Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War

by David Monnery

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘Good. I in turn can appreciate your concern for your men. I will recommend that the deception you suggest be implemented. With any luck we can explain it away later as the result of someone’s incompetence.’

  It had been dark for almost half an hour when Chris returned from the observation post. He fed himself while Wynwood read through the notes he had made over the last four hours. Then the two of them joined the Dame in the nearby tree for a conference.

  ‘It seems like we have a reasonably efficient, but not very well armed, outfit to deal with,’ Wynwood began. There’s usually between five and six guards outside, probably another three or four inside. They seem to do an eight-hour shift, which would mean one shift on duty, one in reserve and one sleeping. Thirty men, of whom twenty can be deployed immediately. They’re all carrying automatic weapons, mostly Ml6s, though we’ve noted at least four Kalashnikovs. We haven’t seen any grenade-launcher attachments but that doesn’t mean they haven’t got any. We haven’t seen any heavier guns, which probably does mean they haven’t got any. Agreed?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Chris said. ‘I seem to remember reading something about how much these guys like grenade-launchers – so maybe we should assume they have them.’

  ‘OK. We think Andy and Muñoz are in the main house. But whatever building they’re in, the best entry point for a rescue party has to be through the wire on the far side, yes? If we can persuade our incoming lads to make a big noise on this side, that should help. Plus, a sniper on the far side to take out as many guards as possible.’ He turned to the Dame. ‘I’m told you can shoot.’

  ‘All those hours at the fair on Sunderland beach,’ the Dame sighed.

  ‘Well, after we’ve finished this chatting, you can work your way up and round the head of the valley and onto the far slope. Find a good position. And while you’re at it, take the International’s nightscope with you. See if you can see anything of our boy through the back windows.’

  The Dame nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s one rough plan,’ Wynwood said. ‘Either of you got anything better?’

  They hadn’t. The Dame collected the nightscope and melted away into the forest.

  ‘If the Ops HQ buy this,’ Chris asked, ‘how are we going to divide it up? Am I going in with you?’

  ‘No. I’ll go in with Eddie.’ He saw the signs of mutiny gathering in Chris’s eyes. ‘You’re the only one here I would trust not to get lost in a blackout in a licorice factory. If we don’t get the incoming lads down here as fast and as quietly as possible then everything else is down the chute.’ He held Chris’s eyes. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’ The word came out reluctantly, but it came out.

  ‘And I want to see if Eddie’s as good as he thinks he is.’

  ‘He is.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments. Wynwood broke it. ‘You get some sleep,’ he said. ‘When I relieve Eddie at 22.30 he can take you up to the LZ they found.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Blackie asked. Bonnie was gazing down at his steak and kidney pie, looking unusually serious.

  ‘I don’t know really. Thinking about home. My mum and dad. Friends I went to school with. Dunfermline.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  Bonnie absent-mindedly dragged a chip through the gravy on the end of his fork. ‘You’ll think it’s stupid. I mean, I think it’s stupid.’ He looked round to make sure no one else was listening. The airbase canteen was almost empty.

  ‘What is, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘We’re not very old, are we?’

  ‘You noticed.’

  ‘You know what I mean. It sort of gets real when you think about what could happen.’

  ‘Like not beating the clock?’

  ‘Yeah. You know that stupid thing they say in films – “I’m too young to die!” Well, fuck it, Blackie – I am too young to die! Know what I mean?’

  ‘Course. But you know, my great-grandad died last year, and he was ninety-four. And I reckon if he’d had the energy he’d have got up and shouted out the same thing: “I’m too young to die!” He wasn’t ready, I’ll tell you that. Only a couple of months before that, he was still trying to feel up the nurses in the hospital.’

  Bonnie grinned. ‘Yeah. I know. It’s not that I’m scared. At least I don’t think that’s it. I’d just be really pissed off if I got killed by … well, you’ve seen ’em in Miami Vice – all those sleazeball Colombians with fancy earrings and half a ton of gel on their heads. Getting killed by another soldier would be bad enough but … You know? There’s too much to do. It’d be a waste.’

  Blackie leaned across and stole a chip. ‘Like they say – Who dares wins.’

  Half an hour before relieving Eddie in the observation tree Wynwood set up the PRC 319 and started to transmit. Belize acknowledged. He relayed all the information the patrol had gathered since the last transmission, and then offered them a précis of his proposed plan of attack.

  This turned out to be a dead ringer for the provisional plan that the ‘green slime’ – Intelligence – in Belize had drawn up on the basis of their satellite photographs. Wynwood was somewhat less pleased to be told that the operation would be under way in less than twenty-four hours. He reminded them that they had not yet discovered the exact location of the hostages.

  They asked him what he had planned for the following day – a picnic?

  Chapter 8

  As on the previous morning, the patrol abandoned their continual surveillance of the valley for a brief dawn meeting. ‘I just want to check everyone knows what’s going on,’ Wynwood said. ‘Sometimes in situations like this it’s hard to remember who you’ve told what to.’ He looked round. ‘You all know when we’re expecting company. But we have a lot of jobs to get through before then. First off, we have to try and pinpoint which room or rooms Andy and Muñoz are being held in. Second, I want to check out our approach to the compound from the far side of the valley in daylight. Third, we have to keep a watch on Totoro, particularly for any incoming reinforcements. Fourth, we have to make sure we all get enough sleep during the day to be on top form tonight. Show those goons from C Squadron what real SAS soldiers can do.’ He looked round again. ‘All right, so far?’

  The other three nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

  * * *

  It had been light outside for well over an hour. Luis Quintana knew this because his brain had refused to stop thinking long enough for him to get back to sleep. He checked his watch on the bedside table – it was almost eight. It was time to get up. He got no farther than the edge of the bed, sitting there naked, still thinking.

  ‘Luis,’ a small voice said behind him.

  Julia’s face was mostly hidden by her tumbling hair, but her arms were reaching up to him, her nipples peeking above the top of the sheet.

  Quintana was tempted, but … He took her hands, kissed them and recrossed her arms across the breasts. ‘I have work to do,’ he said. Her smile turned into a yawn.

  He put on a dressing-gown and walked through into the other room of the apartment he rented for her. As usual it was strewn with the clothes they had discarded with abandon the night before. He placed water and coffee in the filter machine and stood there watching it bubble.

  Yes, he decided. Yes.

  Two things had kept him awake most of the night – a slightly queasy conscience and a fear of being caught. The former was easier to deal with. Why should he worry about a bunch of gringos, who by all accounts were not much more than highly trained thugs? He would have no compunction about the death of Colombian thugs, so why agonize about a few Englishmen? Soldiers died, it was as simple as that.

  The second problem was more acute. For all he knew, he and Estrada were the only two men in Colombia who knew about the operation. If that was the case then it would not be hard to pinpoint the source of a future leak. Still, he could not believe that was the case. Estrada was incapable of keeping his mouth shut, and there wo
uld be others in the know – the English and American embassies almost certainly.

  He had worked out that the Americans would have to be involved – there was no one else in a position to extract the English soldiers. And if the cartels did not have informants in all the significant American military and police agencies then his name was not Luis Quintana.

  Yes, he told himself. Yes.

  He took a small book from his pocket and reached for the phone. There was no guarantee that the call could not be traced, but the number was unlisted and would be difficult to trace back to him. He had to take some risks, he told himself. He looked up the Popayán number and dialled it. After several rings a male voice answered, its anger tempered by sleepiness.

  ‘Am I speaking to Miguel Amarales?’ Quintana asked.

  ‘Yes, who …’

  ‘Just listen, please. This is a warning. I know Carlos Muñoz and an English officer are being held at Totoro …’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Just listen. I am a friend. A military operation is being planned against Totoro, by the English and Americans. President Estrada has given them his permission. The attack is scheduled for 1 a.m. on the fourth – that’s tomorrow night.’

  There was silence at the other end. ‘How do you know this?’ a calmer voice asked.

  ‘Just believe it,’ Quintana said, and put the phone down. He took a sip of coffee and realized he was sweating. Just one more call, he told himself.

  This time he called the international operator and asked for a number in Panama City. The saying was that it paid to kill two birds with one stone, but Quintana saw no harm in throwing two stones at the same bird.

  Major Bourne brought the briefing room to some semblance of order. ‘Gentlemen, the first piece of news is that we have the green light for tonight …’

  A raucous outburst of cheering followed.

  ‘But I have bad news for half of you. It has been decided that only one Troop will be used – and Air Troop has been chosen …’

  The room divided into expressions of delight and disgust.

  ‘After our discussions yesterday,’ Bourne continued, ‘and due consideration of all that was said, it has been decided to use a HAHO drop. Air Troop’s much greater experience in using this technique is the reason it has been chosen.’

  There were murmurs of grudging comprehension.

  ‘Of course this HAHO drop will mean longer in the air, but the overriding priority with this infiltration is secrecy. Air Troop will leave the aircraft twenty kilometres to the north-west of the target, free-fall for ten seconds, deploy at around 8500 metres and glide’ – he smiled at their side of the room – ‘gracefully as birds for an anticipated fifty-five minutes before reaching the LZ. You’ll need oxygen of course. You’ll be taking a couple of CADS with the 81mm mortars.

  ‘The C-130 will depart at 18.30 hours, and will be refuelled en route by a tanker. You will exit the aircraft beginning at 23.05 hours, and will be airborne, as I said, for approximately fifty-five minutes, landing here’ – he pointed out the landing zone’s location on the large-scale map – ‘at approximately 24.00 hours. The LZ itself is basically a bald patch on the mountain, one of the few, I might add, so aim yourselves well. The ground surface is relatively flat but broken, so watch out. One of the surveillance team will be there to meet you, listen to your bullshit about what great parachutists you are, and then guide you down the mountain to the target. It’s a two-kilometre walk, all downhill, through medium forest. Not difficult, even for you lot. Any questions so far?’

  No one had any. It had suddenly got through to them that it was real, Bourne thought.

  He continued. The weather forecast is good. At jumping altitude the wind will be around ten knots and the visibility upward of sixteen kilometres.’

  ‘And it’ll be bloody cold,’ a voice muttered.

  ‘Bloody cold,’ Bourne agreed. ‘But you can warm up on the ground. It should be around fourteen degrees centigrade when you land. No rain is expected. The moon is only four days old, so the ambient light will be limited. You will in any case all be carrying PNGs.’ He looked round inviting questions.

  One arrived. ‘Are we likely to meet anyone between the LZ and the target, and if we do, what are we supposed to do with them?’

  ‘It’ll probably be my mother,’ another voice said.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to do anything with her,’ replied a third.

  ‘It’s extremely unlikely you’ll meet anyone. Even Trooper Peacock’s mother. But if you do, there are no hard and fast rules. Use your discretion. It shouldn’t be too hard to tell the difference between a shepherd and a Colombian gunman.’

  It was not a very good answer. Bourne knew it, and he suspected quite a few of the men did too. But there was not a better one, and they all knew that as well.

  ‘What about the local authorities?’ someone else asked. ‘Are there any military bases in the area?’

  ‘I was coming to that. Both the Army and Air Force have bases here in Popayán’ – he indicated the place on the map – ‘the 17th Brigade and the Juan Pinero Squadron. And no, I don’t know who Juan Pinero was. The army brigade is an infantry unit, about six hundred men, armed with automatic weapons but not much else. The Air Force squadron only consists of a few modified UH-1 helicopters. If they’re being properly maintained, which is doubtful, they might be effective by day, but their crews have no night-fighting experience.

  ‘Basically, we don’t expect any problems from either of these sources. First, someone would have to alert them, and whether the Amarales would even want to is a moot point. Second, the military commanders would have to respond immediately, without obtaining any sanction from higher up. Third, even if the two units’ reaction times were a quarter of what we think they are, they’d be hard pushed to bring any force to bear in the two hours you’ll be on the ground.

  ‘One thing you won’t like, though,’ Bourne admitted, ‘you’ll be wearing helmets throughout this one.’

  A chorus of groans erupted. The SAS tradition was never to wear helmets except during parachute drops.

  ‘And American helmets to boot,’ Bourne continued, rubbing salt in the wound. ‘They’ve been borrowed from US Special Forces for a trial, and you all look just like guinea pigs, so …’ He grinned. ‘These helmets have built-in radios,’ he went on, ‘for transmitting and receiving. And they should be ideal for coordinating a night action like this one. Which, by the way, is now officially designated Operation Snowstorm. Snow, for those of you who’ve been living a truly sheltered life, is slang for cocaine. Right. Any questions at this stage?’

  ‘Who thinks up these names, boss?’

  ‘We get them from TV cartoons, Trooper. And I forgot to say, you will have a test session with the helmets this afternoon. Now, where had we got to …’

  ‘We were being led like lambs to the slaughter by some no-hoper from B Squadron,’ a voice from the back suggested.

  ‘They’ve been there for days now,’ another voice added. ‘They’ve probably started buggering llamas.’

  ‘Your knowledge of the world’s fauna does you credit, Trooper,’ Bourne said after the groans and laughter had subsided. ‘But to continue. Once you reach this area’ – Bourne placed a finger on the map – ‘the force will be split, with two patrols heading this way …’

  Miguel Amarales decided against the telephone; he wanted to convey this information to his older brother in person. The arrogant oaf had really landed them in it this time – a visit from the goddamn English Special Forces. What priceless irony. The very people Ramón was always prattling on about! His heroes!

  It took him just under the usual half hour to reach Totoro, five minutes to pass on the anonymous warning and express his own anger.

  Ramón ignored the latter and derided the former. ‘Where would they come from?’ he asked incredulously. ‘A British aircraft carrier in the Pacific? Ascension Island? Heathrow? This is a fantasy. Someone is trying …’ E
ven as he listened to himself speak, Ramón was beginning to wonder. Could they really be coming?

  ‘You are not listening, brother,’ Miguel was saying. ‘If they have Estrada’s approval then why not Air Force transport?’

  ‘We would know,’ Ramón said firmly.

  ‘Or they could call on American support,’ Miguel persisted. The Americans are only four hundred miles away in Panama.’

  Ramón could not deny the possibility. ‘But for one soldier – it’s absurd. Paying the ransom would cost them a tenth as much as mounting such an operation.’

  ‘Whoever said politicians were intelligent?’ Miguel wanted to know. Having got his brother on the defensive, he was willing to let his anger abate somewhat. ‘Does it matter in any case? Let’s assume the information is genuine. Why not just move Muñoz and the Englishman somewhere else, and let the British know we have done so? We can phone their embassy in Bogotá.’

  ‘No.’ Ramón was firm. ‘If they are coming here, I at least want some bargaining cards.’

  ‘OK,’ Miguel agreed. That at least made sense. ‘They can’t land the whole British Army out there’ – a sweep of his arm took in the valley – ‘and they will rely on surprise, yes? Well, they won’t get that. Jesus, Ramón, if there’s anyone in Colombia knows more about these bastards, it’s you. How will they come? How do we defend ourselves?’

  Ramón looked marginally more cheerful. ‘We even have an expert on the premises,’ he murmured.

  ‘The Englishman.’

  ‘Of course. We can ask him.’

  ‘You mean Chirlo can ask him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two men who came for Anderson did not look him in the eye. It was a bad sign, the SAS man thought, though he could not begin to think of any reason.

  He was taken out of the main house, along a path in front of the low building adjoining it, and into the next building down. His final destination proved to be a room with no furnishing save an electric socket. The wires which ran through some sort of amplifier to a pair of clip-on electrodes had not yet been plugged in. The man with the scar was standing waiting by the window. Bad news was an understatement.