by T. S. O'Neil
“Sir, meet Bobby. He’s fluent in Spanish and even speaks some English.” Reigns nodded and shook the man’s small hand.
“Welcome to my country,” said Bobby.
Reigns, having learned the value of a kind word in a Civil Military Operations, smiled warmly and greeted the man cordially.
“It’s nice to meet you, Bobby. The plan is to have you lead us to the launch site so we can reconnoiter.” Juan Thomas began translating it to Spanish, but the informant immediately nodded affirmatively.
After a few moments of discussion among the team leadership, word was passed to saddle up and the commandos were again on the move. Bobby was placed in the middle of the tactical column with Juan Thomas directly behind him.
They began moving past the village and down a trail that followed the path of a swiftly running, rock-strewn stream careening down from the surrounding hills. Michael looked up at the high ground, noted the potential for ambush, and became uneasy. After ten minutes of a relatively easy downhill trek, the trail crossed the stream and began climbing up a hillside in measured steps, switching back and forth across its face. Water cascaded down the hill at different intervals. The squawks and howls from a legion of jungle creatures reverberated from the undergrowth. Unseen birds, most likely Macaws and Toucans, announced their displeasure with the patrol’s presence through a series of squeals and whistles, while Howler monkeys loudly hooted at the approaching Marines.
The trail became overgrown in spots, and the point man withdrew a Special Ops hybrid machete from a holster on his ruck and swung at the offending growth. After an hour of steady rucking up the slight incline—as drill instructors laughingly called any steep uphill grade—Reigns checked his GPS. They were about one hundred fifty meters from the summit.
From there, it would be another two klicks to Rio Venturi. The launch site was located on a flat river plain about three klicks from the far side of the river. They would be very vulnerable to ambush at various points along the route, but especially while crossing the river. It would be tactically unwise to use a well known river crossing site, but Reigns had chosen to trust the informant.
Even though it was still dark and relatively cool, sweat dripped down Michael’s face in rivulets. Months of soft living had taken their toll on him but, although winded by the toil, he was able to keep up with guys who could take tougher punishment for longer periods than professional athletes endure, for wages that they spend during a night of partying.
The point man spied movement up ahead as the trail turned to the left to avoid an ancient outcropping of volcanic rock. He shouted, “Ambush front,” and attempted to drop to the prone, but was immediately eviscerated by an explosion that erupted in noise and flames. The unmistakable sound of multiple daisy chained claymore mines being detonated resonated throughout the valley as hundreds of double-aught, buck-size shot were propelled towards the approaching Marines.
“Ambush left,” someone else shouted.
The first two men in the column were all shredded by the 700 steel balls propelled by 682 grams of composition four explosives. The Team Chief, Master Sergeant Udall, a short stocky rugby player, was so close to one of the mines that he was literally vaporized by the blast.
Immediately after the chain of explosions, the loud unmistakable crack of multiple Kalashnikov rifles opened up with full automatic fire.
Everyone initially hugged the ground—shocked at the loud and voluminous tsunami of shrapnel. From the prone position, the Havoc Twins began lobbing well-aimed salvos of forty-millimeter High-Explosive Dual-Purpose grenades at the unseen enemy. The fragmentation rounds struck a few enemy positions and the level of hostile fire lessened somewhat.
Bobby had begun lagging behind the man ahead of him as they approached the ambush site. It became clear why he had done so. After the first claymore erupted, he attempted to crawl away from the team. Thomas fell upon the man and pinned him to the ground. A 7.62 millimeter round hit Thomas in the shoulder, but did little more than carve an inch long furrow that would require a few stitches to close.
The remaining Marines returned fire as best they could, but the enemy had caught them flatfooted and it looked like they might prevail. One more claymore erupted from the Marines’ left flank, critically wounding the M240B gunner, who had risen to a crouch to reposition his gun to better advantage. Multiple double-aught buckshot caught him in the side of his head, tearing off most of his face. The rest of the team was spared further injury as the mine was aimed as if they were standing, rather than hugging the ground. No doubt a delayed detonation, thought Michael. Undoubtedly, more would have been lost had the point man not shouted a warning.
The dead machine gunner’s weapon sat abandoned on its side until SGT Dixon materialized a few seconds later and put the gun into immediate use by sending long bursts of accurate copper jacketed rounds at the enemy. Michael low-crawled forward to act as his assistant gunner, but Dixon threw him his carbine instead.
Dixon acted with practiced panache, firing tight, well-aimed bursts at enemy muzzle flashes, silencing them and then shifting to the next. He kept mouthing something over and over and Michael was just able to make it out:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
Michael smiled and felt strangely comforted; it was good to know that Dixon was a religious man. The way he was smiting enemies made him seem more like an Archangel.
Michael followed Dixon’s example―he waited for muzzle flashes to appear and then sent a short three round burst of automatic fire in return until the flash ceased. He knew what should come next―Reigns, if he were still alive, would order them to conduct a hasty assault of the ambush. But Michael was sure that was a bad idea, as their enemy seemed to have accurately anticipated the patrols tactics, and they might be walking into a buzz saw. He had a better idea, but he would need Reigns’ permission to put it into action―flank the bastards from the right side of the hill with Dixon’s machinegun at his side raining plunging fire down on the enemy.
The grenadiers kept up a regular volley of fire that at least kept the enemy’s heads down.
Michael yelled to Dixon, “I’m gonna find Reigns!” He hurriedly crawled up the line while bullets whizzed overhead, cutting off pieces of foliage as they passed. He found Murphy tending to a wounded man, checked the face, and saw it was a barely conscious Captain Reigns. His chest was covered in seeping blood, apparently from a sucking chest wounded as evidenced by the sheet of plastic that Murphy was applying.
“Looks like you’re in charge,” said Murphy.
“Great,” said Michael. Murphy nodded and went back to work.
Gunnery Sergeant Grimes crawled over to Michael and shouted, “What are your orders?”
“Hey, Gunny, I’m just the technical help. Got a PC that needs fixing, let me know.”
“Sir, I’m from the old Corps. With Captain Reigns wounded, you’re in command. Now, what are your orders?”
“Keep the enemy’s heads down―I’ll take the grenadiers with me to volley fire on my command. Give me with guy with the M240B, he seems to know what he is doing and we’ll flank these motherfuckers!”
“Do I need to remind you that it’s a grave tactical error to let the commander lead a high-risk mission that might result in his death?”
“Gunny, I don’t have time to explain it to you. I’ve got half an idea about how to take these assholes out, so you make the call. Either we stay here and die one at a time, or you give me three Marines and we see if we can take the fight to the cock-sucking enemy!”
Grimes nodded and crawled down the trail as bullets continued to zip overhead. He returned a few minutes later with Dixon and two other Marines. Michael turned towards Grimes.
“Got any grenades?” Grimes handed him two.
“That’s all I have left.”
Michael looked at the three Marines and said, “Let’s go,” as he
hurriedly began a low crawl up the line and out of the kill zone.
Michael crawled past him and reached forward to clear what he thought was a tree branch from the trail. He grimaced when he realized it was someone’s severed leg, most likely that of the point man who had belatedly warned them of the ambush. He gingerly moved it from his path, silently vowing that they would ensure the dead would be given proper respect, should they live. He continued crawling until he reached the location of the initial mine, checked the detonator wire, and found that it ran off to the left into the jungle overgrowth―they had walked into a classic L shaped ambush.
Once off the trail and concealed by the foliage, he stood up and ran as quickly as he could for what he reckoned was one quarter of a football field, and then abruptly turned left. Dixon and the Havoc Twins followed closely behind. Michael ran up the hill and almost didn’t realize that the jungle vegetation had given away to blankness―he was rapidly running towards the edge of a cliff!
He felt someone grab his load-bearing vest and pull him rearward, saving him from plunging to his death. He looked at Dixon and nodded his thanks. The team dropped to the prone and began low-crawling toward the sharp crack made by multiple Russian-designed automatic weapons. Michael continued crawling until he caught sight of the side muzzle flashes from several of the ambusher’s rifles.
A few minutes later, he spied a head peeking out from behind a sandbag. The fact that they had prepared positions indicated the security of the operation had been badly compromised, but he would deal with that later. The Marines automatically got on line beside Michael, and Dixon took up a hasty firing position for the machine gun.
Even given the heavy jungle growth, Michael felt he was well within hand grenade range. He withdrew the two Grimes had given him from pockets on his tactical vest as the Havoc Twins raised their grenade launchers to their shoulders. Per prior coordination, he keyed the transmitter on his handheld radio twice and knew he had been received when he heard the team in the kill zone put up a huge volume of automatic weapons fire meant to keep the ambusher’s heads down.
The Havoc Twins fired a twelve round volley of high explosive grenades at the ambushers. As the grenades impacted against the target, Michael quickly threw two hand grenades and followed up with aimed automatic fire from his carbine. Dixon racked the ambushers with a long burst from his gun, effectively raining lethal, copper jacketed hell down on the enemy. If Dixon felt any remorse, it was because he didn’t have a bigger machine gun.
Fourteen high fragmentation explosives impacted against the ambushers. Michael keyed his handset three times, indicating that Grimes should cease fire. He and his fellow Marines then conducted a hasty assault of the objective. They stopped and surveyed the carnage they had wreaked, initially shocked by the extent of the injuries―it appeared no one had survived the final assault. Bodies and parts of bodies were strewn haphazardly about the battlefield, which was still clouded with the smoke from cordite and Composition B. Dixon stood quietly for a moment and then spoke. “And the Angel of Death arrived and
Hell followed with him.” “Find me someone who’s still breathing,” ordered Michael. He did this not out of any desire to keep them from slaughtering the wounded—these guys were professional enough to avoid that—but because he had a lot of questions for someone.
Chapter Twenty-three - Aftermath
Vicinity of Pintado
The counter ambush had been wildly successful. Michael felt relieved and happy to be alive, having bested his enemy in combat. They counted thirteen dead and two left breathing, but both just barely. He checked the enemy wounded. One had multiple wounds around the head and chest and was still breathing, albeit shallowly. The other was missing a leg.
“Doc Murphy up,” Michael spoke into the mike on his headset, summoning the Corpsman to the location of their assault objective.
“I’ll go get him,” said Jamie Olsten. The dead were all dressed in camouflage utilities composed of dark brown, dark olive green, and russet stripes on a pale green background.
Dixon found a string of five claymore mines set in a line along the Marine’s most likely avenue of approach. Had they decided on a frontal assault to thwart the ambush, the assault force would have been met by a wall of double-aught buckshot. The enemy had dug a trench line on the reverse slope of the mountain and had significant time to prepare the defenses as evidenced by the placement of sandbags and anti-personnel mines.
Murphy arrived visibly agitated. “I’ve got wounded Marines to attend to, what do you want me to do here?”
Michael grabbed his arm and led him to the ambusher who’d had his leg amputated by one of the grenades.
“Keep this bastard alive until we can ask him a few questions, replied Blackfox. I want to know who they are.”
“I can tell you that. They’re wearing old style South
African uniforms,” commented Murphy.
Michael looked at the man, “How do you know?”
“Before we moved to Boston, my family lived on a cattle ranch in Upington, South Africa. My uncle wore a uniform like that. He was Thirty-second Battalion and fought in the Border
War.”
The diversity of the Marine Corps never ceased to amaze Michael. He once served alongside a former Russian soldier who had also served as a Legionnaire in the French Foreign Legion.
“Now, can I go? I’ve got American casualties to attend to.”
“Come on, Murph, you know the drill―the most seriously wounded gets seen first, regardless of whether they’re friendly or enemy.” Murphy nodded and made a cursory inspection of the two enemy wounded.
“The head and chest case is a goner. I’ll get to work on the amputee.”
Grimes appeared, quickly organized a hasty perimeter around the site, and called the radio operator over to call in situation and personnel casualty reports. Although they had sustained significant casualties, Grimes felt both ecstatic and relieved the enemy that ambushed them had been eviscerated. He dutifully began reporting the amount of friendly KIAs and WIAs to the battle captain when he heard the unmistakable, gruff voice of Colonel Hearth on the line.
“Where is Charlie Two Five Actual?”
“He’s wounded sir.”
“Who’s in command?”
“Captain Blackfox,” replied Grimes.
“Belay that, he is not in command. He is nothing more than technical support.”
“Sir, with all due respect, we have bigger problems than that; we’ve suffered three KIAs, our Team Chief among them and an equal number of wounded. Captain Blackfox’s actions resulted in defeating the ambush; otherwise, you’d be talking to a ghost.”
Gunny Grimes waited. He was dammed if he would have some rear echelon chump Monday morning quarterback him. After a long pause that caused Grimes to think they had lost contact, he heard the colonel say, “All right, let me talk with him.” “CO up,” called Gunny Grimes.
“Charlie Two Five Actual, go,” replied Michael.
“Charlie Two Five Actual, this is Charlie One Three Actual.
You are ordered to evacuate with your casualties to checkpoint
Alpha Three for extraction.” “I won’t do that, sir,” replied Michael. “Listen to me, Blackfox, the mission has been compromised. You have lost the element of surprise and the critical elements necessary to carry it out,” replied the colonel.
“Sir, I’ll make sure the wounded are evacuated, but I feel we have the assets necessary to see this mission through.”
“You’re done, Blackfox; I’m relieving you of command.”
“Sorry, sir, but you’re not a commander, nor are you in my chain of command. I assumed command because I am the senior ranking Marine on site. Therefore, only the general can relieve me.”
“You stand by, Blackfox. I will be getting the general on line directly,” screamed Colonel Hearth.
“Yes, sir. In the meantime, we have casualties that need evacuation. I need to call in a medevac.”
&nbs
p; “Negative, Charlie Two Five, you will need to move the casualties back across the border for evacuation,” said Colonel Hearth.
Michael cursed under his breath, knowing that Heath’s career risk management superseded Michael’s need to evacuate the wounded.
“Aye, aye, sir, said Michael, hoping to placate the careerist in order to save what was left of his men. Can you put the Host
Nation Liaison on the line?”
Hearth started to ask why, then caught himself. If the Colombians wanted to arrange a medevac, it would be on them and hence none of his concern. If Blackfox’s friend could make that happen, he wasn’t going to stand in the way, but he was not about to risk more assets on a situation that needed to have plausible deniability written all over it.
“Ramos, Captain Blackfox is on the line. See if you can help him out,” said Colonel Hearth as he held the mike in the air.
“Hey Bro, how you doing?”
“I’ve had better days. We’ve got multiple wounded that need immediate evac. Can you help us out?”
“That depends. How close can you get to the Ventuari
River?”
“We’re about two klicks away,” answered Michael.
“Remember Villegas? He had dinner with us at the Naval Club in Cartagena. He is the commander of the Marine Company at Poyare until they replace him so he can attend the Marine Special Ops Course. If you can get to the river, I will see if he is willing to come and get you.”
“Dude, we’re in another country,” said Michael incredulously. Marcos laughed, remembering the movie Stripes that every member of Michael’s Recon Company had memorized by watching it endlessly during their deployment to Iraq.
“C'mon, it's Venezuela. We zip in, we pick 'em up, we zip right out again. We're not going to Moscow. It’s like we're going into Wisconsin.”