Forget Me Not (Love in the Fleet) by Heather Ashby Page A

good stuff.
    La Perla. The Pearl.
    The finest cocaine available.
    Usually the sound of a helicopter struck terror in Hector’s heart. It signified the yanquis spraying the coca crops with their poison. Not only would it kill his livelihood, but often killed livestock and sickened the villagers as well. And, when they destroyed the coca farms, they indiscriminately destroyed the legitimate crops at the same time. However, even in this day and age when government programs and the yanquis worked to eradicate the coca fields, Hector knew that as fast as they were burned or poisoned, the farmers would replant elsewhere.
    The money was that good.
    Why could they not leave him alone and let him make enough pesos to feed his family or follow through with the promises of helping him change his crop to coffee, rice, or guava? The government programs aimed to support alternatives to coca production by providing loans and training in exchange for the farmers’ agreement not to grow coca. But the government talked out of both sides of their mouths. In the meantime, all Hector wanted was to put food into the mouths of his children.
    He enjoyed the sizeable jingle in his pocket as well.
    Hector tried the alternate crops, but they were not worth the time and effort. Growing the coca plant was much easier and more profitable. It had grown naturally in the jungles of South America since time began and was readily cultivated in just about any soil conditions. The natives had always known its value in staving off hunger and fatigue and improving their moods, although chewing the leaves had only about the same kick as the caffeine in coffee. It was after the processing that coca became cocaine. Hector had become disturbed by the growing use of the drug by the villagers, as more and more turned to the processed drug.
    Especially the teenagers. He knew this could portend no good for the future.
    The natives certainly couldn’t afford cocaine. Much of it was stolen from the processing plants or confiscated from plane crashes. Certainly the people had a right to any surviving cargo for the inconvenience they endured or the destruction to their property. Though the increased drug use disturbed him, the more prosperous he became, the easier it was to tuck away the guilt of being a cog in the wheel that turned the drug industry.
    Something else begged for his attention, but, once again, he compartmentalized these negative feelings. Locking them away in a secret pocket in his soul.
    He had begun to notice the impact the cocaleros were making on the land. Little by little, they were picking away at it. Slashing and burning hectares of forest a day. He shuddered when he allowed himself to think about what became of the poisons he sprayed on his crops to keep the bugs away. Did they disappear into thin air or were they washed down into the soil, or carried with the rainwater down to the rivers? Would the land be healthy for his grown children to farm some day? He could not think about this. Food on their table, shoes on their feet, and smiles on their faces today trumped twenty years down the road.
    Hector would simply continue to cultivate the very best and sell it to the man. Let others worry about the increasing drug abuse problem and the environment. That was not his responsibility. He was gifted at growing the finest coca plants and he would continue for as long as his good luck held. Why, they paid him as much as five hundred American dollars a month. And growing coca was definitely not as labor intensive as coffee, pineapples, and the like. Plus it was an ongoing operation that extended over the entire year, providing Hector with a continuous source of income.
    Many of the other natives took advantage of the easy money by cultivating the coca leaf too, but most of the campesinos lived at the subsistence level. Not Hector Morales. Because he grew Pearl, he was the proud owner of running water. His family would also have electricity if they did not