by Eric Meyer
“It won’t be something, Bremmer. It’ll be a disaster.”
“For you, maybe, but a lot of folks will see another white boy get topped. Make a change from black boys being taken down by redneck cops in L.A.”
Nolan could feel Gracia listening on with incredulity. He felt his anger rise until he could not stop himself.
“Bremmer, you bastard, this is one of our own people! He’s a Seal, for Christ’s sake. This isn’t your stupid fucking black on white crusade. You’re talking about your shipmate, and you’re making yourself sound like a damned traitor!”
“A traitor! The fuck you say, Chief. I broke my back to get into this unit, and I’ve shed blood on operations in the Gulf before I even signed up for Seal training. I ain’t no traitor. You should watch what you say, whitey. What are you accusing me of here? Are you the Navy version of the KKK? It ain’t my fault that foolish old man came on this mission and got in everyone’s way. He got caught, and it could have been all of our lives on the line to try and get him back. It’s only fucking luck that we can’t get in there and do that job. I know he’s one of ours, but he’s no business being here. No black boy would have been so stupid. What, are you going to do, hang me from a tree?”
“Cut it out!”
Talley’s voice was like a pail of cold water tossed on the heated coals of their disagreement. Bremmer had finally exploded, and despite his incredible racist and ghoulish rant about the Admiral, there was some logic to what he’d said. Jacks had no business coming on the operation, and his capture had the potential to seriously embarrass America and put many lives at risk. But still, he was a Seal, and Seals had no business talking like that about their comrades.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Bremmer. There was a reason the Admiral came on this mission, and it’s one that no one is supposed to know. Drew Jacks has spent his life fighting for the Navy Seals, both on foreign battlefields and home in the US, defending us against those who would do America harm. Black and white!” he snapped at Bremmer, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.
“You don’t get it,” Bremmer replied angrily.
“No, you don’t get it. For once, shut up and listen!”
Bremmer closed his mouth, surprised by the Lieutenant’s tone. Talley was known to be Mr. Cool, and nothing ever fazed him. Except now, Bremmer had managed it.
“Admiral Jacks is the single most knowledgeable officer in the whole of the US where South America is concerned, and trafficking in particular. The President asked him to do this,” he looked significantly at Bremmer. “Yes, your Commander in Chief. He’s angry at the increase in drug related violence, north and south of the Rio Grande. And he asked Jacks to look for permanent solutions to the problem, whilst we were engaged in taking down the Salazar empire. Normally you’re right. A senior officer wouldn’t come on this type of operation. This was a one off. And there’s a second thing. The man had cancer, and he only has months to live. He wanted to do this, to sacrifice if necessary his last few days and weeks, to do something for his country. When the President found out, he wouldn’t go along with it, but Jacks persuaded him. So you take your pick, Bremmer, for an officer in your service, for your Commander in Chief, and for your country. Which of those means anything to you? Remember which culture is worst affected by the drug problem. And it isn’t Admiral Jacks’ people.”
Bremmer was already squirming. “Shit, I didn’t know nothing about that, Boss.”
“I couldn’t give a damn what you did and didn’t know, Bremmer. What I value is loyalty to this unit, to the Seals, and to America. And yes, if they go ahead with this execution, it’ll hurt us badly. Other than a suicide mission or saturation bombing, I don’t know how to stop it happening.”
“Perhaps I can help,” Gracia interjected.
The three Seals looked at her closely.
“How?” Talley asked.
“There is a wedding celebration tonight in the Salazar compound, south of Medellin. I have an invitation.”
“You what? How the hell did you get that?”
She looked grim. “I was FARC, remember. They don’t know that I left the movement, and I met with them on occasion to arrange the drug shipments. They sent me and my husband an invitation.”
“You mean they’re planning on this execution on the evening of a wedding party?” Nolan asked incredulously.
She nodded. “It is exactly the kind of thing that would appeal to their cruel nature. They have a younger brother, Vincenzo, who is getting married. It will be his initiation into the management of the business.”
“I don’t understand,” Talley interrupted. “What’s so special about a wedding?”
“It is simple. They do not trust the highest ranks of the organization with men who are not married, even when they are close family. But when a man is married, he will have a wife and children. It means that there are hostages, should the man decide to betray them. They have demonstrated that they are ready to murder wives and children if anyone dares to cross them.”
“Gracia,” Nolan asked. “Your husband, where is he, still with the FARC?”
She laughed. “No, he is dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not be. He was the son of my FARC Commander. I was ordered to marry him, and it was made clear that if I failed to obey that order, I would be in extreme danger. Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t such a bad person, not at first. I thought I could handle being married to him. But the Commander, his father, is something of a psychopath. I afterwards found out the son was starting to go down the same road. He had already started to beat me, and then he was killed.”
“By the Colombian Army?”
She smiled. “No, by one of his squad leaders. He had been screwing with this man’s wife. Colombian men have a possessive nature where their women are concerned, and this one put a knife in my husband Pepe’s throat. It was a release, and believe me, I was not sorry he was dead.”
They were silent for a few moments, contemplating the brutal conditions that she must have lived under. Finally, Talley prompted her for a location.
“They have a ranch on the outskirts of El Santuario, about forty miles to the south east of here.”
“Is there any chance we could make a direct assault on his ranch without being seen?”
She laughed. “After last night’s battle, every Salazar supporter will be on full alert. The second we move out of Bello, they will track us, no matter how silently we travel. I can assure you, the whole countryside will be looking out for strangers. The second they see you moving towards El Santuario, it is likely they will kill the Admiral.”
“It’s what we’re trained for, Ma’am. Silent assaults are our business,” Talley said quietly.
“And protecting their interests is their business,” she replied. “Believe me, if we try to head in the direction of El Santuario, we would not even get out of town without the Salazars being told. They have been hurt badly by your attacks on their facilities in Medellin and in Copacabana. They will have thousands of local people watching to make sure that they are not surprised again tonight. This will be their revenge on America for making them look such fools, and a way to demonstrate to the people that they are still powerful. If they were hit again tonight, all it would show is that they have lost their strength, and the other families would set on them like packs of wolves. They will not allow that to happen.”
“I see. I’ll need to think about what you’ve told us,” Talley said. “I suspect we may need another platoon to make a HAHO drop on that ranch.”
“What is HAHO?” she asked him.
Talley explained the fine art of high altitude, high opening parachute entry. “Its benefit is to allow our men to jump a long way away from the target at a great height, so they’ll be undetected. They just glide in, steering their parachutes and using GPS technology to navigate to the LZ.”
She nodded. “I understand, but you should know that their ranch is protected by anti-aircraft
missiles and machine guns. They also have constant communication with their people in Colombian air traffic control, and every aircraft that crosses the Colombian borders, and heading in the direction of Medellin, will be known to them. Even if your men do arrive undetected, they will find maybe five hundred fighters around the ranch, and all of them heavily armed. The second a shot is fired, they will execute your Admiral.”
Talley was silenced by the enormity of the odds stacked against a new attack.
“What was your idea?” Talley prompted her.
“I thought to accept the invitation to the wedding and go with my husband. Once inside the ranch, it may be possible to find the Admiral and free him.”
“But your husband is dead.”
She grinned at Nolan. “But you are not dead, Chief Nolan. And you speak perfect Latin American Spanish.”
“But I’m not Hispanic.”
“I could make you look more Colombian than he was, if necessary.”
“It may be the only way, Chief,” Talley urged. “If you can get inside that place, you could secure the Admiral, and maybe give us time to launch a full scale rescue attempt from the outside. If you’ll light up the targets, we can call up a lot of ordnance, so you wouldn’t be on your own.”
“What kind of ordnance?” Nolan asked suspiciously. “UAVs may not be enough for that kind of close in fighting.”
“I was thinking along the lines of those AC-130 Spookys the Air Force is tanking off the coast. There are two of them keeping station. That’s a powerful piece of ground support, once they know what they’re supposed to shoot at.”
Nolan thought of the awesome power of the mighty Lockheed gunships. Fitted with the General Dynamics GAU-12 Equalizer, a five-barrel twenty-five millimeter Gatling-type rotary cannon, they were able to bring immense firepower to distant battlefields. The Equalizer was operated by an electric motor, and with a fire rate limited to 1,800 rounds to reduce barrel wear and overheating problems. The one-inch caliber, six-inch long mm cannon rounds had a range of two miles.
“That could certainly swing it,” Nolan said thoughtfully. “But it’ll depend on me getting in there with a Laser Target Designator, the LTD.”
“I promise you I will get you in there,” Gracia said.
“With the laser targeting equipment, and my weapons?”
“How large is this laser equipment?”
“About the size of a VCR.”
She was thoughtful for a few moments. “I have an idea for the LTD. But weapons, I think not. You can carry a weapon to the wedding, most men in this region do. But we will certainly be searched and any weapons locked away. They will not allow armed men to walk around, and that is certain. But the laser, yes, I can get that in. There will be many guards, all of them armed. I suggest you take what weapons you need from these people.”
“Okay, we’ll do it. How are we going to arrange this?”
An hour later, Nolan was regretting his decision. His hair had been dyed jet black and chopped into a conventional Latino style. Jorge had found him clothes more suitable for a wedding than his dark camo gear and body armor. Now he wore high waist pants, a tight jacket, and a white shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel.
“I feel like a Mariachi singer,” he complained to Gracia. “Won’t they be suspicious?”
“No, Chief Nolan, men around here vary widely. Some will wear New York fashions, others traditional Colombian clothes, and this is very suitable for a wedding, believe me. But you must take that shirt back off, I have something I need to do.”
“What? Tell me, what gives?”
“Just take it off and stop arguing.”
She proceeded to carefully apply make-up, a dark foundation to his skin. Finally, she styled his hair with oil, to make it slick straight back from the front. He checked himself in the mirror and couldn’t make up his mind whether to laugh or choke. He looked like the kind of South American popularly seen in films. What North Americans would call a ‘Spic’, and with all of its negative connotations.
“It is good,” Gracia commented. “But you must remember, you are Pepe Montez, my husband, and currently a Commander in the FARC. If you act macho, you’ll be able to block any questions. FARC don’t discuss themselves for security reasons.”
“They don’t?”
She laughed. “They’re as much talkers as anyone else. But it sounds tough and mysterious. That’s all you have to do if you’re asked any awkward questions. You’re the strong, silent type.”
“Yeah, I’ve got that.”
Talley was listening. “Hell, we could do with someone like Gracia in the unit. She sure knows how to get our Chief Petty Officer to play ball.”
She gave him a grin. “It is a woman thing, Lieutenant. As long as Chief Nolan plays the part of my husband, he will be accepted as a Colombian.” She turned to Nolan, with a fierce look. “That means you’ll need to be all tough and protective of your woman. Lots of contact, kisses, you need to make it convincing.”
“Hell, I’m not sure we should be paying you for this, Chief. It sounds more like pleasure than work.”
Nolan flushed with embarrassment. The trouble was Talley wasn’t far wide of the mark. He found himself looking forward to the closeness with this exotic and fascinating woman. Except that she could get hurt if things went badly, and that was something he vowed to work hard to avoid.
“How are we gonna get there?” he asked, to change the subject.
“Jorge has a vehicle he will lend us,” Gracia explained. “It is a UAZ-469, an SUV vehicle manufactured by UAZ in Russia. The UAZ can drive in virtually any terrain and is very easy to fix, so they are popular with paramilitary groups like the FARC. Some fell into private hands, abandoned or sold off. Jorge told me he'd won his in a card game.”
“As long as it gets us there,” Nolan replied.
Just then they heard the sound of an engine running, and the UAZ nosed out of the workshop and into the courtyard. It was an ugly, angular vehicle, with little of the charm of the American equivalent, the Willys. The canvas top was split in places and repaired with duct tape, but the engine sounded smooth enough, and there was only a little white smoke from the exhaust. The door opened and Jorge climbed out.
“I’ve checked it all over, filled her with gas, and topped off the oil. Tires are all good, so you shouldn’t have any problems.”
“And even more important,” Gracia added, “it’s recognizable as a FARC vehicle. It’ll suit out identities.”
“And if someone is there who knows the real Pepe is dead?”
She lifted the hem of her skirt. Strapped to her leg was a slim stiletto. “Then I will kill him.”
Talley handed them the Laser Target Designator. “How are you going to disguise something like this? It’s obvious it’s a piece of military hardware.”
Gracia took it. “I need five minutes and you will see.”
She went into Jorge’s home and emerged a few minutes later carrying a beautifully wrapped wedding present, of the shape and size of a Laser Target Designator. Both men nodded approvingly.
“You’re hooked up to the commo?” Talley asked anxiously.
“No can do,” Nolan replied. “When they search me, it would be an immediate giveaway.”
“I will carry your communications equipment,” Gracia offered.
Nolan gave her a worried look. “How can you do that without them finding it?”
“Don’t worry. They will not look where I will hide it.”
He felt an erotic thrill at the thought of this beautiful creature carrying his equipment in some intimate part of her body. He didn’t ask exactly where, but just speculating about it was enough to get him thinking thoughts that bore no relation to the mission.
“You’d better get moving,” Talley brought him out of his reverie, probably deliberately. He could hardly have failed to notice how his Chief was enthralled with Gracia. Nolan nodded.
“Yeah, we’ll get on the road. As soon as we arrive, and I can
get the commo fitted up, I’ll, er, shit, what was I saying? Oh yeah, I’ll call in.”
“You sure you don’t need a cold shower, Chief? It’s pretty hot out here,” Talley smiled.
Nolan turned away so that his platoon leader couldn’t see his face glowing red. They climbed into the jeep and drove out of the courtyard.
“Remember who you are,” Gracia leaned over and shouted over the noise of the engine, which sounded like something ripped out of a tractor.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’re a Colombian, a FARC commander, and a real lady’s man. So make sure you drive that way. No one gets past you, and keep your foot pressed down on the gas as much as possible. Anyone gets in your way, blast the horn, and make sure they jump.”
Nolan pressed the horn button. “It doesn’t work.”
She sighed. “You’ll need to improvise.”
They roared on along the main highway that ran east from Medellin and Bello. Eventually, Gracia pointed out a right turn onto a narrow track that headed south. They hit the first checkpoint after five miles. A truck was parked across the track, and four men with AK-47 assault rifles stood nearby. They drew to a stop, and one of the men came to the window.
“What is your business?”
Nolan scowled at him. “My business is my business. Get that truck out of my way.”
The man returned the scowl. “If you have business on this road, you must tell me. Otherwise, turn back.”
“My business is FARC business, nothing to do with you.”
The man paled slightly. “I’m sorry, Senor. We have no quarrel with the FARC. Are you going to the wedding?”
Nolan gestured at Gracia. “Show this imbecile the invitations.”
“Hey, who the fuck are you calling an imbecile?”
Nolan climbed down, slowly, from the SUV and stood six inches from the man’s face. “You, imbecile, check the invitations, and get that piece of shit truck out of my way!”