Goat Blood

GOAT BLOOD

By Hal Williams

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Copyright © 2015 by Hal Williams

ISBN 9781311888488

For Judy

Assassination.

Brutality.

Corruption.

The ABCs of political expedience in Caribbean and Central American dictatorships.

From the late 1920s into the 1960s, men in power schemed and plotted against friend and foe, foreign and domestic, each one well aware that today’s ally could become tomorrow’s adversary at the drop of a Panama hat.

In Guatemala, military coups d’état came around more often than Leap Year.

In Nicaragua, Anastasio Somoza kept control by having his rivals and opponents killed off on a regular basis. Somoza himself was gunned down in 1956.

On Cuba, Fulgencio Batista escaped Fidel Castro’s Communist revolution on New Year’s Day 1959, taking millions of skimmed and embezzled American dollars with him.

On Hispañola, Dominican Republic dictator Rafael Trujillo and Haitian strongman François Papa Doc Duvalier eyed each other warily across the occasionally disputed border they shared. Trujillo held Duvalier in contempt largely because of the latter’s purported involvement with Voodoo rituals and beliefs.

Yet despite its many faults, Trujillo’s dictatorial government was among the more stable ones in Spanish-speaking America. As of 1961 he had held power either overtly or behind the scenes for nearly three decades. His ruthless Servicio de Inteligencia Militar (SIM) suppressed opposition in much the same way as did Duvalier’s dreaded Tonton Macoutes, who were alleged to have slaughtered thousands of Haitian political dissenters since 1958.

But the Dominican Republic seethed within, and not even the brutal repression of the SIM could totally stem a rising floodtide of revolution.

GOAT BLOOD

THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC, MARCH 1961

THE CONDEMNED man stood on a wind-scoured precipice. Dull yellow automobile headlamp beams showed the hapless prisoner blindfolded and with his hands firmly bound behind his back.

At the base of the cliff, roaring Caribbean surf pounded a stony shoreline. Capricious zephyrs spiraled over the crest of the bluff, bringing with them fine salty mist and the scents of the ocean.

One of the prisoner’s captors approached him and spoke in soft, conciliatory tones. Others standing nearby waited in silence for the single gunshot they knew would come, each one secretly relieved that it was not his own finger resting on the pistol’s trigger, not his ghastly responsibility to end this man’s life.

The crime, dissent. The punishment, death.

Relentless waves smashed the corpse against abrasive rocks over and over, rendering it unrecognizable. Ravenous sharks tore at flesh and gristle as they disposed of what remained.

Duty done, the executioner lit a cigarette and then followed the other men back to their vehicle.

He felt no remorse.

It was not his first killing.

CHAPTER 1

PUERTO RICO, MAY 1961

SEEING A GAUNT, grimy terrier on the opposite side of the narrow street reminded John Murphy that he had looked rather similar to it not long ago. The mongrel had little more to it than matted brown hair covering prominent ribs and backbone.

Murphy had finally found menial manual labor in a warehouse and begun earning enough money to eat regularly and sleep indoors. The protein in his revitalized diet had helped him regain lost weight, and the rigors of the job had helped him get his muscles back into shape.

Murphy frowned at the man walking beside him. Might have been nice if you’d shaved before we came to meet this guy. You’re starting to look as scruffy as that mutt over there.

I only shave on Sundays, John Hooper responded without glancing at either Murphy or the dog. A six-day growth of dark whiskers on his square jaw gave him a slightly sinister look. He had maintained his abbreviated grooming routine since arriving in Puerto Rico nearly eighteen months earlier.

"This is Sunday."

Sunday evenings.

It’s nearly four o’clock, Murphy goaded, but he knew Hooper well enough not to expect any abrupt change in habit, no matter the significance of an occasion. He shrugged and kept walking in step with Hooper, a subconscious practice that all military men develop over time.

Hooper had changed. He had brought festering bitterness out of a U.S. Army court martial conviction following World War II, imprisonment in Fort Leavenworth, and subsequent coercion into Korean service. Hooper had performed well during their joint mercenary misadventure in the Union of South Africa, but the experience had made him even more sullen and irascible than he had been previously. Hardships encountered in Puerto Rico had not helped.

This is the place, Murphy said, indicating a cantina with whitewashed brick walls and dingy windows. Peeling paint on the wooden door frame added to a dilapidated appearance.

Dandy, Hooper muttered and followed Murphy inside.

We can pay you well, the man said in accented English, but you must understand that you would not be soldiers in the usual sense. The speaker wore typical Caribbean garb—tan slacks with a white chacabana that hung loosely around a compact, obviously sturdy torso.

We’ve heard that before, John Murphy said. He glanced at John Hooper and saw a slight nod. We’re skeptical because things didn’t work out too well the last time we believed it. Murphy saw that his statement caught Rodrigo Guerrero unawares, a fact the man failed to disguise, not for want of trying.

Guerrero took a breath. When? Where?

South Africa, John Hooper answered without elaborating.

And you were officers?

Hooper scoffed and looked away.

I was a team leader, John Murphy said as clarification. Hooper was my second-in-command.

Guerrero, who had introduced himself as a special recruiter from the Dominican Republic, looked to be only in his forties even though traces of gray showed at his temples and in his mustache. His round face held dark eyes that moved constantly, scanning the noisy Puerto Rican café for any sign of trouble. He seemed ill at ease and spoke in a hushed timbre. Then you found it necessary to kill other men, I assume.

I don’t know about that, Murphy said. We did kill some men but I’m not sure how necessary it was.

To protect yourselves, maybe, Guerrero said.

Mostly we did it to survive in a place where we probably should not have been to start with, Hooper said. He sat with his head pulled down between hunched shoulders, and his lowered eyebrows telegraphed mistrust. Murphy noticed his comrade’s increasing irritability; the Dominican recruiter did not appear to.

We will pay each of you three hundred dollars per week in American currency. No taxes. No conditions.

And no place to spend it, right. A shrug punctuated Murphy’s non-question. The Dominican ignored the sarcasm. Okay. If we aren’t to be soldiers, then what? Policemen? Bodyguards?

Guerrero thought for a moment. Bodyguard is a reasonable definition.

And whose bodies would we be guarding? Hooper asked.

Our leaders, Guerrero said, evidently thinking he had provided an adequate answer.

Let’s try that one again, Murphy said. Who would we be guarding? Leaders of what?

I think we should leave this place, Guerrero said. One cannot know who might be listening. Maybe we can walk to the cathedral. It is nearly time for evening mass.

I’m not Catholic, Hooper told Murphy, but leaving here is probably a good idea. He’s right that we’re attracting some curiosity, and it’s making me feel just as nervous as he’s acting.

Once outside, Murphy repeated his question knowing he might not like the answer. Who is it that’s worth three hundred a week per man to you?

Leaders of our revolution, Guerrero answered. "Their objective is to remove the dictator Trujillo and establish democracy in La Dominicana. Our mission is to provide them protection until they can achieve that."

You mean they want to assassinate Trujillo.

Guerrero nodded. They know it is the only way.

Murphy did not have to see Hooper’s face to know what he would be thinking. Both of them had been mustered out of the Army following the Korean Conflict. Each had responded to ads for mercenary soldiers in the Union of South Africa, where rogue members of the military had created death squads to eliminate dissident natives. The scheme came apart when officers of the legitimate South African Defense Force discovered what was happening. Murphy, Hooper, and two other men financed their escape through Mozambique by selling a Land Rover and a number of firearms. The vehicle was stolen and true ownership of the weapons was open to question. Neither circumstance really mattered; the buyers were not types inclined to ask questions or care about answers.

That experience had made Hooper more obdurate and Murphy far more wary of anyone mentioning assassinations.

Puerto Rico was the closest to home either of them could get without legitimate travel documents, but it scarcely mattered. Even after a ten-year absence, Murphy had no desire to return to his native Pennsylvania. Hooper seemed similarly indifferent to his Ohio birthplace. Their backgrounds did them little good in the anemic San Juan job market. Ponce, on Puerto Rico’s southern coast, offered marginally better prospects. Soon after Murphy had secured employment in the dockside warehouse, Hooper found work as a truck driver hauling harvested sugarcane from the fields to a processing plant.

John Murphy’s size—six-foot-four and two hundred forty pounds—generated chatter in places not frequented by nuns or schoolchildren. A number of men had discussed ways of luring him into boxing, which rivaled baseball in popularity and importance. One such conversation had piqued Guerrero’s interest, he explained, leading him to approach Murphy directly.

But not about boxing.

I have a question, Hooper said. Who are we supposed to protect your people from?

The Military Intelligence Service, the Dominican replied. Trujillo’s secret police.

"You keep saying they, Murphy observed. Does that mean you are not one of them?"

Things are complex. We—those of us protecting the others—are not truly part of the Fourteenth of June Movement. Ours is a paramilitary group. We have been harassing Trujillo’s army for nearly two decades, but now we must do things differently. It is more important to safeguard the men who can bring about change. We are peasants, for the most part. They are professionals, intellectuals, military officers—men of significant influence.

You’re no peasant, Hooper said, a challenge indicative of his skeptical nature.

No, I suppose you would not consider me a peasant, the Dominican said. My family raised sugarcane until Trujillo took away the land. I went to university here in Puerto Rico and studied botany. I planned to improve the quality of our crops, but then my father told me we no longer had any crops. It forced him to become a tenant farmer. Raising sugarcane was all he knew, so he really had no choice.

And you became a revolutionary.

Many people in our country are secret revolutionaries.

Well, I’ve been involved with assassinations before, Murphy said, and I’m not doing that again, so I think you’ve wasted your time with me.

You will not be asked to assassinate anyone, Guerrero said as he looked at his watch. We have no more time for talk. If we are to go, we must go now.

You seem pretty certain we’re going to accept, Murphy said.

Guerrero shrugged. A man who lacks confidence accomplishes nothing.

On the surface the Dominican’s promise of significant money had sounded good to Murphy, but the prospect of facing an elite police organization had diluted his enthusiasm. He turned to Hooper. What do you think?

"What I thought was, you’d had about all you wanted of things military when we left South Africa."

Yeah, so did I.

Hooper acknowledged the concession with a nod. I think it would beat the hell out of driving a cane truck eighty hours a week.

Murphy chewed his lower lip for a moment. Okay, Guerrero, I guess you have two new bodyguards.

CHAPTER 2

GUERRERO PARKED the borrowed sedan outside the tenement house where Hooper and Murphy shared a room. I give you five minutes to pack, he said.

It only took them only half that long. Neither had accumulated much in the way of personal possessions. Each owned a workman’s clothing and little else beyond razor, comb, and toothbrush. In order to save money, they had invested in scissors so they could give each other haircuts. Their lack of tonsorial ability showed; no one would mistake either of them for a doctor or a lawyer. Murphy had managed to hang onto his knife, the one an Algerian assassin had taught him to use with lethal efficiency.

Murphy had no reason to leave a forwarding address even if he could have known where they would go next; he never got any mail anyway. A year previously he had written a letter to his father to document his then-current whereabouts, something he had not been permitted to do in South Africa. He never received a reply and did not expect one. He had no one else to whom he had any desire to send correspondence. There had been someone once, but that erstwhile romance now lay far too many years in the past.

The road Guerrero took led west, starting along the coast but soon turning inland. Nance trees stood on one side of the roadway while stands of mangrove lined the other. Large clumps of native grass defined the verges. Away from the pavement, palm and pine trees stood here and there as silent sentinels guarding the deeper forest.

Driving distance from Ponce to Puerto Real was just over sixty miles, but the trip required nearly three hours. Even at five in the evening, sunset approached when Guerrero stopped in front of a flat-roofed house near the center of the town.

I assume this is a place where we’ll be safe, Murphy said.

We are reasonably safe anywhere in Puerto Rico, Guerrero said, but not everyone sympathizes with our cause. The man in this house does, so we will wait here until time to go.

Go where? Hooper asked, his tone slightly menacing.

South of here is a large lagoon with a tree-lined shore, Guerrero explained, though he did not appear to want to. A boat will come for us at midnight, but it will not wait, so we must be ready. We need slightly less than one hour to reach the spot on foot, but I want to leave here no later than ten-thirty, just the same.

That’s five hours from now, Hooper said in protest. Why do we have to wait?

The boat that comes for us will rendezvous with a larger vessel north of Desecheo Island. We will board it for the run to Hispañola. The timetable is fixed. It cannot be changed.

"That’s not an answer—’

How long will our sea cruise last? Murphy interrupted, cutting Hooper’s objection short.

It will require a full day. Guerrero unfolded a hand-drawn map and pointed out landmarks. The eastern end of our island is heavily populated, and military boats patrol the shoreline. Past this peninsula, the coast turns north again, and there are no tourist resorts in that part. Eight or nine kilometers north of this town—Nagua—we enter the mouth of a river. It is not a large one, and it has many twists, but it will take us forty kilometers inland.

Why? Hooper asked, his ire no longer suppressed.

The river passes near a sugar processing plant where we have friends. They will transport us over the mountains to the Rio Ozama valley in San Cristóbal Province. That is where we will operate.

Sure seems like doing it the hard way, Murphy said. There must be a shorter route.

Shorter, perhaps, but not safer, Guerrero said. The big ship will cruise outside range of the patrols and lie hove to northeast of Nagua. We will transfer back to the small boat and move inshore after midnight tomorrow night.

Can you find that river in the dark?

I hope so.

I hope nobody finds us, Hooper said.

A motor whaleboat crewed by two men took them to a larger vessel, an inter-island steamer with peeling paint on the aft superstructure and rust on the hull. Wooden cages on deck held live goats and hogs. Their redolence served as part of the disguise, for the vessel was not nearly as dilapidated as its unkempt appearance suggested.

After the smaller launch had been secured in the davits, the ship’s captain turned north-northwest and set his throttles. It would take the vessel twenty-two hours to complete a charted three-hundred-nautical-mile arc.

Guerrero escorted Murphy and Hooper to the clean and gleaming crew’s mess, where a selection of fresh sandwiches lay in rows on a spotless stainless steel tray. After we eat, I suggest getting some rest, Rodrigo said. "Tomorrow night will be a long one.

Dandy, Hooper muttered."

Murphy awoke disoriented. It took him a moment to remember that he and Hooper had been assigned an unused crew cabin on the second deck. The ship’s gentle motion had rocked him to sleep the previous evening, but now he sensed increased pitch and roll. He chose to cope with that by getting himself vertical. He followed the aroma of fresh coffee to the crew lounge, Hooper close behind him. They filled mugs and took them down to the main deck. Morning air was cool under an overcast sky, and the wind across the deck felt damp and clammy. They made their way forward along the ship’s port side to get away from the captive livestock’s stench.

No, no, no! Guerrero ran toward them, looking like a drunk as he veered left and right with the deck’s tilt. Get out of sight! he hissed.

They knelt at the base of a loading crane. What’s going on? Murphy asked after the Dominican joined them there.

There is an American Navy destroyer on the other side going parallel to us, Guerrero said. We are in international waters, but that does not prevent them from taking a close look at us. There are many American weapons on this ship, so it is better if they see only the Puerto Ricans of the crew.

There are American weapons aboard, but we can’t be seen by men on an American ship because we’re Americans? That makes no sense at all, Guerrero.

The Dominican sighed. "I sometimes think that myself. Politicians in your country often seem to work against one another. We know Americans sometimes provide armaments to thieves like Batista and Trujillo, but now other Americans give us weapons. We are grateful, but we do not really understand it all."

Got to be something to do with money. Hooper’s response indicated his deep seated enmity toward the U.S. Army in general and its generals in particular.

Batista’s gone, Murphy said. Three years ago Eisenhower wanted Castro in charge in Cuba, but now that he is, Kennedy thinks different, or so I hear.

Your President Kennedy wants Castro removed because he is a Communist.

Sounds as if Washington’s been trying to play both sides of the street in Cuba, Murphy said. "If it worked there, then