“What happened is that I helped to deliver a baby,” Jorge said as he pivoted himself off the boat and into the ankle-deep surf. The nurse handed down a small package, wrapped in a blanket. “Look, it’s a little girl.” He carefully walked through the sand as mother, father, and nurse watched.
“Jorge,” Alanis, their nurse, called. “You think you could give us a little help?” The new father didn’t wait; he silently slid off the back of the boat, reached for his wife, and carried her through the water to a proud Jorge and their child.
“Never mind.” There was a splash, and an irritated Alanis joined the group. “Always the gentlemen, aren’t we?” She elbowed Jorge.
“Just as we got to the dock some guy started screaming at us. He wasn’t making much sense. We told him that she was in labor, and that’s when he started throwing things down at us. He actually hit Alanis in the head with a piece of wood.” Jorge pointed at an ugly knot on Alanis’ forehead. “I tied us up, and then he comes running down the stairs when someone shoots him in the back. Just blew this guy away right in front of us. After that we just took off. I tried the beach but there was way too much debris, we never would have made it, and then she starts to scream, and we have a baby.” He lifted the bundled baby as if she were a prize. Her mother gasped. Jorge said, “Oh, sorry,” and passed the baby over to her mother.
“I’ll take them up to the clinic and check them out.” Alanis stepped between Jorge and the new parents. “I don’t know what happened back there, but I’m not going back to Tela. I think that you need to contact the military,” she said to Luis, and then led the family up the beach.
“The military? Over one man being shot?” Luis asked his son.
“It was more than one. We got close enough to the beach to see maybe ten bodies. I didn’t get a chance to look real well, but I think there were more down the beach.”
“Drugs? Rebels?” For the most part, Honduras had been spared the bloody civil and drug wars that wracked some of its neighbors. Even the constitutional crisis that led to a coup d’état in 2009 had been largely peaceful. “After a hurricane?” It didn’t make sense. “Let’s push the boat back in the water. I want to survey the dock and then maybe run over to Tela and see this for myself.”
Three hours later Jorge was guiding the catamaran along the eerily quiet coastline. Luis directed him toward Tela’s long, tall dock, which had managed to survive the winds and storm surge. Through his binoculars he could see the body of the man who had attacked Jorge, as well as a second victim, sprawled face first down the stairs. A dark stain of what had to be blood surrounded the head and reached almost to the lower dock. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he said to himself.
“There are more bodies on the beach. It’s like they were brought here to die.”
“Tela had a mandatory evacuation. There should only be military and rescue personnel in the entire town.” After Hurricane Mitch destroyed nearly half the country in 1998, Hondurans developed a near-religious zeal for hurricane preparedness. “I can’t believe that there are more than a few hundred left in town.” Luis scanned the shoreline with his binoculars.
“Dad,” Jorge said, a moment before a sharp crack. “Dad, get down!” Both men dropped into the well of the boat as something pinged off of the boat’s tower. A second sharp crack followed almost immediately. A third was almost lost to the sound of the two engines as Jorge steered the boat from under cover out into the open ocean. After two minutes with the throttle wide open, he slowed the boat and hazarded a quick look. “Okay, we’re out of range.” He was breathless from the excitement. “I’m going to try the marine radio. Maybe the Tela harbormaster knows what’s going on.” He flipped open the watertight console and turned up the volume. He was greeted with static.
“What’s wrong?” Luis asked.
“Nothing. I was tuned to the Maderas harbormaster, and I have to find the correct channel for Tela.” He slowly turned the dial, resisting for the moment tuning directly to the emergency channel. “This is Whale Shark One out of Isla Maderas trying to reach Tela harbormaster.” He repeated the message three times on three different channels.
“Are you sure Tela has a harbormaster? They really don’t have much of a harbor.” Luis knew next to nothing about boats, fishing, or harbormasters. He was strictly a landlubber. Jorge, on the other hand, ran a successful dive and fishing charter service and was on the water almost every day.
“He’s not really a harbormaster; he manages the dock and relays search and rescue messages. I met the guy a few times and he takes his job very seriously. I doubt this guy would have evacuated, voluntarily or not.” He tried a fourth and then a fifth channel before a voice answered.
“Have you come to rescue us?” asked the voice of a frightened woman.
“I am trying to reach the harbormaster,” Jorge answered. He turned to his father and they shared a look of confusion.
“Are you here to rescue us?” Her scream was so angry and wretched that Jorge answered without thinking.
“Yes, we can rescue you. Where are you?”
“I’m in my house.” Frustration caused each of her words to become successively louder.
“We are trying to reach the harbormaster. Do you know where he is?” Jorge asked, hoping for a more lucid response.
“He’s DEAD!” She screamed. “He had to go out and now he’s dead.” Her wailing was cut short by Jorge.
“Okay, calm down.” He waited for her to stop crying, but it took several seconds and two more reassurances from Jorge that they were here to help before she allowed him to continue. “All right, can you tell us what’s happening?”
“What’s happening is that my husband is dead and there are people outside with guns shooting everything that moves.” She was back to screaming now, and her words were starting to slur together. Both Jorge and Luis needed a moment to understand exactly what she had said.
“Are the police there, or the military?”
“They’re the ones with the guns.” She began to curse him for his lack of intelligence and breeding. Jorge and his father listened quietly, waiting for an opening.
Luis took the microphone from his son’s hand. “Can you get to the dock?”
“Yes,” she said after a long second, her anger now exhausted. “I think so. What should I bring?”
The two men shared a confused look. “Nothing. How long will it take you?”
“I’ll have to wait for the bus.” The next word—another curse—was cut off. “Sorry, I don’t know what I was saying. I can be there in five minutes.”
“All right, five minutes. Now go,” Luis ordered, and he replaced the microphone.
“We aren’t seriously going back in there?” Jorge asked his father.
“We can’t just leave.”
“If you say so, but you’re paying for any bullet holes in me or my boat.” Jorge swung the boat around, away from shore, and steered east, then turned south once they had passed the long pier. “Here we go,” he said, turning west and then north back towards shore. After closing the distance by half, he pulled the throttles back and let the boat coast to a stop. “It’s probably best if we stay out here until we see her.”
“Good idea. I am officially making you the admiral of Isla Madres’ navy. Congratulations.”
Jorge laughed humorlessly at his father’s attempt to break the tension. Five minutes passed slowly, and then another a little faster. “How long do we give her?” Jorge asked after another five minutes.
“I don’t know, but we can’t leave her.”
“We could contact the military with the satellite phone.”
“Look,” Luis said suddenly. They both scanned the dock with their binoculars. A frail woman had just stepped onto the long pier. “What’s that she’s dragging?”
“I don’t know,” Jorge said after scrutinizing the woman for several
seconds. She was pulling a large black object, about half her size, behind her. When she was three-quarters to the end he dropped his binoculars and gave the two marine engines a little gas. They purred quietly and the boat glided towards the dock at the end of the long pier.
Luis continued to watch the woman with his binoculars. She was struggling under the weight of her mysterious burden. “I think, as crazy as this sounds, it’s a vacuum cleaner.” His mind had been trying to fit any known item into the puzzle of the black object, and an old-fashion vacuum cleaner was as good a fit as he could come up with.
“Well, she needs to drop it and move her ass,” Jorge whispered needlessly, because they were close enough to hear her swearing at both her burden and the bodies that lay in her path.
“Jesus, what is that smell?” Luis asked, watching the woman finally reach the stairs to the dock. He checked the last two bodies that she would have to negotiate, and then panned upward. He saw her bare feet, then her legs; she turned her back to him and began to drag the black object over the first body, and Luis finally got a clear look at it. “Oh my God,” he screamed. “It’s some kind of bird.” It was hideous, huge, and very dead. Jorge had retrieved his binoculars. “What is that?” Luis asked again.
“Dad, I think that’s a vulture. Look at its bald head and legs.” He adjusted the zoom on the lens. “Vultures aren’t that big.” Having negotiated the last body, the woman turned and faced them.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Munoz senior said and quickly made the sign of the cross.
“Oh, fuck!” Jorge said. Her face and arms were covered in sores that ran red with blood and pus. He looked lower and found the blisters covering her legs as well. “We can’t let her in, Dad,” he said flatly.
“Let’s get out of here,” Luis said. Jorge turned the boat on its keel and sped out to sea.
CHAPTER 8
“Tela is a city of thirty-two thousand. It has been mostly evacuated, but the military estimates that there are at least two hundred citizens that remained along with military and police personnel.” Bernice was virtually screaming. The only space that could be found for their group was a corner in a military hangar. The collective voices of hundreds of soldiers, along with jet engines in the distance and helicopter engines in the foreground, echoed throughout the massive structure. “Unfortunately, the only road connecting Tela with the rest of the world was washed away last night. As a result, we need to pare down our supplies to the bare essentials because we are catching a ride with the Honduran air force. Who’s ridden in a helicopter before?” Bernice excitedly raised her arm, but only two others in the group of fourteen joined her.
Amanda’s heart sank. For obvious reasons she was not a big fan of flying, and now she would have to fly in something without wings.
“We are going to have to scale back our goals, at least until we can re-establish reliable transportation.”
“So you’re saying that helicopters are not reliable?” It was one of the two physicians who now asked the very question that had popped into Amanda’s head.
“For those of you who do not know Dr. Greenburg’s history, he started out as a standup comedian, but turned to medicine after nearly starving.” Everyone laughed at the not-so-inside joke. Dr. Greenburg easily tipped the scales at three hundred pounds.
“Now, as I was saying, we’re going to have to make do with less for a while, but we still have critical objectives. First and foremost is communications. Next is medical. The two-hundred-plus estimate may be wildly inaccurate—and remember, that’s just for Tela; it doesn’t include the surrounding villages. Triage will be critical. Review your manuals, and if in doubt, ask someone.” Bernice’s gaze casually wandered Amanda’s way. “Does everyone have their PDAs?” Half the group waved their devices in the air. “Good. I’ve updated everyone’s responsibility for the next three days.” She turned to Dr. Greenburg. “I figure that’s how long it will take before the trucks and all the rest of our equipment will take to reach us. Oh, one more thing before I turn it over to the general. There is word that the hospital ship Mercy will be on site in two days, so we may get resupplied directly from the Navy. Now let me introduce General Regara of the Honduran Air Force.”
“Good afternoon, and welcome to my country. I want to thank each one of you for assisting us in this time of need.” General Regara was a small, compact man with the same thick dark mustache that adorned every Honduran soldier. “We plan to use six helicopters, two for personnel, two for supplies, and a final pair for a security escort. I know that this is not something we discussed …” He directed his last comment to Bernice Scott. “But we are getting some confusing reports from the area about possible looting. It is my responsibility to ensure your safety. These men will also be available to assist you with setting up your camp and crowd control if it is needed. They are not authorized to direct or impede your movements, within the confines of our law. They will also carry additional communication equipment and can help with the local dialects.” The general paused, waiting for questions or comments.
“Well, I for one think it’s a great idea. Now I have someone to do all my heavy lifting,” Dr. Greenburg joked.
“Please don’t expect to be carried, Doctor; we don’t need a bunch of soldiers with hernias,” Bernice answered, and even General Regara chuckled.
“We plan to land at the airport if it is at all possible. Unfortunately, the airport in Tela is fairly close to the sea, and we expect at least a moderate degree of damage. We have chosen a backup landing site located approximately two kilometers from town if the airport is unsafe. This may mean that you will have to walk to Tela on your own. Perhaps we can find a good strong burro for the Doctor.” The group began to loosen up, and their laughter was a bit more natural. “Logistically, the airport is probably the best location for you to set up camp, but as I said, we expect some storm damage and you may find no habitable structures.” He paused for a response to this unexpected inconvenience.
“It’s all right, Colonel; all of us have slept outside before,” Bernice answered for the group.
“Excellent. We will be shuttling in supplies for you once a base camp has been set up, and I believe the second trip will include additional tents and cots. You may not be completely comfortable, but at least you’ll be off the ground and dry.” He received a confirmatory nod from one of his staff and then continued his briefing. “We had hoped for two more disaster teams to be deployed in the area, but as it will take most of our airlift capability to position your team, I’m afraid until a stable ground corridor can be established you will be on your own in that respect. That may change if the airport and local roads can be cleared quickly. The trip will take approximately seventy-five minutes, and we hope to leave as soon as possible to give you enough time to walk into Tela and set up your base camp before sunset.”
“Can you update us on the conditions of the local utilities?” asked one of the male volunteers.
“All the power lines were above ground and we must assume that they are gone. Cell phone towers are down, and all telephone service has been cut off.”
“So in short, all we have is radio communication.”
“For now,” the general answered.
“What about emergency medical flights out?” Doctor Jorgenson, the second of the two physicians on the team, asked.
“For now we have only minimal capacity to deal with emergencies, both from a transport capability and a medical capability. Even here in El Progresso, we are overwhelmed.” His pained expression made it obvious that he was uncomfortable discussing his country’s limitations. “I am sorry to say but the care that you deliver is probably the best care available.”
“Well, at least we know that we’re working without a safety net,” the doctor observed.
“What is the condition of the town itself?” another volunteer asked.
“We have had no radio contact wit
h the local garrison, so the only information comes from a handful of civilian broadcasts and a single reconnaissance overflight. It appears as if all multi-story structures have sustained damage as far as a kilometer inland, and the roads appear to be impassable.”
“Could be worse—could be raining,” the second volunteer quipped in his best Marty Feldman impersonation.
“Okay, let’s get loaded and let’s get started. If it’s nothing else, it will be exciting.” Bernice jumped to her feet and vigorously pumped the general’s hand while Amanda and the rest of the team began to gather their personal effects and move them to the flight line.
“I’ve done this for eight years and I can’t remember ever going into a situation with so little backup,” Mary Ecklers, the team’s senior nurse, said as she came alongside Amanda. She was a dour, overweight woman in her fifties, and she struggled with an enormous rucksack.
Amanda slung her smaller backpack over her shoulder and began to help Mary stabilize her cumbersome load. “What do you have in here?” Amanda asked, feeling its weight.
“As much of my bedroom and bathroom as I could carry,” Mary said, finally getting her arms through the straps. “Thanks. So this is your first time. I would have recommended somewhere else. This one is shaping up to be a real corker.”
“How so?” The impending helicopter flight and having only a vague understanding of her responsibilities were already beginning to take a toll on Amanda’s nerves. Mary’s trepidation added to Amanda’s growing discomfort.
“No trucks means that we take in only a fraction of the supplies that we depend on. They’ll ferry some of the lighter things in by chopper, but with the coastal mountains between here and Tela they’re not going to risk overloading one of these little birds with our big generators, or sterilizers, or a half dozen other things that make our lives and jobs easier.” She motioned Amanda towards a ridiculously small helicopter.
Amanda's Story Page 6
