The blackness of the jungle night is so thick that it usually frightens men used to the city and its eternal lights. The noise level of the animals, the insects, and even the breeze in the tree tops would surprise one who had never slept under the triple canopy. Rain dripped off of the leaves and humidity clung to one’s body, so that one was never really dry.
Max had never actually gotten to sleep. All night he had pursued it, but the deathlike rest of deep slumber evaded him. The cot on which he was lying was not uncomfortable, the mosquito netting was serviceable, and his fan kept him cool during the humid night. No, it is the worrying that is keeping me up. The rally this morning will be the most important one of my career. It is here I will announce the complete plan of attack for the new nation of Arauca. Here in Camp Ernesto Arciniegas.
He laughed at the silly FARC tradition, started more that 40 years earlier, of naming battalions and camp sites after local “heroes of the revolution”. No name was ever used twice. As the revolution continued, the old heroes’ names were all but forgotten, yet the need for more names caused FARC to name this camp, one of the largest ever established, after a lowly soldier killed years ago while assaulting a nearby police station.
One hundred seventy-five of the FARC leadership were gathered here, and while they knew of the plan to take control of Arauca, they did not yet know of the diplomatic victories already won. He was not about to reveal all of those diplomatic negotiations to a group which could hold one or more ambitious usurpers. However, to get the support he needed, he must get the group to buy into his plan.
In the darkness, alone with his inner struggles, Max Gomez thought of other great leaders who had united their country. Could he become another Bismark? Another Ho Chi Mihn? Or another Mao Tse Tung? His greatest desire was to see his beloved Colombia cease the senseless bloodshed of this sixty year civil war. By uniting the country, he could unleash the hardworking and well educated population. Freed from the worry of conflict, the energized population would use their drive and the vast natural resources to bring Greater Colombia up to the level of other first world countries. And he would be the leader, the President.
Like a dream, memories of his humble beginnings in the FARC floated through his mind. Max Gomez grew up in a small village outside of Pasto where his parents scratched out a living growing vegetables and selling them in the market downtown to the restaurants and hotels. He saw how the wealthy oppressed the poor, and how those born to the old families kept the riches for themselves.
At only eleven years old, one of his cousins asked him to be a lookout for a FARC roadblock. The FARC liked using children in their operations because kids were less suspicious than adults. A child could run past a group of soldiers while chasing a ball, and then come back to the commander and report on troop strength, weapons, and locations. A young boy could ask a soldier questions, and get good intel, when a man would be arrested for asking the same thing.
One of the commanders noticed him and mentioned to Max’s cousin that they could use him again. During the next five years, Max went on several operations to kidnap officials, assassinate mayors, and deliver extortion notes. He showed a natural inclination for organization, leadership, and handling money.
Soon he was the bagman, handling the funds collected from “war taxes” and extortion, and he started getting paid on a regular basis. Max, the oldest of eight children, made his parents happy when he started bringing in a little money.
On his sixteenth birthday, Max was taken to an office in town. There he was told he had been chosen to go to school in Europe to train as a future leader. The FARC sent him to France to study. First he attended a finishing school, then university in Paris. It was here that he learned of social justice, Marx, Lenin, and the history of the oppression of the poor.
With a natural ability for languages, he soon became fluent in French. After studying for a summer in London, he could speak passable English.
At twenty-two he returned to Colombia and went through officer training in Putamayo. There he was given command of a regiment, (called a Front by the FARC) charged with guarding coca fields and cocaine processing facilities. His group had less desertions, more cocaine production, and better income than any other front in the department.
Now, almost 16 years later, his dream of a Greater Colombia, comprised of Colombia, Ecuador, and Venezuela, seemed finally within his grasp. And why not? Didn’t they all have the same culture, the same language, the same history, and the same religion? His armies would sweep away the old families, the old armies, and the old businesses of each country, and the people would rise up behind his leadership. Greater Colombia could become a reality in only two years.
All night long he rehearsed his speech. You would think there had to be some way to motivate these hardened criminal-warriors besides manipulating them with a personal address. If I used my rational mind, I would say, “No other way but to offer money and power. Since most of these men were not from Arauca, I can’t appeal to their patriotism. There was no sense in trying to spur them on for the good of the cause. No, only an appeal to their self interests would spur them to the type of action required to assault the most heavily fortified point in Northern Colombia.”
However, all of his studies and experience pointed him toward his speech this morning. He must stir the soul of his command. He must reach in and touch on their deepest desires.
I can’t let my rational brain guide me. Groups of men, even cynical men, are motivated by emotion and big ideas, he thought.
He once again looked at his examples. Lenin, Hitler, Mao, and Castro. All of these men brought their audiences to a fever pitch by speeches appealing to a higher calling. In fact when Hitler was asked what qualified him to be Chancellor of Germany, Old Adolph answered that the only qualification he needed was the ability to speak in public.
Max Gomez re-convinced himself of the need for, and usefulness of, the emotional speech. Every successful preacher understood it, every powerful politician lived by it, and every senior military commander used it as a weapon against his enemy.
Max knew that later this morning he would have to give the best speech in his life. If he succeeded, his army would place him in power as a world leader. If he failed, he could be dead tomorrow night, and a new leader of the FARC might be sleeping in this cot.
Six months ago Max hired a speech coach and used every opportunity to practice public speaking, first in platoon-sized meetings, then to battalions, sometimes to groups of field commanders, and often to liberal donors from Europe.
By the subtle changes in the background noise, he could tell without looking at his watch that dawn was coming soon. The guards were changing, the cooks prepared breakfast, and the small noises of each soldier multiplied thousands of times created a low mumble which announced that Camp Ernesto Arciniegas was arousing.
“Mi Comandante, it’s time to wake up. It is almost six o’clock.” His orderly today was a short campesino called Carlito. Max was sure that Carlito had been up for several hours pressing Max’s uniform, shining his boots, and doing all the little things that make life more bearable for senior officers in any army.
“Thank you, Carlito. I’m awake.”
A pretty young girl with her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, dressed in battle fatigues and boots, brought a steaming cup of sweet coffee into his tent. He stood up and stretched before reaching out and taking the coffee. Without any embarrassment she looked over his slender nude body.
“Gracias, mi hija.” Thank you, my daughter, he said.
Dressing quickly as only a soldier can, he strode out to look over the large tent where he and the other commanders would speak. The chairs were set out just so, his platform was the perfect height, and his visual aids and microphones were all as he had ordered. The schedule called for breakfast with his senior officers at 0630, an invocation and blessing by the FARC priest at 0800, speeches by his key commanders starting at 0815, and then his keynote address at 0930.
After his speech, he would be whisked away in his Toyota Land Cruiser back to Finca Rio Rojo to finalize his assault plans.
Each passing event that morning blurred in Max’s mind as he concentrated on how he would give his speech. Soon he found himself in the wings listening to each commander in turn. The last commander to speak before Max was El Brujo.
The richest, most powerful field commander in FARC history had turned his back on his lucrative extortion, kidnapping and cocaine smuggling empire to throw his Australian campaign hat into the fiery ring of Comandante Gomez. El Brujo was himself an influential, fist-hammering speaker. Shunning the microphone, he walked up and down the large tent, using his booming voice to pound in his message: We have a greater duty to man than just making money. Calling men by name and remembering specific battles, he encouraged, cursed, threatened, promised, and described the paradise of the perfect socialist state. Anyone familiar with a Texas preacher in 1950 would recognize the style.
When El Brujo ended, Max was sure his audience had been wound up to just the right tension for his great announcement. Max strode up to the podium, unannounced. His battle fatigues perfectly starched, his pistol belt exactly angled across his hips with the Berretta 9mm in its holster riding lower on his right side. A red beret was pulled expertly over his right ear. His borrowed boots showed their miles by the broad wrinkles in the leather, yet they were polished to a brilliant black sheen. Max’s face was scrubbed, freshly shaved, and showed no evidence of his sleepless night.
As he reached the podium, the booming voice of El Brujo pierced every soldier’s conscience, “Attention!” As one man, the 175 men crammed into the large tent rose to their feet in less than a second.
“At ease, my friends,” Max said with the slightest laugh in his voice, as if he was surprised at the rising. His speech coach smiled from the back. They had practiced that line fourteen times.
“Sit. Sit down, please.” He stretched his hands out, and gestured for them to take their seats again.
“My friends….I am honored to see each of you today. You are here because each of you has given up his own ambitions to serve the cause of justice, equality, and honor! Each of you is here because you have shown yourselves to be loyal to our cause, brave in combat, and good at what you do. Thank you for coming.
“Our movement started reluctantly in response to the injustices of the Colombian ruling class. These ruling families trace themselves all the way back to Spain. For over 400 years they have enriched themselves by stealing from the people of this country. They owned the land, they owned the banks, they owned the politicians, but they did not own the hearts of the people. They did not share the people’s desire for freedom, opportunity, equality, and justice.
“In 1948, the Conservatives, afraid of our growing power, assassinated our presidential candidate, Jorge Eliecer Gaitan.” His volume and resonance started to grow. “The Liberal Party was forced out of all government functions by the violence of the Conservatives. Therefore our forefathers had to leave the normal channels of governing, take up arms, and take to the countryside.”
Now his volume was full, his gestures large, and he slowed his speed and emphasized each word. “They did this to show the world that the thirty-two ruling families and the Conservatives could not continue stealing from the masses, could not continue holding them back, could not continue keeping them in servitude!”
The crowd started clapping wildly, yelling out slogans such as, “FARC for the campesino.”
Max held his hands out for quiet. He waited until the whole room was uncomfortable with the silence.
Starting again, but at a lower volume and pitch, he said, “Brothers. Our leaders valiantly fought the Conservatives for over twenty years, gradually winning more and more of the country. Then, a new generation of Conservatives betrayed us.”
“In 1985, some of you remember, the FARC negotiated in good faith with the government to lay down our arms and become a political party again. The Patriotic Union was born.”
“Long live the Union!” several voices took up the chant. Once again, Max held out his hands for silence. Another long pause.
“Our movement was too powerful for the government, the ancient families, and the multinational corporations. They knew that the only way to defeat us was through treachery. In 1990, they murdered Bernardo Ossa, our candidate for president.” The moans and slogans started again. Max picked up his volume, stood on his tip toes, and shouted over the murmurings.
“But that was not enough! They murdered over three thousand Patriotic Union candidates and registered voters!”
The crowd was on its feet, fists in the air, the memory of the murders fresh in many of their minds. Max let them vent their emotion. Nodding, walking to the side of the podium to shake a hand or point to a certain friend in the audience.
“After that,” he said in almost a whisper. “After that,” again very quietly. Now the crowd quieted and strained to hear Max. “After that, our leaders lost their direction. No longer were they interested in the principles that started our movement. No longer were they seeking the best for the people, the best for Colombia.”
The speech coach was adamant that Max not mention any names. Since there were close relatives of those ex-leaders here this morning, naming names could divide the audience.
“These new leaders were more interested in MONEY than in people. They took good programs, such as making the rich pay their debt to society and the War Tax, and then used the income from these programs to enrich themselves. They made unholy alliances with the Drug Lords of Cali and Medellin. They kidnapped innocent people so that they could build big houses in Europe.
“This is why we had to make a change: to realign the FARC. To bring it back to its goal of bettering Colombia and bettering its people, and bettering the world.”
“We are family, brothers by philosophy, and yes by blood. Many of you have spilt your blood for our cause, and many who are not here have passed on. God rest their souls. We all have given up our normal lives as farmers, shop keepers, cooks, lawyers, doctors, and,” --pointing to one in the third row-- “even as priests, to improve our country, to claim our freedom from a new form of slavery. We will share with the likes of Simon Bolivar, and start a new country where opportunity and equality have replaced hopelessness and chains.”
“This family –our family-- will be written about in history, because we will rise up and take total control of this… part…of….Colombia.”
Again, the cheers broke out. As Max stood back, a giant assault map unrolled from the ceiling. Max grabbed a laser pointer and explained the assault, the plan for changing the oil flow to Venezuela, the areas of responsibility of the sub-commanders, and the financial plans for the country. He realized that he must show these men his competence as well as his passion for the cause.
After twenty minutes of laying out his detailed plan and successfully answering questions from his commanders, he started the conclusion of his speech.
“We will have a country where we will implement the theories that others have shown to work for the common man. Our people will have education, health care, opportunity to own their own land, and equality before the law. Our quest is to establish a just state, where the riches of the land go to all equally. We can do this, my brothers. We already have allies who have given us arms, intelligence, loans, and who have promised to recognize our new government within hours of our victory. Our ally, General Chavez, will help us transport our new oil. And China has signed a long term contract to purchase all our oil.
“The meddlers in the United States will not interfere because they are too busy in the endless war with Islam and Iran. Now is the time to strike while the hollow giant is fighting across the world. Now is the time to stand up and take what belongs to the people. Now is the time for this generation of Colombians to make history.
“All that we have to do is capture Cano Limon. These oil fields will give us the funds to build our movement, to build our arm
ies. And then, within two years, we will have conquered all of Colombia!” Now the crowd was now cheering wildly, jumping up on chairs and screaming FARC slogans. Then the chanting started like a low beat underneath the noise of the crowd, but it grew and dominated the cheers.
“Co-man-DAN-te, Co-man-DAN-te, Co-man-DAN-te.” Several of Max’s best men had been briefed to start the chant at the end of the speech. Max looked out over the audience, waved, and wondered that such a hardened group could be stirred so with just a few elements learned from speech books.
He squinted to the back of the tent and saw his speech coach chanting with the crowd. My coach has even been taken in by the crowd psychology. Amazing. Max knew he could own Arauca, then Colombia. But no one knew of his secret plans to take Venezuela and Ecuador within the year.
His bodyguards came and whisked him out. He pretended to not want to leave, just as they had rehearsed. The crowd was still chanting as Max swung his leg into his Land Cruiser.
1030 Friday, July 26
Cactus Air Support
Airport
Junction, Texas
The sun baked the sky to an off white to match the gravel driveway at the Junction County Airport. The real heat hadn’t hit yet, that would be in August. It was only ninety-two, but the temperature would be one hundred by three that afternoon. Stan Perry picked up the ringing phone, “Cactus Air Support.”
“This is General Joe Tackaberry. Who am I speaking with?”
“General, this is Stan Perry, partner and Chief Pilot.” Stan wiped at the sweat on his bald head, even though he was in the air conditioning. After retiring from the Army in 1988, he had ballooned up to 290 pounds, and it seemed like he only had to move a hand and he would start to sweat profusely.
“Mr. Perry, I am with SOCOM. I understand you have a prototype side-firing gunship.” This was the third phone call this morning from SOCOM. Stan had answered a ton of questions about range, capability, and availability.
Arauca: A Novel of Colombia Page 16
