Light lanced off the surface of the road into the lenses of binoculars that connected James to the young woman, sitting in her doorway, watching the forest as if looking for him. She appeared just when James attention shifted to her small hut in the little hamlet he had been sent to watch. Clearly she had just woken. James had been up for most of the night. Only briefly, when he could no longer hold his eyes open had he slept.
Perhaps she was thirteen or maybe twenty five. It was hard to tell in the early morning light and the slight mist conspired with distance to obscure her face. She was small, no matter what her age. Others began to stir in her household and her small community. Now there was a tiny stream of smoke coming from the tin chimney that poked just above the thatch of her hut. Someone, her mother perhaps, was heating water for the morning coffee.
She was clearer now as the sun began to move higher and provided more illumination. James saw that she was washing something in a bowl set before her on the dirt of the entry way. Perhaps someone was sick or there was a baby in the family. But then James saw the crimson stains and felt some stirring of guilt, like spying on his sister or seeing his mother undress and moved his binoculars away briefly.
No one was moving about outside the other huts. There were five in all. Five small families surrounded by a wide open space where crops were planted, livestock kept, babies born, dead buried, and it was said, rifles stored.
This was the reason James lay in the small bit of forest that was all that was left of the original scrub land that had once covered this part of Northern Guanero. He was to see, to watch, perhaps even listen, for it grew very dark in these parts at night as the mists settled in and the the stars disappeared and life took on a ghostly quality.
The villager had finished her washing and tossed the water out of her bowl on the soil of the small garden growing beside the door. Water on soil, a bit of blood, a bit of toil, and life ...
Guanero had never been particularly stable. Throughout the history of Latin America, from the conquest, the rape of the continents that was often called civilizing, to the struggles for independence and the relentless cycles of revolution, coup and counter coup, and foreign occupation, Guanero had taken part, perhaps more than this small country should have. A country with excellent harbors, rich natural resources, and a willing and hard working population should have been a successful combination. The Europeans had been forced out. Monroe's doctrine enforced, the United States had protected its interests and life should have stabilized in the Twentieth Century.
Alas, as outsiders left the continent to its own devices, other Latin Americans began to see opportunities in exploiting one another (as they always had). Drugs were the bane of Columbia, nearly destroying its democracy and forcing the corruption of its system of justice, but Columbia survived. The Sendero Luminosos nearly toppled Peru into anarchy and a cycle of self destructive reaction and counter reaction but wisdom prevailed and life of a sort returned to that country of the Andes.
How unfortunate was Guanero. Uranium rich when all the U.S., the Brazilians and even the Soviets wanted was the fissile mineral. Oil when oil wells were something to die for. Guanero even was a haven for the culture of Coca when life became too difficult for a time in Columbia. The current trouble had been caused by S5-3T4d and bananas. But it had always been something.
Moving very slowing, so slowly that he could have surprised a fly, James inched his fingers toward his face and methodically scrubbed his eyes to rub away the grit they had collected. Rarely had James been on a solo mission that lasted this long. Alone, he only stayed a few hours. Usually, on long patrols, there was someone to take a turn on watch, to keep an eye on the direction you weren't looking. Someone who by their very living and silent breath reminded you that you weren't alone, a cipher, a ghost of some barely voiced whisper.
The girl, James could now see that his first guess had been correct, returned to the door with another basin, this time full of something steaming. The morning air was cool but already the moisture in the air brought sweat into James eyes as he watched the girl feed the family's pigs their warm slop. Perhaps he could make out the voices, because as he watched the girl straighten from scolding the pigs to their breakfast she turned and waved to another girl picking something from her family's garden. A brief flash of a smile and then the girl was back in her own home, helping with the meal her mother was preparing.
James stomach growled but he ignored it. He hadn't really eaten anything during the past couple of days, a chocolate bar, some granola, a can of peaches. But each time he thought of food, rebellious sounds rose from his abdomen. He wasn't really hungry. Later, maybe he would see if he could keep a cracker down. Right now he needed some water or something ...
Someone had to go. If the strike was to happen as planned, someone had to see if the reports of weapons caches were correct. They could have swept the vile on suspicion but the weapons would probably have disappeared before the first gun-ship left the ground. They could have sent a platoon on the ground, arriving in the middle of the night, to roust the inhabitants and attempted to surprise the peasants concealing the weapons. But no American unit had been able to move unobserved through these Guaneran farmlands since they had arrived five years before.
One man could maybe move quietly, carefully, and remain unobserved long enough to validate whether the weapons were stored in this vile as intelligence suspected. Only if the weapons were not in the vile would there be any point in hitting the Banana base the Spooks had found in the hills. Only if "those people," an anachronistic way Platoon Commander Lee had of referring to the Guaneran Rebels, had their weapons with them when attacked would they stand and fight and thus be eliminated.
Sometimes James cared why he was asked to do something. Sometimes, it made a difference to him to know that his information would change the course of the lives of thousands of people. At times he even hoped he would see one thing and not the other so that the great event his "intelligence" affected would occur or not occur.
But how could he care, now? How could he be excited? James had been on and off the sick call for the last three weeks. Sometimes in stomach distress, others pounding headaches and fever. But yesterday, when the Doc couldn't honestly say what was wrong with him, just that he was ill, Lieutenant Lee had insisted he needed James to do this one thing.
She was probably named Maria. So many women in this country were named after the Mother of God that one almost screamed at the irony if it was thought about at all. He could see a small shrine two huts over from that of "Maria's" family that surely contained a statue of the blessed virgin and the child. There were offerings at its base and even a few colorful flowers. Some might have been plastic for there were few flowers during the rainy season, but right now there was a brilliant splash of yellow that could only be real. Perhaps she put them there ...
Her father, apparently, was now ready for the morning. He stood in the door, struck a match against the frame and lit a cigarette. Now a little boy wearing only a t-shirt with a spot of blue and indistinct writing came rushing past his father's feet, chasing a small dog, a puppy really. The father watched him briefly as the boy and the dog, both very new to this world, chased each other. With a small smile the father must have called his son over to him for in a moment he was on his father's shoulder and ducked as they reentered the low hut.
Once again, James squirmed slowly to shift some of his weight off one sore hip onto the other. His pack lay under his chin and James' weapon, a small carbine, rested comfortingly against his shin. Every wrinkle in his uniform formed a nagging ache that had long since lost coherence and joined the generalized haze of pain that surrounded James. Even the elastic of his socks seemed to cut to the bone. Now James realized that he his head was beginning to pound and swell with each beat of his heart. It wouldn't be long before he could only breathe through his mouth and the pounding headache dominated everything he felt.
Yet, the patrol was supposed to last at least another day unless he found evidence one way or the other about the rifles. "Stay out until you can say for sure, James. We really need to know." Concentrate on the huts.
Dad, probably Pedro, had finished with breakfast and was now collecting a shovel and hoe and getting the family's ox ready for another day out in the fields. Pedro didn't have anything particularly strenuous planned for today. He lead the ox over to a bucket and it stuck its head in only for a few minutes. Soon, he and the beast were slowly making their way across the fields to a small plot of maize. Pedro stepped into the field and his head began to disappear for a moment then reappear only to repeat the process further down the row. After no more than a half hour, Pedro had finished all the rows and he stepped back into the road and set a bundle of green weeds in front of the patiently waiting ox. The animal settled into its breakfast and Pedro stepped around its flank and began examining the next plot, beans it appeared to James.
Once the animal was finished eating, Pedro came back and urged it forward once more to another plot of maize. Again, Pedro disappeared into the field and again in a half hour the ox dined on a salad of fresh weeds.
It was wash day for Maria and her mother, Eva. It was already growing warm as the sun continued to rise and now Eva was building a fire in the yard. Pepito, the boy, was playing with a stick and a small plastic bottle while his sister hauled water from the community well. Once, on the way back, Maria pointedly ignored one of the young men who was helping his father load a tiny burro with sacks of beans. Maria's friend giggled and waved at at her after this, and James was sure he could see the crimson of her blush. Eva ignored all of this with the practiced skill of a mother as she heated water and then began to first dunk then scrub the family's clothes against the washboard over another tub.
At one point before noon, Pepito found something, a shiny rock perhaps, and ran, as most small children do, like he was on wheels, to show it to his sister who was studiously ignoring another boy busy splitting wood for his mother. When Maria wasn't interested, he tried to show his mother but tripped and fell on his way to her. Wincing from the bloody scrape that now appeared on his knee, James could believe that he heard the boy's cries. No longer aloof, Maria ran over to the child, scooped him up, a whit faster than her mother and began trying to sooth her sobbing brother.
Something of a fog had settled in around James. The air was clear, perhaps a bit too bright, but clear. Yet, even in the stillness of the forest, he heard a the rushing of the wind. His head throbbed with the pounding of his heart but somehow James had transcended his body and could ignore the pain, the discomfort. Something was happening in the village, some force was moving there. He could almost taste the flavor of the air in the village, the smell of the washing soap, the sweet smell of the soil being shaken from the weeds that Pedro was still pulling.
There was life in this place. Not the scrub forest where James hid, but the village, the fields surrounding it. He could almost feel a part of it.
But now, the pain was becoming real again. He could feel the acid burning in his stomach, forcing its way up through is throat like a some amoeba shoving a pseudo-pod forward to explore some new bit of its environment. Suddenly the nausea overwhelmed him and James flung himself off his backpack and vomited onto the leaves beside his hiding spot. Little came except for bile and yellow acid. Dry heaves followed like aftershocks for several moments. Finally calmed, now that there was nothing more to bring up, his stomach settled into an uneasy silence and James washed his mouth with a small sip from his last remaining canteen. Instinctively, he knew he had been using too much water and he wouldn't have enough to last the rest of the patrol.
Midnight seemed so far away. How could he make it that long? Would there be a moon tonight or would there be clouds? A moment of lucidity reminded James that he had broken his cover but there was little that could be done. He carefully settled himself back down in nearly the same spot before his pack and returned to watch the family through his binoculars.
Pedro had returned home for lunch. The wash was hanging on a line made of branches stuck in the ground whose limbs had been woven together into a sort of lattice. Startlingly white shirts and under ware shown in the blazing sun. Pedro was now sitting on a small wooden stool in the small shade provided by the side of the house. Pepito sat on his fathers knee. Eva and her daughter brought out a large platter mounded with something and another small stool to set it on. Maria set this before her father while Eva returned with two more stools.
Pedro scooped something onto a tortilla and began to take bites and feed some of it to his son. Eva and Maria also began to help themselves. Conversation seemed to be sparse but light and happy. Pedro explained about the weeding, he would be done with the maize today. Momma talked about how big Pepito was getting. They all listened while he told some small joke. Maria listened with an abstracted air and kept glancing away at the home of her friend.
James knew he hadn't really proven anything. He couldn't really claim that there were no weapons in the vile because he hadn't been watching long enough. They could be hidden in any of the houses, buried in the fields, or piled underneath any of the several haystacks the villagers kept. It would be several days before James knew enough about Pedro, Eva, Maria, and little Pepito before he could in honesty say that no there are no weapons here or yes there are weapons. Go find them.
But James also knew, in some core of his mind, that he couldn't stay here any longer, let alone several days.
Pedro turned to his ox as the women put the remains of their lunch away. He led the animal to a small shade, filled a trough with water and left it to rest. He now returned to his house, brought out a tool box, moved his stool to the shade of the house and began sharpening a hoe. He worked at this for an hour and then leaned back against the house, sighed and soon appeared to sleep.
Maria had collected her friend and they slowly moved through the heat of the midday to another patch of scrub forest where they disappeared, probably to collect wood. Eva settled herself near her husband, needle in hand sewing something, a dress perhaps. Pepito curled up in the shade and soon was still.
All asleep, James nearly nodded off himself but struggled to remain conscious, some part of him remembering the danger he had placed himself in by moving, by being sick, by losing control. Yet fear, a desperate fear that wanted James' attention, couldn't penetrate the stupor that had settled on him after he vomited and so he lay there on his stomach, eyes open taking everything in but he slept.
He slept until finally, some how, some jangling alarm deep in his reasoning mind, roused James with a jerk. He probably would have jumped to his feet so great was his alarm, but James' entire body was numb and unresponsive.
Suddenly it was clear; the weapons had to be here or James couldn't leave. It was that simple, "... find the weapons or don't come back!" Or had the the Platoon Leader said that? Did they really care that much? Would it matter if he just said he saw weapons in Pedro's hut?
It wouldn't exactly be a lie but then again, James really didn't think it was the truth either. But he had to get out of here. He was losing himself. He felt like the lens of a camera without anyone to provide focus.
Pedro had returned to weeding the maize but left the ox in its bower this time. Maria still hadn't returned from her wood gathering mission. Eva was giving Pepito a bath. The water must be cool because the child was laughing and splashing his mother. Every once in a while, James caught sight of Pedro as he ducked down to pull one more weed, then move on down the row.
They were alive. They were life and James could see it, could almost taste it but they were there and he was here in the forest, lying next to his vomit, deciding, deciding for them.
He had to leave. He had to get help. He couldn't make it another night. He was dying, cut off. James had to leave and thus Pedro had to have weapons hidden somewhere. Maybe in the ox bower or under one of the maize plots. Or the shrine or anywhere. But they had to be there. He couldn't go home without weapons. These people didn't have them. But they had to.
The sun had completed its half circle. The sky was beginning to darken as the mists began to form in the hills and come rolling toward the vile. Maria came walking up to her house with a bundle of something in her arms. Could it be? Maybe ... just maybe, those were rifles? Was the bundle firewood or could it be a stack of weapons?
Suddenly sure that he had seen something that would release him from the grip of this duty, James nearly shouted his relief. Soon, he could crawl away from his vigil, ooze his way past other huts, creep around sleeping animals until he reached his pickup point.
Soon the darkness and the thickening fog surrounded James in a cocoon of silence and dampness. After waiting five minutes longer than necessary, James sat up, put on his pack, picked up his weapon and attempted to stand. After nearly falling, James began to slowly pick his way back away from the spot he had lain for nearly twenty four hours.
He lurched from foot to foot and quickly lost his sense of direction. The forest became darker and darker until he was feeling his way forward with his outstretched hands. He fell, then again, and again. Finally after what had to be hours, James was shivering and nauseated and very scared. He had to keep moving. After falling once more, he began crawling, barely feeling the twigs and branches that scratched his face and hands.
Around midnight, exhausted, James fell onto his stomach once again. Barely able to move he struggled to remove his pack and then collapsed on it, unconscious in moments.
Light lanced off the surface of the road into the lenses of binoculars that connected James to the young woman, sitting in her doorway, watching the forest as if looking for him. She had just appeared when James' attention shifted to her small hut in the little hamlet he had been sent to watch. Clearly she had just woken while James had been up for most of the night. ...
Platoon Leader Lee had been quite angry with himself when he saw the stretcher carrying James back into the base. Somehow the soldier had dragged his ravaged body back to the pickup point and waited six hours for the patrol to bring him in. Before James finally lapsed into a comma, he had repeated over and over to the soldiers who had discovered him that there were no weapons in vile 6145. Considering how long the soldier had watched the village, it was more than likely that he was correct.