by Tripp Ellis
Dragonfly handed me a box of ammunition, and I stuffed it into a cargo pocket.
“Thanks. Any leads on Rivera?” I asked.
“I’m working on it,” Dragonfly said. “I have a call in to one of my contacts.”
We hovered over the city, sweeping over rooftops. From up here, the view of the valley was spectacular.
Before long, we left the city behind, and were gliding over the treetops. We crested the mountain range and headed toward the Chocó region. It had been rife with conflict for decades. Santiago's compound was farther, and more remote, than Diego had made it sound.
"I don't need to warn you how dangerous the area is that we are traveling to," Dragonfly said, his voice crackling through the speaker in my headset. "The FRP operates under the guise of humanitarian resistance. They fight what they believe is a government that serves only the economic interests of the elite. The group has killed a number of social and political leaders in rural communities, as well as drug dealers, informants, and anyone else they perceive as a threat. They have portrayed themselves as an ally to the working class, but their actions show otherwise. They rule the countryside with an authoritarian stance, forcing compliance among local residents and farmers with violence. They recruit civilian members under the threat of violence, and use locals to gather crucial intel. The FRP has gained control of several drug trafficking routes, and have extorted their Revolution Tax from growers, traffickers, and civilians."
"How does Santiago play into all of this?"
"Santiago is one of the largest drug dealers in the region. His operation became a major target of the FRP. To operate in an area under their control, he had to pay an exorbitant tax. It's my guess that Santiago got tired of paying the tax and losing crops and men to the guerillas. He decided to fight back. You have to understand, this is a very complex situation. The state does not want to target and confront FRP forces directly. They do not want to engage in a difficult and protracted jungle war. One where the largest casualties are likely to be civilian."
"But they are more than willing to support a third-party taking action," I said.
"I don't know what is in that case of yours, my friend, but I'm sure it is something to facilitate Santiago's efforts against the rebels," Dragonfly said.
We glided over the green canopy of leaves. The flight offered a beautiful view of the Colombian countryside. I used the time to top off my magazines with fresh bullets. After our escapades through the streets of Medellín, I was running dangerously low.
Civilization faded into the distance. There was nothing but green countryside and the occasional dirt road. We soared over the ridges and valleys of the terrain. The dense canopy of trees shielded the ground.
Everything was going according to plan until I heard the unmistakable sound of a .50-caliber round pinging against the hull of the fuselage.
It was a sound that would make you pucker. I'd heard the sound many times before, and no matter how many times the noise had rattled my eardrums, I never got comfortable with it. It was a stark reminder of just how brief life could be.
My heartbeat skyrocketed, and adrenaline coursed through my veins.
A steady stream of bullets erupted from the jungle below, spewing fire and hate at the helicopter. More bullets pinged and popped against the metal, drilling holes in the fuselage, disrupting vital components.
Then the shit really hit the fan.
A bullet punctured the cockpit, tore through the pilot, eviscerating the man. Crimson blood painted the windshield and the instrumentation. The exit wound shredded the man’s upper torso. Smoke wafted from the charred flesh, and bits of entrails dotted the controls. What was left of the pilot’s body slumped, and the helicopter veered and wobbled.
Another flurry of .50-caliber rounds peppered the vehicle, and black smoke billowed from the engine. The helicopter pitched and rolled, plummeting toward the canopy of trees.
What a way to start the day.
21
The helicopter plowed into the green canopy. The engine whined, and the rotor blades sliced through leaves like a food processor dicing spinach. Branches cracked and snapped. Metal twisted. Wood splintered. Birds flapped their wings, trying to escape the carnage. The helicopter spun through the trees leaving a trail of chaos.
Once again, I felt like I was in the spin cycle. My safety harness dug against my hips and shoulders. The cabin filled with the smell of grease, oil, and exhaust. It mixed with the horrid stench of blood and seared flesh. Black smoke billowed from the engine.
The helicopter continued through the trees, bouncing off trunks like a ping-pong ball, finally wedging itself in the upper branches of an old Colombian oak. The fuselage creaked and groaned, teetering on the brink of disaster 30 feet above the ground. One slight movement seemed like it would shift the balance of weight and plummet us to the ground below.
I glanced to Frankie. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, looking frazzled, her eyes wide.
When I looked to Dragonfly, he gave me the thumbs up. "We need to get out of here. The rebels will be here soon. They'll strip the helicopter for parts, and take us hostage, holding us for ransom."
I pulled out my cell phone and looked at the display. We were out of the service area. No signal. At least we wouldn't have to worry about the GPS tracking device in the case. We could do away with the tinfoil at some point.
Dragonfly unbuckled his safety harness and moved to the door. The helicopter creaked and groaned again.
My whole body tensed.
Dragonfly carefully pushed the door open. The smell of the burning engine wafted into the cabin. Birds squawked in the trees and leaves fluttered through the air. Dragonfly peered over the edge, looking down below. He cringed, then looked back to me and forced a smile. "I hope you're not afraid of heights."
“Not afraid of heights,” Frankie said. “Just afraid of falling.”
There was no rope to rappel down from the craft. Jumping from this height risked a broken ankle, leg, or torn ligaments in the knees. None of which sounded appealing.
I unbuckled my safety harness and carefully moved to the edge of the fuselage. The craft shifted slightly, and the metal groaned again.
We all exchanged a wary glance.
We didn't have a lot of time to screw around. Smoke continued to billow from the exhaust port, and the engine was clearly on fire.
“Why don’t you go first?” Frankie said.
I glanced back at her, and she forced an optimistic smile.
The tail of the helicopter rested on a large branch, and the nose on another. I climbed out and hung from the skids. I glanced down to the ground—it looked even farther away than when I was still inside the helicopter.
There was a lower branch on the tree, not far away. Just out of reach. I rocked my body back and forth to gain momentum. The helicopter groaned again. Like a trapeze artist, I flew through the air, letting go of the skid, and grabbing onto the branch a moment later. I clutched on for dear life.
Leaves rustled as the branch bowed, and the helicopter creaked above me. I was able to find my footing on a lower branch. Carefully, I lowered myself down to the next branch, then made the 10-foot drop to the ground. I tumbled and rolled away from the trunk of the tree, then sprang to my feet unharmed. "I'm down!"
Frankie would have a tougher time with the case attached to her wrist.
She climbed down to the skids, dangling precariously. The case hung from her wrist, smacking her in the head. She inched down the skid, trying to get closer to the neighboring branch. Her eyes widened as she looked down to the ground.
The helicopter shifted again.
She swung her body to get momentum, then launched through the air. She reached for the lower branch but missed, and her body plummeted down.
She caught the branch below with her chest, and a painful groan escaped her lips. The case rattled, and the cuff scraped away a layer of flesh from her wrist.
I cringed. That had to hurt.
The case dangled and leaves rustled. The branch bobbed up and down. Agony twisted on Frankie’s face.
I moved underneath her, and she fell into my arms.
Her painful eyes glanced up at me.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She winced, and her scratchy voice said, “Yeah. Just got the wind knocked out of me.”
I set her on her feet.
Frankie’s underarms were scraped and bruised. She hunched on her knees, gasping for breath.
Dragonfly eased out of the passenger compartment and lowered himself down to the skids. Flames flickered out of the exhaust port. The helicopter would soon be engulfed.
Dragonfly was surprisingly nimble. He followed the same path and found his way down to the ground in no time.
“We must get moving,” Dragonfly said. “We do not want to become a hostage of the FRP. I’ve known people that were held by the guerrillas for 10 years.”
It was a grim thought. “How far is Santiago’s from here?”
“Let’s talk about this as we move,” Dragonfly said.
We followed him into the underbrush, moving away from the wreckage. I could hear the sounds of the approaching rebels in the distance as they crunched through the leaves and underbrush.
The fuselage had burst into flames, and smoke billowed high into the sky. The branches and leaves crackled from the heat and flames. A moment later, the main branch holding the fuselage snapped. The flaming wreckage plummeted down, swirling leaves into the air, breaking more branches. It smacked to the ground with a thunderous clatter. Metal twisted and crumpled. The earth quaked. The vibration ran through the ground and up through the soles of my boots. It was like a monster had stomped through the forest.
I helped Frankie along. Jogging through the forest wasn’t on the top of her list, but she managed.
“You think you can find Santiago’s compound?” I asked.
“I think so,” Dragonfly said. “But from here, the journey will be treacherous.”
22
“Just a heads up,” Dragonfly said. “The guerillas have planted thousands of landmines in the area. Be careful where you step.”
It wasn’t a comforting thought.
50 years of armed conflict in the jungle had left a third of the land unusable, by some estimates. The guerillas had taken to using homemade landmines made of plastic water bottles, filled with with an explosive like pentolite, using a syringe as a plunger and a 9-volt battery to detonate the device. They were virtually undetectable. The blast wave from the explosion would separate flesh from bone, pulverizing the legs of anyone who stepped on the device. More often than not, the victim was a civilian.
With the guerrillas pursuing us, we moved quickly through the forest, trying to evade capture. The ridges and valleys of the mountainside were torturous. My quads burned, and my chest heaved for breath. The sun burned high overhead, and my skin was slick with sweat. We didn’t have any food or water. I knew how to live off the land, but it wouldn’t be pretty.
We kept pushing through the jungle, taking short breaks to catch our breath, but never really resting long enough. The threat of the guerrillas was ever present.
We trudged through the jungle, and the new boots were quickly at odds with my feet. They were still stiff and inflexible. The beginnings of blisters began to form on my heels and Achilles tendon where the top of the boot rubbed excessively.
Dragonfly’s loud shirt wasn’t exactly the best camouflage for the jungle. To be fair, none of us had anticipated spending much time on the ground in the thick foliage.
By midday, it seemed like we had evaded the rebel forces, at least for the time being. Dragonfly led the way, professing to know exactly where he was going. By the evening, he admitted he was lost.
Dark clouds had rolled in, blanketing the sky. We had an hour of daylight left, and we were in for a storm. I had no desire to spend a soggy night out in the elements. After dark, the mosquitoes would become unbearable.
My stomach rumbled, and my mouth was dry. And there was nowhere to get a glass of whiskey.
We kept pushing across the uneven terrain. We reached the outskirts of a small cattle ranch at dusk. A barbed wire fence lined the edge of the property. We scaled the wire and proceeded across the land. My eyes caught a glimpse of a farmhouse in the distance. It had Spanish tile, and the house was cream-colored, with red beams supporting the awning over the porch. There was a barn beside the house, and a cattle pen. I counted 12 cows and 2 horses. There were rows and rows of coffee plants as well. It was a small family farm, probably just enough to sustain a lifestyle on the mountainside.
We hovered 50 yards away from the main house, crouching behind a clump of trees. I surveyed the grounds as the clouds began to mist. I thought we could sneak into the barn after sundown and perhaps stay dry for the evening? But the unmistakable clack of a shotgun racking put a damper on my plans.
The rancher emerged from behind a row of coffee plants, aiming the angry weapon at us. He shouted at us in Spanish.
“He says we’re trespassing,” Dragonfly translated. “He wants to know who we are.”
“I can understand him,” I said, raising my hands slowly in surrender.
I told the farmer that we didn’t mean to trespass. I told him about the helicopter crash and escaping from the guerillas.
He surveyed us cautiously.
“Can you help us?” Frankie pleaded.
The farmer thought about it for another long moment. “Toss your weapons on the ground. Slowly.”
I wasn't keen on relinquishing my weapon, but I complied. I still had my sub-compact around my ankle.
We all tossed our weapons to the ground in front of us.
With the barrel of his shotgun, the farmer motioned for us to stand. He waved us toward the house. We marched through the field with our hands in the air. When we were a safe distance away, he knelt down and scooped the weapons from the dirt.
Though most farmers and residents in the area had no love for the guerillas, it was difficult to know if they were informants. Often, residents complied with FRP demands to avoid harassment or death.
"What are you doing here?" the farmer asked.
"I told you. Our helicopter was shot down,” I said.
"Where were you headed?"
I hesitated. "To a meeting."
"With whom?"
"It's not important."
"It is important to me," he replied. "I like to know who's sneaking around my property and what trouble they bring."
"We don't intend to bring any trouble," I said.
"You know what they say about good intentions. What is in the case?"
"I don't know," I said.
I couldn't see his face. He still had the weapon to our backs as we marched toward the casa.
"I don't believe you,” he grumbled.
"It's true,” I said. “I don't know."
"I ask you again, my friend, where are you going?"
I said nothing.
"You can either answer the question, or you can get shot in the back. It's up to you."
My jaw clenched. I thought about it for a long moment. Buckshot to the spine wasn’t on my bucket list. "Santiago Martín."
My words hung in the air like smoke as the drizzle began to intensify.
"You are American?"
"Yes."
"You are not a tourist. Are you a drug dealer?"
"No."
"Perhaps that case is full of cash, and you intend to purchase drugs from Santiago?"
"I can buy drugs in Florida."
"Not as cheaply as you can here.”
"I'm not purchasing drugs," I assured.
"Turn around. Slowly," the farmer commanded.
We complied, still keeping our hands in the air.
Rain pattered against the ground, and the barrel of the shotgun beaded with droplets. Rivulets of water poured off the farmer’s hat.
"You are with the government?" the farmer asked.
"In a roundabout way," I said.
Except for Dragonfly, we resembled commandos in our camouflaged outfits.
"You are here to support Santiago's war against the FRP, yes?”
"Something like that," I said.
The farmer thought again for a moment, his skeptical eyes narrowing at us.
"The guerillas take what they want from me. They have killed my cattle. Stolen my harvest. We live under constant threat. I fear for the safety of my family. My daughter is only 12, yet I see how the rebels look at her when they trespass on my land. I grow weary of their harassment. If you are here to help fight against the FRP, then I will welcome you into my home."
“We are no friends of the guerillas," I said.
Voices in the distance filtered through the underbrush. The sound startled the farmer, and he twisted his head to see. It was dark, and the rain was coming down heavy now.
"Hurry!” the farmer hissed. “To the barn."
We shuffled across the field and slipped into the structure. The farmer followed behind us.
The barn was dark and musty and smelled like a mix of hay and manure. Saddles hung from the walls along with an assortment of tools. There were stalls for the horses, and a loft above.
"The rebels have followed you here!” Concern bathed the farmer’s face. "They will kill me and my family if they catch me harboring you.”
He led us to the corner of the barn. There was a large trunk against the wall. He lifted the lid, removed a few tools, then opened a false bottom. A ladder led down to a crude basement below.
“Keep quiet and stay out of sight,” he hissed.
"Our weapons?" I asked.
He thought about it for a hard moment, then handed the pistols back.
We climbed down the ladder to the small, dank space under the barn. The farmer closed the false bottom, put the tools back into the trunk, and closed the lid.
I heard his footsteps on the floor above as he pushed out of the barn and moved across the yard toward the house. He slipped inside and waited for the death squad to arrive.
