Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  By now, there was only a skeleton crew at the camp. George Allen and Yolima Morales were still there. George, by instruction from Whitehorse Jackson, and Yolima because there was no room for her in the outgoing helicopters.

  Sporadic fighting started around noon. A few machine-gun bursts opened up from the tree line and were immediately answered by the fifty caliber machineguns in the towers. Nearly all of the government troops were deployed along the east side of the complex: the north and west being shielded by the Arauca River, and the south by a large lake dredged out to provide the soil upon which was built the production facility and personnel buildings of Cano Limon.

  A tower with a machine gun and grenade launcher located at the bend of the river would prevent any boat from attempting a crossing, and another tower guarded the lake. The two remaining towers were on the northeast corner and the southeast corner. The towers were connected by an eight foot tall earthen berm running the entire east side with built-in fighting positions for the soldiers. This allowed the soldiers to move from their main quarters up and down the line without exposing themselves to enemy fire. In order to take Cano Limon, the FARC troops would have to storm the east side of the camp, directly into the teeth of the Colombian Army defenses.

  Both sides knew that the real fight would start sometime during the night. The Colombians knew that they only had so much ammunition, and no hopes of resupply. The FARC hoped to get the Army to use up their ammo without taking too many casualties.

  After the first mortar attack, there was no more phone service, cell or land line. The camp had three hand held satellite phones, and some handheld FM’s that were used to talk with the aircraft. The main dish was damaged, so the internet link went down also. Most of the base still had power, and nearly all the buildings were intact.

  George Allen, having been in combat many times, had a hard time understanding the fear that was clawing at his bowels. This has never happened to me before, he thought. Maybe it’s because, for the first time, I have a woman I love and three beautiful children who I want to see grow up. Even with his inner terror, George went about his business. During the early morning, he moved everything into Mad’s office, and established communications with the US embassy through his encrypted sat phone. George opened the red metal locker and took out the old Smith and Wesson .38 that the Colombian Army had loaned Mad.

  Mad had a reinforced office on the west side of the camp near the wildlife walk. Complete with tactical radios, a generator, a steel door, and sand bagged windows, Tyson Oil had built the office as a command post for aircraft operations in case of FARC attack. From this office, George knew that he would make his last stand at Cano Limon.

  Just a few minutes later, Yolima came to the office with a small bag.

  “Can I come in here?”

  George smiled at her, and he could see that she was really rattled. Don’t this beat all, George thought. I’ve got a FARC agent wanting to hang out in the bomb shelter. I don’t think that she can do any harm here. Even though she was FARC, she’s just a scared girl now.

  “Sure. Come on in. Take your stuff over there, and lay down on that couch. You’ll be safe here. How’d you know about this place?”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much. Mad pointed out his office to her during our walks,” she said. “Mad told me that if there was any trouble, to come here.” They could clearly hear the rattle of machineguns dueling on the east side of the camp. First, the tat-tat-tat-tat of the FARC 7.62 millimeter. Answering was the heavy La-La-La-La-La…….La-La-La……La-La-La-La-La of the Colombian Army 50 calibers mounted in the towers.

  “Ever been in a fire fight before?”

  “No, this is the first time I have been bombed.”

  “Those weren’t bombs,” George laughed. “Those were mortar shells. A kind of cheap artillery.” George became serious, looked out the window, almost talking with himself. “They knocked out the helicopter gunships. I don’t know why we never thought about keeping them in a shelter. Now we have no air support, and no way to evacuate.”

  George knew the operation with Yolima was over. She blew her cover with Mad, and her handlers would be looking to punish her if they won. He pitied her, knowing what the FARC did to traitors, especially to women. But she still might have valuable information George could forward on to Bogotá. He started a gentle interrogation.

  “Why did you do it?” George said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Come on, we’ve known for a while who you are. Why did you warn Mad about the attack?”

  “I couldn’t bear to see him hurt.”

  “Don’t you know you’ll be tortured and killed by the FARC if they take Cano Limon? And if they don’t, the Colombians will put you in jail for guerrilla activity.”

  “Yes. I guess that’s true. I really didn’t think about that. I didn’t really think about myself.”

  “Well, they say that’s the definition of true love.” George smiled at her and let the silence hang. Most people were uncomfortable with silence. George knew that often a subject would continue to talk and reveal themselves if the interrogator would only stay quiet long enough to let them decide to talk. After nearly two full minutes of looking each other directly in the face, George’s admiration for Yolima soared.

  “What is your real job here, Mr. Allen?”

  “What?” George was taken by surprise, and even a little pleased at the turn of events.

  “What is your real purpose in this little soap opera? You must be CIA.”

  “A time for truth, eh?” George went to the small refrigerator and pulled out two cold Gatorades. Opening one, he gave it to Yolima. He needed a little time to think. After taking a long drink, he tried to figure out how he was going to get back in the driver’s seat: getting information instead of giving it.

  “I’m just like Mad. I’m a contractor, too. I work as a security manager for Monroe, and occasionally I do some favors for the Embassy.”

  “What does your company think about you missing work for two weeks to hang around Cano Limon?”

  “Our real customer is the Federal Government. So, I’m still working. Just for another department, you might say. And you? Are you really a marine biologist, or a full time FARC agent?”

  “I’m really am a marine biologist. After my husband died in a FARC raid in Nariño, my uncle sent me to university in Spain to study for three years.”

  “Wow. That is really some uncle. He must be rich.”

  “My uncle thought that one day I might be an asset for the cause.”

  George’s mind went into overdrive. “So your uncle was using FARC funds to send you to school?”

  “Oh, yes. Uncle Max was the chief financial officer of the FARC for the last seven years.”

  “So, Max Gomez is your uncle. Where is he now?”

  “Oh, he’s running the operation from his little farm. It’s called Finca Rio Rojo.”

  “Finca Rio Rojo. Thanks. I need to call this in. Excuse me just a minute.”

  1330, Thursday, July 25

  Finca Rio Rojo

  Arauca Province, Colombia

  Max Gomez looked over the situation map, while he munched on a delicious grilled ham and cheese sandwich. His spirits were high as he listened to the cackling radios telling of victory after victory all around Arauca. Most of the towns were now in FARC hands as well as all of the countryside.

  At 0800, the radio station in Arauca City switched over to his programming. They were now playing a pleasing mix of propaganda and traditional Colombian music. The deep voiced announcer kept up the message: Arauca had just declared its independence from the Colombian government and their handlers, the Americans. Arauca is now the newest member of the community of sovereign nations.

  The TV in the corner was tuned to CNN International. There was yet no mention of the uprising in Arauca. The whole program was taken up by the story of the American push on Tehran.

  “The gods of war have been gracious to us today, my bro
thers,” Max said to his staff of guerrilla leaders. They are not generals yet, but I will make them generals soon, he thought.

  “We could not have better fortune. The Americans are weary of war. They will never start another just to recapture a small place no one in Kansas has ever heard of!” The staff laughed politely, and he realized that they did not understand his allusion to the regular folks of America.

  A messenger ran in and handed Gomez three sheets of paper. He read each one and his smile grew wide. His allies had done just as he had asked. They had sent him formal emails, with copies to the Director General of the United Nations.

  “Brothers, I have just received emails from China, Cuba, and Venezuela. Each one congratulates us for breaking the bonds of capitalism. Also, they recognize our new government, and they’re asking us to exchange ambassadors.”

  All of the staff applauded, shook each other’s hands, and talked of the coming prosperity of Arauca.

  Only Cano Limon remained to be taken. Gomez turned to his wall map and checked the pins representing the soldiers attacking the camp.

  “Get me El Brujo on the radio. I want to know how his attack on Cano Limon is progressing.”

  1400, Thursday, July 25

  Agua Chica, Arauca

  Colombia

  Lynn Metzler looked through his binoculars, searching for any sign of a guerrilla headquarters. While there was a great deal of activity, there was no indication that this was the command center for the rebellion. His perch in the purpleheart tree was high enough to look over the flat countryside and into the town square.

  “What do you see?” Sid Koonce whispered. They were both soaked to the skin with rain and sweat, the normal condition for a soldier out in the jungle. Since their insertion an hour before dawn, it had rained on them twice, and they had crossed two streams that were neck deep.

  “Not a thing. Just some kids running around with a new flag. Must be the new Arauca flag. Some of the women are outside talking. Nothing out of the ordinary for a day when you declare independence.”

  “There’s got to be some antennae around here somewhere. Look for towers,” Sid suggested.

  “This has got to be the place,” Lynn muttered. “The radio direction finders all confirmed that this is the site of the command center transmissions. But I don’t see anything like a command center. No new cars, no good uniforms, no fancy weapons.”

  “Let’s pull back and look from the other side of town. Maybe we missed something,” Sid said.

  “No, we don’t have time. Every minute that we stay here, we risk discovery. Our air support will be here just after dark. We need to attack then or call off the whole thing.”

  “OK. Let’s assume that this guy is good. Where would he put antennas so that they wouldn’t be discovered?” Sid said.

  Lynn put down the binoculars. “I’d put my comm antennas high, and close to my generator. And I’d camouflage them.”

  “OK. Look for something high,” Sid said.

  “Right. I’m looking at the water town right now. Nothing on the water tower. Now the steeple of the cathedral. There it is!”

  “What do you see?”

  “Lots of cables running out of a window to a telephone pole.” Lynn scanned the whole church building. “Those antennas gotta be hidden in the wooden steeple. And the façade goes higher than the roof. I’ll bet you a year’s pay that there’s a mini satellite dish on the roof behind that ledge.”

  “So the church is the command center,” Sid stated without much conviction.

  “Gotta be.”

  “I don’t know, man. It just doesn’t fit. Never seen a church down here used as a command center before,” Sid said.

  Metzler and Koonce eased down out of the tree, careful to keep from making any large noises. They were less than 200 yards from the edge of town, but even that close, the jungle obscured part of the view. The purpose of the recon was to find the command center and kill the FARC’s generals, including El Comandante. By cutting off the head, Whitehorse Jackson hoped that the snake would die quickly.

  During the recon, their two teams were positioned to support Sid and Lynn should they be discovered. Sid’s team was the closest; spread out around the area to act as security should anyone wander close. If the two were seen, then Sid’s team would cover their escape. Lynn’s team was further back at the assembly point, ready to quickly ambush any group that would chase Lynn and Sid. Theoretically, this would give the two teams time to melt into the jungle.

  Moving south, the teams played backward leapfrog, always keeping someone looking back to ensure that they were not being followed. After about a mile, the group picked up their packs from where they had hidden them, and then set up camp to wait for darkness.

  Metzler briefed everyone in Spanish, telling each soldier his part in the coming assault. They ate a light meal and napped in shifts.

  1730, Thursday, July 25

  One Mile East of Cano Limon

  Arauca, Colombia

  Chip Van Ginkle looked though his Redfield scope, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The roar and the kick were familiar and comforting. The bullet traveled over 700 yards, arcing through a gap in the trees, and struck the officer in the chest. He crumpled. Freddy Murrillo, Chip’s spotter could see the surprise on his face as he died.

  “You got him, sir,” Freddy said.

  “That should slow them down for a while,” Chip said as he worked the bolt action, chambering another round. His target had been an officer directing men who were unloading boxes of ammunition from a brand new Chinese truck. As a sniper in the South African Army, he knew the right targets were always the officers. Kill the officers, then no one would want to take a leadership role. And without leadership, a unit faltered, and would be easily defeated.

  As predicted, the men who were unloading the truck now were in the ditch or looking at their dead leader, and no work was being done. Soon, another man came over, and started the men unloading the truck again. Within a minute, another boat-tailed soft point bullet struck. This time in the officer’s head.

  The guerrillas started firing in the general direction of the shots. A machine gun was set up, and they too started firing. A shot rang out from Chip’s left. His other marksman had a better angle on the gunner. The machine gunner fell to his right. No one stood up to get the crew moving again.

  Chip’s entire team was made of snipers. The Colombians only had two good ones at Tame. But he had picked three other Colombian soldiers to be observers and security. The two Colombian snipers and he had been in the trees since sunrise, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Chip left clear instructions that no one was to fire until he started. His plan was to let several units gather in this obvious rallying point, and then pin down as many men as possible, and so slow the attack on Cano Limon.

  His plan had worked even better than expected. Several trucks pulled up to the wide intersection waiting for crews to come unload and distribute the ammunition. As the crews finally showed up, Chip initiated the firing.

  “We’d better get out of here. They’ll be sending a patrol soon. If they’ve got any balls,” Chip whispered. As he climbed down from the tree, he heard another shot from the third sniper located across the stream. One shot, one kill, he thought. The motto of the sniper.

  Within twenty minutes, Chip saw that twelve g’s were moving in his direction. Others in the ditches were watching the trees, hoping to see the muzzle flashes to direct fire toward the snipers. Chip set down his rifle and picked up his Uzi submachine gun. He gave a hand signal and Freddy slid into position along the trail. He picked a dense fern to hide under, and the advancing shadows helped erase his visibility. He really is a good trooper, Chip thought. I hope he makes it through this fight.

  Slowly, slowly, the guerrilla patrol advanced into the woods. The jungle was starting to get gloomy with the setting of the sun. But Chip could still see the fear on the young faces. He admired their courage, and for an instant he regretted tak
ing their lives.

  They passed by Freddy and advanced to within twenty feet of Chip when he finally opened fire. An instant later, the Freddy pulled his trigger. The patrol never had time to return fire. A few turned toward the ambush, but they were killed within seconds. Chip and Freddy never stood up, in case one of the FARC was still alive. They backed out, keeping as low to the ground as they could.

  The darkness fell as if God had turned out the light. Chip Van Ginkle put on his NVG’s.

  1830, Thursday, July 25

  US Embassy

  Bogota, Colombia

  “Whitehorse, I think I’ve found something,” Ann Snyder said.

  “Give it to me.”

  “We have some property records of a Finca Rio Rojo from the 1950’s. The farm was sold off in parcels in the 70’s, and a Panamanian corporation bought the big house just two years ago. But it is 25 kilometers to the east of the transmitters,” Ann said. Ever since George Stevens had called in the intel on his sat phone, she had been calling all over Bogotá looking for any document with “Finca Rio Rojo” in the text.

  Since the property names in Arauca had never been loaded into ICAS, she had to call the Colombian DAS and get their help. The offices in Arauca were no longer able to respond, but a computer at DAS here in Bogotá, used to track the land purchases of drug traffickers, had all suspicious acquisitions listed.

  “That has to be it. Would he be smart enough to know that we would attack the location of his antenna, and far sighted enough to build a remote transmitter?” Whitehorse wondered.

  “He’s been outwitting us during this entire operation!” Ann couldn’t help it: she really admired the brain that had put all this together. And she relished the competition to see if their side would win. Sometimes she knew that she was a little sick in the head to feel this way, but weren’t both sides professionals? They were just playing for some very high stakes.