Zig Zag to Armageddon: Volume 1

ZIG

ZAG

TO ARMAGEDDON

VOLUME 1

TONY FOSTER

Authors Choice Press

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Zig Zag To Armageddon

Volume 1

All Rights Reserved ©1978, 2000 by Tony Foster

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Originally published by Ermine Publishers

Credit for Graphic Ron Patrick

ISBN: 0-595-13012-7

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2386-5 (ebk)

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

EPILOGUE

END NOTES

‘Z’ is a zigzag path I know

Through the woods where bluebells grow.

from a child’s nursery rhyme

… if a great number of countries come to have an arsenal of nuclear weapons, then I am glad I’m not a young man and I’m sorry for my grandchildren."

Dr. David Lilienthal

First Chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission

speaking to the U.S. Senate Committee Hearing

in January 1976

AUTHOR’S NOTE

In August 1976 I commenced a fifteen month sentence at the Terminal Island prison in San Pedro, California. The sentence was received after a conviction for smuggling almost a ton of marijuana into the United States from Mexico by aircraft the previous Fall. Upon arrival at prison I was lodged in a two-man pink cell where I remained between August and October, 1976. For some reason the Bureau of Prisons believes pastel shades of pink, green and brown provide an interesting variation on the sterility of color found outside prison walls, although from my own experience a seven-by five-foot, two-man cell equipped with sink and lidless toilet can hardly be considered the ideal location from which to offer a valued judgment. It was during the pastel period I began to write Zig Zag, using a pencil and paper provided by the Bureau of Prisons; later graduating to a ballpoint pen which I managed to steal from one of the guards. From that moment on it was all downhill.

During late October I was released into what is euphemistically referred to as population. This particular graduation ceremony takes a prisoner from the solitary luxury of a private cell where time weighs heavy, to a hundred-man dormitory and prison yard, where time weighs heavier. However, I discovered the main advantage of being in population was the access to a typewriter, in addition to the variety of interesting people I met among the thousand odd souls—both men and women—who were sharing my fate. Pimps, prostitutes, drug addicts, smut peddlers, tax evaders, bank robbers, smugglers, con men, swindlers and embezzlers with an assortment of warped idealists, lesbians and homosexuals, plus the insane. Some of them noble and quite innocent, some not so noble and guilty as hell, but all of them very real human beings. To them I am grateful, for they taught me to understand a part of life I never knew; each of us is really after all the sum total of our own experience, no matter what we choose to pretend.

Without belaboring the point, I’d like to thank my wife Helen, who, with our three children, endured the coldest winter on record in Canada while I endured the California sun, and who had the courage to wait until the nightmare ended; my lovable loyal Lorraine, who spent those long lonely hours typing this manuscript during the winter months in Toronto, deciphering my cramped scrawl initially, then later, my badly typed copy, and who had the steadfastness to wait until the dawn. Finally, my thanks to the staff and prisoners at Terminal Island, without whose help and comments this book could never have been written; the inmates, because they eared enough to understand—the staff of ‘F’ Unit, because they understood enough to care. This story is dedicated to that villain who dwells deep within us all.

Terminal Island F.C.C.

San Pedro, California

March 30, 1977

PROLOGUE

Canadian nuclear power started in 1945 at Chalk River, Ontario, near the deepest part of the Ottawa River, 125 miles west of the nation’s capital. ZEEP (Zero Energy Experimental Pile) was the British Commonwealth’s reply to the United States’ independent nuclear energy program. While the beneficiaries of the technology produced in the Manhatten Project at Alamogordo, New Mexico, shared their idealistic philosophy and information to develop atomic power for peaceful purposes, Canada joined Britain to produce its own unique nuclear reactor—CANDU.

The U.S., after a brief examination of the ZEEP system, decided on an alternative type of reactor technology. Britain abandoned its program based on ZEEP out of prudence and political common sense, realizing the long term dangers inherent in such a system. Canada, mistress of international vacillation and compromise, proceeded on its development alone.

In 1968 the first commercial production of this Canadian Brain Child commenced operations on the shores of Lake Huron at Douglas Point. Government plans called for one hundred and twenty of these reactors by the year 2000. With future power problems organized to its satisfaction, the Canadian government then turned to sell the progeny to foreign markets.

In keeping with the policy decisions made by Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson in 1962 to provide Canadian assistance in developing countries, a full scale CANDU reactor was presented as a gift to the government of India between 1964 and 1972. It was built in Rajastan and called RAPP 1. Pearson, a Nobel Peace Prize winner and compromising civil servant turned diplomat, sensitive to the Indian government’s desire to avoid losing ‘face’ by having inspection teams from Canada control the use of CANDU, settled for a gentlemen’s agreement’. This agreement provided that India would never use the technology of CANDU for anything other than peaceful purposes. The tree planted in Rajastan by the Canadian government bore a terrible fruit.

On May 18, 1974, India exploded her first atomic bomb, using plutonium fuel supplied by the Canadian government for RAPP 1. The CANDU reactor, like the U.S. Light Water Reactor (LWR) ‘breeds’ its own plutonium through use. The fuel required to make a bomb is simply removed from the CANDU reactor a little earlier than is usual and reprocessed with natural uranium and radioactive wastes. Common chemical solvents are used to separate the plutonium from these raw wastes.

Obtaining plutonium of a standard capable of producing a bomb from the U.S. reactor is a much more difficult problem. In the LWR, made by the U.S., the important Plutonium (Pu 239) is contaminated with another isotope of Plutonium (Pr 240), creating a lot of heat, light and radioactivity with no explosion. In addition, the LWR requires enriched uranium to operate. Russia and the U.S. are the only two world suppliers of this commodity.

CANDU eliminates all these annoying problems by providing the ability to use world-wide supplies of natural uranium and breed its own plutonium. However, instead of moving swiftly to chop down the offending tree, when the nature of the first harvest had been perceived, Canada moved its gardening efforts elsewhere.

Pakistan, the unplacated enemy of India, was also provided with a Karachi version of the CANDU reactor called Kanupp. Next, Taiwan, the armed island fortress with unfulfilled dreams of reconquering mainland China, collected the same reactor used by India to make her bomb—another gift from Canada. Six weeks before the predicted overthrow of the constitutionally elected government of Argentina by a group of army officers, a CANDU reactor was supplied to that country. South Korea, crouching at the bottom half of the Korean peninsula awaiting the opportunity to spring to the North, is to be the next recipient of Canadian generosity, together with several other nations in the dictatorial areas of the free world which aspire to nuclear membership. No enforceable treaties, safeguards or inspection agreements have been obtained from any of these countries. To date, the government of Canada has not made a single penny from any country to which it has provided CANDU. Payment, when it comes, will be the terrible harvest.

This story concerns one small country in the Western Hemisphere which used its CANDU reactor to build a bomb, and some men and women in various parts of the world who made it possible. They are the heroes and heroines of the story. The villain—and every story must have its villain—is the Bomb. The Bomb that will explode tomorrow morning at dawn, ending all our illusions.

India’s Rajasthan Atomic Power Plant (RAPP).

The Karachi Nuclear Power Plant (KANUPP) in Pakistan.

1

THE PRESENT

Ottawa,, Canada: The digital clock radio on the bedside table clicked at exactly seven a.m.

The World at Seven, the announcer intoned ponderously. Good Morning. From CBC news, here is the world at seven with Rex Corning and Owen Bogden.

Corbin’s mind began its journey into consciousness. He rolled over in the bed, dragging the sheets with him. His wife, familiar with the morning procedure, clutched her half of the linen defensively.

.. . explosion of the thermonuclear device occurred several miles offshore from the small Latin American Republic with no prior notification to shipping in the immediate vicinity. Authorities here state the device was in all probability a dirty type of atomic bomb in the 20 kiloton range and that any fallout should drift well out to sea with prevailing westerly winds before settling on the ocean. Ships in the anticipated fallout area are being warned…

Corbin was wide awake now, sitting on the edge of the bed.

That sonofabitch! he said aloud.

"… .the Canadian CANDU nuclear reactor was installed in the Republic under an aid program to provide nuclear energy for underdeveloped countries. Officials from the Atomic Energy Commission, the authority responsible for ensuring the reactor was used for peaceful purposes, have refused to comment on the situation until they have studied it further. The last CANDU reactor violation took place in 1974 when the Republic of India exploded a nuclear device …

The telephone cut across the newscast. Corbin plucked it off the cradle.

Corbin here.

Chuck. Have you heard the news? Don Affleck’s voice was excited, worried.

Yeah. I’m listening to it now. What’s happening?

The Minister has scheduled a meeting at nine. He told me to call you. You may have to go down to the Republic yourself. It’s a real baddie.

Okay, Don, thanks. See you at nine. He slammed the phone back on the side table, then looked angrily at his wife. El Chirlo. That sonofabitch. He’s done it!

Caracas, Venezuela: Sitting in the transit lounge of the international air terminal at Maiquetia, Galal Jamil also heard the news. He was waiting for Hassan to bring him an English newspaper from the kiosk, when he heard two American businessmen on the seat behind discussing the affair. He smiled to himself, as he listened to the sketchy details and outrage from the two voices.

The DC-10 VI AS A direct flight from Madrid had left him numb with jet-lag by the time it landed at the Caracas airport in Maiquetia. He had been tired of looking at Hassan’s stupid face and close-set Libyan eyes, ever since clearing customs and immigration with their forged Kuwaiti passports. The Libyans had insisted Hassan accompany him to the Republic. Well, it was their right. They were paying the bills.

The short swarthy Libyan returned to the seat beside Jamil and sat down, handing him a copy of yesterday’s Miami Herald, then folded his arms and stared vacantly into space. Jamil ignored him as he glanced through the thin overseas edition, waiting for the flight announcement of the Lineas Aereas Republica departure to take Hassan and himself on the last short leg of their trip.

San Ramon, Cosecha Rica: The big man sitting behind the plain burnished mahogany desk pushed the pile of telex sheets and telegrams aside. It was noon, and already thirty-seven countries had wired their displeasure. The messages had not been addressed to him directly, of course, but to the President. It amounted to the same thing. The old doctor left everything for him to look after anyway. The President had known nothing about the test firing fifty miles off the coast that dawn. There was no reason to concern him now with the resulting flurry of international disapproval.

He stroked his well-formed Spanish beard absently, toying with the envelope dagger on the massive desk. His not-quite handsome face crinkled into a grim smile. It was a lopsided facial movement, as the muscles in his left cheek had been sliced in half many years before. For as long as he remembered he had been called El Chirlo—Scarf ace. Sometimes it was said with awe, sometimes with fear—sometimes with love.

The door at the far end of the terazzo opened. The uniformed guards standing on the lawn just outside the open window behind his back, appeared suddenly, their machine pistols at the ready. They had been covering the room through the reflection of the open pane, adjusted to the right angle to see without being seen. He waved them aside without turning his head, as Paco, his aide, slipped into the chamber, closing the door softly.

They have arrived, Colonel, he announced in a stage whisper.

El Chirlo nodded and stood up, buttoning his khaki field tunic. It was devoid of insignia.

Show them in, he commanded. His voice bounced around the high marble walls.

He crossed to the center of the floor to greet the two visitors. Paco bowed into the room. He waited until the aide had left, shutting the door behind him, before speaking.

Again, welcome to the Republic, Mr. Jamil. He switched to English, inclining his head courteously.

Jamil turned to the Libyan. Colonel. May I introduce Major Hassan of the Revolutionary Council.

Hassan stepped forward, saluting. He looked ridiculous in his wrinkled grey gabardine suit.

Major Hassan. The head nodded courteously again, the eyes ignoring the salute. He led his two guests over to the soft leather lounge chairs grouped around a low circular table near his desk, out of earshot from the open window. The table, a thick cross-cut mahogany log removed near the base of the tree, was polished to a clear glass finish. He stood until they were seated.

I have Arabian coffee, or do you wish to dispense with formalities?

He picked a tiny gold bell from the table to signify a willingness to observe traditional courtesies as host. He held the bell silent.

Jamil waved away the suggestion. The gesture is appreciated, Colonel, but we have traveled far. Perhaps later? The bell was returned to the table.

As you wish. He waited for the Arab to speak, keeping his own face a mask while he examined the hawk-like features across the table. It was to be a chess game. El Chirlo was very good at chess.

Colonel. We heard of your success this morning when we landed in Venezuela. You have provided the proof Major Hassan and his associates required. The rest is now a matter of concluding our earlier agreements. Unless there is something else … Jamil let his voice trail off. The opening gambit.

The big man shrugged indifferently. We agreed on five bombs for a price. It was your decision to explode the first to see if the others would work. I obliged you. Now, you have four. I still expect payment for five.

But surely, Colonel, you would not expect full payment for a test? The hooded eyes glittered.

The test was your idea, not mine.

Even so, Colonel, do you not agree some consideration should be made in the final price—some adjustment where we share the cost of the test?

Jamil’s voice was oily smooth.

No.

Perhaps only a small reduction—let us say ninety-five million instead of one hundred? Surely a five million adjustment is within reason?

El Chirlo laughed. A dry barking sound. "Jamil! We made a deal—no papers—no treaties—your word and mine. You’ve changed the deal once and now I’ve got everyone down my back. If you want a change again, it’s no deal at all. I’ll keep the bombs.

He was beginning to enjoy the game. The next attack gambit should be a suggestion of individual purchase instead of lot consignment. He formed the defense argument swiftly in his mind.

Suddenly, Hassan spoke up, interrupting the game. The bullion will be shipped from Tripoli this week, Colonel. I guarantee it!

Startled, they both looked at the intruder on their game. El Chirlo seized the advantage quickly. Splendid! When I see the bullion arrive and sitting on the dock, you can load the bombs, Major.

Two weeks, Colonel. The ship will be here within two weeks. I guarantee it.

Jamil looked at the Libyan without changing his expression.

Goat herder! he thought. They had told him that Hassan would keep his mouth shut, allowing him to finalize the negotiations. The mother’s whoreson has just given away twenty million dollars on the first bomb! Jamil was incredulous at the man’s stupidity. He had been certain El Chirlo could be talked down on the cost of the test firing and settle for a lesser amount than the original one hundred million. Perhaps not the full price of the twenty million dollar bomb, but certainly a portion of its cost. His Arab sense of bargaining was outraged. The opportunity of negotiating the point had been thwarted by the dim-witted Libyan. Jamil felt powerless.

If Hassan were a member of the Jimaz al Rasad instead of the Libyan Council, he would have been eliminated years ago. The Black September Movement within Al Fatah executed idiots like Hassan, swiftly. What he had done was criminal. He swung his eyes back to El Chirlo.

One hundred million dollars in bullion at the London Fixing price on the day of delivery then? I take it we are agreed?

It was not so much a question as a flat statement of fact. Jamil’s eyes flickered in defeat as El Chirlo smiled and reached down on the table for the little bell. Its tinkle reminded Jamil of the delicate Dresden doll he had seen dancing on its pedestal in a shop at Munich shortly before the Olympic games.

2

1960

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is eight one seven zulu. I’m a C 45 on VFR flight plan out of Miami for Salvador. I’ve just lost my second engine and am going in. Does anyone read me?

Gunnarson had been working a crossword when he heard the voice over the ship’s radio. Normally he kept the 121.5 emergency frequency turned so low that it was barely audible, but this call was very close. He picked up his microphone stand, turned the volume up on the receiver and flicked the switch onto the distress frequency.

Aircraft calling Mayday, this is tanker Sonderstrom. I read you loud and clear. Over.

Hello, Sonderstrom. Eight one seven zulu here. I’m at five thousand gliding into the Gulf. Could you please contact the Coast Guard? I lost my first engine about ten minutes ago, then the second started overheating and swallowed a valve, I guess. Aircraft is a twin-engine Beechcraft C 45. I have a raft and rations. My position is—wait a minute … .

Gunnerson stopped writing and looked at the radio speaker, waiting for the position report. He watched the brass encased wall clock as its second hand swept through two complete revolutions. When the voice returned, it was very faint. He’s almost to the sea, he realized.

Tanker Sonderstrom. Eight one seven zulu here. Near as I can figure, I’m about half way across the Yucatan Channel on a dead reckoning·—got that? Half way!

The voice was barely audible by the end of the transmission.

Gunnerson replied quickly. Roger. I have that eight one seven zulu and will advise the Coast Guard immediately. Please keep transmitting for an ADF fix.

For a few moments he listened to the crackling of the speaker. There was no further contact. He picked up the telephone at his elbow on the desk and pushed one of the white buttons.

Bridge. He recognized the second officer’s voice.

Gunnerson, Sir. I just picked up a Mayday from an aeroplane going down in the Gulf. He’s fairly close by I think, judging from the signal strength. About forty or fifty miles away, no more.

Did you get a position report?

Yes sir. Said he was halfway across the Yucatan Channel, heading for the mainland.

Stand-by. I’ll call the captain. See if you can raise a Coast Guard vessel in our area.

Aye Sir. He replaced the phone and reached for his copy of the Coast Guard radio frequencies, flipping it open at the tab index marked ‘CARIB’. He ran his finger down the page, stopped and picked up a pencil. He wrote down the frequency numbers, then spun the dials on his radio set and picked up the microphone.

Coast Guard, this is tanker Sonderstrom calling Coast Guard. How do you read?

Colley still could hear the voice of the tanker’s radio operator when he yanked the earphones off his head and slung them over the hook above the side window in the cockpit. The altimeter showed the aircraft passing through two hundred feet towards the water. He held it steady until he estimated he was fifty feet over the waves, then leveled off, pushing both engine throttles back to cruising power. He adjusted the propellor synchronization until the sound of engine beats matched exactly, then swung the aircraft into a slow turn almost due west. When the Beechcraft settled on its new course, Colley switched to autopilot, then slid out of the seat and went back into the cabin.

He released the safety locks on the cargo door and pulled the folded panel inside the fuselage. Warm moist air rushed past the dark opening, sucking bits of paper and debris out into the night. Quickly, he picked up pieces of Beechcraft rudder, wingtip, tailwheel and flung them out at the bottom of the open door, pushing them down to avoid hitting the tailplane. He then slid three cardboard boxes across the floor and shoved them out in sequence to splatter their contents across the sea. He replaced the door, locked it and made his way back to the cockpit.

Five hours later he saw the yellow flickering lights of Tampico on the horizon. Colley altered course to parallel the Mexican coast, heading north. Twenty miles further along the shore the lights from the next town, Altamira, came into view abeam the wingtip. He edged the plane closer to land until he was well clear of the Tampico shipping lanes then tightened down his shoulder harness until the straps bit into his flesh. He reduced engine power to a slow idle, patted the top of the instrument panel affectionately, then switched off the main fuel selectors. Seconds later the port engine stopped, its carburetor starved. The starboard engine idled a few moments longer, then it too was silent, its propellors windmilling idly. The aircraft slanted towards the water.

Colley flared out a few feet above the blackness, checking his descent. He held the control yoke steady as the speed fell off, then gradually pulled the control column back, keeping the nose high as the remaining flying speed dissipated. The Beechcraft settled onto the waves, tail touching first, then the propellors, finally the fuselage. There was a slight bump, the machine skipped once, then ploughed the water abruptly and started to sink.

He unhooked his harness and went back to the cabin swiftly to release the emergency escape window, and poked the raft in its bright yellow kitbag out through the opening. It dropped onto the wing. Colley scrambled out the hole after it. Only the trailing edge of the wing was underwater. He dragged the kitbag up on the dry leading edge and shook the lifeless raft out onto the dull aluminum. The small air bottle attached to the folded dinghy blew it into life. He threw the empty kitbag into the bottom of the boat and cast off.

Using the small hand paddle to circle the dying airplane, he paused at each of the fuel ports along the wing to remove the gas caps, then moved alongside the engine cowls to pull the dipsticks with their attached caps from the oil tanks. Finally, he paddled to the fuselage cargo door, now partially submerged, and turned the handle. The door was pushed back suddenly by the rush of water carrying the raft into the opening. Colley shoved himself away from the flooding and paddled strongly until he was well clear. He paused to watch the final plunge. It took longer than he had anticipated. The top of the fuselage seemed to be resting on the water, air trapped in the roof of the cabin, holding it afloat. Bubbles from the empty gas tanks streamed up from the submerged wings as they filled with seawater. Gradually, the aircraft sank until only the double tail fins were visible. Then, they too slipped under the dark surface. A few phosphorescent bubbles continued to burst above the water, then all was still except for the waves.

Colley sighed. Goodbye, old girl. Thanks. He spoke the words softly with love and started to paddle for the shoreline three miles away.

He covered the distance quickly, helped by the onshore night breeze from the water. He dragged the raft well up from the waterline, then cut the canvas with his pocket knife and stamped the hissing yellow sides flat on the sand. He pushed the remains back into the kitbag and tied the drawstrings, then dropped to his knees on the sand and began scooping out a grave. When he had finished, he checked his watch. It was twenty-seven minutes to three. Colley adjusted the moneybelt under his shirt to make it more comfortable, and started walking along the beach towards the lights of Altamira. He kept close to the wet sand along the water’s edge. It made walking easier.

The glow from the small fire behind the low banks of sand dunes was almost invisible until he was abreast of it. He stopped as two Mexican peasants in white cotton pants and chemises left the fire and their friends to greet him. Both were carrying long machetes.

Que Tal. The taller of the two spoke, smiling.

Colley nodded to them. Que Tal.

A donde va?

To Altamira, he answered them, speaking Spanish. Colley’s Spanish was perfect, without a trace of Gringo accent. He had learned it as a child from his nurse at the Residence where his father had been Charge d’Affairs in Santiago, Chile, during the early forties.

Are you a Gringo? the Mexican asked, puzzled by the big, black-haired man in the lovely boots who looked like a Gringo, yet spoke like a Latin.

Do I sound like a Gringo my friend? He laughed. He knew he didn’t, which was why he was here instead of Corbin.

The Mexican laughed too; his friend joined in, uncertainly. They spoke to each other briefly in low tones. Colley caught the words ‘tourist’ and ‘hotel’ and guessed they had probably decided he was visiting one of the local resorts, a businessman from Mexico City out for his late evening stroll.

May we offer you a share of our beans? the shorter man asked.

The taller peasant joined in the invitation. It is a poor meal suitable for poor people like ourselves, but we share it with you gladly. He stepped back a pace, ushering Colley to the fire with a wave of his machete and a bow.

Gracias, Senor. But my wife will be expecting me back at the hotel. I have been strolling to digest my evening meal. He started to walk on.

Like a cat, the smaller man jumped in his path, the machete raised.

Mentirosa! Liar. We have been on this beach all night and no one has passed. Are you too proud to share our humble beans?

Colley stopped, his senses alert to impending danger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other three leave the fire and saunter down the slight dune to the flat beach. He edged towards the water, keeping his rear covered. He cursed the fact he had left his .38 on the Beechcraft, but he had agreed with Corbin—no identification; just his wristwatch, penknife and the money belt.

Little man, if you don’t get out of my way I’ll break you in half!

He spoke evenly, unhurried, then moved towards his antagonist. He almost reached him when the machete swung. He flicked his head sideways and saw the dark blade for an instant out of his left eye as it glided down his face. Colley thought it had missed him until he saw blood dripping onto his shirt, then felt his cheek with anger. It was numb; his fingers unknowingly went through the slit touching his back teeth. With a roar of surprise he leaped at the little swordsman, who impaled him through the side of his waist as both fell to the sand. He saw the peasant face twist in terror as he thumbed the man’s cartoid arteries, watching the eyes pop. It was the last thing he remembered. A driftwood log smashed the back of his skull and the lights went out.

The terrified peasant scrambled out from beneath the big unconscious body and withdrew his machete from the bleeding side.

Puta Madre! He’s a mean one! He wiped the long knife on the sand, grinning nervously.

Strip him, the taller one ordered the other three. The man that had wielded the log tossed it aside and went for the boots.

The boots are mine Miguel. Bring them here!

Miguel complied, grumbling. They were far to big for his feet anyway. It was while the tall one was trying the boots on over his bare feet the other two found the money belt with the fifty thousand dollars that Colley and Corbin had so quietly put aside over the past four months. They carried the belt over to the tall one, sitting on the sand.

Dinero, Pablo. Mucho dinero! they told him excitedly.

He seized the cotton waistband, glancing through the pockets briefly, then stood up quickly.

Vamos! Strip him of everything. You, Chico, put out the fire. Vamos Caballeros! Vamos!

They left Colley naked and bleeding near the water and disappeared over the dunes to their village.

Dr. Luis Artega de Cordoba watched his daughter standing on the flying bridge of the deep sea fishing schooner. The boat was rolling lightly in the mid-morning swell, not uncomfortably. Two tall fishing rods, locked to either side of the cabin, nodded with the motion of the boat. They had left the marina in Tampico at dawn, carefully skirting the big oil slicks trailed by the small tankers leaving the PEMEX refinery in the bay, then headed up the coast past Altamira, keeping close to the shoreline. A day’s fishing was just what he needed to take his mind off politics for a few hours. His daughter had been quite right. Felina was always right. He regarded her lithe figure on the bridge with affection.

What’s the use of having a lovely boat if we never use it? she had argued persuasively over dinner the previous evening. Let’s take a day off and go deepsea fishing, Papa. Please. It will be good for you. You need a change, doesn’t he Ruis?

Even Ruis hadn’t objected to the proposal. Perhaps he was too tired of planning the endless permutations of political intrigue necessary to re-install a deposed president. Perhaps he is sorry now that he followed me into exile. He switched his gaze from Felina to his old friend standing on the wing of the platform, scanning the shore with his binoculars, looking for birds. Ruis was an avid ornithologist and had catalogued over a thousand species in his spare time. He saw Ruis wipe an arm across his eyes, then raise the glasses, pausing to hold their image. He lifted the binoculars from around his neck and called to Felina at the wheel. Artega could not hear their voices above the throaty muffled roar of the engines at the stern. Felina studied the beach with the glasses a few moments, then handed them back and said something to Ruis as she spun the chrome wheel, turning the schooner towards shore.

Ruis stepped down the short gangway from the bridge and joined Artega on the afterdeck.

"There is a naked man laying on the beach near the water, Luis. I thought he was dead, then I saw his arm move. Felina wants to move in closer so we can see better.

Artega grunted. Probably a drunken Mexican robbed by his friends last night.

I don’t think so. His skin is dark everywhere except in the middle of his body; there it is very white. Like a Gringo who wears shorts.

Artega digested this information without comment. A naked Gringo laying on a Mexican beach at ten in the morning provided all sorts of interesting possibilities for consideration.

Felina slowed the boat to an idle a hundred yards offshore and squinted at the form on the sand. She glanced back to Ruis and her father as they studied the naked man through the glasses.

He looks like he has been wounded. Maybe a guest from one of the hotels—beaten and robbed.

He handed the binoculars back to Ruis.

How deep is the water? Can we run up to the sand? He motioned his daughter to ease the bow onto the beach and got to his feet, following Ruis to the prow of the fiberglass deck. The keel scraped the sandy bottom about ten yards from shore. Felina switched off the diesel engine.

Get my bag out of the cabin, he called to her as he jumped off the side into the shallow water behind Ruis, wading ahead of him.

The man was laying on his back, his eyes closed except for the bottom corner of his left eye, which had been dragged open by the loose flesh cut to the bone. It was a vicious looking gash that split the cheek in half. Artega could see the man’s bicuspids, white under the pink flesh and coagulated blood. Sand flies and a few ants were crawling in the open wound. He checked the pulse at the throat. It was weak, but steady. He lifted an eyelid, the good eye, and peered at it closely.

Humph! He has concussion. He felt gingerly about the back of the man’s head until his fingers touched the huge bump hidden by black curly hair. He slid his hand expertly over the rest of the inert body and probed the knife wound in his side.

Superficial. He grunted. Felina waded ashore with his worn black Gladstone bag and handed it to him.

Is he still alive?

He has a concussion and two knife wounds. He’ll live. He’s young and strong, Artega announced professionally. Let’s try and get him onto the boat where I can work on him.

Felina tried to keep her eyes from the man’s crotch and pale thighs which stood out in startling contrast to his deeply tanned body. Except for the huge gash across his face, he was terribly handsome, she decided.

Carefully, they lugged the man through the water to the boat, lifting him over the side from the stern ladder. Felina pulled him aboard under the armpits, using her foot on the low teak railings for leverage. He was very heavy. Artega and Ruis carried him down to the cabin bunk and wrapped him warmly with blankets. The doctor went to work on the man’s face at once, swabbing out the congealed crusts of blood, sand and flies around the edges of the wound. When it was clean he scraped it open to overcome the healing process, already begun. As it started bleeding freely, he compressed the two sides of the cheek together evenly and taped them into position.

Stitches will only make him look worse, he told Ruis. As long as he keeps his mouth shut as it heals.

Did you ever meet a Gringo who could keep his mouth shut, Don Luis?

Artega nodded, remembering the American ambassador to the Republic who had known about the coup to overthrow him weeks before it happened, but, not wishing to interfere with local politics, had said nothing.

I’ve known one or two of them, Ruis.

He wrapped the unconscious man’s head in ice packs from the refrigerator, then sewed up the gash in his side with seven neat sutures. He wrapped the big body back in the blankets and stood back to survey his handiwork with a critical eye.

We’ll take him back to Tampico. He should be in a hospital until we know how serious the concussion is. He touched the man’s carotid again. The pulse was still weak, but steady.

Felina backed the schooner away from the shallow water and swung the nose out to sea, pushing the big throttle handle up to maximum power. The boat thundered away from the shoreline, the bow creaming, then flinging a fine spray back to the afterdeck as it sliced into a steep turn southwards to Tampico.

The man in bed number 112 on the fifth floor of the hospital had healed well over the past weeks. Everywhere, except in his mind, the Chief Resident Physician admitted. It was a puzzling case. The man had absolutely no memory of anything except waking up in the hospital four days after he had arrived in an ambulance from the Marina. They had checked with the police, the hotels, even the Federales in Mexico City. There was nothing to identify the patient in bed 112. Now, the fingerprint report had come back from the U.S. and it too was blank. The Chief Resident shrugged and laid this latest report back on his desk. It was a mystery. The patient spoke English like an American. He spoke Spanish like a Latin. He spoke both languages with the vocabulary of a well educated man. The tests showed he had skills in mathematics, literature, engineering, and seemed to know something about airplanes. Where had he learned about these things? Why wasn’t someone looking for him? Someone who loved him—a mother or wife—a sweetheart perhaps? There was a light knock at his office door, and the secretary poked her head inside.

Dr. Artega is here to see you sir. His daughter is with him.

The Chief Resident nodded. Show them in.

He stood up, smiling politely as Felina and her father entered the office and sat down on the pale green, antiseptic-looking chairs before his desk.

Any more news, Doctor? Felina inquired.

I’m afraid nothing constructive. I received this report from the American Embassy this morning. He handed over the official sheet for her to examine. He is unknown in America to the FBI, which means he has never served in their military. Since we have estimated his age to be about twenty-five now, it means he would have been eligible for the draft in the U.S. during the Korean War if he was an American. His fingerprints would be on file.

Then you don’t think he is an American? Artega inquired.

The Chief Resident shrugged. Maybe, maybe not, Doctor. Everything points to it. His size, dental work, vocabulary, the colloquial expressions.

But he has the same sort of colloquial expressions in Spanish, Felina interrupted. She laid the sheet of paper from the embassy back on the metal desk. Surely that could mean he might be a Latin who also learned both languages simultaneously?

Perhaps.

Well, in any event, Doctor, we will collect him today and keep him with us until his memory recovers, or he decides what he wants to do with himself. At least we know now he is not a criminal with police looking for him. Artega smiled.

It may be a long time before his memory returns, Doctor Artega. I have known cases personally that have taken as long as five years for full recovery, even when the patient knew his identity.

Artega agreed. The mind is a strange thing, Doctor. Sometimes the reasons for a blank memory in the amnesiac are because the patient doesn’t wish to remember; the psychosomatic defense mechanism within the mind prevents cure. Friedman and Jung wrote an interesting paper on the subject. No doubt you have read it?

The Chief Resident hadn’t, but wouldn’t