Authors: Ross Sidor
Another agent,
Paul Harris, was right behind Layton. The last man in, he turned around to pull
the door shut and throw the latch.
“Radio HQ for
help,” Layton, breathless, ordered Agent Chuck Weaver. “We need an emergency
evac
now!
We’re fucking slaughtered if we go back out there.”
Weaver had
already pulled out his encrypted Globalstar satellite phone and was patching it
through to Gerardo Tobar López Airport.
Layton swept his
eyes over the other agents, making an assessment of who was alive and what
condition they were in.
Harris had his
back planted against the wall near the shot-out front window, looking out, with
his MP7 held in front of him, finger indexed over the trigger guard, barrel
pointing up. There was the sound of bullets peppering the exterior wall.
Agent John Tyson
ran his hands over his body looking for holes and signaled to Layton with an
upright thumb that he wasn’t hit.
Weaver shouted
into the satellite phone with one finger plugged into his opposite ear.
Agent Dan Foster
lay on his back with one bullet through his side, barely missing the liver, and
that wasn’t the worst of it. He was bleeding out through a femoral artery
nicked by a small but hot, razor sharp piece of shrapnel. Tyson was a former
navy corpsman, and he did what he could for Foster, but options were limited
since he didn’t carry a full med kit. He applied a makeshift tourniquet,
applied QuickClot sponges, and elevated the leg.
Layton next
looked to Sean Nolan, who stood in the corner, leaning against the wall.
Layton’s eyes locked onto him and bore in on him like a shark.
“What the fuck
is going on?” he shouted at Nolan, nearly pushing Weaver out of the way to get
to the Irishman.
Four feet away,
Harris fired two bursts through the window from his MP7 to hold back the approaching
attackers. He took careful, aimed shots. Each man carried only two or three
additional magazines for his MP7.
“You think I
fucking know?” Nolan shouted back at Layton as the DEA agent grabbed onto his
shirt and pulled him close. “I had nothing to do with this. If I knew you
fuckers were coming, you think I’d sit around in fucking bed all bloody morning
waiting? Do you know who those guys out there are?”
Layton stared
him down and said nothing.
“They’re La
Empresa. They’re cold blooded killers, fucking animals. I wouldn’t trust them
to save my ass.”
Nolan saw the
rage burning in the American agent’s eyes, and the grip tightened on his shirt.
Layton released
Nolan, took a couple steps back, and raised his MP7 one handed, pointing it at
Nolan from five feet away. Layton required every bit of will power he possessed
not to pull the trigger right then and there. He lowered the subgun when he
felt a hand on his shoulder and Tyson’s voice in his ear say, “Ease up, boss.
We need this asshole alive, or this was all for nothing. You’re hit. Let’s take
a look at it.”
Then Layton
became aware for the first time of the pain in his right arm and in his left thigh.
With Tyson’s assistance, he applied QuickClot sponges to stem the bleeding, plus
disinfectant and bandages. It was only a temporary fix, but the next few minutes
would determine if they lived or died, so Layton brushed off the medical
attention and told Tyson to focus on Foster.
“We need to get
Dan out of here ASAP,” Tyson said. His best efforts did little to slow down the
blood pouring out of Foster’s leg like a spigot.
Layton helped
Weaver drag a large, heavy couch across the foyer and set it against the door.
Bullet strikes
continued to sound against the building. The attackers directed their fire at the
windows, spraying glass through the foyer. The bullets hammered the internal
walls, but their reach was limited, and the Americans were clear of the
incoming fire.
The agents kept
their MP7s trained on the windows. It was a vulnerable spot, but it was better
than being caught on the street, in the open. They’d have the slightest
tactical advantage if the attackers outside attempted entry through the windows.
The gunfire gradually
tapered off, and it became quiet.
Layton expected
that the Empresa shooters were now coordinating their plan of attack. He wasn’t
certain of their motivation—if they were here to free or silence Nolan, or
simply to ambush and slaughter Americans—but there was no doubt in his mind that
they’d soon breach the building. They had the numbers and the firepower. All
they had to do was launch a couple attacks to force the Americans to expend
their ammo, and then they could come in by force.
“Just what the
hell are we going to do with him?” Weaver asked Layton, cocking his head to
indicate Nolan. “We can’t arrest him. We don’t have jurisdiction.”
“You think I’m
going to fucking let him go now? We’ll worry about it when this over. Until
then, consider him in our protective custody.”
___
They listened to Weaver’s call in the
ops room at Gerardo Tobar López Airport. Everyone immediately reached for their
own cell phones to call their respective superiors.
“The nearest
FAST team is in Bogotá, on a training exercise,” Slayton said, shaking his
head, a minute later. “They’ll never make it in time.”
“Police and army
units in Buenaventura are at this moment responding to another unfolding
crisis,” Daniel reported. “Government buildings in the city have come under
mortar fire this morning, shortly before the operation to arrest Nolan. The
army won’t be in position to launch a rescue mission for at least thirty
minutes.”
“Layton’s men
don’t have that long,” Avery said, but no one seemed to hear him.
Rangel ended a
call on his cell and re-joined the others. “That was the ambassador. Our
defense attaché is going to coordinate with the Colombian defense ministry, and
the ambassador is getting on the phone right now with Washington.”
“Will they authorize
a rescue mission?” Avery asked. “We’ve got plenty of troops in-country.”
“They prefer to
allow the Colombians to handle this matter.”
Although
Avery’s face was calm and measured, inside he felt anything but.
Weaver’s call replayed
in his mind, the gunfire and the sound of burning fires in the background,
Layton’s voice shouting orders. Unlike Rangel or anyone else in the room, Avery
had the combat experience to clearly visualize what was taking place thirty-six
miles away, and the flashbacks became clear in his mind with vivid intensity.
In Afghanistan,
with 75
th
Rangers, Avery had been part of a quick reaction force.
There were times when an army convoy or an FOB came under heavy attack, and
Avery’s chalk ran to the choppers and arrived on target too late, finding a lot
of dead and wounded soldiers. They’d done a lot of a good, but it was always
the men they couldn’t save that stayed with Avery. He knew their deaths weren’t
his fault and that he shouldn’t punish himself over it, but it was a strong
motivator to drive him and push him harder the next time friendlies came under
fire and needed back up.
As much of a
loner by nature as he was, he
never
abandoned men in the field.
And after
Medellin, Avery found himself now especially determined to make sure lives
weren’t arbitrarily lost. After Medellin, he also didn’t care if he caught a
fatal bullet out there. The only thing that mattered was bringing Layton’s
agents home.
“I’ll go.”
Avery glanced at
Aguilar, who knew exactly what Avery was thinking, and the Colombian soldier
nodded his affirmation.
“Alone?” Culler
asked.
“I’ll go with
Felix’s troops. We’ll take the Blackhawks.”
There were two,
belonging to the US Army, at the airport, detailed to provide support for DEA
operations.
Avery checked
the time.
“If we leave
now, we can be on target in eighteen minutes. That’s better than anyone else
can offer. By the time the Colombian army is ready to get something going,
it’ll be too late.”
But Rangel shook
his head.
“No way!” he
said. “We have no idea of the size or disposition of enemy forces, but we know
they’re well armed. They’ve got rocket launchers for Christ’s sake. The
ambassador will
not
permit a Blackhawk Down scenario under his watch. We
wait for the Colombian army to put a rescue op together. That’s final.”
“There won’t be
anyone left to rescue by then! No Blackhawk Downs, but the ambassador’s okay
with another Benghazi?”
Avery personally
knew one of the ex-navy SEALs killed defending the US consulate and CIA base in
Libya. If National Command Authority—POTUS and SECDEF—hadn’t been willing to
deploy troops in Libya to rescue an American ambassador and his security
detail, Avery knew they sure as hell wouldn’t come to the aid of DEA agents in
Colombia.
“I’ve heard
enough of this bullshit,” he said. “Felix, get your men kitted up. We’re going
in.”
“Roger that.”
Aguilar was
already on his way out, shouting orders into his cell phone.
Rangel
positioned himself in front of Avery, blocking his exit. “Like hell you are.
You’re staying right here.”
Avery looked
Rangel right in the eye. His right hand rested on the Glock holstered at his
side. “You think you can stop me, then do it now and get it over with.”
Rangel’s hand
went for his cell phone. “You’re way out of line. I’ll call the ambassador
right now, and you’ll be finished.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Avery stepped
past Rangel, who kept his eyes on Avery’s back and shouted to Culler, “Matt!
Are you going to do something about this?”
But Culler
didn’t respond.
He was nowhere
to be scene. He’d left over a minute ago to tell the army pilots to ready their
choppers.
___
Five minutes later, Avery and Aguilar’s
squad of Special Forces soldiers—Diego, Miguel, and Alex—crossed the open tarmac
toward two waiting helicopters. With engines powered up and whining, the
choppers’ blades spun around, slicing through air and kicking up a cloud of
dirt and grit.
These Blackhawks
were upgraded MH-60K variants with improved blade design, more powerful
engines, FLIR capability, internal auxiliary fuel tanks filled to capacity, and
additional avionics and computer systems. They were armed with side-mounted
M134 7.63mm mini-guns capable of firing 2,000 rounds per minute.
Avery had
slipped his ModGear vest over his wrinkled t-shirt, with his M4 rifle fastened
diagonally across the front of the vest. He carried five spare magazines, three
in the pouches on his vest, two in the pockets of his cargo pants. His Glock
was nestled inside a holster strapped around his right thigh, along with two spare
magazines in the holster’s mag cases. A pair of M84 flashbang stun grenades was
clipped to his vest. He wore a floppy hat, Nomex gloves with removable
fingertips, and Adidas GSG-9 boots.
He was going in
relatively light, wanting to be able to move quickly on his feet while still equipped
to put up a fight. The goal was to overtake the Empresa shooters through speed,
surprise, and violence of action. If they became bogged down alongside the DEA
agents, then they were already fucked anyway.
Avery counted on
making good use of the Blackhawk’s mini-guns to clear the streets before they
hit the ground. He just hoped the pilots were on the same page. He hadn’t
spoken with them yet. There was a ton of paperwork they needed to file and
diplomatic procedures to go through before they flew their birds or conducted
ops in a foreign country, especially when it came to rules of engagement.
The Colombians wore
a mismatch of civilian clothing and army fatigues under armored vests, web
harnesses, jump boots, and hats or bandannas. Three were equipped with Galil
assault rifles with under-slung grenade launchers, while Diego, a tall, lean,
tattooed Afro-Colombian with a shaved head, carried an IMI Negev NG7 5.56mm
light machinegun.
Aguilar’s unit
provided the communications for the rescue team. Avery and the Colombian troops
were wired with tactical throat mikes and Israeli-manufactured Elbit Systems
Ltd encrypted radios programmed to the frequency used by the FAST agents.
Although specializing
predominantly in jungle counterinsurgency, Aguilar’s men also attended yearly
urban warfare and close quarters battle (CQB) courses run by AFEUR, the
Colombian army’s urban counterterrorism and hostage rescue unit modeled on and
trained by Delta Force and SAS.
They didn’t have
a detailed or choreographed plan of attack put together. There wasn’t time to
sit around a tabletop full of satellite photos and maps and put something
together, so they’d have to think on their feet. Their first priority was simply
to arrive on target as quickly as possible. Every second counted now, and Avery
was painfully conscious of the passing time. Upon arrival, they’d make a
tactical assessment and decide on a course of action as far as responding to
the Empresa shooters and reaching the besieged DEA agents.