Suicida’s Camp
1982
The Huey swept low over the rugged mountain landscape, my newly assigned Honduran pilots deftly making minute corrections on the controls to keep us just off the treetops. We were going in fast and low, standard procedure since the Sandinistas acquired Soviet-made Mi-17 helicopters.* Staying low also gave the Sandinista troops below us as little time as possible to track and target us. Nevertheless, our Huey caught occasional bullet sprays, and we would hear them strike the bird like somebody was hammering on a tin roof. Shooting at a moving helicopter is difficult, even for the highly trained. Even if they aimed just in front of the pilot cabin, bullets would most likely hit the tail section … and hit they did. Twice the pilots found bullet holes in the tail, three feet behind where we passengers were sitting against the back wall—and always on my side.
Suicida’s camp lay ahead on that remote hilltop. The place had changed significantly since his disappearance. He had been a real leader, devoted to his men and the cause, fearless in battle. He had led from the front on every mission.
On my previous trips, I had trained the men on mortars, machine guns, and sniper rifles. The latter they didn’t think too much of, unfortunately. Even after I personally showed them how effective these weapons could be, Suicida and his men decided sniper rifles weren’t macho enough. They wanted lots of firepower raining down on the Sandinistas, not a one-shot-one-kill system. So mortars and machine guns it was. Throughout that training, I spent a lot of time building respect with Suicida’s three hundred or so men.
I hoped that relationship would pay off on this trip. Krill and Cara de Malo, the two subcommanders who took over after Suicida’s disappearance, had gone way off the reservation. They were terrorizing a little village only a few miles from the camp by showing up with their weapons and throwing their weight around. Discipline had begun to break down as the new leaders spent most of their time drinking and whoring in the village.
Caro de Malo had a nom de guerre that suited his behavior. In English, that means “Bad Face” or “Face of a Bad Guy.” He was one of the Contras involved in the rape, and it was particularly awful. Reports were that he’d tied the woman to a tree, then they murdered her husband.
The small Honduran military detachment in the village couldn’t hope to stand against these two and their private army. Less than a dozen strong, they’d been the ones who alerted the Honduran command to the situation and they, in turn, sternly advised the FDN to clean up their act.
We had to get Krill and Cara de Malo out of the camp and then get Contras there back to fighting the Sandinistas. Not only was it a moral and legal imperative, but under Suicida, they had been some of our toughest fighters. Losing them to this banditry was a strategic blow to the effort.
In the helo with me that day were two FDN junior officers and “Captain L.,” a Honduran army officer assigned as our day-to-day liaison. If the men were now loyal to Krill and Cara de Malo, things might get dicey very quickly.
There was no place to land directly in the camp. Instead, we used an open field about a fifteen-minute walk from it. The pilots circled once at higher altitude. We could see two men at the edge of the clearing, waiting for us. We’d radioed ahead we were coming, in part to ensure the Contras didn’t mistake us for a marauding Sandinista helicopter.
We touched down, and the four of us dismounted. It turned out, Krill and his bodyguard were the two men we’d seen from the air. They came forward to greet us.
Krill’s bodyguard was a gigantic beast of a man. Tall, shaggy-haired, bulging with muscles. But where he had brawn, he lacked brain. To put it mildly, he was no rocket scientist.
After the welcome, while still standing by the Huey, I said to his bodyguard, “Hey, my stomach is all screwed up. Can you run into town and get me some medicine from that little kiosk?”
I handed him some cash. He glanced at Krill, who nodded quickly. The bodyguard turned and walked out of the landing area, double-timing toward the little village a few minutes away.
Once he was out of sight, I said to Krill, “Listen, buddy, they need to talk to you back at headquarters.”
He shook his head. “I can’t leave the camp.”
I knew this man. I’d helped train him. In the almost two years since I’d been in country, I’d worked hard to treat him and the others with respect while at the same time making it clear I was not a person to mess with. Building rapport like that was something I’d learned as a kid. Treat people well, but make it clear you’re doing so from a position of strength.
I hoped that would pay off right then. “Krill,” I told him, “you know me. I’m trying to give you an easy choice. I guarantee your safety if you get in the helicopter right now. If not, you’re going to get hurt because either me or somebody else will come get you by force.”
Captain L. added, “This is an official Honduran request, and I’m here officially to deliver it.”
Krill could see he was in no position to resist. Alone, at least a mile from camp and the armed men there, all he could do was nod. We took his sidearm and put him aboard the helo. Captain L. climbed in to be his armed escort, and the pilots spun the bird up. It lifted off in a cloud of dust and headed back toward Tegucigalpa, leaving me with the two junior FDN officers.
Krill’s bodyguard rushed back into the field a moment later, holding a packet of medicine and four Cokes. “Where’s Krill?” he demanded anxiously.
“He’s going back to headquarters. They’ve got something big planned, and they needed to talk to him,” I said.
The bodyguard did not look mollified.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” I said, unconcerned. The bodyguard stared at us suspiciously. “Take us to camp, would you, please?” I asked.
He complied, but it was a tense fifteen-minute walk. Once we arrived, he vanished, no doubt to go tell somebody Krill was gone. Word quickly spread through the camp, causing some alarm and confusion.
“Where is Krill?” one of his underlings asked me.
“He’ll be back tomorrow. Right now, we need to talk to Cara de Malo,” I answered.
The underling shrugged. “He’s not here. He’ll be back later.”
“We’ll wait for him.”
That did nothing to mollify the underling.
We stayed through the afternoon, carrying out some of our routine duties around the camp while we waited for Cara de Malo to return. Toward evening, he still had not shown up. Had somebody warned him off? We didn’t know.
Just before dinner, the three of us were walking around the camp, when a whispered “Psst,” straight out of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon got our attention. I turned around to find a Contra I knew, hunkered down inside a nearby bush. I walked over.
“Major, Major,” the Contra whispered. I’d recently been “promoted” from captain to major to keep my cover authentic. Can’t be a captain forever unless you’re doing a crappy job, right?
The Contra showed his face, and I recognized him immediately. Two trips before this one, he’d come to me in desperation. His wife was ill and needed antibiotics, but he had no money to purchase them. I reached into a pocket and gave him the cash I had on hand—the equivalent of about twenty dollars. He thanked me profusely, and I learned later the antibiotics did the trick.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“Some of these guys are scared you’re here. They know you sent Krill back. They’re talking about trying to kill you tonight while you sleep.”
Our Huey was not scheduled to return until early tomorrow morning. We were stuck in camp for the night and could be vulnerable to an assassination attempt.
“Thank you,” I said to the Contra. “Distance yourself from me. I won’t forget this.”
He nodded and disappeared into the brush.
At dinner, I watched those eating with us very carefully. I’d long ago learned to pick up little tells—quick eye movements, second glances between conspirators, changed mannerisms. I could see a few seated with us were behaving that way, all the while smiling and carrying on as if everything were normal.
My Contra ally was right. I could see it around the table.
These were not men who were going to openly try anything. I had an AR-15 that never left my side, and they knew me well enough to know if challenged, I would fight back and take some of them with me.
They were going to try something a bit more underhanded and with surprise.
We finished dinner, and one of the Contra subordinates said he’d show us to our quarters for the night. He led us to a remote hut at the base of a steep slope covered in pine trees.
This was what you would call a clue.
As soon as the FDN officers and I were alone inside, we discussed our situation. All three of us agreed it looked like they were setting us up for a midnight hit. With us on the outskirts of the camp, away from everyone else, they could blame our deaths on a Sandinista raid after the fact.
I had my AR-15 with four magazines. Hundred and twenty rounds. On my hip, I wore a 9mm pistol. I also had a last-ditch weapon, a Walther PPK pistol strapped to my ankle that no one knew I carried. An Agency friend who’d been a hostage in Iran during the crisis had warned me to always be as well armed as possible since it was known the camps had been infiltrated by Sandinista agents at times. He gave me a couple of mini grenades that I always pocketed before leaving Tegucigalpa. My two FDN companions carried their rifles, and one had a sidearm.
If the majority of the camp was against us, we wouldn’t stand a chance, but I was confident that would not be the case. But to give ourselves the advantage, we climbed out a window facing the hillside and crept up the high ground shortly after dark. We found a good defensive position with clear fields of fire and hunkered down. I assigned the FDN guys sectors of fire, then we worked out a sleep schedule. One of us always had to be on watch.
We were about a couple of hundred yards up the slope in great positions among the pine trees. We would be tough to dig out, especially at night. But if they came in force, we’d be overwhelmed.
Okay. This was where we played Custer, but hopefully with better results.
I took first watch, wondering if this might be the last few hours of my life.
Sometime after midnight, I heard a commotion down by our hooch. I tapped my two allies to wake them up. “Hey, lock and load. They’re here.”
A few voices rose from below us. They certainly weren’t the stealthiest assassins who ever lived. We were grateful for that.
A flashlight suddenly speared the darkness. Then another, outlining the hooch with their beams.
“Don’t fire until I tell you,” I said to the FDN guys.
My FDN colleagues lay on their bellies, and I got on one knee behind a sizable boulder, watching the scene below us. When they rushed inside our hooch and found nobody to kill, they lost momentum. Figuring to quickly kill us in our sleep was one thing. Finding us gone and obviously alert was another thing indeed.
This was why I always made it clear that if I got bit, I would always bite back.
They began arguing with each other over what to do next. They didn’t have the stomach for a night firefight with us, especially if we were out there in the darkness, lying in ambush.
They melted away into the night, returning to the main part of the camp.
Unfortunately, we couldn’t see how many or who they were; I guessed about four. They were there to commit murder, not for combat.
Dawn broke, and we decided to head back into camp to get some food. We acted as if nothing had happened. At breakfast, I studied the faces around us. Some looked relieved to see us alive. Others kept their distance. Was that out of hostility, or fear of association with us?
Amazing how quickly things could get this tense and fucked up after the loss of Suicida’s leadership. Some of those looking at us with suspicion I’d known for two years.
After we ate, a couple of Suicida’s loyalists approached us on the sly. They told us Cara de Malo was whoring in town. He’d “borrowed” a rancher’s jeep for his personal use and had a couple of guys with him as protection.
We walked over to the camp’s radio hut, where their simple but secure onetime pads and comms gear I’d helped get to them was kept under constant guard. This morning, I used it to call and confirm the arrival time of our Huey to the camp. As soon as our Huey arrived, I ordered them to land in the center of the little village in an oval-shaped park. We’d go down, get Cara de Malo, and get in the air without having to go back to camp.
As soon as we touched down, about a half dozen Honduran security types showed up to meet with us. They were the ones who’d reported Krill’s and Cara de Mala’s banditry, murder, and rape, so I knew they were on our side.
“Where’s Cara de Malo?” I asked one.
“He’s with two women in a house,” said one of the Hondurans, pointing to the far side of town.
“Go tell him Major Alex wants to see him right now. Here.”
Two of the Hondurans went off to find him. Our pilot kept the blades turning while we waited for Cara de Malo. Captain L., my two FDN officers, and I waited impatiently. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, a civilian jeep, top down, rolled up the street. Sitting beside his driver/bodyguard was Cara de Malo.
The jeep stopped a short distance away from us as we stood with our backs to the helicopter. Cara de Malo dismounted. I started walking forward toward him, my biggest and most disarming smile on my face. He stepped forward toward me, looking uncertain and fearful.
We shook hands, and then he stepped back. I could smell alcohol on his breath. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. He’d probably been drinking all night.
“You need to come back with me to headquarters,” I said. “There are some things you need to clear up.”
“I can’t leave. There will be nobody to run the camp,” he replied.
“This is not a request,” I said. “I’m here to escort you out.”
Captain L. added, “This has the blessing of the Honduran government.”
“I can’t leave. They will kill me,” he replied. He knew the score. He knew Krill was gone. He may have even been the one who’d ordered the attempted hit on us the night before.
He looked at me with trapped eyes, and then his gaze fell to the AR on my shoulder. I could tell he was sizing up his chances. They weren’t good. Captain L. and the two FDN officers were standing with me, the helo crew behind us, and the local Honduran cops had formed a loose perimeter around us.
Drunk, scared, and outgunned, he decided to take his chances at first. He turned and made eye contact with his bodyguard, who immediately pulled out an Uzi from under the front seat. The second I saw the weapon, I grabbed my AR and swung it up until the barrel pointed directly at Cara de Malo’s crotch. Nobody else moved.
I flicked the safety off.
That click brought Cara de Malo back to reality. My finger rested on the trigger guard, a half an inch and a split second away from killing him.
“I’m not looking for a fight. But I will give it to you if you want that. I am here to take you back to HQ. I can guarantee your safety.”
He looked unsure. Behind him, his bodyguard held the Uzi, barrel pointed skyward as he stared intently at me.
“Caro de Malo, you’ve known me for how long now? I’m giving you my word that you will arrive safe. You’ll have your chance to explain yourself. If you do not, the shit is going to hit the fan here.”
He was wavering, I could see it in his eyes. I pushed him just a bit more. “If your bodyguard points that Uzi at us, I am going to stitch you up first.”
That did it. His eyes filled with resignation. He nodded. The Uzi disappeared under the seat again, and the bodyguard sat like a stoic in the stolen jeep.
We led him to the helicopter as the pilots revved the engines back up. The blades chopped the air above us as I pulled Caro de Malo’s sidearm from its holster. “You’re a civilian on a Honduran Army helicopter,” I told him. “There are no weapons allowed.” The copilot reached back and secured Cara de Malo’s handgun.
He rode back to Tegucigalpa in silence. When the helicopter landed, a contingent from FDN headquarters was there to take him into custody. I walked away and never saw either him or Krill again.
The woman Cara de Malo and his minions raped testified in whatever passed for a trial for these two. It was damning evidence, and much was supported from interviews of other camp guerrillas. The Contras were trying to fight a war of liberation. They could not tolerate this sort of horrific barbarity, especially in Honduras, their host country. Krill and Cara de Malo were made examples of. I much later heard they were executed, and I also learned that Ray had hard-balled the FDN command with the threat of pulling our support if they allowed things like this to ever happen again.
Suicida’s camp came around quickly after they were removed. Most of the three hundred Contras there were like the one who warned me of the impending hit. They wanted to fight the Sandinistas and get their country back. The banditry and brutality the two subcommanders displayed was not the path to make that happen. With proper leadership, those men became an effective fighting force once again.
These “renditions” (I did not know that term back then) were eye-openers for me. Those were dangerous, volatile situations that could have gone bad in multiple ways. In later years, when I taught young officers how to interact with locals when working overseas, I would tell them the story of the young Contra who tipped us off to the impending attempt on our lives. In such environments, personal loyalty becomes extremely important. You can only build that by showing respect and consideration to everyone, no matter their position in the local hierarchy. That twenty dollars I gave him for medicine for his wife? It was the best investment I’ve ever made, because when things get dicey, it never hurts to have friends in low places.