Matt chimed in, “The kicker is you don’t get the medals and the perks unless you never speak of your glorious heroism to anybody. No book deal, no movie deal, no video games. Nothing.”

  Oby and Boone laughed. They all knew the deal, and they had experience in the waiting game. It was clear nobody was going to learn anything until the LT was good and ready to tell them, but Boone wasn’t ready to quit just yet.

  “No, I don’t have an agent; but come to think of it, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. So, what do ya think, LT? Will this mission make a good book? Maybe a movie?”

  Matt and Oby both laughed. “Yeah, in your dreams, man!” Oby taunted.

  “I don’t think you’ll be seeing a movie deal anytime soon!” Matt said, piling on. It felt good to be back together again. The three SEALs finished the task of storing their personal bags in the container.

  The support crew was piling into the hangar, and the large doors were sliding open to accommodate the pallets of communications equipment, food, water, desks, chairs, everything needed to convert the empty space into a working combat operations center.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lane Sanchez turned away from her JSOC colleague and walked to where the SEALs stood near the containers. She checked her watch and gauged the time against the mission planning parameters. She was satisfied they were doing well so far. “Matt?” She stopped a few yards away and gestured for the LT to join her.

  Matt glanced at his partners. “You guys stay here. I’ll see what she wants.”

  Lane smiled in a stiff, professional way as Matt walked up and she extended her hand. “I want to bring you up to speed on the timetable.”

  He shook her hand and tried to avoid looking down at her impressive body. “When can I tell my team what this is all about?”

  Lane thought for a moment. “I understand your sense of urgency; I share it. We have techs sweeping this space, and once they’re done, we’ll convert the third cargo container into a secure space for the more sensitive aspects of planning and briefing. It’s already kitted out with insulated walls and a white noise generator.”

  Matt needed to tell Boone and Oby so they could begin working the mission plan. This logistics crap wasn’t his concern.

  “When?”

  Lane saw that Matt was moving from irritated to pissed. “I know you’re anxious to get started, but give the process another hour and then you can brief your men. In the meantime, you can grab cots off the pallets and set your team up over there.” Lane pointed to a far corner of the hangar.

  Matt looked where she pointed and grunted. “All the comforts of home. That is if you have twenty people running around your house back home.” Matt turned back and smiled at the attractive intelligence analyst. Lane saw something in the look and decided it was time to give Matt the snake eater speech.

  “Lieutenant, I’m sure you’re convinced your charms are irresistible. From the way your men’s eyes keep scanning up and down my body, I’m sure they think they’re in the game, too. Let me assure you that, aside from special briefings and countless warnings from friends and my superiors, I have no intention of fucking anyone on the mission team.”

  Matt’s jaw dropped. “Wow! You must be under assault all the time from the boys back in Tampa to feel the need to give that speech to a total stranger. I’ll tell my dogs to put their tongues back in their mouths and leave you alone, and I can assure you I’ll do the same for the duration of our stay.”

  He turned and rejoined Oby and Boone. The three of them went to the sailor who looked like he was in charge of the cargo offload process and was steered by him to a specific pallet where they went to work looking for the cots.

  Lane watched with just a twinge of guilt. Her speech was a defense mechanism, and it was unfortunate she was required to use it so often. The SEALs were very cute and each had their own special twinkle in their eyes, especially their leader. This time the speech was as much about her inclinations as that of the special operatives she’d just offended.

  The Colombian Jungle

  Auger’s feet were swollen. The heat, walking on broken ground without boots, and the general stress on his body were conspiring to weaken him. His arms were covered in lacerations from the angry plant life found everywhere in this jungle. In short, this sucked. The only positive was that he was able to keep eyes on the general now.

  The guerillas had decided to put them together, another sign that things may be going against the home team. The little tells were all Auger had to go on. His intuition told him that the deeper they moved into the Colombian jungle, the safer they should feel. But all signs pointed to a general expression of anxiety in the men near him. Maybe the closer they moved toward a known FARC site, the more likely the Colombian military was to pounce.

  Like all SEALs, Senior Chief Auger was a graduate of the escape and evasion school known as SERE training. SEALs and navy pilots were mandated to attend the course. For SEALs, SERE was attended not long after SEAL Qualifications Training or SQT ended.

  The course presented facts about being captured and details of a life spent imprisoned by an enemy nation or terrorist group, as seen through the eyes of former captives.

  These course developers and sometime lecturers were once hostages in some cases, but more often they were former military prisoners of war.

  After the lectures and case studies, the men were ushered into a changing room, discarding their uniforms, their rank, and the presumption of authority, power, and privilege that went with those ranks.

  They donned plain clothing. Shapeless, unmarked, and unremarkable, except for the sameness. Each man was brought down first by stripping away the vanity of their position. That’s when the prison camp phase began.

  Auger remembered the mock torture, the blaring music, and sensory deprivation. He vaguely remembered his attempt to escape and the retaliation suffered by his cellmates when he was caught. They were all punished because of his actions. His crime affected the others, and his macho view of the world changed immediately. Heroes didn’t cause pain. He’d survived the course and grew as a professional and as a man.

  He needed to bring those lessons learned to bear now. He wasn’t a senior chief and he was no longer a SEAL. He was a survivor, and he needed to reframe his worldview. He must learn everything about the jungle, memorize the names of his captors, and note every weakness of every guerilla fighter.

  He also must remember what happened when he escaped in SERE school. Any attempt to leave would cause blowback on his principal. Nobody escaped if they couldn’t escape together.

  He’d lost track of time. How long since the ambush? He noticed the general was animated, moving more and more as time went on. That was a good sign. He’d taken a dreadful beating immediately after the hit; and based on what he’d seen, Auger hadn’t expected the older man to survive.

  He suddenly realized nobody had inquired as to his name or status. His best guess was that these were soldiers of the cause. No deep thinkers here. Pick up the packages and get them to, to where? Where the hell were they going, and was anybody tracking their progress?

  His hope was the intelligence types were locked on all the main FARC bases and would pick up on the delivery of two prisoners. The satellite capabilities were such that the boys in naval intelligence should be able to count his teeth if he smiled towards the sky.

  If they weren’t watching the bases, Auger was pretty sure he and the general were fucked. The record for American prisoners in Colombia was something like seven years. SERE school was a cake walk compared to that possible future.

  Isolation Hangar - Panama

  Matt, Boone, and Oby sat in uncomfortable, gray, metal folding chairs inside the secure commercial container. A short, balding colonel stood in front of them. He began his general intelligence briefing by covering the weather in the operational area. Matt, Boone, and Oby stared at the detailed topographic map of central Colombia.

  “Gentlemen, you will be operating in the nation of Colombia. The topographic map depicted here . . .”

  This was a standard briefing. The guys in green uniforms always started with the big picture and the soft information like weather. The afternoon wore on as the experts trooped into the container one by one.

  Each briefer provided the SEALs with general and specific information, directly or indirectly related to their mission tasking. At long last, they began to discuss the meat of the mission. The final briefing pair, both wearing glasses, entered the room. These were the target analysis guys.

  Throughout the proceedings, the three SEALs sat quietly. Matt, of course, knew the target and the mission. Oby and Boone played the game, sitting quietly, not asking questions, but letting the process draw them into an understanding of the whole picture. They sat and absorbed the fire hose blast of data. Every so often they took the time to jot down critical details or a question for later.

  Any details they wouldn’t commit to memory, such as assigned call signs, frequencies, and vital ground coordinates, were written down or issued to them by the briefers. They would attempt to memorize as much as possible, but they’d still bring a fair amount of command and control data with them on the operation.

  The focus of their activity would be in the triple canopy jungle well south of Bogotá, Colombia, near the Ariari river. The three SEALs felt comfortable operating in the environment as described and were comfortable with the depth and breadth of support involved. After four hours, a raw-boned Special Forces major arrived. It was time to get down to brass tacks. This is it, Matt thought.

  “Gentlemen,” the major began. “Your mission, by order of the president of the United States and the national command authority, is to conduct a surveillance and reconnaissance operation along the Ariari River basin south of Candilojas, Colombia. This area is controlled by the communist Colombian guerillas known as the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionaries de Colombia or FARC and the Colombian cocaine cartel. As you may remember from earlier briefings today, the symbiotic relationship gives these two groups plenty of reason to work together against any outside intruder.”

  The major reached out to pull a sheet of paper up and over the back of the easel. “Gentlemen, the purpose of your surveillance and reconnaissance is to determine the location of General Alexander, Commander, US Southern Command, and Senior Chief Auger, a navy SEAL who was assigned to protect the general. Both were kidnapped during a premeditated ambush in Bogotá one week ago.”

  Matt watched the expressions on his teammate’s faces. It’d been two years since the mission in Egypt and the breakup of their reconnaissance platoon. Oby and Boone barely registered an emotion upon hearing the news.

  Matt knew they were tight with their former troop chief. He guessed they didn’t want to show anything in front of non-family members. At a minimum, it increased the level of commitment to succeed.

  Matt hadn’t been aware SEALs were being used for VIP personal security detachment work. Ever since the twin trade tower attacks, SEALs and their green SF counterparts had dropped all missions and duties to focus on Afghanistan and then Iraq. Things were winding down from the peak of combat deployments in 2011, so it was logical that SEALs were being freed up for special duties again.

  Apparently, his former troop chief had found what, on the face of it, looked like easy duty. No tedious workups on the road, no long combat deployments in some godforsaken country. Moving with a VIP was living the high life. Five-star hotels, limos, Gulfstream Five jets. Matt didn’t blame Auger for taking the job. The man had earned it many times over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matt forced himself to turn off the mental images of his former mentor and friend and tried to focus on the major’s words. As he spoke, the army officer pointed to the wall map, his finger touching an area colored blue.

  This area, according to the major, was completely controlled by Colombian guerillas and had been for over ten years. He strongly emphasized the danger of operating in this zone of guerilla control.

  “Men, despite our best efforts and those of the Colombian government, the guerillas remain in control of this area and have survived all efforts to eradicate them. Assume every civilian is sympathetic and that half is on the FARC’s payroll or working for the cartel. These folks act as a natural security alarm system; it’s why the Colombian military has failed so many times to operate here.”

  Matt knew that the cocaine cartel pumped money and weapons to the guerillas, so the Colombian army was probably outgunned and even more likely bribed into indifference. The guerillas would know every inch of every jungle trail, every ridge, and every ravine. They’d have the distinct advantage of preparing to fight invaders wandering around in their backyard.

  Matt assumed all the locals would be sympathetic to the guerilla cause, if for no other reason than that their sons, husbands, and fathers likely were pressed into the guerrilla forces. Matt realized that the element of surprise, so critical to special operation missions, wasn’t likely to be available to him and his recon team.

  The major finished the last portion of his mission-tasking brief and relinquished the podium to a tall, gray-haired gentleman wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit.

  “Here it comes,” Matt whispered to Boone. “You can never trust these guys!” Boone nodded without answering.

  The newcomer introduced himself as Mr. Simmons. He appeared very confident, sure of himself in what must’ve been an environment unlike the ones in Washington, DC, where the suits made policy and sent men to their fate while sipping tea and coffee. The stranger had an upright bearing and a way of standing that gave Matt the impression the guy might have military experience.

  The older man cleared his throat, not out of nervousness, but as a way to get everyone’s undivided attention. “Gentlemen, we have received fresh reports of ambush activity ten kilometers from the river here.”

  He stretched out his arm and pointed to the map. “This activity is very close to where a guerilla-operating base is located, one we think holds, or will soon hold, our hostages. In addition, our national intelligence assets, utilizing state-of-the-art thermal imaging capabilities, show a rather large area of human activity on the Ariari River right here.”

  The smooth-talking agency man pointed to the river on the map again. “We believe the hostages were en route to this location when the ambush occurred. By now they should be near or on the base and secured against a rescue attempt.”

  Matt saw Boone raise his hand. “Sir, why don’t we just grab them now if we know so much about where they’re being held?”

  Simmons smiled. Matt thought the smile was condescending, like a schoolmaster hearing a foolish thought from a student of questionable intelligence.

  “Son, we believe there’s a very high probability the guerillas would execute them if we go in there with guns blazing.”

  Matt agreed. His recon team needed to find the exact location and condition of the two Americans. The US couldn’t resolve this crisis in this case with a demonstration of power. They needed to be patient. The major returned to the podium.

  “The security council is convinced the guerillas will use the stronghold to keep the prisoners secure until negotiations can be entered into with the United States. You three men are to infiltrate the area of the primary base camp. Once there, you will observe and report on any and all camp activity. We need to know the number of enemy troops. Is there any anti-air capability in the camp? And, if possible, ascertain whether or not the hostages are at that location.”

  Oby raised his hand. “Yes?” replied Simmons.

  “Well, sir,” Oby began. “I understand what you want us to do, but maybe I’m missing something. Are you saying this is only a look-see operation? I mean, sir, if they’re there, shouldn’t we try to grab them?”

  Oby’s question floated out there in the open for a second or two. Matt had been thinking the same thing. Why jeopardize the lives of any more Americans? Why find the hostages and not do anything about it? So far none of the briefers had mentioned anything about Matt’s team attempting a rescue.

  Simmons looked at the major and the major nodded. He paused before answering Oby’s question. “Actually, you and your team are restricted in this matter. Your job is only to report what you observe, nothing more. Under no circumstances are you to attempt a rescue.”

  Simmons pused for emphasis and made eye contact, one SEAL at a time before continuing. “I’m sure you’d agree that three SEALs, while they may be a match for most small units they may bump into, would be stretched pretty thin attempting to rescue from a camp with upwards of sixty heavily armed and experienced fighters. Consider your limited firepower and the very real possibility the hostages may be wounded and unable to travel. It’s out of the question.”

  Oby didn’t buy the pitch, but he was too smart to show it. “I understand, sir. I just wanted to make sure there was a rescue being planned.”

  Oby’s stare communicated what everyone there in uniform already knew. Nobody trusted the spooks from the CIA or NSA. Simmons glanced at the major, avoiding eye contact with the SEAL sniper.

  The major caught the look and decided to tell more than he’d intended to tell the recon team. “If you must know, there is a rescue team in isolation. They’ll execute the mission if, and only if, you three are successful in finding the hostages.”

  Matt knew his teammates wouldn’t voice their true feelings about the spooks’ answer to Oby’s question, but to see Senior Chief Auger, their friend, and comrade, sitting as a hostage within reach, and not do anything about it?

  That wouldn’t sit right with any frogman. Professionally, they may agree with the major’s clinical observations and prohibitions, but if the hostages were capable of moving . . .

  Matt wanted to close the loop. “Let me get this straight, just so everybody’s on the same sheet of music. You want the three of us to go in, find this base camp, and report on all the activity in the base camp. I’m assuming you want real-time information flow instead of sitreps.”

 

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