Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  Doing some calculations in his head, he figured up, for the twentieth time, that he would be making 22,500 dollars per month, not counting his per diem. He could pay off his old car this month, his credit card debt in August, and then at the end of September, when he came home from the first rotation, he would have the down payment to buy a house. I can’t believe my good luck.

  This was Andy’s second contracting job. The position in Iraq was a rear area position with little chance of encountering hostilities. This job was much different. He would be exchanging fire with an enemy who had proven himself capable and dangerous. Working in Junction barely paid his bills, but this flying job would make his bet pay off.

  Three hours later, Stan gently lowered the nose gear for a perfect landing on the end of Cartagena’s Runway 01. Andy looked to the left into a small military section of the airport. There he could see several aircraft had been blown up. Some still burned, and all were substantially damaged. Taxiing into Fast Eddie’s, the US military’s handler for customs and fuel, everyone onboard was awake, and preparing to meet the onslaught of Colombian customs officials.

  With functional machine guns, survival vests, and pistols, Andy was sure there would be big hassles getting processed into the country. He wished that he had taken time to learn some Spanish.

  “Shut down checklist,” Stan called out, and after a minute, the propellers windmilled to a stop. Turning to Andy, he said, “Now we’ll see if the General swings a big stick in Colombia. Everyone got your passports out? Get ready to unload all your luggage, and open all the compartments.”

  Seven Colombian National Police officers and three customs officials waited outside when they opened the door. A very nice sea breeze came through the cabin, but the black airplane was heating up quickly on the sunny asphalt ramp. As Andy climbed out, he could tell by the looks on the officials’ faces that they had been expecting a much more impressive aircraft. Jose stepped out first and spoke to the Colombians in passable Spanish. After a few minutes of speaking, Jose came back to the three standing just outside the aircraft cargo door.

  “They want to see the paperwork on the guns,” Jose said. Bob was ready with a notebook full of the letters, forms, and signed licenses needed to import the weapons and the aircraft into the country. The officials spent about two minutes looking over the papers.

  One customs official stepped forward and said in American, “I am Colonel Nelson Rodriquez. I am in charge of all customs activities around Cartagena.

  “Normally, we would require this aircraft and all of you to proceed to Bogotá. There you would be issued work visas and the aircraft would be inspected to see that it meets Colombian airworthiness requirements. However, with the attack, we have been instructed to process you through quickly.” While he was talking, a fuel truck pulled up to refuel Blackie.

  “Here is a letter signed by the commandant of the Colombian National Police authorizing you to work in this country under the joint command of the Colombian government and the US Embassy. Welcome to Colombia.”

  1830, Sunday, July 27

  Signature Flight Support

  Austin-Bergstrom International Airport

  Austin, Texas

  The air conditioning chilled Lynn Metzler, and the goose bumps showed visibly on his bare arms. He wondered why Americans always wanted their buildings so cold in the summer and so hot in the winter.

  He watched the Gulfstream G-V taxi up the ramp and stop in the number one position. As the engines spooled down, the fuel truck already motored toward the aircraft. This would be a quick turn. Private aircraft came to a different side of the airport to load and unload their privileged passengers. With no waiting for baggage, and only a hundred feet to the limos parked outside, executives and the wealthy avoided all of the hassles of air travel. Almost every airport had one of these terminals that catered to private aircraft. They made their money by selling fuel and overpriced meals to the private jets, and providing rental cars and hangar space.

  Lynn picked up his backpack and started to walk out the door. But the sliding glass doors did not open as he approached. He shook his head and smiled. I guess I don’t look like a regular business executive, he thought. At forty-eight, he still had a muscular physique with a flat stomach. His tattered jeans and black sleeveless Harley Davidson Bogotá (Live Dangerously) tee shirt did not match with the suits and expensive golf shirts that the other business men wore.

  But he knew it was the long grey hair pulled back into a pony tail and the Fu Man Chu moustache that earlier caused the receptionist to call the police. After checking his ID and searching his backpack, the Austin police allowed him to stay in the reception area and wait for his ride. He looked back at the pretty girl manning the desk and shrugged his shoulders. She smiled her best plastic smile and pushed the button allowing the sliding doors to open.

  As he walked toward the jet, the door opened, and the stairs unfolded. He could see Chip Van Ginkle standing in the open door waiting for the stairs to finish their automated deployment so that he could depart the aircraft. Lynn’s affection for the ugly old South African was immeasurable. Only someone who served in combat can understand the bonds formed when one knows that another human being cares enough to give his life for you if needed.

  “Hey, Girly Girl,” Chip shouted in his surprisingly high voice. Lynn Metzler had endured teasing about his first name since he was two years old. All of his team mates called him Girly Girl instead of Lynn. For the ten thousandth time, Lynn wondered what his mother was thinking when she named him a girl’s name. Chip bounded down the stairs, jogged over to Lynn and they embraced. While Lynn was the standard five foot ten, 180 pounds, Chip stood six three and weighed 280 pounds with a formidable beer gut and a shaved bullet shaped head.

  “What’s goin’ on, Chip? Why the recall?”

  “Didn’t you hear about the big attack, mate? I’ll tell you in a minute, you ignorant bushman. But right now, I’ve got to piss. You know those aircraft lavs are just too small for me!” They both laughed as he ran for the passenger terminal.

  Lynn had been on his ranch just north of Johnson City, Texas, checking the work of his crew of Mexicans. He normally left a list of things to accomplish while he was down range, and then checked on the progress when he got home. There was no good television reception on the ranch, and Lynn didn’t like TV enough to get a satellite dish. So when his cell phone had gone off and Don Mitchell said to report back to work, he was in the dark about the reason.

  After retiring from the US Army Special Forces (Seventh Group), he had moved home and gotten work as a ranch foreman. The pay was pitiful, but housing was free, and he loved the outdoors, horses, hunting, and almost everything about the cattle business. But he knew he would never be able to get his own ranch.

  In late 2001, one of his friends called and told him about the ad running on the internet looking for retired Special Forces soldiers willing to work overseas. He called the number, interviewed three days later, and found himself as an instructor for other newly-hired paramilitaries. The excellent pay almost doubled when he left instructing and took the assignment as the Alpha Team leader in Paper Blue.

  After working with the Agency for two years, Lynn purchased a rundown 350 acre spread from a widow who just couldn’t handle the place after her husband had passed on. Now, he was putting large chunks of money down against the mortgage every month. Another eighteen months and he would own the ranch free and clear. Then he could quit Paper Blue and become a full time rancher.

  The crew and the other passengers came out of the plane and stretched their legs. Some had been riding on the aircraft since that morning. Sidney Koonce poked his head out, and Lynn saw that he was well past drunk.

  Sidney Koonce came from a millionaire family in Connecticut. Refusing to go to work in the family bank after college, he became an officer in the Navy. Volunteering for the SEALs, Ensign Koonce had been assigned to SEAL Team Six. But after three years he was asked to resign due to alcoholis
m. It seems that the only cure for his addiction to booze was combat. From the time that the Paper Blue team started training for a mission until all of the equipment was cleaned up and stored afterwards, Sid needed no alcohol. Adrenalin was his drug of choice. He was perfect for this outfit.

  But Lynn worried about Sid. At only 28 years old, Sid had a serious drinking problem, and truly believed he was immortal. There was no denying that Sid was one of the best soldiers Lynn had ever known, but he knew that one day he would have to bury Sid in the jungle. Lynn just hoped that Sid’s death would not cause all the rest of them to die.

  Chip Van Ginkle emerged from the executive terminal smiling and stretching, his pressurized bladder no longer a factor.

  “Looks like we’re all going to be in country together. Don’t get to see much of the other rotation, do we?”

  “So, what’s the big deal? Why the charter and all the fuss?” Lynn asked.

  “Don’t you watch the news? You know these types of things can be useful at times.”

  Lynn just stared at his hulking friend, willing him to speak.

  “Early this morning, your buddies, the FARC blew up every aircraft the Colombians own. The bosses want us back right now.”

  “Hmmm. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Interesting? Is that all you can say? I say we’re in for a real row this time, laddie. Make no mistake, this is a real balls up by the Colombians, and they’ll be expecting us to pull their arses out of the snare.”

  “They got any eats on this plane?”

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said? We’re gonna be in a real shooting match.”

  “Well, if that’s true, my friend, I’ll need to eat first.” Lynn swung his backpack off of his shoulder and bounded up the jet’s stairs.

  Once inside he nodded to the attractive flight attendant, and took an empty seat. She took his backpack, surprised by its weight, and stowed it in the back of the cabin. Within two minutes, the crew came back on board carrying the catering. Several platters of food covered by clear plastic cling wrap were set on tables along the narrow cabin. There were fancy sandwiches, bowls of potato salad and cole slaw, and the last tray held a selection of deserts.

  “Now, that’s what I call an inflight meal,” Lynn said.

  Chip took an oversized seat across the aisle as the stewardess came back through the cabin.

  “Fasten your seat belt for takeoff. I’ll be serving dinner as soon as we’re at altitude. Our time of flight to Cartagena is four hours and thirty minutes. After clearing customs we’ll be going on to today’s final destination, Bucaramanga.”

  Lynn looked longingly at the food again, and then noticed that Chip was already asleep. Turning around, he saw that Sid had passed out drunk.

  I guess this will be a long flight down. Maybe I can get the flight attendant’s phone number, he thought.

  Chapter 10

  0215, Monday, July 22

  Room D-11

  Cano Limon Oil Camp

  Arauca Province, Colombia

  Yolima felt so safe in Mad’s arms. He held her close, her backside against his front, his left hand reaching around and cupping her right breast. After their lovemaking, Mad always held her so he could nuzzle his face in her hair, stroke her skin, and whisper how beautiful she was to him. She never tired of this. In fact, she relished this more than the sex.

  The attack Sunday morning had put Mad in a bad mood. He flew extra hours in the morning and evening to check for FARC troop formations anywhere close to Cano Limon or the pipeline.

  She knew she had to tell Mad tonight about the FARC plan to kidnap Mad and torture him for the information about the hidden regiment of troops that he controlled. Things were getting more and more strained between her and her uncle. For several nights, she reported to Max Gomez that she had learned nothing of significance about the surveillance operation. But Gomez was growing impatient. He pressed her more and more in the emails, specifically asking her for something about the secret strike force that was able to kill FARC soldiers without ever being seen. The last one had even contained a veiled threat.

  But she stalled, and when that wasn’t working, she started making up information in her reports. She knew she could never betray her lover now. Snuggling closer to Mad, she almost giggled thinking that she had fallen in love with the enemy.

  How could a man have such an effect on her? Wasn’t she a grown woman, educated, experienced, and knowledgeable? But Yolima had never met anyone like Mad. He listened to her, touched her, kissed her, and most of all she felt like someone special when she was around him. All of her fanaticism for the FARC cause and world socialism melted away when Mad smiled at her. Now all she dreamed about was being with him forever. She fantasized about marrying him, living with him, and having his babies.

  Why am I so attracted to him? He’s not that handsome. He’s twenty years older, and a little bit fat. She smiled, and pulled his arm around herself a little tighter. He makes me feel so safe. He makes me laugh. He makes me glad that I can give him pleasure.

  But warning him meant betraying her family, going against everything she had been taught, and taking the side of the capitalists. Her uncle Max had been good to her, helping her many times. Didn’t she owe him her loyalty? Besides, she knew that her uncle was a dangerous man, and it was very possible that he would order her death. Even worse than the danger was the thought that she would hurt her father. He would be so disappointed if he knew that she had fallen, not just for a gringo, but for an American mercenary.

  Not telling Mad was the bigger sin, she decided. Here she had finally found the person who filled up that missing part of her. This was the man who had made her heart come back to life. After her husband was killed, she feared she would never find happiness again.

  But most of all she worried about Mad. She couldn’t bear to see him hurt. And she was not afraid. Her lover would protect her. It has to be now.

  “Mad. I’ve got to tell you something.”

  “Yes, my love. I adore you too.”

  “No, stop joking, Mad. I’m serious. Listen to me.” Mad reluctantly untangled himself from her and she turned to face him in the gloom.

  “Mad, I’m not who you think I am.”

  “I know, my love.”

  “What…What did you say?” There was a very long silence. Yolima was not sure that she had heard him right. Could he know why I am here?

  “What were you going to tell me, my love?” Mad asked in a whisper. Yolima was troubled with the evasive response, but she didn’t have time to dig out an answer. He was due to leave in just a few more minutes.

  “You’ve got to leave Cano Limon tomorrow morning. I mean it, Mad. They are going to try to capture you and blow up your airplane.”

  Mad was quiet for several seconds. “Thank you for telling me, darling. I love you, and we are going to be together forever, as soon as this trouble is over.”

  “Are you leaving tomorrow, then?”

  “I don’t know. Lean your head right here, and don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” She felt so safe close to him.

  She awoke and Mad was gone. Looking over at the digital clock, she read 4:15.

  0900, Monday, July 22

  Cano Limon

  Arauca Province, Colombian

  The cell phone’s alarm went off, the lighted display flashed, martial music blared, and the vibrating feature made the little phone dance around on the top of George’s dresser. He needed more sleep, but he jumped out of bed and dashed across the room to silence that hideous noise. All of his adult life he had been forced to get up early, even when seriously sleep deprived. Because of this habit, he did not even feel a temptation to return to his warm bed. Stumbling into the shower, he turned the water up to almost scalding.

  How many days had it been now? He was losing count. Mad Madison had fallen totally in love with Yolima, and was sleeping with her almost every night. George smiled at Mad’s ability to move to Yolima’s room every night, and
back to his own without being seen by the guards. George worried that he would have to intervene with the guards or even to top management if Mad had been caught. It almost seemed as if Mad had gone through some type of infiltration training.

  The bugs that George planted in Yolima’s room gave them great information. It is remarkable what a man will say to a beautiful woman while they are snuggled together, and vice versa. But Mad had not revealed anything that would compromise Paper Blue. And he had kept to the Agency mantra: “There would be no reinforcements for Cano Limon.” If Mad had been indiscreet, the plan was to cut off phone and internet access to Yolima before she could forward any information about the team. George sat outside and guarded the room every night to ensure that no one else entered. Probably a needless precaution, but still, one could not be too careful.

  He was frantic when he realized that first day that Mad truly loved Yolima. Even a child could see that there was no way to talk Mad down, either. George conferred with Whitehorse Jackson, and they decided to let the romance continue, but to record all conversations. Whitehorse sent the equipment and a technician out the next day. It was easy to install the bugs while Mad was flying and Yolima was out on the river with her dolphins.

  Most nights, Mad got back to his room by 0300. Then, when George was sure that Mad was asleep, George could get some sleep. Each morning, he listened to the tapes of the lovers’ conversations, and reported anything of significance to Whitehorse Jackson.

  As George dried off, he poked the button to make the micro cassette start to play. The tape was not long, since it was voice activated. No recordings were made until the hidden microphone picked up a sound. Sometimes this system blurred the first word or so, but it was worth it rather than having to listen to hours of silence.