De Santiago’s experts had also told him that the ridge was too high for a helicopter to cross. The only way one could approach these high fields, they had maintained, was to wind their way up the narrow valley. That’s why the lookouts were deployed down that way. That’s why the thin but strong cables had been stretched across to snare them like a spider’s web should they venture up to the high fields. But the helicopters had unquestionably flown over the ridge three hours ago, dead certain of their target. They had come in fast, over the high ridge to the northeast, as surely as the sun had topped the mountains that morning.
De Santiago’s proudest venture had been caught completely off guard. That was certainly not the mark of a flawless operation.
The surprise and the overwhelming firepower had been too much for the rebel peons who had been working in the fields. Most of them took to the jungle. The few who stayed to fight quickly gave their lives to the cause. The firefight was short and intense. The Apaches scurried back and forth across the valley, their 20mm chain guns beating out a staccato tattoo aimed at anything that moved.
El Presidente’s troops fast-roped out of the Black Hawks into the fields below, showing more professionalism than de Santiago had ever seen from them before. Once on the ground, the government soldiers fanned out smartly and efficiently to establish protected landing zones for the choppers that were still hovering overhead. By the time the first Black Hawk flared out to land, the fight was over. They set to torching the crop, shouting to each other and laughing like truant schoolboys up to some kind of mischief.
Juan de Santiago and Guzman, his trusted bodyguard, had been approaching the nearest mountainside that overlooked the field, a half-dozen troops close behind. As they followed the narrow trail to this serene, beautiful overlook, to observe the crop, to watch the peons work, to maybe smell the perfume of the orchids, they actually heard the attack as it began. They had known immediately what the hellish racket was. There was no mistaking the yakking of those guns, the rhythmic flutter of the ‘copter blades, the anguished screams of the brave peons. And in awful frustration, he and the others had run to the overlook and watched most of the three-hour operation from the cover of jungle.
De Santiago knew he was the most hunted man in all of Colombia. If those bastards down there on the valley floor only knew he was there, on the side of this mountain watching them the whole time, they would be in hot pursuit. They certainly would not be laughing, boasting to each other of their victory as they climbed back into their helicopters and prepared to leave behind all the damage they had done to the people’s struggle.
Spurred by their sniggering, de Santiago’s anger reached a new pitch. He stomped the ground again and Guzman could clearly hear him grinding his teeth. He clenched his jaw even tighter as he spoke, forcing the words out one at a time as if he was biting them off and spitting them out.
“I will show these damned dogs that I do not scamper away and hide in fright like a rabbit!”
He abruptly spun on a heel and, in one quick motion, snatched the Starburst missile launcher from Guzman’s back before the bodyguard even realized what was happening. He locked the optical sight on a Black Hawk down below that was just lifting off and pulled the launch trigger. Flame shot out the back of the launch tube, scorching the dense vegetation on the slope directly behind him while the troops standing nearby scattered to get out of the way.
The British-made anti-aircraft missile burst out the front of the tube and flew arrow straight toward the hovering chopper. Despite his rage, de Santiago knew exactly what he was doing. He calmly kept the site locked onto the chopper as it rose and banked, ready to climb and head back over the ridge. As long as he kept the reticule locked on, the launcher would send tracking data down the thin copper filament that still connected him to the missile itself.