After the mission, he probably put the guy in for a medal. It was pathetic.
We were about half a day out when a local Indian came down the jungle path on horseback. Through our interpreter, the WO asked, “If we pay you, can you get us some horses to carry our gear?”
He pulled out a big wad of money and said that he wanted to hire a dozen horses and twelve Indian guides.
The Indian guy said, “Sí, señor.” And took off.
We waited in the same spot for hours before the Indian came back with the guides and horses. All the SF guys piled their gear on the horses.
I told our guys, “We’ll carry our gear.”
Now we moved in this long, noisy circus caravan with all the Indians and SF guys with all of their gear on horseback. The three of us Navy guys walked in the middle of the patrol.
The horses had an amazing ability to climb up the steep mountain trails. They were better at it than the SF guys, who had to stop all the time and were constantly complaining about the heat, humidity, insects, their sore feet, and their tired legs.
The WO had all of the comms loaded on one of the horses. As the horse was climbing a particularly rocky, narrow mountain trail, it lost its footing and fell hundreds of feet into a deep ravine. That was the end of all our communications equipment. We didn’t even attempt to retrieve it.
At the end of the first day, instead of being stealthy and setting up camp with half of the guys sleeping while the other half kept watch, the WO had one of the Indian guys lead us to a Kuna village. It featured a group of huts that had sides made of reeds and roofs of thatched palm fronds.
As the older Indians lounged in hammocks, younger women wove molas—layered lengths of fabric intricately cut and sewn into various colors and designs. Their calves were wrapped in loops of beads, and they wore bright yellow and red blouses that highlighted their tanned skin. Large gold hoops adorned their ears and noses.
It was like a scene out of National Geographic. But we definitely didn’t belong there.
The WO pulled out his wad of money and asked through the interpreter, “How much will it cost for us to stay here and have you cook us dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow?”
He negotiated a price with the local chief and we stayed the night. While we were there, I’m sure one of the kids from the village ran ahead to warn the Panamanian general. The WO didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about that.
As a matter of fact, next morning after breakfast he asked the local chief, “Do you know where General X is?”
Talk about giving away our objective. By this time I’m sure the whole archipelago knew where we were going.
We lodged in local villages all of the three nights it took us to get in.
The farther we got, the slower we seemed to move. When we arrived at the general’s mansion, on the fourth day, it looked like the set of a movie—a gaudy, modern villa smack in the middle of the jungle with stables, a beautiful modern kitchen, and fancy tile floors.
As the WO started to walk up the driveway, I stopped him and said, “Warrant, we need to do a recon of the area first. The general’s probably gone anyway, but we should do surveillance for a while and watch what’s going on before moving in.”
The WO smirked at me and said, “You’ve seen too many movies. Don’t worry about it.”
It took all my restraint not to deck him right there.
He and a couple of his men starting walking up the long driveway, as obvious as sitting ducks. As they approached the gate, a young male servant came running out of the house.
The Spanish speaker in the group asked, “Where’s the general?”
“Oh, he left two days ago.”
Big surprise.
For the next twenty-four hours we searched the house, stables, and property for drugs and weapons, but we didn’t find anything. The whole mission seemed like a big waste of time, resources, and energy.
My only consolation: I slept in the general’s bed and took his shaving gear. It’s very high quality and I still use it.
I want to point out that I’ve worked with many exceptional SF guys throughout my career, but those reservists were terrible. I could have taken a troop of kids and been more successful.
Five days later, me and the other two Navy guys were back at Rodman Naval Station on the other side of the isthmus. That afternoon Lieutenant Adam Curtis and I were lying on the pier when our captain, Mike F., walked over and said, “The secretary of defense wants to meet with you.”
We stood up, buttoned our shirts, and straightened out the dirty, sweaty camo uniforms we’d been wearing for three days as two black cars pulled up and a group of Secret Service agents in dark suits emerged. Behind them walked Secretary of Defense Dick Cheney.