“The other boat will lead,” Emil said as he took the skipper’s seat and started the motors. “We’ll follow along with no lights. We’ll have you there within an hour.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Oh, come on, Jake,” he said. “Don’t play dumb. Grenada, of course.”
“Of course.”
The other man cast off the lines, and we pulled away into the bay. We reached open water and Grotesqcu put us on a plane, screaming along at 50 knots behind the lead boat’s rooster tail. Cigarettes—a class of boats nicknamed from their role in smuggling them in bygone days—are designed for speed and nothing else. No amenities, no comfort, no embellishments. Torpedo-sleek foredeck and streamlined hull account for most of the 40 or so foot length. Massive engines take up the stern, and in between there’s an open cockpit with a skipper’s chair and leatherette bucket seats for a few passengers. Getting from one place to another? You bet. Where you want to be? Only if you’re a hardcore speed junkie. Emil was having a ball.
We followed the lead boat to the east and then took a southerly course, skirting around the Grenadines to windward, and the going got rough. The winds had quieted a little, but the ocean swell persisted, coming off our bow quarter. Grotesqcu handled the boat expertly, but at that speed every other wave we hit sent us airborne, jarring my kidneys and rattling my teeth when we landed . We flew along in the dark, far enough windward to avoid shoals and reefs, but God help us if we ran into floating debris. The full moon rose, setting the sea to port side a-shimmer, but didn’t throw enough light to show any land to our starboard. A few glimmers sparkled here and there, suggesting a large island a few miles distant. An hour or so passed, and then the boats slowed down and dropped off the plane. “Jake, go below. There are clothes for you to change into,” Grotesqcu instructed.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“You’re going to join some people. You’ll want to blend in.”
The cabin didn’t provide much elbow room, and headroom enough only for dwarves. I found a stack of clothes on one of the forward bunks. A well-used work shirt. Soiled coveralls. What the hell? I put them on, stuffed my own clothes in the duffle and returned to the cockpit. A light flashed on shore. The third man in the boat answered it with a spotlight. The lead boat angled toward the shore signal, us trailing in behind. We pulled alongside what appeared to be a construction wharf—rough wood bulkhead, creosoted pilings, a concrete surface, cranes and heavy equipment, illuminated by lights hung on poles. We tossed our lines to some men waiting for us on the wharf, who cleated them fast. I climbed ashore on legs shaky from the rough ride, duffle in hand.
“Here you are, Point Salines. We made good time,” said Grotesqcu. “I think everything will be fine. You’ll be all rested and ready to go for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
A man came over, a Latino dressed as I was. “Jake, this is Desi.”
“Buenos noches, Senor Zhake,” Desi said with a wide smile.
“He speaks English, don’t worry,” said Grotesqcu. “He’ll take care of you, get you squared away. Well, Jake, this was an assignment I appreciate, a great improvement over Cambodia and Iran, better even than Belfast, and surely superior to other venues where the KGB could have sent me. I could get used to this lifestyle, especially come winter. What a couple of weeks! Too bad we couldn’t slow down and enjoy it a bit. I do have to wonder why my masters are so bent on subverting your system. Seems to me we’d be better off emulating it. Oh well…” He extended his hand and we shook. “Ciao, Jake,” he said. “Much obliged for the BCCI materials. You can wrap your business up now. Do the right thing tomorrow, and everything will turn out rosy for all concerned. Somebody should award you frequent flyer miles for all the international air travel you provoked,” he added with a chuckle.
Too bad I couldn’t ask him to lay out what the “right thing tomorrow” might be. “Thanks for rescue and the ride, Emil,” I said. “Take care of yourself.” As if he needed any encouragement. He hopped back into the Cigarette and resumed the helm, eager to fire it up and roar away. Men cast off lines, the idling engines purred to life, and the two boats rumbled away into the darkness. I heard them throttle up to full power, and within a minute the roar faded away to the south.
So I’m now on Grenada. And therefore? Desi flashed a wide smile and motioned me to follow him. It was a quiet night, nothing much happening. He led me onto what under the bright tropical moonlight appeared to be a large airstrip under construction.
10 | Government Boots
We walked over smooth concrete; we walked over stone ballast; we walked over lanes of bare dirt, all stretching into the moonlit distance. We walked around bulldozers, earth movers, skip loaders, backhoes, cranes, cement mixers and asphalt machines. Desi told me he was foreman on a grading crew. More important than that was his position as barracks political officer. I told him Grotesqcu brought me to Grenada because I was an American secret undercover agent for the Russian KGB with special instructions, and I asked him to bring me up to speed on the local situation so that I could complete my plans. He explained that Cuban construction crews had been imported to the southern tip of Grenada to build a modern airport with a landing strip of 2,700 meters. The old airport had a bad location and was too short for the big jet planes that the gringos ricos like to fly on. The Grenadian government saw it as a way to attract tourist dollars and development to the island. British money backed it, Grenada being a former colony that still maintained ties. Cuba sent construction workers, plus doctors, teachers and technicians, part of their goodwill program to foster friendships with other islands in the region.
We approached some large, temporary buildings along the construction site. Shirtless men milling around outside paid me no attention beyond curious glances. Aromas of spicy food mingled with sweat and grease hit me. I heard loud voices, laughter and salsa music. He opened a door and we entered a big, low-ceilinged barracks housing a raucous assembly in a haze of cigar smoke which ceiling fans did little to disperse. Dinnertime had ended, evening relaxation had begun. Men at tables played cards and dominos. Over to the side, a string combo worked out a Latin number with an upbeat rhythm. Other tables hosted animated discussions. Some men sat contentedly smoking cigars or nursing beers. The assemblage comprised mostly men older than me, working stiffs. Away from their own impoverished island, they must be having the time of their lives down there. All they needed was women. I wondered how much of their pay Castro allowed them to keep.
Desi showed me to a far corner bunk, and I stowed my kit. He offered me food. I wasn’t hungry after my birthday feast on Mustique, but I was grateful for a beer in the muggy, close room. I stayed out of the way and presently the evening wound down and the crowd readied for bed. They were working men. They’d worked hard all day. Tomorrow they’d be working hard again.
I followed their routine, tagging along at the rear ends of washroom queues and deflecting any conversations with nods, smiles and grunts. We were all in bed and lights out soon after 2200.
And I still didn’t have a clue about tomorrow.
The next morning I awakened with the thought that for an airstrip under construction, Port Salines sure had a lot of air traffic. The sound of automatic weapons fire snapped me to attention. My watch said a little after 0530. I threw my coveralls on over my shorts and slipped my running shoes onto my bare feet. A pandemonium was developing as the crew in the barracks came out of their slumbers. I threaded my way through roiling men to a door and slipped outside. Staying close to the wall, I found a spot that afforded a view of the airstrip. Two low-flying AC-130 Spectre Gunships circled Port Salines in their wide-ranging, port-side combat loops. Some green tracer streaked up toward one from a machine gun emplacement off to the side, and the lizard-green Spectre opened up on it with its autocannons. No more tracer.
Black shapes in the distance grew into Hercules transport planes, the same airframe as the Spe
ctres, but without the port-side armament. At first it looked like they might be in a landing descent pattern… but with all the clutter on the incomplete runway, how could they? They roared in over Port Salines at 500 feet spewing black objects, and chutes opened instantaneously. Nobody chutes into a live fire zone from 500 feet but the Rangers, my old outfit. Holy shit. We were under full-scale assault by U.S. Army Rangers.
I went back into the barracks, by that time a-buzz like a knocked-over beehive, and surveyed my pot-bellied, coveralled co-workers. Several separate clusters of men listened to impassioned harangues by men brandishing AK-47s. The rest sat at tables, or lined up for coffee and gruel, or wandered around looking distressed. I located Desi in one of the crowds and beckoned to him. He excused himself from his group and came over. “What’s going on here?” I demanded firmly. “What are those men saying?” I waved my hand in the direction of two of the groups, implying that I meant them all.
“It is different leaders, trying to take control,” he said. “We have crews of combat construction engineers, and their officers try to organize a resistance. Other groups are Communist party men. They don’t want the military guys to take over, but Revolutionary Army is very powerful in Cuba. So the party men try to persuade the men to follow their leadership, rather than the army’s. Most of the men do not want to fight with the Americanos at all. They know they will lose and many will be killed and hurt. They came here for the work. But every Cuban man must take military training, so they fear they will be forced to fight the Americanos, no matter who seizes the leadership.”
Meanwhile the Rangers were converging on us, and the gunships circled overhead suppressing any signs of opposition. Good luck resisting that. “This is all happening according to my plan,” I confided. “This is why the Russian KGB sent me to Point Salines.”
“Tell me your plan, Senor Zhake. I stand ready to implement it.”
“This apparent attack is simply a probe,” I said. “The Americanos sent in a weak unit to test us. If we resist them here at Point Salines, they will land overwhelming forces all over the island. But if we let them think they have won, the Americanos will be lulled into false consciousness. Then, while their guard is down, we will launch a successful counterattack.”
Some men at the window were shouting excitedly. “The Americanos are advancing along the airstrip,” Desi translated for me. Several men with AK-47s bolted outside to engage the Rangers. They got a few rounds off before they were cut down.
“Enough,” I said. “You are the political officer. Tell the others to desist. Have some men shoot guns out the doors. The Americans will shoot back. After that, we wait a little. Then, when they draw closer, we wave a white flag. We will have shown honor defending Cuba, and we will draw them into our trap.”
Desi drew a pistol from his pocket and fired three shots at the ceiling. Having gained their attention, he told the men my plan and urged them to follow it. It was total bullshit and probably every man knew it, but it worked because no one really lusted for a firefight with the American army, and any excuse not to would do. Orders from Russia? Sure, let’s obey! All looked relieved except a few army hotspurs. Those, Desi selected to fire their weapons and thus uphold Cuban honor while being careful not to kill any Americanos. They did their duty, and an answering fusillade perforated the walls. The men hit the deck, but not before several got winged. A few minutes later, Desi waved a white dishcloth on a broom handle out a window, and then everybody settled down to wait.
Everybody but me, that is. I hustled back to my bunk, threw off my construction gang clothes, donned my civvies and combed my hair. I chucked the CZ 75 under somebody else’s bunk. And I retreated to a storage closet, keeping an eye on the situation through the cracked door opening.
Presently flash-bang grenades came through two windows. After the blasts, all the doors flew open and crouching Rangers burst in, M-16s leveled at belly height. The work crews, hands raised, gladly let themselves be frisked and sorted out for processing. When the barracks was secured, I shoved the closet door open, staggered out, and, hands high in the air, proclaimed, “Thank God you’ve come. I’m an American. They’ve been holding me hostage!”
Sergeant Granger took charge of me. “Do you have any proof you’re American?” he asked.
“They confiscated my passport, but they left me my California Driver’s License. Will that do?”
“Let me see it,” he said. I fished it out of my wallet and gave it to him. He studied it. He compared the picture with my face. “You’re from Malibu, Mr. Fonko? I’ve never been out there. Is that like in the Gidget movies?”
“Not very much,” I said. “Who’s your commanding officer?”
“I’m not authorized to disclose information, Mr. Fonko.”
“I was in the Rangers myself. Did a tour in Nam in 69-70 with the Lurps, a Sergeant in Company B, 75th Rangers.”
Ranger Granger brightened up. “The Lurps? That must have been some kind of action. Major Wallace tells stories about it.”
“Major Wallace? Is that Henry Wallace? (Granger nodded “yes.”) We were team leaders together. Is he involved in this operation?”
“He’s the battalion XO, but he won’t be here until we can land planes on the runway. They’re working on that now. Come see.” We went outside. Soldiers had taken over bulldozers and were using them to shove other equipment out of the way. By 0740 they’d cleared a usable stretch of airstrip, and supply planes soon arrived. Though officially in Sergeant Granger’s custody, he let me wander around as he had more urgent tasks at hand. I enjoyed watching the troops go about their business. Damn but they were good, as sharp an outfit as ever. I missed it. To this day l think I could have gone far in the military, had not Todd Sonarr and his CIA shenanigans fucked up my career.
A number of supply planes landed before Sgt. Granger told me Major Wallace was on the ground. By that time I’d convinced him that enough of my story was genuine. He carried my note to field headquarters and returned with a reply: “Major Wallace said it would be a little while, but you’re to wait, Mr. Fonko.”
“That’s fine. Meantime, where can a man get some chow around here?”
He directed me to a field kitchen. Nowadays, they ate better in the field than we used to out in the boonies. Then he escorted me back to the barracks. After about an hour, Granger returned with a ramrod straight soldier sporting black embroidered oak leafs on his camo uniform, along with a name strip, “Wallace.” The senior officer stopped and stony-faced, looked me up and down carefully. I was on the verge of rising to greet him when he declared, “Sergeant, put this traitor in irons! Now!”
After a long pause, Henry burst out in loud laughter. “Jake, I wish you could have seen your face just then.” He strode over and clasped my hand. “Too long a time, buddy,” he said, then turned to Granger. “That will be all, Sergeant.” Granger left us.
“Henry, what’s going on here?” I asked.
“Operation Urgent Fury. Almost spur of the moment. There was a Marxist coup on October 19, deposing the president, Maurice Bishop. The population rose up and called a general strike. Riots broke out, and Bishop’s supporters tried to spring him from jail. The revolutionaries shot Bishop and others in his faction, soldiers massacred people on the street, and President Reagan decided enough was enough. He’d been concerned that the Russians and Cubans are building this airstrip as a forward operating base, at a location too critical for Caribbean shipping to let that stand. And he felt that we should protect hundreds of American students going to medical school on Grenada. So, in no more than a week’s time, we organized this attack. They deployed us out of Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia and brought the 2nd Battalion from Fort Lewis, Washington.”
“Just here at Point Salines?”
“The Rangers, yes. Marines and SEALS had an amphibious landing on Grand Anse near the capital, and there was a landing at the airport up the coast. Th
e 82nd Airborne will be coming in here a little later. We’ll land a force of something like 8,000 in all, mostly Americans but a few token foreign personnel. I gather the other operations met resistance from the Grenadian Army, such as it is. Cubans and Russians reportedly were firing mortars out of the Russian Embassy. In fact, we had to chopper a squad from the 1st battalion over to Grand Anse to bail some of our guys out of a jam. The Point Salines airstrip was the critical phase, and it went smoother than anyone had dared hope.”
“That’s the Rangers for you,” I said.
“The same old story, Jake. The higher-ups issue FUBAR battle plans, and the Rangers make them work. At least we had our logistics people involved in the planning. Believe me, that helped a lot. So,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, but I’ll tell you anyhow.”
I related most of my adventures, giving him a lot of chuckles. He sort of believed some of it. The thing is, we hadn’t seen one another since 1975, before my military career went SNAFU, so we had a lot of catching up to do. His big brother, Sarge, had been advising me from time to time and filled him in on some aspects of my post-military doings, but enough of it was Classified that the pieces didn’t fit. Henry accepted that, and he marveled at my civilian exploits. He’d gone on to OCS after our LRRP tour and, not having Todd Sonarr to bollix everything up, had risen to Major. Not only that, “You’re a Daddy now?”
“A little boy and a bigger girl. An uncle, too.”
“Don’t tell me Sarge got married?”
“Go forth and multiply, as the Good Book says. Two sons, so far.” Out came the pictures. Wives good looking, kids cute. “How about you, Jake?”
“Mmmm… went forth some, no multiplication to show for it. So is Sarge still in the Service?”
“Forever. He got assigned to Korea for a while, did him good. Stateside made him antsy, no side business possibilities. All kinds of fiddles for him over in Asia. Same old Sarge. ‘Pay up or pay otherwise,’ that motto of his.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 18
