The DMZ Page 14

  Another question best left unexplored.

  Pulling out a powder compact from her purse, the NBC correspondent carried out a meticulous inspection in its tiny mirror. “I wonder if he’d make a deal. I can’t go on the air like this, can I?” she demanded, shaping her full mouth into a pout as she outlined it with blood-red lipstick.

  Julie made a noncommittal sound she hoped could be interpreted as sympathetic, a feeling she was having a hard time conjuring up. She could just hear some of Norm Hutchens’ more caustic observations on the types who figured all there was to journalism was smiling into the camera and reading a teleprompter. Why had this woman bothered to come? With a story like this, there must have been dozens of NBC reporters who would have jumped at the chance.

  The answer came almost immediately.

  “So!” Sondra cut short an inspection of her nails—long, sharp, and the same blood-red as her lipstick—to slant Julie another condescending glance. “Did someone send you down here—or were you dumb enough to volunteer?” She swept on before Julie could answer. “You wouldn’t have caught me dead on this trip if it wasn’t for all this C-PAP stuff.”

  Sondra gave her face a dissatisfied glance in her compact.

  Julie’s eyebrows went up. “C-PAP? That’s right—you told me you’d been in this area before. I didn’t realize you were involved with the environmental movement.”

  Sondra hardly looked the sort to be involved in environmental activism—or any other outdoor activity.

  “Well, you have to have a cause in this business.” She snapped her compact shut. “And rainforests are in. C-PAP once asked me to do some interviews with that tribe of theirs. It sounded good on my résumé—save the planet and all that.” She gave a theatrical shudder. “Though I’d have never taken them up on it if I’d known how dirty the place was going to be. And those Indians!”

  She lowered her voice. “Do you know what’s weird? I was supposed to be on that trip with Dr. Renken. She wanted me to do an interview with that tribal chief she went to see. Only I came down with Montezuma’s revenge the night before.”

  Her shudder this time wasn’t feigned. “And now they’re wanting me to ID the bodies. Can you believe it? They said it would save a seat on the flight. And my producer agreed! Just because I spent a week with them down in that filthy little base camp of theirs! All I can say is, I’d better get that triple hazard pay I put in for. And they’d better be right that this is no big deal with the guerrillas. Surely that embassy geek wasn’t serious about just dumping us down there if something goes wrong!”

  Julie eyed her seatmate. For all her posturing, for once the NBC correspondent seemed sincere in her concern, if only for her own skin.

  “Oh, he was serious, all right,” she assured her, not without some malice. “But I wouldn’t worry too much. The whole point of this mission is for the FARC to convince the world—on international TV—that they’re fine, upstanding citizens who wouldn’t dream of killing three foreign environmentalists.”

  Julie’s glance went again to those two olive green caps. “Whatever they might be capable of, they’re not going to want to spoil their little PR exercise by letting anything happen to the very people they’re hoping will persuade the world that they’re really pretty nice guys after all. Not, at any rate, while those cameras are pointed in their direction.”

  Julie broke off as she caught the NBC correspondent staring at her with unexpected shrewdness.

  “Well, that’s more than I know, and I spent a week down there! Where did you learn so much about what makes these people tick?”

  “I know the area,” Julie answered briefly. She was spared any further explanation as Bill Shidler entered the cabin from the cockpit.

  Fiddling with his lapel mike, he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about a half-hour from San Ignacio. And we’re now flying over an area you might find of interest in relation to our present oper—uh, mission. Directly below us is the town of San José. This is one of Colombia’s key outposts in the war against drugs, as well as headquarters to the United States government’s counter-narcotics programs in this region.”

  Sondra Kharrazi looked eager for more information; whatever journalistic instincts she possessed were clearly aroused. But as the political officer droned on, she tuned him out and craned over Julie’s shoulder to look out the window.

  Julie herself studied the landscape below with interest. She’d already taken note of San José in the research files she’d downloaded the night before, recognizing the name as a sleepy jungle village she’d visited with her parents as a child. But she saw nothing familiar in the sprawling military base that lay below the plane’s wings. The gravel airstrip where her father had once landed his Cessna was now a modern asphalt runway capable of landing a fair-sized jet. Huge barracks, a fleet of army vehicles, and a scattering of aircraft and helicopters were visible as well.

  But that wasn’t the biggest change. In Julie’s childhood, the rainforest had stretched in an unbroken green carpet all the way from San José to San Ignacio. Now, as they left the military base behind, Julie could see that the jungle canopy was pocked with holes, as though war or some bizarre disease had attacked it.

  Most prominent were the cleared patches where nothing grew but a low shrub. Other clearings were brown and parched, with nothing growing at all. Blackened char marked more recent slash-and-burn operations that had left centuries-old hardwoods tumbled on top of each other like so many toothpicks.

  What on earth has happened here?

  She soon found out. Bill Shidler continued his lecture. “Down there in San José, members of our 7th Special Operations Group out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina—known as Green Berets to the general public”—he actually permitted himself a slight smile—“have carried out an outstanding training program for Colombia’s new counter-narcotics battalion. The spray planes you might have noticed parked at the base are part of a secondary U.S. aid program that eliminates illegal coca and poppy fields with a gentle, biodegradable herbicide.”

  As though on cue, Julie caught a flash of motion out the window to her left. It was another plane, a small fixed-wing like the crop dusters still used in rural America, flying well below the flight pattern of the DC4. The plane dropped low over an open field of bushes. In its trail, a mist caught the morning sun, its droplets glinting diamond-bright before drifting down over the foliage. Farther off over the jungle, another spray plane dropped down below the tree line. Hovering far above both, Julie spotted the dull green of a Huey combat helicopter—their watchdog.

  Gentle, right! Julie swallowed back nausea. She’d read the reports about what was happening to the rainforest in this area. But seeing was vastly different from reading. As an American citizen who hated drug abuse as much as anyone, she could appreciate the need to do just what was being done down there. As an environmentalist, she felt sick.

  And for every coca field out there scorched brown with herbicide, the cocaleros would simply retreat further into the jungle to slash and burn a few more hectares of rainforest and plant more coca. Maybe these programs were necessary. She was no political expert to know. But the result was a destruction of the region’s fragile ecosystem that not even the oil companies could match.

  Boom!

  The explosion of sound rocked Julie back into her seat.

  FIVE

  IT WASN’T UNTIL BILL SHIDLER grabbed at the nearest seat that Julie realized the blast had rocked the plane as well. A shudder went through the aircraft, and the engines perceptibly slowed. Bill Shidler dove into the cockpit. Pandemonium erupted in the cabin.

  “We’re hit!”

  “What’s going on?”

  Already the DC4 was recovering its equilibrium. With a quiver like a dog shaking off an unexpected ice-bath, the plane settled back into its flight path, the powerful prop engines returning to their normal purr. Spinning around back to the window, Julie spotted the aftermath of the explosion—a plume of smoke hanging above a cle
aring. Beyond the dispersing cloud, she could see a crop duster spiraling skyward.

  Bill Shidler emerged from the cockpit, looking flushed and annoyed. Holding up his hand for silence, he announced, “There’s nothing to be concerned about. It would seem the coca growers have launched a SAM attack on one of the spray planes. This does happen on occasion. However, our own flight path lies well above range—”

  Bang!

  This new explosion didn’t rock the plane, but it effectively interrupted Shidler’s reassurance. Half the passengers were now out of their seats, craning to get a sight—and video shot—of the air battle. Julie traced the blast by its smoke cloud, much higher this time and close enough to the crop duster to throw the little plane sideways.

  The spray plane fell in an out-of-control spin toward the jungle canopy. Julie’s feet were pressed against the cabin floor as she mentally urged that nose to pull up. It was brushing the upper levels of the jungle canopy when at last it leveled out and began an agonizingly slow ascent. Julie let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. This was war! Where was that watchdog Huey?

  Finally it appeared, coming in high over the edge of the clearing, close enough for Julie to see the open door, the cylinder shape of its enormous field gun spraying a rain of bullets below.

  Another explosion erupted directly beneath the helicopter. The gun fell silent, and the Huey banked away, leaving the crop duster weaving a zigzag circuit like a lost sheep.

  But more help was on the way. Another helicopter, no Vietnam-era Huey this time, but long and sleek and gray. Julie recognized it from her research. A Black Hawk, an integral part of the U.S. government’s newest counter-narcotics aid package. The cabin of the DC4 broke into cheers as it came in low and fast over the treetops. Julie’s glance was drawn to the two FARC representatives at the front of the plane. The younger guerrilla was raised half out of his seat, his body lines tense as he bent to observe the action below.

  What is he thinking? Julie wondered. After all, those had to be his people down there firing at the planes and being shot at in return. But his unshaven profile revealed no expression, and Julie couldn’t see his eyes.

  She glanced around the plane’s interior. Sondra was out of her seat barking orders to her cameraman, who had managed to squeeze in next to a window. Julie’s eye fell on a blond head just a few rows behind. Sondra’s Bible-toting hunk. He hadn’t bothered to join in the jostling but was watching his fellow passengers as though fascinated by their frenetic activity.

  His glance crossed Julie’s, and his handsome features relaxed into a broad smile, as though they were long acquaintances instead of strangers. Julie’s lips twitched in automatic response, and she wiggled her fingers in acknowledgment of the eye contact before turning her gaze back to the Black Hawk.

  The battle outside drove the man instantly from her mind. The DC4 should have been beyond the range of the fire fight by now, but instead it seemed to be making a lazy curve around the clearing. Two more smoke plumes in the direction they had been heading gave a possible explanation.

  The Black Hawk was coming in low across the clearing, but no gunfire issued from its open doorway. Julie thought she saw why—an odd downward tilt in the nose of the chopper that kept it from leveling off to shoot. Its nose still dangling, the combat helicopter rose out of range. The crop duster, still unable to gain height, seemed to flutter over the clearing. The Huey dropped again to offer cover, its own machine gun blazing.

  Then it happened.

  The blast was close enough to the DC4 to set it rocking. With horror, Julie watched the Huey disintegrate before her eyes, the pieces raining down to the fields below. Even in her shock, she saw the younger guerrilla’s fist clench shut two rows ahead. Triumph?

  The cabin fell silent. Bill Shidler emerged again from the cockpit, this time looking pale and grim.

  “Please don’t be alarmed; there’s no danger,” he reiterated. “We’re well out of range of any ground armaments the rebel forces in the region are known to possess. However, in light of a continuing air battle that seems to be going on at several points in this zone, we’ve deemed it prudent not to proceed further until an all-clear is given. We’ll be setting down at the base in San José. We don’t expect the delay to be long.”

  There were a few grumbles as the DC4 turned back but not many. A story was a story, wherever it came from, and across the aisle Julie could hear the CNN crew already discussing how to turn to the best advantage the last quarter-hour’s video footage.

  Moments later, buildings flashed by as the plane’s wheels touched down and the hydraulic brakes came on. As the DC4 slowed, the parked aircraft Julie had seen from the air came into view. Behind them rose two enormous steel tanks.

  Army trucks and soldiers were boiling onto the runway, but not to welcome their surprise guests. As the DC4 taxied around to draw up beside the other aircraft, Julie spotted a crop duster coming in over the other end of the runway. A fire truck raced past the DC4, its siren wailing.

  Sounds could be heard outside the door of the plane. Bill Shidler twisted the wheel that held the door shut. As it swung open, a man dressed in combat fatigues ducked his head to step inside. He gave Bill Shidler a curt nod, then strode to the front of the cabin. He wasn’t young, his crew cut iron-gray, the grooves around mouth and eyes cut deep. But his body under the battle uniform was as lean and fit as any recruit fresh out of boot camp. He surveyed his visitors before speaking, his gaze lingering unsmilingly on the cameras the CNN cameramen already had to their shoulders, his narrow mouth tightening as he took in the FARC representatives in the front row.

  “Welcome to San José. I’m Colonel Jeff Thornton, Joint Task Force commander for U.S. operations in this region. Sorry for the trouble, but we’re calling in our aircraft right now. Things will calm down as soon as they’re out of the air. So if you’ll just sit tight, you’ll be on your way in about half an hour.”

  The American officer turned to duck back out the plane door, but Bill Shidler put out a hand to stop him. “Uh, Jeff.” Shidler cast a quick glance around the cabin, then murmured too low for Julie to hear anything but the phrases, “… passengers … amenities not in service …”

  Colonel Thornton let out an exasperated snort. “So your bathroom isn’t working! Okay, I guess we can handle that.”

  He swung around to face the cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen, if any of you need to … uh, stretch your legs, you’ll find restrooms and some refreshment in the first building to your left. My men will direct you there as you disembark. Just be on the alert for our call to re-board. We’d hate to have to leave any of you behind.” There was no relaxation in the uncompromising line of his mouth to indicate this was a joke.

  And if that isn’t an enthusiastic welcome! Julie thought with amusement, abandoning her knapsack in her seat and filing down the aisle after Sondra Kharrazi. The two guerrilla representatives hadn’t moved from their seats, nor the State Department team that had stationed itself beside them.

  None of the news crews had remained on board. What reporter could resist the chance to poke around a restricted military base? Julie was as interested in the place as any of them. San José—a name familiar to her—had cropped up repeatedly in the Internet files she’d downloaded the night before, and she’d done a little digging.

  Out on the runway, a squad of soldiers was directing the passengers across the runway toward a whitewashed cinder-block building, but Julie didn’t follow. Instead, she lingered in the shade of the DC4. Off to her left, the crop duster she’d seen coming in had taxied to a stop near the two steel tanks. The fire engine was drawn up beside it and soldiers swarmed around, but the little plane showed no visible damage. Another spray plane was just coming in for a landing at the far end of the runway.

  The view to her right held more interest. Behind a chain-link fence, a series of metallic rectangular screens were tilted at a slightly upward slant. An interesting array of protrusions and metal tubing performed func
tions Julie could only guess at, and the whole thing looked like a futuristic version of the old drive-in movie theaters that she knew only from TV reruns from her parents’ generation. But Julie knew what it was. A radar installation.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing here, Shidler?”

  Julie started as the angry words sounded directly above her head. Glancing up, she spotted two men at the top of the movable stairway next to the plane. The last of the news crews were now trickling across the runway, and neither the political officer nor Colonel Thornton seemed to be aware of the eavesdropper to their conversation.

  “I figured communications was pulling my leg when they said you were landing here with a planeload of civilians. And in the middle of the mess going on right now! Just who in tarnation made that harebrained call?”

  “I did, as it happens.” Shidler sounded less sure of himself than he did in front of the reporters. “What else was I supposed to do? They were shooting out there, and I’ve got a whole planeload of VIPs on my hands. If something happened to them, it’d be my neck.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what I think of that too. You guys are crazy bringing civilians into the zone right now, and I told your boss so yesterday when he called. Why you State Department johnnies even bother asking my opinion, I don’t know, when you never pay any attention!”

  “Your superiors happen to disagree with you,” Shidler said stiffly. “This is a vital mission, and they judged the risks to be minimal.”

  “Minimal! Is that what they call a bunch of SAMs in your face these days? For that matter, what were you doing overflying the eradication project anyway? Didn’t you know that’s just asking for trouble?”

  “We judged it safest to stay in San José air space as long as possible. After all, you’re the closest American presence in the zone. And we made it here all right, as it turned out. Look, Jeff, I don’t know why you’re getting so hot under the collar.” Shidler was beginning to sound heated himself. “We ran our flight plan by SouthCom. And you authorized this landing yourself!”