George loved the climate. The cold, crisp morning air, the cool afternoons, the lovely nights. No wonder the Spaniards chose to build a city here: natural air conditioning. As he got into his armored Jeep Cherokee he thought about how his home in Cleveland differed from his new home in Colombia. Cleveland suffered from heat and humidity this time of year, a thick haze of water in the air. Then in winter, the bone chilling wind brought snow and ice. No, he’d stay in Colombia. He thanked God for his job, his family, and his life in Bogotá.
His job as the security manager for Monroe Corporation paid well, was easy work, and let him live in luxury with his gorgeous wife and two young sons. As he drove down through his exclusive mountainside subdivision, George waved at a couple of his neighbors and wondered if they were Colombian senators, or generals, or bankers, or drug lords.
The cell phone buzzed on his belt.
“Yeah. George here.”
“George, we’ve lost a Bronco. You need to get into work right away.”
“I’m just turning onto the Auto Pista now. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
George merged onto the freeway that led to the airport. A crazy Colombian driver cut him off, making him brake hard. George let out a soft stream of curses fit for an ex-Sergeant Major.
0720 Monday, July 8,
Office of Regional Affairs
United States Embassy
Bogota, Colombia
Gingerly holding his scalding double espresso, Victor Jackson walked through the outdoor metal detector at the side entrance to the United States Embassy, and the Marine on duty gave him back his Colt 1911A1 45-caliber pistol. Victor opened his sport jacket, and quickly returned it to his concealed holster. Jackson could see the young Marine wonder why he carried such an old fashioned weapon.
Walking down the sidewalk, Jackson looked up at the imposing structure, and knew that the embassy in Bogotá had to be in the running for the ugliest embassy on the planet. Only the embassy in Moscow was larger. Just what message are we sending to the world? This huge complex is only designed to intimidate, he thought. Anyone looking at the facility could see the design was taken from a sixteenth century Spanish fortress, but without any of the flourishes or decorations. Monolithic walls of reinforced concrete rose up from behind tall fences. At least the designers tried to beautify the barricades designed to foil trucks loaded with explosives. They looked like huge flower pots.
The bright sun and cool air matched Jackson’s giddy mood. He finally got rid of that Colombiana. He should never have let Natalia move in with him, but she was gone now. As soon as he decided to kick her out, he changed the locks on his apartment, and told the portero, the doorman, that she was not to be let into his apartment in his absence. Most of last night she sat outside and begged him to take her back. She promised to be good, but his heart was stone.
She crossed the line and talked seriously about marriage and children. I warned her at the beginning that there would be no future Mrs. Jackson. She broke the rule, now she’s out. My freedom is restored.
“Your badge, sir,” the Marine respectfully reminded him as he stepped inside.
“Oh…yeah. OK,” Victor replied. He hated to wear his big gaudy ID badge out here in the lobby where anyone could see that he was part of the embassy establishment. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and hung it around his neck as per Standard Operating Procedure after 9/11. Anyone who cared to notice would instantly recognize the green border as a special badge.
At over six feet tall with a full head of thick white hair, Victor carried himself with the grace of a natural athlete. Walking down the hall, Victor admired the lovelies standing in line for interviews for a visa to visit the United States. Someone called out, “Morning, Whitehorse.”
One night as a student at West Point, after several beers, he had confided to his roommate that he had once been to see an Apache medicine man.
He was sixteen years old and his grandmother wanted him to meet a famous prophet, and get “in touch” with his Native American heritage. After driving nearly two days, they wound their way up a dirt road into the White Mountains of Arizona. Afternoon turned to night, and the cold surprised Victor.
“All my brothers visited this medicine man, and he blessed them. You’ll see,” she said.
“How old is this guy, Gramma?”
“I don’t know.” She laughed and then paused. “He was old when I was a little girl.”
His grandmother drove through a gate and down a lane barely wide enough for the station wagon.
“Well, we’re here”, she said. In the headlights, Victor saw two huge trees. They got out, leaving the lights on. A man walked out of the blackness, but said nothing. Victor’s grandmother introduced her grandson to the shriveled, bent old Indian in a black, broad brimmed hat.
“This is my grandson, Victor,” Grandma said. “Victor, this is Johnny Nightsong.”
“Come, my son and sit.” Victor expected a tent, but the old man guided them between the trees to a tangle of brush. Walking in single file through a narrow gap, he almost ran into the ancient travel trailer propped up on concrete blocks. The old man led them around to the other side where a bent tree shaded a weathered wooden picnic table. A small campfire burned a few feet away.
“Sit.” The shaman looked at Victor for a long time. He leaned forward and put his hands on Victor’s broad shoulders. He moved a little to the side so that the yellow light from the fire played across the young face. He ran his hand through the thick blonde hair. Then proceeded to foretell Victor’s future.
“For the rest of your life, your name shall be ‘Whitehorse’,” the old man said. “You shall be a great warrior and many will fear you.” Johnny Nightsong’s open left hand traced a large circle. “Your wife will bear you children in a far away land, and you will have many honors.” Victor laughed out loud.
“Victor. Show some respect. He’s sorry. Aren’t you, son?”
Victor got up and waved his hand, dismissing the wizened sage, and left.
But since telling his roommate the story, his name became Whitehorse. During his Army career privates and generals alike addressed him not as Captain Jackson, but as Whitehorse, just as the old man prophesied.
The old medicine man sure was wrong about the wife part, Whitehorse thought as he entered his windowless office. Jackson put his espresso on his desk, fired up his computer and started to look through the morning’s email and faxes. His secretary, Juliana, walked in. She was a stunning, red-haired Colombian beauty, and spoke perfect California-accented English.
“One of the ERAD OV-10’s was shot down this morning,” she said flatly. “No survivors.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Victor mumbled, not looking up from his reading. The US aid to Colombia split into two parts: support for the Colombian Army Counternarcotics Battalions (COLAR) and the Colombian National Police Coca Eradication Program (ERAD).
“All five aircraft in the flight were hit. One crashed, two are shot up pretty bad, and the other two just got a couple of holes,” she added. Jackson’s eyes opened wide and he shared a knowing look with his secretary. One aircraft getting shot down was bad luck. All five spray aircraft getting shot meant someone knew where those aircraft were going to be. It is just too difficult to hit all five aircraft from the ground.
Whitehorse polished off the last of his espresso, turned to his secretary, and with a mischievous smile, said, “Get Counter Intelligence in here right now.”
0830 Monday, July 28
Orito, a village in Putamayo Province
Southern Colombia
Santiago Del Carmen jumped from the back of the Toyota pickup and walked into a small leather goods store. Dark skinned and short, he weighed only about 130 pounds. Growing up as a peasant in the southern state of Putamayo, he never learned to read or write. But he knew how to farm bananas, corn, and beans, and how to cut mahogany trees to float down the river for export.
The FARC came to his village when he was fifteen.
They promised to give him an education, provide three meals a day, and give him an opportunity to fight to change the unresponsive government in Bogotá. He and his older brother Tomas joined that day. That was fifteen years ago. Now he was a sub-commander.
As he brushed by the belts and purses toward the back office, he realized that for the first time he looked forward to reporting to Comandante Mora. The information from “Gordo” had been perfect. Del Carmen spaced his riflemen using Gordo’s coordinates, ten AK-47’s at each coordinate. Then, just like in training, he showed his men how to fire straight up as soon as they heard the aircraft getting close, even before they saw it. From experience, he knew that if his men waited until they saw the aircraft, it would flash by before they could even get off a shot.
When Operation Gordo started, the FARC gathered three area sub-commanders, and gave them the mission of training gunners for aerial ambushes. Using a translated copy of an old Soviet manual, they practiced volley fire, first the commanders as a group, then each commander with his men. They would put up a curtain of bullets and let the low-flying aircraft run into that curtain. The North Vietnamese used this method to shoot down American jet fighters whooshing overhead at 500 miles per hour.
Santiago and his men had been stationed beside a lush coca field south of Orito. After setting up camp, the word came to move four kilometers to the east and set up the ambush. His men grumbled due to lack of sleep, thinking that this was just another stupid exercise. But like the professional soldiers they were, they got into position, set up their weapons, and waited for dawn.
The Estimated Time of Arrival (ETA) given by Gordo came and went, and the men felt a huge letdown. But seven minutes later, they had heard the growl of the OV-10’s approaching. Each group readied itself, and then started firing straight up without trying to follow the aircraft. When all of the aircraft pulled up, damaged by the gunfire, the men cheered and cursed the Americans. One aircraft turned toward the east, and everyone saw the fireball when he hit the mountain.
The gunship helicopter came over and sprayed the area with bullets, but they concentrated on the open areas and the edges of the fields where the riflemen always stood before. The coordinates gave Santiago’s men a spot in the jungle several hundred meters before the field started. So, while the bullets were chewing up vegetation two hundred meters in front of them, the squad melted away to the south, and then called for the trucks on their hand-held ICOM radio.
He knocked on the door, and straightened his muddied uniform.
“Come!” When heard the gruff command from inside a shiver of fear coursed down his spine. Even though Santiago was there to deliver good news, he knew more than one man had entered this office to hear his own death sentence. Comandante Mora ruled his area with a bloody hand. Del Carmen pushed hard on the sticking wooden door, and entered.
Mora looked up from his desk and broke into a huge smile as Santiago snapped to attention and started to report.
“Good work, my brother,” Mora shouted, interrupting his report. “Good shooting. We will show those American sons of whores that we can protect our crops, our land, and our children.”
An old veteran, Santiago had a good ear for FARC internal propaganda. A little smile played across his face. His mission had nothing to do with land and children. The more coca successfully grown in the area, the better each comandante’s “commission”. The FARC stopped being a political organization years ago. They were now more of an organized criminal corporation. True believers still existed, especially among the peasants, but the command structure knew that FARC was all about money. Income streams came from extortion, kidnapping, war taxes, and protecting the drug trade. Even so, Santiago was happy that his commander was pleased with him.
“My son, you and your men will receive a bonus. Five million pesos for shooting down an OV-10.” Pause. “Your country, your brothers in the FARC, and your neighbors thank you,” Mora beamed as he held Santiago’s shoulder and with his left hand and forcefully shook his right.
Santiago was already doing the math in his head. At 2,000 pesos to the dollar, even five million pesos was not that much money. Only about two thousand five hundred dollars. He would keep the commander’s share, fifty per cent, and divide the remainder between his shooters. He knew that the reward to Mora from the drug lords was several multiples of that figure, but he was delighted with his part. Now he could buy that new refrigerator his wife wanted.
“Gracias, mi Comandante,” Santiago said, emotion showing in his voice. He turned on his heel and went out into the leather store. There the ugly cashier handed him a bundle of bills wrapped in brown paper. Santiago knew not to count the money until he got to the truck. He would divide it with his men immediately and let them get drunk tonight. There would be no spraying for at least a couple of days until the aircraft were thoroughly inspected for hidden damage and the bullet holes repaired.
Chapter Two
0910 Monday, July 8
US Embassy
Bogota, Colombia
Ann Snyder was late again. The bed had been so warm, and she had hit the snooze button only once. Leaving her house at 0648, she dropped her ten-year old son off at the American School on her way to work. Just eighteen minutes late leaving the house and she had gotten caught in traffic. Just eighteen minutes late leaving the house made her an hour late for work. Traffic was better with the new roads they were building in Bogota, but there was no way to get out of downtown traffic from her North side apartment.
She walked through the side entrance of the Embassy, and looked up to see the smirk of the Marine sergeant searching her bag. She knew her hair was a mess, and that he knew she was late. All the Marines knew Ann and looked out for her. She was as famous as any Counter Intelligence officer could be. After all, she was the one who had sniffed out the presence of and then personally arrested Porton Tres, Big Door Three, the mole that FARC spent years grooming to be a top officer in Colombian intelligence.
When she got to her office, Ann closed her door, and then swung out the next-to-the last cabinet door where she had mounted a mirror at eye level on the backside. She looked at herself. She was a mess! Her blonde hair flowed everywhere, her makeup was not even, and her clothes weren’t even on straight. Three minutes and forty-five seconds later, she shut the door pleased with the repair job.
Just then Andre walked in. “Where have you been? Whitehorse has been looking all over for you.”
“Oh, he has, has he?” She smiled. A pretty woman could not live in Bogotá for twelve years and not pick up some of the flirtatiousness of the local women. She smoothed her dress and walked slowly to his office. She looked forward to going upstairs to see her boss and friend.
“Ah, mi Amor. Have you heard the news?” Whitehorse Jackson called every woman in Colombia younger than his grandmother “my love” in Spanish. She saw his eyes work their way up. First the green high heel pumps, then her conservative lime green skirt, a white silk shirt and matching green jacket, her long blonde hair, and finally fixing on her blue eyes. She smiled back at him.
Ann enjoyed seeing his tall, lean body splayed out in his office chair with his ankles crossed and his fingers intertwined behind his neck. He looked deliciously male: relaxed, powerful, and confident. No one else in the Embassy could get away with wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots to work. Even so, Jackson wore a white shirt and a dark blue sport jacket to mitigate his rebellion. I’ve worked for Whitehorse for two years now, and known him for over eight years, she thought. But recently I seem to get flustered around him.
“No, what news?” Ann said.
“ERAD lost an OV-10 in Putamayo. All five aircraft in the flight received hits. One lost an engine and hit a mountain.” Ann was silent for a moment.
“This is not the first time that ERAD has had all their aircraft hit on one pass.”
“That’s true, but I’m thinking we’ve got a leak. It’s just too hard to hit a low flying aircraft for those g’s to get all five without some
pre-positioning and training. Those other hits could have been due to this same leak. Too much coincidence. Find out what you can. This is top priority.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a mock salute. “But first, I’ve got to have some coffee.”
Ten minutes later, Ann placed a call to George Allen, Monroe Corporation’s chief of security.
“George, this is Ann Snyder.”
“Hello! Haven’t heard from you in ages. How’s your boy?”
“Great, thanks for asking. Hey, I need some help. Whitehorse asked me to call and talk with you about the crash this morning.”
“Yeah, that’s all that anybody is talking about today. Bad deal.”
“Can you talk to some of your people? See if you can find anywhere we might have a leak? Whitehorse is suspicious, you know,” Ann said.
Yeah, you’re the one who’s suspicious, George thought.
“OK. I planned to do that anyway,” he lied.
“You’ll let us know if you find out anything?”
“Sure, Ann. Of course I will.” They hung up.
Sometimes Ann felt a little guilty assigning work to those in her unpaid pool. But she needed answers, and once someone has worked for the Agency, he knew that “favors” could be expected of him, even though he were no longer on the payroll. Very familiar with George’s background in 7th Special Forces and his duties at Monroe, he was her number one guy. He probably wishes he had never gotten involved with the CIA, she thought. Oh well, could be worse.
Arauca: A Novel of Colombia Page 2