Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  “We’re mercenaries, remember?” Chip Van Ginkle, a South African had told him. “Freedom fighters die for their country. We want to live to enjoy the good money we earn.”

  The money was very good in Van Ginkle’s eyes since the dollar bought so many South African rand.

  Even after knowing the faults of the Colombian government, (What government didn’t have faults?) Lynn knew it was better for a nation, and better for humanity, that a people change their government peacefully. Rebellion wrecked a country, and caused hatreds that survived decades after a civil war. Lynn’s grandmother still hated Yankees until the day she died.

  Yes, he had fought with insurgents against legitimate governments in other countries during the Cold War. But that was different. He was not fighting to tear down a regime so much as he was seeking to strike the Soviet Union through their puppet governments.

  Don Mitchell planned this strike in retaliation for the attack against La Esmeralda three days ago. Remembering the briefing from last night, Lynn reviewed the operation. All his men were in position in a field on the west side of a large clump of trees that hid the guerilla camp. He was the anchor for the left end of the line. As he walked forward, the men would be to his right and slightly behind, forming a slanted line. This way, they would always be able to see him, and any hand signals that he would give.

  At 0410, they would attack, surprising the sleeping g’s. As they pushed the FARC soldiers east, the panicked men would come out of the jungle into a large pasture. At 0415, the two helicopter gunships from Cano Limon would arrive on scene, and open fire on the men who were in the open.

  Instead of the .22 rifle that he normally carried, tonight Lynn was armed with a 5.56 SAW machinegun, and carried over two thousand rounds in bandoliers. The other anchor had an automatic grenade launcher. The four men in the middle carried M-4 carbines. Two other men were security behind the attack squad, assuring that no one sneaked up on them. Every man had as much ammo as he could carry plus some water and bandages. But with the helicopter close by, they carried none of the normal infantry baggage: food, bedding, survival gear, and extra clothing.

  Lynn and the other team members already had the notes in their pockets to pin on the dead FARC guerrillas.

  Your stupid attack on the valve at La Esmeralda has cost you all of these men. I will not tolerate any more such attacks. If you dare to try such a foolish thing again, we will hunt you down and kill you without mercy.

  Be Afraid

  Ojo Azul

  “Our goal is to break the FARC as an organized fighting force in Arauca,” Don had said as he ended the brief. “If we can show the Colombian citizens that FARC has no power, it will be harder for the g’s to recruit and keep soldiers. While this is not a large camp, if we get a good percentage of casualties, the psychological impact on the other FARC soldiers will be intense.”

  At precisely 0410, Lynn stood up, and motioned his men to start the assault. Lynn started firing his light machinegun in short bursts as he walked toward the camp. He turned and in his NVG’s he saw his men keeping good battle formation as they approached the tree line. The guerrillas would just be waking up to the sound of gunfire. The darkness, the noise, the confusion of finding their weapons would all work to the benefit of the attackers.

  Within twenty seconds the tree line erupted with muzzle flashes and the noise of automatic weapons. Lynn could hear the unforgettable sound of supersonic bullets passing just over his head. This is not right. We were supposed to take them by surprise while they were sleeping.

  Lynn hit the ground and was hidden in the knee deep grass. For a second, panic gripped his mind. A deep breath and he was okay again. Poking his head just above the grass, he looked right and saw that his team had all instinctively hit the ground. The firing from the FARC slowed to a trickle.

  Metzler had been in enough fire fights to know the best plans often became OBE (Overcome By Events) as soon as the first shots were fired. He was in no hurry. His team had the advantage of their NVG’s, plus two gunships on the way. Lynn poked his head up again, and the gunfire started again from the tree line. The bullets were going high, but they were still much too close.

  Rolling left, Lynn got on his radio. “Sid, we got problems.”

  “Yeah, they got NVG’s,” Sid said.

  “I think you’re right. Break. Echo Two, this is Doctor Wooji. Do you have the g’s in the wood line?”

  Mad Madison arrived overhead at 0410, just as planned, so as to give Alpha Team some real time battlefield intelligence. Even though Lynn had protested loudly, “Dr. Wooji” was his assigned call sign for this week. “It’s just not dignified,” he’d whined. But Don Mitchell would not change it.

  “Doctor Wooji, this is Echo Two. We see the g’s moving out toward you. Fall back. Fall back.”

  “Alpha team, Lima Four, Lima Four, Lima Four,” Lynn said. Lima Four was the pick-up point three miles to the south. By repeating the code word three times, the team knew that was a command to gather there for pickup by the CIA’s Blackhawk. However, the helicopter was not scheduled to be there until 0500. Lynn was proud of his men. No more shooting from them and very little radio chatter.

  The team crawled toward the south to get out of the view of the guerillas. Now, they heard the helicopter gunships, even above the occasional firing by the FARC.

  “Oscar Two and Oscar Three, Target coordinates.” Lynn listened with part of his brain as Madison vectored the gunships onto the line of soldiers looking for Alpha Team. The light and noise of the mini-guns opening fire was like a slap to the mercenaries. Lynn got up and ran for the woods as the second helicopter began his gun run. The rest of the team followed his example.

  The helicopter gunships remained on station until Alpha team covered the two miles to the pick-up point. Lynn set up a defensive perimeter at Lima Four and waited for the helo to lift them out.

  Three hours later, Lynn and his team sat in Don Mitchell’s office getting debriefed.

  “No, boss, there is no way they could have seen us without NVG’s,” Sid said. “They stopped firing when we were under cover, and began firing accurately when we poked our heads up. If we hadn’t had the air support, we’d be dead right now.”

  “Our intel says that the FARC only have a couple of pair of old Soviet style NVG’s and those are not functioning due to lack of batteries,” Don Mitchell said.

  “I don’t care what those intel guys say. The g’s had goggles. I’ve been on enough night ops to know how the other side acts without any night vision. These guys had to have seen us walking up on them and alerted the camp,” Chip Van Ginkle said. He probably had more combat experience than anyone on the program, having fought for the South African Army for ten years before becoming a mercenary for Executive Outcomes.

  “At least the gunships got a few of the g’s. From the radio intercepts, we estimate that we got ten killed and twenty wounded.” But Lynn and the others could hear the disappointment in Don Mitchell’s voice.

  0600, Friday, July 12

  Near Gerald Minor’s House

  Satellite Beach, Florida

  Larry Pallazollo picked up his camera and rechecked the focus and field of view. He parked two blocks away from Gerald Minor’s house under an old banyan tree that would shade his car from the afternoon sun. It was a perfect spot: close enough to get some really good pictures, yet far enough away that Gerald would never know that he was being surveilled.

  Five o’clock Wednesday afternoon, Larry got an urgent call from a special client asking him to take a rush job on a subject up in Satellite Beach. It was only a three hour drive from Miami. As one of the best surveillance free lancers in Southern Florida, Larry worked most of the time for big companies, keeping tabs on union activity or insider theft. Sometimes he worked for rich women looking for dirt so that they could divorce their husbands. And every so often, he would get a call from an “old friend” who would pay double his normal rate of $1,000 per day plus expenses. He never asked any
questions, and never kept any of the digital photos.

  Thursday he drove up I-95, found the address, and looked the area over. He followed Gerald out to the mall, then to dinner with a friend, and home by 9:30. He waited by the house until after 11, then went back to his hotel and got some sleep. But this morning he should see some good activity. He had his 35mm with telephoto lens, his digital video camera, and a full tank of gas.

  0850, Friday, July 12

  Sun and Surf National Bank

  Satellite Beach, Florida

  FBI Special Agent Jim Earnest, CPA, handed the federal warrant to the president of the Sun and Surf Bank. The bank officer hated these things. Not only did his accountants have to waste their time helping these thugs, but the entire staff was forbidden to notify the customer in any way that he was being investigated.

  Agent Earnest had been given this assignment Thursday afternoon. All that he knew was that he was to verify all sources of income. Double check this income against IRS records, and report the findings before close of business Wednesday. For an experienced forensic accountant like himself, it was a piece of cake. Just follow the money. Plus, here in Florida, the land of sun and easy women, it would be just like a vacation compared to Northern Virginia.

  0910, Friday, July 12

  Eppley Airfield

  Omaha, Nebraska

  The sun was up and the weather perfect as Freddy Espinosa got into his Chevrolet Cavalier rent car and drove out of the parking lot, consulting his GPS for driving directions to the farm of Mrs. Adrian Minor. As a field investigator for the Defense Security Service, he was called out on an urgent request to re-investigate one Gerald Minor, an imagery analyst for the Department of State.

  Freddy Espinosa would be talking with the parents of Mr. Minor, his school teachers, and friends, along with the references listed on the long forms that Mr. Minor filled out when first applying for a security clearance for the job in Colombia.

  Now where was that exit to the interstate?

  0930, Friday, July 12

  US Embassy

  Bogotá, Colombia

  Whitehorse Jackson put down the phone. All three parts of his mission to find out about Gerald Minor were well on their way. He should have some good information to start on very soon. He rubbed his hands together while walking down the hall to get some more coffee.

  The DSS would give him the groundwork he needed. The FBI, much more helpful now that they had been re-organized after September 11, would bring the financial picture into focus. Larry P, his old Ops buddy, would track and photograph Minor’s current movements. He had all his bases covered. Within a week, Whitehorse knew he would have the levers to turn Gerald Minor.

  0945, Friday, July 12

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Miami Field Office

  Miami Florida

  “What is this? Another wild goose chase from those guys in Bogotá? Do they think that we can just fork out thousands of dollars when they call?” John Lister acted furious standing in front of his boss, the Finance Director for Central and South America.

  Before Larry Pallazollo would agree to take on the Gerald Minor job, Whitehorse Jackson promised Larry a wire transfer of four thousand dollars expense money to be sent out on Friday morning. This was the usual arrangement between them. Lister did not have the clearance to know why he was sending a wire transfer to Pallazollo Investigations, Ltd, but he must find out somehow.

  “I can’t authorize something like this without a bill, without any written authorization, just a call from Victor Jackson.”

  The EFO (Exalted Financial One), as he was called by operatives all over Latin America, was six feet and six inches, and weighed well over 375 pounds.

  “John, you are one of my best men, but sometimes you are just too bureaucratic. Whitehorse is not just some agent. What he wants he gets. I wish we still moved money in paper sacks, and all a station chief had to do was ask for some.”

  “It isn’t right that one cowboy—“

  The huge man leaned forward and said in a startlingly quiet voice, “Just send it, John.”

  John Lister knew his bosses in Colombia would want to know where this investigator was going and how it might impact their business. Lister had been recruited several years ago by the Colombian cocaine cartel when they found out that he liked young boys. They had been blackmailing Lister ever since. They even brought lads by his house some nights after 2 am. If he gave them information, they provided a steady stream of boys and a $2,000 per month stipend. If the information ever stopped, he would go to jail for a long time. They had pictures.

  “I can’t approve this. I won’t be responsible for sending out money to some bank account without any back up documentation.” Lister stood firm, but inside he was quaking. Even though his knees trembled, the fear of his paymasters overcame his fear of the EFO.

  The EFO got up slowly and came around the desk. He put his arm around Lister’s narrow shoulders, turned him toward the door, and said, “John we think we have a leak in ERAD, and we are sending a contract PI up to Satellite Beach to surveil the guy. Just send the money. NOW.”

  John went back to his cubicle, prepared and sent the wire transfer, and then told the other accountant he had to run a short errand. He walked out to his car, started it, and drove slowly down the street. He took out a cell phone that had never been used. It was registered to a long-dead woman from Ft. Lauderdale. The bill was paid each month from a blind account in Panama. He called a special number on this cell phone. The phone rang for a long time.

  “Hello.”

  “Oscar, this is Mike Rogers.” These were the names he was supposed to use to tell Oscar that he was calling in the clear, not under duress.

  “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” This was the proper response.

  “Listen. We have a situation. Someone has been sent up to Satellite Beach to do surveillance on a suspected leak in the eradication program. I don’t have any names except the private investigator is Pallazollo Investigations, Ltd.”

  “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.” Then Oscar hung up. This meant that the message was received and understood, and the conversation over. Then just as Lister had been briefed and had rehearsed, he drove to get some cigarettes. While crossing the Fourteenth Street Bridge, he tossed the cell phone into the ship channel.

  2000, Friday, July 12

  Santa Barbara Apartments

  Penthouse

  Tower Seven

  North Bogotá

  Ann Snyder answered the buzzer in the kitchen.

  “Hola, Senora Snyder. Senor Salgado is here.” The portero, the doorman/guard, always buzzed up to get permission, even when he knew the visitor. Ann and Roberto Salgado had been dating for over a year now. As was their custom on Fridays, Roberto, or Bobby as he liked to be called, was taking Ann out to dinner and dancing.

  “Yes Miguel, send him up.” Ann felt uncomfortable. She was just leading Bobby on now. Last week she had decided that Bobby would never step up their relationship beyond “friends”. Their type of arrangement was so common that the Colombians had a word for this kind of relationship. Amiga was the word for friend; novia meant the girl one intended to marry. The Colombian men combined the words to make amigovia: The friend with whom I have sex. Ann wanted to be Bobby’s novia, but Bobby clearly wanted Ann to be his amigovia.

  But she had not broken up with Bobby. He had money and access to the best clubs and most interesting people in Bogotá. Ann liked that life. She enjoyed meeting Colombian TV stars and the diplomats from Europe and Asia. She could never afford to run in those crowds without Bobby.

  “What shall I do? What shall I do?” she asked, mimicking the lines from the movie, “Gone with the Wind”. “I shall decide in the morning.” She laughed. Tonight, she was going out and having a good time with her friends.

  She checked her make-up and straightened her shirt one more time making sure that it didn’t show too much cleavage. Phil Junior was spending t
he night at a friend’s house, and she was looking forward to meeting some of their friends at the Bogotá Beer Company in the upscale neighborhood of Usaquen.

  She dressed like Bobby liked: Tight white jeans tucked in to high heeled boots, a coffee-colored blouse unbuttoned down to her bra, and a short leather jacket with a furry collar to ward off the cold mountain air. She opened the door just as Bobby exited the elevator across the hall.

  “Ah, mi Corazon”, he crooned.

  “Hola, mi Vida”, she answered automatically. As relationships grew, couples in Colombia often used traditional pet names. He called her “My Heart”, and she called him, “My Life”. This was something of a sign post telling all that this couple was serious.

  Bobby’s in uniform again. It comforted her. All was right with the world. He almost never went anywhere unless he was dressed in his charcoal suit, white shirt and red tie. At forty-four, Bobby was the youngest Senior Vice President for BanColombia, the largest bank in the country, and the bank that the government not only used for government bonds, but the one bank in which they owned a controlling percentage of stock. Everyone knew that Roberto Enrique Salgado Alvarez was on the fast track toward the top. And a top place in the bank made for a perfect launch into politics.

  “You look gorgeous, as usual, My Queen.” Even though Bobby was tall for a Colombian, he was three inches shorter than Ann, and he loved it. Many Colombian men preferred tall women, calling them Reinas, Queens. Ann was only now getting used to dating a man shorter than her. On their first date she wore flats instead of heels so that he didn’t look too short, but Bobby insisted that she go back inside and change to her normal high heels.