Hoda and Jake

by Richard Booth

  Back at the room, Jake took out his Swiss Army knife and slowly hacked through a square of wall board just over a horizontal two-by-four. Painstakingly removing the wall section, he secreted the Colt inside with its ammunition, seeing that the Colt was loaded. Then he replaced the wall section, taped it over, plastered it, and painted over the plaster. In a couple of hours the paint and tape mixture would be dry, and the weapon be covered from all but the most minute inspection.

  By the time Jake finished, it was well past mid-day, and he made some food from the provisions the group had brought, offering to share with the landlord, who declined. Then prayer. Then it was time to begin work breaking down the radios, all except for one. If the rebels, or authorities or whatever they were, left the bungalow alone the radio would be one communications outlet. Another would be Jake’s laptop, on a satellite phone link. And the third, fallback would be the little morse code radio. The AWACs would be there throughout the crisis, Jake knew.

  Halfway through the breakdown and packing it was full darkness, prayer, and Jake gave up for the night. Checking his mail, as he did periodically, he found one from Robinson.

  Cuba had once had a significant economic and military presence in Grenada, Jake knew. That was the reason President Ronald Reagan invaded in the early 1980s, much to the protest of the island’s mother England and other Commonwealth and even UN nations. But Reagan, unafraid to act unilaterally where US interests were threatened, had worried that a new, very long air strip would open the gates to weapons aimed at the Americas. He determined to choke those off.

  With a US-friendly government restored, peace had returned to Grenada, but the forces of instability were still there. Festering, they had evidently gained critical mass again, and were attempting a coup d’etat. It seemed likely to Jake the current US administration, worried about both American security and the safety of many American young people at the Saint George University Medical School on the island, would act again.

  That made Jake, “Our Man in Grenada,” a fortuitous asset to the Central Intelligence Agency.

  Mail arrived about 2100 hours: “Expect friendly company.”

  There was a knock at Jake’s door about 90 minutes later. He answered it to find a blackened face on a black-clad body, sporting an M-4 carbine.

  “Jake Holman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant Mike Sisk. Navy Special Warfare.”

  The SEALs had arrived. “Come in,” Jake said, standing aside. Only Sisk and another man entered. “I’m leaving the others outside,” Sisk said. “This is Chief Davis.”

  Jake shook hands with Davis, whose features were—by design—hard to discern in his heavy blackface. So were Sisk’s. Neither was particularly big, Jake noted, but that meant nothing. Special Warfare was heart, and came from inside. He knew well, and his size was unusual.

  “What do we know?” Sisk got right at it.

  “I’m here with a ham radio contest team. Nothing to do with work,” Jake explained. Sisk would know Jake was CIA. “First we heard was this morning. Some guys in camo caught a woman and me taking out trash. They just took her away, at gunpoint. AK’s.”

  “That’s Guttormsen?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a school teacher from St. Paul, Minnesota. Teaches science. Blonde? Very pretty?”

  “Yes. That’s her.”

  Sisk sucked his teeth. “Not good for her. Nearest we can figure, they were renegades, took her for pleasure. No telling where she is. She’s nothing to you? Wife? Girlfriend?”

  “No. My wife’s in the states.”

  “Good,” Sisk said. It sounded heart-felt. “You have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Extra gas?”

  “There’s gasoline for the generators. That’ll work.”

  “Good. I’m sending four men in your car for a look around.” Sisk was not asking permission. “We’re all staying here until I hear from them.”

  “And if we don’t?” Jake asked.

  “Then we keep looking until we find out something,” Sisk replied. He was looking at Jake hard. “That’s what we do. Find things out. We’re good at it.”

  “So are we,” Jake said. “I’m a green beanie.” Special Forces, a “green beret.”

  “I know. We’ve brought you some things. Chief?”

  Davis had already taken the things out of his rucksack: camouflage top and bottom, jump boots, heavy Army socks, and a Special Forces beret with a warrant officer’s device on the flash. Legally, that was enough to identify him as a combatant and not a spy. The SEALs all had subdued Navy insignia.

  “They say you like a Sig,” Sisk said. Davis held it out. “We brought you one.”

  The action was open, as customary for gun safety. Jake checked to see it was unloaded, closed the slide, took the weapon onto his belt and accepted the magazines from Davis.

  “You might not want to wear that now,” Sisk said. “We’re going out to hide around the property. You answer the door if you get anymore visitors. Play it cool.”

  “Count on it.”

  “Keep it civilian for now. You know nothing. These people aren’t as hard as they think they are. That’s our assessment, anyway. Last time there were plenty of Cubans around. We don’t think so now, and that’s one of the things we’re here to find out.”

  “Briefing?”

  “Yes. Let’s do it by the numbers.” Sisk took out a map of Grenada, and Jake was impressed by its detail. Then Sisk went down the time-honored five-point list of parts for the OPORD, or Operations Order: situation, mission, execution, service support, command and signal. Each had sub-sections explaining absolutely everything all hands needed to know, and these men knew how to absorb each aspect, which they expected. The SEALs had all had the briefing several times before.

  “Got it?” Sisk asked Holman—pointedly.

  “Got it,” Jake said confidently.

  “Chief?”

  “Ready, sir.”

  “Car keys?” This to Jake.

  Jake handed them over. Usually, they left the keys in the island cars, but under the circumstance, Jake had taken them with him.

  “It’s lame, but treat her gently,” Jake told the CPO.

  “Like my own,” Davis said, his grinning teeth white against camo paint. The XPO disappeared, gathering the three men designated to go with him in the rental car.

  “Convenient, your having a car here,” Sisk said to Holman.

  Jake grinned. “That’s Army strong. Always here to serve.”

  “Well,” Sisk said, “we’ll be right outside. We’ll let any small force in, and stay out of sight while you deal with it. But if you need us, give a holler any way you can, and we’ll make your problem go away.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “Time we all got some sleep. Let’s move,” Sisk said, and in seconds Jake was alone in the bungalow. It was nearly midnight local time. He slept soundly for five solid hours, and it did him a world of good.

  ***

  While Jake toiled with the radios, 4,200 miles away in Norwood, Massachusetts three dozen women gathered in the home of a prominent Boston-area doctor to celebrate the impending arrival of Jake’s first child.

  Everyone wore her finest head scarf, or hijab, and a mixture by generations of the traditional abaya and more western clothing beneath the head scarf. Cheek-cheek, kiss-kiss, and Arabic filling the air. What men there were, husbands and the odd uncle present by virtue of driving licenses mostly, congregated in Dr. Hassan’s study to discuss politics and business. The balance of the house was taken over by women, who gave not an inch.

  Hoda’s mother, Maryam, played the gracious hostess and enjoyed every moment. She fairly beamed with delight at the prospect of her first grandchild—careful, as a good mother ought, not to upstage the day’s star, her daughter and Jake’s adored wife. Hoda’s psychiatric residency at Johns Hopkins was going well, but it would soon be time for her break to have the baby, a healthy girl in all p
rospect, whom she and Jake had decided to name Marwa, in honor of the Arab teen who had inadvertently introduced them.

  Hoda had agonized for some time between motherhood and her career, but in the end decided as many western women did that she could, judiciously, have both. Jake had promised to be available, and they both worked for John Robinson at the CIA. Robinson, who appreciated the pair and their operational gifts, tended to see them as his surrogate son and daughter, and would likely dote on little Marwa. This was good, Hoda knew.

  The conversation ran the same lines as gatherings the like for thousands of years. No doubt cave women gathered to celebrate new arrivals, and help their sister see in the new baby. Oh, she looked so good! No, she didn’t look big at all (a generous lie, as Hoda knew; she looked like an elephant). Jake was so lucky! And, slyly—just a little naughty—how lucky they both had been to make such a wonderful baby, Alhamdulillah! Try though they might, the younger women could not get Hoda to divulge any secrets about Jake. Not the kind they wanted, anyway: what was he like? You know, then? Tender? Kind? Knowing? Or rough, demanding? He had been an unbeliever, and married before, surely that must… But Hoda would have none of it. The Quran forbade idle talk of such intimate things.

  Outside of that, Hoda was gracious and talkative. She laughed much, enjoying being surrounded by Arab women, something she didn’t get enough of these days. The food, the culture, the camaraderie were all wonderful. And so was prayer. But there was something else, and Maryam, her mother, was not fooled.

  “Is it Jake?” Maryam asked, when she’d cornered Hoda in the kitchen for a few precious moments. She spoke English; some of the other women’s English was not good.

  “Yes?”

  “Where?”

  “Grenada?”

  Since Hoda had married Jake and moved to the CIA, Maryam secretly kept track of things in the world outside the Middle East. She knew of Grenada, had even read about America’s un-war there in 1983.

  “I thought he was on vacation, Mash’Allah” Maryam said.

  “You know my Jake,” Hoda said. “He could find trouble in a nursery.”

  “Don’t say that,” Maryam said. “Whatever you say, make it not that.”

  The two women laughed. “I guess something happened down there,” Hoda said, “and naturally, Jake’s right in the middle of it.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “They don’t know. The boss is asking Jake to find out. But he’s sending help, too, so Jake won’t be alone.”

  “We’ll make duaa,” Maryam said. “He’s in good hands.” Duaa was a petition to Allah, a personal prayer.

  “Thank you,” Hoda said. “But we can’t tell the others.”

  “No, no,” Maryam said. “But I have to tell Baba. We’ll do that later.”

  “Thank you.”

  And the two women greeted others intent on routing them out of the kitchen and back to the party.

  ***

  It was full daylight when Jake awoke; he’d missed fajr, morning prayer. The SEAL patrol was back, having driven, he heard them say, to first Saint George to check the medical school, and then Point Salines to see if a big base still existed there, which it did.

  “Lot of patrols?”

  “It took us a lot longer than we expected,” Chief Davis said. “They were driving with lights, and we weren’t, so it was easy to not get caught.”

  “We’ve still got secrecy,” Sisk said. “Good.”

  “What’s your plan?” Jake asked.

  “We’re sneak-and-peek,” Sisk said. “We’ll report what we’ve found, let further up the food chain make the decisions.”

  Jake turned to Davis. “You didn’t make contact with the medical students, did you?”

  “Too risky,” Sisk answered for the chief. “Direct your questions at me, if you don’t mind, Mister Holman.”

  “Oh,” Jake said, chastened. “Sure. No trouble at all. So there’s no way we know where this Guttormsen girl is?”

  “I thought you said she was nothing to you,” Sisk said.

  Jake was nettled. “She’s not. But I don’t like the idea of her being in rough hands. Those boys in the scooter didn’t look like they wanted to question her. Unless it was about anatomy.”

  “She’s not our problem.” Sisk turned to Davis again. “We’ll hole up for the day, chief. Make another patrol tonight.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” And Davis left the room.

  “You should stay here, out of sight,” Sisk told Jake. “Show me where the generators are, and I’ll have your car gassed up. Although, I can’t guarantee we won’t burn all the gas while we’re poking around.”

  “Help yourself,” Jake said.

  “I’m going to join the boys,” Sisk said. He walked quietly from the house.

  Jake was about to leave the room himself when sound came from the speaker of a radio high on a shelf in one corner of the big room where the teams set up their “rigs.” The radio wasn’t theirs; it belonged to the host. What got Jake’s attention wasn’t the lack of procedure on their air, callsign and such. It was the voice: it was Leslie’s!

  “Hello? Can anyone hear me? Please, I need help! Can anyone hear me?”

  Jake walked to the radio, thought a minute, and decided to take action. He picked up the mic, noting as he did so the radio was a 70-centimeter UHF rig, and said, “Leslie? Is that you? Where are you?”

  “Jake? Jake! Oh, thank God! Jake I need help! They won’t let me go.”

  “Calm down, Les. Do you know where you are?”

  “I heard them say St. David’s.”

  Jake knew Grenada well enough from memory to say that was off the coast a bit, in the southeast. Not that far away, by island standards, though a healthy hike.

  “What kind of building are you in?”

  “I think it’s a church basement.”

  That was huge; if she’d said a house, finding her could be a problem. But there couldn’t be that many churches in St. David.

  “Are you all right?”

  There was no answer at first.

  “Leslie?”

  “Sort of. I guess.” She sounded hurt. Jake didn’t dare ask her how she was hurt, not on the radio. He could guess, anyway. The militia soldiers probably took turns on her. The Muslim in Jake boiled to a rage.

  “Have courage, Leslie. And sit tight,” was all he could say. Then he thought of a way to put it. “Stay off the air. You aren’t licensed.” What he really meant was if they caught her using it, there was no telling what they’d do.

  “Jake, are you coming?”

  “We’ll see. Sit tight.”

  “Jake! Jake, don’t go! Please!” She sounded desperate. But Jake couldn’t answer, and he was forming a plan. Sisk wouldn’t like it, so he wouldn’t tell him. Jake checked to ensure he was wearing his money belt, went to the wall and punched it, extracting the Colt. He’d leave the Sig-Sauer behind. That way the locals wouldn’t have hard evidence linking him to American interests. They could suspect, but America could disavow. The SEALs couldn’t do that.

  Holman took up his jacket, tucking the Colt into one inner pocket and a dozen loose rounds in the opposite one. He picked up a reel of fishing leader, the wire kind, and added that. His Leatherman tool on his belt along with the tiny CW transceiver, and he was ready. He walked out the front door.

  “Going someplace?” Sisk asked, as Jake knew he would.

  “Yes, for a walk.”

  “At dusk?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your house is full of Special Operators. We can’t answer the door.”

  “The landlord can.”

  “We don’t want to go up to his house and tell him we’re here.”

  “Well, I can’t help you.”

  “Mister Holman, I can make it an order if you like.”

  “Do anything you want,” Holman said, turning to face the SEAL leader. “But I’m not part of your team. I’m to help you, but I have my own agenda, and I intend to follow it. Wi
thout confounding yours. Get my drift?”

  Sisk was stymied, and he knew it.

  “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just don’t get mixed up with bad people, because if the shooting starts we won’t have time to pick friend from foe.”

  “I get it,” Holman said, and walked down the driveway.

  ***

  Holman’s plan was hare-brained, he knew, but he had slithered through on less more than once. He knew where Leslie was, both in terms of the town and the specific kind of building. He could walk it and arrive well before dawn, as it was only just full darkness now. He was on the main road, and making good time, delayed only when a truck sounded. Army trucks made distinct sounds, very unlike the motorbikes common on Grenada. That’s what he was hoping for.

  Sure enough, in less than half an hour one approached from the direction he was heading. Boldly, he waved it down. This being Grenada, and not many more worldly parts of the globe, the rider stopped. English was the lingua franca of Grenada.

  Jake had a wad of cash in his hands: hundred dollar bills. The rider, a boy about fifteen with skin so black it seemed blue, eyed the money with intense interest.

  “Scooter for sale?” The boy shook his head. It was a 150 Honda, not a bad little machine.

  “Runs okay?” Jake said, still peeling bills from his roll.

  “Runs great,” the boy said. “Not for sale.”

  By now Jake’s ready cash was showing almost $1,000. The bike was used. You could do a lot with $1,000 in American cash in Grenada. Almost anything, in fact. Jake kept counting. At about $1,500, the boy buckled like a cardboard box.

  “How much gas?” Jake asked, handing over the money and pocketing the rest.

  “Half,” said the boy. If he was telling the truth, it would have to do.

  “Thanks,” Jake said, as they exchanged places. Jake oriented himself on the controls. It was pretty simple, and he’d ridden them on jobs the world over.

  “Thanks, mister,” said the youth, and watched Jake ride off in the darkness. When Jake had taken the first turn, he switched off the headlight and cut his speed in half. That would improve fuel mileage, and cut the noise level. If he’d been prepared to walk all the way to St. David, riding at half speed would do fine.