by Galen Winter
“Just how would our operation result in insulating our Guatemalan friends from charges of death squad assassinations? Down there, if someone active in any Junta’s opposition is found dead of causes natural or otherwise, all fingers can be expected to point at the government. It’s automatic.”
Teddy blew another smoke ring. “A good question and a good observation. Of course, we’ve thought about it. I’ll start from the beginning. The Directorate has given us the responsibility of coming up with a plan to study illegal drug activities in Guatemala. We have more than a suspicion that the drug traffickers are ready to promise the terrorists all the money they need for a successful coup. Your official mission will be to analyze the drug lords’ operations and find the way or ways to shut them down before drug funding becomes available to the bad guys.”
Teddy again waited for Den’s reaction. Again, there was none. “Your unofficial mission,” Teddy continued, “will be to eliminate the coup ringleader. That will solve our problem as well as Rodriguez’ problem. The Colonel can be trusted. He’ll be an asset you can rely upon.”
“Some of our guys have come up with a scenario to remove any death squad accusations.” Teddy looked down at his desk and pursed his lips. He was thinking of Jake Jacobson. Without looking up he said: “Frankly, some of our guys are long on scenarios, but awfully short on field experience.” Then he looked up. “That’s a thought I hope you won’t allow to escape from this room.”
“What would happen if a gringo appeared in Guatemala City? What would happen if he got into some posh hotel, threw a lot of money around, and, in a fairly amateurish way, let it be known he was looking for a steady supply of large amounts of cocaine?”
“What would happen if, a week or so later, the bodies of a Guatemalan terrorist leader and some of his friends were found out in the hills with cocaine scattered around him? Would a drug gang shoot-out in Guatemala look like a death squad killing? Would a drug gang shoot-out in Guatemala endanger the Guatemala Military Aid Bill now before Congress?”
Den cautiously nodded. He asked: “If that chain of events came to pass, how might that gringo get out of those hills?”
Another smoke ring floated in the air. Another answer followed. “A Guatemalan army helicopter might appear at the scene and take the gringo to a friendly landing strip near Belize. An Agency jet will be waiting. When you’re back in the States you can file your official report.
“Colonel Rodriguez is the head of the Security Police. He’s been collecting information about the drug lords for years. He’s ready to provide you with all the information you’ll need about the local drug operations.” Then, once more, Teddy waited for a response.
Den had another question. “What does Colonel Rodriguez know about Aegis?”
“Nothing,” Teddy answered. “He doesn’t know anything about us and he never will know anything about us. He asked the State Department for help in getting rid of the terrorist and got a flat turn down. He thinks the CIA has agreed to secretly overrule State and that State doesn’t know about it. Of course, State knows all about the Directorate’s decision to investigate Guatemala drug trade and find ways to stop it.”
“Rodriguez will keep his mouth shut. If he does spill the beans, he’ll accuse the CIA, not Aegis. If push comes to shove, we’ll be ready to prove you had nothing to do with it, that a Rodriguez death squad did it and that the Colonel is falsely accusing the CIA because he doesn’t want his death squad killing to come out. Rodriguez can’t hurt us. You’ll be protected and Aegis won’t be discovered.”
Quickly, Den reviewed the project. A terrorist organization in Central America constituted a serious threat. If allied to the money, the organization and the political connections of the drug lords, that threat would be multiplied. The project was a worthwhile undertaking. Den looked at Teddy and gave a short, quick nod.
Teddy smiled. “Let’s call our little program ‘Ocelot’ - Operation Ocelot.”
Chapter 12
The firing lasted for no more than fifteen seconds. It was followed by silence. Nevertheless, Den waited, listening for any sounds that might signal unsuspected danger.
“Paco! Are you OK?” he asked.
“Si, senor Den, I am OK.” The voice came from one of the two Guatemalan Security Guards who had driven them to this sandy road at midnight. They had hidden the Scout and the three crouched in the undergrowth at the side of the trail until well after the sun had risen. That was when the Volkswagen Thing approached them.
Den yelled to the other guard, “Ernesto? Estas bien?”
“Estoy bien,” answered his other unseen companion.
Den, holding his Model 12 Beretta sub-machine gun in front of him so that it could be fired instantly, stood and surveyed the scene before him. When he was satisfied, he used the barrel of the weapon to motion to one of the Security Guards.
Slowly and carefully, Paco arose from where he lay concealed behind a larger clump of the broad leaved grass that grew at the borders of a road leading from the flat valley lands up to the forested foothills of the Alto Cuchumante Mountains. Ready to give supporting gunfire in the event it was needed, he came to the edge of the trail and kept his weapon pointed at the open top, corrugated looking Volkswagen Thing that now rested half on the other side of the road and half in the shallow ditch.
Den came from behind the tree that partially sheltered him during the firing. He, too, stepped to the edge of the roadway. His eyes rapidly moved over the two bloody bodies that lay on the dirt road. There were no sounds and no movements. With his Beretta raised and ready to fire, he crossed the dirt road and cautiously approached the automobile.
There had been four people in the open Volkswagen. The ambush worked flawlessly. All of the terrorists carried .45 caliber automatics, but not one of them had time to remove his weapon from its holster. Den had concentrated his initial fire on the passenger in the front seat. That man, he reasoned, would probably be the leader. The two in the back seat would be the bodyguards. They were only secondary, but necessary targets.
It was academic now. They were all dead. Two of them were in the center of the road. The driver was slumped over the wheel and the fourth man laid face down, in the shallow ditch. Carefully, Den moved to the far side of the vehicle. After a moment, he stood erect.
“It’s OK,” he confirmed. “They’re all dead.”
Den removed the partially spent 40 round magazine from his weapon and replaced it with a new one. Their sub-machine guns were manufactured in Brazil. Large numbers of them had been produced and chains of ownership were impossible to trace. That’s why the Berettas had been provided to them. Den removed the scarf that partially covered the face of the man in the ditch - the one who had occupied the passenger side of the front seat.
“My God,” he said in nearly a whisper. He rolled the body onto its stomach and took a wallet from the dead man’s back pocket. “My God,” he repeated, this time in a louder voice.
“What is it?” Paco asked.
Holding the man’s wallet in his hand, Greg pointed the muzzle of his gun at the body. “This is our man.” He paused before he said “man” and his voice betrayed the disgust he felt. Joselito Montoya needed killing and the world was better off with Humberto del Valle in his grave, but, he feared, Operation Ocelot had no such justification. Alvarez, the dead man lying at his feet, was too young to be a leader of terrorists. Was he twenty years old?
“Our man?” Den repeated in a questioning tone. “He’s only a kid.” He lifted the head of the one behind the wheel and looked at the bodies on the road. “They’re all kids. Look at them. Not one of them is able to grow a beard. What in hell have we done?”
A voice came from the other Guatemalan Security Guard who still lay hidden in the undergrowth. “Todos son muertos?” it asked. “Alvarez es muerto?”
“Yes,” Den answered, “every one of them is dead,” His voice was flat. Then he remembered Ernesto didn’t speak English. “Si,” he amended, “Si. Son m
uertos. Alvarez y los otros. Todos. Son muertos.”
Another sound came from the direction of the hidden voice. It was the sharp metallic click made by a shell as it leaves a clip and enters into the firing chamber of an automatic weapon. Paco dove back into the cover at the far side of the road and Den reacted immediately.
He dropped into the shallow ditch behind the Volkswagen while bullets from both Security Guards filled the air. They smashed into the Volkswagen and thudded into the body of the dead driver. One of them creased Den’s side and another struck him in the shoulder.
The firing stopped. From the safety of the ditch, Den raised his head and cautiously looked toward the place where the two guards were hidden. He listened, but remained silent, disregarding his pain and slowly moving his Beretta into firing position. Den waited and watched. His field of vision was limited to what he could see, looking from his ground level vantage point and past the underside of the Volkswagen. He heard the men quietly talking.
“They’re close together,” he thought, “close enough to whisper to one another. They’re wondering if I’m dead - wondering what to do.”
Soon he heard them moving. Together the men left the cover of the roadside vegetation and stepped onto the open dirt road. Slowly, weapons raised and ready, they came toward the car. Den could see only the feet of the men as they approached the vehicle. When they got to the center of the road, he fired. His shots passed under the Volkswagen and, flying parallel to the ground, the bullets smashed into the men’s feet and ankles. They screamed and fell. Den emptied his magazine into their bodies, not twenty feet from where he lay.
Den ripped the sleeve from his wounded left arm and made a tourniquet. Blood gradually oozed from his grazed ribs and he tried to stem the flow by pressing his upper arm against them. He went to the bodies of the men who tried to kill him. Paco still carried the cocaine that was supposed to be left at the scene.
Den took his wallet. It contained a card identifying him as a Security Guard. The printing of his name and other personal information was superimposed over the design of a Seguridad Nacional badge. There was no picture. Den took the card. Then he hurried back to the Scout that brought them to the scene of the ambush. He drove away as fast as the two rutted road would allow.
Two men from the Guatemalan Security Guard had tried to kill him. That was not an action they would take without direct orders from above. That meant the orders came from Colonel Máximo Rodriguez, the man who had been his primary Guatemala contact. Den knew no army helicopter would appear to take him to Belize.
When Paco and Ernesto did not report back to the Colonel, someone would be sent to the ambush site. They’d find a lot of bodies, but they wouldn’t find him. Colonel Rodriguez would know he was still alive and a search would be made for the gringo who was supposed to be lying dead beside the bodies of the four young men. Den had no illusions about what would happen to him if they found and captured him.
Den had planned an alternate overland escape route to Belize in the event the mission misfired or the Guatemalan army helicopter didn’t appear. As he drove past the bodies lying on the road, he discarded that plan and elected an entirely different one.
Den hoped Rodriguez would think he would try to get to the Agency jet at the Belize airfield - the place the Guatemalan army helicopter was supposed to take him. Instead of going to the northeast and the Belize border, Den would travel in a westerly direction to the border with Mexico. It was much nearer, less than 200 miles away, but, first, he needed medical attention. The nearest town that might have a doctor was Ticopetenango.
Dr. Mario Hernandez was only beginning to enjoy his evening meal when his nurse tapped on the door of his apartment. He knew she would not disturb him unless a patient had come into his downstairs sanatorium. “Another cold meal,” he thought. He crumpled his napkin and dropped it on the table. “Pase,” he said and the nurse opened the door. She told him a man, bleeding from what appeared to be gunshot wounds, was in his waiting room.
Dr. Hernandez patched up the wounds and with the aid of the medication he provided, Den slept until wakened by morning sunlight shining through the open windows. He was in the four room, antiseptic smelling, private hospital attached to Dr. Mario Hernandez’ Consultorio and living quarters. Bandages were taped over his injured ribs and his left arm resting in a sling. He had slept, nearly upright, leaning against a bunch of pillows in the hospital bed.
Now he heard the sounds of stores being opened for business and the murmurs of people talking in the streets as they began their daily routines. Den swung his legs over the side of the bed. The pains in his shoulder and ribs were not bad enough to seriously hamper movement. He left the bed and walked to the waiting room where Dr. Hernandez’ night nurse slept, resting her head on folded arms cushioning her office desk top.
Den woke her and asked her to leave her post long enough to buy him another shirt. He gave her a generous tip when she returned from a nearby shop bringing a T-shirt decorated with the face of Mickey Mouse. She helped him remove the sling and put it on. When she left his room, Den waited until he was sure she was back at her station. Then he quietly opened the back door of the Sanatorio Hernandez and drove toward Quezaltenango and the Guatemala/Mexico border.
On the previous evening, Dr. Hernandez left his unfinished dinner and walked down to the first floor of his home where he maintained a small private hospital. As his nurse had guessed, the stranger had been shot, but his injuries, while requiring careful attention, did not appear to be life threatening. The man showed a bloody identification card and identified himself as a member of the National Security Forces. Given their ruthless reputation, Dr. Hernandez felt it would be imprudent to ask any questions.
Now, in the light of day, the doctor was uneasy. His patient seemed older than 25, the age shown on his Guardia identification card. The man spoke Spanish, but the doctor thought he might have detected a slight accent - like the Spanish spoken in Mexico City or, perhaps, in Colombia.
Another curious matter attracted the doctor’s attention. The injured man’s vocabulary was that of an educated man, not that of the kind of man one would expect to find in the Seguridad. Dr. Hernandez feared the man was involved in the drug trade.
The doctor finished his breakfast and phoned the Comandante of the Ticopetenango police. When the Comandante arrived at Sanatorio Hernandez, the doctor’s patient was nowhere to be found. Upon being questioned, the nurse confessed to leaving her station and buying the Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She didn’t mention the money Den had given her.
The Comandante and Dr. Hernandez shared unspoken relief. Each was pleased the wounded patient had disappeared. He was no longer a problem. They could both make believe he never existed. Back at his office, the policeman had second thoughts. The stranger claimed to be Paco Gomez, a member of the Security Forces. Though he had shown an identification card to Dr. Hernandez, in all probability, the wounded man was not Paco Gomez.
“Perhaps,” the Comandante thought, “this man killed Gomez. I might be criticized for not reporting the presence of the wounded man to the Security Fuerzas.” That thought caused him to telephone the offices of the Colonel Máximo Rodriguez in Guatemala City.
As Den drove on roads that surely must have seen better days, he winced whenever the Scout found an unexpected pothole and his ribs and shoulder were jolted. Before noon, he came to Quetzaltenago and the highway that ran north and entered into Mexico at Tapachula, a larger city with an international airport. Den turned onto the highway and drove a few kilometers. Then he left it in favor of a less traveled secondary road and continued his journey to the border - but not directly to Tapachula.
Den’s use of Paco’s identity card might pass muster at a small border town where customs officials were more casual in performing their duties. If they became too inquisitive, a handful of bills might solve possible problems and induce memory loss. Personnel at the larger, more popular ports of entry, like Tapachula, were more professional and the ris
k of encountering an unbribable official was greater.
Den decided to enter Mexico through Ciudad Tecun Uman, a smaller town some thirty kilometers southwest of Tapachula.
Driving in the countryside past the dormant volcanoes lining the Sierra Madre Mountains, Den wondered why Rodriguez wanted him dead. He pushed the question to the back of his mind, reminding himself to concentrate on the problem at hand - getting out of Guatemala and into Mexico.
When he arrived at La Union, he estimated he was only thirty-five kilometers from Ciudad Tecun Uman. With luck, he would be there in another half hour and Mexico was on the other side of the river. Den was half way to Tecun Uman when his luck changed. Following the roadway, the helicopter came from behind him. He didn’t hear it until the pilot swooped low over him to confirm identification.
The pilot wasn’t able to get a clear view of Mickey Mouse, but the white T-shirt was enough for him. He circled the Scout, intending to fly next to it, giving his companion soldier an easy broadside target. “Damn it,” Den said, aloud. Rodriguez probably had alerted his men at every border town. Now that goddamned Colonel knew Den was planning to enter Mexico through Tecun Uman.
As the helicopter came alongside the Scout, Den stood on the brakes. The soldier fired only nanoseconds after the Scout came to an abrupt, squealing, swerving stop. His bullets dug into the road ahead of the vehicle. Den leaped from the car and ran into an adjacent wooded area while the helicopter swung in a wide circle and then returned and hovered over the Scout. The soldier fired again. Bullets from his automatic rifle hit the gas tank and the Scout exploded into flame.
After taking another turn, the helicopter landed in the middle of the road. From the safety of brushy undergrowth, Den watched as the soldier emerged and cautiously approached the burning Scout. Using his arm to shield his face from the heat, the man tried to get close enough to see if a body was inside the vehicle.
