Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  Methodically, Santiago took out grenades, and one by one pulled the pins, and dropped them in the intake of an engine or in the cockpit of each helicopter. Moving from front to back, the helicopters shielded him from the explosions. In less than two minutes, Santiago seriously damaged all eight helicopters. As he moved back through the area, he looked for the parts room. Sporadic gunfire broke out to the right. The guards at the main gate are making a stand, he thought. Soon, he located the parts room, and took note of the specialty tools hanging on the wall. He threw in two grenades, and fell to the ground.

  After the explosions, he cut through the back wall and walked out of the hangar. Realizing that he was dazed and partially deafened from the explosions, even though he was wearing earplugs, Santiago stopped to get his bearings. Warm blood oozed from a cut on the outside of his shoulder.

  I got tagged by a piece of shrapnel, he thought. One of the other men from the assault team walked past at a brisk pace.

  “Let’s go, hermano. We’ve got to get to the assembly area, or the truck will leave us behind.” Just then, one of the machine gunners started giving them coving fire. He knew it was one of his team from the length of bursts. Each gunner used the trigger differently, almost a signature pattern of long bursts and short bursts. Santiago almost recognized the firing rhythm.

  Who is that? he thought. I should be able to recognize who that is. Deep inside, he knew he was still a little out of it from the explosions and the adrenalin rush. He let himself be lead away by the arm toward the back fence. There two trucks waited to take them back to the safe houses in town.

  As he climbed into the bed of the dump truck, he looked back and saw the DC3T gunship and the fuel depot go up in flames.

  0900, Sunday, July 27

  US Embassy

  Bogotá, Colombia

  Whitehorse Jackson walked into his office, took out his pistol and laid it on his desk. After hearing of the attacks, he figured that he should carry it for a few days just in case. His cell phone in his ear, he listened to his boss in Washington. The whole world staggered at the nationwide attack against the Colombian military. No one thought the FARC capable of such coordination, intelligence, or audacity. As the reports kept flooding in, Jackson’s juices started flowing. He longed to be out in the field with a group of trained soldiers, readying for a counterattack. Instead, he was locked in this prison called an embassy, hearing about the action third hand, and taking the blame for not predicting and preventing the attack.

  “Jackson, we have to find out what the FARC means by this attack. And is there another on the way. What do they want? I thought they were reverting to a political party.”

  “Sir, we’re not sure what’s up with the FARC, but we’ve got our best people on it.” Jackson knew that sounded lame and that he looked like a fool. He and the whole Colombian intelligence apparatus had just been humiliated by this huge strike. From the first phone call at 0420, Jackson marveled at the precision and selective violence of the strike. Someone really knew what they were doing, he thought. As a professional soldier, he admired the FARC’s raid. As an American, and an ally of the Colombians, he stood aghast at the amount of damage inflicted on the Colombian military.

  Nearly every Colombian police and military aircraft was destroyed, some still burning, although a few were only damaged. Several bridges crossing the major rivers into Arauca had been blown. There was now no rapid means of moving troops or armor into Arauca province. Pilots had been killed, while FARC propaganda had been handed out to the enlisted soldiers.

  “Whitehorse, we want some answers.” His phone blared in his ear and he held it about two inches away from his head. “We’ve got to have some options. This is totally unacceptable. First, all of our agents are eliminated; now our main ally in South America has their balls cut off. What’s next? Your job is to find out, and then to stop them! And if you can’t handle it, then we will find someone who can!”

  “Yes sir.” Jackson knew that there was nothing else to say.

  “I want your report on my desk by noon.”

  “Yes sir.” Click. The Director of Operations hung up.

  Whitehorse put down his cell phone, and turned around to see Ann Snyder standing in his doorway with two cups of espresso from the café across the street. The coffee shop downstairs closed on Sundays.

  He smiled weakly at her, and took the proffered Styrofoam cup. “Thanks.”

  “Bad news travels fast, huh?”

  Jackson wanted to curse and strike out at someone, but he just sipped his coffee, holding in his rage. His boss had no idea what was happening here. The truth was, he told himself, he hated to take an ass-chewing, even when he deserved it. Everyone had been lulled into complacency by the lack of any real FARC assault against the Colombian military during the last six years.

  “We have just been handed our head, Ann. I’d have never believed that the FARC could pull off an attack of this magnitude. Do you realize that they struck more than twenty installations, and every attack started at exactly four a.m.?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard. It’s on every news channel, Colombian, American, European, and Al-Jezerah.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “Pretty much that America took a huge hit when our main South American ally was crippled by the FARC attack.”

  Whitehorse looked at the ground and cursed softly.

  “Someone is running their psy-ops,” he said. ‘Psy-ops’ was the term used for all operations concerning the public relations of a military force. Other names used over the years have included propaganda, spin, psychological warfare, and management of the media. The motto of every psy-ops officer was, “Perception is reality.” Emphasis in the US military on influencing the popular opinion had increased after the Viet Nam war. Most historians agreed that America won on the battlefield, but lost the war of perception at home, thus losing the war as a whole.

  “To have their message out so quickly, they’ve got to have a large, sophisticated operation, or several sympathetic news people. Or both.” Whitehorse wanted to run down and strike out at those sympathizers, but he realized that he needed to concentrate on bigger issues.

  “Where is the surveillance plane of Tyson’s?”

  “In the air since 7 a.m.” Ann answered. “No sign of troop movements or of an impending attack on Cano Limon.”

  “Those bastards need time to move all their troops back to Arauca for the assault. We have some assets up there. I think we should bring them in.”

  “Then everyone will know that we have a paramilitary force based up there.”

  “Can’t be helped. We can’t risk losing that oil field. Do you realize what that will do to our oil markets? With the war in Iran, we’ve already lost most of the Arab countries, including Saudi Arabia. If we lose Colombia, our oil prices will spike to 250 dollars a barrel. We put that team in there to protect the oil pipeline. Now, we must protect the oilfield itself. They could be our only trump card. With no air support, and no hope of reinforcement, the Colombian troops there will cut and run.”

  Starting just after Viet Nam, Congress forced the intelligence community to systematically rid themselves of “direct action groups” through a series of highly publicized investigations. From the late seventies until 9/11, the Agency depended upon allies, the US military, and a very few agents to implement clandestine US policy. In October, 2001, after seeing the damage one attack could have on the US, the CIA authorized the rebirth of their paramilitary force.

  In order to recruit new paramilitary forces, ads were placed on various websites looking for contractors willing to live and fight overseas. Special Operations personnel came out of retirement to train and lead the new hires.

  Within ninety days, the US once again had a secret battalion capable of projecting force covertly all over the world. This group was made up of retired combat soldiers: mostly US, but with some South African and British sprinkled in. Nearly everyone was over forty, but less than sixty. They o
perated with very little support. No artillery, no air support, and no one to come get them if they were killed or wounded.

  Part of that force, code-named Paper Blue, had been assigned to guard the Cano Limon and OCENSA pipelines from guerilla attack. Still there were attacks, but the FARC paid dearly for each one. Paper Blue attacked FARC listening posts, bases, and quietly killed guerillas found sabotaging the oil duct. They dished out terror to the terrorists, and were very effective. But their existence was a closely guarded secret. Now Whitehorse was about to let the cat out of the bag.

  Whitehorse was Paper Blue’s only link to the embassy in Bogotá. While the Ambassador knew of their existence and highly disapproved, she was not allowed to have any input into planning or approving their operations.

  Jackson went down to the end of the hallway and showed his ID badge to the Marine sitting in a bulletproof booth. Even though the Marine recognized him, Jackson’s ID was scrutinized, and then Jackson was required to put his thumb on the reader to verify his identity. A buzzer sounded, Jackson pushed open the heavy steel door, and bounded up the stairs. Whitehorse was entering the most secure area of the embassy, the communications floor.

  Jackson set up the secure radio for his conversation with Paper Blue. Checking the call signs for the day, and putting in the correct one time pad that would automatically format the encryption, he put on the head phones and called Don Mitchell, the leader of Paper Blue.

  “Don, we have an emergency here,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, that’s what it sounds like, boss.”

  “Get all your men back down here, we’re going to have to do some work. We have intel that FARC is trying to take over Arauca and establish their own country. Cano Limon is the jewel that will give them the oil income to make it happen.”

  “Isn’t that interesting? Well boss, I can have all the lads back here in 24 hours, but it will cost some money for jet charters.”

  “Do it. Spend whatever you need to. I need those men here and ready to go.” Jackson always felt good talking with Don Mitchell. Hard men like him boarded British ships in 1812, stormed Vicksburg in 1864, and took Iwo Jima in 1945.

  “Yes sir, I’ll get them on the way, and let you know when everyone is in position. You know, we’re going to need another helo with everyone here. Preferably two. What type of missions do you want us to run?”

  “I’ll get the spray program to loan us two helicopters that the g’s missed. They were weathered in at a forward fueling depot last night. Missions will be leading Colombian troops in counter insurgency ops.”

  “Yes sir. We’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

  1000, Sunday, July 27

  Finca Rio Rojo

  Arauca, Colombia

  “Comandante, it is ten o’clock.” Maria Nunez gently shook Max Gomez awake.

  “Thank you, mi amor.” Max woke instantly, even though he had been up all night, unable to sleep, waiting for the nationwide attack. Maria, a twenty-one year old beauty, worked as Max’s personal assistant. She wore jungle fatigues and her hair was pulled back into a bun, but that could not hide her sexuality. He smiled up at Maria, and she bent over and kissed him full on the mouth. Max and Maria had been lovers for over a year now.

  Before the attacks, there had been silence on the radios, computers, and cell phones so as not to alert the Colombians or the Americans. Afterwards, the reports flooded in telling of the unqualified successes of the strikes. Then, at 0530, Max went to bed, asking to be awakened if there was any big news or at 1000 at the latest.

  His plans worked almost perfectly. Over a year of preparation finally bore fruit. After studying several books on modern warfare, Max had used the principles and techniques which he had learned: the use of spies, deception, concentration of force, and overwhelming violence.

  Now, the Colombian military lay prostrate at his feet. It would be four more days before his forces would be in position to seize Arauca. According to his calculations, not even the United States could send a credible force quickly enough to stop him from becoming the leader of the newest country in the world.

  Today, he needed to congratulate his commanders. They deserved the credit for the greatest operation in FARC history. Later this afternoon, he would advise his Venezuelan allies to start moving the Chinese arms and supplies across the Arauca River. The Venezuelans also had a temporary pipeline ready to swing across the river, putting Cano Limon’s output into their pipeline system. Barges traveling down the Arauca River would take the overflow.

  A runner from his communications chief barged into his bedroom.

  “I am sorry, mi Comandante, to disturb you, but we received this message just now.” The boy shoved a paper ripped from a legal pad at Max.

  “Thank you, son,” Max said and handed the paper back to the boy. The coded message announced that the Chinese oil tankers, hearing of the success of the initial attacks, were already on their way to pick up their first loads of Araucan oil.

  For the next two days, Max planned to stage several harassing operations in the Bogotá area to keep the Colombian military off balance. Already afraid, a few well placed bombs and drive-by shootings should keep them looking close to home for the next attack.

  Dressing quickly and eating some of the fresh bread from the basket brought by his cook, Max went across the hall and stopped by his laptop to check email and the news services. His wife sent him a short congratulatory note on her Latinmail.com account.

  Dear Mom,

  Congratulations. Great news. I’m really busy with Giulanito, so I’ll call you later.

  Luz

  He laughed out loud. That little tiger, he thought. He imagined her sneaking out the letter while her lover, the intel chief got briefed in the other room. She took too many chances, that one. He would have to caution her, even though he knew it would do no good.

  1100, Sunday, July 27

  Over the Caribbean Sea

  South of Haiti

  Andy Yamada saw the lights of the island, checked them against his moving map, and squirmed around in his seat trying to find a more comfortable position. He flew from the right side and held heading and altitude manually since the Let 410 did not have an autopilot. He checked the GPS again to confirm that they were on course, and watched the remaining distance from Cartagena count down a tenth of a mile at a time. Stan slept in the left seat. I don’t know how he can sleep in that uncomfortable seat, Andy thought. They all had been on duty since Friday morning, and now were catching up on their sleep. Andy had already gotten three hours of good sleep on today’s first leg.

  Turning around, he could see that Jose and Bob were also asleep. The plugs in the gun ports dampened the noise and kept the cabin from getting too cold on these long flights. Everything looked shipshape. The two mini-guns were strapped down, and all the personal luggage was stowed under the cargo net in the back. Cruising at 12,000 feet, he answered the occasional calls on the HF radio from Caribbean Air Control, and sipped hot black coffee from his battered thermos.

  The aircraft had arrived at McDill Air Force Base in Tampa Saturday morning at one a.m. By 0700, Bob and Jose were painting US Army numbers on the tail while Stan finalized the lease with General Tackaberry. Andy spent his time with the armorer, checking out the two guns that they issued to the aircraft.

  Saturday afternoon they took the plane on a test flight to the Air Force target range just off shore. There they test fired the gun, checking ammo feed and accuracy. Stan held the aircraft in a steady left bank, and repeatedly hit the floating target from all sides.

  Andy was one of the architects of the Black Sword (La Espada Negra) gunship. He spent his entire Air Force career flying the AC130 Spectre. This four engine turboprop, a converted cargo aircraft, carried two rapid fire twenty millimeter cannon, a forty millimeter cannon, and a 105 millimeter howitzer. All of these fired out of the left side of the aircraft. When Andy met Stan Perry in Iraq, they were both working for Loriza-Mayor. Andy was a weapons maintenance instructor for
the Iraqi Army, and he and Stan interfaced often trying to keep the Iraqi helicopters in the air.

  When Stan started Cactus Air, he asked Andy to move to Junction and be the Vice President, recognizing his unique knowledge of both gunship design and combat flying. Together, they hammered together an aiming system that would require no maintenance, was easy to learn, and was accurate enough for the six barreled mini-gun. The last eighteen months had been the most interesting and rewarding in Andy’s life. After building the Black Sword, Andy helped with the marketing of the aircraft. Attending trade shows in the US and from England to Bahrain, he had been able to meet ambassadors, ministers of defense, and even presidents of several different countries.

  The extra ferry tanks that Andy designed allowed the Black Sword to fly from Tampa to Providenciales, Turks and Caicos to refuel. This route led them around the east side of Cuba to avoid any international incidents. Now, they were on their way to Cartegena to check customs and refuel again. Their last leg would be on to Apiay airbase.

  During the stop at Providenciales, they received gotten word of the massive attack on the Colombian air assets. What a stroke of good luck, Andy thought. We could have arrived a day earlier, and gotten Blackie blown up. But at least, this means some job security. If the Colombians have no gunships, we could be here for several months.

  Andy was joyous when Stan had announced that Cactus Air finally had a contract. He was even happier when Stan chose him to be on the first crew to go downrange. Andy would be making $750 a day starting the day that he left the house plus $75 day per diem. After his sudden divorce two years ago, he needed the money in the worst way. Not only had his wife run off with another man, but she spent all his savings, took their house, and now received half of his Air Force retirement check every month. Texas divorce courts were so unfair.