Amanda's Story (14 page)

“As far as we can tell they arrived on the ninth, with a full platoon of Honduran SOG.” Captain Shore stood at attention, waiting for his commanding officer to give him permission to stand at ease.

“That was nine days ago and we're just hearing about this now?” Rear Admiral Howard Hemming was commander of the US Navy's 4th Fleet and had been ordered to redeploy six capital ships immediately. The Chief of Naval Operations himself had informed Hemming that he was to personally attend to it. “Relax, Captain, and sit down. We have some work to do.”

Captain Shore sat only because he had been instructed to; he maintained an at-attention posture, waiting for his commander to stop pacing behind his desk. “They contacted the State Department five days ago and told them that everything was being handled.”

“And no one followed up!” The admiral slammed his open hand against the wall and the room shook. Hemming was a large man, and the urban legend that circulated their Jacksonville home port was that when the admiral was a mere lieutenant, and flying jets off of the very carriers he now commanded, on two separate occasions the steam catapult that launched planes off the deck failed immediately after Hemming's plane took off. “What a bunch of know-nothing jack-asses.”

Shore had been braced for a more colorful tirade. “The information that we have is that there is now only one survivor.” Normally he would have used the word “intelligence,” but decided on “information” to avoid the inevitable reaction. Despite outward appearances, Captain Shore knew the admiral to be a cerebral man, highly intelligent, well-educated and read, with more than thirty years of experience to bolster his academic credits. He balanced that with a deep passion, and occasionally a blind spot, for anything American or Navy.

“So thirteen of our people died and those sons of bitches just stood around and watched. How much firepower do you think it would take to finish what that hurricane started?” He stared seriously at the captain and then smiled. “All right, that's enough of my bitching; let's try to solve this problem. What do we know about this General Regara?”

“Old Honduran family with lots of connections.”

“To the old government or the new one? Wait, let me guess, both?”

Shore nodded. “Relatively honest. He does have his hand in at least one Columbian cartel's pocket.”

“Hell, no one's innocent down there. Why did they wait so long?”

“I get the feeling from State that the local officials really thought they had a handle on things. The bureaucrats dragged their feet some, probably because they're still angry over our lack of support for their coup. I get the sense that they would have acted faster had they known what they were up against.”

“So what are they up against? It looks to me that they lost a whole city.” The admiral's desk was covered in satellite photographs. “And then they started burning bodies?” He shook his head in disgust.

“All we get from them is that they have quarantined the area and stopped the spread of some illness. They suggest that it's some version of Ebola.”

“I read that. Is it credible? Because it sounds to me like they just hung the nastiest label they could think of on this giant mess to justify some very questionable behavior.”

“We have to assume that it is correct.”

“Okay. Redirect the battle group. Tell them I want them on station before noon tomorrow. They'll have to move, but shouldn't have to blow out any boilers getting there.”

“They will permit only one helicopter to land.” Shore braced for the admiral's reaction.

“How do they expect us to make that work?” he asked without embellishments.

“We can only take the survivor. The bodies have to stay.”

A thirty-second string of very creative profanity followed. The admiral hit his intercom button. “There's a Honduran general named Regara. Find him. I want him on the phone, now.” He smashed the button and sat loudly into his chair.

“Would you like me to stay, sir?”

“Yes. Your presence tempers my behavior.”

The intercom buzzed a few minutes later. “On line three, sir.”

“Damn, that was fast,” Hemming said, picking up the phone. “General, good of you to take my call. Bruce Calloway sends his regards.” In friendlier times, Bruce Calloway and the US Special Forces had trained the Honduran Special Operations Group, one of the units Regara commanded. The conversational gambit was false; Hemming had never met Calloway; he was simply trying to set a tone. “I've got you on speakerphone with my XO Captain Shore.”

“Good morning, Admiral. I'm afraid I will have to dispense with the pleasantries, as you can imagine I have my hands quite full.”

“All right.” Hemming took a breath and cracked his knuckles.

Shore smiled. Low-grade animosity suited Hemming much better than artificial civility.

“We have been informed that only one sea-based helicopter will be permitted to land and that the bodies of the thirteen deceased will not be repatriated. Is this true?”

“Yes. It is not optimal, nor is it my idea. I have simply been ordered to see it done, as I assume you have as well.”

“We have the capacity to take them all home, General. It would relieve your country of the burden.”

“I agree with you, Admiral, but others do not. Our two governments have agreed to this and it falls to us to work out the logistics.”

The situation became clear to Shore: Regara objected, but didn't have the authority to change things.

“We will be available tomorrow at thirteen hundred local time. I will send three helicopters in hopes that between now and then our representatives will come to their senses.”

“I agree, but as it stands, I am permitted to only allow one into Honduran airspace. If there is nothing else, I must say good-bye.”

“Good-bye, General.” Hemming replaced the phone and turned to his adjunct. “A man of few words. Get a Chinook out to Teddy and tell them to send along a couple of Seahawks as well. Go get our people back.”

“Once we get her, what do we do with her?”

“The survivor is a woman? I don't know why I assumed it was a man. I guess my wife is right; I am a misogynist.” He reached for a single sheet of paper. “A representative of the Combined Services Medical Group will then assume control. The representative, a Colonel William Bennett, will deploy with the rescue team.” He finished reading. “That comes from The Chief himself. Ever hear of the Combined Services Medical Group?” Shore shook his head. “Neither have I.”

There were very few places she could go. Four days ago she had gently moved Bernice's body into the old radio tent. She had left Charlotte and Cami where they were, partly out of sheer vindictiveness but more because of practical reasons. The generator had failed and the tarp-covered bodies exposed to the tropical sun did what was expected of them, and there really wasn't room in the radio tent for two more. The old medical tent, being surrounded by four decaying bodies, was off limits, as were the Honduran tents. This meant that the two women were still in their deathbeds, which left Amanda with only the eastern portion of the large tent—where the water and food had been stored—and all the grass between the tents and the fences to await death or rescue.

She had walked through the grass enough to beat down a path, a feral energy driving her day after day. The Hondurans had fatigued from boredom and were stretched out in the eaves of the jungles. If there had been any gaps in the fence, she was sure that she could slip into the jungle unseen. Of course, that begged the question: what would she do next? The answer was fairly obvious—die from a bullet or exposure.

On one of her uncounted laps around the big-tent, as Amanda had come to know it, she noticed that the twelve sheets of paper that chronicled the events of the last week were getting wet from the light drizzle that had just started. She had taken a full day after Bernice's death to mourn the loss and adjust to her new situation, but before the second day had fully dawned she finished her account. She had accepted the fact that in all probability she would join Bernice sooner than either wanted, and in her mind the only thing that could make this obscene situation worse was the inevitable lies and half-truths that others would use to cover it up. She knew that in all probability her effort at setting the record straight was little more than a futile gesture, but it was all that was left to her. She gathered the papers and once again looked for a safe place to store them. It was more than reasonable to assume that once Amanda was gone, either alive or dead, the entire camp and everything in it would be burned, just as the Hondurans had burned the bodies in Tela. All the medical supplies and personal effects would be consumed in a purifying blaze, including her precious twelve sheets of legal paper. After once again scouring the entire tent for a safe, fireproof, and discoverable hiding spot, she dropped her work on to an empty exam table and slumped into the only decent chair open to her. If she was made to disappear, her work would not survive her for very long. Dr. Martinez, or someone just like him, would fashion the truth in any way that suited them, and the only thing she could do to prevent it was to survive. The drizzle had changed into a steady rain that drummed on the roof of the big-tent, and she spun her chair outward and watched as the soldiers started to run for cover. Their discomfort gave her an iota of delight.

The only problem with isolation is being alone with oneself. Introspection had become Amanda's only form of recreation, and she focused on the trace of joy that came with the Hondurans scrambling. Intellectually, she knew that these individuals were not responsible for her situation, and that they had been almost as miserable as she. Under normal circumstances, she imagined that she would probably feel sorry for them, but these were anything but normal circumstances, and she was not the same timid girl who had fretted over an open helicopter hatch less than two weeks earlier. This had been a transformative experience, and for the first time in her life the misfortunes of others prompted an emotion other than sympathy. She had already spent many of the lonely hours pondering her new emotional makeup, and had decided that on a whole she liked the new Amanda. She was more resolute, no longer afraid of making decisions. All her life she had been afraid. Afraid of guns, of violence, of taking a chance, of taking charge of her own destiny. The new Amanda would do everything it took to survive, even if it meant using guns or violence, and then follow the path that she wanted. She had grown up living her life only to meet the expectations of others. When she thought of herself, it was always through the eyes of others. When faced with a choice, she would filter the options through what she thought others would want. In fact, she found it difficult remembering a single time she ever been completely selfish. She had always been a “good girl.” A door mat.

Of course, not every attribute of the new Amanda was as positive. She had developed a vindictiveness that was both disturbing and more than a little comfortable. Leaving Charlotte to die alone and in pain was at best morally questionable, but even days later it warmed her heart. So did the possibility of violence. In her many empty hours Amanda thought about taking out a guard or two—not in hopes of escape, more just to see what it was like. She had shot the four soldiers earlier, but that had happened so fast, and had been purely reflexive. Her sole motivation was self-defense. She idly wondered what it would be like to shoot someone just because she could. Would she feel remorse? Elation? Or would her emotions remain as silent as they had when she was forced to defend herself?

It took less than fifteen minutes for the shower to pass and for the bright tropical sun to return. After another fifteen minutes—as the boredom was beginning to overwhelm her—she resumed her walking.

“How you doing there, Charlotte?” she asked, passing the corpse. Charlotte didn't answer, so she kept on walking. Two hours and a few dozen circuits later she noticed that her captors had started to pack up and that many had already disappeared back into the jungle. No weapons were visible, and most of their packs and chairs had disappeared; even the ever-present cigarette smell had faded. She moved along the path a little faster and then detoured to the east end of the big-tent. It was mostly hidden from the Hondurans' view and was where she had collected and stored all the weapons she could find. She knew that in time a decision would have to be made; they wouldn't watch her indefinitely, and by far the easiest solution to the “Amanda problem” was a conveniently placed bullet. Already there were thirty bodies scattered about the camp, and most of them had their own bullets. Who would even conceive that she had died under anything other than “natural” circumstances? She crawled into a small recess that she had constructed under a number of large crates and pulled her weapons and spare ammunition close. She had no misconception that she could successfully take them all on, but she would be damned if she was going to make it easy for them.

She waited, but nothing happened. Part of the problem with being hidden so well was the fact that she had a very limited view. From her rabbit-hole she had only about a forty-five degree viewing angle that extended to the edge of the radio tent and the fence beyond. The jungle buzzed and the early afternoon air heated up under the tropical sun, and still nothing. She wished she still had her watch, but it had broken when a crate fell onto her arm as she was creating this very hiding place. She slowly started counting to a hundred, deciding that if nothing happened before then she would take a peek.

After the first hundred she started over. By forty-three she stopped. She heard the sounds of tires crunching over branches and gravel. She twisted to try and see what was happening, but beyond twenty yards her view was blocked. She whispered a curse. If she wanted to know what they were up to she would have to move, which was probably exactly what they wanted. A door slammed and she heard distant voices and then a loud, piercing amplified squeal.

“Hello in the camp,” said a voice that Amanda recognized immediately. “This is General Hector Regara.” He rolled his R's almost as well as the waiter in Chicago. “Will you please show yourselves so that we can talk?” Amanda didn't respond, and a minute passed. “We mean you no harm. I am here to inform you that a United States helicopter is on its way to take you home. For that to occur safely we must remove portions of the fence. It is imperative that you remain in our sight and within the confines of your camp until your countrymen arrive. Will you please show yourself?”

It's a very clever trick
, Amanda thought. Off in the distance she could hear the signature thumping, but the sounds of helicopters overhead had become commonplace the last few days. “Although,” she said out loud, “they could just toss in a few grenades and be done with it. Why go to all this trouble?” She countered.
And why would he be here?

“Mrs. Flynn,” Regara's voice boomed, and Amanda was startled at the sound of her name. “We need you to respond, now.” His last word echoed across the large field. “The helicopter you hear is from an American aircraft carrier waiting to bring you home, and it has limited fuel capacity. I can not permit it to land until I know that you will cooperate.”

Amanda crawled out, but as a consolation to her more-cautious side she brought along a weapon. She walked out of the big-tent and down its side, still not completely convinced they had her best interest in mind. Just beyond the fence on the eastern side of the large field stood Regara, resplendent in his dark uniform and medals and ribbons. Several very stern soldiers in jungle fatigues flanked him, and each held a weapon identical to her own.

“I assure you that your rifle is not needed.” He smiled. She wasn't buying his relaxed, everything-is-all-right tone. His soldiers, who looked like they were ready to pounce, told a more accurate story. “All right, if it makes you feel more comfortable. All I ask is that you stay right where you are. Can you do this?”

She looked around and found a second group of soldiers almost directly behind her, but they were armed only with bolt cutters. “You've already killed two of us, and one was your own soldier,” she accused Regara.

He took several steps forward and now was only inches from the fence. His security detail was about to follow but a quick hand motion froze them in place. Amanda could see that she had touched a nerve; Regara's face had lost all its graciousness. “His name was Fernando Oklana. He was born three miles from here, and I had to tell his mother in an evacuation center that her only son is dead.” He pointed at the dark form that had once been Sergeant Oklana; his words fired at Amanda as if she had been responsible for his death.

His anger only fueled hers. “There are twenty-nine other bodies in here, and you and your Dr. Martinez watched them die one by one!” She screamed and pointed her weapon at one of the cameras mounted high on a metal pole.

“My responsibility is to protect my country; I do not care if you ever understand that. I only care to know if you will comply with the instructions, or do we shoot you now and be done with it?”

It was an intriguing offer. She was certain that she could raise her weapon and fire at least several good shots before they took her down, and at a minimum make Regara and Honduras pay a small amount of what was owed to Amanda and the rest of her team.

“I take your silence as a willingness to be reasonable,” Regara said before Amanda had completely made up her mind. She lowered her rifle, which had somehow found its way into a firing position, and then after several long moments, with nothing better to do, she sat in the tall grass. Regara turned and nodded to a figure in the shadows and a moment later she could hear the sharp snap of metal breaking, followed by a tinny sound as the fence recoiled. It took at least ten minutes to clear the west end of the large field, and then the drumming of rotors filled the air. Amanda stood and watched the largest helicopter she had ever seen clear the trees just outside of Tela. It came in deceptively fast and, after flying over the camp once, banked around, flared its nose slightly, and settled gently into the grass. Amanda could have cried when she saw the roundel of stars and stripes. A dozen armed men in white suits poured out of the front hatch of the behemoth and she started to run towards them.

“Mrs. Flynn,” a blessedly unaccented American voice said over the helicopter's speakers. “Stay where you are. We will come to you. Repeat. Stay where you are!” Amanda dropped the now heavy rifle and stopped just before the end of the big-tent. Men approached her and guided her back into the tent, where they quickly stripped every bit of clothing from her, doused her in a slick yellow liquid that dried almost on contact, redressed her in surgical scrubs, and then repackaged her in the same white suit they wore. They moved so quickly and efficiently that she had no time to object. What little modesty she had left was swept away by the relief that she was finally going home. Once done, they firmly guided her to the large twin-rotor aircraft. As they hurried her along she looked back and saw Regara arguing with an American in a white suit, and then they ducked her head and she was strapped to a stretcher.

“Sorry about the rush ma'am, and about this …” The airman plucked at his own isolation suit. “We'll get you out of it as soon as possible.” He smiled through the visor and for a moment she wondered how bad she looked. The airman was at least ten years older than her, yet he called her ma'am. “I need to get some information from you …”

Amanda gave him a brief timeline of events, but he kept coming back to the lesions. How big were they? How fast did they appear? Where were the majority? Finally, she interrupted him.

“The infection was bad, but it's effect on people's thinking and behavior, that's what we need to focus on. The virus itself was responsible for only seven of our casualties.” He nodded patiently, waiting for her to finish so he could get back to what was truly important.

Once he had finished his checklist of questions, Amanda felt a little frustrated that she hadn't quite got her point across but reasoned that there would be other and more comprehensive opportunities. The airman rose quickly and disappeared. She expected the frenetic activity to continue and an immediate departure, but once she had been strapped in and interviewed things slowed to a crawl.