Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  “But we got some really good film of you with the dolphins.”

  “Did you, really? Did it show the dolphins?” Mad nodded. “Can I get a copy?”

  “Of course.” Mad barely got the words out before Yolima put her arms around him and gave him a big hug. He felt her breast against his shoulder. She smelled of sunblock and the river. His mind flooded with desire.

  “Now, you will need to pay me something for that film,” Mad said. She stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and looked at him a little sideways. A moment passed without anything being said. Mad let the tension build.

  “Tonight, you must go out with me. I’ll pick you up at your room, and take you to dinner at the exclusive Cano Limon Restaurant. It’s buffet style, you know.”

  She tried to hold back, but the laughter burst out.

  “Around seven, then?”

  “I should think that six-thirty would be better,” Mad said very formally. “And wear a dress,” he said as an afterthought.

  “Yes, my Lord. I have a dress for this evening.” With that she turned on her heel, giving the men an exquisite view of her backside as she walked down the sidewalk, and turned back towards her room.

  “Did you see THAT?” Steve said.

  “Mad, I’m telling you, this must be the best dolly in the whole world,” George said with a big grin. He reverted to the professional and started briefing Mad on what the Agency wanted fed to Yolima.

  1530, Thursday, July 25

  SOCOM Headquarters

  McDill Air Force Base

  Tampa, Florida

  General Joseph Tackaberry read the NSA traffic intercepts from the new FARC headquarters. It took some doing to convince those nerds in Northern Virginia to give him the intel he needed, but by pulling some strings, he now had most of what he wanted. He placed the papers back into the envelope marked “EYES ONLY”, and handed it back to Suzy.

  “Keep that in the safe. Of course you never saw these.” Just a tiny smile escaped Suzy’s facial grip.

  The information coming out of the FARC’s new staff headquarters was in three types of encryption. The commercial PGP was the easiest to break. Several years ago, the NSA paid the programmers to give them a “back door” to these commercial encryption programs. While the double-key encryption was difficult to crack, the intelligence community bypassed all of that hassle with the expenditure of just a few hundred thousand dollars. Therefore, the dolly in Cano Limon, the daily strength reports, and such were all easily read.

  The next level was the Chinese diplomatic code. This code was supposedly unbreakable also, but, apparently, someone in the Chinese network had been slipping the Americans the daily one-time keys. The Chinese were supplying real time intelligence to the FARC as well as weapons and vehicles. The Venezuelans were allowing the Chinese to move this material through their territory.

  Both of these actions could be taken by the Colombians as acts of war. But NSA would not release this information, considering it too sensitive. However, one of Tackaberry’s classmates at West Point now worked at the Joint Staff and understood the importance of Cano Limon to the National Interest.

  The last level of encryption actually was a tactical code, technically not encryption. NSA suspected that it was a “book code”. This code was unbreakable unless one had both the book that was being used and the key. In this type of code, each party possessed the same book. When the sender encoded a message, he found the word he wanted to use somewhere in the book. He would then count the number of pages either from the front, the back, or from a predetermined page, and that became the first number. Next he would count the number of lines, and that became the second number. Lastly, he would count the number of words in that line, and that became the third and fourth number.

  These numbers were displayed on the FARC website, so no one could see what computers accessed the information. The NSA could not access the secure section of the website without arousing suspicion, but they could intercept the code each time that FARC headquarters uploaded a message and downloaded a reply.

  The message looked like groups numbers for example:

  8563 3249 0932 4391 3349 6481

  It is clear that the FARC plan is to take Arauca and make it a sovereign nation. What was less than clear was why the Chinese and Venezuelans were involved. And the wild card was the book code. To who was it addressed? And what was the message?

  “Suzy, that book code bothers me,” Tackaberry said. “The codes are so short. That shows the players are already briefed on some detailed plan.” Messages with so few words could only be for fine adjustments and timing purposes. Suzy Osterman stood like a pillar, letting him process his thoughts. He wished she would give him some feedback.

  “We can’t let the Cano Limon oil fields fall to the FARC.”

  The general moved around his desk to the floor-to-ceiling map of Central and South America, his area of operations. The US already suffered from high prices and occasional shortages of oil. America had trimmed her huge thirst for oil, but the loss of the 500,000 barrels per day of Cano Limon sweet crude would put another crimp in the nation’s economy. The Iran War was already a drag on the administration, and an oil crisis on top of that would ruin any hope of reelection for the Democrats.

  Tackaberry longed for the time in his past when he was just a captain, and the political implications of his soldiering were not a factor.

  “Suzy, get me the status of available air assets for use during a possible emergency deployment to Colombia.”

  While he waited, he did some push-ups and then wandered around the office. He looked on several desks and chatted with his staff, satisfying both his curiosity and his desire to keep a close grip on the operation of his command.

  The replies were identical and infuriating. All useable assets were deployed. Only training units remained in the United States.

  The preceding administration had allowed Iran to develop and deploy nuclear weapons. In order to prevent a nuclear strike against the US, the President, along with Israel, had launched a full scale war against Iran. Syria and Jordan immediately declared war against the United States hoping to help their Moslem neighbor. After years of trimming back forces while still waging a simmering war in Iraq, the US military was but a husk of the mighty force that threw Saddam Hussein out of power.

  There was one AC-130U gunship at Eglin Air Force Base in Northern Florida. It had arrived just this morning and was undergoing overhaul. There were six F-15 Strike Eagles in the Washington DC area to protect the president and Congress from any threat from the air. The Navy had all carrier task forces deployed to the Persian Gulf and Indian Ocean. And the Marines were deployed almost to a man.

  The General sat down at his computer wrote a secure email for the Joint Staff:

  TO: JOINT STAFF

  FROM: SOCOM

  RE: THREAT TO COLOMBIAN OIL SUPPLIES

  Gentlemen,

  As you have read in your newspapers and your daily intel briefs, the FARC has changed from a criminal enterprise into one dedicated to political victories. This development can only portend evil for our allies, the Colombian government.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that a large part of our oil supply in South America could be in danger of capture by the Colombian guerrillas. All of you know the importance of such a major oil field. SOCOM has reliable intelligence that the Venezuelans and Chinese are helping FARC by supplying arms, intelligence, and safe havens. This can only mean that the FARC, should they gain control of Cano Limon, will sell the oil to our enemies instead of to the United States.

  I have need of air assets and advance permission to use such assets in the case that we must directly intervene in the Colombian civil war to protect our oil supplies. With the level of air defense possessed by the FARC, almost any platform capable of delivering ordinance and gunfire would be devastating to a guerrilla attack. Of course, my preference would be two AC130 gunships, but any ground attack aircraft would be useful.

&nbs
p; Respectfully,

  Major General Joseph H. Tackaberry

  Commanding

  Since he was not officially briefed, Tackaberry felt like it would not be appropriate to mention that intelligence had confirmed that FARC was planning on establishing a sovereign country between Colombia and Venezuela.

  Within two hours, General Joseph H. Tackaberry had his reply.

  TO: Maj. Gen. Joseph Tackaberry

  FROM: Gen. William H. Oglesby

  RE: Colombian Oil Supplies

  Joe,

  Your email has been considered in light of the world situation. You are correct that a stable Colombia is the key to South American peace. However, our main focus is the threat of a limited nuclear exchange with Iran. While we do agree with you that the loss of Cano Limon would be a financial blow to the US, we cannot afford to the reallocate any air assets to SOCOM at this time.

  Good luck,

  General William H. Oglesby

  Chairman, JCS

  Tackaberry cursed silently. Things were bad in Iran, he knew. But to be denied any air support was unthinkable. The Joint Chiefs must be keeping a lid on how tight things really were. He picked up his cell phone and called Bill Oglesby’s personal cell phone. It was now 1710, and he might be out of his meetings.

  “Hello, Joe. I was expecting you to call.”

  “Bill. Good to talk to you, too.” General Oglesby was a classmate of Joe Tackaberry at West Point, and they were lifelong friends. Their careers were quite different, and Oglesby now had four stars on his lapel while Tackaberry only had two.

  “Listen, I’ve got to have some air support. I know you guys are up to your necks in Iran, but can’t you help me out at all?”

  “Look, we’re strapped. I don’t have anything to give you. Even if I did, the diplomatic consequences of a US military strike could be worse than losing the oil for a few months. I know that you’re concerned about your area of responsibility, but it takes a third row seat to Iran.”

  “What would you have me do? Sit back while China expands her influence in South America, and takes our oil to boot?”

  “I can’t help you, Joe. I’m sorry. Besides, we’ve given lots of aircraft to Colombia. Her Air Force and Army are well equipped and well trained.”

  “I’ve got a hunch about this. It’s gonna to go bad for the Colombians. That coded traffic was put together by someone who knows our capabilities. He chose the only code that he knows we can’t break. They’ve got a plan to counter the Colombian police and military. I got a gut feeling…”

  Gut feelings were not something to be ignored. Generals listened when another general talked about these feelings. More times than one can count, a hunch had turned a battle or even determined the outcome of a war. And those feelings, when ignored, had cost the lives of thousands of men. William Oglesby was not one to discount the intuition of another general, even one whom he outranked.

  “Joe, I can’t give you any air. I’ve got some money for contract air. Best I can do. I’ll OK its use in Colombia. You’ll have a written authorization by 0900 tomorrow.” Click. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs hung up.

  Tackaberry’s mind started churning. He would need to ask Suzy to help him plan this operation. His staff was comprised of rejects from combat units. Each of them was here because their previous commander had relieved them of duty. Could he use this bunch of losers to launch an attack against a determined guerrilla force over 1,800 miles away? Hulbert in Intelligence was already well aware of the situation. Fremont was his new Operations Chief. His Logistics Officer slot was unfilled due to the early retirement of Colonel Boylan. However, he was sure that Staff Sergeant Wilhite could step in and handle that mission.

  Tackaberry used contract air plenty of times in small brush wars in places like Angola, Peru, San Salvador, and Afghanistan. Companies like Challenge Air, BATs, Paladin, Ironwood Transport, and E&G delivered arms, moved soldiers, and even flew combat sorties.

  Who could he call? Everybody’s working in the desert. How would he move these assets into position? How would he get approval from the Colombian government without letting the FARC know of his intentions? He needed troop transport, logistics, aerial surveillance, and, most importantly, gunships.

  1820, Thursday, July 25

  Off of the coast of Southern Florida

  United States

  The bronzed beauty climbed the circular staircase, ducked under the bamboo curtain blocking the late afternoon sun and then walked over toward Reed Morgan’s chair. He sat under the sunshade on the second floor aft deck of his one hundred twenty foot yacht, slowly cruising toward his home in the Turks and Caicos. He looked up, still half asleep. At first he thought that she was nude, but then he saw how her tiny brown bikini seemed to blend in with her tanned skin. What was her name again? She was bringing him something.

  “Mr. Morgan, I have an urgent phone call from your office.” She handed him the cell phone. He shook his head trying to come out from under the rum haze. Must be important to call this late.

  “Yes Milly. What’s so important?” Milly Stein had been his personal secretary for the last twenty one years. Unlike his boating companions, she was sixty one, plump, and only wore calf length dresses to work. But she was tough, competent, and fiercely loyal. She cared for his business and, more importantly, took care of his personal life. That is why he paid her ten thousand dollars a month plus big bonuses.

  “Mr. Morgan, I’ve just gotten a call from Stafford Technologies. They need a wire transfer of four million dollars. Tomorrow first thing.”

  “Right. Mmmm. Let’s see, that puts them into me for about eleven million for the year?”

  “Yes, Mr. Morgan, it’s ten point three seven million without any carrying charges.”

  “OK. Hong Kong should be open in a couple of hours. Send it out right now so that they’ll have it in their account first thing.” He smiled up at the beauty and handed back the phone, noticing her excellent breasts. He would definitely have to find out her name.

  Reed Morgan became a millionaire by starting a computer software company. He became a billionaire when he convinced the US military to purchase his database software for all the branches of the military.

  Occasionally, the company known as Stafford Technologies would call and request wire transfers, often for millions of dollars. Reed wrote off the expense as consulting fees. But he knew Stafford Technologies was owned by the CIA, or DIA, or NSA, it didn’t matter. The funds he sent were used for secret US operations the intelligence community did not want Congress to know about. In return for his “contribution”, several weeks or a few months later one of Reed Morgan’s companies would receive a very profitable “no bid” contract with the US government. Milly Stein was the only other person familiar with their unwritten deal.

  He lifted his glass, and the girl took it toward the bar for a refill.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  1830, Thursday, July 25

  Cano Limon

  Arauca, Colombia

  Mad Madison could not remember a time when he was more nervous than he was right now. Maybe just before a tactical night parachute jump when he was in the Army. Here he was walking up the sidewalk toward Yolima’s room, and he was almost hyperventilating. George had pounded the Agency’s line into his head for the last two hours, even while Mad was trying to get ready.

  Now, he was supposed to make conversation, find out what Yolima knew, and feed her the information that George tried to stuff into Mad’s head. On top of all that, he was giddy about just being near this gorgeous woman.

  He stopped at one of the support columns and gathered his wits. Remember, old chum, this lovely doesn’t like you because you are the handsomest hunk in Northern Colombia. She is only after what you know. Stay sharp.

  Fortified, he walked forward and knocked on her door.

  “Just a minute,” she called out in Spanish.

  Never fails, he thought. All women are late, Latinas are later. H
e turned away from the building and watched the sunset and the birds flying over the trees. His mind was empty, no worries, no wants, just taking in the orange clouds floating by and the gathering shadows. Lion monkeys roared and flushed the turkey buzzards. The rapid nightfall of the tropics always surprised him. Almost no dusk, just one minute it was light, the next minute it was night.

  He glanced at his watch, surprised that fifteen minutes had passed. The doorknob rattled. He turned, and Yolima stepped out of her room. She wore a simple fitted black dress with thin straps. The full skirt went almost to her knees. The bodice scooped just low enough to show a bit of cleavage, and her long brown hair flowed down her bare back. Mad had never seen such a desirable woman. He didn’t quite know what to do, so he bowed.

  “Would you like to dine with me?” he said, extending his arm.

  “Of course I would.” She took his arm and smiled as he very correctly escorted her to the dining facility. The food on the camp was quite good. Customarily, all the oil companies provided excellent food. They publicized this perk as a recruitment tool. They also wanted the camp workers to eat well and stay happy on the closed camp. So Tyson kept a small group of chefs rotating into the camp every two months. Most of them came from the cruise ship business and wanted a few weeks on land. The generous pay and the pretty Colombian women were the two draws that kept the chefs coming back.

  Tonight, the menu included steaks, baked potatoes, choice of vegetables, fresh bread, French onion soup, and the salad bar.

  Madison’s mind remained fogged throughout the entire meal. Her perfume, her hair, her hand on his forearm as she talked with him, all kept him off balance.

  Several friends sat around and admired Yolima, joking and flirting with her. But the whole time, by her looks, posture, and attentiveness, she let everyone know that she was with Mad, and that she was only interested in him.