Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War

by David Monnery

  The explosion had blown the windows in, and bits of at least one trooper with them. The flying glass had hit the audience side on, and the sound of a huge collective scream seemed to be rending the air in its wake. Anderson, half behind the makeshift platform on the side farthest from the door, was unhurt, save for a small cut on his cheek. He was just starting forward to check out what had happened to Muñoz when, through the blasted window frames, silhouetted against the lighted windows on the other side of the main street, he saw several figures appear, arms stretched to throw. Recognizing the cylindrical missiles while they were in mid-air, he dropped to his knees, covering eyes and ears with his arms.

  The dozen or so stun grenades exploded, searing the eyes with their flaring magnesium, lashing the eardrums with overlapping blasts of sound. Even with his eyes and ears covered it felt to Anderson like the end of the world.

  The silence which followed was almost as complete, but only for a moment, as whimpers rose to wails and wails to screams for help. Anderson looked round for Wynwood, but found only Muñoz, kneeling not two metres away, shaking badly and looking round blindly, blood flowing from a cut above his eye. Above him, above the whole ghastly scene, the row of phosphorescent lights that hung from the beams were flickering like demented telegraph machines.

  The shout ‘Fire!’ penetrated Anderson’s brain, and he turned to see a second shower of missiles rain in through the windows, followed, seconds later, by the hiss of gas.

  The echoes of the initial rocket attack were still humming in the air when a shout from the guards on the back door announced the presence of enemies in the alley at the rear. A succession of shots followed. Gómez and Wynwood exchanged glances. ‘Take the back door,’ the Colombian said, and without waiting for agreement hurried back through the other office towards the hall.

  Wynwood was drawing the Browning from its holster when a figure burst through the door in question, carrying a Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine-gun. At the same moment the stun grenades detonated in the hall behind him. Which was lucky for Wynwood. The newcomer was facing the flash, and even through two doorways this gave him enough pause for Wynwood to fire a double tap through his forehead.

  ‘Shut the door!’ he screamed at one of the troops. ‘And keep it covered.’

  Wynwood turned and walked swiftly – the temptation to run was almost irresistible, but only Clint Eastwood could aim a pistol on the run. Gómez was struggling to his feet, trying to shake the blindness out of his eyes; behind him Andy was looking round. Gas canisters were coming through the window.

  ‘Andy,’ he screamed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Anderson was grabbing Muñoz by the shoulder. ‘Let’s take the prize home ourselves,’ he shouted.

  Wynwood went to help him, holding his breath as the gas billowed round the hall. Already his nose and eyes seemed to be running. Now. he knew what the terrorists in the Iranian Embassy must have felt like.

  They managed to pull the politician into the first office, and to slam the door behind them against the gas.

  ‘Where now, Tonto?’ Anderson asked. He seemed to be having the time of his life. The sound of gunfire now seemed to be coming from all round the building.

  ‘Out of here,’ Wynwood suggested.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Beside them Muñoz seemed to be coming out of the disorientation caused by the stun grenades. ‘What is happening? What do you want?’ He wiped his face with the back of his hand, looked at the blood as if surprised it was there.

  ‘We’re the British trainers of this unit,’ Wynwood explained. And not too proud of it at the moment, he thought to himself. ‘And we’re getting you out of here,’ he continued.

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts,’ Anderson interrupted, hustling Muñoz towards the back door and almost tripping over the Colombian Wynwood had killed a few minutes earlier. ‘Nice shooting, partner,’ he murmured, noticing the twin holes in the forehead. ‘What now. Shall we ring for a taxi?’

  Wynwood ignored him. ‘We’re taking El Señor out of here,’ he told Morales. ‘Straight across the alley and through the door that’s dead opposite. You and Jesus here can give us covering fire.’ He thought for a second, then knelt down and extricated the MP5 from the dead Colombian’s hands.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘open the door.’

  Morales pushed it outwards, and a volley of fire stitched a pattern on the inner face. Then there was silence.

  ‘Go!’ shouted Wynwood.

  The two Colombians almost flew through the door, into the rolls the SAS trainers had taught them, coming to rest face down in the middle of the alley, their M16s opening up in opposite directions.

  Wynwood was proud of them. ‘I’ll take the door,’ he told Anderson.

  Anderson just nodded. ‘Get ready,’ he told Muñoz, as Wynwood half ran, half rolled across the alley and landed in the opposite doorway with a thud. Ricochets echoed down the walls.

  ‘Shit,’ Wynwood muttered. He was getting too old for this. He allowed his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and then searched the door for the lock. But there seemed not to be one. He tried the handle and the door opened. ‘Our lucky day,’ he murmured, and beckoned to Anderson.

  At that moment a volley of fire seemed to kick up dust in front of one of the spread-eagled Colombians. It was Jesús. He seemed to cough apologetically as the rifle dropped from his hands.

  ‘Go!’ Anderson told Muñoz on the other side of the great divide.

  Muñoz looked at him like he was mad. ‘No!’ he shouted, turning away towards the door leading back towards the hall. As he did so a gas canister bounced off his foot, rolled away and exploded.

  With a sound like a moan Muñoz turned and ran straight out through the door, across the alley and in through the open door opposite, bullets whining round his head. Anderson was right behind him, taking the more professional approach, trying to vary the speed and profile of his body as he made the dash.

  ‘I’ll check the back,’ Wynwood said, and was gone.

  ‘What now?’ Muñoz asked Anderson, who ignored him. ‘Keep it slow,’ he was whispering to Morales, who was edging snakewise towards the doorway. Jesús’s body had the limpness of death.

  On the far side someone was unwise enough to silhouette himself against the lighted office. For a second Anderson thought it was Gómez, but the man shouted something to others out of sight in a voice the SAS man did not recognize, and just for safety’s sake he put a ‘double tap’ through the man’s trunk. He sank to his knees clutching his stomach.

  Morales reached the relative safety of the doorway. ‘Two,’ Anderson said out loud, counting his shots expended. From each direction down the alley he could hear men gathering; he hoped to God Wynwood had found another way out.

  He had. ‘This way,’ the Welshman shouted, and Anderson half pushed Muñoz after him, Morales bringing up the rear. The building seemed to be disused, just a series of empty rooms bisected by a corridor. Wynwood led them out across a freshly flattened back door, through an overgrown yard to a dilapidated corrugated fence. Through one of the many gaps they could see a steep bank leading down to a river.

  There was no time for consideration. Wynwood half scrambled, half fell down the slope and into the water. It was deeper, colder and faster-flowing than he had expected, and for a second he had troubling keeping the MP5 clear of the water without losing his balance. The lack of light was a further complication; from the deep channel cut by the river he could see only the stars above and a far bank which might be ten metres away – or fifty.

  Muñoz arrived with a splash beside him, followed by Morales and Anderson. The politician started to say something, but Anderson’s finger in front of his mouth made him aware of the virtues of silence. Wynwood struck out across the river, the water up to his chest, the current tugging at his body.

  The river was about fifteen metres wide. Once the others were all safely across Wynwood started pulling himself up the steep slope, and was just abou
t to breast the rise when noises across the river told him that pursuers had reached the top of the bank they had clambered down. He froze, conscious that he and the others would be masked by the darkness, praying the enemy did not have a torch.

  They didn’t. But neither did they seem inclined to retrace their steps. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette, giving a snapshot of his face in the glow of the match, and the two of them started an inaudible conversation.

  After half a minute of this Wynwood began to wonder whether it might be worth trying to take them both out with the MP5. It would be noisy, but not exactly difficult, even in light like this …

  The drone of a helicopter insinuated its way into his attention. It had to be behind him, coming towards them. Was it the police? The Army? The enemy?

  ‘Whatever,’ he murmured to himself. The helicopter seemed almost overhead now. Wynwood pulled the MP5 into firing position, and as the helicopter passed across the river, about fifty metres downstream of their position and not much higher, he raked the two silhouettes on the far bank. Both were thrown back into the corrugated fence with a crash, the lighted cigarette flying up and forward before extinguishing itself in the river.

  Wynwood turned and climbed over the rim of the bank. In front of him he could see several empty railway tracks running parallel to the gentle curve of the river. Beyond them what looked like a large warehouse stretched for about fifty metres in either direction. Two loading docks were built into its side, and one of them was open, letting out the dimmest glow. There had to be a road beyond it all.

  By the time he had taken all this in the others had scrambled up the bank to join him. Above the buildings on the far bank the helicopter’s lights were now moving across the sky. It was circling. Wynwood no longer had any doubts about whose it was.

  ‘I’ll recce,’ he told Anderson, and without waiting for an answer struck off along the tracks to the right.

  ‘You OK?’ Anderson asked Muñoz, who was crouching beside him.

  The Colombian managed a wry smile. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Jaime?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’

  The helicopter was coming almost directly towards them now, its drone growing louder. As it crossed the river someone switched on its spotlight, just too late to catch the huddled group.

  Wynwood was not so lucky. He was just recrossing the tracks when the light went on, catching him almost in mid-spot for one brief, revealing second. Then the helicopter had overshot, and he was invisible again. But not for long. It was already banking, and Wynwood had only a few seconds. ‘I’ll lead them off,’ he shouted in English to Anderson. ‘There’s a way through to a road off to your right. You look after the Big Cheese!’

  The helicopter was flying towards them along the tracks, throwing its circle of light forward like a single huge headlamp beam, reaching out for the running Wynwood, catching him and holding him. But only for a second. As someone opened up with a sub-machine-gun the SAS man swerved away to the right, launched himself up off the nearest rail onto the loading stage and disappeared through the open doorway.

  Anderson led the others to the right, round the corner of the warehouse and up a rutted alley to the road. On its far side single-storey houses stretched away up the slope, like a hillside of oversized shoeboxes. Some windows showed a dim light, but there were no other signs of life. It was not yet eight o’clock and the district seemed half dead. Or simply keeping its collective head under the pillow.

  Anderson could hear but not see the helicopter. At that moment a wash of light advanced along the wall opposite and then stopped – a car had pulled up round the bend to the left.

  Muñoz and Morales were standing waiting in the shadows, both looking as though they would rather be somewhere else. If it had been Cup Final day, Anderson thought, their manager would say they had ‘frozen’. Both men were certainly shivering, but then sopping clothes and a cool breeze were hardly a recipe for warmth.

  Anderson beckoned with a finger, and the three of them started off to the right, leaving behind the wash of light. Morales was limping, he noticed. And Muñoz just seemed exhausted by the night’s excitement.

  There was no way they were all going to walk out of here, Anderson realized. They needed transport.

  Pausing to look back he could see the helicopter some half a kilometre away, almost motionless in the air, its light shining down like one of those beams flying saucers in movies always used to pull up their helpless prey. As he watched another helicopter appeared in the distance, also trailing its spotlight like a net.

  ‘Boss,’ Morales whispered loudly. ‘Look’.

  It was a car.

  Wynwood’s building had turned out to be an abattoir. He ran headlong down a long corridor, past rows of what looked like refrigerated rooms, out into an office area, through to another landing dock. At its edge, watching his rapid approach like startled rabbits caught in a headlight, were two Colombian men – presumably the nightwatchmen. Wynwood had no sooner taken in their presence than he saw another man, better dressed and gun in hand, halfway between a parked car and the loading dock.

  Ignoring the first two men, Wynwood went over the loading dock, into a double roll and opened up with the MP5. The man with the gun sank to his knees, surprise on his face.

  As a bullet clattered off the corrugated warehouse wall behind him, and as the helicopter appeared round the rim of the warehouse roof, Wynwood rolled once more, sending a concentrated burst through the windscreen of the waiting car. Then, as the pilot struggled to flood the yard with light, he outran it, out through the gate, across the road and into the alleys of the slum quarter opposite.

  The car looked new, and what it was doing sitting on the verge of a minor road with its doors wide open Anderson had no idea.

  Morales did. ‘Riders of joy,’ he said in Spanish. It was obvious really. ‘They couldn’t take it home’ – he indicated the hillside across the road – ‘but they saved themselves a long walk.’

  Muñoz got in the back, Morales in the front, and Anderson demonstrated one of the many skills he had learned at Hereford – hot-wiring. He started the car, and eased it back onto the road, hoping the sound of the engine would be masked by the two helicopters hovering above them. The windscreen was filthy, and he was just wondering whether to get out and wipe it when lights appeared behind him.

  He eased the car forward, and for something like fifty metres the car behind simply followed them. Then, suddenly, as if a decision had been taken, the trailing car accelerated forward, flashing its lights for them to stop.

  Anderson reckoned from his rear-view mirror that there were at least three men in it. He pressed down on the accelerator, thinking: Christ, what a place! It was like a mixture of Chicago gangsters, Miami Vice and the fucking IRA – and all in a foreign language.

  Wynwood made his way carefully through the darkened alleys of the slum barrio. He could feel people all around him, twitching their paper curtains, staring out through candlelit cracks in their doors, muttering to each other. They knew he was passing through, all right.

  The real enemy still did not, if the activities of the helicopters were anything to go by. One was sweeping the valley bottom, its spotlight turning the rails into silver arcs and the waters of the river to boiling ink. The other was still hovering above the warehouse. Then, as Wynwood watched, it suddenly veered away to the south, as if yanked by a sudden signal.

  He turned and carried on up the hill, a rank smell growing slowly stronger in his nostrils. Reaching the crest a few minutes later, he discovered its source. Here the houses abruptly ended, and in the valley below there was only rubbish, mountains of it, stretching as far as his eyes could see.

  A couple of kilometres to the south Anderson accelerated down another dark street, the car like a bucking bronco on the potholed surface. Behind them the pursuit was neither gaining nor losing ground. ‘Which way?’ he asked Morales and Muñoz. Neither answered. Glancing in the rear-view mirror
, he noticed that Muñoz seemed to be praying.

  Anderson squealed the car round another corner. Above the buildings on the right-hand side of the road the dark shape of a helicopter loomed across the stars. Why didn’t the bastards open fire?

  And then it occurred to him how they had managed to get this far. The bastards wanted Muñoz alive. Which had to give him some sort of edge. All he had to do was stay ahead.

  Another intersection was approaching. And bright lights. He slowed marginally, decided on a left turn and took the corner on two wheels.

  A familiar-looking convoy of cars appeared in front of him, headed by a wrecked APC. Outside the hall the road was covered in people, presumably those brought out since the original attack.

  All this took a second to take in. He swung the wheel to the right, towards a side-street opening, just as two children stepped out to cross. Another wrench of the wheel missed them but not the corner building. The front right of the car struck it at an angle, catapulting Jaime Morales out through the windscreen, and slamming Anderson’s head against the roof as it slammed his chest again the steering wheel. He had one last glimpse of gunmen walking carefully towards the car before he blacked out.

  Wynwood found a mound that seemed suitable and started to dig himself into it. The garbage was fresh, which carried a twofold advantage. For one thing it had not had time to congeal, which would make made it easier to penetrate without leaving obvious signs. For another the stink was so bad it would deter anyone from looking too closely.

  The downside was only too obvious to Wynwood as he worked himself into and under the putrid heap. The famed ditch at Hereford, filled with animal entrails, was lavender compared with this.

  Chapter 1

  It was a minute past midnight in Bogotá. President Juan Estrada was happily settled in front of the TV in that part of the Presidential Palace reserved for his personal use. His wife had finally gone to bed, and he had three back-to-back episodes of Dallas to watch on his video. He was not sure what vintage they were – they might even be from the series which had turned out to be only Pam Ewing’s dream – but that didn’t matter.