“Hear the words of the great king, the king of Assyria. Thus says the king, ‘Do not let Hezekiah deceive you, for he will not be able to deliver you from my hand; nor let Hezekiah make you trust in the LORD…Make your peace with me… that you may live and not die.’”
--2 Kings 18:28-32

Yavisa, Panama

Sunday, April 30, 2000

2:00 P.M. EDT

Conner Fadden sat outside the Hotel 3 Americas. It was not much of a hotel with its ten rooms, worn beds, and stained walls. The hotel had a common bathroom shared by the odd collection of visitors to the end of the road. In Yavisa, the Interamerica Highway stretching from Alaska to Chile remains unfinished. To the east lies the Darién Gap and Colombia. There are no more roads—only footpaths leading into the jungle with its constant heat and host of lethal predators.

It was a bit early to start drinking. The jukebox from the bar next to the hotel was blasting away with an Elvis tune. The record had long ago warped, providing Elvis with unique tonal qualities. There are three places to eat in Yavisa, and the bar was the only one offering something vaguely resembling food.

The occasional helicopter gunship wandered eastward providing a symbolic police presence for the wilderness beyond. The Panamanian Border Police might control the air, but the heavily armed rebel paramilitary groups, narco-traffickers, and bandits controlled the ground. The area from Yavisa to somewhere on the other side of the Colombian border is effectively a low intensity war zone; only the very brave, the very foolish, or the very desperate venture into the jungle alone.

Conner was hopeful someone would emerge tonight, otherwise, tomorrow he would gather his pack, check his supplies, oil his weapons, and start a long hike down the path towards Pucuro. His instructors had told him how to survive in the swamp and deal with the bugs. He knew how to live without fire and purify water. He had maps and a battery powered global positioning system. He knew how to walk out of the jungle using dead reckoning. Conner was trained as part of a team, this time he was out here alone.

His skin was tanned and chapped. He carried a money belt with two thousand American dollars. While he did not advertise his weapons, only a fool would come this far without the firepower necessary to discourage the more rambunctious residents. He kept a knife on his hip and a small combat dagger in his boot. He never let the light totally reveal his features from beneath his boony hat. He carried no watch, ring, or personal jewelry. His passport was Canadian, and he spoke Spanish with a French accent.

He settled himself on the same bench he had been occupying for several days. The bench faced the jungle with all its sounds and secrets—a green mosaic filled with death and life. The first bus from Panama City would arrive in three more hours. Two buses ran each day, and they always filled up with gasoline at Metetí. It was the last pumping station complete with a bank and telephones. The hotel in Metetí even had private bathrooms. Metetí hosted the headquarters for the Border Police, but the semblance of civilization faded quickly in the forty-five kilometers separating Metetí from Yavisa.

The heavy trucks hauling exotic hardwoods rumbled down the dirt track running through the wide part of Yavisa. There were smaller panel trucks stuffed with bananas bound for the airstrip at El Real or the docks on the Canal.

Tucked inside his jacket underneath his armpit was a Glock 21. It hung heavy under his shoulder with a high capacity magazine carrying thirteen 230 grain hollow points and one up the pipe. Unlike other weapons, the Glock seemed impervious to the humid climate, rust, and rain. Conner kept it oiled and cleaned, certain it was ready to save his life.

Conner watched the boy emerge from the jungle’s emerald green canopy. He was wearing a tan short sleeve shirt with some of the buttons missing, and a pair of khaki shorts. Conner was not sure whether the boy was Emberá or Wounaan as he could not tell the two predominant Indian tribes apart. The boy walked across the dirt track known as the end of the road without any hesitation. He was carrying a pale green, mud-stained envelope in his hands. He came to a stop a few feet from Conner and held the envelope out.

Conner’s eyes flicked across the jungle beyond the shacks and clapboard buildings passing for a town and saw nothing. The warning itch between his shoulder blades needled him. He refocused his attention on the boy. If someone wanted to kill him, daylight and witnesses would be no deterrent. His only solace rested in the speculative knowledge that he was dealing with indelicate amateurs and the zero on the scope painting a crosshair on his chest was probably out of alignment. The jungle played no favorites when it decided to mess up delicate gear. Riflescopes were usually the first to go after the radio batteries corroded.

There were three rifle fire lanes from the jungle to where Conner was sitting. His gaze came back to the envelope. He took the envelope from the boy. He turned it over in his hands and found an incongruous Hallmark logo on the corner. He unfolded the flap and pulled out a personalized piece of stationary that had a cuddly kitten in the upper right-hand corner. Below the kitten, it read: Shelly’s Notes. The stationary had either been stolen from a missionary deep in the bush, or worse. It was not Conner’s fight.

He read the note before wadding it up into a ball and stuffing it into his trouser pocket. There was no time to retrieve his pack or gather up his rifle. He did a quick inventory sensing the weight of his pistol, the heft of the knife on his belt, and the discomfort from the dagger. Conner stood.

The boy turned back towards the jungle. He never checked to see if Conner followed or walked away. Conner stepped off the hotel’s porch and followed. There was no one backing him up or snuggled behind a sniper rifle looking for bad guys. Conner was chosen for the mission because he demonstrated ability for independent action. The other nagging thought was, no one would miss him.

The boy stepped through a gap between two shanties and found an invisible path leading into the emerald green. He stepped quickly left and right dancing across some broken trees and larger boulders. Conner matched the boy’s steps.

Conner sensed the two peasants with rifles before he ever saw them. The peasants detached themselves from the trees. Their blued, short rifle barrels jabbed at his stomach and back. When Conner looked ahead, the boy had vanished.

The lead man stepped onto the jungle path. The prodding from the second man’s rifle convinced Conner to follow. Sometime later, they handed Conner a black hood for his face. The hood stunk of a hundred other people, and the rough rope cut into his neck. They wound a rag around his wrist and led him over a creek and a rope bridge. The rank stench of men who had not seen a shower in long time told Conner he had arrived. He estimated they had walked two and half miles.

Conner felt the rag slacken on his wrist and pulled his hand free. He pulled the smelly hood off his head and tossed it to his nearest escort. Conner looked around the circle of guerillas. They were wearing soiled, sweat-stained fatigues. Most were barefoot, but they all had a hat of some sort. An incredible array of knives, machetes, and short swords hung off their belts. Rifles were stacked together, and someone was working on dinner. Conner decided he would see if anything was left at the bar when he returned to Yavisa.

Commander Zeto sat on a camp chair beyond the cook fire. He stood to greet Conner, extending his hand and flashing a grin. The teeth were yellowed and his gums had a puffy redness about them. Zeto stood maybe six or seven inches shorter than Conner. Everyone knew the Americans were giants from the north. His eyes held the cunning intelligence found in alley rats and a terrible desire to survive.

Conner recognized the kind of man stepping towards him. Nothing really changed besides the language and the specifics. Conner classified Commander Zeto as a magnanimous psychotic unsure whether to kiss or kill. Warlords like Zeto had run Mogadishu. They thought nothing of dragging American soldiers through the dusty streets. The combination of a timid Defense Secretary who refused to release armored vehicles to the Army Rangers, and a new administration’s mistaken belief in calling soldiers peace makers allowed the Mogadishu warlords to disgrace highly trained soldiers. The administration believed adequate force in Mogadishu would have been too provocative. Zeto was the kind of man who understood nothing but naked aggression. Conner considered the implications of using someone like Zeto, and he wondered anew about his mission.

Zeto welcomed Conner like a long lost brother. Conner endured the hug and the back slaps as they walked towards a tent. The campsite appeared to be an abandoned Indian village. The jungle was already creeping forward to reassert its stranglehold over man’s intrusion. The tent’s interior consisted of a small table, two canvas chairs, a kerosene lantern, and jug of something.

“So, Señor Fadden, you come with a proposal.”

Fadden grunted and settled himself in the canvas chair. “Sí.”

Zeto produced two dusty tin cups from somewhere. He hefted the jug and sloshed its contents into both cups. Conner accepted the proffered cup.

“And what is it that I,” he thumped his chest as he found his own chair, “can do for your most powerful masters?” He sipped his drink.

Conner lifted the grimy cup to his lips and figured it could not be much worse than eating a frog on survival training. He reached into his jacket a produced a packet. The white Tyvek envelope was smeared and gritty from being carried for the last two weeks. He ripped open the back flap and spilled out a map.

“We want you to sell drugs,” explained Conner. His stomach churned uncomfortably. What happened to the go anywhere, face any challenge, make any sacrifice recruit? He never imagined it would come to sitting in a smelly tent arranging to peddle cocaine.

Zeto stopped in mid swallow.

“The people who sent me wish for you to aggressively sell cocaine on our behalf to the people running the Canal,” continued Conner. There was no need to explain which canal; there is only one worth mentioning in Panama.

Zeto set the cup on the table between them. “And why do we need you? The cocaine is a couple of river rides away.”

The four weeks rehearsing for this moment kicked in. Conner had been confronted with every conceivable objection; when he stumbled during his training, he was coached on the correct response. They worked at it until it was right.

Conner chuckled waving his hand at the tent, “How much cocaine can you possibly purchase? We’re sitting in a tent with a dirt floor in a jungle full of things that can kill you. If you had a deal worked out, you would not be tramping through the jungle in filthy fatigues carting along rifles that were ancient when your father was born.”

Zeto glared at the American. “You think because we don’t live in a hotel, we are stupid!”

Conner shook his head, “Hardly. Like I said, I come with a proposal. It helps you and it helps me.”

“How does my selling cocaine help you?”

The trainers predicted Zeto would eventually ask this question. Conner unfolded the map and spread in flat on the ground between them.

Zeto squinted. “So, a map of the canal,” he said eventually.

Conner wondered if Zeto knew how to read. Conner’s trainers might have selected Zeto on the basis of his literacy. An illiterate tool had less of a chance of becoming an embarrassment on 60 Minutes. Conner motioned Zeto to squat across the map from him.

He pointed at Balboa on the Pacific coast and Cristóbal on the Caribbean side. They formed the entry ports to the Panama Canal. Most Americans would have a hard time picking them out on a map. Almost one hundred years ago, Teddy Roosevelt decided to spend American treasure and build the engineering marvel of the century. He succeeded because he was bold, brash, and refused to believe in failure.

“We want you sell drugs to the men running the port facilities and the warehouses surrounding the port facilities.”

Zeto might not know how to read, but he could count. “They have no money—a bunch of Chinese immigrants. How can they afford cocaine?” The economics of an expensive habit was not lost on Zeto.

Conner took some bills from his pocket. Panama has no other currency other than the American dollar. The Yankee greenback was familiar territory for Zeto. It was one of the tools George Bush used to wreck the Panamanian economy before Operation Just Cause overran the country. He dropped a dollar on the dirt. “Let’s say it costs a dollar to buy so much dope.”

“Sí,” grunted Zeto.

Conner moved the dollar across the dirt towards Zeto, and flipped two quarters to land on the bill. “I pay you an extra half dollar.”

Zeto nodded again.

“You transport the drugs from here to the ports.” Conner drew his finger across the map from Colombia through the Darién Gap to the Canal Zone. “So far you’re out your time.” Conner looked around the tent again. Zeto had plenty of time. “We want you to sell your product at a reduced price to the people running the Canal.” Conner flipped a dime towards Zeto. “Maybe you make this much—” He flipped another quarter after the dime. “Maybe you make more. The point is to hook them on the drugs. Particularly, the people that look or act like soldiers.”

Zeto scratched himself. “And the money?”

Zeto went to the heart of the matter like Conner had been told he would. The money involved would make Zeto more or less useless within eighteen months. The jungle and the rebels always produced more people like Zeto. It was a matter of keeping them on a leash.

“For the moment, keep it,” replied Conner. “Buy guns or women with it, I really don’t care. We are investing in the future. Over time we might wish to make certain adjustments to the arrangement.”

Zeto looked at the map, the money, and Conner. “Keep it?” he asked greedily.

“Yeah.”

Douglas De Bono / DouglasDeBono.Com Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota E-Mail readermail@DouglasDeBono.Com