Was the financial crisis of 2008 caused by a small group of greedy Wall Street bankers-or was there something more sinister at work? Did it begin when free-market politicians gained control of Washington DC, or was it linked to a longer history, starti

Points on a Line

By D. L. Gentsch

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 D. L. Gentsch
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-2177-9

Chapter One

Present Time

"COLONEL RINCON, WHERE are we headed?"

We were in a C-130 transport twenty minutes out from the city of Buenos Aires. Colonel Rincon had commandeered me at my apartment an hour earlier to take part in what he called "a little exercise." You didn't say "no" to the higher ups in the Argentine military—especially if you were an American advisor to the country's economic team.

"Señor Anders, tonight we are doing God's will ... and the will of your presidente. You will soon see." He smiled. "You will see how we in my country deal with our mutual problem."

I sat quietly in the cockpit pondering the possibilities of our "mutual problem" as we flew low to the ground headed eastward toward the dusk. In the far distance, I saw the last vestiges of sunlight glimmering on the Rio de la Plata. When we crossed the land boundary of Argentina and were surrounded by water, the plane banked sharply right and began a circling pattern, gradually descending until the force of the mighty engines whipped up waves across the giant river.

"Come with me, Jude Anders."

Obligingly, I unbuckled myself and moved toward Rincon, already at the cockpit door, and followed him and his heavy scent of old Spice cologne into the enormous cargo hold of the C-130. There were more than a dozen people sleeping on the floor fully clothed amidst green and blue plastic tarps strewn about the hold. Rincon nodded to a corporal standing about half-way down the length of the vast space. He and several soldiers began prodding the sleeping bodies awake, kicking them in their sides and, if that didn't work, in the head. The corporal slid open the mid-plane cargo door, and a loud rush of cool air quickly circled inside, flapping the plastic tarps.

"¡Tírenlos vivos al río!" Rincon commanded.

The corporal grabbed the nearest body by the arm, a half-asleep young man with dark stubble, and pulled him to a kneeling position, his sleepy face looking out the door of the plane. Rincon nodded his approval, and with the force of his large army boot on the man's butt the corporal shoved him overboard.

A dark haired man, older than the first and dressed in jeans and a black sweater, struggled to his feet in the middle of the cargo hold.

Rincon glared at him, hatred in his eyes. "¡El proximo!" Rincon pointed directly at him.

A soldier kept shoving the dark figure until they reached the open door. The man gazed outside, but suddenly turned to Rincon and me, his eyes glued on mine. I couldn't pull away from his cold, dark gaze.

"El cuervo," he said. It wasn't more than a whisper. But before another word could pass his lips, the corporal grabbed him by the back of his jacket and with one swift motion tossed him out of the plane.

The corporal nodded toward another body on the floor as the plane banked hard in a tight circle. This time, he'd selected a woman, probably late twenties, like the man before her. A soldier nudged her with his boot, and she slowly got to her feet. Her long, wavy brown hair slightly obscured her face as she was pushed toward the open door. Was it the hair or the sharply chiseled features of her profile that vaguely reminded me of someone? I strained my memory, but the corporal tossed her over the side of the plane before I could figure it out.

The corporal gazed around the hold at the remaining souls. A teenage boy near the door had gotten to his feet and looked wide-eyed around the plane as though desperately searching for someone. Rincon's man grabbed the boy by his arm and flung him out the door with a single hand. One after another I watched as each one—seven men and almost as many women, somewhat awake now but stunningly silent—was dragged to the door, only to disappear across that thin line that separated the inside from out. They were all so young. None complained. They were free.

Rincon smiled. "Young men and woman, in a nice little sleep, and now going for a swim on a warm spring day. See, Señor Anders, we solve our mutual problem!"

I looked around, but the cargo hold of the C-130 was empty. The sleepers had gone for their swim.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our initial approach ..."

I turned to see who was speaking, but only Rincon and three of his men were talking to each other.

"At this time we ask that you buckle your seatbelts, put away your tray tables, and return your seatbacks to their upright position."

Rincon's mouth was moving, but it was a woman's voice that I was hearing. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Mr. Anders ... Mr. Anders."

I awoke with a start; the flight attendant continued to jostle me before withdrawing. "We have begun our initial descent into Athens. Please bring your seatback to its upright position." She smiled, pausing a moment, then continued navigating the aisle with a trash bag in her hand.

I stared at the TV screen on the seatback in front of me, my mind moving sluggishly back to reality. It was explaining custom procedures to expect in Greece. I moved the lever to raise my seatback. The dream was over, but its horror lingered.

The wheels of the plane met the concrete runway with a shudder, and I quickly tucked the book I had tried to read before falling asleep into my backpack. After a long taxi to the gate and equally long disembarking of the crowded plane, I finally made my way up the jet way and through the terminal—a labyrinth of twists and turns that eventually led me to baggage claim. At customs, the line was shorter than I expected; almost immediately a customs agent beckoned me forward. Hurriedly I pulled my passport and declaration form from my backpack and waited while he looked them over for what seemed like forever. Was his thoroughness just an act?

"How long will you be staying in Greece, Mr. Anders?" he finally asked.

"I have a three month lease on a small house on Amorgos outside of Lagada."

"So, three months then. What is the purpose of your trip?"

"To get away from the U.S. for awhile. Relax. Maybe do some writing."

The agent gazed at me for along moment. He looked back at my passport. "Well, Mr. Anders, you will be far away from your country on Amorgos." he looked back to me square on. "How are things in the U.S. now?"

My first instinct was to ask which one, but decided against a flippant response. "Marginally better, I guess."

"It is not much better here. But I suspect you know that. Do you have the address of the house where you will be staying?"

I quickly pulled out the rental agreement from my backpack and handed it to him. He typed the address of my rental house into the computer, closed my passport, and handed it and the rental paper back to me.

"Have a nice visit," he said as he waved at the next person in line without another glance at me.

I picked up my luggage but tried not to rush as I exited customs. once inside the main terminal, I adjusted my watch to the local time and changed my cash into drachmas. The bills were worn and faded, and smelled as though they were just pulled out of storage. While I checked the information kiosk for ferry departure times, a cabby waved at me from the curb. A ferry to Amorgos was leaving in an hour and thirty minutes; the cab was my only option if I was to catch it.

The taxi driver approached me and took hold of my roller bag.

"Do you speak english?" I asked.

"Small," he responded.

"How long to get to the Port of Athens where the ferries...