macoutes! Tonton Macoutes!” Glades entered on Henson’s heels and then took a position just inside the door, ensuring that Finn would still have a clear field of view from the hillside.
“Atansyon! Silans!” bellowed Henson. “Attention! Silence!” Crying and pleading, the revelers backed away from Henson, scurrying into the far corner until they were one tightly compressed mass of sweating bodies. A tinkling crescendo rose as abandoned machetes and rum bottles hit the floor. He brusquely shoved stragglers aside as he strode towards the center pole.
“We have been informed that you are illegally holding property of the State,” announced Henson in Haitian Creole, shifting his shoulder bag slightly as he patted it lightly with the outstretched fingers of his left hand. “We are here to claim it.”
He advanced to the corner and stood over Carson and Ourecky, glaring at them like they were a pair of disobedient hounds. He chuckled and bent forward at the waist. Reeling his hand back, he slapped Carson hard across the face; the stinging sound reverberated through the room. He placed his palm on Carson’s forehead and leaned closer, as if he was inspecting a consignment of merchandise for defects or blemishes. He pulled open Carson’s lips and examined his teeth, and then turned the pilot’s head to look into his ears. Softly, he whispered, “Air Force rescue team. We’re here to take you home. Follow my lead.”
He repeated the process with Ourecky, who was only marginally conscious at best. Suddenly, Henson saw a momentary flash of recognition in his eyes.
“You?” mumbled Ourecky feebly.
“Yeah. It’s me,” replied Henson quietly, subtly nodding. One at a time, he yanked the men to their feet. As Carson assisted Ourecky, Henson pushed them roughly towards Glades and the door. The thronged Haitians were motionless, groveling in abject shock.
Shoving the pilots before him, Henson had almost made it to the door when he heard an enraged voice. It was the houngan, bellowing a single word like a scathing curse, “Blan!”
“Blan!” grunted the houngan again, nimbly jumping down from his vantage point. Suddenly emboldened, he spoke in rapid-fire Haitian Creole, exhorting his followers to resist the strangers in their midst. Still frozen in fear, most of the crowd did nothing, but five large Haitian males apprehensively stepped forward to obstruct Henson’s escape route.
“Blan!”
Slowly pivoting about, Henson expected the houngan’s ire to be focused on Glades. After all, it was the weakest part of the ruse, attempting to pass off a white man as not only black, but as a dreaded Tonton Macoute. So as Henson finally turned to face the houngan, what he didn’t expect was the black wizard’s gnarled finger to be pointed at him.
“Blan,” sneered the houngan scornfully, wagging his finger. Slowly becoming reanimated, muttering among themselves, the houngan’s followers were obviously divided in their perception of the unfolding drama. Most appeared convinced that their spiritual leader had taken abrupt leave of his senses, but a sizeable faction of loyal disciples obediently rallied to challenge the interlopers in their midst.
Almost instinctively, Henson’s hand flashed towards his shoulder bag. Out of the corner of his eye, he discerned the glint of metal in the flickering light of the candles; at least a few of the peristyle members had reclaimed their discarded machetes. He and Glades had their submachine guns, but they were really only meant as a show of force to make good an escape. Now Henson saw that it was going to be an ugly scene, with no guarantee that they could get the pilots through the door unharmed, and equally unlikely that he or Glades would be unscathed as well. He realized that there was only one chance of surviving this showdown. It was time to improvise, so he ceased acting like a Tonton Macoute, and instead became one.
Slipping off his mirrored sunglasses, shifting his feet into a boxer’s stance, he aggressively leaned towards the sorcerer until their broad noses touched. Their sweat mingled and dripped to the floor. A tense eternity passed as the two men stood motionless, like ebony statues chiseled in deep relief, glaring at each other. Watching tiny muscles twitch in his adversary’s wizened forehead, Henson knew exactly what the houngan was seeing as he peered into his eyes: Dark pupils like opaque glass, entirely devoid of human expression.
“Should I take your soul from you now?” hissed Henson menacingly, laying the palm of his hand against the houngan’s bare chest and pressing deep into his dark flesh. “Or should I come back to collect it later?”
Trembling, the terrified houngan recoiled back into the crowd, as if he had been yanked by invisible marionette strings. Henson threw back his head and laughed, partly out of theatrical necessity and partly out of sheer relief. Confident that the houngan was no longer a viable threat, he turned, and slowly walked towards the door. The panicked Haitians surged to escape from his path; Moses and his legendary staff could not have parted the Red Sea any faster.
Glades took control of Carson and Ourecky; playing his role to the hilt, he slapped the backs of their heads as he propelled them outside into the night. Henson followed, and they calmly trotted back towards the idling micro-bus.
They were twelve feet from the van when Ourecky suddenly faltered. Clutching his abdomen, he groaned and collapsed to his knees. Glades and Carson reacted immediately, hoisting him by his armpits and swinging him into the cargo space of the Volkswagen. Glades jumped in and slammed the door shut as Henson took his place in the front seat.
“Good in back?” asked Henson, pulling the M10 from the bag.
“We’re up,” replied Glades calmly.
“Go, Baker,” said Henson softly. “Take it easy. Don’t get in a rush.”
Baker shoved the Volkswagen into gear and they lurched onto Highway Three, headed towards the north. Henson called over the radio, “Recon Six, this is Assault. Headcount five, moving north. Be advised one subject appears to be seriously injured. Will advise. Over.”
“Assault, Recon Six,” replied Lewis in a hushed voice. “Good work. Copy you are moving with headcount five. Copy injured subject. Be advised that no locals have emerged from building. They still appear to be bewildered. Over.”
“Roger. Stand by.” As Baker drove north on the gravel highway, Henson turned around and asked, “You’re Carson, right?”
Carson nodded and pointed down. “Right. And this is Ourecky.”
“We know.” Henson tossed a rubberized waterproof bag, about the size of a laundry bag, to Carson. “Here. There’s a uniform and boots in there for you. There’s some other stuff as well. There’s a ground-to-air survival radio, a survival kit, a barter kit with gold coins, and an American flag so you can identify yourself to aircraft. Go ahead and climb into the uniform when you can. We have another bag for your buddy. Same stuff.”
“Thanks,” said Carson, untying the bag. “Are you guys really the rescue team?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess I was expecting a helicopter.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” answered Henson. “Our helo’s in the shop. Listen, we’re taking you to a pick-up site. It’s on the coast, about half an hour north of here. There’s a US Navy ship waiting offshore. If we’re stopped and have to abandon this vehicle on the way to the pick-up site, stick with us. We’ll take care
of carrying Ourecky. Are you okay? No physical problems?”
“I’m okay,” replied Carson. “And thanks for breaking us out of there, except for the part where you slapped the hell out of me.”
“You’re welcome,” said Henson. “So, how’s he looking back there? Is he coming around?”
“I think he’s slipping into shock,” said Glades, struggling to keep his balance as he examined Ourecky. “I would swear he’s been shot, but there aren’t any holes in him.”
“We had a rough landing,” explained Carson. “His head hit the control panel.”
“Head injury. Not good,” stated Baker as he shifted gears. “Not good at all.”
“Okay,” said Henson, looking back into the cargo space. “As soon as we can, we’ll stop and put Baker back there.”
With a long straightaway ahead of them, with no vehicles or pedestrians in sight, Henson said, “Okay. Stop here and switch.”
Downshifting, Baker braked to a smooth stop. He and Glades traded places, just as they had previously rehearsed. Baker unzipped his M5 medical bag and immediately went to work. Guarding his abdomen, his ashen face contorted in pain, Ourecky moaned. Glades jumped into the driver’s seat and quickly got the vehicle rolling north. Henson oriented Carson to the map, showing him where they were and where they were going.
Baker slashed open Ourecky’s long underwear shirt with his survival knife and then quickly examined his abdomen and torso. Ourecky winced as the medic lightly kneaded his stomach. “Oh, this ain’t good,” noted Baker. “It looks like he’s bleeding internally.”
“How can you tell?” asked Henson, swiveling his head to look in the back on the van.
“See that faint bruising around his belly button?” answered Baker, illuminating Ourecky’s abdomen with his flashlight. “That’s a sign he’s been bleeding into the peritoneum, his gut cavity. His gut is also rigid and tender, that’s why he’s protecting it like he is. He’s probably been leaking into it for a while, but likely had a good clot formed that kept the bleeding in check while he was stationary. But once he started moving, it obviously got jarred loose.”
