Soldier D: The Colombian Cocaine War

by David Monnery

Chirlo felt Ramón’s glance resting on him – the elder brother had obviously not missed the depth of his reaction to Victoria’s death the night before. I loved her, Chirlo wanted to say. And she was worth a dozen of you.

  ‘I will see to it that they do not escape,’ he said instead.

  ‘Good,’ Ramón agreed. ‘Armando, we will need your help.’

  Noguera seemed less than enthusiastic. ‘There are problems,’ he said quickly. ‘Bogotá will ask questions. I already have two men dead from last night.’

  ‘Exercises,’ Ramón said succinctly. ‘You will mount exercises.’

  ‘It is not so easy …’

  ‘Armando,’ Ramón said, ‘we have always thought of you as one of the family, and this is a matter of family honour. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Noguera swallowed. ‘Yes, Ramón.’ And he did. Victoria was no longer around to protect him from her brothers.

  About twenty kilometres from Totoro, and almost a thousand metres higher, the five SAS men were toiling up what might have been a shepherd’s path if there had been any sign of sheep. Someone had made it anyway, and Wynwood doubted if it was hikers. The higher they got the more the feeling grew that man had never set foot in these mountains before. Maybe there was an Andean yeti. Or Bigfoot. Pie grande. Or something like that.

  Wynwood checked the map again. Another couple of kilometres and they should come to a small pass. From there they would descend into another valley and then start climbing again.

  The mountain slopes were still covered with vegetation, though the type of tree had changed from mostly deciduous to mostly coniferous. The important thing was that they had cover if they needed it. Which was one of the reasons for their dawn decision to keep walking, rather than hole up for the day.

  ‘If they’re following us and we stop, they’ll catch us,’ Chris had argued.

  ‘They may not be following us,’ Wynwood had countered, mostly from a desire to play the devil’s advocate. ‘They may just mount a helicopter search, in which case we’d be better off out of sight.’

  Both arguments had had something going for them. Wynwood hoped they had guessed right. All of them were very tired, particularly Anderson, who had not slept for almost thirty-six hours. He claimed to have suffered no ill effects from his period of imprisonment but Wynwood was not convinced, for his old partner seemed strangely subdued in those moments when he thought no one was looking.

  Walking ahead of Wynwood, lead scout Eddie seemed the most alert of them all, his Cockney swagger somewhat muted but far from suppressed. Wynwood had been impressed by the Londoner’s efficiency over the last few days, but he did not have a clue what made him tick. He seemed too cynical even for the SAS. At least he looked better in his jungle hat than he had in the ridiculous helmet.

  Eddie himself was enjoying the morning. Ever since infant-school days – covering every square foot of the pitch Steve Perryman-style for the school team—he had been known for his incredible physical stamina. He could walk another twenty kilometres yet without really feeling the pace. Only his eyes felt really tired, and that was a consequence of wearing the PNGs for an extended period.

  For a while he had wondered why this latest disaster had not fazed him more. But it just had not – that was all there was to it. In this world you took what was coming and you made the best of it. He disliked riding in helicopters anyway. And it really was a beautiful morning. He smiled to himself as he thought of all the millions of men trapped in offices and factories and tube trains and high-rise flats who would never know what this life was like. And he thought about Lisa and wondered if he could ever learn to live without it.

  * * *

  Two men behind Eddie, Anderson alternated his gaze between Wynwood’s back and the patrol’s left flank, for which he was responsible. At the moment it consisted of the small and beautiful valley out of which they were slowly climbing. It looked like a Western setting, needing only a cabin with smoke rising from its chimney and a lone rider’s horse picking its way across the shallow mountain stream.

  This morning he would have been back in the chair with the cold electrodes fastened to his balls. Would he have told the man with the scar what he wanted to know? No, because the man would not have known the truth from the lies. But if he had known … He could still feel the moment the pain hit him. Like every other SAS soldier, Anderson had been through the sensory-deprivation and interrogation training sessions, and he had found them as harrowing as anyone else. But what had happened the day before was something else altogether. He had just had the one shock, but still he felt as if his life had been changed, perhaps even fundamentally. How it would affect him in the long run he did not know. But he wanted to, and as soon as possible. This was one reason, he now realized, why he had been loath to get aboard the helicopter. There was no exorcism available in Hereford, only in real action.

  * * *

  Behind Anderson, Chris was responsible for the patrol’s right flank. This consisted of an overhanging slope rising to invisible heights above their line of march. He scanned what he could of it, despite the near-certainty that the enemy was extremely unlikely to be above them. Amarales men – or Colombian Army men come to that – could only have got ahead of them by air, and only once that morning had they caught the distant sound of a helicopter, and that far away to their rear.

  Chris did have another reason for scanning the heights to their right. If he remembered correctly what he had read in his book there were Andean Condors in these mountains. Not many of them, but some. He would happily give a months’ pay to see one on the wing.

  Behind Chris, officially designated ‘Tail-end Charlie’, the Dame regularly swung round on his heel to check that there was no danger to the patrol from the rear. There was almost a hundred metres between him and Eddie, and the spaces between each man and his neighbours were deliberately irregular. They were a professional outfit, the Dame thought proudly. They did things well. And when they got home they would have some story to tell.

  Yet he wondered why he never told his sisters anything of his experiences as an SAS soldier. It was not security – they would never breathe a word if he told them not to. And it was not that he felt ashamed of anything, or that they needed protecting from the real world. If you lived in the Garth flats you knew about the real world, all right.

  No, it was just that they were women, and women were not interested in the same things as men. His sisters would be interested in his experiences because they were his, not because of the experiences themselves. They would want to know what señoritas he had met. He would tell them about Barbara on the bus and the two Australian girls in the square at Popayán, and they would tease him about them for months. He smiled to himself and turned round on his heel. Behind him there was only Colombia, spread out like a huge geography lesson.

  The pilot returned for fuel and lunch. Chirlo gave him the former, and told him to get back in the air.

  ‘If they are in the area you described they are hiding, Chief.’

  ‘Look again, then widen the area,’ Chirlo told him.

  ‘What do you think?’ Wynwood asked Anderson. Ahead of them the pass stretched at least a kilometre and a half into the distance, before disappearing over its rim and into the wide blue sky. A small stream bubbled its way down between long slopes of mixed grass and scree. Cover was non-existent.

  ‘What’s the choice?’ Anderson asked.

  ‘Dig in here until dark.’

  ‘There’s not much more cover here.’

  That was true enough, Wynwood thought. ‘OK, let’s go on.’

  Luis Quintana waited for the President to stop preening himself in front of the window and tell him the detail he had just received from the military in Popayán.

  ‘There are several Englishmen somewhere in the mountains,’ Estrada said with a faint smile on his face. He suddenly laughed. ‘You have to hand it to the Americans,’ he said. ‘They take the minimum number of helicopters and then crash one.
What morons! If I was Mrs Thatcher I think I’d bomb Washington.’

  Quintana smiled too. At least no one seemed to be publicly raising the question of sabotage. The Americans must know, but that did not matter. ‘What are you going to do about these Englishmen?’ he asked.

  ‘Me? Nothing. The Amarales are looking for them, and since the Military Commander in Popayán is their brother-in-law I expect they’re getting some unofficial help. Officially, I don’t even know these Englishmen exist. When I talked to London and Washington this morning no mention was made of them.’

  ‘What did London and Washington tell you?’

  ‘That they’d rescued Muñoz and lost a helicopter and its pilot in the process.’

  ‘Yes, we will soon have Muñoz back,’ Quintana agreed. He could not understand why Estrada was in such a good mood.

  ‘He’s finished,’ Estrada asserted blandly. ‘I shall talk to the nation tonight,’ he added, passing across a rough draft of what he intended to say.

  Quintana read it through, and realized what was plastering the smile across Estrada’s face. The whole business had played right into the President’s hands. On the one hand he would welcome Muñoz’s release on humanitarian grounds, while on the other he would condemn the foreign incursion as a violation of Colombia’s sovereignty, an insult to the nation. Without even mentioning the two in the same breath, Muñoz would be tarred with the American brush and Estrada’s place would be secure in the coming nomination fight.

  ‘It reads well,’ Quintana said mildly, handing the draft back. Why, he thought to himself, did political luck always seem to bless those who deserved it least?

  * * *

  They were more than halfway up the pass now, though whether the far side would offer more cover was a moot point. Chris had said it would – west-facing slopes got more rain, and therefore had more vegetation – but Wynwood tended to put more faith in Sod’s Law than in geography textbooks.

  He really was beginning to feel tired now. Even Eddie’s legs were showing some signs of strain. Another few kilometres and they would get under cover, sleep a few hours and then push on after dark.

  There was even a buzzing in his ears.

  ‘Chopper,’ Eddie shouted, and there it was, appearing in the V of the pass ahead.

  ‘Spread out,’ he yelled, but he need not have bothered. The members of the patrol split off to the right and left like a well-oiled machine, searching for whatever cover they could find.

  Wynwood threw himself ‘behind’ a shelf of rock which only protruded about three inches above the grass and searched the sky for the helicopter. For a few seconds he could hear it but not see it, and then it emerged from over the ridge behind him, swooping down across the shallow valley. A man in the passenger seat was half leaning out, sub-machine-gun at the ready, and as the craft swooped above Wynwood, its rotors sweeping the grass into his face, the crack of automatic fire resounded above the engine.

  Answering fire came from across the valley. Andy and Eddie had opened up with their MP5s.

  The helicopter swooped round in a wide arc and then slowed to a virtual hover above the valley a couple of hundred metres ahead of them, as if uncertain what to do. And then the pilot’s head suddenly jerked away, the helicopter reared up like a bucking bronco, seemed to hover again for a moment, and then dropped like a stone to the ground. The explosion seemed to wash around the valley like water trapped in a maelstrom. Flames and black smoke gushed into the blue sky.

  Looking round, Wynwood saw the Dame still holding the sniper rifle cradled against his shoulder.

  ‘The boy can shoot,’ Wynwood murmured to himself. He lay still for a few seconds, straining his ears for the sound of another helicopter, then got slowly to his feet.

  All five men walked forward towards the burning helicopter. In the cockpit two Colombians had lost their chance to choose between burial and cremation.

  ‘The pilot was talking into his mike,’ The Dame said.

  ‘So they’ll probably know how many of us there are,’ Chris observed.

  ‘With any luck they won’t have any more helicopters to spare,’ Anderson said.

  Wynwood grunted. ‘With any luck they’ll think twice about risking another one.’

  ‘Why are they bothering?’ the Dame wanted to know. ‘What good will it do them?’

  ‘I think they’ve taken it personally,’ Wynwood said. ‘We killed a woman back at die house,’ he went on, turning to the three who did not know. ‘She just stepped out of a doorway into the line of fire,’ he added, and shrugged. ‘So they may not be worrying too much about risk-evaluation. This may be a matter of family honour. Or something like that.’

  ‘Great,’ Anderson murmured. ‘We come all this way, and you start a family feud. Just like the bloody Welsh!’

  Wynwood gave him a cold stare. He did not feel guilty about the woman’s death, any more than he would have done if she had stepped out in front of his car on the M4. But he did not like the fact that it had happened, and he did not feel like making a joke of it.

  ‘Let’s get on,’ Chris said, trying to fill the breach. ‘I need some sleep, and I’d like some sort of roof over my head, even if it’s only a tree.’

  Wynwood, though, was extricating the PRC 319 from his pack. ‘I think we ought to let Belize know we’ve been spotted,’ he said.

  * * *

  Estrada and Quintana had just finished working their way through the latest American extradition requests when they were informed of the British Ambassador’s request for an audience.

  They grinned at one another. ‘Bring him up,’ Estrada said. ‘Guess what he wants to talk about,’ he said wryly to Quintana. ‘You stay,’ he added, as the other man got up to leave.

  The Ambassador was shown in. After exchanging greetings with the President and being introduced to his Minister for the Interior, he was ushered into the usual ornate and uncomfortable chair.

  ‘Before you begin,’ Estrada said, ‘I should tell you Señor Quintana is fully cognisant of last night’s events.’

  The Ambassador nodded. ‘I have just received some additional information in that regard,’ he said. ‘I regret to tell you this, but five of our soldiers were left behind at the scene.’ If he was expecting a shocked reaction he was disappointed.

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ Estrada agreed. ‘Do you know where they are now?’

  ‘Somewhere in the mountains. I am sure you will not take offence if I say that they are probably reluctant to approach the local authorities.’

  ‘Of course not. I would be reluctant to approach them myself,’ Estrada said with a broad smile.

  The Ambassador sighed inwardly, smiled outwardly. ‘The British Government would like to request your help in finding and escorting these men to safety,’ he said formally.

  ‘Of course, of course. We will do everything we can,’ Estrada said, turning to Quintana for confirmation. The Minister nodded his agreement. With about as much sincerity as a tea-drinking chimpanzee, the Ambassador thought.

  ‘But, as you know, our powers are somewhat limited,’ Estrada went on. ‘If they had not been, there would have been no need for your soldiers to be there in the first place, yes? But we will try. Of course we will.’

  ‘There are several guerrilla groups active in those mountains,’ Quintana added helpfully.

  Just before dusk Chris woke Wynwood for his shift on lookout. ‘Come and have a look at this,’ he said, leading the Welshman back to the position they were using on a sheltered ledge above the camp. The sun had set beneath the western mountains, leaving the vast expanse beneath them bathed in shadow. ‘Down there,’ Chris said, handing him the sniper rifle’s nightscope and pointing.

  Wynwood could see nothing with the naked eye. With the scope he could just pick out a line of figures ascending a slope far below. ‘Huh,’ he said.

  ‘Who are those guys?’ Chris murmured.

  ‘How far away do you think they are?’ Wynwood asked, ignoring the Butch Ca
ssidy reference.

  ‘In distance, about three kilometres. In time, several hours. And it’ll be too dark to track soon. I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Wynwood asked, one eyebrow raised.

  Chris grinned at the absurdity of what he had just said, and made the necessary correction. ‘From them, that is.’

  ‘OK,’ Wynwood said, ‘I’ll keep an eye on ’em. Get some sleep.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  The news of the helicopter’s destruction brought Chirlo a savage satisfaction. All day a little voice in his head had been telling him that Manomi was just an Indian who had seen a chance to make some money, that the tracks he was following were either non-existent or made by someone else entirely at some distant time in the past, and that all the Englishmen were back in Panama or wherever it was they had come from.

  The little voice had been wrong. They really were out there in the mountains. Five of them, according to the pilot’s last report, including the one who had been a prisoner.

  Where the fuck did they think they were going?

  He had thought they were just keeping themselves out of harm’s way until someone friendly came to collect them, but it was beginning to look like no one was coming.

  The way these gringos were going they were either lost or intending to walk right across the mountains. The first possibility did not seem very likely. But if they were trying the second then what was their intended destination? It had to be somewhere in the Magdalena valley.

  He left the security centre and walked upstairs to the library, pulled out a map of the area and examined it. They could be aiming for San Agustin, or the airport at Pitalito …

  Either way they would be making themselves vulnerable again.

  Walking back down the corridor, he passed one of the TV lounges. As usual, and despite the circumstances, Ramón was spending the afternoon in front of a Hollywood movie.

  Chirlo walked down the stairs, letting his anger cool into something closer to sadness. I was the only one who cared for you, he told the woman who was still living in his head.