CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Gaj the ‘Polack’ – also called ‘Gadget’ or ‘Big Boy’.
Gaj had been born in a neighbourhood of Greenpoint, in Brooklyn; colloquially know as ‘Little Poland’. His father and mother, first generation Polish Americans, had run a corner delicatessen and convenience store there. It had been their assumption that Gaj would eventually take over the running of the store, allowing them to retire and get the RV that they had always promised themselves. But Gaj had truly hated the very thought of being a shopkeeper. He had hated the smells; the persistent odour of rows upon rows of Polish sausages hanging from meat hooks, the kabanosy, the krakowska, the pek slaska, the pek sopocka, the wiejska and the weselena – the smell of the garlic spiced ingredients clinging stubbornly to his clothes and his hair. He had hated having to prepare the sandwiches and the green and wet salads for customers, who had seemed either incapable of making up their minds, or who were just downright ornery. He had hated the Deli. But, even more so, he had hated the social stigma and ridicule laid on him by his fellow middle school students, because of it. They would taunt him about his personal odour, the smell of the Deli that had followed him everywhere: ‘Is it a bird? Is it a fish? Is it a sausage? – No – it’s Gaj the smelly Polack’ they would jeer at him. But they had soon stopped jeering when Gaj had reached 7th grade and had started to use his fists – the taunts and ridicule had quickly stopped then. As freshman, at high school, the bullying had commenced again…but his fists had soon stopped that. Gaj had actually managed to reach the 12th grade before he had been suspended for beating to a pulp three gang members, who had jumped him. Arrested for assault, Gaj had escaped judicial punishment by pleading guilty, proclaiming his sincere regret and remorse but, more importantly, informing the New York Eastern District Judge that he was planning to join the United States Marine Corp. The Judge had taken him at his word, and had an officer from the New York City Police Department School Safety Division; escort Gaj straight down to the US Marine Corp Recruiting Centre, on Chambers Street – where Gaj had become the latest recruit to join the United States Marine Corp.
The first action that Gaj had seen, as a Marine, had been in 1983 and the invasion of Grenada, codenamed Operation Urgent Fury. He had received a commendation for rescuing some American medical students, who had been caught up in the conflict – only it had been more a walk in the park than a conflict. And Gaj had found his first piece of action to be an anticlimax and a complete waste of all his preparation and training. So disenchanted had he become with the Marine Corp, that he had applied to join the Navy Seals – and, in part due to his commendation for bravery in Grenada, he had been accepted. After completing the arduous training, Gaj had been posted to the Lebanon, in early ‘84. As a part of a handpicked Navy Seal team, he gone on covert search and destroy missions against the Free Islamic Revolutionary Movement, and various other Shia militant groups – all believed to have been responsible for the October 23rd bombing of the Beirut barracks. Then Gaj had transferred again, signing up for the airborne 75th Ranger Regiment, the ‘Rangers’ – a Special Operations light infantry unit operating out of Fort Benning, Georgia. But, apart from the many bars outside the base and in Columbus, itself, Gaj had seen little action, so had been on the move, yet again. This time joining the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, more commonly known as Delta Force – now he was to see action. And it had been Delta Force that had put him through sniper school…perversely back at Fort Benning. Gaj had passed with distinction, promoted to Staff Sergeant and dispatched on ‘black ops’ to Central America, undertaking covert missions against Salvadoran revolutionary groups there.
It had been in El Salvador that our paths were to cross.
CHAPTER FORTY
In early 1988, we were winding up our operations in Central America. A sea change in attitude and political will, on Capitol Hill, had seen a rapid distancing of the Administration from being implicated in any of the clandestine and covert operations being undertaken in Central America.
Patrick had already left for the USA – having previous work commitments in Utah. My prime involvement in the ‘Great Nevada Turkey Shoot’, back in ’86, had opened up an untapped market and had provided a wealth of opportunities for us there. Taking Mike and Ritchie with him for backup, they had gone via Las Vegas to pick up Burl and Merl, before making their way on up to Salt Lake City. Myself, and the rest of the team, had been waiting for a connecting flight from Tegucigalpa to Houston, on the Monday, in time for a scheduled ‘red-eye’ flight back to the UK, the same evening. We had a few days to kill – pardon the pun – and had been chilling out as best we could at the private hotel that we had occupied on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa, when I had found a note pinned to the door to my room: ‘Special Pickup Required’.
Not bothering to wait for the hotel elevator, I had jogged up the two flights of stairs to the next floor level, where Phil N…’s room had been located. Phil did not generally socialise with us – not that he hadn’t wanted too, far from it in actual fact. But, for security reasons, it had been considered that we should not be seen in public together…just in case that, by means of association, we had been linked to one another and compromised – you can never tell who’s listening and watching!
“Hi, good buddy – how you doing,” he had greeted me as he had opened the door to his hotel room, flashing a smile with those perfect white teeth of his.
“I got your note,” I had said in a matter of fact way. “Just like old times – is it for real?”
“I’m much afraid it is,” he had replied, ushering me into his room, everything tidy and in its place. Phil had offered me the room’s only chair, which I had sat down on, while he had sat down on the edge of his made up bed. “I’m in a real bind, buddy – and I could really appreciate you helping me out.”
“What sort of bind?” I had asked, taking out a Dunhill International and lighting it up with a flick of my Zippo…my brand of cigarettes might have changed over time, but not the means of lighting them.
“The very worst kind – I’ve placed some guys in a world of real hurt,” he had confessed, the smile had gone.
“How so?”
“I had gotten some good local intel on the location of an American hostage, being held up north, in the Morazán region, by the FMLN.”
The FMLN, the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front – members of whom we had frequently targeted and eliminated on behalf of the CIA – had been an amalgamation of various Communist and Marxist guerrilla movements, actively engaged in open insurgency again the ruling Salvadorian Military Junta.
“At the time, we hadn’t got any private contractors available, such as yourselves, to carry out the extraction,” Phil had continued. “So, I pulled in some favours and got a five man Delta team to carry out the rescue.”
“So, what went wrong?” I had asked – something must have gone wrong for the CIA man to be talking to me about it.
“It was all a big con – a sucker setup. And like some God damnrooky probationer, straight out of Langley, I went and fell for it,” Phil had admitted. “There was no hostage. It had been the FMLN, all along, who had supplied the phoney hostage intel. It was all a frigging setup. As the Delta team had slid down their drop lines, a company strength force of FMLN guerrillas had been waiting them.”
“They knew the precise time and exact location of the drop off point?” I had queried.
“Yep – they had been very well informed,” Phil had confirmed. “They knew exactly when and where to hit.”
“Who knew of the arrangements?”
Phil had shrugged his slim shoulders – he looked sheepish. “I also called in some favours from the Salvadorian military, and asked them to helicopter the Delta team to the drop off point – so, I guess, in retrospect, quite a few might have known.”
At that time, the Salvadorian government and military had been heavily infiltrated by insurgents and sympathisers, loyal to the FMLN. Phil had b
een more than aware of this fact and should have made far better arrangements for security. He had been stupidly sloppy – but, hey, we all have off days.
“Hey – shit happens. So don’t beat yourself up over it,” I had smiled, trying to ease some of the guilt that the CIA man had obviously been feeling.
“Yea – but I should have observed proper security protocol. I knew firsthand that the whole of the Salvadorian Administration is just one big leaky bucket. I just tried to shortcut the process. Now I’ve put the lives of five good guys on the line.”
“So, what’s new?” This time I had got Phil to smile slightly and relax. “What’s the intel on the team? They are obviously alive – otherwise you wouldn’t have got me in.”
“Yep, as far as we know they are still alive. Their captors are asking for a cool million for their release and safe return.”
“Well – that’s got to make life pretty easy peasy for you. All you’ve got to do is cut them a cheque for the million.”
“Can’t do it,” Phil’s smiled had disappeared again. “The Administration is running scared. They are truly frightened that the black ops we’ve been carrying out here, in El Salvador and Nicaragua, are all going to be subject of a Senate hearing – and, if that happens, then the shit is really going to hit the fan.” The smile had briefly returned, but this time it had probably been more out of resignation to the situation, than anything else. “Regan has shut us down. I don’t exist – you don’t exist – they don’t exist. Nothing exists in Central America anymore – correction, ‘nothing’ has ever existed here!”
“But the five guys being held hostage do,” I had interrupted him. “They exist – and we exist.”
“But, apart from some loose change, I’ve got no funds to finance an extraction. I hadn’t in the first place, when I sent those Delta guys out there. That’s why I had to call in some favours – no moneeee!”
“Your credits always good with me, Phil – so, what would you like us to do?”
For the briefest of moments, it had looked as if Phil was going to actually break down; there had been the slightest of a tremor in his lower lip. “You’d do that for me?”
“Sure, why not – a ‘Special Pickup’ is a Special Pickup,” I had reassured him. “Just need to know the where and when…and you just leave me to figure out the how.”
Phil had leapt off the edge of the bed and had bounded over to a small table, set directly in front of the room’s large window, its surface covered in a proliferation of maps and satellite photographs.
“The ‘where’ is here,” he had said excitedly, pointing to a red circled area marked up on one of the maps. The map was of the Morazán region, up in the north eastern part of El Salvador. “They are being held here,” he had continued, picking up one of the satellite photographs and showing me an enlarged grainy view of a clearing in the jungle, populated with what had appeared to be a neat tidy line of huts, along one side of it.
“How do you know that they are being kept here – at this exact location?” I had asked.
“Because the guerrillas have as good as told us, themselves,” Phil had positively beamed.
“How so?”
“They are using the Delta Team’s own tactical satellite radio to contact us on. The TACSAT radios are good,” he had gone on to explain. “But we don’t use them in Europe anymore; because they are so God damn easy to detect and so God damn easy to jam. But the cherry is that if you can detect them…you can locate them.”
“Okay – that’s the ‘where’ – what about the ‘when’?”
“Using our own undercover people, I’ve had it leaked that, on Friday, a big juicy military supply convoy is going to be passing close by to where this guerrilla group is based – the ones who are holding the Delta team.” Phil had pointed to the map, to a thin strip of yellow that had meandered its way along the line of a valley, signifying a road. “The highway is only about twelve miles south west of them and, hopefully, the convoy is going to be too much of a juicy peach for them to resist. And – if they go for it, it will place them a good three hours away from the camp.”
“But not so good for those Salvadorian conscripts in the supply convoy,” I had pointed out to him – it was quite out of character for Phil to intentionally place others at risk.
“Ah,” he had grinned, his perfect white teeth on show. “Gone and thrown them a curved ball. This ain’t going be a regular supply column – it’s going to be carrying a crack Salvadorian commando unit, fully supported by helicopter gunships and ground attack fighter-bombers. This is most definitely kick ass!”
“And how can you guarantee that details of this rescue is not going to get fed straight back to the FMLN?”
“The Major General, responsible for this action, is head of the Salvadorian government’s special anti-guerrilla unit and commando division,” Phil had replied. “And, as his brother was murdered by the FMLN – he has no truck with them, whatsoever. This op is totally bomb proof – and that you can take to the God damn bank.”
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” I had known the two star General, in question. He had been responsible for orchestrating many of the atrocities committed against the FMLN, and their supporters. With his record, he couldn’t switch sides, even if he had of wanted to. “Roughly, what time will the convoy get within spitting distance?” I had asked.
“Because of the air support requirement, it’s scheduled to be in position at approximately 1300 hours.”
“Good, then we will hit the guerrilla camp at approx 1400 hours – the start of ‘Siesta’ time.”
“Good thinking,” Phil had nodded approvingly.
“That’s the ‘when’,” I had stated. “The sixty four dollar question is how do we get out there? It’s Thursday, already…no time to arrange overland transportation. And you sure as hell can’t risk using Salvadorian military helicopters, again – not after the debacle, last time. Otherwise you’ll have to send out a team to rescue us!”
“Got that base covered,” had come the quick reply. “Gonna use our regular guy.”
Our regular guy, an American ex-pat and former US Army helicopter pilot, ferried us regularly between Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador. Good guy. Good pilot – but his blue and gold liveried Bell 206B ‘JetRanger’ was in no way suitable for the op. It was not sufficiently big enough to carry us, and the hostages, as well. Plus, we would not be able to ‘fast rope’ down from it.
“He’s got the wrong type of ‘bird’ for this op. It’s not suitable to drop out of – and it hasn’t got the carrying capacity,” I had pointed out. “And, what’s more, it’s painted bright blue and fucking gold – hardly a subtle colour. We’ll be seen from miles away. Your last team were given away by loose talk – and we’ll end up being given away by a flash paint job!”
Phil’s grin had grown even wider – broader. “Ah, he’s not told you about the Huey that he’s completely restored and got back up in the air, again. It’s even been sprayed a drab olive green, too.”
Sounds a bit like old times, I had mused, quietly to myself.
Time to get busy.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
At sun rise, a little before 0620 hours, on that Friday morning, we had ‘fast-roped’ out of the Huey down some fifteen metres into a small narrow clearing.
We had gone equipped for a silent assault. John-Luke, Hughie and I had all carried M4 carbines, adapted to take eight inch suppressors. All three M4’s had also been modified to fit 40mm grenade launchers – just in case we needed to be large and loud. Carlos and Joshua had both carried M16’s. Their M16’s had also been fitted with grenade launchers, and both were mounted with optical sights. While the rest of us had been equipped with standard issue US Military machetes, Carlos had his long bladed Columbian machete – and Joshua, his shorter bladed tapanga. Maaka had carried an M60E3 general purpose machinegun, a lightweight, ‘improved’ version of the M60, fitted with a front pistol grip and integral bipod. Although frequently crit
icized for the lightweight barrel overheating, during sustained fire, it had been perfectly adequate for the ‘squad’ support weapon that we had required. If sustained fire power had of been needed, then Maaka also had two of the heavier type barrels, which could be quickly interchanged with the lighter one. Along with the spare barrels, Maaka had three canvas pouches containing the standard U.S. Army cardboard box of one hundred pre-linked rounds; two of which he had stowed away in his back pack; the other was strapped to the front of his webbing, opened with the first round of the belt already chambered into the M60E3.
We had been dropped in about five klicks north east up country from the camp, along a narrow wooded valley, which had faithfully followed the course of a fast flowing stream. We had set off at five metre intervals, close enough to give one another fire support and cover, but not close enough to become ‘collateral’ to a trip wire detonated explosive device – I had learnt my lesson the hard way, in Vietnam. As always, I had taken point.
I always take ‘point’, whenever possible. I can hear, scent, see, and sense things, long before others do. I can readily detect anomalies and changes to patterns – patterns of sound, smell, and sight. It is a sixth sense that heightens and conjoins all my other senses into one. In all these years, it has never let me down.
The trail had dropped gently down into the valley. All had been quiet, save for the babbling gurgle of the stream, to our left, as it had coursed down over well smoothed rocks. We had made very good progress, coming on to the outskirts of the guerrilla camp at just after 0700 hours. The camp was pretty much as it had appeared in the satellite photographs. Set in a long wide clearing, a line of huts had been built with their backs to a steep gulley, the stream running at the bottom. In front of the huts had been a small open space, probably somewhere between twenty to thirty metres, at its widest. This well trodden clearing had ended abruptly where it had met the steep tree covered sides of the valley. Climbing up the valley walls, we had taken advantage of the tree cover to observe the camp. At a height of some nine metres above the northern end of the camp, we had unobstructed views of the open space in front of the huts and the huts themselves, the line of huts having followed the concave curve of the gulley to the southernmost end of the camp – making all of their entrances clearly visible to us. There were fortified sentry posts at either end of the camp but these, surprisingly, had not been manned. Perhaps the guerrillas had relied upon their remoteness to keep them safe. Maaka had set up the M60E3 where he could cover the whole length of the camp – a clear line of fire on the clearing and on the huts. The rest of us had taken up defensive positions around him; equally able to provide selective fire, down into the camp, or suppressing fire to protect our flanks, if need be. Making ourselves as comfortable as possible, we had settled down patiently to wait for movement down in the camp – and we didn’t have to wait long.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 19