No matter, he thought. He had more than enough manpower - and firepower, if need be - to carry out his orders. The soldiers left behind would control the flow of provisions to the island until they were needed.
There were already two boats moored on the dock that the hydrofoils used, and three more that appeared to be busy in the waters offshore, no doubt those rented by the United States FAA investigating team that had secured the island within two days of the unfortunate airline disaster. The team had been spending nights on the island rather than making the short journey to the Spartan accommodations at the hotel on the much larger Island of the Sun each day, with supplies and equipment ferried to them daily from Copacabana.
The general could make out several large tents that had been set up along the topmost ridge of the island above the rubble of the Incan ruins, and various pieces of heavy equipment that had been dismantled, carried to the island in pieces aboard the hydrofoils that normally ferried tourists from Huatajata, then muscled ashore by more than 20 workers hired for the task. The small crane had not yet been fully assembled; otherwise, he would have spotted it from much further away. He could make out several large pieces of the aircraft, though, which must have impacted on the island rather than in the lake, including what was obviously a part of the tail section half in the water and half on dry land.
He had heard the stories even before he took the call from President Maldonado. Something unusual was happening in the waters near the Island of the Moon. The fishermen who had been in the waters near the island spoke of hearing the sound of a great snake, a strange, light-bending disturbance in the air and the waterspout and rainstorm that came every morning, lasting more than two hours. The waterspout could be seen for miles, and carried so much water into the sky that it was even dumping rain, fish, and hundreds of the ubiquitous Titicaca aquatic frogs on the Island of the Sun nearly two miles away. It came and went at exactly the same time and place every day, and it never moved. No one had dared get too close, and all of them had been frightened. Some of the Aymara people had begun to speak of the return of the Incas to their birthplace.
Whatever was going on, it was the general’s job to secure the island. The president wanted to make sure that the Americans did not attempt to keep the knowledge of whatever was happening in the waters near there to themselves. In the last century, other countries had somehow managed to get control of almost everything of potential value in Bolivia, and Maldonado was determined to make sure it didn’t happen again. Whatever the waterspout was, he wanted to know as much about it as the FAA did. He would no longer rely on them for information, especially since they were saying nothing. In addition, the Peruvians had surely heard the same stories, and the president felt it was simply prudent to reaffirm Bolivia’s claim to the island, since the two countries shared the waters of Lago Titicaca. Later in the day, an entire division of Bolivian army troops would occupy the much larger Island of the Sun, which was nearby. The president was taking no chances.
On the island, the workers stopped to stare at the advancing convoy. One of the men shouted, “Somebody find Malloy!”
Roger Malloy, foreman of the crew in charge of recovering as much of American flight 291 as possible, was on the opposite side of the island’s crest, examining what appeared to be part of the doomed aircraft’s hydraulic assembly, when he heard the shouts. He could see several of the workers waving their arms at him. He carefully replaced the hydraulic assembly where he had found it, then started working his way to the top of the hill following the terraced ridges that had been carved into the hillside centuries earlier by the Incas.
By the time he reached the top of the hill, the lead boat with General Linares was no more than 60 yards from the island’s shore. “What the hell is this?” he said to the two men who had waved to him.
“Don’t know,” one of the men replied. “But it sure looks like trouble.”
“Yeah,” Malloy replied as he scrambled down the terraced hillside toward the boats. He arrived at the shore about a minute after the lead boat had tied up at the dock and the general had climbed out. The other five boats were beginning to arrive, lining up next to each other, and the soldiers were scrambling out, fanning out behind the general, who had moved to the rocky shore to wait for Malloy. Each soldier held an automatic weapon. It was an imposing sight.
Out of breath in the rarified atmosphere, Malloy panted, “Can I help you?”
The general smiled and extended his hand. “I am General Linares. You must be Mr. Malloy.”
Malloy shook the general’s hand warily. “I am. What’s going on here?”
“I am under orders to secure the island.”
Malloy’s eyes flashed anger. “Have you talked to Freeman about this? We’re here under the direct authority of the Ministry of the Interior, and we don’t need your help.”
“Mr. Freeman was not consulted,” the general replied icily, “and neither was Minister Suarez. My orders come directly from President Maldonado. I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Mr. Malloy. We are not here to be your assistants; we are here to take control of the island. From now on you report to me.” All 18 soldiers had now disembarked and formed a large circle surrounding the 20-man crew who stood in a knot behind Malloy.
Malloy fought to keep his temper under control. “And what do you know about investigating airplane crashes?” He said through clenched teeth. This was clearly a bad situation.
The general smiled again. “I know nothing about such things, Mr. Malloy. That’s why I will be relying on you to keep me informed. We are simply here to make sure that the government of Bolivia knows all there is to know about the crash, and about the phenomenon that seems to have caused it.”
Malloy tried to look surprised. “What phenomenon? What are you talking about?”
“Please, Mr. Malloy. Do not take me for a fool. We know about the waterspout. We know it appears every morning, even though the weather is clear. We know that it happens near this island, and that your people have been scaring off the fishermen who come here to see it. Of course, we are only guessing that it had something to do with the crash.”
Malloy stood silent for a moment. “I’ll need to call Mr. Freeman,” he said, reaching for his cell phone.
“Mr. Freeman will be informed,” the general said, snatching Malloy’s cell phone away. “There is no need to call him. My soldiers will collect all the cell phones on the island, and they will be in charge of all communication from now on. If there is a call that needs to be made, we will make it for you.”
“General, I can’t work like this,” Malloy spat angrily. “This is an official FAA investigation, and we can’t have this kind of interference. The government of the United States will protest this.”
“I remind you that you are here as a guest of the people of Bolivia, Mr. Malloy. We have a right to control what happens in our own country, and I assure you that President Maldonado’s wishes in this matter will prevail.” He smiled again. “Please, Mr. Malloy. If you will just cooperate, you will see that we have no plans to interfere. Your investigation can continue as before. We will allow you to bring in whatever resources you need, and we will in no way direct your work. In fact, you may find that your job will become easier, because President Maldonado is very interested in making sure that your investigations proceed as quickly as possible. We will simply make sure that the government of the Republic of Bolivia stays ‘in the loop,’ as you Americans put it.”
Malloy looked defeated. “General, we have reasons to keep this information from becoming common knowledge. We don’t yet understand what we’re dealing with here, and it’s important to keep this investigation under wraps until we know more.”
“It will remain a secret,” the general said, sensing that the verbal battle had been won. “Anything that happens here will be known only to the president and a few hand-picked advisors. President Maldonado is personally directing the government’s role in this.”
“All right. I guess that
’s the way it has to be. If you’re going to stay here, you’d better get your men up to the base camp. If it stays on schedule, we can expect the phenomenon to return in another half-hour. And get those boats moved away from the dock. They need to be at least 100 yards further down the shore, or you might lose them.”
The general barked orders to a lieutenant. Within seconds, the boats were pushed away from the shore and on their way down the beach. Malloy began climbing the terraced hillside toward the tents, the general right behind him, with Malloy’s crew and the soldiers who were not moving the boats following them.
Chapter 5: The Briefing
“Damn!” Tyler Freeman muttered, snapping his cell phone shut.
“Problem?” Thaddeus Stout asked.
The two men were on foot, walking from the Radisson Hotel to the American Embassy in La Paz, six blocks away. Mercifully, the walk was downhill all the way. Stout was panting, but was obviously feeling better. A night of sleep had done him some good, although he certainly wasn’t accustomed to the altitude as yet.
“Yeah,” Freeman responded. “Something must be wrong with the cell phones. I can’t get through to the island.”
The American embassy in La Paz is on Avenida Arce, a tree-lined street that is home to many of the foreign embassies in the city, including those of Argentina, Brazil, Venezuela, and immediately next door to the U.S. facility, the embassy of the United Kingdom. It is a pleasant walk in the early morning, but by 10:00 AM the street is smog-choked from the hundreds of private automobiles badly in need of emission control and the very old taxis that work the area.
Because of the unpopularity of the U.S.-financed drug interdiction program in Bolivia, the American embassy is a veritable fortress. The people of Bolivia are not in favor of narcotics exporting, but the source of the problem for the U.S. – the coca plant that is used to make cocaine – is the same plant that has been a staple of the Andean culture for centuries. The Indians on the altiplano chew coca leaves as a stimulant to help them deal with the harsh environment, and the same leaves are used in brewing mate de coca, the tea which serves as a kind of universal tonic for all kinds of ills, including the altitude sickness that strikes tourists and other visitors from lower altitudes. Coca is as much a part of Bolivian life as coffee is to Americans, but the U.S. government sees coca as universally evil and seems bent on destroying all the plants, everywhere. The Bolivian government has historically licensed some “legal” coca plantations to assure the people a steady supply of the medicinal herb, and makes a show of working with the U.S. to eradicate the large plantations in the Jungas that provide the raw material for the illicit drug trade. It is an uneasy balancing act for the Bolivian government, and one that the Americans simply do not seem to understand.
The plain white, eight-story American embassy building, bristling with satellite and other communications gear on the roof, is set in the center of an entire square block so that it is surrounded on all sides by an open plaza, presumably because that would make it easy to defend if necessary. A 12-foot fence surrounds the entire property and the streets are patrolled by armed Bolivian policemen whose main job seems to be making sure that no one ever takes a photograph of the compound. The only sign on the property is a small brass emblem set into the masonry fence well above eye level near the only pedestrian entrance into the compound. Even the U.S. flag, normally a highly visible part of the American presence in most countries, is set well back into the plaza and is so small that it can barely be seen from the street.
When the two Americans arrived at the embassy, Freeman bypassed the line of Bolivians queued up to talk to the receptionist who sat behind bulletproof glass next to the entrance, and reached for a wall phone in the entry area. He dialed 2500 to speak to the U.S. Marine guard on duty in the lobby of the building and was told to come right in. It wasn’t that simple, of course. Even though Freeman had been to the embassy dozens of times in the past two weeks, he and Stout both had to surrender their passports and pass through a sensitive metal detector to gain entrance to the plaza. There was an uncomfortable moment when the guards tried to take Freeman’s briefcase and laptop computer away from him, which could only be resolved with another call to the U.S. marine on duty inside. Finally, they gained entrance to the plaza surrounding the nondescript building. The lobby entrance, which appeared to be the only way into the building, was a good fifty feet away from the fence, protected by a sweeping masonry portal topped with terra cotta tile shingles designed to shield visitors from the weather during the rainy season. Except for some large terra cotta planters and the single, short flagpole set into a 20-foot circular planted area in the middle of the plaza, it was free of any architectural enhancements or decoration.
The men walked across the plaza to the lobby entrance. Freeman pulled the heavy stainless steel door inset with bulletproof glass open, and they stepped into a second security screening station that dominated the small, cherry wood-paneled lobby. After passing through another metal detector and reclaiming his briefcase and computer, Freeman waved to the marine on duty, who sat on a raised platform behind a large bulletproof glass window surrounded by lights glowing on banks of communications equipment. The marine waved back, then pressed a button that opened one of the two doors in the lobby, the one on the right labeled “Auditorium and Commercial Library.” The door on the left was the entry to the consular affairs office, which primarily served as the place Bolivians went to try to gain entry to the United States. When the door buzzed open, Freeman and Stout went through, then straight back to the conference room where the day’s meeting was scheduled to take place. Stout, who had a habit of mentally cataloging his environment whenever he went anyplace new, made note of the fact that so far, none of the employees of the American embassy that they had encountered spoke English.
The conference room was large, with enough room to seat maybe 20 people. A wooden conference table ran the length of the room, with plush green leather chairs on either side. At the front of the room there were two large TV monitors, one with an attached VCR, and a pull-down screen in the center for projecting images. An LCD projector for use with a computer sat on a movable cart in one corner, an American flag in the other. The walls were decorated with photographs of Bolivia, and of course the obligatory picture of the current president of the United States, William Truesdale. Freeman stood at the front of the room, checking to see that the video equipment was on and working. Stout slouched in a chair to his right.
The door to the conference room opened and five people filed in led by a tall, well-dressed woman in her mid-50s. She was Barbara Fontaine, chief of staff for the American ambassador to Bolivia. Most everyone believed that she actually made all the decisions at the embassy. A woman of considerable personal presence, it was obvious from her demeanor that she was accustomed to being in charge.
The other new arrivals included Stephen Browning, the chief communications officer at the embassy in charge of press relations, Tim Sherman and Rebecca Norton, two members of Freeman’s FAA investigating team, and an embassy administrative assistant who would take notes and document the meeting.
Fontaine shook Freeman’s hand, then nodded in Thaddeus Stout’s direction. “Good morning, Tyler. Is this your scientist?’ she asked. She walked around the conference table to Stout and smiled warmly as she shook his hand. “Welcome to Bolivia. I trust you’re feeling wretched and wondering why you’re here. I’m Barbara Fontaine, Chief of Staff here at the embassy.”
“Thaddeus Stout. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Stout responded. He was struck by the firmness of Fontaine’s handshake, and he liked her instantly. “And you’re right on both counts. I’m dying to know what this is all about. Or maybe I’m just dying, I’m not sure.” He reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of mate de coca teabags he had appropriated from the lobby beverage service at the Radisson. “Got any hot water?” he asked. They both laughed.
Freeman introduced Stout to each of the other new arrivals, t
hen as they all took their seats around the table, said, “Let me give you some background on the new addition to our group. Thad and I go way back. I first met him when I was doing my stint as a TV weatherman in Amarillo, Texas. He was a chemist at the government’s helium storage facility there. We stuck up a friendship, and we’ve stayed in touch since then. I’ve asked him to help me with hard-to solve crashes twice before.
“He’s here because he’s just about the smartest man I ever met. As I said, he’s a chemist, but he has expertise in a number of other scientific disciplines, as well. He has degrees in both chemistry and mathematics, along with undergraduate work in physics and computer programming. He’s an unusually versatile problem-solver, and I asked him to come here because we sure have a problem that needs a solution.”
The Titicaca Effect Page 3
