by Ross Sidor
Agent John Tyson ran his hands over his body looking for holes and signaled to Layton with an upright thumb that he wasn’t hit.
Weaver shouted into the satellite phone with one finger plugged into his opposite ear.
Agent Dan Foster lay on his back with one bullet through his side, barely missing the liver, and that wasn’t the worst of it. He was bleeding out through a femoral artery nicked by a small but hot, razor sharp piece of shrapnel. Tyson was a former navy corpsman, and he did what he could for Foster, but options were limited since he didn’t carry a full med kit. He applied a makeshift tourniquet, applied QuickClot sponges, and elevated the leg.
Layton next looked to Sean Nolan, who stood in the corner, leaning against the wall. Layton’s eyes locked onto him and bore in on him like a shark.
“What the fuck is going on?” he shouted at Nolan, nearly pushing Weaver out of the way to get to the Irishman.
Four feet away, Harris fired two bursts through the window from his MP7 to hold back the approaching attackers. He took careful, aimed shots. Each man carried only two or three additional magazines for his MP7.
“You think I fucking know?” Nolan shouted back at Layton as the DEA agent grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him close. “I had nothing to do with this. If I knew you fuckers were coming, you think I’d sit around in fucking bed all bloody morning waiting? Do you know who those guys out there are?”
Layton stared him down and said nothing.
“They’re La Empresa. They’re cold blooded killers, fucking animals. I wouldn’t trust them to save my ass.”
Nolan saw the rage burning in the American agent’s eyes, and the grip tightened on his shirt.
Layton released Nolan, took a couple steps back, and raised his MP7 one handed, pointing it at Nolan from five feet away. Layton required every bit of will power he possessed not to pull the trigger right then and there. He lowered the subgun when he felt a hand on his shoulder and Tyson’s voice in his ear say, “Ease up, boss. We need this asshole alive, or this was all for nothing. You’re hit. Let’s take a look at it.”
Then Layton became aware for the first time of the pain in his right arm and in his left thigh. With Tyson’s assistance, he applied QuickClot sponges to stem the bleeding, plus disinfectant and bandages. It was only a temporary fix, but the next few minutes would determine if they lived or died, so Layton brushed off the medical attention and told Tyson to focus on Foster.
“We need to get Dan out of here ASAP,” Tyson said. His best efforts did little to slow down the blood pouring out of Foster’s leg like a spigot.
Layton helped Weaver drag a large, heavy couch across the foyer and set it against the door.
Bullet strikes continued to sound against the building. The attackers directed their fire at the windows, spraying glass through the foyer. The bullets hammered the internal walls, but their reach was limited, and the Americans were clear of the incoming fire.
The agents kept their MP7s trained on the windows. It was a vulnerable spot, but it was better than being caught on the street, in the open. They’d have the slightest tactical advantage if the attackers outside attempted entry through the windows.
The gunfire gradually tapered off, and it became quiet.
Layton expected that the Empresa shooters were now coordinating their plan of attack. He wasn’t certain of their motivation—if they were here to free or silence Nolan, or simply to ambush and slaughter Americans—but there was no doubt in his mind that they’d soon breach the building. They had the numbers and the firepower. All they had to do was launch a couple attacks to force the Americans to expend their ammo, and then they could come in by force.
“Just what the hell are we going to do with him?” Weaver asked Layton, cocking his head to indicate Nolan. “We can’t arrest him. We don’t have jurisdiction.”
“You think I’m going to fucking let him go now? We’ll worry about it when this over. Until then, consider him in our protective custody.”
___
They listened to Weaver’s call in the ops room at Gerardo Tobar López Airport. Everyone immediately reached for their own cell phones to call their respective superiors.
“The nearest FAST team is in Bogotá, on a training exercise,” Slayton said, shaking his head, a minute later. “They’ll never make it in time.”
“Police and army units in Buenaventura are at this moment responding to another unfolding crisis,” Daniel reported. “Government buildings in the city have come under mortar fire this morning, shortly before the operation to arrest Nolan. The army won’t be in position to launch a rescue mission for at least thirty minutes.”
“Layton’s men don’t have that long,” Avery said, but no one seemed to hear him.
Rangel ended a call on his cell and re-joined the others. “That was the ambassador. Our defense attaché is going to coordinate with the Colombian defense ministry, and the ambassador is getting on the phone right now with Washington.”
“Will they authorize a rescue mission?” Avery asked. “We’ve got plenty of troops in-country.”
“They prefer to allow the Colombians to handle this matter.”
Although Avery’s face was calm and measured, inside he felt anything but.
Weaver’s call replayed in his mind, the gunfire and the sound of burning fires in the background, Layton’s voice shouting orders. Unlike Rangel or anyone else in the room, Avery had the combat experience to clearly visualize what was taking place thirty-six miles away, and the flashbacks became clear in his mind with vivid intensity.
In Afghanistan, with 75th Rangers, Avery had been part of a quick reaction force. There were times when an army convoy or an FOB came under heavy attack, and Avery’s chalk ran to the choppers and arrived on target too late, finding a lot of dead and wounded soldiers. They’d done a lot of a good, but it was always the men they couldn’t save that stayed with Avery. He knew their deaths weren’t his fault and that he shouldn’t punish himself over it, but it was a strong motivator to drive him and push him harder the next time friendlies came under fire and needed back up.
As much of a loner by nature as he was, he never abandoned men in the field.
And after Medellin, Avery found himself now especially determined to make sure lives weren’t arbitrarily lost. After Medellin, he also didn’t care if he caught a fatal bullet out there. The only thing that mattered was bringing Layton’s agents home.
“I’ll go.”
Avery glanced at Aguilar, who knew exactly what Avery was thinking, and the Colombian soldier nodded his affirmation.
“Alone?” Culler asked.
“I’ll go with Felix’s troops. We’ll take the Blackhawks.”
There were two, belonging to the US Army, at the airport, detailed to provide support for DEA operations.
Avery checked the time.
“If we leave now, we can be on target in eighteen minutes. That’s better than anyone else can offer. By the time the Colombian army is ready to get something going, it’ll be too late.”
But Rangel shook his head.
“No way!” he said. “We have no idea of the size or disposition of enemy forces, but we know they’re well armed. They’ve got rocket launchers for Christ’s sake. The ambassador will not permit a Blackhawk Down scenario under his watch. We wait for the Colombian army to put a rescue op together. That’s final.”
“There won’t be anyone left to rescue by then! No Blackhawk Downs, but the ambassador’s okay with another Benghazi?”
Avery personally knew one of the ex-navy SEALs killed defending the US consulate and CIA base in Libya. If National Command Authority—POTUS and SECDEF—hadn’t been willing to deploy troops in Libya to rescue an American ambassador and his security detail, Avery knew they sure as hell wouldn’t come to the aid of DEA agents in Colombia.
“I’ve heard enough of this bullshit,” he said. “Felix, get your men kitted up. We’re going in.”
“Roger that.”
Ag
uilar was already on his way out, shouting orders into his cell phone.
Rangel positioned himself in front of Avery, blocking his exit. “Like hell you are. You’re staying right here.”
Avery looked Rangel right in the eye. His right hand rested on the Glock holstered at his side. “You think you can stop me, then do it now and get it over with.”
Rangel’s hand went for his cell phone. “You’re way out of line. I’ll call the ambassador right now, and you’ll be finished.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Avery stepped past Rangel, who kept his eyes on Avery’s back and shouted to Culler, “Matt! Are you going to do something about this?”
But Culler didn’t respond.
He was nowhere to be scene. He’d left over a minute ago to tell the army pilots to ready their choppers.
___
Five minutes later, Avery and Aguilar’s squad of Special Forces soldiers—Diego, Miguel, and Alex—crossed the open tarmac toward two waiting helicopters. With engines powered up and whining, the choppers’ blades spun around, slicing through air and kicking up a cloud of dirt and grit.
These Blackhawks were upgraded MH-60K variants with improved blade design, more powerful engines, FLIR capability, internal auxiliary fuel tanks filled to capacity, and additional avionics and computer systems. They were armed with side-mounted M134 7.63mm mini-guns capable of firing 2,000 rounds per minute.
Avery had slipped his ModGear vest over his wrinkled t-shirt, with his M4 rifle fastened diagonally across the front of the vest. He carried five spare magazines, three in the pouches on his vest, two in the pockets of his cargo pants. His Glock was nestled inside a holster strapped around his right thigh, along with two spare magazines in the holster’s mag cases. A pair of M84 flashbang stun grenades was clipped to his vest. He wore a floppy hat, Nomex gloves with removable fingertips, and Adidas GSG-9 boots.
He was going in relatively light, wanting to be able to move quickly on his feet while still equipped to put up a fight. The goal was to overtake the Empresa shooters through speed, surprise, and violence of action. If they became bogged down alongside the DEA agents, then they were already fucked anyway.
Avery counted on making good use of the Blackhawk’s mini-guns to clear the streets before they hit the ground. He just hoped the pilots were on the same page. He hadn’t spoken with them yet. There was a ton of paperwork they needed to file and diplomatic procedures to go through before they flew their birds or conducted ops in a foreign country, especially when it came to rules of engagement.
The Colombians wore a mismatch of civilian clothing and army fatigues under armored vests, web harnesses, jump boots, and hats or bandannas. Three were equipped with Galil assault rifles with under-slung grenade launchers, while Diego, a tall, lean, tattooed Afro-Colombian with a shaved head, carried an IMI Negev NG7 5.56mm light machinegun.
Aguilar’s unit provided the communications for the rescue team. Avery and the Colombian troops were wired with tactical throat mikes and Israeli-manufactured Elbit Systems Ltd encrypted radios programmed to the frequency used by the FAST agents.
Although specializing predominantly in jungle counterinsurgency, Aguilar’s men also attended yearly urban warfare and close quarters battle (CQB) courses run by AFEUR, the Colombian army’s urban counterterrorism and hostage rescue unit modeled on and trained by Delta Force and SAS.
They didn’t have a detailed or choreographed plan of attack put together. There wasn’t time to sit around a tabletop full of satellite photos and maps and put something together, so they’d have to think on their feet. Their first priority was simply to arrive on target as quickly as possible. Every second counted now, and Avery was painfully conscious of the passing time. Upon arrival, they’d make a tactical assessment and decide on a course of action as far as responding to the Empresa shooters and reaching the besieged DEA agents.
The lead pilot, a female US Army major named Toni Warner, jumped down from the open cabin of her Blackhawk as Avery approached. She stepped out from under the rotor wash of the blades and lifted her helmet’s visor.
Terse introductions were made, handshakes exchanged.
“Your people been briefed?” Avery asked.
“We have,” Warner replied, her gaze wavering, “and I should mention that I don’t exactly have proper clearance or rules of engagement from my chain of command to do what you’re asking.”
“You’re assigned temporary duty to this DEA task force. Right now, we have agents under fire, and we have flight clearance from the Colombians.”
Daniel had pulled some strings to arrange for that, much to Rangel’s chagrin.
“Roger that, Carnivore, but you guys don’t look like DEA, and…the thing is this is still way outside of my mission profile.”
Exasperated, unable to tolerate more rear echelon bureaucratic mêlées searching for any reason to justify inaction, Avery started to react, but the pilot sharply cut him off.
“So I’ve sent a message up my chain of command stating that unless otherwise directed, I’m taking my birds up to the Colombian coast to bring out some DEA shooters, and that while going to all possible lengths to avoid enemy contact, I will take whatever action is necessary to defend my aircraft and crew. Unfortunately, I’ve been having radio trouble, so they may have difficult time getting back to me.”
For the first time in over a week, the barest vestige of a smile parted Avery’s lips.
“So I reckon we should be on our way,” Warner said.
They were in the air three minutes later at 08:04.
__
“What do you see out there?” Layton asked Harris, who was crouched low near the building’s front window.
It was quiet now. The shooting had let up a couple minutes ago.
Tyson was positioned at the end of the rear hallway covering the back entrance into the apartment’s ground floor. So far, he’d reported no activity from the attackers on his end, but no one expected that to last—if the Empresa was going to make entry, they’d flank the building. Plus Tyson’s only view into the outside world came through a small, dirty, dusty window. He rested on one knee, his MP7 held at the ready in front of him.
Layton kept inside the foyer, pacing the floor space and the length of the hallway, keeping tabs on all of his men, burning pent-up energy.
Weaver watched over Sean Nolan and Foster in the foyer. Foster, despite the crude tourniquet applied to his left thigh, which he kept elevated above his heart with his leg leaning upright against a chair, continued to rapidly lose blood. Layton talked to Foster, told him to keep his eyes open, trying to keep him awake, but he knew they were losing him.
Nolan sat cross-legged on the floor with his head resting back against the wall. He hadn’t said a word. He appeared bored and disinterested with how events unfolded, confident that he would soon be a free man, or at least transferred into the hands of La Empresa, at which point he could simply buy his freedom.
Weaver was on the Globalstar satellite phone again with the ops room at the airport, struggling to hide his frustration with those who were three dozen miles away and trying to tell his team what to do. Weaver held his MP7 in his right hand and kept his attention focused on Nolan the entire time.
“They’ve got reinforcements coming,” Harris called out. “A van just pulled up. Seven guys getting out. One has an RPG. I count thirteen…no, fourteen tangos total on the street, plus an unknown number on the rooftops; I can’t see too high up from here. A couple of them are standing around smoking joints.”
“Well, at least they don’t seem intent on attacking us at the moment,” Layton observed. And his team didn’t have the firepower or numbers to repel them and make an escape on foot. Not with their wounded. Not in a city where the neighborhoods that weren’t controlled by La Empresa were occupied by Los Urabeños.
“Oh fuck, boss,” Harris’s voice cracked. “The cocksuckers are dragging Rob and Dwight’s bodies into the middle of the street. They’re
pouring a bottle of something over them…Christ; those fucks are lighting them up! I’ve got clear line of fire, boss. I can take them out right now.”
“Negative,” Layton ordered. “Hold your fire, Paul. Conserve ammo. They’re trying to provoke us.”
“Roger that, boss,” Harris affirmed, but his voice indicated his displeasure.
A couple minutes later, the stench of burning flesh carried through the open space of the window frames and into the foyer. Through the shattered glass, Layton saw the smoke rising into the sky from outside. At that moment, Layton wanted to kill those fuckers more than he ever wanted anything else in his life.
“They’re forming in a half a circle around the building now,” Harris said three minutes later. “They’ve got some cars spread out all over the street for cover. It looks like the mother-fuckers-in-charge are huddling, trying to put something together.”
Harris was quiet for a couple minutes as he observed the scene outside.
“They’re spreading out now, moving in different directions. Eight of them are staying out front. Looks like four others are slipping around to the back.”
“Roger that,” Tyson called out from thirty-five feet away, not taking his eyes away from the backdoor.
Layton had been waiting for this. The Empresa soldiers were obviously moving into position to make entry. They’d run out of patience and knew they couldn’t stand around in the streets much longer before the Colombian army arrived in armored vehicles and gunships.
Layton opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sudden, loud popping of Harris’ MP7 as he fired a three-round burst out the window. In response came the distinctive crackle of an AK-47 from outside, hammering the wall.
“It’s okay, boss,” Harris assured Layton. He let off another burst. “Two of the fuckers tried sneaking up on us from behind the Suburbans. I smoked one, and scared his friend off.”
“They’re probing our defenses,” Layton said.
“You may be right. They’re falling back now, and the mother-fucker-in-charge just pulled out his cell phone, talking to his buddies up on the roof maybe.”