Randy White - Hunter's moon

“Yes. Very accurately.”

“What about the location?” If Waters was on our trail, she might be selfish enough to keep the story exclusive.

“She said… Honduras. ‘Somewhere in Honduras,’ is the way she said it. Such a sexy gringa -in my humble opinion. The entire world is searching for you, Mr. President. The news is on every screen. But if Shana Waters succeeds, do you think it is possible that you could arrange an introduction?”

As an aside to me, Rivera added, “It is a thing I miss. Being interviewed by the journalistas of New York and California, particularly women. They are so… receptivo. It is one of the reasons I have decided to”-he stumbled for a moment-“decided to abandon my retirement from the revolution.” He smiled. “Do you not agree, Mr. President? It is the time for revolution once again.”

Wilson, who was not smiling, said, “Yes, General, I agree. It is time for a change. First, though, we have to deal with this security problem. How do Waters and Danson know I’m in Central America? And for Waters to broadcast from the exact spot where we refueled-that was an unscheduled stop, remember?” He was speaking to me, as my brain reviewed the linkage: Key West… Danson, Waters… Tim the Gnome… Tomlinson… Me… Wilson… Vue… Rivera.

I said, “Only you, me, and Tomlinson knew about that stop.”

“Is it possible one of the fishermen recognized me?”

“No, they didn’t get close enough. If someone had binoculars, maybe, but unlikely. No one was expecting us.”

Both men were now staring as I considered alternative explanations, both probably wondering who had tipped off the TV people, me or Tomlinson.

We were in the foreman’s cabin of a working cattle ranch owned by a friend of Rivera. The room smelled of leather and horses. Rivera had ordered privacy. Except for men cutting wood in the distance, the president and I had seen no one until Rivera landed on the beach in an old Huey helicopter, blasting sand and spooking horses. With him were four men in military khaki, plus the pilot. All wore sidearms.

As I approached Rivera, we both spoke at the same time, surprised, the general saying “What are you doing here?” as I asked “How did you find me?”

It wasn’t until Rivera greeted Wilson with a bear hug that I understood that the powerful, unseen force providing assistance to the president was the same man I wanted to assist me.

What had Wilson said in Key West?

I trust old enemies more than I do new friends. At least I know what they want.

Something like that.

I was sure the maxim now applied to me.

Rivera was telling us how he knew Walt Danson was in Panama to search for the president.

“He arrived in the capital this afternoon, trying to charter a helicopter. He came in a craft from Managua too small, he said, for his crew and equipment.”

I was picturing the single-engine plane that had circled us, as Rivera continued, “Walt Danson went to the only avion company in Central America that I do not trust. Those malvados. But even there I have extra eyes. Loyal comrades in the flying business eager to help. As you know, I own a beautiful helicopter.”

Through the office window, I could see the Huey’s tail section. Someone had used green spray paint in an attempt to cover MASAGUAN PEOPLE’S ARMY, stenciled in white. The aircraft had to be twenty years old. Like its owner, the Huey had seen better days.

As a young revolutionary, Rivera had been among the most charismatic figures in Central America. Like Fidel Castro, he was driven and ruthless. Unlike Castro, he actually was a good baseball player. Three years pitching in the Nicaraguan League elevated Rivera to icon status. I am a mediocre catcher; still play amateur baseball. The sport is what brought us together, even though we were on opposing sides in two revolutions.

But great revolutionaries are seldom great administrators and Rivera was no exception. He was an inspiring leader but an uninspired bureaucrat. Dressed in fatigues, with his beard and field cap, Rivera photographed like a film star. In a suit and tie, though, he looked like an out-of-shape vacuum cleaner salesman who smelled of cigars.

The apex of his career in mainstream politics, ironically, was when he outmaneuvered Wilson in a showdown over illegal Latin immigration and then publicly snubbed the U.S. president at the Conference of American States.

It was incredible that the two men had forged a secret friendship. Or maybe inevitable…

In Key West, Kal Wilson had admitted he was more comfortable as a hero than as president. He loved leading the charge but hated arranging tents afterward.

That was true of Rivera, I felt sure. I once saw him on horseback, leading his troops toward a Contra stronghold-not exactly a cavalry charge, but Rivera didn’t turn and run when he started taking fire, nor did his troop.

In some ways, the two men shared threads of a similar destiny. Their political stars had blazed, then dimmed, at about the same time. Both were horseback anachronisms in a young, impatient world that was guided by committees and administered by computers.

The public will tolerate an incompetent politician. But not a failed hero. The people have so few.

On this November evening, Rivera was dressed as he had as a younger man. His camo fatigues were tight around the belly, his beard was gray, but his eyes were as brown and bright as his polished boots.

He was still a showman. Probably still ruthless. You didn’t have a conversation with Rivera, you listened to a speech. I noted key points as he continued to talk, explaining at length how he knew Danson was in Panama.

Danson was accompanied by a two-man crew, he told us. They had a lot of equipment, but the Cessna from Managua had been the only plane available. They needed a larger aircraft, plus they’d somehow offended the pilot.

“Television stars are vulgar,” Rivera counseled. “I have met many and can assure you of this truth. You may be aware, Mr. President, that I was invited to be a television star, even though I am not a vulgar man. But I refused out of loyalty to my people.”

Wilson was diplomatic. “It was the viewing public’s loss, General.”

Because of his destination, Danson had been told he needed a helicopter, Rivera said-significant. He also wanted to charter a ten-passenger plane and keep it standing by because he expected “friends” to arrive soon. Cost was of no importance.

My guess: If Danson found the president, he planned to import a bigger crew. He was in contact with New York, so he was also aware that Shana Waters was only a half a day behind him… and behind us.

An example of the occupational death dance Wilson had mentioned.

Rivera said, “There is no doubt why they are here. One of my comrades overheard the cameraman mention your name. Not once but twice. They also overheard the place where the famous Danson wanted to go.” Rivera was growing more serious. “My friends are very good at overhearing. There is no mistake.”

The place, he said, was near the village of Muelle de San Carlos.

The general focused on me a moment. “Is that name not familiar, my old catcher friend?”

It was, but I’d been a lot of places and heard a lot of names. Then I remembered.

“John Hull owned a farm near there,” I said.

Hull, with the help of the CIA, had built a dirt airstrip sizeable enough to land cargo planes. Colonel Oliver North and associates had used the strip to transport food and arms to the Contras during the war in Nicaragua.

“It is true I had a base near John Hull’s, but this camp is far to the south. You should remember this property. A secret camp that is also a farm. You do not remember the excellent baseball stadium my men constructed?”