When George heard Yolima warn Mad, he immediately sat down at his laptop and emailed Whitehorse, requesting that the aircraft move to a secure facility. Apiay Air Force Base was the obvious answer. George was so proud of Mad for not revealing that he already knew all about her and her mission.
Just then, George got a knock at his door. He got up and opened it to see Mad standing there in his flying uniform: shorts, a faded blue polo shirt, tennis shoes, and his lucky baseball cap.
“Come in, Mad.”
“George, I got a warning from Yolima last night. We need to move the plane. I’ve already told Steve to pack up, and I’ll notify my company after I land at Apiay. I think that is the best place to go.”
“Whoa. Whoa, boy.” Pause. “Slow down and let’s get this all straight.” Secretly, George was delighted that he didn’t have to tell Mad to move, and thus reveal that he had been listening every night to their lovemaking.
“Last night, Yolima told me that the FARC is going to try to kidnap me tonight. I need to move somewhere right now.”
“She told you this when?” George stared hard at Mad.
“Yeah, yeah.” Mad looked down at the floor. George almost laughed out loud. Mad assumed the same posture his four year old used when caught doing something he knew that he should not be doing.
“I was in her room last night.”
“You what?” George knew that he had to play this one right.
“Yeah. We’ve been seeing each other at night.” Mad tried, but couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.
“OK. Pack up your stuff. I’ll get the clearance for you to use Apiay. There’s not much activity there now, anyway.”
********
Mad looked at the airplane and shook his head. Steve sat wedged into the back seat behind his console. The entire back end and floor of the airplane were full of their clothes, tools, laptops, and personal junk. How did we get all of this stuff? he thought. Since they carried so much weight in the cabin, Mad could not fill the fuel tanks.
Once again, Mad did the mental calculations. The flight to Apiay would be a little more than an hour enroute. They had 65 gallons of fuel in the tanks. At an average of 30 gallons per hour fuel consumption, they had more than two hours flight time before they needed to be on the ground. It was a good reserve.
With no door on the left side of the Cessna, Mad climbed into the left seat and buckled in. A soldier then loaded the last boxes into the right front seat, fastened the seat belt around them, and closed the door. The sunlight magnified the tropical heat as it flooded in through the huge windscreen. Mad used the hand towel that he always had wrapped around his neck to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
Within four minutes, Mad had both engines running, all the “Before Take Off Checklist” items completed, and was taxiing out for take-off. Advancing the throttles, he said sadly, “Good bye, Cano Limon.”
As he started his climb, he banked over the river, and spotted a gorgeous female in a yellow bikini waving so vigorously that she was about to capsize her boat. Mad smiled sadly. “Adios, mi amor.”
As soon as they leveled off and completed the cruise checklist, Mad pulled out his small thermos and poured himself a cup a coffee. The kitchen help always filled it full of hot coffee just before he left for a flight. Mad sipped the sweet black coffee in silence. After a few minutes he couldn’t take the quiet anymore.
“Steve, are you back there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Sure was quiet. Thought for minute I’d left you behind. Tell me what you think is gonna happen now.”
“Now, Mad, I can’t really say,” Steve started. That was always his preamble to a detailed prediction of the future. Steve didn’t talk much, but when he held forth, it was always well considered. Mad valued Steve’s opinions.
“With the large attack by the FARC, and their internal coup, coupled with Yolima’s appearance, I’d say that they are going to take Cano Limon very soon. Probably hold it for ransom, the way Joseph Savimbi did with Soyo in ’93.”
Joseph Savimbi, the leader of the UNITA guerrilla movement in Angola, captured a large oil production complex on the northwest coast of Angola in 1993. He occupied the oil camp for several weeks, repelling repeated attempts by the Angolan Army to retake the facility. The Angolans hired a South African company named Executive Outcomes to recapture the camp. EO, as they were called, was a small army of South African mercenaries. After receiving a payment of sixty million US dollars, EO laid siege to the oil complex.
Using snipers, psy ops, and night raids, EO forced Savimbi to abandon the camp in less than 2 weeks with minimal casualties.
“What does that do for us?” Mad asked.
“I’d say we’ll be operating out of a forward base gathering intel for the effort to retake the camp.”
“Steve, that just doesn’t sound like a project where the FARC would have to blow up all of Colombia’s aircraft. I think there’s something bigger here. Lots bigger.”
Fifteen miles out, Mad called the tower at Apiay. Even after repeated attempts, no answer. Perhaps their radio equipment was damaged during the raid yesterday, Mad thought.
“Before Landing Checklist,” he said.
Even though Steve was not a pilot, he and Mad developed a system like the crews used on larger aircraft. Mad liked to include another brain and another set of eyes to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, like hit a mountain. So Mad briefed Steve about every flight, they reviewed weather together before takeoff, and Steve read every checklist to Mad when he called for it.
“It’s a little dicey landing on a military base without permission,” Mad said.
“Well, we had a confirming email from the general of the base.”
“Yeah, but did the word get out to the troops manning those machine guns?” Mad said.
“We shall soon see. We shall soon see,” Steve said mimicking a famous TV preacher. They both laughed.
Mad flew a downwind approach, and Steve used the camera to check all of the machine gun emplacements. There seemed to be no activity. Turning base, Mad began a normal descent to the runway. No swooping down so that the soldiers might think that he was going to do a gun run. Steve kept the camera scanning the area.
“Mad, do you see all the blown up aircraft?”
“Yeah. What a mess.” Several piles of aluminum were evenly spaced on the ramp. Some were burned, but most were just misshapen like a giant child had torn pieces off of his toys. The fuel dump still smoked.
Mad pulled his attention off of the wreckage and concentrated on the approach and landing. Taxiing to the central ramp, he parked right in front of the tower. After he shut down the engines, he wondered how he would get out without someone to help him move the boxes on the right seat.
Just then, the right door opened and a trim Asian-American in a tailored grey flight suit and polished black boots stuck his head inside.
“Looks like you boys could use some help getting extricated from this here machine.” Hmmm. An Asian with a Texas accent.
“Yeah, unload some of these boxes, if you would, so we can get out,” Mad said.
After a minute, Mad climbed out onto the ramp. The American stuck out his hand and said, “Welcome to Apiay. My name is Andy Yamada.”
0900, Tuesday, July 23
Apiay Air Base
Colombia
“How come I never knew about you guys? I would have come and asked for a job!” Mad said.
“Up until last Friday, we weren’t hiring anybody,” Stan said. “We were just about to close the doors. Now, I think Cactus is going to go from strength to strength. The market is strong all over the world for cheap close air support platforms like ours.”
“Oh, stop it with the sales pitch already,” Jose said. They all laughed, thankful Jose had broken the seriousness.
“Working together, we can really hurt the g’s when they try to take Cano Limon. I can be looking for them on one side, and you on the other. Whichever one of
us sees them first, can give out the alert. You can fire, and I can move troops to contact.”
Stan moved toward the map pinned up on the wall of their makeshift office. After the attack just two days before, the Colombian Air Force gave everything they could to the Americans who would be fighting the coming battle with the FARC. With the fuel depot destroyed, the Colombians sent two tankers of jet fuel and one of avgas over from Bogotá just for them.
“Now, where can we expect to be operating?” Stan asked.
Mad nodded toward Steve, and he moved to the map and began his standard briefing. Steve gave the same brief every time a new group of pilots were moved into Cano Limon.
“You can see here that the camp is built on a small manmade hill nestled in a ninety degree bend in the river. This lake makes up the southern border. So, the attack must come from the east, along this road. That’s why the Colombian Army has built all their defenses along this side.”
Steve went on talking about the cleared area designed to be a kill zone should the FARC ever attempt a conventional assault.
“We think that you should probably orbit out to the east, and try to find the troops forming up in this banana plantation. They will not be looking for you there, and you should be able to catch large numbers of troops out in the open.”
“Any missiles? Large caliber guns, twelve point seven or twenty-three millimeter?” Andy asked.
“We believe they have no anti-aircraft weapons, but they will use small arms, and some of their machine-gunners are fairly accurate.”
“Steve, what are our options should we have to put down? Say we have an engine problem or a bad hit?” Stan asked, still looking at the map.
“Try to land on the Cano Limon Camp. The runway is on the east side, so that would not be a good choice. The soccer fields or the main road running through the camp. Maybe the river.”
The briefing wound down, and Stan ended the meeting with his usual, “I’m hungry!”
1130, Tuesday, July 23
Arauca City, Arauca
Colombia
Santiago Del Carmen turned down the familiar alley to the safe house he normally used when in Arauca City. The narrow, dirty streets, with old garbage and paper sitting in the dusty gutters, and naked children playing on the narrow broken sidewalk reminded him of his own home town. The heat was not bad yet, but still he walked on the shady side of the street. Even with the oppressive poverty and pungent smell of rotting food, he was happy to be back.
Like most Latin American cities, there were no yards visible from the street. The walls of the houses sat back from the street only a couple of feet, just enough for a sidewalk. The yard, if the house had one, would be a courtyard inside the compound. A mean, unpainted wall with broken glass imbedded in the top often hid a nice home with a large courtyard, surrounded by wide shaded patios.
His pack was not that heavy, but it hurt his shoulder where the shrapnel had torn through the skin and stuck in the deltoid muscle. Sunday afternoon his team stopped in Tunja, where he found the busy FARC doctor. After waiting more than an hour, the old doctor jerked out the small piece of metal without bothering with anesthetic. Sprinkling on some alcohol, taping a crude bandage over the gash, and then pressing a few aspirins into Santiago’s hand, the doctor instructed him to keep the wound dry for three days. Then he went back to treating men with real problems like gunshot wounds and burns.
Spending the night in a cheap hotel in Bucaramanga, they continued up the highway to the bridge crossing the Rio Casanare. Demolition teams had done their job well, only blowing out a small section of the bridge between two support columns. The footings, columns, and most of the road were intact, and the bridge could be made usable at relatively little cost. Meanwhile, just one heavy machine gun on a hill on the far side prevented government repair crews from approaching, much less working on the bridge. At a FARC roadblock just a hundred meters in front of the bridge, they were directed down a dirt road to a makeshift ferry. The ferry took them and their stolen Mercedes across the river.
They drove on into Arauca on almost deserted highways, never being bothered by Army or police. They turned in the car at the main camp. In the FARC, keeping such an asset would have been a capital offense. A large farm truck with a high tarp covering the bed transported thirty troops from the main camp into Arauca City this morning.
Tonight his unit would muster, be issued ammo and equipment, and be given the final briefings before the attack that was to begin early Thursday morning.
First, all of the major cities in Arauca Province would be taken, and then the units would converge on Cano Limon for the final assault. Most of the police and Army bases would be isolated and ignored. Since the Colombian government was unable to project power from them, El Comandante reasoned that they were no threat and not worth the lives it would cost to take them.
Pushing open the door to the inner courtyard, Santiago felt a dark wave of grief crash over him. The last time that he was here, he met his brother Tomas.
Has it just been two days? In the first minutes of the attack on Tolamaida a lucky shot from a security guard caught Tomas just under the right armpit. The bullet exited the left armpit, piercing both lungs and his heart. Tomas died instantly. After dozens of raids, Tomas was dead. One of the blessings and yet a curse of the FARC was that so many family members fought together against the oppressors.
In a daze over his dead brother, Santiago wandered into the house. His squad mates, knowing of Tomas’ death, silently came up and each put their arms around him. The closeness of his unit comforted him. Just last month, I was hugging Raul when his wife was killed, and now he is comforting me. Santiago sat down in a chair and wept. Someone brought him a cold bottle of La Costena beer. After getting a long nap, Santiago and his platoon were ready to move out.
Chapter 11
0300, Thursday, July 25
Tame Army Base
Western Arauca
Colombia
Lynn Metzler was just finishing inspecting the soldiers for his team. Each man’s equipment and ammo were laid out in order on the floor. Lynn looked over each man’s uniform, weapon, and equipment, searching for content, organization, and condition. All the while, Lynn was asking questions of each man.
“Where are you supposed to be during the assault?”
“What signal will tell you to fall back to our rallying point?”
“Where will you go once the objective is captured?”
“How will you signal the exfiltration?”
These are good soldiers, he thought. Brave, capable, ready to fight for their country.
Each Alpha Team member was now the leader of his own squad of Colombian soldiers. After arriving in Tame Tuesday night, Lynn had talked with the Colombian general commanding the base, and told him of their plan. The general requested volunteers then picked the best and most experienced combat riflemen. Each unit commander gave the Paper Blue members a verbal assessment of every volunteer. Lacking time for correct call signs, the teams had been named Alpha-1 through Alpha-5.
The helicopter that brought the five men from the airport in Bucaramanga waited outside. Two of the teams, Alpha-4 and Alpha-5, would search for any FARC soldiers near the base, and create a diversion to mask the departures of the helicopter. Under cover of darkness, the other three teams would be inserted five miles south of their respective objectives. From there they would walk in, attack, and then move west for pick up.
I don’t get paid enough to do this, Lynn thought. Every time that I go out, I use up one more roll of the dice. One day my number is going to come up. He looked over the troops. Love welled up for these boys. Like many exemplary soldiers, these young men were small.
They are younger than my two sons, Lynn thought. He wondered who would be alive this time tomorrow. These boys were going to fight for their country, and history had thrust the opportunity and obligation upon their slight shoulders.
He walked outside after the final inspection and saw i
t was misting rain. That was a good thing. Less g’s out and about. Less visibility so less chance of the helicopter being spotted. Best of all, the rain would absorb much of the noise of the UH-60 used to insert the team.
“Let’s load up, boys. We got lots of work to do.”
0900, Thursday, July 25
Arauca City
Colombia
The conquest of Arauca started at 0600. Several towns already sympathetic to the FARC simply declared that they were now part of FARC controlled territory. Arauca City fell within two hours. Only a few brave National Police Officers fired their weapons, and they were killed without mercy or malice.
The propaganda campaign had prepared the Army and Air Force troops very well. For the last week, FARC leaflets had been thrown in bundles over the fences of military installations urging the soldiers to surrender. All enlisted soldiers would be given amnesty, and the officers would be taken as prisoners of war. The other choice was certain annihilation since there was no hope of reinforcement or air support. So, at the appointed time of 0600, the soldiers put down their guns, opened the gates, and let their officers be taken into custody.
Bases on the other side of Arauca such as Tame and Saravena were completely ignored. Only a token force was placed outside of each installation to insure that the soldiers stayed inside.
The main FARC force was arrayed around Cano Limon. There, the government troopers did not give up. They were all hand-picked professional soldiers, not the conscripts that made up the vast majority of other units. Bolstered by the bravery of the oil men and the promises of cash bonuses and promotions, each soldier manned his post when the first mortar shells rained down on the helipad. The two gunship helicopters were badly damaged within the first minutes.
Arauca: A Novel of Colombia Page 20
