Rum Runners

(Edited to Add the Paragraph Returns)

August 17th, 1980
Managua, Nicaragua

General Stanislav Smotrov sat across the table from Daniel Ortega, the chief coordinator of the Junta of National Reconstruction, and the de facto leader of Nicaragua. Smotrov had little regard for his Latin American host. As far as he was concerned, Ortega was simply the biggest roach in the nest. His sole claim to fame was overrunning the other bugs to take over this backwater. He scoffed at the idea that Ortega and his Sandinista movement had anything to brag about. In the months he had been in country, he’d seen how undisciplined and uncoordinated their armed forces were. If that was any indictment on how poorly their enemies had conducted themselves, Smotrov believed that his single brigade could subdue the entire country in a week’s time.

That was what Moscow had given him to work with. The Soviet Army Chief of Staff, Nikolai Ogarkov, had assured Smotrov that they were not expecting him to conquer the Western World with his pathetic banana republic army. Nevertheless, Smotrov resented having to work with such amateurs. Fortunately, thanks to his connections in Moscow, he was getting the support he needed. Additional personnel and equipment had been coming in over the past several months, and on paper, this was looking like a genuine fighting force.

“We are seeing increased activity along the border with Honduras,” said Ortega, pulling Smotrov back into the meeting. “My sources have told me that this directly results from Somoza sympathizers preparing an offensive to retake the country.” It was clear that Ortega believed not only that the enemy was consolidating forces (which was no doubt true), but also that they could mount a serious offensive to take back what they had lost during the revolution. Smotrov had enough pride in his craft to dismiss the thought. But he knew he must placate the strongman.

“Mr. Ortega, I believe that you are correct. Your enemies
are gathering and plotting against you. I don’t think any rational person would argue with that. It is our goal to ensure that these oppressors can never return. I assure you that the forces we have in place are more than enough to prevent these Counter-Revolutionaries from conducting a successful attack on your territory.” It was clear from his expression that Ortega wasn’t convinced.

“Of course, that says nothing of your Honduran neighbors to the north, nor their American friends,” continued Smotrov. “In order to ensure that you can maintain your independence in the face of their naked aggression, I suggest we work with Moscow and Havana to secure Naval defenses to ensure that we can defend your coastline against American aggression.”
That suggestion was misleading. Smotrov had already been working with Havana and Moscow to secure a small fleet of missile patrol boats. The deal that Smotrov had brokered transferred seven of the venerable Moskit missile boats (referred to in NATO circles as the “Osa II”), along with crews to operate and train their new owners) to Nicaragua. In exchange, Moscow would send Havana two of their new Vikhr hydrofoils, as well as four Ovod missile corvettes. Everyone came out ahead in this deal. The Nicaraguans would suddenly gain a respectable naval presence in the region, the Cubans would significantly upgrade their capabilities to defend themselves from interference by the United States, and (most importantly to Smotrov) all of these vessels would be pivotal in keeping the United States Navy tangled up in the Caribbean during the coming conflict.

“I don’t think you will be able to provide my country with enough naval power to fight the Americans,” said Ortega skeptically.
“That’s true. Our goal isn’t to defeat the entire US Navy. You need to convince them that attacking you will be too costly to bother with.” Smotrov knew that reminding Ortega of his overall insignificance in the world stage wouldn’t win him any points with the man, but he didn’t care. There were realities that they had to deal with and right now there was no time for false flattery.

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Across the desk, Ortega wondered if this was how Castro had felt in 1962 when he worked with Moscow to have nuclear missiles deployed in Cuba to deter another American invasion attempt. He knew that his position, so far from the US coast, was nowhere near as valuable as Castro’s. With time though, Ortega envisioned a socialist block in Latin America.
Guatemala was still engulfed in a civil war, but with Soviet and Nicaraguan help, the loose collection of leftist guerrilla forces could finally turn the tide and liberate the Guatemalan proletariat. With Guatemala secured, El Salvador would be next. The brutal repression of the military junta in charge in San Salvador was already meeting fierce resistance. Once El Salvador was caught in the vice of Guatemala and Nicaragua, they would crack. That would leave Honduras.

The past six months had shaken Ortega’s confidence. The United States had shown a renewed interest in the region. The new Secretary of State was pushing for additional support for right-wing governments while paying lip service to the humanitarian reforms for which the socialists were fighting. Ortega knew that for the Socialist Revolution to take root in Latin America, they had to push now. They couldn’t wait to let things play out.

Fortunately, the Soviets appeared to agree with this position. Using the Soviet missile boats and the Cuban crews would help push that forward. Moscow had assured him that they could replicate the successes in Asia in America’s backyard, and that the Revolution would sweep through the Arab world as well. This was a major sea change, and Ortega knew he was an important part of it.

Ortega knew he was getting ahead of himself. He first had to secure his own position, and that meant dealing with these Contras.
“What are we doing to re-enforce our defenses along the northern border with Honduras?” Ortega wanted to get back to the point of this meeting.

“In the short term, we are sending a detachment of our helicopter assault unit to look around and assure these Counter-Revolutionaries that we will not allow any incursions into your territory. In the longer term, we will need to increase the infrastructure in the area.” Ortega wrinkled his brow, not sure where this was going as Smotrov continued. “The mountains and jungle make traversing the terrain difficult. We can’t effectively fight the enemy with our tanks or armored personnel carriers. There’s nothing we can do about that on the whole, however, if we can build a greater network of roads we can link remote hamlets and newly formed base camps. This will allow us to support small infantry units in the countryside with fire support and logistical hubs. Without improvements to the road system, we will have to do most of our support with helicopters or on foot. We don’t have enough of the former, and the latter will drastically slow down our ability to operate.”

Ortega considered this. Previously Smotrov had explained to him that the terrain made traditional “maneuver warfare” unrealistic. If they considered the roads to be more akin to railways, it would be easier to understand. They were fixed transit lines from which there could be no deviation. Just like a rail car. You could transport goods to a point on the network, but once there, it was almost static. As long as you understood these basic rules, you could deploy your forces accordingly. From what Ortega could tell, Smotrov had decided that the existing network was too limited to allow for optimal deployment.

“I see,” said Ortega. “We will need additional heavy equipment if we hope to make progress on this. And there will be expense in maintaining these new roads. I will have to speak with the rest of the Junta to see if we can commit to this.” Ortega knew that Smotrov was aware of what he was doing. He was first asking for a handout: construction equipment for the roads. Then he was threatening to veto the project if he didn’t get what he asked for. The only time Ortega mentioned the other members of Nicaraguan Leadership was when he didn’t want to commit to an action.

“I will speak with my directors in Moscow. It shouldn’t be too much to arrange for some heavy equipment. Of course, they’ll need your assurances that you will agree to the project before they send anything. In fact, I expect them to ask for more than assurances. I recommend you start work on the new routes as soon as possible as a demonstration of your commitment to security and our partnership.”

The two men stood as Ortega put out his hand. They shook on their agreement, and Smotrov left to begin the process of getting some old tractors sent over from Havana.

August 2nd, 1980
8 Miles Southeast of Yamales, Honduras

The jungle was never quiet. There was always something out there creaking or clicking or otherwise letting the world know that it was there. That was the natural state of things in these highlands in South Central Honduras. When that noise abruptly stopped, Carlos knew that the enemy patrol was getting close to the kill zone of his ambush. He and his squad of Honduran regulars set up camp eight miles south of the main compound at Yamales. From this new camp, they set out to find the most likely transit route for the enemy forces. Once they had a line on where the enemy would be, Carlos watched the Hondos select their ambush site. They chose a section of trail along the mountainous terrain where there was a switchback that nearly perfectly framed the kill zone. With the advantages of elevation and surprise, Carlos thought they’d done well. Now they were just waiting for the killing to begin.

The first enemy soldier ambled past Carlos’s position. Carlos was stationed on the west side of the kill zone to provide security and to prevent the enemy from coming up on his squad’s flank. In this position, he was the first person in his unit to see the enemy. This was his least favorite part of grunt work: waiting. He consciously kept himself breathing. His instinct was to hold his breath for fear that the enemy would hear each breath he drew. He saw another soldier creep into view. This second soldier was moving with much more caution than the first. It was almost as if the second soldier knew something was afoot.

Before Carlos could finish his thought, he heard the snapping of a tree branch off of his right shoulder. That was the last thing he heard before all hell broke loose. The sounds of rifle fire replaced the eerie quiet that had accompanied the enemy patrol as at least five soldiers burst through the jungle right at Carlos, rifles pointed right at him. That was it, Carlos knew that they’d fucked up somehow as an enemy soldier pointed his M-16 at Carlos and pulled the trigger.

“Haha! You’re dead Norte,” said José Obregón, the leader of the Hondos on the “enemy” squad. Carlos could hear the rest of his squad getting overrun as José continued to laugh at his expense. José’s squad had countered the ambush and wiped out Carlos’s. As the “fighting” subsided and the training exercise ended, both squads met up in the clearing that was supposed to serve as the kill zone. Carlos joined the two squad leaders and Staff Sergeant Diego Martinez, US Army Special Forces, for a post training conference. José was explaining to his counterpart, Oscar Zoido, how the events of the morning had unfolded.

Jose’s squad, with the help of Staff Sergeant Martinez, was tasked with rehearsing combat patrol tactics. They had no notice to expect an ambush, but with the training they had been through to this point, they had always expected the worst, and to take nothing for granted. It was the hope of the US government that with enough training, these lessons would take root and help build the Honduran military into a professional force that could act as the vanguard of US interests in the region.

“This point was one of three we thought were the most likely ambush points along our path,” said Jose. “There were too many elements that made this a perfect spot, so we couldn’t ignore it. We sent Manuel and Estefan along the path to get your attention and to let you think what you wanted to think, while the rest of the squad climbed up the side of the mountain to push through your flank defense.” Carlos winced at the casual reference to his simulated death. The four leaders came to a basic agreement that Jose’s squad had butchered Oscar’s squad and taken light casualties in the effort. It had been a valuable lesson for both squads, and each member would remember the cat-and-mouse game of ambush along the trails.

In the event of an open conflict with Nicaragua these types of squad level action would be commonplace. The Highlands of Honduras would prove impassable by armor and vehicular travel. Instead, the war would be carried out by small infantry units with potential artillery and air support. In a lot of ways, the terrain was a callback to the US experience in Vietnam. Carlos could look out over the hills and valleys and imagine squadrons of UH-1 Iroquois helos flaring to land and drop companies of Air Mobile infantry on a hilltop or plateau. On the other hand, he could see Soviet made Mi-24 Hinds circling a hilltop spraying 30 millimeter rounds onto his own position. That’s something we never had to deal with in Vietnam, thought Carlos. If it came down to a standup fight, Honduras could be every bit the hell that Vietnam was.

They had been working in country for just over a week. Prior to that, they had spent time in Panama working with the US Army units stationed there. The hope was that the class had received enough basic combat training. Now that they were back in Honduras they would continue to rehearse with just a single American observer for each squad, and over time, with none at all. From where he was standing, Carlos believed that this process was working. In the morning’s exercise both squads had applied their training well. Carlos had only been there as an observer and a soldier. He had provided no guidance to the Hondos. He assumed that Staff Sergeant Martinez had similarly remained “hands off.”

At this rate, the observers wouldn’t be needed soon. Once the big-shots at HQ decided these little birds were ready to leave the nest, Carlos could move onto the next phase of his operation; The Contras. This was where he would be in an unfamiliar world. Up to this point, he’d been on familiar ground: Basic Combat Training. That was something he could work backwards and forwards in his sleep. Crossing into Nicaragua with a handful of rebels and trying to observe and report on Cuban or Soviet activity was something altogether new. Poole had assured him it was no different than training, only if you messed up you’d likely be tortured and slowly killed. That didn’t help. Yet even with the stakes so high, Carlos was eager to get to this next phase of the assignment. He knew that this mission was the most important thing that he’d taken part in. After all the reading he’d done on the Soviet infiltration of Latin America, he believed that it was even more important than the hostage rescue in Iran.

July 4th, 1980
School of the Americas
Fort Benning, Georgia

Sergeant Carlos Rodriguez had spent Independence day with “his” class, learning the finer points of conducting an assault patrol with two dozen of his new best friends. The “Hondos” had arrived on site over a month ago and had been getting grilled in the classroom ever since. This accelerated course for junior officers and NCOs was meant to help foster a sense of cohesion within the Honduran military, and to give a shared framework for combined operations with US forces. Rodrigues wasn’t getting a lot of fresh information. He’d learned almost everything they covered at the Marine Corps’ Infantry Training School. Sure, there were some variations in the Army’s training, but nothing wild.

Rodriguez wasn’t there for the infantry training. He was there to gain a better understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of these men. He was there to learn to work with them as a part of their team. Yet he was still separate from them. He would never be in their direct chain of command, but he would operate with and around them. To ensure that he could operate along with other Americans in the hostile areas between Honduras and Nicaragua, he needed to know as much as he could about their tactics and personalities. And so he went to class, and he observed.

He’d spent his first week on Base filling out paperwork. Transferring over from the Marine Corps to his new “civilian” job as a “Security Specialist” for the Southern Air Transport company took a lot of signatures and a lot of agreements. That was to say nothing of his new security clearance. Once he’d jumped through the hoops, and all the ‘i’s were dotted and ‘t’s crossed, he was read into the project. The information came at him like water from a firehose. He was picking up background on the governments of Latin America, their relationships with the United States and Soviet Union as well as the makeup of existing military forces, and the expected improvements being brought in by the Cubans and Soviets.

By the time the Hondos showed up on May 26th, Carlos thought he had already maxed out his learning abilities and was thankful for a break. That’s when he realized that he would be working in the classroom in addition to his casework, not in place of it. The long and the short of it was that he would travel with the class first to Panama, then to Honduras. While in Honduras he would go on patrols with the Hondos to get the lay of the land and at a future point as yet undetermined, they would introduce him to some members of the “contrarrevolución,” known by the Americans as “Contras.”

The Contras would take him across the border and into Nicaragua, where Carlos would be tasked to observe and report on any suspected Soviet activity in the area. This was a terrifying and unfamiliar world for him. Terrifying and exhilarating. He would infiltrate a sovereign nation with the help of a rebel army and if he got shot out there, he’d be on his own. In order to give him a fighting chance if captured, the Agency had given him a student visa and a school ID from San Diego State. There was little chance this would do him any good if captured, and Carlos thought they gave it to him more to make him feel better than out of any real utility. He hadn’t had a haircut in the past six weeks either. His high and tight was a lot lower and looser these days.

Carlos and Fred shared a pitcher of beer that night, too tired for any concern with fireworks. “You know, all of this spook business is some real James Bond shit,” said Carlos.

“What are you talking about? I’ve never seen James Bond dressed in camo, running around the jungle. No, Commander Bond would be in a nice hotel hot-tub with some beautiful ladies… exactly where I’ll be. No, I think you’re more… Captain Willard from ‘Apocalypse Now.’”

“You must be drunk, man. I don’t know a lot about much, but there are no five star hotels where we’re going,” said Carlos. “In fact, just this afternoon I saw General Paz Garcia and he told me to tell you that you’ll be staying in a total shithole with no running water.” Carlos was referring to the current leader of the Junta in control of the Honduran government.

“Either way, I don’t think Hollywood is going to be knocking on our doors anytime soon,” said Fred.

Changing the subject, Carlos said, “There’s one thing I don’t quite understand.” Fred raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “We’re training these guys up to fight the commies in Nicaragua. I get that. What I don’t get is this: They fought for a total shitbird dictator who flat abused his people. When I talk to the guys, they don’t really have a plan for who they’d put in charge if they did manage to beat back the Sandis. They don’t really have a love of democracy as far as I can see.”

Fred had wondered how long it would take before this conversation happened. In some ways he was surprised it had taken a long time, but on the other hand, the process had been dizzying. He was well aware that Carlos hadn’t had a lot of free time to work through the moral ambiguities of what they were doing.

“You’re not wrong about Somoza,” said Poole. “That family was as corrupt as they come. I’d even go so far as to say that on a personal level they are much worse than these Sandinistas that we’re facing.”

“Then what the fuck are we doing here?” asked Carlos.

“I can’t answer that question for you. At least not satisfactorily. You’ll need to answer if for yourself.” Carlos narrowed his eyes, suspecting that this was just a bullshit evasion. “But I can answer the question for me. I’m going down there to oppose a system of government that is far worse than any one junta. I’m going down there because Nicaragua has a history of democratic elections. I believe that if we can strip the communists of power, that the lesson of this civil war will be a strong representative democracy. I believe that if we don’t go down there, the people of Nicaragua will suffer, and the cancer of Soviet domination will grow. I believe that if we don’t do something about the Sandinistas, that within ten years we’ll have a Stalinist Mexico on our southern border.”

“What makes you think that if the Contras win, they’ll turn to free elections?” asked Carlos. “I don’t think Jose and the boys can even spell ‘democracy.’”

“They don’t have to,” said Poole. “They just need to get us in the door. There is a cadre of us who have been watching the history of our attempts to overthrow governments, and are convinced that the key to success will be fostering free elections. I don’t want to bore you with the details, but there’s a push in intelligence and diplomatic circles to move our allies towards greater democracy. I think we’ll have some movement soon in Asia, where Taiwan and South Korea could turn the corner soon. Maybe the Philippines too.”

“And what if they just elect the socialists that we’re fighting?”

“That’s the question isn’t it?” said Poole. “That’s what happened in Iran during the 50s. I don’t think the current administration would sign off on something like that again. I think the key to that would be to ensure that the next round of elections remains free and open. If we’re going to give people the freedom to choose, we have to give them the freedom to choose poorly.”

Carlos thought about that. It didn’t seem too likely that the government would spend this much time and energy fighting the Commies just to let them come in through the back door. But then again, this was more Fred’s area. He wasn’t going to lose much sleep over it.