Six Minutes To Freedom (34 page)
Read Six Minutes To Freedom Online
Authors: John Gilstrap,Kurt Muse
“I’ll never forget you,” he said. “Thank you for saving my life. I love you guys.”
56
It took a few hours to get things completely organized, but the clock was spinning at an incomprehensible speed. They flew him on an Agency executive jet; very comfortable. They let him have the run of the place, so long as he took care not to step on the window in the floor where they normally mounted a surveillance camera.
In the Miami Airport, as Kurt and his escort, an Agency man named Bob, approached Immigration, Kurt realized for the first time that he didn’t have any paperwork to allow him to enter the country. The escortsmiled and told him not to worry about it. When they finally arrivedat the Immigration cubicle, the INS agent asked Bob if he had anything to declare.
Bob tossed a thumb in Kurt’s direction. “Just him,” he said, smiling.
In the United States of America now, in the wide open spaces of freedom,the escort asked, “You think maybe we should buy you some new clothes?”
Kurt had become so used to a certain degree of filth that he’d forgottenthat he was caked in Paul’s blood. Bob and Uncle Sam picked up the tab for a new shirt from the gift store, and Kurt changed in the men’s room, taking the opportunity to wash up in the sink. If they’d sold pants he’d have taken a pair of those, too, but airport gift shops are only so accommodating. At least the navy blue fabric camouflaged the stain. He stuffed the bloody shirt in a trash can, but then went back to retrieve it. Considering the price paid to make it so dirty, the shirt couldn’t be mingled with paper towels and snot rags. It deserved a loftier status than mere trash.
They had some time to kill in Miami, so the escort took Kurt to an early lunch at a nearby Denny’s. He had a hamburger and a beer. Nothing had ever tasted better, and, he suspected, nothing ever would.
When it was time for the last leg, as they walked back through the airport, Kurt couldn’t help but notice the throngs of famous journalistscrowding the departure lounge for the next flight to Panama.
“You gotta love it,” Bob chuckled as they passed three television news guys.
“What’s that?”
“One of the biggest stories of the war is passing within inches of them, and they don’t even know to ask.”
Annie’s heart had stopped at the sound of Suzanne Alexander’s voice on the other end of the phone. “Annie, we’ve got him. Kurt is out of prison and in friendly hands.”
Annie’s mouth fell as her eyes filled. Could it possibly be true? Afterthis much worry, and so much lost time, could he possibly be safe?
“I don’t know when we can get him home, but we’ve got him.”
Now it was time to wake up the kids.
The final call took hours to arrive, and it was from Father Frank, with the final details of the impending reunion with her greatest friend. He drove to their house and they followed his car in theirs to the tiny annex building that was a half mile from the main terminal at Dulles.
There really wasn’t much to the place. It was the arrival and departurepoint for executive jets, and as such was reasonably well appointed;but because executives come and go more or less as they please and rarely have to wait for their flights, there was virtually nothingto do. They’d arrived early to avoid being late.
It could have been a wonderful moment—probably should have been—but the fat lady hadn’t yet sung in this particular opera, and Anniehad suffered too many emotional setbacks to let herself get spun up too early. Kurt would be there when he arrived. Until then, he was still gone.
Father Frank, God bless him, had told her a thousand times to relax,but relaxation simply wasn’t possible anymore.
For the sake of the children, who would be positively giddy if she’d only let herself go, she wished that she could just push her doubts to the side for these last moments, but what if the calls from Suzanne, and later from Senator Mack’s office had been premature? What if they’d been flat-out wrong, or if the plan crashed on its final approach? Anniewasn’t prepared to fall all the way from the stratosphere of jubilation.She simply didn’t know that she could ever recover from that.
Christmas miracles do happen. All the time; she’d said so herself, just yesterday. Please, God, let this be one of your finest.
Father Frank said, “He’s here.” He pointed to the window, through which they could see an unmarked executive jet rolling lazily up to the door. But for the wall and the window they could have reached it in a dozen steps.
Then they saw Kurt.
The kids squealed with delight, dancing in place and pointing and knocking on the glass, but it must have been too loud on the tarmac for Kurt to hear.
He looked so thin, Annie thought, and so horribly pale. He looked positively beautiful.
Finally, the hope arrived; the relief. The dream had finally come true, and in those final seconds as Kurt made the brief walk from the aircraft to the reception lounge, something swelled inside Annie, and she discovered that she was crying. She felt suddenly overwhelmed. It was relief, of course, and joy and love, but there was something more.
She’d been watching the news all day, and she’d been fixated on the word “liberated” as it was used by the droopy-toned caller from SenatorMack’s office. She didn’t know the details, of course—no one would for years to come—but she knew that countless people had taken unspeakable risks to deliver her Kurt back home. She knew that those kinds of preparations took time and were coordinated by many dozens of people.
That wonderful inflated feeling in her chest was driven in part, she realized, by a feeling of gratitude the likes of which was incomprehensibleto anyone who has not had a loved one delivered from the gates of hell. It was a debt that could never be repaid. They’d given her family’slife back to them.
In the seconds before the door opened and her world would be set back on its axis, she turned to smile at Father Frank, but he’d already left. His job was done. This was a moment for the Muse family to be alone.
The kids all but tackled Kurt as he entered the lounge, embracing him in a crushing group hug. He bent slightly to receive their arms, and then he lost himself in their love. God, they’d grown so much. Erik had to be nearly a foot taller than last time he’d seen him. Kimberly. . . well, Kimberly had become a woman, and a beautiful one at that. As he pulled her close, it was impossible not to remember his last hug on that awful night so long ago.
And then there was Annie. His beautiful bride. His sweetheart. His best friend. She was enfolded into the hug with the rest, and it was wonderful.
They stood there for a half hour. They hugged, they cried, and no one said a word. They didn’t have to. They were a family again.
Fifteen miles away, in Burke, Virginia, there awaited a house that could finally be a home. Snow frosted the roof and a light burned in every window.
A seven-foot tree stood sentry near the fireplace, adorned with unfamiliarornaments that would from then on be among the family’s most precious possessions.
Never again has a tree been so beautiful.
Afterword
by John Gilstrap
The world continues to turn and the calendar moves on. As we write this, seventeen years have expired since the events of this book occurred, and a full telling of the story requires stepping beyond 1989 and taking a look at what has happened to some of the players in the intervening years.
The Delta operator pseudonymously named Jim Nelson lost most of his foot—everything forward of the instep—in the aftermath of OperationAcid Gambit. A few months later, he requalified for Delta Force and served another twelve years.
In fact, of the twenty-three Delta operators who participated in Kurt’s rescue and the events that followed, all survived Operation Just Cause and lived on to serve in many missions to come; including one well-documented shootout in the streets of Mogadishu, Somalia, some four years later.
Jim Ruffer and Robert Perry have both retired from military service and are living peaceful and healthy lives. Both would much prefer talkingabout anyone and anything but themselves. Interviewing them for this project was an honor. Marcos Ostrander lives and practices law in Panama City. He’s one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met, and I mean that as a supreme compliment.
Father Frank—his real name, actually, insofar as anyone in his line of work has a real name—is (or at least claims to be) fully retired these days, living in a location we promised never to disclose. Truth be told, in the spirit of all covert operatives who make our country safe, he contributed virtually nothing during my interview, citing one of the worst memories on the planet. He did keep us from writing one big mistake, however, and for that I will always be grateful.
Tomás Muñoz, the pseudonymous technical genius behind La Voz de la Libertad, lost everything he owned as a result of Noriega’s retribution;even his wife lost her U.S. government pension with the Panama Canal Company because her exile kept her from coming to work each day. Of the rest of Kurt’s compatriots, most fared pretty well, with severalrecovering extremely well. For all of them, the future remains bright. To a person, they hold Kurt Muse to be a national hero—no bitterness for what they lost; only pride for what they all tried to accomplish.We don’t mention their real names in these pages, but let me attest: they’ve got tales of incredible courage that have yet to be told.
Charlie and Peggy Muse (Papi and Nana) returned to Panama within weeks of the completion of Operation Just Cause. Intergraphic, the company Charlie had built from nothing to become a prosperous enterprise, was kept running by his employees during his year of exile. Every penny was accounted for, and in one of life’s happy coincidences,the shooting war stopped just one block from the business’s front door. They live and thrive today in Panama City, both in town and on the Taboga ranch, where Charlie regularly works out with his beloved horses.
Carol and David Skinner likewise returned to Panama, but not beforethey suffered unspeakable tragedy. While in exile in the United States, their teenage daughter, Joanna (Joey), was killed in an automobileaccident. There’s a lot of pain and anger associated with that kind of horror, and the wounds heal slowly. Maybe they never really heal. I can’t imagine. One of the great privileges ever granted to me came when Carol allowed me to read Joey’s diary accounts of the ordeal of their evacuation. I am forever grateful.
The world needs to know one final detail about Kurt Muse: Long before life had righted itself for him, Annie, and the kids, Kurt began a tradition that has become the stuff of legend in the special operations community. With the help of some highly placed assistants, Kurt sat down on the first anniversary of Operation Acid Gambit and called every one of his rescuers to thank them for giving him back his life. For men who are used to toiling under a veil of secrecy that not only excludes thanks but also makes secret their awards for valor, hearing from one of their successes was an utter surprise.
He’s made those phone calls seventeen times now, reporting happily on the progress of his and their lives, wives and children, and even on the birth of a few grandkids along the way. December 20 has become one of the special, most-anticipated dates on the calendar.
When Kurt left that hospital tent on his first new day of freedom, he promised that he would never forget the men who liberated him.
He never has. He never will.
Final Thoughts
by Kurt Muse
It is said that “one father is worth more than a hundred schoolmasters.” As a boy, I remember listening intently as my father spoke of being honorable, of standing up for what is right, and of not being afraid. When I became a man, I realized the strength of his words. My father is in fact the most honorable and courageous man I know. For better or for worse, his lessons and his living example providedme with the required moral compass and the necessary courage to undertake the daunting task of helping to restore democracy to our beloved Panama.
During my saga of nearly three years, I was blessed to have been involvedwith and be touched by so many good people—friends, acquaintances,and total strangers alike. Some of you perhaps tried to visit me in prison. You maybe wrote or tried to write me in prison. You may have been a member of St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Ancon, where you prayed for me every Sunday. You might have been one of the wonderful souls who kept in phone contact with Anne and the children,comforting them with your caring. Thank you all from the bottomof my heart.
During the evening of my arrest, in the midst of armed and angry PDF soldiers, my friend Tom Ford came to my parents’ house to ask my sister, Carol, how he could be of assistance. It took tremendous courage for Tom to expose himself like that to the PDF, but then again, Tom and Julie Ford are truly special friends.
Then there are our special friends, Rita and Alex Sosa. Somehow, on Thanksgiving Day of 1989, Rita was able to convince the guard at Modelo Prison to deliver a traditional turkey dinner to my cell, completewith all the trimmings. You’ll never know what comfort such a kindness brings in such a dark time.
Adelaida Robles, or “Lala” as we called her, was our beloved maid of many years. She was family. On the evening of my arrest, Kimberly and Erik were removed from her care forever, yet despite continuous harassment by the PDF, she resolutely continued to watch over our home as if it were her own. We miss this extraordinary lady.
Anne’s life after my arrest was an endless journey that would have been ten times more burdensome but for the efforts of her guardian angel,boss, and dear friend, Shirley Makkibin. Her quiet support was keenly felt throughout the ordeal.
On a personal note, there’s a name that I want you to remember: Candy Helin. A teacher for the Department of Defense School System and a friend and colleague of Annie’s, Candy was in fact the first casualtyof Operation Just Cause. Just moments before midnight—H hour—Candy and her husband were driving home in their personal vehicle when a PDF sniper opened fire, killing her. In the tumultuous events of the ensuing hours and days, her sacrifice to her nation and its children went largely unheralded. That’s such a shame, because she was a fine lady.
Anne and I were members of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Panama. Overcoming great obstacles imposed by the bishop, Father Richard Bower managed to visit me in prison for the first few months, until his transfer back to the United States. Thanks so much Richard for taking the time to try to heal my spiritual wounds.
By law, all letters addressed to me in prison had to be translated into Spanish. That responsibility fell to Loyda Sanchez, in Marcos Ostrander’soffice. Gracias Loyda.
Gracias por todo el cariño mostrado en tus labores
.
Gracias por todo el cariño mostrado en tus labores
.
Bosco and Belinda Vallarino, after their own harrowing escape from Panama, set up a small in-home recording studio and from there recorded our daily broadcasts for Radio La Voz de la Libertad. Thank you both for your tireless dedication and attention to our details.
Ni un paso atrás,
my friends.
Ni un paso atrás,
my friends.
My father-in-law, John Castoro, spent a full and exciting career in the CIA’s Directorate of Operations. He was retired by 1989, but he had many friends in Langley with whom he maintained contact during my ordeal. Thanks, John, for everything. I’ll never know the details of what strings you might have pulled, but I thank you nonetheless. If only you could have read
Six Minutes to Freedom
. I can see you now with that smile and a wink before you walk away.
Six Minutes to Freedom
. I can see you now with that smile and a wink before you walk away.
Thanks to Roomie, who always knew this story would take its proper place in history.
There may not have been a book, especially a book this well written,had it not been for my friend and fellow Rotarian Pat Barney. He was so impressed with the story I told at one of our Rotary meetings that he told his good friend, John Gilstrap, about it. The rest is, as they say ... well, you know.
I owe a very special thanks to the men and women of the Departmentof Defense, the Department of State, and the Central Intelligence Agency. I wish that every citizen could know what I know about your selfless toiling to lend assistance to people who often never even know they are in danger. I was unusually fortunate to have so many of you in my corner. While I cannot and will not mention even the few names I’ve learned, please know that I know what you did on my behalf and on behalf of my family. I owe my life and the liberty I now enjoy to your hard work and dedication, just as we all owe so much to the civil servants who toil next to you and down the hall.
The Acid Gambit section of this book barely scratches the surface of what transpired on the night of December 19–20, 1989. In a lexiconas vast as the English language, you’d think there would be a biggerword than “thanks.” Thanks is for lending that cup of sugar or watching the kids for a few hours. But to express appreciation for riskingeverything you will ever be and everything you will ever have to bring one man home to his family, words fail. Awe is a good beginning, perhaps.
I bestow special awe on the tactical units involved in my rescue and their supremely talented commanders: The soldiers who liberated me that evening came from the U.S. Army’s First Special Forces OperationalDetachment-Delta, based in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. A very special thanks to E, Delta’s Sabre Squadron commander, and G, the assault troop commander. The helicopters that braved withering ground fire to fly the Delta operators to and from Modelo Prison, and the Little Bird gunships supporting them, came from the U.S. Army’s 160th Special Operations Air Regiment, based in Fort Campbell, Kentucky.A special thanks to R, the company commander. The AC-130 Specter gunships that flew overhead, delivering a pinpoint and blisteringfire on Noriega’s headquarters, came from the U.S. Air Force’s SixteenthSpecial Operations Squadron, based in Hurlburt Field, Florida. A special thanks to M and J, who captained Air Papa 06 and Air Papa 07 from their specially designed Top Hat formation. God bless you all. Thanks for bringing me home. Our nation, and especially the Muse family, have reason to smile knowing that you are in its service.
During my formative years in Panamanian schools, I remember wondering at the lack of national heroes in a country so rich in colonialhistory. My seven friends and compatriots in La Voz de la Libertadrisked losing their lives, their property, and their livelihood in service of the dream that they would one day be free of the Pineapple’s oppression. They are true Panamanian heroes, and I pray that one day their fellow citizens will recognize them as such.
Six Minutes to Freedom
is a slice of my family history. I look forwardto the day when my grandchildren, Connor Charles, Sydney Anne, and Sean Michael, can read this book on their own. Only then will they begin to understand the true character and the mettle of their mother, back in the day when she was an extraordinary kid named Kimberly, who cared so diligently for their Uncle Erik. By then, of course, they will have been lovingly spoiled by their Nini and Pops, and one day, they can introduce their own children to the story of how their family tried so hard to make a difference.
is a slice of my family history. I look forwardto the day when my grandchildren, Connor Charles, Sydney Anne, and Sean Michael, can read this book on their own. Only then will they begin to understand the true character and the mettle of their mother, back in the day when she was an extraordinary kid named Kimberly, who cared so diligently for their Uncle Erik. By then, of course, they will have been lovingly spoiled by their Nini and Pops, and one day, they can introduce their own children to the story of how their family tried so hard to make a difference.
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