Siege of Silence Page 4

  I do the rounds again. There is a strange gaiety in the compound. Early fears have been transposed into the excitement of anticipation. Dawn has arrived and with it a sense of participation. People will look back and say, “I was there.” For career officers it will be a leaf in the book of experience. For others, the piquancy of shared panic. I go back to the tank where coffee and sandwiches are being passed around by a wifely delegation from the canteen. The mood is jocular. Mrs Walsh is playing den mother with a vengeance. Her husband is subdued. He’s drafting a reply to State’s message.

  Abruptly the mood changes. Look-outs have reported the approach of a convoy of five trucks heading towards the compound down Avenida Santanda.

  They pull up at the main gate. We are given a running commentary by transceiver from the “Gunny” up on the roof of the inner guardhouse. The trucks are full of National Guardsmen. A Colonel climbs down from the cab of the front truck. There are television monitors in the tank. Sumner recognizes the Colonel. An aide to General Lacay. “A sensible guy,” Sumner describes him. He approaches the gate and speaks into the intercom requesting to be allowed into the compound. The soldiers remain in the trucks. Sumner looks at me for an order. I nod and he instructs the Marine guard to open the small door let into the gate. Together with Gage we walk out to meet him.

  It is barely dawn, but the Colonel wears very dark sunglasses. Behind them he looks unhappy. His complexion is very dark denoting Mestizo blood which is rare in senior officers of the Guard. He greets Sumner then turns to me and says, “Excellency, I am sent by the Revolutionary Council to assure you of the safety of the American presence in San Carlo.”

  I reply stiffly, “Already two of our MAG personnel have been murdered.”

  He shrugs mournfully.

  “Excellency, I regret to tell you that two more of your compatriots have been killed: Mr Watson and Mr Packaro . . . they were lynched by workers at the Coca-Cola bottlers.”

  I am not surprised. Both were southern Texans who had the local “Coke” concession. Two very right wing guys constantly battling with the local union which resulted in several disappearances and deaths. Their ideology was sound but their methods wrong. I cannot summon up sadness but I am very concerned about other Americans in the city.

  “Inform General Lacay that I hold him personally responsible for this outrage.”

  The Colonel nods vigorously. “Of course, Excellency. That is why I am here- sent personally by General Lacay. The situation at the moment is . . . well, fluid. There is some indiscipline among the Chamarristas. They are vengeful. General Lacay needs time to impose order. Meanwhile all Americans are being collected by our own units and taken to your MAG compound. They will be safe there. It is guarded by a large contingent of disciplined National Guards. Also we collected some of your own staff who were at a party up the coast. They are also safe at the MAG compound!’

  “Why were they not brought here?”

  He is carrying an ebony swagger-stick which he taps constantly against the top of his polished boot. He looks nervously around the compound and says, “The route was dangerous . . . and General Lacay is worried about security here . . . “

  Sumner interjects. “Why? We are well defended. It would take a major assault to breach the walls.”

  The Colonel now looks extremely mournful. Directly to Sumner he says, “You know how it is. Until the Chamarristas are integrated, everything is dangerous. There are now more than five thousand of them in the city. Many are getting drunk.”

  Sumner waves a dismissive hand. “But they only have light weapons.”

  The Colonel taps his boot in agitation. “No. They took the Presidential Guard Armoury. They have mortars, field guns and anti-tank rockets.”

  Sumner’s face turns sombre. He is about to say something when I cut in. I don’t like being a bystander to this conversation.

  “Cannot Lacay disarm them?”

  “Not yet, Excellency. There must be much discussion first with Bermudez and the other Chamarrista leaders.”

  I can’t believe this fool.

  “Are you telling me that Lacay collaborated with these terrorists without having a fixed agreement? Doesn’t he know what will happen now?”

  He holds up his swagger-stick as though to ward off my contempt. “Excellency, General Lacay knows exactly what he does. He and Bermudez are close as brothers. Together they have rid San Carlo of the curse of Vargas. Now all our people will prosper.” He makes a sweeping gesture with the swagger-stick. “But for a few days there is danger to all Americans. You are, not unnaturally, hated by the Chamarristas. They blame you for the Vargas dynasty. Many of them are hotheaded and difficult to control, even by their leaders. The General is concerned. He has sent me with a hundred of our Guard to protect the Embassy- until arrangements can be made for repatriation.”

  “Very kind,” I comment sarcastically. “You can deploy them around the outside of the walk.”

  He shakes his head. “Excuse me, Excellency. They must be inside the compound. Only then can we be sure the Chamarristas will not molest you. They will never risk firing on the National Guard. With the Marazon brigade loose they need us desperately.”

  Sumner is shaking his head emphatically. “No way, Colonel. They stay outside.”

  At that moment there is a distant thump. Sumner’s head jerks in its direction, then he looks up at the roof of the guardhouse. The “Gunny’s” head and shoulders are visible over a sandbagged emplacement. He has binoculars to his eyes.

  Sumner is about to call when there k the crump of a loud explosion. I feel a slight pressure in my ears.

  “Mortar!” the “Gunny” shouts down. “’Bout three hundred yards away over Santanda. Came from somewhere near the stadium.”

  I say to Gage, “Get moving to the ‘safe haven’- fast. Tell them to start the burn- immediately- and all the women are to go into the vault.”

  He runs off towards the chancery.

  The Colonel is very agitated. “Excellency! We must enter the compound. I urge you to lower your flag. It incenses them. We must replace it with ours.”

  The idea is repugnant and I dismiss it with an angry wave of my hand. There is another distant thump and we all turn. A few seconds later, another explosion, louder and closer. Laconically, the “Gunny” calls down, “Hundred yards. They’re ranging in. You guys better take cover.”

  We move quickly into the guardhouse, past a marine who looks calm but ridiculously young.

  The Colonel has a grip on my arm now. I smell garlic as he says urgently, “Think of the others. The women. Those fanatics have over a dozen mortars . . . and rockets that will blow through your gates. Senor, if we run up our flag they will stop firing . . . and Senor, if I order my men to defend the compound from outside I doubt they will do it. Sorry, Senor, I think they will not sacrifice their lives for Americans.”

  Sumner is cursing softly about the security bunker not being ready. Big help. There’s another explosion from the opposite direction. Grimly, Sumner states, “We’re bracketed. They have the range and can lob them right in.”

  I try to keep my face calm while inside frustration rages. The Colonel is still gripping my arm. I shrug him off violently then force myself to think. It is true that if Bermudez needs Lacay against Cruz he cannot risk killing his troops no matter how much he hates Americans. Furious at myself for having to do it, I decide to compromise. Sumner is watching me urgently. Strangely, the Colonel has lost his agitation. He is slowly tapping his boot again with the stick. I wish I could penetrate those glasses and see into his eyes.

  Formally, I say, “Very well, Colonel. Your men may enter the compound. I will lower the Stars and Stripes but permit no flag to be raised in its place. I suggest you send an officer to tell those imbeciles to stop firing, or face the consequences from my Government . . . Sumner, see to the disposition of his men!”

  They file quickly out of the guardhouse. I remain, wanting to be alone for a moment, probing my decision. I
hear orders shouted and then the rumble of the huge gates and the revving of engines. I walk to the door beside the marine and watch as the trucks move into the compound. Through the open gates I see a khaki staff car with only a driver at the wheel. Two of our security guards start pulling the gates shut. The Colonel is talking to Sumner, and the “Gunny”. They look surprised as he turns and walks out briskly through the narrowing gap towards the car. Puzzled, I watch the guardsmen pour out of the trucks. They are all armed with sub-machine-guns. There have been no more explosions.

  Suddenly, like the end of a losing chess game, the moves click in my head. The guardsmen are scattering in disciplined groups. Guns held high and ready.

  There were only three mortar rounds. The Colonel relaxed after the third. He knew there would be no more. They were a mere persuasion to his argument. The “Gunny” and Sumner are looking around them in bewilderment. Beside me the young marine whispers, “Sir, it stinks! They’re carrying PPD sub-machine-guns- Russian. The National Guard is supplied with our M3s.”

  I turn and look into young anxious eyes. He too is holding a sub-machine-gun. For a moment, rational, clear and precise, I want to take it and blow my brains out- my useless, stale, incompetent brains that have been tricked by a half educated, half-breed. I feel neither panic nor anger, but a deep, searing humiliation.

  I watch the act played out.

  Sumner and the “Gunny” already face a circle of guns. Sumner is watching me in consternation. I look up and see guardsmen already on the roofs of the residence and chancery covering our machine-gun emplacements.

  Suddenly there is a noise at the gates. Half a dozen of our security guards are frantically pushing them open. An order is shouted in Spanish and my ears vibrate to the sound of bullets clanging off steel. The guards are tossed about screaming. The marine pulls me down beside him in a crouch. He raises his gun but I grab at it. “No! Wait.”

  Sumner and the “Gunny” have thrown themselves to the ground. They are still circled by guns. There is silence. I look back at the gates. Six bodies, corpses twisted on the concrete. They are fascinating. In all my long life I have never seen a corpse. Someone is shouting. I wrench my gaze away. It’s the “Gunny” lying on his side, one hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, his face a mixture of fear and something else . . . yes, determination. He is looking at me. He shouts again. “Sir! Do we fight?”

  In an instant I scream back. “No!”

  I have not even thought. No process of logic; no considerations enter my head. The chess game is lost; why smash up the pieces?

  A man approaches the guardhouse. On his shoulders are the bars of a lieutenant. He is very tall and wide with a boxer’s face. He seems familiar to me. His black hair is brush-cut- very rare for a Central American. He carries a sub-machine-gun loosely in his left hand. He is grinning widely.

  “Excellency,” he taints the title with insolence. “Tell your marines and any others to lay down their weapons or they will die.”

  My frustration is gone. I only feel icy rage.

  “Are you in charge of these killers?”

  He nods equably.

  “Then I protest in the name of my Government and all humanity and . . .” .

  “Shut your mouth, pig!”

  The marine beside me stiffens and starts to rise. I put a hand on his shoulder pressing him down. To the man in front I say, “You will suffer. My Government will see to that!”

  “Fuck your Fascist Government!” His grin is gone. He raises the gun and points it at me. As I look at the tiny black hole he says, “Give the order, pig, or I fire. How I would love to shoot you, honourable Excellency!”

  He will not shoot. I know it. I think I know it. Alive, I am a hostage. Dead, I am retribution for this scum and all the rest. But he will shoot others. I look at Sumner. He is sitting on the concrete, his arms around his knees watching me forlornly. I nod at him.

  “Colonel, go with the ‘Gunny’ and tell them to lay down their weapons.”

  He and the “Gunny” scramble to their feet and, still surrounded, move off towards the chancery. Next to me the young marine lays down his gun carefully and straightens up. There are tears on his cheeks. I am praying that the incinerators have done the job; that all the documents are ashes. I have to keep the imbecile in front of me talking.

  “Who are you?”

  He grins again. His face is pitted with pockmarks. He bows elaborately. “Carlos Fombona.”

  I recognize the name. During the past week and in pre-arrival briefings I have seen it often in reports. He is a lieutenant to Bermudez. Known for cruelty.

  “I know of you and your filthy reputation.”

  His smile widens as he enjoys the recognition. He lowers his gun to the ground. Still grinning, he unzips his combat blouse and shrugs it off. Underneath he wears a white tee-shirt emblazoned across the front with a red, jagged bolt of lightning. Underneath is a portrait of Lenin. He unzips his camouflage trousers and steps out of them, revealing a pair of faded jeans. He shouts an order and I look around as other “guardsmen” in the compound discard their uniforms. They all wear tee-shirts covered with Marxist slogans.

  Fombona picks up his gun and walks forward. He prods the young marine in the chest with it and tells him to go over by the trucks. The marine looks at me and I nod. As he passes me I pat him on the shoulder.

  Fombona is very close to me. I smell cologne on him. Even terrorists wear the damned stuff. He kicks the marine’s gun back into the guardhouse, then prods me in the chest with his own gun. There is pleasure in his eyes as he says, “I have nothing to do with Bermudez or any of them.” That cruel grin again. “Me and my friends here are acting alone . . . We are . . .” a dramatic pause . . . “militant students!”

  He leans forward, his face inches away. I feel a fleck of spit on my face as he hisses, “Militant students of the revolution.”

  I laugh derisively. “Sure. Forget the charade. Within hours you and your crowd will be thrown out. Are you really so stupid? You think my Government will stand by after this outrage? You think we’ve learned nothing? You’re crazy!”

  He shrugs. “I think not. We also have learned.”

  He turns and shouts an order and some of the “students” jump into a truck. They reappear carrying several packages. One of them comes over to us and gives Fombona what resembles a heavy, canvas flak jacket. A thin black wire trails from it to a small plastic box. Fombona hefts it in his hands with satisfaction. “Put this on.”

  I shake my head and see the cruelty in his eyes.

  “Put it on, pig, or I’ll call some of my men to force you.”

  There is no doubt he will, so I turn and he slips it through my arms and up over my shoulders. It is heavy and smells musty.

  There are several canvas straps hanging on each side of the front. Carefully he ties them, pulling the jacket tight around me.

  “Don’t worry, Excellency, soon you will get used to it. You will be wearing it night and day.”

  He moves back, trailing the black cord, and hands the small box to the “student”. The wire is about five yards long. Fombona points at the jacket and says, “That garment is packed with three kilos of plastic explosive. The wire is connected to a detonator. You will wear it all the time. Awake, asleep- even when you take a shit. Every American pig in this compound will be wearing one.” He points at the student. “Pedro will be always by your side. At the first sign of a Fascist rescue attempt Pedro will turn that button and they will not find one square centimetre of you or any other American around here.”

  The man is crazy! We are twenty-seven. If they blow us up, twenty-seven “students” go with them. Acidly and with pleasure I point this out. His face is very serious. He nods solemnly. “Pedro is prepared to die for the revolution. So are the twenty-six others. They volunteered. Hundreds volunteered. What is twenty-seven when thousands have died already?”

  I look at Pedro. Young, thin . . . almost emaciated. He holds the little box in his h
and as though it is sacred. His eyes are glowing. I believe it. He will die. The jacket feels like lead. I can imagine watching those glowing eyes as he turns the button, imagine the flash of extinction.

  Fombona is studying my face. He reads the belief in it and nods in satisfaction.

  “And now, Excellency, we have to make sure that the chief pig in his White House pigsty understands that too. The photographers will be here soon. By tomorrow you will be famous. Your photograph and your lovely new jacket and umbilical cord and your faithful attendant will be in the newspapers all over the world.”

  I want to puke all over him. If he grins I will. He does not. Thoughtfully he says, “You will be the most famous pig in the world.”

  DAY ONE TO NIGHT TWENTY

  JORGE

  San Carlo

  Day 1

  I decide to use the guardhouse. It comprises an outer office and an inner room with four bunks and an adjoining toilet and shower room. The office has already been ransacked and papers are strewn around the floor. I give orders for it to be cleaned up and then I send for him. I arrange two chairs on either side of the desk. While I wait my mind ranges back over the past two days. I am still vividly excited by what I have witnessed. Throughout history nothing can stir the blood or the brain more than the violent overthrow of a dictator. It was like being dropped into the centre of the wildest carnival; at the airport, frenetic joy and exuberance as we filed down from the plane. Hands clutching at us, and our faces wet from a hundred kisses. It was a passion communicated and later, at the hotel, I coupled with Inez in a frenzy. She jerked into orgasm within seconds, and then again and again. She would have rutted all night but I left her screaming frustrated abuse at the closing door.