Reminded of his fate, Hernandez waited a moment to respond. “Sí, señor.”
CHAPTER 63
Father Dan Cody peered into the bushes along the tree line. He saw a man emerge, filthy and weak. The man looked fearful and appeared to be seriously injured. No threat.
“Yes, who are you?” Father Dan asked and stepped closer.
“Commander James D. Wilson, U.S. Navy.” Wilson whispered, again feeling lightheaded as he struggled to stand.
“Indeed…. Are you hurt?”
“Yes, right leg and left arm. I think the leg is broken.”
Wilson stepped from the bushes into the open as the priest drew near. “Do they call ya Jim?” Father Dan asked.
Wilson stopped and caught his breath. “Yes, some do.”
“Well then Jim… are ya hungry?”
“Yes, Father. What is your name sir?”
“Dan Cody, from County Cork. I’m a Maryknoll Missionary priest.”
Wilson offered his dirty right hand, and Father Dan took it. “Nice to meet you, Father. I need help, please.”
Father Dan went to Wilson’s right side and lifted Wilson’s arm over his shoulder so he could help him to the cabin. Wilson grimaced as they hobbled to the steps.
“How did you get here?” Father Dan asked.
“I was shot down a few nights ago. I’m a pilot.”
“Yes, I can see your jumper looks like something a pilot would wear.”
“It’s a flight suit.”
“Yes, of course. Regardless, it could use a wash. I’ll ask Monique to take care of that for you.”
Struggling up the steps, Wilson hestitated. “Monique? Who is that?”
“My housekeeper. She was here earlier today, but she’s gone to town. Doubt she’ll be back… but mebbe.”
Wilson grew concerned. He was placing his trust in this priest, who may or may not be trustworthy. The townswoman he had seen here a few hours ago, Monique, would probably take one look at him and shriek with horror — and go right to the Bolivarian Army.
Father Dan led him inside the one-room cabin and put Wilson on his freshly made bed. Wilson protested, but the Irishman insisted. “Bedspreads can be washed.”
Wilson collapsed on the mattress, grateful for the first comfort he had felt in days, and knew he could sleep for hours.
Father Dan gave Wilson some water and turned toward the stove. When he brought a plate of food over, Wilson perked up and began to scoop the rice into his mouth with dirty hands.
“Easy, lad, even we Irish use this thing called a fork,” Father Dan said. Wilson took the fork and attacked the chicken and green vegetables. Within minutes, he was cleaning the plate with his tongue.
Sated, Wilson fell back in bed, breathing hard from exertion and pain. At least, now, when they came to take him prisoner, he would have had a good meal. Cold leftovers have never tasted so good. Sleep. If he could only sleep before they came for him…. But this priest wouldn’t shut up!
“So, my boy, you’re a military pilot?”
Wilson berated himself for admitting it earlier when he said he was shot down. Said he was a pilot. Dammit. Maybe he would be smarter now that he had some food and drink. “My name is Commander James Wilson, U.S. Navy.”
“U.S. Navy you say? What are you doing on dry land then? Was your ship shot down?”
Wilson assessed the priest as he struggled for a way to answer him.
“Are you Catholic, my boy? Do you know you can trust a priest with confession? Do you have something to confess? A little white fib? Making war and not love? People confess the sins of both, you know.”
Wilson’s stress level increased. Can I trust this guy?
“How old are you, lad?”
Wilson considered the question. Date of birth. Innocuous enough. “I’m forty,” he replied as he settled back onto bed.
“Forty. Yes, life begins at forty, they say. Me, I’m seventy-four… be seventy-five next month. Forty, eh? You are certainly no lad… but you are to me. I was ordained…. What? Ten years before you came along to dirty a diaper. Where are you from?”
Wilson kept his eyes on the ceiling. Was this an interrogation? He didn’t answer.
“When I was forty, I was in Formosa. Called Taiwan now. I spent twenty-seven years there. We converted a good few to Christ. They send us out to spread the good news. Alone and unafraid, eh? Do you believe in Christ Jesus, Jimmy?”
Wilson nodded.
“Good, good. My work here is done, eh? Catholic or no, we are all on the same team, are we not? Here, let me help you out of those dirty rags. Can’t the Americans afford better?”
Wilson was concerned about his foot. “Father, I can’t remove the boot. We’ll have to cut it. Are you able to cut it?”
Father Dan inspected the boot and the surrounding skin swollen tight against it. “Yes, and it looks like your shin has seen better days, too. I have some medicine.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“I am!” Father Dan replied with a smile. “Of theology — and philosophy, mebbe. Never took my finals because they sent me off on another mission. Doesn’t much matter to the Chinese peasants bent over picking rice in a paddy, now does it? No, I’m not a medical doctor, but I know enough about medicine and penicillin to administer it. Are you allergic to anything?
Wilson shook his head.
“Good! We’ll have this leg back in no time. Looks like you may have some trench foot going on here.”
Wilson winced as the priest cut away the boot laces and removed the boot. The room reeked of his rotting flesh. “Oh, goodness gracious, lad, even a fishwife would faint dead away with this smell! Let’s get some soap and water and some bandages to fix you up.”
As the priest administered to him, Wilson noted the shadows had grown longer. “Father, I need to get back to American forces. Can you take me to the coast?”
“Yes, the American Navy, they’ll be waiting for you out there, eh? Well, we’ll have to go in the morning, but it’s not easy to get to. You know, Christopher Columbus landed here in 1492, after sailing the ocean blue.”
Wilson gave him with a puzzled look.
“Yes, lad, Christopher Columbus himself. About fifteen kilometers as the crow flies.”
“Father, the Venezuelan army is looking for me. I need to get to the coast without being spotted.”
Father Dan turned toward Wilson with a puzzled face. “Well, I… I imagine they are. But I’ve never seen any Venezuelans here. Don’t think you have to worry about that.”
Wilson was incredulous. “No Venezuelans?”
“No, they keep to themselves down there, and the people here don’t visit. Because of the language barrier for one thing.”
Wilson sat up, eyes wide, trying to comprehend. “Father, where am I?”
“They call this place The Devil’s Wooodyard. Heh, they sent me here to evangelize. Guess I’ve got nowhere to go but up.”
Wilson touched the priest’s arm to stop him. “No, Father, what country are we in?”
The old man studied him for a moment. “Trinidad, my boy.”
CHAPTER 64
Wilson let the information sink in. It made sense now. After he ejected, he had been pulled into the storm, and it had carried him across the Columbus Channel and deposited him here, in Trinidad, a neutral country. He should have known by the topography. Trinidad. Venezuelan troops were not going to swoop in and take him away. He was safe… for the moment.