George turned around, picked up his bag and marched off to his room. There he set up his laptop and emailed Whitehorse. Jackson hated phones, cell phones in particular, preferring anonymous email. So, George logged into latinmail.com account and sent his arrival report to Whitehorse. George hoped that his Colombian wife never found this account. It would be difficult convincing her that [email protected] was actually a work related email address.
Only George knew this email for Whitehorse. Jackson believed just the act of George sending encrypted email to the embassy server would brand him as an Agency asset. So Whitehorse set up this address with the cover being that George was keeping a girlfriend who was a flight attendant.
Hi Lover,
I arrived at Cano Limon just fine. You didn’t have to worry about the helicopter ride. And there is no guerrilla activity, so stop worrying. I will be here several days looking over the security of the place, so I won’t be able to see you this week. I never did hook up with your girlfriend.
Love,
George
The message would be clear to Whitehorse:
Arrived without incident. All quiet. Found the subject.
Everything written about Yolima was opposite from what George meant to relay. In other words, when George would say he didn’t find the girl, Whitehorse would know that he did find the girl. Any important information would be encrypted into a digital photo attached to the email. While this encryption was not nearly as secure as the RS-67 that the Agency used, it could be disguised as a porn picture, and few would look beyond the sexy woman or couple on the screen.
*****
Connie, the head maid, assigned Yolima one of the spare rooms in the men’s section, just as Yolima had hoped. Along with a complementary miniature chocolate bar, a form letter rested on her pillow. It was from the Director General of the camp and warned of the danger of having men visit her room, and spelling out the punishment if she was found to be having sexual relations with a man. After she read it, she laughed a little, and thought how stupid it was for a corporation to try to keep men and women from following the most primal of urges. She was going to fulfill her duty.
After unpacking and arranging her room, she picked up her camera, went out and looked around the camp. Remembering her briefings, she found the gym, knowing that Mad Madison worked out there every day. But to keep from being conspicuous, she moved on toward the river.
It was just 1030, but already the sun hammered down on her head. She kept under the covered sidewalks as long as possible. She had seen what the sun had done to her mother’s face and arms from working outside for all those years. Soon she found the river, its yellow water looked lazy, but she remembered reading that the current would be deadly. The rainy season had just started and the river was near its lowest level. Even so, it was still over 150 meters wide. The dolphins would be in the deepest part, and therefore concentrated in just a few places.
She only had a few days, maybe a couple of weeks until the rainy season would explode, the river would swell to over a mile wide in places, and the dolphins would disperse. After only a moment of searching, Yolima spotted a gray and pink dolphin break the surface and then disappear into the ochre river.
She ran back to her room, changed into her bikini, and went in search of a boat.
1230, Wednesday, July 24
Office of Regional Affairs
US Embassy, Bogotá
Colombia
Whitehorse Jackson closed the door to his office and logged on to his computer. He would have preferred to be in one of the internet cafes in town to receive George of the Jungle’s message, but he was too well known by the bad guys. Any traffic he sent or received would be scrutinized after he left. It was too easy to search a server and find out all the activity of a particular computer. So, he would just have to answer any questions from the IT guys if they challenged his porn activities. The embassy had a very strict “no porn” rule, and he was about to break it. Again.
He logged on to Swappingwives.com and looked at his email. After deleting eighteen new messages (What perverts.) he opened George’s letter. Good. He’d seen the girl. Good work. I’m fortunate to have George working for me again. Now I need to see how things are going to play out. He typed out a reply to George praising his masculine attributes and vowing eternal love. He could almost see George blush. Might as well have some fun, right?
New information confirmed he was on the right track. The Colombian National Police nabbed a prominent FARC sub-commander bound for Arauca. He had the bad luck to be on a bus that ran off of a mountain road and down into a deep ravine. All of the living passengers were admitted to a local hospital. The police interviewed the survivors, especially this one found to be carrying an unlicensed pistol. After several hours of interrogation, the guerrilla leader told the police of the massive movement of the best FARC fighters to Arauca for a large operation to start in 22 days. Jackson didn’t want to think about how that information was extracted.
Whitehorse could not imagine the FARC coming out into a conventional battle. The helicopter gunships alone would eat them up, not counting the Colombian Air Force fighters. And what could be the objective? Cano Limon was the only target worth capturing in Arauca. Would they ask for ransom? Maybe. Would they try to destroy it as a political statement? Never. The money was too important to the state. The FARC would lose the support of the people if they destroyed the people’s income stream.
He logged off his computer, leaned back in his chair while crossing his arms, and put his cowboy boots up on his desk. Now, what am I going to do about Ann? He had a major operation spinning out of control, yet all he could think about right now was the woman running Counter Intel.
Whitehorse argued with himself only about important matters. During these arguments, he became three people. He would imagine himself as the impartial judge switching between the proponent and the naysayer.
Naysayer: She has been a great CI chief for several years here, and now you’ve promised her a promotion. What were you thinking?
Proponent: I know what I was thinking. She’s earned it. Besides, she’s been getting to me, weaseling in closer and closer. Bringing me coffee, laughing at my jokes, and wearing those conservative dresses. She must know that I’m a sucker for a woman in a smart dress.
Whitehorse was married once. Once. For 88 days. Since then, he kept a string of girlfriends, but never one who might be a keeper. Women were easily attracted, and easily cast off. A bit of pleasure for a few months, and then back to business.
Naysayer: Why are you so attracted to this woman whom you cannot have? This is an iron rule. An iron rule! One does not mess around with women from the office. Look at what happened to Nagel in San Salvador. He got caught messing around with that secretary.
Proponent: Yeah. Nagel was sleeping with a married woman. That’s why he got in trouble. Ann is not married. And besides, I haven’t messed around with her. I haven’t touched her, or even taken her to dinner. We don’t spend hours in conversation. We hardly speak except for work. I can’t believe that I told her that she was beautiful. And see, she didn’t say anything back. No protest, no argument, nothing. She just accepted the compliment as if it was her due. What a woman. I think I’m smitten.
Naysayer: Look, we’ve got this rule. No relationships with women at work. There are good reasons for this rule. It has served you well for thirty years.
Proponent: Yes, that rule works for regular women. This is not a regular woman. She is competent, beautiful, and I think she likes me. Besides, I’m lonely.
Judge: Time is up. We will resume deliberations when we have more time.
Whitehorse bounded out of the chair, invigorated that something right was happening with the Gerald Minor affair, and pleased that the Proponent was winning the argument. How he wished that he was back in the field again. It was too dangerous for him to go out, both for himself and any agent who might be seen with him. He would have to fight the battle from here
. With Ann’s help.
1500, Wednesday, July 24
Fitness Center
Cano Limon, Arauca
Colombia
Mad Madison had just finished a very satisfying thirty minute nap. Now, after a short workout, he would be ready for tonight’s mission. As he and Steve walked into the gym, he saw Yolima walking back to her room dressed only in her lime green bikini.
“Whoa. Who is that?” Mad asked.
“Never seen her before,” Steve said.
“Well, it’s a small camp. We’ll meet her at dinner or tonight after the mission.” They were well ahead on their flight hours for this month, so tonight’s mission was just a check of La Esmeralda and the camp perimeter. An hour plus ten at the most. They should be back on the ground before 2030.
Mad noticed another person on the other side of the gym doing multiple chin-ups. He walked over and introduced himself.
“Mad Madison. Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“Nope, just got in today. I’m George Allen. Monroe security. Here checking out the facilities in case we need to bring some of our aircraft in here for maintenance or an emergency. I hear that you’re the pilot.”
“That’s right. I fly the Cessna out in the barn,” Mad said with a big grin. “This is my sensor operator, Steve Thibidot.”
“I heard you mention the girl in the bikini. Her name is Yolima Cifuentes. She came in on the helo with me. Some kind of research biologist studying fresh water dolphins in the Arauca River.”
“Didn’t even know we had fresh water dolphins here,” said Mad.
“I’m sure that she can tell you all about them.” George said. “We’ll see you guys at chow.” George picked up his bottle of water and walked out.
Steve and Mad started their normal workout routine. And Steve started on his normal subject of discussion.
“Mad, when are you going to get hooked up with one of these Colombian women? They are gorgeous, sexy, and they like men.” Steve was always looking out for Mad’s well being. And it was Steve’s repeatedly stated goal to get Mad happily involved with a beautiful woman.
“I don’t know. After my divorce, I’m just picky. I’m gonna look and look until I find the perfect woman.”
“Well, if I wasn’t married, I’d have already asked two or three of these beauties to marry me. You’ll never find a perfect woman, but here in Colombia you’ll come the closest.”
“Steve, I can’t tell if these women like me or the fact that I can get them and their family a US visa.” It was true that many women chased American men to get the green card for themselves, and citizenship for any children that would come in the marriage. Also, when married to an American it was easy to get visas for relatives.
“Mad, that’s a low blow. You know these women are looking for a man who’ll care for them and treat them well. That’s why they look for a Gringo. If they get a visa, well, that’s a bonus. There’s a serious man shortage here, and the competition is fierce. You ought to take advantage….”
The discussion raged for the next forty-five minutes while they lifted weights and then continued through the stationery bicycles. Women was the one topic they could never exhaust.
Then Yolima walked in.
“Buenos tardes”. Good afternoon, she said.
Now wearing black short shorts and a tight white tee shirt, she mounted the stair climber machine next to Mad, looked at the two Americans, and smiled. Her hair was pulled back into a long pony tail. She started at a fast pace, not holding on to the rails, but working her arms in rhythm using two small dumbbells. Soon she had sweat dripping off of her face and arms in the open air gym.
Mad and Steve were speechless. Mad thought that this was definitely the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen, and now she was close enough that he could smell her perfume. As he finished his time on the stationary bicycle, he started to get off and Yolima looked over.
“Doesn’t this machine have a counter?” she asked in Spanish, pointing to her stepper.
Mad replied, his Spanish much better than Steve’s. “No, it is a very old model, but it really works the legs.”
“Oh, you speak such good Spanish.”
“No, not really, but I am learning,” Mad said with a big smile. “How do you go so fast on that thing? I would be dying.”
“I have to keep in shape. At home I go to the gym almost every day. I am almost thirty years old now, and have you not seen the other Colombianas? All those twenty-two year olds? They are my competition.”
“Oh no, my love, you have no competition,” Mad said earnestly.
Chapter 7
0630, Thursday, July 25
Southern Command Headquarters
McDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
General Joseph Tackaberry walked into his work space and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was a spare man, his discipline displayed in his slender waist line and precision tailored uniform. Balding white hair, cut short, crowned his square head. Every movement showed his precision and speed. Too small for football, he excelled in fencing and pistol shooting at West Point.
He thought he would be the first one into the office this morning, but judging from the fresh, hot coffee in the pot, Suzy Osterman beat him here again. He looked around the office for her. One could not really call this his office, since all of the walls had been knocked out. When General Tackaberry first took over Southern Command (SOCOM) here in Tampa, Florida, his first order was to tear out the walls of his office and all of the walls of all of the offices of his staff. He wanted open space so that he could hear and see everything happening in his command center. Engineers came in and installed roof beams and pillars to hold up the floors above, but General Joe didn’t care about the cost. He wanted open workspaces.
SOCOM’s area of responsibility stretched all through Central and South America. A true backwater these days, since the real action was in the Iraq-Iran-Afghanistan theatre. This was General Tackaberry’s last command before retirement. He had put in 36 years in the Army, and it was almost time for him and his wife of 33 years to move into the lake house that they purchased near Fort Campbell some ten years ago.
“Suzy, how nice to see you here today,” Tackaberry said with genuine enthusiasm. Every capable subordinate had been stolen from his command for the Iran war. Suzy, 52 years old, had been a Marine E-9, highest enlisted rank possible. Her hair was short and gray, her face square and almost manly. Of medium height and ramrod straight posture, she always wore dark gray pants and a white buttoned shirt. After being wounded once in Iraq, and then again in Iran, she was medically retired with 29 years active service. With her Top Secret clearance, she had applied here as a contract secretary, quickly becoming Tackaberry’s executive assistant and virtual czar of the facility.
Without a “good morning” or “how are you” she launched into the briefing she had been working on for Tackaberry.
“General, there’s been heavy data transmission using sophisticated encryption from a farm in Northern Colombia. Our surveillance birds also confirm several groups of soldiers, possibly FARC, gathering in a camp in Northern Arauca.” Suzy was reading from the reports in from this morning’s mail. She showed Tackaberry a series of grainy infra-red black and white images showing trucks flanked by columns of soldiers, pulling into a heavily wooded area.
SOCOM kept tabs of all internet traffic going through any dish with an address from Colombia, Venezuela, or Peru. Most of the drug traffickers used commercial banking encryption over the internet to launder their money, order supplies, and process orders from the States. To be noted on this report, there had to be a type of encryption not easily recognized.
Damn, I love this woman, the General thought. Why can’t I have ten more like her?
“Do they have any idea of the class of the encryption? Also, get me some satellite imagery. I want to know more about this troop movement,” he barked.
“Encryption is definitely not com
mercial. Possibility it’s Chinese. And--uh-- sorry, sir, we don’t have any satellite assets. Everything’s been moved to Iran, remember?” There was sympathy for the general in her big eyes. “I can dispatch a FLIR bird out of Bogotá. Get some movies for you by tonight,” she suggested.
SOCOM had two old King Air 200’s flying out of the capital, manned by contractors. These were medium to low altitude aircraft equipped with turret mounted infra-red cameras.
“Do it.” He turned on his heel and walked to his desk. Now why would the g’s in Northern Colombia have data encryption? They’ve never tried to encode their radio or email traffic before. Going through his morning routine of cleaning his desk, reading through his email and checking his news sources, his mind really never dropped the intel nugget about Colombia. Just under the surface of his thinking, his subconscious brain turned it over and over, and looking at all sides.
All of the active duty personnel were at PT (physical training) and breakfast, and the civil servants and contractors would be in at 0800. Tackaberry left a message for his intel officer to see him as soon as he came in.
0900, Thursday, July 25
Finca Rio Rojo
Arauca, Colombia
A mosquito buzzed in through the open window and landed on Max’s arm. He brushed it away without even thinking. His light cotton shirt already stuck to his skin from the heat and humidity. Max knew that part of leadership was suffering with the troops. They were living in shelters in the jungle, so he could live without air conditioning for a few more days. The light breeze barely moved the lace curtains in the second story room where Max paced across the cool tile floor, trying not to worry about all the parts of his plan.
Arauca: A Novel of Colombia Page 12
