Sometimes things get muddy in war – different sides dress alike, friends and foes can turn on each other for love or money, things can get confusing in the haze of battle. All of that I can excuse, particularly in the dark, or when events are poorly-planned, or if there are other complicating factors. What I can’t excuse is my own side taking a stab at me in the middle of the day, in the middle of a delicately-organized extraction. With a missile.
We found the RV right where the rebels said it’d be, perched on the side of a mountain that made sneaking up almost impossible. Reports showed that the cartel leader was meeting with his few remaining lieutenants about what they were going to do about the “American Problem.” Funny, I don’t think Gaz and I have ever had a catchy nickname before. Just like we planned, we took a rebel helicopter and flew it low over the surrounding hills in order to avoid missile sites, jumping out of it just as it cleared the mountaintop. It sailed over the RV and crashed not far away, leaving us a very pleasant fiery distraction as we approached from the rear.
The hope was that anyone inside the RV would be focused on the wreckage and leave us a nice opening to catch them by surprise. That would solve the whole “cartel runs the government” issue and give the rebels the opportunity they needed to take back Bolivia, the whole reason they got the US Government involved in the first place.
Instead, as we closed on the vehicle, guns drawn, a bright rocket streaked from a nearby cliffside. I know it was a rocket because when it hit the RV, just as Gaz was about to throw open the door, it exploded and our world turned to pain. It wasn’t the cartel luring us into a trap, it was the damned rebels trying to take out two problems at once.
To think, I was having a perfectly pleasant day before being exploded.
