Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  “Alpha-1, this is Echo Two.”

  Lynn couldn’t believe that his old friend Mad Madison was up there. No one had briefed him on that possibility.

  “Echo Two, I’m in a tight spot here.” Lynn had the newest microphone and earphone set up that let him transmit clearly with just a whisper. The automatic volume control measured the ambient noise, letting the user transmit and hear clearly under fire or under cover.

  “Roger, we came over when we heard Cactus having trouble. We saw the fighters on the FLIR, and stayed above the clouds until they left. You need to exit the house on the south side. The g’s are coming in from the northeast.”

  “Understand all. Am exiting the south side. How far out are they?” Lynn jogged across the yard crouched over to give the smallest target in case he was seen.

  “Estimate one hundred meters.”

  “Sid is out in the woods, callsign Alpha-2. Move him in position to intercept bad guys.”

  “Roger, Alpha-2 this is Echo Two. We don’t have you in sight.”

  “Echo Two, Alpha-2. Two hundred meters southwest, and now moving toward the house.”

  “We see you now. Turn due north. I’ll turn you east at the right time and get you close.”

  Lynn knew exactly how Mad worked. Several times Mad had guided them into a guerilla camp, helping them to sneak up on saboteurs. Paper Blue teams had learned to trust Mad completely. Lynn crawled across the small yard and slithered down into the smaller ditch closest to the house. He slid head first into the small culvert and tried to catch his breath. Each second was an hour.

  “Alpha-2, turn east. Your target is straight ahead 75 meters.” Silence. Lynn could still hardly breathe. He realized he was hyperventilating. The water was cold, and the darkness pervasive in the shadows, even with the night vision goggles.

  “Twenty meters.”

  Automatic weapons fire startled Lynn so much that he jumped. He backed out of the culvert and ran up to the south side of the house. There he saw a straggler come around the corner. The guerilla started to move his rifle up, but Lynn shot him by pure reflex.

  “Cease fire Alpha-2. You got them all. Alpha-1 got the last one on the south side of the house. Repeat Alpha-1 is on the south side of the house.” Lynn knew that Mad was worried that a trigger happy member of Alpha-2 might shoot first before identifying his target.

  “Roger, Echo Two. We’re looking for Alpha-1. Lynn, let’s go home.”

  Chapter 12

  0015, Friday, 26 July

  Saravena Highway

  Arauca Province

  Colombia

  One hundred meters ahead, the moonlight reflected off of the evenly spaced pools of water, and Max Gomez knew he had finally found Highway 3. This narrow, winding asphalt thread was the main east-west artery of the state of Arauca. Now Max knew his position. Years ago the road builders dug these square holes and used the dirt to elevate the road above the flood level of the annual rainy season. Now that they had filled with water, they were a series of ponds.

  At the start of the attack, just two hours ago, El Comandante had been in the communications center on the second floor. He pounded the table as he listened to the reports of the heavy casualties his troops had taken from the gunship, snipers, and roving patrols that were systematically ambushing his outlying units. My men are getting slaughtered. We must pull back.

  Then the shooting started. He heard an explosion, and the lights went dark. They’ve found my command post! His mind started calculating the odds. How many troops do they have? They would never attack without an overwhelming advantage. He reverted to his combat experience without even realizing it. Knowing his upstairs command post was indefensible with his soldiers dead, retreat was the only road to survival.

  While still thinking of how he could save the battle, he went toward the north window of the converted bedroom. After he kicked out the screen, he climbed out onto the tile roof over the side patio. Remembering that there was a tree to the right, he moved over until he felt the branches. Then he was at the trunk. He slid down to the patio below, and ran across the back lawn. Where are my guard units?

  Hearing the distinctive roar of the mini-gun again, he looked up in time to see the red arc of fire descend on his troops coming to his rescue. There was enough moonlight to see the gunship clearly against the gray sky. Now was no time to see if his side would win. He knew that he must escape.

  He walked quickly to the north so as to place a stand of trees between him and the house, and then cut toward the east so that he would come to the dirt road that ran northward to the highway. Staying about fifty yards to the left of the road, he paralleled it toward safety.

  Hearing another aircraft, he looked up and saw the tracers arc into the black shape of the mystery gunship. The plane sprouted a small tongue of flame and a long trail of smoke from the left engine.

  “Take that, hijo de puta!” he swore in Spanish as he shook his fist in the air, and twirled around.

  The gunship turned sharply left and spiraled to the ground. The fireball was hidden by the trees, but the glow and satisfying crump made Max smile broadly. Deep in his consciousness, Max knew he had lost his short war with the capitalists. But he was happy to be alive, and he was exultant that his tormentors were dead.

  Now, after two hours of walking through woods and swamp, he was looking at the road and considering his next move. He needed to get to Venezuela. Chavez will hide me. I know he will. I may have to make a small contribution to his retirement fund, but he’ll help me. Max laughed. He still had access to almost eighty million euros of FARC funds in Switzerland, and over ten million dollars of his personal money.

  Seeing the headlights from a car several miles away, he tried to decide if he should try to flag it down. Chances were that the car was a FARC vehicle. But how could he prove who he was? His uniform was tattered and muddy, but he still had some identification.

  Max smiled at the thought of standing in the road, showing his Colombian identification card as cars passed by, and yelling, “I am El Comandante!”

  Instead, he walked toward a small house that had a light on. He needed some water, and a bed. All of the campesinos in this area were FARC supporters, and hospitable.

  0125, Friday, July 26

  Palo Negro Airport

  Bucaramanga, Colombia

  The Blackhawk touched down on the National Police ramp, and Lynn Metzler opened the door. Three wounded members of Alpha team, all Colombians, were also aboard. The ambulances were there to meet the ship and transport the wounded down the mountain to the hospital. Lynn had seen enough wounded to know that there was little hope for one, and no hope for the other two. The helicopter pilot refused to attempt a landing at the hospital at night saying that he lacked knowledge of the area. Lynn knew the real reason was that the pilot had been briefed not to expose the Agency’s helicopter. The UH-60 pulled pitch and was gone ten seconds after the last man was off.

  After the ambulances were on their way, Lynn went into the small police barracks at the northeast corner of the ramp to rest and wait for the other members of Paper Blue. The spartan lounge had a painting of Jesus on the cross sitting on top of the big screen TV. They shared the space with a ping pong table and one couch. He turned left, walked down the hall, and found the showers.

  Dropping his gear, he stripped off his filthy jungle fatigues and turned on the hot water. A short, dignified soldier living in the barracks soundlessly handed him a bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo.

  Lynn stepped into the hot needles of the shower. Putting his hands against the front wall, he bowed his head, letting the water hit the crown of his head and run down his back. He hoped the sounds of his sobbing would be drowned in the sparkling reverberation of the water against the tile. In his twenty-eight years of combat, this made the third time he had gone into battle with a team and emerged as the only survivor.

  The faces of his old team mates swam in front of him. Some were smiling, some wore their death
masks. Most of them were from other militaries: Afghanis, Nicaraguan, South African, and Colombian. Why was he alive? Not because of skill or courage. Just luck. Just stupid luck. Why couldn’t I have been an accountant?

  After a few minutes, he gathered himself and washed. He walked out of the shower, and the same soldier gave him a mildewed towel to dry himself. The soldier pointed to a bunk, pulled aside the mosquito netting, and Lynn climbed in.

  “Muy amable,” he muttered. Lynn was asleep before he could pull up the blanket. The soldier covered him, and arranged the mosquito net while saying a short prayer. Then he went to the couch and watched the Three Stooges in Spanish on TV, guarding Metzler’s weapon and gear.

  0145 Friday, July 26

  Assault Unit Number Two

  Two Miles East of Cano Limon

  Arauca, Colombia

  El Brujo threw down the microphone. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain up his right thigh. A bullet from the first gunship pass earlier in the evening had tagged him. Since the bullet missed the bone and the major arteries, his medic put on a pressure bandage, and he continued the fight. For the last three hours he had been trying to raise El Comandante, or anyone in the command staff. No one else had been successful either. No joy on cell phone, tactical radio, land line, or sat phone. El Brujo had to assume the leadership of their movement was dead.

  The only good thing was the gunship never returned. But his troops were still being constantly harassed by at least fifty snipers and a company of Special Forces attacking his perimeter. His soldiers were deserting in hordes according to hushed reports from his commanders.

  “Sancho, broadcast this command to all troops, ‘Pull back and return to your homes. We have not been successful. You will be contacted soon.’” It took every bit of control and will not to curse and kick over the furniture in his command tent. He saw Sancho frozen, looking at him with disbelieving eyes.

  “Do it!”

  “Yes sir. I am sorry.” Sancho turned and got on the radio.

  El Brujo pulled a small Motorola Talk-About radio out of his vest.

  “Mi amor. Come and pick me up. It’s time to go.”

  A Mercedes 500SE started up less than a mile away and sped to El Brujo’s tent. He limped heavily out to the car and Sancho opened the right front door. He slid in beside his beautiful twenty one year old mistress. They sped south toward his house in Puerto Nariz.

  0200, Friday, July 26

  US Embassy

  Bogota, Colombia

  The cell phone in Whitehorse Jackson’s pocket started vibrating, and he opened it in one smooth movement. He looked at the number. It was the listening post in Santander.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Sir, El Brujo just sent a message in the clear to all his assault troops. Quote: Pull back and return to your homes. We have not been successful. You will be contacted soon. El Brujo. End quote.”

  “Good. Thanks. You guys are doing a great job,” Jackson said.

  He pushed the door open into the secure command center that they had set up on the third floor. Ann faced away from him. She had on a pair of tight blue jeans and a long sleeve white shirt, and was bent over looking at a radio transcript on the table. He took a second to admire her slender waist and flaring hips.

  “Santander just called. They’ve intercepted an order from El Brujo. He’s pulling back his troops and telling them all to go home.”

  “Excellent!” Ann said, imitating Whitehorse, then threw her arms around Jackson’s neck. He enjoyed the closeness, and put his right hand in the small of her back and pulled her very tight to him.

  “You keep that up, and I’ll start ripping your clothes off, Mister,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Promises, promises,” he said out loud, releasing her.

  A sudden flood of fatigue washed over Whitehorse Jackson. He slumped, and then held on to the edge of a table.

  “What’s wrong?” Ann said.

  “I am just thinking about how we screwed up this op—how I screwed up this op. We lost a ton of men and equipment. And the gunship crew…”

  She stepped close and whispered, “I know, honey. They were good men. They did a good job. And so did you.” She took his hand and led him next door to where they had set up single beds for cat naps. She guided him to a bed and gently pushed him down until he was lying on his back.

  “You’ll wake me if there’s any news?”

  0630, Friday, July 26

  Cano Limon

  Arauca Province

  Colombia

  George Allen shook Yolima from her sleep on the couch. He had been on the sat phone with Bogotá for the last hour. The US Embassy and Tyson Oil had rented every available helicopter in Colombia and northern Ecuador. They were on their way to Arauca. The trucks full of troops from Tame and Saravena had already arrived and teams were trying to identify and clean up the dead bodies at Cano Limon and Finca Rio Rojo.

  “Time to go,” he said gently. “The helicopters will be here in an hour, and I thought you might like to shower and pack.”

  “Am I going to jail?”

  “No, Bogotá says that you are going back to Miami for interrogation.”

  “What happened to Mad?”

  “He’s in Apiay. Safe. He was a big factor in turning back the FARC. He has been reassigned to Florida for now. You’ll be able to see him there. No one has heard from your uncle, but his body hasn’t been found either.

  It took a great effort for Yolima just to walk back to her room. She was hopeful. Maybe she and Mad could build a life together. But at least she would be out of the hands of the FARC. If she stayed in Colombia, it would only be a matter of time before she was kidnapped, interrogated, tortured, and then killed. But she knew her family would suffer.

  0640, Friday, Jul 26

  US Embassy

  Bogotá

  Whitehorse Jackson came to a decision. His subconscious mind, he realized, had been working on this decision for several weeks. He had been trained to make life and death decisions, but this had been one of the most difficult that Jackson had ever grappled with. One of his talents was that once he had made a decision, he implemented it immediately, no matter how thorny, with no regrets and no second guessing. He awakened from his nap in the command center over two hours ago to find Ann gone and nearly one hundred emails in his box that he had ignored over the last three days.

  He answered the emergency emails, erased most of the others, and, fortified knowing that he had “answered the mail”, started looking for Ann.

  After looking around for several minutes, he found her sitting at a table in a deserted break room, her head resting on crossed arms.

  “Hola, mi querida.” Hello, my darling, he said.

  She slowly lifted her head and locked eyes. “This is no time to kid around, Whitehorse! Our careers are ruined. We’ve made a huge mess of this whole operation. And it was my first. They’ll probably send me and my son to Equatorial Guinea after this!” She put her head down again and sobbed.

  Whitehorse walked around the table and pulled her up so that she was standing facing him. He put his arm around her and held her close. She put her arms around his neck and cried quietly, burying her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

  “It’s gonna be alright, my love. We’ll make it through this together.”

  She stopped crying and lifter her head. “What did you say?”

  “We’ll make it through this together,” he said with an infectious smile. She pushed back so that she could look up into his eyes.

  “What do you have up your sleeve, you devil?” she said narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to the left.

  “Why don’t you have me over for dinner sometime this week? Maybe when things settle down a little.” He raised his eyebrows, leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, barely a kiss. Then he walked her toward his office.

  “I’ve got to start working on my after action report. Why don’t you go home and see your son? You’ve been on c
onstant duty for, what, four days?”

  Monday, July 29

  2030

  Santa Barbara Apartments

  Bogotá

  “That steak was wonderful. Where did you find a Colombian that would cut meat into a New York strip?” Whitehorse said as he pushed back from the table. The Colombians cut their steaks much differently than US butchers, and occasionally expats wanted a real US steak.

  “A girl should learn something about Bogotá after living here eleven years.” She smiled knowing that she had pleased him.

  It’s nice having him here in my apartment, on my turf, she thought. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a man to take care of again? For the thousandth time she wondered how tonight was going to turn out. Usually when a woman cooked for a man, it meant that she was ready for a more intimate relationship.

  She didn’t know if she was ready to sleep with Whitehorse, but she knew that she wanted to cook for him. What is the connection between cooking and sex? she wondered. And if I didn’t plan on sleeping with him, why did I get Phil Junior to spend the night at a friend’s house?

  “Ready for desert?” She got up and moved toward the refrigerator.

  “No ma’am! I am busting out of my jeans as it is.”

  “No, you’re not. You look great.”

  “It’s amazing what twelve hours of sleep will do for you.”

  “Coffee, then?”

  “No, mi amor. Come and sit with me on the couch. We need to talk.”

  She had a bad feeling about this. What was he going to tell her? Is this where she would find out where the Agency was going to send her and Phil Junior? She had hoped against hope that Whitehorse could see that she had fallen for him, but he looked like he was all business now.

  The fallout from the operation had not started yet, but it would. The last three days had been spent tying up loose ends, writing reports, and assessing the future of the FARC, the emasculated Colombian military, and Arauca. Several FARC had been captured and were even now undergoing interrogation. The house in Finca Rio Rojo had yielded code books, contact names in the Chinese and Venezuelan military, and names of FARC agents in several Colombian government agencies. These items, too sensitive to broadcast, had been sent in the diplomatic pouch to Washington on an Air Force C-17.