The FARC had cut a path through the jungle. It was the only factor in their favor, and it meant they could make up for much of the lost time. Nolan took point and Bremmer brought up the rear, ten paces back. They were only ten miles from Medellin, and Bremmer was doing what he did best.
“Motherfuckers, sending us out like this. We’ve got aerial surveillance for this shit. Ain’t one of the guys got a Raven RV-11 in his pack?”
The Raven was a small, hand-launched remote-controlled unmanned aerial vehicle, a UAV. Developed for the US military, they gave small units in the field the capacity to launch short range, short duration surveillance flights that downlinked to their tactical electronic tablets.
“We’re carrying one Raven, and that’s for battlefield emergencies, Roscoe. You get into a firefight, and you may be glad we kept a rain check on that baby.”
“Shit, Chief, didn’t you hear? They’ve got a round-the-clock air cover with those damned Reapers. Jeez, they send in those babies and they’ll do the work for us. If we…”
“Quiet!” Nolan hissed.
Roscoe mumbled quietly beneath his breath, but he went still, and they both dropped to the ground.
“What the fuck is it?” Bremmer whispered. “What’s going…”
Nolan signaled for silence. Then he crawled forward to check what had alerted him, a sound, a tiny, almost inaudible sound in the center of the jungle’s confusion of animal noises, insects, birds, and foliage that moved and shifted; and a single, metallic ‘clink’. But there was nothing metallic in the jungle, unless it belonged to man. And if there was someone up ahead, it meant nothing good.
“Stay here and keep your head down. I’ll go see what’s up there,” he whispered to Roscoe.
“I’ll come with you, Chief, I can…”
“Stay here.”
He didn’t wait to hear any argument. Nolan crawled forward, and only ten yards further along the track and just around a sharp bend, there was a FARC blocking position. Using night vision, he could see two men dug into a foxhole, just off the track. They were good. If he hadn’t heard the noise, which he could see had been made by one of the sentries removing his clip and checking the load, they could have walked into trouble. The ‘clink’ sounded again, and this time he saw the man push the clip back into his assault rifle. The other man was sat behind a light machine gun. It was a Soviet RPD mounted on a bipod, with the iconic drum magazine making it instantly recognizable. Simple to operate, and firing seven hundred rounds per minute of 7.62-millimeter military grade ammunition, made it a formidable weapon. Both men were hunkered down behind thick tree trunks that they’d used as a natural barricade. They were going to be difficult to kill. He crawled back to Roscoe and explained the hostile position.
“They’re well positioned, and we need to get them out of that foxhole to finish them.”
“What about a grenade? I’ve got the launcher. I can pop one in there, no sweat.”
“And if the main force is near enough to hear the explosion?”
“Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“Right, I’d take them with the sniper rifle but getting into a good stand to take the shot is going to be slow and difficult, and we just don’t have the time. I want you to sucker them out of there.”
“Me? What the fuck do you want me to do?”
“I speak Spanish, so they won’t realize we’re not FARC until we get close. You’ll pretend to be wounded, so you can lean on me. I’ll talk to them and call for help. Make sure you stagger as we get there.”
“What about my rifle?”
“Sling it behind you. They won’t see it. Keep your Sig in your hand, but make sure it’s out of sight. That’s it, make it convincing.”
“You sure this is going to work, Chief?”
“Sure, why shouldn’t it?”
Roscoe shook his head. “I don’t know. It sounds like some fool white man’s shit to me.”
“Can the racial comments, Roscoe. Let’s get the job done. You’re wounded and in agony, so moan or something.”
“Fuck this.”
Nolan slung his SWS behind him and grabbed Roscoe under his arms to support him. Then he started walking forward.
“Shout, you’re in agony, remember,” he hissed at the PO3.
Roscoe gave out an unconvincing moan, but it was enough to alert the sentries.
“Quién va?” Who is it?
“Ayúdame! Rápidamente, es uno de nuestros hombres! Él está mal herido!” Help! One of our men is badly hurt.
He heard them talking urgently amongst themselves. They hesitated, and as he watched, the barrel of the machine gun swiveled towards them.
“Rápidamente, Él está mal herido. Se está muriendo.”
They muttered quickly between themselves, and it sounded like an argument. Then they started to climb out of the foxhole. Nolan breathed a sigh of relief and whispered to Roscoe, who he was almost dragging along, his head hanging down. He had to hand it to him; it was a good performance.
“You took the safety off your Sig?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, wait for me to shoot first. Nearly there.”
They were almost abreast of the two men who were now running toward them, concern written on their faces, until they saw the unfamiliar uniforms.
“Qué es esto? Dios mío!”
“Yeah, bad call,” Nolan muttered as he swung up the Sig Sauer and fired twice, then twice again. Both men were hit, and Roscoe was firing his suppressed Sig to make sure. Both men fell to the ground, dead.
“Let’s get ‘em off the track and into the jungle. If any of their people come back, we don’t want to advertise our presence,” the Chief said quickly to Roscoe. “One at a time, these guys weren’t on starvation rations.”
It was true. They were both a good few pounds overweight, as if they’d spent too much time in camp, eating too many rations. Clearly, jungle warfare was not as arduous as it used to be. When the bodies were hidden, Nolan stripped the ammunition out of the guns and scattered it into the jungle, then smashed the barrels.
“If we come back this way,” he explained to Roscoe, “we don’t want them using these things against us.”
Before they pushed on, he called it in. “Bravo One, this is Two.”
“Go ahead, Two.”
“Two hostiles taken out. Just a rearguard, no complications.”
He gave them his position.
“Copy that.”
He signed off and turned to Roscoe. “Let’s go, we’re running out of time. We’re nearly four miles short of our objective, and we need to get there in no more than an hour.”
“What happens in an hour?”
“The FARC begin their attack. All hell will let loose in Medellin, and if anyone sees a pair of Gringos in camouflage kit, they’re gonna shoot first and ask questions afterwards.”
Roscoe’s eyes widened. “The fuck they are, what are we waiting for?”
Nolan suppressed a smile as he led the way forward. There was no time left for caution. They had to be in position before the attack started, to hold a secure base for the Platoon from which to prepare their own attack. They crested a rise on the path and looked down on the town of Medellin, or rather the city.
“Motherfucker, that place is huge,” Roscoe breathed.
“Yeah, it’s a city of over two million people, and all of them ruled by three families, the Barreras, the Olveras, and the Salazars. Most of them probably earn their living from one of the families, so they’re not going to like any kind of action that destroys their livelihood.”
“There’s only sixteen of us, what can we do?”
“Seventeen with Admiral Jacks, and remember, we’re not invading Medellin. This action is to destroy the Salazars. We watch the FARC move in and hammer the Olveras and the Barreras. Then we hit the main target. We kill the personnel and destroy their infrastructure.”
Roscoe nodded. “Yeah, that sounds easy enough.”
“It won’t be if the FARC get’s an idea of what we’re up to, so keep it tight. Let’s move in.”
They reached the highway and almost ran through the suburbs of Medellin, only stopping to drop out of sight when vehicles appeared on the move. Nolan checked his watch, and they were still a half-mile short of the FOB when a flare shot up into the sky, followed by the sound of automatic fire. The FARC had attacked.
“Make it snappy,” he called behind him to Roscoe. “They’ll be looking out of their windows now for anyone carrying a gun. We don’t want them to get a fix on us.”
Roscoe nodded. They hurried on past a sign that read ‘Parque Arvi’, and at last Nolan saw what he was looking for, the old engineering works that bordered the main fence of the park. He veered into a narrow lane running along the side of the building and started to relax. They were out of sight of the street. He put a hand out to slow Roscoe down; it was the last stage.
“Let’s check this place out before we call it in, you …”
A flashlight pierced the darkness. “Manos arriba!” Hands up.
Neither of them moved their hands. Nolan sensed rather than saw Roscoe’s hand slip down to his side, to his holstered Sig. He had to take a chance before anyone did anything stupid.
“We’re Americans.”
The light didn’t waver. “I said put up your hands.”
Nolan stared at the dim figure behind the flashlight, and at the gun barrel that was illuminated in the beam.
“I said we’re Americans. Flame of Freedom. You’re Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas?”
The beam snapped off, and the man walked forward. “We had to be careful. Come inside, and you can meet the men. Are there only two of you?”
“The others are coming up behind. We came in first to check the place over.”
“Very wise.”
They went through a small side door. The man pushed aside a canvas curtain, and they walked into a dimly lit workshop. The man turned and held up his hand.
“My name is Raoul Castro. Captain Raoul Castro, of the Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas. These are my men.”
They looked with interest at the impressive looking force of men gathered in the space that had once contained rows of machinery. Now it was empty of any machines, except for the machines of war, four SUVs fitted with machine guns mounted on the truck beds, and the men. They were all in civilian clothes and looked more like a street gang than an elite para-military unit. Raoul Castro was an exotic looking man, short and powerfully built. He wore a sweat-soaked brown shirt with cut off sleeves that showed every muscle. His khaki pants were grease stained and worn over work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he'd tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant, and it dropped over his lips, glistening like fur. He looked like almost like a kid playing a role in a play about gangsters; except for the assault rifle he held casually, a Heckler & Koch G36 5.56 millimeter with spare clips in their black leather cases festooned over his canvas webbing. He grinned at Nolan.
“It’s deliberate. Our war is against the soldiers of the drug gangs, and this is the way they dress. By the time they realize we are not part of them, it is too late.”
“I guess it would be,” Nolan agreed. “But I reckon this time the war has already started.”
The town was alive with the sound of gunfire, single shots, and automatic weapons firing in short and long bursts. In the distance, the odd scream of pain as someone was hit, and the sound of racing engines as people ran to reinforce their hard-pressed comrades, or to escape.
Castro shrugged. “It will cover our operation, which is as our masters planned it, no?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” He keyed his mic. “Bravo One, this is Bravo Two. Have contacted friendlies. You’re clear to bring the Platoon to the rendezvous point. I’d make it fast. There’s a war breaking out here.”
“Copy that, Bravo Two. We’ll be with you in ten.”
“Mr. Nolan, your equipment is over there, explosives, body armor, and some replacement ammunition,” Castro said.
“Yeah, thanks. We’ll need all the help we can get taking on the Salazars.”
“What? What is this about the Salazars?”
The man who’d spoken was a tall, heavily muscled member of Castro’s team. Nolan eyed him carefully. There was something about him that screamed ‘danger’. His face was heavily pockmarked, the result of untreated childhood illness, no doubt. Columbia was a poor country. But he wore two knife scars, slashes that ran down on the left side of his face; slashes that proclaimed a checkered past. Castro hastened to introduce him.
“This is my sergeant, Sancho Vidal.”
Nolan nodded. “Does it make a difference? We’re here to hit the main organizations, all of them. What does it matter who we hit first?”
“I know nothing of this,” the Sergeant replied sulkily.
Nolan shrugged. He ignored the man and continued speaking with Castro. “Did they brief you on our mission?”
“Sure, you’re here to carry out a strike on some of the Medellin drug gangs and interdict shipments to the US.”
“They didn’t mention the Salazars?”
“The Salazars? No, of course not.”
Nolan was aghast. It was the fundamental and most important part of the operation. They could attack the drug gangs as much as they liked, but until they’d destroyed the Salazar operation, the whole thing was a bust. Castro looked confused.
“They said nothing of the Salazars,” he said again. “You’re talking of the Salazar gang here in Medellin? That is outside of our brief. I was specifically told to target the Olveras and the Barreras, and not to worry about the Salazars this time. I understood they’d be taken care of at a later date.”
“Yeah, Jesus Christ, we hoped you’d help us fight our way into their operation. Are you totally sure those were your orders?”
Castro looked worried. “Of course I am sure. Our orders were to meet your men here and offer you such assistance as would be required against those two gangs, the Olveras and Barreras. We are also ordered to make certain that no Colombian laws are broken. Your American operations have a certain, shall I say, reputation? We are happy to see the power of the drug barons squashed, but it must not be by way of breaking the law or killing innocent civilians. As for the Salazars, they are the most powerful group in the city, and they will not be easy to destroy. We must leave them for today.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Captain. And as for them being difficult to destroy, I guess they wouldn’t have sent us if they were so easy to kill. As soon as the rest of the Platoon arrives, we’ll head on out to their compound. And by the way, how you gonna stop the FARC from breaking the law, amigo?”
Castro flushed. “We will fight them as necessary. So you will not fight the Olveras and Barreras?”
“We’re going to the Salazars first. We’ll worry about the others afterwards. Do you have any intelligence on their strength, the layout of their place?”
“No, I have had nothing concerning them.”
“Then we’ll go to their main warehouse. If there’s a war breaking out on the streets, I guess they’ll head in to protect their product.”
“In that case we will offer our support,” Castro replied. “Believe me, you will need it.”
“Because of the FARC?”
The Colombian smiled. “The FARC? No, Senor, the FARC are a problem. But the Salazars, they are a nightmare. They will fight like maniacs to protect what is theirs.”
“You should listen to the Captain, what he says is true. Leave the Salazars and concentrate on the Olveras and the Barreras.”
Nolan glanced at Sergeant Vidal. “It’s not happening, pal. We have our orders, and we’ll carry them out.”
* * *
Talley arrived with the Platoon inside of the ten minutes he’d promised, and the men started donning the body armor and helping themselves to ammunition and ordnance. Rear Admiral Drew Jacks looked around at the ragtag collection of Colombian Special Forces, and then shook hands with Castro, who’d been talking in rapid Spanish on a radio inside the cab of one of the SUVs.
“Pleased to meet you, Captain. It sounds like all hell is breaking loose out there. Have you fixed up a plan with Chief Nolan to get this show on the road?”
Castro was astonished to see a real live US Navy Admiral with the Platoon.
“Admiral Jacks, your Mr. Nolan wants us to do direct to the Salazars’ warehouse. Is that what you wish?”
“I’m along for the ride, Son. You need to speak to Lieutenant Talley here. He’s the man in charge.”
Talley frowned. “If the Chief says that’s the objective, then that’s the way it is. Are you telling me there’s some kind of a problem?”
“I have been talking to some of my people. I have observers at key points inside the city. The man I was just speaking to informs me that the Salazars have put up roadblocks all around their warehouse to protect it. It will be impossible to get through. We should choose a different target.”
Talley nodded. “Is that so? Give me a few minutes, and let’s see what we can do about that. Any FARC activity in the area?”
Castro shook his head. “Not so far, no.”
“Okay, let’s check this out.”
He used the satcom to contact the forward controller who patched him through to Creech Air Force Base.
“Creech, this is Bravo. How’s our surveillance looking?”
“We’re circling the city right now, Bravo. What can we do for you?”
“I want you to send live images of the following coordinates to my tablet. It looks as if we may have some business for you.”
“Always happy to help, Bravo. If you want us to deliver some cookies, it’d be a pleasure. We hate to go home with the larder full.”
Talley took out his tactical tablet and powered up. Seconds later, the image began to appear on his screen. It was like a scene from hell. Or maybe Beirut, in the bad old days of the faction fights when Muslim groups like Hezbollah tore the city apart to impose their own iron discipline on the terrified residents. Central to the image was a warehouse in the center of a compound. The compound was surrounded by a high wall, and clearly visible on the crystal clear color video image. The UAV had locked the camera on the center of the coordinates and was maintaining a low, lazy spiral over the city, unnoticed by the residents below. Outside, in the streets that approached the Salazar compound, four roadblocks could be seen. In each case, they consisted of a pair of trucks parked across the street, with as many as thirty or forty armed men sheltering behind them. Talley nodded, satisfied.
“Creech, this is Bravo. Confirm ordnance on the overhead Reaper.”
“Bravo, that bird’s carrying four Hellfire missiles and two five hundred pound GBU-12 Paveway II laser-guided bombs. Do you have a fire mission for us?”
“That’s affirmative, Creech, and it’ll need those four Hellfires. I’ll be back in just a few seconds, standby.”
He placed the cursor over each roadblock and clicked the button that forwarded the coordinates to the UAV, by way of Creech US Air Force Base in the Nevada Desert.
“This is Bravo, confirm receipt of four separate coordinates.”
“This is Creech, confirmed. Targets locked in, one Hellfire missile assigned to each target. Waiting for your go ahead.”
“Lieutenant!” Captain Castro shouted as he walked towards Talley. Sergeant Vidal was behind him clutching his assault rifle. The meaning was clear. “You are not planning to launch an unprovoked attack on this city? This is outrageous and illegal. You must not do it.”
Admiral Jacks intercepted him. “Now hold on there, Son. You and I both know we’re here for the same thing, to take out those drug lords.”
“Yes, but, Admiral, I have my orders. I must protest!”
“You protest all you like, Son, and I’ll make sure our Lords and Masters get to hear of it.” He looked across at Talley. “What’re you waiting for, Lieutenant?”
Talley keyed the mic. “This is Bravo. Confirmed four targets are go. Fire at will.”
“Four targets are go, understood.”
The AGM-114 Hellfire was an air-to-surface missile developed for anti-armor use. These particular missiles were the AGM-114M Hellfire IIs, designed to hit bunkers, light vehicles and urban targets. A one hundred pound precision guided weapon, the Hellfire was a combat-proven tactical missile system.
As Raoul Castro raved and shouted, and Admiral Jacks worked to calm him, the four missiles burned into their targets. Talley and Nolan watched in real-time, the UAV images downlinked to the tactical electronic tablet display. It was quick, ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ quick. Four roadblocks manned by heavily armed men, conscious of their unassailable power, posturing to deter anyone who might dare to venture near; then an almost invisible streak of movement, and the roadblocks erupted into smoke and flame. When the smoke cleared, they could see the remains, broken vehicle parts, bodies and a few survivors running away. Talley shouted at the Platoon.
“They’re gone. Let’s go pay the Salazars a visit.” He turned to Castro. “Captain, we could sure use some transport.” He waved at the vehicles parked nearby. Castro nodded.
“Sure, yes.” He looked dazed and indecisive. Whatever Jacks had threatened or promised him, it had done the job. “My superiors provided two of the trucks for your use. That should be sufficient for you and your men.”
“Sure. And you, Captain? Aren’t you coming with us with your men? I understood you were here to offer us support.”
“I, I need to get further instructions from my commander. We will follow you shortly.”
“Suit yourself. Men, let’s go. Admiral, would you care to ride in the lead truck with me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Jacks smiled. No longer the deskbound senior officer, he looked ready for war in his dark Seal camouflage, half helmet, and lightweight body armor. Like the men, he carried an HK416 as if he knew how to use it. “Let’s go.”
They squeezed into two of the Colombian trucks. Each had a heavy machine gun mounted on the truck bed, and Dave Eisner manned the lead truck’s gun with Brad Rose to act as crew, feeding the heavy belts of ammunition. Will Bryce took the rear, using Zeke Murray for his crew. Carl Winters and Dan Moseley took the wheel of the front and rear trucks respectively, and they roared out of the building and out onto the road that led into the city, and the Salazars’ compound. In the cab of the rear vehicle, Nolan heard Talley’s voice.
“Chief, we’ll stop just past the roadblocks and make ready our assault. I’m thinking of using one of those five hundred pound Paveways to knock on the door. It’s not exactly a stealth approach, but I don’t think there’s any chance of catching anyone unawares right now.”
Nolan smiled to himself. It was good thinking.
“Copy that, Boss. I guess they’ll hear the knock first time round.”
They reached one of the roadblocks, smoke and flames were still pouring out of the wreckage. Talley was already sending the coordinates of the next target to the control center, and while they watched and waited, the men went around checking for any threats in the vicinity of the roadblock. But there were none, and the only presence was dead bodies, lying in and around the wreckage. A massive explosion made them look to the front, but Talley shouted across. “That’s the gate, let’s go.”
They scrambled back into the trucks and held on grimly as Winters and Moseley stamped on the gas, and they surged forwards. The compound was only a couple of hundred yards away, the main gate and surrounding machine gun bunkers a smoking ruin after the hit from the Paveway. The two trucks drove straight through and into a wide, open yard. There were a half a dozen vehicles parked in front of the main warehouse; a modern, well constructed building, like the headquarters operation of any normal business. At either end of the flat roof was a barricaded machine gun position, which immediately started pouring fire down onto them. It was wild and inaccurate, but when enough bullets are in the air, sooner or later they’re going to hit something, or someone important. Except that in this case, Will Bryce and Dave Eisner were manning the M60s mounted on the trucks, and their shooting was anything but wild and inaccurate. Both Seals fired a continuous burst of heavy, 7.62-millimeter lead at the machine gun positions, which were mounted behind a flimsy screen of sheet metal. The bullets ripped through the screens and decimated the gunners and their crews. The gunfire stopped. Ahead of them was a roller shutter door, the entrance to the warehouse.
“Keep your foot on the gas and go straight though it,” Talley ordered. “Hold tight, there’s going to be a bump.”
Carl Winters rammed his foot down on the gas, and the truck surged forward and smashed through the roller shutter almost as if it was paper. The torn metal was thrown to one side, and Carl brought the truck to a halt inside the building. A group of men with assault rifles gaped at them and started to raise their weapons to shoot, but Dave Eisner opened up on them with the M60. The other Seals joined in, and the Colombians went down under a hail of fire that was impossible to resist. The second truck drew alongside them only seconds later, and already the fight for the warehouse space was almost over.
“Fan out, check the building. We have to find the Salazars,” Talley shouted.
The Seals jumped down and rushed through the doors that would lead to the office area. Nolan went right with half a dozen Seals in support. He kicked open a door and dodged aside as a pistol fired straight at him. The man behind wasn’t so lucky, and he took a bullet in the chest, a hit to his flak vest. It would hurt like hell, but at least he was alive and still fighting. Nolan shot the man with a single round from his SWS, checked the rest of the room, and ran out to check the others. On the other side of the warehouse, in the adjacent office spaces and storerooms, he could hear the sound of firing. He led the men across to join the other group, Talley’s, and was in time to hear the sound of an engine starting. A black Hummer raced across the open warehouse space. They scattered aside as the vehicle sped through the warehouse, almost running down to Seals who were slow to jump. The windows were blacked out, but there was no doubt that inside was at least one of their primary targets. Nolan’s men started to squeeze the triggers to prevent the escape but stopped when Talley shouted across to them.
“Don’t shoot! Leave the Hummer, leave it.”
Nolan glared angrily at his Lieutenant. “What’s the deal, Boss? There has to be at least one of the Salazars in there, maybe both of the brothers.”
“You’re probably right, Chief, but they had a prisoner with them, one of ours.”
“Jesus Christ, who was it got taken?”
Talley looked downcast. “He separated from my group and went to check inside what he thought was a storeroom. It turned out to be a secret garage for the Hummer, some sort of last-ditch escape plan. They grabbed him and took off. They didn’t even try to fight. It’s as if they sacrificed their own men to distract our attention so they could escape.”
“Yeah, I hear you, but who?”
“Admiral Jacks.”
“Oh, fuck!”