Read Six Minutes To Freedom Online
Authors: John Gilstrap,Kurt Muse
Six Minutes To Freedom (29 page)
45
Dec. 13, 89
Kurt,
The children haven’t had school for the 2nd day now—Snow!
I’m sitting at the kitchen table (the glass and sawhorse one) with a cup of coffee peering through the windows. The pine trees are weighted down with snow. The bare trees have snow balancingon their spindly branches—a red cardinal is playing with the clumps of snow that lose their balance and plunge to the ground.
Erik is outside (10:00 a.m.) arranging a football game—he loves it. He wears sneakers (with traction as he says) and can beat the others receiving the pass because the others are in boots.
He is also cleaning my car and shoveling the walkway—he has done that for me every time I have asked. You’d be very proud of him. He is growing up.
I’m really working hard to keep our spirits up for Christmas—the Pollyanna factory is doing double-time. I’m thinking of you constantly, wondering what it must be like—praying for your peace of mind and strength for all of us.
I’m going to try for more pictures today. I’m looking around town for the best pair of red boots. I think it’s about time. It seems to me we’re snowed under, maybe the boots will help.
I adore you,
Annie
Annie sat with the children in the living room of their little rented townhouse, the three of them admiring the job they’d done preparing the place for Christmas. They all played their parts well, manufacturingthe joys of the season as they hung brand new decorations on the tree and hung stockings they’d never seen before from a mantle that wasn’t theirs. The tape deck played carols from a Christmas collection that Annie had picked up from the store, while cookies baked in the oven.
Peace on Earth, good will toward men.
The whole scene was like something from a play or movie, touchingon the outside, but with roles played by actors who didn’t fully believe in their character’s motivation. At a time of year defined by traditionsand rituals, the Muse family was entirely divorced from all of that. There were no friends to invite over, no precious ornaments from days gone by, no links to anything that was precious or even normal. Annie imagined that this must be how people feel when they are burned out of their home or when tragedy strikes. As a parent, you go through the motions, because you want to shield the children from the seemingly hopeless reality. As a child, you pretend not to notice the charade because you don’t want to upset your mom.
This should have been a special Christmas, when you thought about it. It was the first time the children had ever seen snow; it was the first time to witness the distinctly American traditions involved in selecting the Christmas tree from the lot, and tying it on the roof of the car, all the while dancing to keep warm. They were moments that Kurt would have enjoyed. Those tree-related chores were a father’s job, after all, and the fact that Annie was doing them alone with the kids somehow emphasized even more the fact that their family was no longer whole.
It was a terrible way to think, but at one level, a death of a loved one is better than this hellish kind of perpetual limbo. At least death is final; it allows you to grieve and move on. The Muse family was trapped in the netherworld of waiting and worrying, unsure if the time would ever come either to grieve or celebrate.
With the decorations done, the three of them sat on the sofa, baskingin the beauty of their handiwork. Even under these circumstances, there was no denying the charm and beauty that holiday decorations brought to a home. Charade or no charade, they’d done a pretty good job of it.
Kimberly was the first to say it: “I wish Daddy were here. He’d like this.”
Annie nodded, not trusting her voice.
“It could happen,” Erik said. “Christmas miracles happen all the time.” He turned to Annie. “Don’t they, Mom?”
Something about the question took Annie by surprise, the purity of twelve-year-old innocence. She felt her throat thicken as her vision blurred. She spread her arms like giant wings and pulled her children close to her. “How many stockings do you see on that mantle?” she asked.
“Four.”
“Well, there’s your answer,” she said. “Christmas miracles happen all the time.”
46
December 4, 1989
Dear Kurt:
The temperatures have dropped here. The wind is rising, the sky is clear and there is snow in the mountains. Our Christmas tree is up and we’ve had guests for a drink and a bite. We’re trying to make it seem like Christmas, but, at best, it’s a wooden legged one. We can move about but there is no run or jump in it. You and your family were the leg we are just simulating. We hope we can soon find a way to graft it back so we can be a complete family again.
Love,
Dad
December 18, 1989
Dear Kurt:
Seems that my last letters to you may have gone astray which makes finding where to begin difficult. So I’ll dispense with all the bullshit and get down to what I’ve wanted to say all along but wouldn’t.
Whatever were our differences have long since been blocked from my memory by feelings for your suffering and by my pride in your having been able to bear it so long. You can’t “tapar el sol con la mano” nor can a stupid argument between two bullheadedidiots erase from a man’s life the good times we had togetherin Panama for so many years.
My Christmas wish is that you and I can become the loving and caring team we once were and that Panama will become again the beautiful place to live and raise a family as it was when I chose to live there 35 years ago. You had no choice in that decision.You were just a “novato en mi Escuelita,” but you grew to love the country as I did.
I trust that God will see what is truly good for you and me and that He will lend His blessing to our achieving it, just as I have faith that He will know what is truly good for Panama and will bless any effort by either side capable of restoring our adopted country to its proper and respected place in the community of nations.
I told a friend to remind you that I make the world’s best martinisand that I will brew two of the finest when we next meet. Your mother, of course, will protest that two are enough, but I will say to her, as Rhett Butler to Scarlet, “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and we will laugh and it will seem like old times.
Love,
Dad
Dear Daddy
I really love you. Merry Christmas. Ho ... Ho ... Ho ... I wish you were here for Christmas to celebrate with us. We think we’re going to have a white Christmas. I hope so. Our tree is splendid. I hope you like the shirt we’re sending you. Today we went to the mall. Mom got me a few things. But I couldn’t see them.
Miss you.
XXX
OXX
OO
Merry Christmas
Love
Erik Muse
December 18, 1989
Hello my Dearest Daddy,
Christmas is only a few days away and you’re not here, but guess what I’m holding up very well and I hope you are too. Daddy I think you’d be proud of us, we are all supporting each other and in return we haven’t only gotten closer but we’re like friends. Especially between mommy and I. We have chats almost every day.
I’ve decided not to send you a present physically just yet becauseyou know that if I could I’d give you the world and get you out of there. But I am trying to send a mental present, that is for God to walk where you walk and keep you going the way you have been.
Daddy, I hope our letters and prayers are enough because I don’t know what else to do. I’m trying to do everything just right so you’d be proud and I’m always thinking of you.
You know Dad, I think that things will be getting better soon. I have a feeling that they just might. Daddy it’s dumb to say have a merry Christmas under the circumstances, but when you come back to us that moment will make you forget the hard times. Daddy, I do want you to have a very spiritually filled Christmas though. Think a lot about God, talk to him, and think of all our good times past and the ones ahead of us. Daddy I’m warning you now when I see you I’m going to squish you tightly and never let go. I love you even more than before, which was a ton I garantee it, and I think you are the best and greatest, most caring,loving, generous and of course the funniest Daddy a girl could have. I do thank God for you!
Bless you my Daddy,
Kimberly
P.S. Our Christmas tree is perfect.
47
On December 15, 1989, the Panamanian Assembly named Manuel Noriega “Maximum Leader” and declared that a state of war existed between Panama and the United States of America.
The next day, Marine Corps Lieutenant Robert Paz was shot to death by PDF soldiers at a road block in the streets of Chorrillo; this on the heels of another traffic stop in which a U.S. Navy lieutenant and his wife were savagely beaten after similarly being stopped at a PDF road block.
In Washington, D.C., President Bush had had enough. If Noriega wanted war, he would get it.
48
The rhythms of Modelo Prison had changed dramaticallysince the news of Lieutenant Paz’s murder had broken. Gone was the quiet routine of prisoners and guards going about their chores as part of a daily routine. Now, every order had an edge to it, every commentbore an unstated threat of violence. To Kurt, it felt reminiscent of the days that immediately followed the October coup attempt, but perhaps without a touch of the urgency.
People here seemed to be anticipating something, and the more nervousthey got, the more he found himself watching the corporal out in the hallway with his M-16. Despite the guard’s willingness to follow any orders he received, Kurt wondered if he’d actually be able to pull the trigger to kill in cold blood. Had it been Cáceres himself, there would be no doubt, but to date, the corporal had shown no overt animosityfor Kurt.
Three days ago, Kurt had decided to be bold and ask the question. “Corporal,” he called, attracting the guard’s attention. “Would you really shoot me?”
The corporal’s expression never changed from its constant, practicedindifference. “Sí señor.” Then he turned and walked away.
It was almost amusing now. Ever since the morning of his encounter with the machine gunner, Kurt had become almost philosophical about his impending death. He mourned all that he would never see—his kids’ graduations, their weddings and his grandchildren; and most of all the warmth and comfort of Annie as an old lady pressed against him as an old man—but that loss was just a small price compared to what the world would see because of him. Namely, future grandchildrenin the likeness of his perfect children. Annie would miss him, but she would survive, knowing full well that he was in Heaven waiting for her, a special seat reserved in Paradise.
What he found himself wishing for more than anything was the courage to accept with dignity and resolve whatever fate awaited him.
The war games had had their impact. Across the street, activity had been increasing exponentially in the Comandancia, as well. Most recently,they’d installed what appeared to be an antique World War II–era antiaircraft gun emplacement, similar to the quad-fifties he’d seen in so many vintage war movies, but with that distinctly Russian touch that transformed a sleek piece of lethal hardware into something that looked like the mechanical equivalent of a gangly teenager. The wheels seemed too big, and the gun barrels too long. But that probablymeant very little to the poor flyboy who found himself in the crosshairs of such a weapon.
On the morning of December 19, 1989, Kurt was thinking about these things while lying on his cot, half-in and half-out of an early morning doze. Since the tensions began to rise, he’d found sleep to be an elusive commodity, and as such, he found himself to be groggy and listless more hours of the day. At one point, he’d revisited the notion that maybe they were trying to poison him, but then rejected the notion as paranoia. He wasn’t exactly a difficult target, after all, and they had a damn guard posted mere feet away to blast him into the next dimensionif the whim had struck them.
He was thinking of all these things when he became vaguely aware of a new breed of commotion surrounding him. He must truly have been asleep, because he was having genuine difficulty putting the sound cues together in his head. There were the shouts and the quick staccato of running feet, and beneath it all what sounded like the steady thrum of helicopter rotors beating at the midmorning air.
It was the thought of the chopper that snapped Kurt to wakefulness.What the hell was a chopper doing in so close to the prison? Rolling off his cot, he hurried to the window for a look.
Sure enough, a Cobra gunship hovered in the air at an altitude of maybe a hundred feet, just hanging there over the prison wall. On the ground below, prisoners and guards alike scurried for cover, even as the guards in the towers made threatening movements with their rifles without making the fatal mistake of actually pointing them in the directionof the menacing bird.
It was an odd sight, and it was one that brought a sense of pride to Kurt’s soul. Those young men at the controls—he could make out the features of their faces from here—were his countrymen, and no matter how the Pineapple blustered and blew, nothing the Maximum Leader did or said could begin to touch the firepower of the U.S. Army.
While Kurt watched, the Cobra’s gunner—sitting in the chopper’s front seat—made eye contact and pointed. Instantly, the aircraft started drifting closer. A punishing dust storm bloomed in the rotor wash as all manner of trash and prison yard debris was hurled in all directions. As the Cobra moved closer and closer, it continually lost altitude until the nose of the chopper was level with Kurt’s third-floor window. For a moment,he thought the pilot might land the Cobra right there in the yard.
But they weren’t interested in landing; it seemed that they were interestedonly in looking at Kurt through his window. As ridiculous as that sounded, it was the only theory that made sense. The chopper crew knew that their presence at the wall would raise a ruckus, and they certainly knew that it would draw every face to every window in the prison. It couldn’t be a coincidence that this airborne ballet only began when Kurt’s face joined the others.
The Cobra was so close now that Kurt feared that the rotor disk would start digging a trench in the concrete wall. So close that he could count the front-seater’s teeth. In addition, Kurt could swear he saw a thumbs-up. They held there for a couple of seconds, staring each other in the eye, and when a huge grin bloomed on the crewman’s face, Kurt couldn’t help but return it.
They had just come by to say hello, and there’d no doubt be hell to pay when word of what they did got back to their commanding officer.For the first time in God knew how long, Kurt felt emotion pressingbehind his eyes. This time, though, it wasn’t sadness or self-pity; this time it was that intense pride and emotional lift that comes from witnessing a simple act of kindness. Clearly, Ostrander and Ruffer had passed along Kurt’s love of helicopters to the people who had the power to alter the flight routes of the choppers at Quarry Heights, and clearly that word had gotten back to these two yahoos in the Cobra. He’d never met them, and probably never would, but he loved those two pilots right at that moment as intensely as he’d ever loved anyone but Annie and the kids.
As the Cobra pivoted and pulled away with a full-throttle roar, Kurt knew how foolish he’d been to think that he might have been forgottenby his government. He found himself grinning like a kid on Christmas as he watched the departing chopper grow smaller with distanceand finally disappear from view. He was still smiling when he turned back into his cell.
The smile disappeared in the space of a heartbeat when he saw that the corporal had brought his M-16 to his shoulder and that the muzzlewas leveled at Kurt’s chest.
For what felt like a long time—maybe as long as five or ten seconds—the jailer and his prisoner just stared at each other. For the first time, Kurt saw the anger in the other man’s eyes. He was a soldier, after all, relative competence notwithstanding, and he’d just been humiliated with a demonstration of the PDF’s emasculation. At most, they could pretend to be a military force. At most, they could intimidate the weak, but even then, it was only the weak who had no powerful friends.
What better way to jam a thumb into Uncle Sam’s eye than to shoot the man who had brought about so much of the current troubles?
But he didn’t shoot, and as reasonableness displaced the anger, the corporal became a professional soldier again. He lowered his gun and settled himself back into his seat, where he would await his orders.
In prison, the smallest excitement—the slightest departure from endless routine—kept the blood pumping for a long time, and the visit by the helicopter gunship kept the place alive for hours, but sooner or later, the excitement passed, and normalcy returned. For Kurt, this meant that it was time for him to exercise. After that, he would pray and maybe work on another letter to Annie. The helicopter would give him something to go on about, even though mentioning the morning’s events would guarantee that the letter never cleared the censors.
His knee was bothering him more and more as he ran his short course, and unlike times in the past, reversing direction did nothing to relieve the discomfort. Both knees were hurting now. Add to that the fact that his arms were growing too short for his rapidly progressing myopia, and there was no choice but to finally conclude that he was getting too damn old for this shit.
Cáceres came for him around eleven in the morning, when Kurt was lying on his cot, thinking about anything except his current situation. “Muse!” the lieutenant barked in Spanish. “Get up. You have visitors.”
Kurt was on his feet in an instant. He needed this. This was a good day for visitors. “Who is it?”
The corporal fumbled with the lock, slipping it from the hasp. “Come,” Cáceres commanded.
The corporal fell in behind with his M-16 at the ready as the lieutenantled the three-man parade down to the main level, where an American Army lieutenant colonel sat ramrod straight in a wooden chair. The lieutenant colonel looked vaguely familiar, but Kurt couldn’t place the face. The army officer stood as Kurt entered the tiny interviewroom and offered his hand.
“Hello, Mr. Muse, I’m Robert Perry, the Treaty Affairs officer here in Panama. How are you, sir?”
Kurt shook the hand gratefully. Of course. It had been nine months, but this was the first American Kurt had encountered after his arrest—the man who brought Jim Ruffer to DENI headquarters. They were meeting in a room Kurt hadn’t seen in months, and they were surroundedby a throng of prison guards. If he hadn’t known better, Kurt would have bet there was a craps game being tossed in the middle of the crowd somewhere.
“You look confused, Mr. Muse,” Perry said, gesturing to the unoccupiedseat with an open palm. “Please have a seat and I’ll try to explain.”
Kurt sat, but he didn’t like the feel of any of this. Certainly, there would be no relaxing.
“In my official capacity, I have certain rights and obligations, and as an American citizen, you likewise have certain rights and obligations.I’ve asked the prison staff to gather so I could review some things.” He gave a nervous little smile when he was done with this preamble,as if to give Kurt a chance to acknowledge the words or ask for an explanation.
Kurt nodded. So far, he hadn’t heard anything that was too difficult to understand. He did get the impression, though, that Perry had rehearsedhis words.
The lieutenant colonel continued, “You’re aware, are you not, that General Noriega has threatened to kill you if things don’t go his way in the ongoing discussions between our governments.”
Kurt cast a sidewards glance toward the corporal and his rifle. “I’ve heard the rumor, yes.” In the background, he became aware of another break in routine as commotion within the prison walls seemed to peak in intensity. The guards were aware of it, too. They started shifting their weight uneasily as the sound of approaching helicopters again cut the calm of the warm afternoon. Only this time, there was more than one chopper, and they seemed to be circling the prison. Everyone, in fact, seemed unnerved by it all. Only Perry seemed nonplussed.
Perry raised his voice to keep ownership of the moment. As he spoke, his eyes never left their lock on Kurt’s even though his message was clearly meant for the others in the room. A big Puerto Rican U.S. Army sergeant in the corner—Perry’s driver, Kurt figured—had grown pale and was visibly trembling, sweat pouring off of him.
Perry looked as crisp and as cool as if he were in an air conditioned room. “Kurt,” he said, “you have undoubtedly heard that General Noriega has announced that any armed conflict between our two great countries will result in reprisals against American citizens, and that you will be the first to die.”
Kurt swallowed hard, wondering where this was going. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, I want you to know that if anything happens to you no one will walk out of this prison alive.”
The stenographer froze. Somebody gasped.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you, Kurt?”
An official of the U.S. government had just threatened to execute his would-be murderers. What does one say to such a thing? Vaguely aware that his mouth was agape, Kurt nodded.
Perry smiled and stood, again extending his hand. Kurt returned the gesture, and as the visitor left, there was a dizzying sense of finality to all of this. His stomach churned, not with a sense of dread, but with a sense of hope and empowerment.
Cáceres moved quickly to roust Kurt back up the stairs to his cell, ordering the guards to return him there at once. The guards in turn barked the appropriate orders, and Kurt complied, but this time, there was none of the regular taunting or pushing. Maybe it was just the lingeringeuphoria of Perry’s little speech, but Kurt could have sworn that they now seemed a little nervous in his presence.
As he climbed the concrete steps, he thought about how he was goingto word all of this in his letter to Annie.
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