Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  Mad banked sharply right, and let the aircraft descend. This change in direction, speed, and altitude gave the gunners a much more difficult target.

  They flew over to La Esmeralda, and checked the area to the south to make sure that the guerrillas weren’t massing for an attack on the back side of the outpost. The g’s were not usually that sophisticated to plan a diversion, and then attack from a different direction, but no harm checking.

  By the time that they got back over the skirmish, the gunships had called one minute out. Mad orbited directly over the government troops and told the gunships to stay north of his orbit. That would keep the helicopters from accidentally firing on their own troops. The gunships were from the Colombian Air Force, and they did not have much regard for the Colombian Army. The Air Force pilot corps was made up of sons of the rich and powerful families. The soldiers were mostly conscript peasants. If the Air Force shot a few peasants during the battle, it was no big deal. Soldiers are supposed to die.

  But the pilots respected Echo 2. His skill and quick thinking made them much more effective. If they flew the runs as ordered, they got more guerrillas, and more medals, than before.

  “Jaguar Six, rolling in hot.” The flight of two came down low over the guerrilla line with miniguns spitting out 100 bullets per second. The g’s never heard the approach of the helicopters because of all the noise of gunfire. They were caught completely out in the open. The machinegun fire decimated the line. The g’s broke and ran.

  *******

  0810, Tuesday, July 9

  Finca Tres Amigos

  Santander Province

  Colombia

  Don Mitchell listened to his scanner and watched his computer monitor to keep track of the battle. Unknown to Mad Madison, his surveillance plane and the two helicopter gunships were equipped with small transmitters that gave out their GPS coordinates and altitude every few seconds, displaying their location on a moving map. CIA operatives in Colombia and Washington DC could track their movements by logging on to a secure Agency website.

  Donald William Mitchell, retired Army Security Agency, now employed by the Defense Intelligence Agency was forty-eight years old and looked like he was sixty-five. He lived in town with his Colombian girlfriend, and never even thought about visiting his estranged family back in the States. His still had coal black hair, thanks to Men’s Hair Coloring, and a thick black mustache almost hid his entire mouth. He pulled his old leather jacket up tighter around his stooped shoulders and thin arms.

  His office hid in a small farmhouse on the mountaintop. The Agency antennae shared space with several commercial towers located on the highest ground for seventy-five miles. Looking out his picture window, he once again drank in the view of the valley several thousand feet below. At this altitude, a small fire always burned in the fireplace and his space heater stayed on low.

  Don smiled a little, thinking how the FARC just never learned their lesson. First the gunships would bring death in the daytime. Then his team would bring terror after dark. Alpha Team was in the field right now, and he would task them to find the FARC and make them pay for this attack. Mitchell commanded Paper Blue; a small team of paramilitary agents in Arauca who helped protect the pipeline from Cano Limon to the Caribbean port of Covenas.

  Not that his other job of managing a COMMINT station here in the mountains east of Bucaramanga wasn’t important. COMMINT, Communications Intelligence, was the intercepting of the enemy’s communications and analyzing its contents. During this interception, recordings were made of each conversation for deeper analysis in Washington, and direction finding equipment gave the approximate location of each transmission.

  But the Paper Blue teams were his main reason to be in Colombia. Operation Paper Blue had three five-man teams that rotated into Arauca every ten days. Each team had ten days in the field, living in the jungle, ten days at home in the US to rest, and ten days here at the secure farm near Bucaramanga to prepare for the next mission. They were inserted and brought back out at night by a CIA helicopter.

  During their ten days in the field, each team sought out FARC saboteurs and attacked, always leaving messages to instill fear and dread. They hoped that if the FARC feared enough, they would leave the pipeline alone. In the past six months, the attacks on the pipeline dwindled, allowing production to soar to record levels. Don Mitchell’s bonuses came not from the number of dead FARC, but from the number of barrels pumped through the pipeline.

  A typical mission: find a FARC encampment near the pipeline and then sit back and observe. When a group went out to the pipeline right of way and began digging a hole in order to plant explosives, the team would kill each digger silently, leaving notes that Ojo Azul saw everything. After a few hours the camp would send someone looking for the overdue soldiers and find them all dead with a note left on one’s chest.

  The idea of using the nickname of Mad Madison came up from the radio intercepts where some of the soldiers were wondering if the infrared camera mounted on the Cessna could read their minds.

  If the FARC camp sent no diggers out to the pipeline, they lost no one. But if they attempted to sabotage the pipeline their personnel never returned. For today’s attacks, Mitchell would have to think of an appropriate response. Attacking a valve would have to cost more than just blowing a hole between the valves. He would have to think of something. Damn, he loved this job!

  Don looked fondly at his bottle of orange juice. He had stopped at the little grocery store on the way to work, as he did every day, and bought a liter bottle of orange juice and a liter bottle of vodka. Starting around eleven o’clock, after his tenth cup of coffee, Don opened the bottle of orange juice. After a few sips, he took out the bottle of vodka from his desk drawer and topped off the orange juice with vodka. Then he would drink some more “orange juice”. By four or five o’clock every day the orange juice looked clear and the vodka bottle was empty.

  *****

  Gerald Minor was just boarding an American Airlines 757 bound for Miami. The array of security checks angered him even more than usual. First, American Airlines searched his bags at the ticket counter, then the Colombian Airport security checked his carry-on and sent him through the metal detector. Next, the Colombian National Police searched his carry-on, frisked him for hidden weapons, and typed his name and passport number into their database ensuring that he was not a “g”.

  Last, American Airlines had their own security station inside their gate. They were the most intrusive, questioning him, searching his bag, and using a metal detecting wand.

  In a few hours he would be back in Orlando, then a short drive to Satellite Beach. His face was drawn, and it was plain that he was still in shock from the loss of Pete. Gerald sat down in his customary aisle seat. One of the other spray pilots was also on board, and as he passed by, he squeezed Gerald’s shoulder.

  By 1545, Gerald was home. As he unlocked the door and turned on his air conditioner, Gerald wondered why he couldn’t find a wife like the other guys on the program. It would be so nice to come home to a beautiful woman who loved me. I can’t even find a girlfriend. Some of those pilots have a wife in the US and a girlfriend in Colombia. What am I doing wrong?

  He looked over his mail, noticing the bank statement, and tore it open. Several irregular payments had been made into his business account over the last month, and the total at the bottom read $10,914.54. Some months it was just under ten thousand, and some months a little over. Then he went to check the answering machine. As he was listening to the third message, his doorbell rang. It was Salvador.

  As soon as they were in the living room, Salvador started talking.

  “Ino asked me to come by and check on you. We are sorry that your friend was killed. Our guards were only trying to scare off the sprayers. We also wanted you to know that we very much want our relationship to continue.”

  “I don’t know….” Gerald started. Gerald wanted to get angry, punch out this guy. But he only felt drained. “I didn’t th
ink anyone would get killed! I need to think about this.”

  “Mr. Minor, we have a business arrangement.” Salvador remained calm, quiet, and professional. “We have paid you in good time, in advance, for the information. It is only right that you continue to provide service that has already been paid for.”

  “No, I can’t do this anymore.”

  “We must continue to have that information! We MUST!” Salvador got louder and much closer. As Gerald looked into the Colombian’s black eyes, he got a glimpse of the violence lurking just under Salvador’s veneer of civility. Fear gripped Gerald’s testicles, and he was afraid he might fall down.

  Each month Salvador had asked how Gerald’s mom was doing, a pointed reminder that they knew where she lived. He knew that he was out of options for the moment.

  “Can you not kill anymore pilots?” As soon as he said it, Gerald realized he sounded weak and childish.

  Salvador smiled. “We will guarantee we won’t kill anymore pilots.” Then he laughed for a long time. “Enjoy your break. I’ll make sure you get some extra money from the leather business this month.”

  Before Gerald could answer, Salvador was out the door and walking back to his car.

  Chapter Four

  0630, Wednesday, July 10

  Hotel Dann Carlton

  Medellin, Colombia

  A few more weeks and we can take Arauca, he thought. Max Gomez had been planning for years to have the FARC take political control over a section of the country. His fellow comandantes seemed only interested in more money. Even when offered political power by the Colombian government negotiators, they turned it down, desiring the income from war taxes, kidnapping, and extortion without the responsibility of running the government.

  Well, Max Gomez was not satisfied with just money. Even though he was a millionaire many times over, Max wanted to see a Communist government established in the Andean region. Max was one of a growing number of true believers in the FARC. Did he want power or better lives for his people? He wanted both. This is a real win-win for him personally and for Greater Colombia. He would become the ruler, with all of the attendant perks, and his people would get better education, housing, and infrastructure.

  Arauca province was the place to make it happen. Weak government presence combined with a population conditioned by two hundred years of neglect to hate and distrust Bogotá would make for a welcome takeover when it came. Once again, Max went over the main points of his plan, looking for any holes. Arauca was poor, had horrible roads, and no airbases close enough to be a threat. Venezuela sat just north of the Arauca River, the Andes rose up on the west, and the Amazon swamps flowed to the east.

  He knew he could isolate the whole province and take over in one lightning strike. Once in power, he would be difficult to dislodge. Like Castro in Cuba, he would become a world leader, wielding more power than would seem possible given his small nation. When he finally wrested control and became the undisputed leader of the FARC, he would take his enthusiastic troops on a concentrated assault on a single target. Arauca.

  But the crowning piece of the plan was the oil revenue from the revitalized Cano Limon oilfield. This oil took on stronger and stronger importance each year. Middle Eastern oil was tied to the expanding terrorist war with the United States. After America had attacked Iran, the OPEC nations had been staging a rolling embargo on the US. Oil prices hit $240.00 a barrel, but now had stabilized around $180.00. This oil revenue would make the new Arauca nation-state a viable economic entity immediately, and fund the expansion of communism into Venezuela and the rest of Colombia.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the bathroom door opened and his wife stepped out into the room. She had a large white towel wrapped around her torso and another around her head. But the towel could not hide her exquisite body. At 35, Sandra Camacho was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. She was a wonderful lover and partner. But she excelled as his political partner. Her wisdom, beauty, and encouragement boosted his climb to the top of the FARC pyramid.

  He met Sandra at an officers’ meeting soon after his posting in Putamayo. As befitting a successful officer, he walked up to her and introduced himself. He first talked with her because of her bearing and beauty. But he immediately knew there was more to her than a stunning body and captivating face. She had a presence and gave one the sense that he was talking with somebody. Sandra Camacho was bright and ambitious, just as concerned about the plight of the poor, and also positive that socialism was the tool to bring prosperity and justice to the world. He could tell that she found him interesting. After all, he was the young, rich, rising star of the Southern Command.

  Each of them fulfilled something missing in the other. He was a planner, a thinker. She was ambitious, confident, and dramatic. Politics was their love potion, power the aphrodisiac, and danger their foreplay. They married in less than two months. As a wife, she was the perfect lover, confidant, and political ally. As his partner, Sandra Camacho proved to be an adroit operator, able to persuade in the salon or lead an ambush in the jungle. The FARC had never seen a power couple like Max and Sandra.

  Now, 14 years later, he was number three in FARC, the head of finance, and poised to take control. And they both knew he would be nowhere near as high in the FARC command structure without her. She smoothed his roughness, coached him on etiquette, and counseled him on how to move through the FARC so as to make friends of important and powerful groups.

  “Good morning, my love,” he addressed his wife, now in her underwear. “Did you have a profitable evening?” She turned, and he admired her crème colored g-string and revealing bra.

  “Oh yes,” she said, then let the silence build the tension.

  “Well, did you see him?”

  Sandra had met with El Brujo, the charismatic leader of the Tenth Front, a large and successful FARC battalion stationed in Arauca. Most of the mayors of the towns in Arauca swore allegiance to the FARC and to El Brujo. This gave the Tenth almost free reign. His troops and weapons were well hidden, doctors cared for his wounded, and his spy network was the example for every other FARC leader. In return, for the last four years, El Brujo had dedicated himself to the well being of his troops and the people under his rule.

  He was called El Brujo, (the Sorcerer) because he claimed he had a pact with the Devil. The legend was that in return for his soul, Satan promised that no bullet could ever harm El Brujo. The Colombian troops and the guerrillas, both being deeply superstitious, believed him. When in firefights with the Army, El Brujo would stand up and walk around, mindless of the flying bullets. The government soldiers cowered; El Brujo’s troops were emboldened. This led to some very successful operations in the Northeast section of the country.

  “He’s with us,” she said. Max jumped out of his chair and went to her, hugged her and lifted her in the air. They laughed as he spun her around. This was the last major commander to give his personal, secret allegiance to Max for the coup d’état.

  Max put Sandra down. “There’s just one thing he must have,” she said. “We’ve got to help him get rid of Ojo Azul.”

  0830, Wednesday, July 10

  US Embassy, Bogotá

  Colombia

  Whitehorse Jackson sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk and stared into his coffee cup waiting for Anne Snyder to get to the office. Eight A.M. was the official time to be at work at the embassy. He smiled as he thought about her perennial tardiness. Just like a Latina, often late, always saucy, sexy, competent, and beautiful. Something about this country changes the women. Maybe it’s the shortage of men.

  Last night, Whitehorse reviewed Ann’s personnel record again. She’s ready for this move. She has the background, the smarts, and the drive. I’d be a lot more comfortable with this decision if I didn’t like her so much. He stared again at her file, but he knew so much more of her story. She had told him part, and Andre Rondel had filled in the rest.

  In the spring of 1986, Ann Mutcher was an athletic be
auty attending college at Baylor University in Waco, Texas. Dean’s list, varsity women’s basketball, Delta Kappa. There she met an amazing man working on his Master’s Degree. He was taking a leave of absence from his job with the Commerce Department to get an advanced degree in Political Science. Phil Snyder was 38 years old, and she was 21, but the chemistry was instantaneous and overwhelming.

  She had never met another man like him. Athletic, yet scholarly. Quietly confident. Gentle, but with an undercurrent of violence. He knew wine, foreign languages, and bawdy jokes. They dated for two months, and then he asked her to marry him. Their wedding was the day after his graduation in May 1986.

  Right after the wedding, they honeymooned on Roatan Island, Honduras where he taught her to scuba dive. The resort owner, a retired American named Herb Werner knew Phil well, and they always seemed to share an inside joke.

  From there, the couple went to Phil’s new posting in Panama. Ann had a tough time adjusting to the Embassy wife lifestyle--too much time on her hands. Phil traveled on Commerce Department business; sometimes out for a month at a time. During those separations, and again when he got home, Ann complained to Phil of her boredom. Then, one rainy tropical morning, during one of Phil’s longest absences, a man knocked on her front door.

  “Mrs. Snyder, my name is Andre Rondel.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rondel, I believe that we met at Cindy Leeper’s party last month. Won’t you come in and sit down?”

  After being served an iced tea, and making a little small talk, Andre decided to dive right in to the deep water.

  “Mrs. Snyder, I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency. We were wondering if you could help us with a small project. Just part time.”