Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  There was nothing but hiss on the radio and the sibilant sound of rain falling hard through the dense jungle.

  John Bethea replaced the microphone on its hook. The JDIA command center was brightly lit, wide-awake. The air conditioning hummed slightly, sending a cool, dry draft through the underground room. The communications equipment filled the entire corner of the room. Five large flat-panel display screens covered the two adjacent walls.

  Bethea stood and stepped to the map of Columbia on the wall and drew a large red X through one block. Turning to Jon Ward, he said, "Well, you can see what your friend Beaman is up to. We have him searching down here in the southwest mountains. Pretty sure that de Santiago has his major fields established there somewhere."

  Ward stared at the colors on the map where the X was.

  “That has to be some vacation spot there,” he muttered.

  Bethea was refilling his coffee cup.

  "Real rough terrain. Makes for slow going. You know if those guys are having a tough time navigating, it’s no walk in the park."

  Ward sipped his own coffee and hardly noticed it had gone lukewarm. He pushed back his chair, rose and walked over to get a closer look at the map.

  "He's working pretty close to the Peruvian border, isn't he?"

  "Yeah, but that border is really open,” Bethea answered. “De Santiago controls most of the Colombian territory near there and the Shining Path guerillas in Peru control their side."

  "Convenient," Ward commented dryly.

  "Makes things a little interesting," Bethea explained. "The two groups pretty much leave each other alone. No known cooperation, but no open hostility either."

  Sitting down in front of a computer console, Bethea used his forefingers to type in a series of commands. One of the large, flat screens on the bunker wall flicked alive to reveal a large-scale map of northwest South America and the nearby Pacific.

  "Jon, this will be your patrol box." Bethea drew a roughly rectangular box about four hundred miles by fifty miles on a side. He guided the computer mouse to orient the box parallel to the coastline and placed it right against a red line that marked the boundary of the Colombian territorial waters. "We want you to stay in the bottom half of the box most of the time, though. Stay ready to shoot your Tomahawks on a one-hour notice."

  Ward looked over the map with a quizzical look on his face.

  "Where Bob is operating, looks to me we should be a couple of hundred miles farther south for a direct flight."

  Bethea nodded.

  "Yeah, that would work if we had over-flight permission from Ecuador and Peru. For security, we didn't even bother to ask."

  Ward nodded his understanding, already calculating the added distance and its effect on his missiles.

  Bethea punched a few more keys and another flat panel blinked and lit up. A flowchart appeared.

  "General scheme is this: Beaman finds a target and data links a location and picture to us. We plan the missile flight here and send you the data. You re-program the birds and send them on their way. Figure the whole operation from geo-location to bird in the air at about ninety minutes."

  He looked at the neat, sterile blocks on the chart. Commander Jonathan Ward was trying to imagine how it might feel to hurl a Tomahawk into the sky with actual living people likely waiting where it would dive back to earth. He ran through his mind some of what Tom Kincaid had told him about de Santiago and his army. The happy, beautiful, smiling face of another Kincaid flashed across his consciousness.

  He couldn’t wait to light the first fuse.

  Jose Silveras stared at the yellow sheet of paper lying there on top of the stack of other yellow papers piled on his desk. It looked just like a thousand others that crossed his desk every day. The routine stream of bureaucratic gobbledygook flowed past him in endless torrents. That assured he would keep his cushy government office job and not have to ever return to the coffee plantation. So long as he kept his nose clean, his allegiances flexible. And his true allegiance a total secret, of course.

  This particular sheet of yellow paper had attracted his attention at once.

  The Americans wanted to control the airspace over the provinces near Camal for five days, starting the day after tomorrow. That was in the heart of de Santiago's territory. Dangerously near some of El Jefe’s best, most productive coca fields.

  Perhaps it was only a drill, to be blindly staged in a very sensitive region. It had happened before. Too much reaction from the rebels would cue the Americans that they had tread too close to a coiled snake.

  Silveras reached to unlock a lower desk drawer. Glancing around the tiny office to make sure he was alone, he slid out a thin folder and opened it before him. No scheduled government operations anywhere near there. That meant this was something the Americans were doing on their own. Something very secret. Something Juan de Santiago would pay well to know about.

  Silveras returned the folder, closed and locked the drawer. He stood, stretched, and left the office for an early lunch. Whistling tunelessly, he nodded at a few of his co-workers who were still bent over their desks.

  Two blocks up and one over, near the park, he stopped and bent to tie his shoe, using the opportunity to see if anyone was following him. There was no one there at all. The streets were still empty before the lunch rush. He stepped around another corner and lifted the receiver on a pay phone.

  Dropping in a coin, he dialed a well-remembered number.

  Juan de Santiago asked Antonio de Fuka the same question for a third time.

  "Your fighters are in place, my friend?"

  The two men sat beneath a giant stand of bamboo half way up the eastern slope of a mountain ridge. Below them, the hillside dropped steeply to a small stream rambling through the cleft between ridges. Both sides were densely covered with jungle growth. They were perfectly hidden there.

  "Juan, I have a hundred of my best men on either side of the stream. The Americans must come this way and cross this stream. They will be dead before they have time to ask for forgiveness of their sins." He broke a branch from a small tree and began drawing lines and circles in the black dirt. "The Americans are coming this way. We have intentionally left a hole in our line to let them through. When they pass, my men will close the hole, drawing tight the noose." Scratching out three more circles in the loam, he continued, pointing with the sharp end of the stick. "We have heavy machine guns here, here, and here. I have RPG gunners here and here. There will be a crossfire from which no one can escape." Looking boldly, directly at de Santiago, he concluded. "For once, we will take them by surprise. They will not enjoy protection from the air. Not from government troops. We have determined they move alone. They are ours, El Jefe."

  There was no mistaking the broad smile on the leader’s face.

  Bill Beaman felt uneasy. He couldn't put his finger on it. Something in his gut just didn't feel right. The rain stopped. The terrain was not quite so formidable. They had made good time the last couple of hours. Down this slope, then they would have one more ridgeline to climb to get to the drop zone.

  They hadn't seen any sign of human habitation in days. If de Santiago had any facilities in this area, they certainly had not found any evidence of them yet. Just empty jungle. Beautiful, wild, and unspoiled. It would be fun to hike these mountains as tourists rather than warriors, he thought.

  He stopped for a moment to watch his men carefully move down the slope. Out here in the wilds, they had no reason to expect to see anyone. Still they were vigilantly and silently sliding through the jungle. A monkey occasionally squawked in protest or a bird exploded in flight at their approach. Still nothing else.

  Chief Johnston eased up to a stop beside Beaman.

  "Skipper, I don't like this. Things are going too well. My gut tells me something is wrong."

  "Yeah, Chief. Mine’s saying the same thing. It's been too quiet. Make sure the guys are alert."

  They slipped down the slope toward the small, unnamed stream that awaited t
hem at its bottom. The eighteen SEALs were spread out over a fifty-yard front. They moved silently forward, doing precisely as they had been trained to do. They kept their M-16s locked and loaded, ready for instant use. The two SAWS gunners stayed on either flank while the M-60 machine gun team remained in the center of the line. In case of an attack, this group would meet a hail of machine gun fire from the center and grenades launched from either side. Add in the automatic fire from fifteen expert marksmen with M-16s and any force short of one with armor or aircraft was well matched.

  The SEALs passed through de Santiago's line unnoticed. Neither side saw nor was even aware of the other.

  A bird fluttered noisily into flight yards ahead of the SEALs. Beaman looked up with a start. What caused that? His people weren't anywhere near. Wild animal? Or did they have company? Again, his every instinct screamed to be ready for trouble.

  He checked his M-16 one more time. Ready to go. The M-1911 Colt 45 on his hip was also ready to rock and roll if need be. Nothing to do but move forward carefully and be ready for whatever, while keeping an eye on their backsides.

  Alvarez was the first to arrive at the stream bank. He stopped and hid in the undergrowth at the edge, waiting to see if anything out of the ordinary happened. Just like the training exercises. The open ground of the steam bed was an ideal killing ground if someone meant to ambush them. He repeated the mantra he had learned: “Make sure you own it before you venture out into it.”

  He hunkered down to wait for the others to catch up before he entered the open ground.

  Sparks Smith was next. He lay at the edge of the stream, mostly covered by vines. One by one, the SEAL team took their places along the bank. Twenty feet of rocky streambed separated them from the cover of the jungle on the other side. They lay there, watching, listening, all senses running at maximum.

  Nothing moved. Not a sound.

  That was not normal. Where was the sound of birds twittering around, the rustle of wildlife venturing to the stream bank, the jungle sounds they had become accustomed to on this long march?

  Another bird burst into the air from somewhere farther along the bank to their right. Instinctively, all the SEALS turned as one to look that way.

  There was the unmistakable glint of sunlight off polished metal. Immediately there was a burst of gunfire from the left. Both banks erupted, the still of the jungle trampled by an explosion of ordnance. Volleys of automatic fire rippled from the far side, controlled bursts of aimed fire came from the SEALs, aimed at the muzzle flashes. The heavy rumble of AK-47s mixed with the higher pitched notes of the M16s. Screams and moans from wounded fighters broke the short stillness between shots.

  The heavy machine guns on the flanks opened fire at the SEALs, pinning them down under a storm of bullets as incessant as the earlier rain shower. Sparks screamed as one of the bullets found its mark. He rolled down the bank to the water's edge and lay there, deathly still. Blood seeped out into the stream and left a reddish-pink trail in the clear water.

  Alvarez looked aghast as his buddy died right there in front of him, a few feet away. They had been together since BUD-S training. They had shared “Hell Week.” Now Sparks was dying, the life bleeding out of him into some little stream in some God-forsaken jungle.

  Alvarez aimed the grenade launcher of his SAWS at the nearest machine gun and pulled the trigger. A two-pound grenade arched across the stream and detonated directly over the gun. It was out of action, the barrel pointing skyward and the gunners slumped over it.

  O'Brien, in the center of the SEAL line, opened fire with the M-60 machine gun. The 7.62-mm NATO rounds stitched across the foliage. At seven hundred and fifty rounds a minute, the belt-fed M-60 didn't have the stopping power of a 23 mm heavy machine gun, but O'Brien more than made up for that with his accurate fire.

  Beaman watched as his men fought whomever it was who was assuring they didn't make it across this insignificant little stream. His team wasn't equipped for extended combat. They were a shock force. Hit hard and fast, then get out before anyone could pin them down.

  That was exactly what they were now. Pinned down in the sights of some heavy-duty ambush. They would need to pull out and soon. The random shots were beginning to find their marks.

  He started to signal Chief Johnston to pull everyone back up the hill. Shooting started up behind them.

  Pinned down! Trapped by the simplest of pincer movements! The rebels had closed off their only escape route.

  O'Brien's M-60 went silent. Beaman looked over and saw the young SEAL fall back against a tree and slide down to lay in a lifeless lump. His men were being torn-up. They had to get out of here.

  Alvarez fell to a burst from behind him, the AK-47 rounds tracing a bloody line across his back.

  Beaman gritted his teeth and rushed forward. He grabbed the silent M-60 and opened fire. Shooting from the hip, he ran across the shallow stream, hopping nimbly from rock to rock. Bullets zinged past him. Water splashed up in miniature geysers at his feet. He felt the tug of rounds tearing at his clothes.

  Twenty feet, less than five seconds. Seemed like a damned marathon.

  For a brief, fleeting instant Beaman saw himself and Jon Ward, charging in tandem to the finish line at last year's San Diego Marathon, neither man willing to give quarter. He beat Ward by less than a step. This was another race he had to win.

  Across the stream, Beaman dove into the cover of the underbrush. He was across. Tossing the empty M-60 aside, he pulled out the Colt and his fighting knife.

  Had to break this attack. His team was pinned down.

  Beaman ran down the line, parallel to the stream, shooting, screaming and fighting all the way. He felt an odd exhilaration when he saw the shocked look on the faces of the rebels he jumped.

  He imagined their thoughts. Who was this crazy man, slashing, shooting, screaming at them?

  “I’m the last son of a bitch you’ll ever see!” he screamed.

  The rebel troops vanished in front of him. After what seemed a frenzied eternity, the shooting stopped.

  Beaman stopped and leaned against a tree, breathing hard, looking for his men.

  Chief Johnston tip-toed carefully across the stream, scanning the jungle for stragglers, followed by half a dozen of his men. They climbed the bank cautiously and made their way toward him.

  No more shooting, no more loud explosions. Everything was deathly quiet.

  "Skipper, you okay?"

  "Yeah Chief. How are the men?" Beaman was all out of breath and dead tired.

  "That was the dumbest thing I have ever seen, sir. You workin’ to be a dead hero?" The chief asked, still wide-eyed.

  "No. Seemed to me that was the only way to break out before they chopped us to pieces. Now get the men together and let's see what we have. Set up a defense perimeter in case they decide to re-attack. Fix the wounded."

  Beaman wasn't ready yet to face the fact that he had now lost troops in combat. He simply couldn't say it. And he already dreaded that communication to Bethea.

  "Yessir. Looks like they left at a run. You got a good half dozen of ‘em, looks like. I'll set up the SATCOM radio. Sparks bought it.” Johnston shook his head sadly. When he looked up, there was a flash of anger in his eyes. “Sure would like to know how they knew we were coming. That wasn't an accident. That was a set piece ambush."

  Beaman knew he was right. Right now, though, he was still breathing too hard to ponder the question.

  Juan de Santiago watched it all from his perch high above the fighting. His men closed the trap on the Americans just as planned. It shouldn't have taken more than a few minutes to annihilate the out-manned and out-gunned Americans. He saw the first several of the invaders fall, then his jaw dropped as the large Americano loco charged across the stream like an enraged bull. He seemed impervious to the rebel bullets. The lone soldier had broken the entire line of his men and sent them running like frightened children into the jungle. Even those closing the trapdoor from behind the Americans had fled when
they saw their compadres on the run.

  De Santiago had to watch the whole thing play out with grudging admiration. That was a fighting man. Worthy of being his adversary.

  He turned away and marched up the mountain. No doubt about it. They would meet again. And oddly, de Santiago eagerly looked forward to that encounter, no matter when it might happen.

  15

  Bethea couldn't believe the words he was hearing over the scrambled radio circuit. He had lost people before. Lost good people in a violent way. Who hadn't in the never-ending war he waged with the drug trade? In the previous wars he had fought? This was much different. This time it felt intensely personal.

  His first reaction was to blame himself. De Santiago had penetrated his operation. The revolutionary-turned-drug lord would have to have known about the SEALs' mission for several days. It would have taken him that long to set up the elaborate ambush he had sprung on Beaman and his men.

  He had to find and plug the leak.

  He leaned heavily against the bunker wall. Bethea was mentally reviewing his organization, top to bottom. Nothing leaped up at him. He had not expected that anyway. De Santiago had the money and power to reach deep into the heart of any organization. He had operatives at every level of President Guitteriz’ government. It would take work to find where the flaw in the plan had developed. He would have to play everything even closer to the vest. Right now, the only people he was certain he could trust could be counted on three fingers: Bill Beaman, Jon Ward, and himself.

  If Bethea had dropped anyone less capable than Bill Beaman's SEALs into those Colombian mountains, the surprise ambush would have been a total slaughter. Beaman was reporting six dead and four wounded. The whole operation, two years of painstaking preparation, was in jeopardy. The SEALs’ presence in sensitive territory was common knowledge among the rebels.

  Those were the tough decisions John Bethea was well equipped to handle. They were also the kind of decisions he relied on his best men to help him make. He seized the microphone once again and felt the detached coolness of its metal grill against his lips as he spoke.