We were about five hundred meters from the DMP and were going to stay there for the night. We got our ponchos and hammocks out and settled down. One-of three-Joses wasn't getting his head down, that was for sure. He was tossing and turning all night, obviously flapping about what was going to happen the next day.
The others were apprehensive; they looked almost lost and lonely, as if they wanted everybody else there as reinforcements.
I was apprehensive myself. I didn't know what to expect; all I knew was that if they got hold of us, we'd be in the shit. I lay there covered in cam cream and mozzie rep and thought about Kate. I tried to work out the time difference and wondered what she would be doing. I worked it out that she'd probably just finished her breakfast and was getting ready for play school. I just wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, so we could get back downtown and have a good time on the beach with the ex-G Squadron boys. I knew it wouldn't be long until I was back in the jungle again.
"We'll take the minimum amount of equipment with us," I said to One-of-three-Joses at first light. "BasicAlly just belt kit, plus the cameras, and a pistol and rifle each."
We had already spent lots.of time making sure that our equipment didn't shine, by blackening it with spray paint.
Now we cammed ourselves up, too. Skin is a reflective surface, no matter if you're black, Asian, or white.
When the sun shines, your skin shines' At he beizinnine of a jungle patrol, cam cream was difficult to keep on because of the sweat.
After a few days, however, when the face started to get a bit of growth, the stuff congealed into the beard and got engrained in the creases in the forehead.
It wasn't a matter of just a few dabs on the face like Indian war paint.
We daubed it on all over the face, the ears, behind the ears, all around the neck and the back of the neck, below the " neck of the collar, down the V of our chests, on our hands and up our wrists. I had my shirtsleeves down to protect me from all the jungly nasties as I was crawling about, but I still took it up past the wrists because my hands would be moving and therefore the material would be moving.
The way the cam cream goes on is always a sign of a good professional soldier. There was no need for all the magic colors-dark green, brown, and light green-all in weird and wonderful patterns and shapes.
It wasn't there as camouflage; it was there to mask the shine and break up the lines of our face.
We now checked one another's cam cream in the buddy-buddy system.
I checked One-of-three-Joses, and he did me.
"Everything okay?" I asked him.
"Is okay." He smiled nervously.
We all moved down toward the final RP at about 0700. Rodriguez was the scout, and this time he was really taking his time. He was stopping every five minutes, looking and listening. In my mind I was thinking about many things: about the CTR; about One-of-three-Joses-I knew he was going to hold back and I'd have to do everything-and about what would happen if he or I got caught. I decided that I would not get caught and that was that.
A very cautious two hours later we reached the final RP, took our bergens off, sat down on them, and waited five minutes for everybody to settle down and stop panting. I took the camera equipment out of my bergen, already stowed in a little day sack. I checked all our equipment again to make sure that everything was tied down and secure, that we didn't have any rattles. I also made sure One-of-three-Joses knew where all my first-aid kit was. I ran a discreet eye over his uniform and kit to make sure all his buttons were done up, and that he wasn't taking anything with him that was unnecessary.
"We are at the final RP," I said. I confirmed our patrol and emergency RVs and all our directions-the direction we were going out on, the direction we'd be coming in from-and the time we'd got to be in by.
Then it was time to go.
I looked at One-of-three-Joses. I knew that if I was captured, they'd take their frustrations out on me; there was a good chance of being held hostage for a ransom.
But for him the downside was much nastier, and he was sweating buckets.
The police were getting knocked out left, right, and center; even before they finished training, many tens of them had been assassinated. The cartels spared no effort or expense when it came to reprisals. If a member of the police was caught, he knew he was guaranteed a slow and painful death. Many of them had been found dead at the roadside, having had not a good day out on the receiving end of a chain saw and hammer.
Rodiguez insisted on going through all the details again. "We're there for two days? On the third day we go to the river? Is that right?
Sorry for asking."
I had built up the task at the original briefing to make them feel that they were special. I went over to One-of three-Joses and said into his ear, "You are number one, the best." I hoped that would stop him from hyperventilating- He tried to grin, but it came out looking more like a grimace.
We moved very slowly; there was no rush. it was hot and damp; mozzie rep was running into my eyes. My feet and boots were soaking wet.
CTRs in the jungle are very scary things. We would be getting right on to the target; if we couldn't see what we needed to see from the perimeter, we'd have to go forward and then even more forward until we did. It would be no good getting just half of the information; that i could mean having to go back in.
When I thought of CTRS, I always imagined one of those toys that motor forward on little electric wheels until they hit something They turn around, come back, and then they bounce off into it again. The two of us would be going in, coming out, going back in at a different angle, bouncing off, going around. We'd go around the entire camp initially, looking for routes in and out and any signs of security. If we saw people on guard, we'd note what weapons they were carrying and what they were dressed like. Did they look switched on, or were they casual and nonchalant? Were they young, were they old?
Were the tracks in and out well worn? Were there fresh marks on them?
Could we tell by the sign how many people had been going through?
What sorts of noises can we hear as welre going around?
Whereabouts can we infiltrate into the camp?
Has it got barbed wire up, or rattan, or is there nothing?
Is it in a small valley and camouflaged? How many people are in the camp? Are there any communications?
Are there any antennas? Are there any vehicles, are there any aircraft?
What vantage points are there? Are there places where we could locate fire support groups? Are there places where we could put an OP in; the decision might be not to attack it now, but just to OP it and watch it for weeks. Where would be a good start line for an attack?
Where could we bring people in? What are the main processing areas?
Where is the living accommodation?
All these questions would have to be answered from where I was lying on my belly and looking up, from maybe a dozen or so meters away.
We got to about fifteen meters from the edge of the camp and stopped.
Very slowly I got down and took my belt kit off. I handed it and my rifle to One-of-Three-Joses, then pointed to him and pointed to the ground, motionin for him, to stay put. I did a little walking sign with my fingers to show him that I was going to go forward and have a look. I pushed the camera around to rest on my back, got onto my stomach, and started edging myself 'forward.
Somewhere a generator was chugging. There were snatches of conversation and the sound of a radio, playing panpipe music. As doors were opened and closed, the music got louder, then died a little.
My breath came in pants; the crawling was hard work. All I had to protect myself with was my pistol as I kitten-crawled toward the perimeter. I put my hands out, Put pressure on my elbows, and pushed myself forward with the tips of my toes. Six inches at a time, I moved through the undergrowth. I stopped, lifted my head from the dirt of the jungle floor, looked and listened. I heard my own breath, and it sounded a hundred times louder than anything around me. The leaves crackled more than they normally would; everything was magnified ten times in my mind. I inched forward again. It took nearly an hour to cover the distance. I was right on top of the DMP now, and movement was the thing that was going to give me away. If one of the guards saw movement even just on the periphery of his vision, he would be instantly drawn toward it. I stopped, looked, moved forward, constantly looking for alarm trips-whether they were wires, pressure pads, infrared beams, or maybe even a more sophisticated method based on empty tin cans. I was right up on top of it now. If there was an opportunity, this was the time to start taking pictures of any personalities in the camspecially Europeans or gringos. If it all went to ratshit, at least we'd have some sort of evidence of foreign involvement that the police could use.
The sun was very bright, making it-easier for me to see the target and harder for them to see me in the gloom of the forest. I could see some buildings, each about thirty feet by twenty. They were built of vertical wooden planks with corrugated iron roofs and leaves and rattan as a crude form of camouflage over the top.
The iron sheeting had lost its shine and was rusting, indicating that the camp had possibly been there for quite a while. Some of the slats had gaps between them, I some were close-joined. All the buildings had windows, covered with mosquito netting. There were two doors, a wooden inner and a mesh outer, an antimosquito measure that seemed strange given the gaps in the wood.
There was intermittent noise-music, a bang of metal, a bit of shouting-indicating that there weren't that many people there. Very slowly I eased the camera bag from my back. If we were going to hit this place, people had to have a firm idea of their targets and what the camp looked like. With luck this would be the first of many pictures as I moved around the camp.
I got the camera off my head. The biggest danger would be the lens reflecting the sun, so the whole camera was wrapped in a face net.
It wasn't a problem; the photographs would still come out. ReAlly slowly I put the camera on the ground, aimed, and gently squeezed the shutter release. Nothing happened. With my thumb I tried to move the film winder along, but it was stuck.
There was no time to muck about with it; I put it down by my side and kept on looking. This was going to be a pain in the arse. I cursed myself for not bringing the video camera; I'd wanted to save the batteries for any OPs that we might have to put on.
I stayed where I was, watching and listening. I could see four main buildings. To my left was the long, low building, of which I could see about a third. I was assuming that it was the DMP. To the right of that were two other buildings; one was definitely the kitchen and administration area. The door opened, and out came an old boy of about fifty or sixty wearing a football T-shirt, a pair of shorts, plimsolls and a fag in his mouth. He was carrying a pile of pots and pans, which he just threw onto the ground. There were small piles of kitchen rubbish strewn around within easy reach of the door.
There was also a generator running, the noise seeming to come from the other side of the cookhouse. I could still hear odds bursts of shouting but had only seen the old boy. I wanted to know what the protection looked like, how many of them there were, and what weapons they had.
After about an hour I backtracked out. Whether it was too early in the morning or the. re simply wasn't a lot going on, I didn't know. I backed out until I reached One-of-three-Joses. He was sitting there grinning away.
I took the camera off and gave it the cutthroat sign. I put my belt kit on, pointed to him, and showed him the way we were going to go, which was anticlockwise.
It took us about twenty minutes to travel thirty meters to be near the edge of the amp again. We stopped, I signaled to One-of-three-Joses to stay where he was, and I inched forward. This time I was facing the living accommodation, and almost immediately I saw a white face. He was small, about five feet five inches, in his forties, and in the process of throwing away a bowl of water. He was wearing only a pair of shorts, boots, and dark glasses. His hair was wet and pushed back; I guessed he'd just had a wash. His arms were darkly tanned up to the T-shirt line, and he had a big white ring around his neck. He hadn't shaved for about a week and looked in shit state. He put a fag in his mouth and lit up and then walked back into the hut. I was pleased: at least one European. I just wised the camera was working and knew I'd get a bollocking from Gar.
I had been waiting there for another forty-five minutes when two players appeared. One had a long, a G3 automatic nfl, the really old type with the longer muzzle and solid stock. The other one wasn't armed. They moved from the living accommodation over in the direction of the processing hut, which I couldn't see. They were very casual, smoking, talking, and laughing, obviously very confident about where they were.
That was three characters, not counting the old cookhouse boy. I stayed. I didn't move to swat the mosquitoes that were landing on me; I just kept my head low, looking up and listening, trying to take in every detail. My head was starting to fill up with lumps, but I'd given up by then. I was lying there with my hands in front of me, resting my chin on my hands.
To help me listen, I opened my jaw a little to close off any swallowing sounds.
I was trying to get a mental picture of exactly what this place looked like. I had only about 20 percent of the information at the moment, and I had to get as much as I could.