by Tripp Ellis
23
The makeshift bunker was stocked with food, water, and valuables the farmer didn’t want the guerillas absconding with. In the corner there was an air vent that served as a makeshift periscope. There was a mirror placed in the elbow joint, and another mirror above which reflected the yard and the house. From the outside, the vent/periscope looked like the downspout from a gutter. It wouldn’t draw attention unless closely scrutinized. It didn’t pan from left to right. It just offered a static view, but it’s not like I was trying to sink German U-boats.
I watched as the guerillas stormed into the yard, fanning out. They carried AK-47s and wore jungle camouflage and rain ponchos. I counted eight soldiers—mostly men, a few women, and one kid that couldn’t have been more than 15.
A group of soldiers moved to the front door, while two others moved toward the barn. The rest spread out around the property. The soldiers knocked on the front door, standing under the awning.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and rain poured down. The occasional bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.
The barn door creaked open, and the footsteps of the guerillas pattered about the barn. Their dull, muffled voices echoed above me. They rummaged through the stalls and searched the premises. I heard one lift the lid to the trunk.
My heart pounded in my throat. I clutched my pistol, ready to blast.
A moment later, the soldier closed the lid and moved on.
A relieved breath escaped my lips, and I exchanged a wary glance with Frankie and Dragonfly.
The farmer pulled open the door, and the soldiers harassed him at gunpoint. They shouted at him, asking about survivors from the helicopter crash.
"I saw trespassers earlier, but I ran them off," the farmer said.
"How long ago?" the squad leader asked.
The farmer shrugged. "Maybe an hour?"
"How many were there? What did they look like?"
"Two, maybe three men."
"Which direction did they go?"
"North.”
The squad leader wasn't satisfied.
He pushed inside the home, and several more goons followed behind him. They ransacked the place, searching every nook and cranny. They overturned tables, pulled apart mattresses, and just for good measure, pulled plates out of the cupboards and smashed them on the tile floor. Pots clattered and clanked. Ceramic shattered.
The farmer's wife shrieked at the destruction.
One of the soldiers grabbed her and put a gun to her head. He pressed the barrel of his pistol against her temple.
I could barely see what was happening through a window. My blood boiled. I felt helpless hiding in the bunker. I wanted to fill the scumbags full of holes, but there were too many of them to confront head on.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," the squad leader growled. "Where are they?"
"I told you. They went north.” The farmer’s voice trembled with fear. "Please, take anything you want. Leave my family unharmed."
The two soldiers that were in the barn moved across the yard to the house. They stepped inside and one reported, “There's no one here."
The squad leader nodded to the soldier who had the pistol against the woman's head. He pulled the weapon away and holstered it.
Satisfied the farmer wasn’t harboring any fugitives, the squad leader, and the goons, filed out of the home. They disappeared into the jungle, heading north.
The sobs of the farmer's wife filled the air.
I exhaled a relieved breath. The farmer had risked everything to conceal us. We were complete strangers. I was in awe of his resolve. He could have easily ratted us out. It was a favor I wouldn’t soon forget.
We stayed in the hideout for a long while just in case the guerillas circled back around.
When the rain settled, the farmer made his way to the barn and lifted the lid on the trunk. He pulled out the tools and opened the false bottom. A shaft of dim light spilled into the bunker as he hovered above the entrance. “It is safe now.”
"Thank you," I said.
"Why don’t you come inside? The guerillas ruined our dinner. My wife had been cooking all day. She’s preparing another quick meal. I'm sure you are hungry and thirsty."
I nodded.
I was hesitant to leave the bunker. The squad of guerrillas could return at any moment. But the idea of staying in the cramped damp space for the entire night wasn’t appealing. Rainwater had seeped into the space, turning it into a mucky slosh pit.
We climbed out of the bunker and followed the farmer across the yard to the home. The man told me his name was Mateo, and he introduced us to his wife, Gabriela, and his daughter, Natalia. An optimistic smile curled on Mateo’s face. He boasted to his wife, "These people are here to fight the rebels!"
His wife wasn't so optimistic. "What can three people do against an army?”
"They are from the United States. They bring aid to Santiago."
A look of revulsion twisted on Gabriela’s face. "That man is a criminal."
"He will take on the FRP," Mateo said.
"So, we exchange one tyrant for another?” Gabriela replied.
24
I helped Gabriela collect the large fragments of broken plates from the floor. She had a pensive look on her face, and it was easy to see our presence made her uncomfortable. She was cold, standoffish, and didn’t smile. She avoided eye contact, and only spoke when necessary, and even then, it was curt.
I couldn’t blame her. There was no telling what the guerillas would do to them if they found us here.
The home was modest, but well-kept. There were cream-colored stucco walls, and reddish-orange ceramic tiles on the floor. The trim was accented in red. The single-story building had a kitchen, dining area, living area, and three bedrooms.
After all the shards were swept up, and the mattresses put back in place, we helped Gabriela in the kitchen. She prepared a simple meal of rice, beans, pork, and arepas.
Mateo’s daughter, Natalia, was shy at first. She kept her distance. But curiosity seemed to get the best of her. Frankie smiled and told the little girl how adorable she was.
Natalia smiled back. “I like your hair.”
A look of surprise washed over Frankie’s face. “Why, thank you! I think you are my new best friend.”
Natalia giggled.
Frankie glanced my way. I flashed her a smug smile, proud of my salon skills.
We gathered around the table and dished up. I inhaled the meal, trying not to be too much of a pig about it. It tasted delicious. I filled my belly and rehydrated with several glasses of water.
You know the meal is good when everyone gets quiet.
“This is very kind of you,” I said. “I know what a risk this is to your family.”
“I think it’s best if you leave after the meal,” Gabriela said. She didn’t mince any words.
Mateo protested. “No. They can stay. We can’t kick our guests out in the middle of the night like this. We have a spare bedroom, and the couch in the living room is comfortable.” Then he muttered, “Don’t ask me how I know.”
Gabriela shot him a look that said keep talking and you’ll find yourself on the couch again.
“I’d prefer to stay,” Dragonfly said. “The jungle can be very dangerous at night. The guerrillas move in small units. There are certainly more of them out there than what we’ve seen.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “We’ve already imposed on your hospitality more than enough.”
Gabriela seemed relieved to hear that.
Dragonfly frowned.
“How far is Santiago’s compound from here?” I asked.
“Not far,” Gabriela said. “Five, maybe six miles.”
They would be hard miles in the mountainous terrain.
Gabriela told me how we could get to Santiago’s compound. There was a dirt road that twisted through the mountains, but she cautioned to stay away from it. The rebels would often harass vehicles, confiscating goods. “They have been kn
own to kidnap gringos who are foolish enough to come this way.”
I smiled and thanked her for the advice.
“What exactly are you bringing to Santiago?” Gabriela asked.
“I wish I could tell you,” I said.
“How can you possibly help? Whatever is in the briefcase, it won’t be enough.”
“I’m just an errand boy,” I said.
Her eyes seethed with rage. “In a few days, this will all be over for you. You will have completed your mission, but we will still be here. And we will have to live with the ramifications of your actions.”
I didn’t know what to say to her. I didn’t know if we were helping or hurting the situation. It wasn’t black-and-white. These kinds of things never are.
“Gabriela, please,” Mateo said. “These are our guests. They are trying to help.”
She bit her tongue and pushed away from the table. She took her plate to the sink and rinsed it off.
The tension in the room was thick.
“I must apologize for my wife,” Mateo said.
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “She has every right to be upset. I hope we can make your situation better. But there are no guarantees.” I paused. “I think it’s time for us to be going.”
I stood up, took my plate, and moved into the kitchen. I asked Gabriela if I could give her a hand with the dishes.
“No, thank you. I’ll take care of everything.” She wanted us out of the house as fast as possible.
I thanked Mateo again for his hospitality. We shook hands, and a beaming smile flashed on his face. “God bless you, my friend.”
“And you,” I said.
Frankie hugged Natalia and told her goodbye. The little girl seemed sad to see us go. I don’t think they got many visitors.
We left the house and slipped into the jungle, heading southwest. With any luck, we’d seen the last of the guerillas.
25
The rain had stopped, but there was still a heavy blanket of cloud cover. Without the moon and stars, the jungle was pitch black. We inched through the underbrush, single file, wary of every step. I took point, and Dragonfly brought up the rear.
"I think this is a bad idea," Dragonfly said, swatting a mosquito that drilled into his neck. “I won’t have any blood left by morning.”
Mosquitoes constantly buzzed around my ears, making a meal of us.
"What's the codename Dragonfly about?" I asked.
"My daughter loved dragonflies. I have one tattooed on my chest. You want to see?"
"I'll take your word for it," I said.
"You said loved… Did something happen to your daughter?" Frankie asked, hesitantly.
Dragonfly was silent for a long moment. "She was killed, along with my wife, in a bombing in Medellín carried out by guerrillas."
"I'm sorry," Frankie said. "That's terrible."
I felt hollow after hearing the story.
"It's been difficult," Dragonfly said. "At first, I felt I had no reason to go on. Somehow I made it through the dark time and committed myself to making sure something like that would never happen again. For a time, I thought we had achieved peace. But I realize that is no longer a reality. The FRP are just as ruthless and cunning as their predecessors. I fear that my country will not have the peace it deserves for quite some time to come."
I heard a twig snap in the distance, and I raised my hand and made a fist. We all stopped and crouched down. Voices in the distance filtered through the jungle. We scampered to take cover behind a clump of trees.
FRP guerrillas marched toward us down the trail. I could barely make out their silhouettes as they approached.
I snatched my pistol from its holster and flicked the safety off. The sound of my heartbeat filled my ears.
The voices grew louder.
They would be right on top of us in a matter of moments. From what I could tell, it was a small squad of guerrillas—8 to 10 soldiers. My hope was that they would stroll right past us without seeing us. But if we waited until they were on top of us to engage, we’d get shredded to pieces. It was a tough call, and the decision bounced around in my brain. Do I fire now while we have the element of surprise? Or do I wait, and hope against hope we go unnoticed?
Somebody else made the choice for me.
Dragonfly squeezed the trigger. Muzzle flash flared from the end of the barrel, and the sharp smell of gunpowder filled my nose. The deafening bang rang my ears.
The shit was on.
I took aim at the silhouettes down the trail, and the pistol hammered against my palm as I squeezed the trigger.
Bullets snapped through the air in all directions.
I crouched low behind a tree and kept firing.
The dak, dak, dak of the AK-47s echoed through the night.
We had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
Muzzle flash lit up the night like fireflies in a field.
The guerillas spread out, attempting to flank us.
I kept firing at the shadowy figures. I heard the report, followed by the dull thud of an impact against flesh. At least one of my bullets connected. Groans of agony filled the night. The screams of a wounded man echoed across the mountainside.
This was close combat.
Too close.
25 yards separated us.
Frankie concentrated on the group moving toward our left flank. Dragonfly focused on the right.
They had fully automatic AK-47s, firing 7.62mm full metal jackets. We had semi-automatic pistols firing 9mm hollow points.
We were seriously outgunned.
Wood splintered, and bark showered as the bullets minced the surrounding trees. Leaves fluttered, and the air grew thick with the haze of combat.
"Fall back," I commanded.
Frankie gave me a skeptical glance.
"Fall back. We can't hold them off forever."
I kept firing as Frankie sprang to her feet and withdrew.
You can fall back, withdraw, take a precautionary defensive maneuver, conduct retrograde operations, re-consolidate your position—but you never retreat.
Frankie ran through the trees as bullets snapped around her. She dove to the ground and took cover behind another tree trunk while I kept firing at the guerillas.
Dragonfly did the same.
Now it was their turn. They laid down a steady stream of bullets while I fell back 20 yards. The plan was to leapfrog like this, holding the guerillas off as long as we could.
I sprinted back while bullets zipped through the air around me. The ground around my feet erupted with geysers of dirt. I dove for cover and rolled behind a thick tree.
My finger pressed the mag release button and dropped the magazine. I jammed another one into the well, racked the slide, and continued firing.
It wouldn't take long before I was out of ammunition.
I glanced around and noticed Dragonfly was gone.
My first thought was that he had been hit. My eyes scanned the ground, but I didn't see his body. Confusion twisted on my face.
"He's gone," Frankie said. “He just kept running.”
I grimaced and cursed him under my breath.
26
We kept leapfrogging, withdrawing through the jungle until the inevitable moment came when we both ran out of ammunition.
Call it whatever you want, but we ran like hell, zigzagging through the trees.
Bullets continued to streak through the air, smacking into tree trunks, pelting the ground, rustling leaves.
The uneven ground was difficult to traverse at night. Each step risked a twisted ankle, or a landmine.
The horde of angry rebels chased after us, crunching across leaves, snapping twigs, plowing through the underbrush.
My heart pounded, my chest heaved for breath. My quads burned as we descended an incline. I hated running away from a fight, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
The incline was steep, and I tried not to face plant as we descended the slope. The hillside was slick and soft
from the rain. The incessant rumbling of the goons behind us drew ever closer. We had gotten a head start on them before they realized we were in full run like hell mode.
We splashed across a small creek, then climbed our way up the other side.
The goons opened fire at us as they reached the bank.
We took cover in the trees and continued crawling up the opposite slope. We scampered up the hill to the ridge and were greeted by the angry barrels of AK-47s—a second platoon of rebels surrounded us.
We raised our hands in the air, and I forced a disarming smile. “Buenas noches.”
My charm didn’t work.
The only reason they didn’t shoot us on sight is because we were way more valuable to them alive. They knew someone in the United States would pay a handsome fee for our return.
I didn’t share their optimism.
There would be no ransom. No acknowledgement of our activities. We were on our own, and would likely rot in this jungle.
The platoon leader surveyed his new prize. He wore jungle fatigues, a red bandanna around his neck, and a green beret with the FRP logo embroidered on it. He was in his late 30s with a square jaw, a few days of stubble, and hard eyes.
The rebels’ gear looked brand new. Target-Tek™ advanced combat optical scopes on their rifles. One of the rebels even wore a camouflaged hat with a luxury logo on the front. It seemed slightly ironic that a guerrilla group would wear the symbol of an exclusive brand.
The group was well financed.
“What are you doing in my jungle?" the platoon leader asked.
“We are lost,” I replied in Spanish. "If you could show us to the nearest highway, we’d greatly appreciate it."
He chuckled.
It was a forced, ominous chuckle that echoed through the jungle.
Then his platoon followed suit.
"I don't think you are lost, my friend," he said.
"Honestly, I have no idea where we are."
"You are in deep shit. That is where you are."
There were more laughs.