Connors didn’t bother to argue.
The air strip intersecting the Pan-American Highway was useless now. Maybe, just maybe, if the defenders won this fight and drove the invaders from their native soil the air would become practicable again and the strip could be used to ferry out some of the wounded building up at the nearest fixed military facility to the fighting.
The base had seen fighting before. American built and operated, in 1964 it had been overrun, sacked and burned by Panamanians rioting in sympathy with the main riots of that year in Panama City. Following this, the base, the strip, the ammunition supply point and the adjacent training area had been abandoned by the U.S. Army, reverting to Panamanian control.
Little benefit the Panamanians had of it, however, and not for long. That little incident in 1964 had been repaid in full by five companies of U.S. Army Rangers. These, supported by the latest aircraft in the United States’ arsenal, had dropped without warning in December, 1989, as part of Operation Just Cause, killing or capturing three companies of Panamanian infantry. Outnumbered and outgunned, taken by surprise, and under attack by the finest light infantry in the world, the Panamanians had little to be ashamed of, fighting well, hard and long, even after hope was gone.
Boyd remembered very mixed feelings during that invasion. At some level he had been pleased that his army had performed so well. At another level he was appalled that his country’s army had gone under so quickly. For although Panama had little to be ashamed of, it had at least one cause for shame.
That cause, a major then and a major general now, stood pale and trembling in the hatch of his Type-63 light tank a few meters from where Bill Boyd stood at the intersection of the airstrip and the highway.
From that distance, Cortez attempted to talk to Boyd about some logistic issues. Unfortunately, and foolishly, he was too addled to remember to tell his driver to kill the engine. Boyd heard not a word and, since the boom mike of Cortez’s helmet covered his mouth, could not read lips either.
Impatiently, Boyd walked around the tank and into the driver’s field of view. He made a cutting motion across his throat, causing the driver to kill the engine. The look on the driver’s face, full of disgust for his commander, was eloquent. Boyd climbed atop the armored vehicle to stand next to Cortez.
Cortez attempted to tear his helmet off, half choking himself with the communications cord. Freeing himself from the cord he still held the helmet tight in both hands.
As if to control his shaking, thought Boyd.
This was confirmed as soon as Cortez began to speak. His voice trembled, perhaps even worse than it otherwise would have, as if to compensate for the constrained hands.
“I… nnneed… morrre… fffuel,” Cortez began. “Am… amm… ammm… munition.”
“You have everything I have to give,” Boyd answered, calmly. “I might have had more, but…” He gave Cortez an accusing look, not voicing his true feelings: you fucking thief.
Before Cortez could answer, if he was even capable of an answer, his radio crackled, demanding that he hurry his division forward. His attempts at delay — complaints about fuel, ammo, food — were rebuffed. Under a tongue lashing from his uncle, the president, a teary-eyed Cortez waved Boyd off his tank, replaced his helmet and, in a breaking voice, ordered his driver forward.
For the next several hours Boyd felt both dread, remorse and a degree of self-loathing.
I should have pulled the cowardly son of a bitch out of that tank and taken command myself.
Lost in his regrets, hearing drowned out by the steady column of wheeled and armored vehicles passing west, Boyd didn’t notice at first the olive-toned, fresh-faced second lieutenant who stood before him, holding a salute. When he did finally notice he returned the salute, somewhat sloppily and informally, and asked the young man’s business.
The lieutenant, Boyd saw that the name tag over his right pocket said “Diaz,” dropped his salute and answered, “My father told me to look you up, sir. Just before I and my section left on our mission.”
“Who is your father? What mission?” Boyd asked, a bit confused. Panama had no shortage of people named “Diaz.”
Before the boy could answer Boyd noticed the short line of trucks pulling what appeared to be aircraft on trailers behind them. He instantly understood the answers to both his questions: the boy was Julio Diaz, the G-2’s son, and the mission was to fly some gliders over the invasion, providing reconnaissance and adjusting artillery fire.
“Skip it, son,” Boyd said, raising up his palm. “I know your mission. What can I do to help you and your men?”
“Nothing, sir. My father just said I should find you — he said you would be here — and exchange radio frequencies. Oh, and that I should let you know what is going on up ahead, too. He didn’t say so, but I don’t think he had much faith in the commanders in the field.”
Boyd just nodded, noncommittally, while thinking, Son, I don’t have much faith in them either.
People who didn’t believe in a God or in the Creation should have gone to see El Valle, for if ever a spot on Earth seemed touched by the divine spark, this was it.
The Valley always came to the visitor as a surprise, no matter how many times he may have visited before. The road up wound from the Pan-American highway through carved mountains before dead-ending in the middle of the huge caldera of an extinct volcano several thousand feet above sea level. Here, the air was always fresh and cool, despite the bright sunshine that bathed the lush ground. Fed by just enough rain, the unbelievably fertile volcanic soil produced a riot of greens and reds, oranges, blues and yellows.
Animals there were in abundance; bright-colored tropical birds notable among them. The Valley was even home to a unique kind of frog, a tiny, beautifully golden-colored amphibian that seemed almost to beg to be touched. To do so, though, was near suicidal, as the frog secreted a powerful toxin through its skin.
Well-to-do Panamanians had been making their vacation homes in El Valle for well over a century. Hotels, a few, had sprung up along with the usual restaurants and other establishments of an area devoted to the tourist industry.
Those tourists, however, were long gone under the exigencies of war. Their place had been taken by the bloated headquarters and staff of Panama’s newly raised mechanized corps, commanded by yet another of President Mercedes’ blood-related cronies.
A cynical observer might have said that the Corps had taken over El Valle and its vacation homes and hotels because it was about as safe as anyplace in the country; the same winding mountain road that led to the Valley would — properly defended — become a death path for any Posleen who attempted it.
The cynical observer would have been wrong in any case. El Valle had not been chosen as the Corps Headquarters because it was safe. It hadn’t even been chosen because of the healthy climate. At least those would have been defensible criteria. Instead, the lieutenant general commanding the corps had chosen El Valle because he maintained a large-breasted, very pretty, and very young mistress there and saw no reason whatsoever not to mix business with pleasure.
He hoped to get the girl out when that time came — she had some natural talent for her chosen profession — but this was not a major consideration. She was just a nice vehicle for recreation until the time came for the general to flee.