"NOW, I'M NOT the type to get worked up over nothing," my friend Rutger Fury was saying, as thin curls of smoke rose from his rose-pink ears, "but I've had it up to here, and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

We had been discussing the recent capture of Eugene Hasenfus by the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. I had expressed the opinion that the man was obviously trying to overthrow their government and so deserved whatever he got. Rutger disagreed.

"I, by the grace of God, am an American, a proud citizen of the greatest nation on earth. What right does a puny, pathetic country like Nicaragua have to judge me? Or Eugene?"

I just looked out the window, admiring the beautiful emerald canopy that raced past a hundred feet below the wing of our plane. I couldn't help but worry that someday his America-first attitude might get him in trouble.

Gradually Rutger began to calm down. He took out his airline ticket and reread it approvingly. "Well, my friend, in just 10 hours we'll be in Managua. Mighty fine airline, Capitalist Insurgency Airways."

"Ten hours? But a moment ago you said we were just 10 minutes from Nicaragua."

"From Nicaragua, yes; but 10 hours from Managua. This isn't a direct flight. We have to parachute into the jungle and crawl to the city on our bellies."

I began to sense that Rutger had not told me the whole truth when he had said that we were going to cover a Mamba festival. "Rutger, level with me. Those crates in the back of the plane--they're not really full of noisemakers, are they?"

Rutger smiled. "Sure they are. M16s--the finest noisemaker the U.S. makes. Don't worry, though, son--they're just for keepin' away the snakes and leeches in the jungle. Those Nicaraguans wouldn't dare touch private American citizens."

"But Rutger, 100 crates? Wouldn't that look a tad suspicious if anything went wrong and..."

"Like what?" At that very moment, a loud explosion rocked the airplane. Flames curled around the starboard engine and the air was sucked from our lungs as the cabin depressurized. As the plane spun towards the ground, I realized that this might be my final descent. I also realized that I had left the hot water running at home.

Rutger saved the day by reaching over to buckle my seatbelt. A split second later we plowed into the jungle at hundreds of miles an hour. The sound of the exploding fuel tanks could be heard half a continent away.

"Now what?" I asked, brushing some carbonized cocktail peanuts from my jacket. Rutger just shrugged. It appeared that the ring of Sandinista soldiers that had suddenly materialized out of the jungle would be making our decisions for us.

SO WE ARRIVED in Managua way ahead of schedule and in no time had direct contact with powerful members of the government. A journalist's dream, in a sense.

"You must talk," the jack-booted interrogator advised me. "Who are your CIA contacts? Don't make us use the lash again."