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.