Chapter 5

Posted: March 02, 2007 - 09:19:59 amUpdated: March 03, 2007 - 12:18:15 am?

Gabe and the pallet bound for Colombia changed planes at Mc Dill Air Force Base in Tampa. He and three pallets were shoved onto a C-130 for the three-hour flight to Colombia's Saravena Air Force Base. Saravena had an intermediate length dirt runway that was perfect for the prop driven C-130. Saravena AFB was located near the Caño Limón oil pipeline, in the Arauca District. Gabe touched down in Colombia five days after his children were kidnapped.

An old two and a half ton truck pulled up to the lowered ramp of the C-130, and five men jumped out of the back. The driver of the truck then backed it up until the tailgate of the truck was almost touching the ramp. The five men unfastened the cargo nets covering the pallets, while the truck driver talked to the aircraft's loadmaster. Gabe stayed out of the way and remained unnoticed, until the truck driver had finished his business with the loadmaster. Finally, the man who had been driving the truck looked at Gabe. The change in his facial expression made Gabe Ballard laugh.

"Damn, Salazar, they'll make anyone a warrant officer nowadays."

"Son-of-a-bitch! What in the hell is your decrepit old ass doing here?" Salazar asked, as he grabbed Gabe in a bear hug.

Salazar could cuss in five different languages, and he was a very emotional guy. Gabe laughed out loud again, and pushed Salazar away. Enrique Salazar had been a young commo man when Gabe was the First Sergeant of the 3rd Special Forces Group's Signal Company. Gabe ended up pulling the first sergeant duty for his last year and a half in the Army, as a favor to the Group's Command Sergeant Major. The company had been in disarray, and needed some serious adult leadership. Gabe had been totally against the idea, because it would mean leaving his A-team, but finally agreed. It had turned out to be one of the high points of his career.

Gabe had gone to bat for Salazar when the young man received a DUI in a rental car, during a deployment to Idaho, and saved the young man's career. Salazar and his pretty young wife had two children under the age of three at the time, so taking a bust in rank and a big fine would have been devastating to them. Salazar was a third generation Tex-Mex. He was also a big man. In one of those 'truth is stranger than fiction' deals, his wife was a petite and fiery redhead named Lucy. Unlike the Ricardos, however, in the Salazar home, it was usually Ricky who had some 'splainin' to do. The young couple had adopted Gabe as honorary grandfather to their little girls.

"I've got a problem, Ricky. As soon as you have a minute, I'll tell you about it."

"Tell me now," Salazar said, leading the way around to the front of his truck.

Gabe gave him the Reader's Digest version of his situation, as Ricky looked horror stricken.

"Jesus, Gabe, that sucks some serious ass! Officially, I can't do much to help you, but I have some good contacts in the Colombian Army, and I can wrangle a few days off for me and a couple of my guys. We can at least get you set up and pointed in the right direction anyway. The FARC has held captives as long as two years, so time is not a worry from that stand point. Come with us to our team house, and we'll do a map study."

Ricky introduced Gabe to his troops, and they all piled in the back of the deuce and a half and roared off. When Gabe asked one of the other men why the team leader ended up driving, the man grinned.

"The Chief (Chief Warrant Officer) is the only one old enough to remember how to drive this antique piece of shit," he admitted.

Gabe laughed ruefully.

"Hell, I was in the Army when they introduced this model with the turbo-diesel. We thought it was the best thing since sliced bread. That was in 1970, back before you were ever a gleam in your daddy's eye."

The soldier, probably in his early thirties, laughed along with Gabe. Geez, he thought, the guy didn't look nearly that ancient. Hell, truth be told, he looked younger than Chief Salazar. The sergeant wondered if this was the guy Salazar always talked about, that everyone called the 'Angel of Death.' If it was, man that was whack. This Angel was supposed to be about the baddest assed guy to ever put on a green beret.

Salazar pulled the truck to a stop, next to a new looking stucco and block building that sat in a row with five others on the far side of the airport. Gabe pitched in and helped unload the truck before going inside. The interior of the building was as nice as the exterior. The bottom floor was basically one large open bay. Along one wall, heavy metal mesh and angle iron made a secure room, where the team's weapons and equipment was stored. At one end of the room, a couple of desks and some filing cabinets stood. One of the team members helped Gabe carry his trunk over to the desks.

Gabe pulled his dog tag chain over his head and put the key Lamont Forrester had given him into the big milspec (military specification) lock. He didn't have the slightest idea what was in the trunk. When he threw back the lid, he had six men looking over his shoulder.

The shipping container was packed with everything a Special Forces soldier needed to go to war. Everything on the top layer, load bearing vest, rucksack, modular pouches and BDUs was used but clean and serviceable. However, the real jackpot was under the soft items in the form of a M4 carbine (shortened version of the M-16) complete with the Special Forces modification kit. The mod kit contained a noise suppressor (silencer), night vision scope and red dot pointer. There was also a can of ammo, a stack of thirty round magazines, a pair of night vision goggles and five blocks of C4 explosives, along with some detonating cord, blasting caps and time fuses.

John Riley and Brandon Bellows landed in Bogotá on the same afternoon that Gabe landed at Saravena Air Base. The two men caught a shuttle to the Radisson Hotel where Consolidated Metals and Minerals had engaged them a suite. After unpacking and resting, the men headed down to the restaurant to meet with Bellows' rescue team.

"John, regardless of how it looks, the most dangerous man at the table tonight is going to be Arturo Guzman. He has some sort of shadowy association with the DAS (Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad - the Department of Administrative Security — Colombia's secret police). We need him because of his contacts with the AUC (Autodefensas Unidas por Colombia — United Self-defense Forces of Colombia) paramilitary. Through Guzman, we have an army of nine thousand men at our disposal, depending on the kind of money you are willing to spend, of course."

Riley kept in mind Bellows's warning, as he sat at the table with four other men and Guzman. The other men were former US special operations soldiers. They were big, fit and crewcut. Guzman was a seemingly nondiscript man of Amerind heritage. He was short, plump and casual; he smiled often, but the expression never made it to his glittering obsidian eyes. Guzman accepted fifty thousand dollars as an initial payment, and said he would check his sources at the DAS to see if there was any current intelligence about the missing family.

The next day was the sixth of Peter and his sisters' captivity, and things were happening all over Colombia. In Bogotá, John Riley, using Consolidated Minerals and Metals' money, had set loose the Colombia secret police and indirectly hired the rightwing paramilitary AUC. Up in Saravena, in the District of Arauca, Gabe Ballard was being introduced to some of the Colombian soldiers Salazar's team was training to guard the Caño Limón oil pipeline. Down in Prado in the Tolima District, Commander Zorra was conducting a reconnaissance and setting up surveillance on Prado's small municipal airport...

Since taking over the column from Carlos, Marta had changed the composition of the unit considerably. It was nothing she had consciously done. It just seemed that women wanting to be guerrillas gravitated to a unit with a strong woman commander. Consequently, nearly half her unit (actually 40%) was female. Because she had that number of women available for duty on a daily basis, the few campesinos (peasant farmers) in her unit were freed to spend more time working their land and providing for their families. Zorra's unit was one of the few in FARC that had auxiliary fighters. It was a big advantage, because it gave her a pool of reserve manpower, as well as eyes and ears within the community.

Everything had been going smoothly for the Columna de Carlos Sanchez, until the DEA and their sycophants from the Colombian Air Force had moved into Prado and started spraying defoliant. The appearance of the DEA was a surprise development, since this side of the Andes Mountains produces only a fraction of the coca that the eastern slopes did. The DEA activity caused the Columna de Carlos Sanchez a couple of problems.

Problem number one was that the chemicals being sprayed did not distinguish between coca plants and any other crop. Careless spraying was decimating the maize and rice fields. Secondly, most of the campesinos grew small plots (called almacigas) of coca to supplement their incomes. The FARC usually collected a portion of the new leaves from each of the three yearly harvests as a 'tax' for keeping peace in the area. The spraying was taking food out of the peasants' mouths, and money out of FARC's purse. El Chico, the commander of the 21st Front, ordered Zorra to make the problem go away.

That order was why Marta Cardenas and Pilar Ortiz were standing beside the road in front of the airport, pretending distress at the apparently broken Vespa motorscooter Marta had been riding. Both women were wearing knee length summer dresses and had their long hair loose and flowing. They were dressed to attract attention, and the plan bore immediate fruit, as a couple of the DEA men pulled up in a golf cart. The two men hopped off the cart and walked up to them. In excellent Spanish, one of them asked if the women needed help. Marta gave no hint she spoke English, as she answered the man.

"Oh sí, señor, muchas gracias, no tengo gasolina. (Yes, thank you, I have no gas)."

It took all of five minutes worth of subtle flirting and flattery to earn the two women a tour of the DEA's facility. Marta held her tongue, as the Norteamericanos proudly described their mission to eradicate the fledgling coca production in the area. She and Pilar made appropriately appreciative noises, as the men allowed them to sit in the pilot's seat in one of the UH1H Iroquois helicopters. Pilar did the majority of the flirting to keep the men occupied, as Marta carefully studied the layout of the DEA's facility.

The DEA facility was well away from the civilian aviation facility. It consisted of three 50-foot long trailers, a couple of medium sized army tents with the sides rolled up and three helicopters. The helicopters were parked in a row, with about twenty-five meters between them. Marta could see about ten bunks in each tent through the gauzy mosquito netting. She assumed guards slept in the tents and estimated their number at about two dozen. Outside the tent was a jeep with a machinegun mounted on it. A ten thousand gallon fuel tanker truck was parked near the helicopters and fifty-five gallon drums that probably contained the defoliate were neatly arranged in a double row on the other side.

Marta took careful note that the DEA site was situated about five hundred meters from the razor wire topped chain link fence that separated the airport from the jungle and small farm plots to its west. She knew by now that four of her fighters were in position somewhere in that area to observe the site around the clock. She suppressed the urge to wave to them, knowing they were watching her at that very minute. Her soldiers were in awe of her audacity enough as it was.

Marta and Pilar hung out with the DEA guys for another half hour before leaving, both Vespas filled to the rim with high-octane gasoline. The women took the scooters back to the rental agent and picked up Marta's nondescript, old Ford Bronco. She parked the Bronco at the farm of one of her part time soldiers, then the two women hiked the three miles back to the cavern, being careful to insure they weren't being followed.

There were three ways into the caverns: one through the waterfall, one on the eastern slope of the mountain near the stream and bathing pond, and one on the western slope of the mountain facing Prado. All three approaches were guarded at all times, and each approach had a failsafe set up, in case the entrance had been compromised. As Marta and Pilar neared the small streambed that led to the western entrance, she glanced at a seemingly random pile of rocks. The flat, triangular rock on top was in place, so she stopped and made a gesture with her left hand. Had Marta made any other gesture, the guard would have known she was under duress, and would not have spoken.

"Puedes pasar (You may pass)," said a soft, disembodied voice from behind the stones.

Marta hugged Pilar when they separated inside the cavern.

"You did very well today, Pilar. You had the Yanquis eating out of your pretty little hand."

Pilar blushed at the praise.

"Gracias, Comendadora."

Marta was on her way to her quarters, when she thought of Peter Ballard. She stopped in her tracks, and with a small smile, she headed towards his cell. Images of a naked and aroused Peter at the bathing pond had awakened desires that she had long suppressed. She shook her head at her foolishness and vanity, as she straightened her hair and entered the cell.

Pete and his sisters were sitting together on their mattresses talking when Commander Zorra entered the room. Darla and Stephanie thought the Commander looked much less frightening and severe with her hair down and wearing a dress. Katherine thought she looked good enough to eat. Peter, however, thought she was about the most attractive woman he'd ever met.

"¡Eres muy hermosa! (You are very beautiful!)" he blurted, before he could catch himself.

Marta felt a little tingle at Peter's reaction. She gave him one of her rare smiles.

"Thank you, Peter. I must apologize for not checking on you today, but I had important business to attend. Tomorrow, however, is laundry day, so you can clean yourselves as well as your clothing. Make a bundle of those items you wish to wash, and bring it with you. Now if you will excuse me, it has been a tiring day, and I must bid you buenas tardes (good evening)."

Marta was looking at Peter as she talked, his big sky-blue eyes drawing her gaze as if they were magnets. Blushing, she broke their connection and walked out of the cell.

As soon as the commander was out of the room, Katherine dug her elbow in Pete's side.

"Wow, did you see the way she was looking at you, Bro? You better watch out, because I think she's going to keep you and the money."

Pete didn't know about all that, but he did know he would be happy as hell to do some laundry. His sisters had been captured with full suitcases, while all he had was an emergency change of clothes and a shaving kit that he had kept in the car in case he had to spend the night at a survey site.

It had been a fairly good day for Pete and his sisters as, except for mealtime, they had been left alone. Darla and Stephanie had figured out a way to wrap their blankets around their bodies in a manner that provided them modesty and left their hands free. That simple act put them in a much better frame of mind.

Katherine was also feeling chipper; she was still atingle from spending the night in her brother's arms. No, she had not managed to seduce him into full-blown intercourse, but she had taken him right up to the edge of it.

Last night, Katherine hadn't even bothered putting on her nightie. She simply shucked off all her clothes and got in bed. Then, for good measure, she slipped Pete's boxer briefs off too. They kissed and cuddled, their bodies seemingly glued together from head to toe, kissing and caressing each other for half an hour. Katherine had hung their clothes on the chairs between the two mattresses, so their sisters' view would be blocked, but they needed to be careful that one or both of them didn't get up for some reason.

When she judged her sisters to be asleep, Katherine eased her body around until her mouth was even with Pete's big hard on, and her steaming little quim was right below his chin. Katherine grinned as she remembered her brother's whispered groan, as she took his turgid stalk between her tightly compressed lips. Lolita, he had called her, right before turning his head down and running his tongue through her sodden slit.

Katherine was the most sexually adventurous of the sisters, and had been since Darla had moved out to attend college when Katherine was thirteen. Without her oldest sister to rein her in, Katherine felt free to explore her sexuality. Katherine had a very healthy libido, and had quickly discovered there wasn't anything about sex that she didn't like. Katherine had been smart about it back home in Orlando, never putting herself in a position that ruined her reputation or curtailed her freedoms. Here in this cave in Colombia, though, she didn't have to worry much about that. Even better, she was being held prisoner and practically forced together with the man who turned her on the most in the world, her big brother, Pete. So far, Pete was exceeding all her expectations, as last night he had given her the best orgasms of her life, with just his fingers and tongue. She figured she'd see Nirvana when he finally stuffed that big beautiful thing into her.

Marta Cardenas changed into her camos, after dropping by to visit her prisoners. As soon as she was in uniform, she went to the big chamber of the cavern that served as their headquarters, and started planning the raid on the DEA helicopters. The first step she took was to call one of her company commanders to see her. It took Captain Garza only a few minutes to report.

"Captain, this is a warning order," Commander Zorra said.

Garza took a small notebook and pen out of his breast pocket and looked at her expectantly.

"Three nights from now, on the twenty second, at three in the morning, we will attack and destroy the DEA helicopters operating out of Prado Airport. All of your company will be involved in the raid. Plan on one guerilla (platoon) for the assault, and the other for security. I have four people observing the airport around the clock. You and I will join them at midnight tonight."

Garza wrote furiously, then read back the warning order word for word. Zorra nodded her head that he had it right, and dismissed him. Garza hustled to assemble his subunit leaders to issue the order to them.

Commander Zorra and Captain Garza slipped out of the caverns by the waterfall exit at around ten that night. They only used the waterfall exit at night, because it was not shielded from observation during the daylight as well as the other two. Zorra quietly told Garza of her preliminary plan, as they walked to the location of the observation post. They reached the OP at a little after midnight, and joined the soldier watching the airfield.

Zorra had seen all she needed during the first hour at the OP, as the jeep from the DEA compound rode up and down the perimeter road of the airfield. It took the jeep about five minutes to make one trip up the fence line and five minutes back. The driver was very conscientious, and never varied his pace by more than a few seconds either way. By questioning the soldiers manning the OP, she found out that the guards changed shift every four hours. The changing of the guard happened right on the road, and only a few minutes or so was lost during the change over, including pouring a five gallon jerry can of gasoline into the jeep.

There were also two guards flanking a post around the helicopter pad. Marta was most pleased that the guard force was hired paramilitary instead of Guardia Nacional. It would be a good thing if they killed some of the right wing thugs during the raid.

Gabriel Ballard sat with Chief Salazar and his Intel Sergeant, as they pored over maps of Bogotá and the surrounding area. Colombia was twice the size of Texas, so Gabe needed to narrow the search area. Since Peter and his sisters disappeared on the south side of Bogotá, the three men agreed that they were probably being held somewhere within a two hundred mile semicircle south of the city.

After narrowing the search area, the three men went to visit the Intelligence Officer of the Colombian unit Salazar was training. The man, a Major named Luna, accepted Gabe as a new member of the Special Forces team that needed to be briefed. The three men were soon sitting down with the latest intelligence on the FARC. Using the updated intelligence on FARC unit strength and locations, they halved the search area to an arc to the southwest of Bogotá, in the districts of Cundinamarca, Tolima and Huila. Salazar and the Intel Sergeant figured the odds of them being correct, at about seventy-five percent. Gabe quickly focused on the location and leadership in the three districts on his short list. He left with a printout of the information he needed. Next on the agenda for Gabe, was finding transportation south.

John Riley could not believe his good fortune, as he and Bellows hustled along behind Arturo Guzman. It was only his second day in Colombia, yet they already had their first break in the kidnapping of the Ballard kid and his sisters. Guzman ushered them into a darkened room and cautioned them to keep quiet. Riley and Bellows's wait was short, however, as in only a few seconds, a light came on, and they were peering through a window at a table with two chairs facing each other pulled up to it. Guzman came into the room carrying a folder in his hand. He sat down in the chair on the side of the table that faced the door.

A minute or so later, a big beefy man in a wrinkled suit led a wiry little man into the room, and roughly pushed him down in the other chair. The small man was handcuffed and shackled, yet his demeanor was hostile and defiant. The big man, looking bored and disinterested, took up station to the prisoners left side. Guzman ignored the man for another minute, then closed the folder and looked up.

"Ernesto, where did you obtain the car you were driving when arrested?"

"The car was a gift from my brother," the wiry little man said contemptuously.

Guzman's eyes narrowed at the man's attitude. He looked up and nodded slightly. The big man's fist lashed out and smashed into the small man's face, with enough force to knock him out of his chair.

In the other room, John Riley looked at Bellows in alarm.

Bellows shrugged and whispered, "His country, his rules."

The man referred to as Ernesto had been arrested early that morning driving the car that belonged to Riley's employer and last used by Peter Ballard. Guzman, who was having everything concerning the disappearance of Ballard and his sisters routed through him, found out about Ernesto around noon. He had the man immediately transferred to the DAS headquarters and had notified Bellows. Now Señor Guzman was showing the Anglos what they were getting for their money.

The big silent man dragged Ernesto back up into his chair. Ernesto blinked a few times and tried to look unaffected, but Guzman was sure his attitude had undergone a sea change.

"Now, Ernesto, let us try the question again. How did you come by the vehicle you were driving this morning?"

Ernesto was much more cooperative the second time around. He explained that he had seen a man and woman exit the car in front of the bus depot in the western barrio, early on Wednesday morning. Ernesto had ambled by the car, thinking they might have left something in it of value. He could not believe his good fortune when he saw the keys dangling in the ignition. He had originally planned on quickly selling the Cherokee to a chop shop, but it was such a nice car, he decided to keep it for himself.

Guzman continued questioning Ernesto while the small man was cooperating so fully. In no time, he had a description of the couple who dropped off the car. After Ernesto was dismissed back to his holding cell, Guzman rejoined Riley and Bellows.

"I am sending someone for the surveillance tapes from the bus station, for Ernesto to review. I am also tracking down the ticket agent on duty that night. We should know where the pair were headed within twenty-four hours," Guzman stated.

John Riley nodded in satisfaction; things were moving along. With a little luck, he could be back in Denver in a week or two, playing with his grandkids and telling war stories.
Joe J & Wet Dream-Girl
Chapter 6