“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 75th 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.
The lead pilot, a female US Army major named Toni Warner, jumped down from the open cabin of her Blackhawk as Avery approached. She stepped out from under the rotor wash of the blades and lifted her helmet’s visor.
Terse introductions were made, handshakes exchanged.
“Your people been briefed?” Avery asked.