Mike Smith Is Dead—Pt. 1

Foreward

US intervention in El Salvador, Honduras, and Guatemala may seem like a hazy memory now, but these countries used to feature prominently in world headlines. The civil war in El Salvador, for example, began in 1980 and only ended in 1992.

During much of that time the El Salvadorian people were subjected to death squads and massacres by their government—which was backed by the US.

President Reagan came into office, and America began spending billions in El Salvador. According to the national organization Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador, the US spent more than $6 billion on direct military assistance to El Salvador’s repressive regime.

“Contra guerrillas backed by President Ronald Reagan used Honduras as a base to attack Nicaragua’s Sandinista government in the 1980s.” From there it built; the US continues to have a presence in Honduras, including military bases. It also failed to stop a coup in 2009, which overthrew a democratically elected president and further destabilized the country.As for Guatemala, last year the social anthropologist Irma Alicia Velasquez Nimatuj, a member of the K´iche´ ethnic group, published an Op-Ed in the New York Times making clear that the inequalities in her country “were exacerbated in 1954 when the United States, in the name of anticommunism and in the defense corporate interests of the United Fruit Company, helped depose the democratic government of Jacobo Arbenz Guzmán.” —Theta Pavis, Contributor, 'Huffington Post'

Officially, the US role in El Salvador was to “professionalize” the army and police forces. Between 1950 and 1972, more than 1,000 Salvadoran soldiers and officers received training at the School of the Americas in Panama. The US also provided the Salvadoran government with $22.5 million in military aid between 1946 and 1980. (Thomas Carothers, In the Name of Democracy: United States Policy toward Latin America in the Reagan Years (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 266)

In early 1977, however, new human rights requirements imposed by Congress prompted the Salvadoran government to reject further military aid, although previously authorized aid in the pipeline continued to flow. (LeoGrande, Our Own Backyard, 38.)

In October 1979, just after the Sandinistas came to power in Nicaragua, growing discontent within the military brought about a regime change. Disgruntled senior military officers and younger junior officers ousted President Romero and installed a new junta that included civilian leadership. The junta quickly returned to repression, however, compelling its civilian members to abandon it. A new junta formed and, under pressure from the US, invited Duarte to participate. In an effort to win hearts and minds, the US also pushed a land redistribution program that was hated by the economic elite. As in the 1960s, when President Kennedy imposed land reform under the Alliance for Progress, the unholy alliance of the landed oligarchy, Salvadoran military, and paramilitary death squads made sure that the land reform program failed. In April 1980, the Revolutionary Democratic Front (FDR) was founded, representing center-left and leftist political parties and popular organizations. In October, the FMLN was formed as the paramilitary arm of the FDR. In December, Duarte became the official junta president, but he exercised little influence over the armed forces, which went on a rampage in 1980 and 1981.

Officially, the US role in El Salvador was to “professionalize” the army and police forces. Between 1950 and 1972, more than 1,000 Salvadoran soldiers and officers received training at the School of the Americas in Panama. The US also provided the Salvadoran government with $22.5 million in military aid between 1946 and 1980. (Thomas Carothers, In the Name of Democracy: United States Policy toward Latin America in the Reagan Years (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 266)

In early 1977, however, new human rights requirements imposed by Congress prompted the Salvadoran government to reject further military aid, although previously authorized aid in the pipeline continued to flow. (LeoGrande, Our Own Backyard, 38.).

In October 1979, just after the Sandinistas came to power in Nicaragua, growing discontent within the military brought about a regime change. Disgruntled senior military officers and younger junior officers ousted President Romero and installed a new junta that included civilian leadership. The junta quickly returned to repression, however, compelling its civilian members to abandon it. A new junta formed and, under pressure from the US, invited Duarte to participate. In an effort to win hearts and minds, the US also pushed a land redistribution program that was hated by the economic elite. As in the 1960s, when President Kennedy imposed land reform under the Alliance for Progress, the unholy alliance of the landed oligarchy, Salvadoran military, and paramilitary death squads made sure that the land reform program failed. In April 1980, the Revolutionary Democratic Front (FDR) was founded, representing center-left and leftist political parties and popular organizations. In October, the FMLN was formed as the paramilitary arm of the FDR. In December, Duarte became the official junta president, but he exercised little influence over the armed forces, which went on a rampage in 1980 and 1981.

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Preface

Mike Smith’s file was sealed, but after a year, his sister was granted access to various parts. Between the blackened lines she could make out a brief diagram of his training but little more. The letter had been confiscated when Mike was first assigned. Most details are missing but what she read was:

I learned to jump at Ft. Bragg in North Carolina. I ground-trained, then jumped off the main tower twice; carrying my pack back both times. That night I learned to pack my own parachute and then did a low level night jump. I was put in a private room in the back of a building, it had a toilet, but the door was locked. The next morning, after a chow line breakfast, I met a man, who didn’t give me a name, all I know is he was dressed in a gray suit and wrote something on a clipboard and then an Army Sargent took my pack and pushed me into a van. I was taken to a firing range and given a .45 caliber weapon, with five minutes of oral training. I was put on the line with targets at seven yards and ten yards. I hit the black zone four of six times on the first target, and two of six on the second. The suit wrote more on his chart and then I was told to leave the weapon on the stand. From Ft. Bragg I was send to Camp Peary in Virginia. There I (the next two pages were blacked out).

My next assignment will be somewhere in Central America. The rest of the document was blacked out.

She looked up at the man in the room. “That’s it?” She closed the folder and initialed the cover.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “the rest is classified and will not be opened for a hundred years, as I understand. Of course there are on going trails about unsealing information. Just my guess, but Mr. Smith’s file should be public knowledge in twenty or thirty years. But, don’t quote me on that 'cause I’m not a lawyer, just a documents person.”

She put the folder in the basket. “Okay. Maybe I don’t want to know. My brother’s death was a shock to our mother. We were hoping for some closure.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood and smoothed out the bottom of her tan pant’s suit. “If you would show me where my things are I’ll be going.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The heavy-set man in a dark suit nodded and opened the door. “The guard will open the locker for you just give him the key.”

She walked through the door, which hissed as it closed.

Out of habit because she was tall for a female she ducked under the steel frame of the metal detector and presented her key to the guard.

The uniformed guard simply turned and unlocked a small locker. She reached in and retrieved her purse and did a cursory glance the make sure her cell phone and wallet were enclosed.

She left the building and found her husband sitting in the car listening to the radio.

“Well?” he asked when she opened the door.

“Like I expected. Nothing. But, I don’t think he’s dead. There were no other death records, and I know those aren’t classified or protected secrets. Officially, they simply say missing. But, issued the death certificate nevertheless."

Chapter 1

The stooped old priest handed Kip a scrawled note, turned and shuffled down the path. Kip knew that the priest’s English was phonetic so interpretation was necessary to read.

Kip muttered “Gracias.” The priest didn’t look back. Solitary life in rural Costa Rica would have its advantages, but also a number of societal disadvantages. For the most part, as a gringo, Kip was looked on with distain.

Five years earlier Kip, then Mike, met with a man from the United States State Department, who gave options to the man named Mike Smith.

“Find a place to disappear; the records of your existence will be sealed for ten years, by then nobody will care, and only a nerd at Harvard will even pay attention. You’ll be but a footnote on a page detailing covert involvement in Latin America. That is of course, unless you decide to sneak in and some pimpled faced, minimum wage border guard sees your prints and ID come up on a computer screen. Then it hits the fan. Right now, you’re persona non grata, officially missing in action, but your prints and DNA follow you; the common way of handling the situation would make the disappearance permanent, were it not for mitigating circumstances and some very influential people.” He showed Mike a letter signed by the Vice President, Roger Olson. “Thought you might be interested in the authorization.” He folded it and put it back in his briefcase. “Too much trash is already hitting the halls in Washington with the new do-good Congress; worse than that, if you don’t play the game, the likelihood is that you’ll suddenly appear in a court somewhere—that opens a whole bag of worms the current administration is not willing to deal with. The reason for the signature to give some power to this meeting.” Ivan Sessions, the pock faced man in front of him, showed too many sleepless nights and international flight time. His suit was sweat filled and his six-foot obese frame looked like a heart attack about to happen. Scars and age spots dotted his bald head and sweat beads appeared on his forehead. “You and I and several dead people are the only ones who know some, well, make that a great deal of the funds didn’t move. Not your fault or anyone’s fault. Sooner or later, well, if there’s a dollar, hide it. While it was never officially recorded, the nut cases at Georgetown might make note of some obscure figure some day. Ya know it’s tough to totally hide billions of dollars spent down the drain.”

The United States government was one of the entities that were intimately involved with several Latin American, countries including El Salvador’s right wing government—before and after the civil war. The US provided many of these nations with weapons, huge amounts of money, and political support for many years. Despite strong evidence of corruption, bribes, mass torture and senseless murder, America continued to stand by those nations, which support was given and the money faucet was rarely turned off.

“Of course if you decide to go public with certain information, it wouldn’t matter how much money you had hidden; that whistleblower information problem is as always, easily solved. Crocodiles have to eat too.” Sessions had a sneer on his face. “Comprende?”

“Uh huh,” Mike muttered. Although they were seated at a small café table in the corner of a dark bar, Mike glanced nervously around.

“Your agreed funds will be deposited in Scotia bank, you know the routine, officially on our books you fall under death benefit insurance payments to what ever name you put on the account, a spouse of the deceased.” He laughed. “Computers are not homophobic.” He shuffled in his chair, and handed Mike Scotia Bank forms. “And regular deposits will be made, no questions asked; that’s all third party insurance stuff; only bankers in San Francisco have the monies flushed through their system; but you can screw that up quite unintentionally. Mail those papers to Scotia in San Fran as soon as possible so the death benefit money begins to flow.”

Mike knew he was lying; the budget line could be stripped on a moment's notice.

“The amount is just a line item in the State Department budget for insuring employees put in harms way.” Sessions looked down at his notes. “That won’t be questioned or adjusted. It’s a generous flat amount.” He looked up. “Nobody monkeys with death bennies, it's bad public relations. Just don’t cause us to take action or for anyone to question the arrangement; certain parties would be highly dissed, you know what I mean.” By the way, it’s the same amount of salary as if you worked forty plus many years for the department in clandestine operations.” He opened a folder and pushed the contents toward Mike. “Here’s your tickets to Caracas, where you go from there to I don’t want to know, as long as it’s not on US soil.” He started to pickup his briefcase. “I know, there’s a major amount of undisbursed funds you control somewhere, like I said, hide it. Sooner or later those funds will be found by a Chinese geek in Beijing or a Russian hacker playing on his computer. But, you better be a continent away when that happens. Oh, your Mike Smith identity and involvement was scrubbed. Just an aid worker killed in the line of duty. Same as a file clerk tripping and falling down a fire escape, except the body was never found.”

“What if I find a woman or something?” Mike watched the concourse traffic moving behind Sessions.

“Just add her to the retirement account, if you want to. No details exposed. Understand?” Sessions wiped his forehead with an already soaked handkerchief.

“Are you attaching the account? Are there any other creditors on record for the Scotia Bank account? Anything funny I need to be aware of?”

“No. Scotia Bank deposits are under what ever name you put on the account, you die, so does the account, you can put your preacher as the final beneficiary; we don’t care. Just don’t put any other funny monies in that account that look suspicious, you know, like other US Tax payer funds, and you’ll be okay, won’t raise any notice. Make it look like living expenses, rent a condo or something.

“Yeah, good idea.” Mike waved a waiter away.

“Okay rules for today.” Sessions tapped his pad with a pen. “Absolutely, no communications with any of your old acquaintances like that woman in Panama City, she was once an operative, right? She might find she’s been transferred anyway.” His voice trailed off. He paused and then tapped his pen again. “Today, don’t go back to your hotel room or even leave this airport except to fly out. Go straight to security. The flight to Venezuela leaves in about an hour. I’ve got another meeting in the city so I won’t see you off. Listen, Mike, I don’t want any of those State Department or CIA snoops to even see us in a bar together. When I leave here, you don’t exist as far as the US is concerned. You’re dead and missing.” He handed Mike another envelope. “Starter money. Don’t waste it, military bought a twenty grand toilet seat.” Let 'em waste their time investigating that expense.”

Mike chuckled and stuffed the money and tickets in his bag. “Okay, I’m gone.” Mike stood and started to turn but Sessions pulled his arm.

“Nobody else will say it Mike, we had a hell of run and absolutely nobody in Washington or podunk USA will know about it, much less give us credit. You and the boys did some really incredible work. You should be getting a Freedom medal rather than a push out the door. But, maybe it’s better. Nobody likes spending hundreds of hours sitting at a table in front of some Congressional committee.” Ivan stood to shake Mike’s hand. “You worked too hard for the nonsense.”

“I once knew a guy who said about the same thing.” They shook hands and Mike quickly disappeared into the bowels of the airport terminal mixing as much as possible with other passengers heading in the direction of a security checkpoint. As he approached the long line cued for security screening he looked around at his surroundings, checked his watch, and reversed his trek. He slid into a gift shop and watched to make sure Ivan Sessions was long gone before he crossed the concourse. Kip stepped outside the terminal, hailed a taxi and was taken to the private air traffic hanger. Minutes later he walked down the tarmac to a waiting single engine Cessna.

“Hey,” he shouted.

Earlier that day when Mike was picked up at his hotel he didn’t naively expect to return. He had a small overnight bag in case he was not offered the opportunity to get a night’s rest and head back to Panama City. That was not to be. He was driven to the airport, handed a ticket to Caracas accompanying the lecture. The pre arranged hotel room and being picked up at the hotel alerted Mike, there probably was a greeting party waiting in Venezuela, in the past when they wanted him further south or on some island he got a text message and picked up his own tickets. Something wasn’t right; he could feel it. The hotel clerk didn’t give the usual daily greeting of “have a nice day,” but instead said, “happy travels.” He had originally passed it off as a miss statement. Despite Ivan’s good words, Kip knew that death certificates usually accompanied a body and Ivan Sessions was no fool in playing the game. Shorty after arriving at the airport Mike used the excuse of too much breakfast coffee and took a quick bathroom break in order to call a pilot friend, lucky for Mike, his friend was transporting an aircraft to Mexico City and was willing to stop in Panama and haul Mike away. Without his friend’s assistance Mike would have to figure a way to survive in Venezuela as soon as his flight touched down. Besides, Venezuela was great distance from where he truly wanted to be.

“I recognized your voice when you called. What’s with the Kip name?” The pilot pushed open the passenger door and handed Mike a headset.

He climbed in the small Cessna and donned the headset. “Mike Smith is dead. Kip Waller lives. You remember ol’ Kip, used to run a banana operation. He died, I took his name, so from now on I’m Kip Waller, the banana guy.”

“Uh, okay,” crackled a voice on the headset.

“Thought I might have to escape to the jungle, glad you were available.” He was seated next to the pilot, a man he had worked with for years; although, to Kip’s knowledge, the man was no part of any United States clandestine organization or political entity of any nation. “Goose this thing, Marcos.” Marcos looked the part of a 1980s South American drug runner; he was lanky with drawn cheekbones and light chocolate complexion. His military skin tight cut haircut always sported a dirty red baseball cap. The only hairs on his face were his scant brown eyebrows underneath the ever-present reflecting sunglasses. In truth he worked for an airplane brokerage and finance company in Argentina and was an expert bush pilot who could fly anything fixed wing, including most jet aircraft.

The plane taxied down the private aircraft Bocas Panamanian runway. “Nicaragua, Honduras, Belize, or somewhere else?”

“Need a calm environment my friend. That is if we can get away from here without being shot down, that’s usually how these things end. We’ll see if we can find a certain airstrip in Costa Rica.”

Marcos looked over at Kip and then pulled the yoke up. “We’re going to follow the highway for a few minutes, it’ll be nearly impossible to track us with the truck traffic.”

“I imagine a few truck drivers might panic. Not to mention the Panamanian Air National Guard, even if they care about a small airplane.”

He laughed. “We’ll make a turn in a few minutes, leave the highway, and be out over the Pacific. Okay, for real. Where to Mike or Kip or whoever?”

Kip laughed, “Just a tiny shaved hilltop near Quepos, Costa Rica, we’ll have to look for it. I hope it still exists. If not I may have to jump if you fly close enough to a soft landing area.” He chuckled again. My guess is, your approach will be from Pacific side if you think the wind is right. Actually, you’ve been there before in 85. Like I said, I hope it’s still available, although it’s not far from San Jose it’s just I’m not ready to deal with customs yet and definitely I’m not ready for a night in San Jose.”

Marcos tapped a gauge. “We’ll cross through Darian, it won’t seem unusual, but we need to get off the coast quickly. Out over the Pacific nobody much cares about a small aircraft headed North.”

“Fuel?”

He grinned. “Close. But I’m going to make a long fuel stop at a former Army base in Guaca; we can get some rest, food, fuel and attack Quepos in the wee hours. If the water is running we might even get a shower there.”

“Safe?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

“Okay, just wondering.” Kip leaned back in the seat and looked out the window.

To be continued...