That system is something often ignored in discussions of military capabilities, because it is not a particular unit, or weapons system, or technology, or style of training, but something more amorphous, a system that ties all of those elements together and multiplies their lethality and speed. This is no exaggeration. The Americans would use the same system in the Balkans, and then would pump steroids into it in Iraq. The outcome: a special operations command that was executing 12 raids a month in 2004 turned into an industrial-scale killing machine that was conducting 250 raids a month only two years later.
An American officer once described it to me this way: “When civilians think about war, they tend to think about the mechanism of death. The heroic Navy SEAL firing a tight cluster of bullets into a bad guy’s head. The creepy, mechanical drone delivering a bomb. But those are just the flathead and Phillips-head screwdriver at the end of a targeting system. And it’s the system that’s the real killer.”
The Americans took the system back to Colombia ten years ago, and after a lucky NSA intercept of a phone call with Hugo Chávez, used it to help us kill Raúl Reyes. And Negro Acacio. And Martín Caballero. And many others. Of course, we can run the system, in a limited sense, on our own. In fact, we teach the system to other military allies around Latin America. But access to U.S. assets turns it into a monster.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Mason finally says. “Most of MILGROUP is on board with the shift. But personally, I think it’s a big fucking deal when you switch from targeting a bunch of guerrillas who are explicitly at war with you to targeting drug dealers. Mixing war and policing is dangerous. Plus, high-value targeting is famously useless against criminal gangs.”
That’s too stupid to take seriously. “And against terrorists, supposedly,” I say. “But Al Qaeda, Taliban, ISIS, Boko Haram, al-Shabaab, the Haqqani network . . . it seems a mix of war and policing is all Americans do these days.”
He laughs at that, and says, “Why do you think we can’t seem to end any of these wars?”
I’m not making any progress, and I should probably leave it there. Enough to learn that the rest of MILGROUP is in support. But I can’t help pushing.
“Can I trust you with something?” I say.
“Of course.”
“I mentioned to you we’ve been getting intelligence from a group operating in Norte de Santander with ties to the Venezuelan military.”
“Yeah . . . the . . .”
“The Mil Jesúses.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“What I didn’t mention was who they were passing intelligence through.”
Now he’s looking at me curiously.
“Me,” I say. “I’m their connection. Or, rather, they reached out to me.”
“Huh,” he says. “Why? I mean . . . why you?”
The short answer is that it’s my daughter’s fault. Because she’s got a professor who wants to take students to work for a foundation in Norte de Santander. Because I started reaching out to contacts in the area who might know something. And because within a few days a lawyer in Bogotá who, after my father’s disgrace, had worked briefly for my family, was calling me on their behalf. Not that I’m going to tell him that.
“Who knows?” I say. “Probably because they wanted a direct line to Colonel Carlosama. And he wasn’t going to be in touch with them.”
“Huh,” he says again. He’s not showing much surprise, but I expected that. The Jesúses don’t have much discipline around operational security, especially when it comes to avoiding signals intelligence, and so I’m quite sure the Americans already know about me. It’s one of the reasons I’m willing to share this little secret with Mason, who probably thinks I’m being recklessly trusting.
“Yes, it’s unusual,” I say. “And because of that . . . it puts my career in a delicate place.”
I let him take that in. He puffs on the cigar awkwardly, and makes a face.
“Friends like that can be a problem,” he says, his expression guarded.
“I know. But we wouldn’t have had the El Alemán raid without them.”
“The one in Norte de Santander?”
That was where we first met, when Mason came to Colombia.
“What am I going to do?”
He doesn’t answer. I decide to push him again.
“Are you going to judge me for these . . . friends?” I ask, smiling. “I suppose you only accept human intelligence from angels.”
“Not so much.”
I smile. “Don’t tell anyone about this, by the way. I tell you in confidence.”
He nods, warily. Of course I know he’ll share what I’m telling him. But he’ll feel guilty about it.
“They don’t trust the National Police, they will only work with us. Of course, we pass the intelligence on to the Junglas, but you know how easily bureaucratic roadblocks can happen.”
Mason shrugs. “Sure.”
“And their information about Venezuela is”—I decide to be deliberately vague—“interesting. Anyway, it’s just one of many developments that will put us in good standing when we take over Agamemnon.”
Mason nods, awkwardly fiddling with the lancero in his hands. I decide I’ve pushed this line far enough for tonight. Enough to put the worm in his brain. “We can talk more some other day. Enough work for tonight.”
Mason holds the cigar up to his face, lets it down, and says, “I’m sorry, I’m trying but . . . I never will understand cigars.”
I laugh. “I can see that.”
“I am wasting good tobacco here. To me, all cigars taste like lung cancer.”
I pluck the cigar from his fingers.
“Next time, you come to our place,” Mason says. “You can meet my daughters.”
I smile. “I would like that very much.”
He claps me on the shoulder. Very American, this Mason. I think he wants to be friends. In the military, in our military, we don’t have friends. One year here, two years there, is not enough time to develop friendship, true friendship, that lasts beyond the camaraderie of men who have served together. It is one of the many hardships of the army. The loneliness. The fact that we don’t even have the love or respect of our
