ON THAT FIRST rainy day of April, eight hundred Autodefensas changed into civilian clothes and were divided into groups of twenty. Since Guerrilla spies were hidden everywhere, the transport operation had to be conducted clandestinely. Soldiers were ferried across two provinces in tarpaulin-covered trucks. Weapons, uniforms and ammunition were transported separately. It would only take one sighting of abnormal troop movements to jeopardise the entire invasion.
Boats dropped us across the Venezuelan border, forty kilometres to the south of the camp, and we began the arduous journey towards Santiago’s base. We trekked at night without torches, stumbling over moss-covered buttress roots. As we travelled deeper into the jungle, the moonlight penetrating the canopy grew dimmer and the tropical rains continued to pour down.
When daylight came, we lay down in our wet uniforms and tried to sleep on the decomposing leaves of the forest floor. Ants crawled across our faces and stifling humidity filled our lungs. Since any sound or smell could give us away, we weren’t permitted gas cookers or even insect repellent, and by the second night my skin was covered in scratches and mosquito bites. If not for the zorro solo’s testimony, I’d never have believed humans could live in such inhospitable terrain.
It was almost 3 am on day five when Alfa 1 consulted his GPS and confirmed we were only one kilometre from Santiago’s base. He’d timed our arrival perfectly and the torrential rains now bucketing down were a godsend, reducing our visibility to the enemy.
We slipped our packs from our shoulders, removed the additional ammunition and checked our rifles for dirt that could cause a cartridge jam. Palillo and I donned our ghillie suits. No one spoke. We all knew this was it.
I looked at my platoon members. MacGyver, who would take command in my absence, was relaxed, sitting with his back to a tree. Ñoño stared vacantly ahead. Tortuga paced in circles. Yucca and Giraldo bit their nails. The newly graduated soldiers looked grim. I imagined they had butterflies in their stomachs, whereas I felt curiously elated, imagining Santiago asleep in his base, about to get the shock of his life.
Alfa 1 gave the order for the three Team X sniper pairs to take up our assigned positions. Palillo and I wriggled slowly towards the riverbank.
I heard the water before I saw it. Rumbling mountains of it, swirling through the jungle. When finally we wormed our way into a good hide beneath a thick, fallen tree trunk, what I saw made my heart sink.
The river was far wider and deeper than we’d expected. We had trained for a one-hundred-metre sprint to their base, across a riverbed no more than ankle deep. But the river was now fifty metres wide and flowing fast.
My plan of injuring and then interrogating Santiago was now impossible. In fact, I was sure that we’d have to turn back altogether. Wading through the river while carrying a weapon was not only dangerous, it would extend the crossing time by two or three minutes – more than enough time for the Guerrilla lookouts to spot us.
‘There’s too much water,’ I radioed through to Alfa 1.
Over the headset I heard him order three scouts to wade out and gauge the water’s depth and speed. Through my night-vision scope, I watched their dark figures emerge from the trees on our side of the bank and creep slowly to the water’s edge at two hundred metres separation. Although the scouts were sure-footed and cautious, I began to worry: if I could see them, so too might our enemy.
Fortunately, they returned without incident. However, the water had reached their waists. Although I couldn’t see Alfa 1’s reaction, I knew that despite his claim that the Autodefensas never retreated, he would not risk the lives of eight hundred men. After many months of planning and the huge expense of recruiting and training, the mission had been a failure – thwarted at the last minute by nature.
I imagined Alfa 1 now searching for a gap in the canopy in order to transmit the bad news via satellite phone to Trigeño and General Itagüí back at base.
As the long, slow minutes ticked by, Palillo and I scanned the opposite bank for movement. The thick jungle on the other side seemed eerily still. Finally, I saw movement: two guerrilleros were changing guard. Their smiles and relaxed hand signals confirmed that they were not aware of us. Palillo nudged me. He’d located the zorro solo’s tree, below which was Santiago’s hatch.
Seeing how close we’d come, however, only increased my disappointment. Fifteen minutes passed with no order to retreat. The delay could only be explained by two things: cloud cover blocking the satellite phone connection to Trigeño or disagreement among the commanders about how to proceed. I suddenly had a dreadful suspicion: Trigeño, not being on the ground, might overrule Alfa 1’s judgment.
A second later, it was confirmed via radio when Alfa 1 grimly relayed Trigeño’s order: ‘Prepare to cross.’