Nicaragua an Ordeal Ends, Another Begins

By Jill Smolowe

"Grab your things, you're leaving." With those words, delivered briskly by a prison commander, American Mercenary Eugene Hasenfus learned that he was a free man. A few hours later, the baggy-eyed gunrunner savored his first taste of liberty since his plane was downed over Nicaragua on Oct. 5 while delivering weapons to contra rebels. Standing beside Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega, he said, "Today has been a day of great surprises, a day I'll surely remember in my heart forever." By nightfall, Hasenfus was tucked away safely at the U.S. embassy in Guatemala City, and 24 hours after that he and his wife Sally were jetting home to Marinette, Wis. In the rush of events, Hasenfus paused at one point to pinch himself, then explained sheepishly, "I just wanted to see if I would wake up."

If the script sounded more like the ending of a three-hankie Christmas movie than the conclusion of a 74-day political ordeal, well, that's probably just what Daniel Ortega had in mind. By playing Santa Claus, the Nicaraguan President plainly hoped to score points with the American public at a moment when President Reagan's own Yuletide fortunes were looking bleak. "This is our Christmas and New Year's message to the American people from the people of Nicaragua," said Ortega. "It is a message of peace, and couldn't be more concrete." Washington's response was Bah, humbug! "If the Sandinistas truly want to make a gesture," snorted State Department Spokesman Charles Redman, "it should be toward those in Nicaragua who oppose their oppressive policies."

Washington's ungracious response was somewhat understandable. In Managua, Hasenfus had already served his political purpose, if not his full 30-year sentence, after being convicted by a Sandinista court Nov. 15 of terrorism and other charges. Indeed, all that the Nicaraguans could see ahead was 10,918 more days of feeding and sheltering the somber-faced cargo kicker. Moreover, Managua now had a brand new Yanqui misadventurer to deal with: Sam Nesley Hall.

An enigmatic character from Ohio, Hall, 49, was arrested Dec. 12 in a restricted military area 13 miles northeast of Managua. Sandinista officials claimed last week that he had been carrying maps in his socks of military installations at the time of his arrest. The Nicaraguan government announced that, like Hasenfus, Hall would be tried before a revolutionary court. But where Hasenfus' mission had been clear from the moment of his arrest, Hall's purpose in Nicaragua remained murky. He was permitted brief visits with a U.S. embassy official and with Connecticut Democratic Senator Christopher Dodd, who helped secure Hasenfus' release. Dodd reported that Hall "is in good health, he's being treated well." The portrait of Hall that began to emerge was of a troubled loner with a Rambo complex that has earned him the nickname Sambo. "In his imagination he was going to be Rambo, but it backfired in his face," says Thomas Posey, director of Civilian Materiel Assistance (C.M.A.), an Alabama-based paramilitary group that expelled Hall 15 months ago after he pressed the group to broaden its anti-Communist activities. Adds a U.S. official: "Hall really thought he could just walk into the bush and blast Commies."

At an early age, Hall had two passions: diving and politics. The first earned him a silver medal at the 1960 Rome Olympics. The second was cultivated at home in Dayton, where his late father, Dave Hall, was mayor. Sam served one term in the Ohio legislature; his brother Tony is a liberal Congressman from Ohio who opposes Reagan's Nicaragua policy. According to Lawrence Hussman, an English professor who helped Sam chronicle his life story in an as-yet unpublished book, the massacre of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympics was a turning point. "Sam feels very strongly about the Olympics as an institution," says Hussman.

After receiving military training in Israel in the late 1970s, Hall traveled to Lebanon, El Salvador, southern Africa and Nicaragua. Hall, however, does not view himself as a mercenary. "He calls himself a volunteer counterterrorist," says Hussman. "He would consider it an insult to take money for himself." There have been personal battles as well. Hall has spent time in the mental health unit of a hospital, fought a drug problem and been through three divorces. He has apparently been a lone operator since his expulsion from C.M.A.

Hall was not the only former C.M.A. member in the news. One day after Hall's arrest, Steven Carr, 27, died in the driveway of his Los Angeles condominium, presumably of a cocaine overdose. Carr was one of five mercenaries jailed in Costa Rica in 1985 for aiding the contras. Police say there is no evidence of foul play, but some people close to Carr find the death suspicious. In interviews, Carr has said that he made one arms run for the contras from Florida to El Salvador, where weapons were unloaded in the presence of U.S. military personnel. Carr was scheduled to testify about such activities before congressional committees investigating the Iran-contra connection.

With Carr gone, Hasenfus is certain to be grilled all the more intensively by congressional investigators. As he headed home last week, Hasenfus sounded weary: "I'm just going to settle down and be a father for a while." It may be a very long time until Sam Hall sees his own three children. The rumor mill in Managua suggests that, with some hard-line Sandinistas piqued by Hasenfus' early release, Hall will have a far harder time securing a pardon.

With reporting by John Moody/Managua and Ken Myers/Cleveland