by T. S. O'Neil
Michael approached the informant with his topographical map.
“What’s this?” He said, pointing to a spot on the map that indicated a clearing and several small black squares adjacent to the Ventuari River.
Bobby hesitated. Thomas aggressively slapped the small man across the side of his head “Answer the man!”
Bobby cried out in pain and blurted out, “It’s an abandoned camp the gringos called an ecolodge. It was built by two American women years ago and lasted until the government was preparing to build the launch site. They had the National Guard chase them out.”
The site was marked on the map as ‘Valle Verde,’ and sat five klicks down a side trail in a river valley formed by the mountain they had just descended. It was isolated, but more importantly, sat on the edge of the river― permitting potential evacuation by boat.
Reigns was able to walk― a testament to both his superb physical condition and his need to put some window dressing over his role in a botched raid. Two of the other Marines had to be carried, and it took all the uninjured to expeditiously move the injured towards the river, lest they encounter an enemy quick reaction force. The amputee was the most seriously wounded and had to be moved first. Bobby unmarred, aside from an ego bruised by a bitch-slap promptly delivered by Thomas, was pressed into service as his stretcher bearer.
Doc Murphy had brought a collapsible stretcher with him. The stretcher systems weighed only seven pounds, could accommodate the largest Marine, and could be folded to be carried on the back. The shortage of stretchers was hastily remedied by the construction of two field expedient ones made from local materials.
It took about three hours to complete the move. Twenty minutes after they finished, the team heard the high-pitched repetitive whine of multiple two-stroke engines approach and then fade into the distance. No doubt their enemy had grown curious about the status of their ambush team. Michael doubted they would be pleased with what they found.
The lodge site consisted of the skeletal remains of eight structures. All bore obvious signs of looting and vandalism, but a few still had intact roofs and could be pressed into use as temporary shelters. Doc Murphy scouted all the buildings and selected a circular structure for his sickbay. He beckoned the stretcher-bearers inside with a wave of his hand. The building had thick wooden beams holding up a thatched roof and no walls, which would aid ventilation. Based on the existence of several communal tables and the ruins of a kitchen, it had probably been the complex’s dining hall. Murphy guided the stretcher holding the amputee to one of the remaining mess tables and checked the combat tourniquet he applied earlier.
Gunny Grimes called the team together and immediately began preparing a hasty defense of the site. He assigned Dixon to cover the trail with his medium machine gun as it was the most likely enemy avenue of approach. He placed the other Marines in a close semi-circular perimeter with their backs towards the river. He then released the sniper team to do what they did best – find some high ground to provide over watch.
Michael badly wanted to question the informant as the amputee had been dosed with morphine and was unconscious. It seemed obvious that Bobby had collaborated with the enemy. The only thing they were lacking was a confession, but they would get that soon enough.
He grabbed the small man’s arm and half-carried him to one of the buildings that housed about a dozen rusty twin bed frames upon which sat rotting mattresses. Thomas followed along, curious to see what this crazy bastard would do next.
Michael entered, threw a rotten mattress on the floor with his free hand and said, “Lie down!”
The informant looked at Michael with panic in his eyes. “Por favor,” he pleaded.
“Last chance!” said Michael and the man repeated the plea. Michael grabbed Bobby by the shoulders and roughly pushed him onto the bedframe.
“Hold him down,” he ordered Thomas.
While Thomas begrudgingly held the man to the bedframe, Michael zip tied his ankles and wrists to the metal frame and then checked them for tautness. Satisfied, he scanned the room until he found what he was looking for; two wooden crates sitting dejectedly off in one corner of the room. He grabbed them both, hoisted the foot of the bed and placed a crate under each leg―thus elevating the bottom of the bed by about two feet.
Bobby stared at the frenzied Marine Captain with real fear in his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked. Michael didn’t reply, but approached him, removed a tiger stripe camouflage bandana from around his neck, and tied it tightly around the man’s face.
“Shut up, asshole!” he replied with a mix of contempt and hatred.
“Get me a couple buckets of water,” said Michael to Thomas.
“Sir, I hope this is not what it looks like,” Thomas said cautiously.
“Don’t worry; I’m just going to show El Comedulce a trick I learned from a guy I met in Iraq.”
Thomas nodded as if humoring the man and departed, arriving back a short time later with two canvas buckets sloshing with river water.
He placed the buckets in front of Michael and regarded him with a serious expression, “water boarding has been ruled to be torture,” Thomas said quietly.
“I like to call it enhanced interrogation,” replied Michael dryly.
“It’s expressly prohibited by the rules of engagement.”
“Are you with the ACLU?”
“No, sir, I am just trying to keep you from doing something you might be sorry for later.”
“Later? You actually think we’re going to live through this?” said Michael, cynically.
“I try to stay positive,” said Thomas.
Michael nodded, approached Thomas and brought his mouth close to Marine’s ear, “Not a hair on his head will be harmed, he whispered. Just do me a favor and translate. My Yanomami sucks.”
Sergeant Thomas nodded.
Michael began speaking in English and Thomas dutifully translated after each sentence.
“Bobby, I’m going to pour this dirty river water into your mouth and nose so that you can’t breathe. Your eyes will bulge from their sockets, as I will be drowning you from the inside, filling your head, larynx and trachea with water. You will cough, choke, and panic, however, your lungs will not fill with water. Oxygen in the blood will prolong this experience. Your suffering will be that of a man who is drowning, but cannot drown."
Bobby’s eyes dilated in terror as he began to understand the translation. He started talking, but his voice was muffled by the bandana. Michael removed the cloth from his face.
“Stal is holding my daughter and would have killed her had I not done as he ordered me!” declared Bobby with tears streaming down his face.
“What did he order you to do?” asked Michael cautiously. “Just to lead you to the installation,” replied Bobby.
“Why did they take your daughter?”
“To keep me from talking. They knew I was upset by the deaths of two workers from radiation burns. They came and took her, saying she would be Colonel Stal’s maid. She is just a young girl and I hear he has brutally raped her!”
“How do I know that is true?” replied Michael.
Bobby thought for a moment and then nodded. “One laborer that was burned in the accident is still alive. He is being treated at the clinic.”
Michael considered his situation and the informant’s story. There was no way he could send someone back to the village now. He either had to take a leap of faith that the little bastard was telling the truth or put a bullet in his head and bury him. He was sure Thomas would tell him that violated the rules of engagement as well.
“How the world turns,” Michael said finally.
“Can I untie him now, sir?” asked Thomas.
Michael nodded. “The good news is that we set a new record for breaking someone by water boarding.” “If that’s the good news, what’s the bad?” asked Thomas. Michael looked at him with a tight expression on his face.
“The bad news is that this mi
ssion just took on an added degree of difficulty―we now have to rescue a young girl being held by a sexually sadistic madman.”
“Come on sir, it’s all in a day’s work,” said Thomas with a slight smile.
Chapter Twenty-eight - Claustrophobia
Riverine and Marine Infantry Post
Poyare, Colombia
After it splits off from the Casiquiare canal, the Orinoco turns to the northwest and flows in a large meandering stream to its convergence with the Ventuari River. From there the river turns to the west to run between high sedimentary banks, its course marked by large sandbars. Near San Fernando de Atabapo, the Atabapo and Guaviare rivers join the Orinoco, demarcating the end of the upper Orinoco.
The thirty-two meter, twin-screw diesel submarine had been seized at a jungle ‘shipyard’ that had been carved out near the Ecuadorian border. The mission had been personally planned by Captain Alberto Villegas, and he was at the head of the team that carried out the seizure of the boat before it could be placed into use. The sub had the capacity to accommodate ten metric tons of cargo and a crew of five or six people―therefore; it should be able to easily fit the four wounded. Despite its rather generous size, the boat was cramped, hot, and it stunk of diesel fuel. As a long time Beatles fan, it struck Villegas that the vessel looked comically similar to the Yellow Submarine depicted on the album of the same name. This was the first that he had spent any significant time aboard the long blue submersible, as he was mildly claustrophobic.
Undoubtedly, they would have to run submerged because, in order to reach the Ventuari River, they’d have to cross the Venezuelan border and pass through the densely trafficked part of the river around San Fernando de Atabapo. River depth and sand bars at various locations would mandate that they travel on the surface, but they would have to submerge at times to avoid detection by the Venezuelan military.
The Venezuelan Navy didn’t have a fleet of littoral combat ships with sonar and depth charges that would pose a hazard to a vessel operating underwater in a river.
Their Guardian twenty-five foot patrol boats, however, could pose a threat if they detected the passage of a submerged submarine, as they would initially think they had detected cocaine smugglers.
Villegas sought out and volunteered a few of his more trusted and competent men—his chief mechanic and one of his best boat pilots—and then waited for the decision to go. It was an hour after sundown by the time Villegas’ men had properly prepared the boat by loading it with medical supplies, ammunition, food, and water, and had topped off the five-hundred-gallon fuel tank. Last minute coordination with the Marine’s rear tactical operations center and Michael’s team quickly devolved into a heated debate between him and the Operations Chief. Colonel Hearth suddenly became worried about the political implications should the rescuers and their evacuees be captured.
“How about the political implications if they’re not?” asked Michael, when told of the cause for the delay.
“Would the colonel be happy if the wounded were left to die?” he asked Ramos.
Eventually, Ramos was able to intercede and convince Colonel Hearth to let Villegas make the call, arguing that it would then be a Colombian matter. To Villegas, there was no need for a debate―it was simply a matter of honor; a friend of his best friend was in trouble and he had the means to help, borders and career brinksmanship be damned.
Ramos radioed the GPS coordinates of the site and the pilot input the data into a commercial navigation system that the smugglers had installed on the boat. They ran on the surface, the sub’s profile barely visible as they motored along at seven knots in full blackout mode, the pilot and Villegas outfitted with NVGs he had borrowed from his arms room. It was ten nautical miles to the border and another twenty-eight to the coordinates. Based on a top speed of seven knots on the surface and five should they submerge, he estimated that they could be at the extraction site sometime well after midnight.
They would need about a half hour to load the wounded before turning the vessel around and steaming the five to seven hours back to base while hopefully missing the heavy river traffic that occurred most weekday mornings.
The submarine had an observation hatch and Villegas climbed the steel ladder, turned the circular wheel to open it, and gratefully felt the morning air generated by the craft’s forward motion cool his sweat-soaked face. The craft might have been state of the art, but the air conditioner was a window unit that did not sufficiently cool such a large space filled with heat generating mechanical and electronic equipment.
It was a beautiful morning. The river was more than a mile wide at this point. Villegas could see the luminous glow from numerous small villages that dotted the coastline. Intermittently, they passed small boats, but were careful to steer clear as the low silhouette of the submersible made them nearly invisible.
He felt a tug on his pant leg and climbed back down into the crew compartment.
It was Gustavo, his mechanic. “I think we should test the dive capability, sir.”
“I was hoping to avoid that eventuality,” said Villegas.
“It’s better we do it before we cross the border―if we die, at least we do so in Colombia.”
Villegas felt himself nod in agreement as if summoning up the words was beyond him. Gustavo climbed up the ladder, secured the observation hatch, and then passed word to the other crew members to prepare to dive. Twin ballast tanks ran down each side of the sub. Seacocks could be opened to let in seawater, allowing the vessel to sink beneath the sea. If they wanted to surface, the seacocks would be opened and compressed air would force the water from the tanks, lightening the sub, and allowing it to rise.
Since it was necessary to flood both tanks at the same time, lest the submarine keel over, Gustavo and the other Marine did a three count to synchronize their movements. On the count of three, they opened the tanks and river water flooded in.
The change was immediate. The vessel began to rapidly sink straight down, and Gustavo ran forward to help the boat’s pilot adjust the sailplane that would allow them to change depth while on the move.
The sub's periscope had two cameras, one for daylight and the other for night vision, to monitor the sea surface while submerged. It could be retracted into the sub’s body to better streamline the craft while underway. The sub’s pilot was immediately stymied by the near zero visibility in the muddy river. He dead reckoned via the GPS and kept a heading that placed him roughly in the middle of the river.
Gus checked all the seals and seemed satisfied. He opened the valves to blow the ballast tanks free of water and the craft lurched upward. Villegas watched on the television screen mounted on the control station as the periscope penetrated the surface of the river and felt relief wash over him.
He slapped Gustavo on the back, “Well done, old man!”
Villegas and Gustavo began planning their surreptitious circumnavigation of the three rivers that met in San Fernando de Atabapo. Gustavo proposed submerging early and proceeding through the confluence of the Guaviare and Orinoco Rivers, past the Venezuelan’s Riverine Patrol Base, and then execute a turn towards the southwest and into the Ventuari River, where they should be able to continue on the surface.
***
Michael had stationed a two-man security team at the dock. The American women that had run the ecolodge had splurged and installed a concrete pier that seemed to have largely defied the elements and looters’ efforts to destroy it. He received a radio call that summoned him to the dock. “Something is coming down river,” cackled the voice in his headset.
Michael ran to the dock and immediately heard the low hum of a diesel engine echoing in the distance. He took up a concealed position and watched the green-tinged silhouette emerge from the darkness. He wondered for a moment what the hell he was looking at. It sat low in the water with just three feet of superstructure protruding above the river. It proceeded under power towards the dock and Michael realized that he was looking at a repurposed drug sub. “Fuck
ing brilliant,” he said aloud.
A head and torso rose from a hatch and Michael leveled his rifle and looked through the scope to identify the figure. He recognized the thin, lanky frame of Alberto Villegas and stepped out from behind the concrete abutment. Villegas recognized Michael and waved.
“Captain Blackfox, how are you?”
Michael smiled despite the grim circumstances. “Been shot at and missed, shit at and hit, but all things considered, I’ve had worse days. I’m glad you’re here.” Michael spoke into his headset, “Bring the wounded to the dock, the medevac is here.”
The wounded Marines and the South African with the catastrophic leg amputation were loaded into the sub. The latter’s condition was grave. Murphy had juiced him up on morphine, but he had lost a lot of blood. “Go with them, Doc,” said Michael.
“My place is here with the team,” protested Murphy.
“Take care of the wounded. This mission will be over in a couple days. It’s a zero-sum game―we pull it off in one fell swoop, or die trying. In either case, your presence doesn’t factor in,” said Michael. Doc Murphy nodded slowly in recognition. Michael had not acted rashly. All the Marines had a basic level of training in combat lifesaving, and Thomas served as back-up Corpsman for Murphy. The more non-shooters he got out of harm’s way, the less he would have to worry about them.
***
Lieutenant Manuel Garcia Ochoa of the Shore Patrol
Command of the Marine General Simon Bolivar, Ayacucho Division, was bored. He had been transferred to this backwater port of San Fernando de Atabapo due to situations beyond his control―he liked to party. Which meant that no cap on any bottle of rum he opened ever had to be replaced.
The situation came to a head, quite literally, when he was found in a grossly intoxicated state while the chubby, neglected wife of his commander serviced him orally in the bathroom of their quarters during a drunken Christmas party. In retrospect, he probably should have locked the door.