John Bethea sent the remnants of the team into this remote corner of Colombia. The trek over the uncharted mountains had been as arduous as their initial jaunt from the original drop zone. Until they had spotted the first of the trucks, Beaman was wondering if this whole thing might be a wild goose chase. If the JDIA head was reaching for an alternate mission, hoping they might stumble up on something by accident or luck.
All Bethea would say was that his "intelligence source" suggested they be alert for rebel drug smuggling activity in this area. He wouldn't, or couldn't, expand on that tidbit of information.
Beaman was perplexed about where the trucks were coming from. He knew that this particular road snaked into Peru, the border was less than a mile further up the mountain. The map showed this ancient roadway headed deeper into the Peruvian Andes, away from Colombia. If the trucks were loaded with cocaine, where were they coming from? His intelligence sources and the briefings back at JDIA headquarters proclaimed that the Peruvian Shining Path guerrillas and de Santiago's Colombian rebels barely tolerated each other so long as each stayed on its own side of the border. There had been several reports of armed clashes between the groups and no reports of any serious cooperation. Shining Path controlled all of this part of Peru.
The truck roared on past where Beaman lay hidden. The huge dual wheels kicked up a cloud of choking dust that settled like a red fog on his hiding place. Beaman allowed himself a fit of coughing and sneezing once the truck was safely past and had disappeared around the next curve. He slithered back up the slope. He was again shielded from view from the roadway by the thick jungle growth. He climbed fifty yards up the steep slope. That’s where he broke through the undergrowth into a small, hidden campsite.
"Another truck?" Chief Johnston asked him.
"Yeah, still can't figure this out. They have to be coming across the border from Peru," Beaman answered, slumping down to have a seat on a tree root. "It has to be coke they’re bringing up from down there so that means the fields are across the border. De Santiago either has them hidden from the Shining Path as well as he does from us, or the bastard is a better diplomat than we give him credit for. Chief, you feel like a little cross-border jaunt?"
"Why don't we just grab a truck and ask them?" Johnston asked. He handed over to Beaman a cup of thick, black coffee he had just brewed up on his little alcohol stove.
Beaman gladly accepted the drink and blew across the top of the steaming liquid to cool it a bit.
"Thanks.” He took a sip as he pondered their situation. “That is one possibility. But it's still at least a week before Spadefish gets here. If we grab a truck now, the element of surprise would be lost. If we did away with the vehicle and the passengers, somebody would miss them and suspect we’re still here. Right now, we’re assuming that de Santiago’s men think we pulled out after the ambush. The longer they operate under that assumption, the more likely we will be to get this thing done.”
“Well, we could try to hit ‘em hard and quick, the way we’ve been trained to do,” Johnston offered. “All we’ve done so far is walk and climb and get our asses shot off.”
“Well, Chief, let’s suppose de Santiago has some kind of operation down there. We don’t have enough ordnance to take out anything of any size ourselves. We need Spadefish and her Tomahawks to make any kind of big boom. And if we just cause smoke and a few sparks, he learns we’re still futzing around in his territory and he would have everything moved long before we could get a weapon on target. And even then, we have to consider that we’d be shooting into Peru."
"Okay, what do we do then? Every load that passes us by down yonder is probably a ton of pure coke, and I’d bet a month’s pay it’s heading straight to the U.S."
Beaman stood up, swirled his cup, and tossed the remaining coffee grounds into the bushes nearby.
"Likely so. I admit I don't know the plan yet. Let's do a little scouting. Maybe we can figure something out. One thing’s for damn sure. We can’t do much sitting here on this mountainside. Saddle up the rest of the troops."
Beaman’s orders did not authorize any action outside of Colombia. He had to be on the north side of the border. His team was there at the invitation of President Guitteriz and most of the fine citizens of Colombia. They enjoyed the protection of the legal government.
If they took a single step across the line, they were interlopers. The Peruvian government could look at them as illegal invaders. If they got into a fight with de Santiago's troops, Beaman knew they could not expect any support from the Peruvians. The Shining Path guerillas wouldn’t even make a distinction. The best they could expect if detected by the Peruvians was to end up in prison. They could be court-martialed in the United States for disobeying orders. The guerillas had their own far less refined system of justice and punishment. No, they had even fewer friends across that invisible line just up this ancient mountain roadway than they did here in Colombia.
Johnston stood, put his forefinger and thumb to his lips, and whistled. As he was pulling his pack onto his back, six more SEALs emerged from the undergrowth. They shouldered their packs and headed down the hill. Following along parallel to the road, they remained in the cover of the jungle to the up-slope side, dutifully traipsing southward.
There was no official border crossing, not even a sign of any kind to mark the transition from Colombia to Peru. The only way the SEALs knew they were south of the border was by plotting their GPS position on the map that Beaman carried. There wasn’t even the slightest hesitation as they crossed the invisible demarcation.
The road had stopped climbing as they walked through a high mountain pass. It began a twisting, turning descent, falling quickly into a valley far below.
They had made barely another mile’s progress down the road when they heard the growl of another truck, laboring in low gear up the steep slope, coming their way. It appeared, followed by a cloud of blue smoke, straining around a turn just after the last SEAL had dived for cover. Like the others, this truck was heavily laden. Like the previous trucks, a steely-eyed armed guard rode in the cab beside the terrified driver.
Beaman waited until the truck disappeared around a curve. He lay still another ten full minutes, just to be sure that no one in the truck had seen anything and came back to check it out. He signaled for his men to resume their trek along the road and farther down the mountain.
Night descended on the slopes. They found nothing except more of the rough road. With darkness to cover them, the SEALs donned their night vision goggles and marched down the middle of the roadway. That made for easier going and a faster pace. Beaman figured that the loaded trucks would not be traversing this treacherous stretch of road in total darkness. Even if the did, their headlights would give the SEALs plenty of warning to hide in the thick underbrush at its side.
They descended through the darkness. The road twisted and turned even more wildly. They descended forever through the far northern reaches of the old Inca Empire into the very heart of Peru. Some of the men were already grousing about the inevitable march back up the roadway, back toward the clouds. There could be no pickup from a drop zone in Peru.
Beaman could see the valley far below and the mountains on the other side through his goggles. They were ghostly, greenish shapes. The night sounds of the high cloud forest surrounded them. Not far from where he and his team walked, unidentified prowlers of the night pursued their prey in an eternal, deadly battle for survival. The SEALs could hear the warning cries, the chase, and the screams of death.
Two more trucks passed them as they made their way down. Beaman learned that his assumption about any night driving was wrong. Their cargo was critical. They were willing to risk the treacherous driving or the possibility of a night ambush to get it to wherever it was destined. The darkness and the trucks’ noise and distant headlights gave the team plenty of time to hide.
Just before dawn, they came to a fork in the road. The left bend descended through several more switchbacks toward the valley
floor. The right fork crossed a shoulder of the mountain and disappeared through a narrow cut in the rock face. There was no way to tell where it might lead. The main road had played out on Beaman’s map once it crossed the border.
Beaman didn't have enough men to divide and follow both trails. Following the wrong one could cost them vital days of fruitless searching. Beaman was a firm believer in the old military axiom, “the fifty-fifty-ninety rule:” when presented with a fifty-fifty choice, you'll choose wrong ninety per cent of the time.
He decided it would be better to stay there near the fork and wait. It went against his aggressive nature, but they would find out soon enough where the trucks were coming from.
Stationing Johnston under cover with a view of the crossroads, Beaman led the rest of the small team up the slope about fifty meters. He set up the SATCOM equipment as they built a rudimentary camp beneath the protection of several large boulders.
In fifteen minutes, Beaman was talking to John Bethea, who had been awaiting word from the team from deep beneath the seaside hill in San Diego.
"White Shadow, this is South Station. Current location seven four dot seven nine five one South, five dot nine seven nine nine West. Backtracking suspected drug traffic into Peru. Have seen eight trucks in the past twenty-four hours. Intend to find source. Over."
There was no blink in Bethea’s voice when he answered.
"South Station, if you find source in Peru, we’re unsure of our ability to get approval for strikes. You may have to find alternate means to stop delivery."
Bethea’s meaning was clear. If Beaman was willing to risk the border crossing, he wasn't going to stand in his way. He would do everything he could, diplomatically and politically, to help. But blowing anything up? He was on his own.
"White Shadow, request latest ETA of Sea Snake."
Beaman wanted to know when Spadefish, code-named “Sea Snake,” would be in position to complete the mission.
"Sea Snake will be in position in five days. Left home day before yesterday."
The two discussed coordination to re-supply the SEALs and talked about the latest intelligence summaries. The entire conversation lasted less than ten minutes.
“Out,” Beaman said and broke the circuit.
The sun broke over the far ridge bathing Beaman in a golden glow as he stowed the equipment. The night sounds of the jungle quieted. The day sounds had not yet started. Beaman found a soft spot to stretch out amid the thick foliage, his intention to enjoy the sunrise and the brilliant blue sky overhead.
He was asleep in an instant.
It seemed like only seconds later that someone was shaking him awake.
"Skipper, wake up. Truck coming." It was Cantrell disturbing a most pleasant dream. Beaman groaned and rolled over. Cantrell was the one who was lugging O'Brien's M-60 now. "Chief said to get you. Truck coming up the right fork."
Beaman blinked open his eyes. The sun was high in the sky and beating down with a vengeance. He checked his watch. He had slept for over four hours.
“Felt like I slept ten minutes,” Beaman said with a yawn.
“It’s quarter past ten.”
“I know.”
Rubbing his eyes, Beaman said, "Okay, right road it is. Let's be ready to haul ass as soon as that truck has gone on by."
The dirt road to the right snaked around the mountain and through a narrow cut in the rock slope, finally opening into the next valley. It narrowed to a track hardly wide enough for the men to walk down if they traveled two abreast, let alone for the trucks to use. As they backtracked along the truck's route, they found that the rough roadway clung to the near vertical slope for long stretches. Above and below was little more than the open scar of active rock slides. Thousands of feet below the road, the scar disappeared into lush rain forest. Far above, the steep wall disappeared into the gray clouds.
They stopped. In the valley far below where they now perched, Beaman could make out the regular rows of a cultivated crop. It looked to be a thousand acres or more down in the narrow valley and even more stretching up terraced slopes on the mountainsides. The valley closed to a narrow defile at its lower end. A rushing, roaring river slamming between two high rock walls.
They were many miles from any human habitation, in truly wild and desolate country. So this is where de Santiago had hidden his death crop. Little wonder no one had been able to find it so far.
Beaman signaled Johnston to have the team take a rest here. Johnston slid up to where Beaman was staring down at the valley.
"Skipper, looks like your hunch paid off. There it is."
Beaman stared down into the valley, looking through powerful binoculars.
"Yeah, we found what we’re looking for, but what do we do about it? You heard Bethea. We shoot, we shoot at our own peril. Besides, even if Sea Snake was in position to lob a Tomahawk over here, the strike wouldn't do much damage. No target big enough. Certainly no processing plant."
The low growl of another loaded truck reached their ears, coming their way from lower down the mountain. Johnston sent the team climbing up the mountain for meager cover among the boulders and what little scarred brush was left from what had obviously been a long series of earth slides. The truck belched smoke as it struggled up the steep slope, creeping along in its lowest gear. The driver had his hands full keeping it on the narrow, muddy track.
The vehicle disappeared around the bend. Beaman joined the rest of the team twenty yards up the slope. Chief Johnston had hidden the SEALs at intervals around the little area where he and Beaman sat. The two men sat on a small rock promontory, affording them an excellent view of the valley. Both carefully scanned the entire area, searching for lookouts that might spy them. They looked for a possible solution to the problem of how to deprive de Santiago of the bounty of this crop.
"Too wet to burn. Too much to cut,” Johnston mumbled out loud, summing up both men’s assessments. “We don't have any spray. Shame, too, ‘cause it looks like they just started harvesting the stuff. Damn, don't know what we can come up with to do any real damage down there."
Beaman's gaze swept the whole valley; then he looked again, even more intently before he lowered the binoculars and glanced sideways at Johnston.
"Chief, what do you see down there?"
Johnston looked at Beaman quizzically.
"Lots and lots of ready-to-harvest coca plants."
"That's what I see, too. Nothing else."
"What do you mean?"
"No village, no dormitory for workers, no factory, no processing facility, not even another access in or out of that valley. Looks like a few tents over near the river, probably for the poor sons of bitches who have to chop and load the goods. This is the only way in or out right here. My guess is de Santiago is growing his crop here where nobody is likely to stumble up on it…us or the Shining Path…and that he keeps just enough people down there to do the dirty work. He’s bringing the raw coca leaves out of there on this road and trucking them somewhere else to do the processing. It’s not like most of the operations we’ve torched all along, where the plant was near the fields. Bet if we stopped one of those trucks, we'll find it full of coca leaves, going across the mountains to get turned into nose candy and to add whatever secret goo that they’re putting into it lately. There’s nothing down there but coca fields. Not a thing for us to make go ‘boom.’"
"Okay, I'll buy that. So what do we do, then?"
Beaman rolled over on his back and surveyed the mountain above them.
"If we cut this road, those fields are worthless, totally isolated. At least until de Santiago can rebuild it. And these rockslides are a perfect place to cut the road for a long, long time. If we could drop some of this rock on the fields themselves, all the better." Sitting up, he turned to Johnston. "Chief, set up the SATCOM. I need to talk to Bethea. Put some of the guys down alongside the road. I want to confirm what's in the next truck. If it’s coffee beans, we were about to screw the goose!"
Beaman ta
lked to Bethea for several minutes. He explained to the head of the JDIA about the hidden valley and its coca fields and his suspicions about what de Santiago was about.
Grabbing two of the back packs they had lugged across a good stretch of Colombia, Beaman tossed one to Johnston and said, "Come on, we got work to do."
The two senior SEALs scurried much higher up the mountain, the loose rock and dirt making the go a tough one. Down below them, four of the SEALs set up to ambush the next truck. Cantrell dug a shallow hole in the center of the road and buried a small packet of C-4 plastic explosive. He strung thin wire from the detonator across the track and behind a large boulder, then connected the electronic firing mechanism. He sat back to wait, still holding O’Brien’s M-60, happy to be doing something besides walking and ducking.
Broughton and Martinelli walked fifty feet farther down the road and took cover, one of them above and the other below the road. Dumkowski walked on up the road fifty feet and disappeared behind the trees on the up-hill side. All was in readiness for the next truck that was unfortunate enough to grind its slow way up the mountain road.
Beaman and Johnston worked high above the road. The slope became steeper as they climbed. The over-growth gave way to nothing more than a rocky talus field and the footing was now downright treacherous. One slip and the narrow road might not be enough to stop a fall all the way to the coca fields below.
Johnston slipped and kicked a rock free. It bounded and bounced down the slope. It stopped somewhere in the trees far below. Neither man saw it land from his perch. After an hour of difficult climbing, they emerged at the base of a huge rock out-cropping hundreds of feet above the roadway.
Beaman opened his pack and started placing C-4 charges. Several key rocks held a mass in place on its precarious spot. Moving slowly around to the right, he put in place a string of six charges, each with a radio-controlled detonator. Johnston moved to the left, doing the same. With the last charge securely in place, the two men scooted and slid back down the slope, the going much quicker but the hazard for a deadly fall still quite real.
Final Bearing Page 19
