Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  He watched the men coming in, some with their girlfriends, and tried to deduce from their clothes and companions their business and politics. He drifted back to his training, and wondered how he ever got to be sitting in the back corner of a seedy bar in Bogotá.

  In 1975, Victor Herbert Jackson accepted an invitation to attend the US Military Academy at West Point. His goal: become a famous general commanding a large force in a glorious war. A poor student, he had excelled in sports, marksmanship, and languages.

  In his junior year at West Point, Victor received an engraved card inviting him to an interview in an obscure office in the library building. Jackson didn’t know what the interview was about, but as an officer candidate he knew he could not turn this “invitation” down. Donning his best uniform, he marched over to the office and knocked on the door at precisely 1800 hours, as per the invitation.

  “Come in, son,” said a low, velvety voice from inside. Victor swung open the door to see an older, elegant gentleman dressed in a suit from the 1930’s seated behind a huge old desk piled high with books and file folders. The piles of books continued onto the floor and more file folders were stacked in one of the chairs.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Jackson,” said the old man, pointing to the only clear chair in sight.

  “Don’t mind the mess, I have to screen several prospects in a short time, you know,” he said with a strange command authority in his voice. Whitehorse took a seat, but sat at attention on the front part of the chair, his straight spine not touching the chair back.

  “I’m from the Central Intelligence Agency, and we’ve been looking at you for a couple of years now.” Whitehorse had heard rumors that the CIA occasionally recruited officers right out of West Point. Silently, he studied the man. Laughing eyes were the prominent features of his heavy face, a little overweight, and, from the redness of his cheeks and nose, a heavy drinker.

  The interview lasted over an hour. Whitehorse answered questions with one syllable and remained coldly respectful the entire time. Victor Herbert Jackson was going to command hundreds of tanks, armored fighting vehicles, and artillery, not skulk around alleys in the hellholes of the world. Oliver Seton (Whitehorse would learn his name several years later.) wrote a note in Victor’s file:

  This young man will make a fine case officer. He is cautious, quiet, suspicious, and observant.

  OS

  Whitehorse graduated in 1979 in the lower quarter of his class. He got his request for assignment to the Cavalry branch even with his low grade point average. All Army officers know the Cav is the most demanding branch in the Army. During operations many officers get relieved, fired from a command position, for inability to keep up with the complex and rapid operations tempo of a Cav unit. This permanently scars or even ruins a career. However, this branch lead to general’s stars for those who could survive.

  Assigned to the 21st Cavalry and stationed on the East German border, he distinguished himself as a soldier and a leader, rising quickly to the rank of Captain. In 1984, he returned to Ft. Hood, Texas to attend the Advanced Armor Officer’s Course. Walking into his room at the Bachelor Officers Quarters, he was startled to see Oliver Seton sitting in his recliner reading Whitehorse’s copy of General Patton’s biography. Jackson was positive that Seton was wearing the same suit as seven years earlier.

  “Really a fascinating life, don’t you think?” Seton asked, holding up the book.

  “What are you doing in my room?”

  “Well, I’ve come to see if you would reconsider our offer. We have an assignment for you that I think that you might find interesting. Aren’t you tired of the snow on the East German border?”

  Whitehorse Jackson had become bored with his job, and he was looking for something new to conquer. So he sat down on the bed and let Oliver talk.

  Whitehorse entered Special Forces training at Camp McCall, North Carolina the following month. Though the training was difficult, Jackson excelled in unconventional warfare. After the paperwork, drudgery, maintenance, and complexity of tanks, helicopters, trucks, jeeps, and artillery, small direct action teams seemed so much more fun and effective. Whitehorse felt like he was actually doing something instead of just approving requests for spare parts.

  Whitehorse Jackson graduated number one in his class, attended training at “the Farm” in Northern Virginia where he learned “tradecraft”. He first based out of the embassy in Panama. There he worked on several “direct action” projects in Central and South America. Whitehorse went on to lead many successful operations in guerrilla wars in the Middle East, Africa, Central America, and Colombia.

  Jackson found out years later that his Army personnel record showed Captain Victor Jackson failed the Special Forces qualification course, and was reassigned to a truck maintenance detachment in Georgia. His file also showed that he had retired from the Army as a Colonel with several commendations for the excellent truck maintenance programs he had devised and implemented for the US Army.

  The Agency took him on as a full-time employee in 1992 and posted him to Guatemala, then Argentina, and now, as Station Chief, Colombia, arguably the most important Agency job in Latin America. Now he waited for another retired soldier.

  After a few minutes, a short round man about 75 years old came through the door, spotted Whitehorse, and moved toward his table. The rolling way that he walked bespoke a back wound received during the Cyprian war when he was with the British Special Air Services.

  “Ah, Sonny. How is everything with my favorite Colonialist?” Sonny Weston was the name Whitehorse used in this part of town. He told the cover story that he was a security consultant for several confidential clients in Colombia.

  “Fine, Tommy.”

  Thomas Witherspoon cocked his head and looked at “Sonny” sideways. He ran his hand through his short bushy gray hair.

  “You don’t look so fine. And where’s your lady?” Tommy said in his Welsh lilt.

  “We broke up last night.”

  “Ah, and doesn’t that explain it? Feeling lonely, so you call your old pal Tommy to buy you a couple dozen beers.” Tommy raised his hand, and caught the eye of the waitress. He nodded and held up two fingers. The young, short woman scurried over with two full glasses of Club Colombia Beer, knowing that her tip would be in direct proportion to how well she kept Tommy’s glass full.

  “I don’t understand why I’m down. I should be glad to be rid of her. She started needling me about ‘our plans for the future’. Then she said she wanted to have a baby. Blah, blah, blah. Then, just before I drifted off to sleep, she whispered how we ought to get married. Well, I exploded, and told her to get out.”

  “Sonny, what a terrible thing to do.” Whitehorse was surprised at the disapproval in his friend’s voice.

  “I’m not getting married again. That’s just not me.”

  “Then, why the sad face, laddie?”

  Whitehorse took a drink of his beer, and looked over at the old warrior. The heavy face stared back, kind and questioning.

  “Why did you get married, Tommy?”

  “You know. I came to Colombia in 1970 to help British Petroleum put in some of their first wells. Met Ivana at the Britannica Club on a break here in Bogotá. It was love, my boy. It was love.” Tommy’s face lost ten years as he relaxed, looking up at the far corner of the room.

  Whitehorse had heard this story at least three different times, but he was still fascinated with the telling.

  “We were married not six weeks later. Her parents were so happy that a Gringo was going to take her away from the war, and back to Europe. But she’d have none of that. She was going to stay right here in Bogotá.

  “We opened that little store on Fifteenth Street selling Persian rugs. You know, from my time in the Middle East, I knew some Iranians who sold me the rugs at a great price, and she’s the best saleswoman in Colombia. Thirty-two of the happiest years of my life. We worked together, we made babies together. And that woman always wanted to practice, even after s
he couldn’t have anymore.” A deep, bubbling laughter rolled out of Tommy’s big belly, enough so that the other patrons looked over and smiled.

  “Was it worth it, Tommy? The sickness and loss, I mean.”

  “Bloody cancer. Took my Ivana in less than two months. It’s been three years now, and I still wake up and look for her on her side of the bed. But was it worth it? Look at my two daughters, mate. They’ve given me a reason to live, what with the grandkids and all.”

  Tommy picked up his half full glass, so Whitehorse picked up his.

  “To daughters. God’s gift to man,” Tommy said.

  They clinked their glasses and then drained them, slamming them down on the table, empty. Tommy turned to the bar and looked over at the waitress, who was already filling two more at the tap. He winked at Whitehorse, biting his lower lip, and nodded.

  “You see, there?” he asked, looked over at the waitress. “Now she’s a daughter who’s well trained. And we’re the beneficiaries, aren’t we?”

  After the next round was on the table, Tommy leaned forward. Whitehorse knew that the conversation was going to take a turn he wasn’t ready for.

  “Now, you aren’t a young man anymore. When are you going to sire some children? Who will be here after you’re gone? You know the a duty of a man is to continue his line. And knowing you, your line must be worth continuing, seeing what a pack of lies you’ve told me these past months.”

  Whitehorse started to protest, but Tommy put up his hand, big as a salad plate, to stop him.

  “If you’re a security consultant, I am the ambassador to Romania.” Tommy laughed again, and Whitehorse was glad that most of the people there couldn’t speak English.

  “But, my boy, it’s obvious to me you didn’t just invite me here just to buy your beer. You need to talk, and I’m safe, old, and harmless.”

  Whitehorse smiled an involuntary smile, buying himself a little time. This guy is sharper than I give him credit for. I’ve got to watch what I say.

  “Tommy. I have a big problem. I am attracted to a woman at work.”

  “That was the real reason you got rid of ….What was her name again?”

  “Natalia.”

  “Oh, right. Natalia. You’re in love with this woman at work, eh? Tell me about her.”

  “I am not in love with her. She works in my department. She’s thirty-four. She has a son, ten years old. And did I mention that she’s gorgeous?”

  “Do you know the son?”

  “Oh yeah. We’ve met at company parties and picnics. He’s a fine young man.”

  “She divorced?”

  “No, her husband died in an industrial accident. I knew him, you know.”

  “Well, Sonny. I don’t know what your problem is. You like this woman a lot. I can see it in your face, and hear it in your voice.”

  Does it show that much? Whitehorse wondered.

  “My problem is that I don’t date women at work. Period. And I am not going to get married again. Ever.”

  “You are never getting married again, huh? What happened to your first marriage, my boy?”

  “I fell in love with and married a US Army nurse when I was in Germany. The nurse was a beauty, just like my mother. When I was out on deployment, I heard from a buddy that she was back in the clubs and sleeping around. I divorced her without ever talking to her again. No children.”

  “You will never be happy, my son, as long as you are flitting from filly to filly. A man is never really free to fully love a woman until he gives up all others.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Yes. I do. Don’t let life pass you by. Before you know it, you’ll be old and fat, like me. It happens in a flash.”

  Tommy sat silent for a long time staring into his beer. Both men were comfortable with the quiet and with their thoughts. They drank another round. When the waitress started toward their table again, Jackson put his hand over his glass. He couldn’t get drunk here in this part of Bogotá. Too much risk.

  “I’ve got to go, Tommy.” Jackson pulled out a wad of Colombian pesos, but Tommy would have none of it.

  “I’ll stay here and finish the drinking laddie. Just remember, life is short. And don’t push this woman away because another hurt you long ago.”

  Jackson nodded, deep in thought, walked out into the cold night and climbed into a cab.

  0745, Tuesday, July 9

  Above the village of Agua Chica

  Arauca Department

  Northern Colombia

  Wheeling the aircraft around on its left wingtip, Mad Madison knew that in this steep bank, the wing would temporarily block the view of the turret mounted TV camera. His sensor operator, Steve, grunted out curses under his breath as he lost his sight picture and had to take the force of the turn at the same time. Getting in a better position, Mad set up again in a standard orbit. Steve counted the guerrilleros, the guerilla soldiers, and radioed the information to the inbound gunships.

  A Bell 212 and a Hughes 500D were on the way with rockets and machine guns to drive off the attackers. A small Colombian Army garrison guarding the pipeline just 600 meters south of Agua Chica was under fierce attack by over 100 armed uniformed guerrillas.

  Mad looked at the repeater screen on his instrument panel and saw Steve zoom in on a guerrilla M-60 machine gun crew. Mad kept his orbit over the battle and watched as a soldier directed the machine gun crew to look toward the circling aircraft. The g’s knew when Ojo Azul, the Blue Eye, was above, the gunships weren’t far behind. Now the assistant gunner took the bipod of the machine gun and lifted it onto his shoulders. This elevated the gun to a better angle and allowed the gunner to concentrate on aiming without bearing the weight of the weapon.

  Well, now things are going to get interesting. On his TV screen, Mad saw the gunner swivel the gun toward them and the puffs of smoke as they fired.

  “They’re shooting at us, boss,” Steve said in a flat, professional tone. “Confirmed, they are shooting at us.”

  “Yeah, I see it,” Mad drawled back. Their artificial calm was a product of many years of practice. Since aircraft radios were first invented, the custom of combat pilots has been to try to sound calm, almost bored, in stressful situations. Besides, Mad knew that every word said and every image collected on each mission was recorded for later analysis.

  Madison was eating breakfast earlier that morning in the dining facility at Cano Limon when Walt, the company security chief, told them about the attack at Agua Chica. Mad and Steve raced out to the airstrip and readied the old Cessna 337 for take-off. A Colombian sergeant shoved a paper into his hand with the GPS coordinates and the day’s call signs.

  Mad settled into his seat in the 337, and it seemed like he was returning to his natural habitat. The old Viet Nam era observation plane was perfect for the mission of keeping track of the guerillas. The wing was mounted high on the fuselage so that a camera could be mounted under the left side. The Wescam 15i consisted of a TV camera with a twenty power zoom lens, and an infrared imager with three levels of magnification all contained in a gyro-stabilized turret. This gave the surveillance aircraft day and night capability. The sensor operator in the back controlled the camera.

  Twin engines were mounted in line, one on the front and one behind the cabin so that one pulled the aircraft, and the other pushed. The tail and rudders were attached by two long booms stretching out the back. This configuration gave birth to the soldier’s nicknames such as “Suck me/Blow you” or “Push me/Pull you” when one was in more genteel company.

  Mad’s fingers knew where every switch should be positioned as they flowed from left to right and then down the center console. He chanted the checklist and received the appropriate answers from Steve. Mad tickled the primer, pressed the start button, and the old Cessna rumbled to life, first the rear engine so that he could hear it start, then the front engine where he could see the prop turning. Even though the aircraft was over 25 years old, every instrument, radio, and accessory were u
pdated. The engines and props were freshly overhauled, and even the paint and upholstery were new.

  Mad studied his monitor, and he could plainly see that the machinegun was aimed directly at his airplane. He breathed a sigh of relief. When the gun was aimed directly at the aircraft, the bullets would pass well behind them. Mad only worried when he saw that a gunner was aiming well in front of his aircraft. Where were those gunships?

  Mad pushed his talk button on the control wheel. “Jaguar Six, this is Echo Two, over,” he called in Spanish. Echo 2 was Mad’s call sign. Echo was the phonetic designation for the letter “e”. Echo 2 was like the E.E. he was called when he was a young boy.

  “Echo 2, Jaguar Six. Six minutes out.”

  “Roger, Jaguar Six. Target is a large group of enemy located 300 meters north of Agua Chica. Make your run east to west.” This would put the sun at the back of the gunships and yet allow them to run down the guerrillas’ line. That would give the longest time over target. “Be advised, we’re taking automatic weapons fire.”

  If the guerillas were allowed to push out the small Army garrison at La Esmeralda, just five miles away, they would have complete control over one of the main valves in this part of the pipeline. There were 21 such valves in the 480 miles of pipeline, and each one would shut automatically whenever the pressure dropped in its section of the pipeline. Since the pipeline climbed up the steep Andes Mountains, these valves were needed to prevent the oil on the mountain tops from flowing down hill toward a spill. The system had been developed to trap the oil in the pipe if there were breaks due to rock slides or earthquakes, but it functioned very well whenever the g’s blew up a section of pipeline. Therefore, the guerrillas tried repeatedly to capture these valves so that they could sabotage them, and cause a disaster instead of an inconvenience.

  “Break south!” Steve said. Steve had been studying the array of the guerrilleros, but he also kept track of the number of orbits over the target. Maximum number was three orbits, and then the plane had to depart the area, and come back in after a minute or two. This tactic kept the gunners from getting a good fix on the aircraft.