by T. S. O'Neil
The copter circled the island once and located the yacht.
While the Blackhawk hovered, the master sergeant brought the IR Scope to his eye and scanned the boat. He noted that the engines were cold and he noticed no other heat signatures. He spoke into his microphone and a few seconds later, the crew chief opened the right side troop door and kicked out a heavy rope. Two troopers filed towards the thick white line, gripped it with heavy gloves, and descended to the dock. Once they were both on the ground, they quickly disappeared on board.
The Blackhawk continued towards the center of the island and the pilot selected the FOB’s slightly overgrown airstrip for a landing zone. The young pilot slammed the Blackhawk down hard enough to earn a withering look from the chief warrant officer, and reactively shrugged his shoulders as if to apologize.
Michael and Ramos were alerted by the distinctive, rapid, throaty wump of the Blackhawk’s arrival. Blackfox jumped to his feet and stared off in the direction of the noise.
“Marines?”
Ramos shook his head, “No, we use mostly UH1s for transport. Aside from you gringos, the only one with Blackhawks is the Counter-Narcotics Brigade.”
“We need to go,” said Michael while shaking Char awake.
“Why? They are probably just doing some training,” said Ramos reassuringly.
“If you want to stay, then stay. Maybe they can drop you off in Turbo, but we’re leaving.” Char awoke and heard enough to know things had taken a sudden turn for the worse. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his bag.
“Okay, we go,” said Ramos.
They all heard the distinct high-pitched whistle of illumination flares rocketing skyward.
“Bad news,” said Char.
“Tell me something we don’t know,” answered Michael. Instinctively, they hit the deck, while Ramos took shelter beneath the crawlspace under the cook shack, opened the trap door, and boosted himself inside.
Char and Michael looked at each other as if to say, “No shit” and quickly followed. They silently hunkered down below the four-foot walls of the hut and watched the slowly descending flare flood light through the tall screen windows.
No voices betrayed the raiding party’s presence, but there was the sound of soft footfalls on the hard packed earth that surrounded the C-Huts. The team approached the FOB with the SF master sergeant in the lead. He scanned the buildings as they approached and aside from the still smoldering grill, found no other heat source.
He began scanning the sides of each plywood building, looking for a heat signature that indicated the presence of their prey.
Michael heard a soft explosive pop followed by a loud one and assumed the raid party was systematically using small explosive charges to blow the padlocks securing the C-huts, then throwing in a flash-bang grenade to stun any defenders.
Ramos duck walked over to Michael and whispered something. An intense murmured negotiation ensued, punctuated by several softly spoken curses in both English and Spanish.
“Don’t worry, Michael, no one gets hurt. I just want to get their attention. I owe you that for Iraq,” whispered Ramos.
Michael nodded, afraid he might never see Ramos again. They embraced with two quick pats on the back, and Ramos silently scurried into the kitchen while Michael signaled his father to follow him to the trap door. “Run to the boat as fast as you can, when I tell you,” he whispered.
From a squat, Ramos reached up to the windowsill where the hose from the propane tank entered through a hole in the screen. He turned the dial on the regulator, allowing the flow of propane to the lightweight field stove they had used earlier to cook the lobsters. He then turned both burners to full, retreated behind the plywood wall that separated the kitchen from the living area, and waited.
Michael could smell the scent imparted into the otherwise odorless gas waft into the hut. The assault team better get here soon, otherwise, Michael, Char, and Ramos would die of gas poisoning instead of getting blown up, thought Michael.
There was a loud explosive pop that shattered the lock on the wood slat door. Someone wrenched it open and a beer-can-sized object clattered across the wooden floorboards.
A second later, the entire front of the C-hut exploded in a hot eruption of flame and noise as the grenade ignited the propane, flinging the bodies of the assault team onto their backs and showering them with splintered wood from the destroyed kitchen. Smoke billowed out from the source of the explosion and hung in the air above the prostrate bodies of the raid team.
Michael and Char dropped through the hatchway and crawled to the far side of the building just as it exploded. The sound was deafening and the front of the C-hut evaporated in a fireball followed by billowing clouds of black smoke. Holy shit, thought Michael, I hope Ramos didn’t kill anyone. He signaled his father with a slap on the back and the two sprinted to the dock.
Ramos peeked out from behind the plywood wall and cursed. Too much gas, he thought. The entire front wall of the C-hut was missing and the edges were on fire in places. Pieces of smoldering wood were scattered about the front of the hut. Someone was loudly shouting for a fire extinguisher. Ramos could see all the members of the entry team unsteadily get to their feet, and he figured they were shaken up and possibly angry, but otherwise okay. He was damn sure not going to stick around and catch a beating. Ramos expeditiously low-crawled across the wood floor and slipped down through the trap door.
The soldiers on board the yacht heard the loud explosion and became concerned. They had huddled in the pilothouse, knowing this would be the first place the drug smugglers would head. Now they thought perhaps the team had been ambushed and wondered whether they should go to assist. The senior sergeant ordered his subordinate to stay put and exited the boat just as Char and Michael reached the dock.
The Colombian brought his weapon up to fire, but Michael plowed into him at full speed while he simultaneously jammed his forearm into the man’s chin, one of the few areas not protected by ballistic armor. The blow took the man off his feet and his M16A2 clattered onto the dock a few feet from his right arm. Michael grabbed the weapon, chambered a round, and scanned the boat just as the second soldier exited the main cabin onto the stern.
Michael took up a good sight picture on the other soldier’s midsection and shouted,
“¡Suelta el arma! Shouted Michael; ordering the man to drop his weapon. The soldier stared at him, but did not move. Char decided they didn’t have time for a Colombian standoff—he quickly mounted the stern, approached the soldier, and snatched the weapon from the smaller man with such violence that it knocked him off his feet.
Char expertly opened the receiver, removed the bolt, and threw it off into the distance, figuring the soldier should be able to find it come sun up. He handed the now useless rifle back to the soldier and said, “Salga la lancha! Get off the boat.”
Michael removed the bolt from his M16, threw the bolt in the same direction as the last one, and handed the gun back to the soldier he had knocked on his ass.
“Muevelos!” Char said loudly as he herded both men off the dock in the direction of the FOB. When he was sure that they had left the area, Michael quickly untied the lines while Char re-boarded the yacht and headed to the bridge to fire up the engines.
Ramos was a few minutes behind the others, but he was a well-conditioned athlete and arrived just as Michael was ushering the two soldiers off the dock. “They’re okay―it just shook them up a bit.”
Michael nodded. “Get aboard. We’re off like a prom dress.”
The Good as Gold reversed slowly away from the dock, and Char executed a slow sweeping turn to starboard to point the bow north and away from Colombia. International waters were normally considered to be twelve miles out, but Char wasn’t about to stop there. He slowly throttled up the engines, hoping the calamity at the FOB would keep the raiders occupied.
Michael and Ramos stood on the bridge on either side of Char as he stood transfixed by the horizon, silently praying they would reach i
nternational waters before whoever was after them got their second wind.
“Four nauts to go,” said Char, and then they all heard it, the rapid repetitive sound of dual turbine rotor engines. The sound grew louder and they felt, rather than saw, something dark and loud pass over the port side of the yacht. Char powered up the engines, still hoping to make a run for it, when the aircraft’s position lights turned on, illuminating a Blackhawk about one hundred meters ahead, hovering about thirty feet off the surface directly in their path. Char turned to port to avoid the aircraft, but the bird rapidly adjusted its hover and again placed itself directly in the boat’s path. This time, the aircraft turned and it aligned its open troop door with the bow of the accelerating yacht. A stream of tracer rounds flowed out from the door and impacted in the water immediately in front of the bow.
Char powered down the engines and waited. After a few minutes, the marine radio cackled to life. “Ahoy, the Good as Gold, return to your last location. Fail to do this and we will sink your boat. Acknowledge.”
Char picked up the mike, replied, and executed a slow turn back toward the island.
Six soldiers from the raid team waited at the dock, weapons at the ready. Three of them had small bloody cuts on their faces and the team as a whole seemed to seethe with barely contained rage. A tall Latin American wearing a sanitized MultiCam patterned uniform boarded and entered the bridge, closely followed by two of the Colombian soldiers.
“Shut it down,” he ordered Char. The Green Beret looked at Michael.
“Michael Blackfox, I presume?” He nodded slightly and the man replied, “Someone wants to talk to you.”
“What about them?” said Michael, while using his thumb to gesture towards his father and Ramos.
“That depends on you.”
Chapter Eleven - Come to Jesus
Isla de Bartolomé, CO
The soldiers marched Michael, Char, and Ramos single file back to the FOB with their hands tied behind their back with zip ties. The tall Hispanic Green Beret directed them into one of the C-huts--the presence of a long wooden table and numerous chairs indicated it served as a conference room.
They had been roughed up a bit during the walk from the dock, but Michael wasn’t going to begrudge his captors a few slaps or kicks. He figured it was probably because the three had managed to embarrass the team by disarming the two at the dock, blowing up the chow hall and knocking the entry team on their collective asses.
The soldiers didn’t bother Ramos. One of them kicked him once, but the Colombian captain sharply rebuked the man and then stationed himself behind the Marine to ensure no one tried anything else.
“You know this guy?” Michael managed to ask after they had been seated side by side on metal folding chairs that lined the wall of the C-Hut.
“Yes, I think so, airborne school. And I think we did a joint operation in El Canato about a year ago—a bit of a tight ass, but a good guy,” replied Ramos.
“Silencio!” commanded one of the Colombians.
Ramos continued whispering as if he hadn’t just been told to shut up. “Let me see if it’s him.” He signaled the officer by jutting out his chin and the man raised one of his fingers indicating Ramos should wait. A moment later, the two Americans exited the C-hut and the counter-narcotics captain approached Ramos.
“I know you,” said Ramos in Spanish. “We went to airborne school together, no?”
“Yes, and we did an operation last year in Caquetá,” he said, referring to the province.
“Yes, that’s right. How have you been?”
“Better than you,” replied the captain with a slight grin.
“Ah, my friend, this is just a simple misunderstanding. I was out diving with my friends and had no idea they were involved in narcotics. Would you mind doing me a small favor?”
“Shit, Ramos, why should I do you a favor?”
The officer had a sanitized uniform with the name tag removed, but Ramos remembered a conversation he’d had with the man, as he had campaigned for Ramos’ father when he was first elected to the Senate. The man had initially beamed with pride when he had met the son of Enrique Ramos.
“Por favor, mi Capitan, me haces un favor? Ramos pleaded.
If not for me, do it for my father.”
The Counter Narcotics officer’s expression softened and he leaned in closer, “tell me,” he said.
They were left there sitting for hours, and the morning tropical sun turned the conference room into a wet sauna. Sweat dripped down their faces unabated, their zip-tied hands rendered useless in even providing the small comfort of wiping it off their brow. Their captors offered no clue as to the reason for the interminable wait. Finally, they heard it approaching in the distance.
At first, Michael mistook the low whine of turboprop engines for a C130 Hercules, but he doubted that the landing strip could accommodate such a large aircraft. As the noise increased in pitch and volume, it changed into the throaty low rumble of twin helicopter engines.
“An Osprey just landed,” said Michael, referring to the MV22B Osprey, a tilt-rotor hybrid aircraft that could cruise at airplane-like speed, but land like a helicopter. That told him several things: one, whoever was arriving was being transported by Marine Corps Aviation; two, they were probably coming a considerable distance; and three, there were might be a lot of them—as the Osprey had the capacity to transport twenty-four combat-loaded Marines.
The anticipation increased as it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for the new arrivals to grace the prisoners with an appearance.
Char wore a tired grin on his sweat-soaked face. “Is that bad or good?”
“Not sure, but we should probably go with bad,” replied Michael.
“Wonderful! We could have been scuba diving in Bonaire right now, drinking icy Heinekens and chasing tall blond Dutch chicks, but no…we had to give your friend a ride,” said Char.
The plywood door was slung open and a group of Marines kitted up in full battle rattle marched into the small hut like they owned the place.
“Prisoners, on your feet!” someone shouted, most likely a senior NCO.
Char looked at Michael and smiled. “Firing squad?”
“Probably not, but all the fun just got sucked out of the room,” replied Michael.
An older, grungy looking Marine got to within two inches of Michael’s chin and shouted, “I said shut your pie-hole, Marine!” Michael nodded and waited for the Marine to turn his attention elsewhere.
“It’s going to be a long day,” he whispered.” He looked at the group of Marines and one thing became clear: most of them were Special Operators. They wore sanitized MARPAT camouflage utilities, a few sported beards, and their equipment was a mix of the old and the new―highly customized M4 Carbines and tricked out forty-five caliber pistols-- this was not Chesty Puller’s Marine Corps.
He counted fourteen shooters and figured this was a Marine Special Operations Team or MSOT. There were a couple of obvious staff types wearing tactical vests, but more symbolically than for actual functionality. Two other individuals, dressed in khaki-colored cargo pants and dark blue polo shirts that military security contractors favored, hovered around the periphery of the group, not quite comfortable mixing with the tight-knit group of warriors. Michael at first took them to be civilians, but they had a hard edge to them, like they were former military that had gone a little bit soft.
One of the non-shooter types, a tall salt-and-pepper-haired
Marine, spoke to the two civilians, pointed to Char, and said, “No time like the present,” before walking away. Char felt a cold shiver down his spine―things had taken yet another ominous turn.
Both men approached Char. “We’re federal deputy marshals. Get on your feet,” one of them commanded. Char stood up as the other deputy pulled out a manila folder from a black knapsack, opened it, and began reading aloud.
“Charles Blackfox, this is a copy of a warrant for your arrest specifying the multiple charges
against you. It also contains a copy of your rights. Read it and sign an acknowledgement at the bottom next to the “X.” There is also a copy of a seizure order pertaining to an 80-foot Hatteras yacht currently known as the Good as Gold.”
“Kind of hard to sign anything with my hands tied behind me, numb nuts,” said Char. One of the deputies approached Char, deftly spun him around, withdrew a Leatherman from a belt pouch and used the knife blade to cut off the restraints.
Michael was shocked the long arm of the law had finally caught up with them, but he was also mystified as to why he wasn’t also being arrested. The tall, distinguished-looking Marine wearing the silver eagles of a colonel looked at Michael and seemed to read his mind.
“The only thing saving you from a similar fate, Captain Blackfox, is your ability to assist this team in the completion of their mission. If we deem you unfit to do that, you’re gonna be joining your old man making small rocks out of big rocks.”
“What happens to my father if I help you?”
“At the very least, we comment at trial that you both cooperated with your government in the successful completion of a sensitive strategic mission,” replied the colonel.
Turning to Char, he said, “You’ve got one minute to say good-bye to your son.”
“Thanks, it’s so good to know that government officials respect that special father-son bond,” said Char.
“That was ten seconds. I suggest you use the rest of the time more judiciously,” replied the deputy.”
“Can he get his stuff from our boat?” asked Char.
“No, the boat and everything in it are now the property of the U.S. government. We are sailing for Miami as soon as we are finished here,” replied the deputy.