Misadventure: The Brogan Series, #4

By Kev Richardson

Even the best made plans of seasoned traveller Brogan, can come unstuck in South America. Many erupt into chaos, become spine-chilling adventures.

They hadn't counted on FARC taking hostages - he must move mountains to get help.

Peru erupts in revolution – train travel over the Altiplano – a car-chase across Paraguay – the Missiones and Iguazu.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054843

Book preview

One

Colombia’s highlands , March 1992

On rounding the slippery hairpin, the road was blocked by a fallen tree.

"FARC!"

Paulo’s foot slammed on the brake. Manuel sparked to action, releasing his M16’s safety-catch. The jeep slithered to a halt not twenty metres from the blockage, and all five were conscious of some twenty men in jungle uniforms running from the forest, three of them firing.

The women screamed as Manuel, closest to the soldiers, fell into the road, his body riddled, blood spurting from him, his firearm slithering away in the red slime. And the soldiers kept firing—a terrifying clamour. Becky’s breath caught. Panic engulfed her when, right in front of her, Paulo was almost blown apart. His head, with torrents of blood spurting everywhere, simply disintegrated.

The five were so suddenly reduced to only the three passengers.

Becky and Tricia froze for several seconds, their screams having dissolved into stunned silence, breathing only slowly turning to gasping.

Jay had sprung to his feet, shielding the women with his body, for he was sitting between them and the soldiers. But the firing stopped as suddenly as it started.

Now, however, they could hear gunfire behind them.

Becky spun around...

Oh dear God, what is happening to Brogan?

In the same second she realised firstly that the other jeep must have stopped shorter still—no doubt in the instant Paulo braked. It was already backing and filling on the track so they could flee back the way they had come. It was halfway through that exercise even as she turned, several of the soldiers who had shot Manuel and Paulo racing down the track firing at Brogan’s jeep.

Yet already it was disappearing around the hairpin...

Her mind was in a whirl.

With the rear wheels of Brogan’s jeep spewing up such a barrage of thick mud, the soldiers really have no target. They are firing blind—so maybe Brogan is all right. But oh! Paulo and Manuel?

Becky didn’t even realise that she was heavily spattered with the blood of both.

As were Tricia and Jay.

"FARC!"

As the second jeep turned out of the hairpin, Brogan’s senses were electrified by Pepe’s shout.

His mind sparked from its reverie, not to attention, but to the fact that Pepe had instinctively, it seemed, begun backing and turning, even before the closest gunman came at them...

It must have been instinct—his reaction wasn’t even a second after noticing the front jeep stopping—before any soldiers appeared.

Fabio was already leaning across the back of his seat, pushing his AK47 between Brogan’s and Erica’s shoulders, knocking out the Perspex screen to return fire, even as Pepe shoved his foot down to spin back into the hairpin. The sound of the AK firing right by Brogan’s ear was deafening. The spent cartridges were spitting out within inches of his very eyes. He ducked into a huddle to both escape the danger of them and to give Fabio more room to manoeuvre.

Bloody quick thinking, all right. But Becks? Oh, dear God, what of Becky? And I’m right now being driven off—further away from anything I can do for her!

A dread helplessness surged through him, swamping any thought of being able to help—even of being with her.

Even if I couldn’t prevent capture, I’d at least know what is happening to her—sharing the fears. Bloody hell—could she have been shot in all that firing? Oh, so much of it—and I’m sure it was her guard falling into the road as I looked back—and still the bastards kept firing—at least Becks was on the far side of the jeep—likely she could have been shot only if Jay and Tricia already had been—and surely FARC would not shoot hostages. We foreigners are surely their very goal.

And the quick-thinking Pepe continued racing down the slope despite it being treacherously slippery, the rain still falling, and despite having cleared the highjack scene.

No soldiers were shooting now.

Brogan was suddenly conscious of Erica, beside him, clinging to Helmut.

I don’t even remember her screaming—though I’m sure she must have.

Fabio was shouting something to Pepe, and Brogan felt their speed slacken.

He looked back, and yes, the track behind was clear. And there was real danger of them going into a slide. There were no guardrails to stop them sliding over the edge, to hurtle into the chasm.

How the hell that man backed and filled so quickly without going over the bloody edge, I’ll never know. But thank God he did.

He leaned forward and patted Pepe’s shoulder.

And you too, mate, he said, patting Fabio’s.

Fabio won’t understand my words, but he’ll get the message.

And Becks? He gave no further thought on what was happening to him now. He was safe.

But Becks? Oh dear God what are those bastards going to do to her?

Two

Despite the rapid fire from so many weapons was ear-splittingly deafening, it was the sight of the lifeless Paulo just inches from her that kept Becky’s body trembling.

The initial fright was now but background to the bodies confronting her, Paulo in his seat and Manuel in the mud. The now consciousness of their blood splashed all over the three foreigners made everything so much more real—the gunfire, the murders, the dreadful helplessness that horror instils—all first-in-a-lifetime experiences.

Oh dear God. Those poor men just trying to do an honest job. And do they have wives? Children? At least Manuel’s wife realises his job is dangerous: riding ‘shotgun’ on the only road to the Lost City, right through FARC territory. Paulo, of course, is more a Brogan, his work a love of history—in his case, a love of his country’s very culture. Oh what dreadful wrongs there are in this world!

And so much for all the assurances that FARC are observing the truce agreed several months ago. The two bodies surely put paid to any truce.

Her mind suddenly switched to the realisation that here she was worrying for dead strangers and their families when she’d given no thought to her own predicament.

Brogan seemed safe, so that, at least, is a relief. But for me now? And Tricia and Jay?

Tricia and Jay were from Washington DC, a middle-aged couple taking a holiday.

Becky and Brogan were Australians, holidaying ahead of Brogan, a journalist, covering the Easter Festival in Peru’s Cuzco.

The little tour company was headed up by Paulo and Pepe, the two jeep drivers, taking tourists to Ciudad Perdida—the ‘lost City of Gold’, overgrown by jungle since Spanish Conquistador days. It had been discovered only in 1972—Colombia’s answer to Peru’s Machu Picchu. The five-day jeep tour operated only when six tourists agreed to make the trip from Santa Marta, Colombia’s version of Australia’s Gold Coast and Florida’s Miami, the third couple applying having to split—one in the lead jeep, the other in the second. Driver and ‘shotgun’ rode in front, passengers in back.

We made this the first call on our holiday, Tricia had told Becky, to get the ‘rough-stuff’ over with. From here we go to Cartagena and on to San Andrés for sunshine and swimming.

Tricia and Jay were an older couple. Jay, a computer programmer at the Pentagon. They were celebrating being alone at last, their daughter having married and ‘flown the coop’.

And now this, Becky mused while watching the soldiers stashing shoulder-bags, hats and whatever miscellany was lying on the floor of the jeep into a jute sack—her own Akubra included.

I have never been so frightened, Tricia whispered.

Me either. They’re animals, killing those men just like that. My fear is if we will go the same way once they find we aren’t worth a ransom. Only value I can see Brogan and me being, anyway, is adding strength to worldwide condemnation of FARC. But when I look at those two poor fellows... Becky’s hand flew to her mouth as a great lump swelled in her throat. She felt about to vomit; but quelled it.

Jay put an arm around each of the women. I think they won’t be hard on you women, especially when they go through my wallet to find I work at the Pentagon.

Tricia then clapped a hand to her mouth, her entire body trembling.

But... But you are only in computer programming. You’re not involved in anything political.

We can only wait and see, he said. But you, Becky, should be safe enough, being Australian. It’s Americans they hold the grudge for.

Becky’s mind was still whirling...

Every report I’ve read on FARC says they make no distinction in respect of women and children. And as far as me being safer for not being American is indeed small comfort. It’s well known that Australia is a close US ally—Korea, Vietnam, Iraq... Why should they draw a line at Colombia? I’m no more safe than Tricia!

Soldiers were now moving them into the jungle, trudging through the slime of the road, gabbling away in Spanish of which she could not understand a word.

Don’t let them realise you speak some Spanish, she heard Jay whisper to Tricia—but he was immediately silenced by a gun-butt smashing into his face.

"Charlar prohibido!" the soldier barked.

Jay uttered not a sound as blood gushed from the deep gash over his cheekbone. He stumbled and went down. Tricia, grabbing at him, stifled another scream. But he righted himself.

Becky said nothing, despite her arm, too, went out in a reflex action. Yet she quickly withdrew it. Her legs were beginning to tremble.

Whatever they have in mind for us, it’s not going to be gentle!

The three still wore their plastic ponchos, a blessing in that the heavy rain continued. Becky’s leather Akubra being now in the jute sack that had been carried off meant her head was now bare. And just as she slid an arm from under her poncho to wipe hair from her eyes, a soldier from behind grabbed her wrist with a vice-like squeeze, stabs of pain shooting up to her shoulder. She was conscious of another hand lifting the tail of her poncho; her other arm was then pulled behind and handcuffs snapped on. Yet she breathed a sigh of at least partial relief when the tight physical grasp relaxed.

The three, all now manacled behind, were pushed roughly across the track towards the thickets that had initially hidden the soldiers. Considerable chatter and scowls continued amongst all their captors.

Arguments over our second jeep escaping, I wonder?

Becky could see Jay’s wound bleeding freely, yet neither woman could do anything to help. The rain running down her face was bad enough on its own, without the problem of her entire head of hair now sweeping over her eyes, despite trying to move it with head tosses. Tricia, she could see, also hatless, was having the same problem.

Yet Becky was thankful, now, for her travelling vest. Once her hands were free she would at least have things like comb and mirror—even a few Band-Aids that might help Jay.

Her Brogan always travelled with what was commonly termed his ‘fisherman’s jacket’, a sleeveless vest with pockets galore, many wide and deep, ideal for stashing travelling wallet with tickets, passports, the micro-tape recorder he was never without, spare tapes for it, his Lonely Planet guide-book and a paperback novel. He liked free hands when boarding an aircraft. And he presented his Becks with one on leaving Sydney.

Or will such little luxuries be confiscated once they empty our pockets? Surely they will do that. And if they have women, they’re sure to take at least the cosmetics.

A queue formed once they’d been hustled into the trees, on a walking track wide enough for only single file. It led off at somewhat of a right-angle from the road, up the slope of the ridge that fell away towards the hairpin bend. Yet she quickly lost sense of direction, for the track veered so many times that she soon had no idea in which direction they travelled. The track was well worn and periodically widened for several metres, and she could only wonder why.

At a further point they were met by jungle men in mufti, one of whom held a coil of plastic rope they looped through the prisoners’ hand-cuffed arms. It was long enough that it allowed a soldier to walk behind Jay yet ahead of Tricia, and another behind her yet ahead of Becky. The end was tied around Becky’s waist, so she assumed the front was tied either around Jay’s or the soldier leading him. From the sounds of feet and the occasional conversation, she reckoned there were three or four soldiers bringing up the rear.

Her mind flew in many directions...

How far must we struggle along like this? Handcuffed? And will it be a large camp that we arrive in? Or to a road where pickups wait to take us to a village? And is it still raining? No way of telling, under the canopy—the drips I’m feeling maybe but falling from the trees? And how long have we been on this trail now? An hour? Two? I’ve lost all sense of time. And it’s getting stiflingly hot under this poncho.

And so her mind rambled until Tricia, ahead, stumbled and fell.

She’s wearing only sandshoes. Thank God I’m in my hiking boots.

The man who Becky followed pulled Tricia to her feet, but she’d hurt her knee and could walk only with a limp. The rope joining them, Becky now noticed, jerked every now and again. And each time that Jay turned to look back at Tricia, he was roughly prodded by the soldier behind him.

Poor Tricia is in real trouble, but there’s no more I can do for her than for Jay. Or me.

With Tricia limping, the pace was reduced, although there was no let-up, no stopping to rest. A soldier with sergeant stripes made sure of that. He came from behind and shouted at the guard who’d pulled Tricia to her feet.

She would be in her fifties, I reckon, yet she’s not complained. I’ve heard not a word from her. And Jay is as helpless as me, so neither can he help her. Maybe these guys are in a hurry to get wherever their camp is before dark?

Several well-used tracks diverged from the path they trod, some so well-trodden that the entire area was obviously frequently used.

Maybe a pathway system for village workers to and from the drug factories? Yet none are wide enough for vehicular traffic. Maybe Jay will have thoughts on it once we get a chance for conversation. And they surely have to feed us. It’s nearly dark—and getting noticeably steeper.

BROGAN’S HEAD WAS ALSO whirling. His heartbeat had gradually fallen from the high it had leapt to when Fabio’s rifle was spewing bullets right by his ear, for he was conscious of being able to breathe again. And whilst his right ear remained totally deaf, his mind began focusing more clearly on where things now stood—to be aghast at the prospects.

Have the police an ear to the local FARC? Or will they try to satisfy me with platitudes and do nothing? How many years has the Colombian government and FARC been at war? Eight? Ten? Has there been any progress in negotiations? Even if not at the national level, could I be so lucky as to find some at the local level?

Pepe, by now satisfied that no more soldiers were following, slowed before turning around to satisfy himself about his charges. He brought a hand over the back of his seat and sought Erica’s, which she gave him. He patted hers with his spare hand. But she looked not at Pepe, but at Brogan.

The couple beside him were Germans, Helmut and Erica, both of whom had only a few words of English.

Your Becky? she said, her shoulders rising.

Brogan shrugged his own shoulders and turned up his palms.

She not hurt, Fabio said slowly, struggling with his English. FARC want hostage alive.

Erica nodded. Helmut then leaned forward so he too, now, could look Brogan in the face.

We lucky, very much. Then he too reached to pat Pepe on the shoulder.

But it was Fabio that Brogan addressed, speaking slowly.

What will they do to Becky? And the Americans?

Fabio seemed to understand. "Wife Nortamericano, Señor?"

Australian.

"Ah! Nortamericanos trouble for FARC. Australia, trouble pequeño."

He put his rifle aside to hold his palms just a few centimetres apart.

Small, it seems, Brogan mused. I just hope to God he’s right. But then I don’t want even small trouble for Becks, especially when I can’t be there. I just want to get quickly to the police.

Oh, how he longed for a cell phone!

Cell phone use was developing in western countries, yet even as he wished for one now, he realised how unlikely it would be that it could serve any purpose in these jungles.

Three

It was indeed dark by the time Pepe, Fabio and a distraught Brogan reached Santa Marta.

It was already established that the police be their first call. Pepe had much to lose if, once word was out about the hijack, release of the hostages did not happen quickly. He expected what Brogan only suspected, that the police would lack the enthusiasm that fired the victims.

Brogan was less concerned at Pepe’s job-security fears, however. He simply wanted his Becky back. And his concern mounted on discovering that the entire town was blacked out.

Pepe, as much by sign language as oral, explained that electric power here was so short that it was usual, come midnight, to shut down all power. Yet the police station was open, lit by pressure lamps. However, not a soul on duty that night could understand Brogan’s English any better than he could understand their Spanish, leaving him highly frustrated.

How sure can I be, that Pepe is taking up Becky’s cause more than his own? It’s so utterly frustrating when I don’t know all the questions and answers flashing backwards and forwards.

So when the interrogation finished, Brogan had his own question rehearsed.

"Hablar inglés mañana, por favor?"

"Mañana de semana, Señor. Lunes Okay, lunes Okay." And he gave Brogan the thumbs up, indicating all was in hand—there would be English-speaking personnel on duty come Monday.

Bloody Monday? And this only Saturday? Becks is in a desperate situation and this obviously hasn’t been bloody transmitted! And he asks if this is okay?

He was able to get them to understand that he wanted to talk with Hotel Miramar on the phone. So the call was made.

Brogan knew that at least the lady on the switchboard had some English. As had the desk clerk who had yesterday booked them in.

This is Brogan. My friend and I stayed last night in 208. She has been hijacked by FARC and I need an English interpreter at the police station right now. Can you have someone come and help me?

And of course the best hotel in town could help a client who paid in US dollars.

"A man come very quick, Señor."

And someone was quickly there. It was the desk clerk, who introduced himself as Carlos.

So Brogan now had his voice to the police sergeant’s ears.

Brogan grasped Carlos’ hand. Ah, thank you for coming to my aid. There are questions I need answers on.

Carlos could read his agitation. Tell me your questions.

There are three, first: Who, in Santa Marta, has an ear to the local FARC—or who is thought to have any sort of communication? Can I have his name, address and telephone number?

"Second: A question for Pepe—can I hire him whenever contact is made with FARC, to drive me to them?

"Third: Another for the police—no! Not a question, a demand! If negotiation can be opened with FARC, I want the highest police officer in Santa Marta to accompany me. Who is he and where can I contact him?"

Brogan’s mind reeled, trying to think what other questions he should be asking while he had this opportunity.

Surely they will come to mind once the opportunity is gone!

He didn’t consider himself a cynic, yet hoped he was being at least practical.

Carlos was asking the first...

The sergeant didn’t even seem flummoxed.

Nobody, was his answer—Nobody at all.

Brogan knew this couldn’t be true.

It’s a small locality—everybody must know something, have some connection.

He put the question aside, deciding to take it up elsewhere. He asked Carlos to proceed with the second.

"Of course, Señor, answered Pepe without hesitation. And Fabio will come with us, eh, Fabio?"

Fabio nodded without hesitation.

At least I have two friends on-side, even though with little clout at high level in the community at large.

The third question, however, brought an immediate reaction from the sergeant.

He clapped his hands to his jowls.

Oh, that he should ask me to approach El Capitan?

Brogan could see that he would get nowhere with the fellow.

Carlos, however, came to the rescue.

The hotel manager is a friend of this man’s captain. We can go there now. I have the hotel car.

Brogan put his palms to Carlos’ cheeks and kissed the young man’s forehead.

Please tell Pepe we will be in touch.

Carlos did so, and while Pepe drove Helmut and Erica, who was close to swooning, back to their hotel, Carlos drove Brogan to the Miramar.

Brogan and Becky had left their luggage there, pending their five days on the tour. They were then due for another night before continuing their travels to Cartagena and Bogotá.

What is the manager’s name, Carlos?

"Señor Torres, sir. He is well respected. He sits on the City Council and is also a friend of the governor of our department—you call, what? Province? State?"

"State in my country, Carlos. But that is good news indeed.

What damned good luck that Becky picked Hotel Mirimar from our Lonely Planet Guide.

WHEN SUNDAY DAWNED in the jungle camp, Becky was awake, for she hadn’t been able to lie comfortably since getting to ‘bed’. It was a thin mattress stuffed, she thought likely, with coconut fibre, compressed under sleepers for years, lying in turn on a base of lashed bamboo poles. It had been a traumatic night, for there was, as well, the discomfort of being unable to dry bodies, hair, or the clothes they must sleep in.

On arrival, Jay had been marched off into a reasonably permanent looking old building of fibro-cement with barred windows. The women were ushered into a bamboo hut some distance from the main cluster of buildings. Handcuffs were thankfully removed, yet they were immediately, then, ordered to empty pockets of everything not already confiscated, including watches and jewellery. All were tossed higgledy-piggledy into the jute sack that already held what had been left in the jeep. The door was then closed, secured with a chain and padlock.

Two guards took up station beyond it. The women could see them, for their prison walls were vertical bamboo poles lashed together with wire, gaps large enough to give patchy views of what was beyond. The electric lighting outside, powered by what was likely a gasoline generator, was dim, yet they could see a little.

And the guards have the same view of us, the women whispered.

Their prison was no more than three metres in any direction, furnished with only two cots and a bush table large enough for a ewer of rainwater and two