It Is All About the Ice Cream
By
Mark Farenbaugh
Lt Col George Smith was a mess. Exhausted by the frequent long days working his many programs, projects, and operations that the military has to work within the wildly complicated South American country of Colombia. It was the toughest assignment he had ever had. Also, the most rewarding.
Everything was complicated by violence in Colombia. The people of the cities struggled with poverty and lack of education. There was heavy crime throughout. It was common for the ‘midnight express’ to occur. Anyone walking on the sidewalk or departing their offices and not paying attention to their surroundings was prey for the criminal vultures plucking them off the streets and forcing them to withdraw money from the ATMs, and then holding them until midnight to withdraw the maximum amount, again. The scared victims were usually released in the worst areas of the city, where walking there at night was equal to the dark streets of East Chicago.
Outside the cities was another violent story. The citizen struggled with survival and the ever threatening Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia. The FARC, a revolutionary group of quasi-political leadership had infiltrated nearly every level of the government, police, military, banks, and schools. They were everywhere and were aggressively hostile against anyone who opposed them. Somewhere in the past, they lost their true political mission against the government and, just like any revolutionary group, somewhat abandoned their political cause for the need to gather money and fund the arming of their ‘soldiers.’ For the FARC, that included explosives. Eventually, extortion, ransom, and moving drugs were their main money gathering vehicles, while gorging on the violence they loved. Besides the cities, they nearly owned the jungle where they operated without much resistance. They spread into small towns like the many rats that own the streets of New York. Those who resisted, were tossed to the jungle after a quick decision to strip the town of their precious children. The young girls to be allocated to the FARC resistance fighters and young boys moved to training camps to be beaten into submission and armed to fight for the revolution. The protesting or sorrowful screams of the adults were crushed by bullets. Only the remaining few testified to anyone who came to hear them, and that was hardly worth a trip. It happened everywhere.
Colombia, a country slightly larger than Texas plus California, has a large portion of flat land called Los Llanos, the plaines east of the Andean mountains ridge which slopes down to the jungles of the Amazon rainforest. It is home to not only the FARC, but also hundreds of drug lords producing the best cocaine in the world. So potent, it can be cut several times to multiply profits. The hot and humid climate of the jungle combined with the rich soil is perfect for growing the coca plant, as if they were weeds.
The Amazon jungle is replete with natural protection, that of poisonous snakes, spiders whose bit can melt skin, diseases like dengue and malaria, fast moving predatory animals, and heat. Lots of heat. To go into the jungle is to risk life. The only way to survive is to cut down anything that is green and hope the nighttime doesn’t attract four-legged hungry animals. For the FARC or narcotrafficker, the main means of movement were the hundreds of clandestine dirt runways they built near their plantations and ten thousand miles of uncontrolled rivers.
Col White, US Army, was the commander of all the military assigned to Colombia and one of the best seen by the embassy. The military who served under him were equally impressed. Everyone loved him for his treatment of others and his quick assessments and ability to handle nearly every situation. He became an instant mentor to many.
He was in charge of the Military Group, commonly referred to as the MILGROUP, which had three sections, the Air Force, the Army, and the Navy. Most of those offices were imbedded in the office areas of the Colombian military. Logical, because the greater mission of the MILGP was to enhance the host nation’s military ability to perform better and safer. The only part of the MILGROUP’s mission that was not safer for some was all about countering the drug cultivation and movement of products to the United States. The MILGROUP, with strong support from the ambassador and State department, had the mission to deny the narco-trafficker access and use of the skies, rivers, and land.
The Air Force part of the MILGP was led by Lt Col Smith. His responsibilities were to manage millions of dollars of military assistance funds to rebuild or replace the Colombian military’s aging aircraft or runways in their fight against the narco system. That, of course, did not include any assistance to the Colombians in their fight against Terrorism, even though narcotics, trafficking, and terrorism are all fully interlinked. That job belonged to the CIA.
Smith’s other responsibility while assigned to Colombia was to “clean” out whatever narcos he could. He didn’t pull any trigger, but he was nearly a wizard at the use of airpower to position fighter aircraft to shoot down a narco airplane carrying drugs or money, or to destroy it on the ground. He was a busy man. He also had to respond to anything involving aircraft and runways that the US military were going to use. That included airfield protection materials like fencing, bird bash programs to limit the many birds from affecting the aircraft, and airfield support.
Col White was up early, as usual. The phone rang.
Lt Col Smith answered, “Hello, Lt Col Smith.”
“Good morning George, how are you doing?” said his boss, Col White.
“Great sir, good morning.” Colonels don’t call to say good morning, so Smith knew a tasker would follow.
Col White continued, “There is a guy that wants to see me this morning. I don’t know how he got on my schedule, but my secretary put your name next to his. Do you know who Mr. Malek is and what he wants? The topic written in parenthesis is Airfield Operations.”
Lt Col Smith remember him, “Sir, he came by to ask if I needed any operational support at the airfield down in Apiay. I told him that I had plenty of support and didn’t need any. Then, he asked about the digging going on, there, and asked if I knew where he could help with that effort. I told him that I only deal with the operational side of aircraft positioned there and that at that place, airfield force protection issues belonged to the Army command in Puerto Rico. Remember that I wanted to position a C-130 down there, but security was an issue? Anyway, I thought Mr. Malek had returned to the states.”
Col White, “Well, he is going to be escorted to my office for a 1200 meeting. Are you available to be here at the same time?”
“Yes sir. I’ll be there.”
Smith gave his exec a call. “Pedro, can you tell me anything about a Mr. Malek who stopped by a couple days ago?”
Captain Pedro Gonzalo answered, “Not much sir. But, besides his motoring on about how much he knows about the MILGROUP’s building up of Apiay, I did hear him pitching his own company’s ability to supply chain link fence, barbed wire, poles and gates. Didn’t he bring that up in his meeting with you?”
Lt Col Smith, “No, he did not.”
By 0850 that morning, Smith was in front of Col White’s office, trying to squeeze in a word before a 0900 meeting. As White motioned for Smith to enter the office, Smith closed the door, keeping his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t want anyone outside to hear what he had to say.
“Sir, just a couple seconds to make a recommendation to cancel the noon meeting with Mr. Malek. I think he is just here to tell you about his own company’s ability to sell security hardware. Possibly for Apiay…..”
Col White raised his hand. “George, normally one benefits from meetings. See you at noon.”
“Yes, sir.” Lt Col Smith opened the door and departed.
Smith was back in his office as his operations officer entered.
“Sir, you are needed up in operations,” said Lt Col Manny Garcia his operations officer.
George, “Another track of interest?”
Manny, “No sir, an established track, low altitude. We have launched the CIA’s Citation and they have acquired a fast-moving twin-engine aircraft entering from Brazil. We have already notified the Colombians and they are launching their fighter aircraft and one Fantasma.”
The Fantasma, “The Ghost,” was originally one of the thousands of DC-3s that were sold all over the world. The Air Force mission had sent a few of them up to the US to be refitted with larger fuel tanks, a new cockpit designed for night vision goggles, flare tubes for night operations, a Forward Looking Infra-Red (FLIR) camera, recording systems, and a pair of gun mounts for the twin gatling guns that the Israelis sold to Colombia. The air frame was re-skinned to remove the large rivets from the 1940s designs and the radial piston engines were replaced with turbines and synthetic props. It returned to Colombia as an AC-47, an attack aircraft that flew faster, could see at night, and could stay in the air for 12 hours. It was used to destroy aircraft on the ground.
Both Garcia and Smith headed up to the fifth floor of their building where the Colombian general and his operations center were located. The operation would take a couple hours to evolve until the order was given to shoot the narco aircraft down. It happened so frequently, the one-star general used first names with Smith and Garcia. When the endgame neared, the pilots of the attack A-37s called out, “hongo” for mushroom cloud, to let everyone know the narco aircraft had exploded. Aircraft recording devices were turn off and everyone could return to base.
General Benavides turned his head toward the colonels and started departing, “Gracias Jorge, gracias Manny, nos vemos.” Thanks, see you later.
It was five minutes before noon, and Lt Col Smith was waiting outside Col White’s office. “Hello Mr. Malek. How are you?” Smith said to Malek as he was escorted into the office area. “Just fine, but a little tired,” responded Malek. “I’m still not used to the altitude in Bogota.”
The door open and out walked a couple of officers.
Col White looked up from his notes and schedule. He stood up to greet Mr. Malek and motioned for both of them to take a seat.
“How do you like Bogota, Mr. Malek?” the Colonel’s voice had the subtle tone of command, but he smiled.
“I have always loved Colombia and its beautiful and peaceful cities. Especially the tropical areas east of the mountains,” replied Malek.
Col White glanced at Smith.
“What is your favorite area East of Bogota?” the Colonel asked, knowing well that Apiay lie east of Bogota, but some five thousand feet lower in altitude.
Malek leaned forward in his chair. “Well, that is why I’m here. I hope to help you with Apiay. I know it is a challenging place to work and the company I work for, CommTech, has the ability to build some communications networks that can help with operations.”
At that point, Col White started narrating the long history of how the cities were populated in the low areas of the los llanos and how the small towns were protected by both the military and police units of the Colombians.
Minutes passed. The story was truly boring, but Mr. Malek dared not interrupt. At a certain point, Mr. Malek’s eyelids slowed their descent in the blinking process to lubricate the eyes. Col White had skillfully hypnotized Mr. Malek into a drift.
Then, the came the question. “So, how can you help with that?” said Col White.
The answer wasn’t very good, but the used car salesman emerged from Malek’s response with statements on Apiay’s need for protective materials.
Now fully recovered, Mr. Malek revealed that he also had a personal company that could provide chain link fence and gates, if needed, and he dropped his card on the colonel’s desk.
Another short glance came from Col White to Smith.
Col White said, “The Army general in Puerto Rico is basing his next star on force protection at Apiay and fortunately has provided all the possible equipment he can move there. I’m guessing we have enough.”
At that point the Colonel stood up and stretched out his hand to say goodbye.
Smith directed the nervous Mr. Malek to the sergeant who had escorted him into the embassy. Then, he turned back toward Col White’s office.
Col White was walking toward him. “Let’s go to the cafeteria.”
Both walked in silence. Smith didn’t need to say, “I told you so.”
When they got there, Smith was thinking to get a coffee, when Col White pointed downward and said, “Which one do you want?”
Looking down into the ice cream freezer, Smith picked his favorite and Colonel White paid for it.
A small reward for being right. Lt Col Smith stayed in the cafeteria to enjoy his chocolate covered ice cream. Col White returned to his office.
It was a long week. George was returning home from the embassy and decided to pick up dinner on the way home. His driver knew better to ask how the day went. He could see that the Lt Colonel was exhausted. So was he, as he had to wait all day for him to depart the embassy.
The moment for sleep came quickly once Smith was in his house.
The cell phone rang for a while before Smith was awakened. He shook his head realizing he had been in a deep sleep. It was near midnight. A phone call at this hour meant something went wrong. He was thinking, shit, another trooper was in trouble for a fist fight. Perhaps a stabbing. Or, another event where scopolamine was used by a hot-looking Colombiana to rob an apartment, drugging one of his guys into lose their will. Maybe another car bomb exploded.
“Lt Col Smith,” he answered.
“Sir, this is Sgt Fernandez in operations. A Colombian aircraft has gone down and we want your permission to scramble a helicopter from Apiay to go see if they are alive and pull them out.”
“Where?”
“Near Tres Esquinas, sir, and near the river,” was the reply.
Tres Esquinas was the Colombian airfield closest the Ecuador. It was in the middle of cocaine growing areas, surrounded by triple canopy jungle. The river running along the border with Ecuador was close, and where the military unit stationed at Tres Esquinas could launch boats to patrol on the river, bath in it, or fish. The river was wide and navigable and like a jungle freeway. Large tracks of cocaine were close to the airfield. In an aircraft, during the approach to the short runway, you could see coca plants growing. It looked like hundreds of acres of fica plants. Clearly, no one entered that well-protected area. The triple canopy areas next to the coca plants were thick with narco or FARC encampments, and jungle creatures looking for food. Large rats were as numerous as ants.
“When did this happen and how did it happen?” were the next questions. “Have the Colombians asked for assistance?”
“No sir, not yet. And we are pretty sure the heavy rains caused it to go down a couple minutes ago.”
The Fantasma stationed there was not operational. It’s FLIR needed repair, but it could fly. The Colombian command in Bogota had a mission the next day, where the Fantasma was an integral part. No Fantasma, no mission. Their decision was to fly in the parts and crew chiefs to fix it before dawn. That was a mistake. A Casa 225 was a good aircraft for nearly any nighttime mission except that Tres Esquinas had no precision landing equipment. Not even a good beacon to know where the aircraft was in relation to the field. The pilot would have to be very good at lining up with the runway, at night, using GPS. Had the pilots known how bad the climate was with heavy rain and low visibility, they probably wouldn’t have chanced it.
Three attempts were made before the pilot miss-aligned his aircraft with the narrow runway and hit a tree. The right engine was hit, which forced the aircraft into a tight left-hand turn in an attempt to go around. But without enough power for the weight it carried, the aircraft was in a slow descent. The pilots only two choices were a controlled crash into triple canopy or the river. He chose the jungle. With the remaining time of flight, he leveled out the wings, lowered the flaps. The CASA hit the tops of the trees and was torn apart. After that, it was a miracle collision with earth, ending with all nine passengers onboard screaming, but without any broken bones. It was very dark. The kind of darkness that nightmares are made of.
“Sgt Fernandez, who have you reported this to?” George asked.
“No one sir, only yourself. Can we have a helicopter?” Fernandez asked again.
George responded, “No. Not yet. This is what we will do. Keep monitoring the situation. There is a Counterdrug platoon that we trained at Tres Esquinas. Are they preparing to walk to the crash site? It should be within a couple miles of the runway.”
“No sir, the Colombians said they won’t deploy anyone until the morning due to extraordinary heavy rain. But I just overheard them say that they are launching the Fantazma to try to make contact with the aircraft.”
Of course, George thought. Don’t go into the dark jungle unless you absolutely have to or be prepared to stay.
“Check, hourly, if the Colombians have changed their minds. And, if there is any radio contact with the Casa, let me know. Otherwise, I am going to let Col White know early in the morning. There is nothing a helicopter can do in this kind of weather, at night, even if they locate the Casa.”
Smith kept thinking back at all the other rescue missions he had overseen. Risking another asset to the situation might just add another crash landing to it. And then he reflected on the need for Col White to get some well-needed sleep. The Colonel had to be more exhausted than he was.
It was a gamble. A big one. Colonels don’t like surprises. But then, he rationalized, the Colonel was Army and always with ground troops, where George was Air Force and had more experience in air rescue. Shit.
Within thirty minutes the phone rang again.
“Hello,” said George.
“Sir, the Fantasma has made contact with the crew of the Casa. There are nine passengers and all of them are okay!” screamed Sgt Fernandez.
“Great news. Okay, stick with the plan. Stay on top of this. If anything changes, give me a call. Otherwise, at zero six hundred, give me an update.” Smith then let exhaustion overtake him, thinking, “I hope this works.”
The remaining hours to 0600 passed quickly.
“Col White, good morning, sir.” Said Smith.
“How are you, George?”
“Fine, sir,” Smith paused, “The Colombians tried to reach Tres Esquinas last night at midnight. Their Casa 235 missed the runway and crashed into the jungle about 2 miles West of the runway. All nine passengers are alive and waiting for rescue.”
“How do you know they are alive?”
“The Fantasma is flying in the area and made contact.”
“And the counterdrug battalion?”
“They didn’t want to risk it until daylight.” Smith could hear the commander thinking, and added, “I asked the CIA ops officer to launch his Citation an hour ago. It is flying at twenty thousand feet, monitoring. They can hear the Larandia helicopters pre-flighting radio transmission. I think we will need them.”
The helicopters stationed at Larandia belonged to the Narcotic Affairs Section. The small operation was 30 minutes flying time closer to Tres Esquinas than was Apiay. However, the US ambassador was determined that they not be used for any other mission. Rescue was another type of mission.
Everyone had heard the story. One time the ambassador let the FARC slaughter some Colombian ground troops rather than give permission to use a nearby flight of US funded counternarcotic UH-60s that could have evacuated them. The reason was simple. Use counter-terrorist-funded helicopters for FARC attacks, not those funded by the US for counter-narcotics missions. The ambassador didn’t want to endure the wrath of Wash D.C. But he did hear heated words from his Colombian counterparts.
“I’ll take it from here, George. We can debrief in my office, afterwards.” Col White continued, “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Sir, the operational options were limited. Heavy rain. The risk was too great to put another aircraft in the air. I choose to let you sleep.”
“Next time, give me a call.”
Smith had surprised him.
“Yes, sir.”
They hung up.
That morning, the jungle was alive with activity. The FARC had their own river boats and knew there was a crash during the night. They sped along the river, trying to see if there was any way they could find the aircraft and kidnap the occupants. Sequestering is a billion-dollar business in Colombia. The families will pay dearly for their relatives.
As daylight was breaking, the Larandia helicopters diverted to Tres Esquinas by Col White were landing. Somehow, he had gotten permission. The helicopter pilots were briefed up on what was needed. They let a couple of armed counterdrug battalion soldiers climb aboard and took off, heading to the crash site.
Two combat river boats of the same Tres Esquinas battalion proceeded into the river to get to the shore nearest the downed Casa. They didn’t get too far, when they noticed the FARC river boat. The gatling guns on the US sponsored boats cut them in pieces, killing a top leader of the FARC.
Lt Col Smith arrived at his office to get a quick briefing from his operations officer. The aircrew was safe, and the site secured. He then headed out the door.
His exec blurted out a quick question, “Sir, where are you going?”
Smith kept walking, but turn his head back toward him and said, “To see if there is any ice cream in the embassy.”
