55
The Gulfstream
touched down on dry desert near the town of Remedios, which was
southeast of Pedregal. If a discernable landing strip lay beneath
the jet’s wheels, Mark didn’t notice it as Peter reversed thrust on
the engines, bringing the jet to a slow roll.
“How does one hide a
jet?” Mark asked.
“The locals will
help us.”
“Huh?”
Peter pointed out
the cockpit window to the three o’clock position. Two Jeeps were
rumbling over the hardpan, kicking up a fine plume of dust behind
them. “I radioed ahead and arranged for our
transport.”
Mark just nodded his
head. He had no idea what to expect anymore.
What came next,
however, was impressive, even by a reporter’s standards. Peter,
with the help of the two Panamanian drivers from the Jeeps, took a
large piece of netting from the Gulfstream’s cargo hold and draped
it over the fuselage and wings.
“From the air, the
jet will be virtually invisible and appear as part of the desert,”
said Peter. “It’s fairly old technology. Even today, some countries
have entire false landing fields, complete with dummy planes and
painted runways, while the real fields are heavily camouflaged with
netting, vegetation, or cloth. It was originally a Cold War tactic.
Time to put on our outfits, by the way.”
Minutes later, Peter
and Mark stood next to a Jeep, wearing military fatigues and dark
glasses. Before leaving the states, Peter had instructed Mark not
to shave so that he would have at least a small bit of stubble on
his face, and the reporter now had a respectable five o’clock
shadow.
They climbed into
the Jeep and rumbled off to Pedregal.