by Chuck Holton
Conflicting emotions tore him to shreds inside. Part of him wanted nothing more than to surrender himself, to give up the driver’s seat of his life and let God take the wheel. But another part was screaming that the change would mean giving up the comfort of being his own man. Sure, there was a lot of misery where he was, but who knew if giving God control wouldn’t be even worse?
An image of his father came to mind. Suddenly Rip realized that the man’s biggest failing wasn’t the infidelity; it was the unwillingness to put his family ahead of his own personal pleasure.
So are you going to be any different?
That stung. Anger jumped into the emotional fray. Anger at his father, and anger at the similarities he saw in himself.
No. I won’t be like him. I can’t.
The time was right. Comfort wasn’t worth losing himself and his family.
He met Fernanda’s gaze. “Okay, amiga. Let’s do it.”
She covered both of his hands with her own. They both bowed their heads. Fernanda began, and Rip repeated her words phrase by phrase. “Father, I admit that I don’t deserve Your love, but I believe that Your Son, Jesus, died in my place.”
It’s hard to believe anyone could love me that much.
“And I give my life to You now.”
Take it, God. It’s a wreck, but if You want it, You can have it.
“Forgive me of my sins.”
The words caught in his throat.
Fernanda’s voice trembled. “Give me a new life and guide me in Your ways.”
Rip sobbed quietly. I want to change … please change me.
“Give me new life and guide me, Jesus. I receive Your gift of eternal life. En el Nombre de Jesus. Amen.”
A sweet sense of well-being oozed like warm honey into the depths of his soul. He raised his head and saw Fernanda’s tears through his own. And he suddenly understood that surrender had been the only thing standing between him and victory.
Rip wiped his tears on his shirtsleeves. “I must look like an idiot.”
She reached out and stopped him. “Not at all. It takes a real man to do what you just did.” She hugged him tightly.
He hugged her back. Her soft hair smelled wonderful. He pulled back and looked at her. There was something incredibly special about this woman, and a frantic thought hit him that he might never see her again.
“Fernanda, I …”
“What?”
Their eyes met, faces only inches apart. Part of him wanted nothing more than to touch his lips to hers. It would have been the most natural thing to do. But somehow it wasn’t right.
“I want to kiss you right now.”
“And?”
“I want to, but I’m not going to. It’s too cheap. You deserve better than that.” The truth was, nothing could be more intimate than what they had already shared. Kissing her now would have been like putting frosting on a diamond ring.
She smiled and glanced at their hands. “Well, I won’t say part of me doesn’t want you to, but you’re right. It’s too soon.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “For once I want to have a relationship with a girl based on something other than physical attraction. I like you so much and want to give us the chance to get to know each other as people, not just bodies, you know?”
She nodded. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving tomorrow. E-mail is a wonderful thing.”
His laugh was more heartfelt than any he could ever remember. It was like he’d won the lottery. No, it was even better than that.
“I guess that means I’m going to have to learn how to type.”
Author’s Note
I first set foot on the island of Coiba in the first days of 1990, during what would be my last combat mission of Operation Just Cause. Even then, as a twenty-year-old team leader with the 75th Ranger Regiment, I found the island mysterious, intriguing, and revolting all at once.
When we arrived, we met with no resistance, and soon found that the vast majority of the prison island’s leadership had fled to the mainland, leaving only a handful of lower-ranking guards and approximately three thousand inmates. I have never seen more miserable human living conditions before or since.
We found thousands of sick and starving men, all claiming to be political prisoners. (Very few of them actually were.) The men were herded into a large corral intended for livestock and were fed military Meals Ready to Eat while they waited their turn to be interviewed by Special Forces linguists to determine their identity and status.
In the back hallway of the penitentiary, we discovered a man in solitary confinement. He was being held in a cell that was essentially a concrete box—fifteen foot square without windows, furniture, or plumbing. He was fed once a day through a small slit in the solid steel door.
Not surprisingly, after seven months of living in his own filth and not seeing daylight, the man had gone insane. With some difficulty, he was persuaded to leave the cell so he (and it) could be searched. When he emerged into the sunlight, he cried—not for joy, but in pain. The sunshine physically hurt him, and he begged to be returned to his filthy hole.
My squad was tasked to keep an eye on some of the prison guards on the island. We were located in the only town on the island, called simply El Centro. We were just across from a two-story white house that reportedly belonged to the island’s governor. He and his family had fled before we arrived. So while two of my privates stood watch, I walked across the street and kicked in the governor’s door, looking for something to eat.
Combat is strange like that.
I was elated to find a large, well-stocked pantry. My buddies and I were tired of Army food. I set to work and soon whipped up a feast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and fruit. Loading it up on plates, I carried the meal outside and served it to my men.
They promptly voted me governor of the island.
So for three days, I got to sleep in the governor’s king-sized waterbed.
Fifteen years later, I returned to Panama with my wife. I was just beginning work on the Task Force Valor series and thought Panama might be a good place for the second book to be set.
Getting back to Coiba wasn’t easy, but we finally found a fisherman who agreed to take us. When we motored into the bay near El Centro, at first I didn’t recognize the place. The town was essentially in ruins and looked nothing like it had when I’d visited before.
After we waded ashore, however, slowly the mental images began to return. We encountered some policemen stationed there to discourage squatters, and they were decidedly unhappy with our presence. But as I spoke with them, I told the story of being elected “governor” of the island. As I did, their countenances changed, and I was suddenly a VIP. Connie and I were ushered on a grand tour of El Centro and met some of the last remaining prisoners there.
These experiences and hearing the prisoners tell of the island’s legends, like the Mudman, solidified my decision to make Coiba a centerpiece of this novel. On a subsequent expedition in March 2006, my team and I discovered the remains of a purported former CIA training camp in the jungle on a remote part of the island. This became the pirate hideout.
These experiences taught me that the best part of writing fiction is finding the hidden thread of truth in which to wrap the story.
You can follow my adventures around the globe at www.livefire.us.
I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to send a note to [email protected].
If you’ve been touched by the sacrifices given by our men and women in uniform, please consider a donation to the Wounded Warrior Project at www.woundedwarriorproject.org.
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