The President heard them as if through a curtain of roaring in his ears. He was thinking that this was a highly undignified way for the leader of the free world to die. He felt the blood rush into his brain as the craft began to plummet.
He wondered if he would black out before the worst came. In his mind's eye he could see the seats in front of him accordion toward his helpless fetal-positioned body, the way he knew they did in airline crashes.
Crushed between airline seats. It was a ridiculous way for a President of the United States to die, he thought again.
And then he felt the seats in front of him press against the back of his neck, pushing his chin back into his seat. He didn't hear the horrible sound of impact, and he wondered why. In fact, he felt no fear. Only the comforting warmth of the seats around him as they pressed protectively against his coiled body. He felt safe. It was an odd feeling.
Then came a sudden jarring and the President of the United States thought no more thoughts.
Chapter 2
His name was Remo and he was trying to convince the guerrilla leader that, despite his UPI credentials, he was indeed an American spy.
"You admit this?" the guerrilla leader asked. He wore a colorful poncho over striped trousers. His tall charro hat was the least riotous bit of his costume. He looked like an Incan cowboy.
They were in the heart of the rain forest. Monkeys and macaws chattered in the distance. Remo, whose white T-shirt and black chinos were not exactly jungle attire, nevertheless did not sweat in the Turkish-bath atmosphere. Instead, he was idly wondering what the dozen or more members of El Sendero Luminoso were thinking of. As guerrillas of the Mao-inspired Shining Path revolutionary movement, they were dressed for moving unseen through a pinata forest, not a Peruvian rain forest. Or were pinatas Mexican, not Peruvian? Remo had no idea. He didn't get down south of the border much.
"Sure," Remo said nonchalantly. "I admit it. I'm an American spy."
"I do not believe you," the guerrilla leader-whose name was Pablo-said flatly.
"For crying out loud," Remo said in exasperation. "I just confessed. What more do you want?" His hands, which had been lifted to the canopy of foliage, jumped to his hips. The Belgian FAL rifles, which had started to wilt, came up again. Remo ignored them. There were only seven Senderistas. And only two had their safeties off. That made five of them dead meat from the get-go. The others would be a nuisance if things got sticky. But only that.
"The last time a man claiming to be a reporter came to this province," the Shining Path unit leader said, "we executed him on suspicion of being a CIA spy. Later we were told he was truly a reporter."
"That's right," Remo said. "He wasn't CIA at all."
"But before that," Pablo went on, "a man came here, also claiming to be a reporter. We did not molest this man, and later he bragged that he was DEA."
"He was stupid," Remo growled. "He should have kept his mouth shut. He got an innocent journalist killed. But you clowns are no better. You keep shooting the wrong people."
"Terrible things happen in war."
"What war? You guys are insurgents. If you go away, there's no war."
"We are the future of Peru," the rebel leader shouted, raising his machete in a macho salute. "We are spreading the revolutionary thoughts of Chairman Mao in our homeland."
"The way I hear it," Remo pointed out, "you also cut the fingers off little children."
"That is not our fault!" the rebel leader said. "The oppressors have coerced the people into participating in their sham elections. They make them dip their fingertips in ink and then make marks on their ballots, so the oppressors know by their blue fingertips who has voted and who has not." He smiled wolfishly. "We know too."
Remo's deep-set eyes narrowed. "So you chop off a finger from a child here and a child there, and pretty soon the parents get the message."
"It works."
"It's barbaric."
"You do not understand, yanqui. We are forced to do these things. We tried shooting peasants as an example, but the survivors still insisted on voting."
"Imagine that."
"We find it puzzling too," Pablo mused. "But we are in the right. These children suffer so that future generations will grow up in a Maoist workers' paradise where there are no oppressors, and everyone thinks in harmony. As Chairman Mao once said, 'The deeper the oppression, the greater the revolution.' "
Remo yawned. This was taking longer than he'd expected.
"Mao's long dead," he said. "And Communism is on the march into the boneyard of history. Just ask Gorbachev. "
On hearing that name, the guerrillas spat into the dirt. Remo moved one Italian-made loafer out of the way of a greenish-yellow clog of expectorate.
"Capitalationist!" Pablo muttered.
"I guess word hasn't gotten this far yet," Remo said. "Look, this is really fascinating, conversing with you political dinosaurs, but how can I convince you that I'm really, truly a U.S. spy?"
"Why do you want to do that? You know we will execute you for that. We despise the CIA."
"Actually, I work for a secret organization called CURE."
" I have never heard of it," Pablo admitted.
"Glad to hear it. That's the way my boss likes it."
"And you have not answered my question."
"If you want the truth, it's because I know you'll take me to your leader."
"Who will kill you," Pablo said fiercely.
Remo nodded. "After the interrogation. Yes."
The guerrilla leader looked to his fellow companeros. Their mean close-set eyes looked quizzical. Pablo's blanketdraped shoulder lifted in confusion. Remo heard the word "loco" muttered. He didn't speak Spanish, but he knew what "loco" meant. Fine. If they thought he was crazy, maybe they'd get this show on the road faster.
The buzz of conversation stopped. In the background, the drone of insects continued like a subliminal tape.
Pablo wore a cunning look when he asked, "You have-what you call-DI?"
"It's ID," Remo said, "and what kind of spy carries ID?"
"A real one." The guerrillas nodded among themselves.
"Can you guys read English?" Remo asked suddenly.
"We cannot read at all, yanqui. That way we are not subject to faceless lies."
"And you want to lead Peru into the twenty-first century," Remo muttered. Louder he said, "Okay, sure. I got ID. It's in my wallet." He patted a pocket.
"Javier!"