Siege of Silence Read online

  He can hardly keep the disdain from his voice. He’s young and cocksure and barely makes the effort to be respectful. I glance at Sumner. He is studiously gazing at the wall map. I can read both their minds. I’ve been here ten days and I’m panicking. I’ve already sunk to total unpopularity by proposing the repatriation of dependents. Now I’m getting people up in the middle of the night because I’ve got the jitters. I’m considering a tactical withdrawal when Tessler decides to give me a little lecture.

  “Look, sir, it’s a classic guerrilla situation. The Chamarristas number at most six thousand men. They can hit and run and that’s all. Four days ago they occupied San Pedro in Higo province. General Cruz takes the entire Marazon brigade, stiffened by the Fort Bragg trainees and chases them out. Now they’re running for the mountains with Cruz right behind. Meanwhile Lacay’s got eight thousand men in and around the city. Not counting the Presidential guards- another thousand . . . élite troops.”

  Casually he takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one. He is insolent. He knows the new regulations. He watches me, enjoying his insolence. I am about to tell them both coldly to go to bed when the phone rings. Sumner picks it up, listens for a minute, then says, “Call immediately if anything else happens.”

  He hangs up, turns to face the wall map and says, “Two bridges on the Tekax River and one on the Chetumal have been blown up.”

  Offhandedly Tessler says, “It happens all the time.”

  Sumner holds up his hand for silence. Tessler takes a pull at his cigarette and blows out the smoke in a noisy hiss. We are all studying the map. At first, very slowly, very thoughtfully, Sumner begins to talk, but his voice soon becomes brisker as his military mind asserts itself.

  “Three strategic bridges . . . well guarded . . . three major assaults with heavy Chamarrista casualties . . . rainy season . . . rivers swollen . . . impassible to vehicles. Marazon brigade- half the National Guard; sweeping the south west and cut off until bridgeheads are retaken and bridges rebuilt. At least five days to a week. Limited air transport facility.”

  He turns back to the table, picks up the phone and while he dials says to me, “That call came from Major Anderson who heads up our military advisors. I gotta check something.”

  I’m irritated that he reminds me who Anderson is. I take it out on Tessler.

  “Kindly put that butt out.”

  Without taking his rapt attention from Sumner he grinds it into an ashtray. Tomorrow I’ll give orders to clear the whole damn building of ashtrays.

  Sumner says urgently, “Paul, what’s Vargas doing?” He swings to look at the map. “Shit! I could’ve guessed. Listen, can you talk him out of it . . . ? Because it could be a set-up . . . No I’m not. Look at the damned map. Assume that the occupation of San Pedro was a feint to draw the Marazon brigade. The Chamarristas withdraw slowly maintaining contact; pulling Cruz towards the mountains. Then they blow the bridges. Cruz and his brigade are effectively cut off from the capital. Vargas orders Lacay to retake the bridgeheads. Lacay sends half his force, far too many for the job . . . what . . . ? Okay, it’s conjecture but there was a low level report about Chamarristas passing through Paras last night . . . yeah, from friends . . . you didn’t . . . well chew them out but meanwhile persuade Vargas to pull those units back to San Carlo. Let Cruz look after himself . . . No way, Paul. Don’t screw Lacay up, it could be coincidence, just tell Vargas it’s bad tactics. Get back to me.”

  He hangs up and Tessler says incredulously, “Jesus, Ross! You’re ready for the cuckoo factory! You think Lacay has turned?!”

  Sumner sighs. “No, but let’s take the worst case scenario. He’s not in great favour right now. He’s got a conscience somewhere. It’s rumoured that he even complained to Vargas about the Mestizo massacres in Higo last year. Vargas put all the new trainees in Cruz’s brigade. For the last few months he’s kept Lacay close to hand . . . maybe . . . just maybe, Bermudez got to him.”

  I’m about to say something but Tessler laughs in derision. “Ross, Lacay is as corrupt as all of them. Shit, he’s on our payroll. We know everything about him from the size of his underwear to the vaginal dimensions of his new mistress. There’s no way he could’ve been in contact with Bermudez or anyone else without our knowing . . . “

  The man is disgusting. I cut him off.

  “Tessler, button it!”

  He looks shocked as though he’d forgotten I’m in the room. I ask Sumner: “Colonel, following your worst case scenario, what would be the next step?”

  He points at the map. “Lacay has already thinned out the city’s defences by sending an over-large force to the southwest to retake the bridgeheads. He would have sent those units and commanders who have the least loyalty to him. Then he sends loyal units to the airport and other strategic sites. He puts his best- and most loyal- officers and units into position to engage the Presidential Guard when the rebels . . . terrorists, attack.”

  Tessler is shaking his head in disbelief. To me the next step is obvious. I am about to state it when Sumner does it for me. It is annoying.

  “We must monitor all troop movements in and around the city.”

  I agree testily.

  As Sumner reaches for the phone, it rings. By the law of relativity its clamour sounds louder and shriller than before. He picks it up.

  “Paul, yeah . . . “ He listens for a minute during which his body hunches lower in the seat. Then, “Hang on, he’s here.”

  He cups a hand over the phone, runs his tongue over his upper lip and says nervously, “Mr Ambassador, we have a crisis situation. Units of Lacay’s brigade are moving towards the airport, the Presidential palace, radio station and police barracks. There is gunfire a few miles north-west of the capital at Tandala where Vargas has a ‘hacienda’ guarded by units of the Presidential Guard.”

  At this moment I can only think of the foul, rank, detestable incompetence of those around me and who preceded me. Nausea overwhelms me and I struggle not to vomit. Tessler, his face ashen, is unconsciously putting a cigarette between his lips.

  “You will not smoke!”

  Into the petrified silence drops the distant, coughing rumble of gunfire. The nausea passes. Calmly I say to Sumner,

  “Colonel, start pushing all the buttons.”

  I have never been in such a situation before. In Havana in 1959, events built up slowly and concluded logically. Now there is no logic and I discover immediately how plans, honed to perfection over the years, can go abruptly wrong. Since Teheran and Beirut some of our best minds and a hell of a lot of money have been devoted to Embassy security. Typically they have neglected the common denominator of human idiocy.

  It starts with the discovery that the DCM, the Chief Security Officer, the Economic Counsellor, together with their wives and several other middle rank staffers, are all out of the compound. Sumner, no longer nervous but very decisive and military, tells me that they are at a big party at an industrialist’s beach house ten miles up the coast. This, in total contravention of standing instructions.

  I rebuke myself. I have already imposed discipline and order at the residence and had planned to start with the rest of the Embassy in the morning. It should have been the other way round. I allowed my personal needs and comfort to take precedence. I feel the rare discomfort of having to admit to a weakness. No matter that I’ve only been here a few days; but I thought that the least I could expect from these supposedly mature and experienced people was self-discipline.

  Well, it’s done. Now the palliative of action. Within minutes procedures are being followed. The crisis team is assembled and working. In the absence of Fleming, Gage and Marine Gunnery Sergeant Cowder take charge of the compound security. I draft the first cable to State. There is satisfaction in knowing that it will get a lot of people out of warm Washington beds, and that very shortly a similar crisis meeting will be taking place in the Situation Room at the White House. I had been there only ten days before listening to the President expound his polic
y on Central America. It had been a little woolly except for the main theme: at all costs communism must not, cannot, will not prevail in our own backyard. He had expressed his pleasure that my nomination had finally been confirmed by the bleeding heart liberals in Congress He would sleep better knowing that I was down there “kicking ass”. Will they wake him up? I doubt it. They’ll wait for follow-up information.

  There are now eight of us in the tank and information is flowing in. Chamarrista units have already linked up with elements of Lacay’s brigade and are assaulting the Presidential palace and the police barracks. It must have been well thought out and co-ordinated. They already have the radio station, and taped messages by Bermudez are going out over the air proclaiming the revolution and urging an end to all resistance. A phone call comes in from Dean Bowman who has managed to get through from the beach party. He tries to bluster, saying that to leave early would have upset the host- a man influential with President Vargas. Now they have no choice but to stay put. I content myself with informing him that his career is over, and hang up. Then Major Anderson comes through on a radio net and tells me that two of his MAG team have already been killed and he’s ordered the rest back into the MAG compound. We consider whether they should make a dash for the Embassy itself and decide against it. Apparently there are road-blocks in most streets and anything moving is shot at. My concern now is Embassy security. Thank God I made that my first priority on arrival and reviewed all procedures.

  We have a squad of fifteen Marines commanded by Cowder the “Gunny”. We have sandbagged machine-gun emplacements on the roofs of the chancery, a staff apartment block and the residence. They cover the three wide abutting streets. The compound walls are three feet thick and reinforced with steel. They are topped with wire which is now electrified. In addition to the Marines, we have a team of twelve third-country bodyguards and security guards. Eight of them are displaced Nicaraguans and the rest Panamanians. They will fight.

  The main gate to the compound is solid steel and there is a machine-gun emplacement built into the top of the wall at its left. There is a guardhouse inside the gate manned by our Marines, and another outside manned by a platoon of San Carlo National Guards. I am informed that they are still in place.

  Inside the compound we number forty-two, of whom twenty-seven are Americans including eight women. Momentarily I wish that I had given the repatriation order yesterday. I am worried about the women. Since “Beirut”, Congress has been very generous in allocating funds for Embassy security in the so called “danger locations”, but the use of this money has been tardy and work has only just begun on a “security bunker” next to the residence. Again I blame Calper. The money was allocated months ago but he had bumbled along constantly changing the plans and specifications. The tank, though, is secure. Next to it is the “burn room”. After the fiasco of Teheran when it was found that to destroy all sensitive documents would have taken over twenty-four hours, there have been drastic improvements. I’d been assured by Fleming that our own “burn time” is under thirty minutes. The incinerators are ready. The tank and the “burn room” are in what is called the “safe haven” area, surrounded by steel walls and doors; the air cleared by special ventilators. Apart from the crisis team the rest of the Embassy staff and dependents are gathered in the cafeteria. I order mattresses and blankets to be sent there.

  Are we in immediate danger? I think not. Although the phone system has now broken down we are getting continuous reports by radio. The British Embassy which is close to the police barracks reports that resistance there is dwindling. Major Anderson radios that fighting around the Presidential palace is fierce, with many casualties but the Chamarristas appear to have the upper hand. He expects the siege to be over by dawn, and other pockets of resistance in the city to die out a few hours later.

  I review the possibilities. General Cruz and his brigade can’t play any part in the fighting for several days. By that time, the city will be secure and he would have no chance against the combined forces of Lacay’s brigade and the Chamarristas.

  It is certain that by dawn the city will be in their hands. Together they are too strong to be dislodged by General Cruz- unless he has the active support of American troops. So now I have two paramount problems: what advice to give Washington as to active American involvement? And what to do in the event of violence against the Embassy compound?

  The second problem is more immediate. I discuss it with Sumner, Gage and “Gunny” Cowder. Much will depend on the division of early power between General Lacay and Bermudez- leader of the Chamarristas. Sumner believes that in the early stages at least, Lacay will be in the ascendancy. Only with his support can Bermudez be confident of holding off Cruz and the Marazon brigade. Later the position could change. We agree that it is unlikely any co-ordinated attack will be made on the compound. The Chamarristas are the most extreme of all the Central and South American terrorists but once they see the prospect of power they will not wish to alienate the gringos totally. Like the Nicaraguans they will go through the motions of seeking détente. The only danger is posed by undisciplined units who, in the heat of the moment, and fuelled by years of Marxist propaganda, may act stupidly.

  Both Gage and Cowder see no difficulty in holding off such units for several days. Particularly as they will only have light weapons. Sumner considers any threat to the Embassy as unlikely. Bermudez will be wary of direct American intervention and will risk nothing to precipitate it.

  I incline to agree. We will only be in danger if the President does send in American troops. That would take several days. First to get them in place and second to orchestrate the diplomatic offensive. Obviously it would be preferable to be “invited” in, but who would issue the invitation? It’s doubtful that Vargas and his crowd will survive the night. There has been no word from the palace for over two hours. Anyway I decide to check our defences and make the rounds with Gage and Cowder. I am comforted. Our Marines are alert and confident. The “third country” security contingent is nervous but they try not to show it. Gage assures me they will fight if necessary.

  I look in on the canteen and am reminded of pictures of the wartime blitz in London. Mattresses and blankets are laid out at one end of the room. Wives and secretaries are checking through the food supplies. One of them, Julie Walsh, wife of our PAO, brings coffee and looks at me with anxious eyes. I recall the same eyes watching me at the Venezuelan Ambassador’s reception. Then they were filled with hostility. With the sound of gunfire in our ears I feel vindication. I gather them around and say a few words.

  “You know that the city has been overrun by terrorists with the collaboration of certain units of the National Guard. You know that I was considering sending many of you Stateside and I regret that I didn’t. However I perceive no immediate danger. Our lives will be disrupted for a time until the situation clarifies. Meanwhile I want you to remain calm and do all you can to help.”

  There are murmurs of assent and one woman asks, “Is there any news of the group at the party?”

  I recognize her as the wife of the Political Councillor.

  “Not for the past two hours, Mrs Levy. Why were you not there?”

  She looks close to tears, then straightens herself and says: “Because I didn’t know about it. The bastard told me he was working late on something delicate- I’ll bet he was!”

  I hate to hear women swear. I shrug and say lightly to Mrs Walsh, “I know the Foreign Service regs. I can’t order you wives to do anything but I’d be real glad if you’d kind of take charge here. Apportion people to help the kitchen staff and to keep the place clean and so on.”

  She is a small, bird-like woman and she nods her head vigorously. “Sure thing, Mr Ambassador.”

  I leave and walk across the compound to the residence. Out of the air-conditioning it’s moist and hot. There’s only the occasional sound of gunfire. I am sweating slightly and resolve to take a quick shower and change my shirt. There is a faint paling of the eastern sky. It
will be dawn over Cuba. Bitterly I visualize the celebrations over there.

  Half an hour later, back in the tank, we all listen to the radio. Bermudez, live now, proclaims the revolution victorious. He has a high pitched, educated voice but speaks in moderate tones. I have seen photographs of him. Small and thin with a black moustache and thick-lensed glasses. Only twenty-eight years but looking older. I can detect both exhilaration and exhaustion in his voice. He announces the death of the dictator Vargas and his brother, and the arrest of dozens of henchmen. They are to be tried by People’s Courts. He orders the immediate surrender, on pain of death, of all other Vargas functionaries. He praises General Lacay and all “loyal” elements of the National Guard who forthwith are joined as comrades and brothers with the Chamarristas in an “Army of National Liberation” which will crush all reactionary elements! Jesus! I’ve heard all this before. He’s just dusted off Castro’s old manuals. I loathe the myopic little punk.

  He praises and thanks Cuba and Nicaragua. Curiously, he makes no mention of the United States. No messages of hate. Maybe he will be conciliatory. Then Lacay comes on urging all officers and men of the Marazon brigade to lay down their arms and save further bloodshed. Some chance.

  A long “immediate” comes in from State, obviously drafted by an idiot. Maybe even the Secretary himself who thinks that every situation can be assessed in the light of “practical and permissible parameters”. For sure the President appointed him only to brighten, by comparison, his own intellect. There are scores of questions demanding immediate answers. Most of them are insane, such as: “Give Sit. Rep. morale and sentiments local population.” What am I supposed to do? Take a clipboard and wander around the city asking everybody how they’re feeling? I send back a six word flash. “Wise on it. Hold your water.”