Arauca: A Novel of Colombia

by D. Alan Johnson

  She loved her new operations job. There was only that small stab of guilt that she had spent so little time with her son over the last four days. But he was staying at his best friend’s house, and Ann knew the parents. She was sure that he was having a good time.

  For the last three days, she and Whitehorse had been planning the best use of Paper Blue. Also, they coordinated with the Colombian army for the use of the troops in Tame. As the icing on cake, they planned how they would employ the last two flyable aircraft. General Tackaberry’s foresight in obtaining a gunship was like a miracle in light of the devastating blow to the Colombian government’s air fleet.

  Whitehorse was looking at the tactical map that they had pinned to his wall. Ann watched his back, and for the thousandth time noticed his wide shoulders and cute butt. He took a deep breath, and pulled his chin. I want him so bad, she thought. I know he knows it, too. When this is over, whichever way it goes, I am going to have him over to my house for dinner. I’ll fix him a nice steak, some good wine, and then, who knows…..

  Still looking at the map, Whitehorse pointed to the new coordinates, and started tapping the map. “We’ve got to move Alpha-1 and Alpha-2 from Agua Chica to Finca Rio Rojo. They will never make it in time walking. Get the teams on the radio. Have the Blackhawk pick them up, and let’s move this hammer over to where it can do some good!”

  “We’ll need to call Cactus and let them know that the location and time of the mission is changed,” Ann said.

  “Yep, you’re right. Call them at Apiay.”

  Ann walked over to the secure phone, still debating if she should cook a rib eye or a New York strip for her boss and possibly new boyfriend.

  1835, Thursday, 25 July

  Twelve Thousand Feet

  Fifteen miles east of Cano Limon, Colombia

  Stan Perry watched the clock on the panel. Seeing the second hand sweep past twelve, he retarded the throttles and lowered the nose of the aircraft into a steep descent. The farmland below was black and flat. But up ahead he could plainly see the lights of Cano Limon. Stan was flying Blackie, and Andy and Jose were in the back. Andy would be working the FLIR and Jose would be the gunner.

  All three of them could perform two jobs. Stan had wanted redundancy in case someone became wounded, so they had cross trained for months while Cactus Air looked for a contract. Andy was pilot and FLIR operator, and Jose was gunner and FLIR operator. Since Stan got motion sickness looking at the FLIR screen, he was qualified as both gunner and pilot.

  Stan looked out his right window for Mad’s Cessna flying in loose formation. He knew he wouldn’t see the blacked out aircraft, but it was just force of habit. Both FLIR operators had the other aircraft in sight. There were no radio transmissions, so that the FARC would not be warned of their presence.

  As briefed, the Cessna broke formation and flew to the other side of Cano Limon to seek other targets for the gunship. Blackie had a good FLIR on board and could find targets unaided, but more time could be spent engaging targets if a recon bird lined them up first.

  Stan glanced at his FLIR repeater screen positioned in the center of his instrument panel. The FLIR was centered on the group of trucks lined up at the highway intersection just east of the camp. Muzzle flashes on both sides of the highway were easy to see on the screen. Passing four thousand feet, Stan turned on the targeting computer and lowered the reflector in front of his left side window.

  This computer, using the angle of the FLIR, computed the bank angle needed to position the bullet strikes to where the FLIR was pointed. A red dot and a yellow Vee were projected onto the small reflector. The pilot’s job was to fly the aircraft so that the dot rested in the bottom of the Vee. When everything was lined up, the FLIR operator would fire the gun.

  At two thousand feet Stan leveled off and called for the “Before Firing Checklist”. He felt the back door open and the trim change as the gun was slid back into position.

  “Before Firing Checklist complete,” Andy said.

  Stan concentrated on bringing the red dot into the Vee. As it settled in, he crosschecked his instruments. Everything was normal. “Begin firing.”

  Even with noise canceling headsets and earplugs, the noise hammered Stan’s head. At this altitude, men were seen clearly on the screen. Many were dying as nearly one hundred bullets per second were accurately put into the target area. Andy moved the FLIR to a new concentration of soldiers and Stan eased the aircraft toward the left. The Gatling gun roared again.

  With hundreds of dead soldiers lying along the road, Andy now focused in on the trucks. Stan was getting tired and it took nearly half an orbit to get set up. After one long burst from the gun, there was a bright explosion, and then another.

  “Shit! Break right! Break right!” Andy said. “Sorry boss.” There was a firm “no swearing’ policy on board Cactus aircraft. Not only did Stan disapprove, but he thought it sounded very unprofessional when the mission tapes were reviewed.

  “Must have been lots of explosives in one of those trucks. The flash blinded me,” Andy said.

  “Yeah. I needed a break anyway,” Stan said. “Jose, you OK?”

  “I’m just a little behind here, boss.” Stan could hear his heavy breathing over the intercom. It could get to be real work keeping that gun fed when the firing was heavy.

  “How’s the ammo load?” Stan was worried that they would not have enough for the raid at Agua Chica. Even though it would be a surprise attack against the command center, there might be more resistance for the two teams than anticipated. Besides, they had to hold back some ammo to cover the helicopter extraction.

  “Let’s see,” Jose paused. “We’re down to a little less than half, sir.” Jose had a hard time not calling the pilot “sir” even though Stan had corrected him several times. After nearly thirty years in the Air Force, Jose’s habit was hard to break.

  Stan looked at his moving map and saw that he was about to enter into Venezuelan airspace. Turning hard to the left, he looked directly down at Cano Limon.

  The encrypted SAT radio that had been installed in Apiay suddenly came to life.

  “Talon One this is Porton Seis. Do you read me?” The heavily accented voice was General Vela of the Colombian Air Force. Andy handled all of the mission related radio transmissions from his console. Stan only talked on the radios that were related to air traffic control.

  “Porton Seis this is Talon One. Go ahead,” Andy said

  “Talon One, your mission is changed. Second target is different location. RTB immediately to refuel and rearm. Over.”

  “Roger. On our way home. Estimate Apiay in one hour five minutes.”

  “Now, I wonder what that is all about,” Stan said over the intercom.

  “Don’t know. But I don’t think we should carry home all this ammo, do you boss?”

  “Jose, you are the man! No, I think we should burn it up. Get a lot better climb rate if we’re 900 pounds lighter. Andy, find us a target.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  1850, Thursday, 25 July

  Finca Rio Rojo

  Arauca, Colombia

  “This is Max Gomez. I am the new leader of Arauca. I know that President Chavez is at a state dinner, but I must speak with him now. This is an emergency!”

  Max was horrified when he heard about a gunship attacking his troops. The reports of killed and wounded continued to flood into his office. The numbers were almost unbelievable. His siege of Cano Limon could not stand another attack like this. His men were sure to run.

  His strategy of destroying all of the air assets in Colombia was perfect. And all of his intel said that there was not a single flyable gunship in the country. Yolima had confirmed that there was no outside help available to the forces at Cano Limon. Yet here it was. And night capable, too.

  Max held on to the phone with all his strength. He wanted to curse and shout, but he knew that he must stay calm in front of his staff. He willed Chavez to come to the phone. Max’s biggest worry was that Cha
vez was in the middle of one of his three hours speeches, and that the battle would be over before the Venezuelan president was finished ranting.

  Suddenly the phone came alive.

  “President Chavez. Thank you for taking time to talk with me. I need some help from your Air Force.”

  Pause.

  “Yes sir. Do you have a night capable fighter? Yes, an OV-10 would be perfect. I have a gunship harassing my troops. And if it is not taken out, we could fail in our attempt to take Cano Limon.”

  Pause.

  “Yes sir. Thank you sir.” Max hung up. There would be a pair of Venezuelan OV-10’s over Cano Limon in less than two hours.

  “Now we’ll see who wins,” Max said.

  2002, Thursday, 25 July

  Apiay Air Force Base

  Colombia

  As Stan braked to a stop, the fuel truck pulled up in front and the ammo cart stopped close to the back door. On their way home, Blackie had fired all along the FARC line on the east side of Cano Limon until the ammo was completely gone.

  Stan squeezed his fat through the small opening on the left side to get out, and for the thousandth time told himself that he would have to lose weight some day or he would have a heart attack. As he stepped down, a soldier handed him a bottle of water and a fresh, hot ham and cheese sandwich. Each of the crew got the same dinner while Colombian mechanics checked the engine nacelles and then the entire airframe for bullet damage.

  The crew walked over to Operations to take a leak. There Stan and Andy were briefed on the new mission while Jose went back to supervise the ammo loading. Within twenty minutes, everything was ready for another takeoff. Stan and Andy were up front for takeoff, and Jose manned the FLIR station.

  By 2030 Blackie was clawing for altitude for the hour long ride to Finca Rio Rojo. The night air cooled as soon as they passed three thousand feet, and Stan knew that it would be really cold in the back when they opened the door in an hour.

  “What a view. I love to fly at night. Cool air, no turbulence, and look at those lights. Like diamonds thrown on black velvet,” Andy said.

  “My, aren’t we poetic tonight,” Jose replied from the back.

  “Just waxing eloquent before the coming battle. It’s a tradition with the English, you know.”

  As the verbal jousting continued, Stan knew that it was just a way that experienced soldiers dissipated the horror of seeing humans die from your actions, and a tactic to push back your own fear of dying. Without warning, the overly happy conversation died.

  “I’d better get in the back. You’ve got everything, OK?” Andy said, suddenly serious.

  Stan couldn’t help but think that God must be watching this action with a disapproving eye. Fighting to protect one’s homeland was one thing, but here he was killing for a cause that he had nothing to do with. I’m here just for the money, he thought.

  Even though he had been in battle several times, terror welled up in his stomach. Every time it seemed worse than the time before. He felt like turning back, but he knew he must go on. He was a professional. He was the leader. He had already been paid. So Stan said a silent prayer:

  Father, I ask your forgiveness for my lack of faith. Give me safety, and if not, then watch over my family. Don’t let me embarrass myself in front of my men. Protect us all. Forgive us.

  His prayer was interrupted by the radio.

  2050, Thursday, 25 July

  Finca Rio Rojo

  Arauca, Colombia

  Lynn Metzler lay in the ditch across the road from Finca Rio Rojo. He was close enough to a large culvert that should anyone come by, he could duck under the road and hide in the water standing in the pipe. He tried not to think about the snakes and leeches.

  Bringing his binoculars up, he looked in the windows of the house. The lights were ablaze, and people hustled to and fro. The noise from the generator, the air conditioners, and the conversations was a blessing to help bring his troops up quickly. Also, the home owners never cleared back the jungle, so his men would have cover right up to the road.

  Now, this is more like it, he thought. There was no doubt that this was the headquarters they had been looking for. Several Mercedes sedans hulked in the darkness, generals in flashy uniforms strolled by, and Lynn could even see the tactical maps through the second story window.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that there were armed soldiers everywhere. The low building to the north appeared to be a farm building converted to a barracks. There could be twenty soldiers in there, or there could be fifty.

  The gunship was the answer to that problem. As Alpha-1 attacked, the FARC soldiers would stream out, and then, when they were out in the open, the gunship would light them up. While being briefed during the helicopter ride, he had been told of the fabulous accuracy of the new guys. Cactus was their call sign, and they would be on frequency to target any problem areas during the assault and the exfiltration. Alpha-2 was to remain back to act as security, and to ambush any pursuing forces.

  The building itself would be no problem. This simple, sturdy wooden structure was two stories high, with the main rooms on the second story. He and his team would assault the house from the south side, clear the bottom floor, and then storm the stairs and take out the command structure. The hard part would be exiting the house alive. There was only one way in and out. One of his soldiers carried a fifty foot rope. They would use the rope to slide down from the window on the back side of the house, he decided.

  He crouched low, and walked back through the culvert to join up with his team. He only had a few minutes to spare to make his assault time of 2200. He used this time to brief both teams and get his team moved into position.

  At 2150, his radio went off in his ear.

  “Cactus One is over the target.”

  “Cactus One. This is Alpha-1. Roger,” Lynn answered. Turning to his men, he said, “Let’s move out.”

  Crossing the road at a run, the team advanced on the house. Their machine gun opened up fifty meters to the left to give covering fire. Lynn turned and saw Sid run across the road toward the generator. He heard the explosion, and smiled as all the lights went black. Now their NVG’s would be an advantage.

  *****

  Stan had pulled back the power ten miles out and glided in almost soundlessly. The timing was perfect. As he arrived at 2000 feet, the assault team was crossing the road. He saw the lights go out, and gave the order to fire at will.

  The mini-gun burped out death to the soldiers who came pouring out of the barracks. Stan glanced at his monitor, and was sickened by the twisted bodies piled up by the side of the barracks. The FLIR swiveled and Stan saw a dump truck full of troops who had been guarding an intersection down the road roaring up to the big house.

  “Take out this dump truck!” Lynn screamed over his radio.

  “They’re too close,” Andy replied.

  “Just shoot. Now!”

  Stan concentrated on keeping the dot married up with the Vee in his sight, and heard the gun roar again.

  “Great shooting!” Lynn said.

  Stan was afraid to look at his monitor again.

  “They’re inside. We’ve got another group of g’s moving up from the east. Adjusting.” Andy slewed the FLIR onto the new target, and Stan tried to fly the dot on his display.

  Stan was distracted by red streaks in front of the airplane. For a few seconds, he didn’t understand how tracers from his gun got out in front. Then he heard the bullets hitting his airplane. No longer afraid, Stan banked hard right, kicked in right rudder to skid, and pulled up. He saw a cloud above, and he pushed the throttles past maximum power.

  “Andy, call Alpha-1. Tell them we’re running, but we’ll be back,” Stan said. No answer.

  “Andy’s dead, boss,” Jose said. I’ll take the FLIR.

  Stan pushed the “FM” button on his audio panel and said, “Alpha-1, we’re under attack by another aircraft. We’re breaking off for now.”

  The cloud base was only a
few hundred feet away. We’ll be safe in there, Stan thought. The next burst of bullets ripped through the cockpit. Stan felt like he had been kicked in the back. He saw his blood splattered on the instrument panel.

  God, take care of my family…..

  *****

  Lynn heard the radio call, and knew the gunship was done for. His team was at the bottom of the stairs, pinned down by a guard at the top of the stairs with a sub-machine gun. Lynn moved to the right and found a closet under the stair well. He estimated where the stairs went up to the landing, and fired a long burst through the ceiling. The guard screamed, and the firing stopped.

  The Colombian soldiers stormed up the stairs. Lynn heard a great deal of firing. Then, there were two muffled explosions. By the time Lynn bounded up the stairs, the rope had been fastened to a heavy table, and the first Colombian was already sliding down. One by one, they all reached the ground.

  Lynn was the last one in the command center, and he looked around for any useful intelligence. The general staff had apparently retreated to the far corner, and his team murdered them where they huddled. The maps on the wall had too much blood splattered on them to be of any use. Looking into the next room, he could see that the communications equipment had been wrecked by the explosions he had heard. He could see no code books, and there was no one left to take for interrogation.

  A long burst of machine gun fire rattled out, and Lynn could hear the bullets hitting the house. Lynn stood back from the window where he could not be easily seen, and saw that all of his team was dead at the base of the wall. He was frozen in horror. Another group of guards must have driven up, and without the gunship, he was blind. Judging from their marksmanship, they must have NVG’s, too.