Chapter 59

11:50 Thursday, January 2^nd, 1992

Peurto Cutuco, el Golfo de Fonseca

El Salvador

"Don't wander too far," Lenore told the other two. "I want fuel in the boat first, and those fishery docks will do. They'll take the colon, the folding money, probably a bunch of the Mexican pesos I converted in Mazatlan, and we need to be delicate about seeing if they'll take dollars."

The air was heavy and humid, though there would be no rain for months here. Lenore was steering toward some low wooden pier structures well west of the large concrete jetty that was the old commercial Port of Cutuco.

Lieutenant Brophy gave Lenore a curious glance. "Why?"

"For one thing, the dollar buys more, and simple robbery could be suggested to anyone," Lenore answered. Her reading in her Political Science classes had given her more background than Kevin Brophy seemed to have, though, and she continued. "Technically, this whole area is still under FMLN control." Seeing blank looks from the other two, she continued, "You know, the rebels?"

"There's a civil war here?" Lieutenant Brophy asked, shocked. "No one said..."

Lenore smiled gently at him. "They've been discussing peace for two years now, in the United Nations back in New York. They're supposed to sign a peace accord any day now, after the new UN Secretary-General is sworn in today. Hardly any fighting has gone on for some time, but still, it's probably not safe to flash a lot of dollars at first. I'm betting we won't see too many representatives from the government at San Salvador here, but I bet there's at least one agency of ours here."

"You said that before," Brophy admitted, still obviously upset at not realizing Lenore had brought them into a war zone. "You even mentioned the FMLN, but I don't think I was the only one in that room not understanding that was a rebel army."

Lenore shrugged. "We're here," she said, simply. "Lieutenant Commander Albright knew, and for sure Commander Fales knows. They didn't seem too worried."

Shiplett grinned at Lieutenant Brophy. "I'm not too worried, either, sir," he said. "I read up on this place in the library. There hasn't been any Death Squads for about five years now. Everything I've seen says she's right."

"Death Squads," Brophy repeated, clearly unhappy. "Shit."

Lenore only smiled as she brought the Joy Redux to the fishing wharf she'd chosen for the fuel pump on it and the tanks behind it.

She handed Brophy the CAR-15, a shortened nickel-plated semi-auto version of the M-16, and he automatically checked the weapon. She slipped her passport into her right hip pocket, and two small wads of folding money into her front pockets. Then, she slipped the Springfield .45 that had been clipped by the pilothouse door into her jeans waistband, leaving her cotton peasant blouse loose over it, and made a face.

"Damn, that's uncomfortable. I'll have to see if I can make some kind of a holster for this thing." Very carefully, she put her engagement ring in the zippered pocket of the CD case.

Heart pounding, Lenore didn't risk jumping off the gunwale onto the dock, for fear of dropping the pistol. After tying the Joy Redux up, she walked down the sagging dock to the small office, and knocked on the door.

"Un momento, ahi voy, estoy viejo, pero ahi voy..." One moment, I am coming, I'm old, but I'm coming. The door opened and Lenore was looking at an older man, shorter than her, stooped, with gray shot throughout his bushy black hair and his absolutely huge moustache. Lenore wanted to giggle at the sight of that moustache, as bushy and prominent as it was, it easily dominated the man's face.

Instantly put in mind of Juan Valdez, the mythical Colombian coffee picker she'd seen portrayed on TV commercials, Lenore smiled in her friendliest manner, her earlier apprehension melted. "Qué tal, señor? Tiene diesel para vender? Necesito para mi yate." Hi, I need diesel for my yacht, do you have any for sale?

The gentleman looked perplexed for a moment. "Ella es del norte de México? No mi niña bonita, no tengo diesel. Cuánto necesita? Tal vez pueda comprarle un poco de combustible a uno de los barcos atuneros que regresan de Acajutla?"

Lenore shook her head at the condescending compliment. Is she from Northern Mexico? No, pretty girl, I don't have diesel. How much did you need? Perhaps you could buy some from one of the tuna boats returning from Acajutla. Frowning, she replied, "Tenía pensado quedarme aquí, pero mi yate necesita los seis mil litros." Six thousand liters would only half fill the saddle tanks, but Lenore did not want to lose ten hours to a refuel run the ninety-five or so nautical miles to Acajutla.

"Seis mil litros. Está jugando mi niña bonita? Con un poco más que eso nos regresarías nuestro futuro!" You're not joking? Just a little more than that and you'll give us back our future!

"De qué habla?" As the man began to explain, Lenore's grin grew wider.

Kevin Brophy had been worrying. Midshipman Shiplett seemed to be at his ease, apparently unconcerned, which in a member of Brophy's specialized profession would have normally been a good sign. Kevin sighed, for the nth time. What the hell was anyone thinking when they sent this ... civilian with us? Kevin didn't have any other way to really describe Shiplett, but if he were in a war zone, he'd almost rather have had anyone else. Lenore's lack of experience didn't count. That girl has her shit squared away so tight, Admiral Kelso himself couldn't ding her in an inspection. Kostowe picked a good one. I will be damned if I will let that civilian Shiplett out-cool me while we wait, though.

Whatever Lenore was doing, though, it was taking longer than Kevin expected. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was only nine minutes by his watch, Lenore came out of the small shack.

Quickly, she climbed aboard, and withdrew half of the colon folding money, all of the peso bills, and then two of the stacks of $100 bills.

"Shiplett," she said, "Stay and guard the boat. Try not to shoot anyone who doesn't really need it, but don't let anyone on the boat. Lieutenant, sir, grab the other pistol, we're going in town, we need to go anyway to call the Dresser guy."

"What's with the cash, Lenore?" Kevin was genuinely puzzled. First she'd said to leave it hidden, then she was taking ... five thousand in dollars, and God alone knew how much in pesos and colons.

"Because I don't know if they take Visa," Lenore laughed. "El Salvador ... if you go, bring your Visa card, and bring plenty of cash, 'cause they don't take American Express."

Kevin thought Lenore was losing it. "What are we going to buy, Lenore?"

She straightened up and looked him right in the eye. "Twenty-five thousand liters of diesel, sir. The local supplier of diesel for the tuna fishermen ran out about seven years ago, and the FMLN strong-armed out of him his stash of money to replace it over the next few months. Since then, there's never been enough fishermen with enough money and the will to wait for a delivery. I walked in, asking for six thousand liters, and he wants to saint me and rename his grandchildren after us. He's sure the local fishermen will let us hide the Joy Redux in their fleet, since they won't have to go a hundred nautical miles each way out of their way to get refueled. From there it's not much for us to ask them to not tell anyone about us at all. And for five thousand bucks, I'll have bought us three month's worth of camouflage."

She seemed pretty pleased with herself, Kevin saw, and as he thought about it, he wondered if he'd have seen the opportunity she did. I'd probably have ordered her to drive us to that other place a hundred knots away, he was honest enough with himself to say.

"If they take Visa, we just have to make sure we're not good kidnap candidates," she said, matter-of-factly. "If we spend the cash, we make it look like we've thrown it all in."

11:50 Friday, January 3^rd, 1992

Punta Gorda, el Golfo de Fonseca

El Salvador

It hadn't been very difficult at all. The local Shell distributor only had enough diesel for the three stations in La Union with diesel tanks; they'd had to call to Acajutla. Lieutenant Brophy had called the contact he was given for facilitating issues, the Dresser Industries representative, who, it turned out, was at Acajutla.

Dresser had two projects going in El Salvador; one was an oil terminus for offloading refined product at the Port of Acajutla, in a part of El Salvador relatively untouched by the civil war; the other was the fuel distribution center just outside of San Salvador. The government was certainly acting as if the cease-fire with the FMLN were imminent: this infrastructure, still under construction, was a guerilla insurgent's dream target.

The Dresser man was only too happy to pay Shell to send two tanker trucks down to La Union. When Lenore asked for two hundred foot of delivery hose complete with a transfer pump and nozzle, in case the lines from the tank that had sat unused at Punta Gorda (the fishing docks) for seven or eight years had become clogged, or the diesel tank rusty inside, he'd offered to use some of his discretionary budget (under Keen Image, though he would never know the name of the operation) to send a crew down to re-pipe the fuel dock and clean the tank. Lenore still insisted on the hose and transfer pump, her priority was to fuel the Joy Redux.

Kevin Brophy only rolled his eyes as she had put the cash back into the safe. "This is hardly a novel technique, you know," he told Lenore, "GIs have been buying hearts and minds for four wars, now."

The fishermen and their wives wanted to have a party to celebrate their good fortune. Lenore and Lieutenant Brophy didn't see how they could turn it down. Shiplett shrugged. "I don't speak Spanish," he said.

18:10 Friday, January 3^rd, 1992

Punta Gorda, el Golfo de Fonseca

El Salvador

It's turned into a barbeque, Lenore thought, Texas-style, but the food's different. Good, but different. Fried sardines put on top of a soft taco was how she thought of it, but whatever it was called, it was a wonderful explosion of taste in her mouth.

Smiling at all the people made her facial muscles hurt, and speaking Spanish to so many people gave her a headache, but Lenore was feeling pretty good about things in general. Unsure if she'd been doing the right thing at the time, Lieutenant Brophy seemed to have relaxed quite a bit when he realized that though she'd involved a lot of people in covering what they were doing, the locals didn't care about whatever it was the Norte Mexicanos were doing. The local fisherfolk's kids brought a smile to her face, running around, trying to get into everything; the fuel trucks and the work to replace the fuel line from the tanks to the dock seemed to be the most exciting thing that had happened in a long time.

Shiplett had been firm with the delegation of pre-teen boys who had appointed themselves goodwill ambassadors to the Joy Redux, firm but polite. The boys didn't seem to be disappointed for very long, instead finding sticks and going to poke the charcoal fires the soft tacos were cooked over.