Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  After a dessert of coffee flavored ice cream over a small brownie, they left together. Mad deftly led her in the darkness toward the wildlife walk.

  When constructing Cano Limon, a large section of jungle was left inside the perimeter fence. This wildlife refuge somewhat diffused the ire of the environmentalists, and also served as a sound buffer. The jungle damped the noise so well that, when standing in the housing area, one could barely hear the generators and pumps of the production facility. Several hundred acres in size, it was a mixture of tall trees, swamp, and thick undergrowth. Several walking paths crisscrossed the area. Mad spent many an hour wandering these paths enjoying the wildlife.

  Even though it was fully night time, the combination of the camp lights and the moon gave the couple plenty of illumination to see the path and each others’ faces. The black forest and the noises of the animals gave the walk an eerie tone. Unseen by either, George of the Jungle followed silently, armed with a small radio.

  Mad felt confident and happy to be out with this gorgeous woman. No small part of that confidence was that Mad knew of George’s presence. It had been George’s idea for Mad to take Yolima on a walk out here. George would remain close enough to listen to the conversation. If Mad started talking about something inappropriate, George would start calling for Mad, saying that he had gotten worried. And if Yolima had any FARC friends in the woods, George would use the radio to alert the soldiers.

  In the meantime, he enjoyed holding her hand, looking at the moon together, and gazing at her face. Actually, her nose was a little too big, the eyebrows were not quite right, and her mouth was crooked. Mad felt that each of these imperfections made her even more desirable. He knew that he was falling in love with this woman. Yes, she was beautiful. But it was her inner person, her femininity, her warmth, her passion for life, and her laugh that had enchanted him. And, she was dangerous, he reminded himself. Perhaps the greatest draw, he thought.

  Stopping at one of the benches, Mad motioned that they ought to sit.

  “How did you get in the business of talking to dolphins?”

  “After my husband died, I went to Spain and took a degree in oceanography.”

  “Did you like Spain?”

  “Of course.” She laughed. “What is there not to like?”

  “Then why didn’t you stay?”

  “Colombia is my home. My parents and brothers are here, and all their families.”

  “And your boyfriends? Fiancés?”

  “I have no fiancé. And you are my only boyfriend.” Mad gave her a sideways glance. She broke the gaze and looked into the jungle.

  “You speak Spanish so well. Where did you learn?” she asked.

  “I’ve always enjoyed the Latin culture and language. I studied in school for two years, and practiced with some of the Mexicans in my school. Then my boss sent me to a language school for this job. That’s where I really learned to speak.”

  “And why do they call you “Mad” Madison? The name on your door is Earl Madison.”

  “You are full of questions tonight.”

  “Come on, my love. Tell me your secrets,” she said as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him close.

  “My momma named me Earl Eugene Madison. When I was in school, the other boys would tease me about my name. It made me mad and I was always getting in fist fights. Somebody started calling me Mad, and the name stuck with me over the years.”

  They were quiet for a moment, and he squeezed her shoulders. A huge owl flew over, wind whispering through his wings as he braked and landed on a nearby branch.

  “Mad, why are you in Colombia?” Yolima innocently asked.

  Smiling, Mad answered, “I’m here for the money.”

  She shivered. “All the money in the world couldn’t make me fly out there where FARC shoots at me!”

  Mad laughed. How ironic. He would much rather fly above the FARC that he knew, than to be here fighting through his feelings for her and still trying do his job.

  “It’s all in what you get used to.”

  “Why doesn’t the United States Air Force do this job? It is a fighter pilot’s job, no?”

  “It would cost too much money. And besides, all of the US military is involved in Iran.”

  “So, your company is here because the United States can’t afford to do the work here against the FARC?”

  “Well, not exactly. The US has used contractors for this type of work since the end of World War II. Any time that the US wants to deny that they are involved, or if they want to do a job cheaper, they hire contractors.” Her face showed disbelief, so Mad explained.

  “Lots of guys get out of the military and have problems finding work. The US has used this pool of experienced men in small wars all over the world. The government calls us consultants, technical advisors, trainers, military advisors, or contractors. The military would have to triple in size to do the work of the contractors. There are contractors on Navy ships, Air Force bases, embassies, and anywhere the US government wants to have an influence.”

  “I don’t believe you. The US has civilians in combat?”

  “Oh yes, there are civilians close to every combat operation. And every year, the military farms out more and more work to civilians. Even tough jobs, like combat search and rescue for downed pilots are now handled by civilian companies flying their own helicopters.”

  “So, you work for the government, then,” she stated.

  “Nooo, I work for Tyson Oil Company.” Mad struggled some for the correct Spanish terms. “But Tyson Oil, along with all multinational corporations, knows they must help the government in order to receive the trade concessions, tax benefits, and the Congressional support that they need. So, Tyson hires me, and I work helping the Colombian Air Force, which helps keep the oil flowing, which supports the US government’s goals here in Colombia.”

  “Tyson Oil is propping up a repressive government and paying you to do military work, yet you are not a soldier.” She let go of his shirt and put some distance between them. “It is the multinational corporations who secretly support these right wing dictators. This is all too complicated for me.”

  “No, it’s not too complicated.” Mad laughed at her posture; back straight, arms crossed. “Everything is intertwined. Your organization and those like it support leftist causes all over the world. We are just from different ends of the same string.”

  She laughed, the tension broken, and it warmed Mad. He noticed that she did not deny his claims that Green Peace was leftist. A woman who doesn’t insult me by denying what we both know to be true, he thought. Even though Mad did not agree with this woman’s politics, he saw that she possessed discretion, poise, and a quick mind.

  “Where did you learn all of this?” she asked.

  “Well, I was forced into a re-education camp as a young boy…” Yolima hit him hard on the shoulder.

  “Oww. OK. I like to read history books and foreign affairs magazines for a start. I have lots of time to read. But I also talk with other contractors. I was over in Africa for a long time, and talked with my bosses, and our customers in the government.”

  “And so, Earl Eugene Madison, you are here all alone against the mighty FARC?” They both laughed, and she leaned against him.

  “That’s why they pay me,” he said, trying to say it as a joke, but the statement came out sounding much too ominous.

  “You mean, if you got in trouble, there is no one to come and help you?” she asked.

  This was the part that George had briefed him about. The party line was that Mad was all alone, and no reinforcements would come during an attack on the oil camp. Hopefully, this would cause the FARC to become too complacent. If the FARC troops would show themselves in the open, then the Colombian gunships could wipe them out. After a suitable pause, he said:

  “No, no one will come.” She looked at him with wide eyes.

  “But that’s OK,” he continued. “The camp is well fortified. We’re very safe here. My real job is to
protect the pipeline.” Now the seed was planted.

  “And so you come to my country for money?” she asked. Mad winced at the way she had stated the truth. “Don’t you believe in what your government is doing?” Mad squirmed around on the bench.

  “I think that we better get back. Someone might get worried about us.”

  Her hand grabbed his upper arm preventing him from rising. Her grip strength surprised Mad. She leaned very close, and her breast pushed up against his arm.

  “Do you believe in what you are doing?” She whispered in his ear.

  “No, I am a professional. I used to be a true believer.”

  “Then you are a mercenary,” she hissed in the middle of the word, still playful.

  “No, we never use the “M” word,” he said and then laughed. The magic moment was gone, and she broke out laughing, too.

  He stood up suddenly, and used his strength to lift her to her feet. He put his arm around her, and walked her back toward the camp. She matched him, step for step, and they enjoyed the closeness. She put her head on his shoulder, and he held her tight to him as they walked. He could feel her muscles mixed with her softness through the thin silky material of her dress. When they got to the last shadow at the end of the woods, she stopped and turned her face up for him to kiss her. Instead, he put his index finger across her lips.

  “Physical contact is strictly forbidden,” he laughed, and pulled her by her hand out into the lighted area near the tennis courts. Several people saw them emerge. Mad took her back toward the recreation building. They played table tennis once again, then stopped by the kitchen for one last coffee.

  At 2100, he escorted her back to her room. Several of the other men watched them go by and Mad could almost read their minds. They wanted to be holding Yolima’s hand instead of that old gringo.

  She inserted her key, then turned and whispered in his ear. He smiled and left without saying anything.

  **********

  It was now 0200 and George of the Jungle waited like a statue in the darkness. He sat in a blue plastic chair deep in the shadows under a low branch of a mango tree between the dormitory buildings. He brought some peanuts and a small thermos of coffee to fortify him during his watch. All the residence rooms were dark. During the night, only seven technicians worked in the production facility and the pumping station on the far side of the camp. The giant pump motors and generators lent their muted rumble to the jungle sounds. Everyone else, except the three roving guards, was asleep.

  In the moonlight, George caught a movement. He swiveled his eyes without moving his head. Mad Madison eased open his door and looked around to see if anyone was out. When he slid out onto the sidewalk, George could see he had on a dark bandana to hide his light colored hair, long black pants and a black tee shirt. The guard had just passed not a minute before. It would be another ten minutes before he passed by this way again.

  Closing his door, Madison quickly walked across the courtyard to Yolima’s door. Without knocking, he eased it open and went inside.

  It’s going to be a long night, George thought, glad he had his good mosquito repellant.

  Chapter 8

  0530 Friday, July 26

  Office of Regional Affairs

  US Embassy, Bogotá

  Colombia

  After working past 2100 Thursday night, Jackson slept in the Embassy again, making use of the secret quarters in the basement. What amounted to seven hotel suites were built under the Embassy to house transient agents, prisoners being interrogated, and anyone else that the US government wanted to keep safe and secret. Other rooms, similar but smaller, were on the third floor. The upper rooms, as they were called, were used for “guests” who were not really secret. When a low level East German operations officer defected in the 1980’s, the US government considered his propaganda value higher than the secrets he knew, so he was housed in an upstairs room in the old Embassy until he could be airlifted to Virginia for debriefing.

  Jackson woke up at 0430 and opened his laptop. After reading his daily intel brief, he perused several news sources on the internet, and then wandered over to the exercise room. The large room was almost the size of a convenience store and well equipped. As he walked inside, the sterile white walls, the harsh florescent lighting, and the lack of windows gave him a momentary wave of depression. But after 15 minutes on the stationary bicycle, he started to feel alive again.

  The report from George of the Jungle gave Whitehorse Jackson some hope. His worry had been that Mad Madison would be unfit to be the witting agent that they needed. There could be no replacement for him since he was the chosen target. If Mad had refused, they might have resorted to some sort of inducement. Who knows what consequences that could have spawned? Or Mad might have been removed from the camp, and that certainly would have damaged his career with Paladin. Mad was unaware that his boss had been seconded to the CIA for nearly half of his Army career and the Agency still owned a majority of the stock in Paladin. This gave each respective station chief a great deal of say in the management of any Paladin surveillance project in their country.

  But George was pleased with Mad’s progress. Apparently, Mr. Madison had not taken the news seriously at first, but soon realized where he stood. This was the part of the job that Whitehorse hated; forcing a good citizen into a nasty, dangerous situation. But now that the tool was in place, how should Jackson use him? A double agent served both to gather information and disperse disinformation. What twisted truth, for slightly warped truth was much more powerful than an outright lie, could Jackson plant that would disrupt and discourage the FARC?

  For the gathering of information, George was giving Mad some quick instruction in the art of elicitation, that ability to get someone to tell what they know without seeming to ask.

  Ann was making some good progress on the puzzle of the New FARC. It seemed obvious that the old guard, the ones more interested in business than in communist dogma, had been forcibly retired by bullets to the back of the head. But what was still hidden was the real goal of the New FARC.

  After the bloodbath, leadership seemed to be concentrated in one shadowy man, El Comandante, Max Gomez. Max had been on the watch list for several years as the financial brains behind the FARC’s empire, but no one expected him to have the drive or the ability to take over the whole operation. From NSA intercepts, he moved FARC headquarters from La Macarena National Park in Southern Colombia to Arauca province in the north. The captured FARC soldier along with all the troop movements indicated that Cano Limon was the ultimate goal.

  That makes sense with the giant oil find there, he thought. But what would FARC do with the camp even if they could capture the facility? They couldn’t get the oil out of the country because the Colombian government controlled several important valves along the pipeline and the port of Covenas. Did they believe that either the US government or the Colombians would cave in to ransom demands?

  Over the last ten years the US had provided billions of dollars worth of helicopters, gunships, small arms, training, and intelligence gathering electronics to the Army, Air Force and National Police of Colombia. All of the latest gear in counterinsurgency warfare. Therefore, Jackson was confident that the Colombian Armed Forces could repel any attack on Cano Limon.

  But at what cost? Tyson Oil could lose some personnel in the battle making it difficult to recruit more oil workers in the future. Jackson was sure that the New FARC was going to try to make a political statement by disrupting the oil flow for a few days. Would that disruption affect Tyson’s board? Oil men were a hardly lot, extracting oil from hot spots around the world: Central Africa, Algeria, the Arctic, and the North Atlantic. But Tyson was an unknown. Would they stick or would they run?

  And how did the FARC penetrate the CIA’s agent organization so completely? When this thing cooled down Whitehorse was determined to get to the bottom of that tragedy. Instinctively he knew how that list of agents had gotten out. The new US ambassador forced the Agency to share
all intel with Colombian Intelligence, called DAS, and with the National Police. We might as well have published the agent list in El Tiempo, the Bogotá newspaper.

  Right then Ann walked past in workout clothes. She wore a low cut, tight white midriff tee shirt, and short, baby blue terrycloth shorts. Whitehorse had been so engrossed in his own thoughts he had missed her coming in. But he enjoyed the sight of her long legs, shapely torso, and the graceful way she moved past him.

  “You’re in early this morning,” he said.

  “I spent the night here, and I thought I’d take advantage of the facilities. I need some exercise. You’ve been working me so hard I haven’t been to the gym in a week.” She smiled at him, and he noticed her emerald pendant that drew his gaze to her cleavage.

  “What room were you in?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “B23. Why.”

  “I was in B22. I’m glad I didn’t know you were just next door.”

  “You better be glad I didn’t know you were just next door.” She flicked her long hair back and gathered it into a ponytail all in one smooth movement, then started on the elliptical trainer. She turned to look at him, smiled, and he read the desire in her eyes.

  He had to turn away. I want this woman so bad. Why does she stir me so? He got off of the bike and moved over to the weights. I can have my pick of young Colombian beauties, but Ann knows the buttons to push to make me want her.

  The exercise machines faced a wall of televisions, and the weights were behind. He loaded the bench press and enjoyed the view of Ann’s backside. He now knew the Proponent was going to eventually win the debate, and he would be asking Ann Snyder to dinner.

  0545, Friday, July 26

  Camp “Ernesto Arciniegas”

  Arauca, Colombia