Death in the Tall Grass
Mark Farenbaugh
The morning briefing had started when the door opened slowly and Lieutenant Colonel Manny Garcia entered. He approached Lieutenant Colonel Jake Sullivan and leaned over to speak quietly to him.
“Sir, we have a problem. Could you step outside with me?”
The commander stood up, excused himself, and followed Colonel Garcia out of the conference room.
“What’s up?”
“Take a look at the last page of this newspaper.” Colonel Garcia handed it to him. There was a photo of a dead person in the center of the page. Definitely a Latino, shirt removed, no visible tattoos.
Months earlier: Colonel Sullivan receives his marching orders.
“Make sure you pay close attention to force protection,” repeated Lieutenant Colonel Bhumm.
“Yes, sir,” repeated Colonel Sullivan to his immediate boss, a micromanager, but that wasn’t so bad where security was concerned since no one wants a dead person on their watch.
He knew the narcos wouldn’t be after deployed U.S. military men. What did worry him were the many places that offered female companionship. Prostitution was basically legal in Ecuador and he would have to watch for any of the U.S. military deployed to his Forward Operating Location (FOL) who might find their way to the dark corners of the many Ecuadorian brothels where hardened thieves linger. Soldiers like to take the edge off their loneliness, but they were not prepared for what awaits them.
At the Manta FOL airfield, there were eight aircraft parking spots allowed by the U.S. – Ecuador Agreement. Four large and four medium-sized aircraft could park there while deployed. Any one of the larger aircraft could have a complement of 50 soldiers to operate and maintain it. The FOL also had sufficient quarters and a large kitchen to support up to 400 personnel.
The U.S. contribution to the agreement was to provide a new runway and ramp. It was a new airfield, recently placed in operation. As more and more US aircraft started deploying to Manta, safety and force protection were at the top of the Colonel’s agenda. The military was the force. The protection of them was his responsibility. It was a busy base.
As for the prostitution issue, Colonel Sullivan held a meeting with his First Sergeant, his best connection to the enlisted troops, and the commanding junior officer of the security police force of 40 armed personnel.
“Gentlemen, I have an unusual request of you. I would like you to randomly patrol some of the better known whorehouses in the area. Don’t linger at any one of them. The idea is to make sure none of our troops are frequenting them. Just do a simple stop, look, and depart. Once the word gets out that we are checking, the troops will stay away and we will have a better chance of preventing an incident. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir,” responded the police chief. “What do we if we catch any of our military there?”
“Have a good and stern conversation with him and let him go. I don’t want to get involved with their parent command if I don’t have to. If the guy you find presents a problem, bring him to me. I’ll take care of it.”
The First Sergeant and the security police Captain knew what that meant; a quick exit off the base and an escort to the nearest airport.
Two months later, the commander’s phone rings.
“Colonel Sullivan, this is Colonel Bhumm, how are you?”
“Fine sir. How are you?”
“Well, I’m a bit concerned. Are you sending our troops to off-limit locations?” Obviously, the word had gotten out.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir. What goes on at these places?” responded the Manta commander. Obviously, he didn’t want to be recorded in saying that he had directed the routine patrols of off-limit whorehouses.
“Well, I don’t know what your goal is, Colonel Sullivan, but we don’t need to hear about unusual directives where our soldiers are placed in danger.”
Colonel Bhumm was clearly avoiding any mention of troops visiting whorehouses. He was protecting himself, so that if an incident occurred he could say he knew nothing.
Colonel Sullivan continued. “Colonel, I’m still not sure what you are saying. If you are concerned about safety, just give me a direct order and I will cease “whatever” it is that I am doing. But, at that point the responsibility for force protection is yours, not mine. And, I would like that in writing.”
Sullivan was calling his bluff. They were of equal rank…. a more verbally liberal use of foul language could have been slipped into the conversation, but that never works out well in the Air Force.
It was an uncomfortable conversation and it ended abruptly. Headquarters wanted to micromanage from afar, and at the same time dump the responsibility on him if things went wrong. Typical bullshit from Colonel Bhumm.
“This will not end well,” he thought.
One month later.
Colonel Garcia enters Sullivan’s office. “Sir, I got a call from the U.S. embassy, this morning. A U.S. Navy Lieutenant Godspeed. You remember, the one who helps with country clearance requests from the States?”
“I certainly do.”
“Well, apparently, headquarters is assembling a force protection team to come down here to inspect our procedures. Lieutenant Godspeed thinks it has to do with our patrolling “off-base locations.” They are sniffing around for breaches in force protection protocols.”
Both Colonel Sullivan and Garcia knew the importance of force protection. A slanted report from HQ could end his tenure as the Manta commander.
“Manny, after that horrible conversation I had with Colonel Bhumm, I don’t doubt it. His force protection zombies have had a problem with Manta long before I got here, and they are led by a completely self-serving retired E-7. She is a known liar.” Everyone knew her reputation to abuse her position. A string of five commanders before him were relieved within months of their tenure for much less.
“Sir, maybe we should discontinue our patrolling for a while. We can’t outrun this E-7 bottom dweller.” Colonel Garcia also knew the capabilities of this particularly good liar.
“No. It’s too late for that and I don’t want a death on my watch. A US Navy ship is scheduled to refuel at the port any day now and I don’t want our troops anywhere near where those sailors might wander. Those places are very dangerous. If the boss doesn’t want to take responsibility for force protection, it is still my responsibility. Maybe the subsequent force protection report from their team will read otherwise, but I am sleeping well with what I’m doing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When will the team arrive?”
“In 30 days.”
One week later.
Sullivan was looking at the last page of the local newspaper. “Who is he?”
“Sir, he’s a U.S. sailor from the ship. Honduran descent,” answered Manny.
“What happened?”
“Sir, his body was found in the tall grass near Club Angel.” It was one of the notoriously dangerous whorehouses located in a very isolated area outside the city of Manta. The same field had been the dropping off point of other victims, and both Colonels knew it.
“Does the Navy know?” Jake knew that the Navy ship was at anchor outside the port of Manta.
“They should. When he didn’t check out of the hotel where he was staying, the hotel owners rented a small boat launch and took his belongings out to the ship.”
The hotel was in Tarqui, a dangerous city zone completely off limits to FOL personnel. But, not to the sailors from the U.S. ships that stop at Manta to refuel and resupply. Their force protection rules were different.
“Do we know how he died?”
“No sir, we don’t. Not yet. He was lying still, barely visible in tall grass when the locals at a bus stop waved down a police car. He must have been robbed or something and was thrown into the field to hide the body. I would guess that since he didn’t have any identity on him, and no tattoos, the hospital mistook him for a local. You know how it is in the worn-out medical system down here; even when a victim is alive, if no one arrives to claim a person they simply let him die.”
“Please take the rest of the morning brief, Manny. I’ll call the embassy. We will need an airplane to get the body out of Ecuador. There is a Navy P-3 Orion aircraft being refueled on the tarmac. Maybe we can get them to change their mission and fly their own guy outta here. I’ll go out there and ask the pilot-in-command to hold-in-place until I get permission for him to fly a dead Navy guy back to the States.”
Hours later, after the morning briefing.
Colonel Garcia turns to his boss, Colonel Sullivan, while walking to the office, “Sir, I am getting calls from Headquarters. They are hearing false rumors of one of our guys being killed. I am sure this is leaking out through their force protection channels down here.”
“Who is calling?”
“The retired E-7. I think she is probing.”
“Ignore the calls. I need to handle this right now and don’t need interference from that she-devil.”
“Sir, if we don’t take her call, she is going to spin up Colonel Bhumm.”
“I know.”
“She’ll say that there is something we are hiding.”
“I know. I just need a couple more hours to get this unraveled. Don’t take her calls.”
Jake Sullivan had already tried to reach the embassy military commander, and he was getting nervous. He needed permissions from higher than his level to get this log jam moving. He needed two main items: the embassy’s influence to take possession of the dead Navy guy, and an airplane to get the corpse out of the country.
“Manny, please call our Flight Surgeon and see if he will come with us to the hospital.”
“Sir, should we call Colonel Bhumm?”
“Not yet. It would be interpreted as an I-told-you-so conversation. I’m hoping to convince the military group commander in the embassy to inform our Headquarters. Besides, the seaman belongs to the Navy ship, so he is not ours.”
Hours later.
The Manta commander’s phone rings.
“Hello Jake, this is Colonel Jackman. I hear you needed to reach me.” It was the commanding officer of the military group at the embassy in Quito.
“Yes, sir. Thanks for calling. Did you hear about the Navy’s loss of a seaman?”
“Yes, I did. In fact, the guy had been missing for a couple of days. His buddies were signing him in as aboard ship so he could be with his girlfriend. When the hotel delivered his stuff, all hell broke loose with their ship’s Captain.”
“I can imagine.”
“In fact,” continued Colonel Jackman, “there is a Navy forensic officer practically demanding we grant him immediate permission to enter Ecuador so he can conduct an autopsy.”
“Sir, please don’t give him permission to come down here. He is out of his jurisdiction. That same Navy doctor has been calling me. He is a full colonel, using his rank to push hard to come down here. I told him it would be better if he would preposition in Puerto Rico.”
“Jake, there is no forensic science down here. Ecuador’s version of an autopsy is to cut the body into pieces to see if they can discover what killed him. Let’s not let that happen.”
“Copy that, sir. In fact, I am finding out that due to the local laws, someone has to perform an autopsy when there is a death due to violence. The Ecuadorian hospital has called in a local doctor who is willing to perform the quasi-autopsy and is proceeding to the hospital’s small morgue this afternoon. I am trying to dissuade them.”
Colonel Sullivan knew the embassy commander was looking for a solution.
“Sir, I have a plan. If you would please have the embassy consulate intercede with the local hospital to let us handle the autopsy and give them a copy of the results, I won’t have to bribe the local doctor to not perform the autopsy. While that is happening, I will send my ambulance to the hospital morgue and try to convince them to hand over the body to me. It might be enough synergy to get the body into our coffin.”
“Additionally, could you please get permission to re-role the mission of the P-3 Orion here in Manta?”
“Sounds like a good plan. We won’t need the Navy to send their own forensic doctor. I can have him hold in Puerto Rico. Have you called your own HQ?”
“No sir. I was hoping your call to the Navy would let them know what we are dealing with down here. The Navy guy who died doesn’t belong to me.”
Colonel Sullivan continued. “Once you ask the Navy for the new P-3 mission - evacuating an unfortunately dead sailor, that will trigger a call from my boss. When that happens, I can let him know about my activities. I have been predicting that a death could happen like this and he will not be happy about being proven wrong about my methods.”
“I get it.” Colonel Jackman knew the reputation of Colonel Bhumm. He wasn’t impressed with him either.
Later that afternoon.
Once at the hospital, the Manta-assigned Flight Surgeon inspected the dead sailor’s body and determined that he was hit behind the ear with a blunt instrument. Colonel Sullivan and his deputy assisted the Flight Surgeon in wrapping the body in a plastic body bag and placing him in a coffin purchased by the US Military Group representative. His body departed Ecuador on a P-3 Orion aircraft.
A few days later.
Colonel Sullivan’s cell phone rings. “Sir, this is Lieutenant Godspeed of the Navy mission. The Force Protection visit and inspection from HQ has been cancelled.”
“I told you so,” thought Colonel Sullivan, wishing he were talking to Colonel Bhumm.
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