Grabbing The Boogey Man

The final piece of a three chapter series of military writings I did, concerning military action in Colombia

 

The United States Army contains 5 Special Forces Groups, organized geographically to be focused on certain parts of the world. The 7th SFG is normally attached to Southern Command, focused on Central and Southern America. The motto of freeing the oppressed is a way of life here, and they refer to themselves as "the family." There are men in the unit whose fathers served there, and the lineage is taken seriously.

It was for this reason that the 7th SFG had been fighting the war on drugs for well over 30 years now, involved in a dozen countries. They had done counter-insurgency, Foreign Internal Defense, training other countries armies, hostage rescue, and a host of other missions for which there were no buzzwords yet, and which they would never acknowledge.

But the cost of cocaine had still dropped over the last ten years, while the amount coming into the country had gone up. And with about 97% of the coca in gringo land coming from Colombia, it had been decided at the highest echelons of the policy making apparatus that it was time to do something about the problem.  Really this time.  It was time to let the other side know it was time to quit playing, time to kill a leviathan.

It was for this reason that men found themselves in the jungle on the side of a mountain, looking up at men with guns looking down. The men with guns looking down could not see the men looking up, but that was beside the point right now.

Over time, the cartels had invested more then some countries in their "armies."  Former special operations soldiers from many countries found themselves in their employment, bringing considerable skills to the table.  Private military contractors were in the mix, former British SAS and Israeli Sayerte Markal, German GSG-9 shooters, and many others, running training camps and guns into what was one of the worlds longest running combat zones, body guards that anywhere else would be mistaken for soldiers or terrorists, armed with latest and best in tactics, guns, and gear, as the drug barons could afford anything that their foreign mercenaries told them to buy. There were reports that some Americans had taught down here, but the men in the trees did not believe it.

So they waited, and watched. They knew fully well from satellite pictures that the top of the mountain had been blasted off in a minor mining operation, leveling enough ground for very nicely manicured grounds wrapping around a mansion with two above ground stories and a basement. The whole thing was ringed by a ten foot high chain link fence, which was patrolled 24 hours a day in Range Rovers with mounted machineguns, and each of the four corners had a pillbox with heavy machineguns. Estimates ranged from between a company and up worth of well trained, experienced, and very nasty guys with guns inside.

But they had ways of fixing that. It involved a laser spotter. And an AC-130 gunship now loitering overhead in the dark clouds, the crew getting a fix on the spots that would need destroying.  The order came over encrypted radios, and in a flash, the first pillbox disappeared, a direct hit by the 105mm cannon destroying it and everybody inside. Within seconds, all four were destroyed, and the men were moving up the mountain.

Of course, such a thing does not go unnoticed. Inside the compound, men with guns had awoken, and they knew fully well what this must mean. The army was coming, and the day they had all awaited was here.  It was time to do or die.

The second wave was on the objective before the smoke from artillery rounds had cleared, the two PaveHawks circled the perimeter, men with long guns inside picking off those foolish enough to rush outside. The snipers were armed with a variety of arms, some semi-automatic, some with bolts, but they all did their grisly work with deadly precision, and the guardians got the message to stay inside.

 

The initial plan had called for an airborne insertion, which had been ruled out by the winds and the lack of a decent sized drop zone.  Instead the MH-53J Pavelow helicopters appeared seemingly out of nowhere, talked in by the same Special Forces soldiers that had directed the AC-130’s fire, landing on the full size soccer court and dropping their ramps to disgorge their cargo. 

The back ramps dropped, and without hesitation the United States Army Rangers stormed out. The average age amongst these elite light infantry troops was 20, and their enthusiasm for the tasks of war showed.

There were a total of four buildings inside the compound, counting the mansion. One of them was a two story hardened garage, and it had been destroyed by the AC-130, still loitering overhead to provide fire support where needed. Another was known to be the quarters oft he armed guards, and so without breaking stride a reinforced platoon of Rangers moved towards it.

Those inside were prepared for such a attack, and had heavy weapons on the roof. It was not safe to tread their now, with snipers circling overhead, but they were resourceful men, violent men. Windows were busted out, and machineguns swept the dark grass. The rangers answered with their own light machine guns and grenades, firing rockets towards their covered and concealed opponents to flush them out.  They reached the door in no time, tossing more grenades inside before storming in.  The young men had trained long and hard for fighting in built up areas, and they were ready.

The third building was for the regular staff and extended family. The soldiers suspected there were guns here, too, and another platoon stormed inside. The door was blasted off the hinges, and quickly M4's were pointed into almost every corner. No resistance was encountered, but three of the sought men were there, and they were quickly hooded and flexi-cuffed.

In the guard barracks, the first floor had been almost destroyed in the fierce fighting. Each room had been defended by men who knew what fate awaited them if they were captured and turned over to Colombian justice. Doors had been subjected to explosive charges at almost each turn, and rooms swept with automatic gunfire to clear them.

The stairs were proving more difficult. There were two stairwells, and each was fortified and defended by with a machinegun. Finally the AC-130 was called in again, raking the top of the northern stairwell with 40mm automatic cannon fire, destroying the resistance there.

Despite the heavy battles going on elsewhere, the mansion was the main target of the raid, and so the heavy hitters were brought in for it.

Two AH-6 Little Birds set down, the smaller birds coming in on the north side of the massive white building that formed the heart of the compound. Twenty men leapt out, dressed in woodland camouflage uniforms similar to the Rangers. But there could be no doubt that these where no young war hounds. Their fluid, cat like crouched movement identified them as veterans long accustomed to moving under fire, their body language one of relaxed confidence and lethal violence as they moved towards their objective.

On the west side, the third platoon of rangers kicked down the doors into the mansion, running into the resistance that they had hoped for. Their diversion had worked, and they opened fire with everything they had, drawing every guard in the building and earning their piece of the glory.

The Delta Force shooters slipped into the building as well, moving swift yet silently and undetected. An informant had told them off a secret stairwell directly to the right of the door they had entered, and they found it with no problem. Quickly they moved up to the penthouse, and blasted their way into the master bed room.

Six of the elite bodyguards were in the room, but they were no match for flash-bang grenades and 5.56mm bullets of Americas finest. All were killed instantly with a single bullet to the head, and the men moved forward. Quickly a breaching charge was attached to the door into the bathroom, which they knew was the safe room on this floor. Smoke and debris filled the room as the charge went off, opening a hole inside.

The guards barracks fight had ended, when the Rangers stormed up the stairs, and began to clear room after room. More grenades were detonated, and more brass bounced off the floor. Four man fire teams would toss a grenade into each room, then follow it up with a quick room sweep. Beds were overthrown, closets kicked open, and drawers rifled through. Anything that looked like it might be off interest was taken, before the Rangers began to search the bodies of the dead.

Men with assault masks climbed through the hole, flashlights mounted on assault rifles searching out those they sought. A family huddled in the corner, a large Latino men standing before them, his arms stretched out in the universal protective gesture of fathers. Those coming through the door had children themselves, and no shots were fired. Instead, they simply grabbed him, allowing him to curse them as he was dragged to the waiting helicopter.

A ring of men surrounded the MH-53's, and each helicopter had a crew member charged with counting heads as the soldiers returned, weapons inverted, the grin of the victorious on their faces.

The Delta Force choppers used no such system, instead they kept track of each other. When everybody was back aboard, all helicopters lifted off as one, turning under the watchful eye of the AC-130, and headed north.

Mario Dela Hundro sat on the floor of the lead PaveHawk, watched by the watchful eyes of Americas finest shooters. He knew where they had to be from. So he knew what fate would await him upon landing. He was already plotting legal strategy, hoping for Miami instead of Guantanamo Bay.

But to that raiders that mattered little. They had won. Nobody on their side had fallen in battle. And there was one snake now without a head.

Reviews

[John Parker]

Interesting write........full of a lot of info to those who have no idea of the military and what they really do....