Mike Smith Is Dead—Pt. 17

“So, from Bogota I go to Santa Rosa International Airport in Peru then on to Buenos Aires. To think I made the trip with one stop in the Citation.” Marcos went from complaining to bragging.

Kip spoke into the microphone. “I guess I’m glad you’re giving us a ride.”

“From what Sam told me. And, mind you, she got most of her information from Giles; it seems that an American agency raided the Publica Bank. She said Giles wasn’t there. But, she also said that Giles told her that a US ‘wanted warrant’ was put out on Mike Smith alias Kip Waller, that’s you, remember. How you got through Customs coming into St. Croix is a wonder, cause the warrant lists you as a potential terrorist.”

“I’m traveling under my French Passport.”

“Good thing. Giles said an old picture of you is also circulating. Giles is looking to see if there is an extradition order issued by the Justice Department in the US.”

“That’s really strange, cause she knows the literature I can expose. And she knows that the US funds would be turned over immediately upon official request.”

Marcos laughed. “It would have been easier if you had stepped off that plane in Caracas—well, easier for certain people in the US government.”

“Hey,” Rosa protested.

The old passenger airplane was noisy but modifications had tempered the noise level, never the less, Kip riding in the co-pilot seat wore a headset.

Marcos continued, “If that is an international warrant then you better ride clear to Buenos Aires with me and I can get you a post on the Antarctica science post or find you a flight to North Korea.”

“Like I said, Giles knows the paperwork I hold. If anything happens to me it becomes public knowledge.”

“That’s why they’ll lock you away somewhere and throw away the key. Your so called paperwork will fade away into the past and when discovered, treated and spun as fiction. All the guilty players begin to fade away. You Americans change administrations continually. Even right now, not even two decades from your clandestine activities, the purveyors of the program are dying off or like you, disappearing into the jungles of South America or Africa. Some of the worst are sitting in Brazilian hideaways or sponsoring Coke runs into the US.”

“You’re sure a real spiritual leader today.”

“Just telling the hard truth to an old friend. Even now who will your report effect? How many are alive? Maybe embarrass a few families. Yeah, everyone knows the US was an evil player in Central America, the details are for scholars to argue, your eyewitness accounts, documents and photos will only be debate points in ten years. In the meantime, you’ll be sitting in a cave prison somewhere in Colorado with no communications in the outside world or buried in six foot of mud on a remote cemetery in Bora Bora.”

“Can I jump out of the plane here?”

“Well, Sam would probably kill me for making Rosa a widow, the answer is no. Besides I’m not sure the doors on this old thing can be opened with the air pressure. Listen Kip, I told you all that so you don’t go blindly into something you’re unprepared for. However, if you hear of an army coming—run and hide, I know a crashed cargo hull you could live in if you like snakes and bugs.”

“Believe it or not. I appreciate it.”

Rosa reached up and touched Kip. “We’ll be okay.”

Kip laughed. “Love my optimistic wife.”

“Okay, when we get to Curacao I want you walk straight to a waiting airplane. A friend of mine will take you to San Jose International for a thousand each, but he will let you out at the private air hanger. It’s up to you to disappear into the hanger. He will be unloading mail and packages. Where you go from there I don’t want to know.”

The rest of the flight was uneventful with Kip and Rosa voicing various scenarios. Marcos filled in sporadically. The old passenger plane landed gently and Marcos informed the tower of his plan to refill and transfer two passengers to another flight. “No problem,” he said as they taxied to the hanger area.

Marcos pulled the plane up to the tarmac where a refueling truck was waiting and opened the door.

“Know him when you see him?” Kip asked.

Marcos grinned. “Standing on the other side of the truck, tall guy, probably two meters, with a gray hat. Oh, and he speaks British English.”

“Great.”

Rosa hugged Marcos and Kip shook his hand.

“Thanks for the taxi ride, I’ll give you a tip next time.”

Marcos shook his head. “No problem.” He nodded to Rosa. “Keep her safe, she doesn’t deserve to suffer through this nasty stuff we have been dealing with for decades.”

Rosa looked back. “Hey, I’m tough enough to get through anything, I been deserted and divorced, kidnapped, ridden on an airplane with drunk pilots, and now on a noise plane. I think I can handle it.” She tromped down the steps.

Kip turned to Marcos. “Don’t anger a Latina.”

Marcos laughed. “Tell me about it.”

Kip waved and deplaned and headed for their next ride.

Conrad smiled when they approached. He was tall, dark, and had an infectious smile. “Welcome aboard.” A lock of his unruly black hair crossed his forehead and he swiped it back in a habitual motion. “We’ve got mail,” he chuckled.

Kip stuck out his hand. “Kip Waller and this is my wife Rosa Smith.”

The pilot shook Kips and Rosa’s hand. “Marcos says great things about you.”

Kip laughed. “Take that with a grain of salt. Oh, here.” Kip opened his satchel and pulled out a stack of 20 one hundred dollar bills. A fee for taxi service.”

Conrad quickly stuffed the money in his briefcase. “I guess we’re good to go, climb on in.” He pointed to two traditional airplane seats behind the pilots. “Strap in there, the cargo is mail for the hinterlands, bringing hope to the masses, I always like to think, plus a small contribution from each country which receives my deliveries.” He climbed in the cockpit stepping over Kip. “I’ve got a lot of mail going to Costa Rica, which is my first stop before I head down the coast, so you’ve got a direct flight. We’ve got about five hours flight time, sorta up and over the volcano.”

Kip looked around the cabin and found a brochure describing the Pilatus PC-12 aircraft. “No copilot?”

“Not today. She’s PG and not feeling well this morning. But, that’s not a problem. If yer buckled up, we can head Northwest.”

Minutes later they taxied down the tarmac and were first in line to take off.

Kip looked over at Rosa. “I guess it’s back to square one.”

Mostly they dozed occasionally looking at the over hanging dark clouds.

Kip held Rosa’s hand and slept until the pilot let out a string of expletives and there was a loud noise all encompassed in a dream. Kip sensed heat and wet but couldn’t wake up.

---

Minutes later Rosa opened her eyes and realized she was sitting sideways and leaning on Kip who wasn’t moving. She glanced at the blood splattered cockpit and fainted, then woke again to voices in the distance. She tried to shout but only a squeak came out of her vocal cords. She closed her eyes and tried to wish her circumstance away. She thought she felt hands on her but couldn’t figure out why. Later she smelled smoke and felt heat on her face and someone was pushing a cup to her lips, it was bitter, but she drank and slowly her word began to materialize. A dozen men and women were sitting around a campfire staring at her.

“Where am I?” she asked in English. “Donde estoy?” She repeated in Spanish.

One of the men walked to her, squatted and said something she could not understand and then made a sign with his hands falling into the dirt. It suddenly occurred to her, they had crashed.

Suddenly she became aware of the pain in her shoulders and torso where restraining straps had held her. She looked at her legs and they were wrapped in rags with green leaves. There were many jungle tribes who believed that some plants removed infections and sealed wounds.

“Man, mi amigo?”

The man who squatted in front of her pointed to a wooden lean-to. He held up two fingers and with his left hand closed one of the two fingers. Rosa knew he was telling her that one man had died. She tried to move but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. The man shook his head and motioned down with his hand. Rosa sat leaning on what she guessed was part of the airplane seat and watched while men and women walked to and from the lean-to.

The satchel which held their money and papers was sitting undamaged about a meter from her, as was her overnight bag.

“Well, isn’t that something, a hundred dollars worth of leather and paper came through without a scratch.”

The man looked at her quizzically.

Rosa pointed to the bags and the man pushed them over to her. She peaked in the satchel, everything was still there. She knew she had some miscellaneous jewelry in the carry on and when she opened the bag she removed the small jewel case then motioned for the women to come closer. She gave each of them a bracelet or earrings as they gathered around giggling.”

Several of the men squatted around the campfire speaking to each other and to Rosa they seemed to speak to nobody at all.

A young boy came running into the camp and excitedly said something to one of the men, who followed him back into the tall trees.

Two hours later the man and the young boy returned running behind a four wheel ATV with a tanned Anglo man driving. The older adult from the campfire group was sitting beside him. He got off the ATV and looked into the lean-to then walked up to Rosa.

“Quienes son?” He asked Spanish, and then repeated in English. “Who are you?” The man had creamed coffee colored skin, but angelical facial features. His broad hat covered most of his head. To Rosa he seemed quite tall and muscular built like an athlete.

Rosa looked up. “My name is Rosa Smith, I think we were in an airplane crash.”

“Yeah, that’s what the kid said. He told me the pilot didn’t make it. So, you’re sitting up, but your friend is a little worse for wear. By the way they call me Shank’n Best, long story. Who are you?”

“I’m Rosa Smith, I think. Where am I?”

He laughed. “Middle of northern Columbia, closest village of any size is El OCaso, but in your condition and especially the guy in lean-to you’re not going anywhere for awhile. Actually, you’re really lucky. These native people are from the Arhuaco tribe. A little shy but friendly even though some white explorer people have treated them badly. There’s probably 27,000, these Chichan-speaking people around who are decedents of the ancient Tairona culture. Like I said, in this part of the world you couldn’t crashed in a better place,” he laughed. They won’t eat you for dinner. These are good people, if they like you they will make you a friend for life. Now, I am going to see if I can get you and the other guy up to my ranch. It’s a rough trail but if we can get a stretcher or something for that other guy.”

“My husband, his name is Kip.”

“Okay, your husband, Kip. Anyway, we can take you up to the ranch house. I have a guy there, Wilson, we use for medical needs; he was like a corpsman or something in the US Army and kinda just appeared one day. I really didn’t ask, but he’s good with animals and people.” He turned and said something to the group of women who began removing the leaves from Rosa’s legs and brushing her off.

The men began shaping a stretcher and fitted it on the back of the ATV. Next they carried Kip on his wicker bed out of the lean-to and placed him on the stretcher then strapped him down. With help Rosa sat in the passenger seat and they moved slowly up the path winding their way along the mountain. Two of the women walked beside the ATV, one carrying the satchel, the other the overnight bag. Rosa looked back and a group of men were carrying the wrapped body of the pilot.

Rosa tried to hold on to everything in the ATV and settled on leaning over and hanging onto a steel bar. As they traveled up the mountain they made frequent rest stops and she was able to sit up and take in the scenery.

It took nearly three hours before the ATV turned onto a dirt lane, but although the road was somewhat smoother the progress didn’t pick up. Rosa watched with awe at the jungle disappearing around her to be replaced by fenced pastures and cattle grazing, eventually they reached a modern looking cabin made out of native timbers a small cabin was attached by a veranda. The ATV stopped and the native women set their packages down foot short of the house, the men carrying the body went to the back of the cabins. All of the natives then turned and walked back toward the jungle. Rosa started to say something, but they disappeared as quickly and quietly as they had appeared originally.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank them,” tears were in her voice.

Rosa finally looked at the man who picked them up. “You’re American?”

He laughed. “No, I’m a breed. An escapee from society cause a half white American and half Indian man is not worth much around here. This is my place with some other folks, we’re not what you call a cult; we’re ranchers. This used to be a cocaine plantation, now we raise cattle, a lot less hassle from the government—both those in enforcement and those into drug sales. The only problem we have now is how to get your husband into the house. The natives won’t come near the house and the ranch hands won’t be here for awhile.”

To be continued...