Running from the Devil by Jamie Freveletti Page B

passengers.
    Luis threw the machete on the ground. “That is what will happen to you, Juan, if you talk about green monsters again. And, Manzillo, you will stand sentry tonight.”
    Luis stalked back to his coffeepot and dry-meat breakfast. Alvarado resumed yelling, and the camp prepared once again to march.
    15
    MIGUEL STOOD IN A DOUBLE-WIDE TRAILER THAT SERVED AS A command post and looked at the twenty special forces men assigned to assist in the airplane reconnaissance. Most had been stationed in Colombia for the past six months. All had seen some sort of action. Three had minor injuries, and one was newly recovered from a nasty bout of dengue fever, the scourge of hot-weather locales the world over.
    Miguel had arrived by helicopter, flying over the area he would traverse on foot. Nothing but trees and mountains for miles. The beauty stunned him; the complete isolation worried him. The Colombian police force refused to join him in the search.
    “That is for the Colombian special forces. We do not have the additional men to spare for such an endeavor,” one official had said.
    “This is how the Colombian government treats its allies?” Miguel said.
    The official nodded. “Your government has not sufficiently provisioned you for the mission you are about to undertake. You have no dogs to sniff for the mines, and no army backup. You will be dead in a few days unless you take additional precautions. I will not send my men on a suicide mission.”
    “Any suggestions?” Miguel hadn’t bothered to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
    “Fly over the area. Do not attempt to go there on foot. The forest is heavily mined and bandits are everywhere. You can find the wreckage just as easily from the air, perhaps more so, and your odds of dying while looking will be drastically reduced.”
    “We will begin with air review, of course, but once we spot the crash site, we will drop men into it. They will canvass the vicinity for survivors.”
    “A very bad idea, sir. They are bound to step on a land mine.” The government official looked sad.
    “Perhaps I’ll arrange for a bomb-sniffing dog,” Miguel said.
    “I’d suggest you get one for every soldier. If you do not, the paw-breakers will get them.”
    “Paw-breakers?” Miguel said.
    The man nodded. “Small mines designed to blow off limbs. They are homemade and activated by hypodermic syringes or mousetraps.”
    “Wonderful,” Miguel said.
    “Welcome to Colombia.” The man had shrugged as he said this.
    Miguel was heartened when he saw the soldiers assigned to the mission. He had been forced to accept fewer men than he’d wanted, but the ones he did have seemed solid and ready for the jungle trek. Most looked fit enough for the hiking that would be required, but none looked very eager to begin. Worse, they all wore light, sand-colored camouflage pants. They might as well have been wearing white, for all the good the light camos would do for them.
    Miguel introduced himself. “I’m your commander for this search-and-rescue operation. We’re planning on heading deep into the jungle, so can anyone explain to me why you’re all wearing camouflage used for desert missions?”
    “We were scheduled to go to Iraq, but they pulled us off at the last minute and sent us here instead.” One of the soldiers in the back row offered the clarification.
    Miguel sighed. The Colombian officer’s comment about the lack of preparation for the mission appeared to be right on target.

“Anything I need to know that may be useful in this mission?” Miguel’s question opened the floodgates.
    “The paramilitary groups are worse than the cartels, by far.” A soldier in the front row piped up with this not-so-helpful comment.
    “Worse than drug dealers? Hard to believe,” Miguel said.
    “Believe it, sir. They care less about life than the drug dealers. The drug dealers want to keep their clients alive. Dead clients don’t buy drugs, after all. But the paramilitary guys don’t