The squad had been without coffee for a grueling 14 days, pounding through the dense trails of Central America in pursuit of the Hot Sauce Gang—code for the elusive Sandinistas who seemed to haunt every border from Nicaragua to Honduras. Our chase was relentless, and the absence of caffeine made each step heavier.
It was late afternoon when the four of us—me, Hawk, Rico, and Snipe—spotted a villa nestled into a hillside, shrouded by thick jungle brush and towering mahogany trees. Signaling the Skipper, a Captain, he gave the order to secure the building. That meant kicking in doors and sweeping room by room for threats, a task that set every nerve on edge.
The villa was a ghost house. Dust coated the furniture, and the air smelled of stale time. Whoever had lived here had fled weeks before the U.S. Marines came crashing through their world.
While the rest of the 13-man squad fanned out to lock down the hillside, Hawk, Rico, and I rummaged through the villa for intel, supplies, or otherwise. We tore through drawers and cabinets, finding nothing of value until we hit the kitchen.
A large pantry–stocked with dry goods, rice, beans, and stale crackers, but not a single grain of coffee. I was about to curse our luck when I turned and saw it—a 32-cup coffee percolator still plugged into the wall like a forgotten relic.
The villa had no electricity, and the percolator contents were as dead as the house. I pried open the lid and peered inside. A thick layer of green-gray mold floated on the surface of the ancient brew, the liquid beneath it black as tar.
Rico wrinkled his nose. “That’s a biohazard,” he said, but I wasn’t about to let a little fuzz stand between me and coffee.
So I grabbed a spoon, skimmed off the mold, and poured the dark liquid into a large saucepan I’d found in a cupboard. Outside, I scrounged a pinch of C-4, rolled it into a small ball, and set it on the ground.
With a flick of my lighter, the C-4 ignited, burning hot and steady. I balanced the saucepan over the flame, and soon, the coffee got to bubbling and sending up a rich, bittersweet aroma that cut through the jungle air.
The smell hit the squad like a siren’s call. Heads turned. Boots shuffled closer.
Before I could blink, every man Jack in the platoon, including the Skipper, was crowding around with canteen cups outstretched. Carefully, I poured out the steaming brew, cautious not to mention its questionable origins.
Cups got lifted, Grunts sipped, then grinned.
“Best damned coffee I ever tasted,” someone declared, smacking his lips.
Rico nodded, his eyes half-closed in bliss. Even the Skipper, usually stone-faced, grunted his approval.
Not a soul suspected the coffee had been a moldy stew just minutes before. As the squad savored their cups, the villa felt less like a warzone and more like a fleeting haven.
And for a moment, the Hot Sauce Gang could wait. We had coffee, and that was victory enough.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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